**Buried Boxes
Rohypnol is a personal favourite. Tasteless and so very effective. Just ground it up and watch them drop. And the real beauty is, when the victim comes back around, the amnesia baffles and disconcerts stunningly. Father had taught him all about it. Father being a doctor and all. Well, not a doctor really. A pharmacist. But Father was the closest thing Bloomsbury had to a doctor unless you drove for an hour and a half to the nearest hospital. And even then it wasn’t guaranteed they’d let you in.
So Father was the best the people of Bloomsbury had, and they knew it. Day or night, he was at their beck and call. Sometimes, Father would even slip patients pills and things ‘strictly off the record’ which brought trust, gratitude, respect and not to mention a little extra cash. His family were so proud of him, and of the charmed life he had forged for them. What more could the man ask for? He had a beautiful wife, a son who worshipped him, and a daughter who could ballet dance so well, many often told him that with the right guidance she could make it big time. Life seemed perfect for their little family. But then Mr Henrys suddenly and quite suddenly died. At age seventy-two, surely it was just natural causes? But still, the extra prescriptions of painkillers were not secret. Whispers raced behind Father’s back. Was that what had killed dear old Mr Henrys? The Family stood by Father and closed the door to the whispered rumours. Soon, life seemed to return to normal. Patients still wanted their doctor and Father still wanted to help them. But just because the curtains were drawn, did not mean that Father did not still hear the speculations…
A few months later, his son found himself being ushered quickly into Father’s study, the door locked behind them.
“Do you love me, Son?” Father had asked, crouching down in front of his son so as to stare into his eyes. The boy was surprised by this question. Why was Father asking something that was surely common knowledge? Father seemed offended by the bemused silence from his son.
“Well?” he pressed, grabbing both of his son’s shoulders roughly in his hands and shoving his face so close the boy’s breath steamed up his glasses. “Do you?”
“Of course, Father!”
“And you love your mother, don’t you? And little Theresa?”
“Yes, Father! Why d-”
“And you wouldn’t want to upset them, would you, Son?” Father began shaking his boy in desperation.
“No, Father,” his son cried. “Never!”
“Shh!” Father pushed his index finger to the lips of his child. “Not so loud.” Father’s eyes were wide and his pupils were bigger than usual, the adrenaline of some unknown thrill still coursing through his body.
“And you want to help your Father, don’t you? You don’t want your Father to leave you, do you?” He watched as tears leapt to his son’s eyes at the thought of a Fatherless Future. Perfect. The boy was putty in his latex-gloved hand.
“Do you want to go on an adventure? But you mustn’t tell anyone or they’ll want to come too…”
“I promise, Father! Can we go now? Pretty please?” The child was chomping at the bit to do something for his beloved Father, especially something that no-one else knew about. Silently, Father and son slipped out the back of the house while Mother was too preoccupied watching Theresa pirouette effortlessly. Running to the woods, the boy could hardly keep himself from exploding with excitement. In all of his ten years, his father had never asked something of him, and now he was revelling in the pride of being specially chosen for whatever they were about to do. The trees grew thick and the tall canopy blocked out the Sun, causing his son to shudder and wish he’d brought a jacket, whereas his father relished the darkness- it should stop those damn prying eyes. Well, he smirked; one pair would be stopped in a moment anyway.
Young eyes grew wide as the boy saw the old lady tied and gagged, half hidden in the undergrowth.
“Mrs Henrys…?” gasped the child.
The widow suddenly began to violently struggle against the restraints, her eyes bulging out of their sockets, fixing unnervingly on the boy, begging him to help her. Frightened, he began to back away, stopped by the strong hand of his Father pinching his neck. “Going somewhere?”
“N-no, I just…”
“If you’re scared, Son, go home. But I really thought you were brave enough for this adventure.”
Swallowing hard, his son told himself not to be so stupid. He was very brave! And he couldn’t let Father down. So pushing away his doubts, he blocked out the screams of Mrs Henrys and instead listened hard to what Father was saying.
“You see, Son, you remember Mr Henrys? Who died?” He watched in delight as his son nodded and Mrs Henrys squealed at the mention of her late husband. “Well, Mr Henrys was a very special patient of mine. He was trying out a new drug I’d invented to try and cure a disease called Alzheimer’s. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite get the quantities right and the old man died,” Father was explaining the murder as though he had got the quantities for a cake wrong and it had exploded and left a foul taste in his mouth. “And Mrs Henrys here,” Father explained kicking the elderly woman hard in the ribs. She screamed. The child flinched. “Saw too much and I caught her trying to report me to the Police!” Father threw his head back and laughed heartily, scaring the birds from the trees, which flew away squawking. The boy stared after them, longing to be a bird. But he didn’t sprout wings. He was rooted to the spot with Father and the hysterical Mrs Henrys. “You don’t want me to go to prison, do you?” Father beamed as his boy vehemently shook his head. “Good boy. Now, pass me that shovel…”
When the boy crawled into bed that night, shaking, he forced most of the events of the night out of his head. He put the images of the petrified Mrs Henrys in the box, of Father digging that huge hole in the ground, the sounds of her cries and of Father’s grunts as he piled the dirt on top of her into a deep subconscious cardboard box labelled ‘Mrs Henrys Burial’ and cemented in closed with his fear, guilt and his absolute belief that his father is his hero, his idol, and everything he wants to be.
The child’s box remained sealed shut until the day about a year later the Man On The News told the Little Family that the Police had finally made a breakthrough in the mysterious case of six dead retired men with Alzheimer’s and the sudden disappearance of their widows in Bloomsbury, Southern England. A box had been found buried in the woods at the back of the houses. Join us on the 12’o clock News for more. But the Little Family never did watch the 12’o clock News that day. Because that was the day that Father dropped his son and daughter off at school and then driven to the Multi-storey Car Park in town and thrown himself off the top of it. Simple as that. Everyone had apparently missed the depression. And so little Theresa had binned her ballet shoes and instead devoted her future to helping others. And Doctor Raymond Costa now stood in the middle of the Activity Room, hands clasped behind his back, beaming at what lay in front of him.
Bitter Sweet
The Not-So-Charming Doctor Raymond Costa congratulated himself with a pat on the back and a tumbler of brandy. But not the cheap knock-off coloured water from the Offy’s. Oh no, this called for the good stuff. Striding briskly, Doctor Costa glided over to one of the chairs, gingerly shoving one of the old hags. She crashed to the floor like a wrinkled rag doll. Sinking into the chair, Doctor Costa grimaced, wiping his hand on his white coat as though the old lady had been dipped in dog foul. Inhaling, the doctor interlocked his fingers and rested them on his stomach, relishing the sight that he’d created: dozens of elderly women sprawled out on the bleached white floor, some draped over disgustingly patterned armchairs, dribbling like wild animals. How much drugged chocolate had they crammed into their puckered up mouths? Enough to knock out a horse, obviously. And they would be none the wiser when they woke up. He could do it again, and again, and again. With all of them drugged up to their eyeballs, they wouldn’t even notice the changes to their medication. If they did question…well, he had plenty more chocolate. How perfect that the old nurse had to leave just as he arrived-one less thing he would have to…see rid of. Rifling through his coat pockets, he pulled the now rather yellowed piece of paper out and smoothed it out. Seeing the faded handwriting of his father filled him with fondness and a pang of loss.
Oh Father…
Without warning, Doctor Costa’s memory reeled him back to the day Father completed the ultimate sacrifice for his work. Well, their work, now. The day after the funeral, the Last Will and Testament of Joseph Costa had given little Raymond the reason to forever seal his adoration towards his Father, whereas it had given little Theresa all the more reason to hate him: nothing. He left his daughter nothing. Nothing but a ruined childhood, which collapsed into a scarred adulthood. Theresa never could understand why Raymond defended their Father so much-all Daddy left him was a thin notebook filled with patient’s details. Yet he protected that book with his life, and no-one was allowed anywhere near it.
The differences between the memories of their Father drove a wedge between the siblings as they grew older. When Raymond was nineteen, and Theresa sixteen, a final blazing row ended with Raymond storming out. They hadn’t spoken since-and that was almost twenty years ago.
But Raymond didn’t even give his sister a passing thought. He was far too busy working on getting a degree in Medicine, becoming a pharmacist and continuing on his Father’s mastermind plan: to cure the World of Alzheimer’s. As it turned out, Raymond saw an opportunity arise in a position at one ‘St. Anthony’s Care Home’ in the west edge of good old England. This job benefitted him in every aspect. The freedom of supplies, the pick of test subjects, the cover of illness in the events of death (As long as not too many died at once, and he had a large supply of drugged chocolate) and, most wonderfully, the chance to exact revenge on the ones that murdered his father. If they hadn’t of whispered or just averted their eyes and did what they were told, then Father wouldn’t have had to remove them from the equation. There would have been no Police investigation, no need for Father to jump just so as to avoid implicating and destroying the drug trial. The generation of octogenarians had not pushed his Father off the Multi-storey Car Park, but they did push him over the edge. Now he could avenge his idolised Father.
Glancing over his Father’s instruction from beyond the grave, Doctor Raymond Costa frowned as he planned if the drug was ready and who he would try it on first. Possibly that disgusting Mabel… The doctor grinned at his own achievements.
Doctor Costa’s smugness faltered a little when he saw the blonde haired child crouching in the corner. Hmm, that could be problematic. He was sure he was a patient. Okay, fine, no real problems with family then-no-one seemed to visit him that much. What if he told? Suddenly, an even broader smile stretched the pallid doctor’s skin so tightly it burned. This could not be more perfect. This child has Alzheimer’s. This child was not going anywhere. And he had a few years left yet before the complication of Alzheimer’s caused the boy to choke on food because he’s forgot how to swallow. In fact, this child is a chalkboard being wiped cleaner everyday- the more he tested, the less the child would know! True, this child wouldn’t really show improvements but it would show effects on the body without the increased stress on his organs threatening cardiac arrest or some other organ failure at any moment. Doctor Costa could groom this child, like a life sized rat. But wait, Raymond. Don’t get complacent. Test the drug on the expendables. You have plenty of them. Wait until the drug is safe. Don’t ruin your golden opportunity, here!
He would have to make sure that the child ate some chocolate next time; just to be sure the odd moment of lucidity did not give the game away to one of these old wenches. Gliding across the tiles, making sure to step on one of that ghastly Mabel’s fingers, he crouched down in front of the child, centimetres away from his quivering bottom lip. So close the boy’s breath steamed up his glasses. The child began to cry. Doctor Costa pushed his index finger to the lips of his child. “Not so loud.” The doctor’s eyes were wide and his pupils were bigger than usual, the adrenaline of some unknown thrill still coursing through his body.
“Hush….hush now, my little forgetful one. Stay quiet now. Do you want to go on an adventure?” he leered.
Standing up, the not-so charming Doctor Raymond Costa strolled away, his cheerful whistling reverbing back up the dark corridor and falling on the deaf ears of his sleeping hags.
Cody covered his ears and, with his eyes squeezed shut, waited until the Sun pushed open the eyes of the others and Mabel complained of a painful finger.
“Oh do shut up, Mabel,” Fiona cried. “Hmm…I’m hungry. Anyone for more chocolate? It seems the lovely Doctor has left us some more!”
Seeing it laid there on the table, wrinkled hands shot out and snatched at the sweet segments of forbidden sugar.
Mabel grinned. “Hang on; just let me take my tablets…Urgh, even more in my cup today?” Mabel put the back of a creased hand on her forehead dramatically. “I swear…If I were a horse, they’d shoot me!”
“Do shut up, Mabel,” Fiona snapped. “Just swallow it down with some chocolate. Here you go, Cody, here’s a bit for you.”
Mabel did as she was told.
“Mm, delicious!”
