SHORT STORY: The girl in the barn

...This remains a WIP... it’s a reworked version of a story I’ve posted previously... I continue to tinker with it (lol)...!

I blow a bubble of cloudy O on the window. Follow it with another, and another. Then, with my stubby, half-chewed finger, I trail my initials through the mist formed by my mouth. The door slams. Mother enters the car. ‘Indigo,’ she clucks, ‘why aren’t you wearing your seatbelt?’ she says, casting a nervous glance in the front mirror. I struggle with the strap. Tug – tug – tug. At last, it extends. I press the buckle in, and it lodges with a click. Mum gives me a fleeting look before revving up the car. The engine sputters in the icy cold. Reluctantly, it springs to life. We are on our way to see Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock.

There is a purpose to our visit today but I can’t remember what it is. We have visited their home many times before, often during the holidays. Their cottage sits nestled like an ostrich egg on a large farm in the Cotswolds. I am looking forward to exploring the stretch of land that surrounds. It is a grand dwelling and rumours a great deal of wealth. Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock don’t have any children. Too busy making their millions, my mother often TUTS. Sometimes I imagine I am adopted by them. The things I would do with all that money (I’m sure I’d have a huge allowance). I’d have my room painted a carroty orange with lots of polka-dot cushions. I’d have a large beanbag positioned by the window where I’d sit for endless hours reading. I’d learn how to play the guitar and with all that money maybe I’d even own one. And I just know that I’d travel to the ends of the earth. In Geography we learnt about a place called Papua New Guinea and I want to go and see the pygmies of that land. I’d like to taste the snake soups of Malaysia and ride the elephants in Sri Lanka. Unconsciously, I doodle on the steamed window: India – Japan – Russia – Kenya... If only I were adopted by Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock.

When we arrive, Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock meet us at the door. Aunt Mavis is looking immaculate, perfectly coiffed like Nicole Kidman in that perfume commercial. Although well presented, Uncle Jock – short and stout – looks awkward standing beside my aunt. He is dressed in a mustard coloured jumper with a cigar dangling from his lips. Greetings and kisses are exchanged. Mother and Aunt Mavis head off to the kitchen while Uncle Jock mutters something about going for a walk. I decide I will explore the woodland around. ‘Don’t go too far,’ Mother says, disappearing down the hallway behind my aunt. I watch until they are gone before making my way back out into the crisp afternoon.

I embark on a new route: winding my way round behind the stables and vanish behind a veil of woody area. The trees look solemn as I stroll between them. Their bare barks are bleak and barren. With each breath I exhale, a conical cloud rises as it hits the freezing atmosphere. Even underfoot, the ground is glazed with ice. There is no plan in my mind as to where I am going. I simply walk – ambling along a sodden path.

It takes me by surprise when I stumble on a disused barn at the far side of a clearing. Non-descript, it resembles a shack. Even at this distance, I can tell that large chunks of the flat timber are rotten through – dead wood. My size-fives break a twig, surprising a black bird. It swoops off a branch and flies away. I watch until it becomes a black prick against the November sky. Averting my eyes back to level ground, I walk around the rectangular structure. I am quiet. A strange feeling overcomes me and I sense that I am intruding. On what, I do not know. That is, until I hear a sound.

It is a whining sound. Like the whimpering noise cats make when they are sick, or suffering. I stop. Listen hard. Perhaps, I have imagined it. But: it comes again. I lean against the wooden wall, as if seeking some sort of camouflage. I wonder if I should make my escape. No: my curiosity gets the better of me. I am now at the rear end of the barn, and I move closer to the wide window, and crouch low. I take a deep breath, trembling slightly: a mixture of cold, excitement, and fear. I count to ten before edging my body upwards. My eyes hover halfway and peep through the dust streaked panes. I blink, widen my eyes, and press my face against the window – flattening my nose. I see nothing, only the outline shadow of a pile of hay and a scattering of disused farming equipment. As I extend myself fully a wave of disappointment drifts through me. There is no mystery here. In that moment of contemplation, in the stillness that envelops, I hear a strained, soft moan. Following the direction of the breathy whimper, I move past the window and notice a loose panel – no longer overlapping – revealing a slit-hole.

I see two figures. First, I see the fresh, freckled face of a girl. Not much older than me. Fifteen? Sixteen? I cannot see her eyes, but her clenched fists tell me she is frightened. Her red curls are sprawled in a tangle on a bed of hay. She lies still, pinned down by a fleshy mass. His back – a blanket of grey wiry hairs – faces me. I recognise the thinning patch on his head. He is still wearing the mustard jumper he greeted me and my mother with. My chest tightens. I cannot think what to do. Transfixed: I watch the rhythm of his bulge move back and forth. With each thrust a moan escapes; a cry of pleasure and power. I will the girl to kick herself free and run. She doesn’t. She remains as silent as I am.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant