Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel by Mark Bredenbeck Page B

happen, the only one; there would be no other
as perfect. He felt strongly about her, had felt strongly about her
from the first time he saw her. She was his mother as he remembered
her.
    Then she woke.
    He had watched her in the room waiting to
see what she would do. His excitement built. He actually felt sorry
for her in a way, not being able to clean her, take care of her. He
could only feed her enough to keep her alive; she had to suffer as
well. Mother was in no way innocent in all of this. Mother started
this, so mother would finish it.
    Taking her was only half of what he had
planned though. When he went to look at her, he had to stop himself
telling her what she was to do, what part she was going to play.
What was to happen to put it right, but then she would already know
what she had done, wouldn't she?
    Mother was going to pay a high price to rid
him of this darkness, to shut it out of his life forever.
    He looked at the photo in his hand, a small
black and white, showing a pretty and petite woman of about twenty
one, she was dressed in what he guessed was her wedding dress and
was standing next to a man of about the same age. He had a casual
black suit on; it did not even fit him properly, not caring on his
wedding day either. Nevertheless, they both had smiles on their
faces, one smiling for the life she thought she was going to lead
and the other smiling for the life he was going to give her, safe
in the sanctity of marriage. It was strange seeing his parents like
that; the only image he had of them in his mind did not have those
smiles attached.
    He had freed her from the chain earlier on
in the day in preparation. He had stood there trying not to lose it
in the corner, as he felt the inevitable drawing closer. It was
going to be so perfect.
    She had cowered away from him when he
unlocked her shackles; she went and sat sniveling in the corner. It
had brought back memories of mother crying herself to sleep after
one of his father ’ s lessons. He almost told her then, but
stopped himself at the last moment. She had wet herself, right
there in front of him, showing her innermost fear in such a natural
act.
    He had felt a burst of twisted pleasure, a
cruel pleasure in someone else's suffering brought on by his own
actions. Was this how father had felt? He nearly vomited at the
thought; dry retching into his mouth, a bitter taste of bile stung
the back of his throat. He had fled the room at that point, not
even hearing the sound of her anguish behind him.
    Composing himself, needing to focus on the
task, he tried to think of the preparations he still needed to
complete. She could wait, she would find out soon enough and then
she would put it right. He could get on with his life. He just had
to wait until dark.
     
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Bridger had decided on the side of caution,
and he had gone to Marion's address if only to put his tired mind
at rest.
    Arriving in the unkempt street in the heart
of the student area, there was an eerie quiet feeling, like an
empty battlefield after the troops had withdrawn to regroup. He
looked at all the surrounding houses, windows and doors shut tight,
curtains drawn, shutting out the world and hiding the casualties
inside. It was a typical early Saturday morning after a busy night
in the life a student.
    He walked up the short concrete path
and onto the veranda. Knocking on the glass-paneled door, he got no
answer. Peering through the frosted glass, he could detect no
movement either. Yellowing lace curtains obscured his view as He
looked through the front windows, before moving to the side of the
house. Stacks of old roofing iron and timber choked
the narrow path, like battlements in the trenches. In his state he
was not about to clamber over the unstable looking pile.
    Mrs. Watson was right, she was not home, but
there were signs of recent occupation. The letterbox was clear of
junk mail for a start, which was more than he could say for the
mess on the front lawn of one