Cold Blooded and Sacred: Sample

 

An Extract of Opening Chapters from

COLD BLOODED AND SACRED 

By Delphie Levy Jones

Read at: WRITING ON THE WALL'S 2023 PULP IDOL HEATS

The Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 1996

THE NEWEST VERSION OF COLD BLOODED AND SACRED IS CURRENTLY RESERVED FOR PUBLICATION.

THIS SAMPLE IS FREE FOR PUBLIC READERSHIP AND REMAINS UNEDITED.

Freedom

         The roof was down, the music loud. She knew she was free.

 Her car flew at an unstoppable speed down the endless highway, the cocooning snow blanketing her between the mountains. It was freezing, but she was used to it. The adrenaline pumped her body with a warmth she hadn’t quite felt before. The radio’s pulse thumped as the unrecognisable melodies sang into the once silent air.  She pulled the band from her hair, hating how it restricted her, hating how it held her back. Her hair flew out behind her like fire. Grasping for the bottle of spirit from beside her, she took a gulp and grimaced. Vodka was born here, like her, but she’d never get used to the taste. The revulsion reminded her to glance at the back seat. Only a brief glance. A peek. As if she hadn’t looked at all. Shaking her head, she had to rid her mind from the engulfing guilt, a deep pang in her chest, an eternal but buried ache.

 She tried to focus on the road ahead through the blockade of icy mist, through her blurring vision. She was free. Free from the burden that dragged her down whenever she tried to move on. Free from the constant reminder of him in her eyes. She’d never seen the ocean, but she imagined her eyes held the beauty of its shallows, for they must have been as haunting as the creatures within its depths. But it was okay, because her eyes, she was sure she would never see again. Glancing at the sleeping baby girl in the back seat of her car, with dried tears staining her plump little cheeks, Irina let the agony encompass her chest for a moment. Only a moment.

         To freedom, she cried, before devouring the rest of the bottle.

 Her Eyes

        There was no place to park by the church, so she left the battered Moskvitch by the iron gates. Hurling the doors open, she lifted her sleeping daughter from the backseat. Snowfall had been heavy this winter, yet she trudged through its thickness as the pain stung her bare legs. Every movement she made through the graveyard was slow, and subtle, calculated as she stayed as still as possible not to wake the baby in her arms. As she got to the wooden door, she lay her down against the cold concrete steps, and knocked twice. She allowed herself one last peek, a final glance, relieved that her child’s sleeping eyes stayed shut, and then she turned. Back to the graveyard gates, back to her car.

“Irina!” Someone yelled. She winced, caught.

“Sister Aleksandra,” she replied monotonously, turning to stare at the human obstruction.

“Again! Again, you try to leave your child with us!”

“I want to leave this place. And she reminds me of him. I thought you’d understand, Sister.”

“A child belongs with its mother, Irina.”

“But I don’t want her. I never wanted her. You know that.”

As if the bitter words had pricked at her innocent ears, the child stirred in her sleep. Stretching her little arms against the nun’s chest, a gentle whimper left her lips. Irina stumbled back.

“Hush, hush. They’re beautiful. Just like your father’s,” Aleksandra whispered to the baby. Looking up, ready to hand the child back to her mother, the nun was greeted with nothing but snow in sight.

 Not Moving

        Irina’s cottage stood alone within the frosted pines, hidden amidst the snowstorm. Her car struggled against the incipient blizzard, fighting to find the buried road. Pulling up at the house, she had a routine to follow, and today would be no different. Her frozen fingers battled with the keys as they also often did in the warmer months, and upon hearing the awaited click of the lock, she instinctively put the kettle on. Settling into a stillness, she listened to the thunderstorm crashing against the weak roof and dug her guilty face into her hands. Despite the noise, she found the intermittent snow showers pacifying.

 Abruptly, three deafening knocks pounded against her window. Her breath caught itself in the back of her throat and her heartbeat echoed like an underwater drum in her ears. Her mind raced with everything she had done, everyone she had wronged. No one ever came here, not this far out into the wilderness, not unless they needed to. Peering between the gap in her curtains, it was as exactly as she expected. There was no one there. Nothing, but the frost-stained windows. Her eyes flickered across the horizon. If it had been anyone, they surely would have knocked on the door, and so it must have been a heavier downpour of snow. But she wished she was naïve enough to believe that. Walking back towards the counter, another booming thud came from the window.

Her head shot round, her untamed hair spiralling over with her, as a long pale face stared back at her through the soaked glass. Releasing an ear-piercing scream, she jumped unwillingly into the counter, smashing her back against the slicing surface. Idiot, she cursed before crumbling onto the floor. But the pain dissipated as quick as she heard the click of the front door. That adrenaline was back, beating.

 Footsteps.

 Louder.

 Coming closer.

 She covered her mouth to prevent herself from screaming as unspoken tears streamed down her cheeks. She knew who was here. She knew what she’d done.

“Irina?” a deep voice hollered. Him. Hastily rising from the floor, she brushed down her clothes, scraped back the wandering knots in her hair and wiped her eyes. She had to look presentable. If he saw she’d been crying, he’d laugh.

            “Valentin... in... in the kitchen.” she stuttered, forcing her voice to be stronger than she felt. Hearing the rattle of the kitchen door, her eyes naturally averted to the floor, gazing at his bulky leather boots. Muddy, as always.

“I heard a scream. You’re not hurting yourself again are you?” he said, “It’s cold in here. Put the fire on, Irina.” His commands were so simple. They never left any room for a reply. Staring down at her dress, made of the fine silk he used to compliment her in, she wondered if he still found her attractive. If he did, he never told her so. But glancing up at him, she reminded herself that she shouldn’t even want him to. He stared coldly at her, no, he stared coldly through her, as if she wasn’t anything to him. She wasn’t meant to be. Not anymore.

Tiptoeing over to the fireplace, she reached for one of the coarse wooden logs and some kindling. After countless attempts at lighting the match, a small flame erupted as she threw it into the furnace. She leaned her back against the wall and closed her eyes as the warmth and light flooded the room. When she was with him, she preferred silence, she embraced it. And he always knew how to ruin that.

            “You know why I’m here, Irina. Where is she?” he hummed as her eyes opened in fright at the proximity between them. He was close, so close that she could feel the shockwaves of his emanating anger. He knew. He already knew, just like he always did. One step ahead.

“You know I had to, Val.” she whispered, bringing her hand to his cheek trying to calm him. “I need out of here-”

Slap.

He hadn’t hit her. Had he?

 She imagined that was coming. Her vision turned blotchy, invaded with black, as a lightshow of stars and speckles rendered her blind. Sometimes she could feel his slaps, before they ever even came.

“She is mine. You cannot take her from me!” He bawled, pushing her back into the wall. Her limbs fell heavy and sluggish as an uneasy sickness sat festering in her stomach. Why did he make her weak? He approached, although all she could see was his silhouette looming closer, closer. He raised his arm, his fist was clenched. But she had imagined, many times before, what was about to happen, so this time, she wouldn’t let it. Stumbling over to the kitchen drawers, her eyesight still blurred, the lingering sour of vodka still in her breath, she grasped for a knife and with dirt-stained hands, plunged it into the right side of his chest.

There was a ringing. Everything stopped.

Everything was still.

Silence.

Although this time, she didn’t prefer it. She didn’t embrace it. The fire had stopped crackling, the snow had stopped falling, she had stopped breathing. His eyes still stared at her, no, through her, as he collapsed to the floor, clutching the knife impaled in his collar bone.

Then noise. Everything. The blaring roar of the fire, the furious snow pelleting against the roof, the deafening thumping in her ears, the ringing of an endless whistle. Whistle. The kettle.

Removing the boiling kettle from the stove, she was unaware as it scorched her fingers. Why was he not moving? Her eyes, fixated on nothing, but staring, unblinking. Why was he not moving? She breathed in and walked over to his body. He lay motionless on the floor. His ice blue eyes, clamped shut. Was he in pain? No, he couldn’t be. He didn’t feel pain. But then why was he not moving? She stared down at her bloody hands.  She hated when they weren’t clean. Dirty. She was dirty. What had she done? A bleeding chest. A stained floor.

Why was he not moving?  Kneeling next to him, she stared, bile rose to her throat as she just stared. Stared for what felt like hours. And he didn’t move. So she left.

Forgive Me, For I Have Sinned

        The church was always empty at this time of night. Always quiet, yet still filled with light. Sister Aleksandra would preach that the light of the Lord is the light that never dims, so the candles would stay burning. Irina knelt in front of the altar, staring up at the stone Mary staring down at her. Her statue always looked so mournful, so full of sorrow. As you should be when you’ve lost your child. When she was a little girl, Irina swore she’d seen her weep.

“Forgive me, Mary, Mother of God, I have sinned. Forgive me. Please.” She whispered, her forehead resting on the ground. “Forgive me. I have murdered a man. A bad man. He is a bad man. I’ve killed him, the man I love.” She repeated, over and over, until the words stained her lips and her voice became a hoarse shell of itself, an exhausted sound ricocheting against the church walls.

“Please. Please, a sign. Anything to show your forgiveness, please, Mary. Anything.” 

Irina screamed in godly joy as a blast of bitter wind surged through the doors.

“Thank you.” she cried out, rising her head from its place on the floor. She had been forgiven, but the relief was short-lived. As the wind blew the candles out, the air grew cold. The statues became contours lost within the shadows, consumed in darkness. Something wasn’t right. Static prickled her skin, the fine hairs on her arm standing alert as those familiar shockwaves itched at her spine. Footsteps. Stumbling from the floor, her back brushed against something behind her. Body heat. He was here. Baring her neck to him, she felt something chilled held firm against her throat. Cold. Metal. A knife. She knew this feeling. It teased her, nipping at her skin but not quite cutting.

“With everything I have taught you, you should know how to aim for the heart.” Without any time to process, without any time to respond, he dug the blade deeper into her neck.

“Your attempts to murder me are so pathetic that I almost feel sorry for you. I have no time for this now Irina, no time for you. I am taking back everything you stole from me.”

Lifting her chin to the heavens, he applied the pressure he needed, watching her eyes from above as they flickered until that fear was eventually… gone. They fluttered shut, blackness, as she slumped against his chest. With his arms cradled around her, he thought if only a sculptor could witness this, he’d surely carve a statue of two embracing lovers.

Dropping Irina’s lifeless body, he wiped his knife clean, discarding it on the church floor. Looking to the altar, he remembered the day his daughter was baptised. She’d coughed as the holy water drowned her cries. The irony was perfect. When Irina was to be announced dead, there would be no consequences, not for him. Not only did Valentin’s reputation pay for the law enforcement’s silence, but Irina was worthless to them. She was an outcast, a rebel. Her existence had burdened them ever since she’d fallen pregnant. To the town, she was a sinner who had tried to rid the life inside of her, and a sorceress, who had bewitched the church into granting her forgiveness for it. Her disappearance would not only go unnoticed but would be celebrated. Yet Valentin liked to have fun with his prey. He enjoyed fairy-tales, the dark and horrifying ones. He liked the town telling stories of his victims, the whispers, the suspicion and the mystery exhilarated him. His reputation preceded him. A true psychopath, he smirked, oh how he enjoyed that reputation.

What he couldn’t deny however, was that he despised other people thinking his Irina was worthless. It was like a gnawing irk, clawing at his conscience. She didn’t deserve that, and she didn’t deserve a simple murder, that was much too boring for her. The town’s people were practically lined up to witness her death anyway, so Valentin knew he had to design a murder scene that would bother them most. Reaching down, he placed the dagger within Irina’s own palm. She was lefthanded, so her left. He stared at his display, and smiled. The greatest sin of them all.

 He strolled to the candles and re-lit each one, humming the tune of an old riddle he had sung at his daughter’s baptism. He let a small flame catch onto his palm. Enduring the pain, he watched intently as the teardrop of fire blistered his skin. Pain was a peculiar feeling, for him. One he felt so fiercely as the fire licked his skin, but one he fought to feel within. The pain of the fire was the only thing left reminding him he wasn’t indestructible, that there would, someday, be consequences. The burning was a feeling so physical he couldn’t escape it. Unlike his emotions which he’d shut off long ago, and were now too distant, too much of a mirage to make out. This, he could decipher immediately. Hurt. Heat. Pain was the final feeling reminding him he was human.

Brushing the flame off, he grabbed a candle and made his way back to Irina’s body. He sighed, dropping the candle beside her. She was too beautiful to burn, but it was metaphorical. Beauty and pain were interlocked, one would simply not exist without the other. He watched as the blaze grew higher, spreading and crawling and rising, and only the stone of the Holy Mary would come out of this unscorched. He ripped off the bloody bandage covering his collarbone and threw it into the fire. Within moments, it caught alight. Pitiful, he thought. He had taught her better.