The Folly

By Chris Dabnor

He smiled as he poured her weak tea from the slightly scuffed metal teapot.

“When we leave here,” he said, his demeanour unchanging, his voice with a soft melodic quality, “I’m going to take you somewhere quiet and kill you.”

She looked at him aghast, but said nothing, instead drawing her fraying brown cardigan tight around her shoulders. She was startled at the sudden fluttering of a peacock as it splayed out its feathers in the courtyard. The stranger put down the teapot, and, after ensuring that the amount of deep blue cuff showing below the crisp beige suit was just so, picked up the brochure of the Elizabethan manor.

He must be joking, she thought, looking at the man who sat before her, idly turning the pages of the leaflet. He sighed.

“It seems that every house built before 1651 sheltered Charles the Second. His route to freedom must have been circuitous, to say the least.”

She laughed nervously, running her hands down the pleats of her cheap grey skirt. He tilted his head, annoyed by her reaction. She apologised for whatever offence she had caused him. A peahen let out its ugly squawk. He turned to look at it, before turning back to look at her, running the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth.

“They clip their wings, you know, to stop them leaving,” she said.

Ignoring her, he picked up his tea and took a sip from it, his nose wrinkling slightly in disgust. The cheap, chipped cup looked entirely out of place in his well-manicured hand.  He leaned back and crossed his legs.

“Of course, my dear, the decision to come with me, or not, is yours, but I think it was made a long time ago. If you are lucky, you will find a man, give birth to his children and through them, hold him prisoner. If not, a lifetime of cheap romance novels and,” he paused as if the words repulsed him, “reality television. At least this way, you will be remembered, if not by name. Now, I believe there is a folly nearby.  I am going there now.”

He stood, bowed his head slightly and left.

He was right, of course. The decision had been made a long time ago. She lifted her suede shoulder bag from the back of the chair, stood, and followed him. The cobbles felt like rocks through the thin soles of her pumps as she walked behind him. The slope to the folly was steep, although he seemed not to notice, striding upwards, hands in pockets. She, on the other hand, made use of every hand hold available, pulling out tufts of grass. When she joined him at the top, her tights were torn and her hands red and dirty.

“I feel quite at home up here,” he said, turning to go inside.

She, on the other hand, felt quite giddy, making it more difficult to drive the fountain pen into his carotid artery.

Chris Dabnor is a writer, part-time literature student, and full-time cubicle monkey. He lives in Cannock, which is a smallish town near the middle of England but far from Middle England. His story, “The Expendable Mr. Skimble” will appear in Issue #2 of Dark Valentine. His blog is here.

Marzel (photographer) is an artist and writer who currently lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills with her husband, three kids and psychic pug Brigit.  Marzel specializes in photography, digital art, painting, sculpting, and writing of a darker nature.  She is co-administrator and Editor-in-Chief for the Dark Artists Guild.  Find more of her at at The Play of Light and Shadow.