Rings and Fings Episode 8


Rachael watched as the beams made their way up her lane past the dark workshop and barn.

She suddenly yearned for her Purdey. Turning to fetch it, she was distracted by the urgent honking horn. Maybe it was someone in trouble; she certainly had no party friends who would be stopping by.

She pulled open the heavy front door without her gun and immediately regretted it.

The bright light atop her front door arch provided her light to see the car that skidded to a halt at the end of her lane. Kicking up stones and dust was a red Capri.

The driver door suddenly flew open and an obviously drunk Spam climbed out.

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Before she could protest he was leaping down the steps which led down to her front lawn. He stumbled as he landed nearly knocking himself out on the millstone table.

Spam was one of farmer Spikes sons, the youngest, she thought. Rachael often wondered how he got that nickname, unless that was his real name.

He was wearing filthy jeans, work boots and an old sweatshirt.

Over the years she had become aware of his obsession with her, even more so than the other rabid males that inhabited the local village.

“Spam, what do you want?” He got to his feet chuckling.

He was big, at least six five, and seemed to have a body that was made up of sacks of grain.

He lifted his big face, with its curly blonde hair sitting on top of it, up to face her. He spoke through his grin. “Me old man tells me you was in an accident. I am here to check up on you.”

“So noble of you,” retorted Rachael, “turning up a day later and after you sank a load of ales at the pub. Nice.”

“I know. So can I come in? You must have some booze in there. We all know about you,” he mimed drinking and then started to laugh again.

Now Rachael was mad! “Ignorant sod! Why didn’t he crash that stupid Capri on his way here?” she thought.

“No, I don’t think so. It’s getting late and my head still hurts from the accident. The doctor said I should get peace and rest.” She lied, impressed with herself for staying calm.

A strong breeze caught her face. The night’s storm had begun to unleash rain and lightning at the edge of the valley. Rachael turned to head in.

“Come on Little Rachey,” he slurred behind her, “It’s going to start pissing down in a minute. C’mon just one drink.”

“Then I suggest that you climb back into that relic from the seventies and go home before you drown in a ditch.”

Without turning around Rachael stepped into her hallway and began to close the front door behind her.

She was keen on sliding that bolt and grabbing her Purdey.

BANG.

Rachael suddenly felt a great weight hit her back and she went flying toward the floor.


Spam had bashed in through the nearly closed door and was on her back pushing her face into the red carpet her Dad had laid so many years before.

He stood up, leaving her dazed and face down.

She heard the front door slam shut with a heavy bang and the solid bolt hitting home with a heavy thunk.

Rachael managed to pull herself up by grabbing the edge of the hallway table. Using her left elbow she pried herself up. With her right hand she grabbed the heaviest thing the table had to offer.

It was a heavy black iron Russian statue depicting two dancing pigs, one playing the flute, the other just dancing, but happy. It felt solid, heavy and cold in her shaky hand. It was one her Mum's favourites.

As he turned toward her, she swung it with as much strength as she could gather and whacked him around his head with it. He screamed and held his hands over his left eye. He staggered back into the front door.

Rachael saw blood sprayed across the narrow ceiling.

Spam pulled his hands away from his face staring at his spread out fingers like a gruesome fan.

“Bitch!” He screamed and started toward her, fast and heavy.

Rachael tried to swing at him again, but he was already on her, grabbing her arms and forcing her to drop the statue.

As he was squeezing and shaking her wrist, she tried to break away, if she could just get to the kitchen where her Purdey and phone sat waiting.

He was too strong.

She stumbled and found herself on her back pulling herself backwards with her heels and elbows until her shoulders hit the base of the staircase.

Rachael couldn’t go back any further, but it didn’t matter, he was over her and landed a right hand punch straight to her nose.

My poor head, she thought, and slumped back semi-conscious against the steps.

“Should have been nice, Rache.” He said, shaking her blood off his knuckles.

Lightning cracked and lit up the crescent moon window in the front door silhouetting his body. Thunder rolled outside as he fell on top of her. Blood streamed down the back of her throat and her vision began to blur. She heard heavy rain begin to hit the house. She could smell the rotten ale in his panting breath.

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