Between stars and children

The Church

wheeling, the ageing bicycle ,alongside the winding, country road, hound's body felt elastic. His hands itched with the imaginary dirt of death, making him want to pick and peel from the unbearable artefacts he had touched. Not even touched-ghosted. His hands had held the night so feverishly to his lungs that he felt it barely existed at all. The night dress, the tarnished underwear, the wet soil. It all pulsed with an energy that resembled a white hot heat, not yet exhibited by humans. He could still hear the hollowing screams of the name Margaret, the three syllables perfectly stretched the mouth in wide arches and flat burrows, with the purpose of difficulty.

approaching his overgrown garden hound leant his bicycle against the rusted gate and before unlocking his home, he stooped at what appeared to be a note of sorts tucked folded beneath a milk bottle. Clutching the bottle of cool creamy liquid to his heart, hound tucked the paper quickly pushed the note deep into his tweed pocket before looking around at the towering sunflowers and gooseberry bushes, not shaking the feeling of being watched. Setting aside the glass bottle and pulling out his desk chair hound unfolded the tawny note. It appeared to be a ragged strip of newspaper torn and folded, the subject was of a local fishing record, but etched in a slanting swirl moving fluidly around the type was a message. Rubbing the thin paper between his fingers, it felt almost damp as if it had been held too long and had absorbed the holders sweat, it would explain the running ink.

'God is always watching.'

he immediately pictured a young woman pressuring a ink pen in secret to the paper,their hair splayed in stress and secrecy.who could possible know where Hound lived, not even anyone from his office came to visit him and even then there wasn't another home near next to the humble cottage until the next shop came into view.

The church.

he knew that it was first on his agenda for questioning as it directly overlooked the crime scene and it was also the last place Margaret was seen alive, but now this note cemented his theory. The selected area of the murder scene linked back to the murder themselves as they seemed to have a heavy obsession or fascination with religious iconography. The church was not only the beginning but the end of this daisy chain of blood stains, whomever led the church must have heard the last of the girls breathing.

splashing cold water around the center of his face and changing his tie, hound stared tenderly at the flaring of his cheeks. Even after living with his appearance for little over twenty years he could still not stand his reflection. He remembered the tales his mom would always jabber at him of peter and the wolf or little red riding hood, the images of these stories always flexed strongly at the back of his mind. They made him thing of claws and knives and butchers and vomit. He was sure all the other boys and girls at school thought of him when they thought of wolves as his face was a composition of scratched glass on the concrete of a dark alley. Moving with pace from the graying basin hound moved towards his bed side table, removing a flaking leather case to pull the glasses up to the bridge of his nose. hound's room resembled something of a derelict hotel the walls were a slight cream with large wooden cabinets leaning against their spines. His possessions were few: a few notebooks were stacked on the floor of his bed that he had been reviewing a few nights ago, a set of silver cuff links on a cupboard surface, a box of matches, a brown comb with a few missing teeth, a broken toy train the size of a cigarette box, a padded chair of green velvet with a suit jacket hung over its side, his wardrobe was perched open, his bed was unmade and an empty ashtray perched next to a small picture frame. Within the frame stood a women, young and smiling with the same sloped nose as hound, she leant lazily against a large oak tree wearing a cotton summer dress and held a book to her chest; 'the complete works of Emily-'. Hound could never work out what the complete works were actually of as the following name had been covered by his mothers arm, but a figure from the picture must have been removed as there was a thick male hand wrapped around her shoulder, but he was cut off as the halved photo seemed isolated with the frames extra space soaring like a vast wasteland. The room was none the less derelict and neglected as was the rest of the house. Quite a contradiction to the word home itself.