Day 70 - Darwin's Game - Chapter 19 (2015 words)

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DARWIN'S GAME

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 19

The kettle had boiled and was whistling, a shrill yet soft noise that irritated and comforted without any hint of contradiction. Mrs Washington was very fond of the kettle. Her son-in-law Derek had bought her a new electric kettle, one that boiled water silently, was cool to the touch and had all sorts of safety features, with the best that innovative European design and manufacturing had to offer. Yet the battered kettle, scorched and dented from ages of use and the occasional misuse, remained her favourite thing in the whole house.

She had her fill of visitors, they pestered her repeatedly over the first few days that those videos with her eldest child, Wynton was in. She had let go of him long, long ago and did not respond to anyone about it. She was an old woman, one who never spoke, never even returned a greeting when approached, never answered her phone or returned urgent messages from someone she did not know was calling. Her son-in-law spoke to the press, never on her behalf, as far as she was concerned there was nothing to have a behalf on. He fronted up and begged the media to leave her alone, and doorstepping an old woman who looked slightly mad in her refusal to engage simply did not make compelling television.

After the first few days they left her alone, when then subsequent episodes went up she was singled out less and less, never expecting a response and trying anyway. By the time episode four was aired they had almost given up, but now his death was centre stage and they would be back.

The kettle done whistling as the heat was turned down, was still on the stove top, waiting for Maisy Washington to make herself her cup of tea, with trim milk and no sugar. She had given up on sugar a long time ago, figuring it for the problem with her boy, his sweet tooth, and the desires within him that grew to violence and to wanting more and to control everything. She got the milk from the fridge and poured a measure into her favourite cup, lining the bottom as the tea steeped in the teapot, the steam rising still from the kettles spout stinging her wrist as she tips the wrong way momentarily. That sudden bite on her skin, though not harmful brings a small gasp from her and she moves to avoid further pain, however slight.

The answering machine, also a present from her daughter's husband, was blinking maniacally that it had more messages than it could handle, and she knew that they had come in today. Derek had cleared the messages for her remotely every night and told her of anything she needed to know. He had given her a précis of the calls about Wynton, but it was more of a list than a update. She did not want to know, she knew too much about him already that caused her no end of pain in the past.

Now it was full, it had not been filled in a single day so far, so she knew what that meant. Wynton was dead, there was no other explanation. He was a violent man, he was used to getting his way and would often do things that never sat that well with her. As a boy he had been so sweet, they had given him the love and care that he had deserved, they had been strict when they needed to be and relaxed enough for him to feel some sense of freedom as he grew. He was not beaten, but he was punished when he deserved it. He did not get everything he wanted, but he got enough to feel normal, average and just like all the other kids in his class and his school.

Maisy's husband had died, but it had not marked him particularly as he was an adult at the time. He had two parents, Sunday school education for morals and the example of his family who were very nice, understanding but moral people.

Now he was dead, and it was not a shock or surprise that Maisy did not want to know the details about it. Wynton had been sweet, a nice boy but he had become a dislikeable man, one with a temper and a desire for control of others. He just changed gradually as he got older and one day Maisy realised that she no longer knew her son. This was a different man in front of her, one she could not understand and could not know. Her husband tried talking to him, before the cancer took him for his final resting place, but Wynton glared and fought with him, not physically, but mentally pushed back and fired salvoes of hurtful and manipulative speech that bewildered a man already made old before his time due to his health. They had been in their forties when Wynton was born, and his sister was only a year or two behind him in age. Now as he became this man they did not know in his twenties they spent less and less time with him and more with Angela, their daughter. She showed none of the traits her brother did, and she held them together as the time drew close for her father.

Maisy did her best to ignore the pain that her son was causing his father, the disappointment he felt that somehow they were responsible for a human being with such little regard for the humane. She cut off ties with Wynton in the last few months before her husband passed and whenever he weakly asked to see his son, she made excuses until he forgot or was too tired to remember he had asked about him. The final few weeks were mostly waiting, holding on and sucking up time like it was being drained out of his life.

Derek had gone to see Wynton, told him it was time and that it would be good for him to see him one last time. He held his tongue about attitude and behaviour and just asked nicely, respectfully for him to say his goodbyes, if not for his fathers sake then for his own. That was when Derek found out that Wynton had children of his own, a wife whom they knew nothing about, not having been to a wedding or being told of the change to his life at all. She came in and inquired who Derek was and then he saw the snap in Wynton's eyes, the fear in her eyes as she saw it too and from there it went downhill.

Derek came with Angela to the hospital the next day, bruises from Wynton's argument with his wife. Derek had tried to intervene, and while he was capable of handling himself and he was a physical match for his brother in law, the ferocity of the rage that came from Wynton was no match for a sane person. Angela had called the police from the emergency room where Derek had been stitched up and that was the last time they saw her brother until the murder trial. They were happy that they did not know their late sister in law or the children. It was a small mercy that this monster had kept them isolated from the pain of loving the child and seeing him torn away so violently.

Mr Washington passed before Wynton brutally beat his wife and children to death, before his rage spilled over to the hasty covering of this tracks and the path of chaos and blood he left in his wake. The police had no trouble finding, convicting and imprisoning him, he was helpless to stop them as he had reacted and not planned any of it. This drove him to take control, he was not interested in serving quiet time, he needed t have the control even in the controlled environment of a prison. He knew that it could be had, that he would have it.

Maisy never visited him, never went to the trial and did not go to the funeral of the family, the grandchildren she had never met. It mystified her that Wynton was related to her or her husband, and now he was dead she would never see if he still had that originally nice boy deep down inside.

She had accepted a long time ago that her son, as he once was, was dead and never coming back. She did not know who this man was, this murderous container of fury and desire for power, made no sense to her, she could not recognise him.

Her tea was getting cold, her answer phone was blinking at her and she knew that the stranger her son had become was gone. She finished her drink and then pulled aside the net curtains around her front window. A car and van that were normally not there were parked just outside the edge of her property, beyond the grass verge on the outside of the fence. There were a couple of people chatting, with portable coffee containers, sipping on them like they used to puff on cigarettes back in the old days when she was younger, and the press was less intrusive and more obvious in their intents. She closed the curtain, feeling a little trapped in her own house, but she would have to go out at some point, and she was feeling a little belligerent, not liking the feeling of being isolated and surrounded.

She got her purse, her bag and her coat and stepped outside. They waited until she got to the gate and when she opened it they went mad all at once.

“Have you seen the latest episode?”

“Have you any comment to make on your son's actions?”

“What are you feeling about your son Mrs Washington?”

“Does your son... is your son... Can Wynton ever... Does he deserve”

The questions were darts thrown at her, and one or two were spoilers, they told her what she already knew, that he was now dead, the man that her son was now. She picked up that it involved another person, he had acted badly, that it was something to do with drowning, he drowned or he made someone drown. She was not engaging and she calmly ignored them all, not smiling not responding and not engaging.

She was walking away, down towards the nearest shops where she knew people and where they would take her in and keep the reporters away from her and give her some peace. She was being followed by the pack and one of them, showing a tenacity and meanness that put her in mind of Wynton got in front of her and blocked her path before firing off his question.

“Are you happy your son is dead?”

That stopped her in her tracks and she looked at the man who had said it, he was grinning ear to ear that he had broken through the barrier and got her attention.

The tears came, and she lowered her gaze and walked around him. Behind her as she walked away she heard a chorus of boos, and jeers. As she got a few feet further it hit her that it was not for her, but that question had managed to offend enough of the other reporters, even jaded and overworked ones, to turn the pack on their own.

“Oh come, on it's not like you wouldn't... you're just jealous I asked when you were all to fucking scared too!” The reporter could tell the tide had turned against him and they had left Maisy to walk away in peace.

“Come on I'm just doing my job!”

“Is your job being a douchebag?”

The quick drawn insult got a raucous laugh and embarrassment from the assembled reporters, and through the small tears that had got from her Maisy found something to smile about for the first time in a long time.