George Burns is a full time civil engineer and part time writer.
Footprints in the Sand
The death of a child is a terrible thing. Something that haunts a soul and tears a mans heart in two. The death of a child.
To dishonor a child before she dies is unspeakable. My daughter died at the hands of an evil man. That is all I have to say about it. What was I to do? I couldn’t help her. I wasn’t there.
I heard her scream. I heard her call my name. At least I think I did. If I didn’t, I have heard it every night since then. It haunts my dreams.
What was I to do?
I found something else to haunt my dreams.
We walked across the pasture, the damp grass catching around our ankles, soaking the bottoms of our slacks. We wore slacks and shirts and carried a shotgun in case we saw a rabbit.
“No rabbits to be seen in the fog Frankie.”
“Aye,” Frankie replied. I could hear the nerves coning through in his voice. He knew why I brought him out here. “No rabbits. Sure we might get something.”
“Aye.” We walked on in silence. Smalltalk did nothing to ease any situation. I had second thoughts. They never lasted long. I thought of her and they disappeared. They lifted off like the fog before us, rising in the morning sunrise. It was dawn. Sixish, is suppose, September, the weather still nice.
“Grand…” I said.
“Hah?”
“Grand…” Silence. “The weather. It’ll be a mild winter.”
“Less of the smalltalk Pat. It’s useless. We’ll look at the place and then we’ll get the hell out of here. Right?”
“Right. I can do it myself anyway.”
“Yer me brother,” he said. “She was me niece. If yer doin it, we’re doin it together.”
“Right.” We walked the rest of the way in silence. The fog had lifted when we arrived and the sun shone bright through the clouds. Birds sang. She loved birds. Loved the nature. Bright and beautiful days made me sad. There was no joy in these days any more. I loosed my grip and dropped the gun with a thud and dropped to my knees.
“Jesus Pat,” Frankie shouted. “The fuckin gun.” Frankie never swore, unless it was serious. “Ya could have set the cursed thing off. What’s wrong with ya?” He saw my shoulders shake. Men don’t cry. Irish men don’t cry. Men like us don’t cry. We fight, we don’t cry. My shoulders shook and I convulsed on my knees like a man kneeling in prayer and bent to the ground as if in homage. Homage to what I don’t know, I did not believe in any God, at least not any more. He watched me, curl to a ball and sob and shake. I felt his hand on my shoulder. Hard and strong. “I’m here,” he said. He knelt beside me in the wet grass. “I’m here,” he whispered. Nothing more. The hand and the whisper. That was all I needed. “Go on home Pat. Go on home. Ill have a look at the place?”
“Whaaa….” I couldn’t even talk, snot dripping down my chin. “But ya weren’t sure,” I said.
“I’m sure now,” he said, he jaw set, face hard. “I’m sure now. Ill get the place sorted. You go on home. Go the back-road. It’ll be grand, Ill go the other way and nobody’ll be the wiser,” he assured me. “It’s alright. We’ll sort it out Pat. Ill be up later.”
I left the gun with him and went back across the pasture. She walked with me. She always did. I felt her, but it didn’t help. It only made things harder. “Christ,” I said. “Christ, will ya leave me alone?” The footprints in the sand I thought. There’s no one carrying me but my brother I thought. I went home and slept, in an empty house full of empty memories. Slept like the dead.
“He’s down there Pat.”
What was that.
“He’s down there Pat. Come on. We’ll head out now.”
“What time is it?” I said. I had an oil lamp and I lit it. The shadows dancing around the room. Cold. I was on the sofa, the sacred heart picture of Jesus looking down on me. “I’ll have to take that down,” I said out loud. The knocking on he window brought me back. “That you Frank?”
“Yeah,” come on.
The footprints in the sand, I thought. I looked back up at the picture. Maybe he was carrying me. Maybe she was carrying me. “Don’t do it Da. Just leave him be.” I didn’t hear that. That was just me thinking. I must have said it out loud.
I threw on me jacket. “Do ya have it?”
“Which?”
“The gun,” I whispered. I hoped he didn’t. Sure we’ll leave it for another night I’d say.
“Ya, I have it. Come on. We’ll see him at the gate.”
“What time is it?” I asked as we walked. I could hear an owl hooting somewhere and the rustle of wings. You never saw them. Like a devil in the night. “No Da, an angel. They’re looking out for ya. Go back to bed Da.”
“What?”
“Ssssh,” Frankie said. “I said nothin. Its around twelve. Whisper lad. Discretion here if ever ya were to be discreet. Shush now, lets get this business done.”
“I’m not sure Frank,” I said. “Maybe we should head back.”
I didn’t know where his hands came from. The same strong hand that was on my shoulder, giving me the strength to get back up in the field this morning was around my throat holding me like a vice. “Sush now,” he said. ThHis grip was like an iron fist, the muscles in his forearm tensed and strong. “Sorry,” he let go. “She was my blood too Pat. Come on. We’ll get it over with.”
And so we went. He arrived at about half one. Hard to know, I had no watch. We brought him through the field. There wasn’t a sound or an argument. He couldn’t argue, we had the gun. He was half jarred anyway, I’d say he wasn’t himself.
“Just a few questions James,” we told him. “Not here though. We heard you might have seen something that night.”
“Right,” He said. “Maybe in the morning lads.”
“Nah, Jimmy, Now,” Frank insisted. “The brother here is beside himself. His only daughter. It’d be a big help.” The shot gun helped convince him too I suppose.
We walked him up through the field in silence. No lights. No moon. Darkness. Blackness. Like the night he had me daughter.
“No Da,” she said. “Don’t worry about it Da, It’s over now.” She held my hand. Her little hand in my big hand as I walked trough the wet grass, Frankie with the gun held low, walking behind Jimmy Murray.
“What if he runs?” I had asked him. “We’ll let him off. There’ll be another night.”
And I walked on, her small hand in mine. No, that wasn’t it. I was tired. She’s dead. She wasn’t with me. I could see the trail of trampled grass I had taken this morning as our eyes adjusted. Two trails. Frank must have come back this way too. Footprints in the sand. “I carried you.”
Jesus. I was going mad. “I’m going home Frank.”
“Thats it Da, go to bed.”
“Pat. Were here. We’ll ask James a few questions and we’ll all head home.”
“Right.” I didn’t like it. We went in to the shed by the trees. Dark. Like stepping into a cave. I didn’t like it. I knew what was in there. There was no way back. It was my idea.
“Whats all this?” Jimmy asked as we struck a match and lit the candle. The soft light bouncing along the walls. A three legged wooden stool stood in the middle of the floor and a rope hung from the rafter. It swayed, rotating in a small circle in the breeze from the doorway as the candle flickered.
“I think ya have a fair idea Jim, Get up on the stool or I’ll blow yer fuckin brains out. Tell the truth and ya’ll head home.”
Jimmy’s legs shook and he pissed himself but he stood on the chair.
“Hands by yer sides,” Frank instructed, businesslike, efficient. “It was my plan. I had convinced him of this. He didn’t want to do it and now here he was pointing the gun. “Put that rope around yer neck there James, good man.”
Jimmy whimpered and sobbed.
“Quit yer crying. Ya didn’t stop when his daughter cried did ya?”
“Aaaah….” Jimmy cried, but stood still on the chair, the noose around his neck, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I didn’t touch her,” he said, “It wasn’t me. I swear lads.” He wailed. “It wasn’t me.”
“Come on home Da,” she said.
“Was it him my child?”
“It doesn’t matter Da.”
“Was it him?” I shouted?
“Quiet Pat. Was it you Jimmy?”
“No,” he wailed, his drunk legs unsteady but he kept his balance lest he’d fall and dangle.
“Leave him Da,” she said. I could hear her voice like she was standing beside me.
“Was it him?” I roared. The wind was picking up outside, thank God or someone would have heard us. No reply.
“Right.” Frank said. “This is getting out of hand. Part. Relax,” he told me, were heading home.
“It was him,” she whispered. I could hear the tears on her voice. So sad. The saddest voice I ever heard.
I kicked the stool and he fell and kicked his legs as he dangled. My brother grabbed him as his face turned blue and he clawed at his neck.
“Step away Frank,” I told him, and he did. Jimmy Murray choked to death for the rape and murder of my daughter and I never heard her voice again.