Dumbstruck still

The shadows thrown by the ancient oil lamp moved around outside as the unseen old man moved into the doorframe. The broken plaster I'd stood on only moments before now crunched under his boots. His old voice chuckled like some maniac from a B-movie. 

"Come on Robert, show yourself!"

I did not move or breathe. It was so cold that I knew my breath would show. My heart thumped in my chest and rung so hard in my ears I thought he could hear it too. I had the old tin in my hand but my curiosity would have to wait. How could I open it without alerting him as to where I was? I tried to hide beside the chimney breast but if he came close enough he would not only find me, but have me cornered. He dragged his feet down the hall to the sitting room door. Woodworm held the door upright. His lamp-light began to fall into the room. I could hear him wheeze from the cold air just a few feet away.

Rapid thoughts filled my head; How disappointed Mum would be that I'd let her down. Or would I ever be found? People had often disappeared in Ireland and never reappeared. I didn't want this for myself.

I leaned down slowly and deliberately. I took hold of the fire brick in my hand and stood back up. As the light approached the centre of the room I met it with the brick and my full weight. Yet as I swung I saw my assailant and stopped, for the old man, tweed cap in hand, had instantly cowered away from me. He  dropped the lamp and shouted "No, no, don't do it Robert!" Instinct had kicked in and I was prepared to split him open with the brick if it meant staying alive. Instead I was taken aback to see a pitiful sight. An old wretch, crying inconsolably, blabbering something that sounded like "Oh no. It's not you, it's not you Robert!" The disappointment in his face and voice was obvious.

I put down the fire brick and picked the oil lamp off the filthy floor to stand it upright. I could only feel sorry him. He looked me up and down, his lined face as ancient as the cottage we found ourselves in.

"No, I'm not Robert. I'm Conor, his grand-nephew. Now who are you?"

"I'm Alphonsus, Alfie to your grand uncle." He wheezed and took a moment to gather strength before continuing. "He and I were an item. He was the light of my life. I was mad about him. I couldn't wait for him to come back to me." He held his head in his hands and let the tears drop to the powdered dust floor.

"But what about Timothy? Wasn't Robert coming back to him after a year in London?" 

And at the mention of Timothy the tears stopped. Alphonsus looked straight at me. For the second time that night I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck and I feared for my life. Alphonsus stood up, using the fireplace as a crutch. In his free hand I spotted the fire brick. I watched as the old man's eyes narrowed to slits and his face turned to venom.

"How did you know about Timothy ya little cur?" he spat. The brick rose into the air. "That man was in my way and I had no intention of sharing Robert with him!" The brick swung down on me. Obviously this man wanted no witnesses and was prepared to kill twice, fifty years apart. There was a clatter as I protected my head with the metal tin and fell to my knees. He tried to swing the brick again and I had nothing to defend myself down on the ground. Or did I? My hands were down on the dust. Of course! I grabbed a handful of dirt from the floor and flung it at his face. 

Temporarily blinded, he reached around with arms outstretched like a demented zombie. I grabbed the tin and made good my escape. I fled the raging man, fled the rotting smell of the house, fled for my life. I ran and ran and the fear that someone would catch up never left me. 

Back home it took an hour for me to calm down enough to explain everything to my very anxious mother. I watched as her jaw dropped and my story unfolded. 

When I finished she was quiet for what felt like an eternity. And when she spoke she said something I'll never forget.

"Alphonsus? Are you sure? Timothy was his brother."