supplicium post mortem

Still exploring the local footpaths, she took a new route back from the river, one winding through trees along the quarry. Footsteps crunched behind her, and although dark would not fall for hours, she felt uneasy and crouched down to empty her shoe of sand.

A tall man strode down the footpath, wearing grey trousers, dress shoes, white billowy shirt, and a black-and-red striped tie. He nodded as he passed, purposeful.

A few minutes down the path, she glimpsed him at the edge of the quarry, trimming the leaves off a thin branch with a pocket knife, a bundle of clothing at his feet. Below, a boy her age treaded water, his voice echoing up the bank.

“Sir, can’t we discuss it?”

“Certainly,” said the man. “Out you get.”

She watched as the boy hoisted himself, naked, from the water. The man tucked his tie into his shirt, gripped the boy by the shoulder, bent him over the tree trunk, and applied the switch.

“You do not swim alone.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You do not swing from this rope.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. The boy yelped. “As previously discussed.” The man tightened his grip and continued.

Afterwards, he handed the boy a handkerchief and told him to dress. She dashed away before she was seen.

After supper that night, the Rector brought a visitor into the garden.

“Casey, say good-evening to Mr. Carrstairs, your summer tutor.”

She stood, trembling. He wore a jacket now, and a silk handkerchief. “I believe we’ve already met,” he said.

As it happens, I came upon this very spot on a footpath in sunny Shepperton this week (photo not local, obv). There was in fact a pile of apparently abandoned clothes by the broken rope-swing, but no-one else in sight. Been wondering about it ever since…

What is Flash Fiction Friday?

Check out the other writers this week:

• Rafi
• PapaTomLA