Rehabilitated: Episode Five
By Martin Smith
Previous Episodes
Twilight had fallen to dusk by the time the mountains of wood—but not the billowing smoke—disappeared from BB’s sight as he approached the end of Woodland Drive. Beneath the streetlights and through the smoke haze, he could just make out the house numbers.
‘118 …’ he said, ‘ … 120 … Ah, 122 must be next.’
Nearing 122, BB looked up and saw—high up and far in the distance at the end of a winding driveway—a mansion with its lights ablaze.
‘Good God,’ he said, ‘talk about benefiting from the proceeds of crime. No opulent mansion nor mod-cons like electricity when I owned this land.’
In semi-darkness BB approached a set of wrought-iron gates, each with a large ‘G’ woven into its intricate lace. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered. ‘Brazen and conceited. And all at my expense.’ Just before he reached the gates and triggered the sensor lights, he tripped over a dark mass slumped before the mailbox.
‘Hey,’ a gruff voice said, ‘watch where you’re stepping.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.’
The dark mass rose and stood and said, ‘Wolfie? Is that you? Oh My God! It is you. Wolfie. It’s me. Red. Little Red Riding Hood.’
‘Red?’
BB looked at her, appalled. Shoeless, obese, foetid and dressed in filthy, tattered, brown rags, she appeared to have seen neither bath nor brush nor toothbrush for decades, maybe even centuries. Indeed, she was no longer little, no longer red, and judging by the size of her, she’d spent the last half millennium riding an all-you-can-eat buffet rather than a hood.
‘Red?’
‘Yes. It’s me. Oh, Wolfie, you’ve finally come back to me. I never gave up hope.’
‘Err … Red, it’s lovely to see you, but I’m in a rush. I’ve a very important visit to make.’
‘You’re not still angry with me?’
‘Angry? Well, I should be. After all, you did turn key witness for the prosecution and fabricate all that rubbish about me being at your grandmother’s at the time of the crime. You said I was there, hiding in her bed and dressed in one of her flannelette nighties. You said I responded to all those whiny observations of hers with all those cliched “All the better to” lines. You even said I ate her. And you said the hairs found on her bed were mine. You planted them, didn’t you? Lies. All lies. All because I told you I didn’t love you.’
‘But … but—’
‘Don’t you “but” me, missy! You knew damn well I was with you at your parents’ place that night. You knew damn well that I would never be caught wearing flannelette. And you knew damn well I’d never, ever eat a grandmother. I’m a vegan, for God’s sake.’
‘But I loved you, Wolfie. I still do.’
‘Well, like I told you, I didn’t love you.’
‘Then why did you spend all that time stalking me in the woods? A girl notices these things, you know.’
‘I was covetous.’
‘Covetous?’
‘Yes, I may have never loved you, but, by God, I loved your wardrobe. All those silky numbers, all those sequins, all those hoods. I wanted them. I wanted them all!’
‘I should have guessed that when I walked in on you in my room that day and you were trying on my training bra.’
‘But I did look smashing in it, didn’t I? But look at you. What the hell’s happened to you since I last saw you giving testimony in the witness box?’
‘Oh, Wolfie, mine is a tale of woe. Not long after you dumped me and they incarcerated you, I fell on hard times. Fame, it’s a fickle beast. I knew I should have taken a cut of the royalties for Little Red Riding Hood and not just character equity rates. How was I meant to know the story would be a hit? Not only that, I was blackmailed.’
‘By whom?’
‘You know whom. Said if I didn’t frame you, they’d out us to the world. You know, about the cross-dressing and the zoophilia.’
‘That’s no excuse. Good God, you were meant to be the strong-willed, eponymous heroine in the tale. Not some insipid airhead who caved into the whims of the world’s worst woodsman and a demented old bat.’
‘I wasn’t going to do it, I swear, Wolfie, but then you dumped me, and I was so angry with you.’
‘But that doesn’t explain why you’re destitute.’
‘After your trial, I received an invitation to the cottage in the woods for a post-trial, celebratory drink, and while I sat on the couch and had meadow mead plied upon me, I had sweet nothings whispered in my ear. Sweet nothings about how they would cast me in an upcoming fairy tale. Sweeter nothings about how I would be more famous than Goldilocks. And sweetest of all, nothings about how I would get 50 per cent of the merchandising royalties.’
‘That sure is an awful lot of woulds, Red. Didn’t Grannie ever warn you about the dangers of the woulds?’
‘I was so giddy with the mead and the attention and thoughts of stardom and merchandising gold that before I knew it, they violated me. Me! I was only sixteen, Wolfie, sweet and innocent and saving myself for you. But there was no fairy tale. No fame. No 50 per cent cut. They abused and abandoned me. I was yesterday’s heroine. I’d lost my innocence, my marketability and my future to lecherous hands. And I tell you, Wolfie, it was my #metoo moment. Good God, I had it even before they invented the hashtag.’
‘Look, Red, I’m sorry to see what you’ve become. No heroine deserves your plight. I should be angry with you, but I’m not. In fact, I forgive you. For everything. You see, I’ve been rehabilitated.’
‘So there might be a future for us? Please say “yes”.’
‘You know what, Red, there just might be.’
‘Really? You mean the whole happy-ever-after?’
‘I don’t see why not. After all, isn’t rehabilitation all about second chances? If society’s prepared to give me a second chance, I can’t see why we can’t make another go of it. But only if you do something for me beforehand, a little something to make up for you sending me to five hundred years in a cell shared with a horny, hairy troll.’
‘What? You’ve not saved yourself for me? Well … I can live with that. I’ll do anything, Wolfie, anything you want.’
‘Anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I borrow that little red number of yours?’
‘Which little red number?’
‘You know. The riding hood you had all those years ago.’
‘Oh, that little red riding hood. Yes, sure, I think I’ve got it tucked away somewhere.’
Red searched amongst her grubby rags until she pulled out a folded bundle of fabric of a stunning red. She handed it to BB.
‘Thanks, Red.’
BB sniffed the hood. His eyes watered as bile rose to the back of his throat. Well, he thought, you can hardly expect it to come up smelling like roses after half a millennium under that armpit. As his nausea quelled and his eyes dried and refocused on Red, he said, ‘Oh, I forgot to ask, Red. Have you seen Grannie recently?’
‘She’s up there.’ Red pointed at the lights beyond the wrought-iron gates. ‘She’s resting, as is her way these days.’
‘Well, Red, it’s been great catching up. I’d best be off.’
‘Off?’
‘Yes, I’ve a visit to make to complete my rehabilitation.’
‘But, Wolfie, what about us? You know, our future? Our happy-ever-after?’
‘Not happening, sweetheart.’
As BB took a step towards the gate, Red lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his ankles.
‘But, Wolfie, you promised.’
BB picked up his pace and dragged Red along the dusty driveway.
‘Let go of me,’ he said.
‘Never! We’re destined to be together forever. You’re everything I ever dreamed of, and more. You complete me.’
‘And you repulse me. Let go of me, you … bag lady!’
‘But, Wolfie, I don’t even have a bag.’
‘You do now, you miasmic harpy.’
BB brought his bag down on Red’s arms: once, twice, three times. She lost her grip around his ankles and ground to a halt in the driveway dust. BB threw the bag at her and rushed towards the wrought-iron gates.
‘But, Wolfie, we’d have been great together. The greatest.’
