The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “I've tried,” Justin replies, as he turns and knocks on one of the doors. “I've even sent them photos. They don't care. No-one's coming to help us deal with this, Paula. We have to do it ourselves.”

  Before I can reply, the door to apartment 4b begins to creak open, and I see Deborah Morgan peering out at us. I haven't seen her for a few months now, and I'm shocked to see that in that time she's gone from a sprightly-looking older woman to... Well, she looks almost dead.

  “Come in,” she gasps, pulling the door open for us. “Hurry.”

  Justin gestures for me to go through. I hesitate, keen to get back downstairs, but I figure I need to see the true horror of this situation for myself. I step through into Mrs. Morgan's flat, and I'm immediately surprised to hear the whirring sound of several fans.

  Turning, I see her white cat slinking through into one of the other rooms.

  Mrs. Morgan shuts the door behind us, and then she leads me into her front room, where three large fans are blowing air all around. The windows are all open, and I lower my arm from over my mouth as I realize that in here, at least, there's not quite so much foulness in the air.

  “I have to keep the fans on all the time,” Mrs. Morgan explains, “or it's unbearable in here.”

  “It's the same in my place,” Justin says. “The difference is, Deborah's actually got one of the roots inside her place.”

  I turn to him, but he gestures toward the wall behind me. Turning, I'm shocked to see that there's a large crack running from the floor to the ceiling, and in the heart of the crack I can just about make out a section of the large, glistening root from the bog.

  “It can't be,” I whisper, stepping closer to get a better look. “Are you seriously telling me that it's grown from down there, all the way up inside the building?”

  “Don't get too close,” Justin says, stepping up behind me and putting a hand on my arm. “We don't know that it's safe.”

  “We need to get people here to take a look at this,” I tell him. “Seriously, this isn't something we can get rid of with a few cans of spray and some fumigation equipment. This looks... monstrous.”

  “We've tried everything,” Mrs. Morgan says. “No-one will come out here. It's as if they know somehow. They know to stay away.”

  “Meanwhile,” Justin replies, “we have nowhere else to go. I have no family, no-one I can ask. No friends. And Deborah has no-one either. It's almost as if this thing, whatever it is, has managed to isolate us all from the rest of the world. Whatever we try to do, doors get slammed in our faces. It's as if we're trapped here.”

  “If it's like his here,” I say, before turning to them both and then looking toward the ceiling, “then what must it be like up on the fifth floor?”

  ***

  “5b has been empty for quite a while,” Justin says as we make our way up the stairwell, “and Mr. Seymour lives alone in 5a.”

  “Stop!” I gasp, as I turn and look back down.

  I have my sleeve over my mouth, but now I feel as if I can feel spores getting into my eyes. I hurry back down, to where the fourth floor at least feels vaguely habitable.

  “Someone has to check on him,” I continue, as I start coughing in an attempt to clear my throat. “He might be really sick up there!”

  “Oh, he's fine,” Justin replies. “Trust me, I even got a note under my door this morning, reminding me to keep my TV low after ten at night. I don't know how the old guy manages up there, but apparently he's just getting on with things as usual.”

  “I got a note from him a few days ago,” I admit. “He wasn't happy with my bin at the back of the building. Apparently I don't have the right stickers on the top.”

  “Maybe the spores are responsible for him being such a nit-picking old asshole,” Justin suggests. “Or maybe not. I'm going to side with the idea that he's always been like this. But I don't really know or care how he manages up there. All I know is that I've been trying to get help for months and months, and now I'm ready to take matters into my own hands. I can't live like this any longer, Paula, and there's no reason why I have to.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I told you. I'm going to get rid of that thing.”

  “But how? It's a big muddy bog, you can't just wrap it up and toss it away.”

  “I know that,” he replies, and now he allows himself a very faint smile. “Believe me, I've had plenty of time to think this through, and I've come up with the perfect solution. By midnight tonight, that bog is going to be no more, and the roots in the building will be dead. It might take a little while longer for the situation to get back to normal, but I'm confident that my plan will work. Are you in, or are you out?”

  I hesitate for a moment, worried about what exactly I might be getting myself into.

  “I'm in,” I say finally, “but with one catch.”

  I pause, but I know that I have to do this. I have to be honest with him.

  “First,” I continue, “there are a few diary entries that I need to show you. I think they might be able to shed some light on what's happening. And I need you to not freak out when I tell you who wrote them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Your dog?” Justin says a short while later, as he stands in my front room with some of the pages from your diary. “Um, Paula... I really don't see where you're going with this.”

  “I told you it'd be difficult to believe,” I reply, “but I don't have time to explain everything, not now. Please, just look at the parts that I've highlighted.”

  “Paula -”

  “Please!” I snap, before grabbing one of the pages and pointing to a section where I've written a translation next to the original set of symbols. “Read that part!”

  He pauses, and then he takes a look.

  “The whole building smells of evil,” he reads out loud. “I don't think the humans notice it. Paula breathes it in all the time, I think it might be why she's so sad. But she doesn't seem to realize what's happening all around her.”

  Slowly, he looks at me with a troubled expression. I'm pretty sure that he thinks I'm insane.

  “There's more,” I tell him, before putting another page in his hands. “Look at this one.”

  “It's getting worse,” he reads. “I don't think I can stand it much longer. It's inside me, growing by the day. The pain is intense. I love Paula so much, but if she won't take us away from here, I have to find some other way.”

  “He killed himself just a few days after he wrote that,” I say, with tears in my eyes.

  Justin turns to me again, and he looks more convinced than ever that I'm out of my mind.

  “He stepped in front of a coach,” I continue. “I haven't told anyone else. He was old, and he was sick, and if I'm honest I have to admit that he was dying. Maybe I should have helped end his suffering sooner, but he took the decision into his own hands. Or paws. Or whatever. And now that I'm able to read his diary, I'm starting to think that he was sensing these spores long before the rest of us noticed.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Keep reading,” I tell him. “In one part, he talks about how much he hates the forest, about how he hates the spot near the road. Obviously he and I never went to that section, but he must have been able to smell it. He knew! Maybe he didn't have it all figured out, but he knew the basics. I think he understood that something was reaching out from the forest, into the building.”

  I wait for him to answer.

  “What's wrong?” I ask. “Do you still not believe me?”

  “I believe that something's reaching out from the forest,” he replies. “The part I'm struggling with is the part where you're getting this particular information from your dog.”

  “I'll prove it to you,” I say, before grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen and setting them on the table, and then turning to Larry. “Larry,” I continue, switching to dog language, “I need you to do this for me.”

  He looks up at me from his bed.

  “I
'm going to leave the room,” I tell Justin, “and while I'm out in the hallway, you're going to draw something on this piece of paper. Anything. It doesn't matter. Then you're going to show it to Larry, and then you're going to put it in your pocket. And when I come back through, Larry will tell me exactly what you drew.”

  Sighing, Justin shakes his head.

  “Just try it!” I say firmly, before turning and hurrying out into the hallway, where I stop for a moment and wait. “Are you doing it?”

  “We're wasting time.”

  “Just draw something!”

  I hear him sigh, but then I hear the sound of him sketching something on the piece of paper.

  “This is ridiculous,” he says finally, “but yes, I showed my picture to your dog.”

  “Have you put the piece of paper away?”

  “Yes,” he says, along with another sigh.

  Stepping back into the room, I see that Larry is sitting obediently on the floor.

  “Well?” I ask in dog language. “What did he draw?”

  “You're barking at him!” Justin says. “You're actually barking at him!”

  “He drew two things,” Larry growls at me. “He drew a hat, and he drew a triangle.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “That's what he showed me.”

  “Okay.” I turn to Justin, who looks distinctly unimpressed. “You drew a hat and a triangle,” I tell him, and I see the instant expression of shock on his face. “Now do you believe me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “But he's a dog!” Justin says yet again as I follow him through the forest, heading toward the bog. “I mean, there's no way around that! He's a dog, he can't just talk to you like that!”

  “You can test him again when we get back,” I reply. “Believe me, I was as surprised as you are. Then again, is it really any stranger than what we're doing now?”

  Reaching the side of the bog, we both set down the canisters that we brought out here.

  “Is it really any stranger,” I continue, “than some kind of bog that's sending mold-covered tentacles under the road and into our building?”

  “Yes,” he replies, “it is stranger. I mean, the bog stuff is weird, but I can still just about understand how it's happening. But the talking dog?” He hesitates. “You have to admit, it stretches the limits of credulity just a little.”

  “So what's the plan?” I ask. “Or do I really need to ask that at all? I mean, you've brought several cans of petrol out here, and lots of matches. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that you seem to be planning to set fire to this thing.”

  “I'm going to burn it up,” he replies, “and the root too.”

  “Have you considered just trying to cut the root? That way you could maybe sever the connection with the building.”

  “I tried, and it's too hard. I don't know what it's made of, but I tried everything I could get my hands on and I still couldn't even make so much as a dent. I even tried using an electric saw, and the blade broke! This thing is unstoppable, but nothing can withstand fire.” He pauses, before picking up one of the canister and then opening the lid and starting to pour the contents into the bog. “This is the only way.”

  “What if even this doesn't work?” I ask.

  “It will.”

  “But what if it doesn't?”

  “Then God help us all,” he replies, as he tosses the canister aside and starts emptying the second into the bog, “because then I don't see what's to stop this bog growing until it's taken over the whole world.”

  I take one of the canisters and start helping, even though I'm worried that this plan won't work. For one thing, it might be dangerous. For another, we might get into trouble. And on top of all that, I'm starting to think that we're out of our depth. Sure, Mr. Dorchester might have decided not to intervene, but I don't really trust his judgment. Instead, I'm starting to wonder whether we've come across something that's truly unique. A while back, I'd have simply listened to the experts and done whatever I was told. Talking to dogs, however, has made me rethink what is and isn't possible in this crazy world.

  “Isn't that enough?” I ask, as Justin opens yet another canister.

  “I'm not risking anything,” he replies, his voice filled with a sense of steely determination as he pours out the canister's contents.

  I grab the final canister and get to work. The smell of petrol is filling the air, but I figure I should just follow Justin's lead. I can't imagine how huge the resulting fire is going to be, and I'm sure there'll be fire engines coming from miles around. There's a part of me that's terrified of getting into trouble, but at the same time I keep telling myself that I have to stay focused. And when I feel my determination starting to lag, I remind myself of the foulness I experienced up on the fourth floor of the building, and of the fact that I couldn't even make it to the fifth.

  This has to end.

  Today.

  “Wait,” Justin says suddenly, grabbing the last canister from me before it's entirely empty. “I want to make especially sure of one thing.”

  He takes the canister and picks his way carefully around the side of the bog, until he's almost reached the thick, knotted root that extends through the concrete tunnel. Finally, leaning precariously over the edge, he pours the last of the petrol onto the root itself, letting it splatter freely across the surface until the canister runs dry.

  I wait as he makes his way back to me, and then I watch as he takes out one of the boxes of matches.

  “Are you sure this is the only way?” I ask, still panicking slightly at the idea of causing what'll amount to a forest fire. What if we cause massive damage?

  “There's been plenty of rain recently,” he replies calmly. “I've thought this through, Paula. The fire should easily be contained to the bog itself.”

  He lights a match.

  “Now get back,” he adds. “This is going to be huge.”

  I do as I'm told, and then I watch as he holds the match out. He hesitates, perhaps having second thoughts of his own, and then he lets the match fall. He turns and rushes over to me, and as he does so the entire bog blasts into a vast circle of fire.

  Within just a few seconds, I can already feel the heat against my face.

  “Do you think that'll do it?” I ask. “I mean, do you think this'll be the end of it all?”

  “It'd better be,” he replies, as the light from the flames begins to get stronger and stronger. “If it isn't, I'm not sure what might work. Short of a tactical nuclear strike.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “They're still trying to get it under control,” I say as I stand at the window in my front room, looking out into the evening light and seeing fire crews battling the blaze on the other side of the road. “They don't seem to be having much luck.”

  “Good,” Justin mutters. “The longer it burns, the better.”

  Turning to him, I see that he's still tapping away at my laptop. I glance at Larry, who's resting in his bed with his gaze fixed on me, and then I wander over and crouch down.

  “Hey, little guy,” I say, as I stroke his belly. “This has been a pretty crazy day, huh?”

  He rolls onto his back, exposing his underside, but I can't shake the feeling that there's a hint of concern in his eyes.

  “It'll be okay,” I growl in dog language, and he immediately wags his tail. “The fire can't reach us, not here. We're safe. There's no need for you to worry.”

  “I don't like this place,” he replies. “Do we have to live here?”

  “I can't afford anywhere else right now,” I tell him. “You'll just have to be patient.”

  “I'll try,” he says, before looking past me. “By the way, he's watching us.”

  Turning, I see that Justin is indeed staring at us. I guess I can't blame him. After all, I've spent the past minute or so having a growly conversation with my dog. I've explained the situation a few times, and he's claimed that he understands, but as he stares at me no
w I can't shake the feeling that deep down he really thinks that I'm crazy.

  “Ignore me,” he says.

  “I know it's weird,” I reply. “Believe me, it took a while before I accepted it was true. Even now, I have these moments when I think I've just gone off the deep end. I mean, I've looked online and I can't find any mentions of this happening to anyone else. Sure, I might have just got lucky with the diary, but am I really supposed to believe that dogs are all writing stuff down, and I'm the first person to find an example?”

  “Maybe your old dog was sloppy.”

  “He was smart,” I say firmly, keen to defend your honor.

  “Maybe most dogs don't bother with diaries.”

  “Sure, most dogs, but Jasper can't have been the only one.”

  “Then maybe there's only one likely explanation.” He pauses. “Maybe he wanted you to find it.”

  I open my mouth to say that the idea's crazy, but then I hesitate for a moment.

  “You and he had a pretty good bond, right?” he continues.

  I nod.

  “And forgive me for getting into this, but you told me your previous dog committed suicide.”

  I nod again.

  “So maybe he left the diary behind in the hope that you'd be able to get some comfort from reading his deepest thoughts. You said he drew a picture of your noticeboard, with translations of the key words. Maybe he did that on purpose, to help you figure it out. Maybe there's some big rule about dogs doing that, and your old dog finally decided to break that rule. I guess it's not as if the doggy police could have hauled him away for it. Not once he'd accepted that his days were over.”

  I want to tell Justin that the whole idea is absurd, but then again I suppose I don't really know what's absurd and what isn't these days.

  “Do you know about any rules?” I bark at Larry. “Are you forbidden from revealing your language to humans?”

  “I'm talking to you,” he barks back at me.