Fearless Genre Warriors

by Steve Lockley

  Faith walks through the puddles with oil slick hair, her bag bumping heavily against her thigh.

  Nobody notices that she’s late for class.

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘Fuck you. I could have been dead.’

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘My dad kept me up late last night.’

  Faith mumbles ‘Sorry’ and sits down.

  Nobody notices. Nobody cares.

  At some point, the world will end.

  11.

  They notice and care after Geography when Christine Collins opens her locker in the hall and the dead cat falls out. Intestines slop down the front of her top and splatter her non-existent skirt. Blood dribbles on her supermodel legs. Christine screams like a cheap horror movie and then crumples to the floor and cries. Faith knows that she screams and cries because she’s watching from the end of the corridor, smiling with the hairpin stuck between her teeth. She knew it would come in handy. School padlocks are not hard to pick.

  Faith watches the other boys and girls gather around Christine. Teachers arrive, flapping and squawking. Paper towels rustle from the bathroom. A swarm of locusts, perhaps. Mr Jaworski leans in to pat Christine’s shoulder, thinks better of it. The killer whale barks commands. The gym teacher, Miss Howard, looks like she’s going to puke.

  It’s a glorious moment. A perfect moment. The moment doesn’t last.

  Faith isn’t a ghost anymore. She’s the subject on everyone’s lips.

  Nobody questions who did it. Faith lets the teachers take her to the office, stand around her in a circle and shout. They tell her how disgusting she is. They tell her she owes Christine an apology. They tell her they’re calling her dad.

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘I didn’t do it.’

  She doesn’t say, ‘It wasn’t me.’

  Faith says, ‘Burn in Hell, you motherfuckers. I hope you all die in a car crash.’

  Naturally, they send her home.

  12.

  It’s Friday afternoon and Christine Collins is still going on her date. She’s still going downtown to meet Warren Gray and watch the new Superman movie. Faith thinks this says all you need to know about Christine Collins.

  Faith doesn’t do what the sheep tell her. Last place she is going to go is home. Her dad hasn’t gone to work and is probably on his second crate by now, too drunk to answer the phone. Maybe they’ll send him a letter. He’s received letters like that before, so the surprise element is kind of old. Like the underpants, like the stale sandwiches, her daddy doesn’t really care about those things. There is always another pointless town down the road. Always another pointless school. It isn’t the end of the world.

  Or at least not part of it.

  Christine Collins, the Whore of Babylon, is. Faith says to herself it doesn’t matter what happens now. It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m a dead frog and tonight, I’m eating my Last Supper.

  She hangs around the chapel until Christine comes down the steps, freshly showered and wearing a pale green summer dress that she probably bought just for the occasion. The makeup on her face is five years too old for her. She looks more like a model without it. It’s still raining and the dress is out of place. It’s the kind of day for tears, for floods, tornados and Judgement. It isn’t a day for romance.

  Faith follows Christine Collins. She’s invisible and doesn’t keep to the trees. She follows her past the cemetery where the dead lie waiting. She follows her past the church with the sign warning passersby about the Lake of Fire. She follows her past the backed up traffic, car horns blaring like Trumpets of Doom. She follows Christine all the way downtown and into the Bottomless Pit, otherwise known as the Mall.

  In the Mall, she loses sight of Christine Collins. Christine Collins has either gone up in the Rapture or Warren Gray has whisked her off somewhere in the crowd. You have to watch boys. You can’t trust them. They smell funny and they like to tuck you in.

  The queue outside the movie theatre isn’t that long, but Faith can’t see the Whore or her Tempter, Beelzebub Warren Gray. Jesus looks down on her from a billboard, except he’s wearing a red cape and tights. The movie theatre isn’t letting kids in yet, so they couldn’t have gone inside.

  Faith does a circuit of the escalators. She sees the maintenance door propped open. A mop is keeping the gap. Faith goes to the gap and peers in. Then she sees Christine Collins and oh my God oh my Lord she sees Warren Gray with his spiky red hair and his leather jacket and his jeans bunched around his ankles. One of his hands is around the Beast, the great horned Dragon of the Abyss. His other is around Christine’s neck. Warren Gray is sweating and grunting. He is trying to attack Christine with the Beast. Christine is wriggling and squealing. Her green summer dress is Eden torn. She doesn’t want the Beast to bite her.

  The revelation stuns Faith. She doesn’t know what to do.

  She wanted to break Christine’s nose job. She wanted to break the Whore.

  Now it seems she is only the Woman. Maybe only a girl.

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘You asked for this.’

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘Ha ha.’

  Faith is a ghost and a ninja and holy. In that moment, she is actually holy.

  Faith says, ‘Get your fucking claws off her, you creep.’

  Beelzebub turns. The Beast turns in her direction, glaring at her with its terrible eye.

  Beelzebub growls, but all Faith has to do is open the door. Just a little. Just a crack. Beelzebub lets go of Christine and lets her slide down the wall. Beelzebub pulls his jeans up. He feints a dart in Faith’s direction, but then just spits. Spits at her feet.

  ‘You fucking faith school girls,’ he says. ‘Bible bashing sluts.’

  Then he turns and is off and is gone, a Dragon returning to Hades.

  13.

  If there is a prophecy (there isn’t one), then all of it would have come true.

  Faith doesn’t believe in fate. Thirteen isn’t lucky for some, whatever people might think. Thirteen isn’t lucky for Faith or for the girl on the floor.

  She helps Christine up. Christine stops crying. Oddly, she strokes Faith’s hair.

  ‘I know,’ Christine says. ‘I hate it too.’

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘You can’t trust boys. You can’t trust them because they smell funny and they like to tuck you in.’

  Faith doesn’t say, ‘My daddy likes to tuck me in. He tucks me in so tight at night. Around my shoulders at least.’

  Somewhere a trumpet is sounding. It’s probably the Mall speakers. Probably Justin Bieber.

  Faith says, ‘Now you have to help me.’

  Christine Collins smiles a white smile and says, ‘How?’

  Faith says, ‘You have to say I was with you all day. You have to say we saw Superman.’

  Christine Collins doesn’t ask why. It’s a new Heaven and a new Earth and somehow, she just knows. Standing there, they are both new girls and whether the town, the world or the universe cares, Faith and Christine are new girls and they will never be like them.

  Christine comes home with her anyway.

  Later, they watch the flames lick up around the old wooden house that feels sorry for itself. Hand in hand in the garden, they watch Armageddon unfold.

  Lucille

  Alec McQuay

  From: Eve of War

  Lucille woke for the third time. Her nightlight was on but the room was out of focus, her glasses who-knew where. She had left them close to hand on her bedside table but as she groped for them all she could find was the hard edge of a plastic tray. On it, a small jug full of what she knew would be tepid water. With a sigh of effort she sat and used the table’s edge to pull herself around until her feet were dangling over the side of her bed. She sat there for a moment and listened, as the buzzing that had woken her went unanswered in the corridor outside her room.

  ‘Hello?’ a trembling voice called. ‘I’m
sorry to trouble you…’

  Lucille felt herself stiffen as a door slammed open at the far end of the corridor, followed by the slap-slap-slap of feet approaching from the staff room.

  The voice that finally answered her neighbour was almost a bark, belonging to a man in his early thirties who dwarfed Lucille’s frail neighbour. ‘Gawd sake Berny, it’s the middle of the night! What are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘Could I have a glass of water, please? I think someone forgot to bring my jug around.’

  Berny’s voice was a crumpled thing, shrivelled by decades of smoking and the callous advance of years. Every syllable it uttered seemed to apologise for its existence. The sound of it stirred feelings of pity in Lucille, who had been lucky enough to enjoy good health well into her dotage while she watched her peers wither, yet it seemed to have the opposite effect on some of the staff.

  ‘I’m sorry, you think we forgot about you, Berny? That’s quite a serious accusation.’

  Bernard did not answer at first, and Lucille had little doubt that he was looking sadly at his slippered feet. She had met him a few times since she had been moved to Barnfield and had seen how he collapsed in on himself when Josh spoke at him. Age worked its cruel magic differently for every person, and in Bernard’s case it seemed to have desiccated him. In the pictures he had shown her of his family he was a broad, vibrant looking man with a huge smile and muscles that pulled his Navy uniform taut across his body. Now he was hunched and his skin was like paper drawn over a bundle of sticks, while every trace of that proud, military bearing had evaporated, leaving behind a man who seemed terrified of his own shadow.

  ‘I know you’re busy, Josh, but I-‘

  ‘Mr Simons.’

  ‘I… I’m sorry?’

  ‘You called me “Josh,” and my name is Mr Simons. Now look, Berny, in an ideal world we’d jump every time the buzzer went, but if we did that this place would never run properly. So, now I know it’s not an emergency I’ll be going back to the rec room until I’ve finished my dinner. Get yourself tucked up nice and warm and I’ll have someone deal with you in the fullness of time.’

  Lucille shook her head as Bernard mumbled an apology and shuffled his way back into bed. The door closed softly and she heard the bed next door creak, followed by a yell from the staff room.

  ‘Josh! Come on, it’s going to penalties! What are you doing?’

  His reply sent a hot flush into Lucille’s cheeks. ‘I’m coming, just a resident up past bedtime. Daft old cunt.’

  His last comment was a mutter under his breath, but Lucille heard it. From the gentle sobbing she heard through the wall, Bernard had heard it too.

  As the slap-slap-slap of Josh’s feet disappeared down the hallway towards the staffroom, Lucille made up her mind that she would tell. She was ninety-three years old and in no fit state to go confronting people in the depths of the night, but once the morning came the shift would change and a supervisor would be on site. They would listen to her, she thought, and she’d be damn sure Bernard would not have to put up with that again.

  If she had her way, and there was no reason to believe that she wouldn’t, Joshua Simons would never talk to anybody like that again.

  ‘This is a very serious accusation,’ Ms Reynolds told Lucille. The woman was peering over the top of her glasses at her like a school teacher, looking down at the notes she had taken as though Lucille had presented her with a particularly shoddy piece of homework. ‘You do realise that there will have to be a formal investigation, and that a young man could lose his job over this?’

  Lucille was not to be dissuaded. ‘I’m afraid he should have thought about that before. He was only asking for his water, after all, and your young man was not doing his job properly at any rate.’

  Ms Reynolds nodded her head, but there was little enthusiasm in it. Once she was done nodding she leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, looking up at the ceiling as though lost for inspiration.

  ‘As you know, we take these sorts of matters very seriously at Barnfield, but I do believe that you need to be aware of the consequences for my staff if this goes on record. After our talk this morning I did go and speak to Bernard, and do you know what he told me? He said he heard nothing, and when I asked him if Joshua was rude to him he just kept saying “I only wanted my water.” So unless someone else heard what you claim was said, I will have to file this noting that even the supposed victim has no idea what you are talking about. Do you think that will look good? Bear in mind, you don’t want to get a reputation.’

  Lucille could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘A reputation? My dear, I am ninety years old! What use do you think I have for a reputation?’

  Ms Reynolds smiled, probably meaning to appease Lucille but instead looking at her as one might a dim child. ‘Well I am afraid that within The Care Community there are people who have lived full, rich lives and have found it hard to adjust, so they like to make entertainment for themselves. Now I am not accusing you of anything, but I think it is for the best that I leave this complaint form in my drawer for a day or two while you have a little think about the repercussions it could have. For yourself and for Joshua.’

  The indulgent smile on Ms Reynolds’ face made it clear that the matter was at an end for the moment, and it was with a sick feeling in her stomach that Lucille made her way to the cafeteria, her weight pressing down upon her walking stick a little more heavily than usual. Deciding that the matter would not be allowed to rest for long, she resolved herself to carrying on and keeping her eyes open. In a day or two’s time she would go back to see Ms Reynolds and absolutely insist that she wanted the complaint filed. She would see it through to its conclusion, secure in the knowledge that she was doing the right thing.

  Buoyed by her certainty, she ordered roast chicken and steamed vegetables along with a serving of treacle pudding and custard, leaving her tray behind for one of the helpers to bring to her table. That done, she made her way along the melamine counter towards the drinks and lifted her head to smile at whoever was on duty. As if to confirm that Murphy’s Law had lost none of its sense of humour, she found Joshua Simons looking back at her.

  ‘Drink, Mrs Hurrel?’ he said, his voice so full of sweetness that he could have charmed the finches from the tree-tops. She was nervous seeing him up close, knowing that sooner or later she would be setting her word against his. He was far from the largest man she had ever known, in fact a young Bernard had possessed arms nearly as thick as Joshua’s legs by the looks of the dog-eared photos he had proudly shown her, yet still he towered over Lucille. Reminding herself that she was doing the right thing and drawing strength from it, she covered her mouth and coughed gently before she spoke.

  ‘A cup of tea please, white with one sugar.’

  ‘And not too strong, if memory serves,’ he replied, treating her to a broad, alligator smile. ‘I’ll bring it over right away, if you’d like to take a seat.’

  She thanked him and turned her back, feeling herself lighten a touch. Perhaps he had taken the time to think about what he had done? She had not been at Barnfield long, so perhaps she had witnessed something so far out of character that Ms Reynolds was right to try to protect him?

  ‘Wouldn’t want anyone to put in a complaint…’

  Lucille stopped. Joshua had lowered his voice so that only she would hear. As she turned her silvered head his smile melted away, replaced with a thin, dangerous sneer. Hours later she would kick herself for not confronting him there and then, for not thinking quickly enough to ask him to repeat himself. For not showing him that she would not wither under his glare. But days later, and especially after the weeks had started to roll by, she would quietly be thankful that she hadn’t done anything to make it worse.

  As she sat and ate her lunch, she felt the weight of her years settling on her as she considered how she once would have taken her tea back and t
hrown it in the man’s face. Back when she had been working in what had been a millinery, building munitions to send to the Air Force for their assaults on the Fuhrer, she would not have feared a man like Joshua Simons. She had been young then, full of vitality and strengthened by war work. Ordered from her father’s corner shop and onto Churchill’s grindstone, she had grown stronger and more proud of her origins than she had ever thought possible for a girl from the countryside. Now she was old, though the advancing years had been gentle on her – far more gentle than they had been on her husband, who had barely made it to sixty before his autumn years accelerated to a lethal winter. Now it was as though all ninety-three trips around the sun had come home to roost at the same time, thanks to one foul, smirking little bully and a woman who apparently could not keep her mouth shut.

  Lucille sat quietly in her corner, thinking, trying not to look up in case she found Josh glaring back. It hadn’t occurred to her that her report could have been a mistake, and why should it have? Doing the right thing should have been the only possible course of action. At least she could be certain Josh had deserved the report – the spoonful of salt in place of her sugar was proof enough of that. The problem was… Who would listen?

  ‘Lucille! Lucille! Oh for… Karen, help me get her up will you? She’s just lying there like a bag of spuds!’

  Lucille gasped as she was hauled to the edge of the bed and heels striking the vinyl floor painfully. The girls were always so rough, she thought, as she stared into the middle distance, lost in her own head.

  ‘Christ, what’s that smell? Oh Lucille you’ve done it again! Karen, stand her up a sec and I’ll get her pants off. You can’t keep doing this, Mrs Hurrel. You’ve got a buzzer right there if you need to go, now we’ve got to get you clean again. Come on Karen, under her arms and stand her up. Yuck, I hope it’s not a sloppy one.’

  Hands clad in clinging latex dug into her armpits as she was pulled to standing, and she felt a cold draught mingled with red-hot shame as Jenna hauled her underwear to her ankles. Lucille’s eyes welled up with tears as she felt a soft warmth trickle down her thighs and heard it patter to the floor by Jenna’s feet.