The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  "Want a drink?"

  She passed him a bottle that shone like the sun was trapped in the glass but it was cool to the touch. Wilson fumbled at the top with his grubby fingers.

  "Gimme."

  She twisted the top off with a swift, sure motion and handed it back to him. Wilson drank and drank from the bottle. Water, it had never tasted so delicious. When he finished gulping, he handed it back to her.

  "Shit, you were dry. You nearly drank all of it."

  "I'm sorry, I-"

  "No bother, I've got another two. And I'll get a refill at the next town."

  Pausing, she looked him up and down.

  "Why are you dressed up like that? There a re-enactment going on?"

  "Re-enactment?"

  "Of the war. You out here with some of your friends, y'know, pretending to be in the trenches and all."

  "I was in the trenches."

  He saw her go still, her fingers tensing on the handle-bars of the bicycle. Wilson licked his lips, wondering what more to say, he did not want to scare her. He could see from how she looked and talked that times had changed a great deal since he was alive.

  "I was in the trenches with some friends. I lost them. I think they are waiting for me, somewhere, I hope."

  She relaxed, her shoulders settling, and the smile came back to her lips. It was not a squint after all.

  "I'm going this way, you want to come along with? Your friends might be waiting for you in the next town."

  "What is the next town?"

  Again, she stilled a little, looking him over from behind the tinted glass obscuring her eyes. Wilson's fingers wanted to snatch them from her face - just so he could look into her eyes, see they were human, not cold and burning with an old grey darkness.

  He chuckled a little, making a smile at her. "Sorry, just a joke, I know what it is, it's Passchendaele."

  She smiled back at him. "That's the British way of saying it. It's just Passendale now. What's your name, soldier?"

  "Reg, Reg Wilson."

  "Misia Godebski. Call me Missy. Would you mind pushing my bike for a while?"

  They walked and they talked.

  "Why are you out here, Missy?"

  "Summer break. I'm going to Uni in London. Wanted to see where my great-great-granddaddy died - he was in the Legiony Polskie under Jozef Pilsudski-"

  After all this time, Reg thought, I will finally come into Passchendaele. The ghosts of Smithy and Brookes were beside him he was sure, marching in time. They would cross into the town together, all three of them, at last. A smile played over Wilson's lips.

  "-you away with the fairies there, Reg?"

  He blinked and came back to himself. "A little, yes. I've wanted to come to Passchendaele for a long time. It's been like a dream for me."

  "From what I've read, sounds like it was a nightmare. When the war was on, I mean."

  "It was, I mean, I agree, I think it was. A nightmare. But it's over with now."

  "Yeah, but the world's still in pretty bad shape. Lots of wars going on. You know how they called it the War to end All Wars? Lying bastards, they couldn't wait to start all over again."

  "Again?"

  "Yeah, you know, the Holocaust, the Cold War, Yugoslavia, Rwanda. Murder-death-kill bullshit all over, it just seems like it goes on and on and on."

  Wilson nodded, not understanding everything that she was saying, but sadly, knowing what she meant.

  Missy continued to talk. "That's what I'm studying, you see. European political history. The stuff that has happened here, seriously scary shit, people like Horthy, Tiso, Le Pen, Zhirinovsky and Milosevic. It's like someone let some monsters loose way back when. Like something nasty crawled out of a hole in the earth."

  "I think you're right."

  "I don't know... I just wanted to come out here and see it, where it all happened, y'know, not just read about it in a bunch of books. Hey, there it is - Passendale!"

  They had walked through the afternoon and into the evening. The sky was threading with orange, yellow and blood-red as the town emerged over the crest of the ridges, the steeple of its church piercing out of the dimming horizon. He had walked to it in less than a day when, before, back then, it would have been a task of weeks upon weeks of suffering through rain, ditches and slime. And now, there it was, Passchendaele.

  "You okay, Reg?"

  Her bicycle was on the ground, having been dropped with a clatter and crash. Wilson was on his knees, dragging his fingers through the baked dirt of the path. Her hands were on his shoulders, soft, living and warm, trying to ease him as sobs and cries shook out of him.

  His raking fingers stopped and plucked what they sought up from the ground - it was a bone, not buried so deep, once sheathed in skin and flesh, now bare of both, bare of life. He could feel the man it had once been - he was there, somewhere, close by, in the air. They all were, always were, this land was their resting place after all. So few had been laid out in the proper manner, in cemeteries, to sleep in their own graves.

  "I'll be there in less than a day," Wilson cried out, "Less than a fuckin' day!"

  "Come on, up on your feet, soldier."

  She took him by the hands, but he would not move. He held onto her and looked into her eyes. She was no longer wearing sunglasses, they were perched on her unruly hairline. Her eyes were a sensual, smoky grey. And in them, he saw everything he had been through. Nightmares, the cry of the black birds, the big guns, the trenches, the pale faces of dead men walking out of the rain. Misery, blood, dying in the warmth of a friend's slithering guts, cries for home, cries for mercy, cries to a million mothers that never came. And, he knew, as he saw everything that she was feeling it too, and it was bringing tears to her eyes, and her mouth was hanging open, desperately wanting to let out a scream for all those dead and lost men, but knowing that she never could.

  That it would never be enough.

  It was growing dark and cold and they still were not in Passendale. The lights of the town were just visible over the furthest ridge. Misia helped Reg get to his feet. He then stood there before her, realising what he had done. The pain he had caused. He looked to her, looked away, then looked again.

  "You were there," she said.

  That was all she could say.

  Reg nodded. "Yes, I was. I was there."

  "I saw it all, everything, more. All that pain, that hell," Missy said.

  Her eyes were still wet from weeping. Reg could not shed tears, not anymore, he knew that now. Some things were lost to him.

  "What are you doing here? You should be dead."

  "I don't know why I'm here. I should not be but I am."

  She looked at him with eyes that were raw and red.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "For everything you have seen, that is for me, not for you."

  "Too late for that now, soldier. Reg."

  "I know it is, I know, I should not have done that to you, but I think we should go to Passchendaele now, we need to be there soon."

  "What? Why the sudden rush?"

  "Because it's getting dark and when it's dark, people dream and where there are dreams, there are nightmares, and nightmares have teeth."

  "What do you mean, teeth?"

  "I mean that something nasty has crawled out of the earth, and, I think, it is coming for me. And for you."

  They hurried, quick and quiet, the only sound the whirring and clicking of the bicycle wheels and gears. Passendale was closer, the ridge was flattening out, they were almost there, but the shadows and the darkness were close too, gathering at their heels, staining the land. Though it had been a cloudless day, no stars were yet coming out and the moon was nowhere to be found.

  "They are coming," said Wilson. "I can feel them in the air."

  There was a sound from behind them, a sound Wilson remembered, a sound that he hated. The sound of wolves baying at a black moon. He took Misia's hands from her bicycle, letting it fall and dragged her after him. She shouted, crying out, and then she was ru
nning with him, her sandals lost in the darkness. The lights of Passendale bobbed and wove, closer, closer and closer. Wilson could hear the tears in her gasps, the blood running hot through her arteries and veins. She had not thought that she would end this day running for her life.

  The lupine baying came once more, a lonesome, dying choir, as cold as the ground beating against Misia's bare soles. Ground that would hungrily soak up her blood if it was spilled here. Was that the sound of grass and undergrowth rustling about them, or the fleshless fingers of dead soldiers seeking to scratch their way out of the earth, to snag her by the ankles, hold her there until the howling pursuers came to tear her open?

  No, thought Wilson, not again, not this time.

  This happened before, I remember, but it will not again.

  He let his pace slacken, allowing Misia to run ahead. As he moved behind her, he heard the beat of her feet slowing down. "Reg, what are you doing?"

  "Go on, Missy, please. Make it to Passchendaele. I never did and I do not think I ever shall, that I ever should."

  She was no longer running, she was stopping. He saw her face turning, those grey eyes glinting.

  "No, go on, see where your ancestor died, see and remember us, all of us, remember me. That is all I ask. This nightmare, it is for me, for the dead, not for you."

  Another howl came, another and another, chafing the night air, so close, echoing out from rough, charnel throats.

  Wilson surged forward, pushing her hard in the small of her back, making her stumble on, and after a long moment, she was running once more. A pale figure growing smaller and darker, then receding into the horizon, disappearing into the lights of Passendale, echoing how he had first seen her that morning in the bright of day, walking out from the haze cast by the sun. He heard something, a few words, maybe hers, perhaps.

  "I knew you here, in this dark..."

  Then, she was gone, amongst the living, away from the dead.

  Wilson sighed, sad and alone, so alone, he turned to face the darkness.

  Sevengraves

  Dedication

  For Jim, my oldest friend

  ... this world is too murky to not be some sort of demon, or evil ...

  Chapter One

  There was something wrong with the light.

  Jim Hendrice scrubbed at his eyes and stared at the thin fingers of morning light filtering through the drawn curtains. He sat up, coughed into his hand and got out of bed. The carpet felt rough and grubby under his feet. The vacuum cleaner had busted about a month ago. He didn’t have the money to fix it, let alone get a new one; just like with the heating and hot water. The money wasn’t there so he was having to do without. He pulled on a pair of baggy combat trousers, making a face as his stomach rumbled. Food was another thing. One small meal a day, that was all he could afford right now; garlic bread, grillsteaks and burgers for the most part. Cheap and cheerful food his mum would have said – only things weren’t so cheerful these days.

  What was with the light out there?

  You didn’t get much sun in England the year round, but this was different. This was dawn-light, almost. His bedside clock told him it was gone nine. Maybe it was down to a morning fog. Jim drew back the curtains and looked outside. The fog hung over everything like misery; making shadows out of houses and hunched, crippled shapes out of nearby cars. There was a leafless tree in next door’s back garden – today, it was a shrouded corpse of thin, whispering bones. Jim put his hand against the glass, feeling the cold. He pulled his hand away. Fog and cold aside, he had to get down the Job Centre; not because he lived in hope, but because he had an appointment. If he didn’t keep it, he’d be living on a lot less than he already was to put it mildly.

  He swallowed a bowl of honey nut cornflakes sprinkled with semi-skimmed milk, pulled on his boots, covered his pale ribcage with a hoodie and fleece jacket that had seen better days, and headed out of the flat. As he opened the front door, Jim braced himself – not sure why. Fingers of fog slithered over the threshold. He wanted to slam the door shut, cut them off, not let them in. Again, not sure why.

  Stop being a daft apeth, Jimmy, the ghost of his mum’s voice said.

  He went outside, locked up and clattered down the stairs to the concrete of the driveway; making more noise than he needed to, but feeling better for filling the dreary emptiness of the day around him with something.

  “Oi, Jim!”

  Shite, I don’t need this now, he thought.

  Wendy lived downstairs. Wendy was a cunt. She drove a shit-brown Beetle that was parked askew, as usual, across the supposedly shared yard at the front of the house. There used to be a fence there, keeping their yards and paths separate. Wendy knocked the fence down a few months ago; drunk-driving. She refused to pay for it to be fixed. Jim didn’t have the money, and no desire to do the work for her.

  She staggered towards him wrapped in a frayed dressing gown that might have been purple once, or blue. Her cropped black hair wore a permanent sheen of grease. There was a fuzzy moustache on her upper lip and her complexion was washed-out; dry and riddled with acne scars. She had a permanent spot on her forehead; a peeling parody of a bindi. It made Jim feel ill every time he looked at it. Her voice was a nasal Essex whine that set his teeth on edge. He knew it too well from the fights she had with the lads she pulled after her jaunts along the Amber Mile; a street with more pubs, cheap chicken shops and koftes than houses. Jim didn’t know how she did it. But he had to admit she did have a nice, tight arse on her.

  She came close enough for him to smell her breath, and shoved a plastic bag of coppers into his hand. “Get us some milk whilst you’re out, mate. I’ve finished mine off. There should be enough there.”

  Jim let the bag sit in his hand for a moment, weighing it. He looked at her; she was bleary-eyed and hung-over. There might be a fuck in it for him later.

  Why not?

  He nodded. She smiled. He watched her weave back to the house. Yeah, her arse was well nice; a ripe-looking little peach.

  Shame the peach was rotten.

  *

  Shadows moved in the fog, seeming to approach and retreat; unsure guests, uncertain visitors. Jim was sure the fog was getting thicker. The houses had been fairly clear though the shifting greyness earlier. Now, they were becoming rough outlines drawn by a child’s hand on thin, grey paper. There weren’t many cars out on the road and Jim wondered how long he’d have to wait for the bus.

  I can’t be late, he thought, I can’t fuckin’ be late, or they’ll cut me off.

  But it was too far to walk. His body was too tired from living in the cold and eating crap for months on end. He’d need a lie-down when he got home later on, he knew he would.

  Not even in my mid-thirties yet, and my prime has been and gone.

  He left the cul-de-sac of Sunderland Close behind, heading for Abbott Street and the bus stop there. If he caught the X61, he should be all right.

  There was no-one else there that he could see. He checked the yellowed timetable held in place by dirty, cracked glass. Just a few minutes. Should be okay. Nothing to worry about. He sat down on a cracked plastic seat and looked around.

  There was someone else there. A tall man; thin and dressed in a long, black overcoat. He was standing quite still. Jim took a moment to nod and smile at him, but his skin felt oddly uncomfortable, dry and tight, as he smiled at the man. The fog seemed to cling to his tall, thin companion; running its fingers over him in slow caresses. Jim looked at him more carefully; there was a face – clouded indistinct by the grey in the air. There were lines of age across the brow and cheeks, or were they passing shadows? The eyes were dark and deep, sunken in their sockets. The hair was thin and fluttering in the breeze. Except there was no breeze and the hair, for a second, looked to Jim like strips of dead skin.

  The man was returning Jim’s smile, showing his teeth. Jim looked away from those teeth and the mouth that housed them. The tall, thin man took a step towards him. Jim could smell something wor
se than skunk or weed. Old fingers reached out, brushing stiffly against his shoulder. Something breathed that should not have been able to breathe.

  The X61 pulled up out of the fog with a rumble and scree of unoiled brakes.

  Jim jumped through the opening doors and tried to pay his £1.50. He dropped the coins and fumbled about picking them up. It took him four tries to successfully tear the ticket from the thin black mouth of the dispensing machine. The driver made a face at him from behind the Plexiglass window, but thankfully he didn’t show his teeth. Jim was grateful. He sat down on the first seat he came to. The bus was empty, and no-one got on after him. He watched the bus stop pass away into the gloom. It was empty. Harsh, black fingers scratched across glass. Jim jumped violently, and then looked again. Tree branches – only tree branches. Nothing more.

  *

  The ride into town was uneventful. Jim watched dim figures evolve from the fog into bare trees and lonely people. Streets flickered by as undeveloped film whilst car headlights burst into being and evaporated. He was alone with his thoughts and the murmurs of the bus engine, which caught and stuttered at each set of traffic lights. His own thoughts caught and stuttered too; the thin man, there, not there, that mouth, those teeth. He knew it wasn’t skunk or weed he’d smelled, and he hadn’t done anything last night.

  I’m not seeing things.

  There was a small baggie of Northern Lights tucked away at home that he might have a toke on later though. The way his day was going so far, he’d need it. It would make everything cloud over with a better fog, and make the bad things go away for a few hours. Just the same as drinking, the same as smoking fags, and wanking off over weird shit on the internet. We all have our vices, he thought, and we’re all so ashamed. Peace through addiction, man – that’s what the new world slogan needs to be – peace through addiction.