The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  The old routine was over, and the old path was overrun with bitter weeds. The path ahead couldn’t be seen clearly – but a part of her couldn’t wait to explore it. Without the boys, she could follow it a little way over the next few days and see where it might lead. There were nerves singing in her fingers and palms. A smile broke out on her face as she left the house and took the first steps along the path of her new life.

  *

  Emma’s walk in the woods was slow-going as her bad leg was playing up; aches and twinges came and went as she trod through the leaves and bracken of a wintering autumn. The trees were dressed only in skins of crumbling bark and stubbled moss. The long fingers of their branches seemed to drag their way across the grey flesh of the afternoon sky; groping at it as a child might when touching its mother’s skin. The woods were still with the same hibernating quiet she’d often felt in the boys’ bedroom. They’d be getting too old to share a room and bunk beds soon. They were growing up so fast and she did miss them, but she’d missed this as well – being alone with the world in a quiet place. She’d come out here a lot as a teenager and in her twenties; just to listen to the woods. You could feel it if you tried; a sort of breathing, of life all around you yet unseen, just below the surface, out of sight, almost close enough to touch. All you had to do was reach out and it would be there as if it had been waiting for you since before you were born; that’s what it felt like out here.

  She’d told the boys about the feeling she got in the woods once. Liam had smiled, laughed and clapped his hands at the idea. Jacob had looked afraid and pulled away. Emma didn’t sleep well afterwards though and when she went in to check on the boys, she saw Jacob’s eyes awake and watching the dark as it moved around him.

  In that moment, she’d seen herself in her son’s face and remembered being a child in her Mum’s old place and the dolls; and the night when she’d felt herself first touched by life’s shadow. She went to Jacob at the time, held him, told him it was okay and didn’t let go of him until long after he fell back to sleep and the sun had arisen. No shadow came near her son whilst he was in her arms – and that was as it should be.

  Today, it was peaceful in the woods and Emma kicked the memory of fear away in a crackling flurry of leaves. Pain stung her leg; a sharp reminder of unwanted frailty. She came to a clearing where some kind soul had erected benches for the weary and sat down. The aches and pains in her leg muscles began to subside. She rubbed her hand over the thigh of her bad leg. When she was little and came home with scabs on her knees or a bump on her head, Mum always stroked her hand over the injury and kissed it better. Emma knew it was the plasters and ointment applied afterwards which made things get better but it always felt like it was really Mum’s touch that made the pain go away. She did the same thing when Jacob and Liam banged themselves up and now she was alone, she wished that she could work the same magic on herself. It didn’t work like that though. She knew that. Everyone knew that – only a mother can heal a child – and her Mum was long gone. Five years and a bit since the cancer metastasized from lungs to bones. No more kisses better. No more hugs. No more Mum.

  Emma blinked a few tears away and tried to brighten her thoughts by looking at the trees, stirring the leaves on the ground with the toes of her trainers, but it didn’t work. The thin, black branches were the dead nerves in her leg which the surgeon had cut through. She imagined them lying there, rigid beneath her skin, waiting to dig in like old needles whenever she made the leg work too hard. There was no cure for this and no physiotherapy. The cancer had been cut out but then bad things always come back, Emma thought as her eyes examined the clouds overhead. They’d told her it might not be over. All the pain and dead nerves could be for nothing in the end and the passing clouds today looked like old, bloated tumours.

  “What we have is broken,” Emma whispered to herself, “but it is all we have.”

  The boys would learn things like this one day and Emma didn’t want that to happen. She wanted them here now so she could hold them so tight that time would stop and that day never came to pass.

  Let me have it, she thought, let all the pain be for me and not them. Do it all to me. Hurt me every day and every night if it must be, just leave them alone. Let them be.

  There was no stopping time though, she knew that.

  “Bad things always come back.” She said aloud.

  It was then Emma realised that she was no longer alone in the clearing. There was a man standing among the trees; swaying on his feet, his shoulders slouched, his head cocked to one side as if listening. He came towards her, scuffing his feet through the dead leaves. He was dressed strangely. In place of the dirty jeans and stained shirt that would’ve seemed more fitting to someone in his state, there was a clown’s outfit. It was torn and tattered but she could see bright, baggy colours showing through the grime. A huge yellow necktie, limp and unwashed, hung around the blotchy scrag of his throat. There was some red smeared on his nose that might have been blood and his face was marked by fading streaks of white greasepaint. Emma’s fingers gripped the wood of the bench tightly. She didn’t want him anywhere near to her. She hated clowns.

  He stopped a few feet away and blinked. His eyes were restless as he opened his mouth and spoke, “Cou-could you let me know the time please?”

  Emma looked at him, not wanting to look away. Her phone was in her pocket. He snorted wetly and wiped a sleeve arm across his face, making it ride up past his wrist. He was wearing a watch. He lowered the arm and waited, swaying again.

  “Is your watch broken?” Emma asked.

  He blinked again, slowly, and picked his nose. Red stained his finger and she still wasn’t sure if it was blood or make-up.

  Emma kept her eyes on him as she fumbled in her pocket for her phone. He just stood there, rocking on his feet, dressed in that ridiculous outfit. Maybe it was a stag do, she thought, and he’s been left behind by his mates. They dressed him up like a prat and dumped him in the woods last night and he’s been wandering around, lost and hungover, ever since. He took a stumbling step forward, righted himself, and grinned. Emma moved away from him along the bench, hoping he didn’t decide to sit down next to her. He didn’t. He carried on standing, swaying drunkenly.

  “Time please,” he said again, with a far-away, sing-song tone to his voice.

  A light breeze blew through the trees, making the baggy trousers, sleeves and bloated rump of his clothes mutter, whisper, and shush.

  “It’s half four,” Emma said quickly, returning her phone to her pocket.

  He blinked at her and carried on standing there as if he hadn’t heard a thing; swaying in the wind. Her toes were curling in her trainers and she resisted the urge to shut her eyes tight and try to wish him away like she used to wish away the clowns when she was little; the ones that scratched at the bedposts, tickled her feet with their cold hands, and made the shadows dance darkly all night long.

  I’ve not thought about them in years, she thought as she decided to get up and go.

  This guy either didn’t want her help or was beyond help until he sobered up. She got to her feet and, as she did, he turned around and began to shuffle off through the leaves. He was going away, across the clearing, back into the trees.

  He’ll be gone soon.

  Emma let out a breath. Her bad leg chose that moment to cramp up badly and force her back down onto the bench with a hard gasp. The pain cut through her, making her stomach surge and lunge until she tasted bile at the back of her throat. She closed her eyes against the pain. She didn’t cry out and didn’t scream; not when Mum died, not when she was told about the botched surgery, not when she left him and all of his bullshit, and not now.

  I’m going home.

  Leaves shuffled and scuffed over her trainers. Emma opened her eyes. He was back and standing over her this time, smiling a smile as empty as his eyes.

  “I have to be somewhere,” he said.

  She looked at him, unblinking, “Where?”

 
“I don’t have money. I need to be somewhere close by.”

  He wasn’t a drunk, he was a beggar. Emma wanted to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. There was something wrong with him and she was in pain. She let out a slow breath before she spoke, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I don’t have any cash on me and I can’t drive. I can’t take you anywhere.”

  The smile stayed where it was, “I know. We know.”

  “Who’s we?” she said, looking around.

  There was no-one else in the trees that she could see.

  “You’re a nice lady,” he said, “if I take my clothes off, will you tell me what you think?”

  Emma’s tongue went still for a moment and her mouth dried out. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

  “If I take my clothes off, will you tell me what you think?”

  “You’re joking.”

  He went on smiling, his glacial eyes twitching in their sockets. Emma sat up straight and took her phone out, “I want you to go please, now. I’m calling the police.”

  He just stood there.

  “I am doing it.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I fucking am.”

  She dialled 999 and waited. The phone rang, connected and someone picked up.

  “Which emergency service please?”

  “Police.”

  “Thank you, just putting you through.”

  The line clicked and Emma said, “Police?”

  “Hello,” a voice replied.

  “I need someone to come out to my house. Well, near to my house. I’m in the woods.”

  “We know.”

  “What?”

  She looked at the clown and the smile lingering on his face.

  “You’re a nice lady. Clever. Funny. Beautiful.”

  “What the fuck is going on? Is this the police? Is this a joke?”

  She was listening to the clown’s voice on her phone.

  “If I take my clothes off, will you tell me what you think?”

  “No, I won’t,” she said, not believing what was happening.

  The smile on the clown’s face broadened.

  “If you take your clothes off, I’ll tell you what I think.”

  Emma stabbed at her phone with a finger, ending the call, “Jesus Christ.”

  The clown was still there, still smiling, and he’d taken his penis out.

  It was hanging out of his billowing trousers; wrinkled, limp, and pale. He stroked at it with his grotty fingers. “You can touch it,” he said, “like we used to touch you with the shadows, Emma.”

  She lunged to her feet, grabbed at him, and thumped him hard in the chest. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

  The clown staggered back, caught his heels on the baggy cuffs of his trousers, and lost his balance. His arms flailed wildly as he fell. His legs flew up in the air when he hit the ground as if it were planned. Next, silence and no round of applause.

  Emma slowly walked over to him. She’d expected him to take the hint, get up and run away after she hit him, but he wasn’t moving. He was spread-eagled on the ground like a clown after a circus pratfall. The smile on his face was gone. His eyes stared up at the sky, unmoving. Emma poked him in the side with her foot. He still didn’t move. She used her foot to move his head. It rolled over loosely and she saw his coloured hair was dark and wet. A blunt edge of a rock showing through the leaves. It was bloodied.

  “Oh, fuck,” she whispered as the evening rain began to fall.

  Chapter Two

  When Emma was eleven, she went to the circus for the first time. The tent was in a field and it should have looked bright and exciting but years of wear and tear had worn the colours away to shades of beige and washed-out blood. The sky overhead that day had looked empty and her heart felt the same though she didn’t know why.

  Emma watched the people ahead walking in through the dark fluttering rectangle of the entrance; seeming to disappear for good into the tent’s dark interior. Her small hand tightened its grip on Mum’s fingers so much that she stopped to ask if Emma was okay.

  Emma wanted to be brave so she said yes.

  Yes. I’m okay, Mum.

  She wasn’t, not at all, because there was a smell of manure and sweat, and something else; something she was too young to name. It was in there; a part of the dark inside the tent. She didn’t want to see it, meet it, shake its hand, or watch it smile. She knew the smile would be a dead thing and the eyes would be as empty as empty could be – but she went in because she was being brave today.

  They sat down on the chairs which surrounded the circus ring. The stuffing was coming out of the cushions on the chairs. The stuffing was pale, tattered and soft. Emma thought it must be made from people who came to the circus; those who didn’t make it out again were used to stuff the cushions. She didn’t want to sit on one of them but had to. She had to be brave even though she could feel how damp the cushion was, like it was sweating or weeping. Her fingers found their way to the sides of the chair’s metal frame, which she gripped hard until her knuckles began to ache.

  Horses cantered through the sawdust of the circus ring. A shirtless man who had more fat than muscle on him breathed fire and tried to lift a huge dumb-bell with 10 Tons flaking off the spherical weights at each end. An old woman with make-up thick as a mask jumped and skipped around tiredly in a leotard as faded as the colours of the circus tent. None of them scared Emma. They just made her feel a bit sad.

  The something she was too young to name was coming though. She could smell its wetness and taste its badness in her mouth each time she breathed in. Her fingers hurt a lot from how hard she was gripping the sides of her chair but she didn’t let go. She wouldn’t let go until it was all over.

  The circus ring was empty. The crowd was talking over the silence. Emma gnawed at the inside of her mouth and kicked her trainers’ heels against the ground. Mum told her not to do that because it wasn’t nice so she stopped, but she kept on biting at the flesh of her cheeks. Whatever was coming next, it was going to be awful.

  The clowns came out; shuffling, jumping, bouncing, and rolling. Emma bit at the inside of her mouth so hard she tasted blood. She kept quiet despite the pain as she didn’t want the clowns to know they’d scared her. She didn’t want them to smell the blood either.

  There were three clowns. Their faces were plaster-white, their lips were red, and their eyes were painted black and badged with false tears. They all wore conical, buttoned hats on their heads, and their clothes were elegant patchwork suits with ruffs around their necks and their fingers were dressed in neat, white gloves. They stopped in the centre of the ring and bowed their heads. The crowd was quiet, expectant, waiting.

  Emma wanted to go home.

  Then, one clown fell to his knees as if he’d been shot, collapsing forwards onto his hands. The second leaned over him; a coroner weeping painted tears, and the third pushed the second hard in the back. The smile of the third was a livid wound. Emma knew he’d shot the first clown. He was the murderer.

  The second tumbled, rolled, and sprang back to his feet as the first rose from the dead. The first and second turned on the third with outstretched hands, grasping at the air, seeking for his throat. They were all murderers. Every clown was a killer. She knew that now. They grabbed the third’s arms and pulled hard at them. Emma wanted to close her eyes. She didn’t want to see them pull his arms off – there would be a lot of blood if they did that – but instead the two clowns fell back as the third flew into the air, tumbled over them, rolled in the sawdust, came back to his feet, and was answered by applause.

  Mum was laughing – why didn’t she understand?

  These clowns thought pain was funny; that dying was a joke. Emma looked around and saw other people were laughing too. This was all wrong – but the clowns hadn’t finished. A long wooden box was wheeled out on a gurney into the centre of the circus ring. It looked like a coffin to Emma, despite the smiling faces and silver stars painted on it. The clowns sp
un the box around, rapped at it with their knuckles, shouted into the holes at either end before turning to the crowd to collect the laughter they were due. The clowns opened the box and started talking to the crowd. Their voices were normal; human ones which shouldn’t have been coming from faces like that.

  The clowns wanted someone to get in the box.

  They wanted a child.

  Emma did not move. She held her breath. If they smelled the blood in her mouth, they would want to put her in the box. She knew it. Her arms were aching fiercely from how hard she was holding onto the sides of the chair but she didn’t care. It was all she could do to stop herself from running away. If she ran then they would catch her and put her in the box. She had to stay quiet. She had to stay still.

  Emma closed her eyes and made a wish.

  Pleasedontpickme. Pleasedontpickme. Pleasedontpickme.

  There was a cheer from the crowd.

  Emma opened her eyes and looked up. There was a girl standing in the circle with the clowns. A girl who looked a lot like Emma. She had red hair cut short, wore glasses, jeans and a Thundercats t-shirt. The girl was smiling. The clowns helped the girl climb into the box. Emma wanted to get up, to scream and shout; to tell her not to do it but she couldn’t because then there’d hear her. They would know they had the wrong Emma even though this Emma was her, somehow.

  The clowns closed the box over the other Emma whilst Emma listened to the beating of her own heart, feeling it as if the box had closed over her. She watched the girl’s head and feet sticking out of each end. This other Emma was a toy to them; a plaything they could do with as they pleased.

  The first clown pressed a flopping finger to its lips, shushing the crowd. The second pulled off the other Emma’s trainers. The third tickled her bare feet. The girl cried out and kicked. The crowd laughed. Emma didn’t laugh. The trainers had been the same as hers; grey and battered with little Velcro straps. None of this was funny. She hated having her feet touched, or tickled, too.