EMERGENCE

by R. H. Dixon

  ‘Will you be alright while I’m out?’ She watched him pouring milk into his mug, concerned by how withdrawn he seemed. Ill, even. His shoulders were slumped, his stance haggard, made all the more so by his thinness. He looked like a man whose nerves had been pushed to the frayed edges of existence. His spectral blue eyes were haunted; components of anguish and defeat, desperation and sadness dulling his spirits with an unmovable despondency. And his face was fraught with a seriousness that emphasised sunken cheeks. He looked the most vulnerable she’d ever seen him.

  ‘Course I will,’ he muttered, not bothering to look up.

  ‘Are you keeping her in for the rest of the day?’ Since arriving home Seren had lain on the couch under a blanket watching television. She’d hardly spoken a word.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And what about the loft? Are you still going up there to sort the burst pipe?’

  John shook his head and sipped at his hot tea without blowing on it. ‘I’ll take a look later, when you get back. I don’t want to go wandering off up there leaving her alone. Besides, there’s no water or dampness coming through any of the ceilings, I checked while I was up there just now. And, believe it or not, the ceiling in my mam’s bedroom is totally clear.’

  ‘No way.’ Emily’s eyebrows dipped low in confusion. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Wow. That was some weird shit right there this morning.’

  ‘Which bit?’ John glanced sideways, his tone caustic.

  Emily moved around the table to stand next to him. Dropping her voice to barely above a whisper, she said, ‘Has Seren told you what happened? Why she ran off like that?’

  Sighing, John rested his backside against the counter, as though the question loaded him with physical weight. Fidgeting with the striped mug in his hands, he ran his thumbs over its glossy surface to dispel some anxious energy. He felt fragile, as though he was standing alone against the world. His role as a father was testing him to the absolute limit. Most days it seemed like he was taking part in an amateur training session that wasn’t delivering proper results. And, if that wasn’t daunting enough, his sense of self was no longer reliable. Parts of his own consciousness were turning against him in a stealthy takedown that might be slow and gradual, or rapid and fierce. Dark roots of depression had begun to sprout like persistent weeds in the blackened, sun-starved patches of his mind. Thorny bramble stems soon to coil around his brain, puncturing and anchoring, then starving him of any optimism, making it impossible for him to think straight beyond the tangle of organic, barbed hopelessness.

  ‘Back home she’s got an imaginary friend,’ he said after some consideration. ‘Petey Moon.’ His mouth pulled to the side in a show of disdain. Talking about Petey Moon made him feel like he was revealing some dirty secret. It was a name he always thought best kept from other ears in case it was an admission that his daughter, like himself, was not wired up properly. ‘Anyway, sounds as though she’s got one here as well.’

  ‘An imaginary friend?’ Emily shrugged, looking mildly perplexed. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of cheese?’

  ‘She reckons this new imaginary friend told her to leave,’ he huffed. ‘She’s adamant about it.’

  ‘Ah, you mean the woman she was going on about this morning?’

  ‘Yeah. Megan.’

  Emily looked thoughtful, thrumming her fingers on the worktop. ‘So, you’re definitely sure she’s making this Megan woman up?’

  John regarded her with wide disbelieving eyes. ‘Of course she is! Have you seen a bloody woman in the bedroom?’

  ‘Well no, but…’

  ‘She’s obsessed with this idea that some bad woman is coming to take her away.’

  ‘What do you think that’s about?’

  John shrugged and breathed in deeply. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Attention seeking? The upheaval of moving away from home stressing her out? Her age? Or maybe she’s been thinking about Amy and is worried that the same thing might happen to her? I have no idea what goes on inside kids’ heads, least of all my own daughter’s. I still wonder if she just needs to spend some time with people other than me. She seems to have based this Megan woman on you.’

  ‘Hmmm, maybe you’re right to an extent,’ Emily said. ‘But that still fails to answer one pretty important question.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Who was the person you saw in the garden? You thought it was me.’

  John ran a hand through his hair, anxiety forcing the action rather than the need to coax the long strands away from his eyes. ‘I dunno, Em, I’m beginning to wonder if I saw anyone at all.’ He thought about Otis hanging from the loft hatch, the dog’s mutilated body with innards exposed. And he thought about the lampshade in his old room dancing about of its own accord. At the time he’d have sworn those things were real too. He had no desire to tell Emily about these mental hiccups of his though. Nobody needed to know.

  ‘What about Wilf?’ Emily persisted. ‘He saw someone out there too.’

  ‘But there wasn’t anyone with her,’ John said, exasperatedly. ‘I was out there looking, there was no one else about. I checked. I scoured the whole area.’

  ‘Just because you didn’t see anyone doesn’t mean you should discredit what Wilf said he saw. Maybe whoever took her got scared and scarpered. I think we should ask the police to pursue the matter…’

  ‘Based on what evidence? I thought I saw someone? The old bloke next door said he saw someone but couldn’t give a description. Even Seren denies there was anyone with her, apart from Megan. But, no, you’re right, let’s get the police to pursue the matter. And best of luck to them trying to arrest an invisible person, I’ll let you give the description.’

  ‘God, no need to be so sarky.’

  ‘What do you expect?’

  ‘Well, maybe this Megan woman’s an effing ghost,’ Emily hissed. ‘Did you think of that?’

  John’s fingers tensed around the mug, the veins on the back of his hand becoming more pronounced. He glared at her and his voice became low. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’

  ‘Hey, just because you don’t believe doesn’t mean it can’t be true. How do you even know Petey Moon’s made up?’

  ‘Don’t even go there.’ John’s blue eyes blazed. ‘There’s nothing spooky going on, it’s all logical stuff.’

  ‘Logical? Really? Did I miss something?’

  ‘It’s simple. Seren created an imaginary friend just like you because she loves spending time with you. It stands to reason. As for me, I imagined I saw you in the garden with her because I expected you to be there. Shit, Em, I’m really fucking tired, I barely sleep most nights. And the old bloke next door, he probably saw you out there yesterday and got confused with what day of the week it is. He’s getting on a bit isn’t he? And, besides, he was upset because his budgie just died.’ John’s jaw was tense and he worried his eyes lacked the conviction of his words. Emily didn’t look at all convinced either, in fact she was looking at him with the type of pity he’d grown to despise over the years.

  Laying a hand on his upper arm, she sighed and said, ‘Hey, you know best, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

  John squirmed, anxious that the whole situation was out of his control, and uncomfortable that he was so desperately vulnerable because of it. ‘Yeah, well, I hope so. Sometimes I feel like I’m really fucking this whole dad thing up.’

  ‘Shut up, doofus.’ Emily gripped some of the hair on his forearm and pulled. ‘I live in a house full of shitty boys and, believe me, they get up to a whole lot worse. Seren’s an absolute angel in comparison. You’re doing a great job.’

  ‘A house full?’ John raised his eyebrows, feeling suddenly ignorant about his kid sister’s home life. ‘How many’s your mam got now?’

  ‘Too many. And not one damn father figure in sight.’ Emily shook her head, a clear indication that she wasn’t willing to discuss the matter in finer detail. She grabbed her ha
ndbag from the back of the chair and said, ‘Right, I’d better be off else I’ll be late.’

  …

  _

  When a mud-caked Arnold Schwarzenegger made it onto the helicopter in one piece and the end credits of the film began to roll, Seren looked at John. ‘Can I go back in your old room tonight?’

  Draining the last dregs of wine from his glass, John licked his purpled teeth and said, ‘No, kidda, I didn’t get chance to sort the ceiling.’ In truth he’d had ample chance, just no motivation. His energy levels had depleted to the point where he couldn’t be bothered to get out of the armchair after lunch. His muscles were tight and his head ached. Even his skin hurt. When Emily had got in from work she’d happily looked after everyone: cooking dinner, feeding the dogs, bathing Seren and topping John’s wine up. She’d suggested he didn’t drink, since he wasn’t feeling well, but he’d insisted the alcohol would help.

  ‘Want me to sleep with you?’ Emily asked Seren, twirling her niece’s ponytail round her fingers.

  ‘Yeah.’ Seren nodded, her eyes immediately brightening.

  Easing herself onto her feet, Emily held her hand out. ‘You ready to hit the sack now?’

  ‘But it’s only nine,’ John pointed out, watching as Seren sat forward and put her slippers on.

  ‘I’m fairly whacked,’ Emily said. ‘It’s been a busy day. I wouldn’t mind turning in now if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Of course it is, but it’s…yeah, of course.’

  Emily ushered Seren to the lounge door and paused. She waited till the little girl’s footsteps had receded up the stairs and said, ‘Maybe it wouldn’t harm for you to have an early night as well, you know. You don’t look too good. In fact you look bloody awful.’

  ‘Cheers.’ John was slouched in the armchair, socks off, twirling his empty glass around in his hand. The dark bits beneath his eyes contrasted against the whiteness of his skin and the lightness of his blue-green irises lent him a look of some Hollywood portrayal of the undead.

  ‘I’m being serious.’ Emily’s face was grave. ‘All you need is to backcomb your flipping hair, mate, and you’d make a good vampire.’

  John cocked an eyebrow, smiling weakly at her analogy – he’d thought the same thing around a week ago. ‘Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘Yes, because you’re not exactly a sparkly Edward.’

  ‘How about a Lost Boy?’

  ‘Try Nosferatu, doofus.’

  ‘But Nosferatu didn’t have hair.’

  ‘I bet he did at some stage. Before he started drinking too much and not sleeping enough and not paying enough attention to what he was eating.’

  ‘Alright, alright, for frig’s sake.’ John hauled himself out of the armchair. ‘I’ll go to bed already.’

  _

  …

  _

  Upstairs John lay studying dark patches that had crept back to the bedroom ceiling, pareidolia making faces and human features in mouldy residue. A woman’s face, sad and bereft of colour, looked back at him; her eyes sunken, hair long and black, slit-mouth downturned. A ghoulish, cloaked figure in the east corner was stooped over a child. Or someone sitting down. Or a child on the back of a dog. He couldn’t quite make his mind up. An open hand was outstretched in the opposite corner. Awaiting payment. The fingers were bony threads of grey and knuckles thick clusters of early decay on the white artex. Straight above him was the silhouette of a horned ram. Then the more he stared at it the more it became the face of a demon. Eventually it became a uterus. Barren and devoid of life. He found the sad woman again and saw she was now grinning. Her slit-mouth creased up at the sides. And on her head was a crown.

  Turning onto his stomach, away from the ceiling’s grisly storyboard, John searched for sleep while listening to the distant hum of traffic from the open window. The word REMEMBER popped into his mind. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember that there was anything he might have forgotten.

  _

  …

  _

  When he opened his eyes dark swirls moved overhead. Thunderous clouds of badness that had gathered, increasing in volume and speed to create a spinning whorl on the ceiling. John was right in the eye of whatever storm was about to take place. All around him the air was thick with corruption and decay. A heavy smell of damp and rot clung to the back of his nose. He thought of Dead Dog Pond, imagining that’s where he might be, his dead eyes seeing the murky surface above after someone had dumped his body there.

  He watched as a hole, black as sin, opened above him. A yawning, dirty mouth that might swallow him whole. Suck him up into an empty void. Or a nightmarish chasm filled with cobwebs and silence and things that might brush against his naked skin, unseen. Corpse tongues and croaked words. Or maybe it was something else altogether. The entrance to the cundy.

  He shuddered, his back sticking to the sheet beneath him, a feverish sweat covering his skin. From somewhere high above, or somewhere deep within, he heard a voice. The cracked, aged sound of an old woman’s throat. He strained to hear what she was saying, but her words were indecipherable, a handful of syllables like those from a cat’s love song. As the hole in the ceiling grew wider, pulsing and dilating, her words became clearer, till he could make out, ‘Here for the baby,’ over and over like it should mean something to him. And perhaps it did. He felt that it should. But he couldn’t think what.

  ‘Here for the baby. Here for the baby. Here for the baby…’ The voice scraped on and on, scratching the nerves beneath his skin, itching his fever. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his body glued to the bed. He scrunched his eyes shut till he saw searing white. Then using every bit of strength he could muster he lurched forward, sitting upright, and pressed his hands to his ears. Sucking in a great lungful of air he cried, ‘Nooo!’

  Everything fell quiet. Almost too quiet. The crone’s voice went along with the hole as the ceiling flashed white. John waited for something to happen, listening for something beyond the thundering of his own body.

  Then there was a knock at the door. A succession of three sturdy raps.

  Panting and shivering with fever, he whispered, ‘Who’s there?’

  The handle moved down and the door inched inwards, the bottom scraping over carpet with a rush of noise that filled John’s head with distant surf and a deep feeling of expectancy. Inaugural light stole through the curtains, enough for him to see everything in varying shades of grey, including the familiar figure that stood in the open doorway.

  ‘Hey handsome,’ she said in that low throatiness of hers.

  Pamela Tanner’s eyes were heavily kohled and her face was pulled taut because her hair was scraped back severely. A thick gold gem-encrusted collar bejewelled her slender neck, below which she wore nothing at all.

  John remained upright, watching her, while needle-pains spread from his spine, communicating with every other nerve-ending in his body. His eyeballs ached. His skin was breathing fire. And he felt a keen, localised throbbing in his lower regions.

  ‘Are you afraid of me, John?’ Pamela Tanner asked. She stalked towards him, bare feet silent on the carpet.

  John shook his head and lowered himself back onto his elbows.

  ‘You should be.’ She came to stand by the side of the bed, her darker-than-usual eyes not leaving his.

  John looked away, her stare too intense, especially now she was so close. He lowered his eyes, submissively, and saw a small black tattoo on her hip: an upside-down heart skewered onto a drawing pin. The spades symbol. She saw that he saw it and took his hand, pressing it to the tattoo. Her skin was warm and smooth. He tried to pull away, but she held on, pressing his fingers together till they hurt, till the bones of his knuckles ground together.

  ‘I know you,’ she said.

  It was a haughty assertion that made John defensive. ‘No you don’t,’ he barked, trying to will away the presumptuous hardness inside his shorts.

  ‘Oh yes. Better than you know yourself.’ She looked down his body a
nd smiled. ‘I can easily rule you. I did once before. Remember?’

  Remember? ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. And you’ll know me again till you can think of nothing else.’ She leapt onto the bed, a show of great agility and finesse, and straddled his legs. He tried to resist, but her legs clamped him tight and she shook her head. ‘I will rule you again.’ Maintaining eye contact she dipped her head and ran her tongue from his navel to his chest, then took his nipple between her teeth.

  Feeling the wet warmth of her tongue, and anticipating the promises it foretold, John closed his eyes, ashamed. When she bit down hard on the sensitive skin, the sharp sensation distributed evenly around the rest of his body. And then she sucked. He groaned in pained pleasure, breathing her in. This close Pamela Tanner smelt of sea spray and turned earth, of ancient relics and dusty, unused rooms. There was nothing sensual about the smell at all, it was natural and base, of a dormant age and life that was reawakening, but somehow it raised further excitement in him. The excitement of him surrendering to the pull of what he’d been denying himself. Even the very thought.

  She moved her face to his, her erect nipples brushing against the hair on his chest, skimming his skin, the tantalising movement making him a slave to his own desire, in thrall to her impulse. When their lips touched he didn’t resist, readily accepting her tongue with his. Their fingers slotted together and he allowed her to pin his hands to the bed with a strength that might well have outdone his own had he tried to resist. Fresh air blew in through the open window but it didn't cool him, he was smothered by her. In fact he thought he might burn alive with the heat of his own blood.

  When Pamela Tanner sat upright again, her lips fuller and redder, she released her hair so that black tresses fell loose around her shoulders, down past her breasts. Then she stroked John’s sweat-slicked torso with teasing fingers. He lay with his hands above his head, where she’d left them, unmoving, delirious with the feverishness that thrashed his body and senses. She put her fingers beneath the elastic of his boxer shorts and pulled downwards with a quick tug. Paralysed with nervousness and anticipation, but eager with a heightened sense of yearning, John then watched as Pamela Tanner stooped and took him into her mouth. He melted further into the mattress, closing his eyes. Nothing mattered, not anymore. Nothing but her mouth and the firm grip she kept at the base of his shaft. He lay still for a while, rapturous, then when he could no longer abstain he began to buck up and down, his fingers tightly gripping the edge of the mattress because he didn’t dare touch her with his hands. To do so would be an admittance of his hunger for her.