by Ian Dyer
‘You are. I mean, like you said in the car, you were Barbara here, but changed it to Lucy when you came down south. Remember?’ He was pleading now and his voice dropped octaves as he spoke.
‘But that is your middle name, Barbara.’ And as is to confirm that Mr Rowling went on to say, ‘Barbara Lucy Rowling. Not Lucy.’
God this guy is a pedantic bastard.
And then something clicked in her. He could see it – like you can see the egg timer working on a computer as you wait for a programme or a web page to open – she was computing what was happening. A small line of sweat appeared on her forehead and when she blinked he could see his Lucy again, and whatever had been there before was now gone.
‘Sorry dad. I should have told you when I arrived. This is just a misunderstanding. I left that name here when I left. I wanted a fresh start, you remember? So I stopped being Barbara and stuck with Lucy. I asked Simon to try but I guess it’s just, just new I suppose.’
Mr Rowling ran his hands through his hair. ‘Okay, Barbara, okay. Hard times back then, but fresh ones ahead. But Simon, please, two things,’ Mr Rowling held two fingers up, but he wasn’t flicking Simon the royal V, they were turned in the universal signal for peace, ‘first; none of that language please, not here. And second; it’s Barbara when you is in this place, she aint Lucy, yaknow what I mean.’
And Simon did know what he meant but didn’t have time to say anything as Mr Rowling took one final swig from his mug and left the room walking back into the hallway and through into another part of the house closing the door gently behind him.
The two lovers looked at each other; Simon was unsure of what he would see, looking into those pools of wonder and was happy when he saw his Lucy taking off the apron and throwing it onto the breakfast bar staring at it as it fell to the floor. Another tree cracked outside in the distant forest and with the sound came a small bead of sunlight and it shone through the kitchen window and lit up Lucy’s face. She leaned over and the two of them embraced, no words were uttered because they both didn’t need to. They could sense each other’s shock, fear, regret and amusement of today’s events. But as Simon closed in and held Lucy tight he got one final look into her eyes and he didn’t like what he saw. ‘What the hell is going on?’ He whispered, but Lucy didn’t answer.
4
They had taken their bags upstairs in relative silence. Their room, Lucy’s old bedroom, was directly above the kitchen and had views of the stream and the valley walls and the forest that lay beyond. There was a double bed, two side cabinets and a separate door leading to a very small bathroom which contained a shower and a sink. The view from the window was beautiful and Simon, forgetting about the recent troubles, was excited about getting out his camera and taking some shots for his portfolio. He gazed out the window for some time, not really thinking of anything, just taking in the view and enjoying the silence.
‘View hasn’t changed since I was a little girl. Nothing has changed; it’s just the way it was; even the curtains are the same. The smell too, it’s all the same. I bet you can’t wait to get snapping again, especially in the forest, you’ve been cramped up in that city for too long.’
‘Hmm.’ was all he could muster. Of course nothing had changed; time didn’t seem to exist here, like some great hand had pressed the pause button and Mr Rowling’s house and the surrounding area were locked into place, unable to move forward – unwilling perhaps. Simon could hear Lucy unpack and put things away in the drawers. She was right about one thing; he couldn’t wait to get out there, into the wilds and let his eye wander and his camera click.
‘You sure you’re okay, honey?’ Lucy asked as she put the suitcases behind the bedroom door.
Simon looked at the reflection of Lucy in the window and said:
‘Not really, no. Close the door would you.’
Lucy closed the door. The house was silent, whatever Mr Rowling was up to downstairs wasn’t making any noise. Simon could hear the wind rustling through the trees and the water cascading down the stream. The rain had stopped and it wouldn’t be long before the sun started to set and for night to fall across the valley. He turned away from the window, removed his light weight jacket, and threw it onto the bed. He had to be careful here, that old String needed to stay loose and he knew that if he went too far it would snap, snap like a crocodile’s mouth.
‘What is it, Simon? Come on, tell me. I know it’s weird, the whole Lucy, Barbara thing, but if you think about it; it is perfectly reasonable.’
‘Yeah I get that. But come on; give me a break, would ya, I mean you threw that bad boy on me when we were in spitting distance of this place. And then there was that bloody petrol station with that guy.’
‘What about the petrol station?’
‘Oh nothing much, just that I was ripped off by some fat guy dressed in someone else’s clothes – I am sure of it Lucy, sure of it, they were someone else’s overalls and there was this stuff coming out of the garage, it wasn’t oil, well it could have been oil but mixed with something, I don’t know, I don’t know it was just odd, and he was odd, this whole fucking place is odd.’
Lucy sat on the small chair next to her vanity unit, she looked puzzled but there was something about that expression that Simon recognised – oh yeah, he recognised it good.
‘I can see what you are thinking, Lucy. That I must be imagining the whole thing; that my mind is playing tricks on me and I am seeing weird stuff coz I want to see weird stuff.’ Simon took a step forward, leaning over the bed and pointed a finger at her and then down below them, toward the kitchen, ‘Well what about what happened down there, Lucy, all that shit about the club and you not being Lucy and how he speaks to me and speaks to you, explain that Sherlock friggin Holmes.’
‘What doya mean, Simon?’
‘What do I mean? For Christ sake, Lucy, you were different down there, you were…you were,’ and then it hit him. Hit him like a truck carrying a trailer full of bricks. ‘You were Barbara.’
‘Stop it, Simon.’
‘Stop calling me THAT! For fucks sake, stop calling me THAT!’
Lucy flinched; her eyes became wide and startled. ‘Stop calling you what, Simon.’
‘Simon. Stop calling me Simon. You never call me that. It’s either Si or Sausage or honey or anyfuckingthing, just not that. Not since we first met.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘No, of course not. Like downstairs when I called you Lucy and you freaked out and sided with yer dad and made me think I was mental, that I had just made it all up. You made me think for a minute that you were Barbara and I had somehow slipped into some alternative universe. How can you answer that then, hey?’
She shook her head and blinked in that God damned condescending way he oh so hated. This was turning into a crappy start to their holiday and he realised that they were fighting and they never fought, never argued or raised their voices to one another.
‘Look, it’s been a long day, Sausage, (that had been a struggle for her, like downstairs when he could see the egg timer ticking away behind her eyes it was the same now) we are both tired and need a nap or something. Don’t forget that I haven’t been back here in a long time. This is just as strange for me as it is for you, ya know what I mean. Just give it time, please.’
Yeah right, whatever, sweet heart. You haven’t had your dad talking utter nonsense or been invited to a night out with a bunch of strangers.
Maybe he was being too hard on her? It had been a long time since she left this place. Lucy and her dad hadn’t talked for long time until two months ago when Simon insisted they make good their fractured relationship before it’s too late. The deal with her name is acceptable, when you cross the T’s and dot the I’s it made sense. He would just have to except it, especially when the old man was about. The rip off merchant – Bobbie – may have been right, who knows, it may well have been forty quid and it was Simon that had made a scene and believed it was less than that. He mo
ved his hand toward hers, a fleshy olive branch outstretched, and she took hold of it; squeezing tight. They had some troubles to work through, and he guessed as their time here wore on there would be a few more, but it wasn’t all that bad. So he had to call her Barbara for a couple of weeks, so he had to put up with Mr Rowling and his odd – really odd – ways for a couple of weeks, so what. This place was gorgeous, a hidden haven that he knew he could easily fall in love with, especially if he found time to get his camera out and start snapping. It could be a lot worse he supposed as they both settled down on the bed, embraced and fell asleep.
5
Simon was alone on the garage forecourt. The roof was gone and the rain was floating down like wet dandelion seeds soaking him to the bone. He looked around for a sign of life – for Bobbie/Lewis – but there wasn’t anybody around. The lights were off in the shop but the courtyard was lit with an afterglow of some unseen distant sun.
His head was thick, groggy; much like it was the morning after a few heavy drinks. Maybe the shop had some water, he wanted some water; he was so thirsty all of a sudden that he felt sand in his throat. He took a step but realised that by taking one step he had taken four and then as he took another step he felt as if he were floating, as if in space, but he wasn’t floating toward the shop where he so desperately wanted to go to get a drink; he was heading toward the padlocked garage. Heading toward the building where some foul looking red gore flowed from beneath its rusted blue door. The garage’s metal roof flapped in a wind that wasn’t there. The door looked like a massive metallic mouth which had been shut for hundreds of years and was preparing to open. Simon was sure he could see the building heave in and out as it breathed. He didn’t want to go there for he was sure that behind that door there lived monsters; monsters that had made Lewis into Bobbie.
Simon swung his arms to try and change direction, but it did nothing and he floated closer. Simon kicked but that did nothing and now he was within 20 feet of the red oil stuff. He was thirsty and the effort was drying his throat further. He went to swallow and found that he couldn’t, all the while getting closer to the where the gore had settled into little pools of filth. He tried to swallow again and reached up and grabbed his throat. But it wasn’t there. He couldn’t feel it. No soft pink wet flesh. Instead his throat felt solid and sharp like tips of a hundred nails which pointed out like some ancient defence on some ancient castle. He moaned in fear, but nothing came now that his throat was full of iron teeth and all the while he is getting closer, 10 feet to go, 10 feet to that red oil gore.
’Just an old Zephyr.
‘They leak. They bleed. They don’t stop once they started.’
That was Bobbie/Lewis but Simon couldn’t see him/them when he looked about.
And then something caught his eye; it was movement in the red gore oozing from underneath the garage door. Just ahead, the gore started to form a dome. But not a smooth dome. It was fragmented, like bedraggled hair that hung straight down hiding whatever face lay beneath.
‘They leak. They bleed. They don’t stop once they started.’
And then the gore covered shape that was rising slowly from the red ooze began to moan; it was a low moan, feminine, he was sure of that. The moan – its Bobbie, BOBBIE - was as if it were the last cries before the end and they went on and on until it became a scream and that scream went on and on and Simon got closer and closer and the scream got louder and louder until it became a yell and that yell grew fierce and guttural and in the distance there was a flash of lightning and a huge rumble of thunder…
6
In the valley another tree fell to the lumberjacks axe and it hit the forest floor heavily.
Simon awoke with a start; grabbing hold of his throat and then the side of the bed sure that he was floating toward some red coloured filth that was all that was left of someone – a girl, a girl called Bobbie and his breathing was fast and shallow and he was hot, sweaty and thirsty.
He got up, unsteady at first, and walked around to the end of the bed and into the small bathroom holding onto whatever he could as he went. He flicked the light switch on and leant on the sink as he tried to control himself. Looking into the mirror he saw that he was pale, his eyes sunken with deep dark rings beneath them. Licking his lips he turned on the cold tap, waited a second or two and then cupped his hands allowing the water to collect. When the cold liquid was brimming he bent over and drank what he could, before refilling and drinking again and again and again. On the final fill, instead of drinking he splashed the water over his face and kept his hands there whilst he straightened up.
He felt better now. Relaxed. Whatever that dream had been about was drifting away like a leaf caught in a rivers current.
Simon took his hands away and opened his eyes.
Behind him was a woman and her skin was flayed, her eyes were gone and their black sockets reflected nothing and her mouth was wide as if she wanted to scream but without a throat no sound could come out.
So Simon screamed for her.
7
In the valley another tree to fell the lumberjacks axe and it hit the forest floor heavily.
Simon awoke and sat bolt upright. ‘They Leak!’
His chest moved in and out rapidly. His clothes were wet with sweat and tight around his body. It was as if they were trying to strangle him. He looked over to see if Lucy was there but she was gone; the bed sheets slightly ruffled, the pillow crooked. Looking around the room lit by a fading twilight sun, he saw that the bedroom door was open and the hallway light was on. There were voices coming from downstairs.
He eased himself back onto the soft duvet and sighed heavily running his hands through his hair. ‘Fucking hell.’ It had been a long time since Simon had had a dream – a nightmare – like that. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had had one. His breathing was becoming normal and he licked his lips. Simon was struggling to remember the gist of the dream, it was disappearing quickly – which he was thankful for – but he knew that he had been at the garage and that the red gore had been there.
Someone was saying something. Somebody was there
From his pocket there came a soft vibration and it startled him. Reaching down and fumbling he removed his iPhone and opened his eyes so that he could see what the alert was for. The background image was of Lucy – a princess in her red dress – but her face was obscured by the green box and the text that was inside. The message was from Kyle and it read:
Give me a call. Know on holiday and isn’t urgent but need to talk.
He let go of the phone and let it fall onto the duvet next to him. Right now, speaking to Kyle was the last thing he wanted to do. What he really wanted was a beer, a few of them to be precise. He took a quick shower, dried, and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean shirt. Ready for the long haul he took in a deep breath and headed back downstairs.
The Peroni Incident
1
Simon gathered himself together, left the bedroom and headed downstairs. The upstairs hallway was decorated in that same lost in time 70’ss style that matched downstairs. It wasn’t awful and in the same situation that Mr Rowling was in – alone and without a wife – Simon believed that most men would do and be the same. What was the point in changing anything when the only one seeing it, living in it, was you?
He walked past the family bathroom – had a little chuckle to himself – when the avocado green bath suite shone bright in the fluorescent glow of the bathroom light. There was even a matching bathmat to boot, as well as a fluffy toilet seat cover.
The stairs creaked as he walked down them, though he tried to take care as his ears struggled to catch whatever it was that Lucy and Mr Rowling were talking about. There were paintings and pictures on the walls but Simon paid these no attention as he reached the bottom of the stairs and, noticing that all other doors were closed off to him, headed into the brightly lit kitchen. Mr Rowling was stood at the sink, where Lucy had been a few hours ago and Lucy had taken up a seat at t
he table and was pouring through a box of old photos.
He stood in the doorway; the silence from within the kitchen was a brick wall he knew his body couldn’t tear down. It was Mr Rowling that acknowledged his presence, ‘See ya drifted off there for a while, Simon.’
Simon smiled, though he knew it looked fake but carried on none the less. ‘Yep. Journey really took it out of me. Did you have a nap…Barbara?’ That was harder to do than he had anticipated.
‘A little, I think. You were out for the count.’ She went back to her photos.
‘Another five minutes, Simon, and we shall head off over to the club if that right wayou? Times gettin on now, nigh on seven already, if yaknow what I mean.’
‘Yeah, cool with me Mr Rowling. I could do with a beer or two.’
The old man nodded. ‘I’ll just get macoat. Best you wrap up warm, you aint used to air up here. Gets nippy, especially after a few I can tell ya.’ He brushed past Simon on his way into the hallway, a subtle whiff of Old Spice in the air, ‘I saved ya a couple of corned dog sarnies.’
Images of the gore pouring out of the garage flashed before Simon and his stomach churned.
Mr Rowling was just about to put on his overcoat when Simon asked, ‘What’s corned dog?’
Now, Simon wasn’t sure, he could have been mistaking what he heard as a button clicking together, or the old clock that hung on the wall ticking louder than usual, or it could have been the natural creaking and groaning of the house that caused it, but Simon was sure he heard Mr Rowling tsk and then shake his head. Zipping up his coat, ‘you explain would ya, Barbara? I gotta make sure the garage is locked before we go.’ He opened the door, the light of the bulbous moon pouring in, and headed outside, closing the door harder than what was needed. Simon turned, wondering how on earth he was going to get through a night if he didn’t know what a corned dog was, and looked at Lucy; his eyes asking the question his mouth couldn’t bring itself to say.
