by Owen Seth
‘And a wife? Girlfriend?’
‘Wife.’
Her foot starts to tap, her smile arching into a smirk.
‘Well aren’t you the conversationalist!’
‘I used to be,’ he says.
‘Well I don’t believe you. Want to meet my daughter?’
He nods and walks out, tucking the blade into the waistband of the tracksuit bottoms that Rose left out for him. She also put out a baggy, red t shirt that he doesn’t like; too much material to grab hold of in a fight.
‘I see the clothes fit,’ she says.
‘Thank you,’ he replies.
She turns her body slightly into him, opening up her chest to present a swaddled baby girl with a head full of blonde curly hair and bright blue eyes. Man smiles as Rose looks up at him, and then down at her daughter. The little girl starts to cry.
A black line shoots across his vision, opens up into a screen to replay his memories. He remembers the sound of a crying babe, a ferrous smell in the air mixed with recently detonated cordite. He remembers the splitting in half of a tiny body, barely enough blood to splash back onto his face. And then everything in his world went quiet.
‘Everything okay?’ He feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly, coaxing him out of the horror-filled trance.
‘Fine,’ he manages. ‘Just bad memories. How long was I gone?’
‘A good half a minute,’ says Rose. ‘Do you want to know her name? It’s not an introduction if you don’t know her name.’
He nods.
‘It’s Lily,’ she says, a proud smile engulfing her milky face.
‘That’s beautiful,’ he replies.
‘Thank you. What was your daughter’s name?’
‘Emma. Her name was Emma. And my wife’s name was Claire and we were once very fucking happy! But they’re gone, now! Everyone is gone! All that’s left are monsters and memories and both are as bad as each other!’
Rose steps back, her face frozen in fear. He sees this and relents. The anger rose up in his belly again, an untameable entity born out of emotional wreckage.
‘I, I’m sorry,’ he says, his arms out, pleading with her. ‘I don’t like to talk about them.’
‘It’s okay,’ she says above the crying of Lily. ‘It’s okay. I understand. Pop downstairs. The pub is empty. They’ve all gone to a feast tonight. I’ll be down in a few minutes and I’ll get you a drink.’
‘That, that would be good, thank you,’ he says.
He moves to the top of the stairs and then pauses. Turns around and sees Rose looking at him.
‘It’s a shame,’ she says, ‘what’s happened to the world. A tragedy for our species.’
‘Who’s the father?’ asks Man.
Her eyes look at the ground. She is ashamed of the answer.
Man nods and turns and walks slowly down the staircase.
************************
She sits opposite him, a glass of barley wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
He throws her a glance every now and then, a quick survey of her features, admiring her red hair, the way she smokes her cigarette, the hypnotic swirl of blue/grey smoke that floats up into the air. Man has always liked women who smoke.
The bar is deserted, apart from two broken souls who've found each other amid the chaos.
He smokes, slowly, sucks hard on the hand-rolled fag as though he’s trying to finish it in one drag. They've been silent for quite some time.
'So what's your story?' asks Rose nonchalantly, her tone bypassing the awkwardness of silence.
'Which one?' is Man's reply.
'The last few months will do.'
'The last few months? That's quite a story. I'm not sure we have the time.'
'Sod off then!' she says with a smirk on her face, a playful fire illuminating her pea-green eyes. 'If you're not going to entertain me, you can get the bloody hell out.'
Man forces a smile, the kind of smile he feels trying to escape from inside him.
'Okay,' he says. 'First things first, you should know that I'm a wanted man!'
'A wanted man? Interesting! Like an outlaw?'
'Not quite. There are men chasing me. They want to torture me and rape me and eventually part my head from my neck.'
'What did you do?'
'Revenge. That is all I did.' Man takes a slow sip of his beer, scratches at his beard and notices small flakes of dandruff fall to the floor like macabre confetti. 'I lived in a village once. A settlement quite like this. Except we didn't eat people. We hunted animals, provided for the women and children. It's at the village where I found Claire. She was widowed during the War of Tribes. A frail thing when I first saw her, holding a child so tight to her chest that I thought she would crush it.’
‘So she wasn’t your daughter?’
‘She wasn’t. But I loved her any way. Her and her mother.’
‘So what happened to them?’ asks Rose, her eyes brimming with interest.
‘They were killed. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have…’ Man trails off, lost in the darkest memory he could ever fathom.
‘Who killed them?’
‘I was supposed to be protecting them, I…’ A tear emerges in Man’s eye and he rubs it away. Pulls another cigarette out of his pocket, lights it and inhales.
‘Who was it?’ asks Rose.
‘The men who are hunting me. They raped her, then cut her throat. Then they threw the child to the dogs.’
Rose’s face contorts into a wrinkled ball, her expression baring the marks of horror.
‘What did you do to them?’
‘I killed one of them. A man called Ross. Never knew his last name. No one did. And then I cut his head off and threw it through Smith’s window.’
‘Jesus!’
‘It certainly got their attention.’
‘Who’s Smith?’ she says as she lights another cigarette and swills back the rest of her wine.
‘He was the leader. Like Mick, only not as fat.’
‘Why did they rape her?’ she asks, her voice quivering with the anticipation of horrors.
‘Because she was beautiful.’ He sits back, calmer now, the thought of her face acting as the soothing elixir. Her hair, long and brown with her ears poking through like an exquisite little elf. Her eyes were dark blue, her lips cherry red. She looked innocent, the kind of girl he instantly wanted to protect. His heart fell into his stomach the day she wandered into the town.
‘So,’ says Rose, waking Man from his memory, ‘what happened after that?’
‘I ran. Been running for months. I remember it was snowing, January I guess, and that Ross’ headless corpse turned the white ground around him red. I stole his dog, Hound I called it, and took his back pack and his blade, the karambit I keep, and headed north. A couple of times they came after me, but I managed to get away. Hound was killed a few weeks back, their most recent attempt on my life. And they also killed a little girl, not much older than your daughter.’
He sits back, finishes his beer and walks to the bar to retrieve another. As he moves he looks up at the ceiling, the lights hanging from cobweb laden plaster, faux stained glass shade cocooning them, accentuating their brightness.
'This might have been a nice pub,' he says out loud, thoughts forming into words before he can control their slippage.
'I try my best,' she says.
He laughs and turns to her, walks hazily with his beer, mindful not to spill any in his merry state.
'I bet you've got some questions for me,' says Rose.
'A couple. Mick answered the rest.'
'Mick's a liar,' she blurts out, her lips curling into a venomous beak.
'A liar? What did he lie about?'
'Eating people! There was no siege. He fed you a pack of lies.’
'So what happened?'
'A man came by, a month or so after I got here. He wore a brown cloak and walked with a giant staff. He looked like some sort of wizard or something. Mick offered
him sanctuary, brought him in. The man claimed to be a messenger from God.'
'From God?'
'Yeah. That's what he said. We were all starving and Mick, well, he became very religious after the darkness set in. A lot of us did. He took his beliefs, his hatred of the Muslims, and focused it on a higher power.'
'So what did this messenger from God say?' Man shifts in his seat, his attention peaking. He lights another cigarette, feels the smoke tighten his lungs, a precursor to a violent cough.
'Daniel. His name was Daniel.'
'What did Daniel say, then?'
'He claimed that God had told him that Mick was destined for great things. To lead a revival of our species, of our creed. And in order to do that he could do whatever he had to.'
'And that translated into eating people?'
'I'm not finished,' she warns, her eyes firing. 'Daniel told Mick of the ancient tribes of the Amazon who survived for so long during times of colonisation and deforestation, and their key to power. It was eating their enemies.'
'Are those people I saw outside his enemies?' asks Man.
'They never used to be.'
'So what happened to Daniel?'
'He left. One day. Without a trace. Mick took it as sign from the almighty God.’
'So Mick thinks he was a saint or...'
'An angel.'
Man tuts loudly, making sure his unflinching disapproval of fairy tale religion is clearly understood.
'You don't believe that?' he asks.
'It's all piss and vinegar to me! I just live here. It's better than living out there!' She points to the windows, the dirt lining adding more protection from the outside world.
'It's all piss and vinegar,' Man repeats, 'I like that. It's always been piss and vinegar! People, cattle, fucking herds turned to religion all those hundreds of years ago because their lives were shit and they were easily manipulated. This world, this whole universe is cyclical. It's all coming around again. All the yarns and folk stories about saints and sinners, gods and angels. I thought that had died out along with the electricity.’
'Universe? Cyclical? You go to a bloody posh school or something?'
'Yes,' says Man. 'You could say that. Then college. Then university. Then, then...'
'Then what?' asks Rose, her eyelids flitting up and down, her mind widening to the mystery of Man's existence.
'Then I stayed at home. Worked a few jobs here and there. And then I joined the army.'
'The army? I wouldn't put you for an army lad!'
'Why not?'
'I dunno, I just wouldn't. How long did you serve?'
'Five years. I found it hard to get in. A friend of mine helped me through it.'
'My husband was in the forces. Royal Marines. He died in Afghanistan. Two thousand and twelve.'
'I'm sorry,' says Man, the cloud of awkwardness descending on their table.
'Why?' she asks. 'You didn't do it!'
‘It’s just what people say, I guess. A futile offering of condolences. Piss and vinegar. How’d he die?’
‘He was caught by the Taliban. They cut his head off with a kitchen knife in front of an audience of millions. I remember seeing some boys in front of me at the bus stop, swearing and laughing at one of their phones. I hadn’t heard from Kieran for days but that wasn’t uncommon. They kept on laughing and swearing, my intrigue spiked, I had to look. So I peered over one of their shoulders, saw the face of a man I’d known all my life. I recognised his eyes, muddy brown, and the creases in his brow. He looked so scared, he looked…’ She stops and stares into space, her eyes verging on waterworks, her lip beginning to quiver.
‘It’s okay,’ says Man, his hand wandering over the table to meet hers. She looks up at him and smiles, pulls her hand back to wipe away the tiny, lone tear that trickles down her cheek. ‘You don’t have to go on. We’ve all lost people. It never gets any easier.’
‘No, no, it’s okay. That was a long time ago.’
‘It’s an awful thing to see. No one should ever see that.’
‘It’s common place, now,’ she says, the vivacity returning to her voice. ‘The ironic thing is that I was kind of glad when the darkness set in; when the terrorists relegated us to the Stone Age. That video doesn’t exist anymore and I’m happy about it. I should never have to see it again and yet every day, if I can be bothered to walk for long enough I do see it again. Somebody else’s husband. A child’s father, mother, sister, brother, friend.’
‘Is that why you joined Mick?’ asks Man as he lights another ciggy. ‘Because of what happened to your husband?’
‘I carried a lot of hate around with me for many years. Even after the American’s retaliated, fried the Middle East with fire and radiation, I still wanted some justice, some revenge for my poor Kieran. Mick saw that in me, fed off it, sucked me dry and put his fucking seed in me.’
‘He seems quite the character,’ says Man, draining his beer so fast that it leaves froth in his beard.
‘One thing about Mick,’ says Rose, ‘he always gets what he wants. Right now, he wants you to be with us. And he’ll get it if you let him. I can only offer you one chance to escape, if that’s what you wish. But it has to be tonight.’
‘I quite like here,’ he boasts while smiling at her. ‘I think I’ll stay a while. Work out my next move with a full belly and drunken mind.’
‘It’s your call.’
Lily’s cries begin to echo down the staircase, a sign her mother will not ignore.
‘This is where I say goodnight,’ offers Rose, standing up and strutting to the staircase. ‘Help yourself to the drink. It’s free, after all.’
Man nods in appreciation, the fag hanging loosely from his lips, the embers singeing mangled beard hairs.
‘But tell me one thing before I leave you,’ she adds. ‘Why did you leave the army?’
‘I was pushed out,’ he says calmly.
‘By who?’
‘Myself.’
************************
He lies on a beaten mattress, springs poking into his wiry back like metal thorns. The night moves in slowly, light fading by the second, shadows dying agonising deaths.
In the other room he can hear the baby crying. Lily, the bastard child of a crazed tyrant. He does not wish to help. The wound is too raw, the infant's sounds tearing through him like cat claws in a song bird’s throat.
The sheets are itchy, even on thick skin. He's been lying for an hour he guesses, tossing and turning, eyelids slammed tight to keep the world out. He remembers something his mother told him when he was young.
'Open your eyes,' she would say. 'Try to stay awake and you'll fall asleep.'
It never worked.
Man sits up, fed up with his unusual sleeping arrangements. He grabs the pillow, rolls onto the floor and settles there. Instantly it feels better, more natural. He imagines how he would look to someone if they were to see him like this. A bald, bearded eunuch, his flesh scarred and pale as milk. Lily's cries are muffled by the thick wooden door he has barricaded with the dresser. He takes no chances.
Eyes start to close and his body begins to numb, the whirling mess in his mind slowing down to a halt, slow enough for him to drop off into a world where he is free from his existence, free from the nightmare of life and the deadly uncertainties of nature.
It's been a long day.
He sleeps.
***********************
A man runs through the forest, his naked form rippling with each bound, the moonlight rays turning him into a work of art.
Black trees loom over like living omens; their branches are razor sharp claws, grabbing at him, aching for justice.
He picks up speed, dodging black branches as if his life is choreographed; up until a while ago, it was.
With each powerful bound his muscles tense like electrified wire, the euphoric sense of freedom coursing through his veins. He looks down as he runs, looks at his cock, rock hard and thick. He admires it, enjoys the
masculine prowess of owning such a member. And all the while he is dodging the branches.
A small hill approaches, surrounded by the vicious trees, and he bounds up it, legs like steam powered pistons. As he nears the summit he's hit by a violent gale, so powerful and pure that he embraces it before being bowled down the hill and into the arms of a malicious tree.
***********************
The floor is wet, the stench of alcohol tainted sweat lingers in the air. His eyes are open, strained and bloodshot, and in the darkness he fumbles for something hard, something steady to remind him that he is alive. He finds the bed, touches it and sighs with relief. Then he touches between his legs, feels relief to find nothing there.
He stands up, unsteadily, sits on the side of the bed and leans over, his head cradled by his hands, body shaking, convulsing. It's been a long time since such a vivid dream has haunted him.
A gut twisting thunder erupts in his abdomen, the rising levels of something evil lurking beneath. He stands, opens the door and rushes to the bathroom. The toilet bowl stands by itself, a bucket of water next to it to flush anything away. He'll need it.
Man barely makes it, head slumping over the toilet bowl, stomach booming, the movement of warm, acidic liquids rushing from below. He pukes, the acrid stench of stomach juices invading his nose, the chunks of yellowy brown bile falling into the bowl. His brain swells, pulsating like a beating heart, moving so fast, so violently that it feels as though it will burst through his skull and kill him. He looks ahead at stained ceramic, clawing through his beard at sputum remnants, his eyes filling with rapturous flashes of lightning. A cerebral event he remembers it being called. He releases a small laugh at the thought of it, before bowling over onto his side, clutching his head as if to keep it from splitting in two. The convulsions take over, his body rapping against the floor, arms flailing violently against the toilet bowl. And then blackness.
************************
A blurred silhouette of redness greets him. His mouth tastes of iron, his tongue so swollen that it barely fits in his mouth. He knows that he's bitten it again.
