All the Fabulous Beasts

by Priya Sharma

I roll onto my side and retch. Acidic vomit burns my nose and throat. When I put a hand to the back of my head I find a boggy swelling. My hair’s matted and stuck to my scalp.

  I stand, test my legs and find them sound. I get away from the house, to the middle of the road, but looking around I see I’m not alone. Company’s coming up the street. A trio of creatures that are neither men nor boys. One throws his empty beer can away and fingers his crotch when he sees me.

  “You,” he says.

  He’s skinny, grown into his height but yet to fill out. It occurs to me that he expects me to run. His face is hard. He’s gone passed being abused into abusing.

  “You’re the Boomtown Bitch.”

  I turn my back and walk away at a deliberate pace.

  “I’m talking to you.” I know without looking that he’s lengthening his stride to catch me. “Pull down your knickers and show us what all the fuss is about.”

  My heart’s a flailing hammer. He’s done this before and is looking to initiate his friends, who seem less certain of themselves. I can see him reach out to grasp my shoulder in the far corner of my vision.

  I strike before he can touch me. I jab at his eyes and rake at his face with dirty claws. I’m a moon faced owl. I’ll regurgitate his carcass. I’m the feral feline who’ll jab his corpse with my paws. The boy’s screaming now but I don’t stop. Even a chink of fear will let the others in and I can’t fend off all three. My would-be rapist retreats. I must put him down before he gathers his wits and tries to save face. I advance, hissing and spitting like the ginger cat.

  I am crazy, scarred and unkempt, a bloodied scalp and big eyes in the dark hollows of my face. I pick up a brick and run at him and to my relief, he sprints away.

  They shout from a safe distance, taunts that I’m happy to ignore. I don’t look back as I walk away in case they realise I’m weak.

  *

  I saw your outline through the glass of my front door. You were wearing your suit, even though it was a Saturday.

  You weren’t alone. A boy stood before you. Even though you had your hands on his shoulders it took me a moment to realise it was your son. Ben. You were there in the shape of his mouth and chin. The other parts must’ve been your wife. I resented this child, this scrap of you and her made flesh.

  “Miss Kennedy—” you mouthed sorry at me over Ben’s head “—I’ve come to see you about your complaint over the house.”

  I wanted to laugh. You were a terrible actor.

  “That’s good of you.”

  “Apologies, I had to bring my son. Say hello, Ben.”

  “Hello.” He squirmed in your grasp.

  “I had to let you know I’d not forgotten you. Shall we make an appointment for next week?”

  “Would you both like a drink?” I knelt before Ben, hating him because he was getting in our way. “Would you like to play outside? It’s a lovely day.”

  I stood up and raised a hand, a plan already formed. “Patrick, over here.”

  Helen’s brood were on their drive. Patrick cycled over. The bike was too small for him and his knees stuck out at angles.

  “Meet Ben. Can he play with you?”

  “Sure.” Patrick sat back on the saddle. He’d no need for deference, being older than Ben and on home turf. The other children stood on the far pavement, waiting to take their cue from their brother.

  “As long it’s okay with your father, of course.” I couldn’t look at you. Please say yes. My longing was indecent. Even the children would see it.

  You hesitated.

  Please say yes.

  “Ben—” you put a hand on his head “—stay with the other children on this road. Don’t stray.”

  I could tell that you were proud of Ben and wanted me to see him but a dull, creeping jealousy stole over me because of the trinity of Dan, Kate and Ben.

  “This way,” Patrick beckoned and Ben followed, glancing back at you.

  “I can’t stay long,” you said as I closed the door.

  We raced upstairs.

  “Won’t your neighbours wonder when they see Ben? Won’t they guess?”

  “Who cares?”

  I didn’t. I was too busy with your belt. There was a sudden shriek of laughter and I stopped you from going to the window by snatching at your tie and pulling you into the bedroom.

  “Leave them. They’re enjoying themselves. So are we.”

  You hesitated again and then undressed, your ardour cooled by the tug of parental love. I shoved you, ineffectual considering your size. Your carefully folded clothes enraged me. You’d brought your son to my door. You’d been honest about your life when you could’ve lied but you’d been a coward and made the decision mine.

  I shoved you again.

  You picked me up and threw me on the bed. We grappled and when you understood I meant to hurt you, you held my wrists so I couldn’t mark you with my nails. You didn’t kiss me for fear I’d bite. I wish I’d known it was the final time. I wish we’d taken it slow. I’d have savoured the slip and slide, then the sudden sensation of you inside.

  You dozed. I watched. Your breathing changed to slower, deeper tones. I treasured the minutiae of you, the banal details that made you real, like how you took your coffee, brushed your teeth, the slackness of your face in sleep.

  The doorbell rang, a sudden sequence of chimes that struggled to keep up with the finger on the bell. A fist hammered at the door, followed by shouts. It went through my mind that it was your wife, that she’d followed you here spoiling for a fight. Then I recognised Helen’s voice. Its urgency boomed through the hall and up the stairs.

  Silence. There’d been silence during our post-coital nap. No squeals or calls.

  I snatched up my blouse, fingers stumbling over the buttons.

  “Dan.” I reached for my skirt. “Dan, wake up.”

  You sat up, dazed. “What is it?”

  Helen, even in panic, saw the flagrant signs. The buttons of my blouse were done up wrong and I was bra-less beneath the sheer fabric. You’d followed me down the stairs with your tousled hair and bare feet.

  “You’d better come. I’ve called an ambulance.”

  You pulled on the shoes that you’d discarded by the door. You and Helen were faster than I as she led us to the empty houses. Three of the children were outside one of them. Rosie and Anna were red faced from crying. Tom sat on the step beside them, staring at the ground.

  “Stay here,” Helen ordered them even though it was clear they weren’t about to move.

  I followed you from light into the shade of the house. It took a few moments for my eyes to readjust. The coolness inside felt pleasant for a second, as did the smell of cut timber.

  You and Helen squatted by the shattered body on the floor. Ben’s silhouette didn’t make sense and I had to rearrange the pieces in my mind. His arms had been flung out on impact but it was his leg that confused me. It was folded under him at an impossible angle that revealed bone, so white that it looked unnatural against the torn red flesh. Ben was a small vessel, his integrity easily breached.

  “He must’ve fallen from up there.”

  We looked up towards the eyrie that was the unfinished loft where Patrick perched astride a joist. A ladder spanned the full height of both floors which is how they must’ve climbed so high. Helen’s husband was at the top, reaching for the whimpering boy.

  A dark stain crept out from beneath Ben’s head. His eyes stared at nothing. There was an appalling sound. A dog’s howl, the scream of an abandoned child. The keening of something bereft and inconsolable. It grew until it filled the room. I realised it was you. I put a hand on your shoulder and said your name.

  You shook me off.

  *

  I wake up on the sofa. It’s early and the grey light of dawn creeps through the parted curtains. Sleep’s not healed me. I smell of spoiling meat. There’s a dull throb in my head but I can’t locate whether it’s in my eye, my teeth, or somewhere in between. I’m cold and clammy, as if i
n the aftermath of a drenching sweat.

  I go to the mantel mirror. There’s enough light now to see that the marks on my cheek are raised, the scabs lifted by lines of pus. I touch one and it gives under gentle pressure, bringing relief and yellow ooze. The back of my head feels like it belongs to someone else.

  I eat a dry cracker, drink a pint of water and then vomit in the kitchen sink. There’s a pounding now, at a different rate and rhythm to my headache. A drumming that escalates.

  It’s outside the house.

  Hooves thunder on the earth. Something’s racing through the grass, running towards the rising sun as if about to engage it in battle.

  I go out to the road. Someone, perhaps my failed assailants from yesterday, have spray painted filthy graffiti across the front of my house. It doesn’t matter. The wind’s changed and is bringing something much fouler with it. Things left too long without light or laughter. Things nursing grudges and dwelling on outrages for too long. My heart pauses and restarts. The horse’s gallop makes me gasp. Its cadence changes as it hits the tarmac.

  This nightmare is gleaming black. Its rolling black eyes are wild. It tosses its head about and snorts. I can’t look away. The mare slows to a canter as it approaches, circling me in rings that get tighter and tighter. It’s big, a seventeen hander, heavily muscled. It hits my shoulder on its next pass. When it turns and comes again I have to dodge it to avoid being knocked down.

  Adh Seidh. A bad spirit. I’d be safe from its malice if I’d led an upright life.

  It flattens its ears and flares its nostrils, then rears up before me and paws at the air as if losing patience. I try to edge to the safety of my open door but it kicks out again, forcing me to retreat. It follows at a trot. Each step jolts my head but I turn and run. When I shout for help my voice is faint from lack of use. There’s no one to hear it anyway.

  I try and dart up Helen’s driveway but the horse isn’t confused by my sudden change in direction. It comes around me, right, then left. Lunging at me, kicking out if I stray. Herding me.

  I’m panting. My chest’s tight and the stitch in my side’s a sharp knife. I want to lie down and die. To let it dance on me until I’m dust beneath its hooves.

  I’m at the house now. The horse waits beyond the fallen chain link fence in case I try to bolt. I’ve been brought here to atone for my crimes. The only place I can go is that cold, dark hole.

  Broken beer bottles and rubble crunches underfoot. Kids have been in here since my last visit. I feel hot again. Sweat stings my forehead. The past is too heavy. I can’t carry it anymore. The stain accuses me. It rises from the floor and spreads itself across the wall. It’s absolute, sucking all the light from the room. It smells my guilt and swells, emboldened. Its waiting is over. It’s Ben. It’s Kate. It’s you. It’s all the people I can’t face. It’s the Sisters, taken to the wing. They have hooves and paws studded with claws. They’re done with waiting. They’ve risen up to smother us.

  They’re not out there on the hills. They’re not walking through the dying summer grass. They’re not lingering by the streams, fingers stirring the water.

  They’re not out there. They’re in here.

  The Show

  The camera crew struggled with the twisting, narrow stairs. Their kit was portable, steadicams being all the rage. They were lucky that the nature of their work did not require more light. Shadows added atmosphere. Dark corners added depth. It was cold down in the cellar. It turned their breath to mist, which gathered in the stark white pools shed by the bare bulbs overhead.

  Martha smiled. It was sublime. Television gold.

  Tonight there’d been a crowd. Word had got out. She’d have to find out who blabbed. There were only a few fans at the start but now they needed security to keep them back.

  She’d joined the presenter, Philipa and her producer-husband Greg at the barrier. The three of them had posed for photographs and signed autographs. Philipa had been strict about that. Be nice to the public. The audience would make or break the show, not studio executives.

  Martha laughed out loud when a woman produced a photo of Philipa and Greg in their previous incarnation as chat show hosts.

  “Nice haircuts,” she said as they both signed it. Their fashionable styles dated this period of fame but Martha was careful when she joked about their pasts. It was Philipa’s new idea that had reinvented their careers.

  Philipa was popular but it was really Martha the crowd wanted. She recognised the faithful amid the curious locals. The ones who wanted to touch her hand, as if it were a blessing. To ask her help to reach the dead, to say what they’d left unsaid.

  A man reached out as Martha tried to leave, snatching at her coat sleeve.

  “Good luck,” he said. “May God keep you through the night.”

  *

  Martha leant against the cellar wall to watch Philipa in discussion with the team. She could tell Philipa was well pleased. The first part of the show comprised of interviews. The bar staff had been verbose in their remembering. The tall tales of the spooked. The cellar had fallen fallow. Too many broken beer bottles. Boxes overturned, alcopops leaking on the floor. Too many barmaids emerging with bruises flowering on their arms. Too many accusations. Too many resignations.

  Yes, it was horrible down here. Its history appalled. The chill seeped from the floor, through her boot soles and crept into her feet. She fastened up her coat. Red cashmere. She’d decided to live a vivid life. She wouldn’t exist in shades of grey. She’d no longer bow or obey. She’d promised herself good money. In the bank. Not tatty fivers from someone’s housekeeping, like the ones her mother would take with embarrassment and stuff into the chipped teapot on the dresser. Iris never asked for more. Only barely enough. You can’t abuse the gift. Cheap meat on Sundays as a treat. For Martha and her sister Suki, white knee socks gone grey, but still too good to throw away.

  The second part of the show was a vigil. The team were busy setting up thermometers and motion sensors to add the illusion of science but it was Martha that added the something special to the mix.

  “Don’t forget,” Philipa would say, face tight into the lens, “Martha, our psychic, doesn’t know our destination. She’ll be brought here and do a reading, blind.”

  Martha stamped her feet to expel the cold. Philipa was busy with her preparations. Vocal exercises. Shaking her limbs. If Martha channelled spirits, then Philipa channelled the audience. With the cameras on, Philipa (like Martha) became a true believer. Her range spanned from nervous to hysterical. Her tears of fear turned her heavy eye makeup to muddy pools. Her performance heightened suggestibility and atmosphere.

  “Have you destroyed them?” Greg sidled up to Martha. He was talking about the copy of his research notes that he always gave her.

  “Don’t treat me like I’m an amateur. You know I learn them and then burn them.”

  These were hot readings, as they were called within the trade, when a medium was already primed. Martha would reveal the memorised histories of suicidal serving girls, murdered travellers and Victorian serial killers.

  Martha’s key was subtlety. She was frugal with the facts. Too direct and the show would be a pantomime. Too detailed and she’d be reciting by rote. And what couldn’t be confirmed couldn’t be denied, which was useful when the truth wasn’t juicy enough to appeal. All Martha needed was a name, a date, a hard fact around which to embroider her yarns. Greg, who also played on-screen researcher, would fake surprise with widened eyes, saying such as, “Yes, Martha, there was a third son here by the name of Walter, but we can’t corroborate there was a maid by the name Elaine whom he killed on Midsummer’s Day.”

  “New coat?” Greg’s fingers stroked her collar.

  “Keep your paws off.”

  “Watch it. Philipa will think we’re paying you too much.”

  Greg was clumsy where Philipa’s angling had been more oblique. Martha had chosen to ignore her jibes and hints, having stuck to the deal made when they were all green
and keen. She’d not allow Greg to change the terms.

  “You’re not and I’m worth every penny.”

  Worth a better time slot and channel. Worth another series.

  “How many personal clients do you have now? How much for your last tour?”

  A lot. The world was ripe. She’d weighed it in her palm.

  “None of your business.”

  Martha was brisk. Even with her clients she was sharp. She’d not pander to their fantasies that mediums were soft and ethereal.

  “Take care. We built you up and we can pull you down.”

  Her laughter echoed around the empty cellar. Philipa turned and stared at them.

  “You won’t. You can’t.”

  To reveal Martha as a fraud was to expose them all. The true believers would be incensed. Most viewers though were sceptics, they would already suspect, but the fun lay in the possibility of doubt. The chance that Martha might be real. So, not perjury, not a lie to shatter worlds, but was it one to shatter careers?

  “We can find someone new. You’d be easy to replace.”

  “Don’t threaten me. I’ll send you all to hell.”

  “Keep it down,” Philipa stalked over. “Do you want everyone to hear? We’ll talk about this later. Do you understand, Martha? There are things to be addressed. Now get ready, it’s time to start the show.”

  *

  Martha had learnt from watching Iris and Suki. Both had reigned at Lamp Street, lumpish in their muddy coloured cardigans, giving readings to anyone who called. Muttering thanks to spirit guides. Turning tatty Tarot cards.

  Martha had no claim to special gifts. She learnt to read the hands and face, the gestures that betrayed need and greed. The skill of deciphering a tic, interpreting a pause. Martha studied hard and learnt how to put on a show.

  “Yes, David. Thanks.”

  Made-up-David helped Martha to the other side. A fictional spirit guide to help usher in an imaginary spectral presence or fake demonic possession. David was a friar. Shaman. Priest. Rabbi. Denomination was irrelevant. People seemed to find religious men more comforting in the afterlife than in the flesh. David was based on an engraving that Iris kept by her bed. A monk with his hand folded in prayer.