by A. J. Kirby
Outside the makeshift hospital, the wind howled ominously and rattled against what I imagined were old, rusting pieces of farm machinery, or perhaps the old pens for the animals. In the bed next to me, the broken man that I now knew as Bolton still refused to die, despite the overwhelming stench of death and rot that was seeping out from his every pore. He was well-cooked, like a burger that had been left on the barbecue for too long. In the other bed, Do-Nowt moaned gently in his sleep.
Why me? Why had I been the one chosen to survive the explosion at the building? Why, when both of the other men had - as I’d seen in the photos on the bedside tables - families? I was a waste of space; a black hole into which I pulled everyone around me. I infected them all with my negative energy, and especially Tommy; little Tommy Peaker. I could recall his eternally youthful face even after all those intervening years; the messy hair and the jug-ears; the gap-toothed grin and the freckles. He’d been dealt a poor hand with virtually every feature, and he couldn’t even make up for it with height or weight. He was a whelp; the runt of the litter; the youngest and smallest of four, all of whom were from different fathers.
We’d been round to his house a few times and it never ceased to amaze us how a place could stink so badly of piss, but none of its residents seemed to notice. His was the worst house on the estate; the one which always had stray dogs sleeping in the garden and barking at the overflowing rubbish bins. His was the house which had feral cats fucking in the front room in front of the television and the one in which screaming arguments would be played out twenty-four seven, three-six-five.
I used to deliver the Sunday papers there when I was much younger, and it would be a hard job not to step in dog-shit on his front path. Then his mum would come to the door, dressed in nothing but a towelling dressing gown, showing off her unshaven legs and most of her tits. She was the local nutter, and it was said that she’d do anything for a bottle of white cider. That Tommy even had clothes to put on in the morning or water for an occasional shower was a minor miracle. He was grateful when we ‘took him under our wing’ because it meant that he could walk down his street or through those chessboard corridors at school without fear of anyone else attacking him.
The four of us were what was termed ‘cocks of the school’. Long ago, it seemed, we’d proved our physical toughness through some stunt or dare that I couldn’t even remember, and as such we were allowed to pretty much lord it over the rest of our school with impunity. The title wasn’t without danger; sometimes you’d get a young upstart trying to take your crown when you were least expecting it, but usually we were allowed to barge our way to the front of any queue, be it for the dinners, a crack at the prettiest birds or to get on the back seat of the coach en route to some shit-hole place where we’d have to go on school trips.
Being cock of the school was like being big boss man on a prison wing or leader of a mafia clan or something. Nothing could ever go down without our say-so. And because of that, we always had all these terrible hangers-on. Now these would be the ones that would get it probably worse than anyone else. We’d get them to do all kinds of awful stuff for us just so they could prove their loyalty. Their choice, I suppose, was to subject themselves to known attacks, instead of forever watching their backs in case of a surprise attack like the rest of the no-marks at school. Tommy was our favourite hanger-on and hence got the best of the titbits that we threw from our kingly table, but he also incurred the worst of the beatings. Because he was always around – like a bad smell – one of us would always end up cracking him one or stealing his cigarettes or getting him to go and rob Burt’s shop.
Poor Tommy.
In the darkness, Do-Nowt moaned in his sleep again. I heard the broken Bolton trying to suck air into his burnt-out lungs. Time was catching up with him; with each wheezing inhalation of breath he edged closer to the end. There was no way that I was going to be able to get back to sleep. Not with him in the room. Not with death waiting outside, ever-alert to the moment that I would shut my eyelids. Some part of me felt that I kinda owed it to Bolton, and to Do-Nowt, to keep watch over them.
Occasionally, I heard the frantic scratches of small, rodent feet upon the stone floor, going about their business. Far away, I thought I could hear the hum of conversation from a group of people – the medical staff perhaps – in their own building. Even further away, the echo of gunfire and explosions reverberated back to me. I couldn’t be sure whether this was real, or just my mind playing tricks on me. Perhaps something terrible had happened to my ears; perhaps I’d always hear the ringing of a bomb blast. And so, when I heard that louder, closer sound, it took me some time to acknowledge it.
Tap, tap, tap.
From where I was lying, it sounded as though somebody was knocking at the front door. I felt the urge to pull the sheet up over my head again but resisted after the embarrassment of being caught like that by Nurse Thomas.
Tap, tap, tap.
This time, the knocking was unmistakeable. My voice rasped as I whispered across at Do-Nowt’s sleeping form: ‘Did you hear that?’ But the poor Yorkie only rattled his remaining leg by way of response. Closer, I heard the rustling from more rodents. I heard them as they passed under my bed. There were quite a large number of them and they all seemed to be moving with a common purpose, as though called by a piper. A quick look over the edge of my bed confirmed that a thin carpet of vermin was swimming across the floor towards a crack in the wall and escape.
Tap, tap, tap.
Why would one of the nurses be knocking at the door? Wouldn’t they just unlock the door and walk in? And surely, none of them expected us to hobble up out of bed and one-leggedly, with flaking, burned skin, answer the door did they?
Tap, tap, tap.
Bullies, they say, only behave in that way because deep down they are insecure. Over the years, I’d laughed at that notion; I hadn’t felt very insecure when I was kicking Tommy in the kidneys had I? But now… Now I felt as though I was completely exposed. Whatever was outside that door could do whatever they wanted with me… Even the rats had deserted.
Before I realised what I was doing, I swung a leg out from under the sheet. Before I understood what was happening, I felt the cold of the stone floor on my feet. Before I could stop myself, I was grasping at the metal bed-head and pushing myself upright. As though in a trance, I walked to the door. And outside, it was as though whatever was there was simply waiting, arms-folded, for me to come; the knocking stopped.
I shivered; I was wearing only a vest and boxer shorts, I realised. As my eyes quickly scanned my once familiar body, I saw that my legs had started to waste away from the lack of exercise. I looked thin and reedy like an old man. Around my knees, the spare flesh had started to knot and wrinkle. I staggered forward, in no fit state to meet my doom.
I almost fell as I passed the broken Bolton’s bedside table and its sad collection of memories of the life that he’d once lived. My flailing arm knocked into a photograph of his family on a long gone summer day. It landed face down amongst a jangling collection of pill bottles and coins and dog-tags. Once I’d steadied myself, I thought about picking the photograph back up again, but something inside told me not to. Something inside told me that I didn’t want the family in the photograph to have to see what was outside that door. And something inside told me that I couldn’t let the thing outside see the photograph. Ignorance is bliss, I thought as I made those final weary steps to the door.
As I’d half expected in this surreal night, the door was unlocked. My trembling fingers closed around the bolt and I felt it give in easily, as though it wanted to be opened. Outside, I heard the unmistakeable sound of somebody – something – clearing their throat. Numbly, I pulled open the door and stepped backwards.
A large man-shaped shadow almost filled the doorway, shrouded in darkness so black it was almost purple. He had big, hulking shoulders, over which was draped a long, dark cloak. He stood on the threshold, clutching this misshapen stick or cane, and towered over
me breathing heavily, as though the rapping on the door had been an effort. With each exhalation, it released more of that salty-fishy smell that had haunted me for the past few days. Despite the contrary evidence provided by my eyes, I knew that this mysterious visitor was a ghost from my past.
We stood stock-still for a moment and stared at each other. I felt his glassy eyes creeping under my skin, seeking out the core of me with their poison. They seethed with animosity. They were deep pools which reflected nothingness back at me. I felt myself falling under his spell…
Then, without any warning, he banged his cane on the stone floor. I jumped still further away from him. ‘Hello Bully,’ he said, in a deep booming voice. ‘Feeling better, are we?’
I felt my legs giving way under me and reached for the solidity of the wall. It felt strangely pliant to the touch, as though at any moment I might simply slip through the wall and into whatever alternative reality that this creature – this blast from the past – inhabited. I closed my eyes.
You’re seeing things, I told myself, not really believing it. Just close your eyes and all of this will go away. It’s a vision; some kind of side-effect of the bomb blast.
The reality of the strong hand that gripped my shoulder immediately told me that I wasn’t seeing things. I felt claw-like fingernails sinking into my naked flesh and the overwhelming stink of fish almost choked me. I tried to lift my head to suck at the cleaner air towards the ceiling, but the stranger was so tall, so overpowering that he’d taken over the whole atmosphere of the place just like a black hole.
Gingerly, I opened my eyes again, dreading what I would see. In the darkness, his eyes shone bright with devilish light but the rest of his face was shrouded in shadow. The bulk of him was unmistakeable though, and darker somehow than everything else in the room.
‘You’re not Tommy,’ I breathed. ‘You can’t be.’
The thing increased the pressure on my shoulder. It now felt as though my arms were on fire, about to break off like charred twigs. And then he laughed and it was like he sucked all of the remaining hope out of the room; the blue medical curtains fluttered in alarm. As he laughed, his bright eyes widened, and for a horrific moment cast unwelcome light on his features… or what were once his features. For his whole face was so slumped, so devoid of any usual point of understanding, that I couldn’t get a proper handle on what I was looking at. His face seemed to be dripping like a melting candle. As he laughed again, I saw sharp teeth in there somewhere within the folds of flesh. I saw cracked bone poking through the waxy skin. I even thought that I saw brain.
The light dulled, thankfully, but the thing kept his hand clamped onto my shoulder. He showed me his cane. I now realised that it was actually made of metal; it looked like one of those twisted spears that reinforce concrete. It was badly bent in the middle and had a horribly jagged edge at one end as though the thing had simply torn it out of the ground using brute force.
‘Remember this, Bully?’ he said, somewhat proudly. ‘This was what I pulled out of you in that building.’
All at once, the crippling pain in my chest returned. I remembered how it felt to wish for oblivion.
‘Now you comprehend the true nature of death and of pain,’ boomed the creature. ‘Now you know that horror awaits us all. Now you are scared.’
Too right I was scared. It felt as though my heart was being ripped out. I stared at the shadow, slack-jawed. You’re not Tommy, was all I could think, or hope, or pray.
‘Now the fun and games can begin,’ he continued. ‘Now you’ll be able to get your mind around what it feels like to be tormented by a bully.’
‘I’m sorry!’ I yelled, through the pain. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry won’t change what you did; you and your fucking tyrant friends. And speaking of your friends…’
‘They aren’t my friends any more,’ I begged.
‘That may be true, but they were your friends, weren’t they? And that is the point. You all brought about that situation in the graveyard, Bully. And you will all pay. There’s a Lion I need to tame; Crossett first,’ he said, gravely.
‘But… but…’
Tommy released his grip on my shoulder finally and started to move back out of the door. As soon as he let me go, my heart started to beat properly again and I was left with only the memory of the pain. I gasped with relief and sunk to my knees. Tommy must have heard me because he paused in the doorframe, silhouetted by the moon and fixed me once more with those terrible eyes.
‘I will be watching you,’ he said. ‘I will be waiting. Death is coming, Bully. And there’s nothing that you or anybody else can do about it.’
He slammed the door behind him. It felt like the closing of a tomb.
Chapter Four
“And do you have faith in God above, if the Bible tells you so?”
My hands were still trembling as I rooted under my bed for my old pack and clothes. It took me two attempts to pull my boots out because the laces kept getting caught on something. Although the thing – Tommy – had gone, I still felt his presence in the room. I felt his hatred of me pouring out from the walls. I had to get out. I had to follow the rats. I had to desert this sinking ship and get as far away as possible. Only, as I already knew, I couldn’t run away from myself.
So this is what it feels like to be hunted, I thought. I remembered an old wildlife documentary that I watched once; some poor young wildebeest which was being tracked by a lion. The wildebeest had sensed that he was being stalked by something much bigger and more powerful than him and had simply flopped onto the ground and given up, allowing himself to succumb to death’s embrace. At the time, I’d been exhilarated by watching the kill; I’d been rooting for the lion. Now I knew just how that young wildebeest had felt. My every nerve and sinew wanted to simply let things wash over me and give up. Sighing, I pulled on my boots and completed a final check of my pack.
Do-Nowt must have heard me. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered, sounding annoyed. ‘If you’re not carrying-on in your sleep you’re fiddling around…’
‘Sorry,’ I muttered.
‘What was all that shouting and yelling a few minutes ago?’
‘Nothing… Bad dream,’ I said, and then thought better of it. Questions would be asked come the morning and come the discovery of my empty bed. It would be better for Do-Nowt if I at least gave him the heads-up. ‘Look; I have to get out of here… Something’s happened and…’
‘What can possibly have happened in here?’ asked Do-Nowt. I heard the creak of wire against metal as he changed position and his leg dragged in the hoist. ‘Are you crazy?’
He must have heard the panic in my voice… And if he had heard my mad shouting from earlier, then he had every right to think me insane. But then a thought struck me; if he had heard me earlier, why hadn’t he remarked on the fact that there was clearly another person’s voice in the room? Why hadn’t he commented on that deep, booming voice of the new Tommy? That would have been the first thing I would have mentioned.
‘Not crazy,’ I said, although some part of me felt like laughing like a loon again. ‘I’m worried… I think there’s trouble back home. I need to get back there before it gets really bad.’
‘Can you smell it?’ asked Do-Nowt, ignoring me.
‘Smell what?’
‘That smell of death in the room. The air is thick with it; I can hardly breathe. I think Bolton may have finally passed-on. Will you check him for me?’
I had to agree. I bit back my disgust and leaned over the broken body of the B. Bolton. His face resembled Tommy’s; it was devoid of most of the skin and the tissue underneath had crusted up into a lunar landscape of peaks and troughs. Most of his hair had burned away but odd patches sprung up here and there like sad little oases in this parched desert.
I forced myself lower and tried to listen for breathing. Hearing nothing I placed a hand under what was left of his nose. Still nothing. I placed a reluctant hand on his b
row and felt it cold to the touch; bone cold. Somehow I knew then that when Tommy had left, he had taken the broken man back with him to whatever afterlife he came from.
‘He’s gone,’ I confirmed.
Suddenly, Do-Nowt let out this long, low groan. ‘Don’t leave me in here on my own,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t want to die.’ I could hear him choking back the sobs and for once was glad of the cover of darkness. To see that great brute of a man reduced to a snivelling wreck would have been too much to bear. As it was, I collected up my pack and stepped out of the hospital. Like the rats, I deserted that sinking ship.
Cold air on my face felt strange and uncomfortable. Although I hadn’t been seriously injured by the blast, my skin still felt too new, too raw; I could feel every speck of dust, every grain of sand grating against me and wearing me down. If I had stood there forever, I would have eventually have been ground down into tiny particles myself. Parts of me would have been carried far away on the breeze and I would have been free.
Behind me, the hospital door rattled and creaked, swinging in the breeze as though it were as light as a sheet on a washing line. It was hanging off one hinge now; Tommy must have damaged it by slamming it so hard. I reached for a large stone in order to wedge it closed. I couldn’t let Do-Nowt face the night completely unguarded.
Stealthily, I moved away from the door, searching for cover. I took in my surroundings as I went. We were indeed housed in one of a circle of low, one-storey farm buildings surrounded by a high fence. In the middle of the circle was a trampled area of gravel and dirt and a few pieces of rusted machinery. Outside the circle was nothing, just sand, the odd scattering of rubble and the occasional half-dead plant or tree. It looked like the landscape of hell; it was immediately obvious why the buildings had been arranged in such a way. They wanted to close out this nothingness. They wanted to ward off whatever evil lay out there. I’d seen documentaries about the inhabitants of primitive villages that used to keep their animals inside such circles in order to stop the predators from getting in. This was eerily familiar.
