The driver returned her smile when she boarded the Number 9. Parading the length of the bus, she dared to think how it would feel to be naked. She wouldn’t notice how uncomfortable the seat was against the softness of her bottom as she stretched gloriously at the rear of the bus. Perhaps she would share a seat and feel cool cottons and polyesters brush against her bare skin, turning it into gooseflesh. Perhaps she would do that after seeing to Jack.
The bus lurched to a halt on Blavatsky Avenue and Maddie jumped onto the pavement. This was where Jack lived, in his fourth-floor apartment with a wife who wasn’t Maddie, and a kid who wasn’t hers. She drew her breath in sharply. There was no sliver of doubt telling her she should not be going through with this, but there was a concern that she may not be powerful enough to complete it. It was time to find out.
Maddie opened her palm to reveal hair, now damp from her sweat. She started fingering the strands, wrapping them round her finger, pulling them, bending them, flicking and pushing them, tugging them, yanking, jerking, flexing and twisting and knotting, curling and looping them, and all the while she murmured Jack’s name, low and continuous and in time with each stride that took her nearer to his door. The chanting never ceased even when she stepped into the shadow of a doorway opposite his building, nor did she show any quarter in the destruction of Jack’s hair as she stared up at his open window.
Surrounded by a fortified Lego Duplo wall, Jack and Jonah were besieged by an army of plush toy monkeys led by a merciless rubber shark. Their only remaining hope was to launch wooden building blocks over the ramparts to repel the enemy - and they did so with such bravado that it brought Jonah’s mummy into the room.
“What are you two doing?” she asked without looking up from her phone.
“We’re engaging in a last-ditch attempt to stop the rampaging hordes,” Jack replied, wiping a film of sweat from his forehead. “Aren’t we, Jonah?” His three-year-old son nodded vigorously in agreement. “You on Farcebook again?”
“Mmmm? It’s how I communicate with my friends, Jack.”
“You should try calling them.”
She gave him the look. “How can you sit there and ridicule me about my social media habits when you’ve got accounts as well?
“I use those to promote the business. And that’s generally done by Carol now, thank God. Besides, that’s different.”
“Yeah, right. And anyway, I’m not on Facebook: I’m tweeting.”
“Tweeting what?”
“Nadine.”
Jack laughed. “Why, love? You’re seeing her in half an hour.”
“Ouch! For God’s sake!” Treena had stepped on one of the stray missiles. “Make sure you clear those bricks up, you two.”
“Yes, Mummy,” Jack replied. The boys looked at each other. The next brick he threw toppled a mean-looking spider monkey and made the boy giggle. Treena wasn’t amused.
“Is it me or is hot in here?”
“You,” she replied.
Jack hobbled to the window on stiff knees. Leaning over the sofa, he pushed the window wide open to allow some air into the room. “Shall we go to the park or the pool this afternoon, son?”
Jonah bounced his bottom on the carpet. “Park. Park. Park!”
“Park it is then.”
“Yay!”
He would have preferred to have gone to the pool. If only because he felt like stripping off and diving head-first into the cool water to find some relief from the heat. Sod it, he thought, I can take my trousers off anyway.
“What are you doing?”
Jack gave her the look as he laid his trousers over the back of the chair. Standing in his boxer shorts, he picked up his phone thinking a tweet about how ridiculously hot he felt would interest everyone. Really? He stared at his mobile unable to grasp why he was suddenly driven to tweet at all, let alone about absurd things like standing in one’s pants. He only used Twitter if he had to, yet he still continued to type.
“Come back, Daddy.” The shark General was hit on the nose with a building block, the block rebounded and smacked Jack’s ankle before rolling under the sofa. He was massaging the reddening mark as he studied the Twitter app. I had more followers than that, he thought. “I’ve lost over fifty followers on Twitter.” He hadn’t realised that he knew how many followers he had, but something told him he did.
“Treena raised an eyebrow. “How many did you have?”
“Nine hundred and fifty-seven.”
“That’s a bit precise. Losing followers doesn’t bother you though, does it? Because social media isn’t your thing, or so you keep telling me.”
“It isn’t, and no, of course it doesn’t.” Yet it did. It bothered him a lot and he had absolutely no idea why: to him, Twitter was an unstoppable torrent of inane drivel.
Treena looked over his shoulder. “It says nine hundred and fifty-seven.”
“No it doesn’t.” He was staring at the screen and it definitely said nine hundred.
She walked away and headed out of the room. Her movement exposed him to a light breeze from the open window that chilled his damp t-shirt and made him shiver. In that time he had lost another twenty followers. It doesn’t matter: You don’t care about social media, Jack. Let it go. He tried to, but he was getting agitated and that in itself, over something so trivial, annoyed him more.
“Not now,” he groaned, as mid-tweet the screen switched to black. He pressed the ‘on’ button repeatedly and when the phone didn’t flash with life he hurled it at the sofa, regretting the action as soon as the phone had left his grip. He glanced over to where his son had been sitting and was relieved to see that Jonah had gone and had not witnessed his display of anger. Jesus, Jack chill out. Just put it on charge. And he would have if he could have located the charger. It wasn’t in the bedroom where he had left it, or the hall, or the living room, or the kitchen. Where is the stupid fucking thing? Treena must’ve moved it. Before he had a chance to ask her, the ridiculous yet undeniable urge to double-check the amount of Twitter followers he had forced him to take a seat at the table and open his laptop. C’mon. While he was waiting for it to wake up, a droplet of sweat rolled down his nose and splashed onto the table. Jack wiped it away with a bang of his fist. What’s going on? Why am I so cross? His lack of answers shoved his anxiety level higher as Treena walked in with Jonah and a sandwich.
“Jack, I’m ready. I’ll put some money on the electric key while I’m out.” She handed him his son, and put Jonah’s plate next to the laptop. Leaning close, she gave the toddler a kiss on the cheek. “Jonah, darling, Mummy’s nipping out. Eeew, Jack, you’re all wet. Urgh.”
“All right!” His yell jerked Jonah. “It’s just sweat. Don’t over-react!”
The outburst shocked him, and his wife’s puzzled look increased with each backward step. His son had started to cry.
“Sorry. It’s okay, Jonah.” He took the boy’s hands in his and rotated them in an attempt to distract. It was working.
“You shouted. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. I’m just hot and I can’t find my charger.” He knew how lame that sounded.
“You’re not normally so - “
“I know, Treena.” He sighed, frustrated at his impatience. “Are you not taking Jonah with you?”
“I thought you said you wanted to do stuff with him this afternoon?”
“Did I?” He couldn’t remember that. You just want to be away from us, don’t you? Woah, where did that idea come from? Aware that he was becoming irrational, he tried to swallow his rising fear.
“We’re going to the park, Daddy.”
“That’s what you said five minutes ago, Jack,” Treena added, frowning.
I don’t want to go to the bloody park.
“Look, I have to go.” She blew him a kiss.
Christ. Jack pulled a face.
“Don’t forget Rufus and Tate have cancelled tonight,” she called. “If you cheer up I’ll bring back some dinner. Love you.”
<
br /> “Love you back.”
Why did they cancel? I guess they don’t want to be with me either. “Why do you have to go out, anyway?” He heard the front door click. For fuck’s sake.
Then he heard the cooing from the window. The resident pigeon always cooed. It returned year after year after year and cooed just for Jack. Treena and Jonah had named it Pigeon as if it was a pet; Jack called it fat. It hadn’t stopped cooing no matter what its name.
“Where’s Mummy?”
“She’ll be back soon, little man.”
Jack bounced Jonah on his knee while he logged on to Twitter. He told himself not to, to leave it alone and play with Jonah, but he could not resist checking his account. And when he did, he saw that he had lost two hundred followers.
“I want Mummy.”
The pigeon cooed as he switched to Facebook. He had lost friends there, as well. Everyone is leaving me. He couldn’t have upset or offended all these people. Jack began chewing his lip.
“Daddy, I want Mummy.”
Shit. His own brother had just unfriended him. Jack placed Jonah on the carpet and stood up. Where’s the bloody phone? The sofa. He picked up the discarded phone. Fuck, no battery. Why is there no battery power? Where’s the fucking charger!
“Yep, keep going. Back a bit more. Yep.” The voice came in from the street below. A lad was guiding a reversing van into a driveway, yet appeared more interested in his phone than assisting the driver.
He’s probably tweeting. I wonder if he’s lost any followers.
“Hey? Hey!” The lad couldn’t hear him. He doesn’t want to hear me, more like.
Maybe my accounts have been hacked. They can’t have: I would have seen all the dodgy posts and tweets. It has to be me.
Jonah was at the front door. “Daddy, I want Mummy.”
“Jonah, come back in here.” He knew that his son’s voice was packed with tears ready to be unleashed.
“Don’t cry, Jonah.” Jack tried very hard not to make it sound like a warning.
The pigeon wasn’t shutting up. Leaning out, he could see it perched on the guttering above.
The van driver was opening the back doors while the other carried furniture from the house. No.62 is moving out then. I’m surprised they didn’t mention it? I wonder if I did something they didn’t like. Why am I such a twat?. Jesus, that fucking pigeon.
Jack wiped his face with his hands. Moving back to the table, he tapped the power button of his laptop. Nothing happened. C’mon, don’t piss me about. He pressed it again and his Timeline popped up. Jesus. Only fifty-seven friends left. Twitter: one hundred and thirteen followers and plummeting. It’s not going to stop. I’m losing every single one.
Jonah was wailing. And now not even my own son wants to be with me.
“Jonah!”
“I. Want. Mummy!”
Down went Jack’s head, bang on the table.
“I. Want. Mummy.”
Again. Bang!
The pigeon cooed overandoverandoverandover.
Again. Bang!
overandoverandover
“Daddy!” Jonah was standing in the doorway. A lozenge of thick snot hung from his right nostril. “I said-
“I fucking heard you!” Jack almost knocked the little boy over as he bolted from the room into the hallway and through to the kitchen. He opened a cupboard. What did I want? Back into the hallway. He saw the electric meter key hanging on the hook. Stupid bitch, she’s forgotten the fucking key. No. Fuck. What? It’s all right, Jack. It’s all right. It isn’t fucking all right, though, is it? A shower, I need a shower. Wash this stinking sweat away. He strode into the bedroom. Argh! Wrong room. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Bang!
Jack was pacing a tight circle round the small room waiting for the hissing water to heat and all he could think about was how many more friends and followers he may have lost in that time. It’s a glitch. Don’t get wound up. Don’t get wound up. It was no use: he needed to check.
Jonah was on the sofa. “Daddy, Pigeon is on the window ledge. Hello, Pigeon.”
“Leave the bloody pigeon alone.”
As he strode back to the table, he stepped squarely on a wooden building block. By the time the pain had reached his head it had been transformed into a rage and was sparking against the fuel of self-doubt.
Twitter: one hundred and nine followers. Jack’s teeth locked together.
The damn cooing: It was even louder, now.
One hundred and four.
“Why do I have to leave it alone, Daddy? When is Mummy coming home?”
Facebook: forty-three friends. Jack closed his eyes. Again, the damn bird. Fuck’s sake, shut up.
Facebook: thirty-four friends.
“I want my Mummy.”
Jack’s hand curled. “Mummy’s not here. You’ll have to make do with me.”
“No!” The defiance was barked.
Jack spun round, “Don’t speak to me like that!”
His son was leaning over the arm of the sofa, tempting Pigeon with his sandwich.
Not even my own son wants me.
Twitter: sixty-five followers.
“I want Mummy.”
You need to shut up. Facebook: twenty-eight friends.
“I want Mummy.”
“You don’t fucking say.” Well, I want not to feel worthless. Everyone is deserting me. Even the fucking neighbours are leaving. “How do you think that makes me feel, Jonah?”
Facebook: one friend. It was Treena. Don’t you dare.
He could hear sniffling. Get a fucking tissue.
Twitter: no followers. Facebook: no friends.
Jack reached for the empty plate and launched it at the wall. The impact brought shattered crockery skimming back onto the table. Oh, that was good. He experienced the rush from releasing rage and was hooked.
Coo-coooooo. His chair flew backwards. Jack was away from the table and three strides from the pigeon.
“Leave him alone!” Jonah cried out.
“I’ll have that fucking thing.”
Standing up on the sofa, Jonah tried to block his dad, but his dad wasn’t stopping. The pigeon had flown away, yet Jack wasn’t going to be denied vengeance. He grabbed Jonah’s thin arms and pushed his son backwards out of the window.
Maddie’s muscles ached from her neck to her toes, her fingertips were numb and cramps crippled her hands and she relished it because she knew her labour had incited rage. Her flesh had absorbed Jack’s shouts, those manifestations of pain that echoed into the street, and with it her confidence had swelled. She gasped as a pair of feet appeared, kicking the air outside the apartment’s window. She saw that Jack had not let go of his son: that he was still fighting her. The physical strain of holding the kid at full reach must be agonising, she thought, and if not her sorcery then Jack’s lack of strength will be his downfall. Knowing that she had pushed Jack so far caused her cheeks to flush, but it wasn’t enough. She coveted his destruction. With her fingertips frantically rubbing against the mesh of broken hairs and his name perpetually on her tongue, she demanded he let his son fall.
The rising shrieks of panic from the wife who was running down the street towards her child; her husband; her home, had Maddie’s heart hammering as fast as the removal man sprinting across the road heading for the apartment block. The woman, her attention caught by the man, saw Maddie. The glare of recognition was brief, but it made Maddie smile as did the torment visible upon Jack’s face as he was striving against the release of his child. His look told her that he was hers. She placed his hair at her lips and fed the knotted ball into her wet mouth feeling the tingling at the base of her spine ripple through her insides. She clenched her jaw. Her teeth were biting him then grinding him, her jaw slowly masticating him into pulp, as she stepped from the doorway and into the road.
A bark snapped in her ears. Maddie’s head whipped left. Through a windscreen, she saw an old lady and a black dog. With its pink tongue lolling over its jaw, the dog w
as almost grinning at her. Then the car’s bumper smashed Maddie’s knee. Her shoulder cracked against the bonnet and her head shattered the windscreen before she ricocheted off the car and hit tarmac, battered and unconscious.
Lying in a bed in St Aldhelm’s Central Hospital; Maddie couldn’t tell anyone what the day was or how long she had been there, although it had been time enough to get three Get Well cards. One of them, displaying a yellow carnation, had been sent by Jack. Inside, he had added that Treena, Jonah and he were moving away. He didn’t mention where they were going and Maddie couldn’t care less. The debt was paid. Not only had she done what she needed to do, she had executed it beyond all assumed capabilities. Despite her pain, she grinned as she recalled her terrible and overwhelming demonstration. She relived the euphoria that had surged in her when witnessing the child borne from her exertions. She was powerful. Maddie repeated the word aloud and kissed the air.
***
PIG ROAST
by Aaron Gudmunson
Chet fancied himself a mustard aficionado. It was more than that though; mustard was his passion. Chet loved red meat, period. He didn't care that he stood shy of six feet and pushed 300 pounds--food was his life and if that meant forfeiting a few years at the far end, that would suit him fine. Nothing compared to food. Not his ailing mother, who he'd placed in a cut-rate nursing home last May, not his lackluster job as a claims adjuster for a second-tier insurance company, not even his Great Dane Groucho. Food. Was. It.
In his lifetime, he'd scarfed bushels of burgers, mountains of meatloaf, bundles of bratwurst, and cables of kielbasa--all of them enhanced by the glorious spice of mustard.
Arch's Market was a throwback to the years before big box stores combined gardening with groceries. Arch's was old school, a squat seven-aisle shop smack in the center of town. It specialized in specialties--it was the only place within a hundred miles where you could buy thirteen varieties of honey and three hundred types of cheese. The in-house bakery pumped out pumpernickel--his all-time favorite bread--in basket after basket of steaming loaves. Arch's butcher was an artist, fileting and dicing and chopping like a master craftsman, which he was.
Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult Page 16
