by Gary Fry
And then, with a renewed burst of creaking which sounded like more than merely that multi-sectioned ladder protesting, something began rearing up behind me.
I sensed its shadow more than anything else, even though it smelled like a thousand woodland herbs and spices, all rotted together to become a corrupted mulch. This dark shape, projected by scant heavenly light and now laying over Chloe and me, seemed incomplete, more a hint of a person than any sustainably living form. Of course it had yet to gain its full, age-compromised height, but as I observed up ahead my student’s unfailingly contrite smile, terror finally overwhelmed me.
Had she and Donald Deere already become acquainted, like complicit rival abusers?
I refused to stay and find out. Backing away from the young woman, whose face was a mask of unquenchable passion, I fled immediately, knocking aside just behind me what felt like little more than a large bagful of sticks and leather in the process, sending me – and it – tumbling down, beyond all those impromptu rungs and uprights, until I hit the floor, all my senses reeling. Then, with Chloe pushed violently aside in my mind, I simply had to escape this perverted place, this vile realm of induced sexual congress.
Hearing countless lumps of wood collapse nearby with a sound like bones clunking together, I got up and started running, my bare feet and hands flaying at all the intervening woodland, at leafless branches and spiny twigs. As I continued charging, darting left and right to avoid so many solid trunks, I perceived something skitter in my wake, something whose movement seemed to produce an incessant sound of creaking, like ancient furniture yielding to intimate parts of the body. It came hard and strong, an unfinished or even eroded presence, which matched my relatively youthful frame pace after pace.
Then, as I spotted the road up ahead in which I’d parked my car earlier, I detected a new impression, a kind of greenish light that, as I hurdled hard for that manmade route – that merciful example of modern civilisation – illuminated the area behind me, displaying other figures in my peripheral vision, which resembled organic lumps of wood come to life, their bonelike figures wrestling through undergrowth, as if, with some kind of queer dance, they were herding me back among all those trees.
But I ignored every one of them, simply kept on running, head-down, eyes fixed forwards, until I’d reached the lamp-less land, and all those treacherous creepers and brambles fell away, forcing me to take only a single glance back and see, lurking on the fringe of that shadowy realm, a decidedly ragged figure surrounded by small grainy shapes, all of which appeared to have knots for faces and twigs for limbs. The tallest of these approximately fourteen entities looked like nothing more than gnarled bark and splintered timber, but its eyes – oh God, its eyes. They were hypnotic lights, each a swirling, envy-laden green, and when they eventually closed and darkness fell anew in that area, I heard only a rapid scrambling away, as if a bunch of sordid creatures – just a sickened father and his multiple inhuman offspring – had started making their way back to their secret Pasturn dwelling, where the latest in a long line of troubled young ladies lay waiting.
15
By the time I got home that evening – it was gone nine o’clock – my wife was in bed, but after quickly entering the house and then washing and changing without her awareness, I immediately headed for the bedroom, where I woke her with a rough nudge and then we fucked like we hadn’t in over ten years. Needless to say, perhaps, that I had no problems rising to this particular occasion.
The following morning, I decided to stay away from work, but in actuality did only a minimum of university-related tasks, spending quality time instead with Rose, attending to her as I should have every day of this last year. If she wanted a child, we should have one; if that meant I had to commit myself to a demanding career in the longer term, so be it. There was nothing much better than security, I felt just then, and if this could be combined with non-destructive passion, it was all the better. We’d be a family, a close and solid one, and everyone else should keep well away.
As for other elements in this decidedly troubling story – well, what can I tell you? Chloe Linton experienced a mental breakdown towards the end of the final year of her degree and spent some time in a hospital receiving state-funded therapeutic (and pharmaceutical) support. As far as I was aware, she never mentioned anything about hers and my relationship, because ultimately, other than the usual professional engagement existing between a tutor and student, we hadn’t had one, had we? At any rate, I didn’t visit her during her recovery period, mainly because I hadn’t wanted to raise her mother’s suspicions or even those of university personnel. I had a job to cling onto now and would never again do anything to jeopardise that.
As for those tests I’d commissioned from a boffin in the science department: they’d proved inconclusive, all traces of liquid found in the bottom of that cup too slight to allow analysts to draw inarguable conclusions. There’d certainly been hints of fruit in there, as well as selected herbs, but it was impossible to say more than that. It might have been a manufactured concoction or it might have been a homemade one. Indeed, in the words of the scientist in question, “whatever reason [I’d] wanted these results for, it might be wiser to seek alternative evidence.”
But I simply refused to do so. In fact, I haven’t returned to that woodland near the small village of Pasturn and probably never will. However, an interesting coda occurred a few months following all the events I’ve just related. I was browsing the Internet one spring afternoon, seeking recreation between marking essays and another lecture I was due to deliver later that day, when I spotted an article concerning a relatively local resident, one Sharon Dennis, a young woman – now sixteen years old – with special needs who resided exactly where I’d expected her to. Apparently, following a pregnancy brought about by “unsupervised activity” in her community, she’d given birth to a premature child, only seven months into her full term. Although this kind of event was obviously tragic, there was nothing particularly unusual about it…except that in this case – the non-mainstream website I’d accessed had announced – there had been.
In short, the infant hadn’t even looked human, let alone boasted the usual qualities associated with newly born offspring: no predictable mewling, need of sustenance, or even uncoordinated movement. There was talk of angular limbs, a roughly surfaced head, as well as seepage from a number of orifices which had resembled some kind of sap. Then, in the words of the article’s author, this “thing” had simply “skittered around that hospital room like some kind of insect”, before “scuttling quickly out of a window it had managed to break, headed Lord knew where.”
The NHS institution, where this episode had allegedly taken place, had either failed or refused to make a formal statement, and the case “awaited further developments”.
With my hands shaking badly, I somehow closed down this unofficial webpage and went immediately back to work.
Later that day, after travelling home with a great need for comfort, Rose had news for me. Her latest novel, another romantic tale about Mary Chesterton and her amorous exploits in a world rendered toothlessly charming, had been picked up by a leading UK publisher, and furthermore, her new agent had claimed, the “advance and royalties were likely to be life-changing.” We celebrated that night with alcohol – or at least, I did – because my wife, in an almost delirious state I loved and would forever more (how was it possible for anyone to express such passion about life? This constantly left me in a state of awe), had further news for me.
You’ll have guessed what, and indeed how and when this had come about.
Anyway, that night, once I’d stroked Rose to sleep in our lovingly shared bed, I thought of Chloe and Shaz, both grieving at a distance. But there was no profit in pursuing that kind of speculation; I now had what remained of my life to lead. As I settled down beside my wife, holding her (along with her silent, developing passenger) firmly to me, I noticed a face in the dark, uncurtained glass across the room: it was like someone
standing on a ladder of sorts propped against the exterior, and looking furtively inside.
But it was okay. It was only my reflection. And despite everything that had happened lately, I found it difficult not to smile my ageing smile and then wonder whether I was now enjoying merciful feelings of survival…or rather Donald Deere-like predatory power.
In short, was I a saint or a monster?
What do you think?
Dr Matthew Cole
University of Leeds
February, 2015
