The Leaping

by Tom Fletcher

  ‘Jack,’ Graham said quietly. ‘Who did this? Could he have just fallen, and – and – I don’t know. Could he have fallen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, thinking no, you idiot, of course not. ‘No. I don’t think he fell. Has anybody seen Jennifer?’

  They all shook their heads.

  We tried to lift him again when screaming started in the distance and we dropped him again, the shock of the sound having tensed our frozen muscles so that they contracted and let him slip from our hands. This time I saw the breath forcefully pushed from his lungs. It hung in front of his lips for a brief moment, then dispersed. We stared at his body, slumped and curved unhealthily, and those awful, ghostly sounds floated down to us from the direction of Fell House. Roaring and howling and screaming and hollering. I heard a boy shouting something that sounded like ‘Lucy! Lucy!’ but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say and we all just looked at Francis and shook. Graham slowly turned the axe around in his hands. It looked wet with some unidentifiable substance.

  ‘What is it?’ Taylor said. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘It could be the cats,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose it couldn’t be the cats, not really.’

  ‘We need to go up there,’ Graham said, and of course he was right. We gently picked Francis up again, his body heavier than it looked. Taylor took his battered shoulders and head and I took his twisted feet and Erin held his waist and torso tenderly, like she was carrying a baby, and Graham carried the axe.

  ‘There’s something coming out of his neck,’ Taylor said. ‘Something grey. There is a crack in his face that starts with the corner of his mouth and I can see the broken edges of skull through it. How can he still be alive?’

  ‘I don’t know how he’s still alive,’ Erin said. ‘We have to be careful we don’t spill anything.’

  I knew the noise was coming from Fell House because I could hear the fiddle – it was still there, being played by somebody who was somehow not distracted by all the other violent noise, the thread of the music tied up with all of the other, more frightening sounds.

  ‘I’m going to go on ahead,’ Graham said.

  ‘No,’ Erin said. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I can’t not. How can I not?’ He glared at us, and then he turned and started jogging.

  ‘Graham!’ Taylor shouted, but he didn’t look back, and almost straight away he was hard to see against the fell-side in his black suit. He must have been moving quite fast.

  A hoarse, rhythmic shrieking reached us from the hard shape that we could see silhouetted against the sky.

  ‘What’s that shape?’ I said.

  ‘It’s your house, Jack,’ Erin said. ‘You don’t know your own house?’

  ‘My house?’ I said, confused. It was Fell House, of course, it just didn’t have any lights on. I’d never seen it like that before, from that angle, and besides, it wasn’t really my house, not if I thought about it, because it had never felt like it and I didn’t think it ever would.

  It was still quite a distance away, and from it came that shrieking sound followed by a frantic yelping and a squeal that felt like a thin wire being pulled from my ear.

  Carrying Francis was difficult because the ground was slippery. One or two or all of us kept slipping and nearly dropping him, but he carried on breathing. Taylor unexpectedly fell and the sudden weight was a surprise to Erin. Francis’ head dropped and hit a rock, bouncing off.

  ‘Be careful, Taylor,’ I said, as he tried to stand but slipped again. ‘This is a steep bit.’

  ‘Francis,’ Erin said. ‘He’s stopped breathing. He’s stopped breathing! Look. Oh, he’s started again. Thank God.’

  Taylor didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at me.

  ‘What are we going to do about Jennifer?’ I asked.

  Nobody answered.

  The sounds from Fell House stopped suddenly. We were still a little way away. Maybe Graham and the axe had fixed it, sorted it all out, but somehow I doubted it.

  We reached the small space between the orchard and the back door, which was where we built the snowman. The house was dark and the wind was back, having chased the low clouds away. Everything was slightly luminous because of the snow reflecting the starlight, although there was something about the snow, something unpleasant. It was churned up, roughened, textured and corrupted by dark shadowy patches, and I couldn’t help but feel that it had somehow been violated, and Balthazar was gone. Withnail the snow-dog had survived somehow.

  I accidentally knocked it over as we scuffed past, and felt something crunch slightly beneath my foot. It was a skull. My first thought was that it was Withnail’s skull, but no, that was ridiculous. It was a cat’s skull. And next to where it had lain were those small bones I had seen that time I’d thrown the axe out. Cat ribs.

  ‘Graham!’ Taylor yelled.

  There was no answer but the back door was open, so we manoeuvred Francis inside and Erin flicked the light switches, but they didn’t work. We stretched out Francis on the kitchen table.

  ‘Do you have any matches?’ Erin asked. ‘Candles?’

  ‘In the cutlery drawer,’ I said. ‘And tea-lights. In case of power-cuts.’

  ‘Where are all the people?’ Taylor asked.

  Nobody answered. What had a short time ago been a house too full to move around in was now just an empty box. Erin lit two tea-lights, and carried them over, her hands wrapped in dishcloths so that she didn’t burn herself. Her face was drawn, and wet, and softly lit from below.

  ‘I need to find Jennifer,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t go back out there,’ Erin said. ‘We don’t know what happened to Francis.’

  ‘We don’t know what happened here,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever happened here, it’s over,’ Taylor said, whose face was reduced to a single edge in the candlelight.

  I shook my head. ‘We don’t know that. Besides. You could come with me.’

  ‘We can’t leave him!’ Erin exclaimed, shocked.

  ‘I have to go and look for her,’ I said.

  ‘Not on your own, then,’ Erin said. ‘Taylor. You go with him.’

  ‘I can’t leave you, Erin,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Somebody has to look after Francis as best we can. And it may as well be me. And I know what you’re going to say,’ she said, as Taylor opened his mouth. ‘About me being a girl and all, but we all know that that’s just offensive. So go on. Get.’

  ‘I want to be chivalrous,’ Taylor said quietly. I didn’t think he was talking just about the situation at hand, but his whole life, like he wanted to be some sort of Knight of the Round Table or something, and he felt like a sorry modern excuse for a good person.

  ‘You are chivalrous,’ Erin said, and kissed him quickly on the lips.

  ‘I love you,’ he said to her, genuinely, and they both seemed surprised.

  ‘I love you too,’ Erin said.

  ‘We should lay him down on one of the beds,’ I said, gesturing at Francis. ‘Erin. Could you lead the way with the candles?’

  On the way to the bedroom we saw streaks and splashes and smears and gobbets of dark red all over the walls, and the stone steps were slippery, but Erin didn’t lower the candles to see why, and none of us spoke a word about it. Upstairs Taylor and Erin kissed again, more deeply this time, and we left her with Francis in the room with the blue and white striped wallpaper, him lying on the bed, the bed surrounded by little candles, the candles dipping and swaying and lowering before springing up again. Fragile in the draughts.

  I stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen, before realising that the pale figure hunched at the table was Graham.

  ‘Jack?’ he whispered, quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And Taylor.’

  ‘Thank God,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Taylor said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and I c
ould tell he was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know where to start. Just. Don’t go into the barn, Jack. Taylor. Don’t go into the barn.’

  FRANCIS

  I’m itchy. Like I’ve been sleeping in a bed infested with fleas. There is a blanket or something lying over me. And it’s heavy and rough. And I’m hot. Too hot. I’m lying on my back and scratching my shoulders. I grit my teeth and move my hands into a blur. My nails leave lines in my skin. I move my digging, stabbing nails down over my chest. Twisting and turning in this pit I find myself in. I reach my lower ribs and stop. I’ve found something. Soft and fleshy, protruding from my body. Another one. I can’t move my hands over my stomach because it’s covered in huge, lolling growths. A forest of flat, wide skin tags is covering my belly. It stretches from the bottom of my chest to my groin. They feel so dead. I try and pull one off. But the skin that connects the lump to my body is strong. It really hurts. I feel the rest of the skin around it tent up. I’m sweating. All these horrible things are so itchy. And the skin in between is itchy. And the skin underneath and all around and all over my whole body is so itchy that I’m drawing blood and tearing strips out of it.

  ‘Francis?’ The voice is gentle.

  ‘FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!’ I scream. ‘FUCK OFF!’

  ‘Francis, it’s just me! It’s just Erin. Hey. Francis. Calm down. Are you awake?’

  Suddenly my skin is coming off in great swathes. I feel like there is something inside me. Growing bigger and bigger. Or maybe just getting nearer and nearer from a great depth. Casting a shadow upwards on to my brain. I’m screaming. I open my eyes. Erin is looking down at me. She smiles. I stop screaming.

  ‘I don’t know how you’re still alive,’ she says, and shakes her head.

  ‘I feel like there’s something wrong with me,’ I say. ‘I had a dream.’

  ‘You’ve been unconscious for hours. Something happened to you, out there on the mountain.’

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘But you’re badly hurt. We thought you were dead. We tried to call an ambulance. We thought you were dead. I didn’t know, Francis. I didn’t know if you would wake up. You’re so badly hurt. That’s probably why you feel like shite.’

  ‘There’s something wrong with me. Something growing inside me. I can feel it, Erin. I have a lump. In my consciousness. There is something different in my body.’

  ‘Francis,’ she says.

  ‘It’s cancer,’ I say. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Francis,’ she says. ‘You don’t have cancer. You’ve got a fuck-off hole in your neck. That’s what you’ve got.’

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Jack and Taylor are looking for Jennifer. Still don’t know where she is. We don’t know about Graham. And everyone that came to the party – we don’t know about them either. It looks like something awful has happened. We’re on our own in here.’

  I look up and around. The room is full of tea-lights and other candles. The wallpaper looks black and white in this light. I see a rope – a noose – hanging from the beam. It is moving, as if somebody is hanging from it. But the noose is empty. I frown and shake my head.

  ‘What?’ Erin looks up behind her. Following the direction of my eyes. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Erin,’ I say. ‘There’s something wrong with me.’

  We are silent for a length of time. Gradually the light from the candles diminishes. I prod the hole at the back of my neck. The flesh feels dry. Hard. Like fresh meat that’s drying up.

  I close my eyes. I think of a Radiohead poster that I have on the wall of my bedroom. I remember the words printed across the bottom:

  I AM AWAKE AT 4 A.M. TO THE TERRIFYING UNDENIABLE TRUTH THAT THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO TO STOP THE MONSTER

  The terrifying undeniable truth. I can feel a presence inside my brain. Something inside my brain is slowly getting bigger. It mutates the cells around it and they clump together, all in one place, and have a big fucking party. I keep my eyes closed. I know that, ultimately, nothing is going to be OK.

  ‘Erin,’ I say. ‘Tell me some stories. I need you to make me think of other things.’

  Erin looks at me. Her eyes are dark and difficult to read. But she nods.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘OK. Well, this is it. The End of the Party. Francis, Jack, Jennifer, Erin, Taylor and Graham arrived back at the house wet, cold, laughing, exhausted. The sky was deep black, the stars a bright white dust. Below them the mountain stretched down to the lake at the bottom of the valley, and the lake shone like the moon that hung above it. Several thin plumes of smoke rose from chimneys across the valley floor and the six of them looked out over what would normally be a patchwork of dark woodland and pale fields criss-crossed by hedgerows. Tonight, however, everything was blanketed by a layer of fresh white snow. The mountains were friendly guardians standing watch over the people that lived beneath them. Scattered across the valley floor were warm orange lights that signified where those people were – the places that they had found and settled in and come to rest at.

  ‘“Where is everybody?” Jack asked. “All the music’s stopped. There doesn’t seem to be anybody around.”

  ‘“Let’s go and have a look,” Jennifer replied. “I’m sure everything is OK.”

  ‘She took Jack by the hand and squeezed it gently in hers before leading the others inside.

  ‘“This is a beautiful place to live,” Francis said, casting one last glance over the magical landscape. “You two are very lucky.”

  ‘The lights were still on inside the house, but it was empty of people. There was leftover food scattered across the brightly striped tablecloth and Graham picked at it.

  ‘“We can’t let all this fodder go to waste,” he muttered.

  ‘“Where is everybody?” Jack asked, again. “It’s like they’ve all just disappeared!”

  ‘“Hey!” Graham exclaimed, stopping in his slow hoovering-up of the crumbs. “There’s a note. Here, Taylor. Read it out. I’m going to get some ginger beer.”

  ‘“OK,” Taylor agreed, and took the note from Graham’s hand. “Dear Jennifer and Jack, Sorry if our sudden departure has alarmed you – it’s just that everybody’s parents all arrived to pick us up at the same time!” Taylor looked up and grinned, the relief evident in his face. Everybody looked around and smiled at each other. “We just left this note to explain what’s happened and to say thank you for such a wonderful party. We’re sure you’ll both be very happy here at Fell House and wish you all the best. Enjoy the rest of the night! From all your friends.”

  ‘“That’s nice,” Jennifer said. “It’s a shame we missed them but I’m glad that they had a good night.”

  ‘“Fancy that,” Francis said. “All the parents turning up at once!”

  ‘“You know what we should do?” Graham said. “Gather up all these helium balloons, tie them to a tin can, put a message in the can and let the balloons go and take the message with them. It could end up anywhere!”

  ‘Erin wrote the message. She wrote:

  Yesterday, upon the stair

  I met a man who wasn’t there.

  He wasn’t there again today;

  I WISH TO GOD HE’D GO AWAY.

  ‘“I know those aren’t the original words,” she said, “I know.”

  ‘The six of them emerged from Fell House as the sun was coming up, and let the balloons go. They stood there watching until the balloons had disappeared into the sky. By that time everything was sparkling in the rays of the newly risen sun.

  ‘The air was cold, so the friends, smiling, turned and went back into the house for breakfast.

  ‘The sun rose higher and higher, and when it hit the windows of Fell House, they shone out like beacons across the mountains.’

  Erin’s voice is rich. Her eyes are half closed as she finishes the story.

  ‘That was nice,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  Behind her, hanging
from the noose, the body of a man sputters into existence. Like a candle going out, but backwards. My eyes widen. Erin turns at the expression on my face.

  ‘Why do you keep on looking up there?’ she asks, looking back.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say. The dead man spins slowly around. He was maybe in his sixties or seventies when he died. He has thick grey hair. He wears a checked shirt, and heavy-looking dark jeans. His hands are huge and gnarled. Strong-looking and weather-beaten. I touch my temple with the fingers of my right hand. Close my eyes. Shake my head. ‘It’s nothing, Erin.’

  ‘Another story?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘This is about Taylor,’ she says. ‘Or somebody like Taylor. Wanting to drive across America. Maybe I’m with him.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘I don’t feel like it’s up to me.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘They picked up a four-wheel drive in Minneapolis and drove for days until they reached the point that they had worked out was the very centre of America. A boy and a girl, using maps, rulers and money that they’d earned serving chips and sandwiches to climbers in a country pub called The Shepherd Sleeps. They were both twenty-five and by the time they reached their destination they were thin and tanned and more pale-haired than they had been in England. They turned the engine off and the sun washed over them like hot thick water. They closed their eyes and fell asleep. After they woke up, they took a pair of shovels out of the boot and started digging. They were looking for some sort of energy source, or explanation, or massive pivot. They dug and dug and dug. They took their clothes off because they were so hot the sweat was running into their eyes and they hadn’t stopped for water since they had started. The sun went down and the desert got cold, but they carried on digging. They were still hot. They were naked and covered in red sand. They dug and they dug and they dug until the hole was ten feet deep and ten feet wide.