He threw the butt into the fire and lit up another cigarette. Hearing a floorboard creak, he turned to find Lara standing by the door, watching him, Tomas luxuriating in her arms. There was an intense look in her eyes. He had noted it earlier in the library. It was the look of someone who had over the years made themselves remote and icy, not so as to repel other people, but so as to be reached only by those as clear and direct and honest as they. He realized then that it was that, more than anything else, which he liked about her.
She moved towards the fire, teetered slightly on her high, glassy heels, at which Tomas jumped from her arms onto the rug, and positioned his rump as if to relieve himself once again -whereupon Lara gently shooed him from the room. She laughed loudly. Beautiful teeth, he thought. He watched her coolly open the gilded case and slip her hand inside for a cigarette.
“What were you thinking, Fred, when I came in?”
“Oh. About the rug, about my thesis. In fact, my whole life flashed before me.”
“Such a strange look. I barely recognised you.”
“I was about to clean that mess, and, suddenly, now, I cannot. I don’t know why but I cannot. Perhaps you will apologise to Louise for me, tell her I will phone tomorrow? Would you do that?” Fred said. Lara nodded, then stood back and examined the cloud-shaped stain.
“Louise really should keep Tomas in the kitchen or yard. She can’t expect family to do something like that.” He hauled contemplatively on his cigarette. Lara was assuring him, and he was enjoying it.
“I was only supposed to cat-sit. You see, he’s incontinent, poor thing. Some kind of infection. Louise never asked me, you know, to clean the crap up. I just felt it wasn’t right the cat should soil the house on my watch. Now, well, I feel like a fool. I should never have assumed such responsibility.”
“You’ve been asleep Fred, haven’t you, hmmm? Asleep to yourself.” Yes, that was how it was. Exactly. He was so bound up in a sense of duty, of what was proper and right, that in recent years he had been asleep to his own needs. He watched her yank together the two blue velvet drapes.
“Hope I didn’t intrude upon your studies today, Fred.”
“No, no. Of course not.”
“By the way, I forgot to ask. What is your thesis on?” Lara asked.
“Oh, it’s a study of various kinds of leukemia,” Fred replied.
“You find the library useful for that?”
“Of course. For the past twenty years we’ve had abnormally high levels of cancer and blood disorders in the Northeast. Sellafield being the main suspect. Louise has kept excellent local archives.”
When Fred left the house it was raining. Clouds raced across the sky and he stopped to see an alternately blue and yellow haze veil the moon, which otherwise shone like a perfectly round silver button. He was cold. He considered turning back for one of Louise’s umbrellas, but the recalcitrant voice within him that had earlier risen up in a rage urged him to carry on into the full force of the silvery light, now turning the bay emerald. He found himself thrilling to the heavy droplets of rain sinking into his skin, and enjoyed this new sensation of defiance, of cutting loose.
Turning right at the bend by the cemetery, Fred walked towards the house he shared with his mother at the edge of a redwood copse. (All around the land here had long belonged to the Fosters, and though his mother was one of their number, she had not flourished as her sister had done and now owned only the small house.) There was an unfamiliar bounce in Fred’s step and his legs felt sinewy and strong as he strode up the narrow path. Before he entered the gates, he stopped. Something soft and thick was in his mouth, a strange taste, warm and bitter. It wasn’t rain but he recognised it. He put his forefinger across his bottom lip and felt the torn flesh, then placed his finger inside his mouth and made a circle of his teeth. He looked up towards the moon, now high over Greenore, and checked his finger in the moonlight. Fred Plunkett did not know what to do. Should he find a way to reverse the transformation? Retrace his steps, go back to the big house, find put-upon, tweed-wearing Fred and continue his life as before? Or, now that he had evidently developed a pair of long, smooth fangs, together with a ravenous desire for blood, should he forget about that Fred (that husk) once and for all, and obey the latest bizarre instruction of his booming inner voice?
Firstborn
By Emlyn Boyle
Sniggering as he settled back into straw, Fez then pulled loose swaddling cloth up over his chin - enough to hide a hint of goatish stubble without exposing his ostrich-like feet. Despite less than perfect shape shifting skills, the djinn always found swapping places with human infants highly amusing. Why only five days earlier he had made a powerful Roman governor sob like a little girl, and five centuries before that, a Spartan king likewise… though on that particular occasion Fez had then found himself hurled over a mountainside. And these talking apes called his kind wick-
“Return him.”
His baby irises briefly narrowing into startled slits, Fez then simply cooed as a young boy’s face loomed overhead; a first beam of morning sunlight making the child’s uncommonly fair hair shimmer like gold.
“Return him,” the boy said again, “you do not fool me imp…”
With his reptilian eyes returning for good, Fez then bared razor sharp teeth. “I am Fez-Shrezal,” the djinn hissed, “Firstborn of Baal, second cousin to Tiamat, third great-grandnephew of Lilith, fourth uncle of-”
“AND I AM OLDER THAN ALL!” Said the boy - his form suddenly tall and muscular. With a pair of huge black wings casting shadows over a sleeping couple beyond, only a few sheep, one donkey and a cow gave any nervous acknowledgment of the being before them. “Oh camel dung,” whimpered Fez, “F-forgive me great seraphim, I did not-”
“Enough,” said a boy once more, the pretend child then smiling when a sleeping baby suddenly replaced Fez - the djinn now cowering on the stable’s clay floor. “And be thankful you only incur my wrath and not the child’s true father.”
“Forgive-”
“SILENCE… now go and tell others of darkness that he is under my protection.”
“But w-who is-” began Fez before being suddenly hurled out into the Bethlehem dawn, the wailing djinn resemble a shooting star that quickly faded into the distance.
“Oh yes little lamb,” said the boy kneeling down by manger acting as cradle, “you are mine, and mine alone to tempt one day…and then I shall show Him who his true firstborn really is.”
Hello Stranger
By Ross Friday
It felt like suffocating, yet it was the complete opposite. Such an unnaturally deep drawing of breath somehow made him feel as though he had exhaled. He snatched short, sharp, urgent gasps to compensate; trying to regulate his heart, that was beating so hard he could feel the blood being forced around his body. As the panic slowly subsided, any sense of relief was quickly replaced as he winced in response to the near-instant headache.
He waited in vain for the peaceful, precious moment that had always welcomed him back to reality whenever he woke from a nightmare and realised it was nothing more. It didn’t come though, and the storm he thought he’d imagined continued to rage. It was more than just disorientating, blurring the difference between the two states of consciousness.
What should have been familiar surroundings looked eerie and foreboding as lightning threw another harsh shadow across what had been a tidy room. The thunder that had woken him so suddenly rolled again, but was interrupted by an elderly, theatrical voice as clichéd as the scenario.
David smiled. If all he had to be scared of was another inflated electricity bill, caused by falling asleep again whilst watching old horror movies, he could relax. Even having no recollection of the journey home didn’t overly concern him as it explained his desperate thirst; this wouldn’t be the first time he’d drunk himself into such a state.
Despite the low volume, the television seemed deafening so he muted it completely and again tried to calm his breathing as it was all he
could hear. It was rhythmic now at least, but still altogether deeper and louder than it should be.
He wasn’t sure which need was more pressing; to slow his dangerously high heart rate, or to deal with the obvious dehydration, but after a few seconds consideration, the latter won. He reached for the glass of what he hoped was water and wasn’t disappointed. Spilling as much as he swallowed, he drank awkwardly until a sudden realisation consumed him and almost stopped his racing heart dead.
The incessant gasping for breath continued impossibly, even as he drank, and it did not stop now that he wished for absolute silence. He didn’t move. He needed to know his imagination was exactly that; merely a force which could manipulate him when his concentration wandered, but now he focused on nothing other than his surroundings… and it was still there.
The flickering screen offered little illumination; until the next sudden and dramatic bolt of electricity streaked across it, he could only rely on sound... and it failed to tell him anything other than he was not alone.
Having never felt more isolated, the blinking alert he’d only just noticed on his mobile phone was an inviting sight; there was a message waiting for him, a connection to the outside world which had felt a universe away just seconds ago. If there was even the slightest chance it could herald a warning, a clue as to what was happening, he would have to move. Yet it wasn’t as easy as it should be.
He felt paralysed, but his mind was reeling uncontrollably, anxiously searching for an explanation. He tried to pay attention to the barrage of suggestions and take his own advice. Perhaps if there was something else in the room, his best chance was to… he realised maybe he was the last person he should be listening to; something else? He wasn’t five years old anymore and needed to remember that. He revised his statement as an adult… if there was someone else in the room, he should simply stay still; perfectly still.
If this was a burglary, the intruder would have little interest in him, just his belongings. But if that was the case, why could he still hear nothing but lungfuls of air being drawn in and forced out? He was certain of only two things; the presence was indeed in the same room, and they too were stationary. He suspected that meant they were equally aware of each other, which made the beckoning phone even more attractive.
His heart was still pounding as though trying to escape his chest. Not daring to look away from the dark, featureless void ahead of him, he quietly and slowly felt his way around until he grasped his mobile. Just as carefully, he opened the text below his bed sheets so as not to attract attention.
It was from Beverly Ware... again. Filing her number under her full name seemed appropriate and helped him psychologically. She still hadn’t accepted the situation and he was even growing used to her harassment by now, but this stood out from the other messages. Written in capital letters, the words silently screaming - ‘IT’S OVER. PLEASE STOP FOLLOWING ME. PLEASE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE’ - were confusing at first.
Applying his own logic wouldn’t help him understand; he had to apply hers. When he did, it seemed less strange and more calculated. He suspected that in Beverly’s young mind every woman was as paranoid and jealous as her; she would have wrongly assumed Emma monitored his phone and wouldn’t be able to see through such a childish scheme. He closed the message. It had achieved nothing other than reminding him of his priorities.
David’s first instinct was to dial the police, but that relied on a conversation which, even if whispered, would end the stand-off that had so far kept him safe. Instead, he would send a text alert to Emma; for once, he was thankful for the argument he assumed they’d had, as she’d not stayed the night. He could ask her to make the call.
He wrote as few words as possible, but was careful to be clear and concise. For this to be misinterpreted did not bear thinking about. It could be the difference between life and death. He used the expression every day, but it was more than just a phrase now.
He refocused his thoughts to ensure his plea would be read. It was the middle of the night and he couldn’t afford to take chances. He’d call her, let her mobile ring until she answered and then hang up. It should guarantee she’d respond and soon enough this might all be over.
He employed his simple plan; the relative silence was shattered and his skin felt as if it had begun crawling from his bones as a phone rang, not several streets away as it should, but in the same house, possibly even the same room. It was stifled, but it was close. It was also so unexpected that his sudden, jerked reaction was impossible to restrain.
If his location had been a secret, it wasn’t any more. Adrenalin replaced the terror that seemed to have frozen inside him and rendered him helpless. However involuntarily, he had dared to move and now he didn’t stop. He couldn’t if he wanted to as blind panic jettisoned him from the apparent safety of his bed.
There was no grace to his onslaught towards his ultimate goal; the door. He staggered and stumbled across his bedroom floor with nothing but the glow from his mobile to show the way, but the ten second delay engaged and killed the screen light before he had taken more than a few steps. He continued his surge forward regardless until he stamped on something that shouldn’t be there. He winced, but managed to swallow the pain. Again rooted to the spot, he held his position; all too aware the breathing was so close he could almost feel it now.
David turned slowly on the spot like a lone soldier preparing to fend off the enemy from whichever direction they might approach. Terror was stabbing into him whilst relief tried to force it back out; the invader was perhaps not quite as invisible as they thought. David could see an outline, still, crouching and horribly misshapen, but having again reminded himself he didn’t believe in ghosts, he knew he may no longer be at a disadvantage.
He reached down, searching for and eventually finding whatever it was he had trodden on, all the time trying to wish it into everything he needed it to be; solid, heavy and angular. It was all three. He wrapped his trembling hands around it, clasping it as tightly as his sweating palms would allow. Relying solely on the primal instinct of self-preservation coursing through him, he swung his right arm back, gathering momentum to ensure the first blow would be all he’d need.
He delayed lighting his target until the last possible moment for fear it may prevent him doing what he knew he had to. It was an effort to keep his eyes open, as he didn’t want to bear witness to his own inhumane action. This was no time to take chances, but before he could bring his weapon crashing down he paused, just a split second before ruining a perfectly good designer suit that hung awkwardly, fresh from the cleaners. He sighed, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the thought whilst a never more welcoming bed seemed to call to him.
Eyes. Bulging, staring and terrifying were illuminated as he turned. Having let his guard down the sheer magnitude of the shock almost crippled him, until the need for survival took over completely, propelling him towards his escape route. Having reached the doorway, it was possible to swipe at the light switch without slowing down and he did so without thinking. His accuracy surprised him and the room was at last flooded with light.
Despite knowing it could be suicidal, he couldn’t fight the overwhelming curiosity which compelled him to throw a glance behind him. Those eyes, so menacing and inhuman just seconds ago told a different story now. It was indeed someone he’d been running from, and they appeared to be more helpless than he had ever been.
It wasn’t a monster from his childhood or the bogeyman of his nightmares; it wasn’t a man at all. He recognised her instantly despite the gag obscuring her face. And she should certainly recognise him, but instead of seeming reassured by his presence, the sight of him apparently horrified her as she retreated as much as her restraints would allow.
With her ankles tightly bound and her arms disappearing behind her back, she held an uncomfortable position which forced her shoulders forward, suggesting her wrists were just as secure. David’s first instinct was to release her, yet he hesitated. Judging by her response, his
approach was anything but welcome, although he had no idea why… until he realised what he was still holding. He released his awkward grip on the gun, letting it fall loudly to the floor, only considering the potentially fatal stupidity of his recklessness after letting go.
The situation may be the very definition of surreal and rapidly spiraling out of control, but he had to keep as calm as was physically possible. As inconceivable as it was, there was a more demanding predicament just a few feet away… and she was staring straight at him, awaiting his next action with an anxiety he’d never known until tonight. He couldn’t leave her like that, but he had to think this through. Even if she wasn’t in such an agitated state, any intervention could implicate him.
Her violent, exaggerated reaction to his every move suggested that however implausible it might seem, she appeared to regard him as the complete opposite of a saviour. He’d have to calm her somehow; and if he could manage that, maybe she could help him begin to make sense of this madness before it was too late. He was all too aware of what this would look like should someone witness the situation.
“Beverly, listen to me.”
The words didn’t even appear to register with her. She veered wildly between not being able to look at him and fixing him with a gaze so accusing, he almost began to doubt his innocence, but he couldn’t let her know that. He had to remember how absurd such a thought was and then ensure she realised the same. He raised his voice, but was careful not to shout.
“Damn it Beverly, will you listen to me? You don’t need to be scared. Not of me. You know that don’t you?”
The Spinetinglers Anthology 2011 Page 23
