The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, 2010

by Elizabeth Bear

  “Is that Scratcher?” Cath’s braces had been fitted less than a week before, and the spray of saliva that came out with her words was the closest to watering the desperate grass had experienced in the two weeks since school had closed. Ben glanced at her sadly. If anything was going to force Wrighty away from him, it was Cath. Image began to matter at thirteen and Cath was never going to have the easy style of their older friend. And that was going to start counting big time to Damien Wright. Ben had seen it happen with Amy and her friends a couple of years earlier. That crazy teenage stuff took hold and real things didn’t matter any more.

  “Nah.” Wrighty, still their friend for now, shook his head. “Why would Scratcher be out here in the holidays? He’ll be in a bar somewhere in Launceston getting wasted.” Scratcher was the school caretaker and groundsman, so nicknamed because of the flaking eczema on his face and arms that he worried at constantly. “And anyway, isn’t that guy wearing a suit?” His head tilted slightly as he stared across the wasteland.

  Ben raised himself up on the knees of his battered Levis, green eyes focused. Had the man taken a step forward? It sure seemed that way, the image clearer than it had been only moments previously as if the stranger had moved into a patch of shadow. Yeah, he was wearing a suit, black or navy blue, Ben couldn’t decide from this distance. But he could see the shirt and tie within the exposed V at the top of the blazer. His breath caught in his throat with curiosity. No one, but no one in Bracknell wore a suit unless they were going to a funeral, and even then not always.

  His heart juddered.

  Mum.

  Maybe something had happened at home. For a moment bright lights sparkled with darkness at the corners of his eyes, his mouth opening as the breath trapped in his healthy lungs forced itself out with the shock. Aaaahhh. He could hear it buzzing in his ears like when he’d finally realized that Amy wasn’t coming home.

  It was the flash of light at the man’s side that set the blood rushing to his brain. Something was glinting in his hand as it hung downwards. What was that? He glanced over at Cath and Wrighty and noticed that the gangly girl had taken hold of the older boy’s sleeve, tucking her body closer to his. Yeah right, Cath. Any excuse. Like that’s ever going to happen. Hating his own cruel thought and the truth that was in it, he looked back. “What’s he holding?”

  “Dunno. Can’t quite make it out,” Wrighty said.

  They sat frozen like meercats staring out over the African plains for five minutes or more, and the man stared back.

  Cath tugged at Damien. “I don’t like it. I don’t like him. This is weird.”

  It was only when the stranger started coming towards them that they pulled themselves upright, shaking the dust from their knees and the pins and needles from their ankles and feet. He was coming right at them. And he wasn’t walking or strolling. He was striding. Big long steps full of determination. Like the Terminator, the second one, coming out of the fl ames. Ben’s heart was pounding now, his eyes once again drawn back to the thing that shone as it swung to and fro by the man’s side, getting too close to them, far too quickly. His pupils widened and then contracted back in on themselves in real fear.

  “He’s got a knife,” he said, his face burning in the sun. “Jesus.”

  “That’s not a knife. That’s a fucking machete.” Damien’s voice was low and Cath had pulled herself behind both boys now, the situation no longer just an opportunity to give her crush on Wrighty free rein. Ben could almost feel her trembling, as if the slight juddering of her body was causing the air to shake.

  The man was only forty or so feet away from them now, his head tilted downwards so they couldn’t make out his face. But Ben could see the silver streaks that ran through dark head of hair and the way that the suit didn’t fit him quite right, the legs stopping two or three inches from the ankle to reveal pale skin where there should have been socks. Dust from the playing field had risen like a tide, clinging to the sharp black polish on his lace-up shoes, and for a moment the three children stood hypnotized as they watched the man getting closer and closer.

  Afterwards Ben couldn’t remember if anyone had actually yelled out to start running. Probably. All he knew was that one minute they were standing, and the next he had turned and his legs were pumping like crazy, the hot air steaming in his lungs as it ripped and tore its way in and out, the sudden exertion shocking his system. Cath sprinted in front of him, her thin freckly legs stretching out beneath the loose edges of her canvas shorts, her awkwardness suddenly vanished and her body comfortable with itself for once as her trainers pounded the thirsty ground. Just behind her was Wrighty, his running less elegant but equally as efficient. Ben focused on them as he pushed himself forward, fighting the urge to look back, sure that he would see the stranger almost touching the thin sweaty cotton of his T-shirt.

  Within moments they tumbled around the edge of the school building, leaning sweaty bodies against the cool bricks, head and eyes throbbing with excited blood.

  “We gotta . . . we gotta . . . ” Cath was leaning over, holding her knees. “We gotta tell someone.” Straightening up, she hopped from one foot to the other. “Come on.”

  Ben peered round the edge of the building. The man in the suit hadn’t chased after them, but was still walking at the same swift pace across the field. Whereas when they’d run they’d veered left aiming for the protection of the school house, the stranger continued on the same path, a straight line, through the wicket and heading to the other side of the boundary.

  “Hey.” Ben voice was hoarse, his lungs raw. Was this what it was like for Mum? All the time? “Hey.” He glanced back round at the other two. “I don’t think he’s following us. He’s not coming this way. Look.”

  Despite Cath tugging him back, Wrighty cautiously looked round the edge of the building. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, the sprint having made it run. “We still got to tell someone. He’s dangerous. Who knows where he’s going?”

  “Come on!” Cath was almost in tears, not sharing their confidence that the man wasn’t heading in their direction.

  Wrighty stepped back. The stranger was almost level with where they stood and Ben pulled himself in against the wall. He thought of the machete. And then thought of Amy. I’m getting out of here. I swear to God I am. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He didn’t look round to the other two.

  “You guys go. I’m going to follow him.”

  “What? Don’t be stupid!” Wrighty shook his arm. “We’re all going. Now come on!”

  Ben shook his head, glaring into his friend’s face. “No.” Damien’s eyes shook with controlled panic, but Ben knew that his own gaze was firm. “I have to follow him. You go with Cath. I’ll be fine. I’ll be careful.”

  From the corner of his eye he could see the dark shape come into view as it passed. It was enough to send the other two running down the side of the building and disappearing round to the front, Wrighty cursing under his breath.

  Knowing they were gone, Ben relaxed slightly as he watched the back of the moving suit. He had maybe ten minutes before the others came back armed with adults. Ten minutes to keep him in sight. A stranger with a knife. Amy.

  Stepping back out into the sunshine, he trotted across to the middle of the field so that he was directly in line about thirty yards or so behind the stranger. Matching the brisk pace, Ben could feel his legs shaking, his whole body weak, not from the exertion of the run—he was twelve, he could run that over and over before tiredness would catch him—but from the tingling of anticipation and terror running down his spine, stealing his energy. What if the man turned around? What would he do then? What if the man was Amy’s killer? What if he decided to do to Ben whatever it was he’d done to his sister? What if? What if? None of it mattered. All Ben could see was the man and the knife, and the possibility of an answer for Amy. For him. For the witch that was dying at home.

  Picking up his pace, he followed the stranger on his too-straight path out of
the field and into the play area for the younger kids. The man in the suit didn’t look around once, as if as soon as the three children had run from him, he’d forgotten they had ever been there. Surely he could sense Ben following him? Didn’t everybody get that funny prickly feeling on their soft exposed skin when they could feel someone walking just that bit too purposefully behind them? Maybe he did. Maybe he knew Ben was there. Maybe that was all part of the plan. It made Ben shiver but didn’t slow him down.

  Silently, in single file, Ben a little closer now, they strode past the swings and roundabout that had lived there since he and Amy had been toddlers and all around him were Amy’s ghosts. Amy at seven helping him on the slide, Amy at ten picking him up and dusting him off when he fell off the climbing frame . . . All the Amys that had ever been were urging him onwards to finish this, to see this through, to find her.

  He focused on the mystery in front of him, blurring everything else out. The man’s suit was black, but it had pinstripes of yellow or faded white running through it, the lines not quite straight but coming down through the outfit at a slight diagonal as if made from reject material. On the shoulders was a fine coating of dust or dandruff, and Ben could see the angle of bones protruding through the jacket as the arms swung. The man was skeletally thin. He stored these images safely in his mind for when the man had gone. When the police had taken him. He saved them because of Amy.

  When the figure in front stopped suddenly at the base of the oak tree Ben almost stumbled into him, his stomach leaping sickly into his mouth. But still the man didn’t glance behind to the sweating scruffy boy only a few feet away. Instead, he looked intently at the ground at the base of the gnarled trunk and then, satisfied with whatever he saw there, up into its dense leaves. He placed the machete between his teeth and started to climb. The thick branches rustled and cracked as he nimbly worked his way through them, his body disappearing. Eventually, the tree fell silent as its occupant found a perch and all Ben could see was one leg from the knee down, hanging out of the foliage, swinging slightly. The kneecap pointed through the worn suit that frayed at the hem, and above that shiny shoe he could make out one black mole against the too-pale skin.

  Ben watched that leg swing for what seemed like forever, but which was probably only three or four minutes, confusion and frustration making tears prick at the back of his eyes. What was he doing up there? What was he waiting for? Did he wait for Amy here? And if he was just waiting for a kid to kill then why hadn’t he spotted Ben? He must be able to see him from up there.

  Looking back, he could just make out the some running figures in the distance. Wrighty and a couple of people behind him. Not Cath. Two men. Time trembled.

  He started back up at the swinging leg, his heart exploding with weeks of grief.

  “Where’s Amy?” He yelled up to the shoe, to the ankle, to the weird suit. “What did you do to my sister? I need to know!”

  Heat buzzed through him, burning him from the toes up, eating its way through his limbs until it erupted in scalding tears from his eyes.

  The leg froze.

  “I need to know!”

  He could hear Wrighty calling him now and he knew they’d be here in seconds. “I need to know before they get here.” His words seemed drained of echo, no energy left to travel to the tree. “I need to know for myself.”

  The leg disappeared into the branches, its owner pulling it up to safety and out of sight. Ben howled. He was still shouting Amy’s name when Wrighty grabbed him.

  The men, Wrighty’s dad one of them, didn’t find anything in the tree. They called up at first, and then despite Ben trying to stop them, the other farmer, Bill Anderson, climbed it while Wrighty’s old man kept his shotgun firmly fixed into the green and brown of its limbs. A few seconds later Mr. Anderson re-emerged, his weather-battered face unamused. “Nothing. There’s no one up there.” They stared at Ben as if he could give them an explanation. And then at Wrighty.

  “If this is you kids’ idea of a joke then I’m going to give you the hiding of your life.” That was aimed at Damien alone. Ben didn’t have a dad to beat him, and the mothers of the town felt sad for him about that. Beating and bonding. In Bracknell the two often went hand in hand with the men and their sons.

  Ben shook his head, rapidly. Too rapidly. “No! There was a man with a knife and a suit and he had a mole on his ankle and he was on the field and . . . ”

  “Okay, son.” The hardness went out of Mr. Wright’s eyes. “It’s okay. Calm down. Maybe there was someone.” He looked around at the emptiness of the deserted school grounds and then back up at the tree. “But they’re not here now.” The anger may have faded, but Ben could see the man’s disbelief like a halo shining out from him.

  “Now, let’s get back. Me and Bill have got some more harvesting to get in before finishing for the day. We can talk about this some more later.” He flashed Damien a look that said he’d definitely be hearing more from his old man on this one, and then the two men walked off ahead, leaving the boys to trail behind.

  “Jesus, Ben, all you had to do was follow him.” The disgust was all too clear in Wrighty’s voice.

  “I didn’t lose him, Wrighty. He was in the tree. I swear it. He was just sat up in the tree.”

  “Maybe he came down the other side when you were yelling.”

  “I didn’t lose him. He was in the tree.” His sadness threatened to overwhelm him. It was hopeless and he knew it. Listening carefully, deep inside, he could hear the delicate invisible strands that bonded their friendship snapping with each step they took.

  Wrighty spat into the ground and neither of them spoke another word on the long walk home.

  He wasn’t sleeping. He didn’t think he was ever going to sleep again. Neither Cath nor Wrighty had come to see him that day, although Cath’s mum had come and had a whispered conversation with Mrs. Cooper, as if because her job was to keep Mum alive this gave her parental rights over Ben. She’d made a lot of humming noises as she listened and when Cath’s mum left Mrs. Cooper let out a long world-weary sigh and shot him a withering glance. And that was that. No conversation. No care. He’d thought about talking to Mum about it, that’s how desperate he’d got. But she had started to smell funny and was nearly always asleep or pretending to be asleep. And when she did open her eyes sometimes as he leaned in, breath held to kiss her goodnight, he could still see the meanness there gripping onto life. Maybe that was all that kept her going.

  The warm night breeze teased him through the open window, tickling his legs where the covers were kicked off. He stared at the ceiling, and at the shapes that seemed to dance in the film that covered his eyes. He was dead inside. He was sure of it. He could feel his organs settling heavy in his back.

  “Psst!”

  The hand reached in through the window and shook his calf. Ben jumped, his organs retaking their positions, and then he smiled, feeling the life flooding back to him. Wrighty! He’d snuck out to come and see him and sort things out. Eagerly sitting up, the smile froze on his face.

  It wasn’t Wrighty at the window. The face that stared through it was flaky like Scratcher’s, the skin too tight over the bones under that mop of black and silvery hair. The dark eyes twinkled and Ben thought he could see universes of stars in them. The scream desperate to escape his throat fought with his lungs’ urge to breathe in, and although his mouth was open, nothing seemed to be happening. Eventually the breathing won, sucking the air in deep gasps. He hugged his knees to his chest, eyes flicking to the closed door. The man was back, the man was back, he’d vanished, he couldn’t be here, he couldn’t know where he lived, he couldn’t . . . he couldn’t. Bringing his eyes back to what was so solidly in front of him, Ben tried to focus. To calm himself down. The man had vanished, and now he was here. And there was nothing Ben could do about it apart from see it through.

  The man at the window raised one finger to his lips. The nail on it was bitten to the quick, ragged tags of skin hanging down the outside edge. H
e stayed like that for a moment, and then lowered it slowly.

  “You said Amy. You were looking for Amy.” He sounded curious. Why would he be curious?

  Ben nodded, his head incredibly heavy and his bladder screamed in panic at him with the movement.

  “You are Ben.” There was a lilt in the whispered words and Ben couldn’t make out the accent. Scottish maybe? Who knew? He’d never been out of Bracknell and the only accents he’d heard were on the TV. The stranger was foreign though. He nodded again. Somewhere in his dry throat he tested his words.

  “Did you kill Amy? Are you going to kill me?” He didn’t sound like himself, his tongue heavy with a terror that seemed to be intensifying as the rest of him calmed. Maybe he could make it to the door and Mrs. Cooper down the hall. Maybe he could live through the night. Maybe someone would believe him this time. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All plausible possibilities. But he knew, deep in the hidden place where the body clock ticks almost unheard, that if this man wanted to kill him then he would. He was dead. Tonight or tomorrow, window open or shut . . . the eventuality would be the same.

  The man’s head tilted and Ben could see a small shower of dead skin fall to his shoulders from his scalp. Some came from his cheek too. He stared, transfixed. Whatever was wrong with this man, it wasn’t eczema like Scratcher’s. This was something else. He thought of the cancer eating mum’s lungs. Maybe cancer was eating the stranger’s face.

  “Amy. Yes. I can take you there. But there’s not much time.” Again the strange accent. “You are Ben?”

  Ben nodded again.

  The dark eyes continued to twinkle and he smiled. The teeth there were perfect white but his gums were receding, bright flecks of red blood appearing in the crescents between his canines. “Good. Good. Then come with me.” He raised his finger again and curled it, the move practiced, as if he were speaking to someone who didn’t understand and needed the physical clue.