“No, of course not. Go home and get your stuff, then meet me at the arcade.” That was it. Toby’s mind was made up. Harry felt a pitch in his stomach, and knew it was real now. They would run away and leave this miserable cemetery behind for good.
When the ghost train carriage returned to its station at the front of the ride, it was empty.
Harry knew what he had to do. He ran back along the street toward his parents’ house. Meanwhile, Toby walked into the Paradise Penny Arcade. He passed the old man who spent his life rhythmically shovelling coins into the Penny Rapids, passed the Skee-Ball slides, the Driving Test, the Flick-A-Ball slots and came up against the creepy Jolly Jack Tar in its wooden case.
The damned thing was a museum piece, and had been giving him nightmares ever since he was a baby. Its skin was just plaster, its rictus smile mere painted wood, but it looked leathery and cancerous, like an embalmed corpse. When a ten-pence piece was inserted, it rocked back and forth squealing with laughter while a crackly organ recording of ‘I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’ played. The sailor grinned and eyed him from the side of its head, as if to say I know what you’re up to.
He carried on past banks of beeping, squealing money-stealers and jerky out-of-date video games, to the change booth. He knocked on the scratched, filthy glass, startling Winfrey.
“Fuck off, Toby, you nearly gave me a fucking heart attack,” Winfrey complained, wiping mustard pickle from his T-shirt. He set down his sandwich and stared blearily through the glass. There was a red spider-web tattooed across his forehead and he had several teeth missing, so that at first glance it looked as if he had fallen through a plate-glass window. “What do you want?”
“What time are you cashing up?”
“My shift ends in twenty minutes, but Michelle can’t get here until half-past. You gonna mind the booth for me?”
“What’s it worth?”
“I’ll give you a quid. If you’re gonna hang around, don’t fuck up the machines with plastic.”
“Yeah, all right. I’m waiting for Harry anyway.” He made his way over to a one-arm bandit, watched until Winfrey had turned his back and inserted a coin-shaped piece of plastic into the slot. He waited for the tumblers to trip, then removed it. While he was playing, he checked the railway timetable in his pocket.
He became aware that a gigantic woman was standing beside him. She looked like something from a seaside postcard. She was wearing a red and white spotted cap the size of a Christmas pudding above a shiny purple wig, a billowing green and yellow gown with metal saucepans fixed over breasts like beach balls, union-jack bloomers and striped leggings. She pursed bee-sting lips and batted her false eyelashes at him. Her doughy face was coated in Belisha beacon-coloured make-up that ended in a line across her wobbly chin.
“I hope you’re not trying to cheat the machines, little boy,” she said in a bizarre falsetto.
Toby turned to look at her. “Who are you supposed to be?” He took an involuntary step back.
“I’m the Widow. All the little boys and girls come to see me. Haven’t you been to see me?” Widow Twankey fluttered and simpered, waggling her padded hips. She had come off stage between numbers to have a couple of ciggies and a few slugs of scotch from her hip flask. “Aladdin’s singing his ballad. He’ll drag it out for twenty minutes at least. Thinks someone from the telly will spot him and make him a star. Fat fucking chance.”
Twankey’s voice had dropped to a normal male register now, but still retained an unpleasantly theatrical sibilance. “Show me what you’ve got in your hand.” Pudgy beringed fingers slapped his knuckles. Toby opened his fist to reveal the clear plastic coin.
“Perhaps I should tell old Winfrey what you’re up to, stealing his money?”
“No, don’t.”
“Then come and give your old auntie a kiss.”
“You’re not my auntie.”
“No, but you can fucking pretend for a minute, unless you want Winfrey to call the cops on you.” The Widow came close enough for Toby to smell whisky on her breath. She wetly pursed her lips. Toby grimaced and allowed her to plant a kiss on his cheek. As she did so, she slid her hand over the top of his right thigh and the crotch of his jeans.
“You’ve got some good muscles on you for a young ’un,” she hissed, giving his cock a squeeze. “Big for your age. Come and see matron after the show and I’ll take you backstage if you like. I keep special presents for my favourite boys and girls back there.” The widow gave a slow, exaggerated wink and released him. “Now run along and play.”
Harry ran in with the duffel bag and was holding it high. “I’ve got it,” he said excitedly as the pantomime dame sailed past him.
“For Christ’s sake stop waving it around.” Toby snatched it away and dragged him into the shadows behind the machines, beyond the range of Winfrey’s convex ceiling mirrors. He pulled open the bag and checked its contents.
“It belonged to my brother. Do you know how it works?”
“Of course I know. Give me a minute, will you?”
“I brought you something else as well. It’s at the bottom.”
Toby pulled up a rusty tin and examined the label. It read: GOVERNMENT ISSUE IMPERIAL BRAND RODENT EXTERMINATOR. CAUTION: CONTAINS WARFARIN AND CAUSTIC SODA.
“How old is this?”
“Really old. But it should still work on seagulls. Are we going back on the pier to try it out?”
“No,” said Toby. “We’re never going back on the pier.”
“Never? But I thought we could kill loads of them before we left.”
Toby ignored him. He pocketed the items he needed and passed the bag back to Harry. “Come on.”
Stepping from the shadows, he made his way over to Winfrey’s booth. Winfrey was picking his way through a pile of filthy ten-pound notes that had been softened with over-handling. As soon as he saw the boy he snapped a red rubber band around the bundle and slid it into his bank bag. Winfrey’s takings at the arcade weren’t high, but his lads sold amphetamines around the town and used him to launder the cash for a cut.
“If you want to get off, I’ll cover for you,” said Toby.
“Hang on, I haven’t finished me tea yet.”
Behind them, Harry was banging on the Penny Falls to make the coins slip from the steel shelves. “Oi, you little fucker,” Winfrey shouted, fumbling his way out of the booth.
Toby slipped inside and pulled the lid off the rusty tin Harry had brought along. He thrust his hand into the white powder, emptying as much as he could into Winfrey’s tea, which reeked of whisky. The powder went everywhere, but he managed to blow it off the counter and wipe the rim of the mug before Winfrey came back.
The cashier grabbed his nylon jacket and pulled it over his shoulders. “Your little pal is going to get into trouble and end up inside, like his brother,” he warned. “Fucking rubbish, that whole family.”
As Winfrey drank down his tea, Toby watched blankly, wondering if he could taste any difference. Apparently not. He couldn’t imagine the cashier had any taste buds left, given the amount he drank. Winfrey drained his mug completely, leaving a rime of white powder around his cracked lips.
Toby retreated to the far side of the arcade, keeping one eye on the booth. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, “he can’t even taste rat poison. I put half the pot in.”
Harry hadn’t heard. He had been hypnotised by a two-pound coin that was hovering on the edge of a narrow metal platform in the Coin Cascade machine. Toby craned back at the booth, watching for signs of pain and death.
“Hello Toby.”
He whirled around to find Michelle standing beside him.
“I thought you two were off to the flicks?”
“There’s still time. You’re early.”
“I was looking for you. I know you’re up to something, both of you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t fuck me about. You’re going somewhere. You’re getting out.”
&nb
sp; “Who said that?”
“I hear everything that’s going on. Take me with you.”
“What?”
“Take me with you. I have to leave this place, Toby. I’m going mental. I can’t stay here any longer. I can’t even go home because of my folks.”
He looked at her bare midriff. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m trying to get air on it. My belly button ring went septic. Of course I’m not cold. I’m never cold anymore. I’m fucking pregnant.”
“I didn’t know.”
She looked to the sky, blinking. “That’s a surprise, everyone else in this shithole town does.”
“Who’s the father?”
“What am I, psychic? Maybe I should go and ask Gypsy Rosalee?” She shifted her weight to the other foot and looked at him with desperation in her eyes. “So what do you think? Can I come?”
“I can’t, Michelle. Especially not if you’re pregnant.”
“But you and Harry are going.”
“I’m not taking Harry with me.”
“Does he know that?”
“No. I just decided.”
“But you can’t leave him behind. He worships you. What’s he going to do without you?” She peered over at the booth. “Shit, what’s wrong with Winfrey?”
Toby looked around and saw Winfrey’s face pressed hard against the glass, as if he was trying to force his way through it. He was drooling and spitting, grinding his forehead.
“Stay here a second,” he said, panicked, and ran over to the booth as Harry picked up that something was wrong and followed after him.
Toby knew exactly where to kick the booth door to open it. Winfrey had thrown up over himself, the counter, the till, his paperwork. He must have eaten a couple of pizzas earlier, because everything was red. He clutched feebly at Toby as the boy tore the bank bag from his grip and popped it open. The takings weren’t inside.
“Where’s the money?” Toby asked.
“My guts are killing me.” Winfrey spat again. “Give me a hand outside.”
“The takings. They’re gone.”
“No, I gave ’em to Eddie to bank for me.”
“Eddie? Who’s Eddie?”
“The Widow. Widow Twankey.” He coughed and licked at his lips, wiping up the remains of the powder. Dark blood leaked over his lower teeth, onto his T-shirt. He tried to stand and slipped from his stool. There was a terrible smell. Winfrey had soiled himself.
“What are you doing?” Michelle called. “What’s going on?”
But before she could reach them, Toby had grabbed Harry’s hand and was dragging him away towards the rear exit.
The boys found themselves in the stinking trash-filled alleyway behind the arcade that was meant to be kept clear in case of fire. “Toby, you’re taking me with you, aren’t you?” Harry asked anxiously.
“I can’t, Harry. You’re too young. You’d get us caught.”
“I’m only two years younger than you.”
“I’m sorry, mate.”
“You said I could come with you.”
“Listen.” Toby stopped in the alley and squeezed his eyes shut, not turning around. “You can’t come because I don’t want you with me. You’re just a kid. You’d be a drag on my style, all right? Go on home.”
“But Toby—”
“Look, just fuck off, will you?”
He bit his cheek, waiting and listening, refusing to turn. He heard a whimper like a dog being kicked, followed by footsteps stamping away. Part of his heart went with Harry.
Toby pushed open the unguarded fire door of the Crow’s Nest theatre and climbed the concrete steps in darkness. The show had finished – he had seen the clusters of homebound children drifting past the arcade. The building smelled of fresh-cut wood, cheap scent, mildew. He followed the only light source to another short staircase and found himself in the backstage area. Passing between the flats of Wishee Washee’s laundry house, he entered an artificial forest that owed more to the Sussex Downs than the China steppes.
“There you are, you little scamp,” drawled Widow Twanky. She was sitting on a giant polystyrene toadstool leisurely smoking a cigarette. She wore a hat with a miniature line of union-jack knickers suspended across it. “This is the only time I can bear this fucking place. When the tinies have all fucked off home. It’s the screaming that does my head in. It sounds like pigs being slaughtered in here some afternoons.”
Toby looked about. A backpack sat beside the widow’s stockinged right ankle. The dame was studying the glowing tip of her cigarette. “I suppose you’ve come for your gift?”
“Why are you still in that outfit?”
“Aladdin’s fucking Cinderella in my dressing room. Well, she’s the Emperor of China’s daughter in this production, but if she thinks she’s doing Cinderella at Christmas she’s another thought coming. The bitch couldn’t carry a note in a bucket. Besides . . .” He hitched up his bosom. “. . . I like being in drag. It’s a good place to hide.”
Twankey rose to his feet. “Christ, my knees are fucking killing me. Come on then, let’s go to Ali Baba’s cave.” She sailed back into a darkened area of the stage.
Toby followed and found himself surrounded by plywood treasure chests filled with gold-painted plastic trinkets, as if the genie’s fabled cavern had fallen on hard times and had been reduced to a pound store.
“Winfrey lent us this lot from his arcade. What a load of shit.” The dame plonked herself down on a stack of money-bags marked with cartoon dollar signs. “Come here. Want to see what the Widow’s got for you?” Twankey pulled him close and began fumbling in her red, white and blue bloomers.
Toby pulled the gun from his pocket, took aim and shot the dame in the balls. It wasn’t a very powerful weapon and made hardly any noise, but Twankey released an incredible scream, so Toby made sure to aim the next shot into her mouth, which shut her up.
Her purple wig skewed over her left ear, revealing a sweaty bald pate. She thrashed about on the money-bags, spitting crimson teeth, her pudgy fingers digging into the bloody patch between her legs.
Toby emptied the remainder of the clip into her stomach and face, then snatched up the backpack and checked its contents. The money was inside.
The dame had torn down his union-jack bloomers and was scrabbling blindly at his flopping scarlet cock, as if trying to recover his original identity in his dying moments.
Toby crashed out of the stage door and passed the rear of the arcade. It was raining in hard squalls as he emerged from the end of the alley and dashed across the empty road, heading toward the station. The promenade was completely deserted now, the pier lost behind grey skeins of rain. The only living thing in sight was a single bedraggled donkey on the beach, tethered and facing stupidly into the downpour.
He swung his arm high and threw the gun far into the grey sea.
The train to London was due to leave in just over seven minutes. In London no one would ever find him. There, he could be anyone he wanted to be. He increased his speed but the pavement was dangerously slick, and he did not want to risk a fall. The town would try any old trick to keep him back.
He was getting soaked. Ahead he could just make out an odd figure approaching through the downpour. There was something about it he recognised. It was short and stumpy, and was walking as if it had broken its legs. At first he thought Harry had come after him. But as its appearance became more defined, Toby’s thumping heart rose in his chest.
The thing crystallised from within the hammering clouds of rain, and he saw now that it was a truncated sailor the size of a child, dressed in navy blue, its hands flapping uselessly at its sides, its knees rising and falling like a puppet’s. The peals of recorded laughter grew louder as it approached. It rocked from side to side and rolled its eyes.
The awful Edwardian seaside song warped and wavered through blasts of wind as it ran faster towards him. The music was distorted and sinister now, less a celebration of holiday pleasure than a Satanists’ chant.<
br />
The Jolly Jack Tar slammed into Toby, winding him, sending him to his knees. As it threw its arms around his neck, he felt wood through coarse material, then realised that its wooden limbs were held together with wires that were cutting into his skin. He could feel them in its fingertips as it tightened its embrace, digging into his flesh.
The dummy’s eyes rolled and its grin widened. It rocked back and forth, knocking against Toby’s head with a look that said I told you so. It was a museum piece, a doll, nothing more, but how like a living thing it was, filled with ancient sea-wisdom, preserved and trapped in a glass case for the amusement of others.
Toby rolled over onto his side, the dummy clinging tight, then tighter still. He dropped the bag as its death-grip stopped his breath and the wires from its wooden fingers jabbed into his chest, as if trying to worm their way to his heart.
It bit him with a strangely flat wooden mouth, but bit down hard and would not be dislodged, and he knew that he was destined to fall and remain here beside the seaside, beside the sea.
His last clear sight was across the desolate beach to the tethered donkey standing stoically in the rain, doomed like the rest of them – in the arcades and ticket booths, in the filthy glass cases and crumbling beach shelters – to live out its days at the end of the land.
MARK SAMUELS
Losenef Express
MARK SAMUELS IS THE author of four short story collections: The White Hands and Other Weird Tales, Black Altars, Glyphotech & Other Macabre Processes and The Man Who Collected Machen (recently reprinted by Chômu Press), as well as the short novel The Face of Twilight. “Losnef Express” is the sixth of his tales to have appeared in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror.
About the story, Samuels explains: “I think most fans of horror will recognise at once the late, great American author upon whom the central character of this tale is based (or, perhaps more accurately, filtered through my imagination).
We never met, although I did once catch sight of him across a room at the 1988 World Fantasy Convention in London and, prompted by curiosity, took a hasty, half-obscured photograph.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 22 Page 41
