Dead Bad Things
Page 32
"They're playing catch," I said.
"What?" Mrs Croft was spellbound, even though she was unable to see what I could; she was still able to sense the fun and games beyond the window.
"A game: Catch. It. Tiggy. Tag. One child chasing the runners; he has to catch them all before he is officially 'off', and then another takes his place."
Tears shone in her eyes, and only then did I realise the full extent of what was happening.
The back door suddenly rattled in its frame as something outside clattered against the sturdy timber. I heard the scratching of fingernails on wood, the short sharp sound of a foot kicking the bottom of the door. Mrs Croft tensed against me, her body unconsciously shifting so that mine was in front, protecting her.
"This is what happened last time," said Mrs Croft, panic giving a shrill edge to her voice. "They're trying to get inside."
"No," I said, taking her old, creased hand in mine. "You've misunderstood. They're inviting you outside to play."
She looked at me then, staring right into my eyes, and beyond, deep inside, to the place where all our childhoods collide. And she was a girl again, ten years old and eager to run. Keen to play.
I unbolted the door and stepped aside, allowing her to pass through; she smiled as she sidled past, and once again I felt her hand in mine – this time it was tiny, smooth and unlined.
I watched them play until well after dusk, when the moon and the stars lit their way. Not long after they began to fade, shrinking in on themselves like dying flowers as night fell and the time to play was done. I scanned the edges of the spectral playground, checking the boundary for telltale signs: mobile shadows, coiled, bulky shapes that seemed more solid than the rest of the dark. I saw nothing. This time the darkness was natural.
Mrs Croft was sitting once more at the kitchen table when I finally turned away from the window, her eyes closed and a smile on her slack face. Her wrinkled hands rested on the tabletop, palms flat, fingers splayed. The children had come to claim her, to lead her into the final playtime, and she had responded only with my help. It's what I try to do: I lend a hand; I aid in the crossing from one state to another, pointing out which road must be taken. There are, of course, other necessary aspects to what I do, but this is my primary task, my modus operandi.
I am a simple guide, and nothing more.
When I left School Cottage that night it was with a light heart. My work was done and another good soul had been sent on its way, along the correct route and at the allotted time. Sometimes it isn't so easy. But this time Mrs Croft chased happily after the runners; and when she finally catches them she will be home. I can only hope that she doesn't pause in the chase, or run in the wrong direction.
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Pilgrim's progress
An Angry Robot paperback original 2011
1
Copyright © Gary McMahon 2011
Gary McMahon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-0-87566-126-5
EBook ISBN: 978-0-87566-128-9
Set in Meridien by THL Design.
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.