by Gary McMahon
Fuck. Maybe I couldn’t forget about it after all.
I shrugged on a jacket and left the house, went looking for a pub to call my local before I had to head in to work.
THREE
Working Stiffs
I’d been at the warehouse for over two years. It was easy work; I could do it without thinking, just get into the zone and let my mind go blank. I couldn’t even remember why I’d taken the forklift certification course all those years ago, in my early twenties, but it turned out to be a wise move. Perhaps I had a premonition that this was the kind of job I’d end up in during my late thirties, lost and lonely and trying to make ends meet.
But I enjoyed the casual banter with my workmates, the constant smell of diesel oil from the trucks that came and went, and the sense of impermanence, of dislocation, that seemed such a big part of working at a place where goods were simply stored for a while before being moved on to somewhere else. It seemed symbolic of something much larger in my own life, something I didn’t want to examine too closely but was happy to look at from a distance.
The warehouse was quiet that night. There wasn’t exactly a lot of work to do, despite Evans’s panic about being a man down. I read a novel while I waited for the trucks to come in, and when they did, I unloaded quickly and quietly, just working through my hours until home time.
It was during one of these breaks that Evans approached me.
“Hi, Adam.”
I continued reading. I hate it when people think they can interrupt you just because you’re reading a book, as if it isn’t important, and they can break your concentration without fear of reprimand.
He stood there, waiting for me to acknowledge him. The only reason I did was because he was my boss, and I didn’t have the energy to start something anyway.
“Hi, Evans.” I put down the book—The Life of Pi. I was enjoying it so far, and didn’t really want to break off before the end of a chapter.
“Sorry…” He nodded toward the book, as if that meant something.
I said nothing.
“Thanks again for coming in this evening. I didn’t know who else to ask. We have a lot of men down with that flu, you know, the new one that’s doing the rounds.”
I nodded. “It’s okay. I had nothing planned, anyway.”
“How’s the new place?” He sat down next to me on the loading bay, moving in just a little too close and invading my personal space. That’s something else I don’t like. It makes me twitchy.
That was when I realized that he probably did find me attractive. I’d thought of it only as a joke in the past, mocking him without really understanding how he might feel. The proximity of his body to mine, the way his conversation seemed like an excuse to get next to me, the fact that he never seemed to say what he really meant…it all added up, and I felt as if I’d been punched in the sternum. I didn’t need this. My life was complicated enough.
“It’s okay,” I said, remembering that he’d asked me a question. “It’s nothing flash, just a basic house on a basic street in the suburbs. It’ll do for now.” I picked up my book and started to thumb through the opening pages, trying to give the hint that I’d rather be left alone.
He didn’t take it. “Has Jess seen the place yet? I bet she’s excited.”
“No…she won’t see it until Friday night, when I pick her up for the weekend.” I glanced at him. “I’m still okay for taking the day off, yeah?”
He nodded, too vigorously. Like an eager child.
Shit…I really didn’t need this hassle.
His sexual orientation didn’t bother me. It was more to do with the fact that he was attracted to me rather than someone else. I’d feel the same way if it were a woman—in fact, there was a woman I’d been keeping at bay for quite some time now. Her name was Carole. She worked in the office. We’d been out a couple of times, came close to going to bed once, but I backed away before things got too heavy. Whenever we spoke—and it happened regularly, because she dealt with holidays and payroll—the atmosphere between us was slightly strained, as if that failed coupling hung between us.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like Carole—I did; she was funny, pretty, and I enjoyed her company. My problem was that I didn’t want to let anyone get close to me, not yet. I just wasn’t ready for that kind of leap of faith.
So the last thing I needed was Evans mooning at me over the dock leveller. This additional emotional problem was something I didn’t want to confront.
Thankfully, I heard the familiar sound of a truck backing in toward the warehouse. The reverse alarm was sounding, the engine was gunning, and I could hear what I assumed was the driver shouting instructions to someone outside.
“Gotta go,” I said, standing. “I have one coming in to unload.” I pulled on my battered leather work gloves and headed for the forklift, glad to be out of that odd little moment.
Behind me, Evans didn’t move. I glanced at him as I climbed into the forklift. He’d picked up my paperback, was reading from the point where I’d placed my tattered bookmark. There was a weird little smile on his face, as if he knew something nobody else did. I wasn’t sure I liked that; it seemed like a minor violation, but I wasn’t sure why.
I spent the rest of the shift trying to look a lot busier than I actually was. I avoided conversation with anyone else, and was grateful that Evans didn’t interrupt me again.
At last I was able to switch off the forklift, get my stuff from my locker, and go home. I was tired. Coming here had been a mistake. I didn’t need the money that badly, and I seemed to have inadvertently encouraged Evans in some way.
Jesus, why was everything always so fucking complicated?
I washed my hands and face at the sink in the changing room. There was a shower, but I didn’t feel comfortable using it this evening. What if Evans walked in and saw me naked?
Shit…why was I so concerned about this? I was probably reading the situation wrong, anyway.
I changed out of my overalls and into my street clothes, feeling snug in the padded jacket Jess had bought for me on my last birthday. I suspected her mother had chosen the jacket, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that my girl had given it to me, all wrapped up by her own fair hand (that was obvious from the mess she’d made of it) and presented with love.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, opening it quickly. I almost walked right into Carole on the way out but managed to stop moving just before a collision occurred.
“Ah…I’m sorry. I should look where I’m going.”
She turned, smiled. Her blonde hair was piled up into one of those top knots a lot of women wear for work, and stray strands had fallen loose, hanging over her eyes like cobwebs. She stuck out her bottom lip and blew the strands aside, but didn’t rearrange her hair to conceal them.
“Yes, you should. I didn’t know you were working tonight.”
“Just standing in for someone.” I flexed my fingers; my mouth was dry.
“That idiot Jacko?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “That idiot Jacko,” I agreed. “How come you’re working the late shift? I didn’t think you prissy office types even knew the place was open this late.”
She shook her head, pursed her lips. Her eyes were level with mine; she was tallish for a woman, certainly above average height. She really was pretty. “Some payroll data needed collating in a hurry, and I need some extra cash.”
We walked together along the corridor toward the main entrance. The small talk dried up and we fell into a comfortable silence, synchronizing our steps unconsciously. To be honest, I’d have preferred an uncomfortable silence. I didn’t want to feel this relaxed in her presence. There was the danger that it might lead to something I’d already decided I didn’t want to happen. I grasped for the previous awkward emotions I usually experienced when she was around, but for some reason I failed to find them.
“Oh, how’s the new place? You settled in yet?” She stopped and turned to face me at the double doors.
Her small oval face was pale and her head tilted slowly to one side.
I glanced outside at the darkness. It had started to rain, a light drizzle. I knew Carole didn’t own a car. She lived alone, not too far away, and would be planning to walk home. In the rain.
Shit.
“Yeah, thanks. I moved in yesterday, and everything seems fine. It isn’t paradise, but it’s a place…you know.”
“I know.” She smiled at me and I hated myself for being drawn to her. I recalled my thoughts when Evans had been sitting next to me, how they’d reinforced the notion that I wanted to be alone, just by myself, with no significant other and their baggage to weigh me down.
I looked again at the rain. It was heavier now.
Double shit.
“You need a lift home?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I certainly couldn’t take them back.
Stupid shit.
“That’d be nice, thanks. I don’t much fancy walking home in this weather.”
She was wearing a faded, oversized gray raincoat over a pair of distressed jeans and a tight black wool sweater with a frayed hem, and somehow she managed to make the ensemble look chic. She had a smidgen of that thing the best fashion models possess: the ability to inhabit clothing, to make any garment look good at any time of day or night. Hell, she’d probably make a potato sack look like haute couture.
Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell she was doing working here, in some off-the-grid warehouse in a shabby little industrial zone at the blunt edge of nowhere. Then I realized that she might have wondered the same thing about me.
We ran across the car park to my car, trying to stay as dry as we could. Carole pulled the collar of her raincoat up over her head. I just tucked my head down as far as I could and hoped for the best. Once we were in the car, I switched on the heating system to clear the condensation, that thin skin of our commingled breath, which appeared immediately on the inside of the windows.
“It won’t take long,” I said, meaning the time it would take to clear the windows, but feeling like the sentence had a host of other, more complex meanings that might fall apart if I examined them too closely.
Carole said nothing; she just stared out at the rain, through the patches that appeared as the hot air did its job. She was toying with her hair. The rain had messed it up.
Once I could see clearly through the windshield, I slipped the car into gear and reversed out of the parking spot, then headed for the exit to the warehouse compound. The industrial estate was empty at this time of night. I watched the empty prefabs and steel frame buildings as we passed them on the service road, unnerved by the stillness.
When we’d left the compound, she spoke again. “So, where is this new place of yours? You never did say.”
I realized I hadn’t told her, that, in fact, I’d hardly seen her since I’d decided to move in. I glanced sideways, but she was still staring straight ahead. I couldn’t read her expression. She was a ghost, sitting there beside me, a pale enigma in a too-large raincoat, whose intentions were painfully unclear.
I told her the address.
“Really?” At last she turned toward me. Stray light from a streetlamp was caught, and held, in her eyes. “Wow, that’s…isn’t it a bit creepy?” The expression on her face was unreadable, but that wasn’t unusual: I often found women unreadable. Maybe that’s why my marriage had gone down the pan.
“What do you mean?” I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but it was difficult not to keep looking at her, to see what she was saying with those light-filled eyes.
“Come on, you know what I mean. Little Miss Moffat?”
I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”
She sighed. “Don’t tell me you don’t know—even you can’t be that out of touch. Little Miss Moffat and the Radiant Children. You know; the murders.” The emphasis she placed on the last word was almost comical.
What murders?
“Those poor kids.”
Which poor kids?
“Honestly, I have no idea what you’re prattling on about. This means nothing to me…Little Miss Muffet? The chick in the nursery rhyme with the tuffet, whatever the hell that is?”
She laughed, but it seemed forced, unnatural. “No, not Muffet: Moffat. Little Miss Moffat.”
“And what’s this about radiation kids?”
“Radiant kids. The Radiant Children, actually, to give them their proper name—at least the one she gave them.”
“I’m none the wiser.” And in that moment, I really didn’t want to be. I wanted to stay dumb, to remain uninformed. Ignorance could be bliss, that’s what they said, and here was one example where that particular homily might ring true.
“Katherine Moffat. She lived on that street. Killed a bunch of kids over a period of about a decade, one every Halloween. Or so they say.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I struggled to keep my eyes open, to keep the world steady and in my sights. “She murdered children? On my street?”
“I thought you’d know…it made the national papers. A big story, a couple of years ago when they dug up her cellar and found all the bones.” She stopped. The silence that settled between us felt like a physical presence. If I turned and looked in its direction, I feared I might see it, squatting there, nestled at her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” said Carole, finally. “I really did think you knew.”
“It’s okay. I’m a little out of touch these days. Well, not just these days. I can’t even remember the last time I read a newspaper, or watched the news. I get kind of…insular.” I stopped speaking, not knowing how to continue. I didn’t want to tell her about my depressive episodes, the drinking spells, the dark times when I’d stood punching a wall for several hours, until I shredded the skin of my knuckles, fractured a bone.
“She’s dead,” said Carole, as if that cleared up everything, all the badness in the world. “That’s how they stopped her. Well, how she stopped, anyway. She died, so she didn’t get to kill any more kids. They say she was ill, she had cancer. So she killed herself.”
“Well,” I said. “That’s okay, then.” But was it? Was it really, or was it simply another horror to be piled on top of the rest?
I pulled up outside Carole’s block. She had the flat on the top floor, the one whose windows looked down at the street.
“Thanks, Adam.” She placed her hand on my knee. I resisted the urge to flinch.
“That’s okay. It’s stopped raining now. You won’t get wet getting out of the car.” Whatever I said felt so prosaic, as if I were trying to build a barrier of words between us, a linguistic wall that she couldn’t break down.
“Hey, how about I come over some time? To your new place. I could cook you a nice meal, you supply the wine. It might be fun. Remember that? Fun? It’s what people used to have before we all grew up and got so fucking serious.” She smiled at me, and this time it was genuine.
“Maybe that isn’t such a good idea.”
She pursed her lips, drew them back from her teeth. “Is that why you never called? After the last time we saw each other? Because it wouldn’t be a good idea to start seeing me?”
I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and then raised it again. When I opened my eyes, she was still smiling. She didn’t want to have a fight; all she needed was answers. I couldn’t blame her for that. “It isn’t you. Not just you, anyway. I just feel that it wouldn’t be the right time to start seeing anybody. I’m not in the right headspace, if that doesn’t sound too poncey.”
She laughed; a small sound that soon grew to fill the car. “It sounds very poncey, mate.”
Then I laughed, too. I couldn’t help myself. It had sounded so weak, like something somebody in a film might say. “Jesus, when did I get so lame?”
“I hate to shatter your illusions, but you’ve been that way ever since I’ve known you.” She reached out and slapped me in the solar plexus, her hand staying there just a fraction too lon
g. “So…dinner?”
I nodded, smiling. “Yeah, dinner. That would be good, I think. How about tomorrow night, so I don’t have time to change my mind?”
She nodded, slapped me again, this time on the shoulder, like an old pal, opened the door, and got out of the car. When she slammed the door, I was just about to call her back, to ask her to come home with me, to take her in my arms and ask her what the hell she saw in me anyway, but be grateful, oh so fucking grateful, for whatever her answer might be.
Relieved that the moment had passed me by, I pulled away from the curb and headed for home.
I didn’t give much further thought to the fact that a murderess had once lived on my street.
FOUR
The Watcher
I’m not sure what made me wake up in the early hours of the morning—some sound outside, or even inside the house—but when I opened my eyes, it was still dark. I groped for the alarm clock, which was for some reason turned with its face away from me, and discovered that it was 3:05 A.M.
Muttering wordlessly, I turned back over and tried to get back to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, my mind kept buzzing. I’d suffered from insomnia in the past, but not for a long time.
“Shit.” I sat up in bed, fully awake now, feeling as if my brain had decided that it was morning and I should be up and about. I’m not sure why, but I crossed the room in the darkness and went to the window. I opened the curtains an inch or two and looked outside, at the street on which I now lived.
Upon first inspection, the street was quiet and empty, but then I noticed someone standing on the footpath outside the house next door. From this angle, I couldn’t see the house itself, just the figure standing there, immobile, and facing it.
The figure was short and dumpy and wearing black clothes: black shoes, black trousers, and a long black overcoat. Even her hair was jet black—by this time I’d deduced the figure was female.
At a loose end now that I was awake, I stood there for a while to see what she would do. The girl didn’t move. She just stood there, staring, as if she was unable to take her eyes off the old, abandoned house next door.
