Yes, I think to myself, as I throw in the onions and chopped coloured peppers. He looks Italian. I wonder what his name is.
~*~
I’ve been seeing things as long as I can remember. When I was a kid I used to go to the park with my sister and some of the other kids from the street. We would run across the old stone bridge to the small clearing in the centre of an expanse of dry, yellow grass, and climb onto the roundabout. James, who was a good deal older and wiser than me (and at least 5ft tall), used to spin us round and round, faster and faster, while we all clung desperately to the red and green wagon wheel, hair whipping madly past us. James used his full strength to push us, and I almost wet myself with the excitement, my scrawny fingers tightly gripping the iron tentacles of the metallic wheel. I was five.
That was the first time I ever saw anything. As the wheel spun round, I saw the blurred face of a young girl in the distance. Tracey couldn’t see the little girl sitting on the swing. Only I could.
The girl was a small, insignificant thing; with carroty curls, vacant, grey eyes peeking out from a pale, sallow, face; orphan Annie in a perverse world. She was swinging slowly, not too high, not too fast, chubby, legs kicking forward and pushing back to give momentum, but not enough force to get her truly high.
James pulled the roundabout to a halt, heels digging into the gravel, using all of his strength to slow us down. Dizzy and exhilarated, we staggered off, collapsing on the damp grass in various heaps of disarray and tangled limbs. Tracey’s ragged breath echoed mine. I looked over at the swing to see the strange girl in the pink dress, but she was gone.
Tracey said I was lying. They always said I was lying.
~*~
I’m not sure of much, but there are a few things that I do know. God is a man (I’m convinced he has to be a man, because only a man could make such an almighty balls up of this twirling ball of green and blue, spinning in the sky). Junk food will make you fat, and Elvis is alive and living in Vegas. (Though I don’t know if he actually gets any work as an impersonator.)
Oh, and kids lie. It’s important that you understand this.
That’s one truth that I found out the hard way.
When I told Mom about the girl on the swing, and how she looked so lonely and I wanted to play with her, Mom told me off. Told me I wasn’t to play with strangers, even if they were children. But she wasn’t a stranger. I called her Annie, though I didn’t know her real name. I knew her from the neighbourhood. She lived on the street at back of ours, so I told Mom that.
Don’t be silly, don’t lie, she said.
But...
But nothing. You have a stupid imagination.
How can imagination be stupid? I thought. What is imagination? I don’t know that word.
Then I saw the picture of the girl in the newspaper. Not sitting on the swing, but in a back garden. I knew it was my friend from the swing and I told Mom so.
The girl didn’t look lonely in the photo. She looked happy. Her curls, red as sunset, fresh cheeks, wearing a new pink dress with flowers on it, similar to the one she wore on the swing. Her skin was pretty and pink, like the dress. I knew those colours were there because I’d seen them in the photo, but all I could see in my head were her curls, writhing on her shoulders; angry snakes surrounding an ashen face.
She looked better in the photo.
In the photo she was smiling. Her smile was healthy and bright, reaching out to me. She could’ve been my friend. At least, if she wasn’t dead, and slightly yellow, I thought.
~*~
So, why should you believe me? Good point, valid question. You know what it’s like. You get so tired of trying to tell the truth that it’s impossible to tell the difference anymore. No one will believe you anyway. Not you, not a mere child. So you bottle it up, store it inside and it bubbles and bubbles, champagne pushing against the cork of its prison, ‘til finally, it bursts through in a jumbled mess and you’re left drowning in it, and no one will believe you now because it’s all a mess.
So when I told people, they didn’t believe me, just as you don’t. I’m so sick and tired of people not believing me. If I had proof it’d be okay.
~*~
I used to have nightmares about the roundabout. I dreamt that the red and green top would spin wildly, a bottle cap unscrewing, flinging its passengers to the ground, breaking their small bodies. Decapitating them with its spinning top.
~*~
Now I dream about the carousel and Alvaro, the Bisto kid. He told me he was half Italian, half Spanish, an eclectic mix of passion and fire, flamenco and food.
I love paella. Paella screams of the sea; salt water and the bitter tang of mussels, crunchy when you taste the shell. Paella reminds me of being abroad. Sitting in the sun, soaking up the rays and the warmth of the sun bouncing on your flesh; the warm breeze tingling on your skin as you look across the wide expanse of the waiting sea, crystal waters painted cerulean blue.
I love the colour blue. It calms me. Did you know there are at least ten words to describe the word ‘blue’?
Alvaro smells of Paella; he smells of dead fish.
~*~
The park holds many fond memories for me, others not so fond. I remember how we used to sing. Now Tracey could sing, and would make music teachers cry out with relief, as opposed to the pain or wincing that normally followed my signing. I thought at the time that I was Tina Turner but without the bad hair. I used to strut my stuff across the living room dance floor or on the stage in the park we had constructed from old crates and cardboard boxes. I’d be squealing at the top of my lungs, copying the moves and the wild gyrations of Miss T and I didn’t really think about it, or about the man who used to stare at me. So, there I was in the park, bopping for all I was worth as Miss T delivering a stunning rendition of What’s Love got to do with it, before switching to Madonna’s Like a Virgin. I was belting it out, a real Diva, complete with backing singers, when my performance was interrupted by the need for a pee. I carefully inched down the broken crates, trying not to catch my skirt on a splinter, leaving my entourage behind to go in search of a private spot to go the toilet.
In the park, there was a cluster of overgrown bushes, trees and weeds just on the edge of the forest. It was the perfect place for privacy; secluded and dark. There was just enough crawl space for me to get through until I hit the small clearing in the centre. Crawling through was an in exercise in pain, twigs crunching under my knees, grabbing at my hair, pulling at my skirt, and scratching my bare legs. But we kids never seemed to mind.
Once I was inside, it was a whole different world – a tantalising jungle to make Indiana Jones proud, full of hidden tunnels and secret corridors. We used to use the clearing to build campfires, hide out from our enemies and make mud pies – survival rations at best. This was our special place, special and perfect. It was also a very convenient place to go to the loo in times of desperation. And I was desperate for a pee.
I’d left it too long as usual, not noticing that the dancing had reacted with my bladder. Finally crouched down, hoisting up my skirt and pulling my knickers down. It was hard to get started, but at last I did what nature intended.
When I was done, I quickly stood up, pulled up my knickers, straightening my skirt and stretching to get rid of the cricks I got while crouching.
That was when I turned towards the jungle doorway and saw the girl from the swing, staring straight at me, dried blood matting her red curls, the two colours blending together in perfect symmetry.
The image still lives with me.
I see the man that stands behind her, waiting patiently, waiting because he knows that she can’t escape, and he will have his trophy of fresh skin, his eyes awash with a feral hunger. I can hear her screams and they echo mine, as his twisted fingers reach out for us, and she stares at me, willing me to see. To understand.
I see my death in her eyes. The knowledge of it seeps out. It blinds and veils until it’s all I can see. My death. Her death.
Fear explodes in my chest, my body reacting before the thought has registered and my mind has had a chance to catch up. Run . . . Run!
I stumble forward, scuttling on all fours, the fresh dirt, remnants of her grave creeping under my fingernails, burrowing deep inside, staining my skin with its poison. All I can do is squeal like a piglet, grunt, squirm and heave as I scurry through the tight gap and into the light beyond; to the wagon wheel and the crates and Tracey, who’s wondering where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing.
And I wanted to tell Tracey where I’d gone, but I was so afraid. I wanted to tell her about seeing the dead girl, the man with stale breath and how I peed on the girl’s grave, but I’m afraid. For the first time in my life I’m really afraid; not the fear of skulking shadows in my bedroom at night, or fear of the coat that hangs on my door and becomes some unknown man in the dark.
This time the terror is real. The man is real.
~*~
I can’t deny him anymore. He visits me, I think, because he knows this, and he knows I can help him. I couldn’t help Annie, but with Alvaro I have a fighting chance. I still hope that there will be at least one child that I can save. And he knows that I’m so tired of fighting the things I see. And he looks so much like the child I could’ve had if I were able.
The onions make me cry. I can feel the wet trickle of tears roll down my cheek and I start to sniffle, so I grab a kitchen towel and blow my nose to clear it. I keep stirring and stirring the wok for tonight’s dinner party, breathing in the scent of the rich sauce.
From the smell of him I’d say he’s been dead about two weeks but I can’t be sure. It feels like he’s been watching me for years. At least I think so, because that’s how long I’ve been cooking spicy food. It makes Alvaro feel at home. And the garlic hides the smell.
Lately, the smell’s getting worse. It’s a wonder that Mike can’t smell it too. But then again, it’s a wonder Mike sees, smells or hears anything. He’s so blind at times. I try so hard to cook things that Mike will enjoy, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy anything anymore, not even these stupid dinner parties.
I acknowledge Alvaro watching me, because I have work to do and I want him out of the way. For just a moment it’s so cold and I have to shut the window.
“Please, Alvaro, stop watching”, I say, “I’ll help you but I have to serve dinner first. Mike has friends outside and they want dinner. Please”.
Obligingly, Alvaro disappears and I think at last, a kid who listens. That’s why Mike decided we weren’t going to have kids. They don’t listen.
With Alvaro gone, I can concentrate on the mechanics of the meal; draining the pasta, one last stir of the simmering sauce, tossing the salad in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. If nothing else, I’ve become more adventurous in the kitchen since he showed up. I suppose you have to take the rough with the smooth: visions of dead people versus panache in the kitchen.
Eventually dinner is ready, and I can breathe a sigh of relief. The food is perched in its perfect plate or bowl, waiting to be served.
So I take off my apron, adjust my skirt and look at my startled, tired face reflected on the gleaming counter top. I share Alvaro’s sad smile, and deep brown eyes. Only he’s in slightly worse shape than me.
I smile. It’s my best one you know. My “hi, how are you, glad you could come, isn’t life perfect?” smile. It goes wonderfully with my perfect fucking dinner.
There will not be death or pain in my dining room.
My perfect smile escorts me from the kitchen to the dining room.
I carry the first of the dishes through to where Mike, Angela and Alan are chatting over a bottle of wine, seated round the table, with Mike at the head of course. Carefully, so as not to spill, I place the pasta dish in the centre and nod towards the bottle of Soave that Mike is pouring, indicating (I hope) that the least he can do is pour me a large one. God knows I need it.
Leaving him to that difficult task I go back into the kitchen and return a couple of minutes later with the rest of the food. We start to eat and both Angela and Alan make a few polite noises about how good it is, but all I can do is stare at Mike’s gaping jaw as he shovels impossibly large spoonfuls of food into his mouth, pasta falling out as he opens to force more in. I’m so fixated by this surreal image that I can’t hear what Alan is saying. I shake myself awake and make a point of listening to Alan’s inane chatter. Verbal diarrhoea, I call it. Angela and Alan, the perfectly matched couple with perfectly matched names. Not like Susan and Mike.
Suddenly I want to scream but close my lips tightly to suppress the urge. I watch Mike scoop even more food into his cavernous maw and it sickens me. He sickens me. What makes it worse is the syrupy blood, dripping slowly down onto his plate from above, blending skilfully with the ripe tomatoes and pasta. Alvaro is leaning on Mike’s shoulder, salivating as Mike continues to eat, oblivious, as he blindly consumes parts of the dead boy.
Well, at least I know someone likes my food.
~*~
After Mom hit me, I swore I would never tell anybody about the things I see. Annie disappeared after a while. I think, to be honest, she got bored of hanging around, of trying to reach me, but I could never really hear her voice or understand her. The more the children visited me, the better I became at understanding what they were saying, but I never knew why they chose me. I still don’t. And I still wake up in a cold sweat at night, to find that there is a child hovering over me, beckoning. I still see Annie’s face in my mind though, and she haunts me now, more than she did when I was a child. They never found her body. I never told them where to find her.
~*~
Alvaro is looking rather fetid now, and he is really starting to stink. I’ve bought some of those clever air fresheners, the ones you plug in or stick to the wall that release intermittent bursts of fragrance, everything from citrus, or freesia to pine or lavender. They’re everywhere. In the kitchen, the living room, the guest room, the bedroom, the stairs and the bathroom. Everywhere. But all I can smell is Alvaro. The lavender can’t bury him. He’s creeping up through my nostrils into my head and I want to gag on the odour.
Mike is beginning to worry about me. I can see him looking at me when he thinks I’m somewhere else, but I’m not, I’m here, waiting for him to call the doctor again. When he thinks I’m elsewhere he reaches for the phonebook and I start to talk to him in the hope he’ll hold back. If he calls the doctor before I help Alvaro I’ll never rest, never be free to sleep. I can’t think. I don’t know how to help him. I’m so tired, so bloody tired.
~*~
Last night I dreamt of Annie. She was riding the roundabout, and this time it was her plump fingers that held onto the cold frame for dear life. This time in the dream I can almost hear her. I’ve grown better at understanding the children. I think I’ve already mentioned that before, haven’t I? That it’s becoming easier, louder even.
They reckon that kids can see things that adults can’t, in the same way that a cat or a dog hears noises we can’t hear, and they meow or growl at an empty space, or a corner because they know that there is someone or something. I don’t think it’s true though. It isn’t just pets or kids that see things. I hear things too, when they want me to hear.
The older I get the more things I see. It didn’t lessen as I left my childhood behind, as I hoped it would. It increased, which doesn’t make sense if what they say is true.
Sometimes it’s too much. I’m a vacuum of sizzling noise, thoughts, feelings; the buzz of a thousand tiny voices running round my brain like insects, scurrying left, right, all over the place. And sometimes those voices have faces, or bodies; bleeding battered bodies.
~*~
I’m dreaming again. Of Annie. I
see the man that stands behind her. I can hear Annie’s screams and they echo mine, as his twisted fingers reach out for us, and she stares at me, willing me to see. To understand.
I see her battered body, covered in the dirt, the calloused hands that ram her limp frame into the soil, scooping dirt over her. I can remember that dirt, soft and wriggling with worms, seeping into my fingernails, sneaking up my skin. And the feel of it will never leave me.
~*~
Mike is in the living room, reading the paper and I’m in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when the electricity cuts out. For a minute or two the fear engulfs me, the creature inside my chest beating its puny fists against my rib cage, until Mike calls in that he’s going to check the fuse box and it’ll be al l right. So I start to calm down. It’s okay. There is nothing here in the dark that isn’t here when the lights are on. Besides, if the power comes on quickly enough, the air fresheners will still work. I will still be able to breathe in and smell lavender, not dirt, or blood, or maggots, wriggling deep inside me.
There is a brief flicker, the lights flash on and Alvaro is here again.
This time he’s not alone.
Annie? I think.
It’s hard to tell; she looks a lot worse than before, like the dirt is eating her up inside, adding to the decay. In a dreadful way, I’m pleased to see her and I realise I’ve missed her. A hint of the grime from her tomb still clings to the dried blood that mars the perfection of her curls. Alvaro stands next to her.
Alvaro is looking inside the saucepan, almost on tiptoe, straining to see what Mike will be having for dinner. Every time I cook he shows up, as if he misses food in all its guises. Standing next to Annie, it occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve seen more than one child at once, apart from the time I went to the German markets last Christmas. They had food stands and beer stalls, intricate souvenirs for sale and lots of wonderful things to buy; gingerbread, chocolate covered fruit, spicy sausages and bottles of spiced wine. Alvaro would’ve liked it. I used to love going to the market until the day they brought the carousel. And I saw children riding the gilded horses side by side.
Hauntings Page 9
