by Lee Moan
“Why wasn’t he restrained?” I cried out, trying to force the man’s arm down.
“He was,” one of the medics answered. “He broke free!”
Before I could say anymore, the man’s muscled arm snapped free of my grip and his fingers closes around my throat. He pulled himself close to me, so close that I could see the torn optic nerves lying in the hollows of his eyes like fat, glistening worms. His breath stank of stale alcohol and death.
“Listen to me!” he barked. “Do not go with them. They are not the saviours they make themselves out to be. You must listen, all of you!”
Stunned, I could only ask, “What are you talking about?”
“He’s in shock!” one of the nurses shouted. “Get him down.”
They were trying to pull him off me, but his grip was like a vice.
“They will offer you a home in their world,” he was saying, spittle flying from his lips, “and they will tell you it is a place of sanctuary from the day of judgement which comes to us all. But I have looked in their eyes and seen their world and it is dark--so dark--devoid of all light or life.”
I was trying to pry his fingers from my throat but they were slick with his own blood.
“And you will be at their mercy there,” he railed, “and they will take everything from you that makes you human. Heed my warning, I implore you: Do not go with those men!”
Just as I was about to pass out from his suffocating grip, his fingers relaxed and he fell back onto the gurney with a shriek of anguish. I stumbled backwards, thumping into a trolley loaded with instruments, gasping for breath.
Slowly, painfully, they forced his thrashing limbs back onto the gurney and managed to strap them down again, one by one. Once contained, the man continued to howl, but in a sobbing fashion. They wheeled him down the corridor and out of sight.
Nurse Andrews came over to me, dabbing at the bloody smears around my neck. “Are you okay, Ben?”
I nodded. The incident had left my tired mind reeling. It almost felt like the remnants of a dream, but the old man’s blood on my hands told me that it was very real.
“What the hell happened to him?” I asked.
“They found him wandering the streets downtown,” she said.
“What happened to his eyes?”
A grimace passed over Nurse Andrews’ face. “His eyes? He tore them out himself.”
***
When I got home that night, Sally was asleep on the sofa. I took a beer from the refrigerator and sat down next to her, happy to listen to the gentle rhythm of her breathing.
After a while, she must have sensed my presence and she reached out for me. The feel of her hand closing over mine filled me with much needed warmth. In a flat monotone, I explained to her what had happened at the hospital. She listened patiently, a sad expression on her beautiful face, and when I finished she said nothing, just took my hand in hers and kissed my fingers.
“What the hell is happening, Sal?” I said.
She offered no answer. And I never expected one.
***
I told Sally to go up to bed, promising her that I would soon join her. My mind was still racing, and I needed to drink my beer, wind down. Lying there on the sofa in the dead of night, the old man’s words ran through my head on a continuous loop.
Was the old man simply insane? Or was his rant the result of close contact with those strange, unearthly figures?
What was it these people were offering that could make sane people like the Robinsons, like Ted and Alice, up and leave in the middle of the night?
Musing on these questions, I slowly spiralled down into sleep.
***
When I snapped awake, I heard my son’s voice in the living room with me, speaking to someone in a low, hushed tone. My heart burned with fear and I sat bolt upright, peering into the darkness. I checked the LED display on my watch.
It read: 12:03
“Caleb!” I shouted.
I heard a movement behind the sofa and when I glanced round, I found my son crouched on the floor, the telephone handset pressed to his ear.
“Yes,” he was saying in a quiet voice. “Yes, I will.”
I rushed over. “Caleb, who are you talking to?”
He looked straight through me, his eyes glazed, as though he was sleep-walking.
“Yes, all right,” he said, oblivious to my presence.
I snatched the handset off him, and put it to my ear. “Who are you?” I screamed into the mouthpiece. But there was no reply, only a harsh, bronchial breathing, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling . . .
A sudden bright light flooded the living room, spilling in through the bay windows. Dropping the phone, I staggered over to the curtains and tore them back. Squinting into the blinding glare, I found the outline of the dark figure which had come for the Robinsons, for Ted and Alice. The alien hum of that engine bore into my brain.
“Caleb, go get your mother,” I said, but when I turned around I realised that I was alone in the living room. Caleb was in the hall. I could hear him struggling with the front door latch.
“Caleb! NO!”
I charged into the hallway, just as my son opened the door. For a split second I saw the shape of that black figure on our pathway. I snatched Caleb up in my arms and slammed the door, pushing my full weight against it.
Caleb struggled in my embrace, screaming like some demented, brainwashed child. “Daddy! We have to go! We’ll die if we don’t go!”
“Caleb! Calm down,” I said, trying not to shout, trying to sound like the voice of reason. “What did they say to you?”
“We won’t die, Daddy! If we go with them, we won’t die!” Tears flew from his eyes. “I don’t want to die, Daddy!” His hand reached desperately for the door. “Please don’t let me die! Please!”
I felt something wet across the front of my shirt and when I looked down I saw blood. Caleb’s violent struggling had reopened his knife wounds. I recalled the sight of Caleb on the hospital gurney--his shirt spattered with blood, his face a white death mask--and for a moment I relived that sick dread feeling which filled every part of me at the thought of losing my precious son, my flesh and blood.
I looked through the frosted glass at the ominous silhouette right outside our door. I could hear that hollow, ragged breathing.
Ignoring the blood, I held Caleb tight to my chest, trying to muffle his screams, but at the same time pouring all my fear and love into his body. God help me, but I began to wonder if these men—these creatures of the night—could really take away that fear forever.
A large, colourless hand tapped twice on the glass.
Tak! Tak!
“Caleb, stop screaming.”
Sally’s voice. Calm, soothing. Caleb immediately stopped. Sally stood at the foot of the stairs, an overwhelming sadness in her eyes. She reached out towards us and Caleb passed from my arms into her embrace. The madness seemed to have left him, and he buried his face in his mother’s neck.
“They want us to make a choice, Ben?” Sally said softly. “Is that it?”
The choice.
The choice Phil Robinson had to make. The choice Ted made. For their loved ones.
The choice: To face the inevitable anguish of a mortal life, the pain of losing those we love, or . . . or eternity with them.
That dead hand rapped once more on the frosted glass.
Tak! Tak!
I looked at my wife and my beautiful son, and for a moment I was imagining a world where they would never die, where I would never have to bear the pain of losing them.
“Maybe,” I began, “maybe we should go with them. Like the Robinsons. Like Ted . . .”
But Sally was shaking her head, her eyes bright with fear. “Remember the man in the hospital, Ben?” she whispered. “Remember what he said?”
Yes, I remembered.
and they will take everything from you that makes you human
“Is that what you want, Ben?” Sally said. She looked at
the shape hovering outside our front door. “Is that what you want for us? Survival at any price?”
I found myself slipping down the door, all strength in my limbs gone. The drone of the vehicle’s engine was a dagger in my brain.
Sally was right. She was always right. In the end, the choice was very simple.
***
It’s been three days since they came to our house, three days since we made our choice, and now we’re the only ones left in Cedar Road. The houses are all abandoned, the front doors left unlocked. The cars sparkle in the dwindling light. The days are growing steadily shorter. Last night seemed to last forever. And sometimes, during those interminable twilight hours, when everything seems so fragile, so human, a part of me still wonders if we made the right decision. It’s not the one everyone else made but, I guess, sometimes you just have to choose.
Now, all we can do is wait.
Outside, night is falling.
Juju
When the young thief laid the dirty cloth pouch on the coffee table, Nathan observed it with feigned disinterest, before meeting the boy’s eyes through a curtain of cigar smoke.
“All right, Kane,” he said, after a stand-off silence. “What is it?”
Kane smiled thinly in response, a cruel flicker in his deep-set eyes. “What you asked for,” he said. “What you asked me to get.”
Clenching the Cuban cigar—the highly-expensive cigar which Nathan had just given him—between his already yellowing teeth, Kane leaned forward and began to unravel the cloth with delicate precision. Nathan watched the deft movements of the young man’s fingers with deep fascination. They were bony, slender fingers, ingrained with a dirt which might never wash off. The dirt of the streets. He wondered how many pockets those nimble fingers had emptied in the boy’s already lengthy career. When the cloth was fully unwrapped, the young man leaned back in his chair and let Nathan take in the contents.
Three chunks of bloody meat. Nathan’s first thought was pork, but something—the dark light glimmering in Kane’s eyes, perhaps—told him this was not animal meat. As he leaned closer to examine them, he was overwhelmed by the noisome stench emanating from the package.
“Dear God, Kane,” he said, recoiling. “That smells like . . .”
“What?”
“Where the hell did you get that?” asked Nathan, covering his nose and mouth.
“Tahiti,” Kane said, before letting out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Well, it came from Tahiti,” he explained. “I picked it up from a guy in Brixton. Not quite so exotic, is it?”
“But why bring this to me?”
“Because last time we met, you asked me to bring you a special trinket. Remember?”
Nathan stared at him, running their previous conversation through his mind. “Yes,” he said eventually. “A voodoo trinket. But not . . .” His eyes fell upon the three pieces. “Not this.”
Kane’s smile vanished. He reached forward and began to fold up the cloth. “Very well, Mr Parker, if you’re not interested.”
Nathan’s hand shot out and fell over Kane’s wrist. “Wait, wait, wait, my dear boy. No need to be hasty.” He offered the young man a quivering smile. “At least tell me what it’s supposed to do first.”
The young man could not hide his triumph, and sat back with a sneer. “It’s juju,” he began. “Real black magic. The guy from Brixton told me this was the most potent charm ‘e ‘ad. Yes, you’re right in thinking they ain’t pieces of animal meat. They’re from a man. A living, breathing man. Apparently, the magic has more power when they’re alive.”
“Power? What kind of power?”
“The power to kill,” said Kane.
“Kill?” Nathan said. “How?”
Kane reached over and picked up one of the bloody chunks, the blood instantly turning his fingertips pink. “You put a piece in your mouth, you chew it, swallow it, then say the name of your intended victim, and . . . well, you can guess the rest.” He focused on the piece held between finger and thumb, and for one moment, Nathan thought he was going to put it in his mouth. But he sniggered, and placed it carefully back on the square of cloth.
“That’s absurd,” said Nathan.
“Absurd?” said Kane. “I’ve seen it being used, Mr Parker, and trust me, it works.”
Nathan stared at the three pieces, then at the young man who had brought this evil magic into his home. He stood up and began to stalk around the living room.
“What on earth would I want with such a thing?” he asked, the question directed not just at Kane but the world at large.
“Who wouldn’t want to have that power? The power to kill from a distance, from the safety of your own living room? Nothing to tie you to the crime. All you need do is provide a strong alibi, which you’d always be able to do, and you’re free to kill whoever you like. Three pieces,” said Kane. “Three lives. Three murders.”
Nathan studied the young man intently. “How much?”
Kane regarded the juju package, weighing up the true worth of such a gift. “I think ten thousand is a fair price.”
“How much for just one?”
Kane shook his head. “I’m afraid they come as a triple pack.”
Nathan nodded. He began to pace again. “Before I pay such a large fee, I want proof, Kane.”
“Proof of what?”
“Proof that this isn’t just three lumps of Danish I’m paying for. Proof that it works.”
“You want a test.” Kane hissed through his teeth. “Now, Mr Parker, the only way you can test this stuff is to actually use it. You know that.”
Nathan came over and sat down again. Excitement glowed bright in his gun-grey eyes. “All right,” he said. “What do you propose?”
“Well, pick somebody. Someone you’d like to see dead.”
“What? I can’t just . . .”
“There must be somebody you have in mind; otherwise you wouldn’t be considering this purchase.”
Nathan deliberated for a moment. “All right, there is someone,” he said, “but I want to make sure this definitely works before I try it on him. Can we not just try it on an animal first?”
Kane shook his head again. “It doesn’t work on animals, Mr P. The victim must have a name.”
In the ensuing silence, they were distracted by the sound of screeching tyres as a car came tearing down the street. After it screeched to a halt outside, they heard the dull throb of heavy metal music. Then the engine died along with the music. They heard the slam of a car door.
Nathan and Kane moved wordlessly over to the bay window which gave them a king’s view of the next door neighbours’ yard. They watched as the lone figure staggered from the car, through the garden gate, stumbling briefly, before heading for the front door in a zigzag line. A mighty, echoing belch filled the night.
“Terry Carson,” Nathan said, spitting the two names out like rotten teeth. “The neighbour from hell. Plays his music at full volume all hours of the day and night. Doesn’t talk to his wife, just screams at her. Probably knocks her around, too, knowing his type. And he’s always got some low-life characters hanging about the house, probably drug-dealers. Must be. I mean, how else does such a shit end up living in a nice neighbourhood like this?”
Kane observed the hulking figure of Terry Carson as he disappeared through the front door with a resounding bang. “Prime candidate, if you ask me.”
Nathan’s head swept round. “No, no, no. Wait a second.”
“What?” said Kane. “You just told me he’s making your life a misery, why not end it all tonight while you have . . .” He looked back at the pouch on the coffee table. “While you have the opportunity?”
Nathan studied the young man’s red-rimmed eyes for a moment, then looked back down at his neighbour’s house.
“Come on, Mr Parker,” Kane went on. “You wanted a low-key demonstration, and a perfect test-case has just stumbled home from the Dog and Duck.”
Without looking round, Nathan could hear th
e malicious smile in Kane’s voice.
“Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”
Nathan inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Then, in a rush of adrenalin, he threw his head back and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp.
“All right,” he said, the drink burning his throat. “Let’s see what happens.”
He marched back to the coffee table and sat down. Kane sauntered after him, hands in pockets.
Nathan felt a sudden, overwhelming hatred for the boy. What he hated most was the way this scenario gave Kane all the power. That was a first in their twisted relationship. They were worlds apart, the two of them: he, a corporate lawyer, Kane a street criminal with a speciality for finding exceedingly rare and desirable objects. One of Nathan’s colleagues, who also collected the occult, had put them together. Ever since then, Kane had found half a dozen things for him, objects of underworld art that he could never show his wife, but which gave him some pleasure to look at in the dark watches of the night. But Nathan had always been able to knock the boy’s asking price down because they weren’t ‘must-have’ items. But now, this juju, if it worked, well . . . this was something he could put to great use. And what a use he had in mind for it! Unfortunately, Kane could see how badly he wanted it.
The two men stared down at the three lumps of flesh for a protracted moment, then Kane picked up the cognac decanter and handed it to Nathan.
“You might need some more of this,” he said.
Nathan stared up at him distractedly.
“To wash it down with.”
With a trembling hand—adrenalin, he told himself, not fear—he took the decanter and poured out a double. Then, he added another measure.
Kane watched with feverish curiosity as Nathan picked up the first piece of pink meat. He stared at it for a long time. Kane did not try to hurry him. This would be a big purchase, and he was willing to take all the time that was necessary.
Nathan weighed the tiny piece of flesh once more, waves of nausea rising and falling within him. Then he closed his eyes and popped it into his mouth. He was swigging the cognac before the taste of the meat could settle on his tongue, chewing the evil talisman in quick successive bites and then, in a grimace of pain, he swallowed it, feeling it move down his oesophagus like a stone. The brandy may have removed the taste, but his gorge still rose momentarily at the thought of what he had just done.
