Garbage Man

by Joseph D'lacey

  The water in the shower stopped running but she didn’t get straight out. He could sense her tension now even through the cloudy glass. First she’d felt safe. Now she was trapped.

  She stepped out and reached for the towel that wasn’t there.

  Without her usual poise and confidence she stood, naked and dripping on the shower mat. He blew out a long stream of smoke in her direction.

  ‘Got the smell of his spunk off now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Can you pass me my towel, please?’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  She lunged for the door but he had his foot against it and her wet hands failed to even turn the handle.

  ‘Give me the fucking towel, Kevin.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He sighed deeply, acting far more laboured and weary than he really was.

  ‘We’ve been married six years, Tammy. Not bad really, when you think about it. Not bad in this day and age. So, I’m going to give you one more chance to be honest with me. I think I owe you that much.’ He drew on the cigarette.

  ‘Who is he?’

  He watched her carefully. There was a lot going on behind those eyes. Computation, assessment, analysis of risk. She looked like she might have thought in this way a lot. All her life, perhaps. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe he had and had mistaken it for intelligence. But this wasn’t benign intelligence. This was deviousness. It took split seconds, that was all, but he could see it nonetheless.

  ‘Open the door and let me out or I’m going to start screaming.’

  Part of him wanted that. Yes, screaming. A struggle. Something worse. Ignoring her threat, he said,

  ‘I’ve seen the photographs. They’re not very good but they show everything. What you fail to understand here, Tammy, is that I’m not giving you the opportunity to deny this. We’re way past that now. All I want is an answer to my question: Who is he?’

  It was a crazy bluff but he was past caring. He’d seen no photos but it was reasonable to assume that if Mavis Ahern had pressured him with visual evidence, she’d done the same to Tamsin. After all, her motive wasn’t to squeeze them for money; it was to bring them back together in the sight of God.

  He was looking forward to telling Mavis Ahern that they’d been married in a registry office, in a civil ceremony, without a Bible in sight. That would keep, however.

  Meanwhile, he was watching Tammy. Every move. Every twitch. The gooseflesh had risen on her now that she was beginning to cool in the tarry bathroom air. The calculations inside her head seemed to have slowed and become more specific.

  ‘You can’t hurt him.’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s just . . . you know why.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Tell me why I shouldn’t hurt him, Tammy.’

  ‘He’s only a kid.’

  ‘Only a . . .’ Kevin put a hand to his forehead, touched it ever so lightly. ‘It’s the paper boy, isn’t it? You’ve been screwing the fucking paper boy.’

  He stood up and took hold of Tammy’s wet hair in his left fist. With his right hand, he put out his cigarette against the wet strands. He wasn’t absolutely sure what he was going to do with her, all he knew was that he wasn’t going to hold back.

  ‘I can’t believe how long I’ve put up with your bullshit. You know,’ he said, ‘If you really want to start screaming, now would probably be a good time.’

  ***

  She watched the silver Z3 pull up outside her flat and knew that everything was about to change. Something about the way he slammed it up beside the kerb. When he got out, she saw a mark on his face for a split second. Then he turned away, walked to the passenger side door and hefted out a large sports bag. Her stomach fluttered as she ran to the front door of the shared downstairs corridor to let him in.

  There was a fresh cut across his cheek bone, the blood only just dried. For a few moments he stood on the doorstep without speaking. She lost faith then, wondered if he’d really go all the way.

  And then:

  ‘I’ve left her.’

  Still, he didn’t move forward.

  She stood out of his way. The tension dropped out of his shoulders, the pinch left his mouth and eyes. He stepped over the threshold and dropped the bag in the hallway. He was shaking his head, not understanding what he was doing, moving by instinct not thought.

  She led him through her front door to the sofa. Returning to the entryway she collected his bag and dropped it inside the flat. She sat down beside him.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It got . . . physical. I wanted to hurt her. Really hurt her. I dragged her into the bedroom. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do. And then, suddenly, all the anger went out of me. I knew it would be crazy to give in to the rage. I thought about the future. I thought about you. I didn’t want . . . didn’t want . . . to jeopardise it. Us. So I just stopped. And when she realised it, she spun around with the nearest thing to hand - our wedding photo, as it happened - and hit me in the face with it.’

  ‘But why, Kev? I mean, what had she done to make you so angry?’

  ‘She was having an affair.’

  ‘So were you.’

  ‘I know. But . . .’

  ‘There’s no justification. You’re as culpable as she is.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. Years of her . . . disdain. And control. It was so typical of her. And the poor . . . it doesn’t matter. He was just such a mark, such an easy target. She’s evil. She gets off on chaos.’

  He was quiet then and she went to the kitchen to make coffee. She didn’t believe he was a violent man. Despite what she’d said to him, she knew his rage was appropriate - who wouldn’t be angry in that situation? But if he’d acted on the emotion, that would have been unforgivable. She’d have thought differently of him then. But he hadn’t. He’d risen above it. Because of her.

  As she splashed boiling water into the two mugs she became aware of him standing behind her.

  ‘What?’ she said, pouring in the milk.

  ‘Can I stay?’

  She kept her back to him as she stirred the sugar into her cup. Finally, she turned and held out a mug.

  ‘I was hoping you’d ask me that.’

  ***

  There were other people Ray could have phoned; the authorities perhaps. But who else would believe what he had to say? And who else did he owe this knowledge to?

  Ray pressed dial. The phone rang several times and cut to voice mail. He hung up and dialled a second time without leaving a message. Same thing again. His heart was still banging hard and his breathing nowhere near recovering. It didn’t matter. He hung up and dialled again.

  Please . . .

  This time she answered.

  ‘Ray?’

  He had no idea what to say.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

  ‘What is it? You sound . . . are you all right?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Look, Ray, I don’t want you thinking you can just phone me any time. As far as I’m concerned you and I are finished.’

  ‘I know that. This isn’t . . . about that. It’s . . .’

  He heard a man’s voice in the background; he assumed it was the man he’d seen her with at The Barge. Unless she’d gone completely . . . He didn’t want to think about it. Still, despite the terror he felt, despite the sensation that something was yanking the rug of reality out from under him, he recognised jealousy rising up through all of it. Was that the real reason he’d phoned her?

  ‘Make it quick, Ray, this isn’t a good time for me.’ He took a deep breath.

 
‘There’s no easy way to say this, Jenny. I’m not even sure I believe it myself. But I had to tell you. I wanted you to have the best chance to get away.’

  ‘Get away?’

  ‘The thing we found. By the side of the road -’ Her voice tightened.

  ‘No, Ray. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Jenny, please listen. I’ve spent every day since then pretending it didn’t happen, that it wasn’t real, that somehow you just had an accident or that something bit you. Just like we told them in the hospital. But I never believed that.’

  ‘Ray, please -’

  ‘You have to listen to me. Just for a few more seconds and then I promise I’ll never call you again. That thing was alive. I haven’t been able to face it until today but it was. I think we killed it but there’s more of them out there. Worse things. Bigger things.’

  He could hear Jenny crying now. He didn’t want her upset, he wanted her to listen. She needed to concentrate.

  ‘You never took any notice of me, never heard me. If you only ever do it once, it has to be now, Jenny. I think your life depends on it.’

  ‘How can you do this to me, Ray? It’s so sick. You were always weak but I never thought you’d stoop to this.’

  ‘Thirty seconds more, Jenny, that’s all. I was out at the reservoir this afternoon, not so far from where we stopped that day. I saw something rise up. I’ve never seen anything else like it except on that day with you. And then it made more of them - too many to count. I swear, Jenny, I swear to you now I saw it. Saw them. I had to call you. I had to let you know. So you could be ready. So you could . . . leave. . . if you wanted to.’

  At the other end of the connection. Jenny seemed to have sniffed her way back to some kind of composure.

  ‘You can’t have me back, Ray. No amount of bullshit or scare tactics is going to make me want a weak man like you ever again. You’re scum, Ray Wade. You’re garbage.’

  The line closed.

  ‘Jenny. Jenny? Be there. For God’s sake, still be there.’

  He dialled the number and it cut straight to voice mail. He waited for the prompt to leave a message, then changed his mind and hung up. What more could he say to her? How could he even be certain she would listen to his message? He dropped the handset back on its base station and collapsed onto his sofa. He’d had his chance. He’d done his best to warn her.

  Now he had to think about himself.

  ***

  Mason Brand began to decay along with his post-harvest crops.

  Though he’d always had a beard, he’d always kept it trimmed. Now he never touched it. It obscured him, hid his face the way ivy hides old ruins. He preferred it. He stopped cleaning his teeth and bathed even less than he had before. He knew he smelled bad but it didn’t concern him. The cornucopia of fruit and vegetables the garden had yielded rotted, much of it unpicked. He ate rarely and made no effort to pickle or preserve any produce.

  He no longer understood the nature of things. He would allow himself to die like a spent vine.

  Except that he knew it wasn’t time yet. He was waiting for something. Something would happen. He knew that much. It had to happen sooner or later. When he’d seen this thing, this happening, then he would stop living. It was proper that he, Mason Brand, be allowed to end and to rot. He no longer deserved a place in the world.

  Autumn arrived less eagerly than the spring had come. The stifling, long days hung on an and on. Everyone else saw it as the most marvellous summer of heat hazes and broad, crimson-orange sunsets that graced each evening’s horizon. People lay on the grass in parks and kissed languidly. Parents took their kids on picnics and bike rides. Students, emboldened by beer and cider, leapt into the canals and rivers of every college town.

  No one believed the summer would go on forever, not truly, but no one wanted it to end. On the warm nights, muggy with moisture and the promise of rain that never seemed to come, the world, and Shreve in particular, was lulled by a sense of eternal youth.

  When the first leaves turned and dropped in drowsy breezes, Mason Brand was the only one smiling. But it was a chill-bitten smile, a smile ahead of its season.

  The very meat of him longed for the pressing of the earth all around him, its weight pushing down from above, its healing power drawing down the poison from his bones and transmuting his evil.

  ***

  Ray waited two days for something to happen.

  In that time he stayed at home. He ate baked beans and tins of soup instead of walking to the take-away or calling for a delivery. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Instead of hiring DVDs, he watched TV. He replayed Revenant Apocalypse instead of buying new games. At dusk and dawn he peeped through his curtains expecting the giant to thunder down his street and smash through the wall. He watched people put out their rubbish and waited for it to come to life and ooze out of their black wheelie bins.

  He smoked as much dope as possible, achieving a permanent, medicinal high.

  Nothing happened.

  He watched the news. There were no reports of undead rubbish or towering landfill zombies. The world continued to devour itself in war; people still murdered their lovers and children; plane, rail and road accidents claimed their usual quota of victims; the prime minister still lied through his smiling teeth while he raped the nation.

  Nothing had changed.

  Finally he picked up the phone and dialled the number he should have called the night he ran back from the woods. She answered after one ring. His stomach lurched with unexpected joy at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘It’s Ray.’ There was a silence.

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to call.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve been . . . studying. Fancy a pint?’

  16

  Mason Brand couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He didn’t care. There was no hunger anyway, no desire other than for the blackness to hurry up and take him.

  His skin was petal pale. Even his day-burnt face and forearms had faded. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been outside. He didn’t know what day it was nor the time. He had no television, no radio, no computer.

  Life had become a condition of two states: light and dark.

  In the light he tried to sleep to pass the hours. It had worked for the first few days but then his body no longer required further rest. Instead of sleeping, he hid in the twisted sheets and blankets on his bed.

  Then the darkness came, like a kidnapper slipping a black hood over the day’s head and pulling a cord tight around its neck. He would sleep then because of his body’s clock, its understanding of what the night was for. But then his body woke, no more than an hour or two after the light had gone and then Mason was awake in the most awful way.

  Something about the workings of his mind was different at night. Some aspect of him was more alert than it was during the day. His veins itched with it. His mind’s eyelid was peeled by it, left raw and staring. And with that eye he viewed his waking dreams of guilt and saw visions of the destruction of the world. Destruction that he was responsible for.

  Under dark crimson skies, heavy with suffocating cloud, the Earth was changing. Upon its skin had grown many organisms in its long history. They had tunnelled and burrowed and lived and died without troubling it. In its waters they had swum for incalculable generations, keeping harmony all the while with the world and its rhythms. Then had come a new creature, similar at first to many of the others. The creature was wily and smart, outwitting its predators despite its physical weakness. The creature spread rapidly and successfully to all parts of the world’s vast body. It became a parasite, feeding from the world, sucking on it, mining it, scorching it, flaying it alive.

  What choice was left to the world but to respond? She was slow at first, merely showing the signs of her anger and disgust. She spun
a little wide from her axis, shed her protective layers, became lean. The mountains ground against each other like determined teeth. The winds shrieked and whirled, throwing the parasite’s dwellings to dust. The waters rose up and drowned the parasites, washed away their homes. Fires swept the dry climates.

  But the parasite survived it all. The world’s mere anger was not enough.

  So she shifted her shape.

  And this was what Mason saw in his dreams.

  Where the land had been flat, blades of rock thrust up. Where the land had been solid, rifts tore open. The winds of the world joined forces and swept her in unison, one mighty gale that blew from West to East forever. The fresh waters of the world became poison. The sea waters grew into impassable towers. Everywhere the world grew eyes to watch the parasites die, grew mouths to eat them, ears to hear their screams and then their silence. The world consumed her parasites because it was the only way she knew to survive them.

  Each night, awake or sleeping - he could not always tell - he watched the world eating humanity as she tried to save herself.

  Why had it come to this? Was it really his fault?

  He knew, of course, that much of the evil of men was nothing to do with him. He had lived in harmony with the Earth and her cycles and seasons. He had loved her the way only a farmer can love the world. He had tended her, respected her, exchanged with her.

  Now this.

  Perhaps that was why she had chosen him.

  Eyes shut or open, Mason saw what he believed was the future or a representation of it. The world was not ending but humanity was. He had not been the nursemaid to a new way of life, he had been the trafficker who gave the assassin free passage. He had aided the executioner of all mankind.

  He had not seen the fecalith for many days. Weeks, perhaps - he wasn’t sure. What would it be like now? How much would it have grown? What and who would it have devoured and added to itself?

  Would it still recognise him and if it did, would it even matter?

  He’d led that poor boy to the most horrible end. The first human death in this new and dangerous world. His own end could not come soon enough.