The Devil's Claw

by Lara Dearman

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  BITCH

  2

  Matt

  Friday, 7 November

  The road to Pleinmont Point was closed to cars, so Matt pulled his old Fiesta into the nearest parking spot opposite the Imperial Hotel and turned off the engine. He wound down the window and lit a Marlboro. Waves broke loudly on the shore below. From here the West coast stretched out, one long sandy beach after another, Rocquaine, Vazon, Cobo, until the rocks and pebbles took over in the North. He finished his cigarette, undid his ponytail and let his long, lank hair hang about his face. His ears were too big so they looked better covered, but there was nothing he could do about his forehead. It shone with acne and there was a trace of the concealer he’d experimented with in his hairline.

  Nerves. Over a girl. Pathetic.

  Outside the night was cold. Along the sea wall they gathered in small groups, illuminated by torches they rested on the wall. Black clothes, black coats, black boots, with studs, chains and buckles.

  He made his way to the spot beneath the trees where his friends met every Friday. Lauren was already there, sitting next to a portable barbeque, listening to Neon Fly and swigging from a can of Breda. Her breasts strained against her tight black top. He wondered if she did it on purpose, if she knew her T-shirts were too small. She probably did. She was what his dad would call a cock-tease. Not a slut. A cock-tease. It was different.

  Matt sat down next to Sam.

  ‘Hi, Matt.’ Lauren smiled at him. Her lips were full and soft. Blow-job lips. She had a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. She handed him a beer. He mumbled a thanks, cheeks burning, and took a swig. Sam was talking about how shit his life was, how much he hated college, how much he hated his dad. Someone had changed the music. Slipknot. A band of cloud was rolling in. It was going to rain. Matt pulled up the collar of his coat.

  ‘Anyway, gonna love you and leave you, mate. Lauren and I were just about to go for a walk.’ Sam got up, held his hand out to Lauren, and pulled her to his side.

  ‘Here, help yourself.’ He handed the remains of the spliff to Matt and Matt watched them go.

  Fucking bastard. Sam knew he liked Lauren. Matt had talked about nothing else for weeks. He rubbed his eyes, pulled his hair back, wound the elastic round so tightly his scalp hurt. He gripped his beer can, felt the thin sheet of aluminium give way beneath his fingers. He squeezed, crumpling the can, and threw it as high as he could. Beer sprayed out as it flew through the air before bouncing off the Tarmac across the road and landing at the feet of a heavily pierced kid.

  ‘Hey, watch out, dickhead!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Matt mumbled.

  He drank four more cans and finished the spliff, texted a mate who was trying to persuade him to come into town, but Matt was well over the limit now and needed time to sober up before he drove, so he played Infinity Blade until the low battery warning came on. He chucked the phone on the grass beside him and lay on his back, gazing up at the sky, which looked trippy, because even though it was night and it should have been black, the low-lying cloud shone white in the moonlight, and the birds – or were they bats? – he wasn’t sure if birds slept at night – were black flitters across the sky. They made him feel dizzy, so he closed his eyes, lulled by the rhythmical thrashing of death metal and the shushing of the sea.

  * * *

  It was quiet. He sat up. The barbeque had burnt out, an orange glow barely visible beneath the flaky white coals. He felt around for his phone, switched on the torch. Lauren and Sam’s stuff was there, but there was no sign of them. Nearly everyone else had left. A couple, leaning against a car bonnet, were groping each other unenthusiastically, his head buried in her neck while she fumbled with her phone and his crotch simultaneously. Matt looked away, aroused and embarrassed.

  Further up the road there was a hunched shape against the wall making groaning sounds. Matt got up, shook his head, took a couple of deep breaths and stumbled over. He had done a first-aid course at St John’s Ambulance a couple of years ago, part of a long-since-abandoned Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award, and he always felt a certain responsibility in these kinds of situations. He crouched in front of the shape. Just a kid, couldn’t be more than fourteen. Puke splattered the Tarmac where he’d collapsed. Matt nudged him with his boot. Nothing. He nudged again, harder, until the kid mumbled a ‘leave me alone’ and rolled over, straight into a pool of his own sick.

  Matt stepped away and looked around. Beer cans and chip papers blowing in the wind, fag butts ground into the Tarmac, puddles of vomit. He’d liked it here when he was a kid. Used to bring his kite. There was always a good breeze up near Fort Pezeries. Look what they’d done to the place! It was disgusting. And Sam was probably littering the cliffs with his used johnnies right this minute. Now seemed as good a time as any to tell him to fuck right off. With a galvanising sweep of his greasy hair, he set off into the night.

  He walked away from the car park towards Pezeries Point, shining his phone in front of him, following the Tarmacked road until he came to the National Trust meadow, which was a short cut to the fort where he guessed Sam and Lauren were. So he left the safety of the solid Tarmac and stepped on to the thick, springy grass, which put an unwelcome bounce in his step, throwing his ankles in unexpected directions. He walked, unsteadily, nearly tripping when a rabbit ran out from the undergrowth, and it stopped, frozen, eyes glowing white. He swept his phone round so he could try to work out exactly where he was. A sign to the right of him warned of a sheer drop down to the sea below. That sobered him up. He figured wandering around on the cliffs in the dark was a bad idea so cut back to the road and followed it to Fort Pezeries, a ruined castle or fortress – he wasn’t sure what the difference was. The outer walls had been restored and you could climb up and walk along them. They’d be in there, fucking against one of the cannons probably. Or maybe Lauren was giving Sam head while he leant against the armoury wall, looking out over Rocquaine Bay. Matt stopped. Listened. Waves smashing against rocks. The nervous peep-peep of an oystercatcher. The rustling of bracken.

  Something else.

  Twigs breaking.

  Rabbits. Overrun with rabbits this place. He remembered finding one up here once, thinking it was tame, reaching down to stroke it, only to find it was blinded by myxomatosis, its fur covered in open sores. He’d known he should kill it, to put it out of its misery, but he couldn’t do it and he’d let it limp, unseeing, into the undergrowth. He felt sick at the recollection. What the fuck was he doing? He needed to go, back the way he’d come, although he’d wandered off the path and he wasn’t sure which way that was, and suddenly everything was plunged into darkness. Shit. He pushed the power button on his phone, but he knew it was pointless. He walked a few steps, tripped over a rock, sticking straight out of the ground, then another one. A circle of rocks. He knew where he was.

  Le Table des Pions, or the Fairy Ring as everyone called it, was a rough table hewn into a grassy plateau, surrounded by a ring of stones. On one side, dense foliage of bracken and gorse formed a natural windbreak, and on the other, flat, grassy headland led to sheer cliffs and beneath them, the sea. Built as a picnic spot for officials who’d inspected the island’s roads hundreds of years ago, locals preferred the other stories surrounding the place. About witches. And the Devil. The Devil came here, disguised as a goat or a wolf or a big, black dog and danced with witches. There was a tunnel somewhere here too. Not a real one, at least not as far as Matt knew, but according to legend all of the Devils’ cronies used tunnels to get around. The entrances were caves in the cliffs, which led deep underground. Stories. But Matt could not get the image of shadows lurking in dark caves out of his head. He imagined them swarming out on to the beach, right below here, and climbing up over the cliffs, finding him and then tearing him apart, piece by piece, and though he kne
w that it was the pot making him paranoid, he wanted to go. A thicker band of cloud rolled in and extinguished the pale moonlight. He turned, tried to get his bearings.

  More twigs snapping. More rabbits.

  Whispers. Just the wind.

  Except … There was laughter too, he was sure of it. Rough, hacking laughter.

  He remembered his lighter and felt for it in his pocket, hand shaking.

  The noise again. Manic, high-pitched, more a scream than a laugh now. He held it aloft, swinging it wildly through the air, but he could only keep it lit long enough to see something pale in the middle of the ring, edges blurred. He thought, for a moment, that he might actually piss himself.

  He wanted to call out, to see if Sam and Lauren were nearby, but he was afraid to make a noise. He felt, instinctively, that he should be silent. He steadied his hand, held the lighter in front of him, unlit, as if it might offer protection somehow. Fire! Witches were scared of fire. He shook his head. There were no fucking witches. But there was something. There was something in the circle. He’d had a glimpse of it. And he had a feeling, a horrible, ice-cold feeling, that it was something terrible, something worse than he’d ever seen before. He took a step closer. Sparked up.

  The figure was flat on its back, arms and legs outstretched. Matt could barely breathe. Bile stung the back of his throat and he coughed, then put his hand to his mouth, desperate to muffle the sound. He wanted to run, but forced himself to step closer, closer, to lean forwards, to bring the flame down, so that he could really see.

  It was grotesque. Limbs and head unnaturally large, tight bindings wrapped its wrists and ankles, which ended too suddenly, due to the complete absence of any hands or feet. Most striking though, was its hair. Carefully fanned out around the swollen head, the reflection of the flame on each peroxide blonde follicle created an unholy halo effect. Matt let out a garbled sound, half sigh, half laugh and sank to his knees.

  It was a guy, trussed and stuffed and ready for a bonfire. The head, made from a hessian bag packed with straw, was a woman’s, the face drawn on cartoon style; large bright blue eyes with exaggerated eyelashes, rouged cheeks and full red lips, smiling up at him. It was wearing a long-sleeved white top and, on the right arm, somebody had slashed four lines, three vertical, one horizontal underneath. Straw poked out from the cuts, and strands of it littered the grass around him.

  Noise, from behind. Matt staggered to his feet, swung around.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, man?’ It was Sam, holding a torch. He looked dishevelled, and Lauren leant into him, bracken in her hair.

  ‘It’s a guy.’ His voice was high and hoarse. He cleared his throat. ‘Scared the shit out of me.’

  Sam sauntered over to inspect it, shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Probably just some weirdoes left it there, trying to fuck with people. Come back and have another beer.’ Sam and Lauren left arm in arm. A lone sea gull flew over them, a flash of white, its hack-hack-hacking cry unleashed into the night.

  Matt crouched back beside the guy. It seemed a shame to let it go to waste. He held his lighter to the end of its right leg and watched as the trouser hem shrunk and retreated, each thread luminous for an instant before it melted away. The flames, fed by the fabric, grew quickly. He watched as the body of straw and newspaper shifted and twisted, as if it was fighting against the flames and the face, smiling up at him, with those big blue eyes locked on his, looked almost as if it was trying to tell him something and, for a moment, he wanted to save it.

  But it was too late. The fire consumed it all.

  3

  Jenny

  Saturday, 8 November

  She walked into the kitchen in her pyjamas, a faded plaid shirt and wide-legged trouser set she’d had for years, her hair a tangled mess, dark circles under her eyes. It was just past six, but Margaret was already standing at the kitchen sink, dressed smartly in a woollen skirt and a printed blouse, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, pulling on a pair of bright yellow Marigolds. She refused to use the dishwasher. It was a waste, she said, no point running a whole machine for a couple of bits and pieces. There was no point in a lot of things these days, not according to Margaret, certainly not in anything that made life easier, and definitely not in anything frivolous or fun. Not since Charlie had died. She plunged her hands into the soapy water, clinking together cups and plates as she pulled each piece out and swiped at it with a sponge, lending the task a focused, frantic energy.

  Margaret Dorey had energy in abundance. Before, she’d had so much to do. Charlie needed a packed lunch, a flask of tea, a T-shirt ironed or a missing sock found. He would leave his breakfast dishes and she would clear them away. She would do the laundry and then plan the evening meal before mid-morning so she could go to the shops if she needed anything. Now she only had Jenny.

  She rose early and dressed fastidiously, perhaps taking even more care over her appearance than she had before, telling Jenny that she wasn’t going to let herself go, just because she was a widow. She kept the house immaculately clean and tidy. And she walked. Constantly. Up and down the house at all hours of the day and night, fidgeting and sighing, polishing a smudge off of a picture frame, rearranging ornaments on the mantelpiece, making endless cups of tea and then only drinking half of them as she became distracted by any number of mundane chores. It was maddening to an observer. Jenny imagined it must be even worse for Margaret.

  Jenny poured some juice and sat at the table over a folded copy of the Daily Mail. She picked it up and flicked through the first few pages before throwing it back down with an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘I don’t know how you can read this rubbish.’

  ‘I like to know what’s going on in the world.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to find out in there, are you?’ Jenny knew she sounded petulant. ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired.’

  ‘Did I wake you again last night, love?’ Margaret turned. She looked younger than her fifty-five years but they were quickly catching up with her. Her black hair was streaked with silver, the lines around her eyes were deepening and her face drawn. She’d lost so much weight. Not just from her body. It was like something that had been anchored deep within her had just floated away. Jenny had first noticed at Charlie’s funeral. She had taken Margaret’s arm to keep her from stumbling. She had been frail. Birdlike. Lightness and bones.

  ‘It wasn’t you.’ Jenny said. ‘Bloody kids letting off fireworks in the middle of the night again.’ She was not about to tell Margaret that she was having trouble sleeping. That, recently, she had been waking in the middle of the night, gripped with a cold, damp fear she had not felt for many years. Margaret found enough to worry about without Jenny adding to the list.

  Margaret turned back to the dishes. ‘You got any plans for the weekend, love?’ she asked. ‘I saw Sarah in town the other day, with the little ones. She’s looking well for having three, I must say. She said you two were going out for a drink. That’ll be nice. You should be getting out more, you know. Have a bit of fun, meet some people.’

  ‘I know plenty of people, Mum. Don’t worry about me. And I am going to meet Sarah for a drink. As soon as I’ve got time. I’ve got to go into the office today. I’m covering the firework display up at the castle – after a quick swim.’

  ‘Not in the sea again? Why can’t you go the pool like normal people?’ She wore her exasperated look, reserved for what she considered Jenny’s most hare-brained ideas. It was a look Charlie had often received and it made Jenny smile.

  ‘The pool’s for wimps, Mum, you know that.’ Jenny finished her juice and dropped the empty glass in the sink. ‘Why don’t you come with me to the fireworks? I haven’t got much work to do and we could get something to eat when I’m finished. You never know, bit of fresh air, glass of wine – you might actually get some sleep afterwards.’

  Margaret hesitated. ‘Tonight? I’m not sure. Aunty Pat mentioned she might phone.’ She avoided socialising these days, making excuses whenever Jenny
suggested that they go for a bar meal or to the cinema or do anything that they used to do as a family.

  ‘Really? You spoke to her what, three days ago?’

  ‘All right, Jenny!’ She bristled.

  ‘Think about it?’

  Margaret shook her soap-covered hands over the sink and peeled off the gloves, hanging them over the tap to dry.

  ‘I’ll think about it. Now you best get to Pembroke before the crowds. I hear it gets busy down there at the crack of dawn in November.’

  ‘Very funny, Mum.’

  Margaret knew full well that Jenny hadn’t seen a soul on the beach for weeks.

  * * *

  Overlooking the rocky bay of Bordeaux, the crumbling walls of Vale Castle were decorated with strings of colourful lanterns. Behind them, through an arch of stone, people filled the castle grounds. Masked jugglers and fire-eaters paraded through the throng and the yells of excited children rang out over the buzz and hum of the crowd. Behind a row of metal barriers, a mountain of broken pallets and driftwood was assembled next to a small stage; the bonfire awaiting its guy. Next to it, a group of teenagers in band T-shirts huddled in a corner, swigging from a coke bottle and smoking roll-ups. Jenny smiled. It felt like only yesterday that she had been one of them and, for a brief moment, she almost expected to recognise old friends’ faces, before she remembered that they were all grown-ups now and half of them were probably at home with their own kids.

  It was a perfect evening, the weather an autumn cliché. The only clouds in the starlit sky came from the tall chimney of the power station, just visible behind them, whispering its steady stream of fumes into the night.

  Jenny looked over at Margaret. She had actually come out. Not only that, she looked relaxed. Happy, even. Her cheeks were pink from the chill. Jenny, feeling a wave of affection, linked her arm through her mother’s and pulled her close. She could smell the wool of her coat, and underneath the faintest hint of washing powder and perfume, comforting and familiar.