The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  She heard the hollow thump and bump of her mobile phone vibrate on the coffee table. She squinted through distressed eyes at the display light blinking, an abandoned rescue beacon left at sea soon to run out of battery, and almost laughed at the irony. It was always left on silent so as not to inadvertently wake Sardis when she was good enough to sleep.

  Suzanne could see the left post of the playpen and six inches of the white netting past the legs of the table and chairs before the partition of the wall annulled her view. The back of Sardis’ pink top periodically came back and forth into view while she continued to amuse herself, unaware of her mum’s trauma.

  The phone on the wall rang out; it was Alex ringing again to see if she needed anything from the shops: milk, get some milk—she expected him home in the next half hour. “Hang up and get home, hurry, please Alex, hurry.”

  The repetitive ring offered rhythm to her cramping belly and suggested thirty minutes might be twenty minutes too late. Whatever movement she believed had gone on over the last couple of days, there was no mistake this time. She looked between her legs, the blood was spreading extravagantly. The convulsions bit into her abdomen without concern and she felt throbbing pressure build about her pelvis.

  She kicked furiously at the rubber heels of her mucky boots, which writhed off while her fingers fumbled at the button of her jeans and the zip broke down seamlessly. She tucked her thumbs into the waist of her jeans and the elastic band of her panties and managed to reef them just above the knee. Perspiration spotted her face and her hair began to stick. She brought her knees to her stomach and worked the jeans to her ankles, letting her legs spread apart. Moments later there was enough discharge to confidently assume that all products of conception had been expelled.

  It used to be called “spontaneous abortion,” now it was “miscarriage.” At twenty weeks in another country, “stillbirth” defined the happening, the death would be registered and a baby recognized. Not here, though. Might as well be dirt on a shovel, sweep it up, and throw it in the bin. Suzanne had become a real expert, a very clever girl—on all things foetal.

  She stared as the blood-clot-like material massed between her legs—before the stage of potential independent survival—and she thought all was not lost. Sardis had survived, wasn’t there a chance that this could, too? It could work here again if there was any sign of life, a bubble of breath was all that was needed, and rush it back to the birthing place. And then she remembered the tank was gone because of her insistence, but there was no bubble of breath, no movement of any kind between her legs. Instead, it was someone else who moved that now caught her eye.

  The playpen had inconceivably turned on its side, allowing its contents to spill to the floor and rest in its netting. Sardis’ weight alone could not have changed the playpen’s arrangement. Considerable momentum was needed to push it over from inside and it was absurd to imagine that she could dash like a wrestler thrown to the ropes to overturn such a structure, but here Sardis stood in front of her below the rim of the kitchen table, still and undecided.

  There was something notably odd about her. Only a short time ago she’d beckoned her mother with four calling fingers, now her head tilted ever so slightly up toward the ceiling and she looked to be delicately smelling the air. Then she lowered her head and she fixed her gaze firmly around Suzanne’s middle, or was it between her legs? But it was not in the face of her purity or beauty that held the clues to her wants, that aspect remained the same, pro tem. One needed to look elsewhere for signs of intent in one so young.

  Her hands, the mittens discarded—had Sardis knowingly taken them off?—lay either side of her feet, one foot covered with white stocking, the other stocking missing, left behind, the bare toes flexing so that the nails made a scraping sound on the surface of the cold slate floor. The fingers no longer called but still they spoke with alarming clarity, and through their tell a whole new personality emerged, away from the blamelessness and naivety of a twenty-month-old child who unwittingly, from the confines of her playpen, impressed upon her mum the progression of life through the erection of mere building blocks, toward more sinister development.

  Her fingers took fresh shape, defined, bowed and taut, and at the same time, drawn back and apart as if predicting new purpose. The palm of her hands faced parallel to the floor and Suzanne noted her disjointed fingers seemed to rise above the level of her knuckles. She conceded to her daughter’s claws—for that is what they were, now, sharp to points. Fingers alone could not produce such an arrangement as that which protracted before her, an abnormal formation in one so young. And for the first time, Suzanne found reason in her daughter’s appearance.

  It was the association of events, Sardis’ confrontation and Suzanne’s newest shocking disappointment, in close proximity that spawned what many would regard as unholy thoughts. Suzanne immediately reasoned in the confusion of circumstance that her prayers were being answered: This was a rebirth, not the loss of another child; this was the opportunity to infuse Sardis with her own DNA. Maybe this was the miracle—God’s plan all along—because when you got down to the crux of it, wasn’t it little more than recycling? The seed of a madman would be diluted and any animal traits diminished. The tank was gone, that option closed, and she wasn’t just going to throw away another one. She was sure this was God’s plan because just as she finished with her thoughts, Sardis spoke out to her, loud and clear.

  “Feed me. Feed me.”

  Although Sardis appeared unaware of her body language—the mittens discarded and fingers and toes flexed—she was poised by instinct like a well-trained pup, doggedly reading her master’s expression, awaiting her request to be fed. And when Suzanne gave the go-ahead with a shallow bow of her head, bobbing knees and blinking troubled eyes, Sardis displayed the appearance of a smile. And as her lips ran back over her gums, the short, sharp teeth showed out strangely.

  Every sense in Suzanne revolted at the ensuing contact between her daughter and her. . . . But she continued to watch and a sense of soothing, a sort of calm stole over her while her half-remembered sensibilities sat idly by like background music.

  Part Three

  Sixteen More Years

  42:

  “I’m only jesting.”

  Suzanne and Alex were gobsmacked when Sardis, two months before her eighteenth birthday, arrived home one late Saturday afternoon with a complete makeover. To Suzanne’s horror, her long, fair hair had been switched out to jet black with streaks of purple running its length and clothes that looked just plain odd to how they were used to seeing her.

  Only later when Sardis had stormed back out of the cottage and Suzanne calmed down, did Alex appeal to Suzanne’s distaste. “To her credit, she scrubs up well as a Goth. You need to leave her be. Hopefully, it’s just a phase. She’s been through a lot and is probably still trying to find herself.”

  “Goth, what’s a Goth? It’s a horrible word. Well, that’s not her.”

  “All I’m saying is, give her some time. Otherwise, you’ll only go and make things worse. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”

  “Okay, I may have overreacted, but all that funny make-up—and her hair! That’s not her. What was she thinking, her lovely hair? If only she’d told me she was going to do this, I could have gone with her and . . . done something.”

  “I know you only want the best for her, but sometimes you can be a little over-bearing.” Alex used the term loosely. “You can’t be there for every single decision she makes.”

  “I can if she makes them like that,” Suzanne retaliated and huffed out her breath.

  After further discussion, they both concluded that her makeover could have been a whole lot worse, and Suzanne relaxed. She waited anxiously late into the night for Sardis to come home so they could talk alone, make things right, and apologise. And when she sat down with her, had some time to get used to it, her style didn�
��t look so bad. The combinations of her choices were, in fact, quite sophisticated.

  Sardis did have elements of style. Suzanne got used to her look after a few months. She changed her hair frequently between vibrant black, red, and purple. She fashioned herself in Victorian-style decadence of petticoat bustle and waist-cincher corsets of boning, ribbon, and lace. She unified the colour of her hair through ribbons and lace and Suzanne helped incorporate more intricate stitching into her dresses with similar-coloured threads.

  She wore pale shades of foundation without turning her skin white. Her lips were plump and full and her lipstick of choice was ruby red, with darker shades, depending on hair colour. Eye shadow was often two-tone and always tastefully done to accentuate her large, clear-blue eyes. Suzanne was thankful she stayed away from the tattoos and body piercings. Sardis was terrified of needles due to an accident some years ago when she was just eight years old, something to be thankful for now. She would have preferred Sardis without all the makeup and clobber, thinking her daughter most beautiful without it. It drew attention to her teeth. But maybe that’s what Sardis wanted. She and Alex both believed the identity change was a consequence of insecurities about her teeth and nails.

  Now painted in shiny black gloss, her nails became a prominent feature of her overall attire. Anyone noticing her demarcated teeth still took shifty second glances but didn’t shy away in the same way as before, and questions concerning them were less intrusive. Fewer people saw her as strange. She had plenty of friends who found her look fascinating rather than freakish. However she chose to dress, she was always going to scrub up well, but it still did nothing to prevent the demons from haunting her in her sleep.

  She was right now experiencing another terrifying out-of-body event.

  These happened once a year, sometimes twice, with a death to wake up to, sometimes more than one. The dream always started the same, she asleep in her bed with an inexplicable determination to grow lighter until the next intake of breath lifted her out of herself. And when she exhaled, she drifted back down. Training was always a requirement before departure. The amount of breath determined her buoyancy, and like breathing, in an instant, floating became second-nature, liberating.

  Sardis didn’t give much consideration to her other self, lying motionless in her bed, other than to know she was safe asleep. She never knew how she came to pass through the window. There was nothing to open or touch and no sudden temperature change when outside. There was, however, an amazing sense of freedom in the dark, standing buoyant in front of the cottage with her arms out in a saintly pose, ready for the rush.

  Sardis looked to the stars and rose effortlessly into the darkness as high as she dared, not yet trusting the happening, conscious of the world below her. She continued to rise and fear of heights became irrelevant, and when it felt right she let out her breath and curled into a swan dive.

  She soared gracefully back toward the earth and swooped between the trees that lined the road. The manoeuvres grew with confidence and she played amid the telephone poles and about the tops of trees with the flair of a skier slaloming. The runs of the road were like racing tracks with turns and bends that she coursed with ease, and she knew she was smiling at the thrill of it all. The world she observed was as one might expect on any given night, but there were exceptions.

  Lights ran the streets and were on in houses and cars were tucked up in driveways and beside curbs, but there were no signs of life. Nothing moved. No cars were driving along the roads, no people walked the streets or created shadows in their homes, though there was a sense that people lived.

  There was no trace of animal life, either, any cats or dogs or foxes foraging and hunting for food, no sheep or cows or horses grazing or sleeping in surrounding fields, but there was a sense that those were present, too. It was all deadly calm and silent. There was no rustle of leaves in the trees or stirring of debris on the ground. No breeze brushed against her face nor did her long, dyed-black hair blow in any direction, and her nightdress draped about her as if drawn on a page.

  And then Sardis was taken in a new direction while making no attempt to fly. She watched the road at street level twist in turns and travel past as though the world were one giant tablecloth, pulled from under her by some cocky soul to leave her standing upright; a neat magic trick. And she wondered where she would be taken this time, what she might witness as the final destination hurtled to greet her.

  The world stopped whirling when it came to a sudden stop in front of a crisp blue door. The smooth varnish glistened from the glare of a porch light. A red-handed glove startled her when it emerged in front of her face and knocked with a confident rap. Another costume; the cuff of this one was blue with yellow stitching about the rim that fell limply around a wrist she didn’t recognise as her own. She could see the sprouting dark hair from a mole that sat symmetrical in the centre of the wrist.

  Her vision took her to the right and then to the left. It was dark. There was no sign of life and she noticed the house stood alone. Though she couldn’t hear the knock on the door she knew it made sound and she could tell that someone was coming to answer because she sensed the vibration of them walking toward it.

  Her sight turned and stooped down to a familiar-looking bag, similar in style to what a doctor might bring when doing house calls. It looked ancient, light brown in colour with scuff marks and two buckles that would fasten it closed. She noticed a small neat hole a third of the way below the bend on its right side as the bag straightened, resting on the ground. The buckles were undone. The bag was partially open. Another hand passed through its opening, this one wearing a blue glove and the sleeve was a different colour too, red with yellow stitching. It disappeared into dark space and when the hand returned to view it was clutching a knife. The blade was long, and shiny, and severe.

  There was a faint resonance of bells, too.

  The hand within the blue glove moved out of sight, somewhere behind her, she thought, and her sight returned to face the door with patient wait. And when the ethnic woman of African parentage in her late twenties answered, she unwittingly snapped the tripwire of her own mortality.

  The woman wore a blue silk robe with white lapels, secured in the middle with a white silk tie. She was still fixing herself with one hand while opening the door with the other. Her feet were bare and her toes painted a fresh red.

  Sardis was drawn to the pink about her. Sparkles and flashes, bright and light, pinged about her body like micro fireworks. Loving, tender, sensitive, sensual, Sardis read the woman’s aura as easily as a road sign. A revived romantic relationship, she thought. And, the woman is not alone.

  The woman looked up from her gown with a smile to greet, ready to apologise for her state of dress, but then her face fell to confusion. A puckered brow replaced her smile in recognition of someone she might know or someone playing a practical joke, perhaps?

  Sardis again heard no definitive sound but was fully aware of the acoustic connotations as can only happen in dreams.

  “Hello,” said the young women. “Can I help you?”

  “Trick or treat?” answered the caller.

  “Trick or treat?” the young woman asked. The gap in the door narrowed noticeably. “It’s not Halloween.”

  “It must be a trick, then.”

  Sardis floated forward, close to the woman’s face, and when the point of the blade appeared under the woman’s chin she saw her dark skin peel back to a shade of mocha.

  One blue finger came to view and hid beneath where Sardis expected her nose to be. A breath of shush, a strip of pre-cut duct tape, and the woman force-closed her trembling mouth. Her eyes started to swell and tiny blood vessels began to appear. Some of them burst, turning the whites of her eyes to pink while her nostrils flared and began to leak.

  In the house with the blue door safely closed, Sardis floated slowly toward a g
lass door. The woman opened it with an unsteady hand and they passed through. Another involuntary glance down showed the bag in the hand of the blue glove and the blade firmly pressed into the small of her back with the red, prodding her to move through the hall and into a large, open-plan living space.

  The lighting was favourable to a romantic evening in, soft with an orange flickering glow that emanated from a fireplace and some dispersed candles. The back of the woman’s head was inches below her, an unaccustomed view, and Sardis could smell coconut from the woman’s curly, lush brown hair. Her hair smelt clean, and fresh, and fluffy, and was tied back in a loose ponytail with a lime green ribbon fashioned into a bow.

  Her vision tilted to the left and she scanned a lavish kitchen with dark worktops and an island at its centre with two plates of leftovers and an empty bottle of wine. Pots and pans hung from a chrome rail attached to the ceiling. A large dining table fitted neatly in an alcove, which consisted of three large windows that ran floor to ceiling, and Sardis envisaged an expansive garden with a sea view beyond the dark outside. The kitchen and dining area was empty of soul and her vision returned beyond the woman’s mane of hair as they turned right and went down three varnished wooden steps and into the lounge area.

  There was less to cover here: shelves with books and ornaments, pictures hung on the walls either side of the burning fire, and a large mirror with gold frame filled above the mantle. There were no crooks or doors to conceal an unsuspecting person in hiding. A large flat screen TV was on in the right-hand corner.

  Sardis recognised the back of someone else’s head, tight black curls cut close to the scalp. The nape of the neck, shoulders, and arms were exposed, free from clothing, and the tone of muscle and skin colour suggested a man of the same ethnicity as the woman. He relaxed on a large couch, watching the TV. One arm was stretched over the back and he drummed the top of the soft fabric with his fingers. The other hand held a glass of red wine.