Glimmer and other Stories

by Nicola McDonagh

  He pours it from his cupped hand into a china bowl, and kneels before me. He lifts me, puts me down between his thighs, and reaches for a jute sack closed tight with a leather thong. Pulling it apart he removes a splendid peacock feather quill, dips it into his cloudy juices, and begins to write.

  His fastidious penmanship delights me and I shiver with thrill each time the nib hits flesh. I savour every scratch that etches out our eternity onto my renewed epidermis. As the moist words soak in, I am aware of a strange sensation. A womb-like throb that pounds against his fingers. He clasps me close and I feel my pulse beating in rhythm with his own.

  We lie together upon the cold tiles and wait.

  The End

  Daub

  He offered Isabelle his hand. She shook it, felt the softness of his flesh against her damp palm, and slid her fingers from his. The oncologist mumbled something else, but Isabelle could no longer hear words, just the low, steady sound of his glib phrases clogging her ears.

  She left the hush of the consulting room and went into the corridor. Trolleys squeaked, phones rang, children screamed, feet scuffed the polished floor. The noise punctured her skull and she clutched her head. Above the cacophony of chatter and roar, Isabelle heard a whisper, ‘Shush, shush now, there’s a good girl.’

  It was a familiar voice that made her knees buckle. Was it the same one she’d heard when the headaches began? The one that screamed and cried? The one that growled like a tethered fox? She put her hand against the wall, took a deep breath and the murmuring went away. When her ears stopped ringing, she stood and walked down the passageway on wobbly legs. With each step she took, a drop of sweat slid down her back.

  Acrid smells of bleach, vomit and disinfectant swept up her nostrils. She held her hand over her nose and mouth to smother the stink. A woman wearing a green headscarf leant against a chair and stared at Isabelle. For a moment, they exchanged a look. Then the stranger bent her head and coughed up a crimson ball of mucus. A film of wet covered Isabelle’s eyes distorting everything she saw. People became hazy shapes; ghost-like figures that rippled and contorted as they walked past her. Isabelle flinched away from their warped forms, and quickened her pace to the exit.

  Blinking away the tears, she stepped out into the autumn evening, shivering as a chilly wind blew across her face and shoulders. Eager to be gone, she hurried to her car, got in, and fumbled around inside the glove compartment. Her fingers touched a crumpled piece of paper. She pulled it out and read the instructions scrawled across the page, then tapped in the address on the Satnav. Isabelle turned on the engine and drove away.

  Unmindful of her surroundings, she sped past houses, cars, trees and people. They flashed past and became little more than blips to her tired eyes. There was one thing she did notice - a small star shaped crack in the windshield, just below the rear view mirror. A flaw in the glass that kept splitting and spreading, reminding her of the tiny flaw in her brain that would not stop growing.

  The urban landscape petered out and Isabelle switched to full beam as she raced along the deserted country lanes. ‘At the next junction, turn right. Turn right,’ the nasal female voice from the navigation system said. When she did, the grittiness behind her eyes abated and she relaxed as she drove down the dark dirt track. Sucking in the countryside odour of freshly dug earth and smouldering piles of manure, she said, ‘Ah,’ when she saw the two-eyed glare of a rabbit caught by the headlights in a statue pose.

  A tractor churning up dust and stubble-straw pulled out from a field and all but halted her progress. Isabelle clutched the steering wheel and tried to squeeze past the huge vehicle, but she couldn’t. So she continued her journey stuck behind it, listening to the shuddering swish of the windscreen wipers as they swiped away bits of dried grass and mud. They sounded like the continuous, ‘Blah, blah, blah,’ of the doctor’s professional speech. Isabelle’s neck muscles tightened. She sat forward in her seat and screamed profanities at the driver, until he trundled off into another field.

  As soon as he was gone she pressed her foot on the accelerator, wound the window down and drove along the twisting lanes, until she saw the landmark her mother told her to look out for. A telephone post with a sign saying, ‘Duck eggs for sale.’ Isabelle slowed to a crawling pace and spotted the thatched cottage opposite it. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. Looking down, she noticed that the hem of her knee-length skirt was scrunched up, crumpled from when she had gripped onto it during her consultation with the oncologist. She brushed her hand across the creases and smoothed them out. Then grabbed her carpetbag from the passenger seat and got out. Isabelle lifted her head towards the black sky. ‘So many stars,’ she said and watched the warm mist from her mouth float upwards and disappear.

  The moon shone brightly, highlighting twisted trees and frost encrusted spider webs. A wispy fog drifted across the vast neatly mowed lawn making everything look like it was in a horror movie. In the fields behind, pheasants crowed huskily to each other, and owls shrieked. Isabelle’s skin prickled. She rubbed her arm, yanked the heavy bag over her shoulder and walked through an archway covered in honeysuckle that led to a green front door. She stopped, inhaled the damp ground smell and detected another odour. Smoke. She looked up at the red brick chimney, but saw no wisps of grey swirling out from it. Scratching her nose, she rapped on the half glazed door. A light blazed behind it. Isabelle shielded her eyes from its stabbing brightness.

  ‘Izzie! You made it,’ her mother said. She took her by the hands and pulled her through the doorway. ‘How was the trip?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Except I ended up behind a tractor for ages, so it took a lot longer to get here.’

  Her mother guided Isabelle into the kitchen. ‘Dad and Pete are in bed. I stayed up to wait. Want anything to eat or drink?’

  Isabelle shook her head and looked around at the timber-framed room. She stared at the bumpy plaster between the beams. Her mother touched her arm. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, well, no,’ she said and paused. He mother widened her eyes and bit her bottom lip. Isabelle blinked slowly. ‘I’m really tired, that’s all. Would it be okay if I just went to bed?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ he mother said and took the bag from her hand. ‘Come on I’ll show you to your room. You’ll love it, it’s in the oldest part of the house.’

  She walked behind her mother, through the kitchen, and into a tiny hallway. ‘Mind your head when you go up the stairs. The ceiling gets really low at the top.’

  Isabelle held onto the wooden bannister and climbed up the stone steps as if she were carrying someone on her back. When she stepped onto the narrow landing she almost cracked her head on one of the low beams. A small round window at the end of the corridor caught her eye. It was crisscrossed with diamond shaped lead that dissected her reflection. Isabelle shivered at the gaunt face staring back.

  ‘This is yours,’ her mother said and pointed to a door on the right of the window. Isabelle went inside and heard her mother click on the light.

  The room was painted a dove grey, accentuating the dark oak rafters that sloped down from the ceiling. At the top of the room was a large brass bed with a small metal table beside it. Reminding her of the white aluminium cabinet that stood beside her bed in the chemo ward. Something buzzed past her ear. Or was it her name being called from far away. She heard it again, closer this time, and turned her head in the direction of a huge wooden wardrobe to the left of the door.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Hear what Izzy?’

  Isabelle put her index finger into her ear and the voice went away. ‘Oh, nothing. Must have been the wind.’

  ‘Well, yes you do hear all sorts of strange noises out here. Owls, squirrels, foxes, badgers, stuff like that. The first night we slept here, your father and I kept waking up. We were really scared. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.’

  Isabelle yawned. ‘I’m so tired.’

  Her mother stroked her face and said
, ‘You do look worn out. Go to bed love, we’ll catch up in the morning.’

  Her mother kissed her on the cheek and left. Isabelle closed the door, took off her clothes, wig, and left them in a heap on the floor. Then she pulled a pair of red check pyjamas from her bag and put them on. Before she slid underneath the covers, she switched on the small nightlight on the table. It was shaped like a lotus flower and Isabelle stroked the moulded petals. The action soothed her. She lay down, put her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and let the memory foam mattress mould around her body until she was completely relaxed.

  Isabelle heard panting. It was fast and hoarse as if an animal was trapped. She licked her lips, lifted her head, and looked around. The nightlight on the bedside table cast elongated shadows across the floor. The dark lines crawled along the skirting boards and up the walls like dirty fingers groping for something clean. Isabelle watched their journey; mesmerised by their contorted shapes as they slid and slinked up onto the ceiling.

  Her nostrils twitched as an unpleasant, sweet, burning hair smell filled the place. It tickled the back of her throat and made her hack. She wiped her mouth and saw a black smear across the back of her hand. She rubbed the mark away on the duvet and the cinder scent dispersed.

  The panting slowed and became faint. Isabelle lay back down and lowered her lids. A quiet descended, and she felt the fuzziness of slumber pull her into a place of emptiness and peace.

  Guttural cries made Isabelle snap open her eyes. She held her breath as the sound of gulping sobs grew louder. When she tried to move, she could not. Her arms and legs became heavy, as if invisible hands pressed them down.

  A truck whizzed past the window and the whole place shook. The sobbing stopped and the pressure on her limbs eased. Isabelle pulled the duvet up to her chin.

  A scratching sound began.

  It was frantic. Isabelle swallowed. Her mouth was dry and her head hurt. She massaged her temples with her fingertips in an attempt to relieve the pressure that was building up around her nose and cheekbones. The dim light made her eyes water, so she reached out and switched it off.

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘What?’

  Shush, now, shush, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ Isabelle said. Her throat tightened and her heart thumped against her ribcage.

  ‘Shush, don’t make a sound or the devil’s dog will come for you.’ The woman’s voice was raspy and low. She recognised it as the one she’d heard in the hospital. ‘He has a special hound for those who don’t do as they’re told. Can you hear it? It’s coming.’

  There came a distant howl.

  The scratching became louder, faster, desperate. Isabelle put her hands up to her ears. ‘Oh god,’ she said, reached out, turned on the light and saw a child-like figure crouched against the opposite wall. She cried out and the phantom melted into the uneven plaster.

  ‘Izzie? Are you okay?’

  ‘Mum, come in, quick.’

  The door opened and she sat up. Her mother hurried over and sat on the edge of the bed. Isabelle gripped her arm and pointed at the place where she had seen the child. ‘I saw something over there. I heard this noise, like an animal gasping, then someone spoke to me…’

  ‘Shush, shush now Izzie. It’s okay, you probably had a bad dream.’

  ‘What? No. I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘You probably didn’t realise that you’d nodded off. A noise outside must have disturbed you and you probably weren’t fully awake.’

  Isabelle looked at her mother. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks riddled with red thread veins. She saw weariness in her face and relaxed her grip.

  ‘Yeah. Maybe you’re right.’

  Her mother’s face brightened and she smiled. ‘I am. Shush now, and go back to sleep.’

  ‘Will you stay with me?’

  ‘Until you fall asleep.’

  ‘Just like when I was little.’

  Isabelle’s mother cleared her throat and patted the mattress. ‘Lie down and close your eyes. That’s a good girl.’

  She felt her mother place her hand onto her forehead and winced. ‘Have you got another one of your headaches?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t the medication working?’

  ‘Up to a point. There’s only so much they can do.’

  ‘But it is doing some good, isn’t it? I mean, your hair is starting to grow back.’

  ‘Yeah, it is.’

  Isabelle’s mother stroked her hand and kissed the top of her head. ‘Well, that’s a good sign. Night, baby girl.’

  ***

  The smell of coffee and fried bacon aroused Isabelle from her slumber. The sun squeezed itself through the slatted blinds, making curious shapes on the cream carpet. She yawned, stretched, watched the lights flicker on and off to the rhythm of clouds passing over the sun. Cheered by the sight, Isabelle hummed a tune to their visible beat. With a sigh, she got out of bed, picked up her wig and put it on. Then she wrapped herself in a thick blue towelling robe and turned her head towards the spot where she had seen the child.

  She walked over to the wall, squatted and pressed her hand against the cold plaster. It gave way a little and a waft of warm air brushed across her knuckles. She withdrew her fingers and wiped them on her robe.

  Isabelle stood and turned to leave, but something hard pressed against her cheek. A throbbing at the back of her ears made her clutch at her head. She made a high-pitched whine. A familiar voice said, ‘It’s all right, shush now. Don’t make such a fuss.’

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, thrust her hand into her dressing gown pocket, and pulled out a small plastic bottle. She opened her eyes slowly, unscrewed the cap, took out a large blue pill and swallowed it. Gagging as the tablet stuck in her gullet as it slid down. The pounding in her skull gradually faded, so too the woman’s voice. ‘Good girl, good girl.’ It trailed away and she pulled her dressing gown tight, then went downstairs.

  At the doorway to the kitchen, she paused and smiled at the sight before her. It was as if she had travelled back in time to her childhood. There was her mother standing at the cooker, frying bacon; there was her father sitting at the table, a newspaper obscuring his face; there was her brother, shovelling cereal into his mouth.

  ‘Sleep okay in the end?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Mum.’

  ‘How do you like the new house?’

  ‘It’s not new, Peter, it’s four hundred years old listed building,’ her father said.

  ‘Yeah, I like it,’ she said and walked into the room. ‘Maybe a bit creepy, you know, with all the beams and leaded light windows…’

  ‘And cobwebs, ghosts and…’

  ‘Shush Peter. Izzie had a fright last night. Her head’s a bit fragile. I don’t want you making it worse.’

  ‘Oh come on, mum, she’s a grown woman.’

  ‘I know, but she still doesn’t like the dark, and she’s not very well.’

  ‘Hello,’ Isabelle said, and sat down. ‘I’m right in front of you. Stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here.’

  There was a long pause.

  The air filled with the aroma of frying meat. The silence was broken by the scraping sound of metal on metal. Isabelle’s mother pushed rashers of bacon around a grease-encrusted pan and shoved slices of bread into a toaster. Isabelle leant forward and put her elbows on the table. Peter gave her a raised brow look. ‘Hoo, don’t let Mum catch you doing that.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Nothing, Mum,’ Isabelle said and slid her arms off the table.

  Her father put down the paper, sat back and let his wife fork pieces of crispy bacon onto his plate. She plonked the pan into the sink, pulled four pieces of golden brown bread from the toaster, and placed them on a plate next to a jar of jam and a tub of non-dairy spread. Isabelle took a piece of toast and slowly spread it with the fake butter. Her mother sat opposite her and picked at a small pile of fluffy scrambled eggs. Her brother and father ate their food,
staring at nothing in particular through blank eyes.

  Isabelle bit into the warm bread, looked around the room, tilted her head back and stared at the old scarred beams, at the unevenly textured plaster in between them, and became transfixed by their asymmetrical roughness. The light from the bevelled windows threw dark shapes across the walls, creating strange silhouettes that looked like people dancing. Through half closed her eyes, the shadows mutated. They transformed into distorted animals, crawling and yawning. Then they changed into the faces of screaming children. Isabelle blinked and the phantoms disappeared. ‘What are the walls made out of?’

  ‘Clay, mud, straw, animal and human hair,’ her father said.

  ‘Gruesome.’

  ‘Not really. That was all people had to build with back then.’

  ‘When you think about it,’ Peter said, ‘it’s very green. Totally organic. The stuff can bend and move with the house like a breathing membrane. Quite cool in fact.’

  Isabelle felt goose bumps plip out all over her body. ‘If you say so Pete. Dad, do you know anything about the history of the place?’

  ‘Not much. It used to be bigger, but half of it burnt down in the late 17th century.’

  ‘I wonder who lived here?’

  ‘Peasants probably or farmers. Or maybe, evil landowners who raped and murdered their servants.’

  ‘That’s enough Peter,’ his mother said. She pushed her chair out and stood next to her daughter. A slight breeze brushed against Isabelle’s bare legs. She tightened the belt on her dressing gown. Her mother felt her brow and shook her head. ‘You feel a bit hot. I think you’re coming down with something.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Stop fussing, I’m perfectly…’ Isabelle stopped, cocked her head to one side. ‘Can you hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she saw the look of fear on her mother’s face. ‘Nothing. I didn’t hear a thing. My head’s buzzing from the migraine.’

  Peter narrowed his eyes and nodded in the direction of the cooker. ‘Do you want to know what I found in that inglenook?’