RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural

by Craig Saunders

  There’s a car coming. I lean, my good foot on the ground, firm, phone in my left hand, the elbow support of the crutch doing its best to hold me up.

  I stare at the phone. I will it to ring. The car’s closer, now. It’s going pretty slow. They might see the phone and brake in time.

  If anyone asks, I can just say I’m a cripple. Thanks for stopping. Just came out in the street to get a signal. We’d share a look. People know how it is, even in London.

  The phone rings.

  I will myself not to look, but my will is pretty fucking weak.

  It’s my dealer. What are the fucking chances? One of three, but my best man.

  All I have to do is press the little green phone button. Press it. Say hello. Got anything in? Got any ice? Got any snow? Get the bong on, get cooking. Got any fucking dirty crack, because right now I’d sniff up some dead fucking badger juice, help me out man? Help me out?

  It’s not Helen’s face that stops me. It’s not Seetha’s.

  It’s a woman in a chapel, burning.

  It’s insanity, lurking somewhere within me. Something faceless, something that burns. I don’t want to be me. Right then, I want to be someone else. Someone who can walk and talk and see straight and fuck without breaking a sweat and thinking he’s going to die.

  The anger’s there, right there, not under the surface where I keep it hidden, but there in my face. I can feel my face tightening, my lips curling.

  Where was my number one guy when I was crying my heart out? When my heart stopped? Where the fuck was he when I was hurting and needed something to get me through three hours of straight physio?

  Nowhere. Nowhere, that’s where.

  I press the green button, and as the car nears, I drop the phone right under the wheels.

  I don’t know why I picked it up before I dropped it. Maybe I wanted him to know what it feels like to get run over.

  Fucked if I know.

  The car’s more reliable than the dealer. It rolls right on. Bits of phone litter the road. Electronics. Components. Plastic.

  For some reason, this little victory makes me insanely happy.

  Not as happy as Helen makes me later that day when she comes home with a bag of books from the library like she does once a week and says, ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  She bites her lip as she says it. She’s not sure what kind of reception she’ll get.

  But I’ve been thinking, too, and I know what she’s going to say, because the geography of my life is the same as hers, now.

  *

  7.

  As it turns out, we’re thinking the same thing.

  We’re going to move. We’ve got to move. It doesn’t matter where, just so long as it’s not London. We don’t belong anymore. London’s poison for me and what’s poison for me is also poison for Helen. If I didn’t know that after dying and being crippled and maybe having some weird seizure in a hospital chapel I’d deserve to spend the rest of my life alone.

  We need to be gone for the good of both of us.

  Helen’s never worked. She’s always revolved around me. I think that’s a bad thing, for her. But then if things had been different, she’d be long gone, and that’d be bad for me.

  I’m redundant now, part of the landed aristocracy, practically. I’ve got spare cash. Jobs aren’t an issue, for either of us.

  We don’t waste any time. We have the house valued and I’m surprised because I haven’t paid attention to that kind of thing for a long time. We never needed to move. The townhouse, if anything, was too big for us, but we just kind of sank into it.

  We’d lived there for four years, after Samantha. The old house had too many memories. This one, too, I suppose. A house can be just as tied up in your thoughts as the things that happen in your life. I guess the townhouse holds memories for Helen, and probably none of them are good.

  Four years, a good area of London, a housing boom, a bit of a bust, but not enough to hurt us. We’re good. In fact, looking at what our money buys us out of London, we’re better than good.

  That night, we sit down and take stock.

  ‘You know what we could get?’ she says.

  ‘Depends. Location’s important.’

  She’s drinking wine. I’m pushing out the boat. I’m on a rare cup of tea. No sugar.

  ‘We’re looking at four, five bedrooms, a couple of acres…’

  She sounds breathless at the thought. I never thought she was bothered about any of that stuff.

  ‘We’d need money left, in the pot,’ I say. ‘I’m not working. I might never…’

  She looks a little sad, but it’s not because she wants me to work. She wants the country manor. I’m amused, to say the least.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘We probably don’t need five bedrooms.’

  I just look at her.

  ‘Or four,’ she says.

  ‘Go on,’ I say. I soften it with a smile.

  ‘Come on!’

  I want this to be all good. A new start. A good start. She’s making me smile. I don’t want to laugh at her, so I stick to smiling.

  ‘I guess we only need two…It’d be nice to have a spare bedroom, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘We could push to three,’ I say, letting her off the hook.

  ‘In the country?’

  ‘Country’s no good to me. I need access. I can’t drive. I can’t rely on you all the time. I’ll be walking. I need to be able to actually get somewhere.’

  I’m not sure about this, but I want to hedge my bets. If I’m walking, I don’t want a ten mile hike to get a pint of milk. If I’m not walking, I want to be able to get places, too. On the crip bus. The ones with the steps that fold down.

  ‘By the sea?’

  I shrug. ‘Why not?’

  Simple as that, really. There’s more, but that’s what it boils down to. After that, it’s just a matter of where.

  People say the sea air’s good for you. I’m not so sure.

  The fucked up thing is, I’ve never seen the sea. I’ve seen the Thames. It’s pretty much the same thing, I think, then. Just a matter of geography and salt.

  There’s the south coast, Kent, Hampshire, but it’s all too close. Too easy. Plus, it’s too expensive. I want change in my pocket.

  There’s a hell of a lot of south, but it’s all too close.

  We decide on Norfolk. North, but not so far we’d be complete outcasts. We want North, but not Northerners. We’re Londoners. We don’t get Northerners.

  We’re giddy, but not completely stupid. We come back to it. Look at it from a different angle.

  OK, stupid. Making a decision about where to live based on an Internet search is pretty stupid. We did it, just the same. But it’s not so much about the actual move. It’s about us. This thing, the move, the search, this is for us.

  If there’s something we don’t agree on, we don’t do it. I’ve seen plenty of marriages, good and bad. This is the only one I’ve seen from the inside. This one, it’s made of two parts. Before, it was all me. That didn’t work.

  This time around, part two, I figure we’re equal, at the least. If anything, Helen gets the deciding vote. I can’t be trusted.

  We don’t know a thing about property. New? Old? Turns out old’s got character. I don’t know what counts as character, but unless the house is crack me up funny I don’t see why I should pay extra for it.

  I’m not tight, but this is big. This is the rest of our lives.

  We look up crime rates, council tax, school results. Helen thinks of most of this stuff. The thing is, she explains, poor kids get worse exam results than smart kids. Poor people commit more crime than rich people. Right or wrong, it’s true. If the schools in the area get bad results, chances are it’s not the nicest area to grow old in.

  Somewhere with lots of old people, she says. Old people need medical attention, lots of them means more doctors, which is good for us. Plus, old people commit less crime in general, whether they’re rich or poor.

  We
could afford a big place, but we’ve got to be prudent, I say. It’s new, for me, prudence. It feels good. It feels good to know the extra we’ve got won’t be going on drugs.

  It reminds me of being a kid. I get this kind of nostalgic, warm feeling, remembering what it’s like to save up for something you really want, instead of just buying it straight away on a credit card. Being able to buy whatever you want spoils you, I figure. Things are better with anticipation. If people had figured that out sooner maybe we wouldn’t be in such a mess now.

  Still, maybe it’s easy for me to get on my high horse but all the prudence is going to my head.

  We decide on a town and then it comes down to two estates. One of them, the older estate, the houses are built of this ugly grey brick. The other, brown. I spend enough of my day looking at grey.

  The rest is just logistics.

  It’s getting time for me to take a break. But before I can, there are two more things. Two important things.

  First, my dead eye.

  Second, a goodbye.

  Helen’s the reader out of the two of us. She’s always reading. She says a story is all about balance. It’s about darkness and light, the base emotions. Mostly, it’s about timing, though. That’s what I believe.

  The dead eye comes first, because I don’t want to end on that.

  People like happy endings. That’s important, too.

  People like to close a book, turn out the light, and go to sleep with a smile on their face.

  So, darkness first. Then light.

  It’s best that way.

  *

  8.

  Helen drives me to the hospital. I don’t have to go, but I’ve got a secret. It’s a good one. I want maximum impact.

  Helen’s my taxi. I could have taken a real taxi, but Helen’s much better looking than any taxi driver I ever met, and she needs to be there, too.

  ‘Here,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t stop here.’

  ‘That’s what the stickers are for. There,’ I say, pointing to a clear patch of double yellow.

  ‘I can’t park there.’

  ‘You can park anywhere you like when you’ve got your cripple stickers and a bona fide crip in the car.’

  ‘I’ll go round the block.’

  ‘I can’t walk that far. Come on. This is important.’

  She’s shaking her head, but I won’t give in. This is important. She gives in, but I don’t get a bad feeling for bullying her. Not this time.

  She pulls into the space. I give her a kiss on the cheek. Shuffle my cane. Did I forget to mention it? I’m all blasé now, with my cane.

  I get out of the car, but I need Helen to help. Then I shoo her away, hobble-hop off into the sunset, which sounds crap but beats the shit out of my previous hoppity-hop.

  The house has gone through. Today is Friday. Saturday is move day. This is my last chance to do this.

  I make it to the front door of the shop and shuffle in.

  ‘Can I help?’ says a girl. No more than twenty. Probably working here in the hope it will look good on a CV someday. Maybe she wants to be a lifeguard, or a personal trainer. She looks fit. No doubt she’s wondering what the fuck I’m doing in a sports shop.

  I’m angry at her for no reason. For a second I imagine snapping her elbow, just her right one. Fuck up her chances of ever being a tennis coach...

  I don’t do it, of course I don’t. But it happens that way sometimes. Once, I imagined taking a glass to Helen’s eyes, back in the early days. I didn’t do that, either. Difference is, early day, if I could have done it I would have.

  I take a breath.

  ‘Got any tennis balls?’

  ‘Tennis balls?’

  I take another breath and wait a beat. I remember an old joke. Got any nails? I think. No? Then, got any tennis balls? It makes me smile. I think the smile makes her rethink her initial approach. I’ve got a crazy smile now days.

  ‘Tennis balls,’ she says. ‘Sure.’

  She goes away. I don’t bother trying to follow her. She comes right back, anyway.

  The till’s right there. I can make it that far. She’s got the tennis balls. I’ve got the money. It’s just a matter of time before they’re mine. But I still haven’t moved.

  Because behind the till is a man on fire.

  His face is bright, burning with a fierce, terrifying light. I can’t help staring at him. I’m terrified he’ll see me...I back away, backing toward the door. I don’t want him to see me.

  ‘You burn, too,’ he’ll say, and I don’t want him to say that. I don’t want to know what that means. Now. Never.

  I grunt, clutch my chest. I’m not having a heart attack, I’m just fucking scared. That’s all. I’ve never known fear like this, sheer terror, but there’s a guy in a shop and he’s on fire and I burn, too. I burn. I burn...

  But he’s not staring at me. He’s with a customer. They’re talking. It’s a normal conversation. I can follow the words, but the whole thing’s distant. There’s a deafening roar in my ears, drowning out the words. I want to scream. I want to scream so badly.

  I want to run. My feet won’t move. My stick’s planted firm but for all the good it’s doing it could be cast in concrete. And my chest, God, my chest. It’s burning but hot and that’s good because if he touches me, if they ever touch me, it’ll be so cold I won’t be able to stand it.

  ‘You burn, too,’ she said.

  The woman in the chapel. The burning woman.

  She knew she burned.

  The guy behind the till doesn’t know and somehow that’s more terrible than anything I could imagine.

  I want to throw water on his face, his hands, wherever his clothes aren’t touching him. He’s burning brighter by the minute.

  I open my mouth to let out the scream that’s building there, making me sick, its weight cloying and thick. Then the flames are gone and the shop assistant is holding me up.

  I’m not worried about her patronising me anymore. I’m just thankful I’m not on my arse.

  My heart’s pounding way too fast. I’ve got a sudden bitch of a thumping headache and a stabbing pain in my dead eye.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she says. I realise she’s said this a few times. How long she’s been saying the same thing, I don’t know.

  I have no idea. All I know is that the burning man isn’t there anymore, and that I might be dying.

  ‘Did you…’ I start to ask, but of course she didn’t. She’s fine. It’s me. I’ve just had another stroke, or I’ve had some kind of episode. The burning man isn’t there, same as the woman in the chapel was just some fucked up remnant of drugs and a crippling stroke. I know he’s not there, because if he was I’d be screaming my fucking head off, episode or not, and a stroke or a heart attack is better than that cold, cold fire.

  My breath’s sticky, but I manage to get through it. I give the girl the money with a shaking hand and she bags up my tennis balls.

  Helen chooses that moment to come in.

  It’s OK though. The balls are in the bag.

  Fucking bitch, I think. Fucking coming for my fucking ball bag. Ball bag. Ball bag.

  I laugh at the same time as I’m angry and for a second there, it’s not me. It’s not me thinking those things at all.

  But then it’s gone and she’s there, steady as a rock.

  ‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Are you alright? You’re not, are you?’

  Understatement, but that’s for the best. I don’t want to say anything, not yet. I don’t trust my voice. I don’t want to fuck up the move.

  ‘I need to sit. In the car,’ I say. She’s pale. She thinks I’m dying on her. I manage a smile. It doesn’t help. She takes my arm, though, and I let her.

  She pretty much drags me back to the car.

  ‘Do I need to call an ambulance?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ I say. ‘It’s just a headache.’

  I don’t know why I don’t tell her. I think it’s because I don’t want to
be ill. I want to move. As much as I don’t want to be having a stroke or a heart attack, I really don’t want to be insane.

  ‘You’re getting checked out.’

  ‘I’m seeing Seetha, then we’re moving in the morning. Just need to sit for a while.’ And concentrate on not dying, I think, but I say, ‘Don’t make a fuss.’

  She doesn’t overrule me.

  The headache’s still there and it’s a bastard. One of those headaches that makes you just want to stay very still in the dark.

  I’m worried about it. Really worried. But I’m not going to let it spoil this.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We both need to say goodbye.’

  I look up and notice the sunset for the first time. It’s beautiful. It’s not grey at all. It’s golden.

  It’s yellow.

  *

  9.

  It takes a minute to register. The yellow. The fact that I’m seeing what I’m seeing. I rub my eyes. Really. Like a cartoon. I rub them hard and stare out through the windscreen and it’s still there. Bright, beautiful and definitely yellow. A sweet buttercup glow right across the visible horizon. It’s hemmed in, between two concrete high rise buildings, but it doesn’t matter that it’s got limits. That I can see it at all is good enough for me.

  ‘Helen,’ I say. ‘I can see the sunset.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can see yellow.’

  ‘Honey, really?’

  ‘Yes! Look!’

  ‘Honey, the sun set while you were in the sports shop. That’s…dusk…I guess? It’s more blue. Red. I don’t know. There could be a hint of orange…maybe. But it’s on its way to night.’

  She sees my expression.

  ‘Sorry. What is it you see?’

  I can see fucking yellow, is what I can see. I can. But why am I seeing it if it’s not there?

  ‘I see yellow, Helen, I swear it.’

  I think I’d be angry at her if this was any other day. But not today. I’m too tired. I’ve gone from shit scared to elated in the space of a few minutes. The guy behind the till fades right then to a problem for later. The headache’s all but forgotten. I’m too excited.

  ‘That’s good, right?’ she says.