by David Haynes
She tucked the box under her armpit and scampered back to the mattress. The Vicar was a silly fool but he was also nasty and mean. Fancy tricking her like that. She’d have a think and see what she could do to him in return. It would be something he didn’t like, something he really didn’t like.
“One, two, three...” She counted her pearls again.
11
Dead. It was written on the Velux window, in bright red pen.
“Dead.” Stokes stared at the word. Spots of rain were falling onto the window but the letters weren’t smudging. It was written on the inside.
“Dead,” he repeated it. Slowly the letters ran down the window in spidery lines until there was nothing left there at all.
He wasn’t dead, he knew that. The nauseating pain in his side was evidence of his existence. Unless he was dead and this was hell?
He picked the tape off his torso and pulled the towel aside completely. He was greeted by a putrid stench which caused him to retch. If at all possible, the smell was worse than the pain. It needed some air, that was all. An hour or two without the stinking towel would sort it out.
He swung his feet off the bed. What time was it? He wrapped his fingers around his wrist. He was sure he’d had a watch yesterday, or was it the day before? It didn’t really matter what time it was anyway, he didn’t have anywhere to go, not unless he wanted to.
Fresh air, that was what he needed. Fresh air and a walk down to the lake. He stood up and felt the bedroom do a three-sixty around him before it stopped. He should eat something before he attempted to go for a stroll.
He slipped on his jeans, ignoring the filth he was covered in. No-one would see him, nobody else would be out on a day like this.
Scretch, scretch, scretch.
He turned around and looked at the teeth and hair on the bed. The hair was still as beautiful as ever. Golden honey seemed to run through it in a sumptuous and oozing river. He’d kept it on the pillow beside him as he’d fallen asleep. He remembered staring at it, utterly transfixed, as his eyes finally closed.
He looked down at his hand and opened his clenched fist. Five tiny teeth, jagged and worn, had left indentations all over his palm. He tightened his fist around them again and felt the bite of one of the jagged edges dig into his skin before he dropped them into his jeans pocket.
Rain hammered on the roof window, it was coming down so hard and fast that it was almost keeping pace with the thumping of his heart. Yes, this was a good day for a walk down to the water. It was the sort of day that washed your troubles away.
He grabbed the handrail and made his way slowly down the stairs. He felt weak but all things considered, not too bad. Wasn’t there a half-eaten steak in the house somewhere? He needed protein to make himself stronger and he remembered eating only a small part of a steak he’d cooked yesterday, or was it the day before? It was recently anyway, the days seemed to be merging into one at the moment. He reached into the bag under the sink and pulled out the meat. He sniffed it and stuffed it into his mouth. If he could keep it down then it would do him the world of good.
He turned and stopped; the meat hung from his mouth like a giant deformed tongue.
“Hello?” he whispered.
The little girl stood on top of the hatch. She said nothing but stared back at him.
Stokes allowed the steak to fall from his mouth and land on his feet. He dug into his pocket and brought out the teeth.
“You can have them if you want. They’re very pretty, just like you.” He offered them to her.
He thought he saw a flicker of a smile on her rose-bud lips and then she was gone.
“Am I dead?” he shouted, and then added in a whisper, “Are you?”
He shrugged and grabbed the steak from the top of his foot where it had landed. “Does it matter?”
*
He stood on the foreshore and looked down at his bare feet. A shoal of dying fish convulsed in the sand and flapped their tails at his skin as they took their last desperate breaths. Weak grey light reflected off their scales and briefly gave them their lives back before the sun disappeared behind the clouds. He flicked one back into the water with his toes.
The rain pounded on his skin in a wonderful, rhythmic percussion. It washed over the wound and crept inside the gaping flesh where it cooled the burning tissue. He stretched his arms out to either side and closed his eyes. There was nothing except for the exquisite sound of the rain. It smashed into the lake and thrashed into the earth with a brutal intention that signalled the wishes of mother nature. This was all hers and she would do with it as she wished. She could do with him whatever she wanted too.
He roared with all his might. It was a low sound, almost a growl, it shocked him and at the same time excited him. He could stay like this forever, just him and the earth in perfect savage harmony.
“Jim?”
He turned slowly to the side and opened his eyes.
“Jim, are you okay?”
He stared silently at the man facing him and although he knew it was someone he should know, he didn’t recognise him. No, that wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t recognise him. Red paint covered his face and dripped off the point of his chin in a steady and unrelenting stream.
“Jim? What’s wrong?”
Stokes took a step away. Was it paint or blood? “I’m sorry,” he muttered and wiped his eyes. Some of the mud that caked his face and hair was running into his eyes.
“It’s me.”
Slowly the paint succumbed to the rain and ran from his face in thick crimson rivulets. It was Peter.
“Jesus.” He pointed at Stokes’s stomach. “What’ve you done?”
Stokes looked down at the wound and ran his finger around the lesion. Blood gathered briefly on his finger before the rain washed it away. “Nothing.” The wound itself didn’t hurt much anymore but his thighs, groin and ribs were howling like mad. He was angry, not because Peter had disturbed the moment but because he’d reminded him of the pain.
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Have you been rolling around in the mud? You’re absolutely plastered in it.”
“It’s nothing,” Stokes repeated. “What do you want?”
His tone had clearly shocked Peter who said nothing for a moment. “I was just passing and I thought I’d come and see you. It’s a good job by the look of you.”
A word, daubed in bright red flashed across Peter’s face. It said ‘Liar’.
Stokes shook his head and the word was gone. “I’m fine. I fell that’s all.”
“Are you sure? You look like shit, pardon the language.”
“I’m fucking fine, if you’ll pardon mine.” He watched the other man’s face for a reaction but there was none.
“Okay, I get the message.” He walked past Stokes, along the edge of the lake, back toward the village.
Stokes felt bad. The cool rain had given him a lucidity he hadn’t felt for a while. This wasn’t him, any more than it had been him at the DIY store in town. “Sorry!” he called after Peter. The other man didn’t turn but raised his hand in acknowledgement.
Stokes ran after him. His legs complained bitterly but they responded. He caught up with Peter and put his hand on his shoulder. Peter stopped and faced him.
“I’m really sorry, I’m not feeling very well.” He pointed to the wound. “This was my retirement gift from one of my customers and it’s itching like mad.”
“It’s gone bad, Jim. You need to see a doctor.”
“I will. Which house belongs to Willis?”
The question clearly caught Peter off guard, more so than Stokes’s earlier use of colourful language. He frowned, showing deep trenches in his forehead. Stokes had never seen them before on Peter’s usually jolly expression.
“Willis? Why?”
It was obvious Peter had little time for Willis and he didn’t care if he showed it.
“He said something about the house to me the other day and I’d like to ask him what he meant. He wasn’t
at the last meeting so...”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing really, he just hinted at something.”
Peter looked over Stokes’s shoulder at the cottage. “I didn’t want to say anything before but he’s crackers. He was in an institution a couple of years back, lost his house and everything. I’d leave him well enough alone if I were you.”
Stokes felt the desire to grab Peter around the neck and shake him until his teeth rattled together.
“I’d like to speak to him, Peter,” he said flatly.
“You won’t get much sense out of him, but if you want to waste some of your time then that’s your choice. He lives two doors down from the hall. You can’t miss it, it looks like a house a lunatic might live in.”
“Thanks.” He turned to walk away but felt Peter’s hand on his shoulder.
“Jim, you look terrible and it’s not man-flu. You need to see a doctor.”
Stokes half-turned and smiled. “I will.”
He walked quickly back to the cottage and without turning, knew Peter was watching him. He could watch all he liked.
Stokes looked across the lake and for a moment he was tempted to hurl himself into the water and swim to the other side. He’d never felt better than he did right now. The rain had washed his troubles away, just like he knew they would. How far could it be? A mile, two at the most. He hadn’t done any swimming for years but just to immerse himself in the water would feel like heaven. He paused before going back inside and shivered violently. The wound seeped blood, so pale and diluted by the rain, that it looked vaguely like fruit juice. In a way it was – extract from a crushed man.
He examined his reflection in the glass. He looked old and haggard. He looked the same as the street drinkers looked after a couple of years on the old White Lightning cider. He’d never been fat but could’ve done with losing a couple of pounds, yet now he looked lean. He put his hands into the small of his back and stretched. The hole in his torso opened up where his body was attempting to heal. He didn’t want it to heal over again, he would never allow it. It was a little keepsake. He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the teeth. They were a keepsake too.
He pushed a tooth into the open wound, then another and another until all five were gone. He stepped inside. There were another fifteen to go and they were small enough to fit inside perfectly. If it was a bit tight in there, well he might just have to make their new home a little bigger.
*
He sat on the hatch and spread the remaining hair and teeth out in front of him. The little girl had put them in a safe place when she’d hidden them, inside the box, but it seemed right that they should be out in the daylight again. Why on earth would she hide them anyway?
Perhaps she hadn’t. Lots of people kept trinkets to remember their children’s younger years. Maybe her mum and dad had put them there for safekeeping and simply forgotten them when they moved on.
He pulled a few strands of hair to his nose and inhaled. How was it they smelled so fresh? He closed his eyes and imagined her standing before him. Her front two teeth would be missing and she’d poke her tongue through the gap at him. They’d both laugh and he’d chase her around the house until they collapsed breathless and giggling.
“Daddy?”
His eyes flicked open.
“Daddy? Am I beautiful?” There she was, standing before him just as he’d imagined it.
“You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”
This time there was no hint of a smile, it was a great beaming grin and it covered most of her face. Daylight wormed its way through the glass doors. It fell on the room, it fell on her, but mostly it fell through her and changed from a grim and grey late-autumn afternoon sun into a mid-summer haze. It was bewitching.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Melody,” she answered immediately.
“What a pretty name. Do you live here?”
The smile left her face and was replaced with a pained expression. “No, a nasty man brought me here.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Stokes didn’t know what to say. He was well used to having conversations with the ghosts his mind conjured up, but those conversations had usually consisted of vitriolic threats of violence. This was entirely different.
“We have something in common then.” He looked down at the scar. One of the teeth protruded slightly so he pushed it gently back inside.
“I know you’re not really here, Melody. I’ve not been quite right for a while, not since... not since a nasty woman did something to me. She took me somewhere I didn’t want to go and she left me there.” He paused and looked at her again. She simply stared at him. “I think I might still be there actually and I can’t seem to find my way back. If there is a way back anymore.”
“Help?” she whispered.
“Help?” he whispered back. Which one of them was asking for help? Both of them?
She looked down at the teeth, firstly at the collection by his feet then, tipping her head to one side, at the ones in his wound.
“I’m keeping them safe. Are they yours?”
The light continued to fall against her tiny frame, but instead of her body turning it into a summer haze, she became a hellish prism and turned the sunlight into a storm cloud which landed like a dirty puddle at her feet.
She opened her mouth and Stokes instinctively raised his hands to cover his ears. For all the world she looked as if she were about to scream. Instead, blood dripped slowly from her gums. She had not a single tooth in her head and as she closed her mouth again, her face became twisted.
“Am I beautiful, Daddy?” Her words were almost unrecognisable.
But she was beautiful. She could never be anything other than perfect.
“Of course, but I’m not your daddy.”
“Daddy? Help?”
He remembered hearing a voice like that once before, in a different world. It was a time when things had been more ordered and easy to understand. It was a long time before Natalie Sutton had got her hands on him. He’d been a uniformed police officer then and when someone asked for help you gave it. And when that someone was a little lost girl, you did everything you could to help, and then you did some more.
“I’ll help you.” He nodded. “I’m going to help you, Melody.”
*
The light had slipped away some time ago but Stokes waited on the floor with his collection. He was waiting for her to return, he was waiting for her to come back and call him Daddy again. He took his eyes away from the hatch and looked out onto the lake. They took a few seconds to focus; it had been a few hours since they had looked at anything other than a square of wooden floor.
Someone had started a bonfire on the far side of the lake and orange embers leapt haphazardly into the air. He inhaled deeply and caught the faint scent of the fire. A spark flew higher than the others and exploded suddenly in a fizzing shower of multi-coloured stars. Was it November the fifth already? The bang of the firework reached him. It couldn’t possibly be November already because that would mean he’d been in the cottage for what..? Weeks? Or was it months? Had he always been here?
He felt tired again. The only time he’d ever felt like this was after the night-shifts on a Saturday night; after being run ragged by revellers enjoying their weekend by trying to beat each other’s brains in. He dragged himself upright and clutched the trinkets tightly to his chest. The blackness from the wound was creeping slowly upward and across his body. It was level with the bottom of his ribcage now but what would happen once it reached his face? Would it simply stop or would it slither into his head via his nose or his ears? He trailed his finger over the dark and shiny skin. If it managed to get into his head, good luck to it. There were worse things than a bit of necrosis in there, oh yes, a lot worse.
He staggered upstairs and climbed onto the dirty bed. What had Willis actually said about the cottage? He’d asked if he knew anything about the cottage or something like tha
t.
“No, I don’t,” he answered.
But now he should know something about it, shouldn’t he? Now he had a little girl to look after.
He shuffled about on the bed but it wasn’t comfortable. Why was he up here anyway? She’d asked him for help and he couldn’t do that if they weren’t together.
Scretch, scretch, scretch.
“I’m coming, Melody.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed. “I’m on my way.”
