Beast In The Basement

by Jason Arnopp

  There's no need for that, I think. No need for this final humiliation.

  He's running. Struck dumb, I watch his lower legs as he wrenches that kitchen door fully open, then darts off into the night.

  For what could be five minutes or fifty, I stay down here on the floor, recovering. Trying to mentally regroup. Trying to process what just happened.

  Part of me feels powerless, a bullied child. The rest, the majority, is blurred with anger.

  Finally, I raise myself, ending up on all fours.

  The room swims indistinctly. I gag and retch onto those tiles.

  Wiping my mouth, I force myself upright and stagger to the kitchen door. I slam it shut so hard that the top pane's remaining fragments come loose and shatter on the tiles, shrinking as they multiply.

  * * *

  Every filament in the house is ablaze.

  I wander around the place, still disorientated, looking for missing things. Not the easiest task in a house you barely know.

  The thieved items are of little concern to me. It's the invasion of my space, my bubble, which brings the rawest pain. Nevertheless, it's easy enough to deduce that the DVD and Blu-Ray players are missing from beneath the flat screen TV. The Boy Man must have been carrying one of those in his dirty little paws and smashed me with it.

  My broken tooth dishes out a great deal of pain, bent at an angle but still attached. How can something feel so alien, in the place where it belongs? It seems to fill my entire mouth.

  Machines aside, I dare say the Boy Man's rucksack was stuffed with ornaments and such. I couldn't care less and so decide to abandon this vague survey.

  Soon, I find myself sitting on a chair in the kitchen, facing the locked and bolted outer door. I knock back some painkillers with wine – double the recommended dose, but so what? I don't have a dentist out here and, for all I know, there may not even be one in town. So I'll just have to self-medicate. Sit it out.

  And I do. I sit in that chair, drinking straight from the bottle, wincing every time the smooth glass snags my wayward tooth.

  I sit here and await the dawn. By the time golden light enlivens the land, I find myself sobbing wildly, uncontrollably.

  Yet again, trying to purge something which will never, ever be fully purged.

  Once again, the bubble has burst.

  Hello reality. I was expecting you.

  CHAPTER TWO: SECURITY

  The Land Rover's wheels grind gravel as I fire her up.

  Pulling away from the house, I'm surprised to notice the four-by-four vehicle next to the cottage. It's a fair distance away, across the field, with an open boot.

  As I drive past, I get a closer look. A woman with lively jet-black hair is ferrying boxes to and fro, between car and cottage. She's about my age, nicely dressed. She's also very pretty, but I quickly reject that thought, feeling irrational guilt because of Sylvie, even though we're separated forever. I wonder if that guilt will ever fade.

  Will any of this fade? This weight, this burden? Maybe a fraction of it, once the book's written. One can but hope.

  The woman sees me. She puts down a box and waves. Looks like she's smiling.

  I give her nothing by way of response. I turn my attention back to the road ahead and drive on. This is the best, simplest and least dangerous thing to do.

  Jerry's Hardware Haven smells like sawdust and does not offer the greatest array of choice.

  Among the many dusty aisles, one single shelf is dedicated to home security products. I'm faced with just two types of security camera, both of which look like they were manufactured in the Nineties.

  If I liked or understood the internet and knew how to make purchases on it, I'm sure I'd be faced by a whole bewildering variety of 'cams'. But no. This is it and I can't afford to wait for delivery.

  It's not the limited stock here which disheartens me, more the need for security itself.

  What happened to the world? To those years of legend, back when you could leave your kitchen door open and no-one would dare set foot inside because that simply wouldn't be right? Did those years ever really exist? Old people swear they did – and those folk clearly struggle to adjust to the new world order. They gape, astonished, as young people stroll blithely into their homes, then make off with the candlesticks.

  That very thing happened to my late father. He must have been 84 at the time. Some kid broke into his house and eventually walked into the living room, his arms full of stuff. A bemused Dad said "Hello" and the kid said "Hello" back before making a quick exit. Afterwards, all Dad could talk about was how "well dressed" the "young man" was.

  Even back in the Seventies, I don't remember my parents worrying about Chubb locks and latches and spy cam systems. Neither do I remember straggles of kids hanging around on street corners, giving anyone and everyone the evil eye. In my day, kids were too busy scorching around dirt-tracks on BMX bikes and having TCP rubbed into grazed knees to even think of trespassing, stealing and – God forbid – assaulting. How did those benign tearaways come to spawn this new batch of gremlins, their eyes alight with such resentment and entitlement?

  As I contemplate which camera system to purchase, my peripheral vision is aware of just such a group of youths, hanging around outside the shop, near the Land Rover. Little feels more threatening than kids with nothing to do. Idle hands give rise to the Devil's work. You sense them simmering, like unattended pressure cookers waiting to blow.

  Do pressure cookers really 'blow'? I have no idea. I'm no sexist, but Sylvie used to handle that domestic stuff. She genuinely enjoyed it. Sylvie used to enjoy a lot of things. She used to enjoy watching films, eating at good restaurants, going to the theatre, having sex with me.

  My heart lurches as I contemplate what Sylvie might be doing at this very moment. Is she sitting alone somewhere, bereft, soul-sore? Has her painkiller habit worsened, as she finds it increasingly difficult to "take the edge off"?

  I hate the thought of all that, it makes my head ache. But if she won't return my calls, what can I do? I want to help her. I want her to help me.

  This whole thing has just torn us apart.

  That one day destroyed everything.

  What do you do when something's just broken? There is no glue for tragedy, not real tragedy. All you can do, if you're any kind of human being, is try to ensure it doesn't happen again to others.

  That's what the mission is all about.

  The cameras. Back to the cameras. This is how I've been coping, you see – by keeping busy. Keeping my mind occupied. Pieces of the past often rise from my subconscious cauldron and I just keep on batting them down beneath the surface. A tiring battle, but one I'm determined to win.

  Right now, Jade Nexus And The Cathedral Of Screams means everything to me. Finishing it, the right way, is the only thing that matters.

  The fact that thieves could be swarming over the house, as I stand here pondering security equipment, is a queasy irony not lost on me.

  So hurry up. Just choose some damn cameras and get out of here.

  I sweep several boxes into my arms, on a random whim, and make for the counter. En route, I grab a hammer and a box of nails.

  The checkout girl is young, maybe 17, chubby, with an old-fashioned pink bow in her hair. As I place the goods before her, she's staring at her mobile phone and doesn't react. A few seconds later, she finishes what she's doing and graces me with a fleeting half-smile. She starts to scan the heavy cardboard boxes, one by one.

  "That should do it, yeah?" she says, with a laugh. "That should keep 'em out".

  I just stare at her, with no idea what to say.

  Yes. Yes, it will keep them out. Thanks.

  She shrugs and keeps on scanning.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  I take a closer look, out through the window, at that posse of kids. As the girl scans goods, I scan faces. One after the other.

  None of those kids match my thief, my Boy Man. None of them have a blue rucksack either. I feel simultaneous re
lief and disappointment.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  "You know… there's a bit of blood on your mouth."

  The tooth. I rub my lips with the back of one hand. "Yes," I tell her. "I bit a cat this morning."

  Sadly, she's not taken in. Her eyes widen in mock amazement. "Wow. Okayyyy…"

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  "Hold up," she says, "There's a four-for-three deal on these cameras. Want to add another one, for nothing?"

  I do. The more the merrier.

  As I walk back along the aisle to grab my freebie, a crippling image hits me, unbidden, like an ocean wave.

  Jamie's small skeleton, lying in his coffin.

  My son. Our son. Forever dead.

  Six years were all he got before something burst our bubble.

  I try to shake it away, but the mind is a sadist. That image stays put. Crystal clear.

  I hear the squeak of a letterbox. Something forcing its way in, falling through.

  The screech of car brakes.

  The impact.

  I hinge shut like a pen-knife, right there in the aisle. My head swims madly, the world a gaudy kaleidoscope.

  "You all right, mate?" comes the vague call from behind me.

  I nod, hoping she'll see the gesture. I can't speak.

  I rarely speak, these days. Why bother when there's nothing left to say?

  Straightening myself, still dizzy, I rush to that shelf, grab a box and head back to the counter.

  Outside, as I make a bee-line for the Land Rover, I make no eye contact with the kids. Two of them part ways, to let me through. Feels like a small but qualified victory.

  Ping!

  Another little message appears in a pop-up box at the base of the computer screen. Is that what you call them – pop-up boxes?

  It's from Maurice.

  "Hi there, PT. Just checking in. How's it going?"

  Beneath this message are three similar missives, all received this morning while I've been out. I realise it's Monday. Agents become restless while waiting for precious cargo.

  I consider ignoring these messages, but I know he'll just keep coming back. Maybe he'd even visit the house. There's no way I'd have the energy to deal with that. Have you seen me lately? I'm like one of those skeletons from Jason And The Argonauts. Only this morning, I mustered the courage to look in a bathroom mirror and was shocked by the taut angles of my face. By the waxen pallor of my skin.

  I have become unrecognisable as the old me, in flesh or in spirit.

  I type a response, my fingers cautiously feeling out every word before committing. Must try not to worry him.

  "Hi Maurice. All good here, thanks."

  A small animated quill signifies that Maurice is typing a response.

  "Good, good. We fine for the deadline, then?"

  Ah. Yes. The deadline. Oh God, the deadline.

  "Absolutely," I type. "Can you remind me exactly when it is, again?"

  I can practically hear Maurice gulp. The quill quivers.

  "Ha, u tease! It's Wednesday. This Wednesday. U knew that really, right?"

  The mad kaleidoscope swings into action once again. Bleary spots jig before my eyes. It occurs to me that I should probably eat at some point. Why didn't I buy food while I was out? You can't eat SCART cables.

  My fingers start typing, seemingly independently of my brain.

  "Of course! Don't worry, I'm on it. The book's finished: I've just been letting it breathe before final draft."

  Is that convincing? Hope so.

  A quick waggle from the quill. Then: "Phew! I'll leave you to it."

  I exhale heavily, leaning back in my chair, grasping the arms. Seven long chapters to write in two days.

  I'll just have to buckle right down.

  First things first, though.

  * * *

  The long nails taste of rust. Sunlight streams onto my face.

  I know I'm going to hit my thumb. That's a foregone conclusion.

  It proves easy enough to affix the burglar alarm to one side of the front door. I position another by the kitchen door, then set about repairing that gaping, jagged star-mouth in the glass.

  I had hastily gaffer-taped a corkboard to the window as a makeshift barrier. Tearing this down, I replace it with a panel of wood which covers the whole pane. I take nails from between my teeth, one by one, and hammer them through the wood into the door frame.

  I'm pleased to see this new arrangement holds firm. I'm also pleased my mouth has become accustomed to its new dental configuration. The tooth remains at a bad angle, but my tongue is less obsessed with poking and exploring it. Regular Nurofen and paracetamol keep the pain at bay. I can function, that's all that matters.

  Next, I concentrate on the cameras. It takes a great deal of effort to decipher these instructions. Seems the 'cams' all wirelessly link to a 'hub', allowing me to see live images from all around the house. This greatly appeals, although I'm sceptical that it will actually happen. Technology never works for me – it's always defective in some way.

  Teetering on a stool as wobbly as my tooth, I position one of the cameras above the front door next to the alarm, so that it films along the hallway, including the door to the basement.

  Note to self: should also feed The Beast at some point.

  The next camera goes on the wall by the basement door, facing into the kitchen.

  I ensure the first-floor camera takes in as much of the landing as possible. Same on the second floor.

  The wireless hub, the centre of operations, is going in my study. I lug that flat screen television upstairs, sweating from the exertion, and strategically position it beside my desk. What follows is a whole load of tedious prep-work which relies heavily on that complex manual and intense concentration.

  Once I seem to have the gist of what the hell I'm doing, I activate a boxy digital radio, craving a little background noise. God knows why. Big mistake. Radio lets the outside world in. It's like removing your finger from that hole in the dam.

  "... for which anticipation is becoming ever more intense, around the world," says a newsreader, with all of the inflections and accentuations peculiar to her kind. "Reclusive author Sparks is believed to be delivering the trilogy's final novel, entitled Jade Nexus And The Cathedral Of Screams, to publisher Bloomsdale & Sons this week."

  Ah yes, great. Thanks for the deadline reminder, thanks ever so much. I fiddle with the hub, while staring at the blank flat screen, yearning for surveillance imagery.

  "Come on, you bastard," I tell it. "Show me."

  "Rumours persist that the trilogy's much-loved heroine, Jade Nexus, will die at the end of the epic tale, much to the potential dismay of millions of fans around the world."

  My stomach coils like a cobra. "Well, you needn't worry," I mutter, punching the hub. "The rumours are wrong."

  "Facebook groups and Twitter campaigns have already been created in protest at the demise of Jade Nexus. A spokesperson for Bloomsdale & Sons has urged readers to wait and experience the novel before judging it, but fans remain worried. We spoke to 12-year-old Marie Cooper, who wanted to urge PT Sparks not to bump off the heroine."

  Marie Cooper starts speaking, but I barely hear a word she says. I've already darted across the room and am stabbing fingers at the radio, trying to work out how to turn the bloody thing off.

  "... please don't kill Jade"... click.

  Once again, all I can hear is the birdsong outside. Once again, the bubble is whole. Or at least patched up.

  But for how long?

  I seize the radio and hurl it against a wall, where it smashes and falls to the ground in chunks with a jittery electrical fizz.

  * * *

  When it finally happens, it's like magic. Blessed magic from heaven.

  One by one, the camera feeds blip into existence on the flat screen. Four of them, neatly quartering the screen. The footage is black and white, but that's okay. I'm not shooting a new Spielberg.

  First, Camera One shows me
the hallway, including the vital basement door.

  Camera Two shows me the kitchen.

  Camera Three gives me eyes on the first floor, and Camera Four on the second.

  I stare at these images. Despite being continuously updated, they resemble still frames, apart from that flickering light on the second floor.

  A relieved sigh hurries out of me. Security taken care of. That's one weight off my shoulders.

  A weight which is quickly replaced by another, as I remember it.

  That thing. Down below, skulking in the darkness.

  I remember The Beast.

  CHAPTER THREE: FEEDING TIME

  I put it off for quite some time.

  I do anything, anything else at all. Chores around the house which really don't need to be done. Whatever springs conveniently to mind.

  I'm painfully aware that I'm delaying going into that basement, which in turn is delaying finishing that novel.

  Sunlight wanes as I meander out through the kitchen door and around the side of the house. I spy my new neighbour, watering plants outside her cottage. She looks set to wave again, like some poor deluded fool who expects humanity from me, so I swiftly direct my gaze elsewhere.

  The original plan was to walk to the front of the house, in order to test the burglar alarm. This plan turns to ash when I notice the windows.

  Down there, at ground level, there's a whole row of them, filthy and cobwebbed. I stand back for a moment, looking at the house and mentally putting two and two together.

  These windows must lead down into the basement. How had I not noticed them before? Probably because dirt has rendered them practically opaque – and besides, I was otherwise occupied.

  Lucky I noticed them now, since they're almost big enough to squeeze in through. Or out through. Neither would be good.

  The sun dies behind me as I kneel before the windows, hammering wooden boards over them. It takes a while, because I'm doing this hurriedly and haphazardly. I'm essentially ramming nails into ancient brick, which doesn't always work. Several attempts and much crumbling masonry later, the new panels are in place.