by James Crow
‘This is a fun do,’ says Elizabeth.
Beth cringes at this.
Peter touches his big lips to Elizabeth’s and her mouth opens in response. His flaming bricks engulf her head. As they pull apart, Peter runs his tongue up her cheek and the girl sighs, exuding yellow happiness. He slides her from his knee to her feet and gets up from the chair.
‘The priest gave his will, Rose writer.’ Peter comes over, takes a hold of Rose by the elbows and pulls her to her feet. ‘A fitting end, don’t you think?’
‘There’s proper channels for justice, Peter.’
Nice going with the emphatic inflection, Rose. You might just rile him a teeny bit.
Thanks.
Pete’s nostrils flare, his upper lip twitches. His hand is at Rose’s blouse, feeling inside. This time, Rose doesn’t try to stop him. ‘You are so fortunate, Rose writer. Peter would love to fuck you.’
Beth? Your lead? Please!?
‘Well look what we have here,’ Peter says.
Rose’s heartrate has just gone through the roof. The phantoms are back, and Peter is caressing them. Beth can feel Rose’s mind going into a spin.
It’s not real, Rose.
No reply.
Calm your heart, Rose.
No response. Rose’s heart is thudding loud.
A crackling sound, like bones under boots, and the skin at Peter’s wrist turns black. He pulls his hand from Rose’s blouse, only it’s no longer a hand, it’s a claw, a huge bird claw.
Good fucking Lord. Rose is panting now, her spinning mind conflicted.
Rose, please calm down.
‘Rose writer,’ Peter places a curved black talon against Rose’s chest and breaks the skin with its point. Rose flinches but then appears to be frozen, mesmerised. Beth realises that she is too. Peter swipes the talon down Rose’s front.
Rose cries out and grasps at her chest as blood runs through her fingers.
Now his clawed hand is at Rose’s belt buckle. A click, a deft swish, and the belt falls open.
‘Master!’ Beth shouts, shaking herself into action. ‘Someone’s watching you!’ She points to the floor.
The jagged base of the lucky cup is close to Peter’s boot. The eye staring up at him blinks. Peter lets go of Rose and bends to pick up the piece of cup.
Beth unleashes scenario three. Growling from her throat, she rushes Peter, head low and hard into his ribs. Peter tumbles to the floor.
Rose, after only the slightest hesitation, springs towards Whittle’s model and wrenches the machete from its wooden shoulder.
Beth had calculated correctly. Elizabeth is quick to react, although she has no weapon and little bodyweight to throw, she comes at Beth eyes blazing, lips snarling, fingers curled.
The side-step is easy. Beth ducks to the left and Elizabeth meets the path of the swinging machete. Rose screams as she swings it. The blade enters Elizabeth’s right shoulder in a downward arc, slices through the collarbone and carries on for at least eight inches. Elizabeth looks down at the blade jutting from her chest, then to Rose’s hands gripping the handle, then she looks at Rose. ‘Stringy worms,’ she says.
Rose yanks the blade out as Peter gets to his feet and she swings it again with a cry echoed by Whittle outside. The blade re-enters the same cut and comes out the other side at Elizabeth’s waist, slicing her clean through. Her top half topples backwards to the floor; her legs remain standing for a second or two before they go over. There is no blood. The wood spirit reverts to a rotted, skeletal form and Beth kicks away at the bones and scatters them.
Rose backs off from Peter. ‘Run, Bethy! Run!’
A distraction. ‘Master!’
Peter is distracted. Only for a second, but it’s enough for Rose to swing again. The blade connects with Peter’s wrist. There’s a spurt of bright red blood, a howl from Peter. Rose and Beth run for the door to the sound of the machete hitting the floor. Beth pushes Rose through the door. ‘Go, Rose, go!’
Rose hurries into the rain, clutching at her chest, not looking up at Whittle as she steps around the fallen top half of the silver birch.
Beth watches Peter as he stumbles into the kitchen, his claw dangling by threads of flesh; blood pumps a trail across the floor. At the hob, blue gas flame erupts. Peter sticks his wrist into the flame and howls afresh.
The hail has turned back to rain and is heavier than ever now. Whittle screams, one of his legs dislocates and drops a few inches and the barrel dances a little. He screams again when the other leg pops from its socket and the barrel drops and sways and his body is pulled onto the spike. Lightning blinks and his blood runs crimson down the silver trunk. Beth runs into the rain.
She comes upon Rose on her knees, hands at her blood-soaked chest. ‘I’m going to die.’
‘No you’re not.’ Beth pulls her up and drags her on. A single sparrow on the path ahead lifts off as they approach. It chirrups an alarm call as a crow darts across its path.
They take the southern curve, and where Beth expects to find eels blocking their way – there are none. A badger is sitting on the wooden bridge. ‘Good boy,’ Beth says as they hurry past; fat glossy eels slop about in the marsh grasses below.
The whispers are clearer here. Beth can make out the words, fortunate, fortunate, fortunate.
Rose cries out, a release of pain. Beth feels the throb of her wound as if it’s her own, links an arm through Rose’s, takes some of her weight, and they keep going, past the cabins where the smell of death spins Beth’s mind. She holds her breath and on they move, to the communal area, where only crows await, plenty of crows.
Rose staggers to a picnic bench, rests a hand against it, gulps in air. ‘Feel faint, Bethy. Not good. And cold. So cold.’
Rose’s teeth chatter. Blood coats the hand clasped to Rose’s chest. Blood makes dark patches on her flower-patterned blouse. Too much blood.
Lightning flashes the loch white. The beginnings of an unearthly howl are drowned out by a barrage of thunder and the ground shakes beneath their feet.
‘That was Peter, he’s coming,’ Beth says.
‘Of course he is. Listen, Beth, just run, okay? Just fucking run like hell.’
fortunate, fortunate, fortunate – whispers, coming from up the hill, in the direction of the pit.
Another howl, Peter closing in.
‘Bethy, look at me.’
Beth looks at Rose, she looks like death.
‘You need to run, Bethy. Get far away from here. You hear me?’
Beth takes Rose’s arm, guides her to the big hut, opens the door, Rose falls inside. Beth steps inside, gets behind Rose and drags her by the armpits to the wall that’s in shadow. ‘I’ll get help, Rose.’
Just run, Bethy – run like the fucking wind!
As the door pulled firmly closed, darkness engulfed her. A not too distant howl – Pete the freak closing in. Then the sound of slapping footfalls running fast. Like the wind, Bethy. Run like the fucking wind.
Pete sounded pissed. Of course he fucking does, you just sliced his hand off. Rose shivered, her back to the wall. The sliced flesh of her chest throbbed hot, and clammy sweat replaced the rainwater on her brow. Rain pattered the roof, a comforting sound. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she searched the shadows for anything that might help her defend herself. A pile of stacked deckchairs, two buckets labelled SAND, a bundle of oars against one wall. That was it, nothing else. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she pulled herself under a table and then again under the next and curled against the wall. Nothing else. Not even a fire extinguisher to bash him over the head with. If this was one of her novels there’d be a hefty fire extinguisher nearby, or even an axe in a glass cabinet. Break glass in the event of a psycho attack. She caught herself smiling. But the incredible throbbing pain from the open wound in her chest was close to making her pass out. Right now she couldn’t even wield a joint, never mind a fire extinguisher. And the worst of it was, the phantoms. She opened her blouse, a flicker of lightnin
g and she saw them, her perfect breasts, nipples achingly hard, and the absurd red gash that parted them and ran down her front. Still bleeding, not badly, but enough to know that she needed help soon. She closed up her blood-soaked blouse, pressed her hands against the wound.
Another howl, louder, angry. Much closer now. He sounded like a crazed animal. I’m going to fuck you, Rose writer. She thought of Beth, running on her fast legs. She would run in the rain all the way to the shepherd’s cottage and get help. But she needed to hurry. Maybe Pervert Pete wouldn’t bother with her anyway; it was Beth he really wanted. Maybe he’d keep on going, right past the hut, following Beth’s scent. And Rose could sleep, wait for help to arrive; the paramedic she saw in her mind was a black man with dreads and shiny white teeth. She imagined him stitching her up on the spot, lighting up the wound with a torch on a band around his head, lifting her away on a stretcher, and she was holding Beth’s hand.
But was that wishful thinking? She’d chopped the freak’s hand off, for God’s sake. He said he was going to fuck her. That he wanted to fuck her.
A moving shadow caught her eye at one of the big windows, where only the dullest grey light came through. Rose shifted too quickly, trying to duck her head out from under the table to see more; the pain up her front spun her, almost knocked her out, and she had to stifle a cry. It felt as though someone was knitting with tendrils of her flesh. Again, the shadow moved, and Rose forced her eyes to it. The shape of a crow on the sill outside was joined by another. Crows are good, she thought. They were standing guard. Or drawing attention?
Boom went the thunder and the hut rumbled and swayed. Rose was certain the whole hut had just dropped a foot into the earth. She screwed her eyes shut and prayed for it all to end. Prayed for Beth to reach safety. She had to reach that cottage, there was nothing else, no other way out, was there? An image of Pete’s quad bike came to mind, sturdy tyres, couldn’t put those out of action with a blade, could you?
Would Bethy be able to drive it?
Would she find it?
Would she even think to look for it?
Rose berated herself for not suggesting this to Beth before she took off. She dared to notice she was becoming used to the throbbing heat down her front; if she thought her thoughts in-time with its pulse, she could ride it, go with it and ignore the severed nerve endings to the extent where the pain would almost become a pleasure. She imagined – if she was lucky enough to survive this nightmare – what the scar might look like: vertical, bisecting the horizontal scars where her breasts had once been. A cross-shaped scar, no less. Good Lord. She heard herself laughing, squinted at the bright sunlight.
With the cold wind on her beautiful breasts, her blouse is flapping open in the breeze. She’s sitting on the grassy hill overlooking the loch, the scent of spring blossom on the air; a flurry of fishy activity on the water below – a welcome dream of tranquillity. Nearby, Beth paces back and forth, head down; she’s troubled about something. Rose uses her thoughts to tell her to come sit, to tell her it’s over, and that everything is going to be all right. But Bethy vanishes, and the fresh spring day floats away, and once more Rose is clutching a bloodied blouse and she’s being nudged awake.
Beth had brought help, a dark-skinned paramedic, tugging at her boot, pulling her out from under the table. She’s lifted high into the air with ease and placed gently on the table. Her blouse is whipped open.
‘Rose writer.’
Rose opened her eyes to her exposed breasts. The face looking down at her that came into focus was not that of a kindly black paramedic. Rose kicked out, screamed for help; a thrash of wings and Pete’s hand shot out and plucked the crow from the air; a flick of the wrist and the crow’s neck snapped. He dropped the bird to the floor.
‘Rose writer.’ He held up his cauterised stump and Rose caught its rancid stink. ‘I’m going to fill you up, aye.’ His grin was so bright, his eyes so fierce.
Rose dug the heels of her boots into the table top and tried to push away, but Pete’s good hand was wrapped around her belt buckle. Only it wasn’t a hand, it was a claw. Another flash of wings through the open doorway and Pete let go. The bird was grabbed from the air and hurled towards the window, went straight through it with a crash of tinkling glass.
‘I’m going to fill you up nice and deep and split you in two, Rose writer. How about that, aye?’ The claw was back at her belt, tugging her down the table towards him.
She screamed again for help and help arrived – another crow – this one was dispatched with the same swiftness, a grab, a fling, a thud off the wall, a dying caw. Rose stamped her boots at him, kicked against his chest, but she was so weakened and the bastard was strong, holding her down and undoing her belt at the same time. Her jeans were ripped open to the sound of birds thumping into the hut’s walls, and then came the whispers, fortunate, fortunate, fortunate.
As her jeans were tugged down, the grinning lunatic before her suddenly jerked backwards and then jerked again. He released his grip, spun to the side, jerked again and kicked out at something Rose couldn’t see. She clambered away from him, up the table, fell to the floor with a pain-blinding thud, and froze when she saw it. The dog was huge, black, its jaw was clamped around Pete’s calf. And it wasn’t letting go. Rose knew she’d seen this dog before.
The dog cast her a glance with chocolate-brown eyes as it eased steadily backwards to the doorway, the muscles at its neck bulging. Pete dropped to the floor, swiping out at it with his stump and his claw but the dog tugged and pulled, and Pete fell back with each tug.
Rose crawled towards the door at the same slow pace, matching each step the massive dog took. Pete slid outside into the rain and was dragged across the mud on his back, cursing and screaming and kicking at the snarling dog. Rose reached the door in time to see the dog release its grip and Pete scramble to his knees. The dog pounced, its jaw clamping down onto Pete’s groin. Pete howled to the sky. His bellowing scream stretched his face wide, and just before Rose closed the door to, a swooping black dart filled Pete’s mouth and cut his scream dead. The crow’s beak emerged from the back of his neck and his blood ran dark and Pete fell to one side, his body flopping about like a ragdoll’s as the dog shook its head from side to side, flesh tearing, blood spilling.
Rose closed the door, lay flat on her back and put her boots against it. Outside, the throaty growls, the thrashing, continued. She fumbled with her jeans, got them fastened, calmed her breaths with thoughts of home, of Danni, of her and Danni in bed, of writing her next book that might even be a lesbian romance. She laughed out loud, then winced and clutched her hands to her chest to still the pain. Breathe, Rose, breathe!
Thunder rumbled and heavy rain pattered against the roof of the hut. Rose was sure she could still hear distant whispers, or maybe that was the sound of her mind cracking up. No sounds from Pete, though, no sounds at all, just the occasional caw of a crow. And no sounds from that dog, that bloody great dog.
Then came a new sound. A welcome sound that lifted Rose’s heart. Footfalls, fast slapping footfalls. The door nudged against her boots. Rose gripped at the floor, pushed her boots into the door. Bethy? she asked with her thoughts, too afraid to speak out loud.
‘Rose, it’s me. Let me in.’
She moved back from the door and Beth’s bright face appeared, her head and shoulders surrounded by golden . . . bricks. Rose thought she’d gone mad.
‘Come on, Rose, it’s not over yet. We need to go.’ Beth helped her to her feet.
Outside, Pete lay still, facing the sky, the back end of a crow jutting from his mouth. His groin was a bloody hole, ravaged, torn apart. No sign of the dog.
‘He’s done for,’ Beth said, and took Rose’s arm.
They headed towards the hill, the rain painfully cold. Rose had no spare strength to ask what the hell had just happened. She thought of the quad bike and the dry warmth of the cottage just a few short miles away. Then the air around them seemed to suck away and the hair on Rose’s hea
d came alive with a static buzz, an eerie silence and time stood still.
The lightning bolt struck the water tower near the top of the hill and blasted its roof clean off. Its supports shifted, the sodden ground gave way. The tower slid sideways before toppling and spilling its load, and bubbling white water gushed down the hill. Thunder blasted and boomed and the ground vibrated. A tree toppled here, another one there. The water on the loch grew choppy and little waves slapped the shoreline.
Beth dragged Rose on and up the hill, slipping and stumbling as they went, Rose clutching at her chest, gasping for breath. Those whispers again, louder now, fortunate, fortunate, fortunate
At the top of the hill, they skirted the reception area. Pete’s quad bike was parked by the entrance to the maintenance hut. But Beth dragged Rose straight on by. ‘No keys,’ she said.
They’ll be in his pocket – go back! Rose tried to stop but Beth wouldn’t let her.
‘Keep going, Rose. We have transport.’
They crossed the small parking area and onto the road as lightning snapped and thunder rolled beneath their feet. Rose almost fell. As she straightened back up she came face to face with the misty image of a naked woman. One of her arms had been removed and stitched to her mouth. The woman puffed and snorted and plodded aimlessly. Beth pulled Rose around the ghostly form and there was another: a nun in an old-fashioned wheelchair. ‘Fortunate, fortunate,’ the nun was saying. She had no legs; the chair spun and the nun cackled.
Beth pulled Rose on as more misty figures loomed through the rain, all of them female, all of them grotesquely disfigured or mangled, all of them whispering fortunate, fortunate.
They crossed the field towards the old ruin, weaving in and out of naked wispy forms that were growing in number.
