by Gary Fry
There. He’d finally thought about it. He realised it was knowledge of this property his mind had been seeking to withhold. But what was the problem? Yes, Simon Mallinson had vanished there, probably murdered or kidnapped—but so what? That had been fifteen years ago. There was surely nothing to fear now…
Andy examined ambiguous shapes into which clouds had altered above buildings whose decor appeared too primitive at this distance. Hadn’t the elderly village residents kept abreast of trends? In the windows of many homes, he observed no curtains, just wooden shutters in the style of Middle Ages housing. No people were in sight, surely a blessing…because his gaze had now returned to the monumental creatures lurking overhead.
It must be smoke from an open fire in one of the buildings that lent the figures in the sky such a twisted bearing. At one glance, they resembled dragons, and at another distorted elephants with longer legs than usual and no trunks at all…Then these images shifted, becoming other grotesque beasts with no living counterpart, before filtering away to nothing, as if they’d never been there at all.
The heavens appeared to boom. Andy’s vision had grown smeared. Moments later, he found himself glancing at the village he recognised from only a few recent trips here. The windows of the houses had curtains and no smoke was in the area—none whatsoever.
Gripping his steering wheel, he wondered if he’d been working too hard lately, but after edging the vehicle forwards, he was relieved to spot a familiar figure seated in another. This man’s eyes gazed at something that had clearly astonished him—maybe even the woman in a car idling in one of the other lanes nearby.
Whatever the truth was, Andy grinned and waved at Paul Jenkins. The person on the far side of the village’s roundabout was Lisa Robinson. Andy waved to her, too. And after overcoming looks of troubled transfixion, they both waved back.
They’d all come home at last.
NINETEEN
After jotting down the ideas she’d developed while walking in the hills yesterday, Melanie had roused Carl from the spare bedroom. She’d promised to make gingerbread men, but after reaching the doorway to tell him she was ready, she’d noticed he’d fallen asleep again on the bed.
This was surely why he’d complained this morning of someone inside his wardrobe; he must have nodded off over his book and suffered a bad dream. After she’d taken him back to the room and showed him there was nothing to fear, he’d accepted this interpretation. But he’d certainly been scared; perhaps he wasn’t ready yet for the imaginative fiction she’d encouraged him to read lately.
Anthony never read novels, and so Melanie was unable to ascribe her husband’s tense behaviour to any fantasy story. After returning home, he’d noticed what she was doing—working on her PhD—and considered this a good idea; he’d booted up his laptop to scour the Internet. No doubt he’d been researching for his thesis, but every time she’d approached him—with a cup of tea in the morning, and a sandwich in the afternoon—he’d flipped away from the pages he’d been addressing. Even when the solicitor had called once dark had gathered at the window, he’d cleared his browser’s History section before taking the call.
“Everything okay?” Melanie had asked after he’d hung up, and in truth had meant more than news about the will.
But he’d favoured her with only a troubled frown. “Fine,” was all he’d said before returning to whatever presently preoccupied him.
Now, hours later, Melanie paced into the kitchen where the smell of warm ginger suffused the atmosphere, bringing Lucy to her heels, licking her lips. Maybe, she thought, her husband was just nervous about the party this evening. He’d taken a short break from his work earlier to drive to the local supermarket and buy beer, wine and various foods. Stacked against the back door, the cans and bottles were surely a fire hazard, but there was no reason to believe anyone was in danger, was there? Melanie’s feeling of discomfort was just a residual trace of many recent strange experiences and perhaps concern for her son.
While removing from the oven a tray of gingerbread men, she heard several cars arrive in the grove. Anthony leapt audibly to his feet in the lounge, presumably to see if his friends had arrived. But Melanie’s attention was focused on the results of her rare attempt at baking. The ten ginger figures had blurred together, resembling a wall of embracing protestors; arms had merged with arms, feet with feet, and in several cases, heads with heads. She laughed aloud, knowing Carl would find this funny after finally awaking. She told herself that her son had simply endured much unrest lately and that this was the only reason for his uncharacteristic exhaustion.
When a knock came at the front door at about seven o’clock, Melanie began to feel anxious. She’d settled into the house today, establishing territory as an animal might stake out a garden with its scent. It was foolish to believe she’d grown attached to the bungalow so quickly, but as the three people her husband had invited stepped into the hallway, she was surprised to discover how protective she felt, as if these obviously pleasant visitors were intruders in her life, portending no good at all…But that was just ridiculous, and as Anthony introduced the guests, Melanie suppressed the sensation.
Carl had also joined them, excited by the prospect of something new to stimulate him, however much he kept glancing over one shoulder. Anthony appeared uncomfortable, too, and after everyone had moved into the lounge, Melanie evaded the uneasy atmosphere by asking what everyone would like to drink. Then, like the genial host she struggled to be, she went to fetch these refreshments.
When she returned with a tray loaded with beer and wine, Anthony and the newcomers were laughing. Their son mingled well, either because his behaviour had become adultlike or the grown-ups were acting like children. The dog plucked crisps from Carl’s hand, a game that led the woman called Lisa to claim with a peculiar tone, “I guess all the animals here are gifted these days. There must be something in the water.”
An awkward pause followed. The two men in particular—Paul and Andy, both attractive if somewhat intense—had lapsed into edgy silence, prompting Melanie to say, “Deepvale is such a lovely place. I can’t imagine why any of you wanted to leave.”
“Careers called,” Paul seemed eager to explain. “I couldn’t do what I’m doing in Manchester with only old dears in the audience. I’m not sure they’d appreciate the noise.”
With faux joviality, Andy sounded equally uncertain of his reason for moving away. “And my pictures would give ’em nightmares for weeks.”
Carl recoiled from this comment, confirming Melanie’s earlier thoughts about him suffering a bad dream. Leaving the adults to catch up on lost time, she stooped to her son. “You can go to your room if you get bored, you know.”
He shook his head and struggled to keep a stammer from his voice. “No, I want to stay h-here with Daddy.”
Melanie was pleased to hear this, despite realising Anthony appeared keener to converse with his friends.
“Do you remember the bowlers in the park,” he said, his voice loaded with nostalgia, “and how they’d huff and puff whenever we made them dizzy by circling the green on our bikes?”
It wasn’t that Melanie felt left out—such a response would be childish—but whenever the opportunity arose, she stole back to the kitchen, ostensibly to bring more refreshments but in truth to evade the group’s togetherness. While listening to laughter from the lounge, she touched the gingerbread men with one thumb, testing whether they’d cooled. They were grotesque in appearance, and Melanie hoped they’d raise a laugh when she took them through to the visitors. She immediately suppressed the idea that their physical combination was rather like the bond her husband and his childhood friends had now resurrected.
Christ, she was thinking like Anthony, always seeking symbolism in everyday life. Wasn’t she supposed to be a people-person, all the literature she’d read contributing to a tolerance with the human condition? Yes, that was certainly true. And then, feeling more self-assured, she was about to collect a large plate loaded with
the shapeless confections when she detected movement in the back garden.
Between the curtains, a boy looked inside.
He was distorted by moisture on the glass and faded almost to nothing by darkness around him. This image startled her, almost causing her to drop the tray. But after blinking and looking again, she realised it was only a reflection of her son standing in the kitchen doorway behind her. The black dot he’d appeared to bear on his upper lip was just a drop of dew on the windowpane.
Melanie turned and addressed Carl with enough volume to overrule whispery laughter nearby—just wind at play outside, of course.
“Hey, look at the state of these people!” she said, holding out the tray of garish gingerbread men.
“I know. They’re horrible. He invited them.”
Her son made the comment while yawning, leading Melanie to think he was referring to one of his nightmares. But getting over the shock from his response, she replied, “You shouldn’t say that about your daddy, Carl. Lisa, Andy and Paul used to play with him when he was your age. Friends are special and should be cherished.”
“Mine isn’t and shouldn’t,” Carl said, and Melanie thought he must be more tired than she’d suspected. He was getting confused, perhaps mistaking the boy he’d recently met in the street with someone who’d once hung around with Anthony and his gang.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” she suggested, plucking one of the gingerbread men from its calamity of flesh and handing it across while directing Carl into the hall passage. “You could get snuggled under the sheets with Lucy.”
“She won’t protect me. She just barks or runs away. Nobody can.”
Her son was obviously disturbed by something; maybe it would help if she told him about going out in the morning. As more laughter struck up from the front of the bungalow, mimicking wind gusting at the rear, Melanie said, “Your daddy and I plan to take you into the village tomorrow. And we’re going to buy you a present. Would you like that?”
“Well…okay.” With the prospect of a new toy, Carl whistled to summon the dog and then called, “’Night, everyone!” as he moved towards his new room with an unsteady bearing. It made Melanie sad to witness his vulnerability; she’d go and kiss him in a moment, after putting in another appearance at the party.
“Poor lamb,” she said to Lisa, who helped her set food on the table. Once this was done, Melanie added, “I think he’s secretly missing his grandparents.”
Just then, the whole room went silent.
Even the moon and stars peering through a gap between the curtains looked less isolated as Melanie felt now. It was as if she’d conjured a spectre to stand between them, some aspect of the past they’d sooner forget. The laughter she heard from the front garden—surely just a breeze feeling at the window—suggested a masculine tone only because her imagination lent it one. She felt like a child again after upsetting her father, who’d always expressed frustration via an ironical chuckle.
She tried repairing whatever damage she’d caused by adding, “As it’s near Halloween, I thought I’d make something suitable.”
She indicated the mutated gingerbread men on a plate nestled between bowls of nuts and crisps. Then she glanced at her husband with a request conveyed by her eyes alone: Help me out here. I don’t even know these people.
Although he seemed to understand her plea, his next comment wasn’t particularly sensitive. “The kids in the village seem to have taken a turn for the worst. They’re certainly not as innocent as in our heyday.”
Was this what they’d responded to with silence—an unwanted allusion to her husband’s brother Simon? Melanie realised the issue of the boy’s disappearance would still be raw between them, even after all these years. She closely observed Anthony as Paul began to reply.
“We were really sorry to hear about your mum and dad, mate. Nobody deserves that.”
Lisa and Andy offered nods of agreement, and Melanie sensed the room lose a little of its tension. But she had the impression it wasn’t his parents Anthony was keen to discuss. And his next comment proved her right.
“Thanks, guys. But let’s not dwell on it.” He paused briefly, before continuing with renewed humour. “Hey, do you recall that day we went to the lake to skim stones across the surface and…Simon got the flattest one of any of us, and when he chucked it, he got ten bounces?”
The guests clearly shared Melanie’s unsettled feelings; this was apparent in their youthful faces and the manner in which they held their bodies. Melanie tried to picture what they’d looked like as children, a gang bonded by unspoken love and mutual adventures. Then she imagined them as much older people, Anthony’s late parents’ age; she dressed them vividly in less fashionable clothing, adding wrinkles and jowls and stooped postures. She smiled when she considered that people were born bald and often died bald.
Melanie knew she was trying to remove her mind from the awkwardness here.
But that was when Andy changed the subject.
“Hey, Ant, you haven’t told us what you’re studying yet. What’s your major contribution to knowledge going to be? Who’d have thought it, eh? A little scrote like you!”
Melanie’s husband feigned amusement. “Yeah, well, while you waste your time doodling, my friend, I’m exploring the mysteries of existence.”
“Don’t artists do that, too?” Melanie asked, eager to force her way back into the conversation. If Anthony’s friends planned to stay a few days, she refused to feel like an outsider.
Lisa elaborated on the issue, her vocabulary as wide as Melanie expected from a writer. “I think that’s true. We’re all striving to elucidate the ineffable.”
“Only music can manage that, in my opinion,” added Paul, and performed a snatch of melody that might be from one of his compositions. It was sweet and beguiling, and Melanie thought he might even be improvising.
Moments later, Anthony said, “All fair points, guys. I think the best of art has a similar purpose to science in that it seeks to…” He hesitated, as if what he had to add reminded him of something that both unsettled him and evaded comprehension. But then he finished, “…it seeks to sing the world.”
“That’s a lovely phrase, mate,” Paul replied, having now ceased his humming. “I told you it was all about music.”
“But painting can be as eloquent,” Andy pointed out, sipping his lager and grinning broadly. He pointed to a landscape on the wall, depicting the Yorkshire Dales in all their majestic splendour.
“As can language,” Lisa added, and now it was Melanie’s turn to support her fellow female.
“I agree,” she said, before leaving them all to discuss more of these issues, walking away along the hall passage.
After kissing Carl good night in the spare room—he was already sleep with Lucy beside him—Melanie returned to the kitchen and put on the kettle. It was getting late, but she heard giddy conversation flowing from the lounge. Alcohol continued to enact its magic, loosening tongues, encouraging nostalgia, and increasing volume until the sounds of wind buffeting the bungalow were subdued by laughter.
Melanie was happy for her husband and listened as he outlined his PhD thesis: “I’m trying to explore what role intuition plays in human cognition…” While making warm drinks, she overheard other debates, one leading Lisa to ask, “How the hell did a bunch of normal folk like us get where we are today?” To which Andy replied, “It was written in the stars, my dear.”
When Melanie delivered steaming mugs, along with sugar and milk, Paul asked her what she planned to study for a PhD, and she enjoyed outlining the ideas she’d recently developed. These were good people, Melanie decided, the conclusion facilitated by a few swiftly downed vodkas-and-tonics. Indeed, when everyone made to leave, she felt slightly disappointed, but when her husband said he planned to see his friends out, she didn’t protest. Perhaps this was part of his healing process, delayed since childhood. Surely everything would work out well. Melanie now realised she was still eager to move to the villa
ge.
Once the gang had stepped outside, she shut the front door and started thinking with more conviction about the bungalow as her new home.
TWENTY
“Do you remember The Conjurer’s House?” asked Anthony as soon as the door had shut behind him.
His question was met with a deathly silence.
Out on the hills, something shuffled, presumably a breeze frisking foliage in the area. Each of Anthony’s friends turned to glance that way, and only an act of will persuaded him they weren’t looking away from the dilapidated property at the foot of the grove.
“Come on. This isn’t a witch hunt. I just want to be reminded of what…you all saw that night.”
He’d made his enquiry without any preamble; this was, after all, the reason he’d invited them back. Watching their uncertain faces, he suppressed knowledge he’d promulgated as an academic: that even multiple perspectives on the same experience never exhausted its complexities. But that was all he had, and he had to try.
Lisa said, “A witch hunt? I’m not sure you should talk about such things around here.”
She’d intended the comment humorously, but no one laughed…except for a chill wind scudding across the moors with relentless haste.
Andy shivered when he spoke. “Yeah, I know all those rumours were nonsense, but I have some…strange memories about this village.”
“That’s what I’m after—your memories,” Anthony explained, realising he’d just broken another rule of his intellectual position: human recollection was condemned to failure, because the past was always subject to distortions. Nevertheless, he had no alternative, and must learn about anything his friends could recall.
“A terrible thing happened to you, mate,” said Paul, staring at the front window of his parents’ home, where curtains had just twitched. That was probably his mum gazing outside, checking on his welfare. It was as if they were all children again. “But you’ve got to let it go. Your…brother’s gone. He’s dead.”
