The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Nirvana Mark IV stood neglected on its easel as it had done for three months. At some point it had gained a dust cover. The sight of it was a mockery to the artist now. He knew that no matter what happened in the future that particular project was dead.

  Then there was this.

  The figure in the new painting was humanoid but distorted somehow. As the light filtered through the studio's windows, the swamp-mud backdrop gained a dirty bottle green hue, while the vagueness of the figure was fashioned out of black browns. Weaver noted with admiration the subtlety of the stroke work; it was quite a skill to create a vague form that could exert such a powerful impression. The angle of the central composition suggested that the entity was reaching up and out; its fingers a blurred tangle of lines, perhaps not fingers at all. In fact, the whole impression was increasingly formless the more it was studied and yet it was familiar to him. It aroused in him a confusion of feeling: the fundamental darkness and loneliness of the figure disturbed him while the entire work nagged at his memory: a forgotten association, a subconscious image; something primordial that gave the delusional sense of a memory on the edge of recall.

  Paul lit his joint and took a deep draw. He exhaled a blue corkscrew of smoke into the early sunbeams. He studied Weaver, lost in his deliberation, for a moment.

  "Why are you here, anyway?"

  Weaver recounted the events of the early hours. The intruder on the stairs.

  Paul grinned and handed the joint across. Weaver shook his head. "Why didn't you come straight back, then?"

  Weaver frowned. "I'm not sure. I just felt like walking around. I've had a lot on my mind lately, I guess. I needed to think. Get a few things straight.”

  "So you walked around in sub-zero wind chill for-" He consulted his watch. "Hmm. Five hours. Nice."

  "No, I-" He faltered. What had he been doing? "I went to the All-Night Cafe for a few hours. Talked to a few people there."

  That was a poor excuse for a lie and Paul knew it too. But why lie anyway?

  Paul arched his eyebrows. "You're a mess mate. Have a cup of tea and go home. Get some sleep."

  "Yeah I know," Weaver sat down on the stool he used when he was painting. He was a shell, an empty cell. He rubbed his stubbled face. He stood again, his eyes drawn to the figure in the painting again. Its right arm extended- doing what- reaching? Pointing? He heard Paul stand up behind him and stretch. "Wanna cuppa tea, then?"

  "Hmm, please," Weaver answered. It was like the Rorschach inkblot test. The form of what would be the face, if it were a person, kept shifting under his tired gaze. Sworls and swirls he thought, all in the brush technique.

  Paul looked over his shoulder, grunting in appreciation.

  "If this isn't a self-portrait, Weave, the artist knows the subject very well."

  He looked again at the enigmatic blot of a face. "I don't know anyone that paints like this," he said.

  Paul laughed. "Well he knows you mate."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  He laughed again and pointed at the painting. "Because, my old mate, as if you didn't know," Paul said, "that's you."

  Weaver turned away from the image and studied Paul's face. He saw that Paul was more than serious; he was on the verge of anger.

  "Now, I'm going to make us a cuppa and you, my friend, are going to do some thinking." Paul walked towards the kitchen area. "And I want you to start by thinking about why you'd want to freak me out with all this bollocks."

  2

  Measton

  January 15th

  9.10pm

  The trail through the woods was difficult enough during the day. That evening it was nigh on impossible. The intermittent cloud cover caused periods of absolute darkness until the moon could light their way again.

  "Look I'm sorry," she continued. "It's not you. It's me."

  This was all fucked up. Tonight was to be the big one. He'd worked up to this moment for weeks. Made arrangements. Sacrificed a lot. And now here he was with a big boner in his pants in the heart of Fuck Forest (as it was affectionately referred to by his peers) and what sounded like the usual excuses ringing in his ears.

  "What is it then?" Try to avoid sounding so desperate he told himself. Play it cool. All is not lost. After all, they had made it this far. As they stood sheltering under a willow tree, scant protection against a biting breeze with a sky full of stars and a half-moon thrown in for luck, Martin Clear thought he had reason to remain optimistic.

  "I just can't do it to him. That's all."

  Shit not that again. Oh well, here goes.

  "He won't know, will he? Besides. You said yourself you think he might be queer or something."

  Patsy Bourne looked up into his face, her wide eyed concern for her erstwhile boyfriend marginally detracting from her obvious desire to have sex with one of his best friends. Martin reached for her in a way that was almost tender. She went to him, not before crossing her arms across her famous bust. Titsy Bourne, they all called her. Martin held her in a way that he thought was manly, resisting the urge to go at her leg like a horny poodle. It felt so good to be stood against a girl. It was the closest he'd ever been to actually doing it for a while. Doubts that had been forming in the back of his mind were forgotten; his camaraderie with the young man that may or may not have homosexual tendencies dissolved like his mother's soluble aspirin.

  "My friend Sarah thinks he's waiting for the right time. She thinks he's being respectful because he really likes me."

  "Or he's mental," Martin countered. "I mean, I really like you too but I can hardly keep my hands off you!" To prove this point, he ran his hands down to her buttocks. Patsy moved against him approvingly. The sound of twigs snapping registered in her mind briefly. Martin was right, wasn't he? Sarah had said that he was being respectful to her but she was a lone voice among Patsy's peers. He's not forward enough, they said. He's too immature for you. Martin was more than forward enough she thought now. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once.

  "Don't," she moaned in a way that stated the opposite. Martin began to kiss her neck. He pushed her against the tree. He opened and closed his mouth over hers in the expected fashion. She responded. Spurred on, he began to rifle through her thick winter coat.

  "Wait," she giggled and began to undo the toggles. "Let me…"

  Out of the darkness of the trees, someone whispered her name.

  They both jumped, holding on to each other frantically. They looked in to the darkness of the woods. There was nothing to see but the dark silhouettes of the willows’ silver sheen in the slight light afforded by the moon. Then the clouds passed over the moon and they were practically blind. Martin didn't think it was such a good place to be any more. His erection shrank and he felt the overwhelming need to urinate.

  "Who the fuck was that?" Patsy whimpered. Martin squinted into the darkness. It was impossible to see anything...

  "Hello? Who's there?" Nothing responded.

  "Come on," Martin whispered. "Let's go."

  At first he had to pull Patsy away from the tree. Then they were running, blind to obstacles, their hands warding off branches and evil spirits. Patsy stopped and crouched by a tree, clutching her knees frantically. They both listened. They held their breath.

  Nothing.

  He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her back the way he thought they had come earlier (when? Half an hour before?) to the promise of street lights and traffic. Martin knew that if they kept moving, they would be alright. Surely the road was not far. He whipped his head around wildly.

  "Which way was the road?" Martin gasped.

  "I don't know."

  "Oh shit!"

  They stopped and held onto to each other unconsciously.

  "Can you hear the road, Patsy?"

  They held their breath once more and listened hard. Nothing.

  "It must be-"

  Off to the left crackling twigs. A footstep.

  "Oh my God!" Patsy breathed.

  Martin strained to s
ee into the blue-blackness. Nothing. No wait. He thought he could make out an unmoving figure standing in the trees twenty feet off. He blinked hard against the gloom. Again nothing. My imagination, he thought. The dark playing tricks like when he was a scared kid with the lights off. That scared kid was here again though, just the same.

  "Come on, Patsy. We've got to go. It's not safe."

  Her face was a study in fear. Eyes wide, uncomprehending and occasionally darting off to the side as though expecting some imminent horror. Mouth slightly open, edges drawn down.

  "Look," he swallowed hard trying to be brave. "I think I know who it is."

  Patsy's expression changed to outrageous hope.

  "Who?"

  Martin shook his head.

  "My brother and his mates."

  "What?"

  "They knew I was bringing you here. I told them."

  Relief and mad hope competed on her pale features.

  "You…you…bastard!"

  Martin was almost relieved to see that Patsy's fear dissipating. Even in this poor light he could make out the red blotches of embarrassed anger. And it was true. He had told them about his planned night of passion. Teenage brothers do brag to each other.

  "Look. I'm sorry but-"

  But what? He knew that he was kidding Patsy. Trying to move her along. He was not kidding himself though. His brother was not in Fuck Forest that night. No. He was at a concert down south along with the rest of his crew.

  Again from the dark, Patsy's name drifted towards them.

  A man's voice? A woman's? It was hard to tell. It had a rasping vagueness to it.

  Patsy pulled away from him before he could tell her that it was a lie, Greg was in a pub in London somewhere, getting ready to go to a gig. She ran into the darkness towards the sound of that voice. He reached for her but only managed to snag her duffle coat. He slipped on the slime of an exposed tree root and she was gone.

  "Greg, you fucking pervert! Can't you get your own thrills?"

  "Patsy, wait!" He started after her. "It can't be Greg. He's-"

  He ran into a low branch and cried out as the brambles scratched at his eyes. He looked into the blackness and could see nothing through his own tears. Ahead Patsy crashed through the undergrowth.

  "Where are you, you bastard?" She lunged into the trees blindly. "Come on! Show yourself! Scared are you? Well, I'm not, I'm-"

  Patsy’s tirade ended abruptly. Martin heard a muffled thud and the sound of a heavy weight moving in the undergrowth.

  “Patsy?” His voice was barely audible but he knew it didn’t matter.

  Gone. Patsy was gone.

  Martin stopped dead still. He strained with all of his senses but had no clue as to where Patsy had gone.

  "Patsy!" His voice was weak and afraid. The years fell away and the little boy, afraid of the dark was all that remained. He walked forward holding his breath. On all sides there was only darkness. The clouds had extinguished the last of the light. His hands were outstretched, a blind man without his cane.

  This was all wrong. It had to be a joke. Martin smiled in the darkness.

  Fuck yes. It was Patsy taking the piss. He let out an involuntary jibber and clapped a hand over his own mouth. She must have had an accomplice of course. This was his punishment for trying to do the dirty on a friend. It made sense. She'd never wanted to do it, had she? She told him so continually but he'd kept on and on. So this was his comeuppance. Fine. So be it.

  "Patsy! I know what you're up to! You can come out now!" His voice had the relieved but cocky air of one that has realized that- yes – it was all a big joke. "Ha, ha, ha! Very funny! Very fucking-"

  "Martin."

  He felt the exhaled breath of the word, his name, on the exposed skin of his neck. His relieved grin froze.

  "Turn around."

  The clouds moved away from the moon. Patsy's still form lay at his feet. Patsy was not in on the joke after all. Dimly, Martin felt his bladder let go. He could feel the killer's light patient breath in the hairs at the nape of his neck.

  Martin turned around.

  3

  Brighton

  January 16th 2001

  The stairwell presented no problems that morning and he felt rather foolish especially following his frank interchange with the usually comically mellow Paul. Centre Ville was open and doing a roaring business of coffee and filled croissants. The good-looking waitress buzzed out of the restaurant's rear door as Weaver passed. He smiled as he turned up the first flight but received an icy, fleeting glance in return. No wonder, he thought, I must look like shit.

  There were no ghosts or axe murderers waiting at the entrance to his flat. He let himself in and headed for the bathroom. A good long bath was in order. Having got that under way, he made coffee, grabbed a paperback off the coffee table, pressed PLAY on his CD player and headed for the bath.

  As he settled back into the bath, he couldn't concentrate enough to read. His contretemps with Paul wouldn't recede. Paul was convinced that he was the butt of some unfunny prank; he had no doubt that Weaver and others were working together to freak him out. Paul lived in that paranoid nether world of stoned conspiracy theory, where magic was science and science itself only make believe rationalizations of the truth. The endless succession of X-File-esque film and TV along with an increase in ufology literature and the constant documentary obsessions with Roswell were more than enough to convince Paul that “an announcement was imminent”. The aliens were here; more than that, they had been since the beginning of time and the entire history of humanity was nothing but an elaborate experiment that failed. Et cetera. Paul was one of the most intelligent people Weaver had ever known but, as was often the case with such people, he seemed to walk along the rocky border of those two neighbouring countries, genius and madness.

  He closed the book and placed a warm flannel over his eyes. They had skirted around the argument for a while until Paul had pressed the wrong button.

  "The irony is, David, you've produced your best work to manufacture this little joke," he'd said. Paul was hurt enough to break their sacrosanct rule regarding the studio. Never comment on the quality of each other's work. No ego, no concerns about the other's opinion. It had worked well too, up until then.

  "It's not my fucking work!" Weaver had shouted defensively. "Fucking hell. Don't you think I'd be jumping for fucking joy if it was? You know how it's been for me these past couple of months. I can barely do a dot-to-dot for Christ's sake!" He was angry then; as angry as he could remember being for a long time. He picked up the last Gandalf he had hand painted. "I mean look at this! Look at it!" He brandished it under Paul's nose. Paul flinched. He was not good at confrontation. "This is the best thing I've painted for months!" He had the overwhelming urge to slam the miniature wizard into the wall and saw that Paul could sense the threat of violence. He had stepped back, fear of all things in the way he lowered his eyes. "Oh fuck it Paul. I'm sorry. I just didn't do this!"

  Weaver had paused then. Things had gone too far.

  Paul found his Marlboro and lit one. He sat on the edge of his sofa and scratched his head. "I think you better go, David. Give me a call in a few days or something. We both need a bit of time to cool off. You've got some things to work out I think and I've got some thinking to do as well."

  "What have you got to worry about?" Weaver had asked. "No-one's fucking around with your head are they?"

  Paul drew on his cigarette and eyed him thoughtfully. "Aren't they? I feel pretty fucked up right now."

  "But this isn't about you, is it?" Weaver's voice was rising again. "Someone was in my place in the middle of the night. Someone weird enough to stand in the dark and wait for fuck knows how long until I came home. I can't even work out how they got in or why they'd want to and then I come here to find demon boy in canvas painted with my stuff in a matter of hours and you feel pretty fucked up?"

  Paul regarded him coolly.

  "Consider this, Weave. If and I mean if it wasn't
you that did this," he waved a hand at the painting, "someone came into this basement in the middle of the night, passed only a few feet from where I was sleeping-" Weaver shuddered- "yeah I think you get the picture now. Then they produced this, I dunno, fucked up dream and left."

  Weaver ran his hand through his hair unable to meet Paul’s gaze.

  "So yes, I am a bit fucked up as it goes," Paul said in a mock cheerful tone. “I suggest you go and have a think about why you’d want to put me through this shit.”

  Put me through this shit, Weaver muttered. That was Brighton and the noughties to a tee he thought now. Too cool for school, right-on Brighton. Hey man we care, but please don't mess with our heads. Don't give me whatever you've got. We care you see? But we don't care that much. Fickle friends, cliques and tribes. Hey dude, where's your will to be different? Where's your will to be weird? Well, excuse me if my individuality cannot be expressed in the same way as your own, he thought. Had it ever occurred to Paul that his pierced nose, dyed hair, garish tattoos and Oxfam wardrobe were merely another type of uniform?