by Sabre, Mason
The tidied-up kitchen gave the illusion he had never been there – that no one had. She tried not to think about him standing there just hours before, so disconcertingly at home as he cooked for them. She tried not to think about him in Eric’s clothes. Perhaps that was it - the reason for her perfect screw up. She had cleared the food away from the small table, trying not to picture him serving it. They hadn’t even really eaten. The leftovers had become mouldy in places; she had even contemplated throwing away the plates. Only because they were something she and Eric had bought, did she not. She did need to soak them in scalding hot water and disinfectant before washing them, though. It still baffled her how the food could have become so hard and mouldy in the space of just a few hours. No doubt they would go to the bottom of the pile in the cupboard, never to be used. They would be a constant reminder now of not just Eric, but of Devan as well as the food. Perhaps he had had a lucky escape, and then he wouldn’t suffer any kind of fate like Eric had. She wouldn’t kill him or ruin his life. He was better off gone. It hadn’t mattered, though, how many times she had said that while scrubbing the pan - which was thrown away in the end. Her heart wouldn’t believe it. For whatever reason, her heart wanted Devan, and it had jumped into the driver’s seat and laid out its demands.
She flung the towel into the laundry basket and then turned off the kitchen. Someone rang the doorbell. Her heart jumped with shock, soared with hope and then settled back into her chest and held its breath, all in a split second.. She didn’t even think as she dashed out into the hallway and flung open the front door.
“Devan…” The name left Tara’s mouth as a shocked whisper. Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes as relief flooded her.“You came back.” Her heart ached as she took in the state of him. She quickly made way to let him into the house. He half walked, half crawled. “Let me help you?” She offered him her hand, but he brushed it away. She was so sorry for saying Eric’s name. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and tell him so.
A trail of mud and rain and grass followed him until the stairs, where he stopped to steady himself. She didn’t think about the messy footprints his shoes were making on her floor. In that moment, she didn’t care. He hadn’t left – that’s all that mattered. She wiped the tears from her face using the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” was all she could muster. “I’m so sorry.” She desperately wanted to be able to show him just how much.
He panted and swayed on his feet. He was soaked through, too; his shirt covered in mud and clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was plastered to his face and his jeans were no longer blue. But it was his hand that caught her full attention. As he leant against the post at the end of the banister, he cradled his arm to his chest as if it were a new born baby. Blood and mud stained the front of his shirt.
She reached out to him. “Your hand. It’s bleeding.” Her voice was thick with guilt for the pain she had caused. She tried to touch his wrist, but Devan shook his head and backed away.
“It’ll stop in a moment now I am inside.” He sniffed, clearing his nose of the cold and the rain. With a sense of helplessness, Tara watched as he tried to wipe his face on his shoulder. He looked worse than he had when she had seen him out on the streets. This was her version of care - it did him more harm than good. He looked older and tired, like he had been away for a long time.
“Can I clean it up? In the kitchen? I won’t touch it. Will you let me do that for you? Please?” She feared that he would say no; not because he didn’t want her to touch it, but because he wasn’t going to stay. She dared to hope that he wouldn’t leave, but part of her worried he had just forgotten his clothes and things.
Devan gave her a weak nod and relief swept through Tara. His eyes drifted shut. He breathed in deeply and Tara couldn’t help but notice how much he was shivering. She took his other hand and led him into the kitchen.
His steps were shaky and slow. She guided him to the table carefully and then wondered if she should try to support him as he sat down. She didn’t need to - he rested his palm on the table and slowly lowered himself onto a chair.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured as she stood at the kitchen sink filling a small bowl with warm water. “It’s not you. I should have pulled away and stopped you. I know you aren’t ready.”
“I kissed you first.”
“Yes, but it was one of those moment things. I knew it didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry. I should have stopped it.” His eyes were on her as he spoke and she could see the sincerity in them. He really believed it, that he should have stopped it - but that’s not what she thought. It had been three years since Eric, and for the first time ever, the thought of being with someone else didn’t have her feeling as if she was betraying her husband.
She brought the bowl and a packet of cotton wool balls from the cabinet above the toaster to the table. She reached for his bleeding hand, but he yanked it back, almost knocking the bowl over.
“I won’t touch it, I promise.” His hand was hotter than before, making the water feel unusually cold as she placed it gently inside the bowl.
She brushed along his thumb and the back of his hand with her fingers, removing the dirt and mud. She ran her own thumb across his wrist, holding his hand in both of hers. If she could have stayed there just holding his hand like this, she would have. It didn’t take long for the water to grow murky.
“What is the tattoo?” she asked as she lifted his hand from the water and turned it over. She didn’t touch the swallow, just like she had promised, but she used the cotton wool, soaking it in water and then squeezing the excess over his hand until his palm was clean.
“It’s nothing,” he said after a moment.
“It has to be something.”
He shrugged.
“You don’t want to tell me? Is it something bad? Is it why hours passed before?” She searched his eyes for answers, but he wasn’t giving anything away. She didn’t know what else to ask him. All she remembered was the darkness, and that had been caused when she touched the swallow. She looked at it now, staring at the lines. She wasn’t going to touch it. “Please tell me.”
Instead, he pulled his hand free from hers and rested it on his knees. “I’ll tell you one day.”
One day? That wasn’t the answer she wanted but…one day. One day meant that he wasn’t leaving. That he planned to be around. She could live with one day, as long as one day wasn’t the last day.
Chapter Eleven
Devan wasn’t going to put his hand back down no matter what Tara tried. It had been cleaned and that was what mattered the most. At least now there was no risk of infection, or worse. She took the bowl of dirty water, dumped it into the sink and rinsed it out. After putting it on the drainer, she got a first aid box out of one of the cabinets. If he wouldn’t let her wrap it, she hoped he would at least do it himself. First aid boxes weren’t really her additions. They had been Eric’s. He had them in the bag he used to take out with him at night for the homeless people he helped. He used to take that bag everywhere. It was probably one of the hardest things to face after he had died. It took her the best part of two months before she dared to pull it out from the closet under the stairs Even then, it took a few hours to open it and look inside. When she had, she found nothing more than first aid supplies and leaflets for services for the homeless. She had thrown those away and put the rest in her medicine cabinet.
She grabbed one of the sealed bandages for Devan. She cut it open and found some medical tape. She filled the kettle too. Sweet tea and ginger was what her mother used to make for her when she wasn’t feeling so well or just needed a little boost. Her mother liked to add lemon too, but Tara didn’t have any of those. Just ginger would be fine, though. It was better than nothing at all.
“Will you at least let me wrap it?” she asked tentatively as she filled their cups. When there was no answer, she turned her head to look at him. Her heart went ice-cold and a chill shot up her spine. Red blotches covered his pale
face and sweat ran down his forehead in rivulets. His eyes were glazed over and his lips had turned an alarming shade of purple. He sat huddled on the chair in a bid to control the violent shivers wracking his body. “Shit. Devan,” she cried, dropping everything and hurrying over to him. She touched his face. It was hotter than before; much hotter. “You’re burning up so bad. I think I might need to get you to a doctor.”
“No,” he whispered to her. “I’ll be okay. It will pass.”
“You look terrible.”
He hugged himself more, body shaking and teeth chattering. “I just need to get out of these wet clothes and warm up. I’ll be fine after.”
“A bath maybe?” She felt so helpless. He had a fever; she was sure that he needed something more than a bath. This was why she didn’t have children. Not because they had run out of time, because Eric died before they got chance, but because she knew she would be bad at it. She wasn’t like normal people. She didn’t have that inbuilt maternal instinct that all women seem to get. Her friends all seemed to know what to do with children. When she faced one, she froze. It was different with adults, though. They were easier. They could say what they needed. Children, however? She would be solely responsible for their well-being. She couldn’t handle that kind of accountability.
“Just a shower. That’s all. I just need to get warm. It’ll go away.” He could barely get his words out.
“You get like this often?” It tore at her heart to watch him. This was what he had to go through outside? Alone, where no one could help him? She couldn’t even imagine it. She got a cold and she would wallow in a lake of self-pity because there was no one around to help. She imagined Devan huddled somewhere in the cold and rain, getting sicker. It made her stomach churn to think about it. No wonder Eric spent so much time helping people like Devan. She knew right then that she didn’t want to ever let him go back out there.
Devan shook his head. “Not much.” He struggled to stand up. Placing his hand on the table, he helped lift himself. “Just a shower and I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Do you need me to help you get upstairs?” she asked.
“No. I can do it.” She stood close by, though. Just in case. It would be terrible if he were to fall. There would be no way of picking him up by herself, but at least she could try to catch him before that happened. Luckily, he made it all the way up the stairs and to the bathroom.
Tara plucked a towel out from the cabinet under the sink. Then she turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. Devan was leaning against the door, trying to catch his breath. She didn’t really know what to do with herself when the shower had heated. She couldn’t go downstairs and leave him to do everything himself. He didn’t even look like he could stand for very long. What if he fell? She couldn’t insist on staying in the bathroom either. Indecision ate at her. What did Devan need her to do? Should she stay?
Devan didn’t seem that bothered about her presence. He fumbled with the buttons on the shirt he wore. He had chosen one of Eric’s chequered shirts. It had been loose on Devan before. Now it clung to his skin with mud and rain.
He huffed at the buttons as he struggled to get them open, then tipped his head back and let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you want me to help you?” Tara asked.
“I can do it.” He attempted to unbutton his shirt again, but to no avail. His shaking hands and shivering frame were not making his task any easier. She watched as he flexed his bad hand as if it hurt. That was enough for her.
She approached him before her courage smacked her in the head and asked her what she thought she was doing. He didn’t complain or protest when she opened the first button. She went onto the next one, keeping her eyes fixed on the small fastenings instead of his face. He let his arms drop so she could carry on. She opened one after another until they were all done. With only a moment’s pause, she reached up to push the shirt off his shoulders. He shrugged himself out of it to help her. He had a t-shirt on under that. She hesitated, unsure if she should help him with that too. He took her out of her dilemma when he lifted it over his head himself.
She couldn’t help but stare at his chest and then the scar. It was thick and long and bulged out slightly. He stiffened under her gaze, but didn’t say a word. Turning away from her, he kicked off his shoes before starting to unbuckle his belt.
Although afraid to leave him alone, Tara took the hint and left him to finish up on his own nonetheless. She didn’t go very far, though, taking care to leave the bathroom door slightly ajar. Wanting to be able to hear him if he needed anything or, god forbid, he slipped, she went to her bedroom to wait.
She sat on her bed for a few minutes, not really knowing what to do with herself. She got up and started pacing, nervous energy coursing through her. She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror above her dresser. She stopped and stared at her face, scowling at her image. “Old,” she muttered to herself with disgust, pulling down her cheeks with the flats of her fingers. She settled on going to the window and staring out into the dark. The weather had been odd recently. Volatile. One moment the sun was shining and the next it was hammering down with rain or hail. It had ceased raining at least, but the clouds in the sky were no doubt ready for another downpour. She stared out as far as she could see across the fields through the darkness. There was a farm just off on the horizon and a couple of lights on, but nothing else.
She pressed her face against the glass to try to see sideways down the street. That was just dark too. The streetlights hadn’t come on again. They were like the weather - unpredictable. She didn’t like to go out when it was so dark. Thankfully, the couple of times she had been out later than she had liked the street lights had been lit when she got home. Most evenings they weren’t, however. Probably some money-saving scheme, she thought.
There was a silhouette of a man just down the path. Not very far - maybe a couple of houses over. He was standing under one of the dark street lamps so she couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see anything really. She assumed it was a man although it could have been female. She doubted that, though; the shape seemed too broad. The more she stared, the more unease caused her skin to prickle. Out of the corner of her eye, a movement caught her attention. She jumped and whirled around, but there was nothing there.
Heart thumping, she turned to the window once again. The man was closer. She hadn’t noticed him move, and he didn’t really look like he had actually moved at all; his pose was the exact same one. But she could swear he was now standing under the next light along the empty street. Fear swept through her and though she commanded her suddenly shaky legs to take a step back, she found she couldn’t. She stood there as if mesmerised. All the sounds around her faded to a dull hum. Even the hiss of the shower and Devan banging around dissolved into nothingness. It was just her at the window. Her own breathing could not be heard and the glass no longer fogged up from her breath. Darkness pressed in around the corners of her eyes. The man didn’t move, and although he was faceless, she could feel his gaze intent on her. With great effort, she managed to tear her eyes away from him, only to fall on the shape of another man at the end of the street. He stood there, identical in every way - same height, same shadow, same clothing, and same stance. Both wore hoods and didn’t move.
“What do you want?” she cried, fear and dread mounting inside her. There was a field that stretched out into the distance and a gate which allowed the farmer with his tractor access. Another dark shadow stood there, and he was just the same as the other two. They all looked like the very same person, and she had no doubt that the three of them were staring right at her. The closest one moved and Tara gasped. He lifted his hand slowly and pointed at her.
She reeled backwards, hand on her chest over her frantic heart. Flashes of things she didn’t understand exploded through her mind – blood, wreckage, her anguished screams. She shook her head to clear it. She could see the three men. They all moved closer to her house, but none of them were actually walking. Terror consumed h
er. No, they couldn’t have her. She didn’t know why they wanted her or why he pointed, but whatever it was, they couldn’t have her.
“Why? What do you want?” she yelled again. She backed away – and walked straight into a hard body behind her. She screamed. A cold hand clamped over her mouth and a heavy weight pushed her down to the floor. She lay immobilised by whomever was holding her down. The hand over her mouth made it impossible for her to scream for Devan.
Chapter Twelve
Devan removed his hand slowly from Tara’s mouth, staring down at her beneath him He raised his finger to his lips and signalled for her not to make a sound. Glancing around the room, he looked for any shadows. Anything. Anyone. But there was only him and Tara. She didn’t move as she stared up at his face, terror drawn all over her features. Her heart pounded against his chest, her slim form trembling under his. She’d scared him more than she would ever know. He thought she had been sleeping; that’s why there had been such quiet. His own pulse hadn’t yet recovered from when he had knocked on her bedroom door and found her fading. He’d almost lost her. The fear was too much. Each time he turned his back, they were going to try to take her.
After convincing himself that Tara was okay, he slid off her and crawled along the floor to the window. With the help of the ledge, he pulled himself up, but only far enough so that he could peek out into the darkness. The streetlights illuminated a little of the road. He counted six shadow walkers. Shadow walkers - that was what he called them. He didn’t know what they were really, but that’s how they appeared. Hungry rats that hid in the shadows waiting to pounce. Six. What did they want? He had two days left. Two days.
God damn them, he cursed silently. He and Tara couldn’t stay there. He glanced at the bedside table. The clock indicated just after one. Sunrise was late this time or year, and that meant more hours of darkness. How many more would appear in the night? They had to leave. It was his only chance of getting her away.
