Shades of Nothingness

by Gary Fry

  So what was the guy’s feet resting upon?

  Jake pictured his wife, butchered and prostrate on the lounge carpet. He also wondered, with frantic transfixion, how the man had acquired his address. Had he raided Jake’s room last night while Jake had been downstairs in the bar, half-heartedly chatting up that barmaid? Had the grey guy driven north, fully intending to invade Jake’s home? And had envy been his motivation? Yes, through a haze of swiftly imbibed alcohol, Jake recalled the man admitting that he had no family of his own, just before Jake had told him that…that…

  Jake’s mind was reeling. His heart rate soared and levelled out at an absurd speed, rendering his chest tight and painful.

  And then the man onscreen, the image grainy and dreamlike, did what he had to do next.

  He began removing his face.

  The pale disc of flesh, little more than a lifelike mask, came free with deftly applied fingertips. Shadows accumulated on each side of his head, and moments later the front section was free. The man detached it, before resting the flopping patch of skin aside on one of the couch’s cushions. And then, having turned away to tackle this amputation, he glanced back into Zoe’s webcam.

  The dark area where the man’s face had been seconds earlier was now a grotesque oval of writhing insects: maggots, flies, ants, spiders, and more. All these creatures crawled back and forth across the sinewy ruin of the guy’s skull. Angular legs waded in blood; pale fluttery wings were caked in gore. And from inside this insectile carnival, two grey eyes stared out at Jake.

  Jake jerked back, feeling sick after the cheap meal he’d eaten earlier. He pictured the gypsy family in their caravan, as well as so many other deprived people he’d interviewed recently. Then his attention switched back to the grey man who, despite an absence of lips, was smiling a bony smile.

  From elsewhere in the property now trapped inside the computer, a door opened and shut. Then seconds later, juvenile shouts and squabbling struck up, shattering the silence of the house.

  For one treacherous moment, Jake was grateful not to be at home to deal with his raucous family—this was an old habit of thought, deeply ingrained—but then he realised what was happening there.

  His kids—Jessie and Duane, eight-and ten-years old—had just arrived back from school.

  And the faceless figure, his expression writhing and feet still elevated in Jake’s lounge, was about to offer them a memorable welcome home.

  THE PINCERS

  ———

  At first Ted thought the man was a lot thinner than he proved to be. His booming voice—“Hey, mate, have you got a light?”—had disturbed him, and when Ted opened his eyes he’d nearly been blinded.

  The problem was that Spanish midday sun had been directly behind the man standing over Ted, its intense rays wrapping around his bulk, pinching him thinner. But as soon as Ted had sat up on the recliner near the pool and adjusted his focus, this illusion dissipated and he’d seen the man for what he was: overweight, pale to the point of lardy, and undoubtedly English. Ted hadn’t needed to hear his accent to determine that.

  “Sorry, mate, ”Ted replied, still out of focus following an uncommonly contented snooze, “what did you say?”

  The man smiled, a toothy expression that betrayed his acerbic if friendly mind-set even more than his bullish comportment did. Then he pointed to one side of Ted, at the packet of cigarettes laid next to his guidebook. “I just noticed you were a smoker. Me, too. ” He brandished a cigarette. “The missus was in such a rush to get outside this morning that I left my lighter in our room. The silly bint. ” But then his smile grew even broader. “Anyway, can you give me a light?”

  “Er, sure, ”Ted replied, and stooped to hitch the lighter his own wife had bought him years ago, just before everything had gone so horribly wrong. “Here you go. Help yourself. ”

  The fat man accepted the piece, sparked his suicide-tube into life, and then handed it back. Ted hoped that this was all, that the man would now move on and leave him in peace…But of course he didn’t; his sort never did.

  “I shouldn’t even need a lighter in this heat, should I? Scorching, innit? Far better than the drizzle we get at home. ”

  In response to the man’s laughter, Ted simply nodded. Maybe if he cold-shouldered the guy, he’d avoid being hassled during the week he’d booked to stay here. But the man was persistent. He squatted in front of Ted, drew deeply from his smoke.

  “Of course it’s not the only thing these days that’s crap about the UK, is it? Glad to get away, the pair of us. ”

  He was presumably referring to his wife rather than making assumptions about Ted, but when he went on, Ted realised this interpretation might have been premature.

  “What with all the benefits scroungers, the street hoodlums…oh, and don’t get me started on the Muslims. ”

  Ted hadn’t been about to, not least because he found that kind of talk despicable. Nevertheless, he found himself nodding in a way that could perhaps be read as empathic.

  Then the man said, “I’m Frank Marks. Pleased to meet you. ”

  He gripped the hand offered his way. “Ted. Ted Stand. ”

  They shook.

  “You from the north, Ted?”

  “Yes. Leeds. ”

  “Ah, not far from us. Bradford born ‘n’ bred. The wife’s over there. ”

  Ted glanced in the direction of Frank’s plump pointed hand and saw, on the patio across the swimming pool, a woman carrying a lot of bodyweight, sitting on a recliner and rubbing cream into her arms. It must have been an after-effect of being dazzled by the sun earlier that made Ted think the woman was burdened by the same pincer of heat that had ensnared her husband earlier…But then this illusion dissipated, and Ted was looking again at his fellow Englishman.

  “You going to the barbecue on the coast tonight, Ted?”

  The trip was included in the package holiday the Marks must also have taken advantage of; Ted’s name was already booked on the coach.

  “Yes, I’ll be there. There’s some interesting architecture I’d liked to take a look at in the south. ”

  After drawing again from his smouldering butt, Frank laughed. “Fried chicken and a few bottles of the local brew is more my line. ”Then he stood, still smiling. “Anyway, glad to make your acquaintance. And I hope we’ll see you later today. ”

  “You will, ” Ted replied, and as the man strolled away—well, plodded was a more accurate description; his bovine gait allowed for little elegance—he turned to snatch up his guidebook, now unsettled in his relaxation.

  Ted disliked the sort of man Frank had proved to be, but what more should he expect from such a cheap holiday? He and Vera were now paying for two a year, after all: one for him and another for her. But this was an amicable arrangement. After what had happened, they’d both grown older, wiser, and saw no difficulties in living separate lives.

  The hotel was a big place, the kind designed to pack in tourists, feed them cheap food, offer a few perks like happy-hours and local excursions, and above all keep them happy. There was a decent-sized swimming pool, a shabby tennis court, and a gym. At only four-hundred for the week, flights inclusive, Ted couldn’t complain too much. And the trip this evening would offer him a chance to see some of the buildings he’d been admiring online recently.

  After ordering a beer and watching Frank and his wife settle down to the thing they’d presumably come to Spain to enjoy—its unfailing heat—Ted flipped open his guidebook and started rereading the section on this region. Soon he found himself smiling privately. He wondered what his less than refined new acquaintance would think if he learnt that Andalusian culture had been heavily influenced by Muslim occupancy in the Middle Ages. The region’s heritage went back even further, to the Visigoths and the Vandals, the Romans and the Carthaginians. This was an intriguing area, and Ted was looking forward to exploring it.

  Having drained his beer, he decided to make a start immediately. He could walk around the nearby town and be b
ack in time for the coach’s departure south and a barbecue on an architecturally rich coastline.

  While packing up his things, Ted spotted Frank perusing yesterday’s Daily Mail. Above the splashing of children in the pool, Ted was unable to hear what the man was saying to his prostrate wife, but could imagine the kind of issues he alluded to. And it was far from harmless stuff.

  Ted felt angry while gathering together his gear, returning them to his room, and then setting off for his afternoon stroll. But he must try to maintain a sense of perspective; that was what the grief counsellor had advised both him and his wife. It was important to realise that everyone had problems, that their suffering wasn’t unique.

  The town was extremely pretty, old buildings wavering with heat haze as natives lounged around, enjoying siestas. After reaching a church in a high-street, Ted entered immediately. He’d never been a religious man—had always been drawn more to humanism—but he loved beautiful things. And the church certainly fitted that description, with its elegantly carved door frames, images of the Madonna perched over its entrance, and many stained glass windows.

  He bet Frank and folk of his type wouldn’t respond positively to this. They’d no doubt prefer tacky gift shops and cheap bars further along the street…but it was no use thinking that way. In fact, Ted felt in need of a drink himself. Either the heat or his mounting disdain had left him thirsty, needful of succour.

  After ordering a beer at a table in front of a small bar, he considered the absence of faith in his life. Or was this really the case? During the weeks and months after the death of his child, hadn’t he clung to life itself? Hadn’t he striven to see the best in people? And hadn’t his job-safety regulation officer at a large factory in Leeds—led him to believe that society was ultimately perfectible?

  These were illusions, perhaps, but he could no sooner eradicate hope than bring his son back to life. And maybe this was a species of faith, after all. He might describe it as dedication or even devotion…

  The combined effects of beer and sunlight forced upon him an insight he’d never considered before: his knee-jerk reaction to the pitiful moaners—to Frank bloody Marks and people with similar ignoble attitudes—arose from the same source as his optimism…Ted pictured the heat today pulling this knowledge out of him, like burning pincers.

  At that moment, someone began talking to him.

  Oh God, he thought with dismay, more unsolicited intrusion …

  After glancing up, however, he spotted a wizened old man—obviously a Spaniard—sitting at another table. He had a glass of ale in front of him and had to tilt back the front of his soft white hat to get a good swig.

  Watching with mild curiosity, Ted asked, “Sorry, I was miles away. Did you say something?”

  Then the man laughed. “Miles away. I like it. You is English, señor. Is good joke. ”

  Ted hadn’t meant the comment literally, but could see how it might be taken that way. Despite his early standoffishness, he began warming to the man. Like himself, he was probably in his mid-forties and looked similarly world-weary. Forcing a smile, Ted said, “I’ve just been admiring your town. It’s very beautiful. So much nicer than…well, I mean, we don’t have quite the same kind of heritage where I come from. ”

  Had he just lapsed into Frank Mark’s reasoning, the kind of thoughts he’d found objectionable earlier? Maybe he wasn’t so different from the haters, after all…But Ted pushed aside such self-doubt and attended to what the Spaniard had to say.

  “We’re all very—how you say?—yes, we’re very proud of our town. ”

  He sounded proud of knowing the word proud. This private observation amused Ted, making him feel less anxious than he had moments ago. Then he said, “I’m visiting another nice area this evening. It’s called the…” The name of the place on the coast had escaped him, though not for long. When he mentioned it, however, his fellow drinker’s eyebrows lifted…but the expression soon became good-humoured.

  “Then you be careful of the…”The man’s English finally seemed to have failed him; indeed, seconds later, he added, “…the tenazas. ”

  This hadn’t sounded reassuring, especially as the man appeared to have delivered the words in the context of a warning. After a brief pause, Ted asked, “The tena—er…sorry, what was that again?”

  He wished he’d brought his phrasebook from his room, though wasn’t sure he’d find the unusual final word listed there. He’d never heard it before and had visited the country several times, once even with both his wife and…

  Preventing these treacherous thoughts from sullying his mood, he added, “I’m afraid that’s a new word to me. Can you explain it?”

  The man didn’t look eager to do so. He drained his glass and then stood from the chair in which he’d been perched edgily. Perhaps now that the siesta period was over and early evening approached, he had to get back to work. Indeed, Ted should make a move, too.

  He finished his drink and, about to wave to his informant, was surprised to notice the man headed his way, a furtive spring in his stride. After reaching Ted, he stooped and whispered, “Only a true believer can make the tenazas come. He must say, ‘El calor, hacer tu cosa. ’They burn so…What is another good English joke? Ah yes: they sting like butterflies. ” The man paused, smiled again, and then finished, “Gracias, señor. Adios. ”

  Tenazas, thought Ted. El calor, hacer tu cosa.

  “Er, goodbye, ” he replied, trying to commit the phrases he’d just heard to memory. But some parts weren’t difficult at all.

  They burn so, his mind repeated with insidious urgency. They sting like butterflies…

  ——

  On the bus south to the coast, Ted was distracted from both his phrasebook by the sound of Frank Marks bellowing laughter at the rear.

  The man and his wife had hooked up with another guy and his partner, which suited Ted fine. Nevertheless, as the bus meandered along dusky lanes and through charming orange groves, their incessant din had prevented him from concentrating.

  He was trying to work out what the Spaniard he’d met in the town had said. The phrasebook—a ‘get by in cafes’ guide Ted had bought at an airport years ago—didn’t include any word that resembled tenazas (he hadn’t expected it to), though he had located calor—which translated to ‘heat’—and cosa, which meant ‘thing’.

  One of the other words had been something like ‘acer’ or ‘hacer’, which proved more difficult to interpret. It sounded like a verb, and it was only in the context of other phrases listed in the book that Ted realised it probably was ‘hacer’ and almost certainly meant ‘do’.

  Combined with the ‘tu’ (whose definition was obvious), he now had the following phrase:

  Heat, do your thing.

  But what did this mean? And how did tenazas—whatever this stood for—relate to it?

  Ted had no further opportunity to consider this problem, because that was when the bus arrived at its destination. The driver’s announcement was greeted by a drunken cheer from most passengers, and as they all began spilling onto the parking lot, Ted waited to disembark, despite being near the front.

  But this proved to be a mistake. As soon as Frank Marks drew abreast of Ted, the Bradford man clapped him squarely on the shoulders, calling out with unnecessary volume. “Hey, Ted, my boy! You alone?”

  “Oh, I, er–”

  The man’s insensitivity was as unwelcome as the alcohol on his breath, and then he added, “Come and join us! This is Maggie, my wife. And these two scallywags are Keith and Sarah. They’re Scousers, but we shouldn’t let that bother us, eh? Neither of our teams are in their division, are they?”

  Ted had never followed football and had no desire to. Nevertheless, he acceded to the man’s bullying manner, exchanging nods with the corpulent Mrs Franks and then with the two Liverpudlians, who looked even more inebriated than their introducer. As they climbed off the vehicle to await further developments, there was much more raucous merriment.

  A wom
an emerged from a stone building overlooking the Mediterranean. The sun had descended, and shadows crawled along the coastline. From where Ted was standing, he saw a golden beach stretching with the effortless languor of all such locations. There must be a few insects flitting between himself and this strip of sand, because he thought he saw something moving down there, but out of focus. Perhaps fading daylight was illuminating butterflies close by; these distorted entities appeared too brightly lit to belong to any species with which he was familiar.

  He joined the group’s movement towards the beach. He’d hoped to have time to admire some buildings further inland—he could see a few from here, each bearing that exotic Muslim style he’d read about in his guidebook—but to his companions these were of minor consideration. There was a rich smell of food roasting, and then a funnel of smoke betrayed its source. When the group rounded a bend formed by rocks, everyone gasped. The barbecue was ready and beer was being uncapped by a number of youthful Spaniards.

  The tide wouldn’t come in till later, their female guide announced, and they should enjoy as much food and drink as they liked. Ted took a piece of chicken and a few sausages from a table loaded with charred comestibles and then a glass of sangria from a large punch bowl. Frank, his wife, and their two tagalongs were helping themselves to as much free stuff as they could carry, which gave Ted some time alone to think. He sat on a rock and, eating and drinking, gazed into the middle distance at the restless sea and a bunch of larger rocks further along the coast.

  The way these rocks were positioned made it look as if the sea had already reached them. Reflecting on how things could be misinterpreted according to context, Ted began feeling lonely, wishing his wife was with him. Then he recalled his earlier ruminations about faith and his dislike of certain people…He could hear Frank and his cronies chortling with acerbic mirth. What were they discussing? How bad the UK had grown lately, no doubt, and how glad they were to be here. Well, Ted now felt the opposite: he wished he was back in Leeds, embracing his wife, delving once again into what had happened to them.