Shivers 7

by Clive Barker

  “And neat.”

  “Yeah, neat.”

  “That’s why I’m so keen for Ava to have good dress sense. That’s why you’re doing such a good job, bringing her all these fabulous clothes.”

  “You still could be a designer,” Serena said. She didn’t know what to say to Rachel, who was well past modeling age. “You could start a company.” She wondered if she could be their buyer. If they’d ask her. Lots of late nights. Getting some take away in. And he’d take his shirt off if he got hot and she’d be laughing at him, making fun of him in a teasing way but really wanting to run her fingers over him, to see how that made her feel. “I’m always fiddling with designs. I’ve got all sorts of stuff to play with.”

  “I bet you have,” he said. He’d encircled her. Enclosed her.

  His phone rang. He checked the screen. “This one I’ll take.” He winked at Serena, which broke her heart; it meant she was like a sister. Or niece.

  He picked up his keys. “I’m out,” he said, kissing his sister on the cheek, Serena full on the mouth. His lips were soft, slightly salty, with a hint of lime. She wanted to press up against him, to see his bedroom, what color his sheets were.

  “I can drop you home on the way,” Luke said.

  * * *

  Serena spent her first night there a week later.

  Rachel called her with an emergency: Ava asked out for dinner with a group of people from school and nothing at all to wear for it. They stayed up late talking, trying things on, and Serena hoped that Luke would come home soon. That she could flutter inside for a glass of something, even a cup of tea, and he’d tell her about his night. The back of the house glowed with the lights he’d installed; butterfly lights in many colors that blinked and illuminated the tiny pot plants he’d lined the walls with.

  “You should crash here,” Ava said, and the idea of getting home made her so tired, Serena agreed. Home would be quiet and dull, her parents gently snoring, her sister watching TV in the dark with a lap full of chocolate, the dog snuffling in his crotch.

  Sheathed in a sleeping bag, Ava watched a movie on her laptop. Serena checked her messages and played on her phone until they were tired.

  “I feel like a 12 year old on a sleepover,” Serena said, and they both got the giggles.

  It was a quiet night. As she tried to doze off, Serena thought she could hear chattering.

  “Is that your mum talking? And Luke?”

  “It’s only the birds. Finch reckons they talk to each other.”

  “It sounds like heaps of them, though.”

  “There are only two,” Ava said.

  “Sounds like more. Where does Finch sleep, anyway? Out there, with them?”

  “Sometimes, I think. Make sure the blind is closed properly. Door locked. I’ve caught him staring in before. He gives me the total creeps. That’s another reason I spend a lot of time over at Dad’s. He’s kinda gross.”

  “He’s weird. Obsessed. He does love those birds. I guess he’s guarding them. Scared someone’s going to steal them.”

  “Or listen to them properly. Sometimes I wonder if they’re trying to tell me something but he keeps them quiet.”

  The birds woke Serena early. Stretching, she stepped outside, not wanting to lie in bed, nor wake up Ava.

  Finch was already up, looking dirty, unkempt. He was demolishing the bunkers, the birds fluttering about, helping him, she imagined. He said, “That’s the way, that’s the way.”

  “They hate an old house,” he said as Serena stood next to him, rubbing her eyes. “They peck at me sometimes if I leave it too long.” He swept out the cage, scooping up debris into a large garbage bag. Shards, tiny bones, broken things, some of it crushed to dust.

  “It doesn’t actually smell that bad,” Serena said. She fingered through the basket full of new things he’d collected for his birds. Glass, mirrors, hair (hers, she thought, or at least some of it) and bones. Bits of chain.

  Once the cage was clean, the bars stripped, he carefully spread the new treasures on the ground. The birds squawked. Serena heard them saying, “It’s good, it’s good,” but she laughed at her own imagination. Finch wore a crown of tinsel, but they didn’t pluck from it. He ducked his head from side to side.

  Finch squatted on his concrete blocks. Serena dragged a chair over and sat there for a while. She went inside for coffee (she could smell it brewing and Rachel loved to crow over her coffee), came and sat outside with it, watching the artist birds create.

  “I love this. Isn’t it pure magic?” Finch said.

  It seemed to her there was a flurry of them, many birds all fluttering and building. She squeezed her eyes but it didn’t help. It was the mirrors, all the mirrors and the glass, making it appear there were many birds in there, not just two.

  Finch opened up a plastic bag and tipped the contents inside. Bones. They clunked onto the floor of the aviary and sat there in a pile. The birds inspected, squawking and leaping excitedly.

  “They like bones the best. They know the ones that are people bones.”

  “They’re not.”

  “They might be. Hospitals chuck out bones all the time. All those fingers chopped off. The toes. Stuff like that.”

  “Stuff like that! What else is like that?” Serena laughed.

  Ava joined them. “Mum says breakfast.”

  “Not hungry,” Finch said, and Serena wasn’t either, but she went inside out of politeness. Really, she wanted to watch the birds building. Listen to them. “Fuck off useless” she thought she heard “fuck off fuck off useless” and she laughed at herself.

  There were more new shoes inside. “Try ’em!” Rachel said. “I don’t mind. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  They were beautiful. Like a second skin.

  “Poor old Finch. Don’t be too nice to him. He’s got no idea about parameters.” Luke leaned against the kitchen bench, eating what looked like a dozen Weet-Bix.

  “Why don’t you get him a girlfriend?”

  “Him? He’s too skinny. Women hate skinny men.” Finch was very thin. Fine-boned. He ate little. Only Luke ate a lot, making up for all of them. “He never eats. It’s weird. My ex always had me on a diet. I hated it.”

  He looked out the window at Finch. “Look at him. He’s never going to attract a gaggle of girls.” He had beautifully manicured hands. Rachel did them for him.

  After that, Serena stayed often. With Ava spending a lot of time at her father’s, the granny flat was usually empty. Serena worked there on her days off, sewing and designing. She brought her boxes of baubles, sequins and buttons, her threads, her tiny jewels. Finch watched her unpacking, blinking at the glint, wanting them for his birds.

  Their house was a closer bus route into the boutique, and she liked being around them. Liked the self-indulgence that existed, that all of them did exactly what they wanted to do. There was no sense of sacrifice, none of “doing the right thing.” They simply did whatever they wanted.

  Luke worked on the house. Finch found him treasures; a picture frame, a strip of beautiful wallpaper, a series of painted rocks. Things to make the place look amazing. They wove ivy through the bamboo fence and painted beautiful designs along the top. He gave Serena a string of beads he’d found, each one hand painted.

  At night, especially if Ava was at her father’s, Serena heard the birds more and more clearly. Some nights she heard ten or more different voices, all talking against each other.

  One night, they were so loud she pulled on a jumper and went out there.

  Finch sat in his position in the dark.

  “Can you hear them?” he whispered. She nodded. “Listen.”

  Don’t Luke don’t, she heard. Don’t luke don’t luke don’t luke don’t.

  She grasped Finch’s shoulder. He flinched then relaxed. “Who’s that? Who are they mimicking?”

  He gave a headshake.

  “Come on.”

  “It’s her.” He motioned his head, ducked it down. Whispered, “His ex.�
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  don’t luke don’t luke don’t luke don’t luke.

  Finch smiled and she wondered if he was playing with her, somehow putting these words out there. He was very good if that was the case; his lips weren’t moving.

  The bird said, “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, Luke.”

  “She talked exactly like that. She was a total slapper,” Finch said. His voice was harsh; she hadn’t heard him speak like that before.

  Later, thinking it was something to talk about, hoping to make him sad and needy, Serena asked Luke about it. She understood Finch was joking with her; she wanted Luke to know it was happening.

  “Fucking Finch. He thinks it’s funny. What, did you think I killed her?” He touched her thigh, his hand warm, soft, slightly rough. “She’s on Facebook, you can check her out. Half the time she’s bitching about me, other half she’s talking about how pissed she was.” There was nothing sad, nothing needy. He swept his hair back with one hand, grabbed his keys. “Be back soon,” he told Rachel. “Bringing someone home for a drink, we can sit and watch your fuckhead of a brother-in-law so she can see the contrast.”

  “Ask her if she’s got a sister for Finch,” Rachel said, and the two of them laughed.

  Serena found the branch of a large flowering tree sitting on the ground and hated to see it go to waste. Finch took it from her, his mouth opening and shutting, mimicking words with no sound coming out.

  He opened the cage and laid the branch down, then they watched as the two males hopped about, plucked flowers and laid them carefully around the entrance to their bowers.

  They didn’t mind being observed as long as people were still. Rachel, Luke and Ava were terrible observers, shifting and fidgeting, wanting to talk. Only Serena understood the need for absolute stillness.

  “How many can you see?” Finch asked her. “A flock?”

  “Why? Did you get them girlfriends?” She concentrated in the evening light; she could see four she thought. Five.

  That night, in the granny flat, Serena checked Facebook. Luke’s ex-girlfriend was there, laughing, with bright, parrot-like clothing, long, mirror earrings. She looked free, as if she knew how to fly and was only waiting for the right breeze to come along. She also looked tacky, and much older than Luke. He liked them older. Rachel told her she’d had a lot of money, which had set Luke up. That he’d be nowhere without her. “He’s got mother issues. He feels guilty that we weren’t sad when Mum died. But she was awful, you know? So mean to us.”

  She turned out the light and curled up in bed, the moonlight filling the room through cracks in the blinds.

  You sick fuck, she was sure she heard. The birds. Another she thought was wailing until it was pleading. Please, no, the words drawn out, desperate.

  Another, It’s not too late.

  Another, quiet, very quiet, You’re useless, the two of you.

  She pulled on her coat and crept outside. “Did you teach them all these words?” she asked Finch.

  He ducked his head, avoiding.

  “Some of them came out talking this way.”

  “They sound like dying words.”

  He inhaled, shocked or surprised.

  “You can understand them?”

  It was as if the birds were witnesses to things they shouldn’t understand. Their bowers were more beautiful than ever. Serena saw a pair of mirror earrings dangling down, reflecting back more birds, ones without real substance. Piles of acorns, of tiny stones, of berries, were laid out with perfection at the entrances.

  “He’s got someone home with him,” Finch said. It was the first time she’d seen him distracted from the birds. “Come on.” He led her around the side to Luke’s bedroom. There was a clear view inside through a gap in the blinds.

  Inside, a woman of about 35 stood in bright red underwear. She spun around, as if showing herself off. Luke, naked, larger than she’d thought, tanned all over, smooth, hairless, muscly, so strong and in control, stepped up to the woman and kissed her deeply.

  Serena turned away.

  “You can watch. He doesn’t mind.”

  “Of course he minds. He’s not a fucking bower bird.”

  She didn’t want to see it.

  “Don’t move! Keep still!” Serena felt very visible amongst the dark green leaves, with her bright, layered clothes.

  They backed away carefully. The birds called them.

  don’t luke don’t luke don’t luke

  “I can see five. Or six. I’m not sure. They’re all in pain.”

  “Not them. They’re mimicking.”

  “Mimicking who?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She thought she should do something. Anonymously report him to animal cruelty, although he wasn’t guilty of that, and hope it led to an investigation. She thought, But then they’d be gone, and she hated that.

  “Hey, Serena,” she heard. Luke, on the back verandah, sitting in a chair, tipped back, watching them. “Come sit with me. Leave bird boy alone.”

  She heard a car drive away and wondered how he’d got rid of his lover so easily.

  Finch hunched down into his squat to watch his birds. He whispered, “Mummy.”

  “You shouldn’t really encourage him,” Luke said. “He’ll think you’re into him.”

  She laughed. “He wouldn’t! Surely. No woman ever would be and he must know that. He doesn’t even make an effort.”

  “It’s all about the effort, isn’t it?” He was freshly showered, his hair wet, his skin shiny. He smelt of jojoba or something like that, ginseng. She knew he used some sweet body wash. She’d seen it in his shower.

  There was a frenzy in the aviary, birds fluttering about. She stayed focused on Luke, though, not wanting to think about the birds.

  How many can you see? Finch had asked her.

  “How many birds do you see?” she asked Luke.

  “He’s only got two. Likes to see them suffer, I reckon. Likes to see them with blue balls, like he’s got.”

  “Cruel!”

  “He thinks he’s got treasure but all he’s got is shit. He thinks the birds are guarding something for him.”

  “Why don’t you ignore him? Why does he bother you so much?”

  “Because he’s creepy and I don’t want him near any of us. Even you.” She wondered what he knew. What there was to know. If she was imagining the voices, and that there were no last words.

  Finch came up and stood at the edge of the veranda.

  “Beer, Finchy? Or something to eat, perhaps? Rache!” he called out. “Rache, bird man wants something to eat.”

  “They want you to come back,” Finch said to Serena. “They want to talk to you.”

  Luke draped his arm around her. “Serena’s just gonna sit with me for a while. Aren’t ya?”

  She felt her blood racing. This rarely happened; so rarely was she attracted like this, an animal attraction she couldn’t control. She liked it, though. She liked the feeling that things were out of her power, that her body knew what it wanted and her brain (he’s too old, he’s an arsehole, he’s just using you, Finch will watch, Finch will be jealous, the birds won’t like it, Ava will think it’s disgusting, Rachel will think it’s disgusting, at least the pill, every morning since 15, daily routine, but still, condoms) could just be quiet.

  Finch hunched over and went back to his birds. His shoulders shook and she wondered if he was crying. The male birds pecked and moved their things around, perfecting their bowers. The females in there watched, preened, waited.

  Luke gave her a glass of wine, and another. She clutched the glass, claw-like, her fingers cold, and they sat close together. He gave her a delicate scarf that smelled, she thought, of the woman who had just left. Finch lifted his arm and watched from under it, his head twisted.

  “He’s freaking me out. He’s only here a couple more weeks, anyway. Finally convinced Rache he’s a health hazard. Bad to have around Ava. What happens when she gets preggers? Won’t be forever before that happens. C
an you imagine that shit around a pregnant woman? Carrying my grand-niece or nephew? No fucking way. Let’s go inside. Rachel’s gone for the night, I think. We could watch something. What do you like to watch?”

  There were mirrors throughout the house and she caught herself, looking flushed and, she thought, beautiful.

  In the glow of the television, with an old sci-fi movie playing, they made love. It was exhilarating. He was an experienced man and he enjoyed her youthful skin, her flexibility. He kept saying, “You’re gorgeous, you’re gorgeous,” which was nice to hear. In the background, the smoke alarm chirped, wanting new batteries, and she thought she heard whispering but it was probably just her blood in her ears.

  Afterwards, he gave her more wine, and a rug for her lap.

  “I hate the color of these walls,” he said. He started shifting furniture, scratching at the wall with his fingernail. “If I prep tonight, I’ll hit the paint store first thing. Rach’ll be stoked.”

  She sat for a while, watching music clips. She could hear the birds, though, speaking over the top, and she wondered if the whole neighborhood could hear them.

  Wrapping the rug around her shoulders, she padded outside. Luke didn’t notice her leaving.

  Inside the aviary, Finch lay curled up like a child, his thumb in his mouth, the other arm over his head.

  The birds circled in there, showing off their bowers. Come in, come in, she heard. Come in come in come in come in. These were not words she’d heard them say before; there was nothing weak, nothing of the victim in these words.

  Still naked, with the rug wrapped around her, she climbed in.

  She realized that the bowers went back far further than they appeared to from the outside. She stepped between them and walked, her hands on the outer walls of each bower, feeling the textures of straw and sticks, leaves and flowers.

  It was dark, but her eyes adjusted. How far did they go back? Into the next property?

  Here, the walls were threaded with larger bones she knew the birds couldn’t have carried, and large clumps of hair, some pieces anchored to what looked like leather.

  Underfoot was crunchy and she felt her feet sink deep in debris.

  She felt suddenly enclosed and turned to leave, but birds flocked around her, male and female, the gentle breeze of their wings filling her instead with a sense of comfort and a deep restfulness. I am fashion, she heard. I don’t do fashion. I am fashion.