The Duck Pond Incident

by Charlie Humphries

  “Breakfast is nearly done. What’s wrong, babe? You’ve gone grey.” George folded his apron into a square, coming in from the kitchen. Tim pointed to the handprints, the obsidian-pool of long-dried blood.

  “Holy shit,” George whispered, taking the horror-light from Tim’s numb hands. He flashed it across the floor, towards the kitchen where the trail continued as two long smears.

  Tim and George said nothing as they tracked the invisible past through their kitchen and out the backdoor.

  The garden was paved by the backdoor but gave onto a semi-wild lawn which fed into a copse of ash and pine. At some point the lovers started holding hands, marching across the lawn, still following the midnight-tinted drag marks. They disappeared into the copse, moving over mulch, root and fallen branch.

  And the bottom of Tim’s stomach fell out as they came to the end of the ghost-trail, curled in on itself at the free-form compost heap started by Mrs. Hooper years ago. George switched off the black light, the click like a gunshot in the silence.

  Extinction

  Solstice had a crush on Nicky. They, Solstice, was at first confused by the fat, gender-fluid black person who wore snapbacks and low trousers, because if Solstice was crushing on a genderfluid person, were they then not bisexual? Maybe pansexual was a better fit, they thought as they finished sweeping the storeroom of the small corner shop.

  It was ten to ten PM and the summer night was sweltering, still pink around the edges where the sun had not quite set. In another ten minutes, Solstice could leave their apron on the hook and leave. Leave and head straight to Strobe, where Nicky would be playing their new set.

  Solstice’s heart did a little flip flop and they gave a little giggle and blushed. They caught sight of themself in one of the fridges, stuck their tongue out at their long strawberry-blonde hair, pale skin and full, blue eyes. Were their looks obviously gender-neutral? Mustn’t be if every day was an eight-hour shift of ‘miss’ and ‘mademoiselle’. But did it really matter if their looks weren’t the absolute stereotype of non-binary?

  Well, of course not. Solstice was comfortable in their own body and that was all that mattered.

  They gave themself a cheeky wink and went to replace the broom back in the cleaning cupboard.

  The bell over the shop floor gave a little tinkle as a last-minute customer waltzed in. Mr. Vong could deal with them, and Solstice took a quick look at their mobile, nestled safely in their apron pocket. No new messages, but Nicky had tweeted a picture of the stage they’d be playing shortly, all neon and shadows. And it’d been Nicky who had personally invited Solstice to their new set, mustn’t forget that.

  They tucked their phone away, looked about for a tiny job to fill the last eight minutes of the shift.

  Raised voices from the shop floor, angry voices. Solstice peered through the one-way glass in the stockroom door, saw Mr. Vong behind the counter, gesturing at the exit, talking over a figure in all-black and Solstice went cold at the sight of the sawn-off shotgun being waved about.

  What had they always been told? If anybody staged a robbery, just give them what they want and call the police afterwards. Don’t attempt to hit the panic button.

  Mr. Vong was so calm, his face tight with anger, not a hint of panic in his features.

  “It’s not here, I keep telling you. Now get out!”

  “Dan said you have it, now hand it over!” The shotgun came up.

  “Dan says a lot of things,” came the cool reply.

  “Fuck you, old man!”

  The gun went off and Mr. Vong crumpled to the floor. The robber - murderer? - hopped the counter and began to pat down Mr. Vong. Solstice felt the blood run out of their face, blinking repeatedly to clear the nightmare in front of them. With heart hammering, Solstice took their phone and dialed the emergency services, a number they had prayed they need never use. Their hands were numb, shaking, but they managed to squeak at the operator and request the police.

  “Do you have the necessary insurance for this request, or will you require an alternative?”

  Solstice watched with wide eyes as the robber got up from behind the counter and approached the stockroom door. Solstice hung up and leaped at the store cupboard, closing the door with a neat click and crawling behind the tarps hanging up to dry. Clutching their phone to their chest, they strained their ears until they could hear their pumping blood, could hear the scuff of trainers over the wooden floor, the stockroom door banging closed and then a pause. Solstice stopped breathing, closed their eyes and began to pray.

  Footsteps moved away, another door opened - the door to Mr. Vong’s flat? - and Solstice waited a moment before crawling to the door and opening it an inch. The stockroom was empty so Solstice creeped out of their hiding place, slipped through to the shop floor and had to take a precious second before looking at Mr. Vong.

  The pellet had peppered his chest, studding it like cloves in a roast ham. His breathing was a gurgle and as his eyes met Solstice’s, he tried to speak.

  “No, no, Mr. Vong. Just breathe. I think the police are on the way.” They felt disconnected from their body, outside of time almost, especially when they took Mr. Vong’s blood-slicked hand. He squeezed like a vice, hurting Solstice and making them gasp.

  “Hem, your hem,” Mr. Vong choked, his other hand clawing at Solstice’s apron. And with a gurgle, a shudder, the life went out of Mr. Vong and Solstice was left alone, kneeling in a coagulating pool of blood, soaking up her knees and shins.

  The door tinkled open and Solstice blinked back panic-tears; what if the robber- murderer - had a friend?

  But no, they poked their head above the counter and found two police officers in matt-black uniforms, faces shielded by mirror-helmets.

  “Burglary! Help! They’re upstairs!” Solstice pointed at the stockroom door and the officers stomped through, shouting as they pounded up the stairs. More crashing, screaming, but it felt a long way off.

  Solstice squeezed Mr. Vong’s hand, bowing their head for a moment. The clatter and crash of the police coming back down the stairs sounded like somebody had fallen down them, and by the look of the murderer, maybe the police hadn’t been too gentle with him. Cuffed and hooded, he was marched out to their truck, disappearing into the hold.

  The officers took Solstice’s statement and let them go with a warning to stay in town for a potential follow-up. Solstice walked home through the dark, empty streets, the occasional drunk party parting and flowing around them without a second look.

  The long-mirror on the back of Solstice’s front door showed a blood splattered, death-like youth. They began to shake, the events of the evening catching up with them. They stripped off, sat in the shower under a hot, scalding stream of water that blotched their pale skin, until their eyes began to droop and sleep threatened to overtake them. They collapsed onto their tiny bed, tucking the duvet around them to stay safe and warm.

  Solstice dozed for a few hours, brain churning over the last day and they snapped awake: Nicky’s set! They sat up, clutching the duvet under their chin, and felt hot, shameful tears well up, spill down their cheeks.

  How to explain what had happened? Could they explain what had happened? It was still so vivid and bright at the forefront of their mind.

  Solstice shivered and pulled their pile of clothes towards them, their apron still sticky with Mr. Vong’s handprints. His last words welled up, “Hem, your hem.” They pursed their lips and fetched the scissors from their desk, pinched the hem between thumb and finger. In the corner, there was something long and thin. Solstice unpicked the stitching by the light of the desk lamp, found a length of wax paper rolled into a skinny cigarette shape. Unfurled, Solstice was holding a long, thin, dark brown crochet hook, shiny as if oily. Their brain knew this shape, knew it had been important. Solstice lay it down on its wax paper sheath and dug their phone from their apron pocket, threw on their dressing gown.

  “Agent, tell me about vanilla,” Solstice whispered into their phone. The phone wa
sn’t the most up to date model, was getting on a bit, took a few heartbeats to compile an answer. Agent’s robotic trill blared into the hush, Solstice scrambling to turn the volume down.

  “Vanilla was once a capricious market commodity which saw extreme fluctuations in prices and supply. Due to climate change and political pressures, vanilla is now extinct in the wild and the flavouring found in foods such as ice-cream is synthetic.”

  Agent rabbited on, detailing dates, events, people, a whole history, while Solstice stared at the unassuming been on her desk. Was this what Mr. Vong had been murdered for?

  Why had he told her about it?

  Solstice bit her lip, silenced Agent, and began pacing her room, thinking, brain awhirl. Where did Mr. Vong get a vanilla bean from? And what had he planned to do with it?

  Agent twinkled and Solstice glanced at the screen and felt a blush blaze across their cheeks, down their neck, felt the little butterflies twirl and skip in their stomach.

  Nicky. Nicky was texting them at 2am!

  - Hey missed you

  Solstice’s breath caught. But what to say? The truth. It’d be on the first news bulletin.

  - Hey, hold up at work - robbery gone bad. I’m sorry.

  The three little dots on the screen danced, and danced, and danced. Stopped. Stopped for thirty seconds. Was that the wrong thing to say?

  Agent twinkled again.

  - Shit! Are you okay? Where are you?

  - I’m okay, at home. Shaken, in shock? Mr. Vong killed

  - I’m coming over

  Solstice’s whole body set alight with nerves. Nicky? Coming here? They looked about, noting the pile of blood-flecked clothes on the floor, noted their own nakedness under the dressing gown and squeaked.

  - Buzz twice when you get here

  Solstice lay Agent down like a precious work of porcelain and was set into motion getting dressed, tidying hair, throwing their clothes in the washing machine and then a light came on in their mind: make ice-cream, vanilla ice-cream.

  A treat to apologise for not showing up, not supporting Nicky. Solstice ploughed ahead, dusting off their long-ignored ice cream maker that had sat abandoned under the sink, tucked under bin liners, waxed paper and dusting cloths.

  Everything was a-whirl, lights were too-bright, brighter than searchlights and the rich smells of cream and full-fat milk, sugar and that silky scent of vanilla as Solstice slipped their knife tip down the bean’s belly and scraped the tiny black seeds into the churning bucket. She set the machine to Rapid and went to pace by the front door, furiously clawing their fingers through their hair to try and make it look nice.

  Solstice’s heart was hammering, but it seemed to stop when the buzzer went once, twice. They let out a shaky breath as they pushed the release button for the front door of the building. They peeped out of their door, listening to the echoing footsteps on the stairwell.

  And then, Nicky had arrived. Bald, black, taking up space and loving it, Nicky slipped a thumb under their shirt and fixed their bra strap back in place.

  “Hey, you okay?” Nicky took Solstice’s hands and squeezed them, worry creasing their face.

  “I don’t know,” Solstice peeped and locked the door behind them.

  “You making ice cream? Your machine looks ready to throw itself to the floor.”

  The machine clunking loudly, beating its soupy contents with a machine gun staccato, hopping towards the counter edge with each revolution of its barrel.

  “Yeah, to say sorry for not making it tonight.”

  Nicky held up a hand to stop the words, shook their head.

  “You’ve been through something tonight, Sol, and there’s always next time. Come sit and tell me what happened.”

  With the background staccato of the ice cream maker getting quieter as the mixture began to set, Solstice sat with Nicky, hands sandwiched between their knees, and began to talk, began to put together what had happened. And there was a slow realisation of what they had done by slipping the tip of their knife down the belly of that bean, the last vanilla bean on earth.

  Solstice looked at the ice cream maker, at the little green blinking display: Fin

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