by Erme Lander
I go out and find he’s not been taught to wee standing up. I can’t believe it, I know he doesn’t live with his Dad but this is ridiculous. I decide it’s something I have to teach him. I take him closer to the hedge, talk him through what to do. He’s still looking sceptical but Uncle Dan’s an adult, so he must know best. A shadow flits over me, a cloud passing the sun. I blink to squint through the light breeze.
“Daniel?”
A girl’s voice, there’s an edge of fear to it that catches me. It’s not one of my sisters, it’s from the footpath beyond the hedge and the accent isn’t local. I stretch up to look, forgetting Dominic standing beside me. A wetness splatters against my leg and a sharp smell rises. I look down to see Dominic failing at weeing in the hedge. I suppress a swear word at his small face twisting. He knows it’s not good. I didn’t check the breeze. His trousers are far wetter than the drops on mine.
I sigh, “Come on, let’s take them off.”
“Mummy’s not going to be happy.”
I look at his clean shiny face, pressed shirt and damp trousers. This isn’t fair on him. He’s got to be allowed to get grubby at some point. “I’ll sort your trousers out, we’ll put them on my heater to dry. Maybe we can dry them before Mummy finds out.”
His small hand takes mine with the reassuring comment of, “Mummy finds out everything.”
I wrap him in a towel and he settles down again to play with his train set. I dab at the dampness and try to scrub the grease stains out for good measure, setting them close to the heater to dry. The smell coming from them is not good, I hope it’ll be better once they’ve dried.
Wondering who it had been calling my name, I mutter something to Dominic and slide out of the shed to casually walk down the orchard. Neighbourhood watch and all that, there were problems a few months ago with someone breaking into sheds. Mrs Pickles had wanted to organise a vigilante group to walk the lanes. She’s a regular one woman army, everyone’s terrified of her. I stretch my neck as I walk, trying to peer over the hedge without being seen. A tugging inside pulls briefly and I sway to take a step closer to see a man’s figure in the shadow, close to the end of the footpath. I can just see the outline in the deep shade, something about it makes me shiver.
“Daniel!” An indignant yell comes from the shed. I close my eyes, my sister’s discovered her son and his jeans. I turn back to see Samantha has Dominic by the hand and is dragging him towards the house. His face is set into a determination not to cry. “Why couldn’t you bring him into the house, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have told you.”
I raise my hands to start explaining that I’d been distracted while teaching him something important and stop. My sister’s monologue hasn’t stopped. Dominic meets my gaze and his face changes into a world weary air far beyond his years and goes with her, content to be scolded and thrust into the busy kitchen.
I stand alone in the trees and watch Biggles chewing a large stick. I’m left with the feeling of being dislocated from real life stronger than ever. A lump rises in my throat and lodges. This can’t be right, maybe normality will hit at some point and I’ll get it right for a change. Biggles notices me and brings the stick in the vain hope I’ll throw it for him. I ignore him and go to look over the hedge at the footpath. No one to be seen, whoever it was, they’ve gone.
Mum calls from the window, dinner is ready. I breathe through the lump, trying to disperse it, scrub my face and go inside. Samantha’s voice rises in the clatter of the kitchen, telling Dominic to sit still. He’s got a clean pair of jeans on and is waiting for his food. Dinner is a continuation of the noise, the baby managing to sleep through in its carry cot to the side.
Sarah, the younger of my two sisters, finds Dominic’s adventure hilarious. She leans towards Dominic, “I remember when your Uncle Daniel did the same thing as you – only he was ten!”
Sarah’s face is a mirror of the cat’s yesterday. The turd deposited on the stool with smug satisfaction. I remember her laughing at me as I came back into the caravan. She was a lordly nineteen year old, on holiday with us as a break from university. She’d had so many tall boys around her, hanging onto every sharp comment she’d made and glancing with irritation at me hanging around.
The lump rises sharply. I’d needed a wee that evening and rather than walk me to the toilets, someone had suggested the hedge. I hadn’t realised the wind had been blowing in the wrong direction. I’d stayed out in the dark for ages, not knowing what to do until Dad had come to find me. Dominic’s face is a picture, he doesn’t know where to look. Poor kid, only four and already he knows what embarrassment is.
“Got a girlfriend yet?” Sarah again. I grit my teeth, knowing she’ll jump at any opportunity to wind me up.
“Leave him alone. He’s got plenty of time.” Mum glances at me fondly and looks as though she wants to adjust my collar. I shift away. I’m the afterthought of the family or maybe simply the mistake. The baby that happened by accident after the other two were nearly grown. My parents were settling into a quiet middle age when I came along and disrupted it.
The meal carries on at a snail pace with its dissection of family life. Once a month the family descends on us. I’d go out for a meal to the local pub if it wouldn’t upset Mum. I allow myself to drift off, imagining the sun, the birds singing in the pub garden and the sour smell of beer.
“How’re the stiffs?”
I bite back the comment I want to make, knowing Sarah always manages to outsmart me in any verbal fencing. She finds it hilarious that I work in an undertakers. Jokes about stiffs have been coming thick and fast ever since. The fact that I actually work in the office is beside the point, although I did get an induction into the morgue for the first week.
I must admit, it was fascinating, I wouldn’t mind doing more on that side of the business although I’m not sure about children or murders. I think with a longing that dead people are easier than their living relatives. They’re cold and quiet, don’t talk much do dead people. Having had the extra time there the other day when they were short of staff was nearly enough to make me ask to swap jobs. Still, my degree is in figures on paper, not figures in coffins and at some point I’ll make enough to pay for my own place, at which point I’ll be the one laughing.
Dessert happens at a desolate pace and the slow clearing of plates afterwards. I manage not to attract any more comments. Samantha gathers up the baby, reaches up to kiss me goodbye and tells me not to mind Sarah. Dominic is looking tired. I carry him to the car and he nestles into my arms, clutching his train. I get a sticky kiss as I buckle him in and I tousle his hair, telling him we’ll do more together next time. He sticks his thumb in his mouth and nods with the vacant stare of a child about to fall asleep.
Sarah leaves with her usual sharp remarks and a blast of car fumes. I stifle the urge to mutter something rude at her back. I spend the rest of the day in the usual black mood, thinking up all the retorts I could have said. None of them are ever good enough. I always see Sarah’s smirk and imagine her replies shooting back.
Later that evening I go back to the end of the orchard, just a wander down to check everything is fine. Biggles whines next to me, a wistful note as he gazes at the footpath. I peer around the hedge, trying to look casual. No one to be seen, he’s probably heard a bird or a cat. The sun is coming down in a glorious sheet of orange sky, pink streaking in the clouds and the deep indigo of night behind.
A pile of something is on the tarmac, it’s like someone has emptied a pile of wood ash over the path, completely out of place. I mutter a swear word under my breath, some people will dump anything given a chance. I’d better make sure nothing else has been left otherwise Mrs Pickles will be up in arms again – the footpath runs along the back of her cottage as well.
I hook myself over the hedge by scrambling onto the fence and jumping, nearly falling flat on my face in the process. I stumble, managing to catch myself and hope no one’s watching. I stand upright with the familiar burn threatening the bac
k of my neck and nearly walk into the pile of dust. This close I can see it’s practically enough to fill a wheelbarrow and is spread out across the tarmac. The nettles that grow in the ditch next to the path have been broken as though someone’s fallen in and splattered green sludge everywhere. I nudge the pile with my foot and a fine powder puffs up. I have an instinctive revulsion for it, as strong as the compulsion had been to investigate.
A movement flickers at the edge of my vision. A girl is on the footpath, she’s close to the end, near the road that passes on the other side of our property. Her shadow falls over me, the only way I’d have seen her. She is a silhouette against the setting sun, she sees me notice her and freezes.
“Hello?” The sound of my greeting makes her jump and she charges towards me. I automatically step back, out of her way but she still pushes past. My eyes burn from looking into the light and I stagger into the fence, feeling the sting of nettles on the hand I fling out.
“Hey!” My childish exclamation of pain brings the stress of the day back into sharp focus. This wasn’t right, no one should do this without reason.
No reply. I blink hard from the dazzle, all I see is the flash of her eyes, wide with fear as she passes. Spots in my vision stop me seeing much. The girl flinches from the cows leaning over the fence and skitters off in a way that makes her look as though she’s unused to the surroundings. Not from round here, I bet she dumped that ash over the path.
“Stop!” My shout is ignored. I’m not having this, she can’t mess up the footpath and then push people out of the way. What it had been Mrs Pickles? I imagine the wailing of a supine old lady and I give chase without a further thought, I’m going to make her clear up and apologise. I’m going to do something right for once.
Despite her stumbling panic, she is faster. I make a heroic effort, lungs burning and shoot past the corner, feeling rather than hearing the wet ripping sound. My eyes have partly cleared as brakes on, I spin and see her disappearing. The sight stops me in my tracks.
She’s halfway through a grey seam. It’s hanging in the middle of the air, not connected to anything. It twists the eye, preventing me from focussing on it. Her jeans hang off her skinny backside and her head’s missing, like she’s stuck it round an invisible corner. I blink and see an elbow hauled through as though sticking to the sides.
Bloody minded and with my lungs gasping from the run, I reach out to grasp the greyness and find my fingers slide straight through it. I pinch them together, not believing what I see. A foot lashes out and thumps me solidly in the stomach. I double up, winded and with eyes watering, see her knee begin to disappear.
The frustration of the family dinner boils through and not thinking, I grab at the girl’s waist as she pulls herself further in and nearly shout my disgust at the feel of rubber around my arm. I slide my other arm in and wrap it around her middle. I’m going to pull her out and make her apologise. It becomes a fight of itself, my anger at my family not taking me seriously, the problems at work, of feeling like an outsider, even the superiority of that bloody cat. Everything. Completely irrational.
Rubbery and thick, the seam manages to feel damp without making my skin wet. I feel an instinctive revulsion, wanting to wipe my hands clean. It gives slightly and I jam myself into it, pushing and trying to lever her out. The edge thickens around my arms and I begin to gasp, it’s trying to close with me in it. My struggle reverses and I try to get out, this shouldn’t be happening. The girl slides further in, dragging me with her. I find I can’t unpeel my fingers. A ripple and my feet lift off the ground as it encases me completely and snaps shut like a vice.
A greyness inside, I can’t see anything, including the girl I’m holding. She slides through my fingertips, wriggling away and I lunge forwards or try to. A small part of my mind begins to question what I’m doing. This isn’t anything natural. What the hell am I doing? I try to draw a breath and find I can’t even do that. Terror begins to fill me as I flail, pinned in the void. My lungs are burning, lights flash in front of my eyes. I’m going to die. Nobody’s going to know where I went. That pile of dust, that must have been the last poor sod to try and get through, regurgitated onto the path as a pile of ash.
The anger boils up, that girl got through, I can too. I want to know where she came from. I feel a seam at my fingertips, I wriggle my fingers into it, pulling it apart. I shove my hand through further and my fingers brush cool air. Everything turns black and white, inverts and my stomach tries to follow. A smell hits me as my feet touch the ground, it’s indescribable. Open sewer, damp and mould, my gorge rises. My stomach is still protesting from being kicked and I wonder vaguely if I’ll lose my dinner. It’s dark. I can’t see much – apart from a few spots jarringly bright against the black and I’m not sure if they are the remnants of the sun blindness. I stagger against a wall, retching and try to catch my breath.
A hand grabs me and I start to explain that I’m alright, that there’s nothing to worry about when it slams me backwards. The shock jars through the sickness and my eyes finally focus. The distant lights outline a face seamed with dirt, pushing itself into mine. Breath stinking, crusted eyes gleam with a feral intelligence. I struggle to loosen his grip on my neck and my life narrows down to seconds. Unable to breathe, I frantically elbow him, trying to raise my leg to stamp, to kick him somewhere painful. I catch something soft with my knee, he grunts and his grip loosens. I gasp my relief, thinking I’m winning until I see the flash of metal.
He’s got a knife.
Chapter 3
I catch the upraised arm, barely keeping it away from me. My struggles become more frantic, I’ve never been one for wrestling or rough housing. My muscles are like jelly and a bone weary numbness grips me, making me want to lie down despite this maniac attempting to kill me.
A sharp pain through my temple and I have a moment’s outrage before I feel the sickening jar of my head hitting the wall behind. The head butt has left us nose to nose, his foul breath in my face. I lose the battle with my stomach and heave, folding double. He pulls away from the stream of vomit and swears. My fingers slide off his wrist, losing control of his arm and the knife pushes forwards. I twist sideways in desperation and it slides through my jumper to scrape against the wall. I’ve barely enough breath to stop myself from whimpering. Acid burns my nose and mouth and I spit, wondering if I’ll throw up again. I roll to one side and look up from clutching my stomach to see his outline readying itself for another attack.
“Please… I don’t have anything on me...” I can’t think of anything he’d want. I’d left the shed with nothing in my pockets, no money or phone. My head is spinning, I’m shaking with cold and I’m going to die. The lights in the distance flicker momentarily and I wonder if I’m going mad. This shouldn’t be happening, it’s a spring evening, the birds are singing and Biggles is on the other side of the fence…
He lurches forwards, knife raised in one hand, the other outstretched to brush aside my own weak defences. His hand reaches out and grabs my collar, pulling me towards the knife flashing down. My knees give way and I clench my backside as other parts of me turn to liquid. I’m aware of every detail in the long moment – the gleam of corrugated skin, the smell of his body, the rasp of his clothes against mine as we struggle. He’s strong, with big hands, I’ve not got a chance. I’m going to die.
A jerk, his breath huffs out of him and he falls against me, face into my shoulder. His fingers slide off my collar and I push him away. Stupid in shock I stare as he falls to the floor in a boneless crumple. My hand is grabbed and I’m dragged into a run. Lights in the distance bob up and down with my spinning head and my stomach lurches again. The air burns through my windpipe, scoured from reflux. The ground is uneven and stony and I stumble into a pothole. The hand holding mine is small but insistent, it pulls me along and I skin my knees as I fall. No mercy is shown, I’m hauled to my feet again and we continue the headlong pace.
More lights and the sharp edges of buildings in the dark. We slo
w to a more respectable walk. The lights grow larger and resolve the black into an intersection of streets. I’m in a city. My breath wheezes and my feet scuff through unseen debris.
“Hang on.” My voice is barely a croak. I resist the hand, still trying to look back and at the floor at the same time. The hand lets go and I nearly fall. The wall I grab for instead is damp with something nasty. I lean on it gasping, not caring about my clothes. I dab at my forehead and it comes away dark. I feel sick. I lean my head back and wince at the other lump throbbing in time with my heart. I finger the lump and wonder if the dampness is blood or from the wall.
Have we outrun my attacker? I feel like a fool blinking and bobbing my head, trying to see through the black. Nothing to be seen to the dark behind us, I can’t hear anything beyond the pounding in my ears. I turn to peer through the dim street lights at my rescuer. She is slender, her eyes gleam under tangled hair and she stares at me, waiting in the silence.
“I’m Daniel.” No reaction. “What’s your name?” Uneasy at her silence, I ask, “Can you speak?” She looks completely unimpressed. “What happened over there? Shouldn’t we ring the police or something?”
She’s eyeballing me as though I’m something the cat’s brought in. My breath frosts the air and I rub my arms gently, not wanting to jar my head further. She doesn’t seem to notice the cold despite the goosebumps on her thin arms. Her silence is becoming un-nerving.
I try again, “I won’t hurt you.” I jump at the unexpected sound of her snorting.
“You, hurt me?” Another knife flashes in the dim light and I skitter away, tripping over my heels. A scornful laugh as I pull myself up. “Nob.” I flush at the sting of someone else laughing at me. The knife disappears. “Come on nob.”
