by Paul Haines
Carla slipped her arm around my waist and pressed her wet body against my back.
'You okay with this?' she asked.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I thought you said there were other red ones.'
She kissed my shoulder blade. 'There are.'
'And?'
'Don't worry. When I said a select few, it is. You join three others. Two men and a woman. But you're different.'
'You don't have them here?'
'For my eyes only, baby.' She paused, entwined her fingers with mine and squeezed gently. 'The ones here on the shelf are fair game though. Are there any you'd like to watch?'
This was the real test. Could I handle her past?
In that moment between breaths, the answer came to me with a sense of relief, and a rush of joy and light-headedness. Her past didn't matter. It was where we were now, together, that mattered. She was my future.
And in that same moment, you move forward, the test passed.
'Sure.' I handed her the disc labelled Brigette and Sofia. I'd work up to the men later.
#
I moved in two weeks later.
She still hadn't said the words, but I knew it was only a matter of time. We stopped using protection, and when she asked me to pick up a pregnancy test a few months later, I panicked at first but soon felt like a god. I understood that having her say those three words to me didn't matter at all. I knew how she felt; how we felt.
We celebrated with champagne, or at least I did. Carla drank water. Later, we watched the episodes where we might have conceived. Afterwards, we turned the cameras off.
One night during her second trimester, Carla seemed different. Nervous. One of the red discs sat on the coffee table. It wasn't mine.
'Why have you never asked me before?' she said.
'It doesn't matter.'
'Don't you want to hear me say it?'
'I think I know why you can't, Carla. Your family.'
She picked up the remote. 'There's something you need to know, Matt. Something I need you to understand.'
I had been wrong. This was the real test.
She pressed play.
Sound before the light.
'Is it on, Carla?'
The picture wobbles. Brown grass dead from the sun. A field. People and hangars.
'Yes, Mum. Where is the birthday boy?'
The picture jars into blue and steadies. 'There. Can you see him?' says Carla's mother.
Wobble. Jerks and tilts.
A skydiver freefalls onto the screen, his shape barely discernible. 'Got him.'
The camera follows him down, his arms spread, flying through the cloudless sky.
'Why hasn't he pulled his chute yet?' says Carla's mother. 'Everyone else has.'
He falls and falls. His body starts to tumble through the air.
'Oh my God.' Carla's mother again. Her voice is fainter as she moves away from the camera's microphone.
Shouting. Screams.
The horizon smashes into the skydiver. The camera jerks up and down as Carla runs towards the body. Her mother is screaming, sprinting across the brown, dead grass. The picture goes black.
I sat there, my palms covered in sweat. My stomach churned and blood flushed from my head. I thought I was going to be sick. She had not only witnessed her father's death, but she had recorded it. How many times had she watched this in those dark moments when the world slept and her mind insisted on screaming? How many times had her mother watched it before committing suicide? I couldn't handle this, I didn't know how. My mind crawled with the image of the horizon rushing up to meet the freefalling twisting body.
'Are you okay?' Her voice trembled. 'Can you handle that?'
'Oh, baby, I don't know what to say.' I needed to say something, for her sake. For my sake.
'Can you handle knowing that?' Her face was expressionless, those green eyes aching for an answer.
I reached for her hand and nodded.
She smiled; a gentle smile that spoke more of sorrow than joy. 'I need you to understand me.'
She removed the disc, put it in its case and pulled another red disc from the drawer. They had never been stored in there before. She sat down, squeezed my hand and pressed play.
The sound of an engine idling.
The inside of a garage. The camera swings around, past shelves crammed with tools and boxes, until it comes to rest on a station wagon. Carla's mother sits inside the car staring at the camera. She blinks.
A hose connects the exhaust pipe and the window.
The engine idles.
And idles.
The camera zooms in on her mother's face. She stares, vacant, unbelieving ...
Carla changed the disc. Her brother appeared on screen about to climb into a car. She sat beside me, kissed my cheek, and placed my hand on the bulge in her belly.
'I love you,' she said.
***
Afterword: Her Collection of Intimacy
This is the story where my horror took a step sideways, away from the physical horror of the traditional monster—the zombie, vampire, or ghost—and more into the dark heart and mind of the only monster that exists on this planet: Man. (Or Woman, as is the case with this story). Fiction, for me, becomes that much more disturbing and scary when you can relate to it. The horror that humans inflicts upon each other is everywhere and everyday and often overwhelming. It can be huge and political or small and personal. I prefer the latter. To be truly frightened, you need to understand and empathise with what it is you are reading, and bringing it into your love life, home or your family is where the desperate fight for survival really begins.
I wrote the story halfway through Clarion South, a speculative fiction writing boot camp that will either destroy you or make you stronger. I found the total immersion in Clarion with the freedom to write at any hour without the constraints of a 'normal life' liberating. I wrote polished prose, near-finished stories, and at least one story a week for the six weeks there. When I presented this story to the Clarion group, I was unsure of the response. This was different to what I was writing before, though still easily identifiable as a Haines story, but mostly because the speculative fiction element was negligible. Did this qualify as speculative fiction? It was no longer supernatural horror, but does horror have to be supernatural or even fantastical?
Clarion South gave it the thumbs up. It was about this point in time that I realised I was a real writer, albeit a short story one, so therefore not a proper writer. That makes sense, right? Regardless, my doubts about my ability were growing smaller.
"Her Collection Of Intimacy" went on to gather nominations for the 2008 Australian Shadows Award, the 2009 Chronos Award for Best Short Fiction, and the 2009 Ditmar Award for Best Short Story.
***
The Light in Autumn's Leaves
She lay upstairs in darkness, alone in her bed, listening to the rapping on the front door. Each sharp rap sank deeper into her bones and she pulled the blanket up tight around her chin, willing the sound away. Soon all she heard was breath in her ears, rising and falling with the rustle of sheets, in time with the racing beat of her heart. Her fingers slowly released their grip on the blanket.
She could creep to the window and pull back the heavy drapes. She could call the police. She could turn on the lights and answer the door. She could scream for help. And if she peered past the drapes down to the front doorstep and there was no-one there? And if the police arrived, could she be sure it was them knocking on the door?
She could hear their voices now, spinning and echoing, as they laughed and pointed and whispered behind each other's hands.
'She's never been the same since Frank left ...'
'How healthy can it be to stay cooped up in that house ...'
'My, how she's aged ...'
'My, hasn't she let herself go ...'
And if she opened that door, and whoever—whatever—had stood there knocking patiently for so long, night after night, had given up and gone, what would she
do?
She held her breath, straining to hear the creak of weight upon the veranda, the assurance of footfalls retreating on asphalt, the humming engine of a car passing by in the street, hoping to hear anything but the words that followed the silence.
'I know you are in there.'
And she pulled the blankets over her head and hid beneath her pillows, sure that there was no-one at her front door, the words spoken only inside her head. She drifted then, as she always did, in a shallow slumber from which even the dead could wake, and when dawn finally beat against the house and crept through the chinks between wall and window and drape, her eyes fluttered wide open in surprise, her lips dry and cracked, the stale saliva caught in the wrinkles at the corner of her mouth, and she rose cautiously and pulled back the drapes to let the light enter her world once more.
#
She sat in her chair in the sitting room sipping a cup of tea. Early-morning television filled the room, though she wasn't watching. The volume was too loud, she knew, but it gave her comfort, provided voices for any room in the house. As she sipped, the photo on the television of her husband, Frank, bulged and his mouth and lips formed the words the newsreader used. Frank smiled and laughed as he told her about the boats pulled up off the north-west coast, warned her sternly not to trust any foreigners, and suggested that with interest rates at a thirty-year low, property was a good investment.
'Oh, Frank,' she laughed, rocking back in her chair, as her two children smiled mutely from their mounted positions around the room, around the house. 'We've all we need right here. Why would we need another house?'
Frank looked at her stonily and disappeared back into the photo. He didn't like to talk when the woman who read the weather spoke, but he mouthed something sullenly before he left.
'Sorry,' she said, leaning forward and turning up the television. 'I didn't quite catch that, Frank.'
Frank sat silently, staring blankly outwards circa 1984.
She turned the television up a little more hoping to coax him. 'What was that, Frank?'
Underneath the sounds from the television she thought she heard him speak.
'It would be best if you left.'
But she couldn't be sure if it was Frank's voice or the one that came from the front door in the dark, dark hours of the morning.
#
That night, huddled in darkness, swaddled in blankets, she almost called out to the person—the thing—knocking on her door. Almost, for her tongue stuck in her mouth, the words unformed lodged in her throat. The knocking ceased momentarily in anticipation, the unseen hand hovering over the peeling painted wood for one more rap, hungry for the words it wanted to hear.
She waited with breath held tight in her chest for the hand to fall. She feared what lay unbidden in her heart. Was it a plea to leave her in peace, or was it an invitation?
#
She spent the afternoon staring at the autumn trees lining the street from the safety of the bay windows in the sitting room. The wind rustled through the branches, tugging at them, urging them gently onto its breeze. She followed a leaf, flickering between brown and gold in the pale sunlight, as it drifted free over fences and roads until she fancied she followed its flight.
The phone rang, startling her.
'Hello? Who is this?'
'Mum? It's me,' said a male voice.
'Who is it?' she asked again, her gaze flitting around, seeking solace in the photographs on the shelves, sills, and walls.
'Mum, it's Daniel.'
'Daniel?'
'Are you okay? Jesus, Mum. It's your son, remember?'
'Daniel! Oh, it's so lovely to hear from you. How are you? You haven't written or called in so long. I was getting worried about you. Have you ...'
'Mum, look I don't mean to cut you off, but the money is going to run out soon and I don't have any more coins. I want to tell ...'
'Then I'll call you, Daniel. You'll have to give me your number though. You know I could call you if I had your number.'
'I don't have time for this right now, Mum. I need a place to stay for a while, okay? I'm catching a train tonight. I'll be there by about lunchtime tomorrow.'
'Is everything all right? You're not in trouble are you? Daniel? Daniel?'
The line was already dead. Outside, she could see a man mulching the fallen leaves, the angry buzz of the machine chewing up and spitting out the leaves into a caged trailer that would be later carted away.
She moved quickly around the house, sweeping up any photos of her husband while he complained bitterly as she did so. She hid them beneath the tea-towels in one of the drawers in the kitchen, piling heavy cookbooks on top hoping to muffle her husband's cries.
She planted herself in front of the television and turned it up loud, this time to drown Frank out rather than encourage him.
'You're only fooling yourself,' he called from his cell in the kitchen.
She refused to acknowledge him, burying herself in the sounds and images emanating from the screen. Her mouth betrayed her though, and her lips were willing conspirators.
'I can't hear you, Frank,' they whispered.
#
She lay in wait for the knocking that night, but it never came. Instead her mind raced with Daniel's face ageing through his childhood and the soft timbre of his voice and creamy skin and fine, blond hair; the warmth of his touch and smell of his young body cleaned and dried and powdered; the birthdays and cuddles and kisses and crayon drawings taped to fridge doors and tears wiped from eyes and blood cleaned from scabbed knees; her son; her baby.
She wondered what he looked like now, whether time had been kind, whether the world had replaced his anger and fears with wisdom and temperance. Whether she would recognise him. It had been more than ten years.
As she drifted into the land between the living and the dead, she dreamt that they had forgiven each other, and maybe, just maybe, she had forgiven Frank.
#
By noon a thick minestrone simmered on the stove, filling the house with warm, earthy smells. She rang the station to check arrival times, and a woman reassured her that the train from Melbourne would be in by half twelve.
She popped cheese and onion scones into the oven at half past twelve, knowing that in fifteen minutes or so they'd be ready for her son when he walked in the door. She sat in her chair, pretending to read a book, and waited. Frank said nothing from the kitchen.
At one o'clock she called the station again, and was informed that yes, madam, the train had arrived half an hour ago. By two that afternoon, she nibbled listlessly on a cold scone, occasionally dipping it into the minestrone, though her appetite had disappeared with her son.
'What were you thinking, woman?' Frank called, the spite sliding from beneath the towels. 'Did you think he'd come home?'
She chewed, swallowed, ignored. Leaves swept past the window, laughing, screaming, as they danced to Frank's words, battering up against the pane.
'When I left you, woman, you tried to turn my son against me. So he left, too, woman, see he hates ...'
'Be quiet!' she yelled, dropping the scone into the soup bowl. Little brown splashes stained her frock, but she didn't notice.
Frank's low chuckle emanated from the drawer. 'You don't think you actually spoke to Daniel, do you?'
'You're dead! You can't hurt me anymore.'
'I'm not dead, woman,' said a dozen Franks. 'And I'll never stop hurting you.'
Stifled giggling from a young Daniel on the mantelpiece. Sniggering from the teenage Daniel on the bookshelf, and soon all the Daniels in the room were laughing at her, laughing with the Franks hidden in the kitchen.
#
In the pitch black of night she woke to the sound of knocking on the door. She lay frozen, as the pounding increased, hammering into her heart. And for the first time in years her throat coughed up an anxious plea, though it drowned in the darkness.
'Go away, Frank.'
The pounding on the door resumed, each thud on th
e wood resonating through the house, climbing stealthily up the stairs and creeping into her bed to swallow her bones. She lay in silence, the blanket tightening around her chin, drawing it around her head like a hood, a deep shroud to hide within.
'Go away, Frank,' she whispered once more. 'Just go away.'
'Let me in! I know you're in there,' a thick voice slurred, heavy with the night.
The blood in her veins iced, the hair on her body stretching away from her skin, eager to flee with her thoughts and her mind to somewhere safe, some place still innocent and untouched. It—he—had never, ever, spoken from behind the door in all these long years.
'Frank?' she croaked, though the sound barely passed her lips. 'Is that you?'
'I'm sorry,' the voice called. 'It's me. It's late ... I've come home ...'
She heard him start to cry, small, snuffling sobs, and she slowly, cautiously crept from her bed, tiptoeing to the bedroom door. The door hammered again and she froze halfway between the landing and the safety of her bedroom.
'Let me in!' he roared.
She slid to the floor, trembling, burying her face in the sleeves of her nightgown. It wasn't meant to be like this. She had hoped and dreamed and prayed he would return, waking every night for years, thinking she heard him approach the door. But it had been too long, far too long, and she was unsure of herself. If she were to answer that door and find no-one, what then? She feared that behind the door lay nothing but the workings of her mind, and if her last hope shattered, then the descent into her final days would be swift.
She heard Frank, the other Franks, rattling in the kitchen, banging against the drawer.
'Let me out,' those Franks pleaded. 'Let me go.'
