His hands were rough and square-fingered, the skin cracked and red. I imagined them holding a shovel or an ax – some heavy manual implement. Not me.

I shuddered when he ran his fingers along my sensitive title. It is a mystery to me why there is such a difference between my front and back panels. My sisters assure me that the slow thrill that passes through their compressed leaves prior to being Opened is the same, whether the patron lifts them by sliding their palm underneath or – as some do, unfortunately – grasping the front panel. We hate being lifted into the air like a wounded bird, leaves flapping, undignified and helpless. Still, the sensitivity should be the same all around: back and front, headband and spine.

But it is different for me. When the few patrons who seemed interested touched my front, it was as if an electric current passed through me – or at least as I imagined electric current would feel. When they trailed their fingers along my back, the sensation was muted and faintly unpleasant – like an unwanted tickle when you are trying to fall asleep.

He still held me, which was longer than any other before him, and I tensed with a mingled feeling of anticipation and dread. I wanted to know. This is what we all want to know, don’t we? The one question that each of us needs to be answered.

Who am I?

And at the same time, there was that niggle of disquiet. There must be a reason why I had been left Closed for so long. The sisters who had shared the lineup with me when I first awoke were all gone to that other shelf where the adults live. They had all been Opened.

Not me. I had been picked up and examined. And put back, again and again.

My leaves were squeezed tight, the black ants of my words squirming, eager to be released, to unfold their glittering wings, shed their magic. I could feel the tiny legs of their brushstrokes scribbling impatiently. My children. Eager to be born.

The rough hands caressed my spine, weighing me as I floated in the piebald air, squirming against the bright light of the sunlit Library, trying to make out shapes in the chaos of swirling colors. We are all short-sighted, some more than others. Judging by my sisters’ reports, my sight was a bit better than the average. Occasionally I could discern the facial features of the patrons of the Library if they bent close to the shelves, examining our trim ranks, their hands like hunting dogs, ready to pounce. But more often, I could only see the hands themselves, the tensing fingers as they grasped the chosen one. Not me. Never me.

Rough Hands lingered longer than anybody else before him, and I tried to reconcile myself to the thought that he was the One. My first Reader, the one who would release my magic into the world. But I could not quite squelch my disappointment, even as I tried to convince myself to accept him. Call me romantic. Call me narcissistic. But I believed I would know the One, and these clumsy, work-crippled fingers could not belong to him.

I was right. One moment longer of the expectant tension, suspended in the air, and then I was pushed back, squeezed next to my sister Blue. I called her that because her front and back panels were the color of a robin’s egg. It was not her real name, of course. Her name was displayed in flowing gilded letters on her front, but she did not know what it was and neither did I. Books cannot read. We imbibe our knowledge directly from our magic word-children when they are released to swarm and flap in the Library. But both Blue and I were Closed, and so had no knowledge of our contents.

Blue was a recent addition to the shelf and with a surge of jealousy, I decided she would soon be gone. The pretty color of her covers, the sturdy ribbed spine, the sparkling gold of her lettering – who could resist it?

I rustled my pages, trying to quieten the itching of the words inside me. The venom of their disappointment burned my sensitive paper. Black ants, eager to grow wings.

I could not really fault them. I could see the bright halls of the Library filled with the swirling, multicolored dance of butterfly words, flapping their gossamer wings, shedding knowledge in a shower of sparkling scales. Their mothers, the Opened ones, observed their offspring with complacent pride. Fat with the spillover honey of magic.

At least the knowledge they shed was available to us, the un-Opened ones. This was how I knew about robin’s eggs, and workmen, and magic. And about the famines, plagues and innumerable wars that raged outside the crenellated walls of the Library, where we waited for our Readers who came in search of power, or knowledge, or love. And by finding it, they gave us our names. Our identities. Ourselves.

“You are better off without him,” Blue whispered, the many tongues of her leaves syncopating in sweet whisper. “Too rough. He would tear into you like an impatient bridegroom.”

I winced. Blue’s frequent sexual innuendoes put me off. Was she a Book of love spells or marriage aids? While the adage about not judging a Book by her cover was held sacred in the Library, surely her way of talking was some sort of giveaway. Surely Blue’s tittering remarks and off-color jokes indicated what was actually written inside her.

But if so, what did my prudishness say about me?

I sternly forbade myself from entertaining such thoughts. There was nothing more morbid than trying to read yourself. The Chief Librarian had described it as a perversion. We existed to serve, not to rule; to dispense knowledge, not to hoard it; to be magic, not to use it.

I tried to hide my disappointment, but Blue was not easily fooled.

“Maybe you need a lady patron?” she suggested.

I felt my endband crinkle in embarrassment. There were women Readers, though far fewer than men. This had to do with the conditions outside the Library where the endless wars had reduced the population to the ancient roles of men as fighters, women as breeders. But there were still some females who managed to escape the drudgery of childbearing and housework and became Readers, coming to the Library in search of a Book whose magic would set them free. The Chief Librarian often emphasized that there was no shame in having a woman as your First Reader. Some of the most sought-for Books in the Special Section had been first taken out by females, he had said. Still, there was a faint whiff of scandal attached to such a situation. When I had first felt my still-moist paper throb with words of power, I had a vision of myself being gently Opened by the hands of a prince or a potentate. Perhaps I should have set my sights lower from the beginning.

Blue kept chattering but my thoughts were turning darker with every passing moment. Was I cursed in some way? There were stories of grimoires and black-paper volumes whose forbidden magic could smite armies or bring foul diseases upon entire towns. Was I one of those?

If so, I would have to act according to my nature. None of us could choose our content. We were what we were. Still, the thought of a patron using me to sow death and destruction made my words run cold.

I turned to the Book on my left side. She was also un-Opened, but I barely knew her. As opposed to Blue, she was morose and unsocial. Substantial in girth and with a velvety purple front panel, she always reminded me of a stern elderly matron. I suspected she was some sort of ceremonial magic manual but of course, I could not read her title. As with Blue, her real name was hidden from herself and thus from everybody else until she was Opened. As opposed to Blue, nobody had given her a nickname, deterred by her stern demeanor.

She was probably the worst Book I could address my unorthodox query to, but I was suddenly desperate.

“Sister,” I said, “could you tell me what color my cover is?”

I knew she would be scandalized. It was a terrible faux pas to inquire about one’s looks. It was pursuit of self-knowledge – the ultimate perversion.

But I did not count on the strength of her reaction. She managed to slide away from me on the slick surface of the shelf, her leaves shuddering and swishing, her purple cover blushing scarlet and swelling with rage. I wanted to apologize but she turned her back panel to me. I noticed that it was different from her velvet front. It was tawny-brown and made of cheap marbled cardboard.

I squeezed my pages together so hard that the words had to stop their impatient squirming. It gave me an unpleasant sensation of fulness like a pregnant woman with a heartburn.

A large scarlet moth alighted on our shelf and flapped its wings, scribbled over with elaborate yellow patterns. Magic sparkled, settling in a thin layer of glittering dust on my panels. I relaxed, ready to imbibe another random gift of knowledge from one of my Book sisters.  

I was filled with images of raging fire, tiny human figures running and falling onto the ground, engulfed by flames. A cathedral reduced to a black skeleton. Ruins covered by a pall of ashes. 

Fire is our greatest enemy. Every Book is instinctively afraid of it. My binding crawled in horror; my spine cringed; my leaves darkened as if charred.

The fire-moth was engendered by one of my Opened sisters. Did it mean that there was a fire-Book in the library: one whose magic could be used for burning and arson?

The idea was so horrifying that I turned to Blue again to express my distress but that was the precise moment when another indistinct silhouette loomed in my blurred field of vision. Another patron approaching our virgin display! I tensed, and so did my sisters on both sides: Blue and the unnamed purple-fronted Book on my left.

I strained to see his face but the light streaming through the tall window across the hall was too bright. I saw a hand with narrow aristocratic fingers weighed down with elaborate wrought-gold rings. The fingers hovered like a clutch of flying worms and alighted upon the Purple-Front.

Normally a patron would take the chosen Book to the Librarian’s desk to have a loan-slip written, but this one did not bother. He flipped the Book open right there, in full view of Blue and me.

Blue gaped in shock, her pages fanning out. I watched the procedure with tense anticipation.

The purple front clenched and relaxed, as the Book fell open, and a swarm of word-ants rose up, sprouting wings and furry antennae, unfolding into a cloud of darkness, so dense that it drunk the sunshine from the air.

If the fire-moth was dusky-red, these were pitch-black. And the knowledge that fell off their wings in a shower of black crystals was of death and destruction; the magic of unhallowed weapons and blind ferocity; of unmanageable fury and rains of blood.

The pale fingers reverently cradled the opened Book and then the patron turned around and disappeared into the black swarm that spread through the entirety of the Library, drinking away its illumination. The black butterflies chased their brighter sisters as the Opened Books rustled, and thumped, and fluttered in horror. A couple of them managed to dislodge themselves from the shelf and fell heavily upon the floor. But no Librarian showed up to put them back in place.

“What…” Blue whispered faintly.

“The war is not going well,” I said.

And then he came.

My prince. My deliverer. My first Reader.

I knew it even before I could make up his staggering figure through the maelstrom of beating wings. He lunged and flapped his hands, trying to swipe away the maddened war-magic swarm. I could not see his face or clothes, but his gait was lurching and uneven. He almost fell at some point and only righted himself by grabbing the edge of a shelf, pulling its population of slim diet-magic Books down.

He came close and as a stray ray of sunshine fell upon his face, I saw it with piercing clarity. He must have been a handsome man once, proud and regal. Now his skin peeled off in long curling streamers, revealing the weeping inflamed flesh underneath. His military-style cloak was stained and splattered.

He was so grievously wounded I wondered he could still walk. But he knew what he wanted. Unerringly, he came toward me.

I felt his bloodied hands lift me from my resting place. Would the blood permanently stain me?

Suddenly I knew the stains would never show. My binding was dull black leather front and back.

 I felt his thread pulse as he cradled me to his chest.

And then he Opened me.

My word-children fluttered into the air, bearing on their transparent wings the glad tidings of release. The dark moths of war fell away, making space for my swarm. And with a rush of relief and pride, I knew myself. I knew my name. 

“Thank you,” my first Reader whispered as he subsided onto the floor, the pain leaving his body. His heart beat strongly once and beat no more.

I lay on the floor by his side, his cooling hand resting on my title.

Easeful Death.

Elana Gomel is an academic and a writer. She is the author of six academic books and numerous articles on subjects such as narrative theory, posthumanism, science fiction, Dickens, and serial killers. As a fiction writer, she has published more than sixty fantasy and science fiction stories and three novels. She can be found at https://www.citiesoflightanddarkness.com/

The new people make their presence known.  Ticking clocks.  Television news.  Chicken tacos on the kitchen stove. 

The townspeople take notice, too.

Today, Fanny is in the orchard picking apples.  Her husband, Mr. Dufray is reading a book under the shade of a tree. He wonders how long these people will stay.  How much he will have to endure. 

The three story Second Empire house sits on Saunder’s Hill.  Mr. and Mrs. Clark have done their research.  Cupola, classical pediments, paired columns.  They like the preservation.

Fanny stands in the kitchen now bringing a pot of water to boil on the wood stove.  Mr. Dufray slides past her running a rough hand across her back.  He slapped her in the orchard for flirting with a boy at church.  Someone her own age.  Fanny reaches into the sink.  A glass shatters and a small sliver of glass has gutted her finger.  The sink is full of blood.

Mrs. Clark is a chef at the Hotel Madison, Mr. Clark an architect.  Oh, there are improvements.  A half wall here, a new chandelier there.  But they keep the integrity.  They have so much respect for the man who designed the house – jewel of the county.

One afternoon Mr. Clark stands outside.  Some of the trees in the orchard are incredibly old.  He sees a white skirt flutter under an apple tree.  A man in wire glasses looks up.  The sound of a slap makes Mr. Clark bite his lip and all at once, the light is too light. Back inside he puts on some lonely song from the 60s and it echoes through the long hall and up the stairs.

The town library is generous.  Old newspaper clippings and a picture reveals that Mr. Dufray was a decorated soldier from World War I.  He returns home a hero and takes a wife, Frances Shire.  Fanny.  Sixteen years his junior.  Five years later Mr. Dufray dies of what can only be described as – sudden heart failure.

Fanny is nauseous in the morning.  Mr. Dufray wishes for a son, but in one afternoon shoves her across the bedroom.  Pushes her to the floor.  There are no visible bruises.

“How wonderful their lives must have been,” Mrs. Clark comments the next afternoon on the warm open porch while it rains.  The summer has been hot.  “Life was easier back then,” she says drinking her cold tea.  A gust of rain-soaking wind sweeps a pot of geraniums down the long front steps.

Fanny’s belly doesn’t grow.  Mr. Dufray is angry.  He wants that baby.  Fanny pictures the boy from church and remembers what his lips taste like.

Mr. Clark hears someone crying in a room at the end of the hall.  He can’t concentrate.  His client’s drawings should have been done two weeks ago.   

Mr. Dufray would like Fanny to bring him coffee.

The mood has changed and in one afternoon Mr. Clark peels the skin off an apple from the orchard.  Mrs. Clark is upstairs in the tower now; the rain has made her sad.  And it’s when Mr. Clark puts the sharp knife back into the drawer that he sees a woman at the other end of the kitchen pouring something from a small dark bottle into a white porcelain mug. She looks up.

Mrs. Clark dries her eyes and dresses for work.  She has a busy night ahead. 

The crying has stopped and so has the rain.  Mr. Clark feels the dry cool air falling in; autumn is coming.  It doesn’t take long, and his drawings are complete.

In the morning, a doctor is called.  By afternoon Mr. Dufray is laid out in the parlor.

Fanny is out in the orchard. 

Let the mourners come.

Having grown up in the rural Midwest, Jan Darrow connected to the natural world at an early age. She graduated from the University of Michigan and currently lives in Michigan with her husband and daughter. Ghost stories are her favorite and she finds abandoned places utterly beautiful.

I could see marbled green and slab grey. The Mabley fields and Homerton High Street.  I would spend days happily slipping between my room on Oriel Road, the offices at fURLINE fINANCIALS and Jackdaws public house.  There was a rhythm, a swirl to my being.  I bought Acareje curry from Pablo, a Brazilian street vendor and ate it sucking sweet smog and enterprise.  I was a screen beaver, a deeply satisfying job.  I was content and if not content, happy. There was a revolving, migratory feel to our ten person house share which meant I was always meeting new people. Mr Khadiz, our landlord, lived abroad, in a newer country.  He left us alone.  We paid our £1200 pcm in peace, in welcome silence.  In Homerton, I had everything. 

Furline was from the Orient and notoriously private. We were his beavers.  He was coming to Homerton, to see us, for the first time.  He wanted to be sure he had the right people working for fURLINE fINANCIALS. Right, in a spiritual sense.  He had organised a task for us to prove our spiritual worth to him.  He called it a mission of self discovery. It wasn’t a team building exercise, the opposite, our jobs were at risk.  Failure to convince Furline of our moral goodness would result in immediate termination of our contracts. As beavers, we took our worry to the Jackdaws and discussed Furline’s proposition over pints of Jackie O and consternation.  Simian, my best friend, owned the Eco lounge on Glyn Road and had been growing his hair for many years.  He knew about Eastern rationalisation techniques and claimed to have impressive karmic credentials himself.  I knew better than to doubt Simian on these matters. He wasn’t surprised by Furline’s approach. He said it was the Eastern Way.  Connie and Dave worked in the DesignFlow dept, they escaped the email.  I watched them play mah jong in a corner of the Jackdaws and envied their job security and  bright jumpers.  They asked why so many beavers were in and I showed them the email on my phone.  They became excited by the idea of a trip to the countryside and a mysterious box to present  our findings.  Connie wanted to know who I was partnered with.  I hadn’t opened the attachment. I did it there and then. Connie and Dave watched my face slip. 

Michelle and I began working at fURLINE fINANCIALS on the same day.  We shared a starters lunch:  packaged sandwiches and sliced packaged fruit.  Her nose and eyes and full cheeks caught me off guard.  I told her about my personal life, something I didn’t normally like to do. I shared in stutters and trepidation. She twirled her magic lips and I thought she was my future.  There was an incident, one night in the Jackdaws, a misjudgement on my behalf  that meant I got to see the real Michelle.    Now that I had seen her, I developed a deep mistrust of her every action.  I told Simian that Michelle was leading my team and he shared my disappointment. He knew all about the way she operated.  He retied his ponytail and squeezed my shoulder.  I knew he would understand. Simian always did.

When I got home, there was a parcel waiting for me in the hallway.  I took it to the kitchen.  A person I didn’t know was preparing a meal with unfamiliar smells.  They took a mild interest as I opened my box and removed a red anorak and binoculars.  My resource kit.   A present from Furline.  I tried the anorak on.  The person I didn’t know stopped cooking and took a photo of my red plastic body on their phone.  In my room I read the Dalstonist and listened to a C60 cassette Connie and Dave had leant me, a new album by the ‘Sitting Ducks’. I decided to tell Connie and Dave it was the best thing I’d heard in a long time because of their youth and sensitivity, even though it was not. I fretted about my job at fURLINE fINANCIALS.   If I couldn’t prove my spiritual worth, I was out of a job, I might even have to leave Homerton.  Nothing was more depressing than leaving Homerton, a place I had come to breathe like oxygen.  I didn’t want to go back to Sedgley; with its squashed, two storey ambition. On my fortieth birthday, my mother told me my old bedroom was a home office, as I was so settled in London and happy in Homerton.  Her new man, a grief exploiter of the highest proportions, worked from home.  She did it for him.  I enjoyed reading the Dalstonist and was pleased to see a pop up aquarium had opened on Mackintosh Lane.    

Michelle and Charlie waited by the barriers in their anoraks, green and blue.  My red anorak was still in my bag. I always looked out for film crews at Liverpool Street.  I have appeared in several BBC and ITV dramas as a result so I wasn’t going to risk showing up in an episode of Silent Witness wearing a red anorak.  Charlie, our other team member, was tall and stooped. He had a dome of thin, listless hair that never grew, it was officially dead.  Charlie had been beavering at fURLINE’s longer than any of us but I rarely spoke to him.  He didn’t come to the Jackdaws, not even on a Friday.  Charlie was a family man.  He waved in my direction but I had seen them already.  I saw Michelle’s face as soon as I walked in.  It never left me.                    

Once we’d found suitable seats and sat down, I buried myself in my LoveEast magazine and let  Charlie and Michelle converse.  I was nervous and disinterested.  Charlie was disinteresting.

  ‘Did I tell you about my visit to the bank last week?’  Said Charlie.

  ‘No.’  Said Michelle.  ‘What happened?’

Michelle was employing her usual tactic of faking interest in other peoples lives. It was one of the ways she manipulated people.

  ‘We paid off our mortgage last month.’

  ‘Already?  Congratulations Charlie.’

  ‘Well, we’d been overpaying for the last five years.’

  ‘We’re all overpaying, it’s London, Charlie.’  I said from behind my LoveEast, both listening and not.

   ‘Yes, well with the base rate staying so low…’

I didn’t know what Charlie was on about, or why he cared about these things.  He was only forty two.  None of it mattered, yet.  He was such a geriatric about these things. 

   ‘…I assumed the bank would be rather pleased we had reached our target so swiftly, but a week or two passed and we hadn’t heard a thing.’

Michelle crunched on an apple.  Michelle often showed off by doing things like crunching on apples, pretending she was healthy.  It’s why she did running and Judo too, adding to the illusion. 

   ‘We’d been paying them generously for fifteen years, I was expecting a card or some flowers, a gift voucher at least.  It didn’t have to be John Lewis, anywhere would have done. I told the cashier, I’m a loyal customer.  A thank you would be nice. Where’s the gratitude. All that money!’

   ‘Quite right Charlie. What did the cashier say?’  Said Michelle.

   ‘She got the manager.’

   ‘They always do.’ 

   ‘Who was quite unbelievable, when he eventually arrived. He said I had it the wrong way round, I should be thanking them!’

   ‘Why?’ I said, without knowing I was joining in again. 

   ‘Something about the price of our house in Hackney Wick.  He said it was worth twenty times the original loan. They had effectively enabled me to become rich.  The nerve!  I stormed out of there, bought some Cava and pretzels from Marks and told Maggie and the kids we would be celebrating alone.’

I didn’t know why Charlie had chosen to pay double on his rent or whatever the deal was.  I could have told him that was a mistake.  My life would be irreparably diminished if  I paid Mr Khadiz double rent. I would have no money for Pablo’s curry at lunchtime or the pints of Jackie O in Jackdaws or weekly fashion shopping with Connie and Dave.  How could I make the most of living in Homerton without a large disposable income?  I wouldn’t be the same person.  Why had Charlie done it to himself?  It was a crime to live in East London and go without.  I couldn’t imagine living in Homerton and going without.

We chugged to the countryside.  I watched black faces come and go.  London, come and go. There were a few scattered souls remaining, feet on seats, emptied cans of sugary nothingness.  When I looked sideways out the window I saw a cow leaning its chin on a knot of barbed wire, its adams apple skewered, and still, the cow was happy.  The countryside was for them I thought, not us.

   ‘This is where gangsters live.’  Said Michelle. ‘They say it’s the new East End.’

Michelle did not know about gangsters, I was sure that. She had made it up.  She was always making things up, pretending to know.  As my boss, she asked me to do things that were arduous and time consuming and pointless.  I don’t think she understood her role or what was required.  Michelle’s parents had a pile in Surrey and a boat house in Norfolk. She was from old money. She was from timber and slavery.  She did not know about gangsters.

   ‘Yes, it’s all white Range Rovers and new builds.’  Said Charlie.

   ‘I’ll keep my eye out for Ronnie and Roger, shall I?’  I said to be funny.

   ‘Who?’ Said Michelle.

   ‘The Kray twins.’  I said and rolled my eyes in the direction of Charlie. It came as no surprise that Michelle did not know about the Kray twins. We all laughed at her mistake.

   ‘Can I see the box?’  Asked Charlie. 

Michelle removed a wooden oblong from her rucksack and placed it on a formica wing in front of us.  The box was dark wood, the size and shape of a shoe box; mahogany, like the one in my mothers house that we brought home and sat beside without speaking.  The one she moved into the loft when the new man arrived. The one I wasn’t allowed to take to Sedgely ponds to remember and forget. 

   ‘Any ideas about what to put inside?’  Said Charlie. ‘How do you prove your spiritual worth with an object?’  He smiled weakly. 

   ‘I’m sure we’ll find something.’  Said Michelle, which was unhelpful and typical of Michelle.

Not an hour later, I was on a hill, looking, with some desperation, for London.  I could only see an outline, a charcoal sketch. I was looking through a net curtain, a haze.  The countryside was gloomy and white.  The wind punched. I didn’t know where to start looking for enlightenment.  Through my binoculars I saw Michelle, in the next field, striding.  She was marching with purpose. It looked like she might have found something already.  It was a trick she had mastered.  Looking busy. I was never in a hurry.  I knew it was bad management practice, to be in a hurry.  It makes those around you feel tense.  If I had Michelle’s job, I would never rush.  The entire mezzanine floor would be at ease under my command. 

The fields were rumpled, uneven. They weren’t the green of my imagination, they were brown, sometimes yellow.  Hedgerows appeared diseased, they had holes and knots inside. The trees looked misshapen and arthritic.  A green moss spread over everything; furry lime, ectoplasm poured from the sky. I took out my phone and messaged Simian to see if he wanted to meet for a few Jackie O’s in the Jackdaw and discuss our findings, given his karmic credentials.  The message sent successfully, there was no shortage of pylons and cables in the countryside.  I had one unread message from Connie and Dave inviting me to a cassette night at Bethnal Green Working Mens Club so I cancelled Simian and said yes to Connie and Dave. They had invited eighty two other friends but I was still flattered to be asked and would never let them down. 

It was a scant, shivering space, the countryside. I struggled to find inspiration.  I studied my countryside code.  The motto was Respect. Protect. Enjoy.  I didn’t understand.  What was there to Respect, Protect, Enjoy?  The countryside was empty. I could hear screeching voices in the sky but there was nothing to see. I crouched and magnified berries, blackened and soft; chevron shaped tractor tracks; orange and white gas pipelines; tiger striped tree trunks, litter, caught and fluttering, rotting. None of it was connected to the soul. None of it good enough for Furline. I hung my binoculars around my neck and looked up at a break in the clouds. Streaking light, stilt like beams, illuminated a hole, a celestial tear.  Beside the blackening clouds it looked dramatic, biblical even. I wished God would poke his eye through and wink at me. I took a picture. The image was different on my screen, not as good.  My phone tingled.  It was Michelle asking me to meet her.  She attached GPS co-ordinates. I turned them into a flashing dot and walked. 

Michelle stood next to a line of water, a brook or a stream, I didn’t know.  The trees behind her were hunched forward, listening in. She said we had lost Charlie and pointed upwards at an anorak hanging from a branch.  It was Charlie’s.  I suggested we ring Charlie but Michelle had done so already and left messages.  She asked me if I thought it was strange.  Not really, people are strange, I said, to prove I could be wise.

I saw a dove, lodged and flapping in a hedgerow.  It was Charlie’s countryside code.  It was wet.  There were red spots from a squished berry blotting the word Protect from their motto.  For an impossibly short moment, a plump yet tiny bird perched by my side.  It was restless, bobbing, on edge. I understood its fear, its shakiness. On the train back to London I too was bobbing and shaking, worried about Charlie and worried about our empty box.  I confessed to Michelle, I wasn’t feeling good about the days events. She told me I didn’t need to worry.  The job, Homerton, they didn’t matter to Michelle like they did to me.  She wasn’t committed and appreciative, like I was. I wondered about the gangsters.  What if Michelle was right and they had got to Charlie.  What if the red smear on his countryside code wasn’t a squashed berry but ‘claret’.  Michelle told me I was being paranoid.  I told her that’s what people said about JFK before the truth came out.  Of course, Michelle didn’t understand.

That night, in my room on Oriel Road, next to my convection heater, readying myself to go and meet Connie and Dave at Bethnal Green Working Mens Club, Michelle called.  Right before sliding my finger, I paused, imagining it was good news, that Michelle had spoken to Furline about Charlie’s disappearance.  Once I’d slid my finger, Michelle told me she was in Homerton hospital with Charlie who was in a coma.

I knew Homerton hospital well.  It was a proud institution. Famous people such as Marc Bolan and Ray Winstone were born in Homerton hospital.  On the steps of Homerton hospital, Peter Doherty waved a healthy goodbye after successful if somewhat transitory rehabilitation.  I liked it very much.  My doctor, Dr Sorenson, wore expensive trainers and was always very nice to me, although we didn’t agree on many things.  I first went to see Dr Sorenson with a stomach complaint.  He became suspicious when I told him I ate Pablo’s Acareje curry for lunch everyday.  He questioned Pablo’s hygiene. Dr Sorenson could be very cynical.  I wasn’t worried about Pablo’s hygiene: he had plenty of napkins, and besides, street food was everywhere in Homerton. But Dr Sorenson was persistent.  When I returned with headaches and more stomach issues, he quizzed me about the damp in my room, the amount of Jackie O’s I drank, he asked about my mother and why I left Sedgely.  He was very interested in all aspects of my life and rarely gave me medicine.  He was more like an overly concerned friend. He lent me books and articles that linked psychic and somatic pain, described what sadness can do.  I told him how happy I was in Homerton, that I was grateful but I didn’t need to read them.  He recommended I speak with a friend of his, another doctor but a different sort. He said Homerton was causing my ill health.  As much as I enjoyed seeing Dr Sorenson, he had some very strange ideas.          

On the walls of the ICU were photographs of Winstone and Bolan, the Glam and the tough nut, two very different local heroes that Homerton hospital hoped would provide an awakening force.  Michelle stood next to Maggie, Charlie’s wife, by Charlie’s bed. He was strapped and beeping, his torso bandaged and red. I approached with solemnity and asked what had happened. Maggie said something about a wound and severe blood loss and how she hadn’t told the children. I stared at Charlie and imagined him in a few weeks time. I pictured him with a beard, bushy and grey. I was surprised to see it suited him. Michelle asked Maggie what she was going to do with the house, now they had paid off the mortgage.  It didn’t seem an appropriate question but Maggie looked flush with excitement.  She said she had already spoken to a potential buyer.  She said the money was crazy. She squeezed Charlie’s limp hand and admitted she would rather not spend it alone, there was so much of it.  I nodded sympathetically. Michelle did same. She had a hand on Maggie’s shoulder which I had also thought of doing.  It was typical Michelle, stealing other peoples ideas about sympathy.  I didn’t know what to do.  Charlie’s tubes were breathing noisily and I wasn’t interested in Michelle and Maggie’s excitement over house prices and equity, so I went to see if Dr Sorenson was free for a chat.  A nurse said he wasn’t free, he was on a break, in the canteen. I went to the canteen and found Dr Sorenson at a table by himself, eating salad out of a plastic bowl.  He wasn’t his usual friendly self.  He was hunched. When I told him about my day he looked angry.  He told me eight years was too long and I should get on the next train to Sedgley and speak to my mother.  He said Homerton was like a vacuum with only enough air to keep me alive. He said the sooner I left Homerton the better. I told him it wasn’t a very doctorly thing to say, especially as my job was under threat and my colleague was in a coma.  He apologised and I forgave him.  Dr Sorenson didn’t understand that Homerton was the best place for me, it was my cure. When I returned to the ICU, Michelle was on her own.  She told me Furline would see us first thing in the morning and she had found something to put in the box. I asked what it was but she told me not to interfere, to let her do the talking.  I walked back to Oriel Road and went to bed.  I forgot all about Connie and Dave and the Bethnal Green Working Mens Club.  I just lay there, allowing the convection heater to warm me.

For years, Simian worked in the City.  He had stress and pressure and short hair.  It is because of this he had so much wisdom now.  I sought his advice in the Eco lounge the following morning.  He was testing coffee grown in Kent and packaged in Burkina Faso.  Neither of us had any good ideas about what Michelle was going to put in the box but Simian thought I should trust her even though I had a rule never to trust Michelle. I felt aggrieved that to continue living in Homerton and have everything, I was relying on Michelle.  Simian gave me a tiny paper cup of coffee to try.  I didn’t drink coffee, I found its bitterness emitic but I knew that wasn’t what Simian wanted to hear.  I told him it was much better than any other coffee I had tried and he seemed pleased.  He told me life had a way of making things right.  I suppose if anyone knew, it was Simian.

Michelle carried the box and I followed her.  Furline didn’t use an office to receive the boxes. We met him on a balcony so he could smoke cigars and drink wine.  I was expecting Furline to be  young and exotic, a suave man about town, but he was diminutive and old.  He had tousled, grey hair that was wiry and thin and sprang from different places in coils, including his ears, nose and knuckles.  He wore a purple suit and a green shirt.  On the table next to his ashtray was a hat, a cape and a crystal handled cane.  I wished Furline was in full costume, I imagined it was quite a sight. The thought of Furline wandering the streets of Homerton helped me with my nerves.  Michelle stepped forward and handed him our box.  Furline opened it and I caught a distinctly unpleasant odour, the smell of something that was no longer alive, like the mice we found in cupboards in Oriel Road.  Furline removed a fountain pen from his breast pocket and unscrewed the lid.  He poked the contents of our box with the nib and nodded his approval.  I moved to the side for a better view.  Inside the box was a blob of deep red jelly, parts of which were grey and tied in translucent, gooey string. When he clicked his fingers an impossibly tall man stepped on to the balcony and took the box.  Furline signed a document with his fountain pen before wiping the nib and returning it to his pocket. He congratulated us for understanding his quest perfectly.  We thanked him and I bowed, slightly out of relief and also because I felt it was the Eastern way and would be appreciated.  He said it was a shame that business had to be conducted this way but as we had calculated, Charlie, with all his money, no longer needed fURLINE fINANCIALS and so it stood to reason that we no longer needed him. Spiritual balance had been restored.

At Charlie’s funeral I was in a funny mood.  Charlie had spent two months in a coma and I felt compelled to visit him everyday.  I suppose it was because my father had been in similar straits, I was used to it. Although, that was a long time ago. Maggie and his children had moved abroad weeks beforehand, their house sold in under three minutes.  I stopped seeing Connie and Dave.  Despite liking all the same things we didn’t seem to have much in common anymore.  They were young and this suddenly mattered. I spoke to some of Dr Sorenson’s friends.  They helped me to think about things differently.  They made me cry but not in abad way. I saw Michelle at Charlie’s graveside and told her I was sorry about the incident all that time ago.  I hoped it wasn’t too much of a stain on her psyche.  I thanked her for securing our jobs but admitted I was planning a change.  She asked if this meant I no longer needed fURLINE fINANCIALS.  She was very serious. Yes, I said, perhaps that was it.  I was starting to wonder if Homerton was the right place for me after all.  She said I should go where I was needed.  Moments after walking away, I forgot what Michelle looked like completely or what was inside the box.

Simon Lowe is a British writer. His stories have appeared in AMP, Storgy, Firewords, Ponder Review, Visible Ink, Chaleur magazine, and elsewhere. His new novel, The World is at War, Again, will be published in 2021 (Elsewhen Press). www.simonlowebooks.com

The harsher the trial sent by God, the more he valued the servant. And he never gave his servants more than they could bear. That morning’s sermon had reached the congregation, but Mrs. Mitchell felt certain, from the few times the preacher’s eyes accidentally met hers, that God spoke to her.

The kitchen door creaked open, cutting violently through the farmhouse’s empty stillness. She listened to the heavy tread of her husband’s boots as he wiped the worst of the mud on the porch, a bear standing his ground. “Supper ready yet?”

The old crank got caught, and Mrs. Mitchell rolled up her sleeve a little more, braced the bone of her elbow against the counter, put her shoulders into the effort. “Yes,” she answered to the swirl of spinning ice cream.

He creaked through the kitchen, and she glanced up to watch him observe the set table, the food lining the counters, her progress on dessert. “Hurry up, he’ll be in from the barn soon.”

She nodded, shoulders high, and Mr. Mitchell pulled out his chair, groaning with the effort of sitting. Fiddled with his pipe but didn’t light it.

 Such a bitter man, that Mitchell, people whispered when she went into town alone on Sundays. No life but his work. No love for his neighbors, or for his Maker. Mr. Mitchell, she’d heard from his own lips, thought he didn’t have a Maker. And if I did, he’d grinned, I can’t see what business he’s got with me.

The silence returned, save for the creak of the aged ice cream maker and minor readjustments in Mr. Mitchell’s chair. After twenty-six years of noise, she never could have imagined how much she’d hate silence.

“What’s taking that boy?” Mr. Mitchell muttered. There was no malice in his tone, his gray-flecked mustache almost quirked into a smile.

She’d only just hid the completed dessert in the ice box when the kitchen door opened and shut gently, swallowing the whisper of footsteps.

“Don’t you look sharp,” Mr. Mitchell said.

Davy’s hairline sat slightly damp from cleaning up for supper. “Cleaned my ears and all.”

Mr. Mitchell chuckled, and Davy’s ears went redder. Glancing away from the farmer, the young man’s eyes accidentally met Mrs. Mitchell’s. He quickly looked down to the floorboards.

“Food’s ready,” she told him, laying the fixings.

“Need… need some help?” he shifted weight in his lanky legs, ready to bolt.

“Sit down,” Mr. Mitchell ordered lazily, and Davy obeyed while she set supper.

She considered the grain of the table as they ate, wondering what type of wood Mr. Mitchell had made it out of. She knew at the very least he did craft it; he bragged often enough at his construction of the house, over a decade ago, from the floorboards to the windows. She only wished he hadn’t decorated it himself. The whole house was lined with animal skins and furs and antlers; eerie trophies from his hunting days.

When his plate was clean, Mr. Mitchell excused himself by ruffling Davy’s hair, and saying “I’ll be right back” before leaving them.

His sudden absence startled his wife and hired hand enough that they accidentally made eye-contact again. Davy, naturally, looked down first.

Then muttered “supper’s good, ma’am.”

“Oh. Thank you, Davy.”

He focused upon his plate, the Davy Travis she’d come to know. It’s just his nature, Mr. Mitchell had explained early on, you gotta prove you won’t bite.

“It was an excellent service this morning,” she nodded.

Davy nodded back.

“Would you like to come with me next week?”

He glanced up, a smile reaching his nostrils. “Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t reckon it’s the life for me,” he repeated, same answer as always. From what she’d heard from town, he hadn’t been in a church since his father’s funeral four years prior. When she’d looked in his closet, the nicest things he owned were for a Davy four years younger.

“I could take out your clothes, Davy.”

“Leave him alone.” Mr. Mitchell’s weight creaked the floorboards behind them. Davy’s head popped up, and her hands tightened in her lap. “I said you could go to that damn place, didn’t ask you to convert nobody.”

She held her breath, but his focus wasn’t on her. He was passing Davy his parcel.

“Oh, Mr. Mitchell-”

He waved a hand, sitting again.

A pair of freshly oiled leather boots, a surprise to no one after the cobbler visit. Davy tried on the boots, thanking Mr. Mitchell, who merely grinned.

“Glad you like them; why don’t you go back for a moment?” he suggested, raising his eyebrows.

Suspicious, Davy rose. “Oh don’t tell me there’s more. Soon they’ll call me spoiled.”

Mr. Mitchell laughed, and Davy was very close to giggling, until his eyes caught hers again. He excused himself from her table, hurrying to his bedroom.

Once he’d gone, she cleared the table to make way for dessert, while Mr. Mitchell lit his pipe. “You’ve made ice cream before?”

“Sometimes. Takes up a lot of milk and sugar.”

“Eh, still not much of a birthday present,” he muttered to himself. “’Specially for nineteen. I’ve gotten better- four years ago, I took him hunting.”

Mr. Mitchell watched smoke rings float to the ceiling.

“My pa had done the same for me, but Davy’s pa… well, they were never close. He shot a squirrel, just one squirrel. Wasn’t a clean shot, we had to put it out of its misery. I… I never thought he’d be able to stop crying.”

Mrs. Mitchell glanced through the parlor doorway, to the deer-head over the fireplace, hanging above her husband’s seldom-used shotgun. It collected dust on the mantle, only ever used to slaughter supper. “Is that when you stopped?”

His startled expression quickly went dark, reminiscence turning to smoke as his pipe puffed. “What? Whatcha on about?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, knowing better than to curl up or show fear. Much better to stay still and unnoticed. Back when she was a daughter and not a wife, she’d spent years blending into walls until she chipped with paint. But it was so hard in this empty house.

He rolled his eyes, muttering about “useless women”. She’d only become readjusted to the silence when he exhaled a solid puff with an “ah.”

“Never thought I’d marry,” he mused, as if they were having a conversation, “but things were getting tiresome ’fore I put out the ad. The farming, planting, harvesting, year in, year out, nothing ever changing. Couldn’t sleep one night, on account of realizing that when I was gone, it would all be for nothin.”

He’d never said it aloud but, given the frequency of their passionless lovemaking, she knew he wanted children. A baby would help break up the silence. And he’d be a good father, she supposed, Christian or heathen, if his treatment of Davy was anything to go by.

She’d set three bowls on the table and had hauled dessert back out of the icebox when Davy bounded back in, asking “can I have a hint wha-” and caught sight of the prize.

Mr. Mitchell laughed.

“Oh God!” Davy cried, scurrying towards the kitchen. “Oh my God- Mrs. Mitchell, did you make this? Thank you!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin; Davy was standing two feet away, hands on the counter, beaming ear to ear, and more than that, looking her in the eye. He was practically vibrating with excitement, uneven teeth exposed, laughter swimming in his irises.

Her hands closed around the side of the bowl. “I- you’re welcome-”

She pulled it from the counter, but there was sweat on her palm, probably from the sudden lightening that had shot down her spine. The bowl slipped from between her fingers, and crashed, fresh ice cream falling to the floor with a squish.

A horrible second as the huge lump melted, pooling into the wood. Mrs. Mitchell gasped, Mr. Mitchell stood, but worst of all, Davy’s eyes and mouth were wide in horror. She could only imagine how he’d looked upon that writhing squirrel.

“I- it just slipped-” she began to apologize. “I- Davy-”

 Mr. Mitchell pushed Davy aside in his haste to strike her. As she hit the floor, she just missed the ice cream.

“You stupid cow,” Mr. Mitchell snarled. “Don’t just lay there, clean it up!”

Mrs. Mitchell gathered her bearings, a rag, and scrubbed. She could already feel a bruise forming on her cheek. She kept her eyes down, listening as the house creaked with Mr. Mitchell’s footsteps, his barked apologies to Davy, and the whispered replies.

By the time she’d finished, Mr. Mitchell smoked his pipe in the parlor, angry swirls hitting the ceiling.

Davy watched her from the doorway, pale as the rabbit hanging on the wall behind his head.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed, not daring remind Mr. Mitchell she breathed.

He shivered.

#

Davy Travis was, according to the town, a bit slow. She couldn’t be sure if there were no Travis’ left in the county, or if none wanted to claim him, given his four years of association with Michell.

But Mr. Mitchell, despite all his bitterness, had the right of the boy. He was quiet, but he wasn’t dim. He was shy, but he warmed up.

He showed it through a fire kept for her, or vegetables peeled without her asking, or even rarer, a spot of conversation. She loved listening to Davy when he got comfortable enough to prattle about nothing while she baked or hung laundry. It killed the quiet.

She hadn’t realized what his attentions meant until the evening she dropped the roast chicken into the firepit.

She shrieked. Fell to her hands and knees, ready to grab it with bare fingers, before Davy pulled her back. “Don’t- Mrs. Mitchell-”

She crouched on her heels, vision blurred with tears as the boy managed to haphazardly drag the charred bird out of the coals, watched it smoke and simmer against the floorboards.

“Mrs. Mitchell… ma’am? Ma’am….”

He was at her side, freckled face pale and gaunt, his hands uncertain on her shoulders as she tried to breathe.

“What’s all the racket?” Mr. Mitchell boomed, fists already curling against his sides as he stormed in.

Davy bounced to his feet, halfway through his sentence before even turning his chin up, “I was taking the chicken off the spit and dropped it, startled Mrs. Mitchell clean out her skin.”

She tried to make herself small and unseen. Mr. Mitchell’s mustache twitched as he chewed the lie like tobacco.

“Well get up, you stupid thing,” he spat to her. “Try and salvage it. And you-” he pointed at Davy’s freckled nose. “Keep a grip on those goddamn butterfingers, you hear?”

Davy’s shoulders were straight, his jaw locked, and eye-to-eye with a bloodthirsty predator, he scarcely flinched.

Apprehension coiled deep in her gut when they sat down to eat a hastily made chicken soup, because that couldn’t be the end of it. Not when a perfectly good supper was so perfectly spoiled, and the silence was so loud it was bursting her eardrums, and Mr. Mitchell glared, Davy ignoring him like a saint on a cross.

“Soup was very good, ma’am,” Davy said, pointedly, helping her clear the dishes.

She nearly broke a plate on top of everything else. “Oh. Thank you, Davy.” She shivered unexpectedly from the mischief in his eyes.

But then he turned to Mr. Mitchell, and the prickle left. “It was very good, wasn’t it? Mr. Mitchell?”

With a long scrape of chair legs against wood floor, Mr. Mitchell hauled himself up, and shook his head at Davy. “Don’t start.”

Davy backed from Mr. Mitchell’s full height. But when the man moved to the parlor, Davy kept at his heel. “It takes a sharp mind to think fast under pressure,” she heard him impress upon Mr. Mitchell.

“If you hadn’t been so eager to help, she wouldn’t have had to.”

As they left her line of sight, she washed the dishes, shoulders tense, fingers wrinkling.

“What?” she heard Mr. Mitchell ask, after a sharp silence.

A long pause. “The- I wanted you to look at the… feeding trough. Remember?”

“Not now.”

“But- you said-”

“Why don’t you go help my wife with the dishes, hmm? Make a bigger fool of yourself.”

“You go help her! She’s your wife after-”

Her sudsy hands slipped against the pot as palm against skin echoed through the small house. Still wet to her elbows, she ran to the kitchen doorway, peering into the parlor, not believing it had happened.

Davy twitched against the parlor fireplace, fingers to his cheek. Mr. Mitchell, to his credit, stared at his hand like it dripped blood.

He curled and uncurled his fingers, then pushed Davy off the mantle. “Grow up, will you?”

Davy said nothing, but maintained his balance, silhouetted by the deer head. Mr. Mitchell turned on his heel, fingers shaking as he made for the stairs. Mrs. Mitchell finished up the dishes. Shuddered to hear soft hiccups from the parlor.

They died out by the time she finished cleaning. But she stepped out of the kitchen the moment Davy left the parlor, trapping them in the hallway.

His eyes were puffy, tears dried just around his thin nose. His cheek was slightly pink against its freckles. “Mrs. Mi-” he hiccoughed, mortified, scrubbing at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He ducked his head, about to retreat to his room.

“You shouldn’t have lied to him.”

Davy turned back, squinting. She ate at her lip. He awkwardly rubbed his palms against the hip of his pants. “It’s all right.”

“I-”

“I know-” Davy rushed out. “I know he seems a hard man… but he’s good. He’s just… I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his neck.

Her eyes locked on the soft, exposed skin of his collarbone. “Aging poorly?”

Davy chuckled faintly, and she quickly leaned against the wall as its’ warmth vibrated all the way to her knees.

#

His personal ad had read: “Ernest Mitchell, 36, farmer, looking for a wife: Hard-working, straight-forward, good-natured.” In the year they’d been married, she believed she’d upheld all three points, as was her Christian duty. But from their vows in the courthouse to their negotiations over her church attendance, their relationship remained a business transaction.

Save the summer afternoon when the doctor confirmed her pregnancy. There’d been such warmth in his body when he lifted her in his arms, spun her about the room, laughing. She’d laughed too, the first time ever in his presence. But all it had amounted to was, when he’d set her down again, she experienced the full absence of him.

To Mr. Mitchell, the news was akin to a good crop, or an expensive colt broken in.

“Have you thought of any girl names?” he asked, opening a bottle of hard cider.

“Wh-what?”

“If it’s a girl. I haven’t any.”

To Mrs. Mitchell, the news put the full weight of a human life in her stomach. “Agatha. For my mother,” she responded passionlessly.

“Mmm. Agatha Mitchell. Hopefully not,” he smirked, passing Davy a glass. Davy gripped it shakily, eyes to the floor. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t looked up since the doctor left.

The guilt roiled in Mrs. Mitchell’s stomach. “What… if it’s a boy, then?”

She hadn’t been asking about a name; but Mr. Mitchell supplied one, without hesitation. “Travis Mitchell.”

Davy started, nearly spilling cider.

Mr. Mitchell smiled, gently mussing Davy’s hair. The man was oblivious, but she saw every nervous tick in Davy’s jaw, the chewing of his cracked lips.

Don’t baby him, she chided herself. He’s not a child.

Mr. Mitchell picked his gun up off the wall to shoot the “fatted calf” for supper (their old sow). She and Davy were left smothered in the silence of the kitchen.

By the time she’d found the courage to draw in breath, say “Davy-” the shotgun blast interrupted her. They both flinched as if it had shattered the window, Davy going green.

“I… firewood,” he muttered, staggering outside.

It was an unfairly hot summer day, the kind that might usually find Mr. Mitchell out in the dusty field, trying to grow crops by willpower. While she hung laundry in the backyard, and Mr. Mitchell kept in the slaughterhouse, Davy chopped wood. She watched the ax-head pierce the log, and the timber splinter. Trailed the flex in Davy’s forearms as he brought the ax up again.

That Sunday’s sermon had discussed gouging out your eye to keep from sinning. Without even realizing it, Mrs. Mitchell’s eye fell on Davy’s hair as it clung to his forehead, the shirt molding his chest, the curve of his arms.

 Her husband stomped out of the slaughterhouse, whistling, happy as a fiddle, the dead pig slung over his shoulders. She imagined it sounded how a bullet felt.

 “Yessiree, we are going to feast tonight!” Mr. Mitchell grinned to Davy, carrying the butchered animal into the house. He didn’t stop to look at his wife, didn’t notice the infidelity of her rabbit-fast heart.

“Ma’am?” Davy asked, setting down his ax. “Are you all right?”

Mr. Mitchell had gone in, but her fingers gripped the sheet so tightly she nearly tore its threads.

She sucked a breath between her teeth, and indulgently considered Davy’s soft, sunken eyes, his slight nose and lean shoulders and frayed hair. It wasn’t that Davy was handsome, at least by the standards of men in moving pictures. He wasn’t like any man she’d ever known. He smiled and fidgeted and grew ill at the sight of blood. Yet with a pig carcass in the kitchen, he worried over her.

“Fine.”

#

Mr. Mitchell celebrated her pregnancy until he passed out drunk in the parlor. She and Davy were left awake, she on her sofa, him curled up tight to the fire, staring into the flickering flames.

It was getting late, but neither of them moved to retire. Normally, it would be Mr. Mitchell who would stand, stretch, and say “early day tomorrow”. They were rather helpless without his direction.

Eventually, she heard Davy begin to sniffle into his arms.

She knew it wasn’t her fault, there’d been nothing she could do as a Christian wife to avoid pregnancy. It didn’t help her conscious.

She slipped off the sofa and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Davy! I’m so sorry!” she choked, trying to keep her eyes dry.

Davy went rigid. “M-ma’am?”

“I won’t let him forget about you,” she promised. “You’re not being replaced, you understand me?” Mrs. Mitchell pulled back slightly, to meet his eye.

He struggled to, tears dragging over his chin. “I know. He- says the same. But sometimes… I don’t… don’t know what I am to him.”

Mr. Mitchell snored, but she stared at the deer head. Its beady eyes met hers, and if she looked deep enough, she and Davy were reflected in the lifeless depths.

#

Their farm wasn’t the only one slowly decaying; dust was continuing to rise everywhere. But on the cusp of winter, as the preacher led a prayer for crops, Mrs. Mitchell wished she could grab it and pin it to her husband’s soil. God would likely pass over the heathen farmer.

She sat alone in her pew, head bowed, stomach round. A few months ago, the congregants had congratulated her. But all the attention to mean Mr. Mitchell’s unaccompanied wife felt more like a slap in the face.

If only she’d persuaded Davy to come to church with her, at least once.

The sermon that Sunday was adultery. One of the worst carnal sins a man could commit was straying from his wife. More unspeakable, a wife disregarding her husband’s authority.

 “….And let’s not forget,” the preacher warned. “It is a command from our Father in heaven for wives to obey their husbands. Not only when their husbands buy them new hats or take them to pictures, but to submit-”

Mrs. Mitchell gripped the pew in front of her as she dragged herself up. The congregation gawked, and her head swam, like she was being churned into ice cream, or melting into the floor.

To stay solid, she clambered out of her pew, and left the building as quickly as her round stomach allowed.

#

Mrs. Mitchell ran into the kitchen, tore off her hat, and glanced around. “Davy?”

Neither he nor husband were in sight. She knew Mr. Mitchell didn’t keep Sabbath, yet the fields were empty. She wandered to the parlor, catching her breath, a cramp in her stomach. Save for the animal skins, empty. The barn? Of course.

 She drifted through the silent house, pulse racing, uneasy to be back so soon. She usually took advantage of Sundays to stay out as long as possible. Never in her life had she been eager to return home.

She’d always understood that love was a feeling. You felt it to your father, to your mother, to your husband, who gave you a roof, life, purpose. You expressed it by shouldering the burdens they placed on you. You gave back.

Davy was the first gift she’d ever truly received. Even if accepting him would keep her from God, she couldn’t imagine a greater reward.

The silence of the house was cut by a humming sound. She stilled for a heartbeat, and then the sound repeated, deep and throaty.

She followed the foreign noise as it grew. It led her to Davy’s ajar bedroom door, which she pressed open.

Davy groaned again, almost sobbed. “Oh, God…!”

She couldn’t see Mr. Mitchell’s face, only the back of his shirt. His graying hair stuck up in odd places, his fists clenched tightly into the sheets as he knelt forward, a man at prayer.

He was praying to Davy, who lay naked as a cherub. Davy’s head was dipped back against the headboard, toes curled up in the sweat of her husband’s shirt, fingers locked in curls of her husband’s hair. His chest quivered with each gasping breath, moan, and scream.

She started screaming tool, staggering back into the wall, and Mr. Mitchell untangled himself.

Mrs. Mitchell’s remained intent on Davy, who caught his breath, limp. When he came back to himself, their eyes met, and she watched the pleasure pool out of his freckled face. “Oh God,” he whispered.

#

Mr. Mitchell acted first, as expected of the head of the house. “Well someone’s home early,” he quipped, the springs of the mattress straining as he pushed off the bed, off Davy. Davy, sprawled stitch less on his dirtied bedspread in the middle of a Sunday morning.

“Stay there,” Mr. Mitchell ordered, tripping over his trousers as he dragged them back on.

She’d taken a step back. “How long?” The words didn’t taste real.

With a creak of bed springs, Davy sat up on his knees, flushed and shivering. “God… oh good God….”

“I s’pose you think this changes things,” Mr. Mitchell snapped, securing his belt. “But not from where I stand.”

Black and white as his ad in the paper had been.

Her Sunday shoes squeaked against the sanded floorboards as she scurried back down the hall, Mr. Mitchell barking at her.

“Oy! Get back here! Where are you going to go, eh?”

She meant to go into the kitchen, and out the door, and then…. But her husband’s hand closed around her wrist in the hallway.

“Let… let go of me!”

Mr. Mitchell panted over her, his breath musky as he shook her, rattling her teeth. “Listen-!”

“I’ll tell the police! They’ll- they’ll hang you!”

She wasn’t sure what would be done to him. She’d vaguely known about this sort of thing, but Sodom and Gomorrah had seemed as far away as Jerusalem or Bethlehem.

“And what’ll happen to you?” he hissed, pressing her into the wall, two feet below a fox skin. “What about the child?”

She struck him, with her palm, with all the force built into her hundred-pound body. She sent his head lolling, for half a moment. The skin on his cheek went a pitiful pink.

He let go of her wrist, and her blood ran cold. But when Mr. Mitchell met her gaze, he was even-tempered. Almost amused. “We wouldn’t want to make a widow of you.”

“I’m not a wife now,” she hissed, wishing he would just hit her already. Hard enough to bruise, knock her to the floor, maybe damage the cancer growing in her stomach. “And-”

“Why else would he want you here?”

The Mitchells both flinched towards the hallway, where a hastily dressed Davy stood, arms wrapped around himself. She searched for his softness, an apology in his eyes, a tremble in his lips. Maybe if she’d seen it, she’d be able to believe that lewd, writhing creature had simply been a bad dream. But his eyes were narrow, glaring.

She might have borne it if not for that glare. It stripped her to her bone. It saw her exposed heart, chewed it, and spat it into the dirt.

“You disgusting maggot,” she hissed, meaning it. She lunged at him, and Mr. Mitchell pushed her back, finally angry.

“Hey!” Backing away, he put an arm tightly around Davy, the two of them blocking her from the kitchen. Davy shivered into Mr. Mitchell’s shoulder, and her husband tenderly considered the boy, rubbing circles into the back of his neck. The worried line between Mr. Mitchell’s eyebrows, the tremble to his lips, the damp of his eyes, all combined to a tenderness she’d never imagined.

She ran past them into the parlor, and wretched.

The parlor was strange by day, sunlight casting itself across the deer head and gleaming off the rarely used gun. Bile dripped from her lip, and she clutched her stomach, trying to stay her trembling.

“Get upstairs.” Mr. Mitchell stepped into the doorway. “You need to lie down-”

Fighting the nausea, she put her hands to her ear, screamed, “you’re the devil!” He was still worried about the baby, about his little Travis–

“Oy!” he barked. “You stupid-!” he marched into the room. He was ten feet away when she ran towards the mantle, and her fingers curled around the shotgun.

That made him stop, at least. She hoisted it onto her shoulder and aimed at his chest. She could see the white of his wide eyes, his flush of temper receding, the gray in his mustache twitching at her.

“Put it down,” he said evenly. “’Fore you hurt yourself.”

She knew what to pull to cock the gun. Knew which trigger would send the bullet flying. If it was loaded. Dear God, let it be loaded.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

“Hey-!”

The force of the bullet knocked her off-balance, the echo of the blast ringing her ears. In ten seconds, she recovered, and saw her husband choking away plaster from the hole she’d shot in the wall.

 “Damn it, you bitch!” he coughed.

“Stop!” Davy screamed from the kitchen, scurrying over as she frantically raised the gun again. “Mrs. Mitchell, wait-”

The gun was bulky and hard to aim with. Not to mention poorly maintained. Mr. Mitchell only used it for slaughtering animals. She pulled the trigger again and found that God had blessed her with not one, but two bullets.

As she reeled from the blast, she slowly heard Mr. Mitchell’s scream.

Gathering her dizzy self, she blinked at the doorway, as Mr. Mitchell fell to his knees, face contorted. Pain. Agony. Blood, thick on his hands. She hoped she’d shot him in the heart, if he had one.

“No! God… no!” the man croaked out.

He knelt over Davy, who was shivering. Convulsing. Like a rabbit shook by a fox over, and over again. Sweat beaded upon his thin brow, his chapped lips parting vaguely.

“Davy!” her husband screamed.

Mr. Mitchell’s hands were clutching the boy’s stomach, blood slipping between his thick fingers. The thin shirt Davy had pulled on was already thick with red, and Davy’s hand twitched awkwardly towards the mess.

The gun slowly slipped from Mrs. Mitchell’s sweaty palms.

“No, no, come on, don’t,” Mr. Mitchell whispered, keeping pressure on the wound, propping up the boy’s head with his other hand. “Look at me. Davy.”

He stopped twitching.

#

The squirrel Davy had put down must have twitched like that. Which was worse; a slow, painful death, or a sudden nonexistence?

When Davy had absolutely stopped twitching, or blinking, or anything, Mr. Mitchell’s hand slipped off his stomach. Soft, deep breaths shook his back, finally ending in a deep wail.

Mrs. Mitchell fell to her knees, unable to feel them.

Ignoring the smearing blood, Mr. Mitchell cradled Davy’s body. “You… bitch,” he choked at her. “You stupid, stupid….”

She stared at the hole in the plaster. Mr. Mitchell couldn’t stand the first three times he tried, but then he managed, staggering against the lintel.

He didn’t even look at her.

A step over a body, and a slammed door later, Mr. Mitchell had fled his silent house. She wondered where he was going. To tend stagnant fields? To sob in the barn? To town and the police?

None of it would make Davy start twitching again.

She crept toward the body, dragging herself on her knees. The blood was everywhere; staining his shirt, the floorboards, his cheek, his hair. And every other drop was marred with Mr. Mitchell’s fingerprints.

His smile was almost a silent laugh.

The barrel against her throat, she pulled the trigger. The empty gun jolted in her palms, barely making a dent in the crushing silence. She’d been too greedy, taken too many things; why should God give her herself?

Lying beside Davy in the doorway, wanting to hold him but still not daring, she pretended he was smiling at her.

Hannah Beairsto hails from the Poconos in Northeast Pennsylvania, home of ski resorts, waterfalls, and family fun. She spends most of her days holed in her room writing. She has no pets, spouses, or children to brag about, and would like everyone to remember her first name is a palindrome.

1898.

Lucie wove the fine hair between her fingers and around thin wire, its softness slipping across her skin like a mother’s caress. The rhythm charmed her, begged her mind to visit times gone by, invited her to stay. Her fingers moved of their own accord, as they always did when she crafted hair pieces, and now this masterwork. Her attention hummed as it dipped into the past, luring her from her body. Each memory brought the smell of soft perfumes, taste of warm milk, sound of a gentle lullaby. But as soon as her mother’s face came into focus, the reverie dissipated like smoke, wafting into the ether. 

And she was alone again with her task, braiding and dreaming and weeping for what once was.

She had long ago filled the tear catchers; their crystal hollows brimmed with salty liquid that might never vanish. Her mother had been gone for almost three months now, poisoned by the laudanum that had called to her so. It loved her too much. Just thinking about it now made the girl’s body yearn. A sweet red apple begging for a bite, tart beneath the skin, with hints of spice. Bitter cinnamon swirled against merlot in her memory with honey and saffron notes.

Lucie batted at the sensations, banished them from her awareness. She resisted the nectar’s kiss —something her mother could never do.  

Her mourning persisted from dawn to dusk, breathed its way into every moment, nestled in beside her under the bedsheets, then reached into nightmares. She longed not only for her mother, but her mother’s confidantes, those who had taken Lucie in like Aunties. She’d lost them one by one to the dragon’s nectar.

Now nights blended together, cloaked under a veil of braided threads. Ebony, chestnut, fire, gold, and taupe. They shrouded her face like intricate lace, woven memories of the women who’d sprouted the hair. She called each into her mind, whispered their names, saw their lifeless forms frozen in the wake of seduction. The poison ran thick in their blood, a weight that finally dragged them below the surface and into the pool of death. Now all that remained were their tresses.

The veil was an ornate headpiece, woven of their collective locks, her mother, Clara’s, essence the most powerful. The crown was a wreath of intricate reverse chain, striped snake, eight square, and flat twist braids winding back and forth in flowers and coils. The plaited fringe that hung below swayed before her eyes, obscuring her features. She wore it like armor, for while others thought her in hiding, it cloaked dark intentions.

It was a mask for revenge.  

*

Lucie locked the gate to the courtyard garden behind her and tucked the skeleton key into her sash.  The French Quarter streets were alive with passersby returning from dinner and salons. Gas flames flickered as she passed, her matte crape dress soaking up the light and reflecting none of it. The mourning clothes enveloped her in shadow, made her all but disappear against darkened doorways. An unaccompanied woman at this time of night was a rarity in Vieux Carré, but she feared neither seduction nor death, for she had already bested them both.

As she walked up Toulouse, turned down Rampart, and made her way toward Basin Street, Lucie imagined her life summed up in The Times-Picayune headlines if she was to be caught: “Daughter of Dead Storyville Seamstress Wanted for Murder.” If that was her fate, then so be it as long as she took the Devil down with her.

She was only fourteen but had a fire in her belly and bitterness in her heart. She had lived and wept more than most women in their twenties. Her father passed before Lucie was even born, but her mother had always been there, had always protected her. The girl’s earliest memories were of maternal hands sewing—pinning, cutting, threading, stitching. Her mother put food on the table by performing less than desirable work, fitting gowns for women of the night in the lascivious Storyville District.

Thus, from a young age, Lucie was accustomed to seeing the naked female body with its soft curves and delicate silhouette. And by seven years old, she was fashioning her own costumes, of materials both traditional and unexpected. The demand for other artistic endeavors grew, as male appetites for women with more elaborate hair and less clothing increased. The child was innocent of the vice she served and saw only adorning the body and its pinnacle with beautiful ornaments. But time and proximity had opened her eyes.

Eventually she saw things not meant for the innocent—bodies contorted in pleasure, pain, and in between. She’d witnessed violence that went unpunished, and how easily powder and blush covered bruises and cuts. She’d watched as the women she called Auntie were seduced by vicious substances that gripped their necks like boa constrictors. Then her mother was taken by the snake in the Devil’s hand.

Now Lucie plotted for his head.

As she neared the Storyville District, Anderson’s came into view, its windows beacons on Rue Bassin. She passed by men on their way into the Annex, but they paid her no mind, ignoring the woman-in-mourning as if she was but a shadow. It’s exactly what she intended.

She imagined Auntie Josie inside the saloon, the loyal but calculating woman leaning against the bar delicately as she surveyed her “nieces”, the working girls endearing themselves to men. “Sazerac,” she’d purr to the bartender, who would have a glass already in hand for the madame. Lucie longed to visit her mother’s friend but dared not reveal her presence.

The girl was careful with her footing as she crossed the cobblestone street and followed the cast iron gallery to the back of the bordello. Joyful jazz notes floated into the night with each opening and closing of the door and a lump grew in her throat as she thought of the players, with their rich laughter and dark, warm eyes. She might never offer them a fond farewell, but if she perished tonight, it would be an exit no one would forget.

She shook such notions from her mind, chided herself for losing focus. In punishment, teeth gnashed down hard on her tongue, the thick taste of blood fueling her lust for more.

She would not leave this place without taking him down with her.

A hush fell as Lucie left the bustle behind her, rounded the corner into the back alley where rats scurried and tainted fluid dripped. Her heart quickened and she gulped down fear that tested her will, begged her to retreat. From within her sash she pulled her father’s pocket watch, the only thing she had from him; it said she was right on time.

She caressed the glass vile that hung between her breasts, just above her heart, where it soaked up more wickedness while it laid in wait. Lucie’s pink lips curled at the edges as she considered the liquid death inside—the sticky purple juice she’d extracted from the belladonna berries. She’d cultivated the “beautiful lady” from seeds, nurtured it like a proud mother until its purple bells wept with dew and its dark berries bulged on pentacle beds.

How poetic that a beautiful lady would take his life.

When she saw him exit his apartment behind the Annex, then disappear around the corner for a night of sin and debauchery, she snuck inside to await his return.

*

The Devil’s lair was a clammy room that stank of bachelor, tobacco smoke, crawfish and spices. While the latter two might normally appeal to Lucie, the combination with the prior was putrid. But as the night wore on and she sat in the dark, her senses dulled to the stink and for that she was glad.

She toyed with the idea of lighting the gas lamp, but aimed to leave no trace of her presence. So she did her work by the light of the full moon, streaming in through the window. It cast a heavenly glow on the table like an angel come to bless her task.

She uncorked the bottle from which she’d seen him imbibe on prior occasions. It once held Peychaud bitters, an amber glass container with an aged label. Now it was his chalice for laudanum, that bittersweet nectar that had stolen her mother. She emptied the contents out the window then replaced it with a combination of wine and belladonna for his evening dose.

Now all she had to do was wait behind the closet door and hope he drank before noticing a difference in flavor.

*

When the Devil stumbled into the apartment hours later, Lucie was kneeling on the closet floor, the veil beside her. She welcomed the pain in her legs for it meant she was still alive—she just had to endure the pain a moment longer. She watched him light the oil lamp through the cracked door, casting long shadows onto the wall, then held her breath as he reached for the bitters jar.

His mouth opened and he sipped.

Down the liquid went.

With each moment that passed her blood pumped harder and her smile grew until her teeth were bared in a jubilant growl. Her fingers enclosed upon the braided veil and pulled it to her crown, planted it there like a laurel wreath. Then she pushed the door open slowly, the creaking hinge crying as it swung.

He turned in alarm, his golden curls catching the lamplight, shimmering with an unearthly hue. His strong jaw and hazel eyes had captured many in his web, as only a Devil could. He wobbled on his feet, unsteady from the night’s absinthe but not yet feeling the poison. His eyes were almond slices, narrowed and searching for movement. His handsome face was a trick of the mind for his soul was sick with rot.

“Who’s there?” he said, reaching for a chair to steady himself.

She giggled like a child, a tinkle of a sound in the manly chamber, unwelcome and unfitting. Perhaps that’s why it scared him so.

He jumped back, stumbled, then righted himself again.

The words crept from her mouth in a lullaby, soft and alluring despite their message. “I’ve brought you a present to eat you from the inside out,” she said.

“I said who’s there!” His voice was commanding now, a lie masking his fear.

Lucie moved into the room, aware her silhouette looked not like a woman. It devoured the light from the lamp, her charcoal dress larger than the petite form it cloaked. The braids swung in front of her face, calling to her prey, ensnaring him, enticing him into Mesmeric sleep.

“Witch,” he choked before leaping to his feet and bounding toward the door.

But she got there first, throwing herself against the exit, not caring that it hurt, desperate to keep him trapped. They struggled but her small frame was no match for his panicked bulk.

When her head hit the wall, she heard a crack then everything went dark.

*

Lucie heard his heaving before she opened her eyes. It was followed by a groan and the smell of vomit was rank in the air. When her lids lifted she saw the sky dark outside; the moon had hid her face. Her head pounded with vigor and the taste of blood was upon her lips. She glanced down to find only her chemise and an overabundance of naked cream skin. 

The Devil had torn her clothes and maybe more. It was a heavy price, but the belladonna had begun her attack. He writhed on the floor like the snake he was, victim to the exorcism.

“What did you do, wagtail?” he growled. When he looked at her his eyes were almost black, pupils consuming color.

“Peeling you from the inside and hoping you feel one painful rip for every life you’ve broken.”

The insults continued to fly from his mouth between sins that escaped in a web of mucous and blood. Lucie watched as she gnawed at the meager knot at her wrists, ripping and pulling until she was free. The binding left bruises behind, tender and purpling, but her work was not yet done.

She approached him slowly, a wounded animal retching and writhing, then begging for mercy. “Make it stop!” he cried, his black eyes pools of emptiness, his golden locks dripping with sweat.

With each step she whispered their names like a chant, mumbling at first, then growing louder as she closed the distance between them.

“Clara. Gertie. Sabine. Rita. Camille.”

“What?” He croaked the question.

She bared her teeth. “Clara. Gertie. Sabine. Rita. Camille.”

His face contorted into understanding. “The whores?”

Forcefully, she repeated: “Clara. Gertie. Sabine. Rita. Camille.”

“Every man on this street gives them laudanum. Not just me!” he shook his head, tried to scramble away.

She shrieked: “Clara! Gertie! Sabine! Rita! Camille!”

Her spit was upon his face and the braided veil was in her hands. She stretched the crown out like a band, plaited fringe waving in celebration, catching the flame from the oil lamp, shining ebony, chestnut, fire, gold, and taupe.

She whispered slowly, the names drawing together as one. “Claragertiesabineritacamille…” The mantra became a growl the tighter she pulled the ligature.

As his black eyes rolled up into his head for the last time, the braided veil relaxed across his neck like a banner, a masterwork fulfilled.

Lucie stared down at the man, broken and limp, no longer a Devil. His eyes would remain open– staring into death forever. With a kitchen blade, she sliced a link of curl from his brow and she conceptualized a new design. His would be the first of many hues to be captured in her next woven prop—one with an evil destiny.

Then she donned her dark clothing once again, cloaked in shadow, trophy tucked in her sash. She replaced the braided veil to hide her wicked smile and she walked back home to her garden, for she and the beautiful lady had more work to do.

Leoson teaches English and psychology courses at the college level in Cleveland, Ohio. She loves to write with her dogs at her feet and survives on decaf coffee and protein bars. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Cleveland State University (NEOMFA – Fiction), an MA in English & Writing from Western New Mexico University, and an MS in Psychology from Walden University. Her writing has been featured in the Twisted Vine Literary Journal, Coffin Bell, TWJ Magazine, The Write Launch, GNU Journal, The Gyara Journal, Genre: Urban Arts, Obra/Artifact, and on NPR’s “This I Believe” series. You can learn more at www.maryleoson.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/marywritestoheal
Twitter: https://twitter.com/74Marebear74
Instagram: http://instagram.com/maryleoson

‘Here?’ the man shouted.

The ferryman nodded, putting the engines into reverse and guiding the boat alongside the small wooden jetty. The water was bright with sun, the breeze only light, but the boat dipped and rose, lurching towards then away from the steps. The man threw his bags first and then, grabbing the holdall containing his laptop and papers, he waited till the side of the boat rose before jumping. He stumbled. When he stood up, the ferry was already backing into the river, ready to turn towards the other side, the water round it golden.

The path from the jetty was steep, leading up a slope of scrubby holm oaks and sweet chestnuts, the grass each side tall, the wildflowers turning their colours towards the river and the sun. Swallows wove among the trees and down over the shallows. A cuckoo called. In the distance a bell rang one note, over and over. Stopping to catch his breath, everything seemed so exact in the strong light, the colours vivid, full of life, the whole view a celebration of energy. He smiled.

The path curved left towards the village, but he carried straight on to a wooden gate leading into a small fenced meadow, the top part of which had been planted as an orchard. Another gate led from the orchard’s far edge to steps beyond, winding up unevenly through a terraced garden of olive trees, figs, almond and peach, beds of flowers, herbs, roses and delicate ornamental grasses, pale as clouds in the breeze. An old wall enclosed the garden on each side. In parts little more than a crumble of masonry, at times taller than a man, its grey and honey brown stones were hung with honeysuckle, climbing roses, clematis, valerian, oxeye daisies, mosses and great plate-sized spreadings of ash-colourd lichen. Tiny blue and yellow flowers spilled from the gapping mortar. There were pear and plum trees espaliered along its length and vines fixed by ancient wires to large iron spikes. Wooden doors, some closed, others ajar, were set into the wall, their faded green or grey-blue paint peeling, their hinges rusted. From one of these an old man came, carrying a pair of shears.

‘Hello!’

The old man stared into the sun and had to shield his eyes.

‘Ah!’ he said, raising his hand out in front of him in a gesture that seemed to the new arrival to be half-greeting, half-warning.

#

The house was a mix of styles and materials. Its various sections, added at different times by different imaginations, sometimes sat easily with each other, spawning charming corners or graceful spaces. At others, they made unhappy neighbours, resenting the intrusion, grinding their differences in a gloom of brick and rusting iron huddled round damp gaps the sun never saw, or flared in brittle blarings of white paint and steel girder, clinical and blinding. Some corridors angled awkwardly or would wander, absentminded, only to end in an unexpected wall sporting nothing but a portrait, its features sardonic and knowing. The main stairs rose their broad grandeur rather dramatically, only to compromise it with a sharp turn, becoming narrower still, the steps uneven, the walls leaning in oppressively. Some rooms, like his, were full of a restful light, looking over the gardens or down towards the river. Others had been carved dimly from mean space, or choked with abundant, ill-fitting furniture. Some gazed onto nothing more than an opposing wall, or into impenetrable, day-long planes of shadow. The furnishings varied with the styles, though some had been moved from their original rooms, only to stand out awkwardly among pieces from another taste or age. Others remained where they had first been placed, isolated by progress or the loss of their looted companions, time sifting onto their fossilized moment the status not of relics or museum pieces, but of things accidentally recovered, puzzled over and misunderstood by the present.

Though he only used a handful of rooms, he would wander into the others, opening doors onto their worlds, peopling them with ghosts in period clothes dressing for dinner or summer parties, planning new lives, ordering old ones in ossifying regimes of spinsterhood, idling through bored afternoons of rain, dancing in the main rooms, screaming at infidelities, reading night after candlelit night away, negotiating the awkward silences that gathered like shadows among dutiful guests, spending lonely love-repressed dawns watching the world born again over the river, wandering their regrets through the immaculate gardens or sobbing, desperate and inconsolable, at a child’s death.

‘There was more than one family here, at some points,’ the old man said. ‘You know, they had money and added bits on at different times, and new families came or new branches of old families, bringing their lives and their possessions and their plans. It seemed too small to some of them, children and staff everywhere, and then suddenly there’d be just a couple of old ladies and a servant, knocking about in all that space.’

The old man showed him photographs of gatherings. Different fashions dancing under the lanterned trees or sat to laid tables of crystal and glinting cutlery, platters of summer or Christmas, teas of elaborate cake and delicate china, men in cigar pomp and the bonhomie of brandy, children hauled into a boredom of adults, women in intense groups, staring hard into the lens.

‘Of course, they didn’t take so many shots of ordinary days. One lady, though, took hundreds of the gardens. They’re in a drawer somewhere.’

As the old man said this, he looked onto the sloping grounds where he spent most of his time, silently caring for the plants, a kneeling figure in the beds, hunched and inconspicuous among the foliage.

#

During the days, working inside on his computer, sorting through his papers, typing up what he needed, he’d catch sight of the old man fetching a spade from the shed or bringing vegetables to the kitchen, his face always impassive, his step steady and deliberate. There was something reserved about him, monastic. The mornings passed quickly and they’d eat lunch together outside under the trees, or at the big kitchen table, watching the rain splash the leaves and gather in dozens of tiny puddles among the courtyard’s intricate pattern of bricks. In the afternoons, he’d correct what he’d written the day before, then walk into the village, or along the riverbank. At weekends, he climbed the hills behind the village, from where he could see the ferry station to his left and the river winding round the tree-covered spur of land beyond which the sea spread, silver-white and motionless, until it met the sky along the indistinct balance of the far horizon.

In the evenings he’d have a drink with the old man in the courtyard or on one of the terraces, their talk drifting into a silence of thickening light and long shadows. The old man went early to bed, leaving him alone. He’d light a candle and read in the small sitting room or stand in the garden as bats whirred through the air and foxes called on the hills and the night leaked its warmth around him.

Coming in from the terrace one night, he heard a sound and thought he saw a movement in the shadows beyond the kitchen’s large, always open, internal door.

‘Is that you?’ But something in the movement’s quickness made him think it wasn’t the old man. He turned the lights on. He couldn’t see anything. He wandered if some animal had got in, but the outside doors were all closed. He stood by the main stairs and listened. It was silent, a dense enclosed hush of wood and brick and unmoving ornament. He switched the lights off and went to bed.

#

He bought supplies from the village market. Sometimes the old man came with him, and they drank at the bar before carrying the shopping home. The old man knew a few people in the village, mostly older folk whom he nodded at or spoke to.

‘Do you have any family?’ he asked the old man one day when they were walking home, sweat coming on their backs and their hands aching with the bags.

‘I have a son abroad, and a granddaughter. My wife died, not long before you came.’

The old man hadn’t mentioned his wife before.

‘She’s buried in the village there. I take her flowers from the garden.’

They walked on in silence.

When they’d unpacked, he made them some lunch. Afterwards, they sat in the shade of an almond tree, drinking wine.

‘Why are there not more people here now?’

The old man looked away, down towards the meadow and the river.

‘The owners don’t need the money or the hassle, I suppose. Just let the odd person come… while I look after the place. It’s here for them, if they ever need it.’

‘What are they like?’

‘I don’t know them well, not this lot.’

‘Does anyone else ever come here… I mean, just turn up… one of the owners or someone?’

The old man looked at him quickly, then back at the river.

‘Why?’

‘Just… nothing, just wondered.’

That night he heard screaming. He rushed to where the old man slept, at the back of the house.

 ‘Are you alright?’ he shouted outside his door. In the silence, the lock turned and the door opened enough to show the old man’s face white and shining with sweat. His voice was weak:

‘I’m sorry. Bad dreams. My wife… I’m sorry.’

He closed the door quietly.

#

In the growing sun of summer, the garden strengthened and rose. Leaves and stems filled space after space, braiding them with green. New flowers opened as old ones withered. Birds and insects choked the air above the grass and nettles. Beneath the leaf crowds, rabbits and deer nibbled and browsed in the dawn light, disappearing suddenly into the shade where bracken spread from the wood’s edge beyond the path. Young creatures tottered and played in the warmth; fledglings, loud and insistent, followed their parents, begging for food. Sparrows squabbled, filling the courtyard, and swifts screamed through the deep blues of sky. Swallows came and went at speed to the barn and to the eaves overlooking the garden, feeding their cupped offspring from the plenty of the air. The smell of plants was everywhere, a vegetable fullness that hung in the morning dew and rose with each step through the meadow.

They went fishing. The old man showed him the shadowed canting willow where the fish rested, or the shallows where young trout were sinews among the weed, and flies lit and died on the circling current.

‘This is heaven,’ he said to the old man one afternoon, as he watched his float sway and saunter downstream.

‘No,’ the old man replied quickly, ‘but it’s where heaven would be.’

He thought for a while.

‘Do you miss her?’

A dragon fly hovered above a willow branch that dipped its tip beneath the surface.

‘You make a lot, in this life,’ the old man answered. ‘Marriage, family, home. And it all gets taken from you. You don’t stop making, but you can’t keep it. Then you find you don’t make as much any more, but it doesn’t matter because you know you can’t keep it.’

‘Your son?’ he asked, after a pause.

‘He’s still busy making his life. She was the first thing he lost, but he went back to all that he had made.’

‘Do you keep in touch?’

‘Some. Phone calls and… I’ve seen my granddaughter, you know, and spoken to her, on the computer.’

‘So, it’s not all loss?’

‘No, but their lives are so different, so far from here.’

‘Wouldn’t they love all this? I would’ve done, as a kid.’

‘Maybe that’s why you’re here now’ the old man smiled.

The river ran past them, pulling gently at the willow branches, taking leaves and seeds downstream, into the sun and away.

#

When he woke in the near-dark that night, he saw something again. He’d left his windows and the door to his room open to get a through draft. On the landing outside was a hunched, solid shape of darkness. He turned and the shape moved suddenly, the floor of the corridor creaking as it went. He turned the light on and rushed out of his room.

‘Who’s there?! Who is it?’ He tried not to sound scared, but his legs shook. He turned on every light he could find on the way to the old man’s room, where he knocked harshly on the door.

‘I’ve just seen something… someone… in this house. Outside my room. I’m not joking.’

The old man stared at him, bleary in the half-open door.

‘A dream,’ he said.

‘No! Not a dream.’

‘Shadows… still asleep.’

‘No. And not ghosts either.’ He felt annoyed at the old man. ‘I’m telling you, I saw something.’

The old man looked at him but said nothing.

‘I want you to come with me, so we can look together.’

The old man sighed.

‘Give me a minute.’

Half an hour later, they stood at the kitchen table. The old man was making them chocolate with milk.

‘Do you think you’ll sleep?’

‘I know you don’t believe me.’

‘I believe you believe you saw something.’

‘Not something real, though?’

‘When I have nightmares, they feel real to me.’

‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘I don’t think you were dreaming, but…’

‘I wasn’t hallucinating. It wasn’t shadows or an optical illusion. I know.’

‘I know you’re certain.’

‘Look, if I’d been drinking, or was really tired…’

‘What do you want me to say? We’ve looked in every room.’

‘Have we?’

The old man nodded.

‘No others, hidden away? Secret places, locked doors?’

The old man smiled.

‘There are no secrets here.’

‘Really? No weird owner with their own key who likes to creep around in the middle of the night? No strange relative kept in the attic, mad but harmless, who goes wandering now and then? No?’

‘I can see you have a very vivid imagination.’

‘Don’t… don’t do that. I did not imagine this. You better be straight with me, old man.’

‘There are no secrets hidden in this house. I have never seen what you saw. When I wake screaming it’s not because there are shapes in the darkness near me. It’s because there’s nothing in the darkness near me. Nothing. And I’m all alone.’

#

The next day, he went to the village for lunch, then walked the hills beyond. He wanted to be away from the house. When he came back in the early evening, the old man had made them some supper.

‘I thought we could eat out here,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’ve been walking; it felt good.’

They ate in silence, watching the garden and the swallows down over the river. It was very peaceful.

‘How did you come to be here?’ he asked the old man.

‘There was a job, helping in the garden. The head gardener was getting too old. We’d just moved to the area; my wife was a teacher in the next town. We never planned to stay.’

‘Was the house full then?’

‘They came and went. One month bursting, the next… just a few. There was always plenty to do, though. I was good with my hands, so I took over the maintenance as well as the garden. In time, they got others in to help me. By then the old gardener had retired. He knew some stuff, that old boy. Taught me all I know about plants.’

‘And your wife, did she move here?’

‘Eventually. There was enough for her to work here as well, when she gave up teaching. We moved in. As I said, no plan to it, just a set of small decisions that led to a life.’

‘Like me, I guess.’

The old man looked at him.

‘Maybe you’ll stay here.’

He looked away when the old man said this.

#

He helped in the garden, watering the plants early in the morning, picking the fruit and vegetables. What they didn’t need they took to the village market every week.

‘We used to have pigs and goats, chickens… even a milking cow,’ the old man said, as they were weeding the beds.

‘Why’s there nothing now?’

‘They died or the fox got them or they became too much for us to look after. I miss them, though. Made the place feel complete. They tie you to the land and to life, like the plants do to the seasons. You come out on a May morning to feed and milk them or lead them out to graze… seems so natural; you feel at one with it. These repeated rituals, like digging the potatoes or collecting eggs… it feels right that you collect these things. Riches, they always felt like to me, ever since I was a boy. So exciting! Same as catching a fish.’

The old man smiled. He seemed happy, animated.

‘Not a bad life,’ he added, jabbing his hoe at the weeds.

‘I haven’t done much of this. Always ended up inside somehow, stuck at a desk, staring at a screen. I’ve never been so close to it all before. I can see why it calms you; it’s very measured.’

‘How’s your work going?’

‘Not bad… but it doesn’t seem as… I mean, when I got here it was all I could think about; that’s why I came here, for somewhere peaceful to work. I wasn’t expecting this place to be so… diverting, I guess. Not that it’s bad for the work, but I feel a whole new world has opened up around me.’

Down on the river they could hear a boat going slowly upstream. Grasshoppers were loud in the long grass and the nearby flowers bustled with bees. The warm air was ripe with summer smells, a green sweetness, and with the odour of earth as they disturbed it.

‘When I came here,’ the old man said, ‘I thought I might become an engineer. I was saving for the apprenticeship. Then we had our son and the money got spent on other things, and the time went on other things. I didn’t ever decide not to be an engineer.’

They weeded in silence for a while.

‘It was a bit like that with my work. I was left some money, enough to pay for a year’s research. I’d always wanted to do it, but never thought it would happen. Then the money came and I had my chance.’

‘You were braver than me,’ said the old man.

‘I had no wife or child. Still don’t. No house or land. Nowhere to live once I leave here and the money’s gone.’

‘But not the work. Not what you’ve done; that won’t go.’

‘No, that won’t. In fact, it’s turning out to be me, really. To be my life.’

They got drunk that evening. Left their glasses, empty bottles and cigar stubs out on the table under the stars. He helped the old man onto his bed and left him in his clothes. Back in his own room, he lay in the darkness, his head buzzing with alcohol and the drumming of his heart and a sound like muted trumpets. He dreamed of animals in zoo; someone had let them escape and they wandered about uncertain, puzzled at this new freedom, half-fierce and half-lost. He woke at first light, sweating, and slept again until the sun was on his face and his head was empty of everything except a dull, thudding pain.

#

On the hottest days, he swam in the shallows and lay in the sun on the riverbank. The water seemed almost motionless, a thick dust on its surface broken only by the swallows skimming it to drink or the languid rise of a fish, oily in the rippled gold. In the shadows, herons stood fixed to their stare. The occasional blaze of a kingfisher tore the dappled light. He found it effortless to watch the river, its pace hypnotic as it gave up its lives in their little details, slowly, rewarding his patience.

One night he came back to find the old man was visiting a friend in the village. He ate dinner and read outside as the warm evening settled its weakening light around him. When he turned to reach for the bottle of wine, he saw that the windows in his room were black, though the curtains were open and it wasn’t fully dark yet. Then the blackness moved slightly, revealing an outline against the faint wall behind. His stomach tightened with a fear that burst, spreading through him, surging to his heart, beating it heavily against his chest. He felt dizzy, his breath fast and shallow. Trying to quash the fear, he walked quickly back to the house, not stopping as he passed through the kitchen and climbed the stairs. He didn’t turn any of the lights on. His room was empty. He walked up the corridor, opening every door, his movements becoming louder and faster. By the time he reached the last door he was almost running. Then he stopped, his chest crashing with beats, the blood thick in his head, sounding as a constant grating flow. Panic and growing anger shook him. In his fear and fury he shouted:

‘WHO ARE YOU?!… WHO ARE YOU?!’

There was a sound below and he ran towards it, leaping down the stairs. There was noise in the kitchen. He picked up a chair from the dining table and raised it over his shoulder as he burst through the large open door. Then the world splintered into light and he found himself staring at the old man who was staring back at him, a carving knife shaking in his hand.

‘Are you sure you’re not ill?’ the old man asked him later, as they sat by a candle, cradling their brandies. ‘Some brain disorders can make you see things.’

He looked into the darkness beyond the candle’s reach. The old man could be right; it could be something… a tumour or…

‘That’s not exactly cheering is it?’

‘I didn’t say you were ill, but you seem to need proof of something.’

‘One less thing on the list?’

The old man nodded.

‘Which would just leave ghosts and intruders.’

‘And a vivid imagination.’

‘I’m not so worried about that.’

‘I am,’ said the old man. ‘You nearly bludgeoned me to death tonight. I could’ve died of shock.’

‘I’m not sure what you’d’ve managed to do with that!’ he smiled, pointing at the carving knife which still lay on the table between them.

‘Neither was I. When I heard you shout I was already in the kitchen. Then there was a crashing down the stairs and then…’

For a while neither said a word.

‘Perhaps it’s something in the water or the soil?’

‘Never affected me or my wife. Never heard anyone here say anything about shapes and shadows before. Those that died here all died naturally, as far as I know.’

‘Your wife… how did she…?’ he paused, awkward.

‘Her heart. One morning. Just… very sudden.’ The old man looked into his glass.

Outside, the night had gathered, moonless, full of stars.

‘I’m going out to look at the stars. Don’t stab me when I come back.’

‘I’m going up now,’ said the old man.

‘Good night.’

#

The days were busy. He rose earlier to do his work. One afternoon he travelled to the city for the appointment he’d made at the hospital. When the results came back a few days later, the old man was harvesting marrows and runner beans.

‘I’m not dying,’ he said with a smile. The old man straightened and looked at him. ‘My results… no tumour. No abnormalities.’

The old man smiled.

‘Just a ghost, then.’

‘Or madness!’

‘This place has seen some of that before,’ said the old man, dropping bean pods into the basket at his feet.

‘Now you tell me.’

‘There used to be a retired psychiatrist in the village. His wife ran off with a fisherman.’

‘And…?’

‘What?’

‘I thought you were going to tell me something about madness, or the psychiatrist… you know, something relevant to me.’

‘No,’ said the old man. ‘I just remember that his wife ran off with a fisherman.’

He looked at the old man and shook his head.

‘I’ll make some lunch.’

#

The market that week was the biggest of the year, all the stalls piled with produce, the cafés and bars full of people, children’s shouts and the noise of animals crowding the air, cooking meats, the tang of herbs and cheese and the hot sugar smell of sweets everywhere. Old men smoked and drank, laughing in their seats. A band played and the river was full of pleasure boats and young people jumping from the jetties with screams that broke into sprays of white. When it got dark, fireworks burst over the hills, dimming stars and the slim blanche of the moon, and they lit a great fire in the square, its sparks rushing upwards with the songs.

He travelled to the city again to do some research at the university library. He was away three days and when he returned the old man was ill. Once the doctor had left, he sat with him, talking. Over the next few days, he took him food and read to him. He gave him his medicines. The old man was listless. Sleeping badly, he ate less and less.

‘Most of the stuff’s picked now,’ he said one lunchtime to the old man who was propped up on his pillows chewing a mouthful uncomfortably. ‘That’s smoked eel from the village,’ he added, nodding at the plate.

‘It’s good,’ the old man said, unconvincingly.

‘D’you want me to read to you?’

‘You could. The countryman’s diaries; I like those.’

When the old man drifted off, he cleared his plate and went to eat his own meal in the kitchen.

He worked his new research into his work, spending more time now each day. The old man asked him about it, and he told him what was difficult, what he found easy, what he was trying to do.

‘It sounds ambitious,’ the old man said.

‘I’ve never tried something like this before; I’m learning as I go.’

The old man nodded.

‘How are the plants?’

‘Fine. I’m not as good as you with them. I miss things.’

‘They’re quite forgiving. They want to thrive, really. The soil here is good, and there’s sun and you watering them. Not a bad spot to grow.’

He cut a big bunch of bright colours that afternoon, put them in large china vase and took them to the old man’s room, where they shone in the late bronze light. The old man smiled.

The next morning, as he was working at the kitchen table, his papers spread over it and the door to the courtyard open, he heard the old man coughing and then being sick. He called the doctor, who came and took a blood sample, gave the old man an injection and told him to rest. He left some tablets to take when it got bad and said he’d call again the next day.

That afternoon the old man lay, quiet but awake, while he read to him. In the night, though, he was in pain and cried out. After he’d given him a tablet, the old man slept, his features worn and hollowed against his pillow. As he closed the old man’s door quietly, his fingers still on the handle, he saw a blackness in the doorway at the end of the corridor ahead of him. Ape-hunched, huge, its head thrust forward, two sharp glimmers staring at him. He gripped the door handle, crushing his palm around it, his breath stopped, his legs shaking. He turned the handle again, forcing his legs to move, and his unsteady hands to lock the door behind him. The old man was sleeping, the bedside light still on. He leaned his back against the door and slid down until he was crouching at its foot, his arms wrapped round his legs, his jaw clenched to stop him crying out, his bunched form shuddering silently, urine soaking through his trousers onto the floorboards beneath.

The old man woke at dawn.

‘Did you see it again?’ he asked, staring at him huddled at the base of the door.

He nodded.

‘Are you alright?’

‘I was so scared.’

The old man looked at him for a few moments, then said, in a weak but gentle voice:

‘You can’t go on like this.’

‘I know,’ he said, burying his head in his arms.

The doctor came later.

‘He must rest,’ the doctor said, as they walked away from the old man’s room and, again as he left: ‘Make sure he rests.’

He took him some soup and stayed with him till he slept. That afternoon he worked in the garden, hacking dejectedly at the summer’s dying growth and pulling the last of the season’s crops from the ground. In the evening he dragged a spare mattress and some bedding into the old man’s room.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but it’s just for now.’

The old man smiled at him.

‘I can see I would inspire such confidence.’

They slept fitfully. Between the old man’s occasional moans, he listened for any sound in the house, his eyes staring at the bottom of the door for any change in the darkness outside. When he woke in the morning the old man’s breath was rasping and shallow; there was a film of sweat on his face and his eyes were shrunk further into the bruise-coloured skin around them. Later, when the old man woke, he helped him drink some water.

‘What will you do?’ whispered the old man.

‘I don’t know.’

In the afternoon he took some soup up, but the old man was dead, his face turned a little towards the wall.

#

Once they had taken the body and he had spoken to the doctor and notified the owners’ lawyer in the nearest town, he began to collect his belongings. The light was weak, a pale gold, thin on the turning leaves or sparkling on the dew that hadn’t left the grass. A blackbird called loudly into the garden’s still air. He sat in the kitchen, by the door open onto the courtyard, watching insects moving among the herbs in their terracotta pots. He could feel the air chilling.

He missed the old man; a sickness of fear and loss filled him. His loneliness was everywhere. He walked slowly round the garden, looking at all the flowers and the vegetable beds. In the orchard, wasps were feeding on the windfalls. The river was slow and quiet, the last of the swallows busy above the sky’s grey reflection and the dark green shadows massing along the banks.

He made his way back to the house where he went from room to room, opening the doors onto their stillness. Most were exactly as they had been when he first came. Through their musty silence, the weak border of the setting sun moved imperceptibly up the wall. In the old man’s room, he stared at the empty bed. The glass and jug of water were still on the table. He felt a sudden anger at these things, these unaltered objects mocking a now incomplete portrait. Yet, there was something hobbled and pitiful about them, too, as if the old man’s death had robbed them of significance. They seemed lost in the lack of life, as left behind as he himself had been.  

He placed all his things by the door from the kitchen to the courtyard. The last of the light silhouetted the hills and the ragged outline of the trees. He had booked a room in the town and was searching on his phone for a taxi number when he heard a sound upstairs. He put the phone down and listened. A door creaked and the floorboards on the corridor groaned with a weight. He felt his heart speed and his breath increase, but instead of fear there was a hard certainty, an anger and outrage. He strode to the bottom of the stairs, turning on all the lights. Without stopping, he shouted as he climbed the stairs:

‘You! Who are you? Why are you here?’

The sound was above him now, on the second floor. He ran up the next flight.

‘I’m here! Where are you?’

He was panting, shaking with rage.

‘WHERE ARE YOU?!’ he roared, kicking open the nearest door. Then another. As he reached the third room, he felt a massive blow across his back, then a weightlessness before his face slammed against the floor. He heard his own gasp. He crawled forward on his knees, then onto his feet, stumbling against the corridor wall. Stunned, he tried to look behind him but could see nothing. To his side, the stairs rose, awkward and narrow. He gripped each step, hauling himself up to where four doors grouped around the stairwell on the small top landing. He fumbled the light switch. He could hear it following him. Steadier on his feet, he moved to the farthest door. It opened towards him, revealing a storeroom, piled with ornaments and dusty boxes. He locked the door behind him and rushed to the window, trying to force its ancient, paint-sealed sash. The door shook with a blow. He grabbed one of the boxes and threw it, shattering the glass, but not breaking the wooden frame. A second blow behind him broke the door almost open. He smashed the box into the window frame again but couldn’t break it. He grabbed its sides, trying to haul himself through, but the gap was too narrow and all he felt was the jagged glass slicing into his hands and forearms. He let out a groaning half-scream. Turning, desperate, he hurled himself at the door and felt it crash outwards against a solid weight on the other side. After a moment of juddering shock, he found himself falling. There was another sound of wood splintering as it gave way, then two more massive impacts below, and smaller sounds of debris falling after. Then a silence, stunned and uncertain.

He crawled over the broken door to where the torn balustrade gaped. Staring over the lip, he could see where the bannisters on the two floors below had also been smashed, and where, below that, on the flagstones at the foot of the stairwell, a huge dark shape lay motionless, hunched among lengths of shattered wooden rail.

He laid his cheek on his forearm, struggling for breath, a gasped laugh breaking from him. There was blood in his mouth; it poured from the cuts on his arms and hands, wetting his face. He was still shaking all over. He got slowly onto his knees, where he waited until his breathing eased, before trying to stand. He walked unsteadily down the stairs to the floor below, blood dripping onto the floor. In the bathroom, he wrapped white towels round his arms. He’d need to call an ambulance as well as the police. His phone was still on the kitchen table. His breath was more normal now, but he felt faint. In the mirror, he saw his face covered in blood. His lip was cut and swelling. He picked some glass from his hair. A piece had stuck into his scalp; when he pulled it free, a fresh line of blood flowed down over his forehead, dropping into the sink. He couldn’t stop his body shuddering. He took several deep breaths. As he exhaled the last, he heard a noise from below, a rasping against stone. His heart thumped, stealing his breath and broke a wave of fear over his stomach. He turned his head round and waited. Again, a rasp of gathering from below, longer this time, becoming more than one movement. His legs shaking, he walked quietly back out to the landing. Craning over the stairwell, he looked down. His breath caught as he watched one large arm scrape over the stones, one squat leg flex and straighten beneath the huge humped mass of the back, covered with patches of black, matted pelt. The arm moved its great clawed hand across the stones again. The thick neck, sunk in the humped muscles of its shoulders, shifted. Then a noise, a throat-filling grunt growing in outrage, rose from the creature. Its other arm moved beneath it, and gradually the dark bulk began to heave itself from the stones. He had to stifle a scream. His legs folded beneath him and he dropped to his knees, terror searing everything from his mind in a great white flame of fear.

The need – desperate and total – to run, to escape, shocked him back to thought. He looked down again. Already the creature had got to its feet; ape-like, its knuckles on the stone floor, a rasping growl constant now from its hunched bulk. It shook itself. Suddenly throwing its head back, it saw him and let out a roar, its small yellow-red eyes alive with fury. Down the jagged line of its spine, the patches of black hair rose and the packed ridges of muscle quivered. It placed a huge arm on the stair in front of it, the dark claws curved. Still eyeing him, it drew its lips back slowly, baring long, jagged fangs. Then it roared again and hauled itself forward with frightening speed.

He ran down the corridor on his right, to the library at the far end. He tore the towels from his arms, freeing his hands. As he shut the thick oak door behind him, he saw the beast turning in the corridor towards him, its mass filling the passage. Crashing both arms against the walls either side it pitched forward in a charge. He turned the key and slid the large metal bolt across the top of the door, then leaned his weight against it. The force of the blow threw him backwards onto the floor. Looking up, stunned, he saw the door panel nearest to the key had broken inwards, a gap showing next to the handle. The lock had held, though, and the metal bolt at the top. His thoughts simultaneously blistering with instinct and blanked by terror, he grasped a chair placed against the wall next to the door and wedged its back under the handle. A thud on the other side shook the wood again. The gap in the panel jarred forward, growing.

He scanned the room, then let out a cry of anguished panic. His only thought had been to put the strength of the door between him and the creature. Now he saw what he had forgotten: the tall, narrow windows of the room opened inwards, but were barred beyond the glass, black iron rods set into the stone above and below. He tore the windows open and tried the bars with a prisoner’s desperate grip. There was no other door. The room contained a free-standing bookshelf between the door and the large desk and chair in front of the windows. Other bookshelves were fixed directly to the wall round the room. There was an ornate drinks cabinet in the corner nearest to the desk, but the only other furniture was a small sofa and a large armchair arranged round the fireplace opposite the door.

Behind him, the broken panel jolted forward again with a deep roar and the sound of claws tearing at the wood on the other side. Blindly, he grabbed the sofa and heaved it towards him. Still bleeding heavily from his arms and hands, his grip slipped. He scrambled round and put his weight behind the other end, shunting it forward against the door, just as the gaping panel burst open completely. The beast thrust its arm through, grasping at the handle and the chair still wedged under it. He ran back and pushed the armchair forward against the sofa then, grunting with the effort, he lifted it from the lip of the base and tumbled it over on top of the sofa and partly against the door. The creature’s arm had broken the chair away from the door handle. Looking back at the fireplace, he saw the irons lying next to the ashes of the last fire. Grabbing the heavy poker, he ran back and smashed it down repeatedly on the beast’s arm which drew back with a screaming bellow.

Heaving for breath, blackness threatening his sight, he wedged the chair under the handle again. As he did so, the panel above the broken one burst open also and a clawed hand hooked down, catching the top of his head, ripping his right eye, then tearing his cheek open. He fell against the side of the bookshelf, blood splashing onto the floorboards. He screamed. Beneath his blinded eye, he could feel his cheek hanging down. When he put his fingers where the flesh should be, he touched his teeth, air pouring out around them with the blood. He dragged himself round the base of the bookshelf, away from the door. Grasping the shelves, he pulled up onto his feet again and staggered to the edge of the unit farthest from the door. With desperate energy, he leant all his weight against the bookshelf, shoving until it shifted. He tried again, screaming with effort, and the case slipped sideways, this time moving away from the wall. He heaved again, and some of the books slid out onto the floor. Then again, pivoting it round each time until it was at right angles to the door, when he sent it toppling forward, crashing onto the pile, its side jammed diagonally across the top half of the door, its books spilled over the floor and onto the sofa and the upturned armchair.

There was silence. He heard the beast lumbering up the corridor away from the door. A second of hope burst through him. Then the sound of another charge grew and crushed inwards, forcing the piled furniture back, creating a gap between the frame and the edge of the half-shattered door. He grabbed the poker and thrust it, point first, through the gap at the creature’s face. He felt it strike home and an enraged roar shook the walls. The poker was torn from his hand, and he only just managed to pull back, away from another clawing lunge. He stumbled to the large writing desk and pushed all his strength behind it, uselessly. He dragged the chair over and threw it against the door above the bookshelf. He ran back to the drinks cabinet, but it was fixed to the wall by four thick brass brackets. He forced the doors open, breaking the dainty lock. A light flooded out and a dozen bottles of spirits stood packed beneath two shelves lined with glasses, a pair of ornate cocktail shakers and several miniature cans of mixers, all lit by the small bulb set unobtrusively above them. There was nothing else.

In desperation, he turned towards the desk. On its surface an old address book and some pens lay under a light patina of dust. There were two drawers down either side, and one in the centre. Hauling each open wildly and tipping them, papers scattered over the floor. He tried to move the desk without them, but still couldn’t. The oak door smashed inwards, tearing the metal bolt from the top from the frame and shunting the whole pile of furniture back. In the centre of the ruined room, he turned round and round, staring wildly for something he could use. Nothing but books, glinting glasses and rows of brightly labelled bottles remained untouched. Then, on the shelf set into the stone inside of the fireplace, he saw the red and yellow of a box of matches.

He grabbed bottles from the cabinet and poured the first one over the piled furniture. His hands were shaking so much he broke the first two matches before they could strike. The third broke too but fell, lit, onto the material. A delicate blue flame, not much larger than a candle’s, lifted into the air, then another and another, more and more sprouting up like a crop. He emptied the second and third bottles, the flames following him as he went. As he tipped the fourth bottle, there was a storm sound of gathering thunder that broke the door forward in one piece, the large top hinge forced away, two huge arms grappling behind grappling, beating it down. The beast lunged the top half of its bulk over the beaten door, forcing itself into the space. Stumbling backwards, he threw the bottle at the creature but missed, exploding it against the wall above the door in a cloudburst that broke suddenly into flame as it rained down everywhere. He ran to the cabinet and hurled bottle after bottle at the door, each blazing in burning gulps as it shattered. He saw the great dark torso and the grappling black arms wreathed in fire and screams. The whole doorway was being consumed, the piled furniture roaring in yellow orange limbs that tore up the wall hurling waves of black smoke before them. When there was only one bottle left, he stopped. Collecting up the desk drawers he threw them, too, into the flames. Then he collapsed onto his knees, the world blackening around him, rushing into his mind.

The tall, austere room was filling with smoke; it poured out the windows and through the bars. He choked and gasped back into consciousness, coughing blood. The fire roared lavishly now, thrusting up to the ceiling and out into the corridor, fanned by the rushing air. He grabbed the last bottle, pulled the stopper, and gulped it down. Pain screamed through his face. He gulped again, tilting his head, keeping the brandy off his torn cheek. He swigged again and again, his insides flaming now, his mind blackening then clearing, thundering with fire and smoke and the bellowing rage of the beast and his own agony of blood and pain.

Out of the sound of it all, through the choking chaos, he saw the blaze burst back into the room, flames and burning material scattering in front of it. He heard a scream again, a vast bestial roar, and saw, set in a world of fire, the dark shape of the beast, clawing desperately through the flames towards him. He turned his head away.

On the floor, half-hidden by a piece of paper, was a letter opener. He reached for it. A bone-handled knife, its blade the length of his open hand, it had blunt edges but a sharp, elongated point. He took another long drink. The screaming now was constant. The fire itself heaved at him, roaring, its great ape-like form burning with purpose as it lunged closer.

From nowhere, a silence took all this, holding everything still, a timeless calm in which he was alone and unafraid, filled with a sudden certainty equal to anything.

‘No,’ he said, quietly but sure, ‘I decide this.’

Gripping the bone with both hands, he forced the blade sharply with all his strength, burying it in his chest.

#

Over the river’s moonless surface, lighting the slight swirls and momentary ripples of black, the night sky laid tinges of red that brightened and grew, a vermillion path dimming the stars as it lengthened, stretching towards the far bank and the old wooden jetty where the ferry boat lay tied, rocking gently on the dark flow.

Craig lives and works in the UK though, since Brexit, he feels more of a Brexile. He reads and writes lyrical poetry, prose and drama. He spends his increasing middle age staring into the middle distance. This seems to help.

It’s 9pm on a Friday night. My buddy Vince and I stand in an enormous server room on the top floor of the Kudo Power Building, overlooking what’s now Plex City. We used to call it Los Angeles before The Great Buyout of America, when the politicos fucked over the economy so badly they had to beg the multinational corporations to bail them out, rather than the other way around. When all was said and done, five megacorps had divided up what used to be the United States. Kudo Power is one of them; I work for another, Lone Star Oil and Heavy Industries.

“It’s nothing personal, Vince,” I tell my friend calmly.

“Are you insane? It’s pretty fucking personal to me!” he shouts.

“It’s just another job. You know how it goes in our line of work,” I tell him, the laser sight painting a red dot on his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t waver.

Vince stands with his hands in the air, a look of disgust and disappointment on his face. “A job? A fucking job?! Fuck you! We fought together side-by-side! Worked together for years! You’re practically family!” he yells at me in rage. “My kids call you Uncle Dyce!” His rage fades into sadness at the end. “Why? Why would you do this?”

“Ren,” I stress. “My name is Ren. It’s nothing personal toward you. Like I said, it’s just a job. You’re required collateral damage.” That said, I pull the trigger and put Vince down like a sack of potatoes. The hole in his head doesn’t even have time to bleed; he’s dead before he hits the floor. I’m thankful the end was so quick for him.

Holstering my vintage Sig Sauer P320, I walk over to the fat black cylinder extending from floor to ceiling that dominates the center of the room. It’s the housing of what the megacorps call an ultracomputer. I reach into my pocket and pull out a long USB cord. I plug one end of the cord into the computer; then I slide a small slit open on the back of my neck, revealing an USB port, and plug the cord into me. After ordering the computer to manifest a holoboard, I type for a few minutes, until a download holo pops up on the keyboard. “Come on, come on. Pick up the pace,” I mutter as I peer at the progress bar. Some things never change.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice asks behind me.

“Kidnapping you,” I respond. I turned to face Shiro Kudo, owner and CEO of Kudo Power.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” he demands.

“Should be obvious. Considering that you’ve really been dead for years now, and that your techs downloaded your consciousness as an AI so you could still retain control of the company, I just have to download you and walk out. I’ll give you credit, though. Using a hologram to make TV broadcasts. Using body doubles to make public appearances. Brilliant.”

“You will not make it back to wherever you came from. Eight territories are under my full control.” His hologram, which had been flickering throughout our conversation, goes semi-transparent.

“Money is an excellent motivator, so I’ll take my chances.” 

“What are you? A freelancer? A spy from another corporate nation?” he inquires.

“Does it really matter?”

He laughs a bit, shaking his head. “You’re right. It doesn’t.” He points to the holoscreen. “Look.”

I turn around, carefully, and glance at the computer screen. He has my attention. On one half of the screen is a video of me killing Vince on repeat; and on the other half is my Kudo Power company profile, with my photo prominently displayed. Kudo gloats, “I just emailed that to every hitman, bounty hunter, mercenary, and gang on the continent. You are correct about money being an excellent motivator. I have offered fourteen million credits to the person who literally brings me your head, and I have already gotten one hundred and three replies.”

Wow, that was fast. But then, fourteen million creds is nearly a billion of the old hyper-inflated USD a lot of us grew up with. The hologram flickers one last time before disappearing. I turn my attention back to the computer, seeing that the download is complete. I unplug the UBS cord and pocket it, then quickly head out the room towards the stairway.

Once inside the stairway, I pull the fire alarm, causing it to howl and buzz throughout the building. I rush down the stairs and blend in the panicked and confused crowd. Once outside, I peel away from the crowd slowly, so as to not raise any suspicion. Once I’m far from the crowd, I make way down the sidewalk, blending in with the public. I take out my phone and make a call.

A female picks up. “Lone Star Oil and Heavy Industries.”

I keep walking, looking over my shoulder every now and then to make sure I’m not being followed. “Employee Number S513640. I need to speak to my manager.” 

“One moment, please.”

The phone rings twice before someone answers. “Rufus King.”

“Ren. It’s done. I need an extraction.” My head is on a swivel.

“Good,” Rufus purrs, “but there’s a problem. The Board of Executives won’t send an extraction team. There’s a buzz in the intelligence communities; they know something is up within the Kudo Territories. The Board of Executives doesn’t want to take any chances with any of our other personnel in Kudo.”

Still looking around, I duck into a nearby alleyway away from the public. “You gotta to be fucking kidding me. I now have a whole other person inside my brain, and a 14 million credit bounty on my head.”

“Just make yourself scarce, and let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to ASAP.” Rufus hangs up.

“Fuck,” I spit under my breath. “Okay, think.”

I take about two minutes before coming up with the idea to head for the local red-light district, the city of Compton. It takes me about thirty minutes to get there. The place is busier than any downtown in a major city. People all over the place. Bumper-to-bumper traffic. Whatever you want, you can get in Compton. Drugs, booze, legal and illegal cybernetic implants, sex, slaves, whatever. I figure I’ll disappear in Compton and wait until I hear from Rufus.

I walk into a random bar, your everyday, typical dive. Nothing to write home about. I head up to the bar counter and take a seat. A woman who’s more machine than human steps over to me. Her left arm is metal; half her face is chrome, with a shiny, green-lit optical implant where her eye should be. I figure she probably served in Second Korea. Even her voice has a metallic ring. “Hello there, sir, what can I get you?”

“House beer.”

She nods. “Coming up.” A long metal tendril with a claw at the end emerges from behind her and grabs a beer mug, handing it to her human hand, and she pours me a beer from the tap. She hands the mug me. “Want me to keep a tab open?”

“No, close it.” I reach into my pocket, handing her enough credit chips to pay for the beer and then some. “The rest is your tip. Thanks for your service.”

She knows I don’t just mean the beer. She smiles and takes the money. “You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else.” She walks away, and I drink my beer.

While I sit at the bar, I take out my phone and look at it, waiting for my boss to call me back. Come on, Rufus, I think impatiently.

“…don’t care who he is, 14 mill is a lot of money. We’re gonna head after ‘im, and we’re gettin’ paid. Oy, Susan, let’s get a pitcher of our usual,” says some yobbo with a thick Irish accent. Fucking amateurs. A touch at my waist preps my gun for action.

I take another drink of my beer, and look into the mirror that’s always behind bars. I see two men take a seat at random table. I get up, abandoning half a beer, and make my way to the exit. As I walk out, I bump into another guy walking in. “Sorry about that,” I say.

“It’s cool, no harm done,” he says, also having a thick Irish accent. But before I can leave, he places his hand on my chest to stop me. “D’I know you from somewhere?”

I shake my head. “Nah, doubt it.” I push his hand away from my chest.

I take a few more steps before he stutter-steps forward and puts his hand back on my chest. “Nah, fella, I seen you somewhere recently.” He looks at me a few more seconds before the epiphany hits, and he yells, “Oy! It’s him, the 14-million credit man!”

I’d rather give them the slip than deal with making three new corpses, so I push him to the floor and make a quick escape, shoving my way through the crowded sidewalks as the three Irishmen give chase. I quickly turn the corner into an alleyway. I head down the alley and turn another corner to a dead-end. Trapped in the L-shape alleyway, I look around, knowing what I have to do next. I hug the wall out of sight, aimed toward the spot where they’ll appear. Whoever shows gets a 9 x 19 mm Parabellum right in the head.

“Down this way, boys! It’s time to get a little head!” one of them yells. Probably thinks he’s funny. What a bunch of clueless idiots. Haven’t they ever heard of stealth?

Their footsteps get closer and closer. The moment I see one of them turn the corner, I pull the trigger. Bits of blood and brain splatter as the one I shot drops. I pull the trigger once more, dropping another. The third tackles me to the ground, knocking the Sig out of my hand, sliding it away from us.

My reflexes must be getting slow in my old age.

We both struggle to get the upper hand while we roll around on the ground, trading punches. I kick him off me and scramble for the gun; as I do, I feel a quick, sharp pain in my calf as he stabs me in the leg. “You’re not going anywhere! I’m getting paid!” he howls.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?” I snarl.

He rushes toward me, and is about to pounce on me like a lion as I shoot him three times center mass, in less time than it takes to say it. His lifeless body falls on top of me. What the hell did he think this was, a game of tag? I sigh a huge sigh of relief and irritation as I push his body off me, stand, and look down at my calf. That’s when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.

I reach into my phone and answer it. “What?”

“Status?” Rufus asks me.

“Sitting in an alleyway surrounded by three dead Irish idiots, with a fucking switchblade in my leg.”

“I see. Can you get to New Ella, New Mexico?”

I chuff out a disgusted breath. “What’s there?”

“An extraction team. I convinced the Board to pull you out. Since New Mexico is right next to Texas, it’ll be a lot easier to get you out and back to Lone Star. Problem is, we have a brief time window. Once in New Ella, you need to link up with the team, and they’ll get you out. Let me know the moment you leave for New Ella and the moment you get there — that way the team can do what they need to do.”

“Great,” I snort.

“One more thing, Ren.”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.” Rufus hangs up. Asshole.

I get up and start limping out of the alleyway, holstering my gun with the knife still in my goddamn leg. It doesn’t take me long to find one of the many shady pharmacies in Compton. There you can find the typical things you would find at any pharmacy, including supposedly prescription drugs for sale that you can buy like you’re buying a candy bar, and an assortment of other items. What I need is in the last category.

When I walk into the pharmacy, there’s a large man sitting behind the counter in a white doctor’s coat with a missing sleeve to show off his e-tattoo of a koi swimming around in a pond on his arm. He looks at me and leans over the counter, peering down at the knife sticking out of me. “Third aisle is what you looking for,” he says, pointing it out. I walk over Aisle 3 and grab a medical grade stitching kit. I head to the counter and place the kit down on the counter. He takes the kit and scans it. “That’ll be 45 credits.”

Fucking expensive. A good meal rarely costs more than a couple of creds. I shove nine five-cred chips at him. “Where’s your bathroom?”

He points to the back of the store. “Down the hallway, first door on the left.”

“Thanks.” I walk into the bathroom with the kit and lock the door behind me. The bathroom is surprisingly clean; maybe it won’t infect the wound. With a hiss of pain, I yank the knife out of my calf and carefully patch myself up using the kit. I clean and pocket the switchblade. Might come in handy.

I walk out the bathroom ready to plan my next move.

“Evenin’, Doc.” I hear a thick Southern accent, half-familiar, coming from the front of the pharmacy. I hug the corner leading to the main part of the facility, draw my pistol,  and ready myself for another fight.

“I’m lookin’ for someone. Maybe you can help me out?” Southern Accent asks.

“You know the rules, Connor. I don’t play sides. I’m just a doctor.”

“I know. Figgered I’d try anyways.”

I quickly step around the corner with my pistol aimed at a man in black jeans. Black cowboy boots with honest-to-God spurs to go with them. Angled across his white button-down shirt is a bandolier full of ammo. To finish his outfit, he has on a black cowboy hat with a snakeskin band around the hat. “How you doin’, Connor?” I ask with a mad grin.

“Oh, fair to middlin’.” Connor lifts his chrome arm and aims it at me. His palm is wide open, and in the center of it is a hole, the barrel of an internal gun. Looks like a .45.  “Howdy, Ren. How you doin’?”

I shrug. “Been better.”

He smiles. “I would imagine so.”

“So, you going to let me leave, or does this get ugly?” I ask.

He scoffs at the comment. “I got a wife digging in my left pocket and a mistress digging in my right. Fourteen million credits will make things a whole lot better. Does that answer your question?”

“Not my problem if you can’t keep it in your pants.” I point out.

He chuckles a bit. “I’ve always liked you, Ren. You’re good people, mostly. Saw what you did to Vince, of course, but you and your people have always treated me real nice. Giving me the first heads up on the big money contracts an’ all.”

“Well, you’re good at what you do. So what happens now?”

I can hear a shotgun racking. “You both leave,” say the doctor. Connor and I turn our heads to see Doc with a shotgun aimed at us. “I’m not going to ask twice, gents.”

I shrug and holster my Sig; Connor lowers his arm. He walks over to the door and opens it. “After you.”

“Thanks.” I walk out the door, and he follows me out. I figure he’s got enough class not to shoot me in the back, and he doesn’t.

We stand outside the pharmacy, and Connor takes out a flask. He takes a swing before handing it to me. I take the flask and a swing, and hand it back to him. “Vodka?”

“I wanted try something new.”

“Smooth.”

“Stolichnaya. Let’s walk and talk, Ren.” We both make our way down the sidewalk. “Tell me why we shouldn’t pick up where we left off a minute ago.”

“Because Lone Star has always paid you well and given you first dibs on the high- value contracts, like you said.”

“True, but you got a lot of money on your head. It ain’t personal, you know?”

The hell it isn’t. It pains me a bit to hear my own line used on me for the same reason. “Yeah, well, kill me and you never work for Lone Star again. Come on, Connor. I’m asking for a favor. Let this one slide.”

“Make it worth my while.” He takes another swing from the flask and hands it back to me.

I take a swing and hand it back to him. “What do you want?”

He takes another swig before pocketing the flask. He holds up his cybernetic arm. “Got some aging tech here. Word on the street is, Lone Star has somethin’ new in the making.”

“The Series 2 Covert Assault arm. Not happening — that’s top-of-the-line equipment. Might as well go back inside and get some shotgun rounds in us. I need more than just your word on you not putting a bullet in my head,” I say. “Or anywhere else.”

Connor laughs. “You need more!? Last time I checked, you have the bounty on YOUR head, not me. But I’ll humor you. More like what?”

“Get me out of California and to New Ella, New Mexico, and I’ll make sure you get a Series 2 fresh off the production line.” I offer my hand to him. “Deal?”

With his non-cybernetic arm, he shakes my head. “Deal.”

Connor tells me we need to head to a small town in Arizona called Selbia. It’s just over the border, off in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a maglev station there that’ll get me to New Ella. Connor and I then proceed to fight our way from Plex to Selbia. Not as much of a challenge as it sounds, since we’re mostly fighting bully boys and low-level mercs. It takes us about a day and a half to get there.

“Once we get you on the train,” he tells me as we cross the territorial line, “you’ll will be New Ella in three hours. Maybe less.”

I keep looking over my shoulder. “Great, sounds like a plan,” I say in a slightly worried tone.

“You okay?” he asks me.

“No, actually. Some giant’s been following us for a while now.”

Connor looks over his shoulder and eyes the tall man, who easily tops seven feet.  “Shit.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, Oleg Popov. Russian. Hired gun like us,” Connor answers.

“How do you want to handle this?”

“Away from people. He doesn’t give a damn about collateral damage.” Connor points to a nearby construction site. “We can cut through there to get to the station. We should be able to lose him there. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

I nod, and we head into the construction site. A few minutes go by, and we get deep into the maze, with no sight of our buddy Oleg. “Good, I think we lost him,” Connor mutters.

We keep moving through the site, which is huge and will probably end up housing another fusion plant.  “C’mon, we’re are almost there,” Connor says quietly. The moment he turns the corner of a newly-poured wall, an arm comes blasting through the concrete. A hand the size of a catcher’s mitt wraps around Connor’s neck, lifting him off the ground. I see another giant hand peel the rest of the wall away like it’s nothing, and Oleg steps through the hole he’s made. Connor opens up with his cybernetic hand, unloading round after round into the Russian giant’s face. After the gunsmoke clears, a clicking sound comes from Connor’s cyber-arm. “Shit!”

Oleg tosses Connor across the way like he’s nothing. When Connor hits the ground, a loaded magazine falls out of his pocket. The giant turns and looks at me; bits of skin fall off his face, revealing a slick steel skull like something out of those old James Cameron flicks.

START HERE

“Oleg, how you doing, big guy?” Connor groans, getting up.

Oleg looks at Connor. “Well enough, Connor.” Oleg turns back to me. “I can do this quickly, or you can make it hard on yourself. You choose,” he tells me in his thick Russian accent.

“Can I pick ‘neither’?” I ask, drawing my pistol and aiming it at him.

He shakes his head. “Sorry, fellow, but 14 million creds is lot of money.” Not the first time I’ve heard that today. He points at the gun. “Bullets didn’t help him. You think they help you?”

I shrug. “It’s worth a shot.”

Connor limps over to me and extends his cybernetic arm. An empty magazine pops out of the side of his forearm. “I got this. I’m about light his insides up like the Fourth of July.” He digs around in pocket as Oleg walks closer to us.

“You got this, huh?” I ask.

He keeps digging around in his pocket. “Yeah, I got this.”

My eyes shift over to him and back to Oleg as he gets closer to us.

“I not want to hurt you, Connor. Not for free.” Oleg grabs Conner by the neck again and tosses him behind us like he’s nothing. Connor gets to his feet, and his eyes dart over to the loaded magazine on the ground a few feet away from us. Oleg grabs Conner by the neck and tosses him behind us yet again. After seeing that, I unload the rest of my ammo into Oleg’s chest. He looks down at his chest as bullets bounce off his body.

“Shit.” I pull the trigger a few more times, until the gun dry fires. I sigh and holster my gun and fall into a fighting stance.

Oleg smirks. “I vill make it quick.”

Once in striking distance, we exchange blows. Knowing not to punch his face or chest, I hit him underneath his ribs, where there are no cybernetic implants. Only problem is that it doesn’t seem to faze him at all. With a powerful right hook, he knocks me to the ground face-first. He picks me up by my neck. We lock eyes as he begins to squeeze the life out of me. I reach into my pocket and take out the switchblade that stabbed my calf, pop it open, and I ram it deep into his left eye.

Oleg lets me go and I fall to my hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air. He stumbles around holding his ruined eye, before pulling the knife out and throwing it to the ground. Blood runs down from his eye socket, and drips from his chin to the ground. “I am ripping your head off body and using money to buy new eye!” Oleg yells, storming over to me.

Before he can take another step, a gunshot rings out and stops him dead in his tracks. He coughs up a puff of smoke. Two more gunshots shatter the silence, and he coughs up another puff of smoke as vapor comes out of his ears. Oleg’s body falls to the ground face-first. When he falls, I get a clear view of Connor lying on the ground, his cybernetic arm extended.

“Damn, I’m thirsty, how ’bout you?” he quips.

I sigh in relief and get up. I walk over to the switchblade, grab it, snap it shut, and pocket it. “What the hell was that!?”

Conner gets up. “You like that, huh? I made it myself. I call it a Texas chili pepper bullet. When the bullet enters the body, it explodes. Causes a little EMP. With all his cybernetics, I figured three should do it. It was in the clip that fell earlier.”

“Wait — so you had those with you the whole time? We fought the bounty hunters, hitmen, gang-bangers, and everything else, and you had those things the whole time!?” I yell.

“Hey, they’re expensive to make, and I wanted to save ’em for the big guns! How about a ‘Thanks, Connor, for saving my ass!’? ‘Thanks, Connor, for not getting my head ripped off! Thanks Connor for getting me to where I need to go!'” he yells back at me.

“Thanks! Now can we get the fuck outta here?” I say more calmly.

“You’re welcome, Ren! Damn, you fuckin’ Yankees are so ungrateful.”

“I’m from fucking Dallas!” I yell.

“Whatever. It don’t matter. Now let’s go!”

Connor and I make our way to the maglev train station. He points at the ticket booth. “There ya go.”

“Not coming?” I ask, looking at him.

He shakes his head. “Nope. I got too many enemies in New Mexico, and thanks you, everywhere else in the Kudo territories too.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked him.

“I’ll head up north to Tri-State City. Tell my ladies I’m chasing after some big-money bounty. Once there, I’ll just lie low till all this shit blows over.” He puts his hand out to me. “Just remember what’s mine once you’re back home.”

I take his hand and shake. “Don’t worry, a deal’s a deal.”

We part ways, and I walk over to the ticket booth and buy a ticket for New Ella. Once aboard the train, I take my seat and sigh a great sigh of relief, relaxing, knowing that I’m almost home. I reach into my pocket for my phone and call Rufus. It rings once before he answers. “Go ahead.”

“I should be in New Ella in three hours,” I tell him.

“Good, I’ll let the team know you’re on the way. Call me when you get there — and Ren?”

“Yeah?”

“Good job.” Rufus hangs up.

I feel the train lift from the track and rocket out of the station. The three hours fly by, both literally and figuratively, and I’m already in New Ella. I feel the train lower to the track, get up from my seat, and exit to the crowded station. Reach into my pocket to call Rufus. Before I can make the phone call, though, there’s the sound of gunfire followed by the crack-crack of hypersonic bullets flying pass me. I look around to see what the source is, and thirty or forty yards away I see a figure in a black ski mask, black jeans, and a black long-sleeved shirt. Another fucking amateur, hoping to make the big score… but I’m out of ammo, and now I don’t have Connor to back me up. I make a break for it, feeling the bullets fly pass me faster than their own sound as people scatter away, each gunshot making it easier for me to escape.

I duck into an old warehouse, still dodging bullets, turn the corner, and hide behind the doorway. I take out my knife and click it open, waiting for the genius to appear. The moment I see him, I tackle him to the ground. Before I can stab him, he kicks me off. We both spring to our feet and run towards each other; a half-second later my blade’s against his neck, and the muzzle of his gun is pressed against my head.

“You fucking killed my dad!” the masked man shrieks, his voice breaking on the last word.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” I begin, but trial off, because I think I recognize the voice. Knowing there’s a look of surprise on my face, I lift my other hand and peel off my assailant’s mask. My eyes go wide when I see that it’s Miles, Vince’s son. “Kid, how did you find me? And what the hell are you doing here?”

“College is expensive,” he snarls.

“So you became a goddamn bounty hunter?”

“I’m killing three birds with one stone today, Uncle Dyce. I pay for college, take care of my mom and sister, and kill the bastard who killed my father. I saw your profile on the bounty billboards. Even saw the video of you fucking killing my dad!” he screams as tears stream down his face. “Why, Uncle Dyce?” he demands, tears still streaming, the hand holding the gun trembling.

“How did you find me?”

“I may be a new hunter,” he grates, “but I’m not stupid. I know Compton is where people go to disappear, so I started there first. The cops rarely go to Compton, and bounties never hit their radar. I saw you talking to that cowboy asshole. I overheard you two talking about heading to New Ella. So I just followed you, waiting for the right time. When you got to Selbia, I saw you deal with the huge guy. I got on the train and crossed my fingers, hope you’d get on that same train and that the big guy didn’t kill you. When I saw you get on the train, it was like Christmas, and here we are now. So why did you kill my father?”

I sigh and just look at him. “Go home, Miles.”

“Fuck you! You were practically family! Why!?“

I sigh once more, shaking my head. “Your dad was required collateral damage, that’s all. Orders are orders. It was just another job. I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Just another job!? Fuck you!” he shouts in anger, and pulls the trigger multiple times. All we hear is the gun dry-firing. He’s out.

“I’m so sorry, Miles,” I say with a tear in my eye, as I slit the throat of someone I consider family. If I don’t kill him now, he’ll never stop hunting me until I do. It’s best this way.

Miles grabs his neck the moment his throat is slit. He collapses, gasping for air as he gurgles on his own blood. In an act of mercy, I reach down, digging in his pockets, and pull out a full magazine. I grab his gun, load it, and fire two rounds into his head, killing him instantly.

I sigh and put the 3-D printed Glock in my pocket, in case I need it later. Then I call Rufus. “Hey, I’m here. I need you to track my phone and give the location to the extraction team. Oh, and one more thing. Conner, one of our regular hunters — we owe him a Series 2. He got me here in one piece.”

“I’ll handle it. We have your location. Give the team about five minutes, and they’ll pick you up.”

#

It’s more like ten minutes, but soon enough, the team and I are together. “Rufus sent us,” the team lead, Becker, tells me as we shake hands.

“Good. Let’s get me the hell out of here.”

He glances at Miles’ body, then at me. “Who’s that?”

“My godson,” I whisper.

I look down at the young man’s still body and smile a bit, remembering the wonderful times I had with him, Vince, Michelle, and Mina. Then I store all that away in a little box in the back of my mind for later inspection.

Becker looks at me, brow furrowed. “Sir? Did you say he was your—”

“I said he was collateral damage. Just part of the job. Now c’mon. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Robert Vaughn was born and raised in Houston, Texas. In 2009, he graduated from Stephen F. Austin State University with a degree in Television and Radio Broadcasting. When he is not educating himself on the latest political news or writing, he is normally in the gym or being a total nerd with video games, tabletop role-playing games or something sci-fi related.

My dearest Michelle,

Writing this letter is more difficult than anything I have ever done, but it is also the most important. There are so many things I need to tell you. Not only so that you may know the truth, but perhaps you can avoid my mistakes.

I am not a good man, and I have not lived a good life.

The details aren’t important. What is important is that I have given up that life. Whatever time I have left will be devoted to helping others. That sounds trite, I know, but perhaps in some small way I can atone for what I have done in this world.

I was not a good parent. I told myself that making money was more important than being a part of the family. I did not allow myself to give the unconditional love that every child who enters this hard world deserves. My sweet girl, you are a gem of indescribable purity and splendor. I committed the worst of my many crimes when I did other than treat you as such.

In my life I have called people “friend,” but then tossed them aside when they became inconvenient. Those memories threaten to unman me entirely. Treat your friends as they gold they are.

But my deepest shame is reserved for what your dear, poor mother endured. For years she kept the family together without complaint, while suffering near constant loneliness and my passive emotional abuse. She had the soul of a martyr and the patience of a saint. To this day I have no idea how or why the universe saw fit to bless me with a woman of such simple faith and humble demeanor.

Her passing last year marked me in a way I am still trying to understand. No doubt my neglect wore out her heart. While I now stumble, as if in a haze, I hold onto this: that if she saw something good in me, then there might yet be hope for my withered soul.

While I wish there was more that I could do, more that I could give you, let me leave you with this: as long as there is breath in my body I will be there for you. My dearest hope is that I may finally get to know you, my dearest daughter, as I move through a darkening twilight.

All my love,

Your father

Dear Dad,

Jesus H. Christ on a trike, what the fuck happened to you? You sound like one of those pathetic, palsied old farts at the far end of the bar. Are you going senile? God, I used to like you! Now you’re one of them, just another middle-aged piece of shit. How could you?

I knew my dad wasn’t like other dads. You always said you had a job, but never seemed to have an office to go to. Except when you would leave for a month. What about when you left for a year? You come back with a deep tan, a Smurf tattoo, and a long scar up your arm. “Slipped off a ladder,” I believe was your excuse.

I asked mom, but she would just tilt her head and smile, like a sad version of the woman in that red and white checked cookbook. “Your father is a good provider, we just need to leave him be.”

I hated that about mom, her weakness, and her utter lack of self. At least you had a spine! Or so I thought, before this letter. “Withered soul.” Jesus flying fuck, what a wanker you’ve become.

Anyway, the internet is a wonderful thing, and eventually I figured out how you made your money. And it was cool!

Your work may not have been conventional, but I could tell you took pride in it. More than that, it was a life on the outside, drinking the cream without having to milk the cow. Money, travel, excitement, secrets – being someone who acts, instead of someone who is acted upon. Not a broken old fool, wringing his hands, filled with self-loathing for deeds done so long ago the wind has blown away all traces.

Here’s something I bet you don’t know.

I joined the family business at seventeen. Mia Holmbach was a shoo-in for senior class president. I was dating Todd then, remember him? Probably not, I think you were in Capetown that spring. Anyway, Todd really wanted to be class president, and I knew he’d be much better than that dizzy bitch Mia. Plus he was a sweetie.

Everyone knew that Mia did immoral things (as you would say now, being a self-righteous drool bucket) to her boyfriend when he drove home after the game. I dropped a roofie in his water bottle, then cut across the church field to the quarry. Sure enough his truck was weaving, from the roofie or Mia’s ministrations or both. I let out a blast on an air horn as I jumped out in front of the truck. He was left-handed, and sure enough he swerved left. That monster truck of his climbed right over the railing.

Todd dedicated his presidency to Mia, but I knew how happy he was to be president. Deep down I do the work because I love helping people.

Well, that’s about it. I’m off south of the border, to resolve El-Presidente Fucktardo’s long running dispute with the local coca baron. My friend Yuri (yes, I have friends, and I already know how to keep them) runs a black-market Estonian biolab. He sent me a sample of a new nerve agent to beta test for him in a field trial. Wish me luck!

Are you choking up thinking about your daughter in the family business? Maybe, but it’s probably Yuri’s bio-agent. Once I read your letter I knew I couldn’t afford to have someone like you wobbling around in the world, maybe even deciding to “save” me. Unfortunately the next few minutes will not be pleasant. Oh, but thanks for sending me to college. Chemistry is fascinating!

Your diamond,

Michelle

P.S. Mom didn’t die of a heart attack.

Ralph Benton finally came to his senses after decades of wearing the golden handcuffs of a corporate drone. He fled the frozen peaks of Colorado for the muggy swamps of Florida. Now there is weirdness and mystery all around him. He is much better for it.

Cort calls late Tuesday night. We haven’t talked for a couple days. It’s nice to hear his voice, even if he gets after me.

“Why’d you stop?” he demands. “Why haven’t you made it to the coast yet?” I tell him I’m moving as quickly as I can, but he won’t hear it. “Excuses are like assholes, Addie. Everybody’s got ‘em and they all stink.”

The distance is really wearing on me—on us—but that won’t matter when I reach Westport. I’ll wade into the ocean for the first time in my life, feel the wet sand between my toes and the sun on my bare shoulders, and all my worries will float out with the tide. Just like Cort says. He and his dad used to go to Westport on the Washington coast every summer. It’s his favorite place. One look at the ocean, he tells me, and I’ll never worry about another thing.

Momma warned me Cort was no good. He’d steal my heart and break it just to prove he could. A real Walkaway Joe, she said, quoting Trisha Yearwood like the gospel. But he showed Momma, Trisha too. The boy might be stubborn and moody and impulsive as all hell, but a heartbreaker? Never. His heart’s too big to break someone else’s.  

Once Cort settles down, I tell him about the hair salon where I’ve been working the past two days. So much has happened since we last spoke. I talk about the different ladies who come in each day to chatter and joke and gossip about people who aren’t there, and how I’ll sweep up enough hair to fill the garbage can by the end of my shift. Mostly I talk about Suzanne, my new boss. How she’s taken me in, given me a job and a place to stay. How she’s the kindest person I’ve met since leaving Casper.

“You tell her about me?” he asks.

“A little.”

“What’d you say?”

“That I’ve got a handsome boyfriend with great hair and a huge—”

“Addie, come on…”

“I told her you’re back home. And I miss you like crazy.”

“Nothing else? Didn’t tell her my name, did you?”

“Course not.”

We end the call on a nice note, but with the lights out I start feeling anxious. What if Cort’s right? Maybe the salon’s just a distraction. Deep down, am I afraid to keep going? I tend to have the most troublesome thoughts right before I fall asleep.

I wake up in the morning to find my worries have slipped away in the night, and a cool, peaceful feeling flows through me like spring water. As my eyes adjust to the daylight, I can hear Cort whispering in my ear and feel his warm, smoky breath on my neck. You’ve got this baby, he says, I know you’ll make it. He always knows the right things to say, even when he isn’t here to say them.

#

“Rinse first,” Suzanne instructs me. “Dry hair’s too brittle to cut. Chin down, Leanne.”

            Mrs. Guzman tilts her head forward without taking her eyes off the Us Weekly in her lap. Suzanne runs the comb down her damp black locks and shapes them into a single tress, pinching the bottom between her fingers. She snips three times with the styling scissors, twice up and once across, leaving a clean rectangular notch.

            “Here’s where it gets tricky. You’ll use this center cut to guide the rest, but you can’t cut the sides straight across. Otherwise her hair will look uneven when she stands up. You want the cuts to taper slightly towards the middle, like this.”

            She snips once at a diagonal angle, then runs her comb down to catch the strays she missed. A few more cuts and each strand is perfectly aligned.

            “I always do the left side first, but that’s just me.”

            “Can I cut the right side?” I ask.

            She smiles. “Have you ever cut hair before, Audrey?”

            “I used to cut my boyfriend’s hair every week.”

            A little lie on my part. Cort would buzz most of it himself. I’d clean up around his ears and the back of his neck. Even with the exaggeration, Suzanne still shakes her head.

            “Sorry, hon, not until you’re licensed by the state. Technically, you’re not even supposed to hold the scissors. I could lose my license.”

            “I don’t mind,” Mrs. Guzman pipes up. “She has to learn somehow.”

            “Butt out, Leanne.”

            “How do I get a license?” I ask.

            “First you take some cosmetology classes. Then there’s the state exam. A written test, plus you cut someone’s hair in front of a judge.” Suzanne’s eyes drift to the floor. “Unless the exam’s changed since I got my license.”

            “Probably has,” Mrs. Guzman chimes in. “It’s been a long time.”

Suzanne sticks her tongue out at her in the mirror. “Anyway, there’s plenty for you to do here without the license. I can show you some techniques if you’re still interested down the road.”

I couldn’t hide my grin if I tried. “I would love that.”

“Like I said, down the road. This is only your third day. You may change your mind about cutting hair if you spend enough time with Leanne.” She pinches the hairs on Mrs. Guzman’s right side. “Now, make sure your tapers line up on both sides. Same angle, same length. Like this.”

#

Suzanne makes me dinner for the third night in a row. Tuna casserole with peas. One of her specialties—it’ll put some meat on my bones, she says. I get the feeling she’s kind of a hermit. No ring on her finger, no family photos on the wall, no evening phone calls or mention of plans with friends. Every night she’s in bed with the light out by nine. Maybe she’s just tired from working all day. Maybe she’s lonely. Too early to tell.

After dinner, I return to my room and decide to decorate a little. I didn’t bother at first, thinking this place was just another quick stop on the way to Westport. But it’s my third night here, going on four and probably more. I’m sick of the emptiness.

My first order of business is unpacking all the souvenirs I’ve collected during my trip. Some are little trinkets I’ve bought in gas stations and gift shops. A map of Wyoming, a coffee mug from Billings, Montana, an Idaho potato with googly eyes. But most of my souvenirs are from folks who have helped me in one way or another since I left Casper two weeks ago. There’s my antique brass thimble from Roberta, the elderly widow outside Saddlestring who let me sleep in her spare trailer on that first lonesome night without Cort. She had a whole thimble collection. Said they’d always brought her luck. The bottle-opener keychain is from Kirk, the college kid I hitched a ride with from Bozeman to Missoula. He refused to accept any gas money and bought me lunch—even if he hit on me a little, they were nice gestures. A salt shaker here, a hand towel there. Reminders that life is full of little kindnesses if you know where to look.

            Sometimes, when I’m riding in someone’s car, I’ll take a random souvenir out of my duffle and hold it in my hand, smell it, brush it against my skin, get lost in the flurry of happy memories it brings. Makes long days on the road go by in a snap. My favorite souvenir so far is the peeling knife I got from George, the man I stayed with before coming here. I love its sharp, polished blade and smooth whalebone handle. It’s the only souvenir I carry with me. Mostly for protection but I also like how it feels, the weight of it in my pocket, even though I’ve nicked my fingers a couple times.

            I didn’t think I’d find anyone as friendly and considerate as George during my trip. Then Suzanne came along, what Momma would call a happy accident. I left George’s farmhouse on Monday morning before sunrise and walked along the two-lane highway, aiming west toward the mountains. I stuck my thumb out until a middle-aged couple picked me up. The man seemed nice enough but his wife kept narrowing her eyes at me in the side mirror. It was a quiet, uncomfortable ride and I asked to get out at the first town we reached. We weren’t on the road more than two hours. They dropped me here in town.

I wanted get some breakfast before hitting the highway again, so I wandered down the main street in search of a diner. That’s when I literally bumped into Suzanne—I was distracted by pretty dresses in the boutique windows and didn’t see her sweeping the sidewalk in front of her salon. We exchanged an awkward greeting, got to talking, and before long I’d spilled all my money troubles onto her. Even cried a little. She took pity on me. “I know what you need,” she said, eying my split ends. “A good trim.”

            “Thank you, but like I said—”

            “On the house, of course.”

            The salon was small, with a single sink and cutting station in the center of the room and a row of dryer chairs along the opposite wall. It was also empty—she hadn’t yet opened for the day. Suzanne and I continued our conversation while she cut my hair. I told her about my boyfriend (no names, of course), my trip, how I wasn’t sure I’d ever make it to Westport.

            “How old are you, Audrey?” she asked.

            “Nineteen.”

            “Nineteen.” She gently repeated the word. “You’re hitchhiking by yourself?”

            “I don’t mind. It’s a nice way to meet people.”

            “Little dangerous, isn’t it?”

            “I don’t care how I get to the coast, long as I get there. My boyfriend’s anxious for me to arrive.”

Suzanne flipped the chair around to show me the cut. Much shorter than I usually wore my hair, but it looked lovely all the same.

            “Have you ever had a job before?” she asked, brushing the stray clippings from my shoulders. “Taking care of customers, I mean.”

            “Sure,” I lied.

“Want to work here for a few days? Until you get back on your feet.”

“Really?”

“It’ll just be cleaning and ringing up customers. Nothing too glamorous.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “I was nineteen once. I know the drill.”

            “That’s very nice, but I don’t even have a place to stay.”

            She smiled at my reflection. “Maybe I can help with that too.”

            Turned out Suzanne had a spare room over her garage that she occasionally rented to people passing through town, or locals with trouble at home who needed a place to crash for the night. The room was unoccupied at the moment and Suzanne said I could stay at no charge. Until I got back on my feet, she stressed.

            I hopped out of the styling chair and immediately got to work. The job was easy. I’d greet each customer when they came in and mark them off in the appointment book, then ring them up at the end. I’d also sweep the floor and wipe down the cutting station between clients, and Suzanne would send me into the stockroom for bottles of shampoo or conditioner or whatever product she needed at a moment’s notice. Every client was particular, and she knew each one’s preferences by heart. The entire day whooshed by as ladies bustled in and out the door.

By six-thirty, when the salon closed and I finished my final sweep-up, my arms and legs felt like rubber and I was dizzy from all the chemical smells. Suzanne took five twenties from the till and handed them to me. “You can’t tell anyone I’m paying you like this,” she said quietly.

            We left the salon and walked to Suzanne’s house, conveniently located a couple blocks away, and she carried my duffle up the stairs for me. The room was cozy, shaped like a little shoebox, and furnished with a twin-size bed and an antique nightstand.

            “Sorry there isn’t a TV,” Suzanne said, setting my duffle on the floor. “It’s been broken for years, and I don’t have cable anyway. What do you think?”

“I love it.”

            She grinned. “I’ll come get you tomorrow morning at eight. Make sure you’re ready to go. If I don’t open by nine, there’ll be hell—”

I was so happy I hugged her. She wasn’t expecting it and I nearly took us both to the floor. We had a long laugh.

            Everything’s happening so fast. One minute I’m working for Suzanne until I’m “back on my feet,” and a couple days later she’s talking about showing me advanced cutting techniques “down the road.” Maybe I’ll end up staying in this little town a little longer than expected. Cort won’t like that, but I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.

For now, I just want to enjoy my souvenirs. Once they’re arranged on the nightstand, I plop down on the mattress and look them over one by one, touching them, smiling at all the different memories they stir up. Now my little room feels more like home.

#

By Thursday, my fourth day, I’ve gotten used to the salon’s routine. The old birds stop by in the morning. Most are early risers who run errands first thing and nap after lunch. Ten to two is when the housewives visit. Husbands are at work, kids are at school, house is clean and empty—they usually stay the longest. The women with jobs trickle in during the late afternoon, straight from work in their tailored suits and expensive shoes. They usually seem frazzled when they walk in, but then Suzanne works her magic and they’ll look refreshed by the time they leave. Suzanne gets along with all of her clients, has nicknames and running jokes with each one. I bet she’s one of the most popular women in this town.

            Whenever someone I haven’t met comes in, Suzanne makes sure to introduce us. Most ask where I’m from, if I’m married or have children, how I like working at the salon. Everybody’s so nice. Well, almost everybody. I don’t care for some of them. Take Mrs. Stroud. She comes in Thursday during one of the afternoon lulls. Maybe I’m just cranky and sore in the knees by that time, but I take an immediate dislike as soon we lock eyes.

“Audrey,” Suzanne says, “this is Marsha Stroud.”

She holds out her hand like she expects me to kiss it. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Mm-hmm.” She turns to Suzanne. “I didn’t know you were hiring, Suzie.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Have you ever had anyone else working here? I’m trying to remember if—”

“No, but Audrey’s working out great.” Suzanne winks at me. “What’ll it be, Marsh?”

“The usual trim, bangs included. Use that lavender conditioner I love so much.”

“You got it.” Suzanne turns to me. “Go grab some Ken Rayburn from the back. Purple bottle, second shelf on the left.”

I nod and head to the stockroom. The conditioner is exactly where Suzanne says, but as I turn to leave another bottle catches my eye. Tall and slender, colored in a cool leafy-green with cursive black letters reading: Dr. Pete’s Summer Apple Shampoo. I remove the bottle from the shelf and open the cap, pressing my nostrils against the plastic as I take a deep whiff. The smell is intoxicating. Not sweet like candy or spicy like cider, but crisp and earthy, like apples fresh off the trees.

“Audrey?”

I whip around to find Suzanne standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Oh, I…sorry.”

“Marsha doesn’t like to wait.” She walks over and eyes the bottle in my hand. “What do you have there?”

I show her the bottle. “I was just smelling. It’s lovely.”

“Take that one home if you want. I don’t use it very often.”

            “I’ll pay for—”

            “It’s fine, Audrey. Really.” She takes the lavender conditioner and smirks at me on the way out. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

#

            I lie in bed that night, holding the bottle of Summer Apple Shampoo under my nose, and drift off thinking of George. It’s been less than a week but I already miss him dearly.

I’d spent most of that hot Wednesday afternoon trying to hitch without any luck, and by the time I reached George’s farmhouse I was thirsty, sweaty and covered with road dust. I must have looked like a wreck, but you wouldn’t have known it from the way George smiled at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Come on inside,” he said. “There’s lemonade and sandwich fixin’s in the fridge.”

He sat at the table with me while I scarfed down my sandwich and gulped two glasses of lemonade. When I was finished, he cleared my dishes and asked what brought me to his doorstep. One mention of the h-word and he shook his head disapprovingly.

“Young lady like you shouldn’t be walking the road alone. Get yourself kilt that way.”

“Everyone’s been nice so far.”

“So far only gets you so far, Amy. Where you headed?”

“Westport.”

            George cringed. “You’re still five hours out, at least, and a lot of that’s interstate. Can’t hitchhike on that.” He poured himself a glass. “You in a hurry?”

            I shrugged.

            “If you’ve got a few days to spare, I could use another pair of hands with the harvest. Seems like you could use some extra scratch too.”

            “Harvest?”

            “I got a hundred acres of Honeycrisp apples down the road. It’s pickin’ season.”

            A big smile drew across my face. I’ve loved apples ever since I was little girl. Apple pie, applesauce, apple slices with cinnamon on top of my pancakes. I ate apples so often when I was a girl that Momma used to call me her little worm.

            George went on. “I don’t like handing out money. Makes people lazy. But put in the work and I’ll pay you fair, twenty-five dollars a bin. If you don’t slack off you can fill five, six bins a day.”

            “I won’t slack off.”

            “No,” he grinned, “don’t imagine you will.”

Those days in the orchard were heavenly. Standing on the tall ladder with a pail slung over my shoulder, running my fingers through the leaves, listening for that little pop when the stems snapped off, feeling the morning sun on my face and chasing the shade when the afternoon heat set in. Most of the other workers didn’t speak a lick of English but I made friends with a few señoritas who understood me well enough. One of them started bringing me homemade tamales for lunch. Muy flaco, she’d tease me, poking at my ribs. The tamales used to melt in my mouth. I could’ve eaten a hundred and still wanted more.

And that rich apple smell, sweet and juicy and a little sour. So thick it made the air feel heavier. In the late afternoons, right before we finished for the day, I’d sneak beneath a shade tree and lean my head against the trunk to close my eyes and breathe in the delicious aroma.

            I worked four days in the orchard and George paid me fair, as promised. It was so hard to say goodbye when Monday morning came. Now I have his apple-peeling knife to remember him by. Just feeling the whalebone between my fingers brings back so many vivid memories of that place. The weight of the pail, the brush of leaves against my skin, warm tamales melting on my tongue, the sad-eyed look on George’s face when I said, “Thanks for everything,” and walked out the farmhouse door.

            It’s funny, I would have stayed at George’s place longer if I hadn’t been so worried about Cort getting angry. But if I hadn’t left at that very moment, I might not have met Suzanne. Now I’m here in this room, with food in my stomach and money in my pocket. The whole trip’s been like that, with each stop of the journey leading to the next destination. I wonder where I’ll go next. Westport, perhaps, or another place along the way. No matter where, I’ll end up there because I was here first. And I’ll have Suzanne to thank, just like George and all the others before her. The world’s so kind, sometimes I get sad just thinking about it.

#

            “Were you serious the other day about wanting to cut hair?” Suzanne asks during our Friday morning walk to the salon. She’s been oddly silent since knocking on my bedroom door.

            “Yeah.” I shrug. “I guess so.”

            “Long days on your feet. Sometimes you miss lunch.”

            “That’s alright. I can go awhile without eating.”

            She takes a deep breath. “Audrey…you like working for me so far?”

            “Of course. Everything’s been wonderful.”

            “I’m glad, because I think you’re an exceptional employee. Everyone seems to like you. I’d like to hire you on. Make it legal, no more paying you out of the till. And if you’re truly interested in cutting hair, maybe I could sponsor you. Down the road, that is. Those cosmetology courses for your license can be expensive.”

            “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course.” Her eyes drift away. “Thing is, I’ve never had an employee before. Just me. I’ve preferred it that way. But I’ve been doing this job for seventeen years and lately I’ve been feeling aches in my hands. Not every day, but often enough. It’d be nice to have someone who could take care of the clients if I need to take some time off.”

            “I understand.”

            “I know you’re trying to get to Westport for your boyfriend. I don’t want to interfere. But you seem really happy here.” She flashes a stern glance. “If he really loves you, he’ll come to you. Don’t live your life on his terms.”

God, she sounds like Momma right now.

“He’s a good man,” I tell her.

            “I know, sweetie, I’m not—”

            “He loves me, Suzanne. More than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Friday turns out to be the busiest shift yet. The salon is packed from opening well into the late afternoon. A lot of the women don’t even get their hair done, they only come in to socialize, and some drink wine and champagne. Like they’re throwing themselves a little party. Suzanne says it’s like this every week.

I wish I could enjoy the festivities, but I’m a mess the whole shift. Forgetting names, losing count at the register, fetching the wrong bottles from the stockroom. This whole dilemma is so distracting. I hate letting people down, and now—no matter what I do—I’ll have to disappoint someone dear to me, either the man I love or this kind woman who’s helped me so much. But deep down, there’s only one choice that makes sense right now. Cort will have to understand.

Around five, after most of the clients have cleared out, I take Suzanne aside in the back office, where no one can hear us. “If the offer’s still open,” I say, “I’d like to work here. At least for—”

This time, it’s Suzanne hugging me.

“I’m so glad to hear it,” she says after a long beat. “I’ll have you fill out the forms tomorrow.”

“Forms?”

“You know, hiring forms. Speaking of which, could I borrow your license?”

 “My what?”

“Your driver’s license. I need to scan it for my records.” I must look freaked because she gives me an odd look. “You’ve done this for your other jobs, haven’t you?”

“Right. I…I left my license at home.”

“No problem, just bring it tomorrow.” She nods toward the entrance. “Go keep an eye on the door. I need to do a few things back here.”

I nod obediently and walk out to the main room. Panic starts to squeeze me around the gut once I’m alone. Suzanne never said anything to me about filling out forms. And she needs a driver’s license too? I should have just told her I don’t have a license, but now that I’ve lied she might get suspicious. God, Cort’s right. Sometimes my eyes are too big for my brain.

The front door creaks open. I glance up, half-distracted, and nearly choke on air when a woman in a police uniform walks into the salon. Badge on her chest, gun at her side, handcuffs jangling on the back of her belt. Her hair is stunning, blond and wavy in a clean, shoulder-length cut. She looks equally surprised to see me.

“Hello there.” She has a softer voice than I expected. “Suzanne around?”

“Oh…yeah.”

She smiles patiently. “Mind telling her I’m here?”

Right on cue Suzanne emerges from the back office.

“Rosie,” she says, tapping her wristwatch. “Thought I had you for four-thirty.”

“I know, I know. I got caught up on the highway. This drunk guy overcorrected and…anyway, I’m here now.”

Suzanne walks over to the sink. “Audrey, this is Deputy Loeb. Rosie to me. She’s always late. But she doesn’t ticket my car so I let it slide.”

“Just because I haven’t caught you yet.” Deputy Loeb extends her hand and gives me a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Audrey.”

“Likewise.”

“New in town?”

“Yep. Just…got here.”

“It’s a nice place.” She leans in with a smirk. “I make sure of it.”

I don’t take another full breath until Deputy Loeb’s head is in the sink. Once she’s in the chair, I start wiping off the counters with my head down, both eyes away from hers, but I can feel her watching me in the mirror. Maybe she recognizes me. Maybe she knows.

No, I can’t afford to think like that.

#

            “Addie,” Cort snaps, “did you hear what I said?”

            “Huh? Oh. Yeah, baby.”

            “What’d I say then?”

            He’s got me there. Then again, he’s been looking to pick a fight for the last five minutes. It was only a matter of time until he found something to pounce on.

            “That’s what I thought,” he grumbles.

            “Sorry, I’m distracted.”

            “What’s on your mind?”

            “You. And Suzanne.”

            “C’mon, spill it.”

            “She wants to hire me at the salon, which is great, but then she asked about my driver’s license and told me I have to sign some forms for—”

            There’s a loud, hollow rattle on the other end. Cort slamming down his beer bottle on the coffee table. I’d recognize it anywhere.

            “Damn it, Addie. Use your head, girl. If they find out who you are, that’s it. Understand?”

“What should I do then? She’ll fire me if I don’t go along.”

            “What should you do?” He mutters something under his breath. “How about getting your skinny ass to Westport like we discussed? It’s been almost two weeks since you left Casper. Could’ve made it in two days if you tried.”

            Well, here goes.

“Cort…I wanna stay here longer. Save up some more, so I’m not broke when I get to the coast. If Suzanne lets me stay, that is. I know it isn’t what you want…but it is what I want.”

            Cort doesn’t reply at first but I can hear him snorting like a rodeo bull. I hate these moments, right before he tears into me, knowing I’ll probably cry and yell at him and hate myself before the conversation’s over. But then he surprises me and lowers his voice.

            “You like it there, huh?”

            “It’s peaceful. Everyone’s so nice.”

            “You said that already.”

            “I’ll make it to Westport. I just need a little more time.”

            “Promise?”

            “Baby, what have I been saying?”

            “There’s saying and there’s doing.”

            “I know, Cort.”

            It’s times like this when I miss him the most. We used to fight back in Casper, too. When the hard part was over, he’d lie down next to me on the bed, both arms draped over me, and all was forgiven. Now I have to imagine how that feels. Each day without him, his body becomes harder to remember.

            “Alright, here’s what you do,” he says, “Anyone know your real name?”

            “Nope. They call me Audrey.”

            He chuckles softly. “Audrey?”

            “Oh, shut up. You know I prefer using names that sound like mine. I’ve already used Maddie, Allie and Amy. Besides, I like Audrey. It’s sophisticated.”

            “Whatever you say, madam. Look…just fill out your forms with that name and make up the rest.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Well, you can’t give your real name and address, can you?”

            “Won’t she figure it out?”

            “Those forms are just for taxes. Susan’ll stick ‘em in a drawer and forget about ‘em ‘til next spring, and by then you’ll be—”

            “Her name’s Suzanne.

“What’d I say?”

“I hope you’re right.”

            “Girl, I’m always right.”

            We say our goodbyes a moment later. Once the light’s off, I start to worry again. Not about Suzanne or Cort or getting to Westport, nothing in particular, just a tingling, uneasy feeling that cuts through me like a full body shiver.

I reach for the nightstand and grab the first souvenir within reach. Momma’s blue cotton apron. It still smells like flour and cinnamon. I hold the cloth to my face and breathe in deeply. Suddenly I’m five years old, sitting on the floor of the kitchen, playing with my favorite ragdoll while she bakes apple cobbler. Then it’s Thanksgiving—I’m big enough to help her unload the turkey from the oven. Then it’s my last day at home, right before I left town with Cort. She was in the kitchen when we walked in. How she held me close, warm tears rolling down. “Addie,” she whispered, “I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”

            Next thing I know I’m sobbing into my pillow. I try not to let my mind drift toward the unhappy times. That’s not what the souvenirs are for. But sometimes I just can’t help it. Sad memories are as much a part of this journey as the ones that make me smile.

#

            Saturday is a half-day shift and Suzanne opens the salon an hour later than usual, which means I get to sleep in a bit. I would get to sleep in, that is, if I hadn’t been lying awake in bed since four, staring at the popcorn bubbles on the ceiling, squeezing my fists to keep from crying more. One of those mornings. Even a ten-minute shower can’t set me straight.

Suzanne knocks on the door at eight and gives me a worried head tilt when I open it. I guess my mascara isn’t doing its job.

            “You alright, hon?”

            “Didn’t sleep well.”

            “If you want to stay home, I—”

            “It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

            “Got your license?”

            “Actually…I looked last night and…I think I lost it.”

            “You’ve lost your driver’s license?”

            “Must’ve slipped out somewhere.”

            “What about a birth certificate or a passport—?”

            “Sorry.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Alright, well…come on, we’ll figure it out at the salon.”

Suzanne keeps casting concerned glances at me during our walk down the street, but I ignore her, keeping my eyes pointed in the other direction. I’m too tired for another heart-to-heart.

She prints off the hiring forms as soon as we get to the salon, then stands over me while I fill them out. First, I write the name. Audrey…George. I actually like that. Sounds a lot nicer than Addie Bucknell, anyway. The address is easy—I ask to use Suzanne’s, and she doesn’t object. For my Social and telephone number I write random digits, but I use my real birthday. The same day and month, that is, with two years added, since I’ve been telling Suzanne I’m nineteen.

            Most of my Saturday shift is fairly smooth. The appointment schedule is lighter, which means the clients stay in the chair longer and there’s less hair to sweep, fewer trips to the stockroom. I start to perk up at the halfway mark, remembering I won’t have to work again until Monday morning. What to do with myself on my day and a half off? I could take Suzanne out for lunch tomorrow at one of the cafes, my treat, and I’ve got enough saved up to buy one of those pretty boutique dresses—just one, since I’m saving for other things. I daydream about the possibilities while the last two hours tick by on the wall clock.

            Then, with less than thirty minutes to go, she walks in.

            “Audrey.” Mrs. Stroud sounds constipated. “You’re still here.”

            “Afternoon, ma’am.”

            “Yes, I suppose it is the afternoon. Where’s Suzanne? I’m wondering if she can squeeze me in.”

            I nod toward the office. Suzanne’s been back there since the last client left. “I’m sure she’ll be out shortly.”

Mrs. Stroud hangs her coat on the rack and sits in the chair next to the sink. I glance over and catch her narrowing both eyes at me.

“Where are you from, Audrey?” she finally asks.

            “Here and there. No place in particular.”

            “You look very familiar.”

            I squeeze the broom handle to keep my hands from shaking. “Not sure where you would’ve seen me. I’m new in town.”

            “This may be a strange question, but have you ever been on television?”

            “No.”

            “It’s uncanny. I swear I’ve seen you, I just—”

            “You haven’t.”

            “Sorry?”

Easy, girl. I keep my eyes on the broom, too rattled at first to realize I’m sweeping a clean spot. “I mean…people always tell me that. I guess I have one of those faces.”

            Suzanne enters the room from the back office and walks to the sink, smiling politely at Mrs. Stroud. “Audrey,” she says quietly. “Go get me some Ken Rayburn.”

            There’s a strange distance in her voice, like she’s talking in her sleep, and I don’t like the way her eyes dig into me when she walks by. I nod and head toward the stockroom, but stop cold when Mrs. Stroud pipes up again.

            “Suzie, doesn’t Audrey look like somebody? I swear I’ve seen her on television.”

            Suzanne shrugs. “Beats me, Marsh. I don’t have a TV.”

            Mrs. Stroud cranes her neck toward me. “What’s your last name, Audrey? Maybe that will jog my memory.”

            “Um…George.”

            “Audrey George. Audrey George.” Mrs. Stroud says my name a few times, enunciating different syllables. “Were you ever—?”

            I throw the broom to the floor. The handle rattles loudly against the tiles.

            “You’ve never seen me before, alright?”

Her head shoots up from the sink. “Excuse me?”

            “I’ve never been on TV. Just shut up about it.”

“Audrey,” Suzanne snaps. “Go to the office.”

            “But I—” She thrusts a trembling finger toward the door. “Fine.”

            I skulk to the back of the room, glancing at the mirror long enough to see the satisfied smile on Mrs. Stroud’s face as she leans back over the sink. What I wouldn’t give to walk over and hold her head underwater, just for a minute or two. Then we’ll see who’s smiling.

#

            The salon is empty when Suzanne finishes with Mrs. Stroud, so she locks the door and flips the window sign to CLOSED. I’ve been peeking at her through the cracked office door since she sent me back here. When she finally walks in, I sit up straight in my chair and pretend to be reading a catalog.

            “Audrey,” she says, closing the door behind her, “you cannot talk to my clients like that.”

            “But she—”

            “I know, Marsha’s a pill. She’s also a regular who tips well. Thankfully, I’m the only place in town that carries her lavender conditioner.” She takes a seat in the chair opposite me and takes a deep breath. “You won’t be able to work here.”

            “I’ll apologize to her, it’s—”

            “No…these forms you gave me. Your Social Security Number isn’t registered, the phone number you gave is out of service. Then there’s the missing license. Is your name really Audrey George?”

            I swallow hard. The fluorescent lights feel ten times brighter. “I wouldn’t lie, Suzanne.”

            “Are you…” She trails off, searching for the right words. “Honey, are you in trouble?”

            “No.”

            “I know it isn’t my business, but does this have to do with your boyfriend? If he’s endangering you, then I can help. But you need to be straight with me about who you are.”

“I didn’t lie. Honest.”

            Suzanne’s lower lip quivers but she doesn’t cry. I bet she never does.

            “Alright,” she says gently. “You can stay at the house tonight, but I want you out in the morning.”

            Suzanne snatches her coat and purse from the desk, and a moment later I follow her out of the office. Our walk back to the house is torture. Single-file down the sidewalk, not a word or a glance between us. I go straight to my room when we get home but I’m too tired to start packing right away so I just lie down on the bed and close my eyes. I’m about to drift off when Cort calls.

            “You sound tired,” he tells me.

            “I didn’t sleep last night.”

            “Sorry, babe. I—”

            “Suzanne fired me.”

            Cort goes quiet for a moment. “You don’t have a job anymore?”

            “Nope. Want to guess why?”

            “How would—?”

            “Those stupid forms. You said she wouldn’t even look at them. She ran a check on me today, Cort. Now she knows I lied about everything.”

            “Does this mean you’re leaving soon?”

There isn’t a trace of surprise in his voice.

            “You knew this would happen?”

            “How was else was I supposed to get you to leave? You’re talking about staying in that dumpy little town, cutting hair for the rest of your life.”

“How dare you. I was—”

“How dare I? You spoiled little bitch. You left me on the side of the road, remember?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“I told you what to do, where to go. But you didn’t listen. Now here we are. Hope you’re happy, Addie.”

He ends the call without another word. No goodbye. No I love you. No sleep tight, honey. Probably just as well. I won’t sleep much tonight.

I can hear Suzanne puttering around in the dining room while I’m packing the souvenirs into my duffle. She finally retires to her room around ten. I wait a few more minutes before sneaking down to the living room, where she hangs her keys on a little hook near the door. As quietly as I can, I remove the salon key from her ring and slip outside into the cool, starry summer night.

With the duffle over my shoulder, I start down the main block. One last stop before I hit the highway, and then I’ll be on my way to Westport. Again.

#

            “Not yet,” Cort told me. “Keep going.”

            My hands were too shaky to steer straight, and my tears were so thick I could barely see out the windshield. If any other vehicles had been on the road, we might have crashed. But we’d been off the highway for more than twenty minutes, and there wasn’t another pair of headlights or taillights in sight.

            “Just a little…further.”

            “We gotta stop,” I sobbed.

            Blood had spread from the hole in Cort’s stomach across the front of his T-shirt. His summer tan had drained to an ashy grey, and every time he breathed I heard a gurgle in the back of his throat. His eyes were bluer than ever, like they knew something I didn’t.

            It was my fault. Cort told me to watch the car’s owner while he loaded our stuff inside. Keep the gun on him, Cort said. Shoot him if he moves. It was a windmill in the distance. Only caught my eye for a few seconds, those huge blades turning in the breeze. By the time I looked back the man already had his pistol out, aiming at Cort. He squeezed his trigger before I could squeeze mine. He didn’t miss. Neither did I.  

            Cort rolled down his window and threw his gun into the brush.

            “What are you doing?” I asked, half-shrieking.

            “Lose the car too. Don’t drive it after today.”

            “What?”

            “Get where you need to and leave it behind.”

The blood pooled on the seat beneath him, filling the space around his jeans. With one eye on the road, I reached into my duffle between the seats and pulled out a blouse. “Here.” I shoved it against Cort’s chest. “Put pressure on it.”

            “Addie, stop.”

            “Do as I say!”

            “Stop the car.”

            I didn’t understand. The scenery hadn’t changed in ten miles. Same cottonwoods and yellow grass, same clouds casting puffy shadows on the road.

            “Here?”

            “Help me back in that grass.”

            “Cort, you need—”

            “Addie, I’m just asking for this one thing.”

            I hammered the brakes and killed the engine. Cort slumped out as soon as I opened the passenger door, held in place with his seatbelt. I unbuckled it and eased him down to the dirt. He could walk with one arm around my shoulder, at least for the first few yards off the road. Once we entered the grass, he started to stumble.

            “Just up ahead,” he said.

            “Up ahead where?”

“We’ll be there soon.”

            The grass grew taller the further we moved. Soon the blades were brushing my shoulders and scratching my neck. The sun broke through the clouds and heat rose from the soil. The sweat made his arms slip.

            “I can’t go much further, baby,” I told him.

            He slipped his arm from my shoulder and tumbled to the dirt. I rolled him onto his back but he was too heavy for me to lift. The tears made me choke.

            “Cort, you need to get up.”

            “Feels nice.”

            “I can’t just leave you.”

            Then he whispered something I couldn’t quite hear. It sounded like, “whisper.”

            “Whisper? What do you—?”

            He reached up and grabbed my arm, his hand clenching tightly.

            “No,” he said, blood filling his mouth. “Westport.”

            “Westport?”

            He smiled and let go, leaving a bloody ring on my forearm, then laid his head down and closed his eyes.

#

            I unlock the salon door and glance in both directions before entering. There isn’t a single person in sight. Apart from a bar lit up around the corner, all of the neighboring buildings are dark. Even on Saturday night, this town is sleepy.

            Using the countertop to guide me through the darkness, I make my way to the cash register. Suzanne stashes most of the money in her office safe but she keeps a couple hundred in the register, ready to go for the next shift. Between this and the money I’ve made this week, plus what’s left of my apple-picking earnings, I’ll be in decent shape when I reach Westport. Assuming I get there soon.

            The register clangs open, and I slip all the twenties and fives into my pocket. I sling the duffle over my shoulder and take one final look around the salon, breathing in the shampoo and conditioner smells one last time. Then I turn around and my breath catches when I see Suzanne standing in the open doorway. Her face materializes as the lights flicker on.

            “You know,” she says quietly, “I thought you were the answer to my prayers at first. But this makes more sense.”

            “Suzanne, I—”

            “Don’t bother. The police are on their way.”

            “What?”

            “I heard you leave through the front door.” She sighs. “I was hoping you’d head straight for the highway, but I had a funny feeling. Now here we are.”

She reaches into her purse and removes something shiny. My heart does somersaults when I realize it’s a handgun. She waves the muzzle toward the door.

“Come on, Audrey. Or whatever your name is.”

“You have a gun?”

“I’m a single, middle-aged woman. Of course I own a gun.”

I nod and walk to the door. She keeps her eyes on me, narrowing them with each step that brings me closer.

“Stop there. Turn around, hands on the counter.”

“Suzanne, I’m begging you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s my boyfriend. You can’t let him find me.”

Her lips tremble. “Do as I say.”

“He’ll kill me, he said so. I…I had to get away.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” The gun rattles in her hands. “I would have given you the money if…you looked me in the eye, Audrey.”

“I was so scared.”

“I’m not asking again. Turn around.”

It’s no use. I can’t talk my way out of this one.

“Here,” I say, reaching into my pocket, “here, take the money.”

“You think I care about that now?”

“Seriously.” I take a step closer. “I don’t want it.”

“Back up.”

“I’m so sorry Suzanne.”

“I told you, back—”

I pull out the peeling knife and sweep it through the air, one quick motion. The blade’s so sharp, it barely staggers when it passes through the soft skin around Suzanne’s throat. Her eyes narrow at as she brings both hands to her neck, dropping the gun. Then the blood comes, oozing between the gaps in her fingers. I’m not quick enough to catch her as she falls to the floor, so I crouch down and hold her head up with both hands. The blood runs warm against my skin. She opens her mouth but can’t speak.

“Sshhhhhh. It’s alright,” I tell her.

I squeeze strands of her hair in my hands, cradling her head in place while her body shakes. Her eyes are still on me. Wide, brimming with tears, furious and terrified. I gently set her head on the floor. As her breaths fall short, I reach down and squeeze her hand. For whatever reason, she squeezes back.

“Thanks for everything,” I say softly.

Snatching up the gun and my duffle, I run to the door but I’ve waited too long. The police cruiser turns the corner as I step outside. I slip the gun into the back waistband of my jeans as the car pulls up to the curb. Deputy Loeb quickly gets out. Seeing the blood on me, she races over.

“Audrey?”

“It’s Suzanne,” I wail. “She’s inside.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I heard a struggle, and then a man ran out—”

The deputy brushes past me and I follow her back into the salon. She kneels over Suzanne, checking for a pulse.

“Towel,” she snaps. “Get me a towel.”

I toss her a hand towel from the cutting station. As she presses the cloth against Suzanne’s throat, I step back and stand behind her, over her left shoulder.

“Suzanne?” the deputy says. “Can you hear me, honey?” She cranes her neck toward me. “Call 911.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

I slip Suzanne’s gun out of my waistline.

“Run out to my cruiser and get the handheld radio. It’s on the passenger seat.”

I level the muzzle of the gun with the back of Deputy Loeb’s skull. The gun feels heavy and cold in my hands.

“Audrey, now.”

It’s a pity. The deputy really does have lovely hair.

#

Authorities are still searching for Gleason and Bucknell, who were last seen together more than two weeks ago outside Casper, Wyoming. Sheriff Kilmer told reporters on Friday he believes Gleason has most likely fled to another state, or possibly Canada. The sheriff also stressed that the search for Bucknell is still underway, despite no—

            “Here,” Gary says, cutting to static as he flips the radio dial, “let’s have some music.”

            Gary has a deep voice like an opera singer and his curly red beard spreads down to his collar.

            “What was that?” I ask. “The story we were just listening to?”

            “That?” He arches an eyebrow at me. “You haven’t heard? Been all over the news.”

            “I don’t watch the news. It makes me sad.”

            Gary laughs heartily. “I get that. Nah, there’s just this crazy guy out there. He was datin’ some high school girl out in Wyomin’. Her mother told her she couldn’t go out with him. So he goes to their house, shoots the mother dead, kidnaps the girlfriend. Then he…” He trails off. “You sure you wanna hear this? It’s as sad a story as you’ll hear.”

            I nod. It sounds strange, listening to someone else tell it.

            “Anyway, he shoots some fella on the side of the road and steals his car. Then they’re sayin’ he drove to some farmhouse, killed the old lady who lived there and left the car in her barn. That’s all they know. No one’s seen him for a couple weeks.”

            “What about the girl?”

            “Ain’t found her, either. Hope she’s alright, but with…yeah, I hope she’s alright. I’ll leave it at that.”

            My hands still shake a little, but they get steadier with each passing milepost. After leaving the salon, I changed my clothes on the side of the road and found a creek bed to wash the blood off my skin. I must’ve done a decent job because Gary hasn’t mentioned anything about my appearance since he picked me up. The darkness helps. Sunrise could change everything, but I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.

            “What kind’a music you like?” Gary asks. “Oldies?”

            “Sure.”

            He turns the dial and the static fades into the final verses of ‘Here Comes the Sun.’ One of Cort’s favorites. I’d know it anywhere. I can practically hear him singing the refrain, strumming along on that cheap guitar his dad gave him.

            “Can I ask you something, Ashley?”

            “Sure.”

            “What’s a girl like you doin’ hitchin’ on the highway late at night?”

            “I’ve got places to be.”

            “Where you headed?”

            “Westport. Ever been?”

            “Sure, a few times. Pretty nice this time of year.”

            “My boyfriend’s expecting me. It’s his favorite place.”

            “He’s got good taste.” He drums his hands on the steering wheel, following the beat. “‘Fraid I can’t take you the whole way. I’m stoppin’ in Tacoma, where my girls are. But it won’t be far from there. Might even be a bus if you can wait ‘til mornin’.”

            “That’s fine. I’ll get there when I get there.”

Gary turns down the radio. “Sleep if you’re tired, I don’t mind.”

            “Thanks.”

            I reach for the duffle between my legs and open the flap. On top of the clothes and other souvenirs rests my bottle of Dr. Pete’s Summer Apple Shampoo. I take it out of the bag, pop up the cap and bring it close to my nose, inhaling as deeply as I can. One whiff and the memories come racing back. Bumping into Suzanne on the sidewalk, listening to water splash in the rinsing sink, sweeping up all that hair, standing in the stockroom while the smells overpower me. And Suzanne, poor, sweet, Suzanne. I’ll miss that salon. So many lovely things to remember.

            Gary nods at the bottle. “What do you have there?” he asks me.

            “A souvenir I picked up.”

            “Souvenir? Just a bottle of shampoo, ain’t it?”

            I wish he hadn’t said that. It really ruined the moment.

Ben Gamblin is the pen name of a professional writer who publishes crime and mystery fiction. He lives in Tacoma, WA, with his partner and several critters of various sizes.

Trish frantically shook the can of spray paint. It made a click click click sound, a sound she now subconsciously associated with panic, hurry, alarm. 

The row of trees in front of her, trunks stained dark from a recent storm and skeletal branches reaching into the gray January sky. She marked the first with a large orange X, a bright contrast over its black bark.

She moved to the next, and then the next, slashing out with the hand clutching the can. 

X. X. X.

Heart hammering, she finished, and shoved the can into her rucksack. She then lowered the scarf covering her nose and mouth and looked back to the road. 

The banged-up SUV still sat where she had parked it, engine idling, in the growing shadow of the graffiti covered overpass. 

This stretch of I-70 cut through the dense, hilly countryside. Around her, the trees remained still and silent. As if the woods were suspended in time, under the spell of an evil witch from one of the fairytales her mother used to read to her as a child. 

Her mother…

Trish forced the thought away and reached for the Beretta 9M holstered at her hip. Gun raised, she cautiously made her way down the embankment and back to the SUV. She slid into the driver’s side, pushing her rucksack into the backseat, and engaged the locks. 

Breathing heavy, she jammed the gun into her holster and checked the time. 

The walkie on the dash crackled. 

“Trish, this is Base. Do you copy? Over.”

She grabbed the walkie.

“Trish here.” She wiped at her nose. “Finished marking the west line at Exit 39.” 

Her eyes darted right, toward the east.

“Waiting on Greta, over.”

More static.

“Do you have a visual on her? Over.”

Sweat sprouted on her brow, dampening the dark tangle of bangs hanging in her eyes. 

“That’s a negative, over.”

There was a pause on the other end of the walkie.

“Give her five more minutes. No more. Over.”

“Affirmative,” Trish said. “Over and out.”

She set the walkie down and flipped open the glove compartment, pulling out a stale, crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. 

Her hand closed around a Zippo lighter in her jacket pocket, and pulling it out, Trish ran a thumb over the naked woman silhouette on its silver case.

She stuck a cigarette between her lips, brought the Zippo up and flicked open the lid.

A tiny orange flame danced in the deepening twilight.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Trish screamed, and the partially lit Marlboro fell from her mouth. Tiny red embers exploded in her lap.

“Let me in!” Greta screamed, pounding her fists into the passenger side door.

Slapping at her lap with one hand, Trish hit the unlock button with the other. 

Her partner jumped into the SUV, cursing.

“What the fuck, Trish?”

“Sorry,” Trish said, cracking her window and tossing the ruined cigarette. “Did you see something?”

“Yeah.” Greta grabbed the pack of Marlboros and Zippo, lit up her own cigarettes. She took in one long, shaky inhale.

“More than one something.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it back.”

Greta’s eyebrow shot up.

“I bet you are. If I didn’t, people would really start to believe you’re bad luck. More than bad luck,” she muttered.

“Cursed.”

“How do you think I feel?” Trish asked. “Losing so many partners?”

Greta took another inhale and stared at her warily. 

“Being a marker is a dangerous gig. I knew that when I signed up, and so did you.”

“And so did the twelve people you worked with before me,” Greta replied. 

Suddenly very tired, Trish switched on the headlights. The stretch of road in front of them was dark and empty.

“Let’s just get the fuck out of her,” Greta said, and cracked her window, tapping out ash from her cigarette. She stared into the darkening woods on the east side of the embankment. 

Trish looked too, and thought she saw movement between the shadow draped trees.

“Sure, okay,” Trish said, and removed the gun from her holster. In one swift movement, she slammed the butt of the Beretta into Greta’s left temple and the girl crumpled over in her seat.

Heart hammering again, Trish shifted into drive and stomped her foot hard on the gas. The SUV peeled out, fishtailing to the right, then to the left, before rocketing forward.

As the stars began to appear in the velvety blanket of night above, human-like shapes emerged from the tree line on each side, moving in jerky, disjointed herds down the embankment onto the road. 

Thirty miles south, Trish exited the highway and took a long, windy two-lane road further into the country. The same witch’s spell cast over the woods behind the marked trees seem to extend here. She passed no other cars or signs of life. Or even signs of what had once been life. No houses or abandoned vehicles. 

Not even roadkill.

Eventually a structure did rise up in front of the SUV’s headlights, a tall barn constructed of wood so old, Trish wouldn’t be surprised if it had been built 100 years ago.

She veered off the road and drove through overgrown grass, not stopping until she was almost at the large door, hanging slightly skew on one broken hinge. 

Beside her, Greta groaned.

She was a petite girl, but lean and well-muscled. Fast too, Trish thought, as she collected the unconscious Greta into her arms.

But not fast enough. 

Quickly, she approached the barn, kicking open the door. Once inside, Trish set her partner on the ground. 

A hole in the rafters let in light from the moon. It cast a shaft of bright white, like a crystal beam, into the center of the space. It landed on the closed door of a stall, probably for a horse. 

Trish could hear dragging sounds inside.

Grabbing Greta’s ankles, she pulled the girl across the barn.

“Hey mom,” she said, as she drew near. “Dinner time.”

Heather Santo is a chemist in Pittsburgh, Pa. She has studied biochemistry, forensic science and law. Her publications include stories with Bowery Gothic, Ink & Sword and Yellow Mama. Other stories are pending with The Stray Branch, Meduspod and Hybrid Fiction.

It started as a whisper, as good rumors tend to. What Miss Tarkington heard, or thought she heard, she relayed to her lady-friends at their weekly game of Mahjong, Miss Hawthorne among them. Miss Hawthorne told her husband, who told Miss Kooser, who told Mr. Hollander, who told the Father, some nights later, as the two of them sat in a pub drinking beer. 

“You act as if the man hasn’t had his life destroyed,” Father Byrd said, speaking of Peter Tallis. “He’s allowed to be eccentric.”

“I’m only telling you what I know,” Mr. Hollander said.

“What you think you know.”

“I’ve never spoken to Peter outside of church.” He gestured to the low-ceiling, the wood-paneled walls, the brusque, ungainly men seated at the bar. “We tend to move in different circles. But he’s a good man.”

“You want me to make a house call?”

“I know silly rumors. I know how people speak of them. No one is smiling when they talk about this.”

Father Byrd went to the Tallis home the following day. It was out in the west end of town, situated on a small but rich plot of land, three stories high, long and narrow. Discordant notes from a piano floated out from an open window at odd intervals. He imagined that neighbors could hear loud noises from many houses down. It was late afternoon, sunny, mid-October.

Peter answered after the Father rang the doorbell a second time. His hair lay flat. His sharp face had been made bland, featureless. They were both small men, but Peter usually had a vitality to his movements that made him feel much bigger—now, though, his spirit seemed to have been consumed by his frame, and he was shrunken, like a man withering from starvation.

He looked at the Father as if he was a welcome stranger. A soft smile touched his lips.

“Hello, Peter.”

There were no lights on in the home, but the windows on the bottom floor were unadorned, and the sunlight that came in was strong. The whole would take on a blue-gray light whenever clouds passed over the sun. Stacks of paper—neat, ordered, labeled—covered the dining room table. The two men went into the kitchen and sat at that table instead. The coffee was burnt.

“Working again?” Father Byrd said.

“I never really stopped.”

“That’s good to hear. It’s been hard to tell, honestly. We haven’t seen you in some time.”

“I know.” Peter’s eyes shifted around. He bounced his one knee up and down, tapping some rhythm on it with his fingers. “It’s hard to go to church.”

Byrd frowned and nodded. “That’s true. Everything worthwhile is. The question becomes, how much pain are you willing to accept in order to return to life?”

“That’s a little unfair.”

“Is it? I never thought so.”

Peter put his hands up in a gesture of deference. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” A smile touched his lips again, and he tilted his head as if listening. “Here. Hold on.”

He left the room and returned with one of the stacks of paper. “Can you read music?”

“Not well.”

“Look.” He tapped the stack and set it down. Sheet music. The pages were grouped and separated by tabs. Newer drafts at the top, older drafts at the bottom. The notation was meticulous.

After he’d finished reading, Peter pointed at the pages.  “That’s the pain I’m willing to accept.”

And, as if summoned, a voice came rattling through static, reaching them from another room. “Dad?”

Peter tilted his head, his smile gone. He drew his pointed finger up to his lips.

Again. “Dad.” Tinny and coughed out.

“Excuse me,” Peter said. The Father could hear him going up the stairs. A door above was opened and then shut.

This makes the question a little easier, he thought.

He stood. A small cross hung over the sink. Its edges twinkled in the sun, the bronze Christ figure dull and chipped. Father Byrd looked for signs of corruption but could find none. No empty bottles or sour smells. Nothing out of place. The whole house had a deserted feel, and he left the room.

He had been at a party here some 10 years back, when Jay was an infant and Alma had still been around. Peter threw many parties then, ones that swelled with well-known people. They would come to Peter Tallis and lavish him and make him swell too. It was the only party of Peter’s that Father Byrd had attended. It was after the baptism. The people there had swallowed Byrd before Peter came around and pulled him out. He drew a bubble around them. There they were, two men of deep faith and swimming minds speaking in private amidst all that swelling about how much the church meant to them. How much the faith did for them. Peter had reached into a low green cabinet in a corner of the dining room, pulled out an old bottle, and poured them each a glass. Then he drew an index finger back to his mouth, nodded with a smile, and they drank.

The Father knelt down and opened the cabinet. It was stocked. The bottles were dusty. He raised himself and shut the cabinet and went into the foyer to wait for Peter. He could see into the living room off to the right with its large wooden furniture, the white-mantled fireplace with its cords of firewood stacked in a wrought-iron tub next to it. There was a black baby-grand Steinway. On it was a baby monitor.

Father Byrd went to it, held it, rubbing his gnarled thumb over the on/off nub. He could hear static and faint whispers—low voices, something like pleading or whining, he wasn’t sure. He placed his finger on the knob to turn up the volume, but stopped, hesitated, thought better of it. He set it down and returned to the foyer. After another couple of minutes, Peter came down, apologizing for his absence.

“How is Jay?”

Peter paused. Something in the Father’s voice seemed to catch him off guard. He considered, and then he smiled. “Jay’s why you’re here.”

“Of course. I hear he’s sick.”

Peter nodded.

“I understand you pulled him from school.”

“He was in and out of the hospital. Then he was in for a week straight. One of his school friends brings over his homework. We’re doing lessons when we can.”

“Does Alma know?”

“If you can find her, you can tell her.”

The foyer growing darker, the bars of sunlight on the floor shrinking. A half-moon as pale as chalk dust was stamped into the blue sky. They stood in silence until the Father slipped into his coat and threw his scarf around his neck.

“Do they know what it is?”

“They’re not sure. They’re still running tests.”

Peter opened the door and Father Byrd went outside, down the steps, and turned back at the bottom. “I thought it prudent to check on the boy. And you. Considering what I heard.”

“People like to listen,” Peter said. “But they don’t hear what I hear. Goodnight, Father.”

The priest got into his car and drove off. Peter stood in the doorway watching his neighborhood, listening.

*

            That night, Father Byrd was back at the pub. He was greeted at the door with cheers. Some of the men gripped his shoulder, said things like, “How you doing, Father,” or “Bless me father, for I have sinned,” and some of the women hugged him, smiling with laughter.

            He waded through the crowd—townie folks and old church heads—and moved towards the back of the place. There in a corner he saw Tom Hollander and a group of his chatty mates gathered around a table. Men and women, all of them pushing up against retirement age. Some of them had gone to school with the Father.

            “There he is,” Tom said, and pulled Byrd into their circle. “I’d a feeling you’d catch the gutter bug tonight.”

            “Now why’s that?”

            Sadie Kooser stared at the Father over her beer. “We heard you went to the Tallis household tonight. Went to see the brilliant Peter.”

            “This town doesn’t know how to keep it’s damn mouth shut.”

            Colin Hawthorne drew a shot of Jameson to his mouth and slurped it down. “Ain’t that the truth.” 

            “Well, what happened?” Sadie said.

            “That’s between him and the Big Man,” Tom said. “Don’t be hassling him to break his oath.”

            “Then why the hell do you think he came here, Tommy? To bless the wine?”

            “Actually,” Father Bird said, “I wanted to hear from all of you.”

            They looked at him as a group, wary of this sudden role reversal. A waitress came over, and Byrd bought everyone another round, ordered a High Life for himself. By the time the waitress had snaked back with the drinks, they were already knee-deep in the stories and hearsay.

            “I don’t know, I don’t spend too much time on that side of town.” Sadie’s arms were folded across her chest. The one corner of her mouth was curled in a tight smile. “Some of the bimbos that come into the hairdresser come from there though. And they always talk. They live to gossip. Their money can’t buy them happiness, so they suck happiness from the lives of others and tell me about it.”

            “I hear it too,” Colin said. “When the boys come back to the office, they’ll tell me about it. Sometimes, anyway. Not the screams too much. But they hear Peter. After they’re done mowing someone’s lawn or tilling their garden, they’ll hear it spilling down the block.”

            “What do they say?”

            Colin shrugged. “Music. Piano mostly. Every now and then they’ll hear his voice singing nonsense behind the piano, like he’s trying to fill in the space where the orchestra will go. Something like that.”

            “Some of my ladies hear the screams,” Sadie said. She was nodding now, looking off into a far corner of the bar. “It’ll break out in the middle of the night. It’s not crystal clear—I guess it could be two cats going at it or maybe a fox—but they seem certain.”

            “How do they know?”

            Sadie looked back at him then. “They hear the piano too.”

            When they were finished, Byrd sat back and rested his chin in palm. They kept themselves silent as the bar carried on, letting him think as well as he could.

            Then Tom said: “Well?”

            “I don’t know. He gave me nothing.”

            “Nothing?”

            “Nothing.”

            “There’s a lot to that,” Sadie said. “Don’t you think he’s hiding? Don’t you think there’s some truth to it?”

            “Probably. Yes. I don’t know.”

            “Don’t you have any ideas? Isn’t there something you could do?”

            Nothing came to them. Voices swelled up and people swirled around them, and all Father Byrd could think of was Peter Tallis staring, drawing a finger up to his smiling mouth, as if he was keeping a secret.

* 

Three weeks later, on a drizzly November morning, Father Byrd got a call. It was Peter. “I need you,” he said.

Byrd came to their home and met with the boy. Later that evening, it was still raining. Wreaths of hot breath circled their heads as they stood shivering under umbrellas so Peter could have a cigarette. He had taken up smoking again.

“Why now? Why not before?” the Father said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been weeks, Peter. Months. People know about this. They know that something’s wrong.”

“They don’t know like I know. You saw him, you saw his face.”

“This isn’t my area of expertise.”

“You must know someone.”

“These decisions are not made lightly.”

Three days later, Father Byrd took Peter to meet with Bishop Eckhart. He said the same things as the Father. He used the same words. “These decisions are not made lightly.” He would not hear it. Peter begged and was asked to leave.

When they were alone, the Bishop turned to Father Byrd. “What do you think?”

“You know my thoughts. The boy needs proper care.”

Eckhart leaned back in his chair, sighing. A massive gold crucifix hung on the wall behind him.  

“Do you believe it?” Byrd said.

The Bishop leaned forward. “It’s not about belief. What do you think is best?”

“For who?”

The Bishop shrugged. “For the boy, for the father.” He looked up at the ceiling and gestured his hands to the walls around them. “The Church.”

Father Byrd leaned forward and rested his fingers on the edge of the Bishop’s desk. “Proper care, Your Excellency.”

The Bishop frowned, nodded, looked up at Byrd. “I don’t want to touch this.”

When the Father called Peter that same night, Peter screamed at him. He told Byrd that he was gutless. “I am here every day. You don’t have to deal with this. You don’t have to know this.”

“Peter, it’s more complicated—”

“What about the rumors? People must hear something coming from my house. What do they say?”

He asked it again and again, and as he did, Father Byrd could hear something in the background, some loud baying noise that sounded filtered and cold and violent. “Do you hear this?” Peter said. “Do you hear what I am going through?”

The Father felt sick. He set the phone on his desk and put his head in his hands. Peter continued to scream.

“Take him to a hospital,” the Father said at last.

“You’re worthless.” He hung up.

Father Byrd stayed in his office, listening to the ticking of the rectory, the cold drizzle on the windowpanes and the siding, until he got up and went to the Tallis home. It was silent now. Dark except for low lamplight, and Peter let him inside. They sat at the dining room table, where the countless stacks of notation paper had been. They had been replaced with a single, neat stack, maybe half as thick as a notebook, printed in ink. There was still no title.

“Is it complete?” Father Byrd said. He was exhausted, unfocused. He felt the need to connect with this man somehow.

“Yes. Two movements.”

“When will it debut?”

“I’m still negotiating the terms.”

Then they turned their conversation back to Jay and came to an agreement. Byrd left as the noises began to start up again, promising that he would make the call.

*

Some days later, Bishop Eckhart was sitting alone in his office, doing paperwork, responding to emails. Outside, it was sunny and cold. He thought things had come to pass, and he ticked away the morning hours with coffee and the endless trivial tasks.

And then the phone rang. The voice that answered Eckhart was old and stern, and it reminded him of the Priests who had had taught him at the seminary. His name was Father Balbulus. The Bishop was aware of him. Balbulus insisted on a meeting and Eckhart relented and that same night, Balbulus was in the Bishop’s office.     

“Have you seen the boy?” Eckhart said.

Balbulus shook his head. “Not without your permission.” He was an old and gangly priest, thin and tall and busted up. He carried a cane and a wide-brim hat. His nose swelled out from under his eyes like the ragged burl of a tree.

“You don’t need permission to pay a visit.”

“I don’t do visits,” Balbulus said, and the Bishop understood. Balbulus was a man for whom inaction was a sin. There would be no visits. There would only be the ritual.

“What if you get there and you find something different? A tortured artist and his sick kid. What then?”

“This is not a pressure campaign, Your Excellency. I have the information I need. I won’t be there for the boy’s dad, I’ll be there for the boy.” Then he leaned in, his hands atop his cane, his nose and mouth curled into something like a snarl. “Know this though: if you’re consideration is anything but a matter of faith, you have already failed him.”

Eckhart leaned back. Balbulus had an angled way about his posture—his elbows atop his knees, his shoulders drawn up in a square, his head centered and slanted downward. The Bishop imagined it had taken a concerted effort by others to keep this man from power.

“You’ve spoken to Father Byrd then,” Eckhart said. 

“He assures me the boy’s been tested. ‘Put through the ringer.’ Those were his words.”

“Do you know who Peter Tallis is? Are you aware of his name? Do you know what this could mean for us if something bad were to happen to that child?”

“I don’t recall you caring when the diocese was creating victims of its own. But I suppose the Church has always let the Devil have its way with children.”

“You can’t even begin to know, you old fool. If you’re concerned about the boy then be concerned about the father. His name, what he’s done for us, the people he knows—this is not some moral dance routine, Balbulus, this is about Peter Tallis. I tell you, a devil lives in his soul but it’s not Satan.”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“His madness.”

“What came first?”

“You’re being reckless.”

“And you’re acting without faith. We are not doctors. We are not men of science.”

And, in some measure, the Bishop recognized this fact and was unable to shake it. “One chance,” he said later. “Byrd will be there on my behalf, not yours. Tomorrow. You’ll come here at 9am and the two of you will go over.”

Balbulus stood, nodded, and when the Bishop didn’t rise, he put on his hat and left.

*

            Eckhart called Byrd and told him to call Peter. It was nearly an hour before the Father got a hold of him, and when he did, Peter’s voice was short—bitter like dry wine. “No planning? Just roll in twelve hours from now and do it? How am I supposed to prepare?”

“We have a certain way. Look, I’ll be there, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried. What’s the priest’s name?” Eckhart told him and Peter sounded it out, syllable by syllable. There was a brief silence. “Ok.”

They spoke a little longer and then they were both quiet, and when Father Byrd was about to say goodbye, Peter stuttered.

“What was that?”

“Support. Could there be an audience? I mean, could I have my support there? People there for me?”

Father Byrd didn’t know what to say. He wanted to imagine Peter clinging to others out of love and need as his son slipped further and further away. But something in his voice made that difficult. Something in the words he chose.

“You can have support, Peter. But no one will be in that bedroom but Father Balbulus and I.”

Peter let out a long shuddering breath. “I can work with that,” he said. “That can work.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up.    

Byrd sat in his small office and considered the turn that things had taken. He considered the words that Peter had used, the one in particular. Audience.

A priest who was no longer with the parish had once referred to Peter as an ‘artist type’ before Byrd had gotten to know him well. He thought about the neat stack of notation paper sitting on the table in Peter’s house, waiting to be played. He thought about audiences, what they were, and what they meant. At length, he thought about Jay, who seemed so distant from this whole process, so shut out, even as it all circled around him. A central player who lacked any voice.

Did he even know? 

Father Byrd shut his eyes and whispered to himself in a halting rhythm. If someone had been listening, the only line that would have risen loud enough for them to hear would have been this: “And His kingdom will have no end.”

*

Sweat gathered at the tops of their foreheads and trickled down the sides of their faces. They could hear discordant, inharmonic notes from a piano leak from the open windows. Balbulus approached the door, and Byrd followed.

            Peter greeted them blinking and grimacing. He was dressed in all black, his thick hair combed and styled. It was the most put-together Byrd had seen the man in quite some time.

A moment passed, and then he smiled. Drew a finger to his lips and then pointed it at the older priest. “Balbulus,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Hello, Peter,” Byrd said.

“Just as I pictured. Yes, ok, come in.”

They went in and Peter shut the door. The house was shrouded in darkness. Balbulus asked him about the lights.

“He always cuts them off. They threw sparks the one time. I can’t have that.” He smiled then and bent his head. Nodded to himself and looked up at the two priests. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you both. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.”

“How’s Jay?” Byrd said.

Peter dropped his smile, as if caught off-guard. “He’s good.”

“Good?”

“No, not good.” Peter shut his eyes and shook his head. “Not good. I’m sorry. We’ve been through a lot.” He opened his eyes and regarded the two men very clinically. “He is what he is. What do you expect at this point?”

A cold silence hung between them. Peter’s words felt hollow and strange, but they all knew why they were here. Peter took them upstairs and they stood around the door. “Should we wait for something to happen?” Peter said.

“No,” Balbulus said. He twisted the knob and walked into the bedroom.

The window shades were drawn, but ripples of gray light seeped out from the edges and the room was cast in deep, gloomy shadow. Birds sang outside. A motor hummed, revved, and puttered off, fading. The boy could be seen as a vague form sitting upright in bed. He was cradled in a husband, its arms threatening to pull him in, to swallow him. The silhouette of his head was bulbous and tottering, his neck as thin and wilted as the stalk of an orchid. Balbulus could smell blood and vomit and shit. He found a chair by a desk, pulled it next to the bed, and sat.

The other men stood in the doorway, their silhouettes wavering like mirages, and Balbulus considered shutting the door and keeping them away. But he didn’t move. After a considerable amount of time, the boy tilted his head, and the Father became aware that they were looking at one another.

“Hello,” Balbulus said.

The boy said nothing and would continue to say nothing for the duration of the ritual. So Balbulus spoke into the darkness. He said things about God’s love and the workings of it, how it wormed its way into the hearts and minds of men until it filled their souls, if only they would let it. This was not Jay’s fault, he said. Not his fault and not his fate. He would not to be the one swallowed by the darkness. Balbulus spread his arms and spoke to the ceiling as if pleading, as if begging, his voice wavering and then rising, filling the room. Commanding the Holy Spirit to deliver the boy from silence and terror, winding and careening and whipped about, and just as quickly drawn back, like twine around a spool.

“In Jesus’s name,” he said.

The boy didn’t move.

The Father reached into his pocket, pulled out a rosary, and placed it on the bedcover. Slowly, it unfurled, and slipped, and fell to the ground. “Tell me your name,” he said.

They remained in silence for half an hour, Jay staring at the Father as if in want, but without the words to convey it, and then Balbulus stood and exited the room. Peter shut the door.

“We begin immediately,” Balbulus said.

Peter’s breathing became a series of deep inhale-exhales. He gave a brief series of nods after every exhale. He began to pace and cracked his knuckles. “Thank you, Fathers.” Then he went down the steps and left them alone in the hall.

*

They went in with candles and crucifixes and vials of holy water. Father Byrd stood before the bed with his eyes wide, answering every word from Balbulus with the ordained response, following the rites of the ritual as laid down in the book. Reading verses and blessings and commandments in hope that God, somehow, might be present somewhere in that room.

At one point, drenched in sweat and shivering, breath billowing from him like car exhaust, he was drawn out of his trance by the voice of Father Balbulus. “Match,” he said. “Strike the match.”

Byrd reached into his frock, pulled out a matchbook, and struck one. At his feet was a thick white candle in a large brass trapping with a ring to hold it by. He lit the candle and closed the top and held the flame over the boy.

“That we may see the Devil in his true form. Come forth and show yourself. Give us your name that the Lord your God may call you out from this holy servant and cast you down to the pit. For the Lord rules over devils as He does over angels and men, and the Lord shall rule with fire!”

The brass trapping swayed and the flame flickered and the shadows it threw off the boy were black. Father Byrd could not allow himself to think, but it became unavoidable. Jay is ten years old, he thought. And we can see his bones.

His tongue was gray and swollen and it rested on his teeth, which were splitting from the gums and angled out like dead tree stumps.

But it was the way he tilted his face in the candlelight. The way he twisted his head and looked into the Father’s eyes and lifted a single finger to his mouth and began to smile.

Byrd shouted then and the brass trapping fell to the bed in a crash and the candle was snuffed out and he turned away and vomited onto the floor. Balbulus continued to speak. “God the Father commands that you leave His holy servant.”

Sense of time had evaporated. There was no gray light seeping out through the edges of the drawn shades. Father Byrd put his forehead on the floor and prayed for himself. His thoughts began to shut out Balbulus’ words until a single refrain repeated in his head over and over: And His kingdom shall have no end.

And beneath it, something else. Something rhythmic. With his eyes shut and his mind absent of all but his meditation, all of the separate sounds of the world came to him in parts. Balbulus’ voice, the creaking and cracking of Jay’s bones as he turned and writhed. This too: low voices, many low voices, some of them whispers and murmurs, some of them reveling and exultant, all of it set to the thunderous chords and delicate notes of music from a piano.

Father Byrd lifted his head. He stood, wiped his mouth, and walked to the bedroom door. Put his ear against it. Voices.

He turned to Balbulus, who could not be shaken from his mission. He was splashing holy water on Jay, who twisted in slow burning pain, his bones breaking as he contorted, his eyes rolling back to their whites, groans of deep suffering pouring out from him. But Byrd was not watching this. He had noticed something. On the nightstand, tucked behind the unused lamp, was a baby monitor.

That’s when Father Byrd opened the door.

The hall was crowded with people in fine clothing, with open mouths, drinks in hand, who stared at him like an exhibit as he passed through. There was a line of them down the steps. The music became louder as Balbulus’ voice became softer, and then louder again as he reached the bottom of the steps. Filtered now, amplified, almost like a recording.

The foyer was filled with the audience. They parted as he moved in their midst, his frock stained with vomit and blood and hardened splashes of candle wax.

Upstairs, Father Balbulus was aware of nothing except for the proximity of some reckoning. He was not sure whose. The boy was lost to life now, his neck dangling and oscillating like a broken weathervane no matter his position, his back arched and twisted. His nose had split open and he was flowering in a living decay. But Father Balbulus believed his spirit could still be saved.

The old priest was unaware that the door was open. He was unaware that people had begun to fill the room and watch as the boy flailed and convulsed, flayed by holy water that sliced the thin parchment of his bloodless skin. Balbulus’s voice had become ragged, and he was spitting blood from his ruptured bronchial tubes as he screamed at the child. “Depart from me, ye accursed, for the fire and flames prepared for the devil and his angels. Depart from me in the name of Christ Jesus.”

Downstairs, the speakers swelled with the force of Balbulus’ voice and the screams of Jay. Father Byrd went into the living room. People watched in frozen rapture.

Peter Tallis was sitting at the piano, music flowing from his fingertips, as the sounds of his son’s exorcism played over a baby monitor.

The monitor was hooked into a speaker atop the piano, which was, in turn, hooked into other speakers that carried the sounds throughout the house. Peter played for several more bars before he noticed the dark figure looming over him.

The music stopped, started again, stuttered. He stared at Father Byrd with red-veined eyes, his mouth curled like the waiting talons of some bird of prey. “You’re messing things up.”

Byrd ripped him from the piano, threw him to the ground, and began to beat him senseless. The crowd watched as, upstairs, the other crowd watched too. Watched Father Balbulus collapse to the floor as Jay Tallis gave his final convulsions, accompanied by no music, his spirit departing to somewhere above, free from devils and angels alike.

Evan Rodenhausen currently lives in Philadelphia, where he works in immigration law and advocacy. A graduate student at Arcadia University, he is currently studying the role of language in the development of human psychology. Follow him on Twitter @EvanRodenhausen

The bluebird was young enough that its feathery down had not yet turned cobalt. Soraya set it atop a flower and waited for it to jump off, testing its wings. 

It did not jump.

“Now,” said Soraya gently, kissing the bluebird’s beak to communicate that it ought to be ashamed of its cowardly behavior, “—now, Birdie, you are no longer a baby, and should learn to fly.”

The bird cocked its head at her. Soraya slapped a hand to her forehead in a theatrical display of frustration.

“Birdie!” she hissed, stroking the top of its head with such exuberant affection that it would surely feel dreadful knowing it had disgraced its ancestors. “Why, I told you a thousand times that birds are meant to fly. What exactly is the point of having wings if you don’t use them? If I had wings, oh!—If only I had them!—I would go flitting through the air and land in every flower and drink all the nectar from the roses—” 

And now the child fell to one knee and looked Birdie in the eye with an air of great seriousness. “Oh, Birdie. You ought to know what a great privilege it is to have wings.”

The bird did not answer. Nor did it attempt to take flight.

Soraya sighed, and, conceding defeat, fell back against the edge of the flowerbed. Presently she began threading clover stems through her dark hair. The baby bluebird regarded her with detached curiosity, breaking its silence only once to hop towards her with a single long-stemmed rose clamped in its beak. 

Soraya pondered what a terrible shame it was to have wings and not use them. She hadn’t expected the creature to be so hesitant to exercise its capabilities. She had found the bluebird several days prior in a nest; it was the tiniest of seven chicks and its mother seemed almost to have abandoned it. So she scooped it out of the nest and kept it with her, much to her own mother’s exasperation. Every few hours she would take it to the garden and coax it—unsuccessfully—to fly.

The girl, too, possessed some quality of flight in her features: Rose-skinned and star-eyed. Her hair, though black, betrayed strange glimmers of silver; lilies bloomed in her cheeks, constellations spilled across her irises. Friends and strangers alike called her otherworldly. 

As for the bird, it thought her an entertaining companion, though it found her somewhat demanding. 

For their part, the clover-stems had so sufficiently enamoured Soraya that she forgot all about Birdie. She twisted the clovers into a flower crown. Deciding that she should examine her reflection, she flitted inside to find a mirror. Her footsteps were almost ephemerally light, and her mother, Hana, did not notice her entrance as she slipped into her parlor.

Soraya climbed atop the makeup chair and glanced furtively about the room as if hiding some clandestine treasure. Finding no one watching her, she turned her attention to the mirror. The child in the mirror pressed an index finger to her lips, giving a slight secretive smile. Soraya laughed with cherubic radiance.

She leaned in to the girl inside the mirror. “Soraya,” she sang softly, mimicking her mother’s singsong calling-Soraya voice. “Soraya, what are you doing? Soraya, why are you always playing in the garden, getting dirty? Soraya, stop bringing bluebirds into my house!”

The girl in the mirror giggled. The sound rang feathery light. Soraya adjusted her flower crown, and the children pressed their palms together against the glass. 

Something crashed outside.

The light in the mirror faltered. Blinked out. Gasping, Soraya flew to the window and parted the curtains.

“Birdie?” she whispered softly, casting her eyes down.

A white cat, snarling. A limp bluebird pinned beneath its claws.

“I forgot you!” Soraya choked, starting to sob. Her breath caught and died in her lungs. “Oh. Birdie. I forgot you.” Something shifted inside her, churning outrage.

Momentarily, her anger at the cat overwhelmed her sorrow for the bird. She imagined that the cat felt victorious at her devastation. The sight was unbearable. She flung the curtains back together and launched herself against the mirror, shattering the glass. A silver shard pierced the roses in her cheeks.

Downstairs, her mother felt panic claw its way up her ribcage. She stormed up the stairs. Crashed down the hall.

“Soraya? Where are you? Soraya!”

When the child did not answer, Hana ripped apart the doorways lining the hall. She found no trace of the little girl until she reached the last room. Sunlight streamed through the keyhole. Soraya. Of course.

Hana stopped in front of the parlor door. “Soraya!”

No answer. She wrenched the doorknob, sending the door crashing into the wall. 

Soraya was not there.

Hana looked around, disoriented. Although the parlor was bathed in sunlight, the curtains were drawn. And was it just her imagination, or was it frigid, as if some child had left her icy handprints—

The mirror.

Hana knelt to examine it. The frame was still intact. Lifting a shard, she gasped. A child’s face, fragmented, emerged against the glass. The silver was fogged up as if Soraya had been breathing heavily against it. It pulsed, warm. The glowing embers of a beating heart.

Hana shuddered, dropping the splintered shard. She fled the chamber.

The grief belonged to her daughter. She would not intrude.

Mishal Imaan Syed is a student at UCLA studying cognitive science and English literature. During her free time, she plays classical piano, draws, and entertains her younger siblings.

Jack, aged and crumpled, sits in the back of a limousine, tuxedo only half smartening him up, looks around, perplexed, alarmed. His eyes slowly widen. Not a moment before, he was swinging from his ceiling.

   He rolls down a window and is greeted by a strong breeze ruffling what hair he has left. Mown fields stretching for miles around and, straight ahead, a large stately home made of an old, white stone.

   Through obscured glass, Jack can understand the shapes of the Driver, who bumbles the vehicle along the gravel track, head and hat bobbing.

   Jack, with weak arms, wrestles with the large wooden door of the home, pushing and shoving at it with wheezing breaths. It gives and he drags himself inside.

   His eyes adjust to the darkened room that spreads as far as can be seen, empty, deadly silent and deadly still. He takes a step forward, surveys the room, taking note of the large painted ceilings and the magnificent chandelier.

   He keeps walks, face of confusion. Tracking every minute detail, the Star of David or the Chi Rho on large plaques attached high up the walls.

   Pacing up to him at some speed, a bob-haired lady, talking and gesticulating voraciously through a headset.

Jack keeps the same pace, straight ahead.

   The lady, long coat tails and perfectly placed hair walks directly to Jack, brisk; bouncing with pride.

   HELP: Can I help you?

   Jack studies Help, from shiny shoes to flawless eyelids.

   JACK: Where am I?

   HELP: Do you know where you should be going? Do you have your appointment card?

   Jack raises his head to look at Help’s face, upset and confused.

   HELP: Would you like me to take you to the help desk?

   Jack, without an utterance, walks with Help down the room, past all the ornaments and religious symbols along the walls.

   Approaching an oval desk in the corner of the room, HELP written on a hanging sign in as many languages as you can think of. Help places her hand on Jack’s shoulder, gestures to a seat.

   On a swivel chair behind the oval desk spins Smiles, blinding white teeth and identical outfit to Help.

   HELP: This gentleman needs some assistance.

   SMILES: Of course, get yourself comfortable.

   Help takes her hand from Jack’s shoulder, smiles at him and walks the way they’d come. Jack turns his head, eyes following Help, studying the room once more. He returns his attention.

   JACK: Where am I?

   Smiles smiles.

   SMILES: Can you tell me your name?

   JACK: Jack Fuller.

   Smiles begins writing on a notepad.

   SMILES: And you were born in Southampton?

   Jack nods his head gently.

   JACK: On the 25^th of April.

   SMILES: To Steven and Maria Fuller.

   JACK: Maria Lloyd.

   Smiles, startled, confused, scribbles on her notepad. She brings her head back up, observes Jack; a confused old man sat lost in front of her.

   SMILES: Right, Jack; I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, just so we can get you to the right place.

   JACK: Where am I? I thought I was in hospital.

   SMILES: What would you say your religious beliefs where?

   Jack crosses his arms.

   JACK: Atheist.

   SMILES: And your sexuality?

   Jack grunts, confused.

   SMILES: Are you heterosexual? Bisexual?

   Jack understands the question, grunts again.

   JACK: Women.

   Smiles nods, stifles a laugh.

   JACK: What are all these questions for?

   SMILES: So, we can get absolutely everything prepped for you!

   JACK: I don’t understand.

   SMILES: You’ll meet the curator soon, she’ll explain everything. But for now…

   Smiles lifts up her notepad.

   SMILES: …we just have to finish off these pages.

   Jack grumbles.

#

   Jack sits on an uncomfortable chair, bolted to the floor, in a room considerably smaller than the one before. It is empty, bereft of decoration aside from a clock mounted on the wall, a clock that ticks twice a second, then not at all, then twice a second.

   He holds a small, folded piece of paper in his hands. He opens it and reads the number printed on it: 17,068,724,319.

   The room is boxed, small. It hosts three rows of those uncomfortable waiting room chairs. A door, with no handles, is to Jack’s right and right in front of him is a beautiful dark oak door with a gold gilded handle and lock.

   That noisy clock continues its asynchronous ticking, a mechanical heartbeat.

   Jack’s knees bob up and down, his face low and his eyes look ready to burst.

   His head swings up with a start as the beautiful oak door slowly falls open. From inside steps Lily, long coat tails and brushed back hair. She curtseys as she removes her eyes from a clipboard.

   LILY: Do we have a MR. Jack Fuller.

   Lily looks around the room, sees only Jack.

   LILY: MR. Fuller, if you’d like to come this way.

   With a groan, Jack stands, shuffles along the floor, slowly bring his eyes to look at Lily.

   JACK: Where am I?

   LILY: You’ll see.

   The pair walk through the doorway. Clunk goes the lock.

   Jack and Lily stand next to each other, matching in their beautiful clothes. Lily, unfazed, looks down at her clipboard before putting it down on an empty table.

   Jack looks around the long, cavernous room filled with overhanging chandeliers billowing light in every direction. He gazes upon the thick wooden podiums dotted around the room, each with a spotlight and a different object on top; some of which he recognises. He turns to Lily in utter confusion.

   JACK: What is this place?

   Lily gestures with her head to the wall behind Jack. He slowly turns to see, in bold lettering across the length of the wall – Jack Fuller: A Life in Objects.

   Jack turns back, shock and realisation, his hands start to gently tremble.

   JACK: I want to leave.

   Lily shakes her head, watches as Jack makes a start for the closed door, tugging at the handle.

   LILY: The only exit is over there, but you probably don’t want to that just yet.

   She almost smiles at herself.

   Jack looks down at the ground then slowly looks back over the room.

   JACK: Am I dead?

   Lily remains quiet.

   JACK: What do I do?

   Lily bounces on her feet, creaking the wooden floorboards. She holds out her hand for Jack to take and walks him over to the first podium, a small, handwritten letter.

   Jack is slow to follow, his eyes trapped on the letter.

   LILY: Now, what I need you to do is simply reach out and touch it.

   Jack looks at Lily, furrowing brows.

   JACK: What happens when I do that?

   Lily tuts.

   LILY: Well, do it and you’ll find out!

   Jack looks at Lily, then to the letter. He slowly reaches out his hand, inches away and…

Object One: A Letter of Apology

‘Dear Martha,

   It makes the most sense to start with an apology, not that it could even remotely cover the amount of damage or upset that I’ve caused you, our child. But nonetheless, I’m sorry.

   The past couple of months have been incredibly hard for me. Saying Goodbye to my father hit me hard, as did the cancer diagnosis but I can’t help but feel as if it were deserved.

   When I sit in the lonely evenings and think over my life, I can only help but feel like I’m being handed what I deserve. Not by God or anything like that but there’s certainly something, and it’s fair; I understand.

   I’m sorry for the way we parted, I’m sorry for how I treated you. I’m sorry I didn’t understand what it means to be a good man, or even an ‘ok’ one.

   The older you get the more you see your mistakes for what they are.

   Just before my father passed, he was in a similar way and his very ugly thoughts got me thinking. I listened to him speak but I heard myself. I could understand the lies he told because I told them too. Accidents happen and people do ridiculous things, but that’s just life isn’t it?

   I’m not here to ask forgiveness, I know you well enough to know you won’t; but I wanted to reach out and tell you what I feel.

   So, all I can say is I’m sorry for every pain I gave you in this life. I’ll spend whatever comes after death dreaming of ways that I could have been better and how to earn your forgiveness.

   Jack.’

   Jack, turning the page over, scribbles a phone number on the back, folds the paper and tucks it into an envelope; licking it and sealing it closed. On the front, he writes For Martha.

   He sits, turning the letter in his hand; feeling its rough edges; digging the corner into his fingertips; feeling it bend under the pressure.

   Jack places the letter on the table in front of him and sighs; loudly, peacefully, places it next to another letter addressed to Sam.

   He takes hold of a small porcelain robin, runs it through his hands.

   Around the room, dirty cups and bowls, torn curtains; seemingly matched to his filthy vest and underwear.

   He stands, walks into the bedroom and takes hold of the rope pre-prepared. He stands on the stool; places the loop around his neck; takes a deep breath in and drops.

#

   Jack pulls away from the letter, putting it back on the pedestal.

   LILY: How was that, Jack?

   JACK: How did you get this? How did you get all this stuff?

   LILY: Well, once you pass away, your memories become attached to important objects and we organise them in an exhibition so that; before you go to your final resting place, you can have a level of closure.

   Jack stands, stunned.

   JACK: So, all of my memories?

   LILY: Every single one of importance to who you are, yes.

   Jack looks around the room, alarmed; frightened.

   JACK: I want to leave.

   Lily cocks her head.

   LILY: Well, I wouldn’t do that just yet; Jack.

   Lily bounds over to the next pedestal, gesturing to it with her fingers.

   LILY: We have a bowl and spoon. Any ideas?

   Jack shuffles closer.

   JACK: He was a bad, bad man. He hated me.

   Lily leans forward and Jack starts reaching out his arms, turning to Lily for reassurance. She nods.

   Jack touches the bowl and

Object Two: A chipped bowl and a soup spoon

Jack, dirty shirt and torn shorts, slumped in a bowed back chair nurses debt collection letters on his lap. Opposite him, Steven, head hanging, back arched. Dirty white shirt, eyes barely open.

   Magazines and laundry litter the floor.

   Car horns and heavy wind shake the tatty curtains, grubby windows show industrial rooftops.

   A tick, louder.

   Louder.

   RING.

   Jack turns his head towards the kitchenette, a pot bubbling on the stove top. He stands, half sighs and walks over.

   Jack takes a seat next to Steven, holding a hot bowl of soup in his hands. He lifts a misshapen spoonful to Steven’s mouth, expectantly agape.

   Jack watches as soup dribble from Steven’s chin, but no mind; he wipes it away with a prepped cloth.

   After several mouthfuls, Steven begins to shake his head. Agitating to Jack, who grabs at Steven face, forcing his mouth open; slopping the soup in.

   Steven, in retaliation, starts spitting the soup out of his mouth, before wailing; screeching. Jack tries again but Steven goes to bite him so he stands; throws the bowl of soup down on the ground; watching it’s thick red vibrancy add some colour to the discoloured walls.

   Steven drops his eyes, tearful; scared.

   Jack turns, faces Steven with stern face. He stands, looks around the room, at the dirty walls, the broken doors and takes a large, deep breath.

   JACK: Dad.

   Steven dazedly looks around, eyes trying to fix.

   JACK: Dad. Dad, would you just look at me?

   Steven’s eyes slowly pull up, fix on Jack; remnants of soup still sloshed across his face.

   JACK: Dad, I can’t do this anymore.

   Jack’s eyes now begin to wander, over the debt letters. Stevens face; a pained face; vitriolic—

   STEVEN: Cunt.

   Steven’s face, contorting; pained; then soothed, to smile.

   Jack drops his eyes to look at Steven’s shorts; watching as he soils himself, watching a cruel smile creep across his father’s wrinkled face.

   Jack’s face drops further. He turns, slowly walks over to the open bedroom door, grabs a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and begins throwing clothes in as Steven begins grunting; louder, louder.

   STEVEN: Clean! Me!

   Jack keeps packing, violently throwing things into the case. He keeps throwing as Steven’s shouts grow louder.

   He slams the case shut, breathing heavily. Stops for a moment, thoughtful. Head up, turns on his heel; case in hand and comes back into the living room.

   Jack throws the case down, paces over to Steven and tries to pick him up, shuffle him towards a wheelchair. Steven hits and scratches, cawing in enormous pain; shit dribbling from his trousers onto the floor, onto Jack’s arm.

   Dumped in the wheelchair, Steven sobs.

   Jack kneels in front of Steven, looks into his eyes.

   The curtain still swings in the wind.

#

   Jack kneels in front of Steven, places his hand against his cheek. Steven looks up, wet eyes. Jack’s face begins to crumple. So he stands, he stand and he turns, turns and walks toward the car.

   Steven, sobbing loudly; watches as Jack’s beaten up jalopy trundles down the road; far into the distance. His old, decrepit, destroyed eyes manage to read the sign on the wall next to him: Flower Meadows Care Home.

   He lets his head drop, notices a note in his hand with what might say types of medicine, but he isn’t sure. He throws it to the ground, sobs; wails; screeches.

   Dour eyes falling to the ground, quivering shoulders, shit stains still spoiling across the wheelchair seat.

   He reaches out his arm, tries to grab at the handle.

#

   In a bar, Jack sits; dirty shirt; dirtied with his father’s mess; head in hands against the bar. His eyes travel the faded shit stains that crawl up his arm.

   The room is sparse, lonely pool table, sport on the TV. A couple kisses in the corner, tongues and teeth. Jack brings his head all the way up, takes a sip of his whisky. Phone out in front of him, it starts to ring. Sam.

   BAR: Aren’t you gunna answer?

   Jack turns his head, observes Bar; apron and plaid, facial hair and glasses. He taps on the side of his glass.

   JACK: Another.

   Bar studies Jack for a moment, narrow eyes look him up and down.

#

Jack, still shit stained, stands in the kitchenette, swinging open cupboard doors with animosity; standing on his feet to see high up.

   Eyes ablaze, red; heavy breathing.

   His actions become exaggerated, tired. Clanging, banging. He paces to the sofa; throws cushions to the floor. Stops; stares.

   A small, almost empty bottle. He gracefully bends to pick it up, tries the lid with his hands; its stuck. He places it in his mouth, twists.

   Sitting down, he takes a sip, then another.

   He takes another, turns his head to the window, watches the curtain flutter in the wind.

   His eyes draw down, catching sight of the chipped soup bowl before looking up; gazing at the empty chair opposite, longingly.

#

   The care home, after much ado; figured out where Jack lived and sent a very politely worded letter. Initially about how uncouth it was to simply dump a vulnerable old man outside in the cold before going on to inform him that his father had indeed passed away.

   Jack had taken the news well.

   But now, as he stand before the coffin, he weeps; contorting his face in ways that were both beautiful and harrowing.

   SAM: This is all such a shock.

   Jack’s ear’s begin to tense and he turns to see Sam standing before him. Her hand clutching the funeral programme with its 3 fingers.

   Sam notices Jack’s staring, searching her hand for the missing finger.

   SAM: Yeah, still hasn’t grown back.

   Jack half-heartedly smiles.

   JACK: I didn’t know you’d come.

   SAM: I only did to say goodbye.

   JACK: Is your mother…

   SAM: No. She had no interest in seeing you.

   JACK: And you?

   SAM: I figured I’d grin and bear it, just to say goodbye to grandpa.

   Jack looks his daughter up and down.

   JACK: Would you like to go for a drink, maybe?

   SAM: No, no thank you.

   JACK: You know, I want to know if it hurt. If it hurt when he died. Like, if he was in pain or if he went peacefully.

   SAM: I’m sure it was completely painless. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.

   JACK: That’s what I’m worried about.

   Sam pulls back, confusion. She studies her father’s face, lost in the treeline somewhere.

   JACK: Is it fair for him to be able to just slip away?

   SAM: Did you want him to be in pain?

   Jack looks directly at Sam.

   JACK: Of course.

   Sam’s body tightens, watches Jack as he buttons his suit jacket.

   JACK: Sure you don’t wanna go for a drink?

   SAM: No, I’m sure.

   Sam smiles, turns and walks away. Jack watches, glazed eyes as she disappears into the distance.

Object Three: A clock Martha had made

Jack, sat in the living room; staring at the television ignores Martha as she sits next to him; sketchpad drawing out blueprints.

   Jack, without warning, stands; throws on a coat.

   JACK: I’m just gunna go meet a work colleague for a drink. I’ll be back later.

   Martha doesn’t look up.

#

Sat opposite each other, Jack and Jesse gaze upon each other; longing expressions, wide eyes.

   JESSE: It brings me great pain to say this Jack.

   JACK: Then don’t.

   JESSE: He wants to marry me Jack. I’m tired of this, of us. Of you still with Martha.

   JACK: I… I can leave her.

   JESSE: But you won’t. You’ve been promising me for so long, and I’ve wasted far too much time waiting for you.

   JACK: Just a little…

   JESSE: No, Jack; I can’t. He treats me right, he’s kind; gentle. He’s not as funny as you but I can’t have everything.

   JACK: He sounds good.

   Jack drops his eyes to his drink, takes a large mouthful.

   JESSE: And best of all, he ain’t married.

   The pair laugh.

   JACK: One more drink?

   JESSE: I am more than happy to oblige.

#

   Martha, nightdress and book, sits with a lamp on, studying the pages. Her head jumps as she hears creaking floorboards, but she quickly returns her attention.

   The door flops open and in walks a drunken Jack, alcohol spilt across his chest, flies open.

   MARTHA: (Sarcasm) Good evening.

   Jack begins tearing at his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. Then he flops into bed, pulling the covers over himself. He lays, staring at Martha who is fixed on reading.

   He reaches up a hand, brushes it against her shoulder, clearly inciting repulsiveness on her part. Her body begins to grow tight.

   He runs his hand down her arm, across her breast, gently groping. Down, down it goes to her crotch. A brush, another.

   Martha, forcefully, grabs at his wrist, pushes it away. He pushes back, grabbing at her hip.

   MARTHA: Jack!

   Jack turns on his side in a fit of anger, heavy breathing.

   A long, long silence.

   JACK: We don’t fuck any more.

   Martha, discomfort at the word.

   MARTHA: We don’t ‘anything’ anymore.

   Jack slowly turns back, faces her.

   JACK: I don’t remember what you feel like.

   His saddened eyes look up at her. Martha sighs, puts down her book.

   JACK: Can I… can I hug you?

   Martha, surprised; sits up; perturbed. She slowly lift her arm. Jack slides upwards, nestles his head against her breast, brings a leg over hers.

   They lay there, in complete silence. Agitated; tight muscles, pure discomfort.

   MARTHA: I’m not happy.

   Jack, pensive, pushes his head deeper into her chest.

   JACK: I love you.

   Martha, the whites of her eyes, stays silent, biting at her bottom lip.

#

   Big, old windows with thick wooden panes let light flood across Martha’s shop; all the clocks ticking in perfect synchronicity.

   Martha, overalls and eyeglasses, studies a small clock in front of her. It’s gilded in gold and shimmers, radiates. She tinkers with it with a small pair of pliers.

   The bell of the door, ring, reveals Jack, smart clothes; carrying a smile.

   JACK: I thought you might be hungry, so I thought we could go out for lunch.

   Martha looks over at her half eaten sandwich.

   MARTHA: I can’t today.

   Jack, affronted.

   JACK: Well, why not?

   Martha takes off her eyeglasses, carefully places them down and walks over to him, angling her body to shun him from the shop.

   MARTHA: You know how busy I am, Jack.

   Jack looks around the shop, listens to the perfect, perfect ticking.

   JACK: You don’t have time for your husband?

   Martha stifles a chuckle.

   MARTHA: I don’t even have time for myself, Jack.

   Martha keeps pushing Jack towards the door.

   JACK: Martha, I’m really willing to make this work. But I’m gunna need some sort of effort from you.

   Jack turns on his heel, slams the door as he leaves.

   Martha scoffs, disbelief. Shakes her head, goes back to the clock. Studies it, begins tinkering again.

   A moment before—

  –She throws down her tools and glasses, drops her heads to her hands; runs them through her hair; kicks out at the table leg.

   JULES: Do you think he knows?

   Jules steps out from behind a cupboard, stretching his neck.

   MARTHA: No. No, I don’t think so.

#

   Jack and Martha, motionless in bed; what might as well be an ocean between them. But neither seems inclined to reach out. The curse of loving who you don’t love.

   Jack sits up, stands, takes a blanket from the corner of the room and leaves.

   Martha shrugs; almost please, stretches her legs across the spread of the bed.

   She grabs her book, reads the whole night in peace.

#

   Another night, another night of Jack staring at the television, do nothing; really.

   SAM: How come you don’t go out with your friend anymore, dad?

   JACK: They found a new friend.

   Sam fakes a sad face, as only children do.

   JACK: But you’re still my friend, aren’t you?

   Sam nods.

   JACK: So, why don’t you come and sit up with dad and we can watch TV together.

   Sam’s head bobs. She stands; jumps up on the sofa, turns to her Dad.

   SAM: You’re not gunna hurt me again, dad?

   JACK: Oh, sweetie; come here.

   Jack puts his arm around Sam, pulls her close.

   They sit like that, for a long, long time. Sam, infrequently trying to get up but Jack would just pull her closer.

   When Martha came in through the front door, Sam split away with such speed; crashing into her mother’s abdomen; something her in hugs.

   MARTHA: Sorry I’m late guys, have you eaten?

   JACK: No, not yet.

   Martha, alarmed.

   MARTHA: What do you mean not yet? Christ, Jack; it’s 8!

   JACK: I know, so where have you been?

   MARTHA: At work, I told you.

   Jack looks at Martha, knowingly. She breaks his gaze quickly, looks in any direction but his.

   MARTHA: Takeaway it is then.

   Martha kneels down, picks up Sam and gives her a squeeze.

   MARTHA: Would you like that?

   JACK: Sam, I need to talk with your mother.

   MARTHA: No, Sam. Stay here.

   JACK: Sam, go up to your room.

   Jack grabs at Sam, tearing her away from Martha. The pair watch as she bounds upstairs.

   JACK: Was someone else there?

   Martha, a long; drawn silence; looks the man before her up and down, looks around their house.

   MARTHA: You only know that because you’ve been doing it too.

   Jack, peace; calm, so calm until he wasn’t. And when he wasn’t, he buried his fist into the wall; drywall, bloody and cracked fall to the floor.

   JACK: You fucking whore.

   A smile pours over Martha’s face.

   MARTHA: Right back at you.

   Jack turns, rushes upstairs. Martha listens as he tearfully fills a suitcase. Rushes back down, packed bags; bleeding knuckles. He takes one last look at her.

   Sam bounds down the stairs.

   SAM: Where are you going to Daddy?

   JACK: To a friends.

   SAM: Well, ok. But call us when you get there, for night-time.

   Jack looks at his daughter.

   JACK: That’s if I make it.

   And with that venom, he turns and slams the door behind him.

   Sam bounds over to her mother, who stands; surprisingly peacefully.

   SAM: Are we still having takeaway, mummy?

   Martha breaks to a smile.

#

   Jack, bruised faced; cut knuckles and suitcases stumbles through the splintering door. Steven stands in front of him, a sadistic smile spread across his face.

   STEVEN: How did you fuck up this time?

   Jack almost barges past him, dragging his suitcase too. Steven watches, smile still stuck.

   Jack, underwear, sits at the end of a dirty single bed set in the living room. A window, open wide. Moonlight, pale. The city streets own orchestra.

   A small statue of a robin in his hands, he tosses it slightly in the air. Tosses it again, lets it fall to the ground.

   Jack puts his head in his hands and deflates. As he pulls up, he smiles. Small but grows wider and wider.

#

   Sunlit streets colour the streets that Martha bounces along. A new way to carry herself; confident, strong, powerful. She smiles down the street at all the passers-by, nodding; hello, hello.

   She reaches the outside of her shop and her face immediately drops.

   Broken shards of glass splattered across the floor. She steps inside, careful not to stand on anything. She walks forward, to her work bench.

   A hammer, a smashed clock and a small note that simply reads: ‘Cunt’.

#

   Lily looks Jack up and down, his visage somehow more deflated; the lines and folds of his face more pronounced. His eyes hang, feeling the weight of the room, they hang and looks like they’re going to fall away from his face.

   Lily gestures to the next podium with a smile, a pleasant smile. Jack follows the direction of her arm and observes the object. A key, a small key.

   As if the key represented all the horror in the world, Jack turns away in disgust, drooling; weepy eyes.

   LILY: Jack, I need you to touch the key.

   Jack remains silent, shuddering sets it.

   LILY: Jack, it’s important you touch the key.

   JACK: I don’t know about this.

   Lily looks him up and down, his alarmed state.

   JACK: I really don’t want to do that.

   The pair stand in silence, Jack near hyperventilating; eyes locked on the key.

   JACK: I want to leave.

   Jack starts nodding with force.

   JACK: I need to leave, I want to go.

   Lily takes a step forward, places a hand on his shoulder.

   LILY: What’s in the key, Jack?

   Jack, upset, distressed.

   JACK: I don’t want to remember.

   LILY: That’s not how this works.

   Jack turns his head, gestures to the exit door.

   JACK: What’s behind the door?

   Lily stays quiet.

   JACK: I’m not a bad person.

   LILY: I never said you were.

   JACK: I did some bad things…

   Jack starts shaking his head.

   JACK: But I’m not a bad person.

   He looks up at Lily, eyes like bursting dams.

   JACK: A good person can do bad things, but you learn.

   The dams burst.

   Lily stands next to the podium, takes the key and sits down next to Jack. Jack begins pulling his body away.

   LILY: I want you to take hold of this key.

   JACK: I never meant to hurt her.

   Lily nods.

   LILY: Take hold of the key, Jack.

   Thick streams of tears rocket down Jack’s face. He looks up at Lily, eyes begging for sympathy. He looks at the key, holds his gaze upon it. He takes a long, deep breath and reaches out his hand.

Object Four: a key

Martha, loose fitting clothes; dishevelled hair, stands by the front door with a suitcase. Sam and Jack, pajamas and tired faces, stand opposite her smiling.

   MARTHA: I’ll miss you.

   Martha turns, opens the door; smiles and exits.

   Jack and Sam rush to the window to watch as she walks down the driveway, Sam cuddling into Jack’s hip.

   Jack turns to face Sam and they both stare at each other for a moment, a massive smile spreading across their face.

#

   Jack and Sam, running at speed through an arcade, all the games; all the fun. The polyphonic soundscape like a new-found art.

   Coin machine, cheers and smile from Sam as coins tumble to the opening.

   A 3D cinema, revolutionary blandness, bright; illuminating their faces. Jack leans in and kisses Sam on the forehead.

   Outside on the beachfront, Sam bures Jack in the sand; giggling with every fresh spadeful.

   On the pier, ice cream in hand, Sam tumbles to the floor. In a flash, Jack picks her up, hands her his.

#

   Jack, underwear and vest, sits on the sofa, hands down his trousers; the other holding a porn magazine. He’s shuffling his hand but not masturbating.

   He flicks through the pages with a shake of his head, studies the next couple of images.

   His eyes start to wonder, over to the telephone. He snaps back to the magazine but his eyes start travelling again.

   He drops the magazine and, in a single fluid motion, picks up the phone and smashes in a number.

   Ring.

   Ring.

   PHONE: Hello?

   Jack, confused.

   JACK: Hi, is Jesse there?

   Jack, muscles tense.

   PHONE: Not today, mate.

   JESSE: (Muffled) Put down the phone and come here.

   The phone disconnects, Jack sit’s still.

#

   Jack paces around the sun-blushed house. Dirty living room, windows; misplaced cushions, unclean plates on the floor.

   Unshaven, Jack stands in that vest and underwear; catches a flying pillow. Sam; the other side of the room, in her pajamas, is laughing.

   JACK: What are we doing today?

   SAM: I’m throwing cushions at you.

   Jack laughs.

   JACK: I know, but there must be something else you want to do?

   Sam thinks, finger to chin.

   SAM: How do we get a kite? Janie has a kite and she says it’s so much fun.

   Jack, turns and paces up the stairs. He quickly drops to his knees to open the bottom drawer of Martha’s dresser, moves clothes around.

   Scraping metal as he pulls out a rectangular tin with a handwritten note—

   –holiday savings.

   He opens it up, takes out a handful of notes, holding them in front of himself.

   He looks down, staring at the money, shoves them in his pocket and throws the box back in the dressed, slamming the drawer shut.

#

   Another day, another damn day.

   Jack sits, as ever, staring at the television; occasionally watching Sam buoyantly bounce around outside.

   He notices a robin bouncing in the tree branch and smiles, looks over to his small porcelain robin on the mantelpiece.

   Jack drops his head, breathes in deeply and walks outside.

   JACK: Darling, darling Sam. I have a present for you.

   Jack looks uneasy, short of breath; his eyes wide; hyper-attentive.

   SAM: You do?

   Sam’s face lights up.

   JACK: Yes; my love, it’s in the shed. Come with me.

   Jack walks with a brisk pace, tries at the door of the shed. It’s locked. He reaches down under a rock and pulls out a key, feels the weight in his hand.

   Sam watches as he unlocks the door.

   Jack and Sam both enter the shed, Jack looking in every direction.

   SAM: I can’t find it.

   Jack stands completely still, deep in thought, his breathing rough, difficult.

   Sam looks up at him, watches as he turns towards the door.

   He grabs the handle, pulls it closed.

   Hear the clunk of the lock.

#

   Jack, apron and tomato splatters, is in the kitchen cooking. Sam, pained expression, sits with her head on the ready laid table.

   Jack steps in with a basket of bread.

   JACK: Come on Sam, sit up; mum will be home soon.

   Sam stays till.

   JACK: (Worry) Sam, come on.

   Sam brings her head up, tired; tired face.

   SAM: I’m not hungry.

   JACK: You have to eat though baby.

   Sam grabs at a piece of bread, takes a bite but spits it back out.

   Jack goes back to the kitchen, returns with a big gift box.

   Sam’s interest, wide eyes. Jack smiles.

   SAM: What is it?

   Jack smiles again.

   JACK: Well, you’ll have to be on your best behaviour if you want it.

   Sam grunts, pained face.

   The door being unlocked, in walks Martha. Sweaty, dirty, walks in with a suitcase. She drops it to the floor and rushes to Sam, picking her up and covering her face in kisses. Putting her down—

   MARTHA: Oh, Sam! I missed you so much!

   Sam, contagious smiles.

   SAM: Me too!

   Jack leans in, kisses Martha on the cheek; she’s placid to it.

   The three stand, almost in silence.

   Sam turns and runs away, Jack and Martha stare each other up and down.

   Sam returns with the gift box.

   MARTHA: Ooh! Where did that come from?

   Martha shoots her eyes to Jack.

   JACK: She’s been so well behaved that it only made sense to get her something nice.

   Sam tears at the box to reveal a kite. She bursts with excitement, flings herself at Jack.

   SAM: Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!

   The three meet in a hug.

#

   In a park, open neck shirts and summer dresses; picnics stretching to infinity. Green grass. Shooting from Sam’s hand, a large; colourful kite. Martha and Jack watch in amazement.

   JACK: Be careful Sam, you might fly away.

   Sam, an unconvinced expression.

   The trio watch as the kite floats in the air, transfixed.

   Jack breaks his gaze to look at Sam’s.

   JACK: You’re beautiful, Sam. Dad loves you.

   Martha looking Jack up and down, shocked; impressed.

#

   Soft lamp-lit living room, immaculately clean. Jack, shorts and shirt, sits look at his hand.

   Martha, loose pajamas stares down at a book.

   The longest silence.

   Martha stands, shoots a quick smile at Jack as she leaves the room.

   Jack, turn his hands over and over; lets a glossy tear run down his face. Another. Then another.

   His face folds, broken damns, heavy breathing; running nose. He curls into a ball, sobs and shakes.

   Sobs and shakes.

#

   Jack, a messy tuxedo, lays in a pile on the floor, his body shaking as he sobs and screams. He wretches, wretches loudly and vomits in a puddle by his side.

   Lily, immaculate, pulls away with a face of disgust that breaks into a smile.

   Jack’s cries echo through the entire space.

   Lily walks away, Jack holds his attention on her footsteps. He cries and cries but they’re washed out by the squeak of wheels.

   Jack looks up to see Lily hold on to a pram, a small hole in the side of the fabric, dried blood dotted around it.

   Jack starts to shake his head, feverishly.

   LILY: We have to keep going, Jack.

   Jack, a tighter ball, shudders and shakes.

   Lily taps her fingers against the pram handle, tapping her foot in rhythm too.

   JACK: (Tears) I can’t do this.

   Lily crouches to her knees.

   LILY: You told me you weren’t a bad person, Jack. That you’d just done bad things. So show me. Show me the story of this pram.

   Jack’s cries get louder.

   Everything drains to silence.

   Jack slowly, slowly turns. He looks up at Lily. Quivering, hesitant – he reaches out his hand, choking on phlegm and vomit.

   His fingers mere millimetres away.

Object Six: wedding rings

Lily, mouth agape in horror, watches as Jack lets go of the pram.

   JACK: How… How do I make things right?

   LILY: It’s too late for all that now. You can’t.

   JACK: But it’s never too late.

   LILY: You’re dead Jack. It’s too late.

   Lily walks over to the next podium, a pair of wedding rings.

   LILY: Surely this one should be nice?

   JACK: When does it end?

   LILY: When you’re back to where you started.

   Jack, with no more tears left to cry, wretches again.

   LILY: Come on, what’s the story with these?

   Jack crawls along the floor; fitful; pain and reaches out for the wedding rings.

#

   Inside a church, sun blinding through the stain glassed windows. The light decorates the spacious room, a room filled with smart suits and dresses, smiles gazing straight ahead.

   Martha, beautiful flowing white dress, stands opposite a smartly dressed Jack. The pair are all smiles and wet eyes.

   Between them stands a vicar, standard garb, book splayed in his palms.

   VICAR: You may now kiss the bride.

   A brief pause before the pair lean in, silhouette themselves against the window.

   The room explodes to applause and cheers.

   Jack’s eyes wander to the empty chair in the front row, a sign saying STEVEN FULLER.

#

   A dance floor, countless people twisting to Chubby Checker, all legs and elbows; smiles and teeth. A band provides a steady tempo.

   In the centre of a circle of people, Martha and Jack, loosely swinging, evidently tipsy, kiss and dance. Martha dips, Jack twists.

   They dance and they dance and they’ve never looked happier.

   The band comes to a halt, Jack pulls away from Martha, twists on his heels, almost tumbles as he walks towards the stage.

   Martha watches, hands clasped glee,

   Jack takes a microphone, bows to a clapping audience.

   JACK: (Breathless) Baby.

   The rooms falls to supportive silence.

   JACK: Baby, I know we said we couldn’t afford to go anywhere for our honeymoon but…

   Martha begins to smile.

   JACK: You and I baby…

   He almost begins to jig again.

   JACK: We’re going to Rome for a week.

   The room applauds, smiles, hugs and cheers.

   Martha, amazement, watches as Jack removes two plane tickets from his breast pocket, shakes them in the air.

   Her eyes wild with bewilderment, joy.

   JACK: I love you baby.

   Martha mouths it back, offers the brightest smile.

   In one of the long hallways of the reception venue, Jack walks; hearing the sound of music and cheering slowly creeping in the distance.

   His suit is crumpled, sweaty. Jesse, hiding in a corner; stretches out a hand and catches him from the shadows. They both fall into an embrace, tongues and grabbing hands. They stop.

   JACK: Jesse, stop.

   Jesses kisses him again, he half pushes.

   JACK: Jesse, I said stop.

   Jesse falls back, places herself flat against the wall, opens her legs slightly, letting her thighs illuminate themselves against the pale moonlight.

   JESSE: Let’s be real, Jack. You’ll come home soon enough.

   Jack sighs, wipes away sweat from his temple.

   JACK: This has to stop.

   Jesse grabs Jack’s hand, rubs it against her underwear. HE exhales, loudly; grabs her waist and thrusts against her. All tongues and hands once more.

   Jesse stops, pulls away.

   JESSE: You’re pathetic.

   Manic smile, she turns and walks away.

   JESSE: (Distant) I’ll be seeing you Jackey.

   Jesse disappears into the darkness. Jack falls back against the wall, erect and sweating. He slides down to the floor, puts his head in his hands. Footsteps, louder and louder—

   MARTHA: Baby! Quick, they’re about to play our song! Did you request it? He said someone requested it!

   Jack lets his head fall to his hands, sigh/

   Martha, hand outstretched:

   MARTHA: Come on, I could hardly bear missing it.

   Jack studies Martha’s face, half covered by shadow.

#

   Messy, rough paved roads and immaculate; smooth stone buildings. Jack and Martha sit opposite one another, a pizza to share; a bottle of wine too.

   The faint sound of an accordion, louder and louder.

   They fumble their way back to the hotel, a small hotel room; double bed and no floor space. Large red curtains and yellow pock marked wallpaper.

   They begin to kiss; taking each other closely; slowly undressing.

   Martha drops her head; closes her body.

   MARTHA: I’m scared.

   JACK: Of what, baby?

   MARTHA: This is my first time, what if it goes wrong?

   Jack, confused, uses a single finger to lift her chin, plants a kiss on her lips; she kisses back.

   Jack lays on top of her and they continue kissing, passionately. A smile breaks across her face.

   MARTHA: Grab a condom.

   Jack shoots up, tears off his clothes and goes over to a suitcase. Martha slides off her underwear, lays flat against her back.

   Jack, hands rummaging, can’t find the box.

   MARTHA: Come on, Jack.

   Jack, hands deep in the bag, retrieves nothing.

   MARTHA: Is it on?

   Jack, a small sigh, stands and hurriedly rushes over to the bed.

#

   A small, dingy house; drawn curtains; moving in boxes. Martha shifts the last one, looks up at her sweating Jack.

   MARTHA: I suppose it all starts now, then.

   Jack walks over and rubs her back.

   JACK: Are you ready?

   Martha bites her lip.

   MARTHA: It’s going to be fantastic, isn’t it?

   Jack takes a sharp breath, observes the space.

   JACK: It really, really is.

   The pair look at one another, lean in slow. Kiss.

#

   The all too familiar floor space. Lily, smart as ever, stands above Jack who is curled into a ball.

   LILY: Jack.

   Lily, almost annoyed.

   LILY: Jack, we have to keep going.

   Jack curls tighter.

   JACK: I don’t want to.

   Lily kneels down, shadow bold over Jack’s miniscule body.

   LILY: I know you don’t, but those are the rules.

   Jack starts to unfold, takes Lily’s outstretched arm and gets up, flaps at the tears streaming from his eyes.

   JACK: Can I have a hug?

   Jack stretches out his arms but Lily takes a large step back.

   LILY: (Blunt) What does the next object mean?

   Jack turns his head to see what’s left. He catches eyes with something, starts to shudder. His tears come flying back, rocketing from his face, falling to the floor. Jack follows them, hands and knees.

   Lily walks over to the podium, holding up a small, rusted key. Close enough to read the plaque.

   A Key to the Cellar.

   Lily, vaguely concerned eyes, takes sight of the key; a breath of realisation.

   Jack, distraught, turns his torn face to Lily, his shoulders uncontrollable.

   JACK: I want to go.

   A large breath, the largest he’s ever taken.

   JACK: (Scream) I want to leave.

   Jack begins to crawl along the floor, to the exit door. Lily, at a slow walk, keeps up with him.

   The longest, most painful crawl.

   LILY: Why don’t you want to see what’s next, Jack?

   JACK: He was a bad, bad man. And anything that’s behind that door, cannot be worse that reliving that.

   Lily, almost understanding.

   He reaches his hands along the ground, burrowing his fingernails into the varnished wood floor; pulling himself along. His face, pained; his body weak.

   Inches from the door, Jack fumbles for the handle. Lily drops to her knees.

   LILY: Are you sure you’re ready for this?

   Jack, behind sobs—

   JACK: What’s on the other side?

   Lily, straightened face.

   LILY: You believe in what you believe.

   A portrait of pain and destruction, Jack’s eyes look back across the room, a breath.

   JACK: (Soft) I want to leave.

   Lily smiles, opens the door and lets it swing open.

   Jack looks at Lily one final time before crawling through the doorway.

   Lily shuts the door, locks it.

   Inside, the feint shadow of Jack, crawling like a dog. He stops; observes the nothingness of his surroundings. The endless blackness, the void. He lets his body fall to the surface.

   He cries and he cries. Loud, snorting, shuddering. He cries and cries, cries and cries.

R.C.Stacey is a writer who lives in a house with a post-box in the side.

Even death won’t do us part
      Or a triptych of short verse

I

If no one wants to marry me
I won’t mind all that much
For I know your eyes have long watched mine
And there’s no need to rush

II

I saw you glance at me today
I bought this hat for you
I know you look at me along the way
And me – alike your eyes – in blue

III

Your eyes – of course, are in a jar
That sits upon my shelf
I took them from you long ago
When you were lain to rest

Emery Behanna is a graduate of Mass College of Art and Design, currently living in Vermont. His poems stem from a deep seated sense that he was “born in the wrong generation”, and explore times and spaces that can’t be experienced again.

The carnival lights veiled the stars. His mouth was drawn up in a mischievous shape as he took my limp hand in his own and he pulled my spirit from my body. The rain twisted through the wind and made mirrors on the ground that reflected the fair above.

He began to run, pulling me through the array of light and noise. The air smelled of burnt popcorn, sweat, and sweets no matter how hard the rain tried to purify it. The faster we ran, the more everything seemed less its own.

He helped me onto the carousel and propped me up on a red horse. Music played and the horse came alive. The music played, the horse danced, and the world spun. My eyes would not close, my hands began to sweat and grip the horse tighter. The music played. I reached out for him, but he was gone.

The music played. The world was not defined, just a blur of colors and lights. The music played. I am ensconced in red, gold, blue, and white. The music played. People laughed and howled and jeered. The music played.

The crowd was a collection of pointing fingers, flashing teeth, and shinning eyes. The music played. I lost my grip and the red horse took advantage, bucking me off into the abyss of lights and awful noise. I reached for him, but he was gone, and so I fell into the spindling tornado of popping balloons, bubbles, and that stomach twisting smell of frying dough. I screamed and the music played.

Gabriella McClellan is poet based in Greensboro, North Carolina. At age eighteen, Gabriella has been writing poetry for eleven years. She furthered her education of poetry by attending Duke University’s Young Writer’s Camp. Gabriella lives and works on a small farm where she derives much of her writing inspiration from.

I feel the weight of my life
collapse upon me, the crushing
beauty of ordinary days, all
those moments lost to time.
I run past tombstones in neighborhood
lawns, gone when I look back.
I can only assume they belong
to me, these ghosts who share
my past. Try as I might, I can’t
outrun the abandoned buildings,
windows knocked out like teeth,
the dead end streets, the broken
men who live in the park among
the trees. I tell myself to keep going,
don’t look back, and I wouldn’t
if I didn’t feel like we are already
dead and just don’t know it yet.

Michelle Brooks has published a three collections of poetry, Make Yourself Small, (Backwaters Press), Pretty in A Hard Way (Finishing Line Press), and The Pretend Life (Atmosphere Press), and a novella, Dead Girl, Live Boy, (Storylandia Press). A native Texan, she has spent much of her adult life in Detroit.

When we were curating the first issue of Black Works, we received a short story submission from LindaAnn LoSchiavo.  That story, A Christmas Presence, made it into the issue.  Since then we have published other work by Ms. LoSchiavo and pay attention to the progress of her writing career.

Which brings us to this review.  The collection by Ms. LoSchiavo is titled A Route Obscure and Lonely (December 2019) and is a book of poetry using the first line of Edgar Allan Poe’s Dream-Land as the title.  And, in this case, the title fits both with regard to the imagery of the poems as well as the tribute to the writings of Edgar Allan Poe.

This is a modern gothic. But it is also has elements of the romantic leading via innuendo into the borderlands of the erotic. It also has features of the fairy tale and even dares to touch upon magical realism. In the end, it is all of these and more. There are “phantom shapes” and “infernal company,” ghosts, fallen angels, mer-men, and manifestations brought on by memories. This collection reminds us of our bad dreams, our good dreams, and our nightmares and throws in a little humor for good measure.

The collection is short but not unusually so for a book of poetry.  As a result, the reader is left with a feeling at once of being sated but still feeling the vague emptiness and longing left over after a lost love.  And that brings us right back to the obscure loneliness of the title.

This collection is well worth the read.

A Route Obscure and Lonely published by Wapshott Press ($7.50 on Amazon.com).