All stories

“It’s your turn”

“Uh?“

“She’s crying, don’t pretend you can’t hear”

Steph kicked Simon a little too hard in the shin.

“FUCK! OK!”

“Don’t swear, she...”

“She’s 4 months old!”

Simon grabbed his still warm dressing gown from the back of the door, slung it over his body and plodded through the dark across the small landing to the nursery.

“sshh sshh ssshhhh, it’s OK princess, daddy is here…again…cos mummy is obviously in need of more sleep.” He leant into the cot and picked up the now puce baby. Bringing her up to his chest, he started to bob up and down while humming ‘YMCA’ at half speed. She had fallen asleep to it once and now Simon swore it was her favourite and the only thing to calm her back down.

“Please Abby, please. Daddy has got to be in work today. Give daddy just a little break.”

He picked up Lamby and shuffled back out onto the landing with Abby showing no signs of relenting.

“Simon?” Steph called from the darkened bedroom.

“It’s OK, I’m taking her down for a bottle. She’s just hungry” He flicked on the hallway light and started to head downstairs. Steph turned over and pulled the covers up higher to cover her head.

“Fuck.” The clock on the chimney breast read 04:30. Simon’s shift started at 6 – there was no hope of anything resembling sleep again this morning. He crossed the living room, bashing his shin on the coffee table. “FUCK”. Limping on to the kitchen he opened up the fridge to try and find a bottle of milk. The only thing on offer was a can of Red Stripe and leftovers from their take away dinner. Food shopping hadn’t been high on their agenda since Abby arrived. In fact the only thing that had been on their agenda was sleep. Four months of disrupted nights following disrupted days. Simon couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t nearly fallen off the toilet at work as his eyes thought it was an appropriate nap time. He expected it to be hard but the trauma of her birth had left all of them at a loss as to how to live their lives together.

“I’ll take her” Steph appeared at the doorway, her eyes barely open as she extracted an engorged breast from beneath her dressing gown.

“OK, how about I make tea?”

“uh huh”

“Milk?”

“Shit, think I left it in the car”

“Ah it’ll still be ok” Simon muttered as he grabbed the keys and headed towards the front door.

The air out in the little lane was crisp. Beams of light from the house lit up the dew hanging on the blackberry bush across the way.

“I can’t believe it is autumn already” he thought to himself. He never even registered the dustbin lorry reversing directly towards him.

I run as fast as I can, faster than a lion, faster than a winter sunset, faster than a diving falcon, faster than summer disappears, the earth disappears and I am drifting in a blur. When I land I am lost.

Up ahead smoke uncoils a snakelike body and smiles at me, beckoning, teeth hidden. The only chimney in a village, the only lit fire on a dark night. I know they are searching for me still.

The door glows red hot, it’s frame moves pulsing in the heat. Inside shadows dance, faces grin, shadows of fangs flicker on the wall and I, enter.

A man watches me, his skin is luminous white, purple dye spread across his naked chest; the eye of the dead. There is a circle of fire at the centre of the room and inside that through the haze lies the body of my mother. The man’s bald scalp dips in and out of the shadows, glistening as white as a skull.

I walk slowly around the room. The man watches me crouched. I stop an arms width away.

“They come for you. The last and the first. Your breath will be discarded, the dead have no need of it. Your flesh will be torn, the dead have no need of it. Your heart will not beat, the dead have no need of it.” I hear no malice in his voice, just resignation.

“Unless”, he pauses, head cocked as if listening. His voice is thick, a cloak of unease. “Unless you go where they cannot follow. And maybe there? An answer. An offering. The gods watch.” He extends his arm and in his hand he offers a single blackberry to me.

It’s sour juice fills my mouth, then fades. I turn to the empty door, then look to my mothers body. A black mark has appeared on her belly, growing, swelling; it is a deeper black than anything. Deeper than the earth and rocks, deeper than a life, through life and perhaps beyond.

“The last, and the first. An offering. Perhaps there will be mercy?” No hope in his voice. I have no choice. I walk past the fire and climb into the dark.

I see beneath me the village people spread out, waking, working, living. I see the land green again, the fires doused, the flowers growing, the birds tumbling, the air fresh, the country breathing once again.

Then a wave of black. I see my mother coughing blood when no one is looking, I see my father weeping in an alley by the body of his lover. I see my lost aunty fall into a river, her head striking a rock and her body disappearing, I see my never-met brother caught in the womb and fall still. I cry without sound, without release, without hope. And as I give up, the black washes over me again.

I wonder why my world has fallen? Why death runs swift footed and sure?

I wonder why I am the last? Why I live to see so much suffering. Then black.

I see myself lying on an ocean of dead grass. I know then what I must offer. I reach out and touch my still warm body. I feel my hand reach into my body, through my skin, pushing further. I feel pain pierce every inch of me. I crush my heart in my hands.

I feel snapping, breaking. Then. Light. A warm growing light, that trickles, then spreads, then races away. I feel the life spilling out. The last. I feel my eyes close and my mouth smile. And then. I feel the land breathe again.

Shuffling, dead-eyed and stumbling through clouds of dull, grey fog they came. I drew back into the shadows and stayed as still as I could, trying not to breath or even blink. They were hazy outlines in the fog for now, there was every chance they’d pass me by and never even spot me. I was good. I had made it.

I thought about poor Jess, then shook my head. It was too late for her and we’d agreed at the start; no regrets. Every woman for herself. But when I thought of her helpless eyes staring back at me as they came for her, it was almost too much. She was only seventeen. But there was nothing I could have done.

That’s when I realised my mistake. I had gone over this a thousand times; when you can’t out run them, hide from them and hide in a place they wouldn’t think to go. Do not draw attention to yourself and never put yourself between them and their goal. Stupid, stupid!

They became more distinct now, defined, lunging shapes reaching blindly towards me. Even if they didn’t know where I was already it was just a matter of seconds before their grasping, groping, foetid fingers found me in the dark. I fought the urge to run, but that would be certain disaster. So I stayed still, hoping the fog would shroud me as it billowed around me like smoke from a chimney. Maybe, just maybe...

Then I felt fingers at my waist, heard the rasping hiss of breath. As the grip tightened, I knew it was too late. I felt myself pulled towards one of them - I remembered this one from before - Richard, or Ralph, maybe? How changed he was now! I smelled his bitter, rancid breath as his mouth drew closer to my cheek, the soft, tender flesh of my neck and ear…

“Hello Rachel, what are you doing hiding in the shadows?”

They were everywhere now, hands gripping the slender stemmed glasses on the table behind me, each containing a measure of urine-yellow Lambrini and boasting a frozen blackberry, bobbing like a single disembodied eye, staring sightlessly at the suspended ceiling that Sheila from HR had pinned streamers to earlier in the day. It was unspeakable. I fought back a sob, a scream.

Richard-or-Ralph’s hand crept downwards towards my bottom. At least, I thought, as his voice slurred something into my ear, I’d see Jess again.

But then a reprieve! Richard-or-Ralph bellowed loudly into my now damp ear, a primal roar of joy and release, and charged off. I heard the Village People blasting and felt the exodus as forty-five middle aged men lunged passionately for the dancefloor.

Peering through the fog I saw, to my delight and astonishment, that it was Jess at the DJ booth. Our eyes caught across the room and held as I tipped her a slow salute of thanks before creeping off to a safer place to wait out the long slow hours of the night.

He had to feed, he knew this, but his energy was low. It would soon be getting dark – time to hunt and find something which could satisfy his hunger.

Moving seemed unnatural, almost alien but something (or someone) was willing him on; telling him to seek out human life.

He raised his head and stared ahead, trying to concentrate on a sound coming from the other side. He wasn’t sure if it was coming from outside or if the fog in his brain was playing tricks. Is this how he would feel from now on? Armageddon was only hours in the past and he didn’t expect the changes to take effect so quickly.

The pain in his ears was unbearable; he thought his head would explode with the pain. Wait a minute, was that really YMCA he could hear? Sniffing the air, he turned his head towards the sound, but he was disoriented. Where was it coming from? It took all the strength he had to rise and walk towards the window. Moving his ear closer to the curtain, the sound gradually got quieter. He raised both arms slowly and reached towards the torn curtain which separated him from daylight. Life. After yesterday, he realised there was no going back.

Something stopped him pulling at the curtain. He sniffed again, never had his senses been so acute. What was happening to his body? His mind? For a moment he wondered if it was smoke he could smell, but then he remembered. On entering the building (he couldn’t remember when) there had been a cloud rising from the chimney next door.

Is this how it would be from this moment on; only coming to life at night? Walking towards the table, he stumbled and fell against the sharp corner’s edge, but he didn’t flinch. On the table, an ice cream tub filled with mouldy blackberries crawled with flies. In his present state of mind, things which he would have noticed before, now ceased to exist.

Of course there would be changes, but his body wasn’t prepared for what was happening at this present time. His old life was quickly becoming a thing of the past and he would have to embrace everything opening up, not only to him but everyone around him. Adjustments were needed.

Did others feel the same way? Did they accept the changes without question? Perhaps the transformation would be different for him. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to accept this new life and all that came with it?

The music stopped suddenly and the bedroom door abruptly flung open, knocking over the empty cans stacked in a pyramid on the floor.

“Right, my little sunshine. Your mum’s here!”

The curtains were pulled away far too quickly and what little light there was, stung his eyes. Closing them he clutched at this head.

“Mum, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I know what you students are like. You’ve only been away a few days and look at the state of you!”

Hard as he squinted all Roger de Cecil could see were dark shadows through the sinewy fog. Cold was in his bones, and hazy through the gloom were echoes that formed words then became voices. John the mason, the low grunts of Ezra the miller, and this nasal whine that droned about the wheel of life which turned - where does it end, where does it begin, no one knows. Sam the wheelwright, of course. Man a bloody idiot, scarce better than a Frenchman, spouting the same night soil as when forester Will was laid out in the side parlour with an arrow through his right eye.

Marjorie, he needed his wife, his buffer against the village people. He could not call her name. He could not turn, he could not move. The fog was shifting, writhing into fingers of grey smoke feeling from the hearth to the rafters above. So he was laying in his bedchamber, but why then not alone?

The words faded and now he was aware of the soft sounds of a woman crying. Marjorie, it had to be. Tender affection swelled Roger's breast, he knew that sound, the quiet sob of thanks she always gave after he had once again quenched her woman's fire to his satisfaction. The sobbing was fading, but not into silence, the voice of his wife becoming richer and throatier.

Was that…laughter?

'Fools!' she said. 'Simple minded fools. Not one thought to wonder how the chimney came to fall!'

Roger surged with pride. The first chimney in the county, not even connected to any hearth, and what was higher status than a man with a useless chimney? It came back to him, stood there below with the priest and some of his richer vassals, telling them…something, and then.

And then nothing.

Roger was beginning to tremble. It started in his feet, creeping slowly ever higher, past his knees, then crowning the mighty summit of his belly and beginning to tingle in his chest. A sound was rising in the chamber, hints of cows in the field bellowing to be milked, but no, it was more, it was the same fell cry of the beast that stalked his wife whenever she went blackberry picking.

Roger bolted upright and a great whoosh flooded his ears.

He was sitting on a wooden trestle in a side chamber to the main hall. Marjorie was perched at the end of the trestle locked in embrace with the young steward of the house she had insisted they employ.

Something trickled into Roger's eyes. He touched his forehead finding wetness first, and then the ragged edge of bone and something soft beneath. There was no pain. Lots of blood, but no pain. He was not trembling. It was the trestle table shaking.

A great shrieking crescendo echoed around the chamber and the adulterous pair collapsed onto the legs of Roger. Marjorie was giggling.

'That was even better than doing it against his bloody chimney.'

She turned her gaze on her husband, look of mockery fading into one of horror.

Roger wanted to speak but the only sound to emerge was the chink of his teeth opening and closing.