Don't Tell

The trees on Pritchyard Street were dappled in sunlight. All except Molly Preydow's tree.
    "You have to go," she said. Staring at the trees ugly lines and mottled wood skin, it looked diseased.
    "Who does?" Her grandfather, Laurence Preydow, was awake in his chair.
    "The tree, it has to go." It was about time she dealt with it. About time she had her garden resembling those along the street. With pretty ornaments: plastic squirrels and rabbits, rose bushes or little kidney-shaped ponds.
    "That tree," he said softly, "has been there for a long time, Molly. It might do damage to remove it."
    "Don't be silly, it doesn't do anything," she scowled. "It blocks the sunlight, it's an eyesore and what does it contribute to the environment, hmm? I doubt it can even photosynthesise anymore."
    This was true, Laurence knew, there was nothing alive or fertile about it. Grass failed to grow around its roots, leaving a large patch of earth. And when the wind picked up it carried in particles of bark that had mouldered, as if the tree was shedding its skin.
     But he'd learnt over the years that this was a minor drawback to what it concealed and offered, and if Molly couldn't see that than that was how it was supposed to be.
     "If it wasn't meant to be there, Molly, it wouldn't be. I think it has a very definite purpose." Laurence eased forward in the chair, upsetting the rug across his knees. "But it's up to you."
      "Good." She smiled sweetly, already lost in ideas and creation. "I think I'll have a water feature put in. You'll thank me when it's done, water's very therapeutic Granddad." Molly went to him, tucked the rug in and dropped a kiss on his brow.
      Once silence had settled Laurence turned his gaze to the tree, he felt its presence, a strong personality, almost omnipresent. The tree was tired. He knew it the way old friends sensed each other's moods. Pulling the tartan rug away, he rose gingerly to his feet and went to the cupboard by the window. His twisted hands searched draws until he found what he was looking for: a box of white candles. It wasn't strange that he hadn't opted for a torch, though it would have been a better means in the darkness he knew would come. But his mind was wired to a time long ago, when a candle had flickered resolutely through the night.
       A little candle couldn't keep back all that darkness, whispered a tiny voice at his ear. Laurence stilled, remembering that voice and what had happened.
       "Will you let her cut you down? Is that what you want?" He closed his eyes, with a heavy sigh. "I won't tell."
#
I didn't see that, I didn't see it! No I didn't! Laury thought.
       He'd left his bed to close the window; there was a storm coming. Seeing a light on in Franky Harlowe's house across the way had distracted him for a moment (maybe his friend was getting ready for the storm too) so he hadn't shut the window straight away.
       Then it had happened, the tree in his front garden moved, had begun to creep towards the bungalow ever so patiently, while moonlight played between its branches. He didn't know how it was moving. It wasn't the wind, Laury was sure wind didn't make illusions like that.
       "I'll close my eyes and count to ten..."
       Opening them he could see that the tree was back where it was supposed to be. Quickly closing the window he'd returned to bed.
       "In case of a power cut Laury, I'll give you some candles." His mother had said.
       But even with the candle burning by his side (just in case the power cut happened before he had time to find his matches) he knew such a little thing couldn't keep back all that darkness. And now with his new knowledge, he didn't think it'd keep the tree back either.
       I won't be climbing that tree anymore, it was his last thought before sleep took hold.
       Laury woke during the storm. But it wasn't that which had disturbed him. Something crept upon him as lightning cut the sky, moving the coverlet along his legs. He'd been glad when the lightning had passed but not now, not with the darkness and the distant rumble of thunder. His skin puckered with a chill, knowing without doubt that someone had their hand on his thigh.
       Holding his breath, Laury dared himself to look; the fear kept his eyes shut. It wasn't his mother's hand; it felt wrong, and anyway she would sense that his wasn't really asleep and speak to him. This hand felt wrong. When it moved, it seemed to have trouble functioning properly, advancing jerkily up his leg.
      He opened his eyes slowly, but could see nothing but matted black. The hand moved on. Soon it'd reach his stomach and edge itself greedily higher, inching back his PJ top. The thought of it touching his skin made his heart thud harder. It was then that it came to him why it felt peculiar, why bits and pieces kept prodding him, sharp needles and scrabbling things.
      Oh oh...the tree was touching him, investigating his body with a hungry curiosity. Comprehension broke his paralysis, desperation kick-started his heart, he heaved the covers away. His white sheets were bare, no dirt or leaves or broken twigs.
      The next morning his mother asked, "did you sleep through the storm?"
      "No, I had a nightmare." But it wasn't a nightmare.
      "About the tree? I guess it can look fearsome during a storm." She didn't meet his gaze but placed a bowl of cereal before him.
      "I won't tell," the words popped from his mouth without thought.
       His mother untied her apron. "That's a good boy." Her brow arched, the light of eagerness in her eyes. "Would you like to know something? It won't hurt you, it just likes to say 'hello' every now and then." The eagerness crept into her smile, "you're old enough to discover new things now, Laury. That's why it's chosen to introduce itself."
      Laury didn't like the idea of the tree saying 'hello'. It might take it upon itself to be friendly every night; that wouldn't be such a good arrangement at all.
      "Can we cut it down?" he fidgeted in his seat, sensing that this was a bad thing to say. He pushed blonde hair from his eyes, seeking his mother's gaze.
      The eager light had fled her eyes, her mouth tightened before she said " what happens when you play with electrical cables?" Her tone hard, unforgiving.
      "You get hurt."
      "Good, and what happens when they're damaged?"
      "The light's go out." He said softly, penitently.
      Satisfied her nine year old son understood the implications, she said decisively "Franky's waiting for you."
      Laury remained where he was, intrigued. "Why can't we tell?"
      She nibbled her lip in thought, "it's the tree it stops you from telling. When I'm gone it'll be down to you to look after it, to keep it safe."
      Nodding but not really understanding, he rose and crossed the kitchen. But he paused before passing through the door, "it's just a tree, isn't it?" he asked uncertainly.
      "Not just a tree, Laury, the oldest tree in the world."
      Franky Harlowe was boasting new sneakers, they were a deep red with white detail. He also was holding a pretty neat penknife. There wasn't much his friend didn't have.
      "When did you get that?" Laury nodded toward the knife.
      "Today, and guess what?" Franky's red hair shone brightly in the sunlight, seeming to Laury as if the boy was bleeding.
       "What?"
       "I've just broken it in, you know it's so sharp it cut right through the bark."
       Frowning he continued to watch Franky. His friend was talking in riddles again.
       "You cut what?"
       "Your tree, I wrote my name on it. I think I might write it all over, do you wanna see?"
       Coldness grafted Laury's spine and it spread to his heart. Why did Franky have to touch what was his? His hands fisted without his realising, he shook his head.
        Franky shrugged, "look, I have to help Dad paint the front door. I'll come round later, alright?"
        Laury watched Franky jog back to his house. The position of the sun in the sky throwing the shadow of the tree across the road. Laury felt dark foreboding when Franky passed through it.
        No matter what his mother said, the tree was more than what it seemed. Always it reached for the heavens while tethered to the bowels of the earth; the trunk caught in normality. It might be the oldest tree, it sure looked old, but it was something else too.
        Not feeling safe, he went inside.
        He couldn't sleep. Having spent an hour moving his bed from beneath the window to put it by the door; pushing all his toys back beneath the bed and checking that the window's latch was screwed down tightly, he had hoped sleep would come easily.
       Now, lying on his bed reading Robinson Crusoe, he didn't so much as yawn. About to turn a dog-eared page Laury paused, thinking he'd heard a voice. His face puckering with concentration, waiting. He was greeted by silence.
       A smell began to steal into the room. His nostrils twitched against the acrid odour - it reminded him of burning rubber. An image entered his mind; Franky carving his name into rotten wood. Dirty grey tendrils of smoke spilling out. Franky grinning, I think I'll write it all over!
      His friend's voice reached his ears. So he was outside and shouting up at the window. "Come ou-"
      The words were snatched away, a muffled thumping filling the abrupt silence. The book toppled from the bed as he scrambled to the window. Franky hung from the tree like Judas Iscariot, only inverted and doing a tap dance with his hands, a pulse of dark electricity running through him. Dust and leaves patterned the night. It was Franky's hands that were making the thumping noise. Even in the darkness, Laury could see how wide open his eyes were. Silver flashed in the gloom, hitting the ground.
      He watched on as the tree ceased shaking his friend. For the briefest moment Franky hung suspended. And then with one final convulsion the tree sucked the boy into the dark of its branches. Laury, stunned, looked at what lay on the ground: Franky's coke bottle lensed spectacles and they looked back.
      He stepped slowly back from the window, seeing his reflection retreat in fear into the dark of the night. "I won't tell," he whimpered, the words a talisman.
      The next day he retrieved the spectacles and took to sleeping with them beneath his pillow. He had them with him always, just as a reminder. He suspected that his mother knew, for she often looked at him strangely, as if he'd become something different. Sometimes he wished that she would speak to him, to give him a reason to share his burden. At other times he couldn't bare to feel her eyes upon him. They were like a judgement.
      He didn't want to think about the tree, but he couldn't help it. For one it was outside his window, watching him whenever he played in his room or went to sleep. It was fixed, permanent. And just as fixed in his mind. And he would think, if it's not a tree, what is it? A power conduit, but for what? Why is it there growing older in my garden? Communication, transmission...what does it do?
      He was thinking much along these lines, staring at his reflection superimposed upon the tree, when Franky climbed through his window four nights later. It happened very quickly. The window didn't even open. Franky just clambered right on through. Franky stood there, all mossy and beaten and fried. Red hair and staring eyes. Just like 'Swamp Thing' only wearing brand new sneakers. Feeling his scrotum shrivel up like prunes, so close to his friend that he could smell cooked flesh and over that the ripe green of bindweed, Laury watched as a hole opened in Franky's face.
      "I wan' my glasses Laury, give me my glasses...I can' see no more." Said the black maw above the boy's chin.
      Remotely, Laury had pondered on his friend's need to still want something even now in his wretched state. But Laury would not hand over the glasses, they were his now.
      "No," he forced through gritted teeth, ready to spring to the door.
      They might have stood there forever, if Franky hadn't reached out with his bug-hand. Insects hopped from   the dead hand toward Laury, making little clicking sounds as they fled. Laury flew back, screaming. He'd reached the door when it came to him that the air felt lighter, he turned to find the room empty. Taking Franky's glasses from beneath the pillow, he whispered "I won't tell."
#
Laurence Preydow pulled his mind back from the memory. He hadn't told. Remaining quiet about Franky's death had been the hardest thing of all. Watching from his window the search that went on. It hadn't been fair that Franky got all the attention even when he was gone. Having those policemen rooting around the dirt, looking for evidence, a few shaking their heads sadly at Franky's name etched into the tree. At least he would have spelt his name properly, with a knife like that. He'd gone to look at it after the policemen were gone - hoping to discover what it was that had elicited such sadness.
    Mrs Harlowe saw him there and shuffled over. He remembered that the most, Mrs Harlowe stopped walking after Franky went. He'd never seen red eyes before.
    "You were his best friend, Laury," she said. "I know you miss him just as much as I do. Did you see him that night?" She'd gripped his shoulders, her bony fingers pinching his skin. "Where else would he have gone? Please?"
    "I didn't see him, I saw his bedroom light on but that's all, Mrs Harlowe." His mother had told him that it wasn't wrong to lie to keep something safe, so if there'd been guilt when lying to Mrs Harlowe, he hadn't felt it. She'd left him by the tree as if he'd disappointed her.
    His fear had stilled his tongue when it came to talking about the tree. But his mother knew, and she never quite treated him the same after that day. Like she was faultless. Shaking away the dregs of memory,  he sat watching the tree.
#
There was the roar of chainsaws, wood flesh spattering against the window like sharp confetti and then a final scream. Silence came swiftly as if eager to mourn. Laurence pulled Franky's glasses from his pocket, they were battered and the lenses scratched but still intact. Beside him a candle burned.
     They had cut down the world and filled its roots with poison. Now, all at once, the lights in Pritchyard Street went out.
     There was a curse as the living room door banged open, someone feeling their way through. Molly. "Don't panic, Granddad, it must be a power cut."
      Laurence stared at the flickering light, saying softly "I didn't tell."
      

Bone Black

Mr Clement’s finger pointed at her in accusation; she closed her eyes, opened them and realised he was in fact directing someone her way. She tried to make herself small, to disappear behind the rack of paperback novels; she was in no mood to talk to people today. The crying hadn’t let her sleep.

            The man’s smile drew her eyes. She couldn’t tell his intentions; if the smile had been smaller she might have but it wasn’t and left no room for anything else. Her hands played like curious children with the folds of her skirt, her dark eyes measuring the distance between them. What was his interest? She remembered the paintings, three remained.

            His face hung before her; then words escaped, forcing her to focus.

            “You’re the artist, right?” His head jerked towards the 16x16” paintings commanding the narrow area by the window. The easels wreathed in shadow, ochre light fanning out across the coloured canvases, blurring angles and form and their placement, one set before the other brought to mind headless and armless figures awaiting their turn.

            She paid Mr. Clement, the charity shop owner, a small fee to keep them there; really, he should be grateful her work was the only reason people came in, either to talk about them or to buy. But he wouldn’t admit to that.

            “Yes, Nora Thief.” He didn’t need to know her real name.

            His head wagged eagerly, the smile still fixed but slipping like a picture crooked on a wall. She wanted to straighten it; she didn’t like that he smiled so much. What was there to smile about?

            “Luke Emery,” he said, offering his hand.

            Thief managed a brief fluttering contact before breaking away.

“I’m interested in the centre painting. How much?”

Her gaze went to the piece. He didn’t look like the type to be attracted to it; he wore happy colours; a blue shirt tucked into stonewashed jeans, his cherub-curled hair decorated his forehead and temples.

But appearances were deceiving, weren’t they? That smile could hide anything.

“It’s not for sale.”

The smile withered. “Oh.”

“You could have one of the other two,” she said, knowing what the answer would be. Once a buyer had settled on a piece and that painting was denied, they would leave empty- handed. Of course they always returned; that’s why she liked to refuse them the first time.

“No, I don’t like the others,” Luke said, his face growing slack without the grin, lending a puppet quality to his features. Thief scrutinised it; trying to uncover the anger that coiled beneath the skin. Now that the fake face was gone she might catch it.

“What’s the difference?” She asked. “They’re all the same, aren’t they?” She’d come to learn that people hid their true personalities behind masks. They didn’t know that, when they bought her creations, they were giving away what lay hidden. The ego’s need to see its secret reflection always exposes itself.

“The others are black. Who wants a black painting?”

“Isn’t the one you want black?”

Luke turned back to the middle canvas, his eyes jumping between all three. “No, there’s more to it. There’s a deep red towards the centre and if I were to touch it, it would burn...”

Confusion skittered across his boy-man face. They never could explain; it was as if their personalities were alien to them and the words to articulate it as illusive as shadows. At those moments, Thief felt superior; after all she had created each piece. From the preparation sketches to the finished painting; it was her dedication that brought them to life.

“The painting’s called ‘Rage’,” she murmured.

“Can’t we come to some agreement?”

There were always agreements to be made. When the buyers returned they were willing to give her something more and she was happy to accept. It had become a ritual to refuse at the beginning. But ‘Rage’ was different; it was her first.

“No, not really.”

His hands jumped to life, a mutation of the smile returned, sardonic. “How about I take you to lunch? If I can’t get you to sell, then I’ll leave you be. How’s that?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said. Turning away she caught the bird-like stare of a female customer. The scrutiny pecked at Thief; causing sweat to agitate her flesh

“Okay, you can sit while I talk?” He persisted, pretending not to notice her discomfort. Thief knew he was all too aware, because the smile had fattened, reaching his eyes, hiding his secrets.

What would he say to convince her? More like force her, there’d be no bullying here. She knew arrogance when she saw it; he was too arrogant by half, invading her world with words, his energy interacting with hers. Trying to find her weakness...it’d be she who tricked him!

“It’ll have to be somewhere close; I don’t like to travel far.”

She was surprised to see the smile stretch further. He would have felt the strain on his skin. She then understood his attraction to ‘Rage’; it consumed his features.

The house was quiet when she entered. She slammed the door to rupture the silence. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling; evening shadows mated with fading light, creating an alien world around the light fixture.

            Putting her sheepskin coat on the banister she took the stairs. The darkness opened like a gash; silence returned heavily. Didn’t he feel like crying now?

            Thief watched him from the doorway; his posture like that of someone meditating. She noted there were more sketches today – that should be enough – she could begin painting.

            “Hungry?” She asked.

            He should be after all those pictures. All that energy finally dwindling, all that she sensed from him now was residual, he was running on empty. In the beginning after she brought him here, after she reduced his medication until he no longer had it, he’d been something to reckon with. Bad enough for her to dose him with sleeping tablets until, through the cotton wool haze, he’d understood what she wanted.

            She knew him better than anyone else, he began to realise that, trusting her in his delusions. She was used to handling such creatures; her strength was equal to theirs because she absorbed what they gave out. After the first month, with his weight diminishing, he’d been easier to manage, the sleeping tablets were no longer needed and after accepting the graphite pencils and paper she gave him, he began to draw.

            “Hungry?”

            The room was too dim; maybe she should open the curtains. Shadows filled corners and thickened the floor, blurring the familiar shapes of stacked canvases and a standing lamp.

            “No. Here.” He offered a wad of sheets. His fingertips and hands blackened from where he’d wildly blended one image after another.

            Thief shook her head at his ungratefulness, but she didn’t care if he didn’t eat; it’d be less work for her. His thinness was showing. Bones protruded like deformed limbs, his skin pulled tight like a canvas. The irony amused her.

            Taking the sketches, she held them close to her face. The images were conflicted; the hooded face surrounded by daggers told her this. It was to be expected though, from a schizophrenic. She’d seen facets of herself depicted in his visions; huge dark eyes covered many of the sheets she’d collected, endlessly staring; a coldness to them that permeated the mind. There’d been one that made her angry. Amongst a crowd of screaming faces, there was a figure that had no features at all and it seemed to shiver in the centre of the mass. She had known herself in that image.

            Truthfully, she liked that his madness recognised her, had woven her into his dark and broken illusions. Now, he only regarded her with mournful detachment. She sighed; she had enough material to understand the personality that would enter the painting.

            “Nothing left now, is there?” She observed obliquely, watching his face for the last gasp of rebellion.

            His shoulders bowed, a lethargic breath escaped. “I’m tired, go away.”

            Thief watched while he shuffled himself comfortable. Sullied light penetrated the thin curtains and corrupted the paleness of his flesh; resembled bruises where thigh met hip, his collar bones deep basins hoarding shadow. He lay breathing shallowly; refusing to face the blank canvas propped on the easel.

            “Think of this as therapy,” she smirked. The crying had made him tired; he should have thought about that; serves him right for keeping her up all night. She sacrificed her comfort by giving him her room and he repaid her with tears. He wouldn’t like it very much if she made him spend the remainder of his stay on the lumpy sofa.

            She departed, pondering what title to use for the painting. ‘Paranoia’ or ‘Conflict’...not to worry, the right choice would come to her once the work was completed.

“What made you paint?” Luke asked the following afternoon as they sat outside a cafe. He was eating delicately as if he were afraid his fry-up would choke him.

            Distracted, Thief twitched her eyes from the workmen gutting the road; their yellow jackets violent splashes. It would be much better inside, away from the glare and noise of the square.

            “I’m in therapy,” she studied his reaction. It was none of his business really, if he didn’t like it he could leave.

            The smile grew sympathetic. “My girlfriend’s in therapy, too.” He looked away. “How’d that get you into painting?”

            Too curious for his own good, curious people were always out to trick; if he wanted information he would have to part with some. “What’s wrong with her?”

            “Self-harm,” he said simply, as if it were perfectly ordinary.

            “Does she have to draw pictures?” Thief asked, her voice peaking with interest.

            “She doesn’t talk about it.”

            “Well, that’s what happens. You draw what’s inside you.” She wouldn’t drink her tea, not while he was watching. He might try to take her unawares. Get the answers he wanted. He better not ask where she went for therapy; that would be too bold – there was no common ground between them, no matter what he might think. She’d leave; there’d be no name-dropping here.

            “Why draw?”

            “It is how the doctors get hold of your emotions. They expect you to be able to put everything that’s filling you onto paper. There was a boy who drew New York by night; I think he didn’t quite understand what was being asked.” She shrugged; a blonde dread-lock scraped her cheek. “Another drew a face with a door in the forehead that stated No Entry. Not everyone is willing to be laid bare. The doctor smiled at that. Then this girl, using a black crayon, scarred her sheet until the white was obliterated.” Thief realised she was smiling at the memory.

            “So the girl gave you the idea?” Luke held her gaze; sunlight had turned his eyes to black discs.

            She frowned. Was he saying she didn’t have any ideas of her own? That she had to steal other peoples? Well, he didn’t know anything and he wouldn’t, she wasn’t that foolish. She inhaled, tasted hot pavement, exhaled.

            “I saw how everyone reacted; it affected them in different ways. The doctor liked it the most; he took it home with him.” She licked her lips, tasting salt. “The girl inspired me. I used her first.”

            “You don’t use crayons though, do you?”

            More questions, he wasn’t satisfied. Wasn’t he supposed to be cajoling? Trying to get her to sell? Maybe he wasn’t really interested in ‘Rage’ – he wanted to know how she did it, that’s what it was. How she transferred emotion onto canvas. Thief bristled.

            “No, I use oil paint.”

            “So it’s all about the technique?” He shook his head as if she amused him. “How can technique make the piece so powerful, huh? Is it just technique and paint, or something else?”

            He didn’t know anything. It was all three but only a privileged few had the ‘something else’.

            Thief found his blatant curiosity revolting. He’d revealed his true intentions. Not even the fake face could conceal them now. “It’s a secret,” she answered, voice flat.

            “And you won’t tell. Right, I get it artistic eccentricity.”

            Jokes wouldn’t help him regain lost ground, she wouldn’t let it happen. He’d wasted enough of her time. She scraped back the chair.

            “Hey, before you go. What did you draw in therapy?”

            Her lips twitched. “I left the paper blank.”

That evening Thief took the first step in preparing the paint. Her frustration was palpable; it clung like tar to her skin. She’d planned everything around the boy, believing a week would be enough, but his thinness had tricked her. She’d have to work quickly to meet her deadline.

            Yesterday, two paintings had gone, leaving only ‘Rage’. The empty easels needed to be filled; their nakedness irked her. She intended her next piece to be in no later than Tuesday, but the way things were going it didn’t look like that would happen.

            Lately she’d considered moving away. The countryside offered promise. It’d be much easier to make her paint there, somewhere on the outskirts, away from curious eyes. Really, it was time to move on; it wouldn’t be long before someone started causing trouble, would see a link between certain hospitals.

            And you couldn’t burn a person in the city – even a small one; not on a regular basis anyway. Some had, but they possessed egos that made them daring and tripped them up. Instead, she was forced to do it the hard way. She recognised the irony in stripping away flesh and sinew, the very things that concealed intentions. But the mess...she despised it.

            As she yanked flesh from bone with the aid of a scalpel, the smell of steaming meat crept behind her mask. Skin and fat that resembled pig left her hand reluctantly, its weight slopping it into a bucket.

            Almost done, her eyes crawled over his corpse drooping in the bathtub like a loose-limbed dummy. Even dead, he’d been sneaky; slapping her in the face when she repositioned him, his feet trying to encourage globules of fat down the drain. That wouldn’t do, everything had to be collected, dumped.

            Her movements were accompanied by the sound of plastic that draped the walls and covered the floor. She had to be careful as she walked; it would do no good to slip.

            An hour later she deposited the buckets outside, between the back door and disused toilet, for burial later that night. No plastic bags; she wasn’t stupid. Better to let the worms do their thing – she’d never understood why criminals wrapped up the bodies. Didn’t they know they were simply preserving? Too caught up in the drama to think, well, that wasn’t her way.

            Wiping her gloved hands down her apron, she trudged back inside. The skeleton with its wisps of hair waited. Without eyes it still watched her, trying to get beneath her skin; like the silly man in the shop.

            Quickly she dismembered. Collecting the bones, she carefully placed them in the two sacks at her feet. Later she would feed them to the fire and while they charred she’d empty the buckets into the holes dug along the length of the garden wall. In the early hours the bones would be ready.

            In the disused toilet Thief completed the last stage of paint-making. The process was long. She had to grind the bones to a fine powder and, never one to waste, every bone was used. The more paint, the better the texture of the finished piece.

            By Wednesday morning she had fifteen bowls of bone pigment into which she poured the necessary amount of boiled linseed oil; once mixed it was time.

            It took her the remainder of the week to complete the first three layers of the painting. Already it had begun to take on the characteristic enamel-like surface. She titled it ‘Paranoia’. By the time Monday arrived, the painting was virtually done, although it wouldn’t be ready by Tuesday. She could endure the two extra days it would take.

            The emotions caught within the 16x16” painting spoke eagerly; their undertones were morbidly twisted, dark and seething, the surface a weak illusion woven from shades of pale. It tickled her to wonder who would relate to it, who would barter relentlessly.

            Sprucing up the bedroom, she opened the window to allow fresh air for the first time in months, chasing away the boy’s male smell. She covered ‘Paranoia’, protecting it from the sunlight. Now, there was only one more easel to be filled.

“My final attempt!”

            Thief started. The book she’d been placing on the shelf threatened to slip from her fingers. They clutched; her nails lanced the polished cover.

            “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

            That’s exactly what he’d meant to do, she wasn’t a fool. Why turn up now, after almost a week?

            “I’m busy.”

            She edged passed, returning to the stack of books that needed shelving.

            Luke moved with her, his persistence coming off him like a sly odour. Her nose wrinkled.

            “Look, I brought my girlfriend. She wants to know what all the fuss is about.” His lean face didn’t seem equal to holding the smile.

            “Show her the painting then.” Thief gave him her back.

            His hand tugged at her elbow. He wanted her to lose her temper so she’d slip up. He’d have a long wait.

            “I want you to meet Lucy.” Luke jerked his head at a small woman standing just behind him. Her blonde hair, darker than Thief’s, had the lustre of dry leaves; the sleeves of her jumper rode her palms. Thief grew still – self-harm he’d said. What were the scars like beneath the material? Were they heavy and knotted, or those trial cuts that come before desperation kicks in and the blade sinks deep?

            The woman turned; her gaze unsettlingly obscure. “It’s black. What’s the point?”

            Not everyone reacted to the paintings; some people inspired them. Thief felt Luke’s indignation, saw the smile falter. Good.

            “What? Don’t you see the depth? The heat?”

            Shoulders shrugged, wrists rubbing together as if stemming phantom blood – deep scars itch. Thief knew she did it often, that the habit had become part of her nature. She would be a good subject, but good enough to relinquish ‘Rage’?

            Irritation at his girlfriend’s disloyalty marking his voice, Luke said, “Come on, you keep it here amongst second, no third rate crap even though there’s someone willing to buy it. Don’t artists improve with time? You’ll make other paintings much better than this one.”

            “How badly do you want it?” Thief was thinking quickly. If she did this she’d have to end her voluntary work at the charity. It was the only place Luke knew to find her.

            “Double what you’re asking.”

            Her breath pinched in her chest; he didn’t understand. He was too involved with the piece to think about its origins. But, he would in time, after a while all their thoughts turned that way.

            Her eyes plucked at Lucy. “Give me your girlfriend to use and you can have it.”

            A fair exchange. “Hey, Lucy, you’re gonna be a muse.”

            Lucy regarded them silently. Her grey eyes seeming to dull with each heavy lidded blink.

            “I’ll need your address,” he gushed.

            Laughter bubbled in Thief’s throat. He was still trying to be tricky. “No, have her meet me at the cafe on Thursday.” Canting her head, she smiled indulgently. “We’ll go from there.”

CUT THROAT SILK

The night is filled with creatures; slender metal glints from the crooks of their arms. Their heads lull back, mouths gape at the sky. I've seem them, huddled creatures in the park aliens with the remnants of humanity. They have become common place now and I'm beginning to wonder how long it will take for them to be thought normal.

Only the creatures inhabit the park, the respectable people have long fled, they take the safe road; (are there any safe roads, nowadays?)

The park isn't the only place I go; sometimes it's the Old Tin Bridge. There are creatures there too. Their bodies litter the rusted metal surface, mouths open, eyes closed against a dirty roof. Pigeons chattering from above. If you're patient like me, you'll catch how the skin shivers over their bones whenever a train thunders by. It's like watching ants' seethe beneath loose soil.

I fear seeing Ellis.

Tonight I'm at the bridge. There's a difference now. The creatures have gone; they have retreated to their secondary haunt - the park - if you've studied them the way I have, then it's easy to know. I'm the shadow they don't know they have.

I approach the steps and go up. I turn, the bridge stretches before me, dark, holding its pigeon-fragrant scent greedily to its haggard frame. Except the bridge isn't empty; I see a form near the exit. It could be refuse bags or a vagrant. It could be anything. Irrationally I believe it is Ellis, (still needing) fusing metal to his skin.

Shaking my head, I make myself remember.
Blood splatters on enamel.


Before approaching I check my pockets, making sure I've left identifying items at home; how bad it would be to leave my wallet behind. I imagine a cop picking up a worn leather wallet, turning it over before flicking it open. His eyes putting my face to memory, my name: Sarah Bell. Shaking my head, dispersing the image, I hurry along the bridge. It's colder now, November has sharpened her teeth.

At first there's only a grey coat. With my eyes adjusting to the gloom, I begin to make out more. Someone has placed bags at either side of the bundle; a sad attempt at disguising something shameful. I bite my lip, disturbed by their utter lack of conscience. I'm thinking of the creatures again. It always comes back to them. About to bend down, to pull the coat away, I hear a clatter of motion, asylum laughter. I rush down the steps, breathlessly waiting at the bottom, urging whomever it is to hurry.

There are three of them. They appear at the mouth of the bridge, seeing me their expressions turn baleful.

"Late fer you, lady," one chides.

"Not late enough," I reply, waiting for them to come down. They have ignored the tattered coat, maybe they didn't even see it. With a rush of demonic energy they pass me. The last one, his clothes mimicking loose skin stained in garish colours, jars my shoulder knocking me into the wall. I bite back anger. I need to be faceless, inoffensive, someone in a crowd.

Once they have gone I return to the bundle. The bridge begins to tremble, noise obliterates the silence metallic and huge. I lose my footing and grab onto the rail. Beneath me, a train charges through; its vibrations diminishing as quickly as they come. My bones throb, I kneel gratefully and take hold of the fabric. The roof blocks the moonlight, but a shard has managed to find a way in through the shotgun-speckled holes in the metal. Tugging the coat away, the moonlight lays its bullet kisses on the creature's face. His vulnerability touches me; sickness broils in my gut and leaning back I shut my eyes.

I think of Ellis, his bleak eyes scanning our parents' living room for something to steal. I think of my parents, playing make believe with their china cups and weak tea.

I release a breath. My thoughts return to the dead creature and the living ones that hid him; pulling the coat across his face, placing the bags by his side, remembering to keep from the bridge until the police discovered the jumble of fabric and plastic. I run my fingers over his eyes, down his cheek, under his jawbone (his mouth closed) to his throat.

Standing over Ellis, watching him in his unnatural sleep; his need fattening the air.


There is silk, red and vibrant at his throat, imitation blood. It's knotted like a choker, the only pretty thing on him. Someone cared enough to put it there. Like Ellis, his need no longer fattens the air. Uncovering him completely, I leave the bridge. I don't look back. I fear to see Ellis lying there, his mouth opened wide.

The park is silent. Going in through the gate I catch the figure on the Roundabout. There are others, dotting the park in clusters, mouths unhinged. The Roundabout slows its twirling, the creature's feet drag across the safety rubber. I go to him. Touching his skin, running my hands from his forehead, down his cheek, under his jawbone to his throat. His pulse throbs against my palm; his eyelids flutter.

My parents screaming at the watered-blood lapping at the rim of the bathtub. Their make believe shattered. Ellis floating, a naked doll bled white.


Somewhere, metal cries. A rusted swing jumps in the wind. I take the knife from my coat pocket. Moving behind him, hugging his head in my lap, I stroke his hair for a while; ash blonde. I cut his throat; his blood chases away the November cold. From my pocket I remove a strip of silk. I loop it round his neck and knot it tight; the blood already abates.

Made pretty now.

Absorbing his face, I see my brother's. I put my fingers to his jaw. His mouth clicks shut.

It's the only way to stop their need.