An Excerpt from Beneath the Willow

 

 

Thomas tightened the sheet about her. As he’d spread it on the ground, he’d been reminded of the picnics they’d had. This moment and the past week had made a mockery of the life they’d shared.

Keziah’s eyes, affected by the strangeness that had taken away the woman he’d loved for three years, lifted to him. Not even moonlight affected the pupils; the enlarged discs remained fixed, almost erasing the green irises.

He swiped away his tears, could smell the damp earth on his hands.

“Thomas,” Keziah whispered, “don’t bury me deep.” Now the moment had arrived, she was fearful.

“It’s shallow,” he answered and kissed her brow.

“Remember, the twentieth.”

Thomas nodded; eight short days away, it would seem like forever. Stillness claimed her. He placed his ear to her mouth, detected no breath. He covered her face.

Standing up, Thomas stared down at Keziah’s form wrapped in the white sheet, her feet were exposed and now bare, the edges of her grey bottoms fluted around her ankles. If it weren’t for those small feet, the truth would be easier to hide from; easier to pretend there was nothing of worth within the sheet. Only rubbish. Until he picked it up. Then he’d feel her, the contours that described her, that stated she was real, human…a body wrapped in a sheet in his arms. He couldn’t bear to unwrap her now and cover her fully. The resolve he’d maintained while carrying Keziah, she urging him on, faltered.

He couldn’t do it.

His eyes fell on her white sneakers placed neatly at the grave’s edge. Oh God. I don’t want to do this. This can’t be happening. He uncovered her face, placing his ear to her mouth again, then pressed his hand over her heart. No breath. No beating. Needing to reconfirm the new reality, Thomas thumbed up her top lip. Okay, okay, they’re still there.

He re-covered her face. “You’re gone, aren’t you?”

Only the voice of water responded, stirred to life by a harrying wind. The willow’s fronds spoke against the gust and moonlight jumped about, spying here and there through the parting fronds as if taken over by a childish mood.

The sudden energy in his surroundings fed Thomas’s indecision. Standing, he paced between the cocooned form and the willow. On the fourth return to the tree, he pressed his face against its solid form, feeling the grooves bite into his skin. He punched the tree with the side of his fist. Finish it! Grabbing the shovel laying across the hole, Thomas stepped into the shallow grave – Don’t bury me deep – and began to dig deeper.

 

 

If you're hooked follow the link below! :-)

http://www.amazon.com/Beneath-the-Willow-ebook/dp/B00D09DJQU/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1369859417&sr=1-3&keywords=beneath+the+willow

 



Guy

Death has its own face.

Even in the dimness Rhea saw it.

Stu Danton saw it too. Death hadn't only taken up command of the body on the floor, it was in Stu's face, in the tawny eyes and gaping mouth; a mouth that fifteen minutes ago her tongue had been exploring.

Stu, shirtless, body quivering finally dragged his gaze from her boyfriend's emptiness, to regard the bronze horse ornament in his hand.

She counted the seconds in which awareness finally settled into his expression. Fifteen seconds; and he snarled like a dog that had discovered something threatening, he released the ornament. It fell, the noise dull padded by the carpet but present enough to mark its weight.

Stu looked at her. Rhea was smiling. It was small but it was there.

"Why are you smiling?" He hissed.

Rhea recoiled, surprised. She smiled out of fear and disbelief. Rhea had been called insolent by her parents whenever chastised because she would smile. It had always been a natural response to stress.

"Jesus, I killed him, he's dead." Stu grabbed his head, fingers pulling at the dark hair.

She couldn't go to him, between them Luis laid face up, hiding rendered scalp and shattered skull.

"It was self-defence," she said softly.

He shook his head, "I killed him."

"He was going to hurt me. You saw how crazy he was. He wasn't supposed to come back until tomorrow. It wasn't our fault."

Stu was deaf to her justification.

But one of them had to keep control.

Pulling the band off her wrist, she tied up her red hair. She was calm, remote; it was a body now that lay there, not crazy Luis who she'd long tired of. Luis who shouldn't have come to hers to find his best friend with his girl. And now he was just a body. Rhea's mind was ticking over, thinking of the wheelchair she and Luis had stolen six months ago, purely for the pleasure of stealing. It was folded in the hall closet.

"What are you doing?" She asked, when Stu pulled out his mobile from his jeans' pocket.

"What do you think?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"Jesus...What the hell do we do then, push him beneath the bed and hope he goes away, bag him up and throw him in the Thames? What the hell do we do?"

That was a question Rhea already had an answer for.

#

She waited in the bedroom, while Stu rooted round the kitchen for old newspapers. He was seeking direction, seeking normality, an undefined escape. He had no idea what she planned. To tell him now would cause him to freeze. There was enough daring in him to have slept with her but not enough to fly with this.

Luis had been right to be angry. But not right to do what he did (though with Luis extremes were always the norm)...there was nothing else Stu could had done, other than watch Luis choke her.

Rhea touched her neck, swallowing gingerly and feeling the pain like pins lining her throat.

Stu returned with the newspapers. He wore a frown that enhanced the speculation in his eyes, but he only said, "that's all I could find."

"I have some old clothes at the bottom of the closet, take them too."

The newspapers thumped to the floor, Stu's eyes now fierce. He turned stiffly toward the window, just his upper half shifting, as if the impossibility of what Rhea's direction insinuated had rooted his feet in place. The window held the dark, and then off to the right the dull-bulleted explosion of fireworks; red and purple, the colours of violence and death.

Rhea walked to the bedroom door, passing him as he stood transfixed, aware that inside a part of Stu had caught on and that consciously he was willing to only play dumb. A defence mechanism; the only way he could cope, to get through the next few minutes was not to believe surface side.

"I'm going to get some cardboard," flicking her gaze from Stu to Luis, "start padding him out with the papers and clothes."

"What for?" But his hands had clutched together, as if that little knowing part, governed them.

"Just do it. This is hard enough as it is without questions." Rhea didn't care to pander to this Stu, cocooned in self-denial. But still, better to let him realise in his own time then to contend with his reaction if she divulged now. While he was like this he was manageable.

A little life returned, irked into being by her asperity. "From where I'm standing, you don't seem so troubled." Then he set to doing his unsavoury task.

#

Stu fought not to look at the wheelchair, Rhea pushed in. But he was having trouble with the visual choices available: Luis dead, the wheelchair possessing a terrible presage, and Rhea with her hair tied up school-style and face criminally cold.

He looked to the window. There was no moon visible in the sky. It was as if the colourful violence of the fireworks had driven it back into the depths of cemetery dark.

Cardboard Rhea had taken from beneath the front room carpet was on the chair's seat, there was a roll of tape on top. In her back jeans' pocket, a black marker pen.

Luis sufficiently padded. Stu had removed his black jacket in order to stuff the papers and clothes beneath his shirt. Stu had tried his utmost not to focus on flesh losing heat, brushing against his hands. Despite the padding of Luis' legs, with the jacket back on, his torso was bigger than his lower part. Leaving the wheelchair beside the door, Rhea foraged in Luis' pockets for his gloves.

"This is sick, I don't like where this is going." Stu said, face salt-pale, eyes seeming drowned.

"Treat it like a doll. Haven't you ever played dress-up before...even little boys play dress-up?"

"Luis's dead." It came out part-disbelief, part-censor; he knuckled tears from his eyes.

"I know." She slipped the gloves over Luis' hands and pulled up the collar of his jacket. With Stu's ministrations Luis' body had shifted, displaying the congealing blood on the carpet. Even in the dimness it was clear.

"Where's his hat?"

"What?" Stu hadn't retreated from the body. In the time it took him to pad his one time friend, the process of desensitisation had begun to take place.

"Luis' hat," she said. "He always wears it."

Stu rose and checked the hall. "I've got it. He must have dropped it when he saw -" he cut off abruptly, bringing back the woolly hat. Stu tossed it at her, violence suppressed but barely.

"Can you pass me the scissors? They're in the bottom drawer of the dresser."

"What're you doing?" He asked, passing her the scissors.

Rhea shrugged as she put the hat on Luis, she touched his face. "It's Bonfire Night, everybody is taking out their Guys tonight."

And there it was. "You're crazy." But it arrived softly, apathetically...the tone of someone lost and unable to truly resist.

Rhea taped a face guard of cardboard about Luis' head, she drew on the rudimentary Guy face, lifted the lip of the hat and pulled it low over the new identity.

"Pick him up and put him in the wheelchair," she directed and waited Stu out as he tried to stare her down. He complied with watery whimpers.

"Do you need any help?" She asked.

"Just hold the damn thing still."

Luis sat suitably loose in the chair; she angled his head down, propping his feet on the foot-rests.

"What's missing?" She said, thoughtfully.

"Sanity," Stu answered.

She clicked her finger and thumb together. "Big shoes, all Guys have shoes too big for them."

"Rhea...stop."

She turned on him. "We need them to lend him some verisimilitude. He has to be realistic." She walked away, into the hall and rummaged in the closet.

"Do you have any?"

"I think so. My brother stayed here last Summer, he's a labourer. He left some of his stuff here, I remember steel caps." Rhea threw back.

Seconds passed before she returned holding the boots. Stu watched her as she removed Luis' white trainers and replaced them with the dusty boots.

"Size eleven," Rhea smiled.

"This isn't going to work."

"It's called fronting it out. If we put ourselves in plain view, no one is going to see anything they shouldn't. We'll be two people with a Guy, just like half the bloody town."

"We'll be twenty-one year olds with a Guy."

"There's no crime in that." Her attention returned to Luis, who was no longer Luis but Guy. "Doesn't he look credible?"

"No," Stu said, determinedly. "He looks like a dead man in a wheelchair."

"That's because you know that. If you didn't, he'd look like any run of the mill Guy. I admit slightly more realistic than most." She nodded, more to herself. "I'm glad he's not Luis anymore."

"I'm not going with you, if you take it outside." Stu was staring at Guy. "He's like those people who pretend to be statues in London. They look convincing enough but you still know they're people. I know he's dead, but he has that energy...any minute now it's like he's going to jump up. Anyone who looks at him will feel that."

"It's dark. People aren't going to be inspecting him. And think of it this way, if they don't believe it's nothing more than padded clothes, they'll think we're having a lark, with one of our mates pretending to be a Guy." Her gaze became accusing. "You killed him; I'm doing this for you."

"He was strangling you..."

"Yes, and now we're going to end this nightmare," no longer looking at Stu but Guy. "Still something missing," she muttered.

Stu watched her hurry from the room, he could hear her moving about in the tiny kitchen. Finally, she returned, carrying a small tin.

Rhea tore off a section of spare cardboard and scrawled: A Penny for the Guy. She taped the card to the tin, placing it on Guy's lap, positioning his hands round it.

"There we go," she said brightly. "What's a Guy without a Penny Tin?"

Stu stared deeply at her, trying to  see what trigger within had been pushed to make her so unaffected, he couldn't. He could only say, "you're crazy."

"Am I?" She returned quietly. "Maybe I am."

#

"I can't do this, Rhea." Stu said, after he'd put on his shirt and coat. "I can't dump him like rubbish, what about his family?"

Anything she said, would only make her seem devoid of conscience. Right now, she was someone different. She had to be. She didn't want to encourage his developing dislike of this new her, for him to judge the 'her' he had known for five years, with this facet that had surfaced for the sake of preservation.

Rhea turned on the light. Where dimness had concealed, the light threw into sharp relief. But she wanted to see her handiwork without the muting effects of gloom, to  make absolutely certain Guy fit the role. And he did, with a macabre realism.

Death had loosened limbs and head, the new face angled down as if inspecting the tin. With the night as a friend, no one would see the truth.

Stu looked up, from where he sat on the bed. "He looks real!"

Colourlessly, she said, "trust me on this; no one's going to see what you see. It's a parody of a person, there's supposed to be an element of realness."

"He Is A Person. This is Luis."

Dark eyes became stony. "Thinking that will only make it harder. We haven't got far to go, we'll take the back roads."

"Where're we going?"

Rhea didn't answer. It wasn't as if the destination was going to make Stu feel better.

#

In the distance, there were cries of excitement. The November night was full with the fragrance of bon fires. But there would be no fire for Guy.

Stu handled the wheelchair. Guy shifted in the seat as it worked across the pavement, Stu cursed beneath his breath.

"This is impossible. I can't do this." He finally exploded, releasing the handles.

Rhea grabbed the chair, voice hissing, "don't be an idiot; just push." She snaked out a hand, locked onto his wrist. "I mean it, Stu. For God's sake, it's too dark to see anything. It's a Guy."

"It's Luis," he shrieked.

She fisted the hand not holding his, wanting to hit him. They couldn't go back. They couldn't undo it. There was only forward. "I mean it, you help me. Do you think the police will see this as self-defence now? No, of course they won't. That's assuming they'd have believed us, if we'd called them. Now, push the damn thing."

His face worked with a myriad of expressions, Rhea didn't care for. But Stu reclaimed the handles and moved on. Ten minutes later, after crossing a minor road, a group of children and two adults turned the corner they were heading for.

Rhea slid Stu a warning glance. "Talk to me," she said.

"What?"

"Talk, laugh, just don't look so guilty."

"I don't know what to say."

The group approached. The kids had sighted Guy and were pointing.

"Oh, Jesus," Stu groaned.

"A penny for the Guy?" Rhea called, brightly.

Stu looked at her in stupefied horror.

The adults dipped into their pockets and fished out pennies for the four kids. The kids rushed in with a momentum that caused Stu to back up in panic. Pennies tinkled into the tin.

"That's the best Guy, I've seen all night." One cried. The boy turned to Stu. "How'd you guys make it so good?"

Stu stood there, voiceless.

"It was hard work," Rhea said, with a Jack-O-Lantern smile.

The adults grinned and herded on the kids. Rhea looked at Stu, thinking of Michael Douglas in that film where he goes crazy while waiting in traffic. "I told you. It's just a Guy."

He blinked. "You push it then."

Rhea did.

By 9:30 they'd reached the back streets. Since leaving their benefactors behind, Rhea had been the one to attempt conversation. Sometimes she wasn't sure whether she was speaking to Stu or Guy. Often Guy's trembling head would dip down and up as if nodding in agreement to her words...of course it was a reaction caused by the un-even paving beneath the wheels. But with the scent of fire in the air, the burst of lights, disembodied cries and the feeling of furtiveness, all wrapped up with the eeriness created by her burden, the idea that Guy heard her, acknowledged her more then the living was seductive.

"I told you we'd hardly come across anyone." She threw-back to Stu, who tagged behind.

"All we need is a group of thugs, that'd be interesting. Wouldn't it?" Surliness unable to be bitten back, had caused him to speak.

Rhea eased the wheelchair across the empty road. There was now only the A4 to get across, lighted yes, but the fulsome dark that seemed to hang and fan out from the concrete stretch of the M4 would conceal nicely.

"Where're we going?"

"To the park," she admitted, finally.

"I don't believe this. Where're we going to put him in a park?"

"Just press the stop button, will you?" Rhea stopped the wheelchair at the edge of the crossing. They were at the half-way mark, she felt suddenly invigorated by the sounds of rushing traffic, a sense of invincibility touched her. They crossed to the centre island beneath the M4 and on, daring to enter the temporary gap in traffic to reach the other side.

"This is wrong."

"It's working." Anticipation thrummed in her; soon it would be over.

#

A slope led down to a concrete path. Rhea hadn't thought about how dark it would be or how difficult the terrain. She was pulling back with all her weight, just to prevent the chair from dragging her down. Stu, now ahead, reached the path and stared back.

"With all your planning, you forgot a flashlight."

Gritting her teeth, Rhea concentrated on easing down her burden. Resentment building; Stu had done this and now he was trying to detract himself from the situation. She relaxed as the wheels found even ground, shoving the wheelchair passed him, heading right, aiming for deeper dark and the place where she planned on leaving Guy.

"You're supposed to help," she said.

He ignored her, again overtaking.

"This isn't my fault," she shouted. "I'm doing this for you."

"Don't say that," he hollered, turning on her. "I reacted, I grabbed the first thing I touched and hit him. I hit him too hard. I didn't mean to...don't make out all this is my fault. You knew what he was like, and you still took up with me." Emotion caused his voice to wobble with the last, he wiped his eyes. "For God's sake," he said with a little more control. "Don't act the martyr."

With his turning on her, she'd stopped. Rhea watched him storm off. Eventually she followed.

The Gothic tower rose out of the dark. Stu was standing in profile to it, by the railings looking out toward the huge pond. The trees framed the pond like stanchions; a prison, a place of no return.

"Are we just going to walk around, or are you going to tell me what we do now?" He said, voice unforgiving.

"We put him here."

"Tell me not the pond, Rhea."

"Why not? It's deep enough."

"He'll float, eventually, he'll float to the surface," shaking his head in disbelief.

"Not if we put in the wheelchair too. He's strapped in. It'll keep him down."

"God, are you going to wheel it in? Where does the depth begin in any body of water? I mean, is there a clean drop or has the mud built up along its outer reaches? I'm not walking into that damn pond."

"I'll go in and see."

For the first time, since Luis had stormed in a given life to this nightmare, Stu laughed. It wasn't nice, it grated and made something burn inside her. "You'll drown."

"I don't plan on getting in..." leaving Stu cursing, she clambered over the railing and walked across the mud to the pond's edge. Taking off her coat and dropping to her knees, Rhea pulled up the sleeve of her jumper. All the while focusing her thoughts on how weak Stu was.

The water's embrace was frigid, oily. Reeds attacked her flesh. There was a mild slope into the pond, but at the limit of her fingers it fell away. Rhea leaned further, from behind her Stu called, "stop pushing your luck."

"It's deep." Retracting her arm and dragging on her coat, she returned. "Come on, Stu, help me lift it."

"It was hard enough lifting him into it. Now you want us to lift both him and the chair."

"Stop!" She couldn't deal with him anymore. "I'm trying to work with what I have. And all you're doing is pointing out obstacles. It's going to be hard. But we'll do it."

"And then we're done," he said, meeting her gaze, his meaning clear.

"Fine, if that's what you want." She took one handle and leaning down slipped her hand beneath the base.

Stu took up his side. "Ready?"

"Yes."

They tried to lift but the chair didn't budge. She could hear Stu straining. Already, the flesh of her hands felt like it had suffered a Chinese burn. "Lift it."

"I am," he ground out. "It's not moving."

She let go of the base, placing her other hand on top of the one holding the handle, Rhea shoved sideways, toward Stu.

"Careful, you nearly hit me." He too straightened. He tugged back and continued to tug, his face convulsing in mingled disbelief and horror.

"What's wrong?"

Stu's eyes flew her way. "I can't let go." Stu was pulling back with enough force that the chair should be going with him but wasn't. A brittle keening replaced his harsh breaths.

"Stop it, what are you doing?"

"I can't let go," he cried, and began to claw at the frozen hand.

Incredulous, Rhea looked at her own hands. Tentatively, she removed her upper one. The hand that had direct contact with the handle felt numb; it was the cold, she thought. Rhea attempted to let go, but nothing happened. It was as if the directive from her brain couldn't reach the appendage. The flesh down to the wrist was hers, it had sensation; it was under her will. But her hand was like a piece that had been severed, remaining fixed in its last pose.

Rhea began to tug frantically, using one foot to kick against the chair; Stu, who had stilled to watch her, now reverted back, kicking and struggling, peppering the air with broken sentences.

"What's going on?" He sagged against the chair, exhausted.

Whimpers were the only response to his question.

"What is this?" He wailed, and gave another mighty tug back.

Guy shifted in his comfortable seat all the while. And Rhea imagined, for one frightening second, him turning to answer his one time friend.

"We're stuck," she said at last, the image still fierce in her mind. "We're stuck to him; I don't know how Stu, but we are."

There was movement, the slightest nudge toward Stu. They looked to the chair and then to each other; the question unspoken.

Yes, it moved. But they hadn't moved it.

The chair suddenly turned towards Stu, rejecting the pond as its visual in favour of the tower.

Stu yelped, skipping to the side. They were both attached to the handles, Stu with his left hand, she with her right, when the chair under no power from them, pushed on.

#

"What the fuck?" Stu yammered.

He had been saying this since the chair completed the first circuit of the pond. That trigger in Rhea, had clicked once again, had engaged fully. She was cut free from what was now holding them prisoners; not thinking about the relentless travel of the chair, of whether Guy would begin a tour guide commentary of their deathly surroundings. What occupied her was the topography. The path shouldn't be circumventing the pond, it should continue on beyond the tower, passed an expanse of grassland favoured by cricketers, then a dominion of trees and heather. This wasn't the park she knew.

"Rhea," Stu whispered, "I'm tired." He was bending forward, attempting to limit the strain on his tethered arm. Then his body crouched, and Rhea realised he was trying to sit.

"Stu, don't..."

His knees touched ground, the wheelchair accelerated and Stu's legs splayed behind him. All his weight was on that commandeered arm, he screamed.

Rhea couldn't reach him, because her working side wasn't nearest him. She was blocked by her anchored arm. She could spin round; forcing herself to jog backwards but still wouldn't be able to help.

Instead, Rhea tried to pull back on the chair, hoping to decrease its momentum. "Get your legs under you."

"I can't...I'm so..." another spiralling cry as gravel skated against his exposed skin.

"Get up, it won't stop, get up!"

And somehow he managed to get his feet beneath him; he pushed up and forward, using his free arm to pull against the chair. The chair slowed and Stu, like a dog that had been beaten into obedience, kept pace.

#

Rhea didn't know how long they'd been walking. She measured time by the circuits about the pond. There had been seven circuits now, without change, except on Stu's side she had noticed tents. They were dark and easily overlooked, if not for the occasional lantern near them.

Stu, somehow, still locked in the mode that normality wasn't far away, asked if they were illegal immigrants; it was known that they'd been camping in the parks, killing the wildlife.

Rhea had wanted to give him the sanctuary of that belief. But he might do something in his desperation to be free of Guy, to attract their attention. And illegal immigrants just didn't spring tents out of nowhere.

"No, don't look at them, Stu."

"Who are they then?"

"I don't know and we don't want to find out."

"They could help us," he said.

"Help cut us free from a dead man?"

"They might help us," he whimpered more to himself. Then his stare became fixed on his frozen hand. "I'll bite myself free," he said vehemently.

"Then you'll bleed as you walk."

Stu pulled back alarmed. "Did you see that?"

She hadn't seen anything.

It came again, a peaked shadow cutting across the path ahead. Suddenly, she was speaking without intention.

"A penny for the Guy?" And it was as brightly intoned as the last time she'd said it of her own volition.

Stu stuttering tried to silence her, but the words came again, more loudly. She couldn't stop herself. And each time she spoke, the shadow moved closer.

"Shut up, Rhea." He said in a voice fit to harm.

"I can't," and the words jumped out again.

The thing was concealed in darkness. Rhea's mind translated the dark into a cowl with a cloak. The thing hunched forward, as if curious about Guy. The wheelchair stopped. Something moved against the creature's chest. She had no idea what it was until there arrived a tinkle in the Penny Tin. Against the pennies from the children, the object glowed with a cold blue light.

"What is it?" Stu whispered.

"Its version of a penny, I think."

Together their gazes returned to the front of the chair, only natural dark greeted them. Beyond Stu, where the encampment waited, a tent flap lifted and fell back.

"How many of those things are in those tents, do you think?" Stu asked.

"I don't know," She said, just as the chair juddered back into motion.

#

The eleventh circuit; the penny tin was slowly filling up. There was an unformed threat in the continuous increase. She had not told Stu, she believed they would come to the end of their journey once it was full.

Many of their benefactors watched from the earth, only stepping onto the path when her voice called out. She had become the Pied Piper of Shades. Stu had not spoken since their first visitor. In his anxiety he had tugged open his shirt, to scratch at his neck...she was glad she couldn't see the blood-beaded welts, she knew had risen.

"I don't want to do this anymore," he slurred, driving deadened eyes her way. "I'm going to stop."

Rhea remained silent, continuing to watch the way ahead. And Stu didn't stop.

Electric coins shivered in the dark, shifted and settled, tinkling a strange melody that made her bones ache more then the endless walking. Sometimes she thought Guy troubled the tin with his hands, a finger crawling up the side to encourage further sound from the coins.

A child figure up ahead.

Rhea fought against the urge to speak. It did little good. The words came and so did the thing.

It didn't walk toward them but hopped, its neck crooked as if by the Hangman's noose, the over-sized head lolling with its motion. It was generous and instead of one coin, gave them four - eager for the conclusion of the show. The face swivelled from Guy to them, offering little clicking sounds as neck bones shifted against one another, though velvet black was all that was offered.

Rhea thought she heard the crinkle of a smile, and then it capered away.

On they walked.

As they approached the twelfth circuit, the sense of knowing their outcome defined itself.

Rhea knew when the Penny Tin was full, Guy would be free of his chair.

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.