His breath
‘Your friend told me that you’re involved in environmental causes.’
He gripped her ear-lobe between his teeth, tugged at it, enough to –
Hurt
– make her expostulate. He seemed to enjoy the small noise she uttered.
‘Is that the sound you made,’ he murmured, ‘when you were fucking the headmaster?’
No
She tried to twist her head away, disgusted.
‘
Poor
baby Bean,’ he said, clucking.
‘Which friend?’ she asked, angrily –
Hurt
– but shaken. Her neck curving away from him.
He pushed his cheek into it again. Grazed its soft skin. She turned her head back around –a few inches –
Strained
‘ suddenly found her mouth right –
Right
‘ next to his. He kissed her then, but from a strange angle, so that their lips met like two silver sprats tangling together quickly in a fishing net –
No ‘
But –
Uh–
– his hand was flat on her belly –
Thumb circling belly button, in a crazy constellation of twinkling
– then firm on the sharp bone of her thigh –
Pushed it open
– brushed over her hip, then moved lower –
Have to –
Need to –
Must turn around, to feel his…
She pushed herself flat onto her back, her arms still bound and pushing up her chest. His hand was now resting on her opposite hip. She reached her chin up to find his lips.
‘The policewoman,’ he said, then kissed her. She could feel his mouth pulling into a smile, and then softening, opening, his teeth snagging the soft, top corner of her lip, pulling it up, his tongue following, like a tiny asp, slithering along her gumline, withdrawing.
She blinked. His hand –
Left hand
– moved from her waist, under the tight material of her vest, over her ribs –
Wide hand
– his thumb tracing a firm line through the centre of her diaphragm, the remaining fingers strumming each curving bone like individual harp strings –
The soft flesh under her arm tingling
Wind-chiming
Jangling
‘ until those two disparate hand-parts came together again, curling, gently –like a gardener caressing the cool head of his prize chrysanthemum –to cup the tender bulb of her breast –
Tightening
‘ until she winced.
He kissed her. This time like a grazing animal plucking a mouthful of grass from the pasture –a nuzzle –a brush –soft-faced - almost lipless. Then back again. But on the return movement he pressed into her –shifted his body over –between hers –
Pushed
‘ lifted her. She lifted.
‘I’ll be needing to punish you,’ his wet lips warned her burning ear, his flat hand instructed the dip in her spine, his bruising hip scolded her tender thigh, ‘and very
harshly,
for this.’
What time was it?
What
time
was it?
I am…
I…
Jesus bollocks
A bloody mess!
A bloody…
It’d been –
God. Had to admit it
– quite the most
horrible,
the most
distressing
walk he could ever remember. And there had been thousands of walks –
Countless
– and hundreds of night walks, in particular; Arthur Young
liked
night walking; could often be seen striding along purposefully until late into the evening –
Often
– and quite happily (in the summer, mainly, admittedly). But this? This was –
Absolutely Godawful
– very
different, somehow from other walks: the mud – the sea – the fog – the
struggle.
The pitch dark, dark,
dark.
The pervasive sense of being… of being…
Don’t think it
Of being watched –
I said…
– of being…
Please…
–of being…
Don’t…
– of being…
Followed-Ambushed-Trapped-Killed-Ripped-Cut-Skinned-Devoured
– Oh God…
Deep breath –deep breath –deep breath
And then the bloody torch –
Ah yes…
The torch
Totally –
Fucking
– unreliable. Batteries went dead after approximately fifteen…
(Katherine’s face. That look she’d pulled when he’d bolted. Got out of there so quick –
In/out
Just like that
– he even overtook the agent on the driveway –still dragging on his jacket, still holding his rucksack open in one hand –laptop inside, all higgledy-piggledy –still struggling to get the lead rolled up, still muttering a pack of inconsequential rubbish about having to get… to get… to get…
Back
But for what?
And Dewi. Standing at his window –
Indomitably
– tiger-striped from the front by the thick slats of his wooden shutters, from behind by the flickering, orange-tinged glow of the fire.)
Arthur shuddered. He felt the torch in his pocket. Blinked. Rewound –
Dark
Can you do a special test for n-n-n-night-blindness?
Is it an actual condition?
Is it a…
Could it be a…
A symptom?
He was barely past the first oil storage complex before the torch began to weaken, then flicker –barely past the Lobster Smack, in fact (shut) and the caravan sites (dead).
The want of light had been almost…
Should fucking sue that battery company
… almost
lethal,
in places –
Fucking rain came down
Fucking relentless fucking rain
The later, less well-delineated segments on the muddy bank had been especially treacherous. He’d fallen countless times –
Countless
So undignified for a…
Arthur snatched the offending torch from his pocket and threw it into the soup of darkness, just about as far as he could possibly muster. Tried to hear the sound of it landing. The
plop.
Couldn’t. Only the gentle splat of the rain.
Swore.
But there were so many subsidiary noises; all competing furiously for their place in the darkness –scrabbling to scratch their print into the deep night ink: squeals and whispers, cracklings and rustlings, hoots and splashes –
Fifty thousand rats, launching themselves into the water like a huge, utterly coherent, sharp-toothed Armada…
Badgers running riot, under the bastard bramble bushes…
Snipe. Screaming. Flapping from their low roosts up into the air…
The infernal
The fucking, bloody, infernal rip and squeak and scurry of the limitless Big Black
He reached a tentative hand towards the wooden rail –(had clambered down the bank backwards –skulking like a crab –on his hands and knees. Abandoning all remaining vestiges of locomotive dignity. Clawing into the mud with his bare hands and fingers –
Clinging on
Desperate).
The boat was dark. The water was vile and black and treacherous –he peered sideways, over the rail, squinting into the sleeting rain (which duly blinded him for a moment), looking for confirmation –
Where was the water?
In? Out?
Couldn’t actually see anything, only hear the smack and the suck and the gurgle of it –
Same as ever
The walkway wobbled under him –
Or
is it actually my legs, wobbling under me?
I am wobbling…
Totally
He staggered across it, wiping his eyes with his fingers, grumbling (more for effect than anything; to
bolster).
Wrestled with the knob on the door. Finally mastered –
Thank God
– the dodgy mechanism, and yanked it open. Paused on the brink. Felt –
Scared, dammit
– a brief moment of unease. Swallowed it back. Entered. The door slammed shut behind him.
Tried to remember the exact whereabouts of the two gas-fired lamps. Felt for the lighter in his pocket. Staggered around blindly with his outstretched –
Uh…
– hands –
What the…?!
– then suddenly began –
Sweet Jesus!
The stink!
– sniffing obsessively. Turning his head around, reaching out his hands, just… just sniffing –
Badly rotting egg?
Pure sulphur?
Horse shit?
Total decomposition?
He stopped moving. Drew his arms in. Stood very still. Could hear…
Oh Jesus –
Worst-case-scenario
… could hear
breathing.
And it was… it was…
Big
Is that possible?
Can breathing have a size?
A stature?
… like the breathing of a boxer, or a… a wrestler. An American WWF monster with biceps like pineapples and a head like twenty-two pounds of pink boiled ham.
Arthur backed off a-way, towards the door. His rucksack hit a picture or a bookshelf or a cabinet. Made it clatter. He jumped forward –
Like a silly tart
– jibbering, then turned and rushed –headfirst –towards the exit. The door, when he grabbed it –
Oh yes,
Of course
– was stuck.
‘I wouldn’t…’
Aaaaaargh!
A horrible –
Tiny
– little voice was squeaking. It was –
Directly
– behind him.
Uh…
Vindictive-woman-dwarf
Uh…
Red cape
Uh…
Intent on murder
‘Just
listen
to me,’ the small voice said.
Art had somehow contrived to push his hand –
How did…?
Fuck!
– through the glass in the window. He pulled it quickly back –
Mistake
Seconds after –long seconds –he could hear the fragments tinkling down onto the gangplank, into the water.
‘I’m only a small
girl,
’ the voice said (not a little irritably), ‘I don’t mean you any harm.’
‘Just do what you have to do,’ Arthur found himself whimpering, withering up inside with fear, ‘just do what you have to do. And do it
quickly.
’ He was holding his bloody hand out in front of him, like a bit-part actress in a horror movie.
A small patch of light suddenly appeared, to the far end of the cabin. Arthur blinked towards it
A torch
It was low, held by –it swung around –a small hand –an arm (fur-encased) –Arthur shuddered –a shoulder (more fur, grey in colour) –then a little head. Not a crazy-ugly-killer dwarf face. A nice enough face. Gappy-toothed. Boyish.
‘I’m Sasha,’ the mouth in the head announced, ‘and this is Brion.’
The torch dipped left, its beam illuminating a monkey-puzzle of horn, a wide brown eye. A long –a very long –nose. A suggestion of whisker.
‘Don’t panic. Brion is from Norwegian breeding stock and
very
meek…’
Arthur stared at the deer, blankly.
‘Unless he’s provoked.’
Bri-on…?
‘I mean he kicked a boy once who poked him in his privates…’ she sniggered, ‘but who wouldn’t?’
Bri-on…?
The beast grumbled at the unwelcome torch-light; a sound not unlike an old Douglas motorbike struggling up a steep incline.
‘What are you doing here?’ Arthur asked, bringing his hand even closer to his face, confusedly, trying to focus in on it –
Warm
Wet
‘Before I give anything else away,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind…’
She shone the torch directly at him. Arthur covered his face with his arm, pained by the light, grimacing.
‘You definitely aren’t the person I was expecting,’ the girl mused, after a brief period of quiet scrutiny, ‘and you’re not my stupid Uncle Toby, either. Are you renting this craft, or are you just an impostor?’
‘No. I’m…
Yes, of
course I’m renting. I’m Arthur Young,’ Arthur
said, ‘and I’ve actually…’ he indicated towards his hand, speaking very slowly and clearly, as if presenting an item of general interest during a primary school Show and Tell, ‘I’ve cut my hand. I’m bleeding.’
‘That’s the least of your problems,’ she informed him, twirling the torch around flamboyantly. He blinked over at her, suspiciously, through the moving light –
Is she a poltergeist?
He felt confused. Not a little nauseous.
‘Take a look…’
She walked towards him (as if in slow motion) –
Is it her?
Is it me?
– then paused, turned briefly, pointed firmly at the reindeer, ‘
Stay,
Brion.’
She was about nine years old, warmly ensconced in a thick fur jacket –
Rabbit, mostly, by the look of it
– and waterproof trousers which rustled as she moved. Heavy boots. A red knitted deerstalker-style hat, tied under her chin, with a white pom-pom on top. Red gloves; matching pom-poms dangling at either wrist.
Arthur couldn’t tell if it was the girl or the animal, but as she drew closer there was definitely the sense of an encroaching scent; a powerful musk-based aroma of some kind or other.