He looked across the beach, taking in, or dismissing a space here, a slight angle there, where the shadow of the cliffs fell. Several times he scoured the beach, until finally he decided to move the body about a hundred yards up, where the sand was whiter, and there were no pebbles at all. He was about to pick the body up when he heard voices nearby. Automatically he fell on top of the woman, and pressed her face close. The voices came nearer, he held his breath, pulling himself completely over the body, and felt the cold brittle lips against his own. The voices died away, only when he could no longer hear them did he roll off, lying for a time panting beside the body, his head to one side. Rubbing his lips he struggled up. A few flies settled on his neck, one crawled into the corner of his eye; he picked the body up, and marched on, it was not far to go now.
He placed the body in a horizontal position, so that the head faced the sea, then he tried it at a right-angle. In fact every position he could think of; what was wrong, the place, the body, or merely himself? He looked round the beach once more, perhaps nearer where the rocks and stones had fallen.
This time he caught hold of the woman’s legs, already feeling tired, he walked slowly. Against the landslide he found the body alone spoilt the effect, it was really only the head that was needed. He searched for his pocket-knife, it was a little rusty, which meant it would take some time. He caught the woman’s hair and holding the head between his legs, he started to hack. He began, after a while, to feel slightly dizzy from bending his head too low, he let go, watching the woman’s head fall back upon the sand. The sun was already half way across the sky, a bright burning hole. He went on, looking almost dispassionately at his unfinished work, thinking that with the head half off the body already looked better. He wiped the knife’s blade on his sleeve, and started cutting into the sinews of the neck, until the head was segregated. Triumphantly he held it up, laughing, and raised it towards the sun, as though that alone was the witness to his success. He carried the head, by the hair, into the middle of the beach, a golden patch of sand, and here he gently put it down, as he might a child, face upwards. But it refused to stay in this position, and began rolling away, until he stopped it with his foot. He picked it up, and then made a deep hole in the sand, for it to rest in. For the first time he noticed the eyes, green like sea-stones. He stepped back, it seemed too perfect, far too beautiful. The joy he had anticipated was rapidly replaced by disappointment. He began making a deeper hole, then he threw the head in, and pushed the heap of sand quickly over.
He walked back until he became aware of the headless body, the mouth slightly open, as though laughing. Now in a certain light and shade, in the corner, where he had left it, forgotten, the body looked better than it ever had before. As he approached he heard the voices again, this time much nearer. He looked at his clothes, his hands, they were covered with blood. He waded into the sea.
Beyond Dead
NIGEL HUMPHREYS
I am beyond dead, far from life, having quit the safe-keeping of bones. I have no mass. I am no longer relevant, like a moment’s spindrift, assuming structure where there may be none. It feels as though I have been here for days, maybe weeks, yet there are no days. Only interminable night. And no sleep and no dreams to break this terrible monotony. To embody and embolden ignorance, make ignorance incarnate, was clearly the intention but I had not expected this – this hermetic darkness. Where are others? Are there others? There must be. But for now I am alone. There is nothing here. Not even ground to move along. No points of reference. Everywhere about me, in every direction, is impenetrable starless night as though I am at the centre of a black void. All is nothing. Nothing is all there is. No features. No sound. I am neither hot nor cold. And there is no one and no thing here, wherever here is. Yet I exist, and have reason to think I do and therefore the best of all reasons. There will surely be others here too. I cannot expect to be unique. To see, hear and commune with through a flavour of physics specific to this new self, and quite beyond Newtonian observation, I suspect. Illogical to think otherwise. This is pure solipsism.
If I assume continuity and alignment I will learn what is required, having retained planetary knowledge and memory. And what memories they are! Oh, that they had been erased, deleted from the sum of human experience! Except for my childhood years perhaps. Yet, since I have retained my reason I must put it to some use while I am racked on the torpor of inertia. If there are moments. I create them by sequential thinking. I can say a moment ago, I thought this way, and before that, another way. There is time in this non-place. I am and therefore there is time. Though no means to measure it, it would seem. The thought is already in the past and my next inference, whatever it will be, I will pluck from the future. My future. So I have a future. Of sort unknown. And yet these new moments can only be reactive, and reflective since nothing is happening here, in this infernal eternal night. What surprises me is, I am not elated at finding myself still extant in some form after death. Oh, I know I was known for my Deist beliefs and in public it is true I affirmed the existence of God and the immortality of the soul. But if I am honest (and now perhaps finally I can afford to be) in my heart of hearts the observations of my life only ever pointed to the absolute termination of it. No doubt such hypocrisy is not unique to me.
But certainly not this! Suspended in darkness like a dead fish at the bottom of a quarry lake. A stand-alone thinking mind with nothing stirring above or below me. Neither in front nor behind. Nor on any side. If I have sides. And I am not sure I do. Silence is ambient here. And yet . . . I have no fear. I do not understand why, but am grateful for it. To whom must I be grateful? Ah! That I do not know . . . yet. But I am content. I will wait. What else can I do? Extrapolate from my inertia? Make deductions about nothing? Deduce what from what? That eventually I will have the means to move about and join others? If there are others. And if there are may I not anticipate friendship, loyalty, love? Vengeance and hate too. Ah, this new thought grinds out fear. Creates it where before there was none. What if there is only hate and retribution? Then I must be in Hell. And yet without fear of it. But with fear of others. Those who might seek revenge. Oh, when will this overwhelming penumbra lift? Surely there will be a new topography when this cloying night lifts; perhaps mountains and rivers, sea, towns and cities, earth and fire? There is no hint of these yet.
When will this darkness end? When will someone make contact? Will someone make contact? Perhaps I am being tended in my absence. I strain to hear but there is nothing to hear. And nothing to see. And yet, I am largely content . . . for now, existing in this vacuum. I do not say – living. Though I must be living in some sense. All I can do is pass time in thought. Speculation about the state in which I find myself earned not one solitary word of response throughout the millennia man has existed. There was only ever faith, born of a terrifying fear of non-existence. The loss of self. The annihilation of personality no matter its arrogant sophistication. We called it faith but in fact it was only ever hope. A vain hope in something beyond the rot of flesh. But now, it seems to me (now I am beyond death) there is no evidence that faith or hope was ever required. Yet hope has been realised. It has become fact. So why no response? And why does mankind we have to live in ignorance? Why was I denied all knowledge of where and what I am now – existing in an afterlife, but little more than that.
I had no reason to anticipate this. And yet does it not imply design, purpose, intention? Whose intention? And dare I suppose a who, since I am still me. Or he. As self-consumed as ever. Yes, I know it. I freely admit it. There is no shame in that. How else can it be now – here? But surely I can expect others to come soon. Will this dark silence never cease to deafen? With only myself for company in this all-consuming solitude. Shall I whistle to keep my spirits up? How can I? I have no lips to purse. And yet . . . Ah yes . . . there . . . I hear myself whistling. Can I hum? Shall I hum a tune? I’ll hum the Marseillais . . . and there it is. Crisp and clear. Silence no more. I hear myself
humming. It will pass the time. Let’s see, what other tunes can I remember? At least I have memory for how could it be otherwise? Without memory I would not be me . . .
And now I am bored. Will no one in authority come? Some Tiresian figure perhaps, to explain what I must do, what is expected of me, if anything, what passes for the way of life here. Not King Louis I hope. He will certainly have it in for me. If reprisal is permitted here. Which it may be if this is Hell. Yet I do not feel I am in Hell. Not in Heaven either. Intuition does not seem to have forsaken me. The first question I will ask of whoever comes is, why one state of existence should succeed another? Why has my brief materiate span been supplanted by this solipsistic existence of the mind? And are there accounts to be settled for what I did on Earth; or did not do and should have? So many lives I signed away. Cutting them short for the greater good. Will that be justification enough? Will our religious teachers, in all their various vestments and rites, be proved correct after all? On other words, will I be judged as the clerics preached? How I despised their self-righteousness. Even if my continued existence has settled the question of survival once and for all, they did not know it. No one knew. It was only ever guesswork. Nothing more than that.
But wait! Am I deceived or is the darkness less dark? I have no eyes and yet . . . yes, this black cast appears to be breaking up. There is . . . yes, an up light. It pervades. Gradual but yes . . . I am sure of it: black is now shallow black. Increasingly so. At last! And now I see shapes in the far distance. On the edge of this diminishing penumbra. How do I see them if I have no eyes? And yet I do. In every direction. Amorphous shapes, though upright. Drifting. Like slow flotsam. Clusters. What they are? Demons, angels or spirits? Or simply the inhuman creatures of this wretched region.
And now for the first time I feel cold. A coldness which reaches into despair. My contentment falters. Suddenly I am uneasy. I do not like these strange forms. They have an aura of malevolence about them. This is cannot Paradise. But it may be Hell. Yet why am I in Hell? Did my good works count for nothing - the candles I burned down to guttering flames through solitary nights, drafting laws to protect the nation, championing the cause of slaves, thespians, defending Jews? The commissions and tribunals I sat on dispensing justice with the sword of law. Do they count for nothing? I have not asked for much in life. I have been frugal and moderate in my tastes. Lived a sober, God-fearing life. Yet am I still to fear God? Surely not like this! Confronted by these hideous beings. Their numbers swell. I must hold myself firm. Brace myself. At least it is no longer dark. Perhaps I will soon wish it was.
They are getting nearer now? Yes, I am sure of it. I can see them clearer. They bear the pallor of cerecloth. A sickly sweet smell rises from them. Violets perhaps. Sharp. Fierce. Unpleasant. And yet though they grow taller the nearer they get, they are still unrecognisable. Were they once human? There are hundreds of them! Some hang back. Others drift ever nearer. Drifting because they have no limbs. Neither arms, nor heads yet somehow humanoid. The nearest approach like headless torsos tightly wrapped in bandages. Ah, I fear them! It’s as though they accuse me of some terrible crime. Why will no one protect me?
Wait. Those nearest have stopped within the range of stones if I had stones to throw at them; paused as if waiting for the others to catch up. Nothing good can come of this. I am in fear of my . . . life? Existence then. My very being. They must be demons. Malevolent sprites. The Devil’s henchmen. And still their numbers multiply. Rank upon rank. A silent claque waiting for the curtain to fall. Or a trapdoor to open. Or a blade to drop. I am oppressed on all sides by violent denunciation and yet nothing is said. At least I hear nothing. And all the while the choking stench of violets . . . and now a new aroma: acrid, metallic and yet not of metal as one of these beings draws close. Approaches relentlessly. So close I see its limbs pinioned by rope. And a stale crimson stain where a head should be. The vile thing is upon me! too close! Too close! It will be as one with me! And I have no means of evading it! Its stench of blood! I cannot bear it . . . Go away! No! No! . . .
It’s gone! Where did it go? Did I absorb it! Yes. I feel its weight! As though its appalling energy is at one with mine, crushing my spirit! We are commingled! How terrible! And now another comes at me too. Impossibly close. I feel its fear, its despair, its anger . . . We merge! How terrible! And now it’s gone. At a point of symbiosis, when we have coalesced! The thing, whatever it is, is inside me. Added its energy to the other within my being. And I feel their sorrow. It overwhelms me. And now others draw close, following quickly. From every direction. Somehow I absorb their shrouds and in their passing into me I know their melancholy. I have no choice but to suffer their terror. I have no eyes to close, no mouth to scream, no legs to run. And still they come at me! In their hundreds. I am in Hell! I
Yet why must I suffer this? I kept the commandments. I lived a simple celibate life, lodging in a carpenter’s house when I could have lived in palaces. I refused to exploit my public office for gain. I made do with my miserable deputy’s pay. I killed no one . . . though it’s true I signed away hundreds to die, but always for the good of the state. Always in good faith. And their deaths were quick and painless. I stole from no one. I never missed mass unless I was too busy with the nation’s affairs. I coveted no one’s wife. Honoured my parents while they lived. Gave to the poor. Championed the disadvantaged against the privileged few. I stood out for equality, fraternity and liberty. What more could I have done? Does all this count for nothing? Is no one listening to me? Many died, yes, but many more were saved. Terror was necessary. A swift severe justice. An emanation of virtue. Conscription and the end to the civil war depended on it! The spectacle of public execution was a necessity. The people had to see justice done. They had to know fear. Surely that was reasonable. Ah, mercy! Still they come these hideous templates of death! Is there no end to them?
Didn’t I suffer ignominy and terror myself? Exposed to the ungrateful herd whose lives I had striven to better. Wigless. Humiliated high on the scaffold. My hands trussed behind me. Already in pain from the gunshot wound to my jaw. How I screamed in agony as the executioner removed the bandage to clear my neck for the blade! Was that not enough redress for any wrong I may be deemed to have committed? I do not deserve this. These horrors!
On, on they come! Blood soaked necks torsos. I can do nothing about them. Will this go on for all eternity? There are as many as ever. Surely there will be mercy! Mercy, I say. Have mercy on me! God have mercy on me . . . !
They’ve gone! Gone! All of them! Gone! And gone from within me too. I am suddenly no longer oppressed. In the instant I begged for mercy. Oh, what joy! What relief to be surrounded by the nothingness again. Thank you, God! God be praised for his blessed mercy? . . . But what mercy did I show? And why does Lucille Desmoulins surface to the forefront of my mind? Camille’s, my boyhood friend’s wife. Her mother pleaded for her but I did not answer her letter. France must always come before loyalty to friends . . . That must be right, but yes – I could have shown her mercy. I could have made her an exception. Perhaps I should have. Is that why I suffered these vile torments which . . . ?
Oh, my dear God! Not again! Please, not again! Those monstrous shapes are back, regathering in the distance. Multiplying. Drawing near again. More than ever. An army massing as before. Relentlessly they descend on me. Is there no end to their haunting? Have I destroyed mercy so that there is none for me?
Toxic
ADAM WELCH
Finally, they dropped all the pretences and produced a drug that had no benefits, just side effects. Carlos told me about it. It’s the Chinese. They cook up some new snortable chemical every day, give it a catchy name and sell it to twelve-year-olds on the internet. Don’t ask me why twelve-year-olds are chopping up lines when they should be running around in the sunshine, or doing their homework, or at least learning basic HTML, so they can get a job someday. I don’t know why things have got so bad. I spend a lot of time wishin
g that they hadn’t. But that’s not going to stop these kids from getting their rocks off. Nothing will, Carlos says.
I don’t know where he gets all this information from. One of those chat rooms he’s always on, or Reddit, or something. His mother thinks he spends far too much time in his room, eyes glued to screen. I hate to sound like a bore, but I have to agree with her. Mostly because she always gives me food and I’m a little bit in love with her, but also because Carlos’s room itself has gotten so depressing in the past few years. Piles of horror novels everywhere. Old Coke cans he’s been using as ashtrays. Dirty tube socks peeping out a bin, gone that special shade of burnt yellow on the sole that the eBay perverts pay big bucks for. He keeps the blackout blinds drawn most of the time, which is why he’s so pale, I suppose. I don’t think he eats too well either. He always had acne, as a teenager. It’s still bad.
Anyway, he told me that the twelve-year-olds . . . once the shit has finally passed through their systems . . . they post reviews. These seedy darknet sites, where you can buy drugs and guns, scroll through whores and assassins and weird sex toys and government secrets and all kinds of crap like that . . . they actually have little boxes at the end of the page for comments. It’s true. The twelve-year-olds are really into it. Exclamation marks and emojis all over the place. The Chinese collect all the reviews, translate them, and take all the constructive comments into account, before rustling up a new strain of nose candy – an improved formulation – and selling it back to the twelve-year-olds, who waste no time in hoovering it up.
He told me all about it while we were waiting for his mother to fix dinner, drinking a big bottle of Diet Coke, playing video games. I was letting him win, because I felt bad for him. It wasn’t the first such story he’d told me, but I got a kick out of the idea. Apparently after the Chinese had completed the process – of making drugs, selling to children, collecting feedback, making more drugs – three or four thousand times, they began to see some weird trends in the reviews. If they made a drug that was a little less potent, a little less euphoric, but cut it up with random noxious powders that were kicking round the lab – resulting in who knows what kind of nasty feelings the day after – none of the kids seemed to mind that much. But when they came up with something that completely eliminated the comedown, everyone hated it. Turns out, the headaches and the shakes were the most important part of the whole experience. Without them, said the twelve-year-olds, it felt like they hadn’t even taken a drug at all. Then the Chinese figured they could just save some money by just sending out the poisonous stuff. No need for a buzz, just the blues. That’s how they came up with this latest one.
Best British Short Stories 2019 Page 7