All the Fabulous Beasts

by Priya Sharma

  The eldest gathered up the other two and retreated to a place where the hills were at their backs and enfolded themselves in stone.

  *

  The Three Sisters are a group of three stones that occupy a small plateau on the eastern side of the _____ hills in County Meath. Their history has been retold for generations in the local village of _____. There are several variations of the tale. The one I’ve included here is the most detailed.

  —Songs of Stones: Collected Oral Traditions of Ireland’s Standing Stones by Grainne Kennedy

  *

  I drove us from Dublin. You directed. You kept glancing at my legs as they worked the pedals, which excited me. It felt like you were touching me. Sliding your hand between my knees.

  “Turn right.”

  The indicator winked. We were on Oak Avenue.

  “Does this all belong to Boom Developments?”

  “Yes.”

  I whistled, wanting you to know I was impressed.

  “Left here.” Then, “This is Acacia Drive.”

  There were diggers, trucks, the cries and calls of men. We bumped along the unfinished road. Stones crunched under the tyres and ochre dust rose around us.

  “Pull over here.” You buzzed, happy amongst the evidence of your success. “I asked the lads to complete some of the houses up here first.”

  You ran up the road towards a group of men in jeans and T-shirts. The men looked at me when you’d turned away and I could tell they’d said something smutty from the way they sniggered.

  You returned, carrying hard hats and keys. “Put this on.”

  I refused to be embarrassed by our audience. I piled up my hair and put my hat on, back arched in mock burlesque. You took my elbow with a light touch, as if unsure of yourself. I liked that you weren’t adept with women when you seemed so proficient at the rest of life. You guided me towards a house.

  “Here.” You unlocked the door.

  Our feet rang out on the bare boards. Fresh plaster dried in shades of pink and brown.

  “This model’s the best of the lot. It’ll be done to the highest spec.”

  I followed you upstairs.

  “Huge master bedroom. Nice en-suite too.”

  It was the view that I admired most. The hills, the open sky was spread out for us. I couldn’t tell you that I’d been here before your burgeoning success scarred the land. That I’d trekked for miles under rotten skies that threatened rain, across open fields carrying my notebook, cameras and a tripod. I didn’t want to spoil the moment by making it anything but yours.

  You should’ve known though. If you’d looked at the copy of the book I’d given you, my own modest enterprise, you’d have seen. You weren’t interested in history, not the ones of Ireland’s standing stones, not even mine. I was a woman of the past. You were a man of the future.

  “We could lie in bed together and look at this view.” Your tone had changed from business to tenderness and I was beguiled by the use of we. “Don’t feel pressured. Just think on it. You said you wanted to move somewhere quiet to write.”

  “I can’t afford this.”

  “You’re looking to buy outright. This would be yours at cost price.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I’m the MD,” you laughed, “of course I can.”

  “I couldn’t accept it.”

  “Grainne, you’d be helping me. Selling the first few will help to sell more. Things snowball. This property will treble in value over the next ten years, I promise.”

  I didn’t enjoy this talk of values and assets. I did like the prospect of us sharing a bed that was ours.

  “I’ll think about a smaller one, at full price.”

  I’d always been careful not to take anything from you. Need’s not erotic.

  “It’s cost price or nothing. Please, Grainne, it’s the least that I can do for you.

  *

  The estate looks normal from this approach. There are cars on drives and curtains at windows. I can see a woman inside one of the houses. She bends down and comes back into a view with an infant on her hip. The portrait makes me wince. Madonna with child. She turns her back when she sees me.

  I stop at Nancy’s on Oak Avenue, the main artery of the estate.

  “Have a drink with me.” She ushers me in and shuffles along behind me.

  Water rushes into the metallic belly of the kettle. I unload her groceries. UHT milk. Teabags. Canned sardines.

  “Pay me next time.”

  Nancy snorts and forces money into my palm. “I’ll come with you next week, if you don’t mind taking it slow.”

  “It’s a long walk.”

  “Don’t cheek me.” Her spark belies her age. She must’ve been a corker in her time. “I need to take the car out for a run. I’ll drive us somewhere as a treat.”

  I wonder how long it’ll take the village shopkeeper to forget my tantrum. Longer than a week.

  Steaming water arcs into one mug, then the other.

  “Grainne…” Her tone changes. “Lads are loitering about up here. Be careful.”

  When Nancy bends to add milk to the tea I can see her pink scalp through the fine white curls.

  “I’m just going to come out and say this.” She touches my hand. Her finger joints are large, hard knots. “You’re neglecting yourself. You’re losing weight. And your lovely hair…”

  I can’t recall when I last brushed it.

  “You’re not sleeping either. I’ve seen you, walking past at night.”

  “You’re not sleeping either.”

  “That’s my age.”

  Nancy sips her tea. I gulp mine down. It’s my first drink of the day.

  “You’re all alone up at that end of the estate.”

  I can’t answer. I’ve been too lonely to realise that I’m alone.

  “Life’s too sweet to throw away.”

  Then why does it taste so bitter?

  She tries again, exasperated by my silence.

  “What happened up there isn’t my business but I can’t bear to watch you punishing yourself.”

  I should be pilloried for my past. I should be stricken with shame but I can’t tell Nancy that it’s not remorse that’s destroying me. It’s pining for you.

  “You’re full of opinions.” It comes out as a growl but there’s no bite.

  “You can stay here anytime. God knows I’ve room enough to spare.”

  She opens a pack of biscuits and makes me eat one.

  “Be careful out there on the hills, Grainne. You could turn your ankle and die up there and no one would know.”

  *

  I kept a well-made bed, dressed with cotton sheets. Worthy of the time we spent upon it. Sunlight moved across our bare bodies, which moved across one another. Hands and mouths roamed over necks, chest, breasts, stomachs, genitals and thighs, stoking a deep ache that only you could sate.

  Afterward we lay like pashas on piles of pillows.

  “I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

  “That’s a cliché.” I meant to tease you but it sounded bitter.

  “You don’t believe me. You don’t believe anything I say.”

  “I do.”

  I did believe you because I felt it too. From that first moment I wanted to open my arms to you. I wanted to open my legs to you. I promise it wasn’t just lust because I wanted to open my heart to you too.

  “I’m just someone you sleep with.”

  “Dan, don’t play games to make yourself feel better.”

  “You don’t need me, not that way I need you.”

  “Of course I do.”

  You thought yourself the more in love of the two of us. Not true. I hated sharing you. I hated not knowing when I’d see you or when you’d call.

  “You’ve never asked me to leave her.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes.” You paused. “No.” Then: “I don’t know. I don’t love her. I did once. I can’t leave her now. Ben’s still so young
. But wait for me, Grainne. Our time will come. I promise.”

  “Don’t make promises.”

  “I wish I’d met you first.”

  I wish it all the time, for so many reasons.

  *

  The short cut to Acacia Drive goes through Boomtown’s underbelly. There’s a square that would’ve been a green but now it’s the brown of churned mud. It should’ve been flanked by shops. Some are only foundations, others have been abandoned at hip height. A few have made it to the state of squatting skeletons. Piles of rotted timbers and broken breeze blocks litter the verges. An upturned hard hat is full of dirty rainwater. A portable toilet lies on its side and I get a whiff of its spilled contents.

  I flip over a tin sign lying in the road and it lands with a clatter. I clean it with the hem of my shirt. Boom Developments, it exclaims. The symbol’s a crouched tiger, its stripes orange, green and white.

  I go straight to bed when I get home, leaving my shopping in the hall. The once pristine sheets are creased and grey. I push my nose against the pillowcase but can’t smell you there, only my own unwashed hair. Frustrated, I strip the bed and lie down again. I touch myself in a ferocity of wanting but it’s a hollow sham that ends in a dry spasm. I’ll not be moved. Not without you.

  I put my walking boots and coat back on. I feel the reassuring weight of my torch in my pocket. My premium property backs onto open country. I open the gate at the bottom of my garden and walk out to where the land undulates and settles into long summer grasses that lean towards the hills.

  Out here, away from the estate, nothing’s inert. Buzzing insects stir the grass. The wind lifts my hair and drops it. A chill settles in and I wish I’d worn another layer. I cross the stream, sliding on wet stones and splashing water up my jeans. The stream’s unconcerned. It has places to go.

  The sun’s sinking fast. The sky is broken by a string of emerging stars as night arrives.

  The ground rises and I have to work harder until I’m climbing on all fours onto the plateau. The hills crowd around to protect the Three Sisters. This trio of stones are eternal, bathed in sun and rain, steeped in the ashes of our ancestors. They’re more substantial than our bricks and mortar. They’ll sing long after our sagas are exhausted. They outshine our light.

  The Sisters cluster together. They’re not angular, phallic slabs. Their Neolithic design looks daringly modernist, each shaped to suggest womanhood. The smallest, which I think of as the youngest, has a slender neck and sloping shoulders. The middle one has a jutting chin and a swell that marks breasts. The eldest has a narrow waist and flaring hips. I touch each in turn. They’re rugged and covered in lichen. I put my ear against them, wanting to hear the sibilant whispers of their myths. I kiss their unyielding faces but they don’t want my apologies for ancestral wrongs. There’s only silence. They wait, of course, for us to abate.

  I walk back home, not looking down, playing dare with the uneven ground. My torch stays in my pocket. You could turn your ankle and die up there and no one would know.

  Death comes for me. It’s a white, soundless shape on the wing. A moon faced barn owl, dome headed and flat faced. I’m transfixed. It swoops, a sudden, sharp trajectory led by outstretched claws. How small have I become that it thinks it can carry me away?

  I’ve read that owls regurgitate their prey’s remains as bone and gristle. I laugh, imagining myself a mouse sized casket devoid of life.

  The owl swoops low over the grass and heads for Boomtown. I press my sleeve to my cheek. Dizziness makes me lie down. The long grass surrounds me, reducing the sky to a circle. I don’t know how long I’m there but cold inflames my bones. Eventually I get up and walk home, coming up Acacia Drive from the far end where the houses are unfinished. The street lamps can’t help, having never seen the light. I’m convinced it’s whispering, not the wind that’s walking through the bare bones of the houses. Now that I’ve survived the menace of the hills and fields, I allow myself my torch. What should be windows are soulless holes in my swinging yellow beam. The door frames are gaping mouths that will devour me.

  I don’t look at the house but I feel it trying to catch my eye.

  There’s something akin to relief when the road curves and I see the porch light of my home. It looks like the last house at the end of the world.

  *

  You were in the shower sluicing away all evidence of our afternoon. Your clothes were laid out on the back of a chair. You were careful to avoid a scramble that might crumple your shirt or crease your trousers.

  The gush of water stopped and you came in, bare, damp, the hair of your chest and stomach darkened swirls. You’d left a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. You weren’t shy. I enjoyed this view of you. The asymmetry of your collarbones and the soft, sparse hair on the small of your back. My fascination for you endured, as if I’d never seen a man before.

  “When will they start work again?”

  By they I’d meant the builders. The estate had fallen silent. No more stuttering engines, no more drills or shouting.

  You’d been drying your chest. The towel paused, as if I’d struck you in the heart. I cursed my clumsiness.

  “Soon. There’s been a bit of a hiatus in our cash flow. People are just a bit nervous, that’s all. Everything moves in cycles. Money will start flowing again.”

  “Of course it will.” My optimism had a brittle ring.

  You wrapped the towel around your waist in a sudden need to protect yourself, even from me.

  *

  I wake in the afternoon, having lost the natural demarcations of my day. My cheek smarts when I yawn. I pick at the parallel scabs.

  My mobile’s by my bed. I’ve stopped carrying it around. You never call. It’s flashing a warning that its battery is low. I ignore its pleas for power and turn it off.

  I did get through to your number once. There was the sound of breathing at the other end. It wasn’t you.

  “Kate,” I said.

  The breathing stopped and she hung up before I could say I’m sorry.

  You haunt me. I see your footprints on the carpet where you once stood, shower fresh and dripping. I catch glimpses of you in the mirror and through the narrow angles of partially closed doors. These echoes are the essentials of my happiness. For that fraction of a second I can pretend you’re here.

  It’s rained while I slept. Everything drips. The ground’s too saturated to take all the water in. It’s not cleansed Boomtown, just added another layer of grime.

  From the spare bedroom I can see the street. I put my forehead against the window, savouring the coolness of the glass. I tilt my forehead so I can see Helen’s house, further along the opposite side of Acacia Drive. The other house, the one where it happened, is out of sight, at the incomplete end of the road. It’s defeated me so far.

  I slip on my boots and snatch up my coat. I shut my front door and freeze, the key still in the lock. Something’s behind me, eyes boring into my back. It waits, daring me to turn. I can feel it coming closer. I make a fist, my door key wedged between my ring and forefinger so that its point and ragged teeth are protruding. It’s a poor weapon, especially as I’ve never thrown a punch in my life. I turn quickly to shock my assailant, only to find it’s a cat shuddering in an ecstatic arch against the sharp corner of the garage wall. It’s not like other strays. The uncollared, unneutered, incestuous brood that roam around Boomtown are shy. This ginger monster’s not scared of anything. It fixes me with yellow eyes and hisses. It bares it fangs and postures. I hiss back but it stands its ground, leaving me to back away down the drive.

  I find myself at Helen’s, which is stupid because Helen doesn’t live there anymore. The For Sale sign’s been ripped down and trampled on.

  I walk around the house, looking through windows. It’s just a shell without Helen and her family but evidence that it was once a home remains. The lounge’s wallpaper, a daring mix of black and gold. Tangled wind chimes hang from a hook by the kitchen door. There’s a cloth by the si
nk, as though Helen’s last act was to wipe down the worktops.

  We used to stand and chat as her brood played in the road. When they got too boisterous she’d turn and shout, “Quit your squalling and yomping, you bunch of hooligans! Just wait until your dad gets back.” Then she’d wink at me and say something like, “He’s in Dubai this time. Not that they’re scared of him, soft sod that he is.”

  I used to get the girls, Rosie and Anna, mixed up. Tom squealed as he chased his sisters. Patrick rode around us on his bike in circles that got tighter and tighter.

  Patrick.

  I’m sick of thinking about that day.

  I’m sick of not thinking about it.

  Today, I decide, today I’ll go inside the house where it happened.

  It’s about twenty doors down from Helen’s. The chain link fence that was set up around it has long since fallen down and been mounted by ivy intent on having its way. The Three Sisters are reclaiming what’s theirs by attrition. There are lines of grass in the guttering of Boomtown, wasps’ and birds’ nests are uncontested in the eaves. Lilies flourish in ditches and foxes trot about like lonely monarchs. The Sisters will reclaim us too, our flesh, blood and bones.

  I stand on the threshold of the past. A breeze moves through the house carrying a top note of mould and piss, then the threatening musk lingering beneath.

  The house is gutless. One wall is bare plasterboard, the rest partition frames so I can see all the way through, even up into the gloom above. There used to be ladders but they’ve been removed.

  From the doorway I can see the stain on the concrete floor. It’s a darkness that won’t be moved. The blackest part gnashes its teeth at me.

  I put a foot inside and then the other. I realise my mistake too late. I’ve already inhaled the shadows. They fill up my nose and clog my throat. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My lungs seize up. Something’s there. The darkness is moving.

  The shadow rushes at me and takes my legs from under me. The ginger cat. It watches with yellow eyes as I land on my back. Everything goes black.

  *