by Gary McMahon
The newspaper he’d dealt with was an American edition, but that did not mean the story would not appear elsewhere, under another by-line. It was a chance he’d taken on the assumption that not many people outside Los Angeles would be interested in rehashing the story of a serial killer over two years on, but that chance could always backfire.
He passed his own face several times in a series of mirrors hanging on the wall in the lobby. Each one looked slightly different from the last, as if his image was being recreated or reconfigured in the glass. The suggestion of figures twitched in the air behind him, but they were only visible in the mirror. Whenever he turned his head they danced out of reach, as if toying with him.
Grant had always possessed one of those faces: the type of face that is often mistaken for someone else.
He rode the lift in a state close to despair. Tears threatened to fall but he held them back. He could not look at himself in the mirror behind him, and instead kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, focused on the sealed metal doors.
Back in his room, he locked the door and sat on the bed. His hands fidgeted, nervous energy making him smooth the creases out of the sheets. He tapped his foot on the floor and tried to think positive thoughts. Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, stopping when they reached his door. He sat and listened, wishing that they would walk away, and when they finally did so he felt like calling out to summon them back.
A mint under the pillow, a bible in the drawer by the bed: everywhere they were small reminders of a reality he was striving to get back to but couldn’t quite reach. Tiny touchstones in a world poised constantly on the brink of change.
He stood and approached the full-length mirror, the one at the bottom of the bed. He’d covered it earlier with his coat, and now, reluctantly, he reached out and took the coat away, uncovering once more the clean, unblemished glass.
They stared at him from the bed, twenty-two of them: blue, brown, green eyes; blondes, brunettes, redheads; tall, short, fat, thin.
Both beautiful and ugly, they gazed impassively, all heaped on the mattress in a twisted jigsaw of naked flesh, bloodless wounds gaping like hungry mouths, pale hands open and flexing, yet unable to fight back. They were the dead: the silent victims of the crimes he had never committed, the murders that had bloodied not his hands, but the hands of someone who looked a little bit like him. And behind them, the vague visual echoes of the families and loved ones left behind: the numberless unspoken victims who lived on, grieving and forever damaged, in the gaunt shadow of death.
Grant thought he might have been able to leave them all behind in the States, with the journalists and the clamouring public and the awful memories of the killer’s blunt hands in a crowded courtroom…but he was wrong. They’d followed the man they thought had killed them, haunting the wrong person, seeking vengeance from the wrong source.
Grant had always had one of those faces.
The kind easily mistaken. For someone else.
He turned and went to the window, stared out into the rainy night, wishing that they would leave him alone but also glad that they were here, to keep him company in all the long nights that now stretched ahead of him. Ghost-tears were reflected in the black glass, but when he reached up to touch his face, his cheeks were dry.
And always, outside, a stark reminder, if any were needed, that the storm never really passes:
Darkness. A stillness in the air. Thunder. Wind.
ONCE A MONTH, EVERY MONTH
“I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore”
Revelation 1:18
It was the first day of the calendar month.
Max Jessop hated the first of the month. It was the day immediately after pay-day; the day when all the bills were paid electronically, his direct debits automatically clearing money out of the joint account, leaving very little cash-flow to take him up to the end of the month.
And, of course, there were always other debts to be paid.
The first of the month. It was a bad day, all round.
Max swung his wide, muscular legs out of bed and left his wife dozing; she needed her sleep. They all did: light-sleeping Hannah, fifteen year old Mark and bright little Jenny, now in her thirteenth year. His family needed rest on this day above all others. The first of the month.
In the bathroom, he stared at his face in the mirror. There were new lines on his face; grey streaks in his hair that had not been present the last time he’d checked. Max was getting old.
“Get a grip, old man,” his voice said from the mirror. “It’s just another day, another month.”
After bathing his tired body and cleaning his teeth, he went downstairs to prepare breakfast, just as he always did this on this special day. This day of days. Mark was already there, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at an empty bowl, a creased cereal packet on the tabletop near his right fist.
Max stood in the doorway, watching. His son had been acting a little strange lately, rebelling. Something - maybe trouble – was brewing.
“I don’t want to go through with it, dad,” said Mark, eyes still on the bowl, cheeks pale and drawn. “Not this time. Not any more.”
Max crossed the room and stood at the sink, trailing a hand across his son’s shoulder. He turned on the cold water and filled a glass. Stared at the liquid before taking a sip. Then he filled the kettle and waited for it to boil.
“Coffee?”
“I’m serious, Dad. This time, it isn’t going to happen. Not with me. Let them all rot. ”
The lengthening silence was suddenly filled by the heating element in the kettle; a low, creaking sound that grew louder by the second. Soon the kettle boiled; steam clouded the air between them, and Max blinked tears from his eyes.
“I know it’s hard, son. Difficult. For us all. But we have to do it; we made an arrangement, long before you were born. This is what it is to be a grown up – to take on responsibilities. A lot of people are relying on us. They rely on us the first of every month. If we don’t do this, a lot of people will suddenly find that life isn’t so good anymore.”
Mark said nothing. He just stared and stared, but the bowl remained empty.
“Morning, Daddy,” said Jenny, flouncing into the room like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Is it time yet?”
“Not quite,” said Max, trying on a smile and finding that it didn’t quite fit.
“Before or after breakfast, honey?” Called Hannah, entering the kitchen behind their daughter, yawning and stretching and rubbing her eyes. She was wearing the robe he’d bought her last Christmas; it made her figure look fuller, her hips wider, more expansive.
“Whatever you want,” he said, sitting down opposite Mark.
“Let’s have breakfast first,” said Jenny. “I never like to die on an empty stomach.”
For the first time Max looked at the carving knife. He’d picked it up from the draining board, where it had lain since last night. The blade was dull, a little greasy. Instead of letting it drip-dry, he should have hand-dried it and put it away in the drawer where it belonged.
His family bustled around him, pouring coffee, buttering toast, filling bowls with assorted cereals – even Mark accepted an offering of Ricicles from his sister, meeting her gaze when she leaned in to kiss him briefly on the cheek.
Max felt a deep sense of pride towards his family, and he watched them in silence as they ate and planned the coming day. He toyed with the knife, fingering the blade. He cut his index finger, but the tiny wound did not bleed. He put the tip of the finger in his mouth and sucked, but still no blood came.
Soon it was time.
“You ready?” said Hannah, smiling and adjusting the neckline of her lace nightdress. She jutted out her chin, stretching that luxurious throat.
“Yes, come on, Daddy. Let’s get this over with,” added Jenny, taking off her terrycloth dressing gown and undoing the top two buttons of the man’s shirt - one of his old ones - she always wore for bed.
Mark did not move. Did not speak. He just sat there, awaiting the inevitable.
The basement door opened slowly, a billowing darkness seeping into the kitchen, climbing the wooden staircase and entering the room, infiltrating the family home. Max looked at it; dared it to try something.
He knew that under every house in town there was a pocket of shadow just like it, waiting, biding its time until he stumbled. Willing him to fail in his appointed task so they could engulf the town and its residents, tearing their lives apart. Homes would crumble; businesses would fail; people would fall apart. The dark would be triumphant.
The black mist settled, coming to rest near the floor. It shuddered, making its musty presence felt. It was merely marking its ground, staking its claim. Firing a warning shot.
“Mark?” Max looked at his son, pleading silently with his eyes. “Are you ready?”
The boy pushed out his chair, leaned back his head and glared at the ceiling.
Max got up and walked round behind his son, raised the knife and brought it swiftly, left to right, across his exposed throat. Blood spattered the table with a sound like falling rain, decorating the cereal packets and orange juice carton. Mark slumped forward, his hands skidding across the vinyl tablecloth. He let out a short exhalation of breath, and was still.
Then he went to Jenny, repeating the process. There wasn’t as much blood this time, but still enough to make a mess. It would take him hours to clean up afterwards.
When he slashed Hannah’s slender neck, she remained upright, her head tilted almost jauntily to one side. Thick blood ran down the front of her chest, washing across her cleavage and pouring between her breasts.
Max sat down and finished his breakfast, used to the sight of all that blood. It was the same thing once a month, every month, and by now the ritual was beginning to feel like second nature.
The darkness retreated down the steps and into the basement; the door slammed shut. It would not gain a foothold this month; he and his family had kept it at bay… just as they’d done for decades, and would do for decades more.
Max drank his coffee and waited. Then he went to the cupboard under the sink and picked up the First Aid box. He took it to the table and placed the needles and the surgical thread in a neat row in front of his family.
The scars would be gone in a few days, and by the time the first of next month arrived, the skin of their throats would be smooth and clean again.
Hannah woke up first, blinking like a newborn into the sunlight. She smiled, her left arm twitching slightly as she threaded a needle.
“Need a hand?” said Max, knowing the answer already.
Hannah shook her head and commenced repairing her wound, pulling the slippery edges together with a practised ease. Her fingers were slick with blood, but her grip was firm. Hannah had been a nurse on the Casualty Ward at Scarbridge General for the past fifteen years, and was considered an expert at the quick, precise patch-up. When the kids eventually came round, she would tend to them too, making long, neat stitches as they talked and laughed and traded insults like any other teenaged brother and sister.
Max put his head in his hands, and thought about what they had done – all of them; the entire town. Thought about why they had made this deal generations ago with the dark that dwelled at the centre of the human heart, and why it was his clan –the first settlers in Scarbridge; the founding fathers - who must make the monthly sacrifices.
Jenny stirred slowly, slapping her lips like a glutton after a hearty meal. Her eyes flickered open, one of the lids sticking in place. She rubbed at it with a steady hand; she was always the strong one, the one who adapted better and faster than the rest. When Max died for real, she would be the one to take over the responsibility. By then she would have her own children, and her resolve would be tested to the hilt.
By the time Mark came back from the dead, breakfast was over and it was time to start the rest of the day.
SAVE US ALL
“Don’t you want to be saved?” asked the taller of the two figures. His accent sounded vaguely transatlantic; yet another yank selling himself as the American dream.
“Only from you,” I answered, feeling smug and oh-so-clever and more than a little annoyed at the invasion of my treasured privacy.
The odd-looking couple had been waiting for me on the doorstep when I’d arrived home from the supermarket with my weekly shop, standing still as graveyard statues as I traipsed up the weed-strewn concrete footpath. The woman had awkwardly stepped aside to allow me access to my own front door, but the man had simply stood and stared at me, daring me to verbally challenge their unsolicited presence on my property.
If it were not for the way that they were dressed – he in a straight-cut black sports coat and charcoal pants, she in a sensible trouser suit – I would have assumed that they were both of the same mystery gender. They both sported close-cropped hairstyles, and the female didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup at all on her greyish cheeks. Both their faces held a certain blankness, a suggestion of something missing. Or something unfinished.
I turned and stood in the doorway, plastic bags waiting at my feet like well-trained dogs, and only then did I feel confident enough to open my mouth and speak. I was eager to retreat inside and away from the early December nightfall.
“And what can I do for you?” I’d asked, not unreasonably I thought.
I was starting to feel a little nervous, slightly ill at ease. After all, what could an old man with a dodgy ticker do against two fit and healthy young folk if they decided to turn nasty?
“Listen, I really don’t have time for this,” I said then. “I have freezer stuff in these bags and need to get them inside before they start to defrost.”
The woman dredged up a smile, the dull skin of her face tightening as if somebody was tugging it from somewhere at the back of her skull. The man just continued to stare.
“So, if you’ll excuse me…”
They didn’t move a muscle, and I couldn’t help but notice that their eyes were glazed, unfocused. They had the look of blind zealots, or drug addicts, on faces that seemed inexpertly rendered in clay rather than flesh.
“If you have any literature – pamphlets, flyers, that kind of thing – I’d be happy to read them.”
No response. Apart from those intensely disquieting sketched-on grins.
Too frustrated at this point to be concerned about seeming rude, I began to close the door. The woman suddenly stuck a chunky foot between door and frame, moving quicker that I was able to register. Her face remained unmoved, the creepy smile unaltered.
That was when I felt the first faint butterfly stirrings of fear in my stomach, like the sensation you get when driving a car too fast down a steep incline.
“The Lord Our Saviour is the only one who can close doors on the faithful,” she intoned in a squeaky singsong voice. Her lips were pressed at head height in the gap her foot had forced, and they looked moist and squashed against her lower jaw as they curled round the edge of the door. “Only He can turn us away; but He will receive us again, in Heaven.”
“Yes, yes. Very nice.” I said. “I’m sure he will. Now, goodnight.” And I kicked her foot out of the way before slamming the door on their idiot faces, ensuring that I slid the bolt firmly in place before picking up my carrier bags and rushing through into the kitchen at the rear of the building.
The house was cold, the central heating having once again failed to come on at the hour I’d programmed into the defective timer switch. Winters seemed to be growing more harsh as the years advanced; at least when Vera was around we had been able to rely on body heat to warm us while the radiators warmed up.
But my Vera had been dead for three long years and the only way I could see her now was to look at the framed photograph I kept on the mantle above the broken gas fire that I couldn’t afford to have repaired.
The picture was a snap taken of my wife on her fiftieth birthday, back when she’d still possessed som
e of the vigour of her youth. I remember the moment well: she’d been turning her head, smiling at the camera, as she cut the cake I’d had specially made for the day. Two years after the picture was taken, age had caught up with Vera, planting tumours and blood clots in her veins and turning the marrow in her bones to chalk dust.
After putting away my meagre provisions, I washed my hands at the sink. I gazed out of the window and into the small back garden that I tended so obsessively in Vera’s honour – when she’d been physically able, she’d loved pruning her roses, weeding the planters, and turning the rich soil.
My eyes came to rest on the unwashed windows of the house that backed on to my own. Bodies shimmered like shapeless masses behind the greyish net curtains, whoever lived there having forgotten to turn on the lights. Or perhaps they were trying to save on electricity. Maybe they were even pensioners like me and could barely afford to pay the council tax never mind criminally high utility bills.
I ghosted back out into the hall, feeling sad and strangely light on my feet, noticing as I did so that the unwelcome cold-callers were still standing outside my front door. I could make out their blurred outlines through the frosted glass; their heads looked stretched and distorted, arms hung far too long, like those of great apes.
They moved even as I observed them, turning away and shuffling back along the garden path and onto the pavement. I entered the living room and watched them as I closed the curtains to keep out the night; they were heading for the stumpy block of council flats opposite. Oh, they’d get more than they’d bargained for there! Surly teens in baseball caps, grubby mothers who swore and chain-smoked and hung around the shopping precinct dressed exactly like their offspring.
These days it is difficult to discern who the real adults are.
I remained where I was, peeping like a nosey housewife through a half-inch gap in the heavy drapes. Three more people appeared from some hidden alley or side street and joined the couple at the kerb, and then the entire loosely knit group approached a door that they seemed to pick at random.