The bathroom was quiet and cool. Its floors were black-and-white tiles, and the porcelain bath and sink gleamed under the artificial overhead light, which hummed steadily. None of that mattered to Timmy, however, because the ache in his belly told him he needed to go now, or there would be an accident, and he didn’t want that.
He had just turned nine years old and hadn’t had an accident for a long, long time. However, sometimes, like today, Timmy got so involved with his toys that he simply forgot to go. He hurried toward to the toilet and lifted the lid, and then paused, letting out a short, surprised gasp.
There was an eye in the water.
It looked like a toy, a joke left for him to find, but unlike the fake vampire’s teeth or plastic dog mess that Timmy’s dad used to buy him from the joke shop, this was definitely real. He was aware of just how afraid he was, but was even more aware of the sharp ache in his stomach, and so he stood there, hopping from foot to foot as he tried to figure out what to do. The eye in the water blinked, and Timmy gasped.
Its eyelid had teeth. They were thin and sharp, like tiny yellow needles which protruded forwards as the eye blinked, sending tiny bubbles to the surface of the scented water. Timmy continued to hop from foot to foot, and clutched his belly, trying to ignore the aching need to empty his bladder. The eye watched him, its glassy black pupil betraying no hint of emotion. Timmy opened his mouth, intending to call for his mother, as he was sure she would know what to do, but he remembered that Sam was with her tonight, and he snapped his mouth closed.
No.
He couldn’t call out, not with Sam in the house. However, his decision didn’t solve his problem, as he still needed to go, and go badly. The eye offered another sharp-toothed blink, sending more ripples through the water. Timmy moaned softly and looked around the room, assessing his other options. He considered the option of trying to do his business anyway, and pretend the eye wasn’t even there, but as he looked at it and those sharp, needle-like teeth, he had a vision of it bursting up out of the water, wrapping its stalk-like body around his neck and biting him with those horrible teeth. He knew it would happen that way, he just knew it. But knowing still didn’t help him, and as another cramp gnawed at his stomach, he knew he had to make a decision. He looked around the room, and his eyes landed upon the bath, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He was too afraid of the consequences if he were caught going in there. For as much as hoped his mother might understand his desperation—especially if she saw the eyeball in the toilet — Sam most certainly would not. He had moved in not long after Timmy’s dad moved out, and although he pretended to be nice enough — especially when Timmy’s mother was around — the reality was that he was a horrible, nasty man with a violent temper.
He would often shout at Timmy (especially if he had been drinking), and say horrible things about Timmy’s dad. He wanted to tell his mother about it, about how frightened he was, but all she cared about was Sam, and whenever he would try to explain, she would just tell him to be nice and not cause any problems. He did as he was asked, because, despite everything, he loved his mother, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted his dad to come back home more than anything, and for the three of them to be happy again without Sam hanging around the place and making life hard.
He cast his gaze back to the toilet bowl, and still the eye watched, waited, and blinked. With his stomach sending him another sharp warning that he would need to empty his bladder soon before he made a mess, he looked around and an idea came to him. He hurried across the room, grabbed the tube of toothpaste, and approached the toilet.
Carefully screwing the cap off, he squeezed the tube over the bowl and watched as a long, white slug poured out of the nozzle. He snagged it off between his finger and thumb and watched as it fell into the water. The eye twisted and snapped at the minty paste, shredding it with its eyelid teeth, and then, perhaps realising that it wasn’t to its taste, ceased its attack and settled back to watching Timmy, ignoring the small lumps that settled around it. Timmy glared at the floating, bulbous eyeball and considered what to do next. He pulled off a few sheets of toilet paper, screwed them up into a ball, and threw it in. Again, the eyeball lunged, snapped, and devoured the paper, tearing it into shreds, and as with the toothpaste, it seemed to give up and returned its glassy gaze to Timmy.
He shook his head at his own stupidity and realised that he was, of course, being silly. Monsters — even floating eyeballs — didn’t eat toothpaste or rolled-up toilet paper. They preferred meat, flesh and blood. An idea came to him, and without hesitation, he rolled up his trouser leg and frowned at the sticking plaster on his knee. He had fallen off his bike a day earlier when he was racing Joey Appleseed down at the park, and had cut his knee. It didn’t hurt anymore, but he was sure there would still be a little blood underneath. Remembering the advice of his father, he grabbed the edges of the band-aid and tore it off in a short, quick, and thankfully painless motion. The underside was as he hoped. It was spotted with dry blood. With more curiosity than fear, he held it over the toilet bowl. Timmy thought that perhaps the eye could smell the blood (although he couldn’t see anything resembling a nose) because it began to thrash in the water, banging its thick body against the sides of the porcelain. As Timmy watched, it began to move, stretching out of the water towards the sticking plaster, its eyelid pushing forwards and out as the eye retreated. It was now a mouth with an eyeball inside, and underneath it, Timmy could see a deep, dark throat. Terrified, he dropped the band-aid and watched as it fell into the water. The eye lurched and snapped, devouring it, and sending small droplets of water arcing on to the floor.
Taking its bloody prize with it, the eye submerged again. Timmy hoped it would go away, perhaps slink off back down the drains, and go bother somebody else, but it sat there in the water, pulsing, watching, and waiting.
There was a short, sharp bang on the door, and Timmy’s bladder almost let go. The eye rolled towards the sound, and its fanged lid narrowed.
“Hey come on kid, hurry up in there, I need to take a piss,” came Sam’s muffled, voice. Timmy grimaced as he heard his mother chastise Sam for swearing, even though Timmy had already heard worse. Joe Raspin in his class at school would always swear, and even sometimes used the F- Word.
“Just a minute,” Timmy said, surprised at how calmly the words came as he continued to stare at the eye. As he watched, it rolled its single black pupil towards him, and there was a moment of understanding.
Timmy heard Sam muttering on the other side of the door before he banged on it again.
“Come on! how long does it take damn it?”
Timmy ignored him. He was watching the eye.
It blinked once and then retreated. Timmy could only hold on until it was just out of sight before he took care of what he needed to do. The relief was immediate, and he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the water, praying that the eye would stay away. He finished and flushed, wondering why he never thought of that in the first place. He watched the water swirl and rise, draining slowly as if there was something just out of sight blocking the flow. And of course, there was.
Timmy washed his hands and glanced at the toilet. The water was clear and blue and yet, as he watched, small bubbles rippled out from under the U-bend. Timmy nodded. He and the eye understood each other. Timmy opened the door and glanced up at the towering form of Sam, dressed in his red plaid shirt and grubby baseball cap, which, as always was pushed to the top of his sweaty head.
“It’s about god damn time. Move it kid!” Sam said, dragging Timmy aside by the arm and slamming the door behind him.
Normally, such a thing would frighten Timmy, but not today. He walked down the hallway to his bedroom, and sat on the carpet. He didn’t return to his toys, as the game that he had been so involved with now seemed unimportant. Instead, he sat cross-legged and watched the bathroom door at the opposite end of the hall.
For a long time, there was no noise, then Timmy thought he heard a gasp and a deep, bloop followed
by a splash of water on tiles.
Timmy’s mother’s voice floated up from downstairs.
“Sam, are you almost done? Survivor is coming on.”
Timmy looked at the door and tilted his head.
No.
He was sure that Sam wouldn’t be watching any more episodes of Survivor, or spending more nights drunk and hitting his mother or being cruel. He thought Sam would be in a different, darker place. Timmy smiled and closed his bedroom door.
THE LIGHT THAT BROUGHT THE DARK
We set off when it was still dark in those magic hours, when most of the world is still asleep. It’s a cold day, and rain is in the air but it doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to spoil this trip. The kids are last to wake up. April and I have to almost usher them out of bed. David is seven, Edward is nine. Both of them are excited, and once they are awake tear around the house chattering and bickering as they prepare their things. Edward complained about the phone rule again, but not for long. He knows when a decision is made its final, and no amount of arguing will change it. We want this to be a family occasion free of things such as Facebook and Twitter or football scores of his beloved Leeds United. Begrudgingly, he leaves the overpriced smartphone on the kitchen table with the others.
April and I have already been awake for ages. Her making drinks and sandwiches for the trip, me giving our Ford Explorer one last look over, checking the oil and water, making sure the tire pressures are right. We somehow bundle the boys and supplies into the car without waking the neighbours and are on the road just as the first birds are singing in the new day. The morning air is bitter, and a light drizzle is falling, but it should clear up later. Lots of driving ahead of us anyway. We’re heading away from the city, getting some clean, country air. It will do us good, all of us. We leave our house behind, and I notice we all look at it as we drive away. It sits like a dark shadow to our right, an empty shell without the lives that inhabit it. The road curves away and then it’s behind us as we pull out onto the open road.
Traffic is sparse as it’s so early, and it’s easy to make headway. We flash by junction signs and exits leading to cities we have never been to. Nobody speaks for a while, but that’s understandable due to the early start we’ve all had. At least the drizzle has stopped. The sky is already a pale yellow gold where the sun is starting to rise, and although there are a few scrubs of cloud, it should clear up nicely. A glance in the rear-view mirror to check on the boys and they seem content enough. They are staring out of the window, watching the secret world of the early morning slide on by as we head south. They are quiet, but it’s understandable. Today is a big day for all of us. April is in the passenger seat, a frayed tissue clutched in her hands. She’s still crying, but silently now so as not to alarm the boys. She looks so frail, so fragile. There is so much I want to say to her, then realise none of it will help. Even if it could, I don’t think I could force out the words, so I concentrate on the mechanical act of driving and try my best to ignore her plight. We’ve reached the motorway now, and like everywhere else, the endless line of concrete stretching ahead of us is almost empty. Lands’ End is still around an eight-hour drive away, but we ought to make good time with the roads so quiet, more so if I push over the speed limit a touch.
I’m partly looking forward to showing the boys Land’s End. I went there with my father when I was a similar age, and I still remember the spectacular views. Hopefully, it won’t be lost on them. This digital age means children are desensitised to the beauty of nature. At least with the phones left at home, they might appreciate what I’m trying to show them. It should be quite the view based on how the day is brightening up. I’ve always liked this time of year. October, with its barren trees reaching from a carpet of orange-brown leaves on the floor, always has a magical feel to me. I like the chill in the air, how you can taste the bitter cold with every breath, a firm warning that summer is done and winter is on its way.
We stopped at around eleven thirty at the services in Bristol just off the M5. Everything is closed of course. Shutters down, lights off, just like everywhere is now, but we counted for that. We pulled into the car park next to an eighteen-wheeler which looked to have been there for a few days. A few of those golden leaves from the surrounding trees had lodged in its huge chrome grill and left a carpet around its massive tires.
We got out and stretched our legs. The boys asked if they could go look at the truck, to which I agreed. Their excited yelps were the backdrop as April and I unpacked the picnic. Sandwiches, pork pies and miniature sausages, with Mr. Kipling cakes and biscuits for after. We also had bottles of pop for the boys and a flask of coffee for April and I.
Even though it was chilly, we sat at one of the wooden tables outside Burger King, its steel shutters rattling in the breeze. April and I sat opposite each other, one of the boys beside each of us. Although she had stopped crying, her eyes were still raw and she ate without looking at me, taking uninterested mouthfuls of the ham salad sandwiches she had made. I watched for a while hoping to make eye contact, maybe just to let her know I was thinking about her, but she didn’t look at me. I took the hint and looked around the car park, still unable to get used to how silent it was. There was no sound of traffic, no drone of engines. If not for the song of the birds, their nests visible now in the skeletal trees, and the skittering of leaves on the ground, it would be easy to think we were in some kind of enormous vacuum.
Edward asked how long until we get there. I told him three hours, maybe less. It doesn’t escape me that April tenses up as I say this. She sets her sandwich down and looks away towards the deserted slip road. I can’t see her eyes, but I’m pretty sure she’s crying again. I look at my paper plate and the remains of my sandwich. There is nothing else to say.
Within thirty minutes, we are back on the road again. The traffic, or lack of, is still being kind to us, and our progress is smooth. As we set out, I wonder if we should have filled up on petrol, then realise it’s too late now to go back. The gauge reads just under half a tank, which should just about get us there. There is a definite sense of purpose now as we get closer. This road trip has morphed into almost a pilgrimage. Our bellies are full and the heater is keeping us warm against the bluster. The cold cityscapes are starting to give way now to nature. Greens replace whites and greys, and the mood in the car changes. The boys are pointing out of the window at sheep and cows as we get nearer to our destination.
I’m tired from driving, but we’re close now and I’m glad we decided to do it.
I was worried that it would be crowded when we arrived, but there was nobody else in sight. The boys scrambled out of the car and looked around them, taking in the beauty of our surroundings. The furthest edge of England. A point of land atop crumbling cliffs, giving a glorious and panoramic view of the ocean. The boys asked if they could go take a closer look, and I told them they could, but not to stray too close to the edge. April made a sound at that. A whimper or a laugh, it was hard to tell which emotion from the single note. I held out a hand to her, and at last, she looked at me. I saw fear and love, emotions that I didn’t realise until that instant were more closely linked than I imagined. We walked hand in hand towards the edge, the boys a little way ahead of us. The boys did as they were told and stopped well short of the drop. April and I stood behind them, and as a family, we basked in the beauty of the scene.
Waves lapped and crashed against the rocks at the bottom of the dizzying drop beneath us, and seagulls chirped and squawked overhead. We stood there for a moment, just taking it in.
“It really is beautiful, in a way.”
I glanced at April. It felt like such a long time since I had heard her speak. I didn’t feel any need to answer. The view spoke for itself. Beyond the green scrub of land, the ocean stretched to the horizon where it met the sky, itself a lighter shade of the same colour. The twin white smudges in the sky looked like the unfinished work of a master painter, the bare canvas beneath his greatest and most beautiful work. One larger
than the other, a pair of blemishes on a perfect scene. Closer inspection showed a mottled streak trailed them both as they neared the atmosphere, the twin harbingers of the destruction of all mankind.
Edward said it didn’t looks as big as I had said it would be. He seemed almost disappointed, although that could have just been his childlike reaction to such a monumental situation. I reminded him that the larger of the two asteroids was as big as the state of Texas, the smaller the same size as Mount Everest. I told him that although it didn’t seem like it, both of them were hurtling towards the earth at almost fifty thousand miles an hour, and in just a few hours would impact and destroy all life on Earth. I reminded him that there was nothing that could be done to avoid or stop it, and nowhere to hide from it when it came. He nodded and said nothing. We all knew why we were there, what we had to do. I squeezed April’s hand, and she looked at me, lips pursed together, eyes streaked with makeup. I reminded her that this was better. This way we would decide our own fate. We pushed between the boys, each of us taking one of their hands. In a line we stood, watching the instrument of our destruction as it made its unstoppable and relentless journey. We were in tears now, all of us. I asked them if they were ready, that they could take as long as they needed. Nobody objected, nobody backed out. As a family we walked to the edge of the crumbling cliff top, staring straight ahead like we had practiced. We didn’t say we loved each other. We didn’t have to. We looked at the light in the sky that would bring the dark, then as one closed our eyes and stepped over the edge.
THE MAN IN THE ALLEY
Benson lived in the alleyway between Juniper Avenue and Grover Lane. He had always lived there, certainly for as long as I can remember anyway. He wasn’t a bum if that’s what you're thinking. As far as I know, he never borrowed or asked for anything. I found out later that he owned a house - a nice one with a tidy garden and a cherry tree out front. But at some point, he'd chosen to live out his life in the alleyway instead. People thought he was eccentric, some whispered that he was mentally ill, or suffering from Alzheimer’s. But that, frankly, is bullshit. I know it’s bullshit because I saw him for what he really was.
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