The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  Gradually, the noises beyond the wall quietened. David’s sisters emerged, frowned oddly at Alex, and went upstairs. A minute later, David’s mother stepped out, holding a small plastic bag. At her nod, David’s dad slipped back into the room behind her, cheerily announcing it was time for rum. She pulled the door closed softly at her back.

  “Sorry, Alex.” She gave a quick smile.

  “What happened to her, Mum?” David said.

  “I’m not sure. She’s so old. The past and the present can get mixed up for her. When she was a little girl on the island, she heard some weird things. In the town where she grew up, there were all sorts of superstitions way back then. When I was young, she used to tell me some, all these wild bedtime horror stories. Until my mum found out, and put a stop to it. I think maybe she sometimes has, like . . . flashbacks. Y’know?”

  “Uh, yeah. Guess. Crazy, though.”

  “This is not a word we use, David,” his mum said.

  David shrugged and shot Alex another secret cross-eyed look. Alex just wanted to get away.

  “Is she all right, though, Mum?” David’s concern was genuine.

  “She’s fine, she’s calm. But maybe it’s best if you don’t go back in just now.”

  “No.” Alex tried a smile. “I’d better get home, anyway.”

  At the doorstep, David’s mum held the bag out to Alex over David’s shoulder.

  “Almost forgot. Sweet potato bread. Pretty good toasted.”

  “Thanks . . . That word she was shouting. Do you know what it means?”

  She shook her head quickly. “Just some old rubbish.”

  “Probably means, like, ‘Why’s this incredibly ugly guy sitting beside me, get him away.’” David grinned as he closed the door.

  Alex hunched into the breeze as he walked, his fingers curling and uncurling around the robot in his pocket. That was it. Tomorrow. He’d get rid of it tomorrow. Take a bus to the end of the line, head up into the hills. Bury it deep.

  It was later than he had thought. Spits of rain came dancing through the dark. The street was long and curved out of sight ahead, devoid of life. When he was a few houses away from David’s, he heard a rushing, slapping sound racing at him from behind and spun to see a pale shape lurching at his shoulder. Alex ducked away, heart slamming his chest. But after a moment of blind panic he realized he recognized the figure.

  “Kenzie?” Breath shuddered out of him in relief.

  “Alex,” Kenzie puffed. “How you doing?”

  “What? Where did you come from? What do you want, Kenzie?”

  Kenzie fell silent, almost bashful, eyes fixed on his sneakers. “I was just passing,” he mumbled. “No, well, all right. I followed you.”

  “Followed me? Wait, was that you I saw looking in David’s window?”

  “I’ve been trying to talk to you. . . .” Kenzie sounded insistent, but his words trailed into silence.

  “Kenzie, what do you want?”

  Kenzie grabbed his arm. Alex recoiled, tried to shake free, but Kenzie’s fist tightened. Under the streetlight, Alex saw he looked exhausted. His eyes were dull, shadowed by dark rings. “Listen, Alex. I keep having these dreams.”

  “What? Let go, Kenzie.”

  “Listen.” The larger boy gripped tighter, stepped closer. “Just listen, freak, right? I—” He broke off in fright, clamping his free hand over his mouth as though trying to stop the words that had already escaped. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that. But listen. I keep having these dreams.”

  “Kenzie, just let go.”

  “I can’t really remember. Just bits. It’s dark. And there’s rain, right? It’s always raining. But there’s fire. Fire above. Like, in the sky. Blue fire. White. There are people in the dark. And people in the fire, or . . . not sure. Things. Behind the fire. And everything’s beginning to break. Everything. Above. Below. Alex, everything’s breaking.” He was speaking faster, growing wild-eyed. “Right? And you’re there. But there’s something behind you, right?”

  “Kenzie, let go.”

  “No, listen.” Kenzie was almost shouting. “It’s every night! I’m trying to tell you there’s something behind you, but I can’t talk. You don’t see it, but it’s right behind—”

  Alex ripped his arm away.

  “Oh.” Kenzie fell silent. His frenzy drained away as though a plug had been pulled. He stood blinking like a sleepwalker startled awake. His rheumy eyes settled on Alex again and flashed fright.

  “I need to get home,” Alex said, massaging his arm where the fingers had dug in. “I think you should, too.” He took a few steps, then turned. Kenzie just stood there, looking lost. Alex gestured to him. The older boy responded as if he’d been waiting for instruction. They walked to the corner.

  “I’m this way,” Alex said, indicating left. “You’re down there, yeah?” He pointed in the opposite direction. Kenzie followed the motion and nodded vaguely, as if still not quite certain.

  “Kenzie, will you be okay getting home?”

  “Yeah.” Kenzie shook his head, rubbed at his face, then straightened, composing himself. “Sorry,” he said, walking away.

  Alex watched him go. After a few steps, Kenzie stopped, just a shadow now.

  “In my dream, though.” The voice drifted along the street. “There’s something behind you.”

  Alex dug his hands into his pockets, turned away, walked fast. “Something behind you,” he heard himself repeating. Kenzie’s sudden appearance and babbling about his dreams reminded Alex forcefully of his own sense of being followed. It was there again now, he realized. He looked back. Only an empty street.

  He stalked on toward his bus stop, then decided to keep walking, hoping the cool air might settle his churning mind. A few streets later he regretted not taking the bus. He glanced behind again. The streets were deserted. Something about the rain made the night seem blacker. The silence was sharp, tight. Then he heard it. Footsteps.

  He stopped to peer around. Nothing. Streetlights made shivering cones of light in the rain. Between them, voids of darkness.

  “Kenzie?” His call sounded small and flat against the night, no echo to it. No reply. Another noise now, gone as soon as he heard it. Different. From a different place. Higher? A click, maybe. He told himself it was his imagination, and tried to ignore the voice in his head reminding him he had already seen things that he would never have imagined.

  Alex walked faster. The footsteps started again. The dark houses seemed to lean back, trying to get clear. The bend of the road was sinister. Pictures crowded his mind, metal men and flying things with slashing wings. He clutched at the old toy robot. Now would be a good time for the feeling, the power. But there was nothing. He ran.

  He sprinted along the street and vaulted a gate, tearing through a garden, hurdling the fence into the next. Landing roughly, he looked back. Was that something moving? Or just rain in the air? A narrow path along the side of this house led to another street beyond. He charged across it, on into more dark gardens. Hunkering down beside a hedge, he watched, listened, then, when he was certain there was nothing, moved in a crouch toward the street and squatted by the gatepost.

  To his left there was a junction with another, larger road where there was a bus stop. There might be people, anyway. He threw a last look back as he charged for the corner and so didn’t see the tall figure until he’d run into him.

  Alex struggled as strong hands pinned his arms to his sides.

  “Finally,” said the voice.

  IV.

  THE DARK END OF THE STREET

  “Led me quite the merry dance, have to say.”

  The hands let go as the figure stepped back. Flinching, raising his arm, it took Alex a second to realize he was somehow looking at his grandfather, shadowy under the streetlamps.

  “Running through people’s yards,” the old man mutte
red, brushing down his long gray coat. Between thumb and forefinger he held up a leafy twig from a hedge that had been caught in his buttonhole. “Not really the done thing, Alex. Still, good to get the old pulse rate up every now and then. A little exercise never hurt anyone. Well, so they insist on telling me, anyway. Can’t say I ever fancied it much myself. I mean, the clothes they wear.”

  He shuddered, looked up, and beamed. “So, how are you, young man? Sorry not to have been in touch for a while, but—”

  “You,” Alex cut him off, panting. His heart pumped out a cocktail of relief and guilt, delight and anger. In the months since Prague he had heard nothing from him beyond a check in the mail for a new phone, then a birthday card with another check, and a DVD of an old movie. He had sensed the old man was deliberately avoiding him, much the way Alex had been avoiding speaking to his mum.

  “Where have you been? You almost gave me a heart attack. Why didn’t you get in touch? Wait.” Alex frowned. “How long have you been following me?”

  “Following you? I’ve not. I’ve only just got here. I went to your house, your mother mentioned where you were, so I thought I’d stroll over, see if I couldn’t catch you. Need to have a chat, Alex. Rather important. I saw you talking with that boy, and it didn’t seem polite to interrupt, but then you started running for some reas—” The old man stopped abruptly and looked off behind Alex.

  “Ah, so, why ask? How long have I been following you, I mean.”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . nothing.”

  “Alex. It’s me you’re talking to.”

  “Just a feeling I’ve had. Like maybe someone was watching me. I can’t really explain it.”

  The old man’s face clouded. He peered more urgently along the street. His eyes narrowed, then widened. Grabbing Alex by the collar, he pulled him roughly into the center of the road.

  “Stand there.”

  “Wha—”

  No reply. The old man was moving in a curious, rapid crouch, circling Alex. As he went, he cast regular looks back. Alex followed his glance. Nothing. Although, the darkness seemed particularly dark along there. Puzzling at the scene, he realized what was different. After a certain point, the streetlights just seemed to stop. Beyond the last, nothing but black.

  The footsteps started again. Louder.

  “Those are the footsteps I heard,” Alex said.

  “I can’t hear them, Alex.” As the old man completed his circle, Alex saw with alarm he had laid a thin, powdery white line around them. His grandfather straightened, studying his work. “Can you see if I’ve left any gaps?”

  “Salt?” Alex heard his voice rise to a squeak. “Why do we need salt?” Back along the street, the farthest streetlamp winked out.

  “Not sure.” The old man stared grimly into the darkness. “Never hurts to be prepared, though.” The footsteps were enormously loud.

  “You can’t hear that?”

  Another light snuffed out. The footsteps stopped.

  “Behind me, Alex.”

  Before he could move, the blackness came rushing. It surged at them like a flood wave, a towering, noiseless mass, gobbling up the remaining streetlights, blotting out the sky. As it rolled nearer Alex saw it was made of countless small circular particles, about to engulf them. On instinct, he threw himself down. After a few seconds of nothing else, he risked looking up over the crook of his elbow.

  They were inside the roiling black cloud. His grandfather stood over him as the fury fumed around them, pressing close, but somehow not touching them. Alex climbed gingerly to his feet. It was like standing inside a transparent tube on the bed of a seething ocean. None of the raging blackness crossed the salt circle, but it pressed against the invisible boundary as if against glass.

  Mesmerized, Alex stepped forward to get a closer look and wished he hadn’t. Each of the myriad circular objects that made up the cloud was a tiny, grotesque head, about the size of a small, rotted apple. And each head was the same: wearing a black hat and entirely swathed in dingy bandages, save for one burning, baleful eye.

  As Alex stared, the rotten bandages on the things closest loosened, falling away to reveal yawning, oversized mouths, filled with razor teeth. They snapped like flying piranha just beyond his nose. Repulsed yet fascinated, he lifted a finger to the glass, forgetting there was no glass there. Tiny heads massed hungrily around the spot his finger was moving toward, mouths threshing.

  “Alex!” His grandfather knocked his hand down. “Not a good idea to break the circle.” The gnashing mouths frenzied in frustration, then, in a blink, the swarm was gone. Alex and his grandfather stood in weak rain under quietly buzzing streetlights. There was no sign anything had happened at all.

  Fresh shock washed over Alex. “What . . . Those heads. That face.”

  “How’s that?” His grandfather was scanning the road.

  “Heads,” Alex repeated. “Faces . . . His face. M—” He caught himself before he said it aloud. “The tall man.”

  “Hmm.” The old man ground his jaw. “I couldn’t really see them, Alex. I saw a lot of murk vibrating, a disturbance. But I’m afraid that was mostly just for you.”

  “For me? What was that?”

  “Well.” The old man was rooting through his coat pockets. He came out with a single, battered little packet of salt, frowned at it, then put it away. “Couple of possible explanations. Actually, I was wanting a word with you about all this kind of thing, old chap. But first.” He gave Alex a grave look and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I need to ask you something. And you must promise to tell the truth. Promise?”

  Alex nodded. He tried to push fear from his mind and focus. His fingers brushed the tin toy in his pocket. Now the time had come, he was apprehensive about confessing he had kept it.

  “Good man.” Lowering his voice, Alex’s grandfather fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Now: is that a doggie bag?”

  “Huh?”

  “In your hand.” He nodded toward it. “Plastic bag. Had the notion it might have something to eat inside. I’m famished, Alex. Not had any dinner. Been on the road for days.”

  Alex started to say something, gave up, held out the bundle.

  “Good show. Now then, what have we . . .” The old man opened the package eagerly, took a great sniff. His eyes rounded. He grabbed a piece out, popped it in his mouth.

  “Good lord. Pen patat. Nirvana. I’ve not tasted this in years, Alex. Not since I was in Haiti that time. Let’s see, late-fifties it was. Got a little sticky, as I recall. The trip, I mean, not the pudding.” He munched on happily, smiling at a memory. “Ha, I remember, Harry, he—”

  Alex’s grandfather fell suddenly silent. He folded the bag closed and handed it back, picking fussily at crumbs on his coat. “Look at this. I’ll be needing a bib soon. Let’s get off the street, eh? We need to talk. I seem to remember there’s a quite passable café not far from here. Be safer indoors, and I really am hungry, Alex. A body cannot live on pudding alone, exquisite though it may be. Did you get yourself another phone?”

  Alex nodded, pulled it out.

  “Have their uses, I suppose,” the old man muttered. “Well, what say you drop your mother a message, let her know you’re with me, and we’re off to get ourselves a little late supper.”

  Alex looked in the direction the nightmarish cloud had vanished, and shivered. Getting inside was an idea he couldn’t argue with. They started walking while he texted, turning onto a brighter road.

  Neither noticed but, back along the street behind them, a tiny shadow detached itself from a roof and fluttered into the air. It hovered shakily above the chimneys for a moment as if it might fall, then, with a weak whirr, bobbed after them through the rain.

  V.

  CUSTARD CREAMS

  A yellow explosion of yolk dripped to the plate as Alex’s grandfather bit into his first roll.

 
“Marvelous,” he mumbled. “Been living on European highway food recently, Alex. Fine in small doses, but not something to base your life around. There’s nowhere like a decent old-fashioned British café. Not that there are many left.”

  They had passed two coffee shops Alex knew on the way, but his grandfather had dismissed his recommendations, striding on until they reached this greasy hole-in-the-wall, hidden up a small street that Alex had never noticed before.

  The man behind the counter thrived in his own steamy microclimate between a chrome-plated coffee machine, a tea-urn the size of a boiler, and a grill on which half a dozen different meals were sizzling. From the empty taxis outside, it seemed most of the customers were cabdrivers on night shift. Conversations thrummed the air. Alex’s grandfather glanced around, then idly stuffed the salt shaker from the table into his coat pocket.

  The entire time they had been there, the old man had persisted in burbling about the weather, about an old film, about food, about nothing. Every now and then, though, he fixed Alex with a long, silent, knowing stare. He knew his grandfather was working up to something—but Alex had questions of his own and was determined this was the night he’d finally get some answers. Before they left this place, he would get his grandfather to admit who the tall man really was. He just needed to think how to begin.

  “Marvelous,” the old man repeated, taking another bite. “You know, last place I tried getting a simple egg sandwich, fellow tried to put an avocado on it. I mean, planet’s gone mad. Nothing against the avocado, but there’s a time and a place. Mind you, Harry said he’d tried something similar and . . .” He fell silent again, considered the roll in his hand, then placed it alongside the other lying untouched on his plate and pushed the plate away. “Ha. Not as hungry as I thought.”