Bull Running For Girlsl

by Allyson Bird

  JAGO HURTS ME

  Puzzled, Susan sat on the doorstep, looked at the yellow flower heads, and re-read the note. Jago—who is Jago? Obviously a girl had left the note, because of the flowers, though, perhaps not. Was this Jago some silly kid who was bullying her? Susan put the note on the large oak table, closed the kitchen door and went off on her bicycle in search of lunch, coffee, and a few basic food stuffs to keep her going, although she wasn’t really in the mood now to eat.

  The journey to Montpon, on the backroads, was an easy ride. The road surface was fine, with only a few potholes hindering her progress. It was a cold morning and Susan was wearing a herringbone jacket, zipped up to under her chin. She never wore a scarf on a bike. It reminded her of how the dancer Isadora Duncan died; her long silken scarf had got caught in a car wheel, and it snapped her neck in two.

  Susan looked at the blue swirling mist, which lingered and clung to the trees, even though it was midmorning.

  The road wound around a large forest that was a mixture of oak and chestnut, which seemed as if it hadn’t been disturbed for hundreds of years. Susan glanced at the sky getting cloudier by the hour. It was going to rain.

  The errands didn’t take long. She bought coffee, bread, more croissants, a tin of cassoulet, brie, and some wine, all crammed into the grey rucksack on her back.

  In the Café du Commerce, Susan seated herself by the window, ate a modest lunch and drank her beer. She listened to “London Calling” by The Clash on the old jukebox, followed by Bob Dylan’s “Lay, Lady, Lay”. The waiter with large brown eyes smiled at her. Susan smiled self-consciously and looked away. It was quiet in the café and she was happy just to sit and read. She always took a book to a foreign destination, that reflected the people and the country, or at the very least was set in it. This trip, it was Madame Bovary and even the English translation was hard going—on an afternoon when she was far more preoccupied by the attentions of the French waiter, who lingered longer to talk to her as he served her beer after beer.

  With great reluctance she said goodbye to the waiter; he reminded her of Gerard Depardieu, although the waiter would have made a better-looking Cyrano de Bergerac.

  As the first drops of rain splattered onto her trousers, ink-spotting the pale, grey material, the chain slipped on the old bike and Susan caught her trousers on the chain ring.

  “Shit,” she muttered while reattaching it, before pedalling on down the lane and around the edge of the forest.

  The rain came crashing down onto the road with such a force that she sought shelter under the trees. She rested her bike against an oak and leant back against another, when a brightly-coloured poster nailed to a tree trunk caught her attention. It advertised the Cirque de Foret.

  Above the sound of the rain she could hear the noise of something else, a buzzing, like that of a woodsman cutting through a tree. Susan followed the sound, making her way through the undergrowth, until she came to its source in a clearing.

  A man was cutting a fallen tree into pieces and had a large wheelbarrow next to him. He was a tall man, in his late thirties she guessed, wearing old green cord trousers and a threadbare navy jumper. His long, brown hair was tied back in a scruffy ponytail. Susan had no reason to speak to him. She didn’t want anything from him, and anyway, she was just passing time until the rain stopped. There was also another man, smaller and much thinner. Above the din they seemed to be arguing, shouting at each other. The tall man then moved a little so that she couldn’t see the other. There was a scream and the tall man stepped to one side. The small man clutched his arm. The noise of the saw stopped and, unthinkingly, Susan ran into the clearing. She took off the rucksack and used her jacket to attempt to stem the flow of blood from the man’s wound, which was on the side of his arm just above his right elbow. He was howling with pain and the tall man was just standing there—the saw in both his hands—doing nothing.

  “Jago!” the small man called out. Susan recognised the name. It was the name on the note—JAGO HURTS ME

  “Can’t you help him? Put that damned thing down and do something.”

  Jago put the saw down, gave her a contemptuous look which surprised her, and then took off his jumper. He tugged her jacket off the arm and threw the blood-soaked thing to the ground. He bound his jumper around the wound, with one hand picked up the saw, as if it was made of plastic, and with the other hand dragged the small man off through the trees, deeper into the forest. The small man was weeping bitterly and all Susan could hear between his cries was what sounded like a prayer. “Father of all delight, and mother of all our longing, come to me—” Susan couldn’t hear the rest of what he said but she was puzzled by the words.

  The small man whimpered as he was dragged at speed between the trees. He stumbled once and cried out. Susan could see the green branches, lashing him and adding to his torment. Susan hung back, wondering if perhaps she should just cycle to the local gendarmerie and explain what she had seen, or go back to farmhouse to think about it some more. She did neither, but still followed through the thickest part of the forest where the damp moss clung to channels of water. The oak and chestnut forest had given way to pine and the needles cushioned the sound of her footsteps.

  Eventually she lost sight of the pair in front of her and just aimed for the general direction she thought they had taken. After half an hour of negotiating tiny brooks and the stinging lashes of twigs against her arms and face, she came to the edge of the forest and crouched low in the thick hem of trees.

  I thought about life after death a lot following the fire, and wondered, if you met a horrifying death, did the spirits on the other side have to treat you for shock when you crossed over? I went to the library to read about all beliefs and was drawn to the Gnostics, dualism and monism, radical dualism and mitigated dualism and qualified monism—and became confused—so I put them down and read William Blake’s “The Tyger.” I felt that I could cope with that. I decided not to bring any lambs into the slaughter; made sure I took the pill every day and took pleasure in nothing. I stayed at home and read stories about survival, and Sharper Knives by Christopher Fowler. I began to read and write more horror as the years passed.

  From the forest edge, Susan could see a group of three caravans—a little small for a carnival, she thought. One was blue, one bleak-red, and another a faded green. She shuddered with cold and hunger. Then the sound of voices distracted her and there was the smell of something burning in the air. Susan pushed back into the trees a little so that she could get a better view of what was going on.

  “I’ve heard a dog with a necklace of tin cans around his neck make less noise than you.”

  Susan, startled, turned around and sat promptly down in the mud and pine needles. She put her hand over her mouth to stop from crying out. A few feet away from her, seated on a log, was the buckskin woman; the woman she had attributed to her absinthe dream.

  “Don’t fret girl, just keep it down some.”

  “I didn’t think you were real.”

  “Well I’m not, in a manner of speaking.”

  “And what do you want with me?”

  “Well, now that you ain’t drinking the green stuff, I want you to help a child of mine.”

  “Of yours?”

  “Manner of speaking, yes. She is my great-great-granddaughter. The child’s name is Bethany Canary Burke. I did a bad thing. When folk raised some money for my girl to go into a convent, I spent the money on booze and friends—a terrible thing.”

  “Your child?”

  “No, dammit, that was years ago. Ain’t you listening? This child is my great-great-grandbaby. My gal grew up and married her cousin Robert Burke, who was this girl’s great-grandpa.”

  “Was?”

  “All gone now. The child has no one left, just her old, decrepit great-great-grandma. You understand me now?”

  “Well, no. What has this to do with me?”

  “I want you to get her away from them people who run this freak show—take her a
nd get as far away as you can. Got that?”

  “Me?”

  “Jeezus. Cain’t ya get your head around this, girl?”

  “No—I mean, why me?”

  “Because she’s taken a shine to you. Who do you think brought that fox to you? She’s like a little kitty bringing you presents—ya know, like to her ma.”

  “Why can’t you look after her, and where is her own mother?”

  “Well, that would be a little difficult seeing as I’m dead ‘n all. Her relatives are all gone bad—her mom too.”

  Susan looked her up and down; the buckskin shirt and trousers, her long brown hair streaked with grey and tied at the nape of her neck with a bit of string. On her head she wore a shabby, brown Stetson. Her eyes, cobalt blue—and a scar down her left cheek that looked to be almost healed.

  “You seem pretty much alive to me.”

  “What surprises me is that I feel like I’m alive too—but I’m not. Here, take my hand.”

  To placate the woman Susan reached across to her and tried to touch her hand. She could see the colour of it. It belonged to a strong woman in the prime of her life, tanned by long afternoons in the sun. It looked solid enough but Susan couldn’t catch hold of it. Startled, she tried to grasp the woman’s hand again but batted thin air in her efforts to grab something substantial.

  “See what I mean? I can talk to ya and you can see me, but that’s the measure of it I’m afraid.”

  In an attempt to ground something of what had just happened Susan just kept staring about; at the pine trees, at the wet autumn landscape, the soaked flat grass, anything but at the buckskin woman. She could smell rotting ferns in the air and all her senses were in full working order. In fact, her extra sensory abilities seemed in full working order too—for now she could see dead people.

  “And if I don’t help you?”

  “Then a poor, sweet girl will suffer even more and you will be stuck with me for an awful long time.”

  “Define long time.”

  “Your whole life. I’ll be with ya when you eat ‘n sleep. Alongside ya when you go out with a man, when you stay in with a man. I’ll be everywhere. They’ll be no privacy, none at all.”

  Susan sighed…looked to the darkening sky and thought about the fact that her breakdown, finally—after the fire—was now fucking total…and she nodded.

  “Okay. Where do we start?”

  “Why, with an introduction, Sue—where else?”

  “Who exactly are you?”

  “Well, most folks called me Jane. We can start there. Come on, let’s go see Bethany.”

  Susan followed meekly behind, like one who had just found out that her reality was rapidly running out of choices. Jane, of course, moved soundlessly through the undergrowth. Every snap of a twig underfoot, every swish of a branch as Susan pushed through was met with a hard stare from her new companion.

  “Why are you here now? Why not before?” Susan asked.

  “I’m as sure—as a coyote’s heart when he yips at the moon—that I have no idea why. Now hush.”

  As they skirted the caravans Susan kept low to the ground, occasionally dropping to one knee whilst Jane listened carefully and motioned with her hands to move on, closer to the campfire, from which arose the most horrendous smell of dead meat cooking. They could see the two men arguing and the small man becoming more agitated. Susan saw Jago punch the small man in the face, and he called for another man to see to the wound.

  One woman in red was sitting on the caravan steps, oblivious to the cries of pain coming from the small man. There were no other women to be seen. She proffered Jago her cheek.

  “Let me kiss your other cheeks,” he laughed as he drew her into the red caravan.

  Susan and Jane crept around to the far side where a child was playing with an Alsatian dog. The girl, wearing a faded blue dress, was throwing a ball to the edge of the clearing from where the dog kept bringing it back. It wasn’t long before the girl noticed that someone was watching her from the undergrowth, and she ran up to them both with the dog in tow.

  “Come on Roux, come on boy, and sit!” she said as she plonked herself down by Susan. The dog obeyed without hesitation.

  “She speaks English,” said Susan.

  “She is English,” Jane replied.

  “But she’s in France.”

  “So what, you are in France but do you speak the lingo?”

  “Well I understand a little but speak it very badly.”

  “Enough, Sue. Listen to what Bethany has to say.”

  “Did you like the chicken, Miss Sue?” asked Bethany, eyes eager for attention. “I had to run fast to catch the fox that had it.”

  “Thank you, Bethany, but did you have to kill the fox?”

  “Well, I had to. I wanted to get the chicken to you, Miss Sue. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay, Bethany.”

  Jane was beginning to get fidgety. “Down to business. Bethany, I want you to go with Sue here.”

  “But I don’t want to, Grandma.”

  “But yesterday you said you did, child.”

  “That was yesterday, Grandma, and now Billy has promised me—”

  “Don’t matter what Billy promised you. Remember what Jago did to you!”

  The child’s face darkened.

  The tone of Jane’s voice changed from irritation to anger. “Show Sue your back, child.”

  Bethany thought for a moment and asked Sue to undo the back buttons of her dress. As she did so Susan’s fingers started to tremble. She thought she could see something on the girl’s back. When the final button was undone Susan felt her stomach tighten and had to quell the need to be sick. In letters along the middle of Bethany’s back had been carved a word. Scabs were beginning to fall off, but the new pink skin, where the knife had written, revealed the word:

  MINE

  Susan began to cry quietly as she fastened up the girl’s dress. She could see now that old blood had stained the blue material, and it brought back the worst of memories.

  The inquest went well until I gave evidence, and told them that I thought the family might have had a chance to escape. But the only means of escape had been narrow windows along the top, which in effect had signed their death warrants. Well, I didn’t put it quite like that. This upset the relatives who had told the grandmother that the children had died in their sleep—but I knew better. The grandmother would always remember it as a house full of smoke and no flames.

  “Tell me, Bethany. You trust me don’t you?”

  Bethany smiled thinly. “If my Grandma says to trust you, I will.”

  “Did Jago do anything else to hurt you?”

  “After he did that he said that he would never hurt me again. He said that in a few days he’ll give me a reward. There will be a party, and I will be the Queen of Hunter’s Moon. The other circus people will join up before…or after that…I don’t know. Billy says something is stopping them from coming but I don’t know what.”

  Susan felt a cold hand on her shoulder and she turned around to see Jago’s wild eyes staring at her. The small man, Billy, was standing by his side, holding his bandaged arm and wincing with pain.

  “Let me go!” Susan shouted as Jago grabbed her by both arms.

  She struggled frantically to escape. She broke free but mind-bending pain exploded at the back of her head.

  When she came around she was tied up with rope that tightened as she moved to free her hands. She thought that she must be in one of the small caravans. Bethany was crying, holding her hand, and Jane was sitting on the floor next to her.

  “I should have heard him. I should have heard him coming,” whispered Jane.

  With a groan Susan lifted her head and peered around in the near darkness. The place was filthy with screwed up paper and dirty clothes. She lay on a small bed in the corner, and a dismal lantern sat on a box across from her.

  “Don’t be sad.” Bethany looked afraid but added in a calm voice. “It’s the Hunte
r’s Moon tomorrow. I’ll be crowned Queen and you shall be free. They will have to do as I say.”

  “Child, we have to get you out of here before tomorrow. Sue here is hurt. We’ll have to get her some help too.”

  Jago appeared then in the doorway.

  Jane got up from the caravan floor and stood directly in front of Jago.

  “Why, you half-breed animal, if you touch my granddaughter again I’ll slit you from throat to prick and feed your insides to that dog over there.”

  “He can’t see you Grandma, you know that. Only Sue and me can see you.”

  Jago gave the girl a funny look. “Get to bed, child.”

  Bethany reluctantly left the caravan with him.

  The desperation within Susan began to rise until her breathing became ragged and her heartbeat could almost be heard. She looked up at Jane towering above her. “If you can be seen by me can’t you go and get some help from someone else?”

  “I tried. Somethin’ to do with Bethany—she has some sort of special connection to you and so you can see me. The only other person, well animal, that can see me is that dog Roux. We don’t have much time, Sue. It’s the Hunter’s Moon tomorrow night. I think that they have a sort of weird ceremony cooked up for it and Bethany—”

  “Oh God,” Susan thought about the word that had been cut into Bethany’s back.

  As day broke Susan could smell the foul cooking pot again and she wondered what had been added this time. It reminded her of the sickening, goose-grease that her own grandmother had made her swallow when she had a sore throat. Her other grandmother had placed camphor crystals in a little cloth bag on red ribbon and tied it around Susan’s neck. She had preferred the latter.