The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2002, Volume 13

by Stephen Jones

  ‘Try to get away,’ the man whispered. She could not see him or feel him though his hands were there. ‘Try to get away.’

  She remembered that she ought not to struggle, but from the noises he made and the way he tugged at her she realized that was what aroused him. She did not want to anger him; she made a small sound deep in her throat and tried to push him from her chest. Almost immediately he groaned, and seconds later rolled off her. Only his hand lingered for a moment upon her cheek. Then he stumbled to his feet – she could hear him fumbling with his zipper – and fled.

  The praying girl and the girl in the air also disappeared then. Only Janie was left, yanking her ruined clothes around her as she lurched from the alley and began to run, screaming and staggering back and forth across the road, toward the subway.

  The police came, an ambulance. She was taken first to the police station and then to the City General Hospital, a hellish place, starkly lit, with endless underground corridors that led into darkened rooms where solitary figures lay on narrow beds like gurneys. Her pubic hair was combed and stray hairs placed into sterile envelopes; semen samples were taken, and she was advised to be tested for HIV and other diseases. She spent the entire night in the hospital, waiting and undergoing various examinations. She refused to give the police or hospital staff her parents’ phone number, or anyone else’s. Just before dawn they finally released her, with an envelope full of brochures from the local Rape Crisis Centre, New Hope for Women, Planned Parenthood, and a business card from the police detective who was overseeing her case. The detective drove her to her apartment in his squad car; when he stopped in front of her building, she was suddenly terrified that he would know where she lived, that he would come back, that he had been her assailant.

  But of course he had not been. He walked her to the door and waited for her to go inside. ‘Call your parents,’ he said right before he left.

  ‘I will.’

  She pulled aside the bamboo window shade, watching until the squad car pulled away. Then she threw out the brochures she’d received, flung off her clothes and stuffed them into the trash. She showered and changed, packed a bag full of clothes and another of books. Then she called a cab. When it arrived, she directed it to the Argus campus, where she retrieved her laptop and her research on Tiger Moths, then had the cab bring her to Union Station.

  She bought a train ticket home. Only after she arrived and told her parents what had happened did she finally start to cry. Even then, she could not remember what the man had looked like.

  She lived at home for three months. Her parents insisted that she get psychiatric counseling and join a therapy group for rape survivors. She did so, reluctantly, but stopped attending after three weeks. The rape was something that had happened to her, but it was over.

  ‘It was fifteen minutes out of my life,’ she said once at group. ‘That’s all. It’s not the rest of my life.’

  This didn’t go over very well. Other women thought she was in denial; the therapist thought Jane would suffer later if she did not confront her fears now.

  ‘But I’m not afraid,’ said Jane.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded a woman whose eyebrows had fallen out.

  Because lightning doesn’t strike twice, Jane thought grimly, but she said nothing. That was the last time she attended group.

  That night her father had a phone call. He took the phone and sat at the dining table, listening; after a moment he stood and walked into his study, giving a quick backward glance at his daughter before closing the door behind him. Jane felt as though her chest had suddenly frozen: but after some minutes she heard her father’s laugh: he was not, after all, talking to the police detective. When after half an hour he returned, he gave Janie another quick look, more thoughtful this time.

  ‘That was Andrew.’ Andrew was a doctor friend of his, an Englishman. ‘He and Fred are going to Provence for three months. They were wondering if you might want to house-sit for them.’

  ‘In London?’ Jane’s mother shook her head. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘I said we’d think about it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Jane corrected him. She stared at both her parents, absently ran a finger along one eyebrow. ‘Just let me think about it.’

  And she went to bed.

  She went to London. She already had a passport, from visiting Andrew with her parents when she was in high school. Before she left there were countless arguments with her mother and father, and phone calls back and forth to Andrew. He assured them that the flat was secure, there was a very nice reliable older woman who lived upstairs, that it would be a good idea for Janie to get out on her own again.

  ‘So you don’t get gun-shy,’ he said to her one night on the phone. He was a doctor, after all: a homeopath not an allopath, which Janie found reassuring. ‘It’s important for you to get on with your life. You won’t be able to get a real job here as a visitor, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  It was on the plane to Heathrow that she made a discovery. She had splashed water onto her face, and was beginning to comb her hair when she blinked and stared into the mirror.

  Above her eyebrows, the long hairs had grown back. They followed the contours of her brow, sweeping back towards her temples; still entwined, still difficult to make out unless she drew her face close to her reflection and tilted her head just so. Tentatively she touched one braided strand. It was stiff yet oddly pliant; but as she ran her finger along its length a sudden surge flowed through her. Not an electrical shock: more like the thrill of pain when a dentist’s drill touches a nerve, or an elbow rams against a stone. She gasped; but immediately the pain was gone. Instead there was a thrumming behind her forehead, a spreading warmth that trickled into her throat like sweet syrup. She opened her mouth, her gasp turning into an uncontrollable yawn, the yawn into a spike of such profound physical ecstasy that she grabbed the edge of the sink and thrust forward, striking her head against the mirror. She was dimly aware of someone knocking at the lavatory door as she clutched the sink and, shuddering, climaxed.

  ‘Hello?’ someone called softly. ‘Hello, is this occupied?’

  ‘Right out,’ Janie gasped. She caught her breath, still trembling; ran a hand across her face, her fingers halting before they could touch the hairs above her eyebrows. There was the faintest tingling, a temblor of sensation that faded as she grabbed her cosmetic bag, pulled the door open and stumbled back into the cabin.

  Andrew and Fred lived in an old Georgian row house just west of Camden Town, overlooking the Regent’s Canal. Their flat occupied the first floor and basement; there was a hexagonal solarium out back, with glass walls and heated stone floor, and beyond that a stepped terrace leading down to the canal. The bedroom had an old wooden four-poster piled high with duvets and down pillows, and French doors that also opened onto the terrace. Andrew showed her how to operate the elaborate sliding security doors that unfolded from the walls, and gave her the keys to the barred window guards.

  ‘You’re completely safe here,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tomorrow we’ll introduce you to Kendra upstairs, and show you how to get around. Camden Market’s just down that way, and that way—’

  He stepped out onto the terrace, pointing to where the canal coiled and disappeared beneath an arched stone bridge. ‘—that way’s the Regent’s Park Zoo. I’ve given you a membership—’

  ‘Oh! Thank you!’ Janie looked around, delighted. ‘This is wonderful.’

  ‘It is.’ Andrew put an arm around her and drew her close. ‘You’re going to have a wonderful time, Janie. I thought you’d like the zoo – there’s a new exhibit there, “The World Within” or words to that effect – it’s about insects. I thought perhaps you might want to volunteer there – they have an active docent programme, and you’re so knowledgeable about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sure. It sounds great – really great.’ She grinned and smoothed her hair back from her face, the wind sending up the rank scent of stagnant water from the canal,
the sweetly poisonous smell of hawthorn blossom. As she stood gazing down past the potted geraniums and Fred’s rosemary trees, the hairs upon her brow trembled, and she laughed out loud, giddily, with anticipation.

  Fred and Andrew left two days later. It was enough time for Janie to get over her jet lag, and begin to get barely acclimated to the city, and to its smell. London had an acrid scent: damp ashes, the softer underlying fetor of rot that oozed from ancient bricks and stone buildings, the thick vegetative smell of the canal, sharpened with urine and spilled beer. So many thousands of people descended on Camden Town on the weekend that the Tube station was restricted to incoming passengers, and the canal path became almost impassable. Even late on a week night she could hear voices from the other side of the canal, harsh London voices echoing beneath the bridges or shouting to be heard above the din of the trains passing overhead.

  Those first days Janie did not venture far from the flat. She unpacked her clothes, which did not take much time, and then unpacked her collecting box, which did. The sturdy wooden case had come through the overseas flight and Customs seemingly unscathed, but Janie found herself holding her breath as she undid the metal hinges, afraid of what she’d find inside.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. Relief, not chagrin: nothing had been damaged. The small glass vials of ethyl alcohol and gel shellac were intact, and the pillboxes where she kept the tiny #2 pins she used for mounting. Fighting her own eagerness, she carefully removed packets of stiff archival paper, a block of Styrofoam covered with pinholes; two bottles of clear Maybelline nail polish and a small container of Elmer’s Glue-All; more pillboxes, empty, and empty gelatine capsules for very small specimens; and last of all a small glass-fronted display box, framed in mahogany and holding her most precious specimen: a hybrid Celerio harmuthi kordesch, the male crossbreed of the Spurge and Elephant Hawkmoths. As long as the first joint of her thumb, it had the hawkmoth’s typically streamlined wings but exquisitely delicate coloring, fuchsia bands shading to a soft rich brown, its thorax thick and seemingly feathered. Only a handful of these hybrid moths had ever existed, bred by the Prague entomologist Jan Pokorny in 1961; a few years afterward, both the Spurge Hawkmoth and the Elephant Hawkmoth had become extinct.

  Janie had found this one for sale on the Internet three months ago. It was a former museum specimen and cost a fortune; she had a few bad nights, worrying whether it had actually been a legal purchase. Now she held the display box in her cupped palms and gazed at it raptly. Behind her eyes she felt a prickle, like sleep or unshed tears; then a slow thrumming warmth crept from her brows, spreading to her temples, down her neck and through her breasts, spreading like a stain. She swallowed, leaned back against the sofa and let the display box rest back within the larger case; slid first one hand then the other beneath her sweater and began to stroke her nipples. When some time later she came it was with stabbing force and a thunderous sensation above her eyes, as though she had struck her forehead against the floor.

  She had not: gasping, she pushed the hair from her face, zipped her jeans and reflexively leaned forward, to make certain the hawkmoth in its glass box was safe.

  Over the following days she made a few brief forays to the newsagent and greengrocer, trying to eke out the supplies Fred and Andrew had left in the kitchen. She sat in the solarium, her bare feet warm against the heated stone floor, and drank camomile tea or claret, staring down to where the ceaseless stream of people passed along the canal path, and watching the narrow-boats as they plied their way slowly between Camden Lock and Little Venice, two miles to the west in Paddington. By the following Wednesday she felt brave enough, and bored enough, to leave her refuge and visit the zoo.

  It was a short walk along the canal, dodging bicyclists who jingled their bells impatiently when she forgot to stay on the proper side of the path. She passed beneath several arching bridges, their undersides pleated with slime and moss. Drunks sprawled against the stones and stared at her blearily or challengingly by turns; well-dressed couples walked dogs, and there were excited knots of children, tugging their parents on to the zoo.

  Fred had walked here with Janie, to show her the way. But it all looked unfamiliar now. She kept a few strides behind a family, her head down, trying not to look as though she was following them; and felt a pulse of relief when they reached a twisting stair with an arrowed sign at its top.

  REGENT’S PARK ZOO

  There was an old church across the street, its yellow stone walls overgrown with ivy; and down and around the corner a long stretch of hedges with high iron walls fronting them, and at last a huge set of gates, crammed with children and vendors selling balloons and banners and London guidebooks. Janie lifted her head and walked quickly past the family that had led her here, showed her membership card at the entrance, and went inside.

  She wasted no time on the seals or tigers or monkeys, but went straight to the newly renovated structure where a multicolored banner flapped in the late-morning breeze.

  AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE:

  SECRETS OF THE INSECT WORLD

  Inside, crowds of schoolchildren and harassed-looking adults formed a ragged queue that trailed through a brightly lit corridor, its walls covered with huge glossy colour photos and computer-enhanced images of hissing cockroaches, helgrammites, morpho butterflies, death-watch beetles, polyphemous moths. Janie dutifully joined the queue, but when the corridor opened into a vast sun-lit atrium she strode off on her own, leaving the children and teachers to gape at monarchs in butterfly cages and an interactive display of honeybees dancing. Instead she found a relatively quiet display at the far end of the exhibition space, a floor-to-ceiling cylinder of transparent net, perhaps six feet in diameter. In it, buckthorn bushes and blooming hawthorn vied for sunlight with a slender beech sapling, and dozens of butterflies flitted upwards through the new yellow leaves, or sat with wings outstretched upon the beech tree. They were a type of Pieridae, the butterflies known as Whites; though these were not white at all. The females had creamy yellow-green wings, very pale, their wingspans perhaps an inch and a half. The males were the same size; when they were at rest their flattened wings were a dull, rather sulfurous color. But when the males lit into the air their wings revealed vivid, spectral yellow undersides. Janie caught her breath in delight, her neck prickling with that same atavistic joy she’d felt as a child in the attic.

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed, and pressed up against the netting. It felt like wings against her face, soft, webbed; but as she stared at the insects inside her brow began to ache as with migraine. She shoved her glasses onto her nose, closed her eyes and drew a long breath; then took a step away from the cage. After a minute she opened her eyes. The headache had diminished to a dull throb; when she hesitantly touched one eyebrow, she could feel the entwined hairs there, stiff as wire. They were vibrating, but at her touch the vibrations, like the headache, dulled. She stared at the floor, the tiles sticky with contraband juice and gum; then looked up once again at the cage. There was a display sign off to one side; she walked over to it, slowly, and read.

  CLEOPATRA BRIMSTONE

  Gonepteryx rhamni cleopatra

  This popular and subtly coloured species has a range which extends throughout the Northern Hemisphere, with the exception of Arctic regions and several remote islands. In Europe, the Brimstone is a harbinger of spring, often emerging from its winter hibernation under dead leaves to revel in the countryside while there is still snow upon the ground.

  ‘I must ask you to please not touch the cages.’

  Janie turned to see a man, perhaps fifty, standing a few feet away. A net was jammed under his arm; in his hand he held a clear plastic jar with several butterflies at the bottom, apparently dead.

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ said Jane. The man edged past her. He set his jar on the floor, opened a small door at the base of the cylindrical cage, and deftly angled the net inside. Butterflies lifted in a yellow-green blur from leaves and branches; the man swept the net carefully across the bottom of the cage, t
hen withdrew it. Three dead butterflies, like scraps of colored paper, drifted from the net into the open jar.

  ‘Housecleaning,’ he said, and once more thrust his arm into the cage. He was slender and wiry, not much taller than she was, his face hawkish and burnt brown from the sun, his thick straight hair iron-streaked and pulled back into a long braid. He wore black jeans and a dark-blue hooded jersey, with an ID badge clipped to the collar.

  ‘You work here,’ said Janie. The man glanced at her, his arm still in the cage; she could see him sizing her up. After a moment he glanced away again. A few minutes later he emptied the net for the last time, closed the cage and the jar, and stepped over to a waste bin, pulling bits of dead leaves from the net and dropping them into the container.

  ‘I’m one of the curatorial staff. You American?’

  Janie nodded. ‘Yeah. Actually, I – I wanted to see about volunteering here.’

  ‘Lifewatch desk at the main entrance.’ The man cocked his head toward the door. ‘They can get you signed up and registered, see what’s available.’

  ‘No – I mean, I want to volunteer here. With the insects—’

  ‘Butterfly collector, are you?’ The man smiled, his tone mocking. He had hazel eyes, deepset; his thin mouth made the smile seem perhaps more cruel than intended. ‘We get a lot of those.’

  Janie flushed. ‘No. I am not a collector,’ she said coldly, adjusting her glasses. ‘I’m doing a thesis on dioxane genital mutation in Cucullia artemisae.’ She didn’t add that it was an undergraduate thesis. ‘I’ve been doing independent research for seven years now.’ She hesitated, thinking of her Intel scholarship, and added, ‘I’ve received several grants for my work.’

  The man regarded her appraisingly. ‘Are you studying here, then?’