The Leaping

by Tom Fletcher

  It was getting dark by the time I got back, but when I saw Fell House through the dim blue twilight I saw that none of the lights were on. I stopped by the gate and felt reluctant to go any further because the lights should have been on, they should have, they really should have at this time of night. What if something had happened? I mean, it was probably just a power-cut but the house looked strangely smug and self-satisfied, like an intelligent animal that had helped itself to something it knew it shouldn’t have eaten.

  I rushed to open the gate and scramble across the yard to the house, because if it had Jennifer, then as far as I was concerned it could have me too. Then I saw something, somebody, standing in the path between the barn and the house, and stopped. There were two of them. Two children. They didn’t move. I walked closer to them, lifting my hand to wave. I could see them a little more clearly now – their tousled blonde hair and their fingers in their mouths. They were the kids from the farm shop. I smiled at them, but it was a forced smile. The house remained unlit and quiet.

  ‘Hello!’ I said. But they just turned and ran. Their bare feet flashed pale in the dark.

  Their bare feet.

  I thought back to the footprint I had found. Then I threw open the front door and all the lights came on at once, all the lights and all the sound, strings of lights like sparks all over the wall and music so loud that I didn’t recognise it at first as ‘Shiny Happy People’ by R.E.M.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Fuck what I said before!’ shouted a big shaggy thing that I realised was Graham. ‘We’re having a big fuck-off party and it’s all for you!’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘We’re having a kind of surprise birthday party,’ Erin said. ‘This isn’t it though. The party’s going to be tomorrow. We just had to decorate tonight because people are going to be turning up all day tomorrow, so we had to do the surprise bit tonight!’

  Everybody was laughing. The light was bright and the hallway was decked with black and white crêpe-paper streamers. The walls were covered in fairy-lights and music was spilling out of the living-room.

  ‘Well.’ I smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  FRANCIS

  I’m reading the paper. An eleven-year-old girl knifed her twelve-year-old classmate to death in Japan. The murder was the latest in a series of killings by children that stunned the adults of the nation. The knife used was small. With a retractable blade. Usually used to cut paper. The victim was stabbed in the neck and arms. The article also mentioned two other, previous killings. Last July, a boy of fourteen was arrested for beating a classmate to death in Okinawa. And in the same month a twelve-year-old boy kidnapped, molested and killed a four-year-old. In Nagasaki. We bombed another wedding in Iraq. ‘It is true that we bombed a wedding,’ said a US Army spokesman. ‘But don’t forget. Terrorists have weddings too.’ There is a full-page advert for a new robotic-dog pet-toy thing. I think it’s an advert. It looks like an article about this year’s top Christmas toy, but I think that’s a trick. I can’t really tell what’s what any more. Everything is made to look like something else.

  ‘Where’s your costume?’ Graham says. From the doorway.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Why are you not dressed up?’

  I am slumped on the sofa. It is the morning of the party. It is raining outside. Jack came back from his walk last night with bloody hands. A bloody face. Said he fell over.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Twelve,’ Graham says. He is dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and a white tie.

  ‘What’s the theme?’

  ‘Black and white.’

  ‘Black and white?’

  ‘Black and white. Look – just look at the walls. You know it’s black and white. Stop being a prick.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. I grin. ‘I did know really.’

  ‘I know you knew.’ He smiles his Nordic-warrior smile. ‘Get your fucking suit on. People will be here soon.’

  Me and Erin and Taylor are making some punch. Something poppy and danceable is playing loudly throughout the house. It is mid-afternoon. A few guests are outside, looking at the view and being introduced to Jennifer by Jack. We’re using alcohol that Jennifer brought from the little shed where she hid it.

  ‘How much of this should I put in?’ Taylor asks. He holds up a bottle of whisky.

  ‘All of it,’ Erin says.

  ‘You sure?’ he says.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I have this feeling,’ Taylor says. He pours the whisky into the brown, murky liquid sloshing around in the punch bowl. ‘I have this feeling, rising in me. We could start a magazine. Make a book or film. Write a sitcom. We could start a band, us three, and Jennifer and Jack, and maybe even Graham, and we might not be technically proficient but we’d have this energy and creativity, or, at least, we could, if we put the time in, and we’d be completely original and powerful. We’d be a balloon inside people’s heads, expanding their minds while they dance ’till they want to die. Honestly. What do you think?’

  ‘As long as we inspired a kind of fear,’ I say. ‘A kind of scary – but exciting – amorality.’

  ‘I’m sure that, between us, we couldn’t help it,’ Erin says.

  ‘Good people though,’ Taylor says.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  I scoop a cupful of punch from the bowl. Take a mouthful.

  ‘How is it?’ he asks.

  ‘It needs some ginger beer. Have we got any?’

  ‘Of course.’ He pulls a bottle from nowhere. From his sleeve or something. Taylor can be like that. Tall, mysterious. A subtle master of understated showmanship. He pours some into the bowl. ‘It’s going to be beautiful,’ he says. Then he lifts a bottle of some cream liqueur from the pile of drink that we’ve amassed. He unscrews the cap and empties the whole bottle into the punch.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I say. ‘Not sure that will work. Won’t it curdle?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He fills his glass from the punch bowl. ‘The Irish used to have a grading system for sour milk. The curdled, thicker stuff was something of a delicacy.’

  ‘You know too much,’ I say. There is a heavy pounding at the front door.

  Taylor smiles. ‘Come on, Francis. Get it down your neck. The guests are arriving, and soon there won’t be any left.’

  ‘Has Jack opened his presents yet?’ Erin says.

  ‘No,’ Taylor says. ‘He said he’d open them later.’

  ‘I don’t know what he’s playing at,’ I say.

  Later. People have been arriving constantly. I stand outside, beneath the clouding sky. I look out over the yard and the recently appeared cars. I shake my head. I have a near pint of punch in my hand. I feel tingly and warm all over. There must be nearly a hundred people here so far. And I can see another car snaking its way up the mountain road. Graham obviously knew what he was doing.

  Except, of all those who have arrived so far, nobody seems to have heard about the black and white theme. Just that it’s fancy dress. People are dressed as animals. Monsters. Robots. Soldiers. Rock stars. Nuns, monks. Doctors, nurses. Priests, kings, queens, dolls. Presidents. Faery-tale heroes and villains. Pirates. Belly-dancers. Scarecrows. Serial killers. Gods. Characters from films. From books. From computer games. Ghosts. And more. Only me, Taylor, Graham and Jack are wearing suits. Jennifer and Erin look beautiful in thin, floating dresses and huge pairs of bat-like wings. Jennifer in black and Erin in white.

  I hear giggling behind me and see the pair of them. Erin and Jennifer. They’re falling out of the house. ‘Look!’ Erin whispers, loudly. ‘A car! They’re nearly here!’ They’re unrolling a banner that looks as if it’s been made out of a sheet or something. Both ends are attached to ladders which they lean either side of the door. They’ve sprayed the words ‘Cross the Threshold’ on to it. Once the banner is up, they each stand in front of a ladder. And hold one hand up towards the top of the door. Like they’ve been
carved from the wall. Like gatekeepers.

  The car pulls up and some girls get out. I don’t recognise any of them. ‘Happy birthday!’ they shout. ‘Happy house-warming! Happy Christmas!’

  ‘It’s not my birthday!’ I shout back, but they don’t seem to hear me. ‘It’s not my house!’ They pile in through the open front door. One of them turns around and smiles. ‘It’s not even Christmas yet,’ I say, but they’re all too far away.

  ‘Where are all these people from?’ I ask Graham. He turns away from a girl wearing a fantastic unicorn horn and tail. I think she’s called Chloe. Recognise her from work. She has neatly bobbed black hair. A tiny, glittering piercing in her small, delicate nose. She slaps Graham on the arse and canters off. Graham is grinning wildly.

  ‘Did you see her?’ he asks. ‘I mean, did you really see her? I’ve got her number. I’m in love. There are some amazing drugs here tonight, Francis. I’m tempted to really test my body. How far can I go? I believe my body to be completely foolproof, but I need to know for sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I laugh. The ceiling is webbed with fairy-lights. ‘Your body is foolproof?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He is laughing too. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Graham. Where are these lights from? All the people? I hardly know anybody here.’

  ‘Some things we give birth to and then they take on a life of their own,’ he says. ‘This is one of those things. Don’t worry about the details, or how, or why. That’s how I live my life. And I have a fucking good life. All these people’ – he waves his glass around – ‘are here with us. And that’s all we need to know.’

  ‘Maybe we should start a fight club,’ Taylor says. His big eyes drift over to rest on the projector screen. It’s showing back-to-back episodes of Flash Gordon, the cartoon series. I think about one New Year’s Eve a long time ago. When there was a fight in The Crook, the pub I used to work in. Before university. Two men, both quite big, in white shirts, just punching each other in the face. Again and again. My face was flecked with their blood, and their shirts were dripping with the stuff.

  ‘I don’t think I’d want to do it all the time,’ I say. ‘I’d be too scared of brain damage.’

  ‘I guess,’ he says. We watch some more of Flash Gordon. Ming the Merciless has a massive super-computer in his ice fortress. The computer has legs. It looks like a huge, mechanical spider.

  ‘That computer looks like Shelob,’ Taylor says.

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  We’re nearly at the door when we both stop dead. It’s Kenny. Floating through the hallway. And then swinging to face us. As if he’s hinged to the door-frame. He’s wearing a baggy navy-blue shirt and black jeans that are too small. He stands there in the doorway and smiles at us. ‘Boys,’ he says. ‘Fancy seeing you here. Like the suits. Very swish.’

  ‘Kenny?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It’s me alright.’

  ‘How are you?’ Taylor asks. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘As alright as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘But you’ve been missing,’ I say.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Taylor says. ‘Since you left the hospital.’

  ‘I just went to see some friends,’ Kenny says. ‘Didn’t think anybody would miss me much. Who would have gone to the police about me, eh?’

  ‘They were looking into it because, um, oh,’ Taylor says. ‘You know.’

  Kenny doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Taylor.

  ‘Not dressed up?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘No, I’m not.’ His flat eyes swivel around the room. They linger on the projector screen. ‘I just didn’t see the point.’

  ‘It’s just, you know. A bit of fun,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t tell who people are though, when they’re all wearing these stupid costumes.’ His eyes return to rest on me. ‘I just like to know who I’m talking to and everything. Communication skills are very important if you’re a manager.’ He licks his lips. ‘I get so hungry sometimes.’ His eyes return to the screen.

  ‘Doing anything for Christmas?’ Taylor asks.

  ‘What?’ Kenny says. He looks confused.

  ‘Christmas,’ Taylor says. ‘You know. Any plans?’

  ‘That time again already, is it? No. No plans. Oh, I’m hungry.’

  Taylor and I look at each other.

  ‘Um,’ Kenny says, after a moment. He doesn’t move his eyes. ‘Is that Jenny girl about?’

  ‘Who?’ I say.

  ‘You mean Jennifer?’ Taylor says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kenny says. His eyes flicker on to Taylor and then off again. ‘Jenny.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Jennifer’s visiting family.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Kenny says. ‘That’s a shame. I was looking forward to having a little catch-up with my favourite employee. Oh, that is a shame. I’m disappointed now. Well, I might as well just leave.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You might as well.’

  ‘I heard there’s another party happening around here tonight anyway. Might go and check it out. Heard it’s better than this one. Heard it’s more real.’

  ‘Charming,’ Taylor says.

  Kenny’s eyes just drift away. His body follows. He turns slowly around. ‘Kenny and Jenny,’ he murmurs, as he does so. ‘Kenny and Jenny.’

  Taylor and I look at each other again. We stay there, in the doorway. We watch him worm his way through the mass of people until he reaches the front door and leaves.

  ‘That Kenny,’ Taylor says. He looks back towards the front door. ‘I don’t know. Kenny and Jenny. Kenny and Jenny.’ He shakes his head.

  The kitchen table is covered with empty vodka bottles. ‘Fill your boots, boys!’ shouts Jennifer. She’s standing at the CD player. She turns to face us. Something erupts from the speakers, too loud for me to identify at first. Unnervingly loud. A sleazy wall of sound. All the empty bottles have a picture of Lenin on the front.

  ‘Protocol vodka!’ Taylor roars. A slightly manic grin on his face. He waggles a bottle at me.

  ‘It’s the cheapest, nastiest vodka I could find!’ Jennifer screams. I can only just hear them. Taylor pours each of us a large glass. We down them. My stomach contracts as soon as I swallow the stuff. My eyes close involuntarily. Tears stream down my face. I bend over. Sure that I’m going to be sick. But the feeling passes. I open my eyes and stand back up. Jennifer is in front of me. Biting her lip. Taylor is leaning against the fridge.

  ‘Have you taken some clothes off?’ I shout to Jennifer. So that she can hear me above the music.

  ‘I kind of like you!’ she shouts back.

  ‘Jennifer,’ I say. ‘Put your dress back on.’

  ‘Francis,’ Taylor mouths. He staggers forward and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Francis. Help me.’

  ‘I have to help Taylor,’ I say to Jennifer. ‘You have a kind and loving boyfriend. You don’t want me ruining that.’

  Taylor and I turn. We leave Jennifer in the kitchen.

  ‘Do you really need help?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Taylor says. ‘I feel violent.’

  ‘Don’t do anything you’ll regret,’ I say. ‘Hey. You know what I read in the paper on my way up here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Condoms,’ I say. ‘Even condoms are a cancer risk. Most condoms contain a cancer-causing chemical, apparently. Tests showed twenty-nine out of thirty-two different types contained the carcinogen N-Nitrosamine. The chemical is used to improve elasticity but is released when the condom comes in contact with bodily fluids.’

  ‘How do you remember all of those details?’ he says. ‘The numbers?’

  I shrug.

  A boy dressed as a Templar Knight runs past. He is being chased by a girl in a skintight lycra catsuit and a long-nosed masquerade mask. ‘But I’m chaste!’ he screams. ‘I’m chaste!’

  I feel a sweat break out on my forehead and under my arms. A
sharp pain lances through my brain. I close my eyes.

  JACK

  I put the bag of birthday presents – including the one from Jennifer – down in the safe room with the other breakables. I had been about to open them before, but Jennifer was busy putting streamers up and then all the guests arrived, so I thought I might as well leave it overnight. It would stretch the whole thing out a bit anyway, make it last longer.

  The one from Jennifer looked exciting. A thick, heavy rectangle, wrapped in thick rough purple paper and tied with a golden ribbon. Like a present in the Shire, Middle Earth, might have looked. I picked it up again and marvelled at the neat wrapping, the intriguing weight of it. I put it back down again and locked the door.

  I stepped through the kitchen doorway and saw Jennifer shrug off the straps of her dress in front of Francis and Taylor. Both of them were staggering, eyes shut, so didn’t see the act itself, but Jennifer – she looked so lovely, and so happy. I backed out of the kitchen immediately, and maybe she’d noticed me, maybe she hadn’t, I didn’t know.

  I went upstairs and walked into the bedroom where Graham and Francis were staying, the one with blue and white wallpaper. Graham was sitting on the sofa-bed with Simon and Chris, a couple of friends from uni, and seemed quite upset.

  Graham always exploded through doors, banging them against the wall as if he didn’t know his own strength. Time and time again he left small round marks on the wallpaper or the paint, indentations made by the door handles. Often he walked into rooms by mistake, drawn in by voices; he’d throw open the door and then stand there, looking confused.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘This sounds stupid,’ he said. ‘But it’s only just kind of hit me. I mean, the full impact.’

  ‘What?’