by Jon Jacks
I can’t see him!
You don’t have to!
Just run!
Trust us! He’s really weird!
They’ve both insisted that I run. Even though that patch of wood I’d stared so intently at still looked to me like a patch of wood.
It was just thin stems, amongst so many other thin stems.
Perhaps he’s some sort of spiritual thing?
Yeah, that must be it: he’s in the spiritual world, not this one!
Or maybe half in, half out!
Can’t you run any faster?
I’m the one whose legs we’re all using – and they’re aching, thanks! And I’m finding it hard to breath! I can’t run for much longer! It’s not like any of us were into running, is it?
Running makeup – that always concerned me.
Running makeup! Oh no! After all this, my makeup will be running!
Slow down then, slow down. I don’t think he’s following!
You don’t think he’s following? So why the heck am I still running!
Just in case; he looked well creepy.
And we can’t really tell until you look back, Amina.
I look over my shoulder as I continue to run: just in case.
I can’t see him.
Well, is he there or not?
I’m slowing down, taking the risk. I’m exhausted.
No, I don’t think he’s there anymore either.
Are you sure you didn’t just imagine him? What did he look like?
Let’s put it this way; he didn’t look wryly amused!
Or wryly sceptical!
He just looked – scary!
Like he was just waiting for someone to come along.
Sort of like Death, without his cloak.
Only he wasn’t a skeleton!
So what was he then?
Just really, really thin: like he’d been dead for ages.
And his flesh – all sort of withered around his bones.
Well he sounds like he’s in a far better condition than I am!
Now I’ve come to a complete halt, I’m bent double, my hands on my knees. I’m panting like I get through at least twenty packs of cigarettes each day.
My heart’s racing, my vision blurry.
In the Olympics, I’d get the gold for the triathlon of coughing, spitting and dribbling.
And that, naturally, is when I see a smiling Adam walking towards me.
*
At first, I’m so dizzy I’m not really quite sure it is Adam.
I’m hoping it’s not Adam.
I’m covered in sweat. It’s running down my forehead. Running into and stinging my eyes.
I’ve got to run! I can’t let him see me like this!
Too late.
Too tired!
He’s seen you.
He looks a little confused.
Well, we are heading away from where you agreed to meet.
He might think you were planning on standing him up.
Running away from him, in fact!
Just grrrreat! If you two weren’t already dead, I’d kill you!
‘Hi Amina,’ Adam says jovially enough as he draws closer, but adding, with a puzzled frown, ‘Aren’t you going the wrong way? Didn’t we say we’d meet–’
‘Yes, yes, we did!’ I gasp, still fighting for breath, but at last now able to stand upright. ‘It was just...just that...’
I’m lost for words and, once again when I need some input from C and P, so are they.
I can’t really say I was running from the Wry Man, can I? Running like a sacred little kid from some imaginary figure.
‘Have you been crying?’
Concerned, Adam steps even closer, touches my cheek tenderly – and pulls back a palm and fingers stained with wet mascara.
‘Oh no! I must look a fright!’
He chuckles, like I’m worrying over nothing.
‘You look fine,’ he lies, holding me closer – pulling me into a kiss.
Has he got the information he promised us?
Remember, Amina? That’s why we really agreed to meet him?
Information on the man who’s probably trying to kill you?
It does have some importance, you know!
*
‘Seems you were right about this Graham; he’s been under all sorts of therapy for years, since he was about seven. Highly intelligent, a savant of the highest order, as it says, but can’t socialise – therapists and social workers putting it down to traces of autism or Asperger’s. No one really seems sure, to be honest. To help him become more accustomed to everyday life, it says, he’s even attending a regular school. Rather than the private school his parents could easily afford to send him to.’
As promised, Adam had managed to get us some information on Graham; in fact, far more than we’d hoped for.
We’d just wanted to know why the police had let him go after we’d provide them with the movie he’d made. But Adam had also somehow managed to get a rough idea of his medical history. Seems the police had been informed of Graham’s mental problems by his parents, with all the records to prove they were telling the truth.
He was already receiving treatment for his condition, had been receiving it on an almost daily basis.
If he’s so wacky, how come he’s not banged up for life then?
I ask Chloe’s question for her, but in slightly kinder words.
‘Because he’s already receiving treatment,’ Adam replies. ‘They didn’t really have any reason to detain him. They don’t want to stigmatise someone who’s being treated for mental illness. Otherwise others will simply stop seeking it.’
Adam had briefly swapped places with a friend of his who was part of a team carrying out maintenance at the local police station. The way he explains it, all he had to do was patch into a mainframe, get past a few simple passwords, and call up the most recent case records.
We’re all so pleased with what Adam’s found out about Graham, I reward him in a way that – let’s face it – I might just find even more enjoyable than he does. He doesn’t really seem to mind that though.
Are you sure you don’t want just a few tips on–
Trust you to spoil the mood!
Thankfully, though, she doesn’t spoil the mood too much.
*
On the way back to school, after Adam’s left to return to work, we all feel like we’re being constantly watched, secretly followed.
And that’s despite the fact there aren’t any woods around any longer; we’re passing neat suburban homes, the only trees being those in the odd garden.
No way could anybody be flitting from tree to tree without us noticing him.
It has to be a ‘him’, right?
Nope, not even the skinniest man you’re ever likely to see could manage to hide himself away that expertly. This feeling we’re being followed has just got to be nothing more than our overactive imaginations playing tricks on us.
Graham? Could it be thick-as-a?
Nooo way! He couldn’t move that fast even if his feet were on fire!
I think we’d spot him if his feet were on fire.
Pree-cisely!
Er girls, girls: what’s that?
At first, I thought it was just the sunlight glinting off a metal lamppost lying a little way ahead of me. Then the light had sparkled, wavered, as if caught in the rippling effect of a heat haze.
Then it had become an achingly thin man. He didn’t appear strong enough to even lift his arms, even his own head.
But he did manage to raise his head. And when he did, he grimly smiled in welcome.
Oh my God! That’s him! That’s the Wry Man!
*
Chapter 10
I’m running again!
This time, I leap over a low garden wall – I just never knew I was so athletic – and dash as fast as I can down past the side of the house.
If the homeowner’s home and comes out to complain, he can face the Wry
Man!
Perhaps this Wry Man doesn’t mean us any harm!
Are you kidding? I’m dead, and I still felt creeped out!
Didn’t you come over all shivery? Like when you step into a room you just know is haunted?
Like me you mean? With two resident spirits?
I’ve made a big mistake. I’ve run around the back of the house, only to find myself trapped. I’m in a garden surrounded on every side by either high fences or impenetrably thick hedges of every spiky type of shrub the gardener could lay his hands on.
I spin around, wondering if I can run back up the side of the house before the Wry Man gets here, fearing I’m already too late and he’s already there.
He isn’t there, thankfully. But then, neither is my escape route.
The climbing roses growing up the side of the house and arching over the path are spreading at an unbelievable rate. The branches are elongating, completely blocking my way as if made up of writhing serpents.
Wow, how’d that happen?
Is someone helping us at last? Keeping the Wry Man out?
‘Don’t worry,’ a voice like hissing steam says behind me, ‘I won’t keep you for long.’
I spin around again.
The Wry Man is standing there, standing in the garden.
*
The Wry Man’s skull is more horned-animal than man. Maybe it’s how most people would imagine the Devil’s skull to look like.
And yes, it is more skull than head, although there does seem to be a sheen of thin, tightly stretched skin – almost like the skins you see stretched around certain meats or sausages. And with a similar brown tint of dried blood too.
The eyes – well, they’re not eyes, not really. They’re more like minute, glowing , whirling planets, the pupils made up of the swirling gasses you see encircling Saturn.
The colours change, not just the colours of the ‘irises’, but the complete orb, sometimes as dark as a black hole, other times redder than mars. They’re not sunk into the skull like normal eyes either, but appear to be supported by nothing more than their own spinning motion.
What I’d first taken to be a smile is just a long crack in the skull above the pointed jaw, the bones jagged to give a semblance of teeth. Like the eyes, these two move, as if they’re the rasping teeth of a buzzsaw.
He towers over me, his body and limbs all bone thin. He’s not naked, however; once again, there’s that bloodied sheen of skin keeping everything together. Here and there, it also hangs from him like ancient, shredded clothing he’s stolen from a grave.
‘I’ve come to tell you you needn’t be frightened of me; well, not just yet anyway.’
Is he kidding us!
He’d scare the bejeezus out of Godzilla!
Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I am the meanest...
‘Why are you after me? What have I done to you?’
‘What have I done to you?’ he repeats with an amused chuckle. ‘Is that what you think all this comes down to? What you’ve done to me?’
‘Isn’t that why anyone chases after someone?’
‘Chase? Do you really think I need to chase you?’
He chuckles again, like he’s the number one standup at the Comedy Store.
‘It’s purely business, of course,’ he adds without waiting for my answer.
‘What sort of business?’
What the...? Are you gonna ask him for his business card next?
‘The setting the world to rights business, of course. Bringing fairness to those who feel rejected by a cruel, unfair world.’
‘Graham, you mean?’
He nods, somehow managing to look impressed even though I can’t think how he manages it.
‘And I thought I’d been reliably informed that you were an airhead.’
‘So what’s Graham been doing? Dabbling with witchcraft?’
‘Witchcraft? Oh please, please! Is that all you think this is? All you think I am?’
‘The Devil; you’re the Devil!’
‘Ohh, of course I’m not the Devil!’
He says it as if he’s a little exasperated by such an obviously silly accusation.
‘What a dreadful insinuation! Didn’t I just say my role is to bring back a sense of fairness to the world? I’d hardly think that fits the job description for the Devil, do you?’
‘Did you kill us? Try to kill me, I mean. And killed my friends?’
‘Did you kill us?’
Cocking his skull-like head, he observes me curiously.
It feels like he’s somehow staring deep within me. What passes for his eyes seem to penetrate my skin as if it no longer exists for him.
He’s in here with us, I’m sure of it!
Get him out, get him out!
‘Such an odd choice of words: kill us. I heard you three were as thick as thieves – yet, why would you say us?’
As he draws closer towards me, I try to step away; but the surrounding plants have taken on a life of their own once more, the extending stems swiftly winding their way towards me, coiling around ankles, wrists, even my neck.
I’m trapped. I’m not going anywhere, not even a few steps back.
He almost tenderly strokes my cheek with hands that have fingers just as narrow and almost as long as corn stalks. His whirling eyes lock on mine, the gaseous streams flowing towards me, swirling around and past my own eyeballs.
‘They’re still there, aren’t they?’
He sounds impressed once again. And only a little surprised.
How’s he know that?
Who is he?
The Wry Ma–
I know that! I mean who is he really?
‘Even I didn’t realise that was possible,’ he says, thankfully stepping back, letting his hand fall away from my cheek. ‘Remarkable, truly remarkable. You learn something new every day, don’t you?’
‘Are you trying to kill me?’
I’m trying to draw his attention away from his discovery that Chloe and Pearl are still alive, living inside me.
‘If I were, don’t you think I could do it now?’
Are you trying to rush him into this, Amina?
‘Can I go then?’
Hey, I might as well ask. Even if I’m expecting a refusal.
‘In a moment, in a moment; why the unnecessary haste?’
‘Why do you want me if you don’t want to kill me?’
‘Wait; that’s a different question, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, think about it; before, you asked are you trying to kill me.’
‘And you said no.’
‘But now, your question is, effectively; do you want to kill me? Different questions require different answers.’
‘You do want to kill me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why aren’t you?’
That’s it girl! Talk him into slitting your throat!
Yeah, just like you, we’re also tired with life!
‘Because I haven’t been paid to kill you yet, of course. I don’t fulfil my roles just out the goodness of my heart, you know. I expect payment, as any professional expects payment, when they’re asked to utilise their skills.’
‘So when you are paid...?’
‘Of course; a transaction agreed to has to be honoured once payment is finally made – even if it is a little late in this case.’
‘That’s the only reason I’m alive? Because of a late payment?’
‘What other reason could there possibly be? Until that payment is made, however, I don’t see any reason why you should continue to be afraid of me. I really don’t like it when people avoid me when there is absolutely no reason for it.’
‘But you want to kill me?’
‘Don’t you listen? Are you an airhead after all? Let me spell it out for you; you have nothing to fear from me until the payment is made. Then you can fear me as much as you like, my dear.’
He smiles, a grin of a Halloween p
umpkin.
‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’
He deftly and smoothly places some sort of wide-brimmed trilby on his head, hiding his horns.
Where the hat had come from, I’m not completely sure – but as the coiling stems of the plants were at last retreating away from me, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d been offered it by a nearby bush, waiting on him like a valet.
As he slides past me, the cloth of shredded skin becomes simpler clothing of loose shirt and trousers, together with what could be either shoes or boots. By the time he’s passed through the opening created by the shrivelling rose, he could pass at a distance as a tall, bowed old man.
Let me get this right: Is he saying you’re alive only because Graham short changed him?
*
Chapter 11
So...if we stop Graham from paying up on the final demands, does that mean I’m okay?
Sounds like it to me.
But wait a minute, Amina: you ate the tuna too! You almost died!’
Maybe that’s it: I was supposed to die. Then, I don’t know, perhaps Dr Weird back there was counting his money and finally figured out Graham hadn’t come up with the full amount.
How would he stop you dying once we’d all eaten those absolutely delicious sandwiches your mum had left for us?
I sighed. I couldn’t be bothered responding to Chloe’s sarcastic little dig.
You saw how the plants did whatever he seemed to want; how he appeared out of nowhere.
Stopping someone dying though – that’s on a whole new level.
You know what? He looked to me like the kind of guy who could do it!
*
‘I need to talk to you!’
Graham almost jumps out of his shoes when I come up behind him and tap him on his shoulder. When he whirls around and sees it’s me, however, he’s suddenly furious.
‘You! No, I need to talk to you! You’ve got no right accessing my police and medical records!’
‘Not your medic – I mean, what are you on about?’
‘I don’t suffer fools gladly!’
‘How do you live with yourself?’
‘Oh, very clever. Seems you’re not such an airhead after all!’
‘Not an airhead? What made you say that?’
‘Say what? That I’m surprised a blonde isn’t an airhead? Have you never heard that expression?’
‘I’ve heard it; I just heard it only a few minutes ago. Spoken by a business associate of yours!’