The Best British Fantasy 2013

by Steve Haynes

  Oh Michael! She imagined his rough hands running over his own body, washing away the day’s grime. She imagined him naked and hard and eager.

  The shower switched off. Imogen’s hand rested on her pubis as she listened. Then she heard Michael open his bedroom door. It wasn’t long before his soft snores filtered through the wall.

  She brought herself to a guilty orgasm. Then lay panting softly. Wishing again that she wasn’t his sister. It all seemed so unfair.

  In the morning she ate breakfast alone, Michael was still in bed. She hated the late shifts he worked. They barely spent any time together at all. Since their mother died, Michael had taken extra hours, worked harder, all in the name of supporting them both.

  At lunchtime Imogen heard the shower again and soon Michael came downstairs.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Morning.’

  Michael looked tired but relaxed. His blond hair was washed and combed back wet from his face. His blue eyes were bright as he smiled at her. His colouring was so different from hers. Imogen brushed back her dark hair and scrutinised Michael with her hazel eyes. Sometimes she daydreamed that they weren’t related at all. Their colouring was so different that this wasn’t so hard to imagine. They were in fact opposites.

  ‘How was your day, Gen?’ he asked.

  ‘A little dull. I missed you.’

  Michael nodded his head but said nothing as he sat down at the kitchen table. Imogen put a cup of coffee – white, two sugars, just as he liked it – down on the table before him. Then she sat down opposite him.

  ‘I thought I might go down to the job centre today,’ Imogen said. ‘It’s not fair that you have to work so hard all the time when I’m more than cap–’

  ‘No,’ Michael said firmly. ‘You need to stay home, Gen. That is your job.’

  Imogen felt that knot of anxiety she sometimes felt when she wanted to disagree with Michael. He was pretty stubborn. He took after their mother that way. His ego would cause him no end of trouble one day, but it was impossible to argue with him.

  Michael placed his hand on hers and looked at her over the table.

  ‘I promised Mum that I’d look after you. And I will. Always.’

  Imogen’s face lit up as Michael looked into her eyes, but her brother suddenly blushed and pulled back his hand.

  The guilt came again. She shouldn’t love him this way. She had to be careful. Surely he knew how she felt? She couldn’t help reading into his reaction though, always giving herself false hope. What if the blush means he feels the same?

  Imogen stood up and went to the dishwasher. Her hands were trembling, her heart pounding in her chest. All the thoughts and feelings she carried inside her rumbled around and yelled ‘sinner’ inside her head. She began to fill the machine with the breakfast dishes and dirty mugs, but her fingers were clumsy and one of the glasses fell from her hand and smashed down on the tiled floor.

  ‘What the fuck . . .?’

  Michael stood but Imogen was already cleaning up the mess. She knew how he hated chaos. She had to keep the house clean for him. That was her job.

  ‘Mind you don’t cut your –’ Michael said calmly.

  ‘It’s fine. I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘Sorry.’

  She made him chicken salad for lunch. He ate it silently while sipping orange juice.

  ‘Must get back to work,’ he said pushing back his chair. ‘Cupboards don’t build themselves.’

  Imogen said nothing but she watched him pick up his tool bag. Inside she knew were all the things he needed to work. She remembered watching him build a cupboard recently. It might even have been a wardrobe. He had caressed the wood, smoothed and shaped it: worked with so much love and care that she couldn’t help admiring his hands as they moved. Perhaps that was even the moment when she realised she loved him more than she should.

  ‘Will you be late tonight?’ she asked as he pulled his jacket from the coat rack by the door.

  ‘No. This job is almost finished. Should be back early. About six.’

  ‘I’ll make dinner then,’ Imogen said.

  After he left, the house felt empty. Imogen cleaned and tidied and emptied the washing machine. She shook out Michael’s overalls and examined the stains. Brown smears marred the cloth. Imogen knew it was wood stain but the splatter made her feel uneasy. It never came out fully, and to Michael it probably didn’t matter at all. After all next time he wore them more stain would find its way onto his cloth. Imogen wanted them cleaner though and so she put the wash back on and ran the cycle twice more before switching the load over to the drier.

  Then she chopped some vegetables and made a beef casserole.

  ‘Gen? Are you home?’

  Imogen jerked awake. She had dozed off in the chair in the lounge again and the hours had passed as though she didn’t exist. There had been no dream but the sleep had been deep and sound.

  ‘Must have fallen asleep,’ she said as Michael entered the room.

  His eyes skittered over her and Imogen realised that she was still in her nightclothes and her robe was lying open exposing her leg.

  ‘It’s six,’ he said.

  ‘Oh good. Dinner should be perfect now.’

  They went into the kitchen and Michael sat once more at the table as Imogen passed him a bowl and a plate with a crusty roll on. Then she placed a bottle of red wine and two glasses down. They sat together talking about the day, but Imogen could barely make conversation as hers had been so dull. She listened to Michael talk though. He loved his work and his affinity with his craft was evident in his words.

  ‘I might have to go out again tonight,’ Michael said. ‘There is one last thing that needs to be finished on this job and there seems little point in leaving it undone when it would only take me an hour or so.’

  ‘Oh that’s a shame. I thought we would watch something on TV together. Michael I hardly see you. I’m alone so much.’

  Michael looked down at his plate and took a sharp breath. He seemed on the verge of saying something but instead he stood up, bumped the table and knocked his glass over. The wine splashed over the table and onto Imogen’s robe. She looked down, watched the wine seep into the cloth like a bloodstain on her abdomen.

  Michael stared at her, then backed away.

  ‘I can’t do this Gen. Not again!’

  Imogen heard the front door slam and she stared at the spilt wine and the stain and her empty bowl. Nothing made sense. She had upset him, but didn’t know how. She removed the robe and placed it in the washer.

  At two she heard him return. She waited downstairs as always, saw the headlights, hurried to her room. It was a cycle that repeated night after night. Sometimes she lingered outside of his door while he slept. She knew that entering his room would be bad but she couldn’t help toying with the idea. She would pace silently, waiting for him to wake and find her there. She wished again and again that they weren’t related. That she was just some girl that lived in the same house as him. Not his sister, but his lover.

  It was as though she only lived when he came home. Each day was the same. She cooked, she cleaned, she washed his overalls and then he would return and fall asleep leaving her lonely.

  ‘Something weird happened today,’ she said. ‘I waved at the neighbour when she was in her garden. She was looking straight at me but completely ignored me. She used to be so friendly. I think I must have upset her somehow?’

  ‘I’ll speak to her,’ Michael said.

  ‘It was odd wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I have offended her will you apologise? I didn’t mean it. But I might have said something without realising.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing . . .’

  That night Michael didn’t go out. They sat watching the television and he nursed the remote control as he always did. Imogen didn’t m
ind. She felt alive and calm and happy. She always felt more vital when Michael was around.

  At bedtime she followed him upstairs. She waited while he used the bathroom, then stood awkwardly at the top of the stairs as he opened his bedroom door.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘I’m tired, Imogen.’

  ‘Can I . . .?’

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said closing his door firmly shut.

  Imogen jumped awake as she heard the phone ringing beside her. She had fallen asleep in the chair again. Her hand took the receiver and she pressed it against her ear before she realised that Michael had already answered.

  ‘Good morning gorgeous,’ said a female voice. ‘I missed you last night.’

  Imogen was too surprised to speak.

  ‘Stacey . . .’ Michael’s voice sounded sleepy and soft.

  ‘So . . . I was thinking I might come over to your place tonight instead.’

  ‘No. I’ll come to you. Things are a bit messy here at the moment.’

  Imogen listened as Michael talked about the chaos at home. She looked around the immaculate lounge and wondered what it was that she wasn’t doing properly. She placed the receiver down quietly as Michael finished his conversation, and then she sneaked upstairs and back into her room before he discovered that she was awake.

  She felt hurt that he hadn’t mentioned his new girlfriend and that he had lied to her about where he was all of those evenings. Clearly he wasn’t working so late all the time. He was sleeping with his new whore instead.

  Imogen felt a terrible rage. Her ears burst with noise as her heart leapt in her chest. There was someone else! But then, what did she expect? She couldn’t have him. Ever. She had to accept that and move on.

  ‘Michael, why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?’ she asked as she poured tea from the pot into his cup.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I heard you talking to her. Stacey isn’t it?’

  Michael flushed with guilt.

  ‘Gen, we’ve been through this before. I don’t like to talk about these things with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . because you don’t take it well. But there’s nothing to fear. I will look after you. Like I promised.’

  ‘I’m lonely. I’d like a boyfriend.’

  ‘Don’t Imogen,’ Michael warned. His face was flushed and he appeared on the edge of anger.

  ‘Maybe I’ll go out today and find myself someone. Bring him back here and fuck him. How about that Michael?’

  ‘Stop it, Imogen. You know I don’t like you to talk that way,’ Michael was so angry now, he gripped the table. ‘I won’t hear any more about this. I’m entitled to have some life.’

  Imogen was angry too and she was suddenly not afraid to show it.

  ‘I want a life too. I’m entitled to have life and love and sex, just the same as anyone else is.’

  Michael jumped up throwing his chair back. ‘You want sex do you? You dirty little whore. You want to tempt me again and again. Don’t you remember where that led last time?’

  He brought his open palm down across her face, hard, and the stinging slap rang through the kitchen and echoed out into the hallway.

  Imogen fell against the sink but Michael wouldn’t leave it there. She hadn’t been chastised enough. He grabbed her hair, pulling her backwards until she fell down at his feet. He pulled open her robe, ripping at the nightdress.

  ‘You fucking slut. Always lying around half dressed, always flaunting yourself. What do you expect me to do?’

  Imogen felt his carpenter’s hands roughly squeezing her bare breasts. But it wasn’t sensual, or nice. Not at all as she had hoped. It hurt and she was scared.

  ‘Do you know how hard it’s been for me? Ever since that day? And it’s all your fault Imogen. All because you found those papers . . .’

  Imogen couldn’t understand what he was saying, she could feel his hands on her, and that was all that mattered. Even though there was no love in his touch at all. Everything that happened had been leading to this moment. She wanted him, was he finally taking care of everything.

  She felt the knife penetrate her stomach and when she coughed, a gout of blood gushed from her mouth. But Michael didn’t stop. He plunged the knife into her over and over again, like a parody of the sex act that could never happen between them.

  ‘It’s a sin. You dirty fucking tramp. Even if mother did adopt you. So what if we aren’t really brother and sister? We were brought up that way and I can’t want you. You’re better off dead.’

  Blood poured on the floor. Something she would have to clean up when Michael had finished murdering her.

  She lay still while he enjoyed himself: twisting and turning the knife while the red stuff spread over them both. His overalls were covered in stains by the time he discarded them, pushing them straight into the washing machine. The walls and cupboards were splattered in her blood

  ‘Get up,’ he said finally. ‘Clean this mess you made.’

  Imogen grimaced and pushed her intestines back inside her stomach. The hole closed. She staggered to her feet, sore and barely able to stand but still she hobbled over to the cupboard to find the mop and bucket. Then she cleaned up the blood while Michael sat at the table with a fresh pot of tea.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said.

  ‘Will you be late?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Don’t wait up for me.’

  Imogen slipped into oblivion again for a few hours. When she woke she found herself sitting once more in the chair. Her eyes were stinging. She sat in the dark waiting for Michael to return. It was late and she couldn’t remember how she got there.

  Her robe lay over the back of the chair and she was wearing her favourite nightdress. It was made of a pure white satin. She glanced down at her bare thigh and then back at the window. She was waiting for Michael. She was always waiting for Michael.

  A car turned into the street and for a moment the headlights lit up the room. Imogen ran upstairs and went into her room. She lay down pulling the sheet over her.

  u

  Michael woke. He pushed aside the covers and sat up. The room was in darkness, but he could see the light peeking around the corners of the curtain. He smelt frying bacon, heard the kettle boil and he knew his sister would be making breakfast.

  He shook away the horrible dream that still lurked in the back of his head. Imogen. A knife. Blood. It was all too awful to even consider.

  He showered, washed his hair, and combed it back and away from his face. Then he shaved away the bristle. When he came out of the bathroom, he glanced at Imogen’s room. The door was closed and he didn’t like to go in, but she had left her robe over the edge of the bath.

  He quietly entered her room and placed the robe on the chair at the bottom of the coffin. Then glanced through the glass panel to see the rotting face of his sister looking impassionately back at him. His hand stroked the smooth lid of the coffin. It had been his finest work and no one but him would ever see it.

  Downstairs Imogen placed a cup of coffee before him. Then a plate containing eggs and bacon, with toast that was slightly burnt.

  She was wearing her favourite nightdress just to taunt him, but Michael chose to ignore it. Today he would be kind. Today he would pretend nothing was wrong. He hated to argue with her. Today things would end differently.

  Michael sat and began to eat his breakfast.

  Imogen sat opposite. The strap of her nightgown had fallen off one shoulder and she was wearing red lipstick. He could see her pale pink nipples showing through the sheer satin fabric.

  ‘I thought I might look for work,’ she said. ‘It’s not fair that you have to work so hard to support us.’

  ‘No,’ he said a little too sharply. ‘I promised Mum I’d look after you.’

  ‘Michael I found somethin
g today. Haven’t you ever wondered why we look so different?’

  ‘Don’t, Gen. Let’s not do this . . .’ he pleaded. His stomach heaved against the bacon.

  ‘We’re not related. I was adopted,’ Imogen said.

  Michael turned away as she slipped the nightdress down revealing her breasts.

  ‘I’m not your sister.’

  ‘Stop it. I don’t want to do this.’

  The satin fabric fell to the ground. Imogen was naked underneath and he could see the pink nipples that haunted his dreams and the fine black down between her legs.

  ‘What are you?’ he cried dropping his face into his hands. ‘Damn you. Can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘I love you Michael. I want to be your wife.’

  Michael felt Imogen’s hand stroke his hair. He wanted to die but didn’t feel brave enough to take his life.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘Death do us part,’ she said.

  ‘You’re dead . . . Can’t you leave me in peace?’

  ‘I want to be yours, Michael. Can’t you see that?’ Imogen smiled. ‘This time I’m giving you permission.’

  Michael pushed away from the table and backed up to the door but Imogen came forward holding out the knife.

  ‘Kill me, Michael. Make me yours.’

  Michael took the knife. Maybe this time she would stay dead. He slashed and stabbed, twisted and turned. Blood covered the floor, the cupboards, the walls. Imogen was still. Then she turned her head and met his gaze with that cold, dead smile pasted on her painted lips.

  ‘I had better clean up this mess,’ she said.

  Michael stood. Removed his overalls and placed them in the washer.

  Then he cried.

  ALISON LITTLEWOOD

  In the Quiet and in the Dark

  The street was dead. Steph looked up and down it and saw honey-coloured houses, a quiet church, and behind everything, sleeping fields. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Street’ didn’t seem the right word for it, not really; she didn’t know what was. ‘Lane’ was too small – this was the centre of Long Compton – and ‘road’ implied it was going somewhere. Anywhere.