The Best British Fantasy 2013

by Steve Haynes

  Then he’s moving, tired of the game, and into the cell. Abbie pulls the door shut behind him, but not fast enough to evade a glimpse of the child’s face, bewildered and afraid, or shut out the beginnings of her cry.

  Dermot hears Stone’s footsteps recede down the corridor. He puts the briefcase down on the floor and loosens his tie.

  The little girl has backed up against the far wall.

  Dermot opens the briefcase and takes his tools out one by one. He puts them on the floor beside the case. And then he starts to undress.

  u

  In the pub, afterward, Carnegie is on his third double Scotch and Abbie’s forsaken her usual white wine spritzer for a vodka tonic. She’s on her third. There’s been less and less tonic in each one.

  ‘You did good today,’ he says. Thick and slurred, but drunkenly sincere.

  ‘Doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘It’s got to be done,’ he says. ‘They need us. Otherwise . . .’

  She knows. Knows what would happen without Dermot to tell them where the latest batch of creatures are incubating, ready to wake to murderous life. Knows you do your time in Special Projects – a year, two, maybe three – and then the world’s your oyster, a fast-track to any job you want, or if you don’t want one anymore, early retirement on a fat pension. There’s a reason for that. A price you pay.

  She downs her vodka, digs out her mobile, rings for a cab. She feels bad, a little, about leaving Carnegie to drink alone, but sharing the bar with him just makes her remember what she’s now part of.

  ‘What time do you need me in tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t bother. Come in in the afternoon.’ His watery blue eyes are bloodshot. ‘You passed the test, Abbie. You’re in. I’ll handle the cleanup.’

  Normally, she’d object to being treated like the little woman. But this time around, she doesn’t mind.

  She weaves out the door to the waiting cab.

  Alone now, Carnegie downs the last of his whisky. Without being asked, the barman brings him another.

  Carnegie bolts half of it in one, feels it burn its way down. Tomorrow, he’ll go to cell thirteen, like so many times before. Dermot will be lying there, naked and pallid as a grub, clothes bagged up in a Tesco plastic carrier, tools already wiped spotless and back in the briefcase.

  Carnegie will wake him up and take him to the showers. Get the blood off. When he’s clean and dressed, he’ll drive Dermot home. But first he’ll have to go back into the thirteenth cell, and before they come to hose it down, he’ll have to gather the bones.

  TYLER KEEVIL

  Fearful Symmetry

  The night is freezing and the fierce wind catches her off-guard, cutting through her jacket and raking across her skin. She leaps down from the train, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The doors hiss shut behind her; the brakes wheeze as they release. She looks around. It’s too dark to see any station signs. The conductor seemed to be indicating that this was her stop, but his English was about as good as her Russian. Now, as the train lurches into motion, she wonders if she’s made a mistake.

  The platform is open to the sky and encrusted with ice. There is one other person on it – a tall man standing at the far end. She starts walking towards him, and he comes to meet her halfway. He has a dog with him – a mottled brown Laika that pads along at his side. They stop within a few feet of her. The man has an untrimmed moustache, half-gone to grey, and is wearing a wool watch cap like the one her father used to wear. When he grins, a row of gold-capped teeth glitters in the darkness.

  ‘You are the animal woman?’ he says. ‘Nicole, yes?’

  She smiles back, feeling her lips crack in the cold.

  ‘And you’re Vargas.’

  They do not shake hands. The dog sniffs around her feet, wagging its tail.

  u

  His truck is the only vehicle in the parking lot. He’s left it running; a plume of exhaust is billowing out from the muddy tailpipe.

  ‘Gas must be cheap up here.’

  ‘Is not gas.’

  As they get closer she can smell the odour of burning vegetable oil, like a fast-food joint. Some kind of bio-diesel. There is a gun rack bolted inside the back of the cab. She stashes her rucksack beneath it and climbs into the passenger seat. The dog takes up position between them, idly thumping its tail as Vargas puts the truck in gear. Beyond the station entrance the roads haven’t been cleared, but he has chains on his tires and they plough along at a good clip, churning up a wake of snow.

  ‘You stay at our house tonight,’ Vargas says. ‘Tomorrow I show you where the man is killed, and then you give us permission to hunt.’

  She can’t tell if it’s his accent, or his manner, but everything he says sounds like an order – as if he’s accustomed to being obeyed.

  ‘It might not be that simple.’

  He scowls and jabs at his cigarette lighter. Driving with one hand, he fumbles about on the dash until he finds a half-smoked cigar, which he fits between his teeth.

  ‘Is a killer. You will see.’

  ‘It could also be a new species. Or endangered.’

  ‘We are all endangered here.’

  The lighter pops, emphasizing his point. He raises it to his cigar. As he puffs, the orange coil casts a soft glow across his jaw. She opens her window an inch or so.

  ‘I know you,’ he says. ‘You Americans. You live in big cities where there are no animals, so you think they are like the cartoons. You want to live with them and play with them. You want to save every single one.’

  ‘I’m not American,’ she says. ‘I’m Albertan.’

  He chuckles. ‘Is same thing, now.’

  She turns away from him and looks out the window. All she can see is snow smothering the fields, forests and farmhouses. It is greyer here than at home. As grey as the ash Vargas taps from the end of his cigar. Her brief warned her about that. The wording was typically convoluted, but she got the impression that if this area were part of New Europe or the Americas, it would have been deemed uninhabitable.

  ‘Is the cough bad here?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  The dog has been poking around among the rubbish at her feet. It drags a tattered magazine onto the seat, and begins to gnaw the corner. Patting the dog, she extricates the magazine from its jaws. It is an old copy of Hustler, a special Americas edition featuring models from all the new states and territories. She flips through it. The glossy pages are wrinkled and worn. Near the back she finds Miss Alberta: sprawled on a bearskin rug and draped in an American flag, her legs splayed for the camera.

  ‘You must have a lot of time on your hands,’ she says.

  He leans forward, mashes his cigar in a coffee cup on the dash. It’s difficult to tell in the dark but she thinks his face is reddening.

  ‘Is a gift. A joke.’

  ‘Looks like you got good use out of it.’

  He snatches it from her and shoves it back under the seat – the truck swerving to the right as he does so.

  From the back his house looks as if it’s buried in snow; the only thing that’s visible is the peaked roof, poking up like a tent. Around the front, the walk, driveway, and yard have been dug out and cleared. Like most of the houses on the outskirts of town, it is a one-story bungalow with wooden siding and a lean-to garage. The garage door is automatic, but as it shudders up it gets stuck halfway; Vargas has to climb out and duck inside to lift it himself before driving the truck through.

  Inside it is warmer, but not by much. Nicole can still see her breath in front of her face. She takes off her toque and gloves but leaves her jacket on. Vargas leads her to the kitchen, where a woman is standing at the stove. He introduces her as his wife, Anya. Anya glances back and smiles and continues stirring whatever it is she’s cooking. Her wooden spoon makes a rasping sound against the base of the pot.

&n
bsp; ‘Hungry?’ Vargas asks Nicole, and she nods. ‘Good. We eat soon.’

  They sit at the table. From the next room comes the flicker and murmur of the television. Nicole recognizes the familiar sounds of a hockey game: the crack of sticks, the thud of a puck hitting the boards, the low rumble of excited fans. It reminds her of home, and her father, and a time when she still had both. At one point, Nicole notices a small boy peeking around the doorframe. She does not know how long he’s been there, watching her. His skin is pale as flour and his black hair seems unnaturally thin – like a baby’s hair. When she smiles at him, he giggles and shirks back out of sight.

  Vargas barks something at his wife and she brings them bowls of reddish stew, thick with chunks of meat and cabbage and potato. Whatever it is, it is good. A loaf of homemade bread is placed on the table between them. Vargas grips it in his hands, tears it in two, and motions for Nicole to help herself. His wife does not join them. She waits by the stove, hovering like a servant.

  At first they eat in silence. Then, halfway through the meal, the pale boy scampers into the kitchen and whispers something in his father’s ear. Vargas grins.

  ‘Her?’ he says, nodding at Nicole. ‘She has come to play with our tiger.’ He adds something in Russian – perhaps repeating his joke – but his son does not laugh.

  ‘I’m Nicole,’ she tells the boy.

  ‘Nika,’ he says, and beams. He pats his chest. ‘I Nicholas.’

  She looks at Vargas, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘That is his name, too.’ Then, as if he doesn’t want to dwell on the coincidence, he asks her, ‘How long will it take? What you do?’

  ‘If I get a sample at the site, maybe a week.’

  He is about to eat a spoonful of stew. Now he lowers it, scowling. He says something, loudly, in Russian, that makes his wife jump. ‘More people will die.’

  ‘They should be warned to stay out of the area.’

  ‘They need food to eat. Furs to live.’

  She shrugs, helping herself to another chunk of bread. ‘That can’t be helped. If the animal is rare, or a mutation, the process might go on even longer.’

  He crosses his arms, frowning. She takes this to mean he doesn’t understand, which isn’t a surprise. It’s her area of expertise and the legality is so murky that half the time she wonders if anybody understands – or if they make it up as they go along.

  ‘For it to count as a new species, any mutation has to be beneficial.’ Still he says nothing, so she continues: ‘If it is sterile or infertile, or if the mutation is deemed a disadvantage, the creature is considered invalidated and you’ll be allowed to kill it.’

  Vargas seems to have stopped listening. He is idly stroking his son’s head.

  ‘Who decides?’ Vargas asks her. ‘Who says what is . . . invalidated?’

  He pronounces the new word awkwardly – articulating each syllable.

  ‘My bosses at the protection agency.’

  Gently, he raises his son’s arm, which he has kept tucked at his side until now.

  ‘What about Nicholas?’ he asks. ‘Would he be invalidated?’

  She can see that his hand ends in a smooth, fingerless stump. Like a ball of putty. The boy smiles at her shyly, not understanding the conversation. As soon as his father lets go, he hides his arm again. Nicole lowers her eyes, stares into her stew.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know.’

  They continue eating in silence, while Nicole tries to think of something – anything – to say. Eventually she asks, ‘You said it’s a tiger. How do you know?’

  ‘I know. That is how. Tomorrow I take you to the shack.’ He motions to his wife, who has been puttering about the kitchen. She comes forward to clear their bowls, their cups, and wipe the breadcrumbs away. ‘We must hike far. If you can.’

  Nicole stands up to help, carrying her own dishes over to the sink. ‘No,’ she says, her expression serious. ‘I can’t hike. Women don’t do that where I come from.’

  Vargas doesn’t find that very funny, but his wife is smiling.

  She awakes in darkness. A phone is ringing somewhere. Her nose and ears are cold, her arms tingling with goose bumps. For a split second she thinks she is back there, in her family’s cabin in Northern Alberta. On those mornings when her father took her hunting, she’d learned to wake up early, without an alarm, to impress him. She rolls over, looking around. The mattress squeaks beneath her. She sees glowing stars on the ceiling, a stuffed tiger at the end of the bed. Its black-button eyes glisten back at her. She is sleeping in the boy’s bed, since they don’t have a guest room.

  The phone is still ringing. Then, footsteps. A rumbling voice. She sits up to listen, even though she can’t understand. After he hangs up, she hears him coughing, clearing his throat. That is familiar, too. That sound. It echoes throughout the house, making her shudder. It could just be morning phlegm, in his case. She hopes so.

  Seconds later, he’s pounding on her door.

  ‘I’m up,’ she calls out.

  She is, too. Already standing, pulling on her jeans.

  ‘We go now,’ Vargas says, through the door. ‘There is another attack.’

  She stops buttoning her shirt, then continues, more carefully.

  ‘No time for make-up,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t wear make-up.’

  He grunts, as if he doesn’t quite believe her.

  The village where the attack has occurred is half an hour’s drive to the east. On the way out of town, Vargas stops at a cluster of apartment blocks – squat and drab as bunkers. At the curbside stands a man in a parka, stomping his feet, his head framed by a cloud of his own breath. Vargas shoos his dog onto the floor, and Nicole shifts along to make room as the man climbs in.

  ‘Is Sam,’ Vargas says, putting the truck in gear.

  Sam pushes back the fur-lined hood of his parka. He has tan skin, prominent cheekbones, and crow-black hair hanging loose to his shoulders. He is wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, half-fogged over with cold, that sit low on his nose.

  ‘I feel bad that you have to stay with this grumpy bastard,’ he says to her. His accent is much softer than Vargas’s, his English nearly fluent. ‘What did he make you for breakfast? Toast?’

  Nicole grins. ‘Burnt toast.’

  ‘Come to my place if you want some real food.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vargas says. ‘The Yuits are very rich – because the government gives them all our money.’

  ‘And your jobs. Right, Vargas?’

  ‘Is right.’

  Sam chuckles and removes his glasses, starts polishing them on his shirt. He pauses to hold them up and check the lenses.

  ‘How long have you worked together?’ Nicole asks.

  ‘Not together,’ Vargas says. ‘I am his boss.’

  ‘Sure. For now. I’m just waiting until he catches grey lung. Then I’ll get his job.’ Sam leans forward, fiddling with the radio. ‘How about some music?’

  ‘Radio does not work. Is shit.’

  Sam tries anyway, pressing buttons and turning dials, adjusting it through various stages of static, before finally giving up. Instead he snaps and hums to himself, bobbing his head as they drive along. The dog watches him, curious.

  ‘So our cat got hungry, huh?’ Sam says.

  Nicole asks, ‘How do we know it’s the same animal?’

  Vargas snorts. ‘Two attacks, one week. Is the same. We must kill it.’

  Nicole considers this, studying the snowed-out landscape. They are passing an abandoned church; the roof has fallen in and the windows are clouded with frost.

  ‘For a conservationist,’ she says, ‘you’re pretty trigger happy.’

  Sam guffaws, and Vargas jerks hard on the wheel – fishtailing around an icy pothole. ‘My job is conservation and protection
. But people must be protected also.’

  The village, according to Sam, was once a government-sponsored logging camp – before the collapse of communism. Now it is a ramshackle collection of trailers, cabins, and mobile homes. There are no people in sight, but smoke trickles from most of the chimneys and stovepipes. As they drive through, a three-legged dog hobbles out from a yard to yap at their truck. Vargas’s Laika snarls back, teeth bared.

  Vargas pulls up in front of a trailer that lists at an angle in the snow – as if the supports on one end have given way. A snowmobile is parked in the drive. It looks new: the bodywork glistening blue, the undercarriage sleek and rust-free. As they get out, Nicole notices a woman standing in the window of the house opposite. She glares at them through the glass, both arms folded across her chest.

  ‘Friendly place.’

  ‘We’re not popular here,’ Sam says.

  They wait as Vargas approaches the trailer. The door opens an inch or so, then swings wide. A bald man stands there, holding a can of beer in his hand. He gestures off to the right – towards the forest the village backs onto. Vargas says something to him, raising his voice, but the man keeps shaking his head. They argue for a while.

  ‘He doesn’t want to come with us,’ Sam explains.

  ‘Because he’s scared?’

  Sam shrugs. Eventually, Vargas manages to coerce him. The man trudges out, in snowboots and a hunter’s cap – still carrying his can of beer. He leads them into the woods. The snow, as soon as they pass the edge of the village, is knee-deep, which makes the going difficult. For them, at least. The Laika is bred for the terrain, and scampers easily over the snowdrifts, stopping occasionally to let them catch up.

  A few hundred yards in, the man says something and points ahead. Nicole sees an army-style canvas tent in the middle of a clearing. By the time they reach it they are all breathing hard.

  The snow in front of the tent has been cleared and trampled flat. It is soaked in blood. The dog sniffs at it, wagging its tail. At first she thinks it is the blood of the latest victim. Then she notices a steel wire dangling down from one of the branches overhead. It’s the kind you would use to hoist up an animal while you skinned it.