“Harry Walker, I’m his daughter, Alex. Do you know him, does he still live here?” Alex blurted out. The color rose on her cheeks, and she stepped up to the counter, almost leaning over.
“Harry Walker?” Nicoletta’s olive colored skin turned a shade of pale. She called into the other room again, this time keeping her black-brown eyes on Alex’s. “Says she’s Harry’s girl.” Her words were met with silence, then the creaking of springs, and a man with an old grey face appeared next to Nicoletta’s.
“Well you’d better come back here,” Gerald said and swung the wooden hatch up, He ushered Alex through to the rear with a sideways wide eyed expression of amazement directed at an equally surprised Nicoletta. There was no way Alex could miss the exchange.
They led her into a dirty and dusty rear room, with an old sink in one corner and two love seats bumped up against each other at right angles, almost as if cuddling around the heater. A grimy window opened out onto a concrete garden and Nicoletta led Alex to one of the sofas, pushing her down to make her sit.
“Your father actually Harry?” she said, dropping the ‘H’.
“Why, does he still live here? If he doesn’t, do you have an address for where he went?” Alex almost got up again, ready to take off and try to find him. Find the stairs and run up them shouting his name, pound on the doors until he appeared.
“Sit child, we need to tell you somethink first.” Nicoletta sat next to the man Alex guessed to be her husband and they glanced at each other nervously. Nicoletta lit up another cigarette and after a puff, tapped it repeatedly into the overflowing ashtray on top of the heater. “I don’t know how to tell you this…” She turned to Gerald for support, perhaps even hoping he’d speak, but Gerald opted to stay silent. Nicoletta began speaking again. “You see ‘Arry was nice enough. We liked him, didn’t we Gerald,” she said.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, ‘Arry was here for about a year…”
Alex interrupted, “Do you have any idea where he went?”
“Sweetheart, he didn’t leave.” Nicoletta dragged on her cigarette again, watching Alex with her beady black eyes.
“I don’t get it, what do you mean he didn’t leave? But he was only here a year, I don’t understand…”
“Alex, he died in this building. In the top flat,” Gerald said and reached across to pat her leg. Perhaps thinking better of it, he sat back next to Nicoletta.
“No … no, he can’t have. I just found out about him, came looking for him. Harry can’t be dead. It’s not fair!” She stared at them, tears in her eyes. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, I need to talk to him.” Alex felt so incredibly lost. “How did he die?”
“We found him in the middle of the living room. Doctors said he died of an…” Nicoletta turned to Gerald for help.
He continued, “An aneurysm, he dropped dead. Apparently you don’t get any warning and no pain. No way to know it’s coming…” Gerald trailed off.
Alex pulled frantically at the Silk Cut packaging, unable to find a way in.
“Have one of mine, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. We liked ‘Arry. Lovely bloke. Real shame.” Nicoletta passed her a cigarette and leaned over with the lighter. “We kept some of his stuff, not much, but a few things, in case anyone ever came by asking… guess you were right, Gerald.”
“Some of his things?” Alex held onto the cigarette, needing something to fiddle with and hold onto. Keep her grounded.
“Yeah, in the basement.” Nicoletta stood up and walked to the door. “You’ve got his nose you know,” she remarked as she left the room. She peeked back in a moment later. “You coming?”
Nicoletta handed Alex a cardboard box, an insignificant brown box, dusty from a year of being ignored in the cellar. Alex thanked her and left the shop after too many intense hugs and promises of staying in contact. She surveyed the street and spotted a pub at the end of the terrace. She headed straight there.
“One pint, will that be all?” the barman asked.
Alex delved into her pocket and handed over some coins. She didn’t wait for the change. After a little consideration, Alex picked a seat in the darkest corner of the pub. As she took the first sips of her pint, the large box waited on the table. She sat, tasting her beer and tracing the name Harry in the thick yellow dust on the lid. She waited until the glass had only froth in the bottom before she even contemplated picking at the edge of the parcel tape. Hopefully, the demon would stay away a little while longer.
Ignoring the couple of Podis-people stood staring at her, she ordered a second pint, only then deciding the time had come to open the box.
Alex scratched at the corner of the tape, still stuck surprisingly well after a year in a damp basement. She worked slowly, deliberately, wanting to make this last. She was about to meet her father.
Alex balled up the tape and stuck it to the ashtray, her fingers sticky from the residue. She wiped them on the table top and pulled open the box. Alex took a long, deep breath and a large slurp from her fresh pint. Heart twitching in her chest, butterflies turning circles in her belly, Alex peered inside. The first thing she found was a black baseball cap with NYC emblazoned in gold cotton on the front. She took the cap out and ran her finger around the soft rim on the inside before holding the inside to her nose. A musky odor met her nostrils, not unpleasant, and she inhaled her fill.
This is the smell of my father, she thought, and placed the cap on the bench beside her.
Under the hat she found a black leather jacket, a well-worn biker type with a multitude of zippered pockets. Alex felt as if she were in a dream as she opened and closed each pocket in turn. She discovered an old stick of gum in one pocket, a tissue of dubious history in another, and then she found a silver zippo lighter that was covered in numerous scratches and dents. She flipped up the lid with a satisfying clunk-click and flicked the flint. Nothing happened. Alex made a mental note to buy lighter fluid, she wanted to see the flame her father once stared at. Shaking the jacket out, she ran her eyes over the faded leather, so deliciously soft and supple. She slipped it on, enjoying the heavy solidity as she tried to imagine what Harry might have looked like wearing the coat.
Slightly swamped by the large jacket, she pushed the sleeves back, her eyes glazed with dreamy visions of her absent father and peered back in the box. She gulped at the lager, now medicinal for calming frayed nerves and slowing her hands. Inside were two more items, a bulky black wallet and a shoebox. She debated for a moment before selecting the wallet.
The first thing that struck her was the lack of plastic. No debit cards, visas or even store loyalty cards graced the pockets. But she did find notes inside. Lots of money. Twenties and fifties all stuffed in the middle. Alex gasped and glanced up, nervous in case of prying eyes. She unzipped a pocket and discreetly hid the wallet, slightly surprised the couple from the shop had been so honest.
The last item was an old shoe box, the sides mostly split. Alex took it out, holding the box carefully so as not to spill the contents, and put it on the table. The cardboard box, now empty, she placed by her feet. Only the shoebox and the pint glass remained on the tabletop. She reached down and grabbed the hat off the bench seat beside her, smelling the inside again before tucking her blonde hair behind her ears and placing the cap on her head. Gingerly, she picked the lid off the shoebox.
Inside, on top of a pile of photos, was a beautiful and ornately carved and polished wooden handled switchblade. Alex snatched the knife out, and got it out of sight as fast as she could. Without a second thought, she found the secret button and pressed it. A shiny metal blade shot out, and Alex bumped back in her seat, not ready for the swift mechanism.
“Jeez,” she whispered and pressed the button again, pushing the blade against the underside of the table until it clicked into place. Seconds later, she zipped the blade into another of the leather jacket’s pockets.
Underneath where the knife had been were a few photos. In the first, a small baby grinned toothlessly into the ca
mera. Alex turned the picture over and found writing in thick black ink.
“Alex, six months old,” the words informed her.
Alex flipped the photo over again and stared, now seeing the dog-eared edges and the way greasy fingerprints smudged the surface. She pulled out some more photos. Most were of her as a baby or young girl, all had the ragged edges of a well-loved photo. The last two made her stop for a moment. One was of Alex being held by a man. She tried to dredge out her memories of Harry. He’d been buried for so long in the locked box that contained her hurt that she’d painted a blank face on him. But here he was, in the years before he died.
Alex held the photo up close. She did have his eyes and nose, even the texture of his hair. A tear dripped off the end of her nose and splashed onto the photo. She wiped the drops away carefully, loath to ruin the precious picture. She pulled out the next photo. This one was a family portrait. Her mum and dad were cuddled up close together with Alex sat in front smiling into the camera. Suddenly she remembered Harry, remembered how he constantly joked and laughed, how he was constantly teasing her mother about something. She remembered the way that her mother always smiled back then, and how they went on trips all the time, even if it was only a picnic in the middle of a field. Alex’s vision fuzzed as she delved into a forgotten world.
Alex forced herself back to reality, and tidied the photos into a neat pile before finishing her pint. She felt a little woozy. Before coming here, she hadn’t eaten much and the alcohol had gone straight to her head. While she decided whether she should drink a third pint, she pulled the last item from the box. Harry’s diary. Actually it was a simple A5 spiral notebook. Alex opened up and flipped through, scanning the small neat writing that filled its pages. Curious, she turned back to the first page.
Feb 11 1987. 10am
Lily started having pains today. The baby’s not due for a week, but the hospital told us to go in.
Feb 11 1987. 4:38pm
We have a daughter! Both Lily and I cried and the nurse congratulated us on having a baby girl. They gave her to us swaddled up in a hospital blanket and she lay in my arms silent, just looking around. Lily wants to call her Alexandra. I think she’s picked a beautiful name.
Feb 24 1987. 3:56am
Why don’t they warn you about the crying? She’s so happy all day long, but cries all night long. We’re taking turns sleeping, but her cry is so plaintive I can’t sleep anyway.
Alex wiped a tear from her eye and looked up to find Clive standing next to the table. He appeared to be unhappy or perhaps worried. He didn’t matter anymore, not to her. She turned back to the diary.
“My father,” she said, “is within these pages. I want to find out why he left me and Mum. I want to understand Harry as best I can. Check this out…” She put the diary to one side, Clive’s eyes following. Alex reached into the shoebox and pulled out the family portrait. “Look, my father. That’s Harry,” she beamed at Clive. “My dad.” She ran a finger over his face, tracing the contours of his chin.
Clive gave a short smile in return and sat beside her, still watching the journal.
“I had forgotten all about Harry, blocked him from my memory. But everything flooded back. Now when I close my eyes I see him. I can even hear him call my name. He called me Alex.” Her face wistful, she stared over at Clive.
“I should read the diary first babydoll, you know, make sure nothing hurts you too bad.” Clive reached for the notebook without waiting for an answer.
Alex who until then, had been far away with her thoughts, shuffling through a multitude of events, previously unremembered images and sounds, came to and grabbed the notebook. She held it against her chest, suddenly aware of the demon’s worry and the absence of his electric smile. His skin rippled, and for the first time, Alex didn’t feel any fear at seeing his other face.
“What don’t you want me to read?” She began flipping through, speed reading the entries for 1989. The demon’s hands twitched, and she wondered if he planned to snatch the notebook from her. “No, I think I want to find later dates, much later.” Alex flashed past pages of her father’s neat handwriting until near the end, the pages became blank. She turned back slowly now, savoring the feeling of playing with Clive for once. She got to the last page of writing and read the words.
“Don’t read it Alex. He was messed up at the time. Worse than you are now. Harry didn’t know what he was saying.”
Alex finished the page. She closed the notebook and held it tight in her hands, the blood draining from her face. For a long time, she sat like this, staring at Clive, her knuckles white as she clasped the journal. Her injured arm throbbed, matching the beat of her heart as her grip tightened.
Finally she spoke, “All lies.” Her words came out quiet, small. “That’s what he said, that it was all lies.”
Clive pondered the words for a moment, and then said, “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“He mentions you.”
“How could he mean me? He’s no doubt referring to someone at the mental hospital. Clive is a popular name.”
“He says you lied to him. About everything.” Alex glanced back down at the notebook. “My God,” she said, covering her mouth as she realized the enormity of her father’s last words. So many deaths, all wrong. Jeremy, her mother…
“It’s not true,” Clive insisted. Leaning forward he tried to pull the notebook from her grasp. “Let me prove it…”
“No, let go. Don’t you understand, I’ve done some terrible things!” Her teeth started chattering, the shock of the truth chilling her. She put the journal down, out of Clive’s reach and zipped Harry’s jacket closed. Still shivering, Alex slid her hands into her pockets. Inside she found the smooth polished handle of the switchblade. “I know what I have to do now.” Her face set—unemotional, she pulled the knife out. “He had a plan for you. A way he was going to deal with you.”
“He was insane. Talking mumbo-jumbo.” His temper was flaring, and for a moment his other face flickered over his features.
“Was he?” Alex stared back at Clive. “He says a demon tried to guilt him into murder. Tried to use his ‘abandonment’ of his wife and child. Told lies about what happened to them.” With a press of the button, she released the blade.
“And you believe the ramblings of a madman? Do you know how many delusionals see devils and demons?” Clive leaned forward, still intent on trying to snatch the diary. Alex moved it further away.
“One more death to set me free. Those were his words, the last words in the notebook.”
“Don’t Alex, don’t believe him. Please, you don’t understand!”
“Don’t understand what? That I’m a murderess and the killing was all for nothing?” she hissed. “It was all lies.” She gazed around the pub at the drinkers. Several Podis were in the pub now. Why here? Were they following her? Or was Clive conjuring more evidence to try and sway her opinion? The blue tint of their smoke faded until only cigarette smoke drifted around the room. “You charmed me or something, didn’t you? Did you put a spell on me?”
Clive remained stone-faced.
“You may as well tell me now.”
“I didn’t cast a spell, more a bewitching. But once I got you going, it was all you. I sat back and enjoyed the killing. Oh, and the Podis are real, but they’re harmless, they latch on in a symbiotic manner. They get a place to live and give increased brain usage to the host. There’s no spawning, the Podis can’t do that here. They treat this world as a holiday destination, stay a little while and then go back.” He smirked, his untwisting of the truth visibly unsettling her.
“I don’t understand. I was what… a sideshow to you?”
“I told you we were bored in our dimension.”
Alex tried to figure out this new information. A deep crimson blush grew on her cheeks. The sound of her heart beat loudly in her ears, her back straightened and her muscles tensed. Under the table, the blade flicked in and out, in time to the rhythms of her bo
dy.
“I’m guessing a lot of what you’ve told me is lies.”
Clive shrugged.
Alex flicked the knife into position and secured the blade.
“I’m also guessing you can die.”
Before the demon had a chance to puff out of her dimension, Alex thrust the blade into his chest, hoping to hit his heart. If he had one. She twisted the blade, staring the whole time into his blue eyes. The inane smile faltered and then collapsed into a look of astonishment. “You … you stabbed me?”
Alex nodded. “Did you think I would kill myself?” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “It’s your time instead.” She twisted the blade again, enjoying the sound of his pained gasps. She tugged out the knife and stared at the strange viscous black liquid pumping from the wound. Grabbing a napkin off the table, she wiped the blade clean. Clive started fading while at the same time, his blood emptied out and spread down his chest.
“I … I can’t jump.”
“What does that mean, and why do I care?” She debated stabbing him again, but some of the patrons were already keeping an eye on her. No need to make them even more interested. As she checked them out, a hint of smoke leaked from the eyes of a nearby man. He stared at Clive then tipped his glass at her. Her mouth fell open in surprise.
“I can’t get home,” the demon whispered. His hands covered the wound, black blood seeping between his fingers.
“Maybe, if I’m lucky, you’ll actually die.” Alex packed up her father’s belongings and slid out from behind the table. “Goodbye, Clive. It’s been horrible knowing you.”
“Don’t leave me.” He reached out for her. “Don’t let me die alone.” His eyes had turned intensely blue, almost liquid.
Her face set, unable to stop remembering those she’d murdered, she grabbed the box. “Sorry, bub. Got an appointment with a police officer.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, “Have a nice life … what’s left of it, anyway.”
Sensing the ghosts of those she loved walking beside her, Alex straightened her shoulders and turned to leave. Outside, rain had started to fall. Perfect, she thought. She’d always hated rain. But today she welcomed the cold drops. She’d changed, grown stronger—won. Holding her father’s box close, she stepped out of the pub and into the rain shower.
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