by Graeme Hurry
“I need to.”
“Fine,” Hervold growled. “You take the girl, and when she leaves you, come find me and we’ll get back to doing what we do best.”
Everett smiled in relief. Hervold grabbed Everett’s ale and started to drink it all in one long sip. Everett saw Caralyn quietly walking down the stairs out of the corner of his eye and tried to motion for her to turn around. If Hervold saw her, he might change his mind or try to rape her when the drink took hold of him.
“Thank you, Hervold. Are you going to leave tonight?” Everett asked loudly, hoping to signal Caralyn to go back upstairs.
“I guess. I don’t want to be here when the sun comes up and someone finds those bodies,” Hervold replied.
Everett saw Caralyn getting closer and willed her to turn around. He didn’t want to look right at her or Hervold would follow his gaze and see her. “Fair enough. We’ll probably leave soon too.”
“Alright. I wish you —,” the rest of Hervold’s sentence was cut off as a table knife burst through his neck. Caralyn rammed it in and out, over and over wildly, and started screaming. Blood spurted out from Hervold’s ruined throat and he tried to feebly grab Caralyn, before he slumped to the table dead. Caralyn kept stabbing him until Everett stood up and took the knife from her as gently as he could.
Caralyn wrapped her arms around Everett and began to sob, all her fear spilling out of her in tearful waves. Everett made soothing sounds and rubbed the back of her head, while keeping an eye on the door, in case someone heard the screams and came to investigate.
Everett looked down and saw Hervold’s dead face staring up at him. He added it to his collection and was surprised about how bad he felt about Hervold’s death.
When Caralyn’s sobs died down, Everett sat her down at a table far away from Hervold, and went to fetch her some dry clothes. When he returned, she’d regained her composure and smiled at him tiredly, as she took the loose fitting dress and man’s jacket. “Thank you,” Caralyn said.
“They’re all dead now, Caralyn. Tael, Rohlind and Hervold. You’re free to go wherever you want. You don’t have to come to my village anymore. You don’t need me to protect you.”
Caralyn looked at Everett fondly, then put her hand in his. “I wasn’t going to your village because I had to, Everett. I was going because it truly does sound wonderful there and, as strange as it sounds, I’ve enjoyed being with you. You’re strong and kind and I feel like I don’t have to be afraid of anything when you’re around.”
“I like taking care of you, it makes me feel like I’m finally doing something worthwhile in my life. For so long, there was only death and darkness, but you make it so that I can forget all that,” Everett said.
Caralyn stood, then pulled Everett towards her and kissed him. He returned the kiss, and tension and guilt fled from him, as her lips became his whole world. They finally pulled apart and when Everett looked down at her, the faces left him forever.
THE VACANCY
by Steven Mace
On the day of the interview, I woke up early in the morning and went straight into the bathroom, where I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My mousy-brown hair was lank and greasy. My complexion was pale and marred by the occasional outbreaks of acne I’d suffered from since adolescence. There were dark bags underneath my hollow-looking hazel eyes. The bathroom mirror was cracked, also distorting my reflection. My ectomorphic frame appeared painfully thin underneath the creased, stained vest I always wore in bed. I tended to eat very little, carefully preserving my meagre budget during each month.
I filled the sink basin with water and proceeded to have a wet shave, dragging my half-blunt razor across the sandy, ragged stubble sprouting from my narrow chin. I cut myself twice, and so blotted the flow of blood with small pieces of tissue, hoping to stem it.
I lived in a modest, one-bedroom flat in a crumbling, run-down block of flats. The block was situated in an area of the city known for its social decay and poverty. The district was dangerous late at night, a place where respectable people would not dare to walk. The flat was at the very top of the building, and it had been a converted attic. The landing just outside my door was always in darkness. The day I moved in, I had removed the light bulb. My eyes are very sensitive, and I cannot bear bright light.
During this time I spent the days looking after the insects that I collected, and going through the classifieds and applying for jobs from any suitable vacancies I found. The jobs that I was eligible for were sparse and low paid. When I wasn’t filling in application forms, I read the few newspapers, books and magazines that I kept. Occasionally I watched the television. Not too often - sometimes it depressed me, and sometimes I couldn’t receive a decent signal. There was a great deal of interference from somewhere, creating static and crackling which interrupted the sound, and distorted the image on the screen.
Today was the day I was supposed to visit the Job Centre. I had to sign on and prove that I was actively looking for work. I got dressed in jeans, T-shirt and jacket and left my flat. The lift wasn’t working, so I took the stairs to the ground floor. In the hallway of the block, I met my landlord. He was in his fifties, a short and balding man. When he saw me his eyes narrowed and his thick grey eyebrows came together like the clouds of a thunderstorm. He peered at me over the tops of his small spectacles, which he kept on a chain.
He demanded the month’s rent. I told him that I had not received my benefit payment yet and when I did, I assured him that I would pay up. He told me that I was still in arrears from the previous month. “Should’ve got a different tenant”, he grumbled. “Someone more reliable than you. You’re a fucking waste of space.”
I was used to such outbursts of random cruelty. I remembered my father, who had used to smile sometimes when he made me roll up the sleeves of my shirt and apply the lit ends of the cigarette butts to my arms. It had been for his personal amusement. He had been a drug addict and alcoholic who had drifted in and out of my life. I have several clear memories from my childhood: another one was my mother crying herself to sleep at night. That happened many times. There are other things I remember happening in the dark, gloomy house where I grew up.
It was a murky and foggy day in a grey, humdrum city in a grey country. To my eyes, everything- the streets, the vehicles, the pedestrians- were grey on that bleak morning. I stood at the bus stop and waited. The double-decker bus came out of the thick mist like a hulking ghost ship. I got on and paid the driver with some of the loose change I’d found in my trouser pocket. I climbed the stairs to the top deck and sat at the back, by myself.
The dim outlines of the city suburb passed me by. I gazed blankly out of the window. A man sat near me with earphones on, listening to thudding, bass-heavy music. People got on and got off. Another man sat nearby and muttered incessantly to himself, making me feel uncomfortable. Once, he looked over his shoulder and stared directly at me, almost accusingly. Then he glanced down again, and continued his muttering. His low, muted voice was like a prayer, or an incantation. I occasionally caught snatches of words and sentences: “time will come…the next phase…still blind…their desires and schemes…obvious…the reckoning…exist among us…a message… the message.”
I was glad when I was able to press the button for my stop, and get off.
The job centre was an unremarkable, grey concrete building in an anonymous area of the city. As I walked toward the main entrance, I saw that there were two unshaven and unkempt individuals standing outside, smoking cigarettes. They favoured me with shifty glances as I approached, and made me feel self conscious. There was a notice board in the entrance hallway. There were cards pinned up, advertising job vacancies. When I entered the building, I stopped to glance through them, as was my usual routine, but I saw nothing that interested me.
I turned to my left and stepped into the principle office area. This was where the job centre assistants worked, and where claimants reported to sign on. To my personal dismay, I saw that Doreen Hawes wa
s on duty today. She was my least favourite member of the staff. Cold and unsympathetic, I thought of her as the Job Centre Nazi From Hell. She was a slightly plump woman who always wore black or blue trouser-suits. Her ginger hair was cut viciously short- almost a Marines buzz cut style. She treated all claimants with the same sneering sense of superiority.
There was no queue, so I went straight to her and handed her my jobseekers packet, complete with my identification and stamp, within its clear plastic folder.
“Ah, Mr Smith.” She tapped away at her keyboard, in the process of bringing up my details. “How is your job search progressing?”
I cleared my throat. “Ah…well… I’ve applied for a couple… hotel night porter… ah, and one for petrol station attendant… still waiting to hear back.”
Normally, in this part of the routine, she’d click through a list of vacancies that were currently on the computer database, and tilt her monitor toward me. While barely making eye contact with me, she’d talk me through them and we’d mutually decide which ones were worth applying for. She’d print out some details for me, then I’d sign the forms, get my packet signed and stamped, and then I’d be free to leave. My bank account would receive my benefit amount later in the same week.
Today this didn’t happen. Today, she looked at me and said: “Mr Smith, I think we’ve found the perfect job for you.”
I blinked, and said cautiously: “Really? What is it?”
Instead of scrolling through the vacancies on her screen, Doreen Hawes took out a sheet of paper. She presented it to me, and I saw the following:
THE LINDUS FOUNDATION
Invite applications for the post of
NIGHT SUPERVISOR (FULL TIME)
based at MANDRAKE HOUSE
Hours: 8pm-4am
INTERVIEWS ARRANGED BY APPOINTMENT
Contact: M. Yau-Moussin Trilliet for further details
“You stated a preference for working nights”, Doreen said matter-of-factly. “And also that you preferred a full time position. As you can see, this qualifies on both counts.”
“Do I have to fill in an application form or send a CV?”
“No. There’s a telephone number on the back, see. They will grant you an interview. We were told they will be interviewing until the position is filled, and they will make an instant decision on the spot when they think they’ve got the right person. So you will have to be quick about it.”
“That’s strange. There’s no job specification or description of duties. Do you know anything about the Lindus Foundation or what they do?”
“No.”
“What about this…” I glanced at the sheet of paper. “M…Yow… Moosan…Trilly… It? How do you pronounce that?”
“I spoke with him briefly on the phone. He’s French, I believe. A foreigner, certainly.”
“I see.”
“Call them from here.” Doreen Hawes turned her telephone around, so that it was facing me.
I didn’t always like to call employers from the job centre itself, and especially with the Nazi herself watching me like a hawk. But it seemed I had no choice. Reluctantly, I dialled the number on the sheet of paper. It rang for so long without anyone answering, that I was on the verge of putting the receiver down when suddenly someone said: “Yes?”
“Hello, my name is Malcolm Smith. I’m calling from the Job Centre. I’m interested in your vacancy for a full-time night supervisor at Mandrake House.” I paused. “If it is still available, that is.”
Yes, the position was still available and waiting to be filled by the right kind of person. The voice on the end of the line told me that an interview could be arranged for eight o’clock in the evening today, if I agreed. When I asked what the precise nature of the work would be, the voice said that it would be discussed confidentially at the interview itself. I was given the address for Mandrake House, which I jotted down on a piece of scrap paper which Doreen Hawes had quickly handed to me. I thanked the person on the end of the line and hung up. I do not know if I had been speaking to the infamous M. Yau-Moussin Trilliet or not, as I had not been given a name and I had forgotten to ask. Certainly the voice had seemed to have certain inflections, a foreign accent- but I had not recognised it as French. Its source was unfamiliar to me.
I signed for my benefits claim and had my packet signed and stamped. “Good day, Mr Smith”, Doreen Hawes said. “Good luck for your interview.” She almost cracked a smile. She was obviously pleased to - potentially - see the back of me for good.
* * *
Of course, I had thought the time of my interview- eight o’clock at night- somewhat irregular, but the job involved irregular hours, after all. Of course that detail was strange- but as I discovered, it was not as strange as what awaited me when I arrived there.
I looked up the address for Mandrake House. It was situated in a slightly more upmarket suburb of the city, unlike the location of my own abode, where it was not advisable to linger or loiter late at night. Back there, I changed into my brown suit- it was my only suit, which I’d hardly worn since I bought it, and which smelled vaguely of mothballs. I placed my city map, my CV and a notebook in a briefcase I owned. I placed a pen in my suit jacket pocket. At seven o’ clock, I left my flat for the second time and caught the bus again. This time I remained on it for a greater length of time. On my way there, I paid no attention to the world outside. Beyond the windows of the double decker bus, the night was pitch-black anyway. Lights occasionally glimmered and swirled, obscured by a thick fog. I had the upper deck to myself for the entire journey. When my stop came, I got off and found myself on a typical suburban street, tree-lined on both sides of the road. I could barely see all the way down both directions, because of the thick mist. I wandered down the road for a little while, until the Gothic outline of Mandrake House- a silhouette of towers and pinnacles- loomed up out of the darkness and fog. I crossed the car park at the front, passed the trees which lined the driveway and swayed in the darkness, and swiftly located the main entrance.
There was a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head fixed to one of the main double doors, as ornate and Gothic as the building itself. When I hammered upon the door it seemed to me that the echoes reverberated deep within the bowels of the structure itself. I waited for several long moments, anxiously clutching my briefcase. Eventually, the doors swung open, and it seemed to me that it was as if a cold draught blew out from the interior of the building, and chilled me to the core. The doors were opened by an extremely old man. He had white hair, and was severely affected by curvature of the spine so that he was permanently bent over. He had sunken eyes set deep in a sagging wrinkled face. He wore a tan tweed jacket with patches at the elbows, and dark-coloured trousers.
“Hello, I’m here for the interview”, I told him. “I’m Malcolm Smith?”
“Indeed. We were expecting you”, the old man said in a raspy, croaking voice. “Come with me.”
I followed him through a maze of draughty, dimly lit corridors. The place reminded me of countless Hammer horror films I’d seen, and the older movies, with Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff. The old man could have stepped out from one of those films. We made little conversation along the way, although he did tell me that his name was Cornelius, and that he was ‘assistant to the Director’. Whoever he was.
There was very little in the way of furnishings. There were wooden floorboards, which creaked when we stepped across them. Along some of the corridors, There were paintings fixed to the wall which might have been Bosch or Dali-style depictions of weird surreal nightmares, wild and illogical juxtapositions which challenged all sense of rationality. That night, I did not focus on them and attempt to explore them further. Later I did, and I believe those images caused a fever in my senses. That’s the only way I can explain it.
On that evening, my thoughts revolved solely around my interview, and who I was supposed to be meeting. I felt the sensation of butterflies in my stomach, which you get when you’re nervous or anxi
ous. I wanted to make a good impression. Because of this, I was distracted from all the weird little details in the building: the sparse furnishings, the fact that the corridors seemed flawed in design and almost crooked in trajectory, the floorboards were sometimes open to view, the eccentric and surreal paintings, and the fact the place smelled of mildew, of must and damp. It did strike me that without my guide Cornelius, it would be easy to get lost in this place. It seemed vast, upon my first visit at least.
We ascended a crooked flight of stairs and came to a plain landing lit only sparingly by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling cord, with no shade to shield the eye from its dazzle. “Wait here”, Cornelius said. “Until the Director summons you.” Then he was gone.
There was a window and a wooden stool at that landing. Opposite the window, there was a door with a name plate screwed to it, and the title DIRECTOR was inscribed upon the plate. When I went to the window, I saw that it looked out upon an inner courtyard. One of the towers loomed over the courtyard, and an orange-yellow light glimmered at the top, in a window near the tower’s spire. As I watched, the light changed to green. I turned away, and sat upon the stool. I placed my briefcase on the floor next to me, and sighed. I waited.
After a while, the door opened. A silhouetted figure stood there. “Come in”, a voice said. The figure vanished back into the room. You might assume that I was nervous or unsettled at this point, but I badly wanted this job. I did not want to have to return to the Job Centre and meet the disapproving pale blue gaze of Doreen Hawes ever again. I got up, picked up the briefcase, and followed the figure of the Director into the room.
I have only vague impressions and I possess mere fractured memories about how the interview went. I know that there were certainly quite a few things that struck me as peculiar. I assumed that this Director, the person interviewing me, was the foreigner M.Yau-Moussin Trilliet, but he never confirmed his name. When he spoke, he seemed to possess an accent, but even in respect to this- I’m not quite sure. He had a whispery voice, somewhat raspy like Cornelius’ had been. At times he spoke so quietly that I strained to hear him, in that dimly lit and murky room. I couldn’t identify his accent at all. Instead, I somehow developed the strange idea that it was the voice of someone not only unfamiliar with the sounds of a foreign language, but also someone unfamiliar with- and attempting to imitate- the human voice. I really don’t know where that idea came from, but it stuck and although it was a weird impression, it felt right.