“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the big toe,” said the Blameless. “The seat of Moxioton’s rule. You can’t walk straight without a big toe, and the Almighty wants this young woman to walk straight.” He went quickly to the chair, took up his cigarettes and lit one, keeping it in the corner of his mouth. He threw the pack down and grabbed the gun, holding it at the ready in his right hand. Back at the cot, he blew smoke rings onto Grace’s big toe. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand all around Moxioton’s lair. “Stand back now,” he yelled. The girl was fish flopping on the cot, sweating, groaning, shrieking, letting off snatches of her own gibberish.
The reverend’s pinching fingers shot out and pincered something just beneath the curve of the toe nail. He planted his feet and pulled back, and his pose made it obvious there was a struggle going on. Slowly, he extracted what looked like a khaki colored blob. He backed up and drew it out a little further. It was immensely bigger than all the other demons put together, and it kept emerging from her toe. As it grew it took on the features of a face, and it became clear he had it by its pointed nose. Its mouth opened to show sharp teeth, and it growled and barked. One of its big yellow eyes stared hard at the exorcist and the other scanned the crowd. A string of curse words came from Kan, followed by a loud, “Get the fuck out here.” There was a snapping noise and it retracted back into her toe. A wave of gasps erupted from the crowd.
“What the F?” said Tom.
“Satan’s bubble gum,” said Helen.
The reverend wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and then his fingers dove in for a second try. He caught hold of it, pinched hard, and pulled. Moxioton appeared again, growing like an angry tan thought. Kan lifted the gun, stuck it into the side of the demon, and pulled the trigger twice. The crowd ducked at the report of the 9mm. The demon seemed insubstantial enough for the bullets to pass through easily, but they didn’t. Gun smoke misted the weird tableau. Grace, the reverend, and Moxioton reached a fever pitch chorus of agonizing grunts and squeals. “I’ve got to pull it free from her to destroy it,” yelled the exorcist. The struggle continued. People fled for the back door. Then, that sharp toothed maw opened wide, and a burst of fire shot out as if it were a flame thrower.
The reverend’s baggy black suit, beard and eyebrows were instantly aflame. He stumbled backward, firing off shots into the ceiling. His arms waved up and down, but this time he wasn’t dancing. He lurched toward what was left of the crowd. Helen grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him out of the way. Emanuel Kan, all smoldering hair and a stink of singed meat, swept past them into the drapes of the living room’s front window. The gun went off and shot out one of the panes, as he fell to the floor. Fire swept up the fabric and leaped onto the couch. The place was in an uproar.
Tom and Helen made for the back door through the smoke and commotion. He looked over his shoulder and saw three things happen almost simultaneously. Somehow Crory had come up with a fire extinguisher and was dousing the Blameless, the drapes and furniture. Ina had made it to the cot and was helping Grace up. The last was the most spectacular. Morrison Zeck, that lanky kid, who’d not shown himself all night, appeared. He pushed Ina onto the floor and helped the bleary Grace stand by putting her arm over his shoulders. The two of them headed for the front door. That was the last Tom saw before he and Helen passed into the dining room and on to the kitchen.
Outside, it was still drizzling. They ran into Bill Stewart, standing amid a clutch of neighbors on the front lawn. “Did you see it?” he asked Tom.
“I thought you were asleep in the dining room.”
“No, I woke up when the second act got under way. I caught most of it, but once he started shooting I took off.”
“Remind me never to doubt the existence of demons again,” said Tom.
“Unbelievable,” said Bill.
“I don’t buy it,” said Helen.
“Well, you may not, but Emanuel Kan did,” said Tom.
Twenty minutes passed and yet the neighbors remained on the lawn in the fine drizzle, waiting for a sign that all was well. Eventually the front door opened and the reverend appeared in the porch light somewhat blackened and frayed, but on his feet. He carried his black bag in one hand and his pistol in the other. Crory and Ina appeared behind him in the doorway. Kan turned and yelled back at them, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” As he passed toward the road and his car, he glowered at the crowd. “Ignorant sinners,” he shouted.
“If that’s an act,” said Bill, “he should be on America’s Got Talent.”
“He’s a menace,” said Helen.
Tom looked to the house, and saw Ina weaving across the lawn toward the neighbors. He barely heard her voice as she thanked Jake and Alice and Oshea. Behind her, Mr. Crory sat on the porch, his powder blue jacket and bow tie gone, his face in his hands, elbows resting on knees. It looked like he was sobbing.
“Check it out,” Tom said to Helen and nudged her.
She turned and looked. “What a mess,” she said.
“I’ve been exactly there more than once,” said Tom.
Ina staggered over to them in her rounds. “I’m so sorry about tonight,” she said. “Please forgive us. The last thing we wanted was to put you in harm’s way. The exorcist came highly recommended.”
“Recommended by who?” asked Bill.
“He had 4 five star reviews out of 6 on Yahoo,” she said.
“No sweat,” said Tom.
Ina said to Helen, “Can I talk to you for a second,” and took her wrist. They moved away from Tom and Bill.
Fifteen minutes later, Tom and Helen were in their CRV, moving slowly along the twisting suburban night streets. Helen drove. Tom squinted and scanned the hedge lined properties, the oak thickets and trim lawns.
“Why didn’t they just call the cops?” Tom asked.
“You know what that’s like from our own kids.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“They can’t have gone far on foot.”
“That Zeck kid rescuing Grace reminded me of the end of The Graduate.”
“Well, she’s got to get home now. Ina’s distraught.”
“Even the weird old man looked on the verge.”
“What are you doing on your phone, you’re supposed to be keeping an eye out.”
“How are we going to miss her? She’s dressed like the fucking Snow Queen. I’m looking up if there’s such a thing as self-inflating balloons.”
“I’m telling you, it was all tricks gone wrong,” she said.
“Here it is. There is such a thing as self-inflating balloons, but they don’t look anything like that stuff the Blameless was pulling out of Grace. That shit seemed alive.”
“Remember Jurassic Park, the dinosaurs? Did they look real?”
“Yeah.”
“Case closed.”
“Why don’t you head over by the lake, that’s where our guys always went to get in trouble.”
They drove slowly, in silence, till they arrived at the dirt parking lot near the playground at Halloway Lake. The rain had stopped and the moon played peek-a-boo from behind the clouds. Helen put the car in park and reached to turn the lights off. She didn’t, though. “You see out to the left, near the shore, over by where the cat tails start. I think there’s somebody sitting on that bench.”
He squinted. “I can’t see shit.”
“Come on, we’ll go check it out,” she said and killed the headlights.
“What if it’s Moxioton?”
She opened the door and got out. He followed her. They walked across the sand beyond the swing set. The lake smelled of Spring and stirred in the breeze.
“Tell me honestly,” he said. “When the Blameless first spoke of Moxioton, did you ever think he was gonna pull that demon from her big toe?”
“That one will come from lower down,” she said in the reverend’s voice and laughed.
“If you’re right, and it’s an act, it’s genius.”
“The gun was a surprise.
”
“Next time we get an invitation to one of these, say no.”
Helen raised her arm and motioned for him to be quiet. They were getting closer to the bench. “Walk soft,” she whispered. They drew within twenty feet, and the moon came through the clouds. The girl’s dress shone like a beacon in the sudden light. Grace and Morrison Zeck, slumped shoulder to shoulder, both asleep. Tom and Helen quietly moved a few feet closer. She took his wrist when she wanted him to stop. They stood in silence for a moment. Tom leaned down and whispered in her ear, “That Zeck kid is a goofball.”
Helen shook her head.
“Do I call Ina?” he asked, taking out his cell phone.
It took her a while to answer. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“They’re too young to be lovers. They must be friends.”
When the moon went away, they walked back to the CRV and drove home. Later, the rain started in again. The sound and smell of Spring came through the screen of their bedroom window while he dreamt in the language the angels dream in, and she, of the land without worry.
IRENOSEN OKOJIE
Outtakes
The hot water bottle exploding on my leg was a bad omen. That morning, those scalded legs took me to Paddington.
At Paddington station, Balthazar sent me a txt. Balthazar was my boyfriend of exactly one year. Good looking father of two lovely girls. He was attractive, interesting. Elaborate stories wriggled out of his mouth like fluorescent, scaly fish. He didn’t seem to own an iron. He had rumpled brown hair and green eyes. Always slightly disheveled, he laughed through everything. If I’d told him one of my legs got bitten off by a crocodile he’d have said, “Oh hon! That’s terrible! Want me to come and massage your stump?” Soft chuckle, soft chuckle. In the beginning, he loved to say my name, Desiree; eventually he started calling me Desi for short. Balthazar knew something about everything, including octopus festivals, chortling volcanoes and placenta eating friends. He was a veritable talking, languid, brown-haired Wikipedia. He’d been to art school at Goldsmiths, when that didn’t pan out as is often the case with dreams of our youth, eventually settling into a role as a psychiatrist, an intelligent creature in a position of responsibility. His text said:
Hon got something to tell you. Make sure you’re standing somewhere quiet. Xx
My zebra striped bag’s strap ate into my shoulder. I dropped it, vaguely registering a thud. I missed-called him. He called me back straight away, delivering a velvet-gloved blow as though it was some anecdote pulled out of a hat, a distant fanged thing that couldn’t really touch us.
“Ahh, I’ve been sleeping with Tara.”
What? No! Aloud I say, “Are you serious? Is this a joke?”
I asked this because although at first we’d been intimate, in six months Balthazar hadn’t been able to get it up. No hard, throbbing, jerking, insatiable erection for me. No sir. I was practically a fucking nun in my late twenties. In that familiar, disconcerting unraveling that occurs when you receive bad news, I could only see me. People swirled around but I could only hear my heartbeat, my shallow breaths, I saw big grey brains curling, parting, and then reassembling into the silhouette of a woman.
“She’s absolutely furious with me, she‘s been calling continuously!” He said.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked leaning against the wall.
“About two weeks. Oh Desi, I’m so sorry, she’s just … There. We’re only compatible sexually. In every other way we’re completely wrong for each other!”
“And why did you choose to tell me this now Balthazar? Just as we’re about to go to Tavira together? Don’t you think that’s cruel? Why not two days ago?”
“I just couldn’t bear you not knowing, I’m sorry, I’d still like you to come with me.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t already pay the train fare for Stroud!” I spat.
“I know.” He said wearily.
“Do you really think I’d want to come with you now? You must be out of your fucking mind.”
“Look, I really fancy you,” he whined “But there’s a disconnect somewhere between us that’s baffling. And the whole sexual thing … Well it’s a pain you know. Part of the reason I started sleeping with Tara was to prove to myself there wasn’t something wrong with me but how to tell you?”
“I’m not the one that can’t get it up!” My voice sounded thin to my own ears, terse. I wanted to reach inside my head and stop it sending parts of the bomb to my chest, heart and throat.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was a ghost now.
“What do you expect me to say? No really? I’m getting off this line.” I yelled, ignoring the concerned looks a few passersby threw my way.
I sat on my bag and watched people rush past, as if reading their faces would give me answers. Balthazar was occasionally unpredictable but I never suspected. He was generous, thoughtful and attentive. And Tara, the woman who lived doorsteps away from him, who he’d disparaged. She’s a lunatic! She’s been stalking me! I should have guessed, men are usually fucking or want to fuck women they dismiss as crazy.
Tara lived out of a van, wild nomadic creature that she was. The kind of woman that would dance around Stonehenge naked, stay in some eco village with strangers, build giant composts, piss in buckets of hay and expect an internal revelation when the sun came up. I was the opposite, dusky skinned, creative and also adventurous but I was a city girl, other than Wellingtons, I barely owned the right pair of boots to traipse around the countryside for long walks, something Balthazar loved to do. Balthazar happily introduced me to friends and family while Tara climbed poles and windows to interrupt gatherings declaring her love. It was Shakespearean. I wasn’t going to compete, not my style. Short of getting my own van and banding about the British countryside in it which would never work because a) I’d freeze unless it was summer. I’m bad at map reading so getting lost would be a frequent occurrence. b) I’d be craving spicy food consistently. C) No access to the internet might make me temporarily insane. D) What if I accidently fell asleep having left the van door open and some creature ate me? This would be a genuine concern. Me in a van travelling through the countryside equaled a series of calamities. There was nothing I wanted to do. I shifted my weight to the side. My appetite was gone, which meant only one thing: I was definitely upset.
*
The next day scalded leg in tow; I caught a flight to Lisbon while Balthazar travelled to Tavira with his ten year old daughter Alice. I figured I’d booked the time off work and still wanted to travel. Easy jet didn’t even serve a meal on flight. I’m a size 8-10 but spend a lot of time thinking about food. At breakfast I start planning lunch, at lunch time I begin to imagine dinner. This cycle rarely deviated from its course.
*
In Lisbon I stayed at El Rancho, the hotel was hidden in an ancient gothic building that looked deceptively nondescript from the outside. You had to go two floors up to find it, tucked away inside like the architectural equivalent of nesting boxes . Its glass doors parted if you clapped or waved. I pretended to flap as though I’d sprouted wings in the small metallic ancient lift that creaked all the way up as if it would get stuck in the ether. I flapped my new wings. The doors opened. Inside it was comfortable and cosy. My room had a large, sprawling dark wooden bed, wide white windows, a cream coloured bathroom and satellite TV with some English speaking channels. The guy at reception was very friendly. He even told me where his favourite restaurant was.
At the restaurant, which boasted lobsters in a tank for viewing, I had grilled chicken with rice and potatoes. The lobsters watched me, looking as if they were planning a break out.
The next morning, the friendly receptionist was replaced by a thin man with a ferret face and a pinched expression. I needed an adaptor plug to charge my mobile phone. He gave me clear directions; I told him my room was a little cold. He offered to turn the heating up while I was out. I found myself on the narrow winding streets lit
tered with quaint, tiny shops. After a jaunt that was almost fruitless I bought an adaptor and returned to the hotel. Ate a sandwich, watched a couple of Family Guy episodes, sent a scathing text or two to Balthazar’s apologetic ones, crashed for a bit. By 3pm I decided to use the Internet room upstairs. I took my bankcards, my phone and I thought my purse. I carried two 50 Euro cent coins, locked my room door and spotted a scowling cleaner outside fiddling with towels. I handed my keys to the guy at reception and asked him to turn up my heating. Upstairs the machine required 1 euro coins specifically so I ran back down to get my purse. Within the space of five minutes my bed had been made, reception guy had turned up the heating and my purse was missing.
“My purse has disappeared,” I said rushing up to him. “It’s purple with a red rose on it. It was in my room and now it’s gone!”
He looked at me blankly. “No I have not seen this purse.”
“Ask the cleaner!” I said my voice rising. They exchanged words in Portuguese.
“Look I have two hundred pounds in that purse, all the money I was carrying on me and now it’s gone, whoever stole it is still in this hotel.”
We went back to my room where they both pretended to help me look for it. I was furious, you bastards I thought. One of you is a thief checking for a purse you’ve stolen. I was livid; my skin so warm the hot water bottle exploding on my leg seemed like a distant memory. I confronted the receptionist again.
“All I know is both of you went into that room within a couple of minutes and now my money’s gone.” I said, frowning at the unapologetic faces before me.
Year's Best Weird Fiction, Vol. 4 Page 6