Dylan and Lennon didn’t waste any time in forgetting the old man across the road and the after effects of last night’s boozing, rushing into the kitchen with a brief though troubled look of concern at each other, an urgent blast of adrenalin coursing through alcohol diluted capillaries.
Kirsty stood with her face caught in a frame of shock, mouth agape, gaze fixated on the window. One hand covered her mouth as if poised to catch the next shriek to escape her mouth. As soon as the two brothers entered the kitchen, she shook a shaking finger towards the kitchen window. They followed her invisible line and saw what had startled her.
Mrs Loughery, the delectable housewife from next door was standing in their back garden.
Stark-Bollock-Titty-Naked, as the day she was born, but with a good deal more feminine curves.
‘Why’s there a naked woman in your back garden?’ Lennon asked, peering closer, half- admiring the fine figure of a woman, yet still half-frightened by the curious sight.
‘I was kinda wondering that myself, Len.’
‘She’s wet,’ Kirsty added.
‘You can tell that from here?’ Lennon questioned, concentrating his gaze on her crotch whilst fumbling in his pocket.
‘No dumbo! I mean her skin. Look, her towel is on the grass, she must have just got out the shower.’
Kirsty was right, Mrs Loughery, despite being in her forties had a fine body. Droplets of water covered her upper body, her nipples proved hard with the cool freshness of the morning. Her silky brown hair laid slick and dark, like strands of succulent oil over the globes of her white shoulders. A white towel lay crumpled on the grass only a few feet away.
‘You think she’s had a stroke or something?’ Kirsty pondered.
‘I wouldn’t mind a stroke.’ Lennon said in his usual priapic manner. He had his phone in his hand and was gearing up to take a picture through the window. ‘How come you’ve never introduced us Dyl?’
‘Shut up Len!’ Kirsty scolded, slapping the phone down, ‘this is serious; she might have had a breakdown or something. And put that damned phone away.’
Sheepish, Lennon did as he was told.
‘Quiet you two! We should call the police or an ambulance or something,’ Dylan put forward. He looked round for his phone after having dumped it somewhere in the kitchen last night.
‘I’ve no credit,’ Lennon announced, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
‘Should we let her in, she’ll catch her death out there,’ Kirsty’s face had gone pale, the blood drained away through as if the plug that held in her worry had been pulled.
‘There’s an old guy at the bus stop across the road as well,’ Dylan mentioned.
‘What’s that got to do with anything? What’s that got to do with Joy Loughery being crazy and naked in our back yard?’
‘Dylan reckons he’s been there since last night,’ Lennon added.
Kirsty cast a quizzical look his way, as if to ask, is that true?
‘He was there when we got back from the pub, he was there this morning. Weird huh?’
‘Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but something’s wrong.’ Kirsty said with a quiver in her voice. Dylan and Lennon both nodded in agreement, jaws stern, brows creased with concern. The joke was over now.
‘What’s wrong?’ A tired little voice asked from the living room. The three adults span round half startled. Lucy was standing there dressed in her SpongeBob Square Pants pyjama’s, her scowling face a picture of usual solemn moodiness, hair like a murdered mess of crows fighting over a bag of dead snakes and snapped twigs. Dylan imagined what she’d looked like if she shaved it all off, would she end up looking like a male hating lesbian because she despised her old man so much.
‘Nothing’s wrong sweetie. You sleep ok?’ Kirsty asked.
‘Yeah, a weird dream that’s all, kept waking me up. Unless Dad was on the Play Station again,’ she glowered all her menace at her father.
‘You fancy some breakfast?’ Kirsty asked in her sweet manner, deferring from the developing situation at hand, trying to appease her daughter in order to avoid any arguments. It was a nice day outside, why ruin it?
‘Yeah, sure,’ Lucy yawned as if the screaming fits from last night had never happened. Then her gaze fixed on the nude neighbour in the back garden staring straight back at her. Then she said as casually as ever, but clearly sobered by the sight. ‘Why’s Mrs Loughery in our back yard?’
‘Don’t forget nekid,’ Lennon added with an oily little smile and horny eyes.
‘Yeah, why hasn’t she got any clothes on?’
‘We don’t know, Luce, we’ve only just seen her ourselves,’ Dylan answered.
‘I think you should call an ambulance,’ Lucy added, moving closer to the window to get a better look at the strange sight that stared straight back at her.
‘Should we? I mean nothing’s really happened yet.’ Kirsty questioned her daughter’s common sense. Nobody answered, still dumbfounded by the unfolding situation. The procrastination wasn’t solving anything, but they didn’t want reprimanding for wasting the time of the emergency services either.
‘Morning, Uncle Lenny,’ Lucy chirped, ‘how’s the job hunt going?’ Dylan detected a heavy hint of sarcasm in her tone. Bitch-Mode was officially on.
Lennon cast Dylan a disapproving glare. ‘Going fine, but I told you my names Lennon, or Len if I like you. Don’t call me Lenny.’
‘Un I ten’ da rabbits,’ she mocked in a simple, semi-mongoloid tone.
‘Lucy!’ her mother chided with a scowl.
‘Christ, Luce! I hate that impression, don’t do it. It freaks me out!’ Lennon bit back.
Dylan looked at his daughter, his brother, then back out at the nude neighbour in his garden. He ignored their petty dispute and said, ‘What do we do? Our neighbour is naked in my back yard. Do I take her a blanket; let her come inside, what? She’s clearly having some sort of breakdown. Thoughts people?’
‘I know what I’d do,’ Lennon grinned.
‘Perve!’ Lucy screwed her nose up at her uncle’s comment, picked up a knife from the draining board and lunged at Lennon. He squeaked in protest and danced backwards into the dining table, pulling his gut in and curving his spine into a C-shape to avoid the flaying blade. Dylan intervened, grabbing his daughter’s wrist and squeezed, bending her arm until she grimaced and let go of the blade. The butter knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. Blunt, but still, the intention to sever an artery was there.
Kirsty continued her disapproving scowl, picked the knife up at her daughter’s feet, and dropped it in the sink.
‘Hey, I was just playing!’
Dylan glared at his daughter and brother with a burrowing look that surprised them both. Dylan was usually a Zen like master of patience and acceptance. When he was pissed off, he meant business.
‘Shut up you two, Lucy stop being a bitch, Len stop being a dick. With that freak at the bus stop, this is starting out to be a very weird morning.’
‘What freak at the bus stop?’ Lucy asked, her face furrowing into seriousness. She ceased her struggle against her father; he relented and let go of her thin wrist.
‘There’s an old guy across the road. He’s being waiting at the bus stop since last night,’ Dylan informed.
‘In the rain,’ Lennon added helpfully.
Lucy didn’t respond, instead she padded into the living room and looked out the window at the old guy across the road. He too stared straight back at her. She watched him for a few seconds. The expression the old man pulled wasn’t born of malice; it was just plain, as if he was bored with life or lost in a vacant daydream. That seemed to be the scariest thing, the fact that his expression didn’t falter, didn’t change, as if it had stuck with the changing of the breeze whilst caught in the grip of fugue. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.
As Lucy watched the old man and the old man watched Lucy, a second stranger entered the stage of the front window. Across the road on the same side as
the old man, a guy in his twenties, good looking, wearing a blue baseball cap stuck out at a hip-hop wannabe angle. In his hand was a leash connected to a fluffy German Shepherd. As he approached the house, he slowed, whilst the eager dog tugged him forward on their usual morning route. She’d seen him before school, sometimes he jogged, and sometimes he had a girl with him. That made her a little bit jealous. She could imagine him taking her to the cinema or maybe grabbing a Maccy D’s. The young guy’s path faltered and he started to carve a desire line from the path and onto the grass, his gaze now fixated on Lucy. For some reason she smiled, transfixed on him as he was on her. Could he see her? Why would he look at her? The guy dragged the German Shepherd onto the road towards the house. The dog seemed bothered at this change of direction and halted his advance as best he could.
Tyres squealed like a stuck monster, then a blue estate car slammed into the young guy, his body arched, the cap flew away from his jarring, snapping head. The lead connecting him to the dog went deadly tight, pulling taut as the German Shepherd was forced in an opposite direction, a tight leather noose strangled around the dog’s neck. The Shepherd gave a tumultuous yelp that was audible over the shriek of tyres grinding against wet tarmac. The young man tumbled over the top of the bonnet, transforming the windscreen into a sheet of broken snow before taking off the driver’s side wing mirror then crashing down upon the hard, unforgiving tarmac, as the car squealed to a stop. Lucy grasped at her mouth that gaped in shock, anything to stifle the scream that wanted to escape her lips.
Her mother turned from the kitchen, her eyes rapidly digesting the aftermath of what had occurred outside, refusing to believe what they saw. The young man lay sprawled on the tarmac, legs twisted awkwardly in competing directions, the dog now slack and still on the end of the lead, its neck no doubt broken.
Dylan and Lennon burst from out of the kitchen, temporarily forgetting about the nude Mrs Loughery in the garden. At the front window they eyed the scene of carnage with a bizarre sense of wonder. Dylan didn’t think anymore. He acted. Shoeless and sockless he bounded out of the front door, Lennon followed suit.
Now deciding that the time was right, Kirsty picked up her mobile and dialled 999, her purple painted toes hurried her to the front door to check on the unfolding situation.
The driver of the car had gotten out the vehicle with his hands on his head, his head shaking in disbelief as he tried to grasp what had just happened just before his head snapped up and looked past Dylan with glaring eyes. Dylan ignored him and focused on the young victim that lay bloody and twisted on the kerb side like a blood-filled bag of limbs. A young couple also taking their dog for an early morning walk stopped to gawp at the scene of the accident from the opposite side of the road.
Dylan stopped. A cloud of unease settled over him. He branched out his arm and caught Lennon by his collar as he passed, holding him back from venturing any further. Lennon’s feet carried on Looney Tunes like until he was pulled back by his brother’s fear led grip.
‘Wait!’ he hissed.
Dylan turned, Kirsty waited within the safety of the front door, waiting to see what happened next. She had one hand over the top of Lucy’s shoulder, squeezing tight and secure. Her other hand held the phone to her ear; she was talking to someone, nodding even though the person on the other end of the line couldn’t see her movement. An emergency operator he guessed.
‘Don’t go any closer.’
‘Why?’ Lennon questioned, bizarrely eager to help the injured. Sometimes he wanted to play hero, just in case some fit lass was watching and he’d have the chance to impress.
‘Look at them.’
The young couple with the dog.
The once distraught driver.
The old man at the bus stop.
The gang of kids on the field.
Even the bent and twisted young lad smeared across the tarmac outside his house, bubbles of blood blew from his nose as the breath left his punctured lungs, eyes fixed wide, yet remaining as calm as a stoned Buddha, despite his probable broken spine and multiple fractures.
All of them were staring blankly at the house.
A tickle down his spine corralled the hairs on his neck to prick up; a primeval alarm within him sensed danger, in the very least, unease. Something was rotten on Westfield Road.
With his fingers still wrapped tightly around the scruff of his brother’s neck, Dylan retreated towards the relative safety of the house. Not before they both noticed that standing beside the garage only a few feet further down the drive, was a jogger in day-glo shorts and vest, along with Mrs Loughery’s husband Mike and their three-year-old daughter, Lexi. This added an additional three more Starers, gazing blankly at the brickwork on the side of the garage, adding to the growing group that now inhabited Westfield Road.
The Gathering Crowd
‘Who do we call this time? The police? Another ambulance? Christ is that guy dead?’ Kirsty asked as she hurried her shocked husband and brother-in-law into the house. She locked the door behind her and urged them all into the living room. With her mobile clasped tightly in her hand, she stared at the phone feeling she didn’t recognize the useless object. She’d already rung up for one ambulance, what good would ringing 999 again do?
Lennon ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to distress what he just had seen. His fingers gripped, then tugged, pulling at the strands, as if this would somehow tighten and reaffirm his slickening grip on reality.
‘The guy with the dog?’ Lucy asked solemnly, ‘he’s still watching us. Why?’
Dylan noticed his daughter’s lip tighten when she said dog, she didn’t mention that he’d been hit by a car, it didn’t need to be said. They all knew who she was talking about.
Dylan moved to her, grabbed her and held her close, ‘don’t look Luce, you don’t need to look a…’
Lucy pushed her father away with a curling scowl and the length of her arms, breaking the embrace before breaking his heart.
‘This changes nothing! You were a dick last night; I should be able to see who I want!’
Dylan bit his lip and cooled his voice before he exploded, he looked at his wife for some kind of support or backup, but the spectators outside the window entranced her, as it did Lennon.
‘Lucy, you’re twelve. You can’t act like…’
‘I’m thirteen, Dad! You missed my birthday remember? Oh that’s right, you forgot!’
‘Luce, I’m sorry, I was working. . .’
Lucy muttered a string of expletives and stormed into the kitchen. The last word he could make out was ‘…coffee…’
‘Isn’t she a bit young to be drinking coffee?’ Dylan asked of his wife.
‘She a bit young for many things Dyl, but she does them anyway. That’s part of growing up,’ Kirsty replied. She didn’t even turn away from the window. ‘She’s at that awkward in-betweener stage now.’
‘Well, have you had the talk about it with her, y’know? The boys and bees and all that.’
‘Woah,’ Lennon protested and turned to his brother, ‘Should we really be talking about that stuff now, I don’t want to hear about tampon tantrums. I thought we were calling another ambulance or the cops or some shit.’
‘Too late,’ said Kirsty. Her gaze shifted up the road. ‘They’re here.’
Dylan turned his attention back to the bay window and looked out. An ambulance slowed as it approached the accident, drawing close, the lights flashed once and then it stopped outside the house. Two green uniformed paramedics stepped out of the ambulance; both took one look at the scene of carnage then started to walk down the drive, ignoring the bent and crumpled dog walker that lay smeared and torn open on the road. The paramedics stepped through his blood, approached the door, stood in front of it, and did nothing. Quizzically, Dylan moved into the hall. Through the frosted glass, he could make out two green, man shapes. They didn’t knock.
They didn’t ring the bell.
They did nothing.
With an
uneasy quiet, they stood behind the frosted pane, becoming another part of the ominous crowd that had started to congregate outside Dylan Keene’s home.
‘Are they just standing there?’ Kirsty whispered.
Dylan nodded. Fear paralysing every other muscle.
‘Will they send more paramedics?’ Lennon asked.
‘Eventually, if these don’t call back to headquarters, more will come,’ Dylan left the hall, closing the door behind him and returned to the living room. Lennon followed. He could smell coffee. Somehow, it felt wrong to want something nice, hot and refreshing.
‘I was afraid you’d say that. We should start charging them admission,’ Lennon tried to joke. No one laughed.
Dylan moved towards the bay window to ponder. He could see the two new additions beneath the porch roof, the paramedics stood side by side at his front door. He could see the couple with the dog, staring blankly at the house. Though strangely, it felt like they were looking through him. The distraught driver had soon forgot about the man and dog he had run over, standing over the still staring body of the bloodied and bent young man, they both appeared to be staring at the house. The young man on the floor appeared to be so still that Dylan couldn’t tell whether he was dead or alive. Either way, his eyes were wide open and he was looking at the house. The kids across the road on the school field looked this way as well. Six of them as still as Gormley figures in the distance, staring in his direction all the same.
He couldn’t see Mr Loughery or Lexi Loughery, or the random jogger; the three of them were still tucked around the side of the house. Dylan knew they were still there.
‘Must be infection or mass delirium,’ Dylan deduced, ‘maybe something in the water . . . , Christ, tell Lucy not to drink the water! Lucy!’
Kirsty’s eyes bulged wide as she ran for the kitchen, ‘Luce you heard your dad, don’t drink the water!’
‘Whatever.’ Dylan could only hear his daughter’s stroppy attitude tinged voice as a wall separated them. Metaphorically and physically.
Starers Page 2