Robert wandered aimlessly through the back streets of Camden, thankfully as dark as his blackest imaginings. The streetlights seemed to match his mood. The light they provided was insipid, fitful even. There were large inky pools of solace between each light, where he could hide his tears and confusion. His legs were numb once more; they belonged to this other now, moving as they were of their own volition. Where they were taking him remained a mystery – he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. He could warn no-one, either, if the need arose. Even speech had been taken away from him. All he could hope and pray for, locked in his cranial prison as he was, was that the police might catch up to him before he hurt anyone else; and put an end to his misery. His body was now a stranger to him. His mind dwelt in a strange land, and was locked there in solitude, while the beast raged without, spoiling and destroying what he had always held sacred.
It had reversed itself. His brain was now a seething mass of palpable malice – with his consciousness (his self) locked in a protective pocket of calm – unwilling and afraid to even attempt escape. Safer by far to stay where he was, and pray for some external source of deliverance.
Sandra’s body had indeed been found. The police, acting on the neighbour’s reports of how Robert had been seen running, sobbing, from the house that morning, were actively searching for him. When the reports of the day’s occurrences on the underground had begun to filter in – of the woman whose fingers had been mangled by a madman who had sobbed all the time he was doing it; and the tale coaxed from the woman found crying hysterically in a train carriage at Camden Town, of being stalked by someone that sounded like a refugee from a very bad horror film; officers were dispatched to each bearing a photograph for identification. When the I.Ds came back positive, Camden Town was saturated with patrol cars and officers on foot, travelling in pairs. It was only a matter of time, now.
Robert was scared. He had walked all the way from Camden Town up to Tufnell Park, through streets that were, for the most part, deserted. Now he was stalking his way up Dartmouth Park Hill. His senses were attuned to the scent of prey, and oh, it felt fine. In his mind’s eye, Robert cringed from what his body was experiencing, wanting no part in its shame.
He could feel the air, caressing his skin – raising all the minute hairs in a tactile response that was completely unfettered in its unlimited imagination. The body’s desires had been chained too long, and were eager to add experience to imagination. His body felt as if it were aflame with possibilities, each one baser and more perverse than the last. The night air on his face felt like a lover’s embrace, more shockingly intimate than any he had enjoyed with his wife when she would consent to his amateur fumbling. It felt like hundreds of tiny electric shocks were shooting through his veins – a fix, if you like, of life.
Jolting him into recognition of the world as it really was, not the humane, pristine little box he had always seen before, in his blinkered state.
He saw it now in all its complexity – a maelstrom of malevolent intent. The narrow streets he walked, and the blocks of flats stretching back and back, became warrens of hidey-holes for unseen assailants. The cars that passed seemed to slow as they passed him, then accelerate away with a screech of tyres. In the state of paranoia in which his body now existed – it seemed to Robert’s body that they were going for help, intent on alerting the police to his whereabouts. Time to live, really live, was growing short. Not long before they forced it to relinquish control to that prat once more, to live the rest of its life out in penance and guilt; afraid to experience. That, or shoot it dead. Then it would feel nothing, not even the toned down version of things that Robert saw. (Locked deep within, Robert wept and prayed for deliverance – whichever way it came.) It determined to go out fighting, to experience to the last; to the full. It would deny itself nothing.
The few people he had seen had looked like sheep to his altered sight, all possible prey. His body had made no move in their direction, however, because none of them had been alone. They had been groups of young lads, weaving their way home from their local pubs, singing and laughing; unaware of the horror that eyed them so benignly. They had left him alone, he thought, because he looked as drunk as they were. His body moved with a jerky, unnatural motion – as if he had been paralysed and was only now re-learning the skill of walking. His tongue had refused to give voice to his pleas for help, and they remained locked in his throat, unspoken; but no less fervent for that.
Halfway up the hill, he came across a young couple, snogging against a wall outside the New Brunswick pub. He could hear sirens in the distance, and instinct told him they wailed for him. Someone had seen him, recognised him, and the battle was about to commence. His decision made, he fell on them.
The boy was dead before he hit the ground, Robert’s keys jammed deep into his brain and left dangling from his ear, like some outlandish earring. The girl drew breath to scream, and then he was on her. He was screaming inside as he watched his body throw her to the floor and kick her in the stomach. The air flew from her lungs with a whoomph! There would be no screaming now. He fell on her and began to bite and scratch, savouring the feel of each tender mouthful. The texture of her skin as it ripped, welling scarlet, although in this light it looked more like black ink, tracing its secrets in a weird hieroglyph, unknown even to him. He grabbed her dress and tore it straight down the middle, exposing the swell of her breasts. Forbidden fruit no more.
When the police finally caught up with him, some minutes later, he had bitten out her tongue and was chewing it with barely contained glee. He spat it out and sat grinning up at them, teeth gleaming white against the gore dripping down his chin. All he would say was one word, over and over. “Sweet.”
The next day, Detective Sergeant Maloney watched impassively through the two-way mirror as the creature that had once been Robert Leary cursed and slavered; trying with all his might to throw off the straitjacket that was binding him as he flung himself against the padded walls of his cell. Their eyes met briefly, though only one was aware of it. Maloney looked deep into the face of madness and was sure he saw, deep down, Robert – the real Robert – crying for release from his prison; desperate to take up the reins of his life once more. Then his gaze was wrenched away, and the ranting began again.
The psychiatrist in charge of Robert’s case looked up in time to see a tear of compassion trickling down his worn, weary face.
“Sergeant?”
Maloney turned to the doctor, silently daring him to make something of it, some flip comment. Wisely, he decided not to.
“What went wrong, doctor? What happened to him?”
“We don’t know what triggered him, sergeant. It could have been anything. Something completely trivial.”
Maloney sat down in the armchair to one side of the psychiatrist’s desk, and covered his face with his hands. The admission, once made, softened the psychiatrist’s tone immediately.
“He’s my nephew, doctor. My sister’s child. She’s now under sedation at home. The priest’s with her. I’m not here in an official capacity, you understand. I just need to know, for her sake. And for my peace of mind.”
He looked up at the psychiatrist, and the bleakness in his face said it all.
“I’m sorry. Robert is, as you can see, uncooperative, to say the least. The records we have been able to compile show no indication of anything like this. He doesn’t appear to have been under any particular strain, as far as we have been able to find out. Do you have any ideas? Anything that might have led him to.... this?”
Maloney sighed. “Robert was the gentlest soul I ever knew. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He paused to look at the beast in the adjoining cell, and the tears came once more. Neither man acknowledged them. Rising and making his way over to the mirror once more, Maloney continued:
“Robert lived for his wife. A bitch if ever there was one, though he couldn’t see it. He took anything she cared to dish out. Saw it as his lot, I suppose. He had a deep and abiding faith, doctor
. Did his damnedest to live a Christian life.”
The psychiatrist nodded. “That would tie in with what his friends and neighbours have been able to tell us. He was always making a conscious effort to be a good person. Wouldn’t give a bad thought house-room. That may be the only explanation.”
“What?”
“All his life, Robert sublimated, denied, his bad feelings. All his bad thoughts.”
“So?”
“So now they’ve taken over. They want out.”
He stared at the doctor in disbelief. “Oh, come on!”
“I’m serious,” he replied. “All the hate, all the rage…all the bad stuff has boiled up and taken control, and what’s making it last is that his conscious mind, his good side if you like, has hidden. It’s still there, of course, but it’s burrowed down so deep it might never get back out again.”
Maloney felt his own anger start to rise. “So much for ‘the meek shall inherit the Earth.’”
The psychiatrist rose from his seat, and joined Maloney at the window, watching the thing that had been Robert as it wailed and hurled itself against the walls in a vain attempt to loosen its bonds. “He’s still in there, don’t forget. There’s always hope.” As he spoke, Robert stilled, and tilted his head towards them. He turned towards the glass, still calm, and Maloney saw the despair deep in Robert’s eyes.
“Look at him, doctor. He knows full well what’s happening to him. That’s not buried very deep.”
“Ah well, we can but hope.” The glibness of the doctor’s response sickened him, and Maloney felt his hands twitch in response. He took a deep breath and looked again at Robert.
Robert wasn’t home now, he saw. The creature that was staring directly at him now was a creature of impulse, of pure evil. And it was smiling; he could feel its joy, could feel it swarming, infecting him. He felt his hands twitch again, and went cold. His voice, when it came, sounded different – it wasn’t his own. “You should remember one, thing, doctor, about places like this. And what happens to people when they come here.”
The doctor was oblivious to anything but his star patient, Robert, watching gleefully as if he could see exactly what was happening in here. “What’s that?”
And now Maloney’s hands were rising, intent on reaching the doctor’s throat. The thing that was Robert howled in glee, and started dancing about, demented in anticipation.
“Hope dies, doc. Just like everything else.”
The Cradle in the Corner
Mary stared in horror at the monstrosity standing before her.
“Do you like it?” Alan asked. He stood there, all proud of himself – chest puffed out, huge grin on his face. How was she supposed to destroy that?
She released a breath that shook on its way out into the world, surprised not to see actual smoke. Calm, woman. He thinks he’s done a good thing. “It’s… different, I’ll say that for it.”
The smile froze, and she rushed to smooth things over, make it better, as usual. He was only trying to do something nice. “I haven’t seen one like that before. Where’d you get it?”
The smile returned and Adam knelt by the cot, eager for his wife to share his enthusiasm. “In a little antique store in town; I know how much you love old things.”
She laughed. “It’s definitely got that going for it.”
Alan sat back, his face serious now. “I know this needs work, love, but that’s what I want – a project. And once it’s been painted, got the right drapes and stuff – you’ll see; it’ll be beautiful.” He leaned across and passed her a leaflet he’d picked up from the carpet. “See? That’s what it should look like when it’s done.”
The cot in the picture was far from today’s image of a wooden cot with bars up the sides and a high mattress. This one looked more like a laundry basket on legs; wire frame on crossed iron legs that resembled the bottom of a laundry rack – a precursor to today’s Moses basket, sort of. A cradle, rather than a cot, and in lamentable condition. Mary smiled, feeling slightly better – a cradle was only for a little while. “It’s beautiful, love. Will it be safe, though?”
He nodded. “Yep; by the time the baby’s big enough to sit up, she’ll have moved on to a cot. The cradle can be stored away at that point.” He looked up, then, eyes sparkling as he asked, “Where do you want it?”
Looking round the bedroom, with its low eaves and quirky corners, Mary was at a loss for a moment. Then she saw the perfect spot. There was a recess by the window on the east side of the room that featured a cushioned window seat that she could sit on while she fed the baby, or sang her to sleep. The window itself was double glazed, secure from draughts, and caught the sunrise every morning. “Over there,” she said. “In the corner, by the window.”
Alan grinned, and hefted the cradle over to the indicated spot, angling it so that it wasn’t too close to the window itself, yet would catch the sun’s warmth during the day. “Perfect,” he said. “Looks like it’s always been there.”
Mary shivered as a shadow passed in front of her, obscuring the sun and letting a sudden chill into the room. The cradle looked wrong, now – cold and hard – bare as it was of any drapes or covers. The metal seemed to darken before her eyes, and there was an odour of mildew, and decay. “Put it away for now, love,” she said, and moved away. “Let’s go downstairs and have a cuppa.”
Alan looked up, then, and frowned when he saw his wife. “You okay? You look really pale.”
She crossed her hands over her bump, protective of her child even as it kicked playfully against her palm, and backed towards the door. “I’m fine, just a headache…” then she was gone, her footsteps thudding down the stairs as she headed for the kitchen.
“Feeling better?”
Alan’s voice broke Mary’s concentration, and she blinked as she registered his presence. She was sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, rocking blankly back and forth as she stared into the dormant hearth – her concentration had been absolute, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d been thinking about. She nodded, and took the cup of tea he offered gratefully, cupping it in her hands, eager for warmth.
“I am, thanks,” she said. “I can’t think what came over me.”
“You’re bound to get queasy or achy now and again, I suppose,” he answered. “You’ve still got what, six weeks to go?”
“About that,” she agreed. “Maybe I just need something to eat.”
He grinned as he put a plate of toast beside her. “Thought you might say that.”
“You know me too well,” she said, “thanks, love.” She took a piece of toast and grinned as she sat back. “This baby’s going to be the size of a whale, I’m sure. All I do is eat.”
“It’s nice to see,” he answered. “At least you’re not being sick all the time now.”
“True.”
Mary cocked her head as something creaked overhead. “You know, we really ought to get those floorboards checked.” The noise came again, louder this time, as something moved across the bedroom floor.
Alan sat quiet, listening. “Either something’s wrong with the floorboards or the cat’s so heavy she sounds like a person, now.”
Mary choked on her toast, laughing. The laughter died when she saw Rags lying on the rug in front of the fire, looking like nothing more than a huge, furry cushion. “Definitely not Rags.”
There came the sound of a door closing, and then the house was quiet. Both Mary and Alan sat watching the cat, listening to the usual sounds – the clock on the mantel ticking, the boiler clicking on as the temperature dropped, water rushing in the pipes – but no more creaking overhead. For a moment Mary wondered if it might be sounds from next door, but then she remembered this cottage was detached. It had been their dream home, and they’d only bought it when they started trying for a baby.
“This is an old house,” Alan offered. “Bound to make noises; it’ll be the floorboards settling, or something like that.”
Mary nodded. “Mus
t be.” She smiled, and turned to the toast again, her voice a little too bright as she continued, “Must be boards relaxing in the heat or something.”
Mary lay in bed that night, twisting and turning as she tried unsuccessfully to sink into a deep and blissful sleep. Alan lay next to her, snoring gently, oblivious to her restlessness. The cherry blossom tree in the garden cast shadows that walked across the walls and ceiling, spindly branches reaching for the door on the far side of the room. The wind moaned as it sought entrance to the house, failing miserably thanks to the new windows they’d put in just before finding out Mary was pregnant. A door banged and Mary flinched, jerked into full consciousness. There was no further sound, and gradually she relaxed, happy to believe Rags was on the prowl, probably after some small creature that had braved the cat flap and gained entrance to the kitchen. She heard a faint yowl, and smiled. There was nothing Rags loved more than to present them with whatever she’d chased during the night as a gift over breakfast. Hopefully this time she’d offer it to Alan, before Mary got downstairs.
Something creaked, closer this time, and Mary froze. The creaking came again, and something moved fitfully in the darkness. Mary gazed around the room, and saw the cradle move. Shocked, she watched as it rocked, ever so slightly, in the shadows. A faint creak came again each time it swung, and Mary got out of bed, making for the window, normally draught-free; perhaps Alan hadn’t shut it properly?
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