by Peter
Slowly, Saira made her way back up to the top room.
Which one? She closed her eyes and pictured each of the scenes. Then she took off the niqab and stuffed into her bag. With one hand pressed firmly against the stone Saira stepped forwards between the standing stones and walked down the slope to the farm, the flock of sheep and the little girl who had waved to her.
Dragonsbridge by Anne Nicholls
MY SHOULDER’S ITCHING unbearably. There, right on the top of the shoulder-blade. I’d give a bloody fortune to be able scratch it. Trouble is, I can’t reach it. The only bit I can really move is my eyes. I look around for something I could use: a bit of bracken, a twig, anything. Everywhere’s so hot, so bright, than I can’t make out anything much against the glare.
I can feel the sun beating down, though. My brain feels like it’s being fried. Down below, there’s the stream, burbling merrily away through ferny dell and mossy bridge, I think sourly. Valley of No Return, for Chrissake. I thought they were joking.
You wouldn’t think you could get lost in a poxy valley, would you? You just walk downhill till you get to where you’re going. Or follow the hum of tourist traffic to the castle.
But what happens when you can’t walk? When you’re stuck at the edge of the bog, can’t go forward, can’t go back, your head’s thumping like a jackhammer bashing the inside of your skull, and the rocks and trees don’t give a damn? That, and the endless bloody crickets screeching away. The ancient oaks are alive with squirrels and woodpeckers and all that rustic shit, the leaves are that special green you only get in May when they’re opening up, and I’m stuck here with my shoulder on fire.
Yep, there goes the other one. It’s worst when the top layer of skin suddenly unglues itself from the flesh: pop! Well, how would you like it if someone ripped off a layer of your skin?
I wish I’d listened to Maddie. I know what’s going to happen when the sun goes down.
IT WAS SEVEN years ago, in the middle of the building site. He ripped up his returned proposal and scattered it. Then he trampled it underfoot, his Totectors slithering in the mud.
“Got a medical appointment, Billy,” he said as he passed the foreman. “Urgent.”
Billy hid a smile. It was code for pissed off and going to the pub. “Is that right, James Elliott, Dip. Arch.?”
“Stuff the bloody Dip. Arch. Ever since I qualified I’ve sweated my knackers off drawing brilliant proposals and every sodding time the funding’s cut off. If I had that bastard Osborne here I’d teach him to play Ludo with the economy.”
Billy slung an arm round his shoulders and whispered in his soft Irish brogue. “So you going to quit playin’ at bein’ a professor and start being a bloody builder? ’Cause you’ve got it in you, you know. If me ‘n’ you put our minds together, Jimmy my lad, we can make a bloody mint. I’ve got this contact up the council...”
Jimmy – formerly James – Swanwick, builder né architect, gratefully let his boss’s promise of tax-free wealth hide the size of his debts. Gas and electric. Bastard student loan. Credit card bills...
He thought it all through during his appointment with thirteen medicinal brandies. He’d do it, go in with Billy. Sod the Royal Institute of Bloody Architecture. His wife Maddie wouldn’t like it but then again, she didn’t have to know.
THE SUN’S GOING down behind the brambles now, thank fuck. It’s gilding the trees, bringing out the scent of sap, bringing the end of the relentless sun. For a while it won’t be adding to my third-degree burns. But later, when the bats fly through the dusk and the moon rises, what happens will be maybe worse.
Although the waiting’s torment enough as it is...
HE WAS RIGHT, Maddie hadn’t liked it when she found out, not the fear of the taxman nor the endless ‘foreigners’ he did, the jobs on the sly, but she was just being a snob. Didn’t like him working down the sharp end of the building trade. Her and her bloody Bachelor of Fine Arts. What use was that, for fuck’s sake? There was sod all she could do about it and anyway, the money came in handy. He liked to get his round in for his gang at the end of the day. A little kindness always helps keep their mouths closed, Billy used to say, and a little threat or two don’t go amiss. You stick with me, Billy had said. I’ll see you right. But for fuck’s sake, stop going round talking like Little Lord Fauntleroy. Jimmy didn’t point out that the boy in the novel had been American. People don’t trust poncy gits ’cause they’re all on the take. Be Jimmy, my lad Billy had said, and Jimmy he’d become.
IT HURTS LIKE buggery. Not long to go now. Something’s changed in the air: the light. I can’t see colours any more, just black and grey and silver. Here in the Valley of No Return, only two or three hundred metres from the Castle of Brocéliande, I shiver. I feel another blister pop, and then the sting as the sweat rolls into it. But I can’t move. I’d give anything to be able to move. The stars are bright, owls are making spooky noises in the forest, there’s a sniffing noise and the stink of a fox as it trots closer. It sniffs again, pricks its ears to listen, then starts licking my blood. If only I could scream. If only I could scream – but I daren’t open my mouth.
MADDIE LOST THE baby. It was her own stupid fault, he told her. He’d said he was working all the hours God sends so she didn’t need to. OK, half the time he was out with his mates, doing a line of coke, going to the casino; there was nothing like it. But she was so stubborn! Paying her stupid bloody student loan instead of getting his accountant to get her out of it. And he’d needed that Range Rover, for Chrissake. It’d help him get home earlier, wouldn’t it? So why she had to go and act the martyr, he didn’t know. She only had two airy-fairy office jobs and neither of ’em was anything like as demanding as his was. Well, one proper one at the factory and some twilight shift messing about that meant half the time she hadn’t cooked his dinner so he’d go up the Dog and Duck. They did a decent steak and chips. He might see Lee and Jason and they could have a game of darts. Leave the old girl to have her cry in peace. She’d be better for it and then they could get back to normal.
NOW THE NIGHT wind’s rustling these sodding reeds. I never knew the countryside was so bloody noisy! There could be anything out there creeping up on me. After this, rush-hour in London’s going to seem really peaceful. That’s what I tell myself but fear’s bursting through me.
Any minute. Any minute. I can feel it coming. It’ll start soft as moth’s wings on the raw skin of my burns. The itch’ll start to burn like someone’s stabbing me with a lighted cigarette. Pain’ll sing through me, a vibration of agony so shrill it’s above the range of bats. Like last night. And tomorrow night. And all the nights that have ever come.
It’s the healing, you see. People say itching’s a good sign, don’t they? It means things are healing. Bit by bit, day by day, the new skin and tissue grow. A few weeks and Bob’s your uncle, good as new.
That’s what they say. Or that’s what they used to say before I stepped through the Dragonsbridge. It’ll take time.
But now it doesn’t take time, or not enough. Like fire leaping in darkness the cure goes Slam! My heart-rate drops from 126 to 84, just like that. I almost pass out. Healing swarms up the capillaries, stampedes through my muscles. You know when your leg’s been asleep and you get killer pins and needles as it wakes up? That’s nothing. The edges of my skin crash together like continental plates. It sets up volcanoes of agony.
God, that bitch Maddie! Why’d she have to drag me to fucking France? Leaving me to suffer alone for bloody ever. Just wait till I see her.
“BLOODY BELLA! I never see you, Maddie! She’s got you like a bitch in heat,” he sneered, sure in his rightness as he faced her over the bills on their Saturday breakfast table. He was entitled to a new car, wasn’t he? He worked hard enough. He’d earned it! How dare she moan?
“Oh, grow up!” Maddie clamped her hands round her mug of tea, otherwise she’d have thrown it at him. Only she wouldn’t, not really. She always said she wouldn’t stoop to his level and start any a
ggro but she fought back right enough, didn’t she? She gazed out at the mothers with their pushchairs going down to the village stores, the families with children taking kites and model aeroplanes to the field at the back of the parish church. She couldn’t see the trees at the side. His scarlet and silver Range Rover and now his Porsche got in the way.
She counted to ten, slowly, then said in a voice of saccharine calm, “Did you expect me to stick around twiddling my thumbs at home when you were five, count them, five hours late home? I left you a note where I was, didn’t I? Seeing as you’d switched your phone off.”
Oh, she had to get the dig in, didn’t she? Bloody dragon. That’s what Billy called her. “How’s the old dragon this morning?” he’d ask when Jimmy came to work grumpy.
He tried to say something but she rushed on, “I didn’t ask you to wait up. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.” Gingerly she felt the swelling that ran half-way up her arm.
“What d’you mean, this? It’s only a little bruise and you did it to yourself. You’re just trying to make me feel guilty, you manipulative cow. All I did was give you a push ’cause you’d gone mental! How was I to know you were going to go and trip into the wardrobe? I got home before you, didn’t I? And you have the cheek to yell at me!”
At least she didn’t try to pretend he’d started it. OK, so he’d moaned a bit, but it was her own fault, anyway. He got back to the thing that was really narking him. “You and that bloody Bella. Fat Lesbian whore! I’ve told you.” His blood boiled when he thought of all the times he’d come back late and she wasn’t there ’cause she’d gone to bloody Bella’s. Jimmy’s expression could have stripped paint. “She’s only got to snap her fingers and you go running after her like a baby. Go on, just give her a great big wodge of cash and she’ll be your mummy.”
Usually the baby thing shut her up because she felt so guilty about losing the sprog, but not this time. “It’s work, Jimmy. It’s an investment of my time and my money. She’s a nice woman and she’s got a wife anyway. We just work together.”
“That’s what you say. You come back sometimes all covered in sweat and I wonder what the two of you have been up to.”
“What we’ve been up to, Jimmy, is designing a computerised weaving machine. Which means screwing bits of loom together and that’s heavy.”
“So long as that’s all you’re screwing.”
She shot him a glare.
He had to get her off-balance. A guilt-trip would do it. “On which you spend our money.”
“On which I spend my money that I’ve earned with my dragon designs in my spare time. And which the Chamber of Commerce in our twin town in Brittany has now started importing so I can pay off our debts. You know the money I earn from the factory all goes into our joint account. Which is more than can be said for your bonus. Why you had to squander it on a sports car I can’t image. You’ve already got the Range Rover. Don’t you know our mortgage is three months in arrears? I can’t do it all on my own. And your student loan’s piling up the interest, and I bet you’ve got more credit cards than you’re letting on. So no, I am not running after her. And besides which, I only go over to her when you’re off with your mates.”
He stalked over to the sofa and left it up to her. Put the football on, even. He could see her bottling down her rage. She’d crack soon. She’d come crawling back like she always did. And he’d get something out of it, see if he didn’t. Teach her to try and stop him enjoying the Porsche he’d bought with his own money.
She paced up and down the living-room, keeping well clear of the line of sight between him and the telly. He’d taught her well.
At last she sighed, plonked down beside him and slid her arm across his chest. “Come here, you big silly. It’s daft you being jealous. It’s you I love, isn’t it? It’s you I’m married to. Don’t be cross. We’ll just get through this quicker if we work together, that’s all.” She threw her arms round his neck.
So he’d won. Automatically he hugged her to him, glad of the warmth of her body touching his skin. Sometimes he didn’t understand why a woman like her loved a man like him. But no other bastard was going to have her, especially not some cowing Lizzie. He gave her a long, deep kiss that plunged inside and twisted her mind. Her breathing shifted up a gear with the longing he’d learned to cause her.
“Wish I wasn’t going to my darts tournament, gorgeous,” he whispered, gave her a peck on the cheek. He was half-way out the door when he said, “Don’t wait up.”
THE MOON’S SINKING now. It’s odd when the moon and the sun are in the sky at the same time. At the edge of my vision the fat white disc glows, sheer and pale. On the other side of the valley the blue of dawn flies up like a sodding skylark, heading for the new day’s torture. What will They choose for me this time? If only I could have a drink.
The healing’s almost finished but my tortured muscles won’t stop twitching. Every time I do, the new skin stings as though glaciers are grating over it. I can’t even call for help. Surely they’ve missed me? Surely Maddie’ll have le PC Plod combing the woods for me after. Christ! I can’t even work out how many days I’ve been stuck here. Day after day, all the same, except that They vary the tortures.
And soon They’ll be here. I never know which one it’s going to be. They kind of blend into each other. When it’s really bad I can’t tell them apart, and that scares the pants off me ’cause it makes me scared I’m going doolally. One’s a beauty with some kind of pendant glowing on her forehead. The other’s a right old bag, her bare arms all stringy and wasted with age.
The beauty’s fierce, a proud warrior, wild hair fanning out like a lion’s mane, the same colour as Maddie’s. The first night I found her irresistible. I was drawn to the passion that flashed out sometimes when we had sex, or when we stayed up all night talking. She seemed, I don’t know, all golden and lit up from inside. She made me laugh and taught me glory.
Until that time everything changed. She just couldn’t stop rubbing it in when my dreams died but hers didn’t. She was so bloody arrogant! Ringing me at work as though I cared a toss that someone wanted to buy her tuppenny-ha’penny doilies. I swear she only wanted to show everyone she was better than me. I heard her brother talking about her builder’s-bum husband. But he’s a posh twat. So what if I like to wear low-riders like Billy and the lads? It’s cool isn’t it? If she hadn’t been such a show-off I’d never have nipped up West with the lads and then I wouldn’t have started gambling.
Then she was a fury. Rage sparked from her hair, glittered with the sharpness of her remarks until she seemed armoured in scales. Or she’d cry, a keening that was so bereft, it stabs guilt up right below my ribs.
It might be a relief if it’s the old woman who comes. She’s got the same delicate architecture to her face though her wrinkles soften the curves. She’ll flow towards me through the darkness, lovingly salve my wounds.
Bugger! The pain’s so bad I’ve bitten through my lip and ants are crawling onto my mouth.
Maybe – God! I hate myself! I’m longing to drown in her pity! Maybe she’ll brush them away. Set me free. Tell me what’s bloody going on!
But as the sun rises up, she hunches beside me, her pity all kept for herself, weeping bitter, bitter tears and wishing she’d never been born.
And I’ve made her into this pitiful thing.
By the third aeon of torture, I knew They were all one.
THE SUN PEEPS through the leaves and lances into my new pink skin. It’s like it’s writhing over me, crawling over my scraped nerves, stinging like acid.
No! I crane my neck and shudder. There’re all these leeches slithering over me, taking a bite. I thought they weren’t supposed to hurt? On my arms they are, and on my chest. One’s wriggling into my ear. I shake my head – fuck me that hurts! – but I can’t get rid of it. The bloody dragons are playing their daylight games.
MADDIE TEXTED HIM a month ago to say she’d won them a free holiday, and wasn’t it great? She couldn�
�t have made it Agia Napa or Ibiza or somewhere good though, not goody-goody Madeleine. A load of councillors on a minibus to some grotty little town in the arse-end of France? He wouldn’t have gone at all except she’d have asked Bella to take his place, the heartless cow.
So here they were, around twenty kilometres west of Rennes. And everywhere they went, they got introduced in mangled English to another load of old fuds or dragged round another bloody chateau. And some old tart would tell them a load of stupid stories about magic and King Arthur and Merlin and that. That first day when they got back to their room and he started taking the piss out of all that New Agey bollocks, she’d practically broken the sound barrier to hiss in his ear, “Not with the window open! They’ll hear.”
“What do I care? It’s your bloody jolly, not mine. I’m missing the big match for this so shut the fuck up. Just because they’ve all been fawning over you and your bloody lizard doilies all day, it doesn’t mean I like the sound of your voice as much as you do. They can all go fuck themselves. Where’s that bottle of wine?”
MY SKIN IS like one of those delta maps they got me drawing back in geography, only the rivers are all my blood. It makes me sick just thinking about it. My stomach heaves but there’s nothing left in there to come out. The stink of my puke rises up on the hot winds that always blow through this sodding forest but I can’t get away from it. All I can do is lie here – hang here? – and bleed.
Maybe she isn’t looking for me at all. Maybe she just thinks I’m sulking. Maybe she’s had enough, gone swanning off to the standing stones at Karnak with the Chamber of Commerce. I shouldn’t have yelled at her last night.