Naming the Bones

by Mauro, Laura

  Alessa thought of Loman Street. The keening of the alarm and the shadows pooled in the gaps between the streetlamps, cold as ocean trenches. The sensation of something thin and unnatural, just out of sight, and the paranoia crawling beneath her skin. They get inside your head.

  “Why do you think only we can see them?” she asked.

  “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to,” Tom said. He kicked a chunk of concrete with the toe of his shoe. It rolled a short distance, coming to an abrupt halt a yard or so away. “My guess is it’s related to Casey’s trauma theory. Whatever it is they get out of negative emotional energy – some kind of euphoric state, maybe - it’s got to be worth breaking cover for. Could even be addictive.”

  “You’re assuming it’s a conscious choice,” Casey said. She turned, walking momentarily backwards. “Maybe there’s some kind of inbuilt imperative that dictates the way they behave. They seek out trauma because they can’t not do it. Y’know, maybe they feed off it. Maybe it sustains them.”

  Somewhere in the distance, the plaintive whine of an ambulance siren sparked into being.

  “Anyway, listen. Nobody goes off on their own,” Casey said. “All right? We’re dealing with the unknown, so we do this properly.” She turned to Alessa, nodding curtly. “You stick with me, follow my lead. I’m here to keep you safe.”

  Something rustled in the trees behind them. Alessa turned sharply, staring out into the distance. Just the wind, she told herself, although the cliché offered scant comfort. The street lights out on the main road bathed the treetops in rich, ruddy gold. Elongated shadows mingled with the strange lunar landscape, playing off the ruined bricks.

  The logical part of Alessa’s mind screamed at her to turn around. That even if there were shadow-things here, hiding among the rubble, no good would come of encountering them. And yet the other part of her – the part which seemed to draw from Casey’s courage and defiance and utter refusal to let the Shades win – almost wanted to see them. Come out, she thought, though her fingers twitched ceaselessly with anxiety. Let’s meet on my terms. Let’s see what you’re about.

  They were nearing the tall black shape to the rear of the site, one of the few structures still standing. The windows had been boarded up a long time ago, the facade bedecked with such an abundance and variety of graffiti that it all seemed to blend into one huge vortex of colour and shape; tags blazing in bright paint, a futile bid to be the last name standing when the building finally fell to the bulldozers. Two-thirds of the block had already been demolished. Damp wallpaper was exposed to the elements, a patchwork of colour and pattern incongruous against the grey concrete. Remnants of a life. In the distance, aborted walkways sprung up out of the night; staircases to nowhere, and beneath them, garage doors jimmied open and gaping like mouths.

  Alessa still remembered the walkways running the length of the estate like a great arterial loop; she remembered her mother telling her and Shannon that they must never use the Heygate as a shortcut, that they might get mugged or worse up on those high, isolated walkways. She and Shannon would deliberately walk through the Heygate just to defy her; she remembered the terrible thrill of footsteps on the stairs behind them, the glimpse of a face staring up at them from below as they scurried through.

  The front door of the ground floor flat was tucked away inside an alcove. Like all the other flats the front door had been covered with a thick steel safety door designed to keep squatters out, but some enterprising soul had prised it free. It now sat propped at a close angle, covering the gaping hole where the original door had once been.

  "I’ve got a torch," Casey said, voice low. She held it aloft. "They're close. Can't you smell them?"

  Alessa inhaled. It was a sour, fermented smell, old milk laced with vinegar, and her stomach lurched uneasily as Casey eased though the gap left by the safety door, followed by Tom. Was this what the Shades smelled like, or was it just the abandoned flat decomposing slowly around her? Tom waited for her to squeeze through the doorway, face wan in the pale light emanating from his phone. He gave her an encouraging smile, and there was an uncomfortable cheeriness to it, his mouth creased a little too wide. He almost looked excited to be here.

  Directly to the left was the remnants of a kitchen, though all the fittings had been taken; even the kitchen sink was gone, leaving a hole in the worktop like a missing tooth. Waterlogged lino peeled back off the concrete floor, grey at the edges with mould. Ahead, the stairs led up to a lightless landing. Casey’s torch beam disappeared into deep blue oblivion. Loose plaster lay in great chunks on each step, hacked out of the wall by what could only have been human hands.

  “This way,” Casey said, indicating that they should follow. They passed into the living-room, wide and empty save for a waterlogged cardboard box set against the far wall. Dust motes danced lazily before their torch beams. An empty windowframe stood where sliding doors ought to have been, leading out onto a cracked patio teeming with overgrown plant pots. A trellis was arranged against the wall, choked with what might have been a particularly virulent strain of ivy. Beyond the gaps in the fence lay a cratered vista of ruined concrete, fissures seemingly depthless in shadow, the dull glow of orange lights along the railway arches and the brighter, more obtrusive light of the Strata building, stretching up into the sky. Anything might be moving out there. Anything might be watching.

  Something shifted at the upper edge of her vision. Alessa cast her eyes up to the balcony overhanging the patio.

  A dark, slender creature stared directly at her, dangling limp from the balcony above. Thin arms hung parallel to the black, upturned disc of its face. There was nothing behind the eyes, no sign of life, but she knew it was watching her. A hot spark of panic erupted in her chest. She realised, as the mouth peeled silently back, revealing that perfect circle of bone-dagger teeth, that it had probably been watching them the whole time.

  “Jesus Christ,” Tom whispered, and when Alessa turned to face him she knew it was not fear colouring his face a livid pink but awe; he seemed thrilled to finally see one, teeth bared, coiled and writhing in the swell of Alessa’s fear. Before she could stop him he was off, through the gaping hole left by the missing window, treading a wide arc around the dangling Shade; his gait, ballerina-delicate, might have been comical if it weren’t for those exposed, glimmering teeth.

  “What the hell is he…?” Alessa began, but Casey put a firm hand on her shoulder, cutting her protest short.

  “Look,” she said. “It doesn’t even notice him.”

  She was right. Tom was almost directly below the creature, maintaining a respectful distance the way one might afford space to a venomous reptile. And it seemed utterly unaware of his presence, focused on Casey and Alessa with unnerving intent.

  “It’s like he’s not even there,” Alessa said, voice barely a whisper. The creature’s undulating, metronomic motion put Alessa in mind of a snake in thrall to a charmer, a slow, deliberate sway.

  “He’s not scared. It’s got nothing to respond to. Shit, I was right, it’s the emotional trauma, that’s how it senses you.” Her breathless excitement was tempered with a stiff-limbed terror, fingers clenched like talons at her sides.. Are you really as brave as you seem? Alessa wondered. Are you just as afraid as I am?

  “Holy shit, Casey, can you see this?” The elation in Tom’s voice was unmistakable, the unbridled joy of one who has finally come into possession of his own Holy Grail. Alessa’s fear warped inside her, twisting and wrenching in her gut until it formed a tight little knot. Oh, you idiot, she thought, staring in disbelief at the way he fumbled with his phone, raising it high as if trying to capture the entire Shade in the frame of his camera. He has no idea. None whatsoever. He’s excited because he’s never had to be afraid of them. Doesn’t he understand how fundamentally fucked up all of this is?

  His phone flashed, once, twice; a blinding burst of white searing tiny green flecks into Alessa’s vision, bright when she blinked.

  As if awoken by the li
ght, the shadow-thing - the Shade - began to shift. It turned slowly, still dangling from some unseen appendage. Drooping arms drew up, an almost liquid motion. Its face swivelled until it found Tom. Oblivious, Tom held up his phone for a second time.

  “Don’t…” Casey said, but was cut off by the flash; two bright, consecutive starbursts. The creature seemed to physically recoil, clearly perturbed by the light.

  Tom had just enough time to shout “I got it!” when the Shade wrenched free, slipping off the balcony and down to the patio, rising up before him with impossible speed.

  “The bloody light,” Casey said, reverent.

  Its mouth opened, wide and silent; the entire length of its body trembled, long midsection pressed against the ground. It seemed hideously malformed, skull long and narrow and crude in design. The rudimentary stubs of fingers splayed from limbs so askew they seemed dislocated, held at angles that surely could not be natural.

  Abject fear twisted Tom’s features into something grotesque, and despite the tremble of his limbs – despite the grim, horrified line of his mouth, one hand reached out, slow, as though to touch the Shade.

  Alessa’s entire body was alive with kinetic energy, muscles screaming at her to move, but she couldn’t leave Tom here, dumb and mesmerised as the Shade drank in the new, exotic flavour of his fear. He deserved it. For all his excitement, and stupidity, and total lack of understanding, he deserved it, but Alessa’s well of righteous anger seemed to have gone spontaneously dry.

  “Tom!” Alessa hissed.

  Tom yanked his arm sharply back, suddenly aware of himself. “I heard it,” he said, voice a low whine. “It was inside my head and I heard it, and…please don’t leave me here.” His eyes never left the creature poised before him. “Casey! Don’t leave me!”

  “Step away slowly, Tom. Backwards. Maintain eye contact. That’s it, slowly, come on.” Casey sounded impossibly calm. “Easy now. Don’t look away.”

  He followed her instruction, stepping slowly backwards with the jerky gracelessness of a windup toy. Casey was still save for the gentle flutter of her hands, silently directing him step by agonising step. It almost worked. Somewhere out on the main road a police siren whooped into life. Tom turned, peering hopefully over his shoulder.

  The Shade lunged, the entirety of its body catapulting forward. And then it was on him; his thrashing arms were caught in the tarry murk of it, pinioned beneath its spidery limbs. Alessa had just enough time to register surprise at how solid the creature seemed before Tom’s scream tore through her.

  “Get it off!” He was caught beneath it, belly-up and writhing as the Shade fought to pull him down, needle teeth grazing the soft, pulsing curve of his throat. Tom’s voice was shrill, almost hilariously so. Alessa found herself choking back a peal of hysterical, horrified laughter.

  “Fuck’s sake, help me!”

  Neither Casey nor Alessa moved. They just stood there, dumb and appalled, watching Tom thrash like a drowning man, and there, Alessa thought, was her answer: are the Shades dangerous? How stupid were they to think they might have been anything else?

  Teeth finally found purchase somewhere low down, spraying a gout of bright blood out onto the concrete. Tom’s scream turned to a gurgle. There came the brittle crackle of bone shattering, echoing off the walls of the abandoned flat like a firework. Nausea soured Alessa’s stomach. They had to do something. Anything.

  “Oh god please,” Tom sobbed, “help me…” His voice was thick and wet, his cheek pressed against the rubble, blood bubbling dark between his lips. His eyes were bright and glassy, hand reaching, fingers splayed. Move, she told herself, but she might as well have been paralysed; Tom’s dark eyes jerked upwards, seeking the back of his skull. Alessa was not ashamed to admit she was afraid, too bloody afraid to go after him, because she didn’t want to end up like that; a red-mouthed puppet tangled up in spindle-limbs and savage teeth.

  Occipital, she thought. Occipital, parietal…parietal…

  The sudden iron stench of raw meat hit the back of Alessa’s throat like a fist. For a moment she thought she might throw up; her stomach clenched, gullet contracting, but all that emerged was a loud, undignified bray of laughter. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes. Casey cast a horrified glance in her direction. She wanted to stop but couldn’t; the laughter poured from her, drowning out Tom’s desperate sobbing.

  Parietal…

  Alerted, the Shade paused in its exploration of Tom’s inner workings. Slowly, it lifted its head, peering up at Alessa with dull curiosity. Its exposed teeth were stained pink, trailing ragged streamers of torn tissue. She felt something pulling at the back of her skull, a sharp tug like a hook through meat, and even through her laughter she could taste panic, sharp as copper on her tongue.

  “Jesus shit,” she heard Casey say. Alessa felt the sudden pressure of hands buried in her hair as Casey yanked her backwards; the burn of her scalp pulled her sharply out of her reverie just in time to see the Shade plunge towards her. A firework of pain exploded in the vicinity of her left leg. The Shade’s teeth tore through her jeans, scoring deep furrows in the meat of her calf as Casey pulled her away, dragging her into the flat and out of the creature’s mouth. It made to follow them but Casey freed one hand from Alessa’s hair, fumbled frantically in her pockets. Her lighter was small, the flame inadequate, and for a moment Alessa wondered what the hell Casey was doing. But the Shade drew back, wavering at the sight of the tiny flame. It was enough time for Casey to pull her back out into the corridor. Alessa clamped her teeth down on the inside of her cheek, tasting the sweet-sour tang of her own blood. It didn’t help. Her leg was on fire, her head was a swirl of grey water, turning the world liquid.

  For a moment, the only coherent thought in her mind was one of dull disappointment: I only bought these jeans last week and they’re already ruined.

  Somewhere on the periphery of Alessa’s vision Tom began to crawl across the patio, agonisingly slow, limbs leaden and useless.

  The Shade watched them depart, eyes burning bright in the darkness, hazy at the edges as Alessa’s vision faded. And they were last thing she saw before she lost consciousness completely; twin beams, like torchlight shining in the depths of a tunnel.

  SIX

  S he woke to the smell of melon shampoo and Golden Virginia tobacco, the comforting pressure of blankets piled atop her. Bright light seeped beneath her eyelids, assailing her nervous system. She squeezed her eyes firmly shut, burying her face into the blankets. Her body felt damp with sweat, which made little sense because she was freezing; her teeth clattered in her skull like a windup toy.

  She rolled onto her back, shifting beneath the sheets. There was a transient sense of claustrophobia, one that passed when she slipped her face beneath the blankets and caught the scent of her own sour sweat, her own brand of deodorant. Home. These sheets were hers. She was no longer on the Heygate Estate, no longer lying on damp carpet watching Tom slowly being eviscerated. She wasn’t in a tunnel deep underground. She was safe, and they could never find her in here. She decided she was never coming out.

  Her heartbeat was loud, the blankets warm and silent as the womb. She felt as though she might be floating, cushioned with amniotic fluid. Lulled by the ragged rhythm of her breathing – inhale, exhale - closing her eyes, she allowed herself to sink. It was better in here, away from the light and the noise. She breathed in the scent of home and flexed her stiff fingers, her aching brain desperately trying to recall how she had come to be here.

  She remembered Casey’s hands anchored in her hair, pulling her from the mouth of the Shade. She remembered the Shade’s teeth tearing into her, opening great red rifts in her flesh. Somewhere in among the salt and nicotine and washing powder she smelled the faint suggestion of old blood, inflamed skin.

  Her sanctum was suddenly and rudely ruptured by someone peeling back the blankets. A sunburst of light exploded into being; she squirmed, lifting her arms, blocking it all out with her hands but a face appeared, silh
ouetted. Leaning over her. For a moment, she thought she must be lying in a hospital bed, and this was the doctor come to poke and prod at her. Maybe she’d never left the hospital at all after the bomb. Maybe she’d been here the entire time, festering quietly, dreaming strange and vivid dreams – shadows with eyes and teeth haunting her like ghosts, men with bloody hands begging her to please, help me. The idea sent a bubble of laughter up into her throat.

  “You’re still alive, then.”

  She lifted her arm tentatively, squinting up. Sharp features came into focus. Damp black hair. Grey eyes, smudged with old mascara.

  Alessa sat up sharply and regretted it instantly. The world pitched momentarily like a boat in a storm, turning a full 180 before settling back into something resembling stillness. She gripped the arm of the sofa with both hands, clinging tightly until she was certain she wasn’t going to fall. Casey watched her quietly the whole time, poised so as to catch her should her balance fail. She wore a grey t-shirt and a blue bedsheet wrapped around her like a cloak, hair stuck to her neck in wet tendrils. Alessa realised that she was the source of the shampoo-and-tobacco smell. She clutched a half-drained glass of red wine in her hands.

  “You used my shampoo,” Alessa said. Her voice was thick, her throat raw. It felt as if she’d been gargling with broken glass. She lowered herself gently back down, resting her head on the sweat-damp cushions. “And…you’re drinking my wine.”

  Casey shrugged. “You got blood on all my clothes,” she said, plucking absently at the t-shirt. “Puke too, a little bit. It was a total mess, really. I had to borrow your washing machine.”

  “Oh. Wow.”