Alice and the Fly

by James Rice

  I tried to concentrate on An Inspector Calls but my mind kept drifting. I kept thinking of you, that image of you, cross-legged in the library with Goose and Ian and Angela. I tried to remember happier times – our bus rides, under the bridge, the time you spoke to me in the street – but all I saw was Goose, leering at you in the Poetry aisle. The flare of your cigarette in vinyl-black lenses. Ian and Angela’s wet-sucking kisses. Miss Hayes’ voice was breaking. I glanced up at first but soon learnt to keep my head down. I couldn’t stand it, watching her. Her hair was still wet and it might have just been the rainwater lining her face, but it looked like she was crying. Carly Meadows soon noticed and muttered to the other Vultures. Lucy snorted, stifling a laugh. Miss Hayes just ignored them, carried on reading.

  I followed her reading in my book. I underlined each word with my finger as she read it. I thought that maybe if I showed Miss Hayes how much I was concentrating, she’d realise that she was doing a good job and become a more confident reader. It was just as Goole’s speech was ending, just as she stopped to turn the page, that I glanced up at Miss Hayes again and noticed one of Them, at the front of the class, descending from the ceiling above her.

  I haven’t had many attacks at school. There was the time in P.E. with the one of Them in my trainer and the time I felt a web brush my face in the stationery cupboard but apart from that school’s been relatively fit-free. In the winter they tend to inhabit warm places (i.e. the Great Influx) and – with its high ceilings and un-double-glazed windows and constantly left-open double doors – Skipdale High isn’t exactly warm.

  Today was different. Today one had crept into English Lit and was hanging there, right at the front of the class. At first I didn’t know how to react. It was so out of place, so alien, dangling there over Miss Hayes. It was its blackness that struck me – maybe it was just the contrast between it and the whiteboard behind it, but its blackness was almost a void, like a hole in the fabric of reality. The Vultures were still giggling in their corner. Sam Johnson was still de-soiling his trousers. Even Eggy and Dan Brady – who were both staring right at Miss Hayes, so it was clearly in their sightline – just carried on jotting notes in their copies of An Inspector Calls.

  Miss Hayes kept on reading. Her words were just noise now, a slow hum to accompany the descent. Little by little it closed the gap between itself and her head. It drew to a stop, inches above her. It hung there for a second, rocking in the breeze, front legs twitching in anticipation. Then it dropped into her hair.

  My fits tend to come in stages. First my body seizes up. The term ‘frozen to the spot’ is pretty accurate because the seizing has a coldness to it, as well as a prickliness that gathers at the base of my spine. Sound fades. Blood pulses. My head aches. It’s often worse when I can’t actually see the one of Them, when the one of Them is there one minute, then suddenly hidden from view. Like the one in Miss Hayes’ hair.

  I tried to fix my mind on the play but by then my copy of An Inspector Calls was shaking violently. I shut my eyes. I breathed. I followed Miss Hayes’ words in my head. Word after word after word. The only other sounds were the hiss of the rain, the Vultures’ occasional giggling. Then Miss Hayes stopped to clear her throat and I couldn’t help but glance up at her again, couldn’t help but notice it, creeping out across her forehead.

  That’s when Lucy and Carly Meadows turned to glare at me. Carly muttered something to Lucy and Lucy snorted and I realised I’d clenched my fists, ripping a handful of pages from my copy of An Inspector Calls. My breathing was fast and probably loud. I dropped the book and clutched the sides of my desk. Each time I closed my eyes I kept seeing you, sitting in the poetry aisle with Goose, only now it was Goose kissing you. Now it was yours and Goose’s lips, popping and peeling. The one of Them crawled further down Miss Hayes’ forehead. It slowed, struggling to clamber over her eyelashes before scurrying down the left side of her nose. The desk rattled from my trembling. Others were turning. Sam Johnson abandoned his mission to de-mud his trousers and just glared at me. Even Eggy and Dan Brady glanced over, muttering to each other, tutting. Miss Hayes just kept reading, reading and reading and reading, all those words that had long since lost all meaning, as it sat there, balanced upon her lip, bouncing to the rhythm of her speech. She stopped to turn the page and it finally disappeared, slipping out of sight into her open mouth.

  I must have toppled my desk when I bolted because there was a sudden scraping and a clattering and my copy of An Inspector Calls skated out across the classroom floor. Somebody laughed. One of the Vultures screeched the word ‘Psycho’. I ran down the echoing corridor of the Lipton Building. I ran out across the field. I kept running, through the gap in the hedge and up the dual carriageway. The rain fell in sheets, drowning the world around me. A river cascaded the pavement. When I reached the relative dryness of the bus stop I just sat, hugging myself into my warm-position.

  I threw up. It was phlegm, mostly, plus a couple of raisins from breakfast. I felt better after that. I sat, shivered, watched the rain wash the phlegm away. The whole time I sat there I half expected to see Miss Hayes, skittering up the carriageway after me. But she never came.

  At 12:02 the bus pulled up and I climbed on board. I took my seat at the back. I concentrated on the view, the rainy blur of the Social De-cline, the ever-rusting bridges that pre-empt the Pitt.

  The church sign said:

  WHAT IS MISSING FROM ‘CH CH’?

  U R

  I got off at our usual stop. By then the rain had slowed to a spit. There was a mound of snow still out on the corner by the church, an apple rotting on the pavement. The remains of the Pitt kids’ mountain of a snowman.

  I hurried round to the park. I crossed the field to the houses at the back. I just needed to see you. Alone. Without Goose and Ian and Angela. I needed it to be just the two of us. Like before.

  I counted the gardens till I reached yours. I was halfway through the hedge when a shout came from the play area. It didn’t sound like any human shout – more like the angered cry of some prehistoric animal. I turned back to the field.

  There was a gang of four Pitt kids perched on the bars of the climbing frame, glaring over at me from under their hoods. It reminded me of that scene from The Birds, where Melanie Daniels turns and sees all those crows gaping down at her.

  Then, one by one, they slid from the bars, crossing the park towards me.

  The leader was your brother. I could tell from that walk of his – the way he bows his head, fixes his glare, lets his arms just hang there by his sides. I should have run as soon as I saw him, I realised that, but in no time he and his friends had surrounded me and it was clear I was going nowhere.

  I’d interrupted your brother mid-smoke and for a minute he just stood there, savouring the last few drags of his cigarette. The other Pitt kids waited either side, grinning to each other. One of them tossed a football from one hand to the other. Your brother flicked his cigarette into the hedge and bent down to exhale in my face. His deodorant was strong, sour in my throat.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  It seemed a strange question at the time. My mind had blanked and I didn’t really know what I was doing. I was in class listening to Miss Hayes reading and then suddenly I was out in the Pitt. There was no logical explanation. All I could do was stand there, trying to mouth words, but what those words were I’ve no idea. The other Pitt kids were still grinning but your brother’s face seemed locked into a frown.

  ‘I’ll ask again,’ he said, slowly. ‘What the fuck are you doing sniffing round my garden?’

  His eyes bore into me, the same glittering blue as yours. I tried to concentrate on my breathing, the trembling in my ever-weakening legs. All I could think about was the time with the Tango. I’d have loved for one of them to pour Tango over me. I kept thinking ‘Just pour Tango over me and leave. Just pour Tango on me and leave.’

  Your brother turned to one of the Pitt kids, the one with the football. He muttered so
mething into his ear. The Pitt kid laughed and nodded. Your brother turned back to me.

  He smiled.

  He lifted his hand from the pocket of his hoodie. I expected a knife or a broken bottle but there were only his fingers. His hand was bunched into a fist with his index and his middle finger pointing towards me like a gun. He turned his hand and spread the fingers into a V, so he was swearing at me. His mates giggled. My stomach quaked. Maybe that was it – he was just going to swear at me. All things considered it wasn’t that bad.

  Then he pressed his fingers into my eyes. I backed as far as I could into the hedge, so far that the branches were stabbing into my neck, but your brother just kept on pushing. Deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper. He hooked his thumb under my chin, grasping my head like a bowling ball.

  At first the pain was sharp and stinging but the longer and harder he forced his fingers the more it swelled into a deep, brain-splitting ache. I clutched the branches of the hedge, thorny against my palms. The soft skin of my burn-wound throbbed. The warm wetness of what I hoped were tears ran down my cheeks.

  The Pitt kids laughed.

  Somewhere a dog barked.

  Your brother hissed into my ear. I can’t remember the exact words but it was the usual kind of stuff. He called me a psycho and told me I shouldn’t be snooping round people’s gardens and said that if I ever came back he’d more than blind me. He pressed harder and harder, in keeping with the rage in his voice. A pressure built in my forehead. Any moment my eyes would burst like ripe tomatoes. His fingers would split through into my skull.

  Such is the danger of being noticed. I should have checked the field first. It was stupid not to. I would pay for my stupidity. Your brother would blind me, out in Crossgrove Park, the park I used to play in as a child. The park Nan used to take me to, to look for conkers. He would blind me and I would never see your face again. This is what I thought as I sank down into your hedge.

  Only then, a voice came. It said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ just like your brother’s had, only softer. And I knew instantly it was you.

  The pressure eased then, the fingers withdrew. I slipped down to the ground. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to rub out the pain. All I could see were purple and yellow shapes, swooping and popping like fireworks. I really wanted to get up and look like I was OK. But I wasn’t OK.

  You told your brother to leave me alone.

  Laughter.

  You said, ‘I mean it, Sean.’ You talked about whiskey, about how your brother had taken some from the shed, how you’d tell your father. You said you’d tell him about the smoking, too.

  ‘You know what he’ll do if he finds you’ve been smoking.’

  Seconds passed. Raindrops rattled in the hedge around me.

  The warmth of your brother at my cheek:

  ‘Next time, mate …’

  And then he was gone. The patting of feet grew distant over the field. All that remained was clean cold air.

  ‘You OK?’ you said.

  I nodded. It was hard to tell how powerful a nod without being able to see. I added a ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think you are.’

  I tried to stand up but it was hard to know which way up was, I had no idea which direction I was facing. I clutched the hedge for support but its leaves were wet and I slipped and scratched my face on a branch.

  ‘You’re definitely not OK,’ you said. ‘Come here.’

  Your hands were small and cold in mine. You were stronger than I expected – in seconds I was hoisted from the hedge, dragged forward till my feet found the ground. I brushed the leaves from my hair.

  ‘It’s me, Alice,’ you said. ‘We’ve met before. Remember?’

  I nodded, this time it was a big nod, to be sure you saw it. My legs were still shaking. Traffic hummed from the dual carriageway in the distance. It couldn’t be real. You couldn’t be there, before me. I decided I wouldn’t believe it till I’d seen it, till I’d seen you. I tried to open my eyes but everything was a bright blinding white.

  ‘Come on.’ You took hold of the sleeve of my coat. You dragged me out across the field. You must have been running because I stumbled to keep up. The grass was boggy and soon my socks were soaked. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my school bag, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  We stopped. Your hands pressed into my shoulders. You told me to sit. You guided me onto a hard, swaying seat. When I lifted my hands and found the chains I realised it was a swing. We’d reached the play area.

  ‘Just sit here a minute,’ you said.

  ‘I’m blind,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not blind,’ you said, ‘trust me. Just give it a minute.’

  I gave it a minute. The rain had stopped. Somewhere to my right there was a panting sound.

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  I opened my eyes. The world was still a flash of stinging white.

  ‘Three?’

  ‘No. You’re right. You must be blind.’

  I couldn’t see if you were smiling. I lowered my hands to my lap. Something warm slid over my fingers. I jerked.

  ‘That’s just Scraps,’ you said. ‘He’s harmless.’

  I reached and found Scraps’ head. I could feel every notch and socket of his skull. You told me that he doesn’t usually like strangers. I must be special. I waited another couple of minutes before opening my eyes again. This time the grass and the sky and the rows of houses were there, only caught in a bright swirling mass of colour.

  I shut my eyes again.

  ‘Better?’

  I nodded.

  I waited another few minutes. I could smell smoke, that sweet chipotle smoke I’d smelt in the library. You must have seen me sniffing because all of a sudden you said, ‘Do you want some?’ Before I’d even had a chance to say, ‘No thank you,’ the paper tip of a cigarette was stuck to my lips and you were saying, ‘Go on, just try it – breathe it in – it’ll relax you.’ So I did. I took a short sharp mouthful. It caught in my throat and I coughed, so much I nearly lost my balance. I had to clutch the chains of the swing.

  You snorted, trying to hide your laughter.

  ‘Try again.’

  This time I inhaled slowly. You said to hold the smoke in my chest. As I breathed out I felt a lightness crawl up through me. I opened my eyes. I could see the outline of the world around us – the park, the houses, the slide. You. The sky was bright and at first I had to squint. You said, ‘Here,’ and slid your sunglasses over my eyes. The world was tinted pink but it was there and in its right place and so were you, smiling from the swing beside me. You were wearing that coat you sometimes wear for school, the one with the red fur trim. You were squinting now. I realised what it was then, from that close up, what was so strange about your un-sunglassed eyes. I noticed for the first time that you don’t have any eyelashes.

  You lifted the cigarette to your mouth.

  ‘Look,’ you murmured. ‘You’re meant to hold it in your lungs. Right? I’ll show you the proper way. You ready?’

  You placed the cigarette to your lips and closed your eyes. The end flared, your neck flexed. You opened your mouth into an O. The faintest wisp of smoke spilt out into the air, just for a second, before you sucked it back down inside. And then time stopped. You froze. You didn’t breathe. Your mouth remained O. Your eyes were shut, so pale and naked without their lashes. Slowly smoke reappeared, crawling from inside you, out into the air around us.

  You smiled.

  ‘See?’

  I scanned the park. You told me to relax. You said your brother’s an asshole, he’d be off playing on the railway line by now. My coat-sleeve was muddy and my hands were scratched from the hedge. My palm was bleeding again, that burn from your cigarette that just won’t heal. I was shivering. Scraps bounded off across the field, chasing a flock of pigeons. They scattered into the air.

  You passed me the cigarette and I took a drag. It was easier the second time but there was no way
I could hold it inside for as long as you had. After less than a second it all came spluttering out.

  I remembered I was still wearing your sunglasses and apologised and passed them to you. You slipped them on.

  You said, ‘You probably think it’s pretty weird, me always wearing these …’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Everyone does. They call me “Miss Cool”.’

  ‘You look like Audrey Hepburn,’ I said, ‘in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

  You said you hadn’t seen it.

  ‘You have to.’

  But by then you’d stopped listening. You were frowning. I couldn’t tell what you were frowning at because you were wearing your sunglasses. You leant forward, towards me. You reached for my eyes, just as your brother had, only this time I didn’t flinch or back away. I pressed my feet into the grass to stop the rocking of the swing. You stroked the underside of my eyelid and gently withdrew your hand. There was a single eyelash curled over your fingertip.

  You held it out to me.

  ‘Make a wish,’ you said.

  I didn’t know what you were saying. I was too busy staring, my reflection staring back from the lenses of your sunglasses. You were still frowning.

  ‘You have to blow and make a wish,’ you said. ‘Each of your eyelashes is a wish. Don’t you know that?’

  So I did as you said. I closed my eyes and blew and when I opened them again your finger was bare. You put your hand back into your pocket. You turned from my gaze to scan the park, the backs of the houses.

  You turned back to me, frowning again.

  ‘I have to go.’

  You picked up your bag and stood from the swing.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see you around.’

  You hurried across the field to your house, your feet patting the wet grass. You reached the hedge and called out to Scraps before disappearing down the side of the shed. Scraps glanced back once and followed. I kept waiting for you to look back but you didn’t.