The World's Last Breaths: Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, and The Peeling

by Iain Rob Wright

  Sal came rushing out into the garden, ready to vape. This time I smelt aniseed. “What? What is it?”

  I pointed at the sewer. “It’s Matty-Bob! He’s back.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stared at the drain. Then she surprised me by taking a hit on her vape and calmly strolling over to me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and blew smoke over my shoulder. Definitely aniseed. “Honey, Matty-Bob can’t hurt you anymore. He’s been locked, and he’s never getting out. Not after they caught him eating that squirrel.”

  “But…” I pointed at the drain again, but there was only a slab of darkness there. “He was there, I swear it! The bugger bit me.”

  Sal looked at the back of my hand as I waved it in front of her face like I was bloody John Cena. Sure enough, a circle of teeth marks pitted my flesh. It wasn’t enough to convince her, though, because she pulled me into a hug. “Just calm down. I know you’re upset about that review you got calling your work ‘school-boy drivel', and that one last week saying you were the literary equivalent of herpes." She started to chuckle. "Or that classic one last year that said you write like a baboon with a hangover—”

  “What’s your point?” I snapped.

  “That you’re under a lot of stress, honey, what with the move and everything.”

  I nodded. Of course I was feeling overwhelmed. “And Molly never stops eating," I said. "I tried to eat a peanut the other day and she went mental. I had to hand it over. Sal, I’m scared to go in the kitchen. She’s always there… looking at me.”

  “Honey, she's not even eighteen months old. You two will have to learn to get along.”

  “I know. Just... can tell her she can't have my peanuts.”

  Sal frowned at me just as Jack stepped out into the garden. He looked around with a smile on his face and, as he ran towards me, he almost tripped and landed on his face twice. He stayed upright long enough to collide headfirst with my genitals. I doubled over and gave him a cuddle while I bit down on my pain. “Hiya... sweetheart. You... ah, Jesus Wept, that hurts... okay?”

  Jack grabbed the back of my neck and hung from me like a baboon. “This our new garden?”

  “Yep. You like in?”

  “Bigger than old garden?”

  “I haven't measured yet, but I'm quite sure it is, yes. Mummy and Daddy got it for you and Molly.”

  Jack smiled and covered his mouth dramatically. “Oh, thank you, Daddy. Thank you very much for my new garden!”

  I got free of his grasp and grimaced. To Sal, I whispered. “I swear he’s going to end up in theatre. He's so dramatic.”

  Sal chuckled. “Fine by me. Maybe he’ll be able to get us tickets to Shrek.”

  Jack spotted an old football amongst the debris and went and kicked it. From the kitchen, I heard screams of agonised, burning hunger.”

  Sal nodded at me. “Go get Mol a biscuit.”

  “She’s already had about ten,” I argued.

  “Then she’s only about halfway done. Go on! She'll make you pay for it if you leave her waiting."

  So, somewhat shakily, I went into the kitchen while wondering if I was losing my mind. I swear Matty-Bob had been in the drain, but thinking about it now made it seem absurd. Just stress, I thought. Yep, that was all.

  Molly glared at me as I entered the kitchen. Chocolate covered her chomping maw, and she held one last, smushed-up biscuit in her clenched fist, which she thrust at me balefully. The message was clear. GIVE. ME. MORE!

  I hurried to the cupboard and grabbed the snack box. When I found the cookie tube empty, I panicked. Hands shaking, I frantically searched the new kitchen. I found bread sticks next to some plates and hoped they would suffice. I got them to my growing daughter just as she readied herself for another onslaught of barbaric screams. She snatched the bread sticks from my hand and shoved them into her mouth, eyeballing me the entire time she chewed. LEAVE!

  So I left her sat in her highchair and went into the lounge. My big TV hung on the wall, and just looking at it reduced my stress. A flat screen television, even when switched off, was a thing of beauty. So shiny and sleek. My own reflection smiled back at me.

  Something behind me moved—a shifting blur in the glass panel. I spun around to catch sight of it and found the hallway door slowly closing. Must have been the dog, I told myself, but then I saw Oscar asleep on the sofa.

  “Oscar! Get on your bloody bed.”

  The dog looked at me with stroke-face, upper lip curled inside out and one floppy ear folded on top of his head. All the same, he knew the jig was up, and retired to his rarely used bed. Jack came into the room and tossed a plastic apple at me. It hit my genitals and doubled me over. I gave him another cuddle. “What you up to... oh God, I'm gonna puke... darling?”

  “Making a picnic for you and mummy, Molly, Oscar, Granma, Nanny, Grandad, Auntie Siobhan, Uncle Leigh, Uncle Andy, Lily, Aunt—”

  “So basically everyone we know?” I said. “Okay, got it. You want me to help you?”

  “No, Mummy help.”

  I stood. “Okay dokay. Should I just leave?”

  Jack cuddled my leg, then nodded his head. “Yes, Daddy, you leave. Go have lie down.”

  I frowned. “S-seriously? A nap would be really nice.”

  "Yes! Go nap!"

  Sal came in, holding Molly in her arms. The baby had a breadstick in each hand, plus a third sticking out of her mouth. “You’re not going for a lie down and leaving me with the kids, matey.”

  “B-but Jack said I could.”

  “Jack is three.”

  Jack looked at Mommy earnestly. “Daddy want to go for lie down.”

  I stared imploringly at Sal. “Daddy does!”

  She shook her head and laughed. “You’d spend your whole life asleep if I let you. Can you take Molly for a minute? I need a wee.”

  WIth little choice, I took Molly and ducked as she tried to take out left my eye with a bread stick. I sat on the sofa with her and switched on the TV. I got a shock by what I saw. A pair of nipples came up on screen. Nipples I would recognise anywhere.

  For the last two years, Matty-Bob had been sending me naked pictures from the institution. I reported it several times, but he kept posting them out somehow. The words he had once written in lipstick on his torso, were now etched in prison-ink. IAIN ROB WRIGHT FTW. The mantra that had first led the crazy misfit to my doorstep. Being a writer came with certain dangers. Being a horror writer attracted oddballs left and right. And Matty-Bob was the oddball king.

  Three years since the last time he'd invaded my family’s lives by turning up at our home and trying to kill me. Now he'd found my new home. I placed Molly on the floor, ignoring her angry cries, and ran to the television. I put my head against the wall and peered behind the set, searching between wires and fixings.

  And there it was, sticking out the side of the panel—a little red USB stick I'd never seen before. I yanked it out and examined it in my palm. PROPERTY OF BRAYSHAW SECURE HEALTH INSTITUTE.

  There was a crusty white stain on the end that was either saliva, or something else.

  “SAL! SAL, COME QUICK!”

  She came rushing into the room, impatience written on her face. I knew when she’d mentioned needing a wee, what she'd actually meant was a poo. And that poo had been interrupted. A marriage faux pas.

  “What is it now, Iain?”

  “Matty-Bob is here. Look!”

  I handed her the USB stick, and she examined it. The frown on her face hung around a long time before she finally looked at me with a modicum of acceptance. “Did you get this in the post?”

  I shook my head. “I found it sticking out the television. He’s been in our house.”

  “That’s impossible.” She yanked her phone out of her pocket and I saw her hand shaking. She selected the Institutes’ number from her phone book and dialled it. It wasn’t the first time we'd called them—or even the hundredth. From a few feet away, I could hear the line ringing, but nobody was picking up. Sal looked at me and
tapped her foot while she waited. Molly whacked me in the ankle with a plastic tea pot and I hissed in pain, but I didn’t take my focus off my wife’s face, or the sound of that unbroken ringing. Why wouldn’t they pick up?

  Then I heard a voice and saw Sal react. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but when my wife replied, I was hopeful.

  “Oh, hi. This is Sally Wright. Could you call me back as soon as you get this please? It’s regarding your patient, Matty-Bob. It’s urgent. Thank you.”

  Deflated, I asked the obvious. “Voicemail? When has it ever gone to voicemail before?”

  Sal tapped the phone against her chin, thinking. Then she turned and scooped Molly up in her arms. “Get Jack. We’re leaving.”

  “Good idea.” I scooped Jack up in my arms, leading him to giggle and beg me to spin him. Together, as a family, we hurried for the front door. Even Oscar got the hint and left his bed.

  Sal threw open the door to the porch.

  And stopped in her tracks.

  Me and Jack bumped into the back of her. “What is it? What-”

  Our porch was filled by a massive parcel wrapped in Christmas paper and it was blocking the front door. “We need to move it.”

  “Just leave it, Iain! We’ll go out the back.”

  I took a step towards the box. “No, that’s where I saw Matty-Bob hiding. He was in the drain.”

  “Iain, he obviously left this here for you. Don’t touch it.”

  But I couldn’t help it. I was a writer, and a writer must explore and experience the world to feed his unquenchable thirst for knowledge. A writer’s unique spirit and thriving libido must never be suppressed. Although few, we are a gift unto the world that must, at all times, be allowed to fly free.

  Sally prodded me in the back. “Iain! What are you stood there for, daydreaming when we should be getting out of here? If you have to look inside the bloody box, then just get it over with.”

  “I'm sorry!” I snapped out of my daze and went into the porch. The box was well wrapped, and must have cost a fortune in paper. I wondered how it got here and then spotted the white van parked across the street. It said BSHI on the side and it now made perfect sense. BRAWSHAW SECURE HEALTH INSTITUTE. Matty-Bob had stolen a van and escaped. My hands were shaking as I carefully pushed aside the lid and peered inside. It was packed full of something—lots of somethings.

  I reached inside.

  “Careful,” Sal warned me.

  Hands still shaking, I retrieved one of the items from the box. It was a head. Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.

  Sal cleared her throat. “Is that… is that a dummy’s head?”

  I turned the thing around in my hands, marvelling at the detail. “I think it’s wax. Maybe it’s how Matty-Bob spends his time at the Institute.”

  “Okay, I’m calling the police,” she said, and started dialling.

  “You can’t call the police,” said a voice from inside the living room. I’ve cut the power.”

  I span around and finally saw him, standing there in the nude next to our sofa. His flaccid penis was stuck against his leg.

  Sal groaned and rolled her eyes. “Oh no, you cut the power? Good for you, idiot. I’m making the call on my mobile. Oh, yes, hello, can I speak with the police, please? We have a dangerous intruder who's been prosecuted for stalking my family already. Yes, thank you, I would really appreciate you being quick.”

  Matty-Bob’s eyes went wide as he realised his mistake. He searched around frantically, grabbing one of Molly’s toys. It was a fluffy unicorn, and he launched it across the room. It struck Sal on the top of her head and bounced off harmlessly. She sighed and took Molly out into the hallway while she spoke with the police. I sent Jack after her.

  I stood alone with a psychopath.

  “You can’t be here, Matty-Bob. You know that!”

  “Why? Because The Man said so?”

  “Because a court-appointed judge and a team of licensed therapists said so. You’re scaring my family. You’re scaring me.”

  Matty-Bob smiled. “Good! I am here to kill you, Mr Rob Wright.” He reached behind his back and produced a knife.

  I moaned. “Did you have that clenched between your butt cheeks?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t have any pockets.”

  “You might have had if you were wearing clothes. Why the hell are you naked?”

  Matty-Bob put the knife to his nose and sniffed it. From his reaction, it didn’t smell nice. “I can’t exactly walk down the street in my nut-house uniform, can I? Would draw attention to myself.”

  “But walking around naked with an IAIN ROB WRIGHT FTW tattoo on your belly is an everyday sight?”

  He started breathing quickly. He clutched his temples and grunted. “Stop confusing me with your logic. I don’t do well with logic.”

  “Evidently,” I said. “Look, Matty-Bob. I appreciate you being a fan of my books, but you can’t keep invading my life like this. The police will be here soon, so just hand over the knife and take a seat. Not on the leather though—I’ll get you a newspaper or something.”

  The knife lowered towards the floor, and Matty-Bob gave a long sigh before padding across the new carpet towards me.

  “That’s it,” I said soothingly. “There we go. Nice and slowly.”

  Matty-Bob made it over to me, but stopped a single step short. There were tears in his eyes. “I thought I could be the Bachman to your King.”

  I frowned. “They’re the same person, Matty-Bob.”

  Matty-Bob sneered. “Exactly.”

  The blade came at me too fast to react. My cheek felt cold, and then hot, and then wet. I fell to my knees, clutched my face and howled. “Not my face, not my beautiful, perfect, unforgettable face. What have you done? Damn it, man, what have you done?”

  Sal came rushing back into the room without the kids. “What have you done? Oh, God, no, not his face. Not his beautiful, perfect, incomparable face.”

  I staggered over to my wife and let her hold me. “Thanks, honey.”

  She looked at me. “Thanks for what?”

  “For what you just said about my face.”

  “I never said anything. Are you okay? What's happening?”

  I showed her my wound and wept against her chest. “He’s disfigured me.”

  “No, he hasn’t. It’s barely a scratch.”

  Buoyed by the news that my face had escaped ruin, I turned back to face my attacker. How dare he try to kill me. How dare he try to deprive the world of one of its few great artists.

  But Matty-Bob was gone.

  My eyes narrowed. “What are you up to now, you cock knocker!”

  I hurried into the kitchen and found him rooting around my fridge. When he turned to face me, he had this evening’s frozen pizza in his hands. Slowly he began to lower it towards his waist.

  I thrust my finger at him. “Matty-Bob… Don't. You. DARE!”

  Matty-Bob looked me in the eye defiantly. He kept on lowering the pizza until it was down at his middle. With a slight hop of his heels, he brought his swollen, red testicles down on top of the pizza. The grin on his face was maniacal. “Eat my cock-pizza, bitch.”

  I snarled. “Never.”

  He flew at me with the frozen pizza, swinging it at my head. It caught me above the left eyebrow and suddenly I had blood flooding into my eyes. I shoved out blindly and struck Matty-Bob’s soft flabby chest. He lunged at me again, and I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, which was the mid-height oven. I yanked open the door just as he came at me, which caused him to smash right into it. The crack of the door against his ribs was sickening. He bounced back and doubled over the island worktop.

  I heard police sirens. “It’s over Matty-Bob. This time they’ll lock you away for good this time.”

  Matty-Bob was still face-down on the island, but he reached out with both arms, rooting around blindly. His fingers found the Matt Shaw novel I'd been reading with my breakfast every morning. He bolted upright and flung the paperback at my
head. It hit me right in the gob, and I tasted blood.

  “You sick bastard!” I mumbled, then lost my temper. I leapt across the kitchen and grabbed Matty-Bob by his ginger hair. I shoved his face down onto the hob in the center of the island and switched it on. "Damn you to Hell. Damn you all to Hell!"

  Matty-Bob squirmed and yelled, but I was waiting for screams. But none came. It was several moments before I realised the hob was an induction model, and wouldn’t come on without an appropriate pot or pan.

  Matty-Bob fought back and managed to headbutt me in the nose with the back of his head. He threw me backwards against the sink and prodded the button for the waste disposal. It growled angrily, with no water or food to sate its metal teeth. Matty-Bob punched me in the stomach and grabbed my wrist, forcing my hand towards the sink.

  “No!” I begged. “Not my typing hand.”

  “Don’t you type with both hands?” Matty-Bob asked.

  “Depends what I’m doing!”

  We struggled against one another. Matty-Bob was winning, my hand inching closer and closer to the rubber baffle over the hole of death. The waste disposal whined hungrily, begging to taste my flesh. “What do you mean, it depends what you’re doing?” Matty Bob asked.

  “It means…” I said, through gritted teeth. “That sometimes an author gotta wank.”

  I sprang up with all my strength and forced my wrist free. I punched Matty-Bob in the face with lefts and rights. I was like Rocky Balboa avenging Apollo’s death, smashing Mr T with relentless blows. I was poetry in motion, the God of pugilists everywhere. Adonis reincarnated.

  “What are you doing?” Matty-Bob asked.

  I realised I was punching the air like a madman, not connecting with any of my blows. Matty-Bob had picked up a knife from the counter and now held it in front of him.

  Outside, the police sirens were close. I heard voices outside.

  “My doctor said the only way I will ever be sane again is if I murder you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I really doubt your doctor said that.”

  Matty-Bob shrugged. “Not those exact words, but I read between the lines.”