Flesh Wounds

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘I thought I saw – something – but –’ Forcing herself into action, she grabbed a handful of clothes and imitated him, shoving them wet into her bag. Don’t think about what’s there, she told herself, don’t try to rationalise.

  ‘Shouldn’t you dry those first?’

  ‘No, I just need to get outside for some fresh air.’ She realised that she was speaking more sharply than she had intended and wanted to explain to the nice young man, who seemed so concerned, but as she looked back she saw the dryer doors all opening in unison, and not one but five of the Laundry Imps appeared, drawn by the acrid tang of his sweat. More were disentangling themselves from the overhead pipes like unfolding tarantulas. And then they were dropping through the grey air, and before she could cry out they were landing on his surprised face, leaping to his shoulders where they swarmed about, nuzzling their teeth into his shirt, burrowing beneath his arms, biting chunks of shocking red flesh from his neck. No longer content to simply live as parasites, the newly urban creatures had adopted the aggressive nature of the city streets and were seeking out prey – but not her, not her.

  As they buried themselves in his body, churning aside gobs of fat and splinters of bone, her rescuer fell to his knees with a wet crack, and Vernie began to shake uncontrollably. Then, forcing her frozen muscles into action, she fell toward the door and tore it wide open.

  The icy gale that hit her almost drove her back. She had left her jacket at the far end of the room. She would have to leave without it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the feral creatures were protecting themselves from the blast of freezing air by ducking behind the collapsed corpse of the young man.

  Finally finding the voice to scream, she left the laundromat and ran – and ran and ran – on through the deserted, alien streets.

  ‘What happened to her?’ asked Lauren as she eyed her undulating lingerie with new suspicion.

  ‘That’s the awful thing,’ said Charlene, digging the gum from her mouth and fixing it to the underside of her seat with a practised gesture. ‘Guess what I heard she finally died of?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pneumonia.’ She stretched the second syllable so that it sounded even more deathly. ‘When she got home, she took off all her clothes and started examining them for black specks, the seed lice of the Laundry Imps. She ripped all of her clothes to shreds looking for their eggs. Went through her entire wardrobe, tearing everything up and burning it in the garden. She couldn’t bear to keep any clothes on her skin after that.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Lauren slowly. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t you see? The imps didn’t kill her because she knew about them. They sensed that they could use her as a breeding ground. They probably laid their eggs in her dirty laundry while she was at the soap dispenser, right here in this laundrette. She wouldn’t allow them the chance to grow on her, so she stopped wearing clothes and kept all the windows open, and it was a very cold winter. The poor thing literally froze to death.’

  Charlene’s machine stopped suddenly. She folded her magazine shut and rose. She looked around. They were the last remaining customers of the evening. Out in the dark night, the wind was rising. Something clattered sharply against the glass of her machine.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Lauren. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know if this girl lived or died.’

  ‘Well,’ said Charlene, reaching for the dryer door, ‘nothing’s ever certain, is it? My granddad has wartime stories that would make your hair perm itself. You hear about these things, stuff that’s been going on since before you were born, and you’re still never quite sure. Before you can really believe, you have to take a look for yourself.’

  Her fingers grasped the aluminium handle and she jerked the broad porthole open.

  Hated

  * * *

  You have to be in a pretty bad mood to write a story like this, and I was. For those who pass through life unloved, awareness of the fact is tantamount to annihilation. Stripped of our illusions, we would exist in a vacuum of pure, unending terror. I was going to make this tale even darker, but then I cheered up.

  THE FIRST INKLING Michael Everett Townsend had that something was wrong was when his wife slapped him hard around the face.

  She had never slapped his face before. Michael hadn’t been expecting the blow. He was carrying a glass of milk, and it shot out of his hand, spattering them both. The glass was cheap and just bounced on the rug, but he jumped back in shock and stepped on it, cracking the thing into shards, one of which pierced his bare foot. Gasping in pain, he dropped down on the edge of the bed just as the blood began to pour freely from his wounded sole. Instead of the sympathy he expected to receive, however, his wife gave a scream of rage and a mighty shove, and tipped him onto the floor. Then she began looking for a knife.

  Michael’s wife really loved him.

  But then, everyone did. Michael was the most popular man in the entire apartment building. The superintendent gave him preferential treatment because unlike the other tenants he never complained about the heating, which was always too hot or nonexistent. Betty, Michael’s next-door neighbour, adored him because he had once scared a drugged-up burglar from the hallway at two in the morning, because he professed an admiration for the people of North Yorkshire where she had grown up, and because he had shown her how to replace the washers in her bathroom taps. Mitzi and Karen, the two blonde Australian flight attendants on the floor below, liked him because he was cute and a gentleman, because he paid them the respect they were denied in the air and because they were attuned to potential romantic material, married or otherwise.

  But it wasn’t just the apartment building. The staff at work loved Michael and showed it, which was unusual, because in London-based companies very few people are willing to reveal their personal loyalties in any direction. The Asian couple who ran the deli at the corner doted on him, because he always asked after their handicapped son, and managed to pronounce the boy’s name correctly. And dozens of other people whose lives crossed Michael’s felt a little bit richer for knowing him. He was a popular guy. And if he was honest with himself, he knew it.

  Michael had been aware of his popularity since the age of five, winning over creepy aunts and tobacco-stained uncles with an easy smile. An only child in a quiet middle-class family, he had grown up in sun-dappled suburbia, lavished with love. His parents still worshipped him, calling once a week to catch up with his latest exploits. He had been a golden child who remained golden in adulthood.

  Golden. That was the perfect word.

  Blond haired, blue eyed, broad shouldered, thirty-two, and married to an intelligent, talented, attractive woman. When Michael spoke others listened, nodding sagely as they considered his point. They wanted to call him by a nickname that would imply intimate friendship, Micky or Mike. What they liked about him was hard for them to define; perhaps they enjoyed basking in the reflection of his success. Perhaps he made them feel more confident in their own abilities.

  The truth was simpler than that. Michael was at ease in his world. Even his most casual conversations made sound sense. In a life that was filled with uncertainties he was a totally reliable factor, a bedrock, a touchstone. And others sensed it. Everyone knew that they were in the presence of a winner.

  Until the night of the accident, that is.

  It really wasn’t Michael’s fault. The rain was beating so heavily that the windscreen wipers couldn’t clear it on the fastest setting. It was a little after 11 pm, and he was driving slowly and carefully back from the office, where he had been working late. He was thinking about Marla curled up in bed, waiting to hear his key in the lock. He had just coasted the Mercedes through the water chute that a few hours ago had been the road leading to Muswell Hill Broadway when a bicycle materialised from the downpour. On it sat a heavy-set figure in a yellow slicker – but not for long. The figure slammed into the bonnet of the car, then rolled off heavily and fell to the ground. Michael stamped his boot down on t
he brake, caused the car to fishtail up against the kerb in a spray of dirty water.

  He jumped out of the vehicle and ran to the prostrate figure.

  ‘Jeesus focking Christ!’ The cyclist was in his late forties, possibly South American, very pissed off. Michael tried to help him to his feet but was shoved away. ‘Don’ touch me, man, just don’t focking touch me!’ He turned back to his bicycle and pulled it upright. The thing had no lights, no brakes, nothing. And the guy sounded drunk or stoned. Michael was feeling less guilty by the second.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry I hit you, but you just appeared in front of me. It’s lucky I wasn’t going any faster.’

  ‘Yeah, right – lucky me.’ The handlebars of the bike were twisted, and it didn’t look like they could be straightened out without a spanner. He hurled the bicycle onto the verge in disgust.

  ‘I can give you a ride,’ offered Michael. The driver door of the Mercedes was still open. The leather upholstery was getting wet.

  ‘I don’ want no focking ride in a rich man’s car, asshole!’ shouted the cyclist, pushing him away.

  ‘Look, I’m trying to be civilised about this,’ said Michael, who was always civilised. ‘You had no lights on, you came straight through a stop sign without even slowing down, what on earth was I supposed to do?’

  ‘I could sue your ass off is what I could do.’ The cyclist stared angrily as he gingerly felt his neck and shoulder. ‘I don’ know that nothin’ is broken here.’

  ‘You’ve probably pulled a muscle,’ said Michael, trying to be helpful.

  ‘What, are you a doctor?’ The reply was aggressive, the glare relentless.

  It was a no-win situation. Time to get away from this crazy person and go back to the car, dry off the seats and head for home. Michael started to back away.

  ‘I’ve offered you a lift, but if you’re going to be –’

  ‘Don’ put yoursel’ out. I live right over there.’ The cyclist pointed across the block. ‘Just give me your address. Write it down so I can contact you.’

  Michael hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of giving his address to a stranger. ‘Why would you need to call me?’ he asked.

  ‘Jeesus, why do you think? It turns out I got a dislocated shoulder or something, I gonna get a claim in on you, make you pay to get it fixed. You just better pray they don’ find nothin’ wrong with me, man.’

  Reluctantly, Michael pulled a business card from his wallet and passed it across. Moments later he was heading back to the car and checking his watch. The whole business had lasted less than a couple of minutes. Behind the wheel once more, he watched the yellow slicker drift away into the rain mist and thought about the accident.

  It was unusual for him to be placed in any kind of confrontational situation and not come out a winner. His likeability could defuse the most volatile of personalities. As he turned the key in the ignition, he wondered if there would be any repercussions. Suppose this chap had actually broken something and didn’t know it yet? How did he stand, insurance-wise? He was thinking of himself, but hell, it had been the other party’s fault. Michael was nice but no saint. His comfortable life made few allowances for upsets, and breaks in the smooth running of his routine irritated the hell out of him.

  ‘Darling, you’re all wet. What have you been doing?’ Marla reached up and hugged him, her bed-warm breasts goose-pimpling against his damp jacket.

  ‘There was a bit of an accident. I hit a cyclist. Had to get out of the car.’ He gently disentangled himself and began removing his clothes.

  She pulled the sheet around her. ‘How awful. What happened?’

  ‘He wasn’t looking where he was going. I could have killed him. Luckily, he didn’t seem hurt, but –’

  The telephone rang. Marla shared his look of surprise. Their friends all knew that they had a seven-year-old son in the next room and never called the house late. Michael pulled the instrument toward him by the cord and raised the receiver. A wail of bizarre music squealed from the earpiece.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’

  ‘This the guy you hit tonight, brother.’

  ‘How did you get my ho –’

  ‘My shoulder’s dislocated. Bad news for you. Real bad karma.’

  The guy couldn’t have seen a doctor already, even if he’d gone straight to casualty.

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, how –’

  ‘Sure I’m sure, you think you’re dealing with a fockin’ idiot? Patty, she says it’s all bust up. Which means I can’t work. An’ you have to pay me compensation. S’gon be a lot of money, man.’

  ‘Now wait a minute …’ Maybe this was some kind of scam, a professional con trick.

  Marla was tapping his arm, mouthing ‘Who is it?’

  He slipped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘The chap I hit tonight.’

  ‘You still there? You gonna pay me to get fixed up or what?’

  ‘Look, if you think you have a case for extracting money from me, I think you’re wrong.’ Michael’s famous niceness was starting to slip. Who the hell did this guy think he was, finding his home number and calling so late at night? ‘But if you really have damaged yourself, it’s your own fault for riding without lights and not watching the traffic.’

  ‘You don’ know who you’re dealing with,’ came the reply. ‘You just made the biggest mistake of your life.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I’m just saying that people like you need to be taught a fockin’ lesson, treating guys like me as if we don’ exist.’

  Michael stared at the receiver. This was bullshit. He was in the right, the other party was in the wrong. The law was on his side. And he cared, he had a social conscience. But the thought struck him, what if the accident had somehow been his fault after all?

  ‘You still there? Tell me, Mr Townsend, what’s your biggest fear? That your child get sick? That your wife get up and leave you?’

  A chill prickled at Michael’s neck. He didn’t like this crazy man using his name, talking about his family. And how did he know he was even married? Was it that obvious, just by looking at the car?

  ‘No, you scared o’ something else even more, but you don’t even know it. I see through people like you. Don’t take much to break a man like you.’ There was contempt in the voice, as if the caller was reading his mind.

  ‘Now listen,’ Michael snapped, ‘you have no right to threaten me, not when you endangered my life as well as your own. I could get the police –’

  The voice on the line cut in. ‘When you come to find me – an’ you will – it won’ be with no damn police.’

  Suddenly the line went dead. Michael shrugged and replaced the handset.

  ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘Oh, he was just – abusive,’ he replied distractedly, watching the rain spangle over the street lights.

  ‘Do you have his number?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘His number, do you have it in case there’s a problem?’

  Michael realised that he didn’t even know the name of the man he’d hit.

  He rose early, leaving his wife curled beneath the duvet. Surprisingly, even little Sean had slept on in the adjoining bedroom. Michael showered and donned a shirt, grabbed a piece of toast and poured himself a glass of milk. Then he climbed the stairs and gently woke his wife.

  And she slapped his face.

  The glass broke. The milk splashed. He stepped back and cut his foot, but the pain had already given way to hurt. Puzzled, he ran his fingers across his reddening cheek.

  ‘What the hell – what are you looking for?’

  She was frantically searching beneath the mattress, then pulled up short in confusion.

  ‘You – shouldn’t creep up on me like that.’ Marla slunk back beneath the covers, sleep-pressed hair folding over her eyes. She turned her back to him, embarrassed by the vivid dream that had leaked over into reality. Picking the glass from his foot, he watched a drop of crimson blood disperse in an alab
aster puddle of milk like a spreading virus.

  An Elastoplast took care of the wound. He rattled the glass fragments into a box which he sealed and placed in the pedal bin beneath the sink, then listened as his son thumped downstairs.

  ‘Sean? You want Crunchy-Crunch?’ He cocked his head. No answer. Odd. The boy could always be drawn by mention of his favourite breakfast cereal. ‘Seanie?’

  He looked around to find the boy glaring distrustfully at him through the bannisters. ‘Sean, what’s the matter? Come down and pour your milk on.’

  The child shook his head slowly and solemnly, mumbling something to himself. He pulled his stripy sweatshirt over his chin and locked his arms around his knees. He stared through the bars, but he wouldn’t descend any further.

  ‘Come and have your breakfast, Sean. We can take some up to Mummy.’ Another muffled reply.

  Michael set the dustpan aside and took a step toward his son. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘You’re not my daddy,’ the boy screamed suddenly, scrambling back up the stairs to the safety of his bedroom.

  Michael checked himself in the rear-view mirror. The same pleasant, confident face looked back, although the smile was a little less certain than usual. He drove through the avenue of sodden embankment trees heading into the city and wondered about the behaviour of his family. He didn’t wonder for long; the three of them had managed to maintain a problem-free existence until now, cushioned perhaps by Marla’s inherited wealth and his own easy-going attitude. If they got under each other’s feet in town there was always the cottage in Norfolk, a convenient ivy-covered bolt hole that provided healing seclusion. But the memory of the slap lingered as clearly as if the hand print had remained on his face.

  Michael parked the car in the underground garage and took the lift to the seventh floor where he worked for Aberfitch McKiernny, a law firm dealing primarily with property disputes. The receptionist glanced up as he passed but failed to grant him her usual morning smile. The switchboard operators glared sullenly in his wake. Even the postboy seemed to be ignoring him. Why was everyone in such a bad mood today?