by Alex Bell
It moved.
Aaron leapt back. Must be trapped gas, or something inside it, eating it from within. But no; the cat writhed there brokenly, then rolled and rose up on its paws, then looked around and, despite its absence of eyes, it saw him. And when it did, it hissed and arched its spine, the remainder of its bedraggled hair rising on end as it did.
The whole shoreline was moving now, the rest of the cats thrashing back into life and motion – getting to their feet and hissing, arching their backs –
And starting to advance.
Aaron backed away. The ones in the water were moving too. They floundered their way to shore, to join the other cats – the other dead cats – as they advanced on him.
Maria was screaming; Jamie was bawling. ‘Get inside!’ yelled Aaron, still backing away. He was too far from the door, too close to the cats, to turn around; that might be the signal for them to attack.
The rain beat down; lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and still on the cats came. Not yet. Mustn’t turn yet. Not yet –
Now.
He whirled and ran; behind him, the cats yowled, a horrible discordant clamour that eclipsed even the storm. He ran for the door – then slipped, fell. The cats yowling. He scrambled up, spitting mud, wiping it from his eyes, ran on. Pain sliced into his leg – claws, teeth. He shouted, stamping, kicking. Something landed on his back. He spun at the doorway, slammed himself back into the wall till bones broke and the weight fell away from him. The cats – dear god, the cats were only feet away. He threw himself through the door, slammed it, bolted it. Even then, he could hear the cats yowling.
Maria was screaming at him, clutching at his arm. At first he didn’t understand what she was saying. And then he wished he still couldn’t.
‘Jamie got loose,’ she was screaming, ‘he ran outside—’
And the cats yowled anew, and over that, Aaron heard the screaming of his son.
*
They tried to get out, tried to help Jamie, but they couldn’t. The other cats flew at the door in a flurry, leaping, clawing, and forced them back. Maria fought the hardest, but even a mother’s love couldn’t carry her through, and Aaron knew, as the yowling died away and there was only the storm, that she’d never forgive herself for that, that something in her had broken utterly.
As it had in him, of course; he stared with loathing out through the window at the cats ringing the house as they glared at it, and past them – though he tried not to – at the pathetic heap, huddled downslope, over which their number crawled. He wanted to go out, fight them, kill them. But how did you kill a dead thing? He was sure he saw at least two that had no heads, but which still moved; if even that wasn’t enough, what was?
At last the storm abated, and that was their cue. The cats turned and slunk away down the slope; the ones battening on Jamie unwillingly forsook their feast and walked back into the dark water, without even a backward, eyeless look. And then they were gone.
Aaron didn’t want to look at what they’d left behind, but in the end he had to. He tried to stop Maria seeing it, but she wouldn’t allow that, even though the sight of what the stormcats had left of their son made her howl and weep and vomit; having failed to save Jamie, she was determined to spare herself nothing. Or him.
‘He kept saying Coppertop was outside,’ she said. ‘You know how much he loved that cat.’
An accusation behind it: if you’d had a bit more thought, if you’d brought the cat with us, our boy would still be alive.
They buried Jamie on the slope behind the house. There was only one shovel; Maria clawed at the earth with her hands, although Aaron tried to dissuade her. In the end he gave her the shovel and sat aside and watched. She didn’t look at him.
Aaron lashed two pieces of driftwood into a crude cross, and nailed a flat piece of wood to them to serve as a plaque. While Maria, sobbing, beat the wet earth flat with the shovel blade, he burned Jamie’s name and the dates of his birth and death into the plaque with a heated knife.
He fixed the cross into the ground, then turned to Maria; she went back into the house without a word.
*
Long days passed. Aaron found himself sleeping in the spare room. Maria wouldn’t even let him touch her; still less would she speak to him.
He kept preparing meals for them both; at first she left them untouched, till the survival instinct overcame pride or hatred, whichever it was, and she ate. But still she wouldn’t talk to him. If anything she seemed to hate him more, as if he’d made her betray Jamie’s memory by not starving.
Almost every night now, Aaron dreamed of the street they’d lived in, flooded, the waters choked with drowned cats. At first he flew above them; then he fell, plunging into the depths. Their bodies spun and drifted in the water; Jamie floated alongside them, and so did shoals of banknotes and coins. The banknotes didn’t grow sodden and disintegrate, and the coins didn’t sink; they all swirled together. All that money you tried to save. For your family. And now both are lost, and there’s only the flood and the storm.
And so they settled into their new routine. Maria didn’t speak to him or even acknowledge his existence if she could help it; Aaron soon stopped trying.
And then the storm came back again.
*
He was sat by the window, the curtains open, and glimpsed the lightning flash from the corner of his eye. The thunder’s rumble followed. He looked outside and saw black clouds sweeping in; speckles of rain dotted the glass.
The lightning flashed again and again; the thunder rumbled closer and closer still. Soon the rain was sluicing down, dancing in the hollows of the muddy ground.
But Aaron found himself looking in one place; down the slope, to the water’s edge. He knew what he was looking for; knew it would come. And soon enough it did. Soon enough the first dark, wet, ragged object was washed against the shore. And others followed.
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked and boomed. Rain fell.
And the stormcats rose. Stiffly and jerkily at first, then with increasing fluency as they recovered the use of their rotted bodies, they got to their feet and advanced up the slope to surround the cottage. And then they sat. And watched. Watched without eyes.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs; Maria, face flushed, eyes bright, pelted for the door. Aaron grabbed her, stopped her; she fought in his grip, writhed and scratched, and he only raised his thigh in the nick of time to avoid being kneed in the groin.
‘Let me go, you bastard – let me go –’
‘For Christ’s sake, Maria, the bloody cats are out there –’
‘Jamie’s out there.’
He could only stare at her. Mad, he realised. His wife had gone mad. ‘Maria, he’s dead –’
‘He’s out there.’ He had her arms secured so she couldn’t point, but she nodded out of the window. ‘Out in the rain. I’ll show you.’
He manoeuvred her to the window. ‘See?’ she said. ‘There.’
And he looked, and he was about to say that there was only the rain, only sheets and sheets and gauzy-looking sheets of rain, and sparkles like static where stray drops caught the light, but then he saw it too. Saw something, anyway, like a shadow cast on the falling rain. He blinked, but it didn’t go away; if anything, he saw it more clearly. It wasn’t just a shadow now; it had colour and depth. It was about three feet tall and wore jeans and trainers and a green t-shirt, and it had a pale face haloed with reddish-blond hair.
He thought he could even see the blue of Jamie’s eyes gleaming, in that shadow in the rain.
‘See?’ said Maria, and started squirming in his grip once more. ‘See?’
And he almost let her go; almost let her slip away and run outside. But then he shook himself and tightened his grip. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s a trick—’
‘Bastard!’ she yelled, thrashing. ‘Bastard!’
She twisted in his grasp; this time he didn’t block the upraised knee in time. Sickening pain shot up through his torso from his groin
; Maria broke free and wrenched the front door open. Wind and rain gusted in.
The stormcats ran for the door; Aaron slammed it in time, heard that crash and screech and scratch at it, then staggered to the window.
The cats parted to let Maria through, towards the shimmering ghost in the rain. Then they closed in on her. She didn’t notice as she fell to her knees before the shape, embracing it.
Then it vanished, and the stormcats leapt.
Aaron turned away, refusing to look, but he couldn’t shut out the screams.
When it was over – when the storm had abated and the cats returned to the deep – he fetched his shovel and went outside.
*
…and since then, he wrote, I’ve come to dread the storms. Although it’s almost a relief when they come; the time spent waiting for them is a torment.
And in a way, when they come, it’s not so bad. If I look long enough at the rain, I can see Maria and Jamie again. And Maria doesn’t hate me anymore, and we’re a family again. But I can’t look long, because they want me to join them.
How many storms have their been since Maria died? I can’t tell; I’ve lost count now. It’s like the death of a thousand cuts or the Chinese water torture; little by little it wears you down, kills you slowly. Wears you down until you reach your limit.
As I’ve reached mine.
Aaron looked out of the window. It was still raining, the sky above still black with cloud. Outside, the stormcats were waiting.
It’s time I was going now. I’ve waited long enough.
He felt he should put something else, but wasn’t sure what. At last he settled for: These are the wages of my greed.
Neat to the last, Aaron put aside his pen and capped it, then wrapped the exercise book in an old carrier bag and sealed it inside an empty biscuit tin. Hopefully that would keep his testament safe.
He went to the window.
Silent, watching, the stormcats waited.
Aaron scanned the downpour till he saw his loved and lost in it.
Then he went to the door, opened it, and walked out into the rain, praying it would be quick.
It wasn’t.
Walls
by
Gaie Sebold
Sleep, wrapping her tight as a shroud. Nibbling through it, like mice, voices, bringing a scent of something green and achingly sweet.
‘Hey, lady.’ A word she didn’t understand, but that tugged, painfully.
‘She doesn’t remember, idiot!’
‘Someone should be fucking dealt with.’ Spiky little mouse, what was it so angry about?
‘You know we can’t.’
‘It’s just…’
‘Shut up. Oh, arse…’
Chrys was vaguely aware of the first clear notes of a bird, falling into darkness, before sleep muffled her. Fading, she thought, How long is it since I was up at dawn?
*
She sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair. Her husband was reflected behind her, straightening his tie, leaning forward, frowning, flicking at something on his collar, and for a moment she felt oddly detached, floating free of herself. The fleck of shaving foam on the fold of flesh above his collar, the pinched set of his mouth, the flat concrete colour of his grey suit, and everything was wrong.
Suddenly dizzy, she snatched her gaze away.
‘Right, I’m off,’ Darren said. Now she was looking at him properly, not in the mirror, it was better. He was her darling. She slid her arms around his waist, laid her head against his stomach, her hair covering his groin and thighs, a flossy blanket of silver-blonde curls.
‘Hurry home. You know I miss you,’ she said. Without him this house was too empty, too lonely, too… there was another word, she groped for it, but it wouldn’t come.
He patted her head, and stepped back. Threads of her hair clung to him like a spiderweb, unwilling to let go.
‘We have people on Friday, don’t we?’ She said.
‘George and Florence, Fred and Annie. Oh, and Marcus.’
‘Is Tina not coming?’
‘No.’ His voice was chilly.
‘Was it me? Did I…’
‘It’s not you, my darling. How could it be? You’re perfect in every way.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘You worry too much. Don’t worry.’
But she was already worrying. Something about Tina, and a dream she couldn’t quite remember.
For the rest of the day she felt as though she had something stuck in her brain, a mental splinter too small to grasp.
Why am I worrying? I never worry. That’s one of the things Darren loves about me. Now I’m worrying. This is worrying. The fact that I’m worrying…is worrying.
Maybe she needed some air; but that wasn’t possible. She had agoraphobia, and a violent allergy to most pollens. They had no flowers or plants in the house and friends knew not to bring them; they kept the windows shut all year around.
Poor Darren, she thought. What a dull wife he has to live with.
As soon as dusk started to creep from under the neat suburban hedgerows she whisked the curtains shut and turned on the television and all the radios as she always did. Dusk and dawn both made her uncomfortable. It was Darren who had suggested she block them out with artificial chatter. He looked after her so well, even when he had to work and she couldn’t.
She didn’t really understand his job, except that he worked hard and was unappreciated. Sometimes when he was particularly tired, when his bosses had been particularly loathsome, she caught him looking at her, as though weighing something. Then he would take her by the wrist and tug her up the stairs, and she would go willingly, desperate to make him happy. Afterwards, he would lie back and smile and toy with her breasts or hair, and be happy, and so would she.
Darren said she was too fragile to work. After all, she couldn’t even leave the house. And so many things upset you. What would happen if you had to deal with people who didn’t understand?
The people they saw understood. Apart from Tina. Tina had said something, hadn’t she?
Then Darren came home, and she surged with love at the sight of him as she always did. He made her hot chocolate as he always did, thick and heavy and sweet, and it was all fine. She listened to the defeats and triumphs of his day. He was her knight, fighting a cruel world on her behalf.
That night she had the dream again, the thin, bickering voices.
‘Did you bring it?’
‘’Course I brung it, not stupid you know.’
‘Hurry up then.’
Then… that scent. Oh, green… it hurt. A dreadful bitter ache, right in the deep of her.
‘Look!’
‘Quiet!’
‘But it…’
‘It’s late. Come on, we have to go.’
*
Next day Chrys felt hollow, desperately hungry for something, but there was nothing in the house she wanted.
She didn’t tell Darren she skipped breakfast. He worried so. Somehow the day passed, worry nibbling at her mind, never clarifying.
People arrived for dinner. George and Florence, Fred and Annie, and Marcus.
George was the head of Darren’s department. He was thick-necked and flushed and used phrases like ‘core competency’ which Chrys didn’t understand, but she was used to not understanding things so she smiled and poured more wine and ignored the way his gaze crawled all over her. Florence was a teacher. She was kind and quiet and spoke gently to Chrys, as though she were something wounded.
Fred knew Darren from work too. Fred was lanky, with thinning sandy hair, and made jokes a lot. He teased everybody, except Chrys. Chrys got little snatched glances and nervous smiles.
Annie was fashionable and sharp and chilly and often seemed angry.
Marcus knew Darren from a long time ago. He was already swaying when he arrived. Most of the time he stared at his glass, his plate, or Chrys.
Chrys pushed her food around her plate.
‘Darling, you’re not eating,’ Darren chi
ded.
‘Surely you’re not dieting,’ Annie said.
Chrys felt oddly embarrassed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just not very hungry.’
‘She should live on vapours, on moonlight, on the scent of lilies,’ Marcus said.
Annie jabbed a laugh like a blade into the silence; everyone else went rigid with discomfort. Darren only smiled.
Chrys scurried the plates out to the kitchen and stood gripping the counter, smooth artificial stone, sharp edges underneath. Marcus’ words had shocked her like something obscene. She shuddered, held on.
Chrys hovered outside the dining room, not wanting to go back in without him.
‘… so bloody obvious,’ Annie said.
‘She’s got a point, Marcus, maybe you should lay off on the wine.’
Darren came down as Chrys was still hesitating outside the dining-room door. ‘Something wrong?’ he whispered.
‘Marcus…’
‘He’s just jealous,’ Darren whispered. ‘Everyone’s jealous, my love, don’t worry about it.’
Soon people were leaving, gathering coats, saying they’d see themselves out. Chrys bade goodbye to George and Florence, Annie and Fred. Stacked the dishwasher.
Standing outside the living room, she could hear the sound of another argument.
Why are you afraid? A voice said, so loud she jumped. But it was her own voice, in her own head.
You. Why are you afraid? It seemed as though the voice was saying she, specifically she, poor timid Chrys who couldn’t even go outside, should not be afraid.
She sat on the stairs, put her head in her hands. She was going mad.
‘It’s wrong,’ Marcus said, suddenly loud, close to the door. ‘Every time I look at her…’
‘I know what’s going on when you look at her,’ Darren said.
‘Well of course! That’s the point, isn’t it?’
‘Go home, Marcus. You’re drunk.’
Yes, Chrys thought, backing silently up the stairs. Go home, Marcus. Go away.
‘It can’t go on forever,’ Marcus said. He opened the door, looked up at Chrys, who meant to pretend she was just coming down the stairs, but instead froze, looking at him, looking at her.