Detritus

by Kealan Patrick Burke

  He glances around the shop. He's still alone. Slowly he reaches for one of the rats and strokes it, feeling its coarse black hairs under his fingers. He draws his finger against its long front teeth, which still feel ripe for tearing. There are so many animals in here that it's impossible anyone will notice one is missing. And it's small. And it's not like it's the only one. Mind made up, he quickly yanks it free from its flimsy mooring before opening his school bag and popping it inside. He's already thinking of leaving it in his sister's bed. His mean eyes narrow and he checks to see if he's being observed by security cameras.

  Nothing.

  And then his thudding heart thuds a little faster.

  At the back of the shop, he sees what looks like a small wildcat of some kind. And there's a chimpanzee. And next to it an orangutan. Between them, a human skeleton dangles from a wire. There's one in the science laboratory at school, though he doesn't think it's real. The bones on this one have an unpleasant yellow tinge, like a skeleton of a Roman soldier he saw in a museum once. Maybe this one is real, too. Oddly, someone's placed a top hat on its head. It looks like a posh dinner guest whose food never arrived. And then he notices that dotted among the animals and birds on the shelves there are two or three detached human skulls, which makes it feel as though he's wandered into the lair of a sorcerer or a witch.

  This is the best place that he has ever visited in his life. And that includes Euro Disney.

  There's hardly any space to move within the shop, but he edges closer to the shelf to have a look at one of the skulls. Nervously, he stretches out a hand and places it on top of what he assumes was once someone's head. It feels smooth and surprisingly delicate, as though he could crack it with his fingers. He squeezes it a little tighter.

  A voice crackles like an old record.

  "I'd rather you didn't touch the collection unless you're going to buy — are you going to buy?"

  The boy turns. For a second, he thought the skull was talking to him. But then he looks around and notices a small silhouette standing at the back of the shop. The figure steps forward, and he sees that it is a tiny old woman. She's even smaller than his sister, who's only ten years old. This lady looks one hundred and ten.

  The small lady is frowning as she ambles up to him. Her hair is thinning and that odd bluey-violet colour that you sometimes see on old English ladies. She wears thick glasses with purple frames, behind which are tiny black eyes set in a pudgy, wrinkled face that droops at the sides. The boy thinks she looks like a fruitcake mix before it goes in the oven. A smirk forms on his lips. This little old lady isn't going to give him any trouble.

  "Just looking," he says, leaving his hand on the skull.

  "Yes, well, that skull once belonged to someone who was just looking, too," she says frostily.

  He moves his hand away.

  She inches a little closer and the boy notices a strong odor, a blend of lavender and bleach. It reminds him of the hospital corridor where he waited for his grandfather to die.

  Unconsciously, he moves backwards to the door, his feet knocking into something as he does so. He turns to see a weasel staring up at him, its sharp front teeth poised to bite.

  "Please watch where you're stepping, young man," the old lady crackles, "any damages will have to be paid for."

  "Yeah, well, I'm done looking and now I'm going," he says. He wants to get away from this smelly dwarf lady and get the rat safely back home. Maybe cut it open and see what's inside.

  She comes closer. The dim light catches her glasses so that her eyes become silver crescents in the gloom of the shop. Her voice drops to a whisper.

  "I do hope you're not one of those boys that like to take things that don't belong to them — are you?" The little lady peers intently at him.

  The boy feels his face redden and his temper rise.

  "I wouldn't take anything from here, it's just a load of dead animals," he snarls.

  The old lady smiles with her mouth, but her eyes remain cold and penetrating.

  "Dead you say?"

  For a second, the boy sees a bat flapping towards him out of the darkness, its eyes glinting hungrily. He raises his arms and cries out. The little old lady chuckles, and the boy looks again to see that the bat is simply like all the other animals — still, silent and stuffed.

  "Why, whatever's the matter with you?" she says. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  For once, he's unable to think of a smart response. Instead, he turns and stomps through the door, but not before reaching out a hand and flicking a red squirrel onto the floor, which does a stiff, forward roll before landing in an ungainly heap.

  As he runs up the street, he hears a shriek that chills his bones faster than the cold night air.

  * * *

  Nighttime brings silence to the town. There are no drunken teenagers shouting obscenities from tatty bus shelters, or courting couples laughing as they fumble for car keys. The narrow streets are quiet and empty. Even the ubiquitous taxi driver is nowhere to be seen and has gone elsewhere to conduct his solitary vigil. Doors are locked early. Curtains are pulled tight, shutting out the darkness like an unwelcome relative. People huddle down in front of the TV and turn up the volume, lest any strange night noises have to be investigated.

  But all is not as quiet as it may seem.

  In one house, just a little way out of town, there is a muffled scream as a young girl finds a dead rat on her pillow. It's followed by a nasty giggle, an angry accusation and a weary appeal for peace and quiet.

  Back in the high street, murmurs come from inside a shop, recently opened. Behind thick, velvet curtains, a tiny silhouette stands with hands on hips. You might think it a little girl, until you hear the gravelly croak that can only belong to someone much, much older. The figure begins to wander up and down, occasionally stopping to pat a head, tickle an ear or stroke a feather.

  "And you saw him take it, did you? And you, too? Oh, you clever things. Yes, yes, I agree. He had that look about him, didn't he? You can always spot them, can't you, the rotten apples? Well, my lovelies, what are we to do?"

  The small silhouette turns to the back of the shop and speaks.

  "Mr. Fitzsimon, I believe this is a situation that would benefit from your... skill in these matters. Would you care to take the night air and see what can be done?"

  Who, or what, she addresses doesn't reply.

  But a second or two later, there is an odd clunking sound, like tuneless keys on a dead piano.

  * * *

  Old Fred Parnell looks up at the starry sky and feels the world revolving slowly on its axis. He staggers backwards and just manages to place a steadying hand on his front gate before becoming intimate with the pavement. Tonight he's overdone it, even by his red-faced standards. Since lunchtime, he's been settled in the snug at the Fox & Hounds, marking out his betting slip with a copy of The Racing Post and a pint of Bishop's Finger. And then another pint. And another. Then it was one more... oh go on, if you're buying... right, I'll have the same again... maybe a small nip... oh all right, just to keep out the cold... right, last one for me... aye go on then... God blesh ya....

  ...until the world dissolved like a sugar cube in a glass of Absinthe.

  Now he aims his shriveled penis at the back wall of his house, before unleashing a dribble of industrial-strength urine down the front of his trousers. Oh shit. He's glad his Gladys isn't around to see him in this state; she'd turn in her grave. Melancholy descends like an autumnal mist, and as he fumbles with his zip, a solitary tear trickles over the broken veins on his cheek.

  As he attempts to insert his key in the lock on his front door, which appears to be moving in a clockwise motion, he hears a clicking sound coming down the high street towards him. He turns and peers down the path, closing one eye in an effort to focus on the cone of light that hangs from the streetlamp. Into view walks a skeleton, which raises its top hat in a friendly greeting as it passes. Fred waves weakly, before inserting his key smoothly into the lo
ck, opening the door, and slamming it shut in his most agile movement of the evening.

  Fred never touches a drop again.

  * * *

  Police Sergeant Dave Williamson has his feet up on the desk and is reading the sports pages in the local paper when a call comes in. It's Mrs. Miller from Grange Street, ringing to tell him that she's just spotted a chimpanzee swinging from her pear tree. Sighing, he hangs up and swings his feet back up on the desk.

  Bloody nightshift.

  * * *

  The dog is barking furiously, and Julie Henderson bites her nails as she peers out of the window. Tyson isn't a neurotic dog by any standards and only barks when he has good reason to. His yelps are like the phone ringing in the middle of the night — an unwelcome herald of dark tidings. Outside all is quiet, but in her mind, Julie sees a white hand in the bushes holding a knife. She shivers. It's at times like this that she wishes she was still married. Tyson jumps up at the door and growls, a gossamer thread of drool dangling from his jaws. Julie cringes as the spittle spirals down onto her nice, clean floor. Canine security comes at a cost. Now he's scrabbling frantically at the door, his blunt nails adding another few welts to the crisscross pattern on the paintwork. Keeping an eye out for boiler-suit-clad madmen with axes, she unlocks the door. Tyson hurriedly squeezes past her and rushes outside before the door is fully opened. She stands on the doorstep, hugging herself like a fisherman's wife awaiting news of a shipwreck.

  A scrabbling in the bushes.

  Tyson barks.

  It's answered with a deep, guttural growl from something that doesn't wear a collar and doesn't come when it's told.

  Tyson retreats, trotting quickly back into the house with his head hung, ashamed that he's failed to meet the only requirement of his job description.

  Julie just wants to get the door locked again as quickly as possible.

  They return upstairs and huddle on the bed together, clutching the quilt like drowning sailors clinging to a lifebelt.

  Both of them are happy to forget that they ever saw something with fangs at the bottom of the garden.

  * * *

  Many find sleep hard to come by. It's an eerie night, punctuated by screeches and growls, hoots and yowls. People stand at their windows, considering whether they really did see a penguin waddle across their front lawn. And whilst it's not unusual to see the odd owl fly across town on a midnight hunt, it's rare to see five of them flying in formation with a golden eagle, a painted snipe and an Indian green pigeon. The citizens sigh and return to the warmth of their beds, happy to ascribe their sightings to seasonal vagaries. Perhaps even to a morsel of badly digested cheese, as that famous miser once did when haunted by ghosts.

  One boy has no trouble sleeping. He's had a good day. One rat acquired. One sister freaked out. Not a bad tally all told. While younger boys clutch teddy bears to their chest, he clutches his new vermin capture, his rest deep and dreamless. He's so sound asleep that he doesn't hear the snarling and snorting of strange animals outside his window. Nor does he hear his bedroom door open. The thick carpet muffles the sound of the fleshless feet that tip toe in. The rat stirs in the boy's grip and wriggles free, greeting someone, or something, with a twitch of its whiskers and a flick of its pale worm-like tail. It scampers up and sniffs at the boy's face, wrinkling its tiny nose in what appears to be distaste. Then those long yellow teeth open and gently fasten onto the boy's fleshy upper lip. Only now does the boy stir. At first he whimpers in pain. Then, as he sees a grinning skull looking down at him, he whimpers with fear.

  Then, for the next hour or so, he whimpers from a combination of both.

  * * *

  A rat crouches on a pillow and licks freshly spilt blood from a bony finger.

  * * *

  A red-tailed hawk perches at the end of a bed and tears gooey strings of scarlet liver with its beak.

  * * *

  A polecat studies a tube of grey intestine which has been thrown onto a bedroom floor, before gnawing at it casually, like a stick of blueberry chewing gum.

  * * *

  The sun returns, a bright yellow broom here to sweep all the nasty night terrors back under the carpet. Even so, it remains a subdued start to the day, with many people lost in their thoughts, the firm pillars of normality having shifted overnight.

  An old man with a red face winces as he swigs down a fizzing glass of aspirin tablets.

  An attractive middle-aged lady watches a Doberman sniffing excitedly around a willow tree in her back garden.

  A policeman curses as he spills tomato ketchup from his bacon sandwich onto a report of curious events.

  In one house, a mother is delighted to be greeted by a hug and a kiss from her son, who is normally sullen and uncommunicative. The boy apologises to his sister, and asks if he can help with the breakfast dishes. The mother thinks he looks a little pale and asks if he's feeling okay, but he assures her that everything is wonderful, before packing his peanut butter sandwiches into his school bag and setting off for school humming a cheery pop song. The mother shrugs to herself, before fetching a dustpan and brush to clear a trail of sawdust that the boy has left on the kitchen floor. Ah well. Polite, happy and tidy would have been too much to ask.

  * * *

  As the town awakens, and the sun roots out any lingering shadows from the narrow streets, one place remains dark and still, resisting the day's cheery bustle. The shop that was briefly open is now closed again, its curtains drawn and door locked. Inside, a baggy faced old lady dusts her collection of animals, birds and bones. She's spent the night preparing for a new addition to her collection, and now eagerly awaits its arrival. The back door opens, and she hears slow, clumping footsteps approach. Without breaking from her task, she addresses the newcomer in her crackly voice.

  "Well, well, and look what the cat dragged in. And how are you today, young man? Did you enjoy meeting Mr. Fitzsimon last night?"

  A small boy stands staring blankly into space. His voice is slow, and he stumbles over his words as though someone has slipped a little Belladonna in his tea.

  "I very much... enjoyed... meeting... I... pleasure... I'm so tired," he yawns.

  "Hush now, you foolish boy, you're talking utter nonsense."

  She turns and looks at him, her glasses a second pair of disapproving eyes.

  The boy tries again. He feels so tired, as though he could lie down right now and sleep forever.

  "I am... pleased... meeting... thank you very much... can I have a biscuit?"

  A thin trail of sawdust trickles down between the boy's legs. He stares without seeing, his eyes glazed, lifeless and no longer quite so mean. The old lady slaps him on the cheek, the sharp thwack of flesh on flesh making him blink rapidly.

  "Tsh, look at the mess you're making on my floor. Turn around and pull up your shirt, you dirty little boy!"

  The boy turns, pauses, then turns again, the movement clumsy and confused. The little old lady yanks up his shirt angrily, exposing a crude line of thick, canvas stitches holding the skin of his bloodied back together. A couple of them have come loose. Sawdust pours out between his pink ribs like sand through an hourglass.

  "Oh Mr. Fitzsimon, such a shoddy job!" the old lady says to a bony figure at the back of the shop. "Well, we'll have to do a little tidying before you go on show. Who on earth's going to want to buy you?"

  And with that, she ushers the boy through to the back room, returning to collect a sharp butcher's knife and a thin steel needle with a hook on the end. Yes, he'll need to stay out back with the others whilst she scrapes all that sticky flesh from the bones. She doesn't want to scare any customers away, particularly the young boy in the baseball cap that's outside shoving dog dirt through her letterbox.

  The Tick-Tock Heart by L.S. Murphy

  For thirty-one years, Kate Tucker lived on Westline Drive on the north side of Carterville's town square. When she was a child, her parents owned the dry cleaners beneath their apartment. Now it was an antique shop that man
aged to make Kate enough money to live on. It helped that she owned the building and didn't have a mortgage or children.

  But she had her tick-tocks. The wide assortment of clocks covered every wall, corner, and anywhere in between of the three bedroom townhouse apartment. In the antique shop, there were even more. When Kate needed to or could bear to part with one of her precious clocks, she would sell it. Most of her income came from internet deals, but occasionally a lost tourist would wander in and buy something.

  When the little bell over the door dinged on the dreary Thursday afternoon, Kate stared into the face of the last person she ever expected to see in Carterville again. Meredith Tucker-Harper stood a step inside the door with her dirty blonde hair dripping the rain-snow mix that spit from the sky.

  "Hey, Katie." Meredith didn't move, and Kate saw water begin to pool on her hardwood floor. It was just like Meredith to stand on the floor instead of the rug. "I'm home."

  "What're you doing here?" Katie continued to stare at the growing puddles. Her fingers itched to grab the mop she kept behind her desk for moments like this.

  "Nice to see you too, sis," Meredith snapped. "Are you going to invite me in or do you expect me to stand here all day?"

  "It's three in the afternoon."

  "So?"

  "The day's almost over."

  Meredith shook her head and laughed.

  Kate didn't see what was so funny. Especially since Meredith was now spraying the books on display in the window. Kate walked over to the front door and locked it, flipping the sign to closed. Her eyes never left her sister's face.

  "You never answered my question, Meredith." The loud click of the deadbolt echoed through the tension. Kate turned to face her sister. "Why are you here?"