HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  She comes to and the sun is high in a clear blue sky. The pain at her wrist is so bad she doesn’t want to look. She lifts her head and her eyes meet badger eyes. It’s chewing bloody scraps of flesh. Rose lifts her arm. Her hand is hanging by a stringy red thread. The scream that comes from her throat makes the badger disappear.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.’ Rose woke up panting, the smell of pine overpowering, the hot pain in her wrist felt like someone had driven a six-inch nail through it. She rubbed the bangle and tried flexing stiffened fingers. By Christ it bloody hurt. And she had a headache. She sat up, realised she was still holding the lucky cup. She didn’t want to put it down. From the bedside drawer she found her Valdoxan tablets and knocked back two with a drink of water from the bottle on the side, and laid down again. These tablets were good, fast-working. They’d sort her out.

  Still the strong smell of pine. Her eyes were drawn through the bedroom door and across the living area to the front door. Of course, she’d left it open, dozed off. She held the lucky cup close to her stomach and breathed in the clean pine scent. Outside, the blue haze of night was tinged with mist and the lightest breeze moved the few branches she could see. So peaceful.

  Peaceful yet ominous. A sudden feeling of great foreboding sent goosebumps marching up her arms. Having an overactive imagination was one of Rose’s strengths as a writer. Right now, though, she wished she could turn it off because this place was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

  She swung her legs from the bed intent on shutting the front door and bolting it when a black shape dropped from the porch roof to the decking. It hopped forward, silhouetted in the doorway. A crow. Shit. A bird in the house means bad luck, a death to come, or so her mother used to say.

  Rose got to her feet, waved a hand. ‘Shoo, birdie. Shoo!’

  The crow did not move.

  She placed the lucky cup on the bedside drawers. ‘Didn’t you hear me, mister? I said shoo!’

  The crow’s head cocked to one side.

  Rose had a weird feeling it was about to answer back. ‘Off with you! Out!’

  The crow made three hops forward, over the threshold. Now it was on the doormat, just inside the door.

  Rose tightened her dressing gown and moved noisily to the bedroom doorway. She reached her hand around the doorframe and slapped the light switch. The living area lit up. Black eyes stared at her.

  ‘You were meant to leave at that point, Mr Crow.’

  The bird shook its head, ruffled its feathers.

  What now? Scream at it? Throw something? Why? It’s not doing any harm, right? ‘I’m going to come over there, and before I close the door, you can just hop yourself outside. Yes?’ She stepped into the room and kept moving, slow steps, reached halfway then froze as another crow dropped to the decking. Then another, and another. ‘Fuck.’ Another, another, another. Thump, thump, thump. A whole bundle of crows blocked the doorway. Bundle? Murder!

  Rose made her move, committed to rushing the intruders, forcing them outside and slamming the door shut before others came inside. But she didn’t get anywhere near. The crows lifted and swarmed inside, a whirl of thrashing blackness. Rose scrambled back, lashing out at the frenzy.

  She fell onto the sofa and rolled off. Her hip hit the floor with a painful thud. Beaks nipped at her hands, her arms. Claws tugged at her dressing gown and scratched through her hair. On her knees now, curled low, arms around her head. Crows on her back, crows in her hair. Nip, nip, nip. Rose screamed. Still on her knees she headed for the kitchen area and the adjoining shower cubicle, and just made it inside the cubicle and kicked the door shut as a crow thumped into it. Black shapes fluttered about through the frosted glass door. Rose kept her feet against it, closed her eyes and wished them gone.

  The silence was almost sudden. A flap of wings and it seemed as though her wish had been granted. She waited, caught her breath. Silence. She moved to the door, cracked it open, no crows. She got to her feet and took one step from the cubicle, just enough to see through to the living area. One last crow hopped through the front door and lifted off to into the night.

  She glanced around: a broken wine glass, toppled ornaments, lots of feathers. No birds. Blood on her hands, arms, cuts stinging her scalp. She hurried to the door, closed it and bolted it.

  The living area was a mess. Feathers on the floor, feathers on the side, a streak of crowshit down the wall, a single feather on the lightshade. When she reached up to retrieve the feather, the sleeve of her dressing gown fell to reveal a bare wrist. Her bangle was missing. She scanned the floor, remembered falling to the sofa, searched its cushions. No bangle. She got down on her knees and looked underneath the sofa. Not there. She stood up, looked around. Nothing. Eyes drawn to the bedroom, a black feather on the pillow. A black feather that felt like an intrusion, a violation. She went through to get it, to throw it away, and spotted something out of place on the ceiling above the bed. Something slim and metallic, her copper bangle, wedged into the smoke alarm’s cracked casing.

  9

  Tapping on windows, tapping on doors, tap, tap, tap. Slap!

  Beth’s eyes shoot open, the sting on her face hurls unfamiliar rage to her fists. The glaring wood spirit stands over her and the sparrows on the pegs are chirruping like crazy. One more time, if she gets slapped just one more time.

  ‘You fainted. I can’t believe you would do that.’

  ‘I didn’t do it on a purpose.’

  The wood spirit is blocking one window. Through the other Beth can see Elizabeth’s legs and feet. She’s being carried down some stairs.

  ‘I’m not convinced you’re strong enough, Bethy.’ A tear runs down the wood spirit’s cheek. ‘I’m not sure you’re the one. Not sure at all.’

  The one? No. ‘No, I’m not really strong at all. I’m sorry.’

  The wood spirit paces back and forth. ‘Master will be sorely disappointed. I’ve let him down so.’ She sniffs and wipes her eyes.

  Beth thinks this could be her chance. ‘I’m sorry I’m no good. Can I go now? Please.’

  The wood spirit stops pacing and looks to the circular windows, where a door opens and Elizabeth is carried into a small room with a hospital bed and a white robe hanging on the wall. The wood spirit’s head whips around and the sparrows on the pegs quieten and turn their heads, too.

  ‘We’re going to make the best of this, Bethy. I need you to try really hard. Please, can you do that?’

  Beth guesses she’s going nowhere yet. ‘I’ll try.’

  The wood spirit comes close, takes her hand. ‘The horse powders are a wonder, Bethy. They make the spirit fly. You’re going to enjoy this.’

  Through the windows, Elizabeth’s hands receive a glass of water and a small foil cone. She tips back the cone and drinks. Water gurgles beneath their feet and the sparrows on the pegs start to sing again.

  The faintest of prickles appear in Beth’s toes. She wriggles them and a quiver of warmth travels up her legs. Her breaths become deep and . . . hearty. Hearty?

  hearty, hearty, hearty, runs around the wall and Beth giggles.

  ‘Shush and listen, Bethy. Shush!’

  My child, my perfect child, Master’s voice is deep and smooth like golden honey. His words also roll around the walls my perfect child, my perfect child, and the sparrows sing a shrill song.

  The view through the windows swings and Master is there, another foil cone, tipping it into his mouth, washed down with water.

  ‘Perfect,’ says the wood spirit. ‘Let Him into your heart, Bethany. Let Him in and give Him your will.’

  Beth can only feel her heart beating. An image of Master making a den inside her heart is quickly pushed away.

  You never failed me, always worked hard

  never failed, never failed, never failed

  Through the windows, Master takes Elizabeth’s hands and kisses them. Warm touches of pressure kisses the backs of Beth’s hands and the pressure turns to pleasure that tingles warmly through her arms.


  The wood spirit releases Beth’s hand, clasps her hands to her chest and sighs.

  Master’s face comes close to the windows, blue eyes in a serious face. He strokes Elizabeth’s hair and invisible fingers run through Beth’s hair. His touch feels golden and sweet.

  His eyes close, his face grows bigger, invisible lips touch Beth’s lips and there’s a tickle of beard against her chin.

  ‘I am so fortunate,’ says the wood spirit.

  fortunate, fortunate, fortunate

  The singing sparrows are so nice to listen to, a song Beth wants to learn.

  learn, learn, learn

  Master’s lips kiss her nose, her forehead. Beth feels each kiss, his warm breath on her face an unusual and unsteadying pleasure.

  He gets to his feet, stands before his child, naked and taut. Beth sees his bricks, an energy as golden as his words, his touch.

  The wood spirit raises her hands, and through the windows Elizabeth’s hands reach out to the naked form. ‘Feel Him, Bethy, for soon He will be yours and you will be His.’

  His His His

  Beth’s arms rise before her and as the hands outside touch the tightness of his flesh, Beth feels the tingle on her own hands, a magical tingle that promises joy and wonder and the knowledge of the universe.

  universe universe universe

  ‘Feel him, Bethany, feel his beauty.’

  Beth feels him. She also feels queasy.

  ‘It’s just the powders. It’ll pass soon, you’ll see.’

  Through the windows a yellow dress unfurls. The wood spirit’s arms go high, so do Beth’s and the yellow material rushes down past the windows.

  Beth is warm, too warm.

  ‘Think of snow,’ says the wood spirit.

  Beth sees real snowflakes, catches one on her tongue.

  ‘It’s the powders, you’ll get there soon.’

  Master takes the robe from the wall, ties it at his chest.

  Invisible hands appear under Beth’s armpits, and she has the feeling of being lifted.

  The wood spirit’s arm comes around her shoulder. ‘It’s time to die a perfect death, Bethany Black.’

  Beth feels as if she’s made of rubber, swaying this way and that. ‘Die?’

  die die die

  ‘He will love you and kill you at the same time. You will become Him, He will become you, and Master will become Whole again . . . Supreme!’

  A sparrow falls from its perch, hangs lifeless by the string at its leg. Then another, and another. One by one the sparrows fall.

  ‘Let Him in, Bethy. Give Him your will. Can you feel Him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beth says. ‘I am so fortunate.’

  10

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Sasha’s on the bed, propped against the pillows and still fully clothed, bag of peanuts in hand, whisky bottle stuffed between her legs.

  Pete closes the door, slides the bolt home.

  ‘Five minutes you said. That was at least fifteen minutes ago. I’ve been shitting meself, Pete. Bloody shitting meself. This places makes noises.’

  He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the door. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  ‘I really missed you, babe. Did you miss me?’

  Pete moves to the foot of the bed, scans the shadows in the kitchen area. There’s a presence, he’s sure of it. He can feel watching eyes. He rests his hands on the scoops and looks back to Sasha.

  Sasha pouts and blows him a kiss. ‘Like to play doctors and nurses, do ya?’ She opens her legs and rubs her crotch with the whisky bottle. ‘I knew you’d be into a bit of kink the second I shoved my fingers up your arse. I’ve done it all, you know. You name it and I’ve got in on film. What ya wanna do first, babe, wanna fist me? Lick me out and fist me, Pete. I wanna ride your face then your fist, babe.’

  He loosens the Velcro straps on the scoops. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  ‘Just a sec.’ She reaches her bag from the floor, dips inside, brings out a bottle of pills and lobs it to Pete.

  Pete swipes it from the air. Imodium suppositories for diarrhoea, the label says. The pills inside are brown and lozenge-shaped. ‘You got the shits?’

  Sasha laughs. ‘Christ no. You never been through the K-hole? It’s ketamine. The best.’

  Pete shakes his head. He’s never tried ketamine. He’s heard tales, though. ‘Fly with the stars,’ he says.

  ‘And fuck with the gods, babe. Last time I was up there I rode Jesus himself and sucked his scrawny dick. Seriously, those bad boys take all the pain away and send you to another level.’

  Pete feels his chest rise. ‘A higher plane.’

  ‘Exactly that, pet.’ She swigs on the whisky bottle.

  ‘I’m already pumped on speed.’

  ‘So? All the better, I say. Fetch us some of your fizzy water. And maybe you should just take half a one, babe. Since you’re not used to it.’

  Pete spots an empty glass on the floor. She’s been drinking the water. He smiles at that, opens the bottle and tips two pills onto his palm. He throws one to Sasha, pops the other into his mouth, takes the glass away for a refill, washes it down, hands the glass to Sasha. She pops and swallows.

  ‘How long till it kicks in?’ Pete asks.

  ‘Ten, fifteen minutes usually, but with the speed, and this your first time, I guess your feet’ll leave the ground pretty quick.’

  There’s already something, a wriggling in his gut, like fingers feeling about. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Good-good.’ With a drunken wobble, Sasha gets up onto her knees and juts out her chest, stretching the writing on her tee. ‘Good girls go to Heaven, you know. It’s time to take me to Heaven, Petey.’ She jiggles her tits and almost falls over.

  ‘Take it off.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She blows him a kiss and peels the shirt over her head and drops it to the floor. Her hands squeeze at a thick grey bra that Pete thinks could easily catapult boulders from here to Moxley. He wants the white flesh snaking with stretch marks, he wants to . . . craft knife, orange, pocket, slice the bitch open.

  ‘Pete! Pay attention, hon.’

  She unclips the unsightly bra and throws it at him. He bats it away to the floor. Her freed tits stretch to her waist, nipples big and brown like hamburgers. One pendulous breast in the palm of each hand, she’s weighing them like melons at a market. Pete beckons her forward. She rolls onto her back and her joggers are soon on the floor with the T-shirt and bra. Pete pats the scoops, there’s a pleasant stirring in his pants that makes him think of an elephant’s trunk.

  ‘Not yet, big boy.’ From her bag of tricks she takes a coil of purple cord and begins wrapping it around her breasts in a figure-of-eight, over and again she repeats the process and slowly the milky flesh turns red, then purple, and the breasts are now jutting, rather than hanging. Eyes closed, moaning as the cord tightens, she takes the two ends, ties them behind her neck and her breasts stick out from her front like bruised warheads. She knees down the bed, belly slapping, tits bobbing, the eye of her bellybutton winking at him. Her hands are unzipping him, freeing his hardening cock, her hot mouth tasting him, heavy tits pressing against his legs.

  Pete hears whisperings from the shadows. ‘Mr Wood?’

  ‘Who?’ Sasha looks up at him. ‘Is that what you call your pecker? That’s cute.’

  ‘No. Mr Wood. He should be here for this.’

  Sasha giggles, ‘Pervert,’ and sucks him back into her mouth.

  Pete grasps her pigtails and pulls her head away. ‘Fuck now.’

  ‘Eager beaver!’ She heaves herself onto her back and plants her little feet on his chest. ‘But I need your face in my pussy first.’ Pete takes her left foot and rests it in the scoop, fastens the Velcro strap, same again with the right foot.

  What he sees between her legs makes him sway – a hallucination, so soon – but a good one. She has no hair down there, just sparkling jewels in the shape of butterfly wings above a pouting slit. Pete’s balls tighten and his mouth waters
.

  ‘It’s a vajazzle, hon. Stop fucking gawping and lick me.’

  The wriggling fingers squirm through Pete’s gut like tentacles, to his groin, and his cock stands to attention. His head gives an involuntary twitch. ‘A butterfly. Aye. It’s perfect.’

  ‘Then taste me, babe.’

  Pete hesitates.

  ‘Do you just wanna stick me, babe?’

  She’s looking at his cock. His stiff cock. Pete tentatively reaches to the pouting slit and touches the backs of his fingers to it. Sasha shivers at his touch. Moans when his fingers part the slit. Gasps when he slides four fingers into her. Cries out and bucks a little when he adds his thumb and pushes his hand inside her.

  He can’t see her face, just her purple warhead tits jutting from her flabby form. He curls his hand into a fist and Sasha groans so very loud. When he pulls his hand free, Sasha cries out again, squirms a little.

  She’s up on her elbows now, peering over her jutting tits. ‘Fucking hell, Pete.’

  ‘What?’ Pete sniffs the wetness on his hand. Licks it from a finger.

  Sasha sighs. ‘God you turn me on.’

  ‘Tastes good,’ Pete tells her.