The Casualties

by Nick Holdstock

  Obviously Robert had told her. While the doctor was cutting her face, inserting wires and pins, Caitlin had the distraction of wondering why. Had he done so from guilt or simply out of malice? Had Karen suspected it, then forced the truth from him?

  For a week Caitlin lay in a haze of painkillers, remembering Robert’s lips, the rage in Karen’s face. She deserved this. She was worthless. Tears burnt her cheeks.

  Perhaps she too would have drunk bleach, cut her wrists, placed a rope round her neck. But on the eighth day there was a knock at the door. She did not want to see anyone (or more accurately, did not want to be seen by anyone), so she did not get up to answer.

  She lay very still, as if the person might hear her moving. There was a second knock. Then the letterbox flapped, and she heard something thump onto the mat. When she went to look she found a thick brown parcel that had barely fit through the slot. There was no postmark, only her name. The letters were careful, properly formed, not a scrawl of lust or revenge. She almost opened it with her finger. She stopped. She took it to the kitchen and slit it open with a knife. There was no cloud of poisonous gas. No snake or broken glass. Just a copy of Middlemarch with a note from Sam. Get well, it said.

  * * *

  BY MAY 2016 Caitlin was back on solids. She felt beaten and humiliated, but she would carry on. She went back to work. She got another volunteer to replace Karen. She started planning a holiday. There were two, three weeks when she felt she’d gotten back to where she’d been before. Then the first crack appeared. It was a long thin cut to the left of her nose that was painfully deep. She did not know what had caused it. She had not been exposed to a cold wind or sat in a place that was too hot; all she had done was sit in bed and read Netochka Nezvanova.

  That evening she settled on the sofa with a pile of clothes she had been meaning to mend. Some of the tears were probably too wide, but it didn’t hurt to try. Slowly, patiently, she stitched till it was time for bed. She read for a while then turned out the light, hoping that, in the peace of sleep, healing might take place.

  The next morning, the mirror showed a second crack on the other side of her nose. She gently smothered it in ointment. She tried not to worry.

  After a week without improvement, she went to see her dermatologist. His practice was on the other side of the city, up the hill, then down grey streets where everyone looked sick. To get there she had to take a bus that left from near the bridge. She walked along the main street—past the bookshop, where Sam was not working, past Mr. Asham’s, then the French delicatessen—until she reached the river. There she saw Alasdair leaning against a wall. His face was one great purple bruise; an eye was swollen shut. He was muttering about killers and thieves, but she did not feel sorry for him. He often yelled that her bad skin was caused by perverse thoughts.

  She boarded the bus that parted the traffic like a whale amongst fish. She read her book. The bus ascended. At the crest of the hill, it stopped. She raised her head and saw a veiled girl standing at the traffic light. Although many pedestrians were crossing, she stood motionless, head slightly raised, as if, just like the cars, she was waiting for a signal. She was wearing a pretty lace dress that Caitlin soon realised was not a dress but many petticoats. They were a beautiful cream colour, probably silk, and looked very old.

  The traffic lights changed; the bus moved forwards. The veiled girl, as if suddenly waking, stepped towards the kerb. Either she did not see the bus—which now blocked the crossing—or thought it presented no obstacle, because she continued towards it. Caitlin was glad to see her approaching. She wanted to see the lace up close; the veil looked antique.

  As the girl came closer Caitlin saw the white glow of her face. It was like glimpsing a full, bright moon through the fabric of a tent. She felt a pulse of sympathy; the poor girl must also have terrible skin.

  The veiled girl came to the edge of the pavement, but did not stop there. She stepped off the kerb, and then her face was an arm’s length from Caitlin’s. She could see her fellow passengers nudging each other, saying What is that?

  Caitlin turned away. She stared out the windows on the other side of the bus. The girl would step either left or right, then go around the bus.

  When she looked back the girl was standing so close the window seemed not to be there. Slowly she lifted her veil. Even Caitlin was appalled by the lump. It was more than disgusting; it was malevolent. For a few seconds she found this comforting. Someone looked worse than her. This gave way to a burning in her stomach, a tightness in her throat. It must be how she made others feel.

  The lump was pressed against the glass; still the bus did not move. There was a brief flurry of phones, some satisfied clicks.

  When Caitlin told Sam about it, she said the moment felt strange.

  “How?” he asked, and though she answered, it took her some time. “Because I thought she was going to come onto the bus. Either through the window, or at the next stop.”

  “Through the window? No, you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it, that’s just what I thought. Anyway, that was when the bus began to move.”

  As the street slid by, Caitlin felt herself pulled backwards. It felt like some part of herself had been tied to a lamppost. Something was holding on to her and would not let go.

  She was stretching.

  She was cracking.

  She would fray, then snap.

  Then the bus was moving faster, and she was released. She forced her eyes back to the page. She read without thinking the words.

  The dermatologist tested her skin. He said its pH had changed. He asked about her washing habits and diet and did not believe her answers.

  He said, “You need to be honest. If you don’t, I can’t help you. If this goes on any longer, there’s sure to be scarring.”

  It was like having to go through puberty again, but without the consolation that everyone else was a mess. Then, there had been the prospect of worthwhile transformation. Now there was no such comfort. Her skin would split into ravines that would become canyons. Her face would be a cratered landscape. There would be a lump.

  That night Caitlin took her mirrors down. The next day she put them back up. She had no reason to be ashamed: Her skin had broken the ceasefire. It had launched these crimson flares, drawn the battle lines. And although she had been unprepared, perhaps even complacent, she would fight with every weapon she had. If herbal baths and face packs failed, she would deploy moisturiser, powder, and foundation in a holding action. Under their covering fire she’d launch volleys of cortisone.

  But all these strategies failed. Her forces were routed. As soon as a red line healed, two more took its place. Caitlin plastered her face with foundation and powder but to no avail. People stared. Children pointed. Blood was always of interest.

  I suppose this has been the case throughout human history. When the first hut caught fire or collapsed, although there were those who turned away quite leisurely from the disaster, most pointed and laughed.

  But the people of Comely Bank did more than mock the afflicted: They consumed their lives. The bookshops were full of “true” stories of illness, abuse, and bad luck; every month a new magazine devoted to others’ misery appeared on Mr. Asham’s shelves. People liked these stories because they were reminders that their lives could be much worse. So what if they did not like their job or love their husband, or their children seemed boring and average? Their lives were imperfect and they were unhappy, but things weren’t that bad.

  We do not read such books today. We do not need reminders.

  4. More

  BY THE START OF JUNE it was warm enough for Sam to eat lunch in the park. He usually bought a delicious but expensive sandwich from the French delicatessen next to Mr. Asham’s shop. The staff in the delicatessen were incredibly dismissive; either they thought him socially inferior because he was only buying a single overpriced item, or that was how they spoke to everyone. Most likely, they were just following the lead of the own
er, a middle-aged man with floppy brown hair whose attitude seemed to be that he was doing people a huge favour by selling them meats and cheeses at grossly inflated prices. Though he was a condescending, pompous fool, in his defence it must be said that the produce was excellent. There was a soft cheese called Explorateur you wanted to keep in your mouth for hours, and a sausage made with fennel that was too exquisite to eat with anything else. It is hard to accept that no one will ever taste these things again.

  Sam’s favourite place in the park was a bench under an ash tree by the man-made lake. It was a relaxing spot. He could read while ducks and swans swam smoothly before him. But even in the quiet of the park there was always some distraction, some human question mark. A man wearing a balaclava on a sunny day; a very short woman walking backwards; a couple walking hand in hand, their wrists tied together with string. Some of these mysteries were easily solved. He had often seen the short woman in the company of several elderly Chinese women, who sometimes liked to walk backwards during their morning exercise. They did this to stretch different muscles and shift the point of impact, and it made perfect sense, just as it does to the aged men and women I see doing it outside my building every day.

  Sam’s main distraction was a little man with a closely trimmed black beard who was usually accompanied by a younger man of elephantine proportions. The latter was so huge there was barely room for the little man on the bench. The two seldom spoke; the little man was usually preoccupied with a novel written in German or French. The only attention he paid to the younger man during the hour they spent sitting together was in the form of a chocolate-covered raisin he dispensed at ten-minute intervals. This seemed like a long-standing pact, one that involved a reward in exchange for silence.

  Though this scene demanded explanation, Sam knew little about the pair. The bearded man’s name was Mortimer, and he was an occasional customer in the bookshop. Whenever he came to the till he did little more than blink. As for the younger man, his name was Toby, and he was well known in Comely Bank—in every town and village there used to be a person whose body commanded attention because of its great size. Given that Toby was four times larger than average, he was as familiar a landmark as any statue or tree. Lest there be any doubt that he was this large—because people change in one’s memory, become simpler, more consistent—here are his measurements, as recorded by Mortimer.

  The subject was a Caucasian male, aged 29, weight 164 kg., with a Body Mass Index of 45. Though there was no definitive evidence of mental retardation (as measured by a battery of standardised tests), the subject performed badly on various tests of cognitive function, and was, in the opinion of the experimenter, incredibly stupid.

  This was all true, even the last part (though one could put it more kindly). Toby was a gentle, trusting creature, more a swollen boy than a man. He lived with his mother, Evelyn; his father was dead, and he had no brothers or sisters. It was not his fault he liked eating so much: One could no more blame him than one would blame a balloon that was overinflated. He was surrounded by temptation. In addition to the street’s two cafés and restaurant, there was Mr. Asham’s, which sold most kinds of food. But his favourite was the delicatessen. Toby pressed his nose against its windows; his breath fogged the glass. Though he loved the sight of the food—in packets, on plates, under glass counters—his real hope was that someone would share what they had bought. He couldn’t buy food for himself, as his mother didn’t trust him with money. But just as the streets gave Alasdair the things he needed, so Toby was able to find small brown coins on the ground. Everyone saw these coins, but because they were so low in value they were not worth the effort to bend. Yet even one of them was enough to buy Toby a sweet.

  Unhappily, they were not enough for the pies, sandwiches, chips, and burgers that were so painfully close. No matter how long he stood outside cafés and shops, his eyes wide with hunger, pleading, crying, no one fed him even when they had spare food. Toby did not understand. According to his mother, it was good to share. It was one of her rules. There were rules about bottles he must not touch, rules about the television, rules about the old green parrot that lived in a cage in the lounge. He did not understand these rules. Whenever he asked her why, she said, “It’s because I love you.” She loved him, and he loved her, except for when he hated her. Like when she stopped him from going through rubbish then put soap in his mouth. Or when he pulled on the fridge or cupboard doors because, although she always remembered to lock them, even to go to the toilet or answer the phone, it was possible she might forget. This had happened only once, when they heard a woman screaming from the flat next door. It was a frightened sound of pain that made Toby put his fingers in his ears. His mother had rushed out and started screaming at the woman’s husband, who had shouted back, and although all this screaming and shouting took little time, it was still enough for Toby to eat most of the food in the fridge. He had his hand in a jar when his mother came back. She grabbed his wrist and shook it till the jar came off and hit the wall. The glass cut his face and her hand; when she forced her fingers into his mouth and down his throat, her blood was a smear of salt. It was the taste of this, as well as her fingers, that made Toby throw up.

  Looking after Toby put a great strain on Evelyn. Mercifully she was given money by the government to hire someone to help. She put an ad in the local paper.

  Responsible person required to look after large but lovable young man. Must be kind but VERY strict. Lunch and Dinner provided.

  When Mortimer took the job in 2013 he was the twenty-seventh person to hold the position. Despite the fact he had no experience in care work, he would last three years, far longer than anyone else. This can only be explained by the fact that he, like Sam, had a curiosity that was hard to satisfy. But Mortimer’s interests were more scientific. Despite having no formal credentials or training, he had published several articles whose titles included “How to Confuse Pilot Fish,” “When Big Dogs Are Small,” and “A Personal History of Horse Contraception.” These appeared in a magazine called The Journal of Scientific Investigation, a publication that, despite its name, was not scientifically legitimate. Its articles were not peer reviewed; anyone could have their study published so long as they paid.

  Though Toby might seem like an obvious subject of study, it took Mortimer a long time to become interested. Until spring 2016, his only concern was to make sure Toby didn’t swallow glass or get hit by a car. The raisins in the park were not part of some experiment on conditioning techniques in the lower primates; Mortimer just wanted Toby to stop whining so he could read. He once boasted to a woman called Trudy (whom he paid for sex every Wednesday evening) that during these outings he had completed the reading lists for six university degrees.

  But Mortimer was no scholar. A truly analytical mind would not have taken three years to find Toby interesting. If you wanted to know about unfettered desire, or monstrous greed, you needed look no further.

  Mortimer’s curiosity was finally piqued when a series of storms disrupted the television signal. Toby usually watched cooking programmes every afternoon in which people competed to make the best-tasting food. In one, the judges were other cooks; in the other, the judges were members of the television studio audience. Toby liked both programmes, because they showed so much food. Unfortunately, they were on different channels at the same time. No matter how delicious the food in one programme looked, there was always the possibility that the other was showing something better. At the start of the programme, when there was just talking, he switched channels only a few times a minute. Once they showed the ingredients, he began switching faster, and when the actual cooking began he lingered only a few seconds before changing channels. By the time the food was ready Toby would be sitting so close to the screen that all Mortimer could see was the back of his head, nodding and twitching with joy.

  Toby missed some of these programmes on the first and second day of the storm. He whined, pawed the static-filled screen, and put his hand in his mout
h. After missing the entirety of both on the third day, he screamed so loudly it took a whole pack of raisins to calm him down.

  Mortimer would probably have dismissed this as a tantrum but for Toby’s eating behaviour that week. He usually finished his meal within two or three minutes, then scraped and licked the plate. After missing his programmes his hunger verged on the bestial. Even his mother, who had witnessed three decades of his gluttony, was taken aback. One hand fed his mouth with a fork while the other took food from the plate. The result was a constant delivery of food; scarcely chewed, it bulged like a fist as it pushed down his gullet.

  For Mortimer, this obscene display was clearly asking a question, one he resolved to answer. Over the following two weeks he surreptitiously measured the time his subject took to complete his meal (a meal began when “the food first entered the subject’s mouth,” and finished “when the subject’s jaws ceased moving”).

  Having established his subject’s average Meal Completion Time (MCT), Mortimer began his experiment. For the next six weeks, he pretended that the television had an intermittent fault. This allowed him to control how much of the cooking programme Toby missed, a manipulation that made his unsuspecting subject “impatient, agitated, very often in tears.” The effects of these disruptions on eating rate are shown in Figure 1.

  Figure 1 Effects of viewing disruption on meal-completion rate (adapted from Skelton: 2016)

  Just as Mortimer had predicted, there was a strong correlation between the amount of programme missed and the speed with which Toby ate. Though this caused Toby considerable distress—screaming and one minor fit—Mortimer saw no reason to stop the experiment.