What the fuck is going on up there?
A bird hurtled down through the branches, sleek like an arrow. Deignan put his arms up to protect himself. Thin talons fixed onto his arm and the needle-sharp beak stabbed into his eyebrows, seeking his eyes; its wings beating hard to pull his arms away. He felt blood flow from him and heard the mass of birds crashing through the branches. In panic, Deignan turned and ran, his foot snagging on a root and pitching him over. The weight of the birds pinned him to the ground and the probing dart of beaks broke his flesh like white-hot needles. He realised he was going to die if he didn’t do something soon. As suddenly as it started, the attack stopped, the birds taking flight as if surprised. In moments it was silent again. Deignan felt his wounds, one a deep gouge into his forehead; blood streamed down his face, clotting in his stubble. Shaking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He hit the speed-dial for Fr. Comerford. In the upper reaches of the tree, the priest’s ringtone ‘Simply the Best’ played. Willy thought the priest, drawn by the antics of the birds, was on the other side of the trunk.
“Hello, Father?” he called out. “Excuse the language, but Jesus Christ those fuckin’ birds are mad – are you ok there?” He walked around then back-tracked, but he was the only one at the tree. Tina Turner’s voice stopped when Willy hung up.
From the upper branches, he heard a whisper. “He’s coming…”
Deignan’s next phone call was to the police.
* * *
The next afternoon he sat with his friend Mick Riordan in the local bar, The Marble Arch. His head wound was fastened with paper stitches, and his neck and arms were a variety of colours. To cover the stitches, he pulled his cap forward, hiding his eyes,
“Fr. Comerford, eaten alive? You’re jokin’, Jesus,” Mick repeated. His usual bar stool banter revolved around sport and, for once, Deignan could enjoy his slow pint without having to recall every horse race, goal or rugby try since the dawn of time.
“Took lumps out of him. Can’t find the eyes, or the nose. Took all his teeth and his heart out through the ribs. Sergeant Adams told me not to breathe a word about it, I told him no problem. Out of the ordinary, they said, never heard of birds doing something like that.” Willy downed the remainder of the pint in one swallow.
“Who said?” Mick turned to his friend. His nose was pitted and red like a strawberry. The cream of his last draught of stout dripped from his moustache,
“The vets.”
“The village doesn’t have one.”
“Does now; one drove up from Galway last night. She had to put that donkey down.”
It was Deignan’s turn to spin on the bar stool. Around him, sat families, kids running around, parents shouting, the tables stacked with ‘recession buster’ pints and opened packets of crisps. Sunlight streamed in and music played from the radio behind the bar. Near the exit against the far wall, the wide-screen TV showed horse racing from Epstow. Willy threw a glance to the bookie’s slip wedged between cigarettes and beer mats. The horse he’d backed was running this one and, by the looks of it, would still be running tomorrow.
“Put a donkey down?”
Mick paid for the beers and shifted his enormous gut around.
“The widow Ryan’s donkey, Desdemona– she found it with a metal spike in its forehead yesterday morning, all sorts of symbols cut into it. Weird fuckin’ stuff – numbers, stars and crosses and shit. The spike didn’t penetrate the brain, just forced in enough not to kill it.”
“Why didn’t the donkey run or kick? Bad tempered bastard that animal.”
“They don’t know. Adams thinks it was Satanists or something like that - it was all over the internet last night.”
“Global warming,” chimed in Ambrose. Both men paused. Ambrose the barman was pulling pints like he was playing the slots in Vegas. He continued without looking up. “Think about it, the Earth’s magnetic field is shifting polarity, earthquakes, tsunami’s the whole shebang. I read on the NASA website that the sun’s losing heat, and we’re heading into a mini-ice age.”
“Ambrose, explain to me how you tie in the death of Fr. Comerford, a mutilated donkey and the jaysus polar bears.”
“Signs and wonders, gentlemen. It’s all in the bible.” Ambrose held four pints in his enormous hands. From behind, he had the width and gait of a bear. He brought the round down to a group of local fishermen at the far end of the bar.
Two of the skippers looked down at Deignan and Riordan. “You boys looking to make a few quid?”
* * *
The fishing boat, Annie May, pitched and dipped once it cleared the shelter of Roscallaig harbour, taking the full brunt of the Atlantic. The skipper, Fergal Moynihan, a ruddy-faced barrel of a man, poured extra shots of whiskey into Deignan’s and Riordan’s coffee cups.
“Pest control?” Deignan eyed the shotguns and axes in the two hold-alls on the floor.
Riordan looked queasy with every lurch of the deck and downed his coffee in one swallow.
Moynihan filled his mug with whiskey. “Yep, we’ve a bit of competition that needs to be dealt with.”
Forty-five minutes later, the trawler approached a small island. The sun was beginning to set and the sea was calm. The Annie May reduced speed and, in the twilight, sailed around to the far side. In the gloom, a colony of seals with nursing pups looked up quizzically before huddling closer together.
Moynihan lowered the anchor first, then a dinghy. “Let’s get to work.”
Deignan paused for breath. His heart raced from the whiskey and the rush of slaughter. His first attempts with the shotgun had been shaky, maiming rather than killing then he found his form. Any seal that didn’t make it to the sea was blasted mercilessly in the head. He could hear Riordan a few yards behind swinging an axe, grunting with each blow. Moynihan laughed between swigs from his bottle, before reloading. Two loud reports rang out followed by whimpers. With a grunt, Moynihan turned his shotgun into a club. The moon began to rise and the shale and sand were covered in pooled dark stains and trails out to the water. Then Deignan saw the boy. In the moonlight, he appeared to be about nine years old, the same age as his nephew. Standing just above them on the rocks, he appeared thin, pale and ragged. He beckoned them.
“Jesus, there’s a kid here!”
The other two stopped. The smell of blood clung to them. “Where?”
“Over on the rocks.”
The little boy’s smile was infectious. Deignan dropped the gun. The night felt warm and the smell of the sea was replaced with something else he couldn’t put his finger on. He started to walk, Come on! He heard it in his head, Follow me! It’s over here!
“Where’s he going?” Moynihan watched Deignan start to run toward the rocks. They exchanged a glance then saw the boy. He was joined by two others; they were waving, laughing, dancing little jigs, giggling. The men dropped their weapons amid the carnage and began to walk to the rocks.
Deignan reached the boy. He took the outstretched hand and allowed himself to be guided to the next beach. He stumbled a few times and found himself laughing along with the boy, who bounded nimbly from rock to rock. It’s soo close. Just here! He heard. He found himself standing on the shore of a small cove. In the bay was a yacht. Something about it made him stop and sober up. The water was still, yet, he sensed all manner of creatures swam just below the surface. Black dorsal fins of various sizes rose and glided around the vessel. A snout breached in the moonlight, lethal and glistening.
Moynihan and Riordan came panting up behind him. “Where are the boys?”
Deignan couldn’t hear them. The yacht transfixed him. It was sleek, sitting low in the water, clean lines, the conversation of the other two now background noise. Women’s laughter drifted across the water from the vessel. From the cabin a figure rose, dressed in black, one that Deignan couldn’t describe. He wished he had kept his gun so he could’ve loaded it and used it on himself. He was a simple man. The dreams of his youth had been to play soccer, and he lov
ed to sing; so what if it ended in a brawl from time-to-time? His playing days were over and the odd-jobs kept a roof over his head. No woman would ever have him and he hadn’t any dependants, but now Willy Deignan was standing at the shore of hell. He rubbed his bloodied hands on his trousers and wondered where the little boy had gone.
The figure on the boat stretched out its arms and ascended to the height of the mast. It hovered momentarily then it lunged. Weaving through the air, its features became clearer - dead eyes as black as a shark, long aquiline nose. The mouth revealed long incisors and row upon row of teeth on distended jaws. Within feet of Deignan, it halted. It landed with the grace of a swan and strode toward him. Watch. He heard in his head. Eyes following the tall figure, over six foot as it strode to Moynihan, Deignan watched it rip the man’s head clear from his neck and feast on the arterial fountain that sprouted. Riordan began to cry. Once the head was discarded, the figure turned its attention to him. Clamping its jaws around his neck, Riordan was lifted off the sand and his throat ripped out. The figure turned and Deignan thought of Comerford’s words “He’s coming...”
Your Turn, he heard in his head.
* * *
The sacristy was clean and well maintained. The rustic furniture and range gave a welcoming feeling along with the vase of flowers on the table. Fr. Malachy Gyre gave his new housekeeper a warm smile. “Oh, this is marvellous, marvellous Mrs. Ryan.”
The housekeeper, a generously built woman, blushed. Then, recovering herself, she remembered the sombre day. “Terrible tragedy, Father, your first day here and a remembrance service for those poor, poor men.”
“The sea claims its own, Mrs. Ryan.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “The Annie May was found near here, so we can assume the coastguard will find their bodies. If it’s any consolation, they’re with their maker now.”
“I hope so.” She put on her coat and scarf. The sacristy seemed a little colder even for a summer’s day.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ryan, see you in the morning.” He watched her walk up the path and, once the gate was closed, he shut the blinds and locked the door. Opening his case, he produced the shiny black stone and caressed it tenderly. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and waited for a man named Deignan to bring the master.
Hall of Mirrors
by Richard D. Findlay
The darkness pressed against Emilian, a dense weight on his chest. He struggled, gasping for air, limbs tangled in viscous shadow. Just as his lungs were straining, desperate for oxygen, he was released. Sitting up, his vision adjusted to the dim light sneaking around the curtains. He rubbed his eyes as his heart slowed, then untied himself from the knot of damp sheets, and stumbled through an obstacle course of clothes, packets and plates, into the shower.
* * *
Litter fluttered around the deserted car park, caught in a coastal wind. Emilian kicked a coke can across the concrete. He eyed the ancient sign before passing under: once bright, it now whispered Wonderland in peeling, grey flakes. Shoulders slumped, he made his way to the Hall of Mirrors. The salt air was eating away at the structure. Its timber cladding had faded to a dull gun-metal grey. Shingles rattled in the blustery weather and weeds sprouted from gutters and paving. He unlocked the door, opening shutters, letting weak light capture motes of dust from the gloom. The hall was a maze of reflections and, as Emilian walked to the concealed utility room, a myriad of grotesque lookalikes watched him. He made coffee, his eyes continually returning to a dirty mirror hanging in the kitchenette. The lavish Victorian frame cradled an oval of silver. It was the only true looking glass in the building. Emilian’s unshaven face stared back at him, eyes dull, skin pale. He took a battered copy of Brave New World from his overloaded bookshelf and settled down in the poky booth at the front door. The only sounds were his breathing, and the familiar creak of timber as Emilian shifted in his chair.
‘Hi.’
Emilian looked up into startling electric blue eyes.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’
The girl smiled, lifting her whole face. Her eyes bored into his, making Emilian fidget.
‘Is it worth the entry fee?’ She nodded toward the mirrors.
‘Er. Yeah. It’s ok. No one comes here much anymore, though.’
‘I’d noticed.’ She laughed. ‘This place is a ghost town. My Nan said she came here as a girl. She had fond memories.’
Aromas of lavender and honeysuckle washed over Emilan.
‘I moved here with Mum a couple of years ago. She’s a carnival junkie.’ He stated, gesturing at the hook-a-duck stall outside.
She slapped a pound coin on the counter.
‘So does the fee include a guide?’
‘Er, I have to stay here to see to customers.’
The girl looked pointedly outside at the empty fair then arched an eyebrow at Emilian.
‘Ok. Sure. I’ll show you around.’
‘Great,’ she beamed. ‘I’m Taylor.’
‘Emilian.’
He shook her outstretched hand, feeling her warmth.
They walked the maze, Taylor giggling with horror at the misshapen visions cast back at her.
‘So what brings you to the west coast?’ Emilian asked.
‘I had a bit of a barney with Mum. Nan is putting me up for a few weeks until the air clears.’
‘So it’s not just me that fights with my mum then?’ Emilian grinned.
‘You don’t get on?’
‘Not really. She’s a bit of a control freak, doesn’t like me having independence. I try and avoid her mostly, which is difficult. She works here.’
‘Oh. What does she do?’
‘She’s a fortune teller.’
‘Fortune teller? I saw her stall earlier. I wouldn’t have picked her for a mother though. She looked really young.’
‘Yeah. Most women would kill for her secret.’
‘Is she any good? As a fortune teller I mean.’
He grunted noncommittally. They came to the end of the maze.
‘So Emilian, what do you do for kicks around here?’
‘Er, there’s not a whole lot to do. There’s a bowling alley, or the cinema. There’s a good Italian in town.’
‘Great. Should I meet you here or are you gonna pick me up?’ She smirked.
‘Er. Well… You could meet me here after work tomorrow, if you want. I finish at six.’
‘Perfect. You can take me bowling. I’m gonna go and ask your mum if I win tomorrow.’
She winked at him, and strode off in the direction of his mother’s stall.
* * *
It followed him, chasing him, folding him into its depths. He pushed against the black membranes that wrapped around him, trying to free himself, but they tightened further. Earth and acrid copper riled his nostrils. Her face was there, beyond the murky veil. Her electric eyes pierced the wall of night, and he woke, sticky and tense. The alarm blinked quarter past one. He climbed out of bed, padding through to the kitchen. Moonlight illuminated his wan flesh as he glugged water from the tap. He wandered through to the bathroom and stood before the mirror above the sink. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on her face, holding it in his mind. Lavender and honeysuckle embraced his memory. He felt his mind reach out, searching for her on the other side of the glass. His eyes snapped open: she was there, in the mirror. She lay in bed breathing gently. Above her, an angel of blackest night hovered. Taylor was joined to the shadow-creature by slim tendrils of coloured light. The rainbow slivers wove and rippled like stalks of corn, pulsing softly with her heartbeat.
Sweating, Emilian focussed on the witch-beast that was draining her. He projected his voice to its core. ‘Enough. She’s mine. You’ll not have this one.’
Oily darkness poured into his mind, twisting his thoughts, sticky and wet.
‘There’s plenty enough for the both of us. You have her body, and I shall drink her spirit.’ The words had no voice; they simply formed in Emilian’s mind.
‘I want her whole. No
t an empty husk. You will leave her alone now.’
‘Will I?’ The words squirmed into his head. ‘Make me.’
Back in the bathroom, Emilian shook. Sweat slicked his flesh as he summoned all his emotions. He willed his fear, anger and resentment into his fist, and his skin started to burn.
In the mirror, his hand burst into hot, white light.
Luminescence surged at the wretched creature. It recoiled, dissipating like steam, shadows slinking into the corners of the room. The words were weak now, but still they slid into his mind.
‘Good. You’re getting strong. I never noticed. Forgive me, boy; I’m very proud. I’ll see you in your dreams, Emilian. I’ll be waiting for you.’
* * *
Emilian paced between the distorted figures. Taylor had monopolised his thoughts all day. He fiddled with his hair, checking his watch every few minutes. She appeared, only ten minutes late, but those lost moments had caused a fear of rejection to twist around Emilian’s anticipation until bile threatened his taste-buds. He stammered hello, relieved and stunned by her appearance: tanned legs stretching up to a short summery dress. Blonde curls framed her cocked head. A citrus perfume replaced her usual scent.
‘Hi you. You ok?’ She asked.
‘Y… Yes. I’m great. You look astounding.’
He noticed her eyes had faded to steely grey.
‘Thank you.’ She beamed.
She walked over to a mirror and started preening her hair. It distorted her legs, making them impossibly long and skinny. Looking over her shoulder into the glass, Emilian was alarmed to see a shroud of ethereal black, shifting around her shoulders. Taylor was oblivious to the parasite around her.
Broken Mirrors, Fractured Minds Page 2