ill at ease 2

by Stephen Bacon

  The nanny knew these things. Removing the boy from her breast and laying him in his cot, she knew this was a good boy.

  One of The Shuttle’s best.

  Afterword

  This was a difficult story to tell.

  I’m not one for writing about personal experiences. Despite my persona I am intensely private – a by-product of having zero self-confidence. I don’t like knowing the person behind the schizophrenic pervert they usually waste their time talking to. I let the idiot offend, swear, insult and upset people to stop them getting close. My shrink has a word for it but that’s another story. You see, my own self is something far worse than I dare to reveal to those beyond my four walls and so my writing tends to follow my alterative persona’s lead. The thought of exposing myself as a writer of fiction was scary enough. To reveal my own, real-life inner dealings was just plain out of the question.

  But then I moved house. From Warrington to Pen-y-ffordd.

  Home of The Shuttle.

  Maybe it was the country air. Maybe it was moving out of England, something I’ve wanted to do since I was knee high to a flea. I don’t know for sure. But this story demanded I open a vein and let part of the inner me dribble out.

  The Shuttle is a Hanson concrete factory and as far as I know, they don’t use kids for labour. That thought was influenced by a recent viewing of Hammer’s Plague of the Zombies in which the dead were being used to work a tin mine. The story came when, like Paul, I was walking my dog. I was in a local famer’s field one frigid morning, enshrouded in a fog as thick as yogurt. The only thing I could see beyond my own clothes and the grass at my feet was the red lights atop of The Shuttle. That’s when I began to wonder about what type of staff could be used to work in such a place. Other than normal folk and the dead, that is. Then Mary Poppins came into my head. No idea why. But from Mary Poppins I saw:

  Dick van Dyke. Chimney sweeping. Kids being used as chimney sweeps.

  Kids being used to work The Shuttle.

  And that’s when things really turned nasty.

  I’m not going to go into great detail but suffice to say the problems Sally and Paul faced in trying for a baby were based on my home life. Sadly, unlike those two, at the time of writing this (9th Dec. ’12) my wife and I are still missing the mark. But the lack of success - whilst frustrating and heart breaking - prevents us from facing the worst thoughts any parent can think:

  What if there’s something wrong with my baby?

  And the older we get, the more likely something will be wrong with our baby. That’s not melodrama, it’s a plain, cold fact.

  In this story I am getting things out there. I’m purging in the hope that the worst won’t happen. I’m going back to being a child. When I described to friends the events I was most scared of in the hope that telling them would stop anything from happening.

  The Shuttle is a horrible story. It’s horrible because it takes facts and spins them into something far more extreme. Rather like a politician. If this story has upset you, my apologies. I sincerely hope you haven’t suffered anything like Sally and Paul’s pain and if you have, not only do you have my condolences, you have my wish that good times will soon come to you.

  Just as much as I hope they will come to us.

  Masks

  Robert Mammone

  The room was small. A shaft of light blazed through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, setting the drifting dust motes ablaze. Harry watched their sparkling dance, doing his best to ignore the soft hitching sob on the other side of the mahogany coffee table.

  A young woman sat primly in an overstuffed chair on Harry’s right, her ash-blonde hair scraped back in a tight bun. She coughed discreetly into her hand. He thought she looked impossibly young for the task and yet her youth made her perfect for it. His eyes wandered to the name badge pinned on her blouse. Michelle. Then they tracked across her chest and lingered on her breasts. Their eyes met and he felt his stomach clench. Her lips pursed in disgust before her gaze switched back to the couple staring at the catalogue. Fixing a smile in place, she leaned forward.

  'Our selection is quite wide and to be honest, a little overwhelming. If I may be of any assistance?' Harry detected a brittle edge to her voice, as if she was eager to be somewhere else. Given the sitting room's stifling atmosphere and his close proximity, who could blame her?

  'They're all so…all so big.' Harry gaze fell on Emma's mother, a heavy-set woman whose eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot. Her lips quivered as she surveyed the photos.

  Her husband’s pitying look almost drove Harry from the room. He wanted to be away from this coffin factory, away from the catalogue filled with pictures of caskets and cherubs and urns. Away from the nightmare that had engulfed his life.

  Emma.

  A drawer slammed shut. Michelle returned to her chair with another catalogue. She placed it in front of Emma's parents, then settled back expectantly.

  For a few moments, the grieving parents regarded the book as if it were a package ticking softly to itself on their kitchen table. The father, his patchy moustache twitching, looked over at Michelle, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

  'But…but this is for children. Babies.' His wife started to sob again. Stricken, Michelle looked to Harry for support. He blankly returned her gaze. You're on your own with this one, he thought, sick at his cowardice. Her lips thinned and she lifted her chin.

  'I thought, given the circumstances, you might find the choice easier with a smaller casket than would be usual as…'

  Harry didn't want to involve himself any more than he had. A year. A whole fucking year of this, he thought sourly, delving deep into a well of self-pity that had proven inexhaustible.

  Questions. Cameras. More and more questions. Police officers, tired and angry, surrounding him while fluorescents hummed overhead. There seemed to be a shouting media scrum everywhere he went. Friends who refused to talk to him, or who screamed accusations. Threats. Embarrassment at the inquest. Journalists camped on his doorstep. A brick through the front window. Then the media found a new victim and the circus moved on, leaving him an exhausted wreck.

  Thankfully, the last few months had been blessedly quiet. He’d changed address, changed his phone numbers, and stayed in when he wasn’t working. His friends no longer called and he'd stopped watching the television. So it was a wrenching shock to discover a fortnight ago that Emma's parents had obtained a court order allowing them to bury Emma's remains. He looked at them, twin spectres in mourning. A seething sense of rage enveloped him. Thanks to them, the reporters were back and the police had hauled him in for more questioning.

  More interviews, this time stretched over a week, disrupting his work, his life. The media had come scuttling back, fraying what remained of his patience. But this…this charade. Emma's disappearance had revealed more about himself than he cared to know. Choosing a child's casket to bury the pathetic remnants of his fiancé’s body was not what he expected from life. Yet he spoke up, to spare himself a decision that was Emma's parents alone.

  'Since circumstances warrant it?'

  Michelle grabbed his words like a life-jacket in a storm-tossed sea. 'Yes. Exactly.' Standing, she skirted the table and settled on the wide sofa next to Emma's parents. Opening the book, she pointed at a picture. A gentle smile of encouragement lit her face.

  'This may be the one you are looking for. I imagine that with a small silk cushion, your daughter's remains will look quite dignified.' Harry's vision greyed for several seconds. When it cleared, he was on his feet, fists clenched. The others in the room looking fearfully at him. His gaze fell on the catalogue. Sunlight blazoned the plastic covered pages in a halo that drove him from the room at a dead run. He only stopped when he found himself at the bottom of the street, leaning against a sign, panting. His chest burned with the cold and exertion. Turning away, he saw a pub across the road. He fled to it, his mind flying back to his last meal with Emma.

  The gloomy, smoke filled room resonates with rauco
us laughter and competing conversations. People line the bar three deep and the kitchen is a furnace of smells and heat. Tucked away in corner, Harry watches the melee, half-heartedly listening to Emma.

  'Right. Yeah. I reckon so.' A waitress crossing the dining room snags his attention. He takes a sip of his beer then sees Emma glaring at him.

  'This relationship isn't going to work if you can't even spare a minute to listen to me, Harry.'

  He hopes the room's dinginess hides the flush creeping across his face. Ducking his head, he takes another mouthful of beer, then points at her meal. 'Any good?'

  'It's halfway decent. Like every other time we come here. We could do with a change.'

  He considers a response while the waitress occupies a corner of his vision. 'Are you sure? This place is like me; what you see is what you get.'

  She sees his eyes flick away and turns her head to follow. The look on her face when she finishes makes Harry squirm.

  'What you see is what you get,' she mimics cruelly. 'Planning on getting any of that?' She jerks her head in the direction of the waitress.

  'We all wear masks, Emma. Some more than others.' Harry knows the conversation is heading towards a cliff but finds he doesn't care.

  Colour spreads over each high cheekbone. Her lips narrow, go white. Pushing her meal away, Emma stands and throws her napkin at Harry. It lands in his plate.

  'You may Harry, but I don't.' She stabs a finger at his chest. 'What you see is what you get.' She stalks off, pushing her way through the crowd. He watches her go, aware people are staring. He considers following, then the waitress walks passed again.

  'Fuck it.' His words lack conviction, but Harry stays seated. He signals for another beer, and settles in for the night.

  A shutter confronts him at the bottom of the steps leading to the train station. Hanging onto the grill, his head fogged with alcohol, he tries to puzzle this through. His eyes refuse to focus on his watch but he thinks it is late. He begins to turn away, then stops when he sees movement at the bottom of the steps. A figure is slumped against a wall, gripped by shadows. Harry thinks it must be a homeless person, bunking down for the night. Then the head lifts, and glittering eyes pierce him. The figure starts to get to its feet and Harry begins to back away. Something about this shambling wreck fills him with disquiet. Scrambling up the steps he goes in search of a taxi. The sensation of being watched follows him all the way down the street.

  Later, he blearily waves the taxi off before stumbling across the rain slicked road towards their apartment. The gate opens with a shrill cry that echoes up and down the tree-lined street. Clutching his keys, he holds them up to the moonlight, absently wondering why Emma hasn't left the light on. Metal scratches on metal then the front door creaks open.

  'Emma? Em?'

  His words echo in the long corridor. Her coat isn't hanging from its customary place on the stand. Shrugging off his jacket, he precariously ascends the stairs. When he reaches the bedroom, he slaps his hand across the switch, throwing up an arm against the sudden burst of light. When his eyes clear, he surveys the room. The bed is neat and tidy and empty. Her absence is palpable.

  Convinced she is staying with friends, or her parents, Harry does nothing until the next morning, when he starts ringing around. Finally, he calls the police.

  Harry shook himself back to the present. Glancing out the window, he watched the rain sift out of the sky. Glasses clink at the bar. His mobile chirped.

  'Yeah?' he said, feeling the weight of the lowering clouds on his thoughts.

  'Mr. Jenkins? This is Detective Standish. Could you come into the station this afternoon?'

  'Again? Christ Almighty, when does it stop?' His hand tightened around the mobile, feeling the plastic give a little.

  'No more questions, Mr Jenkins.' Standish sounded weary, his voice freighted with exhaustion. 'There's something I want you to look at.'

  Harry paid the bill and hurried outside. Walking back to his car he looked up towards the funeral home. The long, low building with its neatly clipped lawns and precisely arrayed trees filled him with dread. 'Another mask,' he muttered. He unlocked his car, the keys jingling.

  The police station was a cinder-block edifice as unfriendly as it was bleak. A hulking officer with suspicious eyes manning the scarred front desk made him wait longer than he thought necessary. When Standish arrived and ushered him inside, Harry felt the desk sergeant's resentful glare on his back like a blazing sun.

  The station interior was depressingly familiar; interview rooms on both sides, holding cells at the end and stairs descending to the morgue. His eyes didn't leave the sign pointing down until Standish led him into an empty room. Harry caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and, shuddered at the pale reflection staring dead eyed at him. He switched his gaze to Standish, who knelt in front of a television and DVD player. Dragging a chair across the concrete floor, Harry fell into it and waited, idly taking stock of Standish's suit; jacket shiny at the elbows, pants frayed at the cuffs, shoes battered, worn. Lowering the lights, Standish pointed a remote and the DVD began playing.

  'We retrieved this from CCTV footage at the station. Our surveillance team cleaned it up as best they could at short notice.'

  Wide bands of static rolled up the screen. The image jumped, stabilised, then resolved into a high, tight shot of a train platform.

  'You told me the station security cameras all malfunctioned the night Emma disappeared,' Harry said accusingly. 'Piss poor excuse…'

  Standish hit pause and pointed to the date stamp. Confused, Harry focussed on the numbers then felt a chill prickle his skin.

  'This is from last night?'

  'Yeah, last night.' Standish's face sagged.

  'But I don't understand…'

  'Neither do we. We thought you might have an explanation for us.' He pressed play again and the image jerked to life. The recording ran silently, reminding Harry of the Laurel and Hardy films he had loved as a kid. People moved in and out of shot, office workers with bags, couples arm in arm, a skateboarder rolling down the platform. A figure edged into view and began rooting furtively through a bin. Matted blonde hair hanging in rat’s tails obscured its face. The head turned and -

  'Jesus.' Harry sat forward, gripped by an icy cold that almost stilled his heart.

  'Is that…is that Emma?'

  Standish paused the image again. It wavered slightly, the figure twitching backward and forward with the inhuman patience of a praying mantis. 'You tell us. You were the last to see her.'

  'Jesus, don't start that shit again. How many times -'

  Standish held up his hands placatingly. Harry thought he looked nervous. 'You're no longer under investigation. The only question I have is why? If that is Emma, why is she still wandering the underground? Why hasn't she come home and where has she been hiding for the last year?'

  Harry left his seat and squatted in front of the television, looking closely at the face. Despite the poor quality of the image, he knew it was Emma. The tilt of her nose, those lips, the angle of her eyes. He touched the screen.

  'That's her,' he said softly.

  'You're convinced, then? You're absolutely sure it's her?'

  'No doubt,' Harry said, feeling the ice clinging to his heart crack a little. 'It's her.'

  Standish rubbed a hand over his face, which was thick with stubble and exhaustion.

  'If it is Emma, then why the bloody hell does she have two hands?' The screen swelled before Harry's eyes, until he feared he would full into the image. Back and forth, back and forth. Emma held something in her hands.

  Her hands.

  There was a distant rumble and warm air breathed thickly through the overhead vents. Standish looked at Harry.

  'I haven't a good explanation for her appearance.' He sighed. 'I haven't a good explanation for any of this.' Harry saw Standish's mouth move, but all he heard was static. Standish looked at him and shook his head.

  'The funeral's tomorrow, yeah? Look, I'
ll do you a favour. I'm off shift tonight at eight. I'll go down to the station and have a look around. With all this renewed publicity, maybe she'll show herself again.' He looked at his hands, then at the screen.

  'If you haven't been straight with us, Harry, we'll know. If that's someone you've paid to pretend to be her, we'll know.' He leaned closer, his face taut. 'And if you've chopped her up, like we all think you have, and got bits of her in little jars of preserving fluid, we'll find out. We found her hand on the platform last year. You'd better pray the rest of her isn't under your floorboards, or there will be fucking hell to pay.'

  Harry just stood and exited the room, following the static buzzing in his head.

  ***

  A cluster of people huddled under the spreading boughs of a gnarled oak, sheltering from the drizzle blurring the world. Cars swished along the road running beside the cemetery. Everyone, Harry included, stared at the rectangular hole carved into the earth and the small white casket suspended over it.