She glanced down at her notebook and saw that she hadn’t written a single word. Professor Canning was talking animatedly about Walt Whitman but Tamsin hadn’t taken in a thing. With a sigh she closed her book, gathered her things and slipped out at the first opportunity.
Her legs ached as though she’d overexerted herself at the gym and she grimaced as she made her way down the corridor. She pushed open the front door of the building and was dazzled for a moment by the glare of the streetlights. The nights were getting longer and the darkness only reminded her how tired she was. She’d barely had any sleep the night before; Nicky had seemed inexhaustible.
Despite her pain and weariness Tamsin felt a smile tugging the corners of her mouth as she recalled the past few hours. She knew that Valhalla had another gig at the end of the month and she dreamily imagined Nicky coiled round the microphone, his silky voice singing words he’d written for her, about her. She knew Rob didn’t like her and the others would probably side with him in thinking she was breaking up the band. But Nicky was better than all of them put together. He could make it on his own if he had to, with Tamsin as his partner and muse.
As she made her way home she became aware of a soft crunching behind her, the sound of someone treading through dry leaves. A chill slithered up her back as she realised she was being followed. She braced herself for a confrontation and then whirled round.
“Hey, creep–”
But it was only Nicky. Her surprise gave way to delight, but her smile melted as soon as she saw his face. His eyes blazed, red and bloodshot.
“Nicky, are you OK?”
“I love you,” he said.
His wild expression dampened the joy she should have felt. “But why didn’t you say anything before? Why were you following me?”
He frowned. “I love you,” he repeated, as if that explained it all.
“I love you too.” The words came naturally to her. She’d said them hundreds of times on her own. But she said them now out of obligation and a sense of – yes, fear. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something akin to religious mania.
He took a step towards her and she flinched at his outstretched hand. But then a look of puzzlement crossed his features and she softened. She took his hand and kissed it, trying to remind herself that this was Nicky Renwick, the boy she had loved from afar ever since starting university. The boy she had now charmed into loving her back.
He shuddered as her lips touched his hand and he moved closer, winding his arms around her. He pressed his face into her hair and moaned softly.
“Nicky, no,” she said, trying to disentangle herself from him. “I was just going home to try and get some sleep.”
“We could sleep together,” he offered immediately, still stroking her hair.
She forced a laugh. “I’m not sure we’d get much sleep.” She cast about for more excuses. “Look, I need to do some major revision anyway. Why don’t you come over tomorrow?”
He blinked at her slowly. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’m really sorry but I’m totally knackered after last night. Hey, why don’t you try to write a new song? Then you can play it for me tomorrow night.”
Her words seemed to be causing him physical pain. His eyes glistened with tears at the rejection, although they widened slightly at the suggestion of a song.
“Tamsin,” he murmured, as though tasting her name. “Yes. I’ll write another song about you.”
She heard the words in spite of her desire to get away from him. Her heart flickered with excitement even as she found the idea unsettling. Another song about her. When had he had time to write a first one?
“This afternoon,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “While you were in your lecture. I watched you through the window.”
The skin on the back of her neck prickled. He’d sat outside watching her, composing a song about her. And then he’d followed her. How long would he have kept it up if she hadn’t heard him and turned around?
She forced another smile. “Nicky, that’s really sweet. And I can’t wait to hear it. But let’s wait until tomorrow, OK? I really have to do some work.”
For a moment he looked as though he wasn’t going to accept her request. But then he nodded slowly and took a step back. “OK” was all he said.
The silence stretched between them for an awkward minute before Tamsin finally said, “Right, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waited for him to say something and when he didn’t, she turned and walked away. She could feel his eyes on her the whole time, burning through her. It was all she could do not to glance back. But she didn’t need to. She knew he was still watching her.
She felt flooded with relief when she finally reached the flat. She closed the door behind her and flopped into a chair, exhausted by the strange encounter. Clearly the spell had been too strong, but was there any way to moderate it? She hadn’t imagined it would be like this. Still, she was hopeful that it would mellow.
She was too wound up to sleep so she dropped her books on the dining table with the honest intention of trying to do some work. But it was useless. She couldn’t concentrate. The dishes from last night seemed to mock her and the candles had dripped onto the tablecloth to form a waxy bloodstain that reminded her of the hairs she had plucked. Suddenly the flat felt close and stuffy and she pushed her chair away and went to the window. She jerked the curtains open and was about to open the sash when she noticed the figure standing by the streetlight.
Nicky was staring up at the building the way he had been earlier. Only this time he saw her. He raised one hand and waved faintly but Tamsin couldn’t bring herself to return it. She was starting to get seriously creeped out.
She closed the curtains and edged away from the window. Maybe she should go back to the forum and see if anyone there had any ideas. She had just booted up her computer when she heard the thumping. As she made her way past the kitchen she realised with a sense of dread that she’d heard the sound before. It was the sound Nicky’s boots had made on the stairs last night. As he came up.
Either she hadn’t closed the outer door properly or someone else had left it open. She braced herself, expecting him to knock, but all she heard was a soft scratching.
The sound unnerved her more than any dramatic pounding could have done. Tears filled her eyes at the thought of him standing out there, too hooked on her to be able to leave her alone, reduced to scratching plaintively at her door like an abandoned puppy.
“Nicky?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. “Go home, OK? Please? I’ve got a lot of work to do. Why don’t you come back in the morning?”
He was silent for a moment and then she heard a ragged sob. “Tamsin,” he said, his voice choked with tears.
Her heart burned with shame and pity and she couldn’t bear the thought of the pain she was causing him by leaving him out there. It was her fault he was lovesick and desperate. What was that old saying about being responsible forever for someone whose life you’d saved? Surely the same applied to someone you’d bewitched.
With a heavy heart she turned the lock and opened the door.
He flew into her arms, burrowing his hands into her hair as he whispered fervently that he loved her, he loved her, he loved her.
“I love you too,” she said helplessly, all the time wondering what the hell she was going to do.
He pulled away to gaze at her face. “You’re so beautiful.”
Last night it had thrilled her; now it made her skin crawl.
She pushed him away gently. “I have to use the loo,” she said.
His blank expression betrayed no understanding but at least he didn’t try to force his way in after her.
She splashed water on her face and stared at her haggard reflection. She suddenly looked ten years older. Maybe Beth or Chrissie had some sleeping tablets. She could knock him out while she figured out what to do. But a search of the medicine cabinet revealed nothing but an empty packet of birth control pills.
But she didn’t have time to berate herself for her foolishness before the door crashed open and she cried out as she saw the look in Nicky’s eyes. It was the stare of a starving animal, crazed with hunger.
“I love you,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on her hair. He took a step forwards, closing the space between them. Tamsin immediately backed away. Confusion flickered in his eyes for a second and then he moved forwards again and reached out for her before she could move.
She shuddered as his hand settled on her hair and then he was winding it around his hand, pulling it hard.
“Stop it!” she yelped, flailing at his hand. “Let me go!”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He continued to wind her hair around his fist, pushing her down onto the cold tiles as he did so.
She screamed when the hair at last tore free from her scalp. Blood poured hot and wet over her face and into her eyes, blinding her. All at once she couldn’t breathe. She struggled frantically, her hands flailing against the side of the bathtub, feeling for anything she might use as a weapon. From somewhere behind her came a terrible sound. A wet munching. Sickness rose in her throat and she crawled away, slipping in the pool of blood as she felt for the open doorway.
She only got a few feet before she felt his hands in her hair again. The world went black with pain as he wrenched another fistful from her head.
The last thing she ever heard was his voice. Between hungry mouthfuls he whispered, “Beautiful.”
THE ART OF ESCAPOLOGY
ALISON LITTLEWOOD
A large part of childhood is the desire for magic. As children we are drawn to the fantastical – whether it be The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe or Harry Potter – and the need to believe in magic is a big part of growing up. Alison’s story shows us what happens when we see behind the illusion and the losses that such a reveal can inflict upon us. This beautiful and charming tale will have you believing, but will also teach you a lesson in the consequences of believing too much.
IT WASN’T THAT Tommy could imagine his dad in a circus. His dad was portly with thinning hair and liked to play Scrabble. He wore a suit and went out all day and did strange things in an office. He looked at Tommy now with a blank expression and blinked slowly, in much the same way a tortoise might.
Tommy shifted in his chair in frustration. He clutched the flyer more tightly, waving it at his dad.
Amazing feats, the flyer said.
Amazing feats and mind-blowing escapades! See the incredible bird woman! Death-defying trapeze fliers!! Acrobats!! Fire swallowers!!! Mysterious warrior monks!!! Magic performed before your very eyes!!!! See feats of wonder hitherto unknown to man!!!!!!!
It was this last that had stuck in Tommy’s mind. Feats of wonder hitherto unknown to man: yes, he thought when he saw it. Yes.
Now the look in his mother’s eyes said no, or at best, maybe. But Tommy knew what he wanted. He wanted to sit in the big top, with all the other kids. He wanted to hold his breath with wonder. He wanted, if he got scared, maybe just a little, to look aside and know that his dad was there. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his mum, but his mum always took him places: football, piano lessons. It wasn’t anything special, and this was special.
“Dad,” he said. “Please.” He tried to keep the whine out of his voice, because his dad didn’t like the whine, would sigh and turn away. It was there anyway, a little bit. His dad looked at him sharply.
“Please, Dad.” Tommy waved the flyer again. He saw that the touch of his fingers had smudged the ink: it was already spoiled. He felt disappointment tugging on his lips.
When he looked up, his mum was watching him. She sighed, too.
“Oh, take him, love,” she said, and that was that.
Tommy sat back in his chair and turned his attention to breakfast. He tried not to smile too broadly, but he was holding it inside him, a trapped and wriggling thing. He couldn’t stop it any longer: it broke out onto his face in a broad beam. He heard his dad’s resigned sigh from across the table, but it didn’t matter. His mum had made a decision, and when his mum had made a decision, it stayed made.
TOMMY HAD THE flyer in his pocket as they walked from the car park towards the recreation ground. He could see the tops of the tents, one tall white point dominating them all. “That’s the big top, isn’t it, Dad?”
Dad grunted. There were other people walking all around them, parents with kids, the figures ahead of them outlined by golden evening light. Tommy thought it was magical. Excitement thrummed through his legs, making him skip along. They passed a huge poster with a big arrow on the bottom. Death-defying feats!!! it said in big red letters, and there was a picture of an acrobat plunging through the air, not a trapeze or a safety net in sight.
“Look, Dad.” Tommy pointed.
“They like their exclamation marks, don’t they?” Dad muttered.
THEY DID LIKE their exclamation marks. The ringmaster wore a red sequined jacket and a splendid red top hat. He even looked like an exclamation mark, standing there tall and thin and straight and strident in the centre of it all, and everything he said seemed to end in three or four, falling invisible from his mouth and hanging in the air. All was dark except the glitter of his clothes; he was lit by a single spotlight.
“Next,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “we bring you the amazing bird woman!!!”
Incredible, thought Tommy. The leaflet said she was incredible. But it didn’t really matter. The ringmaster was gone and instead a new spotlight shone, this time high in the air. A woman stood there, bright with feathers. There were white ones and pink ones, but mainly they were blue. She wore a tightly curved smile. The audience gasped as the incredible bird woman launched herself from her perch and into the air; but she wasn’t flying. Tommy focused on her hands, where they grasped a small trapeze. She somersaulted and caught hold of another and everyone clapped. Tommy didn’t clap.
From somewhere beneath them came the sharp high calls of birdsong. It didn’t sound like real birdsong. It was cut through by crackling; it sounded like Dad’s old record player, the one that played funny black discs, only louder.
Tommy leaned towards his dad, but he didn’t say anything. His dad was staring up, intent on the woman. Tommy looked up too in time to see her do another somersault, a double one this time, and something fell from her and drifted down through the air.
He almost lost it in the dark; then it was in front of him, and Tommy reached out and grabbed it. It was a feather. It was a dirty grey feather, such as a pigeon might let fall. There was a dab of flaky blue paint on it, and a blob of dried glue on the quill.
Tommy nudged his dad. “It’s not real,” he said.
“Sh. Of course it is, son.” Dad was still looking up; he started to clap, enthusiastically, with everybody else. He turned and Tommy saw his dad’s wide grin, white and shining in the dark.
THEY WATCHED MORE of the death-defying trapeze fliers, the acrobats and fire swallowers. The mysterious warrior monks feinted with broad swords and dodged them. They were only playing at it, Tommy could see that. He clapped, but only just touching the palms of his hands together. It wasn’t what he had expected. The acts weren’t death-defying, not really. The trapeze artists even had a safety net. The poster hadn’t shown a safety net; it hadn’t been mentioned in the flyers. Feats of wonder, he thought. See feats of wonder hitherto unknown to man!!!!!!!
“It’s not real,” he whispered again.
His father answered: “Of course it is, son.”
Now everything fell quiet. Everything was dark. Tommy waved his fingers in front of his eyes and dimly saw them, shining green. He turned and realised they were lit by a fire exit sign and he sighed.
/> “Now,” the ringmaster said, “we shall see our most daring act of all. We shall travel to the farthest reaches of the earth to bring you – nay, farther. For why should we show you an imitation – a mere facsimile of magic, when we may bring you the real thing? Now, for your entertainment and edification, we travel beyond” – he waved his hand dramatically – “Yea, I say to you, we travel even beyond the veil, to bring you – real magic!!”
Unseen exclamation marks danced in the air and the ringmaster swept away. Now a new figure stepped forward. This one was cloaked and hooded, but his costume was plain: plain black.
At first, he didn’t speak; he simply waited. Then, slowly, something lowered itself towards him. It was a white, twisted thing, lowered on a chain from the top of the tent. He reached out and caught it, held it out for the audience, spinning it so they could see. Tommy realised it was a straitjacket; only that.
“The great Houdini,” he said, “was born in 1874 and left this life in 1926. There has never been an escapologist to match him.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried around the ring. There were no exclamation marks, but Tommy sat up a little straighter.
“Tonight, for your – amusement” – here he sounded contemptuous, even bored – “I shall summon the great Houdini to perform for us again.”
Silence. Nobody moved. It seemed to Tommy that nobody even breathed.
“I shall conjure him from beyond the grave, his wonders to reveal. But first, I need a volunteer.”
Tommy’s hand shot straight up in the air like a... like an exclamation mark.
The man looked into the audience, made a show of shading his eyes. He pointed. “There,” he said, and Tommy’s heart sank; he wasn’t pointing towards Tommy. There was giggling, a hand rapidly withdrawn.
The Future of Horror Page 50