Best of British Fantasy 2018

by Jared Shurin

  Now the absent notes will be moving so rapidly and with such force they must be a blur that nobody can snatch. That’s how I made them safe from opportunistic thieves.

  I hope they will all come back to me, those mischievous notes, after they have enjoyed their fling.

  I guess that if they do, some will be folded into origami men and others into expensive origami suits for them to wear and a few into fast origami cars they can drive recklessly.

  This is what I am doing right now, sitting up late, waiting.

  The penny-counting machine is relentless.

  It counts the pennies.

  One, one, one, one, one, one.

  Somewhere the pounds are looking after themselves.

  She was a fine woman.

  But Grandma has a lot to answer for!

  The Councillor’s Visit

  Beth Goddard

  Karen was folding clothes when the doorbell rang. Jumpers, to be precise, in the methodical manner she’d been taught as a Saturday girl at M&S. Sleeves neatly tucked inside the two halves of the jumper as it was folded horizontally. She added the last jumper to the pile on the end of the bed before going downstairs.

  She had hoped that whoever it was would have given up and left by the time she got there. But through the frosted glass she could see the outline of someone, waiting.

  Whoever it was, she couldn’t really be bothered talking. They didn’t get friends turning up unannounced often, and their family lived over in Leeds – a safe distance. Karen couldn’t face small talk with a neighbour. Or even worse, the prospect of having to ask someone she knew vaguely in for tea. She remembered a story she’d heard on a radio phone-in once, where a husband and wife opened the door to a total stranger. He’d claimed to know them both well and so they’d invited him in for a coffee, each presuming that the other recognised him. They’d sat him awkwardly in the living room, and after whispered discussions in the kitchen, they established neither of them knew him from Adam. On the phone-in it had transpired that a long time previously, after befriending the man on holiday, they’d extended an invite to visit – if he were ever in the area. And so he’d turned up. Years later. She had been horrified by the thought of it at the time. Had actually gasped at the radio. It had obviously stuck in her mind as she could remember the feeling of panic lodged in her throat as she had listened. She must have heard it a while ago now, though.

  She sighed and opened the door. A man, who looked vaguely familiar, was standing there. Could he be an old holiday acquaintance as well, one she’d long forgotten? No, Karen, she told herself. This was the kind of madness that came from spending the day indoors by yourself. Putting two and two together to make five. Besides, they didn’t make that sort of friend on holiday. She would never extend an invite like that to someone they barely knew. She doubted James would either. He was only slightly less antisocial than her.

  God, maybe it was an old fling, like in that Helen Dunmore novel. What was it called again? She had a momentary feeling of panic and counted through a short list of exes in her head. No, this man was at least fifteen years older than her. Her love life had never been that adventurous, not even before she’d met James.

  “Good morning. Can I help?” She tried to sound as breezy and normal as possible. She really ought to go and work in a cafe tomorrow or something. No more sitting at the dining table with her laptop. All this time at home was beginning to do things to her brain.

  “Good morning, Mrs Smith,” The man smiled. “I’m Malcolm Farrar. Your new councillor.”

  He knew her name then. And he’d said his name as if she should recognise it. She accepted the outstretched hand and shook it.

  He had a solid, dependable handshake.

  “Hello. How can I help?”

  “Well,” he looked hopeful. “I was wondering, is James in?”

  “Ah, he isn’t, I’m afraid.”

  A pause.

  “Well, you might not be aware, but James joined us recently. It’s party policy to welcome all new members into the fold as it were. I was hoping to chat to him about how he might be able to support our work in the area.”

  This was the worst of all imagined scenarios. Someone Karen would have to make small talk to, who she would have to speak to again. Someone she couldn’t fob off.

  Following the referendum six weeks ago, they’d both vowed to be more political. They’d felt so betrayed by the whole thing. In the first few days afterwards, they couldn’t even walk past people in the street without guessing which way they had voted. James had even got into an argument with someone in the barbers when he’d overheard them crowing about the difference the referendum would make, “How we’d get our country back.” Karen was barely speaking to her parents. They’d both decided they had to do something. It was people like them doing nothing that had got them into this mess in the first place. Karen had written angry letters to her MP and James, always more the community type, had joined the local branch of the Lib Dems.

  She smiled and opened the door more widely. She was already starting to feel guilty at how grudging she felt about speaking to him, even having opened the door.

  “Well, if you don’t mind waiting a minute or so, he’ll be back shortly. You’d best come in.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  He followed her in through the door and she noticed with some relief that he bent to take his shoes off in the porch. They were well worn but highly polished, a deep brown leather. She imagined you could probably see your face reflected in them if you looked close enough. What you would expect a man like Malcolm to wear.

  “Just follow me this way.”

  She took him into the front room and gestured at the sofa.

  “You can wait for him here.”

  Malcolm perched on the edge of the sofa, and pulled a small notebook from his blazer pocket. His clothes were as predictable as his shoes. A tweed jacket. A woollen jumper over a shirt and tie. All that he was missing were some elbow pads.

  “Can I get you a drink while you wait?” She felt conscious that he could hear her, judging him. He looked so stiff-backed and uncomfortable and she wanted him to feel less awkward. How many of these visits did he have to make, she wondered? How many evenings did he spend trudging around town in those shoes?

  “Oh, yes, a tea would be lovely, thank you.”

  “How do you take it?” She moved towards the doorway.

  “Just a touch of milk please, and no sugar.”

  She backed out into the corridor and towards the kitchen, saying louder now, “Congratulations on your appointment by the way! You must be very pleased!”

  She heard a muffled response and carried on filling the kettle, then wiped her hands on a tea towel and looked at the clock. She hoped James would be home soon.

  She could still hear him talking. “Well, that is great,” she shouted at what seemed an appropriate pause. She set up a tray with the teapot, a jug of milk and a plate with a couple of shortbread biscuits on. She wanted him to remember her as being kind. It was absurd really. She’d never met this man before and now it mattered that he thought she was hospitable when he turned up on her doorstep unannounced. Maybe James would be a councillor one day, though, and she’d have to go to dinners at the liberal club with Malcolm and all the rest. Christmas meals, fundraising, sending in gifts for the tombola at the summer fete.

  Humming, she picked up the tray and walked in the hall. Malcolm had stopped talking and the door to the living room was now only ajar. She kicked it open with her slipper.

  “Jesus Christ!” She dropped the tray and the teapot bounced once before smashing against the wall. It sprayed the carpet, rug, wall and side of the sofa with tea and spattered Karen’s leg. She could feel the warmth and wetness of the tea spreading through the gauzy cotton of her trousers. Karen thought of a TV advert she’d seen once for washable paint. She’d probably need to buy some after this.

  She sank to her knees in front of Malcolm. “What the fuck
happened to you?” She was whimpering, gasping with fear now.

  He was still perched on the edge of the sofa out of politeness. Still wearing the green jumper. The shirt and tie, the jacket. His feet still looked absurd in those threadbare socks. But now he did not move. His hand was raised in gesticulation, his mouth wide open. But he was still and unmoving. His skin had taken on a curious sheen. The patina he’d acquired made him look like one of those ill-advised pieces of public art; a statue sitting on benches in the middle of a shopping precinct. She bent over him and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Not a glimmer. What the fuck was she supposed to do now?

  “Mr Farrar? Are you okay?” She touched his shoulder gently and was surprised by how cold it was. There was a faint murmur from his throat. She leant in closer.

  “MR FARRAR?” What was it you were supposed to do? Chest compressions? She remembered something about using the same rhythm as Stayin’ Alive, and started humming. An absurd vision of the Gibb brothers in flares popped into her mind. If she could just get him on the floor, or at least on his side on the sofa, she might be able to do something.

  “Now I don’t know if you can hear me, Mr Farrar, but I’m just going to move you sideways”. She attempted to lever him downwards, putting her arm under his, which was still raised in the air. Despite a monumental effort, where she pushed against him with all of her weight and with her feet braced against the rug, he did not move even an inch. She tried a second time. How could such a slight man be so heavy? No matter how much she bent against him or yanked his arm towards her, she couldn’t move him at all.

  “Well, that’s not going to work.”

  She sank back into the floor in front of him and stared. His face was glistening and something strange was happening to his eyes. Although still open, they looked more like well-worn marbles now, smooth and opaque. His pupils were fading and his irises were leaching colour into the whites around them. She frowned. What was that on his cheek? A smear of pale green. Like copper oxide.

  You always wonder how you will react in this type of situation, she thought. Karen was now discovering how she would: By sitting in front of the fossilised figure on the sofa, paralysed by shock. Staring in disbelief whilst she sobbed.

  In the distance she heard the door slamming.

  “Hi sweetheart, how was your day?”

  “James!” she said, and struggled to her feet.

  James came into the living room. Karen heard the crunch of shards of teapot under the heel of his shoe.

  “What on Earth…?” He dashed to the sofa. “Is that Malcolm, the councillor? What’s he doing here? What happened?” He bent down in front of the man on the sofa and just as Karen had done, tried to shake his shoulder. “Malcolm? MALCOLM!” He felt for a pulse and shook his head. He crouched in front of Karen. “What the fuck has happened? He’s – I mean what has happened to him?”

  The tears had started in earnest now and all her words came at once. “He came to see you and I said he could come in and wait. Apparently they always come and visit new members. I suppose he wanted to check you out and see what you would do for them. All I did was go to make him a drink and then I came back in and he was –” She raised her hands and then shrugged, unable to find words to describe this part of the encounter. “Like this.”

  They stood and stared at him. To anyone looking in at the window, it must have seemed as though they were both listening intently to whatever Malcolm was saying. His arm still extended in gesticulation.

  “Is this some kind of joke, Karen?” said James. “I know you’re not finding things easy but –” He stopped, seeing the way Karen was looking at him. “I just don’t understand what’s happened!”

  “This is what happened.” She said in a more neutral tone now. “I left the room and when I came back,” She hesitated. “When I came back, he’d turned into this. Like he’s made of bronze.”

  “Look,” James said. “He doesn’t even look like – well he doesn’t even look like he’s ever been alive now.”

  James was right. Malcolm was no longer just statuesque. He was a statue. Karen touched him gently on the cheek. It was smooth and cool, soothing even. As she drew her hand away, she noticed a spot on the top of his head more golden and polished than the rest. As if people patted him on the head for luck as they passed.

  James was regaining his composure. “Look, you sit down whilst we think about what to do. I’ll make us some tea.”

  Karen perched on the sofa next to Malcolm. She looked at his open mouth. He looked as though he had been declaiming some important point about successfully revoking parking charges or securing funding to repair the pothole-ridden road on Market Street. Karen remembered standing in the kitchen and wishing him away whilst she heard him talk down the hallway. Was it her fault in some way? Rubbish, she thought. She didn’t have magical powers. This wasn’t a fairytale.

  James came back in, carrying two mugs. “We’ll have to keep him here for now while we think about what to do. I mean, if we go and tell someone… No one will believe us! But someone will report him lost at some point so we’ll have to do something.”

  And so that was how it started. They sat on the sofa drinking their tea whilst shafts of afternoon sunlight lit the room. One caught the tip of Malcolm’s outstretched finger in a spot of gold. He sat between them, feet pinioned to the ground like railway sleepers, whilst they thought about what to do.

  For the first week or two it was strange. They thought about how to report it, how to explain the story without one of them being sectioned or arrested. Every idea they had sounded too ridiculous, too implausible. At first, Karen wouldn’t go in the living room whilst she was working at home alone. One day James came home and got out a hammer and chisel from the shed. “I’m going to try moving him, at least.” Karen had been making dinner in the kitchen. After half an hour of hammering, she had gone in the front room to find James sitting back on the floor, exhausted, surrounded by splinters of floorboard.

  After a fortnight of working from home, she took to leaving the door ajar. She’d pop her head round the door on her way to the kitchen to check he was still there.

  After a month or so they realised he had not been reported missing. James heard that Malcolm, who lived alone, had told another party member he was going abroad to see his daughter soon after his appointment.

  They worried again about what to do, and James thought they could write a letter from Malcolm, resigning his duties, declaring that he wasn’t coming back. That would be the end of it. But how could they get the right postmark? Best just not to get involved, they decided. Best just to keep their heads down and carry on as they were. Except now they had Malcolm, of course.

  They got used to him in the end. They’d ask his opinion about politicians on TV, offer him a cup of tea when they were making a brew. At Christmas they’d wrap him in tinsel and fairy lights to try and cheer him up a bit.

  They’d invited him in and now he sat, rooted to the floor in the middle of their living room. He’d never leave.

  Yard Dog

  Tade Thompson

  I thought he was a Fed at first.

  Okay, no, I didn’t, but in hindsight I should have. The second time he turned up at Saucy Sue’s, everybody noticed him on account of his height and his clothes which were righteous. I’m the only one who saw him arrive the night before. He was furtive, dressed in… I don’t know what, man. He wore shoes and pants that even the Salvation Army would turn down. The height was there, but he was such a dark cat that, without the flash of jewellery, he faded into the background. I played percussion, that first night. Al played the horn, some shit he’d cribbed off watching Dizzie in St Louis. Saucy Sue’s was a gangster’s joint, but many of the jazz clubs were back then, and a Fed or two or an undercover cop wasn’t out of the ordinary. He was a yard dog that first night, and every other night he came in, that’s the name that stuck in my head, even before he started playing.

  Al and I were filling-in. The usual percussion a
nd horn guys were dope sick trying to kick a habit, and the manager, a cat called Layton, literally plucked us out of the crowd. That was the beginning of a six-month gig, sweet, and I cut my teeth for later in my career. Nothing like playing six nights a week to hone your discipline.

  Yard Dog was at the back, watching, smoking some hand-rolled stuff that I thought had some reefer mixed-in, but when the cops stopped us one time and checked, it was only tobacco. But. It wasn’t that simple. Motherfucker switched that shit, I’m sure, because I remember he blew the smoke in my face when I was talking shit one time. I saw things, but considering what happened later, a few hallucinations were nothing to make noise about. Yard Dog was like six-six if he was an inch. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, athletic looking, but stooped, bringing himself down to Earth, Al would say. First night, he didn’t say nothing, just watched, smoked and left.

  Second night, he was waiting when we packed up for the night, and he said, “That was real cool.” He walked away before I could respond. We had a singer then, called herself Shonda, voice would break an angel’s heart. She took her sweet time watching him walk away. Difficult not to, I suppose. Yard Dog was visible, noticeable, even before he opened his mouth. Why, then, had nobody seen him on that first night? I think that was down to him, down to how much he wanted to be seen.

  Sue’s had audience nights every two weeks or so, usually when the band was fatigued or someone was sick or talking to their P.O. Those nights, Al and me would kick back with some drinks and listen to some hopped-up or drunk motherfuckers trying to hold a tune. Though we always refused, one or two of them always asked to try our instruments, and Al had to smack a persistent cat once. Al wasn’t big like Yard Dog, but he was fierce, fast, and experienced. He’d been in plenty of fights, and loved to talk about either music or beating a person down. I remember a cat they used to call Captain, before our time, just got out of prison. Captain stole Al’s reefer and sat on the stoop of the Patterson Hotel, smoking, all hotsy totsy. Al takes a mouthful of coffin varnish, walks up to Captain, spits the liquor in his face, kicks him in the bongos, lights him on fire, and only trillies because of a pounder who ran up. But fuck Captain, he was unhep.