The Gulp

by Alan Baxter

  “Whenever you like before six.”

  It was only a little after four by the time they headed back up the Manor, taking turns to carry the polystyrene box with the shellfish scratching and scuttling around inside. Howard was overjoyed to receive it.

  “You remembered!”

  “Of course,” Ciara said.

  “You beauty! We’ll eat well tonight!” He took the box into the kitchen.

  Simone went off with Clarke, holding hands as they went upstairs. Torsten slumped onto a couch next to Edgar and Shirley, where they were watching a movie, drinking beers. He took a bottle from the fridge, held it up asking Patrick if he’d join them.

  Patrick shook his head. “Might have a nap.”

  He went upstairs, with no intention of sleeping. The stairway gave out onto a wide landing and immediately to the left were four doors. The two rooms they occupied, the bathroom they were using, and one other. He opened that one and saw another guest room, made up like theirs had been. The other way from the top of the stairs led down a long hallway with three doors on either side and one more at the far end. Among those would be the rooms the band members used. He glanced back down the stairs, saw no one, and ventured along.

  The first doors on either side were locked. The next two were both bathrooms. The next two were locked. Maybe the band kept their rooms locked, but he wondered why. Perhaps because they had house guests so often?

  The door at the end drew his eye. He opened it, surprised as he had expected that to be locked as well. A narrow staircase went up along the wall, into darkness.

  Heart hammering, Patrick climbed the steep wooden stairs. They creaked softly, made him wince. When he neared the top, he looked cautiously into the attic space. It was huge, running the entire length of the massive house, with a high, vaulted ceiling under dark A-frame rafters. The floor was solid, polished floorboards. Candles burned here and there, bookcases lined the walls, jammed with hundreds, maybe thousands of books. Light leaked in at the far end from the round window he’d seen from outside. In one far corner was a curtained off area, but he caught a glimpse of a ceramic sink through a gap in the curtains. In the other far corner was a huge, mahogany four poster bed. It had a heavy, deep red velvet canopy, with side curtains all tied back to the posts. Someone lay in the bed.

  As Patrick noticed them, the person moved, began to sit up. Cadaverously thin, moon pale, with long, white hair. Patrick ducked back out of sight and froze, heart hammering.

  “Edgar, lad?” The voice was wheezing and thin but echoed with lost strength. Something about it chilled Patrick to his bones.

  There was shuffling and soft grunts of effort as the old man moved.

  “Someone else, eh? Have I got a visitor? Or did I dream it? Hard to tell these days...”

  Patrick gritted his teeth in panic, looked down the steep staircase to the rectangle of inviting light below. He didn’t dare move, give himself away. He looked up again, into the gloom of the attic. Another grunt and the definite sound of a footstep. The old man groaned softly, then made the universal noise of someone stretching, though it was a dusty, weak sound.

  “Let’s have a look at you!” The old white head surged into view right above him and Patrick yelped in surprise. How had he covered that distance so fast? Without thinking, Patrick half ran, half fell down the thin wooden stairs, clattering as he went, and stumbled out onto the landing. He slammed the door behind him, shutting out a peal of harsh laughter that was anything but frail.

  Swallowing hard against powerful adrenaline, he went directly to his room and closed the door.

  The meal Howard made was indeed amazing. Even Patrick had to admit it. The bugs had been cleaned, the tender tail meat cooked up into a spicy tomato sauce and served over linguini. Howard had even baked fresh bread and then toasted it with generous slatherings of garlic butter.

  “You lucky to have Howard as chef,” Simone said to the others.

  “You do all the cooking?” Torsten asked him.

  Howard nodded. “Usually. I enjoy it, it’s like a hobby. These fools have a go sometimes when I can’t be bothered.”

  “The famous Edgar spag bol!” Shirley said with a laugh.

  “Hey, fuck yas!” Edgar said. He turned to Patrick and his friends. “I’ll make my spag bol tomorrow night, see what you think.”

  “Ah, what have I done?” Shirley said, slapping the back of her hand to her forehead.

  Three bottles of crisp white wine were on the table and Clarke kept everyone’s glass full. Patrick took full advantage, shaken by recent events, thinking maybe a few wines would help. There was no way he would be drinking the Blind Eye Moonshine again though.

  The wine did indeed relax him, especially his tongue. After they sat back, sated, and Howard had collected up the plates, Patrick said, “So who’s the old guy in the attic?”

  Ciara, Simone and Torsten flashed confused glances his way. Howard, Clarke and Shirley seemed to still, attentive.

  Edgar remained relaxed, smiling. “You met Bram?”

  Patrick hadn’t expected such a casual response. “Well, not met him exactly.”

  “You just had a quick spy on the old fella, is that it?”

  “I was exploring the house, is all.”

  Edgar nodded. “That right? He’s my... father, I suppose. I told you the house was his.”

  “I didn’t know he was in the attic!”

  “He lives up there, rarely goes out. He’s very old.”

  The other band members snickered.

  Patrick had a sudden pulse of realisation. The moment of recognition from the garden earlier, confirmed with his close encounter upstairs. He’d been too shocked to make the connection before, but the old man in the attic, Bram, and the white-haired man in the portrait with Governor Gulpepper... He shook his head. Surely not. Not that old. But they were the same person, he was sure.

  “Wait,” Ciara said. “There’s an old man in the attic?”

  Edgar laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked. He’s got an entire apartment up there. It’s not like we keep him in a fucking box or something.”

  “Your father?” Simone asked.

  Edgar paused a moment. “Sort of. The man who made me, shall we say.” He smiled at his band mates. “I guess he’s responsible for all of us in a way.”

  “We look after him,” Shirley said. “And he lets us have the house.”

  “It works for everyone,” Clarke said.

  “Sounds like a good arrangement,” Ciara said. “But we’ve made a lot of noise here and there. We should be more mindful.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Howard said. “The attic is a long way from downstairs. It’s a big house. He doesn’t care anyway.”

  Patrick was disarmed. He’d thought to drop a bomb with his revelation but had barely made a ripple. He jumped at a sudden rapping at the front door.

  Edgar hopped up. “Company!”

  “Expecting guests?” Torsten asked.

  “Yeah, few mates coming over. Bit of a party!”

  “On a Monday?” Patrick asked and immediately felt stupid.

  Everyone laughed, throwing him pitying looks.

  “It’s always the weekend in rock’n’roll land!” Edgar said, and went to answer the door.

  Patrick shook his head, frowning at the laughter of the band and his friends alike. His stomach churned, like the strange bugs he’d eaten had reanimated and were squirming around inside him.

  The others all left the kitchen and headed towards the large living room as voices swelled. Several people must have arrived at once. Only Patrick and Ciara remained sitting at the table.

  “What’s up with you?” she asked.

  He stared, lips pressed together. “You really can’t see it?”

  “See what?”

  “This!” He gestured vaguely around himself. “All this. It’s fucked up. It’s wrong.”

  “Patrick, you’re the one being weird. Like going to bed early, on your own. You used to l
ove a party, I’d have to drag you home.”

  “These people are messed up, Ciara. They’re not good for you.”

  She frowned, shook her head. It was almost like she pitied him.

  “Have you seen yourself?” he asked. “You’re so thin, so pale. All three of you are. You all look bad. Unhealthy. They’re doing it to you. The band.”

  “Are you jealous, Pat?”

  “What? No! I’m fucking scared, Ciara. This is not right!”

  “Youse coming or what?”

  They turned to see Edgar hanging off the kitchen doorframe, grinning.

  “Yes, coming,” Ciara said, standing.

  Edgar held Patrick’s eye for a moment, then winked, slow and condescending. He turned and left, Ciara close behind. She didn’t look back. Patrick sat alone at the table, feeling hollow inside.

  The sounds of partying grew as he sat there, seriously considering slipping away. If it wasn’t for Ciara, if it was just Torsten and Simone, he would get in the campervan right now and drive away. The urge to do just that was strong. But he couldn’t abandon Ciara. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. Somehow, he needed to convince her to see what he saw.

  The noise of the party increased. Eventually, Patrick got up and walked around the big house to the front room. He looked in and saw more than twenty people sitting and standing around. The booze was in full flow, people laughed, the music pounded out. “Jesus Saves” he realised, from Slayer’s “Reign In Blood” album. Seminal bloody classic.

  Simone sat on Clarke’s lap, their faces close together. Ciara was standing with a group of three strangers, all laughing at something one of them had said. She held a frosty beer bottle. Edgar caught Patrick’s eye and smiled. He gestured, crooking one index finger to invite Patrick in. Patrick scowled, shook his head.

  “Let’s start early tonight!” Edgar said loudly. “Shots!”

  A cheer went up and the lead singer went over to the drinks cabinet. He glanced back, flicked another wink at Patrick. Patrick wanted to beat the fucker within an inch of his life. He wanted to pound on those weirdly blackened eyes, that he was convinced now weren’t makeup. Why couldn’t the others see it? And he could beat Edgar too, he’d easily smash the skinny musician to a pulp. But it wasn’t just the one man. Patrick couldn’t fight everyone. He turned and trudged upstairs to hide out in his room again. He planned to stay awake until Ciara came up, whenever that might be, and convince her to leave with him.

  Despite his determination, sometime after midnight, the muffled thumps and laughter of the party still in full swing below, he fell asleep.

  He stood on that slick, blackened beach and stared out over a turgid sea. Something huge and bright and red boomed in the sky and thick clouds blossomed down, arcing with purple lightning. The creatures began to fall. He turned a circle, saw the beach was entirely surrounded by thick bush. Another sudden split in the sky, out there over the land, bright red like an explosion, and another rain of creatures. Some looked dead already, falling limp and unmoving. Others writhed, some vigorously, some weakly. Surely the fall would kill them? The ones over the ocean might survive if they didn’t drown, but these, slamming down into the bush from thousands of feet up, would be smashed to pulp. He squinted into the sudden and drenching icy rain, tried to see what they were, but even in the stark flashes of lightning, they were featureless. Twisted bodies, often too many limbs, tumbling and turning.

  He heard scraping sounds behind and spun around, saw those horrible flat, wide lobsters crawling from the surf onto the slimed black sand. Only these were huge, the size of small cars, and their bodies swarmed with hundreds of the small ones, skittering all over their hard carapaces. Babies, he thought. We ate their babies.

  He turned again, nervous of the tall, pale creatures wanting him, but they were nowhere to be seen. Some dream fugue part of his mind suggested they wouldn’t come, not yet. Because they weren’t asleep yet, they still partied downstairs. But they would come, soon enough. He wanted to run away and started along the beach, looking for a way out. But the bush was thick and unbroken. He reached one end of the beach and the rocks were rough and climbable, but only to a certain point before they became treacherous and led only to another small cove, this one all rock, the ocean crashing against the stone. He stood on a jutting point and bellowed his rage.

  No one heard.

  In the early hours of Tuesday morning, dawn smudging the sky outside, he was woken by movement. Ciara crawled into bed beside him.

  “We need to talk,” he said. “Please.”

  “Later, Pat.” Her voice was thick with sleep and booze. She stank of alcohol. And something he couldn’t place in his half-awake state.

  “Please,” he said. “Ciara, it’s too important.”

  She turned onto her side, but reached one hand back, patted his chest. “Okay, but in the morning. I’m so tired.”

  He sat up, stared at her as her breathing sank instantly into the long, deep cadence of sleep. Maybe he should pick her up while she was passed out, carry her to the campervan and just drive away. Leave everything behind and get out while he still could.

  His heart raced at the thought, it was so simple and so perfect.

  Soft voices came from the hallway outside. Patrick hopped up, went to the door and opened it a crack to peer out. The four band members came through the door at the far end of the hall. The one that led to the attic where the old man lived. The four of them looked fresh, invigorated even. Did they draw power from the old man somehow? The man who made me, shall we say, Edgar had said.

  “Let’s feed,” Edgar said quietly. “See you all in the morning.”

  Shirley laughed. “Sweet dreams, my brothers.”

  They each slipped into their own rooms using keys from their pockets. At the last moment, Edgar paused and turned to stare right at Patrick. Patrick gasped, jumped, but Edgar only smiled. He winked again, slowly, then went into his room.

  “That’s it,” Patrick said, closing his door. “That’s fucking it!”

  He dressed and looked at their few belongings. They were backpacking, so travelling light. Mostly clothes and toiletries. He could easily just leave all that behind. He put his phone and wallet into a bumbag he always wore when they travelled across borders. His passport and other important documents were in there. If they lost everything else, this small and ridiculous bag on a belt was all he really needed. Ciara had one too. He searched her side of the bed.

  As he looked for her stuff, she moaned and rolled over. Her back arched gently off the mattress and her lips fluttered, almost as though she dreamed of being kissed. Her breath stuttered softly out. Her cheeks seemed to tighten against her skull.

  “Fuck it!” Patrick muttered.

  Let’s feed...

  He found Ciara’s small leather bumbag half under the bed and quickly checked it. Passport, wallet, phone. All the essentials. He strapped that to himself too, his in front, hers behind. Then he turned to the bed, carefully moved back the covers. She wore only an oversized t-shirt and shorts, but that would have to do. He couldn’t hope to dress her.

  He slipped his arms underneath and lifted her off the bed, then remembered the closed bedroom door.

  “Fuck it!”

  He put her down, hurried over and opened the door. Then he remembered the front door downstairs. And the door to the campervan. It had a sliding side door, he could put her in that way, but how would he carry her and open it up. And what about the keys.

  A slight sob escaped him. “Think, Patrick!” he told himself. He checked the bumbag and the keys were there. But should he open up all the doors first and then grab Ciara and run?

  “What are you doing?”

  He gasped, turned back to the bed. Ciara stared at him, frowning. Her eyes were dark as night even though dawn was slowly brightening the room. He was so tired, so confused.

  “Ciara, I want to go. I want to go right now.”

  She furrowed her brow, like she was seeing him for the fir
st time. “Patrick?”

  “I’m serious, Ciara. Please. I can’t explain, and I’m sure you’ll understand more once we get some distance between us and this place. I want to go. We have to go.”

  “Patrick, I’m tired. Too tired.”

  “Ciara!”

  “But okay. Just not right now. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s dawn.”

  “You know what I mean. And what about Torsten and Simone?”

  “I... I don’t know.”

  She patted the bed beside herself. “Rest, yeah? For now. In the morning, the four of us, we’ll talk about it.”

  “I just want to go!”

  “All right. But in the morning. We’ll tell Torsten and Simone.”

  “If they won’t come, we leave anyway, yeah? Ciara? Please?”

  She gave him a crooked half-smile, but her eyes were sad. “Okay, Pat. Okay.”

  He drew in a ragged breath and came back to the bed. As Ciara lay down again, he unclipped the two bumbags and tucked both safely just under his side of the bed. He didn’t think he’d sleep any more, but he was so very tired. He drifted in and out of fitful, restless dozing.

  The winter sun was bright through the room when he woke. He jerked up, turned to see Ciara, but her side of the bed was empty. Looking at his watch, it was past noon. How had he slept so long? He got up, headed for the door, then paused. He fetched the two bumbags, put them both on as he had the night before, then zipped up his baggy black hoodie. It covered both well enough.

  Downstairs a few stragglers from the previous night’s party loitered around on the couches and armchairs. No sign of the band or his friends. He went back upstairs and checked the siblings’ room, but it was empty, the bed neatly made. Or not even slept in.

  Back downstairs he searched the kitchen and other parts of the house. Nothing. Back in the lounge room he approached the nearest reveller, a small blonde woman with goth makeup wearing a tight, short-skirted dress and Doc Martens.

  “Have you seen my friends?”

  “I dunno. Who are your friends?”

  “What about Edgar? The rest of the band.”

  “They went out. With that German pair and the hot Irish chick.”