The Revenants

by Alec Dunn

  “Arsewipe,” Ryan whispered at him.

  The office door swung back open and Mr Jones’s hand had snatched from out of a cardboard box, barely visible beneath a low padded chair, a small book. “Planner,” he said, thrusting it at Tristan. Then he left and Tristan followed. He didn’t look back. But as they left the common room there was laughter, and the laughter was loud, and the laughter was nasty.

  As they walked through the seeming maze of corridors and shadow, Mr Jones tried to assure Tristan. “Some of the students can be a little distracted here at Hillcrest, but most of them are hardworking and pleasant. You’ll soon find the right friends for you, Tristan. Just do me a favour, don’t make friends with Ryan Sankey and we’ll get along fine.

  Now, your aunt, Mrs Burrows, tells me that reading is an issue. So, we might start you off with the special needs group, but the tests will tell us for sure.”

  And so it continued, up narrow stairs and along more corridors lined with battered displays that proclaimed the identity of the rooms to be Maths, then History, then Geography and then another sudden turn into a room filled with students.

  Tristan’s first impression was the number of people. He was not used to being around lots of people his own age. It was overwhelming. A group of students were standing at the open window, “It’s too hot, Sir,” a voice whined, some were seated on desks, “No Miss, I’ll get my mum to write a note tomorrow, if I remember,” some were actually sitting on seats, “What Science homework?”

  Mr Jones went over to an elderly lady with a face like leather and expression like she’d been sucking lemons. “Who’s that, Sir?” They talked briefly and then Mr Jones called him over and introduced him to Mrs Parks, your form teacher, she’ll look after you, very experienced, knows what’s what, and called over his shoulder telling him to have a good day as he left.

  Mrs Park’s expression was hard, but she was polite when talking to him, asking him how he was feeling, if he had any questions, explaining that the PRU was the pupil referral unit, that she would get one of the students to take him there and collect him at break and dinner. She looked up at a group of girls and called out, “Stephanie! Could you come over here a moment please?”

  Tristan followed Mrs Park’s stare and saw a pretty blonde haired girl standing up and approaching.

  Tristan looked down so as to not stare. She wasn’t pretty. She was beautiful.

  “Tristan, this is Stephanie, our form representative. Stephanie, this is Tristan. He’s joining our form and I’d like you to show him around for the first day or two.

  He’ll be in the PRU for the first few days, so you’ll need to show him the way and meet him there to take him to break and dinner. Is that ok? Good. Leave now to beat the screaming masses. Tristan, I’ll see you in afternoon form.”

  Tristan stood uncertain, not knowing how this beautiful girl would feel about being lumbered with baby sitting duty. He waited for the complaint, the request for someone else to take the role. There was no way a girl that looked like that would hang around with him. He waited for her to say no.

  But she didn’t. She held out her hand and smiled at him.

  And that was all it took.

  His face broke into a small smile. The first in months.

  “C’mon then. Let’s get out of here. I’ll show you the canteen on the way,” she said, leading him out. And he was looking at her flawless face as they walked through the door which was why he didn’t see the large solid shape of Ryan Sankey coming in and whether they walked into each other or Ryan had already noticed him and deliberately shouldered into him was not so clear, but Tristan was knocked to the side and Ryan loomed over him with his choice phrase, “Watch it, arsewipe.”

  Tristan could hear Stephanie, exasperated, “Ryan, you idiot. What are you doing?” drowned out by the piercing voice of Mrs Parks, “Ryan Sankey. Here. Now.” Her face no longer looked like she had been sucking on lemons, but sour as battery acid and tough as leather.

  But before he left the room Tristan again made eye contact with Ryan and could see the shapeless, shifting anger and unreasoning hatred staring back at him.

  A fresh start.

  Th ree: To Sleep Perchance

  Mary O’Donoghue checked the charts – Bradley Johnson – and signed the sheet, marking the time and his condition. She had been a nurse for almost twenty years. She knew the young man on the bed was unlikely to last the night. She had worked long enough to recognise the change in breathing that came when a patient was going to die.

  It was something she had learned from her time on the geriatric ward, to recognise the body’s final sigh as it finally let go. She knew the change in the body’s rhythm as it wound down. The boy’s body was preparing to stop. It was drawing on unknown reserves to keep him alive.

  She looked sadly down at the boy on the bed. She could tell from her time on the geriatric ward, from her time with the elderly, those who had lived a full and rich life – or who had at least had the chance. She knew his age from the chart. Sixteen.

  He was dying at sixteen. And the doctors couldn’t say why.

  She shook her head and moved around to his side. Quickly and confidently she checked the drip feeding fluids into his veins. The arm was like a stick. The bone was traceable in his forearm. She could see the skeleton lying there with its diminishing burden of flesh. She thought momentarily of her own son, eighteen, happy and in love and dismissed the thought. She looked at the young man’s gaunt, lined face.

  The strain of dying was clear.

  She didn’t let the tears fill her eyes. She was too experienced, a professional. All she could do was to care for him as well as could. She would look in again soon. Before she left she adjusted the sheets and padded his pillow. Her hand rested on his shoulder and gently, as she used to speak to her own son, she said, “You’re doin’ fine, sweetheart, everything will be fine.”

  She left the room with a small shard of sorrow piercing her heart, but busy with other duties. She would look in again, try to be there at the end.

  Bradley was aware of everything. The universe, the past, the present, the future was flooding his brain. He had watched her every step around his bed. He heard her gentle words and her soft Irish accent. He knew about her caring heart and her own healthy son. He saw the cancer starting within her bowels.

  It meant nothing to him.

  He had lost himself. The anchor was broken. The mooring was slipped. His consciousness was dissolved into the one and his own death meant nothing to him. He watched her as she walked away down the corridor. He saw her as a little girl and he saw her looking like an old woman, lying in her own hospital bed, her body ravaged by the cancer. He lay terrified with a creature inside a mausoleum. He missed his dead wife. He guarded the door. He desperately wanted to escape. He lay on the floor unable to breath, choking for air. He was waiting for a boy outside his house. He was chased by the strangers in the graveyard. He was filled with grief for his abducted girlfriend. And beyond it, at the periphery, something lurked.

  The gaping maw.

  Hunger.

  Tentacles reach out for more, more food, more life, more energy, more to fill the emptiness.

  He was lost and could no longer join the dots. The images ran through his mind and meant nothing. The death and the pain and the grief and the fear meant nothing. The cruelty and the loss meant nothing. The world meant nothing. His life meant nothing. It played out before him and meant nothing.

  A beautiful girl with golden hair waits for a boy.

  It is their first date and she is nervous, excited and nervous. He recognises her. She is dressed in a short skirt that shows her curvaceous legs.

  He sees her thoughts as she was selecting her clothes. The choice between dresses is so important. It must be right. She likes the boy. She likes him a lot.

  She is waiting and nervous. She has been stood up once, not that she holds a grudge. She is a generous spirit. He can see inside her and she is golden.

 
; He sees their meeting, her generous smile, his awkwardness.

  He watches their flirting. He hears their shared secrets. He feels the weight of her hand on his, the weight of his hand on hers. He looks into her multi-coloured eyes and feels his heart coursing with emotion. He stares into his clouded eyes and feels the longing. He sees the boy’s developing physique, his growing muscles and thinning body and feels the admiration.

  She waits nervously; he is late again. But she trusts him and believes in him.

  He said he would be there. He will be.

  Their love is already sealed. It is certain. It is special.

  He feels what she feels. There is no doubt about the emotion. He feels what the boy feels. He would die for her.

  It is getting cold outside the cinema. It is getting late. The film will be starting soon. He looks down at the silver bracelet watch on his slender wrist and notices the slight raising of goose bumps on his skin. He feels the slight prickling of raised hair against the cold.

  He looks down the street and there are not many people still walking to the doors of the cinema. He feels the heels of the shoes pushing into his feet and the unusual shift of weight onto his toes. She has been waiting for some time. He knows she does not usually wear high heels. She is not used to them.

  He looks at his reflection in the glass of the window and sees his beautifully shaped body. He knows he looks good in the dress. It was the right choice. He checks the lipstick again. He feels nervous.

  The small black leather bag resting on his shoulder starts to vibrate. Music sounds out. It is the phone. It is the tune she chose for him.

  She answers it quickly, but it is not him.

  He feels her heart’s pain as she hears the news.

  He watched it all play out. As his body gave its last sigh, as it released his final burst of energy to maintain life, he saw what he had done. He had pushed the piece into place. He saw what would happen. He saw the gaping maw, the ringing phone, the escape. He saw it all. He knew the road he had set the boy upon and saw what he would become.

  As Bradley’s final moments approached, he felt his world narrowing down to himself. His vision moved from the universal panoramic of everything to the tunnel vision of his own life. He felt his own consciousness and awareness of himself return.

  He felt himself lying on the soft hospital bed that pushed cruelly into his own weakened body. He heard the handle turning and the door open and close as the nurse returned to check on the young boy she felt sorry for. He felt her grief at finding the cancer too late. He knew where she was in the room, standing by the side of the bed. He took stock of the seeping energy left in his frail body and waited.

  He would only have one chance.

  Mary watched his breathing. It was ragged. It wouldn’t be long now. The boy was in care she understood. The carers refused to come. He had done terrible things, apparently. He had upset them.

  She looked at his young face, aged horribly by his death and didn’t know what he had done. It wasn’t her job to know what people had done. It was her job to care for them.

  The poor boy had nobody. He would die alone.

  She looked at her watch and knew she should move on. A voice inside her head seemed to plead his case. An image of her own son flashed again to her mind. Well, five or ten minutes couldn’t hurt. It really seemed that someone should be there. Someone should be with him.

  She moved the solid wooden chair next to his bedside and sat down. She could reach out from here and hold his hand.

  The room was silent apart from his strained shallow breaths and the ticking of the clock. He might never know she had been with him, but she could at least hold his hand and say a prayer for him.

  Mary made the sign of the cross upon her chest and silently said a prayer for the young man, Bradley Johnson, sixteen, asking the Lord to take him into his keeping and forgive him his sins.

  The shallow breaths gave out in a broken and stuttering rhythm. The clock’s quiet ticking moved remorselessly on. It would be very soon, she was sure.

  She reached out to hold his hand. Her own rounded fingers softly wrapped around the pale, clumped sticks of bone that lay upon the sheet. The hand felt cold already; it felt like she was holding the hand of a dead man. She gave a gentle squeeze to make him aware of friendship, of company, of love.

  You were loved. Don’t be afraid.

  When his weak, dead hand gripped her soft, plump fingers hard, she was shocked. When he lurched upright from the bed to sit with straight back, emaciated and hollow concave stomach revealed, she cried out to the Blessed Virgin. When his wide, haunted eyes opened to stare, burning into her own, she lost the power of speech. It was as though there was a sudden fire within him.

  His voice was weak, hoarse, but he gripped her hand and pulled her in to hear him, speaking rapidly, with intensity. “Mary, you need to go to the hospital. You have cancer. You will die of it if you don’t get it treated.” She was trying to pull away from him now, trying to disengage her hand from his. “Mary, believe me. There is a boy at my school. Mary, tell him not to go into the library. Please, Mary, tell him not to go in there. I didn’t want this to happen to him. Please, Mary, for your son, go to the hospital, get it checked out. He cries at your funeral. He can’t take the pain of losing you.”

  And the fire was spent. His body fell back, a burnt husk, open eyed, open mouthed. His hand still held hers but there was no strength in the grip anymore. There was nothing to stop her from releasing his hand.

  She sat there in shock. In the name of the father and the son and the Holy Ghost, what was that?

  She burst out laughing, a peal of laughter that rang around the room, a release of the relief and panic. She had heard stories about patients going out with a bang, but never in almost twenty years had she experienced something like that.

  “Bang!” she said loudly. But feeling that the laughter and loud speech was out of place in the hospital room of a recently deceased patient, she forced herself to calm down. She was a professional and here to care for her patients.

  Still, it had been an awful shock.

  What had he said? He had known her name! Amazing, she thought. He must have heard the other nurses talking to her while he was asleep and taken it in. Amazing what the human mind can do. She shook her head. And she thought she had seen it all.

  And what else? Something about cancer. Well, there had been a lot of suggestions of cancer, that he had been dying of cancer, trying to find his cancer, testing for that, so no wonder it was playing on his mind, the poor mite.

  She felt good though, after the shock. She had been right. Even in his final moment, he hadn’t been thinking of himself, he had worried about someone else. Bless him. She murmured another prayer. Surely, Lord, whatever he had done to upset his carers so much, he had redeemed himself. Surely, he deserved a place in heaven.

  And there had been something about a boy not going to a library. She shook her head. It was truly amazing. To be sure, the boy probably hated libraries. She would tell the other nurses about it when she saw them. This was a great story.

  Mary O’Donoghue didn’t go to the hospital to get her cancer checked out. She didn’t believe that there was any sense in Bradley Johnson’s final ramblings.

  Months later, when she noticed she had started losing weight and did seek medical advice, it was too late. She re-interpreted Bradley’s final words as a message from God that she had failed to understand.

  At least that gave her some comfort as she lay dying.

  She was unable to understand the message although it occupied her thoughts as she lost her strength and was eaten away. She never found the boy that was not to go into the library. When she started looking it was too late.

  Her son cried at her funeral.

  Four: Getting to Know You…

  It was December the twenty first and the day started badly. Tristan’s sleep was disturbed; the nightmares rocked him.

  The man is strong, a large man. He is
familiar. His long, lank hair is familiar. He is lying on a mattress on his back with a rolled up cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closing. He looks sleepy.

  Tristan recognises him from the squat in London, Brian.

  The facial expression is suddenly more alert, cautious, slightly worried. Brian stares up at the ceiling and stands up from the mattress to lift his camp light up to the corner of his room. He sees nothing.

  He sucks the last drags from the cigarette in deep breaths. The end flares a bright orange. The man raises his head to blow a wide smoke cloud up into the air, then another. The clouds disperse among the general haze of smoke above him. He places the stub in the ash tray by the side of his bed and lies down, leaving the camp light on. His eyes close.

  A shadow slips down from the corner of the room. It crawls down the wall like a stain, moving in a single dark mass like a slug, but with patches of flicking out as though they were holding on. It moves slowly at first, but then faster.

  The black slick slides down, down towards the large man whose eyes remain closed. He yawns.

  The shadow pounces. The blackness covers him.

  There is a brief struggle on the large man’s face.

  When his eyes open, the struggle is over. The blackness flickers around him and inside him.

  The man is still familiar, but the expression on his face is not and when he gets up his movements are slick. He slides up from the mattress and slips from the room.

  The day got worse.

  Footsteps smashed into the brown tiled floor. Clattering echoes ricocheted off narrow walls. A wolfish yell howled out, harsh and wordless, as a boy was running desperately down the corridor. Two boys were chasing.