Spawn (8 page)

“Fetch those sheets,” said Greaves. “We’ll do those first.”

Harold paused before the roaring flames, seemingly hypnotized by the patterns they weaved as they fluttered before him. A low roar issued forth from the blazing hole. Even standing six feet away, the heat stung him and he took a step back.

“Harold,” said Greaves, more forcefully. “The sheets.”

He seemed to come out of his trance, nodded and crossed to the corner of the room, gathering up as many of the soiled sheets as he could carry. The stench was appalling and his head swam. A piece of rotted excrement squashed against his apron and he winced, trying to hold his breath as he struggled back to the waiting furnace. Greaves took them from him and began pushing them into the flames on the end of a large poker. The ferocity of the fire hardly diminished and even sheets damp with urine and blood were quickly engulfed by the furious fire. Dark smoke billowed momentarily from the gaping mouth of the furnace, bringing with it acrid fumes which made both men cough.

“I hate this job,” gasped Greaves, pushing more of the filthy material into the fire.

Harold returned with the last of the faecal linen and together they shoved it into the furnace, watching as it was consumed.

“We’ll clean those trolleys up later,” said Greaves, motioning to the reeking gurneys in the corner of the room.

Harold nodded blankly, his eyes now turning to the trolley before them and its blanketed offerings. He watched as Greaves took hold of the blanket and pulled it free, exposing what lay beneath.

Harold moaned aloud and stepped back, eyes rivetted to the trolley. His one good eye bulged in its socket, the glass one regarded all proceedings impassively. He clenched his teeth together, felt the hot bile gushing up from his stomach, fought to control the spasms which racked his insides. The veins at either temple throbbed wildly and his body shook.

The foetus was in a receiver, dark liquid puddled around it. It was a little over six inches long, its head bulbous, its eyes black and sightless. It had been cleaned up a little after coming from pathology but not enough to disguise the damage done to it. The umbilicus was little more than a purple knot, gouts of thick yellowish fluid mingling with the blood that oozed from it. Its tiny mouth was open. There was more blood around the head which looked soft, the fontanelles not having sealed yet. The entire organism looked jellied, shrunken, threatening to dissolve when touched.

Harold backed off another step watched by Greaves.

“Not a pretty sight is it?” he said, apparently unperturbed. But then why should he be? He’d done this sort of thing often enough before. Harold gagged, put both hands on the trolley to steady himself and stared down at the foetus, his heart thudding madly against his ribs. He watched as Greaves picked up a pair of forceps, large stainless steel ones, from the trolley beside the receiver. Then, he picked the occupant of the tray up by the head, having to readjust his grip when the body nearly fell out. A foul-smelling mixture of blood, pus and chemicals dripped from the tiny body and Greaves wrinkled his nose slightly. Then, almost with disgust, he cast the foetus into the furnace. Immediately the body was consumed and there were a series of loud pops and hisses as the tiny shape was devoured by the flames.

Harold watched, mesmerized.

“Gordon,” he whispered, watching the tiny foetus disappear, reduced in seconds to ashes.

He thought of his brother.

“Gordon,” he whimpered again.

But, this time there was no screaming. His mother didn’t dash in and try to drag the small creature from the roaring inferno. There was nothing this time. Just the terrible feeling inside himself. A cold shiver, as if someone had gently run a carving knife into his genitals and torn it upward to his breastbone. He felt as if he’d been gutted.

Greaves pushed the furnace door shut and hammered the latch back into place with the wrench then he turned to look at Harold who was still swaying uncertainly. For a moment, the senior porter thought his companion was going to faint.

“Are you all right?” he said.

Harold gripped the edge of the gurney and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“You’ll get used to it,” Greaves told him, trying to inject some compassion into his voice.

Harold was confused. He looked imploringly at Greaves as if wanting him to elaborate on the statement.

 “That’s how all the abortions are disposed of,” the coloured porter told him. “We get through above five a month.”

“Will I have to do this?” said Harold.

“Eventually.”

The two of them stood there for long moments, neither one speaking, only the roaring of the flames from inside the furnace and the persistent hum of the generator interrupting the silence.

Harold drew a shaking hand through his hair. His face was bathed in perspiration and he was finding it difficult to swallow, as if the furnace had sucked in all the air from the room. He was suddenly anxious to be out of this place, back into the chill of the corridors. Away from the furnace. Away from the dragon’s mouth that devoured children. Away from the memories. But he knew that they were one thing that would always pursue him. No matter where he ran or hid they would always find him because they were always inside him and now, as he thought about that tiny body being incinerated, his mind flashed back to another body burning, to another time. To 1946. To Gordon.

He turned and blundered out of the room, leaning against the wall, panting as he waited for Greaves to join him. The black man closed the door behind them, sealing off the sounds of the generator and the furnace.

He touched Harold gently on the shoulder, urging him to follow.

“Come on,” he said, softly and Harold walked beside him, brushing one solitary tear from the corner of his eye.

And Greaves’s words echoed in his mind:

“You’ll get used to it.”

One of the bam doors creaked loudly in the wind and the high pitched whine made Paul Harvey sit up. He gripped the sickle tightly in his hand, trying to control his breathing. The creak came once more and he realized that it was the door. Exhaling wearily, he lay down on the bed of straw again, gazing up through the hole in the roof immediately above him. Clouds skudded past, buffeted by the wind, passing swiftly before the moon until it resembled some kind of celestial stroboscope. The unrelenting glare reminded Harvey of an unshaded light bulb.

There are many things which stick in the memory, some of them inconsequential, and one of the things which now came to the big man’s mind was the fact that, in the house where he grew up, not one single light possessed a shade. The rooms downstairs were bright but those upstairs were lit by dim sixty watt bulbs. His own bedroom included. He could still see it in his mind’s eye. The unshaded bulb, the large bed with its rusty legs, the dusty floorboards. After his mother had left, the house had become steadily filthy. His father was never there to clean it and, even when he was, the dirt and grime didn’t seem to bother him. During summer, the kitchen became a playground for all kinds of insects. Flies would feast on the congealed grease and rotting food which coated plates and saucepans. They were tossed, unwashed, into the chipped sink. Perhaps once a week, Harvey’s father would force him to wash them and Harvey would obey because he feared his father. Fear was a stronger emotion even than hatred, over the years Harvey had come to learn that much. He had, even as a teenager, been a big lad, powerfully built. It would have been relatively easy to snap his father’s frail neck with one strong hand. But, the spectre of fear, ingrained within him for so long, always seemed to be there, preventing him from harming his father who was, after all, the only person he had to share his worthless existence with. He cooked for him, he cleaned as best he could. Sometimes forced to launder sheets which his drunken father had fouled the night before. Harvey had done it all because, along with the fear was a perverted sense of duty. He owed this shrunken, sadistic little bastard his existence and that was what hurt most of all.

He wondered what it would have been like if he had left home with his mother. Would it have been different? Perhaps there wouldn’t have been the beatings and the abuse but words sometimes hurt more than actions and his mother did not easily let him forget the pain she had gone through to give him life.

Harvey pressed both his hands to his temples as if the thoughts hurt him. He screwed his eyes up until white stars danced behind the lids. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbed angrily and he kept his teeth clenched until his head began to ache. Only then did the images begin to recede somewhat. He sat up rubbing his face with both huge hands, head bowed. And he remained in that position for some time.

The wind howled around the barn.

Harold watched the milk bubbling in the battered pan and listened to the powerful wind outside. At times, the gusts grew to such awesome proportions it seemed they would demolish the little hut. Built only of wood, it shook with each fresh onslaught of the gale.

The solitary dwelling was about 300 yards from the main building, which was itself visible through the window in the other room. There were no windows in the kitchen and Harold now stood in the yellowish light provided by an unshaded fifty watt bulb which dangled from the ceiling by a worn flex. The kitchen contained a hotplate, an old enamel sink and some cupboards which had been hastily nailed to the wooden wall at some time. The rusted heads of the nails were still visible in places. The tiny room was less than twelve feet square and it smelt of damp. There was mould on the west wall but at least, thought Harold, the place didn’t leak. It had been cleaned up somewhat before his arrival but still showed the signs that it had been uninhabited for more than six years. There was a deep layer of dust and grime on nearly everything and Harold decided that he must clean the place up on his day off. It was, after all, to be his home from this point onwards.

He switched off the gas and removed the saucepan of milk, carefully pouring the contents into a mug which stood nearby. He then dropped the pan into the sink where it landed with a clang. Harold shuffled into the other room. It was slightly larger than the kitchen, boasting a single bed, a table and two battered chairs and more cupboards which looked as if they’d been assembled by a group of unenthusiastic woodwork students. The room was heated by a parafin stove which stood close to the bed and Harold warmed himself beside it before crossing to the window and peering out. He scraped away some of the accumulated muck from the window pane and squinted through the darkness. The lights of the hospital blazed in the night.

Harold lowered his head, the memory of what he’d seen that afternoon suddenly filling his mind. He turned his back on the hospital as if, by doing so, he would be able to blot out the visions of what he’d witnessed there earlier. He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge of it, sipping at the milk. It was hot. It burned.

He exhaled deeply, the thought of that tiny foetus consumed by the hungry furnace causing him to shudder. My God, that sight brought so many unwanted memories with it. He had thought that when he took this job it might help him to forget or at least come to terms with what had happened all those years ago. But now he had learned that it was to be his duty to burn things. Things. Were they human? he asked himself. The one in the tray had looked like something from Outer Space but it was still human. It was still a child. They were asking him to burn children. Asking him to relive his nightmare day in, day out.

Asking him to bum Gordon, to burn his brother, over and over again.

Harold walked slowly towards the door of the furnace room. Even ten feet away he could hear the steady hum of the generator. His footsteps echoed in the dimly lit corridor and his breath formed small vapour clouds in the heavy air. For some reason it seemed colder in the basement than usual. Behind him, the pathology lab doors were closed, retaining their secrets. Harold put his hand on the furnace room door and pushed it open. He stepped inside, immediately recoiling from the all too familiar smell of soiled linen. He walked across to the furnace itself, the generator humming noisily nearby. He could hear the muffled roar of the flames as he picked up the thick gloves which lay on the ledge before the furnace door. He pulled them on then reached for the wrench, giving the lock a hefty whack.

It sprang open.

Flames, white and orange, danced madly before him and Harold felt their searing heat on his face. The air seemed to be sucked into the blazing hole and he struggled to get his breath. He took a step back, wincing at the intensity of the heat.

The door behind him swung shut with a loud bang and Harold spun round, heart thumping hard against his ribs. For long seconds he watched the door, expecting someone to walk in – Winston Greaves or maybe one of the other porters. The door remained firmly closed. Harold turned slowly back to look into the roaring furnace. As he stared into the raging inferno his one good eye began to pick out shapes in the blazing hell which was the furnace. Much as children watch the dancing flames of a coal fire. A vision slowly formed before Harold.

He wanted to move away but it was as if his feet were nailed to the ground and, all he could do was stare into the fire.

A single tear blossomed in the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek. They were in there, the charred remnants of countless children like the one he had seen Greaves burn.

He had felt so powerless as he had watched the tiny body consumed. Just as he had felt powerless that night in 1946 when he had seen his mother and Gordon burned to death in the fire.

The fire which
he
had started.

The leaping flames seemed to alter shape, reform until Harold found himself looking into the face of his dead brother and, all at once, he realized that he must pluck Gordon from the flames.