The Kimota Anthology (48 page)

HORIZON

by Caroline Dunford

The horizon was cool and blue and distant: a thick band between the sea and the sky barely visible to the eye; a place of mystery, a sign of romance, somewhere that no human eye could see beyond; a special place outside of time. Sarah stretched out her fingers to touch it, her eyes half closed beneath her tangled fringe, giving her the illusion of closeness. As she watched the sun dimmed and the sky turned a pale purple, as delicate and beautiful as a lover’s dream. Sarah shivered with cold, shuffled by feet and prayed for a bus.

Gathering fresh mussels had seemed a gloriously romantic idea. However she had no one to share them with and due to a slight mishap with a rockpool her feet were rapidly becoming blocks of ice. The bus-stop was on a bend and Sarah could see quite clearly that there was no traffic coming in either direction for a least two miles. Actually there was no-one in sight. She looked down at the bucket.

“Just you and I guys,” she said and then felt remarkably foolish.

The hue of the sky was darkening rapidly and Sarah began to wish she had checked the bus times more carefully. This was a wonderfully romantic place, but it was also very isolated. Sarah began to be afraid.

Think of something else, she told herself. This is a remote seaside. No madman in search of a victim would some here. Did anyone come here? A slight sea breeze rose and litter tumbled across the beach and up onto the pavement. Obviously people did come here.

Then with surprise she saw a wallet skid along the ground past her. Abandoning the muscles to their own devices, she chased it down the road. The wallet skipped and weaved as if it were alive.

“Stay still! Won’t you?” cried Sarah struggling with her own scarf and hat, which seemed envious of the wallet’s freedom.

It caught under a bush. Sarah fished it out and headed back to the bus-stop. The leather was whitened by salt, but the pouch was dry. Feeling like a thief, she opened it. The edge of a blue note peeked up in front of a folded paper. There were no credit cards or bank cards. Sarah pulled her left hand glove off with her teeth and picked out the paper. It was a birth certificate. It read Sarah Mary Swan, born 12th June 1960, Cliffton Memorial Hospital, Brighton, Mother Helen Swan, Father Unknown.

Sarah Mary Swan dropped the wallet and sat down suddenly. The wind whirled the wallet and the paper away. Sarah sank her hands deep in the soft embankment, clutching the sank, trying to feel the real world.

“Oh my God,” she breathed softly. “He’s alive.”

The last time she had seen her own birth certificate had been in court. It had been stolen from her house the night before her mother had died.

The day she went to court came rushing back. The bitter bile in her memory made her gag. It had been a sweltering August day, a confusing day. All she could remember clearly was the deep bell-like voice of the judge.

“You have been found guilty of the murder of Helen Swan.”

And then she had fainted, slipped into blessed oblivion, but not before she had seen the expression on his face.

“Dear God,” she breathed. “He’s here. He’s here.”

She lay flat on the sand and raked the beach with her eyes. There was no-one in sight. She breathed again and rolled onto her back.

Her father, the man she had met at fifteen, was no longer in jail. Mentally she began to add up the money she had, the things she could sell. How far she could get away on the money.

“Oh God! Oh God!.”

She began to weep quietly. He had said such terrible things about her mother.

“Your mother, your sweet loving mother, she was my wife. Do you know why she left me. She left me because she wanted to be a hooker. That’s right girl your mother wanted to be a high class call-girl. But there were never nothin’ classy about your mother. She was justa common tart, same as when I met her. Only when she left me she didn’t realise she was carrying you. It wasn’t so easy to get terminations then, or that’s what would have happened to you girl. Then of course she wanted to keep you for the benefit money and the cover. Ever wonder why your mother had so many men-friends?.”

Her stomach had given a sick heave as she had remembered finding a sixth form, Tim Hasson, in the living room one day after school. He’d given her a flash grin and asked her if she played the game too. She hadn’t understood.

Her mother had been so clever. To let your daughter get to fifteen, to see her grow into a woman and still keep it secret from her. But that had been the great advantage her mother had brought her up on lies so she had never questioned her. She never imagined men paid her mother for sex. It was no something that happened.

And then he leered at her and asked, “Has she asked you to go in with her yet? She will you know.”

And Sarah had fled from him, not wanting to hear what he might suggest next.

From the moment she walked through the door, her mother had known something was wrong.

“I met my father,” she had said and her mother’s face had drained of colour.

“That isn’t possible.”

“Why? Why?” Sarah had screamed, “Don’t you even know who it is?”

The shock and horror on her mother’s face had told her more than a single word from her father. She had raced up the stairs to her bedroom, flung herself on the bed and cried until she made herself vomit. Her mother had hammered on the bedroom door, pleading, begging, trying to explain, but Sarah could think was that her whole life was a lie.

What she might have done next, she’d never have known. But he’d followed her home and three weeks later he forced his way into the house. She’d heard the shouts from the bedroom and then the crashes. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs her mother was bruised, battered and semi-conscious. Her father had thrown her one look of loathing and flung out the door. He had dropped the knife, he hadn’t had the courage to use.

Sarah had got the gloves from the kitchen quite calmly. Slipped the soft plastic over her hands and....

Finally the bus came around the corner. Fourteen years ago.... how long is life?

The bus was warm, friendly and vibrant with a familiar reality. As Sarah tucked her ticket in her pocket a voice behind her said, “Hello Daughter, I’ve been doing time for you.”

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE OR MINERAL?

by William Meikle

The cracked black leather of the bible felt rough and cold in his hands as he took it from his satchel and placed it on the stone floor in front of them.

He looked around at the three pale faces, the wide dark eyes staring blankly back at him. The silence lay heavy around them and he toyed with the idea of letting out a scream - at least one of them was sure to faint in fright. But that would spoil his big scene, and he couldn’t have that. He’d promised them a ghost and a ghost was what they were going to get.

He needed this to work. The three boys around him represented the figures of power in the school and, as a new boy, they knew that Jim would have to gain their approval if he was to fit in. Which was why they’d let him bring them here, to the ruins of Cameron Castle on a cold winters day. One mistake now and he would be ostracised for months to come.

“Are you ready?” he whispered, and was dismayed to find that his voice trembled, a childish quaver which echoed around the confines of the cramped dank chamber.

“Yeah. Just get on with it. I’m freezing my balls off here.” Bob Kerr shuffled his bottom, trying to find a more comfortable spot. He was the one that would need most watching, being the oldest of the three and also the biggest. Jim had seen him in action against some of the smaller boys and had no desire to fall prey to the bullying and the kicking and the gouging.

The other two would be easier. “Camp followers,” his dad had told him when they discussed their plan, “cut them off from the leader and you’ll be able to manipulate them.” Dad was big on manipulation and Jim didn’t intend letting him down.

Bob Kerr took a single cigarette from his jacket pocket and made a big show of lighting it up. His eyes screwed up tight in pain as the smoke got to them but Jim managed to control the giggle which had grown in his throat - it wouldn’t do to antagonise Bob. Not yet anyway.

“I told you already what happens.” He said, and was pleased to notice that his voice had now steadied. “I’ll put a pencil on the bible and then you can ask your questions. The pencil will move left if the answer is no, right if the answer is yes. Do you understand?”

He wasn’t really sure that any of them knew their left from their right but they all nodded anyway, seemingly afraid to speak, afraid to break the spell. The atmosphere was definitely building up and Jim smiled, but only inwardly. The plan was right on schedule.

He opened the Bible, laying it side on. As he did so he noticed that it had opened at the Book of Job. He smiled to himself, thinking of the plagues and pestilences he would like to visit on the three boys opposite. He took the pencil from the top pocket of his shirt and laid it cross-ways across the bible pointing directly at Bob Kerr.

The air in the room seemed to have chilled and from the corner of his eye he could see the dancing shadows cavorting on the rough stone walls. He pushed them from his thoughts - Dad had told him that there would be no problems, no need to fear, and he always trusted Dad’s judgement.

“I’ll ask first,” he said. “Just to show you how it works.” He didn’t wait for a response. He held out his arms, palms down over the bible, and he could feel the tingle, the power, as it built up and his breath condensed in the air.

“Is Edinburgh the capital of Scotland?”

He heard the gasps from across the chamber as the pencil rolled across the pages, coming to rest right at the edge of the bible.

Bob Kerr was unimpressed.

“Is that it? Not much of a question, was it?”

Jim was unperturbed. This too was part of the plan. “Give them enough rope and they will hang themselves.” Dad had said. He put his hands back to his side and stared across at Bob.

“Okay big shot, you do it.” He said, grinning widely. Bob looked at the other two, shrugged his shoulders and ground out the cigarette. That was when Jim knew that he had them - right where he wanted them. He waited for the boy to shuffle over towards the bible then he held Bob’s arms over the book and turned the palms down.

He spoke as he replaced the pencil at its starting point.

“You must concentrate,” he said, secretly delighted at the fear he could see twinkling in Bob Kerr’s eyes. He sat back on his haunches. From now on he could leave them to it and the end would be just as Dad had foreseen.

“I feel like a right divvy.” Bob Kerr said and his two companions giggled until silenced by a quick angry glance. “Okay,” he asked, “what should I say?”

“Anything you want.” Jim replied. “Just remember to ask a question that can be answered with a yes or a no.”

He could almost hear the cogs and wheels as he watched the boy try to come up with an idea. The other two boys were shuffling around noisily, already getting bored with the proceedings, but Jim didn’t think they would be bored for very much longer.

“Is my name Robert Justin Kerr?” He finally asked.

The other two giggled again but soon stopped as the pencil rolled across to the right.

“All right.” Bob whispered. “Now for the hard ones.”

Jim noticed that all three of the boys were completely engrossed in the movement of the pencil - so much so that they had failed to notice the gathering of the shadows in the far corner of the room, the deeper blackness which was even now creeping slowly towards them.

Bob Kerr looked as if he was pondering one of life’s big questions and Jim was not in the least surprised at his next statement.

“Are you a ghost?” The boy asked.

The pencil didn’t roll - it raised up an inch off the pages and floated in the air. The candle flickered wildly as a breeze wafted through the small room but the pencil didn’t waver - not moving until Bob lowered one of his hands to place it back in the middle of the bible.

All was now deathly quiet, the only noise the soft breathing from the four young bodies and, a noise which Jim could barely hear, a dry wheezing from the far corner, a corner which was now completely consumed in shadow.

The time was getting close and Jim tried to hide the smiles which were waiting to burst from his face. He tried to look serious as Bob brought the end nearer.

“Are you a man?”

Jim didn’t need to watch the pencil. He knew that Bob meant to go through the old twenty questions routine, trying to track down the identity of the ghost. He wouldn’t get far enough, Jim knew that. He also knew that they wouldn’t believe the answer if they ever found it. He wasn’t really listening as Bob rattled through the rest of the questions.

“Did you live in this castle?”

“Did you die violently?”

“Were you an old man?”

Jim smiled inwardly at that one. He could tell from Bob’s tone that he was getting frustrated. It was only a matter of time now. The blackness was drawing closer and the cold was biting into the lower half of his body but none of them moved, intent on Bob, intent on the floating pencil.

“Were you married?”

“Did you have black hair?”

The questions were getting more inane and Jim’s muscles tensed. It was very close now.

And then Bob did it. The frustration got too much for him and he asked the wrong question.

“Who are you?”

And all hell broke loose.

The blackness surged forward - a wall of cold which froze all four into immobility as the pencil snapped in two pieces and the candle flickered twice before finally going out. Bob was the first to scream as something grabbed his hands, something cold and dead and ugly.

Jim pressed himself backwards against the wall and listened as the screaming got louder and Bob was lifted into the air. Within the blackness he could just see the eyes, the fiery red embers which grew brighter with each scream.

Bob was dropped to the floor where he cringed and wept like a baby as the blackness reached for the other two. It never got that far. As one the boys managed to push themselves upright and Jim could hear them, screaming still as they raced off down the hill. It was nearly time for the final act.

The blackness loomed over Bob as Jim moved towards it. “Back!” He shouted. “Go back to your own place.” The blackness seemed to shrink in on itself and the red embers dimmed. Jim bent down and helped Bob to his feet, noticing with a grimace that the boy had fouled his pants. He turned the boy round to face the blackness.

“Look at this thing,” he said to Bob. “Look at it and remember that I am the one who can control it.” He held the boy’s head steady, making sure that he was looking straight at the “ghost” before he continued.

“Remember. Anytime you feel like hurting me, anytime you feel like doing a little damage - just remember. Anything happens to me - this will be back.”

As if on cue the blackness raised itself, filling the room as its eyes blazed like two golden suns and a cold wind ruffled the boy’s hair.

Jim released the other boy. “Go now.” He said and gave the boy a shove towards the entrance.

He listened until he was sure that Bob Kerr had gone before he moved forward to embrace his Dad, Dad who had died two years ago, Dad who still always looked after him.

[Originally published in Kimota 2, Summer 1995]