This River Awakens (22 page)

He righted the wheelbarrow and found an old weathered board that would serve as a plank, laid it sideways across the wheelbarrow and then walked it back. Sten was still standing beside the mound, his face white as he stared down at it.

‘You all right?’ Fisk asked as he came up beside him.

After a moment, Sten nodded, glanced at the wheelbarrow, then lifted the shovel. ‘Well—’ He turned a yellow grin on Fisk. ‘Here goes.’

Not trusting himself to speak, Fisk took the plank and brought it around to the back of the truck, where he propped it against the tailgate. He turned to find that Sten had begun. Grunting, he dumped a shovelful of entrails into the wheelbarrow, which promptly fell over, the intestines flopping out to rest against the truck’s front tyre. Sten stopped, stared at it for a moment, then laid down the shovel and righted the wheelbarrow. He then picked up the shovel and worked its blade under the slippery ropes until the iron edge abutted the tyre. Slowly, he lifted the load, stepped back and dumped it in the centre of the wheelbarrow.

Fascinated, Fisk continued watching as Sten returned to the mound, filled a second shovelful. The air was filling with the buzz of flies – Fisk hadn’t noticed them before, but now he saw the black clouds rising up around Sten, who had fallen into a slightly arrhythmic pattern of inserting the shovel, straightening, swinging, then flipping the entrails into the wheelbarrow. Already, Fisk saw, the man’s clothes were soaked in sweat.

‘Christ,’ Fisk said with a shake of his head. ‘You’ll be here for ever. I’ll get out my shovel, give ya a hand.’

‘’Preciate it,’ Sten gasped.

*   *   *

It had been on his mind all through the hour he’d spent helping Sten load the truck, and now, as he watched the man drive away, it rose up like a black-headed serpent in his thoughts. His loins stirred and he drew a sudden breath. Maybe, he thought. Maybe this time.

He walked the wheelbarrow around to the back of the house, then turned on the water hose and washed it out. The cage rows were alive with sounds: scratching, skittering, gnawing – eternal music, echoing the rush of his own blood in his veins, animal whisperings that, at times like these, seemed to caress his soul. Such beautiful music, he thought, as he walked over to the water tap and shut it off. He turned, placing his hands on his hips, and gazed, with satisfaction, at the three rows of cages arrayed before him.

‘Maybe this time,’ he repeated softly. After a moment he turned back to the house and ascended the steps. ‘Make you sing one last time, eh, Bruise?’ He entered the house, strode down the narrow hallway to the cellar door. His hand closing on the latch, Fisk paused, glanced back down the hallway.

Flowers.
The word seemed to burst in his mind. His eyes narrowing, he stared at the wallpaper lining the hall. Flowers, faded now, the paper yellowed at the edges and peeling away. Wrinkles and blisters, smudged with dirt. Dorry’s wallpaper, once as bright as her smile the day she’d picked it out. Fisk’s breath caught as he heard a sound from the kitchen. She’s back, he thought, his heart pounding.
She’s gonna walk into the hallway and see me standing here, one hand on the door latch, the other gripping my crotch. She’s gonna see me, and her smile will die, and she’ll fade away – fade away like the flowers.

He opened his suddenly dry mouth, then shut it again. No, he couldn’t call her now, he couldn’t let her see him.
But she is still there – I can hear her. She’s laughing now, that soft warm laugh she saves for me.
He frowned.
But no, she’s not saving it for me – she’s laughing. Now. In there.
He lurched forward, reached hands out to either side for support.
She’s with someone!
A snarl curled Fisk’s lip, and he pushed himself forward.

The laugh deepened, and it was the voice of sex.
Someone’s in there, and he’s having her!
His hands bunched into fists and they travelled the walls on either side as he strode forward, his steps jerky and mechanical. I’ll kill them, he hissed to himself.
I’ll kill them both.

Vision blurring, Fisk reached the end of the hallway and staggered into the kitchen. ‘God!’ he croaked. There she was, her smiling face resting on a strange shoulder, arms wrapped around a strange body. Their eyes met, and her smile widened. Tears filled Fisk’s eyes, and he reeled to one side, his shoulder striking the wall. ‘No,’ he cried softly.

Dorry stepped back, and the man turned at Fisk’s words.

With a wordless bellow, Fisk stumbled backward into the hall. He spun around, stared wildly down its shadowed length. The flowers seemed to be falling from the walls – bleached and ragged, they fluttered down like a swarm of dying butterflies. At the far end the cellar door was open, and white light poured from it. Fisk’s gaze fixed on that light. A gasp breaking his lips, he staggered forward.

Blossoms pelted him, each touch like the sting of a wasp. Flinching, bunching his shoulders and ducking his head, Fisk ran towards the glowing white light. He ran on and on, hands out before him, his eyes squeezed shut. But the hall seemed to go on for ever, and he was now wading through flowers hip deep. Fingers groping, he wailed, flung himself forward with all his strength.

He struck the wall, his hands and arms unable to stop his momentum. An explosion of colour filled his head and a loud crack sounded in his ears. Head snapping back, Fisk crumpled. Pain radiated in waves from the bridge of his nose, from his forehead, and, as if from a great distance, he followed the sudden warm flow of blood down through his nose until it issued from his nostrils. Numbly, he licked his upper lip, drew into his mouth the bitter blood. His eyes snapped open, and he looked back down the hall.

Empty, dark.

The stings prickling his flesh began to fade, leaving no mark. Drawing in ragged breaths, Fisk leaned his back against the wall, glanced at the closed cellar door. No white light. Nothing. His head was buzzing. He reached up and pinched his nose, winced at the stab of pain. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, ‘I ran into the bloody wall.’

Shivering, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. No one’s in the kitchen, he told himself. Some kind of hallucination. She’s gone – she was never there. And that man – his face – it had been Fisk’s own, years younger, smiling, eyes afire with lust. ‘For Dorry. For my wife.’ He shook his head. ‘But that’s all right, isn’t it?’ He nodded, wiping at his eyes.

The tears wouldn’t stop, nor would the shivering, and soon he was bawling uncontrollably, his whole body heaving.

Hours might have passed – Fisk wasn’t sure, but when the crying stopped and he uncurled himself from the corner he had crawled into, his joints cracked painfully and his feet were asleep. Exhausted, feeling washed out, Fisk slowly climbed to his feet, leaned against the wall. ‘Dorry?’

He glanced at the cellar door, then, with a gasp, he pushed himself down the hall. ‘Dorry? I can explain.’ He staggered into the living room and sat down in the chair, drew his legs up against his chest. ‘Please, Dorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I can explain.’ As he spoke the blood that had dried around his mouth and in his nostrils cracked, making him wince as it plucked whiskers. ‘Please.’ He sucked in a lungful of musty, cool air, then croaked, ‘I’m scared, Dorry. I’m scared. That’s all.’

He waited – for her soothing words, for her calming touch, but the house remained empty, the air touching his flesh with cold, careless hands. Fisk rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m scared,’ he said stiffly, opening his eyes and looking around, his eyes fixing on the dull details of the room. ‘Does anybody give a damn?’ he asked, his voice lowering to a rough growl. ‘That’s all I wanna know, now. Anybody?’

Faintly he heard the muted madness of the mink in the back yard. He nodded. ‘Somebody, eh? No, just nobodies, lots of nobodies.’ He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. ‘One thousand, six hundred nobodies – all singing. Listen to them.’ His eyes flicked open, his lips peeled back. ‘Listen to them!’ he hissed. ‘So satisfied! Sure, won’t be long now, they figure. Bunchin’ together, now, ready to crawl.’ He barked a savage laugh. ‘Crawl outa this mouth.’ He pushed his swollen tongue against the back of his teeth, trying to remember what it felt like the first time.

VI

In the shed, Sten giggled. He looked down into the stained ceramic sink, watched the last of Elouise’s jam swirl down the drain, then turned off the water tap. On the table-top all around him sat empty jars. ‘Fifty,’ he said aloud, filled with glee. Fifty jars, twenty filled with jam and preserves, thirty waiting – waiting for this year. ‘Not any more,’ he laughed.

Sten turned and walked to the back of the room. He bent down and gripped one handle of the aluminium washtub. He paused to let a moment of dizziness pass, his eyes fixing on the ground meat that filled the tub, then, grunting, he began to pull the tub across the earthen floor. He rested three times before finally managing to drag the tub close enough to the jars and the table. Straightening, he frowned. ‘Suppose it would’ve been easier to carry the jars over,’ he mumbled, then shrugged. ‘No matter. Next load.’

From the table-top he took one of the jars and Elouise’s hand shovel. ‘Tools of the trade.’ Sten giggled again. He began filling the jars one by one, muttering between harsh breaths. The room reeked of blood and bile, and the hot air seemed laden with steam. Laughter filled Sten’s skull – the monsters. And yet, suspended somewhere in the haze of his thoughts, remained a detached awareness – a small piece of sanity looking outward into the maelstrom, offering comments every now and then with a voice cold and sardonic. Of course they’re laughing, the voice told him now –
look around you, Sten, smell the air, taste your lips. It’s reality that’s all around you now, Sten, and it’s no different from this pleasant little house that’s in here – right inside your head. You’ve done it, Sten. You’ve achieved the dream of a million philosophers. You’ve shaped reality to fit your ideal, to a tee. Aren’t you proud? You should be.
Sten’s breath caught, then he shrugged. ‘Tools of the trade,’ he mumbled again.

Grind the meat, fill the jars.
‘It’s my house,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I can do what I want.’ He continued filling jars, his motions becoming mechanical. ‘Sweat it out, who cares what she thinks? Who cares? Grind the meat, fill the jars, who cares?’ He noticed that blood had dried on his hands, turning them black – he thought of lepers, he thought of flesh rotting and falling away, revealing twisted, stained bones. ‘It’s my house, smells fine. I can do what I want. I can sleep during the day, I can make my eyes glow at night. Grind the meat. I can drink all I need. Fill the jars. I can feed my dogs. Who needs garbage bags?’
Stained bones, go crunch crunch in the grinder, and what about her? Wearing those t-shirts. No bra, no, never a bra. Strutting it, pushing it, shoving it in my face, what’s she trying to prove?

‘And what about the other one? Hiding there, nice white room, nobody sending flowers. Think I’d send flowers? Hah. Fuck, I put her there, hah. Tyres grab dogs, didn’t grab her, no, she’s not six feet under in some rotting garbage bag – she didn’t even care, just a dog, eh. Fuck. More than just a dog, but what does she know?’ The voice in his head spoke up:
right, more than just a dog – we know that, don’t we?
Sten nodded. ‘Damn right. The dog’s a – a…’ He frowned, then the voice finished it for him:
an excuse, Sten, the dog’s an excuse.

That’s right, Sten,
the voice continued.
Not all monsters are laughing. After all, there’s me.

Sten shook his head.
Six feet under, frozen snarl in the dirt. It’s all black down there, black as my hands. My hands, what does she care? Hate me, they hate me. Grinding me, always. Over and over again. Making jam, filling jars. I’d never fit in a garbage bag. Besides, they want to preserve me, hah. Fifty jars, almost all filled. I don’t care. They can’t touch me. They can’t touch me because I don’t care, hah.

Sten stopped suddenly, straightened and stared out of the smeared window, the white light making him squint. Nausea was building inside him – but it wasn’t the smell, he realised – it was the sound of his own voice, and the laughing monsters, and the careening shadows, and the dizzying spaces on all sides. It was the taste of poison in his mouth, dry and bitter, and the hot gusts of his breath. ‘I’ve caught a cold,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what’s happened. I’ve got a fever, too, I can feel it.’ He clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Hot. I’d better go to bed.’

Glancing around, he realised that he couldn’t leave things as they were. The jars had to be sealed. He’d leave the rest of the guts for now – the dogs had already been fed some. They’d eaten it like starved wolves. There was enough in the jars to last a month.

Reeling slightly, Sten began sealing the jars. He could feel the fever coursing through him, and it seemed that his own flesh was becoming too small for him, tightening and tightening until he wanted to scream and strike outward, claw and tear his way out from his own body. ‘It’s the flu,’ he croaked. ‘A white room, no visitors, but send me flowers, okay?’

After what seemed like hours, he finished with the jars. He staggered out of the shed and hurried across the driveway and entered the back of the house. He half ran down the hallway and then up the stairs. He entered the bathroom and stood in front of the sink, staring at the reflection in the mirror.

He almost shrieked. Spanning his forehead was a black, flaking imprint of a hand. Runnels of sweat had streaked through it, tracing brownish-red trails into his eyebrows and down on to his cheeks. Inside his head, the monsters roared with laughter.

In sudden terror, Sten whirled and plunged through the doorway. He ran down the hallway and entered the bedroom. Then he stopped. The bed – he’d been sleeping down on the living-room sofa, even after Elouise had left. He stared at it, dull pain churning through his body. The bed was made, the sheets crisply folded – not a single wrinkle. ‘I hear you,’ he whispered. ‘Under there. Just waiting. You know what you want, you know what I want.’ Sten took a step forward, reached down and pulled back the bed’s cover sheet. He began removing his clothes, not once shifting his eyes from the clean white sheets.