Words to Tie to Bricks (14 page)

‘
You
.’

Your hand squeezes mine in thanks.

And then –

‘I could take the mask off, if you like. Do you want to see my face?’

I know what you’re saying, and I know what you’re saying it for. The gas doesn’t matter anymore, so neither does the mask. This is an offer you could only make at the end.

But no.

‘I don’t need it to need you.’ I say. Honestly. ‘It’s a beautiful gas mask. You should keep it on.’

You nod. I nod.

And here it comes.

Here comes death.

And we turn from whatever’s behind us because it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re facing the writhing sea. And our hands are together. And we are together. And everything we know
is behind us and death is all around us but we’re standing and we’re hand in hand and this is right, this is it, this is how it happens, this is perfect.

Well. Almost perfect.

I grab your hip, and I pull you in. Your arms fit around my neck. And we –

We melt together.

And as we melt –

We drop.

H
ANNAH
O’B
OYLE

For breakfast I had pills

washed down with sorrow.

Later on, I feasted

on my own self doubt.

I finished off the day

with a cool descent into lunacy.

(I am not starving myself,

I am just feeding my sadness.)

E
MMA
S
HEVLIN

T
HEY
’
VE STARED AT THIS WINDOW
so many times before. The glint of sunlight switching colours as it shines through each
separate piece of glass. Someone’s mother nudging them to get up for Communion because they are holding other people up, slowly trudging up and down to receive their little piece of God.
Desperately trying to remember where their seats are.

When you’re in this large stone building, you’re in your own little world of faith. No-one notices him sneak in the back. No child there comments on his odd appearance and twitching
eyes, and not one person notices the gun.

H
ANNAH
-R
OSE
M
ANNING

I
USED TO LOVE SKIING
. The feel of soft snow gently whipping against my cheeks, the exhilaration of shooting down a mountain at top speed and landing in
a dishevelled heap at the bottom. I used to feel invincible, as though nothing could touch me, my problems lifted away like a feather floating in the breeze. Now I know better, now I know the
dangers of the woods ...

It was the eighteenth of May, exactly two months ago. My parents were away on one of their ‘special and exclusive’ trips that they go on every month and fail to include my sister and
me in. Every time the door of our house closes against us, I see my sister’s bitten lip, useless tears filling her eyes and her whole body shaking as she begs them to return. I’m
fifteen, however, almost a grown up. I’m used to these things and I simply shrug my shoulders, not knowing what else I should do. I have no words to comfort her, nothing to excuse my parents
for my vulnerable, seven-year-old sister except, ‘Let’s go skiing. We’ll see them soon enough.’

We grabbed our gear and set off. I live in Colorado, the snowy state, where there is not much to do but ski and ski and ski. Luckily for us, there is a ski slope right beside our huge, majestic
house. It is always filled with ornaments and grand furniture, but never with people.

The snow was beautiful that morning, soft and smooth, as the first skiers were just beginning to glide on the thick blanket of snow that draped over the ground. My sister headed immediately for
the moderately easy slopes, her dark blonde hair billowing in the mountain air and her chubby cheeks sparkling with the cold. I agreed to meet her at the chairlift and went over to my favourite
slope, a challenging, steep, bumpy slope that is the best in Colorado. I flew down it, glancing every now and then at the woods that draw me to them every time.

I did not give in, remembering my parents’ last words: ‘The woods are dangerous, Maria, more dangerous that you would ever imagine. Sinister things lurk there. You would not be wise
to go in, no matter how experienced you think you are. Avalanches and sharp rocks can kill.’

As I mulled over my parents’ last words, I felt a sharp burst of anger and defiance spread over me.
Why should I follow their advice? They’ve never been role models to Melissa
and me. They leave us every month – they don’t even care what we get up to as long as we ‘don’t go into the woods’. And what, may I ask, is so wrong with the woods?
They’re magical and enthralling and my skiing is of expert level.

I’ve skied every boring little mountain in Colorado, why can’t I ski this one?
‘Because,’ a tiny little voice chimed in my head. ‘You don’t know what
dangers lurk there.’ I angrily brushed the voice away. I was going in the woods and no one was going to stop me – not Mum, or Dad, not Melissa and certainly not myself!

I stepped gingerly off the slope and slipped into the woods. I stared around in awe. There was sparkling snow dripping from the evergreen trees and the trees themselves were broad and welcoming.
A tiny chestnut rabbit hopped a few feet away from me and I shouted with joy as I began to ski. Slow at first, but gradually getting faster and more confident as I whipped through the woods,
singing to myself. I had never felt so alive, so perfectly happy. Little did I know it was all about to change.

I stopped abruptly, slipping off my skis. I could feel the presence of another being in the woods. A cold chill ran down my quivering spine as a dark figure came into my sight. I stepped back
with shock. He was tall, very tall, and gangly. His face was pale and pinched and his eyes sparkled bright red. His lips, blue with cold, were twisted into what I interpreted as a cruel smile. He
seemed unnatural, not of this world. Yet I was transfixed by him.

‘Hello, Maria,’ he leered. ‘What are you doing here? Have you come to play with Danger?’

I don’t know how, but I plucked up the courage to speak. ‘The w-woods aren’t d-dangerous, are they?’ I stammered.

He sighed, with obvious annoyance. ‘They get more stupid every year,’ he muttered. ‘No, mundane being. I am Danger, which means you should not cross me by entering my woods.
Many have entered and never came back. What makes you think you are so special?’

I evaded his question and asked him, ‘Who are you?’ He must have heard the obvious wonder and fear dripping from every syllable.

‘I am Danger. I am not yet dead but not alive either. I lure foolish skiers into my woods and few ever return. I know what it is like to feel the pull of the woods, the confidence and
daring that fills us and chases away all your reason.’

I tried to run but I was frozen to the spot, transfixed by his words. He spoke slowly, a hint of menace in his voice. ‘You don’t listen, your ears are blocked, and all you hear is
false bravado. But I have had my share of trouble. Now, Maria, you must pay for what happened to me. It is your turn. Come with me.’

What I did next was a split-second reaction. If I hadn’t, I might have been stuck there forever. All I remember was grabbing my ski and whacking the ghostly spectre with it. He fell to the
ground unconscious.

I pulled my skis on and got out of there so fast I could feel the wind whooshing in my ears. I reached the slope and shot a frantic look back in the direction I came from. He was nowhere to be
seen. I sighed with relief and realised I was shaking uncontrollably.

Just then, my sister Melissa came skiing up to me. ‘I did a blue run,’ she said proudly. I smiled weakly and said nothing as she gushed on and on.

The following week, we went skiing once more. I did not go in the woods, nor anywhere near them. I told no one of the phantom keeper of the woods, preferring to keep my encounter secret,
although I warned anyone I met not to go in.

They must have had the insight I lacked; I still hear ghostly moans of rage echoing from far away.

G
RACE
C
OLLINS

I
WALKED DOWN TO HER
apartment block. Three weeks since she’d been there. For three weeks all her stuff had lain untouched by human hands. I had
no idea what to expect. I knew they had cleaned the room where she did it; they had to. But would the whole house be like the little princess that I’d nurtured from the day she was born? Or
the rebellious teen I’d spent four years arguing with and every day worried if she was going to be okay when she cut us out, and became secretive about her life.

I walked up to the door. Still air met my lips. The apartment was small; pictures lined the hallway. Dancers rinsing out their costumes in St. Petersburg after the show had been a flop but their
faces told a different story. They got to dance. A spoiled box of chocolates sweeping away in the wind in Philadelphia the morning after Valentine’s Day, left by some rejected lover on the
pavement for her to see the beauty in. Herself right when she came home after the hospital. A big smile stretched across her face. It was a genuine smile, the kind that one only has when they
really believe in the fact that right now things are going to be okay. They were all taken by her. She never believed in her art, thought she couldn’t do it as well as we all saw she
could.

It was cleaner then than I remembered her ever saying. Not that she said anything to me. Pretty bottles filled with wilted flowers lined the windowsills. I imagined her collecting them from her
friends and rinsing out them in the sink because they held the flowers much better than any vase. An unsent letter sat on the countertop, addressed to that old friend. I wondered if he knew. Should
I have delivered that letter with the truth? Or had he read it in the paper?

I left it.

This was too much. I found myself in her room. Handbags organised by both size and colour sat under a large rail full of old sweaters and loose fitting dresses, with baskets of tights and
scarves on either end of this makeshift wardrobe. She had been layering up, ready for the cold winter. I sat on her bed. Blankets over blankets met my backside. I counted them; six blankets and a
thick duvet to keep out the cold. I ran my hand under the pillow, folded pyjamas just like my little girl had always done. And something else. The box.