Beastings Read online

  Then one of the men was gliding across the polished wooden floor that had been laid in a pattern that seemed to repeat itself into infinity. The man’s hair was oiled and styled. His hair was so black it was blue. He was very handsome. She could smell him; his scent was exotic.

  Then he was before her and he was smiling and bowing and offering a hand. His fingernails were manicured and buffed. They appeared silver in the light. The girl gave him her hand. She made to rise from her seat but could not move. Her body was weighted down. Her body was made of stone. She tried with all her force to rouse herself but nothing happened.

  The man dropped her hand. He turned and departed and disappeared into the swirling crowd of waltzing bodies.

  The girl turned her head to one side to look across the room and as she did she left the ballroom she left the matchbox she saw nothing but trees and dirt and a pile of sticks; a child and the setting sun and a sour sadness in her empty stomach. But she could still hear the music of the string quartet and the squeak of new leather on the polished floor.

  Her hands shook as she removed a match from the box and slowly ran the pink tip along the coarse lighting strip. Nothing happened. She did it again. Still nothing. Again. Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing. Again.

  Nothing.

  She pressed harder and then the match finally took as its head ignited in a small explosion. The phosphorescent smell strong and familiar. Sparks danced within the flame and then it formed into a definite shape with corners and became a radiant octagon that was adjoined on all sides by other octagons some of them the colour of the trees and others the colour of sky. She trailed the flame and saw the octagons shift and jostle until a fragile honeycomb aligned itself across the girl’s vision. The match burned for hours. She watched the stick dwindle between her fingers to carbonise black and crooked and then the flame was burning her fingers and then it was out.

  She delved into the infinite honeycomb and found another match. Struck it. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Explosion. Fire. The swaying of the flame.

  She touched it to the kindling and watch the flame grow. The kindling took. The girl stared at it. She heard the groan and crackle of the wood. The hiss and spit deafening.

  The fire had sharp edges. It was a solid thing. All angles and blades. And at its core: pure whiteness. So pure it brought her to the brink of tears.

  The bark on the logs peeled back and blackened in the flames. The smoke billowed and floated away in tiny grey cubes. The girl looked at the child and it was no longer covered in hair. She stood and stretched. She sat against the rock and closed her eyes and when she opened them the sky was dark and the trees had turned into massive upended knives and the burning logs were screaming in pain and the fire was a diabolical over-sized bird that was too large for flight. It was spitting and writhing in its white ashen pit.

  It was screaming.

  It was evil.

  ALL NIGHT LONG the forest was made of black glass and it held the girl prisoner. If she moved the glass would crack. If she stood it would lacerate her feet. Everything was as dark as pitch and beyond the giant glass shards and columns there were people. The people were out there. They had broken hands and when they moved they were silent and they wanted the child. They were put on this earth to find it. They wanted to hack the child to pieces. They needed its blood to live in the forest of glass and if she even dared to breathe they would hear her. She was sure of this. If she moved they would hear her. Because they could hear everything. Because they were out there stalking the shadows. These glass creatures of the black black night. They would slit the child’s throat and drink the viscous liquid straight from the pumping vein. And they would watch as the black blood fell on black glass. Ran down it. Dripping to the glass floor.

  Their lips sanguine the glass black. The night eternal. The fire dead.

  10.

  THEY FOLLOWED THE basin’s rim then after a few minutes they entered it. They clambered over rocks and mud. The dog first. Then the Poacher. Then the Priest.

  That stuff you keep putting up your nose Father. What is that – snuff?

  No.

  Is that why you hardly sleep asked the Poacher. Because of that stuff?

  There are more important things than sleeping right now.

  Is that so.

  Yes.

  Like what?

  Like thinking. Planning. Praying.

  You know what I pray for Father?

  The Priest did not respond.

  I said you know what I pray for Father? Stewed steak. I pray for stewed steak done the proper way – slowly and with plenty of onions and carrots in there too. I bet Persey would like a taste too wouldn’t you boy? And do you know what I’d have to go with it? A nice jug of Alan Gunnerside’s foaming ale. Have you tried it Father?

  What now.

  I said have you tried Alan Gunnerside’s foaming ale?

  I’m praying.

  What – while we’re walking?

  Yes. While we’re walking.

  Praying for what.

  They worked their way down to the floor of the old overgrown hollow.

  That you’ll shut up for once.

  That’s funny that Father.

  It wasn’t meant to be.

  What are you really praying for?

  Again the Priest did not respond.

  I said what are you really praying for?

  A sign.

  A sign?

  Yes.

  What type of sign?

  Anything that points us towards the girl.

  Like a burned out fire and a heap of shredded mushrooms Father?

  They stopped and before them the dog was sniffing around a blackened patch of earth and making excitable whining sounds. The Poacher let it run free and it ran over to a nearby tree and licked at the ground. Then it urinated on it.

  The Poacher whistled it back and scratched behind his ears.

  Good boy he said. Looks like He is speaking to us after all Father.

  THE HOUSE STOOD alone. Its frontage was a blank-eyed mask without a face to wear it.

  An adjoining barn stood derelict. Forlorn and spectral. Its windows smashed. There was a large doorway without a door that looked like a gaping mouth after a tooth extraction.

  The girl approached it at dawn through the long wet grass.

  She could not stay down there in that quarry. The trees had turned on her and joined her pursuers; she had to keep moving. The wood had done something to her. Toyed with her. Turned her brief tranquillity into a fear like she had never known. The poisonous mushrooms had contorted her senses. Sent her head west. Only the flicker of that flame had kept her centred in the night and reminded her of where she was. Helped stave off the enemies. Saved her and the child. Protection by fire just as it always had been.

  She went first to the barn and looked in through the glassless window. Saw rubble fallen beams old rags broken glass weeds sheep droppings crockery a shoe. A ladder that led to a hay-loft. Its flat boards were rotten and the stale smell of mildew and abandonment hung heavy.

  She moved along to the house and cupped her hands to her brow and saw the living room. There was a fireplace with a huge lintel above it. The hearth was ashen and unswept and the carpet worn and faded from fifty years of life but no sunlight. An upright piano stood in the corner; it was deflated-looking and dusty and looked as if it had never known music.

  The next room. An old parlour last used as a bedroom. A steel-frame spring-based bed with no mattress. Book case with books. More on the floor – splayed and scattered. Damp pages dried aloft. A wardrobe with one door hanging open; empty except for dust and coat hangers.

  Out front built into the steep hillside there was a small walled-off overgrown garden incongruous amongst the vast space of the fell that surrounded it. It was
a tiny once-tamed square of growth on the sloping ground just big enough to grow a few rows of vegetables.

  Beside it a rotten potting shed was completely overtaken by weeds and beside it hung a washing line with the pegs still attached.

  Creepers and cracks. Lichen and rubble.

  It was just starting to get light. Mist sat in the lower part of the valley. The hallucinations had finally abated.

  She had not slept.

  The girl walked around the back to where the house was cut into the hill where there had been just enough room to fit a wood store and a coal bunker before the hill sloped steeply upwards. There was no wood. There was no coal. Only cobwebs.

  She tried the back door. Locked. She jimmied the back window and some of the frame came away in wet splinters. She pulled it again and it opened.

  Forgive us our trespasses.

  The girl removed the child from her back and put it down in the empty wood store then climbed through the window and into the kitchen sink. She crouched for a full minute. The space was stale – silent – and without habitation so she unlatched the back door then retrieved the child and walked back into the house.

  She checked the cupboards and the pantry. There was nothing but soap powder a tea towel a bag of mouldy flour and a large jar of something she couldn’t identify. Round objects. Like little brains.

  She opened the jar and inhaled the tingling sting of vinegar. She rolled her sleeve up and plunged her arm in up to the elbow and pulled out one of the pickled objects. It was hard. Rock-like. She sniffed it she licked it she tentatively bit into it. It gave. It was wood-like. A walnut. She put the rest into her mouth and chewed. It softened. Tasted good. Then she ate a another.

  No water came from the tap at the kitchen sink. She poured the vinegar away and then took the rest of the walnuts and wrapped them in the dirty tea towel. One she kept aside and crushed with the ball of her hand into tiny fragments for the child.

  There were stone steps leading down to a cellar. She ducked her head and followed them into a cold store beneath the house. It had a dirt floor and bow ceiling. Stone shelves.

  There was another jar. She reached for it and unscrewed the lid. More pickled items. Small cucumbers this time. She pulled one out and sniffed it then bit into it with a crunch. It was sharp. She winced then ate many more.

  A wooden packing crate sat in the corner. She rifled through mouldy rags and bits of wire; through fishing line and twine and string. There was a cardboard box containing assorted tacks and nails. A spirit level and a notebook.

  Her fingers fell upon a large wrench. She moved it out of the way and saw what looked like a bird’s nest. Something moved in it. Her hand retracted and she heard a rustle. She stepped backwards.

  She moved back to the crate and dug deep again to part the rags and there in the nest were half a dozen tiny pink hairless creatures curled into half circles. Blind and squeaking their pinhole eyes were still covered by membranes. Their skin was translucent and their organs purple-blue and visible beneath it. Faces barely formed. Baby rats. Only miniscule claws and rounded snouts that sniffed at the air hinted at the creatures they would soon become.

  She moved the rags back over them and then took a spool of the fishing line and put it in her pocket.

  In the front room the girl stood at the piano and placed her fingers on keys stained yellow by years of nicotine. She pressed down and the piano gave a discordant shriek. The sound of revelation. It seemed to fill the entire house. Animate it. It scared her. Made her aware that she was in someone else’s home. Made her feel like they could return at any moment.

  The carpet runners on the stairs were made from brass. She touched one. Ran a finger along it. The stairs creaked as she climbed them. The well was narrow. They were steep. There was no hand-rail.

  There were rooms on either side of the landing. One with a fireplace and one without. Both were devoid of furniture. There was little worth salvaging – nothing of use but the house itself and even that felt haunted by someone else’s memories now polluted by her intrusion.

  Then out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement.

  The girl froze at the sight of herself in an ornate mirror that was dirty with squashed insect spots and ancient denture spittle.

  A wild wide-eyed replica stared back; dirt-streaked and fearful. She moved closer to the mirror and studied a face she barely recognised.

  Mirrors were not allowed at Mary’s. Mirrors were vain and sinful. Mirrors were made by the devil.

  The creature was made subject to vanity – not willingly – but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope.

  But shop windows and still ponds and the curves of copper kettles could not be avoided so she saw her face on occasion – of course she did: lumpen and mealy-mouthed. A crooked nose too big for her face. Her hair always at all angles no matter how many brushstrokes and lice combs she ran through it.

  She saw her strong shoulders and the rise of her chest and a freckle or too that she hadn’t noticed before now brought to the surface by this long summer’s sun.

  Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things; and give me life in your ways.

  Voices. There were voices. She heard their low timbre followed by laughter. She dropped to her haunches out of sight.

  It was light now. The morning sun was shining into the room. The house had been built to maximise the limited light. It warmed the worn carpet and her movements stirred up dust from it. Each particle turned and swirled then fell.

  She raised her nose to the stone sill of the mullion windows. Three men were passing by not more than twenty yards away in the field out the front. Three men in the early hours. Lurking laughing smoking.

  Hunters. Woodsmen.

  Night lurkers.

  They wore long coats. They had their hats pulled low and cigarettes jammed between their lips. They talked without touching them. They had come from the woods and two had rifles slung casually over their shoulders. The other wore something elaborate around his neck. The girl looked and saw that it was an over-sized necklace of dead animals strung to a line. She couldn’t tell what. Together they looked like a mythical entity; a horrific hybrid of teeth and claws and black and tan fur. Dead eyes. Devilish and no two ways about it.

  They were nearly at the house now. One of them turned and looked uphill – looked at the house.

  The girl ducked down again and prayed the child would not make a sound.

  She heard their words pass by – coarse and clipped and let loose from beneath fat tongues – weighed down by dialect. A minute passed before she rose. The men were gone and now carving a trail through the long wet grass; their carrion already a target for the bluebottles that trailed them and a languid cloud of blue cigarette smoke lingering above the field like the silk gossamer strands of kiting spiders.

  WITH EACH HOUR the child was changing. For the first time the girl was aware of the bones that created its face. It was ageing way beyond its months and its skin reminded her of that of the infant rats; translucent and tight across its delicate inner workings.

  Its dark eyes appeared sunken in its face now and its skull more bulbous. The head was too big for the body and the bones of its nose and brow formed a T-shape where once there had been soft flesh. The child’s lips were dry. A tongue hung from its circular mouth. What little hair it had was thin and dirty.

  Crying required excess energy and it had so little that it remained silent for long periods. Its breathing was short and bordered on the frantic.

  The girl walked all day. Followed the sun. Resolved never to stop so long as her legs carried her.

  Blisters racked the balls and heels of her feet and the toes of her left foot kept curling and cramping. She walked slowly now. Her strides were automatic and the child grew heavier on her back .

  The weather held though and that helped.

&nbs
p; She ate the walnuts and she ate the pickles and she crushed them and she fed them to the child and when they rested she was able to expel a feeble amount of watery milk.

  She was hungry all the time. Food was all she could think about. She chewed blades of grass to keep her mouth busy and drank lots of stream water to fool her stomach. She felt frail from the mushrooms. Fragile. She had the sensation of being watched wherever she went.

  She thought about the house and the noise the piano had made. The nest of rats. She thought about the presence of other people still there in the worn patch of carpet that had led from front door to kitchen. That feeling that life had happened there once – people had been born there and people had died there.

  And then she knew why the house had been familiar to her: it had unearthed another deeply-buried memory. That of the old life. Those earliest years as part of a family.

  She remembered shapes in a room and feelings of confusion. Parents and siblings who were nothing but faceless forms. Malevolent bodies. Even now she wasn’t sure what was memory and what was myth.

  She remembered how the leg of the kitchen table had looked and she remembered the stone floor and she remembered being close up to the sky on those moors. She remembered feeling trapped in a room. Remembered a barn. Remembered a cat – maybe. After that only the orphanage. The workhouse. The church. Whatever it was.

  Father’s favourite they called her. And every time she was sent for the Sisters got angry because it was she and not they who he invited to his praise-giving seminars. And when she returned to the dorm her sheets were wet with ice water or her pillow stuffed with holly and hawthorns or a handbell was rung at her bed-side or breakfast was over and dinner sent to the stray dogs of the town and supper brought a beating.