Strands
The man leaves his wife
in their bed, her body a still mound beneath the covers, and shuffles as quietly
as he can to the hallway of his cousin’s house. Enough moonlight bleeds through
a gap in the curtains for him to make out the top of the stairs and the other
bedroom doors, all closed. Despite the open window directly opposite letting in
the warm air and the good scents of a July night, there are no sounds to mix with
the heat. Inhaling deeply, he swallows the smell of the river and the grasses
on its opposite shore. The stink of manure, strong earlier in the day, has
faded and he is left with the healthy aroma of water and green. Despite the
pleasant taste in his mouth and nose, he cannot relax. Oddly, he misses the constant
flow of traffic on the parkway around the corner from his own house. That
steady noise is seventy miles away, though. Any comfort he takes from the
familiarity of his home and the sights and sounds of his town is far away
because he is here for the weekend, here for the family get together, here in
Littleport for the Show.
He pulls open the
curtains a fraction more and peers to the still surface of the river and the
rolling black of the fields beyond it. The village sleep as his wife, children and
cousin’s family do—as he should. No sleep tonight, though. Not while he is more
terrified than he has been in decades.
Being eight years old
was another life. He is a grown man now; he has his own family, his own kids to
keep safe. He tells himself all that and it does not change a thing.
Back in Littleport.
Back for the Show. And back to the complete terror of being eight years old.
In the white moonlight
coating his bare chest, he shakes and he prays for the safety of his children
as he prays for his sanity.
And as much as he tries
not to, he remembers.
###
Kelvin was lost.
There was no point in
trying to argue with himself any longer. And it didn’t matter that only a few
minutes had gone by as he remained on the same spot on the grass, turning in a
circle so he could check all directions for his family. Two minutes or five or
more, he was lost.
Kelvin pulled at the
collar of his t-shirt, loosening it from his neck. Although the t-shirt was a
size too large, it still managed to feel as if it were digging deeply into his
chest and neck. His favourite cap pinched the skin of his forehead. Pulling the
cap off, Kelvin held it with both hands and stared at the word USA printed on the rim. His favourite
cap already, and he’d only had it for the morning. Uncle Len had given it to
him a few hours ago: a present from Uncle Len’s trip to New York. In all of his
eight years, Kelvin had never seen anything as cool. And there was no interior
debate on the issue. Nothing in the future would ever be quite as cool as the
cap from another country, from America.
He rubbed his head and
put the cap back on. Better too tight than too hot with the July sun cooking
him.
“Where are they?” he
whispered, unconsciously emphasising the second word exactly as his mother
often did. His mother who was nowhere in sight. Neither was his dad or Uncle
Len or any of the cousins Kelvin saw once a year. Neither was his brother Mark.
Mark hadn’t wanted to come this year. He’d told Kelvin that a couple of days
ago. Said he wanted to stay at home and go to his friend’s house on the
Saturday night. The first Saturday night of the summer holidays and Mark angry
about not being allowed to go to this party. Kelvin hadn’t asked why. There’d
be more parties. Summer had only just started. They had six weeks of long days
made of the sun and time. Six weeks of videos now that Dad had finally bought a player. Six weeks of
all the time there was. But Mark hadn’t looked like he’d understand that so
Kelvin only asked why Mark didn’t tell Dad. And Mark laughed but didn’t sound
like he thought it was funny. Dad wasn’t the problem, he said. Mum was. No way would she let him stay
at home even if he was fifteen. It was all of them back to Littleport once
again, back to stay with Grandma and Granddad and go to Littleport Show and
then to Uncle Len’s big house beside the river in the evening for a party and
beer Mark still wasn’t allowed to
drink.
Not much of that made
sense to Kelvin but he’d kept his mouth shut. Mark was all right most of the
time, but he could still shout and punch when he wanted to. Better for him to
be angry at Mum for forcing him to come with the family than to be angry at
Kelvin.
Only Kelvin had to
admit as he stood by himself that he would have taken Mark angry now if it
meant his brother was with him.
Kelvin smoothed his
t-shirt down, running his hand over the GhostBusters
logo, and walked. A lot of his surroundings looked the same whichever
direction he checked, but he had the idea his parents, Mark and everyone else
had headed in a diagonal line from where he’d stood. That meant they’d been rambling
towards the edge of the horse display. Kelvin walked at a steady pace, not
letting himself move too quickly any more than he considered his nervousness
stretching into panic. Because after panic came fear. He knew that in a
wordless form, knew it in the ways of small boys too young to articulate their
ideas, too old to sometimes feel weak and stupid, too old at eight to be scared
of the dark. Even if he sometimes was.
He walked on,
whispering that he’d find them soon; he’d walk right into them. Because as big
as this field was with its dozens of tents of beers and cakes and homemade jams,
as wide and open and green compared to the city, it was still only a village.
Kelvin knew the difference between towns and cities and villages wasn’t to do
with the amount of roads or houses. It was in the people. City people were
bigger and faster and angrier. People here in the village were much slower in
everything they did. And they were smaller. In a way, that meant it’d be easier
to find his family. They were city people in crowds of village people. They
would stand out.
Kelvin passed an old
man sitting on a deckchair, cool in the shadow of several trees. For a moment,
Kelvin though the man was his granddad, then saw he was completely wrong. Granddad
was much fatter than this man. Fatter and balder.
The old man looked up
from his paper, appraised Kelvin without a word and went back to the headline. £50 MILLION AND COUNTING it read and
Kelvin knew what it was for. They’d all watched the music the weekend before, everybody
round the TV all day long, Kelvin bored after the first two hours and his dad
telling him it was important and he should remember it and people would talk
about this for years.
The old man shook his
paper and Kelvin trotted away, abruptly scared. He stamped hard on that fear.
Couldn’t be scared. Scared meant he was in trouble. Looking for his parents was
fine. He could do that.
At the edge of the
horse display, he stood still, trying to appear as relaxed as possible, and
checked all directions again. People were everywhere, walking, talking,
laughing. Families, boys and girls like him. Except not like him. They weren’t
lost.
“Shut up,” Kelvin said
and dug his dirty nails into his palms. Saying shut up was always followed by his mum telling him not to say that.
Always.
He walked alongside the
horse display, passing people every step of the way and smelling the wild stink
of the animals. Nobody appeared to pay him any attention. It took him a moment
to pick up on that. When he did, the thought brought a wave of cold despite the
summer sun.
Shouldn’t they be
looking at him? Wondering why he was alone?
For one of the first
times in his life, an adult thought spoke to Kelvin. You’re by yourself. You’re eight. Why is nobody looking at you?
Troubled, Kelvin walked
on, the sun still unable to fully warm the phantom chill. He licked his lips
and again wished for a drink, maybe the can of Coke Uncle Len had promised him
before something off to the side had caught Kelvin’s eye and then when he
turned back, they’d all disappeared into the mass of people. All of them
swallowed by the crowds.
Kelvin pictured himself
standing on that particular spot of grass, facing a patch of land between two
white tents.
A shadow. That’s what
had caught his eye. A shadow rolling over the ground. And that made no sense.
There’d been nothing close enough to that small bit of grass to make a shadow.
No people. No dogs. Nothing.
And the shadow hadn’t
really moved like shadows do. It had sort of. . .jerked. Like a balloon on a
bit of string pulled along by someone.
A jerking shadow made
by. . .nothing.
Kelvin hugged himself,
skinny arms crossing over his favourite t-shirt.
The fairground. He’d
head there. Mark had muttered something about it earlier. Said he’d take Kelvin
to it if he wasn’t allowed in one of the beer tents with everyone else. Even if
their parents weren’t in the fairground, Mark would be.
Moving faster than a
moment before, Kelvin changed course. He set out in a straight line from the
horses, crushing tired blades of grass below his trainers, people on both
sides. People who were finally looking
at him.
Kelvin scanned the
crowds for a woman. Better to ask a woman for help than a man. Or even better,
a man and a woman with children. Not a man alone. He knew that even if he
didn’t want to think about why.
Nobody was looking at
him now. They’d turned away.
Kelvin inhaled breath
and readied himself to speak to the first person who caught his eye.
Excuse
me. My name’s Kelvin and I need help.
Simple as that.
But he couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t admit his nervousness had reached panic and was now slipping into ugly
fear.
Had to find them. Had
to be told off by his mum for getting lost. Had to listen to Mark talk about singers
and bands who meant nothing to him. Had to hear his dad and Uncle Len get angry
about a woman named Maggie—whoever she was—and had to let his granddad tell him
the same stories he’d told the year before. Had
to do all that.
Kelvin’s trot became a
jog. He reached the edge of the small fairground, the voices and shouts and
music from the other side of the barrier merging into one sound. One horrible
sound hurting his ears because it was too loud and too ugly. It was the sound
of car accidents and fighting and crying. Kelvin ran to a clear spot so he
could see directly into the fairground. People filled it. More people than
there’d been anywhere else at the Show. It was as if everyone in the village
had crammed into one little bit of the field, leaving barely any green space.
And they were all looking at him. Even though none faced him directly, Kelvin
knew each of them was looking at him.
A few had their hands
to their mouths. They whispered to each other, somehow hearing their voices
despite the noise of the people shrieking on the rides and the bellow of the
music.
Talking about him. Looking at him.
Kelvin backed up.
Clouds passed over the sun. All at once, the temperature dropped. Shadows
rolled over the grass; great masses of black coating the green and stalls and
people. A whisper spoke from off to Kelvin’s side. His name.
He whirled around and
saw nothing but shadows. Just like the shadow that caught his eye seconds
before everyone else went one way and he’d gone another.
A jerking shadow. It shot from one spot to the
next almost appearing to be dancing, a messy pool staining the ground.
Open-mouthed, Kelvin
watched several strands of grass split into long fingers of curling green. The
strands raced straight towards him.
All Kelvin knew was the
bellow in his head, a bellow that sounded like a mixture of his mum, his dad
and his brother. All of them roared a single word.
Run.
Kelvin ran.
He sprinted away from
the fingers of grass and the noise of the fairground. The shouts and screams of
the people followed, and as the cool air parted around him, their voices deepened,
slowed like a record played at the wrong speed. He raced away from them; they
stuck to him like toffee, their voices rough and grating and all completely aware
of him and his favourite cap and favourite t-shirt.
He ran into a group
emerging from a beer tent and looked up. Gloom coated each face, and each face
was stretching, mouths and eyes growing as if made of glue. Something whispered
his name again, something awful.
Kelvin had no breath to
scream. He shot between two men, both reaching monstrously long arms for him,
jumped over a knocked over deck chair and registered from far away that the
newspaper beside the chair was the same one the old man been reading. The old
man was nowhere in sight.
Kelvin ran from the
horse display and fairground and people. He shot through the middle of the
field, framed on one side by tents, the small stage where the folk singers were
now screaming instead of singing, and framed on the other by a long, silent row
of people with glue faces all bathed with light the colour of sick, none making
any effort to hide their appraisal.
Breath burning in his
lungs, Kelvin saw the wide gap forming the entrance to the Show. He raced to it,
broke through the thin rope forming the barrier and hit the pavement. Cars
flowed past in a regular flow. There were no people in sight. No shadows
either.
Trembling, Kelvin took
slow steps away from the entrance and realised after a few seconds he’d come
out somewhere other than the entrance. The road was unfamiliar, the houses on
the opposite side too large and grand compared to his grandparents’ bungalow. Seemingly
miles ahead, the road stretched into the distance. Walking with the slight idea
of keeping to the perimeter of the Show and then finding the entrance, Kelvin
walked. His legs shook; his stomach was a tight ball of pain and his throat
screamed for liquid.
Something in the high
wall of hedges blocking the pavement from the fields said his name. It made no
effort to whisper. It spoke as if it was right beside him, eager to have a
conversation.
Kelvin stopped.
Far ahead, the road now
appeared to sink rather than remaining straight. It sloped into darkness. The
cars carried on heading that way, making no move to avoid the slope or
darkness. They simply vanished into the shadows, rolling into them as if
dropping down a slide.
The thing in the hedge said
his name again. Unable to resist, Kelvin stepped closer to it, reaching for it.
On all sides, shadows
jerked into life, racing towards him. Kelvin’s fingers brushed the leaves. The
darkness at the end of the road loomed up into daylight, a black mouth bearing
down on the road, on the boy.
“Kevin?”
Light and summer heat
crashed down on Kelvin, knocking him to one side. He stumbled, fell and picked
himself up.
“Kevin?”
The policeman stood at
the curve of pavement into the fields. Kelvin was no more than a few steps from
it despite feeling as if he’d walked for minutes. Walked towards the slope in
the road and the mouth of darkness that lived down there.
He looked back that
way. Nothing but traffic moving in both directions on a normal road.
“Kevin? Is that you?”
The policeman was
coming towards him. Kelvin turned around.
“Kelvin,” he said. “Not
Kevin.”
“Kelvin.” The policeman
nodded. “Your mum and dad are looking for you. They’re very worried. Come on.
I’ll take you to them.”
Kelvin let the
policeman take his hand and lead him back to the field. There were no jerking
shadows, no people with faces made of glue. And nobody watching him from the
corner of their eyes.
“They’re not far,” the
policeman said. “Just a few minutes away. They’ll be glad to have you back, I
tell you. Especially your mum. She’s beside herself.”
Kelvin let the
policeman walk him back to his family and while he didn’t let himself look back
to the hedges, he couldn’t help the little thought that wanted to know how he
could get out of coming back to Littleport ever again.
###
The man opens his eyes
for the first time in several long minutes and gazes at the river. Still black.
Still motionless. Still Littleport sleeping in the middle of the night, its
roads and fields ready for the Show tomorrow, ready to bake on another hot day
in July exactly as it has on the same day for years. Not that he’s been here on
those days. No. Not at all. He allows himself a pained smile at the thought. Not
been here in thirty years. Getting out of coming back with his parents and
brother had been much easier than he expected—telling them he was scared of
getting lost again, becoming hysterical when they pressed the matter. Easy.
After the first few years, his mother had stopped bringing the subject up and
he had been allowed to stay at home with his brother.
But now here he is
again. Back to Littleport. Back to the heat and the smells of grass and beer,
back to the sounds of families all together, back to the river and the cousins’
party tomorrow night.
Pain burns in his
stomach, and the trembling in his chest spreads to his arms. The fear has
returned, come to slip inside him while he stands in the moonlight, listening
to the nothing at all of an unconscious village at three in the morning.
Enough, he tells
himself. Enough of the middle of the night. Enough fear. He will deal with
tomorrow. He will watch his family every second they are at the Show and when
they are at the party and the beer flows, he will relax and be glad to be with
his cousins and all the good people.
He will do all that and
nothing will bring back the nerves, panic and terror he felt in the long dead
year of 1985 when he’d been a terrified child.
Padding across the
carpet, the man returns to the guest bedroom and makes his way to his side of
the bed in the almost complete darkness. As he slides next to the warmth of his
wife, she mumbles something in her sleep. He kisses her head and presses
himself against her; she does the same against his body and sleep is already
racing down, dropping over him as if rolling down a slope.
He brings his arm from
his wife’s waist, over the comforting weight of her breasts and towards her
neck. She mumbles again; he holds her tightly, chasing sleep as it chases him.
And rising out of sleep,
streaking back to screaming consciousness, he registers the sticky strands
coating his fingers.
The strands of her glue
face.
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