The Kimota Anthology (12 page)

“That’s so conditional,” Rachel muttered.

“It makes sense. It would be wrong for me to forget about Jenny. She needs another chance.”

“Typical male thinking. Save the poor woman from herself.”

“It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Then let her make her own mind up.”

“That’s my point. She doesn’t know her own mind, not while she’s being poisoned.”

Rachel paused. “You really think logic will bring your Jenny back?”

He didn’t answer, deciding it best to leave her to it. If she was so converted, without even having experienced the buzz, she would never be dissuaded. At least she might help him to find the travellers.

The road meandered through meadow flats, between the tallest mountains so far. He could smell flowers, perhaps the late gorse. Everything was flowering at the wrong time of year. He looked at the fields, seeing only poppies and daisies, and wondered if fatigue was affecting him.

“Can you smell something?”

Rachel looked ahead, refusing to face him when she talked. “What sort of smell?”

“Something sweet.”

“It’s my perfume. It heats up in the day.” She wiped her neck, as though rubbing sun tan lotion in.

They passed four inactive towers, which crusted out of vanished lakes. Each time, Rachel moaned disappointment.

The fuel tank was emptying at an alarming rate. The only habitation they came across was at the Kyle of Lochalsh, a village of tiny houses, surrounded by rusting cranes, derelict boats and trains. There were no people, and although there was a filling station, the pumps were dry and unresponsive.

Rachel urged him to drive on. “Before long you won’t care about your precious car. You’ll walk everywhere.” Stuart wanted to be more practical than that. Finding Jenny wouldn’t be enough; he would have to make escape easy, tempting, or it would never become an option. They would need the car and a tank of petrol, but he pressed on, hoping fuel would turn up on the way.

Rachel’s words were prophetic, because the road was soon lined with abandoned vehicles, from motorbikes to cars, wagons and camper vans. Every mile or so there was a new gathering. They were arranged at different angles, as though they had been left hastily rather than parked.

“We’re close. This is the letting go.”

Stuart tried to keep his speed up, despite the cluttering. It was possible the travellers had walked to a minor tower in the Glen Carron lochs, he thought. After that, they could have trekked north again, towards Loch Maree. It was due to go active at any time.

It took twenty minutes for their destination to come into sight, and neither of them spoke. The unusually flat stretch of ground between the mountains brought Loch Maree into view when it was eight miles away, a tantalising strip of light with the huge spiked tower rising at other end. The southern coast was lined with trees, largely undamaged by storms, their leaves still green. There were other colours in the trees, and movement.

“We’ve found them” Rachel said, her voice croaky.

Stuart maintained his speed, even though the fuel needle was touching red, and the air was hurting his eyes. The travellers would be weary, bored. If he could get there before the activation, he would stand a chance.

Rachel giggled when she saw the size of the crowd. There were tens of thousands of people, most wearing only one item of clothing around their waists. All looked thin, and strangely, their skin was pale. They moved in a silly dancing rhythm, turning in circles, wafting their arms. He stopped when the volume of people made it impossible to go further, a few of them started laying hands on the car, their faces wide and glossy, murmuring unintelligible words.

Rachel didn’t speak to him again, but got out.

“When, when?” she demanded.

The only reply he heard was “soon”.

Rachel danced away so quickly, stripping as she went, that he thought something was affecting his mind. The movement had been rapid, almost instantaneous, but at the same time it was slurred like slow motion.

The first promise he made to himself was to remain fully clothed. If he could do that, there would be some strand of sense to hold him together. It was a small thought, but it gave him enough reassurance to go on.

A woman approached him when he left the car, and put on hand on his arm. She was dressed in flowery panties, nothing else. Her body was young, with small, stiff breasts, but her face was that of a forty year old.

“First time?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m looking for a friend,” he said, trying not to stare, either at her face or chest.

“We’re all friends here my love,” she said, with a puzzled, uncertain look.

“How does everybody survive? What do you eat?” Stuart asked, struggling on the uneven ground.

She let go of his arm. “It doesn’t come to that,” she said, jogging ahead.

There was no path to follow, and people were going through the trees in all places, apparently enjoying the zigzagging walk it forced them to adopt. He could see the lake through the trees. There was a deep, repeating thud in the distance, and a simultaneous sigh from the people around him. Many ran faster, arms outstretched, every hand curled as though grasping for something, gradually closing.

He saw enormous white flashes beyond the trees, followed by popping sounds. A blast of icy air came sucked through the woods. The leaves of the trees bleached and were pulled from the branches, torn into violent confetti. More flashes followed, chasing the cold with waves of heat.

When he cleared the trees he saw a fat, creamy fog, rolling low over the water. The sound from the tower changed to a rumble so huge it felt as though it was coming from inside his lungs. Water lifted from the loch like metal fragments and rushed upwards, clouding and spreading into the upper atmosphere. The loch bed was revealed and it grew lighter, making a sound like paper tearing. The travellers ran towards the tower. Only about a thousand got close enough for the main hit. When they fell to their knees he thought they were praying, but they keeled over and went flat.

The bifurcation shock had a clear, circular perimeter, and the living ran into it. He followed, expecting panic from those left alive, but was appalled to see them dancing, gaily striking rags from the corpses as they came apart. The white meat inside the dead was turning to sappy liquid, which rose up in sparks, chasing the water of the lake.

Stuart was reluctant to go any closer. Even though the ignition was over, the tower would continue to buzz. He was about to back off, but found himself smiling, having seen a familiar face. It was Rachel, now completely naked. Her left side was withered, one breast shrivelled to a brown scab, like a walnut. Her arm was thin and bluish. The energy had missed her legs, and only part of her face was gone, the white of one eye spread across her cheek.

“I was on the edge,” she said. “My first time and I just missed.”

“I know you,” he said, trying to remember what she looked like before. “Is it you?” he asked, his jaw made cumbersome by the joy he felt at finding her again.

She held him. Her poor arm felt like stone on his back, the muscle gone, skin drawn tight onto bone. She eased away, touched his face, stared into his eyes; her own were drunk-looking, happy. Her fingers could barely move, but her hand closed on his, the tiny fingers brittle. When he kissed her neck he smelt perfume, something like elderflower, and he remembered; she wore that perfume the first time they met. She wore it now because she loved him.

“Jenny?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, not looking sure. “Does it matter?”

Although her left arm was virtually hanging off, she started dancing. He watched her, glad to see that she was enjoying herself.

Another woman bumped into her, this one much older, but there was no anger. They both laughed. Then they stared at each other, tilting their heads. “Mummy?” the older woman asked. The one with the withered arm said, “I love you,” and they embraced.

He closed his eyes, because there was a strong smell of ammonia and cooked fish. When he opened them again, his mummy had gone. It didn’t matter, because a naked man was dancing in front of him, waving his fingers at Stuart’s face. The man had a thick beard which went up around his ears. His eyes were small, but watery. “I love you,” he said

“Are you my friend?”

The man stopped dancing, his face serious. “I love you.”

“Jenny?”

“Yeah,” the man with the beard said.

Stuart kissed his shoulder, glad that she was home.

[Originally published in Kimota 4, Summer 1996]

VIDEO NASTY - ELLEN'S STORY

by Caroline Dunford

My story starts with the breaking of old Mr Wentright’s heart. His shop, the hardware store, closed in April; a lifetime of work, dreams and love finally extinguished by the unremitting tide of time. His sons had moved to the city and his wife had long since made her final journey to the churchyard.

I was on my way to meet the gang down by the river, when I saw him. He stood in the middle of the street just looking at the shop and shaking his head, while his suited son tried to gently push him into the waiting car, ready to take him to a home, a life ending right there in front of me. I lost part of my childhood that day.

I remembered his shop as a place of dark, shady, corners; harsh smelling bristles and freshly carved wooden handles; a glorious shed masquerading as a store and a place where all visitors under four foot six always got a stick of liquorice, the old fashioned kind with the bark still on. But time passes; innocence fades.

It was startling, even shocking, to see the gaudy red and yellow paint splashed over the old store. It was terrible and it was wonderful. We took joy in watching the destruction of the old. We were all so supremely innocent.

The American farming zone, the bible belt, keeps its youth pure. We were trapped in that fragile, hazy bubble of childhood. We had innocence, ripe and ready to be picked, a thousand feelings of youth unacknowledged, brewing quietly in the summer heat. Disaster could only be moments away, but like a man with only minutes to live we were all utterly unaware and damned beyond redemption. And the shop continued to change.

The new owner ripped its guts out and threw them into the street, awaiting the rubbish collection. Old paper bags and forgotten spices skittered across the road in the afternoon breeze. We started hanging around outside, watching the work, seeing if there was anything we could do, anything for a quick buck or a good scavenge.

When the words ‘Video Store’ appeared we were bitterly disappointed. We were fairly sure no-one we knew owned a machine. And then one day, Jon came running down to the river to tell us about the box.

He brought us an offer. It seemed that the new shop-keeper, Eric Manners, was finding he had far too much clearing out to do, so he offered us the chance to borrow a ‘box’, in return for helping him out. The box was a mini video. The business would lend out both films and boxes; movies for all.

So came dusty, coughing days sweeping out, hammering and painting the new shop. Manners was better than his word, letting us watch movies on Wednesday and Friday nights, but we would only get to take a box away from the shop when it was all finished. It soon became clear that for once the pack didn’t think alike. Jemmy and I wanted to see romances. The boys were into action and horror.

Manners came in unexpectedly late one night and caught us arguing. He thought it was very funny. He was a fat, grease ball of man, who wore slimy corduroys. He suggested we split the time according to the amount of work we did. This meant Jemmy and I chose one in five movies, which although not many, was better than the none at all we’d been getting. With Manner’s help we worked out a schedule so that Jemmy and I didn’t even bother turning up on the fright nights.

The real reason the boys agreed, was not to be fair, but because Manners made them a deal. He was a crafty one, right son of a devil. He pointed out what we could and what we couldn’t touch. He said, loudly and often, he would just have to trust us to pick tapes our parents wouldn’t object to. Then he’d laugh with the boys. As I said he was a greasy, fat, little man- pork-chop faced.

By the time the shop was finished there was precisely one night of vacation left. Sure we’d seen a few movies at the shop, but our first movie night, our first all night party, was going to be our last.

We’d settled on Dave’s parents’ barn. At one time it had been used for milking so it at least had power. It lay a good seven minutes drive from the farm down a tortuous track. We wanted to be on our own. The boys to drink; Jemmy and I because we wanted Jon and Dave. We’d been after them a long time, but in a weak-willed, wishy-washy sort of a way. But now we’d seen movies where beautiful, single women not only got into bed with men they fancied, but became more desirable for being experienced. I suppose we were both beginning to realize how small-minded our community was. The mistake was we thought the movies were true and we wanted to emulate them. We crossed that middle ground between reality and fantasy. Or at least I did.

We all crept out of our houses that night. We’d decided on watching movies till dawn and there was no way any of our parents were going to let us spent a night in a lonely barn, especially Jemmy’s and mine. We met just outside Dave’s place. He’d moved a tractor and an old pick-up into a nearby field so he and Jon could drive us down. It was all illicitly exciting- and very childish.

The barn was on a small hill, around which swirled a green spring mist. There was a sharp smell of grass and wood splintering under old resin. The old barn had only one great door; it yawned into darkness, into another world. It was so beautiful in the headlights it simply couldn’t be real. I caught myself straining for music, music from fairyland, music from the movies.

Inside, the barn was lit by a series of dust-covered bulbs that bulged from a mass of white cables and sockets. The place smelled strongly of burning dust when we hit the lights. The floor was thick with grime.

It was a wild night. We shut the door against the world. It took four of the boys to lift the bar. They had begun to work out why Jemmy and I had agreed to a night of horror movies, the first time ever. Now it was just a case of who was going to be the lucky ones. The movies we’d been watching had given us all a new outlook on life, on what might happen, on possibilities we’d never have entertained before.

After the first video Jemmy and I singled Dave and Jon out. The last thing I remember seeing of that party, was Paul’s face, a mask of shock, his eyes blazing hatred. The others were no better. They had that look that said simultaneously “whore”, and “why not me?”. But it didn’t register, then.

Dave and I found a small room at the back of the barn. I suppose it might have been some kind of office once. The barn was filled with old stalls, half crumbled partitions; there was even an old hayloft at one end and a kind of balcony affair that ran around the entire barn.

Everything was as I had planned when we were suddenly sobered by the waves of loud music coming from the video. Dave was furious. He thought they were laughing at us. He promised me he’d sort them out. I lay on my back, dreaming. Then the lights went out.

An aeon later it occurred to me that the lights might still be on elsewhere. And worse, if this was deliberate, the chances were whoever had done this knew exactly where I was. I felt as if I was in a movie, a horror movie. Gingerly I crept my way to where I thought the door was. I got it wrong by a couple of feet. I dug my fingers into the cracks and pulled it slowly open.

Darkness. A flickering light. It came from where we’d put the box; pictures moving without sound. I heard a quick crack of muffled masculine laughter, Dave’s voice and my blood slowed to a dull, slow pushing pulse around my stiffening limbs. What kind of a game were they playing? In my mind’s eye I saw them before me all crying “whore” and I was terrified.

I hadn’t stopped for my shoes and splinters were digging into my feet. I thought these were boys I’d grown up with, who I know as well as myself. They’d never hurt me. Maybe this was just a silly, adolescent joke. I heard Jemmy’s tap-tapping high heels somewhere to my left in the dark, that little crack of laughter again, someone else’s voice. Then a woman screamed, loudly and painfully.

The wall rocked violently as I half fainted, sinking down against grimy wood. Someone was whimpering softly. It was me. Then the music cut in and I realized they’d turned the video up again. Jemmy ran down towards them and there was another scream. Someone switched off the video and I fled into the darkness. I had to get away. Jemmy screamed again. It never occurred to me to help her.

My hand found a ladder and I began to climb. The boys and Jemmy were between me and the only door. I tried not to think about what they were doing to her.

I sat in the hayloft and panicked for a while. I couldn’t think of any way of summoning help. All I kept thinking was this wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to me, to us, to anyone. It couldn’t be real. And then I understood. It was the videos, - and the only way out was to get them before they got me.

As my eyes grew used to the dark the solid black outline of a fuse box came into shape. Beside it was a large handle, down. This was where they had turned the power off. My hand hovered over the switch. For a moment I thought about pulling it, flooding the place with light, bringing back normality and then there were more screams and laughter from below.

I backed away from the ladder. In the far wall I could make out cracks of moonlight. The catch on the hayloft doors was stiff, unused for years, but with prayer and bloody fingers I got it open. I only opened it an inch, but silver light flooded across the loft. In one sharp second it illuminated a roll of steel wool and an old pulley, that would swing out into the night. The props.

Ridiculously I found a pair of pliers in the corner under the dried out remnants of a bushel of hay. I had no more doubts. You need to understand the script was written: I only played my part.

I put the wool and the hay into place and pulled the handle. A thousand bright blue stars showered across the wool, onto the hay and all around. The loft began to burn. When I was sure it had really taken a good hold I began to scream for the boys.

By now there was a wall of fire between me and the ladder. I was sure no-one could get through it, no-one could reach me. The air was thick with smoke. I stood on the loft-hatch ledge, pulley-rope in hand. I could just see across the loft. It was too late to stop the fire now, but I wanted to know who would come up. I wanted them to know it was me. I hoped it would be Dave. But to my surprise and horror the voice that called out to me in fear, promising ME help, was Jem’s; Jemmy alive and well.

I jumped. Hurtling towards the ground reality flashed before me, but what I was doing was too terrible for me to believe. Some of them could already be dead. I had to think of myself; I had to believe in the story.

The pick-up started at once. I’d driven a tractor on my father’s farm. I managed in fits and starts to back it up to the barn door. They were yelling inside, but with the tractor and the bar there was no way out.

I sat there in the truck waiting for the cries to stop. I suppose a stray spark could have sent the petrol tank up, but I just sat there with my eyes closed, waiting. Perhaps I wanted oblivion. I rested my forehead against the cold and grimy wheel. I could feel the truth flooding in towards me again and then there was a thump on the bonnet.

I looked up to see Jemmy, arms wide, a burning cross, staring at me through the windscreen. My first impulse was to get rid of her, run her down, but I didn’t.

I leapt out of the cab and pulled Jem from the bonnet. Not all of her was on fire so I didn’t even burn my hands. She didn’t live very long and all she would say over and over again was “It was only a joke. It was only a joke.”

Afterwards I moved the pick-up a little way from the barn, so that it looked as if it had been moved up to unload our gear, and made my way home across the fields, gazing at the moon. It was a beautiful walk, my feet seemed to glide across the grass and the silver light changed the world into a new, delightful place. I never looked back. As my home came into view I could no longer believe anything was wrong. I climbed up on the porch and into my window as I had done a thousand times before. My parents never knew I was gone.

I told the police that yes, I had known about the party, but that Jem and I had a row so I didn’t want to go. No-one doubted me because I believed it myself. There were plenty of theories as to what had happened, created by both the public and the experts. And all propagated by the press. I don’t know if I ever came under suspicion. The national press made a big story out of me, the little girl who hadn’t been bad and gone to the party and who’d lost all her friends in one night. They quoted some child expert at length, who said that it had made an indelible impression on my psyche. And suddenly the money started pouring in, not for my dead friends’ family, but for me.

The newspaper got a lawyer to set up a trust fund. The first thing he did was send me to Disneyland on a holiday to forget it all and get over the nightmares I’d been having for months. The rest of the cash should send me through college.

Looking back, it’s all very confused, like a dream or a nightmare. I told my psychiatrist what really happened and he told me to write it down as a story, to exorcise the memory. He didn’t believe me. He said something about feeling guilty I hadn’t died, but the only guilt I feel is over Jemmy. I didn’t mean her die, but I couldn’t think of another ending.

[Originally published in Kimota 2, Summer 1995]