The Kimota Anthology (21 page)

Next to the man a woman is lying across some blankets and carpets. They’re about 30 years old, maybe younger.

I watch the man.

I see him smile at the woman.

He smiles at her the way I used to smile at Mary.

He smiles at her the way I tried to smile at Melanie that first time, back in Macon. When I pushed her down and held her hands and made believe she was Mary. When I told her I needed some home comforts. Man can’t get by without home comforts, I told her. That was when she stopped talking to me. When she stopped saying anything at all.

I pull the hammer off my shoulder and push the door open wide. It slams against some of the shelving right behind it and I march into the room. The man looks up at me, but I walk straight to the woman. She’s making to get up, but the hammer catches her in the face and she falls right back down. I swing the hammer high and bring it down right into the face... that face that took the man’s smiles. It bursts like a watermelon. The woman lies still.

“J-Jane?” the man says, making it a question. He knows there’s no chance he’ll get an answer from that pulp, but he just has to ask. For a second I feel a little sympathy. For a second. But I have other things to think about.

I reach down and grab the man’s shirtfront, hoist him to his feet. As I drag him out of that back room, he’s shouting back over his shoulder to the woman. Then he’s shouting at me, asking me what I’m doing, telling me he isn’t a drinker. He uses God’s name a lot, and Jesus’ too. But they don’t have any place in this. They don’t have any place in anything any more. I don’t say anything.

I drag him through the office and out into the night. My blood’s pumping inside me and I feel something uncurling inside my pants.

Melanie gets out of the Dodge.

“I got him, honey,” I shout to her. “Daddy’s got the bastard what messed with you.”

“What...what the hell are you-”

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, smacking him across his face with my free arm, letting the hammer drop to the forecourt where its clattering echoes a while and then fades away.

Melanie is out of the Dodge now and leaning against the hood. Her eyes are wide and expectant, her hands are rubbing themselves together.

I lift the man and toss him onto the hood, pull a stake out of my pocket. He holds his hands up in the air, covering his chest, pulling his knees up like a baby. He’s shouting at me, but I don’t hear. The thing in my pants is screaming now. I hold the stake over his chest and Melanie hands me the hammer. “Thanks, honey,” I say to her and she smiles at me one of those special smiles.

“Jesus Christ,” the man shouts, trying to grab my arm. But he just isn’t strong enough.

“Is he the one, honey?” I ask her, ask her the way I’ve asked her all the other times.

She nods, quickly, emphatically... like she’s nodded to me on all of those same times.

“I never seen her bef—” The hammer comes down on the stake and drives it into the man’s chest, stopping him in mid-sentence. The blood spurts like an oil-gusher. When I lift my hand from him he stays right where he is, jerking his belly up and down, not saying anything, and I figure the stake has gone right through into the Dodge’s hood. I pull out another stake and hand it to Melanie. She holds it over his left-hand side and I hit it squarely. The man is still now.

“He’s dead,” I tell Melanie, exhausted.

“I killed him for you, honey. He can’t hurt you no more.”

Melanie takes my hand and squeezes it tight. The way she’s done it after all of the others. The way she did after the boy in South Carolina and the old man in Racktown. Like after the youngster in Raleigh and the young feller in Charleston.

She squeezes and leads me around the Dodge to the back seat, pulls open the door, I get inside first, sweeping all of the wooden stakes onto the floor. Before she climbs in after me, Melanie helps me with my pants.

When we’re through, I ask her, “Are you sure he was the one, Melanie honey? Do you think we could’ve made a mistake?”

Melanie frowns and looks down at her hands, pulls her dress over herself. Then she nods.

“Then he’s still out there,” I say to her, “the bastard.”

Within an hour I’ve found a wrench and gotten some gasoline out of the old pump. Our luck is in.

With the sun starting to show across the hills, we leave Merrydale for points north.

As we pull onto the deserted freeway, I think back to what that old man said, back in Racktown. About how maybe I was like a detective in one of the old television shows.

Watching the road trailing into the distance I half imagine I hear end-credits music drifting across the blacktop and the roof of my old Dodge. At my side, Melanie stares out of the side window... like she’s hoping to see something different to what we’ve just passed by.

I pat her on the knee, but she doesn’t respond... just gives out a little shiver.

After a few hours, a sign comes up on our right.
Hannibal
, it says,
28 miles
.

I look across at Melanie, her face set to the windscreen. Her mouth moves around, saying nothing in particular, just chewing syllables.

Quiet.

[Originally published in Vampire Detectives, 1995 then in Kimota Autumn 9, 1998]

THE FIRES OF SUMMER

by Steve Lockley

Robbie Dawson took an involuntary breath as he walked into the shadow of Milk Hill. To his left, out of the shade, a motorbike with a leather jacket draped over the seat gleamed in the sunshine. Even the brass studs on the jacket caught the sun and although he could not read it from where he stood, Robbie knew they spelled “MIKE THE BIKE”. In the long grass near the bike he could hear a girl giggling. Robbie had lived next door to Mike for years and he got on with him okay, but Mike had left school now and never seemed to have the time to kick a ball around with him.

“C’mon then,” beckoned Kev and the other boys who strode on fearlessly through the long grass, ignoring Mike’s presence. “You comin’ or what?”

More giggling from the girl.

“Or what!” called one of the other boys. Robbie thought it was Vince. “Maybe he’s afraid that he’ll roll back down.”

Bastard, thought Robbie as he hurried to catch up. He couldn’t help being fat. The doctors had said he would grow out of it eventually. In the meantime he had to put up with the snide comments that always seemed to slip out of someone’s mouth, intentional or not. He doubted if they would have even let him play football with them if one of the gang hadn’t been away on holiday with his parents. And they needed someone to play in goal.

Now they had goaded him into climbing Milk Hill, a man made mountain of spoil from the pit where his dad had worked. The mine was long gone but Milk Hill remained as a constant reminder. From a distance the milky whiteness of the clay was hidden by the vegetation that had taken hold over the years. Close up it was more prominent, and obviously treacherous.

“Where’s Don?” he asked, noticing for the first time that one of their number was missing.

“Home,” replied Kev. “Don’t you know nothing? Our man Don’s got asthma something rotten.”

That explained a lot. Don had played in goal on the opposite team, and whenever the ball had gone out of play for a corner, or had slipped between the coats for a goal another player would recover the ball for him. They had not been so kind to Robbie, seeming to prefer to see him puff as he chased after the ball. They cheered whenever his sweatshirt rode up to reveal the rolling flesh beneath.

“We’ll take the North face shall we boys” said Kev as if talking about Everest. The others nodded and one or two threw jumpers on the ground, which had previously been tied around their owner’s waists.

“You ready then Rolly,” said Vince leading the way up the first stage of the climb. The others followed silently in single file until Robbie was left alone with Kev.

“You next Robbie. You sure you’ve never been up here before?”

He shook his head. If his mother so much as got a whisper that he was here he would be stopped from going out for the rest of the summer holiday. Maybe longer.

“Dad used to say it’s dangerous up there.” 

“Dangerous now is it? And why’s that?”

“Every now and then, in hot summers, this place can catch fire.”

“Don’t worry, nobody’s going to be throwing matches about,” said Kev.

“Its nothing to do with matches. Its something to do with whatever is underneath this lot. There’s all sort of muck rotting away inside, it gets hot, and...”

“Yeah?”

“Well it gets hot and starts burning. Dad said it can be burning underground for years. Besides, he always said that when kids go missing, and they never find the bodies, well they’re probably lost up here.”

“Sounds like this dad of yours used to feed you a load of bull, but please yourself. If you’re too afraid don’t bother showing up for footie tomorrow.”

Robbie shuffled in silence, he knew he had to do this. It had taken long enough to make any sort of friends and there was no way he was going to be left out in the cold again without a fight.

“Okay. Well this is the easy bit.” said Kev. 

The first part of the climb was little worse than the embankment by the railway lines, but Robbie still felt out of breath after only ten or twelve strides and had to stop. Six feet above him the others were waiting on a ledge, sniggering at his progress.

“Come on Rolly. Come on Rolly,” they chanted in unison, following the lead that Vince had set.

“Piss off,” he muttered under his strained breath before finding himself being pushed from below.

“Shift it Robbie. We ain’t got all day,” said Kev. “And I want to get back down before it gets dark.”

“Looks like it’s pretty dark where you are already,” shouted Vince. The others laughed. 

Robbie lost his footing as he reached up to pull himself onto the ledge, stripping the skin from his knees despite the protection of his jeans and sent a shower of dust into Kev’s face. He coughed and spat without complaint while Robbie muttered his apologies. Robbie felt more uncomfortable with Kev’s silence than the taunts.

Before he had even recovered his breath, the others including Kev were ready to tackle the second, steeper half of the climb.

“You go on I’ll catch you up.”

“Not a chance Rolly,” Vince again. “We let you off now and you’ll never see the top.”

He scrambled to his feet, and supporting himself on the dry, crumbling rubble, sent another shower of debris skidding down the side of the mountain. 

“What do you boy’s think you’re doing up there? If you don’t come down straight away I’ll call the police.” The woman backed away from the hill and shielded her eyes from the sun. Robbie pressed himself back as far as he could in the hope that he could make himself invisible.

“It’s Don’s gran,” said Kev.

“What the hell is she doing over here?” asked one of the other boys.

“Coal picking.”

“What, in summer?”

“Plan ahead Curly. It gets too bloody cold to do it in the winter when you need it. There’s enough of the stuff just lying around to keep a fire going through the winter.”

“Mainly small bits though, and more stone than coal. Hardly worth getting excited about.”

Kev shrugged, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” 

Everyone nodded as if the comment had been the wisest thing they had ever heard. Even Vince had lapsed into silence for the moment. Robbie knew that Don lived alone with his Gran, and for that reason alone he considered him a kindred spirit.

After a minute the silence became awkward and a few of the boys began shuffling around on the ledge, obviously eager to continue the ascent.

“You first this time then Robbie,” said Kev and the others moved around to reveal a narrow crevice leading up and around the hill.

There was no backing out. If he went down, not only would he lose face but Don’s gran would see him, and any hope he had of keeping the climb a secret would be ended. Carefully he edged along until he was able to find a first tentative foothold in the crumbling surface. He was sweating and the top of his thighs felt sore where they rubbed together in the gap between his pants and the crotch of his trousers.

He heard laughter behind but on turning to look, was relieved to see they were laughing at Vince pissing down the side of the hill and not, for once, at him. This was his chance. He tried to seize it quickly taking two, three, four steps up the crevice while the others were distracted. Five, six, almost at the next ledge before he slipped and slid back down. His sweatshirt dragged up and the dry clay dug into the flab of his stomach. He bit his tongue as he tried to stifle a scream and his chin hit a lump of clay. The laughter started again, this time it was meant for him.

“Let the dog see the rabbit Rolly,” said Vince climbing over him while still zipping up his jeans. “You’ got to know what you’re doing up here. None of this barging about.” He stepped into the crevice sideways on, keeping his back to the hill and worked his way up slowly until he was on the next ledge before disappearing around the far side.

The others followed quickly leaving Robbie to pick at his wounds. Even Kev left him while he was plucking stone and dirt from the mass of blood and grazed flesh. It stung, worse than anything he could remember, and he could barely stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. He was glad they had gone. Glad that no-one was watching him as he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. For a moment he was tempted to try to make his way back down on his own but knew that even in the state he was in he would be better getting to the top. He copied the way Vince had climbed and after a minute of sweating and straining he was on the shelf and able to follow what turned out to be a gentle path to the summit.

The top of Milk Hill was not the peak it appeared from ground level, but a plateau almost the size of a football pitch, with a number of piles of rubble over five feet high scattered around. Looking beyond the edge, back the way they had come, he could see Mike and the girl getting on the motorbike. He watched as they set off along the rutted path. The girl screamed each time the machine almost took off with the rise and fall of the path. Only when they were out of sight did he realise he was alone.

“Kev?”

No reply. It was some sort of game they were playing.

“Kev?” he called again, more insistently, but still without reply. He skirted part of the edge in case they were hiding just out of sight but the rock and clay crumbled as he did so, causing him to retreat while small pieces of debris cascaded down the side of the hill. Behind him he heard stifled laughter, but as he turned the sound was lost in the air. They had to be crouching behind the piles of rubble, but as he approached each one he heard noises from the direction of the others. It was a game he was not interested in playing, becoming more frustrated as the sounds changed from laughter to taunts.

“Okay. A joke’s a joke. If you lot just want to prat about that’s fine by me, but I’m not hanging about.”

“Home to Mummy is it fat boy,” called a voice from behind one of the stacks. It had to be Vince.

“Yeah maybe you’d be happier at home by the fire. Got to stay warm even in the summer haven’t we Robbie. I’m surprised your mum let you out without a coat today.”

Kev? Surely not, he was his friend. But he was right. His mum had made him wear a coat when he left the house, despite the blazing heat, but he had hidden it in the garden shed before meeting up with the others. He would have to remember to pick it up again before he went back in the house. But what did they really know? They didn’t know about his dad dying of a chest infection because he had been out in the cold and damp too long. They didn’t know how the sound of a cough could rattle around in your head so much that it could begin to hurt just to hear it. They didn’t know what it was like to wish someone dead just so you could get a decent nights sleep. They didn’t know, and they never would.

He began to walk back the way they had come despite the danger, head still high, when a stone skidded on the ground in front of his feet. He chose to ignore it. It was hard trying to fight back the tears again. There was no way he could let them think they had won, but when the first stone hit the side of his head he fell to the ground. Almost instantly stones and lumps of clay rained down on him, some thrown with force and venom, others obviously just tossed in his direction. The sound of his assailants cries drowned out his sobbing.

Again and again stones struck his back and arms as he tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but still they managed to hurt him. He wanted to look, to see who was throwing the stones. There was no way that it was just Vince, the stones were coming from more than one direction. What was more frightening was the sound of them moving from their shelter and gathering closer around him. Trying to crook his arm to get at least a quick look. He registered the sight of advancing feet, but not the grubby trainers he expected to see, these were as bare and grey as the surface on which they walked. The feet were uneven, almost ragged as if half worn away, covered in cracks and oozing blood through the grime. 

Another stone bounced close to him and caught him just above the eye. His cheek pressed against the ground, stones digging deep into his flesh, threatening to break the skin. The smell of sulphur and heat burned his nose and throat, he wanted to give in to it. Anything to stop the pains of the stones that continued to rain down. He tried to scramble along on his belly until the mountain rumbled again and a crack opened up only metres away.

For a moment the stones stopped and as he looked again through the crook of his arm he could see the feet had retreated. He wanted to look, to see fully who or what had been trying to hurt him. No. They were not trying to hurt him, they were trying to kill him. That was the point at which Robbie realised how frightened he was. He had to try to get away while he had the chance. Then the crack widened and he sensed movement inside. In the instant he hesitated, finger tips began to stretch over the edge, each as cracked and bleeding as the feet. Hands stretched out to find purchase and strained to pull thin waiflike heads and bodies to the surface, each with hollow eyes. He froze.

“Why don’t you join us Robbie,” said a dry and dusty voice. “You know you belong with us.”

“No,” he said. “Leave me alone. You’re not real.”

“Yes we are Robbie. We have all found our place at last. Found real friends.”

Robbie pressed his hands hard against his ears, trying to block out the voice, even though for a moment he had started to believe it. He didn’t really belong, at least not with the gang who had left him to suffer alone.

“Come with us Robbie.” said another voice. “You don’t have to go back down. You can stay.”

Somehow he managed to conjure up a voice in his head, reassuring him and blocking out the pleading voices. Dad’s voice, the way it used to be before it became croaky and rasping.

Softly and quietly the voice said, “The Lord is my shepherd...” It was the only thing he could remember his dad saying clearly enough to hold onto in his mind. The voice continued and Robbie tried to mumble along in unison.

Then there was the sound of a motorbike, and the shouts of one or two of the boys running away. Robbie chanced another look and saw wheels flashing in front of him. The bike’s wheels dug into clay and stones and dust spun into the air.