II - 1890

 

II - 1890

When the day they agreed on finally came, Owain wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

He had asked Jamie to meet him in the afternoon, so that he would have time to prepare. Though still early enough so that they might have some hours of daylight to work with.

The easel and the paints took about twenty minutes in total to arrange. The rest of the time he’d set aside to pace his room.

At noon, Mrs Alderson asked him if everything was alright, for she had heard the incessant footsteps and thought him to be in some sort of distress. When he assured her that he was fine, had merely gone without a full night’s rest, she offered him a cup of tea and a slice of fruit loaf, which he accepted so that he could be left alone once more.

Jamie arrived at five minutes past four. Owain stayed in the attic, listening to their voices intertwine. He heard the landlady offer yet another cup of tea, that was, somewhat surprisingly, refused. Then the footsteps came, and he found he had forgotten how to breathe.

A rap of knuckles against wood, then the squeak of the door which was already ajar.

“There you are.” Jamie smiled, though Owain sensed his nervousness.

The painter made a small sound that didn’t quite develop into laughter.

“Yes, I…Sorry, I should have come down, I was just setting things up in here.”

Jamie nodded, glancing around. The afternoon light made his skin appear golden.

He inspected the easel first, only having seen one from afar, then the palette, colours already strewn across its surface like tide marks on the beach.

Jamie was curious how Owain had managed to choose the shades ahead of time. He’d been asked to wear his blue gansey, but the other colours, the shades of marigold and cadmium, the slate greys, and browns. They had been selected from memory.

Next, he turned his sights on the two canvases, propped up against the leg of the easel.

“Don’t tell me you want me t’ sit twice?” He said in jest.

Owain chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I just wanted to have the choice; you see.” He picked up one of the canvases to show his friend the difference. “One is small and square; the other is a rather large portrait style.”

“So, the colours you pick as easily as…I dunno, choosing fruit from a stall. But now you don’t know whether to confine me to a box, or give me the royal treatment?”

Owain was stunned for a moment, all but forgetting Jamie’s rueful sense of humour. It wasn’t until the man knocked him with his shoulder, that Owain broke once more into uneasy laughter.

“Sit down, will you? You’re making me nervous.” He gestured to the stool, ignoring the dampness under both his arms and above his brow.

Jamie sat, stunting the wooden stool with his stature. His legs were like two ores on either side of a cobble.

“Sit down an’ shut up?” He asked.

“Just…sit.” Owain smirked, placing the larger of the two canvases onto the easel.

He retrieved a coal pencil and began sketching a few basic shapes. His eyes flitted up from the canvas now and then, matching the flow of the pencil to the lines of the figure seated in front of him.

They spoke briefly, batting jokes between even glances. Jamie broke his stance every half hour, pacing the room and swinging his arms in a butterfly stroke.

After two hours and a trip to the lavatory, Jamie returned with an air of change about him. His eyes no longer dazzled with humour, and his expression was almost solemn.

“Michael was artistic.” He said, causing the painter a start.

Owain let his brush rest, but he kept his eyes on the canvas.

“Not like this, not…like you. But he made a good scrimshaw. He didn’t whale neither, but his father showed him the way.”

The painter swallowed, listening. His cheeks were hot.

“He scrimmed on wood, mostly. Bits of broken shell, bones brought back from the South Atlantic.”

“He never wanted to go himself?” Owain asked, forcing his hand back into its stride.

Jamie shook his head slowly.

“He were needed here. That’s what he always said. He knew the local waters better than anyone, knew where to get to yer if you were stranded. And there were this thing, no one really understood it, mind.”

“Understood what?”

Jamie played with his beard, blue eyes brightening as they grew damp.

“He could sense it; I don’t know if it were a smell or a chill. But he knew the danger before anyone called for help. Someone joked he were a bloodhound. Then it weren’t so funny anymore.”

Owain wanted to know, of course he did. He wanted to see and hear all that Jamie had experienced so that he could lessen the pain in some way, but he was afraid to press this bruise, worried he might learn something he would later wish to forget.

He opened his mouth to speak but found it quite dry. Clearing his throat, he dropped the paintbrush into the murky pot of water and took a step back.

“I’m sorry.” Jamie was wide eyed as a lamb. He straightened his posture. “It’s all just talk. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“N-No. You’ve done nothing wrong; it was just a dry cough. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

Jamie stared regardless. He felt in his gut that he had offended the man somehow, but there was no tangible reason as to why.

“Perhaps we should take a break?” Owain suggested.

“Oh?”

Several moments passed without either of them shifting from their current position. 

In Jamie’s mind, their conversation had taken a dramatic turn.

“I’ve disrupted yer process.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then I have exhausted you? I’m in the habit of exhausting people.”

“Jamie, please. That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing.”

But none of this had been uttered aloud.

Instead, Jamie asked to see some of Owain’s other pieces, and a little drowsily, the man obliged.

Most of the finished paintings were out in the open, propped against one other in the corner of the room like Russian nesting dolls, unnested. They were dark yet beautifully detailed, and Jamie eyed them all with genuine interest.

There were figures he recognised, even those whose faces were mere streaks upon the canvas. He knew them by the shade and shape of the hair beneath their bonnet, or the tilt of their pipe. He even spotted himself in one of the paintings, hauling lobster traps with a small crew by the docks. His hair was only a fraction darker than the sand beneath his feet.

“Are these the only ones ye keep here?” He asked.

Owain nodded, but his eyes were dark and slightly distracted.

“Well, there are some…sketches and unfinished pieces. But they’re not-”

“May I see?”

A flash of uncertainty, then a curt nod. Owain ventured to the back of the room where a large armoire stood. It was a little battered, but clean like everything under Mrs Alderson’s roof. He opened the doors and stooped to retrieve a handful of loose papers.

The room was darker back there, with daylight fading quickly. Owain hoped this might work in his favour, but when he turned around, he saw that Jamie was holding a candle, eyes dancing expectantly.

Owain offered the papers to him in a sort of flailing gesture, running a hand through his hair once Jamie had unburdened him. He watched him study the drawings with more intensity than before, the candle casting a flickering shadow across the paper.

There was a sound like dry leaves under foot as Jamie tucked one sheet behind another. Owain could feel his ears burning.

He swallowed and said, “I hope they’re not too much of a disappointment.”

Jamie did not lift his gaze from the paper. Owain had never seen him so quiet, so pensive.

He wished he could recall every minute detail captured in those drawings so that he might know just how nervous to be. There was nothing lewd, nothing possessive within those markings, and yet, he felt he had revealed something all too sincere.

“I never saw you.” The man finally spoke, eyes still fixed on the sketch.

“Saw me where?”

“When you were drawing these. I never…”

At last, Jamie looked up, and Owain felt himself tremble like a small, cupped flame.

“Some were drawn from…m-memory. Others were um…used as character study.”

“Show me the painting, from today.”

Owain startled a little, not quite able to place his friend’s tone among the hundreds of conversations that had passed between them.

“Please.” Jamie added.

A nod, and Owain led him back to the easel.

Jamie stood behind him. He gazed first at the swell of jet-black hair, the dark sideburn and blushing ear, then looked past this to the image Owain had painted. It was him, to be sure, though unlike any version of Rhett Jamison he had ever seen or imagined. He hadn’t been improved so much as cast in the light for the first time, and it ached him to look at.

Owain didn’t dare turn around. He stared instead at the blue eyes set to canvas, feeling after several moments Jamie’s large, warm hand moving softly through his hair.

1890

 

I - 1890

The lady merchant pointed her chin at Owain, prompting his order.

Things moved so quickly here. He felt like the shore itself being ebbed away at by the ancient tides.

As the young man opened his mouth to speak, he found his words echoed behind him.

“Wensleydale.”

Owain chanced a look over his shoulder.

A tall, fisherman-type had walled him in, though he seemed entirely unknowing. It was the very same man he’d spotted on the docks that first evening, swathed in fur and knit, a thick tail of smoke rising from his pipe.

“It’s the last wheel ‘m‘fraid, boys.” The woman looked from one face to the other, her expression showing neither light nor shade.

Had it been any other afternoon, Owain might have surrendered the cheese. What was it to him after all? And yet, that was the very reason he could not falter.

“I must have it for Mrs Alderson. My apologies.” He reached for the wheel of cheese as though it were a closed hand in a game of Old Maid.

The eyes of the lady merchant brightened a notch, fixing on the man behind Owain.

“Mrs Alderson shan’t mind if we split it.” A large, warm hand made its way to rest upon Owain’s shoulder. “Our Kath is easily swayed by a kind word and a cup of tea.”

The man winked, but the merchant seemed immune to his ways. He was not the chauvinist type, more a scallywag of a son, or some infuriating cousin.

Owain seethed at his own envious thoughts. The ease with which this man spoke and felt his way around, testing boundaries and finding them soft to the touch, where Owain met only walls and fences to be scaled.

“With all due respect, Sir…” Owain began, the last word sticking to the roof of his mouth as he inspected the man’s face and deduced that he could not have been much older than himself. “I am following Mrs Alderson’s instructions. That is to acquire all items on her list. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Could I see this list?” The fisherman asked, never quite branching into the impolite.

At this, Owain became flustered, glancing back and forth between the merchant and his pursuer.

“For what reason?” He started, but was interrupted by the woman, whose patience was wearing thin.

“Listen ‘ere, lads. I’ve other regulars lining up. Make yer minds up, will you?”

Owain handed over the list, though reluctantly.

“Now now, we’ll soon settle this.” The fisherman took the parchment without an air of malice.

His eyes followed each line, knowing full well Katherine Alderson could neither read nor write. He studied the young man’s handwriting, finding it much sharper than he expected, the letters scratched firmly into the paper.

“Well?” Owain glared.

“You picked these up, all of ‘em?”

“Yes.” He held his satchel close to his body.

“Then I say you’ve done better than most.” He folded the parchment and held it out to Owain. “Kath won’t miss ‘alf a Wensley.”

With that, the fisherman picked up the cheese with his left hand, slammed down a shilling with his right, and ushered Owain away from the stall.

“What are you doing?” Owain stared up at him, not exactly afraid, just bewildered. His satchel groaned at his side, the strap beginning to dig into his shoulder.

They were walking rather briskly, still connected at the arm. Owain was about to stop and demand an explanation, childish rebellion rising in him like steam. Then their pace slowed.

“Rhett Jamison. Most call me Jamie.” The hand that once cupped Owain’s elbow was now being offered to him.

He gawked at it for a moment, then met it with his own considerably slimmer hand. Jamie’s skin was darker too, he noticed, like honey on a slice of milk bread.

“What’s yer name? And don’t let it be Wensley.”

“Uh…Owain. Owain Green.”

Jamie’s hand gave a small squeeze before he let go.

“Nice to meet you, Owain. You’ll join me for a drink and some cheese? My ‘alf, of course.”

The odd pleasantry threatened to soften Owain’s brow. Who gave this ‘Jamie’ the right to charm those around him as though it were a modest task, already preordained?

And yet, Owain had been mostly alone these past few weeks. Mrs Alderson was a kind old widow, whose home was warmer to him than his own Grandmother’s, but he had cast himself into an isolated role, one that saw him pace the cobblestone all day, lost in a world of his own making, only to haunt an empty attic at night.

Finally, he agreed.

“Good.” Jamie nodded. “I hope your tastes aren’t too refined.”

---

Jamison cottage looked out upon the shallow beck, a line of cobles set ashore there against tracks of mud and sand.

A thin footbridge spliced Owain’s view. The sky was now much darker than when he and Jamie had crossed it, but he didn’t think to check the time.

“Come. Sit down.” Jamie reappeared. He was carrying a wooden tray bearing two small plates, two knives, and the highly disputed Wensleydale.

He was much quieter indoors, like a burning wick, close to snuffing.

“I’ve sent Flo for the key. I can’t be trusted with the tea caddy, ‘m ‘fraid.”

“Flo?”

Weary from his errands, the last thing Owain wanted was to entertain more strangers. The fisherman would be challenging enough.

Jamie took a seat opposite Owain, placing the tray on a stout rosewood table between them. The chairs were a little threadbare, but clean and comfortable. Certainly not a cause for complaint.

“Flo’s my sister. She’ll pay us no mind.”

As if summoned by the mention of her name, the slight figure appeared at the door. She was carrying a tray of her own, this one laden with crockery, as well as two fruit scones.

Flo curtsied a little, her eyes meeting Owain’s only for an instant. The girl wore her hair in a tight bun, a few stray chestnut curls grazing her forehead.

“Nice t’ meet you, Sir.” She directed her words to the ground.

The young man smartened himself a touch.

“Oh…no need for the formality. Owain will suffice.”

Jamie watched their awkward encounter with a sort of glazed amusement. He began packing his pipe.

“Are you one of our artistic visitors, Owain?” She asked, placing the tray down on the table.

For some reason, this particular question brought a blush to his cheek.

“I paint, yes. Is it that obvious?” Owain glanced between brother and sister.

Jamie was smiling, and for a moment, so was Flo, but then she restrained herself. The fisherman continued filling his pipe.

“’m ‘fraid so. But tha’s not a bad thing. The people here, you might say we’re all alike. Same upbringing, same line of work.”

“Born from t’ sea, out t’ sea, int‘t’ sea.” Jamie interjected.

“Just so…” Flo’s voice was barely a whisper.

Several moments passed in weighted silence, then the young girl bowed once more.

“I’ve had my tea already, so I best retire. Mother would like to speak with you before bed.”

She shot one final look to her brother, and then was gone.

Jamie gave a small sigh.

“At last. I don’t begrudge her presence or owt, but I need to smoke. If you don’t mind, that is?”

“Tell the truth…” Owain leaned forward, “I would love a puff myself, but I left my pipe at home.”

Jamie’s chair creaked as he rose, reaching for the nearest candle. There was a faint crackle as he lit his pipe, and then the room filled with soft plumes of smoke.

“Cheeky git…” The fisherman smiled; dark blue eyes glistening. “Help yerself.”

He took a few puffs then passed the pipe to Owain.

While the young man smoked, Jamie used a butter knife to slice the cheese in half, before halving his portion once more.

“So, yer a painter?” He asked, placing the cheese onto two serving plates.

Owain had just inhaled, and on exhaling began to cough. He set down the pipe and retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket, using it to cover his nose and mouth.

“Do excuse me…I don’t usually have such a reaction.” His breathing returned to normal, though his cheeks continued to burn.

“But yes…” He gathered himself. “I paint. I don’t yet know how comfortable I am being called a Painter, but I suppose I have no choice in this place. I must wear it for a while and see if the name fits.”

Jamie picked up a scone and sliced it with his knife, gesturing for Owain to join him. By the time both had prepped their scones with cheese and the tea had been poured, the table was dotted with crumbs. Neither man seemed to care.

The tea was darker than back home, Owain noted. Black as molasses. He added a drop of milk, then lifted the cup to his lips. The taste was not unpleasant, but rather bitter. His moustache came away slightly damp, so he dabbed it with the handkerchief.

“And is your work different to the others I’ve seen?” Jamie licked his thumb.

“That entirely depends.”

“On?”

“On the work you’ve seen.”

Finished with his supper, Jamie took back the pipe.

“Seascapes, or women.” He took a short puff. “I’ve nothing against them, but they do all look quite…”

“Similar.” Owain nodded. “You’ll find that most of us studied under the same mentor, in England or The Netherlands, which makes for rather unoriginal work. Though I cannot speak for all.”

An unwelcome heaviness suddenly came upon him. He felt as though he had somehow channelled his grandmother’s presence through careless thought alone.

Jamie noticed the distance in his eyes.

“Your words are safe ‘ere with me. I’ll not surrender you to yer own kind.”

Both men smiled, though Owain’s stomach was still out to sea.

“How kind of you.” He said, voice catching slightly. “You’re irregularly kind, Jamie. Do you know that?”

His grandmother’s image began to fade as he shifted focus, and the relief was almost palpable. Owain peered up at his acquaintance, a little nervous he’d overstepped some line not yet drawn. But nothing seemed to perplex this man, not truly.

“You make it sound like a bad thing.” Jamie sucked on his pipe in short intervals, checking how much tobacco he had left.

“Men our age are not inclined to be warm or kind. We are… bold, ambitious. We seek out power at every turn!” Owain chuckled. “We work and strive to feed and dress our families. Well, you do.”

He rather expected Jamie to agree with him, but the fisherman had stopped smiling.

“Your ‘ands are soft, I suppose? Unscathed?” Jamie asked, prompting Owain to press those very hands between his thighs. Suddenly ashamed. “Hard graft is not the measure of a man. Not even close.”

A small dose of silence, perhaps much needed. Jamie’s pipe was finally empty.

“You were hard to me before, when we first met.”

Owain tried to smile, but his eyes were glossy, and he could not meet the other man’s gaze. Instead he listened.

“So, yer not hard in the ways of slog and sweat.” Jamie continued. “But something has hardened you. You have looked after someone…or someone has not looked after you.”

This time Owain did look up at him, taking the time to study his features; the subtle arch of his nose, the freckles that dappled his cheeks and forehead, entirely without sequence, all framed by golden tresses, only partly secured in a knot at the base of his skull.

At the man’s words, Owain felt something akin to anger, but he could not bring himself to embrace it fully.

Jamie took his silence to be a fresh wound and worked all at once to mend it.

“Tha’ was not meant as a jibe, I swear it. I was simply pointing out what I thought you might already know. Now I see you did not, and I’m sorry.”

He watched as Owain swallowed but continued not to speak.

“If you want to go…” Jamie spoke slowly, deliberately. He was not flustered, but a seed of worry had been planted somewhere deep inside.

That’s when Owain began to laugh. It was different than before, a genuine sound and one that he could not supress. He was tired and awake, all at once, and had both the strength to talk to Jamie for hours to come, while at the same time no more energy than a thimble full.

“I do not wish to leave, though I will have to. For both our sakes. Your mother will be awaiting your company, and I…well, Mrs Alderson does not like her boards to return late.”

Jamie began to rise from his seat.

“Do you think…” Owain felt he had stopped him with a single look. “Do you think I might accompany you one of these days?”

The fisherman’s eyes widened just a touch.

“Accompany me, where?” He asked, sitting.

“On one of your trips…it needn’t be far. Perhaps I might find myself painting with more…authority, if I were to experience these things at first hand.”

Jamie was stoic at first, then when he realised his new friend had made a sincere request, his face returned to a smile.

“Ask this of me again tomorrow.” He said, finally rising to stand. “Then you’ll have yer answer.”

-----

The door to his mother’s bedroom opened with a lingering creak.

She stirred, somewhere between slumber and wakeful dream. It was only when Jamie took a seat by her bed that she opened her eyes, and took him in.

“What is it, my son?” She asked, voice charred by something neither of them could bring themselves to speak of.

Jamie had been absent for a moment, his eyes staring through the mattress into the stuffing beneath.

“Hm?”

“You’re not yerself.” She took his hand and squeezed it, trying to bring him back from wherever it was his mind had wandered off to.

“Have you ever known me to be anything other than myself?” He beamed, siphoning a smile from her.

“Then, where were you? It is much later than yer usual visits.”

Before he could answer, she spoke again.

“Our Flo said you had a guest.”

“Then you already know the answer.” Jamie began tucking in the quilt around her chest. His mother did not protest.

She looked different tonight, brighter somehow. Her son did not take this as a sign of recovery, however. He had been fooled by such things in the past, then served with a cruel reminder of her frailty soon after. No, this was curiosity. Plain and simple.

“What is the young man’s name?” She asked, watching as Jamie poured her a glass of water and set it on the bedside table.

His hands were steady, even as he uttered the name.

“Owain Green. He’s a painter, though he might need some convincing of that.”

Mrs Jamison smiled to herself, and her son knew she was picturing this ‘painter’. Her expression suggested she was pleased with what she saw.

“A Welsh boy. You didn’t mention that…”

“You reckon?” Jamie cocked an eyebrow.

“A name like tha’s no accident. Dark hair, curly?”

“Jet black.” He recalled with ease. “Straight, naw curly.”

“Eyes?” His mother shifted, trying to find a comfortable position.

Jamie stared for a moment, then blinked hard. His eyelashes were a light brown, the same as his father, and they cast a faint shadow against his cheeks.

“Can’t say I remember.”

“Can’t yer?”

His mother was trying to capture his gaze, and for a moment, she had succeeded.

Nothing about her tone suggested she was being cruel, nor was she baiting him. She was merely bedbound, and in being so, was able to sense the smallest changes in her kin.

Mrs Jamison knew what made her son’s heart swell, just as she knew her husband’s heart while he was alive. Flo was a mystery; one she could no longer decipher. But her boys, she could always count on them to show their palms face upward.

“You sure you weren’t peeking through that door there?” Jamie chuckled, trying to regain his footing. “I’ll tell you all about him once I actually get to know the lad. Right now, there’s not too much to go on.”

He gave the quilt a small pat, then eased out of his chair.

“You’re to see him again?” She asked, watching as her son snuffed out the candle near her bed.

Tufts of smoke filled the air. The fragrance alone was almost enough to send Mrs Jamison back to sleep.

“He lives here…for now at least. We’re bound to bump elbows.”

Jamie stood in the doorway; he could just make out the shape of his mother’s birdlike frame beneath the covers.

“I should like t’ meet him.” She said as she closed her eyes.

Jamie couldn’t be sure if this was said in earnest, or if sleep had begun to take over her words as well as her thoughts. But he nodded, and gaining no further response from her, closed the door.

Blood & Sand

Edvard Munch - "Vampire"

“Say bleh!”

“BLEH!”

The flash goes off without a sound. I always anticipate a click or a puff of smoke, but phones these days are made for people with secrets.

The caveman in the pollo shirt scrolls through the dozen photos he’s taken, then, presumably satisfied, tucks the phone into his jeans pocket.

His face and neck are beet red, but he’s smiling through the pain, if he even feels it.

I’m smiling too, a big, fake, saccharine smile.

“Those are quite impressive.” The man says, pointing at my fangs.

“That’s because they’re real.” I smile a little less, so only the tips are visible, and widen my eyes at the children either side of me.

Instinctively, they rush over to their father, all riled up on fear and sugar.

It’s not real fear though, of course.

They know there’s nothing real in this place; the cobwebs aren’t real, the fog isn’t real, the blood isn’t real, and the actors, well, we might as well not exist.

The man doesn’t laugh but he looks like he wants to.

Instead, he says, “Good one, mate” and ushers his family towards the gift shop.

I let my smile drop completely, feeling a sort of lull, a peaceful unmasking.

But it doesn’t go unnoticed.

From behind the reception desk, Monica gestures me over with a hooked finger.

The last of the guests are making their way to the exit, filling the room with a low buzz, like flies swarming rotten meat.

“Leo…” She begins, donning a lifeless smile of her own. “You were looking a little glum there. Don’t take your role too seriously, you’re not dead yet.”

It takes an embarrassing amount of energy not to roll my eyes.

“All I’m saying is, vampires are theatrical, they’re… fearsome. They don’t stand around looking gormless. You have to be on even when there’s no one around, mm?”

I press my lips together and make the same sound.

Mm.

Monica smiles once more, harder this time. I notice the hairline crack in her name badge, crossing out half the letters.

Then I’m in the changing room, folding my costume into a neat little pile and placing it gently into my locker.

I’m wearing a dark blue shirt, the top button undone, and acid wash jeans. Before I leave, I drape a burgundy scarf around my neck and let my hair down, blinded momentarily by bright auburn tresses.

The streets of Whitby are both vile and quaint. The stench of overflowing rubbish bins hits the nose as soon as you take your first step.

Then there’s the bird shit: on the pavement, the bins, the handrails. The seagulls themselves walk among the townspeople, so large you might mistake one for a lost child.

This is the only place in England where you are encouraged to shield your food rather than your purse, lest some great vulturous biped snatch it from your mouth, mid bite.

Not that it isn’t fun to watch stupid people suffer. And I see a lot of that here. Suffering.

It isn’t just the ignorant, no. It’s everyone.

The street performers doused in silver paint brighter than their futures, the waiters and waitresses ducking into dark corners on their fag breaks just to escape the nausea of other people, even the food-faced children rushing to the arcade with pockets full of pennies while their parents spend the real cash on booze and blow.

They’re all on a spectrum of suffering, but no matter how minor, none of it goes unnoticed. Not by me.

I take my own suffering to The Black Dog. When the pub first opened, the name was too indelicate to ignore. Even more indelicate, I ordered myself a Blood and Sand; scotch mixed with cherry liqueur, vermouth, with a slice of blood orange.

Food isn’t exactly a passion of mine, not even a vague interest if I’m being honest. But this was a monumental discovery.

Alcohol and sugar. Who knew it could be such a fine and lethal concoction?

I became a regular from that day. At least, that’s how the overly indifferent bar staff saw me.

I saw myself as a shadow, a wraith. I was certain I was not to be messed with, even if I could not remember the last time that claim was put to the test.

That night at The Black Dog, the night that followed my run in with Monica, the pillar box red of Mr Caveman’s sunburn seared into my memory, I entered the pub without so much as glancing at its patrons. Instead, I headed straight for the bar, ready to take up my usual seat, already uncoiling the scarf from around my neck.

But my seat was occupied.

This niggled me, but it was to be expected from time to time. My scent resides on that stool, but those microscopic traces of my being cannot be identified by the naked, human eye.

I took a seat to the right and was greeted rather solemnly by a bartender I did not recognise. The pub had such a high turnover of staff, I often wondered whether behind the scenes things were so grim they sent fresh faced students running back to Mummy, or if it was the mundane crowd of faces like mine that saw them drained of what little sanity they had to begin with.

After placing my usual order, I finally turned my attention to the punter to my left, the one who had unknowingly claimed my seat as their own. Their hair was shaved on both sides, with the central portion twisted into intricate plaits, like those of a Shogun or Valkyrie. Their eyes were framed by kohl and black eyeshadow, and just below their bottom lip, a silver spike glistened.

Anyone else might have worried about getting caught, but the stranger had been eyeing me long before my gaze settled on them.

My pulse, or in the very least, the echo that was left of it, did not jump at my wrist, but there was a level of intrigue there. I had not cruised The Black Dog in some time, deciding quite early on that I would not “shit where I ate”, neither of those actions making much sense given my current state, or the state of the pub for that matter.

I didn’t have to ponder it too long. When my drink arrived, the stranger locked eyes with the bartender and said, “I’ll have what he’s having” and a small nod was exchanged.

I could have remained silent, let their little fantasy fizzle out, but I was in a playful mood.

“It’s not for everyone.” I brushed the glass lightly with my fingernails.

The punter smiled. It was an uneven smile but not without charm.

“I’ve been told that before.” They said, voice charred like most of the pub’s regulars. “This is where I’m supposed to say ‘I’m not for everyone’ and even though you’re cringing internally, you say-“

“I have an eclectic taste.”

We’re both smiling now, and it isn’t as painful as it could be.

When their drink arrives, we raise our glasses in a small, impromptu toast.

“To good taste.” I say, taking a large sip.

“To good taste.” Their eyes darken. “And poor decisions. Leopold.”

The ice rattles in my glass and there’s laughter in my chest.

“I beg your pa-a-ardon?”

I look down and the drink is no longer in my hand, the stranger is sliding it away from me, keeping their eyes firmly fixed on mine.

The barstool begins to slip away too, replaced first by my feet, and then the floor.

A pair of cold lips press against my ear.

“Shhh…This will all be over soon.”

The Night Watch

 

He woke up in the chair again, silently damning himself for letting his mind slip, however briefly, into darkness. But being asleep, well, not truly asleep, but on the cusp of it, was just so sweet, so consuming. It was hard to resist, and even harder to come back from.

Only once the man lowered his arms did he realise just how tightly he’d been gripping the shotgun. His hands were warm, or the metal was. He stopped to flex them, stretching his fingers like roots creeping beneath the soil, then replaced his grip. The gentle click of skin against wood and metal was uncomfortably close to the sound of a dry mouth upon waking. He took his left hand from the gun and reached towards a small, round coffee table he’d dragged out from the living room. Sadly, the flask was just as warm as the Remington, but its contents, tap water with a splash of whiskey, still hit the spot.

This was one of many long nights; dining room chair pulled up to the front door, the nose of the shotgun propped against the keyhole, trigger finger cocked in waiting. The only sounds he heard that night were the bones of the house creaking, and the dull thud of his own heartbeat. Now might have been a good time to venture upstairs and stretch out those weary limbs. He could have washed his face at the sink, careful not to peek at his ageing reflection in the shards of mirror above the basin, and then he might have wandered into the spare room at the end of the hall, though it did more harm than good to see the crib still standing, its lone occupant a dead eyed panda bear swaddled in a single yellow blanket.

But he didn’t move from his seat, he couldn’t. Because that’s when it would strike. He had no proof of this of course, except for the way it had happened the first time. And hadn’t it been successful? Hadn’t it claimed the very thing it wanted just by waiting for the head of the household to fall asleep? The man scoffed, feeling the shotgun follow the sharp rise and fall of his chest. There was no chance in Hell or indeed on Earth that he would allow it to happen again. No, whenever this thing chose to return, the man would be ready for it, and this time he would not let it get away so easily.

As the sky’s sullen expression turned to one of bashful reverie, the man finally rose up from his chair, leather boots squeaking beneath his weight. The crooks of his elbows burned from their ninety-degree pose, and the gun felt heavier now. He carried it like an infant, weighed down by their own drowsiness, until he reached the family mantel. There, above the wood framed faces, his grandmother’s carriage clock with the hands that refused to tick, and a couple of unlit candles, he hung the Remington. It looked as though it belonged there among the debris of his old life, and so he felt no reluctance as he turned his back on it, before retreating, at long last, to bed.

The duvet hadn’t been washed for some time and smelled strongly of sweat, but by this point, with dawn encroaching, the man revelled in the small amount of comfort it provided. He’d finished off the flask as he mounted the stairs, and it burned within him now like the stench of gasoline; unpleasant to some, sweet as perfume to others. Within moments, the sleep he’d been evading finally took hold. He watched the backlit curtains flicker and fade, until they were only an imprint behind his eyes. As he felt himself sink, his left hand splayed out against the mattress, grasping at the under sheet where another body used to lie.

Downstairs, on the other side of that previously manned door, something entered its finger into the lock, and turned. There was just enough room in front of that old dining chair to slide open the door. The intruder took a few seconds to adjust to the sight of the place, then closed the door with little more than a muffled click. It walked at a steady pace into the living room, scanning the items on the mantel. In the window of the carriage clock, the thing stooped to counter its own reflection. The face, like the man’s, was bearded, with pale blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose. When the thing looked at the photographs, it saw itself in three of them. The fourth was the lone image of a child, no more than five years old. A long, arthritic finger traced the face of the child in the photograph, before covering her eyes with the pad of its thumb.

Then it turned its attention to the shotgun on the wall.

 

"Expecting" performed live 31st October 2020