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.

The Lazarus Mouse

Sunday


Jesus came today while I was playing in the yard.

My hands were all dirt and sand so I didn't offer him a handshake like you're supposed to.

He had on his white robes, just like in the pictures, and he walked like there was nothin’ to it.

You'd never have guessed he'd been dead an' all.

Real dead. Dead where your eyes can't follow the light no more and your mouth just hangs.

His mouth was smiling, but he didn't say nothin’.

Inside, Momma was rockin’ the baby. Dodi was crying and crying but I had to tell what I saw.

Momma said I was lying. That Jesus ain’t coming to Coyanosa any time soon.

But she didn't see him.

Next time he comes, I'll holler.



Monday


My friends at school didn't believe me neither.

We had show and tell, where we stand in front of the whole class and talk about our weekend.

I told ‘em it was the same as any other, 'cept for Jesus.

Tommy Lindsay pointed at me and asked how come we weren't at church Sunday, that we ain’t been since the end of last year.

My teacher, Mr Churley, a nervous sorta fella, seemed to curl into himself.

December was when my daddy died.

"Why would Jesus show up at yer house? Doesn't make alotta sense t'me."

"He can show up where he likes", I said. But they kept on squawking anyhow.

I flapped my arms like a laying hen ‘til they shut their mouths.

"I'll prove it to you. He'll come see all of us."

Mr Churley told me enough, told to sit down and be quiet.

"He'll be in the playground after final bell. Y'hear?"

The next few hours were stones skipping across the Pecos river, bouncing and bouncing but not quite gettin' nowhere.

The kids in my class whispered loud so I could hear.

She's crazy, just like her Pa.

I heard her whole family's headed straight for the asylum.

What's an asylum?

You know. Some place they don't let you out, least til they can fix your brain.

Then she ain’t never gonna leave.

I turned to face the window, but my reflection didn’t comfort me none. There was a streak of dirt on the side of my nose that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard I rubbed. I saw then, it was the glass that was dirty, not me. I stared right through.

The slide out back shone 'neath the white hot sun. I knew it was bound t'be pure hellfire on bare legs.

Down below was a patch of sand to soften your landing. In the shadow of the slide I caught a glimpse of a small grey foot sticking outta the sand.

I knew just what to do. I knew what he was gonna do, all he needed was a prop. Like in our school nativity. There'd have been no baby Jesus if Mrs Crane hadn't loaned us that sack of flour, even if there were beetles crawling up inside its guts.

When the bell came alive, so did I, jumpin' from my seat and racing off t'ward the playground. The thing was dead when I scooped it up, but the maggots hadn't gotten to it yet.

The class gathered around me, even those I was sure would run straight home and snitch to their parents. God fearin’. That’s what Momma called them.

"So?" It was the tallest of the bunch. "When's he gonna get here?"

I had no answer, ‘cept to stand there.

We waited a couple minutes while the sun gave us grief. Some of the kids would get a beatin' if they didn't make it home on time, or meet their brother on the corner by the Dispensary. And I would get their dose of beatin'.

I can't tell you how, but I knew Jesus was gonna come. It had been the same in the yard. The air pressing down and the ground turning soft as smoke while everything around it stuck still. Like the whole town was just some backdrop in a Western.

Tommy Lindsay opened his big fish mouth to call me a liar, but he never did say the word. They were all staring hard, staring past me.

He had come, just like I said. And he was smiling his Saviour Smile.

I moved silently, holding the mouse at arm's length. Jesus knelt so that he would not parent over me. His face was still, like a doll's. He took the mouse, they could all see it was a dead thing, and covered it with his hand.

We all just about lost our senses when the creature poked its head out between his thumb and pointin' finger, and came to settle on his sleeve.

One of the kids cried out for me to catch him, that we could take him to Mr Churley for a class mascot.

I crept after the little guy, who had leapt onto the grass verge nearby, and he slowed for me.

Crouching low and steady, I looked up at Jesus. His face was so smooth, almost a mask. He smiled his Saviour Smile, but this time there was a flicker, like a TV when its wires get crossed.

I could be sure no one else saw what I saw. They were far too busy taking turns to pet the mouse, before hurrying him inside, curious what our teacher would make of his resurrectin'.

I thanked Jesus. Not for the mouse, but for takin' away my crazy.

He didn't say nothin', but his face flickered again. Fuzzin' like flies swarming a hunk of meat. 

For a moment, I peeked behind the mask. It was darker than dreaming of blindness and waking in your empty bed. It was worse than havin' no family at all.


Saturday

I keep on thinking I can hear Dodi crying.

She always cries for food around midnight. But there ain’t no Dodi to be cryin'. There's only me and Momma, and she's just standin' there staring. Her arms swaddling air.

I told her he was back, but she didn't believe me. Not until she saw his face, and the great thing lifting outta the dirt like an airplane risin' from a jungle wreck. Not until she saw beyond the saviour smile into the darkest space there ever was.

She's talkin' now, but it doesn't make much sense t'me. Keeps on repeating my Daddy's name. Does she think he can hear her, all the way out there?

Tomorrow's Sunday. Maybe we'll go to church. I think he'd like that.