Best British Horror 2014 Page 17

  No matter how hard she tries to see the woman, the figure eludes her. She calls Tony’s name again; it comes out as a crow-like squawk. Maureen thinks she sees his head twitch, and glimpses the side of a woman’s face. A bare shoulder. The curve of a naked breast. Anger rises within her and she slides her foot over the door plate. As Maureen steps into the room, the naked figure slips towards Tony, landing in his lap. But it is soon clear that Tony’s ‘guest’ is an extraordinarily realistic mannequin. Its face looks towards her, over Tony’s hip. It has an expression that seems like insolence.

  The mannequin is a detailed model of a woman, manufactured with complex joints so that it can be posed naturalistically. Its face is life-like, with real-looking eyes. Its – her – hair is long, remarkably like Maureen’s, and moves in a disturbingly realistic way. Maureen almost expects the mannequin to sit up and toss its head to lift the hair from its face.

  Tony looks at her confused and afraid, as if she is a spook.

  ‘What the fuck is going on, Tony?’

  With difficulty, Tony stands, the mannequin tangled around his legs. It twists sideways and falls over the opposite arm of the sofa, its pale backside flouted like an insult.

  ‘It’s you,’ he says confusedly, attempting to re-seat the mannequin in Maureen’s place.

  ‘If this is another of your games, Tony . . .’

  Tony seems to gather his thoughts, and moves towards her, looking over his shoulder at the mannequin. Stiffly, he holds out his arms to her. Maureen backs away.

  ‘Get that out of here. It gives me the creeps.’

  He puts his arm around the mannequin’s waist, picking it up with his other arm under its knees as if it is a real woman. It seems to look at Maureen with a hostile expression. He takes it to his bedroom door.

  ‘Surely you’re not going to put it in there?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says dreamily, turning around, fumbling at the handle of the spare room as if he isn’t sure what he is doing. From the lounge doorway, Maureen can hear him placing it on the bed, adjusting its legs, talking to himself.

  She doesn’t want to sit on the sofa where the mannequin has been. She stands in the middle of the room waiting. Tony seems to take a long time. When he returns, Maureen has her car keys in her hand, ready to leave.

  ‘What is that thing doing here?’

  Tony shrugs. He looks rumpled, as if he is wearing his clothes from the night before. His hair hasn’t been brushed.

  ‘I really missed you last night,’ he says.

  It sounds as if he has just made it up.

  ‘You must have been off your head last night.’

  Tony manages a smile, a flicker of the apparently ingenuous smile that always works to bring her round.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose that’s it. We sank a few . . . But I told them – enough was enough.’

  ‘It never is, Tony. That’s the trouble. I’ve had enough this time.’

  ‘Please stay, Maureen. I’ll call for a take-away.’

  ‘I brought pizzas. They’ll be cold.’

  She heats the pizzas in Tony’s oven whilst he freshens up. The pizza boxes look untidy on the table. They will annoy Tony. She leaves them there anyway.

  Maureen turns the cushion over where the mannequin had been, and they sit on the sofa in front of the television eating, but without speaking. It feels like a picnic in a graveyard. Maureen eats all of her pizza and starts on Tony’s, which is barely touched.

  ‘You shouldn’t eat that,’ he says.

  ‘Why? You don’t seem to want it.’

  Tony looks puzzled. ‘You’ll put on weight . . .’ It sounds more like a question.

  ‘At least I can eat. I’m a real living woman.’

  Tony stuffs a slice into in his mouth. Then another.

  ‘You haven’t eaten today, have you?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t remember much after last night.’

  ‘What possessed you to bring that thing home?’

  ‘I don’t remember. We were in this club.’

  ‘Not another of your I’m so sorry, Maureen it won’t happen again . . .’

  ‘Nothing happened. They wanted to go to a lap-dancing place. I said I didn’t want to. I told the lads we were getting serious. That I considered myself spoken for . . .’

  He pauses for another bite of pizza.

  ‘They started teasing me about practising for a stag night. They must’ve brought me home.’

  ‘And the mannequin?’

  ‘She was in my bed when I woke up.’

  ‘In your bed? That’s vile.’

  ‘It must’ve been one of their pranks.’

  ‘A sick prank. A rotten sick prank.’ She begins to cry.

  Tony’s face is helpless, like a little boy’s.

  ‘Please stay. I can’t live without you.’

  He starts to cry too. They cry like two lost children.

  She stays. They talk of the future. ‘But not here,’ says Tony. ‘This is a bachelor pad. We’d have to get our own house.’

  It sounds like a child’s game. They talk of the possible house together, and getting married. Maureen feels it like fantasy confetti around her – melting as she touches it. But she stays.

  In Tony’s bed, Maureen lies awake. She had made Tony turn the mattress and change the sheets. She clings to his naked back, feeling the slow beat of his heart. She wants to seal him to her, convince herself that there is a real future for them. The mannequin is just on the other side of the wall. She thinks of its face, its doll-like perfection. She has seen similar mannequins in the bridal shop in town. Although none is as perfect as this. He once told her that she was the most beautiful woman he’d seen, that she was perfect. Although they lay naked together he made no move to touch her; he’d fallen asleep almost as soon as they went to bed. Maureen’s stomach cramps miserably. The pizza has given her indigestion. But Tony sleeps so deeply, breathing so softly, she can hardly hear him.

  The pain in her guts means she has to get up. Putting on Tony’s dressing gown she tiptoes to the bathroom. All is dark, bar the faint light from the street. The sounds of the traffic seem comfortingly normal. She could leave now and spare herself the uncertainty. The thought of leaving spears her with an unexpected sense of hope, but she has invested a lot in Tony, she can’t run away now. She stands in the bathroom doorway and thinks of her car parked safely under the streetlight, how easy it would be to get her keys and drive away.

  In the passage, Maureen sees that the door to the spare room is framed in light. She hadn’t noticed before. Gathering Tony’s dressing gown around her, she listens outside. Perhaps she hears a scuffling sound . . . Cautiously, she peeps around the door. It’s a small room, just big enough for a single bed and a table. The mannequin is sitting bolt upright on the bed, looking towards her. Its arms are positioned as if it is about to get up, one stiff hand on the mattress, the other on the bed cover. For a long moment, she and the mannequin seemingly regard each other. Maureen’s fear becomes anger.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’

  She shoves the mannequin backwards onto the bed. Its legs stick up, pushing the covers off. Maureen hears a faint exhalation, but it could just be Tony on the other side of the thin wall. Shaking, she turns off the light and shuts the door firmly. She could go, right now, but she can’t leave Tony alone with this – thing.

  She slips back in beside him. Her place is cold. He has moved to the far side of the bed, holding on to the edge of the mattress. Maureen can’t stop thinking of the mannequin’s face. Every time she closes her eyes she can see that spiteful expression, imagine the cold hardness of its hands. She shudders that the thing has been in this bed, in the place where she now lies. From the spare bedroom she hears the sound of something moving against the wall. A distinct scraping, sliding sound.

  ‘Tony, wake up . .
.’

  She prods him. Tony jolts half awake and sinks back to sleep, but she kicks him on the ankle. There is a loud thump that even Tony cannot ignore. He swears and almost falls out of bed. Maureen can see the silhouette of his back as he stumbles, naked, from the room. Maureen follows him. She is aware of the bizarre scene they make, both naked and shivering, listening at the door of the spare bedroom.

  ‘Be careful, Tony. She’s awake.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ But his voice is not confident. All is now quiet.

  ‘Don’t go in . . .’

  ‘Something must have fallen, that’s all.’

  He puts his hand on the door handle, but it is stuck, and he forces the door with his shoulder. The room is dark, but Maureen can make out a hunched shape on the floor in the light from the landing. The door narrowly missed it. Rubbing his shoulder, Tony switches on the light, and they see the mannequin on the floor, on all-fours like a dog. Its immaculately painted face looks towards them, hair hanging down in front, alive-looking.

  Maureen snatches the cover off the spare bed and throws it over the mannequin. She is convinced she hears it laugh.

  ‘You must get rid of it, Tony. First thing in the morning. Promise?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow,’ he says, his voice heavy.

  It is almost ten on the Sunday morning before she wakes. The bed beside her is empty. She listens out for telltale noises, but all is quiet. Perhaps he has already taken the mannequin away.

  Tony’s dressing gown is still on the hook on the back of the door; she puts it on. It smells, comfortingly, of him.

  ‘Tony?’

  No answer. She goes out into the passage. The door of the small bedroom is closed. She doesn’t look inside. From the kitchen she can smell toast and croissants – her favourites. She smiles to think he’s prepared them for her.

  But in the kitchen Tony is sitting silently at the little round table, stock still and naked. The mannequin sits immediately opposite, in a bizarre domestic tableau. There are glasses of orange juice in front of them, untouched. The toast has popped up and gone cold.

  The kitchen clock ticks and the oven whirrs; the aroma of croissants fills the room. Maureen can tell that they are ready, but Tony makes no move to get up. He sits, motionless, ignoring her, saying nothing. Maureen stands in the kitchen, watching, uncertain what to do. Dullness settles over her; her breathing slows. Dimly, she senses her awareness shrinking. It is something like fainting, but this is happening so slowly, she feels the infinite path to oblivion stretch out before her. The ticking of the clock slows until she is stuck between ticks, suspended in forever, as if her consciousness has been stretched out to a thread so thin she can no longer grasp it. A fragment of her mind tells her to pull back, but the desire, with her awareness, has all but vanished.

  A brilliant flare ignites inside her head. She falls, as if she has been placed back into the scene, but off kilter. Lying on the floor, she hears the smoke detector shrieking – it must have been set off by the croissants in the oven that are now burning. Tony is rubbing his eyes, bewildered. The mannequin sags onto the kitchen table.

  Maureen looks up from the floor at Tony whilst the detector shrills its painfully loud alarm. She wants to tell him how crazy it is, but Tony gently lifts the mannequin’s head, pulling back the hair from its face. He does not ask Maureen if she is all right. It’s as if she isn’t here. She manages to get to her feet, and turns on the extractor fan before pressing the alarm’s cancel button with the end of a mop handle. A sob rises in her throat. Tony looks up, but with a dazed expression. Maureen slips out of Tony’s dressing gown and flings it at him.

  ‘I, at least, am getting dressed.’

  On her return, Tony has made coffee. The ruined croissants are on the hob, the crusts blackened. He has taken the mannequin away and sits at the table in his dressing gown, cradling a mug.

  ‘Stay . . .’ he says. It comes out croakily. He holds out a mug for Maureen.

  ‘I’m not sure that I want to. That I can.’

  ‘I can’t remember how she – it – got there. I made breakfast for you. I thought of you sharing it with me. Then I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘That thing is creepy. You’re creeping me out with it.’

  ‘We’ll get rid of it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll take her – it – to the tip.’

  They sit over the little table drinking coffee. Maureen reaches out to touch Tony’s hand, but it is icy cold. She pulls away. Tears glaze his eyes.

  ‘Maureen, I do love you. More than anyone I have ever loved. But I can’t see myself settling down. Doing the Mr and Mrs routine. It scares the life out of me . . .’

  Tony does not stop her from leaving.

  They make no attempt to call each other. Two weeks later, Maureen still has his key and thinks she should return it. She will simply post the key and go; she won’t speak to him. After work, she drives to the flat, and, as she turns the corner, she spots Tony’s car parked in its usual place in the residents’ car park.

  There is a free spot just along from Tony’s car on the opposite side. She will only be here for a couple of minutes. It won’t hurt if she uses a resident’s space. But as she turns, she sees a female passenger in the front seat of Tony’s car. The driver’s seat is empty.

  She parks her car crookedly, and looks in her rear-view mirror. The woman is waiting – waiting for Tony. Anger seizes her, and Maureen jumps out of her car, leaving the door open. Tony is nowhere to be seen.

  His car is dirty, and small leaves have accumulated on the wiper blades and grille. Tony is proud of his flashy car, and cleans it regularly, but the rain has washed dusty streaks down the windscreen. Maureen quickly realises that the ‘passenger’ is the mannequin, sitting neatly in the front passenger seat, looking like it belongs there, dressed in a T-shirt that she recognises as one of her own. She yanks open the passenger door and, with a growl, drags the mannequin by its hair from the car. It falls in a tangle of limbs onto the tarmac, and seems to quiver, like a waiting spider. It is much heavier than she expects, but, in her anger, she drags it to her car, scraping it along the ground. It makes a loud squealing sound as if in pain. Maureen bundles the mannequin awkwardly onto the back seat of her car and drives off in a fury, directing her car to the waste depot. But as reason returns, she realises it will be closed so late in the day. She is stuck with the mannequin until tomorrow. It’s getting dark. Erratically, she drives the streets where she and Tony had talked of looking for houses. The mannequin rattles and squeaks in the back of her car, its noise a parody of speech. In her rear-view mirror, Maureen sees its arms jerk and twitch as if trying to push itself up.

  Dread fills her. She must get rid of it.

  There is no one around. She could just abandon it on the street. But just along the road, is a skip. Someone is doing out a house, and broken light fittings, kitchen units and a sink are piled into it. It’s like the ruin of a home. Maureen stops the car alongside. She doesn’t want to leave the mannequin with her T-shirt on it, so she wrestles off the garment in the back of the car. The mannequin’s body twists, resisting her. Maureen drags the mannequin out. It takes all her strength, but she grabs it around its waist and lifts it up, moving her hands down its body as she raises it, feeling its arms fall over her back, its torso slide over her shoulder. It scrapes the side of the skip until Maureen feels its legs pivot towards her. With one arm she shoves it in the belly and it lifts off her shoulders, its arms flinging upwards, one hand slashing her face with its cold, hard fingers. For a long moment, it perches, as if seated, upon the edge, its back uncannily straight. She is sure she hears it laugh as it falls backwards into the skip.

  A dog barks from the house nearby. Maureen ducks back into her car before she is seen. Blood runs down her neck, and she wraps the T-shirt around it. She starts the engine and pulls away as quickly as
she can manage, jerking the clutch like a learner. She drives back to Tony’s flat.

  At first, her face stings. Then numbness radiates over her cheek and down her neck, like a dentist’s anaesthetic. The car feels heavy, as if the steering isn’t working properly. She drives it clumsily, like it is a much bigger car and the roads are too small. The street lights seem not to be working – everything is dim. Her parking space is taken by another car, and she turns towards the back of the building, forgetting to change gear, causing the gearbox to squeal. Her headlights flicker weakly on the wire fence of the residents’ car park. What is behind the fence is hidden in the gloom. Maureen turns the car into the parking area; her hands rigid on the steering wheel. The pedals make no sense to her stiff feet. But somehow she is parked.

  The windscreen is dirty. Leaves have accumulated on the wiper blades. She is wearing a T-shirt with a blood stain. She is waiting for Tony.

  Dad Dancing

  KATE FARRELL

  Aren’t parents embarrassing when they dance? Especially dads. It’s that sideways shuffle they do, with elbows at the sides and feet slithering. Sometimes they click their fingers too. It’s not really dancing; with heads flung back, they move to a private rhythm that has nothing to do with the music, the sounds from their youth: The Beatles, (not bad); Boney M, (don’t go there); The Bee Gees, (unbefuckinlievable). The slither thing is bad enough, but worse is the disco dance, which is beyond gross. For that one they sort of twist on the balls of the feet, one arm up, one down, or spin slowly pointing at whoever gets into their eye line. Look at me; I am s-o-o-o-o-o dangerous. There’s really nothing dangerous about a middle-aged man wearing new jeans with a crease ironed in, and a fancy shirt revealing a gold chain nestling in damp, matted chest hair. However otherwise jovial, generous or charming the parent, it is something no child should ever have to witness.

  Twins Nic and Anton were cursed with such a parent. For the first ten years of their lives it was less of an issue though even from a relatively tender age, they felt there was something just not right about such displays. They had been christened respectively Nicholas and Anthony by their mother, and were called Nicky and Tony by their father. The sobriquets Nic and Anton were of their own choosing. Now well into their seventeenth year, they were armed with the vocabulary to give voice to their discomfort. Of an age when poise and style were paramount, their millionaire father from Peckham let them down in so many ways. It wasn’t just the dancing; it wasn’t just the gold chains and the sovereign rings and the glittering diamond in one ear. This last was a six-month anniversary present from wife number two, Staci. It wasn’t just the accent, which marked him out as the son of a South London costermonger. No, also to be taken into consideration was his height. And his weight. Even his name: Ron. Not Ronald, not even Ronnie, but Ron. One syllable, three letters, no embellishment, nothing. Ron. But mainly it was the dancing.