Best British Horror 2014 Page 26

  Emily caught a whiff of that tobacco again, and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’ The smell faded, and she breathed out a juddering sigh of relief. ‘I’m going home,’ she said, to no one. ‘Alone.’

  No one followed.

  Emily’s piece came out the following day, and her phone started to ring as people realised she’d been involved.

  The article made no mention of the attack she’d been sure was about to follow, but did mention her presence at the station; she found herself to be a celebrity, and decided – with her uncle’s permission – to stay indoors for a few days, until something else of interest happened and she was no longer ‘interesting’ to the gawkers and on-lookers that had crawled out of the woodwork.

  A few days later Emily found herself making her way home alone once more, having spent the evening at a local theatre for a review of a play being put on by the local amateur dramatics society. Blithe Spirit. The joke wasn’t lost, but Emily didn’t think she’d ever find that funny again.

  As she left East Finchley station, she saw a man leaning against the wall, hat pulled down low over his face, shoulders hunched against the cold. She slowed, then drew herself up and hurried forward – she’d be safe inside.

  The man stood up as she approached, and as he lifted his head she saw she’d been scared of nothing.

  ‘Uncle George,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

  He smiled. ‘I thought you might want some company. Seeing as it’s late.’

  ‘I’m glad you came. It’s a bit quiet tonight, isn’t it?’

  George nodded, and took her arm. ‘Come on, we’ll take the bus.’

  Emily found herself propelled down the hill, towards the bridge. ‘I normally get the bus at the next stop up,’ she said, trying to pull away. ‘It’s a bit dark this way.’

  The bus stop they were heading to was closer, she knew, but she didn’t like going under the bridge where it was dark. And there was a stretch of road just beyond the adjacent pub that was bordered by gardens with overhanging bushes – she preferred to be more visible, especially after . . .

  George sighed, impatient. ‘It’s all right, I’m with you.’ And kept pulling her on, past the bus stop they should have waited at.

  As they reached the corner of Bishops Avenue, George pushed her to the side, and she found herself by a house with a low fence – and a lot of foliage.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  George laughed. ‘I thought we could take a bit of a walk.’

  ‘Why down here?’

  George’s grip on her arm grew painful, and she got ready to scream.

  ‘Uncle George, what’s going on? You’re scaring me!’

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to do that. I just wanted you to see. I want you to make everyone see.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense,’ she said. ‘See what?’

  George nodded at the house, but had the grace to loosen his grip. ‘He lived here.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Your saviour. You were right; he’s done this before – and it’s time people knew.’

  Emily turned to stare at the house – unprepossessing in the gloom, she could see, nevertheless, that it was neglected. An air of loneliness pervaded its surrounds, making it stand out from the expensive, well-tended houses that adjoined it. ‘Who lived here?’ she asked.

  ‘A man called Arthur Fuller. I went to school with him, or rather your dad did. They were a couple of years below me.’

  ‘He knew Dad?’

  ‘Very well. They were mates.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  George’s eyes glittered as he started to talk. ‘He was killed. Walking home one night, late, he saw a girl being attacked by some thug at East Finchley station. Decided he had to have a go, save the girl.’ He laughed, the sound bitter in his throat. ‘Bloody idiot.’

  Emily didn’t quite understand. ‘Why was he an idiot, if all he did was try to help someone?’

  ‘The girl was your mother, and Arthur knew her, of course.’

  Emily stared.

  ‘You look like her, you know,’ he said; and tried to touch her hair.

  She flinched.

  George grinned, his teeth bared white in the dark. ‘You see? You’re just like her.’

  She took a step back, and he gripped her arm tighter.

  ‘It’s not like she was going out with your dad at the time,’ he said. ‘She was fair game.’

  ‘Oh, George,’ Emily moaned. ‘You were the thug?’

  ‘So the papers called me. I just wanted a kiss, that’s all. But she wouldn’t be quiet.’

  ‘And Arthur heard her? Came to help?’

  George nodded. ‘I always felt bad that he got hurt. I just pushed him off. I didn’t see the car coming.’

  The smell of Old Holborn surrounded her now, and she felt herself relax. They weren’t on their own any more.

  George took a step towards her, and Emily stiffened. ‘I want you to tell his story,’ he said. ‘I want people to know he’s still saving people.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Because you feel guilty?’

  George nodded. ‘That, yes, and because people should know it wasn’t just an accident. He was a good bloke, and he tried to help your mum. Just like he’s still trying to help people.’

  Emily took George’s hand, and peeled his fingers away from her arm, one by one. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Why shouldn’t he get some recognition for what he did?’

  ‘Because then they’d know what you did,’ she said, and saw the realisation dawn in his eyes. ‘And, even worse, what you nearly did to Mum.’

  George launched himself forward and pushed her towards the busy road.

  She felt herself falling, but was overwhelmed by the scent of pipe tobacco, even as she felt herself being set back on her feet. She stood, gasping, as she saw the cloud darken around her uncle, a smoky figure reaching out for him and drawing him towards the main road. A bus was hurtling up the hill towards them, but she couldn’t make a sound – and it was too dark for them to be seen, just yet.

  George was trying hard to break free, but to no avail. As the bus drew close, the cloud solidified, and Emily saw her saviour, hat pulled low over his face, dark coat pulled tight around him. He pushed George down, and both men fell under the oncoming vehicle – brakes squealed, someone screamed, and Emily found herself witnessing everything this time, at close range, as Arthur held him there.

  She saw George’s hand, protruding from underneath the front of the bus – blood trickling towards the kerb. There was no sign of the rest of him. The hand twitched, just once, then was still. A woman who’d been walking up the main road was screaming: scream after scream pealing out, with barely time to breathe between. The bus driver was sitting in his cab, head buried in his hands – the few passengers were staring forward, shock etched on their faces. She could already hear the sirens.

  Emily staggered to the kerb and threw up, and when she looked up, he was there. He smiled at her, and touched his fingers to his hat – an old-world gesture. The smell of Old Holborn caused her stomach to clench, and she vomited again. When she looked up again, he was gone.

  She couldn’t tell the story, she realised. And not because it would ruin her aunt’s life, and her parents’ memory. She couldn’t tell the story because then everyone would know about Arthur – and much as she hated the idea of him continuing his vendetta, she hated even more the idea that he wouldn’t be able to help any more girls daft enough to wander home on their own in dangerous places.

  Namesake

  V.H. LESLIE

  Her name was Burden. Cecelia J Burden. Her parents had at least tried to compensate by giving her a prett
y first name, hoping no doubt to disguise the surname behind flowery sibilance. Yet neither name was really quite right. The J stood for Joan or Jan or Jane, a legacy of some distant aunt. Whichever name, it had been forgotten and mislaid long ago with her birth certificate in a loft full of paper. J was happy just to have retained the initial, whatever it stood for. Jane, most probably, on account of how plain she was. Its mystery appealed to her, so that’s what she went by. J.

  J had liked her surname once. Before she really understood what the word meant. She liked the sound of it and would break it into syllables and imagine her name was a place where birds lived. Bird-den. Burden. She even decorated her textbooks with scribbles of robins and owls, and dotted her i’s with curved silhouettes of birds in flight. It would have been the perfect name for a life a crime, she often thought, or a serial killer. She read a lot about serial killers; they often had hard childhoods, unrealistic responsibilities forced upon them at a young age, a huge emotional chip on their shoulders weighing them down until they finally reacted with violence.

  She’d thought about changing her name – she even had the forms at home, ready and signed – but she worried about how her parents would react. Did they like being Burdens? She’d never asked her mother how she felt about taking on her father’s name. A test of love, perhaps, a declaration of her devotion, taking on such a heavy toll. But her mother was attracted to suffering – she’d prolong a cold, or walk instead of taking the bus. She probably should have married a Martyr instead.

  No, J was resigned to waiting it out. She looked forward to her wedding day for reasons different to most young women; it wasn’t the fairytale castle or the princess dress that she fantasised about, it was about finally being shot of her name.

  But finding a husband was no easy feat. It wasn’t like you were going to run into Mr Rochester or Mr Darcy at your local greeting card shop, where J worked stacking shelves. To make matters worse, J wasn’t exactly brimming with self-confidence. The weight of her surname accompanied her through her adolescence and into her twenties and had lived up to its meaning, a constant pressure on her neck and shoulders that made her feel like she was hunched.

  At least Internet dating allowed you to disguise your projected defects as well as your name. J’s mother said only freaks and perverts used the Internet. J thought a hunchback like herself would fit right in. She described herself as busty and bubbly, avoiding the obvious B word on her mind, and issued herself instead a nice humdrum surname – Bentley. She avoided all the potential matches the computer spat at her. She had her own method of selection. When she saw the name, she knew he was the one.

  Blithe.

  The bar had changed. It hadn’t been much to look at back when J knew it, but there’d been something reassuring about the shabby décor, the sticky floor. It had character. You knew what to expect. It was called Frank’s or Ed’s then, something suitably proprietary and ordinary. Now it was Bar None and J wondered how many drunken men had appealed to the bar’s signage as they were manhandled out the door by bouncers. Inside was modern, the tables high, surrounded by bar stools which gave you a strange feeling of vertigo when you managed to get up there. Red lights shone from behind the bar in regimented unison, the glow refracted in the chrome and glass surfaces like the beams of sniper rifles. Sitting by the bar felt like an ambush.

  She sat near a large spiral staircase, an artistic showpiece of metal and wire that allowed the men gaping at the bottom to look up women’s skirts as they descended. With mock confidence the women negotiated the chrome stairs in their three-inch heels, gripping the banister desperately to prevent themselves falling into the pit of testosterone below.

  J scanned the men lining the bar, trying to remember the picture of Andrew on his profile. She hadn’t really cared what he looked like, it was the name she was interested in. The bar’s clientele had changed as well, which made it harder to spot him. All the men wore suits as if they’d just come from work and the women were as groomed and as glossy as their surroundings, sipping expensive cocktails from martini glasses. Bar None seemed pretty apt; there was no individuality here, everyone looked the same. J felt adrift on her bar stool, she glanced at the cocktail menu: Adonis, Tom Collins, Harvey Wallbanger, Scarlett O’Hara. Good names. She ordered herself a Bloody Mary and waited.

  ‘J?’ a man in a red jumper asked.

  ‘Yes. Hello.’ She held out her hand and he shook it.

  ‘Andrew,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Parking was a nightmare.’

  ‘You won’t be drinking, then?’ J regretted the two glasses she’d had at home and the cocktail in front of her.

  ‘I might. I can leave my car here, pick it up in the morning if . . .’ he trailed off, hoping not to have sounded presumptuous.

  Andrew sat down on the barstool opposite. J had already learnt it wasn’t easy to do elegantly and a puff of air dispersed as he made contact with the upholstery. His face reddened.

  ‘The stool . . .’ he began,

  J laughed. ‘Mine’s the same. But there is one cool thing about them.’

  She pressed the lever on her chair and suddenly disappeared under the table. She reappeared with a hydraulic hiss.

  ‘That does look cool.’ Andrew found the lever and began to disappear from view.

  Behind them the barman shook his head at the newcomers bobbing up and down like fish caught in a net.

  The chrome spiral staircase must have been an architect’s joke or a test of sobriety. How many people had fallen down, J wondered, trying her best to concentrate on each step. It didn’t help that her vision was blurred.

  Andrew was waiting at the bottom, holding her coat. She hoped he was gentlemanly enough not to glance up through the rails. She’d allowed herself to get ridiculously drunk on the first date; there would be no coming back from this, she thought. She’d be ruined in his eyes forever as wife material.

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ Andrew said, helping her with her coat.

  ‘I’m a Burden,’ she spluttered in reply.

  ‘It’s no hassle.’

  ‘No, that’s my name. Burden. Not Bentley.’

  Andrew looked at her for a moment, weighing up whether to make a joke or not, wondering whether she’d be able to make light of it.

  ‘It’s not funny. You try being a Burden?’

  ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘Could it?’

  ‘I went to school with a girl called Paige Turner. Seriously.’

  J smiled.

  ‘Anything else I should know?’ he asked. ‘What does the J stand for?’

  Plain Jane. But buoyed up with alcohol, on Andrew’s arm, she didn’t feel plain at all. She felt blithe.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ she replied.

  ‘What’s in a name anyway?’ Andrew asked later as they lay in bed.

  J shrugged, content and satisfied, sleep weighing heavier on her than her name ever had. Andrew’s flat was small and comfortable, surprisingly decorative for a bachelor. Not that she’d seen a great deal, led almost straight away to the bedroom. It was a small room but felt bigger because of the high ceiling, with mezzanine at the far end, which Andrew said led to the attic, though J couldn’t see a ladder. From where she lay, she could watch the shadows gathering up there, black shapes converging behind the rails. She blinked and the shadows dispersed.

  ‘It’s a hard name to live up to,’ Andrew continued, ‘Blithe. People expect you to be constantly happy.’

  J hadn’t intended to be so easy on the first date, but he’d been so understanding about her name, her initial deceit. If he’d noticed the way she hunched over he hadn’t mentioned it, he made her feel beautiful and he was so much more attractive than she’d hoped. Naked in his arms, she thought of other names for herself, taunting herself with the insults her mother threw at the TV when celebrities wore too few clothes. Whore, Slut, Slag. She didn’
t want to think about that right now, but the words repeated themselves over and over in her mind until they became a litany. Blithe’s voice in her ear couldn’t compete.

  ‘People don’t imagine that you’d have troubles and strife with a name like mine. J? J?’

  But J was fast asleep, dreaming of any name but her own.

  Burden and Blithe went well together. J hadn’t expected Andrew to call after such a drunken first date but he did, the very next day. And he’d surprised her further by asking to see her that night. Three weeks later, they’d spent every available minute in each other’s company. J had even acquired a drawer and a cabinet in the bathroom and her stuff was slowly creeping in, cluttering up Andrew’s small flat.

  ‘Maybe I could store some stuff up there,’ J asked one day, pointing at the mezzanine. ‘You don’t seem to use it.’

  It was the only area in the flat that gave the impression of space. Andrew hadn’t said as much, but without a ladder it was clearly off limits.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m in the process of decorating. I’ll clear out the cupboard in the hallway instead, how about that?’

  J smiled, happy that he was making space for her in his life. She looked up at the mezzanine all the same and for a brief moment had the curious feeling of being watched.

  To change the name but not the letter is to marry for worse and not for better. Such was her mother’s response to the news that they’d set a date. It was typical of her mother to kill her enthusiasm, to lace her mood with a little bit of the misery that she enjoyed so much. J didn’t care about old wives’ tales; changing her name was her priority and she wanted to be blithe more than anything.

  Yet it wasn’t just her mother cautioning her whirlwind romance. J had moved in entirely now with Andrew, yet she was far from settled. Cold feet she told herself, though she knew that wasn’t true. The negativity wasn’t of an emotional kind, it was more tangible and it stemmed, she was certain, from the mezzanine.