Category: Issue #15

Amy awoke in a cold stupor. The hardest effort was to open her eyes the first time, when the dizziness was still letting her go. Something had pierced her thoughts, a pain growing, and now seemed to linger, bringing her head to sway like a bauble on a loose fitting. She blinked away crusts of sleep, let her eyes adjust to the dark.

This was nowhere, everywhere. Somewhere cold. At first all sleep-addled, she thought she’d landed in a void, some mystical realm robbed of the reality of colour. Then she eyed bright, square patches somewhere to her right, beyond in the river of black. Underneath them a table, below that still a haze and cloud of lime smoke, receding.

Already she missed the sky, the gentle caress and flow of the beach afternoon robbed of her. She tried to move over, to be somewhere that promised warmth and clear existence, when her arms drew behind her, and she heard a rattle as the chains went taut.

The shackles themselves were short, feeding down into a grate. Less than a half metre of reach, with the steel reminding her of its tug before she could stand.

‘Awake I see.’ said a voice, echoing from some unseen nook. A door screeched, and Amy jerked in place, her body pinned too tight to the ground to turn and see. No scent identified him, all fragrances suffocated by polyester and rubber.

Amy felt a rising pain in her heart, drawing in each breath like she were being choked. Maybe it was the trauma, but the afternoon has gone foggy, and she couldn’t recall her morning flight. This wasn’t how one day was supposed to end, it was the mockery of one, turned bitter and sick.

 A shape drew out from the dark, the figure a mix of glints and refracted light.

‘Hello Amy.’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’ In shadow there was little more to see than the gleam of his glasses and the tip of his forehead. Then a short flame burst to cover the stretched-out silicon glove on his hand, the light blowing from what looked like a red stump.

‘Curious?’ the man questioned. ‘It’s a devil’s finger. The bastards don’t give them up easily, but set alight they’re bright, and they don’t stop burning. Not nice to eat, either.’

Amy flinched away. She didn’t want to think how he knew her name or know how a stumpy pound of flesh could act as an incendiary. How had she got here at all? She’d been taking the route up toward the cliff face when…

 ‘When I ask a question, I would appreciate an answer.’

‘Tired, dizzy. Thirsty.’ she said. In the moment she hated herself. It was a sort of betrayal to list her needs, but the pain in her wrists was starting to grow, and the headache was killing her. This had all started so recently, and yet already she wanted it to end, to take her afternoon strolls where there was no competition and give in to relief. ‘I’m meeting my Mother tomorrow.’

A hard plastic pressed to her lips, the hint of wet splashing at her lips. ‘You should drink.’

The styrofoam was tipped, and Amy began to gulp and choke it down, gasping when the cup was empty. A series of heavy rasps and her breath was back. ‘Thanks,’ she said, wishing she had a free hand to wipe her dripping chin. ‘But a drink doesn’t entitle you to—’

 ‘If you have questions,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll answer them later.’ The tips of his fingers caught in the light, holding something. ‘Now, try to hold still for this.’

The jab came fast, so quick Amy barely felt the needle. It stayed in the flab of her arm another second while the barrel was pulled and blood was sucked from within, then drawn out.

Amy gasped. Now it was hurting. ‘What did you…’

Already the man was walking back into the dark. He made several steps, and then the flame in his hand lit the wicker of others, revealing a wall of similar, creeping little torched stumps, and Amy was certain they were wriggling in place. The light burnt bright, but there was not enough to share the details of the room, and a squat darkness enveloping anything more than ten metres away. The room was tiled with flat, ceramic flooring, while the ceiling was left a question of overhanging black.

The man made his way toward a table. Amy saw what she initially thought was a green shade came from a kind of apparatus. Goblets, flasks, vials, all bubbling away, the colour of a fetid marsh. Plastic in strange shapes, leading down and through spirals and odd curves from one container to the next. Housed on table as a collective, they seemed a complete engine, all cogs of a greater machine. Her captor was not far away, back to her, a white coat cloaking much of him bar his shoes, what limbs he did show thin and spindly. He held the offending syringe in one hand, the stopper pulled taut and swimming fresh with her blood. If she’d ever learnt anything about who she was, having any of the stuff out of her system was never a good sign.

With a shaking finger the man squeezed her blood into a wide beaker on an overarching spire of the structure and left it to chug through the spirals of glass and mix with various vials of green and grey substances. Not once did he look back at her, always the focus on the glass.

‘I’m sorry to put you through this dear, but I have to test something.’ He said, turning back to her. His hair wasn’t much more than a black cap, a salt and pepper beard caking his chin. His nose held an ugly point. He studied her intently, circling the vapid haze of chemical gunk, as if she were a puzzle to be solved. ‘You see, there’s a chance you’re a regular schoolgirl, who’s experiencing quite an unfortunate afternoon. But going by the sightings and my own research, there’s also the possibility you’re something much more.’

The glasses on the table blew out fumes from the many air holes stabbed through their system. A dark accusing look to her, then, unhurried, her captor skulked over. In its long journey through the tubes the red had changed from bright orange to the clearest white, and dropped into the final beaker a dark colour, cascading and breaking out in flashes, blue like a gem vein trapped in stone, a mass of chlorine.

From a rack he pulled one vial from an empty hundred and rushed back over to fill it with the final mixture. Then he brought it over, sparkling in his hand. He shook it experimentally, and Amy recoiled as the contents crackled like lightning in a rooftop storm. ‘Oh, Amy.’ He laughed, eyes lit with understanding. ‘I know exactly what you are.’

His figure slouched and skulked closer, anxiously, nervously close.

He retreated from the certainty of the light and began to circle her. Then a hand pressed, cold and clinical, into the centre of her back, as if to groom, pressing between her shoulder blades in a grotesque search of cold latex and plastic. Her first reaction was to gasp at the chill of his hands, and then to struggle and shift away so he wouldn’t find them. But when his hands grabbed at the lumps around her shoulder, she knew it was over.

‘There’s no use hiding them anymore, Amy, if that even is your real name. Unfurl them. Now.’

‘It’s not what it looks like.’ The girl said.

Her captor ignored her pleas and swiped for a hold on her, and with her limited reach huddled back into the dark. He began to grunt and turn furious and when she made to dodge his grip again he caught her by the hair, and her grunts of resistance turned to strains of agony.

 ‘Enough!’ he roared. ‘Show me what you really are.’

Reluctant, Amy obeyed. They came loose slow at first, edging through hidden slits in her shirt as short, hazel-flecked feathers; at their full height they were long, crescent like things that became iridescent in the heavy, clinical light of the theatre. Three flaps to show them off, as if the act there might be enough strength to break the chains and carry her free. A wild flurry of forest debris and plumage flew out as she flapped, and the faint tang of ocean salt and beachside herbs released in the unfurling.

‘Beautiful.’ The man said, stroking the feathery down of her right wing. She felt her wings being prodded delicately in cautious touches, as if they were made of soft tissue like collage, but then he found her win

g bones, and clutched at them like they were an elephant’s tusks, audibly awed at their strength for something hollow.  

It would do her no good, pinned as she was, to use that strength against him, to send him keeling to the ground in a heap of coat leather and spectacles. But she considered it.

 ‘To think there really was an Angel visiting earth, fascinating. I’ve encountered a few demons in my time, they probably think this world is home by now, but Angels? You really are an enigma.’

‘You’re wrong. It was an experiment I’m really not a—’

‘You’re a little too divine to be good liar, Amy.’ he interrupted. ‘Try to be patient, you can be free soon enough.’ With a harsh tug he plucked a handful of plumage from her wing, and several stray hairs from her head.

‘What are you—’

 ‘Procuring my final ingredients.’ Her captor said, carrying his prize away to the table.

The wing down and head hair funnelled in until they made a splash and boiled and churned through the glass, being crushed and melding with the mixture as it made to meet the final product.  

‘I apologise for the measures I have used Amy, but they are necessary. By Monday you’ll be flying free, and this will just be an unpleasant experience.’ He dropped new ingredients into the vials as he spoke, purple furs, a red stained hair, a mangled eye, little pieces of animals, dribbled down as if squeezed recently through a grater.  

‘What are you even trying to make?’

Her captor chuckled. He turned and continued to monitor the vials, tapping them as if the chinking it produced were some vital data.

 ‘Perhaps the one upstairs didn’t tell you. Everything in this world is quite rotten, but with you that can change; one of his own holds the key. Imagine everyone empathetic and thoughtful of those around them, everyone as clever as Socrates, disciplined as Aurelius.’ He brought his hands out in a gesture of grandiosity. ‘I’m trying to make something great.’

As they continued to wind and boil through the glass work, the eyes and hairs mixed and corrupted down the vats, and in their spiral descent turned to a colour black as death, mired and bubbling.

The lab-coat man was by the table’s side in an instant, tipping the beaker so that the black pitch seeped perfectly into the blue vial. A laugh, a long and broken cackle as the man swished the mixture together; the colour eroding to swampy swathes of deep, dark ocean blue.  

‘I’m not what you’re wanting, I wasn’t born with these, these things. Whatever that is, it’s not going to work.’

‘You give yourself too little credit. There is a power in you, Amy. An infinity; the potential of a god. And I intend to draw it out.’ The vial cupped intensely in his hand, full of promise. ‘Now, let’s see if the myths about your kind are true.’ and he tipped the vial by degrees into his mouth, until a single drop leaked out.

*

The initial reaction seemed the most promising. It reminded Amy of natural divinity, river sprites and spirits who worked to heal out of benevolence. A life-like force had encircled her captor, transforming veins from blue to an ethereal green. The grey of his beard became a defined brown, and his flesh shrunk what few wrinkles and creases marred his body until he was scoured clean. An undeveloped imitation of her own wings crept out of his back, with a short, feathery down, feeble like a chick’s.

He drew breath, then exhaled with an unnerving calm, as if he had lived his whole life paralysed, and now every vein and nerve was moving free at last.

‘Thank you, Amy.’ he said. ‘Because of you—’

And then he stumbled in his speech. A terrible darkness welled like ink out of his chest, staining his coat, dripping to the floor. His jaw set rigid, unmoving when he tried to ratchet it back in place. All the freshness in him from the previous minute seemed to revert, and he began to stammer out a series of retches, harsh and churning.   

He tripped as he rushed to her, his legs now brittle and little more than sticks, falling to the ground beside her. The wrinkles and age that claimed him accelerated in their corruption, quickening with their initial taste. 

‘You were supposed to make me perfect!’ he lisped through his broken jaw. ‘This world perfect!’

Amy screamed, retreating from the flesh that dripped from his slowly whitening skull. It was with horror and a gross hatred of the man that she kept watching, and saw how the ooze in his eye and the cartilage of his nose burned in tandem with the black of his chest.

All her captor could offer was a quizzical look, a denial that he’d been duped, as he reeled, jaw setting fully, and roaring without a mouth to scream. The fire continued to burn inside  him, and its pressure changed something in his system, broke the very foundation of his being, for his skin began to fade and drift away, until all that was left was his lab coat blanketing the rest of his clothes.

In among the remains, Amy searched with a leg outstretched, hoping, praying there was something there. And then, her foot passed over a jingle of metal, and her shoes pressed the remains of the lab coat closer. Enough careful manoeuvring had them by her feet and after searching deep in the jacket pocket, retrieved the keys.

The chains gave easily after that. In her first moments of freedom Amy swiped up a devil’s finger and dashed for an open door. The first she found yielded to a steel corridor smelling of fungi and dank moss. A bright orange like sunlight gleamed from the furthest reaches of her vision. Down she raced, charging with all her might.

The feeble, aluminium door casing blasted away, and Amy was enveloped by the going light of the afternoon. She was somewhere near the top of a cliff, overlooking a town she’d never seen, coming out of what appeared to be a lighthouse, broken and windowless at its upper tiers. Peering down, she could see jagged rock pools at the bottom of the cliff, roiling under the crash and lick of the waves. It seemed the world had lit itself perfectly to meet her.

She couldn’t wait to put the horrors of the day behind her. Really, it had been just a minor setback. Her Mother would have been missing her a few hours, but that could be fixed. They had talked of migrating soon, before the beachside towns became too cold to sleep in.

A chill laced with the wind to batter her, howling to greet her as it scurried up the mountain. Prepared and fully unfurled, she perched upon the rail boundary at the cliff edge, and dove down towards the sea, ready to ride the thermals of the afternoon.

Elizabeth’s Dior heel struck the pavement, igniting a frenzy of flashing lights in her direction. The press swarmed around the private jet, their beady eyes devouring every inch of the actress. Her fitted evening dress didn’t shy away from her curves, and the low plunge lured their lustful eyes.

An orchestra of shutters clicking, and film winding played from the cameras, capturing Liz’s pageant smile. She prowled along the edge of the crowd, teasing the press, daring them to take one step out of line. She grew bored with their evangelical eyes and began to strut towards the black Cadillac at the end of the tarmac.

Before the press could load another roll of film, a brown fur coat had engulfed the film star. The fine sable collar brushed against Liz’s neck, sending a warm shiver down her spine. All the press could see was a knee-length mink coat, a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, and a mane of crimson waves.

The press circled around the film star, bombarding her with questions.

“Are you happy to be back in LA, Ms Loren?”

“Is it true you’re staring in Brodeur’s new film?”

Liz’s sunglasses did their best to hide her tired eyes, but it didn’t help the incessant noise of the press feeding her already excruciating headache. Liz slipped into the black Cadillac and took one last glance at the press. She fed them every day, but they kept coming back for more. She could see the way their eyes burned with desire that they wouldn’t stop feeding until there was nothing left.

*

The sun faded behind the old mansion on Sunset Boulevard, its grounds littered with the memories of Hollywood’s finest parties. On the marble walls hung film posters documenting Liz’s rise to fame, and on top the grand mantelpiece, a statue of a golden man stood proudly.

Liz sat hunched over in the bath, her mind drifting back to the previous night, to the woman who had laid in her bed. She thought of the woman’s dark curls, her soft smile, and the way her eyes danced in the light. A person’s eyes never lied, Liz thought. Liz could see the pools of lust swirling in the depths of her eyes, and in there swam a desire not to be with her, but with the Hollywood starlet.

She looked down at the signet ring on her middle finger. Liz ran her thumb over the ring and her heart ached. Her eyes stayed fixed on the initials engraved on the ring: S.H. taking hold of her memories and transporting her back in time.

*

On Sunset Boulevard, in one of those great big houses in the ten thousand block, a younger Liz stared at her reflection in the mirror. The studio had put the finishing touches on her makeover. She didn’t even have time to look at herself before Frank, her manager, had rushed her over to this party. He couldn’t stress how important it was to make a lasting impression tonight. She was debuting as a new actress to the most important people in Hollywood.

“Liz! Liz you in there?” Sylvia yelled over the pandemonium of the party below.

Sylvia Hayes was the daughter of a famous director and the niece to Hollywood legend Katherine Hayes.

The only highlight of the night so far was being in Katherine Hayes’s Mansion. Liz had only glimpsed the actress. All she had seen was Katherine wrapped in a thick fur coat, prowling around the party, daring the men in suits to converse with her. ​She was the only person Liz had ever seen wear such a coat in the middle of summer.

The old bathroom door creaked open, and a young woman peaked inside the marble room. Brown curls fell like waves around Sylvia’s face, and in that white dress, Liz thought she looked angelic.

Sylvia’s eyes roamed over Liz’s new look, making her heartbeat thunder throughout her body. Liz thought she now resembled a B grade Rite Hayworth with her face full of makeup, her low-cut dress, and her hair now an intense auburn colour. She stepped away from Sylvia and crossed her arms.

“You think I look stupid, don’t you?”

“No, never,” Sylvia said, stepping closer to Liz and pushing back a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Heat flushed to her cheeks, and Liz was positive her face now resembled the colour of her hair.

“So, they’ve dolled you up to feed you to the wolves tonight?” Sylvia stated, fiddling with the signet ring on her finger. Liz felt the weight of a thousand cameras pointing at her under Sylvia’s gaze.

“Frank said if I impress them tonight, I could start getting leading roles,” she said, glimpsing at herself in the mirror. “Maybe someday I’ll be like your aunt.”

“You don’t want to be like her or anyone at this party.”

But in fact, Liz wanted to be like Katherine Hayes. An award-winning actress who lives on Sunset Boulevard, who wears fur coats and has a million adoring fans. Was that not every young ​actresses​ dream?

Liz grabbed her hand, feeling the emptiness in her voice. Sylvia’s hazel eyes danced under the light, and emotion swam in the depths of her iris. Liz leaned in closing the distance between them. Their lips brush one another, when the sound of someone clearing their throat forced the two girls back to reality.

A large man stood at the opening of the bathroom.

“Sylvia, your aunt is looking for you,” Frank said, his eyes fixed on Liz.

She knew once Sylvia had left the room Frank would scorn her, again. This was the third time he had caught them. His hands shook with rage, and his beady little eyes narrowed in on Liz.

“Liz, come with me.”

She followed him down the long corridor, passing various film posters of Katherine Hayes from her early career. He stopped at the big door at the end, pushed it open, and gestured for Liz to follow.

The room was full of the finest clothes and jewellery she had ever seen. There were shelves for pearls and diamonds, and even a tray full of vintage broaches. Liz turned her attention to the other side of the room, where a rack of fur coats caught her eye.

She ran her hand along the coats. The fine furs of the dead animals were soft against her skin. Liz stopped at the end of the rack and inspected the mink pelt. The lifeless animal hung there. Its glossy eyes stared back at Liz. She picked the pelt up and moved over to the mirror.

“Stop this, Liz. People have been talking – they’ve noticed you two. Sylvia has her daddy’s name and aunt’s fame to fall back on. You have nothing.” Frank watched Liz grab a coat to go with the pelt and pranced around the mirror.

Liz thought about what Frank said, and he was right. If Sylvia grew bored with her or found someone famous like her, then she’d be over. But she couldn’t imagine her life without Sylvia.

“If the studio caught wind of you two, you’ll be blacklisted. Your career will be over before it starts and all the work we’ve done will be for nothing.”

Liz patted the arm of the fur coat and looked up at Frank in the mirror’s reflection.

“Kid, if you want all this one day, listen to me.”

She shifted her attention to the two golden statues on the shelf behind Frank. Liz wanted fame, her name in big print on the posters, and her face on the big screen. Sylvia knew this. Liz was sure if she listened to Frank, they would only be apart for a few months. Just enough time for Liz to get her first gig.

Liz pulled the collar of the coat up, and the smell of Chanel No. 5 clung to the fine fur. “What do I need to do?”

“You need to stay away from her for now. I’ll fix things up.”

She turned to Frank looking him in the eye. “Promise me we won’t be apart for long?”

“I Promise,” Frank said, taking the coat from Liz. 

After a long night of networking and dancing, Liz’s feet throbbed, and her cheeks hurt from smiling. She walked into the garden searching for Frank, so she could grab a cab home​, when she found Sylvia. Sylvia sat on the lawn, picking at the blades of grass. Her eyes were red and her cheeks puffy.

“I thought I would say goodbye,” said Liz.

Sylvia pushed herself up off the grass and walked over to her. She tried to muster up a smile, but tears fell down her cheeks instead.

“Dad has offered me his place in Paris while he’s filming. I leave tomorrow.”

Liz’s hands shook, watching tears stream down Sylvia’s face. She could feel her heart shrivel up.

“It’s only for the summer, right? Then you’ll come back to me?” Liz questioned, her voice cracking.

“I hope you get everything you wanted,” Sylvia said, taking off her ring and handing it to​ ​Liz. She looked into Liz’s eyes one last time, searching for something, then brushed past her and into the Mansion.

*

The sound of heavy footsteps brought Liz back to the present. She got out of the bath and put on her silk robe. Liz followed the sound of footsteps to the back room where the golden statue stood upon the mantelpiece. The fire flickered in the dark room, illuminating the large man on the sofa.

“By all means Frank, make yourself at home,” Liz said to her agent.

“Someone has to,” Frank said, dropping a newspaper down on the table. He cleared his throat, then began to read out the headline. “Wild Liz out on the town, can she be tamed?”

“What were you doing in New York?” he ​said​, holding the article up for Liz to see. The picture that accompanied the article was of Liz bar hopping on Christopher St with the woman from last night.

“I was there for business.” Liz leaned against the door frame.

“I told you to stay put, and next thing I know, you’re partying on the other side of the country.”

“Frank, I don’t need a keeper.” She glanced at the ring on her middle finger. “We’ve been over this.”

“I should talk with the studio again about getting you a husband. That’ll fix this problem.”

Liz narrowed her eyes. “I definitely don’t need a husband either.”

“I think it’s best for your career.”

“Cut the crap, Frank. Why are you really here?”

“I heard about the film with Brodeur.”

His mousey eyes studied her for a moment, before Liz moved over to the oak bookcase and picked up the script that laid on the dusty books.

Liz sat down on the sofa across from Frank with the script in hand. Frank shifted in his seat as a bead of sweat trickled down his face. Liz slid the script over to him. The orange hue of the fire next to them caressed Liz’s face as she studied him intently, waiting for his reaction.

“I’ve already signed the contract, and the script is decent. Well, better than the shit you make me do.”

He ran his hands through his non-existent hair and over his sweaty face. After he wouldn’t let her do ​The Children’s Hour​ on Broadway, she met with Brodeur. She knew it’d piss him off.

“Did he say who’s playing alongside you?” Frank questioned.

She hardly thought it mattered. Brodeur had mentioned getting a French actress, but that didn’t really concern her.

Frank sighed. “I don’t want those rumours to start again.” He picked up the newspaper and turned the page. “Liz, I’m trying to protect you,” he said, placing the paper back down on the table.

She knew of the rumours the first time, but they were dead and buried now, unless—

She’s back.

Liz looked down at the picture of an actress getting out of a plane. Her heart stopped.

The article read, ‘America’s sweetheart Sylvia Hayes returns from France to star in MGM’s new film.’

“I’ve already told them you can’t do the film.”

Liz closed her eyes, trying to compose herself. Rage pumped through her veins as she continued to listen to her agent go on about the new film that he booked her.

“You’re not doing this to me again.” Liz said, throwing the paper in the fire. “You promised me we wouldn’t be apart for long. But you’ve kept me from her for five years now.”

Frank began to speak when Liz cut him off.

“I don’t care what people say anymore, I’m done, Frank. I want out.”

He sat there for a moment dumbfounded. “It’s not that easy kid, you signed the contract.”

Frank got up, made his way out the door without saying another word.

When Liz heard the front door echo throughout the mansion, she broke down in tears. She rubbed her thumb of the ring on her finger. Years of frustration and anger flowed down her cheeks. She had to wait so long to see Sylvia, and she’d be damned if she listened to Frank again.

Liz ran down the corridor, passed the marble bathroom, to the small room full of her clothes. She picked one of her vintage coats; but the fur felt coarse against her skin. She picked up the raccoon fur next to it. The coat no longer smelled of luxury perfume, but of rotting animal flesh. Her stomach churned at the smell of it.

Liz grabbed all the fine coats and took them back down to the fireplace. She threw every one of them into the fire. The fire grew larger with each coat she threw in. She was setting the animals free. She had sacrificed love for those dead animals, for the big mansion, and for the adoring fans. Yet none of those things could fill the hollow void in her chest.

The flames began to grow beyond the fireplace, engulfing the golden statue above it. Liz moved out of the mansion and onto the lawn. The orange hue of the flames behind her illuminated the sky. She watched the flames burn the old mansion. This was never her home, Liz thought, it would never be.

“It was about time someone burnt it to the ground,” said a voice behind her.

Liz turned around, knowing the sound of that voice anywhere. Sylvia stood before her, her hair now cut just below her ears, and she wore a soft smile across her lips. Liz was positive she’d died in the fire and this was just an apparition to take her into her next life.

“Why are you here?” Liz questioned.

“I read a story in the newspaper about a wild actress who couldn’t be tamed, so I thought I would come and see her in her enclosure and ask her if she wanted to escape with me.”

Sylvia offered her hand to Liz. The orange light of the fire behind them danced in her hazel eyes. Liz took her hand, and warmth radiated through her body when they touched. The two actresses fled into the night, and the old mansion on Sunset Boulevard continued to burn into the early morning, creating a thick black smog that descended over LA.

Dearest Eliza,

The roof caved in yesterday—and would you believe, the entire household slept through it all! The howling wind of the coast is such a constant companion that it drowned out the crack of splintering beams and plaster. We woke up this morning to a layer of rainwater. It spread glistening over the freshly polished silverware, like dew over morning grass, leaving behind a miniature sea stained the colour of cold tea, of which soaked the hem of my skirt a murky brown. The storm rolled off the horizon sometime during the night, washing branches the size of trees to the shore and tossing stones and sticks through the windows. The thundering rain that had heralded the storm had apparently been too much for the poor roof – which we later discovered had been attacked by woodworm – and it had broken under the weight of the night’s fury.

The servants tried to usher J— and I away from it all. Afraid, I think, of the broken glass, but I am so sick of being treated like a brittle fragile, broken thing Eliza, that I wandered inside the kitchen for a closer look. And there, among the shredded thatch and broken beams, hidden under the softly creaking beams, was a cuckoo chick. Its down feathers caught and radiated the light like a halo, and before I even knew what I was doing I had it cupped in my hands. It reminded me so much of that tiny sparrow we found on one of our frequent walks through the park, that I could not bear to leave it alone.

I do so miss you Eliza. You, and your quiet laughter and the small smirk you never can quite hide behind your hand. I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice. I am sure you will be overjoyed, a fact which makes it worth that half year slaving over it. Miss Austen is a beautiful writer, yet I cannot help but wish for the easiness of their love. No secrets or guilt in keeping things from the people they love. Would my own father love you as much as I, then I would not be happier for the world.

When father came down, he did his best to convince me to give the chick to the dogs, but J— persuaded him to let me keep it, aware of my chafing at being locked inside the house. I am not, after all, so sick that I must be confined to bed all day, as you were last autumn with that awful flu.

The servants cleared away the debris and we breakfasted on the balcony; the cuckoo chick wrapped in rags beside my elbow. As the morning progressed, we persuaded Father to take the carriage down to the village so we might be able to meet our neighbours, who have been so kind as to send us fresh fish every Sunday since we arrived.

It will surely be an interesting visit. They have an unmarried son; a young man father seems set on me marrying. It’s all dreadfully predictable, but I know you worry about my loneliness, and who knows? Maybe I shall find a friend in him.

Farewell for now my lovely Eliza, you will be present in my every waking thought and prayer.

Yours,

Sophia.

*

My dearest Eliza,

You’ll be glad I’m sure to hear that the frequent visits with our neighbours have been going well. At least that is what my father might say. I must confess to you though; the son is a terrible bore, and I cannot see a friendship blooming with him. We have dined with them nearly ten and two times, each time my father loudly and publicly expressing his love of the man. It is most uncomfortable. You know what he thinks, of you my love? That my illness is caused by your ‘unsavoury character’ and wicked intentions. He must have seen us when we were walking through the park one day, but when, I would not be able to say. Your frequent hunting excursions and tendencies to challenge men to chess and backgammon have never earned his approval. ‘Women are playthings to be forgotten,’ as he so often says. I doubt your declaration at the dining table on Christmas Eve, that you are to remain unmarried, has helped the situation at all. The ripple of shock that sent through the vicar’s guests truly was a miracle to witness. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. For one so shy and quiet as you Eliza, it is incredible how often you manage to get under other people’s skin.

It is indeed getting harder to smuggle you these letters dearest Eliza. Even J— is weary of helping me in what he thinks is a pointless exercise. But you know, you must know, that even this will not deter me. I will hobble down to the post office myself if I must.

You seem to be in better spirits than our last exchange, a fact of which I can be forever grateful. Thinking of you suffering alone has been most awful. The last time I saw you cry was when we were but thirteen, and I cannot help but worry that you now are more alone than I. I at least have the cuckoo bird, a most spirited and frightful creature. She has been terrorising the entire household, and I cannot help but be quite proud.

Yet how can I take pride in such things when you are not here? You, who are so far away, under a different sky, a different sun. I must admit to you, the horizon from where I’m standing is rather grey. The birds which have been keeping my company in these long months are taking flight to escape the winter, of which I too wish I could escape. Yet God – if she exists – did not grant me wings and so here I must remain. An idea I imagine that will leave you scandalised; I know what you were like in church my love. The most devout woman I know, and the kindest too. That vicar who stared at us with such malice is not blessed with half of Her grace as you. It is those summer stained memories of a happier time that will warm me through the cold to come. That, and your promise to visit this spring. Being apart from you does not bear thinking about. But bear it I must.

The gulls are abandoning their nests my love, and so I too must take leave of you.

Yours,

Sophia.

*

My dearest Eliza,

I will not dance around the news which even my pen shudders to write, for that would be an unkindness I could not wish upon you. So, the crux of the matter is that it appears to be that I am in fact, more ill than we first feared.

The family doctor visited yesterday and left me with the knowledge that my own body is eating itself alive. I am afraid I was not present for the conversation, father leaving me to sit outside while they consulted privately. So, there I was, watching the clouds scurrying across the sky like rats, decidedly not listening to father’s rage leaking out of the house and staining the air a sickly orange. Father believes that I will walk away from this alive, Doctor G— must have told him otherwise, nothing makes him so angry as being told he is wrong.

But let’s move on to happier thoughts. I was strong enough yesterday to sit at the bottom of the garden and watch the gulls flock overhead to nest in the great stone cliffs that crash down to the sea. I couldn’t help but laugh at their cries, those wild things. Their elegance and grace brought back bittersweet memories of a time when you and I danced together at your manor in the countryside, in the ballroom and then in secret, under the light of the moon. You always have possessed a certain recklessness that I cannot help but let sweep me away. Like that day you convinced me to go climb the trees in the orchard, which ended in you neatly spraining your ankle after jumping from one tree to another. A fond memory now, if it wasn’t one then. One of the many reasons why I love you.

J— said he would take me there in the carriage tomorrow to see the gulls up close. An offer borne perhaps out of the need to wipe the exhaustion from the corners of my eyes. It is an effort doomed to failure; I can already tell. Every day I grow weaker. The trip from the village to the coast seeming to drain the last of what little energy I have left. I should not have been parted from you and I wish that you were here Eliza. The sun does not shine so brightly and the fresh breeze not so relieving on my feverish skin without you here by my side. But you remain in town and may as well be half a world away.

Forever yours,

Sophia.

*

Beloved Eliza,

Your last letter has filled me with a fear I can scarcely describe. To talk of taking your own life! My love, how could I continue to exist in a world without you in it? You must not allow yourself to lose hope! This illness shall pass, and I will escape from my father and reunite with you in that cottage by the woods where we first met, however long the carriage ride may take me.

Please write as soon as you can. Please wait for me.

Your love,

Sophia.

*

My dearest Eliza,

Thank you for your swift reply. I have worried myself sick. Scarcely a day has gone by when I didn’t pray to God. But my love, don’t you know that I would give anything to see you again? You must not allow yourself to fall into despair; we are destined for greater things than this, and you know not all evils are unending.

What are you now reading? I take comfort in the fact that your books will be there to keep you company even when I am not. I can only imagine how your sisters would take your loss, young L— would be inconsolable. No, it doesn’t even bear thinking about!

These thoughts lead me to the fact that I have not seen you for an age. Every day drags on as if the clock has forgotten to keep ticking, yet I cannot tear my gaze away. My illness has me confined to the house and edges of the garden. The long walks you and I shared during those sweet summer days now seem like a far-off memory that belong to someone else. Yet I can still feel the dry grass brushing against my ankles, see you falling asleep with Jane Austen’s newest novel open on your chest.

Yet spring has taken hold of the valley in a turn of events which seems to surprise no one but me. These long winter months have dragged themselves by, but the flowers peering through the grass have convinced the sun to hang herself back in the ceiling of the sky. The cliffs have become my favourite place to be; the wind talking my hair loose of its pins for it blow adoring around my face. It makes me want to write novels – only for you to read of course – and it seems to be the only place my breath doesn’t stutter in my lungs.

Of course, J— does not approve. You know his proper views of the world, how could he? He thinks I look like a wild thing, but he would never begrudge me anything, and I am ashamed to say that it is too easy to take advantage of such a thing. Please don’t be displeased with me Eliza. Without you by my side, I must take advantage of any small pleasures that stumble across my path. The graceful curve of the gulls wings, their raw cries that echo across the surface of the sea – they remind me of the poetry you constantly fall in love with, another way for me to be closer to you.

The cuckoo chick has found a home in a discarded hat box that I spent the morning lining with old clothes that have grown too big for my thin arms. She has taken to peeping softly at the rising sun, in want perhaps, of the family blown away in the storm. Certainly, we have seen no other circling birds wandering the empty sky in search for their lost chick. As dismal as her lodgings are, I cannot help but notice that her feathers have grown in glossy and strong. Her voice high and sweet, even as my own hair becomes thin and grey, my voice withering with the waning moon.

The sun is rising from behind the clouds and I’ll have to leave you for now, Eliza. I am not yet spoilt for good weather and must make the most of it while I can.

Yours,

Sophia.

*

Dearest Eliza,

I’m sorry my letters are becoming shorter. I haven’t the strength to write them. Your latest letter came like a warm breeze to spirit away storm blown clouds. It lifted the haze which has become my constant companion these long months, even if only for a moment. Your story about the little dog moved me almost to tears. I cannot remember the last time I laughed that hard. I’m sorry my own letters take so long to get through, I have now been forced into secrecy as J— refuses to aid me any longer. I have to lie in wait like a prey animal waiting for my father to turn the other way so I may steal down to the post office. My only company now is the cuckoo chick who has now flourished into a beautiful specimen, the like of which I have never seen.

My father took me out hunting with he and my brother in an effort, I overheard them discussing in the parlour, to get me some ‘fresh air’. It reminds me almost of our first days together as children: the sun kissed ground, the bare trees and quiet birdsong. There was no big game for them to catch and so they resorted to shooting the gulls flying overhead. And there I was, forced to watch as they fell to the ground one by one, like feathered tears. I was still seeing them hours later, even as the cuckoo fluttered around my head singing her sweet song.

I stained my handkerchief red yesterday, and the family doctor Mr G— has started to watch me with eyes as sad and distant as the moon. Even though I was sent here to the sea for my health, I’d have rather stayed and wasted away by your side my love. If I look at my hands under the weak light of the moon, I can see the delicate bones of my fingers poking through my skin. I think I am ready now to say goodbye to you Eliza, one final time.

Yours,

Sophia.

*

My sweet Sophia,

Your last letter made me fear as I have never feared before. The thought of you dying before I could hold you in my arms one last time is unthinkable. And so, I have left town in a flurry of hurriedly packed trunks and am making my way to you as I write this. I only pray I am not too late.

When I arrive in your village have your bags packed and ready to go, for we shall leave in the same carriage in which I arrive. There is a house waiting for us in the warmer part of the country, with a sturdy roof and yellow walls, surrounded by flowers on all sides, populated with swallows and nightingales to keep your cuckoo chick company.

I know your father will surely be upset, but how can we care when we have such limited time to spend together before the end? If God can forgive us this – and she will, of this I am sure – then your father must understand.

Please wait for me my love.

Yours, now and forevermore,

Eliza.

It was not often that the ocean approached them with a quest. She was not one for intervention, more inclined to allow the ebb and flow to take its own course. Yet, as she appeared before them now, they could only see distress within her waves. This was a side of her that they had not seen before. If something was so much of a threat that she was coming directly to the sisters, they had no doubt it would be a difficult task.

At first, they were hesitant. Her request varied drastically from their usual exploits of luring sailors into dark waters, but the ocean was certain that the outcome would far outweigh the risk. They could not deny her. She had given them life and, more importantly, purpose.

The ocean explained that all they needed to do was split their tails into legs. In doing so they could walk on land as if they had always belonged there.

‘Split our tails?’ one of them had asked. They all seemed anxious at this prospect. It was not something that had been done before. Sirens had never sought to live in the world above. They only needed water.

Even if it seemed simple, the ocean conceded that it would be painful. This did not help reassure the sisters, but all they needed was one of them to step forward. Bound by duty, they would follow each other.

Blue tinged red, water blubbed to contain the sound as each of the sisters were transformed. It was a slow process, having to relearn everything that they knew. Kicking with two legs was different – it required a lot more precision. With their tails they only needed one continuous, smooth motion. That could not be achieved with legs.

Once they could swim, they needed to learn how to walk. The rocky outcrops off the coast of the nearby beach served them well, but the sharp edges dug into their exposed flesh as they stumbled, leaning against each other to try and stay upright. As their determination stayed true, they became accustomed to using seaweed to wrap around open wounds.

Then there were their voices. If the sisters were to speak their power would still hold, luring any human to do their bidding. This could be a great distraction on land, drawing unneeded attention to them. Instead, they learned to speak to each other in silent gestures. Their hands moved to convey the meanings of words, creating a new language only they could understand. This way they could still plan between themselves, even amongst the humans.

The ocean didn’t allow them ashore until they possessed the fluidity of the women they had witnessed on land. After wrapping themselves up in the tattered sails on an old shipwreck – a mark of their recent work – the sisters made note of a path leading away from the beach. They were told this was where the humans disappeared at the end of the day. It was where they must follow.

*

At first there was nothing. No sign of humans, only silence. Beneath their feet the yellow sand had shifted to coarse dirt, rocks piercing between their toes with almost every step. For a moment, the sirens considered that maybe there was a different path. Surely the ocean would have corrected them before they left the beach. Instead, they were surrounded by green grass. While it was something they had never seen before, it wasn’t too different from the long seaweed that marked the ocean floor.

Soon enough there were fields. Expanses of plotted land stretched out before them, behind fences made of the same wood as the ships they so often encountered. Crops stood tall in countless rows, swaying silently in the breeze that might have trailed all the way from the water’s edge. The sisters kept to the path, remaining in step with each other as they moved forward. At least, until their eyes were drawn to a new creature.

What? one of them asked, her hand gesturing towards it. The creature’s skin was comprised of patches of black and white, its head resting down near the edge of the fence as it lazily ate the grass. Her sisters offered her a shrug in response, and she took a step forward. Not wanting to startle the creature, she approached slowly.

‘Moo,’ the creature said.

She startled, jumping back and narrowly avoiding a fall. This was not a member of their ocean family that she was familiar with. She had yet to consider that the land might have been home to its own creatures too.

Moving closer again, she steadied herself against the fence. The creature was just close enough to her that if she were to reach out, she could place her hand on its head.

‘Mooo!’

This time she didn’t startle. The others looked to each other, trying to assess the situation.

Danger?

No?

Friend?

… Yes?

Eventually one of them tugged her sister away, and they continued down the path.

*

When they came across the first two humans, the sisters were unsure what to do. They locked eyes, but the humans gave them a strange look. None of them knew what would cause this reaction. Did they not appear just as the humans did? With legs and cloth wrapped around their bodies?

Shortly after this, they came across a small structure held up by dead wood. In front was an old woman. She was sitting down, wrestling with two sticks and a small piece of cloth. As the sisters moved passed her, she looked up at them. They each offered her a smile.

The old woman blinked at them, concern clouding her gaze. She placed down the sticks and cloth and stood, moving around her fence and towards them. ‘What happened to you, dears?’ she asked. Her voice was slow and rough, different to the human voices of the sailors they were used to.

As a way of explanation, the sisters gestured back to where they had come from, even if the beach couldn’t be seen this far inland.

‘A shipwreck?’

They looked to each other, deciding this must be their answer, and nodded.

She sighed and gestured at their cloth. ‘Well, you can’t go into town like that.’

The woman quickly ushered them into the structure. Inside there was more wood crafted into shapes. As they entered a small, fluffy creature came up to them and brushed against their legs. One of the sisters leaned down and placed a hand near its pointed ears. The creature purred in response. This structure must have been a home, like theirs except not underwater. Maybe the creature lived here too.

They were offered more cloth, and between the five of them they managed to get it onto their bodies. It didn’t drape the way their old cloth did, instead it was tight against their forms. It was heavy, with more than one layer and stopped a few inches from the ground. Walking away again, the sisters realised why the humans wore feet coverings. The rocks were no longer cutting into them.

It seemed they had found where the humans were. All gathered together where the path the sisters had been following started to fan out. They drew themselves off to the side, concerned that they would be separated if they tried to move amongst the humans. It was the sound that brought them to a complete stop.  It reminded them of waves crashing against the rocks, continuous and unrelenting, until the rocks themselves were taken under. Drowning while on land was not something that the sisters had thought possible; but that is what it felt like to be standing on the edge of the cobblestone space.

As a distraction, they tried instead to focus on what was around them. They hoped that it would ground them, and maybe they could think of why the humans would all be in one place. Around them were more structures, more homes, but these were smaller than the one the old woman lived in. More compact, all lined up in rows with little space running between them. In front of them, humans bustled about. Some of them were behind a smaller structure topped with striped cloth. These seemed to be the humans making the most noise, dozens of them throughout the space yelling to gain the attention of others. Occasionally, a human would approach and exchange something for one of the items with the structure. Maybe this was a human ritual.

While gazing around, the sisters noticed one human who was leading a smaller human, a child, with one hand. This seemed to be a strategy to avoid losing each other. Linking hands, the sisters chose to mimic this so they could begin to move amongst the humans. All they needed to do now was brave the noise, even if it was starting to numb their senses, creating a frequent buzzing in their heads.

If only the noise didn’t get louder. The closer they were to the humans, the worse it was. Weaving amongst them, the sisters ignored as they were yelled at, only managing to hear some of the words.

‘Dates! Imported dates!’

‘The freshest this side of the mountains!’

They were drawn to a holt when they heard a call, a different sound that stood out amongst all the human voices. Soft and high pitched, a song with a melody not too different from their own. Following the sound, the sisters approached one of the vendors under the striped cloth. The man behind it watched with careful eyes, but stayed silent. The song was coming from three small creatures with wings like their own kind used to have centuries ago. Trapped behind thick bars, their light voices called to them.

‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ the man said with a flash of yellow teeth.

The sisters simply nodded, their eyes unable to look away from the creatures. One of the sisters reached a hand towards them, and they feel silent, looking back at her as if this were a conversation.

‘Don’t touch them.’

She didn’t listen, resting her hand against one of the bars. As she did so, the creatures started flying erratically, as if to escape their confines and join the sisters. One of the others quickly pulled her away.

Dark, one of the sisters noted.

Distraught from their discovery and disoriented from the noise, they made their way down one of the thin paths between the homes. Down this way there were more structures, but less movement. It was quiet and most of the sunlight was blocked out by the roofs.

Cold, another added.

Away from the sunlight, they were too far from the ocean to ask her where she was leading them. This path was not wide enough for the five of them to walk next to each other, so they stuck close together as they continued. Down here, there were fewer humans and the ones they did see were different. The humans down here were completely silent, bulging eyes trained on the sisters as they moved passed. Sometimes one of the would reach out to the sisters, but they were not sure what this meant. They were not calling to them, not using their voices; the humans seemed to be doing this of their own accord. Not knowing what to do, the sisters tried to avoid them, walking as far away as the path would allow. All they could tell was that these humans seemed tired, and sad. Maybe it was the darkness that caused it.

Soon, the path was empty of humans. The structures themselves were boarded up in a way that the sisters would see sailors patch up the holes in ships, planks of wood covering portholes. It was then that the sisters began to worry that they might be lost. Their steps became quicker as they tried to find another path that led back to the light again. That was until one of them stopped.

Dropping to her knees against the cold floor, she reached out a hand towards the glimpse of another creature. As it came out to meet her, the sisters noticed that it looked just like the people that lived in the dark. It was shaggy, unkempt and its skin was straining against its bones. The sight of it broke their hearts.

She petted the creature, and it nestled against her, grateful for the affection. After a moment, the creature darted off down the path. It stopped before reaching the end and looked back at them. It wanted to be followed.

*

Instead of the noise, this time they were hit with the stench. The creature had led them exactly where the ocean wanted them to go, and with another pat on the head it disappeared. Ships were lined up against the water’s edge, stationary except for the occasional movement of the waves. Out of the ships, men were carting large crates that smelled distinctly of the sisters’ home. It shocked their systems, pain hitting them as they felt the thrashing within.

This was why they were sent here.

This was something they knew how to do.

During the day there was far too much activity, so the sisters waited the few hours until nightfall. It gave them time to plan and to observe the men as they worked. There seemed to be a procedure in place. As the ships pulled in, they were met by the men on land. The captain would instruct his crew to help unload their cargo. Men would drag out the crates of fish taken from their homes and cart their carcasses into a large wooden structure for storage.

Waiting gave them time to watch for their target. It would have been far too easy to hit them all if they wanted to. It was something they had done before – taking down a whole fleet in one night. One of the ships had arrived late in the afternoon, the light of the setting sun filtering through its sails. It was the only ship that hadn’t been unloaded yet. The sisters would start there.

Each ship had a guard to protect it during the night. Most were younger men, tired and wary after being at sea for so long. These were the type of men they were used to dealing with. It took no more than a few words to him and they could pass onto the ship. On deck, it was empty of people, but the smell still lingered. The sisters shuddered as they made their way to the bow of the ship. Leaning against the bannister, they looked out at the ocean. They asked her permission for what they needed to do.

As the ocean spoke, holding more authority than the universe itself, the sisters felt the words settle in the core of their very beings.

‘They steal from us. They lure and they murder. It is only kind to do the same.’

The sisters glanced at each other and after just one moment, they smiled.

My lap human had gotten fat, it wasn’t the soft squishy type of fat that was comfortable to sleep on. This type of fat was the ballooning of the tummy which looked ready to pop if I tapped her with my claw. Once I had gotten around the stomach, I found there was still some space to sit on. Lap human ran her fingers through my fluffy fur.

‘Left a bit, ah.’ I push harder into the fingers that scratched the back of my ear.

My body vibrated with purrs of bliss, Lap human always found the best spots to pat. I purred louder as my other ear was scratched. As she got underneath my chin, a little drool slipped out and onto her hand.

‘Can you get me a tissue?’ Lap human asked Food human who had just entered the front room.

I rubbed my scent onto her giant gut. My purrs continued even when she had stopped stroking me. Relaxed as a puddle of fur, I settled down my head for a nice nap.

Then I got kicked by her bursting belly. I yelped and stood up. Lap human kicked me! We were fine a moment ago, patting, stroking, purring and napping. There must be a thing inside her that made her kick me, like a hairball. My fur puffed up when her tummy moved. It’s going to kick me again, I thought. My ears flattened back. Claws were out.

I scratched her ginormous gut then hissed as I leapt off her lap. ‘Cough up the furball, fatty!’

‘Ouch!’ Lap human clutched at her bulging tummy. ‘Ah, help me!’

Food human sprinted to Lap human, he almost trod on me! I growled and hurried away from them. My tail swished in agitation. Food human was now sprinting towards the doorway I stood in. Look down before you move, I nearly growled but changed my mind. I hissed and retreated, making my escape through an open window into the backyard, just in time to hear the vroom vroom leave. Lap human kicked me first.

My humans have been gone for days, well just Lap human. Food human is gone every morning.

‘You forgot to feed me again!’ The door shut behind Food human.

Where do they go? This is the third day food human hasn’t fed me. My bowls have been licked clean, where’s my wet food? Food human has left dry tasteless bits from the inside of a bag with a horrifying image of a tabby smiling. No healthy cat can smile that way and eating that stuff will force that sickness onto me. I will not lick it.

I’ve been yowling down the hallway and scratching at the front door. My humans come when they hear me call. I trained them better than the yodelling dog, Teddy, next door could. They feed me, brush me, pat me and play when I command them to. If they continue to misbehave, I’ll have to find a small animal to entertain me inside the house. That will make them jealous, being replaced.

‘Where are they then?’ Teddy asked.

I glared down at him from my perch on the fence. I was going to steal some of Teddy’s food, a slightly better alternative. While I decided what to say, I feigned interest in cleaning my paw. Dogs were all stupid with their muzzles poked into everything.

‘They’ve gone to work.’ No, it’s not a workday for them. ‘On an errand.’

‘Why didn’t you go with them?’

‘I’m not going out of my territory with these strays ready to claim what’s mine!’ I growled.

Teddy sniffed at my tone. ‘You cats are all so stuck up, can’t even go for a walk.’

My ears flattened back, and my throat vibrated with the rumbles of a warning. Teddy growled back in answer. My fur spiked up as our growls rose in volume. This standoff would stop the moment one of us moved. I had planned out two options for myself. If Teddy moved first then I would beat the hell out of his face, if I did, then I’d aim for his eyes. I ignored the vroom vroom’s roaring return. My claws were ready.

‘Luna!’ A man shouted.

Food human, I recognised the voice. I jumped off the wooden fence into my yard and raced towards Food human. He called for me, will he give me wet food? Teddy had gone into a barking frenzy, unable to reach me with a fence between us.

‘Get back here Luna!’ He chased me on the other side of the fence.

Food human jumped when Teddy got his front half up on the fence. I slowed down to a confident stride. My mouth filled with saliva knowing that I’ll have a bowl full of bird in gravy. I won’t ignore Food human if he gets my food ready for me, I decided. Lap human is still going to be ignored for getting fat and not being here, where she can be my seat.

‘I’ll chew your tail in half!’

Teddy’s threat was typical of a dog. My tail raised up in the air with my butt facing Teddy, stupid dog. I paused briefly to look up at Food human. Dark smudges under the eyes, I’ll lick them clean later. While he sleeps.

‘I’m hungry.’ I informed him then rubbed my right side against his leg, before going through the cat flap into my house.

Food human didn’t follow me inside, he needs to be reminded who’s queen. Lap human’s scent has been fading out of the house. I want her back, wait somethings changed. Boxes and bags all over the front room. I sniffed and smelt something new mixed with Lap human’s fresh scent. She’s back, but what’s this other smell? It was a little bit like the chemical smell from where the Scary humans live, jabbing needles and poking at my wounds.

They didn’t come here, I sniffed and glanced around. Not in the boxes or bags. The scent was stronger down the hallway towards the bedroom. Muscles tensed as I slowed to prowl closer for a peek. In the bedroom Lap human cooed over something she had on the bed. I sat and stared at her in contemplation. No Scary humans, the thing inside her was gone. How had Lap human lost all that weight over a few days? She was still on the tubby side, but it wasn’t like she was going to explode with a bang. My ears twitched when the front door opened and closed.

‘How is he?’ Food human walked into the room without looking down, I sprinted away from his feet.

‘He’s still asleep, did you get the cradle?’

Cautiously I stalked forwards, but she didn’t notice me. I felt irritation along with the urge to claw her. That thing on the bed had taken all their attention. Look at me. I haven’t seen you for days and your eyes are all soft gooey like when you gazed upon my litter. My stomach clenched. I need to eat something far away from them.

I left the bedroom and wandered down the hallway into the kitchen. The bowls next to the bin had those dry tasteless bits, I sniffed but could only smell that inedible stuff. My stomach grumbled at me. I swished my tail and looked back to the entrance of the kitchen. Neither human seemed to notice me waiting for food. They’ll come, I trained them.

‘Feed me.’ I meowed, then waited.

Food human didn’t come into the kitchen. Maybe I’m not loud enough, it takes several commands at sunrise to get Food human to the kitchen.

‘Food!’ I yowled loudly.

No Food human. Why isn’t he feeding me? I huffed and anxiously padded back to the bedroom doorway. Both Lap and Food human were focused completely on that thing on the bed. I swished my tail banging it against the door frame with my ears flicked slightly back. They should be focused on me.

‘Feed me, I’m dying from hunger!’ I made my yowl loud and miserable like the stress hunger I felt. ‘You left me alone!’

‘Shh, Luna calm down.’ Lap human didn’t glance away from the bed.

‘Look at me!’ I wailed back.

Food human smiled at Lap human and walked over to pat me on the head. I smacked his hand with my left paw. The claws were out and cut into his skin. Why won’t Lap human pay attention to me?

‘Don’t pat me I want Lap human!’ I hissed.

‘Ow, Luna.’ Food human backed away from me.

Lap human had come over to look at his bleeding hand. I glared while they fussed with his hand. Should have listened to me and given me food, shouldn’t have left my house for days.

‘We need a band aid.’

Lap and Food human left the bedroom.

‘Don’t ignore me!’

Neither human returned. I jumped when a gurgle sound was heard from the bed. They were focused on the bed, was the thing a Scary human? I waited then ducked down to the floor and prowled closer. Gurgle.

I jumped back then ducked down low. Waited for a while, nothing. No sound. Was it a ghost? I sniffed the air. The smell was the same. Lap and Food human mixed with that new strange smell. Not chemically but different. I prowled closer then lifted my top half to get a look. Can’t see, the bed’s too high. My front paws clawed into the quilt and I pulled myself up higher.

Something pink squirmed. My ears twitched forwards to hear it better, I sniffed at the thing. That was where the scent had come from. I leapt and scrambled onto the bed. The thing was wrapped in a blue blanket and had one arm free.

What should I call this thing and how do I get rid of it? The top half looks slightly human but the rest of it is like a cocoon. I prodded at one side of the blanket with a paw. Got a few claws out and caught a couple of threads then yanked. The blanket came off a little more. No wings. Not a moth or a fly. My humans shouldn’t be bringing in strange things, a bird or a lizard is better than whatever this is. I lifted my right paw up above its tummy. My body tensed up uncertain how this thing would react. I smacked my paw down.

‘Wahhh!’ The thing cried.

‘My ears!’ My ears were flattened hard against my skull.

Fur puffed up like I was shocked by static. I leapt from the bed and ran straight for the door. Food human sprinted in and we almost collided. My claws gripped the carpet for traction to help change direction and get around the leg in front of me. Down the hallway wasn’t far enough away. That thing was too loud, my ears were bleeding, I was sure they were. The cat flap left a bruise from the solid bang on my head as I retreated outside. Its wails were muffled but still not enough. I hurried over to the next-door neighbours’ yard. Could still hear it yet was easier to ignore.

‘Luna get off my grass!’ I turned to spot Teddy charging at me.

‘Wait stupid dog!’ I turned tail and raced back towards the crying.

My ears flattened harder against my skull, I didn’t want to go back to that screaming thing. I skidded in a sharp turn; my back half swung wide. Teddy couldn’t turn fast enough, and his face splattered onto the fence. There wasn’t enough time to snicker at his lack of grace, Teddy had recovered. He snapped at my tail.

I raced to the fence for the next house over. Jumped and scratched my way up the wood to the part I could stand on, so long as I keep an eye on my balance.

‘Wait, it’s all that thing’s fault.’ I huffed.

Teddy glared at me. ‘This is my yard just like that’s your yard, stay out.’

‘They brought home a thing and it’s too loud and they won’t look at me.’ I complained.

Teddy sighed and shook his body. I looked over at my home. Invaded by a thing. It has to be thrown out; my humans were so focused on it that they ignored me. If I can’t throw it out, then replace it with a lizard. They’ll be busy playing with the lizard while I feed the thing to Teddy.

I could hear the screams again. Food human opened the front door to go and search inside the vroom vroom for something. Teddy stared with perked up ears. I watched his tail wag at an accelerated speed. He seemed excited about something.

‘When did you get a puppy?’

‘What puppy?’ I was confused, wait. ‘No, that thing is a puppy?’

Teddy turned around to stare at me. No wonder I found Teddy annoying. My humans brought home a puppy. I don’t share, dogs cannot stay in my house.

‘Yeah, humans have puppies too.’

When it was dark, I returned to my home. A replacement for the puppy was in my mouth. Couldn’t find a lizard so I killed a noisy miner. Easier to carry a dead bird than a live one. I pushed open the bedroom door, they never closed it before. Lap and Food human were asleep in bed. A little cage on a stand had been added to the bedroom.

In it was the puppy as Teddy called it. Closer inspection didn’t reveal a tail or lots of fur like a puppy should have. I thought it strange while I got into the cage. These bars were so wide apart I could go through them. This thing would have no problem escaping.

Its eyes were closed. Asleep then. The young of a human, I padded around it. What does it do? Can’t feed me and has no lap. I glanced at the pink feet. Too feeble and weak to go for walks.

With its eyes closed it reminded me of a kitten. Born blind and dependant on its queen. I still miss my litter. Four tiny kittens, taken away by other humans. I had them for three months, I didn’t want them to go. If my human’s puppy is like my litter, they’ll send it away just as soon. I don’t want to wait a few months. I stared at the thing. Too big and heavy to carry, though very weak. Like a kitten but a human kitten. A Kitten human, I named it.

This Kitten human can stay, but it will leave. I placed the dead miner on top of Kitten humans’ belly. Meat will make it grow faster; it won’t stay here for long.

Kitten human was quiet, I turned on my purr motor. Silent and asleep is perfect for the few days it will be here. My body curled around the Kitten human’s head. I purred into his left ear, while our warmth was shared.

November 29^th 1963

WARNING TO ALL PARENTS, PLEASE KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR DAUGHTERS! KEEP THEM AWAY FROM ALL BEATLES MUSIC. NATIONAL PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

If your child displays the following symptoms, please contact the police

• Mood swings
• Shrieking/squealing
• Abdominal pain
• Blood lust
• Tiredness
• Growing of limbs
• Isolation/lack of communication
• Mutation

The Australian government is here to ensure your safety. Prime Minister Menzies will address the public shortly.

She was just seventeen. Like any other girl her age. You’d think a girl caught up in politics and movements would be last person to listen to the Beatles. Lynne O’Farrell, school captain for Bonnyrigg High. Tall, ginger, bursting with potential, that’s what her teachers said. A proper smart girl. Those darned Beatles, Joan would think. Beatle fever: an epidemic spreading across Australia. Their world recovering from Vietnam. To avoid public hysteria, Menzies had to quieten down the rumours.

I’ve lost her now for sure, I won’t see her no more.

I can’t conceive of any more misery

It all started Christmas morning 1963. The family gathered in the small loungeroom, Lynne sitting cross-legged on the brown carpet, still stained by last year’s wine fiasco. Kenneth was fooling no one but himself if he thought that he pulled off the Elvis haircut. Lumped into the lounge, he meticulously combed his hair. Henry sat proudly in his brown worn leather armchair. I got the kids something good this year. I just know it, he thought to himself. Joan ran around frantically for the camera. Although Lynne had just turned seventeen, being the youngest meant she opened her presents first. As she unwrapped the green metallic paper, Joan bent down getting ready to capture the moment. Imagine poor Joan’s horror to see four bowl haircuts. Henry grinned.

‘All the kids are listening to them these days. Wouldn’t want my sweet pea to miss out!’

Oh lord. Henry you idiot, Joan thought.

My Lynne wasn’t going to listen to that garbage. Don’t want it turning her brain to mush. Those boys were a distraction, making girls go gaga. They sang of love and dancing, adult things. Joan grinned painfully as she took a picture of Lynne, who was proudly holding up the album. Kenneth moaned loudly,

‘C’mon mum, can I get going now?’

Joan scolded him; it was family time. Whatever he wanted to do wasn’t important. He was quite desperate to meet Cassie his new girlfriend, who scored grass from a mate in Liverpool. Getting up, he kicked his boots into the carpet and left.

Lynne played that record every afternoon. At teatime, Joan would rush to the record player and turn it off. She found them tolerable at first. They were well-dressed boys, but their shaggy hair was most unflattering. Their songs tunnelled into her ear drums, a painful ache. Joan’s efforts to kill this boy band obsession was quite trying. She occasionally nagged Lynne every afternoon.

‘Lynne my darling, you won’t be listening to that stuff when you’re my age.’

At least she wasn’t hypnotised by Elvis’ swinging hips. She never had this issue with Kenneth. There was the obsession with John Wayne but what boy didn’t have a cowboy phase? Despite her efforts, Lynne became submerged into new waters and girls all over the world were jumping in. It grew by collecting Woman’s Weekly, reading articles about John’s new girlfriend.

*

February 20^th 1964

Lynne went to Gemma Smith’s place. They were laying on Gemma’s bed taking a quiz on which member was most likely to be your boyfriend. The new album playing in the room. I Saw Her Standing There played for the second time and Lynne bobbed her head along. Gemma got up to use the loo and left Lynne alone. She wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it, right? Lynne thought to herself.

BANG BANG

Joan opened the door. There Lynne stood looking down at her feet like a guilty child. Mrs Smith stood next to her fuming. Caught stealing—my daughter! Punishment was necessary. Henry didn’t help, instead he bought her the album encouraging her bad behaviour.

As well as religiously listening to the record, Lynne would plop herself in front of the TV and watch the Ed Sullivan show. Joan was quite cross as this meant she couldn’t watch the news. Lynne wasn’t sitting at the table anymore. Spent no time eating that one, she had to watch her boys. The way Paul looked, almost as if he was right there. Close enough to touch. The girls on screen went into some kind of state, almost like collective hypnotism. The unholy sounds that would come out of that box, Joan thought. Them screamers, it became infectious. Parents around the world saw it, the crazed look in their daughter’s eyes. Lynne’s love for the Beatles grew furiously, coinciding with her accident.

*

March 12^th 1964

Kenneth brought home a beat-up FJ Holden for his first car. The old tin box hadn’t been driven in years. Red interior covered in dust and cobwebs. Sun rays beamed down on his naked torso as he worked on the car. Lynne ran up to it and jumped in. She twiddled around in the seat and noticed a redback scuttling across the dashboard. It crawled onto her thigh and dug its fangs into her white leg. That evening she vomited and sweated through her sheets. Sticky residue leaked from her pores. Henry put the record player in her room as it soothed her. No one could enter her room. The record played for forty-eight hours straight. In her sleep, the sweet voices of Paul and Ringo soothed her pain. They were there for her and now were hers forever. Joan waited to enter the room. At 1am Joan entered and turned on the lamp. There were slits slashed deep into Lynne’s back, covered in thick yellow pus. With her finger, she cleared it slowly from the openings and noticed small tiny hairs on the inside. She wanted to scream, but could not awake Lynne. Slowly backing away towards the door, Joan was careful as to not trip over sticky webbing.

The Sun published stories of local girls being admitted to hospital for severe abdominal pain and high blood pressure. Scientists were saying the Beatles caused this epidemic, “the music exaggerates violent tempers, triggering dormant genes in their brains.” Psychologists were saying it was just irregular levels of estrogen, caused by the weather. It didn’t help that the Beatles just released tickets for their first Australian tour. Only Australian fans were becoming a threat, seen as silly teenagers’ excitement. Girls across Australia were turning into ‘Spider Girls’. Joan knew she couldn’t wait until Lynne’s condition would become worse. The thought of her sweet child turning into some sort of animal frightened her. She was never a religious lady. All she did was take the kids to Sunday school, only because her parents took her. Whatever she could do to make sure they were raised right.

The day after her hellish discovery, Joan woke up at 8am and cooked a full breakfast for her family. The eggs were perfectly cooked, the toast slightly under. She had always cooked—enough for the whole street, Henry would remark. As Joan set the last plate onto the table, she walked to Lynne’s door and knocked loudly for breakfast.

Lynne curled out of her blanket, slowly crawling out of her cacoon. As she sprawled out her spindly legs, she felt a slow pain spread across her muscles. Walking towards her cupboard, she passed the blinds wincing at the bright sun. “I must get ready,” she thought to herself. “Mum’s already pissed at me; I don’t want to make it worse”. Standing at her wardrobe, she looked at the peeled scented stickers. When she went to open her cupboard, she pulled on the doorknob and ripped the door clean off! Shocked by her sudden hulking strength, she haphazardly dropped it. Continuing about her day, she picked up a dress her Nan gave to her to grow into. It was brown and collared, a bit short now. It wasn’t the nicest dress, but she thought of Joan. See, a week or so ago, Gemma leant her a magazine about dressing like a Beatle. Joan confiscated it while Lynne was sleeping. Most of her pictures of the boys were taken. As she pulled the dress over her head, there was a loud CRACK in her back. Her back arched forward with a jolt. Joan knocked once again at the door, more quickly. Lynne slowly pulled it down and got ready to leave.

*

‘The bugs are here and have made girls queer’, read the newspaper laying on the coffee table. They sat side by side on the hard, plastic couch. The surgery smelt of chemicals and sullen notes of dirty diapers. Lynne was next to be called. She stared at the newspaper, angry. How dare they treat her boys like that. Joan sat; legs crossed with her hands in her lap.

Dr. Layton walked out of his office and gestured at them to enter. They walked into his office and shut the door behind them. His organised desk was placed against the wall, opposite the examination table and a green curtain. Joan had already informed Dr. Layton about Lynne, over the phone. Lynne stood behind the curtain and removed her clothes. She had to listen to her mum, she had no authority here. Dr Layton went behind and took out his wooden stick. He didn’t know what he was looking at. Not all girls who’d come in had progressed this quickly. He pushed his stick through the thick film of pus and hit something hard. He withdrew the stick disgusted, and in fear asked her to dress herself.  Joan waited in anticipation to hear the diagnosis.

‘Mrs O’Farrell, your daughter will be fine. Now as you have informed me, she was bitten. You see there has been an infection of sorts. I can only recommend you limit her listening to this band. The correlation is unsure, but I myself have had bite victims recover quickly.’

He hid the truth, that there were no studies conducted and there was no clue. Every doctor in Australia had to lie. A spider infection caused by music sounded bizarre, and some who were bitten were not affected. There were links to puberty or redback symptoms. Little did the Australians know that this was only the beginning.

*

June 17^th 1964

Lynne laid in her bed, leaving the door slightly opened as agreed by Joan. Lynne still locked herself away, keeping the blinds closed. Joan kept walking by her bedroom, looking inside to see the webs strung across the ceiling. All the mums at school were talking about it, how their daughters kept giggling to themselves and would argue all the time. The newspapers called the fans a cult. Joan did not want her poor Lynne to be associated with a cult.

There was a knock at the door. It was their next-door neighbour, Gemma with messy hair.

‘Hi Mrs O’Farrell, I’ve come to see Lynne… about school’.

As Joan let her in, she noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She also noticed how Gemma’s mouth was quite full, her top teeth poking out of her mouth. Gemma slinked into the bedroom and banged the door. Joan stood outside the room, listening in. Lynne was laying on her stomach, sewing ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah’ onto the collar of her brown dress.

‘Did you hear what happened?’, Gemma asked Lynne.

Lynne pushed up out of bed and dropped the dress,

‘What happened?’

‘Ringo’s been rushed to hospital. He’s not coming anymore!’

They both started screaming, facing their heads upwards, almost like a shriek of pain.

‘But he must come!’ Lynne replied.

They grew very angry, as tall legs sprouted out of their backs. Lynne picked up the record player and threw it against the wall. Gemma started pounding at the walls and cried loudly. Scuttling to her pile of new magazines, Lynne began shredding the pages with her fangs. Their screaming became quite loud, but unrecognisable to Joan’s ears. Its piercing frequency alarming dogs and notifying all the girls in the neighbourhood. Reports of physical violence popped up around the nation. Joan barged in; the two girls stopped in their tracks.

‘What on earth is going on here?’

Gemma hissed and ran past Joan, pushing Joan to the ground. Lynne just stared at her mother, seething in anger. Joan didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t call the police, otherwise they’d take her daughter away. If she told Henry, he’d call her a monster and lock her up in the house. Perhaps she should pretend nothing happened at all, just carry on. Looking into those red eyes, that wasn’t Lynne anymore. Lynne hissed at her mother.

‘No one can stop me; I must see them!’

Lynne dashed past her injured mother; hell bent on going to their concert.

Well, my heart went “boom”
When I crossed that room

I saw her standing there

*

June 19^th 1964

The Beatles beheaded! Chaos unfolds at Rushcutters’s Bay. (The Sun)

Last night The Beatles played their first Sydney show at Sydney stadium. There were 200 officers present to manage the 12,000 screaming fans. The ‘Tin Shed’ built as a boxing ring was used as the venue, to hold the large capacity. The venue was dimly lit, flashes from photographers providing little light. Thousands of girls under sixteen who occupied the most expensive seats seem to be in a state of delirium. As the band played their first song, the room roared in excitement. There was a turn however as a group of fans started shrieking and chanting.

‘Yeah, you got that somethin’
I think you’ll understand
When I feel that somethin’
I want to hold your hand’

Their chant being lyrics for The Beatles own song. This eerie sentiment from large spider girls. Then they crawled onto the stage and seized George Harrison. The other members dropped their instruments and officers sprung to the scene.  The howling crowd had grown 8 legs and sharp fangs; a father commented.

“They became angry. I don’t know what happened to them. I looked over to my daughter to see her transform. Then she jumped on stage and ripped Ringo’s head off, that’s some strength for a fourteen-year-old.” (Leonard Pax, father)

The fans then proceeded to fight over the boys, pulling their legs and arms. Officers pulled out their guns, firing into the dark. Their piercing screams grew louder as officers covered their ears. Some did manage to tackle the large creatures. Many did not survive. As such, The Beatles concerts are indefinitely cancelled due to this horrific event.

You hurt me then
You’re back again
No, no, no, not a second time

She stared outside of her small window that she had to kneel on a chair just to see out of. The window was placed unnaturally high, and nearly impossible for even her tall figure to see out of. Valerie watched the other kids from her street run after each other with large smiles plastering their sweet faces. Every day she would watch the same group of kids run past her window and wonder. She wasn’t sure what it was like to go outside other than for her trips to the hospital, let alone have friends. Though, she could only imagine it was better than being locked away.

‘Valerie, get down from there. You’ll hurt yourself,’ her mother cried out, her eyebrows furrowing so far down her forehead that her eyes were almost hidden by the folds in her skin. Valerie turned away from the face of her mother and laid her eyes back on the kids having fun.

‘Relax mum, it’s nearly impossible to hurt myself. Sheesh.’ Valerie looked back over at her mum, who rolled her eyes. You see, her mother was paranoid. To her, anything could open up its mouth and swallow her precious little daughter alive. Just because she was sick, and unlike the other kids around her, that was no excuse for Valerie to live in a cage of her own house.

Now, her mother wasn’t cruel. She just thought she was protecting the only real thing she had in her life. It hadn’t always been like this, in fact, they used to be what their neighbourhood would call the ‘perfect’ family. Then Valerie got sick when she was twelve and her father made a run for it, taking Valerie’s little sister alongside him, leaving just Valerie and her mother behind in this great big house.

‘I’m not leaving until you get down.’ She rolled her eyes and jumped off the chair.

‘Happy?’

‘Very.’

‘Now, do you mind leaving?’

Her mother nodded her head and swiftly left the room. She only wanted her to leave so that she could get straight back on the chair and look back out the window. She shouldn’t have to live like this, but in a way, she had accepted it and chose just to watch others enjoy their lives and be left wondering what it was like.

In a way, her mother was trapped in their house too. For four straight years she had not left Valerie’s side. She would take her to doctor appointments, stay overnight or for months at a time with her at the hospital and hold her hand as she fell asleep, fever like. There were other times, though, where Valerie would be at home doing well and she had clear memories of her mother locking her bedroom door for days on end, only entering to give Valerie her medication, check up on her, feed her, then leave again. Every time she would leave her bedroom, her mother would always come back with a red, splotched face, deep purple bags underneath her eyes and dry cracked skin.

*

When Valerie managed to look back out of the window, the kids had disappeared, and the street was quiet once more expect for the few birds that flew past the window, and the occasional adult who would walk past. Valerie smiled when she spotted their neighbour, Winifred, the old lady with her black, short haired Chihuahua, Rudi. The dog was probably almost as old as Winifred.

Once Winifred was out of her view, she gave up and jumped back off the chair. She thought she’d better be safe in case her mother came back through the door to yell at her again. She seemed to do that a lot, but she just knew what Valerie was like and that she’d more than likely make her way back up the chair. It was actually strange she hadn’t come back in here already, but she shrugged her shoulders and jumped onto her bed, making a sinking dint in her mattress in the shape of her body. Valerie snuggled her face into her pillow and hoped she didn’t hear the voice of her mother re-entering her bedroom.

With her face snuggled into her pillow, Valerie thought back to the days when it wasn’t just her and her mother. They would eat together at a table every night, where Valerie would watch her younger sister shovel food down her mouth with a cheeky grin as her mother and father would stare at her with rolling eyes. Her sister’s response would always be to continue shovelling her food down her mouth, so much so that it would occasionally dribble onto her chin. Then Valerie’s father would stand up and point a finger at her sternly.

‘Jessica Sinclair, you better be more of a lady when you eat otherwise you will not get your desert.’

Jessica would give her father puppy dog eyes before shovelling food back into her mouth. Valerie would be sitting beside her sister doing her best not to laugh and egg on her bad habits and stubbornness. That was before. This is the now. The slow strangle of overbearingness that had exploded long ago.

*

A sudden knock on their front door caused Valerie to raise her head from the pillow with a listening ear. She heard the creak of the door and slowly stood up, as not to cause the blood to rush to her head. She opened up her own door and wandered into the hallway, remaining hidden by the curve in the wall. All that could be seen was the back of Valerie’s mother and a mysterious figure that was dressed in dark denim jeans with shiny black shoes that came to a point at the toe.

‘Paul?’ her mother spoke. Valerie’s eyes widened, and she backed away in response. As she backed away, Valerie knocked her heel on the side of the wall creating a loud enough noise for her mother to turn around, revealing the straight face of Paul. Her father. His sandy blonde hair replicated the short locks that sat on top of Valerie’s head. His bright green eyes were always the first thing that a person would notice about her father. Valerie’s were much like her mother’s blue eyes, though they did have a slight mix of green throughout them and had always thought she looked more like her father.

‘Valerie?’

‘Dad?’

Valerie remembered the last time she saw her dad. Four years ago. They were at the doctor’s office, with Valerie sitting between her mother and father, waiting for the doctor to come back into the room. Valerie never thought she was there for anything serious, but then again why would a twelve-year-old jump to conclusions about something small that was happening? Valerie had gotten tests done, but she had assumed they were just being careful and checking everything. Not that they would find anything in those tests.

‘Acute lymphocytic leukemia.’

The moment the doctor’s told her those words, was the moment Valerie assumed her father decided he would up and leave. Well, she gathered so by his reaction when they left. Valerie remembered the quietness that surrounded the family upon exiting the building, she could still smell the stale air. Nobody spoke a word until the three of them got inside the house, ten-year-old Jessica at their Grandma’s.

Valerie wasn’t entirely sure on the exact words that were spoken, but she remembered the way her parents were whispering to each other as though there was some huge secret that couldn’t be said in front of her. Nothing much actually happened until they all went to bed that night. Valerie was lying awake, staring at the ceiling where paint had begun to crumble. Valerie remembered that her father had been meaning to re-paint the ceiling for weeks but had never quite managed to get to it.

She could picture the sounds of her father’s footsteps on the creaking floorboards as he shuffled through the hallway, a suitcase rolling behind him. That was the day he left, and neither Valerie or her mother had heard from him since, other than from their Grandma who had to tell them he’d taken Jessica with him, and now—here he was. At their doorstep.

‘Hi Beth, Valerie.’ Valerie looked at her mother who was wearing a frown and her eyebrows furrowed into each other causing the familiar folds of skin to appear.

‘I have to go,’ her mother squeaked. She turned around and ran past Valerie. Moments later Valerie and her father both heard the loud slam of a door.

‘What are you doing here? It’s been four years Dad.’

Her father shuffled his feet and moved closer into the house.

‘I know. I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t be around you while you were sick.’

Valerie stared at her father, a single tear running onto her pale cheek.

‘I’ve come to take you away. You deserve a better life than this Valerie.’

‘You have no right,’ Valerie whispered at her father, another tear slid out of her eyes, the previous one touching the edge of her lip. As much as Valerie had longed for the outside world, she couldn’t leave like this and she couldn’t leave her mother. They’d only had each other for the past four years. That was a long time to be alone. She stared between her father and the slightly ajar door. The warmth of air welcoming a slight calming sensation despite the tears now flowing from her eyes and into her mouth. She peeked a flock of birds that flew across the orange and yellow sky and disappear in an instant. Her father continued to stand there, every so often inching his way further into the house, the door creaking shut in a slam as he moved forward another inch. Valerie flinched and stood back, her blurry eyes on the timber floorboards where a bloodied stain sat.

‘I know it’s been a long time and I have a lot to make up for, but I’m ready for you and your mother to be back in my life. I don’t care what it takes. I’m not walking out of your life again.’

‘I can respect that, and I want to see my sister, but I can’t do this with you yet and I don’t think mum ever will. You know just as much as I that she’s not the person you left.’

Her father nodded his head and looked to the floor.

*

Valerie thought back to her mother before her father and sister left. There was one moment that stood out.

Valerie was ten and her mother had dragged both her and Jessica to the shops so that they could pick out new outfits for Valerie’s eleventh birthday party. At the time Valerie didn’t care much about what she wore, but her mother had adored buying them cute outfits, and she often enjoyed dressing them in matching outfits. Valerie kind of gathered her mother had wished she’d had twins. She was always obsessed with that type of stuff with the two of them.

While they were out shopping Valerie had walked past the pet shop and spotted a small grey cat that had fur sticking up in a frizz.

‘Mum, look at the frizzy cat,’ she had said. Her sister and mother turned around and looked at the cat. An “O” shape forming on her mouth.

‘It’s so cute,’ Jessica had said.

‘Do you want that cat Valerie?’ she had asked, and of course Valerie told her she did. So, her mother strode in and bought the cat for her birthday even though she had already gotten Valerie a present. Valerie hoped that one day her mother’s pain would disappear, and she could be that mother to her again, but Valerie wasn’t naïve. She knew she needed help.

Sometimes Valerie would see bits and pieces of her old mother, like how she held her hand and refused to leave her side while Valerie was really sick, but those moments were becoming rarer and that left Valerie feeling more alone and caged than ever.

‘I can understand that. I realise now what I’ve done to this family. I scared myself into believing that I would lose my daughter and I couldn’t live with that, so I ran and gripped onto the child who I knew I could have forever, and that’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.’

‘Thank you for admitting that.’

Behind her, Valerie heard footsteps that sounded like the clang of heels against their floorboards and turned around to see her mother wearing her old favourite pair of heeled boots that reached the knees. She hadn’t worn them since her father had left. Her mother’s face was blank in expression, her greying hair tied up in a messy bun. There was no sign of tears or redness. In fact, it looked like her mother had applied makeup to her face.

‘Hi Paul.’

‘Hi Beth.’ Valerie stared at the two of them and wiped away the loose tears from her face.

‘Did you want to stay for dinner?’ Valerie’s father stared at her with a raised eyebrow, his green eyes locking with her mothers. Her father was about to answer when the phone rang. At first, they ignored it but when it continued her mother let out a low sigh and rushed to pick it up. Her heels making the same clanging noise against their floorboards.

‘Oh, hi Doctor Roberts.’ Valerie snapped her head to stare at her mother and tried to read her expression. It was blank as she replied with a couple of yes’ before hanging up the phone. Valerie knew these expressions all too well though. Her father looked at them both, confused.

‘It’s back again,’ her mother spoke, but she already knew before the words had come out of her mouth. Valerie let out an almost in-audible sigh and fought back the tears that welled up in the back of her eyes. What was life worth living as a caged animal anyway? Just because her father had returned to be in her life didn’t mean it would change her mother.

‘But they assured us that I was in remission?’ Valerie questioned, confused by the outcome of her tests after having felt so good about her health for the last few months since they had told her she was in remission from Leukemia. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in remission, though. In her whole sixteen years of life, and over the past four years, Valerie had been told she’d had cancer once, and that the cancer had come back now three times so why did she expect anything different?

Valerie looked away from the watchful eyes of her parents and looked out of the large window at the side of their house. Across the street there was a house with their lights on, and inside Valerie could see a bird in a silver cage with its wings flapping about the place, sitting on the window sill. The tears that were stuck behind her eyelids made a reappearance and slowly dribbled down her face. She was this bird, and that bird was her.

Rex’s Tuesday morning went slow, but he enjoyed it, nonetheless. He woke up with the sun and went for a walk, always interested in all the new sights, sounds, and smells of the new day. He caught the train into the city instead of driving; he never invested in a car as he enjoyed being around people and saying good morning to anyone he sat next to. He’d stepped onto a quiet carriage once by accident, because he got distracted by a toy a mother was showing her cub and got some looks from the big cats when he tried to start conversation. The odd glare finally clued him in, but up until then he thought it was just because they were tired, considering they had heavy dark circles all around their eyes – perhaps the night shift.

Rex had been working as a paralegal for a few years now; he’d changed careers during a midlife crisis. Usually it’s a boat or a car, but Rex wanted to challenge those old dog stereotypes, and he learned some new tricks. Rex saw the world in shades of grey, and he figured that’s what big, scary law firms needed: the input of the everyday mutt, not just more of the pedigree; they already control the status quo. He was the only Great Dane in his finishing year. He sped through his retraining and quickly found a place at the best firm in the city. The law office culture was a shock though. He knew the stereotypes, but it really was like stepping into the jungle; the food chain hierarchy, the behaviour being truly animalistic.

After leaving the public service working as a tax agent, he wanted to help his community and stick up for the underdogs who always get trampled by the herd. Law was how he was going to do it. It had been tricky, but he found his place alongside the spry young scamps at the top of their game in the courtroom.

*

Every morning when Rex got to work, he walked slowly through the building saying hello to all his colleagues, regardless of how close they were. He believed everyone deserved to have a smile on their face in the morning. Even the big sharks on the top floors would get a wide toothy grin, jowls dragged upwards.

The lunchroom was hectic, where people from all over the firm would gather at the closest watering hole to refuel for the rest of the day. Everyone sprinted to get to the coffee machine as quickly as possible. The biggest, tallest, strongest, got in first and got the best pickings. The freshest fruit and crispest water out of the fridge, and everyone else got the leftovers. Those in Rex’s mature age group were the slowest to get there and were tied with the meek. Rex was scared they would get eaten alive by the sharp-tongued lawyers. They were always ready to run circles around anyone they saw any weakness in, slowly squeezing out any confidence. The new intern, Josie, had borne the brunt of this in the office for the last week. Rex had only seen her once in the lunchroom. He was passing by when he saw her trying to talk to people. Disappointed he couldn’t stop by to help, he hurried to his meeting.

Josie had made it to the lunchroom first that day, ready to smile and greet everyone that walked in. Her sweet plan didn’t quite work though, as most towered over her small stature and didn’t even notice she was there. She hopped up onto a chair to elevate her chances of getting noticed, but despite her cheery hello’s, no one heard her. She tried making eye contact as a different approach, but the simple fact of everyone else’s eye level being far above her was an insurmountable obstacle. Finally, in scuttled Harold from IT; conversation was easier but still a challenge. He was quiet and about the same size, so Josie was able to keep up with him. But whenever he turned to grab a tissue, Josie had to hop back to avoid being skewered by his spines.

*

It really was a rude shock when Josie went to get a snack on that first day. With a big family, she was used to busy kitchens at mealtimes, but it was a little trickier when you’re significantly smaller and more fragile than everyone else rushing around. Josie’s small frame and soft paws could get squished in any wrong move. It was quite the safety risk, so she just stood back and witnessed the melee. Heavy clip clops, huffs and snorts, grunts and munches filled her small ears as the swathes of employees fought for the freshest fruit and savoury treats. The loud chatter amongst friends and colleagues rose and fell as everyone grabbed their fix and made their way out to find somewhere to sit and graze.

When the coast was clear, she scampered in to get the last of the brewed coffee and sat down next to the only one left in the room: good old Rex. Josie’s soft brown fur had flopped over her eyes, so she kept flicking her head to try to restore her sight. In between fur, she caught glimpses of the warm smile Rex was offering her. She could finally let out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding in.

‘What type of practice are you interested in?’ he asked gently.

It took her a second to gather herself to answer.

‘Family law. It’s always been important to me. Got a big family. You know it’s true, we really do breed like rabbits my grandma used to say.’

‘Well that sounds lovely, and this place will give you a great start. And don’t let anyone here get you down, they’re all just big cuddly bears deep down, eh?’ He offered her his muffin. ‘I can’t have the choc chip, so it’s all yours.’ Rex assured.

*

It was late on the Friday of her first week when Josie sat it on a meeting run by Leon Major, the associate partner of the firm, and a real pig. Every second sentence ended with a crude joke which was followed by his own snorting laugh, gaining the approving giggles from the inner circle who all worked on the top floor. They were like hyenas the way they milled around together and picked up any scraps Major deigned to throw them: a clan of greedy dogs.

Diligently taking notes, Josie didn’t notice Major’s beady little eyes fall upon her.

‘Fresh meat,’ a grunt got Major’s attention.

‘Well, gents, who do we have here?’ His lips dragged up over his teeth into a snarl, encouraging the rest of the conference attendees to turn to Josie. She finally looked up and froze under all their gazes.

‘Josephine, or Josie, my mum always liked Josie, I’m new, hello,’ she managed to stutter out.

‘Aw your mummy likes it?’ a snide voice piped up, getting some snickers.

‘That’s not what your mum said last night!’ Another wave of taunting giggles washed over her, bringing her close to tears.

‘Wittle wabbit gonna cry?’ The quips kept coming, and in a futile effort to escape them, Josie slowly backed up into the corner of the room. She tried to negate the questions, but no sooner had she turned to one voice, another chimed in.

The sound of the glass door creaking open was masked by the many voices in the room, so Josie jumped when Rex’s grey head appeared in front of her. He barked at their vulturous behaviour, demanding they stop at once – they were scaring the poor girl!

‘Oh no, watch out! She’s got her guard dog! Wouldn’t want him to maul us or something, you know how aggressive this guy is!’ The howling continued, snorts, whinnies, and hisses, until a thunderous bark quietened them to whimpers. Josie stood there frozen, staring at Rex.

‘Well look who finally grew back a pair!’ Major pushed his way through the huddle and clapped a trotter on Rex’s shoulder. ‘We always like to see grit like that in these offices, keep that bark up and maybe you’ll get somewhere.’ He nodded his encouragement.

‘With all due respect, sir —’

‘And he lost it again!’ Major cracked to the conference room. Bored of their target, they all huddled again and returned to making each other laugh. Josie was left alone, still frozen in the corner.

‘You alright, dear?’ Rex approached slowly, as not to spook her. She slowly twitched her nose and scratched her ears as she came back to herself.

Rex guided her out of the conference room and started showing her down the corridor.

‘How have you been here so long? That was awful,’ a shake in her voice.

He made sure to slow down every so often so Josie’s little hops could keep up with his lanky strides.

‘They’re not that bad, you just have to get to know them. It’s all a front, I promise you. Once you figure out what they like, you can have a conversation with any of them,’

Stopping in front of a glass door, he nodded with his snout for Josie to look inside.

‘Take Bruce, he really is a great shark.’ They watched as he sat, swivelling in his chair, chatting on the phone. Absentmindedly he fiddled with a tiny basketball between his fins, and as he laughed at what was said into his ear, he threw the tiny ball into a tiny hoop stuck on the wall. Rex chuckled to himself at Josie’s shock as she stared at his giant smile showing rows of teeth.

‘Ask him about any sport and he’ll be happy to talk your ears off, he’s really good at golf too. If you ever see him around, just ask him about the game last night.’

‘Which game? I don’t really follow any sports, sorry.’

‘You won’t need to specify, there’s always something he’s watching, and he always loves venting about whatever the score was. Let’s keep going.’ They carried on down the corridor to stop in front of another office. It was dark with a bright lamp on the desk, illuminating an intricate miniature forest.

Rex’s voice lowered a little. ‘Remember Harold? He loves making models, any kind really. I’ve seen him do cars, armies, houses. At the moment it’s landscapes, I think this one’s the woodland his family is from in England.’

Josie hopped along with a renewed enthusiasm. ‘Who’s next?’

Rex took two steps to get beside her. ‘Geraldine.’ He smiled. ‘She’s really involved with charity work around the city, even volunteers at shelters on the weekends.’ The orange and black stripes made it look like Geraldine was pacing way too fast for the limited size of the square office, and Josie was worried she’d soon walk right into the wall.

‘Gerry’s tough, don’t get me wrong, but once she knows you work hard, she’ll have your back.’ Rex was nodding and his ears bobbed along, fondly remembering. ‘She’s helped me get out of a few tricky situations before, she just wants what’s best for our clients.’

‘So, everyone’s actually really nice then?’

Josie jumped when the office door clanged open as Geraldine stalked out. Josie tried a smile and a wave, but the black and orange was a blue before she knew it. Turning to Rex, Josie’s face was awash with naivety. Devastated, he had to crush it.

‘Well no, but you just need to figure out who to avoid. Come with me.’ He led her to the other side of the floor where the fluorescent lights flickered intermittently. Rex made sure to stay in front of Josie, easy since she hardly made it above his knee. He slowed and his steps became softer. She peered around his legs, whiskers twitching, wondering.

‘What is it?’ She was promptly hushed.

Spanning the length of the office, there were connected grey cubicles with feathery heads jutting up above the walls. They were facing away from them, sitting with excellent posture, staring at their computer screens.

‘Human resources. You need to watch out for these guys, they really give a hoot about the smallest thing.’

At the sound of voices, feathered heads spun around a near 200 degrees with unexpected ease. No one stood up or shuffled their chair, but unblinking eyes stared at Josie and Rex. They were silent. When they were satisfied the noise had ceased, the unnerving reach of their eyes returned to their work. Eager to get out of ear and eye shot, Rex and Josie hurried back to the noisy side of the floor.

‘I know you’ve had a rough start to your time here but give it time.’ Rex guided Josie back to the lunchroom, empty before home time. He leaned up on the counter and found the last two muffins of the week.

Josie hopped up onto a chair, big enough for her to sprawl out exhausted. ‘It’s just tough when you’re the size of some of your colleague’s hands,’ she huffed.

‘It’s all about finding common ground.’ He chomped into his blueberry muffin. ‘Then you’ll have a friend in everyone around the firm.’ He offered her the chocolate one.

*

Monday morning rolled around far too quickly, as it always did. Josie was eager, and right away started using her new intel to spark conversations around the office. She even asked around for more hints on her colleague’s interest. This was a far more successful technique, having a topic to jump into right away instead of just her simple and sweet greeting. The hustle and bustle of the firm was far more accommodating of pointed chats over small talk. By Friday she nearly had it all down pat; only a keen nose would notice her clever plan.

Rex made his way to work on Friday morning with his trademark chipper attitude, greeting everyone he passed. He made a point to visit Josie that morning to check how she was getting along and was pleasantly surprised when he turned the corner. The usual empty corridor was buzzing with chatter – and not broken up with mocking sneers this time. As he padded closer, he could hear Bruce, of all animals, hammering on.

‘I was on the edge of my tank, I swear! And the ref, oh don’t get me started. It was a clear violation, but that absolute bonehead probably hasn’t seen a golf ball in his life!’

‘Tell me about it, he definitely wasn’t looking!’ a tiny voice piped up. ‘Hey, I’ll see you at lunch, we’ll talk about that other game of – uh, yeah see you then!’ Josie hopped out of the crowd over to a spiky ball waddling past Rex. ‘Harold, just who I wanted to see! I was just wondering which brand you’d recommend. I was planning on getting a model plane for my dad but there’s just so many to choose from!’ This stopped the old hedgehog in his tracks, astonished at such a clueless question.

‘Freedom Models, obviously. They use higher quality materials. If you go with any other brands, you really can’t be surprised if they just fall apart,’ Josie nodded along, feigning concern.

Rex watched, amused and really quite impressed. Hopping from one colleague to another, Josie started conversations more niche than the last, with the ease of someone who’d been working there for years. A thumbs up and a wink, and Rex was off to his office to start his day. She’d done her research. She’d be just fine.

The sea hurled itself against the rocks. Water thrashed and churned, white foam flashing against steely waves. Thick clouds gathered on the horizon. On the beach, two figures walked alone along the shoreline.

‘These seas are dangerous, Eisla. You be sure not to go out there alone, especially when the tides are coming in.’ Mairi gestured to the narrow strip of sand that led between the shore and the rocky island that crouched in the water out beyond the headland. ‘Many a lad has been trapped there o’ernight and forced to wait til morn before they could come ashore again. It’s cold and wet out there. You’d be frozen to the bone by sun-up.’ She pinched her granddaughter’s cheek affectionately. Eisla’s eyes widened in horrified delight.

‘Couldn’t Pa come out in his boat and fetch us if we got stuck?’

Mairi picked up a shell from the edge of the water, rolling it over in her hands. Its creamy brown surface shone in the early morning light.

‘These seas are rough and dangerous, lass. At night the waves are dark and black, and hide the rocks beneath. The hull would shatter against them. Not even your father would dare to try.’

‘Not even to save me?’

Mairi laughed, handing her granddaughter the tiny shell. ‘You know your Pa would fight an army of Finfolk if it meant saving you, my girl.’ She stared at the horizon, at the smudged outlines of tiny fishing boats against the pale winter sky.

‘Jaimie says Finfolk aren’t real.’

‘And what does young Jaimie know about these things?’ Mairi asked.

Eisla scooped up a shell and slipped it into her pocket with the others. They clinked together as she skipped along, her dress weighed down by the laden pockets. ‘He says they’re just stories told by old fishers-wives to scare the children, so they dinnae do anything naughty.’

‘Well, you tell Jaimie that I’ll beat some fear into him with my broom, if he starts misbehaving.’

Eisla grinned.

‘But he’s right,’ Mairi continued. ‘You’re much more likely to be seeing selkies bathing in the sun, than worrying about any of those cunning Finfolk.’

Eisla squinted out at the island, searching for the sleek grey shape of seals lying on the rocks.

‘There’s been tales of reckless bairns like yourself getting caught as the tide comes rushing in, who would have drowned if it weren’t for a woman emerging from the water and carrying them to safety.’ Mairi smiled softly. ‘When their terrified mothers came to find them, all to be seen was a seal swimming away and the bairn alone on the beach, shivering and soaked to the skin.’

Eisla’s eyes widened. ‘What do selkies look like?’

Mairi smiled down at her, tucking a dark curl behind her ear. ‘They have beautiful long hair, just like yours. In the water they look like seals, but on bonnie days when the sun is warm and bright, and there are no earth-born men around, they come ashore and slip off their sealskins, and lie naked in the sunshine. Then they look just as humans do.’ She looked wistfully out at the horizon. ‘They’re deathly beautiful, with eyes big and black as night.’

Eisla grinned excitedly. ‘Like yours?’

‘Aye, and yours too, my love.’                                                                           

‘Do you think we’ll see one?’

Mairi shook her head. ‘Even if you did, they’d grab their skins and disappear into the waves as soon as they saw you.’

Eisla rattled the shells in her pockets. ‘Why would they hide?’

‘Well, love, if someone manages to steal their skin, they cannae go back to the sea or they’ll drown. They’ll be trapped ashore and forced to live among the earth-born folk, until the day they can steal back their skin and go home.’

‘So if I found their sealskin I could make them stay and talk to me?’

Mairi crouched down beside her granddaughter, grasping her shoulders. ‘Listen to me, Eisla,’ she said earnestly. ‘You should never cross a creature of the sea. Selkies live long lives, and are not likely to forget.’

The girl looked at her, wide eyed.

Mairi’s expression softened and she took Eisla’s hand. ‘Now come, lass. We best be getting home.’ They turned and walked back along the sand, with the dark rocks of the island crouching in the water behind them.

Mairi settled into her chair, watching as the firelight sent shadows flickering across the walls. Her gaze shifted to her granddaughter. Eisla sat next to the fireplace, her legs swinging as she sorted through the seashells in her lap.

‘Pass me some of those shells, love.’ Taking a handful, Mairi rolled them between her fingers. ‘You know, your mama used to collect these,’ she said softly.

The girl smiled, the shells clinking as she played with them. ‘What was she like?’

Mairi leant back, unwinding a spool of thread. She took a handful of the tiny seashells, and began stringing them together as she talked. ‘Your mama was a wild lass. She would spend hours roaming the cliff tops or along the tideline instead of helping me with the chores. She longed for a boat of her own, like her father had.’

Eisla cocked her head. ‘You never talk about him.’

‘Your grandfather?’ Mairi was quiet for a moment. ‘He was a fisherman, like most men in this village. The bonniest lad I’d ever laid eyes on.’

Her husband had been charming, at first. He had a smile that made her heart thud and stormy grey eyes that flashed like fish scales in sunlight. She had been exploring rock pools at the base of the ragged cliffs a few miles down the coast when she first saw him. He had been so gentle, so kind.

He told her stories about his village, and showed her the sweet-smelling wildflowers growing along the cliff tops. And when the cold fingers of night crept in and she should have returned home he coaxed a fire alight and entreated her to stay. She had watched the flicker of flames and the glowing of embers, entranced as the fire spat sparks up into the night.

‘But he was young and reckless, and didnae respect the sea.’ Mairi closed her eyes. ‘There came a storm, one evening.’

The water had thrashed dark and black against the rocks, and the clouds gathered thick and brooding in the sky. It had been bitterly cold, and the wind roared around the cliffs as she stood watching for him to come home. The boats had come in early, one by one, as the rain began to fall in great spattering drops and thunder rumbled through the night. But he had not come.       

‘He stole from the sea, and so the sea stole from him. It smashed his boat to splinters, and without a boat a man cannae survive in the water.’ Her eyes had taken on a strange intensity. ‘The ocean is a dangerous thing, my love. Be wary not to anger it.’

Eisla watched her with wide eyes, not quite understanding, but recognising the gravity of her tone.

Mairi looked down at the string of shells.

She had been left with a belly swollen with new life in a village that was not her own, where the people eyed her warily and murmured as she passed.

The bairn was born midwinter. A tiny girl with a wisp of dark hair and eyes big and black as night.

Perfectly human.

Before the storm, when she had first discovered she was with child, he had been overjoyed. She kept it secret from her sisters, slipping away to meet him on starlit nights to lay with him beside the dancing fire. But as her belly began to show he grew restless. He had heard tales of bairns born of the sea. Clammy-skinned children with webbed fingers and toes.

He had begged to see where she had hidden her fur.

Early one morning she woke alone. Smoke swelled softly from the embers and a dusting of ashes had settled in her hair overnight. She crept barefoot along the cliffs. Silver dewdrops clustered on the grass and a think grey mist swirled in over the ocean. A silent, still morning.

As she reached the familiar cluster of rocks at the base of the headland, she paused, her heart beating faster. Something was wrong.

She scrambled around the rocks to a narrow crevice in the cliff face, hidden behind a jutting shelf of rock. The hollow space was empty. He stood there, staring vacantly out to sea.

‘No.’ She shook her head, backing away. ‘Where is it?’ She choked on the words.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Think of the bairn. It will need its mother.’

‘No.’ She looked around, searching desperately.

He gestured at the ocean, his voice so soft she could barely hear it. ‘You would have left us.’

Over the next few months she had raged, and wept, and begged, but he refused to tell her where he had hidden her sealskin. She searched everywhere. She hated his house, with the rough stone floor and the roof that leaked, and the walls that seemed to close in around her. At night she would lie awake beside him, listening to the distant crash of waves on the shore.

Everyday he would go out in his boat with the other fishermen from the village. She would stand at the edge of the water and feel the tide tug at her feet and the salt singing in her veins, but she could not follow.

Mairi’s grip tightened on the string of seashells. The fire spat and crackled as the wood shifted. She blinked, eyes shining in the firelight as she looked over at her granddaughter. Eisla hummed quietly, examining the polished shells in her lap.

*

It was the thunder that woke her.

The fire had died down, and the embers glowed softly in the darkness. A thin haze of wood smoke filled the room.

Mairi pulled the blankets closer. Outside, the rain lashed against the stone walls.

She shivered as she rose, drawing her cloak around her shoulders. She added wood to the fire, stirring the coals to coax the flames alight.

The thunder rumbled heavily. She could hear the ocean raging, the waves crashing furiously against the cliffs. The door banged restlessly in its frame, the thin latch struggling to hold it in place.

Eisla rolled over, murmuring in her sleep. Mairi smiled, leaning down to stroke her hair. The string of seashells hung around Eisla’s neck, tangled amongst her dark curls.

A loud crack tore through the air. Mairi looked up in alarm. She heard the crash of stones tumbling to the ground. A gust of cold air swirled down the chimney, scattering ash across the hearthstone.

Mairi rushed to the door. As she lifted the latch, the wind ripped it from her grasp and it battered wildly against the wall. She slammed it shut behind her. She shielded her face from the rain, making her way around the side of the cottage.

The old hazel tree had been torn up by the roots. Mairi stared desperately at the tangle of broken branches. The knotted trunk rested against the chimney, where a pile of thick grey stones had tumbled to the ground.

Mairi pulled at a branch, trying to dislodge it. Loose stones shook as the tree shifted. She was soaked, her hair clinging to her skin. Wood cracked and splintered, and the branch fell to the ground. Another stone toppled over, crashing down.

Something caught her eye.

The corner of the roof had fallen away, and a thick bundle was wedged beneath the exposed timber rafters.

Mairi climbed onto the pile of fallen stones, steading herself against the tree trunk. She couldn’t breathe. She lifted a trembling hand, pulling it down. The sealskin shone soft and silver in the starlight. Mairi breathed in the musty fur, coated in decades of dust and crusted salt. The wind swirled around her and the waves crashed frantically against the rocks on the shore below. Thunder rolled and roared across the sky. She looked down towards the sea.

‘Nana?’ Eisla stood huddled in the doorway.

Mairi looked back at her. ‘Hush, my love. ‘Tis only thunder. Go back to bed.’

The girl rubbed her eyes sleepily. Mairi kissed her head, stroking her hair, then ushered her gently back inside. She paused for a moment, her hand resting on the door, then turned to face the sea.

*

Mairi stood at the edge of the water, her hair hanging heavy and wet down her back, a dark silvery grey in the moonlight. The stone was cold beneath her feet. Water thrashed and churned, white foam flashing against steely waves. The sea called to her, the salt singing in her veins. She clutched the sealskin tightly.

And she remembered watching and waiting, as the rain fell in great spattering drops and thunder rumbled through the night, and the boats came in early, one by one.

But he had not come.

She remembered the scream that tore itself from her throat, raw and ragged, as wind whipped around her and waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks. And the smell of the salt, so close.

She remembered the wind whistling through her hair and the familiar embrace of the waves as she threw herself into the sea.

And she remembered the weight of the water. Breathless. Desperate. A thrashing of limbs. Each wave a wall of water, pushing her down, spluttering, guttering, gasping for air. Helpless, hopeless. One arm flung upwards, grasping the air and then under.

And she realised she was going to die. Even as her leaden legs continued to kick and she thrashed madly against the foam, she knew. And she fought. Fought the force of the water. Fought as she felt her strength fading, draining with every stroke as she struggled, sank, strove for the surface, for the shore.

The salty air filled her lungs and she shuddered. A new kind of hunger.

And she had laughed, laughed so hard that it hurt. She laughed for the sake of laughing, for the rush of air and the pumping of blood, and the ache in the pit of her stomach that told her that she was alive.

Mairi gripped the sealskin tighter, staring out at the dark water. She stepped forward to meet the ocean, as she had done the night her husband died, when she lost all hope of finding her fur again.

She thought of her home, and the sisters waiting for her out beyond the waves, the family she had left behind all those years ago. And she thought of Eisla, with a pocket full of seashells, and eyes as big and black as night.

And for a moment Mairi stood on the edge of the rocks, listening as the sea called to her, feeling the water spray across her cheeks and the salt on her tongue. Then she turned, walking back towards the beach, and the little house where Eisla lay curled up asleep, with a string of shells around her neck.

Behind her, the sea hurled itself against the rocks. The wind whipped at her hair, stinging her cheeks.

Droplets clung to her skin, shining silver.

Trains rush past.

An old piece of machinery, dripping in graffiti, opens its doors with a groan and people spill out onto the platform. They push and pull. As a mass, they gravitate towards the exit. The group collects people like droplets along a stream, leaving the station to carry on.

Worker bees stride in shoes that have been shined down to the rim by women bred to stay inside. Their hungry fingers, hairy and plumped with expensive sterling silver rings, grip briefcases with intensity. They angle their bodies past the rest of the crowd, eager to take their first step inside the office, to fill a glass from a tap of instant sparkling water, to smack their wet lips together and sigh and mention to the others trailing behind them how this truly is the life.

School girls chatter and laugh, lounging in the sun on the overweight platform. They flit back and forth through conversations, chewing sticks of gum with gnawing, wide jaws. They pop spearmint bubbles into the faces of stubbly teenage boys while they whine about the upcoming formal and how they haven’t even found a date yet. The gaps between their teeth tighten within metal braces until there’s no space left behind. Their hair braids frame youthful smiles and they dance along the station, ignoring the bustle of people around. Queenie sits on the bench, paint peeling around her thighs. One of her lenses is smudged, quickly she wipes her glasses against a decrepit edge of the worn-out jacket that lives in her bag. She hurriedly squashes them back onto her nose and subconsciously smooths down little strands of hair to frame her face. She recommences her surveillance.

*

The commotion of the morning on Platform 14 brushes past her as it usually does, and she sits, safe in her little spot where her initials are carved into the belly side. She watches, waiting for the tap of a steel-capped cane to jut out from the rest of the noise. For a one-sided smile to appear out of the mass like relief from a dust storm. For the blend of body odour, cigarettes and lavender to rise from the smell of trackwork and greet her.

Young women in active wear stretch their limbs against handrails, sipping from ambiguous plastic bottles and snapping generic fitness tips at each other that they all read in the same article. University students shuffle in a coffee-deprived sludge, sleep embedded in the corners of their eyes. A woman plays with her dog next to the staircase, feeding it snacks every time it performs a miniscule trick. An old man picks at his teeth with a weathered, dirt-encrusted finger. A scruffy teenage boy waits by the cubicles.

Bull shuffles awkwardly. The smell from the toilets works its way under his skin, his head, it permeates into his clothes. He gazes at the city buzzing by, dazed by the sun streaming through the filthy, scratched Perspex that borders the ticket gates. Squinting, his eyes flick to the plastic banded watch on his freckled wrist. It reads twelve minutes past eight – Sloth is late.

He doesn’t exactly know what Sloth looks like. What if Sloth is already here and they’ve both been waiting, side by side, in the station for each other? No. He glances at the people around them. The text simply said Sloth would be wearing a red flannel but Bull can’t spot a single lick of colour through the constant stream of people, bustling through the six ticket gates, trying to force their bodies into empty spaces. Bull sighs. His hand grips against the money in his pocket, sticky with sweat that drips between his fingers. Ninety dollars. Rolled up neatly and tied up with a rubber band that Julie found lying around.   

A red flannel suddenly appears from within the crowd.

‘Bull?’ His voice is deeply Australian, thick with a country accent. His smile, Bull thinks, is somehow too confident for a twenty-two-year-old boy with a receding hairline.

Bull nods, his fingers shaking inside his pocket. Sliding up and down against the notes. His heart stammers against a bird-boned ribcage, choking in between each pulse.

‘Huh. For someone named Bull, I thought you would be a bit – bigger?’

Bull puffs out his tiny chest. Sloth could definitely take him in a fight. ‘So that makes you Sloth then. Makes sense you would be late.’ Somehow, his voice does not break.

If Julie was here, she would be hissing at him in tiny stilted breaths. What are you doing Bull?! Pissing off our one contact?! But Julie wasn’t here. She was stuck in a stuffy school hall using a scratchy, borrowed pencil to finish off the last of her trial English exam. Bull has to step up.

Sloth pauses then laughs. ‘Fair enough,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘So – uh – just the seven today?’

Bull looks around, fervent eyes darting from pole to pole. No one seems to be watching. In the chaos of morning coffee and frantic phone calls, no one is paying attention to the freckly teenage boy in an oversized jacket, torn t-shirt and rolled up jeans, awkwardly shuffling in his worn-out shoes next to the bathrooms. He pauses, locking eyes with the young woman sitting on the scratched bench, her glasses glinting in the sun. He’s seen her here before, he thinks. Always in the same spot. Never doing anything other than watching the people around her. For a moment, their eyes remain locked. Then the woman looks away, head shaking.

Bull pulls out the clammy roll of notes with a weak hand, wincing as he wipes his palms on his paint splattered pants. Sloth takes the money almost lazily, barely in any rush, pockets it with ease, and pulls out a strong-smelling bag. Its perfume bleeds through the open-air building. It seeps into the pointed stiletto heels of ladies waiting in line for the singular, decrepit cubicle; it soaks into the holes of the brickwork that crumbles around them.

In a school hall on the other side of the bridge, surrounded by mismatched school uniforms of green and white, Julie sighs. The point of her pencil prickles against the paper, then snaps. The tiny trickle of lead rolls over her exam. She blinks at it. Then at the now useless pencil still clutched in her dry, small hand. Minutes bleed into each other, seconds swirling together. Around her, frantic pens slide across printed lines in a last-minute dash to record half-hearted answers. The giant clock at the front of the hall, which until this point point had been ticking in a rather insidious way, buzzes, signalling the end of the final exam. Students are jolted out of their academic hazes and pass up their papers. Sunshine greets tired, weary eyes, as they congregate on the lawn, discussing how question three was somehow impossible to answer. Julie looks at her frayed, sweaty fabric watch. Bull must be finished by now.

The young man thrusts his hand out. Clutches the bag. Tucks it into his pocket. Departs.

Trains rush past.

Queenie crosses her legs, her glasses twinkling in the light from the rising sun, the glare sparkling across her eyes. Chaos engulfs her. Peak hour descends into a mid-morning shuffle. Late risers stagger from platform to platform, seeking shelter and a shaded place to sit, where they can wait for a destination that suits their fancy.

 From her vantage point, she can see the group of new mothers coagulating, ready for the ten-thirty-two train into the city. Every week they meet, strollers clogging up the flow of passengers. The women fuss over their spawn. Feeding them packaged puree and daintily wiping at the miniature mouths, that so resemble their own. A little piece of mashed pear manages to escape. A high-pitched squawk beckons from one pram, and then another, until each mother is bent over her child, regurgitating soothing words of comfort that their own mother must have murmured to them at one point or another.

She lets her eyes rest on them for a dangerous, overextended minute. Something rises in her, something she wishes she could keep clenched down. The mothers push their identical strollers onto the carriages, laughing with each other absentmindedly. They disappear inside the train, carried away to the zoo or the movies or whatever adventure awaits today. She watches the train depart with a sigh that begins deep in her ribcage and rises through to her eyes. Crescent moon nail marks have been cut into her palms without her even realising. Slowly, she lets go. Adjusts her glasses. Places a stick of cheap, fruity gum in her mouth that releases a wave of mild flavour, inducing a small rush of saliva. The tiny underlay of mint causes her nostrils to slightly flare. Queenie pauses. Absentmindedness temporarily incapacitates her. The lazy sun meanders in the sky, pathless. It urges her to lose focus, to relax. She recommences watching.

Julie steps onto Platform 14. Her socks sit lazily around her freckled ankles. Her tight brown curls hold all the humidity that the sun could spare. Her fabric watch has amassed sweat and it clings, sticky and tight, to her wrist like the wisps of a dandelion, until the wind curls through the station, and it shimmies its way to freedom. Julie takes in the old couple sitting on the wrong platform, their lined hands clasped together as they wait for a train that won’t come for them. She sees the mop-haired banker leaving early for a lunch meeting which, he hopes, will result in a promotion. She sees the young woman with red-rimmed glasses watching the crowds in the same way that mirrors her own. She sees Bull, waiting for her against the ticket barrier, a nervous smile stretched across his pale face, a smile that relaxes and morphs into something sweeter and younger when he spots her.

They approach each other slowly, cautiously.

‘How did it go?’ Her voice is scratchy and tired, Bull notices. Purple lids are drooped over her brown eyes, long thin lashes flicking side to side as she keeps careful watch of their surrounds. In her faded school uniform, she looks like a child that someone let loose onto the world, a child that knows a little too much. He coughs a little, clearing a murky throat.

‘I picked it up, all good.’ Uncertainty clouds his face for a second that passes too slowly for Julie’s liking. She grabs his hand with a possessiveness, a tightness that causes him to grimace ever so lightly, a grimace that Queenie spies from her seat.

She’s spending too much time watching the young couple. But her attention continues to wander, with nothing to bring her back to Platform 14. There’s no mixed blend of cigarettes and lavender. There’s no tap of a steel cane. There’s nothing keeping her here. She turns away from the two, twisting in her seat.    

Queenie bites into a doughnut, the powder and jam bursting with unlimited sweetness, soaking into her gums and making her nostrils flare from the overextended release of sugar. The sky turns a crisp starfish blue above her sun-drenched head. Midday arrives and departs with a sigh, and afternoon sheds her skin like a cocoon, spinning silky clouds into the world.

The worker bees’ hungry hands exhausted from a day of repetitive droning, make the passage home, once again visiting Platform 14. Their belts are tightened over bulging stomachs. Their shoelaces, strapped like armour, contain wandering feet. As the sun sets on another day bred to look just like the others, they sit in pairs on carpeted train seats. For a second, they allow themselves to wonder about the point of it all. But that thought is squashed, alongside all others, once they draw out their individual devices and allow the news of the day to be filtered to them through a lens. Queenie can’t help but imagine them travelling home to families that sit around the dinner table and say prayer together. Every night they tuck their little girls into bed with a protective swoop of their wings that guarantees sweet dreams.

And the schoolgirls, with their tight braces and even tighter braids, head to after school jobs where they work for a mediocre wage so they can save up money for parties and alcohol and festivals and drugs. They study on weekend mornings, scraping for an A but only ever attaining a B. They smoke and hide the cigarettes in between their socks so that their little sister never finds the pack. White collar dreams of offices and law firms and conferences on medicine infiltrate their study sessions until all they think of is working for that ATAR that their private school promised would be granted. They ride the trains at midnight, pulling their skirts down over too-orange knees, watching the world from the safety of a carriage that delivers them almost straight to their door. And they sleep in beds that are remade everyday by a mother who wistfully remembers how she felt when she rode the trains with her friends.

Night descends on the back of a summer haze. The click of cicadas ebb and flow, drowning out the conversations that are beginning to die down. Queenie dreams. Queenie waits. She sits at the station, watching the hordes of people going home, looking down the line of train carriages for the familiar steel-tipped clink of her father’s cane. For that one-sided smile. For that scent that sometimes she swears she made up. And it doesn’t come. And neither does he.

She drifts home, her soul thin like the edge of a crisp butterfly wing. Her bed offers no solace, and she only sleeps to pass the time until the morning trains push off from platform 14. There she will be, tomorrow and the next day and the next day. Watching and waiting.