THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Eight

Clare bashed open the front door and hurried down the kinked hallway to the kitchen. Mike entered the porch behind her but loitered there.

She opened one drawer after another, fumbling through, until she found what she was looking for then went on searching until she’d got the other things. When she returned to Mike in the porch she was carrying two pairs of oven gloves (one of which had seen better days), an oven tray, a torch and a serrated carving knife. Mike looked at that last item quizzically until she shrugged and said, “Just in case.”

They closed the front door after them then walked back to the alley two doors down, Clare pulling ahead, Mike more wary.

Back in the alleyway it was still there where they’d left it but it seemed as though the process they’d witnessed initially had gone further along.

Clare handed Mike the rest of the items then turned on the torch and shone it down.

What was left of the bearded man was illuminated in the parched beam. The batteries were a way off being drained but they were on the decline leaving dim colours framed by deep shadow, but it was definitely him. His remains.

It looked like he’d... “It’s like he split open,” said Clare. “Look.” She pointed at the multiple splits on his chest and torso; even on his face. “And there wasn’t anything. Look.” She squatted. “There’s nothing inside of him. Just embers.”

She looked back up at Mike but the reflected torchlight didn’t reach him sufficiently now her night vision had been ruined. She turned the torch on him but he didn’t react; just went on staring dully down at the cadaver, or whatever it was.

“Mike.”

He made no response.

“Mike.”

“Huh? Yeah?” The animation returned to his features. “This is really messed up.”

“What do you make of it?”

“You mean, do I think he was really God?”

She nodded, curling her lower lip in on itself with her upper teeth.

“Fucked if I know.” He chuckled.

“What?”

“You know what this is like... It’s like watching a TV show, something gritty and down to earth – a police drama. You watch seven or eight seasons and it’s all just normal; they’re solving murder mysteries; and suddenly in the next season there’s an alien invasion or something. Or vampires attack. In a horror film it’s as if that world depicted has only just blinked into existence. You know exactly what it is from the get go. All this shit that’s happened today... These things don’t happen. How the hell are we supposed to know how to react?”

Clare went on looking at him for a minute then turned the torch back down to the glowing remains.

It was exactly like he’d ripped open all over his body and all his insides had just risen up and disappeared.

Or maybe he didn’t have insides. Maybe he’d been empty all along; just full of energy. And that was why it was burning up now. It was far too hot to touch.

“Give me some oven gloves,” said Clare.

“This is a bad idea.”

“Just hand them to me. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Clare seriously. This is a terrible plan. We should go back inside.”

“Give me the damn oven gloves Mike!”

He handed her the newer pair. They were green with tangled yellow flowers. Clare popped the little torch in her mouth then put them on.

“Now hold this and give me the knife and the baking tray.” She handed up the torch.

“Take a picture. Take a picture then call the police. We shouldn’t be dealing with this by ourselves.” He cleared his throat. She said nothing; just held out her hands. Mike sighed and passed her the stuff.

Clare set the metal tray down and rested her wrists on her knees. The heat coming off the remains was incredible and it looked like it was burning away from the inside out. The edges where the skin had split were glowing brightly and just in the time they’d been there a lot of it had gone. She had the feeling that even if they did call the police it would all be gone by the time they arrived. Clare put the knife to the smouldering flesh near the top of the chest, at the point the split cut diagonally down his pectoral.

Now she was here with the stuff she didn’t have a clue what she was really going to do. Just touching the blade lightly to his skin made the chest cavity cave in releasing a gust of embers into the night air. Cracks formed, light shining through and then it folded in on itself fully. The little patch of grass against the wall that it was lying on caught fire and fizzled to nothing.

Clare got to her feet, stepping back. “I just thought if we could save some of it...”

The pelvis crackled and sparked, releasing smoke. The ribboned folds that had been the man’s legs started to smoulder as well.

Clare stepped back beside Mike. They watched it burning itself away.

“It can’t be true what he said, can it?” asked Clare.

Mike said nothing.

“Is this really happening. Was that really him? Surely...” She shrugged. “Surely it’s a mistake. It’s something else. It can’t be real... right?”

Mike faced her for a moment, his face blank, then he looked back down at the crackling remains, and they stood there watching until it was nothing but embers and ash.

THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Seven

Both of Henry’s hands were shaking when he got back down the ladder-stair and shut himself in his room.

All that time with Rosalie he had just been reacting; drifting forwards, nudged by what was happening. Now he was alone the impact of it was mind blowing.

He didn’t even think about the stranger who he had found waiting the in the lounge. He went quickly to his computer and fired up the base unit, sitting in front of the screen.

It was a terrifically old model and its boot sequence crept on almost unbelievably slowly as he tapped his fingers on the arm of the padded chair that looked really comfortable but in fact wasn’t.

His mind drifted a little to the encounter with the odd man: to his dredging voice; his unblinking stare. Henry had been talking; asking who the man was; then he remembered little. Flashes. His body convulsing; hands spasming. The actual content of their dialogue was a mystery.

Or was it? It seemed almost there in his memory, just out of reach, as if he could grasp it if he tried hard enough.

But his desktop appeared and any consideration of that vanished. He grabbed the mouse roughly and guided it to the Internet Explore icon; waited again interminably for it to flash open; then his fingers moved rapidly, typing that same search criteria into Google Images then bashing the Return key.

The selection of images appeared and he scrolled quickly to the bottom, slicking on to the next page, and the next, and the next.

“There!”

Henry clicked urgently on the picture of the little girl with the balloon and the larger preview image grew to fill most of the screen. His mouth fell into the same sagging O as it had when he set eyes on Rosalie.

It was her. He was sure of it. The picture on the internet of the little girl with the balloon that he had used to tug the juice from his slug worm was of Rosalie; lying in bed just above his head.

Breathlessly, he clicked the View Page button and waited until a blog popped up with the picture embedded half way down. It was one of any number of inconsequential internet diaries, but there was her picture and underneath it was the caption “Rosalie’s Birthday.”

Henry rocked back in his seat.

What were the chances of that happening? Of the very girl he’d been looking would come here to his very house!

It could only be a sign. But of what he had no clue.

He was literally stunned. He couldn’t work out what it meant.

But then he heard something; in his room; and his hand shot to the off switch on his monitor in well-rehearsed panic. He looked to his right, looking for a sign of an intruder, but no one was there. The room was empty.

But still... He was sure he’d heard something. A scratch or a knock. Not a footstep; not that, but... something.

He hadn’t bothered with the light and with the computer monitor off it was very dark. The blackout blinds in the bay window did a good job. The main light switch was at the other side of the room by the door, but something stopped him from getting up and walking across.

His eyes were becoming adjusted to the dark. He could make out most of the general detail of bed, chair, drawers, wardrobe. There was definitely no one in there with him, spying on his darker fantasies. Maybe it was a mouse. Or a rat.

His hand went to the monitor button, hesitated, then switched it back on.

After a moment the image of Rosalie and her balloon came back into view. Henry stared at it, wanting to slip his hand again into the top flap of his trousers, but afraid to now.

Because it wasn’t just a secret fantasy anymore. This wasn’t just a picture. It was a picture of a real little girl who was now inexplicably part of his life, even if only for a short time.

He pulled open the top of his trousers and started to sink his hand inside then he heard another noise and stopped.

That time he was sure it was inside the room with him, over by the chair. He went again to turn off the computer, at the base unit this time. Then suddenly he caught something; a scent; and the movement ended, forgotten, so profound was the memory that scent brought up.

It was a pretty floral perfume smell, strong enough to fill his nostrils for a moment, and it was one he knew intimately. Of course he did.

It was the perfume his wife Lillian had worn every day of their marriage.

 

THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Six

 “He went this way, hurry,” said Clare, circling her fancy Peugeot convertible and heading to the right.

Mike followed her, as unsure if this was a good idea as he was of what exactly had happened in there. “Surely it was a practical joke... or something.”

Clare’s approximation of a response was simply the words, “Come on.” She didn’t look back and was several paces ahead of him.

“I mean it was weird, yeah. It was kind of fucked up. But God? You didn’t believe any of that.” Still no response. “Clare?”

She stopped dead, surprising him. He’d thought she hadn’t heard. She looked back at him and her eyes were full of the light from the streetlight at front of her house, caught in the moisture of simmering tears.

Her expression caught him off guard and the ongoing gabble of self-justification lost its thread. “You didn’t... You...” He was going to ask, Did you believe him? But it seemed as crazy a query as the very idea of it. It made him think of the characters in a horror movie wondering if the strange noises are caused by ghosts while everyone in the cinema thinks they’re acting like stupid dicks. Of course they were caused by ghosts!

Without a word, Clare pressed on. The man was nowhere in sight down the road. Mike shut up, his own thoughts batting back and forth sufficiently to occupy his mind. The junction was maybe forty yards down from the boarding house: a cross roads. On the near corner was a little hairdresser’s, pretty girls with elaborate hairdos smiling from behind the blackened glass. Clare walked to the centre of the crossroads, looking each direction then back the way they’d come. She crossed to the opposite pavement and peered down the obscured length of the parked cars.

“He’s gone. Damn it!” She wandered back onto the road and Mike met her half way.

He didn’t say anything. He was kind of glad. The idea of catching up with the guy... To say what? Don’t go? We do believe that you’re God?

“Shit,” muttered Clare.

“What do you wanna do?”

She met his gaze and seemed suddenly to see him, or more particularly to recognise him. He couldn’t read minds, but he knew enough to name that look. She was remembering their history. Now that the moment with that crazy bearded man was over she was asking herself if it wasn’t a monumentally bad idea to let him stay the night.  Gave her a flash of his old smile and the frown on her brow deepened. Not a good idea. Better to divert the conversation back to other matters.

“Did you believe him?”

“Huh?”

“The man. The crazy man. Did you believe him when he said...” It was absurd to even say it aloud. It couldn’t be true. Mike chuckled. “It had to be bullshit, right?”

Clare gave a half head shake then looked back down the road the way they’d come. They’d been through a lot together in the good old/bad old days and Mike had never seen this side to her. His mind was fumbling through its memory logs to find an adequate simile. The closest it came to it was the look an animal got when it was startled.

Spooked.

“Let’s go back,” he said, resisting the idea the popped up to take her by the hand.

It was an uncomfortable walk back, even though it wasn’t far. Neither one of them was talking. The reality was settling back in, and with it some incredulity. The logistics of where he was going to sleep, what he would do with his stuff, what the plan would be in the morning. Whether asking for a second night or longer would be taking the piss.

Clare kept her eyes down, blandly staring at the pavement as she silently walked. Mike glanced at her and she chose that exact moment to stop and turn at him. “Look Mike, I need to set a few things straight...” She stopped talking, and only then did Mike realise that he was looking at something past her in the alley that ran there between two houses to garages at the back. She’d seen his expression and that semi-hostile impetus died as she first gaped back at him then followed the line of his sight herself.

It was black in the alley; really black. It wasn’t a wide channel and beyond the opening the shining streetlamp-light made it seem darker if anything. But near the foot of the wall was a glimmer of something that Mike couldn’t identify. It looked... like a fire that had been left untended to die from starvation. The two of them stood watching, both of them unsure what they were looking at. Then with no open communication they both started closing the distance; faltering; walking on.

It was some kind of lumpen mass – it was impossible still to tell what – but the edges of it were glowing like a stick might if it had been on fire and now merely smoked, but was then blown on. A smidgeon of smoke came forward enough to catch the light from the streetlamp.

“What the hell is that?” asked Mike.

Clare went closer, looking down, then suddenly she squatted right next to it and Mike almost reached to pull her back.

“Careful.”

His view was blocked now by her back but he didn’t feel comfortable getting any closer. Clare bent over, getting nearer.

“What is it?”

She reached a hand in to touch it but clearly thought better of it before she did. Instead she looked back and up at him and in a little girl whisper said, “I think this is him.”