THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Five

Henry didn’t realise he was staring until the little girl spoke to him and when he did he flushed from collar to pate as though his innermost thoughts had been revealed.

“Where is my bedroom?” she said, in the tenderest, sweetest little voice he’d ever heard form a child. She looked ashen and tired and she rubbed unconsciously at her eye, peering up at him through her lashes with absolute trust and dependence.

Henry started, his mind blamnk of any kind of rational response for a moment. He was reeling still from his encounter with the strange intruder and now to find himself in this contrived situation. It stimulated wonder.  But the child was waiting. She’d asked him a question and her had no choice but to take a hold of himself. “Er, just up here. I’ll show you.” He gestured to the foot of the stairs and stepped forward, pausing to wonder at the protocol of leading or following. He was knocked off-kilter enough that his life-trained social instincts were vacuous.

She’s only a child, he reminded himself. It doesn’t matter. But he was hyperaware of everything now.

He was ahead of her already so by default he led the way up the staircase and the girl followed at a slow shamble, dead or dying on her feet. Her eyes were partly closed. She looked like she might fall asleep upright if left alone.

Henry turned left at the top of the first flight then climbed the four steps to the upper landing. His bedroom and Joey’s cell were straight ahead. He paused there before them for the child to catch up.

“I’m sorry to say I don’t remember your name,” he said.

She yawned, stretching the syllables of her name round it but he made out enough to catch “Rosalie.”

“That’s a pretty name,” he replied, then opened his mouth again to say, “for a pretty girl.” But he didn’t say it. He just closed his mouth again.

Rosalie joined him at the corner there and pointed to the third closed doorway. “Is that my bedroom?”

“No,” said Henry. “That room’s empty. The landlady’s hoping to get a sixth guest in there. You’ll be sleeping up there.” He pointed to the steep wooden ladder-stairs in an alcove to their right.

It was an odd arrangement. A person had to walk into the short corridor then turn back on himself to climb up the ladder-stair through the open hatchway. It was a permanent feature but not a climb that Henry relished. He’d only ever climbed up once out of pure nosiness and had immediately decided not to risk it again.

Still, this time he had to. And he... wanted to. He had a responsibility to see to it that the little girl got safely settled into bed.

“Come on,” he said. “Up you go.”

He touched the top of her back to guide her before him. When she reached the foot of the ladder stair she looked back at him doubtfully. “Up there?”

He nodded. “It’s perfectly safe.” A lie, but a serviceable one.

She gave the peak a suspicious peer then started to climb, holding on to each step with both hands.

It was a staircase of sorts with wooden steps and gaps between, but the angle of ascent was so steep it was uncomfortably close to being vertical. It was possible to climb and descend with no hands but not particularly wise.

When she was half way up, Henry positioned himself at the bottom and looked up, catching a clear but shaded view up her bare legs and into the cavity of her dress.

He swallowed, shutting his eyes tightly then started up after her.

It was pitch black in the loft room. Rosalie stayed close to the hatchway until his head popped level with her ankles. Twin light switches were built into the side of the hatch. He pressed them at random until the little blue sunken halogen lights came on.

It had broadly sloping ceilings. It was only possible to stand upright in the centre of the room. Most of the floor space was covered in boxes. Henry got up there and stood beside Rosalie, unsure what was to come next.

They looked at one another and the clear thought came to Henry that he was totally alone with her.

Joey had left for work. Travis and Selina were ensconced on the ground floor. Clare and Mike had gone out. There were two floors of space between them and anyone else.

Rosalie gave him a little smile. Henry cleared his throat, smiling back.

The moment lengthened then abruptly passed.

“Here,” he said. “I think there’s a bed at the back here.” He led her to the far end of the attic space. Behind the boxes was an alcove that could only be reached by crawling. A double bed was in there, thankfully made up and uncovered. That at least was a relief. “Yes. You can sleep there,” he said. “And your father will be up to join you soon I’m sure.”

They stood there for another moment. And another.

“Er... Come on then,” said Henry. “We’d, er, better get you ready for bed. Do you have a nighty?”

Rosalie shook her head solemnly.

Henry cleared his throat. “Ah. Alright. Er, well take your shoes off and... and your dress then. You’ll have to, er, sleep in your underwear.” He tried to smile reassuringly but was worried that it would look like a leer.

Rosalie kicked off her sandals then reached for the hem of her dress.

Another moment came that seemed frozen. Henry’s hands were shaking.

Then he turned away, just as she whipped it up and over her head.

He closed his eyes, gripping one palsied hand with the other, not hearing his own heartbeat but feeling the tremors.

The dress fell to the floor just within his field of vision but he didn’t look down at it for fear he would catch a peripheral view of the almost naked girl.

There was a shuffle of bedclothes and then silence. “I’m in,” she said.

“Good girl.”

Henry turned to look at her now, seeing her little weary face peeping over the top of the covers. His heart rate was higher now; faster. He took a step back.

“Well,” he said. “Right. You better close your eyes now and go to sleep.” He went to the top of the ladder-stair, teetering between relief, regret and confusion.

“Leave the light on,” said Rosalie. “I’m scared.”

Henry looked back at her. “Alright,” he said. “But you don’t have to worry, There’s nothing for you to be scared about.”

THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Four

Clare left Mike in the kitchen doorway, hunkered down, explaining to Rosalie that he had to go out for a little bit, while she returned to the lounge doorway. This was all taking far too long. They had to get out there now and look for that guy. She understood that Rosalie’s feelings were important but she was afraid that the words of the strange threatening man trumped any other concern.

“Mike, come on,” she called.

He glanced her way irritably but gave Rosalie a hug and started leading her down the hall.

Henry was just getting to his feet when Clare reappeared. “Ah.” He glanced down at her empty hands and then frowned. “Where’s my tea?”

“Huh?” Clare gaped at him with incredulity. Did no one else see how important this could be? “I don’t have it. I’m sorry. But can you do me a favour?”

“Tomorrow perhaps. I’m going to bed.”

“Henry, please. It’ll only take ten minutes.”

“No. I’m sorry Clare but I’m exhausted. I need to go and lie down.”

“Please Henry. Mike’s going to stay here tonight with his daughter and we have to pop out for five minutes; that’s all. We just need someone to look after her and put her to bed.”

Behind her, Mike and Rosalie appeared in the lounge doorway. Henry turned his eyes off Clare to the unshaven, rather slovenly man standing there, then the dropped to the little girl the man was gripping gently on the shoulders. His mouth made a sagging O and the words of negation he’d been about to spit out caught on his tongue. Her hair; her shining eyes; her pretty crumpled dress... Henry said nothing but stared in open wonderment.

In her impatience, Clare noticed his response enough to be pleasantly surprised. When she’d told Mike that Henry loved children she was being optimistic but he was clearly delighted, falling into the fifty-fifty split of old people who didn’t think children should be seen and not heard (and preferably not seen).

“This is Rosalie,” said Clare, taking the child by the arm and drawing her forward. “Rosalie, this is Henry. He’s a very nice man who lives upstairs. He’s going to show you where you’ll be sleeping; okay?”

Rosalie peeped back at her father and Mike smiled reassuringly. Clare hated to hurry the moment but they were almost certainly out of time already. “Henry, Rosalie and Mike will be in the attic. The bed’s still made up in there. Please can you just show Rosalie the way to the bathroom and then take her up?”

He didn’t answer. He was still looked at Rosalie with an open expression of apparent awe.

“Henry?”

“Hmmm?” He snapped out of it. “Yes. Of course. I’d be glad to.”

“Thank you.”

Clare backed out of the room, taking Mike now by the arm to draw him toward the front door.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay hon?” he asked.

Rosalie shrugged.

“Okay. I’ll see you in a bit. I won’t be long. I’ll be there to tuck you in, I promise.”

And with that, Clare pulled him out through the door and Rosalie was left alone with the nice gentleman.

THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Three

Selina had seen Travis in all sorts of different frames of mind.

She’d seen him in full on rage, breaking all the teeth in a football supporters’ mouth with the toe of his booth for calling him a “pansy-ass hippy.” She’d seen him laughing hysterically as a friend of theirs lost his grip while larking about hanging off the outside of a bridge over the spur road. She’d seen the blank and innocent way his face fell when he was asleep – like a little boy’s. She’d never ever seen him even close to how he looked now.

The blood colour was entirely absent from his cheeks and forehead, concentrated instead into zigzags on his eyeballs, the bulging veins on his arms. All he was doing was staring off, at nothing she could see, his mind obviously reeling back what had happened to them since they got to the church yard. The lightning. The explosion. The bodies. Eddie. And now this man here tonight and the fucked up things he had said.

She slipped onto the bed beside where he sat and touched his thigh. “Travis...”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I need—”

“You heard me Selina,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want. To talk. About any of it. Understand?”

She hesitated, then as she started to speak again, he looked her in the eye and said, “If you say a single word I will fucking break you.”

She went rock-still, petrified, only for a tiny instant feeling a flutter of panic-induced sexual tension. She didn’t even nod; she just looked back at him then quickly averted her gaze.

“Fuck this shit.” He’d thrown his jacket on the floor. He reached for it now and went through first one pocket then the other, flipping out the tin he’d had with him in the churchyard earlier. The daffodil tin.

Selina watched him crack it open and jiggle it to sort the contents: the Swan Vestas, the syringes, the spoon and the tightly wound polythene pouch filled with white powder. She watched him get to work making it ready, and as she did she got her own replay of the evening’s events. She tried to screen them off but the pictures kept flopping back into view.

She stood up. She went to the blinds at the window, twisting the rod that shut them off. She watched Travis fiddling with the contents of his little pouch, measuring it out carefully. She scratched the backs of her arms and brushed back at her hair irritably over and over again.

“Travis, can we talk?” she asked, before she could stop herself. “I need to just talk. About what happened.”

As soon as the second syllable was out she knew it was a mistake but she just went on anyway; and Travis did spin round, springing to his feet. He didn’t come at her and pin her to the wall by her neck. He didn’t punch her in the face with his fist.

His shoulders only sagged until he looked, as much as his larger frame could allow, like the old man sitting in the next room. Selina gripped her left wrist in her right hand, twisting it back and forth, the rims of her eyes suddenly itching with the release of moisture from her tear ducts that made her vision start to blur but didn’t trickle over the edges of her lower lids to run down her cheeks.

Travis set the daffodil box down on the wrinkled purple bedspread beside him. He took out his syringe and laid it to the left of the tin, right next to his leg. Then he took out the second syringe, laid it to the right of the box and slid it a little away, toward her, with two of his fingertips. He looked her in the eye and gave her a sad little smile that was maybe the most heartfelt and earnest expression of love he’d ever given her.

Selina found herself nodding and moving haltingly closer, sitting down on the mattress and this time touching his thigh without resistance as he tipped out just enough of the powder into the bowl of the spoon. He lit one of the matches, and they both silently watched the liquid form in the spoon. The smoke of the match curled round his arms as he touched the first syringe, drawing back the plunger to fill it. He repeated the process, preparing the second syringe then laid all the props delicately back in the daffodil tin before he snapped it shut and popped it back into his jacket pocket.

Without any words got two short lengths of rubber tubing from his other jacket pocket and set one of the syringes and one of the tubes into Selina’s open palm. She looked at his face but he didn’t meet her gaze. He was tying the tube he had tightly round his upper arm, using his teeth to grip it long enough to do so. He tapped on the vein in the crook of his elbow, encouraging it to expand.

Selina suddenly felt a scratch of panic that he would be gone into it without her; that she’d be left outside of it by herself. The needle was already at his vein, already pushing in, a pearl of blood forming round its end. She started to scrabble with her own plastic tube, curling it round her own bare arm but she wasn’t quick enough. The plunger went down, injecting the translucent fluid into Travis’s vein and almost immediately he gave a deep groan, stretching back his shoulders so that they audibly crackled.

He groaned again and slumped back onto the bed, the innocent boyish expression on his face, already away from all this; from everything that had happened to them. He was happy and safe inside of it, away from the smouldering bodies and the screaming friends and the man who told them that something terrible was coming.

For almost ten seconds Selina hesitated, that first desperate impulse to follow him faltering, asking herself again if three times made her a user while at the same time trying with all her willpower not to care about that right now.

Then she tightened the plastic strap with a sharp jerk and picked up the syringe from where it had fallen onto the bedclothes. Not allowing herself any doubt now, she placed it against the vein and closed her eyes.

THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Two

There could have been a billion thoughts crackling away in her head, pulling her in every conceivable direction, but there wasn’t even one.

Clare stood in the suddenly empty hallway staring after Joey’s blurry silhouette in the frosted glass of the front door, unable suddenly to form any pattern of thinking, cohesive or otherwise.

At the end of the hallway in the kitchen opening, Mike was setting down Rosalie, walking toward the back wall. Behind the closed door of Selina’s room, murmured voices gave little snaps of conflict as the voices rose, the exact words lost somewhere in the thick wood. Through the front door, Joey’s silhouette was gone. And the man – whoever he was – was ahead of him, getting further and further away by the second. She had to go after him; find him and... do what? Her thoughts were whirling, refusing to settle on any kind of sense to what was happening to them still.

Then a groan came and Clare’s heartbeat plunged from something close to relief: that there was something she could deal with here and now; something real; something she could understand, if only tenuously.

Henry shifted in his chair inside the lounge doorway, rocking forward, then fell back against the cushions, nose pointing almost vertically, his palsied fingers still curling in on his palms.

“Henry!” Clare ran to him and got on her knees at his feet.

The old man tilted his head to the side, his red raw eyes rolling first under his eyelids then down as he blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open. There were traces of white on the flanks of his chin where his spittle had dried. He swiped ineffectually at it, focusing on her at last, still breathing out of rhythm.

“Henry. Are you okay?”

“... Clare?”

“What happened to you? Are you alright?”

He stared straight ahead then shuddered. He gave a long blink then shuddered again.

“Henry?”

His focus popped back and he looked at her, holding her eyes in a frozen lock for three full seconds before he visibly relaxed all over, his shoulders slumping down, hands dropping into his lap.

“Are you... okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was raspy, as though he’d strained his vocal chords or was suffering from a serious cold, which she knew he wasn’t. “Just fell asleep.”

That gave her pause; almost made her call him out, a little tick of anger flicking the underside of her brain. For the second time that day she had the uncanny feeling that— Screw that, she knew he was lying to her; no doubt about it. “What about the man?”

Henry paled.

“Did you see the man?”

His eyes hopped off her face to look right over her shoulder, at where the man had been standing.

“Did you talk to him?” she asked.

He sat forward. “I’m tired. I think I might go to bed.”

“Henry...”

“You’ll have to excuse me.”

He clearly had every intention of standing – in normal circumstances she might have even helped him – but now she found herself simply standing up, not helping him in the least, just looking at him coldly, more convinced now than ever that he wasn’t being truthful. And that pissed her off. Perhaps her mind was using that as an outlet to the tension but she suddenly wanted to shout at the idiot old man and tell him exactly what she thought of his secrets.

But she didn’t. And when he faltered trying to stand, she did jump forward to take his arm and steady him. At that he made eye contact and smiled and the anger winked out, turning back into a tense tickle of frustration and panic.

“I’m just going to sit for a moment,” said Henry. “Do you think you could fetch me a cup of tea?”

Clare was looking at the window as though she could see through the blinds but she nodded and left him sitting there.

“Mike.” She marched down the hall to the kitchen. He was pouring orange juice from a carton he’d taken from the fridge. He handed it to Rosalie and ruffled her hair as she started to sip it but he was looking at Clare as she approached. He was keeping it as hidden as he could for the little girl’s sake but he had been deeply affected by what had just happened. She’d never seen this expression on his face and in its way that shook her more than she had been. He was reflecting her own shivering psyche.

“Clare.”

“You have to come with me. We have to go after him; get him back here.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best—”

“Mike. We have to go. Now. We have to stop him before...”

“What?”

She didn’t answer.

“You believed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cause I’m not sure—”

“We have to go after him. Now. I need you with me.”

He started to move then hesitated. “I can’t. Rosalie...”

The little girl was still drinking, looking up over the rim of her glass at both of them. Clare’s resolve almost faltered; then she remembered, “Henry. He can look after her. Take her up to bed. We won’t be gone long.”

Mike shifted through the mental process of giving in, nodding finally. “Okay. Let’s do it. You sure she’ll be okay with him?”

“Of course,” replied Clare, already turning to go. “Henry loves children.”