Glimmer and other Stories (2 page)

‘These clothes aren’t mine,’ the man said, then held out his arms so that she could see the shortness of his sleeves.

‘Obviously. Unless they shrank from so much exposure to water.’

‘Was I in there for so long?’

‘I neither know nor care.’ The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You have the look of the dispossessed about you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Apology accepted. Come with me.’

The woman walked towards a row of beach huts that stood in front of the red-hued cliffs. He got up and followed her like a lost dog. Flinching each time he took a step. His shoes, too tight, pinched his toes and made a squelching sound. Soaked as they were from his dip in the briny. She stopped in front of a small wooden cabin that was elevated from the ground by four thick posts. It was whitewashed all over, except for the windows; which were painted to look like two giant eyes.
 

‘It keeps watch for me when I’m away. Shall we go in?’
 

He blinked, stared behind her at the crumbling rock face, and nodded his head.

‘This way,’ she said. They climbed the wind torn splintered steps in silence, except for the breeze that whispered, ‘Careful now.’
 

‘It's my home from home. To be honest, I think I spend more time here than anywhere else.’ The woman stopped at the top and sucked in a lungful of air. ‘Nothing like this smell is there?’

His breath came out in uneasy gasps. She gestured for him to enter. The man took a step, but his legs began to shake and he paused at the threshold.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want to get warm and dry?’

‘Yes…no. Of course…it’s just that…’

He backed away, panting, dizzy. She pursed her lips and folded her arms. He saw her face lose its look of kindness, and felt his skin heat up.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit claustrophobic. Your cabin, although as pretty as a butterfly, is on the small side and to be frank, I’ve had enough of confined spaces.’

‘Small! A tent is small. A kennel is small. The inside of a wren’s skull is small. This accommodation is not. This house, yes, house, is just the right size for my needs. Any larger and I would get lost trying to find my way out. But, if you believe it to be so tiny that your largeness would be jeopardised by its minuscule dimensions, then by all means feel free to recover elsewhere.’

The woman spun around and straightened her back. She put her hand upon a rusty metal handle and pushed down hard.
 
The door creaked as it opened and the man thought that he heard something sigh. A spider’s web stuck to her long black hair. She picked it out, twisted it around her forefinger, and flicked it into the air. Then she stepped inside. He noticed that she did not close the door behind her, so he leant forward and peered into the shady interior.
 

Amidst the dust and shallow light, he saw an assortment of washed up junk heaped around the room. In the centre was a stack of used condoms and plastic coke bottles, fashioned in the shape of a rocking chair. To the right, under the window, a stack of dried seaweed lay on top of one another; like the shrivelled flesh of long dead corpses. To the left, where he saw the woman squatting, was a bundle of threadbare clothing.
 

She held up a large pair of black swimming trunks and poked her finger through a hole in the crotch. She wiggled her digit about and chuckled. He smiled too, took a deep breath and as cautious as a pregnant vixen, entered the room.

‘Wipe your feet. Who brought you up?’ The woman dropped her swimsuit and stood.

‘Oh, right, sorry.’

‘Don’t touch anything.’

The man inched his way over to a weather-beaten piece of wood and sat.

‘So, what’s the story?’
 

‘Sorry?’

‘Girl trouble? Boy trouble? Trouble, trouble? All three?’

Tears began to well up in his eyes. He closed them quickly, before the salty drops could escape.
 

‘Oh dear, have I been insensitive? Never mind. Let me introduce myself. I was christened Gladys. I know, what were my parents thinking? People call me Dys. It’s better than Glad that would be awful. And you are?’

‘Do I have to tell you my real name?’

‘No. Maybe I should have said, “And, what do I call you?’’’

The man frowned for a moment, then grinned. ‘Ferdinand.’

‘How grand.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Right then, Ferdinand, make yourself useful. Here, see if you can find something colourful in this lot.’

Ferdinand parted his lips ready to say, ‘No thanks. I’ll just sit here and wallow in self-pity,’ when his face was hit with a bundle of sea washed underwear. He let the clothing fall onto his lap and stared at the oddments. With a long inhale of breath, he placed his fingers on the pile, and picked through them as though they were precious jewels.

‘That’s a good fellow. You’ve got the hang of it. If I didn’t know better, and I don’t, I’d say that you have done this kind of thing before.’

‘No, I swear, this is my first time.’

‘You’re a natural.’

‘How about this?’ he said, and held up a lime green bathing suit.

‘Marvellous. Throw it over.’

He did. Dys caught it in her left hand and twirled it in the air like a pizza base, then placed it on the ground. He watched as she pulled at the elasticated cloth until it resembled a streak of toxic waste. She grabbed the black trunks, bit, and tore them until they took on a filigree appearance, then placed them on top of the swimsuit.

‘It needs something else. Something less tangible,’ she said, and stood over her creation.
 

Head tilted upwards, eyes and mouth closed, Dys hummed a strange melodic tune. She stepped onto the clothing and stomped her feet. The whole cabin shook. The tight-lipped singing became faster and louder as she trampled upon the material. Ferdinand moved his hands slowly to his ears to block out the disturbing sound. Fortunately, she stopped before his brain popped, and he relaxed his arms.

Kneeling down, Dys said, ‘Voila! I think I shall call it, “Arrested Suicide” in your honour. Should fetch about six grand. Since you helped, I shall share my fee and give you five hundred. Is that okay?’
 

Ferdinand’s mouth dropped open.

‘Excellent. Tell me, do you have anywhere to go? I presume your little outburst today was a one-off?’

‘Yes. I…I’ve not been out for a while and…I’ve lost everything.’

‘On the contrary, you have found me. Or maybe I found you. Either way, we make a great team. Want to sign up?’

‘For what exactly?’

‘For art, my dear, art. I create and sell sea sculpture from the rubbish that people throw into it. I make beauty from filth and rejection. Maybe you are my next project?’

Ferdinand stood and Dys walked towards him. She took his hand and held it against her stomach.
 

‘It comes from here. Do you feel it?’
 

He did not flinch or try to run away. Instead, he pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged.
 

‘That would be a yes then?’
 

Ferdinand stayed where he was and listened to the waves call out his real name.

‘Let the sea take it,’ Dys said.

The End

Scarecrow

The child didn’t notice the gash on her shin, or the cut on her left cheek. All she wanted to do was to find somewhere to hide. She wiped some spattered mud from her face, and continued to push her way through a thorny hedge that tugged at her clothes, leaving her body covered in scratches. When she emerged from the spiky bushes her brown hair was full of leaves, seedpods and dirt. Shreds of pink nylon hung down from her torn dress, and her white satin shoes were ragged. But the child didn’t seem to care. She caught her breath and ran through the sodden, rutted fields.

Stumbling and falling, she headed towards a low privet hedge at the end of an overgrown meadow. When she reached it, she stopped and peered over the picket fence. The girl saw a house half hidden behind two large fir trees. The garden was overgrown, and the lawn strewn with rusty barrels, ripped tarpaulins, and dented oil drums. She climbed over the fence and looked around. There was a dilapidated outbuilding a few feet away with a large stack of wood propped up against it. The girl ran towards the building and ducked down behind a water butt attached to a cracked drainpipe.

When her breathing slowed and the pounding in her chest eased, she tilted her head to one side and listened. A strange shuffling noise like someone brushing up dead leaves made the girl hold her breath. It was not leaves, though, but footsteps heading her way. They stopped and she sucked her stomach in. Almost blue from lack of oxygen, the girl opened her mouth and let the held-in air out. A loud growling sound made her stiffen, and she saw a dog’s snout push its way between the butt and the wall. Its breath was hot and smelled of day-old meat. The girl grimaced, squeezed herself further in between the brick wall and piles of seasoned timber, pressed her back against cold stone, and slid noiselessly to the ground.

‘No. No Gladiator. I said, no!’
 

Through a small slit between the logs, the girl could just make out the trembling front leg of the dog. It snorted each time it took a breath. She wondered how long it would be before it succumbed to its wild side and dug her out. A cold sweat ran down her back, and she felt sure that the dog could smell her fear. So she crouched further into the mossy ground to mask her stink. A piece of wood moved. She pulled in her legs, wrapped her arms around them, and buried her head into her knees.
 

‘No. Stop, stop that right now!’
 

Men's voices, especially raised ones, scared her more than any starving dog. She peeked through the gap in the wood and saw a grey-haired old man. He bent down, grabbed the collar of a brown and white Jack Russell terrier, coughed, stood up, and took a deep breath. His lungs crackled and his face lost its colour. She almost laughed. How could she have been so afraid of such a little dog? How could she fear such a weak old man?

‘Bad girl, bad! What have I told you about snuffling around here? Eh? There’s snakes in there, I saw one yesterday. What if you got bit? What would I do then? I can’t afford vets’ bills,’ the man said.

The idea of being bitten by a snake alarmed the girl. She tensed and turned her head, searching for signs of serpent.
 

‘Bad girl, bad! Now go on, go home.’ She saw him cuff the dog across its nose, then watched the hound lower its head and walk away. The old man scratched his chin and followed.
 

Her body was cold and her limbs stiff from sitting hunched up on the damp earth. She straightened her legs, winced as the blood flow returned, and rubbed her calf muscles until the pins and needles went away. A hollow cramp pulled at her stomach, and she clutched her belly. All that running had made the girl hungry. Try as she might she could not ignore it. Or the thought of the sausage rolls and chocolate cake she had left behind. Unable to bear the pangs any longer, she leant forward, checked there was no one there, and crept out.
 

The girl stood in the large unkempt garden and looked around for things she could eat, such as windfalls, or the odd strewn hazelnut. It was lined with ancient gnarled fruit trees of pear, apple and plum, but their bare twisted branches bore no fruit. In the distance, she noticed smoke curling up from the chimney of the cottage. It reminded her of the house she had escaped from, and her hands involuntarily shaped themselves into fists.

A raw wind nipped at her exposed arms and legs. Clouds gathered grey and full. The little girl stared at them transfixed by their ever-changing shapes, and wished that she were one too. She blinked as drops of icy rain fell onto her grubby flesh leaving pink patches of clean on her skin. It made her shiver, so she looked around for a place to shelter until the downpour stopped. Obscured behind a wall of brambles was a wooden shed. The girl ran towards it, poked her hand in between the thorns and grabbed onto the door handle. Which was nothing more than a loop of leather made out of a man’s trouser belt. When she pulled, it opened with a sigh.
 

It was dark inside and smelled of damp. An old cobweb fell onto her forehead and she jumped back startled. Catching her breath, she put her fingers to her brow and wiped the sticky thread away. She pushed the door again, and it opened wider. The girl bent down, picked up a large twig and threw it inside. When nothing yelped or ran out, she went in. She stood for a moment and listened for sounds of danger, but all she could hear was the noise of rain pelting onto the roof and the swish of wind in the trees. Shafts of fading light shone through holes in the roof, spotlighting areas of the room. The girl could just make out parts of rusty garden tools, plant pots, and a pile of Hessian sacks. She walked over to them, picked them up, and looked inside just to make sure there were no snakes in the bottom. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of must and she sneezed, then wrapped the makeshift blankets around her shivering body.
 

The girl wandered around the hut looking for things that could be of use. On the cracked wooden floor, she found a pile of rope and a tin of Swedish spiced cookies. Inside were several star-shaped biscuits. Without thinking, the girl shoved all of them into her mouth. They tasted stale, so she spat them out, wiped her lips, and swallowed dryly. She was thirsty, but there was no water to be had in this dingy place. So she sat down and thought.
 

Once, when she was visiting her Aunt Karen, they had watched a programme about how to survive in hostile environments. A man used a piece of plastic tied between two trees to gather rainwater. At the time she thought it was stupid, but now it all made sense. She looked around saw an old carrier bag squashed up against the back wall, picked it up and gave it a good shake. Satisfied that there were no bugs or soil inside, she gathered up the rope, opened the door, and looked outside. There was no one around, so she ripped the bag along its seam, tied rope to each end, attached one piece to the door handle, and the other to a thick bramble. It was a heavy downpour and the bag soon began to fill. The girl huddled inside the doorway, cupped her hands, held them out and caught some raindrops. Then she drank them down, and did it again until her thirst was quenched.