Incorcisms E-Book

David Hartley

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 62

Beschreibung

"You have to understand," says the woman, "an incorcism is nothing like its counterpart. No bells and whistles, no drama. All it takes is willingness, which you already have in spades." Strange stories about strange things for strange people. Tales of possession and obsession. Of destruction and restoration. Of the demons we hold inside us, and those we leave behind in others. An odd apocalypse freezes a supermarket on Mother's Day, a vanished village holds an ancient curse, an abandoned ice cream van tears a street apart. Rival rainbow setters, the woman who sowed a crop of elephants in her garden, and what happens if you keep on turning the clocks back. Perhaps you had a demon then lost it. Do you miss it? Our time here is brief and so are these curious fables. But the smallest of splinters are the hardest to dig out. Come and be snagged. Come, be unsettled. To be strange is to be human. David Hartley's tiny fictions are elusive and teasing and true. They're like the fading echoes of dreams you struggle to remember when you wake up in the morning – the bits that you know didn't quite make sense, and made you feel strange and a little unnerved, but you knew were important, so important, if only you could hold on to them forever. Robert Shearman

Leseprobe

Dedicated to the Gaslamp Writers: Abi, Fats, Ben, Tom, Dan, Rob, Beth, & Nici, for letting me loose and reining me in. Thanks guys, a million times over.

Incorcisms

Contents

The Incorcist

Mayday

Silver Birch

Load Bearing

Mothering

Daylight Savings

Scaffold

Preserved

The Midnight That Never Came

Turning Mermaid

A Remnant Low

Help Yourself

The Thrower and the Catcher

‘No’ Has Too Much of a Habit of Knowing in Advance

Wakes Week

Different, Somehow

The Incorcist

This is what Amy Shelling looks like now.

Pale, dishevelled, her hair pinned down but wisps of it taken up by the wind. She looks cold, doesn’t she? And stressed, and tired out. She has the weight of the last nine years on her shoulders. If you look closely you can just about see the top of the scratches as they reach up her neck, but she’s trying to cover them with a woollen scarf.

She hesitates on the doorstep of the terraced house. She’s puzzled. Is this the place? It doesn’t look right. She was expecting something more… gothic. Something grand and opulent with gargoyles and spires. It’s just a terraced house.

She knocks. A woman in an apron opens the door. She has a broad smile on her face.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m, er… Sorry. I’m looking for… the Incorcist?’

The smile becomes a smirk of curiosity. The eyes narrow as she takes in the girl on her doorstep.

‘It’s Amy, isn’t it? Amy Shelling?’

‘Yeah.’

The woman chuckles. ‘You’d better come in.’

*

This is what Amy Shelling looks like now.

She is sitting in the living room of the house and some colour has returned to her cheeks. It’s warmer in here; cosy and homely. She takes her coat off, but not her scarf. She’s wearing an old Adidas pullover and baggy jeans. The only skin on show is her face and hands, the two places where you won’t see the scratches.

She glances around the room. Bookcase, ornaments, tasteful carpet, a clock on the mantelpiece. It is all so normal. The woman is perched on the edge of the armchair. She is fascinated by Amy. Amy doesn’t quite know where to look or what to do with her hands.

‘I’m so very glad you came,’ says the woman.

Amy shrugs. She is blushing.

‘Have you been well?’

She shrugs again and looks down at her fingers. ‘It’s been hard.’

‘How so?’

‘Everyone knows who I am. They all ask about it. Ask me how it was, what I felt like. All that stuff.’

‘You’re tired of it aren’t you?’

‘Suppose.’

‘I understand.’

‘Can I see him, then? The Incorcist?’

‘You are quite sure, aren’t you?’

‘Never been more sure about anything in my life.’

The woman clasps her hands together and grins. ‘Let me get you a drink. I’ve just made a batch of lemonade. I know it’s not quite the season, but would you like some?’

Amy considers it. She’s not a child any more. But she nods. ‘Thanks.’

‘You wait here, I’ll fetch it.’

*

This is what Amy Shelling looks like now.

She’s crossed to the bookshelf and we can see a bit more of her body shape now that she’s up and about. Put on weight, hasn’t she? She’s trying to hide it under that jumper, but we can tell from the way she holds herself. It’s good, it’s a good thing; she looks healthier, radiant even. She’s turned into quite a handsome young woman underneath all the gloom, hasn’t she? A good make-over and she’ll be a stunner.

‘Here you are, dear,’ says the woman as she comes back into the room.

Amy jumps and hurries back to her seat. The woman hands her a tall glass of lemonade. Amy takes a sip.

‘Good, isn’t it?’

It is good. It’s very good. Amy nods and drinks some more. She feels it fizzing down her throat.

‘How long has it been, Amy? Could you tell me?’

Amy licks the lemonade from her lips. ‘Ten years,’ she says. ‘Nearly.’

The woman smiles and thinks for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Nine years, nine months, nine weeks. Three nines and then… here you are.’

‘Is that OK?’

‘Here you are. To invert the world again.’

Amy frowns. A thought reaches her.

‘It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the Incorcist?’

The woman’s smile deepens, and she nods. She still hasn’t removed her apron. Amy becomes aware of the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘What compelled you, Amy? Why now?’

‘I’m sick of it. All the press, the paparazzi and that.’

‘Why now, specifically?’

Amy tuts and rolls her eyes. She shifts in her seat. ‘I’m going on This Morning.’

‘This Morning? The television programme?’

‘Yeah. Schofield and Willoughby.’

‘I see.’ The woman sits back and considers it. The smile drops from her face, just for a few moments. It soon returns. ‘Drink your lemonade, Amy.’

Amy drinks. It is delicious. She drinks again.

‘Will it hurt?’ she asks.

The woman reaches out and takes Amy’s hand, very gently. Amy finishes her lemonade, puts the glass down, waits for something to happen.

‘You have to understand,’ says the woman, ‘an incorcism is nothing like its counterpart. No bells and whistles, no drama. All it takes is willingness, which you already have in spades. The mere act of you coming here and knocking on my door fulfils the most dramatic requirements.’

Amy is still frowning, but something has changed.

‘Can you feel it?’

The woman kisses the back of Amy’s hand. It is not necessary, but she is compelled.

‘It’s already happened,’ says Amy as she lets go. ‘He’s back.’

The woman takes the empty glass and moves to the door.

‘Show yourself out whenever you’re ready.’

*

This is what Amy Shelling looks like now.

Hold on. Wait just a moment. Wait until Phillip Schofield has finished his introduction. And… cut.

There she is. Our Amy. All grown up. She looks glamorous now, doesn’t she? She’s been tended to by the hair and make-up team and she actually looks her age now. A little older, in fact. She has been dressed in a summery blouse and ruby red shoes and her hair has been curled into ringlets. Her arms are bare, as she requested, and we can really see the scratch scars now, can’t we? The cross-cross chaos of that ten-year-old girl from nearly ten years ago.

Phillip is ready to ask about the scars. Ready to ask her to show them. And then Holly will gently move onto deeper questions. Can you describe how it felt? Do you remember much about it? Has anything strange happened since?

But Amy is ready for everything and more. Look at her. Really look at her. This is what Amy Shelling looks like now. Pupils just a shade blacker than they should be. The tiniest fragment of a grin at the corners of her mouth. Fingernails filed to a sharp edge.

She is wearing lip gloss which she applied herself. It is lemon flavoured.

Mayday

Today, in the village of Mayday, only ticketed tourists walk the parade route, led by dead-eyed actors in cheap costumes who spout fast and dubious facts. But the actors are bit-parts in the theatrics of Mayday herself: England’s Village of the Vanished.