Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts

  “The egg is the power?”

  “Yes. If you release it, humanity changes. And there’s a price to pay. We’d not be dependent on one another. We could have what we want. That means taking from those weaker than ourselves. We’d feel no remorse or guilt at stamping on our neighhours face to take his car. We would only live for our own personal betterment.”

  “But society would find a new balance in time.”

  He nods. “You’re right. But what I’m saying is the civilisation we know would be destroyed. Millions of people would die. We would return to living in small family units. Individually some of us would be happier. Collectively it would be barbarous and chaotic. Roads and buildings would crumble. A hundred individuals would no longer surrender their power to choose what to do, their freewill, if you like. By no means would we return to living in caves, but the biggest building project would be the one we could individually undertake, such as a house for our family.”

  “So the choice is abandon civilisation in favour of absolute personal freedom, or stay childlike and dependent, some might say even castrated, in order to remain a member of a system that can actually hurt you as an individual. After all, sitting behind a desk day in day out in order to acquire a few material possessions isn’t so wonderful is it?”

  The old man’s eyes open in wonder. “Is this the same melancholy Carol who I saw reading Richard Rolle’s plaque, eyes always shy and downcast, all cold and empty inside?”

  You speak forcefully. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that now you’re full of fire. Do you feel it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel as if you want to act? To grab hold of something, some opportunity, and make it yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to break open the shell and release the pagan?”

  “No. I’m going to open that bloody sack.”

  You hurry back to the sack. The bones click expectantly in their wooden shells. You open the sack, thrust in your hands and pull out…

  …a head. It’s the dead head of a child. The dead eyes stare back into yours, the hair is matted with moss. Lips part, and it whispers your name. “Carol.”

  And you know then that the head is yours. As you were when you were eleven. But it lies dead and rotten in your hands, and it’s full of dirt and poisons that ooze out onto your skin.

  You yell at the old man. “Is this what you wanted to show me? This disgusting thing? Did it make you happy watching my face when I saw this? What a joke, get the girl—this stupid girl with stupid black clothes and stupid long black witches hair—get her to pull a dead head out of a sack. Habloody-ha!”

  “Are you really shocked?”

  “Shocked? No, I’m bloody angry.”

  You throw the head at him, it misses, bouncing away like a pin-ball amongst the coffins.

  You yell, “What do you want me to do now, you bastard?”

  But it’s the click of Ruth Holmroyd’s bones that answers. “Look in the sack. There’s something else in there.”

  You return to the sack lying in the golden mist of soil. You breathe deeply, trying to relax, readying yourself.

  “What now?” you ask the old man, “a model of me sitting on top of a goat?”

  Ruth clicks, a kind sound. “Look inside.”

  You lift the flap of the sack and push your hand in toward whatever forms the mound at the bottom. Your fingers take hold of something warm, you feel hair, you pull it out.

  Another head.

  This is your head now you’re fully grown. Only it’s different. The long dyed black hair is gone; it’s short, dark but sprinkled with silver hairs. The eyes are closed. There are faint lines around the face. You, maybe, in another fifteen years.

  As you hold the head there, staring, with a sense of growing wonder at the face, the eyes spring open. They are alive and cheerful. “Wotcha, Carol!” The face looks delighted to see you. “What kept you so long? I can’t wait here for ever y’know!”

  Suddenly you experience this gush of delight, so powerful it steals your breath. You feel bright and cheerful. Through you rush happy memories. Christmas, when you were young. The excitement of going downstairs, seeing the Christmas tree in the corner, and there in the still dark room the shapes of presents stacked in the armchair and your Mum saying, “Go on, it’s okay, you can open them.” Or the puppy Dad bought you for your birthday. The way the puppy scampered round you, his big clumsy feet slipping all over the lino, charging through balls of wrapping paper, pink tongue hanging down. You’ve never felt as happy as this. A fountain of warmth and happiness is shining inside of you. You smile until your cheeks ache.

  You look round for the old man. He’s not there. Or the coffins. You catch your breath. You’re standing in the graveyard in the sunshine. The church clock strikes two. Propped against the headstone of Ruth Holmroyd is the long handled scythe.

  Your heart is skipping lightly, you want to sing or just shout out happy silly things like, “Oh Carol! Oh Carol! You’re fantastic, you’re beautiful!”

  You’re thinking of walking back to the pit village where you live, when you notice the girl sitting on the bench. She has long black hair; she’s dressed all in black. In fact, she looks extraordinarily similar to you. She gazes down at the ground with dolorous eyes, long hair falling forward across her face and exposing a slender white neck.

  This isn’t what you planned. This isn’t what you even dreamed possible, but you seize the old man’s scythe from where it leans against Ruth Holmroyd’s headstone. You raise it above your head, it’s blade curving as sharp as a scimitar catches the sunlight. As easily as decapitating the head of a single daffodil you swing the scythe down at the girl’s white neck.

  After replacing the scythe you walk singing from the grave-yard and you know it’s going to be a beautiful day.

  Man in Danger – A Video Self-Portrait

  “In a moment, I want to show you something that for the life of me I can’t explain.”

  Head and shoulders in the TV screen is man. Mid-thirties, cheerful, curly black hair, so clean shaven the razor burn glares in sore red patches above his shirt collar.

  He speaks. A soft, middle-class voice. “Good morning. My name is Jonathon Skilton, I’m…” He smiles self-consciously. “Heck. This is harder than you think. Right, Jonno. You’re going to do it. You see, I want to watch this in ten years and see what I’m like now, thirty-four years old, and right at the start of this… adventure. Adventure? Yeah, why not. It is an adventure. Of course, in ten years I might see this and think; you stupid fool. You chucked away a perfectly good legal career, for this lunatic, wing-and-a-prayer escapade. But with luck, I—ten years older—will be saying to this image you’re seeing now: You are right Jonathon Skilton. You were right to take the chance. You’ve only got one life. This is no rehearsal for the real thing: it is the real thing. Grab your destiny with both fists and blithering-well go for it. So, here I am. In a stone cottage in the Yorkshire Pennines with nothing but hills and heather and a gale that blows constantly. The locals say they only know when it’s summer when cricketers shovel the snow off the pitch. And I wouldn’t change it for the world. Right… come with me.”

  Smiling happily, Skilton picks up the camera. View of a study. Packing cases line one wall. Books piled on floor. Facing a white washed wall, a desk with computer.

  “There’s my pride and joy. My new PC. I sold my car to buy that. Oh… I know I’m supposed to be talking to me, ten years in the future, but just to remind you… me, this hysterically, stark-staring adventure I’ve embarked on is to become a writer. Other small biographical details: Divorced; current girlfriend lives in Wakefield; state of bank balance: not bad; the proceeds from selling the house will keep me ticking over ten months. And… do you want to know a secret? He opens the bottom drawer in the desk. The only item therein is a revolver.

  “There it is, a Taurus .38 Special, loaded with hollow nosed slugs. I was burgled two years ago. A
friend gave me the gun for protection. To be honest, I’m now more afraid of the gun than burglars. Before long I’ll end up chucking the damn thing in a river. Right, come through here into the kitchen. Remember, I wanted to show you something I found this morning.” Smiles into camera which he sets on kitchen table. “Something bloody weird. But first: fanfares; twenty-one gun salute: A letter arrived this morning.” A hand moves into vision holding three sheets of paper. “A letter; with a contract in duplicate! My first professional sale! A Mr Karl Dutch, he edits the World’s Best Horror Series, has only gone and bought one of my stories!” He reads. “Dear Jonathon. You’ll be pleased to learn that ‘Bobbing Up And Down’ had made the final cut for The World’s Best Horror XIV. If the enclosed permissions forms, and payment of $60 is acceptable, please…” etc. etc. I’ll say it’s acceptable. What’s $60 in sterling? About forty quid? It won’t buy a Porsche, but it’s a start. I’m getting a story into a real book. Can you imagine what that means to me after all these years trying? I’ll be cracking open a bottle of Newcastle Brown tonight to celebrate… Right. Now for the mystery of Clough Top Cottage. Come with me.”

  He picks up camera. The kitchen is being refurbished. Walls stripped of paper. Bare wires protrude from ceiling. New door leans against one wall. Tins of paint stand on fridge.

  “Yesterday, I ripped out some ancient cupboards that ran along that wall. They were held in position by hefty wooden pegs that had been driven into the wall. I imagine these pegs were the forerunners of raw plugs. Anyway. I finished late last night by pulling out these wooden pegs, ruddy big things they were. This morning I was going to fill holes with Polyfilla.

  “Naturally, the arrival of the letter from Mr Dutch delayed things a bit. I had to run like a loony round the cottage shouting at the top of my voice and reading it over and over; then biting the back of my hand to make sure I wasn’t dreaming… Then when I got round to filling the holes I noticed that two of them—one at this end of the wall—one at the other, near the fridge, go right through. That’s right. Two holes, big enough to insert a cucumber, go right through to the other side. At first I thought it was simply into the cavity you get in houses between two walls. But this cottage is nearly two hundred years old. They didn’t bother with anything so fancy as cavity walls then. So, I poked a broom handle through and, blow me, it didn’t stop for about three feet before hitting an obstruction. That’s the hole near the fridge. But the one at this end… I can stick the handle right in as far as the brush head.”

  He directs the camera at two holes in the wall approximately five feet above the floor. The edges of the hole are rough and powdery where the wooden plugs were extracted. Beyond the hole only darkness.

  “At the other side of the wall is a kind of lean to outhouse. I’ve checked; the holes don’t go right through into there. Curiouser and curiouser. The air seeping through the hole smells… not too pleasant, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. I’ve shone the torch through. It’s difficult to see much but through one I can see a stone wall three feet away from the hole. The weird one is at this end. There I could see a doorway, with a ceiling beyond that slopes sharply down. As if it’s an entrance to a cellar. Now, this cottage has no cellar; at least it’s not supposed to. So, we’ve the start of an intriguing little mystery. Why was the cellar blocked off? Can I reopen the entrance? If I do, what will I find down there? But that’s going to have to wait. First, I’m going to read Mr Dutch’s letter and contracts several more times. Then I’m going to write my reply.”

  TWO

  The screen is dark. Pale shapes swing out of darkness. Nothing identifiable. But impression is of the camera moving very quickly. Duration: Thirty seconds. Recorded sounds: Deep juddering sounds becoming muffled. Majority of sounds seem to be an object or objects striking the camcorder’s microphone.

  “What do you make of that?” On screen a talking head shot of Jonathon Skilton. He sits at the kitchen table. Behind the window runs with rain. A gate roars. “I watched what I recorded yesterday. You know, the introduction, reading Karl Dutch’s letter, showing you the holes in the wall. That’s fine. But immediately after that comes those shots of what looks like someone running like mad with the camera. It wasn’t me that’s for sure. I haven’t touched the camera since yesterday. The tape’s new. I suppose what you just saw could have been recorded accidentally by the manufacturer. Who knows. It’s just… “The man’s expression is troubled. “It’s just I had the impression someone was in my bedroom last night. I was half awake, facing the wall, and I had the strongest… feeling… sensation that someone was walking up and down the bedroom floor behind me… I know, I know, I must’ve dreamt it.” Turns to look out of window. Stares, self-absorbed. Then, “Come on. You haven’t seen the cottage yet.” Exterior shot. View of the stone cottage on the hillside. It stands alone. Surrounding it, moorland. The gale rocks a lone tree back and forth. The rain makes the cottage look black.

  THREE

  “Damn…”

  Jonathon sits at the computer. Its screen is blue, bearing white print.

  “Damn and blast… “He taps keys. “Look at this. Fifteen hundred quid’s worth of hardware and it won’t print a single letter. Not any letter—just the most important letter I’ve ever written. Accepting Karl Dutch’s offer to buy my story for the World’s Best Horror. The computer’s refusing to recognise my printer. But no, my beauty. I’m not going to let you beat me. You will print out this letter if it’s the last thing I fizzing-well do.” Looks into camera lens. “Oh, I can’t be bothered with you as well. Video diary? More like a pain in—”

  His hand looms towards the lens. The image cuts to more pale shapes streaming out of darkness. Again impression is of camera being carried by someone running through a dark place. Whether inside or out is not known.

  After eighteen seconds this cuts to talking-head shot of Jonathon Skilton, expression gloomy. “Two days I’ve been working on that computer, trying to write that dam letter to Karl Dutch. Two days! I could have chiselled the thing on a stone slab in that time! Now. Press key F10. While it prints—hopefully!—you can take a look at this…” Skilton picks up camera. Jerky view of study, doorway, then into kitchen. “The fridge. It’s packed in. The repairman said the Freon, apparently that’s the stuff that makes the thing cold, had leaked away. Or more likely been deliberately drained off. Usually it takes years for Freon to leak down to those levels. Want to see more? You’ve seen more. I checked the camcorder tape yesterday. After my latest recording it was blank. This morning there’s more of that weird stuff on it. Like someone running with the camera at night.” He sighs. “Back we go to the holes in the walls. When I first shone the torch through, the walls were bare. Now there’s something white hanging down. I can’t make it out… The best I can describe it is a piece of white cloth hanging on a nail. Again I’m only guessing because the view’s restricted by the narrowness of the hole. You know what I think? I think someone’s found a way in here through the cellar… Then, somehow, into the cottage. Now they’re playing some kind of game to try and screw my mind… If they come back tonight, I’ll know more. I’m going to link up the camcorder to the VCR in my bedroom. Anyone comes into my bedroom, I’ll catch them on tape.”

  FOUR

  It’s dark. Sounds of crying. A pale shape flaps into the air and falls.

  “Nn-no. Go away… Leave… please leave… please leave me… Go away… Ah, ah no…” More crying. Unintelligible words that sound like pleading. The voice belong to Jonathon Skilton. Camera is directed at his bed. The pale shape rises and falls, flapping. It’s the bed quilt being lifted, almost as if someone is making the bed and shaking out the creased quilt. There is insufficient light to show clearly what is happening. Skilton appears to be lying on his side facing the wall with an arm over his face. He cries with fright. The bedding flaps. Whether it is a second person in the room lifting the bedding or if he is doing it himself cannot be discerned.

  “Go away… Please. Leave me. Le
ave me! Don’t touch me. Don’t. Please…” His cries to a person unseen.

  Next scenes are jerky and shot in near darkness. The camcorder is carried downstairs at a run, through study and into kitchen. Sound of object rubbing against mike; affect is of respiration: loud, rasping. Once in the kitchen the camera is borne towards the wall with the two holes. Screen fades to black. Then glimpse of stone wall. Steps leading down through doorway. What follows is impression of camera being carried by someone running. Grey shapes flit out of darkness. Nothing identifiable.

  FIVE

  Head shot of Skilton. His face is stubbled, he looks unkempt and melancholy.

  “I don’t remember it. But there is a video record of me being… assaulted in bed last night. I remember nothing. I’ve seen the shots of someone running with a camcorder. It seems whoever it was who filmed them simply picked up the camcorder, ran downstairs, somehow entered the passage that runs behind the kitchen wall, ran down into the cellar; then they’re just running and running. You see glimpses, just… just grey flashes of things. I don’t know what they are but…” He looks into camera, exhausted. “But, they are disturbing to see, somehow. I feel as if I should recognise them… It just makes me feel sick. That’s all.”

  SIX

  A shot of Skilton sat at the computer, typing.

  SEVEN

  Noise: excited breathing. Rapid movement. Darkness.

  “Midnight.” Skilton’s voice. Hushed, excited. “I woke. Thought I saw a figure… Did see a figure in the doorway of my bedroom. This time—I’ve got them. I’ve got them. They went downstairs. I’m sure… Kitchen probably.”