A Dark Assortment Read online

  The landing was empty. Maybe he could ask a neighbour for help. He frowned. His English was not good. He’d been taking classes for a month, but it wasn’t easy. He’d always favoured good solid numbers rather than slippery words. Still, this would be a good opportunity to try out his skills. He shone his flashlight across the landing that he shared with five other flats. He’d often passed his neighbours in the stairwell, but they’d never returned his smiles.

  He tried each door in turn, knocking politely and stepping back to wait. But no one answered. He’d have to try again on another floor.

  As he let himself out into the stairwell, the heavy fire door slipped from his hand and slammed behind him. He grimaced. The noise would not endear him to his neighbours. But he had a job to do. He must press on.

  His flashlight was bright, but it did little to puncture the stairwell’s darkness. He climbed the stairs slowly, his flashlight’s beam sending shadows slinking across the concrete wall. It was eerie, disorienting. It was as if he was standing still and the stairs were gradually sinking into the darkness below. But what choice did he have?

  Majid took a breath and pressed on. But as he watched the shadows, he missed his step and stumbled, cracking his knee against the metal railing. Bending forward to rub his injured leg, he dropped his flashlight, and the stairwell plunged into darkness. He bent lower and ran his fingers over the filthy floor. There. His fingers brushed against the flashlight’s smooth metal and he grabbed it. As he stood up, he tried the switch, but the flashlight was broken. Majid should’ve known it was cheap rubbish the moment he laid eyes on it. Cheated again. Blood rushed to his cheeks and he uttered some words that his wife would not have approved of.

  My wife, he thought, my lovely wife. He sighed and stood alone in the dark. “Safiyyah,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to picture her smile, letting out a deep breath as he leaned against the metal railing for support. She’d been so beautiful, so warm. What would she make of him now, creeping up this stinking concrete staircase with graffiti on the walls? “My poor Safiyyah,” he said. They’d visited the wrong house one day. That was all. Just a quiet meal shared with an old friend. A friend, it turned out, with the wrong connections. But Majid hadn’t known that. It wasn’t a clandestine meeting like the authorities had said afterwards. They’d done nothing wrong, nothing even remotely suspicious. But that simple fact hadn’t stopped the police from storming into their home in the middle of the night. It hadn’t stopped the beating, the humiliation, the torture.

  Majid shook his head. It was sheer luck that he had a contact, an uncle who had some influence with the regime. Eventually the police were persuaded to let him go. But his joy was short lived. Their release orders came too late for Safiyyah.

  There’d been no explanation, no word of apology, but Majid had known he’d never see her again. His uncle told him to get out of the country. And why not? There was nothing left for him in Syria. No reason to stay. So he’d let himself be persuaded. His uncle assured him he’d be granted asylum in the UK. It was the only way to survive, he’d said. In the UK, Majid would be safe.

  ***

  Mark’s dad switched off his flashlight and crept out onto the landing. What the hell am I doing? He should’ve stayed in the flat, bolted the door, and kept his family safe. But he couldn’t do that. Mark had an overactive imagination—he’d always been that way. Now, with the storm and the helicopter and the tension over the escaped prisoner, he’d got himself overexcited and made a mistake. And it must be mistake mustn’t it? A dreadful mistake. I’ve got to sort this out, he thought, before someone gets hurt. He shuddered. If someone was hurt, then Mark would be to blame. He couldn’t let a stupid mistake destroy his son’s childhood. He couldn’t stand by and let someone’s blood be on Mark’s hands. But what could he do? His only plan so far was to peer into the stairwell and, if it seemed safe, shout out to whoever was down there. If it was just one of his neighbours, perhaps he could warn them to get out of the way before the police arrived.

  Suddenly there was an explosion of echoes: the boom of slammed doors, the ominous rumble of heavy boots. He stopped, frozen on the edge of the landing, and stared down into the stairwell’s black void. What the hell am I doing here? And then the darkness was carved apart, sliced open by a wavering array of bright beams; they flew along the walls then picked out a dark shape, the shape of a man, and homed in. A barrage of rough voices yelled a chorus of commands.

  Mark’s dad opened his mouth to shout. And in that moment, the power surge protection relays recovered from the direct lightning strike and automatically reset. There was a sudden flash, and the stairwell was bathed in dazzling light.

  ***

  In the narrow beam of his scope-mounted light, Sergeant Bentley saw the target’s face contort with horror. Bentley took no notice of the man’s frantic foreign shouting and watched his hands. He had to know if the target was armed. Stop waving your bloody arms about, he thought. And then, there it was: the gleam of black metal in the target’s hands. Bentley’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  But something wasn’t right. Something didn’t add up. He shouted his warning again and glanced at the target’s face. Did he match the photo they’d been shown? No, Bentley thought. It isn’t him.

  And suddenly, the stairwell lights flashed into life. Bentley squinted into the light, and the target brought his hand up in front of him, thrusting the black metal weapon toward him, and Bentley couldn’t take the chance, couldn’t risk the safety of his men. So he did what he had to do. He did the only thing he could.

  ***

  High above them, standing helpless on the landing, Mark’s dad buried his face in his hands and wept.

  BLACK FRIDAY

  Sophie loved living off-grid. Ever since her mum and dad brought the family to this blessed corner of Dartmoor five years ago, when she’d been just ten, she’d felt at home.

  ***

  Tonight, she’s running home, leaving the village bus stop behind her, with its gaggle of gossiping teenagers as fast as she can. She jogs as far as her gate, then lets herself in and dashes through the orchard, her hot breath pulsing plumes of mist into the chill November air. As she runs through the higgledy-piggledy apple trees, memories of her day come to mind and spoil the moment: the looks on her classmates’ faces when they’d found out that she’d never seen Friends; the taunts and teasing that’d lasted all afternoon; the sneering at her clothes, her hairstyle, her failure to own a smartphone.

  Sophie pauses by the old plum tree at the edge of the orchard and rests her back on its calloused bark, throwing her head back to gaze up into the twisted web of gnarled branches. A robin tilts its head inquiringly.

  “What do those kids know?” Sophie whispers. “They’re like sheep.” Although, when she thinks of it, her dad’s flock of white-faced ewes are far better company.

  Sophie sighs, and the robin takes flight, chirping in staccato indignation. “You’re right,” Sophie says. “It’s time I was home.” She strolls toward the farmhouse, drinking in the sweet scents of damp earth and softly mouldering leaves. At least she has the weekend to look forward to.

  ***

  After a dinner of homemade shepherd’s pie and sweetheart cabbage braised with apple and raisins, Sophie curls up on the old leather chair in front of the fire and listens to the logs crackle and spit. She opens her second hand copy of Far From the Madding Crowd, and soon she’s lost in the world of Bathsheba and Gabriel Oak.

  When her dad comes in and sinks into the sofa with a sigh, Sophie doesn’t look up from her book.

  “Have you shut your hens up for the night?” he asks.

  Sophie moans and hangs her head. “Can’t I just leave it tonight?”

  “Of course,” Dad says. “I’ll just ask the foxes to take the night off.”

  Sophie rolls her eyes and heaves herself from her warm chair. “Don’t pinch my seat,” she says as she stomps off to find her boots.

  “Wouldn’t dr
eam of it,” Dad replies, though it had been his first thought. “Take a flashlight,” he calls after his daughter. “It’s pitch-black tonight.”

  Outside, Sophie cranks the handle to recharge her flashlight, then switches it on and sets off across the farmyard. The white beam bobs over the ground as she picks her way through the puddles. She hums a tune and glances left and right, seeing nothing but inky emptiness, hearing nothing but the wind whistling around the big barn across the yard.

  And across the yard, leaning against the wall and standing perfectly still in the shadow of the big barn, the man watches the tiny, white light flicker and dance through the darkness. You’re late, he thinks, and runs a hand across his mouth.

  DEADLINE

  So long as he was alone, Marty could think of nothing better than trout fishing. Though the reservoir was within walking distance, it was far enough out of town to feel worlds away from the gum-streaked, grimy streets. Here, among the rustling reeds, he could listen to the gentle waves lapping against the grassy bank, and he could breathe.

  ***

  The sun is approaching the horizon as he raises his arm and executes a perfect cast, flicking the fly out across the water and releasing the line so that it unfurls from his fingers and curls through the still air. The fly falls gently onto the surface with barely a ripple. Not bad, he thinks.

  And as he counts silently, measuring out the time it will take his fly to sink to the correct depth, he isn’t aware that his lips are moving. The shape of his line on the water, the feel of it against his fingertips—these are the only things that exist for him now. There are no thoughts of home or work or the errands he should’ve run. No thought of what time it is. His only deadline is dusk.

  But just as the light fades and Marty flicks his eyes toward the horizon, the fishing line tightens for the briefest moment. Marty grips the line and raises his arm to set the hook, but it’s too late. The wary fish hasn’t bitten the fly properly and Marty’s line is suddenly slack again.

  It doesn’t matter. The fish is there and it’s hungry. Surely it must be a big fish to be so cautious. A younger, more reckless fish would’ve grabbed his fly and held onto it for grim death. Marty smiles and fixes his eyes on the place where the fish must be. “There you are,” he whispers. Gently, he draws in a few yards of line and makes another cast. Something beneath the surface swirls the water near his fly and his heart races. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Almost instinctively, his fingers work to take up the slack in his line. Wait. He watches the line, taking account of the wind above the water’s surface and the currents running beneath. This is it. This is one of the moments he lives for.

  He casts again and again, hunting out the fish. Which way is it swimming? Is it cruising the shallows seeking out flies hatching near the bank? Or diving deeper to feed on the nymphs wriggling in the mud? He can’t afford to neglect any possibility.

  His concentration is complete. And as the shadows around him deepen and the air cools, a cloud of tiny black gnats do some hunting of their own and home in on Marty’s neck and face. Although they nip his skin as hard and often as they can, he scarcely notices.

  And then, suddenly, it’s almost dark.

  Marty curses under his breath and looks from side to side. His shoulders slump. Stupid. He doesn’t even have a flashlight. He reels in his line as quickly as he can, and this is when the fish, tormented by the fly, finally decides to eat the damn thing. With one lithe flick of its tail, it shoots forward and attacks, grasping the fly firmly between its jaws. The line slips through Marty’s fingers and for a heartbeat he forgets to raise the rod. He tightens his grip on the line, but just as he’d suspected, the fish is a big one and it dives hard, pulling the line through his fingers and stripping it from the reel.

  The fight is long. Each time Marty is sure the fish has tired, it makes another break for freedom. Until finally, he raises his rod and guides his exhausted prey over the lip of his landing net. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. And as he lifts the fish onto the bank, he’s shocked by the creature’s sheer weight. Even in this poor light, he can see that it’s a handsome specimen—a fine rainbow trout, and certainly the largest he’s ever caught. He takes out his priest and holds the weighted end above the fish’s head. It’s a shame, he thinks. But catch and release is not allowed on this reservoir and rules are rules. He brings the priest down sharply, striking the fish across the top of its head, just behind the eyes. Its muscles convulse and shudder for a moment, and then it is still.

  Marty bags the fish then bends down to the lake’s edge to wash the slime from his hands. He gathers his tackle as quickly as he can, scanning the grassy bank in case he’s dropped anything. “What’s the use?” he mutters. “I can’t see a thing.”

  He sets off toward the road, his fishing tackle jangling in his bag as it bumps against his side with every hurried step. Ahead, the stand of pine trees is an even deeper stain against the darkening sky. Marty frowns. His path will take him through dense woodland—there’s no way around it. Never mind, he thinks, my eyes are used to the dark. He sets his jaw and strides firmly forward.

  But as soon as he steps into the deeper shadows among the trees, he stumbles over an unseen tree root. He regains his balance and marches on. “Bloody thing,” he grumbles. He adjusts his tackle bag, pulling it closer to him. Why does it have to make so much noise? Not that there’s anyone else there to hear it. Unless... No. He pushes the thought away. He’s alone. He’s safer here at night than walking the streets back in town. There are no drunks here, no gangs of teenagers with nothing better to do than cause trouble. After all, he asks himself, who else would be daft enough to be up here at this stupid hour?

  But if there was someone out there, in the dark, what then?

  Marty pauses and wipes the sweat from his forehead. He listens. But there isn’t even a breeze among the treetops to disturb the silence. He takes a breath. Worrying about nothing, he thinks. But nevertheless, some instinct makes him reach in his pocket for his fishing knife. The smooth handle feels good in his hand. He snaps the blade open. It’s a good knife, sharp enough to fillet a fish, and the blade’s lock is strong enough to keep it from closing on his fingers. It’s not a weapon, he thinks. Not a weapon. But as he sets off again, he holds the knife out in front of him, ready. Just keep walking, he tells himself. Soon he’ll be out of this dark wood and he’ll meet the road, the town’s lights not too far in the distance. And then he’ll put his knife away. Then he’ll be fine. He shakes his head. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have kidded himself that his eyes were used to the dark? No one, he thinks, can see in this pitch-black darkness.

  But the gamekeeper’s eyes are used to the dark. He’s been waiting, standing in the shadows beneath the trees for an hour and a half. A gang of poachers have been ransacking the reservoir. He’s seen the heavy tyre tracks from a four-by-four and found the remains of a net snagged on a submerged branch. But he needs more evidence before he can call in the police. He needs to see them with his own eyes. But so far, he’s had no luck. He rubs his hand over his face. Another wasted evening. He hasn’t seen a single soul. Until now.

  The man blundering toward him is no poacher. From the look of him, with his outsize bag of gear and his floppy hat, he’s a typical townie fisherman, perhaps even a regular. But the rules say that all fishing stops at dusk. He should’ve gone home a while ago. The gamekeeper purses his lips. The poor sap probably hasn’t caught anything, but even so, it wouldn’t hurt to check his licence, remind him of the regulations. Give him a fright, he thinks. And as the fisherman passes in front of him, the gamekeeper smiles and silently steps from the shadows.

  RATS

  At night they slip from beneath the wardrobe, creep between his sheets. He lies still, paralysed, as claws pierce his pyjamas along his thigh, toward his crotch, attracted by warmth and scent.

  His own scream wakes him. Groaning, he pushes away the sweat-soaked sheets and stumbles toward the bathroom. Too late f
or sleep now. Shower, breakfast, and in to work. The security guard asks about his health. The strain must show.

  At his workstation he checks the schedule, then dons protective gloves. Skin tests. His subjects often struggle while being shaved.

  The samples are ready. Today he will be testing antiperspirant.

  GRANNY JANKOVIC

  They’re here again. The children. It won’t do.

  Last Monday I set off to do my shopping as usual, and there they were, playing in the park. “Look out!” they called. “There goes Granny Jankovic.” I stopped in my tracks, turned on my heel and off they ran, squealing and scampering away to hide behind the bushes.

  “You little rascals,” I said. “I’ll wash your mouths out!”

  “Ooh no!” they shouted, peering out at me, all wide eyes and cheeky grins. I gave them a cheery wave and I was just about to set off when I noticed her.

  There was one little girl who hadn’t called out, hadn’t run away. She stood and stared at me. Defiant. Cold.

  I turned and walked away. But for the rest of the morning, I couldn’t get that little girl’s heartless stare out of my mind.

  On the way home, I hurried past the park and kept my head down. I didn’t want to be bothered with their daft games—I just wanted a nice cup of tea by the fire. And I thought the children hadn’t noticed me. But then I heard it. One word, shouted with all the might they could muster: “Witch!”