CHILDREN SHOULDN’T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS
By Jonathan Peace
‘Children shouldn’t play with dead
things!’ Gamma Jacobs yelled, as she wobbled down the pathway leading from the
broken front door of her house. She leaned heavily on the crooked walking stick
as she pottered forward, her destination the morning’s Ossett
Herald that the damned Robert’s kid had left soaking up the morning
dew in her rose bed. Again.
She’d
complained to Tom Foster, the owner of the small town paper, several times now
over the phone but still that rat-faced kid threw the damn thing into her
garden every damned morning from the pavement instead of taking but a moment to
get off his three-speed Raleigh and walk a dozen or so steps to her doorway and
slot the paper through the letterbox. Well, she’d catch him one of these days,
right before he could let the paper fly, and then we’ll see. We’ll just see.
‘Hey!’ she
yelled again, this time balancing enough on her one good leg to raise her stick
and give it a good warning shake at the three kids clustered together on
the small grass park across the road. She felt the twinge run the length from
her pinky-toe right to her upper thigh and bit back the snarl of frustration
that always accompanied the biting pain. PAD, the doctors called it; peripheral
arterial disease was the correct name, the one she used whenever she was called
upon to explain why she was fifteen minutes late to church, thirty minutes late
to Linda’s Tuesday book club; a week late to her daughter’s Sunday lunch. Why
did everything have to be reduced down to an acronym or code word these days,
anyway? she thought as she hobbled another couple of steps towards the rose
garden and her ruined newspaper. Why can’t people just damned well say what
they damn well mean?
Another shout
came from the park across the road, this one full of revulsion and awe at the
same time. It was just after nine and why weren’t these little bastards in
school anyway’s?
‘Why
aren’t you little bastards in school, anyways?’ she yelled, waving her walking
stick as best she could. Her hip gave a warning groan, a ripple of pain
starting to warm up her upper thigh. If it got
to tingling she’d be in a world of hurt, but right now all that mattered was getting her paper out the damn rose
bed and those damn young ‘uns from out the park and away from whatever the hell
that was they was poking a stick at. Even from this distance and with her bad
eyes, she could see it was large and furry and dead. Very dead.
‘You keep back from
that, you hear?’ she yelled, waving her stick once again despite the twinge
that rippled up her leg, just beneath the surface of skin that suddenly felt as
hot as a griddle.
Across the way, one of
the kids looked up, a blonde-haired boy who appeared six going on sixteen
dressed as he was in a short-sleeved t-shirt under a bleached denim jacket. All
that was missing was slick backed hair and a cigarette hanging from his mouth
and he’d be the spitting image of the first boy Gamma Jacobs went a-courting
with. She paused in her hobbled movement, the soaking paper momentarily
forgotten as she tried to recall the name of that damned boy, the one who made
her lips chaffed with all the slobbering kisses he’d planted on her. Jimmy?
Billy? Damn it. . . what the hell was that pucker-face called?
The boy across the way,
the one with the denim jacket and the smug grin on his face threw her a wave
with the middle finger and turned back to whatever it was they were poking on
the wet, green grass of the common.
‘Well, that’s a kick up
the saggy-end,’ Gamma Jacobs muttered, each word thick with the throaty mucus
that had built up overnight. ‘You’re itching for a cane on your behind!’ she
yelled, giving it another shake. ‘Don’t think I won’t!’
Another ripple of pain
began in her thigh and she slammed the cane back to the ground in order to
steady herself and stop her body from collapsing forward. She let out a whoosh
of air as the ripple changed into another tingle-jingle as she’d described the
tickling sensation she’d been feeling for the last seven or eight years at her
doctor’s appointments. No longer a sneaky sensation that teased, it ran all up
her thigh, past the ruined hip that had caused all of this in the first place
and into her abdomen. If it had stopped there, she probably could have made it
back to the house, turning round carefully on the garden path, being extra sure
not to tangle her feet or clip her ankle with the silver-tip of the walking
stick her youngest son had given her. If it had stopped there, she probably
would have been able to give Tom Foster at the Herald another call and maybe,
just maybe, get the damn Roberts kid fired from his round.
Instead the
tingle-jingle became a tangle-jangle in her upper arm, the sensation of ants
scribbling across her skin forcing an ugly grimace across Gamma Jacobs face.
Her lips spread back revealing sickly-yellowed teeth like jagged rocks that
stuck out from the ruined beach of her gums. Locked between two cracked teeth
was the rotten strip of a beef dinner she’d had a couple of nights ago. She’d
been gumming on that one for days now, and the questioning probe of her tongue
suggested that there was another day, at least, of flavour there.
BOOM!
An explosion of pain
thundered in her chest, an almost physical slap that sent her rocking
backwards. The walking stick, bent and crooked partway down, flew in the air as
she lost her grip on it. Her right foot shot out, arcing upwards as she began
to fall back.
‘FU—’ she began but her
words were punched from her lungs as another jolt slammed her chest.
Miraculously she found
her feet. One slipper had shot off and was lying in the wet grass to one side.
She could feel the cold wetness of the grass on her foot and the sensation
brought a reminder of a smile to her face. A whisper of wind caressed her cheek
and she saw the silhouette of a bird – was that a Jayhawk? – dance across the
sky.
A second later and she
collapsed to her knees. Billy Peterson, she thought, that was the
name of the boy who kissed like a slobbering German shepherd. Two seconds
after that she fell face down into the grass, the morning’s Ossett Herald scant
inches away, lying partially in the rose bed, the paper torn and soaked.
2
James Willikar, the kid with the denim jacket and the attitude,
gave the dead squirrel another poke with the stick he’d found at the foot of
the oak tree. In his chest, his heart beat wildly and his hands were slick with
what his brother would call terror-sweat. Any second now he expected the
squirrel to jump up and grab the tip of the stick, or twitch madly when he
pressed it into the jagged hole in its side.
‘Go on,’ Sally shouted
from behind him. ‘Do it again!’
James turned and gave
her stink-eye. ‘Why don’t you do it?’ he asked her, holding the stick out.
‘You’re so keen, why don’t you have a go?’
Sally Bends backed
away, hands raised up. Her jeans had about a dozen holes across the legs, and
for some reason she had yet to explain, the pockets had been turned inside out
and hung just below her hips like the pale ears of an elephant. Ian had a joke
about making his own version of that by pulling his pecker out through his fly
to be the elephant trunk. ‘I seen your pecker,’ Sally Bends had laughed, ‘and
there’s no way an elephant, even a baby elephant, could get a drink with a
trunk that small.’
Everyone had laughed.
Everyone that is, except Ian who had stared daggers at Sally. Ian Peterson was
the eldest of the group; twelve now and thirteen in December, he had been the
head of the group when they all met up in Mrs Nash’s English class. Put
together to work on a piece of creative writing, the four got on well almost
from the start. The one outlier had been Wendy Jackson, or as Ian had
christened her, ‘Windy’ Wendy.
She had come to their
table and as she sat down let out a fart so powerful it had silenced not only
the three sat around the table but also the class. A horrible, terrible moment
of silence followed before Ian broke out in huge bellows of laughter that sent
Wendy running from the class in hot embarrassment. Mrs Nash had sent Sally
after her, and eventually the pair had come back and resumed their seats. But
the name had stuck, and while their friendship grew, Wendy always remained set
back from the others.
But the friendship did
grow and, pretty soon, theirs was a tight group, the Fearsome Foursome as they
were known at Trinity High School. They went everywhere together, sat together
in class, or as close as the teachers would allow, because they could get distracted
very easily.
As the dead squirrel
had proven.
It was Sunday morning –
the reason they weren’t in school, which they would have happily told Gamma
Jacobs if a heart attack hadn’t sent her face first into her much beloved rose
bed – and they were supposed to be going to Greene Park where they planned to
throw a frisbee around for a few hours before going to The Lodge with their
parents for a birthday lunch. It was James’ dad’s birthday; he turned
forty-five and had invited everyone to a special Sunday lunch at the posh
restaurant. The Fearsome Foursome had gotten on so well that their parents had
also become friends.
They had met up at
James’ house this morning and had set off to the park. Ian had brought the
frisbee and Sally had promised snacks, but as they were making their way across
the Common ground Ian had spotted the dead squirrel.
‘Best leave it,’ Wendy
had said. There was no mistaking the nervous tremor in her voice. She had
already started moving away from the group, taking her pristine white trainers
off the gravel path and onto the wet, muddy grass in an effort to steer the
foursome away from the dead squirrel that lay directly in their path. ‘Who
knows where it’s been.’
‘I think it’s a pretty
safe bet to say it’s not going to jump up and bite you,’ Ian said with a smirk.
He was the one who’d found the stick and gave the first prod much to the horror
of James. His face had gone green and it now looked like he was going to be
sick.
When Gamma Jacobs had
yelled from her garden he had nearly bolted, but Ian had stopped him from
running. ‘What’s she going to do?’ he said, grabbing hold of James’s arm. James
looked over quickly to where Gamma Jacobs tottered down her garden path. The
rose bushes were thick but he could see they were starting to go brown at the
bottom, a sure sign they were dying.
‘She might tell my
mum,’ he said. ‘They go to the same church, and I can’t afford to get grounded
again this month.’
Wendy gave a little
squeal that made everyone turn away from the old lady. ‘It moved,’ she said,
pointing at the dead squirrel with a hand that everyone could see was
trembling. Sally’s mouth had dropped open in a startled ‘O’, her eyes nearly as
wide. She took the stick from James and gave the chest of the squirrel a gentle
prod. The fur was dirty and matted, the grey hairs thick with mud.
‘That’s not going to do
anything,’ Ian said. ‘Jab it again!’
Sally shook her head
but did as she was told.
The chest of the
squirrel burst open and the stick plunged inside. Sally squealed in fright, as
did James. Even Ian made a disgusted sound as grey-white maggots pooled out,
their wriggling forms rolling over each other as they emerged from within their
furry cocoon.
‘That’s disgusting!’
‘Gross!’
‘Oh my god, I think I’m
going to puke!’
‘Where’d she go?’
That last came from
Wendy who wasn’t looking at the wriggling mass of white that now covered the
dead animal. Instead she was looking across the road to where a few moments
earlier Gamma Jacobs had been stood yelling. Now all she could see was the tall
bushes of the rose garden, beyond which the door to her house remained open.
Without waiting for the
others, Wendy started walking towards the house. James, his face now a pale
green, saw her move away and immediately began following her. Sally was next,
dropping the stick to the ground, its tip coated in a thick grey slime. Only Ian
stayed with the squirrel, fascinated by the way in which the body now trembled
as the maggots writhed against and within its carcass. Realising the fun was
over, he gave the animal one final nudge of his boot, then ran after his
friends.
3
‘Wow,’ Ian said, moving a little past Wendy so he could see
better. She was stood in the garden path, the hastily thrown newspaper still in
the flower bed beside her.
Gamma Jacobs lay face
down, her crooked chin propping her head up at a disjointed angle. One arm was
outstretched, the wrinkled skin of her fingers already slick with gathered dew.
The hem of her skirt had lifted revealing thick medical stockings. Her black
slippers hung from her heels, gripping precariously, almost desperately, like a
person hanging from a cliff, determined not to fall.
Ian looked down at the
old woman, silent and still. His eyes never moved from the body as she tilted
her head side to side, examining Gamma Jacobs from several different angles.
Sally gasped when she
entered the garden, her anxious question about whether they should go onto the
old woman’s property forgotten as soon as she saw the body. She let out another
soft sigh of worry, her eyes darting around to see if there was anyone else
nearby.
The street was silent.
They were alone.
‘Is she—’
‘Dead,’ Ian answered in
a strange voice. His eyes never left the old woman lying face down in the
grass.
‘Christ!’ James finally
said as though discovering how to talk for the first time. ‘She might be a
grumpy old bat, but I didn’t want her dead.’
‘Was,’ Ian said, his
voice as light as a cloud.
‘Huh?’ said James as he
moved closer to Wendy. He could feel that something had shifted, something in
the dynamic of the group. They all could. Wendy moved her hand and took James’
in hers. They squeezed fingers together, taking a little comfort from the
touch.
‘She was a grumpy old
woman,’ Ian continued. ‘Now she’s nothing.’
Ian knelt in the grass,
ignoring the wet sensation that chilled him. His trainers were now stained with
grass-juice, but he didn’t care. Or he didn’t notice. He was captivated by the
tilt of Gamma Jacobs head.
‘What do we do?’ Wendy
asked behind him. Bending further, Ian stared into the sightless eyes of Gamma
Jacobs. He could see his reflection distorted and twisted across those dull
hazel surfaces as he leaned in closer.
Ian smiled.
‘Get a stick.’
