First Kiss, Last Breath Page 3

  They sat in silence for a moment after, Andy pretending to watch the cricket. He didn’t understand the rules. Instead he noticed Caroline Harper. He had forgotten she existed.

  It was Nor who ended the charade. She stood and Andy felt a stab of despair. Why had he snapped at her?

  “You here tomorrow?” Nor stretched her arms out nonchalantly.

  Andy stared blankly.

  “I have a class in a moment,” she said extra slowly. “You want to meet here tomorrow, same time-ish?”

  “Okay,” he said, his voice tiny, like a mouse squeak.

  Nor started to leave but then she turned back. “I’d rather stay and look at more of your pictures, but Dad, the grades, you know... It’s biology too, and he’s desperate for me to be a doctor.”

  Andy surprised himself when he spoke up. “What would you like to be?”

  She smiled slyly as she started to walk away. “What would I like to be? Hmm...I reckon I'd like to be in an octopus's garden, somewhere under the sea, in the shade, perhaps.”

  Andy, perplexed, watched her head toward the main building.

  “It’s The Beatles, you moron,” she shouted as she left.

  Chapter 5

  Andy didn’t take the bus home. He was in no rush to get back, not now, not ever. Normally it took him close to thirty-five minutes to walk the two-mile journey, but he wasn’t sure how long it took today–maybe more than an hour. He could hardly remember a thing about the trek. One moment he was by the college gates and the next he was at the shopping precinct near home, standing outside Edgerton’s Hardware. It wasn’t unusual for him to lose time and, of late, his memories felt especially unreliable, as if his brain was full of holes. But today was different. Nor had occupied him and made the journey insignificant. She was far away now, and he could feel the dark tentacles tightening inside him, blackening his thoughts.

  Andy rummaged in his pocket and knew the crumpled paper was a twenty. This and the handful of coins there represented the last of his money. Soon there would be no food left in the house and, unlike Grandpa, he still needed to eat. Part of him knew he shouldn’t do this, waste his money on paint, but the day had shown him a merciful release. He needed to finish Caroline Harper.

  He drew in a deep breath and pushed open the glass front door. A bell chimed as it opened, and the shopkeeper, a thin man in his forties with round spectacles and a bush of unruly gray hair, looked up from a newspaper spread across the counter. He glared at Andy, a stare Andy presumed he reserved for any young people who matched the shoplifter profile. Andy looked away then quickly back. The shopkeeper had already returned his attention to his article.

  As casually as he could manage, Andy collected a wire basket and headed for the craft section, passing an aisle containing toilet tissues and bleaches. It was at the back of the store, a small rack with stationery and art equipment sitting beside a clutter of long-handled brushes and mops that were crammed into a metal stand. He saw a suitable paint, a custard-yellow acrylic brighter than the color he had used on Glib’s eyes, and he bundled it into his basket. He hovered in front of the rack for a few minutes but beat off the urge to buy anything else. He turned to leave then saw the tins of varnishes and wood preserves on the end of the household paint aisle. Discomfort writhed inside him. He imagined himself in the sitting room with a paint brush in hand, treacle-like varnish dripping glutinously from the fibers. How many tins would it take to coat a person? He would need enough for it to harden and set, enough for it to slow, if not stop the decomposition.

  Roll up, roll up, come see Grandpa the Tussauds Waxwork, one-time heavyweight champion of the world.

  The notion made Andy feel sick. He lowered his eyes and quickly walked in the opposite direction from the household paints, taking the longer route to the front counter to pay for his purchase. He passed the tools–the junior hacksaws, the chainsaws with jagged teeth like Grandpa’s mako. He could cut and slice and swing and scream. His big problem in the sitting room could quickly become lots and lots of smaller problems instead. He placed a hand over his mouth, convinced for a moment he would vomit.

  Why couldn’t he deal with this? What was wrong with him? Didn’t Grandpa deserve a proper burial, a chance to live in the cloud-cave with his mother and father?

  Andy straightened, composing himself as best he could. When he was able to, he strode past the tools, still shivering with discontent, and made his way to the front of the store. He stopped by the bleaches and saw a shelf filled with air fresheners. He remembered the smell of death in his house and was furious with himself for letting Grandpa rot. He angrily swept a dozen air fresheners into his basket then continued to the counter where the gray-haired shopkeeper took a long moment before he looked up from his newspaper.

  Andy spilled coins on the counter. The shopkeeper offered another glare that quickly softened as he scooped up the payment. Andy blinked back tears and the shopkeeper gave him an uncomfortable smile as he packed the air fresheners and the paint into a thin white carrier bag.

  “Have a good day,” the man offered awkwardly, handing Andy a small amount of change.

  Andy didn’t answer. He took the bag and, for some reason, his cheeks burned with shame. He stuffed the money in the pocket of his jeans then stumbled out of the shop, desperate for air. He started for home with his head lurching. He had to do something. He couldn’t go on pretending things were normal.

  Andy quickened his pace and the bag banged into his shins. He wanted to kick it as hard as he could, to send it crashing to the floor then stamp it into the concrete with the base of his heel until it split and smashed. Instead he tried to focus his mind on something else, to concentrate on a distraction and find calm. But there was no peace to be found. If he didn’t feel frustration or rage, he felt fear or pain. It was like being alone was no longer a safe place. He needed to finish Caroline Harper.

  Nor popped into his head. She was a shot of calm. He considered her, wondered for the umpteenth time why she had talked to him, whether it was some cruel joke. He didn’t believe that, couldn’t believe that. Instead she was a beautiful mystery. He smiled and wondered how he would paint her, which part of her essence he could capture and convert to canvas. But he had nothing, nothing except electric butterflies in his belly. Maybe he was investing too much in her. She had only spoken to him once. She didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him. If she did she would surely run a mile.

  A ripple of thunder peeled across the afternoon and Andy forgot Nor and nervously looked to the clouds. He grimaced and walked faster as the sky had darkened.

  He rounded the corner of Sharrowville, where the street slowly inclined. Grandpa’s house stood at the top of the gentle rise of the hill. Andy stopped. The sun was low and it had dipped behind the house so that the edges of the building shone eerily. Thunder sounded again, but this time the noise was lost in Andy’s tumult. He stared at the house, his pulse racing. It was old fashioned. Red bricks, charcoal slate, two chimneys. Unremarkable beside the other terraces on the street, all ex-council owned, built for serviceman coming back from the Second World War. At one time, Grandpa was a hero, and this his prize. It had been Andy’s home once but now the place was haunted. There was a monster in the sitting room these days and something even worse in the Emerald Forest. Even the happier memories had become ghosts. It was all his now, part of a pitiful legacy written into a last will and testament, a copy of which Grandpa kept in a biscuit tin in the mahogany cabinet in the sitting room. The tin contained his future–deeds to the house, details of a trust fund left to him by his parents and cash in the form of Grandpa’s savings. Andy tried to picture himself opening the tin but he met a black wall. He lost his train of thought, became aware of the vague sensation of pain in his hand where the twisted plastic handle of the bag now cut his fingers.

  Grandpa waited at home.

  What would the police do if he reported Grandpa’s death now? Would he be arrested? Would he be evicted?

  A b
us shuddered past and wind whipped Andy in its wake. The cold rain kissed his skin and this was enough for him to press for home. He took one faltering step then another. The movements were small but the effort was Herculean. He mastered the hill and wrestled the stiff iron gate until it opened with a loud creak. It loosened in his hand where one rusted hinge had come free. Andy slammed it shut and the rickety wooden fence bordering the small front garden shook with the impact. He stared at it miserably: the missing fence struts, the discolored wood, the spreading moss and algae. The garden was barren save for sporadic patches of grass among the weeds and the soil, and the tiny hints of blossom on the withered-looking cherry tree. Death plagued the garden save for those little hints of life struggling to poke through.

  Grandpa, before his cancer worsened, would never have let the garden, or the fence, or the wonky hinge get so bad. Things had gotten so shabby so quickly and Andy knew it was all his fault. He couldn’t take it any longer. He stumbled to the front door. It towered above him, a distortion of what was actually there. Unease and fear crept along the length of his spine and beads of sweat erupted all over his body. He took out his key. His hand shook so hard he couldn’t fit it in the lock.

  Andy’s thoughts drifted to the chest freezer in the basement, big enough to hold a– He burst inside the house.

  The smell of decay hit Andy hard, the pungent, rotting flesh. It was so odious he staggered and dropped his bags. Dazed, he fumbled the door shut and leaned against it. He covered his mouth with his hand and tears pissed from his eyes. He choked on bile and bent double as he tried to force it back down his throat. He straightened, the hallway lurching, and he made for the plastic bag as he remembered his purpose. He fumbled for the air fresheners and somehow managed to tear them from their packaging.

  Cradling a bunch, Andy headed for the sitting room with one hand covering his nose and mouth. With his panic spiking and his nerve faltering, he made it as far as the doorway but didn’t cross the threshold. Grandpa sat silently. Andy heard a television commentator say something about Kilimanjaro, but the detail was lost in an incessant buzzing of flies.

  Andy lobbed the first air freshener inside, a sweet-smelling hand grenade. It bounced off the back of the chair and skidded into the darkness. He scattered the remainder, whimpering as one hit Grandpa on the head with a fleshy thud. His hand reached for the door handle, but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t close Grandpa in and couldn’t leave him all alone in the dark with the foul smell of death.

  The buzzing increased in volume and Andy felt a small waft of air as a single fly zipped past his nose. He gagged again, traced the insect in flight–a whizzing black blur–and watched helplessly as it returned to the sitting room to dance mockingly above Grandpa with its companions.

  Andy’s gaze moved weakly beyond the armchair to where the house phone lay quietly in its cradle. He could cross the room, one step at a time–no need to look at the chair. He could pick up the phone and bring an end to this madness. He could get help. It would be that simple. Just one step at a time.

  “I’m so sorry, Grandpa,” he whispered, staggering away from the doorway.

  Andy collected his bags and fled upstairs.

  Chapter 6

  Andy slammed the door to the bathroom and pressed his back against the cool wood. He stayed there momentarily until his dizziness passed. He closed his eyes and his mind screamed with competing thoughts, his stomach a nest of writhing worms.

  Eventually, when he felt composed, Andy moved to the sink and splashed water on his face. He shook, barely able to stand. There was only one solution. He needed to paint again. It seemed to be the only thing he could do to keep his anxiety at bay. He studied himself in the mirror, drops of water staining his cheeks like tears. His skin was gray and the black shadows around his eyes were deeper and darker than he remembered them. His lips were cracked and there was a mess of red spots around the base of his nose. He looked unwell, like some heroin addict. He hated himself, hated that Nor had seen him like this today.

  Andy straightened, splashed on more water and then, refreshed, opened the bathroom cabinet in search of soap to scrub off the traces of grime that seemed ingrained in his skin. He froze when he saw the white medicine bottle beside Grandpa’s pile of painkillers.

  Something nasty crawled across every inch of Andy’s skin. The bottle was immediately familiar. It didn’t belong to Grandpa.

  Andy reached for the Prozac and held it in his hand, turned it slowly in his wet fingers. The bottle was heavy, nearly full. The prescription read One twenty milligram tablet to be taken twice daily. The name on the label was his, only he couldn’t remember ever having them prescribed, or what they were even for. Did they give Prozac to mental patients? He leaned against the bathroom wall, unable to remove his gaze from the tablets.

  It made sense–being crazy explained a lot.

  Andy placed the tablets back inside the cabinet and shut the door. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on why he was taking the pills. The floor tilted beneath his feet, as if he was on board a ship, with Grandpa perhaps, trying to catch a mako or a blue tip, the water on his face from the fresh spray whipped up from the sea. The tentacles wrapped around his brain held firm, the blackness inside impenetrable. Nothing came.

  Andy gave up, collected his bags and hastily left the bathroom. He struggled to retain his balance as he walked, as if his legs had become untrustworthy. Unease thumped inside him, doubting thoughts, the fear, the disorientation, the demon. Were they all some illness of the mind?

  Andy struggled into his bedroom and crawled onto his bed, wondering if he were some psychotic who had abandoned his treatment. His gaze immediately found Glib, crouched in the foreground of the Emerald Forest. The demon was brightly colored against the black smears that stained the wall.

  Andy studied the mural and considered Grandpa’s death. Grandpa had been so sick. He had been physically shrinking, suffering worse with every day. Andy remembered the intensity of his fear during the days when Grandpa’s illness worsened, which had been at its worst the night before Grandpa died, the night he dreamed of Glib paying Grandpa a visit.

  Andy remembered how unnervingly real it felt, as if the demon had left the wall to kill. Now it seemed like madness. He knew it couldn’t be real. He was taking Prozac because there was something wrong with him, something broken in his brain. His mind wasn’t a door to anywhere, and if it was, it had become unhinged, just like the gate to his garden.

  Glib grinned at him from the wall, a painting of a demon, nothing more. The dark stains on the mural were spreading, farther than Andy recalled. Black blood vessels crept onto the magnolia ceiling. He shivered as he wondered again whether he had in fact painted the stain and the smudges? Whether he blanked out and added to this darkness every day? He couldn’t be sure and had no way of qualifying his actions. His gaze returned to the demon. The painting was disconcerting, not just in general grotesqueness, but there was something achingly familiar about it, something that Andy couldn’t quite place. He tried to recall whether the first dreams, the ones with his parents, had started before his Grandpa contracted cancer or afterward. But he couldn’t.

  Was he this way because Grandpa had gotten sick? Had it sent him over the edge of the precipice, falling into the black beyond?

  Andy considered the dream featuring Grandpa again. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks.

  Grandpa had been in his armchair watching television. He hadn’t slept much during the illness. He sat in the chair for hours, staring and broken, as if he were too afraid to close his eyes. He was like that in the dream, but vivid, not some hazy distortion like in the nightmares with Andy’s parents. Grandpa looked tired and frail and old. He was dying.

  The demon crept from the shadows. Muscles rippled beneath blue skin. It reached out toward the chair. Clawed fingers flexed behind Grandpa’s neck. The demon wrapped an arm around Grandpa. It moved closer and used a mottled hand to lift Grandpa’s head.

  Glib leaned forw
ard, and Grandpa woke, his eyes widening with horror as the demon closed in.

  Andy didn’t scream. In those earlier dreams where Glib had killed his parents, Andy screamed until his lungs gave up, but this was different. There was a terrible inevitability about events, as if death was the only outcome. Andy watched miserably as Glib sucked the spirit from Grandpa’s withered mouth.

  On waking, Andy had lost everything.

  Now he was alone, with Grandpa still very much dead in the sitting room. Andy could not bear to think about Grandpa any longer. The pain of grief was acute. It sapped Andy’s strength. He pushed himself off the bed, remembering the drawing of Caroline Harper. He gathered his paintbrushes, his sketchpad and the recently purchased acrylic before returning to sit cross-legged on the bed with his paraphernalia scattered around him. To begin, he smeared paint on his pallet and coated his brush, diving in with a few sweeping strokes until he became sucked into the page. Soon he was engrossed, lost in the importance of Caroline Harper as the sun.

  When Andy finished, he sat back breathlessly and studied the picture. He stared at it for an age but felt no satisfaction. The essence he had wanted to capture was there but it didn’t have the desired effect. People gravitated to Caroline Harper. What had he hoped to achieve? That some of her popularity might rub off on him? When he regarded the painting all he could see were his own failings. He tensed with anger, wished Caroline Harper was the one who felt so alone all the time. He eventually sagged, disgusted with himself.

  I’m always trying to hide. And it isn’t working.

  He placed the cap back on his paint with trembling fingers and stood to take his paintbrush to the bathroom to wash it.

  Glib was crouched in a new position on the mural.