The Island of the Day Before Page 9

  ‘It’s just a morbid monument now,’ cut in her mother, her gaze reaching far out into the depths of the sunken wreckage.

  ‘What does morbid mean, Mom?’

  ‘Sad. And … and scary.’

  They were turning out of the road, getting their last glimpse of the great dead beast.

  ‘But you know,’ put in the father, his voice lightening for the first time, ‘it was nice of them to plant such a beautiful tree in the middle of the graveyard. Really brightens up the place!’

  The mother nodded.

  ‘And what lovely crimson flowers,’ she mumbled.

  Indeed, they were lovely. Such a deep, dark red. Red as the blood spilled from the graves that ran beneath their roots. Red as the tears that fell from the once-dead tree. Red as the smoke that spewed from the now-dead town.

  The Knight

  The knight came charging through the murky woods, his sword snapping at the twigs around him and the branches beneath. He felt his breath burning up the metal of his visor, all in anticipation of the imminent heated battle. His steed thundered over the mossy stones, black and powerful, muscles shining beneath a tanned red saddle. The sun shot in through gaps in the trees above, as though it didn’t want to lose sight of him; as though to be lost in these woods meant certain death.

  He tore out, at long last, into a clearing, and saw the abandoned castle glittering high on the hilltop; and a large red tail, showered with blackened spines, waving lazily around it. A jolt of something he refused to admit was fear stung through him.

  The coffee that morning had been awful – at least twelve shades too black. But she was a nice girl, with an awfully shy manner, and she would have hated to tell off all those people in the middle of the café. So she shouldered her bag higher up on her shoulder, forced down whatever she could of her drink, and turned the corner, at long last, to face the massive structure. Large, piss yellow, filled with the loud chatter of a few hundred worthier rivals. She thought, even from a few paces away, that she heard the bang of a locker, the frantic scratching of a broken pencil on an exam. A jolt of something she refused to admit was fear stung through her.

  His arm was shaking. All of it. He could feel the spot where each needle had struck, like the hundred blackened spines of a dragon. None of them, he was sure, had done much. He could hear the ghosts speaking, long entangled figures in white cloaks and masks, but they came through like spectres in a fog. They talked of treatment, yet assured him a cure was impossible. Slowly, trembling all over his broken body, he pulled forward, at long last, to sign the astonishing bill that he knew would end whatever was left of this so-called life, despite its promise to save it. His heart, still fighting, stormed within his chest. A jolt of something he refused to admit was fear stung through him.

  The knight drew closer. The castle pulsed like a heartbeat; a powerful heartbeat, emanating from the muscle of a beast. He braced himself, a nomad in a sandstorm. A soft chuckle, perhaps the last thing anyone would have expected to hear, came from his right. He turned to find a pale, ageing soothsayer, her arms twisted around one another and held in place with rusted bangles, her eyes grey as ashy dust, her mouth curled into a horrible rancid grin. He said nothing, but froze in his place. His horse, it seemed, had frozen too.

  ‘You can’t do it, you know,’ she whispered, husky like the hissing of a thousand snakes. ‘The dragon will win.’ Then, almost triumphantly: ‘The dragon always wins.’

  The knight crumpled up, his armour no more than wet tissue. ‘Why?’ he whispered, miserable.

  She glanced up at him, amused. ‘Because,’ she replied, bits of her beginning to fade away, ‘what fun would it be for anyone if he didn’t?’

  He waited for her to disappear entirely. But she stared at him still. Her smile spoke of malice, yet her eyes were … odd. They seemed to be pressing him forward, urging him towards an unspoken truth. The knight searched within himself frantically. Was there something he was supposed to understand from that?

  ‘Win,’ he repeated to himself.

  She nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Oh!’ he started. ‘Win!’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You used the word win!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To win means there’s actually a chance of losing! So, it’s a fair fight! Not annihilation! Someone will lose and someone will win!’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘You’re telling me there’s a chance!’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘A small chance, of course. It doesn’t make what I’m about to face any less terrifying. But it means he can be beaten.’

  ‘And that,’ she finished, clasping her hands together, ‘is all you really need.’

  The knight smiled; knocking his visor before his fiery eyes, he spurred his horse forward into the horizon.

  Death’s Greeting

  Once upon a time, there was an old, crumbling orphanage located at the fringe of a long-forgotten town. The clouds were dark and wispy, the air was musty and stale, and the people were faded and rough at the edges. The children in the orphanage were the one spark of life – a drop of sunlight in an inky pool of the mundane. They were not yet pale, not yet tired, not yet hopeless. Children they remained, despite life’s attempts to wrench away the magic within their hearts. The orphanage was run by an old, kind woman, with fluffy white hair and wrinkled skin and a large yet ageing heart she was too poor to fix.

  One day, she took some of the children out to the park, no longer so much a lush plain as a skeleton of what it had once been, bare, blackened trees splattered across dead grass. They were all, of course, completely clueless about the stove the youngest boy had left running, and were also entirely in the dark about the fact that, as they chattered and played, the only home they had ever known was burning up into ash.

  When they returned, a smouldering crater was all that was left of their orphanage. The lost savings, the sentiments, the bones within the blackened walls were too much for their poor caretaker, and, clutching her heart, she collapsed beside her sanctuary, both now empty shells.

  Death, who stood there already to collect the remnants of the fire, now came forward with a sigh to collect the lady. Her time had been coming, after all. He hoisted his scruffy, torn umbrella a little higher over his sharp-shouldered coat of dusty shadow.

  ‘Can we come with you?’ came a soft voice, gentler than snowflakes against a shattered home. Death turned and saw fifty glowing, widened eyes staring up at him, eager and hopeful. Death opened his mouth to say no. Bringing up children into this world was, after all, not his job. It was the opposite of his job. He was about to refer these children to the Easter Bunny when something caught at the little black void inside him. They were so young, these children. Too young. Oddly young. He gazed upon them curiously. ‘I suppose … I suppose I would not mind.’

  They smiled at each other, and the air stood still for a moment, as though contented at last.

  Death took the children with him, and he played with them, and cared for them, and wrapped them up warm in the winter, so that eventually they insisted on coming with him wherever he went. Thus came into being Death’s greeting. Too often had Death had to drag a resisting soul into its eternal rest; now, he was no longer the fierce creature he had been, and all the happier for it. The children would come forth each time as a greeting, to tell the lost, departing souls calmly and sweetly, ‘I am sorry, ma’am (and here they would bow ever so slightly), but you have died.’ More often than not, this would elicit a smile, the response: ‘Have I? I thought so. Well, then. Where to next?’ And Death would take them by the hand and guide them through the winding unseen roads of sunlight, his children cheerful at having completed one more task.

  We shall all meet them someday. When that day is yours, be kind to them. They so enjoy seeing you happy. And after all, such a greeting from Death is one many would die to see.

  La Ville D’amour

  The Notre-Dame was crowded today. The bustle of coats an
d scarves mingled with the rustling of the occasional umbrella, which belied disbelief at the clear blue sky. The turrets of the shimmering cathedral soared up above the people, boldly daring another to cross its magnificent height. The stained-glass windows were of a dark gleam, as though holding treasure in their depths. Occasionally, the shadow of a white cloud moved across them. Every curve and swoop of stone was measured and precise, eliciting oohs and aahs down the long lines of eager visitors. Gargoyles flanked the massive structure, cackling and jeering at the pitiful mortals beneath.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ murmured Allison, a little too eager to get the attention of the incredibly striking man in front of her.

  He turned, smiling. Much like the windows, there was something glinting within his murky green eyes. His hair was a little too perfectly messy, his shirt too perfectly ironed, his buttons a little too perfectly buttoned up. Something about his smile made Allison’s shrink away. ‘I’d have to agree,’ he replied silkily. ‘Although, of course, you never know when something might suddenly … put a damper on things.’ He let his eyes linger on hers for a moment too long; his first imperfection. Then he turned and left the queue.

  ‘Wait …’ Allison began, windswept yet curious. This was, for her, impressively far to have received in the category of attractive male interaction, and she was determined to continue. Most of her relationships never got off to such a good start. She would care very little for him, and he would care very little for her, and this whole business of caring very little would go round in circles till it was over, only for both parties to discover that they had not cared very much at all. ‘Could I maybe get your—?’

  A scream rang out, sharp and shattering. Currents of panic swept the tourists this way and that, yells and shrieks and calm, cool computer voices over the loudspeaker, no one really knowing what the danger was, yet assuming they’d already been shot.

  Allison didn’t move, searching above the rows of hats knocking her this way and that.

  She immediately spied the source of the commotion. She didn’t know what the hurry was. There was really nothing to be done. It was over.

  A man, threadbare coat fluttering in the wind, eyes blank and unseeing, was skewered onto the topmost spire of the Notre-Dame. Straight through the heart. Dead. His hands fell on either side of him, blood dripping down from the butchered centre of his chest to his lifeless legs. His weight was pulling him further down the spire, splintering his bones one by one, tearing away flesh at an agonizingly slow pace. The needle-like spire blazed apple red, the devil finally making his mark upon this hallowed ground. Dark drops dripped onto the freshly cleaned stone before making their way to the crowd, the mark of a stranger’s blood now inked upon their clothes.

  Allison backed away, fingers clutching for the phone in her pocket, her frantic breathing at last beginning to match those around her.

  ‘Everyone,’ called the harsh and agitated voice of arriving policemen, ‘the important thing is to stay calm!’

  The return ferry was small and chock-full. Allison had never seen it like this before. Normally, there was place for a suitcase and a half beside her, but now the rush to reach home was evident in the faces of the bewildered and frightened crowd.

  ‘And on the right,’ came the tired voice of the captain as he steered them smoothly through the dark blue of the Seine, ‘you’ll see Mercure Paris, our final stop. I understand many of you are staying here. Enjoy your time in Paris!’ The hotel was large and pompous, small circular windows and tall, brown front doors leading into what was obviously a beautifully furnished reception. The roof of the building was a sky-blue, so much so that Allison had always expected clouds to be painted onto it.

  There was a large cough of steam as the ferry came to a stop, and the sound of a hundred thunderous stomps on a small plank of wood rose like a tide in the quiet evening. Allison didn’t look up. When she did, the ferry was empty save her and three other people, slimed empty wrappers, and crumpled metro tickets blowing in the wind.

  The ferry chugged on.

  The whole boat shifted slightly, as though in anticipation. They were about to sail beneath the Pont Alexandre III. It was gorgeous: a clear, definite blue, golden angels with jewelled wings pressed into every crevice. They smiled down with open arms, as though eager to save those beneath them. They drew the bridge up, higher, higher, finally coming to rest on the massive pillars waiting on either side. But that was all she caught sight of before the ferry passed under. At once, the walls at the bottom of the bridge were damp and mouldy, slime and water stains like gaping wounds in its side. The lull of the water grew to a roar as it echoed off the concrete around them, a dragon awakened, a hideous mound of torn and dirty scales forming the underbelly of the leviathan. Allison looked up. Words, faded and illegible, had been carved here and there into the discoloured stone. Probably the name of lovers, she imagined. She wondered when they’d broken up.

  They were out. The water was quiet again, and Paris a thing of elegance, as it always had been.

  As always, they almost missed it, but at the last second the ferry pulled itself into the air like a frightened horse, stopping in front of a small, oddly cheerful-looking block of flats. Allison got up, hand in her pocket as though her wallet would disappear if she let go of it for even a minute. Her eyes scoured the faces of the remaining passengers. It might.

  Back in her flat at last, Allison threw herself upon the groaning bed and did a mental count of the salvable photographs out of the fifteen or so she’d taken this evening. The one of the Notre-Dame, the pretty lame one of that old accordion player outside it, and the one she’d been meaning to take … what had happened there? Oh, right. A man had so inconveniently died. So that brought the total to about … two.

  She groaned, face in her palms, chestnut hair a bushy mess. ‘I am a hardworking journalist and I love my job. I am hardworking and I love my job. I am …’ she muttered to herself before steering herself into the bathroom, brushing her teeth, showering, changing into her fluffy bathrobe, pouring herself a bowl of cereal and collapsing on the couch in front of the TV. It switched on in a matter of seconds, as though it had been waiting for her all day.

  ‘… The man was found face-up, meaning that it is less likely that he threw himself onto the spire and more certain that someone pushed him.’ Here, the news anchor paused dramatically, waiting for his audience to gasp. He really was a professional. ‘This murder has shocked Paris to the core. We question what it means for not just the sacred and besmirched monument, but for the city itself. Very little is known about the murder at this time, but its effects are already spreading through Parisian streets.’

  Here he somehow shifted into a stream of French, and Allison blocked out the odd, foreign tongue the way one might the sound of a bomb under water. The cereal tasted strangely soggy on her tongue; she realized she’d stopped chewing entirely. This murder had happened only a few hours ago. She’d been horrified, yes. Anxious to get home, perhaps more than she’d ever been. Suspicious and frightened of every face she’d spoken to. But she was all right now; or about as all right as you could be after seeing something like that. ‘I’m ready to get back to work,’ she whispered to herself. She glanced at the cracked clock on the wall. She could still get to bed early and be up before dawn to catch the first train back to the monument. While this murder was traumatizing, it wasn’t the worst she’d seen. And the carcass, right now, was freshly slain. If she waited too long, the hyenas would rip it apart before she, the lone vulture, even had a chance. After all, the murder would be the latest national sensation; a blessing for her frustratingly stagnant and unstable career. Man slain by the spire of the world’s most famous cathedral … now that was a story.

  The morning sun was just rising over the web of rooftops. Allison was in the precise spot she’d waited the previous day, hoping that would inspire her verbose side somehow. The body had been removed, but the red could not be entirely scrubbed off – the top of the spire was
a dark, uneven black … or perhaps that was only a shadow.

  She asked for special permission to be taken to the roof of the cathedral. It was granted once she flashed the fancy magazine journalist ID with the special translucent neck strap.

  The roof was oddly flat and blank, grey stone chilling her feet through her frayed sneakers. The soaring skylights and chimneys of Paris wove through the horizon around her. She moved towards the spire and stopped when her eyes crossed the edge. She was so far up that the people below seemed like Chihuahuas, yapping around the relatively empty square for a bite to eat. She swallowed; she wasn’t one to fear heights, but it was only natural to be a little nervous. She moved towards the spire, ignoring the fall beneath it. It was taller than her, she noticed. So much so that for a man to be impaled, he’d have to be…

  ‘Thrown off the north tower,’ came a voice from behind her. She turned to find a significantly older woman, dressed in a skirt too tight, with lipstick smeared across her mouth. ‘You’re a little late, dearie. I’ve got most of the juicy details already.’ She smirked into the air, the way one would if they’d just outsmarted their overly haughty cat.

  ‘Erm … thank you,’ began Allison. ‘Is there anything else you’ve found? Maybe about who did this? And why?’

  The lady looked a little taken aback. Evidently the competition had not reacted in the predicted manner. ‘And why would I share that with you?’ she spat.

  She turned and marched away, a schoolteacher displeased with the class. Allison could see the bangle marks biting into her wrist. She turned back to the spire, sucked in a swig of the chilly air, then brought the freshly polished lens up to her eye. The camera squeaked a little, in protest perhaps of its unexpected and thorough cleaning. She bit her lip. A few clicks and flashes, and all the memories of dust and blood and beauty were safe around her neck.