Vanderosa

Marie’s footsteps crunched a soft fanfare through the leaves as she walked towards the old farmhouse. It had been a warm autumn so far and she was quietly hoping that it would stay that way for a while; it wasn’t that she hated the cold, per se, she just rarely invited it into her life. Sadly, in her experience, it never waited for such a courtesy – the winter’s manners are terrible. Anticipating the kind of unannounced visit that she’d come to expect of chills in the air, she wore her long wool coat, but left it flapping open to avoid a disastrous thermal runaway incident. Arriving to interview someone whilst soaked with sweat wasn’t likely to set a good first impression.
                The farm was a few miles away from the village of Stineway, sitting as an agricultural surprise at the end of a perilously winding gap in the hedges which someone had imaginatively labelled a ‘road’. Marie was quite accustomed to such journeys; in her line of work the majority of locations tended to be remote and unwelcoming. It was on the frequent occasions when the people she went to interview had shared those characteristics that it became difficult.
                The farmhouse ahead of her was the quintessential rural English structure – grey stonework, slate tiles, and various outbuildings scattered around like structural confetti. The kind of wedding which might necessitate such confetti was an event that Marie someday hoped to attend. Until then, she’d have to satisfy herself with the humdrum events of her life as usual – seeking out the paranormal wherever it may be reported, and investigating it personally. The term investigation, she would be the first to admit, was a loose one at best. Sometimes it would require an examination of clues, evidence and testimony to discern the truth of a situation, but other times it was a simple case of closing the window. Subsequent notes that the ‘poltergeist terrorising the living room’ became coincidentally lethargic brought such investigations to a close. Her conclusions, howsoever they were drawn, then made their way into The World Outside Ours – the monthly magazine with which she was forced to associate herself to pay the bills.
                Marie considered herself to be open-minded, but not an idiot. She wasn’t going to accept any old nonsense at face value, but by no means did she consider the existence of supernatural beings to be ridiculous. Every time she read of a sighting or a ‘famously’ haunted location, she headed to the source with optimism and eagerness. It was simply unfortunate that she was yet to be convinced by any of the ‘ghosts’ she’d visited so far.
                She was nearing the end of the driveway and the beginning of the path to the house – grandly named Rosa’s Sanctuary – and she could already sense the history shrouding it. This time, things might be different. She might have finally stumbled upon the supernatural event of her life and times, the first investigation to yield a positive result. A tremble of excitement swept through her body; although, given that the farmhouse also reminded her of home-made chicken pies, such trembling may not have been an artefact of the supernatural after all.
                The sound of her footfalls changed suddenly as her boots landed upon wet flagstones rather than leafy earth – a rhythmic tap, tap, tap, tap. They were a metronome for her symphony of discovery, striding onwards ever closer to a connection with another plane of existence. She reached the door, and saw that the knocker was beaded with water droplets. ‘That’s odd’ she thought, ‘it hasn’t rained in several days. Maybe it’s just a late-drying dew.’ Marie also noticed that the knocker was in the shape of a pig’s head, and it made her smile. Her hands shivered with anticipation as she lifted the old cast-iron knocker and struck the door thrice in an even tempo, shaking the water off to the floor.
                Whilst she waited for an answer at the door, Marie glanced around herself. Behind her were the flagstones leading towards the road, damp and glistening in the overcast light. To her right and left the farmland stretched away, roughly level at first but giving way to undulating hills, checker-boarded with walls and hedges. There was a large wooden barn a few dozen yards away to her right, showing signs of age and wear with its door hanging open. The roof was intact but blanketed in moss, which hung over the slipped and tilted planking of the walls, dripping steadily. Marie wouldn’t have kept cattle in there herself, but her experience of bovine care was minimal. She didn’t even know if this was a cattle farm anyway, so she thought she’d keep her opinions on barn suitability to herself.
                Without so much as a muffled footstep from within the house, the front door slowly swung open. Marie span around startled, and was confronted by the sight of a gentleman who appeared to be somewhere between a concierge, a magician, and a 1920’s silent film villain. His black suit was immaculately pressed and starkly contrasted by his white shirt. The bow tie tied perfectly around his neck was somehow comforting and reassuring, and it offset some of the revulsion Marie was experiencing at the hands of his thin pencil moustache. The existence of such unholy facial hair, and the unfathomable motivation to sculpt it, were enough evidence to confirm the presence of something otherworldly here. Perhaps there really was more to find. Perhaps this moustache is what Rosa sought sanctuary from in the first place.
                “Hello sir. My name is Marie Lamb, I’m a writer for The World Outside Ours. I hope you don’t mind me knocking unannounced, but I was wondering if you could spare some time today to talk to me about this place?” she asked, gesturing around the farm. In the back of her mind, Marie was concerned that she’d bombarded the poor man with rather too much information before giving him a chance to say hello back. This was conversational sloppiness, a poor start.
                “Hello Miss Lamb,” the man replied slowly and calmly, his smile growing as the words freed themselves from the pencil-lined nightmare. “It’s very nice to meet you. Please don’t be concerned with your unannounced knocking and arrival. After all, what is a door knocker for, except to announce the person on the other side?” The smile was now a full grin.
                “Thank you.” Marie replied brightly.
                “Not at all, Miss Lamb. But to return to your request, I’d be delighted to speak to you at any length about ‘this place’. Rosa’s Sanctuary is one of those precious pieces of local history whose treasures mustn’t be kept secret, but whose secrets must be treasured all the same.” His voice was slow without sounding ponderous – it was more like it was calculated. Each word was the next delicate building block in a house of cards – each one taking its position to support the whole, and placed with care enough not disturb the others. “Please, do come in.”
                “Thank you, Mr… I’m very sorry, I don’t think I’ve asked your name yet.” Marie said as she stepped through the doorway.
                “Victor Profanero.” He replied, with a shallow bow.
                “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Profanero.” Marie replied, losing some of the Spanish inflection in the name. ‘Victor Profanero – definitely more like a failed magician than a concierge’ she thought. Victor waited patiently while she crouched down and unzipped her boots.
                “This way” he said when Marie stood back up, taking a door immediately on the right of the narrow hallway. ‘Ah, that’s the concierge side coming out. I wonder if he’ll tie me to some train tracks to add ‘villain’ and complete the trinity’ Marie thought, following him as instructed. In doing so, she found herself in a somewhat dated and dim living room. The walls were all bare stonework, the occasional painting or tapestry, holding a silent and unnecessarily archaic vigil across the room. The furniture was worn without being threadbare – two faded red armchairs sat facing one another at the far end of the room, with a couch running along one of the longer walls. The windows were unobstructed, but somehow didn’t allow quite enough light through for bare glass; instead, they cast a grey pallor across the already dark room. Maybe the window had just been fitted with under-achieving glass, Marie considered. In any case, this was already feeling like the most promising lead of her career.
                Victor sat in the armchair closest to the front window, and gestured towards the companion chair facing him.
                “Please, have a seat.” He said to Marie, who softly padded across the room in her socks to accept the offer. She sank into the soft upholstery, and although it was comfortable, she was anything but. A numb sensation welled in her stomach. ‘Maybe this is what successful leads feel like. I’m not so sure I like it. But I’m being silly, I’ve not seen anything yet. I won’t get a good article out of feeling out of place in an old house, even if I am here with a failed magician. It’s probably just his moustache making me feel creeped out. Suck it up, Marie’ she thought to herself.
                “Now, what is it you’d like to ask me about Miss Lamb?” Victor asked, the friendliness of his tone feeling like a life-ring in a dead sea of foreboding.
                “Well, I’m an investigator of the paranormal and the supernatural, and to put it simply I’ve heard rumours tying this farm to unexplained goings-on. I was hoping to get some information on that, really.” Marie flicked her eyes to the window and noticed that the inside was covered in condensation.
                Victor’s smile faded momentarily, and then returned as he asked “What, if you wouldn’t mind me asking, is it that you’ve heard?” The house of cards was getting a meticulously planned annexe.
                “Nothing too specific, truth be told, but a few people in nearby villages said that this farm has something of a mysterious quality to it. I don’t normally pay visits to potential sites based on a vague air of mystery, but I happened to be nearby anyway and I had some free time, so I thought ‘why not’. Between the slight hesitance of anyone to give me directions and my intrigue at the name, I thought it might be worth a look around.” Marie told Victor frankly, whilst fishing a notebook and pen out of her bag.
                Victor sat back thoughtfully.
                “OK,” he finally said, “I think I can help you, Miss Lamb. The rumours you hear of my home’s mysterious qualities are quite well placed, for it is indeed also the home of a lost spirit.”
                “A spirit? You mean that this farmhouse is haunted?” Marie asked with a twinkle of excitement.
                “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s haunted. We live together. We share this place in peace; I’m not haunted at all.” Victor corrected. He crossed his legs and rested his arms on the chair. “And it isn’t just the house, it’s the whole farm. We share all of this sanctuary with one another.”
                “I… I apologise, Mr Profanero. I didn’t mean to accuse the spirit of any malice.” Marie told him with forced sincerity. She needed a story, so she had to keep the magical Mr Profanero on her side.
                “Not at all, Miss Lamb. It’s a simple turn of phrase, but I do like to set people’s ideas straight right away. And please, call me Victor.”
                “Thank you, Victor. Could you tell me about this spirit you share the farm with? How do you see it, what does it do, that sort of thing?” She started scrawling notes as Victor began to speak, never taking her eyes off him.
                Victor shifted slightly. “She’s a calm, quiet soul. Not like the rumours I’d expected you to have heard. The locals never understand – if they hear anything about her they rise up in arms and ignorance. They whisper false truths of death, violence, and evil. She detests the accusations that she might do anyone harm – a quiet existence is all she has ever wanted.”
                “That’s equal parts reassuring and saddening, if you get me.” Marie dropped in.
                “I’m glad you understand, Miss Lamb. But to answer your previous questions, she appears as she wishes to and when she wishes to. Sometimes she’ll walk the farm with me as a maiden in white. Other times she’ll float among the treetops, watching the birds and spiralling through the leaves. I’ve seen her take the forms of crows, cats, rabbits, hounds - any shape she desires as the mood takes her.”
                “You keep saying ‘she’ - how do you know she’s female?” The pen was scratching furiously.
                “I just know. It’s… complicated to explain, but I think it’s perfectly plain once you get to know her that she’s a she.” He brushed the edge of his oiled-down black hair with his fingers.
                “Fascinating - you speak to each other often?”
                “Why, of course we do. It would be least pleasant feeling the world to live with someone and never speak, don’t you think?”
                ‘That’s an odd sentiment to express about the relationship between a man and a ghost.’ Marie thought. ‘And he’s not exactly living with her if she’s a ghost - that tends to mean being dead. Bite your tongue for now, Marie. This could be it, don’t offend Victor now.’
                “Yes, I suppose it would be.” Marie replied at last.
                “Would you like to meet her?” Victor asked suddenly.
                Marie, of course, replied “Yes.”

Marie and Victor walked slowly around the house, side by side. Marie had her notepad in her hand, and was making brief notes on everything that Victor said, whilst taking care not to slip on the wet ground. She was sure it had been drier when she’d arrived.
                “I expect she may take a few moments to appear. She can be very shy around people these days. I must ask that you please try to remain calm, and be welcoming to her when she does arrive. Over the years, so very many people have behaved… well, they’ve been ugly towards her, and she’s rather lost self-confidence. It’s a great crime, it pains me to say.”
                “I’ll do my best, you have my word.” Marie reassured. “I would love nothing more than to meet her.” ‘For a metamorphosing ghost, she certainly sounds like a delicate little flower’.
                “I appreciate your kind intentions, Miss Lamb.”
                The pair of them kept walking for a few minutes, staying reasonably close to the collection of ageing farm buildings as they weaved an aimless path through Rosa’s Sanctuary. A gentle breeze carried leaves on an idle migration around their legs as they went.
                “She must be feeling very shy today. Why don’t we try the barn? She likes it in there.”
                “Sounds like a plan.” Marie agreed. Scepticism was beginning to deflate her mood, optimism trickle away into the back of her mind. ‘Even if the most occult thing I see today is Victor’s facial hair, it’s still a damn sight better than the rest of my leads’ she consoled herself.
                The barn was imposing when viewed up close. It loomed over her in its partial decay, the timbers darkened with the dampness of the day, and faintly slimy to Marie’s touch. Victor led the way through the open door and Marie followed, into the murky darkness. Despite the large door being wide open, the daylight seemed not to penetrate into the barn as far as it should. The remains of some sort of pens or stables lined either side of the structure. Abandoned to time and decay, they cast broken silhouettes in the gloom. The smell of damp wood filled the air.
                “Has this been abandoned for long?” Marie asked.
                “It’s not abandoned at all; there’s just no livestock kept here anymore.” Victor told her.
                ‘Oh whatever. Keep playing with your semantics you old coot’ Marie thought, but remained silent in answer. Victor was looking around slowly but distractedly, searching for the spirit he’d been speaking of, and she didn’t want to disturb him. Scepticism was rising slowly in her mind, just as it had done every time before. She mentally prepared herself for the familiar disappointment and awkward goodbyes which would surely follow. She glanced around for any small pieces of farm equipment she could purloin as compensation.
                “Where are you?” Victor called out kindly and softly, stooping a little and peering into the back of the barn. “Are you in here? I’ve brought someone for you.” It was an odd turn of phrase, Marie thought, but everything about this man was a little odd. “Don’t be shy, she’s lovely.” He added, with a wink to Marie.
                “I’d love to meet you.” Marie joined in, reasoning that she may as well try to help. She just hoped that treating the spirit like a shy child or a lost puppy was less patronising than Victor had just been.
                “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Victor told her. There was the slightest hint of worry in his voice, however, which betrayed the pessimism behind his assurances.
                ‘It seems the magician is doubting his own tricks.’
                The seconds passed and there was still no sign of anything in the barn. This was around the time that people usually started trying to pass off shutters moving in the wind or the rustling of animals as supernatural phenomena, in Marie’s experience. Thankfully, Victor made no attempt to fob Marie off with such nonsensical claims or amateur illusions. He didn’t need to either, because the spirit suddenly made itself perfectly clear.
                A dim white glow started to appear in the centre of the barn, like a powerful light shining behind a thin cotton sheet. Quite unlike bed-lighting, the glow expanded gradually outwards, casting a sickly irradiance over the decaying interior.
                “Here she comes.” Victor whispered excitedly, like he was welcoming a lost love home.
                Marie scrabbled to retrieve her phone from her bag, in an attempt to capture what was occurring on film. This was real, this was happening, and this was what she’d searched for throughout her career; she almost regretted thinking of Victor as a failed magician. Her hands were shaking, and she fumbled clumsily through the contents of the bag, but she eventually managed to free her phone and direct it towards the light. The glow was drawing itself out, morphing from a ball into a tall thin streak with wispy, steaming edges. It was like looking through a gap in the curtains on an overcast day, with fog blowing in through the window.
                The light slowly drifted towards Marie, who was pointing her phone directly forwards. She stiffened in anxiety as the light grew closer, but remembered her promise to Victor that she’d remain placid. With a deep breath she forced herself to relax. ‘If you can stick out the moustache without screaming then you can deal with this.’
                The light regarded her, and she regarded it back. The light stared at her, and she stared back. The light drifted towards her, and she leant back. The steaming periphery brushed Marie’s cheeks, leaving them spattered with a tepid dampness. She felt her phone becoming slick with the condensed ichor coming from Victor’s pet spirit as the light engulfed her outstretched arm, and shivered as her courage began to fail her. The light was still creeping closer, moving perpetually forwards into Marie’s body. She held her head back as far as possible, leaning it away from the encroaching glow which seemed to cast far too little light, given how bright it was. Onwards it drifted, merely a hands width away from her face; a finger’s length; a hair’s breadth…
                A cacophony of rushing air erupted around Marie’s head, and she screamed as the light shot forwards - passing around her like smoke flowing through the shattered wreckage of crashed car. The light swept up into the air violently and coalesced into an expanding ball of grey-white fury in the centre of the barn. It grew suddenly brighter like headlights piercing a final veil of mist, and Marie shut her eyes. The noises stopped.
                Tentatively, Marie opened her eyes again, and was confronted by Victor’s pet spirit. Towering in front of her, heaving vast, deep, spectral pseudo-breaths was a gargantuan hog. Soaked lichen and moss coated its back, hanging down its sides like a ruined cloak. The spirit’s huge black eyes were focused directly on Marie, looking through its own translucent snout, and she felt its shattered, blood-stained tusk press against her cheek as it leaned forwards into her. In a panic she threw herself backwards, landing hard on the floor of the barn and staring up wide-eyed at the titanic phantom in front of her.
                “VANDEROSA!” she heard Victor shout angrily. “STOP THIS NOW. TURN BACK INTO YOURSELF, NOT THIS BEAST. THIS WOMAN DOES NOT MEAN TO DO YOU WRONG.” He commanded whilst approaching the hog. The beast shook its head angrily and leaned its face closer to Marie.
                “PLEASE! STOP! LEAVE HER BE. YOU’VE MADE YOURSELF CLEAR NOW LET ME TAKE CARE OF THIS.” The jaws of the hog opened, revealing rows of blackened, ruined teeth and a mouthful of brown fluid.
                “VANDEROSA!” The hog thrust its head forwards to engulf Marie’s cowering frame, then burst into a grey-white cloud and dissipated. Marie could have sworn she heard cackling laughter as it went.
                Marie remained where she was, flat on her back, breathing heavily though the terror and staring at the roof. Her mind was misfiring, attempting to understand what had just happened to her, and she felt cold. Slowly, the volume of the world rose back up and she could hear Victor speaking to her.
                “Are you alright Miss Lamb? It’s over, she’s gone for now.” He was stooped over her, a look of extreme concern carved onto his face.
                Marie simply stared at him for a few moments.
                “Miss Lamb? Speak to me, if you can.”
                “I… I’m OK, I think. I wasn’t expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting” she told him.
                “Let me help you up.” Victor offered, taking her elbow in one hand, and her hand in the other. With surprising strength, he hauled Marie back to her feet, then picked the phone up from the ground and handed it back to her. As she stood there, Marie realised that the spirit, ‘Vanderosa’ Vincent had called it, had drenched her as it passed around her.
                “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Lamb. I didn’t expect that she would react so… unfavourably. Oh, but you’re soaked through; come back inside and we’ll get you dried off. I insist.”
                “I… OK, thank you.” Marie replied, still in shock.

                With her arm in his own, Victor led Marie back into the house and sat her down in one of the arm chairs. He then crossed the room to a storage ottoman, and dug through for a towel.
                Marie was shaking – the after-effects of a dream-come-true morphing into a nightmare. For years she’d sought evidence of the supernatural, anything to confirm her beliefs in the existence of something beyond the veil of everyday life. So many wasted trips to old hotels and burial grounds; fruitless hours poring over newspaper cuttings of unexplained hedge formations; interviews with deluded fools who mistook foxes for ghouls. A chance visit to an old farm had superseded all of it, and replaced her misty-eyed wonder with something far less comforting – sentient fury. “The light – the spirit – whatever it was, came close to me and looked at me – looked into me – and it was angry… and then...” she shivered, not daring to let the thought form. Even the moustache was better than this.
                “Vincent,” she said finally “Rosa’s Sanctuary, is it Vanderosa’s sanctuary? Was that… I mean was she Rosa before…” Marie noticed some dark patches of wet stonework on the walls.
                Vincent paused. “Yes” he replied simply. “People called her Rosa.” He resumed his rifling through the ottoman.
                “Has she ever told you… I mean, do you know what happened to her?” The dark patches were spreading out slowly.
                Vincent stood back up with a towel and handed it to Marie. Concierge Vincent was back. “Yes, I know what happened to her.”
                “Would you be able to tell me?” Marie probed, drying off her face.
                “Give me one moment, and I will.” Victor replied, before leaving the room briskly.
                Marie took her phone out of the pocket of her wet, muddy coat, and played back the video. Clear as day, there was the white light morphing in front of her, drawing itself into a streak and moving closer. She could feel its damp embrace all over again as she watched, the camera’s field of view now fully obscured by the curiously dull white light. The speakers then erupted, before the out-of-focus visage of a giant hog appeared on screen. A second or so more and the phone fell to the ground, offering a new perspective on the underneath of the hog’s head before it lunged forward and disappeared.
                Vincent re-entered to the room, and sat in the chair facing Marie.
                “I’ve taken the liberty of running you a bath – it’s the least I can do to apologise.”
                ‘Concierge is out in full force now. He’s nearing butler territory.’ “Thank you very much, but you didn’t need to trouble yourself. I’d much rather hear about Rosa than sit in the bath.”
                “It’s no trouble – I insist. You’ll meet with a terrible fate if you catch a chill.”
                ‘And now he’s a creepy magician again.’ “Honestly, I’m fine. But please, you were going to tell me about Rosa.”
                Vincent sighed. “Rosa was the daughter of a farmer, as you could probably surmise yourself. She lived here with her parents, back before it was called Rosa’s Sanctuary.”
                “So her parents renamed it for her?”
                “Yes, that’s about the right of it.” Vincent looked down at his feet. “Rosa was quite happy living here as far as I understand, reading her books and tending to the animals. But once she got older… well, her father had ideas about her getting married and she didn’t necessarily agree with them.” Vincent shifted. “He invited the sons of other farmers and other families in the village to meet her, but she never really warmed to them. Honestly, I think she could have been happy with many of them if she’d tried – she’s a real sweetheart – but her stubbornness got in the way and she never accepted the idea that she could want to be with any of them. She liked her life as it was and didn’t understand that growing up just has to happen. Everything changes; everything comes to an end.”
                “So, she never married? Never found herself seeking love because of her stubbornness?”
                “Oh, far from it. It took an awfully long time, but she found someone eventually. But that comes later, where was I? Yes, after years of trying to match her up, her father came into a sizeable sum of money and bought a townhouse for himself and his wife to retire to. Rosa was given the farm to keep as her own, and they renamed it after her – it was her safe place to live alone or in company as she saw fit. With enough money to support himself, his wife and Rosa without working, her father didn’t see the need to press the issue any more.
                “The flow of bachelors had slowed up to this point but then, when she was given the farm, there was a resurgence. Vultures, the lot of them, trying to win the farm for themselves using Rosa’s heart. She did an admirable job of sending them all away for a while, but one day, all of a sudden, the bachelors stopped returning. Most of them were from outside the village by this stage, so no-one paid much attention at first; it was assumed that they’d simply left after being spurned. After a while though, people began to take notice and grow suspicious. Young men continued to visit Rosa, but none were ever heard from again. Rosa, bless her heart, gained a reputation in Stineway and the surrounding area as a murderous spinster, and soon she was feared and reviled. None would visit Rosa’s Sanctuary, and suitors were warned away. Those who still persisted never returned.”
                The dark wet patches on the walls were still growing larger, and a ring of water was appearing around the dim light fixture on the ceiling, but Marie was too enraptured by Victor’s tale to notice.
                “Eventually, the police were called to investigate. Much to their surprise, they did not find Rosa living in the farmhouse, but a young man. In fact, it was the first of the young men to have failed to return to Stineway, but they had no idea of that. According to him, he and Rosa had fallen in love and married immediately, and he’d lived here ever since. The officers then enquired about Rosa herself, but she was reportedly in the bath and unable to come to the door. Finally, they asked about the many young men who had not been seen since coming here for Rosa’s hand.
                “The man at the door obviously didn’t like it when the vulture bachelors were mentioned. The mere thought of these other men trying to win Rosa’s affections – well, it raised impressive ire within him, but he kept himself contained. When the officers insisted on entering the house and speaking to Rosa directly he allowed it, and showed them up to the bathroom. They protested that Rosa would not want them to enter whilst she bathed, but the man told them she would be covered and really wouldn’t mind.”
                Water was now dripping from the light fitting onto the floor. The corners of the room welled up. The walls were running streams, tears flowing from the house itself.
                “The officers entered the bathroom on his behest, and found the door slamming shut behind them. In the bath, as promised, they found Rosa – drowned, bloated, and long dead. The door was locked, naturally, so they couldn’t get themselves back out. And that’s when Vanderosa drowned them.”
                “She… what?”
                “Drowned them.” Victor stared at her. “Are you ready for your bath, Miss Lamb?”
                Marie leapt to her feet, panic gripping her. “No, no. I need to go. I’ve heard enough, thank you.” She ran towards the doorway but Victor was faster.
                “I insist, Miss Lamb.”
                Marie screamed, slipping on the waterlogged floor, and Victor grabbed her in a bear hug from behind. He was strong – too strong.
                “I’m sorry, Miss Lamb, but I have to give you to Vanderosa. It’s only fair.” Victor was dragging her through the house.
                “GET OFF ME!” Clearly enough, Vincent was already aware that she didn’t wish to be manhandled. He ignored her.
                “We were in love, Rosa and I. It was a whirlwind when we met. She was so perfect; so unspoiled. We barely had a day together.”
                “YOU’RE A MANIAC LET ME GO!” Reiteration of Marie’s request did nothing to sway Vincent.
                “The day I arrived, we spent hours just talking about ourselves, each other, our lives, our dreams – anything that came to mind. We were in love. We were perfect. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything changing – not a single thing.”
                Marie struggled and shrieked.
                “So I preserved our relationship forever, as we were in that moment, the most perfect day of our lives. Oh, but she was so angry at first. For years, in fact, she refused to speak to me. Since then, though, we’ve moved on; we’ve grown together. She understands why I had do what I did.”
                The walls around Marie were waterfalls. She lifted her legs and braced them against one, desperately trying to escape the hospitality of the insane concierge.
                “And whenever anyone comes here to try to steal her away from me I deal with them, so that they can never spread those vicious, vile rumours about my Rosa being evil.”
                Vincent whipped Marie’s torso hard to one side in his crushing embrace, slamming her head into the wall. Her legs went limp for a moment, and Vincent span around, dragging her backwards instead.
                “She didn’t like the accusations made by those officers - their insinuations that she’d killed all those other men. That’s why I let her take them. That’s the only other time I’ve ever seen her quite as angry as she was today.”
                Victor pushed the bathroom door open with his back, and threw Marie inside. As she crashed into the bathtub, she heard the door shut and lock.
                “LET ME OUT OF HERE! HELP!” Marie hadn’t considered who would be around to help. It was no-one.
                “I’m sorry Miss Lamb, but Vanderosa has clearly taken a disliking to you. I’m sure she would have scared you right away if I hadn’t intervened – she gets a little careless in her temper sometimes, bless her. You’ve soiled her sanctuary by coming here, just like those men did. You’d tell the world foul lies about my Rosa being evil, just because she was angry with you.”
                Marie hammered on the door, screaming. Vincent did not open up like a welcoming host this time.
                “Maybe this is my fault for not sending you away, and then for letting you meet her, but I thought that maybe she’d like to talk to someone open-minded. I gambled and lost on this one, it seems. Goodbye, my sacrificial Lamb.” Silent-film villain Victor had made his appearance at last, just in time to chuckle and walk away.
                Marie banged on the door and wrenched at the handle, but it was locked fast. The bath was full and the taps were running hard; she turned them off, but saw that the water level was still rising - quickly. The floor felt wet under her feet, water was flowing freely out of the walls. There was a window above the bath, and she leapt in to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. In a matter of seconds the water in the room was at waist height, and it flowed in ever more rapidly from the walls and ceiling. As it rose above her head she choked down a scream, battling the urge to open her mouth and suck in a breath.
                A light appeared outside the window, and Marie saw the face of a hog looking in at her. She floated next to it, banging on the glass frantically with her palm, but it wouldn’t yield. The hog transformed smoothly into a young woman, and Vanderosa smiled at Marie.
                Vanderosa smiled as Marie tried to crack the glass.
                Vanderosa smiled as Marie tried to scream, filling her lungs with water.
                Vanderosa smiled as Marie’s world went black.

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Larry Murphy - The Stakeout at First and Last

I pull up to the estate in the early hours, the pre-dawn gloom shrouding my surroundings. It’s a cold winter; cold like Lilian’s heart, but it seemed to be stretching on just as long as my thoughts about her did. I shake myself to attention – I could get lost in those kinds of thoughts, just as far as I could lose myself in her eyes, and there was no ordnance survey map detailed enough to chart a safe path out of those orchid-blue pools. A second shake is necessary.
                “Dammit Larry get a grip on yourself!” I say. I should take my own advice, but always take care sign it out on the log sheet.
                The engine of my car is still running, keeping the heater on my face for a last few seconds before I plunge into the chill of the outside world. I wrap my trench-coat closer around myself as I sit there, keeping myself enclosed as an impenetrable fortress of solitude. If only I’d managed to defend myself so well against Lilian’s charms; her sweet words to a burned-out, broken bum like me. She was made for the grander things in life, the finest champagnes. I’m barely the finest chamois. She was a fine sham, alright. 

                I check my watch; time to go. My mark is supposed to be a couple of streets over but I don’t want to drive straight up and blow my cover; that’s rookie stuff. Rookie stuff costs you leads, costs you cases, and sometimes costs your life. Very occasionally it costs about three fifty for a bus ride back downtown. But I’ve moved on from those days; I’m Larry Murphy, and due to a spelling mistake by my sign-maker, I am the world’s finest privet detective.

                I run the details of the case over in my head: it’s a stakeout, plain and simple. The target is usually in green, above average height, and has a haunting ground on the corner of First and Last. It wouldn’t be the first or last time that Lilian’s memory haunted me. What would she say if she could see me now? ‘Let me in out of this cold, ya big lug’ probably. And then there’d be me, sitting in the same clapped out automobile I’ve had for years, warming up the same oafish hands that could never give her what they wanted to. Next to her, at least my heart would be warm, not like it is now…
                “Get it together, Larry.” I tell myself. “You’re on the job. Focus and get your mark.” I finally switch off the engine and get out of the car. As I slam the door shut I see my gloves sitting on the passenger seat, so I open it up again. What a waste – what inefficiency.
                “You’ve gotta be slicker than this.” I say as I close the door a second time. This time I lock it to keep it shut and secure – like my mind needs to be, against the memories of golden hair swinging like a dancer’s veil, through the smoky air of a dark bar all those years ago.
                The gloves creak as I flex my fingers, like doorway in a horror movie, but with hinges made of bone. Maybe horror movies have that kind of thing these days, I realise. I don’t know any more – I’ve not watched a murder flick since that night in Reno when Lilian bought us popcorn and we sat in the back row laughing. Just the thought of it makes me angrier than the theatre worker who threw us out for pouring cola into the seats when we got bored.
                I start walking along Last towards my vantage point, the one I picked out yesterday with the benefit of daylight and having to come by this way anyway to pick up some toothpaste. I’d forgotten it when I was last at the supermarket and I couldn’t risk tooth decay. ‘Dental hygiene is important,’ I think to myself. ‘When did I last go to the dentist?’ I can’t remember. Lilian would have remembered – she had a way of keeping the whole world in order. There was no rushing; no panicking; a wink and a smile and everything fell into place in front of her. She also kept an impeccable Filofax. The way her silky-skinned fingers flipped through the spiral-bound pages – she could just as easily browse through my heart…
                “No, Larry. No distractions, no Lilian, no dentistry. You’re on a case now.” I order myself, trying to push the dark, fluorinated thoughts away. I pull my collar up around my ears and my hat down farther onto my head, to stop the wind biting and clawing at me. There’s no vet around to de-claw this vicious beast, so I have to weather to storm and push on with the job. The wet pavement reflects the streetlights back up at me, and the shadow I cast drifts silently alongside me; it blocks out the light and leaves a dull imitation in its place, just like I did with Lilian. No-one could ever hope to outshine her, but I somehow managed to dim her down – like sunglasses on a chandelier. I was about as much use as that to her as well…
                I arrive at the first corner of Last, Last and Second, and stop by the kerb. There’s no traffic around, but I press the crossing button and wait patiently anyway. In this line of work, you get used to exercising patience, or you fail. Sometimes you do both – they’re what we call bad days. I tell myself that today won’t be a bad one, that I’ll get this job done and then put my life back on track, but I’ve never been a great liar. A worse lyre, to be sure.
                The seconds pass by and I thrust my hands into my pockets, waiting for the green man to grant me safe passage. He and I have an understanding – I wait for his say so before stepping into the road, and he has his people hold the traffic for me. He’s one of my most reliable and far-reaching contacts, but it’s always a messy business when he’s involved. A loose cannon, that green man – I’ve seen him stopping the traffic for no-one at all, and I’m sharp enough to read between the lines. He’s making an example of the influence he wields, showing the poor shmucks in their cars who holds the real power in this town. I tell myself for the hundredth time ‘Stay on his good side, Larry. Wait for his say so. He’ll sort you out’ but it’s hard to forget his treachery on the way here. Twice he stopped me. Twice. Dirty double-crossers don’t last long in this town, but I guess he has the clout to pull it off.
                Thankfully, green man shows up and lets me cross. I nod to him and make my way across swiftly. He doesn’t ask about Lilian – I guess it’s just that plain from my face that she’s not in the equation any longer. I wonder for a moment if he’ll use it against me one day, but there’s nothing I can do about it now; I still need him, so I go on my way. Lilian always told me I needed to cool down and play things a little easier; exercise more control and keep my temper. This one was for her.
                The next street flanks me with bungalows, like silent crowds on either side of a detective procession. They’re all quiet; they’re all dark; they’re all calm. This was my time to stalk and get my mark without interference. ‘Bungalows don’t usually interfere, though’ I remind myself. That was one of Lilian’s first and greatest lessons to me – her wisdom was always a gift far beyond comprehension for a bum like me. It was like giving a dress suit to a hermit crab – a grand act of charity, but woefully under-utilised.
                Formal attire for nomadic crustaceans aside, the bungalows remind me that it’s important to remember who’s never done you wrong, just as much as who your enemies are. ‘The people inside, though; they can be the major players in a very different story.’ I warn myself.
                I check my collar again, to make sure that I’m hidden from bungalow peepers as well as the cold night air. I’m half way down the street now and approaching my vantage point, ready for my task to begin in earnest. I have it all planned out – arrive at the corner, obscure myself behind the post box, and gain as much intelligence as I can about the mark before moving on. The best laid plans can fail though, just like the plans Lilian and I had for our future together. Now it’s a future apart, and I never made a contingency for that. There’s no pension for love, despite my significant investments of affection. I’d thought she was a sure winner, but our futures market crashed and now I’m out of options.
                I keep walking; keep moving; keep going with the case. Suddenly, ahead of me, I see a tall shape through the dim night on the street corner – Lilian! I start to run, barely believing my eyes. I can see her black boots; I can make out her white fur hat and her pillar-box red jacket, her strong post box like physique… and that’s when I realise it’s not Lilian at all. It’s just a white cat sitting on a post box – again!
                “You’ve gotta stop doing this to yourself, Larry. Get your head in gear or get out of the game.” I say, cursing Royal Mail for making a fool of me. The cat leaps off and runs – even he thinks I should be alone.
                Pushing my torment aside, I position myself behind the post box and begin the stake out. I look across the street and straight away I see my mark – running the length of the corner plot it stands there, square-cut and defiant. I take out the Polaroid I was given with the job and make a comparison – that’s definitely my mark, but something feels off. I can’t put my finger on it right away – it’s just a gut instinct that everything isn’t as it seems. He’s got company too; to the left of him are two others of smaller build. Some kind of crew? Perhaps. Henchmen? Probably not, they’d be flanking him defensively. No, they weren’t on their guard, so I don’t think I’ve been spotted. Like a nocturnal toilet patron, however, I’d need to conduct my business in silence.
                For a few minutes, no-one moves. Me, leaning with my hand partially in the letter-slot. The mark standing on the corner, stock-still. His accomplices loitering like dull statues in the dark of the early morning. Everything is calm, and I wait patiently. Then, after a flash of amber, my signal comes – the green man has done his part and secured me access across the road, but I’m lit up like a Christmas tree on the fourth of July. Quickly, I scurry across the road, trying to remain as quiet as I can. It’s tense, but I get to the other side and nothing has changed – I made it through.
                I sneak closer to the mark and that’s when I notice it, I realise what it is that felt so wrong about this case. Damn it, this was sloppy, I should have twigged sooner! This wasn’t some two-bit job from a tawdry housewife – it was a set-up. The mark isn’t privet at all; I’ve been duped, and now I’m standing in arm’s reach of a bona fide creeping juniper. Oh, Lilian, what have I done? What have I let myself get into without you? I’ve tried to be strong without you, tried to get by and push you out of my mind. Maybe this is just my place in the world, to be a clapped-out, burned-up fool. To be manipulated by the great wheels of progress. I’m sorry, doll. I’m sorry.
                I turn around quietly, trying to make an expeditious retreat to my car, when I see the final betrayal – it’s red man!
                “Who told him I’d be here? Who knew enough to trap me once the ruse was revealed” I ask myself. There’s only one answer – green man, the dirty rat! He sold me out. Unless this was bigger than him and me, bigger than all of us, bigger even than a moose on a hillock. Someone high up was pulling the strings here, and they got to him; got to green man.
                I don’t know enough right now, but I vow to myself that I’ll find out what’s going on here. For Lilian. For some reason.
                Trapped like a fish in a trap designed to catch fish, I have no way to go but towards the mark or along the street in the opposite direction. If I went that way, though, I might be spotted – the streetlights were bright. Even if I made it, my car wasn’t over there, and I could find myself suckered into a many-yard walk around a longer route. It wasn’t worth it – the only person I’d walk around the world for was Lilian, and I’d walk a hell of a lot farther than that, to boot. Besides, I’m this far in now, and the only way I’ll be able to find out who’s calling the shots on this dirty job is to head in further. I have to finish the stakeout to get the first piece of the puzzle.
                I take a deep breath, crouch low, and sneak towards the juniper. It’s taller than me by a clear foot, thick-set, and clearly in good shape. I suspect topiary abuse, and steel myself for unpredictable shapes and pleasing forms. Still moving forwards, I’m practically underneath its foliage and I can see the thorns – thin dark silhouettes in the blackness. They’re like wooden hat pins, yearning and leaning in to make a perforated fedora of me. My own trilby could be in danger, but there’s no turning back now.
                I spot something next to the trunk. It’s a rectangular spire of wood sticking out of the ground – the stake! I reach one hand out, towards the stake, and feel its cold splintery surface as I prepare to finish the job. My grip tightens, and I take a deep breath. I inhale a mouthful of bark fragments and lichen as I go, so I cough, splutter, spit, and then take a shallower but longer breath instead. Lilian always used to leave me short of breath too… but rarely gave me a mouthful of plant detritus. Times really have changed.
                I run my hand up and down the length of the stake, feeling for connections, just like with any other case. Sometimes you luck out and find what you want, others you end up with nothing but splinters. This time, it seems, I’m OK. There’s a single loop of twine, old as I am and stretched just as thin, securing the trunk to the wooden post. I take my pocket knife out of my pocket and lean the second arm in, adjusting my balance to avoid a faceful of thorny regret. If I went over I’d be cut up for sure, but not even slightly as cut up as I am over Lilian.
                I feel for the twine again and cut through it easily with the knife, letting the bindings flop uselessly around the trunk – an ageing scarf for a juniper with no fear of the cold. With both hands I grip the stake, lean back, and begin to push off the ground with my feet. This is it, I’m fully committed to the stakeout, just like I was fully committed to Lilian. I can only hope that the stake is more committed to me than she was. Its commitment to the ground is poor, that much is obvious as it comes sliding out through the dampened earth. I stagger backwards, catching my hat on the thorns and landing on my bottom. My buttocks do an admirable job of dampening the impact, but I feel it all the same. If only I’d had emotional buttocks to stave off the hammer-blow that Lilian dealt me.
                I snatch my hat back up from the ground where the juniper deposited it, and I push it firmly back onto my head. With a wary glance towards its silent associates, I slip back away with a feeling of success – the stakeout is completed, and I’ve taken the first step in a new investigation. This could be the start of a new chapter in my life; as if a new beginning in my work could hold a candle to the world-shattering change of Lilian. I can almost hear her laughter at the idea; a heavenly chord ringing across sun-kissed meadows of gold, all in mockery of the sad plebeian trying to scratch away his existence in the abysmal plane of her absence.
                There’s no time to waste, and I know it all too well. Under normal circumstances I’d head back to the car, take my evidence back to the office, and lay out everything I know - trying to put the pieces together. This time I need to stay on the ball and keep my momentum going, lest a slow puncture bring me steadily down to the ground. Lilian always had a puncture repair kit, but now there’s no-one to mend the hole in my oaf’s heart.
                “Snap out of it, Larry, and get moving.” I tell myself.
                I got the job from a woman named Williams yesterday morning. Eliza was her first name, if I recall. Even if I don’t, she’s still named Eliza. No-one’s name is dependent on my memory, but Lilian’s is irrevocably etched into it – like a prayer carved into a rain-slickened rock. Eliza came to my office as if it was a normal job - all concerned expressions, pleas for help, and spurious details. I thought she was distressed, as everyone who comes to me tends to be, but maybe she was just a damn fine actress.
                Eliza lives nearby, on the corner of Last and Shopping. I have to go back to her to collect my fee anyway, so I decide to pay her a visit now. The walk isn’t long – Shopping is the next street over – so I move slowly and give myself time to prepare. I can’t go in too hard with this one; if she was behind the double-cross then I’d need to gather evidence, otherwise I’d have nothing to go on and she could claim innocence. Besides, Lilian always told me to be gentler with people, to treat them with more compassion and not view them as sources of cold hard cash; as cold and hard as I’ve become without her. Still, it was true that she may have been acting out of desperation, at this stage I can’t tell. Like a determined proctologist, I’d get to the bottom one way or another.
                I arrive at the address she gave me – 163 Shopping Boulevard. It’s an end terrace with a short flight of steps leading to a blue door. Round handle, Yale lock above it, and no peephole. She’d have to open the door to me, even if she wasn’t expecting me to make it out of the juniper trap. Any crack in the door would be far more than Lilian ever opened up to me, but even so, all the juniper in the world wouldn’t have kept me away.
                I put the stake down and knock on the door with my left hand, keeping the right ready to defend myself if necessary. I‘m tense, on guard, ready to react to whatever Eliza Williams wants to throw my way. There’s no answer for five seconds, then ten, then fifteen – that’s the order in which those numbers arrive. I knock again, then notice the doorbell. I give it a short ring, though I would have given Lilian a ring of whatever length she chose, encrusted with diamonds enough to put the sparkling ocean surface to shame. A few more seconds pass and there’s still nothing.
                ‘Eliza is playing hard-to-get; I need to play hard-to-ignore.’ I think to myself, and unleash a torrential rainstorm of knocking on the door, leaning my head into the doorbell to hold it in for a perpetual hell-scream of ringing. My right hand is still free to defend me, but the jaunty angle of my head skews my perceptions, heightening my need react with severity and swiftness if something does go wrong. My calamitous cacophony carries on for around twenty seconds before Eliza shows her face at the door. She lashes a hand out towards my face and I catch her wrist in my free hand – my head remains firmly on the doorbell.
                Eliza shouts something at me, but I can’t make it out because of the ringing. She tries to snatch her wrist out of my grip but I hold strong; I can’t afford to trust her yet, especially after such a violent reaction. The force of her yanking does, however, pull me forwards so that I’m no longer ringing the bell, and silence descends on our pre-dawn confrontation in the cold night air. I notice that Eliza is wearing only her nightclothes – somehow sleeping soundly despite sending me into that nest of thorns. She was either some piece of work, or an unwitting victim like myself – duped and played by some sinister shadow organisation. I should be used to it – Lilian played me like a fiddle, then left me to swell and rot in the meltwater of a long and unforgiving winter.
                “What the hell are you doing?” she shouts at me, presumably angry that I tried so hard to get her attention. Clearly she underestimated my determination, as either a privet detective or a victim for her juniper trappings.
                “Getting your attention.” I tell her. “This is for you.” I hand her the stake from underneath the juniper, evidence of a job well done and a trap poorly sprung.
                “What? Why did you bring it to me now? What’s wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night!” Eliza is clearly agitated by something. Not quite jumpy, but far from the picture of calm she was when giving me the job. A sign of guilt, like the writhing of a con under interrogation? Maybe.
                “I told you yesterday, I’d see you in the morning when the job was done. You’re surprised to see me, it seems.” I cunningly observe, goading her into admitting that I shouldn’t have made it out.
                “Of course I am you numbskull! It’s 4am! Who comes around to drop off a bloody garden stake at 4am?”
                She has me there – even in this part of town it’s unorthodox to exchange gardening supplies before dawn. But this is a game of hedgerow hegemony – my domain.
                “I do. You hired Larry Murphy – best of the best. I play by my rules and I get results. Just ask your friend the juniper. You left out that neat little detail when you hired a privet detective. What’s your game here, who are you working for?” I ask her, laying the accusation of skulduggery down, amidst a self-aggrandising cloud of hyperbole and failure not to play this one hardball.
                “What difference does the type of hedge make? And I’m not working for anyone! I asked you to sort the stake out, not leap into the hedge and wake up the whole street, you maniac. If I hired the best then I won’t be making that mistake again.” She says, and attempts to close the door in my face. A mistake indeed – no-one pulls the juniper over my eyes. This attempt to shut me out was another double-cross, and a sloppy mistake. She hasn’t offered me my fee yet, as if she never had any intention of paying me at all. Her defences are starting to crumble and I’m putting pressure on in all the right places.
                “I think you’re forgetting my payment, miss.” I point out, holding the door open. Eliza looks at me like I’m a bad smell on a satin sheet.
                “You can have your money later on, when any reasonable human would expect to be discussing a job with a gardener. I’ll drop it off at your office or something. Goodbye.” She evades, her tone belying that she wished me anything but ‘good’ in our departure. I ready myself to escalate the engagement, but then I remember Lilian’s words, drifting through my mind like a flock of doves across a summer sunset. ‘Be patient, Larry. Trust people once in a while and your world might not have to be so dark anymore.’ Oh Lilian, you know me better than I know myself, you were better than I am myself, and you were probably better than I know. But I can’t trust Eliza, not with everything that’s happened tonight. Even you can understand that, surely?
                “Miss Williams” I say “I’ve held up my end of our agreement. I’m afraid I have to insist that you prove your word’s worth more than old twine on a wooden stake.” I worry that my wordplay is being too heavily influenced by tonight’s events, but don’t bring her attention to it. I need to keep as much power in my hands as possible.
                “Oh, fine! Stay here.” She orders, frustrated at the defeat of her delayed payment play. She disappears into the house, then re-emerges a few moments later with her handbag. I notice that it’s the same blue bag she was wearing yesterday. Running the details through my mind, I realise that this is of no relevance to anything. Another clue? No. That’d be reading too far into it. Lilian always told me not to drill so far into things – my cases, her words, the cellar floor with the water pipes below it; I got myself too far into her hypnotic influence, and just like my cellar, the icy waters rose up to engulf me.
                Eliza counts out my fee - £20 – and thrusts it roughly towards me without a word.
                “Thank you.” I say, taking it from her like a goat taking food pellets from a child at a petting zoo. Which is to say, with my mouth. Both hands have to remain free for self-defence of this wily backstabber.
                Eliza snatches her hand back then slams the door in my face, and I hear her stamping back up the stairs – probably heading back to bed. Yet again, I find myself standing outside alone in the cold darkness. The sunbeam of Lilian is nowhere to be seen, and all that’s left is for me to go back to my car and get some rest before heading to the office. Still, it’s another successful case. The insidious Eliza Williams failed to despatch me with her juniper gambit, and I even got a fee for the pleasure of escaping the trap.
                “You’d be proud of me Lilian, I did it. I solved the juniper case. How, you ask? Well, I’m Larry Murphy - the best damn privet detective in the world”

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The Lament of the Bath Sleeper

Waking up in the bath was always tough. The enamel left her head feeling bruised, her legs were always crumpled up and pressing into the taps, and inevitably something would fall over and leak onto her. Bubble bath is much less relaxing when it’s seeping steadily into your leggings over a six hour period.
                Cassie was sure that the bath wasn’t actually spinning – if she was the owner of a rotating bath then it would be something she remembered. At least, she hoped it would be – right now she didn’t remember much, so it was all a bit of a gambit. Never-the-less, the spinning motion she felt must have been inside her head, which meant that stopping it would be terribly difficult indeed. Taking one of the few measures she could to assert some equilibrium into the proceedings, she forced her eyes open, despite the protestations of her dry eyeballs.
                As the dim early-morning light entered Cassie’s dilated and furious pupils, some of the imaginary rotation she’d been hosting took its leave of her.  Having it stick around when the information from her eyes pointed out that the room was quite stationary would only cause conflict, and confrontation was the last thing the situation called for. Still, conflict or none, and bath or not, she was once again stable. This was a good starting point for either getting up, or falling back to sleep, and so the world was truly Cassie’s oyster in that moment. Unfortunately, her mouth tasted very much like she’d eaten an oyster who’d been fished out of a brewery, and that fact cast an unpleasant pall over her otherwise tolerable situation.
                Trying not to touch the inside of her mouth with her tongue, which is rather difficult when that’s where one’s tongue lives, Cassie decided that falling back to sleep was the only rational choice to be made. She was still tired, it wasn’t very light, and she could probably put up with the skull-flattening effect of an enamel pillow for a little while longer. She lifted her legs to rest her feet on the rim, one between the taps and one to the side, and slid deeper into the bath. Closing her eyes again, she willed herself not to think about how uncomfortable she was, and drifted back into an undignified slumber.
                She dreamed of standing by a road at the top of a hill. A pigeon was eating seeds around the base of a keep-left sign, bobbing its head around and flapping occasionally. She wondered why someone had left seeds in the road, then noticed that the keep left sign was a vending machine for bird seed, and the pigeon was inserting coins from a leather purse. Cassie was impressed, and wanted to get a closer look – she stepped into the road, which was now tiled like the floor of supermarket, and approached the pigeon. It was using human arms from under its wings to deal with the operation of the seed-dispenser, and Cassie noticed a wedding ring on one of the fingers.
                ‘I suppose it’s for the best to have that question nipped in the bud’ she thought to herself, with the faintest air of disappointment.
                The pigeon finally noticed her approaching and cooed loudly, but continued its transaction with the vending machine. It then cooed loudly again, which Cassie somehow understood as a warning that she was walking blindly across a road. She looked right, and saw an estate car careening towards her.
                Everything slowed down – Cassie saw herself standing in the road, and screamed at her body to move, but she remained still. The vehicle crept ever closer, and Cassie tried harder to shout at herself and rouse her own attention, but there was no effect – she remained motionless and the gap grew smaller. At the last second, with all the effort she could muster, Cassie forced her body to leap to the side with its legs kicking wildly – towards the pigeon and out of the path of the vehicle. She landed hard on the ground, striking her shin against a hitherto unseen colander. Cassie stood up and prepared to make an apology to the pigeon for landing on his kitchen utensils. She also felt that she should thank it for warning her about the traffic, but was stopped in her tracks again when she saw that it was facing her with its beak open, and gallons of water were gushing out. It began to flood the area impossibly quickly, rising up to her knees and soaking her legs. It was cold, much colder than she would have expected, having come out of a well-fed bird, and made a hissing sound not unlike that of a running…
                Cassie awoke again with a start, and cold water was flowing freely from the tap, soaking her leggings. She flinched violently, once again slapping her leg into the tap handle and increasing the flow rate. Frantically, she scrabbled backwards away from the water, frothing her bubble-bath leggings into a fearsome lather as she went. With terrified passion, she gripped the sides of the bath with her hands and pushed herself upwards, whilst her feet slipped ineffectually in the suds. The bubbles became ever-thicker around her legs as she struggled. On the bright-side, however, a powerful scent of lavender was beginning to fill the room, rather than the typically reminiscent aroma of a brewery.
                After a few seconds of intense conflict against gravity and lubrication, Cassie managed to scramble to her feet. She stepped cautiously but urgently from the bathtub, then turned off the tap and sighed with relief. Her head was no longer spinning, which was one positive to be drawn, but it still felt like someone had been attempting to inflate her brain with a bicycle pump. Having wet legs did nothing to remedy the situation.
                Cassie looked down at herself, a thick layer of bubbles extending from her knees downwards. She was unreasonably frothy, she decided. This level of bubbliness in the morning, especially so concentrated around the legs, was simply unacceptable.
                ‘Living the dream’ Cassie thought to herself, sarcastically. ’At least I smell pretty good. I might be able to get away without washing these now.’
                Cassie stood there, next to the bath, allowing herself a small feeling of self-satisfaction, and briefly considering whether or not this counted as having done some laundry. These feelings were soon superseded, however, by the chill of her soaked legs.
                ‘I need to take these off. If I wear them for much longer I’d have to wash them again anyway.’ She thought to herself, focusing on entirely the wrong consequence of standing around in saturated and foamy clothing. Having hiked her skirt up and hooked her thumbs into the waist band of her leggings, she pulled downwards, peeling the saturated fabric away from her legs and leaving an impressive amount of foam on her skin.
                Once she had finished, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Her long black hair was tangled and unkempt, having tried very hard to take the shape of the bath. Her top was twisted and lopsided, and her skirt was hiked up around her waist. Her legs were bare, wet and foamy, and she was holding what looked like a poorly-washed and highly-depressed cat.
                ‘You are one classy dame, Cassie.’ She said to herself.
                Cassie looked down at the mess of black elasticated cotton and lavender scented foam in her hands, and tossed it casually into the bath. That was a situation which could bear to wait until later. Turning away from the bubbly tub of future problems, she grabbed a towel from the rack and dried herself off.
                ‘OK. I’ve had quite enough time in the bathroom.’ She told herself, and pulled the door open to leave her makeshift sleeping quarters. In doing so, she stepped directly onto the remains of the sandwich she’d made herself before going to bed. Or, more accurately, before going to bath.
                ‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed, understandably. ‘Why is there a sandwich here?’ she begged the empty landing, but it lacked sufficient feelings of charity to respond. Then the memory of the sandwich’s origins came gradually back to Cassie, with a defeated ‘Oooh’.
                Cassie had been hungry when she and Sarah had got back in last night, so she’d made a sandwich for herself. At some stage after the creation of the sandwich, Cassie’s need for the loo had become overwhelming – she was far closer to wetting herself than was reasonable for any healthy human adult. In order to remedy this, she’d headed towards the lavatory, but admitted to herself that the perilous bathroom was no place for such a young and innocent sandwich. With risky scenarios such as the toilet-drop, the sink plunge, and even an outside chance of the shampoo-saucing, the dangers were all too real. Cassie had placed her snack safely on the floor outside the doorway and headed in to conduct her urgent business.
                After mourning her lost snack and the unpleasant sensations being experienced by her toes, as well as a short trip back to the bath to rinse her foot, Cassie stepped carefully over the now squashed sandwich and headed towards the bedroom to get dressed. The food-floor situation could be addressed in the fullness of time.
                The bedroom door was closed, which meant that Sarah was probably still asleep in there; the utmost caution and stealth would be required. Very slowly and carefully, Cassie pushed the handle down and leant into the door, gradually sliding it open over the soft bedroom carpet. The quiet swooshing sound of the door and carpet gave way to a gentle, if rattling, breathing coming from the direction of the bed, and Cassie tip-toed her way into the room. Her own side of the bed was the farthest from the doorway, and therefore both her chest of drawers and her pile of discarded clothing were similarly distant. A silent circumnavigation was necessary.
                Cassie picked her way over the little black dress which Sarah had been wearing last night, and tried to avoid placing her foot on the collection of discarded hair pins. A short spell of hopping and silent cursing punctuated her failure in that regard. Cassie’s mind was screaming at Sarah for not putting them on the bedside table, and she looked at the hair-care perpetrator to complete her judgement, but in doing so the rage quickly melted away again. Sarah was sleeping soundly on her front, breath still rattling away, with her arm dangling off the bed and one foot poking out a fold in the duvet. Looking at the ungainly human spillage, which filled the bed and called itself Cassie’s other half, Cassie’s righteous fury dissipated despite the determined protestations coming from the injured foot. Cassie broke a smile (within the warranty period, so no harm done) and put her foot down again, straight back onto the hair pins.
                A second bout of quiet swearing later, Cassie pushed on past the minefield laid down by her sleepy companion, and reached her chest of drawers. She pulled open the middle drawer and gazed hungrily as it unveiled a small portion of her impressive ‘mong-out’ collection. The mong-out collection was the subset of Cassie’s wardrobe which was particularly suited to doing very little indeed. There were always local variations in the amount of clothing in the mong-out collection – generally, whatever Cassie woke up in after a Friday night out became an honorary member for the day – but the core constituents were laid in front of Cassie in this moment. The pyjamas were a workhorse; cosy, comfortable, and a clear message to anyone who saw her that if she achieved a single thing that day then it would be too much. The dressing gown strewn across the floor nearby was another classic choice, but having to occasionally re-tie the belt was far too much effort for today. Brushing aside old jeans and stretched t-shirts, Cassie settled on her old university hoodie and a pair of sweatpants – it was a full-slob situation.
                Cassie changed quickly, in the well-practised manner of a serial monger, and crept her way back out of the bedroom. She had been tempted to wake Sarah so that she could say ‘good morning’, but elected against it when another memory popped itself back into existence.
                Cassie and Sarah had been standing at the top of the stairs, discussing something inane, when Cassie had claimed she’d ‘wake with the lark and bask in the pre-dawn glow of a hangover-free day.’ Sarah had then declared ‘I love you very much Cassie, but if you bask too loudly and wake me up early, I will cut you.’
                Cassie was at least 80% sure that Sarah had been joking about cutting her, but it didn’t feel like a risk worth taking at this stage. That went double, since promises of a ‘hangover-free day’ were clearly a fabrication. Sarah would probably wake up of her own accord soon enough, and then no-one had to gamble with potential knife-crime. For now, the best plan of action was to head downstairs, make the best she could of the rest of the morning, if it even was morning still, and await the naturally-stirring cutting-free Sarah.
                After collecting the squashed remains of last night’s sandwich from outside the bathroom door, having declared this moment to be ‘the fullness of time’, Cassie went down the staircase. Around half way down, she noticed that the hallway had rather more shoes strewn around it than usual. In fact, according to Cassie’s rough count, approximately all of her and Sarah’s shoes were tastefully sprinkled around the floor. She didn’t recall events 100% clearly, but she was fairly sure she had not in fact been wearing all the shoes she owned last night. Quite aside from the trouble she would have faced in fitting them all onto her feet, she would have clashed horribly with herself; there’s no way Sarah would have let that fly. The sheer volume of shoes involved here implied that this was an endeavour of passion and determination, and there was no good explanation for that. Unfortunately, Cassie knew from experience that the lack of a good explanation for what she was seeing often meant that there was only a bad one; bad explanations are often worse than no explanation at all.
                The shoe situation didn’t need to be dealt with right now, much like the soggy leggings – the priority call had already been made to sate her perishing thirst, of which Cassie had become cognizant whilst sneaking around the bedroom. She waded through the footwear lake, leaving a wake of sling-backs and causing a bough-wave of open-toed sandals, and entered the kitchen.
                Clearly, things had not run smoothly last night when she had been attempting to relieve her crippling hunger. In many ways, this should have been anticipated not only from Cassie’s choice of shoe distribution and sleeping quarters, but also the fact that the sandwich had been casually abandoned outside of the bathroom door. The kitchen was in disarray; cupboard doors were open, dirty glasses covered the work surface, and packets of crisps and biscuits were dangling out of cupboards precariously or scattered around the room. Interspersed among the many used cups and plates from the night before were straws, cutlery, and items from Cassie’s handbag. Half a cucumber had been crammed into the spigot of the kettle, the majority of a lettuce was sprinkled across the floor, and the butter was bobbing merrily along in the sink – a yellow plastic vessel, holding the souls of hydrogenated sink-farers in melted memorial. Cassie wasn’t sure what she felt the most: remorse that she’d have to go out to get more butter, or proud that drunk-Cassie had been responsible enough to try to do the washing up. It was a bit of a moot point though, because either way this evidence HAD to be destroyed before Sarah became aware of it. It wasn’t so much a telling-off that Cassie feared, as the relentless piss-taking which would surely follow.
                Cassie grabbed the cucumber, and found that it had been thoroughly buttered, presumably in some kind of inebriated zeal. Begrudgingly, Cassie had to admit that there was a distorted logic to the situation – a well-greased cucumber had a much greater chance of making it into the kettle. The motivation for trying to achieve that end goal was doomed to remain a mystery, however. Grimacing, but accepting that what’s done is done, Cassie decided that she should simply wipe the cucumber clean and forget that this whole sorry mess ever happened. In reaching for the kitchen roll, she discovered that the fates had other plans for her – it was gone, leaving her clutching a buttery sandwich-filler and many, many regrets. She couldn’t just put the cucumber back on the side, because that would get butter everywhere and probably soil the dairy-coated article further. She especially wasn’t going to use the sink because that would involve one or both of the cucumber and her hand entering the cold, untrustworthy water.  She had to find the kitchen roll.
                It hadn’t been in the bathroom, so that was one potential hiding place out. The landing had also been clear, as far as Cassie remembered, but the bedroom had been dark, and therefore little data had been gathered. On balance, though, Cassie didn’t think it was terribly likely that Sarah would have taken the kitchen roll to bed with her. There was a possibility that the kitchen roll had been scuttled and sunk beneath the surface of the shoe-lake, but there was no way Cassie was going to risk getting her shoes buttery. The most logical place to begin her search was the living room, so off she waded, back through the shoes, to find her absorbent prize.
                The living room curtains were drawn shut. Cassie used her free hand to pull them open and allow the sunshine to spill into the room from the back garden. This also allowed the cereal box which had, for reasons lost in time, been sitting atop the curtain pole to drop down onto her head.
                “AAAH!” Cassie shouted understandably, having not expected breakfast to perform an aerial strike on her. The cornflakes crunched to the ground, spilling slightly onto the laminate, and Cassie eyed them askance.
                “Why?” she muttered to herself in distress, before cracking a smile and giggling to herself.
                The morning light unveiled the living room, which seemed to have escaped relatively unscathed from the night’s shenanigans. The sofas were still intact, the TV was thankfully unbroken, and there was relatively little mess of which to speak. The cushions had be rearranged onto the floor, but that wasn’t the end of the world. Scanning around the room, a flash of white caught Cassie’s eye, and she saw the kitchen roll nestled underneath the coffee table. It seemed rather happy there; not mopping up spilt drinks or sauces, but having a little rest on the floor. Cassie wasn’t going to judge it for that – she’d been in a far worse position only a few minutes ago.
                Taking care not to butter the coffee table or the floor with her cucumber, Cassie knelt down and reached underneath the coffee table to retrieve the kitchen roll. She took hold of one edge and yanked it out, unspooling several feet of it as she did so. Standing up again, the loose sheets were trailing along the ground, even when she lifted the roll above her head. This was no good to her at all – all achieved was losing the use of her free hand, and she still lack the ability to wipe the cucumber clean. Cassie looked from one hand to the other, assessing her possible routes forward, and with a frustrated groan she admitted defeat – she would seek the aid of a slightly more responsible adult and wake up Sarah.
                Deflated, Cassie plodded her way back up the stairs and into the bedroom, kitchen roll drifting along behind her like the train of an absorbent wedding dress. Sarah was still sprawled out across the bed, washed ashore by the gallons of wine she’d surfed home on last night. Lifeguard Cassie had chosen the buttered cucumber and loose kitchen roll as resuscitation aids – the potential definitely existed that she was unqualified.
                “Sarah?” Cassie called softly. “Sarah, are you awake?”
                Sarah continued breathing heavily, which was her usual way of saying no.
                “Sarah, I think I need your help. Sarah. Sarah.” Still nothing. Actions speak louder than words, however, so Cassie was practically screaming when she balanced precariously on one leg and poked Sarah with her foot.
                “Ungg.” Sarah complained.
                “Sarah?” Cassie asked again, feeling pretty sure that she was addressing the correct person, but enquiring anyway.
                “Hnng, yeah?” Sarah replied sleepily.
                “I think I need some help.” Cassie told her sheepishly. Sarah open her eyes and looked towards Cassie.
                “What the Christ are… is that a cucumber?”
                “Er, yeah. I’ve got some kitchen roll too.”
                Sarah spluttered out a laugh. “Of course you have. They’re very nice; I’m glad you’ve brought them up here to meet me. Why do you need my help?”
                “Well, the cucumber is covered in butter and-“
                Sarah began cackling.
                “-and I can’t put it down to break off the kitchen roll to wipe it clean.” Cassie finished, sincerely.
                Sarah looked up and saw the trail of kitchen roll leading towards the door, then fell back onto the bed laughing even harder. Cassie relaxed slightly, feeling that the risk of a cutting was now negligible.
                After a minute or so of alternately trying to compose herself, looking back at Cassie, and then folding up in laughter, Sarah sat up again. She examined Cassie more closely, from the buttery cucumber to the streamer of kitchen roll, and what appeared to be cornflakes in her bedraggled hair. ‘Poor little Chicky.’ She thought.
                “OK… OK… come here, let me help you with that. Give me the kitchen roll and keep the butter away from the duvet. How do you get yourself into these situations?” she pleaded with a grin, as she began gathering up the unfurled paper towels.
                “I went downstairs and made the mistake of trying to tidy up. Then the cornflakes fell on my head.”
                “How did the cornfl-“
                “They fell off the curtain rail in the living room.”
                Sarah collapsed in laughter again. “I remember that! I remember getting in and you telling me how much you needed snacks. So we went into the kitchen and searched for something to eat in the cupboards, but you said you were also… what was it… “far too weary for these shenanigans”, so you had to go sit down in the living room to come to terms with how tired and hungry you were.”
                Cassie smiled as the memory limped its way back into her mind. “I remember going to sit down, now that you mention it.”
                “Yeah, you went in there and I thought that you’d maybe like some cornflakes – mostly because they were the first thing I saw and I just wanted to go to bed, truth be told – so I went to the door and threw them at you.”
                “And you missed so badly that they landed on the curtains?” Cassie sniggered.
                “Not quite, my love.” Sarah replied with a smirk. “Rather than catching the thing you’d asked me to give you, you decided to defend yourself and deflect it like a volleyball. You caught it so badly that it landed on the curtains.” She finished triumphantly.
                Cassie started to put her head in her hands and promptly wiped butter on her cheek.
                “Uggghh” she squealed. “Please Sarah.”
                Unable to ignore the desperate pleas of her greased fiancée any longer, Sarah swung herself out of bed and tore off a sheet of kitchen roll for cucumber reconditioning. She then got back into the bed to watch and mock as appropriate.
                “Thanks Sarah.” Cassie said quietly, with a note of amusement and a symphony of embarrassment.
                “Any time you need me to bail you out of a spread and vegetable situation, I’ll be there. I think it’s time you told me how you got yourself into this mess though.”
                Wiping the cucumber over, Cassie replied “Well, I tried it to pick it up, and it was buttery. Then I tried to pick up the kitchen roll and it was a bit, erm, tumbly.”
                “And how did the cucumber come to be buttery?”
                Cassie toyed with speculating about lubrication for kettle ingress, then decided that no good would come of admitting to that. “I don’t really remember.”
                A disbelieving look from Sarah implied that her explanation was insufficient.
                “I don’t!” Cassie protested.
                “Well I didn’t do it, so you must have.”
                “Well, yeah. I’m pretty it sure it will have been me. I guess it was when I was making my sandwich, perhaps I was over-enthusiastic with the spreading.”
                “Or pre-buttered the cucumber to save time on a subsequent sandwich?” Sarah offered.
                “Yeah, maybe.” The cucumber was now clean, and Cassie was admiring her handiwork.
                “Was the sandwich nice?”
                “I can’t comment on its flavour, but it felt pretty horrible when I stepped on it this morning.”
                Sarah laughed again. “I love you Cassie. Never change.” She said when she’d regained some composure.
                “I had a foody foot OK! It happens; leave me alone about it!” Cassie replied, attempting to be grumpy but failing not to grin. “I love you too.” She added after a pause. “Anyway, I need to finish clearing up downstairs; why don’t you just stay in bed?”
                Sarah eyed Cassie suspiciously. “What don’t you want me to see? How bad is it down there?”
                “I came up here with a buttery cucumber, how bad do you think it is?” Cassie answered, brandishing her cleaned vegetable at Sarah.
                A heavy sigh was the only answer Cassie received. Sarah closed her eyes, nodded her head and laid back down. Cassie picked up the kitchen roll from the bed, kissed Sarah on the cheek, and returned downstairs.
                Back in the kitchen, Cassie returned the cucumber to the fridge and surveyed the situation facing her. It would have been a tedious enough task anyway, but with an unknown layer of additional sandwich mess to account for, clearing up could stretch into the hours.
                ‘Can I really be bothered with this on my own?’ Cassie thought to herself. ‘Sarah won’t mind helping me that much. Although she must be tired and want to sleep. She won’t want to get up to face... this. And the years of ridicule may not be worth it.’
                Conflicted, and staring deeply into the SS butter, which was resting calmly on the sink-water’s surface, Cassie’s ears pricked to the sound of footsteps from above – Sarah was getting up anyway. There was no way to hide the filth in time – she would have to accept her fate and face Sarah’s reaction. Cassie felt a small pang of guilt that Sarah would end up helping her clean the mess whatever happened, even though she deserved a day off, but it was still caught in a deadly combat with her desire for an easier task.
                Scrabbling in futility, Cassie grabbed a handful of lettuce leaves from the floor and stuffed them into a pint glass – that was a much better place for them. As she then attempted to hide the glass behind some empty wine bottles, however, she heard a shout from the staircase.
                “MY SHOES!” Sarah cried, thundering down the stairs. “Why are my shoes all over the floor? Cassie?”
                Cassie left the glass where it was and rushed to the kitchen doorway.
                “I don’t know. I don’t remember doing it – I thought it might have been you.” She postulated. The look on Sarah’s face, somewhere between horrified, confused, and sceptical, informed Cassie that the redistribution of footwear on such a scale was not something with which she would have involved herself.
                “I don’t remember doing it either, and I don’t recall wading through my nice heels to get to bed.”
                Cassie shrugged. “I don’t see why I’d have done it. It would have taken ages and all I was concerned about was snacks. Unless I tried to eat the shoes instead – are there bite marks on any of them?”
                Sarah looked stonily at Cassie. “If there are bite marks on my shoes, I think we can agree that you won’t want me to see them.”
                “You really think I’d bite your shoes?” Cassie shot back, a little hurt at the accusation of being a cobbler-gobbler.
                “No smoke without fire.” Sarah defended. She then paused thoughtfully, for longer than Cassie felt was necessary. “Although it doesn’t sound like something you’d do, no.”
                “Good.”
                “I need some water in any case – can I get through to the kitchen please?”
                Cassie tensed. The kitchen filth had been given much higher priority in terms of being hidden from Sarah than the shoes, and so she feared a proportionately worse response.
                “I can get that for you.” Cassie spluttered too quickly. “Don’t you want to go back to bed?”
                Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “What are you hiding in there?”
                “Nothing! Nothing. I just thought that you might want to lie down after the shoe shock.”
                Sarah considered this answer for a couple of seconds. “Bullcrap.” Came her insightful assessment. “Let me see what’s going on.”
                Like a surefooted mountain goat, Sarah navigated the loose rocks of footwear and stepped into the kitchen. She then curled up on the floor, in a nest of lettuce, laughing at the mayhem to which she had borne witness.
                “Wha… what is wrong with you?” Sarah managed to splutter breathlessly, between bouts of cackling.
                “I clearly struggled, alright? We both know it.” Cassie gracefully conceded. Sarah gradually regained control, stood back up, and put her hand on Cassie’s shoulder.
                “It’s OK baby – sandwich-making out-foxes even the best of us.” Sarah told her mockingly.
                “Oh, shut your face.”
                “No, I mean it. It makes perfect sense to throw the lettuce everywhere in the room. Some of it is bound to land on the bread sooner or later.”
                Cassie crossed her arms grumpily. “See, this is exactly why I wanted to hide it from you.”
                “Aww, cheer up Chicky.” Sarah told her with a wry smile. “I’m only playing.” Cassie eyed her suspiciously – when Sarah was feeling playful it generally meant that there was no end in sight to the constructive jibes.  At least the guilt of letting Sarah get up to help had faded to nothing.
                “Besides” Sarah continued “who could possibly be sad when you’ve got a whole pint of lettuce to enjoy?” She thrust the glass of leaves merrily into the air and then bent over in a fit of giggles again.
                “Well I’m glad you’re having fun.” Cassie said sarcastically, failing to avoid smirking as she did so.
                “There’s nothing I like waking up to more than a ruined kitchen and wet butter.”
                “Don’t forget a buttery kettle.” Cassie reminded her.
                “Eh?” Sarah replied with intrigue. Cassie pointed at the kettle and Sarah sighed. “How did this happen?”
                “Where do you think the cucumber came from?”
                Sarah slapped her hands to her face. “There aren’t words, Cassie. There just aren’t words.”
                “Not even, ‘Wow, I’m impressed?’” Cassie asked optimistically.
                “Not quite, my love. Not quite. Breakfast?”
                “I could murder a fry up. But I think that would involve clearing all this up first…” Cassie’s expression betrayed no desire to engage in such an activity. With her antics already rumbled, there was no longer any motivation to hide the evidence of her nocturnal misdeeds.
                “Hmm. Yes it would. I think this situation can bear to wait until we’re feeling more responsible. Café? My treat – you’ve given me so much already this morning, I feel the need to repay you. Besides, you’ve already got our shoes out for us so we’re basically ready to go.”
                “You’re not going to stop this any time soon, are you?”
                “Almost certainly not.” Sarah informed Cassie with a grin.
                “Then I’d rather be ridiculed over breakfast than the washing up. I guess. Let’s go.” Cassie said decisively, grabbing Sarah’s hand. Unfortunately for Sarah, Cassie hadn’t washed it since holding the cucumber.
                “Ugh! Cassie!” was how Sarah chose to articulate her distaste.
                “What’s done is done!” she responded, and so they left; hand-in-buttery-hand.

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