Trollheart

My mouth feels thick, my lips huge and rubbery and my tongue as rough as sandpaper as I force it to work. It's almost like I have forgotten how to talk, as if the time that has elapsed between my attention being captured by the weird black photograph and the time it had released me has been several centuries instead of, as it obviously was, mere seconds. My head is quite definitely going to split in two like a ripe melon. I have absolutely no doubt whatever about that. I hope Benny won’t scowl at me when I make a mess on his counter.

“No,” I rasp, then, feeling that is not really sufficient answer, I try to stretch my thin smile a little wider, an effort in which I fail entirely, deciding at the last moment to turn it into a grimace of distaste. It's rather appropriate, considering how I'm feeling. “Nothing in the papers these days,” I finish, doing my level best not to shudder at the accuracy of that statement. Benny nods sagely, picking up his pipe and carefully tapping the remains of the last smoke into the bin, following the discarded slice of ham, and the rest of his sandwich.

“I hear ya,” he says. “Still,” he observes, striking a match and touching it to the bowl, “not surprising really. After all, we won't need any news when He comes, now will we?” He winks at me. It is of course meant as a friendly gesture, but for some reason I take it as the most obscene, offensive thing I have ever seen, and my hands, trembling, bunch into fists. It's the same wink – the very exact same – that Keith favoured me with only – what? Minutes? ago. I have to fight to hold my hands by my sides. I want nothing more at that moment than to punch Benny Summers' face in. The blood is singing in my head, every nerve screaming with pain. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to dull it, but it only gets worse. I bite down so hard on my tongue that it bleeds, but I almost don't feel it. The taste of blood in my mouth distracts me from the raging headache, and I unbunch my hands, fishing in my wallet.

I mutter a non-committal grunt and Benny slides a pack of Major Extra Tar across the counter to me. I haven’t asked for them, given no indication of needing them, but they’re there on the shiny counter top before me. It's almost a telepathic understanding, but for once there is nothing ominous or scary about this: I have been coming to Benny's newsagent for most of my adult life, and never leave without a pack of my favourite cigarettes. Even if I go in there for something else, and don't ask for the smokes, Benny always puts them in front of me.

I grab the packet like a drowning man grasping a rope, and without a further word or even a look at Benny I nod my thanks, drop the money on the counter and walk out, without waiting for any change that I might be due. If Benny thinks anything about this he says nothing. After all, what shopkeeper calls his customer back to ensure he takes his change?

As I leave the shop I fight the urge not to look back at the newspaper stand, fearing that either I will see the rows of three-word text and the black photographs, and be pulled back there against my will, this time to be sucked into whatever torment awaits beyond their borders, or else I might see that the headlines all talk about trouble in the Middle East, presidential elections, old ladies being mugged and other mundane news items, and that the fetching girl offering her bottom on the Mirror's front page has words like BOTTOMS UP! and WHAT A BEAUTY! beneath her, and that all is as it should be.

I am not quite sure which would be worse.

As I leave the newsagents something which has been niggling at me begins to coalesce in my mind and assume a frightening legitimacy. Everyone I meet, from the sexy keep-fit-mad Dobson sisters to Harry the postman, from little Terry Smithson with his favourite teddy bear trailing after his aunt Penny, and even a bunch of ne'er-do-wells slouching on the corner and giving every impression of casing the local Hi-Fi store, share one unalterable and noticeable trait. Everyone seems tired. The toughs on the corner are barely able to keep their eyes open, one dropping his flick-knife and jumping as if the sudden noise it makes falling to the ground has awoken him, suddenly alert for enemies, his eyes wild, but taking a few seconds longer than he should to pick it up. Harry walks directly into a gatepost, shakes his head as if trying to clear it. Little Terry wails that he is tired, while his aunt, covering her own mouth and rubbing her eyes, points out to him that he has slept all day and has only just risen in the last hour.

All over town it's the same. People go about their business in a dazed, sleepwalking fashion. I pass commuters who wait for a bus which seems to be driven by a man asleep at the wheel; a salesman for something or other stumbles from house to house, knocking over milk bottles as he goes. The local parish priest, Father Liam, walks slowly down the high street with head bowed, turning into the local petrol station, where he uncharacteristically buys a can of petrol. I say uncharacteristically, because I know that not only does Father Liam not own a car, he has never learned to drive. Intrigued, I watch him from a distance as he opens the can, upends the contents over himself and then removes a lighter from his cassock.

My headache, which had subsided slightly as I left Benny’s, returns with pounding vengeance, as if affronted at having been dismissed, and I hold the sides of my head and grit my teeth. It’s going to be another bad one.

In another moment Father Liam is wreathed in flame, the meaty stench of burning flesh rising into the crisp autumn air. He does not scream. He does not utter a sound as the fire consumes his body, and though there are others present – garage staff and customers as well as a few people buying sweets and newspapers in the adjoining shop – nobody moves to help him, or even seems to notice what is happening. Stunned out of my frozen shock, I run forward, shrugging out of my jacket as I do, smothering him, trying to snuff out the flames. As everyone completely ignores me, I beat out the fire and look down at the cinder that once was a man. There's no way he's going to make it, but I thumb my mobile phone anyway and call an ambulance. The line connects, and I open my mouth to advise the emergency and urge a speedy despatch, but to my amazement all I hear is

He is coming.

I drop the phone from numb fingers, look down at the burnt remains of Father Liam. He is fading quickly, but smiling up at me. He winks, or he tries to: one scorched eye rolls out of its socket. “Don't worry, my son,” he tells me. “He is coming.” And those are the last words he speaks. Not knowing what else to do, unable to summon help or interest anyone around me in the fact that a man – a priest! - has just self-immolated himself for absolutely no reason, I allow my feet to carry me, automaton-like, back into the street.

As if nothing has happened, three teenage girls pass on the other side of the road, sharing a can of Red Bull, one of them losing her grip and allowing the can to fall to the ground, she looking at her hand stupidly as if trying to work out what has happened. A sharp, shrill sound cuts the air and I realise the school is letting out, but whereas usually the kids would come spilling out like an unstoppable wave at the bell, eager to be away from the seat of learning in which they have been imprisoned for the last five or six hours and get to playing, the children who emerge from the gates do so slowly, blinking in the weak light like insects suddenly exposed on the underside of a rock, and all wandering uncertainly, yawning, rubbing their eyes, some actually sitting down and falling asleep on the spot.

What the hell is going on? Is the entire town asleep?

I find my feet taking me up the hill away from the high street and towards the edge of town as the sullen clouds overhead which have been following me burst, and a thin shower of rain patters down on my unprotected head. I hardly notice it. My feelings of unease are growing, and I have the impression I am walking towards the source of that unease, but I can't stop heading in that direction. It's like something is controlling me, as if I am a puppet dancing to the commands and whims of its master. As I crest the top of the road which leads down into the valley just outside of town, I see it.

I have a feeling it sees me, too.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018