Decay Inevitable

The boy swung the door wide enough for them to enter. The light was poor in the hallway, but they could tell that he had trouble walking. They saw his head jerk in the darkness as he led them deeper into the house, heard his feet flailing spastically against the floorboards.

“What’s there to be scared of?” he asked, pushing open a door into another room that was darker than the hall. Will tried the light switch but the bulb was gone. Black shapes formed in the gloom. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make a fire.”

When Will’s hand accidentally brushed against Joanna’s, she clasped it tightly. The sofa that they lowered themselves into didn’t seem to have any upholstery. They sank into cushions that were slightly damp and smelled of laundry that had failed to dry properly.

“What’s there to be scared of?” the boy asked again, as he set about building a small pyre of kindling and folded paper.

“What’s your name?” Joanna asked.

“Luke,” said the boy.

“Luke. Where did your parents go?”

“One of them went back. One of them went on.”

“What does that mean?” Having conquered the tremble in his words, he now found he was close to shouting. He couldn’t find a happy medium; hysteria was close all the time. “Do you have to be so cryptic? A straight answer, from anybody, would be nice. Went back where? Went on where? Jesus.”

Joanna touched his knee. Her eyes were egg-large in the gloom, straining to swallow the most feeble glimmers of light. Will rubbed his face with his hands. It struck him that, throughout all this, his stubble had not grown any longer. He tried to remember the last time he had had a drink. A beer would be good now. A beer would be outstanding.

“I have been here for so... long,” Luke said, the words packaged in a long sigh. Tiny flames began to tongue at the bundle of tinder, green and blue. They liked the taste and grew. Shivering light enveloped the boy, outlining his shape for Will and Joanna behind him. His legs had no recognisable form; they looked as though they had been removed, fed through a mangle, and then reattached. They flopped around ineffectually as Luke arranged some larger logs around the heart of the fire, and then the boy slithered backwards as its heat became greater. Will didn’t know what to say. Joanna seemed to be trying to say something, but nothing was coming out of her open mouth.

“I know this place,” Luke said. “Not everyone finds it. Most only stay for a short time.” The words sounded familiar, like old friends. Perhaps the boy had been internally rehearsing them for a long time, and only now was putting a voice to them. “Some time ago, I remembered where I was before I was here. I was in a car with my mother and father. Dad was driving. He was arguing with my mum about money. I was sitting in the back with my colouring book. I was colouring a dragon. I remember I was angry because I didn’t have a green pencil for the scaly skin. Just this awful yellow. Dragons aren’t yellow.

“I looked up just as Dad lashed out and struck Mum across the face. She hit back and she was swearing at him, telling him she hated him, ordering him to stop the car. She was getting out. She actually opened the door. We were on the motorway. Dad kept telling her to shut up. She hit him again and his hands came off the steering wheel. The car went into a spin and then came off the road and hit a tree. Mum went through the windscreen. Dad’s head was wobbling like a doll’s. I was flying around the back of the car, but my legs were crushed under the chair in front. And then I was sitting on the doorstep outside this place. Mum and Dad were with me for a little while.

“Raymond Meadows told me at school about coma. His mum is dying from something in her brain. She’s in a coma. That’s where we are now. This is coma. It isn’t any kind of life. And it isn’t any kind of death. Mum went on. Dad went back. And now I’m on my own. I don’t know how long you can stay in a coma for. Maybe for ever. Coma is what we want it to be when we are asleep. I think death is like that too. We make death the way our dreams want it when we sleep. Nobody could accept death if it wasn’t prettified like that.”

Luke turned, the edge of his face limned with firelight. He giggled nervously. “That’s what I think, anyway.”

Will tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. His throat clicked with the effort. Joanna’s eyes were filmed with tears.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, breathlessly.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I was born in 1960.”

“How did you remember what happened to you?” Will asked. “I can’t remember.”

“It comes to you. Eventually.”

Joanna’s mouth was on the verge of collapse. Fear shaded in all the places in her face where age was making a home.

“What is it?” Will asked.

Joanna put a hand to her mouth. “Harry, that’s my husband. We... we said to each other once, if ever we were on life support, if there was no hope... we said we’d switch the machine off. He’ll pull the plug on me.”