James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

It was spring, the sun shone, birds sang – they didn’t chirp, they sang – and green leaves had begun to appear on the trees. It was truly a lovely morning.

Then the doorbell rang.

Outside stood a little boy, who didn’t appear to be more than nine or ten years old, though he had never been good at guessing people’s ages. The first time he met her, he had thought she was three or four years younger than she turned out to be.

‘Yes?’ he said and wondered if he should recognize the boy. Several children lived on the street, but honestly he had a hard time telling them apart. She on the other hand had no problem with it and even knew the names of most of them.

‘Hi, I’m here for the collection,’ the boy said.

What collection? he almost asked, but he caught himself. He seemed to vaguely remember that there was going to be some national collection drive or other today, or perhaps next Sunday? There were so many of them these days that it was hard to keep track, sort of like with the children on the street. He felt embarrassed at not being able to recall, since he always made a point to donate to such things if he was home.

So instead he said: ‘Oh, yeah. One moment.’

It struck him as a bit odd that the boy wasn’t accompanied by an adult. He thought children weren’t allowed to walk around alone collecting money. He found his wallet in his jacket. There were only a few coins in it. Once again he had forgotten to withdraw cash.

‘Honey, do we have any cash?’ he said loudly.

‘What for?’

‘The collection.’

‘What collection?’

‘The . . . you know . . . the one from TV,’ he said and grew a little irritated at having to waste time explaining while the boy was waiting. ‘Do we have cash or not?’

‘I think so,’ she said and came out into the hall.

She caught sight of the boy.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

Ok, so it’s not one of the kids from the street.

‘I’m here because of the collection,’ said the boy.

‘Who’s it going to now?’ she asked, as she looked for her wallet in her own jacket. ‘It’s a little embarrassing, but I simply can’t remember.’

‘The money goes to Neglected Victims,’ the boy said.

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of them before. Is this their first collection?’ he asked. He took a closer look at the logo on the boy’s collection box. It was reminiscent of the logo of the Danish Cancer Society. A litigious attorney could definitely make a case out of it.

‘I don’t know,’ said the boy. ‘But I have a number here you can call, if . . .’

‘Here it is,’ she said and took out her wallet. She opened it. ‘Yes, I have some cash.’ She put the notes in the box.

The boy stared. ‘Wow!’ he burst out. ‘That was really a lot. Have a good rest of your day.’

The boy made a move to go, but then stopped.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but could I please use your bathroom? I really need to . . .’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, standing aside so the boy could come in.

He stepped over the threshold.

‘It’s just over here,’ she said and showed him the bathroom.

‘Thanks,’ the boy said. ‘I’ll hurry.’

‘Take all the time you need,’ she said, and closed the front door behind him.

The boy walked to the bathroom door and slipped inside.

They looked at each other. He shook his head with a smile.

‘What a polite young man,’ he said.

‘He must be doing more than just pee,’ he said in the kitchen. ‘He’s been in there for almost ten minutes.’

‘Really?’ she said with her head halfway in the refri­ger­ator.

‘Something wrong?’ He was surprised at her somewhat absent answer. Normally she would have said something sarcastic like, ‘What, are you timing him?’

She sighed. ‘I forgot the eggs while we were standing out there. Now they’re hard-­boiled.’ They both preferred their eggs soft and runny.

‘So cook some more.’

‘Those were the last, so unless you feel like going out and buying . . .’

‘We’ll do without,’ he said and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Just go sit. I’ll be right in.’

He found the boy sitting at the table in the living room.

‘Are you finished?’ he asked. He was so dumbfounded he didn’t know what else to say.

‘Yes, thanks, that was a relief,’ said the boy.

‘That’s good,’ he said and winced internally, because he knew very well how stupid it sounded.

The boy just smiled, but made no move to get up from the table.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, you’ll need to be getting on with your route,’ he said.

‘No,’ said the boy.

He thought at first he had heard wrong. ‘What?’

The boy sniffed. ‘Do I smell bacon?’

‘Listen, you . . .’

‘I did have breakfast, but I’m actually hungry again. You don’t mind if I eat with you?’

He could feel his jaw physically drop. He blinked in a desperate hope that it would make the boy disappear, but the kid was still sitting there.

‘All right, let’s e—’

He turned around and saw her frozen in the doorway with a pitcher of fresh-­squeezed orange juice in one hand and a plate of dry-­cured ham in the other, while she tried to decipher the situation. Under other circumstances, he would have seen the comical side to it, but just now he only felt anger slowly rising within him.

‘Oh . . . hi,’ she said to the boy.

‘Hi.’

‘Are you finished?’ she asked, and he could feel how his toes were about to curl.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Aha . . .’ she said and seemed as if she were at a loss for words.

He tried to come to her rescue. ‘He’d like to eat with us.’

She stared in disbelief, first at him, then at the boy, and then at him again.

‘Would you just come in the kitchen with me, dear? We’re missing something,’ she said sweetly.

‘Did you invite him?’ she asked.

He tried to gauge her tone of voice. She didn’t sound angry so much as astonished.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. All of a sudden he was just sitting there. So it’s more like he’s invited himself.’

She leaned into the living room, still holding the ham and the pitcher of orange juice. ‘What are we going to say to him?’

‘That he has to go? He does have a route he’s supposed to take care of.’

‘Isn’t that too rude? He does look a bit undernourished.’

Now it was his turn to look in. The boy still sat at the table, staring out into the air like a restaurant guest waiting on the server. He had to admit that the boy wasn’t among the best fed, but on the other hand he didn’t look like he was about to faint from hunger either.

‘He looks healthy enough to me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we only gave him permission to use the bathroom. We didn’t say anything about him eating with us.’

‘Yes, but all the same . . .’ she said.

He groaned. ‘Why are we even having this discussion? Neither of us asked him to be here, so I don’t see any problem with asking him nicely to go on his way again. He has to be able to understand that. Otherwise there’s something lacking in his upbringing.’

He could see that she was still hesitant.

‘Let us flip the situation around,’ he said. ‘Neither of us would ever go into a complete stranger’s house and expect to get something to eat. ’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I just feel sorry for him.’

‘That’s okay, baby. You let your big heart get carried away.’ That was one of the things about her he had originally fallen for. ‘I’ll just tell him,’ he said and went into the living room, as she followed a little way behind.