Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

Brendan laughed. “Friday night treat, eh? Why not. I’ll join you.”

“Cool.” Troy hung up and pulled himself off the couch, determinedly refusing to look at the tank. He caught a glimpse of a couple of his fish anyway as he turned. They seemed bloated, misshapen and awkward in the water. He made a small sound of despair, but kept his back to them by pure force of will. He went to the bathroom and washed, went to his bedroom and changed, then left the flat without a backward glance.

He walked slowly to the pub, enjoying the fresh air and exercise, but the summer heat was cloying. He walked everywhere, given his lack of car, but didn’t mind that. He’d taken lessons from his dad as a teenager and got his licence like everyone else. He took his test in Enden, not bothering to engage in the permanent debate about whether Enden or Monkton was the easier place to pass. But he’d never bought a car. The expense of one bothered him, and while he’d like the freedom, he lived and worked so locally it seemed unnecessary. Brendan had a car and was always happy to drive when they went further afield. Maybe Troy should get one soon. For some reason The Gulp suddenly felt a little claustrophobic. Some deep part of him had become agitated. He pushed the thoughts away, scratching at his palm, flexing his fingers. The whole hand felt swollen and stiff. The bumps across his palm stood a little higher, hard like tiny pebbles. His index finger throbbed, the last joint so swollen it wouldn’t bend at all.

It was only just after 6.30 so he walked past the pub and down to the harbourside, a need to see the ocean dragging him along. He stood on the cement path that curved around the bay, the squared-off harbour for boats to tie up off to his right, the lighthouse beyond that. The water shifted gently, lapped against the low wall in front of him. It was still light, would be for another hour or two yet, but the sun had dropped below the swell of land off to the west making everything soft and pastel. The brine smell and cry of gulls comforted him.

“Something lingers about you.”

Troy jumped at the scratchy sound of the old woman’s voice. He turned, the sea witch only a metre away, staring up at him with her face scrunched in… what? Disgust? She was tiny, barely four and half feet tall, older than the Bible, wrinkled like a ball sack. Her hair was white and thick, in wild disarray about her head as usual. She wore layer after layer of woollen clothes despite the heat. Troy was hot in shorts and t-shirt. He imagined she was stick-thin beneath all her clothes. She had three teeth, one top centre and two evenly spaced in the bottom of her wet, gummy jaw. No one knew her name or where she lived, and they all called her the sea witch, though not to her face. Troy assumed she was homeless, but she’d been around The Gulp forever. His dad said she was just as old and hanging around the harbour when he was a boy, but surely that wasn’t possible. Troy liked her well enough, saw her often when he came to fish, always said hello. He didn’t believe the stories about her, she was just a crazy old lady. He felt sorry for her more than anything.

“Lingers?” he said.

She stepped forward and grabbed his right wrist, turned his palm up before he could resist. One glimpse and she dropped it, danced a couple of steps backwards. “Put it back!”

He frowned. “What? Put what back?”

“Whatever it is you took from the sea. It needs to go back, right now. Take a boat, go out as far as you can. Weigh it down so it stays down!” Her voice rose in volume as she spoke, her rheumy grey eyes widening.

How did she know he’d taken something from the sea? “What are you talking about?”

“You know!” she said, narrowing her eyes and wagging one finger at him. “You know very well. Put it back!”

“No,” he said, and turned away.

As he walked back towards the pub, he heard her sigh. “So it begins,” she said. When he looked around she already had her back to him, shuffling away towards the lighthouse.

He ordered a chicken schnitty with chips and salad in Clooney’s, his hunger clawing with a vengeance. He took the table number then moved around to the bar and ordered a beer from Chrissy.

“You okay?” she asked as she poured. “You look pale.”

He shrugged. “Had a bit of a stomach bug last night. Maybe that’s it.”

“Nothing a few beers can’t cure, hey?” She had one eyebrow raised, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

She was so beautiful, Troy was among many who admired her. But none would ever suggest anything, knowing her thing with her dad. She certainly wasn’t the type of family he wanted. Family made him think of the egg again. He smiled softly. “We’ll see, I guess,” he said, and went to find a table.

He said hello to Mark on the way past, the man’s facial scars slowly turning from pink to white as the months passed. They would always be visible though, giving him a permanently fierce expression. Chicks might dig scars, Troy thought, but not that level of disfigurement, poor bastard. Barry wasn’t in it yet, but probably would be soon. Troy glanced around for Barry’s mum, but couldn’t spot her. It always paid to keep an eye on that violent bitch and her friends. Trev and a couple of others stood chatting nearby.

“Missed you last night,” Trev said with a grin. “Too embarrassed by your terrible catch to come in?”

“Get fucked,” Troy said, trying to be humorous, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Touchy fucker,” Trev said, then turned back to his friends.

Troy found a table and sat down. Brendan arrived a moment later. He was tall and skinny, a good-looking guy, but didn’t spare a glimpse for Chrissy while she poured his beer. He’d never been with a girl to Troy’s knowledge, and they’d been mates a long time. But it was also something Brendan seemed entirely unconcerned about. Troy could never decide if Bren was gay and ignoring it, or asexual, or what. And it didn’t seem to bother Brendan so Troy didn’t worry about it either. His mate was happy, that’s all that mattered.

“You order food?” Brendan asked, putting his beer on the table.

“Yeah. Schnitty.” Troy pointed at the table number.

“Cool. Reckon I’ll have one too.” He went to turn away, then paused, frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You look pale. Bit drawn or something.”

“I’m fine. Had a bug, remember?”

Brendan nodded, went to order his food.

Troy sat trying to ignore his roaring stomach. A few sips of beer had made him lightheaded, he was so hungry. Brendan returned, put his order number in its little stand on the table next to Troy’s.

“So, what’s new?”

“Same old shit,” Troy said with a grin. He felt distracted, found himself thinking of the egg in his tank at home. A powerful urge to return to it pulled at him.

They made small talk, but Troy was preoccupied. Brendan was going on about some work thing. Troy’s hand throbbed. He kept it on his lap under the table but glanced down and saw it had swollen even further. The whole thing looked like a rubber glove someone had blown up like a balloon. It itched interminably.

His food arrived and he downed his beer, then said, “You wanna get a round in as my dinner’s here? I’ll get the next one.”

“Sure.”

When Bren got up and went to the bar, Troy quickly used both hands to cut his schnitzel into bite-sized pieces, fumbling awkwardly with the knife in his fat fingers. By the time Brendan returned, Troy’s swollen hand was back under the table and he ate with just a fork. Brendan frowned when he put the beers down, but said nothing. His chicken schnitzel with mash and vegies arrived and they sat quietly, enjoying each other’s company and their food.