Каарон Уоррен - The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2018 Edition

“Shall we get Nicky a birthday present? Shall we go shopping for a birthday present? What do you think Nicky might like?” Max says he has no idea. He’s barely spoken to Nicky, he says, he doesn’t know why Nicky’s invited him, Nicky must have invited everyone. She supposes that is probably true—but she reminds herself Nicky’s mother went to the effort of sending a postal invitation, and finding their address to do so, it can’t be as random as all that. On the Saturday they go out to buy Nicky a present, all she knows is he must like the water, she buys him an inflatable Donald Duck for the pool—she also buys a card, which she’ll get Max to sign—and she buys Max some new swimming trunks.

Sunday morning, and it’s raining. Not the gentle sort either—it falls as mean sharp strips, no one would want to be out in this.

“What a shame,” she says. Max brightens—does that mean he won’t have to go to the party after all? She is having none of that. She tells him to get into the car, and he’s sulking now, positively sulking, he’s twelve years old and he should know better. He slams the car door and won’t speak to her all the way there. She brings the birthday present and the birthday card, and she brings Max’s swimming trunks too, just in case. The rain is thick and nasty as they drive, but as they reach the other side of town the weather starts to lift, and once they reach Nicky’s house the clouds are gone and the sun is shining hot and warm, it’s a beautiful summer’s day.

“Come on,” she says. “And for Christ’s sake, smile a bit.”

They ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers, neatly dressed, and beaming happily. “Nicky?” she asks, and he says—“Yes, yes!” He says to Max, “Maxwell, it is so very good of you to come.” And he offers her his hand, “Mrs. Williamson, my mother will be thrilled that you’re here. Please, come through, both of you. Everyone’s out back in the garden!”

There must be about twenty children standing by the swimming pool, all of them boys, all of them in their bathing costumes. She thought there would be more of them, and she feels a weird thrill of pride for her son—now he’s the twenty-first most wanted child at the party, and not, as she had feared, the hundredth. The water in the pool looks so blue and warm, it looks good enough to sleep in, good enough to drink. She says to Nicky, but why aren’t you all swimming? And Nicky looks genuinely shocked and says, “We wouldn’t start until Maxwell got here! That would be rude!”

The boys don’t seem impatient or annoyed that Max has kept them waiting; they smile, a couple of them standing by the far end of the pool wave in greeting.

“Well,” she says to Max. “Do you want to run along and play?” Max says, “I don’t know these boys.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re not at my school. I don’t know any of them.”

“Don’t worry, Max,” says Nicky. “These are my friends, and that means they’re your friends too. I’ll introduce you, and we’re going to have such fun! Did you bring your trunks? You did? Let’s go inside and get changed. I haven’t got changed either yet; I waited for you.” And he holds out his hand, and that seems such a peculiar thing—but Nicky is smiling so warmly, there is no malice in it, or sarcasm, or even just dutiful politeness—and when Max hesitates for a moment Nicky doesn’t take offense, he smiles even more widely and gives his outstretched hand a little flutter of encouragement. And Max takes it. And they hurry indoors.

She feels suddenly awkward now, left all alone, alone except for the twenty little boys all staring at her. “Hello,” she says, but they don’t reply. She becomes aware that she is still holding a birthday card and a birthday present with Disney wrapping; she puts them down upon the poolside table.

And then, suddenly—“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, what must you think of me!” Nicky’s mother is not a prepossessing woman. She’s short, and a little plump, and she doesn’t wear any makeup; her hair is sort of brown and tied into an efficient bob. And yet it’s curious—there’s nothing drab about her, she looks comforting, she looks mumsy. And Max’s mum feels a short stab of jealousy that anyone can look as mumsy as that, the kindly mother of children’s books and fairy tales, the mother she’d hoped she’d be for Max. A stab of jealousy, just for a moment, then it’s gone.

“Thank you for inviting us,” she says to her.

“Max is so excited!”

“I hope you’re excited too,” says Nicky’s mum, “Just a little bit! The invitation was for both of you! You will stay?”

“Oh. Because my car is outside…”

“Please. Have a glass of wine.”

“And I’ll have to drive back.”

“Not for hours yet. Please. Everyone else stayed. Please.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Williamson, you must stay! Everyone’s welcome to my party!” Because Nicky is outside again, and he has brought Max with him.

Both boys are in swimming trunks. And it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen Max’s bare body, not in years. She’d always supposed that he was rather a plain boy, the way he carries himself as he slouches about the house made her think he was running to fat. But that isn’t fair. He’s not fat. There’s a bit of extra flesh, maybe, but it looks sweet and ripe. The skin isn’t quite smooth—there are a few scab marks where Max has no doubt scratched away spots—and there’s a little downy fur on his chest that can’t yet decide whether it wants to be hair or not. But she’s surprised by her son—he looks good, he looks attractive.

He is not as attractive as Nicky, standing beside him, and showing off muscles and tanned skin. But that’s fine, that’s not a slur on Max, she rather suspects that in the years to come no one will compete with Nicky.

“Please stay,” Nicky says one more time.

“Yes, all right.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“We got you a card and a present. They’re on the table.”

“Thank you. Well, Maxwell! Are you ready for the pool?”

“Yes,” says Max.

“Oh, watch this,” says Nicky’s mother. “This is good, you’ll like this.”

The boys all take their positions around the perimeter of the pool. Nicky leads Max to the edge; he shows him where to stand, next to him. Max looks apprehensive, but Nicky touches him on the shoulder and smiles; Max looks reassured. Then, at the other side of the pool, one of the boys raises his arms high above his head, tilts his body, and dives in. And as he dives, the boy next to him raises his arms likewise, diving as well. It’s like watching domino toppling, she thinks, as the actions of one boy precipitate the actions of the next—or, no, more like one of those old black and white Hollywood musicals, weren’t there lots of movies like that once upon a time? Because it feels perfectly choreographed, each boy hitting the water a matter of seconds after the last one has jumped, and entering it so cleanly, there’s barely a splash.

And she’s frightened for Max now, as the Mexican wave of diving boys fans its way around the poolside to where he stands waiting. Don’t fuck it up now, she thinks. Don’t fuck it up. Three boys to go, two boys, Nicky himself. Max jumps. He doesn’t dive, he jumps. His splash is loud and explosive and throws water over the side. He fucks it up.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Max’s not much of a swimmer.”

“Oh, but he’s charming,” says Nicky’s mother. “And he’ll learn.” She taps at her arm lightly with a fingernail. “Come inside. Swimming for the children, and for the grownups there’s wine and cigarettes and fresh fruit.”

“Don’t you think we should watch them?”