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

“Oh, we’ll watch them. Indoors.” That tap with the fingernail again, and then she turns and leaves. Max’s mum follows her.

“Oh, this is a nice house,” she says. “I like your house, it’s nice, isn’t it?’ In truth, it’s as unprepossessing as its owner—but it also feels homely, and warm, it feels safe. “Have you lived here long, Mrs. …?” She remembers, ridiculously, she has no idea what this woman’s name is. “Are you new to the area?”

“Have some wine,” says Nicky’s mother.

“Well, a glass of white, maybe.”

“I’m sorry, I only have red.” And she does sound sorry too. “But I think you’ll like it, it’s very good.” She pours two glasses of red; she’s right, it’s smooth. “And a cigarette?”

“Oh, no, I’ve given up.”

“So have I! Many times!” Laughter. And out from a plain wooden box on the table two cigarettes, and they are the whitest Max’s mother has ever seen. She knows as she accepts a light that it’s a mistake, she hasn’t smoked in years—how long, not since Max was born, she gave up when she was pregnant! She used to enjoy smoking, that’s something else Max has taken away from her. She prepares to cough. The cigarette is just as smooth as the wine. She recognizes the smell, where does she know that from? It smells like the scent on the birthday invitation.

And she stands there, drinking and puffing away, and on she babbles. “So, do you live here all alone, Mrs. …? I mean, with Nicky, all alone. Is there a Mr. …?”

“How is Maxwell getting on at school?”

“Oh. You know.”

“Tell me.”

“Good at some subjects. Bad at others! You know!”

“Yes.”

She’s somehow finished her glass. She’s poured another one. “He’s not an unkind boy,” she says. “He never was. There’s nothing wrong with him. I think. I just wish. I just wish he could be a bit more likeable.”

“Likeable, yes.”

“The way your son is likeable. Nicky, I mean, he’s obviously very likeable.”

“Nicky has always had a certain charm.”

“You see, you’re lucky! If it is luck. I don’t know, maybe likeable is something you can work at. Maybe being better is just something you can make yourself be. I don’t know. I just look at Max sometimes and think… You had such promise. Right at the beginning. Right when you were born. And then you just got worse and worse. What’s that about? Like something went wrong, and I never noticed, and I didn’t fix it in time, and now it’s too late. But maybe it’ll sort itself out! Kids. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“They grow up just as quickly as it takes.”

“Yes. Sorry. Of course. Yes. Do you think? Do you think we should check up on them?”

“Nicky’s very responsible. But we’ll check on them. Come upstairs. We can see better from there.”

In the bedroom there is a sliding door that leads onto a thin little balcony. There are two chairs out there, and a table. On the table there are fresh cigarettes, fresh wine. There is a basket of strawberries. “Sit down,” says Nicky’s mother. “Make yourself at home.” From the balcony they can both clearly see the pool, and hear the squeals of pleasure as the children splash about in it. Max sees his mother, waves up at her. He is smiling. It is good to see him smile.

“I like to watch them from above,” says Nicky’s mother. She has a pair of binoculars. Surely she doesn’t need binoculars; the boys are only a few feet away? She peers at the children through them; she helps herself to strawberries as she does so.

It suddenly occurs to Max’s mum: “Where are the other mothers?”

“There are no other mothers.”

“But, I thought you said…”

“It’s just me. And you.” Nicky’s mother takes the binoculars from her face and gives such a lovely smile. “And all my lovely children.”

Max’s mother thinks the smoke in her mouth tastes soft and warming, it tickles her nostrils as she puffs it out her nose, it tickles her tongue as she puffs through her mouth. Both ways are good, both are nice. “Try the binoculars,” she is told, and so she does—she is startled at first by how close the boys in the pool now seem to her, she can see the very pores on their skin, she can see every sweet blemish. They’re so close they’re just flesh and hair, she can’t tell them apart any more. “Try the strawberries too, they taste better with the binoculars,” and that seems silly, but somehow it’s true.

“I’m sorry,” she finds herself saying. “For what I said. I’m sorry.”

Maybe she was expecting some sort of reassurance. “Well,” says Nicky’s mother, “we’re all sorry, aren’t we?”

Nicky claps his hands, and all his fellows stop what they’re doing. He’s got a new game for them to play.

Nicky’s mother says suddenly, “I mean, what about Jesus?”

She doesn’t know what she means by that.

“Jesus turned out well, didn’t he?” says Nicky’s mother. “Or so some say. And he got off to a promising start. The stable was a bit uncomfortable, but the Nativity, and all the attention of the Nativity, kings coming to pay homage, angels, shepherds, stars leading the way. Well, maybe not so much the shepherds. But that’s a great start for a little boy in a desert. And then what? The Bible doesn’t tell us. It passes over his childhood in silence. Nothing for years. The next time we pick up the story, Jesus is a grown man, he’s suddenly out there preaching, telling parables and healing the sick. At last! his parents would have thought. At last, he’s finally making a name for himself. Because all that early promise seemed just squandered, you know? Get off your arse and do something with your life!”

For some reason, Max’s mother finds all this very funny, and she laughs and laughs. Nicky’s mother smiles at her curiously. Nicky’s mother then says, “Do you think you’re the first mother who couldn’t love her child?”

“What?” And suddenly she feels so cold. “What?”

“The children are having such fun,” says her new friend. “Look.” Max’s mother watches. “But what are they doing?”

“One of Nicky’s favorites. And he’s so good at it! They’re playing the Drowning Game.”

The rules to the Drowning Game are very simple. A boy dives under the water. He stays there for as long as possible. Whilst he does so, the other boys stand around the poolside in a circle and clap and chant.

“Shouldn’t we help them?” she says.

“I think they’re playing it very well without us, don’t you think?” And so it seems. They watch in silence as one child stays beneath the water for four minutes, the next very nearly five. They pass the binoculars back and forth, they smoke and drink and eat strawberries.

“Ah,” says Nicky’s mother. “Let’s now see whether your son is better than any of mine.”

Max turns to look up at the balcony. He calls out to his mother, but she can’t hear what he says above the chanting. She waves at him, she tries to get him to stop. He seems to misunderstand—he waves too, he grins, he gives her a thumbs up. He gets into the pool. He looks so frail and lonely now he’s in there on his own. He takes a deep breath, then pops his head under.

“But of course Jesus had a childhood,” says Nicky’s mother. “Whether the Bible chooses to ignore it or not. And some of the stories got out.”

She watches the surface of the water. There is not a ripple on it. And she can’t help it, she steals a look at her watch.

“The stories aren’t very nice ones. Maybe that’s why the Bible didn’t want them? Jesus killing children who so much as bump into him, blinding the parents who complain. I suppose you can’t blame him. Having all those great powers, must be very confusing for an infant.”