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

In the morning she checks on the damp patch on Max’s bed, and she thinks that something is growing there.

She goes to the supermarket and she buys lots of bottles of red wine, and lots of packs of cigarettes. But no matter what grape she drinks, what brand she smokes, she finds nothing as smooth or as satisfying as what she tasted at Nicky’s party.

She calls work to tell them she’s sick. She calls school too. Tells them Max isn’t well enough to come in for a while, and no one seems to care.

One morning she drinks too much wine and smokes too many cigarettes and pukes them all out, and, sadly, she realizes enough is enough, and she’ll never find that happiness again, and puts the rest in the bin.

Is she too old to have another child? She might be. Online it suggests she is “on the turn.” What does that mean? What a thing, to be on the turn. She wishes she hadn’t thrown away all the wine and fags.

The smell from Max’s bedroom is still sweet, but there’s a meaty tang to it too.

And once in a while a memory of Max pops into her head, and she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. That Christmas with his bike. And Tom took ages to wrap it up, and it did nothing to disguise what it was at all, the wheels, the handlebars, it was just so bloody obvious. She said to Tom, “I bloody told you not to leave it till last thing on Christmas Eve! Now what are we going to do?” She thinks she cried. Tom told her not to worry—it didn’t matter—he’d wrap it up again. And it was fun, she wasn’t expecting that, to be kneeling together under the Christmas tree, and be trying to bend the wrapping out of shape, put in all these little lumps and bumps so that no one could tell what was really hiding underneath. And in the morning—in the morning, Max got up early, it was Christmas day and he came into their room and he jumped on their bed, he couldn’t wait any longer! What it was to be so excited by something, she had forgotten what it was like! She and Tom both groaned, but Tom said, let’s just hang onto this because he’ll grow up fast, it won’t last forever—and how strange it was that Tom said something wise. They went downstairs to the Christmas tree. What on earth had Santa left him? What was that strange misshapen thing? Max wanted to open it right away, but no, they said, leave that one till last. Let that be the special one. And Max liked his other presents just fine, the board game, the anorak, the book of fairy tales from his grandma—but he couldn’t wait to tear into that bicycle! Off came the wrapping paper, and he made a whooping noise as he tore into it, and Tom whooped too, and she joined in—there they were, all whooping! And there was the bike. A sudden flash like panic. What if all the build-up was for nothing? What if it was the wrong bike? What if he’d gone off bikes altogether? Kids could be so fickle. Max stared at the bike. Then he ran to it, and he hugged it, as if it were a new friend. As if it were his best friend in the world. And then he turned around, and he threw his arms around his father, thank you, thank you, he said—and he hugged his mum too. Thank you, it’s perfect. And his face. The joy. The surprise. It was exquisite. And yet. And yet, as the memory pops into her head. As it plays there, like a movie, totally unbidden, and triggered by nothing in particular. She can’t quite recall the face. She can’t recall what it really looked like.

She has no idea what to feed the creature that is growing on Max’s bed, so leaves it odds and sods from the fridge, and it takes what it wants and leaves the rest. It isn’t really Max, she knows that—but there’s Max in it. She’s pretty sure she can identify bits of him, here and there.

Tom phones to ask whether he should pick up Max the usual time on Saturday. “I don’t see why not,” she says.

She answers the door to him. “Hello, hello!” he says. “How are you? You all right? Where’s my superstar?” He’s in a bouncy mood, that’ll make it easier.

The moustache is full grown now, and when she kisses him, she feels it bristle, she can taste the sweat that’s got caught in the hairs. “I’ve missed you,” she says.

He looks properly poleaxed, he looks like he’s having a stroke. She’d be laughing if this weren’t so important. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“Come on,” she says, and she takes his hand, and pulls him in over the threshold, “Come on.”

“Where’s Max?”

“He’s in his bedroom. Don’t worry about him. Come on.” They go upstairs. Tom hasn’t been upstairs in nearly a year; he’s never been allowed to stray further than the hallway and the downstairs toilet. Even now, he still isn’t sure he’s got permission to enter what used to be their bedroom. She smiles at him, pulls open the door.

“Wow,” he says.

There are candles everywhere and there’s soft lighting, and she’s found something pretty to drape over the sheets, she thinks it might be a scarf or something, but it looks nice. There’s a bottle of wine on the dressing table. “Do you want some?” she asks. “Get you in the mood?”

She can see he’s already in the mood, he’s been that way ever since the kiss on the doorstep. And she supposes she should be a little flattered by that, but really, does he have to be this easy? He makes one last attempt to sound responsible. “But what about Max? I mean, is he…?”

“I told you,” she says. “Don’t you worry about him for now.” She lies down upon the bed.

He pours himself some wine. He asks whether she wants. She doesn’t, no, not any more.

She takes off her clothes, it doesn’t take her long, she is ready. He takes his off too. Seeing his naked body for the first time in ages, she still feels a rush of the over-familiar. There’s nothing new to be gleaned here. Well, she thinks, that’s Max’s genes right there.

He says, “I’ve missed you. Look. I wasn’t prepared. I haven’t brought any protection? Do you have any protection?”

“Oh, come on, Tom,” she says. “You think I can still get pregnant at my age?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I’m still on the pill. Of course I’m still on the pill. Hurry up, and get inside me. I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s on top of her, he’s excited, it doesn’t take long.

He rolls off her. “Thank you,” he says.

“That’s perfectly all right.”

“I love you.”

They lie there for a bit. She wonders, if she says nothing at all, whether that will make him get up sooner. She starts to count the seconds go by in her head. It’s the like the Drowning Game. How long till Tom gives up and breaks to the surface?

He gets up. He drains his glass of wine. She watches him, he’s so sweaty and limp. “Listen,” he says. “Listen.” She raises her eyebrows, just to show that she’s listening. “That was… I don’t know what that was. But I should tell you. I’m with someone. It’s early days, but I like her.” So, the moustache was for a girl, what funny taste she must have. “And I don’t know. I mean, is this just a thing? Or is this something?”

It’s almost amusing. She says, “It’s just a thing, Tom.”

“Right. Because it doesn’t have to be.”

“No.”

“I mean, I’d break up with her. If you’d like.”

“No,” she says. “That really won’t be necessary.”

“Right,” he says. “Right.” And he puts on his clothes.

She actually feels sorry for him. Up to the point where, now dressed, he stoops over her awkwardly, and tries to give her a kiss. She turns her head away.

“I’ll go and find Max then,” he says. “He’s in his room? I’ll go and find him.” And he tries to give her a sort of smile, and then thinks better of it, and he leaves.