The Turning

12

12

Brett awoke that morning with the same old hangover he hadn’t been able to shake for the last seven years. He got out of bed, eyes blurry, head swooning, the floor zig-zagging. He farted. The sunlight was on his forehead, swirling dust itching his nostrils. He peered miserably at the empty bottles on the floor and then stood on legs that were bucking and shaking like rubber support-beams. He puttered into the bathroom where he spat, flopped out his manhood and began to urinate, a steady heavy patter. He had one hand stretched out and pressed against the wall for balance. Surprisingly, the hangover seemed to abate as soon as his bladder had emptied. Perhaps he would live another day after all.

He left the toilet and puttered downstairs to make coffee. He flicked the kettle on and as it grew to a rumbling boil he puttered from room to room, eying over the boxes and what dismantled furniture either needed to be packed up or sent to the tip. Most of the other boxes and belongings were gathered in the shed seeing that he hadn’t wanted to make the fact that he was moving obvious to anyone. A lot of the stuff he would be getting rid of and so there would be one big tip run to make that day. Mattie would be there and he wouldn’t have a thing to say to anyone about what Brett Stephens was up to.

He was just getting around to making his morning brew with a thought of having a Weetbix or two as opposed to fried eggs on toast when the doorbell rang. He stiffened at the sound, hesitating. Nobody ever rang his doorbell and it had just rung as clear as a blaring ship's horn at sea. He stirred his coffee, wondering if he could just pretend it hadn't happened and then it rang again. He dropped the spoon into the sink and cleared his throat, jerking his way out of the kitchen. His hip hurt worse than the day before like he had slept on it at an awkward angle.

It occurred to him halfway to the door that it could well be the boy. Perhaps he was here for his bike. Brett had brought it into the yard after getting home the night before

For a moment he was stood there, the doorbell whining and then he sighed and drew back the array of bolts.

When he pulled open the door it wasn't Kyle standing there, but Barry Davis. Barry wasn't in his work uniform which consisted of a cheaply manufactured polo shirt with WILTON GROCER thatched to the breast lapel, but jeans and t-shirt that barely covered his protruding belly. Davis smiled at him, his eyes far away like two chocolate chips pressed firmly into dough.

“Baz, what’s going on?” Brett said.

“Was just wonderin’ if I could have a yarn to you?” he said, clearing his throat. “In private?”

Brett felt a wave of panic seize him but if it showed on his face, Davis didn’t notice. 
“Yeah, but we can talk out here in the sun where it’s nice.”

“All right," Davis muttered, stepping back. Brett scanned the footpath and street beyond for any witnesses. A ute rolled by with a load of railway sleepers on the tray but aside from that Giles Street was like a Western-style film set. Normally between nine and nine-thirty, Mrs Morrison, a fifty-year-old divorcee and her Maltese crossbreed, would come jogging up the road past Brett's house. He thought it mildly odd that she was nowhere in sight today and he filed this away into the back of his mind. As an afterthought, he realised for the first time that even the birds had stopped singing. There was a tension hanging in the air, a thick electrical thrum like the lull before a powerful storm.

In his mind he thought, it’s started. Whatever it is, it’s started.

“What’s going on?” Brett muttered. Davis smiled.

“Was that you and that young firebug kid driving around last night?”

“What?”
“In your ute?”

“I know what you said,” Brett snapped. “Whaddya mean by it?”

Davis began to nod and Brett felt something heavy like a brick heavy plonk into his chest. It startled him for a moment and then something inside adjusted. Before he had time to dwell on it, Davis went on.

“It was then. That s**t of a kid and you have got your ear to the ground, haven’t ya. You two are gonna be inseparable soon. Like a pair of side-kicks.”

“Barry, I dunno what you’re talking about,” Brett said. “What’s wrong with you today, huh? Is that all you wanted to do, come over here and bust my balls about me giving a f*****g boy a lift home last night?”

Davis’s laughter was a high, cheerless drone and again Brett felt the hairs on his neck prickle.

“I know what you get up to, you two,” Barry hissed. “I know what goes on.”

“What’re you trying to say?” Brett said quietly. “If there’s something then why don’t ya just bloody well say it?” Davis spat at the ground, dropped his hands into his pockets and swept the township with his eyes like the way one would take in a mountain-top view. Then he turned back at Brett.

“You and that kid, you touch each other don’t ya.”

Brett’s mouth fell open.

"What the f**k is wrong with you?" Brett said, flabbergasted. "Son of a b***h! The boy fainted in the back lane yesterday, I took him in to give him water and some food. Then I drove him home to save him fainting on the road!"

“Actually it was in your backyard he fainted,” Davis said. “He was going through your stuff. I know about it, see. I know he was in there for a few more hours before he came out.”
"You been spying on me?" Brett cried. Davis laughed. He wiped his mouth and then pointed his finger, leaned in a little. In a dry whisper, he said, "I know about the boxes in your shed too. What, did you think you had snuck ‘em out so well so nobody'd notice? I know things, old man. I know what you're up to. And that boy's in on it. You know how many years you can get locked up for molesting a kid?"

Brett's anger had reached its final peak. He had a concept of what he said next, a mere acknowledgment that what he was doing was merely adding to the fire and dropping down to Barry Davis's level, yet his rage blinded the concept that he was making things worse for himself. He leaned forward and stabbed a finger at Barry's chest.
“Yeah, I know things too Barry,” he said. “There’s no need to put on this whole molesting bullshit act to try and cover up what’s going on around here. Do you think you’re covering your tracks very well? Do ya? What are you up to? What are you and them people up to, walking around the town at night like a pack of lost mongrels? What are you doing out in the common? What's the light that comes out of the sky? Tell me that."

Davis remained perfectly still. His grin had waned a little, though his eyes were cold and sharp and focused. In a whisper, Brett said, “Am I even talking to Barry Davis? What am I talking-.

“You’ll find out, you ole bastard,” Barry growled. “You, old boy, will find out the hard way. If you think you’re gonna get outta here in one piece you’ve got another thing coming.”

“That a threat?” Brett shouted. Davis stepped forward and Brett shambled back.

“You’d better make up yer mind whether you want to get on board or get on out. Better do it quick too.”

Davis’s retinas faded. His eyes clouded over to inhuman black sockets and Brett heard a moan escape his own lips. Davis’s eyes were now like two chunks of brimstone. Davis grinned again and this time Barry saw that he was entirely toothless, as if he had sat up all night pulling his teeth out with pliers.

“Wherever you go they’ll find you,” Davis said. “They’ll find you and they take real good care of old bastards.”

“f**k off,” Brett growled. “I know what you are and I think you’ve got your head up your ass if you think I’m gonna go quietly.”

Davis's straightened, his eyes returning to normal. He closed his mouth, the smile vanishing for good. Brett pushed the door open with the back of his hand and there they eyed each other off again for a moment. Finally, he muttered, "What are you doing, Davis? Thought I told you to f**k off."

Davis began to turn just as the door banged closed, hard enough to rattle the frame. For a moment he was paralysed, able only to stare at the door, knowing somehow that Davis would be out there still, watching, the very thing he had made clear that he was good at.

Davis knows what I’m doing. It’s already happening to him, he thought. He’s turning. Into what, good god knows, but he is. He didn’t pull his own teeth out, they FELL out.

He would have to start packing faster, perhaps leave some things at the house and get out of town tonight. He would return in the future to sift through his things and put the building on the market. If it was ever safe to return again.

“I’ll buy a caravan and just… travel…” he murmured to the empty walls, thinking of what little money he had saved in the bank. But if he managed to sell the house then that would change. He’d be able to buy a caravan or a camper van and for a while, things would be all right.

Unless they followed him. Why? Because he knew things, of course, and thanks to his big mouth, they now knew them too.

On impulse, he drew back to the door and tugged the curtain aside from one of the side windows. What he saw there made him yelp with terror: Davis's face grinning in at him, eyes like captured bulbs of midnight, smiling and gritting his gums. Blowing into his mind like shards of glass and dicing into his consciousness, was a voice, not Davis's nor anything else that he could have imagined came from earth, but something savage and inhuman:

”WE WILL GET YOU OLD BASTARD!”

Brett rebounded from the window, the brick in his chest falling again and this time pain radiating outwards. It was an instant of pain, short-lived but it was enough to know that it hadn't just been caused by his own fear.

“Oh s**t,” he muttered, struggling to catch his breath again. He reached forward and drew the bolt across, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

“Oh s**t, oh s**t, oh dear me shit.”

He knew there was little time left. He couldn’t afford to spare it.