Everything,
in All the Wrong Order

 

CHAZ BRENCHLEY

 

 

Therełs
this disease I heard about, drinking with medics one time, where things get so
turned around inside that you end up vomiting your own shit.

 

* * * *

 

Think
about that, and bear with me. Itłs a metaphor, okay? What actually happened was
this:

 

I
let him go first up the ladder. IÅ‚d thought about that, there were advantages
and drawbacks either way, but in the end I waved him up ahead of me. And
followed close behind, hard on his heels so that he was barely through the trap
before I was following, the bulking shadows of the attic space and my own bulk,
my own closeness together serving to disguise and distract him so that he saw
nothing, he didnłt even ask a question before I was up and the trap was down
and I was standing on it.

 

Then, only then did I lighten his
darkness by tugging on the string that lit the lamp behind me; then, only then
did he understand.

 

One of those creaking, angular
shadows that had made no sense in the half-dark was his sister. Still kicking,
though not swinging much now: twisting rather, this way and that, like a slow
clock running down. Her face was purple, and every ligament in her neck stood
out against the rope that was taking its time in choking her. Her mouth was
stretched wide, gagged by silence.

 

He was quick, IÅ‚ll give him that,
but IÅ‚d always known he would be. He looked, he saw; he twisted himself, faster
than his sister, and his hand already had a knife in it. He was uncertain,
though, whether to save her life or take mine. Indecision can be lethal, IÅ‚ve
seen that time and again; and told him so, told them both, but of course they
did not listen. They were children, what did they know of decisions?

 

I was ready for him, in any case.
I kicked him in the testicles; even on a twelve-year-old, that has its stopping
power. As he doubled over, I hooked his legs from under him and then stamped on
his head.

 

After that I could take my time
in binding his hands behind his back, slipping the ready noose over his head
and hauling him up to hang beside his little sister.

 

* * * *

 

IÅ‚d
introduced myself to the family the year before. Just one short year, summer to
high summer, so many dreams I had, all gone to spoil in a single afternoon.

 

I slipped my way quietly,
indirectly, into their consciousness, so delicate a touch that at first it left
no mark of mine, no aluminium oxide dusting could have found me out. Plausible
deniability, a cynic I suppose would say. I say that itłs wisdom to be
cautious, to step lightly, to let nothing show that might have stayed hidden; I
say that events have borne me out in this. Itłs always easiest to withdraw
early, to leave nothing behind but the fading memory of a sour note. So I was
taught, so I have found to be true; so I hope to teach to others eventually. I
wasnłt given the time this year, alas.

 

And it had started so well, all
the signs were there and I was feeling so pleased with myself and with my
targets. Two little children, ten and eleven years old, as IÅ‚d discovered, new
to the area and thrilling to the possibilities of life, on the verge of great
change, great discoveries: they came out of their house one bright morning to
find the family cat busy in the garden, licking at what must at first have
seemed to be a rag of ancient fur, some discarded tippet.

 

They came closer and discovered
just how wrong theyłd been. The thing was quite fresh, wet with blood, gobbets
of dark flesh still clinging. After a while they shooed the cat away - no easy task,
it was persistent and possessive of its treasure - to crouch themselves in its
place and look over what they had. Perhaps theyłd been thinking squirrel,
thinking this a trophy hunted down and dragged in from the park. Wrong again.

 

Eventually, at last they will
have seen it for what it was, the skin of a skinned little dog, a Yorkshire
terrier. No sign of the flayed corpse, they will have seen, only the hide: and
that like a message, pegged out on their lawn.

 

It was a message, and it did its
work. They spent five minutes or more just looking, touching, talking, before
the girl went with consent to fetch their mother, to show and share this
interesting thing.

 

While she was gone, the boy
touched bloody finger to pale lips and curious tongue behind; I knew then that
I had him, and that in him I had them both.

 

That was what I thought I knew,
at least; it was all I thought I needed.

 

* * * *

 

The
next night, the boy was awakened unexpectedly, perhaps by the strangeness of
the light that was falling on his face. Hełd left his window ajar as was his
habit, but had pulled the curtains hard against the night; now they were drawn
back, and something that was not the moon flickered and faded beyond the glass.

 

It may have taken him a minute,
five minutes, even half an hour to find the courage he needed to get out of
bed. A boy who likes the daylight, exposure, revelation - such a boy might well
allow himself the luxury of fear unobserved.

 

Eventually, though, curiosity won
as it had to; there at least I had not been wrong. He pressed his face tight
against the window, and saw an old-fashioned lantern hanging from a branch of
the cherry tree that grew in the garden, whose reaching leaves hung just a foot
or two short of the house. They must have obscured his view at least a little,
but still he will have been able to see the nightlight that burned in the
lanternłs base, and that something obscure hung above its steady flame. He may
have seen movement within the lanternłs glass; he may have heard a faint
buzzing; he may even have smelled the faint scorching of rank meat.

 

After a while, there were two
faces; he had fetched his sister. Perhaps at her urging, he opened his window
wide and they both leaned out as far as they could, as far as they dared. The
lantern was beyond their reach, though, and the twigs of the tree offered no
support to a climber. At last he closed his curtains, and they both went back
to bed.

 

* * * *

 

In
the morning, when they looked, they saw nothing in the tree. Neither the night
that followed, when they looked again. On the lawn, though, at some distance
from the house, a ring of faint light must have caught their eyes, where the
lantern hung from a pole set in the grass.

 

The night after that, there was a
figure sitting below the pole.

 

* * * *

 

Attentive
children know when they are being summoned; the hopeful, the self-aware
respond.

 

They came down in dressing-gowns
and slippers, stepping lightly and breathing hard, holding hands against the
mischief and moment of the night. I greeted them with a glance and a nod, before
turning my attention back to what I held in my hands.

 

ęWhat are you doing?ł It was the
girl who stole the privilege of asking; her brother seemed not to resent it,
despite his being the elder.

 

ęWaiting for you.ł

 

ęNo,ł she knew that already, ęI
mean, what are you doing?Å‚

 

ęAh.ł I peeled my fingers back to
show her, to show them both. ęIłm just pulling the wings off this fly, with
these tweezers here, to see if it hurts.Å‚

 

ęDoes it?ł the boy asked in a
whisper, as though it were an experiment hełd thought about but had never quite
brought himself to the point of making on his own account. Likely it was. Good
boys are not wanton.

 

ęOh, no.ł I favoured him with a
broad smile. ęIt doesnłt hurt at all. Want to try?ł

 

A gesture brought their eyes up
to the lantern, only a short time before they must have checked it out for
themselves; the noise and the smell were both invasive, on that still summer
night. It was more than a beacon, set to attract moth-children to its light. I
was using it as a vivarium also, breeding a mass of bluebottles in the
nightlightłs heat, feeding them on what remained of the Yorkie as it ripened.

 

Some few of the flies escaped
from the childrenłs unaccustomed snatchings when I unlatched the lanternłs door
and swung it open, but there were plenty to spare. The girl squealed in triumph
as she snared one; the boy echoed her a moment later.

 

Neither one needed to borrow my
tweezers, their fingers were small and nimble enough for the task. Wings and
legs, taken one by one, afforded some little satisfaction but deliberately not
enough; their eyes strayed back to the reeking dangle of the dogłs body. I
smiled, and opened the door again to blow out the little flame.

 

ęGo back now. I will see you
another time.Å‚

 

* * * *

 

I
let them wait, let them watch in vain for almost a week before my lantern drew
them out again. This time I had a rat splayed out on the ground before me,
belly-up, its legs pinioned with wire hoops and its tail threshing. Not a
street-rat, IÅ‚d bought it in a pet shop: white of fur, pink of eye, quivering
of whisker.

 

I showed them a scalpel, wouldnłt
let them touch either the blade or the rat, not yet; learning is a process, a
progress, step by careful step.

 

Slowly, carefully, I made my
incision through fur and skin and into the belly of the beast. Then, with
another length of wire bent like a crochet-hook, I began to pull out its
intestines and lay them around the creature on the grass.

 

ęYou see?ł I said, my voice soft
but pitched to carry above its agonised screaming. ęIt really doesnłt hurt at
all. . .Å‚

 

Neither did it. I passed my hook
to the boy, and he dabbled and tugged and felt no pain. The girl was a little
hesitant, thinking perhaps she might prefer just to watch; I said I had saved
the best, the last of it for her. Guided her hand on the little hook, in and
twist and draw slowly, slowly: the ratłs heart came out amid a tracery of
arteries and veins and for a moment, for a brief sweet moment it was beating
still as I laid it in her palm.

 

* * * *

 

I
never asked them questions, that was not my role, but I did wonder what they
thought they had seen, what they expected to find when they came out to join me
the first night. Some ancient wild man, I imagine, half seer and half tramp,
bearded and elflocked, smelling strangely and speaking of wonders, no doubt,
the mystic power of blood and sacrifice.

 

Not me, at any rate, they cannot
have expected me. A young man clean-shaven and smartly dressed, saying little
and telling less, mostly showing. Showing and again showing, trying to batter
the lesson home by endless repetition: here is pain, feel its tug; and look,
it cannot hurt you, do you see?

 

I was, I suppose, just old enough
to be their father, though he was older. I was old enough to befriend him, at
least, and their mother also; and so I gained the parentsł trust where I had
the childrenłs already, secretly locked between my fingers. I never let the two
intermingle, was never seen in public with the children and barely spoke to
them under their parentsł eyes. Our private understandings were a thing apart,
held separate for safetyłs sake. Iłd warned them not to know me, when we met;
they took that to extremes, of course, as children do. They made a game of
ignoring me, which I encouraged: learn through play I might have told
them over and over but did not, never felt the need.

 

* * * *

 

They
did that in any case, only not fast enough, or else it was too fast. And so wełd
come to this, where I sat on an upturned tea-chest and watched the boy dangle,
listened to him strangle and murmured my mantra at him one more time. It was
wasted breath, of course, but I had it to waste, which he did not; and itłs the
first, the last, the only lesson worth the learning, the heart of all teaching.
And so I tried once more to drum it into his head, to have him understand that
pain is and must be divisible, distributed at will.

 

ęThis is hurting you much more
than itłs hurting me,ł I said, seeing how blood sprayed from his torn scalp as
he writhed and wrenched against the rope. ęIn fact, itłs not hurting me at all.
Every man is an island, lad: alone, cut off, remote. Aye, and every child too.
Thatłs what youłve forgotten all this time, playing games with your sister. My
fault, I admit it, but itłs you that have to suffer for it. Thatłs the
division, thatłs where pain draws the line. Iłm here, shełs hereł - or she had
been; I thought shełd gone by now, though certainly shełd taken her time about
it, almost too light to choke and I was no poor manłs friend to pull down on
her feet and make it easy - ębut come right down to it, youłre still and always
on your own.Å‚

 

* * * *

 

Pain
is divisible, and I felt none of it - only frustration, and only at myself. The
blame lay clearly with me, that this delight was spoiled. There could, there
should have been years of my slow sculpting, bending tender spirits to a new
shape, training fingers and minds to a new sensitivity; instead IÅ‚d let them
slip out of my control, and we all had to pay the separate penalties for my
inattention.

 

Mine was the lightest, by a
distance. There would be no consequences to me, from any of what I did that
day. I was known only as a casual acquaintance of the parents, worth one
interview perhaps, but nothing more than that. The house we were in was
isolated, and had long stood empty; it had been I who found it and I who introduced
the children to it, as a more private place to play than their garden and easy
of access day or night, but Iłd worn gloves from the first day that wełd broken
in. To them it had been part of my mystique, they hadnłt thought to look
further. Their own prints would be everywhere, but not mine.

 

Their parents would grieve, of
course, and suffer with it, not knowing that pain is divisible, hurt can be
apportioned. Itłs impossible to teach the old. Give me a ripening child, and I
will give you - well, an adult like me. Growth must be guided, from the
appropriate age. The right lessons in the right order, thatłs what counts. I
can show them wonders, one by one. I can make a wonder of them.

 

Give me a child - but no, donłt
give me two. Therein lay my error, I took on too much without knowing. I have
learned, now, and they have paid the price. I took the payment, of course, and
enjoyed it, yes; but still my mind makes metaphors of shit and vomiting, which
feel apt to me. I had taken these children and trained them to be what they
became; they went too far too quickly, they got ahead of themselves and ahead
of me, and so it was my task to expel them. That I could do it as I did was a
gesture, a generosity of fate, but the overriding feeling was pure disappointment.

 

IÅ‚m hardly the first of us to do
this. My own mentor told me that he had several discards before he came to me;
no doubt he had others after, I wouldnłt know. We donłt keep in touch. The
thought that he might have discarded me too if IÅ‚d been a weaker pupil, or a
greedier - that lingers sometimes, a tickling abstraction in my head.

 

These two were greedy, but only I
think because they were two, and siblings. Inevitably they were rivals, they
competed. Even in front of me. IÅ‚d seen them jealous, IÅ‚d seen them egg each
other on. I hadnłt seen the worst of it, that much was clear now.

 

* * * *

 

I
sat and watched until the boy was entirely still, until his blood had ceased to
drip. Then - satisfied but unfulfilled, a curious sensation that IÅ‚d thought IÅ‚d
long outgrown - I lifted the hatch and lowered my feet to the ladder, wondering
as I left them how long it would be before they were found, whether there would
be time for other fluids to drip and dribble, to soak through the boards and
stain the plaster beneath, some sign to mark my failure.

 

I closed the hatch and took the
ladder with me, to delay their discovery perhaps a little longer, give the
juices perhaps a little chance to flow. I felt that I deserved that sign, IÅ‚d
earned it.

 

As I made my way out through the
kitchen, I passed what they had left for me on the flagged floor there, what
theyłd been so eager to show me that afternoon: what had changed all my plans
for the day and for their lives, what had led me to take them one by one into
the attic and leave them dangling, caught short and out of order, all
unfinished.

 

It was a boy, theyłd said, five
or six years old and wandering alone, adrift. Theyłd inveigled him with sweets
and promises, the kinds of gift Iłd never offered them; theyłd held his hand
and brought him to the house, to a game theyłd played for hours before Iłd come
in search.

 

Hard to be certain what it was or
had been, that wet mess on the stones. Meat and bone, so much was evident; and
there were clothes heaped in a corner, the unfastidious might - must,
eventually - pick those over and label him a boy. Whoever that task fell to, I
hoped they had the stomach for it. There was other matter that had been tossed
there too: skin, largely. Skin and hair, from an inept vivisection.

 

The bodyłs major organs were laid
out beside the faceless corpse, though not in any order. IÅ‚d have thought the
children better trained than that, but theyłd been wild, ecstatic, long past
caring. And drenched in blood, and heedless of that too. Careful as IÅ‚d been, IÅ‚d
have to destroy what I was wearing; I could smell this slaughter on me.

 

Wearily, sorrowfully, I stepped
around the body and let myself out of the house, wondering just how long hełd
taken in his dying, and glad for once - for the first time ever - not to have
been there to see it done. Pain is divisible, and his had been witnessed, not
wasted; all the waste had been going on around him.

 



 

Chaz Brenchley lives in
Newcastle upon Tyne with two cats and a famous teddy bear. He has made his
living as a writer since he was eighteen, and this year marks his twenty-third
anniversary in the job. A recipient of the British Fantasy Award, he is the
author of nine thrillers, most recently Shelter, plus a major
new fantasy series, ęThe Books of Outremerł, based on the world of the
Crusades. He has also published three fantasy books for children and more than
500 short stories in various genres. His time as Crimewriter-in-Residence at
the St Peterłs Riverside Sculpture Project in Sunderland resulted in the
collection
Blood Waters,
and he is presently writer-in-residence at Northumbria University. Brenchleyłs
novel
Dead of Light
is currently in development with a film company. Ä™I was saving the title “Everything,
in All the Wrong Order" for my autobiography,ł says the author, ębefore it
dawned on me that I had no intention of writing an autobiography, even if
anyone had been interested in reading it; at which point, of course, the title
was free for general use. It only took about five minutes thereafter to realise
that there was a story inherent within it, that had just been waiting for me to
drop the possessiveness and the preconceptions and actually think about what it
was saying.Å‚