Dale turned back to the road. Even if he did accidently touch her by saving her drawing, she was covered from head to toe. No chance of skin on skin. Under her miniskirt she wore thick black leggings.
Touch me…
He eased his foot off the accelerator, gently controlling the speed of the car as it graced along an easy curve in the road. The headlights cut through the night. Not long now. Perhaps another ten minutes before they emerged on the edge of Rothington, and then she’d be out of the car. His chance over.
The road straightened, and Dale gripped the steering wheel with his right hand, reaching down with his left.
“Your drawing…” he said, almost at the paper. His fingers brushed her sleeve by her wrist.
Her hair swept back as she leered at him, eyes like dart pits, face impossibly long as the mouth stretched open like a snake swallowing its prey.
Dale jerked back in his seat, his right hipbone striking the door. His free arm thrust up in defence from the deformed creature that reached for him, fingers elongating into thin talons, twisted, gnarled twigs ending in black, polished nails.
It wailed, blasting him a scream that reverberated in the car interior.
Dale stared at the horrific stretched face that bore down upon him, growing teeth pushing through pink gums, tongue a frantic pink slug that curled back against the growing sharp incisors, squirming with anticipation.
The pedals under his feet rumbled, the tyres of his beloved car trembling as the vehicle left the road and mounted the thin strip of vegetation before meeting the dark forest proper.
His forearm pressing against her face, Dale looked through the glass. In the bright headlights, a thick tree trunk filled the windscreen.
A pale hand stretched out, the fingers flexing, testing their movement. The internal light of the car, now bright with the passenger door open, reflected in the glossy black nail varnish. The thumb hung loose, hanging on by a bloody shred. The digit spun on the thread of skin.
She sat straighter, somehow still held fast by the seatbelt, first examining her ruined hand, then staring down to her feet. Some of her sketches had tumbled loose in the crash. She reached down and grabbed a fistful, stuffing them back within the hardcover, the distorted ink-swept smiles and malevolent charcoal glares sliding inside the pages.
In the driver’s seat, Dale lay slumped against his crumpled door, his glasses thrown from ruined face. That’s the problem with second-hand cars: no matter how much daddy paid for it, sometimes parts just didn’t work. Like airbags. The bridge of his nose had slammed into the steering wheel on impact, his neck snapping. Faint bubbles popped in the mess spread across his face, his last breaths, struggling through collapsed airways and streaming blood.
She cast a final, disinterested glance in his direction.
Now she’d have to walk.
She spied one last drawing, down by her bag.
Samara reached down and lifted it free from between her boots. A mock-up, an initial idea of the work that would eventually become Outside. While the final piece beamed from the canvas in rich colour, this entity peered out from the rough paper in subdued pencil grey, the modesty of technique failing to diminish the seething that broiled from the sheet of paper.
She grinned, placed it back with its brethren. Reaching for the rear-view mirror, she angled it in her direction and blinked, meeting her own dark hazel eyes, framed in thick, dark mascara. Her mouth, small, tight, almost sealed, just as it should be, just as demanded.
Samara released the mirror and flexed her fingers, all five now attached and healthy.
Stop.
Eject.
5.
Life is a mirror and will reflect back to the thinker what she thinks into it.
Brenda stared into the full-length mirror fixed to the back wall of the fitting room. In the next booth, another woman huffed and grunted, trying to squeeze into her potential purchase, with clattering hangers and the pull of a zipper.
Brenda had changed into the top she had chosen for the supermarket Christmas party. Better to get it in now at sale price before the prices went up for the festive season. A high neck, lantern sleeve, deep green blouse. She grimaced at the arms, the slight transparency of the fabric revealing her skin. She lifted an arm and shook it, examining the slight sway of flesh hanging from her tricep. That hadn’t been there a few years ago. Too many ready meals grabbed from the freezer on her way home.
Ah, she could get away with the dress. She rarely treated herself, and not like Gavin would surprise her with a new outfit for the Christmas party. He didn’t even want to go. But half-price. Clearance. He couldn’t complain, what with the money he put behind the bar and in the bookie’s pocket every Saturday afternoon.
God, I look tired, she thought, peering closer at her reflection. Bring back the eighties, the hairspray, the overblown makeup, the cocktails sporting little umbrellas. Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet. Where the hell had the time gone? The hours spent standing behind a supermarket checkout had gradually sipped away her youth. It wasn’t meant to be like this. It was never meant to be like this.
Brenda turned from the mirror, quickly changing back into her t-shirt and sports coat. She would buy the party top. Half-price. Clearance. He couldn’t complain.
Not if he never found out. Not like he’d notice a new top in a few months. And if she put it on the credit card he knew nothing about…
Stepping out into the shop, she scanned the racks for her daughters.
Kelly had needed new underwear. Brenda had thought this a quick job: just grab a cheap multipack on their way through. Her youngest had argued for something a little more…adult. Brenda, refusing to acknowledge the request, grabbed a pack of white briefs and quickly moved her on.
Thankfully Kelly had not returned to the underwear section and had found a couple of friends. They stood chatting near the first of the shoe aisles.
Samara was an entirely different problem.
Brenda started towards her youngest daughter, looking left and right down each aisle she passed. Impossible to miss Samara. With her huge boots and layers of black clothing, all splashed with the image of some awful band, or even worse – a horror film, she didn’t exactly blend in.
Kelly caught her approach and held up a coat by the hanger. “Mum! How about this?”
Brenda noticed the similarity with her own coat, which was not too thick but warm enough for the coming winter months. Kelly had chosen a version in light pink. Practical, but…
“Oh yeah,” said Brenda. She nodded and smiled to Kelly’s friends. “Hold it up.”
Kelly placed the hanger under her chin and grinned. “Well?”
“Looks good. Doesn’t it, girls? Bit like mine, only…pink’s not really my colour. How much?”
Kelly grimaced and turned around the dangling price tag.
Jesus!
“My birthday’s coming up…”
Her daughter’s friends looked away, diverting their gazes to the nearby shoes.
Brenda’s smile froze.
Feeling awkward are we, girls?
Brenda released a long slow breath through her nose, staring at the amount on the price tag, mind racing with figures.