London native C.C. Adams is the author behind works of horror such as But Worse Will Come, Forfeit Tissue and Semen. His short horror fiction appears in publications such as Turn To Ash, Weirdbook Magazine and The Black Room Manuscripts.
A member of the Horror Writers Association, he still lives in the capital. This is where he lifts weights, cooks - and looks for the perfect quote to set off the next dark delicacy. Visit him at www.ccadams.com
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Prologue
West Norwood Cemetery, South West London
21/04/2014, 11:13
Wet grass glistened in the aftermath of the early morning rain as the sun, indifferent, crawled higher in the sky. Theo found the squeaking of the grass underfoot set his teeth on edge a little, but he bit back his irritation. Solemnity was the key here. At least his black suit fitted better than it did several months ago, thanks to regular jogging. Now he just looked stocky, instead of fat.
Others had their heads bowed, but not Theo. Not out of any disrespect, but simply because his cold was proving a bitch to shake off – any attempt to keep his head bowed would mean having to wad his nose with tissue or suffer that thick clear line of mucus from nostril to lip. Still, he stole discreet glances at the fellow mourners and turned his mind to the matter at hand. Some, like him, appeared to be in their early forties, but most were a little younger. He guessed it made sense. Reshma would have been thirty-six in October.
He hadn’t known her well, but knew of her through her sister Saleema. From what he could remember, Reshma Shah had the kind of strong and gravelly voice that her slim frame gave no hint of, and eyes that harboured dark circles without sleepless nights. Were it not for the fact that Theo had worked with her sister years ago, he would never have heard of her passing. Reshma didn’t even make it to forty, he mused, and a throwaway comment from some wit at work about life beginning at forty came to mind.
The clergywoman, decked in black and purple garb with a cross on her chest, spoke low but clearly. Melodious tones and gentle inflection held the mourners still, even after the coffin was lowered into the ground. Her piece said, the clergywoman offered the group a little time alone and made her way back to the church as wind occasionally blew across the cemetery, ruffling the suits and hair of the mourners. Theo felt the wind open his blocked nose, allowing him to breathe and he sighed in gratitude. A brunette of medium height among the mourners glanced up at him, well-rounded curves holding Theo’s attention. He gave a thin smile, which she returned, and made his way to her side.
“Hi there,” she said, her voice soft.
“Hi. Theo.”
“I’m Corinne.” She extended her hand, which Theo shook.
Only a brief pause before his brain switched safely to automatic pilot. “Did you know the deceased well?”
“Not really. She’d come into my salon now and then, but more than anything, I’m really here for Damian.”
“Who?”
She told him, gesturing to a tall and lean mixed-race man standing further back in the throng. Theo gave the sharp faded haircut and well-cut suit the critical once-over and decided the kid was the type who could pull women in his sleep.
Theo bit his lip in an expression of solemn approval. “Good-looking guy. Is that your partner?”
She flinched. “No, we’re just friends now. But we have a little girl.”
“Good.”
Confusion flitted across her face.
Theo struggled to find something to say even as Damian came over; the other man’s flawless honeyed skin and immaculate pencil moustache made Theo feel inadequate. Theo himself had been cited as dark, handsome (and on one occasion had been called Javier Bardem’s brother), but on seeing this kid, he began to regret not shaving.
Apology flashed in Corinne’s eyes as she turned away to Damian. The two greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek. “Hey,” she said, taking his hand. “How are you doing?”
“I’m alright, I’ll be okay,” he replied, his voice deep. He turned to Theo. “Hello, I’m Damian,” he said, offering his hand.
Theo, struck by the depth of the kid’s voice (an urban black voice, he mused), accepted the handshake and returned the introduction. Damian sounded like a regular urban youngster who was trying to elevate himself, even down to the choice of suit. The kid had class. “Did you know her well?” he asked.
“Yeah, a few years, actually. In a sort of roundabout way, it’s actually how I met Corinne,” he said, tipping his head in her direction. “I kind of lost contact with her, but by the time I found out she was sick, she became withdrawn, you know? That’s what a hospice can do to someone,” he said, licking his lips. Corinne clasped his arm in a gesture of support.
“Nice to meet you. Well, it could have been nicer. Meanie,” Theo said, tipping his head at the grave with a grin.
Damian’s gaze grew stony before he eventually turned his attention back to Corinne. “I’m going to take off now.”
She placed a hand on his arm. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I think I just want to have a little time alone for some quiet reflection, you know?”
“You want me to take Holly?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve got it covered.”
“I get it. I’ll see you later.”
They exchanged kisses on the cheek before Damian headed back to the mourners before leaving the grounds. Theo looked on, and as he considered how best to make his exit, he could feel his nose leaking.
He dug in his pocket and wadded a fold of tissue against his nostril, wiping hard. The skin under his nose felt sore. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been trying to shake this cold for a while, but it just doesn’t wanna leave – and the funeral just adds insult to injury. Besides, I don’t like spending too much time in cemeteries. They don’t sit right with me.”
Eyebrows of perfectly arched brown hair drew into a frown as she blinked once. “O-kay.” The smile was brittle, more than enough information to let Theo know he had just put his foot in his mouth somewhere along the line. He inwardly cursed himself for another faux pas whilst looking for a drier corner of his tissue. Another gust of wind came at him, this time swiping the tissue from his hand. Theo spun to see the flimsy white square wafted further into the cemetery and gave an apologetic shrug. “Well,” he said. “I’m on a half-day from work so I’ll need to head back at some point. I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” And he excused himself with a sage nod, failing to notice the look of disdain on Corinne’s face.
The mourners for Reshma Shah soon dispersed, and with a relatively small number of burials, the cemetery saw quiet reverence that day, just like any other. The weather continued to fox native Londoners and give them something to talk about: it had rained that morning; the sun, although white and bleak, had shone through for most of the afternoon, even brightening in some places. Wind blew now and then, ruffling grass in whispering green waves. By the time sunset had cast shadows over the cemetery, the grass covering the broad expanse of the grounds had dried and cooled, the sea of uneven earth and countless tombstones indifferent to the passage of day and night.
And something further in the recesses of the cemetery stirred, from deep within the cold earth, and crept through the grounds of the dead. Although the cemetery was regularly cleared of litter, one tattered white object remained at large at the far end where thick high shrubbery kept debris safe. Long bony fingers plucked it from the ground in idle curiosity, only to pause mid-gesture. The object resumed its passage to flutter in the updraft before twin nostril slits.
Moments later, eyes widened in an expression of surprise that was almost human. Something from long ago, in human terms, had resurfaced.
A filth-stained smile curved in the darkness.
© C.C. Adams 2020