IsoKieran McCaffrey
5300 words Mary was already ten minutes late for their first appointment when she stopped to pick up Alfie, and he still wasn’t ready at that. Two texts and three horn beeps later: no Alfie. Mary glowered at the house. This is on you now, kid. They were due at the McGowan’s, a nice middle-class couple with a beautiful home and thriving baby. Exactly the sort to contact the surgery concerned no one had arrived to tell them how long their child was and to stop worrying so much. Mary rubbed her eye, swung the rearview mirror round to examine it. Bright red, still. A burst blood vessel, likely due to hypertension. Harmless but horrific. Not very reassuring for new parents. Especially when combined with a trainee like Alfie. She parped the horn again. Alfie’s mum’s house was mid-terrace, raw-chicken beige, two tones more sickly than its neighbours. Some pointy thing jutted through the living room curtains—still three quarters drawn—spearing a section of fabric against the window. Panicky movement in the darkness beyond. The front door opened and out he came, stumbling, hair everywhere, shouting reassurances over his shoulder. Out of chaos, here comes chaos. Mary’s phone rang before he could reach the car. The boss. Fuck’s sake, McGowans, ya clypes. Mary sighed down the line. “Hi, Theo, how you doing?” “H-hi, Mary.” Was he nervous? Not like him. “Are you at the McGowans yet?” “We’re about two corners away. Been a slight holdup.” “Right. So…” Deep breath from Theo. “There’s been a 999 call. From the property. The McGowans.” Oh, shit. “Okay. What’s happened?” Alfie ambled down the garden path. Popped off a happy little wave. “Emergency services are on their way, Mary, I promise you. The full show. But since you’re nearby, we need you in there.” “What’s happened, Theo?” “I’m sorry, Mary. It’s Iso.” Fuck, no. Not our job. We’re not trained. Too dangerous. Alfie won’t cope. But Mary said, “Is it the mum or the dad?” “The dad.” David. Nice guy. That poor family. “Right. On our way.” Mary hung up, would have gladly pulled away and left Alfie waving at exhaust fumes, but by now he was gripping the door handle and grinning through the window. He opened the door and swung into the seat. “I know, I know! I’m sorry. But I’ve only got one pair of shoes and I lost them last night.” Mary looked at his feet. Ancient black Fila trainers with the toe put through. The sock underneath: white. Christ. “And that’s what you came up with?” “Aye,” said Alfie, “but my wee brother’s feet are tiny and you kept beeping your horn and I thought—“ “Alfie, they stink!” “No, I febreezed them!” “Alfie!” Mary swallowed down a lecture about how he should be trying to impress her, about how he should at the very least shower. There wasn’t time, and anyway, the boy was a lost cause. David McGowan was lost too, but the mother and baby weren’t. Not yet. “There’s a Sharpie in the glove box, Alfie. Colour your sock in.” “Colour my—?“ In answer, Mary accelerated away, tyres screeching. He could figure it out himself. “Seatbelt on,” she said. “Jesus,” said Alfie. “Right.” And the glove box, newly unlatched, clanged into his knees while he reached for the belt. Alfie didn’t deal well with multiple inputs. Too keen. She’d keep the Iso news to herself for now. Just until he was settled. She ignored his look of utter triumph when he finally secured the seatbelt, ignored too his ransacking of the glove box—the kid had ginormous hands that had to mess catastrophically, Mary was sure, with his centre of balance—and said nothing when he found the Sharpie and prised its lid off and levered his toe into position and then seemed to forget why he’d done it all. They were four minutes away. Mary needed to think things through. The Iso protocols—stay back. Make sure it’s what they say it is. Find out why-- “What happened to your eye?” Alfie pointed right at it with the open Sharpie. You did. “Nothing. Wind your window down.” He did so, taking a moment to track its progress. “Are you not going to ask me about my big night out?” Mary glanced at him, in doing so failed to spot a giant pothole. The car juddered over it. “Ooft!” said Alfie. “Easy on the shoogly stuff, Mary. I’m a bit—” “Oh, you’re hungover too? Fantastic!” A tiny, “Nope.” Then, the guilt too much, a nod. “Aye. A bit. But I’ve been doing my homework!” He unzipped the bag at his feet, stuck a hand in there. “Alfie, Alfie, hold on,” Mary said, and he did so, face tilted up at her like a spring fawn. “You’re not going to need your homework. Boss phoned. The McGowans is no longer a normal appointment. There’s been an incident.” “An incident?” “Iso.” Alfie nodded. “Right,” he said. “Iso.” Again, he nodded. Then he vomited out the window. “Oh, Alfie! My car!” “Sorry, Mary,” he said, and it came out with another mouthful of sick. Something clanged off the outside of the Kia. “Mary…” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Mary, I think I owe you a Sharpie.” *** The McGowans’ front door was unlocked, so Mary went right in. No standing on ceremony with Iso. Get there quick, never leave the family’s side. Prevent one loss from becoming many. Or at least that’s what the proper first responders on the news said they did. “Hello,” she shouted, “it’s the health visitors. We’ve heard. Where are you all?” No answer, but somewhere the baby was crying. Little Noah. Better if he was asleep. Safer. By now the mother could be Iso too, and he’d be all alone. Mary shrugged off her jacket and stepped further into the house. “Hello?” Alfie had stalled on the doormat behind her, wiping his mouth with old napkins he’d found in the footwell, that one white toe still poking out his Filas. He caught Mary looking, whispered, “Should I take them off?” “Just get in here,” said Mary. “Your job—deal with reflections.” When she turned back round, the mother, Anais, had emerged from somewhere. Noah was in her arms, quiet now but red in the face, tears and snot lingering, needing wiped. She was beautiful, Anais, like a missing Corr sister. She said nothing, just held Mary’s gaze until they both understood what was happening here, and understood that Mary, with her one red eye and an idiot in tow, could do nothing to help her. Mary had to tense her jaw to keep from remarking on Anais’s lovely home and exquisite taste. Not the time. And anyway, they were likely to lose the house. No way Anais could afford it on one wage. Insurance companies were still funny about Iso. Treated it as a choice. “Right,” Mary said, “where is he?” Anais nodded to the living room. “Okay. Please stay out here for just a moment, until we make sure it’s safe.” A nod. Alfie stared ahead, a strange look of awe about him, like he was about to meet God. Mary hushed her voice. “Alfie, keep your distance and do not look, okay? Not directly. I need you to shut the curt—“ “Got it. Reflections.” And he bounded into the room. Mary closed her eyes. Breathed. Entered. David was sat in a fancy leather single seater in the corner of the room. Dark jeans, woolly jumper, polished brown boots, neat little beard. He stared intently at his phone, occasionally swiping this way or that with a studied finger. Alfie closed the bay-window curtains, and in the gloom David’s face lit up in beautiful reflected blue. Fuck. Mary kept her tone light. “Hi, David. I’m Mary and this is Alfie. You’ve met me before. How you doing?” He didn’t look up. “Hi. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but…” A wry smile. In the case notes, two different midwives had seen fit to note what a good dad David was. Supportive. Safe. Natural. Mary settled her gaze on his knees, not his eyes. “But you don’t want to look away.” “Not really.” Carefully, Mary sat on the edge of the sofa. David didn’t wear glasses, so there was no immediate danger in looking at him, she supposed, or even at the back of the phone, but if he moved abruptly and she glimpsed the screen, it was game over. “David,” she said, “I’m going to ask you some questions. Is that okay?” “Sure.” “Oh, Alfie,” said Mary, “the television, please.” Reflections were the other big danger point. The Iso image didn’t have to be the right way round, or even particularly clear, to do its work. “On it,” said Alfie, and he hustled over to the giant flatscreen, perched on a distressed beechwood stand. “David,” said Mary, “can you tell me what you’re looking at?” “Iso,” he said. “You’re sure? Can you describe it for me?” “TV’s stuck,” said Alfie. “Won’t move.” He peered over the top of it. “Ah. ‘Cause it’s attached to the wall. That’s clever, actually. Safety.” He pointed towards the hall. “Because of the baby.” Alfie! “That’s okay.” Mary spoke slow and soft, though her heart leapt and her fingers twitched. She couldn’t risk David getting up to help—operating by touch alone, perhaps—and flashing the image all over the place. “You just need to cover the screen, Alfie, not move it.” “It’s just a wee wire,” said David. “Lifts right out the hook.” He mimed the action with his free hand, never taking his eyes off the screen. Had he even blinked? They’re supposed to be able to blink. “Thanks,” said Alfie. He shrugged at Mary like she should loosen up a bit, then unhooked the wire. Fine. “David,” said Mary, “the image—can you describe it?” “It’s an isometric drawing of a series of rooms with little…” He broke off to scroll some more. “…with little dudes in them. Doing stuff.” Shit. That’s Iso, all right. “And what are they doing?” “Just…amusing stuff. All sorts. Godzilla fighting The Predator. That sort of…thing. Donald Duck eating a…a…you know.” “No, no, no!” Alfie fumbled the television, somehow let it slip from those giant paddle hands. Its top edge crunched into the parquet flooring. Christ! Mary leapt up, ready to step back out the way, desperate to step forward and help Alfie—now inexplicably sprawled on top of the TV—but found she could do neither, so she just stood there, trying to look without looking at David. He hadn’t even flinched. “What happened?” Anais, in the doorway. Noah nuzzled at her neck. “Sorry,” said Alfie, from the floor. “I think I broke your telly.” He lifted it up. A huge crack spread from the top right corner down towards the bottom left, like a happy stock report. “Yeah,” he said, “I broke your telly.” Anais looked at David. This sort of thing must have been his department. But he just stared at the phone. He just swiped. “Please,” said Mary, “don’t look at him. Come and sit down.” She escorted Anais to the far end of the couch, blocking her view of her husband on the way. “In the scheme of things…” said David, and then he sighed, and that was it. Back to scrolling. “Yes,” said Mary, retaking her seat. “We are really very sorry. Alfie, just put it behind the curtain for now. And make sure there’s no glass on the floor.” Anais sat, flicked on a lamp beside her, let Noah fiddle with her chewable teething necklace. He was six months old now; right on time. They had all the gear, the McGowans, and did all the reading. Even had the place spotless for visitors, though Mary always insisted new parents needn’t bother. Alfie palmed at the floor, making faces at Noah, who had taken to watching him. “No glass, I don’t think,” he said. “Must all still be in there. Impressive, actually.” Happy with that, he sat back against the pouffe like the house teenager, legs out in front, that one white toe pride of place in the centre of the room. “Right,” said Mary, and she smiled, pointlessly, at David’s knee. “What if I asked you to look away from the screen, just for a moment? Could you do that, David?” “Don’t think so.” “Okay. And how does the idea of not looking at the picture make you feel?” “Well…” he said. “Well, I’m not going to do it.” “Okay. And is there anything in particular you’re looking for in the picture?” This had been a leading theory—that the Iso victims were searching for themselves, for an answer, for salvation. For something. “Nope. And the funny thing is…” David shifted minutely in his seat. “… is that it’s not even all that well drawn.” A soft chuckle. Beside Mary on the sofa, Anais sobbed like a constipated whale. She tucked her chin, eyes squeezed shut, mouth opening in an odd, lopsided grimace that was just the cue Noah needed to stick his whole hand in there. Mary stared beyond this, at the lamp, the table. Do not look directly at the grieving wife. “No, Noah. No,” Anais whispered, then Alfie was at her knee. “I’ll take him,” he said. Anais shook her head, but Noah was all for it, flinging himself bodily at this strange young man. Alfie settled him on his lap and the kid gaped up at him, waiting for the show. Alfie obliged, cooing and jiggling, all big eyes and busy brows. Instantly besotted, one with the other. As usual. This was why Mary found it so hard to write her reports on Alfie. When it came to the babies, he was a fucking savant. She turned back to David’s knee. “Your wife is here, David. She’s upset. Don’t you want to comfort her?” This seemed to stir something—a twitch of the cheek, a sucking of teeth. But his attention remained on the phone. “I…” Anais looked up. “Not straight at him,” Mary whispered. “I know what I’ve done, and I’m sorry,” said David. “I’ve fucked it. I know I have. Absolute fucking…disaster.” Another quick scroll, the flash of a smile. Something amusing on the screen, no doubt. Anais sobbed again. Mary watched Alfie’s big white toe, twitching as he swayed Noah this way and that. “And why did you look at it, David?” she asked. It came out wrapped in more anger than she’d intended. David shrugged. “Was running about daft getting the place tidy, then you were late so I just…sat down, took out my phone and… It wasn’t hard to find. Supposed to be hard to find. Just wanted to read about it, really.” Alfie’s toe stilled and his eyes found Mary. Is this on me? Mary shook her head. The image was illegal to display, and most platforms and apps had robust protocols in place to automatically filter it out. That’s what they always said. Robust protocols. Didn’t stop thousands a week managing to find it; didn’t stop the NHS having to set up countless Iso hospice tents to see those thousands out comfortably and safely for the month or so they had left, because they wouldn’t sleep and would hardly eat, because even a few seconds without the image in front of them would trigger catastrophic tonic-clonic seizures and a grisly death. Anais sobbed once more. “For fuck’s sake, David. For fuck’s sake!” “I know,” said David. A tear fell from his eye. He didn’t think to wipe it. The sobs kept coming, whale after whale. On the floor, Noah squealed with delight. Alfie had stolen his nose. But wait—now Noah wore Alfie’s nose. Incredible. Noah laughed so hard he spit up milk. “Aww.” Alfie wiped the baby’s mouth with his own sleeve. “Happens to the best of us.” Still the sobs came. Mary closed her eyes. Where the hell are these specialists? Abruptly, Anais sat up straight, smoothed down her top and said, “I’m sorry, where are my manners? Would anyone like tea?” Alfie wafted a hand at her; Mary half expected to see her hair blow back. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “We couldn’t.” “Actually,” said Mary, her midwife’s instinct kicking in, “I’d love a cup of tea.” If the mother created an opportunity to be alone without the father, a good health visitor never said no, even with the supposedly safe dads. Because those stats were grim. “Let me help you.” “Thank you.” Anais walked to the door, paused there, and looked directly at her husband. “David? David, would you like a cup of tea?” “Um…” said David. “I’m making tea, David. Tea. For the health visitors. Would you like one?” “No, no.” He drew his finger across the screen, mouth pinched in concentration. “Right,” said Anais, and she battered her fist against the door on the way out. Bang. Mary hustled after her. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Do not move, Alfie. And don’t let go of that baby.” “No problem,” he said, and from his tone Mary could tell his words were for Noah, that his thoughts had barely strayed from him. “What was that noise?” he cooed. “What a noisy noise! What a noisy noise to hear!” *** Mary was only three steps behind, but by the time she got to the kitchen Anais was already doubled over, heaving out huge groans, holding onto the counter for support. “Oh, what’s he done? What’s he done? What was he thinking?” “He wasn’t, darling,” said Mary. “He wasn’t. Sometimes it’s just an accident.” Anais snorted, spun away, gesturing at some invisible gallery: my life is over, and here’s what else I have to deal with. “How about I make the tea?” asked Mary, and she shuffled around Anais towards the kettle. For all the grandeur of the house, the kitchen was small, and it gave no view into the living room. Mary wasn’t comfortable letting Alfie out her sight even at the best of times. “Fuck the tea,” said Anais, but she sat at the table, said nothing when Mary flicked the kettle on anyway and searched for the paraphernalia. On top of the microwave lay a dead goldfish. “Erm…” said Mary, but then thought better of mentioning it. Hardly important. She pulled two mugs from the cupboard. Weird, though, the fish. Mary looked back at it. There was no tank, just a dried-up ring of scum where it once sat. The poor thing was stiff with rigor mortis. One cloudy black eye stared up at her. The rest of the kitchen: showroom clean. Does it smell? Furtively, she edged back towards it. Sniffed. It did smell. Faintly. “How could he do this?” asked Anais, but the question was aimed out the window. Mary dropped tea bags into mugs, tried a smile. “We’re not the specialists, you know. They’ll be along in a minute, and they are really, really good. They’ll talk you through everything. There’s a lot of support.” “I don’t need support. I need David.” A glance. “There’s nothing… Nothing new?” “I’m sorry, love, I don’t know. But they’re always try—” “What about the Chinese thing?” Anais nodded at her phone, sat on the kitchen table. “I read about it. Some kind of extreme hypnosis where they…they… I don’t know what they do, but they say it works.” Mary shook her head. “Sorry.” The internet was rife with miracle cures: hypnosis, gradual replacement therapy, partial lobotomies, cataract induction, blindfolded prayer groups, brain-stem stimulation, genital stimulation, big-fright therapy, for some reason bleach. Nothing worked. “Right,” said Anais. “Right.” Steam billowed out under the cupboards, creeping forward to fog the window. The kettle. Mary gripped its handle, and as it clicked off Anais shot up from her seat and out the room. Mary gave chase, back into the living room, where Anais once again stood in the doorway, glowering at her husband. Alfie and Noah stared up from the floor, their mouths a double O. “Right,” Anais said, “here’s the deal, David. If you don’t stop looking at your phone right now, I’m going to come over there and look with you, and then who’s going to raise our child? Do you hear me? Who’s going to look after Noah, your son?” “Anais, no,” said Mary. “He can’t—” “I mean it, David!” Again, she banged the door. “I mean it, I mean it, I mean it!” Bang, bang, bang. “Please don’t,” said David. That tear from earlier was still there, now snaking round bristles deep in his beard. “Look at me, David! Look at your child!” He didn’t. Subtly, Mary tried to edge further into the room, but between Anais and the couch, there was no room to pass. Anais’s knuckles went white around the doorknob. “Please, David. Please.” Nothing. “Right, I’ll fucking do it.” And she did, charging at him, slamming the living room door into Mary’s forehead as she went. Mary staggered back, hit the wall, and when she could focus again, Noah was wailing and Anais was halfway to the floor with Alfie flailing around her waist. Mary flew at her too, grabbing her in a headlock and pulling backwards until the three of them landed in a heap with Anais on top. Anais screamed, flung out her fists and caught Alfie in the balls. “Ooh, ya wee bastard! Ma nads!” At length, he groaned. “Jeesy peeps.” “We’ve got you, Anais,” said Mary. “We’ve got you. Deep breath. It’s all right.” Again Anais screamed, fierce and feral, her body growing so rigid Mary had to curl out the way of it. If she decided to get up again, they’d struggle to stop her. But David stared at his phone, calm as a cow. Noah. Where is Noah? There—crawling across the floor towards his dad, face puce, tears dripping onto chubby fingers. Needing a cuddle. David was a good dad. Safe, supportive, natural. Would he pull his child onto his lap, unthinking and automatic? He might. “Alfie!” Mary shouted, “the baby!” But Alfie was just as tangled as Mary. He freed a leg, stretched it out to form a barrier, but it wasn’t long enough. Noah veered around it. “Noah!” Out came Alfie’s singsong voice. “Noah! Look at the toe! Look at it go! Look at the toe go!” And there it was again, that white toe, right in the thick of the action, next to the baby’s head and waggling away just as fast as Alfie could move it. Noah grabbed it. “That’s it!” said Alfie. “Ohh, you’re tickling me! Oh, no! What a cheeky monkey!” But Noah was in no mood for buffoonery. He levered himself around the foot and kept on crawling. Desperately, Alfie pointed the toe after him. “Oh, and the smell! What a smell! What a smell to smell!” Nothing. Noah reached out for Daddy’s shins, then the front door battered open and the cavalry flew in. *** They wore weird matte-finish wraparound shades and all-black uniforms and exuded a cool dynamism even while bunched in the hall staring at a tangle of bodies on the living room floor. “The baby,” said Mary. “There’s a baby.” In they swooped, four or five or them, and they scooped up Noah and barked orders and before Mary could properly regain her feet David was fenced away behind a seven-foot foldup barrier. Amid the chaos, Anais stepped towards it, this black felt void where her husband had been. She reached out a hand. “Everyone who’s not the patient, out here now.” A voice from the hall, the snap of real authority. Anais withdrew her hand, received Noah—now screaming for his mum—from one of the black figures, and allowed Mary to guide her into the hall, where Alfie waited, observing the floor. The woman removed her shades and regarded them all. She could have been Mary’s sister—same height and shape, similar age, equally as exhausted. “Everyone all right?” she asked, and they all nodded except for Noah, who wailed louder, cuddled his mum tighter. A shout from the living room. “Iso, code confirmed. Patient made safe, comfortable. Device is a Samsung mobile phone, on our power.” “Okay,” said the woman, eyes on Anais. “That’s the scary bit done. Are you next of kin?” “His wife, yes. Anais.” “Lovely name. And you have a beautiful home, Anais. I really do admire it. You understand the situation, I take it? David is almost certain to die. His brain is essentially in a trap, and as we stand here now there’s no known way to get it out.” “Yes.” “Anais, we’ve been authorised to attempt a new treatment—“ Anais flinched so hard she nearly dropped the baby. “Yes, yes. Anything.” “Now,” said the woman, “slow down. It’s experimental, and I’ll make no bones about it—it’s unlikely to work. But the modelling’s good and the science shows promise. Now we need to test. This would be one of those tests. The first, actually. What’s likely to happen is David will die today—peacefully, comfortably—in his own home, instead of in five weeks’ time, in a tent, a ghost of himself.” “Oh,” said Anais, “so there’s no chance…?” A tight smile. “There’s a slight chance.” “Do it.” Anais’s face twisted into that lopsided grimace once again. “Please, please do it.” “Okay. We’ll need you in the room, love. There’s forms. Lots of forms. And he’s going to want to see a friendly face. The rest of you…” “Erm, yeah,” said Mary. “Of course. We’ll take the baby.” Mary held out her arms but Noah wouldn’t come, just buried his head under Anais’s chin, adamant until Alfie stepped forward and coaxed him away and set off down the hall looking for somewhere to go. “You ready?” asked the woman, and then she had Anais in the living room with the door shut behind them before Mary could even say good luck. *** The nursery was pale yellow, home to a rocking chair and cot combo that looked hand-tooled, bespoke. Draped fabric formed a stage around them. Alfie paced the room, cradling Noah, one giant mitt flat across his tiny chest, rising and falling gently to its rhythm. Noah was beetroot red, but quietening. “A cure!” Alfie said, that same gentleness in his voice. “A fucking cure!” “It won’t work,” said Mary. “She said it won’t work.” “She said it might work.” Mary hesitated at the rocking chair, desperate to sit but wary of breaking something else in the house. After the TV and the husband, it wasn’t what Anais needed. “Mary,” said Alfie, “what did he do it for?” “I don’t know.” Carefully, she sat. But there was something obscene about relaxing into a rocking chair while in another room a man’s life was ending, so she held herself straight and watched Alfie lap the room, Noah gurgling and fussing in his arms. “Wonder if he’s due a feed,” said Mary. Alfie shook his head. “He’s nearly over.” “Right.” Mary sighed. She traced a finger over the carved whorls in the rocker’s armrest, the grooves deep and intricate but free of dust. “There’s a dead fish in the kitchen, you know,” she said. “A goldfish. Been dead for days. Just sitting there on top of the microwave. How weird is that?” “Well,” said Alfie, “they’ve got a kid. Not everything’s going to be spotless.” “But everything is spotless, Alfie. And then—boom—rotten old, smelly old fish.” “We shouldn’t judge.” “I don’t,” said Mary. “You know I don’t.” Alfie turned away, examined the framed family photos on the far wall, his jaw muscles popping in and out. “Alfie? You okay?” “It’s just…” he said. “It’s just so stupid. He’s so stupid. He had a baby, this house, a cool wife. Everything.” “Yeah,” said Mary. “Yeah, he did. And he could have slipped and fallen down the stairs and lost it all that way. Or someone could have ploughed into his car or his heart could have failed.” “That would be different.” “How?” He returned to pacing. “I don’t know.” “Or you could go the other way,” said Mary, “like my dad. Alzheimer’s. Fifteen years of forgetting, of becoming so confused you don’t recognise your own kid, so enfeebled you can’t wipe your own arse.” “Sorry,” said Alfie. “At least he got to see you grow up, though.” No, Alfie. He didn’t care to. “Yeah,” she said. Alfie slowed to a stop in the middle of the room. “Mary, look—he’s sleeping.” “So he is,” she said. “Well done.” He grinned, but it soon faltered. He looked down at Noah. “I hope he’s got some good uncles.” “You’re a nice kid, Alfie. I’m sure he does.” He took in the room, eyes glassy now. “I’m going to have this one day. I am. And I’m not going to throw it away.” Mary smiled. “I believe you.” A sniff. “I’ll put him in his cot.” “Okay. Flat on his back, remember.” Alfie side-eyed her, served it with a smile. Of course he remembered. He cradled Noah’s head, lowered him in, tucked the blanket tight under the mattress, then that giant paw enclosed Noah’s tiny fist and Alfie whispered, “Sleep well, little man,” and Mary found she had to get up and cross the room and take in the family photos herself. “Hey,” she said, but her voice was wavering, so she started again. “Hey, after this, I’ll get us the day off, clear it with Theo. How about I treat you to a new pair of shoes?” Alfie turned to her. “Really? I mean, no, you don’t have to. I mean…I can pay you back.” “My treat,” said Mary. “It’s the le—” A strange, rising, zapping noise interrupted them. Like an old-fashioned flashbulb on steroids. Alfie frowned. “What the hell was that?” Again it came, louder this time but more so resonant. Mary’s fillings tingled; the cot’s wooden bars creaked. And underneath it all, was that a…? “Did you hear someone scream?” asked Alfie. “Not sure,” said Mary, but she was. Peaceful, they had said. That poor man. A door creaked open. The living room. Mary expected voices to follow, but no. Just footsteps. Someone was coming down the hall. But not walking. That wasn’t the word. The steps were too uneven. Shambling. A thump, then a gentle swish—wool against wallpaper, a shoulder sliding towards them. Then, into the doorway, fingers first: David. Alfie jumped back. “Jesus Christ!” David blinked, an odd, undulating process that flitted from one eye to the other and back again, quickening, slowing, petering out. Drool darkened his jumper at the chest. “Noah?” he drawled. “Where’s my son?” His pupils were lazy black dots in a sea of yellow-white. They seemed to agree on a target only after long debate. The cot. David spotted it, lumbered forward, and though Mary stepped in front of it, Alfie’s instinct was different—he took David by the arm, steadied him, showed him the way. “Are you okay, mate?” he asked, but David’s sole focus was the child. “He’s sleeping,” said Mary, but she moved out the way, allowed David to lean against the cot, arms shaking like a drying-out drunk, to gaze down—if such a thing were still within his skill set—upon his son. “Oh, Noah,” he said. “I almost lost you. I almost—“ His words caught in his throat. He heaved out a shuddering sigh, started The Blink again, and Mary had to look away. This was not a cure. This was…something else. And why is no one with him? Mary’s stomach knotted. Why had no one followed? “Alfie,” she said. “Stay here. Watch him.” “Okay.” “And above all else, you keep that child safe. You hear me?” By now Alfie was looking to the door, his own cogs turning. He nodded, solemn. “Be careful.” The hall was silent, its row of paintings knocked askew by David’s shoulder. No sound from the living room either—no chatter, no floorboards creaking. Odd. The door was ajar. Mary inched it open. Six pairs of wraparound shades lay discarded on the couch. And in the middle of the room: a huddle. Anais, the boss, her troops, all staring down at something. Mercifully, Mary couldn’t see it. She didn’t need to. She closed her eyes, but the image remained: every face was slack and vacant, and lit up in beautiful reflected blue. |
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Kieran McCaffrey
Kieran McCaffrey lives in the west of Scotland and writes stories and music and captions for the telly. His work has appeared in The Daily Tomorrow, Macabre Magazine and State Of Matter, and was shortlisted for the 2025 Cymera/Shoreline Of Infinity Prize. Find him at kieranm.bsky.social.
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Baubles From Bones © 2026
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