Trembling With Fear 11/27/2022

Fingers, by Matthew Tyrer

No one there had yet said a word to the boy. In a corner, he sat on a wicker chair, watching his lap. His hair, combed straight, fell around his eyebrows and his hands held each other so that both palms were hidden. 

     The first to approach him was an older woman who had spent the previous hour repeatedly catching his eye with the odd savouring glance. Throughout the day’s pleasantries, she had not strayed far from one man in particular, only doing so to pick frugally from the buffet or to exchange words with a face she recognised. On approach, she crouched down to his level, staring at him the way women of a certain age often do, her face doused in a clay-like makeup. 

    ‘What have you got in your hand there, little one?’ In response, he tightened his grip. From behind his long needle-like fringe, his eyes seemed very small. 

     ‘Don’t be shy now…’ Her grip was cold and dry, the wrinkled skin sagging against his knuckles. As his hands opened, a darkness could initially be seen cloying to his peach skin, followed by a trail of dried blood. 

     ‘Eww!’ she cried, recoiling; then her eyes returned to him, this time with a greater severity, as if the boy had just violated her innocent preconceptions. ‘Where on Earth did you get that?’ 

     ‘It’s mummy’s,’ the boy said. 

     Her glare tightened. ‘And where is mummy now? Can you point her out for me?’ 

     Playfully, he shook his head. 

     ‘Why not, dear?’ 

     A hesitation came over him. He shuffled slightly in his seat. 

     ‘I know,’ the lady continued. ‘Why don’t we play a game?’ And his eyes lit up. ‘If you take me to where your mummy is, then I’ll give you a special present.’

     ‘What kind of present?’

     ‘Well, you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you.’

     With the slight shaking of his head, a portion of his fringe was swept away from his right eye, revealing its deep brown shade. He had joined his hands together once again, hiding his palms as before.  

     ‘Okay,’ he agreed, a new brightness in his voice. ‘But only as long as you close your eyes, so it’s a surprise!’

      ‘I won’t even peep.’ She smiled at him, but once he got up from the chair and turned away from her, it quickly made way for an ashen frown.

     Following him, she passed the man she was speaking to previously, and he did a double-take when he saw her with the boy. ‘Sheila, what’s going on?’

     ‘Phone the police.’

     ‘What?’

     ‘Just do it.’

    As they made their way through the crowds, the boy was often swallowed by the bodies, only for his tiny figure to reemerge with each new opening. Whenever anybody noticed his presence, they tended to scrutinise him with a certain disdain, their looks searching, if not confused. But otherwise, he scurried among them largely anonymous, grazing against the trails of women’s dresses, and stepping on the tips of men’s shoes. 

     Poor thing, the woman thought. Where does a young boy find… No, it doesn’t bear to think about. There has to be a reasonable explanation. 

     She followed him all the way to the front of the building, where an elderly gentleman held the door open for them both, grinning warmly as they passed. The only people outside were smokers, loitering in small groups of no more than five. Stepping fully into the bright gaze of the sun, she decided that the collective murmuring of the crowd inside meant nothing to her and felt a sudden rush of warmth in her chest – I have to be there for him, she thought, no matter what.  

     Trying hard to be discreet, she stared down at his hands; the thing was now held in his right hand, hidden within the clench of his fist. 

     ‘Where to now then?’ she asked, struggling to hold her tone. 

     ‘You promised you would close your eyes!’

     ‘Sorry.’ 

     When she obliged, the boy took her by the hand and began to lead her towards his destination. Through the slit of her eyelids, she caught glimpses of street signs, tall green hedges, and cars scurrying through narrow suburban roads; but very soon, the ground turned soft, and she began to hear the distinctive crinkle of fallen leaves and nettles beneath her feet. When she next opened her eyes, they were walking down a muddy path, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. There was a brick wall just beyond the path to their right, decrepit, and violated by several layers of graffiti. Motorway traffic could be heard rushing in the distance. 

     She tried to look down at the boy, but when his head started to turn as she did so, she quickly shut her eyes again. 

     ‘Are we nearly there?’

     ‘Nearly,’ he replied merrily, hurrying his step.

     When the woman next half-opened her eyes, the shrubbery had grown much denser around her, and the path became more trampled and overgrown. It was silly of me to come alone, she suddenly thought. For all I know, this boy could be taking me anywhere – you can trust nobody these days, not even children. I hope the police are on their way. 

     ‘What’s your mummy doing all the way out here?’

     There was a long pause before the boy answered. ‘Well, you’ll have to wait and see – won’t you.’ 

     He’s mimicking me, the little shit. He’s known what he’s been doing all along.

     But then, just as her paranoia was beginning to get the better of her, the boy came to a sudden halt. ‘We’re here,’ he said. 

     As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw her; a woman laying face down in the grass. She was wearing a cream blazer with large shoulder pads, along with blue jeans and black leather slip-ons which exposed her ankles. Though her face was lost behind the many shoots of grass, her blonde hair snaked through the overgrowth, slightly damp and dirtied with streaks of mud.    

     ‘Is that your mummy?’ the woman said, now crouched down to the boy’s height. 

     He stared beyond her, at the woman in the grass, then nodded slowly. 

     ‘Okay. You just stay here – I’ll be right back.’

     As she approached, the woman’s face came slowly into view; its left cheek sunken into the ground, the one visible eye was fixed wide open, lifeless. When her focus turned to the rest of the body, she noticed three large blood stains on the back of the blazer – stab wounds, she decided – as well as more dirt stuck to the cuffs of the sleeves. Strangely, it was the sight of her feet, resting so awkwardly against the ground, which finally turned her stomach and caused a lump to form in the back of her throat. 

     She thought of the boy sitting in the house all alone, surrounded by that mass of people. How long had he been there? How long had she been here? 

     When the woman turned around to see if the boy was still there, his hands were open, and he was staring deep into his palms. 

     Perhaps her mind had chosen to blank it out; perhaps, on some level, she had tried to convince herself that she hadn’t seen what she saw. But now the image was reemerging more clear than ever in her mind’s eye – that awful stub of blood and skin.

     With great reluctance, she turned back to the body, honing in on the woman’s hands in particular. The right hand had all five fingers and was normal as could be. The left hand was bruised, covered in dirt and dried blood… and its thumb was missing, having been severed at the knuckle. 

     Her breathing now heavy and hoarse, she hurried back to the boy’s side, as the sound of police sirens began wailing in the distance. 

     She did not know what to think or what to feel. Whether to be afraid or mournful. But she knew one thing for sure – she no longer trusted the boy. 

     And as he stood next there, staring at her, with that severed limb resting in his hands, she saw that he had his mother’s eyes. 

     ‘When am I getting my present?’ he said.