The chicken was burnt. Sarah glugged down half a glass of white wine, refilled it and then settled down to eat dinner on her lap beside her brother.
On the television screen, giant spiders spilled from fast food containers and shoeboxes, from under the bed and out of coffee cups, ultimately clambering over cars and hedges, over people’s faces, spinning webs the size of parasols between tree branches.
Simon would normally have been halfway through his meal by the time Sarah sat down, but instead he chewed mechanically, thinking of the man by the cliff.
Make her understand.
This is the warning I never had.
He glanced across at her. She had pried a small bone from a drumstick and was stripping it with her front teeth. She worked quickly, but gave up on it when it got difficult, discarding it on the edge of the plate and moving on to the next.
“Are you really watching this?” Sarah asked. Simon nodded, his mind far, far from home. “Can we talk now? About mum and dad.”
He was desperate to stall, not least of all because his attempt to clear his head had made him more anxious. Echoing and burbling with almost forgotten voices, he wanted to throw himself down and drown amongst them.
“Was it really suicide?” Sarah asked. She assumed he had all the answers. Until a couple of hours ago, he could almost have believed that it was true.
The cavern yawned and his memory of their father's disappearance snatched a breath.
His father had told him to look after his sister and then walked out of the front door, leaving his keys on the hook. He had been the last person to see him. His father hadn't seemed under duress. He had been relaxed. Even relieved.
“You'll be alright,” he had said with a pat on his shoulder and then he was gone without a look back.
Sarah discarded her meal on the table in front of them.
Simon opened his mouth to speak, not yet knowing what he was going to say, but as he did so he felt the familiar squeezing sensation at the nape of his neck, like a thumb and forefinger probing and then pinching. He arched his back slightly as the shockwave ran down his spine.
As the Creature made its presence felt within him, he focussed his mind on his breathing, letting go of his personality, and his whirling thoughts, letting the prospect of a tricky conversation about their dead father to slip away. As the Creature took up residence, Simon allowed himself to become empty. He had to become the servant again. The vessel.
So soon?
He could feel the nefarious sensation of the thing working its way into position. He felt its 'fingers' climbing his vertebra, pressing on his skull, through, tapping inside his brain, searching out the familiar pathways.
“Simon?”
Rather than being displaced as one might expect, he felt more vital than ever. The Creature could see what he could see and it could express its pleasure or otherwise, but he remained in control. He rocked gently with the adrenaline rush and attempted to stay calm.
The old, worn cushions cradled the sore muscles of his back. The tray, warmed by the plate, was a comfortable weight on his lap, breathing with him. His skin buzzed pleasurably, wetly, in the cool air.
He saw the worry lines of Sarah's forehead, ridges in sandstone. Her hair no longer appeared to be a jumble of dirty-blonde curls; each strand had its purpose and place within an overarching pattern, not reminiscent of dead cells at all, but of a substance that effectively caught and reflected the light so it appeared that they radiated light of their own. Her eyes, chestnut brown with fiery flecks of amber, like his, glistened with tears.
She was disappointed and he wouldn't comfort her. The Creature's consciousness swelled within him, its gossamer tendrils stiffening, announcing its desire for yet another delivery. It took up position within him so swiftly that he didn't have time to prepare for the night's work ahead. He continued to focus on his breathing, but couldn't help a stab of anxiety.
Even serial killers at their most prolific did not often take people as frequently as he had done in the last two months. When killers picked up their pace like this, they left objects behind, they were seen, people made connections. He knew he was likely to get caught soon. It would seem that the man he followed last night had already been following him. Everything was going to shit. Fast.
The growing presence of the Creature, however, was a drug, and gradually, he began to feel invincible, knowing that It would steer him around the danger. He felt he could handle anything, which was useful, because anything could happen.
He turned to his sister to make an excuse to leave, but he felt the squeeze in his skull the moment he looked at her. He immediately turned away, but there was no denying what had happened. The sensation had been sharp and definite.
He looked at her again. She was attempting to keep her emotions in check, as was he.
Squeeze.
There was no time for explanations or goodbyes.
The Creature had chosen her and now he had a job to do.