Tales From Castle Diablo - "Flies"

Hello there

Here is another of my Tales From Castle Diablo, which I managed to get finished off yesterday in a bit of a marathon concluding writing session.

I'll be honest, I thought I'd written more of it than I had, but this was another piece of work that was saved in the great broken laptop recovery Saturday.

Again, I'm not gonna bang on in pre-amble, I shall just let you read it.  Assuming that is your wish, of course.  It's not quite as long as "Re-Test" from last week.

Everything begins after I've said goodbye.  Which is the story of my life.

Hope you are having a lovely week over there, and that this - hopefully unnerving - tale doesn't disrupt that. I'm off for a haircut. 

Much love

xxxxxxxxxxx

Flies

Mrs Moore lived alone, and had done so for almost ten years.  Before that, she’d had a ‘companion’ – a word used to divert any resultant gossip from a man briefly entering the house.  There was nothing untoward about it. Mrs Moore had no desire for the uncouth. He had merely been a companion to her. In fact no, not merely.  They were contented companions. It didn’t need to be more than that. She’d privately treasured his company.  So privately, that even he didn’t know.

When he passed on, something changed.  Or maybe it was just a reawakening of what he had tempered within her.  His death felt like a punishment.  She was alone again, and cursed with continuation. It made her impatient and begrudging of her own existence. We mourn the passing of the dead for the equally awful result of being left alone.

The only way to truly accept solitude, is to adapt into despising company.  In turn, despising company is only achieved by resenting every reminder that there is a world outside. Mrs Moore had learned to be irritated by the television, the radio, the cars parked on the street, the flap of the letterbox, anything and everything.

On the Tuesday we meet her, she was particularly irritated by flies.

There was no evidence that Mrs Moore would end up quite so irritated by the innocuous buzzing of insects, but irritation was her most present emotion.  Of course, neither had there been evidence that she would become quite so physically frail as she was emotionally.  In her youth, a thousand years ago, they would derisorily refer to the same appearance in others as spindly.  But, here she was at 87 years old, and few others reached such an age without taking on the same withered uniform.  Being fit in body may improve the quality of life for the young, but it damned well adds unwanted years at the end too. A spindly spinster having to carry on. Choosing miserable isolation over the risk of more heartbreak.

Isolation, all except – presently – the flies.

She didn’t really have any friends in Turnington Close. Mrs Moore aside, it was an otherwise close-knit, gardened row of terraces in Patton Leek. She knew Freda from next door but one, who would give her a knock a few times a week, but there was nobody beyond that.  A strangely old name is Freda.  Mrs Moore always considered this whenever she spoke her name out loud.  Freda was only in her forties, but Mrs Moore had had an Aunt called Freda, who died seventy years ago. In fact, the house that Mrs Moore now lived in had been her Aunt Freda’s house once upon a time. Strange that such a name would appear in that generation.  Freda-from-next-door-but-one wasn’t irritating, but the timing of her knocks sometimes was.  Sometimes, even when it wasn’t, Mrs Moore would decide that it was.

Today was one of those days.  The knock came, Mrs Moore began to huff her way down the hallway, but stopped. Why was she hurrying to the door?  She didn’t wish to have her day disrupted by being summoned.

Then she spotted another one.

A tiny fly, just beside the hallway mirror.  It wasn’t darting about or taking spiralling pointless journeys of flight only to return to the same exact spot.  It was moving in a slow circle, and she could feel its filthy eyes on her.  It looked as though it were staring back, challenging her. She shook her head and slowly moved behind the door of the living room.

Mrs Moore? Are you home? It’s Freda, love.

She couldn’t go into the living room, because Freda would do that ghastly thing where she cupped her hands against the glass and stared inside. Then she’d have to let her in.  And clean the smudges off the glass once she’d left. She didn’t want to see Freda today, she didn’t want Freda to see her today, and she didn’t want Freda to see these flies.  Nobody was setting foot over the front mat until Mrs Moore had seen them all off.

Another knock.

I’ll see you later on if you’re busy love, just checking in.

Fancy talking to an empty house, Mrs Moore thought.  Freda couldn’t have seen her, and Mrs Moore felt aggrieved that Freda would assume that she was in but not answering.  That being the case was neither here nor there. It was the lack of trust.  Like she was boldly calling her a liar.  Mrs Moor waited behind the living room door before risking a peek back down the hall.  There was no shadow behind the glass.  Two minutes later she emerged from hiding. She swatted a hand over the tiny fly that was still circling, but it managed to evade her, still staring back in defiance.  She picked up the local paper from the sideboard and obliterated the fly into an orange smear.  The local paper being thrust upon her every Wednesday without request was another thing that irritated her, but she would admit that this week, for the first time, it had at least been useful.

She dropped the paper to the floor and turned back to the kitchen.

*

That evening, she sat in the living room armchair.

The amber glow of the streetlights bathed the room, warm yet isolating.  She had managed to find a station on the wireless where the presenter didn’t feel the need to natter on every few minutes. It was a classical station that at least came close to soothing her.  There was a brief interruption where they announced that they wanted anybody listening called Michelle to call in. Mrs Moore tapped her hand impatiently on her lap, shaking her head again.  The blanket over her legs had slipped slightly and she adjusted it accordingly. There wasn’t even a prize.  What on earth was happening in the world?  Nobody could be bothered any more. If your name is Michelle, indeed.

On some days when Freda made it into the house, she would gently coax Mrs Moore to go outside, or perhaps to volunteer at the charity shop.  Mrs Moore would give these nudges the dismissive silence they deserved. When she heard the radio saying silly things like that, it made her even more determined to remain out of the way. Why on earth should she bother?  Only a fool would volunteer when those who were paid to bother, didn’t. Nobody bothered any more. It felt like there was no point.

Mrs Moore blinked as she realised that she had been so long in her own thoughts that she hadn’t registered staring at a cluster of flies in the far corner of the room.  There must have been ten.  She tried to count, but they busied around each other so much that it was impossible.  The anxious dread rose in her once more, and she hoped this wasn’t some sort of infestation.  Maybe it was the season, or the weather.  Although it was a little chilly in the living room that evening, the air had seemed to be getting closer in the daytime.

She now realised that she could hear them too.

There was a faint buzzing, sometimes pitching up in intensity as they battled between themselves. She reached over and turned the volume up on the wireless, until the buzzing was merely a faint echo.  Again, she pulled the blanket back up, onto her legs.

A far-too-loud-car went down the street outside, far-too-fast.

He’d used that blanket for everything;  under his knees when he was cleaning beneath the sink, he’d taken it in the car if they took a trip to the coast, and placed it around her shoulders even before she’d even said she was cold.

She gripped it tightly and swallowed the emotion.  There was no use in it.  Nothing could be changed now.  He’d have got rid of those flies.  At least they were gathered around the furthest corner. She was warm beneath his blanket. They were far enough away from her, and she didn’t want to get up and go to bed just yet. She’d just close her eyes here for a while.

*

She awoke to a radio news bulletin that didn’t concern her. The news had never really concerned Mrs Moore, but her withdrawal had made this a certainty.  It doesn’t really concern anyone.  Merely a snooper’s paradise.  Here’s what’s happening to other people, if you want to have a nosey into their business. She wasn’t interested.

It was daylight behind the curtains, and she switched off the wireless.  The room was immediately filled with buzzing again.  Louder now, a larger chorus. She picked up her glasses from the side table, where she must have placed them after removing them in her sleep, and looked back over to the far corner.  There were certainly more than ten, but the moderate buzzing betrayed the presence of even more unseen.

The daylight made her braver, and she gently rose from the armchair, stooping briefly to pick up the fallen blanket, before moving over to the curtains.  She was still dreading what she would find, but had no hesitation in opening them.

It wasn’t as bad as she had imagined, but there was a significant colony of the horrible creatures smattered around the ledge. Her sun-faded ornaments of quaint country houses were boldly trespassed upon, while others walked up the windows in front of her.  There was no urgency or zipping around. Much like the tiny one in the hall, they didn’t appear to have any energy.  They were sauntering, still giving off the feeling that they were looking at her defiantly. She stared back and picked up one of her ornaments.  It felt heavy.  Such a small ornament, but lifting it felt as though she were picking up a great weight.  Another unwelcome reminder of her frailty. She gently dropped it down onto a cluster of flies and heard the crunch of their demise.  A battle marker, but only a temporary satisfaction.  They were increasing, taking over.

On the road outside, three children were playing with a football.  One of them kicked it abnormally hard and the ball flew high in the air, bouncing once on the pavement and then into Mrs Moore’s garden.  As one of the boys vaulted over her wall to retrieve it, she impulsively slapped her hand on the window.  Her weakness meant it barely made a thud, but it was enough for the boy to turn and stare at her.  She shooed him away with a laboured hand gesture.  He continued to stare right at the window.  No wave of apology or acknowledgement, just an insolent glare before picking up the stray ball and nonchalantly returning to the road. Mrs Moore felt a flush of temper, and remembered she was trying to calm.  Despite her fury, she felt a wetness on her cheek and realised it had brought a tear.  There was no consideration. She was dismissed and outstaying her welcome.  She didn’t want to be anywhere.

The buzzing continued to taunt her, as she slowly drew the curtains shut again.

*

Within two days, much of the house was consumed.  Occasional clusters that had gathered around corners and windows had grown into a pulsing tapestry that covered entire walls. Mrs Moore had spent some time in the kitchen, trying to find the source of the invasion, but nothing had presented itself as a possibility.  Nothing in any cupboards, no forgotten fruit that had hidden itself away to rot and breed the pests.  Every window was closed, the sinks were cleaned and bleached, and the occupation was now so vast that there was no indication as to the starting point.

The living room had remained the least conquered, with barely more in there than on the morning of the football incident.  Mrs Moore reasoned that this was because she had stayed in that room the most, holding it from being overcome.  She wasn’t sure how long flies lived for, but seemed to recall that it was a short existence, affected by temperature.  The warmer the environment, the longer they thrived. She shut off the heating, unwavering even when the evening temperature dropped. She had slept in the chair both nights, with his blanket protectively around her, and was conscious that she should bathe.  The thought of disrobing, however briefly, in such dominant company, and with the added absence of warmth, continued to dissuade her. Perhaps tomorrow.

She continued to swat them, crush them, spray them with cleaning spray. A significant kill count had been racked up.  She had started to snarl as she destroyed them, and a smattering of the deceased piled up on the carpets. She was far too weak to be vacuuming or sweeping, and so considered that they would act as a symbolic threat for those that dared stay.  Her mood swayed between fear and defiance.  Her sanctuary was overwhelmed, but she was clinging to her authority.

It was her house.  It was all she had left.

Freda-from-next-door-but-one had knocked again on both days, and both days Mrs Moore had tried to surrender to the vulnerability of asking for help.  Yet, when she heard Freda call from the doorstep, she choked back the tears of fragility and refused to open the door.  There was the embarrassment of such a predicament, that was certain, but there was also an indignation that she couldn’t accept help in her life that could later be taken away.  Not again.

In the evenings, the wireless was turned to its highest volume where she focussed on the strains of music that drowned out the sound of the flies.  She would listen carefully to individual instruments, try to distract herself with pleasant detail, close her eyes and convince herself that the swarm around her was just a cruel fantasy.  If she looked, her little living room would be back how it was, and she would have won.  Sometimes, with her eyes closed, she would feel the pat on her face as an errant interloper collided with her. The first few times she raised a hand to sweep them away, but as time continued to pass, she chose to defy them with indifference.

Eventually they began to settle on her, and she began to ignore them.

*

On the fourth day, Mrs Moore rose from the chair and opened the curtains.  She looked out at the world, at the other terraces across the road and the cars that formed an unsightly train down the street.  The flies had not abated.  The window ledge was barely visible anymore, and they covered much of the window too.

It was not in a mood of defeat that she decided she would rather not stay in this world, but rather that she would be the teller of her own story.  Fate had dictated her life’s narrative, but she had the power to write the ending.  Her only sadness was that it had come to this, and what hadn’t happened.

A man across the road came out of his front door, down the path and unlocked his car.  He had a large bag, which Mrs Moore presumed was some sort of sporting equipment.  She blew at the flies on the window before her, watching them scatter to reveal the bag held a set of golf clubs.  He stood at the back of his car and looked at his phone for a moment, before slipping it into his pocket, hauling the golf clubs into the boot, and driving away.

Her regrets were joined by envy, and she clasped his blanket to her.  She had been carrying it everywhere she went now.  Several flies landed on her clenched hands, and she seethed at them to get away.

After a thoughtful pause, they did.

*

There would be one more day.  That was her final decision.

She had no inclination to leave the house and would not be answering the door to Freda-from-next-door-but-one.  Freda would give her a gentle talking to, and Mrs Moore didn’t want this.  She was at peace with this being the last page of her story, and her mind was content. She would completely ignore her guests, and live as she wished.  Whatever she wanted to do, she would do. She hadn’t eaten for several days, not even made a pot of tea. As she considered this being a nice thing before she departed, she was also aware that she felt no actual desire for it.  She was neither hungry nor thirsty, and so dismissed this as a necessity.

Only what she wanted to do.  One last day.

The wireless was once again turned up to its highest volume.  This was no longer to drown out the swarm, but because she wanted it like that.  She wanted to feel the music, and when the presenters interrupted, she swore filthily back at them.  She said words that had previously made her wince, without an ounce of embarrassment.  She couldn’t possibly let these things not be said.  They needed to be said, and now she had said them.  Spat them in fact.

The heating went back on, as high as it could be.  She would never be paying for it, so that concern was dismissed, and the flies could thrive.  That didn’t matter.  She wasn’t going to bathe, that was pointless, but she disrobed anyway and sat in the chair for a last time, with his blanket around her.

She let him embrace her, and held him tightly in her arms, and hoped beyond hope that there was something beyond. Somewhere he would be.  She didn’t believe it but allowed herself to surrender to the imaginary.

For three nights she had not gone to bed.  The fear of losing control of the living room, coupled with the fear of the bedroom’s darkness and silence, had meant she had avoided it.  Mrs Moore wanted to go to bed though.  She wanted to lay down. To wrap the covers around her and sleep, with the blanket in her arms. When it was really close, she could detect the faintest of aromas.  Something nondescript but evocative.

She stood from the chair and made her way through the house.  The flies filled the air in every room, but she moved through them without fear or distraction. They hissed in the hallway, and as she opened the bedroom door, a further thick swarm spilled out around her.

As she turned on the light, after days of looking, Mrs Moore finally found the source of the flies.

The body was barely visible in the bed, as a thick black swarm grew around and from it. She knew at that moment that she was seeing herself.  There was no fear, not even shock.

A familiar arm wrapped around her, and she dropped the blanket to the floor.

*