Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror Page 12

  I turned to the operator. ‘See that boy? Get him into the system. Then lock the place down – the shit’s about to hit the fan right where that kid is staring.’

  As the Secret Service men reached for their guns and the shutters started slamming down, the Boy looked through the camera at me and snarled, ‘You! I will eat your soul!’ And between one frame and the next, he was gone. They never found the Boy, but the would-be assassins didn’t have a chance ...

  *

  Time moves on, and so does technology. The city-wide camera network goes live next week, and three months after that, I retire. People think the network will make the streets safer, and politicians think it will allow us to track criminals and terrorists, and yes, it will do all that. But from Day One, we will know within two seconds if the Boy appears within the area covered, and be able to respond. And if there are any more like him, we’ll be able to work out what they look like, and add them to the watch list.

  *

  I’m not sure I believe in souls, but if they exist, let me tell you about a policeman’s soul. For every person he rescues, every crime he stops, every kid he sets straight, it grows a bit. And for every junkie he finds dead, every fatal car crash he attends, every bashed and abused person, it gets tougher. That Boy is going to choke on mine. And if I’m wrong, well, so be it. That’s a price I’ll gladly pay.

  *

  They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, so let me tell you what I saw in those dark eyes when the Boy looked through that camera straight at me. No whites, no irises, no pupils, not a field of stars, nor the dark of interstellar space. No, I saw nothing. Nothing at all.

  The Oracle of Karawa

  Paul Mannering

  It began when Dina turned two and finally started talking. We’d been concerned; she had fine hearing, eyesight and cognitive ability, only her vocal development was delayed. Our GP and the staff at her childcare centre said kids develop in their own time. Dina had all the signs of being a smart girl, she just chose not to verbalise.

  When she turned two, I began to understand why.

  Dina’s mum, Jess, is usually the light sleeper and gets up if Dina needs anything. But on this one night, I had been lying awake for an hour, going over tomorrow’s meeting in my head.

  I rolled over and there was Dina. Eyes open, the beloved Boo-Bear – her favourite sleeping companion – clutched to her chest by his felt head. She stared at me for a long moment, and then opened her mouth.

  ‘Hold out for fifteen per cent, over five years,’ she said.

  ‘Hey baby girl, you OK?’ I mumbled, still half asleep.

  ‘Fifteen per cent. Five years,’ Dina said again, and turned and went back to her room.

  I lay there for a minute before grudgingly slipping out from under the covers and going to check on her. Dina was asleep, her covers askew. I carefully tucked her in and then, still thinking I’d had some kind of dream, went back to bed.

  I didn’t think about what Dina had said until I was in the meeting the next afternoon.

  We were negotiating an investment return on some IP my business partner and I had been developing for the last three years. I was keen to sell our IP and we had a willing buyer, but the offer was for a lump sum, or a lesser lump sum plus royalty. We were keen on the royalty option, but the rate and time-frame for the contract was a sticking point.

  Mark and I had a brief huddle during a toilet break. ‘Ten per cent is okay,’ he said. ‘We can live with ten over three years.’

  ‘Hold out for fifteen per cent over five years,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Mark was startled.

  ‘Just something I thought of last night.’ I must have looked guilty, because Mark didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘If we put that on the table, they’ll walk.’

  ‘But what if they don’t?’ I asked.

  Mark shook his head. We returned to the table and before Mark could say anything, I put the fifteen-over-five offer on the table.

  The group across the room circled their wagons. Lawyers were consulted, and someone was texted from an iPhone.

  We sat for five minutes in awkward silence. I kept telling myself the old sales technique of making an offer and then sit schtum. The next person who speaks, loses.

  After an eternity they turned back to us and nodded. Offer accepted. We shook hands, signed some paperwork and congratulated everyone present on a successful deal.

  When I got home that night I wanted to tell Jess about the weird dream I’d had. Jess’s sister, Helen, was there with her new baby, Levi, so I settled for sharing the news of the signed deal.

  Helen’s child-rearing philosophies differed from ours. She treated breast feeding in public as a challenge, daring anyone to be offended. I’m a fan of breast feeding. Jess did it with Dina till she was fully weaned on solid food. The health benefits are undeniable and the right of women and babies to feed when they need to is sacrosanct. Helen’s way of thrusting her naked breasts at me in my own kitchen, however, made me uncomfortable.

  I turned away when she started to expose herself, focusing on getting Dina’s dinner on her plate while Jess chatted with her sister about this new guy (not the baby’s father) that she was seeing.

  Dina came strolling into the kitchen, which struck me as odd, because I thought Jess had put her in the high-chair. Our wee girl reached up a hand and gently stroked the baby’s bald head as he fed vigorously. ‘Don’t sleep with him,’ Dina announced in a clear voice. Jess laughed and Helen looked surprised.

  ‘Dina,’ Jess said. ‘Don’t say that. Honestly, she just started talking today and I’m sure she’s repeating random things she’s heard at playgroup.’

  Helen smiled. ‘That’s an excellent philosophy to live by, Dina sweetheart. Don’t sleep with anyone until you’re sure they’re a good person.’

  I scooped up Dina and blew bubbles on her neck, which made her giggle. I put her in the high chair and we played helicopter spoons until all her mashed vegetables had landed safely in her grinning hangar.

  That night as we lay in bed together, I told Jess about my weird dream. She just nuzzled close, whispering that I was a great negotiator and that I should try my skills on her, since she wanted us to have another baby.

  *

  Jess called me at work the next day, one of those calls that sends ice-water down your spine. It took me several intolerably long seconds to realise that Dina was okay, and that it was Helen whom Jess was hysterical about.

  Baby Levi had died overnight. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome – SIDS – what they used to call cot death.

  Jess spent the rest of the week with Helen. She was shattered, and we all felt the terrible pain of her loss.

  I found myself hugging Dina a lot during those dark days, and now she had started talking, she wouldn’t shut up.

  She sat on the floor, my old matchbox cars spread around her. Jess said she was too young, she might swallow something; but I lay on the floor, reading through some IT reports and keeping an eye on her.

  Holding up a car, Dina announced, ‘Taxi driver, falls asleep at the wheel on the motorway. Three killed in head-on collision.’

  ‘Sounds bad,’ I said, not really paying attention.

  ‘Weekend road toll will be the highest of any weekend since Easter,’ Dina said, turning an old Ford Fairlane model over in her hands.

  ‘More books, less TV news for you, baby girl,’ I said.

  The phone rang. I answered, but didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘My name is Tony, I’m Helen’s boyfriend,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh. Hi Tony. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He didn’t sound like he was calling to invite himself round for a beer. ‘Helen said something to me, she said the night – well, before it happened,’ Tony let the rest of his reason for calling come out in a rush. ‘She said your little girl, Diana? Helen said that the little girl told her that she shouldn’t sleep with Levi.’

  �
�What? No way. Why would she say that?’ I had a chilling flash of Dina standing by the bed telling me to hold out for fifteen per cent.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tony sounded like he was biting down on a scream. ‘Helen is sure that Diana knew something was going to happen.’

  ‘Dina. Her name is Dina. She’s two years old for chrissakes. There is no way she could have known anything. Look, Tony, we are so very sorry about what happened. We’re there for Helen and for you too. But saying Dina predicted the baby’s death? Seriously?’

  ‘Helen had Levi in her bed. He was there when he died. Maybe you should start keeping an eye on what your girl is saying.’ Tony’s voice sounded almost threatening. ‘Jess said she told you how to secure some business deal the other night, too.’

  ‘What? No, you don’t understand. That was just a weird dream.’ The phone went dead.

  The TV news that night had a breaking story of a head-on collision on the motorway. A taxi driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, and three people died at the scene. A police spokesman said the weekend road toll was on track to be the worst since the previous Easter holiday weekend.

  *

  With the contracts signed and sealed, Mark and I agreed to dissolve our partnership. Jess and I had our royalties to live on. That income kept the bills paid, while I used some of the upfront cash as seed money to set up a new internet business.

  I kept it very quiet, reaching out to a few select clients, people I had no way of knowing except by careful data mining online, and providing them with information that related to their business interests. Of course, when that information proved to be accurate, they immediately made contact and I would add them to my client database. For a nominal monthly retainer, they would be emailed if my ‘team of highly trained probability analysts’ reported anything that might be of interest to them.

  Dina is four years old now and my client database numbers over a thousand email addresses. Mostly corporate clients, some government people, and the occasional civilian who probably didn’t know what they were signing up for.

  Keeping all this a secret from Jess has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Our son, George, came into the world six months ago, a happy, healthy boy. I quizzed Jess about him and she had nothing to say, except that he looks funny.

  The problem with having access to an oracle with what I believe is a hundred per cent success rate on predictions, is that you start second guessing everything they say.

  I’ve spent hours of every day in the last two years with Dina and I record everything, reviewing it when she sleeps, scanning for important information.

  Tonight, after I tucked my beautiful daughter in, read her a bedtime story and kissed her good night, I started writing all this down as a sort of confession.

  You see, before I stood up from Dina’s bed, she reached out and put her hand on my chest and whispered, ‘Goodbye, Daddy.’

  I gave a nervous chuckle, ‘No sweetheart. We say, ‘Goodnight.’’

  ‘Not this time. This time it’s goodbye.’

  I wish I didn’t believe her. But she’s made hundreds of totally accurate predictions over the last two years.

  I don’t know what form it will take, but I’m going to be dead by mo

  Lockdown

  Piper Mejia

  The bell signalling the end of lunch rings loudly down the empty corridor. Moments later, the ceiling lights flicker briefly before erupting into a single row of beacons. Guided by the harsh glow, uniformed girls gallop wildly towards the seldom-used Reading Room, their unguarded conversations ricocheting off the walls. At the door they bunch together, the unfamiliar surroundings causing their leader to hesitate before the pressure from behind sends them tumbling towards the centre of the room.

  ‘Where’s Miss?’

  ‘She’ll be here soon. She said to get a book and read quietly.’ Caught between the return box and the issues desk, Jackie anxiously picks at the skin around her fingernails. She wishes Miss would hurry up.

  ‘Shut up, Jackie, you’re such a suck-up.’ Shouldering Jackie aside, Sam strides towards the beanbags near the magazine rack. She doesn’t check to see that her friends are behind her: their chatter fills the air with vicious attacks.

  ‘Yeah, who made you the boss?’

  ‘Loser.’

  ‘No wonder your dad knocks you about. What an embarrassment.’ Sam throws a magazine towards Jackie’s head; its pages fluttering like a bird with a broken wing as it falls defeated at her feet.

  The abuse makes her flinch but Jackie keeps her head down. She avoids direct eye contact as she clutches her school bag closer, afraid it will be ripped from her arms, leaving her vulnerable to a more physical attack. At home, she relies on her mother to shield her from the worst of it, but at school Jackie needs Miss to protect her from Sam’s cruelty.

  Ignoring the familiar conflict, the other girls range around the room; some gossip, others drag their fingers along an endless array of multi-coloured spines, occasionally pulling a book out to stare at the cover before shoving it back in the wrong place. Without the teacher, they’re aimless.

  Next to the door sits a lone chair, its legs splayed unevenly and its back broken by the continual battering of careless students. It makes an uncomfortable seat, but Jackie knows she doesn’t deserve better. Her father always starts by telling her how worthless she is before hunting her into the dark. With her back against the wall, Jackie takes up sentry position, to await the footsteps that will herald her teacher’s arrival. Holding a book as camouflage, she pretends to read.

  *

  Below the library, the reading room is crammed between the school boiler and an AV room from a time before data-show projection and DVDs. Its recent return to a use other than storage is due to an increasing school roll that has made room-sharing a necessity. Windowless, the room’s artificial lights battle against the gloom but, with no breeze to make the temperature tolerable, the environment quickly becomes unbearable. Irritable and unable to concentrate on their books or magazines, the girls’ voices continue to rise, when suddenly a siren wails, setting their hearts pounding.

  ‘Fire!’ Panic sweeps the room, sending girls rushing for the door. Then a speaker crackles to life and a robotic voice repeats the instruction to lock doors and sit on the floor, away from windows.

  ‘No, you idiots. It’s a lockdown. Must be another practice.’ Sam’s authority is unquestionable. ‘We should go back to class.’

  ‘No. Let’s just lock the door and stay on the floor away from the windows, like we did last time.’ Lifting a forefinger to her mouth, Jackie tears a loose piece of skin away from the nail, the pain calming her as she licks away the blood.

  ‘There are no windows, stupid.’ Jackie glances around the room and realises they’re trapped – she’s trapped. Feeling the ground fall away, taking all the breathable air with it, she presses her feet hard against the floor and wills herself to stay calm.

  It’s OK. If I can’t get out, he can’t get in.

  ‘We’ll get in trouble if we leave.’ Jackie tries to sound reasonable. Pleading never works. It didn’t work last night.

  ‘Harden up.’ Then, levering herself up off the floor, Sam moves closer. ‘Or have you pissed your dad off again?’ The alarm continues to blare as the two girls face off. Satisfied with what she sees, Sam strides to the door and begins to play with the latch. Lock – unlock – lock – unlock. She hesitates between each turn as if trying to make up her mind. You’d never know if someone was out there. Looking through the small glass window in the door she tries to define the lurking shadows but it’s too opaque to see anything clearly. ‘I’m sick of these. How often do we need to practise how to lock a door and sit on the floor, anyway?’

  Either she’s too lazy to leave the room or, Jackie thinks, maybe she’s just as scared as I am, but too tough to admit it.

  Giving in to the easier option, Sam locks the door and returns to her beanbag, staring down the others’ questioning glances unti
l they take their places on the floor, their eyes trained on the door. Jackie sits in the middle of the door, her legs stretched out in front of her and her hands, clasped together as if in prayer, imprisoned between her thighs.

  *

  ‘Shouldn’t it have stopped by now if it’s just a practice?’ The whispered words ring loudly as the siren abruptly stops.

  ‘Well done, Jackie. Nothing like stating the obvious.’ The absence of the blaring siren leaves their ears ringing as Sam gets up, expecting Jackie to scuttle aside, so that she can unlock the door.

  ‘No, wait. We haven’t had the all clear. Someone is supposed to come and let us know it’s OK to unlock the door.’ Creeping upwards, her back still firmly against the door, Jackie blocks Sam’s way, but even with her arms and legs splayed out like a spider she’s too short and thin to pose much of an obstacle.

  ‘Get out of my way, Jackie. The last bell’s about to go and I have a bus to catch.’ Sam shoves the smaller girl to one side and reaches for the lock.

  ‘You can’t go. What if it’s not a practice? Why are there no announcements? Why hasn’t Miss come by now?’ Jackie peels Sam’s fingers away from the lock and retakes her position in front of the door, her head framed by the small window.

  ‘You really are dumb aren’t you, Jackie? No one is running around our school killing the teachers, not even your dad. He can wait for you at home.’ Tiny flecks of spit spray her face but Jackie remains immovable.

  ‘Listen to me, Sam. Please. We wouldn’t hear anything down here. It’s safer to keep the door closed until help arrives.’ Her pupils have enlarged to the point that she looks like a puppet, her breathing rapid as she gasps for oxygen. The other girls hesitate. Sam has always been the leader, her decisions always final, but Jackie’s panic is catching.

  ‘Enough of this shit. No one’s out there. Move out of my way or I’m going to hurt you.’ No one is immune to the lure of violence. A couple of the girls take out their phones ready to film whatever comes next when a clear thud is heard against the door, jarring Jackie from her position. ‘Boy, you’re lucky Miss has turned up.’ Sam steps nearer but Jackie remains in place.