Scouts

Listen to how they describe murder. Jack, Myra, Adolf, all the worst ones. It’s all borrowed from the ‘accepted’ torture of animals – all the ripping, torment, gassing and packed carts.

What if someone could choose if you lived or died? Just because that’s what they’ve always done.

Maggie loved this little bit of the Thames. The sea is always murky, cockles are in the air, and on a hot day you can smell McDonalds cheese and sex coming up through the drains.

Still, she was happy and isolated. Never good at human wants or needs, whether it was for sustenance or emotional reasons, the right one had never come along and she didn’t care.

She’d been a terrible girlfriend and a worse wife, because they didn’t matter; she always thought she’d make a better prostitute. I want to be silently loved – don’t tell me how you feel, it gives me reaction fatigue and don’t kiss me, I don’t like it.

Don’t make me say I love you, I don’t, and I never did. I don’t care if you live or die. She was a user and she wasn’t ashamed, she’d never come across a man that didn’t deserve her manipulation. Feeding or loving a man just wasn’t in her brain stuff.

And so changes happen.

Age had been reasonably kind to Maggie but you couldn’t call her pretty, she’d cultivated a mentally ill but functioning look ‘pale and interesting’ her mum used to say. Late night walking with the dog along the seafront, her straggly black hair blew across her thin face, giving her a spectre like appearance. This was a good thing; she’d been a fat child so thin and whispy was always a plus.

Taking in the scenery, which mainly consisted of beer cans on the sea wall and scum wish washing up on the beach, Maggie would imagine a creature rising from the sea. Squinting across the estuary she could almost see his giant head rising up, spewing water.

He would then swing back under and move toward her, close now, his gentle watery eyes would plead; don’t tell anyone. She wouldn’t. An evening stroll, making imaginary promises to a made up creature, promising she wouldn’t breath a word of his existence to the partial breed that she belonged to. In her experience the only scary monsters were around her every day. She’d been to school with them, worked with them and married one.

The dog wasn’t sure about sand on his paws but Maggie liked to give him different experiences, a little bit of something your not sure about is good for the brain. Francis would stop for about 25 sniffs per minute and although Maggie wasn’t good at standing still, she always waited patiently. Stopping him mid-sniff felt like turning the telly off halfway through a programme.

Alone in her thoughts, as usual, it was comforting if she saw a ferry glowing in the distance with awake people, a distant connection, confirming that there were people somewhere doing something. Mum and Dad had taken her on a ferry once, to Belgium when she was a kid, they never got further than the port though. Dad said it looked like Silvertown and they got back on the boat and waited for it to go back home.

Still, whenever she saw a boat carrying people somewhere she could smell the lovely non-Belgium trip. The scent of ‘day trip’ Brits spraying 70’s ‘kinda here kinda now’ perfume mingled with tobacco and boat food.

Not scared of monsters but always wary of people, Maggie scanned the seafront for drunk stragglers. Not tonight, no murderers, apart from ‘fat’ and ‘greasy’ waddling home with their body in a bun, sucking fat sausage fingers. “We need a plague” she whispered to the dog as she shut the door tight on the outside world.

Maggie liked the night, mornings weren’t her favourite. Not about tiredness just day break made her brain fizz. The whole strategise another day thing was exhausting, the smell of toothpaste and toast made her sink before she’d even begun.

Curling up on the settee with the dog, she reflected about this life.

One marriage, one divorce, no laughing, no crying, just a thing she did. It was fruitless, he was selfish, she didn’t care so it died. He left, she shut the door on him and wandered around with a black sack popping all signs of him in.

Slipping into something like sleep a noise jabbed at her senses.

Maggie opened her eyes but didn’t move her body, she held her breath and listened. Flapping! It was flapping, “shit" she sighed and her heart sank. Flapping meant an animal and so she knew she had to at least investigate possibly gather up and rescue, as she had so many times before. Often, living in a seafront house, she’d lie and listen to the late nighters crying assault and murder. She never reacted and didn’t care, humans can fend for themselves.

"Is that you Mr B she hissed, no it can't be, he's a silent killer, not flappy at all. She had observed a barn owl from her window for some time, over weeks and months it felt like he knew she loved watching him and allowed it. He never did much but she sensed his power as he looked down from his tree, poor little mice. He had started off as Barney the owl but he seemed a bit too stuck up for that and he progressed to Mr B. Owl and then just Mr. B it suited him more.

Blanket wrapped around knickers and a t-shirt, she got up and opened the front door.

There was no bird.

The street light lit up a man and Maggie stood and looked at him for longer than is comfortable.

He smelt nice, like nicer times, dulling a yearning that she didn't even know she had. His black hair was dusted with grey and a little flick on his forehead. His face was definite and strong, he had a big nose she noticed, and something like a smile on his lips; or was it just in his eyes, she couldn’t tell.

His presence enveloped her, she could hear herself breathing; too loud and too fast. He interjected.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah”. He stepped inside and they were standing toe to toe because she still hadn’t moved. They just stood and looked at each other for a minute or an hour.

Finally, three steps back, and in this surreal world she stood in her hallway with a beautiful man in a suit; subconsciously she noted that the suit reminded her of something Reg and Ron wore in those iconic pictures. Maybe it was the presence inside the clothing, rather than the cut of the cloth.

The pair walked silently into her front room and she sat down holding the blanket to her, not feeling half as self conscious as would be expected.

She looked up at him, her eyebrows crossed like the perpetual child and said; “you were flapping".

He smiled a real smile this time and nothing on the outside was relevant. All that mattered was what was going on in her head and he leant down and kissed her. Just a short touch of mouths but she breathed him in and said thoughts with him that were too much for words, and loved him. Curious, as she’d only known him from her dreams.

She studied him “what’s your name?”

“Patrick” he said.

“Patrick” she repeated his name back to him in a whisper; no reason, it just felt safer to say it quietly.

“Patrick” she said it again, because no other words would come out.

“Patrick” to him this time.

She tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m going to get dressed”.

As she walked away she winced. Why the fucking fuck did I tap him...can’t believe I tapped him.

A usual thing like getting dressed, felt so unusual. Hair scragged up in a band and jeans thrown on she stood in front of the mirror gathering herself before swinging the door open and heading back to the room where she had left him. Fully and completely expecting there to be no-one there but the dog.

He was still standing in the place she’d left him. He smelled nice.

Patrick held out a well manicured hand and she let him cover her her hand with his; his long fingers closed on hers.

“I’ve always been there Maggie, waiting”. Of course he has, scuppering all chances of normal life.

His hand tightened on hers. “It can all stop here”.

“Am I dieing?” She reached for her dog.

“No” He moved her to a chair as if this might be too much and he’d lose grip on her.

“You made a choice” Kneeling in front of her.

“No feeding on your friends, no murder of innocents; what if it was only humans?”

She was intrigued, was that weird? Not shocked or upset, just really interested. This must be misanthropy at its best.

Maggie sighed “what do you mean?”

Patrick moved his head so he was looking straight into her eyes “first I need you to understand what’s happening”. He stood up “its choices”.

“What do you mean?” ,Maggie was trying to understand, trying to just know! This was all so beautifully spiritual, she didn’t want to ruin it with boring lengthy explanations.

“Choices about what?”

His answer was short but she suddenly got it. He explained “it’s about who’s food and who’s family”.

She leaned back in her chair. Stifling a laugh, hysterics rather than amusement.

“Are you?” She paused and processed “I mean, what are you?”

He moved in closer and sniffed her like an animal, disarming her before she took off mentally.

“I’m a scout”

Maggie understood. She knew what was happening – this felt like evolution. She relaxed and waited for pain.

He’s taking me – we'll scout together and choose who will sustain us and who will come with us.

Pulling back and looking into his non-human eyes, scouted, chosen not to be drained and discarded, Maggie gave herself to him.

Tears dropped down her cheeks with the sharpness of his teeth on her skin. This is what marriage should have felt like.

As Patrick held her changing body in his arms, it hurt but she embraced it. She had never joined the pain distraction club but she’d always got it. Well to say she’d never joined is probably not entirely accurate. She never injured herself but if flu or a broken bone diverted her brain for a while it was always a happy release while it lasted.

Then she was gone from this vile human race. Patrick moved her to the settee and made room for Frances to crawl up beside her. He put his hands on them both.

Her whole life had been spent protecting herself from the fragility of her own mind but in this sleep there was no filter. All that she so expertly avoided for sanitys sake in waking hours had free reign tonight. Happy memories hurt as well. A childhood filled with perfect sounds, tastes and smells, how could they not creep in to torment her.

When she woke as always, she felt around for Frances before opening her eyes. He was her medicine. Patrick wasn’t watching her sleep because this isn’t a Hugh Grant Film, he had his back to her and was standing looking out of the window.

It was light.

“Are you ok with this” She lifted her head but not her body, not ready to move yet but wanting him to acknowledge her. Without turning he responded.

“What...sunlight?”

“Yeah I like it, not too hot though”

Casting her a look of fake distress.

“I never know what to wear in the summer”.

A smile parted her lips showing new teeth.

Patrick smiled aswell – pleased with himself.

A change is coming - speciesism is on the turn. Humans are the plague and we've got a biblical load of work to do.

“Patrick” “Take me out”.

He took her hand and they walked into the street, Frances followed. Maggie savoured this moment, it was a beginning and she was part of something at last.

Fat and post pregnant from next door was getting her baby out of the car as they came out of the house. She looked up and gave Maggie a swift 'who’s this then' look. Maggie felt nauseous at the prospect of her thinking they had a 'whose this' relationship.

They’d had a run in a while back because F.A.P.P. was too idle to remove snails from her garden and tortured them instead. It was unresolved and Maggie could not get past the total disregard for innocent life. So she watched unsuspecting neighbour routinely and observed her so closely that she became grotesque. Maggie watched her waddle about and felt contempt and pity that the baby had to live with her.

Maggie smiled insincerely. “Hi” Breathing deeply she gripped Patricks hand, both knowing. “Do you fancy coming over, we’re thinking of having breakfast...?”

F.A.P.P. looked confused and then worried for the tiniest of moments. Then, she ignored her instincts and words sloshed out of her chapped lips “Yeah...ok”.

Patricks eyes had changed, they were darker and hardly any of the white was visible, Maggie noticed; fatty didn’t.

Maggie moved forward and took the baby in his car seat, smiling “we’ll take him” with a glance at Patrick. The four went inside. “C’mon Frances” and the door shut.

Maggie needed to tell her what was happening and why, so before they moved from the hall she pulled her close and explained. Fear filled neighbours red blotchy face, but it was too late. They were on her and then she was gone.

Maggie lifted her head and wiped her mouth with her hand.

“We’ll let him grow Patrick”

They cooed like two broody pigeons over this little treasure they’d acquired while the residue of his incubator lay lifeless and her juice ran through their veins.

“What about this?” Maggie toed the carcass.

Patrick moved her away from the remains.

“It’s all good, smiling, we’ve got family everywhere, in palace kitchens and burger vans; it’l be fed back to the flesh eaters, they know they might be eating someones Mother”.