Future Shadows

Stepping out of the tube station onto the busy junction at North Ickrington, Ryan immediately felt like a trespasser. This suburban outback belonged to another Ryan. The air felt thick, like water, and the sounds of traffic distant, as if he was hearing them from a shallow sleep.

Returning always felt strange, particularly when several years had passed between visits, like now. He had no reason to return to Ickrington, no family or friends to visit, but when he’d woken up that morning in his one-bedroom flat in Camden, surrounded by the stench of sweat, stale smoke and heavy with depression, he’d had an urge to return to the place where he’d been a child, a kid who knew nothing about failed relationships, anonymous sex or the numbing release of alcohol.

In one respect, Ryan loathed his hometown. He’d escaped at 19, moved to Camden, revelling in its cultural diversity. But there was also the little boy in him that missed it. For a child with an imagination, Ickrington represented a blank canvas. The mundane became magical—gaps in hedges became mystical portals to other worlds; makeshift dens built over Coronation Park, castles to be protected from invading forces.

Within ten minutes, he had reached the end of Park Drive, a slip road that led to Coronation Park—the end where the Hollow Tree sat. Ryan paused. He was heading for his childhood home—a 1930s-built semi-detached chalet house; white pebble-dashed walls and double-glazed bay windows. He just wanted to see it again, feel the comfort of its bland exterior. But as he stood at the end of Park Drive, he felt an urge to visit an old friend.

The Hollow Tree was a stalwart feature of the park. It stood at the edge of a small copse—a thirty-second run from the play area in one direction and the tennis courts in the other. Whenever Ryan had visited Coronation Park with his mother as a younger child, the question had always been the same: ‘Where first, the playground or the Hollow Tree?’

His mother hadn’t cared what the reply was, as long as he was kept amused for a while, so that she could find a space to sit and read a trashy novel, or contemplate where life had gone wrong. Ryan would let go of his mother’s hand and run, feet thumping on grass, breathing heavily, heart drumming, to the Hollow Tree.

That’s all it was, a dead tree with a hollowed-out belly, about head height to a young boy, easy to climb into with a well-placed foot and a gentle heave upwards. Two small people could just about fit into the hollow, as long as they were happy to share each other’s breath.

As he headed towards the Hollow Tree—a misshapen figure in the near distance — he felt excited, the kind of apprehensive excitement he felt when going on a blind date.

As he drew closer, the sense of not belonging intensifying, he realised something was wrong. The Hollow Tree was shorter than it should have been—and it wasn’t just that he was taller. Where was the natural little cave that he had climbed into multiple times? The Hollow Tree had been burnt to a black, sad stump.

Ryan stood staring at the dismal corpse. It had always been dead, he realised, but now someone had committed an atrocity and destroyed its peaceful slumber. He looked around; the park was almost deserted, apart from a small group of kids in the play area beyond the copse of trees. He wrapped his arms around the remains of the Hollow Tree and pressed his chest to its charred skin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and walked away.

Behind him, a child cried out, and Ryan glanced back. Something was different. The child who had screamed—a happy scream of excitement—was clambering into the hollow tree. Ryan stopped and turned fully to stare at the impossible scene. The boy, now nestled inside the natural little cave which seconds ago hadn’t existed, was being chased by an equally young girl who was attempting to squeeze inside with him. A few feet away, a woman stood, laughing.

Ryan felt dizzy, thought for moment he was going to faint. But the scene finally settled back into focus, clear, but no less impossible. The Hollow Tree was back to its former glory, and the park, which minutes ago had been deserted, was now alive with the sounds of play. A large group of boys and girls were running through the trees in the thicket; a cricket match was in full swing in the distance, and the play park was now milling with children.

The way people were dressed, that was all wrong too. Ryan squinted against the now dazzling sun at the children in their flared jeans and patterned shirts as they dodged through the trees, yelping and hollering. He felt another wave of dizziness, actually lowered himself towards the grass, ready to sit if the feeling overwhelmed him. But it passed again, and he stumbled on towards the road.

He soon realised that no-one in this past world could see him. Mothers didn’t so much as glance in his direction as he careered dangerously close to them and their small charges. At one point he almost fell over a pushchair and neither the flushed baby, nor his parent, dressed in a floral-print skirts that dragged on the path, reacted. A group of boisterous kids heading towards the thicket from the road didn’t offer any protest as he ricocheted between them; he was sure he’d hit at least three on his way through, but they didn’t see or feel him.

As he reached the road, disorientated and baffled, it suddenly turned dark. The sound of playing switched off like a radio broadcast; sunlight was replaced with the tepid light of streetlamps, and the shadows they cast were full of dread. Ryan shuddered, swaying at the edge of the park, hugging himself against the sudden chill in the air. Across the road, the prestigious park-view houses stared at him, the interloper.

And then the people began to appear, framed by the blazing windows, boldly standing in full view, mothers and fathers, with children between them, looking out at him, their faces expressionless. Ryan glanced up and down the quiet road, saw the same emotionless masks in every window. He glanced over his shoulder at the expansive park, now almost entirely in shadow. He saw something moving amongst the trees in the thicket, something large and on four legs, a shadow amongst shadows, but dangerous, odious. He heard it howl and bolt from the trees onto the grass—a great beast, its form morphing as it ran, every shape unrecognisable, just a huge mass of something terrifying, something he didn’t want to reach him.

Ryan ran.

He’d thought he’d been running aimlessly, just desperate to escape the creature—the creature that seemed to speak to him about lurid sex acts in public toilets, of unhealthy obsessions, self-destruction and devastated relationships. It was in his head, scratching at his brain, digging up his weakness, his shame, flashing up memories in lurid colour. And with the visual memories came smells—the stench of stale sweat and beer; the reek of urine and bleach, of putrid food left to rot in bin liners while he sank into self-loathing and depression.

He realised his route had not been aimless, because when he finally stopped for breath, panting, heaving, spitting up tobacco-tinged phlegm, he was standing on the corner of Darlington Avenue, and just a hundred yards away he saw his old home. He glanced back, saw the thing lurking on the other side of Lime Lane, crouched in the driveway of one of the large houses, just beyond the range of any streetlamp.

He wanted to be home, not his flat in Camden, but the cosy semi with its poky kitchen, fake coal fire and his bedroom, his childhood bedroom.

The front drive was as he remembered, badly resurfaced in tarmac, a landscape of black volcanoes, sprouting grass and weeds. As he approached the front door, at the side of the house, he ran his fingers along the brickwork, his chest swelling with nostalgia. When he reached the door, half glass, half whitewashed wood, he placed a hand on that too and felt it hum with the energy of 18 years of family life. His younger sister’s constant tantrums, his mother and father’s rows, his mother and stepfather’s rows, Christmases, where happiness was ladled into the atmosphere like ready-mixed mulled wine.

He passed through the front door like a ghost. There was no point knocking. No-one would answer. The hallway carpet assaulted his vision with its bold 70s floral pattern. He was sure this had been replaced years before they had left the house. The stairs lay before him, living room (always called the lounge) to the left of them, dining room to the right. But it was his old bedroom he yearned for.

The stairway was far narrower than he remembered, barely the width of two men, and there also seemed to be fewer stairs. The landing, which had always seemed small, felt even smaller—just a square with a door on either side, his parents (later his mother and stepfather’s) on the left and his old room to the right. Above the landing was the hatch that led to the loft. He ignored this as best he could because in dreams something horrible always lived up there, usually something with long arms and hands like five-legged octopuses trying to tangle themselves in his hair as he passed below.

His bedroom had reverted back to a time when he had still slept in his special Muppet pyjamas. They were laid out neatly on the end of the bed, which sat along the wall next to a radiator. The bedspread was also Muppet themed, with Kermit and Miss Piggy dancing in top hat and tails and ball gown, respectively. For the first time in years, he felt clean. Just a boy again, before any great sexual awakening and definitely before the age of self-destruction—an age which had stretched for 20 years, devastating every attempt at a stable relationship. Good men kicked into the gutter in favour of nasty little trysts in dripping public toilets, dark woods and darkrooms.

He fell onto the bed, breathing in the waft of fresh linen, pulling the bedspread around him, nestling his head into the cool pillow. Whatever was happening to him, he felt safe here. He closed his eyes, realising that the bedroom light was on and that he’d never be able to sleep with it blazing. But he did.

When he woke the room was dark. And someone was standing at the end of the bed.

‘Dad?’ it was an obvious conclusion. His real dad would still have been alive at the time he’d had the Muppet bedspread, and in the blurry phase between waking and sleeping, he was that boy again.

The figure didn’t react, just stood, shadowy face turned towards him. Ryan thought of the strange creature that had chased him from the park, but the visitor couldn’t be that, it was too small—man-sized.

Ryan shuffled into a sitting position, realising as he did so that he was boy again. A feeling of vulnerability flooded him. But why? This was a safe place, even the creature from the park hadn’t tried to break in. This is where he had always been protected, even after his dad had left and mum had taken up with Uncle Phil, who later became his stepfather.

He tried this name next. ‘Uncle Phil, is that you?’

A dry chuckle rose from the figure and a stench of alcohol and sweat rolled like a wave across the bed.

Something struggled to be remembered at the back of Ryan’s mind. Something to do with Uncle Phil. He’d been his dad’s friend before he’d started seeing Ryan’s mum. He’d often be at the house, drinking into the early hours with both Ryan’s parents.

The reek of body odour was becoming unbearable. Ryan pulled the end of the bedspread over his lower face to try to block it out. And then the figure who may have been Uncle Phil dropped out of sight. He must have been crouching now, hidden behind the end of the bed.

Ryan heard him crawling, the soft thud of knees and the muffled slap of hands on carpet as the man edged around the bed. The sense of vulnerability intensified, filling Ryan like liquid, rising into his throat until he could taste it.

Suddenly, light filled the room, and there was Ryan’s father standing in the doorway, hand on the light switch. He was in his thirties, dressed in grey trousers and a white shirt, which Ryan saw had a small red wine stain near the collar.

‘Everything all right, Ryan?’ he asked.

Ryan looked from his father’s concerned face to the side of the bed. It crouched there, glaring up at him. A version of Uncle Phil, but with a face twisted like a Francis Bacon painting, mouth gaping, drooling long gobs of phlegm, eyes bulging black orbs, a feral, hungry expression. Ryan screamed.

He woke again in the same room, although now it was empty and he was no longer a boy. The only prevailing smell was of his own sweat-soaked body, still wrapped in the bedspread. The room was lit by the piss-coloured light from the bedside lamp. He sat up, clutching his chest to stop his heart bursting through his skin. This was too much. He needed to go home—his real home, the flat in Camden Town. He didn’t feel safe here anymore, wherever here really was. Whatever had stopped his mind reeling from the weirdness of what was happening had left him, and he was panicking like a kid who realises he is lost and that something bad is following him.

Ryan climbed from the bed, untangling himself from the muggy cover.

Something was knocking on the window. Ryan froze, staring at the tan curtains, drawn across the glass, which rattled with each ominous pounding. It was the thing that had chased him from the park, trying to break in; he knew that without having to pull the curtains back. He pictured its dark bulk clinging to the outside of the house, and somehow shook himself free of temporary paralysis and left the bedroom. On the small landing, he didn’t feel any safer. Now his old home had the atmosphere of a childhood nightmare, with the sickening promise of evil things lurking in dark corners. He needed to get out and somehow avoid the creature that was waiting for him.

He noticed, with a sickening jolt, that the hatch to the loft was missing—the opening to the terrifying space was now a black square allowing whatever lurked up there the freedom to reach down and grab him. He turned quickly to face the stairs, but something was waiting for him. Crouched halfway down the stairway was the Uncle Phil thing, leering up at him, his distorted face clammy and flushed.

‘Hi Ryan,’ he said, and his voice sounded distant, like a recording played through an old tape deck that needed cleaning. He began to crawl up the stairs, glaring eyes fixed on Ryan’s face, then flickering up and down his entire body. Ryan flinched and felt a rush of self-hatred, the same feeling he had after one of his lewd encounters with a stranger. As he climbed, Uncle Phil’s face morphed into a more human state—becoming the man Ryan remembered. His face was lived in, slightly potted from teenage acne, and there was a small scar running down his left cheek.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Uncle Phil stood. Ryan’s insides churned. He took a step backwards, hitting the chest of drawers that stood against the landing wall. Uncle Phil grinned and suddenly Ryan remembered that grin from decades before, hovering above his own face, as Uncle Phil’s heavy body pressed down on him.

‘Do you want to make Uncle Phil happy?’ the man asked, spreading his arms wide.

And part of Ryan thought he should. Uncle Phil had been good to him and his mum. He’d looked after them after his dad died. But another part, the adult part that knew this man was a monster, realised that making Uncle Phil happy was the last thing he should do. And he wasn’t a boy anymore; he could fight back.

Ryan hoisted himself onto the chest of drawers and kicked out at Uncle Phil with both feet, sending him toppling backwards down the stairs. He let out a startled cry and Ryan thought he heard something snap as he hit the hallway floor.

Ryan pushed open the door to his parents' old bedroom, deciding he’d rather risk jumping from a first-floor window than passing the crumpled form of Uncle Phil. His mother was sitting up in the large double bed. She was wearing a green nightdress that Ryan remembered, and her dark hair was in curlers. He stood staring at her from the end of the bed, wondering if he should tell her about Uncle Phil. But then her face twisted into a hateful sneer, and she pointed at Ryan with a shaking finger.

‘Liar!’ she screamed.

Ryan heard Uncle Phil climbing the stairs, footsteps mingling with harsh, angry breaths.

‘Liar!’ his mother screamed again, and Ryan ran to the window, pushing it open and climbing onto the wide ledge. Below, in the small front garden, the creature from the park waited for him, its dark mass almost filling the square of lawn. Uncle Phil called from the bedroom doorway, and Ryan glanced back, saw the monster from his childhood reaching out for him, beefy arms stretching, fingers clawing the air as they drew closer. Ryan jumped.

His fall was partially broken by the overgrown shrubs that grew against the front of the house, but it still hurt, and he lay for a moment trying to absorb the pain. Finally, he clambered to his feet and stumbled across the front lawn towards the road. The creature lumbered after him, more like a huge dog recognising a master than a dangerous hunter.

Ryan stopped and turned to confront it. ‘You belong here,’ he said, looking into the creature’s sombre face. ‘This is where you were born, and it’s where you should stay.’

The creature let out a dismal wail, almost choking Ryan with its foul breath.

‘Stay!’ said Ryan.

He turned his back on the creature and headed towards the tube station.