The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. Read online

  I picked up the new spiral notebook. And I noticed mud under my nails. I tried to think where it could have come from, but dismissed it, thinking it was when I dragged the black suited body outside the night before. But then thinking, hadn’t I washed since? And mud! Everything was covered in snow, so why the mud?

  She lit yet another cancer stick, sucking on it deeply as if it was one of her paying customers. There was a thick pall of pervasive smoke hanging around her.

  “We saw a whole new universe open up before us then,” she stated. This brought me back to what she was saying.

  “Women had been created. That would ultimately lead many of us to our downfall.” She was looking directly at me once again. Her cheeks drawn right back in her grimace of a predatory smile. I knew all too well what a woman could do, having been married three times, each one taking more money with her than the last. But at the time I supposed it was love. Infatuation. Who knows? But like all things they didn’t last. Love is a bright candle and it soon burns out. Love replaced with spiteful words, vindictiveness and eventually the inevitable hatred.

  She coughed, as if reading my mind and was trying to get me back to the moment at hand.

  “As I was saying, women came along. Their bodies so different from man’s. So supple, so needy.” As she said this her hands squeezed her large saggy breasts together, and then released them. She was completely oblivious to what she was doing. The sight was unsettling. And in the process she had unclipped the buttons to her tight fake leather blouse, the black imitation leather pealing back like a decomposing black orange peal, revealing more of her sagging cleavage and more unsightly purple bite marks.

  I pulled my eyes away a moment too late; she had seen I was watching her performance. She gave another one of her Cheshire cat grins. But this time she ran a blistered blue tongue over her lips, in the process smudging her gaudy bright red lipstick that seemed to have already been smeared over the lower half of her face, as if a strong hand had been held over her mouth, also gripping her nose, suffocating away her last ounce of life, the reason this figure was now sitting before me, his mouth piece.

  “Eve she was called,” she said, after she seemed to regain her composure.

  “Together they grunted and heaved in the bushes or simply out in the open for all to see. Studying each other’s bodies. Testing, trying, and fulfilling.” She gave a grunting noise, gross and animalistic. She then seemed to regain her composure once again to carry on with her story.

  “Of course, there was only the missionary position to start with, but they soon got the hang of it, creating new ways, twisting and turn in each others grip. They were like horny teenagers on sildenafil and bremelanotide.” She licked her flaking lips.

  “I used the mouth of a serpent, a ground crawling reptile. Obviously the woman knew animals couldn’t talk, couldn’t utter coherent words. But nonetheless she listened. Lapping up the words I gave her. Relishing them, tasting them in her sublime mouth that she had used on him. Oh, she was a swallower by the way.” She winked.

  “In the middle of Eden sat the Tree – The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Bad. What was its purpose? Who knows? He obviously did. Why put such a powerful object in mere man’s grasp if it didn’t have a reason, a mighty purpose?” She lit yet another cigarette, blowing the smoke towards my front room’s high ceiling’s rafters.

  “It is said that God knows all. The future, everything. If that is the case then He knew I would turn aside, follow another path. He knew the Tree would tempt the pair and they would eat from it, and get punished. So you could say it’s all His fault, in a sense.” She seemed to shake herself down and return to the story.

  “I remember the words as if it were only yesterday: ‘Is it so that God has said you must not eat from every tree of the garden?’ I said to her. She in her stupidity replied: ‘You must not eat from it, no, you must not touch it that you do not die.’ I spoke quickly as to confuse the wretchedly slow woman. ‘You positively will not die. For God knows that in the very day of you eating from it your eyes are bound to be opened and you are bound to be like God, knowing good and bad.’” It was only when she had finished the sentence that I realized she had, for the first time, mentioned the word God. So she was capable of uttering that word, just deciding not to when referring to Him.

  “See they were walking around naked, their bodies glistening in each other’s arms. Tempting. Teasing. It would only take so much time before someone clicked. And I did.” She tapped the cigarette on her palm that she was now using as an ashtray, rather than stretch out and flick in into the fire. The burning flesh was irritating my nose. What no purse she could have used to dump her ashes? I thought to myself. Or like her kind she just pushes the cash down her top, snuggling it up against her wears. Pushed up against her reddened skin and bite marks, reminding her why she did what she had to.

  “They were like robots,” she continued. “Mindless. Happy? Who knows? But you could say I freed them. Straight away you could notice the difference. They realized they were naked. They hid behind the bushes, now knowing what they were and what it all meant.” She suddenly looked up from her story. Her eyes darting around the room. She stood in one liquid movement that tipped her collected ash onto my old worn Turkish rug.

  “Time to go,” she announced while brushing down her tight dress and skimpy top.

  “Time to go?” I simply parroted. But when I looked at the walnut Vienna wall clock that hung above my wide mantelpiece I noticed she had been here for four hours. Surely not that long. The tape in the minicorder was only forty-five minutes each side and the same side was still running.

  “I will return tomorrow as I did tonight.” She said no more. But she looked around one more time as if being able to see something I couldn’t. Then she fell back into the chair – lifeless. Her body slumped against the high back leather seat. One foot was twisted around one of the chair legs, the other straight out, with the other red shoe having fallen off. Her flabby arms hanging down either side, hanging just above the floor. Her head was hanging forward; her matted peroxide blonde hair cascading down over her saggy features. Cigarette – like last night – still smouldering upon my carpet. But tonight it had her fire engine red lipstick around its butt.

  I stared for a few moments collecting my thoughts. I stopped the Sony recorder and placed it back on my cellarette. I took a long swig from the thick glass tumbler, which until now sat untouched next to my notepad. The strong whisky ran down my throat. I enjoyed the burning sensation, the fumes rising out my nostrils making my eyes water. I didn’t even remembering getting up to pour it.

  I couldn’t put it off any longer. I had to manhandle the hooker’s body outside. I stood over the slumped corpse, repulsion rising in me. Her flabby greyish skin showing in far too many places. Red swollen welts circled her neck. I was deciding on what part to grab. As I suspected, when I gripped under her hairy armpits they were stone cold and rigid. With a lot of effort I managed to get my hands under her arms and pull her along. Her feet scraping along the wooden floor. The two red shoes lay next to each other. I will sort them out in a minute I decided.

  When I got to the front door I dropped her as I was fumbling with the handle. She went down with a thud. Her head made a sickening noise as it came in contact with my concrete doorstep – it sounded like someone dropping an overripe melon.

  It wasn’t long before I was back beside the roaring fire, trying to put some heat back into my frozen hands. In one swig I drained the remainder of my drink. I sat motionless deciding whether I should have another. But walking over to the drinks cabinet seemed like too much effort. Then as I went to stand I noticed my hands, they were covered in blood!

  I stood perplexed, wondering where it could have come from. Yes she had hit her head, but I didn’t remember there being any blood, that had congealed hours ago. I was suddenly washed over with tiredness. I decided against going through the minicorder, deciding to start first thing in the morning when I was refreshed
.

  I ran a hot steaming bath. Unusual for me, normally I preferred a quick hot shower; I’m not one who likes wallowing in my own dirt. But tonight was different. I felt like I needed one. Didn’t prostitutes bathe after to wash the night’s work from their skin? Was I doing the same?

  That’s when I got my second shock. My clothes were splattered in blood – smothered completely. I now stood naked, the bathroom filling with steam, looking down at my saturated red trousers and jumper. Was it the same jumper from yesterday? I thought I had changed it. I swear I had put on my dark blue one with the triangle pattern across the front. Obviously not. A bloody handprint marked a spot on the chest. I must be more tired than I realized. I kicked the clothes into the corner behind the toilet. Out of sight out of mind. Slowly I sunk down into the hot bubbly water that smelt of coconut.

  I ran the conversation over in my head. Each time it came out different. I decided tomorrow I would review the tape and make some notes. But for now, I would relax in the hot steaming bath and close my eyes and feel my pores release their accumulated dirt. The mysteries would come to light in the morning, after a good night sleep.

  If only I looked closer at things then, it might have turned out different. I knew of nothing else until the morning, when I awoke, finding myself lying in a bath of freezing red tinted water.

  4

  Oh Boy

  I could hardly move. My joints felt frozen together. I had never fallen asleep in the bath before. But what was most puzzling was the colour of the water, blood red. Confusion was the order of the day. Something I seemed to be getting use too.

  All I could remember from the night before was the interview. If it could be called that? As I sat there listening to his words, his story. Or should I say she – as he had appeared last night.

  I struggled out of the cold red water. Slipping once or twice because my cold hands couldn’t gain purchase on the wet surface of the bath sides. No more bubbles this morning, just a cold oily residue on the red tinted waters surface.

  I emptied the bath, leaving a red ring around the top. I stepped back in, letting the hot water from the shower slowly bring life back to my cold limbs. I used my feet and cleaned the red ring off. Still confused as to where the blood – if it was blood – had come from? I searched over my body. No cuts – nothing?

  I had no idea how long the shower had been running for, but when I reached for my watch from the side of the sink, it was showing almost five o’clock in the afternoon.

  I must have needed the sleep. It had been a stressful few days. What I could remember other than the interview. This seemed to dominate my every thought, churning over and over through my mind, like a confusing mantra.

  I looked around the bathroom floor. No clothes. I’m sure I had kicked them behind the toilet. But no, nothing. And the bathroom door was ajar?

  My head felt all foggy, as if I was about to catch a bad case of the flu, or similar to the first few moments in the morning when you just wake up. It wasn’t exactly a headache, but something seemed off kilter. But then I don’t normally spend the night stretched out in cold water.

  Twenty minutes later I sat at my old kitchen table, chewing on overcooked eggs, the yoke all hard. I preferred them runny, ‘sunny side up,’ as the saying goes, but I had been staring out the kitchen window, in a daze and lost track of how long they had been frying for. There were also a few slices of honey roast ham and pineapple cottage cheese, along with some slices of onion bread. A mishmash of what needed eating before it expired. I washed it down with single malt whisky. So unlike me to drink so early, but after everything that had happened and was still happening, I decided I wanted it. Needed it. Maybe my fuzzy head was a slight hangover?

  I took my time washing up, having nothing in particular to do. Then as I was walking back through the front room I noticed the pair of cheap red high heel shoes. Images of the old used woman flashed before my eyes. “Sick,” I muttered as I picked them up. Then I noticed they had blood running down there sides. Now all congealed and brick red in colour.

  I hadn’t noticed the blood from the night before. The shoes were red and I tried not to concentrate too hard on anything she was wearing – or more to the point – what she hadn’t been wearing. I most probably just missed it.

  Then it dawned on me that the fire was still burning away in the hearth. Not the few scattered ashes that should have been there, but a blazing fire. And come to think of it, I couldn’t even remember lighting it the day before.

  I still needed sleep I realized. Everything was becoming too much for me. Too little sleep along with unusual happenings, and not eating properly. I was possibly coming down with a cold or some kind of virus. Or the worst of all – man flu.

  Looking across the room I realized the whisky bottle was half empty. Normally a bottle that size would last me over a year. It had gone right down in a couple days.

  I tossed the pair of shoes into the fire, turned and headed upstairs. Yes, sleep would be great, just what my body needed – demanded. Sleep would sort my head out.

  My bedroom was the farmhouses master bedroom, a high-ceilinged room with thick original rafters. A large old wooden window looked over the Moor’s, with a panoramic view that stretched for miles to the distant hills. Apart from today, everything outside was a blurry grey-white – the snow making visibility mere meters not miles.

  Lying down on my large antique four-poster bed, which came with the farmhouse (I kept the bulky frame but replaced the mattress) I snuggled up under my eight blankets (I hate duvets, how they left cold air pockets where they didn’t fall around the body) to enjoy a few hours of shuteye. I pulled the thick blankets up over my head and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. Whenever I felt unwell, sleep was always the answer, as if my body simply shutdown when ill.

  *

  I awoke to the sound of the front door being hammered on. How long had the banging been ringing through my house? I had no idea.

  I jumped up, catching a look in the mirror as I passed. Shock! I was wearing the same jumper from the night before. A large bloody handprint slapped on my chest. I stared not believing as the banging continued. I pulled it off, throwing it into the bedrooms corner, and ran down the stairs two at a time. My mind still confused from just waking from a deep sleep.

  I stood before the banging door, taking beep breathes to come to my senses. I ran my fingers through my hair and down my face, realizing I hadn’t shaved in days. “Later,” I mumbled.

  I slowly turned the handle.

  “What the fuck took you so long? What were you doing, wanking or something…? Jackass!” the annoyed high-pitched nasal voice said.

  I looked down into the glassy, bulging bloodshot eyes of an angry nine-year old boy, who stood on my doorstep in his rumpled pyjamas.

  5

  Child’s Play

  I stood agape as the youngster walked past heading for the chair. He looked like any child I had ever seen. He was wearing Transformer pyjamas – Bumblebee splashed across the front – with over-sized Homer Simpson slippers on. Of course I didn’t have to look outside; I knew there would be no scuffed footprints.

  His limbs were slightly too thin for a child of nine, and he seemed slightly emaciated. His hair was all unruly, as if just having been awoken from a deep troubled sleep. But what was most unsettling was the marks around his thin, once fragile, neck.

  First I thought it looked like a rope had been wrapped around, possibly from when he tried to jump to his death from the banisters. I heard even young children tried to end their lives these days. That’s the twenty-first century for you. Some would call it progress, a people so well-educated that they can decide their life isn’t worth living even from an early age. Or it could have been pressure from bullies at school. Children can be so simple and yet so cruel at the same time.

  But as I closed the door and moved closer I noticed it didn’t look like a rope ligature – not that I’m an expert – rather, it looked like he had been choked to dea
th, so violently it had split the skin asunder.

  He sat in the chair, legs tucked up, but I don’t think they would reach the floor even if he hung them over the chairs edge. His head didn’t quite reach the top of the high leather seat.

  Like the other two, he was also smoking. I noticed for the first time the red and white packet of Marlboros just visible though the thin material of his pyjamas top pocket. I always wondered why pyjamas had pockets on the chest. Now I know.

  His small eyebrows were drawn together, scolding me.

  “What the fuck took you so long? I stood out there for ten minutes.”

  First I was shocked at hearing such a small child using profanity twice in a matter of a few minutes. I don’t know why it upset me so, knowing that it wasn’t really a small child sat before me, just an empty shell occupied by something else. I now realized that he used certain characteristics of the person he took. Like some sort of residue leftover from them. Their draining life force? I had no idea.