“Just try to have an open mind,” he said. Why would he think I would ever have otherwise? He turned a small key in the lid of the box, and opened it. “Come on,” he called, very gently, and it took me time to realise he was not talking to me at all.

  The unknotted crept from the box.

  They slid over his bare arms, sliding across his exposed skin, then into the armholes of his tee shirt, and out through the neck hole, up to his chin. The material stretched, revealing bulges where they lay, interlocked, against his torso. Did they dip down below the waistband of his jeans? There were hundreds of them; I couldn’t see how they had all fitted in the box, or against him. They were repellent. I had to fight the urge to scramble away. “They’re warm,” he said. “They’re really warm and they don’t hurt, they don’t bother me at all. They feel good.”

  “Make them stop,” I said, “You don’t know—you don’t know what they could do.”

  “They don’t do anything. They don’t want anything. They’re just little bits of me. That’s all.”

  “Please, Aaron, Please. It’s horrible. Please.”

  “Okay guys,” he said. “Back in the box.” I felt their reluctance to go: those long brown untied strands, creeping from my son’s skin. But they did retreat, and he shut the lid, and locked it tight.

  “Now take it outside and get rid of them,” I told him.

  He looked at me, through his fringe, directly. His eyes held such sadness. “No, Mum,” he said. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “Then I will,” I said, and reached for the box.

  He wouldn’t take his hand from it. He was determined not to be led anymore; I understood it. He thought he didn’t need a parent. I had been the same way myself. I couldn’t make him realise, but I knew he wouldn’t dare to stand up to me physically if I forced the situation. I could grab for the box, and he would move back. I felt certain.

  I couldn’t do it.

  I left the room, went downstairs to the kitchen, out of the back door, to my shed. Within that private space, surrounded by my paints and eggboxes, I thought of shouting. Screaming. I could find nothing within me to let out.

  Eventually I emerged from the shed, and stood with my back to the house. The woods were the same: dense with ivy and the bright berries of holly bushes. It wasn’t very cold for January.

  Behind me, in the house, Aaron was playing music. It reached me only faintly, a strong drumbeat and a woman singing, a song I hadn’t heard before. It was energised, young.

  The grass rustled.

  I saw movement, on the treeline.

  They were close. Slips of dark red, twisted forms, coming towards me. Their movements were awkward, snatched. Not like the ones who had slid, with grace, over Aaron’s arms. I had damaged these. I was responsible. Knotting them, mutilating them: I had tangled all their silky strands until they could not be untied. At my worst, I had cut them, tortured them, sliced them apart, then thrown them away and never expected them to come back. But they had always belonged to me. Always.

  I had the strongest feeling that all they had been waiting for, out there in the woods, was the chance to get back inside me.

  Closer. Close.

  I ran to the house, banged the back door shut and locked it. I called for Aaron, over and over, amazed at the strength of my voice. He clattered down the stairs, burst into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re outside,” I said.

  “You made them stay out there.”

  “They want . . . ”

  “They’re not bad. I promise you. We just need to make sense of it all. Get some help. We can’t be alone with this.”

  “We are alone,” I told him.

  “Seriously?” he said. He stood very still, and his eyes slid away from mine. “But I can’t do it this way. I can’t be alone with you forever.”

  I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. I couldn’t retreat to my shed; I couldn’t bear to step outside. They would cover me. There would be nothing left.

  “It’s okay,” he said, “I’m going.” He went back upstairs and packed, and took the train later that day.

  I looked under his bed, once he’d gone, and found a box there, pushed far into the shadow. It was the old, plastic lunchbox with a picture of Transformers on it. It took me a long time to find the courage to open it. It was empty.

  Aaron phones, and leaves messages. He tells me that everything is good, that he has lots of friends, has a great job, might come back for a visit, or I could come and see him. He claims flights aren’t as expensive as I might think. He loves the open country out there.

  You can see for miles, he says, often, as if that would appeal to me.

  There are so many flavours of ice cream in the store, he says. I still really love ice cream.

  The garden is overgrown. The gravel has scattered; I can barely see what remains of the path. The shed has mould on the roof, thick and green. It looks abandoned, which I suppose it is. At some point they will come right up to the house, and they will find a way in.

  A few months ago I sat on the floor in his room, retrieved his little box, and aimed for it. I tried to take my love for him out of me. I wanted to knot it tight.

  Aliya Whiteley’s novels and novellas have been shortlisted for multiple awards including the Arthur C Clarke award and a Shirley Jackson award. Her short fiction has appeared in Interzone, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Black Static, Strange Horizons, The Dark, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and The Guardian, as well as in anthologies such as Unsung Stories’ 2084 and Lonely Planet’s Better than Fiction. More information can be found at her website: aliyawhiteley.wordpress.com.

  Black Wings

  by Steve Rasnic Tem

  Sheila was upset by the sudden arrival of a new bush in her backyard one late afternoon, an unidentifiable perennial apparently so deeply green it appeared black in the waning light. She had purchased no such bush. It did not fit into her landscaping design. Had some practical joker planted it in the middle of the night? She rarely understood other people’s notions of humor. She had spent a great deal of her late husband’s insurance benefit on landscaping and had no intention of seeing it spoiled.

  But the bush shook off its bushiness and opened its wings. Now she gazed at a large black bird, perhaps the largest she had ever seen. Harry would have known the species, and no doubt could have recited a page full of boring facts concerning its anatomy, and passably charming anecdotes regarding its talents and peculiarities. She assumed it was too large to be a blackbird. She had no idea what the difference was between a crow and a raven, except ravens were a bit more important weren’t they? Ravens were famously in residence at the Tower of London and figured prominently in that spooky poem by Poe, so she imagined them larger and more regal than crows.

  Sheila wanted to say it was a raven, but this bird—she couldn’t quite put her finger on it—had a stupid and clumsy look. This awkward-looking birdie did not project any sort of regality. So probably not a raven, but she’d always heard crows were clever. This bird didn’t look clever at all. Perhaps she had discovered a new species? Wouldn’t Harry have been so jealous? Discovering a new species would have been his dream.

  Despite her late husband’s obsession, Sheila knew almost nothing about the habits of birds. Class Aves, she did know that much, because it was a term Harry used all the time. She tried to pay no attention while he prattled on about his bird friends, but that tiny factoid had wormed its way in. Birds ate worms, disgusting creatures.

  She watched the fowl as it hopped about the yard. She supposed it was approximately the size of a big chicken. Were there black chickens? Every time it paused it did its business and moved on, finding new spots to contaminate. This was only one of the ways birds spread contagion. She’d always been afraid Harry’s specimens would someday give her some terrible disease. A few days after his death she hired a company to remove the filthy wings and heads and stuffed corpses from cabinets and drawers throughout the house and disinfect everything. They’d worn hazmat suits, which for her was absolute confirmation she’d been in danger living among Harry’s collections all these years.

  Unwilling to watch, she’d moved briefly into a hotel. As far as she could tell they’d done a thorough job, although tufts of feather still appeared among the balls of dust in corners and under furniture.

  Now, after all the expense, she had an active source of more such contamination wandering her property. She’d witnessed birds pecking at dead animals (including their own kind) and scraping about among the spoiled and rotten. She wondered if she would ever feel safe in her own backyard again. She closed the curtains over the patio doors, wondering if the same company she hired before could also rid her of living creatures. If not, she wondered if a surprise blow from a fireplace poker might kill it.

  With Harry’s collections gone the house was slowly morphing into some semblance of what Sheila always imagined it could be. Where large wall displays of amputated birds’ wings once hung were framed mountain landscapes and floral wall hangings. In the dining room, where she’d struggled to digest her food beneath a forbidding arrangement of beaked onlookers, she now dined in serenity within freshly painted walls.

  She still imagined she smelled those feathered vermin, even though the professionals swore they’d removed every bit. Despite Harry’s protestations there had always been a stench of death and decay and negligence. But she couldn’t expect to have survived marriage to such a man without some lingering birdish stench.

  She went to the calendar hanging on the new refrigerator. The previous model hadn’t been more than a few years old, but despite her threats some of Harry’s specimens always seemed to find their way inside. It was always safer to replace rather than clean. She had a hectic week planned, lunch with some of the girls tomorrow, a movie with Janice the day after, and the bridge club at her house on Friday. Company had been rare during her married years. She’d been too ashamed, not only because of the condition of her home, but also Harry’s insistence on sharing endless avian lectures with their hapless guests. Now she welcomed visitors at every opportunity.

  Sheila forgot about the bird for a time. Out of sight and all. She was far too busy. Life was to be enjoyed. She’d always told Harry that, but he was too distracted by his collections. They’d never gone anywhere together. They’d never done anything as a couple after the courtship was completed. Harry knew far more about the mating habits of birds than he did the romantic requirements of his own wife.

  Friday she was setting up the house for her bridge club, vacuuming the rugs, dusting the surfaces, preparing plates of gorgeously composed mini sandwiches. Still self-conscious about the scent of things, she’d perhaps sprayed a bit too much room deodorizer. The air smelled of perfume. She opened the curtains thinking she’d crack the patio doors and let some of the perfumed air drift outside.

  The black bird stared up at her from the other side of the glass. In such proximity it was even larger than she’d thought, more the size of a dog than a large chicken. It was difficult to say with all the plumage. Its feathers rose and fell as if it were a giant, beating black heart. She embarrassed herself by making a little squawk of panic. The bird itself said nothing and made a little hop.

  It turned its head sideways as if to examine her from a different angle. The bird still projected an aura of ignorance, its small dark eyes too close together, its beak appearing broken and poorly repaired. Sheila was relieved she’d noticed it before sliding the door open. What a nightmare if it found its way inside.

  She needed to rush to get the house ready in time. The bird hopped away in a disorganized fashion, and she couldn’t stop herself from watching as it fell over and then righted itself, falling over again and then spreading its wings as if to take off from its recumbent position, but remaining flightless it appeared it could only lie there and flap its wings vigorously, spreading bits of feather and birdy dander all over her curated patio and yard. Sheila wondered if its body had grown too large for its brain to maneuver properly.

  She shut the curtains and hoped none of the ladies asked to see the backyard. Her bridge friends arrived shortly thereafter. They all had nice things to say about what she’d done to the house, but Sheila understood from experience such compliments meant little. She watched their faces. Paula Hershfield kept wrinkling her nose. Either she was fighting off a sneeze or she smelled something unappealing. Sheila might have asked Janice if she smelled anything—in fact she probably would—but Janice was her best friend (or at least pretended to be) and couldn’t be relied on for an honest answer.

  “Sheila, I just wanted to, once again, extend my condolences. Has it been too hard? How long were you and Harry married? He was an engineer, wasn’t he, good with his hands?”

  Marie Willis knitted her eyebrows and smiled so aggressively it must have caused her considerable facial pain, clear evidence her sympathy was feigned. Sheila didn’t want to answer the other questions, so she replied, “he taught science at the local high school.” Embarrassing, but she had no desire to embellish Harry’s few accomplishments.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure his students must miss him. I feel for you. I don’t know what I’d do without my James.” Rumor had it the Willis’s marriage had been in trouble for years. Perhaps Sheila would mail Marie a sympathy card tomorrow.

  None of the women were good at bridge. Half of them were borderline dreadful, but the purpose of these gatherings was primarily to share gossip, devour unhealthy snacks, and provide the host with an opportunity to impress. Due to Harry’s failings this was Sheila’s first time hosting. She cared about the day more than she wanted to.

  There was a knocking sound on the sliding glass door. Janice looked at her but said nothing. Several minutes passed and then there was a rapid knock-knock-knock. The glass was thick and double-paned, but Sheila still feared it might break beneath the persistent blows.

  “Sheila, I think someone’s knocking on your back door.” Marie looked at her with a forced smile. Sheila didn’t know why—maybe it was the only way the woman knew how to express herself.

  “Pay no attention, ladies. There’s construction two houses behind us. Sometimes the vibrations feel as if they’re right outside, hammering, or whatever it is they do.”

  The women looked doubtful. A few seemed too focused on their cards. Several minutes passed and then a succession of heavy impacts shook the glass door. “It sounds like—I don’t know, Sheila. Is someone throwing things at your house?” Janice stood up and ran to the curtain. Marie tittered. Sheila stood up to stop Janice, but she was too late. The curtains slid open with an obnoxious scraping noise.

  No bird was in evidence. But a small oval on the outside of the glass appeared caked in tomato purée, the multiple red blotches beneath imprinted with feather-like patterns.

  Sheila refused any help cleaning up after the gathering, although Janice was the only one who offered. Sheila insisted nothing was wrong but ushered the women out as quickly as possible. Janice gave her a fierce goodbye hug. This made Sheila intensely uncomfortable, but she appreciated the gesture.

  She had not slept well the night before, and the afternoon’s excitement took its toll. Further cleanup could wait until the next day. She went to bed almost, but not quite, feeling sorry for herself. She had made great improvements to her home, and yet something felt vaguely incorrect. She might have to hire a consultant to tell her what it was.

  Sheila was outside spraying water on the glass doors when she heard the commotion behind her. She turned around, the hose still in her hand. Momentarily distracted from the frenetic activity just beyond her gaze, she watched the water slip over the patio stones, ridding them of any trace of debris. The activity was both wasteful and gratifying.

  She dropped the hose. Her backyard was full of birds. More black ones, much smaller than the one she’d come to think of, proprietarily, as her own, but what they lacked in size they made up for in numbers. Also, gray ones, pigeons, she supposed. Also, blue ones and red ones. She didn’t know the names. She was no Harry. She supposed there were cardinals, blue jays, grackles—those were names she recognized as being common to this area, not that she could be sure they were among the specific ones pecking and eating and making dirty everywhere.

  She spied her bird in the middle, the dumb one. Some of the others appeared to avoid it, but there was some bullying, with birds pecking at its feet or squawking at it, stealing food right out of its mouth. It didn’t make a sound. Today it wore a small dark red, almost brownish cap. She couldn’t tell how the cap was attached, then realized it was the caked-on blood from the day before.

  Harry once told her crows could make tools like hooks and poky things for grabbing food. So, her bird could not possibly be a crow. Her bird did not defend itself, but at least it didn’t cower. Being a pitiful creature was bad enough, but to see it cowering would have been unbearable.

  “Go on, Mister Bird, fight back,” she said, raising her voice almost to a shout. “Stand up for yourself. Don’t let these small minds defeat you! They’re beneath you!”

  There was no response, not from her bird or from any of the others. She picked up the hose and without thinking began spraying all those other birds, avoiding her own. They disappeared as if washed away. If only all life’s problems were so quickly solved. Her bird sat there, unmoving. She turned off the hose and went back inside.

  Sheila spent the rest of the day getting the house back to its pre-bridge club condition. Her friends had left a mess. Crumbs on the floor were already attracting ants. They appeared as fast as she could vacuum them up. Clearly having guests over wasn’t going to work for her.

  She was coming around the kitchen island, broom in hand, when she encountered the bird. Her bird.

  She glanced at the patio door off the living room. It was still closed. She was sure no other windows or doors were open. Dark muddy drips spread from the bird across the surrounding pale pink linoleum. It made her furious, although she was the one who had created the mud with her hose. The mud was her doing.