Jack Stocker
I do a lot of stuff. Mainly though, I write.
Faces
He sees faces.
Not all the time – intermittently. He’s been doing it since he was a child. One moment you can be talking to him perfectly normally; the next he’ll be in a corner, shrieking and pointing at you. It’s been eighteen years, and they’re still there. He never went to school – he didn’t get further than the first day before he attacked another child. He was five, and his classmate wasn’t badly hurt, so Ruby and I managed to smooth it over. But we couldn’t take him back.
I’ve tried to get Simon to describe the faces before, but he never gets very far. If he describes them, he sees them. The only thing I know about them is that they’re always completely white, with wide black eyes. Sometimes they’re trying to speak to him, but he can never quite hear what they’re saying. He thinks some of them might be smiling, but it’s difficult to tell with their dark, wide mouths. I asked him if they were ghosts, but he told me it wasn’t that simple. They’re something more – but at the same time, something less. I remember asking him to elaborate, but that was as far as he got before we had to get him into his room again. He’s ridiculously strong, especially now he’s eighteen, but the bars always hold him. We had them installed when he was very young, and it was a worthwhile investment. I think the door to his bedroom is probably more fortified than the front door to the house.
Ruby and I have taken him to see doctors, of course. They didn’t understand what was happening. They told me they’re hallucinations. Of course they’re hallucinations, anyone could have guessed that. But they were never able to tell me more. They’ve tried to have Simon sectioned, but we stopped them. It took a lot of time, money and several solicitors, but he’s staying with us. He always will, and there’s nothing in the world that can stop that. I remember Ruby was in tears as we left. I remember holding her before we got into the car. I can still feel her tears on my cheek, her soft black hair obscuring the building that housed the people who wanted to take my son from me.
Erm…honestly, I’ve never been sure whether Simon’s insane. Apart from the faces, he’s always seemed sound enough. He was a quick learner, an early walker, an early speaker. He never had any trouble with his lessons, anyway. He’s able and articulate. Of course, all that goes out the window once the faces appear and he becomes a gibbering, screaming mess. I suppose I should have seen it coming, really.
Our home life isn’t that complicated. We all wake up at 8am. I go to work, and Ruby teaches Simon. She was a university lecturer once, but had to go on a few extra courses in order to get the qualifications to teach him from home. We manage well enough, though. Lessons finish at 5pm, and I come home at about 6pm from work. Ruby and I spend the remainder of our day studying. We get barely enough sleep to function, but it’s still (crucially) enough to function. When he saw the faces, we get him into his room and keep him there until he stops screaming. Like I said, sometimes it takes hours, but he always calms down eventually.
Except that one time.
On that Thursday, the day my life was ruined, I came in from work early. 4pm – Jim let me have the afternoon off. I’d closed a major sale, and was generally feeling pretty impressed with myself. As I locked the front door behind me, I could hear the scratching of pen on paper, and rattling in the kitchen. Ruby had set Simon an essay, and was making supper for us. She’d tied her black hair back tightly, to keep it out of the way of the casserole, and she had my old apron on. She somehow managed to make it look like she could take it down a catwalk. The kitchen looked pretty good too – we’d had it re-done recently, with some of the wooden cabinets replaced with marble ones. Overall, with the marble reflecting the late afternoon light, and the beautiful woman stood in the centre of the kitchen, it looked like something out of a television ad, rather than a real life family home.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, and she giggled.
“Hi, Jerry. You’re back early.”
“We sold the centrepiece.” I grinned. “It’s been sitting in the warehouse for months, and we finally got rid of it.”
Ruby turned, flung her arms out wide, and hugged me properly. “That’s great! Was Jim pleased?”
“He was. He was beginning to hate it as much as I was. How’s Simon getting on?”
She kissed me on the cheek and turned back to the cooking. “He’s getting on with things – better than he was yesterday.”
“What’s he writing on?”
“Lord of the Flies.” Unconsciously, she did a little flourish with the ladle. She was pleased with herself, I could tell. It had always been one of Ruby’s favourite books. The blonde, innocent boy next door had been named after one of the characters.
“Finished!”
“Have you done your conclusion?” Ruby spoke without looking round.
“Sort of.”
“Let’s have a look, Simon.” I walked back through the hall towards the living room, Ruby following close behind.
His grin shone at me from across the room as I entered it. He was sitting with his back straight, as ever, at his desk in the corner of the living room, facing away from the TV. As I drew closer, I noticed that he was rapidly outgrowing the desk – his legs were uncomfortably packed away under his chair in order to pull it in properly. I’d have to talk to Ruby about replacing it.
“How did you find it?” I asked, as I started to read.
“Not that difficult.” He replied. There was no smugness to his voice – I was always proud of that. “I wasn’t sure how sorry to feel for Jack in the end.”
“Hm. You can tell slightly – you’ve got to come down on one side of the fence or the other, otherwise you risk sounding a bit vague. Otherwise, it’s good.” I straightened, and his face lit up. “How long did this take you?”
“Two hours.”
“Hm. Bit slow.”
His face fell slightly.
“Was James texting you?” I smiled.
“A few times.” Simon admitted grudgingly. “He was trying to talk to me about doing a game tonight. He wants to talk about his girlfriend.”
I smiled, hopefully not as sadly as I felt. Simon couldn’t play with children face to face, but he’d built some strong friendships with boys he’d met online. Playing videogames was about the only way he could interact with children his own age. He’d never met James, and didn’t even know what the other boy looked like, but he was the closest friend Simon had.
“Well, fair’s fair. Now you’ve done that essay, your time is your own for a bit.”
The grin returned.
“Does this mean I get to go outside?”
“I’ll take you to the park for a bit after seven, and we can have a kickabout.” I smiled. “Shouldn’t be too many people around then.”
“Thanks Dad!” he stood and hugged me. “Can we go now?”
I looked at Ruby. “Is there time?”
“Not for anything long, but maybe a few quick games. Casserole is going to be –”
He flipped.
There’s never any warning. It just happens. I didn’t see him change, because I was facing Ruby at the time. All I felt was a very hard shove, and suddenly I was careering towards the mantelpiece. I hit it. Something broke – I wasn’t sure whether it was one of our ornaments, or something of me.
He stood over me, in tears.
“What do you want?” he screeched. “Why are you always here? What do you want?”
The face must have answered him, because he scrambled backwards, and retched on the floor. I tried to take advantage of his momentary weakness, and lunged at him.
I always try not to think about how we look to him. An unsmiling, frozen white face, with deep black eyes, leaping forward to wrap bony arms around his legs. Another blocking the doorway, taking slow, cautious steps towards him to grab him and drag him away.
Maybe they say other things to him while they’re doing it. I don’t know. He still never tells me.
He got stronger since he hit puberty. Strong enough to break free of my grasp, and kick me in the face. My nose broke, and I yelled, spitting and whimpering as blood gushed from it. I wasn’t sure if he ever saw that bit. Maybe he saw the face, and not the blood. Or maybe he saw both, but didn’t hear my sobs. Maybe he saw it all. The main thing is, he still didn’t recognise me, and he knew that I wasn’t coming after him for a while. So he turned to deal with the other one. Ruby.
She was ready, blocking the door. Simon simply charged at her, screaming all the while. He barrelled into her, and both of them disappeared in a tangle out in the hall.
He kicked her, and I heard her grunt as all the air went from her lungs. The thundering crash that followed seconds later was, I assume, Simon slamming into the door. Through the haze, I could hear the panicked banging as Simon desperately tried to hammer his way out.
As I heard Ruby talk to him, I moaned. I didn’t have the energy to shout.
“Simon, you can’t get out. Come on. Come with us.”
She’d forgotten that he doesn’t see us. And if he ever hears us, it won’t be us saying it. It’ll be them.
It almost never happens, but this time, I think Simon did hear the words.
I think that’s what killed him.
Somehow, I managed to get to the door. I could barely see – my vision was blurred from the tears in my eyes, and every tiny movement caused an explosion of pain from the centre of my face. Ruby had managed to get to her feet, though she was dizzy. Simon crashed into her again, punching her. He caught her on the side of her head, but she stayed standing. He hit her a few more times, each strike fiercer than the last. She tried to protect her head, so he attacked her body instead.
I watched my son beat my wife to the floor.
I dithered.
Too many thoughts were trying to force their way through my head at once. I had to pin his arms. I had to protect her. Then there was something else. I had to take him somewhere after that.
He hit her again.
But where?
He hit her again.
I didn’t know what to do. If I took another strike to the head, it’d incapacitate me. But I didn’t want to hurt either of them, which I definitely would do if I dived in.
Simon hit Ruby yet again, and her eyes rolled, blood trickling from a cut above her eyebrow.
I made a snap decision, and grabbed Simon by the waist, hauling him off Ruby, who didn’t move. I spun to face him, but he didn’t attack me. Tears were streaking his face, which was completely drained of blood.
“Let me out!” he snapped.
“No.” I muttered the word, answering him before I knew what I was doing. I never found out whether he heard me.
“LET ME OUT!” he screamed, and then charged, arms flailing.
His palm caught me just above the eye, temporarily blinding me. The pain from my nose flared, and I vomited into the hall. Simon hadn’t stopped, running past me into the kitchen.
I spat, and crawled to Ruby, whose eyes were fluttering. She was murmuring something, but I hushed her. I tried to haul her to her feet, but she lapsed into unconsciousness again. I left her – I couldn’t risk leaving Simon alone too long.
He was waiting for me in the kitchen. As soon as I set a foot across the threshold, he spun round, and slashed at me with one of the knives Ruby had been using to cook. I fell, a deep cut on my chest. Until I saw him standing over me with the knife in his hand, it hadn’t honestly occurred to me that any of us might die that day. There was smoke in the air, and a strong smell of burning from the abandoned casserole. His face loomed through it, and suddenly the knife was at my throat.
“All the windows are still barred. The doors too. Let me out.”
I just stared at him, praying he wouldn’t decide to use the knife again. He wasn’t seeing me.
The face must not have replied either. His face, still wild-eyed, suddenly snarled, and he buried the knife in my leg.
I screamed, and blacked out.
It was two, maybe three minutes before I woke, a rhythmic, hollow thudding echoing through my head. The pain set in almost immediately. I moaned, and clasped my hand round the handle of the knife, but I couldn’t pull it out. I simply didn’t have the strength.
The thudding continued. I looked up, to my left.
Simon was banging his head against the marble. He was soaked in blood – his own. He’d tried to cut his wrists, but it hadn’t worked. His eyes were glazed, and there was no expression on his face. In a sense, he was probably dead before I woke. He’d swing his head back, hold it there for a few seconds, and then throw it forward to get the maximum velocity, connecting with a sickening crack. Over and over and over again.
It took him about five minutes until he fell to the tiles, blood splashing. I couldn’t tell which of it was his, and which was mine. He hadn’t knocked himself unconscious. I knew. If you were there, you’d say that too. It was just the way he fell.
Simon was dead.
This wasn’t all that long ago. Maybe four months? My chest wound wasn’t serious, and Simon had concussed me in addition to breaking my nose. He did the real damage to my leg, though – I’m told I won’t ever walk without a limp. Hence the wheelchair, at the moment. It’s easier than crutches.
Erm, I haven’t seen much of Ruby. She’s not really in touch with reality anymore. She’s in Kent, which is where, I think, she’ll stay. She still makes casserole for Simon occasionally, and sits down to teach him. The orderlies let her do it. I visited her once or twice, but she didn’t recognise me, so I didn’t go back. I prefer to remember her like she was, before she lost all that weight. And most of her hair. And her mind. She never mentions the faces to them. Ruby’s imaginary world is actually preferable to her real one – she remembers the highlights of Simon. She’s removed any hint of the faces from her little universe. Sometimes I wish I could live there.
I’m fine, thanks. I’m spending a bit of time at my friend Ryan’s house. I can’t go back to my own. He’s been really good to me – he hardly ever lets me out of his sight. I spend a lot of time reading – it’s my way of escaping. I’ve not killed anyone, if that’s what you’re asking me. I told everyone from the beginning that I didn’t kill Simon. It was a suicide.
You know, I don’t think you do believe me. I’m a bit sick of this, being treated like I’m a criminal, or as if I’m insane. I’m not dangerous. I’m trying to spend my days trying to forget about it, or at least trying to ignore it, and you people drag me down here to this tiny little room, with your neutral expressions, and your tape recorders, clasping your hands like that. I’ve told you what happened, and whatever evidence you’ve gathered has to support me. He died.
Don’t call me Jerry. You don’t know me. Don’t you dare act as if you know me. Get out – I want to talk to Simon.
Stop calling me Jerry. Simon’s not dead, how can he be dead? I’m looking at him, he’s there!
Of course it’s Simon, I know my son when I see him. Ryan, look, tell them that’s Simon.
Doctor? Doctor who? That’s Ryan; I’m staying at his house. He’s not a doctor, he’s just a friend of mine. Look, can we have this discussion after I’ve talked to Simon, he’s just finished his essay, and he wants me to look it over. We always do it.
Simon, don’t listen to them. Get on with your maths for now, maybe Mum will be with you in a minute. Now listen, Ryan, I – Ryan? Why is your face like that? Who are you? Let go – take your hands off me. Where’s Ryan? I said, let go. LET GO. LET GO OF ME NOW. WHO ARE YOU?
WHERE’S RYAN? WHERE AM I? SIMON! SIMON I DON’T
<session terminated at 16:28. Interviewee succumbed to psychotic episode and became hostile. Returned to institution pending further enquiries.>