Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 24 Read online

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  Small Beer Press

  www.lcrw.net

  Copyright ©2009 by The authors.

  First published in 2009, 2009

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Eleven Orchid Street by Alexander Lamb

  Dusking by Liz Williams

  Machrie Moor by Neile Graham

  Tornado Juice by Jasmine Hammer

  Superfather by J. W. M. Morgan

  The Magician's Umbrella by Dicky Murphy

  Leave the Dead to the Living by Alissa Nutting

  A Story Like Mine by Eve Tushnet

  The Broken Dream Factory by Dennis Danvers

  Dear Aunt Gwenda: The 140 Character Question-Within-a-Question Plague Edition

  The Magician's Keeper by Anya Groner

  forthcoming excitements:

  About the Authors

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  Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet

  No. 24, July 2009

  Made by:

  Gavin J. Grant, Kelly Link, & Jedidiah Berry

  With help from:

  Michael J. Deluca, Sara Majka, Paul Bozzo, Kristen Evans, Katherine Duckett, Faune Albert.

  Greatest thanks to:

  Baystate Medical Center and the Ronald McDonald House.

  Contents copyright © the authors

  www.smallbeerpress.com

  Small Beer Press

  150 Pleasant Street #306

  Easthampton, MA 01027

  www.smallbeerpress.com [email protected]

  ISSN 1544-7782

  Eleven Orchid Street by Alexander Lamb

  At the turning to Orchid Street, my feet stopped of their own accord. I stared down the moonlit boulevard, uneasy, though for none of the obvious reasons.

  The road stretched away, arrow straight, lined on either side with ancient elms that threw zebra shadows across the tarmac. Behind them, the homes lounged in their plots, magnificent yet grotesque, like well-dressed witches.

  As a small child, those houses had terrified me, but on that night—aged sixteen—I believed I was past that. The street's reputation didn't faze me either. My parents’ countless offhand remarks about that neighborhood, never justified or substantiated, had long since blurred into insignificance.

  Thus I couldn't have said why I felt such sudden reluctance and loathed to find myself afraid. The task was simple, after all. I just had to walk up to the house, hand over the package and take the check I received back to Uncle Morgan. Then the fifty notes would be mine, and I could at last buy the watch I craved. The alternative was having to admit that I'd been too chicken. I pressed my feet into motion.

  A sickly warmth had sprung up from nowhere that night. The moist air stuck to everything, carrying the must of rotting leaves. The only sounds came from my footfalls and the lonely crickets that had apparently forgotten it was October. No cars or pedestrians showed themselves. I walked alone past the ranked mansions, scanning the facades for numbers.

  Even among those baroque horrors, Number Eleven stuck out. Every window had a peaked or circular frame. The heavy ironwork on the porch and balcony curled in cramped spirals like hundreds of clenched fists. The paint glistened like something wet, the color of dirty cream.

  I walked up the drive, affecting a Watch Boy swagger while my skin prickled and the sense of menace thickened like fog. Light the color of used cooking oil oozed out through the downstairs curtains. I flinched when it touched me.

  The door was twice as wide as the one to my own home and made from dark, heavy wood. The panes of cut and frosted glass set in it showed rearing animals with carnivore smiles. Muted laughter spilled out from inside. I rested my hand on the massive brass buzzer and hesitated for a final, anxious moment before giving it a defiant shove.

  A deep, sad, gonging sound came from the hall beyond. The laughter died.

  I contemplated leaving the package by the door and hurrying away, but as Uncle Morgan had explained to me at length, no check meant no pay.

  The great door swung open. A short woman my mother's age stood there wearing a simple dress of thick green corduroy. She had frizzy ginger hair pulled back in a badly maintained bun, and a round, amiable face that lit up at the sight of me. It was not what I'd expected.

  She arched one eyebrow and looked me up and down.

  "Hello?"

  "Package,” I blurted.

  I held out the box.

  She grinned and nodded.

  "Of course.” Then she turned and leant back into the house. “Roger, the package is here."

  "Come on in,” she told me. “I'll just get your check. I won't be a moment.” She let the door swing open and walked back down the hall away from me.

  I stood on the doorstep looking into the lavish space beyond. A staircase of ornately carved wood so dark as to be almost black ran up on the right hand side. Wine-colored rugs with patterns of twisted thorns adorned the floor. The place smelt powerfully of old-fashioned furniture polish.

  Morgan's instructions had been very clear: don't go in. Rule number one of his courier code was ‘a good courier waits politely outside.'

  But what if a courier had been told to come in?

  A man sauntered out from the doorway on the left and leant against the wall. He was a picture of gentle paternalism: salt-and-pepper hair, beige cardigan, and lukewarm smile.

  "Hello,” he said.

  "Hi,” I muttered.

  The woman called from somewhere deep inside the house.

  "Do you know where the check is, darling? It's not in the blue bag."

  "Well, it's probably in the other one,” the man replied.

  He rolled his eyes. “You'd better come in. Anne's hopeless. It'll be a while before she finds it. Honestly, it's a miracle she can find her own head in the morning."

  He winked at me and stepped across the hall to take hold of the door, where he stood and waited. Reluctantly, I stepped inside.

  I handed him the package as soon as he closed the door.

  "That's terrific,” he said, and dropped it onto the chair just beside the entrance. “Say, why don't you come into the living room and take a load off while we wait?"

  "I'm fine here,” I said.

  The man, who I presumed was Roger, pulled a face.

  "Nonsense. We can't leave you standing around in the hall. Please."

  He gestured toward the place from which he'd come and stood close enough to make refusal effectively impossible. Against my better judgment, I let myself be guided.

  Were these people being too friendly, I asked myself. What would I do if they tried to pull something on me? I had the edge in youth and speed, and fancied that I could probably take them both down and bust out through the window if I had to. Except, the more I saw of the place, the stupider I felt for fretting.

  In the living room, two huge moss-green couches faced each other with a coffee table wedged between. It was piled high with large, square books. Beyond it stood a huge, black fireplace carved to look like a pair of stylized dragons. A wood fire roared there, despite the warmth outside.

  I recoiled. The room was hot. There was little choice but to take off my jacket. I clutched it under one arm and looked around.

  Hundreds of photographs
in mismatched frames adorned the walls.

  "Do you like them?” said Roger. He took a seat on the far couch and gestured for me to sit opposite. “The photos, I mean."

  Most of the pictures were too gloomy and too far away for me to make out the details, but I didn't want to be rude.

  "Yeah,” I said with a shrug.

  I perched on one end of the couch and glanced back at the door as it swung shut.

  "That's great!” said Roger. “I'm a photographer, you know. I'm always fascinated in what people have to say about my work. Here, what do you think of these?"

  Roger took one of the books from the pile and opened it in front of me. They were all photo albums, I realized. There had to be fifty of them on the table alone, and hundreds more on the bookcase behind.

  The page showed a curious image taken in black and white. In it, a screwdriver lay on some dirty carpet in the corner of a room, half in shadow, half out.

  "Great,” I said.

  "Really?” said Roger. “I'm so glad you like it. Tell me, what do you see?"

  He gazed expectantly into my face.

  I paused, unsure of what to say.

  "Well, it's a screwdriver, isn't it?” I replied.

  Roger leant back, apparently thrilled.

  "Exactly!” he said and slapped his leg. “You'd be surprised how few people say that."

  I folded my arms tighter, wedging my jacket between them despite the heat.

  "How about this one?” He flipped the page.

  The new picture showed a pair of forks in the bottom of a bucket.

  "Some forks,” I said uneasily.

  "Are you sure?” said Roger with a crafty smile. “The picture's kind of shadowy. Take a closer look."

  I glanced back. It was definitely forks, though the bottom of the bucket was textured in a way I found somehow distressing.

  "Just forks,” I said. “Look, I really need to get that check."

  Roger got to his feet. “Of course."

  At the same moment, Anne came in waving a piece of paper.

  "Here it is,” she said brightly.

  She handed it to me.

  "You know, it was in the blue bag,” she added. “Just not where I thought it was."

  "Thanks,” I said, and moved quickly to the living room door before it could swing shut again.

  "No, thank you for waiting,” said Anne. “We're horribly disorganized. I hope we haven't wasted too much of your time."

  "No problem."

  I stepped back into the hall. This time, I noticed a picture hung at eye height just next to the door. Framed like a family portrait was an image of a scorched electrical socket. It made my skin crawl more than it had any reason to.

  I reached the front door and turned the huge brass knob. It simply rotated in its setting. I faced a moment's panic.

  "Let me,” said Anne. “Sorry, that confuses everyone. The lock is here."

  She reached past me to press a small metal flange set high on the frame. The door clicked open.

  I slipped gratefully through it.

  "See ya,” I said, and took off across the street, check in hand.

  "I hope so,” Anne said to my retreating back.

  I glanced back at them from the far side of the road as I donned my jacket and found them both standing in the doorway, watching me with curious half-smiles on their faces.

  I shivered.

  Pocketing the check, I began to jog back toward Morgan's warehouse to warm myself up. Some time while I'd been inside, the temperature had dropped about ten degrees.

  When I passed the town clock, I managed to stop thinking about the weird couple long enough to check the time. It was five past ten. Morgan had wanted me back by now. I spent the rest of the trip back across town fretting. I'd taken so long that I felt sure it'd be obvious to him that I'd broken his rules.

  I arrived back at the sheet-metal monstrosity that was my uncle's warehouse with a fresh sense of trepidation. I shoved open the door and walked the down the aisle between the ziggurats of television sets and filthy crates toward Morgan's office at the back.

  "Hello?"

  My voice echoed off the ceiling.

  "Kid?” Morgan's squat silhouette appeared in the far doorway. “You get the check?"

  I held it out to him.

  Morgan stepped forward and took it. He squinted at the paper for a moment in the inadequate light, his massive brow furrowing. Then his face cragged into smiles. He slapped me on the back.

  "That's my boy! Come on, let's get you paid."

  He ushered me into the office and dragged a cash box out from under the mess of his desk. He unlocked it and counted out fifty notes.

  "There you go, all yours,” he said. “You deserve it. Terrific job.” His face grew serious for a moment. “Not a word to the folks about this, right?"

  He leaned close. I could smell smoke on him, and something tart, like olives.

  "Of course,” I said with a shrug.

  Morgan broke into a grin again. “You're my kind of guy. No point getting them involved when it's already a done deal, right? Not that they'd understand. Welcome to the working world, kid. I'm proud of you."

  For once he even sounded like he meant it. I'd grown so use to the cynical drawl he used when he came round to visit my parents that the change startled me.

  He walked me to the warehouse exit, speculating on the things I could do with all that money. As if I didn't already know exactly what I wanted.

  I walked home intoxicated with success, Morgan's words ringing in my ears. Best of all, he hadn't realized that I'd broken his precious rules.

  The euphoria lasted till I reached home. Then, as I rounded the corner from Factory Row, my eyes took in the narrow windows of the place where I lived, the peeling grey paint and the dozens of other houses just like it.

  A shadow-wing of bitterness passed over me. The adventure was over. Back to reality.

  I let myself in. In the brown room, my parents sat as always, watching the puppet shows on TV. The Joggly Horse was on, wobbling around on the screen, its wires clearly visible. Tonight it was trying to stick its head into a plastic bowl. Both my parents were laughing.

  "Hi Mum. Hi Dad."

  Pause.

  "Hi darling,” my mother said absently. No how are you, not even a where the hell have you been. That night, I didn't even care.

  "Why don't you come sit with us for a bit,” she said.

  I'd seen the Joggly Horse before, many times.

  "Got homework,” I told them.

  I headed for the stairs. The drone of their laughter filled the air behind me.

  * * * *

  Despite a couple of unsettling dreams about forks, my mood was still good the following day. I ate my Econo-Pops in a rush, tasting nothing but anticipation, and left ten minutes early to make time for the stop on the way to school.

  I had trouble slowing my feet as I made my way down Main Street to the corner where Carnaby's stood. I stepped in through the creaking automatic doors of the old Fun Mart and took in the smell of dust and artificial cinnamon with a sigh of satisfaction.

  I walked like a king down that center aisle between the racks of cheap, faded, electronic tat to the counter at the back where they kept the expensive, clockwork stuff.

  The glassy-eyed guy in the yellow clown uniform was slumped there as usual.

  "I want a shock-watch,” I told him. “The new one with the two dials."

  He took in my threadbare school coveralls and looked about to make one of his cynical remarks about my ability to pay. Before he could speak, I laid the pile of notes on the counter with a slap and watched with satisfaction as his eyebrows crept upward.

  He glanced up as if actually seeing me for the first time.

  "Certainly, sir,” he said. “The one with the two dials, you say?"

  I walked the rest of the way to school with my left sleeve rolled up to the elbow, a fully paid-up Watch Boy at last. Confidence crackled out of me.
<
br />   I didn't bother to check in when I reached the school grounds. I walked straight round to the out-of-bounds storage yard behind the kitchens where my friends hung out. I looked forward to their surprise. Benny No-Dials had become Ben Two-Dials overnight.

  When I got there, attention was firmly centered on Mitch, as usual.

  "Hey, check this out,” I called.

  No one looked up. Something that Mitch had laid out on a crate had already seized their attention. I waited a few moments, my expectation sagging like a tired balloon, before giving in.

  "What's up?” I said.

  I leant over the crowd to see what the fuss was about.

  Wrapped in an old piece of oilcloth, Mitch had managed to get hold of a scab's knife from somewhere. The Watch Boys were taking turns to heft it. The girls all wanted to touch the blade and Mitch was meting out access to the weapon with calculated reluctance.

  "Hey, check this out,” I said, holding out my arm.

  A few of them glanced up.

  "Cool,” said Yuri, without sounding interested. But then, all the others had shock-watches already. Mitch had two. I fought down a sudden ferocious sense of disappointment and stood mute while everyone fiddled with the knife.

  Things didn't improve at lunchtime when the Watch Boys decided to try out anti-strike moves in the yard. Mitch stood by, dispensing judgment on their technique.

  "Pathetic. What's that supposed to be, a kidney-sweep? My mum could do better than that!"

  Today, instead of impressing me, Mitch just sounded stupid.

  "You guys look ludicrous,” I remarked from my place on the far wall. “You're sixteen, for crying out loud, and you're playing like kids."

  Mitch gave me a sidelong look, his long, thin mouth curving.

  "What's your problem, killjoy?"

  I bristled. “Someone's going to have their eye out, you asshole."

  Mitch pulled that face he had that looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.

  "Do weapons scare you, No-Dials?"

  Carol giggled.

  I couldn't resist. I held up my watch.

  "That's Two-Dials to you, Mitch."

  Mitch let out a single snort of artificial mirth.

  "You still don't get it, do you Benny-Boy,” he said. “If I say you're No-Dials, that's what you are till I say different. Unless you want to make an issue of it."