I have to say that Mr. Savage was an incredible man; in three hours he never directly threatened me, but had me in a sweat and made me feel like something from the bottom of a fish-tank. He'd look at me out of the corner of his eyes, and I'd get sharp stabbing pains in my chest. He knocked over two cups of tea I gave him, and crunched a biscuit into the carpet. He kept telling me he'd "have to be going soon" but never did.

In the end, I told him I didn't like being put under pressure in this way, and would prefer it if he came back another time. He stared at me, and I felt like a well-prodded voodoo doll.

At that moment Colin came down the drive. He'd pa.s.sed Savage's car, and was squinting in at me. I guess the expression on my face told him that something was amiss.

He came through the hall and looked at the salesman suspiciously. "Got here soon as I could," my brother said, his eyes never leaving the salesman's. "Who this?" He asked him. It was like two alley cats squaring up. "I'm Savage. And you are...?"

My brother never answered, but kept on staring. I spoke for him. "Oh, this is my brother, Mr. Savage. He comes round every day to see how I am."

"This bloke bothering you, Art?" he said, arms folded.

I could feel Savage's eyes boring into me. "Er, no, no. Everything's fine."

"It's just that you hear so much about these guys, you know. Always on the make-"

"What did you just say?" Spat Savage.

Colin stepped back slightly. "Well, I don't know what kind of a man you are, do I? Are you sure you're alright, Art?"

I gulped again, the tension in the room unbreathable. "Yes, yes, fine."

"Okay, that's all I wanted to know. But you have any trouble, and you give me a call, okay?"

I was ready for pa.s.sing out now. "Yes, I will. Of course. B-but it won't come to that, will it?" I tried to smile at both of them. Colin stared at him a second more, then went to his own house, five minutes down the road.

Savage stood there in fuming silence for about a minute, and then turned on me.

"Now. I don't like being told I'm corrupt, Mr. Adams, even if he is your brother. I think the least you can do is look at these brochures again, and see if anything interests you."

I don't think I've ever been as scared in my life as I was at that moment. I couldn't think straight; I never can when I get like that; and after turning the pages too quickly to even catch the page numbers, I blurted out those regretful words that salesman love to hear; "Where do I sign?"

He grinned at me with that dark a.s.sortment of mouldering teeth. "Excellent, Mr. Adams! And what day would be convenient for you?"

That day, a Tuesday, I made sure Colin was there. Or rather, he made sure he was there. He sat there in the living room with me while a few shifty - looking workmen got on with it. Colin stared at them all the time. "Stop it." I kept mouthing at him but he just ignored me. Then, if that wasn't enough, Mr. Savage turned up, grinning from ear to ear.

He invited himself in after a word with the workers. "So, how's it all going, Mr. Adams? Looks pretty d.a.m.n good, don't you think?"

"Why, yes," I mumbled. "very n-"

"They're a bit slow," my brother b.u.t.ted in. "I'm sure I could do it quicker myself." The workmen glared back at him, which he missed, and then added as an afterthought "they'd better be good for the money its costing."

And that's when it all changed. A simple (if offensive) remark like that seemed to start the whole thing going. I could feel my pulse jumping along as I watched Colin stare at the salesman, and the salesman and the workers staring back at Colin I'd only ever felt an atmosphere like that once before, at a Christmas midnight ma.s.s. That particular service always gets its fare share slightly the worse for drink, and well, to cut a long story short, one of the congregation stood up and called the Lord a name that I could not possibly write down. Needless to say, I don't think He would do anything like that, and to then suggest that the Vicar was also involved was reprehensible.

And that's what my house felt like at that moment; as if some unholy taboo had been breached, and normal civilities had been dispensed with.

Then Mr. Savage smiled, surprisingly enough, and left the house, calling the workmen over to his car at the top of the drive. They stood in a circle around him and mumbled something in unison - a disquieting, silly-sounding noise to come from grown men. One of them turned round and laughed at us, and they all joined in. Savage drove off soon after and the men got on with their work, and eventually it was done; nice new windows to protect me against the ravages of winter.

And things pa.s.sed well enough for the next week and a bit, and I was pleased one afternoon when I saw the trees blowing outside and my nets staying put.

After a while though I noticed something rather strange. I get cats coming through my garden sometimes, and I always like to watch the way they carry on. But that day, in the s.p.a.ce of an hour and a half, two cats pa.s.sed through, looked in at me and hissed viciously before racing through to next door; the next day the same thing. Curious, I got out of my chair and looked around. I saw nothing, and was just about to sit down again when I glimpsed a peculiar thing in between the two panes of gla.s.s.

It was a small globule of clear fatty liquid, perhaps two inches across, like a small dollop of fast-sticking glue or something like that. It must have got in when they were fitting the gla.s.s, but it was strange how I'd never noticed it before. And at the far end was a moth, or the remains of one. The latter was nothing unusual, but I couldn't understand what that globule was. I didn't make any connection with the cats odd behaviour at the time. Who would?

Well, over the next few days this blob got bigger and bigger; and by the end of that week it was nearly six inches along the gla.s.s in both directions.

Of course, knowing what his reaction would be I didn't mention it to Colin. He'd have kicked up a fuss, and G.o.d knows where it would have ended. It wasn't until one Sat.u.r.day morning later on (by which time it was about ten inches across and three inches high) that Colin saw it. He stood at the window and called me in the kitchen. "Hey, Arthur, come and look at this! Quick!".

So I ran in and saw him pointing down at the window frame. "Quick, you'll miss it! b.l.o.o.d.y nora!"

And I got there just in time to see the trail of slime pounce yes, pounce upon the remains of that moth, and when it moved away, the moth wasn't there!

The thing was, it kept getting bigger; started climbing up the way; and within two weeks it was nearly two feet high and five feet across. It rippled slightly when the sunlight hit it. I think the word is 'opalescent'. I do know it put me right off iced Cointreau.

In a way I was lucky. My house is at the bottom end of the road, and n.o.body bothers me. I also noticed that from a distance this thing had no real form or substance, and from the street it just looked like any other window, but one smeared with grease, the way they are in empty properties. It's not much fun though, having what looks like a Portuguese man o' war as part of the fixtures and fittings. But the spectrum of colours it brought to my carpet in the sunlight looked very fetching - until they started to burn holes in the Axminster.

And of course, Colin had been round. He was as flummoxed as I was about the window, and when he saw the scorch-marks in the carpet he chucked an almighty mental.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on? It's that b.l.o.o.d.y salesman's fault. It's like the d.a.m.ned thing's possessed or something."

"My G.o.d! That's it!" I said. "He said he was in a black magic club or something. Remember I told you? Satanic order of something-or-other?"

Colin shot me a look I can only describe as contemptuous.

"What? Are you saying that Savage bewitched your double glazing? Oh come on!"

"It must be," I replied feebly, "there's nothing else. I think we should get in touch with him."

He still hooked at me rather sadly "Listen, Art. You're my brother. But you're talking c.r.a.p, man. You're right though. Savage should be told about this."

Colin phoned up, and even after the words "I want to make a complaint" had no trouble getting through to the salesman. My brother sat there with a puzzled expression on his face, and eventually hung up. "He's says he knew what I was calling about and he'll be down first thing in the morning."

I'll say that about our Mr. Savage; he kept his appointments, and was knocking on my door at half past seven the next morning. Between the knocks I could hear a slow, deep chuckle.

I had all my questions prepared, but neither of us had a chance to say anything as Mr. Savage spoke without prompting. "So... it worked then, he looked at the window, "wasn't sure y'know. But, there it is."

"It's not a very nice thing to do to someone, is it," I said lamely. "to put that in there. It's awful. I hope you're going to get rid of it." From me that was quite a petulant outburst. Savage looked from me to my brother as he said "Or else there'll be bother. Big bother."

Savage's grin was wiped off. "No. No go. It stays. 'Cos I've had it - with your sort - never satisfied are we? I try and do my job, but it's never enough. And I've taken as much as I'm going to. Pa.s.s the word around, that anyone who messes with this salesman will get more of that!" and he pointed at the gla.s.s.

"Oh no they won't." Colin said, eyes blazing, face the colour of beetroot. "I don't know how you've done this, but it's going today! You hear me? Today!" and he marched over to Savage, who stood his ground.

After a few seconds the salesman grinned at Colin and said, "I'll see you both around. Incidentally, I really should charge extra for it." He looked around my living room "it brightens the place up no end..."

With that he started for the front door. Colin was furious, and seeing that Savage had left his briefcase behind, hurled it at him with incredible force.

The briefcase missed its target, smashing against the wall. It can't have been shut properly, because as Colin threw it something shot out of it past my face. It's sound was deadened by the bag smashing the wall.

It had been a tape measure. It sat on the windowsill, and maybe a foot above it there was a long hairline crack running along the gla.s.s.

Savage's eyes bulged. "No!" he yelled "you stupid fool! That gla.s.s won't take any knocks - It's not proper gla.s.s- OH MY G.o.d!"

And at that moment a small piece of the defective gla.s.s chipped off the whole, dropping next to the tape measure, leaving a half-inch gap in the pane.

It was like piercing a raw egg and letting all the white run out, the way that liquid slime dribbled, then flowed through the hole and, down the sill, along the wall, and onto the salesman's shoes. He screeched in terror as it crawled up his trouser legs, out through his pockets, up his chest and finally covering him from head to foot. At that moment I think he started speaking in tongues... anyway I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying as I was peeping through the kitchen door by this time.

And then I noticed Colin. He stood there, roaring at it all. He looked a bit deranged actually, and when the salesman and the jelly-thing started to sink through the carpet and the floor I thought he was going to wet himself.

Then there was only a small patch of it left on the floor. Colin called me, still laughing. "It's okay, Art, it's gone - and it's taken that nutter with it. My G.o.d, they won't believe me down at the p-aarrrggghhhh!!!!!!!!!!!"

He must have been standing too close to it. The next thing I knew he'd gone through the floor as well.

And that's about it, really. People keep asking where Colin is, and I tell them I don't know. I called the window people, told them their salesman hadn't turned up and the window was cracked. They were very apologetic and replaced it free of charge. I wonder if there's any windows where Mr. Savage is now...

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000].

WAR STORY.

by Caroline Dunford.

"Dits-moi la reve encore une fois."

Her brown eyes are wide with fright, still rimmed with the dark marks of insomnia. I repeat my question haltingly in bad schoolboy French and wonder what this young woman makes of it all. She has a dream that will not go away, which is 'a nonsense'; she doesn't believe in such things. I have to ask her to go slowly, her speech becomes increasingly slurred as her fear mounts.

"I am walking along a road. It is dark. I think it is near the cottage, but it looks a little different. I am tired. I have been working hard and I'm afraid; it is bad to be out so late. Then ahead of me on the road I see a group of men. At first I think it is soldiers and I am terrified. But then I recognise it is only Gustav and his men. I walk up to Gustav to greet him. Then as I look into his eyes I know that he means to kill me and I do not know why." She is shaking with fear.

"And that's it? That's all there is to this amazing nightmare?" Peter desperately does not want to believe. His outburst in English frightens Marie. I send her away.

"You're just going to let her go?"

I sink down into one of the pair of overstuffed chintz armchairs by the hearth. Peter is striding up and down in front of the hearth. Finally his emotions are too full for him to hold and his annoyance erupts in the ritual banging of his pipe, this time off the mantelpiece, sending a shower of glowing sparks down into the fire.

"You're not going to ask her anything else?"

Peter never fails me. The tension flows away. I smile. "One minute you tell me this is all nonsense and the next you want to conduct the investigation yourself."

"I could certainly do it a d.a.m.n sight better than you."

"Really and what would you do?"

"Ask the girl more questions. Who she is? Who's Gustav? When is it? A hundred and one things."

"She doesn't know any more. I have tried."

"Well, then let me try."

I sigh and rub my hands across my stinging eyes. The bridge of my nose is sore from sunburn. "Peter, I'm glad of your company, but this situation is outside both our areas of expertise. Besides I think I know who Gustav is."

He flops angrily into the opposite chair and fixes me with his pale blue eyes. "Who?"

"The gardener. Well, actually he owns the cottage."

"How convenient."

His tone makes me wince, but now I've started I see no choice but to tell him all. I know it sounds ridiculous. Perhaps I am hoping Peter's laughter will shatter this dark, d.a.m.n illusion. "This is no haunting, Peter, this is an attempt at possession and we are only at the beginning." I feel the cold p.r.i.c.kle of goose-b.u.mps across my skin, a tense chilling sensation.

Peter doesn't laugh. Our eyes meet.

"I think you had better start at the beginning," he says very softly.

Peter and I work at the same university. This summer I am over here writing a book; Peter is travelling, stopping at many of the better known vineyards. he arrived, at my invitation, to add some much needed cynicism to this extra-ordinary situation.

"Peter, two weeks ago I wouldn't have believed any of it either." It's a long story that takes us well into the twilight hours, with many questions and cross-examinings on Peter's part.

It revolves around Marie Chantrelle, a first year student at one of the higher education inst.i.tutions that litter Paris, during Les Grande Vacances she acts as a hostess to holiday cottages for the British. This rather glorious t.i.tle translates, roughly, as cleaner, dogsbody and even occasionally cook. Marie at once dazzled me with her life, her joie do vivre, and if she had been a little older or I a little younger, I would, probably, have tried to improve my French, considerably.

But by the end of my first week here I had seen a dramatic change come over the girl. She was nervous, always jumping at shadows. Previously she had been eager to chat, drink my coffee and bicycle slowly home in the fading light. Now she was in and out of the house in two hours. When it became obvious she was also dropping weight by the pound, I cornered her in this room and out came the story of the dream.

By profession I am a psychologist, my book is on some of the lesser understood symptoms of schizophrenia. Naturally I was eager to help the girl.

Peter finds my chivalry amusing. "Your avuncular feelings..." he murmurs.

"Actually her brown eyes. I invited her for some sessions. I suppose at the back of my mind was the unchivalrous thought that the least I would get would be a couple of extra chapters for my book. But this, this dream of hers goes beyond all imaginations... I have come to truly believe that someone is trying to communicate through her."

"So we come to the conveniently named gardener-owner."

"I don't believe she even knows his name, Peter. Marie works for the agency that Gustav a.s.signed his cottage to. He only comes round here occasionally. There are some rare plants in his garden that he trusts to no-one."

"So when do we meet the illusive Gustav?"

I check my watch. "Any moment now. I invited him round for a drink, tonight, while Marie was still here."

"What's my role in all this?"

"You're my witness, Peter."

Gustav is old, grey and bent; a wisp of a man inside the shabby, bright clothes of the region.

Ensconced in one of the armchairs I expect him to crumple to dust at any moment. His voice is as thin as ice on a half frozen river, but his English is surprisingly good. It seems that he was involved with the Resistance during the war. Although he is not forthcoming about his role, Peter and I soon begin to understand that he was a key man in this area. I am about to involve a war hero in my silly imaginings. If I am to make a fool of myself I want to get it over with quickly. I call Marie in, ignoring Peter's disapproving frown.

At once there is tension in the room. Marie stares at Gustav, puzzled, and the old man jerks upright in his chair, his hand shoots up to his left breast, then drops.

Almost, he crosses himself; the room seems colder to me.