Fingers

Mr. Fingers had a pretty wife. She never got out much but you could see her face pressed against the attic window all afternoon on sunny days, her unseen but presumably dainty little fingers working on something intricately – something just below the window seat – so Ben could never see what that thing was.

He used to walk across the street every afternoon at four – on his way to the river – where he’d meet his father at the little jetty where the fishermen lounged about all day. He’d throw up his brown switchblade into the air – and catch it again with his deft fingers, feeling the snag in the metal where Bessie’s dog Susie-Ann had bit into it. A picnic five years ago when Ben had been seven and much too young to run up Nail Hill after a crazy dog.

But Mrs. Fingers would never look up. Ben didn’t know why he wanted her to – except that Ben liked people to look at him.  He’d whistle while he walked down the street all the way to the jetty, a peppy tune from the latest picture, so people would look up at him as he jaunted along, playing with his knife. Everyone except Mrs. Fingers. Either her closed window didn’t let any sound in or she was always at work on something far more interesting than Ben’s famous tunes.

Jimmy Fingers went to school with Ben. Jimmy was a quiet boy with a small mole on the back of his neck. He sat at the corner desk in the front row, with his very dirty fingers spayed greasily on the table in front of him and looked ahead all the time – giving Ben a full view of absolutely nothing of himself – except his hands and his little mole. Ben liked to look at people – just as he liked them to look at him. He’d stare at them as if he was memorizing everything about them, as if he was a portrait artist who needed to go back home and start painting what he’d seen. But all he could remember of Jimmy Fingers was his mole and a set of ten very dirty fingernails.

One early Tuesday afternoon, Ben and the boys had been idling about near the jetty, having skipped school and feeling very pleased about themselves. The boys were sitting facing the sea – watching their fathers’ boats bob up and down on the waves far away near the horizon. All except Ben, who was staring at the tiny flash of light from Mrs. Fingers’ window, a row of houses away.

They were playing rock, paper scissors. Absentmindedly. Rock bashed scissors, scissors sliced up paper, paper stifled the rock, over and over again, as the light in the attic window flashed in and out of the sun.

“There should be more to it.” Ben said, sitting up. “To rock paper scissors.”

“You mean like how we’d tried lighter bird gun last Christmas and ended up with matching black eyes each over whether the bird flew away with the paper or choked on it and died?”

“No. Something else. Closer to home. What do you think Mrs. Fingers has in her fingers?”

All six heads swung in unison towards the attic window.

“A needle? I don’t get it.”

“It should be a surprise. It should be something no one knows about. Like a trump card. Or an ace up a sleeve.”

“But it’s definitely a needle. What else could she be doing all day?”

“But what kind of needle? It’s an awful idea of Ben’s – playing rock paper scissors x – but Mrs. Fingers could be doing anything beneath the window. Knitting needles wouldn’t catch so much light – crochet? darning?”

 “She could be stitching up dead bodies of birds. Stuffing them – what’s it called? Taxi-dummy?”

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

“And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

“Or plucking out their finger nails to use because she doesn’t have her own.”

“Maybe it is a needle,” Ben added,“and she’s stitching up Jimmy. A new version of Jimmy Fingers everyday, complete with the mole for id. And sending the stitched doll to school. And that’s why he’s so quiet – because he’s not human.”

There was a quiet whimper in response to this statement – behind the rocks they were sitting against. Everyone shut up – and turned to look. Everyone except Ben, who continued to speak, because he was enjoying it – and thought he sounded very clever, even to whoever the person was listening behind the rocks.

“And that’s why none of us can ever remember what he looks like. Because he doesn’t have a real face.”

An unreal face raised itself from behind the rocks, very slowly, quivering red in a very real way. The boys were deathly quiet now.

“Only real fingers, that she stitches on to each new doll over and over again. And that’s why they’re so dirty. Because she keeps re-using those fingers over and over again.”

This was said directly to Jimmy, because Ben couldn’t bring himself to stop. He was feeling awfully sorry now, but the momentum that had pitched the story forward was in full swing – and it lashed out at the unreal boy, like a fist to a face.

And it was met with the same. Or would have been, if the other boys hadn’t caught those very real fingers in time, and held them back.

Ben laughed. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t, not now.

“Well?” He asked, as Jimmy Fingers quietened down under ten sets of stronger fingers. “Which one was right?”

Jimmy Fingers grinned. Very white,very unreal teeth flashed for a brief second behind those parting lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

Ben shrugged. “Actually, yes. Will you settle this over a game then? If you win, I’ll say sorry. And if you lose, you’ll tell me what your mum’s doing behind that attic window.”

“Ben, that’s not – ”

“Shut it,” the twelve-year-old hissed. “I’m asking Jimmy. Let the doll decide.”

Jimmy’s grin froze – for only a split second – and then grew wider.

“Sure. Except, if you win, I won’t just tell you what my mum’s up to, I’ll take you up to the attic and show you. And if I win, your fingers belong to me.”

There was another one of those funeral silences. Ben broke it, laughing shrilly.

“You’re bluffing, but I’ll call it. And I suppose you’ll want to play a game that matches, too. Stabbing knives between our fingers – or throwing them at apples in our mouths – or something.”

Jimmy was still grinning. “Sure – if you say so – rock paper scissors would do just fine for me.”

Ben grinded his teeth. “Fine then. Since you’re too scared to put your fingers on the line. Rock paper scissors it is.”

“Can I have my fingers back first?”

Ben nodded. In unison, the boys let Jimmy Fingers go. The two faced each other against the blue waves and sky, tiny boats bobbing up and down in the horizon. Ben called – or Jimmy called – or both of them called together – it didn’t matter which.

“Rock.”

Jimmy’s eyes were roughly where Ben’s fingers would be – behind his back – as if he could see through the cloth and bone.

“Paper.”

Ben’s flitted briefly away from Jimmy’s face – to the eyes of his comrades, standing at aslight angle behind Jimmy. The boy shook his head, ever so slightly.

“Scissors.”

He’d let him draw once.Together, they drew out their fingers, index and middle cutting outwards.

“Rock.”

Second time round, and Jimmy was fighting now. Ben could tell in the way his smile was faltering under those furrowed brows.

“Paper.”

Ben glanced towards the boy behind Jimmy again, as the boy shook his head.

“Scissors.”

Both scissors again. One more draw for credibility.

“Rock.”

In the light of the concentration on Jimmy’s face, his features looked very real in the afternoon sun right then. This was how they’d all remember him – a small sharp nose, and a chin whose all-but-absence was more than made up for by the desperately calm determination in the eleven-year-old’s eyes.

“Paper.”

Ben looked at the boy behind Jimmy one last time. This time he inclined his head forwards briefly. This was it. Ben splayed out all his fingers stiffly behind his back.

“Scissors.”

As he brought his paper out, Ben noticed – a split second too late – the expression of the boy behind Jimmy change from confidence to alarm. Jimmy’s fingers shifted just before he drew his hand – and it was scissors again – a short sharp jab that sent a thrill of cold horror down the spines of all the other boys.

Ben drew his breath sharply. And blinked, thrice. And in the face of Jimmy Finger’s grin, defiant and sinister till the very end – Ben bowed theatrically.

“Alright then, Fingers. What do you want me to do now?”

Jimmy Fingers shrugged. “Got your famous switchblade? Hack ‘em off.”

Ben paled, but didn’t falter. He brought his switchblade out from inside his pocket. The other boys made to move towards Jimmy, angry growls in their throats. Jimmy ignored them, eyes on Ben as the latter held out his left hand in front of him – and, with tiny little beads of sweat appearing on his forehead and a visible knot tightening in his throat – held the blade over his fingers gingerly.

He glanced at Jimmy – who made no movement or noise – and then raised the blade, gritting his teeth.

“Or, actually, wait.” Jimmy said. “Since that game wasn’t quite fair, since I knew you were cheating and planned ahead – maybe we should both pay up.”

Ben was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a sore loser. “Why? Even if you knew I was cheating – I was the one cheating.”

“Call me generous,” Fingers grinned. “I think I’d like to show you what my mum’s doing up there after all.”

Then he paused conspiratorially, leaned forward and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear: “And then – let her use your fingers.”

“You little – ” Ben started, and then stopped himself. In spite of himself, he let curiosity get the better of him, and he nodded.

“But just you,” said Jimmy Fingers.

The two boys walked back to the Fingers’ house, as the others waited by the shore uneasily. Their little fists were bunched up and raised in front of them – and the two of them who had tiny knives in their pockets had their fingers clenched tight around them.

Ben followed Jimmy into his house and up the single stone staircase.

“Maybe it’s a knife, not a needle, and she’s slicing them up instead. All the birds she finds in her chimney and the rats she finds in her larder.”

His friends’ voices were playing over and over in his head, like a dull recording he desperately wanted to shut off.

 “And people. Bodies that her husband’s dug up for her at the graveyard over the weekend.”

His fingers were trembling as he laid his hands on the dusty banister.

“Maybe she’s chopping their fingers off and arranging them in little jars according to their sizes.”

There was a dull ache in their joints – that was more fear than pain – and his heart throbbed loudly against his rib cage, even as his steady steps followed the younger boy up, up, up towards the attic, his eyes transfixed on the mole on the back of his neck, his face pale but straight.

 “Or plucking out their finger nails to use because she doesn’t have her own.”

There was no door. The staircase led straight into a small room, with one large window spilling warm late afternoon sun onto minimal furniture – a bed, a cupboard, a potted plant by the door, a chair by the windowsill and a low desk beneath the window.

Mrs. Fingers was sitting at the desk, her light hair falling in thick curls over one shoulder, the desk in front of her crowded with little clear bottles all filled with red liquid that glittered quietly in the sun.

She turned as Jimmy walked in and smiled lovingly, holding out her hands. A glass mirror in her right hand caught the sun as she moved and flashed briefly. The fingernails on her left hand glinted blood red.

Jimmy went up to his mother and kissed her. Mrs. Fingers reached out for one of the bottles in front of her, held her son’s hands out in front of her, and started painting his nails.

“She’s been like this for five years,” Jimmy said quietly to Ben, who stood still, framed by the doorway. “She was trying to save her sister’s dog from swallowing some switchblade she’d run away with. She ran up Nail Hill after the dog – and tripped over a tree root and fell rolling all the way down, hitting her head against the rocks below. She hasn’t spoken since, and she doesn’t understand what we say either. She just likes to sit at her window, and paint her nails.”

Mrs. Fingers let go of her son’s hands and turned to look at Ben.

“It’s ok. You can come closer, she’s harmless.” Jimmy said, walking over to the potted plant and digging his fingers in the dirt to hide the pink colour on his nails. “And you promised you’d let her use your fingers.”

Ben let Jimmy’s mother pick a nice bright scarlet from amidst the bottled nail colour and paint his nails with it.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke – but he had to get it out.

“It was my switchblade. The one she was running after. I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore,” replied Jimmy Fingers.

Mrs. Fingers heard nothing, and went on painting, her smile quiet and empty as always. And when she finished, she patted the boys on the back and sent them off, each with a set of dirty fingernails, smearing bright red over their sleeves and pockets and trailing messily on the floorboards behind them.