Flying

See sky
Slip-slide
Deep blue
Follow through
Rain cloud
Grey shrouds
Swing-along
Swallow song
Skip-step
Hurtle-neck
High-low
Curving slow
Gentle rise
Bumpy turn
Sharp pull
Ear full
Wafty white
Water strays
Floating by
Sailing sails
Window soon
Waning moon
Eagle soar
Tumble-pour
Spin around
Thrown about
Up and down
Washed in
Washed out
Whiplash rain
Ice and grain
Too quick
Window sill
Too slow
Curve and go
Mis.Step
Plunge and fell
Picking up
Winding through
High Noon
Low Moon
Out and out
Shining stars
Straight back fall
Plunging far
Spin away
Away. Away
Reach for sky.
And ground.
And there.

Bangalore Junes

Mornings and evenings and mornings and evenings

That strange sort of melancholy you only find when it rains

Stored away doings - some crumbled to rubbles

Some drenched in the smell of what-we-cooked-yesterday.

Sun is precious, and filtered and processed

And seeps in through sieves, stretched across the windows

And time is precious, and filtered and processed

But too much or too little - that nobody knows.

Replayed and re-run, and re-heard and re-spun

To speak is to repeat, and nothing is new

Between changing watches and the next batch of dishes

Twenty nine hours of nothing is due

Nothings have piled up like laundry in stacks

And laundry has piled up like yoga on mats

And mats are all rolled up in dusty old corners

Misplaced brooms and discount packs.

First Movement: Andante

There is music coming from the old café.

A soft trickle at first, wafting through the open doorway.

The bronze light of the afternoon sparkles on the cracked glass

Old stained glass windows, half-boarded up – half broken

Where some misplaced forgotten anger had barged in

Helped by a brick. Or two. A long time ago.

The notes grow frequent – less hesitant – 

Wilder and bolder. Haunting. And free.

In fours, the bars escape, some through the doorway,

Some through the windows, some through the lines of silent chimneys

That ache in the tired sun. Encased in smoke that isn’t theirs

But is the city’s. The smoke is a good stage for the music.

They don’t belong together. But one carries the other.

It is much too early for people to be crowding that particular café

In the middle of the tired streets and the coughing factories

All younger than the café itself. All busier than the café itself.

But a crowd is gathering. The music draws them near.

In couplets and triplets, in solos and quartets

In gathering groups of growing girths

In tremolos and trills and accented staccatos

To listen to singing is to sing with your ears.

The doors are open and the little figure hunched

Over the massive instrument - her fingers, bunched

Dance over the old keys a familiar dance

That we've all heard before - or have we?

And the dance lifts off the keys - off the air

And settles in spaces - in little spaces, here and there.

In nooks and crannies, as all wandering dances do.

In hummings and whistlings, and some ankles and some shoes.

In whirling dust-storms that swirl off the ground,

And everyone listens as the dance dances around.

Tailored to Fit

Characters:

. Rani, a psychotic tailor

. Jhumpa, the concerned friend

. Mr. Ezekiel, a black suit

. Mrs. Senpai, a kimono

. Thumri Kakkar, a kurta punjabi

. Guria, a six-year-old’s ghagra

. Vijay, the apologetic visitor

Scene One:

A tailor’s shop – the roller shutters are drawn shut. Rani is sitting at her sewing machine. There is a constant drone of the machine – it is the only sound that can be heard above the traffic outside. The wall of the store is lined with clothes on hangers. Glitzy shiny stuff – it’s December, and close to festival time.

A huge pile of cloth lies like a mountain of multicolor downstage right. Stage left is devoted to a tiny bed and a small dresser.

Rani: It’s lonely in winter. All year around you don’t notice it so much. But when winter gets around and everyone’s getting ready to put up their Christmas lights all over the place – and there’s enough work to do to keep you from getting out – but not enough to lose yourself in – Pujo’s better – at least there’s so much to do then that you’ll never finish on time. I miss Abba.

Girl(Voice from outside and a rap on the shutters): Rani! Rani! You forgot again, didn’t you!

(Rani gets up from the machine and rolls the shutters up – just a little so that the girl outside can come in. You get a glimpse of the street too, when she comes in – and it’s all bright lights and festivity.  Walking feet pass by, in glittering shoes. The girl’s about the same age as Rani, but dressed brighter – as if she’s just come in from the street outside)

Rani: Forgot what?

Girl: We were supposed to go to the ghat today – have phuchka? (she looks around the shop) Dhurr – you’re going to say there’s too much work again, aren’t you.

Rani: He’d die again if he found out I was going out with all that left –

Girl: Who? You’ve been talking to yourself again, haven’t you?

Rani: No. I mean, I really don’t have the time, Jhumpa, I have too much to do.

Jhumpa: Well, it’s not as if it’s Eid or something. 


Rani: It's Christmas!


Jhumpa: Ok, ok – I get it, I’m going. Vijay’s waiting for me anyway. Worst thing Mr. Akhtar ever did was to leave you his shop. It’s not like you need the money – and you’ll graduate soon enough! (Rani gently pushes her out and rolls the shutter back down on her) Why can’t you just sell the damn thing?

Rani: Bye, Jhumpa. 

(she turns around and, staring at the cloth pile, sinks to the floor)

Rani: Mr. Ezekiel knows, don’t you, Mr. Ezekiel?

(the pile of cloth on the floor shifts slightly – and a child crawls out. She’s about thirteen, and looks exactly like Rani. She’s dressed in a ghagra that’s way too big for her and is trailing on the floor. She turns around and drags out a black suit from the heap. The last bit comes out loose suddenly – and she slips and falls on her back. She gets up and arranges the suit on a low stool just upstage right of the cloth pile. Arranges it so that it looks like a person’s sitting there. Then she laughs and disappears.)

Rani: How are you, Mr. Ezekiel? Too many years under Mrs. Chatterjee’s petticoat? That can’t have been fun. How does it feel to still be here after ten years? Has it really been that long? Has it? Oh yes – oh my god yes – ten years. Do you feel like a smoke, Mr. Ezekiel? Do you feel like you need a drink?  It’s winter, you know – not so difficult to find rum in winter. But you can’t drink, can you, Mr. Ezekiel? Because you’re not really Mr. Ezekiel. Mr. Ezekiel died on the way back to Lindsay street after he gave Abba his measurements – and never came back for you. Are you lonely, then, Mr. Ezekiel’s suit? Did you curse Abba for not cutting you up and making you into tiny little mourning suits for Mr. Ezekiel’s sons? Did you want to visit the funeral? Do you want to run away? Do you want to run away away away and never ever have to come back to this little shop where you were made – with those very needles over there – and those reels of thread over there – and that old machine over there – and those hands…

Or do you want to stay here forever, Mr. Ezekiel? With Guria and Miss Senpai and Thumri and those clothes over there that’ll you’ll never get to know because they’ll all be on their way before the season turns – and those scraps over there that you had a little fling with in the summer who will all be leaving you for a patchwork drapery for a wedding hall. All the things you know and the only things you know.

Jhumpa (outside the door, crying): Rani! Raaani! Open the rollers.

(Rani jumps up and lets her in)

Jhumpa: Oh Rani! I saw them together at the ghats. Vijay and Jasmine. I didn’t know what to do! Why didn’t I see this coming!

Rani: Come in and sit down.

Jhumpa: Rani, I’m such an idiot. I don’t want go back home – can I stay with you to – (sees Mr. Ezekiel) ohhh. Who – oh. Oh, it’s just a suit. What the hell are you playing at? I got so scared!

Rani: It’s alright, Jhumpa. You can stay here tonight. Do you want some dinner?

Jhumpa: No – oh Rani – I’m so stupid. (starts crying again)

Rani: Sit down – I’ll get you something to drink.

(exit stage left)

(Jhumpa sits on the bed – her eyes keep straying towards the suit on the stool. She gets up once or twice and looks for Rani near the left wings – and keeps turning to look at Mr. Ezekiel. Then she looks back at the open rollers, shivers, and lowers them down. As soon as they shut – the lights go off – and Jhumpa screams in the dark.)

Scene Two:

The same. In the dark, the clothes look sinister – especially the suit propped up on the stool. The heaps and piles of cloth here and there create eerie shapes. There is hardly any light – just a soft glow from within the left wings.

Rani: Jhumpa, I’m here. I’m coming – don’t worry.

(She enters with a candle and sets it down centre stage.  Jhumpa is crouched against the rollers)

Rani: Sit on the bed, Jhumpa. Don’t worry – there’s a load shedding at this time every other day. It’s usually not so bad during winter, but the power will be back in about an hour or so. I can roll the shutter up if you want – but there’s no light outside, either.

Jhumpa: NO. I mean, do you have any more candles? I hate the shadows. The place looks so damn depressing. Especially the suit. Will you get that off the chair?

Rani: Oh, you mean Mr. Ezekiel?

Jhumpa: Oh my god.

Rani: Don’t worry about him – he’s been here forever. He’s not the only one. There’s Mrs. Senpai.

(The child walks into the room again while she speaks, dragging another garment in with her. She sets it up on a hanger – and hangs that against a wall with the glitzy new costumes. It’s a bright red kimono.)

She’s getting old. She used to belong to a famous actor – Rina Brown, have you heard of her? Took them more than five years to film that Tokyo movie. So long that she needed some loosening at the waist and the hip – well practically everywhere along the sides. And then she just got left here. Maybe she got so fat that they couldn’t do the movie anymore. I don’t know – it never came out. She’s around here somewhere. (moves around with the candle and finds the kimono)

Here she is. Isn’t she gorgeous?

Jhumpa: I wish you’d get more candles.

Rani: And there’s Thumri Kakkar. He’s not as old as the rest of them – you’ll quite like him. He’s tall and handsome and makes the strangest comments at the strangest times.

(The child walks in with another garment, and sits it up against the rollers this time)

He came with a bunch of other wedding clothes the groom had worn – to cut up and create babies’ blankets from – god knows why they’d want such uncomfortable babes’ blankets. Anyway, the baby died, I think – and they got divorced. And when he came back to pick all his clothes up – he wasn’t very calm you see – and he left poor Thumri behind. I don’t know when he’d worn Thumri – his wedding night – or the following morning – god knows. But I bet Thumri’s sad – to be made for such happy family occasions and then discarded after a single wear. Here he is, see, sitting like he’s about to fall apart at the seams. Poor Thumri Kakkar. Do you want some dinner, too?

Jhumpa: RANI. Candles!

Rani: Oh, sorry. I’ll get some more.

(exit stage left)

Jhumpa: Leave me your candle!

Rani: Sorry!

(Rani comes back and leaves her a candle)

(Jhumpa walks to centre stage with the candle and does a few double takes. Mr. Ezekiel, Mrs. Senpai and Thumri Kakkar have all shifted their postures while she wasn’t looking)

Jhumpa: RANI! Come back quick!

(She inspects each of the garments closely with the candle and prods the pile of clothes on the floor. When she looks up, the garments move synchronously and jerkingly.)

(Rani walks in carrying a lit candle and a packet)

Jhumpa: It’s Mr. Ezekiel – (she points at him)

Rani: Mr. Ezekiel, have you been moving again?

(Jhumpa shrinks away from them)

Rani: Oh Jhumpa, it’s nothing to be worried about. He keeps doing this, the stupid adorable little man. I mean, suit. Oh, I mean – Mr. Ezekiel tell her. Tell her it’s all alright.

Jhumpa: No, no, no, Rani – it’s alright, I’m alright, I don’t want him to tell me anything – I –

(she drops the candle)

(Mr. Ezekiel gets out of his chair and picks it up and holds it out for her)

Mr. Ezekiel: Fire’s dangerous, didn’t you know?

(Jhumpa shrieks and runs to sit on the bed)

Mr. Ezekiel: Do you want help with those, dear?

Rani (lighting the other candles): Oh no, thank you. You might catch fire. You know how clumsy you always were with your sleeves. You keep Mrs. Senpai occupied – I think she’s trying to get at Jhumpa’s hair.

(Mrs. Senpai is indeed reaching out towards Jhumpa)

Sorry, Jhumpa – she’s a bit senile – and she misses her own hair you know. Try telling her she’s never had any – and you might just get scalped!

Mrs. Senpai: I beg your pardon? Me? I’d never.

Mr. Ezekiel: Why don’t you come here and sit with me, Mrs. Senpai – we’ll watch the candle flame flicker to and fro.

(He goes and helps Mrs. Senpai out towards the audience, sits with them and they watch the nearest flame with the utmost concentration)

Thumri: You’re sad. I’m sad. I can tell.

(Jhumpa stares at him)

Rani: Be nice, Jhumpa. I can usually never get him to talk.

Jhumpa: Hello.

Thumri: Never say hello to somebody. They’re going to leave you anyway.

(Jhumpa looks like she’s going to cry again)

Mrs. Senpai: There, there dear – Thumri, you rascal, who told you to say such unpleasant things? Talk about something nice – something you know about – like zippers and buttons and hooks!

Jhumpa: No, no, it’s alright. I’m sorry about that groom of yours.

Thumri: Well, he wasn’t my groom.

Jhumpa: (laughing nervously) I like your kurta – I mean, I like you. I mean, it’s a nice colour. I mean, is it grey or blue or purple – I can’t tell in the dark.

Thumri: I don’t know. But thank you. I like you too.

Jhumpa: Oh.

Thumri: Do you want to light a candle with me?

Jhumpa: Oh. I mean, I’d love to – but Rani said that –

Mr. Ezekiel: You’ve got a sane head on your collars. Listen to her Thumri, it will do you some good.

Thumri: It’s a beautiful head. I wish I had a beautiful head.

Jhumpa: I wish you had one, too. I could practically –

Mrs. Senpai: Oh, but we do have heads, dear, who told you we don’t? Look at us again!

(Heads peep out from the collars of the three garments – hands from the sleeves, and feet from the legs)

Thumri: You could practically what?

Scene Three:

Rani: Someone’s missing.  Where’s Guria?

Mr. Ezekiel: She must be talking to the shadows again.

Rani: Well, that means it’s dinnertime. Shall we have a candlelit meal?

Mrs. Senpai: I must get ready for it then – Rani, can you get me something for my hair?

Rani: Something for your – Mrs. Senpai! NO – but I think I can get something for – oh wait, I have just the right thing – what a change it will be - 

Mr. Ezekiel: Please don’t change her again, Rani, I couldn’t bear it if she changed.

Rani: Mr. Ezekiel – it’s just a bow! There – how’s that Mrs. Senpai?

Mrs. Senpai: Is it new? What did I have on before?

Rani: Mrs. Senpai! I must do something about that memory of yours – do you think – yes, I think I should stitch some satin into your head – or maybe a quarter meter of muslin would do the trick – what do you think, Mr. Ezekiel? 

Mr. Ezekiel:  Oh but – Mrs. Senpai’s perfect! You’re the finest seamstress in all the land, Rani, but –

Rani: Alright, alright, Mr. Ezekiel – I must get some dinner now. We’ll talk about this later.  (exits)

Jhumpa: Do you need help? 

Thumri: She’ll manage on her own – Rani always does. 

Jhumpa: Oh. Good. 

(The child runs in, picks up some clothes off the shelves, and tries to set them up standing against the bed.)

Jhumpa: Who is that?

Mr. Ezekiel: That’s Guria.

Jhumpa: What is she trying to do?

Thumri: Get the clothes to talk to her. 

Mr. Ezekiel: It’s what Rani used to do – a long time ago.

(The clothes keep falling off.)

Jhumpa: Why won’t they talk?

Thumri: Not everybody wants to talk.

Mrs. Senpai: It just isn’t time yet.

Jhumpa: What does that mean?

Mrs. Senpai: What, dear?

Jhumpa: What you said just now… when do the clothes – when do you start talking?

Mrs. Senpai: Is that what I said? I don’t remember. You have beautiful hair.

Mr. Ezekiel: Sorry, she forgets things sometimes. 

Thumri: But you do have beautiful hair.

Jhumpa: When did you start talking?

Thumri: Rani thinks it’s when she stitched me a voice.

Jhumpa: She can stitch you voices?

Mrs. Senpai: She thinks she can.

Mr. Ezekiel: She can stitch anything.

Thumri: I would have talked to you even if she hadn’t stitched me a voice.

Mr. Ezekiel: No you wouldn’t.

Thumri: Mr. Ezekiel, cloth boxes don’t make us talk. 

Jhumpa: What makes you talk, then?

Thumri: What makes you talk?

Jhumpa: Oh. But I’m not like – I mean – I can talk because – I – can’t say.

(Guria tries to prop the clothes up against something else – the roller shutters.) 

Mr. Ezekiel: They’re just very new clothes.  Rani just finished stitching them. 

Mrs. Senpai: She stitched the collar half a centimeter tighter than it should be. She does that when she’s stitching clothes for people she doesn’t like very much. 

Mr. Ezekiel: That’s not true, Mrs. Senpai. Rani wouldn’t do that. 

Jhumpa: Who are these clothes for, then?

Mrs. Senpai: I don’t remember. 

Mr. Ezekiel: Vijay. It says so on the bill.

Jhumpa: Who?

Thumri: Are you alright? 

Jhumpa: I think I’ll go see if Rani needs help. (exits)

Thumri(looking after Jhumpa): Rani really can’t stitch everything, you know.

Mr. Ezekiel: Thumri, what do you think would happen if someone took a large pair of scissors and cut us up?

Mrs. Senpai: Mr. Ezekiel! What a horrid thought! Why would anyone do that? And even if they did – Rani would just stitch us back up again.

Mr. Ezekiel: Do you think clothes go to heaven?

Thumri: Do you think she ran away? I always scare people off. 

Scene Four:

(Rani walks in with a tray, followed by Jhumpa, with glasses.)

Rani: We’ll need some more candles. Where is Guria?

(The child runs to them and blows out the nearest candle)

Rani: Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s Guria. That ghagra – that’s mine. From back when I was six. Guria, what are you doing?

(Guria blows out a few more candles and runs to Rani and whispers something in her ear)

Rani: Oh. She says there’s someone standing outside the shutter who wants all the candles off.

Jhumpa (whimpering): No. Why?

(Someone bangs on the roller doors from outside. Guria blows off the candles one by one, as Ezekiel and Senpai and Thumri walk to their original positions on stage)

Rani: Don’t worry, dear, let me see.

(There is only one candle left now, in her hand. She rolls up the shutters and a man bends and walks in, completely drenched. Jhumpa whimpers softly)

Rani: Vijay! You’re completely drenched! What are you doing here? Is it about that shirt and pants that you wanted. They’re stitched and done. I’ll fetch them for you?

(she walks off to the right of the stage, looking for the clothes)

Vijay: No – no – I came for Jhumpa. I – I – there she is – I came to say I’m sorry. About letting you down like that. With Jasmine, I mean. I’m really sorry. I should have told you. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that there – at the ghat. Me and Jasmine – we’re both very very sorry. She wanted to tell you too – but it’s just that I can’t find her. I can’t find her anywhere. I’m sorry –

Rani: That’s so strange. I can’t find Vijay’s clothes anywhere.

Vijay: It’s alright. I don’t need them now. I’ll go look for Jasmine now.

(he blows out the candle)

Scene Five:

The lights come one – the same room. Everything in the same place. All the people are also standing exactly where they were – except the garments are just garments now, sitting/standing in their original positions and places. And in place of Vijay, there is a shirt and a pair of jeans propped against the roller.

(Jhumpa sinks into Mr. Ezekiel’s lap)

Jhumpa: It was so dark – so dark. I didn’t mean to. I got so angry, seeing them together that I just lost it and flew at them – and before I knew it they were in the river – and I didn’t know what to do – I’m so stupid. So stupid. (she breaks down)

Rani: Oh. There they are. Vijay’s clothes. I finished making them a while back. I was looking for them, you know.

You can come visit him whenever you want.

END

Woogally in the Lair of the Beasts

Happy Birthday, Woogally!!!

Open publication - Free publishing - More ally

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.