Nobody’s Notice

Night falls once again, bruising the sky, and plunging the world into icy darkness. The lamps interspersed along the side of the road illuminate little for the fog.

The cul-de-sac at the end of Olive Lane is darker than the rest of the street, because of the woodlands beyond the small pedestrian access path.

The undergrowth is moving, but there is no wind to stir it.

Jennifer watches the police depart the neighbourhood, and burns with curiosity. They had remained for some time, though she had witnessed no disturbance. At least now Alfie might calm down; he’s been acting up all afternoon.

She resolves to get about the evening routine, and begins to prepare dinner for the children.

Genevieve is still asleep upstairs, and Tamworth is playing video games in his room.

A car arrives outside the house; Jennifer starts, and then realises it is her husband home from work.

Alfie begins to bark, as he usually does, but a little more wildly than normal. Something in his voice is far more desperate. Genevieve wakes in the room next door.

Alfie leaps off the master bed, steals the black silk bow tie on the floor in the cupboard ajar and bolts from the room, down the stairs, and straight out the front door as Kyle opens it.

“Damn it - Hi, Jenny!”

“Oh, hi Kyle,”

“Alfie just got out, I’m going to get him, hold on a minute-”

The door closes, Jennifer sighs. That dog’s a menace; what’s gotten into him lately?

Alfie shoots down the road. For a dog his size, he runs with great speed. Kyle is floundering and clumsy by comparison, in his smart leather shoes and crisp blue-collared uniform.

Kyle fails to see which house it is into which Alfie disappears, but he scours each yard, hoping he hasn’t gone far.

The bushes rustle around the cul-de-sac, as if being rummaged, or stumbled through, by several people, to Nobody's notice.

Alfie dives into the open basement window of No. 57, drops the tie, and barks once.

He is alone. It is not like last time; there are no shadows speaking to him.

He is apprehensive about barking again. He would prefer to avoid another of those unsettlingly peculiar conversations, if he can, and let the shadow sleep - or do whatever it's doing.

After a couple of minutes, Alfie’s eyes adjust to the darkness. He walks further into the room.

He sees in every corner large piles of miscellaneous objects: garden hoses, coat hangers, pillowcases, single socks and gloves, pieces of furniture, bicycles, jewellery - the list just goes on.

Something starts moving upstairs.

Lights are ablaze in all of the windows except for those at No. 57.

Kyle peers into each and every yard, peeking under every shrub, and into every flowerbed.

Each time he leans in to inspect a garden, 57’s gate opens and closes several times. It is silent still, from its recent oiling.

“Kids, dinner!” Jennifer has their sausage and mash with gravy plated at their table, and their cocoa warmed.

Tamworth comes down immediately, and Genevieve several minutes later.

The basement door opens. Alfie scuttles out of sight and watches. Two short silhouettes come and gather up a load each of stuff from one of the corners, and turn and exit, leaving the door open. Alfie runs up the stairs and then out of the house.

Kyle is still several houses down, and doesn't see Alfie split into the street. He barks as he runs home, and Kyle, bewildered, turns to follow.

Smoke begins to pour out of the chimney at No. 57, thick, and billowing.

Kyle unlocks the door, and Alfie bounds inside and lays down in the living room, suddenly content.

"I don't know what his problem is lately," Jennifer remarks.

Kyle hangs up his coat and scarf, sniffing the air. "He's probably senile."

Jennifer laughs, "maybe." She walks into the kitchen. "Give me a few minutes and I'll get some food ready."

"Oh don't worry, I ate on the way home."

"Righteo then," she continues cooking her meal.

Someone is walking slowly down the pavement, someone indistinct and ill-defined. They stop every couple of houses to inspect something, and then continue. They stop at No. 32, and begin to rummage through the trash.

Kyle holds up a finger. "Can you hear something?"

"No,"

He freezes for several moments, then turns, and abruptly opens the front door.

The bins have been turned, and trash strewn across the street.

"Oh, you what!" he pulls on his coat again, takes a broom, and hastily sweeps up all the trash and places it into the bins, leaving them safely inside the fence.

During this exercise, he misses several pieces of trash, including a banana peel, a used teabag, and an empty tube of toothpaste, which now all lie in the road.

Kyle hurries inside, remarking, "I wonder what could have done that? A fox? The wind?"

"Well the bins are inside the fence now, aren't they?" Jennifer offers.

"Yes dear, they certainly are." He rather thought they had been to begin with.

On the top floor of No. 57, in the right-side window, Nobody stands watching, surrounded by smoke that fills the entire room. After several moments, he walks into the recesses of the house. He descends a staircase which opens out into a larger room, in which some hundred or two hundred secret people are gathered, eagerly awaiting his arrival.

He steps onto the landing and casts a sweeping gaze over them. They gaze unblinkingly back.

My friends... you have done well. But... it has not been enough... I fear this power is... ephemeral... it is insufficient for my needs.

There is a prolonged moment of silence before somebody responds.

“But what about McNeid? Did anyone see what happened to ‘im? Back up at that rich guy’s place? He got well powerful, jus’ from cigars an’ whiskey!”

Yes, as did I... what I’m saying, Mr. Manwel, is that this power fades quickly... is is not substantial enough for all of us... Look at my body... I am already fading back into shadows and dust...

"Then what should we do?"

Find Mr. McNeid.

Mr. Billingdon comes hazily to consciousness. The last thing he can remember is having recently done the same thing in his armchair and having seen - a figure.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to make them focus.

He opens them again, and sees only shadows in a dimly lit shack. His vision is still fuzzy.

Horace, can you hear me?!

"What? Who said that?" Mr. Billingdon can feel the breath on his ear. He turns around and he's alone, but he can smell cigar smoke.

I need your help...

"Where are you?"

I'm going to drink all your whiskey...

"You're that little thief, aren't you? What, do you think you're going to get a ransom for kidnapping me? Ha! Joke's on you, kiddo!"

Joke's on all of us sooner or later, Horace, you ought to know that...