The Collectors - VI

Chris carried on on his search for some groceries, but found that all the shops were shut. The colourful buildings were now all polluted by silver shutters covered in graffiti. Auburn leaves fell all around from the promenade trees, littering the floor. Chris tried to look for at least one open shop. It had only been a week since he had visited Pattersby, it couldn't have all shut down in that time.

He followed the promenade as far as the town went, and then spotted something. A figure sat on a small brick wall in front of an abandoned-looking pub. Chris decided maybe he should ask if there were any shops open.

As he approached, he saw that the man's eyes were sunken and red, and that his skin had become stretched and yellowy. His clothes were old and tattered. He looked homeless.

"What... What happened to all the shops?" Asked Chris, gently.

The man coughed. A great, painful chest-heaving cough. When he stopped he looked up at Chris with his watery, red eyes, and said "I don't remember."

The Collectors - V

Isoline and Evander stepped out of the dressmakers shop and into the cool night air.

            “We’ll find her.” Whispered Isoline, her arm around her friend. “We’ll find her.”

            The streets of Pattersby were deserted. All residents were now sunken deep in their extravagantly cushioned beds. Only the cries of the wind could disturb them now.

Isoline had invited Evander over as soon as he informed her of Mandy’s disappearance. His pale countenance at her door had tugged fiercely at something inside her. She had to help him.

No children had ever gone missing in Pattersby before. This was a shock to everyone. The police were over at Evander’s house now, questioning his family and preparing their own search.

            Evander couldn’t wait for that.

Losing a member of your family like losing a limb. For him, Mandy’s disappearance was just the same as his leg vanishing or his arm falling off its joint. He felt punctured, wounded. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t cry. The fear, the tears, they built up inside him an insurgent tornado, moving further and further up his throat. He forced it down.

Now they searched the streets. The cold mattered to neither of them, their aching hunger mattered even less. Isoline held Evander’s hand as they searched, calling out the little girl’s name. Sometimes they ran, petrified that she had come into danger. Sometimes they walked. Sometimes the fear was too much. Sometimes Evander just let the cold numb him.

Neither could remember why they decided to check The Trout’s Tail. Neither could remember why they had gone to seek warmth from a newly opened, greasy pub. Neither could remember why they had walked right in, despite the “CLOSED” sign above the door.

But they did.

They were greeted in there by a woman. A stout little woman, with a very round, flat face. She had grinned at them, before suggesting they follow her.

She took them through a door, into the restaurant room, currently dark and emptied of all beings and cutlery. Through there, they met another door.

Behind this door was an enormous play-area. So large, it must have been impossible for it to fit in that building, never mind the room. It was like a whole world in there. It couldn’t be possible for it to exist at all.

The woman led them inside the play-area. She took them to the left.

There stood a dark curtain, and from behind it there arose the sound of silent bubbling.

Neither Isoline nor Evander questioned the woman when she held the curtain aside for them, revealing the tiny, dark space containing a pool of some gurgling green substance.

Neither of them protested when she pushed them in. 

The Collectors - IV

Through the door of The Trout’s Tail, there stood a bar. A greasy-looking man with a pie of a face stood and wiped at a glass. The bar was made of thick oak, alike the beams hovering above. The walls were covered in nonsensical paintings; women passed eggs to each other in a circle, men rode upturned bicycles, children danced through nettle bushes.

     There was nobody at the bar that evening, though through the door on the left, a cacophony wafted in.

     Tables and chairs were set out evenly across a red-carpeted room. A fire sat at the far end, warming up two plump-looking armchairs in front of it. The tables were filled with families. Snorting, laughing, chattering. But if you looked close enough, you would see that these tables were absent of children.

     Moving along through the restaurant, there were signs all pointing to a door at the bottom of the room, near the fire. All of these signs read ‘PLAY AREA, THIS WAY!’

     Through that door, there stood a child’s dream.

     A plastic-covered, cotton-padded palace. Reds, blues greens and yellows hit the eyes with a regal gleam. It towered above every child that ran through it, dancing on every level in each of their imaginary games.

     Through the entrance, you could choose which way you wished to venture. The right took you to the stairs to the next level. If you went straight ahead you would find yourself in a ball pit. If you turned left…

     Tim Peters stepped from behind a black curtain at the end of the left passage. A strange, gooey substance covered his arms up to his elbows. His nose was snotty, and his eyes still held the hint of tears.

     He walked away from the curtain, out of the entrance, and back into the restaurant.

     He passed the tables of adults, who slowly stopped their babbling to get a glimpse of him, and stood before the table where his parents sat.

     Quietly and calmly, he said “Annie’s gone.”

The Collectors - III

Chris Webbley lived outside of Pattersby, in a cottage in the middle of a field.

His mother loved old buildings. When she had seen Woole Cottage in all its rural glory, she had bought it immediately.

She would do this every year. Always moving from one place to the next.

Chris didn’t mind. He didn’t care that he never had time to make friends, because he didn’t like people that much anyway.

He liked the houses his mother picked, too. He felt he needed the change of scenery every year.

But because of Woole Cottage being so far from civilisation, groceries had to be bought at the nearest town.

The nearest town was Pattersby.

Chris walked through the fields just outside of the seaside town, coming closer to the opening of a street. The muddy ground turned to cobblestoned floor.

The salty air made Chris’s throat sting. He breathed heavily with exhaustion. It was a long walk. Chris was sure the air was colder in Pattersby than anywhere else. He was sure the grey sky was becoming darker as he moved deeper and deeper into the town.

Usually, the walls of streets would be covered in posters for bake sales and charity events. Sometimes even little plays they might put on in the town hall.

This week, when Chris passed the walls, he dismissed the new similar-looking posters for advertisements of some kind. But as he got closer to the main shopping street, he saw more and more of them. They covered walls and concealed windows. They screamed silently to be read, to be noticed. They fluttered in the wind, so many of them, the wings of angels glued onto greying brick.

Chris glanced at a small collection of them.

‘Help!’ they read, ‘Help find my child!’

They called out of their paper prisons; help me, help us, help! Jessica, Lucas, Mandy, Annie, Joshua, Francis, Tim, Joseph, Caroline. GONE. LOST. ALONE.

HELP.

Every single one was a cry for help. Every single one begged for a child to be found.

And this was not just one child.

This was every child in town, it must have been.

Chris glanced around him. The town was deserted. And if there were people there, not one stirred.

The always-harmonious town had frozen.

The Collectors - II

Isoline Findale sat in her bedroom. Her homework lay abandoned atop a desk in the corner. She sat on her bed, which faced the dark window. Her limbs moved with the needle in her finger, sewing intricately at some pale green silk.

     Isoline didn’t like to go out much. But then, there weren’t many people her age in that town to go out with. And even so, she never spoke to them.

     She did however, have one friend. But Evander lived just outside of Pattersby. She only ever saw him at school.

There had once been a time when they would meet up at The Trout’s Tail every Saturday. They’d sit and talk for hours, and Isoline had never felt so alive. She’d never really had anyone to talk to before. 

But The Trout’s Tail had been shut down for two months.

     Now she’d stay in her room and sew. It was the only thing she enjoyed doing, and the only thing that took her away from her thoughts. She didn’t like to think too much. When she’d begin to think, she’d dwell on her old home, her father, her old friends. She’d feel suffocated, and then she’d sew. She’d sew until her head was empty.

     Isoline made a hissing noise as her needle pierced her finger. She put it to her mouth to stop the blood, tasting the salty tang.

     She and her mother, the dress-maker, had moved to Pattersby for some peace after the city. Isoline had hated the city. Too many people, too much occupied space.

     Pattersby wasn’t all that great, either. The townspeople were always prying. At least city people had been too selfish to notice her. These Pattersby people didn’t just look at your life, they took it in their hands, examined it with great precision, and then discussed it with all the people closest to them like a little group of gossip surgeons.

     Isoline hated them all with their cheerful little smiles and waves. None of their gestures were genuine, she knew.

     Then her phone rang.

     Isoline dropped her material, which now appeared to be taking the form of a dress, and grabbed her phone.

     “Hello?” She said, hastily putting it to her ear.

     “Ice?”

     “Ev?”

     Evander’s voice sounded cracked. Broken. Shattered, throaty breaths floated from the phone’s speakers.

     “Are you okay?”

     Ev breaths increased in pace.

     “Ev? Ev, just tell me what’s happened.”

     “It’s… It’s Mandy…”

Mandy was Evander’s little sister. She was a quiet girl, with short dark curls and green-apple eyes. At only six years old, she believed she had already beaten Evander at everything. She could play piano better than him, her singing was better than his, her grades were definitely better than his. It was all true.

     “What is it? Is she okay?”

     “She’s gone missing, Ice. She’s not here.” His voice became a glass in an aggressive hand. It squeezed harder and harder as he spoke, with the last few words shattering into pieces. 

The Collectors - I

Pattersby was a small town. It sat in front of its own portion of the sea. Every house, every shop, every glistening little window stared out at the water. An audience seemingly intrigued by the splashes, the ripples, the foam.

     The shop signs swung, the seagulls circled, windows opened and shut. The town was in blissful harmony.

     Mr Peters rode past on his bicycle. He looked over at the sea with a smile as contented as the buildings. Such a lovely view, he thought, I could never leave this place.

     He rode past the promenade shops. The Fish and Chip shop’s shutters were down at this time in the morning. The Baker’s had been up for a long while. Mr Peters waved in at Johnny Goodle, the baker.

     The grocer, Ella Trisnet, waved up from her cabbage display. Peters kept on cycling. The dress-maker, Stella Findale, returned a disgruntled countenance to Mr Peters’ wave from her shop window.

     Mr Peters skidded and moved aside from the pavement as Mr Evans walked by with his dog.

     “Good morning!” Evans called out, with a self-satisfied grin.

     “Morning!” replied Mr Peters. He kept on cycling.

     He passed the hairdressers, the sweetshop, the antique shop, and the pub…

     The pub?

     Mr Peters’ bike wheel squeaked as he stopped abruptly outside The Trout’s Tail.

     Yesterday, the place had been boarded-up, unused. The Trout’s Tail had been shut since its owners had moved away.

     Pattersby had had no pub for two months, but that did not bother any of them. Not really.

     The Trout’s Tail had only ever been good for its food. Almost everyone in Pattersby had children, and so drinking had never much been a hobby of theirs. The restaurant, though, had proved a nice place for an enjoyable evening meal or a luscious lunch. Mr Peters had once gone in there for a bountiful breakfast with his family.

     But since its previous owners, the pub had stood alone and unwanted. An eyesore in the perfect town.

The townspeople had no friends outside of Pattersby, and Pattersby never really had any visitors. So it wasn’t much of a surprise to find there was no one to take over the pub.

     Mr Peters now stood in front of The Trout’s Tail.

     The windows were open, sparkling and board-less. The sign hanging above the door had been resurrected, a greyish trout suspended in mid-air, its name written along its body. The door was wide open, and the smell of ale-stained wood reached Mr Peters nostrils.

     “You alright there?” Said a small, plump woman who had just appeared in the doorway.

     “I didn’t know this place was opening again.” Mr Peters was still staring at the building.

     “Well yeah, I think you’re the first in the town to find out!” Peters saw her smile in the darkness, and walk over. The light slid over her face as she moved outside, highlighting a greying bun on top of a pie of a face, her eyes set as deep as her wrinkles. “We only moved in last night! But everything’s set up; I think we’re just about ready for customers.”

     Mr Peters vacantly shook the hand that was offered to him.

     “I’m Edna Varsh, my husband and daughter are inside.”

     Mr Peters finally snapped out of his drastic-change-in-the-early-morning shock, and smiled kindly at the woman.

     “Hello. David Peters. Nice to meet you.”

     “So, will you be coming tonight? Restaurant opening? Free pint with every adult meal.” She gave him a sort of awkward wink.

     “Er…” Mr Peters looked back up at the building, “I don’t think I’ll manage it. My wife and kids might show up, though.”

     “Oh lovely!” Edna cried, “Well I do hope they enjoy themselves.” She grinned a toothy grin. “Nice to meet you, David.” She said, before disappearing back into the darkness of the doorway.

     “Yeah… Bye.” Mr Peters stared after her for a little while, before pushing his foot back onto the pedal and slowly riding away.