Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The diner’s air was thick with the smell of old grease and ammonia. Jeremy sat with his back to the wall, staring into the black mirror of his coffee. Hartley’s story washed over him, a distant, gentle tide.
“…and you were convinced the neighbour’s goat was a demon. Absolutely steadfast. You’d sit at the window with gran’s watercolours, trying to paint a ward of protection.” Hartley’s voice was steady, a deliberate anchor. He gestured with a fry. “The thing just wanted biscuits. It was a very polite demon.”
A faint twitch at the corner of Jeremy’s mouth. Not a smile, but the ghost of one. His fingers, wrapped around the thick ceramic mug, trembled. The tremors were small, constant, like a tuning fork struck hours ago and never stilled.
Hartley saw it. He kept talking, his tone light, but his eyes missed nothing. “Mum was furious when she found the masterpiece. You’d used her good linens for a canvas. Said the goat’s eyes were ‘windows to a sinister plane.’ You were nine.”
“They were,” Jeremy murmured, his voice raspy from the wind and disuse. He didn’t look up. “It knew things.”
The fluorescent lights above them buzzed, a high-pitched whine that seeped into the teeth. A flicker. Darkness for a half-second, then back to the sickly glow. A waitress dumped a load of dirty plates into a bus tub with a crash that made Jeremy flinch.
Hartley leaned forward, his forearms on the sticky table. “Talk to me, Jem. About anything. The goat’s infernal knowledge. The metaphysical implications of this truly appalling ketchup.” He nudged the bottle with its crusted cap.
Jeremy’s gaze drifted from his coffee to the warped metal divider in the booth. He saw their distorted reflections, elongated and wavering. A sigh escaped him, a sound of profound weariness. Slowly, deliberately, he set the mug down. It clacked too loudly on the Formica.
He pushed back the sleeve of his worn hoodie, revealing the gauze wrapped around his forearm. It was clean, white. A stark contrast to everything else in this place.
Hartley’s cheerful cadence faltered. He watched, silent now.
With numb, clumsy fingers, Jeremy began to pick at the taped end of the bandage. The medical tape unstuck with a soft, ripping sound. He unwound it, one slow, deliberate turn after another. The gauze pooled on the diner table, a small, soiled nest.
Beneath, the skin was a map of ruin. Old, silvery scars formed a cloudbank of past storms. And through them, recent, angry lines. Several. Parallel, precise. The work of a steady, unhurried hand. Not the frantic scribbles of a crisis, but something colder. Intentional.
The fluorescent light buzzed, flickered again. In the stuttering gloom, the cuts seemed to pulse.
Hartley’s breath caught.