by Dan Richardson
I first saw the Body in the doorway.
I stopped when I saw it, my hands holding tight to my backpack, the straps cutting into my shoulders. The other people walked by without looking at it. Cars glided by, hissing through the puddles and sending icy jets of water cascading over the pavement. The water shot over my white socks, too, pulled up to my knees. The other people skirted the puddles and the Body, crowding together, their shiny black shoes slapping down on the wet flagstones.
I approached the Body, slowly, edging around it in a wide circle. The legs were sprawled out on the pavement, straight-legged and still. The paving stones were wet and its skirt was soaked through, shiny and transparent as it clung to the legs. Its back was pressed against the door, the head drooping and lolling against the doorframe. The arms were spread wide as if inviting comment, the backs of the hands resting on the pavement, fingers curled into half-closed fists.
The other people hurried by. One jogged past his companions, his briefcase knocking against others’ knees. He stepped on the Body’s fingers as he passed, crushing them flat to the floor. Released from the pressure, they slowly curled back into the half fist. The man didn’t slow down. The Body didn’t move.
I stopped again a short distance from the Body. In the shadow cast by the doorway the Body’s head was shrouded in darkness, its countenance hidden by hair dripping from the rain. I bent low until I was level with the body, peering into its face. I made eye contact with it. Its frozen eyes gazed upwards, locking me in place. I stayed there for a few moments, looking at the Body, then at the people walking past. They were skirting me now, too. Giving me the same berth. I stayed there, crouching, until my thighs grew numb, and my skirt became wet where it lay on the pavement. I touched it, my fingers moving over the grit and dirt picked up from the ground. There was dirt on the Body, too. Flecks littered the marbled surface of its legs, mottling the bare skin. Without thinking I got up and re-joined the crowd, allowing myself to be swept along the pavement with the others, the wet hem of my skirt flapping against my legs. The crowd seamlessly formed around me as I allowed it to sweep me away.
On the second day, I approached from the opposite pavement. The streetlights and the garish window displays illuminated the whole street, the wet ground reflecting the multi-coloured light until it looked like some sodden fairground. The Body was still in the darkness of the doorway, a hole cut into the brightly lit street. Only the legs poked out into the light, exactly where I had last seen them. I slowed down as I got closer. As I watched, the door opened behind the Body. It pushed the Body forward, shoving it until it was almost bent double, catching on the Body’s blouse and pulling it half up its back. The man gave the door one last shove and the Body twitched once more, before he stepped out of the doorway, moving over the Body with care. The door shut behind him, the sound lost to the rain and the traffic and the hurried footsteps of the people. Released from the pressure, the torso eased upwards, slumping sidewards into the wall. Shifting the backpack on my shoulders, I moved with the current of the crowd before the Body could make eye contact.
On the third day, I sat in the café opposite. Its tables were open to the street. The awning flapped in the wind over my head, an overflowing gutter spattered onto the floor next to me. I stared at the Body as I drank my coffee. It was still slumped against the wall, its hands still resting on the pavement. If I moved my head, and took a deep breath, I could look right into its eyes. It wasn’t easy – so many people walked between, the Body was blocked for seconds at a time, briefcases and umbrellas and flapping coats in my way. I blinked at the Body. A few more people passed between us.
Then, the Body blinked back.
With slow, stiff movements, the Body drew its feet towards it, and placed the palms of its hands on the ground. With agonising slowness, it got to its feet, never taking its eyes off my face. The cup trembled in my hand as the Body crossed the street. None of the people looked up as it passed, the dead space around the Body moving with it as it approached my table, its feet dragging beneath its dead weight. It sat down next to me, without asking.
“Coffee?” I asked. The cup, still in my hands, rattled against the saucer as I spoke. The Body shook its head. Water fell from its hair, dropping on the formica topped table with a soft plunk. Nonetheless, it reached out and took my cup. The breath caught in my throat as the body’s fingers slid over my own. The skin was cold and almost hard, like marble. It wrapped its fingers around the cup, trying to coax warmth out of the remaining lukewarm coffee.
“I’ll get you a fresh cup, something to – to really warm your insides,” I said. “Excuse me, can I – hello? Excuse me?” Behind the counter, the barista gave no sign that he heard me. An expression of distaste flashed over his face before he turned away and busied himself with the till. I paused for a second before I turned back to the body. “He must be busy,” I said.
The body made a sound, like something was caught in its throat. It pulled in air, then tried again. “They will not look, when you are with me,” it croaked.
I nodded in reply. Deprived of my cup, I traced the dried coffee mark on the bottom of the saucer. “Have you – have you ever spoken to anyone before?”
It shook its head, sending more drops over the table. One of them landed in the coffee. I shifted in my seat and repressed a shudder as its leg touched mine. The soaking skirt was nothing to the icy cold skin. It was like pressing refrigerated sausages against my bare leg. I squeezed my legs together, squashing my backpack between my knees. I slipped my hand under the table and curled it around one strap.
“Do you know how long,” the Body croaked, and I leaned in to hear in spite of myself, “I have lain there?” I shook my head. “I was warm when I first lay down. Here, feel,” and it grabbed my hand. The cold coursed through me and my hand was frozen in place. I gasped and tried to pull away. It was held tight. I looked into the Body’s face, which was expressionless, and then at its arm. “I do not resist you. My muscles – rigor mortis, I think they call it – “
I wrenched my hand free and threw my chair backwards. The table gave a jolt as I pulled my backpack out; the coffee cup fell to the floor and smashed. I fled into the crowd, swamped almost at once by the people moving past me like a tide. I didn’t look back.
At the table, the Body watched me go. With an effort, it heaved itself up, its feet pushing aside the broken fragments of the cup. It walked slowly back across the street and got to the floor outside the doorway. The hands flopped onto the pavement, its legs jutted out into the artificial light.
Category: Featured, Fiction, Short Story