Muddy Waters (PG13, original fiction)
Sep. 1st, 2017 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lucifersprizeI wrote it then wondered what to do with it. Thought, what the heck, it can go with the rest of my stuff. Apologies if you're only here for fandom.
Title: Muddy Waters
Rating: PG13 for dark themes
Genre: Original Fiction
Length: ~1700 words
Warnings: dark!fic, disturbing themes including child abduction
Brian watches.
A breeze stirs the marram grass and it clacks together as his foot shifts in the soft sand of the dune. It's reassuring that he won't be leaving any footprints. Still, it rained during the night and while the sand has dried, a muddy waterfall tumbles down a shamble of rocks beneath the cliff. It spreads into a shallow stream to trickle over a shell-gritty beach where the sea rolls lazily to meet it. Above, gulls ride the breeze, dip and soar against a cloud-dotted blue sky. They screech noisily over the rhythmic crash and scrape of the waves.
He doesn't soak in the atmosphere or admire the view. He scans the distant beach with an experienced eye, assessing the holidaymakers with their salmonella-picnics and gaudy bags; with their trashy music and sweet sun lotion. They disgust him. They deserve to suffer.
He switches his concentration back to a girl who hums a sweet tune as she plays at the base of the waterfall, absorbed in her own world. He tuts because she is sure to dirty her white lace dress which falls prettily in pleats to just below her knees. It's terrible behaviour and the parents aren't even nearby. It's a disgrace. Who will teach her better?
Brian thinks that he should. He lets sand scatter and roll under him as he descends the dune and she senses him, looks his way giving a wide pink smile, all pearl teeth and dimples. Her long blonde hair follows the movement of her head, falls silky onto her shoulders and in the dappled light it appears be be streaked a deep, seaweed green. The illusion fades and then she's sitting by the muddy fall a few yards away looking up at him with bright aquamarine eyes full of innocence.
She's maybe nine or ten, it's hard for Brian to tell. She's petite, for sure and her breasts have not started to bud but there's something else, and he can't put his finger on it. She seems older somehow. He dismisses the thought, he knows what he sees and it is honey to a bee. He licks his lips and tastes salt. Patience, he thinks, he will taste her sweetness soon enough.
“Mister?” she sing-songs the query, while her fingers drag playfully through the waterfall scattering drops onto the alabaster skin of her slim legs. They glisten and roll and his gaze follows their course before returning up past her knees, focusing on her hidden thighs, wondering what treasures lay beneath her dress. She looks away, bashful and runs her wet fingers through her hair, taming the tresses, flicking them neatly behind her ear.
It's a deliberate tease, he knows that. Children like her use their charms to lure men. It's why her parents care little to watch over her, it's why God allows him continue his mission without intervention. Last Summer, after the little red-head who screamed so prettily at he sight of her own blood, the police gave Brian a moniker and produced a picture which looked nothing like him. Now he's 'The Fisherman', like Jesus, and his work is acknowledged. He knew it was a sign, so he had booked a hotel, told his nagging fish-wife that he deserved another break and had come alone to this place with its caravan parks and noisy arcades and its undulating beaches full of nooks and caves and picnic spots.
“Mister. Can you help me?” She points a slim, almost bony finger at his fishing rod (child -size rod to seem child friendly of course).
He scans the surrounding area, licks his finger to check wind direction (because screams carry on a fresh breeze) then gives a shark-grin before crouching down on the opposite side of the tiny stream to speak with her. It's almost too easy.
“Are you lost?” he asks.
She shakes her head and giggles.“No, Mister. Are you lost?” The sun catches on her face and for a moment it shines;she seems almost ethereal. His breath catches in his throat. She is a temptress - surely the work of the devil.
“I was going fishing, over there, by the rock-pools,” Brian replies, gesturing vaguely, “But your mommy and daddy will want you to stay close.”
She toys with her hair again, winding it around her finger. “Oh, they don't care,” she replies, almost too quick and carefree, but many children are bold when the sun shines on the sea. Holidays serve to please children, and resorts are full of adults eager to pander to their every wish.
Brian proffers his fishing rod, across the trickling stream, “Would you like to hold it?”
“No.” She shakes her head, looks up at him with a knowing pout.
“Well I have to go, I caught some really shiny fish yesterday.” He shrugs and stands, a pretence to bait her.
She stands too, “I can't,” she says sadly, “My gold bangle is in the stream.” A single, manipulative tear slides over her lashes, leaves a salt track down her cheek.
He frowns, the stream doesn't seem deep enough to lose anything in, but perhaps sand has shifted around it. Whatever the reason, it is a way to get close and gain her trust. “Let me see,” has says kindly. He puts down the fishing rod and takes a huge stride over the stream so he can stand beside her. It's impossible to resist dipping his hand into his pocket to run his fingertips briefly over hand ties and a gag. It almost makes him shudder with delight, but he has work to gain her trust before he can use them. He kneels by the fall, pretends to concentrate very hard on the water that froths and flows there.
She kneels beside him and he can feel her bare arm warmly pressed against his and it sends a curl of black excitement to the very base of his belly. Slow down, he thinks, she's taken the bait, time to give some slack. “What's your name?” he asks her, as casual as he can.
“Mari,” she answers.
“It's pretty, like you,” he replies. It's too obvious, too soon, he thinks, annoyed with his own impatience.
She preens her hair. “Thank you, it is an old name,” she says with a smirk that goes unnoticed because Brian has spotted a glint of gold in the swirl of sandy water and it is far bigger than he imagined it would be. The bangle must be worth hundreds of pounds. After he was done with Mari it would be a fitting souvenir, something cool and substantial to hold when his mind raced and his body begged for fulfilment.
Her voice pulls him from his reverie, “Please, can you reach it, Mister?”
“Don't worry, I'll get it for you,” Brian replies and pats her head letting his fingertips linger in the sensation of the child-soft strands. Mari smells like talcum powder and flowers and it makes him almost giddy with want. He checks himself, and withdraws his hand. There is no room for mistakes. He leans over the muddy waters, ready to grab the gold and grab the girl, and reaches his hand into the water.
He notices how cold it is first, then how deep. How could he not have noticed that the stream beneath the fall ran so deep? Pressure on his hand increases, and the sand is thick around it. He can see the gold shimmer in the depths. It seems to grow into something more. He delves deeper, plunges his other hand in, up to his wrist, then more, up to his elbow, tries to scoop the glittering prize and now his arms are numb with cold to his shoulders and his shirt is wet where he's leaning over so far.
He's almost got it, he's sure, just another inch...
Mari is warm and wet beside him. Her dress clings to her, she should take it off, he's not sure if he says it out loud because he's panting with exertion and nothing makes sense any more. He breathes in the the fish-smell of her breath, catches a glimpse of her mother of pearl smile and her weed-green hair before his mouth fills with salty water and cloying sand blocks his nose. Then he's panicking, hands flailing, clawing for a way out of the void he's in and unable to beg. There's no air and it feels like a thousand knives are digging out from his lungs, trying to burst his chest. He thinks it shouldn't be like this. He is “The Fisherman” and Mari is his prey, yet he can feel her evil mirth in the very marrow of his bones. The last thing he sees before the last of his breath bubbles on the surface of the stream is a city of gold. Maybe it's an illusion but if it is Heaven then it remains out of reach. His light dims. There is only dark.
***
Parking tickets litter the windscreen of a Nissan Primera. Morgen's Bay is a popular tourist destination and the Primera is taking up valuable space so it is towed away on a Thursday.
A child's fishing rod is found on Friday and Brian's wife reports him missing sometime the next week. Police search his abandoned Primera. They recoil in horror at their findings, file for search warrants and now all evidence points to some disturbing truths about Brian, the unremarkable bank clerk. The search to find him alive winds down quickly, “The outlying parts of Morgen's bay are a dangerous place for a lone fisherman,” they tell his widow, “He should have heeded signs that warn of quicksand.”
Brian isn't mourned.
Locals gossip in taverns close to Morgen's Bay. Legends of fair folk are spoken by a few in hushed tones. Sometimes, after rainfall you might happen upon an offering of milk, shells and fine linen on the beach at the base of a muddy waterfall. The locals will whisper that such things appease the Morgen who resides there but Mari is as old as the cliffs, born of a time when a river fell gushing over them to the sea, and she cannot resist the lure of a greedy man. She waits on a throne of time-worn granite cushioned with the deepest green seaweed and combs her hair.
~end~
