Ivan's Night

Ivan sat on a faded grey sofa, facing the window. It was December, and the air was frozen, but the window was wide open: Ivan was a lonely man, and the cold kept him company. Outside, the sky was dense and black and cloudless; it was approaching midnight, and the stars winked malevolently, waiting, eternally, for something interesting to happen. Ivan sat perfectly still, his back hunched, and stared longingly at the moon; and, bathed in a pool of silver blood, the round moon smiled sadly back at him. The night was silent: the wind had crept away earlier that evening, and now the yews outside the window stood motionless, evergreen undertakers, dark and menacing. Tired, Ivan’s eyes began to close …

Whilst Ivan slept, the night began to change. The air began to buzz, neither a sound nor a smell, but something intangible, a feeling. The moon, no longer smiling, cackled and cawed, and the sly stars hid from sight. The yew branches waved wildly, pointing and gesturing towards Ivan’s small, secluded house. And on the road next to the house, narrow and winding, there was a violent disturbance.

A few hours later, Ivan awoke. He shivered and blinked, frowning; the night had come alive, it seemed. Then, from the front hall, an agitated scratching sound caught his attention. Slowly he stood up, his joints clicking dryly. Rattling on its latch, the window let cold gusts of air sweep through the room, and Ivan paused to close it before creeping into the hall. The scratching sound was coming from the front door, and intensified as Ivan began to approach it. A short distance from the door he stood still, his arms suddenly unbearably cold, and his legs unsteady, listening. As suddenly as it had begun, the scratching stopped. Ivan breathed out heavily. A fox, he thought, rubbing his temples, and shuffled away from the door.

But having taken three steps Ivan stopped. His gaunt face turned pale, and his throat tightened. For though the muffled scratching had ceased, there now came through the battered wooden door an unearthly whimpering, barely audible. Soft and terrifying, the sound continued, and Ivan slowly turned to face the door. Inching towards it, trying to make no sound, he reached for the latch. A cowardly man, Ivan’s entire body began to shiver convulsively; he did not wish to open the door, but an uncontrollable compulsion had taken control of his limbs. The black metal latch felt like ice in his shaking hands, and he struggled to undo it; but having done so, the door blew open with a bang, buffeted by the wind.

Clutching the doorframe, his knuckles turning white, Ivan’s small black eyes widened: slumped on the doorstep, and looking up at him, knelt a small boy. He had pale green eyes and long blond hair, which floated peculiarly around his face, not blowing in the wind, but seemingly suspended of its own accord. He was crying silently now, his body quite still in the frostbitten darkness, tears gleaming in the moonlight. And the most striking feature of the boy’s appearance was the thin, red gash that ran from the centre of his forehead to the left side of his chin, interrupted only by his left eye. The cut followed a perfectly curved path and was strangely beautiful, red blood dripping down his white skin. 
Looking straight into Ivan’s eyes, the child began to shake his head gently from side to side. This movement brought Ivan to his senses.
‘Where are your parents?’ he managed, staring at the boy.
The child raised his arm and pointed beyond the tall yew trees, the sleeve of his blue sweatshirt torn:
‘There,’ he said. ‘In the car.’
Ivan looked towards the trees, but could not see into the narrow lane behind them.
‘Has it crashed?’ Ivan gasped. Blood seeped from the boy’s torn sweatshirt. The boy nodded. Ivan quickly reached down, lifting the boy off the doorstep, and carried him inside with uncharacteristic tenderness; even for his size, the child seemed terribly light. Ivan sat him on the sofa, and noticed a dark, bloody patch emanating from the boy’s arm, staining the grey fabric. He then rushed to the phone.
‘Ambulance.’ He spoke into the receiver. Then: ‘Car crash.’
To the boy he said, ‘Stay there, I’ll be back soon.’ Then, ‘It’ll be alright…’ He meant to sound reassuring; the child, sobbing quietly, looked oddly at Ivan, then nodded, though barely moving his head.

Hurrying to the front door, Ivan ran outside, tripping over the step. His white breath hung in the air like ectoplasm, and the cold tore gleefully at his pallid skin. He crossed the white, icy grass, and passed through the small yew grove. The hard ground beneath the trees was covered in small needle-like leaves, and as Ivan passed, the sinister trees seemed to laugh at him. Reaching the lane, he looked wildly left, then right; he could not see a car in either direction. Bewildered and disorientated, he began to jog down the lane, town-wards, stumbling frequently on the moonlit and potholed road. On either side of him, the hedgerows stood, solemn and imposing; in the wind, leaves crackled and hissed, and cast ethereal moon-shadows on the crumbling tarmac.

Having jogged for about five minutes Ivan stopped. He bent over, hands on knees, gasping heavily, the cold air stinging his lungs. In the corners of both eyes, Ivan felt tears beginning to form; he suddenly felt intensely sad, and stared down the lane. He could not see a car; he must have come along the road in the wrong direction.
Then Ivan heard a distant and mournful wailing, piercing the night, and growing steadily in volume. Soon a large white and fluorescent yellow ambulance sped around the corner, its blue lights flashing. Ivan stepped out into the middle of the lane. The ambulance stopped. As he ran towards the vehicle, the passenger-door opened, and he clambered in, a young dark-haired paramedic with a crooked nose making room for him. As soon as the door was shut, the ambulance continued down the road. The young medic to Ivan’s left inquired breathlessly, ‘It was you who called?’
‘Yes,’ Ivan gasped, nodding.
‘Haven’t passed it yet,’ the crooked-nosed man announced, eagerly rubbing his hands together. At the wheel sat an older, grey-haired man, with a shrewd but wrinkled face. This second man remained silent, his grip on the steering wheel unusually tight.

Not longer after, the ambulance drew level with Ivan’s house.
‘Stop here, there’s a boy…came for help… his parents…’ Ivan said.
The driver stopped the ambulance and his hands seemed to tighten further still on the shiny black wheel. Followed closely by the young man, Ivan clambered out, running towards his house. Immediately the ambulance tore off along the lane, sirens screaming, lights dancing.
Leading the paramedic through the open front door, Ivan pointed towards his sitting room.
‘In there,’ he whispered. Inexplicably, Ivan was suddenly reluctant to follow. The young man rushed into the sitting room. A few seconds later he reappeared at the entrance.
‘Not there!’ he exclaimed. Ivan’s blood turned cold; he felt responsible. He ran to his small, dirty kitchen; the child was not there. Then he ran to his bedroom; only a single bed and a narrow, dusty moonbeam occupied the room. Finally, and with desperation, Ivan peered into the dark, musty bathroom. No.

Ivan raced to the front door, colliding with the green medic, who seemed to be rather enjoying himself.
‘Better check outside… on a night like this… doesn’t stand much of a chance,’ the medic said.
The pair plunged once more into the frozen night, and circled the small house. The grass crunched underfoot, and, round the back of the house, tall thistles and brambles smothered one another and scratched Ivan’s bare forearms. The boy was nowhere to be seen.
‘Hah! Went back for his parents, I bet. Funny things, children are…’ the medic mused; and Ivan, terrified, and feeling nauseous, wished he would disappear.

Now Ivan and the crooked-nosed man headed for the lane, and, reaching it, headed away from town, and in the direction the ambulance had driven. Several minutes passed, neither man speaking, and their footsteps, oddly in time, seemed to beat out a macabre funeral march. The young man hummed a cheerful tune and smiled.
Then screeching and wailing and blue flashing signalled the ambulance’s return. Ivan knew that the lone driver could not have rescued both parents on his own in such little time, and once more he felt the upwelling of an irrepressible, strange sorrow, that he neither wanted, nor felt he deserved.   

The ambulance stopped in the lane, and its bright yellow headlights died. The driver’s door opened, and the shrewd-faced man descended.
His sharp eyes now looked oddly glazed, and, staring into the starlit distance, he limped towards Ivan and the dark-haired fool. Suddenly all was silent in the lane.
‘You see,’ he began, and everything – the dark hedgerows, the frozen air, the winking stars, the moon, and, of course, Ivan – listened intently, ‘there is no car in the lane.’ Here he turned slowly, and, for emphasis, pointed down the narrow and winding road. ‘No, there’s no car in this lane, not tonight,’ he repeated, slowly shaking his head.
And now he turned towards Ivan, and looked into his eyes. ‘Thirty years ago… to the day… there was a car in this lane...’ Here he paused for dramatic effect, and sniffed loudly; then he continued. ‘Well I remember that night. Cold as Satan’s heart, it was, and dark.’ The man spoke almost comically.
‘You see, that was my first time… in the ambulance, that is. The Falands it was, Mr. Faland and Mrs., and young Henry Faland. Nice family, as was said afterwards… everyone in town knew them. It happened right behind where you are standing, sir,’ he addressed Ivan directly. ‘Yes, silver it was, smashed up badly, in that very ditch,’ he pointed again, this time to the deep ditch running alongside the road. ‘Must have been going damn fast, fast as hell. Us, we couldn’t do anything. Him sprawled over the steering wheel, neck broken… her slumped forwards, hair everywhere, blood on the windscreen, smashed, the moon screaming, siren’s crying,’ he went on.
‘Only a day later did we find him, Henry… brave boy he was. Up the lane, near where your little house was built. Froze to death, blue and stiff… they say he was looking for help.’
The man shook his head slowly, and, with that, climbed back into the ambulance. The young, crooked-nosed man followed, without looking back; and, headlights off, the ambulance trundled back towards the town.

Back in his little house, Ivan stood and stared at the old, grey sofa; where the young boy’s dark blood had had stained the fabric, there was now uniform greyness.
And in the dark, hallowed sky, the moon smiled, sad once again, and the bright stars twinkled, satisfied.





(N.B. in England grey is grey, not gray)