SW00121 & SW00122

CHANGELING by angela forrest

THE LAST TRAIN

by val ormrod CHANGELING by Angela Forrest

September, 2015 He isnae mine, hasnae been for twelve years. I know that now. It took a good long while tae admit it and I’ve tried tae make up for lost time, for a’ the years I dithered about whether or not it wis true. These last few years especially I’ve done ma best, done right by Lorna and wee Olivia even if they couldnae understand. They don’t know whit he is. They don’t know Bradley left us a long time ago, that day in the woods.

September, 2003 This is ma favourite place. The way the trees come crowing up tae the shore of the loch, closing us in tae our own wee private beach: ye cannae beat it. Lorna’s minding the baby, letting her roll around on the picnic blanket among the half-chewed cheese and ham pieces. She’s still a stunner, my Lorna, even after having two weans. Run ragged looking after them, so she is, but ye’d never know it looking at her. She’s kept her hair long and bonny, not like a lot of they mum’s I see at the school gates. I catch her eye and she gies me a wink and a smile, holding up Olivia’s wee hand to wave at me. I wave back at ma girls and have a check in with ma boy. He’s near enough up tae my waist now. He’s trying tae skip stones across the water but they’re landing wi’ splattering plops. He’s probably too wee tae get it right yet, but he’ll get it soon enough. Aye, soon enough.

September 2015 There were clues mind, clues that came not too long after it happened. Lorna and me, we bought Olivia a wee set of My Little Ponies, and fair enough she wis only two at the time so she’d only cuddle them and sook on their legs. Bradley though, Bradley was aye playing wi’ her wi’ the ponies, kidding on they were galloping round her, giving them wee squeaky voices, making them kiss her on the cheek. I didnae think anything of it, a bit weird maybe, but he wis young still and just trying to do a nice turn for his sister, maybe.

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 2

That how it starts mind, things that seem normal, things that just pass ye by, things ye can write off as no big deal. Well, turns out they are a big deal. It wis when he started playing with them by himself I noticed it. It wisnae even that he wis playing with the ponies, it was how he played with them. I mean, an eight-year-old boy brushing out their manes and tails, putting wee hair clasps on them, colouring in their hooves like he’s painting their nails, kidding on they’re at a beauty salon; no right, is it? It went on for days. Lorna wis laughing about it, laughing at the girly wee stories he was making up. I wasnae laughing. He never used to be like that. I took them off him, the ponies I mean, took him outside tae play football in the back garden. Fair enough it was tipping it down but mud never hurt anyone: seemed like he needed it. He started greeting, bawling and greeting! Whit kinda reaction is that tae playing football? I was that angry I sent him up tae his bed without his dinner and without his story; he was getting too old for getting tucked in and read to anyway.

September, 2003 I make a sun visor out of ma hand, looking out tae the far side of the loch where the water’s rippling and twinkling. There’s a swirling swell out there, churned up by the back of a touristy loch cruise boat; probably full of Americans. Ma granny used tae point the boat trails out tae me: they were a sign that a kelpie wis following yer boat. The water horses’ hooves frothed up the water if they were coming for you, coming to snatch you down to the depths with them: that’s why ye should never sit at the back of a boat, so she said. It’s been a while since I thought about that story to be sure and the smile’s spitting ma face. I turn around tae show my boy the choppy water, tae tell him a’ about the kelpies and how he’d better watch himself when he’s out there on the loch, but he’s not there.

September, 2015 I couldnae sleep that night. I mind tossing and turning till the wee hours, trying tae work out whit wis happening tae ma boy, having all kind of dreams. Faeries it wis, in the dreams. They were capering

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 3 around everywhere, frolicking and rollicking through ma house, breaking ma furniture, ripping ma paper right off the walls, eating ma food, smashing all Lorna’s ornaments and all our family pictures. Lorna was run ragged trying tae chase them out, giving it laldy smacking at them wi’ a rolled-up copy of The Sunday Mail. Wee Olivia was giggling away tae herself, clapping her chubby wee hands at a’ the colour and chaos, till two of them latched ontae her hair, trying tae drag her off. I wis trying tae get Bradley tae go and help her, but his back wis to me and I couldnae see if he wis hearing me or not. I grabbed his shoulder, had tae pull my hand back for the cold. He turned around. His face was a’ twisted, twisted and mossy and green like a’ the rest of the faerie folk. His head wis thrown back, showing me all his jaggy teeth, caked wi’ earthy mush. There wis no getting back tae sleep after that one. I had tae go down tae make maself a cup of tea. Normally I take it black, but something made me put in a big dodd of milk and a couple of sugars, baby tea ma granny called it. That’s when I clocked it. It was her sending me they dreams, giving me a warning so she was. She told me all about the changelings when I was wee, faerie folk stealing away yer children and leaving ye wi’ one of their own instead. But I wisnae ready for it that night, called myself daft for even thinking it and went back to ma bed. I wish tae God I hadnae, but like I say, I just wisnae ready tae accept it yet. Kept Bradley away from all the girly toys after that mind.

September, 2003 Waves are washing up around a footprint in the silty shale and Bradley’s nowhere. He’s nowhere. I cannae see him, I’m looking and looking and I cannae see him. The gaps between the trees are darker than I thought and I’m looking for a flash of his wee red anorak but there’s nothing and I’m shouting tae Lorna and she’s crying and holding the wee one up close to her chest and we’re running, running through the woods and I’m cutting ma arms on jaggy branches but I’m still running, running, running. Something grabs for ma foot and I smash into the moss and mud, spitting my lip on a tree root. My head’s birling faster than the Waltzers

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 4 at the fair as I’m trying tae stand, trying tae see whit pulled me down. I see it. A ring of mushrooms, all crushed and crumbling on the one side where I skited through it: that’s how the faeries get you, granny said, that’s whit she always said.

September, 2015 A few years it wis before I got it right in ma head, what he was. Ignored a lot a signs, so I did. Him writing wi’ the wrong hand for one: being corrie-fisted, as my granny used tae say, wis a sure sign of something else making use of yer hand. Now, whether it be the devil or the faeries, they were a’ one and the same. The school said it wis normal, so there wis nothing tae be done about that at the time. And thon way he used tae dae that well in his schoolwork? Aye top of the class he wis, when me and his mum were nothing like that. Don’t get me wrong, his mum’s got a good heart and she’s always had her looks, but she’s thick as they come: it’s lucky she’s always had me tae sort her out. I’m practical minded, see? Bradley though, he had whit’s called unnatural intelligence, so he did. Anything unnatural like that, that’s a sign of your wee one not being who you think they are. It’s a sign that ye’re raising a changeling. That’s whit put the wind up me about him and the ponies: it wisnae natural. Fair enough, it was too late for me tae get him back when I realised it. Once yer wee one’s eaten any of their food, they’re lost to ye forever. That’s how I knew ma Bradley wis gone.

September 2003 I’m using a tree trunk tae pull maself up and there’s faeries spinning and laughing round me, like the time they danced a man to death, spiriting him away and sending him daft wi’ their capering. There’s shrieking and wailing coming from somewhere. A banshee. Or Lorna. I’m back in the game, running and thinking, thinking and running. God, oh God and Jesus and whatever the Christ any of they other Gods that came before them are called, I’d dae anything, anything for a sight of that wee red anorak.

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 5

Please don’t let him be dead, don’t let him be dead, don’t let him be dead. I’m praying and begging, God please I’ll dae anything tae get him back, ma wee boy, ma wee boy, I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything, I cannae lose ma boy, take anything but ma boy.

September 2015 The day I knew, the day I couldnae hide from it anymore, I came home late. I could see Lorna through the window, sitting on the sofa, blethering away tae someone on the phone. When I opened up the front door, there he wis, clattering up and down the hallway in his mammy’s heels, Olivia skipping round him on her tippy-toes. He stopped right quick when he saw me. Olivia fell on her bum and started greeting. I went right for him, grabbed him by the scrawny wee arm and dragged him intae the kitchen: I had tae know. The one sure way tae tell if ye’re dealing wi’ one of the fae folk is iron, they cannae bide the touch of iron on their skin; used to be that parents would leave a set of iron shears by the cradle tae keep the baby-snatchers at bay. I took up our old iron skillet from the stovetop and pressed it intae his arm. Soon as it touched him he let out a hellish shriek, his skin bubbling and peeling around where it touched him. That’s how I knew. He was one of them. I warned him not tae tell Lorna whit had happened, that I knew whit he was, that if she knew she’d kill him rather than have him anywhere near her wee girl. He went up tae his bed and I scooped up Olivia, gave her intae her mammy for a cuddle. Lorna wis crying, trying to get it out of me whit had happened, but I had tae be firm wi’ her, tell her tae just do her job and be a mum tae her daughter. I had tae shut her in the living room too, till she stopped being so hysterical. I know it seemed harsh and I’d been letting her down by not dealing wi’ this sooner, but she needed tae learn tae trust me. She needed tae learn that I knew whit wis best for us. When they were a’ asleep I got on the internet, trying tae find out what tae dae. I couldnae turn him out then and there, ye see; it’s no that easy. Think about ticks. When ye get a tick on ye, latched ontae ye behind the knee or in some crevasse where they like to hide, it grips on

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 6 tight and doesnae let go for anything. Ye cannae just haul a tick out of yer skin, ye cannae dae that because it burrows, imbeds itself so deep that ye cannae untwine the person from the parasite: even if ye get it off it leaves a part of itself behind, poisoning ye. What ye’ve got tae dae is burn it off, make life so uncomfortable for the wee bastard that it has no other option but tae leave; ye have tae force it tae detach itself. It’s the same wi’ a changeling.

September 2003 I’m ripping ma lungs wi’ breathing so hard, throwing up in ma mouth. I’ve circled maself somehow and the water’s peeking through the trees, something reddish flickering by the shore. A rock drops in the pit of ma belly, I’m dragging and scrabbling through the trees. Please, please, please.

September, 2015 Saturday morning, I took him right down the football club, made him join their under-twelve’s. I wouldnae let him quit for anything; not when he pretended tae be sick, not when the other boys beat the shite out him every weekend, not when he came crying about it tae his mammy. I couldnae let Lorna know why I was doing it of course, it’d have been too much for her tae take. I had tae keep reminding her that she didnae know anything about how boys play together; that the coaches would laugh at the both of them if she said anything. Told her it’d be good for him, that he needed tae learn how tae mix wi’ the other lads: boys will be boys. It’s better that way, better that I’ve borne it alone. She‘s too soft for her own good, I don’t think she could’ve handled what had to be done, what wi’ this thing looking so much like her own flesh and blood; it would’ve broke her heart. The football was just the start of it mind. When he’d use his pocket money to buy his own music or clothes and that, I’d go through what he bought, sort it out, take anything I didnae like the look of. That really got to him, I could see it breaking him a wee bit every time I did it. Fair enough he started buying his music online instead, so I’d check his computer, check his search history. Evil it was what I saw on that

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 7 computer, only one of those perverted faeries could have come up with the kind of things he’d searched for. No son of mine could’ve done that; makes me sick tae think of it. I took his computer off him, made him use the one in the living room where I could watch him. I had tae be on him constantly, cut out any of that unnatural behaviour right quick: the more ye let it lie, the easier it is for the faeries tae get in yer house, ye see? They have a blood tithe, the fae folk, a debt they owe tae the devil, so every so-many years they have tae take another child tae appease him. Now, if they’ve marked yer family, marked them as weak, as easy targets, then that’s the first place they look when the devil comes calling on them for his dues. I wisnae about tae let that happen to Olivia. God help me, I’ve stayed strong enough to see this through tae the end.

September, 2003 It’s his anorak, ma boy’s anorak, and him in it, squatting there by the water’s edge turning stones over in his hands. Tripping over maself tae reach him, I come tae ma knees, grabbing for him, soaking his hair with ma leaky eyes. He’s squeaking, trying tae get free, but I cannae make maself let him go. Ma heart’s bursting.

September, 2015 He’s leaving today. Back tae his own kind at last. Off tae uni, so he claims, but I know he’s too young tae be going there; he’s not eighteen for another year. He came tae me this morning, bold as brass, and he says tae me that’s me off dad and that his mammy’s about to leave so they make it tae Edinburgh after the rush hour hits. He tells me that’s him leaving for good and that he’ll no be back here again. The crafty wee thing makes these big sad eyes at me, a’ watery round the edges, tries tae fool me one last time, telling me he doesnae know what he did wrong and how he tried tae be the son I wanted him to be. I’m having none of it. I tell that thing straight, I tell it that it’s never belonged here, it’s no part of this family and it never has been. I saw it then. I saw how it knew I was right, knew I had beaten it. I watched out the window when Lorna drove away, letting Olivia wave to them through the glass. I kept her standing beside me, didnae

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 8 quite feel she was safe till the bastard was out of ma sight for good. They don’t know whit they’re saying goodbye tae, Lorna and Olivia I mean. Still, no harm in letting them say their farewells. I’ll not be sheading any tears for Bradley today, he left a long time ago. I’ll sleep easy tonight. I’ve done right by ma family, done what needed to be done.

September, 2003 I’m thanking anybody who’s listening for him being safe. We’ll go find his mum and the wee one in a minute. We’ll go home and get our tea and when I’m tucking him intae bed, reading him his book about the tiger who came tae tea for the millionth time, I’ll be thanking the heavens that last night wisnae the last time I ever got tae dae it.

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 9

WRITER PROFILE

Angela Forrest is an emerging Queer, Scottish writer who lives with her wife and writing partner, Laura, along with an undisclosed number of cats. She was born in Paisley, twenty minutes from the heart of Glasgow or the wilds of the countryside, depending on what takes your fancy. Recently attaining her MA in Creative Writing, Angela has been writing since joining a group in the local library as a child. She went on to work with community groups to explore the therapeutic effects of putting pen to paper, encouraging confidence building and creativity. Angela has a proclivity for finding stories in the place where the ordinary meets the uncanny and is currently working on a short story collection which explores the place where contemporary sexuality intersects with folklore and mythology. On principal she has never rejected an idea for being too weird, and never intends to.Her work has also been published in Blood Bath Literary Zine.

PLEASE GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK (and read the next one in our double-bill!)

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 10

THE LAST TRAIN by Val Ormrod

‘So will you come?’ asked Marianne. ‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said hugging my sister. ‘It’s a brilliant idea.’ ‘I’ve always wanted to go back to Italy,’ she enthused. ‘It’s years since we were there.’ I didn’t remind her that Robert had taken her to Florence for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary two years ago. ‘We’ll do a three city tour,’ I said instead, reaching for my iPad. ‘Venice, Rome and Florence. Two days in each. How does that sound?’ ‘It sounds wonderful,’ Marianne beamed. ‘OK I’ll sort out the flights. We can book the trains when we get there.’ Robert looked worried when we told him of our plans. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Helen?’ he asked when Marianne was in the kitchen. ‘She gets lost just going to the village shop. Supposing you lose her in Italy. And do you think you’ll be able to cope with all her needs and her medications?’ ‘I promise I’ll stay glued to her the whole time. And we can put my mobile number on her bracelet so if the glue doesn’t work someone can phone me. But I’m determined that won’t happen. I’m not going to let her out of my sight. And I’ll text you every day to let you know how we’re doing,’ I said.

It was May, a perfect month for visiting Italy, before the influx of summer tourists. In Venice we stayed in a hotel overlooking the Grand Canal and took the obligatory gondola ride at night, one of just a handful of boats gliding through the dark waters this early in the season. Marianne clutched my arm, feeling vulnerable in the swaying boat but she called out in excitement at the magnificent palazzos

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 11 reflecting their lights onto the calm water of the canals. She asked the gondolier to sing but he shook his head, claiming he had a terrible singing voice and she laughed. We hummed Andrea Bocelli tunes instead and he applauded before joining in himself. When we clambered out an hour later Marianne left her bag behind, a black clutch that had dropped under the seat and must have been nearly invisible in the shadowy gloom of the quayside. But we were in luck. The man called out and ran after us, presenting it back to her with a flourish before we’d even reached the next street. Next day we visited St Paul’s Cathedral and the art galleries, Marianne exclaiming over everything and pausing to marvel at the same paintings she had admired five minutes earlier. Then, a train to Rome for the Vatican museums, the Colosseum and to make a wish at the Trevi Fountain. My wish was always the same: a cure for my sister. We passed through ravishing Tuscan countryside on our way to Florence for the delights of the Uffizi and wandered across the Ponte Vecchio; all that glitter and most of it gold. Back in Venice our last supper was eaten under the stars at a bistro in a tree-lined avenue, where we sampled every local delicacy and finished with a spectacular dish of ice cream made in the way that only Italians seem to have mastered. By the time we got home she would scarcely be able to remember this trip but she was happy now, in this moment, and that was all that mattered. In the morning I helped Marianne get dressed in one of the colourful outfits she loved to wear. She looked like a brightly painted butterfly, I thought, twirling a scarf around her neck in a flash of brilliant hues. Her hair was still golden, untouched by grey, and fell untamed to her shoulders, although the lustre that had once been so admired was fading, along with so much else that was fading for her.

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 12

‘You’ve left your phone behind,’ Marianne said, picking up the remote control. ‘That’s OK, I’ve got mine here,’ I said, patting my pocket. ‘That one’s for the TV.’ We stepped out into the bright sunlight and found a seat at a nearby cafe. It was here, over coffee, that Marianne dropped her bombshell. ’I’m not coming back with you,’ she said, placing her elbows on the table and looking directly at me. ‘What do you mean, not coming back?’ I said, thinking she was just having a confused moment. ‘I’m not coming back,’ she repeated. I squeezed her arm. ‘We’ve had a great time, haven’t we, and I know you’d love to stay longer but we need to go home now. I have to go back to work tomorrow.’ ‘That’s not what I meant, Helen. I’m sorry, but I’m not catching the flight.’ She looked straight into my eyes and for once hers were steady and alert, without that vague unfocused look that had been creeping in more and more often of late. ‘I’ve made other plans but I didn’t want to tell you until now.’ ‘What do you mean, other plans?’ A prickle of fear started up in me and lodged high up in my chest. ‘This illness - what I have now is just the beginning,’ she said. ‘It’s going to get much worse, believe me.’ I did believe her. I’d read all the books about Alzheimer’s disease when she was first diagnosed. At first I’d been incredulous that someone as young as Marianne, only forty-seven, could have developed dementia. Surely that was something that happened to old people, not someone still as vibrant as my sister. Then as I read more I’d been shocked at what I learned about early-onset Alzheimer’s, where

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 13 the deterioration was often much more rapid. I also knew of the cruel irony that meant a younger body could linger on for years after the brain had given up. ‘But your family will all be with you. We won’t stop loving you. We’ll be there to help you all the way,’ I said, desperate to reassure her. ‘We won’t abandon you to strangers.’ ‘No,’ Marianne said. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t want you all to be giving up your lives while you watch me turn into a vegetable. I don’t want you to have to see me when I’m in that state and I don’t even know who you are.’ Her face clouded over for the first time. ‘I can’t bear Tom to see his mother’s brain turning to mush and to be remembered the way I’ll be at the end. And I don’t want Robert or you to have to go through it either.’ She didn’t actually shudder, but the shudder was in her eyes. I could feel my heart start to pound with apprehension as she withdrew several envelopes from her travel bag. She opened one and pulled out a sheet with a list of dates and times and instructions. My head hummed with the shock of what was being revealed. For the next agonising hour we talked and Marianne showed me all the details of her arrangements, carefully drawn up months before, when she was still able to plan. ‘No!’ I cried. ‘No, I can’t let you do this.’ But she was resolute, impervious to my pleading. ‘I have to do this now while I still can, before I forget and it’s too late,’ she insisted. It was the first time in months I had seen Marianne completely sure of anything in a world that had been eroding for her. Anyone seeing or hearing her now wouldn’t even suspect there was anything wrong. Above us the sky was blue, cloudless. There was no indication in the still air of the momentous life-changing decisions that were being made on earth below. The sun continued to beat down. Pigeons

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 14 pecked at grain in the square. People strolled past arm-in-arm, smiling and laughing. It all seemed incongruous amid the unreality of these moments. ‘Helen, you know me better than anyone,’ she said finally, pushing a strand of damp hair behind one ear. ‘Better than Robert even. You understand me, what this would mean for me. What would you want if it was you, Helen? Be honest. Tell me you wouldn’t want the same thing?’ I looked out across the square and played with my coffee cup, turning it round and round on the saucer, helpless terror and misery overwhelming me. Seconds slid past like the slow beating of wings. Finally, I was forced to admit, ‘I’d want the same as you.’ ‘Then do this last thing for me.’ She pushed across the two remaining envelopes. ‘Take my letters back and make sure they know it was my decision alone. I don’t want you to be blamed in any way for what I’ve decided to do. Robert will be OK but he’ll be hurt that I didn’t choose to spend this last week with him. I’m sorry for that but I couldn’t risk it. I know he wouldn’t have let me go.’ Marianne allowed a tear to spill down her cheek before she brushed it away. ‘And Tom,’ she continued, ‘Tom will be OK too. He’s got Emma now to help him through it. Tell them all how much I love them. But you understand me, Helen. I love you too and this week has been very special. I hope this will be what you remember. Now I need you to love me enough to let me go.’ I sat there rigid, the fat tears chasing each other down my face. I kept blotting them away but still there seemed to be a river of them overflowing my eyes. ‘I want - to come with you,’ I begged. ‘I can’t let you go on your own. How will you manage?’ ‘Just come with me to the station and when I’m on the train, I‘ll be fine. I have another letter for the ticket collector to make sure I get off at the right place and there I’ll be met and escorted.’

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 15

‘I’m coming with you,’ I said. ‘I can’t bear for you to have to do this alone.’ ‘Helen, I must do this alone. I want to do this alone. I don’t want there to be any possibility of you being implicated.’ We stood at the station, both crying and I held tightly onto her, knowing it was the last time I would ever hold her, knowing my wish at the fountain was not going to come true, not now, not ever. At last the train drew in and I helped her aboard, settling her down with her small bag of belongings, her bright rainbow colours completely at odds with the purpose of her journey. ‘Look after Robert and Tom for me,’ Marianne urged, ‘and yourself.’ Her last words were trapped forever in time as the train pulled slowly, painfully out of the station and began its long journey to Zurich.

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 16

WRITER PROFILE

Val Ormrod lives near Chepstow and has won awards in a variety of competitions including the Gloucestershire Writers Network, Mid-Somerset Festival, Sentinel Literary Quarterly and the Bridport Prize. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University and her memoir In My Father’s Memory, was shortlisted for the Janklow & Nesbit prize. In 2018 she won the Mere Literary Festival Flash Fiction prize and was runner-up in the Val Wood short story prize. Her stories and poems have featured in various publications including Writing, Stroud Short Stories, Graffiti, Eye Flash Poetry, Hammond House Poetry and in several anthologies of tales from the Forest of Dean. She runs workshops both in schools and for adults and helps run the annual Mitcheldean Poetry Festival. She has read at Cheltenham Literary Festival, Novel Nights in Bristol, Carers UK in London, a Grenfell Tower memorial event in Newport and for Corinium Radio. For light relief she blogs about her rescue dog Poppy and three cats. https://twitter.com/Ladybear6

PLEASE GIVE US YOUR

FEEDBACK ON THIS STORY rt by Siret Roots A

CHANGELING & THE LAST TRAIN 17