The Price of Hunger (EN)

The Oakhaven funfair had died out in September 1969. It was a skeleton of coloured lights and rusty steel, clattering in the pale moonlight. The air tasted of burnt diesel and the sickly sweet stench of sticky toffee. A tinny echo ofCanned Heatmingled with the rhythmic squeaking of the Ferris wheel.

Jake staggered out of the gondola. His flared trousers were torn at the knee, his colourful shirt clinging to his body. He squinted against the strings of light bulbs hanging over the dusty pavements like festering wounds. He looked lost – a remnant of a party that had ended in bloodshed.

He noticed the chewing gum on his hand, cursed and wiped it off. His gaze searched for a way out of this maze of garish vinyl banners and silent shooting galleries.

She stepped out of the shadow of an empty popcorn van. A white dress fluttered in the wind like the wings of a moth.

“Lorie.”

“Let’s go on the Ferris wheel next, darling!” she called out. Her voice was bright, but without resonance. It was a recording from a better time that had no place in 1969.

Jake recoiled. He stammered about an accident, about five years of torment, about an end that should have been sealed long ago. But Lorie only laughed – a hollow cackle that made the air freeze. The flickering of the lights grew wilder, an electric storm lashing shadows across the ground.

“I’ve been waiting, Jake,” she whispered, as her face turned grey and her skin cracked like dry parchment. “In life and in death.”

It happened in the space of two heartbeats. Her pale hand shot forward, piercing fabric, skin and ribs. The sound of breaking bones was as loud as a shot from a Winchester. Jake gasped, blood spilling over his lips. He sank to his knees as she ripped his heart from his chest – a pulsing sacrifice for a broken promise.

“Now we can be together forever,” whispered the figure, crushing the flesh with a wet sound. Jake’s body slumped.

Only the Ferris wheel kept turning.

A man stepped out from behind the mirror booth. He was tall, his shoulders broad beneath a light-coloured shirt that glowed in the moonlight. He stood at the edge of the glow. His hair was so pale blonde it looked almost white.

He had seen everything. Heard every scream. Counted every drop of blood.

A cool smile played around his lips. He took out a silver pocket watch and flicked it open.

“Right on time,” he murmured. His voice was as unyielding as the steel of the fairground rides.

He adjusted his collar and disappeared into the maze of stalls, whilst behind him the music of the carousel began anew.

He wasn’t here to save. He was here to bear witness.