Intolerance

by

Miles Deacon

They

took me on the trip because they thought I was going to die. The family, and I use that term loosely, had agreed that I shouldn't be left alone for too long in case I suddenly got mad and struck them off my will with my dying breath.

"You all right back there, Vera?" said my weasel son-in-law.

"Yes," I said.

"If you need to go pee-pee then give me a shout and I'll pull over."

Pee-pee? Who goes pee-pee? I was a bleeding adult, not some toddler. When I went to the loo, I had a bloody good piss.

"No, I'm fine."

"Okey dokey."

Perhaps I should explain. My prison guards for that holiday were the evil brood of my eldest daughter, Sarah the Incredible Worrier. She worried so much that she worried about worrying too much, then worried about that.

She didn't worry about choosing a husband though. She went out one day and returned with John "The Weasel" Simmons, a bigger moron you'll never meet. She married him within a month, despite my protestation.

And, inevitably, they spawned two children, Britney and Dean. I won't go into detail about these two as, quite frankly, they made me sick. Suffice it to say, Britney's IQ was my age (probably less) and Dean was a lump of lard who would stick his finger so far up his nose that he could tickle his eyeballs.

"We're here!" said Sarah. "Our holiday home for the next two weeks."

I looked out of the car window and sighed. We were staying in a cottage described as 'secluded and rustic, nestled in the heather of the Scottish Highlands', which, roughly translated, meant it was miles from anywhere and as cold as a penguins arse.

They shuffled me into the cottage and installed me on one of the kitchen chairs while the house was converted into the Simmons domain. Sarah buzzed around and fretted. The Weasel slithered about and talked crap. Britney and Dean disappeared, presumably to pray to the devil. I was left alone to survey the room.

The fridge stood out like a dirty grey monolith. It was the largest I'd ever seen, over six feet tall and four foot wide. It had a stained and streaked patina of age, and ingrained greasy fingerprints that could have identified every previous user in a forensics test. The pump rattled like the dying breath of a consumptive. It was ugly, inappropriate, and probably unsanitary.

I liked it instantly.

After levering myself out of the chair, I tried to open one of the doors. It wouldn't budge. I yanked as hard as I could, but nothing moved.

"Can I help you there, Vera?" said The Weasel, appearing at my shoulder like a second hand car salesman.

"Can't get the fridge open," I said. "It's stuck."

"Let me help."

The Weasel reached out and pulled. The door swung open.

He looked smug. Well, smugger.

"There you go, Vera. It needed a man's touch."

I didn't comment. I was looking inside the fridge.

It was stocked full of strawberry yoghurt. There wasn't a spare space for anything else.

"What the hell is all this?" asked The Weasel.

"Yoghurt," I replied. "Strawberry."

"I can see that you old… er, Vera. I can see that it's yoghurt. What I'm concerned about is where the rest of our food is going to go."

"You can take some of the yoghurt out," I suggested sweetly.

Obviously uninterested in listening to the mad ramblings of an old crone like me, The Weasel slammed the fridge door and stomped off in search of Sarah. I looked down at the floor. Whenever he left, I expected to see a shiny trail of slime.

I sat back down. I couldn't eat the yoghurt; it played havoc with my bowels.

Sarah appeared wringing her hands.

"We'll have to eat some of it," she bleated, surveying the contents. "It's good for us. Most importantly, it's free."

They moved me into the lounge and stuck me in front of the fire so that I wouldn't be in the way. I listened to the disgusting sounds of 'Operation Yoghurt' coming from the kitchen and wished that I were deaf.

"Five pots each," said The Weasel. "You've only eaten two, Britney. We shouldn't waste any if we can help it."

"But I feel sick," said Britney in a voice like expanded polystyrene dragging over your teeth. "I can't eat anymore."

"Yes, you can. You've just got to apply yourself."

"I'll eat her share," volunteered Dean.

"Good boy," said Sarah.

There followed a protracted hour where Dean tried to eat the rest of the yoghurt single handed, Britney whined about the potential for spots, Sarah threw up in the kitchen sink, and The Weasel made slurping noises like the last bit of water going down the plughole.

Then they went quiet.

You should understand that this family never went quiet. With that lot, if there wasn't noise coming out of their lungs, they weren't breathing properly. So when they all became silent there was cause for concern. At least, there was cause for mild curiosity.

"Sarah?" I called from the lounge. "Are you all right?"

There was no answer. Only the slightly louder rattle of the fridge pump was audible.

"Wease- …erm, John? Can you hear me?"

Nothing. No answer.

"Is this some sort of joke? Are you playing a trick on me?"

Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.

"Bloody, buggering, sodding hell," I muttered, pushing myself out of the armchair and going through the slow process of balancing and straightening up. "I'll make you lot pay for this if it's a joke. Some red ink is going to be dragged over your names in my will when I get home, mark my words."

I realised that something was wrong when I saw a hand on the floor. It was palm up, limp, but twitching spasmodically as if it were a dead frog attached to an electric switch.

What the hell?

I lurched forward, wishing I had my stick to support my weight.

The kitchen door was almost closed. Whatever was attached to the hand was blocking it on the other side. I leaned my weight against the door and shoved. It shifted slightly. So did the hand.

"Can you hear me?" I called.

Nothing.

I shoved the door again. It moved a couple of inches.

There was room to enter the kitchen now. I had to sidle in and hope that I didn't trip. On my way through, the round door handle scraped against my stomach and I closed my eyes with the pain. When I opened them, I almost dropped dead on the spot.

I'd seen many horrible things in my time. I survived the blitz and saw burned and shattered corpses. I saw the pictures of those poor Jewish people piled up in Auschwitz when the extent of the holocaust became apparent. I saw my husband eaten away by cancer until he was almost a skeleton covered in yellow skin. But I'd never seen something as strange, horrific, and disturbing as what was happening in that Scottish holiday home kitchen.

The Weasel lay on the floor, the owner of the hand. Sarah was slumped over the kitchen sink. Dean had collapsed next to some cabinets, and Britney was face down on the kitchen table. From each of them a thick river of blood flowed from their mouths towards the fridge.

The blood touched the fridge at its base and seemed to soak into the door. The dirty patina of filth and fingerprints was gone and the surface swam with crimson, pulsing, organic movements like muscles under translucent skin. It sucked at the blood, consuming it, absorbing it. The rattle from the pump now sounded like phlegmy coughing or bubbly chuckling. The whole thing was flexing and twisting and enjoying the influx of fresh blood as if it were in the throes of orgasm.

"Oh god," I said, temporarily paralysed. "Oh god." The fridge groaned. To my ears it was one of deep pleasure.

Hating your family doesn't stop you caring for them. Does that make sense? They drove me to near insanity whenever they were around but I still had to do something to save them. It's perverse, I know, but what can you do?

I put my hand over Britney's mouth and tried to stop the flowing blood. It was no use. The blood seeped through my old fingers and continued on its path towards the fridge.

"Britney!"

I shook her shoulder as hard as I could.

There was no response.

I grabbed under her armpits and pulled her off the table. She fell to the floor. I pulled with all my strength and dragged her towards the lounge. The flow of blood persisted until she was entirely out of the kitchen, and then it stopped.

Another groan came from the fridge. This time it sounded plaintive like I'd taken a meal away.

I returned to the kitchen and dragged Dean back through the door. Again, the flow of blood stopped at the boundary between kitchen and lounge. Again the fridge moaned.

I decided to leave The Weasel until last. He wasn't a blood relative, so he could wait. Sarah had to come next.

Dragging an adult is not easy when you're my age. Things don't work as well anymore. Bones tend to grind, muscles ache to the point of screaming. I was panting hard and barely able to stand when Sarah finally slipped into the lounge.

But I had that last one to retrieve, the heaviest one.

I must confess I thought twice about saving The Weasel; I'd always said that I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire, even if I had a full bladder and was desperate to go. But he was the father of my grandchildren and that made him precious by proxy. Children should not be without their father, even when the father is a cretin.

So I returned to the kitchen and heaved The Weasel out. I don't know how. I simply did it.

The blood flow stopped when his feet moved over the boundary. He was safe.

I was not.

The exertion had been too much for my paper-thin heart. It skipped a beat and recovered. Then skipped another. I clutched my chest, like on the telly, all dramatic and theatrical, and staggered backwards.

The kitchen floor hit me. My hip shattered. I cried out.

And the fridge got me. It sent something long and sinewy across the floor like a bootlace snake. It entered my mouth as I screamed, forcing its way into my throat.

I didn't take long to die.

***

"Poor old dear," said The Weasel, standing over my corpse. "She didn't deserve to go like that."

Sarah was in tears. "What happened?"

"I dunno. Looks like she had a heart attack." "But what happened to us? Why did we pass out? Why were we lying in the lounge?"

"God knows. I reckon the yoghurt's bad."

This was true. Once absorbed, the yoghurt stunned the host and acted as a transport for the blood. The fridge called it back when the victim was prone.

"Oh God," said Sarah. "This is terrible."

She sobbed on The Weasel's shoulder.

"Our holiday is ruined," she continued. "The stupid old bat has ruined it right at the start. I told you we shouldn't have taken her."

"Well, at least we don't have to take care of her anymore. We get some free Sundays at last."

Sarah lifted her head and brushed her tears away with her jumper sleeve.

"Yeah, that's true."

It's funny, you know. I didn't feel at all angry with that. I would have done when I was still alive; I would have made their lives as difficult as possible, simply to get back at them. But now, I don't get so emotional. I can't bring myself to care.

They seemed so stupid and comical standing there. They seemed so worthless and foolish.

I laughed.

My pump rattled.

(c) Miles Deacon, All Rights Reserved

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