Free For Those Who Dream Monsters by Anna Taborska Page B

drunk,
but relieved that with Mark’s help he’d be able to save face in front of the
crew. Tomorrow he’d act as though Sylvia had never even existed, and everyone
would follow suit. Perhaps Graham would make some snide little remark, but that
was Directors of Photography for you – an inflated sense of self-importance,
the lot of them.
    Eli
took out his house keys, and that’s when he noticed that the front door was
open. His usual astuteness dulled by the whisky he’d had at Mark’s, he simply
put his keys back in his pocket and went in, shutting the door behind him.
    “Honey,
you left the front door open,” he called, looking around for his wife. “You
should be more careful, you know.” Getting no response, he assumed that she’d
already gone up to bed, and padded over to the fridge to get himself a beer.
There he stood stock still for a while, as his brain grappled to work out what
it was that his eyes were looking at. His mouth opened in a scream, but the
scream was totally silent. Finally Eli backed away from the open fridge, spun
round, clipped his side on a worktop, fell over and hit his head. When he
regained consciousness, Sylvia was standing over him with a meat cleaver.
    Again
Eli tried to scream, and again found that he couldn’t make a sound. Too shocked
to get up, he backed away from the looming apparition – on his backside, his
mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He tried to cry out for
help, and couldn’t for the life of him understand why his vocal cords wouldn’t
oblige. And then the weirdest memory sparked in his brain. Eli had once filmed
an interview with an old man who’d been a British spy during World War II. Once
they’d finished shooting, Eli had commented on how brave the man was, and how
he was sure that he himself would blab under torture within a couple of
seconds.
    “You
don’t know that, son,” the man had told Eli, gazing benevolently at the young
director through rheumy eyes. “Sometimes you just freeze up and you can’t say
anything, even if you want to. You never know how you’ll react in a given
situation until you’re in it.” And now Eli finally realised what the old man
had meant. But nobody was going to give him a medal for it.
    “I’m
sorry, Eli!” Sylvia took a step forward and Eli nearly pissed himself. “I
didn’t mean what I said today. You’re not an old fruit, and you’re right: I can do better.” Eli threw a devastated glance in the direction of the fridge; any
doubts that he really had seen his wife’s decapitated head stuffed in
between yesterday’s pot-roast and the cauliflower dispelled by the presence of
the homicidal maniac now towering above him. Sylvia followed his gaze. “Oh …
her? She wouldn’t let me in. I tried to explain that I needed to talk to you;
to straighten things out. But she wouldn’t listen. She told me to get out, and
she just went on and on. What a bitch! I don’t know how you put up with her, I
really don’t.” Sylvia was getting worked up and Eli almost started
hyperventilating in his ineffective effort to scream for help. “I did you a
favour, you know. You should be grateful. You should take me back, you know. I
can do better. You said if I follow all your directions to the letter,
everything will be okay.”
    Speechless
still, Eli continued to inch backwards on his buttocks, feeling his way behind
him with his hands. He winced as wooden splinters broke off in his fingers, and
regretted having ignored his wife’s entreaties to sand and polish the floor.
    “ Look ,
Eli!” The longer the director was unable to speak, the more desperate the
actress became to elicit a response. “Look! I can act! I’ll prove it to
you!” she cried, brandishing the meat cleaver in a manner that could only be
construed as threatening. “I’m acting … see? I’m holding it like it’s real …
see? I just want another chance. I just want you to take me back!” Tears rolled
down Eli’s face. He