Free The Evil Inside by Philip Taffs Page A

chillies and so I haf maked him another bowl without chillies for hisself.’
    It struck me that both Esmeralda and Callum enjoyed experimenting with tenses, pronouns and verb agreements.
    ‘How’s Daddy’s boy?’
    I plonked myself down next to him on a soft wide couch in the cavernous living area adjacent to the kitchen. Callum didn’t respond. He was watching TV for the first time in days. Mia was upstairs, still sleeping or reading.
    Or crying perhaps.
    ‘What are you watching?’ I tried again.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Callum said in a small voice.
    I looked at the screen myself. Up until a second ago, I could have sworn that he had been watching
Toy Story
for the thousandth time. But now the screen was all fuzzy and dark with rough, broken white lines strobing rhythmically through it.
    ‘Is
Toy Story
finished?’
    He didn’t answer. He was staring dead ahead as if concentrating very hard on something. There was no sound coming from the TV now either. Just little
chop chop chops
from Esmeralda behind us.
    Something was now happening on the screen. The white lines slowly became more cohesive, forming themselves into one continuous, moving line.
    Like the silhouette of something alive.
    I gasped. It was a shape I’d seen a number of times last year. It looked half human, half frog; an amphibian caught in amber. The abnormally large, bulbous head tilted up and down at rapid speed while the little limbs looked as though they were frantically scratching or clawing at something. It was as if the TV was an aquarium and the thing really was just there behind the glass – a little prehistoric monster from the deep.
    It was the outline of a baby in utero.
    Floating from profile to front-on, the little creature was now staring straight at us with its wide, black fish eyes. Its round, rubbery mouth gaped horribly, as if venting a long, silent scream.
    I’d never noticed before how much the face of an unformed baby resembles that of a very old person – with their taut, skeletal features sputtered and blotched with detritus. For one long, monstrous moment, the little fishy face transmuted into the visage of an old woman.
    Then, with its webbed hands pressed against the inside of the screen, it angrily began beating its tiny fists: little
rap rap raps
syncopating with Esmeralda’s expert knife work behind us.
    Callum stuttered. ‘Bu … Bu …’ He couldn’t complete the word for some reason.
    Bubby?
    I snapped my head around. ‘Esmeralda – look!’
    She stopped cutting and looked up. ‘Look at what, Guy?’
    I turned back to the TV. There was no foetus there now – just that silly Space Ranger, Buzz Lightyear, showing off to Mr Potato Head by executing an elaborate loop-the-loop.
    Callum’s eyes were a little glazed, as if he’d just woken up. ‘What did you say before, Son?’ I asked. I suddenly realized I was sweating and wiped my brow.
    ‘Bu-zzzz! See, Daddy – I told you!’
    He pointed at the screen and then gave me a twisted little grin as if I was the one who was acting strangely. Buzz was back, and he, Callum, was now fine and dandy.
    He yawned and sat his own Buzz doll back on his lap as he settled in for the rest of the movie.
    Esmeralda shook her head slightly and resumed her chopping: Mr Russell had apparently gone a little gaga.
    Maybe what I thought I’d seen had just been a kink in the tape – or a temporary fault in the TV?
    I shook my head in an attempt to clear it.
    A dead baby, a stressful new job in a brand-new country, a suicidal wife. It was no wonder I was seeing things.
    Maybe I just needed some fresh air?
    I mussed Callum’s hair and disappeared out into the squall with my cigarettes.
    *
    The next morning, I decided that I needed someone to reconnect me with good old-fashioned reality. So I rang Bill.
    ‘Hey, Crayon Brain – haven’t they fired you yet?’
    ‘Is that any way to speak to your respected co-worker and undeniable superior in virtually every