The Smell of Tangerines

The living room smelled of tangerines. The smell was slightly on the artificial side, a little sickly. That was the first thing Richard registered as he opened the door and stepped into the low, wooden house with the overgrown garden.

“Mrs. Prunes! Are you here?” he cried out. There was no answer. Something drew him to the dining room behind, and a strange sense of foreboding told him what to expect. He pushed open the door and took in the sight: the elderly lady, sitting in a velvet-cushioned chair, was slumped over the table, blood oozing into the white tablecloth. The other chairs were strewn around the floor, and food was plastered on the carpet and furniture. He drew closer to her and grabbed her limp wrist. No pulse. The dead woman’s hand closed on his wrist and her head swivelled round. Her blank eyes stared into his, and blood flowed from her mouth, as she whispered:

“She’s upstairs.” The corpse fell back into its slumped position. He heard floorboards creaking and turned around just in time to see the flame-wreathed pupils and the sharp fangs that sank into his chest.

              Richard woke with a start, covered in sweat and shaking. He rolled over, and saw that Kate was still sound asleep, her hands resting on his pillow. The golden band on her ring finger had dug deep into the flesh; it was impossible to remove now. He ran his fingers over his: it could slip off quite easily. He pushed it deeper, where the finger was thicker. He rolled back to face the window: dawn was breaking. He got up and showered. The soap smelled ever so slightly of tangerines – no doubt that had played a part in his nightmare. He towelled off and got dressed. He ate a quick breakfast, kissed his still-sleeping wife on the cheek and went out to the car. It was a beautiful, brisk autumn morning. He drove to the office, got some coffee, sat at the desk, and began coding the new simulation model. After half an hour, he took a break and browsed the news. It was the usual stuff: politicians blaming each other, some flooding at the coast, someone’s dog bit someone’s cat. A headline caught his eye: “Elderly Man Found Murdered in Park”. He clicked on the article. A man in his eighties had been found with chest wounds in Westfield Park. Apparently, it was not the first such case. He looked at the photo and realised it was awfully familiar. He scanned the rest of the article, his heart rate increasing, and found what he had feared: the park was only a stone’s throw from his home. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled Kate. The phone rang and rang, but she did not pick up. The beep for recording a message went off, and he spoke hastily:

“Kate, it’s me. I just saw something about a murder in the park. Just stay inside, okay? Call me when you get this. If you don’t call soon, I’ll come by and check on you. I love you.”

He tried to focus on his work, telling himself he would leave if he did not hear back in half an hour. But five minutes later, he could bear it no more. He got up, threw on his jacket, and walked out of the office, avoiding eye contact with his supervisor who walked past. He got in his car and drove home as fast as he dared. The door was open. He rushed inside.

“Kate!” There was no answer. He searched the whole house. Everything seemed untouched, but she was nowhere to be seen. The bedsheets were lying in a pile on the bedroom floor, which was a bit unusual. An opened bag of prunes lay on the kitchen table, spilling its contents over the table. She was always eating those. He spied an entry on the fridge door calendar: “Visit Mrs. Kent at 10:30.” That was about half an hour ago – where did Mrs. Kent live again? He did not recall ever visiting her. But the address was somewhere. He remembered Kate kept an address book in her bedside table drawer. He rushed upstairs and yanked the drawer open, throwing out the contents onto the bed. He grabbed a book and turned the pages, but it turned out to be her diary. He stopped at the last page, and his heart skipped a beat. He slammed the book shut and tossed it quickly under the bed. He found another book, a beautifully decorated old-fashioned one he had given her one birthday and flicked through the pages to “K”. There it was: Mrs. Kent, 12 Sycamore Lane. Just down the first street on the left from their front door. He left everything where it was, and rushed out to the street, grabbing the bag of prunes on his way.

              The garden was unkept, and the house looked rather the worse for wear. The door was open. As he entered the house, he knew the smell immediately: the smell of tangerines.

“Mrs. Prunes,” he called, waving the bag in front of him. “Are you here? I brought your favourites!”

The living room looked tidy, and he spotted two empty teacups on the sofa table. He moved cautiously to the door at the back, knowing what he would find. She was lying on the table, just like in his dream. He looked around, but no-one else was in sight. He checked her pulse but found nothing. Blood was oozing from two large, deep puncture wounds in her back.

“Oh, Kate,” he sobbed. Tears fell on the tablecloth, merging with the blood. A floorboard creaked somewhere, startling him. He lowered her hand down and turned around, spying the door to the narrow hallway leading to the stairs. He made his way up cautiously. Blood had dripped onto the worn, brownish-red carpet covering the stairs. He held the bag of prunes tightly in one hand, outstretched in front of him. There was a single door on the landing, and he opened it. He caught a glimpse of the flame-wreathed black pupils as the fangs sunk into his chest and the prunes spilled everywhere.

              His world was fire, burning, but with an oddly pleasant sensation. Burning, yet not consuming.  Everything had an orange tint to it. He seemed to be lying on the floor, his head resting on a pillow. Kate was leaning over him, the pupils of her eyes surrounded by flame, and veins of fire coursing through her skin. A fiery tear was falling from her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Ric,” she whispered. Her fangs, like those of a venomous snake, were stained with blood. It was definitely her voice. “I just couldn’t fight the urges. And I couldn’t bear to be alone anymore.”

He looked at his chest. No blood was oozing from the puncture marks, but they were glowing fiery orange. He raised a hand to her cheek. Small veins of fire were starting to flow through his arm.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She looked at the prunes, which had become glowing embers in his eyes. She smiled.

“Nice touch.”

“Thanks. I thought they might satiate your hunger.”

“You knew?”

“Some of it. Just before I came. I found your diary.”

“I don’t even remember what I wrote.” There was heaviness in her voice.

“About the hunger that never leaves you – and that you don’t know what you’re hungering for. About the times when you don’t remember where you’ve been and what you’ve done. About the flashback from the park.”

There was definitely a knock on the door downstairs. They both froze.

“What now?” she whispered, horrified. He looked at the window with a view onto the roof.

“We need to leave. That way,” he said, pointing to the window. They heard a scream from downstairs and jumped up. She turned the handle and pulled the window open. He leapt out, looked around, and motioned for her to follow. They clambered along the roof to the very edge and looked down on the back yard. He estimated it as a drop of at least twelve feet. The bushes around the overgrown grass looked like the best bet. Without looking back, he jumped and found himself leaping like some wild cat through the air, landing on all fours in the bushes. He heard her land beside him and turned to look. Her poise was so graceful and animal-like, like a panther. They galloped through the bushes and over the hedge into the neighbouring garden. A woman was hanging up washing. She took one look at them, her eyes widened, and she ran inside for dear life. They tore through the garden, over the next hedge, sending a man toppling from his chair with fright, and on and on, until they reached the woods at the edge of the town. With a single glance backward, they dove into the safety of the shadows.

***

He woke up, feeling a little disoriented. He was lying in the grass, leaves and mud plastered on his arms and face. He brushed them off and raised himself up. It was light, but barely: dawn must have broken less than an hour ago. Kate was lying next to him, sleeping. There was blood on her hands and mouth. So were his, and his shirt was also dirtied with blood. Then he spotted the partially eaten deer carcass lying near their heads. He gave a sigh of relief.

              Later, when they were hungry for food again, they cooked what remained of the carcass on a small fire, hidden in an earth pit.

“We’ll have to move again,” Kate said as she ripped the last bits of meat from a rib. “Someone might have seen the smoke.” He nodded.

“This is a weird life,” he mused. “Always on the move. It’s been what, two months now? At least we’ve stuck to an animal diet since we moved to the forest. But we are kind of rootless.”

“We have each other,” she said, looking him in the eyes. He stared back. The fire that burned during the night was now absent: only the beautiful brown was encircling the black pupils. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, and she locked hers with his.

              They buried the dead embers and ashes, together with the bones, and moved further into the forest. It all seemed the same; he was sure he could not find his way out anymore, even if he had wanted to. Maybe his fire-version had a better sense of direction. They travelled all day and found a boulder to lie down behind, to wait for the night when they would hunt again. The sun was sinking behind the horizon.

“You know, one thing I don’t understand,” he said as they lay there, watching the light fade. “Why did you turn in Mrs. Kent’s – may she rest in peace – house? It was morning then, definitely not night-time.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe it was the darkness of the indoors.”

“Seems strange,” he pondered. “Also, how come you never bit me until then?”

“I loved – and love – you.”

They heard the crack of a twig and instantly flattened themselves to the ground. From behind the boulder, they could see an elderly man trudging up over the undergrowth, carrying a lantern and a bag of some kind. He looked slow and worn. He stopped about a hundred yards from them and sat on a rock. Richard glanced at the sky; it was getting dark.

“Just leave,” he whispered. The old man seemed to be fishing something out of the bag, humming softly to himself. Richard could not make out the words. Now the stranger was laying something on the ground. It looked like a sleeping bag.

“No, don’t,” Kate whispered pleadingly. They looked at each other with sadness and horror. They knew what would happen in an hour or so. The man was arranging stuff on the ground, and then getting in his sleeping bag. He curled up, and soon lay still.

“We need to leave,” Richard said, but as he looked at Kate, he saw it was too late: the fire was already burning in her eyes and creeping along her skin. His world was slowly turning to fire. He fought for control. The hunger was burning inside. He felt those animalistic instincts overwhelm him. He was still there, but he was different. They locked eyes, but now with those bloodthirsty grins. Moving stealthily on all fours, they crawled through the undergrowth, sneaking up on their unsuspecting prey. Richard could almost taste the warm, soft flesh in his mouth. Just a few more feet.

              They stepped forward in unison, and suddenly ropes sprang up around them, bundling them up and lifting them into the sky. They roared and struggled, but the ropes held fast.

“Calm down,” said a strong, slightly croaky voice from below. They turned their eyes towards the figure below, the rage and hunger still burning inside them, unquenched.

“I have been looking for you for a long time,” the stranger continued. There was no smell of fear emanating from him. “You really are troublesome to track. But now that I have you, what should I do with you?” They struggled violently against the cage. “Let you go? That is, well, not really a fair option. What if you kill again? You would have killed me,” he pointed out, with a little smile. “Should I take you to face your crimes? That would be fair for the relatives of those you killed.” Kate stopped struggling, looking at him intently. Richard saw that she was trembling a little. “But then, I do not think you meant to kill anyone. Maybe you did not fight the urges as much as you could have. But I do believe in second chances. So, what should I do?” He seemed to be studying them, and then talking to himself. “I think I should heal you. Yes, that would be good – then you will not hurt anyone anymore. But then I also need to take you far from here.” He grabbed the rope strung between their cage and the ground and began lowering them down. As soon as they reached the ground the two of them lunged forward at the old man. He simply stood still and waited. Richard buried his fangs in the man’s chest, while Kate bit him in the neck. He went limp, but something was wrong. Richard could feel it, and one glance at Kate told him that she felt it too. They let go of the limp body and backed away. Richard felt unsteady on his feet. Something seemed to be coursing through his veins, putting out the fire and hunger for human flesh. He fell on his side. He saw Kate go down too. There was strong artificial smell of tangerines. Then everything went black.

              Richard woke and sat up. It felt like a normal morning, but the sun was in the wrong position: it had to be evening. He looked around; Kate was standing up next to him. They were lying in a field of grass, somewhere high up, and he could see water in every direction. In the middle of the field stood a single tree. There was that familiar smell.

“Tangerines,” Kate whispered, shivering. They could see the fruits, shining bright orange, tempting, and terrifying.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” a voice said from behind, and they jumped. An old man with a stooped figure was smiling benevolently at them. He looked oddly familiar.

“Do we know you?” Richard asked. The man smiled.

“The flashbacks will come. But you are cured now.”

“Cured?”

“Yes. No more fire. The tangerines are safe to eat,” he added. “The hunger is gone.”

They eyed him sceptically.

“Where are we?”

“On an island. Not too far from home, but far enough.”

Looking down below, they saw a collection of stone huts with thatched roofs.

“With these kind people, you can live a pleasant life away from your past.”

“Do they know what we are?”

“Were. Yes, they know – I told them – but they accept you all the same. I would not have told them if I did not trust them so much.”

“How did you cure us? How did you bring us here?” Richard felt disbelief.

“I have my methods. Now I must leave. I’ll see you again.” With that, the old man set off down the path to the huts. They saw him speak to people, and then board a sailing boat, which set off from the shore. They looked at each other. The people were soon swarming up the path, the expressions on their kind, weather-beaten faces leaving no room for argument as they half led, half carried the couple down to the huts. They brought them food and drink. For the first time in a long while, food felt satisfying. It was getting dark. They were led to a hut.

“Here you can sleep,” a woman said to them, smiling and leaving them alone. They looked anxiously at each other. They peeked out from a window, and saw that the village people were gathered outside, laughing, and talking. There was no way to slip out unnoticed. They lay down, side by side, fingers interlocked, eyes intent on each other. It grew dark. Then even darker.

“No fire,” they whispered in unison.

***

Richard and Kate walked hand in hand towards the tangerine tree.

“It’s been three months,” Kate reminded him.

“True. No more fire.”

“No more hunger. Proper sleep.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“Who knows? Either way, we’ll be okay.”

They turned back to watch the fiery sun sinking behind the horizon. Soon the cool blue of the night would take over.

“Like a giant tangerine,” Richard whispered.

“Fire,” she said.

“But pure,” he added.