#wallboy

Your heart is beating so fast you think it will burst through your chest and kill you stone dead.  In this  refuge, this maze of lath and plaster, this dark and scary cellar, you skid to a halt in a complete dead end.  With bemused horror, you stare at the locked door, the reinforced glass and padlock, the bars outside.  Behind you, you hear his ragged breathing, and the deadly patter of  feet.  Brahms is coming.

You batter on that locked door, screaming with terror.   You've just seen him kill Joel and you can still hear the noises your ex boyfriend made as he died.  You'll be next because you've rejected Brahms and run away.

Your brain clamours with the why's and if only's.    Why did you ever come here to work as a nanny to a life sized doll...a substitute child for an elderly couple?    If only you'd listened to your instincts the moment you saw that porcelain monstrosity!

You swing to face the  passageway.   You can barely breathe  and take deep juddering breaths, verging on hysteria.   What will he do when he finds you?   Kill you?  Torture you?   Cut you into little--

"Y/N?"

That ghastly man-child's voice with its pleading tone.  Plaintive and corrupt.    You cower, even though you know you should dredge up courage and die with some dignity.  You wonder if you can do your own damage before he takes you down.   Gouge out an eye, break a finger, bite that hideous mask to pieces...

You crouch in the gloom, glaring at him.   He's bent double,  that stark white mask staring across at you.   He uses a wheedling tone again and you can feel another scream building in your throat.  "Be good to me, please...and I'll be good to you...I  will..."

"Go away!"

You watch him shuffle forwards, one arm outstretched.  

"Don't come any nearer...Leave me alone!"

You try to squeeze as far back against the doorway as you can, right though it and out the other side.   He's feet away now and closing.

"I won't hurt you, Y/N"  he whispers.  

You're almost crying now, because you're utterly at the end of your tether.   All the tensions of the past week;  Joel returning from America to bully you again, finding out Brahms is a grown man living hidden in the walls of this house, the suicide of his parents, your own desperate loneliness.  You hold both hands over your mouth to stifle the sobs and pull your body into a ball.  Like a child you close your eyes as though this might make the monster disappear, as if this might break the nightmare.

You feel him then; so close you smell the stale sweat of him and that musky male odour of  pheromones that subconsciously sets your heart pounding and tears you in two.   You fear him but...

At his touch, your eyes fly open and that white mask is inches from your face.   Behind the cut out holes you see his eyes glittering.  You kick out but he seems immune to the pain.  

"Don't touch me!"  

You turn again to the door and pound on the glass, but then he has you, and he's strong, so strong, and dragging you backwards.   You hang onto his forearms desperately, trying to relieve the pressure of the headlock, but the more you struggle the worse the pressure and in the end you give up and let him drag you back towards the light.   The light gets brighter and then you're both standing in your bedroom closet; the one with the false door at the back, and Brahms lets go of you.   You stumble into the room and fetch up against the bed.  For a heartbeat you imagine him coming in for the kill and you tense and turn to glare at him.

But he's just standing there staring back at you.  

It's an impasse; a stalemate.  Cautiously, you straighten up and try to smooth your hair.  Your heart's still drumming but you feel, sense, that he's not going hurt you...at least not yet.

His clothing is dirty, old fashioned and shabby; the stained white singlet, ill fitting pants flapping around his ankles; that God-awful grey green old man's cardigan.  Brahms stands immobile, getting his breath.  You stare crazily at that broad, heaving chest with its mat of dark hair.  He's very tall and in spite of the awful clothing that body is athletic and fit.  You glance up at his face again, or rather the pale porcelain mask he's wearing, the one made in the image of the doll Brahms that Joel shattered just hours ago.

Joel?  You close your eyes and think of him dead downstairs, his jugular sliced with a piece of the doll's smashed face, bleeding out like the slaughtered pig he was.  You remember watching in a daze as he died, his blood spreading over the floor like the blood from your broken womb on the night he kicked the baby from you.  You watched him pass from this world and you were glad of it.  Secretly.

Brahms won't let go of you; he holds you with those  eyes and you take a sneaky glance over at the door.  Then you realise  the front door downstairs is sure to be locked.  Resigned, you sit down on the bed.

He says your name again in that fluting baby timbre and you snap at him.   "Stop that!  Stop that silly voice...you're  a grown man not a child!"

He stands almost to attention and looks so comical you almost laugh out loud.   But you're not done with him, Goddammit!

"You lied to me!" you cry, pointing an accusatory finger.  "You made me believe you were a dead child!  How could you?   How?"

He stands there almost penitent and the edge is suddenly off your anger.   You remember how it was when you thought he was the ghost in the walls, how affection blossomed on both sides; his little gifts, the telephone calls you thought were a spirit child, the sweet conversations, so innocent and childlike;  the affinity you felt because of your own dead baby.   You'd nurtured this with him and enjoyed it, accepted it; thought that all the movement behind the walls and in the house was the spirit of the dead eight year old Brahms that  the Heelshire's lost in a fire twenty years' ago.  

You hold your head in your hands your mind reliving the moment the adult Brahms materialised through the broken mirror after you screamed for his help as Joel got violent again.  Joel who you thought you'd left behind in America, Joel who followed you here; Joel who refused to let you go...ever.  Shy, timid Brahms, who for weeks had never shown himself, coming through the walls to save you.  Some part of you, the fair and logical part, knows that Brahms has done no more than protect you when he attacked and killed Joel.  You also know too that, had Joel ever beaten Brahms, he would have killed Brahms...and probably you.   You know this, but there's a darkness inside that you refuse to acknowledge.   And the denial is tearing you apart.

You feel treacherous tears and fight them back.   His voice breaks the silence.  

"I'm sorry."

This is the man speaking, his voice wiped of the doll.  He has his hands behind his back, head bowed, and you reluctantly feel a little sorry for him.   You suspect that the child  in him has been nurtured either as a psychological protection mechanism for him, or by his parents as a means of control.  You hear Mrs Heelshire saying to you before they left their son forever..."Be kind to him and he'll be good to you."

You come to a decision.

"Brahms, look at me."

He glances up.

You lift your chin and muster determination you don't really feel.  "You need a shower and a change of clothes.  I'm not putting up with you in that state, do you understand?"

He nods and bows his head again.   You feel like a bossy old school teacher, so you soften your voice.   "Let's go then.  To the bathroom with you."

He follows you obediently, and at the big old fashioned bathroom you get some towels from the cupboard and hand them to him.  "You must have a change of clothing surely?"

He nods.  As he takes the towels you realise that his fingernails are clean and manicured which seems odd considering his grubby old clothes.  That's when you realise it's been a week since the Heelshire's killed themselves.   And you know he's aware because you found the letter  in Brahms's hidden rooms  that they wrote to their only son explaining their actions.  He must have neglected himself for that week by not changing his clothing or bathing.  Perhaps it's the shock of knowing his parents abandoned him and are gone for good.

You suppress a shudder when you think of that place.   His hidden lair.  You stumbled across it searching for a way out of the maze of the hidden passages; a self enclosed apartment filled with clutter and dead things.   There'd been bottles of formaldehyde and embalming fluid, reels of cotton and stuffing.  Fleshing knives dangling from the ceiling,  brain hooks and eye tools.  You'd understood then that taxidermy was his hobby and all you could think of was Norman Bates!

Oh, but worse, so much worse was the full sized you - made from old garments, complete with stolen dress and wig and your lost gold chain, supine on the narrow cot bed with... your face flushes as you remember... a handful of tissues all balled up beside it.   In that moment you came over all hot and flustered and appalled but now, in reflection, you remember that the dress was pristine, the dummy laid lovingly on the quilt, the hair brushed, the chain around the cloth neck neat and tidy, and you hope in your heart that all he really wanted was company and a cuddle.

Now, you watch as he pulls off the cardigan.  His arms are muscular, the pectorals well developed and you try not to stare, glad he's preoccupied with undressing.  You reach inside the shower and switch it on.

"Use the shampoo and soap and plenty of it," you order.   "And when you're done use that robe and find something clean to wear.  I'll be in my room."   You march out as though you have everything under control when really, you're quaking inside.

Across from the bathroom, you sit on your bed with the door open so you can hear the shower running.  There's an urge to lock yourself in, but you don't want him scavenging around behind those bloody walls again.  You'd rather know exactly where he is.

After what seems an age, you hear him cleaning his teeth.  Then he emerges, all wet and tousled in the soft white bathrobe.  The robe  gapes to his waist and you see most of his muscled torso and have a Mr Darcy moment that rocks your hormones.  Then you  regain control and point to his parents' bedroom.  "You should be able to find some of your father's clothes in there.  Please don't stand there staring, Brahms.  Just go!"

He pads off and you chew your fingernails and pace around your room.   What now?   Bedtime, you think.   It must be gone midnight.  You need a shower yourself but you're determined to see him tucked in bed first.  Thank God your bathroom is en suite.

When Brahms returns he's wearing a dark blue singlet and a pair of candy stripe pajama bottoms that are too short.   At least he's ready for bed!  

Brahms's bedroom is along the landing a few doors down from yours.   You act all prim and proper and cultivate your best no nonsense  tone.  "In bed with you."  He complies and snuggles down.  The mask is clean now, no more blood splashes.  But it still creeps you out, and you wonder what he looks like beneath it.

You pull up the blankets for him and smile down as his eyes flicker over your face.  "Goodnight, Brahms."  

"Kiss?"

It's a whisper that barely registers but when it does your heart sinks.   House Rule Number Ten.  Kiss Brahms Goodnight.

You bridle, unsure of what to do.  The whole thing is bizarre and sad and broken.  As you hesitate you catch him searching your face.  Those eyes are wide and guileless. There's none of the murderer in them and this confuses you.    Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, you lean down and touch your mouth to those hard, cold porcelain lips.  

You hear his breathing coarsen, and he pushes upwards and grips your arms.  The rigid surface of the mask knocks your teeth and you try to pull back but he lunges up not wanting to lose the connection of your mouth.  Instead of fighting him, you relax and tell him gently, but firmly, "You're hurting me, Brahms."

He lets go and sinks back into the bed.  "It's the mask," you say.  "It doesn't feel good for kissing."  In the dim lamplight, you see the whites of his eyes glisten and you know he's watching your mouth.  Impulsively, you reach out and stroke the damp dark curls.  "I'm going to my room now, Brahms.  I'm very tired and need to sleep.  I'll see you in the morning."