The Haar

by David Sodergren

Muriel Margaret McAuley was eighty-four years old the first time she saw a man turned inside-out by a sea monster. You might think it would bother a woman of her age, but, as Muriel was fond of saying, she had seen a lot in her eighty-four short years.

In fact, the only thing Muriel couldn’t abide — that really, truly nauseated her — were stuck-up wee arseholes in suits telling her what to do.

“Young people have to leave the past behind if they ever wish to grow up,”

“You know, money can buy a lot of things,” said Arthur as he huffed his way towards them. “But it cannae buy decency. It cannae buy compassion. And it cannae buy a nutter with a fucking shotgun.”

The haar, that freezing sea fog, lingered offshore, forming an impenetrable grey wall across the ocean. If Muriel didn’t know better, she would have thought the end of the world had arrived. What lay beyond that mysterious haar? She would never know. The haar always came to her, and never the other way round. It crept inland, wrapping itself around her cottage before dispersing, taking its secrets with it.

Men like that — rich men, with no morals — did whatever it took to get ahead. They lied and cheated their way to the top, treading all over the little people beneath them without a care. That was bad enough. But even worse was the way Grant treated the land. A man with no respect for nature was the worst type of man.

“My cock!” he shouted. “My fucking cock!” As last words went, they may not have been profound, but they were certainly appropriate.

“What’s wrong?” She couldn’t look at him. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” He touched her hand, and she withdrew it. “I’m lying on my settee with my husband who’s been dead for twelve years, and who is actually a sea monster, and you have the bloody gall to ask me what’s wrong?” He looked at her blankly. “I prefer the term sea creature.”

“Are memories real?” “Of course,” she said. “Then so am I.”

There is a God, thought Aaron, and then the creature yanked hard on his skin and turned him inside out like a revolting fleshy pillowcase.

“Three courses,” he said, stony-faced. “That was humour.” “Yes, I suppose it was.” “I consumed three men.” “Okay, yes, I got it.” “And humans often talk about three course meals.” She stopped and stared at him. “Billy, I got the joke.” He looked oddly wounded. “I was being a comedian. Did you not find it funny?” She paused a moment. “You and your friend didn’t use humour much, did you?” “We communicated largely through intercourse.”

“You’re not the one that’s going to have to wash this,” she muttered, ignoring the fact that her husband’s face was slowly disintegrating.

“Don’t you get it? No one gives a shit. No one cares. You’re old and you’re poor. Society washed its hands of you a long time ago.”

He was rich, and she was poor, and that was all that mattered. The wealthy can get away with anything. Murder, even.

It was surprisingly heavy, but then, it had been many years since Muriel had held a decapitated head.

“If you love someone, tell them. Tell them every day. Never let them forget. And if they go away for a while, never forget them. They can come back, Jack. They can come back.”