The Friday Girl

The haircut was, in the end, what Chris Harris put it down to. In his perspective the whole mess had been the fault of that damn hair cut that he didn’t even want.
To throw the blame in a more accurate filter would mean that his father Robert would no doubt be involved, for it was he who constantly harped on the issue of his son’s long gritty hair style.
Chris’s argument entailed practically no convincing elements that would help sway the stern opinion that his father kept. This was quite often the scenario when the two argued.

As he crossed the quiet intersection towards Nelson’s Chop Shop, Chris held two old magazines (both well read and in near tatters) and a sheet of blank paper tightly pressed against his chest. His stroll was brisk but not eager, for he held a strong belief that the strawberry blonde mass of hair that his father would call “the mope tope” held a kind of symbolic figure towards his character, one that was shared and well liked by his peers.

Throughout his attendance at the Banksworth School, it would be safe to say that Chris Harris would easily fit into the more popular categories of the school yard culture; a tall, slender figure with handsome feature complete with a personality of wit and vibrancy were all contributing assets to the Banksworth hierarchy
.

Bulbs of sunlight glared off the large pair of aviators shading his thin slits of green eyes. Dried brown leaves crackled and skipped along the asphalt side walk as if dancing to the rhythm of breeze, and the sky was filled with a rich blue radiance that was only slightly interrupted by a few tufts of cotton cloud.
Yes, it was just one of those days where Chris Harris seemed to own the world, and it was this thought that a large grin spread across his face as he inhaled the sweet cold air that stung his nostrils.

The shrill chime of bells bought him tumbling back to the reality of his destination as he opened the door of Nelson’s Chop Shop that sat in between a newsagent and a bakery that was open 24 hours a day; a certain blessing for teenage stoners and local drunks.

Inside, the atmosphere was still and warm and a strong odor of hair spray clogged his sense of smell. Two customers sat in the waiting chair to his right, flicking aimlessly through magazines. In the high chair was a grumpy looking toddler with an apron covering his body with patches of hair sliding down it.
The black and white TV that hung off the wall was on mute while Don Adams and Agent 99 exchanged silent conversation. Nelson flicked his head quickly and greeted Chris with a brief nod, then returned his focus to the fidgeting toddler and his thinning blonde hair.

Chris removed his sunglasses and let his eyes adjust to the pale florescent light that filled the salon, then sat down in the third and final waiting chair with awkward ease.
The clock on the wall opposite him read 3:35. He crossed his legs then flipped open one of the music magazines he bought, glanced at it briefly then concluded that the news of the Stones announcing a new world tour and The Vines reuniting was old news.
He cleared his throat loudly then let out a bored sigh before closing the magazine and resting his chin in the palm of his hand.
Nelson was still hunched over the child with a look of immense concentration, waving and snapping his giant pair of scissors that cast distorted reflections.
The cell phone of the women sitting next to Chris suddenly beeped into life, startling everyone but Nelson. The lady gave an embarrassed smile while she shuffled through her pocket. After yanking it out, she answered in a tone of voice similar to a pissed of receptionist and began droning on about her mother and the state of her car.
Chris looked at the clock again and watched the dull heartbeats of seconds roll by.

Perhaps it was boredom that triggered the message that his mouth was dry, or maybe something on a higher level decided it wanted a dose of macabre entertainment, but as soon as Chris licked his lips and swallowed air in harsh gulps, he made the decision to vacate the Chop Shop and refresh himself at the newsagent drink stand.
Loud Mouth Lady that sat next to him was already beginning to pinch at his nerves, and that little shit wriggling on the high chair was still attempting to avoid Nelson’s pair of steel blades, so in it’s entirety the whole hair cut situation was getting nowhere fast.
He tucked his magazines under his armpit and rose from the chair, faintly aware of the stares Nelson and his customers gave him, then pushed open the door with more force that necessary.
The bells jingled to confirm his exit.

***
In 1985 when Robert and Linda Harris, a recently wed couple, decided to buy a house in the inner suburb of Banksworth, the real estate agent firmly assured them that they had made the right decision. Their home was two streets away from a train station that would get them into the heart of the city in less than 20 minutes, it was also a short walk from a series of convenience stores, as well as a hair salon (Nelson had just bought the property) and a highly commendable primary school.
“It’s a wonderful place to raise a family I can guarantee. That is if you’re considering having children.” Said the agent politely.
As history would have it, the couple did purchase the house and did raise a small family, and even today they would both agree that it was the right thing to do.

A news agency was one of the convenience stores the agent had described, and Chris Harris walked through its doors that autumn afternoon with a mouth that felt as if a dust storm had robbed its moisture.
There was a wide paper stall that was filled with mix-match items in their wrong places, a multi coloured card stand with CHEAP HUMOUR in thick text above it, and a cold drink and ice cream fridge at the end of the store behind the chips and confectionery shelf.
Chris paced his way to the fridge ignoring the attendant behind the counter, pulled the glass screen across and groped a series of damp plastic bottles before selecting a Fanta then returned to the counter with haste, already feeling his side pocket for his wallet.

It was then, after he had placed the bottle on the counter bench and produced a five dollar bill, that he realized the abnormalities of the person standing at the check out. The very first feature of the strange looking girl that struck Chris was her name tag.
It read ZEB in black felt pen and was crooked to the left, almost vertical.


“Good morning.” She said, “Is that all tonight?”


Chris assumed the confused young lady was referring to his drink, so he nodded.


“Thanks. You new around here?”


“Oh, well, yes and no. Mainly no. I just fill in for Greg on Fridays.” Her voice wavered and seemed to flinch.


Today is Tuesday, Chris thought. He couldn’t take his eyes of her badge. And what kind of name is Zeb?

“I’m just the Friday girl.” She smiled and flashed the drink’s barcode under the red laser back and forth until it beeped.
Chris had been to this news agent at least four times a week to pick up a newspaper for his old man, but he had never seen this girl around. Only on rare occasions did Greg leave his post, replacing his wife Margret at the counter.


“That’ll be two and sixty pence please, would you like a….” She paused suddenly as her face cringed and went custard yellow. “Sorry I just….” She paused again, longer this time, and clutched her stomach then made a series of wet hacking coughs.


“Are you all right?” Chris asked , trying to sound concerned; the girl was now bent over grabbing her belly with both hands and making bizarre belching sounds.


“Yes, yes I’m fine, thank you. I’m very sorry.” She stood slowly and calmed herself with slow breathing until the color had returned to her face. “Excuse me. I just had cat for lunch and sometimes it just won’t stop kicking down there.” She smiled and held her hand out for the money. Her nails had black grit and something that looked like specs of blood underneath them.


Chris opened his mouth to say something, but instead only a whimper of air left his throat.
An image of terror filled his mind suddenly: he could see Greg, poor old Greg Marson who would turn 71 this coming July, pig tied and gagged in the back stock room with his throat slit and a waterfall of dead blood trickling into the black pool around his limp body.
His chest tightened as sparks of panic erupted inside him.

The Friday girl stood impatiently with the palm of her hand open. Her left eye was lazy and slumped to the right as if it were a glass eye put in incorrectly.


“That’ll be two and sixty pence, please.” She repeated. Her words came out as if she was gargling something thick and pasty.

The magazines wedged under his armpit dropped to the ground like a stone to his feet, snapping him out of the daze she had some how put over him. Chris wiped his eyebrows with his thumb and noticed they were soaked it cold sweat, then gave the five dollars to Zeb. As he did his index finger brushed against her palm which was warm and somehow sticky.
Her focus remained on Chris as she punched some figures into the till and let cash draw fly open, scooping out some coins and placing them in his hand.

“Two and forty pence as your change, sir.” She said, “and if you don’t mind me saying so, what a wonderful head of hair you have. A mane like that would be rare these days, am I right?”

Chris forced a smile and shrugged a little. He grabbed the bottle and almost fell over his own legs in the process of leaving the newsagent; they had become nerveless trunks of jelly during his conversation with Zeb the insane attendant.

The insane cat eating attendant, you mean. He thought as he walked past Nelson’s Chop Shop towards the intersection.
His trembling hand fiddled with the bottle cap until it twisted open and he sucked the cold sweet liquid from the neck without taking breaths.

***
When channel 7 broadcasts the news update at 5:00pm weekdays, you can bet your bottom dollar that Robert Harris is sitting at the edge of the overstuffed sofa opposite his television with a look of genuine intrigue and grim excitement.
The day his only son Chris Harris met the Friday girl was no exception to this routine cast in stone. As he took heavy swigs from his beer can, Robert paid no attention to Chris’s feet patting rapidly up the stairs or the loud door slam that soon followed, for the war in Afghanistan had apparently escalated to guerilla tactics and carpet bombing, which would surely raise the death toll and increase the threat of terrorism even higher according to the news reporter’s worried tone.
In his room, Chris lied with his head deep in the pillow and his mind even deeper in troubled thought. The more the image of Greg’s supposed replacement played over in his mind, the more his imagination teased him.

I had cat for lunch, a voice sneered, that’s what she said. She eats cats. And what else? People? Little children? What was that under her nails?

Chris rolled around and ruffled the blankets as if trying to achieve a comfortable position.
He shook the thought of the Friday girl out of his mind and let the melody of Barbara Ann by the Beach Boys play over cheerfully through his head.
It was calming, happy. The sort of song you fall asleep listening to with a smile on your face.
He soon did.


The hair salon wasn’t Nelson’s, but it certainly had similarities that were almost uncanny.
The room seemed elastic and the walls bulged and shrunk in unstable motions.
Chris occupied the only waiting chair and gazed ponderously at the warped atmosphere.
Across from where he waited, the enormous clock on the wall ticked monotonously with its bent hands. Chris noticed that all the numbers were out of order; a six, a three, a fifteen, a forty seven as well as other double figures were all jumbled in a circle behind the glass face.
The television that hung off the wall was showing a Beach Boys clip that seemed to be filmed in the middle of a forest somewhere.
In the middle of the shop there was a high chair where a little boy slumped lifelessly over with his hair dangling in front of his face.
The Friday girl stood behind him with a scalpel held tightly in one hand, whipping and slicing across the boy’s scalp in random directions.
Flaps of skin hung off his head exposing a gray skull.

“Almost done!” she cried, “not bad if I say so myself.” She turned and looked at Chris who sat paralyzed in his seat. She was wearing a hairdresser’s coat that was splotched with dark red dots. Her skin was paper white. “Mind you, I only work here Fridays, so I’m certainly no pro.”

In his lap there were the two magazines he dropped at the newsagent earlier in the day, they were both in the same tattered condition.

“Thanks for returning these.” He said without thinking. “How did you know where I live though?”

“Your address is on the inside cover. Thought I’d be a Good Samaritan and pop them over.”
She continued to slash the scalpel across the toddler’s head which was now a jagged grid of blood. “Now stop interrupting me, this requires my maximum attention! Besides, I can’t keep you waiting can I? There’s a cat in the oven!”
***

While Chris Harris sat helplessly at the mercy of the child butchering Zeb during his twilight nightmare, his father was in a far more relaxing environment.
Robert was walking through a paddock of tall sandy wheat, dreaming of his life when he was 12 years old and living at his uncle’s farm in the sleepy town of Lutton.
After finishing the six pack of beer (a well deserved treat in his opinion,) he nodded off as the credits for the news rolled down the TV screen. His slumber was deep and solemn, which was the reason why he didn’t hear the front door creak open or the small shuffle of footsteps creep through the living room and scamper up the stair case.

Her movement was swift and agile, carefully peeking around each door in the long hallway, eyes darting around the well kept home in awe and excitement.
The last time she had been inside a normal family home was four years ago when she snuck into the window of a young girl and climbed into her bed while she slept.
Zeb’s mouth drooled and her sloppy lips smacked together when she thought of that little rascal; what a delightful ingredient she served as.
Cat liver and girl kidney soup, if her memory served her correctly.
She hated the place that she was living in before, hated the men in white jackets who poked fun at her behind glass windows, that’s why she plotted her escape with such raw perfection and grace.

Zeb giggled with anticipation as she gently pulled on the brass knob of the last door in the hallway, she held a shiny metal blade (much the same as the one in Chris’s dream) and the two magazines that her forgetful little friend left at the news agent.

Inside his room, Chris squirmed and grunted as his nightmare continued in a rollercoaster of oddities, completely unaware of the dark haggard figure that cast a dim shadow over him

“Let me go, it’s dark in here,” he moaned softly, “It’s so dark in here.”

The silhouetted girl threw the magazines aside and they landed on the floor with a faint clap, then she let her eyes run over the young man’s thin and well toned body before producing the blade. Goosebumps prickled over her skin in enthusiasm.

So many options, she thought, where will I start?

“Dark…” mumbled Chris in a disoriented voice, “so dark.”

“It will be soon.” Zeb whispered. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.