In The Styx

Book summary

In "In The Styx," radio host Barnaby Robinson survives a nuclear explosion and is confined to his bungalow, battling his inner demons and spiraling into madness. His enigmatic black cat, Hedley, offers unexpected companionship, raising questions about her true nature. Experience Barnaby's eerie journey through disturbing events and bizarre listener interactions.

Excerpt from In The Styx

The paper-thin walls of my modest bungalow quake under the might of the dusty autumn wind.

It is always quiet here, except for the creaks of my old wooden furniture and the little tapping feet of my only friend, my little black cat, Hedley. Every day I’m awoken by her, either for food, or she wants to tell me something important.

Today, it was that I was late for work.

I throw my thick, quilted covers to the side and lunge my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I turn the tap, but no water comes out.

“Must have forgotten to pay the water bill again.” I laugh to myself; I’m always doing that.

Luckily, I have a half empty can sitting on the basin. I quickly scrub my aching teeth with my dry, painful toothbrush. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the bristles were made of nails.

I tip the remainder of the can into my sudsy mouth, gargle, and spit into the desiccated sink. I run my hand through the slow trickle of spit and liquid, and smooth what is left of my orange, bristly hair down across my forehead with it.

I look into the mirror at my weary face; my bloodshot eyes blink at the big purple nose hanging below them. I try a smile. It looks pathetic, so I try again, repeating my show’s introduction to get in the zone.

“Goood morniiiing, Polcaaaaig! I am your host, Barnaby…” I sigh and try again. “I’m your host Barnaby Robinson, coming to you from Bonny Scotland.”

My face instantly relaxes into its now usual grimace and I feel ready to start the day.

I take the towel from the rack to wipe my mouth. Hedley swipes at it, thinking we’re playing a game.

“Not now, Hedley.” I laugh with her.

We head down the short corridor and into the open plan living room/dining room/kitchen space. She follows me all the way to my computer, which is set up on the dining table.

I put my headphones on, set up my microphone and begin my show.

Six, five, four, three, two, one, “Good morning, everybody, it’s five a.m. here in Bonny Scotland. The wind and the rain are still falling with vigour, it must have scared everybody off, I haven’t seen a human outside in a long time.” I pause in thought for a moment. “I wonder when it will stop?” I ask, looking out of the window.

“Thank you, for tuning in to Polcaig FM again today, I am your host, Barnaby Robinson.” I snap out of my trance and return to work mode. “I’ll be taking calls from nine a.m. onwards, but for now, as we all wake from deep slumbers ready to tackle the day ahead, please enjoy a rendition of Franz Liszt’s Liebestraum Number Three.”

As the music plays, I get up from the table, Hedley watching me contently, perched next to the computer. I begin to make our breakfasts, humming along to the melody. Hedley sways with me. She, too, enjoys classical music as much as I do.

I have never been much of a singer, but ever since I was young everybody told me what a lovely voice I had. High-pitched and angelic in youth, and deep, dusky with age. The listeners love it.

I pry open the tin of baked beans I keep stashed in Hedley’s food cupboard, and begin slicing the onions. My eyes burn and begin to stream immediately.

I blink rapidly and look for the dark blur of Hedley’s silhouette. “They’re strong ones today, Hedley.”

She meows back to me in reply.

I wipe my eyes with my forearm and continue slicing, scraping the chunks from the knife into the food bowl.

“Would you like anything else?” I ask her.

“Meow.”

“Tomatoes? I don’t think we have any in.” I look out of the rain-streaked kitchen window to the vegetable garden. All of the crops are dead, have been for months, drowned out by the torrential rain.

“This will have to do for now, Hedley, I have to get back on air,” I tell her, placing the bowl in her favourite eating spot.

She scuttles over to it and dines on her favourite meal with great pleasure.

For my own breakfast, I make a simple bowl of wheat-based cereal and an apple. I quickly filter some coffee and return to my computer just as the music comes to a close.

Placing my headphones on quickly, I continue. “Well, wasn’t that beautiful? The simple melody buried within the litter of fluid notes is a work of true genius.”

I take a moment to appreciate my own thoughts and the joy of hearing such a tune.

“Liszt, however, is not the main topic of discussion today. No, what really needs to be addressed is what our government is going to do about the nationwide famine, poverty and rising death toll…”

After discussing my thoughts and feelings on the matter for an hour and forty-five minutes, I relieve my listeners with another performance of a classical piece, this time Beethoven, another of the all-time greats.

I look for Hedley, who’s not at her food bowl anymore. “Hedley?” I shout for her.

She doesn’t meow in reply, nor come running towards me.

I continue to call her name as I check the cupboards and under the furniture. Still no sign of her. I walk into the bathroom, check behind the shower curtain obscuring the bath, she’s not there either.

I enter my bedroom, the only other accessible room, and she’s not in there.

“Hedley…?” I try one last time.

I hear Beethoven coming to an end. I’ll look for her later, I think to myself.

I return to my desk and there she is, sitting next to my computer again.

“Hedley, I was looking everywhere for you!” I tell her, stroking her head as she purrs and rubs against my hand. “Where have you been?”

I take my seat and place my headphones on again. “Ah, you don’t get much better than Beethoven, am I right?” I ask rhetorically. “A number of my listeners have requested more of his music, so there you are, don’t say I never treat you!” I laugh candidly.

“According to the news, the UK is one of the worst countries to live in at the moment. So, you have to ask yourself, why are we still here? Why don’t we just up sticks and move to a better country?

“I’ll tell you why. It’s because we’ve been made to fear our overseas comrades, by our very own government, so that we don’t leave,” I tell my listeners. “We are puppets to our leaders, subconsciously doing as we’re told for fear of retaliation.

“You must all remember the most tumultuous time of our lives, twenty-twenty-one, the Mafia War? Thousands died unnecessarily and without dignity, much like my beloved mother. It is difficult to put into words, in such a short amount of time, the failings of governments around the globe, and it is happening again, my friends. We have been left for dead, yet again.”

***

“The time is nine a.m. Some of you will only just be waking up now, I assume. But the phone lines are now open, we are here to listen to your opinions, worries, ideas, anything you would like to discuss. Whilst we wait for our first caller, I will be playing a song, requested at the end of yesterday’s show, this is Rossini’s Overture.”

The music slowly rises, but is swiftly interrupted by the phone ringing.

“That was quick. Let’s see, who do we have on the line?”

“Norman here, pleasure tae speak with you, Barnaby.”

“A pleasure to be in contact with you too, Norman. What is it you’d like to say?” I ask tentatively.

He sighs first, before beginning, “Well, I was actually goin’ tae ask for some help, really. You see, I come from a long line ae farmers, ma da wae a farmer, his da wae a farmer and so on.”

“Mm-hm.” I react accordingly.

“Now, with thes major downpour we’ve been experiencin’, I canne grow any crops. We’re ‘aving tae close the business doon, an’ I don know what else tae dae, the council in’t helpin’ an’ I dinne know who I can turn tae.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Norman. This is a problem that a lot of people in the agricultural sector are having to deal with at the moment. One way a few local farmers are combatting the rain is to keep their small number of plants in a nearby greenhouse to keep them dry.”

“I dinne ‘ave a greenhoose.”

“Can’t you put some plants in a window then?”

“There’s nae sun…”

Isn’t there?

I look to the windows. He’s right. The sky, it’s dark, and yellowish-grey, and the rain looks like sleet, it has a mass, like you could grip a clump of it in your hand. I take my headphones off and walk over to the glass front door.

Norman’s raspy voice whispers through the headphones, “Helloo? Helloo…?”

I open the door slightly, with much force, the door frame cracking and screaming for me not to open it.

I put my hand out into the rain. A thick grey clove of ash drops onto my fingertip.

What is this?

It begins to burn and I flick it onto the floor, closing the door furiously. I look at my fingertip; there is a small, red indent where the ash was.

I quickly put the headphones back on.

“Norman, are you still there? The rain… it-it-it…” I stumble over my words in a frenzy, “it burnt me!”

There is no reply.

The silence is deafening, my breathing crackling against the microphone.

After a moment, I hastily resume Overture, taking my headphones off again, staring into space in confusion as the music fills the room and becomes part of my bungalow; seeping into the furniture, my skin, kissing and soothing my burnt fingertip.