“The thing nobody understands about moths,” said Phil, waving away a jet of burger-scented steam from the overhead pipes, “they’re not trying to get to the moon.”
We were watching the glowing purple bars above the doors. Every so often there was a flash and a sizzle, although you couldn’t really hear it over the rumble of the deep fat fryer.
“It looks like they’re heading straight into it on purpose,” said Phil.
“Certainly does,” I said. I had my own problems.
“Ah but that’s the result of something else we’re seeing, see. Moths steer by the moon they don’t want to get there. Any other light source, it throws them off. They don’t know a lamp isn’t the moon until they’re... well, on top of it. Or in it.” He rubbed a fingernail idly over a smear of dried ketchup on the counter.
“Imagine you’re heading north with a compass,” he said. “Walking along holding it out in front of you, then suddenly you drop down a ravine, that just so happens to be the exact same shape as your compass needle. And everyone goes, isn’t it strange how he jumps into ravines, oh well, anyway, let’s get on with our own favourite habit of digging compass-needle-shaped deep holes in the ground for our own reasons. Moths are sophisticated at wayfinding and we’re, like, we’re sabotaging an entire species. Even fairy lights are a hazard, you get it.”
I looked again at the trap laden with dark dots. The light was a bright, buzzing shade of violet. I pictured row after row of distant houses with their lights on, snow on the roof seen from far above and getting closer. “So it’s our fault,” I murmured. “Our headlights and campfires and electric bulbs.”
“Exactly,” said Phil.
It didn’t feel unusual, to be talking about moths. A customer hadn’t come in for hours and the television was broken, its blank screen showing only our own selves reflected darkly in the smears. And assuming we didn’t want to eyeball the kitchen equipment, the insect trap was the only thing to look at. Well, there was the clock, but it had a tendency to slow when observed.
Phil said: “Not long now.”
Which was a kind thing to say: he was doing the night shift and I wasn’t. When I left a few hours later he was leaning over the counter, staring intently at the faintly whirring filaments.
I did some house stuff. While I had the place to myself.
I thought it would be odd at first, working with someone I lived with. That we’d see each other too much. I even thought about not telling Phil there was an opening. But in the end that idea only passed my mind briefly, like a scrap of cloud going quickly past the moon. Phil needed something, he’d been aimless. And this way I could keep an eye on him. As it turned out, he mostly did the night shifts while I didn’t. So in fact I generally saw Phil less now we were working together than I did before.
All this is to say, it was time to pull the big suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and take out my winter jumpers, long-sleeved shirts and special socks—including an ancient orange and green pair knitted by a distant relative I’d never worn but hadn’t seen fit to chuck after the funeral. I didn’t have a lot of storage space so I rotated, doing this ritual twice a year. I would think to myself, let’s reveal the Autumn/Winter collection. As if it wasn’t always the same clothes. I wobbled as I strained upwards for the suitcase, balancing ill-advisedly on the wheely computer chair. I was right to be doing this, bringing out the Autumn/Winter collection. Couldn’t put the season off any more, even with the inevitable difficulties, red nose and so on. The weight came into my arms and I adjusted my balance on the wheely chair and finally the suitcase landed heavily on the floor. I wrestled for a long time with the zip, which seemed to be broken.
“What the...?”
I pulled out a jumper and held it up, unfolding it in front of me as the woollen arms sagged into mine like a desperate cry for help. The hems were coming undone, straggles of yarn drooping like a thing half-knitted. And as for the body of the thing itself. I could put a fist through one of the holes.
“Fuuuuuck,” I whispered.
The edges of the holes were jagged lines: this wasn’t a question of unravelling, this was material missing. I scrambled through the rest of the suitcase.
The synthetic fibres were okay, but the jumpers and cardigans and the great big blanket for throwing over the bed were likewise ruined, just the same. I looked again at the broken zip: but I was sure the thing had been fully closed. How had they gotten in?
I opened the wardrobe and flicked through as if shopping in a rush. My clothes seemed fine, but then again there wasn’t much by way of chewy fibres. A horrible thought crossed my mind and I knelt down and pulled at a single piece of orange thread from the corner of the suitcase. As I expected, the thick vintage wool had proved a particular delicacy and what I held were more outlines than socks. I fastened the suitcase as properly as I could and rested my weight onto it, thinking.
I gave Phil a chunk of the day to sleep, then knocked on his door and pushed through without waiting, since I could hear the television was on.
He was sitting up in bed, wrapped up in the oversized brown cardigan he’d recently taken to wearing. He was scrolling on his phone while the news was rolling in the background. I had to say his name twice before he looked up.
“You might want to check your clothes,” I said. “Something got into my Autumn/Winter collection and chewed massive chunks out of it.”
His face froze. “Something what?”
“We might have an infestation I think. I’m going to pick up some stuff to get rid of them, I’ve looked up what works. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it, but you might want to cover up any exposed material they’d enjoy. Especially wool.”
“What are you going to do?” His eyes were wide, and there was a sudden sheen of panic to his skin. Which seemed a bit much. It wasn’t as if he’d just lost a precious pair of socks.
“Get some repellant,” I said. “Lots of it. But in the meantime we’ll need to protect our clothes.” I pointed with my full arm at his cardigan.
He followed the direction of my finger and gently tugged at the wool, as if noticing what he was wearing for the first time. It was already quite threadbare.
“They’ll definitely go for that,” I said.
He was pulling it tightly around him as I closed the door.
I heard strange sounds from the bathroom—half gargling, half choking. Then a lot of running water. The next time I was at the sink the plughole was full of wet fibres that dangled heavy and clumped disgustingly as I pulled them out. I brought this up with Phil.
“Erm...” he said.
“If you’re hand-washing delicates please use the kitchen sink,” I said. “And maybe cover the plughole.”
“I’m doing the overnighter again,” he said. Which was an odd thing to tell me, because we both knew I’d done the rota. He glanced at the window as if it could teach him something new.
“Getting darker earlier,” he said. “Might even snow soon.”
I shuddered.
“Remember not to leave any clothes out,” I said. But he didn’t seem to be fully listening.
The repellent didn’t stop it happening. All my socks and t-shirts now had holes, small and bitty and everywhere, or long and thin in the worst places. I’d never minded the slightly shabby look but it was getting a bit extreme now and I didn’t want to buy new when I still hadn’t cleared the infestation. There were half-hearted holes in my curtains.
He came up behind me.
“Full moon tonight,” he said. His voice sounded funny, as if he were chewing on something. I turned around and he covered his mouth and ran off, brown cardigan fluttering around him.
I was arriving to relieve the night shift. Above was his precious full moon in a clear sky, so the air was bitterly cold and the tarmac shone with frost. The doors were wide open. I was ready to be angry about the cold getting in, but the place was empty. There was only the fryer making its uncanny applause noise. I struggled through a freezing shift, trying not to think about snow.
When I got home I went straight into his room, too grumpy to knock. He was curled up at the end of his bed, wrapped in his ridiculous brown cardigan which he’d pulled down over his knees. The room was dark and the curtains were closed—and hole-less, I noticed—and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The only light in there was the steady blinking of the router, which Phil had unplugged from the hallway and moved into his room. He said it made the signal better, although it hadn’t for me.
My room smelled so strongly of camphor it made my eyes water. It hadn’t been enough. Phil came in while I was hanging up the paper.
“Don’t!” he said.
I glared at him. “If this doesn’t work I’m calling an exterminator. I’ve finished being merciful.”
“It’s cruel,” he said, his voice small.
“That’s all right for you to say, they haven’t touched you.”
He kept not being at work. Then he started not being in his room much either.
“Because it’s been nearly a month, that’s why.”
He looked down quickly but I’d already seen his eyes were tearful. “Please don’t call pest control,” he said, but I was already dialling.
I was alone behind the counter and watching the clock. The insect trap had so many bulging shapes across it, the violet light would be smothered if it were switched on. But it was only a dull grey; Phil must have unplugged it again. He was over an hour late for his shift. The protocol would be letting upper management know. But I didn’t want to get him into trouble. I resented the bind I’d been put in.
There was a shape moving in the car park, in and out of the lamps. A big loping thing. A dog? Loose elk, gotten free from somewhere? No, not a deer: I shook my head. Lack of sleep was getting to me. I’d started staying awake at night trying to see how they were getting to my clothes.
In the car park, fluttering at the edges of my vision. Then speeding towards me with giant outstretched wings.
Not wings. That awful cardigan, flapping flapping flapping everywhere.
“You scared me,” I said. He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “You’re still scaring me,” I added. He bit his lip and looked beyond me, towards the glowing light of the motorway services, the string of street lamps, the steady river of headlights, and beyond it all the moon.
“Nearly Christmas,” he said.
“Don’t,” I said. But he was right. Soon I’d walk into places and trees would be up and my eyes would itch and I’d have to start wearing hats over my antlers and craving the dry sweetness of hay. The freezing cold nights would be worse than ever beneath my hooves this year. At least I’d know where I was going, though. Not like Phil.
He let go and ran off across the tarmac, cardigan fluttering, his bare feet taking him through sudden deft changes of direction, navigating by something only he could sense.
Rose Biggin is a writer and performer based in London. Her novels are punk fantasy Wild Time (Surface Press) and gothic thriller The Belladonna Invitation (Ghost Orchid). Her short story collection Make-Believe and Artifice is out now with Newcon Press.