Horror Showcase
By Stuart Neild, Ian Woodhead & Dave Jeffery
Spicy Meat, Two Skins, Beg the Other Man, Sewing Lessons ©Ian Woodhead 2010
The Smoking Assassin, Special Boy, The Return of Borley Rectory, So You Think You're a Werewolf? ©Stuart Neild 2010
Daddy Dearest, The Last Rose of Summer, Wish You Were Here?
Foresight ©Dave Jeffery
Cover Design: Michelle Woodhead
This free eBook may not be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, without the written consent of the contributing authors
The Smoking Assassin by Stuart Neild
They say that I’m the greatest assassin, note assassin, not killer, that ever lived. That title, I can, surprisingly enough, live with and, believe me, I’ve lived a long time and don’t intend on dying anytime soon.
Not that I don’t know what death is. I’m hardly a stranger to it, or it to me. You cannot be a killer or assassin, call it what you will, and not be on some kind of terms with the grim reaper. I wouldn’t say we were personal friends, modesty doesn’t permit me that much, but, we have brushed shoulders on more than the odd occasion and death has never complained at the work I have thrown his way.
Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard death speak, who has? Certainly not anyone that’s living to tell the tale. He’s not the kind of guy to waste his breath, unless he has to. I suppose he knows how precious breath is. He should know, he goes around stealing the final breath from everybody and everything.
In the cold light of day, death, or the grim reaper, call him what you will, has a much better hit ratio than I or anyone else throughout history. I can’t see that changing. I know I’m not going to live forever and as surprising as it might seem to some people, I don’t want to live forever. Who in their right mind does?
I think what surprises people more, is that I do have a mind of my own. Well, let’s be perfectly honest, of course it does. Yes, I think that’s what surprises them the most of all. If I do give them the benefit of a rare last request, a very rare benefit I might add and they hear my voice and take note of the intelligence, the actual thought behind what I say, what I do and how I do it, how could they fail to be surprised. They wouldn’t see that knockout punch coming at them from the left side.
Did I mention I’m a big fan of boxing, a massive fan actually? All the divisions, heavyweight, middleweight, lightweight, I’m there, title or non title fight. I must admit I have a particular liking for the lighter weight fights. I suppose it’s because I identify with them more. I have to be pretty light on my feet if you get the joke. You see, I have a sense of humour, you didn’t expect that. Like I already pointed out, they never do.
But where was I? Oh yes, the importance of being as light or rather lighter than the proverbial feather, when one is going about their calling. And it is a calling. People call me and off I go, to do their dirty business for them. You should see some of the people that request my services, you just would not believe. Little old ladies, little old men, the young, the old, the obese, the slim, all ages, sizes, creeds and colours, from all walks of life. There is no one set of democratic that use me. I can honestly say, hand on heart, if I had one that is, I really am an equal opportunities assassin.
Take this one guy for instance; he was C of E, that’s Church of England to the not so educated. You see, I told you I was smart. Anyway, this C of E guy, he wanted his neighbour - a Jehovah’s Witness - knocking off. The C of E guy went through the right channels and rituals and Bob’s your Uncle, Fanny’s your Aunt and I choke the life of this little Jehovah’s guy. Now there was nothing anti Jehovah’s Witness on my part or on the C of E guys part. No, it wasn’t the fact that the Jehovah’s Witness religion had offended him or his C of E religion, no sir, no siree, it was the fact he thought the Jehovah had been knocking off his wife. It turns out it wasn’t the Jehovah but some atheist down the road from him. Not that he knows that to this day. But I knew it, I knew it at the time but, well, it wasn’t my place to say.
Did I get away with it? Well of course. I’m here aren’t I, in all my glory in front of you. I always get away. I always get in and I always get out. Even in this era of DNA and finger prints. I only leave the traces of things I want them to find and even if the authorities do find out about me, what are they going to do? I am as they say, untouchable. And as if finger prints or DNA would apply to me.
I’ll tell you another favourite little anecdote of mine. There was this leader; well he said he was a leader, more like a little tin pot dictator if my opinion counts for anything. This leader of some Godforsaken government in some Godforsaken land, he thought he was untouchable, that nothing could get at him. Little did he know I was the untouchable one and that no matter how many guards, or how many precautions he took, he was not stopping me from getting into his building or any building for that matter.
Anytime, any place, anywhere. Satisfaction is always guaranteed with my services. The individual that required me to, how can I put it, snuff out, the dictator was, you’ll never guess, a little girl. When I say little, she was ten years old and had some help from her grandmother, who knew a little more about these things, but that’s by the wayside, this dictator, he had so many enemies, so many attempts on his life, from inside his regime and out of it and not one got anywhere near to getting the job done.
I did what numerous heads of state, politicians, kings, queens, armies, spies, bombs, weapons of mass destruction and your ordinary garden variety of killer could not. I was in and out like a puff of smoke if you pardon the pun. And all on a little girls say so, with, as I pointed out, a little guidance from her grandmother. It seemed this particular dictator picked on the wrong one when he butchered this particular little girl’s father. I guess sometimes, that’s just the way it goes.
Now, I can see you quaking. I think the realisation has hit home to you what this is really about. Take your time, swallow hard. I know it’s a shock, it always is. You thought nobody or nothing could get to you. You were wrong, you realise that now, but don’t blame yourself. Even if you had taken precautions, what precautions could you have taken for this? What fail safes could you have put in place?
Very little and none that would have worked, even if I do say so myself.
You see it’s the luck of the draw. You knew you had enemies, hey; we all have our haters and those that we hate. It’s just that one of your haters got the jump on you, before you did on them. They had that bit more knowledge, that bit more belief.
So here I am, a demon from the darkest parts of I wouldn’t care to say where and you wouldn’t want to hear anyway. You wouldn’t want scaring to death and that’s certainly not what I’m about anyway.
In case you hadn’t guessed it, but I’m sure you already have, I’m a smoke demon, plain and simple. I waft along on the breeze; I trickle through the slightest of openings and use my very essence, to fill my victim’s lungs with enough smoke, so that they’ll never breathe a drop of fresh air again. In fact they won’t breathe any air again.
Not if I do my job right.
Which I always do.
Now where are you going? You know you can’t run away from me and even if you could, I’d always be waiting.
Would the cigarette that attractive lady lit up in the corner, really be just a cigarette, or would the smoke coming out of it, be not just cigarette smoke, but me?
Would that smoky face in your children’s bonfire really be just bonfire smoke, or would it be my reflection, laughing at you, knowing full well that when you slept that night, I would drift into your room and you would never wake again?
I think you catch my drift.
Anyway as much as it’s been pleasant talking to you and honoured you are, as I pointed out, I could have crept in on your unconscious form, I really must get on with things. You have no last requests apart from me letting you live? Oh you are such a card. I knew you’d ask that one.
Now just relax and sleep. I promise you it will be painless. Just close your eyes and we’ll drift off together.
Spicy Meat by Ian Woodhead
1
Jim nearly fell off the stool in his back room when his shop door flew open. Bloody hell, he must have dozed off. His eyes shot up to the clock and almost wept when he saw the time. It was nearly three in the morning, oh shit. That meant the customers who had somehow found their way here were now part of Jim’s bargain, he hoped to Christ that they weren’t locals.
He watched the three youths stumble into the shop through the security camera. They weren’t from around here which was a blessed relief. Jim clocked the shaven heads, hard lean bodies and unmistakable swagger. He recognised this type of customer. He hoped the thugs in sports clothes wouldn’t turn violent.
Aiden rapped his fist on the scratched glass counter, his rings, several on each finger, left a few more marks on the ancient surface.
“Service, you fucker! Come on, there are people out here starving to fucking death.”
“Maybe they just forgot to lock the door.”
Aiden growled and turned, he resisted the urge to give the cunt a slap. George had been coming out with dumb fucking comments like that all night. He booted George’s brother instead.
“Oi! What the fuck did you do that for?” Trevor asked rubbing his shin.
“Stop with the complaining. I only tapped you for fuck’s sake. You got that cos I don’t hit girls do I? Now why don’t you explain to your thick as fuck sister why the shop ain’t closed. Explain the basics.”
Aiden spun back round and leaned over the counter, where the fuck were the food people? While he was here he thrust his arm over to the till. What a fucking shame, a couple more inches, he’d be able to reach the buttons. Instead he swiped a menu, chose what he wanted and made the menu into an airplane. He listened to Trevor tell his brother off and smiled. George wasn’t a bad lad to have around; he was just a bit slow on the uptake that’s all.
Considering how small he was, the kid was still a hard little fucker and handy with his fists. George had proved that earlier tonight when they set upon those four trendy fuckers queuing up outside that nightclub. The cunts thought they were really hard, impressing those girls with them and everything. It was the worst mistake of their lives when they all started gobbing off. George hadn’t hesitated when Aiden and Trevor jumped them, he piled in too, punching, booting and screaming and at one point, even biting. God, it was well funny, it was like he was possessed or something. In the end, he had to pull him off when they heard the approach of sirens.
George reminded Aiden of himself when he was sixteen, only he wasn’t so fucking dumb.
“Can I help you?”
Aiden jumped. Where the fuck did he come from? He gave the man the once over, wondering if he could take him, then Aiden noticed the man’s hand casually resting on something below the counter and sighed. He probably had something close by like a cricket bat or pickaxe handle or something. It's what he would have, especially at this time in the morning. Although it would be a good laugh to drag the fat fuck over his own counter and give him a good kicking, who’d feed him and Aiden was well fucking hungry.
“Do you shove onion in your salad?”
The man shook his head.
“Right, in that case I want an extra large donner with salad and shit loads of chilli sauce and don’t fucking skimp on the chilli."
“I’ll have the same,” Trevor replied. He looked at George. “What about you?”
“Can I have a pizza?”
Aiden launched the plane at him. “No, you can’t have a fucking pizza. Pizzas take fucking ages and we ain’t waiting.”
George sighed. “Fair enough, I’ll have the same.”
“Have you got all that, cunt?” Aiden said.
But the man was already preparing them. God, the bloke was fucking quick, he’d done two already. When the man turned, Aiden leaned over the counter again, this time he looked the other direction. He grinned when he spotted the baseball bat leaning against the wall. He’d hammered in a few nails into the business end. What an evil bastard, Aiden’s respect for the kebab man went up a few notches.
“Oi! If that’s my kebab, don’t skimp on the meat.”
The man added a few more strips, winked at Aiden then added a few more.
He was going to have to remember this place; the cunt behind the counter defiantly knew the basics.
The man handed over three parcels, he made a point of ensuring the overloaded behemoth went to Aiden.
“If you are paying together gentlemen, that will be £15.”
Trevor slapped a pound coin on the top. “That’s all I’ve got you cunt. Take it or leave it.”
Aiden sighed; he took out his battered wallet and gave the bloke a twenty pound note. “Here you go mate, keep the change.”
The brothers stared at him as if he’d gone fucking mental.
“What’s with the fucking eyeballing?” he shouted. “This is a top bloke, show him a bit of respect.” He picked the coin off the counter and threw it at Trevor. “Shove yer change out of yer arse and get out of the shop.”
He nodded to the bloke and followed the brothers out into the cold night. He didn’t see the man smirking to himself.
2
The brothers were already tucking into their food; Aiden kicked their discarded wrappers into the road. “What’s the verdict lads?”
George nodded then burped and his brother held up a chill-stained greasy thumb.
“The meat’s a lot fucking nicer then our local shop,” he said in between chewing. “It’s well fucking hot.”
He had yet to open his, Aiden saw how much the man had piled on and he didn’t want to look like a total cock by spilling it all over the pavement. He stopped under an old fashioned streetlamp and carefully took off the first layer of paper. Oh god, the spicy meat aroma coming through the shiny paper was incredible; it was like the best smelling donner meat ever. If he didn’t get this down his gob like yesterday, he’d end up drowning in his own fucking drool.
Aiden ripped off the remaining layer and dug through the salad, eager to find a nice, juicy strip of meat. He found a good sized piece and popped it into his mouth. Aiden chewed contentedly, the taste was divine and lived up to the reputation hinted from the initial aroma. The lad was in the land of bliss and set about demolishing the rest of it, thinking what an all round top night it had been.
The only problem was that, due to his unexpected generosity, his wallet was a bit lighter. That cash was part of his Ma’s board money for the week. His Pa would knock the fuck out of him if he handed over less than what was owed.
“The salad’s full of fucking onion by the way,” remarked Trevor.
“Its white cabbage you dozy bastard. Do I have to explain the basics?”
Trevor grinned, “Bollocks, its fucking onion. I swear.”
Aiden decided there and then that Trevor would give him the note, it made sense in a way. Trevor had been a right cocky fucker all night, if he got all smart then he’s just stamp on the ginger cunt’s head. It would be interesting to see how George would react to that. He threw the soggy pitta bread and the rest of the salad onto the cracked paving slabs. He didn’t want it now, that fucker had put him off.
“Where the fuck are we anyhow?” asked George.
“You dip-shit, we are just outside…” Aiden spun around; he didn’t have a clue where they were.
The gaudy neon signs and metal shutters had been replaced by huge blackened stone mills on either side of the narrow street. He hadn’t seen a single car since the kebab shop. He looked behind him. There was no sign of the place, had they really walked that far?
“Where are we Aiden?”
He could hear that undertone of panic creeping into Trevor’s voice. He shrugged and shook his head, not wanting to speak in case the same panicked tone was heard in his voice too.
“Why can’t we just fucking calling a taxi?” George dug into his pocket; I’ve still got a fiver left.”
“Cos we don’t know where the fuck we are! How the fuck can we tell em where to go you thick fuck,” snapped Trevor.
George pulled his mobile out of his other pocket and marched off down the road.
“And just where the fuck are you going?” asked his brother.
“Away from you two cunts, I’m gonna find a street sign. I’m sick of you two having a go at me.”
Trevor growled. “That’s it, I’m gonna chin the midget.”
Aiden caught Trevor’s shoulder as he rushed past. He shook his head. “Leave him be Trev. Besides, looking for a street sign is a well top idea. Come on.”
He hurried after George. To be honest, he wasn’t really bothered if Trevor was behind him or not, he was getting a bit sick of him lording it over George. That was supposed to be his job.
George come to a halt at the first junction, he looked well fucked off. He stopped next to the lad and followed the lad’s gaze. Aiden hadn’t noticed before, but all the roads were cobbled.
“It’s not cunting fair, there’s no bastard signs anywhere. What’s all that about?”
He almost felt sorry for the little lad, he so wanted to get one up on his older brother.
Trevor hadn’t noticed his brother's anxiety, he had his back to them, the boy was just standing there, a few feet away, not moving.
“Oi! Gobshite. What’s up with you?” Aiden walked over, curious at Trevor’s odd behaviour. “I’m talking to you, Trevor.”
Aiden was a little pissed off at Trevor’s lack of response. If he was having a game with him, he was so going to kick his fucking arse. “I said I was talking to you Trevor. Don’t you fucking ignore me.”
The older brother turned around, he put his finger up to his lips then turned back. “I think I’m in love,” he whispered.
Aiden then saw her, a young woman, about their age, on the other side of the street. She was un-fucking-believably beautiful. He pictured himself kissing that heart shaped face and running his hands through her raven black hair, then slowly peeling off that thin, short dress. Oh Jesus, he was drooling again, fuck, he so wanted that woman.
Aiden’s fears of being lost were swept aside as his young mind went into sexual overdrive. He wanted the bitch and he was going to have her. His lust for her was interrupted when he found himself sprawled, face down on the cobbled street.
“Get your beady fucking eyes back in your bastard head. I saw her first.” Trevor reached into his back pocket and pulled out his knife, the thin blade snapped open with an audible snick. “She’s mine.”
He slowly stood up and made a show of brushing the dirt off his black pants. Aiden was in no hurry, he knew that he could take the cunt, with or without his little pig sticker.
“You had to wait for my back to be turned first didn’t you? It’s the one and only time you’ll touch me you red haired fucker.” Aiden sensed Trevor’s brother running up behind him. What would he do? Aiden had no fear of taking both of them on, George may have balls of steel but he lacked any real fighting skill. If the little bastard had ideas above his station as well, he would soon put the cunt back in his place. The girl was his.
“Jesus Trev,” gasped George. “What the fuck are you playing at? Aiden’s your mate. He’s the only one you have left.”
“But I saw her first.”
“Come on bruv. Put the knife away.”
Aiden just stood where he was, staying silent. Watching the exchange with interest.
Tears were now streaming down Trevor’s face. He looked at the boy standing in the road. “It isn’t fucking fair. I’ve tried to be like you all my bastard life. So why does everybody hate me?” Trevor gazed at his little brother. “Even that cunt there likes you more than me and now you want to take her off me.” Trevor stepped off the kerb. “Well, it ain’t fucking happening.”
Aiden licked his lips; his heart was thudding in his chest. He couldn’t believe he was going to say this. “We could share her.”
Trevor let his hand fall to his side. “What?”
“It’s what mates do innit. We could each take turns while the others hold her down.” Aiden licked his lips again and watched his vision of loveliness get farther and farther away. “We could make her last all night.”
Both brothers’s nodded as one; it wasn’t difficult to imagine what sick, depraved and violent fantasies were going through their minds, no doubt they were very similar to what were going through his mind.
“We’d better get a move on,” said Trevor. “She’s getting away.”
The three youths raced across the road, the sound of their boots slapping on the stone cobbles sounded like thunder to Aiden’s ears. Something was wrong; the girl wasn’t reacting how she ought to. Why wasn’t she running? Why wasn’t she screaming? She must have heard them running towards her.
His thoughts of lust and violent sex began to evaporate as his heightened sense of self preservation kicked in. He started to slow down. The two brothers raced on ahead, they hadn’t noticed anything wrong.
Trevor got to the girl first; he reached out, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her back. Encouraged by his brother’s actions, George had one hand trying to unbuckle his belt while the other was desperate to get inside the front of her dress.
“I wanna go first,” he panted.
The girl reacted to the sound of his voice by screaming, it was a sound of rage, not terror. She pulled her head forward and Trevor found himself holding a handful of black hair attached to nothing. She turned and leaped into the air, still screaming. She landed on George, knocking him to the floor; the girl straddled his body, grabbed both sides of his head then pressed her thumbs against his closed eyelids. George wiggled like a speared fish, his meaty arms came up again and again, striking her body everywhere but the girl was like a limpet, she would not let go. Finally his arms slapped to the ground as she pushed her thumbs through his eyeballs and into his brain.
Trevor whimpered and turned to run when she climbed off his brother’s inert body. She sprinted after him at an impossible speed. The girl leapt again and caught his ear with her outstretched hand; she dragged him along the path like a dog before pushing him hard against a building. She licked her lips looked into his terrified eyes then sank her teeth into his cheek. Trevor’s screams turned Aiden’s blood to water. He struggled like mad, just like his brother had, but could get her off him.
Aiden felt his bowels and bladder loosen. Some part of his brain was telling him that this couldn’t be happening while another part was ordering Aiden to get the fuck out of here before she went after him, but his feet felt like they were glued to the floor. Trevor’s knife fell from his limp hand and fell onto the cobbles.
The girl held Trevor by his neck and pulled off another piece of his cheek with her teeth, she looked at Aiden whilst chewing and winked. He watched her swallow before diving back into the open wound.
Aiden could take no more of this; he pulled up what little strength he had left, turned the other way and ran for his life. His heavy footfalls were soon joined by the sound of bare feet hitting stone. He let out a hoarse shriek when he felt her hand brush against his collar.
3
Jim already had the garage door open by the time the first of the screaming started. He would give it another five minutes before he made his move. Jim had no wish to be caught in the siren’s spell too.
The preparations had already been made. The mincing machine, electric saw and tables had all been sterilised and were ready for use. All that remained was to pick up his part of the bargain. Jim hoped that she’d leave him some this time.
The stock he had left would barely last another night.
Her time was up. Jim slipped on his latex gloves, zipped up the raincoat and picked up his wheelbarrow before heading off into the night.
Wish You Were Here? by Dave Jeffery
It started as a joke; a whimsy to entertain its instigators as they traveled on their two week tour of southwest England. But like the four men who climbed inside the large red camper van with Mr. Rowling's prized garden gnome sitting on their dash board, jokes come in all shapes and sizes. There are big jokes, small jokes, the simple and the complex. Yet jokes are unique in that they are often flavoured by the demeanor of their creators. If a person is mean their jokes taste bad. And the theft of Rowling's gnome had meanness at its heart; so it turned very sour, very quickly.
And in the most unexpected of ways.
It wasn't as if Mr. Rowling was the epitome of goodness and light. He too had a streak of meanness that was deep and thick, but at some point in time, the retired grave digger had been honest enough to make a decision to divorce himself from people. Not that he disliked people per se; he just didn't like the ones that could still walk over his pristine front lawn and talked garbage. As far as Mr. Rowling was concerned human beings were a lot less objectionable when they were as dead as a cassette tape.
His frequent rants at those who dared to step a millimeter across his boundary, were often watched by his small army of gnomes, cheery faces un-blighted by his cussing. Rowling considered these brightly painted allies his only true friends, accumulated over twenty years and more reliable and loyal than the living variety. His gnomes didn't judge or criticize or deride him. If he considered his gnomes as his allies then their leader had to be Liam, the first he had ever bought. It had been over twenty years ago now that Rowling had see the little ceramic man, face beaming out from beneath a red, pointy hat at a car boot sale, of all places. And Liam had pride of place on Rowling's front porch, his chubby hands resting on his big belly, clad in a green coat with huge golden, painted buttons.
Yes, Liam was very dear to Mr. Rowling which made him the prime target for kidnapping when the grumpy grave digger unleashed a torrent of abuse on the four drunken men who staggered onto his lawn on the eve of their summer holiday.
As they relaxed in their camper, they had great plans ahead: sun, sea and sending pictures and postcards of Liam the Gnome's southwest tour.
'I wish I could see that guy’s miserable face when he gets the photos of his poxy gnome surfing in Newquay!' Neil Jones scoffed as he kicked back in his seat.
'It'll be great,' replied his best friend, Aled 'Taffy' Jeffery. 'The guy's as sour as a grapefruit.'
'At least a grapefruit is useful,' Colin Jewkes chuckled patting the gnome sitting in front of him on the head.. 'Hey, Billy, you want to shoot the first picture?'
'You bet, my man,' William Thompson said delving into his pocket and pulling free a slim digital camera. 'Say cheesy garden ornament!'
They laughed as a double flash white washed their space for a moment.
'What you putting on the postcard, Taffy?' Neil asked with a broad grin.
Aled thought for a moment, 'I think we should introduce this little guy's traveling companions. That'll really get the guy fired up, right?'
'Once we've stopped for a breather let's get some tourist to get us all together. That way, he'll be able to see what a great time we're all having with his pal.'
And this is what they did. A young French girl took the photo, and even asked them to take one of her giving Liam a kiss on his porcelain cheek. The girl's lipstick remained on his face for a few days afterwards. And she would later give evidence to the police that the four boys didn't look like they had a care or enemy in the world.
Colin drove the first one hundred and sixty odd miles, completing his stint by pulling into a Holiday Inn just off of the M5 at Exeter. Here the men shot a photo of Liam at a table in Burger King with a huge burger and fries heaped in front of him.
'Here, let me help you out with that, you little porcelain dipstick,' Taffy giggled as he hoisted the burger from the carton.
'Careful, Taffy,' Neil said with mock seriousness, 'That gnome's got Rowling's meanness in it. You'd better watch your teasing.'
'I'm thinking that we'd better make sure that this fella has a really good trip. A bit like the condemned man's last twenty four hours,' Taffy replied mischievously.
'What do you mean?' Billy queried.
'Well, we're going to Land's End, right?' Taffy explained. 'How 'bout if we take a picture of this sorry piece of porcelain sky diving into the Atlantic? Make a great farewell for Rowling, eh?'
'I'm not too sure about that, Taffy,' Colin said and the way he said it made them all realize that he wasn't kidding. 'That does still belong to Rowling. It's a bit cruel to just bin it.'
'Oh, Colin!' Neil chastised, 'It's just a battered old gnome. Rowling will bitch about it for a while and then console himself with the other five hundred he owns!'
'It's just a laugh, right?' Taffy reassured him.
'I guess so,' Colin said though it was strained.
The others chose to ignore it. A decision they would soon come to regret.
The group set off on the next leg of their journey, this time Neil taking up the driving honours, but traveling only forty miles before parking up at a picnic area on the edge of Dartmoor National Park. The plan was very simple, a mile walk to The Hoops Inn where they'd dig in for the night, drinking their body weight in real ale, then a walk back to their camper.
Well that was the initial plan.
'What do you mean you're not coming?' Neil said to Colin astounded.
'I just want to chill for a bit,' Colin said. 'I want to check out that place.'
They all followed his raised arm and pointing finger. In the middle distance there was a black shape nestled in the folds of the plush green landscape.
'Let's get this right,' Taffy said suppressing a smile. 'You'd rather go and check out a moldy old building than came and spend the night drinking?'
'Come on guys,' Colin said with a shrug. 'You know I'm a sucker for history.'
'Colin, The Hoops Inn has been in existence since the thirteenth century. Now that's history!'
'I'd like to do this, guys,' Colin laughed.
'Hey, it's your holiday too,' Billy said shaking his head in disbelief.
'I'll get some shots of the little fella while I'm there,' Colin said nodding towards Liam the Gnome who was standing on the campers' veneered table.
'Well you two have yourselves a wonderful evening,' Neil winked. 'Don't wait up!'
The evening was still and bright as Colin made his way towards the misshapen building he'd seen from the roadside. As he approached he was disappointed to find that the place was a derelict oast house and not a place of historical significance at all.
'Oh well,' he said to Liam whose head was poking out of a rucksack lashed to Colin's back. 'I guess I'll take a few photos of you and the oast house and catch the guys up.'
Colin unbridled the rucksack and set Liam free. He approached a low stone wall where he sat the gnome slightly angled away from the camera, as though scanning the long, flat horizon. He lifted his camera, framed the picture in the view finder and took three shots.
Smiling to himself, Colin punched the camera into review mode then peered at the first image on the tiny screen. There was the gnome looking off into the distance as thought lost in thought. The picture was slightly blurred, the camera shake icon winking accusingly.
Colin forwarded the screen onto the next image. This time the camera was trembling in his hands in real time. Because the image showed Colin that the gnome had moved. It no longer had its cheery face in relief against the azure evening skies.
It was staring right into camera!
Morbid curiosity made him pull up the third and final frame, and that was when Colin threw the camera away from him as though it had changed into a deadly, poisonous creature. It landed on the soft grass, its tiny screen impossible to see; but Colin knew what was on it: the gnome, still smiling but the eyes - oh God, those eyes - no longer full of cheer, but a terrible wickedness turning its face into a mask of cruelty.
He found himself instinctively searching the wall for the gnome, part of his mind still telling him that he was imagining things, that maybe he should just turn round and head for The Hoops Inn.
When he saw that the gnome was no longer on the wall, Colin panicked. Instead of bolting back to the camper van he ran towards the derelict building; maybe it was instinct, the way a startled rabbit bolts for the nearest hole, even if it is a badger’s set.
Inside the building was a grey world of light and shade. Dusty sunlight poured through several holes in the corrugated roof, and the corners were pooled in the blackest of shadows. From high in the rafters, chains and pulleys swayed like the ambling vines, the click of metal punctuating the silence.
Then he heard a giggle. It sounded playful, but in a mischievous, unsetting way. Colin’s heart pounded, blood rushed in his ears, his body was going into an anxiety driven meltdown. ‘This isn’t happening?’ he called out pathetically. ‘It’s not possible!’
‘Oh anything’s possible, Colin!’ a small voice replied from the dark. ‘As you will soon see!’ These last words came as a vicious hiss and then Colin saw it step from the shadows, the gnome standing with its hands on hips and that smile now an ugly leer.
‘Better accept that yer goin’ to be hanging around fer a while, Colin,’ it said hopping from one foot to the other.
Before Colin could question either his mind or the strange creature standing not three feet away from him, a length of chain appeared to come alive and wrap itself about his throat. Colin’s hands clawed at their vice-like grip but to no avail. His kicking, gasping body was yanked high into the rafters where it danced like a faulty marionette for some time; while, far below, the gnome watched intently and did a jig of its own.
It was dark when Taffy got back, though the camper's interior lights were burning brightly. Taffy went inside, his gait lurching and alcohol fuelled.
'Hey, Colin?' In his drunken mind Taffy thought he'd whispered the words but in reality they were loud enough to wake the dead. Well, not quite.
'You sleeping, pal? You're missin' a great night. I'm under orders to bring you back with me. No excuses.!'
'Colin would love to come out to play, Taffy,' said a small voice. 'But he's, sort of, dead as a nail.'
Confused, Taffy stumbled around, trying to locate the source of the voice.
'Who is that? Colin, you joker, come on out and stop messing around.'
'I got pictures,' the tiny voice said. 'Colin's swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, Taffy. Want to see?'
Taffy had been shocked sober, his wide eyes now looking at Colin's camera which was lying on the kitchenette table; its tiny screen winking through frame after frame of Colin's body hanging in the derelict oast house.
'Oh my God!' Taffy muttered and tried to lurch towards the exit. But just as he was about to clutch at the door frame, he felt something land on his shoulder.
'Heads up, Taffy!' Liam said as he introduced the sharpe blade of a bread knife to Taffy's soft pink throat.
The man didn't get chance to scream before blood arced out into the night air.
And Liam filled in the blanks with whoops of delight.
A mile away, Neil was squinting at his watch as though he'd never seen it before.
'Where have those two got to?' He mumbled, his tongue not quite behaving as it should.
'Taffy probably never got to the camper,' Billy laughed. 'He's probably asleep in a ditch by now!'
They both howled with laughter, oblivious to the locals staring at them.
'We'd better go and see,' Neil said wiping tears from his eyes. 'I'm about done anyhow.'
The two men shambled out of the pub after loudly bidding everyone a good night. No-one reciprocated., not that either of them noticed. Neil and Billy held each other up as they staggered up the asphalt towards their camper van.
'You know something?' Billy said his head bobbing up and down as he walked. 'I think I see lights up ahead.'
'It's a road, Billy,' Neil scoffed. 'It's probably a car, you duck egg!'
'You're probably right,' Billy agreed, not really sure what he was agreeing to.
'Course I am! Look: here it comes now.'
In the distance, yet closing fast, a vehicle straddled the white line. It's headlights were stark in the dark, dazzling the two men as they stepped onto a grass verge, and waited for it to pass in swaying stony silence.
The roar of the engine was loud, and distinctive; a bubbling throaty din that Billy recognised immediately.
'Well, I'll be damned!' He said cheerfully as he stepped out onto the road and waving his arms in the air. 'Good old Colin's come to collect us! I knew there was a reason why I liked the guy so much!'
But even in his drunken haze, Neil could see that something was wrong. The camper van wasn't slowing down, in fact the engine revved as though the accelerator had been nailed to the floor.
'Billy!' He screamed. 'Billy get out if the road!'
The camper swerved then, hitting a bemused, open mouthed, arm waving Billy at seventy miles an hour, tossing him into the air where he span like a gull falling from the sky. He landed on the road with a sickening thud, seventy metres away.
One of his training shoes lay on the spot where he was hit.
The camper van continued for several hundred metres, and then the break lights blazed in the dark, a horrified Neil listened to tyres protesting in a squealing, screaming belch of smoke and burning rubber.
'It's coming back,' he whispered in dismay. 'It's coming back, for me!!'
He mounted the grass verge, clambering into a privet of sharp thorns that sliced into his exposed hands and arms, raked his belly, but the pain was bright, motivating keeping him focused, keeping him alive. He fought his way through the blockade and they found himself charging headlong into darkness. The wind was whipping into his face, licking his lacerated forehead and cheeks. As he ran he jabbered to himself, questioning what it was he'd just witnessed, was it an accident, was it some kind of terrible nightmare?
Then he heard the laughter. The giggling.
'Who's there?' He said panic stricken. 'Leave me alone!'
'Too late for that, Neil,' a tiny voice said from near by. 'Should have left me in peace, sitting in my master's shadow. Now the joke is on you, my friend.'
Through his terror Neil tried to comprehend the words. His initial thoughts were ridiculous, he thought that the voice was referring to Mr Rowling's gnome. In fact, it was speaking as if it was Mr Rowling's gnome.
'I've gone mad,' he concluded to the darkness. 'It's the shock ... of... seeing Billy ...'
'You'll see him again soon, Neil,' Liam said. It was a malevolent whisper but it was so damn close that Neil bolted, running headlong, regardless of the danger of charging blindly into the night, anythin to get away from that awful, taunting voice.
'He didn't see the tree until it was too late to stop, too late not to smash into it a full pelt. A low gnarled knot protruded from the rough bark and Neil sighed as it entered his chest. His legs gave way but the knot held onto him, propping him, his shattered cheek pressed against the trunk.
And from somewhere in the darkness Liam the Gnome whistled a few cords of 'We're all Going on a Summer Holiday' before collapsing into a fit of giggles.
Six weeks later, Rowling was sitting at his kitchen table. The mug of tea he'd made had died and gone cold long ago, forgotten as he stared at the bundle of photographs that had arrived in a sealed package on that very morning.
They all contained the image of Liam, the gnome that he held so dear. One was on the dash of a camper van. Another was peering out from behind a pile of French fries; and one with his jolly face sitting on a crumbling stone wall.
But these were not the real focus for Rowling. It was the other photographs that demanded his attention. The one of a man hanging from the rafters of a decrepit old building, face blue and ballooned like a badly drawn cartoon; and the image of a man with his eyes almost as wide as the gash in his throat, wearing a bib of crimson as he lay in the dirt, or the picture of what used to be a person, now too mangled to be truly recognised, a twisted montage of arms and legs and blood, and then the penultimate frame of a man who looked as though he was hugging a tree, save for the twisted branch sprouting through his shoulder blades. And in photo there was Liam, his face cheery, his hands sitting on his ample belly, incongruous to every scene.
But it was perhaps the last photograph which had Rowling mesmerized. It was a group shot of all four corpses propped up in the living area of their camper van, their mouths pulled into macabre smiles long after death, with Liam sitting on the knee of Neil. And at the bottom of the image, written in neat loose script were the words:
Wish you were here?
Special Boy by Stuart Neild
The doctors surgery was sparse, just a desk, a couple of chairs and a screen with a bed poking out behind it. The doctor was sat writing his notes. He looked up and pressed an intercom.
“Next,” he breathed into the intercom.
The door opened and a meek looking woman in her late thirties walked in.
“Hello Heather,” his smile was professional but not without warmth. “Take a seat.”
She took a seat.
“So, Heather, how are you?”
“I’m fine, I think,” she answered cautiously.
“That’s always a good sign,” his smile was less professional, but a little warmer.
She momentarily turned away.
“As soon as you start thinking you’re fine,” he said, “you’re normally well on your way to being fine. Healthy mind, healthy body.” His smile dropped a little, an uneasy silence followed. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure you can do anything, but I know you’ll listen. You’re the only one who has ever listened to me,” she mumbled.
“But it’s not just me that listens to you Heather,” he assured her. “That’s one of your problems; you think you’re all alone. You’re not alone though, you can take my word for it.”
She leaned back in her chair, “I suppose so,” she allowed a rare shy smile to come forth. “I’ll admit there is a certain someone I’ve met. We’ve bonded you might say. We’re very close, inseparable really.”
“That’s good,” the Doctor nodded. “A healthy relationship is a good thing.”
“Is it?” Heather looked perplexed. “You see, I’m not sure if you or anyone else would view this relationship as good or healthy.”
“I not sure I fully understand what you’re implying,” he frowned, “but I will say one thing here and now, an abusive relationship is the last thing you or anybody needs.”
Heather looked shocked. “There’s nothing abusive about him. He’s innocent. He’s probably one of the most innocent beings that have ever existed.” Her eyes and expression dipped, before she cheerfully brought her head back up. “Would you like me to tell you about him?”
“Pleased do, I’m intrigued,” he urged.
“I thought you would be,” Heather relaxed. “A good listener is always intrigued.” She licked her lips. “I met him in the museum of all places.”
“Which museum is that?” he asked the question with a Doctors intuition, he had an idea he would feel uneasy about the answer.
“It’s not one that you would know,” Heather began to chew her lip. “It’s a little place, just outside of town. It’s called the museum of natural horrors.”
“I know it,” Now it was the turn of the Doctor to bite his lip. “A freak show.”
“I believe that was the name for the establishment in less politically correct times,” she sighed. “I was attracted to the museum in the first place because it felt as lonely as I was. It was a comforting solitude though. It was there, as I killed a few hours of the day, that I first met him.” She stopped. “You will tell me if I prattle on too much won’t you? I know your time is valuable.”
“Don’t worry about the time,” the Doctor urged her on. “You’re my patient and what would a Doctor be without patients, you’re just as valuable as any time.”
Heather flicked her hair back. “That day wouldn’t be the last time I saw him though, I knew it wouldn’t be,” she gave a sigh, “as soon as I laid eyes on him I felt compelled. From that moment on we had an unbreakable bond.”
“So you started a relationship with this person you met?” the Doctor asked.
“It was the like, I’d never had before,” Heather answered.
“Was the relationship Sexual?” the Doctor asked clinically.
“Does everything have to come down to that?” Heather replied hurt.
A veil of silence floated, fleeting between them.
“I went back to the museum the next day,” she carried on. “It was the day after that I met Yanick.”
“Is Yanick your special friend?”
“No,” Heather gave a playful shriek.
*
Heather felt herself slip back in time. She was no longer at the Doctors surgery. She was no longer talking to the Doctor. She was looking at the jar with Yanick standing beside her.
“He’s quite magnificent isn’t he?” Yanick said.
“Yes, he is,” Heather agreed.
“He’s one of my oldest exhibits and in some eyes my very finest.”
“Yes,” Heather carried on staring at the jar.
“I notice you have been attending my little museum for sometime now. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Yanick.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Heather could still not force her gaze away from the jar.
“I am, as they say, from the old country, thank you very much. I have seen many sights, many wonders. He is just one of the many wonders I have purchased, and will continue to purchase, to make my museum the greatest ever.”
“How much did he cost?”
“Many money. Many old country money.”
“I’d like to buy him,” Heather proclaimed.
“The exhibit is not for sale, thank you very much,” Yanick declined.
“How much?” There was emotion in Heather’s voice, a sense of urgency.
“Who could put a price on such a thing?” Yanick rubbed his chin, his eyes glinting.
“Maybe the museum owner?”
“Which would be me, yes,” Yanick giggled.
“So how much?”
“Fifty thousand,” Yanick snapped.
“I don’t have that kind of money,” Heather recoiled.
“Only joking,” Yanick grinned. “Twenty thousand should cover the cost of an exhibit and may I add, I would be very reluctant to sell.”
“I don’t have anything like that sort of money.”
“Then it is five o’clock and time for me to close the museum. Goodnight and God bless.”
Heather gazed at the jar for a little longer, before slinking away without protest.
“Weirdo,” Yanick cursed as she left, “and what’s worse, a weirdo without cash.”
*
Time rushed forward. Heather found herself back at the surgery, the Doctor seated opposite her.
“Yanick didn’t realise,” she grinned, “that he was listening and that he would tell me how Yanick had mocked me. He didn’t realise the depth of the special relationship I had with my special boy.”
“Special boy?” the Doctor asked, confused.
“Yes, that’s what I called him, my special boy. He had no other name,” her tone grew cross, “to them he was just a thing in a jar, a freak of nature that had been still born at birth.”
“Heather, you must realise what you’ve been through recently, the breakdown of your marriage, the loss of your own baby, the realization that you yourself can no longer produce children.”
“You think I’m losing it again, don’t you?” Heather said dismayed.
“I hardly think losing it is the right term for it,” the Doctor corrected her.
“Maybe it’s not the right medical term,” she snapped back, “but it’s what you’re getting at. So let me assure you here and now, I’m not losing it in any shape or form. You can put any thoughts of putting me back in hospital on hold.”
“It won’t come to that,” he assured, “you’re making fine progress, this is just a blip.”
“So do you want to hear the rest of this,” she stopped, she looked angry, “blip?”
“Please, it’s what I’m here for,” the Doctor’s words faded away.
“I found myself back at the museum, day after day. I spent hours on end gazing at my special boy. He needed a Mother and with me not being able to have children,” she paused “well, it just seemed the right thing.”
“Go on,” the Doctor gently nudged, as she paused yet again.
“And then one day disaster struck,” Heather’s voice trembled, “it seemed Yanick didn’t own the museum after all. He’d been selling exhibits that weren’t his to sell to his private collectors, as well as taking anything he could get his grubby hands on, including the museums admission cash. I went to the museum the other morning to find it closed for good.”
“That might not be such a bad thing,” the Doctor calmly chipped in.
“Would you deny a Mother’s love for her son?” Heather pleaded.
“He wasn’t your son,” the Doctor said firmly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Heathers eyes narrowed, “he was just a dead still born freak in some jar. That’s how they all viewed him. But there was something else. He reached out to me. He wanted me as his mother, rather than the cold biological mother, who had not only cast him aside, but profited from his suffering. More than anything he wanted a home.”
“Where is he now?” the doctor coughed nervously.
“He’s inside me,” Heather touched her heart. “I can feel his heart beating next to mine.”
“That’s quite a charming little story you’ve told me,” there was still nervousness in the Doctor’s voice.
“But it’s not over yet. Don’t you want to hear how he came to me, how he found his way home?” Heather asked.
*
Heather could picture the scene perfectly as she retold the events. It was night; she was alone at home, lying still and silent in her bed. She had been thinking about him constantly, when she had heard the thump and the dragging sounds, just outside her bedroom door.
“You can imagine how afraid I was, lying alone in bed, when the realisation struck me I was no longer alone,” Heather said, then closed her eyes. She could see her bedroom door opening wider. She caught sight of the crawling movement towards the bottom of the bed. She felt the covers at her feet rise slightly.
“Yes, I’ll admit I was terrified at first. But when I realized it was him and what he wanted, I relaxed.”
“And what did he want?” the Doctor asked in a now very stern, professional manner.
“Isn’t that obvious?” Heather laughed, “he’d come home. He wanted us to be together forever, to never be parted.” Heather stood, her features beaming triumphantly. “You want to see him don’t you? Well you can’t see him, but you can feel him.”
She took the Doctors hand and placed it on her stomach. The Doctor allowed his hand to be guided by her, or at least he did until he recoiled away in shock.
“You felt him kicking, didn’t you?” Heather beamed, “he doesn’t do that for just anyone. He likes you.”
The Doctor picked up his stethoscope and listened.
“It’s impossible. I gave you a full medical the other week. There’s no way you could be so,” he felt his words and his perception of reality stop abruptly.
“Be so heavily pregnant,” Heather finished the sentence for him. “But you can hear him, feel him and so can I. And it’s going to stay like that, always. My special boy is home.”
Two Skins by Ian Woodhead
She couldn’t believe what her eyes were showing her, that dirty little slut really was about to make the move.
Emily Brooks could have ground her teeth in frustration; well she would have, if she hadn’t left them in a jar beside the bed. What on earth did she have to go and do a stupid thing like that for?
She knew that he would be here at this year’s organised ball; her housing block had been on tenterhooks ever since Arthur Goodhall had made the announcement, at least all the women had.
Emily felt her best friend’s had rest upon her knee.
“Calm down dear, we all know that the tart doesn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of wooing him, she’s just too common.”
She turned and smiled at Doris, keeping her lips sealed tight.
Doris gasped, “Oh you silly old cow, you’ve forgotten your gnashers haven’t you?”
Emily nodded, feeling a couple of tears run down her cheek. With sleight of hand that would impress a stage magician, Doris’s hand held a pristine white handkerchief. She dabbed Emily’s cheeks dry.
“I want you to calm down lass; we’re supposed it be enjoying ourselves, not pining over some bloke like a bunch of hormonal teenagers. We are old enough to know better.”
Emily nodded, “Of course, you are right dear.” Doris must think she was born yesterday to think that she hadn’t noticed the blood red lipstick, the seldom worn eyeliner and that expensive pastel patterned dress that Doris’s daughter had bought her five years ago. Doris is the one who should be old enough to know better, her own husband had only been in the ground for nine months.
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