The BIG Horror Box Set (5 books)
Author: Iain Rob Wright
Date: 2015-06-13 04:00:00+00:00
Description: ***Visit iainrobwright.com to get the Iain Rob Wright Starter Library (four best-selling books, hundreds of five star reviews) FOR FREE*** 5 great horror titles for one great price. #1 Best Seller - Horror Anthologies. From a Top 100 Most Popular Author in Horror. Add it to your cart NOW because it is available for a limited time! This 500,000-word collection is over 1000 pages long, full of chills, thrills, and spine-tingling terror. All books are standalone stories, but also form part of a larger connected universe. You have to read them all to get the full picture. 5 bestsellers with over 1

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The BIG Horror Pack 1

SAM

ASBO

THE FINAL WINTER

THE HOUSEMATES

SEA SICK

.

SAM

By Iain Rob Wright

CHAPTER ONE

“He’s a scam artist, nothing but a conman.”

Tim Golding faced his accuser and sighed.  The silver-haired gentleman was large and overbearing, but Tim wasn’t about to stand there and be insulted.  “Sir, it was your wife who contacted me.  If you’d like me to leave then I will.  To be honest, I’d rather be at home watching The X Files.”

“No, please,” said the man’s wife.  “Help us.”

Tim examined the woman and could see she was emotionally battered.  After ten years in the business you could detect the bullshitters fairly easy, and this woman wasn’t spinning him a line. She was genuinely terrified. Either that or she was one hell of an actor.  The charcoal bags beneath her eyes were proof enough of her sleepless nights.

“Okay,” Tim said.  “Why don’t we take a seat and you can tell me what’s been happening.”

The woman’s face almost crumbled into sobs then, but she forced a weary, thin-lipped smile.  She led Tim into the dining room where a set of leather-backed chairs lay tucked up against a polished oak table in the centre of a plush beige carpet.

Tim slid out a chair and plonked himself down on it.  The silver-haired husband pulled out a chair and sat down stiffly.  He made no secret of his cynicism, huffing and puffing with every breath and rolling his eyes like marbles.

Tim rolled his own eyes.  Okay, asshole, I get it.  You think I’m a charlatan and you’re a tough guy that won’t be scammed.  If only you knew the truth, buddy…

Tim clasped his slender hands together on the table and gave his most reassuring smile to the frightened wife.  She’d taken the seat opposite Tim and was staring at him intently.

He started with an obvious question.  “When did this all start?”

The lights in the room flickered.

The woman let out a whimper, but the husband was quick to offer an explanation.  “Dodgy wiring.  Happens all the time.”

Tim nodded and focused on the man’s wife. He waited for her to begin her story.  When she did so, she spoke in a sickly, timid voice.   “It started about a month ago,” she said, “when our dog, Buster, brought something home.”

Tim glanced around the room.  There was no evidence of a dog.  No family pictures featuring a lovely pooch or pet bed in the corner.  In fact the room was devoid of anything, aside from the table and chairs.

“You have a dog?” he asked.

The woman shook her head solemnly.  “Not anymore.”

“Stupid mutt got himself trapped in our fishpond,” the husband added.

Tears welled up in the wife’s eyes, but she did her best to go on.  “He was a little Jack Russell.  We were always on at him to stay out of the pond but he would never listen.  Must have dived in a dozen times, but he always managed to get back out okay.  Then, a few weeks ago, I went into the garden and…and…and I found him dead at the bottom of the pond.  His collar had caught on a tree root sticking through the pond’s lining. He couldn’t get his head back above the water.  He must have really suffered.”  The wife started crying.  Tim handed her a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his scuffed leather jacket.

“Oh, nice,” said the husband.  “Is that one of your props?”

Tim ignored him.  “So tell me,” he asked the wife.  “What was it you said your dog brought home the week before that?”

“A bone.”

Tim raised one of his coppery eyebrows.  “Was it human?”

“Of course not,” the husband answered.  “Don’t you think we would have reported something like that to the police?”

“You could have, for all I know.  Until your wife called me, I didn’t know a thing about you.”

The husband scoffed.  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“It was a chicken bone, I think,” said the wife. “It was small and sharp.  I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but then everything started happening.”

Tim mulled it over.  If it had been a human bone then it may have summoned a poltergeist…but not a chicken bone.  Tim rubbed at the stubble on his chin.  Never heard of a malevolent chicken spirit before – at least not in this country.  Chicken bones were often used in Voodoo rituals, but Tim had never seen any evidence of it this side of the Atlantic.  “So what was the first…occurrence?” he asked.

The wife took a breath and shuddered.  “It was during the night while we were sleeping.  It was about 3AM.  I opened my eyes, wide awake.”

“What woke you?”

“The light in the bedroom was on.  My husband was still fast asleep, snoring. I’ve never known him to turn the light on during the night so I assumed it must have been left on by accident.  I got up to turn it off, but I realised that the hallway light was also on.  We always turn off the lights before going to bed, so it was strange.  I walked through the house and found that every single light had been switched on – even the lamps.”

“Like I said,” the husband chimed in.  “Dodgy wiring.”

Tim nodded, but was getting tired of the man’s abrupt cynicism.  An educated guess suggested he was ex-military, used to being in control.  Tim didn’t have a great deal of respect for the man’s attitude.  “Did anything else unusual happen that night?”

The wife shook her head.  “I didn’t sleep another wink that night, but it wasn’t until the next day that I really knew something was wrong.”

“Go on,” said Tim.

The wife glanced around nervously.  “Well, the whole house is like the Arctic Circle for a start.  I can see my breath.  You can feel how cold it is, right?”

Tim nodded.  It was indeed chilly.

“I turn the heat all the way up, but it never seems to do any good.  One night I was absolutely freezing, so I…I decided to take a bath to try to warm up, but, when I-I….”  A short sob escaped her lips.  “Sorry, just give me a second.”

“Daft mare thinks she saw blood coming out the taps,” said the husband, shaking his head and tutting.

Tim took a deep breath and made some mental notes. Then he addressed the husband, making sure to look directly at his steely blue eyes.  “Did you see this yourself, sir?”

“Did I hell.  There was nothing but a bath full of water when I got there.  Told her it was probably just rust from the pipes.  This is an old house.”

Tim nodded, but disagreed.  The house didn’t look more than twenty years old.  Still, it wouldn’t help to argue.  People in need wanted allies not conflict.  “An old house with both dodgy wiring and plumbing, it would seem.  So how long after that did the dog die?”

“A few days,” the wife answered, weeping without constraint.  “There were some other weird things that happened up until then, but nothing like this.  We buried Buster in the garden.  That night I was woken up again.  All the lights were on just like before, but this time there were noises, too.  It was Buster barking in the garden.  I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it was him.  I know his bark and it was definitely him.  I ran into the garden in my nightie.  I was so excited, but when I got there he was…hanging.”

Tim leant forward over the table and paid close attention.  “Hanging?”

The wife nodded.  A tear dripped from the tip of her nose.  “From the top of the old fern tree behind the pond,” she said.  “He was hanging by his collar.”

“Sick bloody kids,” the husband spat.

Tim wasn’t convinced.  “This is a pretty nice neighbourhood, isn’t it?  Do you usually have a problem with youth crime in this area?”

The husband shrugged his shoulders.  “There are no nice neighbourhoods anymore.  You get troublemaking kids everywhere.  Police don’t do a thing.”

“Okay,” said Tim, avoiding a political debate.  “I think I should take a look around.  There’s a good chance this is all someone’s idea of a sick joke, but I won’t know more until I conduct some experiments, starting with this room.”

“Here we go,” said the husband.  “The theatrics are about to begin.”

Tim once again ignored him.  He took off his trainers and climbed up onto the dinner table.  Once his footing was stable, he pulled a small leather pouch from the back pocket of his jeans.

“What’s that?” the husband asked.  “One of your new-age gizmos?”

“No,” Tim explained.  “It’s a set of screwdrivers.  I’m going to take a look at your ‘dodgy’ wiring.”

The light fixture had been replaced with a modern studio light that coiled around an aluminium rail in a semi-circle.  It was easy to unfasten.  Tim loosened the fixture until it was hanging by its wiring, then poked a finger inside.

“Be careful,” said the wife.  “The electricity is still on.”

Tim tapped the green and yellow switch-wire and the lights flickered on and off.  He prodded it a few more times and the lights flickered in kind.  He reattached the fixture and hopped down off the table.  He turned to the husband and smiled.  “You have a loose switch wire.  I would suggest hiring an electrician.”

The silver-haired man seemed confused, as if expecting some fanciful explanation which would result in Tim charging him money.  But that wasn’t the type of game Tim was playing.  There is a bigger intrigue afoot.

The next thing Tim did was reach into his back pocket again and pull out a spool of cotton thread.  He unravelled a length of about ten centimetres and held it in the air.  The thread rose sharply to the north side of the room, which meant a breeze was coming from the south.  Thar she blows.

Tim knelt down beside the room’s skirting board, holding out his fingertips to feel for air currents.  It didn’t take him long to spot a hairline crack running half-a-foot along the base of the wall where it met the floor.  Cold air flowed in from outside.

Tim stood up and turned around.  “You have a crack in the masonry.  This time of year it’s letting in an icy draft.  A good plasterer will sort that out for you.”  He clapped his hands together in punctuation.  “Right, shall we go take a look at that bathtub now?”

The husband and wife seemed dumbfounded. They led Tim upstairs without a word and showed him to the second door on the right of the hallway.  The light was already on inside and crept out beneath the doorway.

“Is this the bathroom?” Tim asked.

They both nodded to him silently.

Tim grasped the doorknob and turned it.  He slid inside the room and looked around.  The bathroom was nicely appointed: stone-tiles with an art-deco suite.  If anything, the room was a little bit too sterile for Tim’s taste.  It was like a showroom at a DIY centre. It lacked the soapy odours and stray hairs of a well-used washroom.

Tim pointed to an L-shaped bathtub at the far end of the room.  “This is where you say the tap ran with blood?”

“Yes,” said the woman.  “It was coming right out of the hot tap.”

Tim leant over the tub and placed his hand on the tap that was marked with a calligraphic H.  He turned it clockwise and water immediately appeared in a steady torrent. There was nothing unordinary about it.  “All looks pretty fine to-”

Suddenly the plumbing began to clunk and rattle.  Tim looked closely at the hot tap and saw that it was vibrating.  A viscous stream of brown-red liquid erupted and began to fill the tub.

“There,” said the wife.  “Just like that.  It’s blood!”

Tim placed his palm beneath the thick stream.  The mysterious substance was mixing with the hot water from the tank and coming out like arm syrup.  Tim pulled back his hand before it started to burn and raised it to his face. He sniffed the substance, then licked it.

The husband grimaced.  “My God, man.  What are you doing?”

Tim rolled his eyes.  “It’s not blood.  Tell you the truth, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not blood and it’s not rust.  Tastes kind of sweet.”

“So what do you suggest?” asked the wife.

“A plumber,” said Tim, washing his hand in the nearby basin.  “Let me see where you found the dog.”

The garden was at the back of the house, lit by a pair of floodlights attached to the brickwork.  The pond was set back about fifteen feet from the house amongst some flowerbeds.  Tim would have expected to see koi or goldfish beneath the surface of the water, but the pond was empty.

The fern tree, from which the Jack Russell had allegedly hanged, was standing just beyond the pond.  The woman pointed at it.  “Buster was hanging from the top of that tree by his neck.  It was so horrible.  Probably the worst thing I’ve-”

Tim cut the woman off.  “Where did you bury him?”

“What?”

Tim looked around the garden.  The lawn was short and well kept.  “You said you buried Buster in the garden.  Could you show me?”

“You leave that dog be,” said the husband.  “My wife is upset enough.”

“I don’t want to dig the dog up, sir.  I just want to know where you buried him.”

The husband and wife stared at each other.  It was as though they were trying to communicate without saying any words.  “I-I can’t remember where I buried him,” the husband eventually answered.

Tim huffed.  “Really?  Is that what you’re going with?”

“Look here,” said the husband.

“No, you look.  What are you both up to?  Why did you hire me?  Are you looking to discredit me?  Are you writing a book?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” cried the wife.  “Why are you being like this?”

Tim laughed.  “And you, my dear, you almost had me fooled.  Bravo.”  Tim clapped his hands sarcastically.  “This is all very well done indeed.  The loose wiring to make the lights flicker; the broken skirting board; the food colouring in the water tank – all good stuff.  What really gave you away though was the dog.  This lawn is perfect.  There’s been no digging or burying in this garden at all.  The whole thing is a setup.  I don’t even think this is your house.  There’s not a single photo of the two of you or even any toiletries in the bathroom.  Your acting was good, granted, but I think you failed to truly become your characters – plus the age difference between you two is a little hard to buy into.  Now, perhaps you’d like to tell me why the hell you brought me here.”

The husband nodded his head and a carnivorous smirk crept across his lips.  It was almost as if a veil dropped from his face, revealing the menacing, silver-haired imposter beneath.  Tim was suddenly very worried.  His Sherlock-Holmes scene of deduction had been satisfying, certainly, but now he was alone with two people who had brought him here under false pretences.  He was yet to find out exactly what those pretences were.

The husband pulled a flashy mobile phone from his pocket and dialled.  He placed the handset to his ear, still smirking, like a lion about to make a kill.  After a few seconds, he spoke into the receiver.  “Guy passed the test.  What do you want me to do with him?”

CHAPTER TWO

Angela Murs stared into the bottom of her whisky glass and felt her head spin.  At forty-years of age, she was beginning to wonder if the time had come to spend her evenings some place other than the grimy student hangouts of the city.

Wolverhampton was a University town and the bars were packed most every night.  It was easy to disappear inside them, easy to be alone amongst strangers.  The bars were also student-prices-cheap and crammed full of young eye candy.  In fact, there was a slender young thing currently propping up the bar right now.  The brunette’s legs went on forever, beginning at a pair of perfectly manicured feet in open heels and carrying on all the way up to her tight little ass.  There was a tattoo of a rose on her left ankle that got Angela’s juices flowing.

The young girl was unlikely to be gay, but that didn’t mean Angela couldn’t appreciate the view.  Most of the senior students knew Angela well and would often direct any newly experimenting young girls her way.  As it turned out, Angela got more than her fair share of dalliances for a forty-year old woman.  Not bad for an ex-priest.

Angela hadn’t left the clergy because of her sexuality (although it had perhaps made it inevitable).  It had more to do with the church itself.  Her years at the pulpit had shown her that the Church was an institution run by slimy hypocrites and greedy bureaucrats.  The religious leaders couldn’t even decide on what to believe themselves, let alone what everyone else should.  Some priests supported homosexuality (or were even gay themselves) while others derided it.  Some vicars were kind, decent souls, while others were judgemental cunts.  The more time that passed, the less Angela believed her colleagues and fellow priests were on the path God truly wanted.  So she had decided to leave, three years ago now, to follow the Lord in her own way.  Things hadn’t turned out quite as planned.

Somehow, Angela devolved into the exact kind of hypocrite she detested.  Even if God did condone homosexuality, Angela knew that he would not support her drunken, debauched ways.  She wore Sin around her shoulders like a comfortable cloak and felt cold without it.

The slender brunette noticed Angela was staring.  She smiled politely, but awkwardness tainted her thin red lips.  She was no doubt wondering why a woman twice her age was eyeing her up.

“You from the University?” Angela asked, trying to sound breezy and aloof.

The girl nodded.  “I’m studying Creative Writing.”

“Oh, great.  You plan on being a writer?”

“I guess.”

“Go for it.  Nice way to make a living.  So you made many friends yet?”

The girl’s awkwardness grew and her bare shoulders began to shift uncomfortably.  “Yes, a few.  I should probably get back to them.”

Angela watched the girl walk away, then realised she’d done so without even placing an order.  Had Angela really become so creepy that strangers had started to flee from her?  She glanced around the bar at the random faces and noted that she was the oldest by far – a full two decades on most of them.  A pathetic sight, she must seem, propping up the bar all night alone amongst a horde of teenagers.  Time to drag my carcass home, I think.  Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep before I notice how cold and empty my bed is.

Angela slunk away from her barstool and took a second to make sure her feet were steady on the floor.  She was drunk, but still capable.  Her tolerance for whisky was enough to put most men to shame.  In fact, it was a rarity that she ever reached true inebriation.

On her way over to the pub’s exit, Angela nodded to a group of young lads who were as regular at the bar as she was.  The grins on their faces made her wonder if they’d been laughing at her – making comments about how pathetic she was.  Angela lifted her chin and strode right past them.  Your degrees won’t help you.  The world is a cold and bitter place for everyone, no matter how many pieces of paper you have with your name on.

The cold air hit Angela’s cheeks as she stepped outside.  April could go either way: sunny and dry or wet and damp.  This particular evening was dry, but biting with a sharp chill at the same time.  Angela’s usual place to catch a taxi home was the Civic Hall car park, which was just past St Peter’s House church.  She headed there now, passing by numerous groups of giggling students who were conducting their own journeys to clubs, pubs, or parties on campus – they were still blissfully unaware of the boring grind that would no doubt enslave them all one day.

The looming spectre of the cathedral fell over her as she walked and the passing groups of teenagers became fewer and fewer. Eventually Angela had the streets entirely to herself.

Wolverhampton was heavily built-up and lacked much in greenery, but in the shadows of the evening, the tall red-bricked buildings were beautiful.  They were like great sentinels destined to outlive the generations of people who came and went through their corridors.

Angela took some short steps downwards and realised there was someone walking behind her.  If not for the concrete jungle of backstreets making the stranger’s footsteps echo, Angela would likely not have known they were even there – or that there were two of them.

She glanced back and caught a glimpse of their shadowy silhouettes.  Their movements were hurried, as if they sought to catch up with her. Angela picked up speed. The echo of the strangers’ footsteps increased also.

The Civic Hall was not far now, and with it would be crowds and taxis.  She would feel safe once she got there.  But she wasn’t going to make it in time.  The two strangers would be upon her any second.

The footsteps got closer, their pace quickening.

Angela bolted left into an adjacent side-street and broke into a run.  Her thickset body was intolerant of exertion and she huffed and puffed immediately.  She managed to reach the far corner of a nearby building and jinked left around it, quickly sliding into the alcoved entrance of a printing company.  She hoped she’d been quick enough to lose her pursuers.  If they’re even following me in the first place. I’m probably just being paranoid.

Then why did they speed up when I did?

Angela remained where she was in the alcove, backed up against the brick wall and listening intently.  The footsteps had stopped.  Either her pursuers had gone in a completely different direction, or they’d halted somewhere.  Are they trying to figure out where I went?

Angela realised she was panting heavily.  She took in a deep breath and held it, let it out slowly and tried to regain control of her lungs.  It was unlike her to get so rattled, but a bad feeling had descended over her which put all of her senses on high alert.  Or is it just the booze messing with my head?  Why on Earth would anybody be following me?  I’m nobody; just another drunk in a city full of them.  This is all really stupid.  I’d be laughing at myself right now if it wasn’t so pathetic.

It was a full five minutes later when her breathing returned to normal and she felt like herself again. She stepped out from behind the wall, ready to head for the taxi rank and put the whole thing behind her, but instead she found herself face-to-face with two large men.  They blocked her path and seemed ready to grab her at the first sign of a fight.

She could smell the acrid odour of their cologne. It stung the back of her throat.  “W-what the hell do you want?” she demanded.

One of the men offered a handshake.  “We’d like you to come with us, Reverend Murs.  We need your help.”

CHAPTER THREE

In defiance of every ounce of sense she possessed, Angela allowed herself to be led to a black-windowed saloon, parked-up in a nearby back road.  The night was too dark, and her knowledge of cars too small, to recognise what brand of vehicle it was, but it looked extravagant and expensive.  Once she’d taken a seat inside the vehicle, it was even more evident that the car must have cost a small fortune.  The seats were soft stitched leather and the furnishings were understated in chrome and aluminium.

Angela settled into the comfortable rear seat while her two chaperones climbed into the front.  She cleared her throat.  “So, will somebody tell me what this is all about, please?  I can’t believe I even let you talk me into getting in the car.”

“We mean you no harm, Reverend,” said the man in the front passenger seat.  He was young with dark hair.

“Let’s just stick to Angela, shall we?  I’m not a vicar anymore.”

“My apologies.  To answer your question: I don’t have any information to offer you, other than that my employer wishes to speak with you.”

“Enough of the James Bond bullshit,” Angela spat.  She enjoyed the brief flicker of shock that appeared on the two men’s faces.  People were always surprised to hear a priest – excommunicated or otherwise – use coarse language.

The man in the passenger seat twisted around further to face her and nodded as if agreeing with an opinion she’d just given.  “Look, Angela,” he said.  “We honestly don’t know why our boss wants to see you, but I believe it has something to do with certain…skills…you might have.”

Angela frowned.  “What do you mean?  What skills?”

“Exorcism.”

“Okay, let me the fuck out of here.”  Angela grabbed at the door handle but found that it was locked.  “Let me out of here NOW!”

“Just calm down, Angela.  My employer just wants to speak with you.  If you’re not interested in helping her after that, you will be free to go.”

“Her?  Your boss is a woman?  Who?”

The driver was the one who spoke this time.  He was older and his answers were snippier.  “We can’t tell you because of the nature of her business.  She is a public figure and can’t afford to have news of her personal affairs getting out.  All we know is that she needs an exorcist and that you were the one she wanted.  She is willing to pay you for your time, whether you accept her plea or not.”

Angela closed her eyes and sighed.  What am I getting myself into?  I’m not a priest anymore, but if somebody really does need my help, can I say no?  Plus, I could really do with the money.

“Start the engine,” she said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The man in the passenger seat nodded.  “Sure thing, Reverend.”

“I already told you not to call me that.  I am not a representative of the Church.  How long is this journey going to take, anyway?”

“Not too long,” said the driver.  “Our employer is in Warwickshire.  I’d say perhaps just over an hour.”

“Okay, then I hope you don’t mind if I get a little shut eye and sober up.”

“Be my guest.”

Angela closed her eyes.

***

She awoke after what seemed like only a few minutes, but the driver snidely informed her that that she had slept almost the entirety of the journey, snoring loudly all the way.  The saloon was currently speeding its way along a narrow country road typical of Warwickshire’s rural landscape.  It was probably the unevenness of the road that had stirred her from sleep.

She’d spent time in the county before when she’d covered a parish in a semi-rural village called Studley.  It had been a quaint little place with lots of pubs and places to eat.  She’d enjoyed her time there.  Warwickshire was a nice place to live. If you had the money.

“We’re almost there, Angela,” said the man in the passenger seat.

Angela checked her watch.  It was past eleven.  “What am I going to do afterwards?  It’s late.”

“Depending on what transpires, you can either stay at the house or we’ll put you up in a nearby hotel and take you home in the morning.”

A night in a hotel.  Things are getting better.  Wonder if I can get them to pay my bar tab as well.  “Do either of you have any water up front?” she asked.  “My mouth is as dry as a camel’s arsehole.”

The man in the passenger seat laughed while the driver cringed.  He opened up the glove compartment and retrieved a half-finished bottle of spring water.  Angela took it from him and finished it in one eager gulp, releasing a satisfied belch afterwards.

“Some fine manners you’ve got there,” the driver commented.

“Bite me.”

There was silence in the car for another ten minutes or so, until the driver pulled onto a gravel driveway cut-in-half by an immense wrought iron fence.  The saloon stopped in front of the gates and the driver pressed a button on a key fob hanging from the ignition.  Slowly, the heavy gates parted in the middle and allowed access.  The car continued up the drive, tyres crunching on the gravel.

About a hundred metres up, the driver parked up beside a vast Georgian-style mansion.  The building was a gargantuan square, with four floors of six windows across.  It wasn’t far off being a palace.  “I’ve stayed in worse, I suppose,” said Angela.

The man in the passenger seat chuckled.  “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?”

“If you mean a shrine to affluence and greed, then yes, it certainly is.  How many people live here?”

“Just my employer and her son.  There were various staff that boarded here, but at the moment the place is pretty much empty until some rehiring is done.”

“How the other half live, eh?”

“Indeed.  Shall we?”

Angela rubbed at her face to wake herself up as much as possible and then nodded.  “Ready when you are, guvnor.”

The car door was opened for her and Angela stepped out.  It was still chilly outside but the air was fresher and crisp, cleaner than the air of industry-filled Staffordshire.  Angela found it interesting that the super-rich even got to enjoy a nicer atmosphere than everybody else.

“We can go in through the main entrance,” said the man chaperoning her.

“How about you tell me your name,” said Angela.  “I’ve just driven fifty miles with you, after all.”

The man smiled and offered his hand.  “My name is Mike, but to be honest you probably won’t have much to do with me if you choose to stay here.  Graham and I – Graham’s the guy who drove us here – are just glorified dogsbodies.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, dogsbody Mike.  Can’t say the same about Graham.  The guy’s an arsehole.”

“Yeah, he is,” Mike replied with a smile, “but he’s not that bad once you get to know him.  I don’t think he likes priests, but that’s no reason for him to be so short with you.”

“Well, I don’t like priests either,” she said.  “Maybe someone ought to tell him that.”

Mike nodded and swept an arm towards the house.  “Shall we?”

They walked across the driveway and up a small set of stone steps, which led to a large set of thick wooden doors.  Angela didn’t know what type of wood the doors were made from, but they were dark and intricately carved.  They probably weighed a tonne each.

Mike pressed a button on an intercom beside the door.  There was a brief burst of static and a voice floated out of the speaker.  “Who is it?”

“Hey Frank.  It’s Mike.  I have Rev…Miss Murs with me.”

There was no reply except for a buzz coming from the speaker.  Mike turned the handle on one of the gigantic wooden doors and shoved it open with ease.  Angela followed him inside and found herself inside a cavernous, marble-floored foyer.  It looked more like a five-star hotel then a home.

A tall and wiry, silver-haired man appeared at the top of a wide staircase in the centre of the foyer.  Dressed in an open white shirt and work trousers, he looked like an off duty police officer.  He descended the steps slowly as if he had all the time in the world.  He seemed like the humourless, no-nonsense type of character that Angela took an instant dislike to.

“Thank you, Mike,” the man said.  “That will be all.”

Mike nodded and went back outside.  The other man – whom Angela assumed was Frank – took the final few steps and approached her.  He offered out a thick-knuckled hand covered by scars.  It was a fighter’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Murs,” he commented.

Well, at least he didn’t call me Reverend.

“Frank, I assume?  Are you the person who wanted to see me, because I was told it was a woman and you don’t seem to fit the bill.”

The man did not laugh, but didn’t seem offended either – more that he simply lacked any kind of sense-of-humour.  “The lady of the house will be down shortly,” he said.  “She has asked that I make you comfortable.  I am Chief of House and I will be looking after your needs during your stay.”

“If I stay.”

“Of course.  Now, can I get you anything?”

Angela shook her head and felt her vision spin.  She wasn’t completely sober yet.  “Just somewhere to sit, please.”

Frank nodded and led her to a small ante-chamber which consisted of two plush sofas and nothing else.  He left her alone there and she started to ruminate on just how surreal the situation was.  A couple of hours ago she’d been hanging around a student bar in Wolverhampton and now she was sitting in a Warwickshire mansion about to meet some mysterious stranger who obviously had more money than sense.  And there’s the whole exorcism thing.

Angela had left the church for many reasons but she knew that, deep down, it was because she feared being a part of the clergy as much as she disdained it.  She was afraid of having to confront evil and tend to its victims.  I don’t have the courage.  Not anymore.

Her placement on the isle of Jersey had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.  The blood, which soaked the walls of her old church, was as much from the spiritual death of her faith as it was the literal death of her parishioners.  I hope they build a goddamn Burger King on top of it.

Angela’s weaknesses had become too many to be responsible for the welfare of others; too susceptible to taking the path of sin.  He flaws had become abundantly clear during that final night as a priest in Jersey. The church had been knocked down just two weeks after she’d quit the calling she’d once thought would be with her forever.  I’ve been lost ever since.

“Miss Murs, I’m so grateful that you came.”  A slender, attractive woman appeared in front of Angela – pretty much her exact opposite.  “My name is Jessica Bell-Raymeady, wife of the late Joseph Raymeady.”

Angela’s face was expressionless.  Neither name meant anything to her.  “Pleased to meet you,” she said anyway.

“Please, follow me.  We can grab ourselves a drink in the lounge.”

Angela was wary of getting tipsy again, but if her host was drinking then what was the harm?  It was weird.  She’d expected some toffee-nosed aristocrat to be the owner of the house, but the woman in front of her didn’t sound like an affluent person at all – not common exactly, but neither is she posh.  The woman’s appearance gave the same casual impression as her speech – a middle-aged blonde woman in tatty jeans and a loose sweatshirt.

Angela followed Jessica out of the anti-chamber and into a lounge room hidden behind the grand staircase.  Inside there was a piano stage and a bar, as well as many tables and chairs.  It actually looked a lot like a cruise ship lounge and Angela wondered if it was ever used to its capacity.

“Take a seat, Angela.  Do you mind if I call you Angela?”

Angela shook her head.  “It’s my name.  Would hate for you to call me anything else.”

“Good.  I’ll go and fetch some drinks.  What’s your tipple?”

“Scotch, if you have it?”

Jessica smiled.  “Of course.  I have a delightful bottle of Longmorn 16.  Will that do?”

“Supermarket whisky is fine by me, but hey, whatever you have.”

Jessica let out a short sharp yelp of laughter.  The gesture was genuine, but there also seemed to be a strained quality to it, as if the woman were dangerously on edge.  “To be honest with you, Angela, it all tastes the same to me, too.  My husband was somewhat of a connoisseur, but I’m just as happy with a cheap bottle of plonk and a pizza as I am with a magnum of Bollinger and a poor cooked lobster.  My husband was the one with breeding.”

Angela smiled and wasn’t just being polite.  The woman was not what she’d expected at all, and the surprise was more pleasant than disappointing.

Jessica disappeared behind the fully-stocked bar for a moment and then returned to join Angela at the table she’d chosen to sit at.  Angela took a sip from the whisky and was not surprised to find that it tasted like any other brand.  In fact she had preferred the taste of the two-quid shot she’d downed at the student bar in Wolverhampton.  She wondered whether it was her that failed to appreciate the finer liquor, or if it really was overpriced and overrated.

Jessica was sipping from an extra-large glass of white wine and seemed to be lost in thought.  “So what is all this about?” Angela asked the woman.

Jessica’s gaze snapped back to reality and a weary smile came over her face.  “It’s my son, Angela.  He’s very sick.”

Frowning, Angela said, “Then you should really call a doctor, not an alcoholic ex-priest.”

Jessica laughed again.  It was the same manic outburst, but this time it seemed a little more controlled.  “Oh, believe me, there’s been doctors in and out of this place during the last six months.  Psychiatrists, Paediatricians, Oncologists, GPs; I’ve had enough to staff a small hospital through here lately.  They’ve all had a good look at my poor boy, but none of them have been able to do anything to help – anything at all.  He’s just been getting worse.”

“What’s wrong with him exactly?”

“If only I knew.  Sammie was such a sweet, energetic little boy, but about nine months ago he awoke in the night screaming, yelling that something was inside of him.  Of course, my husband and I put it down to a bad dream, but the following morning Sammie was sullen and pale, as if he’d come down with some wretched flu.  He’s been like it ever since.  He barely eats or sleeps.”

Angela placed her whisky down on the glass table.  “I still don’t see why that would make you seek me out.”

“Because you were an exorcist for the Church of England.  You performed more than one hundred exorcisms, yes?”

Angela picked up her whisky again and took a large gulp that burned her throat.  She let out a sigh.  “It was more like thirty in actual fact, but the church only conducts exorcisms to bring people peace-of-mind.  They don’t really believe in them anymore.  A bit of dodgy plumbing and noises in the night and people think they have demons in their attics.  It’s usually nothing more than a mask for other underlying problems; the things people don’t want to confront, like failing marriages and thieving in-laws.  I’ve seen it all, believe me.  Exorcism is nothing but a way for the church to take advantage of people and gain their faith.  They perform their rituals and flick their holy water, but it’s nothing but a charade.  I was a part of that charade once, I admit, and nine times out of ten an exorcism is nothing but theatrics.  You’d be better off using your money to find a medical specialist.  Your son sounds very ill.”

Jessica smiled knowingly.  “Nine times out of ten – so what about that one out of ten that is more than just theatrics?”

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted.  “Scam artists, schizophrenia, unknown phenomena?  What are you getting at?”

“I know about Jersey, Miss Murs, and I know that there is more to what went on there than the papers reported.  I know you’ve dealt with evil before.  You know that it exists.”

Angela started to rise from her chair.  “Look, I’m very sorry, but I think it was a mistake me coming here.”

Jessica reached out and grabbed Angela’s wrist.  There was pleading in her almond eyes.  “Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

Angela sighed.  She never could resist a plea for help – especially not from a beautiful lady her own age.  She sat back down.

Jessica smiled but seemed close to tears.  “Thank you.”

“Go on then,” said Angela.  “Tell me what you need to.”

“Okay,” Jessica sipped at her wine and continued.  “Sammie has been sickly since the time he had that nightmare I mentioned – about something getting inside of him – but that’s not all that’s happened.  Sometimes it’s like he’s somebody else, somebody…older.  He uses language that he’s never been taught and sometimes h-he swears.  Such filthy language that you wouldn’t believe it.  Then there’re all the accidents.”

“Accidents?”

Jessica nodded.  “There’s a reason there’s no staff here anymore.  The ones who were still in one piece left.  The others were…less fortunate.  Our chef, Nicholas, slipped while carrying a pan full of boiling pasta.  One of the maids tumbled down the stairs and broke her neck like a twig.  Our gardener, Tom, lost two fingers to his own shears and managed to blind himself in one eye. And my husband…my husband hanged himself, which is something he would never have done.  Joseph wasn’t that kind of man.”

“I’ve seen a lot of suicides in my time,” said Angela.  “Anyone is capable of giving up.”

“With all due respect, Miss Murs, my late husband was Joseph Raymeady, son of Wesley Raymeady, one of the original founders of Black Remedy Corporation, the largest commercial entity in the world.  My husband, like his father, was one of the wealthiest and most driven men in the history of our world.  Suicide to him was the same as failure, and failure was never an option to my husband.”

Angela’s eyes widened.  “Your husband owned Black Remedy?  Well, then there are many reasons he may have felt guilty enough to take his own life.  Black Remedy has been indicted for everything from child labour to illegal arms dealing.  I heard that the only reason they’re still even allowed to trade is because they buy-off governments like most companies buy stationary.”

“My husband was trying to change all that.  His egotistical father was in charge of the company until his welcomed death seven years ago.  Since then, Joseph has been trying to clean up the company’s ethics.  Black Remedy has donated more than six-hundred million pounds to charity in the last three years.  That’s more than the preceding fifty years combined.  My husband was a good man, Angela, and he loved his family.  He would not have hanged himself.  There’s just no way.”

“Okay,” Angela said, seeing nothing to gain by disputing the fact.  “While I admit that the amount of accidents you’ve mentioned is unusual, I don’t see what makes you think an exorcism would help.”

“This does.”  Jessica reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a dog-eared notebook.  It was small, about the size of an address book, and she slid it across the table to Angela.  “Open it,” she said.

Angela did as she was asked and was immediately shocked by the very first page she turned to.  It was covered in the erratic scrawls of a child: crayoned pictures and pencilled words co-mingling in a tapestry of graffiti.  The images featured symbols she did not recognise along with several depictions of winged beasts.  Most disturbing, however, was what the pencilled words read.  Several short sentences mentioned such disturbing things as: TaInTedsoUL, No eScaPe, He iS ABysS. SEekSAlvation. HeLp ME. Eventually Angela’s eyes fell across something in the lower corner of the page that chilled her bones to the marrow.  Written in neat full-capitals, so that it stood out amongst the other messily scrawled words, was a simple plea: SAVE ME ANGELA MURS.

CHAPTER FOUR

After one more glass of sixteen-year old whisky to calm her nerves, Angela had agreed to stay at the house, at least until morning.  The notebook with her name written in it could have been a fake designed to keep her there, but Angela couldn’t know for sure.  Real or not, it had left Angela flustered.

As soon as she’d set eyes on the childish scrawls, a wave of dread had rattled her bones.  She knew deep down in the pit of her belly that something strange was going on, and for some reason it involved her.  Whether or not it was due to natural or unnatural means was yet to be determined.  She needed to know more.  And if these people are messing with me, I make them regret it.

Frank had come by the lounge at Jessica’s request and taken Angela up to the second floor, where she’d been presented with a suite the size of a modest flat.  There he left her to survey her new surroundings.  An ancient four-poster bed occupied the centre of the room, its mahogany corner struts climbing from floor to ceiling.  Opposite the foot of the bed was a large bay window looking out into the satin darkness of night.  Angela imagined the majestic landscaped gardens that would no doubt match the grandness of the house, but right now they were invisible, cloaked in shadow.

Above the bed was a magnificent oil painting that may literally have taken years to complete.  It portrayed a heavenly battle, perhaps Lucifer’s war on God.  In the foreground were two cherubim with gossamer wings outspread.  They wielded spears, brother against brother.

Clearly Jessica’s late husband had been one rich son-of-a-bitch.  It was oddly unsettling staying at a dead man’s ancestral home. Angela wondered how anyone so blessed could be so selfish as to take their own lives.  Obviously being filthy-rich isn’t as great as it sounds.

Angela headed over to the en suite at the far side of the room. There was an antique freestanding bath inside, made of painted steel and perhaps two feet longer than most common baths.  It looked like heaven.  There was also a separate shower cubicle.

A nice hot bath or a cleansing shower was a tempting proposition, but Angela settled for the faucet.  The stainless-steel taps turned smoothly and Angela stared into a mirror hung above the sink as she splashed steaming water onto her face.  Her eyes were red and sunken; the eyes of someone a decade older.  How did I end up like this?  My life used to make sense, but now here I am, standing in a gazillion-pound mansion because the lady of the house wants me to exorcise her ten-year old son, who is probably just reacting badly to the death of his father.  I’m wasting my time here.  But what else have I got to do?  I need the money.  Booze doesn’t buy itself.

There was a knock at the door.  Angela left the en suite and crossed the bedroom.  “Who is it?”

“It’s Frank.”

Angela opened the door to find Jessica’s Chief of House standing with a tray full of sandwiches.  She could tell by his grim expression that room service was not one of his usual duties.

“Ms Raymeady thought you might be hungry.”

Angela took the tray from the man and thanked him.  She wasn’t much of an eater but had to admit that the sandwiches looked good.  Without further comment, Frank presumed to walk away, but she stopped him.  “Can you come in for five minutes, please, Frank?  I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

Frank seemed confused.  His silver sideburns wrinkled.  “I…yes, I suppose so.”  He marched past Angela and entered the bedroom.  For a moment it looked like he was about to take a seat on the bed, but he chose to remain standing in his usual stiff manner.  “Questions about what?”

Angela closed the bedroom door and faced him.  “I suppose the first thing I’d like to know is what you think of all this?  What’s been happening in this house?”

Frank sighed and shook his head.  “I wish I knew.  Things have been…tense.  The accidents seem a few too many to be mere coincidences, but I’m sure that’s all they are.  Mindless superstition got the better of everybody and the staff resigned.”

“Not you, though?”

“I have a duty to Ms Raymeady.  Her late husband hired me almost ten years ago to look after his family.  He was a good man and I intend to fulfil that role even in his death.  Besides, I don’t believe in, well, any of what is being claimed.  Mike and Graham don’t either.”

“You don’t believe in Evil?”

Frank laughed and rubbed at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin.  “Before I took this job, Miss Murs, I spent twelve years in the Army.  I absolutely do believe in Evil, but what I do not believe in is demons and monsters.  The very notion of an exorcism is laughable to me.”

“So you’re an atheist, I take it?”

“I believe in flesh and bone and what I can see in front of me.  But what I do or do not believe is of no consequence.  Ms Raymeady is concerned about young Samuel – and I agree that there is sufficient need to be – so if you being here will make her feel at ease then I welcome you and will do my best to make you feel comfortable here at the house.”

Angela smiled and decided that was as good a welcome as she would get from the man.  “So, tell me about Jessica’s son.  Samuel, is it?”

Frank shrugged.  “Samuel’s a good kid.  A little strange at times but I’m sure that has more to do with his upbringing than anything else.  A child isn’t supposed to grow up in a place like this, surrounded by servants and a father who was away more often than he was home.  I can’t even remember the last time Samuel got to play with another child.  Don’t get me wrong, Jessica loves her boy dearly, but sometimes this place is a little detached.  I don’t think Samuel has any idea what real life is like.  With his father dying, I’m not surprised he’s been acting out.”

“Acting out?”

Frank seemed a little uncomfortable, as if speaking freely was a betrayal of his employer.  “He’s been swearing a lot, which is totally out of character, and he’s suddenly gotten much smarter.  I mean much much smarter – like he’s been reading a set of encyclopaedias.  It’s…peculiar.  Plus, he seems to know all about current events, from politics to pop music, but all I ever see Samuel watching is South Park.  Personally, I think he needs therapy more than anything else.”

“I thought a psychiatrist had already seen the boy,” Angela said.

Frank nodded.  “A couple have.  They didn’t provide much help, but such things take time.  If Ms Raymeady had been a little more patient then perhaps we might have seen a change.”

Angela thought things through for a moment.  In her experience, claims of demonic possession often resulted in a verdict of mental illness.  A psychiatrist was almost always more use than a priest was.  But not always.

Once Angela had witnessed an event where all the psychiatrists in the world could not have helped, but that was something she put out of her mind for the moment.  It would only cloud her judgement.

“Look,” said Frank, folding his arms.  “I have other duties to attend to, so if you don’t mind?  If you need anything, just dial 904 on the handset beside your bed.  Otherwise I will see you bright and early tomorrow.  Ms Raymeady will want you to meet with Samuel as soon as possible.  If you then decide to stay longer, Michael will drive to your home and gather some things for you.  Try to get some sleep, Ms Murs, and don’t worry if you hear anything in the night.  Young Samuel has taken to causing commotion during the late hours.  It is nothing to worry about.”

Angela shot the man a questioning look.  “Commotion?”

“Samuel likes to quote the Bible, despite never having read it to my knowledge.  He can get quite…animated.”

“Okay,” said Angela.  “Could you do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Write down the passages he mentions.  It would be interesting to see which parts of the Bible he’s focused on.”

Frank nodded thoughtfully.  “Will do,” he said Frank and then exited.

Angela got ready for bed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Angela was woken at 7AM according to her cheap CASIO watch.  Once again, Frank had been at her door, this time with a tray of toast and orange juice, and once again he’d worn the same begrudging expression on his face.  The poor guy really was having to pick up the slack for all the people who had left.

“Hey, Frank.  Did you get any sleep yourself last night?”

“I got ten minutes here and there.  Did you sleep well?”

“I sure did.”  In fact, Angela had slept like a log.  The bed was so comfy that she hated having to leave it.  She’d been mindful of listening out for Samuel’s religious tirades during the night, but once she’d slid between the sheets, fully clothed, she pretty much slept right through.

“Ms Raymeady will meet you in the lounge where you shared a drink last night,” said Frank.  “Along with a colleague you’ll be working with.”

“A colleague?”

Frank nodded.  “Yes, a young man named Tim Golding.  I’ll leave you to find out about him directly.  He’s…enthusiastic, I suppose.”  Frank turned and walked back down the hallway.

Angela spent the next five minutes freshening up in the en suite’s sink, before polishing off the toast and juice and preparing to leave.  Once ready, she exited the room and stepped out into the hallway.  The burgundy carpet stretched in both directions, turning a corner at each end.  Angela couldn’t remember which direction she’d come from the previous evening, so randomly chose to go left.  As it turned out, the corridor wrapped around and led to the main balcony and staircase from both sides. If she had gone right she would have ended up in the same place, just coming from the other direction.

Angela headed downwards, continuing past the first floor and arriving on the well-lit ground floor.  Her footsteps echoed as they fell upon the marble tiles in the vast foyer.  It was like being an ant inside a vast catacomb, doors and hallways leading off in a hundred directions.  Angela remembered the piano lounge was located at the rear of the staircase and made her way over to it.  Through the door’s glass panes she could see Jessica and Frank sitting at a table together, along with a scruffy-haired ginger-nut in his early twenties.

Angela pushed open the door and immediately all eyes were on her.  Jessica was smiling, but the weariness in her eyes made the expression unconvincing.  She looks rough.  Still gorgeous, though.

“Can I get you anything to drink, Ms Murs?” Frank asked.

Angela waved a hand.  “I’m fine, thanks.  I’m ready to get started.”

Jessica gestured to the scruffy-haired man at her side.  “Have you met Tim yet?”

Angela shook Tim’s hand and sat down.  “Not yet.  I’m Angela.  Pleased to meet you, Tim”

“Pleased to meet you too, Angela.  Looking forward to working together.”

“And how exactly will we be working together?”

“Tim here is a debunker,” Frank explained, the incredulity clear on his face.  “He’ll be using scientific methods to monitor Samuel’s condition, while you use more…”

“Spiritual methods,” Jessica finished.

“So you’re here to regulate my religious mumbo jumbo, Tim.  Is that it?”

The scruffy man held his hands up.  He was wearing a green t-shirt with a large picture of the Incredible Hulk on it.  “Hey, I’m just here for a pay check.  I’ll be doing my thing while you do yours.”

Angela wasn’t convinced.  “And what is your thing?”

Tim shot her a goofy lopsided grin and said, “Science, baby!  I’ve found that you can disprove ninety-nine per cent of paranormal “phenomena” just by using everyday scientific procedures.  People get freaked-out over the slightest thing and then they stop looking for the simple answers in front of them and allow their imaginations to get the better of them.  There’s always a rational explanation.  My job is to find it.”

“At least we’re in agreement there,” said Angela.  “I’m not here to provide any kind of catharsis or religious endorsement.  I intend to be brutally honest about what I find.”

Jessica nodded and took a sip from a glass of what looked like vodka.  Angela realised then that the woman was tipsy.  Her skittish pupils were a dead giveaway.  “That’s all I ask of you, Angela.  I just want to know what’s wrong with my poor Sammie.”

Angela eyeballed the glass of vodka, but looked away.  “Then perhaps we should go and see him.”

“Agreed,” said Jessica, necking back her drink.  “We’ll go and see him now.”

The group stood up from the table and Jessica led them back out into the foyer.  From the way the woman was walking, Angela could tell she was apprehensive.  Her agitated gait was bordering on erratic.  The alcohol in her system, so early in the morning, probably didn’t help.

“Are you okay, Miss Raymeady?” Angela asked her.

Jessica stopped in the hallway and faced the rest of them.  “I’m just a bit worried.  If you and Tim can’t help us, then I don’t know what to do.  I’m at the end of my tether.  I don’t mean to place any additional pressure on you both, but this may be my last chance before I go completely bonkers.”  She tittered anxiously.

Tim placed a hand reassuringly on Jessica’s shoulder.  It seemed like a genuine display of concern.  “We will do whatever we can to help you, Ms Raymeady.”

Jessica wiped away a tear that had spilled down her cheek and laughed at herself.  “God, look at me.  I must look dreadful.  Anyway, enough dawdling, and please call me Jessica.”

She led the group up the stairs to the first floor and took a left past a full-sized suit of armour.  There was a coat of arms beside it, featuring a black hillside with a white wolf howling up at the moon.  Above it, written in Latin, was: The laboUrer is worthy of his reward.  Angela recognised the quote from Timothy, verse 18 and spoke it aloud.

“You speak Latin?” Frank asked, almost sounding impressed.

“Some,” said Angela.  “I know my Bible verses at least.”

“The Raymeady family motto,” Jessica explained proudly.  “My husband lived by it.  Hard work equals reward.”

“What does the crest mean?” Tim asked.

“The wolf is an independent soul,” Jessica explained.  “The moon guides it through the darkness.  Our family is blessed with vision and independence.”

“Interesting,” said Angela.  “I think my crest would be a Jack Daniels label.”

Tim guffawed.

“Okay, you two,” Frank said gruffly, unappreciative of the humour.  “I hope you’re both ready.  Samuel’s room is just up ahead.”

The door at the end of the hall was covered in stickers and hanging notices that read such things as: YOU KILLED KENNY and DESIGNATED FART ZONE.  It was a typical bedroom door for a ten-year old child, but inside the exquisite Georgian mansion it seemed grossly out of place.  On either side of the doorway were two magnificent bronze statues of four-winged cherubs firing bows into the air.  Angela recalled that they were supposed to represent love and protection.  “These statues are beautiful,” she commented, running a finger over their flawless surfaces.  “There’s a painting above my bed that also features cherubs.”

“Thank you,” Jessica replied proudly.  “Cherubs are supposed to be all seeing.  The artist told me that to place them outside your door or over your bed is to have them watch over you and protect you.”

“Beautiful,” Angela said.  “I once heard the very same thing.”

“Samuel likes to draw during the mornings,” Frank cut in with a voice that was somewhat ominous.  “Some of his pictures can be a little disturbing, so be prepared.  He may also start drawing pictures of us, which will be…unflattering.  Try not to take offence.”

“Don’t worry,” said Tim.  “Nothing a caricature could highlight that I don’t know about myself already.”

Frank stepped forward and opened the door.  Jessica had seemed unable to do so herself.  She remained at the back of the group while they stepped inside.  The child’s bedroom was long and wide, cluttered from wall to wall with assorted toys and discarded clothing.  The walls were plastered with pinned-up drawings and dirty handprints.  An unmade bed centred the room.  The sheets were grimy and wet.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” said a new voice from the back of the room.  “I’m afraid housekeeping has declined somewhat since the staff all left.  My dear mother tries her best, of course, but it simply never seems to get any cleaner in here.  It’s quite bizarre.”

Angela peered over at the back of the room.  She saw the pale, bony flesh of a topless young boy.  Samuel was sitting at a desk and facing away from them.  The knuckles of his spine bulged through his skin as if it were tissue paper.  The smell of sweat was thick in the air like a musty fog.

“Samuel, I assume?” said Angela.  “It’s good to meet you.  How are you doing today?”

The boy did not turn around, but said, “I’ve been better, Angela, I won’t lie to you, but one cannot complain.  There are people with burdens far beyond my own.”

Angela glanced back at the others, made eye contact with Frank.  “How does he know my name?”

Frank shrugged.  “I never told him.”

“Nor did I,” said Jessica.

Angela asked the boy directly.  “How do you know my name, Samuel?”

The boy twisted his neck to look at her.  His black eyes bulged like a rodent’s.  He tapped a finger against his forehead and with a knowing smile said, “There’s someone in here that knows you.”

Angela felt a wave break in her stomach.  “Who?”

The boy grinned wider.  His teeth were yellow pegs set into brownish gums.  “That’s for me to know.  Why don’t you all take a seat?  I’d relish the company.”

“You’re sure this kid is just ten?” Tim whispered behind her.  “He sounds like Mr Darcy.”

“It’s one of the changes in him,” Frank explained.  “Some of the doctors placed his mental age as that of a fully grown adult.  They could not explain it.”

Angela took several steps forward and, for a fleeting moment, felt a buzzing in her head.  It ended with a brief spell of dizziness which quickly passed.  Afterwards she wondered if she’d imagined the feeling.

Samuel had turned away and was drawing something at his desk.  The closer Angela got to him, the more she was horrified by the boy’s condition.  She was rapidly considering reporting Miss Raymeady for neglect.  The child’s body was little more than a flesh-strung skeleton; an unfed, unwashed little boy.  I can’t let my disgust show right now, though.  I need to pretend like I’m here to do a job.

“How long has this other person been with you, Samuel?”  Angela asked the boy.  “Is it just you and them, or are there more?”

“There’s just him and me.  He came to visit me a short while ago and has been here ever since.  I honestly don’t know what I would do without him now; so much have I gained from our newfound relationship.  Funny how one can become so attached to new friends, don’t you think?”

“So you and he are friends?” Angela confirmed.  “What does he do for you?”

Sammie smiled.  “Oh, you know – this and that.  He’s shown me delights I never knew of.  Opened up doors I never knew existed.  Taught me the world.”

Angela raised her eyebrow and seized upon something.  “Doors?  What do you mean?”

Sammie stood up, so suddenly that it made Angela flinch.  “Don’t worry yourself about it, Angela, my dear,” he told her.  “I’m sure you have many more important things to brood over than the ramblings of a ten-year-old boy.  Here take this.  I made it for you.  And, please, call me Sammie.”

Angela walked up to the boy and took the sheet of paper.  She turned it over and studied the crayoned image he had drawn for her.

Her eyes stretched wide and the picture fell from her hand.  The image Sammie had drawn was straight out of her nightmares.

“I’m leaving,” said Angela.

CHAPTER SIX

Tim was confused by what had happened.  He didn’t know what Sammie had drawn on the paper – Angela had taken the sketch with her – but whatever it was, it freaked the woman out in a big way.  She’d fled the room as if a fire had started.  Tim couldn’t say he blamed her.  Sammie freaked him out, too.

After Angela had fled the room, Jessica sent Frank to retrieve her, leaving Tim standing in the room alone with the boy and his mother.

Jessica approached Sammie gingerly, almost like she feared him.  Tim stayed back, examining the walls for anything that could help form a logical opinion on the boy’s behaviour.  The kid was unnaturally smart, there was no denying that.  Perhaps he was one of those savants, like Mozart or Rain Man.  That could explain it.  But there was little doubt, smart or not, that little Sammie was one disturbed mamajama.

The bedroom’s walls were plastered with paintings of monsters and scenes of bloody destruction.  Tim could make out dragons, gargoyles, wolf-monsters, and many other bizarre creatures.  There were also crayoned depictions of people: human bodies torn asunder and mutilated on spikes, severed fingers and hanging eyeballs.  It was like standing inside an inmate’s cell at some high-security psych-ward, not a child’s bedroom.

“You shouldn’t be so rude, Jessica.”  Sammie chastised his mother as if he were the authority figure in the room.  “You haven’t introduced me to your new friend.”

Jessica turned around to peer at Tim and seemed embarrassed.  “Y-you’re right, of course.  Where are my manners?  Sweetheart, this is Timothy Golding.  He’s here to help Mommy with some things around the house.”

“What things?” Sammie asked.  There was a sliver of aggression in his ten-year old voice.

“Just…things.  You don’t need to worry.”

Tim decided to start his investigation.  He asked his first question.  “Sammie, could you tell me what you drew for Angela?”

Sammie grinned at him, shrugged his bony shoulders.  “I just drew what my friend told me to.  He wanted her to remember.”

Tim nodded, but didn’t understand at all.  “Remember what?”

“Perhaps you should ask Angela.  I would be remiss discussing other people’s business.  Don’t worry.  I’m sure I’ll find time to draw something for you, too.”

Tim frowned but then decided to chuckle.  “Funny, but that almost sounded like a threat.”

Sammie chuckled back at him.  “Don’t be silly, Timothy.  I’m just a child.  What threat could I possibly be to you?”

That’s to be determined, Tim thought as he battled a growing feeling of anxiety.  The negative emotions rose from Sammie in noxious waves.  It made Tim feel sick, like breathing in petrol fumes.  Other people may not have detected the malodour, but Tim most certainly did.  Something was not right about this boy – in fact, something was very very wrong.  But there would be some rational explanation, there always was, and Tim would find out what it was.  He always did.  Almost always.

“Do you mind if I went and had a quick word with Angela?” Tim asked Jessica.  “Perhaps I can persuade her to stay.”

Jessica nodded enthusiastically.  “If you could I would be most grateful.”

“I’ll try my best.”  Tim left the woman alone with her son.  To be honest, he was glad to get out of that room.  It was getting hard to breathe through the bodily stench.

He headed back over to the main hall and quickly realised he didn’t even know where to find Angela.  The house was vast and easy to get lost in, but he quickly had a thought that would help him.  There was an intercom set into the wall by the foyer’s front doors and Tim dialled 904 on the keypad.  Frank quickly picked up on the other end, no doubt answering from the handheld walkie-talkie Tim had seen clipped to his belt that morning.  “Hey, Frank.  I wanted to talk to Angela.  Are you with her…?  You are? Great.  Where can I find you both…?  Okay, I’ll see you there.”

Tim hurried up the stairs.

According to Frank, Angela was on the second floor in the Friedkin Suite.  Tim had no idea where that was, but he was sure he could find it.  The house was a labyrinth, but he was gradually gaining his bearings.  The building was more or less a giant cube with four floors of several rooms.  How Jessica could stand to live in such a voluminous place on her own, he did not know.  Personally he would have gone crazy knocking around the mansion all by himself, even with a skeleton staff.  Maybe she went crazy.  She does seem a little on edge.

The Friedkin Suite was up ahead. Tim rapped his knuckles against the door and it quickly opened.  Frank stood in the doorway, blocking the room, but Angela was nowhere to be seen.

“She won’t come out of the bathroom,” Frank explained, moving to let Tim inside.

“Is she okay?”

“I don’t know.  She was locked in there when I arrived.  I haven’t managed to get her to come out and talk to me.”

“Okay.  I’ll see if she’ll speak to me.”

Frank shrugged.  “By all means.  Ms Raymeady really would prefer it if you both stayed.”

Tim walked across the bedroom and stood outside the door to what was most likely an en suite bathroom.  He tapped against the wood and tried to speak through it.  “Angela?  It’s Tim.  I know we’ve only just met, but I was kind of hoping we could talk.  To be honest, I think there may be something going on in this house and I would prefer not having to figure it out on my own.  I’d like your help.”

There was silence.

Tim tried harder.  “I…know there’s obviously something in your past that is making you want to run away right now – I have a past, too – but if you leave, then you’re just letting yourself down.  If you run then your past is making a coward out of you.  If you stay…well, then you’d have my thanks at the very least.

The door opened and Angela came outside.  She’d obviously been crying.  “You don’t know anything about me, or my past.  Why are you so sure you want my help, anyway?”

“Because Sammie went out of his way to freak you out, and that means you know something about what’s going on – whether you realise it or not.  I don’t even know how a ten-year-old boy can freak out a grown woman he’s just met, but I think it means he doesn’t want you here – which means that I do.  I heard about your name being written in Sammie’s diary.  There’s a conflict happening somewhere, because if Sammie summoned you, he certainly didn’t act like he wanted you here just now.  Whatever is going on obviously involves you, and I think we’ll have a better chance of figuring it out if you stay.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Look,” said Tim.  “I don’t know what in that drawing, but you’re not alone.  Whatever happens, I’ll have your back.  Let’s figure things out and try to help this family.  Besides, Frank told me we’re going to get paid a shitload of money, so what’s to even think about?”

Angela looked close to tears again, but she held them at bay.  Finally, she nodded.  “Frank…?  Could you give us both a minute, please?  If I’m going to stay here then I’d like to know a little more about the man offering to watch my back.”

Frank obliged her and left the room.  Tim stepped over to the four-poster bed and perched on the end of it.  He didn’t want to get too comfortable in someone else’s room.  Angela pulled up a chair tucked beneath a vanity table and sat opposite him.  It seemed like there were things she wanted to know, questions she needed to ask.  Tim was ready for them, but not necessarily to answer truthfully.

“Why are you all doing this to me?” was her first enquiry.

Tim was confused.  He hadn’t expected a question like that.  “What do you mean?  I’m as much in the dark about all this as you are.  I didn’t even know anything about this situation until a couple days ago.  I assumed I was being hired for a simple job at a married couple’s house, but then I realised it was all just a big setup to get me here.”

Angela frowned.  “You were set up?”

Tim nodded.  “Sort of.  I suppose, in a way, it was more of an informal interview.  Frank and some woman were posing as a family with “ghost” problems.  They called me in to see whether or not I could see through their bullshit – to see if I was a hustler.  I caught onto their scam in about thirty-seconds, so they brought me here.”

“Okay,” Angela said after remaining silent for a few moments.  “Maybe you are in the dark as much as I am, but that doesn’t mean I trust them.  They’re all up to something, and for some reason they’ve got their sights set on me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they summoned me here and started playing games with my head.  That picture….  They must have looked into my past.  I just don’t know the reason why.”

“What was in that picture that scared the heck out of you so badly?”  Tim was dying to know, but he didn’t expect her to trust him enough yet.  It appeared, however, that she was willing to give him the chance.  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with Sammie’s drawing on it.  Tim examined it.  “Is this…is this you, here in the corner?”

Angela nodded and Tim looked a little closer.  The childish artwork depicted the interior of a Christian church, complete with alter and oversized crucifix.  Tim assumed it was some place Angela had previously preached.  It had blood-soaked walls, depicted by thick red crayon, and a crudely scrawled carpet of stickmen-bodies made up the bottom of the picture.  In the corner of the church was a doodle representing Angela, complete with dog collar.  Opposite her was a tall man with burning red eyes.  He was holding a knife.

“What is this supposed to mean?” Tim asked.  “It’s horrible.  Are these bodies down there at the bottom?  What does this have to do with you?”

“This drawing is a snapshot from my life,” Angela said.  “That picture happened to me for real.  I was involved in a church massacre.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” she said.  “It was a parishioner named Charles Crippley.  I was stationed on the isle of Jersey at the time.  It was a dream position: big house, private island full of rich and generous parishioners.  It was a cushy job.  But I had one parishioner who was a bit of a handful.

“Charles Crippley?”

“Yes.  He was a local farmer, a quiet man who kept to himself.  Some people said he was mentally disabled, like a child in a man’s body.  I have to admit he was strange, but I didn’t think he was unintelligent.  He was more odd than stupid.”

“How was he odd?”

“He spoke to an imaginary friend, for one thing.  Barley, he used to call him.  Barley was his friend.”

“Just like Sammie says he has a friend?”  Tim ran a hand through his brittle, ginger hair and wriggled his bony butt on the edge of the bed, trying to get comfortable.  “That’s a coincidence I can’t say I like.”

Angela agreed with him.  “Exactly.  That’s why I know this family is messing with me.  They know that the Church ordered me to perform an exorcism to try and cure Charles Crippley of his delusions.  He’d been brutalising the livestock on his farm and publically condemning people that he felt were ‘sinners’.  The local community started to complain, so the diocese decided to do something about it.  I visited Charles at home every day for over two weeks, but every day he was worse.  He took to spitting at me and blaspheming.  He became sickly and stopped looking after himself.  I performed The Rites on him several times but they only seemed to exacerbate his condition.  His friend, Barley, was becoming more and more present and all I felt like I was doing was bringing something vile to the surface, like pus from a boil.  I continued trying to help, though, even when Charles said Barley was going to punish me, along with anyone who followed me.”

“So what happened?”

“Sunday services happened.  Charles wasn’t there when I began, which was strange because he was always one of the first to arrive.  I started more or less as usual, giving a sermon about the Good Samaritan and the importance of helping your neighbour.  I was almost finished when Charles wandered down the aisle.  He was shouting that we ‘were a flock of immoral lizards led by a soulless dyke.’  He knew I was a lesbian, despite me never having ever admitted it at that point.  In fact, I’m not sure I even knew myself back then.”

“That’s weird,” Tim said.  “Maybe the guy had one of those gaydars or something.”

Angela took a deep breath and continued.  “As soon as he came in I noticed he was carrying the knife.  It was one of those big, curved blades that they use in slaughter houses.  He was blocking the doorway and shouting.  Then he got started.  He killed nine people by the time he was done.  I was the only survivor.”

“That’s horrible,” Tim said, feeling a little sick to his stomach.  Looking at the middle-aged ex-priest, he could see the lines of torment etched into the creases of her face.  She looks ten years older than she is.

Angela blinked and a tear fell down her cheek.  “Enough,” she said, wiping it away.  “I’m done with trips down memory lane.  My point was only supposed to be that Jessica and Frank have done their homework. They’re using my past to try and manipulate me.  Worst of all is that they’ve involved a ten-year old boy in their schemes.  Did you see the shape Sammie was in?”

Tim sighed.  “I’m not so sure you’re on the right track there, Angela.  My bullshit meter is pretty sensitive and I think Jessica is legitimately worried.  You must sense how strung-out the woman is?  It’s clear as day.  As for Sammie, there’s no way they could coax a kid his age to behave the way he is.  There’s something just not right with him, and that’s why we’re here – to help figure things out.”

“If Sammie is so innocent then how did he know what happened in Jersey?  He must have been briefed.”

Tim shrugged.  “I don’t know, but we can find out the answer together.  If I get one whiff that we’re being played for fools then I’ll walk right out the door right beside you.  Until then, I would rather have your help than not.”

Angela finally gave in.  “Okay,” she said, letting out a breath and deflating. “I’ll stay…for now.”

Tim hopped up off the end of the bed and clapped his hands together.  “Great!  Because I could do with some help setting up my equipment.”

Angela frowned at him.  “Equipment?”

He winked at her.  “It’s time to blind them with science, my righteous lesbian friend.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Angela had decided to stay behind in her room to have a bath before doing anything else, so Tim left her alone to enjoy her soak.  He’d since made the trip outside to the Raymeady estate’s vast driveway where his transit van was parked.  The DeBunkMobile.  Beside Tim’s van was the long black Mercedes Frank had driven him there in two nights previous.  The five-door saloon was as financially indulgent as the house and its grounds were.

At the edge of the pebbled driveway was a garage block.  Beyond it was a modest pond.  The water’s surface was devoid of ducks and other wildlife, which seemed strange for the time of year.  Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the van.  He disengaged the lock and opened the rear doors.  A wide smile stretched across his face as he said, “Hello, my little friends.”

The back of the van was really Tim’s office, full of his gadgets and gizmos.  The intention of his investigations was always to debunk claims of the supernatural or paranormal.  Science – along with common sense – was the best way to do that.  His equipment included audio recording equipment, an infrared camera, microscopes, barometers, thermometers, a motion detector, assorted chemicals, and a toaster, but that was for making snacks.  Many of the tools allowed Tim to separate the ‘normal’ from the ‘paranormal’.  For now, all Tim wanted was his environmental testing kit.  It would be best to start by investigating the grounds and working inwards towards the house.

He rummaged around and picked out a small plastic clip-case, then closed the van’s doors.  The nearby duck pond was as good a place as any to start investigating so he decided to head there first.  Maybe he could find out why the peaceful habitat was devoid of wildlife when it should have been teeming with various species of birds, rabbits, frogs, and other creatures that inhabited the English countryside.  Maybe the ground water is polluted.  If it got into the house’s plumbing it could have led to Sammie becoming sick.

Tim detected a sharp odour as he approached the water’s edge.  It was a mild tang, subtle yet faintly eggy, like the fumes from an exhaust pipe.  The pond water lay still, undisturbed by the light breeze of the day.

Tim crouched down on the bank and unclipped the plastic clip-case.  From its contents he plucked a strip of litmus paper and doused it in the pond water.  He waved it to-and-fro in the air for a few seconds, before examining it and seeing it had turned a dark red.  Tim pursed his lips.  Acidic.  Factoring in the eggy smell, he suspected sulphur.  It may have been used by the gardeners to alter the pH of the soil, especially if there was a high lime content.  It could then have seeped through into the pond, which would explain why there was no wildlife, but as Tim looked around he saw no vegetable patches or gardens, just overgrown lawns.  It didn’t seem like a gardener had been by in a while.  So what then?  How did the pond get so badly contaminated?

Tim headed away from the pond, just a few meters, over to a patch of grass.  He knelt down and picked up a few grains of soil, cupping them in his palm.  Next, he produced a slim plastic test tube and dropped the granules inside.  Finally, he added litmus flour and some pure water from a small flask.  Rattling the test tube around for a couple of seconds, he waited for the solution inside to settle.  Just like the pond water, the soil was acidic.  The liquid in the test tube turned red.

There was a noise behind Tim, which made him spin around.  A hissing sound.  A hissing sound coming from the pond.  He headed back to the water’s edge and saw that the surface of the pond had become unsettled.  At first it merely shimmered, but then it began to bubble and pop like soup in a cauldron.  The pond was beginning to boil.  Tim could feel the heat coming off it on his cheeks.  The smell of eggs grew to eye-watering levels.  What the Hell…

Tim crept closer, staring into the water’s murky depths.  He got down on his knees, moved his face closer.  The pond continued to churn, frothing and bubbling, almost as if it could detect his increasing proximity.  He’d never seen anything like it before.  Even if some sort of gaseous vent was heating the pond, there was no way it could have gotten so hot so fast.

The pond hissed.

The water boiled.

The air grew thick with stench.

Then suddenly the pond was airborne.

Several fist-sized drops of boiling water flew toward Tim’s unproected face.  He swung an arm around to shield himself but was too slow.  Some of the liquid got through his defences and doused his face.  The soft flesh of his cheek and forehead cried out in agony.  He leapt backwards, crumpling to the ground and holding his face in his hands.  He screamed and shouted.

“Tim!  Tim…are you okay?”  It was Angela’s voice.  Tim felt the woman hit the ground beside him and place her hands on him.  She forced him over onto his back.

He clutched at his face and struggled against her.  “The water.  It burned me.  It burned me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pond.  The pond is boiling.”

“I don’t understand.”  Angela sounded frantic.  “The pond is hot?  What do you mean?”

The pain in Tim’s face lessened slightly.  He removed his hands tentatively and pointed at the pond.  “The pond is boil-” He stopped mid-word.

The pond was normal.   Its surface still and serene.  It was also full of fish and frogs.  Goldfish zipped through the water merrily, flitting back and forth.  Frogs lay motionless at the bottom, waiting to strike anything mouth-sized. There was even a family of newts frolicking by the water’s edge.

Tim’s mouth started working back and forth, but no sound came out.  He could not understand it.

“What’s wrong?”  Angela asked him.  “I don’t understand what’s happened.”

Tim tried to catch a breath and calm himself down.  “I….  Oh, hellsinki, I don’t have a clue what just happened.   Maybe I’m fucking losing it.”  His face no longer burned and as he fingered his cheeks, the skin felt completely normal.  But that could not be.  He was burned.  “Can I ask you a question, Angela?”

“Of course.”

“What does my face look like?”

Angela looked confused, but she gave him an answer.  “Ugly, same as usual.”

Tim laughed.  “Cheers.  No…burn marks or anything, though?”

Angela shook her head.  “You want to tell me what happened?”

Tim heaved himself up onto his feet and shook his head.  “Nothing happened.  At least it appears that way.  Come on, let’s go back inside the house.”

Angela didn’t ask him any more questions about it but, as they walked away, she stopped and pointed down at something on the ground.  It was his environmental testing kit.  “Do you need that?” she asked him.

“No,” Tim replied.  “I’m beginning to think my usual methods might not be as effective as I’d hoped.”

“Guess you need a Plan B then.”

Tim scratched at his fuzzy beard.  “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever needed a Plan B before.”

“I’m going to take that as a bad sign,” said Angela.

“Yeah,” replied Tim, thinking about things a little deeper.  “Me too.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frank unlocked the door to the security office and stepped inside wearily.  He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, too mistrustful of the recent houseguests to allow for sleep.  He would need to set some time aside soon – his mind was beginning to get cloudy – but right now there was too much to do.  Jessica is relying on me.

Frank’s main priority was the protection of Ms Raymeady and her son.  With a disgraced priest and a professional ghost hunter/conman in the house, Frank needed his mind fresh and alert.  He needed to be ready for any tricks the two charlatans might pull.  While Tim had proven himself previously to be a man who looked for facts rather than fantasy, Frank didn’t trust him.  He didn’t trust either of the two.  If Jessica wanted them there then that was her prerogative, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.  Things were much easier when it was just her, me, and the drivers.  Angela and Tim will bring nothing but false hope and broken promises.

But then again, Frank didn’t have any better ideas to help young Sammie, either.  The boy was heading straight for life in the funny farm the way he was behaving, but he was also Joseph Raymeady’s son and the only existing link to a man Frank had spent a decade serving.  He would do what he could to protect Sammie, but at this point he had to admit that things were looking pretty hopeless.

He took a seat at his desk and gave a quick glance to each of the CCTV monitors in front of him.  The house was in order, for now.  Mike and Graham were in the kitchen fixing a batch of gluttonous sandwiches to take out to the car.  Jessica was in the piano lounge with a large glass of wine, staring into space.  He watched her for a while, his heart aching as he wished to ease her burdens.  The two tricksters were currently strolling around the grounds, already as thick as thieves.  No doubt colluding on whatever con they’re about to spin.  Finally, Frank checked on Sammie.  The boy was in his filthy room, scribbling away at his desk.  As per usual.

The child had a sick mind.  The things he drew could only be the concoction of a deeply disturbed personality, but they were also frighteningly astute.  Frank himself had received many sketches from the boy and they had depicted things no one else should know; things from Frank’s days serving in the Army.  Sammie drew scenes of torture in Sierra Leone one day and dead children in Northern Ireland the next.  The one thing the pictures always had in common was that Frank had witnessed them all first-hand.  It was as if Sammie was reaching into his nightmares for artistic inspiration and presenting him with the faces of all the men and women who had died fighting by his side.  Nine men, one woman.  I remember them all.

The worst picture Sammie had drawn for Frank featured a soldier firing cartoon bullets into a pregnant woman.  The foetus was spilling out from her guts along with her intestines and slopping on the sandy floor in a sickly pile.  Frank knew that the soldier in the picture was he.  What he didn’t know was how Sammie, a ten-year-old boy, could have ever known his darkest secret.  A secret from the day he led his squad into a quiet little village in the Muthanna Province in Iraq.  It had seemed safe, a good place to rest up, but it had been an ambush.  Frank’s bad decision-making had cost lives, and a pregnant woman her baby.

One of the CCTV television screens flickered.

Frank gave the monitor a tap, but it only made things worse.  The picture become scrambled with static.  Frank hit the monitor again, harder.

The picture snapped back into focus.

Frank flinched in his seat.

Sammie was no longer sitting at his desk.  He was standing in front of the camera lens, staring up and grinning.  His eyes were dark orbs.  His teeth jutted out from swollen, brown gums.  He seemed to be watching Frank as Frank watched him.  Does he know I can see him?

Frank leant closer to the screen, trying to work out what the boy was doing.  Sammie inched closer and closer to the camera, little by little, but the lens was fixed eight feet off the ground.  It was almost as if the boy was levitating.  His pale face getting closer and closer….

Crack!

The monitor’s screen split from corner to corner.  Frank leapt back in his swivel chair, his momentum and the wheels taking him away from the desk.  The screen had shattered, struck by some invisible hammer.  He sat there in silence, twiddling his thumbs and trying to control his breathing as he processed what had just happened.  From the way things were going it might be another twenty-four hours before he got any sleep.

CHAPTER NINE

Angela was still freaked out by the picture Sammie had drawn for her.  The incident with Tim at the pond had done nothing to calm her nerves, but she was now determined to take charge of the situation.  She would not be manipulated or frightened.  The look on Tim’s face when she had found him on the lawn had been enough to convince her that he was as much a pawn in this as she was.  If it was all just one big set-up then she would make sure those responsible regretted it, and if not….  Well, if not, then Angela was determined to get to the bottom of things.

The only person she could trust was Tim and that was only because he was as freaked out as she was.  The two of them were now back inside the house, standing in the cavernous foyer.  There was no one else around.

Tim put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.  “Hey!  Hello?”  He turned to Angela and shook his head.  “It’s a bloody nightmare trying to find people in this place, you know?”

“I know,” Angela agreed.  “I’m not surprised Jessica’s on edge.  Empty houses have a way of making people skittish – especially old empty houses.”

“You think that’s what’s going on?  Simple paranoia?”

“I hope so, because what’re the alternatives?”

Frank appeared from the east side of the foyer, his polished work shoes clicking on the marble.  “Ms Murs, Mr Golding.  I was beginning to wonder where you two had gotten to.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Tim.  “We’re ready to see Sammie again now.”

Frank nodded.  “Okay.  You may be wasting your time, though.  The boy likes to watch South Park during the afternoons.  He can be quite unresponsive.”

Tim frowned.  “You let him watch that cartoon?”

“You can try stopping him if you want.”

Tim shrugged his shoulders.  “Hey, I’m not here to raise the kid.  Just to take a stool sample or two.”

Frank led them to Sammie’s room again, and even before they got there, Angela could hear the television blaring.  She’d never watched South Park herself before, but she knew the show was new and popular like most things kids enjoyed nowadays.  Like Pogs and Beavis and Butthead.  She also knew it wasn’t suitable for ten-year-old boys.  “Why do you let him watch the program?  Isn’t it meant for adults?”

“It is, yes, but he gets violent if you turn it off.  He tends to get fixated.  Before South Park, it was Power Rangers.”

Tim scoffed.  “Can’t you control him, a big man like you?”

Frank’s expression was impassive.  “Samuel is stronger and more aggressive than he looks.  The only way I could restrain him is by hurting him, and that is not something I am permitted or inclined to do.”  He turned around and unlocked Sammie’s door.  “I’ll leave you ‘experts’ to do your work.”

“Thank you,” said Angela, stepping through into the bedroom.  Tim followed her and Frank left, allowing the door to snap shut behind them.  Suddenly Angela felt very claustrophobic – trapped even.  The room was humid and tropical like a Florida storm.

Sammie was lying in his bed, wrapped up to his neck in a sweat-stained bed sheet.  A dusty old television sat on a wall bracket and flashed in front of him.  Brightly drawn cartoon characters frolicked onscreen.

Angela waved a hand.  “Hello, Sammie.  How are you feeling?”

The boy said nothing.  His gaze was transfixed on the television, his eyes unblinking.  Angela could not be sure, but he seemed to be muttering to himself very quietly.

Tim stepped forward and perched on the end of the Sammie’s bed.  “Hey, little man.  So…you dig South Park, huh?  Who’s your favourite character?  I like that fat kid, Cartman.  Respect my authoritaar.”

Sammie said nothing.  But there was movement beneath his sheets.

Tim continued his attempts to get through to the boy.  Angela was lost as he continued to make bizarre references she didn’t understand.  “Have they killed Kenny yet?  Is this the one where Cartman has an Anal probe shoot out of his ass?  Huh?  Sammie, are you listening to me?”

The movement beneath the bed sheets got faster.

What is he doing?  He’s in some kind of trance.

Suddenly Angela realised eaxactly what the movement beneath the sheets was.  A wave of disgust flooded over her.  “Tim,” she said, horrified.  “I think he’s…”

Tim leapt away from the bed, equally horrified as he reached the same realisation she had.  “Sammie, you stop that right now,” he demanded.  “That’s really rude.  And gross!”

Angela couldn’t believe the young boy was masturbating in front of them.  The sheets were moving up and down rapidly, Sammie’s small hand pumping away like a piston.

“Turn off the television,” said Angela.  “He’s in a trance or something.”

Tim looked around.  “I don’t see a remote.”

Angela couldn’t see one either. She went over to the television and rose up on tiptoes, reaching for the power button.  She jabbed it with her index finger and South Park disappeared.  ‘Screw you guys, I’m going-’

Click!

“Look out,” Tim shouted at her.

Angela spun around.  Sammie was standing on the bed, his naked body taut like a malnourished fox.  He wore only a pair of grimy underpants, which did nothing to hide his virulent erection.  Sammie glared down at Angela, growled like a wolf.  The noise was guttural, unfit for a child, or even anything human.

Angela raised her hands in front of her.  “Sammie, maybe you should just get back into bed and we’ll talk.”

Sammie leapt at her, seeming to hang in the air as he covered the ten feet between them in a single bound.  His bony fingers closed instantly around her throat and she was deafened by the high-pitched shrieks that escaped his lungs.  Her back hit the wall and, for a moment, she worried that the mounted television would rock loose and fall on her head.

Tim rushed over to help.  Together they struggled to remove Sammie’s clawed fingers from around her throat.  The boy was trying to snap her windpipe.  Angela tried to cry out, but unnaturally strong hands restricted her voice.  Her eyes felt like they were going to pop loose from her skull.  He’s going to kill me.

Tim grabbed Sammie’s left arm, but failed to gain enough leverage to pull it away.  Angela felt the blood vessels in her face overloading as the pressure increased in her skull.  Frantically, she prayed for an idea.

Then she had one.

She stopped struggling with Sammie and pointed her left hand at the television above her head.  She made eye contact with Tim and tried to make him understand what she had thought of.  He has to press the button.

After what seemed like an eternity, with Angela’s life choking away with every second, Tim finally understood what she was trying to tell him.

Tim leapt up and bashed the television’s power button with his palm.

“Hidey Hooooo, children!”

The television flashed back on.

Sammie released his grip.

Tim placed a hand against the boy’s shoulder and eased him back towards the bed. Angela slumped against the wall, clutching at her throat and hacking up phlegm.  Her throat felt like sandpaper.  Another couple of seconds and she would’ve been unconscious for sure.  Or dead.

Tim got Sammie tucked back into bed and then came to check on Angela.  He helped her stand up by putting an arm around her.  “Helsinki, are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” she said, wondering if it were true.  “I think so, anyway.  What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know, but he’s the strongest ten-year old I know.  If he hadn’t let go, I don’t know what I would have done.  We need to be more careful from now on.  He’s dangerous.”

“No shit,” said Angela, fingering her bruised throat.  Her mouth had filled with coppery saliva.

“Come on.”  Tim moved her away from Sammie’s bed.  “Let’s go get you checked out.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but quickly reconsidered.  “Although, I could use a drink.”

Tim looked at his watch.  “It’s one in the afternoon!”  He grinned wide.  “What took you so long?”

Angela let out a laugh and wasn’t surprised to find that it hurt a lot.

CHAPTER TEN

When Angela and Tim entered the lounge they were surprised to find Jessica sitting alone.  The lady of the house had a half-finished bottle of chardonnay in front of her and was nursing an empty glass as though she was contemplating whether or not to pour another.

Angela took a seat beside her while Tim went behind the bar to get drinks.  They’d agreed to have just one, considering the early hour. “Are you okay, Jessica?” Angela asked.

Jessica replied with a grim smile.  “I’m fine.  Just, you know, thinking about things.  I used to be able to do my thinking without alcohol, but lately things have become…fuzzy.  It’s hard to think straight in this place since my husband passed.  Joseph was always the man about the house, keeping everyone busy.  It’s lonely without him.”

Angela nodded.  “I can imagine.  Have you thought about living somewhere else?”

“I have, but this was Joseph’s home.  It wouldn’t feel right to sell it.  Anyway, it’s still in probate for the time being while the lawyers sort out my late husband’s estate.  Perhaps I’ll think more about it later.”

Tim sat down with the drinks: a whisky for Angela and a beer for him. Then he said, “We went to see Sammie again.”

Jessica sighed.  “I hope you didn’t turn off his program.”

“We did,” Tim said.  “Won’t make that mistake again.”

“I’m sorry if either of you were hurt.  I’ll tell Frank he needs to pay closer attention to the both of you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Angela, rubbing her sore neck.  I only nearly died.  “What was more concerning, Jessica, was what he was doing while he was watching the television.”

“I know what you’re referring to.”  Jessica sighed and the shame was abundant in her eyes.  “He started touching himself a few weeks ago.  The first time he did it, the maids were still around.  He ejaculated into his hand and threw it into Margaret’s face.  That was the last we saw of her, of course.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it wasn’t her first time,” said Tim, but then seemed embarrassed by what he had said.  “Sorry.  Bad joke.”

“Indeed,” said Jessica.  “None of this is funny to me, Mr Golding.  The only reason you are here is because of the previous success you’ve had with finding rational explanations behind several high-profile cases.  You were not, however, brought her for your wit.”

“I apologise, Ms Raymeady.  It’s not my intention to offend you.”

Jessica huffed and poured began pouring herself a new glass of wine.  “That’s quite alright.  So…have you formed any opinions about my son yet?  Can you help?”

Tim shook his head and let out a sigh.  “I really don’t know yet, but I will try my best to find an answer.  I think it’s safe to say that something very strange has happened to him.  I for one would like to know exactly what.”

“Me too,” said Angela.  “I’m determined to stay and get to the bottom of this.”

Jessica seemed to lighten at the sound of that.  “So you’ll perform an exorcism?”

Angela frowned.  “I didn’t say that.  I’m not about to admit that Evil has anything to do with this.”

Jessica seemed frustrated.  “Then what help are you going to provide?”

“I’ve a lot of experience with sick people behaving in bizarre ways.  I’m certain my observations will tell me more about what is wrong with your son.  I won’t need a Bible to help you.”

“And I’ll run some tests,” said Tim.  “Try to find out if there’re any environmental factors.”

Jessica let loose a breath.  It whistled between her teeth.  “Thank you, both.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a lie down now that that is settled.  Please don’t hesitate to contact Frank if you need anything.”

“Will do,” said Tim, waving goodbye.  Once the lady of the house was gone, he turned to Angela with a sad look on his face.  “Poor lady.  I think she’s at breaking point.”

Angela agreed.  “Can’t say I blame her.  This whole thing is very strange.”

“You ever see anything like it before?”

“I’ve seen a lot of messed up things in my time, none of which I wish to speak of now.”

Tim looked her in the eye.  “Do you believe in Evil?  Have you ever witnessed it?”

“I…yes, I believe so.  Once.”

Tim nodded.  “Charles Crippley?”

“Yes, but it’s a story for another time.  Have you ever encountered a genuine case of – what do you call it – the ‘paranormal’?”

“I’ve seen a few things, here and there, which I can’t explain.  Most of the time, though, it’s just hoaxes and superstition.  There was one time…”

Angela leant forward.  “Go on.”

Tim shrugged and seemed to change his mind about wanting to talk about it.  “Well, let’s just say that at the beginning of my career I was indeed a conman, just like Frank thought I was when he booked my services.  I was screwing people over, left, right, and centre, playing off their grief to steal their money.  Truth be told, I was a pretty reprehensible piece of shit, but one night in a hotel changed my entire outlook on life.  Now I try to help people.  I try to find rational explanations for the things that are scaring them.  Ninety-nine per cent of the time I manage to do just that.  The other one per cent keeps me awake at night.”

Angela let out a joyless chuckle.  “Funny, I feel like I used to be nothing but a conman too, back when I worked with the church.  I played off of people’s grief and gave them the same line of bullshit that you probably did.  I just wrapped it up in a different bow.”

“Guess, we’re going to make pretty good partners then, huh?”

Angela shrugged her shoulders and felt a knot come loose from her injured neck muscles.  “Think the jury is still out on that one for the time being.”

Tim nodded, then stared into space for a moment as he seemed to turn over a thought in his mind.  Eventually, he said, “So what’s the plan?  You have any ideas how to tackle this?”

Angela shrugged.  “I plan on spending more time around Sammie.  See what I can observe.  When I was enlisted as an exorcist I took an interest in psychology.  I thought it would be pertinent.  In most cases a person’s mind is a lot more likely to be damaged than their soul is.  Anyway, what about you?  What ‘tests’ are you going to perform?”

“I’m going to confront Ms Raymeady’s assumptions head-on.  If she believes there is some sort of demon at work then I will first seek to disprove that.”

“How?”

Tim smiled.  “Best way to get a bear’s attention is to poke it.”

Angela didn’t know what that meant, but she had a feeling things were about to get weirder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Angela sat patiently on an antique chair while Tim hefted his equipment up to the first floor.  He was amassing it in a cluttered circle outside of Sammie’s bedroom.  Frank had agreed to help with the experiments and was currently inside setting up some infrared cameras, microphones, and seismographs.  Tim explained he would be able to record the data and video feeds onto his bulky laptop twenty-four hours a day.  It all seemed like Atari videogames to Angela – boys and their toys – but she was determined to show Tim, and his methods, the proper respect.  They were colleagues after all.  Although I have no idea which of us is the man.

Tim came up the stairs, now on his fourth equipment run.  This time he was carrying what looked like a doctor’s saddle bag.  “That’s everything,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his free hand.

Angela stood up from her chair and nodded to the satchel he was carrying.  “What’s in the bag?”

“Medical supplies.  I want to see if Sammie is physically healthy before we explore anything else.”

“Are you qualified to perform medical tests?”

“Nope, but I haven’t been sued yet.  Besides, it’s not as hard as it looks.”

Frank opened the door to Sammie’s room and stepped outside to join them.  “Your equipment is all set up.  What’s all the rest of this junk you’ve left out here?”

“Oh, you know, just an Ecto Containment Unit, proton packs, the usual.”

Frank stared at him blankly.

Tim shook his head and sniffed.  “That was a joke.  The small machine that looks like a coffee maker is a blood analyser.  The larger machine on the right is an ultrasound machine and heart rate monitor.”

“Where did you get all this stuff?” Angela asked.  A toy store or a joke shop?

“Various places.  Auctions mostly, but some stuff I got pretty cheap from China.  They don’t give a shit who they’re selling to over there.”

Angela stood beside one of the cherub statues outside Sammie’s door.  “Let’s get started then.”

Frank backed them as they entered the bedroom.  Tim brought his doctor’s bag along and set it down on a nearby dresser.  He opened the clasp at the top and pulled the two sides apart, before reaching in and pulling out a syringe.

“What do you plan on doing with that?” Frank demanded, his eyes wide open beneath raised brows.

“I thought I would use it to play darts.  What do you think I’m going to do with it?  I’m going to draw some blood.”

“He’s already been poked and prodded enough.”

“Well,” said Tim.  “If you don’t mind, I would like to take a small amount of blood anyway.”

“You’re very welcome,” came Sammie’s reply from the far side of the room.  The boy was staring out of the large bay window behind his crayon-covered desk.  Thankfully Sammie was wearing clothes this afternoon.

Frank rubbed at his eyes and shrugged.  The man seemed tired.  “I suppose if Sammie doesn’t mind….”

Tim nodded and headed over to the boy, who had already rolled up one of his shirtsleeves to offer out his veiny arm.  There was a knowing smile on his face that made Angela uncomfortable even from ten feet away.

“Okay, Sammie,” Tim said soothingly.  “This will just feel like a little pinch.”

“It’s okay.  Pain doesn’t bother me, Mr Golding.  Go ahead and take your blood.”

Angela watched in anticipation while Tim rubbed Sammie’s arm with a disposable alcohol swab.  Next, he uncapped the syringe and placed the nib against the boy’s flesh.  Angela stepped closer, to get a better look at Tim’s medical skills, but also to be nearby if Sammie had another bout of aggression.  She needed to watch Tim’s back the same way he had watched hers.  I didn’t choose the thuglife, the thuglife chose me.

Tim prodded the needle against Sammie’s skin, but there seemed to be resistance.  Tim moved the needle away and repositioned it somewhere else.  He pushed the needle again and Angela cringed as it scratched against the boy’s flesh, failing to puncture the skin.

Sammie was smiling politely.  “Is there a problem, Mr Golding?”

“I…I’m finding it hard to break a vein.”

“Perhaps you should try harder.”

Tim cleared his throat and suddenly seemed nervous.  His hands shook as he continued trying to break the skin.  He prodded and poked, stabbed and pricked.

Eventually the needle went in.

It went in deep.

A torrent of blood arced high into the air. The dark-red arterial spray drenched Tim’s face like a hot shower.  He stumbled backwards, spluttering and spitting.  His thighs hit against Sammie’s desk and he tumbled to his knees.  Angela dashed forward to help him, but quickly realised it was Sammie who needed the help.  The boy was bleeding monstrously, his bodily fluids jetting into the air and forming grisly puddles on the floor.

“Jesus Christ!”  Frank shouted as he rushed across the room.  “What the hell have you done?”

Sammie snarled as Frank approached him.  He spat a mouthful of viscous black fluid right in his face.  Frank stumbled sideways and wiped at his face.  He was clearly disgusted by the foul liquid dripping from his hands.

“Blasphemer!” Sammie bellowed, his jet eyes bulging like squids.  “Speak not the name of the great charlatan.”

Angela stood in shock, unable to move.  The boy was like a demon out of Hell itself.  A vessel of rage and hatred.  Not a ten-year-old boy at all.

Then the bleeding stopped, as suddenly as it had started.  The arc of blood disappeared like someone had turned off a tap.  Sammie slowly turned to face the bay window and almost seemed to slither towards it.  He sat down at the chair of his drawing desk and began sketching with his crayons.  His bare feet had left bloody prints on the plush cream carpet but now dangled from the chair innocently.

“What the fuck just happened?” Frank shouted at the top of his lungs.

“I have no idea,” Tim spluttered.  “A syringe can’t open up an artery like that.  And bleeding that heavy doesn’t just stop either.”

Angela bent over.  The tang of fresh blood had taken her mind to a place of nightmares and misery.  She felt dizzy.  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Tim came and put an arm around her.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of here until we can think this through.”

“Yes,” said Sammie, sketching away calmly.  “Why don’t you all GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE AND LEAVE ME ALONE?”  The boy’s voice was the deep baritone of a circus strongman.  The words were so loud and full of bass that Angela’s ears rattled against her skull.  The surprise of it stopped her dead in her tracks for a moment, but Tim gently pulled on her arm and got her moving again.

“I don’t know if we should leave him,” she said.  “Maybe we should go get a doctor.”

Tim continued pulling her towards the door.  “He’s fine.  Look at him. It’s like nothing ever happened.  Anyway, I got what I needed.”

“And what was that?”

“I got Sammie’s blood,” said Tim.  “It’s all over me.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“You need to get those con artists out of this house,” Frank informed Jessica as firmly as his position allowed him to.  The lady of the house was currently lying in bed, attempting to sleep off her most recent hangover.  “They almost killed Sammie just now,” he explained.  “There was blood everywhere.”

Jessica sat bolt upright.  Sobriety returned to her at the news of her son being in danger.  “What?  Sammie?  Is he okay?  Frank, tell me.”

Frank ran a hand over his throbbing forehead.  No, that boy is definitely not okay.  “He’s fine.  I don’t understand what happened, but I know it started when that ginger-headed clown stuck a needle in your son’s arm.”

“Where is everybody now?”

“Sammie is drawing at his desk.  Angela and Tim are somewhere in the house planning their next performance.”

Jessica patted the bed beside her.  Reluctantly, Frank sat down and Jessica began to rub his shoulders.  It felt amazing and he couldn’t help but let out an indulgent sigh.

“Frank, you promised me that you would give this a try.  Angela and Tim are the only hope I have left.  I know you don’t agree with their methods, but let’s just see what they come up with.  I fear for Sammie.  I fear for my little boy.”

“I think he’s in more danger since those two arrived, but…” He sighed again as Jessica caught a knot above his scapula.  “If that’s what you want, Jessica.”

“Thank you, Frank.”  She began kissing the nape of his neck and stroking his chest over his shirt.  He stood up quickly, not because he was adverse to her touch, but because he knew he couldn’t deal with the distraction right now.  She is my weakness.

“I need to get back downstairs,” he said. “Keep an eye on things.”

“When was the last time you slept, Frank?  You’re not usually this rattled.”

Frank rolled his eyes and then hoped she hadn’t seen it.  Maybe if you were sober a little more often I wouldn’t need to be so alert all the time.  “I’m fine,” he said.  “I just want the situation dealt with, so we can all go back to normal.”

“Me too, Frank.  I appreciate your loyalty this last year.  I couldn’t have coped without you.”

You aren’t coping.  “It’s been my pleasure, Ms Raymeady.  I take it you will be joining us this evening?”  Or will you still be dealing with your hangover.

Jessica must have caught the disapproving look in his eyes because her reply was short and clipped.  “I will be down shortly.”

“Very good, ma’am.”  Frank opened the master bedroom’s door and departed.

The penthouse floor of the house was the most lavish of all and Frank hated it.  It represented the dirty money of Black Remedy and the wealth of its late owner.  Joseph may have been a better man than his father, but the opulence he inherited was still stained with blood and corruption.  Now that Joseph was dead, the Black Remedy Corporation would no doubt become an even bigger cesspit of immoral greed.  Jessica would inherit half of the company, but she was weak.  Her late husband’s business partner, Vincent Black, would run rings around her until he was in complete control of the company.  By the time little Sammie grew up, his mother would probably be left with nothing.  From billionaire housewife to destitute widow in less than a decade; that was how Black Remedy worked.  You were either a man-eating lion or a whimpering mouse.  Jessica was a wounded pony right now, doomed to visit the abattoir.

Unfortunately, he loved her.

Frank would do his best to protect her and Sammie.  Whatever happened in the future he would deal with at the time.  For now there were more pressing matters to attend to.

He headed into Joseph’s former office at the east end of the penthouse and unlocked it with his master key.  Frank knew what he was looking for and didn’t hesitate going over to the wall-safe behind the broad, walnut desk that took up half the room.  After keying in the combination and swinging open the hatch, Frank fumbled between the various papers and wads of cash until he placed his hand around a wooden grip handle.  He pulled the police-issue Glock 17 handgun out of the safe and checked that it was loaded.  It was.  Then he slipped the weapon into his waistband and pulled his suit jacket over the top to keep it hidden.  I don’t know what those two clowns are planning, but I’ll make sure they’ll think twice before trying to take advantage of Jessica.  Any more of Sammie’s blood hits the floor and I’ll make them sorry.

Frank closed up the safe and took a seat in Joseph’s high-backed leather chair.  He pressed a button on his ex-boss’s computer and waited while the hard drive whizzed to life, loading the operating system.  Frank felt small sitting at the grand desk, surrounded by shelves full of books he could never hope to understand.  He wasn’t a big enough man to fill his ex boss’ shoes and he wondered what Joseph Raymeady would have made of the feelings Frank had for his wife.  Joseph was a fair man, but loyalty was important to him.  Frank knew his behaviour would have brought out the darker side of his former employer.  Who would blame him?  Jessica might be a widow, but Frank still felt like he was betraying her late husband.  He felt like Judas.

You’re not doing anything wrong, he told himself.  You’re protecting the man’s family.  He would have wanted that.

The computer screen lit up and Joseph’s desktop appeared on screen.  Why the computer wasn’t password protected, Frank would never understand, but it had made it much easier for him to look into his late boss’s activities.

In the months prior to his death, Joseph had been increasingly unnerved about something.  Frank needed to find out what it was in case it presented a danger to Jessica and her son.  He’d checked through the company’s financial records and found nothing concerning – profits were down, but that was mostly due to Joseph’s efforts to clean up the company and do things ethically, but overall Black Remedy still had its fingers in hundreds of extremely lucrative pies: from banking and finance to a chain of successful bakeries, there was nary an industry the company didn’t have at least some influence over.  The company had even recently begun purchasing cruise liners to add a tourism arm to its already vast shipping fleet.  But, as had always been the case, the jewel in the crown of Black Remedy was pharmaceuticals.  Whether common cold or full-blown AIDS, every time someone in the western world popped a pill there was a sixty per cent chance it came from one of Black Remedy’s processing plants.  The company possessed such power that it could regulate people’s health on a whim.

Frank reached the conclusion that whatever had been worrying Joseph prior to his death had not been a financial issue.  Which meant the threat must have been more personal.  Closer to home.  Frank clicked on a folder marked ‘Personal Files’ and was met with a list of several hundred documents.  Organisation had not been one of Joseph’s strongpoints.

Frank looked through the randomly named files:  Car Insurance, holiday booking confirmation – March 1998, Receipt – Television for lounge, Tax summary – 2001, Letter to Thom Brady (Real Estate) January 2001, Job applicants – Gardeners.  Invoice – George Farley, Corporate Researcher.  Most of the files Frank saw were things he understood.  That last file, though – George Farley, Corporate Researcher – referenced someone Frank had never heard of.  He double-clicked the file.

A document flashed up on screen.  It looked like a typical corporate invoice.  The letterhead read FARLEY DOSSIER SERVICES: Corporate Fact Finding.

“What the hell is Corporate Fact Finding?” Frank asked himself out loud.  He scanned the document and saw a chargeable item listed as: Asset Investigation - £13,500.  The next item read: Personnel Background and Surveillance - £24,000.

Frank took a slow steady breath.  What the hell was Joseph paying almost forty grand for?  He looked over the document until he located an email address in the small print of the footer.  He opened up the email manager and pasted in the address. Then he began typing:

Dear George Farley:

I am an employee of the late Joseph Raymeady, CEO of Black Remedy Corporation.  I currently reside at his former home and am charged with the protection of his widow and orphan.  I believe that, prior to my employer’s death, he was under a great deal of stress.  Something was concerning him and I believe that something could pose a threat to his surviving family.  I am hoping you could disregard the typical etiquette of confidentiality and divulge to me the nature of the work you recently undertook for Joseph.

Yours faithfully,

Frank Senz

Household Coordinator, Raymeady Estate.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Who was that?” Graham asked.

“Frank,” Mike replied, putting down the car phone.  “He was just checking in.”

Graham took a sip from his coffee flask and then dropped it into the dashboard’s drinks holder.  “How’s everything inside the house?”

“Tense, by the sound of things.  I don’t think Frank trusts Jessica’s guests.  There was an incident with Sammie, apparently, and now he wants them gone.”

“I don’t blame him.”

Mike sighed.  “They’re okay.  Angela seemed pretty normal.”

Graham laughed.  “You know she’s a dyke, right?”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing.  Just saying.  No point wasting your time on a rug muncher.”

Mike rolled his eyes.  “I’ll bear that in mind.”  In all honesty, he wasn’t interested in Angela in that way, but meeting new people was a rarity in his current line of work and the woman seemed like fun.  If she and Tim were asked to leave Mike’s job would get that little bit more boring.  I expected more than this when I signed on.

Graham switched on the radio and flicked through the stations.  After finding nothing he liked, he gave up and rested back in his seat.  “Did Frank give us anything to do?  I’m going crazy stuck in this bloody car.”

Mike exhaled and shook his head.  “Me too, but he wants us to stay put.  I think he needs us here as back-up.”

Graham scoffed.  “Back-up?  Against a weedy loser and a dyke ex-priest?”

“Like I said, Frank doesn’t trust them.  He’s worried about Sammie.”

“Why?  It ain’t his kid.  If I were that guy, I would get a job working for some other rich idiot, instead of babysitting a drunk woman and her freak kid.”

“Don’t talk about Sammie like that,” Mike admonished.  “Sammie will be our boss one day.  He’s going to inherit all of his father’s power and influence.  Greatness is that kid’s birth right.”

Graham waved a hand dismissively.  “Yeah, yeah, I know.  Until then, though, he’s just a weird little brat.”

“Perhaps, but there’re reasons for that.”

Graham sipped his coffee and said.  “You those two will figure out what’s wrong with the kid?”

Mike shrugged.  “Who knows?  I doubt it.  I don’t think anyone will be able to figure out what’s wrong with Sammie until it’s too late.”  Before Graham managed a reply, Angela wandered out of the house and onto the driveway.  “Speak of the devil,” Mike said, getting out of the car, and then: “Are you okay?” when he saw the blood on her shirt.

Angela looked down at herself and realised what he was referring to.  “Oh, I’m fine.  It’s Sammie’s blood.”

“Sammie’s?”

“He’s fine,” Angela quickly assured him.  “He just had a little…accident, I guess you’d call it.  I came out for some fresh air.  I’m feeling a bit sick.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Angela chuckled glumly.  “You know what, I think it’s about time you went and got me a change of clothes.”

“Yeah, no problem.  Graham and I would be glad to have something to do, anyway.  We’ll get going right away after I clear it with Frank.”

Angela reached into her pocket and pulled out some keys.  She handed them over.  “My house keys.  There’s something else I need too.”

Mike nodded.  “Of course, what?”

“In my bedroom closet there’s an old black duffel bag.  I need it.”

“Sure thing,” said Mike.  “What’s in it?”

Angela shook her head wearily and seemed a little faint as she spoke.  Her answer was blunt and humourless.  “My exorcism kit.”

“Oh,” said Mike, stepping to one side as the woman vomited on the driveway.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tim prepared to run the blood test for a third time, unsatisfied with the previous sets of results.  After extracting a sample of Sammie’s blood from his shirt, Tim had run it through his portable analyser.  The results it gave were bizarre.  Impossible really.

According to the printout, Sammie’s blood had no recognisable type and was neither Rhesus positive nor Rhesus negative.  In fact, the analyser spat out nothing but errors.  It was as though Tim had loaded the centrifuge with motor oil instead of blood.  It made no sense.  He was considering running his own blood just to make sure the machine wasn’t faulty.

“Where’s Angela?” Frank asked him as he came down the corridor.

“She went out to get some fresh air,” Tim answered.  “Not feeling too good after all the blood.”

“About that,” Frank said sternly.  “What the hell happened?”

“Hell if I know.  One minute the kid’s skin is like concrete and the next he’s opening up like a cantaloupe.  That’s the green one with the seeds and the red flesh, right?”

“No,” said Frank.  “That is a watermelon.”

“Oh.”

“You had no right to take his blood,” Frank snapped.  “You’re not qualified.”

Tim stood in front of the larger man and looked him in the eye.  “Hey, you gave me the go ahead.  You could have stopped me if you’d wanted to.  Besides, I did everything by the book.  I didn’t cause that bleeding.”

“Then what did?”

“I don’t know, but according to my tests it wasn’t even real blood, which leads me to ask myself if I’m just the butt of some big joke.”

Frank bristled.  “You think it was a trick?  Look, Mr Golding.  I would love nothing more than for you to leave, so trust me when I say that the last thing I would want to do is play games with you.”

“Fine.  I’m just telling you what I know, and something doesn’t add up.”

“Then it’s your job to do the math.  I suggest you go and gather up your cohort and get back to work.”

Tim saluted.  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as he departed down the hallway.

Tim shook his head, muttering under his breath as the man walked away.   “Jackass.  I never asked for you to bring me here in the first place.  I’m just trying to help you with your mess.  A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

Angela came up the staircase and Tim smiled at her as she approached.  He was glad to see a friendly face after the frosty hostility of Frank.  “Everything okay?” he asked her.

“Yeah, I’m feeling better now that I puked.  Mike’s gone to get my things, but it looks like I’ve got to put up with being caked in blood and vomit until then.”

“If it even is blood,” he said.  “I’m not so sure.”

Angela looked at him confused.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean all of the tests that I’ve run on Sammie’s blood have come up inconclusive.  I can’t get a blood type, mineral traces, or anything you would usually find.  It’s weird.”

“This whole thing is weird.”

“So what should we do next?”

Angela pointed at the collection of Tim’s machines.  “Don’t tell me you’re all out of science experiments?”

“Not even close, but I think it may be best if I switched to observation mode for the rest of the day.  I think I’d like to know a bit more before I jump back into the fire.”

“Good idea,” Angela agreed.  “I think I’ll leave getting started myself until tomorrow.  Has anyone told you what Sammie will be doing for the rest of the evening?”

“No, but whatever he gets up to, we’ll have a front row seat.”  Tim patted the lid of the laptop sitting amongst his equipment.  “How bout we set this up in the lounge and help ourselves to some more overpriced booze?”

Angela looked at her watch.  It was only just after five, a little early to settle down.  “Yeah, why not,” she said.  “My nerves could do with a tipple.”

Tim nodded.  “Let’s go get out tipple on then.”

***

They’d been drinking for over an hour.  It turned out Angela was as much of a drifter as he was.  She listened understandingly to his stories about how he’d been free and single for several years now, floating from one town to the next while living out of his van.  He told her how most of his work was gained through a website he accessed through various Internet cafes and that his notoriety came from a high profile case in ‘99 when he’d debunked a poltergeist claim for someone loosely connected to the Royals.  Turned out that one of the staff was having fun with them by rigging parts of the house with practical jokes and false hauntings.  Several national newspapers had picked up the story afterwards.  Angela had laughed when he showed her the photograph they had printed of him that he kept in his wallet.

Placed on the table between them was Tim’s laptop.  It was expensive, like most of his equipment was, and he enjoyed how Angela looked at it with awe.  On the laptop’s screen were several video-windows streaming footage from Sammie’s room.  One feed was from an infrared heat camera, while another was from a standard feed.  A selection of dials and readouts cluttered the bottom of the screen, displaying temperature, air pressure, sound frequencies, and a bunch of other scientific garble.

Angela pointed to the screen at Sammie.  “How long has he been sitting there now?”

“Since we opened up the feed, which was more than an hour ago.  I wonder what he’s thinking about.”

Angela seemed to consider the answer.  “I don’t know, but I don’t imagine it’s anything a normal ten-year old would think about.”

“Tomorrow we’ll start trying to make some sense out of everything.  Until then, bottoms up.”  Tim raised his glass and Angela finished off her whisky. She quickly poured another from the bottle on the table.  She poured Tim another too.  Then she shivered.

“Cold?” he asked her.  He was getting a little chilly himself.

Angela rubbed at her shoulders.  “Yeah, it’s getting a bit frigid.”

“I imagine it’s pretty hard to heat a place this size.”

The patter of rain started against the windows and Tim looked across the room to the French doors, which lined the far wall behind the lounge’s grand piano.  Pebble-sized splashes appeared on the panes as the downpour beat harder against the glass.  “Well, I wouldn’t bank on it getting any warmer,” said Tim.  “Looks like we’re in for a dreary evening.”

Suddenly the lights in the room went out.  The moon shone in on them.

“Oh, great,” said Angela.  “If I wasn’t cold before, I’m definitely going to freeze with the power off.”

“I’m sure it will come back on in a minute.  Maybe there’s a storm coming.”

“As if this night couldn’t get any more cliché.  It’s a dark, stormy night at an old English manor and the power just went out.  Are you kidding me?”

Tim giggled.  “All we need now is an axe-wielding maniac.”

The doors to the lounge burst open.

It was Mike and Graham.  They were grinning.  “Mind if we join you?” Mike asked.  “It’s a little too nippy to sit around in the car all night.  I brought your things, Angela.  I placed them in your room.”

“Fantastic,” Angela said.  “And, yes, you are welcome to join us.  I think we were just about to freak ourselves out, anyway, what with the power being off.  The more the merrier, I say.”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “Take a load off.”  Might be interesting seeing where you stand in all this.  Are you just drivers, or are you both up to something more.

“Thanks,” Mike said and took a seat at the table.  Graham said nothing and headed behind the shadowy bar.

“I see Graham is as sociable as ever,” Angela commented, loud enough so that the man could hear her.

“What was that?” Graham asked from behind the bar.  There was a glass of gin in his hand.

“Nothing,” said Angela.  “It’s just delightful to have such charming company.”

“Let me tell you something, lady.”  Graham came over to the table and placed his glass down on the table more forcefully than he needed to. “You’re just a guest here.  I’ve been here for over two years, so maybe you should show a little more respect.”

“Of course,” said Angela.  “My apologies.  I didn’t realise that the respect of a stranger was so important to you.”

Graham shook his head and swigged his gin.  “You’ll end up walking home after all this is done if you’re not careful.”

“I don’t think Jessica would appreciate you speaking to us like that,” said Tim.  I’m not going to be insulted by the bloody help.

“Screw her.”  Graham growled.  “Woman’s a mess.  She doesn’t have a clue what’s going on half the time.”

“Yet, alas, here I am now listening to you speak.”  Jessica had appeared in the doorway, dressed smartly in trousers and an ivory blouse.  She looked more in control of her wits than the previous times Tim had seen her.

Graham leapt up from his seat, flustered.  His gin splashed out of his glass and wet the table  “J-Jessica!  I mean, Ms Raymeady.  How are you doing this evening?”

“I’m good, Graham.  Thank you for asking.  I would feel safer, however, if I knew you were outside in the car.”

“But, it’s freezing out there.”

“Then I suggest you turn on the engine.”

Graham walked off in a huff.  Mike got up to go after him.

“No, no,” said Jessica.  “You’re quite welcome to stay, Michael.”

Mike sat back down again slowly, as if he were unsure.  “Thank you, Ms Raymeady.  Will you be joining us?”

Jessica shook her head.  “Perhaps later.  I think I should keep a clear head from now on.  I hear that Sammie had an accident today?”

“Yes,” Tim admitted.  “We’re not quite sure what happened.”

“That’s quite alright,” said Jessica, “but let me assure you that I will not tolerate my son being hurt again.  Next time there will be consequences.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Tim, feeling about five years old.

“Good,” said Jessica.  “I will be with Sammie if anyone needs me.”

Everyone at the table nodded, but remained quiet.  Jessica had gotten a hold of herself in a big way and was now unidentifiable as the drunken mess from the morning.  Suddenly, Tim could see her as a wealthy and powerful woman.  Jessica had given herself a reality check and was now back in control.  Either that or the woman’s close to a break down.  This could be the calm before the storm.

Tim snapped shut the lid on his laptop.  “So much for my equipment.  Not much use with the power off.”

“Frank will be looking into it,” said Mike.  “Power’s been going off a lot lately.”

“Doesn’t your laptop run off a battery?” Angela asked Tim.

“Yeah, it does, but not the cameras.  All the feeds have gone down.”

“What feeds?” Mike asked.

Angela poured herself another drink and explained.  “Tim has video cameras set up in Sammie’s room.  We were going to observe him this evening and try to figure out what’s going on with him.”

Mike chuckled.  “Yeah, good luck with that.  Jessica has had half the medical community through here the last few months.  No one could figure it out.  Most of them ran screaming from the building.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tim.  Is he just trying to scar us, or is he telling the truth?

Mike rubbed his hands in front of him, to warm them up.  “Sure you’ve seen by now, but Sammie has a bit of a temper.  There was a psychiatrist that was here a few weeks ago that tried some behavioural adjustments – one of which was trying to take away Sammie’s crayons until he promised to only draw nice things.  Next thing we know, Sammie attacks the guy; bites one of his ears clean off.  The doctor starts crawling around on his hands and knees, squealing like a pig, looking for his missing appendage – and then we realise.  Sammie had swallowed the thing whole.”

Tim’s face scrunched up with disgust.  “Helsinki.”

“Tell me about it.  Jessica had to cut the guy a fat cheque just to keep him quiet about the whole thing.”

Angela finished off her new whisky in a single gulp and quickly poured another.  Tim raised an eyebrow and wondered whether to be impressed or worried by her constitution for alcohol.  “How come you’ve hung around though all this, Mike?” she asked.  “Frank told me everybody else left.”

“Me and Graham work outside.  We have no contact with Sammie.  I guess we feel safe enough.”

“So you think Sammie is dangerous?”

“I know he is.  Whatever the reason for that, I can’t say, but you wouldn’t catch me alone in a room with him.”

“He’s just a ten-year old boy,” said Angela.

Mike shrugged.  “Yeah, maybe.  Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you being here is exactly what is needed.  Your exorcism kit is in your room.  I think you may want to think about using it.”

Tim cleared his throat.  “You’re going to perform an exorcism.  Can you still do that as an ex priest?”

Angela cleared her throat.  “Guess we’ll find out.  Unless anyone has any objections?”

“Not me,” said Mike.  “I’m not really much of a believer in God, but I’d like to see what happens.  Every other option has been exhausted, so we’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I agree,” said Tim.  “I still believe that there’s a rational explanation for all this, but I’d like to dispel any notions of ‘possession’ as soon as possible.  You’re the best person to do that.”

Angela eyelids suddenly became very droopy, as if the mere mention of performing an exorcism had drained away her energy.  “I’m not sure I even remember what to do anymore,” she admitted.

“It will come back to you,” said Mike.  “I heard you were very good at it once.”

Angela huffed.  “Too bad I can’t put it on my resume as a useful job skill.”

They all shared a laugh about that and sipped at their drinks.  After a few moments had passed, Tim looked at Mike.  “Tell me about Jessica,” he said.

“Jessica?  What’s to tell?  She’s lived most of her life in the papers and most of what they’ve written is true.  She met Joseph Raymeady at University.  I’m not sure what she was studying, but she never finished anyway.  Joseph asked her to marry him, right after he graduated and joined his father’s company.  Eventually, both she and Joseph took a place on the Board of Directors.”  Mike motioned to the room around them.  “You’ve already witnessed the fruits of their labour.  Jessica is one of the richest women in the world, but I don’t think she really knows what to do with it all without her husband.  Things have been hard on her.”

“How long has she been drinking?” Tim asked.

“Not long, to be honest.  The woman you just saw is more the real her.  She is a kind soul, but very much in control of herself usually.  The drinking and depression has been out of character, but who can blame her?  In fact, I was pleased to see the way she just dealt with Graham. Perhaps she’s on the mend.  I think she feels better with the two of you here.  Let’s just hope you can help Sammie.  Else I fear she’ll take another slide.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Tim.  Whatever that is.  “I don’t plan on leaving until we get to the bottom of-”

The laptop on the table vibrated.  The speakers emitted static.

Angela thrust her chin at the computer.  “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”  Tim put his hands on the laptop and slid it in front of him.  He slowly raised the monitor.

His breath caught in his throat.

“What is it?” Angela asked.

Tim spun the laptop around so that she and Mike could see what was on the screen.  “The feeds are back up,” he explained.  “I don’t know how.”

Angela looked at the screen and squinted.

Mike did the same.

Tim had a bad feeling.

Sammie’s room was dark except for a candle burning beside his bed.  Sammie was tucked up beneath the sheets with Jessica sat beside him, reading a paperback novel while her son slept.  Keeping a vigil, Tim thought.

In addition to the standard video feed, there was also a second feed being displayed.  The infrared camera displayed several multi-coloured blotches onscreen – heat signatures.  Jessica’s body glowed beside the prone form of her son beneath the covers.  Sammie’s heat signature seemed to be in constant flux, reds and yellows pulsing and changing every second.

They all continued to watch the screen, eyes glued.  Jessica put down the paperback and got up up out of her chair.

“What’s she doing?” Mike asked.

Tim shook his head.  “I don’t know.  She’s going over to Sammie’s bed, I think.  She’s…oh, God.”

They all watched as Jessica pulled a pillow from beneath Sammie’s sleeping head and held it over his face.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Angela galloped through the long hallways of the house, trying to navigate her way to Sammie’s room as quickly as she could.  With every corner, she shouted out Jessica’s name at the top of her lungs.  The woman had finally lost her sanity and was trying to eliminate the cause of all her stress – her ten-year-old son.  Angela knew it was an automatic defence mechanism for someone who was clinically depressed to try and eliminate the cause, but Jessica’s urge to kill Sammie was only a temporary madness that she would later regret for the rest of her life.  If Jessica managed to succeed with what she was doing, the mother would never forgive herself.  Angela had to stop her before it was too late.

Tim and Mike were right behind her.  Sammie’s room was just up ahead.  Even in the dark she could see the posters and signs that adorned the boy’s bedroom door.  Angela wasted no time in barging inside.  It was like entering a nightmare.

It was dark inside the bedroom.  Shadows seemed to shift and swirl all around.  The stench of sweat and faeces was everywhere too.  Over in the depths of the room was the burning candle Jessica had been reading by.  A flickering cone of light surrounded it, but it was not enough to illuminate anything beyond half-a-foot.

“Jessica!” Angela called out.  “Whatever you are doing, you need to stop.”

There was no answer.

Angela took a step forward, slicing through the darkness.  Sammie’s bed lay ahead.  The boy rested beneath the covers – his silhouette grey and unmoving.

“Sammie?  Are you okay?”  Angela could smell the sweat coming off the boy’s bed sheets in waves.  “Sammie, answer me.”

Tim and Mike milled in the shadows behind, but Angela felt as if they were a million miles away.  It was just her and the bed and the grisly secrets it held.  She took the final steps and reached out a hand, her fingertips searching, dreading what they were about to feel.  Were her fingers about to connect with the soft flesh of a dead child?  She edged forward, inch by inch, stretching on her tiptoes.

Something wrapped around Angela’s wrist.

She tried to leap back.  Whatever had her would not let go.  She cried out for help, struggling to break free.  Tim and Mike rushed up behind her and grabbed her around the waist, pulled her back.

The power came back on with an audible click!  Light flooded       the bedroom and Angela blinked as her retinas responded with pain.  Sammie was lying on the bed in front of her, staring at her through narrow black slits.

It must have been Sammie’s hand that wrapped around her wrist.  But how could it have been with him lay in bed beneath the covers.

“What are you doing, Angela?  I was sleeping.”

Angela found it hard to speak.  Her lungs had seized up as if an invisible python had roped itself around her chest.  “Sammie, w-where is your mother?  Where is Jessica?”

Sammie’s grin grew wider.  “Oh, I think she went up to her room to get some air.  She was feeling rather unwell.”

“Sammie?  Has something happened?  Did you mother do something to you with a pillow?”

Sammie giggled.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  As I explained, I was sleeping quite soundly until you rudely woke me.  Maybe you should go check on my mother, if you’re so concerned.  I would hate for anything to happen to her.”

Angela leant closer to the boy.  “What does that mean?”

“Erm…Angela?”  It was Tim’s voice, coming from behind her.  “I think you should take a look at this.”

Angela stepped away from Sammie and turned around.  What she saw on the walls was impossible.  More of the boy’s crayoned drawings had appeared, stuck into the plaster with pushpins so thickly that they overlapped and looked like gaudy wallpaper – hundreds of them.  They depicted the rain outside, the house without power, and the windows shaded black to show the lack of light.  Even more disturbing was the depictions of Angela, Tim, and Mike.  The drawing showed them all sitting in the piano lounge huddling around a table with a laptop between them.  Sammie had drawn them watching him.  There was no way he could have known how they were sitting or what they were doing – it had happened only minutes ago.  It could never have even drawn it in time.  Not a hundred times over.

Tim placed a hand on Angela’s shoulder and turned her slightly to her right.  He pointed at one of the pictures.  “Look.”

Angela looked at the artwork and felt a heavy stone roll its way through her guts.  Scrawled in harsh black pencil was a picture of Jessica.  She was hanging by her neck from a rain-drenched balcony.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When Angela and the others reached the penthouse floor, they heard Frank.  He was crying out for help in a way that made it clear something terrible had happened.

Angela had not yet visited the penthouse floor and neither had Tim, so Mike led the way.  The hallways of the fourth floor were wider than the others and the three of them were able to sprint side by side as if they were running track.  Mike motioned to a doorway at the end of the hallway and told them it was Jessica’s bedroom.  Frank’s voice was coming from inside.

Angela grabbed the door handle and yanked, but it was locked.  She rattled it back and forth, hoping it would turn, but it held tightly.  She bashed a fist against the wood.  “Frank?  Frank, let us in.  What’s happening?”

“I can’t,” came Frank’s muffled voice.  “I can’t let go.  Please, help me.  I can’t hold her much longer.”

Angela looked at Tim and Mike, saw they were as confused as she was, but at least Mike seemed to have an idea.  He shrugged his shoulders and took a step backwards, then strode forward and aimed a heavy kick at the door.

Bamph!  The wood cracked.

Mike kicked again.  The door swung open.

Angela rushed through into Jessica’s bedroom, dragging Tim along with her.  She looked around for Frank, but the room was empty.  “Frank!  Frank, where are you?”

“Over here, on the balcony.”

Angela peered across the lavish bedroom and saw a pair of French doors at the far side.   They were hanging open, the wind and rain blowing into the room.  Angela found Frank leaning over a cement railing, struggling with something unseen beneath.  The shirt on his back was sodden from rain and sweat.

“Frank, what’s happening?”

The man strained to turn his head and look at her.  The muscles in his neck bunched up.  “Help…me!”

Angela hurried over and was glad Tim and Mike did the same.  Frank was tired, hanging over the railing, his body starting to give out.  Angela gasped to find Jessica’s limp body hanging from his grasp, dangling four stories above the ground.  She was unconscious.  A thick noose cut into her throat and was secured at the other end by one of the balcony’s cement balustrades.

“Holy mama!” Tim cried out.

Angela threw her upper body over the railing and grabbed a hold of Jessica.  Frank had the woman under the armpits, but she was gradually slipping from his grasp.  Angela grabbed a handful of the woman’s shirt and yanked, but almost ended up tumbling over the balcony herself.  Mike managed to wrap both his arms around her hips and anchor her down before she went plummeting to her death.

With Mike securing her, Angela managed to get both hands on Jessica’s clothing and pull with all her strength.  She and Frank worked together.  Slowly they managed to hoist Jessica back towards the balcony, inch by inch.  Once they had her near the top, Mike and Tim helped out and grabbed fistfuls of Jessica’s blouse.  All together they managed topple the lady of the house back over the railing to safety.  Her limp body hit the floor with a thwump!

Frank dropped to his knees beside Jessica and clawed at the ligature around her neck.  He was frantic, almost sobbing.  This was not the stone-faced control freak Angela was used to seeing.  “Frank?”  She placed a hand delicately on his shoulder.  “What happened?”

Frank managed to loosen the rope around Jessica’s neck and slumped back on his heels when she coughed, spluttered, and resumed breathing.  “I-I got here just as she was about to jump.  I managed to catch her but her weight dragged me over the side.  I couldn’t get her back up again.  I think…I think she’ll be okay.  She wasn’t hanging by her neck for more than a few seconds.”

Angela stared down at Jessica and saw that, at least physically, she was okay: breathing steadily as the rain fell down on her.  Emotionally, however, the woman looked severely damaged.  Her eyes had opened but merely stared into space, focusing upwards at the faraway stars.  Angela knew her mind was just as far away.

“We need to call an ambulance,” said Tim.

Frank shook his head firmly.  “No!”

Angela thought the man was in shock.  “She just tried to kill herself, Frank!”

Frank shook his head again.  “If word gets out about this, she’ll be removed from the Board of Directors.  All of Joseph’s work will be undone and his business partner will take over.”

“What are you talking about?”  Tim butted in.  “Who gives a shit about business?  She needs help.”

Frank was still adamant and shaking his head.  “We’ll keep her safe.  She’ll be okay.  No one can know about this.  Mike, go and get Graham.  You can take turns keeping an eye on her until she’s better.”

Mike nodded in agreement but from the look on his face he was disturbed.

“This is insane,” Tim said, pulling at a clump of his ginger hair as if he were mad.  “Why did she even do this?  She seemed perfectly fine earlier.”

“No,” said Angela.  “She wasn’t.  People who commit suicide often seem fine right before they try to end it all.  Killing yourself takes courage and a certain amount of inner peace.  The reason Jessica seemed stronger and more in control earlier was because she wanted to die with the dignity of being herself.  When people lose control of their lives, sometimes the only thing they have any power over is whether they live or die.”

“I wish we’d known what she was planning,” said Tim.  “I just wish we could have, you know…”

“It’s not your fault,” Angela told him.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Frank said.  “You people and your games are probably what sent her over the edge.”

Mike put a hand on Frank’s shoulder.  “Come on, Frank.  That’s not true and you know it.  Things haven’t been right around here since even before Joseph died.  Angela and Tim are just trying to help.”

Frank’s shoulders dropped slightly as he seemed to accept what Mike was telling him.  “Fine,” he said. “Someone just help me get her to the bed.  She needs to rest.”

Mike and Frank hoisted Jessica up off the floor, while Tim went and pulled back the covers on the bed.  Angela remained where she was, too dazed to move.  She felt the caress of rain against her bare arms and stared out from the balcony into the night.  Things are a mess, she thought to herself.  She also thought about getting out of there and going back to her uneventful, uncomplicated life.  But I can’t turn my back on Jessica now.  She needs help more than ever.  I can’t leave.   I became a priest once, not because of my belief in God, but because I wanted to devote my life to helping others.  I don’t have to be part of the Church to uphold that vow.  Maybe my life can still have meaning without being a priest.

A rumble of thunder broke Angela away from her musings and she went back inside.  She closed the French doors behind her and shut off the room from the wind and rain, although it still beat fiercely against the glass.

Jessica was tucked up in bed, staring up at the ceiling.  “I’ll stay with her for now,” Mike said.  “I’ll let Graham know what’s happened in the morning.”

“Thank you,” said Frank.  “I will keep an eye on Sammie while she recovers.”

“What would you like us to do?”  Angela asked Frank.

Frank stared at her for a moment and she expected another one of his verbal tirades, but eventually he just let out a sigh and said, “Get some sleep.  We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

Angela didn’t argue.  In all honesty, her bedroom seemed like the safest place to be.  She’d had quite enough of this evening and its stresses.  She left Jessica’s penthouse without complaint, not even bothering to say goodnight to anyone.  Too much had happened for niceties to count for very much.

When she reached the Saunders suite a few minutes later, Angela noticed that her suitcase had been placed on the bed.  It reminded her that she was still wearing the bloodstained clothing she’d had on for two days now.  It would be good to get into some fresh togs.  Although I’m beginning to feel like I might never feel clean again.

Beside her suitcase was another bag.  The old leather satchel sill carried a layer of dust, despite its recent travels.  Angela hadn’t faced its the contents in a long time.  But she wasn’t going to deal with the bag tonight either.  She didn’t have the energy.  So she placed both her suitcase and the satchel onto the floor, before heading into the en suite.

She leant inside the bathroom’s shower cubicle and turned on the water.  A cold stream gushed from the showerhead and slowly began to heat up.  While she waited, she stripped off her dirty clothes and let them fall to the floor in a heap.  Come morning, she would ask Mike to dispose of them, as no amount of washing could save them now.

The mirror above the sink showed Angela a reflection of her naked body.  She cringed, not because her own flesh disgusted her, but because her skin was stained with Sammie’s blood where it had seeped through her shirt.

The crusted blood against her flesh made her think about Charles Crippley.

Will that man ever stop haunting me?

She ran a hand beneath the shower stream to test the temperature, then stepped beneath the hot waterfall.  She shuddered beneath the heat and watched dried blood flake and peel from her skin.  It was like being reborn; shedding an unwanted skin.  It wasn’t long before her skin was bare and healthy again, but she still felt stained.  She used a nearby bar of soap to lather herself up and finally wash the horrors of the day away.  Slowly, her strength returned, even as the hot water softened her.

Her mind started to drift.  She thought about Jessica and what could have made the woman want to kill herself.  She thought about the images on Tim’s laptop, of Jessica smothering her son.  But there’s no way that could have happened.  We got there too quickly.  And Sammie had been asleep.  It was almost like we were sent on a wild goose chase to keep us from finding out what Jessica was really up to.  Thank God Frank was there.

There was still something that didn’t add up as Angela thought about it.  Jessica could not have been in two places at once – it was physically impossible – so what exactly had she, Tim, and Mike seen on the video feed?  There was something else troubling her, too.  Sammie’s drawings had predicted the rain, the darkness, and everyone being huddled around Tim’s laptop.  They also showed Jessica hanging herself.  Sammie had known what was going to happen.  He knew.

Angela thought about Charles Crippley again.  He had also possessed certain talents of clairvoyance.  He had known Angela was a lesbian before she’d even known herself.  He’d also known many of the sins of her parishioners – he’d called them out in church as he butchered each and every one of them.  Fornicator, swindler, wife-beater…

Was that what was happening now?  Was Crippley inside the boy?  Sammie had known Angela when they’d first met; knew her because of his ‘friend’ the boy had said.  Don’t be ridiculous, Angela.  You’re losing your mind.  Whatever’s going on here, there’s no reason to think that there’s something – or someone – inside of Sammie.

She turned off the shower and let the water drain from her skin.  There was steam coming off of her flesh and for a moment she felt light-headed from the heat, but stepping out onto the cold tiles of the bathroom was soothing and quickly brought back her senses.

She was careful not to slip as she padded across the bathroom tiles back towards the plush carpet of the bedroom.  Her plan was to go to bed and reassess things in the morning – she was too tired to figure anything out right now – but as she reached the bedroom door, something stopped her dead in her tracks.

Slowly Angela turned towards the mirror above the sink, where she had noticed something in the corner of her eye.  Written in the condensation on the mirror by unseen fingertips were two simple words: SAVE ME.

***

Angela dared not look at her watch for fear it would show a time closer to dawn than to midnight.  Sleep deprivation was one of her biggest dislikes and it felt like she had lain awake in bed for hours.  If she checked her watch and saw that it was nearly time to get up it would depress her unbelievably and destroy the slim chance of catching any rest at all.  I hate this house.

Angela could be a bad sleeper at the best of times, but tonight there were several causes for her insomnia.  Her head was filled with questions.  The main one being: Who had been in her bathroom while she showered and wrote a message the mirror?  If it was a joke, she didn’t find it funny.  Tomorrow she would get to the bottom of it, but right now there was something else demanding her attention; the main reason she could not sleep.

Sammie’s voice was an endless babble of noise, muffled by the floors between them, but still loud and bellowing.  Angela found it hard to believe that the boy’s voice could travel so far and be so booming.  The words he spoke were indecipherable at such a distance, but Angela knew what Sammie was babbling about.  Frank had already told her that Sammie liked to quote the Bible during the small hours.  That was no doubt what the boy was doing right now.  But which parts of the Bible?

Angela was tucked beneath fine Egyptian sheets, listening to the ramblings of a mentally disturbed ten-year old, whilst his billionaire mother lay upstairs recovering from a suicide attempt.  Surreal didn’t even begin to describe it.

As she tossed and turned, something occurred to her.  When Frank had first told her about Sammie’s nightly activities, she had asked him to record the verses the boy was quoting.  Whether Frank had done so and forgotten, or just not done so at all, was unclear, but so far he had not even mentioned her request.  It was something she needed to remember to ask him about tomorrow.  The Bible verses could point to subconscious messages that Sammie was unable to communicate in other ways.  They could provide vital clues on how to help the boy.

Angela finally gave in and checked her watch.  It was a little past 3AM – not as bad as she’d thought.  She actually started to feel a little hopeful about getting at least a modicum of sleep.

That was, until the power went off again and the rain began beating at her window.  Being surrounded by the pitch-black darkness of the unfamiliar room sent shivers along her skin.  The rain got so hard against the windowpane that it almost drowned out the sound of Sammie’s chanting voice.

Almost.

Angela shook her head and cursed in the darkness.  “I really hate this house.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tim awoke well rested in his van at 10AM.  Frank had offered him a room inside the house, but the van was his home. He didn’t see any reason to obligate himself to anybody else.  Sleeping in his vehicle also gave him the option of a midnight getaway if things got too intense.  Running away was one of the ways Tim survived.

Although he fully intended to see the job through, with the way things were going, Tim was prepared to leave at the first sign of danger.  Just because I enjoy watching the X-Files doesn’t mean I want to be in it.

Rain still fell from the ashen sky and the grounds were waterlogged and glistening.  Fat crows stalked the gardens, looking for plump worms.

Tim rummaged around in the clothes hamper he kept in the back of his van and pulled on a pair of jeans, along with a bright orange ATARI t-shirt that went well with his hair.  Tim knew that he looked like a massive nerd, but that was just his protection – his camouflage.  It was difficult to look in the mirror and face the man he truly was.  Growing his bright ginger hair out into a shaggy mess, not shaving, and wearing teenager’s clothes was a penance of sorts.  Tim deserved nobody’s respect so he ensured that he received none.  Without anybody respecting him, there was no reason for him ever to confront his past, or for anybody to expect anything from him in the future.

Tim hopped out of the van, his trainers crunching in the wet gravel of the driveway.  The large Mercedes was parked nearby, but neither Mike nor Graham was inside.  Tim remembered they were on suicide watch.  Poor Jessica.  She must have been through hell to reach such desperation. Tim remembered a quote he read once: But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.  Tim understood the truth of the statement.

When he reached the front door of the house, he realised he was locked out.  Thankfully, when he pressed the buzzer, it didn’t take long for Frank to arrive and let him in out the rain.

The Chief of House looked exhausted.  His sunken eyes were as grey as his hair and new wrinkles had appeared all over his face.  If Tim knew any better, he would say that Frank hadn’t slept in days.

“Everything okay, man?”

Frank tilted his head as if he was too tired to hold it up.  “As well as can be expected.  Sammie is in his room and Ms Raymeady is sleeping.  I trust there will be no disruptions today?”

Tim shrugged.  “No intentional disruptions, but they seem to be a regular occurrence around here.”

Frank didn’t say anything.  Perhaps he agreed.

“Is Angela awake yet?” Tim asked.

“I believe not.  I am yet to see her this morning.  Perhaps you should call on her.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“No need.”  Angela was coming down the staircase.  She looked exhausted too, but at least she had a clean set of clothes on: a thin blue sweater with black trousers.  She was carrying a satchel.

“How’d you sleep?” Tim asked her.

“I didn’t.”

“That sucks.  You going to be okay?”

Angela nodded.  “Don’t worry about me.  Frank, did you record the things that Sammie has been saying during the night?  You said that you would.”

Frank shook his head dismissively, but it was clear by the brief flicker in his expression that he’d forgotten.  “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Angela shook her head angrily.  “Frank, you brought us here to help.  How can we do that if you’re not helping us?”

Frank seemed insulted by her chastisement and stiffened up defiantly.  “I don’t see what knowledge it would provide you, anyway.  Seems like a fool’s errand to me.”

“That’s your opinion.  Now I have to wait another night to find out what Sammie’s been saying during the night.”

“No you don’t,” Tim said.  “When the power came back on, so did the video feeds I set up.  I’ll have audio recordings of anything Sammie said last night.”

Angela smiled, but then it quickly turned to a frown.  “But the power went off again during the night.”

Tim shrugged.  Having slept outside, he hadn’t been aware of any power cut.  As he looked around he saw that the electricity was still yet to come back on.  “Well, I’ll have recordings up until that point at least.  May still be helpful.”

“You’re right,” said Angela, patting him on the back like a buddy.  “Good work.”

“My laptop is still in the piano lounge.  Shall we go and have a look now?”

Angela was in favour of the suggestion, so they got going.  Before they left the foyer, though, Frank had one last thing to say to them.  “Let me know if you intend on seeing Sammie.  No one sees him without informing me first.”

“Sure thing,” said Tim, actually preferring Frank to be there if they went to see the boy again.  Maybe he can keep the kid from attacking like a wild animal.

In the lounge, Tim’s laptop was still on the table where he’d left it.  The lid was closed so he pushed it open and took a seat.  The screen was black for a few seconds while the computer came out of sleep mode, but then several images popped up onscreen.

The video and audio feeds were no longer live.  An error log reported they had been interrupted by a hardware failure, which must have been when the power went out.  He checked the video cache and was pleased to see that there were still several hours of recordings.  With any luck, there would be plenty of footage that Angela could work with.

He clicked on the backup file.

A video popped up on screen.  Tim moved the laptop so that Angela could see it.

“What time is this from?” she asked him.

“It’s from…half-past-twelve.”

“Can you fast forward it?  To about 2AM?”

“Yeah, sure.  Did something happen then?”

Angela nodded.  “I was awake.  Sammie was rambling at the time.”

Tim clicked on the video’s timeline, finding the approximate clip.  “Okay…let’s see what we’ve got.”

The video stuttered briefly and then begun to play smoothly.  Sammie was pacing his room like a caged lion, sticking close to the walls on all sides, never encroaching on the centre of the room. It was the behaviour of a trapped animal.  The boy was shouting and gesticulating wildly.  “Behold, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to everyone according to what he has done.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tim as he listened to the boy’s guttural expulsions.

“It’s from Revelations,” Angela explained.  “It’s about being judged for our sins when the end comes.”

“The end?”

“Yeah, you know.  The whole Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shebang.”

Tim nodded grimly.  “That’s comforting.”

“Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.  A brave man is a man who dares to look the Devil in the face and tell him he is a Devil.  Be ever engaged, so that whenever the Devil calls he may find you occupied.”

“What’s he quoting now?”

Angela shook her head.  “Various chapters, but they all seem to be about the Devil or having evil tempt us.”

“Isn’t that all a bit cliché?  I mean, we’re here to maybe perform an exorcism and Sammie’s quoting verses about the Devil.  Next he’ll be puking mushy peas at us and doing the crab walk.”

Angela shrugged.  “Could be mental illness.  Religious mania tends to take a focus on the Devil.  It’s an excuse for the afflicted to explain their actions – to pass the burden of responsibility onto some intangible force.”

“Are we still thinking the kid is just a regular-flavoured whacko then?”

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted.  “If it were not for the past two days then I wouldn’t hesitate in saying that, but with all the strangeness that has been going on, I think I’m ready to take this to the next step.”

Tim thought about his experience at the duck pond and knew what she was talking about when she spoke about strangeness.  “So what is the next step?” he enquired.

Angela looked at him and sighed.  “I’m going to conduct an exorcism.  I’m going to do what Jessica brought me here to do.”

Despite his years in the ‘ghost business’ Tim had never actually been involved in an exorcism.  To be honest, the thought made him a little anxious.  “Can I be of any help?” he asked, not wanting his cowardice to show through completely.

Angela nodded.  “I’m sure you can.  For moral support if nothing else.”

The laptop’s video feed went blank.

“Must have been when the power went off,” said Tim.  “Hmm, that’s interesting.  It went off at 3AM exactly.”

“Yeah,” Angela said.  “I checked my watch.  It was about that time.”

“The witching hour,” Tim said.  “Jesus was crucified at 3PM, but 3AM is said to belong to the Devil.  Between midnight and 3AM is when the veil between our world and the next is at its thinnest.”

“Are you shitting me?” Angela said while laughing.

Tim giggled.  “I’m being serious.  Not saying I believe it, but it’s yet another cliché to add to the list.  We’re well ensconced in horror movie territory now.”

“Perhaps they only became clichés because they’re true.  Who knows?  Are you trying to say that you still think this is a set up?”

Tim cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair.  “I really don’t know.  I suppose not.  I think there’s definitely a mystery here, but let’s just say, hypothetically, that Sammie was possessed – why him?  It’s not like there’s a long list of people possessed by demons.  It’s a rarity, if it even exists at all, so what is so special about Sammie that it happened to him?”

Angela thought about it.  “I don’t know.  Some schools of thought say that only the devout are at risk of an evil entity invading their soul.  Others say that repetition of a specific sin attracts the Devil’s minions – such as excessive masturbation or swearing.  Some say it’s a random occurrence, while others say that for a demon to inhabit your soul you must consciously invite it.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think evil takes advantage.  I think it plays the human race like chess pieces on a board.  If a demon were to possess a person, it would do so for a specific reason – to further the cause of evil.  Some say that several demons cast out from Mary Magdalene went on to inhabit Judas, Emperor Nero, Adolf Hitler and many other powerful men.  I think that is what truly attracts the Devil – power.”

Tim scrunched up his face.  “And you think a ten-year-old boy is powerful?”

“A ten year old boy that stands to inherit a fortune one day and a place on the board of the world’s most powerful company?  Yeah, I think little Sammie is more powerful than you realise.  Hitler was able to influence millions towards evil, but Black Remedy Corporation has the influence to affect billions.”

“So you think that if there is a demon inside Sammie, it’s basically a power-hungry entrepreneur?”  Tim laughed.  “Sorry, I do get your point, though.  Sammie does have a lot of potential, but that would mean this hypothetical demon is in it for the long haul.”

“Hypothetical is the word,” said Angela.  “I’m still not willing to accept a demon is the cause of all this.”

The laptop flashed back on.

Tim flinched back in his chair.  “What the…?”

The video footage onscreen was of Angela’s room.  It showed her in bed, tossing and turning in the moonlight.

“How…I never placed a camera in your room.”

“What time is this?” Angela asked him.  Her eyes had narrowed and she seemed utterly pissed off, which, Tim supposed, was better than her being freaked out.

Tim checked the time stamp.  “It’s 5AM, but I swear I haven’t set up any cameras in your room.  I don’t know where this footage came from.”

“Someone was in my room,” Angela said bluntly.  “I got out of the shower and someone had written a message on my mirror.  Maybe they left a camera in my room at the same time.”

“Who, though?  Frank?”

The laptop flashed again.  The screen changed back to Sammie’s room.  The boy was no longer pacing the room and quoting Bible passages.  He was in bed asleep, a normal ten year old boy.

Tim tried to jog the video backwards, to re-examine the footage from Angela’s room, but when he tried to rewind…

“This makes zero sense,” he said, perplexed.

“What doesn’t?”

“The footage of your room is gone.  Look.”  He moved the video’s timeline back and forth slowly.  The images showed only Sammie in his room.  “The video from your room is gone.”

Angela stared at the laptop’s screen and said, “Or maybe it was never there.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mike sat on a chair across from Graham.  Jessica lay on the bed between them.  The lady of the house was resting fitfully, eyes flickering like loose marbles beneath her bloodshot eyelids.

“So are you okay to take over?” Mike asked Graham.  “I need to crash or I’m going to pass out on my feet.”

Graham’s face was as grumpy as ever.  “Don’t have much choice, do I?  Why did she have to go and do something so bloody stupid, anyway?  Silly woman.”

Mike sighed.  “You know there’s more to it than that.  Just keep an eye on her.  I’ll be by again later to take over.  Frank says we call him soon as Jessica wakes up.”

Mike left the penthouse and headed for the second floor.  Most of the rooms there had belonged to the live-in staff, but they were all now vacant.  When he got there, he just picked a room at random and headed inside.  The ottoman-style bed that met him there was a welcome sight and the thought of imminent sleep made his body limp with anticipation.

Things had been set in motion at the house, Mike could feel it.  There was a destiny at work and it was finally coming to fruition.  Jessica was not going to be the last person hurt before all this was through.  Sammie was just getting started.

Mike stood in front of the full-length mirror secured to the back of the bedroom door.  He took off his shirt in front of it and examined the runic symbols carved into his chest.  The thick, pink scars brought memories of agony and the necessary suffering he’d endured in order to be ready for what he would face.  The symbols would keep him safe.

When Mike had taken the job as the Raymeady’s chauffeur, he knew his eventual responsibilities would include more than just driving the Mercedes.  His role was far greater than anyone in the house knew and his employers – his true employers – were counting on him to ensure things went to plan.

Mike ran his fingertips over the scars on his chest and admired the handiwork one last time, then he slid beneath the sheets of the bed and got ready to sleep through most of the day.  The night was more his time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Angela had spent the last hour praying and confessing her sins.

In order to perform an exorcism, one must humble themselves before the Lord.  To invoke the power of Jesus Christ, one must not withhold any part of the self.  So, after unburdening herself, Angela felt reconnected to Heaven again, for the first time in a long time.

To her surprise, she had found her old cassock and dog collar packed in her suitcase.  Mike must have looked for it.  Wearing it again now, after so long without it, felt strangely comforting.  It was as if she had donned another layer of skin or a set of body armour.  She realised now how much she had missed the purpose and identity that the robes gave to her.  I don’t feel so worthless.

She picked up her exorcism kit and exited the room.  Tim and Frank had arranged to meet her outside Sammie’s room so she headed straight there.  Both men seemed impatient by the time she finally arrived.

“Beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” said Tim, quite seriously.  From the sound of his voice it seemed that he wasn’t just impatient, but anxious also.

“Sorry,” she said.  “I needed to prepare.”

“No worries,” Tim forgave her.  “Are you ready now?”

“Almost.  I just need to run through a few things with you both first.”

“Such as what?” Frank asked.

“If – and I mean if – it turns out that Sammie has been infiltrated by a demon, there are several rules you need to abide by at all times.  Number one: Do not converse with the demon – leave any talking to me.  Number two: Do not challenge the demon in any way.  Remember that it can hurt Sammie.  Number three: Control your emotions.  Any sign of anger, fear, or even empathy, and the demon will use it to control you.  Number four: Do not touch Sammie once I have begun, and do not hand him anything.  Finally: Do not try to interfere.  Once this process begins, Sammie will appear to get worse as the demon is brought forth.  No matter what, you must let me finish.  Do you both understand?”

Tim nodded and Frank grunted.

“Okay, then.  Let’s go and see Sammie.”

Frank opened the door for her and Tim to step inside.  As soon as they entered, the familiar stench of stale sweat fell over them.  Sammie was at his desk as usual, half-naked and sketching away with his various-coloured crayons.

“Don’t we need him lying down in the bed or something?” Tim asked.

Angela shook her head.  “No, that’s just in the movies.  As long as he can hear me.”

“Should we at least make a circle of protection?  Sprinkle salt around or something?”

Angela hushed him with a finger to her lips and then told him, “The Lord will protect us.  You can keep your circles of salt for Halloween parties.”

Sammie leapt up out of his chair and faced them.  The movement was sudden, violent, and quick.  He stared at them all, almost serenely.  “How lovely to see you again, Ms Murs – and in your Christian armour no less.”

“Jesus Christ is my armour, Sammie.  Do you know who Jesus Christ is?”

A slight grin crept across Sammie’s face.  “A character of history, as I understand it.  A creation of mankind to lend credence to its own importance.  Fiction, Miss Murs.  You are wasting your life on fiction.”

“It is not fiction, Sammie.  Jesus Christ is here with us now.  He sees you.”

“I fear you are misguided,” he said calmly, but the awkward twitching of his cheeks spoke of some underlying irritation.  Of all the times she had seen Sammie, he now seemed different – unnerved.

Angela took a step closer to the boy and made sure she got good eye contact.  “He loves you, Sammie.  He wants you to come to him, to join him in the light.”

Sammie laughed.  It was a bitter, guttural sound.  He made no other reply.

Angela took another step towards him.  She could see that there were scratch marks all over his skinny arms and sallow chest, as if he’d been clawing at his own flesh, trying to escape his own body.  “When did you last eat, Sammie?”

“I have all the nourishment I need, Ms Murs.  Thank you.”

“Do you get that from your friend?” Tim butted in.

Angela shot a glare at Tim to remind him of his promise to stay quiet.  He averted his eyes and stared down at the floor, chastised.

Sammie’s smile grew wider.  “Naughty Tim.  Angela is in charge here, don’t you know that?  Quiet your insolent tongue.”  He winked at Angela.  “Am I correct, Ms Murs?”

“Yes, Sammie.  I am in charge here.  I am an adult and you need to answer my questions.  Okay?”

“Why, of course.  I wouldn’t dream of obstructing your investigation.  Although, you’ll have to forgive my confusion; what exactly are we investigating?”

“You,” said Angela.  “We don’t think you are very well, Sammie.  We want to help you get better.”

“Seems like an utter waste of your time, Ms Murs, seeing as how I’ve never felt better.  Perhaps it is you who is sick.”  Sammie empathised the word ‘sick,’ almost spat it at her.

Angela ignored his attempts to sow doubt.  “This is about you, Sammie.  I want to know how you’re feeling.  Tell me about this friend you have.”

Sammie looked upwards and smiled, as if imagining a beautiful day at the beach.  “At first we were not friends at all.  In fact, he disapproved of me.  Came to change my ways, make me better.”

“Did he tell you to do bad things?”

Sammie shrugged.  His shoulders were like loose pegs.  “Let’s just say that we didn’t see eye-to-eye on most things.”

“And now?”

“Now, my friend prefers to take a back seat.  He stays quiet and only whispers.”

Angela asked the question she really wanted to know the answer to.  “What is your friend’s name?”

Sammie shook his head.  “I’m afraid it would be unkind of me to impart such information.  Names have power and I wouldn’t like to compromise someone so dear to me.”

Angela took two steps forward, almost to within arm’s reach of the boy.  “Let’s be honest with one another.  I’m not talking to Sammie now, am I?  Who are you?  By the authority of Jesus Christ, I demand that you name yourself!”

Sammie snarled, his face contorting like the cragged rocks around a lighthouse.  “Your words mean nothing, priest.  Leave!”

“No,” said Angela, reaching into her pocket and bringing out her silver crucifix.  She held it in front of Sammie’s face.  “Be gone, demon.  Leave this boy and never return.  I ask you, Jesus Christ, to cleanse this unclean spirit.  I banish you, demon.  Return to hell and never come here again.”

Sammie clambered backwards, falling across his desk in a bundle of skinny arms and legs.  He thrashed and kicked, screamed and whined.  His crayons and drawings scattered onto the carpet.

Angela took another step forward, crucifix held before her like a shield.  “Leave here, minion.  Return to your master to burn in hell.  The power of Christ compels you.  Be gone!”

Sammie tumbled from the desk and fell to the floor, rocking side-to-side on his hands and knees.  He retched, choked, his whole body wracked with seizures as his diaphragm spasmed and he screeched like a wounded cat.

But slowly Sammie’s screeching changed to laughter until he was bellowing so hard that his chest heaved with every breath.  The young boy was in hysterics as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

Angela words had failed.  Sammie was not cured.

“Bravo,” he said to her, still lying on his back and chuckling.  “Quite the little scene we had there, eh?”  He climbed to his feet, skinny limbs unfolding like an accordion.  “I enjoyed that, Ms Murs.  Do tell me what you have planned for us next?”

“Why are you here?” she asked him.

“Why are any of us here, priest?  We all have our parts to play, and we play them whether we choose to or not.  You and I both.”

Angela was losing all control over the situation, she knew it.  She was failing to gain influence over the boy or whatever was inside of him.  “And what part do I have to play?” she asked.  Don’t ask questions, Angela.  You’re playing into his hands.

Sammie’s eyebrows lowered and a look of grim amusement seemed to settle over him.  “You, Ms Murs, are here to play the Martyr.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“What does he mean, you’re a martyr?”  Tim frowned at Angela as they stood around the piano in the lounge.  He kept tapping keys randomly.  The plinking sound set her teeth on edge.  She bit at her lower lip until it was bleeding.

“I don’t know,” she said, somewhat snappily.  “I assume it means he expects me to die for my beliefs, which is strange seeing as I’m not even sure what I believe half the time.  Anyway, it doesn’t even matter.  A demon will say whatever it thinks will get a reaction.  I’d say it won that round.”

“So you think we really are dealing with Evil?”

Angela slumped forward so that her forehead rested against the cold, polished wood of the piano.  “Oh, Jesus.  I don’t know.  If Sammie is possessed, then I would have expected something more than the reaction I got.  My words were powerless.  I invoked the Lord and nothing happened.”

“How could that be?” Tim asked, seeming genuinely curious.  “Why would it not work?  Is there a success rate with this type of thing?”

“There shouldn’t be.  Evil is Evil and God is God; there are no variables.  Perhaps God is no longer with me.  An exorcist must be devout, connected to Heaven – but that’s just not me.  I’ve been following the wrong path for years now.  I shied away from God and now I’m part of a charade, speaking in His name.”  She pulled the dog collar from her neck and let it fall to the floor.  “I’m a disgrace.”

“Sounds to me like Sammie got just what he wanted.  Five minutes with him and he’s got you running scared and doubting yourself.”

Angel scowled at him.  “I never said I was scared, or running.  And stop messing with that bloody piano!  It’s giving me headache.”

Tim stepped away from the piano as if it were a smoking gun.  “Sorry,” he said, coyly.

Angela shook her head and rubbed at her temples.  “No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry.  You’re right.  I lost my confidence as a Christian a long time ago, and seeing Sammie lying on the floor and laughing at me just destroyed any self-esteem I had left.”

“But that’s a good thing.”

Angela didn’t understand.  “How is that a good thing?”

Tim walked over to the bar and hopped up onto its surface, almost banging his head against the overhanging glass rack.  “Well, in the army they break the cadets, don’t they?  Totally rip their self-esteem to shreds.  But then they rebuild them into warriors – ass-kicking, gun-toting, heroes of the free world.”

“What’s your point?”

Tim shook his head at her as if she was an idiot.  “My point is that now you’ve hit rock-bottom, you’ve got nothing to lose.  There’s nothing Sammie can use against you if you’re already down and out.  Now you have the advantage.  It’s time to rebuild yourself as a warrior.  Come on, Christian soldier.”

Angela couldn’t help herself but to laugh.  “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “Totally.  But every now and then I’m right on the money.”

“And now would be one of those times?”

Tim shrugged.  “Who knows?  I’m just a ghost-hunter who lives in his van.”

“Maybe that’s why it worries me so much that I trust you.”

“Well, perhaps it’s time to trust yourself as well.”

They heard a voice from over by the door.  It was Graham.  “Sorry to interrupt your Hallmark moment,” he said, “but I was looking for Frank.”

Tim smiled politely, despite Graham’s rude tone.  “He was in Sammie’s room last we saw him.  Aren’t you supposed to be watching Jessica?”

“Not that it’s any of your business what my movements are, but yes I am supposed to be watching her.  Frank told me to come and get him if she woke up.”

“She’s awake?” Angela asked.

“She’s been awake for ten minutes,” Graham explained.

“Is she okay?”

Graham looked a little squeamish.  “Not exactly,” he said.  “There’s something wrong with her.”

“What?” Tim asked.

Graham cleared his throat and said, “She’s blind.”

***

The afternoon had begun to give way to evening and the light inside the house started to wind down gradually.  It would not be long before the hallways were drenched in shadow.  From the penthouse floor, the closest to the manor’s slanted roof, the rain outside sounded like a million tiny drums gaining tempo.  The weather was getting worse.

Jessica was still lying in the bed when they arrived at her bedroom.  Frank was immediately at her side and seemed frantic.  Angela wondered if their relationship was more than just professional.  “Jessica,” he said.  “Jessica, what’s wrong?  Are you okay?”

Jessica looked around the room – except that she didn’t really.  Her eyes were glazed over with milky cataracts.  She reached out a hand and managed to locate Frank’s face.  “Frank,” she said, her voice sopping with approaching tears.  “I-I can’t see anything, Frank.  I can’t see!”

Frank pulled Jessica towards him and embraced her tightly.  “It’s okay, it’s okay.  Just stay calm.  We’re going to get this sorted out.”  He turned his head and made eye contact with Graham who was leaning up against the doorway.  “Go and call a doctor.”

Ashen-faced, Graham did as he was told and left to make a call.

Angela padded across the plush carpet and sat herself down on the end of the bed.  She tried to sound as calm and as soothing as possible as she spoke.  “Hi, Jessica.  It’s Angela.  Do you know what happened?”

Jessica turned her head in the direction of Angela’s voice, but could only gaze into nothingness.  “I-I don’t know.  I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember trying to jump off the balcony?”

“What?”  She sounded even more distressed at hearing that.  “No, no, no.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Frank, what is she talking about?”

Frank squeezed her into another hug.  “Nothing, Jessica.  Don’t you worry about it.”

Angela turned to Tim and whispered.  “She doesn’t remember trying to kill herself?  Makes me wonder if she even knew what she was doing when it happened.”

“What do you mean?” Tim whispered back.  “That she was sleepwalking or something?”

“Or in a trance.  People can manipulated by hypnotic suggestion.”

Tim sniggered then stopped himself as he no doubt remembered that Jessica’s condition was no laughing matter.  “What?  You think we’re dealing with the Amazing Sammie-Mundo now?”

Angela shrugged.  “I don’t know what I think yet.  I’m just not so sure that Jessica tried to kill herself like we thought.”

“You’re starting to sound a little less Scully and a little more Mulder – I like it.”

There was a thick gurgling sound.

Angela looked at Jessica and knew exactly what was about to happen.  The lady of the house hitched forward in her bed and vomited onto the sheets.  The mixture was revolting: blood mixed with bile mixed with semi-digested food.  The smell was foul.

Angela fought away her body’s own reactive urge to vomit by smiling.  It was an old trick she’d learned during her visits to various hospices on behalf of the church.  For some reason it worked.

Frank leapt aside from the bed, narrowly avoiding a vile stream of puke.  Jessica continued to expel fluids until it seemed like all that could be left were her internal organs, then she shot backwards in the bed as if seized by some invisible hand.  She wept uncontrollably.  Between sobs she managed to choke out a garbled statement.  “I…I…I’m being punished for….for betraying Joseph.  God is punishing me for betraying my husband.  Please, please…please forgive me.”  Then she passed out, so suddenly it was as if someone had flicked a switch in her brain.

Tim’s face was stricken.  “She’s sleeping again?  After that?”

Frank ran a hand over Jessica’s clammy forehead.  “Please, could you both give her some privacy?”

“Of course,” said Angela.  “Just let us know if we can help.”

Angela and Tim walked down the hallway of the penthouse in silence.  There was nothing to say yet as the situation currently made little sense.  Jessica’s sudden malady, her complete blindness and unholy sickness, seemed medically impossible.  The lady of the house had been inflicted with something malicious – maybe even poisonous.  Angela had a feeling that little innocent Sammie was responsible.

She and Tim headed down the main staircase and met with Graham coming the other way.  The man seemed flummoxed.

“You okay, Graham?” Angela asked.

“The phones aren’t working.  Don’t know if it’s the weather.”

Tim seemed surprised.  “Really?  The rain isn’t all that bad.  I can’t see how it would affect the phone lines.”

“What do you want me to say?” said Graham.  “The phone lines aren’t working.  I don’t know why.”

“Okay,” said Tim.  “I’ll take a look at them.  I might be able to figure something out.”

“Be my guest,” said Graham, barging past them on the stairs and heading to the upper floor.

“I’m starving.”  Angela realised that she hadn’t eaten all day and it was now early-evening.  It felt wrong thinking about her belly when Jessica was seriously in need of a doctor, but she knew herself well enough to know that she’d be little help to anyone if she was hungry.

“Yeah, me too,” Tim agreed, “but I better go take a look at the phone lines first.  Why don’t you find the kitchen and rustle up some grub.  I’ll find you in a bit.”

Angela thought it was a good idea.  She watched Tim head out the front door and disappear into the rain outside.  Then she headed for the west side of the house, where she expected to find the building’s kitchen.

She found it at the end of a long corridor, its presence obvious by the double aluminium doors that marked its entrance.  Inside, the kitchen was as grand as she expected it to be.  A double range cooker occupied one wall beneath a large extractor fan.  A full-length fridge sat beside a chest-style freezer.  The equipment, along with the preparation area, was fit to feed a small army, but it was obvious that the facilities hadn’t been used anywhere near to their capacity in some time.

Angela headed for the fridge and looked inside.  The stench of rotten meat slapped her in the face, making her gag.  When she examined the contents on the various shelves she saw that a mould-covered chicken carcass was the cause of the odour.  Cringing, Angela grabbed the plate of spoiled poultry and flung it into a nearby bin, plate and all.  The large fridge was still infested with the smell, but not so badly anymore.  There was still yet another unpleasant whiff coming from the shelves, though, and Angela quickly located the two offending bottles of milk.  The white substance inside had curdled into a malignant paste that she eagerly tossed in the bin to accompany the noxious chicken.  Don’t they throw anything out around here?  And God knows what they actually eat.  They must get a lot of take aways, I guess.

Angela gave up on the rancid fridge and instead rooted inside the cupboards.  Eventually she found a large box of mini cookies and some still-in-date crisps.  It wasn’t a feast, by any means, but it would do for now.  She laid her finds out on one of the stainless steel work counter and pulled up a stool beside it.

The slightly-stale cookies tasted heavenly.  Her stomach gurgled as it was being filled.  She would have to be careful not to eat them all; Tim would be by soon.

The smell of the rotten chicken wafted over to her from the bin.  The odour of spoiled flesh triggered unwelcome memories in her.  Memories of that day at the church.  Images of Charles Crippley hacking into innocent people with his bloody butcher knife. The scene played back in her mind like a grainy VHS videotape.

When Charles Crippley had walked down the aisle that fateful Sunday morning, Angela knew right away that the man’s fractured mind had finally reduced to chaotic splinters.  Her attempts to help him over the previous few weeks had resulted only in the worsening of his condition.  The look on Charles’s face as he stalked down the centre of the church was bestial.  He was more animal than human.  He proved it when he began tearing apart those in his path like a lion ripping apart gazelles.  Before long, the church was a carpet of pink flesh and leaking fluids.  At the end, Angela was the only one left.  A lone woman facing down a beast.

Out of instinct, Angela had begun performing The Rites she’d learned from the Rituale Romanum.  She renounced the Devil and implored Jesus Christ to protect her from evil.  Charles had snarled and growled at her, but seemed unable to approach.  He strangely kept his distance as if held back by some invisible force.  I’ll burn your flesh in hell, you pussy-licking cunt, he screamed at her.  I will tear your soul apart.

Angela had continued with The Rites, shutting out the vile curses of the madman before her and the sight of her mutilated flock.  She closed her eyes to the bodies of her former friends and parishioners and instead concentrated on the love of Christ and the power of the Lord.  Even when Charles managed to finally take a step forward, plunging his knife into her chest, she had continued undeterred.  There was no pain to inhibit her, for she was protected.  She had felt the presence of the Lord in every part of her being.

Eventually her words had brought Charles Crippley to his knees.  The bloody knife fell from his hands and cluttered against the flagstones as he frantically clutched at his chest.  The strength of Angela’s beliefs had stopped his heart.  It was then that she knew, with absolute certainty, that God existed.  What she could not understand, however, was why He’d allowed over a dozen people to die on the floor of His church.

Charles stared up at her from his knees, eyes bulging from his skull as the pressure inside of him rose.  Despite his approaching death, the man still managed to speak, although it was not with his usual voice.  It was somebody else’s.  “YOU HAVE WON NOTHING, PRIEST.  YOUR TIME OF AGONY WILL COME.  YOUR DEATH WILL LAST AN ETERNITY.  YOU WILL DIE A LONELY MATRYR IN A WAR ALREADY LOST, ANGELA MURS.

Then Charles Crippley had died right at her feet.

“Yuck!  It stinks like my ass in here.”  Angela was yanked from her memories by Tim entering the kitchen.  She was glad of his presence and almost felt like he had rescued her.  The memories had been about to send her insane.

“Oh, great,” Tim said.  “Are those chocolate chip?”

Angela pushed the box of cookies across the table towards him.  “Did you manage to call help for Jessica?”

“Afraid not.  The phones are totally dead, just like Graham said.  I can’t figure it out.  Frank is heading out to get help now.”

Angela frowned.  “Didn’t he want to send Graham or Mike?”

Tim shrugged.  “I think he wanted to make sure it got done as quickly as possible.  The guy is one totally freaked-out mamajama.”

“I know.  I get the impression there’s more to his relationship with Jessica than meets the eye.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that, too.  You know what sucks about this whole thing?”

Angela popped a crisp into her mouth and began munching.  “What?” she asked between chews.

Tim picked out a cookie and examined it before he ate it.  Once he was done swallowing the crumbs he said, “While Frank is gone, he left Graham in charge.”

“Ouch,” said Angela.  “The Devil really is at work in this house.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The rain beat against the windows like the march of an approaching army. Thunder rumbled constantly.  Mike hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, but he could survive on less.  The hiding sun, barely peeking out from behind the nearby forest told him that it was early evening.

A few moments ago, Graham had woken Mike up with a sudden clap of his hands, then given him five minutes to get ready and join him in Jessica’s room.  Graham hadn’t explained what was going on, but Mike assumed from his colleague’s rattled manner that some crisis had occurred in the house.

He left the bedroom and then headed back up to the penthouse.  The door to Jessica’s room had been left ajar and Graham was inside.

“Hey,” said Mike.  “So what’s been going on?”

“I need you to watch Ms Raymeady until Frank gets back.  He’s left me in charge and I need to keep an eye on the house guests.”

“Okay,” said Mike, not quite understanding.  He noticed the putrid stains on Jessica’s bedsheets and motioned towards her with a thrust of his chin.  “She okay?”

Graham shrugged.  “Fucked if I know.  She’s gone blind.”

Mike spluttered.  “Blind?”

“As a bat.  I’d clean her up a bit, but she’ll probably just puke again as soon as she wakes up.  Frank’s already left for the hospital to get help.  The phones aren’t working, so we couldn’t call.”

“Really?  That’s weird.  Okay, well, you do what you need to do.  I’ll keep an eye on everything here.”

“Thanks, Mike.”  Graham put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye.  “I’ll be happy when those two are out of the house and we can get back to doing an honest day’s work, rather than hanging around and babysitting people.  This stuff is no good for my heart, you know?”

Mike smiled at his colleague and patted the hand that was on his shoulder.  “Don’t worry, buddy.  Things will be over soon enough.”

“I hope so.  As much as this all narks me, I think this family has suffered enough.  I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mike watched Graham walk away, then took a seat beside Jessica’s bed and examined her.  He couldn’t see her eyes, since she was sleeping, but all colour had drained from her skin, making her flesh look like porcelain.  She was a sleeping doll--her beauty a stark contrast to the ghastliness of her vomit-stained sheets.  Mike wondered why nobody had bothered to change them.

People can be so thoughtless.

He got up and wandered out into the corridor, then opened up one of the linen closets that housed spare bedding.  After selecting a thick bed sheet from the neatly-ordered pile, he headed back inside Jessica’s room and stripped away her dirty linen.

She stirred slightly as he covered her with the fresh blanket.  “Frank?”

“No, Jessica.  It’s Michael.  How are you feeling?”

“I…I can’t see.  No, wait…I-I can.  I can see.”  She sat bolt upright in the bed, like a spring had triggered in her spine.  Mike tried to ease her back down, but she pushed him away.  “I’m fine.  I need to get up.  I…”

She tried to get herself out of bed but her strength failed her.  She fell back down onto her elbows, out of breath.

“You need to rest.”

“W-what is wrong with me?  I…I want Frank.  I need to see Sammie.”

“Sammie is fine.  Frank has gone to get you a doctor.”

“What?  Why?  I’m fine.”  She tried to get up again. Once again she failed.

“You’re not fine, Jessica.  You need checking over.  Maybe you’ve just caught a nasty bug or something, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.  I’m sure Frank won’t be long.”

Jessica was confused; the lack of understanding was carved into her face.  The poor woman really must not remember a thing.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“You tried to kill yourself,” Mike explained, hoping she’d remember.

Jessica shook her head.  “That’s impossible.  You’re lying.  Where’s Frank?”

Mike felt his patience thinning.  “I told you.  He’ll be back soon.”

“This is all because of this wicked house.  It’s fucking cursed.  It took Joseph and now it’s trying to take me.  I can’t stand it anymore.”

Jessica pushed herself up in the bed and this time managed to swing her legs round onto the floor.  Mike reached out to grab her but she was up on her feet too quickly and he missed. She was unsteady on her feet and almost stumbled to the floor. She managed to correct herself after a few unbalanced steps.

Mike got out his chair and followed after her.

She headed over to the room’s wardrobes.  “I need to get dressed,” she said.  “Please leave.”

“I can’t do that,” Mike explained.  “I’m here to keep you safe.  You need to remain here in the house.”

“I’m going downstairs, Michael.  I need to see my son.  I’m taking him out of here right now before anything else happens.”  She began to sort through the clothes racks, looking for something she wanted to wear.

Mike stepped up behind her and wrapped his arm around her neck.  He squeezed hard, imagining he was trying to pop her head right off her shoulders.

Jessica began to fade quickly, already weak from sickness.  The pressure on her carotid artery was sapping her brain of oxygen and unconsciousness was bearing down on her fast.

Mike felt her go limp in his arms.  He dragged her back over to the bed and laid her down gently.  With her current state of mind, she’d most likely remember nothing at all of this, but even if she did, he would just deny it, make her think she was going crazy.  It would be easy considering recent events.

Jessica and Sammie were going to stay in this house whether they liked it or not.  It was his job to keep them there and that’s what he was going to do.  No matter what.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tim sat outside Sammie’s room and calibrated his equipment.  He was past the point where he felt any of it would do any good, but it was still important to maintain it.  This wasn’t going to be his last job, after all.

Although it’s starting to feel like it.

The urge to flee, to just get the hell out of there, was rising in him again. An atmosphere drenched the house.  It was…foreboding…for want of a better cliché.  It felt as if danger was lurking around every corner.  And the epicentre – the reason for it all – is the ten-year old boy in the next room.

Tim’s primary intention, whenever he was on a job, was to disprove any claims of ghosts and monsters.  He was past that motivation now.  There was little doubt that an unnatural presence resided in the house.  The others might not admit it, but he knew better.

Tim had met true evil once before.  At a hotel in Basingstoke: The Grey Gardens Hotel.  Tim and his brother had been called to the hotel to investigate any environmental factors there may have been for a spate of recent deaths at the building.  So many accidents had occurred that the hotel was now closed to the public.

At that point in his life, Tim had possessed zero belief in the paranormal.  He and his brother were simple conmen – dazzling people with expensive gadgets and pointless tests.  The money was good and the work was easy.

But things changed the evening they slept at The Grey Gardens.

Tim lost his brother, for one thing.

A beeping sound brought him back to the present.  He glanced at his equipment and tried to locate the source of the noise.  It seemed to be coming from his electronic barometer.  The air pressure had dropped.  There was a chance that it was due to the stormy weather, but even if it was…Tim was confused because he hadn’t switched the machine on.  In fact, he could see that it was unplugged.

Here we go again, Tim said to himself.  There was no longer anything inside the house that could surprise him, but he wasn’t about to throw himself onto the fire.  He was going to sit right where he was.  That way, nothing could happen to him.  Other people could take the risks; he was happy just taking the results.

The next machine to beep was his heart rate monitor.  It played the rhythmic tune of a steady pulse, but it, too, was unplugged.  Should I call someone, or just get the hell away from here?

Tim was a coward.  He was quite aware of it and even embraced it for the most part.  Being a coward was just another part of survival – he chose flight instead of fight, and both instincts were equally valid.  He avoided danger and kept himself safe – what was wrong with that?  His brother had always been the reckless one.  And look where that got him.  Although, if I was braver like he had been….  I could have done something.

Tim made a decision.  There was some bad mojo targeting him and he wasn’t about to sit around and see what happened while his equipment went haywire.  He needed to find someone else.  It’d be safer with company.  Safer from what exactly, I don’t know.

More of Tim’s machines began beeping and he took it as his cue to leave.  He stood up from his seat and hurried down the hall towards the grand staircase.  The lights flickered back on briefly as thunder rocked the floor beneath him, but the power stayed off.  Like walking through a horror movie, Tim thought to himself as he battled to stay calm.  It was not yet fully dark outside, but it was grey and fading.

When he reached the lounge behind the staircase, Tim could hear the mellow tones of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” playing on the piano.  Seriously, this house even has a horror movie soundtrack!

He pushed through the doors to the lounge and stepped inside.  He found Angela sitting at the back of the room, playing Beethoven’s tune quite expertly on the ivory keys.  “I didn’t know you played,” he said.

She looked at him and continued playing perfectly.  It was all the more impressive now that she wasn’t even looking at the notes she was hitting.  “Six years of convent school.  You learn a few things.”

“You play beautifully.  Do you know anything a little more upbeat?”

She laughed.  “Yeah, I think I can play something.”  She broke into a jaunty rendition of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four.’

Tim slid behind the bar.  “That’s better.  You fancy a drink?”

“My liver says no, but my heart says yes.”

Tim poured her a healthy measure of whisky before pouring himself a much smaller one.  Tim liked a drink, but he had the constitution of a poodle. Angela would easily out-drink him.

He placed her large whiskey on the top of the piano and took a sip of his smaller one.  “Just been through some more freaky-deaky shenanigans upstairs,” he told her.

Angela stopped playing and looked at him.  “What do you mean?  The power going off again?  Or something else?”

“Oh, you know, usual stuff: my equipment started turning on despite the fact none of it was plugged in.  I can’t help thinking that this place is building up to something.”

“Please, don’t you start wigging out on me.  So far you’ve been the only one to keep a clear head.”

Tim took another sip of whisky.  The liquid burned his throat.  “I can take strange, I can even take frightening, but what I can’t take is dangerous.  It’s just not my thing.”

“You’ve had my back.  I promise to have yours if anything happens.”

“Thanks, but all the same, I figure I’ll be off in the morning.  This whole thing is getting a little too far out of my comfort zone.”

“I wish you wouldn’t leave,” Angela told him.  “I plan on seeing this through, but it’s your decision at the end of the day.”

“I just think, with what happened to Jessica, it would be better to get a team of doctors in here rather than a guy like me.”

Angela stood up from the piano and closed the lid.  She picked up her drink and walked over to one of the tables.  Sitting down, she looked at him seriously.  “What do you think happened to Jessica?  Spontaneous blindness?”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing, but again that’s why I think a doctor should be here.”

“Frank will reach the hospital soon.  We’ll know more then.  Perhaps you should postpone your decision.”

“Maybe,” Tim said.  “But perhaps the whole thing is just to get Frank out of the way.”

Angela looked at him like he was mad.  “I don’t understand.”

Tim shrugged.  “I’m just saying that the last ‘man of the house’ is dead.  Frank seems to be trying to fill Joseph Raymeady’s shoes.  Now, with Frank gone, everyone is left to do their own thing.  I think we were safer when he was here, but now he’s gone and Jessica’s passed out in bed.  What are we even doing here anymore?”

“Trying to help,” was Angela’s answer, but she let out a sigh.  “Whatever that means.  Maybe when Frank gets back, he’ll make things a little clearer on what we should do next.”

“If he even comes back.”

“Will you just stop?” said Angela.  “You’re such a pessimist.”

“Hey, after a couple days in this house, I’ve learned that expecting the worst to happen is usually the way to go.”

Angela finished off her drink and went to get another.  “We’ll see,” she said.  “Let’s just relax for now.  I don’t plan on leaving this room while Graham is in charge.  I can’t believe I actually miss Frank.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed.  “Me either.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Frank kept his foot on the gas pedal despite the wetness on the road.  The rain fell in thick sheets.  It was impossible to see more than a dozen metres ahead, but Frank couldn’t afford to slow down.  Jessica needed him.  Whatever virus could send a person blind overnight was serious – it could be meningitis or some other malady affecting the brain.  For all he knew, she could be dying right now.  Please, no more death.  I’ve had my fill.

Frank had to brake sharply as a bend came out of nowhere.  The tyres slipped sideways on the wet surface, but he was able to get the car back under control easily enough.  He’d driven in worse condition, Iraq, for one.  Once he’d driven a 3-tonne truck through a sandstorm so thick he couldn’t see beyond the windscreen.  He’d survived that and he would survive this.  I didn’t survive the Gulf War to end up as a glorified butler.  When Jessica is well, things are going to change.  I’m taking her and Sammie out of the wretched house.

The A429 was coming up on his right and Frank slowed down and took it.  The highway would take him to Warwick Hospital.  He had no plan for when he got there, too desperate to form one, but at the very least he could get an ambulance to follow him back.

The road was lit, but the thick rain obscured the glow of the street lamps. Frank had no choice but to take ten miles off his speed.  Acres of farmland would be flying by on either side of him, but in the stormy darkness, he might just have been driving through space.  He leant forward in the driver’s seat, trying to get as close to the road as possible.

“What are you doing, Frank?  Why aren’t you at the house looking after my family?”

Frank’s whole body tensed up as he heard the sound of Joseph Raymeady’s voice.  He looked up at the rear view mirror and saw his boss’ face staring back at him.  The next thing he knew the car was spinning.

Frank lost control of the wheel as it fought against his grip.  The tyres slid across the wet tarmac and the car spun a full circle.

Then it flipped.

Suddenly Frank found himself upside down.  The car floated through the air briefly before crashing down and sliding along the road into a ditch.  Frank’s vision filled with stars and exploding grenades of light.

“Now that was careless,” said Joseph.  “What am I even paying you for?”

Rain water pooled around Frank’s head as he blinked away his dizziness.  Once again he saw Joseph Raymeady’s face in the now-cracked rear view mirror.

“What…what do you want?” he managed to ask.

“I just want to make sure that you’re doing your job, Frank.  How is my family?”

Frank struggled with his seatbelt, trying to get himself free of the wreck.

Joseph’s voice rose in volume.  “I asked you a question, Frank.  How is my fucking family?”

“They’re…they’re okay.”

“YOU’RE LYING!”

“No,” said Frank.  “I will keep them safe.  They will be okay.”

“Then why aren’t you with them now?”

“Because Jessica needs a doctor.”

“A doctor?  A DOCTOR!  What have you done, Frank?  Why does my darling, sweet Jessica need a doctor?”

Frank made eye-contact with Joseph through the mirror.  What he was seeing was impossible.  His employer was dead.  Frank had been the one to find the body.  “You’re not real.  I’ve had an accident and you’re just a delusion.”

“You’re the delusion, Frank.  You think you can take my place?  I was a great man, a man of principal.  You are nothing.  A killer of men and children.  You deserve to be dead, not me.  Your job was to protect me and my family.  You let me die.”

Frank squirmed, wanting more than anything to get out of the upturned Mercedes.  “No, no.  You let yourself die.  You took your own life.”

The apparition of Joseph began to laugh.  The sound was malicious and mocking.  “Did I?”

Frank didn’t know what that meant, but seeing as the whole thing had to be a figment of his imagination, he decided it meant nothing.  Joseph wasn’t really in the car with him.  It was temporary madness.  “Go away, Joseph.  You’re dead.”

“Yes,” Joseph replied.  “And very soon, you will be too.  We’re all here waiting for you, Frank.  Me and all the people you killed; Sierra Leone, the Gulf, Northern Island…so many, Frank.  So much death by your hands.  And now you want to add my little Sammie and Jessica to your list of murders.”

“Nooooo!”

Some part of the car ignited.  Frank could not see flames because his neck was jammed up against the car’s roof, but he could smell the burning and hear the distinctive crackling.  The car was on fire, and if he didn’t escape he would burn to death.

But as much as he tried, Frank could not get himself free.

“We’ll be waiting for you, Frank” said the apparition of Joseph Raymeady, who started cackling so loud that Frank could no longer hear the fire or the rain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The houselights were still out, and now that evening had arrived, total darkness had descended upon every room.  Luckily, Graham had broken character and made a helpful gesture of distributing candles throughout the building.  Each room was partially lit by at least one.

Angela sat with Tim in the house’s rear gardens. They were sheltered from the rain beneath a large camisole. A lit candle flickered on a small, round table between them.  There was something about being outside that made Angela feel safer.  With the heavy rain and the approaching storm, she could feel God’s presence everywhere.  Inside the house she felt something….different.

“You think we should have heard from Frank by now?” Tim asked her.

“I think the phones are still out.”

Tim shook his head.  “No, I mean, shouldn’t he have gotten back by now?  He’s been gone a few hours.”

“I don’t know how far the hospital is.  I’m not from around here.  I’ll bet this rain is slowing him down.”

“Yeah, it’s really going for it tonight, isn’t it?  Why exactly are we sat outside again?”

“Helps me think,” Angela answered.  “I like the weather being like this.  Makes me feel…connected.”

“To God?”

“Yeah, I suppose, but it’s more than that.  It makes me feel connected to life.  Everything begins and ends with the rain.  Without it nothing could live.”

Tim looked confused.  “I just think it makes everything wet.  Has it helped you think any clearer?”

“Yes, it has.”  Angela stole a glance at the candle flame and its healthy glow made her think about Hell and the demons that sprawled throughout its infernal hallways.  “After all that’s happened, I’m now convinced that there’s something inside Sammie.  The drawing he gave me, the things he knows, and what happened to Jessica.  There’s Evil at work in this house for sure.”

“Maybe I agree with you,” Tim admitted.  “My unplugged machines wigging out on their own was probably the final proof I needed.”

Angela ran a hand through her hair and loosed a few knots.  “So, my question is: what is inside Sammie?  If there’s a demon inside the boy, then why didn’t it respond to my attempts to banish it?  Why did the exorcism fail?”

Tim looked at her.  “Is it an exact science?  Is there no way for a demon to resist attempts to exorcise it?”

“I don’t know.  Demons often try to mess with your mind, to prevent you from even going through with the procedure, but Sammie was happy to let me speak freely.  At the end it was pretty obvious that he found the whole thing ridiculous.  A demon should quake at the sound of Christ’s name.  They should cower at the power of the Lord.  They cannot resist God’s command.”

“Can’t say I saw any cowering,” said Tim.

“That’s my point.  What went wrong?  What did I misjudge?”

“Maybe it’s not a demon.  Maybe there could be something else inside of him: a ghost or spirit, perhaps?”

Angela shook her head.  “It would make no difference.  They should react the same way as a demon.  Anything that does not belong on Earth can be compelled by the power of Christ to return to its proper realm – be it Heaven or Hell.”

“What about Charles Crippley?”

Angela shuddered and wondered if it was the cold or the man’s name that sent a chill through her.  “What about him?”

Tim shrugged.  “Sorry, just spitballing, but Sammie seemed to know you.  Perhaps it’s Charles Crippley inside of him.”

Angela nodded.  “I won’t lie.  I’ve worried about the very same thing, but once again, an evil spirit would be as susceptible to exorcism as any demon.  There’s something I’m not getting here.  I think I need to go back to my books.  I just wish I could get the name of Sammie’s ‘friend.’”

“Why don’t you go straight to the source?”

Angela frowned at Tim.  “What do you mean?”  A sudden gust of wind caused the candle to flicker out, but the flame hung on and came back to life a few seconds later.  God’s light does not die.

Tim sniffed and then looked at her seriously.  “Sammie won’t tell us the name of his friend, right?  So why don’t we ask the friend directly?  We could use a Ouija board.”

Angela huffed.  “I have absolutely no experience of those…toys.”

“I do,” said Tim.  “To be honest with you, the last time I used one I promised to never use one ever again, but I think now might be the time to break that promise.”

“Do they really work?”

“Yes,” Tim said, but didn’t add anything more.

Angela thought about it for a little while.  Eventually, she said, “Okay, I’m up for it.  When do you want to do it?”

Tim smiled.  “No time like the present.  I have everything I need in my van.  We’ll do it there.”

“In your van?  Seriously?”

Tim nodded.  “Worst thing that could happen is we get interrupted by someone.  My van is perfect for it – nice and private.  Plus, I can get my ass out of here if things go bad.  I feel trapped inside that house.”

Angela shook her head and sighed.  “Doing a Ouija board in the back of some guy’s van.  Feels like I’m in college all over again.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Tim.  “Tonight you might just get an education.  I don’t think you’re going to like it, though.”

***

Tim’s van was cramped, but clean.  It was obvious he lived there and treated it like his home.  Soft cushions scattered the piny-fresh interior and not a thing lay out of place.  The rain on the vehicle’s metal roof sounded like a drum roll – perhaps it was in anticipation of what they were about to do.  Angela still couldn’t believe it.

Tim reached up and pulled an antique-looking box from a storage net that lined one side of the van’s interior.  He set the box on the floor between them and unhooked a brass catch on the side.  The box opened up into a small, flat board.  It was finely painted with calligraphic letters and numbers.  YES and NO were printed in opposite corners of the board and the word, GOODBYE, was set between them.  One side of the board lifted up to reveal a hollow.  Inside the space was a finely carved heart-shaped planchette.

Angela was cynical.  She held no stock in things such as voodoo and witchcraft – it was nothing but ill-natured superstition.  While she had beliefs of her own, she flat out denied the validity of primitive faiths and so called ‘black arts’.

“So how does this go, then?” she asked Tim.

“Pretty much like you’d expect.  We light a few candles – sandalwood works well – sprinkle a bit of copal shavings into the flame and then try our best to concentrate.”

“What on Earth is copal?”

“It’s a resin imported from Mexico, a bit like amber.  The ancient Mayans used it to contact the underworld – that’s pretty much what we’ll be trying to do.  Simple sage works just as well, but I’m always tempted to cook with it.”

Angela waited patiently while Tim rummaged around the van.  From various compartments, he procured a candle and a small plastic baggie filled with golden flecks.  Finally, he produced a pair of necklaces.  They were comprised of a simple loop of string threaded through the centre of an acorn.

“Wear this,” he said, handing her one of the necklaces.

Angela took the looped acorn and examined it questioningly.  “Why?”

“Druids used acorns for protection,” Tim told her.  “I never perform a spell without an acorn around my neck.  Place it under your shirt against your skin.”

Angela did as he asked her, but felt ridiculous.  In fact, she felt more than ridiculous, she felt blasphemous.  The Church had taught her to forsake anything that even bordered on witchcraft.  But I stopped caring about what the Church said a long time ago.

Tim lit the candle and sprinkled some of the golden flecks on the flame.  He then sat crossed-legged opposite Angela and positioned the Ouija board on the floor between them.  He shuffled forward a little so that their knees were touching.  Finally, he reached up and switched off the van’s interior light leaving them in darkness, except for the flickering glow of the candle.  Shadows shifted against the side panels of the van.

“You ready?” Tim asked.

“As ready as I’m gunna be.”

“Okay then, here we go.”  Tim placed his index and middle fingers on the board’s planchette and motioned for her to do the same.  Once she did, he closed his eyes and raised his chin to the roof.  “Spirits of old, evil and wicked, I forbid you from doing harm.  You are permitted to communicate through us and do no more.  I command you to remain in your own plane.  We are not portals.  If you circle the planchette we will withdraw and you may be trapped between worlds.”

Angela giggled.  “Circle the planchette.”

Tim scowled at her.  “It signifies a spirit trying to force itself into our world.  This won’t work if you’re against it.  You need to be quiet and open your mind.”

“I’m sorry,” said Angela, wiping the smile from her face.  “Please continue.”

“We wish to speak to the one who claims to be the friend of Samuel Raymeady.  We wish to speak with the one who has descended upon this domicile.  Come to us, explain yourself.  Name yourself.”

Nothing happened.  Tim sat with his eyes closed so tightly that he looked like his lids might bleed.  Angela watched him and tried not to laugh.  The whole thing was ludicrous.  She felt ashamed of herself for even allowing herself to take part in such a cha-

The planchette twitched.

A jolt of adrenaline prickled Angela’s nerve endings, making her muscles stiffen at once.  Tim opened his eyes and smiled.  She knew then that there had never been any doubt in his mind that it would work.  Tim had faith in voodoo as much as she did in God.

The planchette moved an inch.  It hovered between C and D, before finally flinching left and resting on the C.

“It’s trying to spell out a word,” Angela noted.

“It’s giving us a name.  It’s giving us what we asked for.”  He spoke out the letters that followed, one after another, as the sliding planchette settled on each one.  First had come the C, but afterwards came, “H…A…M…U…E…L…”

The planchette stopped.

Angela thought hard about the spelled-out word.  “Chamuel?” she said out loud.  “Why does that word ring a bell?”

Tim shrugged, being sure to keep his fingertips on the planchette.  “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.  Do you think you know what it means?”

“I don’t know.  I…I can’t quite remember, but it’s there.”

Tim cleared his throat and spoke into the empty air.  “Hello, Chamuel.  Can you tell me why you’re here, what you want?”

This time Angela spoke out the letters as they came up.  “D…E…A…T…H…”

Tim let out a breath in a short huff.  “That’s jovial.”

“We want you to leave,” Angela commanded.  “Leave Sammie alone.”

N…O…  The planchette moved quicker.  N-O…E-S-C-A-P-E…F-R-O-M…D-A-R-K-N-E-S-S…

Tim frowned.  “Is that a threat, Chamuel?”

The planchette did not move.

“I said is that a threat?  Are we in danger?”

Y-E-S.

“Are you going to hurt Sammie?” Angela asked.

The planchette did not move.  Angela made eye contact with Tim who had gone a little pale.  There was resolve in her colleague’s eyes, however, and she knew that he would continue on with the séance for at least a while longer.

The planchette moved again, quicker than before – frantic.

Y-O-U…W-I-L-L…D-I-E…

H-E-L-L…W-I-L-L…T-A-K-E…Y-O-U…

R-U-N…

O-U-T-S-I-D-E…W-E…C-O-M-E…

Something struck the back of the van, rocking it on its wheels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“What is that?”  Angela shifted towards the front of the van, away from the rear doors.  The thud had been so forceful that the steel had buckled inwards.

“Felt like we were hit by a bloody rhino.”

“Should we open the doors?”

“I…don’t know.”

They waited in silence.  The darkness was cut only by the light of the single lit candle; miraculously it had remained standing in its holder. No more impacts struck the van and whatever had done so the first time was still unknown.

“I’m going to open up the doors,” said Angela, inching towards the back of the van carefully.

“Be careful,” said Tim.  “If you get eaten by something I’m not cleaning up the mess.  In fact, I’m out of here at the first sign of anything bitey.”

Angela placed a hand against the door’s release-trigger.  She took a breath, held it, then opened the door.

Shadows met her.

There was nothing outside but darkness.  The house and its grounds were shrouded in darkness. Thin, infinite streams of moonstruck raindrops cut through the satin backdrop of the night.  A gust of wind blew in and filled the van with its cold touch.

“There’s nothing out here,” Angela said, sliding a leg towards the pebbled driveway.  She planted both feet and pushed herself up out of the van.  Her skin tightened and she shivered as the temperature outside fought against the warmth in her blood.  The feeling of loneliness was suddenly all consuming – the world felt empty and abandoned.  It felt like God had suddenly left her.

“Oh, thank heavens,” came a voice in the shadows.  “I thought I’d been abandoned.”

Angela leapt back up into the van’s cargo bay, pulling her feet up off the ground as if she’d seen a mouse.

Sammie stood in front of her.  He was wearing only underpants, but seemed unaffected by the cold rain glistening against his pale skin.  His flesh shone in the darkness like a spectre.

“S-Sammie, what are you doing out here?”

Sammie grinned, his teeth more crooked than ever under the colourless glow of the moonlight.  “I was wondering where everybody was.  I’ve been alone in my room for hours now.  To tell you the truth, I was beginning to get a little stir crazy.”

Angela’s skin crawled; flesh buzzing like it was covered by a thousand ants.  “Okay,” she said, scratching at her arms.  “Let’s get you back inside, Sammie, before you freeze to death.”

Sammie grinned wider.  “Oh, the cold doesn’t bother me, but your concern is heartening all the same.  Is Frank back yet?”

Tim slid out of the van behind Angela and asked his own question: “How did you know he was even gone?”

Sammie shrugged.  “I heard him leave in the car.  Sounded like he was in a hurry.  I do hope he doesn’t have an accident.  That man has become like a father to me.  Perhaps he feels guilty about my father’s death.”

“Do you feel guilty about it?” Angela asked.

Sammie wore a look of confusion.  “Me?  Why would I feel guilty about it?  Unless you’re trying to imply I was in some way responsible.  I must say, that’s very unkind of you, Ms Murs.”

“You’re right.  Come on, let’s go inside.”

Tim locked up the van and he and Angela ushered Sammie back towards the house.  They kept a distance of a few feet from the boy, who walked barefoot in front of them.

Angela whispered to Tim.  “Where the hell is Graham?  He was supposed to be keeping an eye on things.”

Tim shrugged, headed up the steps to the house.  “With that guy, who knows?  I get the impression he doesn’t take his responsibilities very seriously.”

Angela opened the front door and the three of them stepped through into the house.  The foyer was bathed in darkness, the power still off and the weather still bad.  The grand marble-floored space seemed smaller somehow, almost claustrophobic.  Angela wanted to be back outside in the open air, but with the rain, that would make her a mad woman.  She needed to be inside the house.  She needed to take control of the situation.

“Are you okay to take yourself back to bed, Sammie?  We’ll find out where everyone is and then get someone to stop by with some dinner.”  Angela checked her watch.  It was almost midnight.  Dinner was a long time ago.  “Well, perhaps it would be more of a supper.”

“I’ll go watch television,” said Sammie.  “Feel free to join me.”

Sammie started to head towards the stairs, but Tim asked a question first.  “Why do you like that program so much, Sammie?”

Sammie turned back around and smiled pleasantly as if the question was a delight to him.  “South Park?  I suppose I like the irony,” he explained and then left.

“Irony?  Wonder what he meant by that?”

Angela shrugged.  “Who knows?  We need to find out where Graham got to.  I’m not comfortable with Sammie wandering around un-chaperoned.”

“Think he’ll end up getting hurt?”

“No,” Angela said.  “I’m more worried about him hurting someone else.”

“So, where should we start looking?  This place is huge.”

“If I know Graham, there’s probably only one place he’d be.”

Tim nodded.  “Drinking in the lounge.”

They headed behind the stairs and could hear the piano immediately.  Someone was playing Mozart’s arrangement for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” (or ‘Ah! Vous Dirai-je, Maman’ if her Music Theory lessons served her correctly).

“Who’s playing that?” Tim asked.  “They’re even better than you.”

“Only one way to find out.”  Angela pushed open the door.

The music stopped.

It looked as though no one was in the lounge.  It was hard to see for certain, but Angela would have sensed the presence of somebody else.  In fact, her senses were so alert after the last few hours that she’d have sensed a spider on the ceiling.

“Hello?” Tim shouted.

“Save it,” Angela said.  “There’s no one here.”

“Then who was Bach-ing it up on the piano?”

“Mozart.”

Tim frowned at her.  “What?”

“It was Mozart, not Bach.”

“Oh.  Well, whoever it was, they’re either invisible or fast as greased lightning.”

Angela shook her head.  “No.  There was no one here.  I’m sure of it.”

She crossed the room, slinking between the tables and chairs.  Her destination was the piano and as she got near the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.  She spoke a single word: “Blood.”

Tim was still standing on the other side of the room.  “What?”

“Blood.  The piano keys are covered in it.”

Where there would usually have been several dozen fingers of ivory, there was now only a congealed mess of thick blood covering everything.  The plasma filled the gaps between the keys and splashed the wooden frame of the piano.  It looked like a pig had been butchered.

Tim came up beside her.  “Helsinki.  What on Earth happened here?”

“I don’t know,” said Angela, “but I think now would be a good time to do a head count.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mike heard a commotion downstairs.  Someone must really have been hollering for him to hear it all the way from Jessica’s penthouse.  What is it now?

Mike got up from his chair at Jessica’s bedside and headed out into the hallway.  He looked left and right, but saw only darkness.

The sound of people screaming and shouting did not scare Mike; he’d been taught to expect it.  He knew it would only be the first of many occasions before the evening was through and that, eventually, when the screaming was finally over, things would once and for all be set into motion.

He headed to the top of the staircase and descended to the floors below.  On the second floor, he met Angela and Tim.  They were hurtling through the hallways and shouting out at the top of their lungs.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mike said, holding up a hand to stop them.  “What are you bellowing about?”

Angela seemed relieved by the sight of him.  “Mike!  Thank God, you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

Tim told him why.  “There’s a shitload of blood in the piano lounge.  Someone’s hurt.”

Mike frowned.  “What?  Are you sure?”

“I know blood when I see it,” Angela said in a voice that suggested an intolerance of being doubted.  “Have you seen Graham?  He was supposed to be looking after things, but we found Sammie wandering around in the pouring rain.”

Mike was surprised to hear that.  “Sammie left the house?  That’s unlike him.”

“Never mind that now.  We need to find out whose blood is downstairs.  Do you know where Graham is?  What about Jessica?  Is she okay?”

“Jessica is fine.  She’s sleeping.”

“Then it must be Graham’s blood,” Tim surmised.

“You don’t know that,” Mike argued.  “Nothing is certain right now.”

“Nothing is certain until we find Graham,” said Angela.  “So let’s find him.”

“I’ll check the ground floor,” Tim said.

Angela nodded.  “I’ll check the first floor.”

“I’ve just come from the penthouse,” Mike explained.  “So I’ll check the second and third floors.”

The three of them set off to their own separate floors, agreeing to meet back later in the piano lounge.  Mike was only going to search half-heartedly, though.  He knew, with total confidence, that Graham would turn up somewhere, but in how many pieces would remain to be seen.

***

Angela had taken the first floor for a reason.  Sammie’s room was located there and she wanted to keep a close eye on him.  The only way she could be sure of him not wandering around the house again was if she remained nearby.  If Sammie wanted to leave his room, he would have to get by her first.  Why doesn’t that fill me with confidence?

The first floor also contained a modern-style living room, inconsistent with the antique furnishings of the rest of the house.  There was a large LCD television mounted on one wall and a plush green sofa opposite.  Other than the furniture, the room was empty.  Angela moved onto the next.

The next door she opened led to a low-beamed ceiling with a full-sized snooker table.  Decorated with horse brasses and a dado railing, the billiard room was like something from a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel.  It was a fitting place for an atmospheric murder mystery, but right now it was empty.

The next half-dozen rooms Angela checked were vacant too, bedrooms mostly and a family bathroom.  There was also a small office, which was little more than a cubbyhole with a computer.  Every room she checked was empty, until the only room left was Sammie’s.

Earlier, Sammie had said he’d been abandoned, so Angela was confident she wouldn’t find Graham in his bedroom, but she couldn’t be sure.  Nor was she positive that she would even find Sammie there.  She and Tim had watched the boy climb the stairs from the foyer, but they had not physically seen him return to his bedroom.  It would be good to be sure.

She placed a hand on Sammie’s doorknob and wondered if she imagined the subtle vibrations coming from it.  The door creaked as she opened it and she was certain it hadn’t done so on previous occasions.

Sammie was in his bed, staring at a blank television screen, yet mesmerised by it.  A stack of South Park DVDs peeked out from the open drawer of a candle-lit dresser, but without power they were useless.

“Sammie,” she said.  “Sammie, will you talk with me for a moment?”

The boy ignored her.

“Sammie, have you seen Graham?”

No answer.

Angela had a sudden thought.  “Sammie, is your friend’s name Chamuel?”

Sammie continued to ignore her, but this time there was a brief flicker of his eyes.  It was a physical response to her question.  Whether or not Sammie was ignoring her, he could definitely hear her.  But maybe he isn’t the one in control.  Maybe he wants to answer me but can’t.

“Chamuel.” Angela said.   “Are you here with us now?  Can you speak to me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sammie.  “I’m trying to watch my program and you’re interrupting me.  Please leave.”

Angela carried on.  “I will, Sammie, but first I want to know who Chamuel is?  What does he want?”

Sammie looked at Angela and shook his head.  He looked angry – angrier than a ten-year old boy should.  “He wants to kill me,” Sammie spat irritably.  “Happy now?”

“No,” Angela said.  “I’m not happy at all.  Why does Chamuel want to kill you?”

“Because I wouldn’t be what he wanted me to be.  He’s a nasty bully.”

Angela took a step towards Sammie’s bed and was almost close enough to touch him.  “What did Chamuel want you to be, Sammie?”

Sammie cleared his throat.  It sounded full of phlegm.  He looked worried for a moment, just an innocent child again.  “He…he…he wants me to become something I’m not.  He wants to change me.  He never stops trying to get his own way and I’m getting tired of fighting him.”

Angela felt her heart beating.  “I want to help you, Sammie.  I want to make him go away.”

Sammie stared at her, his dark eyes swirling with a mixture of emotions she couldn’t work out.   “Please, help me,” he pleaded.  “Please make Chamuel stop.”

Angela placed a hand on Sammie’s naked shoulder and knew she was just meeting the boy for the first time.  “It’s good to finally meet you, Sammie,” she said.  “My name is Angela and I’m going to help you.  If it’s the last thing I do.”  I just hope that it isn’t.

The door swung open behind Angela and she turned around.  Tim was standing there, panting and sweating.  “It’s Graham,” he said.  “We found him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Angela hurried after Tim, struggling to keep up with his rocket-like pace.  He’d not yet told her what had happened, just said to follow him and follow him fast.  They headed up one flight of stairs and were now on the second floor.  Tim took a door on the right about midway down the corridor.  It was already partially open and Mike was inside waiting for them.

Angela was almost sick when she saw Graham.

The room was some kind of spa room.  A sauna cubicle sat back against the far wall and there was a small steam room beside it.  At the adjacent wall was a partitioned changing area and in the centre of the room was a large hot tub.  Hanging out of the hot tub, upside down, was Graham.

The man’s head and shoulders lay crumpled against the carpet while his legs were pointed upwards, still hanging inside the bubbling hot tub.  His arms were outstretched at strict right angles from his body.  From where Angela was standing, Graham’s body looked as though it had been positioned into a cross.  Or, more accurately, an inverted cross.  The calling card of the Devil and his minions.

Angela repeated a prayer quickly in her head.  It made the scene in front of her a little more bearable.

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:

and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Amen.

Angela’s eyes began to pick up more details, but she had to turn away and leave the room.  The sight and smell of fresh blood was just too much for her to handle – it brought back too many nightmares.  Graham’s naked body was plastered with gore, but Angela had not looked long enough to figure out where it had come from.

Mike followed her outside, which was surprising, as she would have expected Tim to be the one to go check on her.  “You okay?” he asked her.

Angela walked a few steps further down the corridor, wanting to put more space between her and the room.  Finally, she slumped against the wall and rubbed at her eyes.  They suddenly felt like lead ball bearings inside her skull.  “I-I…”  She cleared her throat, took a second.  “I’ll be fine.  I just don’t like the sight of blood.”

Mike clamped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze.  “I don’t think anybody does.”

“What the hell happened to him, Mike?”

Mike shook his head and looked down at his shoes.  When he looked back up again he was chewing at his bottom lip.  “Damned if I know what happened to him.  From what I can tell, he bled to death from a gash in his genitals, just beneath his scrotum.  There’s a broken whisky glass in the hot tub and a near-empty bottle on the floor.  I think he had some sort of freak accident.”

Angela shook her head.  “Bullshit!  He was murdered.  No man accidentally severs his genital artery or whatever it is you’re suggesting made him bleed to death.  This was murder, anyone can see that.  Just look how he’s been positioned.”

Mike frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“He’s been placed into an inverted cross.  His feet are submerged in water like a reverse baptism.  The slicing of the genitals in and of itself could be construed as an act against God – it’s a condemnation of procreation and the spreading of the Lord’s creation.”

Mike huffed at her.  “Who are you?  Perry Mason’s religious sister?  The psychological forensics is all very good, but if you’re suggesting that Graham was murdered, then who the hell is responsible?”

Angela ran the possibilities through her mind.  “Tim has been with me all night, Ms Raymeady is asleep, and Frank is gone, which just leaves Sammie – a ten year old boy – and you.”

Mike laughed, but was obviously insulted.  “You think I killed Graham?  That’s rich!  I’ve worked with the guy for a whole year.  It’s you and Tim who are the new faces around here.”

“I had nothing to do with it and neither did Angela.”  Tim joined them out in the hallway.  His face was pale, but he seemed in control of himself.  “But Graham was definitely murdered.  I can prove it.”

“How?” Mike asked.

Tim held his arm out between them.  He opened up his palm to display two long slivers of metal.  “Iron nails,” he explained.  “I found them embedded into Graham’s feet.  The tub water was mixed with blood so they were used on him while he was alive. He hung there bleeding.  There’s no way he did this himself.  He’s been crucified.”

“Fuck this shit,” said Angela.  “I’m going to the police.  Someone in this house is a goddamn psychopath.  That same person is probably behind Joseph Raymeady’s death, too, and everything else that has been happening.”  Angela sighed and scooped her hair back behind her ears.  “I’m sorry, Mike.  I like you, I do, but you seem like the most likely candidate for this.  I’m not staying around you or this house anymore.  Tim, will you drive me to the nearest police station, please?”

“With pleasure,” he said.  “I was already out of this madhouse before someone sliced Graham’s ball bag like a joint of ham.”

Angela hurried down the corridor, making sure that Tim was following her.  She hoped he would be okay leaving his equipment to collect later.  She didn’t want to be kept at the house any longer than she had to.  I can’t believe I got drawn into all this bullshit.  There was me, convinced Sammie was possessed by a demon and the whole time there’s a goddamn psycho pulling the strings.

Angela took the staircase, two steps at a time, and quickly made it down to the foyer.  Tim went with her and Mike was right behind them, shouting his protests and insisting they shouldn’t leave.  “You’re needed here,” he kept saying.

Angela ignored Mike’s pleas and headed straight for the front door.  She placed her hands on the door handle and pushed.

The door did not budge.

Angela fumbled with the deadbolt.  She tried to open the door again.

It still wouldn’t budge.

She spun around and faced the foyer, focusing her glare on Mike.  “Open this goddamn door right now.”

Mike stopped his pursuit of her and stood still on the marble floor.  “It isn’t locked,” he said. “Just turn the deadbolt.”

“I just did,” said Angela.  “It won’t open.”

Tim stepped up to the door.  “Let me have a look.”  He began fiddling with the locks and pulling at the door.  After a few attempts he gave up with an apprehensive look on his angular face.  “It’s stuck.”

“What are you trying to pull?”  Angela demanded of Mike.

“Nothing.  I haven’t touched the bloody door.”

Angela examined Mike’s expression.  The guy seemed to be telling the truth, but there was something else going on, too; something he wasn’t telling her.  A brief glint in his eyes spoke of something more than pure ignorance.

“Come on, Tim,” Angela said.  “We’ll try the door in the piano lounge.”

Panic spurred Angela to race across the marble floor so quickly that she almost slipped.  Tim grabbed a hold of her arm just in time to steady her. Together they entered the lounge.

The French doors leading to the gardens were set behind the piano. As they passed through the room Angela smelt the metallic tang of blood again.  It was still a mystery where it had come from and how it had soaked the piano.  Graham was dead, but he had bled to death two floors above.

Tim rattled the handles on both French doors.  They did not open.  “These are locked too,” he explained dejectedly.  “Looks like someone doesn’t want us to leave.”

Angela grabbed a chair away from the nearest table.  She shot a quick glance at Mike and said, “Send me the bill!”  Then she threw the chair in the direction of the French doors and watched as it tumbled through the air.  It hit the glass panes with a resounding clatter.

The chair broke into a dozen pieces.  The glass panes of the French doors remained intact.

Angela looked around the room, frowning with consternation.  She headed behind the bar and rifled through the various shelves.  The most suitable thing she could find was a heavy crystal decanter.  She hoisted it under her arm and took it back over to the French doors.  Tim was still standing there, jaw agape, and she told him to take a step back.  Then, with all of her might, she hurled the decanter at the doors.

It bounced off the glass panes and shattered on the floor, just like the chair had.  The French doors remained intact.

Tim ran his spindly fingers through his hair and blew air into his cheeks before letting it out in a blustery sigh.  “What the hell, man?”

Angela picked up another chair and this time swung it like a bat towards one of the room’s windows.  Again the chair broke before the glass did.  “This is impossible,” she said, looking around frantically for a solution and feeling more and more like a trapped rat.  Her heart raced.

“We’re trapped here,” said Tim.  “Stuck in a box with a ball-slicing maniac on the loose.”

“Let’s just calm down,” said Mike, moving up beside them.  “It’s time to take a breath and stop panicking.”

Angela glared at him.  When she’d met Mike she’d had a good feeling about him, but now she felt distrustful of him – his demeanour had changed somehow since Frank had left.  “If you’re behind this, Mike,” she said, “I’ll leave you in worse shape than Graham, I swear it.”

Mike laughed.  “Some spirit you’ve got there, sweetheart, but once again I’m telling you I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Then who did?” Tim asked.  “Who would want to keep us in this house so bad?”

Mike shrugged.  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Tim didn’t like this at all.  He was locked inside a house with no power, no light, and no way out.  Once upon a time he’d been in a similar situation, which had not ended well.

When Tim and his brother, Steve, agreed to stay the night at the vacant Grey Gardens Hotel, both of them had expected to find some rational explanation for the five deaths which had occurred during the previous six months, and always after midnight.  In a previous investigation of a similar hotel, Tim and his brother had found a slow gas leak in the kitchen.  It had been making the staff light-headed and accident prone, which had led to rumours of the place being cursed.  Of course that wasn’t the case, but Tim and his brother spun the owners a tall tale all the same.  Tim fixed the broken gas main while his brother performed a dramatic séance.  After ‘speaking’ to a malevolent spirit called Lloyd, who didn’t actually exist, Tim and his brother had declared the building ‘cleansed.’

The pay had been decent and the owners were happy.  It was on to the next job.  Despite the worrying number of deaths, Tim expected to play the exact same simple prank at the Grey Gardens.

But things hadn’t gone as planned.

With no one in the building other than Tim and Steve, there was no need to perform a fake séance – they could just tell the owner that they’d done one anyway.  Instead, they drank heavily and made good use of the hotel’s amenities.  It seemed like a good gig at first.

The first warning sign had occurred when they were sipping from a bottle of the hotel’s best champagne in the bridal suite’s Jacuzzi.  Very gradually, to the point that they hadn’t even noticed it at first, the water began to heat up.  The thermostat was already set to a cosy 40-degrees-C, but when Tim began sweating and glanced at it again, it was over 50.  By the time he and Steve leapt out of the tub, the thermostat was reading 68C.  They both looked like lobsters as they flung themselves onto the cold granite tiles.

But they didn’t learn their lesson then.  They carried on drinking, playing pool on the table in the downstairs bar.  Steve was twice the player Tim was, his extra five years on Earth having been spent hustling various pubs and clubs.  Tim still enjoyed the game, though, despite losing constantly.  It was time with his big brother.

When the eight-ball left a long streak of blood behind it on the baize, they thought it odd, but still they did not let it bother them.  They were obscenely drunk and the supernatural was a job to them, not a reality.  They ignored what they were seeing, like a pair of fools.  Tim wished he could go back in time and shake some sense into himself and his brother.

Once the evening got late, Steve and Tim retired to one of the hotel’s twin rooms.  Their drinking had slowed down and now both of them were feeling drowsy.  Tim plopped down on one of the beds and closed his eyes, while his brother took a bath.  It was a peaceful ending to a wild night.  And in the morning they would get paid.

Tim must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he checked his watch it was almost 3AM.  It was then that he realised Steve was still in the bathroom.

The lights were off, but sounds of trickling water crept out from the en suite.  Tim dragged himself off the bed and moaned in agony.  It felt like an elephant was running loose inside his head.  His mouth was as dry as an overfilled ashtray.

His bare feet took him across the room.  The sounds of water from the en suite grew louder.  “Hey, Steve,” He shouted out.  “You fall asleep in there?”

The bathroom’s door was ajar and Tim pushed it open all the way.  He strained his eyes to see through the darkness and, though it seemed impossible, there was a glow in the room that slowly brought everything into view.

What Tim saw then changed his life forever.

The monsters he invented to scam money out of innocent people were real.  There was one standing before him right now.

And it had Steve.

Standing in the room’s bath tub was an old lady.  Her ancient face was a withered mess of flaking skin.  Her black, sunken eyes seemed to drip crude oil.  Kneeling in the bath tub at the old hag’s feet was Steve.  He was half-conscious and shaking with hypothermia.  A pair of talon-like hands, wrapped around his skull, held him in place.  The old woman’s crooked, brown teeth formed a smile as Tim stood in the doorway.

“S-Steve?”

The old hag hissed at him.  Her voice sounded like an oven full of burning snakes.  She yanked Steve up by his skull, lifted him in the air, offered him to Tim like a weightless ragdoll.  “Taaaaake him.  Iffff youuuu dare…”

Tim looked at his brother’s dangling legs and saw the pleading terror in his eyes.  Steve was trapped inside some impotent hell, but he was still aware, he knew what was happening.  He could see his brother, Tim, standing before him and doing nothing to help.

The old hag cackled, started to squeeze Steve’s skull.  Tim still did nothing.  Even as blood began to run down Steve’s temples from where the bony fingers were piercing his skull.  His eyes began to bulge.  Tim still did nothing.  His heart was a clenched fist inside his chest.  His knees were stiff and useless.

Tim did nothing as he watched his brother die.

The old hag crushed Steve’s skull until it cracked like a chocolate egg.  She released her grip on his misshapen skull and let his body tumble to the floor like a stringless puppet.  Then she turned her malevolent gaze on Tim and opened up a mouth full of rotten fangs.

Finally Tim’s legs obeyed him.  He bolted out of the room; ashamed that he had only managed to move once his own life was in danger.  His brother’s peril had not been enough to make him act, only his own pathetic cowardice.

Tim lumbered across the room like a wounded gazelle, terror and alcohol making his movements clumsy.  He fell against the room’s door and fumbled for the handle.  He managed to get a grip on it but found that it wouldn’t budge.  It was as though it’d been welded shut.

Tim spun around.  The old hag floated inches above the carpet, drifting towards him with her arms reaching out.  The darkness parted before her, extinguished by a sickly green glow.  The smell of death preceded her.

“Please.” Tim begged.

Spiteful, hate-filled cackling.

Tim fell to the floor and cowered.  He closed his eyes.

More cackling, louder, closer.  Hot, fetid breath against his face.

“Please….”

His watch beeped; the changing of the hour.

Tim trembled, squeezed himself up into a ball as tight as he could manage and waited for the slithering hands of death to seize him.

But nothing happened.

He opened his eyes slowly.  The old hag was gone.

The hotel’s owner found Tim the next day, still cowering in the same corner by the door.  A brief police investigation had determined that Steve had gotten heavily drunk and slipped in the bath tub, caving in his skull.  Tim knew that wasn’t the truth.  Once he’d had time to think the events through, he knew the only reason he was still alive was thanks to nothing more than timing.

The old woman had disappeared at 3AM exactly – Tim’s watch had beeped to tell him so – which was when the witching hour had ended.  Timing had been less forgiving to Steve, though, and Tim would never forget his own inaction in preventing his brother’s death.  He had done nothing.  He was a coward.

Two months later, after one hell of a several-week drinking binge, Tim went back to the Grey Gardens Hotel and torched the place to the ground.  No one else would ever have to die there.  The owners would be glad of the insurance money, he knew.

But Tim had never stopped being afraid – especially of locked doors and dark rooms – which was why he was kicking himself right now, for placing himself in a bad situation all over again.  This time, instead of Tim’s brother, grumpy-ass Graham was the victim.  At least this time I’m not responsible.

“You okay, Tim?” Angela asked him.  “You look like you’re about to hit the floor.”

Tim shook away his bad memories and tried to smile for her.  “Yeah, I just don’t like being trapped.  Sends me into a panic.”

“We’re going to be okay,” Angela reassured him while patting him on the back.  “Long as we watch out for one another.  We’ll get out of this infernal house one way or another.”

Tim took a seat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and winced at the frigidness against his rump.  Angela paced anxiously around the moonlit foyer in front of him, while Mike tried to open the front doors.

Tim didn’t know what to make of Mike.  Someone had killed Graham, that much was obvious, and the only people Tim knew were innocent were he and Angela, which left few remaining suspects.  It didn’t look good for Mike, but it was still far from conclusive that he was the killer.  For all Tim knew there could be a nutcase in a hockey mask roaming the gardens.  Who knew anything for sure?  Right now, the only thing certain was that Mike was trapped inside the house with the rest of them.  There was still a slim chance he was an ally rather than an enemy.  Tim wasn’t ready to write him off just yet, even if Angela had already made up her mind.  There was, of course, one other viable suspect that no one else was mentioning: Sammie.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Mike admitted.  “The door is unlocked, I’m sure of it, but it still won’t open.”

Angela huffed.  “Don’t act like you’re surprised.”

Mike sighed and chose to ignore her.  He’d stopped defending himself a little while ago when it became clear that Angela wasn’t going to change her mind about him.  Tim didn’t blame the bloke for not wanting to waste his breath, but he still had Angela’s back before he had Mike’s.

“Do you think we should try the phones again?” Tim asked.  “We really need to get a hold of the police.”

“Try them,” said Mike.  “Be my guest.”

“No,” said Angela.  “Nobody is splitting up.  We’ll go together.  Where is the nearest phone?”

“In the antechamber,” Mike said.  “Follow me.”

Mike took them over to a small side room with a couch.  The phone was fixed to the wall.  Mike went to pick up the receiver.

“No,” said Angela.  “Let me.”  She snatched the receiver from the wall and placed it to her ear.  From the way she slammed the handset back down Tim knew that the lines were still dead.

Tim felt himself panic. He was feeling more and more cut off from the world.  He felt like that cowering mess crouching in the corner again.  “So what’s the plan?”  He heard the anxiety in his own voice and took some deep breaths, reaffirming himself.  “I mean, we can’t just stand around here all night.”

“Well, I’m not going to go to bed,” said Angela.  “I think we all need to group together somewhere and wait for Frank and whatever help he brings.  We need to keep Sammie and Jessica safe with us as well.”

Tim blanched at that.  “For all we know, Sammie is the danger.”

Angela shook her head.  “No, I don’t think so.  I was getting through to him earlier.  He’s just a scared little boy.”

“What about Chamuel?” Tim asked.

“Who?” Mike asked, looking confused.

Angela explained.  “Chamuel is the name of the presence apparently inside of Sammie.  And to answer your question, Tim:  I don’t know.  I don’t know if Chamuel is a split-personality or if we’re really dealing with something evil here, but Sammie said that the thing inside of him wants him dead.  I don’t think we should leave him alone.  Even if I’m completely deluded about him, he’s still a child in danger.”

Tim let out a long, whistling sigh.  He wished the tiredness would leave the inside of his eyelids.  It made him feel sluggish.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “Let’s go hole up in the kid’s room.  Maybe we can all watch South Park when the power comes back on.”

But when they entered Sammie’s room, the boy wasn’t there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“We need to find him,” Angela said.  “Right now.”

Tim looked around Sammie’s room and wondered where he could have gotten to.  A candle burned by the window, illuminating Sammie’s drawing desk.  Even from several feet away, Tim could see the drawings arranged on top of its cluttered surface.  He moved closer.

There was one drawing in the centre of the desk that was perched on top of all the others – it seemed to take pride of place.  Tim picked it up and examined it.

Holy shitballs!

The picture should have chilled Tim to his core, but he only felt numb inside.  It was probably the calm that came before the storm of a mental breakdown.

The old hag’s charcoal eyes leapt right off the sketch at Tim.  She was clutching a crudely-drawn severed head in her right hand that Tim knew belonged to his brother.  How does Sammie know?  It’s impossible.

He crumpled the drawing and threw it to the floor.  The urge to flee took over him, but he glumly remembered that there was no way out.  His bladder yearned to void itself, yet mixed with the urge to flee was the beginning of an urge to fight.  Anger had started to flower in the pit of Tim’s stomach and he found a tiny sliver of resolve he never even knew he had.  He’d finally had enough of being messed with.

Angela stepped up beside Tim and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “What was the drawing of?”

“Something only I could know about.”

“Yeah, I got one of those too, remember?”

Tim remembered how freaked out Angela had been when receiving her own drawing.  “How do you think he does it?” he asked her. “How can he see things from our pasts that only we know about?”

“I don’t think it is Sammie.  I think that whatever possessed Charles Crippley that day in Jersey is the same entity that is inside Sammie - Chamuel.  That’s how he knows.”

Tim wondered if this Chamuel was the same malevolent spirit that had crushed his brother’s skull.  “Do you have any theories about who Chamuel is yet?  Why don’t you think he’s responsible for killing Graham?”

“I’m not sure who Chamuel is, but I’m working on it.  I still think the name is familiar, but I just can’t place my finger on it.  I can’t figure out why my attempts to exorcise the demon were such a failure.  I need to try again.  As for Graham, I just don’t see how a ten-year old boy could have done that to a grown man.  There’s something else at play here that we’re not seeing yet.  But the only thing we need to worry about right now is finding Sammie.”

“Maybe he went up to see his mother,” Mike chimed in from behind them.  “We should go check on her.”

It was a reasonable suggestion so Tim didn’t argue about it.  Neither did Angela.  They all headed out of Sammie’s room and into the hallway, taking the staircase up to the fourth floor.  Angela carried a candle between them that she had taken from the windowsill in Sammie’s room.

Jessica’s door was open.  Light from her own bedside candles flooded weakly out into the hallway, highlighting the red carpet in its spotlight.  Tim saw that Jessica was still sleeping in her bed.  He also saw that Sammie was nowhere to be seen.

Mike stated the obvious.  “Sammie’s not here.”

“Then we keep looking,” said Angela.

Tim wasn’t so sure.  “Do you think it’s safe to leave Jessica alone?”

“I’ll stay with her,” Mike offered.

Angela shook her head.  “No way.  We stick together.”

“Fine.  Then we either stay here or we carry on searching.”

“Let’s just search the rest of this floor,” said Tim.  “If we don’t find Sammie we’ll come back and wake Jessica up.”

Everyone agreed.

The first room they came to after leaving Jessica’s penthouse was a large office with an antique desk.  On top of the desk was a computer.  Somehow, it was still switched on – the only thing in the house that still had power.

“How is there still electricity in here?” Angela asked.

“There’s not,” Mike answered.  “That was Joseph Raymeady’s personal computer.  He used it for his work at Black Remedy.  It’s installed with a backup power supply to protect against the constant power cuts out her in the countryside.  The battery charges off the house’s supply when it’s on and kicks in if the electricity is cut off.  It’ll run out eventually.”

“Mind if I take a look,” Tim asked.  He didn’t know what he expected to find but he couldn’t see how it could hurt either.  There might even be a way to contact the police.

“Go ahead,” said Mike.  “I don’t think Joseph’s in a position to complain.”

Tim sat himself down in the high-backed leather chair and stared at the chunky monitor.  The Black Remedy Corporation logo bounced around the screen, skipping from corner to corner.  Tim shoved the mouse and the desktop appeared.  It was neatly organised with just a few folders and a recycle bin icon.  Tim also noticed that the email manager was blinking on the bottom taskbar.  There was an unread email.  Tim clicked on it.

The email application flashed up on screen.  A message appeared with the subject line: WORK UNDERTAKEN, JOSEPH RAYMEADY.  Tim read the email that followed:

Dear Frank,

I trust that you will keep our communication confidential as it is of a sensitive nature.  You are correct that, prior to his death, Joseph Raymeady was somewhat unsettled.  He believed the company he owned was working against him from within and that his life was in danger.

When Joseph’s father died and his controlling interest of Black Remedy passed on to Joseph, Joseph began involving himself in all aspects of the company.  He quickly became aware that great portions of Black Remedy’s funds were unaccounted for or secretly diverted.  When he sought to investigate these discrepancies, the other members of the board were not forthcoming.  In fact they were actively hostile.

That is when my services were sought.

Through a series of investigations, which unfortunately I cannot go into, I was able to find evidence that Black Remedy Corporation was involved in acts of corporate espionage, government bribery and extortion, arms dealing, insider trading, and attempting to buy-off the Monopolies Commission.  Even more bizarre, the company had spent several million in undisclosed capital acquiring the deeds to several religious buildings, only to close them down and destroy them.  The Acquisitions Board also purchased a group of historically significant artefacts which were unearthed at the Golgotha site in Jerusalem (where Jesus was allegedly crucified).  I can’t imagine what the purposes of such acquisitions are, but the company certainly seems to have religious interests.

Furthermore, there was also a list of large payments made to several unnamed persons, leading me to believe that Black Remedy has a personnel of freelance employees to perform tasks that are ‘off the books.’  It was upon learning this that Joseph became most anxious.  He held the opinion that the company employed hitmen and mercenaries to ‘take care’ of certain problems.  He believed this even more when my investigations discovered the untimely deaths of several of the company’s adversaries (such as the French politician, Frank Gerome, who sought to shed light on Black Remedy’s exploitation of the current African AIDS epidemic by purposely limiting the production of life- saving medications in order to inflate prices.  He was found face down in his own swimming pool).  Joseph feared that his meddling into the company’s affairs, and the eradication of several immoral, yet highly profitable operations, would lead to an attempt on his life.

Frank, as I’m sure you already know, Joseph became overly cautious in the months before his death and he started working mostly from home.  The fact that he has now passed away even despite his caution, suggests to me that there was someone within his own household working against him (one of these ‘off the books’ employees I uncovered).  From several previous conversations I held with Joseph, it is clear that you were one of the few men he trusted, which is why I have chosen to break protocol by divulging the nature of my work for your late boss.

But there is one other reason I have opted to share information with you, Frank, and that is because I believe Joseph’s son, Samuel, is in danger.  After Joseph’s mysterious death, I conducted a further investigation for my own peace of mind.  It became very clear to me, once I hacked into the confidential files of several key board members, that Black Remedy Corporation has an unhealthy interest in the future heir of the company.  The Raymeady family own 51% of the company, but if Sammie (and Jessica) were to die then the company would become 100% controlled by the Black family and its shareholders.  I believe that Samuel’s death is the number one priority to certain members of Black Remedy right now.  As a man that Joseph trusted, I hope that you can keep them safe.  Don’t trust anybody.

My prayers are with you, but please do not contact me again.

Yours,

George Farley.

Corporate Researcher

Tim lifted his head from the computer screen and stared at Angela.  “There’s an email addressed to Frank.  He must have been looking for answers as much as we are.”

“What does the email say?” Mike asked, moving closer.

Tim clicked delete and sent the email to the recycling bin.  With what was said about there being someone in the household working against the Raymeady family, he felt it better that Mike didn’t read the email for himself.  George Farley seemed to be suggesting that Joseph was murdered by someone close to him.  It could have been Mike.

“It’s from an investigation service,” Tim explained. “It said that Black Remedy Corporation was involved in a lot of bad stuff, and that Joseph’s attempts to clean up the company were not being met well by the other board members.  Seems like they may have wanted him out of the way.”

Angela nodded.  “From what I’ve heard about that company, I’m not surprised.  They’re like Evil Inc.”

“Did it say anything else?” Mike asked.  He seemed unduly curious.

“Not really,” Tim lied.  “It was just a follow-up email really.  I think Frank was dealing with it.”

Mike came toward him.  “Let me take a look.”

“Sorry, I think I deleted it.”

“What?  You had no right to delete anything on this computer.”

“Accident.  We should try to use the computer to contact the police.  What do you think?”

Mike shoved Tim.  “Move aside.”   He began clicking the mouse and Tim knew it would not take the man long to retrieve the email from the bin.

Tim was standing behind Mike when he noticed a presence in the room and the sound of clumsy footsteps.

“Who’s there?” Tim asked, straining to see across the dark office.

There was no reply from the stranger, but after a few more clumsy steps, the person revealed themselves to be Jessica Raymeady.  She was standing at the back of the room like a spectre.

“Jessica,” Angela said, once she noticed the woman standing there.  “Are you feeling better?”

“Sssssoul.”  Jessica spoke in a disembodied lisp.  It was the voice of somebody else.  “The sssssoul is broken.  It cannot be ssssaved.  The child isss ascending.  Ssssamuel mussst die.”

Jessica fell to her knees and vomited.  The noise it made was like custard hitting a fan.  When she was done, she looked up at them with tear-soaked eyes and spoke with a crusty mouth.  “W-what is happening to me?”

Tim stood in shock while Angela gathered the woman off the ground.  “Jessica, are you okay?  Can you see again?”

Jessica stumbled but Angela caught her before she fell back down to the floor.  “I-I…Yes, I can see fine, but I feel…I feel…”

“Let’s get you somewhere comfortable,” Mike said.  He left the computer and walked over to her.

“What’s happened to the power?”

Tim answered her.  “It went off several hours ago.  We’ve been waiting for it to come back on.”

“W-who’s looking after Sammie?”

“We don’t know where he is,” Angela admitted.

Jessica straightened up.  “What?  It’s the middle of the night.  Why isn’t he in bed?  What have you people been doing?  Mike, take me to Sammie’s room.  I need to find him.”

“Of course,” said Mike.

“No!” said Angela.  “We need to stay together.”

Jessica seemed to strengthen.  “I give the orders around here, Ms Murs.  You do not tell me what to do, especially where it concerns my son.  I suggest that you both retire to your rooms.  We’ll continue this in the morning and then we can discuss why my son was allowed to go missing.”

Angela went to argue, but Tim put a hand on her shoulder.  He whispered in her ear.  “Just leave it.  I don’t think she even knows what’s happened to her tonight.  You won’t make her understand until she’s regained her senses.”

“But we’re all in danger,” Angela whispered back.  “We can’t leave the house, Graham is dead, and Jessica herself just said that Sammie needs to die, plus she sounded like a bloody snake when she said it.”

“I think we should just do as she says,” Tim said.  “You and me can stay in one of the bedrooms and wait it out till morning.”

Angela nodded.  “Okay.  In the meantime, perhaps we can try and put some of this together – maybe come up with some answers.”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “I suppose stranger things have happened.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Tim had been invited by Angela to hole up in her bedroom for the rest of the night and he had agreed.  It seemed like as safe a place as any.

4AM had just arrived and he was beginning to feel nauseous for lack of sleep.  He didn’t expect to get any shut-eye soon either.  He slumped himself down in an antique wing chair and tried to get comfy, but there was no way was he going to close his eyes.

The room’s double bed was unmade and Angela’s suitcase lay open on the floor in front of it.  Angela noticed him staring at it and seemed embarrassed.   “Housekeeping isn’t my strong point,” she said.

Tim chuckled tiredly.  “Mine either.  I live in a van.”

Angela lay down on the bed and propped herself up on the pillows.  A candle on the bedside table lit her face.  “We never had a chance to discuss what happened in your van.  I mean, with the Ouija board and everything.”

“I know.”  Tim suddenly remembered he wanted to discuss it too.  “I’ve done séances before, so I wasn’t surprised it worked, but I don’t have a clue about the answers we got.  Usually the spirits just natter about their family or hidden heirlooms.  They’re pretty predictable, but this Chamuel...”

“It was all a little bit doom and gloom, wasn’t it?” Angela said.  “Blood…Death…Hell will take you.”

“It didn’t feel like a threat, though, you know?” said Tim, rubbing at his eyes and sitting forward, trying to fight away tiredness.  “Seemed more like a warning.”

Angela nodded and rubbed at her own eyes, copying him like a monkey at the zoo.  “And the Ouija board said, ‘We’re here,’ just as Sammie turned up.  It was almost like it was acting like a beacon for him to find us.”

“For who to find us?  Chamuel or Sammie?  Who’s in control of that kid?”

“I spoke to Sammie just before Graham’s body was found.  He seemed scared, just like a kid should be.  He said that Chamuel wanted to change him, to make him do things he didn’t want to.”

Tim rubbed at his chin.  He could feel bristles of ginger stubble coming through.  “Did Sammie say what things?”

Angela sighed.  “No.  He asked for my help, though.  He asked me to get rid of Chamuel.”

“Then that’s what we do then.”

“How?  I get the impression that Jessica is going to kick us out of the house first thing in the morning.”

Tim assumed the same thing.  Jessica seemed irate at the situation she had awoken to, but surely she’d remember what had actually happened; would remember being blind, would remember walking into the office and giving them a warning in a voice that was a serpentine hiss?  “Maybe tomorrow she’ll feel differently,” Tim suggested hopefully.  “She was just confused earlier.  Things might become clearer to her by dawn.”

“Are you still going to leave?” Angela asked.

Tim nodded.  “Sorry, but I’d be gone already if the place wasn’t sealed up.”

“Do you know how it’s even possible that we’re trapped in here?  How did they suddenly make the windows unbreakable?”

Tim thought the answer was obvious.  “It’s security glass, isn’t it?  A house like this, with a family like the Raymeadys, is certain to have tempered glass to stop people breaking in.  It might even have been a recent addition if the email I read was anything to go by.”

“What did it say?”

Tim shrugged.  “It was all a bit weird, but it seemed that Joseph Raymeady was worried about his life and had some guy investigating for him.  Turns out that Black Remedy is about as ethical as the Mafia – except without all the codes of honour.  The investigator thinks that Joseph’s death might not have been an accident.”

“Really?  He thinks it was murder?”

Tim nodded.  “Somebody close to him, he suggested – but not Frank, I don’t think.  It was Frank who the email was addressed to.  It seems like he’s been trying to get to the bottom of all of this, too, for his own peace of mind.”

Angela’s eyes widened.  “Then that just leaves Mike.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but there used to be a lot more staff here when Joseph died, so it could have been somebody else.  Can’t say I liked the way he shoved me away from the computer to get a look at that email, though.  He seemed pretty anxious to see what it said.”

“I don’t trust him,” Angela said bluntly. “But I guess you already know that.  At first I thought he was a pretty decent guy, but now I get the impression that he knows more than he is letting on.  I think he might be dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed.  “Perhaps.”

“Which is why I’m begging you to stay.”

Tim shifted in the chair.  The last thing on Earth he wanted to do was stay at the house a minute longer, but he also knew he didn’t want to abandon Angela – especially if she was at risk.  He had to remind himself that he’d only just met the woman; he didn’t owe her anything.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “But first thing tomorrow, I’m out of here.”

It looked as if Angela was going to argue with him, but then she just nodded.  “Okay, well, that’s your choice.”

“You should get some sleep,” he told her.  “I’ll watch over you for a few hours.”

Angela smiled wearily.  “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.  If you’re going to stay and get to the bottom of things, then you’ll need the rest.”

“Thanks.  I feel like I might drop into a coma if I don’t sleep soon.  Wake me if anything happens, though, yeah?”

“Sure thing.”

Angela closed her eyes and within two minutes she was snoring.  Tim watched her sleep and wondered what her deal was.  The woman was slightly overweight and baggy around the eyes.  She was a drinker and an overeater; signs of an unhappy soul.  Was her misery because of leaving the church, or did she leave the church because she was miserable?  Tim could tell that Angela was a caring person, a good human being, but her weaknesses were unhidden and clear for all to see.  After a certain length of time, depression could become part of a person’s personality and the hope of ever shedding it became unattainable.  Tim hoped Angela found a way to face herself again one day.  He knew that possibility was gone for himself – he would never be anything but what he already was.

Against his better judgement, Tim rested his eyelids for a second.  Eventually he had no choice but to let sleep take him.

***

Angela opened her eyes to darkness. The candle in the room had extinguished.  Usually, whenever she woke from a deep slumber, there was a brief moment of confusion while she wondered where she was, but in this case she opened her eyes and knew instantly.  Her alert mind was unwilling to let her forget where she was, even for a moment.  She was trapped inside the house.

She sat up and could almost feel the darkness move around her like a living thing.  She listened out for noises, worried there might be someone else in the room with, but remembered that Tim had promised to watch over her.

She called out.  “Tim, are you there?”

Silence.

Angela slid her legs off the bed and onto the floor.  She cringed at the thud they made on the carpet.  “Tim,” she called out again.

Still no answer.

She crept across the room, arms out in front of her as feelers.  She bumped against the wing chair Tim had been sitting in.  It was empty.  Damn it, Tim!  Where are you?  You promised to stay with me.

Angela wondered if he’d gone to get a drink or something to eat.  He was doubtlessly exhausted, too, so maybe he’d needed something to keep himself from falling asleep.  Even so, Angela didn’t want to be alone in the house and didn’t like the thought of Tim wandering around on his own, either.  They needed to stick together.

She left the bedroom and sidestepped into the corridor like a secret agent on a stealth mission.  If anybody was around, she wanted to be sure she spotted them before they spotted her.  As it turned out, the corridor was empty.

She decided to head downstairs and look for Tim in the kitchen. As she headed for the stairs, moonlight shone in through the windows.  She took the opportunity to check her watch.  It was 6AM, yet the moon was still high in the sky.  The sun should have been muscling its way onto the horizon by now.

Angela reached the staircase balcony and realised she wouldn’t have to look any further to find Tim.  He was right in front of her.

“Tim?  What are you doing?”

Tim looked down at her from where he balanced atop the railing.  His eyes were murky, white, and unfocused.

Angela looked over the railing, at the three-story drop to the cold marble below.  “Tim, could you get down from there, please?”

He stared at her vacantly.  The antique bannister beneath his feet rocked back and forth.  His knees wobbled like loose springs.  One false move and he’d fall to his death.

What the hell is he doing up there?

There seemed to be no sign of Tim getting down from the bannister of his own volition.  It was almost as if he was sleepwalking or under some kind of spell.  Maybe he’d taken something to help him sleep, something he shouldn’t have.  He did strike me as a stoner when we first met.

Angela crept forwards, one foot carefully placed in front of the other.  She didn’t want to startle him.  “Tim?  It’s Angela.  I thought you were going to watch over me while I slept?   I woke up and you were gone.  I was worried.”

A strangled moan escaped Tim’s lips, almost as if he were a prisoner trying to escape his own body.

Angela took another step.

Tim’s moaning continued, grew louder.

She reached out toward him.

Tim flinched.  His foot slipped.  He fell.

Angela managed to grab a hold of the back of Tim’s shirt just in time.  She yanked frantically and managed to direct his tumble backwards to the safety of the balcony instead of forwards to his death.  He landed in a crumpled mess on the carpet with Angela lying beside him.  “What the hell were you doing?” she shouted at him.

The milkyness had cleared from Tim’s eyes.  He seemed confused.  “I-I…how did I get out here?”

“You don’t remember?”

Tim propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head.  “I remember sitting in the bedroom.  You were snoring…”

Angela blushed.

“…and I must have fallen asleep.  I-I don’t know what I was doing.”

“Are you a sleepwalker?” Angela asked him.

Tim shook his head.  “If I am, this is the first time.  I wonder how long I’ve been out here?”

“It’s past six.”

Tim frowned at her.  “What?  It’s still dark.  Shouldn’t the sun be rising by now?”

Angela shrugged.  She didn’t understand it either, but right now she wanted to get out of the open where she felt so exposed.  “Come on.  I think we should go back to my room.  This time you get the bed and I’ll keep watch.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mike was clueless as to why the windows were suddenly unbreakable, but it fit well into his plans.  Everyone needed to remain inside the house.  Mike didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew that an awakening was at hand – and that would require certain sacrifices.  It didn’t matter if Angela and Tim were suspicious of him or not; it was too late for either of them to do anything about it.

To make things even better, Jessica didn’t remember a thing about what had happened in her bedroom – about him choking her unconscious.  Her voice was croaky and it was clear she had a bruised windpipe, but she was oblivious to the fact that Mike had been the one to inflict it upon her.

Jessica was currently sat on Sammie’s bed, weeping quietly to herself as she cradled the boy’s grimy pillow.  Mike was amazed that the woman still felt maternal over the wretched little monster - he was no longer the loving little boy he used to be.  Sammie had become a monster, something inside manifesting like mould on bread.  The boy’s soul had putrefied.

“Are you okay, Miss Raymeady?” he asked Jessica.

She looked over at him with teary eyes but managed to smile.  “No, not really, Michael.  I feel like I’ve just woken up from a coma.  Nothing is making any sense right now, especially with Sammie missing.”

“I’m sure he’s just playing games, hiding somewhere inside the house.  I should really get back to looking for him.”

Jessica raised her hand.  “No!  Stay with me.  I don’t feel safe without Frank in the house.  I don’t want to be alone.”

Mike nodded.  “I understand, but we really shouldn’t leave Sammie running loose with those two con artists in the house.”

Jessica frowned at him.  “Why do you think they’re con artists?”

Mike huffed.  “Come on, what have they done since they’ve been here, other than injuring Sammie and causing trouble?  They’re probably the reason Sammie is hiding.  He’s probably scared of being cut open with a needle again.”

Jessica shook her head.  “I believe they’re trying to help.  Whether or not that’s enough for me to let them to stay, I’ve not yet decided.  What time is it, anyway?  I need to make a decision about them before the new day begins.”

Mike checked his watch.  “I’m afraid the day’s already started.  It’s a little after eight.”

Jessica looked at him like he was mad.  “What?  You must be mistaken.  It’s still pitch-black outside.  It can’t be morning yet.”

Mike had not realised it was still dark outside.  There was so much going on in his mind that the familiar surroundings of the house had become merely unnoticed background.  Now that he was aware of the unusually extended night time, it disconcerted him.  The missing sun, along with the sealed and unbreakable windows, made Mike uncomfortable.  He was supposed to be marginally involved in the events to come, there to guide them, but he was beginning to fear that his part would be much bigger than intended.

Mike stroked at the raised scar-tissue hidden beneath his shirt.  He hoped the ancient flesh carvings would be enough to ensure his safety.

Jessica dropped her son’s pillow and pulled herself away from his bed.  “Come on, Mike.  You’re right.  We should be looking for Sammie.”

Mike opened the door for Jessica and followed her out into the corridor.  He watched her sway unsteadily, as if drunk.  Ironic, seeing as it’s probably the first time she’s been sober in six months.

Jessica stopped halfway down the corridor and glanced up at the wall.  The Edwardian grandfather clock there displayed the exact same time as the digital display on his watch.  Jessica was shaking her head as if she suspected the ancient timepiece of playing some cruel prank on her.  “Impossible,” she muttered, but got moving again.  Mike continued after her, and when she reached the staircase, they headed down to the ground floor, where they marched across the foyer to the front door.

Jessica rattled the handle for a few seconds and then spun around on her heels, looking at Mike with her eyebrows raised.  “Why won’t this door open?  Have you done something to it?”

Mike shook his head.  “I don’t understand it myself.  No one has been able to open it since Frank left.”

“That makes no sense.  What about the other doors?  The ones in the piano lounge?  The exit in the kitchen?”

“All the same.  No one can get out.  We were all waiting for daylight to investigate properly.”

“Well, the sun seems to have forgotten itself today.  We need to sort this out now.”

Mike shrugged.  He knew trying to get the door open would prove useless, but Jessica was his boss and refusing her would raise questions.  He stood before her, awaiting orders.

Jessica glanced around the foyer then back at him.  “Well?  Go and find something to help.  No point standing there like a monkey without his bananas.”

“Of course,” said Mike, fighting off the urge to mock-salute the bitch.  She was almost back to the bossy, unbearable woman she’d been before her husband passed on.  Perhaps she wasn’t the hopeless mess she’d appeared to be lately.  That would make killing her easier if it came to it.  “I’ll go check the kitchen,” he said.  “Maybe we can try and pry the door open with a knife or something.”

“Fine,” said Jessica.  She continued rattling and punching at the door’s handle, growing increasingly frustrated.

Mike entered the main kitchen and instantly felt a chill.  The lack of soft furnishings, in addition to the metallic surfaces and appliances, made the room harsh and cold, but Mike knew that the chill running through his bones had nothing to do with the kitchen.  It had a lot more to do with the fact that Sammie was sitting on the centre island, grinning, while his little legs swung back and forth beneath him.

“Hello, Michael.”

Mike took a step backwards and flinched as his back hit the wall.  “Sammie?  We’ve all been looking for you.”

Sammie smiled knowingly.  “You for different reasons than others, I think.”

“W-what do you mean?”

Sammie hopped off the work counter and planted his dirty, bare feet on the tiled floor.  “I get the impression that you have some sort of interest in me that goes beyond simply being my mother’s chauffeur.”

Mike nodded.  “That’s because you’re a very special boy, Sammie.  Very special.”

“Why, thank you for saying so, Michael.  What a lovely compliment.”

“My pleasure.”

Sammie’s smile grew wider.  “You seem nervous.”

Mike shifted uncomfortably.  “No, not nervous.  Just tiredness.  I’ve been up all night.  You have, too, Sammie.  You should really be in bed.”

“Perhaps.  I seem to have less and less need for sleep recently.”

Mike nodded.  “Sleeping is unnecessary for someone like you.”

“Because I’m special,” Sammie stated.  “I wonder just how special I can be.”

“You have no idea,” said Mike.

Sammie reached over the nearest work surface and slid something long and metallic across the surface.  “Don’t I?”

Mike’s breathing increased as Sammie stepped slowly towards him with a chef knife held out in front of him.  “W-what are you doing, Sammie?”

Another step.  The knife came closer.

“What do you think I’m doing, Michael?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Sammie thrust the knife out at Mike.  Mike yelled, the sound a strangled whimper.  Then Sammie flipped the knife over and presented it, handle-first.  “You came in here for a knife, didn’t you?  To work at the door?”

The air came out of Mike like a deflating balloon.  “Yes!  Yes, I did.”

“You best get back to my mother then.  You know how she can get.”

Mike took the knife and felt a quick spark run through his wrist.  “Of course,” said Mike.  “Whatever you require, I am at your service.”

Sammie giggled like an ordinary child, but continued to speak like a much older soul.  “Excellent.  Then I trust you will not tell my mother you’ve seen me.  This night is endless and I wish to enjoy it a while longer.  The moon is magnificent right now, don’t you think?  I hear it singing to me.”

Mike didn’t know what to say, so he laughed nervously.

“I see nothing funny,” Sammie said in a voice that was both soothing and angry at the same time.  “Leave me in peace, Michael.  Now!”

Michael left Sammie alone in the kitchen, moving as quickly as his feet would carry him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“It’s almost nine-o-clock,” said Angela.

She was now officially freaked-the-fuck-out.  The fact that she was looking out of the bedroom window at a full moon when there should have been a morning sun was enough to frighten her on a primal level.  Human existence relied on certain constants: there would be air to breath, food to eat, and the sun would bloody well rise each morning.  Delete one of those constants and things quickly devolved into chaos.

Tim came and stood beside her at the window.  “This is bad, isn’t it?  Like, horror-movie bad?”

Angela nodded.  Something evil was at work in this house; something powerful and malevolent.  One man was already dead and Angela feared it was only the start of something bigger.  “I need to perform another exorcism,” she said.  “But this time I need to be more…assertive.”

“What do you mean?” Tim asked her.

Angela walked over to her suitcase and pulled out her exorcism kit.  From inside she pulled out a long stiletto-like dagger.  “There’s something called a blood exorcism.  It is something the Church condones only in absolute emergencies – no official records have ever been kept.  There hasn’t been one performed in over seventy years to my knowledge.”

Tim stared at the dagger and swallowed.  “But you know how to do one, right?  One of these blood exorcisms?”

Angela nodded.  She remembered the secrecy order she’d been forced to sign.  She remembered slicing into the flesh of rabbits and guinea pigs as she practised the sacred ritual.  “I learned the Sacrament of Cursed Flesh a long time ago, but I remember everything like I learned it yesterday.  A person doesn’t tend to forget a thing like that.  There’s just one problem, though.”

Tim frowned.  “What?”

“If I perform the Sacrament, there’s a chance Sammie might die.  To banish the demon from his soul, I will have to take him to the brink of death.  That is the only way to weaken the demon’s influence and expel it.”

“Helsinki,” said Tim, swallowing another lump in his throat.

Angela nodded.  “Let’s hope the Lord is with us this day.  We will need His guidance.”

“I think I should probably do some praying of my own.”

“You believe in God, Tim?”

Tim smiled.  “No, I was thinking about praying to my guardian, Thor.”

Angela looked at Tim’s unflinching face and wondered if he were crazy.  Then she said, “That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

Tim laughed.  “Levity is as important as religion at times like this.”

“I agree.”

“So what can I do?  I want to be involved this time.  Let me help.”

“I want you to.  Go to the kitchen and see if you can find any basil.”

“Basil?”

Angela nodded.  “Where basil is, no evil lives.  Sprinkle it in as many rooms as you can, particularly across the thresholds.  It will confine the demon’s influence and weaken it.  If you mix it with Black pepper, even better.”

“Okay,” said Tim, shrugging his shoulders but seeming happy to go along.  “I’m on it.”

He went to walk past Angela but she reached out and grabbed his arm.  She looked him in the eye.  “Be careful.  I don’t want you getting hurt.  If this is going to work then I will need your help.”

Tim raised his fist at her in a gesture of solidarity.  It was a manoeuvre more suited to seven-foot basketball players than a skinny ginger dude, but she appreciated the show of support.  He had her back.

It was time to put a stop to all this.

Angela put on her cassock and smoothed it down with her hands.  She looked in the mirror at her tired face and couldn’t believe how much it had changed in less than a week.  Weariness clung to her cheekbones, but her mind was still strong.  Her will was resolute.  For the first time in a long time, Angela felt like she was doing God’s work again.  It felt good.

She pulled her crucifix from underneath her clothing and let it hang against the jet-black fabric of her cassock.  May Jesus Christ guide me.  May the Lord protect me.  May Heaven watch over my soul as it journeys the righteous path.

She picked up her Bible from where it sat on her bedside table and clutched it close against her breast.  With her other hand, she clutched the ceremonial dagger.  It was made from Damascus steel and etched with the verses of Genesis.

Deliver me, I pray thee.

Angela was ready to do what was needed.  The only thing left to do was find Sammie.  Hopefully before he finds me.

Angela stepped out of the bedroom and took a candle with her.  She felt like Florence Nightingale as she floated down the corridor in her small globe of light.  For a moment she had the strange feeling that the hallway was infinite, stretching on endlessly, but then the stairway appeared on her right and she breathed a sigh of relief.  I’m being paranoid.

She headed down the stairs and could hear the sounds of banging from below.  Eventually she encountered Mike and Jessica on the ground floor.  They were working at getting the front door open.

“Is it still stuck?”  Angela asked as she exited the staircase.

Jessica turned around and gave her a stern look, but gradually forced a polite smile onto her face.  “Morning, Angela.  If you’re looking for Tim, he just headed into the kitchen.  I take it, from what you’re wearing, you intend on staying?”

“If you’ll allow me to.  Not like I can leave, really, anyway.”

Jessica took in a large breath and let it out in an exasperated sigh.  “I‘ll give you that.  I just want to focus on getting this door open before we discuss other matters.”

“Okay,” said Angela.  “Can I help at all?”

“No,” said Mike.  He was brandishing a badly bent chef’s knife in his hand.  “We have everything under control.”

Jessica shrugged.  “I don’t suppose you’ve spotted Sammie anywhere yet?”

Angela shook her head.  “Afraid I’ve been in my bedroom.  Tim and I can look for him now if you wish.”

Jessica nodded, her pointed chin cutting through the air.  “Yes, that would be most helpful.  I’m a bag of nerves with him missing.”

“I understand.”  Acting on the information she’d been given, Angela headed across the foyer towards the kitchens.  There was a good chance that Tim still intended to leave, but at least he had no choice at the moment, not until the doors were open again.  Until then, he would be helping her.

Entering the kitchen, Angela found it empty.  There was a candle burning on the centre work surface and several of the cupboards had been left open.  It certainly appeared that somebody had been there recently, but there was no sign of Tim.

Angela approached the centre work surface and noticed something.  There was something lying on its surface.  She tiptoed towards it, not wanting to risk injury by rushing around in the unlit room.  Almost 20% of accidents occur in the kitchen, she remembered someone telling her once.

As she got closer, the object revealed itself to be a piece of paper.  Angela was just about to pick it up when somebody grabbed her from behind.

She shrieked.

“I’m not sure you want to look at that,” said Tim.

Angela punched him in the arm.  “You sod!  Almost gave me heart attack.  Where were you hiding?”

“I wasn’t hiding.  There’s a meat locker back there.  I smelt something rotten so I checked it out.  Just a bunch of spoiled meat, though.  Nothing omen-y or anything.”

“Okay,” said Angela.  “So what is this thing that I don’t want to look at?”

Tim pointed at the piece of paper on the work surface.  “It’s another one of Sammie’s drawings.  Seems like we might have just missed him.”

Angela frowned.  “What would he have been doing in the kitchen?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders.  “Eating a poptart?”

Angela took the final few steps over to the table and reached for the piece of paper.  She pinched it between her fingers and thumb, then slid it towards her.

“Oh, how delightful,” she said, clearing her throat of the mucus that suddenly rose up to fill it.  “Let’s just hope this isn’t a literal interpretation.”

“You’re telling me,” Tim agreed.

Angela turned the picture in her hands and looked at it from all angles.  It was obvious that the four bodies swinging from the charcoal balcony were supposed to represent Mike, Jessica, Tim, and herself.  All of them hanged by their broken necks and their eyes were gouged out and bleeding.  The detail was immaculate for a child’s crayon drawing.  It was almost as if the colours were dancing on the page and giving life to the flat, waxy images.

“Should we take it as a threat?” Tim queried.

“Definitely,” she said. “But it also means something else.”

“What?”

“If Chamuel is making threats it’s because he’s scared.  He knows we’re coming for him.”

Tim laughed nervously.  “Either that or Sammie is trying to warn us about what will happen if we don’t leave this house.

I guess we’ll find out soon enough, thought Angela as she tore the drawing to pieces.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Angela and Tim joined Jessica and Mike in the foyer.  When they got there it seemed like Jessica had just about given up trying to get the door open.  The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up around the elbows and her sweaty forehead sheened in the moonlight.

Angela decided not to waste any time.  “I want to perform another exorcism.”

Jessica didn’t hesitate.  “No!  Mike told me the last time didn’t do anything.  What would be the point of putting Sammie through such a thing again?”

“There are other rituals I can try.”

“Look,” Jessica said.  “I’ve had a think about it and, while I appreciate that I was the one who asked you both here, I think our business is done.  I don’t believe you can help my son.  In fact, I feel quite silly for having ever asked for your help in the first place.”

“I can still help you,” Angela protested.  “You were right to ask for help.”

“The only help you can be to me right now is by finding Sammie and getting him back to his room safe and sound.  You’ll be paid generously for your time, Ms Murs, but I feel it would be best if you left us at dinnertime.  Mike will have to drive you if Frank hasn’t returned by then.”

Tim stepped forwards and was actually pulling his hair with frustration.  “Are you not seeing what we’re seeing?  There’re a couple of concerns I have with what you’ve just said.  Number one is that Frank left the house going on twelve hours ago and hasn’t returned from a trip that should have taken him no more than an hour or two.  Number two is that your request for us to leave at dinnertime is slightly marred by the fact that no one can get the frickin doors or windows open.  I won’t even go into the fact that, according to that moon out there, lunchtime is still a long way away.”  Tim took a moment to catch his breath, then continued.  “You tried to commit suicide last night, Ms Raymeady, and then you went blind – although only temporarily – and to top it all off, one of your employees is hanging dead out of a hot tub upstairs.”

Jessica gawped at him.  “What?  Who is dead?”

Mike was the one to tell her, although he seemed reluctant to do so.  He skirted over the more gruesome details about how they had found him.

Jessica put her hands against her face.  “Graham is dead?  I don’t believe it.  How?”

“Somebody cut him and he bled to death,” Tim explained.

“Take me to him.  I need to see for myself.  Has anyone called the police yet?”

“I tried,” said Angela, “but the phones are all dead.  As for seeing him yourself, I wouldn’t advise it.  There’s a lot of blood.”

“Try giving birth, Ms Murs.  I can handle blood.”

Nobody was in the mood to argue and Jessica was adamant so they went upstairs.  As they walked the second-floor hallway, there was a brief flickering of the lights.  For a second it seemed like the power might come back on, but it was not to be.  After a brief flash of colour and light, making the bright red of the carpet come back into existence, the darkness returned.

“That sucks,” said Tim.

The door to the spa room had been left open and the tang of chlorine drifted out from the hot tub.  Thankfully the chemical odour overpowered the smell of Graham’s blood.

“He’s in there,” said Mike.

Jessica nodded and passed through the door.  Almost half a minute passed before she returned to them.  “I don’t see anything,” she said irritably.  “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

Angela didn’t understand.  She hurried into the room to take a look for herself.

Graham’s body was gone.

Puddles covered the tiles and there was a slight pinkish hue to the water that suggested the presence of blood, but to a casual observer there were no signs of any murder.  “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said.  “Somebody’s moved the body.”

“Who?” Mike asked.  “I’ve been with Jessica the whole time.  If there’s anybody who could have moved Graham’s body, it’s you and Tim.”

“Hey!” Tim protested.  “There’s no way you’d catch me fondling a naked dead guy.  This isn’t Weekend at Bernie’s.”

“We didn’t move him,” Angela stated firmly.  “Somebody is playing games with us.”

“This whole thing is a game,” said Tim.  “We can’t be sure that we haven’t been played since the very start.”

Jessica folded her arms.  “What exactly are you accusing me of, Mr Golding?  I’d be very careful.  I brought you here in good faith and things have only gotten worse since your arrival.  If anyone is to be suspicious of a ruse, it is me.  This is my home.”

Angela put a hand up in deference.  “Tim doesn’t mean any offence, Jessica.  We’re just as confused – and as frightened – by this whole situation as you are.  You’re right, things have gone from bad to worse since we got here, but I assure you that Tim and I played no part in that.”

Jessica softened up a little, let loose a sigh.  “I just want to know that my son is safe.  Is that too much for a mother to ask?  I just want to know that my Sammie is okay.”

Angela looked left and right.  “Then let’s go find him.”

Somewhere nearby was the sudden sound of voices.

Tim’s face scrunched up in confusion.  “Who the hell is that?”

Jessica was the first to get moving.  Angela and the others hurried after her.

The voices were coming from a couple doors down the hallway.  As Jessica went there, she explained that the room contained a small lounge that was scarcely used.

“Do you think that Frank could be back?” Angela asked, but didn’t actually believe it was a possibility.  Why would he come back and not tell anyone?  Besides, she could hear more than one person’s voice.  In fact, it sounded like there were several.

Jessica turned around and called back to Mike who had fallen several steps behind.  “Michael, open this door.”

Mike nodded and strolled forward.  He seemed in no rush.

“Hurry up,” Jessica shouted.

Mike opened the door and poked his head inside.  Angela held her breath.  The voices inside the room continued and got louder.  There were other noises too.  It almost sounded like…

“Is that a television?” Tim asked.

“I think so,” said Angela, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“But that’s impossible,” said Tim.  “There’s no power.”

Angela stepped into the room and examined her surroundings.  The room was bathed in shadows, just like the rest of the house, but there was a glaring source of light at the far corner.  A television mounted to the wall there was switched on and working.

“Isn’t that…South Park?”

Angela didn’t know the program well, but she recognised it as the same crude cartoon that Sammie had been watching the day he attacked her for switching it off.  What is it with that program?

Jessica called out.  “Sammie, are you in here?”

There was no answer; only the sound of coarse-mouthed cartoon children.  Angela rubbed at her shoulders.  The room was freezing.

“Sammie must have been here recently,” Jessica said.  “We need to find him quick.  Mike, switch that television off.”

“But I don’t even think it’s switched on.  The power is off.”

“Maybe it’s a power surge from the weather or something.  I don’t know, just turn it off.”

Mike scuffled over to the television.  He reached up to press the power button, but paused.  His fingers hovered half-an-inch above the button.

“What is it?” Angela asked.

“I…I don’t know,” said Mike.  He stared into the screen as if he was mesmerised by something.  His face moved closer.  “I thought I could see a…I don’t know…a-”

Something exploded.

The television screen shattered, splintered, exploded in a shower of wicked glass shards.  Mike twisted and fell to the floor, letting out a muffled scream.

Jessica ran over to him.  “Heavens, Mike.  Are you okay?”  She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and ushered him away from the litter of broken glass.

Tim held a candle in his hands and thrust it out to illuminate the scene.  It was clear that Mike was in a bad way.

Tim’s face wrinkled in horror.  “Oh, shitballs.”

Angela had the same reaction.  Mike’s left eye was a jagged red slit, embedded with shards of glass.  Blood ran down his cheek in grisly tears and dripped from his chin.  Despite the horrific injury, Mike did not cry out or scream.  He was calm.

“Jesus, what do we do?” Tim asked.

“I’m fine,” Mike said, trying to open his eyelid.  “I don’t think it got my eye; just the skin.”

After a short bout of fluttering, Mike’s eyelid managed to open and revealed the watery orb beneath.  He’d had a lucky escape.

“Thank Heavens,” Angela said.  “I think your eye is okay.  You should get yourself cleaned up, though.  There’re still bits of glass that could get in there.”

Jessica told them she’d take Mike to the nearest bathroom.  “But you two stay here,” she added.  “I don’t want anyone wandering around.”

Angela folded her arms.  “Fine.”

Tim took a seat on the room’s sofa opposite the broken television.  Angela was shaken-up and decided to join him.

“The weird shit just doesn’t stop around here, does it?” said Tim.

“It certainly doesn’t.”

“Funny, but that’s the third eye injury in this house since we’ve been here – if you count Jessica’s blindness and my experience at the pond – and there was one before too: the gardener or something.”

“What’s your point?”

“Don’t know.  Guess I’m just wondering if there’s any religious significance to eyes.”

Angela thought about it for a moment.  “Well, God sees through all of us, so to injure a person’s eyes is to try and reduce God’s awareness of our sins.  Serial killers sometimes gouge out their victims eyes for the same reason – so that God cannot see their crimes.”

“Hmm, interesting.  Wonder if we’re being sent another message.”

There was a shuffling on the carpet in front of them.  Angela flinched and pulled her feet up onto the couch.

God help me, I’ve dealt with a lot of things in the last forty-eight hours, but if that’s a mouse…

“Look at the glass,” Tim told her.

Angela looked down at the littered shards of the television screen.  The moonlight caught their edges and made them glow.  They were moving.

“Be careful,” Angela said.  “They might fly up at us or something.”

Tim shook his head.  “No.”

Angela looked down at the vibrating shards and watched them slither across the carpet fibres.  They were slowly assembling themselves into separate piles.  Those separate piles were beginning to resemble….

Letters?

Angela glanced at Tim then back at the glass.  “What’s it trying to spell out?”

The glass kept moving.  Eventually the letters formed words.

Help me.

Save me.

Kill me.

Angela looked down at the words and spoke to them aloud.  “Sammie, is that you?  Who is it inside of you?  Is it Charles Crippley?”

The glass shards reshuffled.  No.

“Then who is it?  Chamuel?”

Yes.

“How does Chamuel know me?” Angela asked.  “Jessica sent for me specifically because my name was written in a journal.  Does Chamuel know me?”

Yes.

“How?”

Helped you.

Angela didn’t understand.  “What?  Chamuel helped me?  How?”

Charles Crippley.

“I don’t understand.”

Help me.

Angela shook her head desperately.  “I…I don’t know how.”

Stop the darkness.  Bring back the light.

There was a shriek from outside and the glass shards suddenly scattered in all directions.  The messenger was gone.  Angela still understood nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Tim raced out into the hallway to see what the commotion was.  He knew enough by now to expect nothing but the worst.  This was a house where bad things happened.

“No way this can be happening,” Tim said, as he tried to make sense of what he saw.  Jessica was on her rump, shuffling backwards while Mike was trying to drag her back up onto her feet.  Pursuing them was an abomination – that was the only way Tim could describe it.  An inhuman abomination.

Graham stumbled down the corridor towards them, colliding off the walls and lumbering like a zombie.  In the dim glow of moonlight, the bloody streaks Graham’s hands left on the wallpaper appeared as black smudges.

Impossible.  Graham is dead.  I saw it with my own eyes.

Graham’s neck, twisted around and facing the wrong way, was proof that the man had met a gruesome end, yet his body defiantly eschewed the laws of nature and shambled towards them.

Angel started praying.  “I…I…Jesus Christ, hallowed be thy name…”

Jessica, and even Mike, stood there whimpering.

Tim tried not to piss himself.

Graham continued towards them, his body facing backwards, his head pointing forwards.  His clumsy backwards steps thudded on the carpet while a river of blood pooled behind him.  The wound on his genitals was gaping open like a wet mouth.

“We’re in hell,” gasped Jessica.

Mike dragged her up off the ground and ushered her away.  Tim shook his head in despair.  For the first time in his life, his anger was actually equal to his fear.  As much as he wanted to hit the floor and become a gibbering mess, he also wanted to turn his head upwards and rage at the Heavens.  I am so fucking sick and tired of this place.  First it was House On Haunted Hill – with a little bit of The Exorcist thrown in – but now it’s the goddamn Evil Dead.  When will it end?  “Come on,” he said, grabbing a hold of Angela’s arm and hurrying down the corridor.

Jessica and Mike were up ahead.  Jessica was screaming, once again the emotional mess she’d been when Tim first arrived at the house.

“What happened to him?” Jessica cried.  “You all told me Graham was dead!”

“I think he is,” Tim said bluntly.  “In fact, I’m pretty goddamn certain he is.”

“Then how is he walking around?” Mike asked, huffing and puffing as the group scurried down the dark hallway.  Graham moaned and hissed from the shadows behind them.

“I have no freaking idea,” said Tim.  “But I’m guessing he came back even more unfriendly than before."

Angela skidded to a stop on her heels.  “Tim, did you find any basil earlier in the kitchen?”

“What?”

“The basil?  I sent you to the kitchen to find some.”

“I totally forgot about it,” he reached into his pocket, pulled out a spice jar full of basil and held it out.  “Yeah, I found some.”

Angela took the jar.

Mike scoffed.  “Can we think about the ratatouille later?  We have more important things to worry about.”

Angela sprinkled the basil flakes across the carpet in a line from wall to wall.  There was just enough inside the jar to complete the full length.

“What is that supposed to do?” Mike asked in a tone so mocking that Tim felt like punching him.  He probably would have if the guy weren’t capable of beating him to a pulp.

Angela seemed to ignore Mike’s ignorant tone as she explained.  “Basil has been used for centuries to ward off evil spirits – even the Church itself uses it.  If it works, Graham will not be able to pass.”

“You hear that, Balrog?” Tim shouted into the darkness.  “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Angela shoved everyone back and stood before them, facing down the dark hallway like a sentinel.  Everybody waited behind her in silence.  Tim could hear his own heart beating.

Graham’s moans continued in the shadows.  The noise got louder, closer.

Eventually the shadows parted and Graham appeared.  His head was still twisted around the wrong way but it had started to go limp as the cartilage in his spine weakened.  A viscous meld of fluids dripped from his nose and swung in front of him like a sickening bungee cord.

Angela stood her ground, but Tim couldn’t help but shrink away.  The sight of Graham made his stomach clench in revulsion.  He could feel his heat beat faster as absolute terror took a familiar hold; he and it were well-acquainted, old friends.  “Angela, come on,” he urged.  “Let’s just get out of here.”

Angela ignored him.  She held up a crucifix around her neck and began quoting the Bible – several passages over and over – so fast that she was almost speaking in tongues.  Graham kept coming.  His blood covered everything.  His smell filled the air.  “I sentence you to Hell,” she growled.   “You will approach no further.”

To Tim’s surprise, Graham stopped at the line of basil on the carpet.  It was almost as if there was a string attached to his waist that had just reached its maximum slack.  Angela’s plan is working.

Then Graham reached across the line and grabbed Angela’s throat.

Maybe not.

Angela squirmed and tried to break free, but she was caught in a vice.  Graham’s arms had dislocated from their sockets and rose up behind his back at an unnatural angle.  His bleeding face grinned.

“Help her,” said Jessica.

Tim didn’t move.  Couldn’t move.

He stood and watched as Angela struggled with Graham, watched as her face went red and her eyes began to bulge.  In his mind, Tim saw his brother, the old woman, the hotel room.  His heart froze in his ribcage. His knees turned to cement.

“I said, somebody help her,” Jessica cried out.”

Reluctantly, Mike ran forward.  He barrelled, shoulder-first, into Graham and managed to knock his former colleague back down the corridor.  The fact that Graham’s body was facing the wrong way meant that his legs tangled up and he tumbled to the floor.  Angela was dragged to the floor with him.

Mike raised his boot, brought it down on Graham’s head.  There was a vile crack as hard leather met skull bone.  The blow was enough to make Graham release his grip on Angela.  She scurried away quickly, choking and spluttering.

Mike brought his boot up again.  And again.  Stamping on his former colleague until there was barely anything left of his head but pulp.

Angela clambered to her feet.  Her cassock was twisted and dishevelled.  Tim could see the anger in her eyes as she glared at him.  “Got my back, huh?” she said.

Tim averted his eyes to the floor.  “I’m sorry.”

Angela sighed, took a breath, and some of the anger seemed to leave her face.  “Don’t worry about it.  No harm done.”

“No harm done?” Jessica echoed.  “A member of my staff is dead.”

“I had no choice,” said Mike.

“I know,” said Jessica, shaking her head and grinding her teeth.  “But that doesn’t make the situation any better.  We need to call the police, or go for help, or…something!  I feel like I’m going insane.  I need a drink.”

“I don’t think that will help,” said Angela.

“Right now, it’s the only thing that will help.  Mike, try the phones again.”

“Sure thing.”  Mike took off down the hallway and disappeared.  Tim was uncomfortable to see him go.  He still didn’t trust the guy, didn’t like the thought of him sneaking around, but he also didn’t want Mike to leave in case there was another situation in which he froze.   If Mike hadn’t been here to deal with Graham….  Even after all these years I’m still nothing but a coward.

Angela rubbed at her throat and looked at him.  “The dead are walking, the night is eternal.  I don’t like what’s happening here.”

“Me either,” said Tim.

“No,” said Angela. “I mean that this is more than just possession.  No demon has this kind of power.”

“No poltergeist either,” Tim added.  “So what the hell are we dealing with here?”

“I don’t know.  The Devil?  Or one of the other fallen angels?  Only the princes of Hell themselves could affect the world in this way.”

“You sound like a mad woman,” said Jessica.  “You’re talking utter nonsense.”

“I think the time for scepticism is over,” said Angela.  “It’s clear we’re dealing with ancient evil here.”

“Ancient evil, the Devil, poltergeists – I’m stuck in a somebody’s paranoid delusion.”  Jessica rubbed her palms against her eyes and then looked at them both.  “So…what do we do?”

Angela smiled at Jessica reassuringly.  “We find Sammie, and then you let me perform another exorcism, but this time we go all the way.”

Jessica swallowed.  “What do you mean, all the way?”

“I mean whatever it takes to end this.  We cannot let this evil remain.”

“I won’t let you hurt Sammie.”

Angela shook her head.  “Jessica, sweetheart, your son has already been hurt.  The only chance he has left of living a normal life ever again is for me to take this as far as it needs to go.”

Tears fell from Jessica’s eyes, but despite them she nodded.

Angela patted the woman on her arm.  “There’s one other thing we need to do first.”

Jessica wiped the wetness from her cheeks and straightened up.  “What?”

“We need to find out what Mike is hiding from us.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sitting in the piano lounge, Mike didn’t intend on trying the phones.  He knew they still wouldn’t be working, but he wouldn’t have tried them even if they were.  Mike’s function at the house was as a recruiter. That meant staying around to ensure that his employer’s predictions were correct, that Sammie really was who they were relying on him to be.  Sammie was changing and it was Mike’s job to make sure that the boy knew where his destiny lay.  So why the hell am I being hit in the face by exploding television screens?  I’m here to help the little brat.

His wounded eye stung, but Mike tolerated it.  He’d been cleansed by pain as part of his initiation into the Black Strand – a secret, off-the-books organisation including all of the most powerful individuals from Black Remedy’s numerous sub-divisions.  Mike was just a cog in a very large machine, but he took his membership very seriously.  It was a rare honour bestowed on very few.  Even Joseph Raymeady had known nothing of the Black Strand.  His father and grandfather had been key figures, but they saw weaknesses in Joseph and kept him in the dark.  Joseph’s morals would have only caused the group problems.  Which is why it had posed such problems when Joseph’s father passed away.

With Joseph inheriting controlling interest of Black Remedy, he’d quickly begun an ethical crusade, turning over every one of the company’s rocks to see what lay beneath.  It would have only been a matter of time before Joseph discovered the existence of the Black Strand and their purpose – and the true purpose of Black Remedy Corporation itself.

Joseph had never seen it coming when Mike strung a rope around his neck and hoisted him over the balcony.  The execution had been quick and clean – professional.  Mike’s employers had been pleased.  But where has it gotten me?  I’m beginning to feel like a lamb at slaughter.  Sammie was never meant to be any danger to me, but nearly being blinded disproves that.  Not to mention the never-ending night and Graham getting up and walking around like a member of the living dead.  None of this was supposed to happen.  There’s something I don’t understand.

Mike poured himself a drink from the nearest bottle, which turned out to be rum.  He filled up a low-baller glass halfway and then downed the contents, enjoying the pleasant burn at the back of his throat.

“Drinking is bad for you, Michael.  The body is a temple and it is a sin to defile it.”

Mike jolted, dropped the glass.  It smashed on the floor.  “Sammie, shit, where did you come from?”

Sammie stepped out from the shadows and grinned.  His teeth seemed even more crooked than usual.  “I’ve always been here, Michael.  What are you doing here?  Little early for a drink isn’t it.”

“Usually, yeah, but in case you haven’t noticed the night’s gone on a little longer than usual.”

“Yes, I did notice that.  Beautiful, isn’t it?  Everything seems so much more…intimate…in the dark, don’t you think?”

“If you say so.”

“What’s the matter?  You seem irritated, Michael.”

“Are you surprised?  You almost blinded me earlier.”

Sammie giggled.  “Not me.  My friend.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Michael, making himself another drink.  “You know I’m here to help you, right?”

Sammie tilted his head like a confused puppy.  “Help me with what?”

“Help you realise who you are – what you are.”

Sammie stepped closer.  The shadows seemed to flee from his presence, like antelopes fleeing a lion.  “I don’t know what you mean.  I’m just a boy, nothing else.”

Mike downed another rum he poured into a new glass then laughed bitterly.  “You are far more than that and you know it.  A harmless little boy doesn’t have the power to raise the dead.”

One side of Sammie mouth slid up in a smirk.  “Ssshhh, Michael, it’s a secret.”

“Not from everyone.  There are those – a select few – who know exactly what you are.  They welcome you with open arms.  They are your true family.”

Sammie nodded knowingly.  “My father’s company?”

Mike shook his head.  “No, Sammie, your company.  Tonight you must kill your mother, the Jezebel.  Bathing in her blood will be the mortal sin that awakens your destiny.”

Sammie continued to speak like an innocent child.  Mike found it annoying.  “But if I kill my mommy, who will look after me?”

“Your late father’s business partner, Vincent Black.  He will adopt you.  Together you’ll change the world.  You were born to be great, Sammie.  You just have to accept our help.”

Sammie looked upwards at the ceiling as if to think about it.  Then he looked back at Michael and said, “No, thanks.”

Mike spluttered.  “What?”

“I’m thinking I’ll just take control of the company myself.  I don’t see what Mr Black could offer me that I can’t do for myself.  Perhaps I should kill him instead?  Then I would own the entire company.”

Mike shook his head and approached Sammie from behind the bar.  “No, you don’t understand.  You won’t be in charge until you are eighteen years of age.  In the meantime, Mr Black will teach you about the business and about your destiny while you mature.  You’ll be lost without him.”

Sammie put a fingertip against his chin.  “Perhaps you’re right.  I still have one question, though.”  He stepped closer to Mike, only a few feet away now.  Mike could feel his skin prickling.  “What exactly do I need you for?”

Mike didn’t like where this was going.  The ungrateful little shit was turning on him.  “I have been helping you from the beginning, Sammie.  Watching you and keeping you safe.  I deserve your loyalty.”

“I disagree.  I think Frank is the one who has been keeping me safe since your murdered my father.  Not that he ever really was my father – we both know the truth of that.  Still, I loved the man all the same.  He used to sing me lullabies before bed.  I think I owe him more loyalty than I owe you, Mike, wouldn’t you agree?  And what better way to show loyalty than to avenge his death, by gutting his killer like a sickly little pig that believes himself to be a wolf?”

Mike had heard enough.  The fear was so thick in his veins that his heart was threatening to burst.  He was trapped inside the house and now Sammie wanted to kill him.  There was no choice but to act, and act fast.

He slipped a blade from the holster beneath his belt and thrust it against Sammie’s throat.  The boy stayed calm, but one false move and Mike was ready to slice his fucking throat out.  If it’s between you and me, oh great Messiah, then I choose me

Sammie started giggling.  “Tickles.”

“What on earth is going on?  Sammie?  Mike?”

Jessica and the others had entered the room.  They seemed stunned by what they were seeing.  Mike didn’t blame them.  The game was finally up.  No need to keep pretending.

Sammie continued giggling.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“Mike, what the hell are you doing?” Jessica shouted.

Angela’s stomach acids crashed against the rocks of her abdomen, making her want to vomit.  The sight of a knife against flesh had always set her teeth on edge, ever since that church in Jersey.  Seeing a blade against the throat of a child was even worse, but she knew there would be two sides of the story that was unfolding in front of her.

“Hey, man,” Tim said.  “Maybe we should just put the knives away.  Things never end well when people start brandishing weapons.”

“I’d be inclined to agree,” said Sammie, extremely calm for a child with a blade against his throat.  “Such barbaric actions, Michael.  I’m embarrassed for you.”

Mike grabbed Sammie by the scruff of his neck and got him in a classic hostage-taking chokehold.  He held the malicious-looking combat knife beneath the boy’s left eyeball.  “You just keep your goddamn mouth closed, you little shit.  Maybe I should take your eye out like you tried to do to me.”

Jessica screamed at Mike not to.  Angela wasn’t sure if he was bluffing or had totally lost it.  From the look of his trembling hands and darting glances, it didn’t seem like Mike was in full control of himself.  His usually cool demeanour had slipped away, like a satin sheet pulled from an unveiled painting.  All that that was left was a frantic shell of a man.

“Let’s not do anything hasty,” Angela said.  “We’re all on edge.  You must be upset about Graham’s death.  He was your colleague.  Is that what this is about?  Do you hold Sammie responsible?”

Mike laughed at them.  “He is responsible.  What the fuck do you think’s been going on around here?  Open your eyes, idiots.”

“What do you mean?” Angela asked.

“Wake up,” Mike said.  “This is all because of Sammie.  He’s not a boy.  He’s more than that – so much more.  He is his father’s son, and his father was a great man.”

“You mean Joseph,” said Tim.

Mike cackled.  “No, I do not mean Joseph.  Tell them, Jessica.  Tell them what a whore you are.”

Jessica was distraught.  Whether it was due to Mike’s accusations or because her son was in peril was unclear.  Probably it was both.  “How do you know about that?”  Her voice had become submissive, almost pleading.  “How do you?”

“Mommie?  What is the nasty man talking about?”

“I’m sorry, Sammie.”  Jessica looked broken as she began to explain.  “When I met Joseph I was just a young woman and he was always away at his father’s beck and call.  I was often lonely.”

“I think I see where this is going,” Tim commented.

“I used to go to bars,” Jessica admitted.  “Sometimes I…I used to pick up men and bring them home.”  She wiped a tear from her eye.  “But it was hardly ever.  Once in a blue moon.”

“It was often enough for you to get pregnant by another man,” said Mike spitefully.

“Who was it?” Angela asked.  “Who is Sammie’s real father?”

Jessica took a breath and tried to compose herself.  “Joseph was Sammie’s real father.  He raised my son.  If you mean who was the biological father, then I’m ashamed to admit it was a stranger.”  Jessica had recovered from her emotional shock and now sounded defiant as she spoke.  Obviously she did not appreciate having her dirty laundry spilt.  “I met the man only once.  He was just some charmer with an Irish accent, but I couldn’t resist.  I forget his name now, but he seduced me in minutes and had me in bed before the hour was through.  I fell pregnant and that was the last time I ever cheated on Joseph.  The shame has never left me, though.”

Angela patted her on the back.  “We all commit sin, Jessica.  It’s whether or not we repent that truly matters.”

Mike sniggered.  “Oh, I don’t think you’d be so forgiving if you knew the full story.”

“Let my son go!” Jessica demanded.  She took a step forward and pointed her finger.  “You’re finished, Mike.  By the time I’m through with you, you won’t be able to show your face in public ever again.  You’re lucky I don’t have you killed.”

Mike chuckled.  “Now that sounds more like the Jessica I know.  Black Remedy would be ecstatic to hear you talking like that.”

Jessica stared daggers at him.  “Those days are over.  My husband was dedicated to cleaning up that company, and I am going to finish what he started.”

“Think you might find some opposition there, like from your precious son.  The company will be his one day and you can trust me when I tell you Sammie’s methods are going to differ from yours and Joseph’s.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mike, but you have three seconds to let go of my son before I come over there and rip your face off.”

Mike wrapped his arm tighter around Sammie’s neck and pointed the knife at Jessica.  “You stay back, bitch!”

“What did you call me?”

“I called you a bitch.  The only reason you’re anything is because you sucked off a rich guy good enough that he married you.”

“How dare you!”  Jessica ran at Mike with her fingernails outstretched like claws.

Mike threw Sammie against the bar.  His head cracked against the thick wooden surface. Then Mike readied himself for Jessica’s attack, legs apart, shoulders wide, knife pointed out in front of him.  Their bodies collided in a flurry of limbs. Jessica’s nails swiped furiously at Mike’s face, drawing blood, but Mike just snarled angrily.  “You’re the one who’s finished, bitch!”

Suddenly Jessica’s ferocity diminished and he attack faltered.  Her flailing arms fell to her sides and she stumbled against the bar.  Blood mushroomed through her blouse, emanating from a spot mere inches above her heart.

Angela put both hands over her mouth and struggled to take a breath.

Mike still clutched the combat knife in his hands, but now it was dripping with Jessica’s blood.

Jessica reached out a hand to Angela despite being several feet away.  Angela didn’t know why, but she couldn’t help herself from reaching back to the woman, as if she could somehow stretch her limbs and pull Jessica to her.  But instead, Jessica slumped to the ground, on her side, and bled out on the floor.

Angela stared down at Jessica’s body in disbelief.  “Mike, what have you done?”

“What I needed to.  Now I’m going to end this whole fucking mess.  Screw the Black Strand, screw this house, and most of all, screw this kid.”  Mike wiped the combat knife off on his clothing and then looked at Sammie.  The boy was unconscious on the floor from where he had hit his head on the bar.  Mike strolled over to him and held the knife with the tip pointing downwards.  “Time to die, bastard.”

Angela screamed out, but it was too late.  She would never make it over to Mike in time to keep him from delving the knife into Sammie’s soft torso.  He was going to kill the boy.

Mike raised the knife above his head.

Then he plunged it down hard.

An explosion rang out behind Angela that funnelled in through her ears and filled her skull.  It left her unable to hear anything but ringing.

Mike’s knife fell to the ground, skittering across the tiles.  It never reached its target.  The look on his face was stunned surprise.   A small well of blood formed in the very centre of his chest.  Then another explosion sounded and part of his head disappeared.  His lifeless body tumbled to the floor.

Frank pushed past Angela and made his way across the piano lounge until he was standing right over Mike’s body.  He fired the gun one more time, finishing off what was left of the dead man’s head.

After a few seconds passed, during which time Frank stared silently at the remains of the man he’d just killed, he finally turned around.  Before he said anything, though, he slumped against the nearest table and fell onto his knees.  Frank was hurt, but before he collapsed completely, he was able to say one thing.  “Can’t leave you people alone for a minute.”

CHAPTER THRTY-SEVEN

Angela and Tim managed to prop Frank up on a chair.  He was woozy but still conscious.  Angela placed a hand against his cheek.  It was like a block of ice.  “Frank, what happened to you?”

Frank’s eyelids fluttered.  “Car crash.  I flipped into a ditch.  Got out before the whole thing went up in flames.”

Tim poured him a scotch from a bottle on the table.  “It’s a miracle you’re alive.  How did you get back here?”

“Walked.”

“You walked?” Tim asked incredulously.  “You got up and walked home after flipping your car into a ditch?”

Frank nodded weakly.  “I was…seeing things.  I just started walking.  I didn’t even know where I was going, but somehow I ended up back here.”

“Good thing, too,” Tim said, looking down at Mike’s bloodied corpse.  “You saved the day.”

Frank creased his brow as if he had a headache.  “What the hell was Mike doing?  Why was he trying to hurt Samuel?”

“I don’t know,” Angela admitted truthfully.  “He just lost it.  Stabbed Jessica and was going to do the same to her son.”

Frank’s bloodshot eyes went wide.  “He stabbed Jessica?”  He leapt up from the chair and scanned the darkened room.  When his gaze fell upon Jessica’s body beside the bar, he flung himself down beside her. He cradled her limp form in his arms.  “Jessica!  Jessica, wake up.”

Angela stepped over Mike’s body and crouched down beside Frank.  “She’s gone.  I’m sorry.”

“No, she’s not,” Frank growled.  “We just need to get help.”

Angela put a hand on his shoulder and tried to ease him away, but he was having none of it.  He ignored her like she was a pestering fly.  Tenderly, he placed his hand against Jessica’s cheek.

Jessica’s eyes opened.

She coughed, spluttered.  Flecks of blood spewed out of her mouth.

Frank shuddered visibly with relief.  “Jessica!  Thank God.  We’re going to get you help.  Everything will be fine, I promise.”

Jessica’s eyes were dilated and it was hard to tell exactly what she was seeing – if she was seeing anything at all.  “Frank,” she muttered.  “Is that you?”

“Yes, sweetheart.  It’s me.”

“I can’t feel anything.”

“It’s going to be okay.  We’re going to get help.  Try not to talk.”

Angela knew that no help would get there quick enough.  Jessica might be alive right now, but the seconds were ticking down on her existence.  Angela could already hear the chain stoking of her lungs.  The woman would be dead within minutes.

Jessica’s pupils were like pinpricks as they looked up at Frank.  “F-Frank…listen to me.”  Frank seemed to realise that their time together was short.  He stayed quiet as Jessica spoke her final words to him.  “Promise me you will look after Sammie.  Promise me….”

Frank blinked away tears.  The emotion seemed out of place on his strong, angular face.  “I promise you, Jessica,” he vowed.  “I swear to you that I will always keep him safe.”

There was silence as they all waited for Jessica’s next words, but they never came.  Angela placed her hand back on Frank’s shoulder.  This time he allowed himself to be pulled away.  “I’m sorry, Frank.  She’s in a better place now.”

Frank said nothing.

Angela looked down at Jessica and thought that the woman finally seemed at peace.  Since Angela arrived at the house, Jessica had been deeply troubled.  At least now her troubles were over.

“Hey,” said Tim, breaking the silence.  “How did you get inside the house, Frank?”

Frank shrugged, as if the question was stupid.  “How do you think?  I came in through the front door.”

Angela and Tim looked at one another.  She knew they were both thinking the same thing.  This was their chance to escape.  As much as Angela wanted to stay and help Sammie, right now they needed to reach the authorities.  They couldn’t fail to report the presence of three dead bodies.

“Come on,” said Tim.  “We can finally get out of here.”

Angela didn’t argue.  She and Tim hurried out of the piano lounge and back into the foyer.  Frank stayed behind with Jessica, cradling her in his arms and whispering things that were known only to him and God.

In the foyer, Angela faced an amazing sight: the front door was hanging wide open.  They were finally free of this infernal house.  We can finally get out of here before anybody else is hurt.

Tim grabbed Angela’s arm.  “Come on,” he said.

They sprinted towards the door, the fresh air outside a simple yet irresistible goal.

Angela hadn’t realised how much she’d wanted out of the house until now.  The thought of hurtling down the front steps and onto the driveway felt like a veil of malignant oppression lifting.  She would return to help Sammie, but right now she needed to get the hell out of Raymeady Manor.  They needed to regroup.

Angela picked up speed, her feet cracking down on the marble floor, each step taking her agonisingly closer to freedom.  In only a few seconds she would be outside, breathing fresh air.  Just a few more steps.

Angela reached out for the door just as it slammed shut.  She couldn’t stop her sprint in time and went hurtling into it, bashing one elbow and both her knees against the thick wood.  She bounced back and skidded along the marble on her back.  Tim went over the top of her and they ended up on the floor together.  For a moment the two of them just lay there, stunned.

“What the fuck?” Tim shouted angrily as he struggled back to his feet.  He extended a hand to Angela and helped her back to her feet.  Then he went over to the door.

“It’s sealed again, isn’t it?” Angela said, already knowing the answer.

Tim tried the door handle, rattled it, shook it.  Kicked it, begged it.  He turned around and looked at her, his skin ghostly pale in the moonlight.  “Yeah, it’s locked.  Looks like we’re still stuck here.”

“Too bad Mike is dead.  If there was one person that knew what was going on here it was him.”

Tim nodded.  “He was pretty convinced that Sammie was involved, too, but I guess we’ve already come to that conclusion.”

“He mentioned Joseph not being Sammie’s real father.  You think maybe it has something to do with Black Remedy?  Maybe they killed Joseph and had Mike kill Jessica so that Sammie would inherit the company.  Then they could prove he was illegitimate and take the shares away from him.”

Tim frowned.  “You think this whole thing is just some sort of power play?”

“Maybe.  The whole house could be rigged.  Mike could have been controlling everything that’s happened.  There might not be anything unnatural going on at all.  Maybe we’ve been played.”

Tim seemed to like the idea.  It was no doubt within his usual realms of being a ghost hunter/debunker.  He latched onto the idea and ran with it.  “Yeah, and the front door could be on electronically controlled hinges.  It’s being held shut mechanically.  After what we’ve seen here, I have to admit that the supernatural is a possibility, but I’m still happier to look for the rational explanation and this seems like it.  I bet that arsehole, Graham, was in on the whole thing, too, as Mike’s partner.  Don’t ask me where he got the whole backwards man costume from, but enough money can get you anything.  But that doesn’t explain the Ouija board or the glass shards making messages in the TV room.  Also, what part are we supposed to play in all this?  Why do we need to be here if the plan was just to eliminate Sammie’s parents?”

“That wasn’t part of the plan.  Jessica called us because she didn’t know what was going on, and now we’re just stuck in the middle.”

“Or,” Angela said, “we’re here as witnesses; a cover story.”

“So you think this Chamuel is just a fabrication?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t know what nonsense you two are talking about,” said Frank as he entered the foyer, “but you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Oh,” said Tim.  “What is that?

“What’s wrong with Sammie?  If you’re suggesting that a ten year old boy is part of a conspiracy to kill his parents then you’re both crazier than I thought.  I know this family.  Joseph offered me a job when I was at a low point, just about ready to throw in the towel.  I have dedicated my life to this family since then.  I know them.  Whatever made Sammie ill, made him change like he has, is not down to a conspiracy.  You were brought here to help Jessica’s son and that is exactly what you are going to do.  I promised I would look after him, to keep him safe.  I intend to do just that.”

Angela was as confused as ever.  Is there evil in this house, or is it just the machinations of evil men?  The only thing she held confidence in was that Sammie was just an innocent boy.  An innocent boy who needs rescuing.  “Okay,” she said, adjusting her dog collar.  “Let’s figure this thing out once and for all.  It’s time for another exorcism.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“What exactly are you intending to do?” Frank asked Angela in the piano lounge.  Tim had carried Sammie out into the foyer while they talked.  “Haven’t you already tried this?”

“No,” said Angela.  “In fact I have never tried this.  A blood exorcism is very dangerous, but it’s the only option left.  If we are all in agreement that Sammie is…I’m just going to say the word, possessed…then this is what I have to do.  The entity inside of him – this Chamuel – was too powerful to expel with the normal Rite of Exorcism.  We have to go deeper.”

Frank crossed his arms.  “Deeper?  I don’t like the sound of that.  I won’t allow you to harm Samuel.”

“Please understand,” said Angela, “that my only intention is to help Sammie.  I am not in the business of hurting people unnecessarily.”

“It’s when it is necessary that worries me,” said Frank.

Angela looked at the man and actually felt sorry for him.  Despite his strength and abilities, his job to protect the Raymeady family had been a complete failure.  It was obvious that the burden weighed heavily on his soul.  “Look, Frank,” she said.  “I want to see Sammie healthy again, a normal little boy.  I want exactly the same as you.  Let me do what I need to do, okay?”

Frank swallowed a lump in his throat and looked down at the floor.  “Fine.  Just help him.  I can’t take any more of this.”

Angela went over to Frank and took his hand in hers.  She looked him in the eye.  “We’re going to sort this, Frank, I promise you.  Let’s get Sammie back to his room and we’ll get set up.”

Frank nodded.

Angela left the piano bar and the dead bodies of Mike and Jessica, and re-joined Tim in the foyer.  He had taken Sammie out with him, away from the bloodshed, but it was clear he was uncomfortable being alone with the child. He was visibly relieved to see Angela and Frank.

“Everything okay out here?” she asked him.

Tim shot a sideways glance at Sammie, who was awake again and stood staring out of a nearby window, humming a quiet tune.  “As well as can be expected.  Kid’s just been standing there staring out at the moon.  Hasn’t said a single word, just humming that creepy song.”

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Angela said.  “It’s what was playing on the piano just before we found Graham.”

“Joseph used to sing it to the Samuel,” Frank explained.  “I’ve heard him humming it many times before.”

“Think it means anything?” Tim asked.

Angela answered.  “Probably that he misses his father.  Perhaps it’s his way of finding comfort.”

“Come on,” said Frank.  “Let’s get him back to his bed.”

Angela stepped over to Sammie at the window and placed a hand on the clammy flesh of his bare shoulder.  She looked out the window and saw what the boy saw: a black and featureless night broken only by the ethereal glow of the moon and stars that shouldn’t be there.  Twinkle twinkle little star…

Sammie broke from his staring and peered up at Angela innocently.  “You know, some people say that the stars are angels in Heaven and that a shooting star is an angel falling from grace.”

“You mean like Lucifer?” Angela asked.

“Who is that?” Sammie asked.

Angela expected that the boy knew full well who Lucifer was, but she decided to play along with his ignorance.  “According to the Bible, Lucifer is the Devil.  He waged war against Heaven and was cast out for his sins.”

“Why didn’t God forgive him?”

Angela looked at Sammie and saw that his expression was earnest.  “Well,” she said, “would you forgive someone who tried to destroy everything?”

“But I’m not God,” Sammie explained.  “I thought God was supposed to forgive?”

“He does forgive, Sammie.  He forgives all the time.”

“When it suits him, it seems.  Sounds like your God is a hypocrite, Angela.”

“No one is perfect, Sammie.  It is overcoming our flaws that makes our existence worthwhile.”

“Do you think God forgives you?”  Sammie drilled into her with coal-black eyes.

“Forgive me for what?”

“For licking cunt.  You’re no better than the catamites; a perversion of God’s creation.”

Angela fought the sudden urge to slap the child.  She was not prone to violence, but the feeling of anger that came over her almost took control.  Instead, she cleared her throat and counted to three in her head.  “I don’t think you understand the things you’re saying, Sammie.  One day, when you’re all grown up, you will see that people are very diverse.  We all follow our own paths and worship God in our own ways.  You don’t have the right to judge anyone.”

“Don’t worry,” Sammie said.  “I’m not judging you.  That is not my place.  You’ll be judged in the next life.”

Angela felt a chill down her spine and tried to ignore it.  “Let’s get you back to bed, Sammie.  You must be tired.”

Sammie allowed Angela to take his hand.  Along with Tim and Frank, they all made their way upstairs.  Sammie continued humming and swung his hand back and forth gleefully.  Angela had to fight to hold on to it.

Tim asked a question as they traversed the staircase.  “So, Frank?  Did you have any idea that Mike was working against the Raymeady family this whole time?”

Frank growled like an antagonised pit bull.  “What do you think?  I would have killed that Judas sooner if I’d known.  It’s obvious to me now that Joseph knew there was a traitor in his midst, but he never found out quick enough to save his own life.”

“Joseph trusted you, though,” Tim said.  “There was an email on his computer from some investigation agency.  Apparently the only member of staff that Joseph trusted for sure was you.”

Frank’s eyes flickered for a moment and his head lowered to the ground.  “That only makes it all the worse that I failed to protect him.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Frank,” Sammie chimed in.  “I’m sure if he could send you a message somehow, dad would forgive you.  You did take care of mom when he died, after all.”

Frank’s head shot up and he scowled at the boy.  It was the first time Angela had seen the man show anything but concern towards Sammie.  He said nothing, though, and eventually looked away.

“You okay, Frank?” Angela asked.

Frank nodded.

Eventually they reached Sammie’s room.  Tim stepped forward to open the door and the stink of sweat hit them as soon as they entered the room.  Angela felt the walls close in on her immediately.  She had begun to hate the child’s room.  It was a lair, a den of evil.

“Could you get into bed for me, please, Sammie?” she asked.  “The adults need to talk alone for a moment.”

Sammie did as he was told but had a sly grin on his face while he did it.  Angela took Tim and Frank aside held a whispered conversation with them.  “I need to get some of my things and prepare,” she said.  “Are you two okay to stay here with Sammie while I go get them?”  Frank nodded, but Tim seemed less sure.  “Everything is going to be alright, Tim,” she assured him.  “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Five minutes is all it takes for things to go Amityville around here,” he said.  “But you do what you got to do.  If I could get my ass out of here, I would, but seeing as that isn’t an option, I’d rather be here with Harrison Ford than anybody else.”

Frank grumbled.

“Okay,” Angela said.  “If I’m not back in ten minutes…” she trailed off.  “Well, I would say call the police, but I guess the only thing you can do is start praying.”

Angela left the room and went to get what she needed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Tim lit up as many candles as he could find.  It was obvious that power cuts were regular because every room in the house was well stocked with candles, but this particular power cut had nothing to do with the National Grid, and Tim had a sickening feeling that by the time the electricity finally did return, more people would be dead.  I just hope I’m not one of them.

He took a hard look at Frank.  The strong, grey-haired man now seemed weak and weary, standing over Sammie with almost fatherly concern.  Of all the tragedies that had befallen the house, they had clearly hurt Frank worst of all.  The man had obviously loved Jessica, and most probably her late husband, too.  Sammie’s safety was now the only concern left to him – and even that was a lost cause as far as Tim was concerned.

“How you holding up?” he asked Frank.

Frank looked up at him and offered a thin smile.  “Still can’t say I trust either one of you, but I’m not going to kid myself any longer by saying things weren’t already bad before you got here.  I’ve failed to protect Joseph’s family, so I think it’s time somebody else took over.  I just hope that whatever Ms Murs is planning does some good.  I’ve seen enough death to last me a thousand lifetimes – my days in the army were bad enough – but I can honestly take no more.”

“You were a soldier?” Tim asked.  “That figures.”

“What figures?”

“Why you’re so bloody intimidating.  You’ve killed men, haven’t you?  That type of thing clings to a man – colours his soul.  Not everyone can sense it, but I can; you reek of death.”

Frank seemed far off for a moment, as if his mind was someplace else.   “You’re right, I’ve killed men, women too.  I was a soldier.  It was my job.”

“Still,” said Tim.  “Job or no job, it’s never easy to know people are dead because of you.”

“What would you know about it,” Frank snapped.

Tim sighed.  “More than you’d think.  At least when you took lives you were a hero and not a coward.”

Frank softened for a moment, but then shook his head and resumed his anger.  “If you’re looking for a therapist I can recommend one, but please spare me your catharsis.”

Tim put his hands up.  “Fair enough.  Guess I was just trying to pass the time.  I blabber when I’m nervous and right now I’m so nervous I could shit my pants.”

“Well, I hope you can restrain yourself,” said Frank.

“So…” Tim continued, deciding to change the subject. “What really happened to you on the road?  You were gone a long time, hombre.”

Frank sighed and rolled his eyes.  “To be honest with you, I don’t know what happened on the road.  I do know one thing, though: something wanted me dead and it used Joseph’s memory to try and make it happen.”

“And let me guess,” said Tim.  “That was a BIG mistake?”

Frank sneered, but it wasn’t aimed at Tim.  “The biggest.”

Tim ran his hand over the top of a nearby candle and let the kiss of heat against his palm remind him that he was awake, not dreaming.  Then he scratched at the ginger stubble on his chin and whispered something to Frank so that Sammie could not hear.  “What are you going to do when all this is over?”

Frank shrugged.  Tim didn’t think the guy really cared about what happened to him, but he’d asked the question now, so he waited for an answer.

“I don’t know,” Frank eventually said.  “I expect I’ll be arrested.”

“Probably,” said Tim.  “But don’t worry, Angela and I will tell the police what happened.  You were just saving Sammie’s life from the crazy mamajama who had just killed his mother.  You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I doubt they’ll take much pity on me.  Britain’s richest woman is dead and her son is now an orphan.  They’ll want to send someone down for it and a dead killer won’t be enough for them.  Someone will need to suffer to appease their need for justice.”

Tim had a thought.  “Hey, do you know who Sammie’s real father is?”

Frank shook his head.  “No.  Jessica confided in me once that Joseph wasn’t Sammie’s biological father, but that was after her husband’s death.  She felt guilty and wanted to confess, I think.”

“Makes you wonder, though” said Tim.  “Maybe his real father was more than just some stranger.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” said Frank.  “But let’s not discuss a dead lady’s secrets.  It’s disrespectful.”

Tim understood and decided to leave it.  The more he learned about Frank, the more he realised the guy was just another confused victim.  There wasn’t anything the man was hiding.  At least nothing that’s any of my business.  The man was straight as an arrow – perhaps the only person who was.

Tim went and took a seat at Sammie’s drawing desk, swivelling around so that he was directly facing the boy in his bed.  The last thing he was willing to do was sit with his back to Sammie.  Angela seemed to have faith that she could save the kid from whatever ancient demon Chamuel represented – if that was in fact the dealio - but Tim wasn’t expecting things to end well.  Regardless of whether or not Sammie was possessed, one thing was for the sure:

The kid is dangerous.

CHAPTER FORTY

Angela had lied when she’d said she needed to get some things.  She had all the things she needed: her Bible, her faith, and the ceremonial dagger to be used in the blood ritual.  The real reason she had left the two men alone with Sammie was that she needed a few moments to prepare herself mentally.  After all the death and bloodshed, Angela’s resolve had wavered.  She was ashamed to say it, but she was afraid.  She didn’t know if God’s protection could penetrate the malevolence that had afflicted the Raymeady family.  She felt like she was in a snake’s pit about to be eaten.

When she had left Sammie’s room she headed back down the grand staircase.  She now stood inside the piano lounge, trying to ignore the stench of blood.  Jessica still lay on the floor, her body twisted, face staring blankly up at the ceiling.  Angela reached down and dragged the woman’s legs so that they both pointed straight.  Then she positioned Jessica’s arms over her chest and closed her eyes.  Safe journey, Ms Raymeady.

Angela knelt beside Jessica’s body and closed her own eyes, clasped her hands together in prayer.

“May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

The old Gaelic blessing that Angela had learned as a child was not the typical way to bless a soul’s passing, but it seemed like something Jessica would have liked.  It made Angela feel better knowing that something had been said to mark the woman's passing.  Now I just need to say a prayer for myself.  She thought that Bon Jovi said it best:

We’ve got to hold on ready or not.

You live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got.

Angela sung the next line out loud like a war cry, “Wooah, living on a prayer,” and then went to leave the room.  She was ready, she was pumped, but once she’d taken a few steps, she stopped.

Mike lay face up on the ground where they had left him.  Angela looked down at him and wondered what had led him down the path he’d chosen.  Mike had killed Jessica, yes, but he had seemed afraid, even panicked.  Whatever his sins, he was a human being that had his own reasons for what he’d done.  Angela knelt down beside him and blessed his passing.  “I am the resurrection and the life.  He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; says the Lord.”

Mike’s eyes snapped open.  “Angela!”

Angela fell backwards onto her hands.  A jolt of agony shot up her wrist.  Mike lifted his crooked face and glared at her.  He was alive.  No.  No, he’s dead.

Mike’s swollen eyes were rolled back in his head, showing only the bloodshot whites.  His ruined mouth worked silently as if it were being operated by gears and cogs.  Looking closely at the man, Angela knew without a doubt that he was definitely dead.  Yet he was sat up and talking to her.

In a raspy voice he said, “Time is running out.  Hisss power is growing.  You must ssslay the beassst.”

Angela stared at Mike’s body, sickened to see his human flesh being manipulated like a puppet.  “The beast?  How do I slay the beast?”

Mike’s eye sockets began to bleed and his lips twitched and contorted.  “You mussst separate the beassst from the purity.”

Angela nodded.  “I know.  I’m going to perform an exorcism right now.”  She couldn’t believe she was having a conversation with a dead man, but she knew it wasn’t Mike inside.  “Who are you?”

Mike’s teeth began to fall from his mouth, one at a time, plinking on the tiles like notes on a xylophone.  His entire face was gradually crumbling to pieces.  “You mussst ssslay the beassst.  Exorcisssm…not enough….”

Mike’s lower jaw hung down low and then dislocated from his head.  It fell to the floor with a clunk!  His body collapsed face down on the floor.

Angela sighed.  Guess that’s the end of the conversation.

What exactly had the message meant, and who had given it to her?  Was it Sammie, Chamuel, or somebody else?  The conversation had given Angela more questions than answers, but one part of it gave her cause for concern: Exorcism…not enough.  Whatever that meant, it indicated that there were more trials ahead of her than she’d expected.  She would still go ahead as planned, though, for she had no other plan.  The only instruction she had been given was to ‘separate the beast from the innocent.’  That sounded like an exorcism as far as she was concerned, so that was what she was going to do.

Angela clutched the ceremonial dagger beneath her cassock and dragged herself up off the floor.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Tim jumped out of his skin when Angela arrived back at Sammie’s room.  It wasn’t because she had opened the door so forcefully; it was more because his nerves were so taut that a fly on a windowpane would have been enough to make him flinch.  It was the effect of being around Sammie; the impossibility of feeling anything close to calm, safe, or in control.

“Everything been okay in here?” Angela asked as she marched confidently into the room.

“Yeah, nobody died, if that’s what you mean?” Tim didn’t mean it humorously.

Angela gave him a reassuring smile and it actually succeeded in putting his mind a little at ease.  Something about Angela’s current manner gave Tim hope that things might just work out okay. As much as Tim expected the worst, Angela seemed to expect the best.

“Did you get everything you needed?” Tim asked her.

“Yes.  We should begin.”

Tim swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded.  “Ready when you are.  Just let me know what you need.”

“I need you to be vigilant,” she said.  “Do not touch Sammie, do not speak to Sammie, and whatever happens you must not interfere.”  She looked at Frank specifically when she gave the last order.

Frank sighed, but gave a nod of compliance.

“Okay, then.  Let’s begin.  I’ll start by talking to Sammie.  I need to try and learn as much about the entity inside of him as I can.  Knowledge will be power if a battle of wills ensues.”

Tim wanted to get himself into the habit of remaining silent so he made no reply.  He simply smiled; a gesture of solidarity for Angela that he was there if she needed him.  Frank was standing beside Tim and gave no such gesture himself, but it seemed that he was at least onboard for the time being.

Angela pulled the chair away from the drawing desk and dragged it up beside Sammie’s bed.  She plonked herself down on it and leant forward.  “Sammie,” she said quietly.  “What is your favourite thing?”

Sammie looked at her, grinned, and immediately said, “South Park.”

“Why?  Why do you like South Park?”

“Because it shows me what the world is like.”

Angela frowned.  “I don’t think so.  South Park is a cartoon.  It’s not real life.”

“I disagree.  It is real life.  Prejudice, sex, drugs, violence; it is all happening behind every closed door, yet I am stuck here unable to experience anything of life.  South Park is all I have.”

“Does that make you angry, Sammie?  That you don’t get to leave the house?  Do you enjoy seeing the worst in people on your program?”

“No, Angela, I am not angry.  My time to see things first hand will come.  Until then, it appears I am not the only one who cannot leave this house.”

“Is it you that’s keeping us trapped inside, Sammie?”

“No.”

Tim shook his head in the background.  Lying little shit.  He’s still trying to play us.

Angela continued.  “Okay, then.  You know, if we could get out of here, we could go get help.  Your mother has been hurt.”

“My mother had been killed,” Sammie corrected her bluntly.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Sad, of course.  She was my mummy.  I loved her.”

Tim couldn’t believe how much the boy’s voice lacked conviction.  It was as if he were reading the words from a script.  How To Behave Like A Ten Year Old Boy 101.  Tim forgot his promise not to say anything.  He couldn’t help himself.  “What do you want Sammie, or Chamuel, or whoever I’m speaking to?  Everyone around you is dead, and to me it sounds like you don’t even care.  What is it you’re trying to achieve?”

Sammie giggled.  “I’m just trying to grow up.”

Angela shot a scowl at Tim before returning her focus back to Sammie.  “Why do you want to grow up, Sammie?  You’re just a boy.”

“But I’m going to be so much more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Sammie shrugged his bony shoulders.  “Haven’t you heard?  I now control Black Remedy Corporation.  I even own the house you’re standing in.”

Tim couldn’t help himself again.  “Sammie, you mother isn’t even cold yet and you’re talking about your inheritance.”

Angela shot him another scornful look but he didn’t care.  He was tired of acting like the kid in front of him wasn’t responsible for everything that had happened – all of the death.

Sammie looked pitiful.  “Why are you so angry with me, Tim?”  Then his expression transformed into one of contempt.  “Is it because you’re a coward and taking out your rage on a young boy is all you’re capable of?”

“You know nothing about me.”  Tim felt himself spit the word.  “Nothing!”

“We’ll see,” said Sammie.  “I’m sure there’ll be another opportunity to prove your lack of courage.”

Tim took a step forward, but Frank placed a hand against his chest.

“Enough of this,” Angela scolded.  “I told you to be quiet, Tim.”

Sammie grinned.  “Yes, Tim.  Do as the lesbian tells you.”

Tim bit his lip.  He was doing exactly what he meant not to do.  He was letting Sammie get to him, get inside his head.  Take a breath.  Calm down.  Keep your eye on the ball.

Tim stepped away until his back was against the wall.  He leaned against it and folded his arms.  “Just get on with it,” he said to Angela.  “I’m starting to get bored.”

Angela sighed and turned back to the boy in his bed.  “Sammie?  I’m going to ask you something and you’re not going to like it, but if you agree to it then everything will be a lot safer for everybody.”

Sammie raised an eyebrow and actually seemed concerned.  “What?”

“I want to tie you down to the bed.  It will be for your own good.”

“No.”

“Sammie….”

“I said no.  Nobody is touching me.”

Angela looked at Frank who was staring right back at her.  Tim could see that the man did not approve.  “What are you playing at?” he asked.

“I need to make sure Sammie is secure before I get started.  It may get very physical and I don’t want him hurting himself, or us.”

“Nobody is touching me,” Sammie said again more loudly than before.

“Frank, we need to do this.  I can’t do it without your help.”

Frank shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with his palms.  “Okay,” he said.  “Hold him down.”

Angela looked at Tim and he knew what she was asking of him.  He shook his head and cursed under his breath.  “Okay, let’s get it over with.”

Tim took the left side of Sammie’s bed while Angela took the right side.  In unison they grabbed each of Sammie’s arms.  The boy screamed and thrashed back and forth like a beached shark.  His bony, bruised legs kicked out at them viciously.

“Keep hold of him,” said Frank, who had rushed over to the room’s bay window.  He was reaching for the ties that kept the curtains open.

“Hurry up,” Tim huffed.  “This kid is stronger than he looks.”

Sammie screeched louder. Thick wads of spittle flew from his gnashing teeth.  Tim struggled to hold onto his sweat-drenched arm.  It seemed like Angela, too, was close to letting go.

Frank came running over with the curtains ties and quickly wrapped one around the arm that Angela was wrestling with.  He managed to yank Sammie’s left arm towards the bed post and tie a double knot in the thick curtain cord.  Just as he managed to get the one arm secured, though, Tim’s grip finally gave out and Sammie broke free.

Sammie twisted his body towards Tim and lashed out with his teeth.  His jaws clamped down on Tim’s hand.

“Fuck!  Get him off me!”  The crushing force on Tim’s hand was like a tightening vice.  He felt the bones threaten to crack and splinter beneath his tearing flesh.  The pain was so intense that it flittered rapidly between numbness and full blown agony as his nervous system tried to cope.

Frank leapt up onto the bed and straddled Sammie’s waist.  He clutched at the boy’s shoulder and tried to pull him away from Tim, but his teeth held tight and the agony in Tim’s hand continued.  “He’s like a bloody pitbull.  Jesus Christ!”

Sammie opened his mouth and spat blood into Tim’s face.  “Blasphemer!”

Frank took advantage of the opportunity and quickly got the remaining curtain tie around Sammie’s right wrist.  Tim joined in by holding the boy’s wrist down against the bedpost.  Between them they eventually got Sammie secured to the bed, albeit with his untethered legs kicking and thrusting like pistons.

Tim staggered backwards, clutching his hand.  The skin was shorn from his knuckles and blood dripped onto the carpet like the ticking of a clock.  The gash was deep and the bones in his hand ached – but he would be okay.  The wound was superficial.

Sammie glowered at Frank, who had climbed down off the bed.  Blood coated the boy’s teeth and shone in the darkness, making his lips shimmer with dull red.  He struggled against his bonds, but it did no good.  The curtain ties held him tightly.

Sammie shook his head and his eyes suddenly seemed innocent and tender.  “How could you, Frank?  My father trusted you.  You’re supposed to look after me.  That’s your job.”

Frank was panting.  “It’s more than just my job, Samuel, and it’s exactly what I am doing.  I’m trying to help you.  You’re a sick boy.”

“The only sicko around here is you.  How long have you been fucking my mother?  Was my father still fresh in the ground?”

Frank looked pained.  “I loved your father, Sammie, and I loved your mother, too.  I never did anything but look out for the both of them.”

Sammie cackled.  “Good job.”

The comment seemed to be all Frank could take and he turned away.  Tim knew how he felt.  Sammie had a knack of getting inside people’s heads.  Somehow, hearing your truths laid bare by a child was worse than admitting them yourself.

Angela tried to regain control.  “Sammie, it’s important that you listen to me until this is over, okay?”

“Choke and die, cunt!” he spat phlegm at her.  The thick brown wad shimmered against the jet fabric of her cassock.

“Nobody else is dying,” Angela told him forcefully, ignoring the mess on her clothing.  “The evil in this house is impotent.  Nobody else in this house will be harmed.  Do you understand me?”

Sammie cackled again.  “You fools.  You weak, pathetic fools.  All will die tonight at my merest whim.  You will suffer last, priest, so that you can see what you have reaped upon these poor souls.  The blood of this house will be on your hands.  My rebirth will be christened by your flesh.  Your guts will spill, your soul will bur-”

“Quiet!” Angela demanded.  To Tim’s surprise, Sammie shut up.  He stopped talking and glared at her with his oil-slick eyes.  Satisfied, Angela continued.  “I demand you leave this child immediately, or suffer the consequences.”

Sammie’s voice dropped several octaves.  It boomed at them like a drum.  “I mock your consequences.  I shall be judged by no one, for I am above judgment.  You will all cower.  You will all obey.  You will kneel.  Or you will die.  Those are your consequences, priest.”

“I do not fear you,” Angela said.  “You are weak.  I pity your weakness in the shadow of my almighty Lord.  It is you who shall kneel before Him.”

Sammie laughed, a great, booming laugh.

Angela chose that moment to slip something out from under her cassock.  Tim saw it glint in the candle-light as it appeared.  It was the ceremonial dagger, long and slender.  Sammie’s eyes went wide at the sight of it.

“Whoa!” Tim said, wishing he’d asked more questions earlier.  “Is it really a good time to get all knifey?”

Angela didn’t look at Tim but answered his question anyway.  “We must draw blood.  It is the only way to weaken the hold the evil has on the boy.”

Tim didn’t like the tone of her voice.  It was flat and emotionless, as if she had cleared her mind of all compassion in order to do what was necessary.

“I can’t allow that,” said Frank.  “It’s…it’s not right.”

“This has to happen, Frank.  We go all the way, or we lose.”

Frank seemed in two minds.  “What do you plan on doing?”

“She should shove it up her twat!” Sammie bellowed, still struggling to get free from his bonds.  It was then that Tim realised the boy was urinating on his sheets, letting loose a steady stream that mushroomed through the fabric.

Angela held the dagger out in front of her.   “For the boy’s soul to be cleansed, he must suffer the wounds of Christ.  His suffering will bring him closer to God, to a place where evil cannot follow.  His mind will return to us, free of the corruption that has been threatening to destroy it.”

“We could go to prison for this,” said Tim.  He was thinking more and more about retrying the front door to the house.  He wanted out of there bad, before things went too far.

“We’re probably already on our way there,” said Frank.  “God help me!  Just do it.”

Tim was shocked.  Something in Frank had snapped.  He clearly believed in what Angela was doing and had lost the rationality to see the danger of what they were doing.  Tim thought the notion of cutting a ten year old boy with an antique dagger was insane. What he couldn’t decide on for sure, though, was if he truly did have reservations, or if he was just afraid.  I can’t think clearly.  Things are too crazy.

As it turned out, Angela didn’t wait for anybody’s permission.  She approached Sammie with the knife.

“Get away from me, dyke!” Sammie bellowed.

Angela hopped up onto the bed and straddled Sammie’s waist in the same way Frank had earlier.  She held the dagger above her head as if she were about to plunge it deep into the boy’s chest.  Tim held his breath as he wondered if that was exactly what was about to happen.  Sammie bucked and twisted beneath Angela’s weight, trying to escape her.

“The Lord demands you repent your sins,” she screamed.  “Demon, do you repent?”

“Fuck you!”  Sammie spat what looked like two bloody molars at her face.  Mucus shot forth from his lips and spattered her chest.  It did not deter her.

Angela plunged the knife and drew it across Sammie’s forehead with a vicious flick of her wrist.  The blood flowed quickly.  It descended upon Sammie’s face in a gushing wave until he was completely covered by a crimson mask.

“Do you repent?” Angela repeated.  “Demon, do you repent?”

Sammie’s dark eyes scowled at her through the veil of blood.  “I…repent…nothing.”

“Then you will suffer.”

Angela drove the dagger down into Sammie’s left hand, plunging all the way through and out the other side.  The boy’s screams were animalistic, inhuman, and also that of a ten year old boy.  The noise was sickening.

“Stop!” Tim shouted, unable to take any more.

Angela ignored his pleas and also those of the screaming child beneath her.  She pulled free the dagger from Sammie’s hand, blood spitting into the air, and drove it down again.  This time the blade pierced Sammie’s right hand.

Tim had seen enough.  He rushed forward and grabbed Angela around the waist, threw her off the bed to the floor.  She looked up at him in anger and surprise.  The bloody dagger dripped in her hand.

“This has to stop!” Tim shouted.

Before Angela could get back up, he grabbed one of Sammie’s wrists and quickly untied the bond.  He was about to reach over and untie the other one, but Frank stopped.  “Calm down!” the man shouted at him.

Tim looked at Frank incredulously.  “Calm down?  Calm down?  This is insane.”

“How can you deny what you’ve seen?” Angela asked Tim as she dusted herself off.  “Have you forgotten the pain in your hand where he bit into you like an animal?  Have you forgotten the death and destruction you have seen in this house?”

Tim huffed.  “Mike and Jessica were both killed by other people.  There was no evil involved.”

“So you deny that there is anything happening here?” Angela’s expression was one of disbelief.

Tim grabbed a clump of his own hair and cursed at the ceiling.  “Shitballs, motherfucking dogpiss.  I know there is something going on here.  Christ, of course I know that.  I just don’t think this is right at all.  Whatever is going on, Sammie is still just a child.  We can’t…we can’t torture him like an animal.  Hell, I don’t even believe you can torture an animal like this.”

Something moved in the shadows.

Sammie leapt from his bed and ploughed into Angela, who fell backwards into Frank.  The two of them hit the floor with a thump, as Tim stood there, stunned.  Sammie was crouched on the floor like a feral beast, glaring up at him with baleful eyes.  The wounds on his hands and forehead were no longer bleeding, yet were puckered like the sliced flesh of frozen poultry.

“You should have stuck me like a pig while you had the chance.”  Sammie was sneering at them all.  “Now you die instead.”

Sammie struck out at Tim, tearing a thick sliver of skin from his cheek.  Then he sprinted away, yanking open the bedroom door and disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

Sammie, and whatever was inside of him, was loose inside the maze of the house, and Tim couldn’t help but feel like a lab rat, involved in something far bigger than he could comprehend.  I really want out of this house.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“Sammie, you come back here!” Frank shouted into the darkness of the hallway.  Angela placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.  The last thing she wanted was for Frank to disappear into the shadows of the house too.

“He’s not going to come back on his own,” she said.  “We need to go find him.”

“Yeah,” said Tim.  “Before he finds us.”

Angela sighed.  She liked Tim – even trusted him – but she was beginning to see that he was no good under pressure.  Some people saw problems while others saw solutions.  Tim was the former and it made him difficult to rely on.  You’d think a professional ghost hunter would be a little braver.

“So what’s the plan?” Frank asked.

“We go after him.  But we stay together.  Sammie is more dangerous now than ever.”

“Probably has something to do with the fact that you keep wanting to stab him,” Tim commented.

Angela faced him down.  “It is because the blood exorcism is almost complete.  Whatever is inside of Sammie now has nothing to lose.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed.  “Almost complete?  What else is left?”

“There are two more stigmata to perform, two more wounds of Christ to bestow upon Sammie’s body.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed even more.  “You need to pierce his feet?”

Angela nodded.

“And then…what, no way.  You’re insane.  You plan on stabbing Sammie in his side?”

Angela shook her head.  “No.  Piercing the feet should be enough to ward off the demon.  The final stigmata, if performed, would banish any spirit to Limbo for all eternity.  Just the threat of it should be enough to drive Chamuel out.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

“Then we have to decide what we’re up against, and if sacrificing Sammie is something we should do for the greater good.”  Angela couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, but she was without doubt.

Ever since the death and destruction she witnessed in Jersey at the hands of Charles Crippley, Angela knew the importance of defeating evil before it had time to bloom.  If the entity inside of Sammie was true evil, then she knew the value of one boy’s life was not enough to prevent what needed to be done.

“We’re not killing a kid,” Tim objected.  “Frank, you’re with me, aren’t you?”

To Angela dismay, Frank agreed with Tim.  He had seemed on her side up until that point.  “I have to draw the line somewhere, Ms Murs.”

She was outvoted.  She just hoped they would see it her way when the situation required them strongly to change their minds.  “Okay,” she said, not wanting to waste any more time talking.  “Let’s just find Sammie.  We can figure things out later.”

Tim folded his arms.  “Fine.”

“Frank, you lead the way.  You know the house better than we do.”

Frank nodded and took the lead.  They filed out into the hallway and padded down the corridor silently like bedraggled commandos.  Every inch of the house was bathed in darkness, every unlit corner a potential hiding place for unseen horrors.

Frank opened up a door on the left and stuck his head inside, then closed it again.  “It’s just a storage room,” he said.  “No sign of him inside.  There’s a bathroom over there.  Go check it out.”

Angela nodded and headed over to the next nearest door.  Sure enough there was a bathroom inside.  The white and black tiles, which probably shone bright in the daytime, were dank and dreary.  The smell of bleach hung heavily in the air.  The room was empty and lacked anywhere to hide.  Except one place.

There was a freestanding bathtub in the far corner of the bathroom.  It was a modern affair with a wraparound shower curtain from end to end.  It would have been very easy for a ten-year-old boy to hide inside.

Angela moved slyly, but the sound of her feet on tiles seemed inordinately loud.  If Sammie was hiding in the bathtub, he would hear her coming.  She thought about calling out to him, but knew it would be pointless.  A person hiding does not respond to their name being called.

She closed the final few steps, stood within arm’s reach of the shower curtain.  Here goes.  She placed her fingers against the plastic sheet, found the seam, and slowly, inch by inch, pulled the curtain aside.

She let out a breath.

The bathtub was empty.

Somebody grabbed Angela from behind.  She spun around, ready to scream.

“Any sign?” Frank asked her calmly.

“Bloody hell, Frank.  You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” he apologised earnestly.  “Tim said he heard something down below.  I didn’t hear anything myself, but I lost twenty-per cent of my hearing during my days in the forces, so I tend to doubt myself.”

Angela nodded.  “Okay, let’s go check it out then.  You shouldn’t have left Tim alone.  It’s not safe.”

“He insisted.  Said he’d be fine.”

“I hope so.”

When they went back out into the hallway, Tim was gone.

Frank looked left and right.  “Where did he go?”

“He’s afraid,” said Angela, understanding what had happened.  “I imagine he’s trying to find a way out.”

Frank’s nostrils flared and he snorted like a bull.  “Coward.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.  If Tim wants out of here then he’ll be of no use to us anyway.  We need to find Sammie.  Do you think Tim was at least telling the truth about hearing a noise downstairs?”

Frank shrugged.  “Probably not.  In fact, I doubt it entirely.  Perhaps we should work from the top down.  Go to the penthouse first?”

Angela nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.  You still got that gun?”

“Huh?  Yes, it’s tucked under my shirt.  Why?”

“No reason.  Just nice to know you have it.”

As they walked, Angela decided to fill the time with some questions.  “So, now that Jessica has…” she thought for the right words, “passed on, what will happen to the family’s shares in Black Remedy?  Will they really all belong to Sammie?”

“Yes, but they’ll be overseen by his legal guardian until he’s eighteen.”

“Who’s his guardian?”

Frank shook his head.  “I’m not sure.  Vincent Black was the boy’s godfather, so perhaps him.”

Angela stopped walking.  “Isn’t he the other owner of the company?”

“Forty-nine per cent, yes.  The Black family provided most of the funding that the Raymeady family required to build the company.”

“Mike was obviously working against the Raymeady’s.  Do you think he was working for the Black family?  Are they trying to take control of the company?”

“I’d imagine so,” Frank said, sounding resigned to the fact.  “With Sammie so young, the Blacks will likely raise him as their own.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?  Jessica, Joseph, they could be dead because of some greedy American businessman.”

“Of course it bothers me, but what would you have me do?  My job was to protect this family.  I’ve failed.  Time for me to move on.”

“Move on?”  Angela couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  “You can’t just move on.  You’re right, you failed this family.  You owe them.  You owe Sammie.”

Frank sighed.  “It’s already too late.  If the Black family is behind everything that’s happened, then they’ve already achieved everything they needed to.”

Angela clenched her fists by her sides.  “It’s not over yet, Frank.  You’re going to do everything you can to protect that boy once this is over.  You promise me that, Frank.  Do you hear me?”

Frank sighed.  “Yes.  Yes, I hear you.”

“Then come on.  Let’s go make this right.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Tim hated himself (even more than usual).  It didn’t matter how hard he tried, he could never bring himself to jeopardise his own safety for anyone else.  He was a natural coward and it made him sick, but that was just who he was.  It was Angela’s sick God that made me this way.

The house made Tim so anxious that his spine was in a constant state of rigour.  He tiptoed stiffly across the thick marble floor in the foyer and felt as if his joints were about to seize up at any minute.  Trying to get the front door open would be a fool’s errand, but what else could he do.  One way or the other he was getting out of this fucking house.

The thick wooden doors loomed over Tim as he approached them.  It almost felt as if they were in on the whole conspiracy to keep him trapped inside.  Perhaps they were possessed, too, like Sammie allegedly was.  Tim still felt like the victim of some elaborate hoax, but he was quickly becoming more open to the possibility of something else.  Something worse.

He couldn’t deny that evil existed, he had witnessed it.  Despite hating to admit it, Tim knew that there were things in the world made of malice and hatred.  There could very well be something like that in the house.  The closer he came to admitting it, the more he wanted out.  Out of this goddamn cauldron of evil.

He placed a hand around the doorknob and took a deep breath.  Then he twisted his wrist and yanked.

Tim almost choked when the handle turned freely.  The door was unlocked.  His surprise was so much that his hand slipped back down to his side and he stood silently staring at the door without moving.  Part of him expected the door to slam shut as soon as he went to leave.  He didn’t waste too much time, though, and quickly placed his fingers back around the door handle.

The door swung open in his hand.  He ended up yanking so hard that it almost smashed against his foot and crippled him.  He hopped out of the way just in time.  He found himself staring out at the inviting expanse of the driveway, nothing to see but a velvet sheet of background.  Freedom was waiting out there for him.  He could even smell it.  The air outside was different, fresh and pure.

Tim stepped forwards, eyes wide, lips quivering.

“I suppose this is goodbye?” someone said behind him.

Tim froze on the spot.  There was no confusion in his mind about who was currently standing behind him.  Ahead was the exhilarating freedom of the English countryside and behind was the icy wickedness of a ten-year-old boy.

“I have no need of you,” Sammie said, seemingly content to speak to Tim’s back.  “You are…insignificant.”

Something about the word irritated Tim.  He turned around.  “What is all this, Sammie?  What’s it all about?”

Sammie examined him with jet black eyes, tilted his head and smiled.  “What is anything about in this decaying crust of existence?  It is about power.  Power to mould the world.”

“And what exactly do you want to mould it into?”

Sammie opened his arms wide like a bat unfurling its wings.  “An existence without fear or suffering, a world of order and consistency.”

Tim backed away towards the open door.  He could feel the breeze on his back.  “That sounds very much like a world without free will to me.  Sounds like you plan on enslaving humanity or something else equally as H.G Wells.”

Sammie grinned, wide and feline.  “Slavery, freedom.  Mere semantics.  The only thing you need to realise is that God’s world is a failed experiment.  It is time for new management, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re the fucking Devil,” Tim spat.  “Angela will stop you.”

Sammie sighed.  “I am not the Devil.  The Devil is weak, perverted from spending millennia among the seductive filth of humanity.  I am beyond God, beyond the Devil.  I am the wolf amongst the lambs.  Your cleric will kneel before me and her death will be sublime.”

Tim took another step backwards.  “You say I am insignificant.  So what do you want with Angela?  Why did you summon her here?”

“I did not summon her here.”

“Then who did?” Tim demanded.  “Who scribbled her name in your sketch pad?”

Sammie took in a deep, whistling breath and let it out again in a gust which stunk up the air like festering meat.  “There are more forces at work in this house than you realise.  There is another.  He is the one who shares history with your priest, not me.  Regardless, her presence defiles this place and I will take exquisite pleasure in claiming her soul.”

“You won’t-”

“ENOUGH!”  Sammie’s voice was like a hive of bees.  It buzzed inside Tim’s head and made his eyes water.  “Leave this place.  Leave before this house becomes your tomb.  The door is open.  I suggest that you take it.  My clemency is not without end.”

Tim turned around and faced the door.  The darkness outside beckoned him.  It offered safety and the chance of living out the rest of his life.

Tim cleared his throat and stepped outside.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

After checking the penthouse floor and finding it empty, Angela and Frank had begun checking out the third floor.  It, too, was deserted.  She wondered what Sammie was planning.  Would he jump out at them any moment, or was he planning to flee the house?  She still didn’t understand what was happening or what he wanted, but she was confident about one thing: the blood exorcism was the solution – if it wasn’t, then whatever was in control of Sammie would not have fled from her.  The demon was afraid.  I need to drive the dagger through his feet and all this could finally be over.

Angela shook her head at the thought of what she had done, and what she still needed to do.  Once she had been a servant of the Lord.  It was true that she had lost her way, but she felt closer to God now than ever.  Her renewed faith would allow her to do the grizzly deeds ahead of her.  God help me.

Frank returned from one of the bedrooms he’d been checking.  Angela smiled at him as he approached.  “Find anything?”

“No, empty like all the rest.  The next room is yours.  Did you want to check it out?”

Angela nodded.  She headed up to the door on the left that led to the Saunders Suite in which she’d been staying.  Inside, things were just as she’d left them.  Her suitcase lay on the floor beside the bed, its contents spilling out onto the floor.  The bed itself was unmade, yet inviting.  Tiredness pulsed through Angela’s head and licked at the back of her eyelids with a dry tongue.  She looked at her watch and saw that it was now almost four in the afternoon.  Yet the moon was still out as if it was midnight.

A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word 'darkness' on the walls of his cell.

The C.S. Lewis quote had popped into Angela’s head unbidden as she turned a full circle of the room, scrutinising every nook and cranny.  She even knelt down to inspect under the bed.  All was clear, though; no little boys hiding or evil beasts lurking.  The last thing that caught Angela’s eye was the painting above her bed of the two cherubs fighting.  She didn’t know why the picture kept catching her eye, but she was convinced she was missing something.  Or maybe I just think it’s ugly.

She exited the room, and when she re-entered the hallway, Frank was not where she’d left him.  He was further along the corridor, over by the grand staircase.  “Frank, are you okay?”

Frank remained silent, but he heard her.  He raised one hand beside his head that made it clear he’d acknowledged her but wished not to speak.

Angela crept forward, her stomach full of dread.  It took more than a dozen steps to traverse the long corridor and catch up to Frank.  Once she did, it was clear what had rooted the man to the spot.

Sammie climbed the stairs beneath them.  He took each step leisurely, ascending like a spirit en route to Heaven.  There was a smile on his lips so great that it contorted his face almost into a grimace.

Angela moved up beside Frank and whispered.  “What is he doing?  Do you think Tim is okay?”

“Tim made his own bed,” said Frank.

Angela watched the boy continue up the stairs.  She couldn’t help but shout out to him.  “Sammie?  Sammie what are you doing?”

Sammie did not acknowledge her.  He continued his slow, gliding ascent of the staircase.  His smile grew even wider, crooked teeth taking up more and more of his face until he looked more shark than boy.

“Sammie?  Where is Tim?”

Sammie finally glanced up and acknowledged her.  “Tim has abandoned you, Priest.  His heart was meek.”

“So we were right,” said Frank.  “Tim did run out on us.  Coward.”

Angela raised a hand.  “You cannot blame a man for being frightened.  None of us have any power over bravery.  Courage chooses us only when it is needed.  Tim is not important.”

Sammie reached the top of the stairs and was only six feet away from Angela and Frank now.  He stood before them calmly, as if their previous altercations, including Angela driving a dagger through his palms, had not happened.  Angela saw that the wounds had blackened and dried as if they were days old.

“I need to finish this, Frank,” Angela whispered.

Frank nodded.  “Sammie, are you willing to come back to your room?”

Sammie laughed.  “What do you think?”

Frank sighed.  “Hard way it is then.”  He made a snatch for the boy but was nowhere near quick enough.  Sammie leapt up onto the balcony’s bannister, his bare feet and filthy toenails gripping the wood like a vulture’s talons.  Angela made her own grab for the boy.

Sammie kicked her in the face from his elevated perch and sent her reeling backwards into the wall.  Angela tasted blood at the back of her nose and was blinded by her tears.  Blurrily, she saw Sammie glaring down at her with sunken eyes.  The smell coming off of him was foul.

Frank made another grab for Sammie, but again the boy was too quick for him.  He sprung off the banister and cleared Frank’s head by several feet, landing behind him in a crouch and hissing like a feral cat.

“He’s not even human,” said Frank, steadying himself against the railing.  “More like an animal.  What has happened to him?  He really is possessed by a demon, isn’t he?”

Angela used the back of her hand to wipe away the blood that was filling up her nostrils.  “The evil has twisted him, Frank; activated his primal instincts.  We need to finish this now or Sammie will be lost forever.”

Her words seemed to spur Frank on.  He bellowed in defiance and made a lunging tackle at Sammie.  His arms connected with the boy’s legs and brought him to the ground.  Sammie squealed with childish laughter, unconcerned by his capture.  It was just a game to him.

“I need you to hold his legs,” Angela said.  “I must pierce his feet together.  Then it will be done.  It will be over.”

Frank managed to straddle Sammie and wrestled to get the boy’s ankles together.  Sammie kicked his legs and giggled.  “Give it up, Frank,” he said in the voice of a child.  “You’re never going to be the hero.  You couldn’t save my parents and you never saved Conway, Nichols, or Albright.  They died on your watch, Sergeant!  Right after you shot a pregnant woman in the stomach.  So much death at your hands.  You’ll never wash the stink off.”

Frank reacted as if he’d been kicked in the ribs.  His grip on Sammie loosened.  The boy shuffled free.

Angela spoke loudly, trying to be the only voice that Frank heard.  “Frank, don’t listen to him.  Whatever he is talking about doesn’t matter.  We all have pasts.  It is what we do right now that matters.”

“Tell that to those men’s families,” Sammie said.  “Tell that to Conway’s son.  Tell him how you sent his father into a village you said was friendly.  Tell him how you left him to die on the lonely sands of Iraq.  I thought the Parachute Regiment never left a man behind.  Well, you left three behind to save your own ass.”

Frank staggered to his feet and backed away from Sammie.  “They…they were pinned down, wounded.  The whole village was armed – even the pregnant woman.  If I stayed behind, we would all have died.  I needed to bring in support before the rebels dug in somewhere else, killed more soldiers.  Someone needed to get back alive.”

Angela shouted.  “Frank!  Frank, it doesn’t matter.  He’s just trying to break you.  You need to get a hold of him so we can finish this.”

Frank shook his head.  “Things were finished for me a long time ago.  Protecting this family was supposed to be my salvation, but instead it’s my final condemnation.”  He spun around and grabbed Angela, shoved her against the balcony railing and winded her.  “I’m sorry,” he said as he snatched the ceremonial dagger from her fingertips and rushed towards Sammie with it.  He let out a wail of anguish like an ancient warrior.

Sammie swatted Frank aside like a measly fly.  The force was inhumane and sent the large man clean off his feet and reeling backwards into Angela.  The sudden impact of Frank’s body took her by surprise and her legs twisted together.  She stumbled back into the balcony railing again and momentum carried her over.  Suddenly she was falling.  Angela knew that she was falling to her death, the marble floor two stories below coming up to meet her.

Something grabbed her wrist.

She flipped over in the air, legs dangling painfully from wrenched sockets.  She hung by her left arm, the pain in her shoulder immense, but was rising slowly back towards the balcony railing.  Somebody had saved her at the last second.  Thank you God.  I owe you.  And I owe Frank for catching me.

“You ought to be more careful,” said a voice that was most definitely not Frank’s.

Angela looked up and saw that it was Sammie who held her by the wrist.  He lifted her upwards as if she weighed no more than a bag of flour.  The look on his face was like that of a cat toying with a mouse.  Angela knew Sammie’s intention was not to save her; it was only to prolong his own amusement.

Once Sammie had raised her up enough so that they were face to face and she could feel his fetid breath on her cheeks, he held her there, suspended.  It was then that Angela saw Frank writhing on the floor, the ceremonial dagger jutting out from his thigh.  He must have fallen on it when Sammie flung him across the balcony.  There was no chance of him saving her now.  She was helpless, doomed.

“Where is your God now?”  Sammie purred.  “Has he abandoned you?”

“Let her go,” someone demanded from the shadows.  The person stepped forward, out of the shadows.

Sammie actually seemed surprised when he saw Tim appear.  “I thought you’d left.  How very stupid of you not to have.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed.  “I said let her go.”

“Yes, I heard you,” Sammie said.  “But considering her current predicament, I don’t really think that is wise.  Do you?”

Tim stepped forward.  “Pull her up and then let her go, knob head.”

Sammie smiled at him.   Angela felt the boy’s icy fingers squeeze tighter around her wrist.  For a moment she thought he might actually lift her over.  “How about I just let the bitch fall and then come over there and twist your head off like a wart from a pig’s backside.  I could even send you to join your wretched brother in his eternal torment.  All that guilt inside of you, Tim.  I could end it all so easily for you.  Let me help you, Tim.  Let me make it all go away.”

Tim’s confidence seemed to waver – Angela could see him trembling – but he remained resolute.  “Pull.  Her.  Back.  Up.  Now.  Arsehole.”

“Oh Tim.  Silly, silly Tim.  I thought you were the smart one.  The one who actually realised their own impotence.  You were right in wanting to leave so badly.  Your only mistake was coming back.”

Tim took another step forward.

Sammie let Angela drop.

She screamed.

But he still held her.  He’d just let her drop a few inches.  It was all it took to make her cry out in despair.

Tim stopped moving and put his hands up in front of him.  “Take it easy, Sammie.  I just want to take Angela and get the hell out of here.  Leave, just like you said.”

Sammie sniggered.  “Oh, she isn’t going anywhere, I’m afraid.  I’ll tell you what, though: let’s see if you can make it over here before I have time to let her fall and rip out your throat with my teeth.  Or…”  Sammie grinned.  “I could give you one last chance to leave on your own.  Your choice: do you want to live or do you want to die?”

Angela saw the fear in Tim’s eyes.  Coming back to help her was just a small blip in otherwise faultless cowardice.  He only cared about himself and right now he was terrified.  Angela looked down at the hard marble floor thirty-feet below her and knew it was going to be her grave.  Any minute now.  Any minute now I’ll fall.  There’ll be butterflies in my stomach for a second and then…nothing.

Angela watched with weary resignation as Tim turned away and stepped towards the staircase.  He was leaving, just as she knew he would.  Somehow, she still couldn’t bring herself to blame him.

Sammie turned to Angela and chuckled.  “Do you see, Priest?  Do you see what this world is made of?  Cowardice and fear.  Selfishness and hatred.  Mankind is a deviant cesspool.”

Angela strained, tried to pull herself up.  “Who…who are you, Chamuel?”

Sammie looked at her, shaking her head with pity.  “You really don’t understand a thing, do you, Priest?  I am the new beginning.  I am what comes next.  Unfortunately, you will not live long enough to witness it.”

Angela closed her eyes and prepared to die.

“I think it’s about time you were grounded, you annoying little brat.”

Suddenly another hand grabbed hold of Angela’s wrist while Sammie’s grip fell away.  Her body plummeted, dropped several inches, but then the new hand asserted itself and managed to keep a hold of her.

She looked up, surprised and grateful.

Tim squinted down at her, the effort of sustaining her weight bringing out great beads of sweat from his wrinkled brow.  “How about a little help here,” he groaned as a vein pulsed in his forehead.

With the final dregs of strength she had left in her aching back and shoulders, Angela pulled herself upwards.  There was a ripping pain in her sides where rarely used muscles awakened and pulled her to safety.  Tim’s wiry arms hoisted her to the point that it looked like his biceps might detach from the bone.  Yet, somehow, Angela started to rise upwards.  Her free hand reached the banister, her fingertips clawed at the wooden surface.  She swung her body sideways, trying to gain a purchase with her leg and, with one last effort, she went sprawling up and over the railing.  She landed hard on top of Tim, both of them winded and moaning.

There was no time to recuperate, though.

“Get up,” she said.  “Sammie!”

Tim rolled off her and staggered to his feet.

“You came back,” she commented.

Tim shrugged.  “Guess I’d rather die with a clear conscious than live with any more guilt.”

“Nobody else is dying tonight,” Angela promised him.  She was determined to make sure it was true.  She checked out her surroundings quickly, looking for Sammie but also for one other thing: the ceremonial dagger that was still jutting out of Frank’s leg.

Frank had stopped writhing around now that the initial shock had worn off.  He was sat upright, staring down at the long blade sticking up from his thigh muscle.  He was breathing heavily and looked deathly pale in the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, thinking the question was pretty stupid.

Frank looked at her.  “You need the dagger.”

Angela nodded.  She knew ripping the blade free could nick an artery and unplug the wound.  As an ex-Army man, Frank would know it too.  The sensible thing would be to keep it in place and get help, but that wasn’t an option.

“Just take it,” he said, his voice quick and nervous.

Angela thanked him silently with her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the dagger.  She needed to get it out with one pull – quick and clean. Failing to do so would result in more damage to Frank’s leg.

She yanked before he had chance to take a breath.

The blade came free with a grim sucking sound.  Frank hissed in agony.  A jet of blood spurted into the air, but thankfully didn’t persist.  The dagger had missed the major blood vessels.  He ain’t dead yet.

Angela held the dagger in front of her and frowned at the blood on its shaft.  The sight of it turned her stomach, but she had to fight against her revulsion.  A cry of pain behind her called her into action.  Sammie had reappeared and was hanging off Tim’s neck, as if he were just a normal ten-year-old boy wanting a piggyback ride.  Tim wailed and screeched as Sammie bit into his neck, tearing away strips of stringy flesh.

Angela raced forward to help him.

Sammie’s eyes caught sight of her sprinting towards him with the dagger in her hand.  He released Tim from his clutches and hopped away like a giant bug.  Tim staggered forward, clutching his bleeding neck.  “Jesus Christ, that hurts.”

Angela put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick shake.  His wounds looked sore, but they weren’t going to kill him.  There was no time to indulge their aching bodies and torn flesh, not yet.  There was still evil at work and they needed to banish it to Hell.

She pointed the dagger at Sammie, who snarled at her defiantly.  “It’s time to end this,” she said.  “I’m tired and I haven’t had a drink in hours.”

Sammie scuttled across the carpet like a spider and surprised them all by scurrying up the wall.  He sprung sideways at Angela and caught her on the shoulder.  She staggered sideways, once again striking the balcony’s railing.  Sammie was right at her, rushing with his arms out in front of him, ready to tackle her right over the ledge again.  Looks like I have a date with the marble floor after all.

Tim shoved Angela aside and met Sammie head on.  The boy’s unnatural strength presented itself again and sent him crashing clear through the railing.  The ancient bannister broke apart and splintered like termite-infected balsawood.  Suddenly Tim was flying through thin air.  Then he fell.

Angela tumbled to the floor, helpless as Tim disappeared beyond the balcony.  She leapt back up to her feet and raced over to help him, but what she found brought tears to her eyes.

Tim’s body lay sprawled on the marble floor below like a pretzel.  He was still, one leg twisted beneath him at a sickening angle.  The fall had snapped his bones like they were made of chalk.  Angela swallowed a lump in her throat and took a deep breath.  God bless you, my friend.  May Heaven welcome you with open arms.  Then she spun around, just in time catch Sammie launching another attack.  He leapt up at her, intending to send her right after Tim, but she was able to dodge aside and avoid the blow.  She shuffled away from the balcony, determined not to meet her end on the marble floor below.  Tim died to save me from that fate.

Sammie rushed her again, this time too quickly to avoid.  Angela tumbled to the floor from the blow but quickly oriented herself onto her rump, hoping to face down any follow-up attack.  Sure enough, Sammie swung a claw-like foot toward her face.  She barely dodged it by rolling sideways onto her belly.

The next kick caught her square in the ribs.  Something broke inside of her and all of a sudden she could not breathe.  Sammie pranced toward her, giggling with childish glee.  Angela clawed at the carpet, tried to drag herself away, but the hot coals inside her lungs made moving impossible.  There was now ay she could get away, or dodge Sammie’s blows.  She was defenceless.  But she still held the ceremonial dagger in her hand.  Somehow she had managed to keep her grip on it.

Sammie stood over her.  His eyes swirled with malevolent darkness.  “I’m bored of you now,” he said.  “I think you should die.”

Sammie raised a foot as if to stomp her skull to pulp, but his ankle returned to the floor like it was attached to elastic.  He tried lifting his foot again, but the same thing happened.  It soon became clear that something was impeding his movement.  Angela rolled onto her side and lifted her head up to see.

Frank lay on the floor behind Sammie.  His arms were wrapped around the boy’s shins and he was forcing them together.  “You need to pierce the feet, right?” he said, struggling.  “So do it already.”

Angela nodded, seeing stars but clear in what she needed to do.

Frank squeezed Sammie’s legs tighter so that his feet overlapped on top of one another.  Angela took a breath and raised the dagger in her hand, its tip pointing downwards.  Then she thrust it towards the floor with every last ounce of energy she had left.  The dagger pierced through the small bones and pliant flesh of Sammie’s feet, so forcefully that the tip embedded itself in the floorboards beneath.

Sammie bellowed, shaking the floor and walls around him with the might of his voice.  For a brief second Angela thought the volume would reduce her brain to mush and the house to ashes.  Black smoke came off of Sammie’s flesh in great swirling wafts.  It looked like his entire body was made of soot and a hurricane had come to displace it.

From the floor, Angela watched in awe as the ceremonial dagger began to shift upwards, sliding out of the boy’s wound like pus from a zit.  Eventually the steel blade popped out of Sammie’s feet completely and pinwheeled across the carpet.  With one last, final bellow, Sammie flew backwards through the air and hit the floor with a resounding thud!  His tiny body went still.

Angela was shaking and unable to take a full breath.  Her vision blurred, spotted with stars.  She wondered if she was going to pass out, but once she was sure she wouldn’t, she slowly climbed up onto her knees and then to her feet.

Frank, too, had managed to get himself standing, although he was favouring his left leg.  He limped towards her, looking up at one of the house’s many windows.  “Look,” he said, pointing.  “The sun is out.”

Angela looked outside to see the moon was retreating and the sun rolling up to replace it.  It was like being caught in some bizarre time-lapse nature documentary.  Before they knew it, the day had finally arrived and the endless night was defeated.  The house felt different, too.  The malignant veil, which had seemed to hang over everything, had finally lifted.

Angela got herself together and hurried over to Sammie.  His tiny body had been through a terrible ordeal and she wasn’t certain he would survive intact, but she knelt down beside him and saw immediately that things were different.  The boy’s pallid skin was already beginning to fill with colour.  His crooked teeth were straighter.  His dark, sunken eyes were now a pleasant green.  The boy had been cleansed; his body was once more his own.

Frank came up beside Angela and placed a hand on her shoulder.  “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” she quickly assured him, pointing to the steady rising and falling of the boy’s chest.  “The blood exorcism worked.  The demon has retreated.  Sammie is going to be alright.”

“Thank God,” said Frank, tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” Angela agreed, smiling.  There was a warmth inside her chest that had been absent for far too long.  “Thank God indeed.”

Epilogue

Angela lay tucked-up in the luxurious four-poster bed of her room.  For the first time since she’d arrived, she was actually enjoying being at Raymeady Manor, if only for a brief moment while resting.  Although a year of rest won’t be enough.

Angela had decided to stay behind for a few days to help Frank put everything in order.  There was a thorough police investigation going on and both Angela and Frank had a lot of explaining to do.  That was beyond her concern, though.  She knew now that God had never stopped watching over her and whatever was meant to be would be.  I may have given up on him once, but he never ever gave up on me.

The best news to have come out of the last couple of days was that Tim was going to make it.  Apparently, his awkward landing had taken the biggest toll on his right leg and pelvis, snapping them like kindling, but his other injuries were far less severe: a couple of broken ribs and a nasty concussion.  He was going to live, albeit it consigned to a wheelchair.  It was still a good result as far as she was concerned.  Tim’s body may have been injured, but she knew that his eventual bravery would do a massive amount to repair his damaged soul.  He would have no regrets, she was sure.

Sammie was also doing well.  It turned out that he was actually a very shy boy at heart, with a kind, playful personality.  He’d stopped talking like an adult and now exercised the type of vocabulary one would expect from a ten-year-old.  He was looking a lot healthier too.

Sammie was at least a stone heavier and his rosy skin had filled out to become smooth and plump.  His near-nakedness had ceased and shorts and t-shirts had replaced it.  All in all, Samuel Raymeady seemed like quite a normal little boy. Considering what he’d been through, and that both his parents were dead, that was a miracle they could all be thankful for.

Frank had confided to her that he intended to fight for custody of the boy and raise him as best he could.  Angela intended to help him with the cause in whatever way she could.  Part of her was even thinking of re-joining the clergy, but that was something requiring a little more thought.  For now, all I plan on doing is relaxing for a few days.  I feel like my bones are made of soup.  And not nice soup like chicken or Oxtail, I’m talking vegetable broth or minestrone.

Despite it being early evening, Angela decided she would turn in for the night.  Frank was looking after Sammie and there was little to worry about.  She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, wanting to brush her teeth before having a long sleep.  When she entered, the room was steamy.  The shower in the en suite was switched on.  Funny.  I swear I turned it off last time I used it.  Hope I’m not around when the water bill arrives.

Angela padded over to the shower and reached inside to turn the knob.  The water stopped with a splutter.

She turned back around.  “Oh, my Lord!”

The sudden fright sent Angela reeling backwards, landing ass-first in the wet shower cubicle.  The steam in the room was swirling and shifting, collecting around the contours of what looked like a human being.  There was an entity in the room with her and it was quickly taking shape.

“Who-who are you?” you asked the steam cloud.

The vapour swirled and twisted, making up the curves of a round, humanoid head.  The sound of the figure’s voice was like dry leaves crumbling.  “I helped you once beforrre.  Now you have helped meee.”

“What?  Who are you?”

“Chamuel.  I am Chamuel.  It was my power that helped you expel the demon inside Charles Crippley.  I was there that day, at the church.  I heeded your prayer.  I helped you.  And then I summoned you to help meee.  And you have done sooo.”

Angela shook her head and blinked the moisture from her eyes.  “What?  How did I help you?”

“You freed meee.  The father brought me near, prayed for an angel to watch over his son.  I came to protect the boy, but found him fouled and malignant.  I tried to cleanse the boy, to save his soul from evil, but once inside him I found no soul to save.  I became trapped in the void where the boy’s soul should beee.  It was a dark place, a wretched place, devoid of hope and joy.  It was a place of pure evil and emptiness.  The child made me his servant, abused my power for wicked purposes.  I tried to rot him from within, to sicken him, but he only used my influence to grow stronger.  My torment inside of the boy was endless, until you emancipated me.  Thank youuu.”

Angela’s eyes went wide.  She thought about the painting of the cherubs above her bed and the statue outside of Sammie’s door.  Suddenly she remembered what she had been trying to recall for the last several days.  “Chamuel!  You’re the angel that expelled Adam from the Garden of Eden.  One of the seven Archangels?”

“I am the Loving One; Archangel of Love and leader of the Cherubim.  You freed me from Hell and returned me to Heaven, but your work is not yet done.”

Angela understood.  “Sammie?  He’s…he’s evil?”

The steam wisped and curled around Chamuel’s spirit, bringing him even more into shape.  He looked like a rain-drenched silver statue as he continued speaking to her.  “He is the purest evil.  He is the Devil’s own spawn.  He is the great pretender; damnation incarnate.”

“God help me,” said Angela, not wanting to believe it.  “He’s the antichrist?”

“His nature was unknown to me until it was too late.  I was imprisoned and helpless.  Now I am free, but still unable to act.  I can take no hand in this.  It is mankind’s burden, for mankind to prevail over.  You must finish what you started, Angela Murs.  Finish the Blood Exorcism.”

“But I already did finish it.”

“No.”

Angel thought about it.  “The final stigmata?  I still need to pierce Sammie’s side, kill him?”

There was no answer from Chamuel.  The steam was once again just steam.  Angela dragged herself up from the shower’s floor and sprinted into the bedroom.  She reached into her luggage and pulled out the cloth bundle that contained the ceremonial dagger, but when she pulled opened the bundle, the dagger was gone.  Only a dried bloodstain remained inside the cloth.

“No, no, no.  He has the dagger.”  Angela shuffled her feet into her shoes and crossed the room in three urgent strides.  She ran down the hall, heading for the staircase.  She needed to warn Frank before it was too late.

She thanked the Lord when she found him on the floor below.  He was taping up the gap in the railing where Tim had smashed through and fallen to the floor below.  He smiled when he saw her coming.   “Ms Murs,” he said.  “Just trying to make this place safe again.  Last thing we need is Samuel taking a fall after all we’ve been through to keep him away from harm.”

Angela ignored his words, just noise in her head.  “Frank!” she yelled.  “Sammie wasn’t possessed – I mean, he was, but not in the way we thought.  It was an angel inside him, trying to help, not a demon.  Sammie is the demon.  The evil came from him.  He has no soul, Frank.  No soul whatsoever.”

Frank stood up and looked at her with concern.  “Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about?”

“Sammie is…God, I can hardly say it.  Sammie is the antichrist.  It all makes sense.  If he takes over Black Remedy one day he will be powerful enough to rule the world.  All the signs were there, I just missed them.  He’s the bastard son of a stranger, destined to take on great power and responsibility.”

Frank laughed.  “Are you saying that Samuel is the Devil?”

Angela nodded enthusiastically.  “Yes, yes, he is.”

“But he’s been fine since the exorcism.  Everything worked out.”

Angela shook her head in frustration.  “The Devil deceives.  He’s pretending.  It was Chamuel who was making him ill, trying to warn us, to kill Sammie before he could grow up into the man he intends to be.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We need to find the dagger and kill Sammie, but the dagger is gone.  I think he’s done something with it.”

“Samuel hasn’t done anything with the dagger,” Frank said matter-of-factly.

“Frank, you’re not listening to me.”

“I hear you well enough.”  He produced the dagger from beneath his jacket and drove it deep into Angela’s chest.  “I know Sammie didn’t take the dagger, because I took it.”

Angela tried to speak but found her throat was filled with blood.  Frank shoved her through the gap in the railing and the ground went out from beneath her.  The last thing she saw before the ground hit her and her vision went black was the sight of Frank leaning over the balcony two floors above and mouthing the words, “I’m sorry.”

***

Frank headed for Samuel’s room, feeling sick at what he’d done.  It was unfortunate that Angela had insisted on staying behind to help.  It was always going to be a matter of time before she figured it all out.  She was smart.  It only made Frank even more aware of his own stupidity.  It was insane to think that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his face the whole time.

Samuel had confessed his true nature the evening after the exorcism.  Frank had been stunned – and a little incredulous at first – but somewhere deep in his heart he knew that Samuel Raymeady was indeed the Devil’s spawn.  Yet, when he contemplated killing the boy and putting an end to his evil intentions, he found himself unable.  He loved the Raymeady family and he loved Sammie.  He had failed the boy so much already and there was nothing else that mattered to Frank anymore but keeping him safe – he had made that promise to Jessica.  Besides, there was already Hell on Earth; he’d seen it from his days in the army and pretty much every day since.  Frank’s eyes had been opened years ago and he was not against the changes that Sammie’s eventual reign would bring.  Surely things could not be any worse.

When Samuel had asked Frank to look after him, to be his protector and guardian until he was old enough to take the reins of the vehicle that would steer him towards world domination – Black Remedy Corporation – Frank had hesitantly agreed.  He knew it would be an unsavoury job with questionable responsibilities – killing Angela had proved it – but he had made his decision.  Protecting Samuel Raymeady would be the last job he ever took, and he was going to see it through to the end.  He had committed sin, murdered men in the name of his country, why not for a young boy whom he loved?

Frank entered the Samuel’s room with a melancholy sigh.  The boy – his soon to be adopted son – was watching South Park, but pressed pause when he saw Frank coming.  Frank understood now why the boy loved that particular show so much.  It highlighted all of the darker parts of humanity, but also gave a clever insight into politics and the public’s unspoken view of things.  It was reading between the lines and understanding that the underbelly of society was really the mainstream that would help Samuel gain the control over the world that he needed.

“Everything okay, Frank?” Samuel asked him.

Frank nodded.  “There was a little bit of an issue, but I dealt with it.”

Sammie smiled and nodded.  “Shame, I’ll surely miss our resident priest.  Still, there will be little need for preachers, in time.  The world will have a new God to worship and will have need of heeding only one voice - mine.”

Frank swallowed a lump in his throat and sat down on a chair beside the boy who would one day become head of the world’s largest corporation and perhaps even mankind itself.  The world wasn’t going to know what hit it.

BOOK 2 OF 5

ASBO

YOUR FEAR IS THEIR ENTERTAINMENT...
Andrew’s life is one of bored contentedness: a teenage daughter, a faithful wife, and a middle-class job. He even has a Mercedes. His life is without drama, and the comfort of middle-age is setting in.

That all changes when he refuses to buy a pack of cigarettes for the local gang of youths. Led by the emotionally unstable, and sadistic, Frankie, the gang target Andrew and his family in an escalating campaign of terror and violence that threatens their very lives. It isn’t long before Andrew starts to wish that he’d just brought those damn cigarettes.

Anti-Social Behaviour Order (ASBO): issued in response to "conduct which caused or was likely to cause harm, harassment, alarm, or distress, to one or more persons not of the same household as him or herself and where an ASBO is seen as necessary to protect relevant persons from further anti-social acts by the Defendant.

It is the failing of youth not to be able to restrain its own violence.
- Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Violence isn't always evil. What's evil is the infatuation with violence.

- Jim Morrison

Chapter One

“Those trouble-makers are hanging around outside again. Must be ten of them now. Should we call the police?”

Andrew turned to his wife, Penelope. She was peeking out of the living room window through a gap in the curtains. “They’re just harmless kids,” he told her. “We were young too, once upon a time. Not that I can remember that far back anymore.”

Pen dragged herself away from the curtain and allowed herself to crack a smile. It was a rarity these days, which made the gesture all the more attractive. “You’re thirty-eight, Andrew,” she told him, inflecting her words with a sarcastic tone. “I don’t think your memory is going just yet.”

“Exactly, and I can remember being a sixteen-year-old with nothing to do. Me and my brother used to get up to all kinds of mischief. Didn’t mean we were out to hurt anyone. Just ignore them and they’ll ignore you.”

“Isn’t that what they say about wasps?” Pen spoke without turning around, too busy resuming her spying through the curtains. She’d been doing it now, on and off, for the last ten minutes and didn’t seem able to pry herself away. Outside, the streetlamps had turned on with the arrival of dusk and were casting angular shadows over her face. She looked like a private detective out of one of those old Film Noirs.

Andrew couldn’t help but giggle. “Wasps, snakes, rabid-dogs, whatever. I think it makes pretty good sense in most situations. In other words, stop being such a nosey-parker.”

Pen let go of the curtain and let it sweep back into place. She padded towards him, barefoot, across the beige carpet of the living room and let out a deep sigh. “I know, I know. They just make me uncomfortable. Where’ve they come from all a sudden? Why do they have to be right outside my house?”

Andrew wrapped his arms around his wife, enjoying the warm feeling of her hips through her blouse. The flesh there was softer now than it had been ten years ago when they’d married, but still trim for a woman of forty. Pen worked the rowing machine every Wednesday and Friday and it showed. Andrew was a lucky man. He kissed her forehead.

“I think you mean our house,” he told her. “Anyway, will you just stop worrying? The kids outside haven’t done anything wrong, have they?”

Pen shook her head against his chest. “You’re right, I’m just being silly.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Now what’s for dinner, woman?”

Pen slapped him on the arm with a stinging backhand. “You’ll get put to bed on an empty stomach if you call me woman again, cheeky sod.”

“Did I hear someone mention dinner?”

Andrew spotted his daughter coming down the stairs in nothing but a plump white towel. Her shoulder-length brown hair was a wet and tangled mess around her glistening shoulders.

Andrew sighed. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Bex. I really wish you wouldn’t walk around half-naked.”

She rolled her eyes. “I just got out the shower. Anyway, back to my earlier question: did I hear someone mention dinner?”

“Sit down, sweetheart.” Pen dumped herself down on the room’s bulbous, cream sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Let me get those knots out of your hair. You look like something out of a horror movie.”

Bex walked across the living room with her arms outstretched like a badly acted mummy. Then she collapsed on the sofa like a make-believe bullet had hit her in the forehead. Finally, she sat still long enough for her mother to run her fingers through the tangled bunches of her hair. She winced every time a knot was yanked.

Andrew glanced at his fourteen-year old daughter’s naked legs and wished once more that she would cover them up. She doesn’t realise how much of a woman she’s becoming. Time she started being a little more aware of herself.

Bex caught his stares and frowned at him, pulling down the hem of the towel so that it was closer to her knees. She knew him well enough by now to recognise his looks of disapproval. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Can we have chippy?”

Andrew looked at Pen for approval, not particularly fussed himself. He wasn’t a big eater most nights.

Pen shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t mind chips.”

Bex clapped her hands excitedly. “Cod and chips, please, Dad. Salt, no vinegar.”

Andrew laughed. “Don’t you think I know that? Been feeding you fourteen bloody years.”

“And if you don’t feed me again soon, I might not make it to fifteen.” Becky sucked in her cheeks so that she looked like a starving ghoul. Add the chaotic mess of her hair and the impression was quite convincing.

Andrew let out his breath in a whistle. “Alright, drama queen, I’ll get going right away; don’t want you to starve. I’m going to walk, though – save the petrol – but then the three of us can settle down and watch a movie together. Isn’t there a Stephen King film on tonight, Bex?”

“Yeah,” she replied eagerly, pulling away from her mother’s hair-straightening fingers and flopping back on the sofa. Her hair was now sufficiently straightened to pass for human. “Don’t think it’s for you, though, Dad; has monsters and stuff. You don’t like blood and violence.”

“Perhaps I’ll make an exception if it means spending some time with my increasingly-absent daughter. You never have any time for me anymore.”

“It’s because you smell so bad.”

“Charming. I suppose you’re too good for a bit of BO now that you’re a teenager.

Pen interrupted the exchange. “Can we save the banter for after we’ve all eaten? You’re as bad as she is sometimes, Andrew.”

Andrew put his hands up in defence. “I’m going.”

He left the warmth of the living room and stepped into the chillier hallway, heading to his right. His shoes were in the front porch and he went to retrieve them, whistling a made-up tune as he went. He saw the group of youths through the glass window of the PVC front door. Pen had been right: there were about ten of them in total, mostly boys – but not all. Andrew counted at least two young girls about Rebecca’s age.

He still stood by what he had said earlier: they were just bored kids with nothing better to do. It wasn’t like there was a cinema to go to, or a bowling alley. In fact there wasn’t anything for the kids to do in town during the evenings. They needed to venture into Birmingham for anything beyond a scrappy game of football. The kids outside were just trying to entertain themselves. No reason to be frightened of them. In fact, it would likely make things worse. If you treated young people like thugs all the time then that’s probably how they’d end up behaving.

Kick a dog and it’ll bite.

Andrew pushed aside his shoes and decided on a pair of trainers instead. The Nike running shoes were new and a little uncomfortable, but he wanted to try and wear them in quickly. He tied the laces loosely to reduce the pinching on his toes, then stood up and pulled his brown-leather wallet from his jeans to check he had cash. He did – just over twenty-pounds in notes and change. The final thing he did was pull on his long, black overcoat from the stand in the corner. Even from inside the porch, it was clear that the weather outside was nippy. A tough winter was on its way.

Andrew fastened the final button on his jacket and was ready to leave. He unlocked the front door and stepped out into the bitter, grey dusk of the evening. The frosty air immediately gravitated towards him and he gave his shoulders a quick, yet vigorous rub as he started down the pathway. The dozen-or-so teenagers across the road noticed Andrew’s presence as he left his property, but they paid him hardly any attention. Just like he’d told Pen, there was nothing to worry about. In fact, je was going to walk right by them on his way to the shops. He was willing to bet that they wouldn’t make so much as a peep at him.

“Oi, mate?”

Andrew stopped in his tracks and frowned. Obviously he was wrong. No matter.

“Oi, mate, you fuckin’ deaf?”

Andrew turned to the youths, who were a few feet down the road. Sets of gleaming eyeballs stared back at him, scrutinising him from beneath the glow of the streetlights. He cleared his throat and tried to speak calmly. “Excuse me?”

One of the youths stepped away from the others: a tightly-muscled teenager in a red woollen hat pulled low over his forehead. The lad had a thin scar across his lower lip and seemed to twitch periodically.

“Got a cigarette, mate?” the lad asked, twitching.

“I’m afraid I don’t smoke,” Andrew replied honestly.

The lad just stared at him, almost as if he recognised Andrew somehow, so was the spark of familiarity glinting in his eyes. It wasn’t possible though. Andrew had never set eyes on the boy before.

“I said I don’t smoke. I don’t have a cigarette to give you.”

The lad continued staring. His nervous twitch seemed to have increased its intensity.

“Okay then,” he eventually said. “No worries.”

Andrew resumed his journey towards the shops. See, no problem at all. A slight lack of manners, admittedly, but no worse than that.

“Get us some fags from the shop then.”

Andrew stopped again and wondered if he’d just heard correctly. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, thinking what to say in reply to such an audacious demand. It was probably best not let it get to him and to just remain courteous.

“Okay,” Andrew said. “I’m on my way to the shops anyway. You want to give me the money now or when I get back?”

The whole gang laughed like a pack of hyenas, but the twitching teenager in the red woollen hat did not find anything amusing. He marched forward, closing in enough that he was almost nose-to-nose with Andrew. The stench of stale beer permeated the young man’s every breath as he spoke. “Don’t think you understand, mate. You’re going to buy me some fags because you like me.”

Andrew took a step backwards, reclaiming some of his personal space. He attempted a laugh, but it came out as an asphyxiated splutter. “I-I…I don’t think so, son. Get your own bloody cigarettes, okay?”

The teenager took another step forward and this time snarled right in Andrew’s face. The stench of beer was nauseating. “Listen, cunt. If you get back from that shop without my fucking cigarettes, your head is going to hit this cement. You get me?”

Andrew tumbled backwards under what he could only describe as utter shock. Such threats and brutish behaviour were beyond his comprehension. He was furious. He was livid. That this wretched little thug felt he had any right to threaten him this way...

Yet, for some reason, all he did was walk away with his head down, his mouth closed. He heard the word ‘prick’ muttered by a female voice behind him, but he did not turn back. A numb kind of disbelief had washed over Andrew and the feeling in the pit of his stomach was like a white-hot poker thudding against his ribs.

It was a good five minutes before he regained control over his thoughts enough that he could begin to process what had just happened, but by that time he was already several hundred yards away from the gang and almost at the small row of shops that marked his destination. The chip shop was just up ahead.

He shook his head in disbelief. I can’t believe that…that thug…spoke to me like that. How dare he threaten me! Who does he think he is? To think I was sticking up for those bloody kids not thirty minutes ago…

Andrew scratched at the stubble on his chin and hissed at the night. Pen had been right. They were all a bunch of troublemakers. He crossed the road and headed into the chip shop, determined not to let the nasty little exchange affect him a minute more than it already had. Inside was a member of staff he recognised – a young blond girl who’d served him several times before. They’d never spoken in a personal way but she always had a warm smile to greet him with. Tonight was no exception and he felt a little less angry as the girl showed her usual politeness by welcoming him in from the cold. Not all teenagers were bad.

He quickly placed his order for his and Penelope’s food, as well as Bex’s – salt, no vinegar – before standing aside and warming himself on the chip shop’s hot metal counter. His entire body seemed to unload its weight onto his elbows as he leaned, like he’d been fighting off the urge to fall down this whole time without realising it. The amount of anger he felt was worrying, yet he felt strangely vacant at the same time. It was as if the encounter with the gang had sent him into some sort of daze.

He still had to walk back past them to get home.

What the hell should he do? He wasn’t going to let them scare him into not walking the street outside his own home. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He should have said something – stood up to them. They were probably a bunch of cowards faced with a responsible adult. If they were still there on the way back, Andrew decided he was going to say something. He couldn’t let this stand.

“-ful they’re hot.”

Andrew looked up from the counter. “Huh?”

The blond girl nodded to a plastic bag in front of him. “I said, careful they’re hot.”

Andrew took the bag full of food and thanked her, then paid her. He wandered towards the door, but before he got there, the girl called after him.

“Are you okay?”

Andrew turned back around, wondering what it was about him that had caused the girl concern. Was it so obvious that he was rattled?

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just had a run in with a gang of youths. Haven’t quite calmed down about it yet.”

The girl’s face dropped. “You don’t mean Frankie Walker, do you?”

Andrew shrugged. “Don’t know their names.”

“Red beanie hat? Has a twitch?”

Andrew nodded.

The girl shook her head and wore a grim expression. “I’d be careful if I were you. He just got out of a young offender’s home and he’s been messed up ever since – in fact he was pretty messed up before.”

Andrew huffed. “He’s just a boy. I’m not going to let him intimidate me.”

“Just watch yourself, okay? I mean it. He’s a nasty-piece of work.”

Andrew stood in the doorway and thought for a moment. It felt wrong to let a teenaged boy frighten him. This was a country where everyone had the right to be free, safe, and happy. No one had the right to take those things away from him. He wouldn’t allow it.

“What’s your name?” Andrew asked the girl behind the counter.

“Charlie.”

“Well, Charlie,” he did his best to smile, “thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll be just fine. You take care, okay?” He pulled open the door and stepped back out into the cold. The night had arrived fully since he’d been inside the chip shop and the world had gone dark beyond the streetlights that lit the small shopping area with their narrow cones of light.

As he started his walk down the road, the warming aroma of hot chips and acrid vinegar made his mouth water, and suddenly he couldn’t wait to get home. It was a greasy, unhealthy dinner, but he could stand to put a few pounds on his slender frame anyway. A bit of junk food never hurt anybody. He picked up speed, hunger encouraging him onwards. Rounding the final corner before home, he thought about the youths again. It was surprising that his mind had briefly turned to other things, but it’d been easier once he’d decided that this Frankie and his followers were not going to intimidate him. Despite that, it was a relief when it turned out the group of youths had gone, moved on from their previous spot. The corner was free of their presence and the cones of light from the streetlights illuminated nothing now but the cracked and worn pavement of the road.

The cowards didn’t have the courage to stay and go through with their threats.

Andrew was just about to smile with satisfaction when he heard voices. He strained his eyes, seeking out bodies in the darkness, but ended up having to use his ears to hone in on the appropriate direction. The noise was coming from several yards ahead.

The youths were loitering around a Mercedes sat on the curb in front of his Andrew’s house –it was his Mercedes. Frankie was sat on the bonnet, leaning back on his elbows and laughing loudly.

“Cretin!” Andrew almost spat the word as he headed across the street.

Frankie saw him coming and waved happily.

Andrew gritted his teeth. Don’t you wave at me, you insolent little shit.

“Hey, mate,” Frankie said, his eyes narrowed beneath the brow of his beanie hat. “You got my cigarettes?”

Andrew rushed over to the group and this time felt none of the shock or anxiety that had plagued him during his earlier encounter. This time he was angry. “No, I haven’t got your goddamn cigarettes! Get the hell off my car.”

Frankie did as he was told. He slid off the bright red bonnet of Andrew’s car and then looked back behind him, admiring the vehicle. “Nice motor, mate. What is it, an SLK, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Andrew. Impatience now enveloped every word that came out of his mouth. “Just step away from it, please. It’s brand new.”

Frankie nodded his head and whistled. “You hear that everyone? Brand new Mercedes. Nice.”

“Yeah,” said a young girl beside him. Her unkind face was caked in gaudy make-up and framed by streaky-blonde hair. Her breasts were practically hanging out of her top despite the chilly weather. “Thinks he’s well bling, innit,” she said, “with his flash motor.”

Andrew stared at the girl and shook his head. “Do you know how stupid you sound, young lady?”

“Thinks his shit don’t stink,” added a Black youth, identical to the lad standing next to him. They were obviously twins, matching in both genetics and clothing – they wore the exact same blue jeans and none-descript white t-shirts.

“I don’t think anything like that,” said Andrew. “I just think you should respect other people’s property, and that pretty young girls should be home this time of night.”

Andrew didn’t know why he used the word ‘pretty’, as she was anything but. It was meant only as a placating gesture to try and stem the animosity. It seemed to do the opposite, though, and the girl scowled and spat right at him.

“Fucking Perv,” she said. “You’re a pedo, innit? A kiddie-fiddler!”

Andrew’s temper broke its bonds. “How dare you. Show some bloody respect to your elders, you spiteful brat.”

Frankie shot forward and shoved Andrew in the shoulder, jarring the plastic bag from his hand and spilling the chips all over the road. Then he poked Andrew hard in the chest, repeating the stabbing gesture with each word that came out of his mouth. “I…think…you…need…to…respect…me…”

The sudden fright flooded Andrew’s system with adrenaline and his stomach turned over so violently that he was almost sick over the teenager’s shoes.

But he wasn’t going to allow himself to be intimidated by this hooligan again. No way in hell.

Andrew snarled. “Why the hell would I respect an idiot like you? You’re nothing but a pathetic bully trying to show off in front of his friends.”

Frankie seemed to enjoy Andrew’s reaction. He turned and looked over his shoulder at his cronies. They were all laughing and their loose circle tightened around what they no doubt considered to be light entertainment.

“Now, now,” said Frankie in a voice so patronising it sounded like he was trying to talk to a child. “No need to get upset, mate. We’re just talking. In fact, it’s me what should be upset.”

Andrew huffed. “Why, exactly, is that?”

Frankie punched Andrew in the stomach. The sudden pain was excruciating and took away his breath so completely that it felt like he no longer had lungs. He fell to his knees, clutching at the air desperately for help.

Frankie crouched down beside him and whispered in his ear. “I asked you for a pack of cigarettes and you just mugged me off – not to mention perving at my girlfriend. I thought we were understood each other, mate, but you hurt my feelings.”

Andrew couldn’t speak. The tightness in his chest and stomach seemed like it would never let up, like he’d never manage to take another breath again. Mortal panic took control of every cell in his body as he struggled to suck in even the tiniest morsel of oxygen.

Frankie straightened up and kissed his boney fist like a trophy. Then he chuckled. “Come on, gangsters,” he said to his giggling cronies. “Let’s leave this piece of shit to eat his chips up off the floor. We’ll carry this on another day. Nice trainers by the way, mate. Got to get me a pair of those.”

Andrew rolled onto his side and groaned as the youths left him. Gradually – very gradually – his breath came back to him in great heaving gasps. Part of him wished for his family to run out and comfort him, but another part – a bigger part – made the thought of them seeing him like this intolerable. He tried to get to his feet, using his palms against the floor to steady him. He was shaken and sick, but his stomach just about managed to control itself. When he looked down at the scattered chips and mashed-up cod on the floor Andrew realised he was crying. Several lonely tears crept down his cheeks and left freezing-cold trails behind them. He didn’t know if they’d been caused by pain and fear, or shame and humiliation. The fact that someone had frightened him to such a point made him pathetic. The fact that it was a child made him feel even more worthless.

He shot forward and heaved up the meagre contents of his near-empty stomach, coating the discarded chips on the floor in a hot broth of undigested coffee and biscuits he’d eaten earlier. Three minutes later, he wiped his mouth and started the long, lonely journey up the path to his house. It no longer felt like home.

Chapter Two

Andrew sank down onto the bench in his porch and took some deep breaths – each one was painful. He kicked off his trainers and just sat there a while. He’d already hung up his coat and was ready to go inside, but for some reason he just couldn’t. Once he’d sat down it was impossible to get back up. Something held him in place, as though his very presence inside the house would infect his family with something terrible.

Maybe he was just too ashamed to face them?

But I can’t stay here all night.

No one had come out during the attack and that could only mean Pen and Bex hadn’t witnessed what’d happened. It was a major relief, but still didn’t change the fact that Andrew had just been assaulted.

What the hell should he do? Call the police?

His mind was a muddle. He couldn’t think straight. In a lot of ways he’d not yet fully accepted reality to the point of resolution. The answers were still murky and unclear. For now, he decided to will himself back to his feet and go back inside the house. He wouldn’t find any answers alone inside the porch.

He stepped through into the hallway where Pen was coming down the stairs. She wore her fluffy pink dressing gown and was rubbing at her hair with a towel. Obviously she’d decided to fit in a quick shower while he’d gone to get the chips.

Damn it! The chips… What did he say?

“Hi, hun,” Pen said, smiling. “You okay?”

Andrew nodded. “Fine.”

“Where’s the food?”

“It’s…well it’s…”

Penelope stepped up to him and placed a hand against his cheek. “Andrew, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answered quickly. “Bloody chip shop had a problem with their fryers and had to close early. Wasted journey.”

“That’s okay,” she said soothingly, probably knowing something was up with him. “We’ll just order Chinese.”

“Sounds good.” Andrew felt like breaking down in her arms and sobbing, but he didn’t.

“Honey, has something happened?”

Andrew shook his head and pushed her away. “I’ve just got a stomach-ache coming on. Think I’ll have a bath and go to bed. You and Bex eat without me, okay?”

Pen frowned at him. “You said you’d watch a film with her.”

Andrew started up the stairs. “Sorry for getting ill. I’ll try not to be so fucking inconsiderate next time.”

There was no reply behind him and Andrew knew it was because his wife was shocked. Swearing was not his style at all.

He closed his eyes and chided himself. I shouldn’t take things out on her. She’s just concerned about me.

Hell, I’m concerned about me.

He reached the top of the stairs and turned left towards the bathroom, where he opened the door and stepped inside, pulling the plastic dolphin on the light-cord. The bulb flickered on and hurt his eyes with its harsh glare reflecting off the white wall-tiles. Somehow the pain in his retinas seemed to reactivate the pain in his abdomen and he doubled over. He dropped down to his knees and leant over the bathtub, reaching across and turning on both taps at once. He listened to the soothing gush of fresh water for a few seconds, then slipped the plug into the drain and let the tub fill up.

When it was halfway full, Andrew stood up and peeled off his shirt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror fixed to the back of the bathroom door and hissed. A deep, grey blemish of a developing bruise bloomed beneath the ribs on his right side. Gently, he ran a finger over the injury and pressed down slightly. The action was immediately met with a sharp, stabbing pain that radiated through his entire torso. His stomach fluttered with approaching nausea and forced him to lean over the sink and take deep breaths. It took several minutes before his insides calmed down again.

Hands shaking, he unfastened his jeans and let them fall around his ankles, his underwear too. Then he stepped out of the clothes and pulled off his socks using his toes, unable to bend down and pull them off by hand. Once he was completely naked, he stepped over into the bath and gingerly lowered himself down. The warm water sent fresh stabs of pain through his ribs, but after a few seconds the agony subsided and was even alleviated slightly as the therapeutic heat massaged his body. He slid back and placed his head down on the spongy bath pillow that Pen had brought needlessly on one of her extravagant shopping trips. He was grateful for it now, though, and the softness against the back of his skull made him feel sleepy.

He would have to make up with Pen before he went to bed – apologise to her. Never going to bed on an argument was a wisdom he’d always abided by. Whether or not he shared the reasons why he had snapped in the first place was something he had not yet decided.

Didn’t want to worry her.

But didn’t want to keep things from her either.

Andrew used the toes on his left foot to turn off the hot water tap followed by the cold. He slid lower into the water, letting his chin touch the surface. If he could have, he would have gone completely under, accepting the warm and inviting embrace of the water like a protective womb, but he settled for dunking his head under briefly and soaking his hair. Wet, brown strands plastered his forehead when he came back up and he wiped them away with his hand. Relaxation approached at last, the tension flowing away into the bath water. Soon Andrew would be able to think things through rationally – to decide whether or not he would call the police, tell his wife, or just keep the whole thing to himself. With a calmer mind, he could at least console himself that things would work out one-way or another. He was a middle-classed citizen of the UK, not some impoverished Russian on the mean streets of Moscow. There was order and civility in England. Wretched little monsters like Frankie were punished for their crimes.

A knock at the bathroom’s door.

“Andrew?” It was Pen.

Andrew sighed, wishing that the water would swallow him whole. He still wasn’t ready to speak to his wife. But what choice did he have?

“Andrew, I ordered you some food as well. Just in case you change your mind. I’m worried about you. Is your stomach-ache really bad?”

“Yeah,” Andrew replied. “But I’ll try to eat something anyway. I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

There was a brief pause, but then an answer. “That’s okay. We all get grouchy when we’re not very well.”

Andrew suddenly felt teary. His wife’s compassion was such a contrast to the animosity of earlier events that it sent his brain into an emotional tailspin, but he fought back the tears and made himself smile. “I love you, Pen.”

“I love you too, hun. I’ll see you downstairs, okay? That film is about to start and Rebecca wants you to watch it with her.”

“Okay. Be right down.”

Andrew leant forward in the bath and winced against the stiffness and pain that bloomed in his ribs. He yanked the chain attached to the plug and listened to the gurgle as the drain began its suction. Then he lay back down and waited for the water to drain away around him, enjoying the sensual tickle of the water level dropping against his skin. When the tub was finally empty, he remained there for several more minutes, not wanting to move or face the chill of the air outside his ceramic cocoon.

When he did finally find the willpower to get out of the bath, Andrew quickly grabbed a towel from the warming rail and wrapped it tight around himself. There was a hidden breeze in the room that nipped at his shoulder blades in places the towel did not cover. He fought back a shiver and began to dry himself, taking care not to be too rough around his sore ribs. Not wanting to add needlessly to the washing pile, he gathered his clothes off the bathroom floor and decided to put them back on again. The jeans were comfortable and would be fine for sitting and watching a film. Perhaps he would get into pyjamas later, after dinner.

The plush carpet of the landing outside the bathroom felt good beneath his feet as he padded back towards the stairs and started down them. As he neared the bottom, he could hear the loud blaring of the television from the living room. For some reason, his daughter was unable to enjoy anything that didn’t carry the risk of hearing damage.

Andrew reached the downstairs hallway and was just about to enter the living room…

A knock at the door.

The Chinese is here. Andrew changed direction and headed for the porch instead. He stepped inside and tried to make out the figure behind the glass door, but it was too dark outside, so he opened the door.

There was no one there.

Andrew stared out into the darkness, straining his eyes for shapes in the shadows. All of the light was behind him, making the darkness in front of him deep and unending. He leant forward and focused his eye, but still he could see no one. He started to think for a moment that he’d just imagined the knock at the door.

“Alright, mate?”

Andrew jumped back as a figure appeared from behind the sidewall of the porch on the left and entered the bleeding patch of light from the hallway. It was Frankie.

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you want?”

“Chill out,” Frankie replied, face twitching and scarred mouth grinning. “No need to shit your pants. I came to apologise, innit.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed further. “What?”

Frankie moved forward and placed a foot onto the step of the front door. Andrew moved forward to meet him.

“I said, I’ve come to apologise,” Frankie lifted the brow of his red beanie hat in a way that was almost gentlemanly, “about tonight’s earlier…misunderstanding.”

Andrew laughed. “You mean when you assaulted me for no good reason?”

Frankie laughed back. “Yeah, I guess you could put it like that. No reason we can’t be friends though. You and me, we can be bros.”

“We’ll never be friends,” said Andrew, “and I already have a brother, so get the hell off my property and clear off.”

Frankie’s smile left his face and his twitch seemed to get worse for a moment. “Careful, mate. I don’t appreciate being told what to do, you get me?”

Andrew shook his head. “Look, what do you want? I’ve done nothing to you.”

“I know,” Frankie agreed. “Which is why I’m going to allow you to make peace.”

“Make peace? I didn’t do anything to breach the peace.”

Frankie sighed. “You going to fuckin’ listen to me, mate, or am I going to have to drop you again?”

“How dare you threaten me in my own home.”

“Fuck your home. This whole neighbourhood is mine. You want to be left alone; you do what I tell you. Give me your trainers.”

Andrew was taken aback. “Sorry?”

“Give me them sweet-ass Nikes and you’ll be left alone.”

“Go away, you monster.”

Frankie grabbed Andrew around the throat and sneered. Andrew struggled back and managed to escape the grip, but his heart was now racing.

“Do you want to die?” Frankie asked coldly.

Andrew shook his head in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I’ll cut you up and snort your remains if I feel like it. Question is: are you going to behave and do as you’re told, or do I have to show you your own blood?”

Andrew went to reply but was interrupted.

“Who’s at the door, Andrew?” It was Pen shouting from the living room.

Frankie smirked, tried to move inside the porch.

“N-No one,” said Andrew, forcing Frankie back. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“I thought maybe it was the Chinese.”

“No, I’ll…I’ll let you know when it’s here.”

Frankie was still smirking. “Going to have a nice dinner with the missus? You go off the idea of chips then?” He pushed forward again, half-inside the doorway now. “Maybe I should join you? Say, don’t you have a fine ass daughter I’ve seen around here?”

Andrew pushed the youth back out of the door. “You leave my family the fuck alone.”

Frankie said nothing, just continued smirking, not leaving.

“What do you want?”

“I already told you.”

Andrew swallowed a lump in his throat, tried to maintain eye contact with Frankie, but failed. He sighed, picked up the Nike trainers from the shoe rack, and threw them out of the door. “Here! Now leave me alone, you vulture.”

Frankie sniggered. “You think I’m going to pick ‘em up off the floor? Go get ‘em and hand ‘em to me properly.”

“Are you serious?”

Frankie glared.

Andrew threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! It would be my goddamn pleasure.” He stepped outside and gathered up the shoes from the pavement. Then he returned to Frankie and thrust the trainers into the teenager’s arms. “Now leave me alone.”

“Deal’s a deal, mate. Have a nice life.” He walked away just as another figure came up the path, holding up a brown paper bag.

“Chinese delivery, sir?”

Andrew took the bag from the deliveryman and tried to smile, but found it impossible, so he just paid for the food and gave a good tip. The last thing he felt right now was hungry. In fact he felt downright sick.

Chapter Three

Getting to sleep was a long and lonely struggle. Pen had started her gentle snoring as soon as her head hit the pillow, but Andrew lay next to her for what seemed like hours, staring up at the ceiling, his head swirling with unwanted thoughts.

The movie Bex had made him watch was disturbing, full of monsters and giant insects feasting off the flesh of the living. The ending had been bleak and depressing, but Bex seemed to enjoy it, grinning between mouthfuls of noodles and chicken.

The film wasn’t what was kept Andrew awake though. Frankie haunted his mind like a relentless boogieman. Every time sleep came, the boy’s scared and twitching face would jar Andrew back awake. It was now 4:00AM.

Three hours till work.

Andrew’s job as an Ad Exec wasn’t physically taxing, but it did require a great deal of concentration and focus. The project he was working on at the moment for a Soda company was especially important – the rebranding of a nationally recognised product. The stress of last night’s events was a concern he could do without right now.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. If there were any chance of him getting an iota of sleep, he would need to clear his mind. He needed to forget that he’d let an adolescent bully him and take his trainers. It was done and he should forget it, but the humiliation weighed down on him so heavily that it felt as if his skull may split open on the pillow and spill out his cowardice.

4:40AM.

The minutes flew by and Andrew’s mind flittered between numb consciousness and troubled sleep. His waking thoughts were so vivid that they merged with his dreams to the point that he had no idea whether he was asleep or awake.

5:01AM

Noise.

From downstairs.

Andrew’s eyes snapped open. He was pretty sure the noises had been real, that he had been awake to hear them and not imagining things in his sleep. It had sounded like a door opening.

5:13AM.

Another sound.

Somehow Andrew had snoozed another ten minutes, the beckoning embrace of sleep managing to override his grasp on reality, but now he was awake fully.

Footsteps.

Someone was inside the house.

There was another sound, closer, but he quickly realised that it was Pen snoring. The noises downstairs, however, were less explainable.

Someone was inside the house. Or was it Bex?

Andrew summoned the courage to get out of bed. Chinese food worked its way up his gullet. His legs wobbled as he set them down on the soft carpet. There sounds downstairs had stopped now, but he was sure that there had been a break in. Bex would not be wondering around at this time in the morning. His mouth filled with saliva and he had to swallow several times as he exited the bedroom into the unlit landing. Bex’s door was open as usual, and he looked inside. His daughter was asleep, snoring softly in the identical way that he mother did, tucked up beneath her plush duvet. It wasn’t her making the noises.

Andrew reached the end of the hallway and looked down the stairs, cocking his head to listen for more sounds. He could detect nothing and a slither of hope suggested he’d imagined it all; that the scary movie – and his altercation with Frankie – had spooked his anxious mind.

He pressed the switch at the bottom of the stairs and blinked as the light filled his adjusting eyes. The downstairs hallway was clear, untouched. The photos on the wall were still in place and his grandmother’s bureau was undisturbed. So far so good.

He moved over to the living room door and paused outside of it. This was the room with the television, Blu Ray player, and other things worth stealing. If anything were missing, it would likely be from this room.

And if anybody was still inside, they were most likely inside in this room.

Andrew took a deep breath and pushed open the door, clutching the handle tightly as he turned it. A smell hit him as he entered the darkness – a bitter, salty odour, along with something else that was more acrid.

Vinegar?

Andrew reached along the wall and found the light switch, familiar enough with his own home to find it in the dark. His finger lingered over the switch for a moment as his stomach performed somersaults. As much as he needed to see the state of his living room, he also wanted to delay things for as long as possible. Once the lights were on, he would be forced to deal with the situation. Right now, he was safe in the dark and oblivious.

Couldn’t put things off forever, though.

He switched on the light.

The room came into view in a flash, and at first presented too much visual information for his brain to interpret all at once. One thing, however, slowly became clear. There was nothing missing.

Thank god.

But a few moments later it also became clear that something had been added. All over the room was a mulched-up mess of what looked like…

Fish and chips.

A cod had been stamped into the carpet, while dozens of loose chips had been mashed against the sofa’s upholstery. Even the walls were smeared in deep-fried potato. The smell of salt and vinegar enveloped the room, pungent to the point of making Andrew’s eyes water. It wasn’t long before he put two and two together – that he realised the fish and chips were a message from the person responsible for knocking them out of his hands several hours before.

Frankie had done this.

***

The police arrived within the hour, just as the sun rose. The light coming through the window bathed the living room in an orange ambience that seemed unsuitable in the presence of such mess. Pen and Bex sat, huddled together, on the sofa in their nightgowns. Andrew sat at the dining room table with the two police officers – a straight-faced man and an amiable blonde woman, PC Wardsley and PC Dalton.

“What time did you hear the noises, Mr …?”

“Goodman. Andrew Goodman. And I don’t know exactly, but it was around 5AM, I think.”

“Okay,” said the female police officer, PC Dalton, whilst PC Wardsley took notes. “What exactly did you hear?”

Andrew felt like he was going to have a breakdown, so exhausted from lack of sleep. He did his best to answer calmly, though. “I’m pretty sure that I heard doors opening and closing and somebody creeping around.”

“Did it sound like just one person?”

Andrew nodded. “I suppose so.”

Dalton smiled warmly, performing the gestures she’d doubtlessly learned through sensitivity training. “Do you have any ideas how someone could have entered your home, Mr Goodman? Were all the doors locked?”

Andrew shrugged and looked down at the table, not wanting to make eye contact with the female officer. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Before tonight, I never really worried about locking everything up at night. It’s a nice neighbourhood. The front and back doors were locked, of course, but may have left a window open.”

“We won’t be doing that again,” Pen added tersely from the sofa, before returning to the dazed silence she’d displayed since waking to this mess.

“No,” said Andrew. “We won’t.”

PC Dalton asked her next question. “Do you know anyone who would want to do this to you? Nothing was taken, so it seems causing upset was the main motive for the break in.”

Andrew listened to the sound of his own breathing for a few seconds, wishing the whole thing would just go away. But it wasn’t going to, was it, no matter how much he wanted it to. So he gave his answer: “Frankie.”

The male police officer, Wardsley, raised an eyebrow then and looked surprised. “Frankie?”

Andrew nodded. “There’s a gang been hanging around the last few days. I think their leader is a lad named Frankie?”

Wardsley scribbled down some notes eagerly, whilst his partner, Dalton, resumed questioning. “Why do you think this Frankie would want to target you?”

Andrew glanced over at his wife and daughter. Both were now looking at him with great interest. He turned back to the female officer and sighed. “I know, because the bastard assaulted me yesterday evening – punched me in the stomach. I was carrying fish and chips at the time and they spilled all over the road.”

“What?” Penelope shouted. “Why on earth did you not tell me? You sat with us all night and you didn’t think to tell us that you’d been attacked?”

Andrew looked at her and felt shame. Bex started to cry, which only made the feeling worse. “I’m sorry,” he told them both honestly. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Pen folded her arms and shook her head at him. “Worry me? What do you think all this is doing?”

“Okay,” Dalton said, sliding a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Can you describe this man, Andrew?”

“Teenager,” Andrew corrected. “Barely past being a kid.”

“Okay. What else?”

“He’s muscly – like he works out a lot. Red beanie hat. Has a scar across his lip and a weird facial tic thing.”

“He has a twitch?”

“Yeah,” Andrew confirmed.

“Anything else?”

“The girl who served me at the chip shop said Frankie had just gotten out of a kid’s prison, and that he’s a complete psycho.”

“God,” Pen uttered, covering her mouth with her hand. “How did you get mixed up in all this, Andrew?”

He felt a pinch of aggression, but managed to keep his anger emerging. “I didn’t have much choice, Pen. I had to walk past him on the way to the chip shop. Apparently that’s all it takes to wind this guy up.”

“None of this is your fault, sir,” Dalton said firmly, glancing at Pen as she spoke. “I’m afraid this is just the way some of today’s youth get their kicks.”

“So what do we do?” asked Bex, sounding frightened. “How do we get this Frankie to leave us alone?”

“I take it you’re going to arrest him?” Pen asked the officers.

“We will question him, see what he has to say.”

“What?” Andrew couldn’t believe it. “That’s it? You’ll go have a chat with him? He’ll deny everything.”

“We will see what the forensic team brings up when they search the house a little later,” the man, Wardsley said. “If we find Frankie’s prints then we will arrest him. Did anyone see him assault you last night?”

Andrew shook his head.

Wardsley stood up and patted Andrew on the back. “Okay, let me make a call to see what I can find out about this Frankie. In the meantime pop the kettle on to calm your nerves. Things can all seem very overwhelming at this point.”

“Okay.” Andrew nodded. “Thank you.

Dalton got up and went after her partner. They both went outside and returned to their squad car parked outside on the curb.

Andrew joined his family on the sofa.

“I can’t believe this has happened,” Pen told him. “That bastard was in my home.”

Andrew put an arm around her. “It’ll be okay. The police will do something about it.”

“Ha! You heard them, they probably won’t be able to do anything.”

Andrew sighed. “Look, let’s just see what happens. No need to assume the worst yet.”

“Are you okay, Dad?” Bex asked. “Did you get hurt when they attacked you?”

“What do you think?” Pen snapped at her. “There’s nothing pleasant about being assaulted, is there?”

Andrew hushed his wife. “Calm down. It’s not Rebecca’s fault. I’m fine, Bex, thank you. Just some sore ribs, but I’ll live. I’ll take today off work and rest up.”

Pen shook her head at him angrily, yet the tears in her eyes betrayed the upset that she was really feeling. “Don’t you ever keep something like that from me again, Andrew.”

“Yeah, never,” Bex added.

Andrew reached over so he could hug them both at the same time. “I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. What’s done is done though. You should go to work as normal, Pen. Don’t worry about me”

Pen nodded then looked at Bex. “I’ll give you a lift to school, hun.”

Bex frowned. “I don’t even get to have the day off school? Sucks!”

Before any argument broke out on the subject, the police officers re-entered the room. Dalton was smiling politely, but Andrew could tell by her weary eyes that she didn’t have good news for them.

“Mr Goodman,” she said. “Would you like to step outside for a moment?”

“Why?”

“Because we have information that you may wish to share with your family separately.”

Andrew didn’t like the sound of that at all. He stood up and moved away from the sofa, following the officers out into the hallway. “What is it?” he asked, once they were out of earshot of his family.

Wardsley looked down at his notepad and began reciting what he had written. “We weren’t personally aware of this individual when you first mentioned him, but then PC Dalton and I have recently exchanged from the Stratford branch. As it turns out, however, this Frankie is well known to the local branch.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“A scumbag,” replied Dalton, bluntly. “We shouldn’t comment on such things, but Francis Walker was put in a young offender’s institute at fifteen after stamping a fellow school pupil into a coma. When the police caught up to him, he had a grand’s worth of cocaine on his person.”

Andrew couldn’t believe it. “What the hell was a kid doing with all that coke on him?”

Wardsley shrugged. “Most likely he was selling it for a supplier. It’s common practise to get kids selling it – less suspicious. He obviously fell in with criminals at an early age and he’s only gotten worse since being released.”

“So why the hell is he back on the streets?”

“Because he was convicted as a child,” said Dalton. “The courts take sympathy in such cases.”

Andrew shook his head. “He should still be locked up. He’s a thug.”

Wardsley cleared his throat. “Frankie Walker may well have been misled as an innocent child, but that doesn’t change the fact that since an early age all he has been exposed to is crime and violence. There’s nothing else he knows and it’s doubtful he’ll ever reform. I agree with you, Mr Goodman.”

“So get him off the street.”

“We intend to do that, but I’m afraid we can only do so with sufficient evidence.”

“Well, what do I do until then? How do I protect my family?”

Dalton handed him a contact card. “By locking up safe and calling us if anything else happens. We’ll be here, okay?”

“We suggest keeping a diary,” said Wardsley, “of any further incidents. You could also install CCTV cameras.”

“Cameras? A diary? Are you kidding me?”

Wardsley shrugged. “May sound silly, but it will help support any cases we bring against Frankie in the future.”

Andrew put a hand against his forehead. It was clammy. “I can’t believe this. It’s just a bunch of kids. Am I really in danger here?”

“Probably not,” said PC Wardsley, “but Frankie is a unsavoury individual. It won’t hurt to be over-cautious. Take care and call us if anything happens. Anything at all.”

Andrew let the police officers out of the house, locking the porch door behind them. He watched them drive off and the whole time he was thinking: an unsavoury individual…

Just how unsavoury are we talking?

Chapter Four

Davie Walker awoke on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar house. His back ached from his neck all the way down to his tailbone, and it took several, confused minutes before he could remember where he was. There had been a party.

How much did he drink last night? He felt like a lorry parked on his head.

Several other people lay sprawled across the room, all semi-conscience and moaning in the same hung-over way that he was. Crumpled beer cans and empty bottles of vodka littered the floor, making it look more like a landfill than a home.

It must have been one hell of a party.

Davie rolled off of the sofa onto his knees. The carpet was wet beneath him, soaked with alcohol – or vomit. He felt it seep unpleasantly through to his jeans. Rising to his feet, he took a couple of unsteady footsteps, his vision struggling to focus as he moved across the lounge. A half-naked girl lay sprawled in his path, uncovered breasts pointing at the ceiling like beacons. Davie stepped over her like a speed bump and pushed through the door in front of him.

It led into a kitchen that was as much a chaotic mess as the lounge had been; only this time pizza and discarded snack food littered the floor in addition to all the beer cans. There was only one other person in the room – Dominic –passed out on the breakfast bar with his legs hanging off the edge. It was strange to see Dom without his twin, Jordan, but then Davie noticed him lying beneath the breakfast bar, as paralytic as his brother.

Davie wondered where his own brother was. Frankie had disappeared around3AM, but had promised to make it back to the party before daylight. Davie hoped he was okay and just shacked up with some bird – not seeking out trouble like he’d been doing non-stop since he’d got out the nick two months ago.

Davie left the twins sleeping and exited into the next room. If his fuzzy memory of last night served him correctly, he would find a staircase that would hopefully lead him to a bathroom. If he didn’t piss soon, he was going to burst.

Sure enough, Davie found himself in a beige-carpeted hallway with a staircase. He hurried up the steps two at a time, his bladder almost releasing itself as it anticipated imminent release. The bathroom was on the left. He pushed the door open urgently and dashed for the toilet. The bowl was already full of bright-yellow piss but Davie was happy to add to it, sighing orgasmically as his bladder expelled its bitter contents.

It was then that he heard shuffling beside him.

Davie turned his head, still peeing too heavily to turn around fully. The noises seemed to be coming from the bathtub, from behind the shower curtain. There was someone there. He was powerless not to finish urinating, so that’s what he did first. Once he was finished, he hastily pulled the shower curtain aside.

The boy in the bathtub was bound and gagged, secured to the unit’s mixer tap by a series of linked-up cable-ties. A gym sock filled his mouth and that, too, was secured by a cable tie pulled sadistically tight around his head. Completing the boy’s restraints were several more cable ties around his ankles. The boy looked weary – like he’d been there all night.

Davie reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. The boy’s eyes widened with fear, but it wasn’t his intention to harm him. He slid the blade beneath the cable tie around the boy’s face and began sawing back and forth.

Eventually, the cable tie snapped free.

“You’re all fucking crazy,” the boy shouted after spitting out the sock.

“Calm down,” said Davie. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Who the hell am I? This is my house you’re in.”

Davie found that surprising. “So what are you doing tied up in here then?”

“Because some psychopath crashed my birthday party and beat me up.”

It was then that Davie noticed the bruising around the boy’s face. Someone had given him a birthday to remember. “Who beat you up?”

“I did,” said Frankie, entering the room behind him. “I told him to chill out but he insisted on calling the police. Had to put him down.”

The boy shook his head. There was fear in his eyes at the sight of Frankie. “You forced your way into my home. What did you expect I would do?”

Frankie perched himself on the edge of the bathtub and looked down at the boy. “Me and my mates were just looking to party. We could have all been friends, but you had to be selfish and keep all the fun to yourself.”

“You’re a monster. You won’t get away with this.”

“We should go,” Davie told his brother. “Last thing we need is any more trouble. You only just got out.”

Frankie put a hand on Davie’s shoulder. There was a strong smell coming off his hands – like vinegar. “You worry too much, little bro,” he said.

“And you worry too little.”

“Okay, okay, fuck me.” Frankie raised his hands up in front of his face and adjusted his beanie hat. “Just let me take a piss first, okay?”

Davie nodded and stepped away from the toilet. Frankie stood in front of it and undid the buttons on his flies, popping them free one by one. Davie turned around to give him some privacy, but quickly turned back when he heard screams from the bathtub.

Frankie had moved away from the toilet and was now urinating all over the cable-tied boy, causing him to struggle and choke as the golden stream covered his face and mouth.

Davie stood in the doorway, stunned. “Shit, Frankie, what are you doing?”

Frankie laughed heartily. “Hey, when a man’s got to go, a man’s got to go.”

“Just stop it. He’s already going to call the pigs, so stop making things worse.”

Frankie finished pissing and turned to face his brother. “You’re right, Davie. You’re always right. I should probably help the poor guy get cleaned up. Make things better for myself.”

Davie was suspicious. Frankie wasn’t prone to sudden bouts of compassion. At least not since he got out of prison.

Frankie winked at Davie and turned back around. He reached up for the chrome shower taps that were set into the tiled wall above the bathtub and gave one of them a hearty twist. Water cascaded from the showerhead, soaking the boy held captive below. Davie watched him squirm, a little at first, but then more urgently. Eventually the squirms turned to full-blown thrashing and Davie realised why.

Frankie had turned on the hot tap.

As the water heated up, the boy began to wail. His face turned red as the cable ties held him powerless beneath the scolding embrace. Davie moved forward to help, but Frankie shouldered him out of the room, pulling the door closed behind them as they stood on the landing.

“Leave it,” said Frankie. “Quit acting like a pussy.”

Davie sighed. “You just got out of the nick. You’ll end up straight back there if you keep pulling this bullshit all the time. First you rob that guy’s trainers last night and now you’re burning people’s faces. It’s messed up.”

Frankie shot out his arm, shoving his smaller brother up against the wall. “I’ll decide what’s fucked up. Who feeds you, Davie? That’s right, I fuckin’ do. If you have a problem with how I roll, then you can piss off. I’ve looked after you long enough to deserve a little respect.”

Frankie stormed off down the corridor and headed downstairs. Davie listened to the boy in the bathtub, still screaming, and stepped inside to help him. Frankie was his brother and Davie loved him. He would always have his back, no matter what…

But this is getting out of hand.

Davie turned off the hot tap and looked down at the quivering boy in the bathtub. His face would never be the same again. Davie wondered how many more people would be damaged before his brother was through.

***

Davie caught up with Frankie outside. He had joined up with the twins, Dom and Jordan, and the three of them were sat waiting for him on a small brick wall outside the house.

“About time,” said Frankie. “What were you doing in there?”

Davie shrugged. “Not in a rush, are you?”

“Never in a rush, me. The world is my oyster.”

Davie covered the distance between him and his older brother and took a deep breath. The fresh air of approaching winter was invigorating and chased away the fringes of his hang over.

“That kid’s really hurt,” he said. “You’re going to go straight back inside for this.”

Frankie spat on the floor. “I ain’t ever going back inside. I’ll die first.”

“Then what the hell are you playing at, pulling shit like this? Kid you burned is going to go straight to the pigs.”

Frankie laughed, apparently unbothered. “No way, little bro. You want me to tell you why that little piss-ant is going to keep his mouth shut?”

Davie shrugged.

“Going to keep his mouth shut for two reasons. Number one: I’ve already made sure I have a dozen people ready to swear-down that I weren’t nowhere near this house when the kid got burned. Number two: Dom and Jordan are about to go back inside and tell the kid that if he says one word to the pigs about me, they’ll visit him in the middle of the night and cut his face off.”

Davie rubbed at his forehead. “Fuck man. This is so messed up.”

“Stop being such a whiny little pussy,” said Dom.

Frankie turned around and pointed a finger in the twin’s face. “Don’t be talking shit to Davie. That’s my blood, man. You get me?”

Dom nodded and stepped backwards as if to yield to Frankie’s authority. Sometimes the respect his brother gained so easily from people left Davie in awe. It wasn’t a skill-set he himself possessed, or was ever likely to. Frankie was the strong one. Frankie was the one who people would always follow.

Even if it was straight to a prison cell.

Dom and Jordan went back inside to deliver their threat. Frankie pulled his brother aside and the two of them started walking. “You got to chill out, little bro,” he said. “I know you’re just trying to watch my back, but things are sound, man. I ain’t going nowhere, you get me?”

Davie let out a sigh and kicked at a loose pebble on the ground. It hit the curb before scuttling into a drain. “I just want you to be careful. Things were hard while you were gone. You know, with mom and everything.”

“Let the drunken bitch rot. I’m looking after you again now and this time it’s for good. I learned a lot while I was banged up; stuff about how to keep the pigs off your back while bringing in the big dollar.”

“By selling drugs.”

Frankie stopped walking and looked at Davie. His expression was one of understanding and it reminded Davie of how kind-hearted his brother used to be – when they were both much younger. It seemed like ages ago now.

“Yes, by selling drugs,” said Frankie matter-of-factly. “You and I are going to live the good life. Get ourselves out of the shit we grew up with. I got it all covered, little bro.”

“If you go down for dealin’, you go down hard.”

Frankie put his arm around Davie and pushed him back into walking. “Enough, man. Just chill out about it and leave the worrying to me. Got other things to be getting on with for now.”

“Like what?” asked Davie.

Frankie clapped his hands together and put on a big smile, stretching the scar across his lip. “We’re going to go and have ourselves some fun.”

Davie smiled back, but secretly his empty stomach was churning anxiously. Davie was beginning to not like his big brother’s idea of fun.

Chapter Five

At twelve-o-clock Andrew entered the chip shop and looked for Charlie. To his relief, she was there, standing alone behind the counter as she had been the previous evening. As always, she smiled at him as he entered, but this time there was something a little apprehensive about her expression.

“Hey,” Andrew said to her. “Working again?”

The girl nodded. “Need the money. Saving for my sister’s hen party in Magaluf.”

“Nice,” said Andrew, thinking he couldn’t imagine anywhere worse for a holiday.

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing actually. I’m here to see you.”

Charlie looked worried, her mind perhaps jumping to conclusions.

Andrew put his hands up to reassure her that he wasn’t after her number or anything else as inappropriate or weird. “I just wanted to ask you a question, that’s all. Nothing big.”

She relaxed a little, her shoulders lowering. “You want to ask about Frankie, don’t you?”

Andrew nodded.

“He came in here last night, right before closing. Ordered fish and chips just like you did. I thought it was a coincidence.”

“It wasn’t,” said Andrew.

Charlie leant forward on the counter and let out a sigh. “I really don’t want to get involved. I told you to be careful.”

Andrew stepped forward. “I know you did, because you’re a nice, caring person. I need you to keep being that way, because this animal is endangering my family.”

Charlie looked up from the counter and made eye contact with him. Her eyes were blue and seemed to shimmer with sadness. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

Andrew scratched at his head. “I don’t know really. How do you know Frankie?”

“Went to school with him.”

“And?”

Charlie shrugged. “And he was a nightmare. Beating other kids up, vandalising anything he could get his hands on, stealing, drinking, shagging. You name it and Frankie Walker did it. Eventually he went down for something or other. Assault I think.”

“He just went to a young offender’s home?”

“Yeah, he was only a kid at the time.”

Andrew laughed. “That’s all he is now. They should have kept him locked up.”

“I agree.”

“So what is he doing around here? I’ve never seen him before recently.”

“He lives around here now,” said Charlie.

Andrew shook his head. “No way. This is a nice area.”

“Used to be. Council brought some of the property around here for social housing. Remember my dad kicking up a big fuss at the time. Got a petition going and everything.”

Andrew leant forward onto the counter and let the weight off his legs. “I can’t believe they would put someone like Frankie in a nice part of town.”

“Where else should they put him? Keep the poor with the poor, right?”

Andrew straightened back up. “No…I don’t know what I think at the moment. I guess I just thought all council houses were grouped together.”

Charlie shrugged. “I think that’s how it used to be. My dad said the Government wanted to space out council properties to avoid creating ghettos. That’s the right word, yeah?”

Andrew nodded. “Yeah, ghetto is right. Except now it seems that we’re all getting a little slice of ghetto to call our own.”

The shop’s door opened behind Andrew. Charlie wore her greeting smile as a customer walked in.

Guess everyone got the smile. Not just him.

“Look,” said Charlie, leaning forwards. “Like I said, I don’t want to get involved. But I can tell you that Frankie lives somewhere on Tanner’s Avenue. I know because a girl who used to be my best friend is now a drugged-up skank, thanks to him. I haven’t spoken to her in months, but that’s where she used to go see him when we were still friends.”

Andrew nodded and said thanks, but the girl was already serving the new customer, acting as though the conversation had never happened. Probably for the best, he thought as he left the shop and headed for home.

So Frankie has a home. Perhaps he has parents there? He’s still just a kid, so someone should be in charge of him. Maybe someone that has a little bit of control over him.

Andrew didn’t hold up much hope, but it was an option. Maybe Frankie would leave him alone if his own family knew of his behaviour. Andrew considered making the journey to Tanner’s lane later this evening.

Maybe I can put a stop to this before anything else happens.

Andrew turned the corner and lost his breath at the sight that met him there. His bright red Mercedes had been modified. Its expensive bodywork was now emblazoned by coarse, black gloss-paint, spelling out words in several places.

The words read: pedo.

Pedo, Pedo, Pedo.

***

Andrew fell back into his armchair in the lounge and stared into space. The sounds of his family’s voices were a distant droning, buzzing in the distance like irritated wasps. He was hearing their words but was unable to assemble them into cognitive meanings. Eventually he had to will his mind to return back to reality.

“…ell are they playing at?”

Andrew looked up at his wife, standing before him and shaking like a leaf. “Huh?”

“I said, what the hell are they playing at? Who behaves like this? Animals!”

Andrew leant his head back against the armchair’s headrest and examined the ceiling. The wind in his lungs seemed to stick in his throat as he let out a breath. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I still can’t believe any of this has happened.”

“Why you, though, dad?” Bex asked from the sofa. She was holding up well, but Andrew knew that deep down she was just as unnerved as her mother.

Andrew lowered his head and shrugged at his daughter. “Don’t know sweetie. If it wasn’t me then it would have just been someone else.”

“I still don’t understand why you won’t call the police again,” said Pen.

“Because it won’t do any good. Unless someone saw it happen, they will have nothing to go on.”

Pen clicked her fingers at him and motioned for him to get up. “Well bloody well find out if anyone did see. Ask the neighbours.”

Andrew took another moment to stare into space, before eventually nodding his head. “Okay. Maybe someone did see something.”

Andrew stood up and left the room. He was already wearing his shoes – not something he usually did indoors but the carpet was already ruined with chip fat anyway – so he stepped through into the porch and opened the front door. Outside, his eyes again came to rest upon his vandalised vehicle and the disgusting words written all over it. There was no way he could drive to work until it was repainted. That led him to think what exactly he would say when he dropped it off at the garage.

Oh, I’m not a pedo. It’s just some of the local kids having fun. Yeah right!

The street was deserted – the vandals come and gone without any remnant of their presence. It seemed unlikely that anyone had witnessed the crime. It was a Tuesday morning and Andrew knew that most of the people on his street had day jobs. The lack of parked cars only reinforced the assumption.

Next door, though – number 16 – was home to an elderly couple. Most likely they would be his best bet as they were both retired. The chance of them being home during the day was a healthy possibility. Andrew pressed their doorbell and waited.

It was a full minute later when he pressed the bell again.

Oh well. There goes my best shot.

He was just about to turn away when he noticed a twitch in the living room curtains. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though there had been someone looking out the window at him. Now they had slunk away, ignoring him.

“Hello,” Andrew shouted, stepping back to try and get a better view of the window. The shifting silhouette confirmed to him that someone was indeed inside. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to talk to you, if that’s okay?”

Nothing.

Andrew stood motionless, at a loss for what to do. Why wouldn’t they talk to him? Why would a nice elderly couple that had said hello to him for years not want to open the door to him? When he turned around he realised the reason why: the words written on his car.

Pedo, pedo, pedo.

It was becoming clear that whatever happened from now on, no one was going to help him. The panic-inducing power of the words on his car was enough to turn his neighbours against him. Innocent or not, he would be seen as a deviant in their eyes. No smoke without fire.

They think I’m a paedophile.

***

Tanner’s Avenue was a quiet cul-de-sac of terraced houses, lined on either side by leafless trees that towered above Andrew like judgemental skeletons. One of the homes belonged to Frankie, if what Charlie had told him was correct, but as for which one Andrew had no clue. There were at least twenty identical properties, each with the same drab lawns and featureless facades.

Andrew decided the best thing to do would be to just pick a house at random and ask the occupants if they knew which house was Frankie’s. He chose a house with a green-painted door and a brass number plate: 17.

Upon knocking, it took about fifteen seconds for the door to be opened. A diminutive gentleman, at least in his early sixties, appeared in the doorway. His hair thinned above his delicate round spectacles and he seemed withered and stressed-out.

“Can I help you?” the man asked him in a tone that was in no way friendly.

“Hello there,” said Andrew. “Sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could tell me if you knew where a young man named Frankie lives.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed and he took a half step backwards.

“You know him?” asked Andrew.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do. He’s been causing problems outside my house and I wanted to speak to his parents.”

“Ha!” the man laughed so hard it sounded like something tore loose in his throat. “Good luck! There’s only his mother to talk to and she’s just as bad as him. Ruined this street that bloody family have. A plague on all our houses.”

“The family?” asked Andrew. “The whole family is a problem?”

The man nodded. “That Frankie is an evil little bleeder, no argument about it, but you’ll hardly blame him when you meet his degenerate mother. Never seen the woman sober the whole time she’s lived here. Even passed out in the middle of the road once. Lucky someone didn’t run her over…more’s the pity.”

Andrew shrugged his shoulders and already felt like the whole thing was a bad idea. It was the only option he had right now, though. “Can you point me to the right house pleae? I have to at least try to speak some sense to them.”

The man sighed. “Like I said, good luck. They live at number 8.”

Andrew thanked the man and moved away from his door. Number 8 was directly behind and he turned and made his way over to it. Reaching the house a moment later, he was surprised he hadn’t realised sooner that it belonged to Frankie. The front door was chipped and dented, the paint peeling away in great chunks, whilst the path leading up to it was overgrown with weeds and discarded beer cans. One of the upper windows of the house was boarded-up while another was emblazoned with a faded England flag. If it were not for the bushes outside of the property, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb; a dilapidated slum amongst a row of far better kept properties.

Here goes nothing, Andrew told himself as he made his way up the path, having to step over what looked like a rotting condom on one of the slabs about half way up. There was no buzzer on the door – no knocker either – so he was forced to rap his knuckles against the sharp splinters of the rotting wood.

No one came to answer, but Andrew could hear commotion from somewhere inside of the house. It was the sound of someone clumsily making their way through the reception hallway, bumping into any nearby furniture en route. He held his breath and suddenly realised that his stomach was deeply unsettled. Having to wait so long for the door to open made the feeling even worse.

It was a full minute later when a dishevelled woman appeared. Her hair was wild on one side, but matted and damp on the other, as if she had been lying in a puddle.

“Wahya wan?” she asked.

Andrew smiled at the woman who, he now noticed, was wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown that was a size too small. Her shinbones were covered in bruises. “Are you Frankie’s mother?”

She gave Andrew a drilling stare. “Who are ya? Don’t look like yer from the social.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“So wahya wan then?” The woman was shouting now, her words coming out in aggressive slurs and bad breath – alcohol and smoke. “Wahya wan with my Frankie?”

“So you are his mother? I was hoping you could have a word with him for me?”

“Talk to im about wah?”

Andrew took a deep breath and tried not to let the woman’s inability to have a polite conversation deter him. He still believed that everyone had the capacity for rationality – it was just deeply buried in some people. Especially when they were drunk and possibly stoned.

“He’s been causing me some problems,” Andrew explained. “He broke into my home last night and today he vandalised my car.”

The woman snorted back a nose full of snot. “Got proof?”

“Do I need it?” asked Andrew. “I’m simply asking you to talk to him. I don’t wish to cause any trouble for you, ma’am. I just want Frankie to leave my family and me alone.”

The woman huffed. “He don’t listen to me, mate. Does wah he wans, that boy.”

“But you’re his mother.”

“Don’t mean a thing. Speak to im ya’self.”

Before Andrew had chance to stop her, the drunken woman was shouting up the stairs, yelling for Frankie to come down. Andrew felt his skin tighten as he anticipated another encounter with the young thug.

Frankie appeared behind his mother only a moment later, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts. She turned to look at him as he arrived. “Man says you been botherin’ him.”

Frankie looked at Andrew and his face lit up with recognition, but all he gave was a smirk. “Dunno what the bloke’s on about. Never seen him before.”

Frankie’s mother shrugged her shoulders at Andrew. The motion made her nightdress ride inappropriately high. “Never seen ya in his life, he sez.”

“With all due respect,” said Andrew, “that’s a lie.”

Frankie pushed past his mother and stood in the doorway. “Who you calling a fuckin’ liar?”

Andrew sighed. He wasn’t going to get drawn into an argument. “Frankie, can we please just stop this? I have done nothing to you.”

“I think you need a lie down, mate, cus I ain’t got a clue what you’re on about. Like I said, I ain’t never seen you before.”

Andrew clenched his fists, but then willed them to open again. Losing his cool would not help the situation. “Frankie, the police know all about you and what you’ve been doing. If you don’t stop now you’ll end up in trouble.”

“I don’t see how,” said a young girl appearing in the doorway beside Frankie’s mother, the same one who’d been with Frankie’s group the night everything started – the one who had called Andrew a perv. She wore only a skimpy pair of pink shorts and a bra.

“He’s been with me,” she said. “Last couple of days we ain’t left the bedroom, except to eat.”

“See, yer wrong.” Frankie’s mother slurred at Andrew. “Want to watch who ya start accusin’, mate.”

“I am not wrong,” Andrew stated firmly. “This young lady has been just as much involved in what’s been going on as he has.”

The girl laughed at him mockingly. “You must be stoned, mate. I would remember an old perv like you. You’re talking a load of shit.”

“You’re Charlie’s friend, aren’t you?” Andrew said.

A spark of confusion flittered through the girl’s eyes and, for a moment, her mocking contempt was completely diluted. A moment later it was back in full force. “Don’t know a Charlie, mate. Who is he?”

Andrew finally lost his temper. “Look, you evil little shits. If you come near my family again, you’ll regret it, okay? You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to move on. No more games.”

Frankie leapt out of the doorway and shoved Andrew back along the path. “You think you can come down my manor and threaten me? You must be trippin’.”

“Yeah,” added Frankie’s mother. “Get away from my house before I call the police.”

“You’ll call the police. That’s bloody rich.” Andrew was about to say more but realised it was pointless. He put his palms in the air and backed away. “Fine, have it your way, but this is going to stop one way or another.”

“Just fuck off,” Frankie shouted. “You come here again and you’re a dead man.”

Andrew sneered. “Same goes for you, my friend.”

“He ain’t your fuckin’ friend,” said the girl.

Andrew turned his back and walked away. He couldn’t help wondering if he had just made things worse. The walk home was a long one.

Chapter Six

Davie had watched Frankie’s altercation from the top step. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen his brother in a argument and it would no doubt not be the last. Their mother getting involved and making things worse wasn’t particularly unusual either.

The man at the door had been middle-aged, older than the usual type of person Frankie had misdealings with. Davie assumed the man was the same one his brother had delivered a beat down to recently. Frankie hadn’t mentioned it himself directly, but Dom and Jordan had been laughing about it at last night’s party. The man had come to the door angry, but seemed more desperate than anything else – like he just wanted to call a truce.

Frankie was coming up the stairs now, casually, as if nothing had happened. Michelle was with him, both of them laughing.

“Hey,” Davie said. “Who was that?”

“Fuck knows,” said Frankie, “but the guy has a death wish to get all up in my face like he did.”

Davie shook his head. “Don’t shit me. Who was it?”

“Just some perv,” answered Michelle. “Don’t worry about it, D.”

“My name is Davie. How did he know where we live?”

Frankie shrugged. Michelle answered again. “Stupid bitch, Charlie, must have told him. He knew we used to be friends so she obviously spoke to him at the chippy or summin’.”

“Okay,” said Davie, “so what did he want?”

“Fuck should I know?” said Frankie.

Davie looked at his brother and sighed. “I’m your brother, man. Tell me the truth.”

After a couple seconds, Frankie finally relented and let his guard down, his demeanour softening. “Okay, little bro, you’re right. He’s just some geezer I had to teach a lesson in manners the other night. I gave him some grief and he just came round to kick off about it.”

“So you’re going to leave off now?”

Frankie laughed and patted Davie on the shoulder. “Hell no! Shit is only just getting started. Now get out my way. This bitch needs a good seeing to.”

Michelle punched Frankie on the arm, but giggled as she did so. Davie got out of his brother’s way without saying anything more. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. Frankie would do as Frankie wanted; that was the way it had always been.

Davie decided to descend the stairs rather than return to his room. He entered the downstairs hallway on his way to the kitchen. It was unlikely there would be anything to eat – but stranger things had happened. The malodour of alcohol and weed was stronger downstairs than up and managed to permeate every corner of the house. The sound of daytime television polluted Davie’s ears as much as the smell polluted his nose – the additional noise of Frankie and Michelle screwing loudly upstairs only added to the assault on his senses.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” his mother asked as tried to sneak past the living room.

“Half-term,” he told her truthfully.

Davie’s mother stared at him, trying to work out if he was lying or not. Davie stared right back at her. Eventually, she seemed satisfied. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said. “Come sit with your old mom.”

Davie smiled uncomfortably but joined his mother on the grimy settee as he was told. She pretty much lived in this room, sprawled in front of the television. Davie sometimes wondered whether her sweat-soaked flesh would someday fuse with the festering cloth of the cushions and keep her there forever.

His mother took a long swig of beer and followed it with a throaty belch. She looked at him. “So whaya bin up to, Davie?”

Davie shrugged and stared at the television. “Nothing really. Just hanging out with Frankie. I’m glad he’s back.”

His mother huffed and took another swig of beer. “Boy’s a bad un. Done nothing but embarrass me his whole life. All I ever did was try to raise him like a good mother. You need to stay out of his way, Davie. You study hard and make your old mum proud. That boy will only bring you down with him – drinking, drugs, sex. He’s no good.”

“He’s my brother. He just does what he needs to survive.”

Davie’s mother laughed a wet cackle that eventually became a hacking cough. Phlegm and spittle flew from between her cracked lips and settled on the grungy carpet. When she finally managed to get control of her lungs again, she said to him: “He tell ya that, did he? Bloody swine.”

Davie didn’t answer. He hated it when his mother started on about Frankie – it never ended well. There was a real, palpable hatred between the two of them. Davie was the unfortunate victim in the middle. He loved them both, but when it came right down to it, only one of them was really looking out for him – and it wasn’t his mother.

The sounds of sex grew louder and more frenzied. Michelle cried out in orgasm, lacking regard for anyone forced to listen.

Davie’s mother looked up at the ceiling and sneered. “Goddamn whore! Where does Frankie find ‘em? Regret the day I gave birth to that monster, I really do.”

“Mum, don’t say that.” Davie knew where things were going: same place they always did. “Just watch your TV show. Okay?”

Suddenly her demeanour changed. Her eyes turned dark and her expression exuded a deep and hateful bitterness. “Don’t you tell me what to do, you ungrateful little shit. Who do you think you are?”

“Mum…”

Davie’s mother struck him across the face. His instincts almost made him strike her right back, but he managed to refrain from any retaliation. You never hit women, Frankie always used to tell him, those are the rules. So instead, Davie stood up calmly to exit the room.

His mother shouted after him as he left. “That’s right. Get outta my sight. Devil-child, that’s what you are. You and your brother make my life a living hell.” She started sobbing to herself. “What did I do to deserve this? I do my best…”

Davie ignored the rest of her comments, had heard them too often to let them settle in his mind. He turned away and went back up the stairs, heading for his bedroom. Maybe he would while away the day with a videogame or two. Before he got there, though, Frankie exited his own bedroom and stepped out onto the landing.

“What that bitch say to you?” he demanded. “I heard shouting.”

“Nothing,” said Davie. “She’s just mouthing off at the television again. You know what she’s like when she’s been drinking.”

Frankie examined Davie’s face, trying to work him out. Eventually he nodded and said okay. “It’s what she’s like when she hasn’t been drinking that I know nothing about. Woman’s a waste of space.” Frankie stepped over to Davie and put his hands on his shoulders. “Go find your coat, little bro. We’re going out.”

“Where to?”

Frankie smirked, his twitch turning the expression into an alternating grimace. “To go and have some fun.”

Great, thought Davie, heading to fetch his coat. More fun…

Chapter Seven

Andrew was upset, frightened, angry, and a multitude of other unwanted states of emotion. The amount of adrenaline in his body had at one point almost driven him to full blown panic. It was only thanks to a combination of deep breathing and the brisk walk home that managed to keep his anxiety under control. Now that he was rounding the final corner to his house, his predominant emotion had become anger.

Frankie’s attitude had been aggressive just like Andrew had expected it to be. What he had not expected was that the boy’s mother would be just as confrontational as her son. In many ways, it explained a lot – almost made the monster that was Frankie understandable and perhaps even forgivable. It didn’t make things right, though. Enough was enough.

Frankie was just a teenager, living with his mother and dating a schoolgirl. Andrew was willing to bet his watch that the lad was all front and little substance. He’d only had the guts to throw a punch at Andrew the previous night because of a gang backing him up. People were only afraid of Frankie because of the reputation he worked so hard to cultivate. Things would be different if people fought back instead of buying into it.

Andrew was an averaged sized guy and man enough to throw a punch if he had to. If Frankie wanted to try and victimise him then he was welcome to try. Andrew knew where he lived now and who his family were. They were on an equal playing field.

He reached the path to his house and started walking up it. He could see the shape of Pen and Bex through the net curtains of the front window and smiled at the thought of seeing them. It didn’t expect them both to be home yet.

Was it that time already?

Andrew checked his wristwatch and saw that it was getting on for six-o-clock. As if in affirmation of the late hour his stomach began to grumble. Food was something he hadn’t thought about all day, but perhaps his appetite returning was a good sign – a sign that things were no longer getting to him quite so much.

Andrew unlocked his front door and stepped inside the porch. Then he kicked off his shoes, removed his jacket, and passed through into the hallway. Pen and Bex were on the sofa in the living room. The carpets were still a mess, but the smell was mostly gone now. They gawped at him as he entered.

“Where have you been?” Pen demanded. “Have you seen what they’ve done to your car?”

Andrew set himself down in his armchair and released a long, weary sigh. “I know. I went to that lad’s home to try and put a stop to things.”

Pen’s eyes widened. “Really? What happened?”

Andrew leaned back into the chair’s cushion and shrugged his shoulders. “Not a fat lot. The kid’s whole family is as bad as he is. Was like banging my head against a brick wall.”

“So this isn’t over then?” Bex asked, sitting beside her mother and still wearing her school blazer.

Andrew shrugged again. “I’m hoping so, honey. The swine knows that I know where he lives now and that I’m not afraid to confront him. Hopefully that will be enough to make him think twice from now on. Either way, don’t let it worry you. Things will be okay.”

Bex seemed unconvinced. “How do you know?”

“I just do, okay? I’m not going to let anything bad happen.”

“Okay,” said Pen, finally sounding less on the defensive. “Let’s just move on then.” She looked at Andrew and grinned. “I think we’re still owed an evening of fish and chips, so I think I’ll walk over to the shops in a bit.”

Andrew stood up from the armchair. “Don’t be silly. I’ll go.”

“You sure?”

Andrew nodded emphatically. “Yes, of course. There’s nothing to worry about. Last thing I thought you’d fancy though is fish and chips after last night.”

“Like I said, we should just move on. Besides, I don’t feel like cooking tonight. You certain you don’t want me to fetch them?”

Andrew nodded. “Certain as can be.” He left the living room and went to get his jacket from the porch. It was chillier now as night fell, so he decided on a scarf also. Once he checked for his wallet and keys, he left the porch and started down the front path.

The sight of the empty road ahead was comforting, the soft buzzing of the streetlights the only sound he could hear. Right now, the memory of being attacked by a gang of bloody-minded yobos seemed impossible – a nightmare he had woken from long ago. Still, it would be smart to remain alert, and Andrew wasn’t entirely confident as he ambled down the street. But at least for now it seemed like things would be okay and that events would soon blow over.

What a day. Just when life seems to be routine and unexciting, something crazy can happen and turn everything on its head. It’s over now though. A little bit of grovelling at work and things will soon be back to normal.

Andrew didn’t notice the ambulance at first. He became aware of the flashing lights at the edge of his vision, but was too lost in his own thoughts to recognise their immediate connotation. When he came to realise that someone was undoubtedly injured, Andrew hastened his steps and headed towards the gathering crowd.

The ambulance was parked outside the small group of local shops that Andrew had been heading for. When he realised that the emergency vehicle was parked directly outside of the chip shop, his stomach tied itself in knots. A bad feeling enveloped him like a shroud. He rushed forward and looked for the nearest paramedic. There was a young, blond man in a white shirt and green jacket. He was carrying a large holdall and NHS emblems adorned his clothing in several places. Andrew approached him.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “Who’s hurt?”

The paramedic pushed past him, not making eye contact. “Please move aside, sir.”

Andrew went to grab out at the man’s sleeve but missed. The medical worker hurried away before there was any opportunity for another try. Several spectators stood around in various corners of the shopping area and car park. Andrew examined them one after the other, eventually spotting a young girl wearing the same chip shop uniform that Charlie always wore. He sighed with relief.

“What happened?” Andrew asked the chip shop girl as he closed the distance between them.

The girl’s eyes pointed at him and were moist with recently shed tears. It was obvious she’d witnessed whatever accident had befallen the poor soul in the ambulance.

Andrew put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I said what happened?”

For a brief moment it looked like the girl was going to faint. Somehow she managed to refocus herself and look Andrew in the eye. “She…she got burned.”

“Who got burned?”

“Cha…Charlie.”

Andrew’s knees threatened to fold beneath him. “Charlie is the one who got hurt?”

The grief-stricken girl nodded.

Andrew shook his head, hoping she was mistaken. “What happened?”

The girl gave no answer and just stared in to space.

Andrew gave her a little shove. “Tell me!”

She snapped back to reality again. “I…I don’t know. She fell into the fat fryer. Got her arm all burned.”

Andrew examined her expression closely. She was staring into space again as if she were incapable of eye contact.

“Bullshit!” he said to her.

The girl flinched then looked at him, but still she said nothing. More tears began to expel themselves down her cheeks.

“Frankie did this, didn’t he?”

The girl shrugged off his grasp and rushed inside the chip shop, locking the door behind her. Andrew shook his head and felt tears of his own well up in his eyes.

So much for answers, he thought.

The ambulance revved its engine and started to pull away. Andrew tried to get a look in through the back windows, to see if Charlie was okay, but the glass was frosted and gave no opportunity to do so. So he stood there in shock for several minutes, praying to god that the poor girl on her way to the hospital was not hurt because of him.

Because of Frankie.

As the shock diluted into his bloodstream and faded away completely, it was replaced by a fury so alive with hatred that it seemed electrical in nature, sparking through his system and making his flesh tingle. He started for home again, wondering how he would ever explain to his family that, for the second time this week, chips were cancelled.

***

“What do you mean you’re going to the hospital?” Pen asked him incredulously.

“I need to go check on someone. The girl from the chip shop told me where Frankie lives and I think he’s hurt her because of it.”

Pen almost spat the red wine she was drinking and had to swallow it carefully to avoid choking. “He’s put the girl in hospital? Jesus Christ!”

“And it might be my fault, which is why I need to go.”

Pen collapsed onto the sofa. “Crazy… This whole thing is just crazy.”

Andrew sat down beside his wife and put an arm around her. “I know, but perhaps this girl will press charges and Frankie will go away again. Lord knows he deserves it.”

“You want me to come with you?”

Andrew shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be fair to Charlie. She probably won’t want to see me, let alone my family. You stay here and look after Bex. I think she’s more upset about this situation than she lets on.”

“Okay,” said Pen. “Give this Charlie my best, okay?”

Andrew kissed his wife goodbye and left the house. The hospital was five or six miles away so he would need to take his car to get there. Hopefully, now that it was dark, the graffiti written all over it would not be visible. He pulled out his car keys and pressed the alarm fob. The lights flashed twice.

To the pedo-mobile, thought Andrew wryly as he looked at the once-beautiful machine. He pulled open the door and hopped inside behind the wheel, plonking his butt down onto the leather driver’s seat. The ignition started as soon as he turned the key and the car was already moving when he began to fumble for his seatbelt. His eye was off the road for only a few seconds, but it was long enough to miss sight of the person standing in the road.

At only 20mph, the car was moving fast enough to launch the person up onto the bonnet and then tumbling back down to the road.

Andrew stamped on the brakes.

The tyres squealed.

The car stopped.

He stared out at the body on the road and could not believe it. His world got worse with every passing second. He pressed the release on his seat belt and shoved open the door, stepping shakily into the frosty, cold air.

He had run down a young boy, unconscious and bleeding in the road. Glass covered the asphalt with shards of glass that now sparkled in the car’s headlamps like alligator teeth. Andrew rushed over to the boy and dropped down to his knees, ignoring the stabbing pains caused by the unforgiving tarmac.

“Are you okay?”

Stupid question.

“Everything is going to be okay. I’m going take you to the hospital.”

I was on my way there anyway, Andrew thought grimly. To see another young kid that got hurt because of me. I’m going to hell.

Andrew sprung up off his knees and went and opened the rear passenger door of the car. Then he went back over to the injured boy, kneeled beside him, and threaded his arms underneath his shoulders to hoist him up. The weight was substantial, but thankfully the boy was pretty lean. Andrew was just about able to carry him over to the back seat of the car without running out of steam. He placed the boy down gently and bent his legs at the knee so that the door had room to close. Before Andrew had chance to close it, the boy opened his eyes and started to moan.

“Hey there,” said Andrew softly. “My name is Andrew. You’ve been in a little accident, but everything is going to be okay. I’m taking you to the hospital right now. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy carried on moaning for a few moments more but eventually managed to answer Andrew’s question. He said his name was Davie.

Chapter Eight

Andrew reached the hospital in less than ten minutes, screeching to a halt outside the entrance to the A & E department. There was no one around and he had to cry out for someone to come and help him. It wasn’t long before a male nurse and a couple of orderlies appeared outside, hurrying to see what the emergency was.

The orderlies quickly retrieved a gurney and, together with the male nurse, managed to hoist Davie out of the car and onto the wheeled bed. Without hesitation they then disappeared inside the hospital with Davie, leaving Andrew alone with the male nurse.

“Do you know the boy?” the nurse asked him.

Andrew shook his head. “Said his name was Davie, but I’ve never met him before.”

The nurse put a hand on Andrew’s back and ushered him inside. “We’ll take good care of him, sir. For now we’ll need you to answer a few questions so that we can assess the extent of his injuries. You may have to make a report to the police as well. I assume it was you that hit him?”

It mortified Andrew to hear it out loud, but he had no choice except to nod – yes, he had hit the boy. Had run him right over because he hadn’t been paying attention.

I ran down somebody’s son.

The nurse led Andrew over to a grouping of cheap plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor in uniform rows. “Take a seat, sir. We’ll keep you updated on his condition. Is there someone you’d like us to call?”

Andrew thought about Pen and Bex, but then found someone else popping into his head. “I need to see someone else that is already here. A girl named Charlie. She got burned today by a deep fat fryer.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “I think I recall someone coming in with those injuries. What relation are you?”

Andrew looked down at the floor, examining the various old stains that adorned the beige tiles. “I’m…a friend.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

Andrew thanked the man and leaned back in the chair. The bruising on his ribs throbbed as his chest compressed against the hard, uncomfortable backrest. The small waiting room was empty of people and the other chairs contained nothing other than discarded magazines and folded newspapers. Apparently, weekday evenings were not peak time for injures.

So the only two people admitted are both probably here because of me. Way to do my bit for national health.

Five minutes later, a young lady in a white tunic came and sat beside Andrew. She asked him a series of questions about the incident involving the boy and wrote down his replies on a printed form. Once she reached the end of the questionnaire, she smiled at Andrew and disappeared back into the staff only area of the hospital. Waiting for further news was a torment that he could hardly bear. For all he knew, right now, the young boy he’d hit could have permanent injuries.

The over-sized clock on the waiting room wall moved along almost one full hour before someone else came to speak to him. It was the same male nurse who had met him in the car park. He sat next to Andrew. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad, considering. Any news?”

The nurse smiled and nodded. “The boy you ran into is going to be fine. He has some mild bruising on his ribs and a concussion from where his head hit the windscreen, or perhaps the road. Either way, he’ll be fine after an extended rest. He was awake for a while, but he’s sleeping at the moment.”

Andrew let all of the air out of his lungs in a great big hiss. “Thank god. Did you let his family know?”

“No,” said the nurse. “He wouldn’t give us anyone to contact. He just told us to let him know when it was alright for him to leave.”

“That’s strange. Well, when he wakes up let him know I’m happy to drive him home.”

“I’ll tell him. Now about this girl you said you wanted to check on. I located her in the burns ward. She’s going to be okay, but the damage to her arm is…severe.”

“Permanent?” Andrew didn’t really want to hear the answer.

The nurse nodded grimly. “She has second-degree burns from above her elbow all the way down her arm. She’s in a great deal of pain so she’s been put on morphine.”

Andrew found himself unable to breathe, his bodily functions temporarily halted by the horror he was feeling.

“She’s asked to see you,” the nurse told him.

Andrew looked at the man. “Really?”

The nurse nodded and stood up. “I’ll take you there now. She’ll probably be asleep once the treatment takes hold.”

Andrew stood up and followed the nurse. They passed through the waiting room for regular admittance, which was a great deal busier than the empty emergency room he had been sat in, and then continued on onto the treatment wards. They took an elevator up to the second floor and passed by the mournfully silent Oncology Department. Then they reached the Burns Unit.

The nurse pushed open one of the swinging double doors and stood aside for Andrew to enter. The first thing he noticed as he walked into the room was the suffocating odour of antiseptic creams and alcohol. The ward was cramped, divided into cubicles on both sides.

“She’s in bed number three,” said the nurse, pointing up ahead.

Andrew thanked the man and headed for Charlie’s cubicle – a set of canvass walls and a blue nylon curtain for the door. Andrew pulled aside the curtain and stepped inside. Charlie was staring right at him when he entered.

“Hi, Charlie,” he said, looking left and right for a chair to sit on. Before he found one, his eyes fixated on the thick white bandages that covered her entire left arm. He quickly broke his stare and perched himself down on a nearby chair. It was a lot comfier than the ones they had in the waiting room. “How are you doing?”

She shook her head at him wearily, obviously tired and a little out of it from the morphine that was entering through the drip on her uninjured arm. “I’ve been better.”

“I’m really sorry you got hurt,” said Andrew. “Are your parents coming?”

Charlie’s voice was croaky when she spoke. “Someone’s contacting them now. How come you got here so fast?”

“I ran someone over. I was already heading here to see how you were, but I guess that made me drive a little faster. I knew you’d been hurt because I was coming to the chip shop just after it happened.”

Charlie let out a little laugh. It was a sleepy sound. “You hit someone?”

Andrew laughed a little too. “Yeah, if you can believe it? He’s going to be fine. Which just leaves the question: what exactly happened to you?”

Charlie turned her head and looked away from him. Her eyes eventually focused on her bandaged arm. The sight seemed to upset her a great deal. “What you think?”

Andrew leaned forward on his chair. “Frankie?”

“He knew I spoke to you.”

Guilt took root in Andrew’s gut and started eating away at him from within, gnawing with its vicious little teeth. “I’m so sorry. I went and had it out with him this afternoon. Your friend was with him and I mentioned your name. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, you have to believe me. I was just trying to protect my…” Andrew’s voice trailed off. This girl in front of him would be scarred for life. There were no excuses she needed to hear from him. None would be good enough.

“I don’t want you to ever bother me again,” said Charlie in a voice that was forceful despite her dreary, drug-addled tone. “This happened because of you.”

“This happened because of Frankie. I know I dragged you into this, but it’s him that needs to pay. We need to tell the police.”

Charlie shook her head. “Frankie is a psychopath.”

“I know. That’s why I need you to have him arrested. I need to make sure he’s stopped before…before…”

“Before he does the same to your family?”

Andrew felt sick at the thought. Earlier on, he’d been convinced that Frankie’s bark was bigger than his bite but, after the callous attack on this innocent young girl, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“I’d get your family and just move,” said Charlie, suddenly sounding very sleepy. “I’m not…getting…involved.”

Andrew sat for a few moments, trying to formulate a counter-argument in his head but came up blank every time. Before he even came close to having something useful to say, Charlie had fallen unconscious in the grasp of morphine-soaked oblivion.

Andrew stood up. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he left the cubicle.

Outside, the male nurse who had been waiting for him asked, “Everything okay?”

Andrew shook his head. “Not at all. Can you take me to the boy I ran over please? Seems I have a lot of apologising to do this evening.”

***

Andrew had to sit outside the recuperation ward for over an hour while Davie slept. He had sent a text to Pen during this time, letting her know that the girl was okay and that he would be home soon. He didn’t tell her that he’d run over a young boy on the way to the hospital. That was a conversation for later.

A plump woman came out of the ward and smiled at Andrew on her way to the nurse’s station nearby. As she passed she told him that, “The boy is awake now. You can go in.”

Andrew nodded his thanks and stood up. His knees clicked as they straightened out and he suddenly felt sixty years old as he headed for the ward. Inside, there were a dozen separate beds, half of them empty. At the far end was the boy he’d hit, head wrapped in a bright-white bandage. Andrew walked over and stood at the end of the bed.

“How you doing?” asked Andrew. “You feeling okay?”

The boy’s eyes went very wide for a split-second, almost as if he recognised Andrew, but that seemed unlikely. “Y-yeah, thanks. Was it you that ran me over?”

Andrew nodded.

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“What?” Andrew’s mouth fell open. “Of course not. I never meant it at all. I’m really sorry this happened.”

The boy was silent for a moment as if trying to work something out in his head. “Okay. So you never wanted to hurt me?”

“Of course not. I’ve never even met you before. I’m sorry, okay?”

The boy nodded. “Thanks. I was probably to blame anyway. I was running across the road without looking.”

Andrew smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, whoever’s to blame it was just an accident. You’re going to be okay and that’s the main thing. I’m happy to give you a ride home when you’re ready, pal?”

“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll make it home on my own.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Andrew. “I hit you five miles from here. I’m not letting you make your own way home with a concussion.”

“But-”

“No arguments. I’ll go talk to the nurses now and see if we can break you out of here. Then we can go get a McDonalds on the way home or something.”

The boy smiled. “They said I’m not allowed to eat for twenty-four hours.”

Andrew winked at the boy. “Who’s going to know?”

“Okay,” said Davie. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing. Where am I driving you to anyway?”

The boy seemed to hesitate before he answered. “T-Tanner’s Avenue.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Tanner’s Avenue? Great…I know the place. I’ll be waiting outside for you, okay?”

Andrew left Davie alone and exited the ward, wondering whether or not coincidences really existed.

Chapter Nine

Davie was almost certain that the man waiting for him outside the ward was the very same guy who had been on his doorstep earlier arguing with Frankie. While not one hundred per cent positive, Davie recognised that the man had the same neat, brown hair and spindly posture.

He pulled on his jeans behind the plastic wraparound curtain of his cubicle, and every time he peeked through the gap in the sheet, he could see the man peering in at him through the long windows of the ward.

Waiting to batter me to death and finish what he started when he ran me down with his car.

Davie didn’t believe that, though. The man – Andrew, was it? – didn’t seem to mean any harm. In fact, it didn’t seem like the man even knew who Davie was – or who his brother happened to be. Davie thought about the word coincidence and decided that it was the correct one for this situation. Still, what would happen when the man dropped him off at the same house he’d been at earlier?

There was no chance of him letting Davie make his own way home – he felt too responsible – so the best plan would be to have him stop and drop him off at the end of Tanner’s Avenue. Davie could pretend to walk to another house then go home when the coast was clear.

He pushed his feet into his worn trainers and suddenly felt dizzy. He fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes until the feeling passed. The bump on his head throbbed rhythmically and each time it did he felt a little more nauseated. The thought of telling his mother or Frankie that he’d been in an accident made him feel even more ill.

Frankie would go mad, especially if he found out who was responsible.

After a few moments of remaining still, the sickness went away, so Davie pulled aside the privacy curtain and stepped away from the bed. The man was still waiting outside and gave a little wave through the window. There was a young woman in a nurse’s uniform standing beside him.

Davie pushed through the ward’s double doors and the nurse held something out to him – a small plastic container. “Take these pills every morning,” she said, “and at lunchtime. They should help with the headaches. You need absolute rest so get yourself in bed, sweetheart, and don’t leave for anything, you hear? You have someone to look after you?”

Davie lied. “Yeah, my mum.”

“Let’s get you home, then,” said the man, wrapping an arm around Davie’s shoulders and ushering him away. It made Davie uncomfortable to be touched by an adult, but he did not resist.

“You really don’t have to take me, Mr…”

“I do,” he said firmly, “and you can call me Andrew. You’re my responsibility until I get you home. Still fancy that McDonalds?”

Davie thought about the recurring sickness that constantly rose in his tummy and shook his head. “Thanks all the same, but I think it will just make me feel worse. I just want to go home to bed.”

“No probs. I’m parked right outside so I’ll have you there in ten.”

The two of them set off through the bleak corridors of the hospital, the silence growing more awkward with each passing step. Davie considered making a run for it, but knew he wouldn’t make it more than a few yards without having to throw up. Just strolling along like this took effort.

“This way,” said Andrew, just as Davie was about to make a turn into the reception area. “I came in through the A&E not General Admissions.”

Davie followed Andrew into a waiting room that was empty except for a young lad with a thick clump of glass sticking out of a bleeding head wound. He was sobbing to himself quietly as he sat there alone.

Someone’s bottled him, Davie thought to himself, knowing the type of injury well from experience. The scars never completely go away.

Davie and Andrew exited the hospital and stepped into the cold breeze of the car park. There was a bright red Mercedes parked askew across several parking bays and, as Davie got closer, he could see that the vehicle was plastered in graffiti – the words Pedo Pedo Pedo written all over it. Davie glanced at Andrew uncertainly.

Andrew seemed to realise the situation and immediately became flustered, waving his hands and shaking his head defensively. “No, no, no, you don’t need to worry. That’s just the work of some idiot that’s been terrorising the neighbourhood. His idea of a joke!”

“Ha ha,” said Davie without inflection; secretly thinking that Frankie had a weird sense of humour. “You must have laughed all night?”

Andrew looked at Davie and then suddenly broke into laughter. “Yeah, I had an absolute hoot. Now, come on, get yourself inside the pedo-wagon. I want to take you home and show you my basement.”

Davie joined in the laughter and pulled open the passenger door once Andrew had disengaged the automatic locks. Despite the spoiled paintwork, it was the poshest car he’d ever been in. The seats were soft, stitched from leather, and the dashboard had a sleek metallic sheen that was peppered with chrome-plated dials and switches.

“Nice motor,” he commented.

“Thanks,” said Andrew, sliding into the driver’s seat and strapping himself in. “I only just got it, but I think it’s nice too. Obviously someone felt it needed some custom paintwork.”

“Will it cost a lot to repair?”

Andrew started the engine and looked forward. He shrugged. “I imagine so. Hopefully my insurance will cover it, but then they charge you more every month to make up for it.”

“That sucks,” said Davie, not really understanding the ins and outs of motor insurance, but assuming it was a big rip-off like everything else. “You know who did it?”

Andrew nodded but said nothing.

Davie shifted slightly in his seat as the car began moving out of the hospital car park. “You going to do anything about it? To the person that did it, I mean?”

“Don’t know,” said Andrew. “Don’t know if there’s anything I can do.”

Davie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m a good man. I look after my family and go to work so that I can give them a good life, but what can I do if someone decides to make my life hell? The police won’t help me and I don’t know how to fight worth a damn. Seems to me that it’s all too easy to be a thug nowadays.”

The car pulled onto a main road and picked up speed. The powerful engine purred proudly. There was no other traffic that Davie could see. The dashboard’s digital clock said that it was a little after nine at night, which explained the empty roads.

“Maybe he’ll leave you alone once he’s had his fun?” Davie proposed.

“Sounds like you know something about it? You don’t go around terrorising people do you?”

Davie shook his head without even thinking about it. You always pled innocent, no matter what. “No, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said, “but I’ve known people who do?”

The car sped up as it entered a slip road to a carriageway. “Really? Like who?”

Davie shrugged, wondering to himself why exactly he had even instigated this conversation in the first place. “Just kids I’ve hung around with,” he said. “At school and that, you know?”

Andrew nodded as if he understood. “You enjoy school?”

“Hate it, but I try my best anyway. I promised my mum I would get a job and not end up like my brother.

Oh shit, why did he say that?

“You have a brother?”

Davie swallowed what felt like a huge lump in his throat. “Yeah. He…moved away, years ago now, but he was always up to no good.”

“Hurting people?” said Andrew.

Davie thought about how loud Charlie had screamed when Frankie held her arm in the chip fat. It was the hottest thing Davie had ever seen, bubbling and spitting like molten agony. The young girl cried out so loudly when her hand had touched it that something must have given way inside her throat. The tone of her voice changed pitch mid-scream. Frankie had broken his own rule about never hurting a woman and the whole incident had sent Davie’s world spiralling. The violence made him feel woozy, so he’d run. Run away from the chip shop as fast as he could. Then something had hit him like a ton of bricks. Next thing he knew, he was waking up in a hospital with a nurse bandaging his head.

Even now, Davie had a hard time accepting what had happened in the chip shop. The old Frankie he had grown up with would never have hurt a defenceless girl like that. The old Frankie he grew up with would not have done a lot of the things he had been doing lately.

“...kay?”

Davie looked up from his thoughts. “Huh?”

“I said, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Davie nodded. “Just feel a bit sick.”

Andrew turned to him and smiled. “We’re almost there now. Hold on.”

Davie decided not to participate in any further conversation. The less Andrew knew about him – and his blood relatives – the better. In fact, too much had been said already.

The speeding car took a road on the left and started slowing down. It entered into a residential area that Davie did not recognise.

“I think you’ve gone the wrong way.”

Andrew shook his head, but kept his eyes forward. “No, I haven’t”

“Yeah, you have,” Davie argued. “You should have kept on the main road for a little while longer, I think.”

“We’re making a little detour first.”

Davie felt sick. “What?”

Andrew smiled at Davie for a moment then looked back at the road. “I have someone I want you to meet. Then I will take you home, alright?”

“Okay,” Davie hesitated. “Who?”

Andrew took a deep breath as if he was considering something. “I want you to meet my family, Davie. They were worried when I told them I hit you. I just want them to see that you’re okay. That cool, buddy?”

Davie nodded. “Yeah, okay, but I really need to get home soon.”

“No problem. Be five minutes. My wife will never get off my back until she knows you’re going to be okay.”

Davie looked out of the window as the car parked up on the curb outside of a row of houses. He couldn’t help feeling like a rat caught in a trap. There was something off about the situation and Andrew’s demeanour had suddenly changed, but Davie had nowhere to run. Couldn’t run.

Andrew applied the parking brake and switched off the ignition. “Okay, get out.”

Davie nodded in silence. He pushed open the door on his side and stepped out into the street. The air felt icy after leaving the stifling compartment of the car. It was a good sensation, though, and woke up his senses, easing the low-level headache that had been with him since the hospital.

“Come on, inside,” said Andrew, walking up a path to one of the houses. There was a light on in the living room, mingling with the pulsing flash of a television.

Davie followed obediently, wishing he was somewhere else – anywhere else – than the property of a man who most likely meant him harm.

Andrew opened the front door with a key and stepped inside. Dave stepped inside too, stopping inside the porch.

“Living room’s on the left, buddy. Go on through.”

Davie entered the hallway and turned to the door on the left. It felt as though turning the handle would be the beginning of something he didn’t want to get into. He wanted to refuse to go in, to turn around and demand to be let out. But it was too late for that.

He was already inside.

Davie turned the handle and pushed open the door, then entered the living room. Inside, there was a mixture of smells that didn’t usually go together. It smelt like vinegar and…bleach? A moment later Davie saw the source of each odour. Two women – one young and one older – crawled on their hands and knees, scrubbing at the carpet with bleach-soaked cloths. The whole room seemed to be littered with mashed up potatoes and bits of fish.

“My family,” said Andrew behind him.

The women looked up and both seemed to receive a fright at Davie’s presence. Both of them stood up quickly.

Andrew stepped through into the centre of the living room and stood in front of the women. “This is just one of the things Frankie has done to us for no reason, Davie. My wife and daughter have been scrubbing at these carpets all day and the smell still hasn’t gone completely. You know all about the damage to my car.”

Davie shook his head and wondered what to say. What words would make this situation end?

The older woman’s eyes had gone wide and she looked at him, bewildered. “You know Frankie?”

Davie said nothing. He didn’t want to admit to anything that could get him hurt.

“This is Frankie’s brother,” said Andrew, “and he’s a good lad.”

Davie raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Andrew shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think you enjoy hurting people like your brother does.”

Davie still chose to say nothing. His thoughts were a muddle, perhaps from the concussion – perhaps not.

“Sit down,” said the woman. “I’ll get us all some tea.”

Davie hesitated. He still wanted out of there, but somehow felt his uneasiness going away at the thought of staying. A cup of tea sounded nice. They never had any milk at home.

The younger girl stepped towards Davie and held out her hand. She was about his age and beautiful – like a younger version of her mother but with a lightness to her features that made her seem angelic. Davie could tell just by looking at her that she was a kind person. She continued to offer out her hand and Davie finally took it, albeit reluctantly.

“My name’s Rebecca,” she said, leading him towards the sofa. “Take a seat and we’ll talk things through. You look like you’ve been in the wars.”

Davie sat down and nodded. “I got run over.”

Rebecca sat beside him and looked shocked. “No way!”

“Yes,” said Andrew, seating himself on a nearby armchair. “It was me who hit him.”

The girl now seemed even more shocked.

“Was an accident, Bex,” Andrew added. “Davie’s going to be just fine, so don’t worry.”

“Thank god. This week’s been horrible enough without anything else happening.”

“I’m sorry,” said Davie without realising the word was going to escape his lips.

“It’s okay,” Rebecca told him. “We just want your brother to leave us alone.”

“Yes,” said Andrew. “It all needs to stop, right now. We’re innocent people.”

The older woman re-entered the room with a tray full of steaming mugs. The one she handed to Davie had a Bart Simpson design. “I added sugar. Is that okay?”

Davie nodded and thanked her, but then said, “I need to go home.”

“Okay,” Andrew nodded. “Just drink your tea and we’ll get going. I just wanted you to meet my girls first.”

“Why?”

“So that you can tell your brother that we’re real people he’s hurting.”

“He knows that.”

“Does he? Because maybe things don’t seem as real if you don’t know the person you’re having fun with.”

Davie shrugged. “I know what you’re doing, but I don’t think it will work. I’m sorry.”

“Can you not do anything at all, Davie?” asked the mother.

Davie shook his head. “Frankie doesn’t listen to anyone, least of all me. I think…I think he enjoys hurting people.”

Andrew nodded. “Like Charlie.”

Davie looked down at the liquid in the mug and watched it steam. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just want to go home. If you take me now, I won’t tell Frankie about what happened.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you threatening me?”

Davie shrugged. “Guess I am. Frankie has got it in for you. If he hears that you ran me over, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“So why would you want to tell him if it will cause more trouble?”

Davie stood up, flinging his mug of steaming tea aside, adding to the stains on the carpet. “Because you won’t let me the fuck go. I’ve asked you nicely. Now let me fucking leave, right now, you get me?” Davie felt woozy, but continued anyway. “I’ll walk home from here and not say a thing, but if you keep me here any longer than you’ll pay.”

Andrew’s eyes saddened as they looked at him. He stood up and nodded. “Okay, son. It’s a shame because I thought better of you. Guess I had it wrong. Maybe it’s the concussion talking.”

Davie couldn’t understand why, but tears began to beat at the back of his eyelids. Andrew had been correct when he said knowing a victim makes things more real. It upset him to see the effects of Frankie’s behaviour, but it was none of his business. Frankie was family. Frankie was his brother. This man in front of him was just a stranger.

Davie yanked open the door to the hallway and stepped outside, trying to control his breathing as it threatened to get out of control. He entered the porch and waited for Andrew to come and unlock the front door. It was not Andrew, however, that came to join him. It was Rebecca.

“Hi,” she said to him.

Davie gave a half-smile. “Hey,” he said back. “I’m sorry about all this shit my brother’s brought down on you, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

Rebecca smiled at him and nodded, then reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. I know you can’t do anything about it. It was shitty of my dad to corner you like that, but he’s just trying to protect us, you know?”

Davie didn’t want to get into it anymore. He just wanted to leave. He found himself giving an answer, though. “I understand why he did it and I’m not going to tell anyone. Just let me out, okay?”

Rebecca obliged. She produced a key from her pocket and shimmied past him. Her body felt warm against his as she brushed past and Davie felt dizzy again. She unlocked the door for him and stood aside.

“Thanks,” he told her, taking one last look at her – sad that they would not speak again after this. Just as he stepped out onto the pathway, she put a hand out and stopped him. “It’s okay, you know?”

“What’s okay?”

“Being afraid of Frankie. I am too. I guess lots of people are.”

Davie puffed up his shoulders. “I’m not afraid of anybody. Especially not my own brother.”

Rebecca nodded and smiled at him, almost like she pitied him now. “If you’re not afraid, then why won’t you help us?”

Davie was thinking of an answer when he heard someone shout from behind him. It was his brother’s voice. Frankie was there.

“Davie? The fuck are you doing here? Why the hell are you coming out of that fucker’s house?”

Chapter Ten

Andrew heard Bex scream and immediately panicked. His first thought was that he’d completely misjudged Davie, and that the boy had done something to hurt her. He pushed past Pen and raced into the hallway. Bex was still crying when he got there but she didn’t seem to be hurt. In fact she was alone.

“Bex, what the hell is going on?”

She spun around. “It’s Frankie. He’s outside.”

Andrew stepped up to the front door and looked out into the night. Davie was halfway down the path. Frankie was with him and the two were arguing – both voices heated and angry, but the sound of Davie’s voice seemed to be more pleading than it was aggressive.

“What the fuck happened to you, bro?” Frankie demanded, pointing to the bandage on Davie’s head. “Did that fuckin’ mug give you a kicking? He’s a dead man.”

“No,” said Davie. “I got hit by a car. The guy who lives here was just helping me. He took me to the hospital and drove me back.”

Frankie looked towards the house and spotted Andrew standing there. “Oh, did he? Is that what you do, old man? Give lifts to young boys?”

Andrew moved Bex back and told her to go and join her mother in the living room. Then he looked back at Frankie. “He was injured. Would you have preferred I just left him there?”

Frankie didn’t say anything and Andrew hoped that he was getting through to him at last. When he eventually did speak, it was in a calmer tone than usual. “No, course not, but how the hell did you happen to be there anyway?”

“Right time, right place,” said Davie.

But Andrew owned up. He couldn’t rely on Davie to keep his secret. “Because it was me who hit him, Frankie. It was an accident and that’s why I made sure he got to the hospital. I’m very sorry about it all, but your brother is a sweet boy and I’m glad to have met him. Maybe we should all go inside and talk.”

Frankie’s face dropped. “You mowed down my little brother? You’re a dead man.” He marched up the path, shoving aside his brother’s attempts to stop him. “A motherfuckin’ dead man.”

Andrew stood rooted in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. When Frankie pulled out a flick knife and released the blade, the decision was obvious. He slammed shut the front door and locked it as quickly as he could. Then he called the police.

***

Frankie had stood outside the house for almost ten minutes, screaming threats and vowing that Andrew would pay for what he’d done. Bex and Pen were both in tears by the time he finally went away. Five minutes later, the police arrived and were now sitting in the living room again. It was the same two officers, Dalton and Wardsley.

“He actually threatened your life,” asked Wardsley.

Andrew nodded. “Several times. My entire family heard him. Then he pulled a knife on me.”

“Okay. I think we have good reason to go and ask this Frankie a few questions now.”

“Questions,” said Andrew, leaning forward in his armchair. “I want you to do more than that. He’s a danger to society.”

Wardsley nodded. “I understand you want something done, sir. Believe me, we’ll be arresting him and holding him overnight. We’ll do what we can to get him in front of a judge, but…”

Andrew nodded. “But he’ll be back on the street in twenty-four hours, regardless.”

Dalton took over for her partner. “Exactly. I’m afraid that’s the system. The burden of proof is on the victim, not the offender. He’ll be free until convicted.”

Andrew flopped back in his chair. All the times he had dismissed conservative claims that there was too little justice in the British prosecution system and it turns out they were right. There was no justice. Andrew’s family were being terrorised and the system would do nothing to immediately protect them. Andrew didn’t blame the two police officers in his living room. They’d let down their impersonal barriers since the last time they’d visited and seemed genuinely sympathetic now. Andrew imagined they were just as frustrated by their lack of power as he himself was. Their jobs were to give a court ammunition, but courts were slow and indifferent.

“Look,” said Andrew. “What the hell should I do?”

“Do you have anyone you can stay with?” Dalton asked.

Andrew shrugged. “I guess. Pen’s parents could have us for a while, but how does that help in the long run?”

“It will just be until we bring Frankie in front of a judge.”

“But you don’t think I have much of a case. Not enough evidence.”

PC Dalton bit at her lip before sighing. “All you have is threats. It’s not enough. The Forensics didn’t find much either, I’m afraid.”

“So, what then?”

The two officers thought for a moment. Eventually it was Dalton who said something. “Look,” she said. “I’ll make a phone call to the Super and see what we can do. I would strongly suggest leaving in the morning and going somewhere else for a while. In the meantime we’ll get this piece of scum off the streets and make it clear to him that we’re watching his every move.”

“And will you be?” asked Andrew.

Dalton shrugged. “I’ll request a plain-clothes to be stationed in the area. Hopefully if we supervise Frankie’s movements long enough, we’ll catch him doing something illegal.”

Andrew felt himself relax, tension flooding out of his bones in great heaps. Someone being nearby watching over his family was exactly what he wanted. If Frankie tried anything else, there would be a witness – a police witness.

“Thank you,” said Andrew, standing up and offering out his hand. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. It’s such a relief.”

The police officers stood up and Wardsley shook his hand. “Don’t get too excited just yet. We’ll fight a good case for you, but it’s not our decision at the end of the day.”

Andrew nodded. “Okay, but you’ll let me know?”

“Of course, but you should stay somewhere else in the meantime, until we figure things out. Even if we do get a man put on Frankie, it will still take a couple of days.”

“Well, you have my thanks just for doing anything at all. I was beginning to think that I’d never get help.”

Wardsley seemed a little irritated by his comment, but Andrew felt it was fair and didn’t apologise for it.

“We do our best Mr Goodman, but we can only do as the law allows. We’ll let ourselves out.”

Andrew nodded and stood aside. He was too relieved to feel guilty for offending the officers. In his opinion, it wasn’t asking too much for a little help from the police service – but again he reminded himself that it was likely not their fault.

He turned back into the living room and found Pen and Bex standing there. Obviously they’d been eavesdropping from the kitchen.

Pen put her arms around him and squeezed tight. “That’s a relief, ay?”

Andrew hugged her right back and kissed the top of her forehead. “Yeah, maybe we can go back to normal now. I’ll call work and get a few days off. They won’t like it but tough-titties. We’ll go stay with your parents till the end of next week. Then we’ll come home and play things by ear.”

“A whole week with Nan and Granddad,” said Bex with a frown. “Seriously?”

Andrew stuck out his tongue playfully. “You’ll live. They don’t see enough of you anyway. We can sit around in our PJs all day watching horror movies if you want.”

“You don’t like horror movies. They scare you.”

Andrew nodded. “After this week, I think real life is scarier.”

“No one is lazing around in their PJs,” said Pen. “I don’t want my parents thinking we’re a bunch of slobs. We can go on some daytrips. Leicester zoo is a nice afternoon out. They have a silverback gorilla there called Nero.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Andrew. “Guess we should go pack.”

Pen laughed and walked toward the kitchen. “At least let me go call them first. They might not have us.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Bex.

Andrew slapped his daughter on the bum. “Behave.”

Bex held up her hands in two fists. “You don’t got what it takes to beat me, old man. You’re nothing but a lousy bum.”

Andrew grinned. “You reckon?”

Bex nodded and giggled.

“We’ll see about that.” Andrew lunged for his daughter, making her shriek and run upstairs in a fit of giggles. A minute later her dreadful pop music came on her stereo and thudded through the living room ceiling. Looked like things were back to normal already.

There were no guarantees that his encounters with Frankie were truly over, but at least now there would be consequences if he were to try anything else. At least for the next week-and-a-half they would be away from the worry. Hopefully his bosses would understand. The project he was working on could wait a little while longer.

Best I call them now, Andrew thought, heading for the phone in the kitchen. Pen intercepted him on her way out and put her hand up to stop him.

“I’m just going to call the firm,” he told her, wondering why she had blocked his path.

She shook her head. “The phone isn’t working.”

Andrew wrinkled his brow. “Really? Let me have a look.”

The two of them went into the kitchen and Andrew headed over to the fridge. On the wall beside it was the cordless phone in its cradle. Andrew plucked the handset free and held it to his ear.

Nothing.

There was no dial tone at all. He keyed in some numbers to see if they made any noise on the line. They did not.

Andrew placed the handset back down and tried to figure it out. First he checked that the phone line was connected into the cradle and found that it was. Next he decided to verify that the phone line was connected at the wall output. He followed the cream-coloured wire downwards towards the floor and then began tracing it along the skirting board. The wire disappeared behind the fridge, but he found it coming out the other side. It was on the other side of the fridge that Andrew discovered the reason why the phone was no longer working.

“The line’s been cut.”

Pen looked at him blankly, then down at the skirting board. “What? How?”

Andrew stared at the frayed wire and could think of only one reason. “We need to get out of here now. Frankie’s been inside the house again.”

“What? You think he did this?”

“Look at the wire, Pen. It didn’t cut itself!”

Pen went white; a ghostly pallor consuming her usually flushed features. “Where’s your mobile? Call the officers, they only just left.”

Andrew nodded and rushed back into the living room. His phone was on the coffee table. He’d put it there when the officers had been questioning him. When he went for it, he found that it was gone. Not only was his phone missing, but also the coffee table it had been sitting on was now upended.

Pen came up behind him, a little too close, and made him flinch. He turned to her and put his hands on each of her shoulders. “You, me, and Rebecca are getting in the car right now. He’s in the house.”

Pen nodded and followed him without argument as he rushed across the living room. “Rebecca,” he shouted in the hallway. “Get down here now.”

There was no reply.

Panic blasted through Andrew’s veins.

There was a knock at the front door.

Andrew stared at his wife, who stared back at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a speeding truck. She spoke. “It could be the police. They only just left.”

Andrew considered the possibility and decided it was viable.

The door knocked again.

Andrew looked back up the stairs. “Bex, are you up there?”

Still no answer.

Andrew made a decision and entered the porch, opened the front door.

It was not the police officers that were standing there.

Two black youths stood in front of Andrew, identical in appearance. The twins from Frankie’s gang. A voice came from behind him and he spun around. Frankie stood at the top of the stairs, holding Bex around the throat from behind. She was shaking and sobbing.

“Call the cops on me? Big mistake.” Frankie pushed Bex forward. Her bare feet found nothing but air and she fell, hitting the steps and tumbling awkwardly to the bottom. There was the sickening sound of something snapping.

Before Andrew had chance to react, something struck the back of his head and his world went dark.

Chapter Eleven

Davie followed Dom and Jordan into the house with Michelle trailing behind them. Frankie was already inside, standing over the unconscious bodies of both Andrew and his daughter. The mother was screaming out hysterically for help.

“Sort that bitch out, will ya?”

Davie realised that Frankie was talking to him, but found himself unable to do anything other than just stand there with his mouth agape.

Frankie pushed him. “Sort the bitch out now, before she brings attention.”

“W-what you want me to do?”

Frankie shook his head impatiently. “What you think I want you to do, you mug? Take her into the living room and shut her goddamn mouth.”

Davie nodded and took the woman away, holding her gently by the arm. She didn’t struggle, but neither did she cease her screaming. They entered the living room and he eased her down onto the couch.

“You gotta be quiet,” he told her in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Frankie will kick off if you don’t.”

The woman carried on shouting out for help, but slowly her words were becoming a continuous, garbled slur. Gradually her volume lowered.

Davie patted her on the back. “That’s it. Just try to calm down. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Frankie entered the room. “You kidding me? Why don’t you bake her a cake as well.”

Davie stood up and faced his brother. “I’m just trying to calm her down. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Just keep an eye on her.”

Davie nodded and sat back down beside the woman. Frankie moved behind an armchair in the room and shoved it forward along the carpet. Then he went and drew the curtains shut and turned down the lights with the dimmer switch.

“There,” said Frankie. “The mood is set. Bring ‘em in, lads.”

Dom and Jordan entered the room, dragging Andrew and Bex along the floor. Andrew had woken slightly since Dom had struck him in the back of the head, but was still pretty much out of it, eyes swirling around in their sockets and unable to focus.

“Get him up onto the armchair,” said Frankie. “Come on, come on.”

Dom and Jordan hoisted Andrew up onto the armchair and propped up his head, which kept sagging against his chest.

“Where’s the tape?” asked Frankie. His twitch was acting up.

Dom and Jordan both shrugged in unison, the fact that they were twins making it look like some weird double-act. “Think Shell has it,” said Jordan.

Frankie shook his head and cursed beneath his breath. “Michelle! Get your skinny ass in here.”

It was a couple of minutes before she appeared, but when she did Davie saw that she did indeed have the thick roll of silver duct tape in her hand.

Frankie snatched it from her. “What the hell were you doing?”

Michelle shrugged her bony shoulders. “Just having a look around. There’s some nice stuff in the girl’s room. Look.” She held up her right hand, which now sported a shiny gem on the ring finger. “Bet it belonged to her Nan or something. Sad bitch keeps a diary too; had a quick read and it was hilarious. Says she’s still afraid of the dark.”

“Very nice,” said Frankie in a way that made it clear he didn’t give a shit. He turned to Andrew and pointed. “Dom, get this fucker strapped up. I want him to be nice and comfortable when we get the party started. He’ll have the best seat in the house.”

Davie sat silently on the sofa, wondering what his brother meant. He had a feeling that whatever he thought would not be as bad as whatever Frankie actually had in mind. In a competition for sickest imagination, Davie’s big brother won every time.

Dom finished taping up Andrew just as he started to stir from unconsciousness. A thin stream of drool fell from his mouth and pooled on the tape that secured his midsection to the chair.

“Wakey wakey, rise and shine,” said Frankie, laughing at himself afterwards. “I was wondering if Dom had ended you with the smack he gave you. Glad he didn’t, as this will be a whole lot more fun with you alive.”

Andrew managed to lift his head and look Frankie in the eyes. “W-what…are you going to do?”

Frankie leaned forward so that his eye line matched Andrew’s own. “Tell the truth, I haven’t decided yet. Don’t you worry, though. It’s going to be a good crack.”

Andrew’s wife whimpered and Davie patted her on the back again to quiet her down.

“Why are you doing this to us, you…you monster?” Andrew managed to ask.

“Not us,” said Frankie. “I’m doing this to you. The ladies are just unlucky to be involved with you. Collateral damage, is that what they say?”

“So why…are you doing this to me?”

Frankie shrugged. “I don’t like your face.”

Andrew shook his head and another sliver of drool escaped his mouth. “There must be a reason.”

Frankie swung his arm and struck Andrew in his ribs. His wife cried out, while he cried inwards, sucking in a breath and finding himself unable to let it out again. Frankie grabbed a bunch of his hair and lifted his head to face him. “Shut it.”

“Leave him alone,” Andrew’s wife screamed before Davie had chance to stop her.

Frankie glared. “Or else what, bitch?”

“My name is not bitch. It’s Penelope, and you’re nothing but a pathetic bully.”

Frankie looked around the room, mock offended. Everyone laughed hysterically. “Check this one out. Ten seconds ago she was behaving quite nicely and being a good girl. Now she’s grown a big fat set of balls. You want to take me on, sweetheart?”

“Just be quiet,” Davie whispered in the mother’s ear.

“That’s it,” said Frankie. “Listen to my baby brother. He’ll keep you safe.”

Michelle sidled up to Frankie and draped herself on him. Davie could tell that she’d snorted a line of coke recently. Her eyes were bloodshot and wide as dinner plates, while her lips constantly puckered as though she had a mouth full of ash. “What’s the plan then, honey?” she asked. “We gunna to party or what?”

Frankie kissed her hard on the mouth and then pushed her down onto the sofa beside Penelope. “Yeah, baby. It’s going to get real, but we have all night, so just settle in and get some gear on the go.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Dom, hopping up and down. Jordan was in agreement and slapped his twin on the back.

“Before we do that, though,” said Frankie. “Let’s get the women-folk sorted. Last thing we need is them getting away.” He turned to Davie. “Get the old bird taped up, little bro.”

Davie stared at his brother to make sure he was serious. “She won’t do anything, Frankie. I’ll watch her.”

Frankie grabbed the tape off Dom and threw it at Davie. “I’m getting real sick of your arguing, man. Just do what I’m telling you and tape the old bag up.”

Davie stared at his brother a while longer, but realised he was pushing Frankie’s patience, so he turned away and pulled off a strip of tape. “I’m sorry,” he told Penelope, and then began to tape her up.

She didn’t resist, but the whole time he wrapped the tape around her she looked at him with utter hatred. It made Davie feel wretched inside. As soon as he was done, he stood up and moved over to his brother who was peeking out of a gap in the curtains.

“What you want, little bro?” Frankie asked as Davie approached. He didn’t turn away from the window.

“How you know it was me?”

“Cus it seems like lately every time I turn around you’re on my back.”

“Just looking out for you.”

Frankie let the curtain go and turned around. “I know you are. You’re my blood, bro, and that means more than anything. But you keep riding me and we gunna have a problem. You get me?”

Davie nodded. He tried to swallow but found himself unable.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Frankie continued. “I got my shit tight – wrapped up solid.”

Davie turned and looked at Andrew in the armchair. “They’ll go to the cops as soon as you let them go. You’ll end up back inside.”

Frankie smirked. “You see? That’s where you underestimate me, little bro. Who said I’m going to let them go?”

Frankie moved away from the window, leaving Davie to think about what his brother intended. He looked around the living room at Andrew and his family: Bex unconscious and her mother taped up and frightened. Then he looked at Michelle, the twins, and his brother. He knew right then that he was different to them all – the odd one out. Unlike them, he was not enjoying any of this. Not enjoying it at all.

Chapter Twelve

Andrew looked down at his daughter and fought the urge to cry. He would not give these thugs the satisfaction. He knew now that he had indeed heard something snap as his precious child had been callously pushed down the stairs. Her left wrist was purple from the subdural bleeding almost certainly caused by a broken bone. Agony would consume her when she awoke and Andrew hoped with all his heart that she slept till this was all over.

But when would that be, and what will have happened in the meantime?

Andrew watched Frankie, who was kneeling beside the coffee table and emptying a small plastic bag onto the glass surface. A small pile of fine white powder began building up. Frankie’s girlfriend – Michelle – was kneeling beside him with a small makeup mirror and using it to sweep the substance into several parallel lines. The twins stood watching nearby like baying dogs, almost drooling at the sight of the powder in front of them.

Then there was Davie, Frankie’s younger brother. Andrew watched the boy sitting beside Pen and couldn’t work him out. He was as complicit in this as the rest of them, but something about the expression on his face expressed that he was not enjoying himself.

While everyone was busy doing other things, Andrew took the opportunity to test his bonds. He wriggled side to side, trying to loosen the adhesion of the duct tape that bound him to the chair. At first, the tape started to give a little, but then the plastic bunched up and became unbreakable. There was no chance of getting free.

Which meant he was fucked.

Frankie and his entourage began snorting the lines of white powder of the coffee table, their noses twitching frantically as the substance entered their bodies. Frankie’s regular twitch had now gone into overdrive.

“That’s good shit,” said one of the twins, either Dom or Jordan. “Buzzin’.”

“Innit,” said Michelle. “Fuckin’ heaven.”

“Not too much,” Frankie told them. “We can’t zone out when there’s shit to be taken care of.”

Michelle cackled maliciously then sauntered over towards Andrew. She patted him on the cheek hard enough that it was almost a slap. “You ready to party, old man? You want some of this?” She rubbed her fingers against Andrew’s lips and forced past to his gums. He tasted the powder on her fingernails and the suddenly his entire mouth went numb. He spat.

Michelle removed her hand from his mouth and stared him dead in the eye, but Andrew said nothing. There was no telling how far these messed-up teenagers were prepared to go, so best not to provoke them. Andrew looked across at Pen. She had the same anxious expression on her face that he no doubt wore on his, but there was something else in her expression that spoke of a steely determination to not give in to these thugs.

Our home, thought Andrew. The place we’re supposed to feel safe. I won’t let a bunch of uncontrollable kids take that away from us.

Frankie switched the television on and turned up the volume, gave Andrew a catlike grin. “Don’t want people hearing the screams, do we?”

Andrew swallowed a lump in his throat. Things were about to begin, he could feel it; like sitting on a rollercoaster about to take that first horrifying plunge.

Michelle clapped her hands together. “Sweet! Friends has just started. That shit is so funny.”

Frankie pulled Michelle’s arm so that she spun to face him. “We’re not here to watch Ross bloody shag that skank, Rachel.”

Michelle’s smile slunk away and she nodded like a chastised child.

Frankie really had a hold on these kids. What a difference a few years of age made. They almost seemed to look up to him like a father.

“You guys keep an eye on things,” Frankie said. “I’m going to check out the kitchen.”

“What for?” Davie asked him, an apprehensive tone to his voice.

Frankie ruffled his brother’s hair. “Just going to look for some munchies.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and somehow the room felt empty without him, like an atmosphere of oppression and danger had left the room. Andrew took the opportunity to speak without his presence. “Davie, you have to stop this? We’ve done nothing to you.”

Davie shook his head and didn’t reply – his expression was tormented.

“Davie!” Andrew repeated.

A slap stung his cheek, rattling his entire face. It was one of the twins who hit him. “Shut the fuck up, bitch, or I’ll mess you up bad.”

“Nice one, Dom,” said the other twin. Andrew noticed a slight difference between them now. The other twin, Jordan, had a wispy goatee growing on his chin, whilst Dom was clean-shaven. Dom also wore a sovereign ring, which had been attached to the hand that had slapped Andrew. He could feel a throbbing bruise forming already.

“What do you get out of this?” Andrew directed the question to all of them.

“Shits-n-giggles,” Dom replied. “Now shut it, or else.”

“Or else what? You’re going to do what you want to do anyway.”

“Yeah, but we can make it hurt a lot worse,” said Frankie re-entering the room. “So don’t get on our tits.” He was clasping a pair of scissors that he must’ve gotten from one of the kitchen drawers. The blades were long and glinted under the soft light of the living room. “Before the party starts we need to get everyone looking presentable.” He pointed the scissors at Pen. “And I think this old bag is in serious need of a haircut.”

The teenagers cheered, except for Davie who seemed like he was trying to force a smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Leave my wife alone,” Andrew shouted.

Frankie ignored the outburst and grabbed a hold of Pen’s hair. She squealed, making a tormented sound that Andrew had not heard from her before and would be happy to never hear again. He screamed again at Frankie, ordering him to get out of his home, but the demands fell on deaf ears. Frankie dragged Pen down onto the floor and snatched a thick bushel of her hair. Then he cut it with the scissors.

Pen began to weep as strands of her soft brown hair fell to the carpet in front of her.

Less than ten minutes later, Frankie had hacked every last hair from Pen’s head, leaving her bald. She looked like a different person now, face stained black with mascara. Andrew’s heart hurt so badly that for a moment he thought he was having a heart attack.

Frankie was grinning. “She looks much hotter now, don’t ya think?”

Andrew spat. “Fuck you!”

Frankie rushed forward and struck Andrew across his face. Stars invaded his vision and he wondered if the blow had broken his jaw. He moved it left and right, sparking extra pain.

“Come on, Frankie,” said Davie. “You’ve made your point. They’re both in tears. Let’s go.”

Frankie turned and pointed the scissors at Davie and shook his head. “I ain’t even started yet, little bro.”

“What did this guy do to you?” Davie asked.

Frankie’s lip twitched as his anger seemed to rise. “Why do you care so much, man? He’s just some stuck-up cunt with a flash car that thinks his shit don’t stink.”

Is that it? Andrew thought desperately. Is this whole thing just because I have a nice car? This whole nightmare is down to some insecure thug resenting me, jealous of what I have?

“What’s your problem, D,” asked Michelle. “Just chill your beans. You’re acting like a prick.”

“Hey,” said Frankie, pointing the scissors at his girlfriend. “Don’t talk to him like that. Davie’s just sensitive. He don’t mean no harm.”

Davie nodded. “I just don’t like any of this. It’s going to end badly.”

“Yeah, for him,” said Dom, pointing at Andrew.

Andrew sat silently, bewildered by what was becoming some sort of surreal soap opera: people bickering casually in front of him whilst he was held captive in his own living room.

Davie helped Pen back onto the sofa, pulling her up by a handful of duct tape at her back. Then he sat back down beside her. For some reason, Davie was protective over Pen, and Andrew wondered if it stemmed from issues he had with his own mother.

Andrew turned his head to the floor as a noise alerted him. When he saw who was making it, he felt nauseous. Things were about to get worse.

Frankie looked down at Bex, who was now stirring on the floor, and grinned. “Well, lookey here. Little miss fine-ass is finally joining us. Now we can really step things up. Let’s see how much of a party-girl she is, dad.”

Andrew watched Frankie approach his daughter and, for the first time in his life, he prayed to God.

Chapter Thirteen

Andrew had never seen a person wake up screaming before, but that’s just what Bex did. As soon as she regained consciousness, the agony of her broken wrist kicked in and she bellowed. Frankie marched forward and kicked her in the ribs, knocking loose every last ounce of breath she had in her lungs. “Keep it the fuck down!”

Bex’s screams turned to inward gasping and the hissing sound she made was like the venting air brakes of a bus.

“Please,” said Andrew. “Please, just leave my family alone. Do what you want to me…”

Frankie winked at Andrew as if they were old buddies. “I’m going to do that anyway, mate, so what exactly are you trying to negotiate with?”

“For God’s sake, Frankie, have some decency. My family have done nothing to you.”

Frankie strolled over to Andrew and perched himself on the armrest of the chair. “I say otherwise. People like you look down their noses at people like me; think you can treat us like dirt. Doesn’t matter if it’s you or your women, you all think you’re better.”

“We are better,” Pen hissed from behind him.

Frankie clicked his fingers. “There, you see? You’re wife thinks I’m a piece of shit.”

Andrew huffed. “Can you blame her?”

“Maybe not,” Frankie allowed, “but there’s a war going on. Survival of the fittest. You might have your nice house and your Mercedes, but when it comes right down to it, you’re weak. When it comes down to you and me, face to face, you’re the one shitting himself – not me. I’m the one with the control.”

“We’re not cavemen, Frankie. Life isn’t decided by who has the biggest club anymore.”

“If prison taught me anything, it’s that we’re as much like cavemen as we’ve ever been.”

Andrew looked at the boy – for that was all he was – and couldn’t figure out what was going on behind those narrow, twitching eyes. Did he really believe he was vindicated in doing this? That he was just fighting a war against people like Andrew? A war against the middle-class. The more he listened to Frankie, the more he was sure the kid wasn’t stupid, but something disturbed him all the way down to the core.

“Look,” said Andrew. “I can help you. Whatever’s made you this way, we can sort it out. There’s no need for any of this.”

Frankie’s lips quivered, not because of his usual twitch, but because he looked like he might break into tears. “Really? You can help me?”

Andrew nodded.

Frankie released a sudden gout of laughter. “You fuckin’ nonce. Is that what you say to little kids right before you snatch ‘em up in your white van?” He drove a fist into Andrew’s stomach and made him gasp, then leaned forward, closer. “You fuckin’ pedo!”

Bex finally managed to catch her breath and started whining in pain again, writhing back and forth on the carpet. She was trying to keep her agony as quiet as possible, not wanting to draw any further reprisals from Frankie, but was failing badly. Andrew wished more than anything that he could help his daughter and take her pain unto him.

But he couldn’t. Because an immoral thug wouldn’t let him. Frankie had control over the welfare of them all now. Knowing that chilled Andrew to his bones.

The 10pm news came on the television and, for a moment, Andrew had the crazy notion that he would appear on it. Family man found dead in home. Wife and daughter murdered. His skin seemed to vibrate at the thought, the fear and panic threatening to burst through his skin. He needed to get free. He needed to save his family.

Frankie grabbed Rebecca by the hair and hoisted her up to her feet, then examined her up and down. She was wearing her nightdress and was totally bare from just above the knee downwards. Andrew wished she’d listened to him about covering up.

“You going to give the bitch a haircut like her old lady?” Michelle asked, thick dollops of spite in her voice. Andrew bet the girl was jealous of his daughter. In a beauty contest, Bex would win hands-down. In a situation like this, however, her beauty could be a danger. There were few things nastier than a jealous girl.

“Come on,” Michelle urged. “Shave the slut.”

Frankie shook his head. “Be quiet, Shell. I make the decisions here.” He turned Bex to face him and smiled at her almost tenderly. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Rebecca.”

“Okay, Rebecca. I’m going to do you a favour because you’re so goddamn fine. If you promise to sit by your mom and behave, I won’t hurt you or even tape you up. Agreed?”

Bex whimpered slightly, likely due to the pain she was in, but managed to nod and say, “Yes.”

“Good girl.” Frankie kissed her on the cheek and pushed her down on the sofa. “Davie, you watch the both of ‘em, okay? No fucks ups, you get me?”

Michelle screeched. “What? You’re just going to leave her alone? Why?”

“Because that’s what I decided to do,” said Frankie. “Now shut the hell up before I bounce your ass.”

Michelle shut up but did not look happy. Andrew sat and enjoyed the relief that Bex might not be in any immediate danger. Frankie’s apparent attraction to her had ensured her safety for now. He just hope that attraction didn’t lead to something worse.

“So what we going to do instead, Frankie?” Jordan asked.

“We’re going to do some more blow. Except I don’t want to do it on that coffee table anymore. It looks dirty.”

“Where then?” Dom asked.

“Grab the old lady.”

Dom and Jordan looked at each other and shrugged, seeming not to understand the request but happy to follow it all the same. They headed over to the sofa and grabbed one of Pen’s arms each, before lifting her to her feet.

“Now what?” asked Dom.

Frankie smirked. He picked up the scissors from the coffee table and waved them back and forth in front of his face. Andrew held his breath and waited for whatever fate was about to befall his wife. He wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t. He owed Pen more than that.

Frankie thrust the scissors at Pen, but didn’t stab her. Instead he began cutting her blouse through the middle, starting at the neckline. She didn’t struggle, her fight was gone and her face lacked expression. The bindings around her wrists made escape impossible. It didn’t take long for Frankie to cut the blouse free, letting it fall to the floor in tatters. Pen stood there rigidly, topless except for her purple-cotton bra – Andrew’s favourite.

“Lay her across the table,” said Frankie. “Face up.”

It was then that Pen found her instincts – struggling to break free of her captors and lashing out with the only weapon she had: her teeth. Dom hollered in pain as she bit him and leapt back. He slapped her across the face. “Fuckin’ bitch!”

The twins forced Pen down onto the table and held her there, arms above her head so that her midriff was exposed.

“Leave her alone,” Andrew screamed. “Leave her alone, leave her alone, leave her alone!”

Frankie leapt across the room and punched Andrew in his nose, spreading it across his face and unleashing a torrent of blood. Then he grabbed the tape and wrapped several layers around Andrew’s head, covering his mouth – and almost, too, his nose. Through teary eyes, he was forced to watch and breathe through his damaged sinuses.

Frankie went back to Pen, pulled a baggie from his pocket and bit a hole into it. Then he upturned it and sprinkled the contents onto her exposed stomach. It was more cocaine. Frankie used the edge of the kitchen scissors to separate the pile into several messy lines on Pen’s stomach.

“Dig in, gangsters.”

Andrew watched helplessly as the teenagers took turns snorting coke from his wife’s belly, holding her down by the feet and wrists to keep her from squirming. After a while she just gave up struggling all together and let them have their way.

Chapter Fourteen

Almost unbelievably, Frankie, the twins, and Michelle had all sat down in a huddle on the carpet to watch television. Davie remained on the sofa, watching over the women like he’d been told to. Unlike the others, he’d not snorted any coke and was completely sober. Watching them now, half-passed out on the floor and transfixed by a documentary about increasing climate change, he was glad about that.

Davie did drugs sometimes, just weed mostly, but he had always stayed away from the hard stuff. Fortunately, Frankie never tried to force it on him; otherwise he would probably have been persuaded by now. Even his mother did it during the times when she and Frankie got on.

“Let us go,” Rebecca said.

Davie looked at her and got caught in the stare of her soulful dark eyes.

“I said, let us go. Please.”

Davie shook his head. “I can’t. You’ll get my brother into trouble.”

Rebecca huffed. “He’s already in trouble. Kidnap is serious.”

“He hasn’t kidnapped anyone. You’re still at home.”

“It’s still kidnap. He’s holding us hostage. Davie, please.”

Hearing her say his name sent a shiver down his spine. Girls like Rebecca didn’t usually talk to him, let alone speak his name. Skanks like Michelle were more the type of girl he was used to being around. He shook his head once more, but this time tried to express how much he regretted the situation. He wanted her to know that if it were up to him, none of this would be happening. “I hate all this,” he said. “I really do, but Frankie’s my brother. Family comes first.”

“What about my family? Do they mean nothing? Innocent people who never hurt anybody.”

Davie shrugged. It seemed there was no right answer he could give. Frankie was his brother and that was that. He would trust him as he had always done. Things would work out somehow. They had to.

“Look what they’ve done to my mother,” Rebecca kept on.

Davie looked to his right and examined the woman. She was sprawled back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and almost never blinking. She had a dusty film of cocaine particles all over her naked bod and thicker clumps of it clung to the fabric of her bra. Davie tried not to stare at her large, round breasts.

“Do you know that she’s a special needs worker?” Rebecca said. “She teaches kids from broken homes, just like you. She tries to help people just like you.”

Davie knew the role of special needs teachers – he’d dealt with many – and could agree that they were generally very kind people, but none of them ever did any good. Kids like him and his brother never had a chance of anything aside from turning out just like their deadbeat parents. In fact, special needs teachers succeeded only in giving false hope. Davie didn’t waste his time with such things.

“Be quiet,” he said. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fine,” Rebecca conceded, “but by doing nothing, you’re just as bad as they are.”

Was it true? thought Davie. Am I…bad?

He scanned the room, observing his brother and girlfriend as they kissed and groped each other on the floor. Then he watched Dom and Jordan, scratching at their balls and laughing at a television program that was not trying to be funny. Finally, he looked back at Andrew, who looked right back at him, eyes swollen half-shut either side of a crumpled nose.

I’m not bad, he told himself. I’m not like Frankie…but I’m not good either, am I?

Or maybe I’m just weak…

Davie stared at the television and tried not to think anymore. He had a feeling that the truth would hurt him.

Chapter Fifteen

Horror melded with disgust inside Andrew’s stomach as the teenagers cavorted on his floor. Under the influence of grade-A drugs, Frankie’s lack of inhibitions persuaded him to pull off Michelle’s jeans and tug aside her skimpy thong. He then proceeded to enter the moaning girl, right there on the carpet, rutting like monkeys on the Discovery Channel.

How could anyone be so decadent? Frankie truly had no conception of other people’s feelings at all. It was almost like the world was just an illusion that revolved around his desires.

Andrew turned his head away as Frankie began to climax, his naked buttocks clenching as he ejaculated for what seemed like forever. Dom and Jordan lay watching television as if they didn’t notice.

“You disgust me,” said Bex from the sofa, far braver than her father for being the one to speak out.

Frankie pulled his dick out of Michelle and a sloppy, wet sound emanated from between them. He stood up and fastened his jeans, then laughed right in Bex’s face while grabbing his crotch. “Just jealous because you want to piece of this too. Don’t worry, sweetheart, maybe later.”

“Never going to happen,” she said. “I’d rather fuck a pig.”

Frankie’s joking demeanour suddenly soured. “You show me some fucking respect or I’ll forget all about my earlier offer of leaving you in one piece.”

Bex chose to say nothing and Andrew was relieved about it. If she just kept her mouth closed then perhaps the only one to suffer tonight would be him. The ironic thing was that watching his daughter’s torment hurt Andrew more than anything Frankie could ever do to him directly. By staying quiet, Bex would be doing everyone a favour.

Frankie looked at Andrew and then motioned to Pen on the sofa. She was in some sort of unbroken daze, fixated on an invisible spot on the ceiling. “I think she’s lost the plot, mate? She this lively in bed?”

Andrew laughed a bitter laugh. “You’re evil. Hell would be too good for you.”

“Maybe they’ll make a place just for me, then. Some deep dark abyss where I don’t have to put up with pricks like you.”

Andrew’s eyebrows rose. “I’m the prick. That’s a good one.”

“You getting lippy with me, mate? I already broke your nose; want me to break something else?”

Andrew shook his head, but still couldn’t keep a lid on his anger. “Go right ahead. What difference is it going to make?”

Frankie grinned as if he knew something that no one else did. Without warning, he turned and punched Pen in her ribs. She cried out in shock and pain before crumpling to the floor and gasping. Frankie held his fist up to Andrew and winked at him. “You piss me off, I’ll take it out on her.”

Andrew didn’t speak. He was in Hell; a hell where he could do nothing but watch the people he loved suffer.

Maybe that’s what Hell was? Not being punished yourself, but having to watch others suffer for your sins.

“Do we fuckin’ understand one another?” Frankie snarled.

Andrew nodded.

Frankie clapped his hands together. “Good. Now get up and fight me.”

Andrew blinked. “What?”

Frankie raised both fists in a boxer’s pose. “I want to see what you got, old man.”

Andrew was confused. “I’m tied up.”

“I know that, you fuckin’ mug. Dom will let you loose, innit.”

Dom heard his name and looked up from the television, fuzzy-eyed and half asleep.

Andrew thought about things for a second and decided this could be his chance. The only opportunity he might have of getting away and reaching help. He had to take it, even though he was frightened enough to piss himself.

“Okay, Frankie. I’ll fight you.”

Frankie started throwing punches into the air, fighting an opponent only he could see. “Cool. Dom, get him loose. Use the scissors – but keep a hold of em.”

Lest I drive them into your skull, thought Andrew. Adrenaline had already begun coursing through his veins in anticipation. Fighting was a skill far beyond him and he had no doubt that Frankie would beat him in short order, but standing toe-to-toe with the barbaric thug was not a plan he intended to follow. He had other ideas.

Dom hacked away at the duct tape roped around Andrew’s body. With each passing second, Andrew felt the bonds loosen and the circulation return to his arms. Several minutes later and Andrew was finally free. He stood up and winced as the pressure in his kneecaps caused them to click painfully.

Frankie stood in front of him and clenched both hands into fists, holding them aloft his chin like a boxer. “What shall we say? Three-minute rounds? Or shall we just fight till a knock-out?”

Andrew took the opportunity to, one last time, try and reason with his attacker. “You don’t have to do this, Frankie. You can just leave right now. No one blames you for any of this. Your mother has obviously failed you.”

The comment seemed to strike a chord with Frankie and his clenched fists lowered slightly. He spat onto the carpet. “Bitch has nothing to do with me.”

Andrew nodded. “I know, and that’s a shame. No one deserves to be raised like that.”

“You don’t know shit! Not a thing, so don’t play the caring soul with me. People like you couldn’t give two shits about people like us.”

“Yeah,” said Michelle. “Just put his lights out, Frankie, and be done with it.”

Frankie nodded over to his girlfriend and raised his fists again. Then he rang an imaginary bell. “Ding! Ding!”

With Frankie approaching, ready to strike like a viper, Andrew made his own move. He dashed for the living room door.

“The fuckers trying to do one,” said Jordan from the floor.

Andrew shoved through the door and barrelled into the hallway. He turned to his right and sprinted for the porch. His plan was to rush into the street and cry out for help. His neighbours might not come, but at least one of them would surely call the police.

But when he reached the porch, the front door was locked.

“Looking for these?” asked Frankie, jangling a set of keys in his hand and standing in the living room doorway.

Andrew was cornered.  He looked about himself and snatched at the first thing he could find, which happened to be a golfing brolly. He hopped forwards, holding the folded umbrella in front of him like a spear.

Frankie sniggered. “The fuck you going to do with that? Catch the blood that’s going to be raining down when I catch you?”

Andrew considered the viability of his weapon and realised it was nowhere near enough to win a fight with the youths. He had to run – but to where?

He eyed the stairs.

“Don’t even think about it,” Frankie warned.

With panic threatening to explode his heart, Andrew made a break for it. Frankie snatched out at him with both arms, but Andrew managed to fend him off by poking the umbrella into his face. The sharp point found its mark and caused Frankie to flinch back against the wall, clutching his eye.

“Fuckin’ dead man. I’m going to mess you up.”

Andrew ignored the hateful comments and raced up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Frankie shouted commands, rallying his drug-addled troops into battle. There was the sound of them funnelling into the downstairs hallway.

Andrew sped across the landing and headed for the only room he knew that had a lock: the bathroom. Once inside, he slammed the door shut and turned the catch. Then he quickly dragged the linen basket across the tiled floor and placed it in front of the door to form a barricade. He collapsed on top of it, huffing and puffing like he’d just run a marathon. It was all going to be for nothing, though. The door was too thin to hold out for long and, upon realising that, Andrew understood his big mistake.

He had trapped himself.

In any other room of the house he might have escaped through one of the windows, or at least cried out for help, but the bathroom had only a slim, horizontal pane of frosted glass set high into the wall. Even if he broke the glass it was too small to get through.

It wasn’t long before Frankie arrived and started to kick the door in.

***

“You’re a dead man!” Frankie thrust another kick at the door.

The flimsy wood at Andrew’s back had already begun to crack, and weakened further with every blow. He pushed back against the door, trying to it brace it, but it was no good. Frankie was going to get through eventually.

Andrew checked out his surroundings in a bathroom that suddenly seemed very alien to him. It had once been a room where he would relax, de-stress, and release the worries of his day – but no more. Now it was a cage and he was the rat trapped inside of it.

Another kick and the door rattled inside the fragile woodwork of the frame. He fell away from the door and begun rifling through the wall cabinets. He found nothing with which to defend himself. The recently-renovated room was a jewel of modernist design – which meant it was empty. He put his hands on the only thing that seemed even slightly dangerous and pulled at it. The chrome towel rail came away from the wall easily, the thin cavity wall offering no resistance. The quality of newer built homes did not compare to the industrious design of Victorian housing, but Andrew was thankful for that right now. However, it was also the reason that a large, cracking dent was widening in the middle of the bathroom’s flimsy door.

Andrew prepared himself.

“You’re finished, mate,” Frankie shouted through the door, rage filling his voice like boiling liquid into a beaker. “I’m going to kill your wife then hold you down and drown you in her blood”

“Yeah,” said a female voice that could only have been Michelle. “But I’m going to stamp on your head first, you fuckin’ perv!”

Andrew could hear Dom and Jordan out on the landing as well, could hear their sniggering. A desperate anger started to fill him – a sudden spark of insanity that affected him to the point of wild madness. He clutched the towel rail above his head and told himself it was a mighty broadsword. He pictured his attackers as pillaging Vikings coming to take his land and women.

Frankie continued kicking at the door.

The wood splintered.

Cracked.

Caved.

Frankie gave one last, hefty kick that splintered the frame and broke the lock. The door swung open slowly, then linen basket sliding out of the way easily.

Frankie poked his head through the gap and grinned maniacally. “Hey man, what you up to? Guy spends too long in the bathroom it starts to look a little…unsavoury.”

Andrew huffed defiantly, still clutching the towel rail above his head. “Nice word. You learn that today? Here’s another one for you – Pussy!”

Frankie broke into the bathroom.

Andrew swung the towel rail.

The blow connected and Frankie stumbled backwards, lost his balance as the backs of his legs hit the lip of the room’s bathtub and sent him tumbling into it. There was a loud crack as the back of the boy’s skull hit the enamel.

Andrew took advantage of the situation. As Frankie struggled to get out of the tub, he made a run for it. But Jordan and Dom blocked his way. Before they had chance to grab him, Andrew swung the towel rail again. The blow missed both targets and hit the battered frame of the doorway, but it was enough to make the two boys flinch and step back. Andrew suddenly found himself facing an open doorway.

He was just about to race out into the hallway when something bit into his calf, producing a white-hot jolt that seemed to travel up his entire leg.

Andrew fell down onto his knees.

Frankie appeared, standing over Andrew and grinning. He ran his tongue along the edge of a knife he was holding in his hand, licking away a sheen of blood.

“What are we going to do with you, Andrew?”

Andrew didn’t get chance to answer. Frankie lifted up his foot and stamped on his head.

Chapter Sixteen

Davie sat in the living room listening to the ruckus upstairs. The women sat beside him and shuddered with every sound.

“It will be okay,” Davie told them. “They’ll all be gone soon. My brother’s just having a laugh.”

Rebecca looked at him like he was an idiot. “A laugh? Are you insane? Someone is going to end up dead and you’ll be just as much to blame as your psycho brother.”

Davie shook his head. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Wake up, you idiot. Your brother’s dragged you into this. You’re the one keeping an eye on us – that makes you one of the kidnappers. You’ll rot in jail unless you let us go right now.”

Davie wanted to make her see sense, but managed only to choke on a mouthful of words that never managed to form into sentences.

“You’re in a mess and you know it,” Rebecca stated. “You don’t want any of this, do you? You don’t want to end up a worthless thug like your brother.”

“Shut up,” Davie told her. “I won’t hear you talk like that about Frankie.”

She shook her head at him in a way he did not like. “Stop defending him, Davie. You’re not like him, I can tell. You’re a good person.”

Davie ran both hands through his hair and let out a long breath. His head still ached and now he felt dizzy as well. The banging and shouting from upstairs didn’t help the situation. How did things get so crazy? Did it start when he was hit by Andrew’s car, or was this whole turn of events inevitable even before that? He had a feeling that Andrew and Frankie were destined to reach this point regardless. He just hoped his involvement hadn’t made things worse.

“Let us go,” Rebecca said calmly. “This is the point where you decide whether you want to be part of this or not. If you let us go now, then it’ll be clear that you just got caught up in something accidentally. Keep us here, though, and you’re proving that you’re as happy to go along with this as the others.”

Davie stared down at the carpet, down at a chunk of browning fish meat that jutted out from beneath the sofa. He thought about things long and hard before he eventually looked Rebecca in the eye. “He’ll kill me if I help you. You’ll have him arrested and when he gets out he will literally kill me. Frankie is all I have so why would I want to make him hate me?”

Rebecca stared back at him with her deep, dark eyes. “Because you know that this is wrong, Davie.”

Davie nodded. He didn’t want to see this girl get hurt – in fact he couldn’t bear it. “Okay,” he said, regretting already what he was about to do, yet powerless to stop himself from doing it. “Get out of here, quick.”

Rebecca put her arms around Davie and squeezed him tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear, then stood up and grabbed her mother’s limp hand. “Come on, mum. We can go and get help now. It’s all over.”

Davie knew the decision he’d just made was the right one – could tell by the love and concern Rebecca had for her mother – but it didn’t make him feel any less apprehensive. Frankie was definitely going to kill him.

Rebecca managed to get her mother standing, despite the woman’s hands and feet being bound, and was now looking down at Davie with an expression he wasn’t used to. It looked like compassion. “I’ll make sure the police know that you had nothing to do with this. You should get out of here, too, before Frankie comes back dow-“

Andrew crashed through the living room door and sprawled onto the carpet beside the sofa. His hands were covered in blood, as were his jeans and shirt. Frankie came through the door after him, followed by the other. He kicked Andrew in the stomach before he had chance to get up. Andrew was silent as the blow crushed his ribs and sent him reeling onto his back. Covered by blood and swollen in the face, he looked more dead than alive.

Frankie looked around and noticed that the women were now standing. Davie swallowed a lump in his throat as he waited for his brother’s reaction.

“Sit down, bitches,” Frankie ordered.

Rebecca did not sit down as instructed and instead lunged right at Frankie with her fingernails pointed out like claws. There was a deep-red lump already growing on his forehead and Rebecca added to it by gouging two long furrows into the flesh of his cheek. The scratches began to bleed instantly, but Frankie reacted quickly. He punched Rebecca hard in her stomach and doubled her over in agony, then he pushed her by the head down to the ground. He made it look as effortless as discarding trash.

“Tie this slag up,” he ordered the twins before looking at Davie and scowling. “What the fuck, man? You were meant to be keeping these two under control.”

Davie nodded. “I’m sorry. I was distracted when you all burst in. Sorry.”

Frankie let his expression soften and walked over to his brother. Wrapping his hand around Davie’s head, he pulled him close, forehead touching forehead. “Don’t sweat it, little bro. No harm done. You just keep watching my back like you always do and nothing will ever hurt me. You’re my good-luck charm.”

Davie hoped that wasn’t true, but was glad that his brother was not angry with him. He decided it best to try and help get things back under control again. Any chance that the women had of escaping was now gone and there was now point working against his brother now. It was over.

Penelope was still standing aimlessly so Davie eased her back down onto the sofa, then knelt down beside Rebecca on the floor. She was lying on her side, breathing in and out rapidly and wincing in pain. Davie waited a few moments until she managed to catch her breath. Then he stroked her back and said, “Let’s get back on the sofa. If you’re quiet, Frankie might leave you alone.”

Rebecca said nothing, but she rolled herself up onto her knees and climbed back on the sofa. Her breathing was still awkward.

Dom and Jordan came over with the duct tape. “Get her to her feet, Davie.”

“She’ll be okay, lads. I’ll make sure she behaves.”

Dom shook his head. “Get her on her fucking feet, Davie. You heard your brother. He said, tie the slag up.”

Davie glanced at Rebecca who was looking back at him sadly. He couldn’t tell for sure, but something about the way she looked at him told him that she at least now understood that he had no choice in the matter. He had tried, at least.

He reached forward and pulled Rebecca’s feet onto his lap. They were small, dainty, with perfect little toes painted a deep purple. He had to force himself not to gaze further up her naked legs and beneath her nightgown. He knew little about women, but he knew not to stare.

Dom got to work, wrapping the silver duct tape around Rebecca’s ankles so tight that it made her wince. She did not complain, though. After he was done with her legs, Dom had Davie grab her wrists while he trussed them up as well.

“Do the bitch’s mouth,” said Frankie from the other side of the room. He was busy getting an unconscious Andrew back into the armchair and Michelle was helping him.

“No worries,” said Dom, happily tearing off another thick wad of tape and stamping it over Rebecca’s mouth. Jordan came forward to join his brother and squeezed one of her breasts. She tried to cry out in pain but could only mumble from behind the tape.

“Don’t worry,” Jordan said. “We’ll take the tape off later when we have a use for your mouth.”

Davie wanted to slap Jordan for saying such a horrid thing to a frightened girl, but he knew that he would just take a clobbering. He couldn’t take Dom or Jordan on his best day and their worst – and especially not with a concussion and a stomach that kept threatening to empty itself.

“Okay,” said Frankie, clapping his hands together. “Everybody nice and settled again?”

No one said anything, but all turned in his direction.

“Then I think this would be a good time to explain to everyone what happens when people don’t follow my rules.” He turned to Andrew and slapped his cheeks hard. “Stay with us, hero. I was about to tell your bitches what a fine display you put on up there.”

“What happened?” Davie asked, knowing that the answer wouldn’t be anything good.

“What happened, little bro, is that this gangster right here took a pole to my skull. Fair play, I say, but it never did him no good in the end. My knife was mightier than his pole.”

Rebecca moaned beneath the tape on her mouth and Davie matched her reaction by stretching his eyes wide. “You stabbed him?”

Frankie shrugged. “Had no choice. Guy was out of control and needed putting down.”

“We need to go, Frankie. This is getting bad.”

“Shut the hell up, Davie,” said Michelle from Frankie’s side. “You’re such a downer all the time.”

Usually, Frankie would jump to his brother’s defence, but this time he didn’t, which Davie took as a bad sign. “Okay,” he said, not wanting to anger his brother. “What now then?”

Frankie smirked. “Glad you asked. What we’re going to do now is show Andrew the error of his ways. Man took a chunk out of my forehead. He needs to pay for that.”

“You already stabbed him,” said Davie.

Frankie nodded. “That was just to detain him. If the police catch you and give you a kicking you still go to court afterwards. They don’t take the beating required to subdue you as the punishment for the crime.”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “He still needs to be put on trial.”

“And so here we are,” said Frankie, gushing with amusement, “to preside over the people versus Mr Andrew…whatever the fuck his name is.”

“Goodman,” Davie muttered.

“What are the charges,” asked Michelle, happily playing along with the charade.

“Kiddie-fiddling, goat-fucking, and the crime of thinking his shit don’t stink.”

“How do you find?” asked Jordan, laughing till he was out of breath.

Frankie held a finger in the air to silence the room. He seemed deep in thought, but then suddenly thrust his finger at the floor and screamed the word, “GUILTY!”

“What is his punishment?” asked Dom gleefully.

Frankie put his hands together and placed his fingertips beneath his nose as if trying to gain guidance from God himself. “Through the power invested in me by the courts, I sentence this wicked man to a slow and lingering death…by torture.”

Torture – Davie repeated the word in his head three times. Then he threw up.

Chapter Seventeen

“You okay, man?” Frankie had moved over to rub Davie’s back while he continued to be sick.

Davie spat a wad of saliva onto the carpet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think so. Just came over me all of a sudden.”

“Must be the concussion,” Frankie suggested. “Don’t worry. He’s going to pay for what he did to you.”

Davie shook his head and looked up at his brother pleadingly. “I just want to go home. I feel rough, man. Need to go to bed.”

Frankie examined him for several seconds then nodded. “Okay, Davie. We’ll get you home to rest.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Frankie smiled at him warmly. “Just as soon as I’m done here. Let me finish up.”

Davie took some deep breaths and tried to calm his stomach before he spoke. “Finish up?”

Frankie leant closer and whispered in Davie’s ear. “Got to get rid of the witnesses.”

“No way,” said Davie. “You can’t be serious.” He leant forward and lowered his voice so that only Frankie could hear the question he was about to ask. “You’re not really going to kill anybody, are you?”

Frankie looked at Davie and nodded very slowly, very seriously. The cold cubes of ice that were his eyes chilled Davie to the bone. He finally realised that he no longer knew the person standing in front of him. Something had changed inside of Frankie when he went to prison. He’d come back a monster. What the hell had happened to him in that young offender’s home?

“I don’t want to kill anybody,” said Davie, tears forming in his eyes.

“You don’t have to, little bro. Leave it all up to big brother. Haven’t I always looked after you?”

Davie nodded. The urge to vomit was rising up from his guts again and he fought hard to contain it.

“This is getting boring, Frankie. Let’s fuck something up.” It was Michelle. The sound of her voice was like a squealing pig to Davie’s ears. If someone really was about to die, he wished it would be her.

His upper lip curled up in a snarl. “Shut the hell up, Shell, you coked-up whore.”

Michelle marched forward and grabbed a hold of Frankie’s arm. “You going to let the little wanker talk to me like that?”

Frankie shrugged away from her grasp and turned to Davie. He let out a short laugh but looked deadly serious. “You got to learn to play nice, little bro. That was out of line, you get me?”

“Is that it?” said Michelle, stamping her feet and waving her arms like an outraged child.

Frankie slapped her across the face. It wasn’t hard enough to injure her but had enough force to knock her to the ground. “How many fucking times have I told you to leave it out, you skinny cunt?”

Michelle fell to the floor and cowered, raising her arms up to deflect any further blows. “I…I’m sorry, baby. Please…”

Frankie clicked his fingers at her. “Get the fuck up and be quiet. You give my brother shit one more time and I’ll end you.”

Michelle nodded and hurried away to the far side of the room. Davie noticed that Dom and Jordan were sat watching the television again but were keeping one eye on the argument and giggling between themselves.

Davie shook his head. You’re all just a bunch of crack heads.

“Okay,” Frankie rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting cold in here so I’m going to go and put the heating on. When I get back it will be time to carry out sentencing. Dom, Jordan, sort your shit out and wake up. You’re sat watching the snooker championships and giggling your arses off like it’s the funniest thing you ever saw.”

Dom and Jordan suddenly looked like naughty children and hurried to their feet quickly. Frankie left the room and Michelle ran after him, no doubt to fawn over him and try to make up. Davie sat down on the sofa between the women and worried about their fates. Penelope was still staring into space. Rebecca had let her head drop.

A garbled murmur let those in the room know that Andrew had regained consciousness. He was looking across the room at Davie through his swollen eyelids.

“Everything will be okay,” Davie told him, hating himself for lying. “We’re all going soon.”

“Yeah,” said Dom, “after we deal with your pasty, white ass.”

“Why…why do you follow him?” Andrew asked the room. Davie wasn’t sure who it was directed at, but he figured it was a valid question to each of them.

“We don’t follow no one,” said Jordan. “We just hang with Frankie cus he’s got the supply.”

“So you…help him terrorise innocent people just because he feeds you drugs?”

“That about sums it up, blud.” Jordan couldn’t help himself but laugh. “Sucks for you, huh, whitey?”

Andrew laughed, too – it was a thick, throaty sound, full of derision and disdain. “I think it sucks for you…that you let another man own your ass. You’re just Frankie’s bitches.” He broke out in even harder laughter; despite the obvious difficulty he had taking in air through his crumpled nose. Dom and Jordan were furious, but also lost for words. It wasn’t very often anyone had the balls to sound off at them like that. Davie looked down at the floor and grinned.

Frankie re-entered the room carrying a tea towel that seemed to be wrapped around something. He moved to the centre of the room and placed the tea towel on the coffee table, before unravelling it to reveal a set of variously-sized knives, a corkscrew, screwdriver, and a pair of pliers.

“What are those for?” asked Davie, already knowing the answer.

Frankie sighed at his brother. “Enough with the questions. You’re giving me such a headache that I might end up being the one with concussion.”

Dom came over and looked down at the assorted implements. He whistled. “Shit’s gunna get real, huh?”

Frankie picked up a small steel knife and examined the edge with the pad of his thumb. When he was satisfied with its sharpness, he sauntered over towards Andrew, waving it back and forth.

“You ready for sentencing, old man?”

Andrew lifted his head and looked Frankie in the eye. There was no fear in his expression anymore; only a weariness that could have been acceptance. Davie held his breath as he waited for what was to come.

Frankie pointed the knife in Andrew’s face. “Swallowed your fucking tongue?”

Andrew spat then; a mixture of blood and saliva that hit Frankie right in his face.

Frankie’s twitch went into overdrive as his face screwed up in fury. It suddenly occurred to Davie that his brother had not possessed a facial tick before he’d gone away.

Frankie placed the blade against the flesh below Andrew’s left eye. “You going to wish you never did that, gangster.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” said Andrew calmly, but his breathing was beginning to quicken and his voice was slightly unsteady.

Frankie smiled. “We going to see how much of a fuck you don’t give, old man.” He removed the knife from Andrew’s face, turned around, and shuffled over to the sofa so that he was standing behind Penelope. “You positive I can’t make you care?”

Andrew’s swollen eyes flinched. “Don’t!”

“Don’t what?” said Frankie. “Don’t do this?”

Frankie drew the blade across the side of Penelope’s face, drawing a slick line of blood as he flayed open the flesh of her cheek. At first she made no sound, still trapped in whatever daze had imprisoned her, but then she snapped back to reality and let out a high-pitched wail that could have cracked crystal. Frankie wrapped a hand around her mouth and stifled her.

From beside Davie, Rebecca struggled to get free. He had to put both hands on her to keep her in place. He wasn’t trying to help Frankie; he was trying to help her.

“Thought you didn’t give a fuck?” said Frankie to Andrew as he etched another long slice across his wife’s face. “Looks like you care now.”

No one said anything, the air tense enough to carry electric. Frankie continued to gag Penelope with his hand for several more minutes, finally letting go when her sobbing and moaning quieted down. She shook and trembled as he released her.

Frankie cricked his neck to the side and shuddered. “Damn, that was fun.”

“You sick fuck,” Andrew cursed him. “You sick sick fuck!”

“Those cuts are deep, bro,” said Dom. “They ain’t never gunna heal right. Scarred for life, yo.”

Davie agreed. The cuts were thick and blood rolled down both sides of Penelope’s face. Along with her bald head, and the other abuses of the night, Davie knew that the deepest scares would be the ones inside her mind. Frankie had caused damage that no amount of therapy would ever cure.

“Can I cut someone now?” Michelle asked almost innocently. As if she was an eight-year old asking to taste her daddy’s wine.

Frankie offered out the knife. “Sure thing, sweetie.”

Michelle took the knife and immediately headed for Rebecca.

Frankie put a hand out and stopped her. “Not so fast, baby girl. No one touches the women but me.”

Michelle’s entire face drooped. “Seriously? Come on. Just let me cut her a little bit. Slapper thinks she’s the shit. Needs bringing down a peg.”

Frankie didn’t speak. He just stared at Michelle, unblinking.

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “I’ll slice her dad then.”

She took the knife over to Andrew who looked back at her defiantly. “How did a nice girl like Charlie ever have a friend like you?” he asked.

Michelle hissed at him. “I kicked that bitch to the curb long time ago. Thought she was better than me.”

“That’s because she is.”

Michelle lashed out with the knife, hitting against Andrew’s ribs with an audible clink. The knife was small and could only have entered an inch or so, but it was more than enough to make Andrew bellow in pain.

Davie covered his ears.

“Hey,” Frankie shouted. “Watch where you’re cutting. You’ll end up killing him.”

Davie sat up straight, buoyed by his big brother’s comment. Maybe he didn’t want to kill anyone after all. Why else would he have just told Shell to be careful?

“Isn’t that what you want?” Michelle asked Frankie.

“No,” he replied. “Not yet, at least. Got to make him feel it first.”

Davie sighed. The brief glimmer of hope he’d felt faded away. This couldn’t go on any longer, surely? What more damage could Frankie do? Penelope would never be the same again and most likely neither would Andrew – if he lived. Rebecca still had a chance, though. She could still get through this in one piece if it all ended now. Davie closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and made a decision. It was time he stood up to his big brother. This had to stop now.

Chapter Eighteen

Andrew was afraid, he could not deny that, but there was strength inside him now that he’d never known existed before. The pain he’d experienced, and was still yet to experience, was not enough to break him – in fact it had only made his resolve stronger. He wouldn’t beg, he would not plead. The hell Frankie put him through had changed something in him. He had seen into the depth of his own physical being – the deepness of his soul – and knew now that he would never stop fighting for his family.

But things had changed when Frankie slashed Pen’s face. The pain of seeing his wife’s beautiful face disfigured found a way past his barriers and struck right at his heart. A pressure grew inside his chest that threatened to explode his very being. As quickly as it had arrived, the fight fled out of him.

Frankie approached with a new weapon – one he hadn’t yet used to torture anyone. He held the pliers at arm’s length and snapped them shut menacingly. “Time for your dental appointment, sir.”

Andrew sighed and let his head drop to his chest, mentally preparing himself for another helping of agony. He sent his mind to a meditative place of calm indifference that offered a sliver of emotionally sanctuary. It was a place inside of himself that he’d not known existed before this night. Pain and suffering had forced it into existence, rending itself into his psyche out of necessity and survival.

“I’ve never done a root canal before,” said Frankie, “but I’m sure it’ll go alright. What do you think?”

Andrew said nothing. If he did then the animal might hurt his family some more. Whatever happened, he could take it – or at least tolerate – as long as it was done only to him.

Frankie grabbed Andrew’s lower jaw with his grubby fingers and yanked it open. “Dear, oh, dear. That’s some very bad tooth decay you have there. I think we’re going to have to get those teeth out ASAP. Every single one of them.”

The twins and Michelle gave a cheer to that as if it was the most exciting thing they had ever heard of. Andrew wondered if it was the drugs that made them this way, or if they’d been born wicked. They weren’t human beings, they were baying dogs – hyenas.

Frankie shushed everyone into silence and started his procedure. Andrew spluttered and coughed as the pliers entered his mouth. They scratched against his tongue and clinked against his teeth, sending aching shudders down to their roots. Suddenly, the steel tongs clamped down on either side of a molar and Andrew felt the tooth crack beneath the sudden pressure. Agony exploded thorough his lower jaw and gradually travelled upwards to consume his entire face. His vision blurred as the pliers twisted side to side, yanking and wrenching the tooth away from the gum, millimetre by excruciating millimetre. Despite coming extremely near, Andrew didn’t lose consciousness. He was still awake to see Frankie make at successful extraction and hold the retrieved molar in front of his audience like a grizzly trophy.

Andrew’s mouth filled with hot, salty blood, so much that he thought he might choke on it. He spat endlessly to keep his mouth clear and the sight of all the blood seemed to cause a massive grin to stretch across Frankie’s twitching face.

“That shit is gross,” said Dom from a couple of meters away. “I could puke.”

“Pull another one,” Michelle screeched. “Do another before he passes out.”

Frankie took the molar from the pliers and examined it between his fingers. He showed it to Andrew, too, waving it a couple of inches in front of his nose. “Mind if I keep this?”

The question disturbed Andrew. It was the type of thing a serial killer would do, keeping a memento from his victim’s body. The notion of dying tonight was becoming more and more a reality to Andrew, but so was something else. If Frankie was going to kill him, he wouldn’t stop there – couldn’t stop there. Pen and Bex were witnesses that this monster could not afford to keep around. If Andrew didn’t get free, Frankie was going to kill his family.

“Time for the next tooth,” said Frankie clicking the pliers open and shut. Blood still dripped from the implement.

“STOP IT!”

Andrew leant sideways and glanced around Frankie. What he saw was Davie, standing up beside the sofa and facing down his brother.

Frankie shook his head. “What the fuck, Davie?”

Davie’s eyes narrowed beneath the bandage around his forehead. His slim shoulders were rigid, tense. “I’m done with this, Frankie. You’ve hurt these people enough and I can’t take any more of this.”

Andrew couldn’t see Frankie’s face now his back was turned, but he could tell by the unmoving body language that he was dumbfounded by his little brother’s sudden outburst.

“What’s your problem? This goddamn pedo ran you the fuck over.”

“It was an accident,” Davie shouted a decibel below a shout, “and it happened because I was running away after what you did to that girl at the chip shop. If you hadn’t taken me along I wouldn’t have got hit by no car.”

“You keep your mouth shut about that. You want me to get pinched?”

Davie shook his head, exasperated. “You’re already going to get pinched. You’re planning on killing people.”

“So what?” said Frankie. “Shit happens. Long as we’re smart, no one will pin a thing on us.”

Davie seemed incredulous. “Us? Us? I want nothing to do with this fucking mess. This is all down to you and your shit-faced mates.”

“Hey man, that’s not cool,” said Jordan from the floor.

“No,” Frankie agreed. “Not cool at all.” He walked forward and prodded a finger into Davie’s chest. “Now you chill the fuck out, little bro, or things are going to end bad for you.”

Davie didn’t move an inch. “I love you, Frankie, but if you carry on hurting these people, I ain’t your bro no more.”

Frankie was silent for a while as he seemed to consider his next words. “You sure you want things to go down like this?”

Davie nodded and stood firm, not breaking eye contact for a second.

Andrew sat and watched from the armchair, hardly able to breathe as he waited for an outcome of this familial confrontation – it seemed his life might hang in the balance. At least, if anything, he’d judged Davie correctly – the boy was nothing like his older brother.

“I let them go; I go down,” said Frankie. “You want that?”

Davie sighed. “Course not. You’re my blood.”

“So what then? What would you have me do, Davie? You seem to be the one with all the answers so enlighten me.”

He shrugged. “Just leave. They won’t say anything.”

Frankie laughed his head off. “You’re shitting me? Course they will.”

“Not if you threaten to send someone round to finish the job. Just like the kid in the bathtub – nothing gets said to the police and everything stays cool.”

Everything will not be cool, thought Andrew as he looked across at his catatonic wife, bleeding from her butchered face beneath a bald head. This isn’t going to end with you just walking away scot free. No way in hell.

Frankie took some time to think about things. Andrew did some thinking of his own. If Frankie did leave, then the first thing he would do was call the police. But if Frankie stayed, then he would certainly commit murder. If it was the latter outcome then Andrew wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The agony of his tooth extraction had reawakened his senses to the point that they were on high alert. If he was going to save his family it would be now.

“I’m sorry,” Frankie told his brother earnestly. “I can’t leave things now. My business isn’t done. Got to take this thing to the end.”

I’ll end it for you right now, you son of a bitch.

Andrew leapt from the armchair and barrelled into the back of Frankie as hard as he could. The body tackle sent Frankie forward with enough force that he flipped clear over the room’s coffee table and landed awkwardly on his shoulder, crying out. Like angry bees, the twins were on Andrew in an instant.

Andrew lunged aside as Dom attempted to tackle him. The teen missed and went tumbling into the TV stand headfirst. Without thinking, Andrew swung his leg viciously and connected with the boy’s ribs, enjoying the crunching sound it made. Michelle attacked next. The wicked little harlot screeched at him like a medieval war maiden and came at him with a pair of scissors. Andrew had no time to consider the ethics of hitting a girl so threw the hardest punch he could produce. Lips and teeth mushed beneath his colliding fist and Michelle flew backwards, already unconscious on her way down to the floor.

Next up was Jordan, and his attack was far more effective. He came at Andrew with his arms wide, embracing him in a crushing bear hug and ramming him into the nearest wall. Andrew lost his breath as his cracked ribs impacted against the hard plasterboard. Unable to free his arms, he did the only thing he could think of. He bit Jordan in the face as hard as he could, teeth slicing through the succulent flesh and causing a high-pitched, agonising scream. Jordan’s struggling just made Andrew bite down harder, and he didn’t release his grip until a fatty chunk of flesh fell away in his mouth. He spat the morsel onto the ruined carpet and pushed the shuddering teen away from him.

Andrew felt as though he was outside of his body now, controlling his rage-infected limbs from far away as they coursed with murderous intent. After being captured and subdued like an animal, he was finally free – and all he wanted now was to see the blood of his captors flow as freely as his own.

But before he had a chance to sow his vengeance and free his family, he found himself, once again, powerless. Frankie stood in front of the sofa, a knife to Bex’s throat. She was still bound and gagged but Andrew could tell by his daughter’s eyes that she was terrified.

“Just let her go, Frankie, and I’ll let you walk out of here alive.”

Frankie cackled. “You’ll let me walk out of here alive. It’s you that’s a dead man.”

Andrew shook his head. “Shoes on the other foot now. I’m going to rip you apart first opportunity I get. Best chance you’ve got is to run.”

Frankie stared at Andrew as if he were insane. “You for real? I’d kill you before you even got close to me. I’m Frankie-fuckin-Walker.”

Andrew shook his head. “You’re just a sad little boy who probably got raped in prison. We should all feel sorry for you – but you made a huge mistake when you took it out on my family. You’re a dead man.”

Davie entered the conversation, standing between them both. Jordan was still screaming in pain and rushed into the kitchen to tend to the ripped-open wound on his face. His brother Dom lay on the floor, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. Michelle was still unconscious. Davie put a hand up to Andrew and Frankie, like a referee at an out-of-hand boxing match. “Let’s just keep things calm, okay? If you stay where you are, Andrew, we’ll all get out of your house right now.”

“Like fuck we will,” said Frankie, still holding Rebecca at knifepoint.

Davie turned to his brother. “This has gone tits-up, bro. We need to bounce.”

Frankie stared at his younger brother and eventually let out a sigh. “You’re right. This is an epic fuckin’ fail, man.”

Davie nodded. “Let’s not make it any worse.”

“Okay. Dom, get up off the floor and fetch your brother from the kitchen. Get Michelle up and carry her useless ass out of here.” Frankie looked at Andrew, narrowed his eyes. “You come after me, gangster, and I’ll put you down for good. Then someone will come and sort your family out for good measure. Same thing will happen if you go to the police. You get me?”

Andrew said nothing. He didn’t need to involve himself in worthless banter with a degenerate like Frankie – he could see through it all now. The police would get a call the moment he left, and if anyone came after Andrew’s family afterwards, they would be made to regret it. There was a beast inside of him that had been created and let out.

“Let my daughter go and leave.”

It wasn’t Andrew who spoke. It was Pen. She’d stood up from the sofa and was clutching the scissors in her hand. No one had seen her grab them, but in the ruckus that had erupted she would have had every chance to take them.

“Let her go,” Pen repeated, pointing the scissors at Frankie’s face. “Now.”

Frankie sniggered. “Or else what, you bald bitch?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Andrew called out to his wife and tried to calm her down. The situation was nearly over and she didn’t need to do this. “Honey, come over to me. Everything is going to be okay in just a minute.”

But Pen wasn’t listening. She had a haunted look like she was somewhere else entirely; somewhere where only she and Frankie existed, with Bex in the middle.

“Listen to your husband, sweetheart. You ain’t going to be doing nuffin’. Come near me and I stick your whore daughter.”

Pen let out a roar and rushed at Frankie with the scissors, her face contorted in a witch-like grimace of utter hatred and malevolence. Frankie spun to meet her head on, holding Bex in front of him as a shield. Their bodies collided and the scissors disappeared in the tussle.

Andrew’s heart froze, along with every other muscle of his body. As he stood there in terror. The next several seconds passed like an eternity, until Frankie pushed Bex against her mother and stepped away, snarling. Andrew saw the blood immediately. Then he saw the scissors jutting out from his daughter’s stomach as she fell to the floor in shock. Pen looked down at Bex and let out an inhuman wail, then she lunged at Frankie, aiming her sharp fingernails at his remorseless eyes.

Frankie struck out with the knife and Pen stumbled right into it. There was no sound as the blade entered the soft tissue of her throat and, for a moment, Andrew wasn’t sure if the injury was as real as it looked. When blood spurted high enough to coat the ceiling, the reality of the situation became undeniably real.

“Stupid bitch,” said Frankie, looking down at her. “Dom, Jordan, go get Michelle, right now. We’re leaving.”

Andrew dropped to his knees, oblivious to the escaping youths that had made his life a living hell before destroying it completely. The only thing that existed in his life right now was Penelope and Rebecca, and both of them were dying on the living room floor.

Chapter Nineteen

“Shit man. This is bad. Why the hell did you do that, Frankie?” Davie struggled to keep up with the others as they ran deeper into the estate, passing by rows of houses that became progressively smaller and unkempt as they left the better areas. Usually he would have been faster than the lot of them, but his throbbing concussion meant he could manage no more than a lolloping walk.

Frankie slowed down and allowed Davie to catch up. “Bitch had it coming,” he said. “She came at me like a nutcase, you saw it.”

“I saw you drive a knife into her neck when you could have just as easily punched her.”

Frankie shrugged. “It’s done now. No point stressing about it.”

Davie reached out and grabbed his brother’s jacket, dragging them both to a stop. “You’re tripping, bro. The police will be after us all within the next two minutes. There’re two woman bleeding to death because of you!”

Frankie huffed. “Because of us.”

Davie shook his head, dismayed by the suggestion that he was to blame for any part of this. “What the hell did I do?”

“You distracted me enough that Andrew could take a shot at me. Everything went tits-up after that. If you’d just kept your gob shut then everything would have been okay. I was just about to let them go, little bro. Figured I’d scared them enough to get the message.”

“Bullshit,” said Davie, hoping there was zero truth to his brother’s words. “You told everyone you were going to kill Andrew.”

“Course I did,” said Frankie. “I wanted him to shit himself. I weren’t gunna do it, though. You think I’m a complete muppet or what?”

Davie shook his head. He was feeling dizzy again and couldn’t wait to find his way to bed. Were his actions really the cause of what had happened? Davie wasn’t sure he could live with himself if they were. He stared at Frankie and concentrated on his brother’s reactions. “You were really just going to let them go?”

Frankie put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and looked him dead in the eye. “I swear, man. They were at the point where they would never have said shit to no one. The pigs wouldn’t have ever known. Now though…”

“What are we going to do?”

Frankie patted Davie on the back and got them both moving again. Up ahead, the twins and a groggy Michelle were waiting for them. “We’re going to go see a mate of mine and lay low for a while at his gaff. We’ll get our stories straight and decide what we’re going to do then.”

Davie nodded. “Okay. Who’s this mate? Can we trust him?”

“Yeah,” said Frankie. “It’s him I’ve been dealing product for. Well, his old man, really, but he’s in the nick for a stretch.”

“Maybe, we should just go home instead. Get mum to tell the police we’ve been home all night.”

“You really want to rely on that drunk bitch to keep a story straight?”

“I suppose not.”

They caught up with the others at the end of the street just as they passed by a group of shops and a grotty old pub called The Trumpet.

“My mate lives a few blocks up,” Frankie told them all. “It’s pretty late so he should be in. Mind your manners though because this guy would kill you as soon as look at you. In fact he’s the only geezer in the world that actually scares me. ”

Everyone nodded their understanding. Then they got going again, heading through the paved jungle of the housing estate and disappearing into the night.

***

Frankie knocked the door and shushed everyone. The house they were standing at was bigger than most of the others on the street, with a long driveway and an overhanging porch that had a light that lit their approach.

“He going to be mad?” Davie asked, trying to fight away the feeling that things were somehow getting worse not better.

“Maybe,” said Frankie, “but once I tell him the deal, he’ll understand. Last thing he needs is his best dealer going away for a long stretch.”

A light came on in the hallway. It shined through the frosted glass of the PVC door, and after a few seconds of clinking sounds, of deadbolts and chains being unlocked, the door opened up. Blinking out at them through sleep-fuzzed eyes was a shaven-headed youth about the same age as Frankie. The lad was well-muscled and wearing nothing but a pair of designer boxer-shorts.

“Fuck, Frankie, is that you?”

“Yeah, Damien, it’s me. I need to lay low for a couple days. Some shit went down that’s pretty heavy.”

Damien glanced at a glinting watch on his wrist and narrowed his eyes beneath the glaring porch light. “Two-o-clock in the morning, man. You pick your goddamn times, you know that? I ought to whoop your ass for waking me.”

“I know, man. If I wasn’t desperate, I wouldn’t be here.”

Damien opened the door wider and let them all in. “You’ll make this up to me, Frankie. We’ll discuss it later.”

They all entered and Damien closed and locked the door behind them. He ushered them through into the lounge where Davie peered around in awe. A plasma screen TV as big as any he’d seen hung from the far wall, while opposite was a huge wraparound sofa deep enough to bury ten bodies in. Everything was expensive, and the fact that it belonged to someone only a few years older than Davie made it even more unbelievable. He could see why Frankie had allowed himself to get dragged down the same path of dealing drugs if these were the rewards.

“Take a seat,” Damien told everyone. “I’ll get some beers and put the heating on. They say it’s going to snow this year and it’s already getting too cold for my liking. Frankie you come with me and we’ll talk business.”

Davie watched his brother leave and sat himself down on the extravagant sofa. The twins and Michelle did the same.

“What a fucking trip,” said Dom. “Never seen nothing like what happened tonight.”

“We’re all screwed,” Davie said glumly.

“Stop stressing, D,” said Michelle. “Frankie will sort everything out.”

Davie didn’t want to talk to any of them. They understood what they’d all been party to, and they didn’t care - monsters. Davie, on the other hand, couldn’t help but recall the images of Rebecca hitting the floor with the scissors poking out of her guts. She hadn’t hurt anyone and neither had her mother. Now they were both probably dead.

What was it about Andrew that had consumed all of Frankie’s focus? The torture of that poor family had been like an obsession once he’d gotten into their house. Davie thought about Andrew now and considered the pain the man must be feeling after watching his family get destroyed like that. Maybe it was the worst pain imaginable. It certainly seemed like it at the time as Davie had watched the man bellow.

“You think Frankie will let us score some more?” Jordan asked the group.

“I hope so,” his twin added. “I’m starting to come down big-style. My face is killing me. Can you believe that crazy fucker bit a chunk out of my cheek? It’s still bleeding now and I feel well-sick.”

“I just wanna sleep,” said Michelle. “I’m knackered and my face is mashed-up. Think I lost a tooth.”

“You ain’t getting no sleep tonight, sweetheart,” said Damien, re-entering the lounge. “You and me are going upstairs.”

Michelle frowned at him. “The fuck you talking about? I’m Frankie’s girl.”

“Exactly,” said Damien, “and Frankie owes me. Consider yourself rent for the bunch of you staying here tonight. You may be a bit of a bruised-up mess, but you’ll do, I suppose.”

“No fucking way. Frankie wouldn’t let anyone else have me.”

Frankie entered the room and Damien winked at him. “Is that right Frankie? Seems your girl is playing hard to get.”

“Just get your ass upstairs,” Frankie told Michelle, clicking his fingers at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Michelle glanced around the room, looking rescue, but the twins just shrugged and Davie wasn’t about to offer her any assistance either. Far as he was concerned, Michelle deserved everything she got. Maybe it was time for her to learn a lesson.

Michelle stood up, looking confused but unable to find an argument, so she turned to Damien. “You serious? You want me to go upstairs and fuck you?”

Damien laughed. “I’m going to be the one fucking you.” He offered out his hand and Michelle took it reluctantly. Damien turned to Frankie and winked on his way out of the room. “I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and that other favour you needed from me…you’ll find it in a box beneath the sofa. Have fun, kids.”

“You too,” said Frankie, although he didn’t seem to mean it. His face twitched several times as he watched Michelle be led away.

Frankie collapsed down onto the sofa and kicked off his trainers, letting out a loud sigh. Davie waited for him to say something, but it appeared he was quite content to close his eyes and go right to sleep. Apparently murder and mayhem wasn’t enough to keep Frankie awake.

Davie asked him a question, before he had chance to drop off. “You okay with Damien banging Michelle?”

Frankie didn’t move or even open his eyelids as he spoke. “I was the one that suggested it, bro. Easy way to settle a debt, innit?”

“She’s your bird, though.”

“Fuck Shell. She’s happy as long as she’s got coke in her nose and a cock up her ass. Who gives a damn?”

“Didn’t look like she wanted to go,” said Dom. “Look on her face was classic.”

The sound of frantic fucking suddenly emanated from above them. The ceiling began to vibrate and the light fixtures swung back and forth. Two voices could be heard moaning in ecstasy – both Damien and Michelle’s.

“She sounds alright to me,” said Frankie. “Now, everyone get their head down for a few hours. I can’t be doing with anymore thinking right now. We’ll sort shit out in the morning. I’ll make some calls and get a few ears to the ground – see what’s happening.”

Everyone seemed more than happy to oblige. It had been a long and frantic night for all of them and no one wanted to get shuteye more than Davie. Before he did, though, he had one last question for his big brother.

“What’s in a box under the sofa, Frankie?”

Frankie’s voice was dreamy, already half-asleep. “You’ll find out in the morning, little bro.” Then he was fast asleep and snoring. It was almost an hour before Davie managed to join him. The sound of Michelle getting fucked upstairs kept him awake.

Chapter Twenty

The nurses made Andrew wait outside and he’d been forced to wait in an empty corridor while Pen and Bex were rushed into separate operating theatres. Nurses now rushed back and forth between the two rooms, glancing apprehensively at Andrew each time they passed him. Their expressions were always grim and pitying. A bad sign.

Andrew’s own wounds– serious in their own right –needed looking at, too, but he refused anyone who tried to take him away. He was unwilling to move until he knew the fate of his family. If only he could take their place. If he died, Pen and Bex would still have each other, but if they died, then he would have nothing – his life would remain an empty husk forever, containing nothing more than memories of the things taken away from him.

Frankie would pay for this, one way or another.

“Mr Goodman?”

Andrew looked up to see a pair of familiar faces. He smiled at them as best he could, but I felt like an obscene gesture considering what had happened. “Officers, what are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?” asked Dalton. “We’ve had reports of multiple stabbings. A man, his daughter, and wife.”

“We were really hoping it wasn’t you,” said Wardsley, shaking his head solemnly, “but we had a bad feeling.”

Andrew huffed with exasperation but it came out more like a hiss. “Looks like your feeling was right.”

The two officers took a seat on the bench beside him and leant forward so that they could both see him and each other. For the first time since Andrew had seen them, neither was taking notes. They weren’t there to take his statement; at least not right now.

“Was this all down to Frankie?” Dalton asked.

Andrew ran a hand across his forehead and rubbed at his tired eyes that had begun to itch. It must have been close to dawn by now. “Frankie and his mates did this, yes.”

“You have names for any of them?”

“I got their first names but no surnames. One of the kids was Frankie’s younger brother, though. I know because I admitted the lad here at the hospital last night after I hit him with my car.”

Wardsley was wide-eyed. “You ran him over?”

“Not on purpose. It was an accident. A coincidence, if you can believe that. I rushed the boy here straight away and gave him a lift home afterwards. Frankie found out about it.”

“He probably thought you did it intentionally,” Dalton suggested.

Andrew nodded. “Didn’t matter that his little brother tried telling him the truth. Frankie wanted his fun. Now my girls are in surgery, maybe dying…maybe already dead.”

Wardsley growled. “We’ll get him for this, Mr Goodman, I promise you.”

“You think so? I mean, honestly, do you think you’ll put him away and keep him there? What if he has twenty people giving him an alibi?”

The look on the officer’s faces told Andrew all he needed to know. “Don’t worry about it,” he told them with a wave of his hand. “I know it’s not your fault.”

Wardsley sighed. “We will do all that we can. He won’t get away wit this.”

“But what made him this way?” Andrew asked them, unable to fathom the answer. “Lots of kids grow up with a bad upbringing, but it’s more than that with Frankie. He’s rotten to the core. There’s nothing there where his heart should be.”

Dalton shook her head. “I wish there were an answer that made some sense, but there’s not. We made some calls to the borstal that he was kept at. One of the guards who knew him told us that during his first year he was bullied severely by the other inmates – maybe that has something to do with it. He certainly changed during those following years.”

“What do you mean?”

Wardsley took over from his partner. “This guard told us that by the time he left, Frankie was running the show. Top dog. A complete turnaround. He also told us…I shouldn’t really say.”

“What?” demanded Andrew. “Tell me.”

“Well,” Wardsley continued, “all of the other youth offenders who had bullied Frankie in his first year were badly injured – one by one throughout the course of a few months. Every one of them was…impaled.”

“Impaled?”

Wardsley nodded. “Violated by a blunt object – typically pool cues from the Rec Room. None of them would talk about what happened afterwards. One boy died of a perforated rectum.”

Andrew grimaced. “Jesus.”

“We think that perhaps these other residents of the offender’s home abused Frankie during his first year and he took a fitting revenge on them. To say it left him with some severe emotional problems is an understatement to say the least.”

“That’s horrible,” said Andrew, “but it doesn’t make what he’s done okay. He’s still a monster, whatever he’s been through.”

“I agree,” said Wardsley. “He’ll never change now.”

“But chances are he’ll be back on the streets to hurt other people?”

“We’ll get him,” said Dalton. “We’ll charge him with attempted murder and do everything we can for you and your family. You need to trust us.”

Andrew sighed. “But even if he goes away, it won’t be forever, right?”

“I can’t say,” Dalton admitted.

Andrew had heard enough. “I don’t need to hear it.”

Wardsley and Dalton both put their hands up to calm him. “I know, Andrew. We wanted to check on you, to see if you need anything?”

Andrew looked at the officers, examined the concern on their faces and looked for gaps. It seemed genuine and he was left with little doubt that these two police officers were just people like anybody else. They emphasized with Andrew’s pain and despised the fact that demons like Frankie could walk the earth almost unobstructed. Their offer of assistance was real, but right now Andrew had no clues what to ask for – or if he even needed anything from them at all.

Before he had chance to reply, a fully-scrubbed surgeon stepped out of one of the operating theatres and approached him with caution. “Mr Goodman?”

Andrew stood up, his knees shaking uncontrollably. “Yes, that’s me.”

The surgeon nodded and smiled. “Your daughter has been stabilised for now. There is some damage to the digestive tract that could possibly cause complications later or some lasting damage, but we’ve managed to stem any internal bleeding and she’s no longer in critical condition.”

Andrew didn’t absorb a single word. None of what the doctor said had informed him with absolute certainty what he really needed to know. “Is she going to make it?”

The surgeon nodded. “Barring anything unexpected your daughter should make a full recovery. As I said, the damage to her large intestine could cause some issues, but nothing that can’t be managed. You’ll be able to see her in a few hours when we move her somewhere more comfortable.”

Andrew let out a sigh of relief that seemed to go on forever. He heard similar sounds from the police officers behind him. “What about my wife?” he asked the surgeon, moving on to his next concern now that the previous one was over.

The surgeon shook his head and seemed apologetic. Andrew fought away the overwhelming urge to vomit as the man spoke the words he didn’t want to hear. “I’m afraid Dr Killarney is the attending for your wife, so I can’t give you much information. From my cursory examination of her wounds, however, I would not be optimistic. I’m sorry, Mr Goodman, but I doubt she’ll pull through.”

Andrew felt all the blood in his body drop to his feet and he collapsed backwards. Officer Wardsley caught him, directing his fall towards the bench and setting him down on it.

Andrew looked the man dead in the eyes and said, “I need a favour.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Sunshine crept into the room and bathed Davie’s face. His eyelids fluttered as his pupils reacted to the light and it took him a few minutes to open then fully. Once a little more awake he looked around himself to get his bearings. The living room was foreign and bizarre but, after a few moments, he recalled the memories of last night. This was Damien’s place; the current location of his on-going nightmare.

No one else inhabited the room and Davie had the entire sofa to himself. He was alone in someone else’s house and suddenly felt very vulnerable.

“Everyone has gone back to their own gaffs,” said Frankie from behind him, standing in the doorway.

“Didn’t you want us all to stick together?”

Frankie walked into the room and sat on the futon opposite the sofa. “At first, yeah, but Damien told me that if the police come and find us in a group matching the exact description that a victim gave it would corroborate their evidence. I gave everyone their stories and sent them on their way. They know what to say, so don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” said Davie. “I don’t know what I feel. Last night was fucked up, bro.”

Frankie nodded in agreement, seeming to reminisce about the events unfavourably. “Should never have gone down that way, man. Way too messy, leaving things like that. Jordan’s face was messed up this morning – think it’s infected or something. My fault. Should have dealt with things better…more neatly.”

“What do you mean?” asked Davie. “You should have killed them?”

Frankie shrugged. “Maybe. Too late now. We just need to be ready.”

“Ready how?”

Frankie smiled and tilted his body forward, sliding off the futon and onto his knees. He slipped an arm beneath the sofa and retrieved a flat wooden box, the placed it carefully onto his lap.

Davie frowned. “What’s in it?”

“Our insurance policy.” Frankie unfastened the pair of brass clips on either end of the box and popped the lid.

Davie couldn’t believe what was inside. “Guns? Are you crazy?”

“Chill the fuck out. They’re just in case that nutcase comes after us. I ain’t going to play with this guy no more.”

“Nutcase?” Davie was dumbfounded. “We held him hostage and stabbed his family. I think he has good reason to be a little nutty.”

“Whatever,” said Frankie dismissively. “If he comes at me he’s going to taste lead…or whatever the stuff is they make bullets out of nowadays. Quit your bitching and take this.”

Frankie thrust one of the revolvers at Davie who immediately shoved it right back. “I will not. I don’t want a gun.”

Frankie pushed harder until he had no choice but to take ownership of the weapon. “Just keep it in your waistband,” he asked. “You don’t have to go looking for trouble, but I want to know you’re safe if that prick comes after you.”

“Andrew.”

“What?”

“His name is Andrew.”

Frankie shook his head in confusion. “Does it look like I give a monkey’s nuts?”

“No,” said Davie. “No it doesn’t. Fine, I’ll take the gun, but only for protection. What about the twins? Did you give them guns?”

“Fuck them. They can fend for themselves. Only person I care about is you.”

“Hope I’m not breaking up a Hallmark moment.” Damien entered the room and stood in front of them. Everything he was wearing was emblazoned with a logo of some kind.

Frankie looked up at him from the sofa. “Nah, man, everything’s cool. Was just getting my little bro strapped.”

Damien nodded. “What’s your next move?”

“Don’t know. Either the police will turn up at my door or this guy that has a beef with me will. I’ll be ready for whatever happens, though, thanks to you.” He waved the gun as though it were a toy and not a deadly weapon.

“You get caught with that you leave my name out of it, you hear me? They belong to my old man and he’d go ape if he knew I was lending ‘em out. Can’t have you dead, though, can I? Need you out on the street. What you do to this dude anyway? You can’t have just fucked up his car and house.”

“We stabbed his wife and daughter,” Davie blurted out. The sudden confession made him feel better.

Damien’s eyes widened and his eyebrows lowered into a scowl. “The fuck? The hell you do that for? You don’t fuck with a man’s family – with women.”

Frankie waved a hand dismissively. “Shit went down. That’s all there is to it. You’re one to talk, anyway, man. You fuck people up all the time.”

“Business,” said Damien. “I don’t fuck up innocent families. Did this guy even do anything to you?”

“No,” said Davie. “He never done nothing to nobody.”

Frankie turned to Davie and growled. “Will you shut the hell up!”

“Sounds like your little bro has a conscience,” said Damien. “Good for him. You both need get the fuck out of my house now.”

Frankie stood up. “What? Why you being like this?”

“Cus you’re a fucking mug, an amateur. Now piss off – and leave the pieces behind. I ain’t gunna risk you shooting up some more innocent families.”

Frankie didn’t hand the gun over; he pulled the revolver on Damien and cocked the hammer. Davie wondered how his brother even knew how to do that.

Damien’s face was unflinching, unlike Frankie’s which was twitching madly.

“I hope this dude fucks you up,” Damien said. “Makes you a little bitch again like you used to be when I met you in the nick.”

Frankie stepped forward and shoved the barrel against Damien’s forehead. His whole arm was shaking but Damien was still unflinching. “Not another word, Damien, or I’ll end you right now.”

Davie stood up and moved beside his brother, trying to attract the attention of his demented stare. “What’s he talking about, Frankie? What happened in the nick?”

Damien directed his gaze to Davie casually, unbothered by the gun against his forehead. “Your big bro never tell you?

“Tell me what?”

“When I went down for a little stretch – for dealing and shit – they sent me to the same nick as Frankie.”

Frankie thrust the revolver forward, jarring Damien’s head back. “Not another word. I’m warning you.”

Damien continued anyway. “Your big tough bro here was the prison bitch for a whole year. Fell in bad with the top dogs when he arrived – mouthing off and acting like a gangster before he even knew the score. Spent the next year getting it up the shitter by half the guys on G Wing.”

“Bullshit,” said Davie. “You’re talking bollocks.”

Damien winked at Davie. “God’s honest truth, little man. When I arrived, my dad’s rep was enough for me to be one of the top dogs straight away. I put a stop to all that stuff – shit stabbing’s really not my thing. Your brother was so grateful that he offered to do anything for me in return. Just so happened that I needed some help shifting gear when I got out. The rest is history.”

“Is this all true?” Davie asked Frankie, who seemed like he was going to go off like a firework, veins bulging through the hot redness of his skin.

Frankie sniffed back a nose full of snot and recovered himself. “Guy’s full of it. He did me a few solids during our time together, that much is true. In fact the only reason he ain’t dead right now is because I owe him.”

“Owe me big time,” Damien added. “Big time.”

Frankie nodded. “Lucky for you, I honour my debts – but consider us even.”

Damien smiled from behind the gun barrel. “Fair enough. Say goodbye to your supply though. You find out who your friends are when you’re not holding all the time. Tell Dom and Jordan to come see me in The Trumpet. Maybe they can take your old job.”

“Whatever,” said Frankie. “Come on Davie. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Still pointing the revolver at Damien’s face, Frankie backed out of the room. Davie followed after him, shell shocked by what he’d just heard. There was every chance that Damien was just making shit up to mess with Frankie. But if it were true…

Then Davies big brother was messed up for a reason.

“Hey, Davie,” said Damien as they went to leave. “Don’t end up like your brother, yeah?”

Davie said nothing, just left the room with Frankie. Together they navigated the long hallway towards the front door and let themselves out. The cold air of the afternoon hit Davie in the face like a punch, making his teeth ache.

“Getting cold,” he said, rubbing at his shoulders.

Frankie shrugged. “Other things to worry about right now.”

“No shit,” Davie agreed. Yet somehow he couldn’t help but think about the weather. He had a feeling that there was going to be a storm of epic proportions.

And the first drops of rain had just fallen.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Officer Wardsley and Officer Dalton had refused Andrew’s request to locate Frankie for him – they didn’t want him taking the law into his own hands – so now he was sitting at his wife’s bedside wondering what to do. It was approaching 5pm, the morning having come and gone in a whirlwind of grief and emotion. Bex was yet to wake up but the Doctors had assured him she would do do soon – that her body was just taking the opportunity to rest. Pen’s condition was less optimistic.

Her surgery had ended a couple hours ago and she was now lying deathly still. Stitches and gauze covered her throat while a drip entered the artery of her right arm, supplying her body with whatever it was that the Doctors thought it needed.

“I’ll make this right,” Andrew whispered to his dying wife. “I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done – for what they’ve done to you and Rebecca.”

Pen said nothing.

He sat for a while and listened to the silence, wishing beyond all hope that the woman he loved would sit up and say something. It wasn’t going to happen, though – might not ever happen.

Tears fell from his eyes and stained the thin white cotton sheets that covered his wife’s injured body. “I failed you, Pen. It’s my job to keep you safe. How can I ever forgive myself? If you die, how will I go on? I’ve loved you since the day we met. Life wouldn’t make sense without you. Please don’t go.” He leant forward and laid his head against her stomach. He could hear her heart pumping – slow and steady – the pause between each beat a balancing act between life and death. “Please don’t leave me, Pen. Our daughter needs you.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a young blonde nurse, entering the room, “but your daughter has just woken up.”

Andrew’s stomach churned and he had to swallow back a mouthful of stomach acid.

What the hell did he say to her? A kid shouldn’t have to deal with something like this.

Andrew got up, kissed his wife’s forehead, then followed the nurse out of the room. Both Penelope and Rebecca had been moved once their surgery concluded and were now in separate parts of the building. Pen was in ICU under constant watch, while Bex was in the convalescence ward. They were on separate floors and it took Andrew five minutes of marching through a maze of corridors to reach his daughter’s room.

Although obviously weak, Bex smiled at him as soon as he entered the room. his heart ached at the sight of her. Dark-brown hair matted her forehead and her usually rosy complexion had turned ashen. She looked like a zombie from one of the films she loved to watch.

“Hey,” Andrew said as he placed himself down on a cheap plastic chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Like I got stabbed with a pair of scissors.”

Andrew grinned, happy that his daughter’s sense of humour had not been damaged despite everything. “Arts and crafts never were your strong point, Bex.”

“How’s mum?”

He had hoped the question would wait, that his daughter would not remember events so much as to realise that she was not the only one who’d been injured. Telling Bex that her mother might be dying would not be good for her own recovery.

But he couldn’t lie to her, not his own daughter.

“She’s bad, sweetheart. The doctors have told us to wait and see, but right now she’s not responding. Her surgery went okay, though, which is a good sign. We have to hold on to the positives.”

Bex looked her father in the eyes and wore an expression that seemed to hold more sadness than should have been possible for such a young girl. “Why did they do this to us, Dad?”

Andrew shook his head and looked down at the floor. “I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”

“They would have killed us all if you hadn’t done something.”

Andrew sighed. “I got you both stabbed!”

“It would have been worse if you’d done nothing.”

“I might not have gotten the chance if Davie hadn’t tried to put a stop to things first.”

Bex looked concern. “You think he’ll be okay? What if the others blame him?”

Andrew shrugged his shoulders and winced at the pain that shot through his ribs. “To be honest the only people I’m concerned about are you and your mother. Davie still sat and watched Frankie tortured us. He did what was right at the end, but it wasn’t enough.”

“Don’t be angry, Dad.”

Andrew looked at his daughter. “Don’t be angry. Are you joking?”

She shook her head wearily. “If you’re angry then you’re just letting them get away with even more. Of course I want them all arrested and sent to prison…for-like-ever…but I won’t let them inside my head. They don’t deserve to change who we are, Dad. You’re not an angry person, so don’t let them make you one.”

Andrew couldn’t believe his daughter was so willing to move on. Would she feel the same way if the doctors came in and told her that her mother was dead? Would she let anger into her heart then? Andrew understood what his daughter was saying, but it was too late to put aside his emotions – anger had already infested his soul and taken root. There was no going back to the man he was before. That mad was dead.

He needed to change the subject, for dwelling on the subject was already making his heart grow heavy with rage. “Should I go home and get you some things, sweetheart? What would you like?”

Bex smiled at him, but seemed trapped in a constant state of drowsiness – as if she could not escape the fringes of sleep. “That would be nice,” she muttered. “Can you pick me up some magazines from the shop? Then I just want my iPod and my…phone.”

Andrew thought about his own phone. He had not called work in days and would probably not have a job to return to anymore. He put such worries aside, for now they seemed utterly unimportant. He gave Bex a warm smile to match the one she had given him. “I’ll go home now and get them for you. I won’t be long, but you try and get some rest in the meantime.”

Bex nodded and already seemed to be falling into a deep sleep, so he exited the room quietly and went out into the corridor that was bustling with staff and patients. An old man ambled past, trundling a drip-stand behind him, and said, hello. Andrew said it back to him and was surprised that pleasantries were still within his capabilities.

Andrew went up to the nurse’s station and asked a question. “Is there somewhere I can find a taxi?”

The nurse nodded. “There’s a small taxi rank on the east-side of the car park. Can’t miss it.”

Andrew hadn’t seen it when he’d entered the hospital, but then he had not been paying attention to such things. His plan was to catch a taxi home, get Bex’s things, then immediately return via taxi as well – he wasn’t up to driving with his nerves the way they were.

The corridor on his left had an EXIT sign so he took it. It led through to a waiting room and then straight out into the car park. Before he left, he noticed something and stopped. His heart rose up into his throat, filling his mouth with the taste of copper.

Sat in a nearby waiting room, looking extremely sorry for himself, was one of the twins – Jordan, if Andrew wasn’t mistaken. The bite wound on the boy’s perspiration-soaked face was glistening with pus and blood. Infection had set in and the boy looked in a great deal of discomfort. Andrew was glad.

But it wasn’t enough. Jordan would recover and put the whole thing behind him like it had all been one big giggle.

Andrew moved to the rear of the room behind Jordan, so that the youth would not see him. Of the options available, none seemed clear. He could call Wardsley and Dalton, but had little faith that they could do much other than hold the boy for a day or two. The twin’s parents would probably turn up and have him released. The other option was to attack the son of a bitch right now – to wring the little bastard’s neck – but that would result only in his own arrest. Andrew took a seat and decided to wait and think.

***

Twenty minutes later a nurse called out a name: Jordan Ebanks. Andrew watched the boy get up and then slowly followed after him, making sure to stay several steps behind. The nurse took Jordan into a consultation area that contained two rows of adjustable gurneys inside curtained surroundings. Jordan hopped up on one of the beds, but then the nurse pulled the curtain closed and Andrew lost sight of him.

He crept forward and tried to look inconspicuous by nodding hello to anyone who noticed him. Putting his head down, he hurried over to Jordan’s cubicle and stopped just outside of it. He listened to the conversation coming from inside.

“How did it happen?” asked the female voice that belonged to the nurse. “Looks like a bite mark.”

“Got jumped by some nutter, innit; think he was a crackhead or something. Must have thought he was a zombie or summin cus he took a chunk outta me.”

Lying little shit, Andrew thought. Why don’t you tell her what really happened?

“Well,” said the nurse, “if that is what happened then you should inform the police.”

Jordan sucked at his teeth. “Don’t deal with the pigs, sweetheart. I deal with my biz’nis direct, if you get me?”

The nurse ignored the boy’s bravado and carried on with her job diligently. Andrew assumed she had heard such nonsense before and paid it little mind. “I’ll get this bandaged for you,” she said, “but then you’ll need a course of general antibiotics. If it gets any worse you’ll need to come back.”

“Sound,” said Jordan. “I’ll make sure I ask for you, sweetheart.”

“If you wish,” replied the nurse, unable to sound any less-interested. “I’m just going to get a doctor for your prescription, then I’ll come get you dressed up.”

“I like getting undressed better,” Jordan quipped, but the nurse had already exited the cubicle.

Now that the boy was alone, Andrew found himself frozen. He hadn’t thought about what he would do next, and without a game plan, he allowed his instincts to take over. He slipped inside the curtain and faced Jordan.

The boy’s bloodshot eyes went wide. “Jesus Christ! The fuck you doing here?”

“You put my entire family in hospital. Where the hell did you think I’d be, you moron?”

“Man, you must be outta your mind, frontin’ on me!”

Andrew took a step closer, a snarl on his lips. “You almost kill my family, yet you can flirt with the fucking nurse like nothings happened. You think I’m the one who’s out of my mind? You’re a monster.”

“Hey, that shit was Frankie’s deal. I was just along for the ride, blud, you gte me?”

“Well you won’t have a problem telling the police what happened then?”

Jordan’s sickly face turned sour. “I ain’t saying shit to no one – especially the pigs. Frankie’s my boy and I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway. I ain’t seen him in weeks. If someone took it to your family then they must’ve had it coming.”

Before Andrew had any chance to realise what he was doing, he’d thrown a punch at Jordan hard enough to knock the boy right off the bed.

“Motherfucker!” Jordan sprang back up to his feet immediately, lashing out at Andrew, not with his fists, but with a blade that he had suddenly produced from somewhere. “You lost your mind, whitey?”

Andrew didn’t retreat. He rushed foreard to meet the boy and managed to get both hands around his knife-arm. A struggle ensued that sent the pair of them stumbling against the gurney. Andrew had the advantage of leverage, and managed to get above Jordan and forced him down against the bed. The knife pointed straight at Andrew’s face but it got no closer. In fact, it began to move away. The tip of the blade twisted and shook, gradually pointing itself in the opposite direction. Towards Jordan.

Jordan’s strength began to falter and the knife moved faster – perhaps it was the infection making him weak. Andrew realised that weapon was now under his control.

But what exactly did he want to happen? What the hell was he doing?

Despite his weakening struggles, Jordan still found the gall to spit in Andrew’s face. “Fuckin’ white-boy. You and your family are dead.”

Andrew pushed down on the knife, applying all of his remaining strength and weight until the tip entered Jordan just below his bottom rib. All of the aggression disappeared and was replaced by the whimpering cries of a child. “P-please man…please don’t. Don’t!”

But this was no child in front of him. It was a monster.

Andrew pushed the knife in further and twisted it.

He watched the life drain from the Jordan’s eyes.

He twisted the knife again. The last glimmers of life disappeared from the boy’s eyes and his body slump against the gurney.

Andrew peered down at the blood on his hands and could barely acknowledge what he’d just done. To murder a man was something impossible to him, yet he had just done it. Even more disturbing was that he didn’t care about it one bit. In fact, he felt good about it. Not happy exactly, but at least satisfied.

Andrew felt the hairs prick up on the back of his neck. There was a presence behind him. He spun around to find the nurse standing behind him in shock, her mouth hanging wide open while her eyes fixated on the dead youth laying on her gurney.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew told the woman, “he deserved it.”

Then he ran.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Andrew managed to sprint right through the hospital and out into the car park without anyone stopping him. Other than a few funny looks, no one even seemed to notice him. Now that he was outside, he decided to slow down and disappear casually into the night.

Just as the male nurse had informed him, there was a small taxi rank on one side of the car park. It consisted of only two cars but he wasted no time in heading there. He realised that he was covered in blood, but most of it was on his hands, and only a small amount spattered his shirt. He wondered how he would explain it to the taxi driver, but wouldn’t they be used to such things, picking up passengers from a hospital?

He reached the taxi and pulled open the rear door. The car was a featureless, silver saloon and the driver was a young Asian man who nodded at him as he entered the vehicle.

“Where to, my friend?”

Andrew gave his address and the driver set off, pulling out onto the main road speedily as if he had done so a thousand times before. It had gotten dark outside and the weather had started to worsen too. The rain increased gradually as if it had been waiting for night to fall before it could get started on its relentless tirade.

“Bad winter this year, my friend,” said the driver, peering into the rear-view mirror to look at Andrew.

Andrew didn’t want to make eye-contact so looked down at his hands. His fingers were stiffening under a thick cake of Jordan’s blood. “Yeah,” he replied after a few seconds, deciding that making conversation would be less suspicious. “A lot of snow coming apparently. Hope there’re no accidents on the road like last year. That was a bad one.”

The driver nodded. “That poor man and his family? Drunk driver killed his wife and child?”

I know how he feels, thought Andrew, but then chastised himself for it. Bex was going to be okay and he would not know the loss of a child. He thanked God for that.

“The guy doesn’t live that far from me actually,” Andrew added. “He drinks in The Trumpet, I think.”

“Rough in there,” said the driver. “I’ve picked up some very nasty people.”

“Wouldn’t know,” said Andrew. “Never been in there myself. Not much of a drinker.”

“Best way, my friend. Alcohol never did anyone any good.” The driver changed the subject. “So everything okay at the hospital? You look very tired. Hope it’s not bad news.”

“Just my grandfather,” Andrew lied, shocked at the ease in which it came. “Cancer.”

The driver glanced back over his shoulder and gave the obligatory sad face. “That’s not good, my friend. I am sorry for you.”

“It’s fine. He’s very old and he had a good life.”

What was he saying? His grandfather had died twenty years ago.

There was silence in the car for the rest of the journey and perhaps the driver had sensed Andrew’s discomfort in the way the conversation was going. Reading people was something taxi drivers probably got pretty good at.

“Where abouts, my friend?”

Andrew looked out the window to see that they had entered his street. It wasn’t the wholesome grouping of quaint properties that it had been when he’d the house several years ago. Things looked different now; a seedy underbelly exposed forever. There was an atmosphere of menace hanging over the street. Perhaps Andrew was the only one to sense it, but it was there now. An echo of violence.

“Just drop me here,” he told the taxi driver. “Next to the red Mercedes.”

The taxi driver pulled up next to Andrew’s car and thankfully didn’t seem to notice the graffiti all over it. He requested fifteen-pounds for the fare, which was extortionate for the small distance travelled, but Andrew didn’t complain at the amount and paid twenty. Making another enemy was something he couldn’t cope with right now – regardless of how inconsequential.

He thanked the driver and stepped out into the cold air and drizzle. The view of the street was a ghostly haze as the streetlights reflected off the falling rain. For some reason the taxi driver felt the need to say goodbye by beeping his horn and the sudden sharp honk made Andrew jump. His body still coursed with so much adrenaline that each droplet of rain hitting his tingling skin was like a pinprick.

He reached down into his jean pocket and pulled out his house keys, before heading down the path to his house and inserting them in the lock. Even from outside, the bloodstains were visible across the porch floor, leading all the way down the hallway beyond.

Upon entering his house, Andrew locked the porch behind him. Not something he would have worried about once, but the possibility of intruders had become a reality for him now. It wasn’t just something that happened to other people anymore.

Andrew stepped through into the living room and was shocked by the chaos that met him. Despite being witness to how the room got into such a state, he still couldn’t believe the amount on gore that matted everything – right down from the carpet to several small spots on the ceiling. The smell of mashed up fish and chips had been replaced by the far more noxious odour of metallic, tangy blood.

His family’s blood.

Andrew collapsed onto the sofa, avoiding the armchair that had held him captive for almost an entire night, and began to put his thoughts in order. There was no way out of the mess he was in now. He had murdered a teenager in cold blood and had been witnessed doing so. At the time, the nurse had been transfixed by the sight of Jordan’s mutilated body, but Andrew had no doubts that she would have seen his face.

Not to mention the amount of CCTV that a hospital is likely to have.

There was no getting out of the fact that very soon Andrew would be arrested and charged with murder. It likely wouldn’t matter to the police his reasons why, but the only vindication he could hold onto was that Jordan was jointly responsible for the torture of his wife and child.

Jointly responsible…

What was going to happen to the others? Would they get away scot-free?

Andrew could take the punishment for what he’d done. What he couldn’t take was be if his actions somehow helped exonerate Frankie and the others. They would be free to blame the whole thing on Jordan now.

He done the whole thing, yer Honour. I had nothing to do with it.

And that was if they ever even went to court. They would provide alibis for one another and deny everything. That was exactly what Jordan had done right before Andrew gutted him like the cowardly fish that he was. He had been denying everything.

How good it would feel to do the same to Frankie.

Andrew passed over the thought, but then backed up and reconsidered it.

What was to stop him? He was going down for murder anyway. Pen might die and this could be the only chance to punish those responsible.

Somehow Andrew had found himself considering murder again. What shocked him most was that he’d already made his mind up. Looking around his smashed-up living room, covered in the blood of the people he loved, he was absolutely adamant that Frankie and his friends needed to die.

And they needed to die tonight.

Andrew leapt up from the sofa, the pain of his wounds forgotten as focus and determination crept in. He headed to the kitchen and straight for the drawer beneath the microwave. He took out the longest blade he could find – a 9-inch carving knife – and wrapped it up in a tea towel. He stuffed the whole thing down the waistband of his trousers, at the side so the blade wouldn’t dig into him. Then he stood for a few moments, wondering if he should take anything else with him, but there was nothing more lethal inside the house than the knife he now possessed. He didn’t need anything else. Just something he could kill Frankie with.

It was time to go.

He let out a long breath and enjoyed the calm for a moment, then stepped back through into the living room and took one final look at the mess of his home to reconfirm his intentions. There was still no doubt in his mind.

Into the hallway and through to the porch, Andrew unlocked the front door. The rain was falling harder now, hitting against the glass windows with the same ferocity of the blood pumping through his veins. He stepped out into the downpour and felt instantly refreshed as it washed away the drying blood from his skin. He ran his hands through his hair and slicked it back, squeezing away the excess moisture.

“Mr Goodman. Stay right where you are.”

Andrew looked through the darkness and spotted two figures at the end of his path.

Officer Wardsley and Officer Dalton were there to arrest him.

***

“I don’t have time for this,” Andrew told the officers. “I need to go.”

“Not going to happen,” said Wardsley. “We need to ask you a few questions up at the station.”

“I did it, alright? I murdered Jordan. You want to know why?”

The officers closed the gap between them and Andrew and now stood staring at him as though he were a wild animal.

“We know why?” Dalton said, not unsympathetically.

“I murdered Jordan because he was one of the bastards who shaved my wife’s head, snorted coke off her naked body, and then stabbed her and my daughter. I couldn’t give him the chance to finish what he’d started. I couldn’t let him walk around free to do it again.”

Dalton stepped slightly ahead of her partner and looked at Andrew pityingly. “You should have left it to us, Andrew. They’ll pay for what they’ve done, I promise. But now you’re in a lot of trouble too. There’s better ways to deal with people like Frankie and his friends. ”

“Bullshit,” Andrew spat. “You don’t really believe that. They’re all going to cover for each other and nothing will stick. Jordan was already pleading ignorant when I cornered him.”

“Cornered him and murdered him,” said Wardsley stepping up beside his partner. “You’re no better than they are now.”

Andrew examined both officers. If they were doing their jobs correctly, he would’ve already been in handcuffs by now, in their squad car and on his way to the station, but they were letting him talk.

“Do either of you have children?” he asked the both of them.

Both of them shook their heads.

“Then what do you know?”

“Nothing,” Dalton admitted, “but you don’t have the right to murder someone in a hospital right in front of frightened members of the public. That’s not the right way.”

Andrew laughed. “You sound like you disagree with my methods more than my actions.”

The suggestion was met with silence. Andrew looked at Dalton and tried to read what she was thinking, but couldn’t.

“You’re going to go to prison, Mr Goodman,” said Wardsley. “How does that help Rebecca?”

“It doesn’t help her,” he admitted. “But maybe by killing Jordan I’ve helped other people’s daughters. He was just a teenager; plenty of years ahead of him for terrorising more innocent people.”

“Maybe, you’re right,” said Wardsley, “but we still have to take you in.”

Andrew nodded. “And I’ll let you. Just let me finish what I started first.”

Obviously the request shocked them both, because they looked at him like he was mad.

“I’m already going to prison,” Andrew said. “Let me do some good before that happens. Let me make the world a safer place for other families, so that they don’t end up like mine. Frankie is a cancer and I want to go and cut him out of the world.”

“You’re insane to even ask such a thing,” said Wardsley. “It’s ridiculous and I would suggest you don’t say anything else. We are officers of the law.”

Dalton stepped aside, leaving the pathway open and clear. She motioned with an arm that Andrew was free to walk by her. “You do what you have to do,” she said, “but soon as you’re finished you hand yourself in and confess everything.”

Andrew nodded vigorously. “You have my word. Thank you.”

“What the fuck are you doing, Laura?” said Wardsley, his eyes blinking in the rain. “You’ll end up doing a stretch with him. Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m just letting him do what I would want to do in his situation, Jack. It’s time these kids got a lesson taught to them. I’m sick of it, aren’t you? These kids hang around in animal packs and put fear into everyone. It might be completely crazy, but I wouldn’t mind tomorrow’s newspapers telling a story about how one of the victims fought back.”

Wardsley shook his head, exasperated. “If anyone finds out about this…”

“No one will,” said Dalton, “and admit it – you want to see Frankie punished as well. Not just him but every arrogant little yob like him. We’ve been in the force almost ten years each, Jack, and in that time how many scumbags have we seen walk free, laughing all the way? Even when they go down, they don’t care. They go about their business the moment they get back out. Wouldn’t you like them to know that sometimes the victims can bite back?”

Wardsley thought about things for a moment and then seemed to relax his shoulders. It was clear he was struggling with something internally, but it was also clear that he trusted his partner. He stepped aside from the path and nodded at Andrew. “I don’t know how you’re going to find Frankie, but he’s been known to hang around with a local drug dealer named Damien Banks. 14 Middleton Mews. No collateral damage. Understand? Jesus, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Dalton slipped her hand into Dalton’s and made it obvious that the two were closer than just colleagues. For some reason, Andrew realised, Dalton empathised with him, and that had bought him a little time.

Andrew thanked the both of them then hurried past, sprinting down the path.

“Penelope’s dead,” Dalton said before he disappeared. “We got word that she died twenty minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

Andrew stopped, said nothing, didn’t turn around or even move. Instead he glared forward into the rain-soaked darkness with nothing but murder on his mind. “I’ll see you both in the morning,” he said to the officers, then disappeared into the night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Davie waited anxiously for Frankie to get off the phone. His brother was clutching the mobile so tightly to his face that it threatened to break. Davie didn’t know who was on the other end, or even what was being said, but he could tell one thing for certain: it was bad news.

“No fuckin’ way,” Frankie screamed into the phone. “How the hell did it happen?”

After several more minutes of shouting and cursing, Frankie ended the call and put the phone back in his jean pocket. He then proceeded to stand there saying nothing, staring at an invisible spot in the sky directly above his head.

“What is it?” Davie asked. “What’s happened?”

Frankie lowered his gaze slowly until it focused on his brother. “Jordan’s dead.”

Davie could not have cared less about the twins, but the shock of hearing something so unexpected hit him in his stomach like a punch. There was no way Jordan could be dead.

I saw him last night.

Frankie elaborated. “That fucker bowled up to him at the hospital and gutted him.”

Davie suddenly felt a fire in his tummy, which radiated throughout his entire body. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You mean Andrew did this?”

Frankie nodded angrily. “Dom heard a nurse give a description to the police. It was definitely him. Fucker’s dead meat.”

Davie still couldn’t believe it. The thought of Andrew committing murder was insane. “What was Jordan doing at the hospital? He should have known Andrew would be there with his family.”

“He was getting his face checked out. Dom said his bro almost fainted this morning because it was so infected. He had no choice but to go the hospital.”

“Is Dom still at the hospital now? What about Andrew?”

“Dom’s out looking for the piece of shit as we speak. He’ll kill him if he finds him. Works out well for us, actually.”

Davie couldn’t understand how calm his brother was being. Hadn’t Jordan been his friend? “What do you mean it works out well for us?”

“Because Andrew’s a problem that needs dealing with. If Dom gets to him first then we don’t have to worry about him coming after us.”

“You think that’s going to happen? You think Andrew is planning to do the same to us as he did Dom?”

“Seems likely,” said Frankie. “The reason Jordan was alone when he got stabbed was that his brother had gone to look for that guy’s family – to see if they were still alive and whether or not we’d be facing a murder charge.”

“And are we?”

“Yes and no. The girl’s okay apparently, but the old dear snuffed it about the same time that Jordan did. Messed up, if you think about it. So you see,” said Frankie, “if Dom gets to Andrew first he’s doing us all a favour. The police are after his ass, his wife is dead, and he has nothing else left to lose by coming after us.”

“He still has a daughter,” said Davie, holding on to the fact that they had not taken away absolutely everything from the man.

“Yeah he does,” Frankie nodded, “good thinking, little bro. We still have something to use against him if we need to.”

“Fuck sake, man.” Davie felt like beating the shit out of his brother. If only he could have. “Have you not done enough damage? I can’t believe you’re still thinking about hurting people.”

“Chill the fuck out!”

Davie shoved Frankie hard in the chest. “No, you chill the fuck out. I’m so out of here, man. You can go right to hell for all I care.”

Davie turned away from his brother and started walking.

“You get back here right now,” Frankie shouted after him. “We need to stick together with that psycho on the loose, you hear me?”

Davie turned back around and started marching back towards his brother. “You don’t get it, do you, Frankie? The only psychopath here is you. You belong in jail, man. They should never have let you out”

Frankie pulled out his gun and pointed it in Davie’s face.

“Seriously?” Davie shook his head sighed. “You’re pointing that thing at me? You going to shoot your own brother now?”

Frankie’s face twitched and the movement seemed to tremor down to his hand, which was held the revolver unsteadily. In fact his entire body was shaking.

“Just do it,” Davie ordered. “I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

Frankie’s face contorted, the veins in his neck bulged like worms beneath his skin. Davie had never seen his brother like this – so close to freaking out. After a few tense seconds, Frankie chose to lower the weapon. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he did not speak.

Davie had nothing to say either. He started walking away again.

Frankie shouted after him. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Davie.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied over his shoulder. “You gave me a gun. If I’m in danger I’ll take a leaf out of your book and start killing people.”

“Where are you going to go?”

Davie thought about it. Then said: “Home.”

Frankie followed after him, footsteps keeping time with his own. “That’s the first place Andrew will look for us.”

Davie turned back around and shrugged. “Then I’ll have to deal with the consequences. It’s not as though we didn’t cause trouble at his house, is it? We deserve whatever we get.”

“Why the hell you care so much about this guy?”

“Because if I didn’t care then I would be the same as you, and I never want that. Never.” Davie could tell he had hurt Frankie with those final words – the silence told him so – but no way did he fucking didn’t care.

“Do what the fuck you want,” Frankie said finally. “But if I go down I’m taking you with me – and you won’t last ten minutes inside.”

Davie laughed. “I think that’s actually something to be proud of. I’m glad I’m not cut out for prison – means I’m still a human being and not an animal.”

For the first time in his life, Davie turned his back on his big brother.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Andrew had no clue what he planned on doing, but he had lost none of his motivation that he would do something. For all he knew, he could be walking towards a house full of druggies, carrying knives even nastier than the one he currently had hidden on his person. The house was large, posh even, and certainly not what Andrew had been expecting.

I guess crime really does pay.

Before he even had chance to complete his walk along the path, the front door opened and a topless young man stood in the opening.

“The hell are you?” the youth demanded.

“I’m looking for Frankie.”

“Join the club.”

Andrew didn’t understand. “Do you know where I can find him?”

The youth, that Andrew surmised must be Damien, stepped out onto the pavement to meet him. “You’re the guy that has a beef with him, ain’t ya?”

Andrew raised his arm slightly; ready to grab the knife stuffed into his waistband at the slightest hint of a threat. “I guess you could say that?”

Damien grinned. “Well, I hope you fuck him up. He has it coming.”

Andrew frowned. “Huh?”

“Frankie jacked some of my shit earlier. He ain’t a friend of mine anymore.”

Andrew attempted a nervous smile. It seemed appropriate in the moment to show friendliness. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. “T-that’s…good to hear. So do you know where I can find him?”

Damien shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t, mate. If I knew, I would tell you, honestly. What he done to your family is messed up. How are they?”

“My wife is dead.” Andrew would allow no emotion into his voice as he spoke. He could not afford to be weak right now.

Damien shook his head and seemed genuinely disgusted. “That prick has a goddamn screw loose.”

Andrew sensed an opportunity to get answers. “Is that why he did this to me? Because he’s crazy?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Knowing Frankie, it could just be because he don’t like your face…” Damien’s words trailed off for a minute and a realisation seemed to dawn on his face. “You know, now that I’m looking at you…”

“What?” Andrew asked. “Do I look like someone?”

Damien huffed and shook his head. “Damn, no wonder the guy hates you.”

Andrew sensed that Damien was about to say more, but then someone appeared in the doorway behind him.

Anger welled up inside of Andrew and his eyes narrowed. “Michelle?”

Michelle stared out at Andrew and was obviously surprised to see him, her badly bruised jaw hanging agape. Then she turned angry. Running at Andrew, she screamed, “You killed Jordan, you bastard.”

Andrew sidestepped and shoved out at her. The girl went flying into the grass on her hands and knees.

“I assume you two have met, then?” Damien quipped from the doorway.

Andrew turned to him. “You going to get involved in this?”

“She made her own bed. She can fucking well lie in it.” Damien started to close the door, but halfway he stopped and gave Andrew some parting advice. “Hey, man, watch yourself with Frankie, okay? The stuff he jacked from me, it was a pair of shooters.”

“Guns?” Andrew attempted to clarify, but Damien had already closed the door and turned off the hallway light.

“You fucker.” Michelle cursed more obscenities at him as she clambered to her feet. She was half-naked and muddy, covered only by a pair of linen shorts and a strappy top. He nakedness didn’t seem to bother her, though, and she launched another attack. Striking out like a seasoned pugilist, Andrew struck her ribs. She fell back to the ground, sucking in air.

“How’s that feel, sweetheart? I got a blade in my ribs so you still have a ways to go before you know about real pain.” He kicked her, striking her ribs again in the same exact spot. Her girl’s cheeks turned bright red and she struggled to catch a single breath.

“Hurts, doesn’t it? Now imagine if I put you through this for hours on end, or made you watch while I tortured your family.” He kicked her again, this time in her rump. He felt his foot impact with the pointed tip of her tailbone and she squealed in agony.

“I’m sorry,” she screamed at him, finally managing to find her breath. “Just leave me alone…please.”

Andrew looked down at the pathetic, mud-covered girl and felt no remorse. She was as twisted and as evil as Frankie. In fact, she had delighted in his family’s misery more than anyone else. “Seriously?” he asked her. “You’re going to beg me? Did I not beg you? Did you listen when I pleaded?”

Michelle shook her head. Tears smudged her makeup in the same way Penelope’s had the evening before. Andrew struck out again, kicking her face as hard as he could, and enjoying the feeling of several of her teeth cracking in her jaw as he knocked her cold. But as much as the hatred filled his heart and encased his grieving soul, Andrew did not possess the ability to beat a young girl to death – regardless of how much she might deserve it.

So Andrew knocked on Damien’s door and waited for it to open again. When it did, he nodded to the lad and said, “I need to borrow something.”

***

It took only minutes to carry Michelle into a nearby wood. Luckily Damien’s street was upmarket and lined with small outcroppings of woodland. It was frightening that nobody noticed Andrew abduct the girl, but it wasn’t something he was going to complain about right now.

Andrew knelt beside the girl as she lay propped up against a gnarled oak tree. She was an unconscious mess. While she’d been sleeping, Andrew used the scissors he’d borrowed from Damien to completely remove her hair, humiliating her in the same way she and her friends had done to Pen. It still wasn’t sufficient punishment for what she’d done, but Andrew hoped it was enough to teach her a lesson.

He slapped at her cheeks to wake her up, harder than he needed to because the act itself felt so satisfying. After half-a-dozen blows, it finally worked. Her lids fluttered and her eyeballs rolled forwards from the back of her head. She looked content, like coming out of a pleasant dream, but then her consciousness returned to reality and she saw Andrew leaning over her. She panicked.

“Help me. Please, somebody.”

Andrew slapped her face again, harder than he had done to wake her. Instantly, she stopped screaming. “Shut up, girl. I won’t hurt you if you tell me what I want.”

Michelle’s eyes were round and white like a frightened animal’s. Her words came out hurried and short of breath. “Tell you…what?”

Andrew leant closer to her, their noses almost touching. “Where’s Frankie?” he growled.

“I…I don’t know.”

Andrew pulled the knife from his belt and held it to her face, pressing it beneath her left eye. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“Please…please…I really don’t know. Damien said Frankie left his place a few hours ago before I even got there. Frankie doesn’t know I was with Damien.”

Andrew huffed. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”

“Please don’t tell him.”

Andrew couldn’t believe it. The girl’s level of self-importance was astounding. “Do you think I give a damn about your love life? You can screw half of England for all I care. I just want Frankie. Besides I don’t think he’d like you now that you’ve cut your hair.”

Michelle slapped both hands to her head and squealed when she felt nothing but scalp and random thickets of hair. Before she had time to lose herself to hysteria, Andrew slapped her again. He didn’t have time to watch her self-pity.

“Tell me where Frankie is, or you’ll lose more than just your hair.”

“I-I don’t know where he is.” She was pleading now and, regrettably, Andrew was inclined to believe her. He was confident that he’d rattled her enough that she wouldn’t dare lie to him. She had no idea where Frankie was.

He removed the knife from beneath her eye, dragging it downwards so that it bit slightly at her flesh and drew blood. He ignored her flinches of pain and made his next demand. “Tell me where you think Frankie would go. Home, maybe?”

Michelle laughed. “That’s the last place you’ll find him. He’s never there if he can help it. I know where you can find Dom, though.”

Andrew took a breath and held it. He hadn’t thought as much about the rest of Frankie’s crew, but they were due just as much punishment as he was. He had already dealt with Jordan, so why not pay his brother a visit too? At the very least there was a good chance that Dom could lead him closer to Frankie.

“Okay,” said Andrew. “Tell me where to find Dom.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Davie stood at his front door not wanting to go in. The thought of facing his mother after the previous night’s events was more than he could handle. There would be a lecture about staying out at all hours just waiting for him. It was the very least of what he deserved, but his soul felt so brittle right now that the slightest knock could shatter him like a pane of glass. He needed sleep and nothing else.

Davie turned the handle. The door was not locked because his mother never left the house. As long as she had beer – and sons to fetch it for her – then there was no reason to ever face the outside world. He stepped inside and the smell of that very same beer filled his nostrils.

His mother heard the door open and shouted out from the living room. “Davie, is that you? Get in here.”

Davie sighed and passed from the hallway into the next room. His mother was sprawled on the couch in her nightshirt and slippers, trying to pull herself up to a sitting position but failing pathetically. Davie moved over to help her up. She declined his hand and continued to struggle. Eventually she made it upright and immediately began to glower at him.

“Where have you been?”

“I was out with Frankie.”

His mother spat. The drool landed on her nightshirt. “Frankie? I told you to stay away from that wretch.”

“I know,” Davie admitted. “I will from now on, mum, I promise.”

His mother stared at him some more, trying to focus her eyes as she swayed to and fro, seemed totally unaware that a bandage adorned his head. “Lies.” She slurred in his face. “Don’t you lie to me, boy.”

“I’m not. I saw what he’s really like last night. I want no more to do with him.”

“Why? What happened? What did you boys do? I best not have the police around here. I have enough to cope with.”

“Nothing happened, mum. I just found out that he wasn’t a very nice person.”

She took a swig of beer and laughed. “He’s been no good since the day I shat him out.”

Davie was weary and his usual tolerance for his mother’s bile was absent. He said, “Maybe Frankie wouldn’t have turned out so bad if you’d been a better mother.”

Predictably, his drunken mother went nuclear. She threw her empty beer can at Davie, hitting his face above the eyebrow. “How dare you, you little swine. I give you a home and feed you, and this is how you repay me? Twenty years of my life down the pan for you boys. I’ve a right mind to kick you both out.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Davie said calmly.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? We’ll see about that, you ungrateful brat.”

“You won’t throw is out, because you’d lose all your benefits and won’t be able to drink yourself stupid every day. As for putting a roof over your head, the government only gives it to you because of me. You’d be in a flat somewhere if I were to ever leave here, so I don’t want to hear any more of your selfish complaining. The only person to blame for your terrible life is you, so deal with it.” He reached down to the floor and picked up the empty beer can that she had thrown at him. He tossed it back onto her lap. “And you can get your own beer from now on. Go outside and let the whole world see what you are.”

Davie’s mother unleashed a tirade of abuse, but he was already out the door and halfway up the stairs before she managed to complete her first slurred sentence. It was just background noise. Standing up to her her should’ve left him elated, but it didn’t. There was too much on his mind to enjoy a pointless victory over his mother. After what he and his brother had put Andrew and his family through, there was no room for any emotion aside from shame and regret.

Nothing will ever make up for what they did.

Davie entered the cramped space of his bedroom and hopped up onto his unmade bed. What chance had he and Frankie had growing up with their mother as their moral guardian? Ending up in a young offender’s home had probably been inevitable from the moment Frankie was born, and Davie was heading the same way. He thought about what Damien had said about his brother’s time in prison and felt sick. Frankie was strong. The thought of him being…being helplessly abused did not mesh with the image that Davie held of him. It made his heart hurt just trying to consider it.

Even if it was true, what difference did it make? Frankie was broken and there was no way to fix him. Understanding a monster doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a monster. Davie had looked into his brother’s eyes and saw something missing. Was it compassion?

Did that mean Frankie was evil?

No, Davie told himself, he’s my brother and he doesn’t deserve the existence he’s been given. His whole life he’s looked out for me. Now it’s my turn to look out for him.

Davie hopped off his bed and took a deep breath, reached into his pocket and pulled out the revolver Frankie had given him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Trumpet bar and lounge was located in a rough housing estate opposite a rundown supermarket and failing video store. Andrew had never been here before but had heard enough stories to suggest that drinking here was only for a certain kind of individual.

He took the first of the crumbling stone steps leading up to the pub’s entrance and prepared himself to go inside. The lights were on and a flickering glow gave away the presence of a natural fire. The thought of all that warmth welcomed Andrew in from the evening’s icy rain and hastened his approach. Once inside, he saw that the pub was almost empty, and it took several seconds to even spot a single soul. There was a slender brunette restocking crisps behind the bar and a dishevelled old man sitting opposite with a half-empty pint of bitter in front of him.

Andrew moved up beside the old man and took the stool next to him.

“A new face,” said the barmaid. “Don’t get many of those around here. I’m Steph and this wrinkly fart we call Old Graham.”

“You cheeky mare,” the old man replied but was laughing.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Andrew. He slid a ten-pound note across the counter. “Top the fella up and one for yourself. Mine’s a lager.”

Steph smiled. “Very generous of you.”

“Yes,” said Old Graham. “You’re my kind of man.”

“Then perhaps you could help me with something.”

The old man received his pint from the barmaid and took a sip of it. Then, as the barmaid went off to pour the next one, he turned to Andrew. “Okay. What do you need?”

“Kid called Dom.”

The old man raised his greying eyebrows in a look of understanding. “Black guy. A twin, yeah?”

“Not anymore,” Andrew replied, “but, yeah. Do you know him?”

“Not really but I’ve seen him and his brother in here on the few odd occasions. Played a game of pool with him once before the old table got smashed up in a bar fight.

“Has he been here tonight?”

The old man shrugged. “I’ve only just got here, pal.”

“He left about ten minutes ago,” said Steph, coming back with the second pint Andrew had ordered from her. “Hit the booze pretty hard for an hour or so, then went on his way.”

“Do you know where he went?”

Steph shook her head. “Never said more than a couple words to me the whole time he was here. What you want with him anyway?”

“I’m going to kill him.” He let the words linger in the air for a moment and realised that he had shocked the others into silence. Maybe they didn’t think he was serious, so he elaborated. “And I’m going to do it tonight.”

“What for?” she asked, glancing around nervously.

“Because, last night, Dom helped murder my wife and put my daughter in the hospital. He did it for kicks.”

Steph stared at him hard. She was trying to work him out, to see if he was serious or just one of the regular whackos who were par for the course of a barmaid’s job.

“You really don’t know where he went?” Andrew asked.

Steph shook her head. “I’m sorry. Even if I did know, I wouldn’t help you commit murder.”

Andrew understood and thanked her anyway, got off his stool and begun to walk away. He stopped when Old Graham reached out and touched him.

“Are you telling the truth? He hurt your family?”

Andrew nodded.

“What are you doing, Graham?” Steph hissed from behind the bar.

The old man sighed back at her, but continued talking with Andrew. “I don’t know where he was heading, pal, but he took a phone call just before he left. I didn’t hear most of what he was saying – he was upset and angry – but I did hear him say something about a hospital.”

Andrew’s stomach turned. Jordan was dead, which meant his brother, Dom, would have only one reason to visit the hospital. He was going after Bex. Payback. The person on the phone had probably Frankie, egging him friend on and eager to have a potential witness dealt with.

Andrew swallowed. He had to get there first.

He turned back to the bar and looked at Steph. “Dom’s going after my daughter. Please, call the hospital and tell them that Rebecca Goodman is in danger. Rebecca Goodman, okay?”

She just stood there, befuddled.

Andrew shouted at her. “Rebecca Goodman. Make the call.”

Then he turned and fled, barging through the pub’s main door. The rain had gotten ferocious in the short time he’d been inside the pub and it hit his skin now with enough force to sting.

He stopped at the bottom of the pub’s steps and allowed himself a second to consider his options. He needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, but was at least two miles away with no car. There was a bus route nearby but he had no idea how regular it was or even where it went. A taxi would be the quickest option but he’d still have to wait for it to arrive, and he couldn’t take the risk of it turning up late. There was only one solution that seemed viable. He had to make it back home and get in his car.

He took off running. Breathlessness came quickly, forcing a stitch into his side that merged with the pain of the stab wound in his calf, but he had to keep going. Every second was a second that Bex might not have.

He ran as fast as his legs would take him, his chest near bursting.

But he kept going, never slowing down for a single second.

One street away from his own, and he was finally forced to slow down to a jog, the pain in his ribs growing to a point where it threatened to drop him to the floor unconscious. When he placed a hand against his side, he discovered blood seeping from the shallow knife wound where Michelle had stuck him. It was hot and sticky as it trickled down his skin.

But there was no time to wallow. He put aside the pain and drew from reserves he never knew he possessed, and managed to round the final corner at full speed. His car was right in front of him, exactly where he had left it on the curb beside the house. For some irrational reason he had dreaded it would not be there. Thank God that it was.

Don’t worry, Bex. I’m coming.

He reached the Mercedes and skidded to a halt beside the driver’s side, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

“You’re dead, motherfucker?”

Andrew turned around just in time to see a fist coming at his face. It connected with his jaw and sent his eyes rolling back in his head; and when he came to, he found himself in the dark.

***

There was no space to move. Every time Andrew tried to straighten out an arm or leg he hit against the walls of his confinement. His head was spinning and a wicked lump throbbed on the side of his head, making it extremely hard to think. It wasn’t until after several minutes of being curled up in the dark, listening to a nearby mechanical humming, that he realised he was inside a car.

I’m locked in the boot.

Andrew could tell by the sound of the engine that it was his own car. Dom must have grabbed the keys from him after throwing his knockout punch. Now Andrew was a hostage on his way to God knows where.

He felt about himself for a solution, but struggled to find anything at all beside his own body. If he remembered correctly, the only things inside the boot was a jacket belonging to Pen and a handheld vacuum cleaner – neither would do anything to help him escape. There was a tool kit, too, but it was hidden in a compartment beneath the shelf he was lying on. He did the only thing he could think of, and kicked out with both legs as hard as he could.

The plastic mouldings of the car’s luggage compartment bent under the assault, but behind that was unmovable steel from the vehicle’s chassis. He had nowhere near enough strength to kick his way out and every time he tried his calf cried out in pain. His whole body cried out.

Something occurred to him then. He still had his kitchen knife; could feel it digging into his side. He pulled it free of his waistband and unrolled it from the tea towel. He may have had no way to escape, but at least he had a weapon to use when Dom opened the boot. If it was, in fact, Dom who was driving the car.

As if reading his mind, the car began to slow down, the growl of the engine deepening as the revs lowered. Andrew gripped the knife tightly.

The car came to a full stop and jolted as the handbrake was applied by its operator. Andrew’s body tensed like a coiled spring as he listened to the driver open his door and step out. The weight of the car shifted, rocking back and forth before settling again. The ground crunched beneath the feet of the driver. The footsteps approached the boot.

Andrew waited.

Seconds passed by.

The boot did not open.

His nose picked up the scent of something – something acrid, gaseous. His ears picked up the sound of liquid, splashing and pouring.

His mind put the two things together.

Petrol.

Mortal fear seized Andrew. He had resigned himself to the possibility of dying tonight, but being burned alive was not something he could bear.

He kicked out at the boot’s lid and screamed out, trying to reason with the person attempting to burn him alive. It was no use; the petrol continued to pour, seeping through the gaps in the vehicle’s bodywork and onto Andrew’s clothing. His eyes began to sting. He tried to figure a way out before it was too late, frantically clawing at his surroundings. Each of the four walls was flat and featureless – nothing to grab hold of – but eventually his hands caught against something above. It was the locking mechanism for the boot. He fiddled with the contraption but could make no sense of it in the dark. All he could think to do was stab at it with his knife. The blade lodged into the plastic covering and stuck. He pulled it out and stabbed again. Again.

Petrol continued to soak through into the boot.

Andrew kept on stabbing, harder and harder.

Eventually, part of the casing began to come away, revealing the lock fittings inside. Andrew reached his frantic fingers into the gap and snatched at anything he could find in the dark. He pulled and prodded hoping beyond all hope to find a way out.

Something clicked.

A sliver of light entered the boot space and Andrew felt his heart leap into his chest. The person outside was still busy pouring petrol and didn’t seem to notice that the boot lid had opened a couple of inches.

Warily, Andrew edged the boot open further. He could see someone’s legs through the widening gap, lit by the car’s headlamps. With a depp breath, held long enough to make his lungs ache, Andrew unleashed himself, uncoiling out of the boot like a striking cobra. His head and shoulders hit the lid and forced it open while his legs sprung and launched him into the air. He came down on his attacker and the two of them tumbled to the floor. Andrew lost his knife in the scuffle, but wasn’t deterred. He kicked out at his attacker, which did turn out to be Dom. The teenager rolled over onto his side, cursing in pain and anger.

Andrew glanced around and considered making a run for it. They were in a wood, and the cold rain mixed with the late hour made the area seem menacing. If he ran, he would probably end up lost and he couldn’t afford for that to happen. Bex might still need him – there was still Davie and Frankie to think about. Dom could be intending to keep Andrew away.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Dom, rising to his feet, jeans covered in mud.

Andrew snarled. “Going to have to disagree with you there, blud.”

Dom rushed forward like a wild bull, and even snorted like one. Andrew met the charge head on and the two collided in a brawl, fists flying. Dom landed a couple of blows on Andrew’s chin, but Andrew was too determined, and prepared to fight dirty. He jammed his thumb into Dom’s eye.

Dom reeled backwards, swiping out blindly with both hands. Andrew seized the advantage and advanced, grabbing the youth around the throat and kicking the legs out from under him. Dom hit the dirt on his back, twigs snapping beneath him, and Andrew followed him right down to the floor, still squeezing at his throat, bearing down with all of his weight.

Dom struggled and clawed, but it was useless. The fear in his eyes dulled as his cheeks swelled and seemed to turn purple in the harsh glare of the car’s headlights, just seconds away from passing on to the next life.

A knife appeared and embedded itself in Andrew’s face. The blade entered his cheek and protruded into his mouth, slicing his tongue. He released his grip on Dom’s throat and grabbed the blade’s handle hysterically. He yanked it back out of his face and screamed. Blood filled his mouth and made him choke.

Dom made it up to his knees, wheezing and spluttering as his windpipe recovered from being constricted to the point of near-asphyxia.

Andrew was in no state to launch another attack. Shudders wracked his body and his mind kept trying to spin into unconsciousness. If that happened he was as good as dead – Dom would slit his throat while he was sleeping. Yet, even with his face torn up and bleeding, Andrew was still the one with the upper hand. He had Dom’s knife now. The small rubber handle gripped tightly in his hand.

But Andrew couldn’t get to his feet. He crawled forwards on his hands and knees, attempting to reach Dom before the boy managed to recover.

When Dom saw Andrew approaching with the knife, he scrambled to his feet and took off in a panic. Andrew gave all that he had and managed to get up and take off after him.

Dom was quick, but he was winded and half-blind from a gouged eye. He had to feel his way through the trees in the dark. Every now and then, he would stumble against a branch or trip over a root. Andrew was closing the distance. The deciding factor now would be stamina. Andrew’s lungs were burning and his stomach was paving the way for an onslaught of retching. He wasn’t cut out for so much exertion on a good day, let alone with a stab wound in his face, calf, and ribs.

But he couldn’t quit. As long as he had control over his legs he was going to keep going. He dodged between skeletal trees and fallen logs. His legs pumped like pistons; his breath came out in gasps. Dom was losing steam, legs getting heavier, strides shortening. The gap between them quickly decreased.

Dom was only an arm’s reach away. Just a few more steps. Andrew timed his strides and prepared to pounce. He sprung forward and managed to grab hold of the boy’s sweatshirt. Dom’s legs tangled together and he tripped onto his face, sliding in the dirt. Andrew hopped aside and came to a stop beside him. Standing over the boy, he readied himself to use the knife and finish the job.

He pointed the knife at Dom’s throat. “Where’s Frankie?” His words were slurred, mouth still full of blood. “Where is he?”

“Fuck you man,” Dom spat, but he made no attempt to fight. He was beaten.

Andrew could hear the fear in the boy’s voice. “Do you want to die, Dom? Do you want me to gut you like your brother?”

“Shut up. Go…go to hell.” He was sobbing now.

Andrew exhaled. His lust for blood deflated as he saw the childish mess at his feet. “Look. I don’t need to hurt you, Dom. I’ve already taken what you’ve taken from me, so we’re even. I just want Frankie. Where is he?”

Dom sneered and seemed to get back some of his swagger. “He at the hospital, doing yo daughter like yo did my bro.”

Thinking about it filled Andrew with more terror than he could hold inside of himself, but he couldn’t afford to lose control. He had to remain focused. “Do you have a mobile phone on you, Dom?”

“Course I do.”

“Then use it,” Andrew swiped the knife and cut a furrow in the boy’s cheek making him hiss. “Make a call or I’ll open you up and leave you to bleed to death.”

“A call to who?”

Andrew booted Dom in his side. “Who do you think, idiot? Frankie. Call him and say that if he doesn’t leave the hospital right now to meet me, I’ll slice your throat like a chicken.”

“Okay, okay.” Dom made the call on a small black phone that he plucked from his jean pockets. He waited a few moments until someone on the other end answered. “Hey, man. You gotta come get me. That motherfucking psycho has got me at knifepoint, yo. I’m lying in the mud like a sucker and he’s gunna slice me like he did Jordan if you don’t come get me.”

There was silence in the woods for almost a full minute while Dom listened to Frankie’s reply. The whole time Andrew stood and watched Dom’s face. It seemed to grow grimmer with each passing second. Eventually Dom finished the call and put the phone away, then looked up at Andrew. “Bitch put the phone down on me.”

Andrew had a bad feeling. Why wouldn’t Frankie help his friend? “What did he say?”

Dom shook his head and seemed mortified. “He said, I should deal with my own shit, and if I was a man I should take you out for what you done to my bro.”

Andrew sniffed. “Want to try it, homie?”

Dom put his hands up. “No man, enough.”

“Did Frankie say where he is?”

Dom nodded but seemed like he didn’t want to answer. “The hospital. Apparently there’re pigs about, so he’s lying low, waiting for the coast to clear”

The barmaid must have done as I asked her and called the hospital. Thank you, Steph.

The police would buy Andrew some time. He could still make it to the hospital if he hurried back to his car, but first he needed to find out exactly where he was.

“What is this place?” he asked Dom.

“The woods at the back of Brockhill Farm.”

Andrew knew it. It was a rural plot of fields and woodland on the edge of town; a mile away from the nearest built-up area. Great place to murder someone.

“I ought to leave you here to die,” said Andrew. “But you’re too pathetic to waste my time on.”

Dom seemed to recover some of his lost confidence. Obviously he’d been expecting Andrew to kill him and was relieved to hear otherwise. “This shit ain’t over, man. I respect you letting me live right now, but if Frankie doesn’t finish you then I will.”

“Please try. Then I’ll have an excuse to send you to your brother.”

It was likely to be a very bad idea leaving Dom alive, but Andrew would be in jail soon and unreachable for quests of revenge. Besides, he couldn’t kill someone cowering at his feet – he wasn’t that man, even after what he had become. Dom’s brother was dead and hopefully that was enough retribution to allow Andrew to sleep at night.

He left Dom lying in the dirt and crunched his way back through the gloomy wood, trying to get his bearings. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before he saw the headlights of his car, lighting up the rain as it fell in thick sheets.

With the engine still running, the keys would be inside, so Andrew wasted no time in heading for the driver’s side and hopping in. He slammed the door shut and glanced out of the windscreen. Dom was back on his feet, but made no attempt to stop Andrew.

It wasn’t clear which direction the road was, so Andrew decided to manoeuvre the car around, between the trees, until he was facing in the opposite direction, then set off in a straight line, hoping that it would turn out to be the route Dom had taken them in on.

The automatic wipers came on and Andrew had to squint to see. There were trees everywhere and it was a real effort to avoid them all in the darkness and rain. Several times Andrew had to brake sharply and make erratic steering movements. The uneven, bumpy ground didn’t help much either and the tyres barely kept their grip in the sliding mud.

Eventually the trees began to thin in number and opened out into a clearing. The car hit a water-logged field and the steering got even heavier. Andrew clutched the steering wheel tighter and leant forward to examine his surroundings. The field stretched down a hill and was lined on all sides by a wooden beamed fence. In the distance was the easily distinguishable lights of a house.

Most likely the Brockhill estate.

Andrew knew that the large Manor on the edge of town was roadside. If he headed for the building and it did turn out to be Brockhill Estate then he could get back onto a main road and head back into town. He would reach the hospital in fifteen minutes.

Andrew put his foot down and the car careened down the hill. As the house below became clearer into view, it revealed itself to be just the building he was hoping for. Andrew wouldn’t have to cover the entire distance to Brockhill Manor because there was a steel gate about fifty-metres up from it at the edge of the field. The gate was hanging open, obviously left that way by Dom. Beyond it: the main road.

Andrew gripped the steering wheel tighter and sped up. I’m coming, Bex. Just hold on.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Davie tried calling his brother several times but there was no answer. Same thing when he made a call to Dom. He began to worry. Frankie had been unstable before all this shit that had happened, but now he was borderline insane. Still, Davie forgave his brother’s faults now, even if he couldn’t come fully to terms with them. He was determined to put a stop to the situation before it could escalate further. There was still a chance for Frankie to retain some shred of humanity – if he were to just stop now.

No more people needed to get hurt.

Davie’s biggest concern right now was that Frankie would try and finish what he’d started by going after Andrew and his family again. He’d already made suggestions that he needed to deal with any loose ends.

The first place Davie tried was Andrew’s home – it was a possibility that Frankie would return there to resume his beef with the man – but as he rounded the corner, Davie saw that the house’s lights were out and that – even more tellingly – Andrew’s Mercedes was gone from its space at the side of the road. No one was home. Davie started thinking about Plan B.

If Frankie were still looking for trouble, he’d be headed wherever Andrew was. So where was Andrew?

There was, of course, only one place Andrew would be. Davie had seen how much the man loved his family and there was no doubt that he would be at his daughter’s bedside.

Which meat Frankie as probably at the hospital.

Davie jingled with the change in his pocket. There was a bus stop nearby that went not too far from the hospital. If a bus came soon then Davie could be there within the next half an hour. He just hoped it would be soon enough.

He reached the bus stop at the end of the road and waited. The act of doing nothing was frustrating. Every part of his body urged for action but, with no other way of getting to the hospital, Davie had no choice but to wait. He concentrated on the noise of the heavy rain hitting the curved tin roof of the shelter before sliding off in sheets. Somehow, the sound managed to calm him slightly – enough that when the bus finally arrived, Davie didn’t notice at first.

“You getting in or what?” asked the bus driver, snapping Davie out of his daze.

Davie looked up, startled, and then nodded. “Sorry. Had my mind on other things.”

“Nothing bad I hope?”

Davie stepped onto the bus and gave the driver his change. “I would settle for bad, right now. Things are way beyond that.”

The driver frowned at him. “Well, keep your chin up lad. Got your whole life ahead of you.”

Davie moved to take a seat as the hydraulic doors pumped closed behind him. He sat down and waited. He would be at the hospital soon. He just hoped it would be in time.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Andrew parked his car at the rear of the hospital. It meant it would take longer to reach Bex, but he couldn’t risk running into any police that might be at the entrance. Wardsley and Dalton may have been on his side, but they were not the only officers likely to be at the hospital and, as a man wanted for murder, he was certain that a description of both him and his car would have been issued to the entire local force.

Andrew moved between cars, glancing forward, left and right for any law enforcement. Sure enough, there was a plain-clothes officer at the entrance to A and E. Andrew could tell the man was with the police by the stiff way he was standing and by the regular tilts of his head. The man was speaking into a microphone on his collar.

Andrew stayed to the edge of the car park and headed around the side of the hospital to look for a less conspicuous entrance. There was a fire exit near the rear of the building and it was open – a member of staff standing in front of it with a cigarette. Andrew approached with his head down, not wanting to draw attention.

“Hey, man, you can’t come through here. Use the front.”

Andrew looked up and smiled. The man was wearing chef’s whites and obviously worked in the hospital’s canteen. Bex’s room wasn’t far from the canteen.

“You mind if I just sneak through? I won’t tell anybody.”

The man shook his head. “You need to use the front entrance. What you doing around here anyway? And what the hell is with your face?”

Andrew had to think fast. He’d totally forgotten that half his face was ripped to pieces. He must look like an extra from a zombie-movie. “Trying to avoid my mother-in-law,” he said out of nowhere. “My wife and I have been in a car accident. Her mother just turned up to see her. I was out the front having a fag when I saw her heading my way. I dashed around the back because I don’t want to have to deal with her right now. She’s a total bitch and I know she’ll blame me for the crash. In fact I blame myself.”

The chef stared Andrew in the face, trying to work him out. Andrew stared right back, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Okay,” the man said eventually. “I hear you. My mother-in-law is a dragon too.”

Andrew thanked the man and went to walk past, but didn’t make it through without being stopped first. “There a problem?” he asked.

The chef shook his head. “Just wondered if you had a spare cigarette. This is my last one.”

Of course Andrew didn’t. He didn’t really smoke…but that’s was what he had told the chef he was doing there.

Andrew shook his head. “Sorry, mate. I just smoked my last as well. Need to go the gift shop soon as the old witch leaves.”

The chef nodded and laughed. “No worries, man. Hope your wife recovers.”

Andrew patted the man on the back. “Thanks. Guess I’ll go get my face stitched up while she’s with her mum.”

Andrew made it through into a hallway. As he’d expected, he was near the hospital canteen. If he remembered correctly, Bex was a couple of wards down. Without interference he would be there in minutes.

But there was going to be police. What would he do then?

Andrew decided he was happy to be arrested if it meant seeing that Bex was okay and that Frankie was not nearby. He could tell the police that Bex was in danger and they would protect her. At the start of the night he’d been set on murder – on ending Frankie’s life – but right now all that mattered was his daughter’s safety. Revenge was something that would have to take a backseat. Whether he liked it all not, he had no choice but to leave Frankie’s fate in the hands of the courts. At least he’d made the rest of them pay.

He kept his back close to the wall as he progressed down the corridors. He may have been willing to get caught by the police, but not until he saw that Bex was okay. He followed the signs for Ward 7 – he was sure that was the right one.

The hallways up ahead were busier, and doctors milled about casually while nurses rushed around them. They weren’t quite the hectic, overly-stressed members of staff from A and E, but seemed agitated all the same. A sign hanging from the ceiling read: RECOVERY WARDS.

Andrew reached the end of the corridor and looked around the corner. His heart skipped three beats when he saw the police officers standing there. They were gathered around a single room.

It must have been Bex’s room.

So close. So goddamn close.

Andrew leant back against the wall and beat his head against the cement. The pounding actually helped him think, dulling the pain that seemed to emanate from a dozen different places on his body. He had to find a way to get the officers away. Andrew couldn’t risk Frankie sneaking in and hurting his daughter while the police were busy arresting him.

Looking around, Andrew noticed something that could offer a solution. On the wall, only a few feet away, was a small red panel with a film of glass at its centre. Written in ominous white font were the words: PRESS IN CASE OF FIRE.

There was no fire but Andrew wasted no time in pressing his thumb against the glass panel. It compressed within its red metal surroundings and a shrill alarm pierced the air. Andrew glanced back around the corner and watched the confusion percolate amongst the staff and members of the public. Even better, Andrew watched while a nurse walked up to the police officers and insisted that they left the ward along with everyone else. It didn’t look like they were very willing but, thankfully, the nurse was persistent. Then something that did not occur to Andrew started to happen. Orderlies started to appear in great numbers and went about wheeling away the patients from their wards. Andrew felt stupid that it hadn’t occurred to him that the whole hospital would be evacuated, patients and all – not just the staff.

Andrew watched while a young male orderly entered Bex’s room to bring her out. Andrew made his move. He dashed across the nurse’s area, dodging between preoccupied men and women that were unaware that the fire was only fictitious. He hopped out of the way of an oncoming gurney, shoes skidding on the polished floor, and then managed to barrel his body over to Bex’s room. He was just about to open the door when someone grabbed him from the side.

“Andrew.”

Andrew spun around with his fist raised, but lowered it when he saw it was Officer Dalton.

“You need to come with me,” she told him. “I take it the fire alarm was your doing?”

“I just need to see my daughter and then I’ll come with you.”

Dalton shook her head. “I can’t allow it. There’s police looking everywhere for you. I can’t risk anyone witnessing me doing anything other than taking you in. I already gave you the chance to do what you needed to do. Now you need to keep your promise come with me, Andrew.”

“Please,” he pleaded. “Just let me say goodbye to my daughter. You can wait right outside the door.

Once again Andrew managed to get the female officer to relent. Her face softened and she actually seemed annoyed at herself for being so soft. “Just don’t make me regret this, Andrew. I’ve already put my life in jeopardy for you.”

Andrew put his hand on the door to enter, but Dalton put a hand on his chest and stopped him.

“Frankie?”

Andrew looked her in the eye and shook his head solemnly. “I couldn’t find him.”

He turned away and pushed open the door, before stepping inside. The first thing he saw was Bex lying in her bed. The second was the orderly lying unconscious on the floor. The third thing Andrew saw was Frankie pointing a gun at his face.

“Glad you could finally join us,” Frankie snarled. “It’s time to wrap this shit up.”

Chapter Thirty

Andrew stared down the barrel of the gun – something he never thought he’d ever find himself doing. Guns were completely outlawed in the United Kingdom, and he’d never seen one for real, but here he was now, close enough to smell the oil on the metal.

“Daddy?”

Bex was terrified and Andrew didn’t want her to see that he was too. “It’s okay, sweetie,” he told her. “We’ll get this all worked out.”

“I hear you had a little run in with Dom?” said Frankie. “Right after you killed his bro. That was cold, man.” His face twitched manically as he spoke.

Andrew put both hands up. It felt like the appropriate thing to do. “There’s a police officer right outside the door. Just give yourself up and there’s a chance you might not spend your entire life in jail.”

Frankie laughed. “Not going to happen. Got business to deal with first – but hey, why leave your little police officer friend waiting outside? Bring her in to join the fun.”

Andrew lowered his hands and raised his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

Frankie motioned at the door with his revolver. “Tell her to get in here, but don’t make it obvious what’s going on.”

“No,” said Andrew in a firm voice. He would not bring anybody else into his mess. Dalton had already done enough for him.

Frankie pointed the gun at Bex. “I ain’t asking, Andrew. Unless you want me to make an entrance in your daughter’s forehead, I’d do as you’re told.”

Andrew sighed. “Officer Dalton. I’m ready to go with you. Would you come in here?”

There was a moment of silence before the officer replied from outside. “No. I think you should come out here.”

Frankie shook the gun barrel at him. “Think fast, hero. Get her in here or your daughter’s head becomes a wind tunnel.”

Andrew swallowed a lump in his throat and considered his words carefully. “Officer Dalton, my daughter would to speak to you before you arrest me. She wants you to promise you’ll get Frankie for what he’s done and that you will keep me safe.”

Frankie laughed. “Nice.”

The door opened and Dalton stepped through. “Sweetheart, I promise we’ll send the little bastard down…” Her words trailed off as her eyes caught Frankie standing in the corner of the room.

Frankie grinned at her. “Well, hello there, honey. Why don’t you sit your fine ass down over there.” He motioned with the gun towards a seat. “Do it now, before I start making holes in people.”

Dalton let the door close behind her and took a step towards Frankie. “Drop the weapon, Frankie. Drop it right now and no one has to get hurt.”

“Don’t think you understand who has the power here, luv. I have a gun and you don’t.”

Dalton continued to stare Frankie down and Andrew noticed her gradually move a hand to her hip, resting it on the belt that ringed her waist. “I won’t ask you again,” she told Frankie. “Put. The. Weapon. Down.”

Frankie’s self-assured grin grew wider. “Sit the fuck down, you stupid bitch. You ain’t telling no one to do nothing.”

Suddenly Dalton reached for something at her belt, clawing at one of the many poaches that lined her waist, but she wasn’t quick enough. Frankie pulled the trigger before Andrew could even see what it was she’d been reaching for.

The whole room seemed to explode with sound. Andrew’s ears rang and his vision tilted. When it finally returned to normal, Dalton was sprawled out across the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath her. She was alive, but the gunshot wound in her guts had made a mess and was obviously causing her an unimaginable amount of pain. Bex began screaming from her bed.

Andrew scurried to help Dalton, but Frankie stood in his way, cocking the revolver ready for the next shot. “Stay the-fuck still.”

“Let me help her,” demanded Andrew.

Frankie shook his head and sneered. “What’s to help? She’s done.”

Andrew looked down at Dalton and disagreed. She was certainly in bad shape, but she was still conscious and moving – dragging herself across the floor and propping herself up against the wall. With medical attention, she would make it through, he was sure, but if things went on much longer her chances would not be so good. Another life hanging in the balance of Frankie’s vendetta. Andrew wished his actions had led him down a better path than this.

Frankie prodded Andrew in his injured ribs with the gun barrel making him wince. Frankie prodded him again for good measure. “Sit down on the floor,” he ordered. “No more playin’.”

Andrew glanced at his daughter who had tears in her eyes. Then he looked away because it hurt too much to see her in pain. He bent his knees and slid himself down onto the floor beside the door and looked over to the adjacent wall at Dalton. She looked right back at him. Her face was pasty, sweat-covered and pale. Blood spilled from her stomach in a steady stream and drench her clothing.

“Why are you doing this?” Andrew asked Frankie from the floor. “I mean, really? You’re going to spend your whole life in jail, and for what? Cus you don’t like the look of my face?”

Frankie’s face twitched. “I ain’t ever going down again. I’ll die first.”

“So why then? If you never want to go to prison again, why cause trouble the moment you’re out?”

“What the fuck else I gunna do? Work at a bank?”

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? You could have done a million different things – but instead you choose to murder my wife?”

“Mum?” Bex’s eyes went wide. “No, she’s not dead. She can’t be.”

Andrew hadn’t meant for his daughter to find out like that and cursed himself for not thinking. Now that she knew, he was unable to console her. Frankie had once again managed to prevent him from looking after his family.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew told her. “I didn’t find out until after I left you.”

Bex mewled like a wounded animal and buried her face in her hands. Andrew turned his stare back to Frankie. “Do you enjoy this? Causing all of this hurt to innocent people?”

“Who says you’re innocent?”

Andrew was ready to give up. There was no part of Frankie that had any remorse or understanding. There might have been something there deep beneath the surface that could be gotten at, but Andrew had no idea what it was.

“My daughter is innocent,” Andrew stated. “What has she ever done?”

“She belongs to you.”

“And what have I done, exactly? Is this all because I didn’t buy you a packet of fags?”

Frankie was breathing quickly and his twitch was becoming more regular and erratic. “You needed to learn a lesson.”

“What lesson? You know nothing about me?”

“I needed to teach you some respect.”

“Why is it so important that some guy you never met respects you? Are you that insecure?”

Frankie thrust the gun forward at Andrew and for a moment it looked like he would pull the trigger again. Andrew didn’t flinch though – not for a scumbag like Frankie. When the gun didn’t go off, it became clear that Andrew was scratching at something – something beneath Frankie’s surface that was heavily guarded.

Andrew smirked, enjoying the sight of Frankie squirming. “But this was never about me, was it? This is about your own bullshit. So what was it, Frankie? Daddy abuse you?”

“Fuck you. I never even knew my Dad.”

Andrew was getting close. He could sense it. “Hardly surprising, having met your mother. Maybe it was the young offender’s home then? Did one of the bigger boy’s make you his bitch?”

Frankie pulled the trigger. Andrew’s vision went white like someone had lit a firework inside his skull. The pain came hot and heavy, accompanied by thick waves of nausea and mind-rattling dizziness.

I’ve been shot. Holy shit, I’ve been shot.

The pain was so gigantic and all consuming that Andrew couldn’t even tell where he’d been hit. It was only when his vision returned, and he saw the blood pouring from his knee, that he knew. The agony was so massive that he knew he’d never walk right again.

If the psychopath didn’t kill him altogether.

Bex was screaming again, crying out for her father and begging for Frankie to leave them all alone.

“I told you not to fuck with me,” Frankie screamed at Andrew on the floor. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Andrew slid along on the floor like a wounded slug, leaving behind a trail of hot, sticky blood. He dragged himself over towards Dalton who was staring at him wide-eyed, no doubt wondering how the hell she had gotten herself into this situation. Andrew knew how she felt.

Frankie marched forward and kicked Andrew’s wounded knee. The pain bloomed again like a nuclear explosion, sending away his vision in a cloud of agony.

“Please,” Andrew cried out. “Haven’t you done enough? Please, just leave us alone. I’m begging you”

“Why would I do that?” Frankie kicked Andrew again, this time in the side of the head, sending him dizzy. “If I kill the three of you, who’s going to say I did anything?”

“The police already have…Andrew’s…statements,” said Dalton  in a half-conscious drawl. We know all about you, Frankie. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”

Frankie wasn’t happy, but it still wasn’t enough to deter him. “Well, it still won’t do any harm getting rid of the witnesses, will it?” He placed himself down on Bex’s bed and she squirmed as he started to stroke her face. “Shall I leave you for last, princess? Let you watch all the fun before I put your lights out?”

“Please,” she pleaded. “Just go. Me and my dad won’t say anything.”

Frankie laughed. “Seriously? You’re going to go with that old chestnut? It doesn’t work in the moves and I can tell you right now that it doesn’t work in real life either, darling.”

“Get away from her, you evil bastard.”

Frankie looked down at Andrew across the room and laughed. “Or else what, you sad cripple? You couldn’t take me with both legs working, so what use are you now?” Frankie put a finger in his mouth and sucked it before holding it in the air. Andrew was forced to watch while he delved it beneath his daughter’s blankets.

Bex struggled and squirmed while Frankie cackled almost uncontrollably. His laughter stopped when Rebecca struck his face with her hand. The slapping sound filled the room and was then followed by absolute silence.

Frankie got up off the bed and yelled at her. “Stupid cow!” He lunged forward and punched her in the face. It wasn’t hard enough to knock her out cold, but it seemed to knock some of her senses loose, eyes rolling about in her head.

Andrew couldn’t help but curse at Frankie, despite the fact it would probably lead to another gunshot. His hatred was too much to contain. “You pathetic cunt! Taking things out on a helpless girl, all because you got passed around jail like a television remote. I bet you’ve got an arsehole like a clown’s pocket.”

Frankie pointed the gun at Andrew again, this time his hand was trembling. It was obvious the comments hurt him. But slowly, Frankie got a hold of himself. His hand stopped shaking. He lowered the gun away from Andrew, then pointed it at Bex.

He pulled the trigger.

Chapter Thirty-One

Davie got off at the bus stop nearest the hospital. It was only across the road and in less than a minute he was walking through the car park and heading for the main building. He didn’t know exactly where inside he would find Andrew or Frankie, but he knew that asking a member of staff would probably be a bad idea. But when he saw the crowd gathering outside the hospital’s main entrance, accompanied by a shrill, ringing alarm, Davie knew that finding his brother might possibly be easier than he imagined. Something had happened and it would be a pretty safe bet that Frankie would be involved somehow.

There were hospital employees all over the road comforting patients on gurneys. There were also several police officers standing around grumpily. Davie would have to avoid them all if he had any chance of getting inside the hospital.

He stepped behind a row of cars and made his way forward in a crouch. There didn’t seem any possible way to make it through the main entrance without someone stopping him, but there was no other obvious way in. Maybe there was a rear entrance.

He snuck around the back of an ambulance and headed down the side of the hospital. There was a power generator inside a brick enclosure and, beyond that, a wall lined by many square windows. Even further ahead was something that was just what Davie needed: an open fire exit. Only trouble was that a hospital employee was standing there. He was wearing a chef’s uniform and puffing on a cigarette as though the ringing alarms were of no concern to him.

“Hey,” said Davie, approaching the man nonchalantly. “Having a sneaky fag?”

The man nodded. “I’d just finished my break when the fire alarm went off. Thought it was a good opportunity for another. Managed to buy another pack just as the gift shop was clearing out.”

“Won’t they be doing a role call or something?”

The man shrugged. “Probably. It’s just a false alarm. Do you see any fires?”

Davie shook his head. “In that case, can I go through?”

The man took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke in the air. “What is it tonight with people not using the main entrance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just twenty minutes ago some dude was asking me the same question.”

“Really? What did he look like?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Messed up. Face all ripped up and shit. What’s it to you, kid, anyway?”

Davie thought of an answer. “I think it was err…my dad.”

The man nodded. “What was he in for?”

Davie continued the lie, seeing no other course of action now he’d started it. “He had an accident at the factory where he worked. That’s why his face was injured.”

The man took another drag on his cigarette and this time blew the smoke right into Davie’s face. “Really? You see that’s funny, because he told me he’d been in a car accident.”

Davie was stuck for an answer. Making stuff up had never been one of his talents and he’d obviously blown it this time. Before he even had chance to attempt another bluff the hospital employee had heard enough.

“Just get out of here, kid. I don’t know what’s going on tonight, but I’m not getting involved. Piss off out of here.”

Davie couldn’t afford to let the man go back inside and close the door. The hospital was currently deserted and would be the perfect time to reach his brother – if Frankie was indeed inside. It would also be the perfect time for his brother to kill Andrew and his family. Davie had to get through and keep that possibility from happening.

He pulled out the revolver stuffed down his trousers and pointed it at the chef. “Move out the fuckin’ way.”

The chef looked at Davie and laughed. “You a proper gangster, yeah? What is that, a water pistol?”

Davie laughed back. “Yeah man, I’m a regular OG.” He smashed the gun against the man’s face and knocked him cold. His body sprawled back into the doorway and Davie wasted no time in stepping over him.

He would have to find his way around the hospital without having a clue where he was going, but there were no other choices. Currently he stood by a cafeteria, but that didn’t help much. The hospital had three floors and dozens of departments. It wouldn’t be easy to find his brother in this maze. In fact it could turn out to be nigh-impossible.

But when a gunshot rang out, things got a whole lot easier.

The short explosion had come from the same floor that Davie was already on; somewhere down the end of the long corridor in which he now stood. The signs above him pointing in that direction read WARDS 4-7. Davie ran as fast as his battered body could. He was still nowhere near recovered from his car accident, but he tried to put the discomfort aside for now. His trainers squeaked on the floor as he picked up speed.

Davie didn’t know what the gunshot meant for certain, but he knew it couldn’t be anything good. The odds that someone had just been killed were high and the odds that it was Frankie behind the trigger were even higher.

Either that or the police have just gunned down his crazy brother.

Davie didn’t think that was true, though. The police didn’t carry guns as far as he knew. They used pepper sprays and batons and stuff. The only time Davie had seen Police with guns was when they shot some nutcase on TV about a year ago. Raul something-or-other. Other than that, the pigs in this country were harmless – nothing like the American cops he watched in the movies. Now they were badass.

Davie reached the end of the corridor and found himself lost again as he faced several options to choose from. He could go left, right or straight on. He chose to stand still and listen, hoping to hear something that would make the decision easier. While he was not absolutely certain, he thought he could hear faint voices coming from a ward on the left: WARD 7.

He headed for there immediately and was relieved when he heard the voices again, more clearly. He soon reached a wide, open nurse’s station and Davie clearly identified one of the voices as his brother’s. What was worrying however, was that all the other voices he could hear were ones of pleading.

Turning a full circle, he tried to hone in on where the voices were coming from. Eventually he settled for a room off to the right. He could not see inside the windows because a curtain was pulled across them, but, as he approached the door, he was certain that was where his brother was.

“Frankie?” he shouted at the closed door.

The voices inside the room stopped abruptly. Then Davie heard his brother’s voice reply from inside.

“Davie? Is that you? Get your ass in here, little bro. You’re just in time.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The bullet had hit only centimetres above Bex’s head. Andrew’s heart had leapt into his throat and stayed there. Now, as he tried to speak, his vocal cords were so restricted that his words came out choked and mumbled. “I can’t…b-believe you just…did that. You’re insane.”

Frankie blew the end of the smoking revolver and then winked at Andrew. “Chill out, yo. I was just making a point, innit?”

Bex had gone the colour of old chalk. The gunshot had been so close to her face that the plaster behind her had fallen away and crumbled into her hair. The smell of cordite filled the room and mingled with the odour of blood.

Frankie strolled over to Andrew and crouched in front of him. “Hopefully I’ve got your full respect and attention now? I didn’t want to have to do that but you gave me no choice, man.”

Andrew was feeling weaker by the minute. His mind must have been shutting off to relieve some of the pain pulsing through his kneecap and ribs. “Just…please…enough. Enough.”

“Begging again, Andrew? I thought you’d grown bigger balls than that.”

“Frankie?”

Everyone in the room looked towards the door. Someone was outside. If Andrew wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like Davie.

Frankie edged over to the doorway and leant his head next to the wood. “Davie? Is that you? Get your ass in here, little bro. You’re just in time.”

To Andrew’s surprise, it was indeed Davie who was entering the room cautiously. He’d thought that the boy wanted no part of his brother’s insanity, but the fact that he was here now suggested different. When it came right down to it, they were brothers – they stuck together.

“Little bro, I thought you’d given up on me.”

Davie shook his head. “I was wrong to say what I said. You’re my brother.”

Andrew shook his weary head. I had hope for you, Davie, but it turns out that you’re no better than your brother. To hell with both of you.

A whispered voice snapped him away from his thoughts. He turned his head sideways and saw that Dalton was trying to say something to him. She’d lost every hint of colour from her cheeks now and resembled a ghost more than she did a young woman.

She placed a hand on his forearm. “Grab…my belt. The…canister.”

Andrew tried to figure out what she meant. He looked down at her belt and saw a collection of evenly placed pouches. The one on the furthest-most right contained a small aluminium spray can with a bunch of writing on the side.

Dalton nodded at him. “Grab…it.”

Andrew nodded back, looked at Frankie and saw that he was distracted by a conversation with his brother, then started to creep a hand towards the canister. Inch by inch his fingers stretched towards it, until…

Got it.

He managed to get his hand around the can and started to pull it away from its pouch, but it was stuck on something and would not move. He quickly realised that there was a popper-button attaching a tongue across the top of the can. With his thumb, he unfastened it and started to pull again. The can slid out easily now and his heart beat rapidly as he kept his eyes on Frankie. One false move and the psychopath would shoot him. He would have to keep his movements slow, gradual.

Very, very careful.

Inch by inch.

Frankie turned to face Andrew, eyebrows raised.

Andrew thanked God that he had already managed to slide the canister into the space beneath his armpit.

“What you fuckin’ looking at?” Frankie asked him. “If your eyes were any wider they would fall on the floor.”

Andrew didn’t reply. What the hell did Frankie expect him to say? Instead he looked down at the mangled wreck of his knee and thought about the small metal cylinder concealed beneath his armpit and whether he would get the chance to use it.

“So what’s your plan?” Davie asked his brother. “You know there’s a bunch of police outside, right?”

Frankie shrugged. “What the hell they gunna to do? I already popped one of ‘em. They want to be the ones concerned about me.”

“We should get out of here.”

Frankie put a hand on Davie’s shoulder. “No way, little bro. This is my moment. The day the whole world learns not to fuck with Frankie Walker. The fact that my little brother is here to share it all with me just makes things even more perfect.”

Davie looked confused. “Your moment? What are you talking about?”

“Going to whack these bitches, just as soon as everyone comes back in from outside. No point doing it without an audience. Then I’m going to go out in a blaze of glory. Take a few pigs with me if I can. People will remember my name forever. People will have nightmares about me for years.”

“You’re a fucking psycho,” Bex wailed from her bed. Andrew wished she would be quiet, but he assumed at this point it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference. Frankie pointed the gun at her again but this time she didn’t flinch. In fact, she seemed more composed and defiant than every.

“Don’t be a hater,” Frankie told her, “just because you can’t understand my greatness. You just don’t see the big picture like I do.”

Rebecca cackled. It was a cruel sound and Andrew never knew his daughter had such a sound in her. “You think a spree-killing is the big picture? I thought the point of you being here was to get rid of the witnesses, but now you’re talking about having an audience. You don’t know what you’re doing, do you? You’re just making it up as you go along, you silly dickhead.”

“Plan changed, sweetheart. No shame in it. I figure that if I can’t get away with this, I might as well make it count. Gunna go down like a man – a genu-ine pig-killing hero. You think anyone will ever forget those kids in America that shot up that school? Or that dude last year that blinded that cop? No, they make films about people like that. People will make films about me one day and the whole world will be sorry it ever got in my way.”

“Who are you angry at?” Andrew managed to ask from the floor, fighting hard not to pass out.

Surprisingly, Davie seemed to want to know the answer as well. “Yeah. What’s this really all about, Frankie? What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me, little bro. I’m on top of the world.”

Davie shook his head. “No, you’re not. You’re talking about killing innocent people just so people respect you. When did respect become so important?”

Frankie pointed the gun at Andrew but kept facing his brother dead on. “Respect is the only thing there is. If people don’t respect you then you’re nothing but their bitch…”

Frankie trailed off slightly and Davie seemed to sense something. “This is all because of what happened in the youth offender’s home, isn’t it? What the hell did they do to you?”

“He got buggered by the bigger boys,” said Andrew, enjoying the sight of Frankie groaning. His face twisted up and he twitched like a madman.

“Shut the hell up, man, or I swear I’m going to make your death so slow it will feel like forever.”

“He’s right, though, isn’t he?” said Davie. “Is that what this is all about? Did someone…hurt you?”

Frankie still held the gun at Andrew, but his arm had begun to shake visibly. “You’re chatting shit, little bro. You don’t know nothing, so just leave it, okay?”

“I know that this whole situation is messed up,” said Davie. “Something happened to you inside that made you lose the plot, big time. Did Andrew have something to do with it?”

“No way,” Andrew replied immediately. “I never even met the guy before all this.”

Davie shrugged. “So what then? What is it about Andrew that made you go batshit crazy?”

Frankie suddenly turned the gun on his little brother. “I thought you were here to support me, Davie. Stupid me, huh?”

“Support you? This isn’t a job interview or a football match. I can’t support you murdering people.”

“Then get the fuck out.”

Davie folded his arms and shook his head. “Not going anywhere. You want me to leave you’ll have to shoot me.”

Frankie cocked the gun. “Don’t think I won’t. I’m not afraid to kill anyone. Sick fuckers in the nick learned that shit soon enough. I showed ‘em all. Fuckin’ nonces.”

Davie’s ears pricked up. “Who?

Frankie pointed the gun back at Andrew and cocked the hammer. “This fucker!”

Davie looked at Andrew and seemed confused. “Andrew abused you?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said, nodding his head adamantly, tears forming in his eyes.

“What the hell are you talking about,” Andrew cried out. “You’re talking complete nonsense. I never met you before.”

“I don’t buy it,” said Davie. “Andrew doesn’t even work at a prison.”

Frankie’s twitch went into overdrive and a nauseated expression took over his face. “Well…not him exactly. It was McMillan.”

Andrew was stunned. “James McMillan. My half-brother?”

Davie looked at Andrew, obviously confused. “What?”

“My half-brother is called McMillan. I haven’t seen him in years, but his surname is McMillan. Is that who you’re talking about, Frankie?”

Frankie said nothing, but Davie nodded as if something was making sense. “Let me guess, you two look alike?”

Andrew shrugged. “I guess. We have the same eyes and similar hair, but we’re not twins. Like I said, I haven’t seen him in years.”

“You look close enough,” said Frankie, marching towards him and grabbing both sides of his bloodied shirt, yanking him to his feet. “Soon as I seen ya, I thought you was him. Was only when I saw you up close that I realised you weren’t – that that piece of shit must have been your brother or something.”

Andrew shook his head and pleaded. “We haven’t seen each other since I was a teenager. He lived with his father while my mother remarried someone else. He was already ten years old when I was born. I barely knew him.”

Frankie slammed Andrew back against the wall. Pain exploded from his knee. “You share his blood. You probably have the same sick shit running through your veins as he does.”

“I’m sorry,” said Andrew. “I’m sorry for what my brother did to you. I’ll tell the police, make him pay. I promise.”

Frankie released his grip slightly. “You know I actually believe you.”

“Good, because I mean it.”

Frankie nodded. “You know I can’t let you go though, right? It’s too late not to follow this shit through to the end, and there’s no way I’m ever gunna let you tell about what McMillan did to me.”

Andrew grunted. “You killed my wife. There’s no quitting now for either of us.”

He reached for the can under his armpit and pulled it free. His index-finger gripped the release and pressed down hard. A pungent jet of liquid exploded from the can’s nozzle and hit Frankie in the eyes and nose. The excess vapour flew back and entered Andrew’s airways as well. Both of them fell to the floor in a choking, spluttering mess.

Andrew’s vision was like being under water, all blurs and wet squiggles. His entire face filled with a burning sensation that worsened with every breath he took. While he couldn’t see the room clearly, the sound of Frankie cursing was as clear as day. This was it. It would all end now, one way or another.

Andrew placed his palms down on the floor and tried to get to his feet, but it was impossible. The dizziness, twinned with the uselessness of his knee, was too much to overcome. Andrew knew that his daughter was bed ridden and that Officer Dalton was too injured to help. The only person able-bodied enough to help was Davie.

But where did Davie’s loyalties lie?

“Come on, man, get up,” Andrew heard Davie say to his brother. “We need to get out of here.”

“Okay,” said Frankie. “You right, little bro.”

Andrew sighed. Thank you, thank you. Finally this whole thing is over.

“But I need you to kill them first. Do you still have your gun?”

“No way,” said Davie. “I’m not shooting anybody.”

“Do. You. Still. Have. Your. Gun?”

“Yes,” said Davie. “I have it, but I’ not using it.”

“Then I’ll go down forever, is that what you want? If you get rid of the witnesses then we can sort out some sort of alibi and get through this as brothers. I’ll owe you, man – for life. Please, Davie. I need you to do this for me. You’re the only person I have.”

There was silence in the room as Andrew lay on the floor, terrified and blind, waiting for the next turn of events in this hellish nightmare that had become his life.

“Okay,” said Davie. “It’s time to put an end to all of this once and for all.”

“Thank you, little bro. I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know that, Frankie. I love you, too, and that’s the only reason I’m about to do this for you.”

There was more silence, interrupted only by what must have been Davie removing a gun he had hidden in his clothing.

“I’m sorry about all this, Andrew,” came Davie’s voice. “I truly wish none of this had ever happened to you.”

Andrew said nothing. He just closed his eyes and replaced the blurriness with darkness. He waited for the end, tried not to listen to his daughter’s scream – he didn’t want that to be the last thing he ever thought about. So he thought of a time long ago – to the day that Bex was born, back when they had been a happy family. Perhaps in the next life they would be again. He and Pen would still be together.

He listened to the sound of a gun being cocked.

A pause that seemed to go on forever.

Then there was an explosion of sound and the smell of smoke.

Bex wailed.

Andrew opened his eyes.

His vision had cleared a little since closing them, and though he could not make out the finer details, he could see that a body now adorned the floor. A body that was thankfully not his own.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” said Davie. “I hope this makes up for it a little bit.”

Andrew stared, trying to understand. He wasn’t certain, but it looked like Frankie was lying dead on the floor. Davie had shot his own brother.

Andrew shook his head with disbelief. “W-Why?”

Davie didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “I’ll go and get some help.” He dropped the gun on the floor beside his dead brother and left.

Andrew realised that he hadn’t taken a breath in almost a minute, and expelled the air from his lungs. Things in the room slowly came into focus and the first thing he made out clearly was Officer Dalton lying on the floor beside him.

“Hey,” he said to her. “It’s over. Help will be here soon…Officer Dalton…Laura?”

Andrew put a hand on the woman’s chest and rocked her gently, and then more firmly. She did not wake up. Her body slid sideways and flopped onto the tiles. The blood had stopped pumping from her stomach and she was no longer breathing. He mourned the loss more than he would have expected. He’d met the policewoman only days earlier, yet she had been a massive part of the reason he and his daughter were still alive. He would never forget what she did for him – Dalton’s sacrifice.

“Dad?”

Bex’s voice was like music, clearing away the nightmares that filled his head and replacing it with love and hope. She would be safe now, and that made the world bearable again. It was just he and she now, and he would never let anything hurt her ever again.

“Everything is going to be okay now, honey,” he told her. “It’s over.”

Andrew’s vision finally cleared and he used it to make certain Frankie was dead. The bullet wound in his temple confirmed it and he gave the biggest sigh of relief that he’d ever taken in his life and then let it out slowly. He was about to lose consciousness, but before he did, he managed a smile. Yep, he thought sleepily. It’s finally over.

Epilogue

April 17th

Dear Diary

Today is my twenty-first birthday. Dad and I spent the afternoon at Mom’s grave. We both still miss her every day. Visiting the cemetery helps alleviate some of the pain, but I know it affects Dad differently than it does me. He still blames himself for being unable to protect us that week Frankie forced himself onto our lives.

It still shocks me that Davie Walker shot his older brother that day, to save me and my father. I’ll never know the full reasons why he did it, but I can still picture him now, squeezing that trigger as though the weight of the world fought against him. It must have been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But he did it anyway. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.

After the events in the hospital, the police arrested Davie for murder, but, after they took my Dad’s statement about what happened, they offered him a deal: testify against Dom in exchange for a reduced sentence. He was looking at about five years. When my Dad got a lawyer involved, the police dropped the charges altogether. The court case against dad’s half-brother, McMillan, is due to start any day now. Apparently Frankie wasn’t his only victim; a dozen more have come forward.

Davie went into care after it was discovered what a poor excuse for a mother he had. His identity was withheld to protect him from the media-circus that ensued to cover what came to be known as the West Midland’s Massacre. I don’t know what happened to him after that, but I hope he’s okay.

Eventually my wounds healed and things went back to normal little by little. We sold the house and moved to the country, away from the pavements and lampposts of urban living, and away from the memories that haunted us. Somehow, I managed to get my head together enough to finish high school and move on to college. I’m at university now – my third yearstudying Law. All in all, I managed to get through the ordeal Frankie put us through with my mind and body still intact. A scar across my stomach the only physical reminder of the night I nearly died.

Dad hasn’t been so lucky. Even five years later, he still walks with a pronounced limp. The wounds of his mind are even worse. Sometimes when we watch TV together he starts crying for no reason. His emotions don’t work the way they used to. If I go out without calling him every two hours, he panics.

It’s not all bad, though. After what happened, there was a media furore about how the police had failed my family, and about how all the red tape in the criminal justice system did nothing but hurt the people that needed protection the most. My dad fronted a campaign to increase police powers, and he succeeded. Now young offenders can be given something called an ASBO and placed on a public register for as long as the police deem necessary. They can also be escorted back to their homes if they’re caught congregating after nine o’clock at night. It isn’t much, but It’s a start. People have hope again.

After what happened to my dad, neighbourhood watch programs began popping up all over the country and memberships sky-rocketed. People started coming together, fighting back against the thug culture that was threatening to invade our country. If anything good came from my mother’s death, it’s that the UK today is a safer place than it was when she died. Dad holds onto that dearly. Last year he went into politics.

Dad formed an organisation committed to protecting the streets from crime through a series of initiatives. One of those demands the Government to allocate part of the annual budget to evening activities for impoverished youths. One of the failings that led to much of the UK’s gang violence wasteenage boredom. My father helped change all that – he called it Pen’s Law. He also spearheaded an investigation into young offender’s homes and was disgusted to find out that the claims Frankie made about his half-brother were true.

Officer Dalton was, of course, honoured for dying in the line of duty. Nobody, other than her partner, Wardsley,ever knew that she’d let Andrew go after Frankie. Wardsley asked my dad to keep the fact quiet and he’d been happy to. Dalton was a good woman. Once a year we visit her grave too;sometimes Wardsley comes with us. I think they were more than just partners.

I guess we’ll never know if Frankie was evil or just a result of a crippled and decaying system that failed him from the day he was born. All I know is that the world is a scary place, and that, like my dad, I’m going to do everything I can to help make it safer. I don’t want any other young girls to lose their mothers the way I did.

This is my last diary entry. At twenty-one I feel I’ve outgrown the need to analysis my daily thoughts by writing about them. I know myself well enough now. I guess I should end it here. I need to get ready. Dad’s taking me out to celebrate my birthday. At least we still have each other…

BOOK 3 OF 5

THE FINAL WINTER

Now this was the sin of Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.

— Ezekiel 16:49-50

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event.

— J. B. Priestley

What He really hates is the shit that gets carried out in his name. Wars. Bigotry. Televangelism.

—Rufus, Dogma; View Askew Productions, 1999

Chapter One

Harry sipped his latest beer as more news updates flashed up on the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter, enveloped by a bulbous pink ski-jacket and covered in snow, began her report. “Good evening,” she said, a shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed in the last forty-eight hours has left the nation’s transportation networks in disarray.”

The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across, and half-buried by, the snow.

The reporter let out a breath, which steamed in the air, and then continued. “Major roads are closed and rail services have been terminated until further notice. Schools and many business are temporarily suspended, while hospitals and other vital services are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll has reached twenty-seven and is feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist those in most need, and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

Harry shook his head. He was never one for fretting about bad weather. The freeze had come suddenly and would leave the same way.

“Even more concerning,” the reporter continued, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout numerous other areas of the world.” A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top-right of the screen and then slowly turned white, representing the recent snowfall. “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented cold spikes. Never before in recorded history has such a wide-spread cold weather system been known to become so widespread. Certain religious leaders are calling this-”

“Rubbish!” Old Graham, the oldest regular of The Trumpet and resident of the one-bedroom flat above the pub, threw his hands up in disgust. “A little snow and the country falls apart. Every time. It’s a shambles.”

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at Old Graham. The grumbling pensioner was pointing to the television screen.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “No need to get wound up about it.”

Old Graham huffed and pouted toothlessly. “Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that Your Tube or My Face to tell you about it.”

Harry glanced at the television. Scenes of heavy snowfall. Locations from around the globe had become half-buried in blankets of slush and snow. The Pyramids of Giza, ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains; the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks; and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

The television began flickering with interference.

Harry returned his gaze to Old Graham. “I agree it’s much ado about nothing. People just enjoy a good panic from time to time. No point in letting it bother you.”

The old man huffed again, the sound was wet and wheezy. “You think Canada, Norway, Switzerland are panicking about the snow? This is a heat wave to a bloody Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

Harry thought about it. According to the news, it was categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. The various meteorologists and talking heads all maintained that the snow was being caused by something else.

Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen. Old Graham continued to gawp at him. Eventually the pensioner’s persistent staring irked Harry into speaking again. “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

“You bet your balls it will.” He slid along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I used to be married.” With that, Old Graham howled with laughter, until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint and caused him to hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles over the bar. “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were his parting words before he tottered off toward the pub’s toilets.

Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box of Malt ‘N’ Salt crisps against her chest. She placed the box down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans. She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed. “He bothering you again, Harry?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. He sighed. “Graham’s okay. Just had too much to drink.”

Steph snorted. “You’re one to talk. What time did you get here today?”

“Noon.”

“Exactly, and it’s now…” She glanced at her watch. “Nine in the evening.”

Harry blushed. “At least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

Steph rolled her eyes and smirked. “I’ll give you that, but I’d like to remind you that you left a puke stain my knee-highs on Sunday. I had to throw them out”

Harry stared down at the hissing liquid in his glass and, for a split-second, felt ashamed enough that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead. Instead, he downed what was left of it, dregs and all. “I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

Steph shrugged. “You’re not pathetic, Harry. Just a bit tragic. Things will look up for you one day, but you got to get a hold of yourself. I know life’s been pretty damn shitty to you, but you only turned forty a couple months ago, right? Plenty of time to get back on your feet and start a new life.” She stopped and looked over at the large plate-glass window that lined one side of the pub. “As long as this wretched snow don’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine. You just gotta get a grip.”

“You really think so?” he asked her with a sigh.

“You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you spewing on me again. Don’t matter how handsome you are!”

They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little. It wasn’t often he heard such things from a younger woman. Not when the mirror showed him a man that looked closer to fifty than his actual age. Grief had been hard on his face.

Harry pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently. The overflow from the glass slid down over the black Foo Fighters tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin glisten. Harry was ashamed to feel a stirring in his loins as he looked at her.

Harry’s wife, Julie, had been gone a long time now, but he never stopped considering himself a husband. Never once forgot his vow to love her forever.

Harry moved away from the bar, and away from Steph. The tattered padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last several hours had sent his backside numb and he craved the relief of a cushion. He headed towards the bench by the pub’s front window. At the same time, Old Graham returned from the toilets. There was a small urine stain on the pensioner’s crotch and Harry was relieved when the old man headed back to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

Harry eased down onto the worn bench and sighed pleasurably. He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat. There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: Crown Ales, fit for kings. Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard. It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for, but for some reason it seemed to halt his thoughts for a while and kept back some of the demons in his head.

Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room he knew so well. The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end and a stone fireplace crisping the air at the other. A dilapidated oak-wood bar took up the centre of the pub, probably older than he was. Several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs made up the rest of the floor space.

In the pub’s backroom, a small, seldom-used dance floor collected dust. Harry had only seen it once, at New Year’s.

The Trumpet was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time. Much like the people that drank there.

Tonight the pub was low on drinkers, as it typically was on a Tuesday. Harry wasn’t a big fan of company and preferred the quiet nights. Of course it helped that the snow had confined most people to within a hundred yards of their homes, clogging the main roads with abandoned snowbound vehicles.

Somehow Steph had made it in, holding down the fort as she did most evenings. Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime she worked. She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could’ve just been the barmaid’s code to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people. Maybe, deep down, Steph really counted each second until she could kick everybody’s drunken arses out. Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept control of the place.

Even Damien Banks behaved on her watch. Weekdays were usually free of his slimy presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception. The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, iPhone fastened to his ear.

Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – that the young thug pushed his gear on the local estate like some wannabe drug lord. No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends – or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret. Rumour had it that the shaven-headed bully once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, taunting the family afterwards by revelling in the grief he’d caused.

Harry shook his head in silent derision. He hated the way Damien lounged around like he owned the place.

There was one other person in the bar tonight. A greasy-haired hulk named Nigel. A lorry driver, from what Harry had gathered over time, the man spent a lot of time on the road. The poor guy would probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.

Just the five of them. Tuesday was a quiet night.

Harry pulled his right knee up onto the bench and peered out of the pub’s main window behind him. The Trumpet sat upon a hill overlooking a small row of dingy shops and a mini-supermarket with steel shutters over the windows. Steph once told Harry the pub just about survived on the wafer-thin profits brought in by the lunchtime traffic of the nearby factories, but if it were to rely on its evening drinkers alone, the place would have closed its doors long ago – even before the public smoking ban had come in and crippled local pubs across the land.

On a normal night, Harry could see the shops and supermarket from the pub’s window, but tonight his vision faltered at several feet, the view swallowed up by swirling snow. Thick condensation hugged the glass and made everything foggy. For all Harry knew, the darkness outside could have stretched on forever, engulfing the world in its clammy embrace and leaving the pub floating in an inky abyss. The image was unsettling. Like something from the Outer Limits TV show.

Snow continued to fall as it had done nonstop for the past day and night. Fat, sparkling wisps that passed through the velvet background of the night, making the gloom itself seem alive with movement. Harry shivered; the pub’s archaic heating inadequate in defeating the chill. Even the warmth of the fireplace was losing its battle against the encroaching freeze.

God only knows how I’ll manage the journey home tonight without any taxis running. Maybe Steph will let me bed down till morning? I hope so.

Harry reached for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench. He traced a finger over his wedding ring and thought about the day Julie first placed it on his finger. He smiled and felt the warmth of nostalgia wash over him, but then his eyes fell upon the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of that same hand and the joyful sensation evaporated. The old wound was shaped like a star and brought back memories far darker than Harry’s wedding day. It was something he dared not think about.

He took another swig of his beer and almost spat it out. In only two minutes since he’d last tasted it, the lager had gone utterly flat, as if something had literally drained the life from it. Before Harry could consider what that meant, a stranger entered the pub.

A second later, the lights went out.

Chapter Two

“Bugger it!” Kath cursed aloud and slapped her palms down on the supermarket’s checkout desk. She’d been two minutes away from finishing the 9pm cash-up and the building’s power blinked out like somebody had flipped a switch. “Peter!” she hollered into the darkness. “Check the damned fuse box, will you!”

A muffled voice from the nearby stockroom let Kath know her order had been received. She sighed and waited for her vision to adjust, wondering where she could find a torch or some candles (Doesn’t Aisle 6 have some?). The Fire Exit sign above the supermarket’s entrance gave off a faint green glow too weak to even highlight her acrylic fingernails in front of her face.

Kath heard footsteps echoing down the Bread & Pastries aisle.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

The unexpected proximity of the voice made Kath flinch. “It’s me,” said the voice. “Jess.”

“Jess? You stupid girl! You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry, Kathleen. Didn’t mean to. You know why the lights are out?”

“No. I’ve told Peter to check the fuse box.”

“Good idea. You reckon it’s just us, or the whole area?”

Kath shrugged in the dark. “How should I know? Walk out the front and see for yourself.”

“Okay,” said Jess cheerily, before wandering towards the store’s main entrance with a skipping hop. Her complexion became ghostly as she entered the pulsing green glow of the Fire Exit sign.

Kath cleared her throat. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Jess pushed open the door. A howling chill entered the supermarket, rushing to all corners like a horde of squealing rats. The weather outside was so bad that it was like opening the gates to hell.

Kath waited impatiently while Jess gingerly poked her head out of the door and looked left and right, then left and right again. Finally, she leant back inside and closed the door. When she turned back to Kath, the girl’s work fleece was peppered with snow.

“The weather out there is craaaay-zee!” said Jess. “With a capitol zee”

Kath sighed. “What about the lights? Are anybody else’s on? What about The Trumpet?” The dingy pub was set opposite, up the hill.

“I can’t even see the pub,” said Jess. I can’t make out Blue Rays or any of the other shops either. The snow is coming down like it’s the end of the world.”

“Wonderful!” Kath shook her head and felt a migraine coming on. If the whole area was out then she would be forced to sit and wait for the electricity company to get off their overpaid behinds and do something about it.

…and God knew how long that would take. Two minutes? Two hours?

Kath couldn’t set the alarms and go home until she cashed up the tills, and she couldn’t do that without power. She breathed in deep, before letting the cold air out through her nostrils. What a wretched waste of intellect, she thought, being stuck in this wretched place ten hours a day.

“It’ll be back on in a jiffy,” said Jess, still standing by the fire exit. “It never takes long, Kathleen. Tell you what, I’ll take a little walk over to the pub and see if anyone knows anything, okay?” Without pausing for an answer, Jess slid out through the exit and was immediately swallowed by the shifting snow and darkness outside.

A second later it was as if the girl had never even been there.

Kath sighed, leant back into the torn-padding of the cashier’s stool, and rubbed at her aching forehead. Shivers ran up and down her spine and made her clutch at herself. It was Britain’s worst winter in history and she was stuck in a building with no power. Before long the place would become freezing.

“Screw this,” Kath decided. She’d give Mr Campbell a call and see if there was any chance he’d allow her to cash up in the morning. He should have been thanking her for even turning up at all in this weather. She slid her fingertips along the icy surface of the cashier’s desk and groped for the phone. At first she found only a stapler and some biros, but eventually the side of her hand found what it was looking for and knocked the receiver from its cradle. It fell from the desk swung by its cord. After a couple of half-blind swipes, Kath caught the receiver and pulled it up to her ear. She tapped at the buttons on the phone’s cradle, waited a beat, then tapped them again.

No dial tone.

Perturbed, Kath placed the handset back down onto its cradle, before picking it up and trying to ring out once more.

Nothing.

“Please, for the love of God!” Kath patted down the pockets of her work shirt and located her mobile phone. She plucked it out and slid up the illuminated screen to expose the keypad. She selected Mr Campbell’s number from the phone’s memory and pressed the green CALL button, before putting the phone to her ear and waiting.

Ten seconds passed and Kath pulled the phone away from her head to look at the display. She could barely contain her frustration when she saw NO NETWORK COVERAGE scrolled across the top of the screen.

“For crying out loud!”

Before Kath could put her thoughts in order, a male voice echoed in the darkness. “Ms Hollister?”

The voice had a Polish twang.

“Peter,” Kath said, more calmly than she felt. “Have you checked the fuses?”

“Yes, Ms Hollister. I need show you something. Come.”

Kath rolled her eyes. Speak properly, for God’s sake. If you’re going to come here, at least learn the language.

Reluctantly, she followed the boy down to the back of the store, ducking through the strips of clear plastic that separated the cramped warehouse from the shop floor. “So, what is it that’s so important, Peter?” she asked.

“I will show to you.”

Peter turned a corner in the cramped warehouse. Kath stayed close behind, lighting her way with her mobile phone. It didn’t work particularly well, but it at least illuminated any over-stacked boxes she would otherwise bump into.

Kath was getting impatient. “Come on now, Peter, I need to find a way to call Mr Campbell, so we can all go home tonight. Unless you want to spend the night sleeping in the staff room?”

Peter stopped at the far wall and pointed upwards, just above the height of his shoulder. Kath glanced at the area a few inches away from the boy’s outstretched finger. She didn’t understand and felt her patience thin even more. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

Peter rolled his eyes in the faint glow of her phone display and then pointed more emphatically at what he wanted her to see.

“The fuse box? Yes, very impressive.”

Peter rolled his eyes again and she was about to scold him for it when she spotted what he wanted her to see. It was the fuse box alright – at least it had been in a former life – but now it was a black, melted decay of wires and bubbling plastic. The green metal box that housed the circuits was untouched, but inside it looked like it’d been subjected to a hellish blaze. The acrid stench of singed rubber lingered in the cold, crisp air, but it wasn’t as strong as she would expect after an electrical fire. “I don’t understand. What could cause this?”

Peter shrugged. “I no sure. Fire maybe?”

“Obviously not, Peter. There hasn’t been a fire because the alarms would’ve gone off. Not to mention it would have spread. This place is full of cardboard and paper.”

“Vandalism?”

Kath considered Peter’s wild suggestion, her thoughts wandering off into the dark, insidious alleyways of her mind. Could someone have really taken a welder’s torch to the fuses or doused them in petrol? Was someone lurking in the shadows intending to have their way with her in the dark? Had some hairy beast of a man been watching her for months, planning something just like this? It was certainly an opportune time. The police would never make it in this weather, even if she managed to call them. It seemed ridiculous but, for a moment, so plausible in her anxious state of mind that Kath actually started to believe that someone was intending to murder her. It was like something straight out of that Richard Laymon novel she once read by mistake, thinking it was something milder. Horrible, disgusting book full of rapists and monsters.

“Ridiculous,” Kath made herself say. “They have no power at the pub either. Same with Blue Rays on the corner.”

Pete shrugged his shoulders and walked off. Nothing ever seemed to concern the boy from Poland.

Suddenly alone, Kath tried to make sense of the situation. Was some deranged madman really stalking the neighbourhood, cutting off everyone’s electricity? Or was her biggest threat freezing to death on the coldest night of the year? Neither outcome was appealing. All Kath knew for sure was that the fuse box hadn’t destroyed itself and that the real cause was yet to make itself known.

She shivered, the chill in the air thickening suddenly and constricting the gristle on her bones. There was no way she could stay there any longer. Not without power. Not in the dark. She made a decision. “Right! Peter, where are you?”

A scuffling sound from the far corner of the warehouse. “I’m here, by the beer crates.”

“Well, make sure you’re careful. You break anything, you pay for it.”

Peter didn’t respond, but Kath was certain she heard the boy sigh. She enjoyed getting under people’s skin and let loose a smile as crude as the oil-slick darkness that surrounded her. Suddenly she felt more in charge, more like herself. “Peter,” she shouted. “Place some pallets against the back shutter. We’re going to call it a night, but we need to secure the building as best we can before we leave.”

“Okay, I will do, but where is Jess? She help me.”

“She’s wandered off somewhere.” Kath snorted. “Least of my worries right now, so go do as I’ve said – and make sure you’re careful.”

Peter scurried away, mumbling something in Polish. At least Kath imagined it was Polish. Could be Russian or Hungarian, or whatever it is all these Eastern Europeans spoke – ugly, primitive language that hurt her ears to listen to. How had Britain become so weak? There was a time when it had invaded third-rate nations, but now it seemed more interested in letting them all in and keeping them fed and warm. It made her stomach turn to think her government cared more about benefit-seeking immigrants than educated citizens like her. Where was her assistance?

Kath left the warehouse and re-entered the supermarket, listening to the loud scraping noises of Peter struggling to shift the pallets in the warehouse. The thought of him blindly bumping around on his own made her smirk as she marched towards the building’s exit.

When she reached the glass fire door, she opened it up and glanced outside. There was little she could do to secure the building tonight – not without the electric shutter – but she could at least lock up with her keys. She didn’t expect anyone would be desperate enough to brave the current weather just to steal a few groceries anyway. At least she hoped so...

Chapter Three

“B’jaysus, it’s nice to be in the warm again. Cold as a nun’s pussy out there, so it is.”

Harry gazed in the direction of the stranger’s voice, over by the pub’s entrance, and found himself at a loss. The cheery Irish accent was not what he’d been expecting. In fact, when Harry had first realised the presence of the stranger in the darkness, he’d felt something else, something…ominous. That seemed silly now.

“Hey, who is that?” asked Steph from behind the bar. “Anyone we know?”

A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway. “No Lass, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure. The name’s Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck.”

Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too. It wasn’t often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past.

“Well,” said Steph, “I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment. As you can see the power is off, and that means the electric pumps are dry. Cash only, too, no tabs”

“Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind, so there be no worries there, and I don’t care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap neither. It all ends up in the same place.”

“No arguments there,” said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham’s.

Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred. Damien didn’t like strangers. People he didn’t know were usually unaware of his reputation, and he did not appreciate that at all. Several months back, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad’s forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected. The young man had screamed the entire time and nobody was able to do a thing as Damien’s cronies took up guard.

The police never came. No one even called them.

Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight, almost as if he was dealing with some internal issue, but Harry worried that might something bad.

“Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?” Lucas asked, flicking open a glinting, metal lighter and illuminating his face with the flame. He looked about Harry’s age, yet boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match. Wild tussles of mousy brown hair crept beneath his ears and halfway down his neck. Harry thought the guy looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to buy at the car boots they went to.

“In weather like this I’m surprised you’re not all round that lovely fireplace.” Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room. “Or does that wee fella on the sofa not play well with others?”

“The less said about that the better,” warned Steph in a hushed voice.

Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer’s comment could elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing. It really wasn’t like Damien to be so reserved. He was preoccupied with something. But what?

Confident that no trouble was going to occur, at least for the time-being, Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar. Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway. His current beer smelt like bad eggs.

“So, Lucas?” Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface. “Where have you come in from?”

Lucas turned to Harry, the lighter still illuminating his face. “I’ve come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I come from down south.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “South?”

“That’s what I said now, ain’t it? Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time – up and down, upside down – but originally I hail from the North. Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though, after a falling out with me father. Suits me just fine, warmer climate, you know?”

“You mean Southern Ireland?”

“Where is that drink I heard a rumour about,” Lucas said, ignoring the question. “This is a pub, is it not?”

Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar. “Hold your horses! For a complete stranger you’re pretty demanding.”

“I’m a growing lad, and if ye make me wait I may just fade away. Or, worse than that, I may sober up.”

Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles. The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them. Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air. The first candle she had placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel. In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.

“That’s better,” said Steph. “Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?”

“I’m ready for one,” said Harry. “This one has gone bad.”

“Mine too,” said Old Graham, pushing his own pint forward. “I’m going to have to have a dozen more just to make up for it.”

Steph scrunched up her face. “Strange… Maybe there’s a problem with the pumps. Not surprised, the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn’t take the strain.”

Lucas chuckled. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place. You’re men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better, I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar.”

“Hey, less of the wench!” Steph objected. They all laughed and she got to work handing them their bottled beers, each of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night. Perhaps for Lucas it was.

The Irishman pointed a finger. “So, who’s the beefy fella down the end of the bar?”

“My name is Nigel.”

“Well, Big Man, come and suck ale with the rest of us.”

“Maybe later.”

“What’s wrong with you, man? There a gal down there with you?”

“Huh, I wish.”

“Get your mardy britches down here then! A fella shouldn’t be lonesome on a night like this. The cold out there could kill a man stone dead, no word of a lie.”

“Okay, okay,” Nigel conceded. He slid down the bar and joined the rest of them, dumping his heavy mass down onto a creaking stool beside Lucas. Harry nodded hello. Lucas certainly had a knack for bringing people together. Magnetic personality was the phrase that came to mind.

Lucas spoke again. “You know something, fellas? I don’t think that snow is gonna let up any time soon.”

“Great,” said Steph. “We’ve all got to try and get home tonight somehow.”

Lucas put down his beer with a clink! “What? Are you drunk, lass? Ain’t no man getting anywhere in that winter blanket.”

Steph’s face dropped slightly, the dull candle-light making her expression seem grim. “How did you get here then?”

Lucas smiled knowingly. “I was nearby and realised things were bad, so I thought to meself: ‘where’s the best place to be stuck on a night like this?’ Well of course there was only one answer, wasn’t there?”

“The boozer!” Old Graham shouted gleefully, clearly delighted by the Irishman’s philosophy. “Anyway,” the pensioner added, “don’t you worry, young Stephanie, there’s always room upstairs at my place to keep warm.”

Cheeky sod, thought Harry. Wonder if the old guy even has enough lead in his pencil to get it up these days?

Steph laughed defiantly, the air from her nostrils slanting the flames of the nearby candles. “The only way you’ll get me up there, old man, is if you’re sleeping on the roof.”

Everyone cackled and swigged their beers merrily in the dark. Everyone except Damien, who remained alone, staring into the fire like he was looking for answers.

Chapter Four

“Dude, just sit the hell down! If you break something my Dad will freak.” Ben didn’t need this from Jerry tonight. Not with the power going out and such shitty weather. It was like a dozen winters rolled into one and he was stuck in his father’s video store not knowing what to do for the best.

“Chill out, B-Dog!” said Jerry, shining his key ring torch into his own face and contorting his skeletal features into a ghoulish grimace. The DVD cases on the cluttered shelves behind him shone with every movement of the light. “You need to stop worrying about your old man. It’s not like he ever does anything for you. I can’t believe he made you come in today. As of anyone is going to come out and rent a movie in this weather. This place is the Video Store of the Damned even on a good day.”

Ben frowned, though it was too dark in the store’s dusty back-office for Jerry to see it. “Stop calling it that! The place is doing just fine. It’s not every day that Dad trusts me to look after Blue Rays on my own, so the last thing I need is you making my life difficult, okay? Just behave and don’t mess anything up.”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry conceded. “What would you like me to do with myself, oh wise Gandalf?”

Ben threw his head back and cursed. “I told you to stop calling me that!”

“Get rid of that gay beard and I will. Either that or I’ll get some hairy-assed Hobbits in here so you can feel more at home.”

“Just…” Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sit down will you, while I try to get the power back on.”

Thankfully, Jerry complied, hoisting his stick-like figure up onto the service desk and remaining quiet. Ben could still hear him fidgeting away for anything to get his spindly fingers on, but at least for now he was rooted in one place; his area of recklessness limited.

Sometimes Ben didn’t know why he put up with his friend. They’d known each other since they were peeing in pre-school sandpits, but for some reason his friend had never seemed to mature like he had. Ben had gone to college, whilst Jerry sponged off his mom and stepdad. Ben started dating girls, whilst Jerry brought an Xbox. Eventually, Ben had started to shoulder some of his dad’s business responsibilities, ready to one day take them on as his own, and Jerry…? Well now Jerry spent most his days hanging around Blue Rays Rentals bothering him and making fun of his beard or his ‘jelly-belly’. Still, they were best friends and Ben knew that if it ever came down to it, Jerry would do anything for him. There was something comforting about that. Not like anybody else cares. Besides, deep down, Ben liked having Jerry around. Despite the odd annoyances, they had a lot of fun together. Even the Ben and Jerry jokes didn’t really bother him too much anymore. Tonight however, Jerry was stretching his patience paper-thin.

“When you gunna get the lights on again?” Jerry asked. “It’s like Saturday Night Fever in here.” He swept his penlight around the room, illuminating the low-hung, suspended ceiling like a disco ball. A movie poster of a disgruntled De Niro and an awkward looking Ben Stiller lit up and disappeared as the light passed over it.

“If it is,” said Ben, “then you’re no John Travolta!” He walked across to the far side of the office, behind the IKEA computer desk and towards the fuse box. He didn’t know anything about electrics and he was hoping to flick a switch and be done with it. Likely, it would be more complicated than that.

Before the power went off, Ben had been watching the news with Jerry – well, to be more honest, Jerry was waiting for a re-run of The Matrix to come on. The reports had said that the country’s infrastructure was expected to be affected by the snow for several more days and that blackouts were likely as people’s heating usages rose to monumental levels. It didn’t bother Ben too much, so long as nothing happened to his father’s store whilst he was in charge of it. Business came first.

Before anything else.

Before silly little friendships with that imbecile, Jerry.

Ben shook his father’s words out of his head and pulled out his keys from his pocket, sifting through them one by one. Earlier, he and Jerry had become concerned by the amount of snowfall – and more than a little anxious that the bed weather was spread throughout most of the globe. Having watched so many disaster movies, Ben couldn’t help but get the heebie jeebies about how the snow seemed to be falling so endlessly. When it had piled knee-deep, Ben and Jerry had hurried to the supermarket on the corner, to stock up on snacks and beers in case they got stranded in the store. They were willing to wait things out if they had to. Ben just hoped Jerry kept his exuberance under control during. His best friend had a knack for breaking things. Ben called it the Jerry effect.

Ben swung open the fuse cabinet and flicked open his monogrammed lighter. He’d stopped smoking months ago but it had been a present from his father – and they were too few and far between to discard. His eyes glazed for a second as they adjusted to the light, and once they did he was confused by what he saw. The fuse box appeared to have burned and melted.

It made no sense. Wasn’t the whole point of having fuse boxes to prevent electrical fires?

There wasn’t anything Ben could think of that could cause such severe heat damage on the fuses, while leaving the surrounding cabinet completely untouched. Ben plucked at his scruffy brown beard rhythmically as he tried to find a thought that fit, a thought that didn’t worry him. But all that came to mind was…

Das is going to blow a fuse of his own when he finds out about this.

At that moment, Jerry shouted out from the shop floor. “What’s happening, Gandalf? You stroking the salami back there?”

Ben shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Dude, I swear, not now, okay!”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry said. “Don’t get your beard in a twist. It’s not like it’s the end of the world – although we are missing The Matrix.”

Chapter Five

Kath wasn’t prepared to stay there all night in the dark. She tried her mobile phone again and hissed when it still refused to dial out.

Everyone else in the country had been skiving off and throwing sickies since the snow started; why hadn’t she? It would have made life a lot easier. Because I have integrity, she told herself. Unlike most people these days. Luckily, Peter and Jess lived within walking distance of the store and had had no excuses not to come in. They knew she wouldn’t stand for any absence.

Kath glanced toward the fire exit. The doors were closed, but she could see the drifting snow outside, piling up against the glass.

It was beginning to feel more like the North Pole than the West Midlands.

Shivering, Kath pulled her arms away from her sides and groped around the cashier desk for the phone again. The thought that someone may have been responsible for the power going off still worried her and all she wanted to do was talk to someone in authority. Mr Campbell. The power company. The police. Anyone.

Peter stood nearby, she’d insisted on it, and the intermittent glow of his mobile phone made her feel a little safer, but it was only enough to take a slight edge off her nerves. She plucked the phone from its cradle and prodded the keypad.

Still no dial tone.

Kath slammed the handset back down.

“Is okay?” Peter asked in his horrible broken English.

“Everything is fine. I just dropped the phone. Do you know where Jessica is yet? I need to close up, but not before I’ve done a staff search. Its night’s like tonight when things go missing.”

There was silence for a moment and Kath’s heart rate rose. A few seconds later Peter made himself known again. “I not know where she is. Do you?”

Kath sighed. “Would I have asked you, if I did? Last I knew she was out front checking if anyone knew why the power was off. I don’t think she’s come back.”

“Should I go look for her?”

The thought of being alone made Kath shout out. “No! Stay here. The last thing I need is you both getting lost.”

Pete began walking back toward the counter. “You think she is lost?”

“That girl would lose her head if it wasn’t sewn on. I’m sure whatever she’s doing out there, she’s managed to find her way into trouble. Just lea-”

Kath’s body was suddenly wracked with shivers, cutting her words off mid-sentence. It hadn’t seemed anywhere near as chilly just an hour ago when the power had first gone off. Without the heating things were going to become freezing. She glanced at the fire exit again. The snow outside swirled intently. The wind picked up and stared to howl.

Kath wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “For God sake, Peter, will you hurry up? We need to leave.”

We need to leave right now.

***

Jess could barely see an inch in front of the freckles on her nose. The snow whipped her face relentlessly, filling her nostrils and blurring her eyes. It felt like she was going to suffocate, yet she had no choice but to persevere and find her way back to the supermarket. It was embarrassing that she’d managed to get herself so disorientated – it could only have been been ten feet before she’d found herself turned around and lost - but every direction led to a white, blossom background that seemed to creep on endlessly. She shivered, partly from anxiety but mostly from the fact she was freezing.

Really smart, Jessica. A+ for common sense.

She cried out for help and was unsurprised when she was met with near silence – the only other sound being the shrill whistle of the increasing wind. Despite the lack of reply, Jess called out again, lacking other ideas. Still silence. Jess paused to gather her thoughts. The biting cold was worse when standing still.

Jess fumbled amongst her loose change and pulled out her mobile phone. It was slender and metallic, painted pink with silver sequins. Her intention was to use it to call Peter at the supermarket and get him to shout out of the doorway. She’d follow his voice, feeling like a fool, but as long as it was only Peter she wouldn’t mind too much. He would keep things to himself and not tell the super-bitch, Kathleen.

The phone lit up as soon as she pressed its keypad, but it became immediately apparent that something was wrong with it. It still had power, but the display was garbled, distorted by vertical lines and random squiggles. She tried making a call but was unsuccessful. She put the phone away and resumed her directionless searching.

As a child, Jess had loved winter and wished for snow every Christmas – her favourite time of year – but this worldwide inclement weather made her nervous. There was a sense of foreboding in the howling wind that made Jess wonder if it would ever stop snowing at all. She’d heard on the radio that people had already begun to perish from the crushing cold, and it had only become worse since then. Now that her mobile phone wasn’t working, it left Jess even more uncertain.

Of course her phone could have been faulty. “Yeah, that’s it,” she said to herself, hoping it would calm her nerves to hear a voice, even if it was just her own. “It’s just faulty.”

Somehow, she didn’t believe it.

***

It was almost thirty minutes before Peter had finished. Kath heard his footsteps coming from the BOOZE & SPIRITS aisle. “Is everything secure?” she asked him.

“Yes, Ms Hollister.”

“Let’s get going then.”

“Where is Jess?”

Kath grunted. “She’s responsible for her own well-being. I can’t afford to wait around any longer. If you’re so concerned, you go wandering around in the snow for her yourself.”

“Thank you, Ms Hollister. I go now.”

“Peter, wait!” she shouted after him. “Perhaps, you’re right. We shouldn’t just leave Jess to her own devices.”

Peter’s footsteps halted. “Okay, Ms Hollister. Please, hurry!”

The fact that she was being given orders by a staff member made Kath furious, but the increasing howl of the wind made her feel uncharacteristically subdued. “Coming,” she said.

Chapter Six

Harry shivered as he started his next beer. It was getting colder and the scar on the back of his hand started to ache in response. He swigged deeply from his beer bottle and tried not to think.

The Irishman, Lucas, turned his attention to Old Graham at the end of the bar. “So, Father Time, you must have been around a fair few turns of the world? You ever see snow like this before?”

“Well,” Old Graham began, visibly delighted at being the centre of attention. “There was a time in the sixties where things got a little chilly as I recall; and me old man told tales of winter in the Ardennes that sounded a might more hellish than this.”

“That’s the Ardennes,” said Nigel. “It’s normal to have snow there. The amount we’ve had here the past couple days isn’t natural. Not to mention it’s snowing everywhere. All over the world. In every country. Maybe it’s because of the ozone layer or something?”

Lucas chuckled. “Give over, man! You think a couple of cow farts has the ability to change the weather?”

Harry smirked. “What do you put the snow down to then, Lucas? I mean I haven’t known it to snow like this before. It certainly seems like something has narked Mother Nature.”

“The world is a gazillion years old,” said Lucas, putting his beer bottle down on the bar as if to make a point. “I bet there’s been weather like this before, just not in your lifetime. It’s a tad unusual, no doubt, but I don’t buy all that ozone layer nonsense.”

Nigel bristled in the light of his candle, maybe even turning angry. “That’s just your opinion,” he said. “Don’t mean I’m not right. We’ve been abusing this planet for decades and it can’t go on forever.”

Lucas put up his hands. “Calm down there, fella, no need to get your hackles up. It’s just the beer talking, you know? Makes me feel a thousand times older and wiser than I should ever admit to. You’re probably right, though, humanity has been abusing the earth, and it can’t go on forever. Right now, my only concern is having a good time with a tipple to keep me warm.” He looked at Steph and winked. “And maybe a good woman wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“You’re a letch,” said Nigel, but the candlelight lit a good-natured smile on his face.

“Again, I’ve come to the right place, then.” Lucas laughed out loud, hoisted his bottle up into the air and said “cheers!” The others joined him in the toast.

Harry took another swig from his bottle and sighed at the burning satisfaction it left in his chest. When he pulled it away from his lips it was two-thirds empty. It seemed he’d been taking larger and larger swigs lately.

“So what’s your story, fella?” Lucas asked Harry. “What’s the meaning of your life?”

Harry swigged the last of his beer then pushed the bottle toward Steph, who was already on the case with a replacement. “My life,” he said, “has no meaning. Not anymore.”

Lucas frowned. “Come now, everybody’s life has meaning. We all have a purpose.”

“Really? Then why don’t you tell me what mine is, because I sure as hell don’t know.”

“I can’t tell you that.” Lucas smiled. “Every man has to find his own path and his own destination. Who knows though, maybe you’ll find yours tonight.”

Harry started on his next beer with a hearty swig, gasping for breath afterwards. He looked Lucas square in the face. He knew he was getting drunk, but couldn’t stop himself, as usual. “Sorry, but I find that hard to believe.”

Lucas stared back, his face unflinching, like a slab of sculpted granite. He patted Harry on the back. “Well, Harry boy, perhaps what you need is a little more faith.”

“Faith? You think I should believe that there’s some almighty-being up there responsible for everything that happens?”

Lucas shook his head. “Like hell I do! Everything that happens down here is because of us. The good Lord’s not here to babysit us. We can only blame ourselves for the things that happen in our lives. Well, we can blame ourselves or other people. Seems most people prefer to do the later before they even consider introspection.”

Harry felt his blood heat up, fighting back against the chill in his veins. He took offence to a stranger offering him life advice. No one could understand what he’d been through. Harry looked down at the star shaped scar on his hand and thought about the events which had led to it. Julie and Toby twisted and shattered in the remains of his bright red Mercedes, the car he’d been so proud to buy. That night Harry discovered cars, houses, and material possessions meant nothing at all, as the only truly important things in his life slowly bled away from him onto the asphalt. So much damage that Harry couldn’t even tell where his wife and child’s broken bodies began and the crumpled metal of the Mercedes ended. It looked like some abominable piece of modern art.

Harry had emerged from the crash with nothing more than a deep gash on his forehead. He was completely lucid as he watched his family die in front of him, one laboured breath at a time. Where had the justice been in that?

“Whoever is to blame for my life,” Harry told Lucas, “can go fuck themselves.”

Lucas moved a half-step back from Harry. “Easy fella, not looking for an argument. You just seem like a bit of a lost soul, and I like to take an interest.”

“An interest in lost souls?”

“Absolutely. There’s an endless wisdom in the agonies of man. Sometimes we don’t understand what humanity really is until we have our hearts and flesh torn.”

Harry put down his beer. “Sorry to let you down, but I don’t feel anything. Not anymore.”

Lucas continued smiling, as though he had the secrets of the world in his back pocket and was about to share them. “You can lie to me, Harry boy, but it would be a tragedy to lie to yourself. Men who say they feel nothing, usually feel the most. Denial only leads to trouble. That, my friend, I can promise you.”

Harry sighed and moved away from Lucas before he said something he regretted.

***

The Trumpet was an old pub with a long history. A baby boy had once been born in its claustrophobic toilets; the England Cricket team had once rented the place after a win at nearby Edgbaston; and even a murder had once occurred on its oak floors. It was a place with both history and colour. A proud relic of working men’s pubs, full of ‘proper blokes’ clocking off from a hard day’s graft for a fag and a pint. But, like all relics, its day had come and gone. Now, the fag smoking was ostracised, the over-taxed beer was expensive and weak, and the colour had all faded along with the bleak wallpaper. All the pub had left now was its history.

Things hadn’t turned out the way Damien’s father had led him to expect. The golden years of smoke-filled boozers, loose women, and high-grade drugs had been extinguished. Drugs were getting harder and harder to push and women were getting harder and harder to fuck – feminist shows like Sex and the City convincing them to have self-respect. It had taken all the fun out of being a gangster.

Screw it! He’d been born in the wrong time. There was no tradition anymore. Damien’s father and Grandfather had drunk in The Trumpet and had pretty much run the place in their days. Now you had people like this fuckface Irishman waltzing in and acting like they owned the joint after just five minutes. He needed to be taught a lesson about respect.

Damien stood from the sofa and turned towards the bar. He had enough to deal with tonight without loud-mouthed strangers giving him headache.

***

When Harry saw Damien rise up from the sofa and start making his way toward the bar, he cringed.

“Shit, incoming.” Harry whispered in Steph’s direction, hopeful that her authority behind the bar would be enough to stem any bad behaviour. He’d seen Damien’s lack of hospitality towards strangers before and it was something he could go without seeing again.

Damien stomped towards the middle of the bar, halting half-a-foot away from Lucas. Lucas behaved as if he hadn’t noticed, facing forward and sipping from his bottle calmly. Damien glared at him, eyeballs bulged like two squids.

Lucas leant over the bar towards Steph and spoke in a very clear voice. “Darling, you want to tell this young fella to wind his neck in before his peepers fall out on my shoes?”

Everyone at the bar sucked in their lungs.

Lucas turned his head to Damien, who looked like he was about to go off like a firework. “Listen, lad, I’m not a work of art, so take your beady little eyes off me and find something better to do.”

Damien’s features contorted like a broken whiskey bottle, full of crags and sharp edges. One wiry arm drew back as his young body tensed up, ready to attack.

In a move that seemed both casual and urgent at the same time, Lucas stepped back from the bar and slinked past his stool. At the precise moment Damien’s fist began its arcing descent towards him, Lucas threw a punch of his own. It was quick, it was vicious, and it connected perfectly with Damien’s incoming fist. There was a loud crack as the two men’s knuckles collided at full force.

“Fuck!” Damien howled, clutching his withered hand against his abdomen. “Jesus-goddamn-Christ!”

Lucas, who was also clutching his own injured hand, began to laugh in what seemed like genuine amusement. “Not quite, but I’ll send you to go see him if you try that bollocks again, you little shithead.”

Damien glared. “You’re dead!”

“Wrong again, lad. Unless you mean dead bored, which if I’m honest, I’m starting to get a wee bit. You’re keeping a man from his drink.”

Damien was about to respond, no doubt to make more threats, but Steph cut him off first – not with her voice, but with the landlord’s bell pulled out from under the bar. She rang it vigorously in the faces of the two arguing men.

“Pack this shit in!” she hollered. “I’m in no mood for child’s play. Especially from you!” She scowled at Damien. “It’s freezing cold, we’re all stuck here, and we’re in the bloody dark. Do you two not think things are bad enough without fisticuffs? Because you know something? If one of you gets hurt, I doubt there’s an ambulance in the world that can get here tonight.”

Or even this week, Harry thought.

Damien allowed his glare to turn into a grimace, before finally settling on a look of irritation. Lucas got back on his stool and quickly finished off his beer. He slid the empty toward Steph and said, “Two more, please. One for me and one for my new friend here with the broken hand.”

Damien hissed. “It isn’t broken, and I’m not your pissing friend.”

“Well,” said Lucas, offering a bottle of beer to Damien. “Perhaps you should be. It would make life easier.”

“Come on, Damien,” said Nigel from the far end of the bar. “If we’re all stuck here, we may as well have a drink together. Could even be a laugh.”

Damien turned his animalistic stare to the large, sweaty man at the end of the bar. “You think I want to waste a minute hanging around with a bunch of losers like you?”

Harry took offence. Being called a loser by a piece of scum like Damien did not sit well with him at all. “We don’t want to be stuck with you either,” he said, “but shit happens.”

Damien turned his glare to Harry, his body coiled and trembling like a pissed off panther. A panther ready to attack, thought Harry, regretting his comment already.

Before further words were exchanged though, Lucas pushed the bottle of beer towards Damien. “How bouts I buy your beers all night if you sit down and join in? Be an amicable chappy!”

Damien smirked. “I don’t need you to buy my drinks. I have enough money to buy your whole fucking family.”

Lucas smiled his cheeky grin. “I very much doubt that, lad, but why don’t we say I’m doing it to show my respect. I’m the new boy here and I obviously don’t know how things work now, do I? So accept my offer as an apology.”

Damien scrutinised the man’s suggestion, but it seemed obvious that it had settled down his need for bravado. Harry admired Lucas’s savvy. The man had swallowed his own sense of pride and manipulated Damien into behaving. The young thug thought he’d won, but it was apparent to everyone else at the bar that Lucas had just used a modicum of intelligence to control the situation.

“Okay,” Damien finally said, snatching the bottle from Lucas. “Guess I can lower myself for one night and share a few beers with the peasants.”

Everyone was happy to ignore the insult, ready to play along with Lucas’s charade if it meant having peace. They raised their beers in the air and mumbled agreement.

Lucas put his hand on the bar; it was swollen and red in the candle light. “Don’t suppose you could get me some ice, luv?”

Steph sighed and nodded. “Sure.”

Damien suddenly slammed down his own fist on the bar and made the rest of them jump. Like Lucas, his hand was also swollen. “Yeah, I think I could do with some too.”

There was a brief silence before Damien began laughing. It was the least hostile Harry had ever seen the lad and, before long, the entire bar was sipping their drinks and laughing right along with him. The tension seemed to float away.

But Harry had a feeling it wouldn’t last.

Chapter Seven

“Dude, I’m starting to get totally frost-bitten. It’s like The Day After Tomorrow in here.”

Ben sighed. For some reason, Jerry had to speak almost entirely in film references. The fact that Ben’s father owned a video store didn’t help matters at all. Yet, despite his annoyance, Ben had to agree. It was getting uncomfortably cold.

“Can you hear me, B-dog?” Jerry shouted from the shop floor. “I said it’s like The Day aft-“

“Yes, I heard you. Hopefully the power will come back on soon, but there’s not a lot I can do about it in the meantime.”

“What? You saw those fuses! The lights ain’t coming on any time soon. You should just call your dad so we can get out of here.”

Ben fumbled his way through the dark from the office back to the shop floor, bumping into various shelving units along the way. “I tried already! My phone’s playing up. The display is all screwed.”

“No shit? My phone is like that, too.”

Ben paused. What were the odds that both their phones would be playing up? “Really? You think it’s the weather?”

“I dunno,” Jerry said. “Can the weather do stuff like that?”

“Something’s responsible, not just for the phones but the power blowing out as well.”

Ben crossed the shop floor over to the thick glass door at the front of the shop. It was still snowing outside; heavy round flakes that seemed to sizzle as they hit the ground. He and Jerry had been clearing the entranceway throughout the day, keeping the place as accessible as possible. Of course, in such bad weather, barely a soul came by all day anyway. To make best use of the time, Ben had decided to do a stock count, which had been spot-on bar two missing copies of The Pianist and a copy of Brain Dead that Jerry had swiped over six months ago.

Ben turned around to face the gloom of the shop floor and a thought crossed his mind. “Hey, Jerry, when did you go the supermarket last?”

Jerry’s response came from somewhere near the cash register. Ben hoped he wasn’t messing around with anything. “Couple hours ago, why?”

“Did they say what time they were closing?”

“Nah, Cruella was serving me. I brought a Beano and left.”

“You mean the manageress? Yeah, she’s always so rude. I don’t get her.”

“I hope she gets eaten alive by zombies,” said Jerry. “And not the slow kind – the shit-crazy running kind from Dawn of the Dead 2004.”

Ben sighed at yet another film reference. “Maybe we should go across and see how the supermarket staff are getting home. Might be safer if we all go together.”

“Dude!” Jerry cried out triumphantly. “That blonde girl over there is smoking hot. This could be the opening I’ve been waiting for.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate you getting her home safely. Just let me lock-up and we’ll get going”

But before Ben could finish locking up, something hit the door.

Chapter Eight

The temperature had gradually swan-dived so low that Harry and the others shivered constantly. Steph’s teeth also begun to chatter, leading everyone to giggle at her, which she didn’t seem to appreciate at all. Eventually they’d all been forced to gather in front of the fire to try and keep warm.

“I’m starting to worry,” said Steph. She was sitting on a thread-bare footstool and hugging herself tightly. “The snow doesn’t look like stopping and we’re going to freeze without the power on.”

Harry looked over at the pub’s front window. The large sheet of plate glass was starting to frost over, with icy spider webs creeping from the corners. The snow was falling heavier than ever.

Harry nestled into the sofa cushions to seek out their warmth, but found none.

“What’s your drama?” said Damien from his standing spot at the left side of the fire’s mantelpiece. In his thick puffer jacket he looked warmer than the rest of them. “A bit of a chill won’t kill you, luv.”

“Won’t it?” she asked.

“Course not, you dopey cow. The power will come back on and the heating will kick on with it, so stop bloody menstruating.”

Harry snapped, not quite sure why. “Didn’t your father ever teach you to talk to women with respect?”

Damien was instantly enraged by the comment. “You don’t talk about my father, you hear me? You’re beneath him. What you gunna do about it, anyway? Teach me some manners? You ain’t got the stones.”

“You think so?” Harry challenged, still wondering what he was getting himself into and why.

Damien stepped forwards, but Steph halted him in place with a hand on his chest. “Behave!” she scolded. “Harry’s right, you should treat women with respect – especially when they happen to be in charge of the only place with an open fire for miles. You’re welcome to go freeze somewhere else, Damien, if you’d like. I’m not putting up with any of your games tonight. If it comes to having to separate you and Harry, Harry stays, you go.”

Damien sniggered. “Why don’t you two just shag each other and get it over with.”

Harry blushed at the remark, but turned the emotion into anger and went to get up out of his seat. Lucas placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. The Irishman shook his head and eased Harry back down onto the sofa.

“Anyway,” said Lucas, changing the subject. “Besides young Stephanie here – who I know is the world’s finest barmaid – what do the rest of you call an excuse for a living?”

Stephanie laughed. “You cheeky git! I’m more than a mere barmaid. I plan on starting up a pet grooming business when I’ve saved enough money. Give me another year and I’ll be there.”

Harry had known Steph since she’d started at the pub a year ago, but he’d never learned about her aspirations. He wished he’d shown more interest in her life, instead of always relying upon her to show interest in his. A wave of guilt rose up in his gullet and stuck in his throat.

Beside the fireplace, Damien was rubbing at his sore hand and laughing to himself, apparently lacking any appreciation for Stephanie’s ambitions. Lucas, however, seemed more interested. “Pet grooming?” he said, stroking at his chin thoughtfully. “Giving haircuts to rats and baths to squirrels, huh?”

Steph giggled. “I was thinking more dogs and cats, but, hey, whatever. I love animals and they all smell better after a bath.”

Damien’s laughter erupted in a mean-spirited snicker that made Harry want to spit at him. “What you want to spend your time washing shit off Rottweilers for?” He winked at Stephanie. “I’ve got ways you can earn some real money, darlin’.”

Stay calm, Harry told himself. Damien would knife you as much as look at you and violence just makes things worse. You made that mistake once before…

“So then,” Lucas addressed Damien. “What is it that you do with yourself then, lad?”

“Don’t ask,” said Nigel from his space on the floor beside the fire.

“Because if he told you, he’d have to kill you,” added Old Graham beside him.

“Is that true?” Lucas enquired, eyeing Damien up curiously. “Are you a man of mystery?”

Damien smirked. “Guess I am. I do a bit of this and a bit of that. Provide certain services and products to my friends and customers.”

Lucas stroked his chin again. “Interesting. So how did you get into that type of thing, whatever it is exactly?”

“Family business, innit? Learned from the best – my old man.”

Lucas nodded agreeably. “Sounds like a generous chap to pass on so much to his boy. Best thing a man can do is see his young ones right.”

Damien beamed. “Old man taught me everything I know.”

“So, where is this great man now?” asked Lucas, a knowing smile on his face that made it seem as though he already knew the answer. “I bet he’s some great success, yeah? Sat back in luxury, watching his boy carry on the family trade? Am I right?”

Damien’s face turned sour – not angry, but defensive and dangerous – like a cornered feline. “Not exactly,” he said. “He’s away at the moment.”

“Vacation?”

Harry smiled as Damien squirmed against the wall and tried to merge with the peeling paintwork. He was rubbing his injured hand rapidly with rhythmic strokes. “Yeah,” he finally said. “He’s on a fucking cruise, innit. What’s it to do with you?”

“Some cruise.” Old Graham piped up from his space by the fire, but quickly turned his gaze to the floor when he was met by Damien’s warning stare.

Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted Lucas to shut up or carry on, unsure if it was a conversation the group of them should be having. Lucas seemed to have a tendency to ask personal questions.

Lucas stood up unexpectedly. “A vacation, you say? Well, I hope he returns soon. Anyone for a beer?”

Talk about taking it to the brink, Harry thought, relieved that the conversation had altered course just as it neared an emotional minefield. It left Harry wondering what exactly had happened to make Damien so defensive about his father. Old Graham looked as if he knew, but when Harry glanced over at the old man, the pensioner looked away.

Steph’s voice came over from behind the bar. She moved away from the fireplace and entered the flickering lights of the candles on the bar. “I think we have a problem, guys.”

“What?” They all asked in unison.

Steph held an opened bottle of beer in her right hand and turned it upside down.

Nothing poured out.

“Jesus, no!” Old Graham cried, throwing his hands up at the sky as he realised what he was seeing. “The bloody beer’s frozen.”

Harry eye’s widened.

Was it really that cold?

Chapter Nine

“Dude, what are you doing?”

The banging at the door got more frantic.

Ben glanced over his shoulder at Jerry. “What you think I’m doing? I’m opening the door.”

“No way! It’s like The Thing out there. If someone starts hammering on the door, trying to get in – you lock it, tight! Then you board it up with planks and nails.”

Ben didn’t have time for this. He let out a long sigh. “Do you have any planks and nails, because I don’t. Movies aren’t real, and this isn’t a George Romero flick.”

Jerry winced.

The banging continued. A silhouette flittered against the pure white backdrop of the snow outside the door. Ben was just about to open up when something occurred to him, making him pause. “Hey, who’s there? Stop your banging, okay?”

Sure enough the banging stopped at his command.

“I said who’s there?”

Jerry tapped his foot nervously. “Dude, I swear, if you let the Lost Boys in here, I’ll never forgive you.”

Ben shook his head again, certain that his friend had smoked one of his funny fags at some point during the last few hours.

“My name’s Jess,” said a girl. “I work at the supermarket. Please let me in.”

Jerry leapt up and punched the air. “Dude! That’s the girl I was just talking about. The blonde fitty!”

Ben grinned. “Pity we can’t let her in, just in case she’s a zombie or a vampire?”

“Dude, stop fooling. Let her in!”

Ben couldn’t help but laugh as he turned back to the door. The girl’s silhouette continued to dance frantically against the snowy backdrop. Ben wondered what on earth had gotten her so worked up.

“Jess,” he said calmly.

“Yes, let me in.”

“The door isn’t locked,” Ben cleared his throat and waited for a reply.

There was silence, followed by a “Huh?”

“The door isn’t locked. It opens outwards. You keep bashing on it, but you need to pull it towards you.”

After a further moment’s silence, the door started to open slowly. The cold air rushed inside through the slowly widening gap. The girl that stepped inside looked very embarrassed.

***

It took almost fifteen minutes for Ben to calm Jess down. Once he’d let her inside and locked the door – she insisted on it – the girl had started to catch her breath. The three of them stood now by the entrance, where they could just about make each other out under the moon’s faltering glow and the green pulse of the fire exit sign.

“You’re lucky,” Ben said, patting her on the back. Her entire body was trembling. “We were just about to leave.”

The girl glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her, as though she expected something to burst through at any moment. The wind was picking up outside and flakes of snow were whirling up and settling against the glass.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “What exactly happened to you out there?”

“Yeah,” Jerry added. “Something give you the heebie jeebies, or what?”

Jess giggled, but it was a nervous sound. “I guess you could say something like that, but I’m probably just being silly. Least I hope so.”

“You got us a bit freaked out,” Ben said. “Banging on the door like that!”

“Sorry. I was just in a panic.”

“Why though?” Ben wanted to get to the point quickly, disconcertingly aware of the fact that they would all have to get out of there soon. It was getting far too cold to hang around any longer.

“I left the supermarket to see if anybody knew why the power had gone out,” Jess explained, “and to get away from my cow of a manageress. She drives me insane, but I just act really happy around her because I know it drives her insane.”

Ben got Jess back on track. “Then what happened?”

“Oh right, well, it’s the weirdest thing. I got lost!”

Ben and Jerry spoke in unison: “Lost?”

“Yeah, literally like ten steps out of the doorway. I couldn’t find my way back at all. Every time I changed direction it felt like I was going round in circles. I couldn’t see anything other than snow all around me. That’s when I started to get, you know, a bit scared, so I got my phone out to call someone at the supermarket to come and get me, but my phone was all messed up. I totally freaked out and started calling out for help. That’s when I saw it…”

Ben swallowed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what it was the girl saw – especially the bit about how her phone was all messed up the same as he and Jerry’s. The last thing they needed was to be freaked out right now, but he asked the question anyway. It felt like he needed to. “What did you see?”

Jess shook her head and shrugged, her bleach-blonde hair glinting in the white light coming from outside. “I… I really don’t know, but it had a face, you know? It was a man, I guess. A tall man.”

“Like Phantasm? Dude!” Jerry left it at that. Sometimes Dude said enough.

Ben wasn’t quite so impressed, though. “A face? You just bumped into someone, that’s all.”

Jess nodded. “Except the only thing I could make out on this person’s face were his eyes – big, glowy white ones inside of a hood.”

“A hood?” Another one of Jerry’s fantasies took a hold of him. “What kind of hood?”

Jess shook her head, a blank expression on her face. “I don’t know what any of that means, but it was like a priest’s robe or something. I didn’t see anything else – just the face – and I ran. Then I ended up at your door. Thank God!”

Jerry put an arm around the girl’s waist and squeezed tightly. “Amen to that!”

Ben’s common sense was telling him to dismiss the girl’s story as paranoid nonsense, but part of him couldn’t help but wonder…

Was something out there in the snow?

Chapter Ten

Damien had separated himself from the group and was now standing by the window in his bulbous puffer jacket, staring intently at the world outside. Harry and the other drinkers had remained around the sofa, a row of beers at their feet thawing in front of the fire. A couple were cracked due to the change in temperature, but most seemed to be returning to their more natural state of crisp, bubbling liquid.

Damien stared out into the night.

What is it with this weather? It just came out of freaking nowhere.

The cold was enough to freeze your eyelashes – not to mention the beer. If he was honest – which he rarely was if he could help it – he was worried. If the power didn’t come back on soon, would it get even colder? Would he freeze to death? It seemed an absurd thought in this day and age, but he wasn’t so certain. The ghost-white blanket swirling outside the window made him even less sure. It was like the whole world was freezing.

How did I get stuck in this dump on a night like tonight? The one Tuesday where I have serious business to attend to and this happens – and that fuckface Jimmy hasn’t even turned up. I should be making plans for my future right now, but no, I’m stuck here with a bunch of deadbeats. Steph isn’t so bad, but the others deserve a slap. Especially that fucking waste of space, Harry. Acts like he’s better than me, but he’s the biggest degenerate here.

Damien had noticed plenty of times how Harry turned his nose up whenever he and his mates were in the pub. Damien would have done something about it before now, but the guy wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, despite his superior attitude, Harry pretty much kept to himself, and it was a bad move to pick fights with people who kept to themselves. People told tales when you started victimising innocent people.

Still, the geezer best wind his neck in, because Damien would put him down if he kept getting in his face. The thick Mick would get his, too, if he wasn’t careful. Damien was sick of people treating him like a worthless thug, thinking they know all about him. They didn’t know shit.

For some reason, when Damien thought about Lucas it stoked an anxious fire in his belly. It wasn’t because he was scared of the man, but for some reason Lucas made Damien uneasy. Especially after the guy had damn-near busted his hand.

Damien shuddered as a cold breeze from under the pub’s rear door made it all the way inside his collar. It was time to get back in front of that fire. He was freezing his nutsack off! He turned away from the window and saw Lucas staring at him from across the room.

Speak of the Devil!

Damien glowered at the man, who smiled back at him benignly like they were old buddies or something. The fire in Damien’s belly grew hotter.

***

Damien took a lightly-frosted beer from Lucas and Harry wondered if he saw nervousness in the lad’s eyes. Damien seemed to be getting less and less sure of himself as the night went by, as though some finely-oiled veneer of toughness was slowly starting to crack and peel. Harry took a swig of his own beer and cringed as the icy liquid passed over his teeth, making them ache a little. Think I would actually prefer a steaming mug of coffee about now. When was the last time I felt like that?

Lucas ended a conversation he was having with Steph and headed off towards the toilets. Suddenly alone, Steph took a seat beside Harry on the sofa. He could feel the warmth of her thigh against his as she settled into the cushions.

“You got anywhere you’re supposed to be tonight, Harry?” she asked him.

He laughed. “You know me! When do I ever have any place to be other than here?”

“True,” she said. “But I don’t know why it is that you come here every night. It can’t just be the drink? You could stay at home and pass out on your own floor if you wanted to.”

Harry laughed again. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t be there to pick me up afterwards.”

Steph shook her head as though she didn’t accept his answer. “I’m serious! Why do you come here?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s because misery loves company. I think I come here to be among the living dead.”

Steph raised one of her neatly-shaped eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

“How can I explain it? On the weekends you get the kids in having fun, but during the weekdays you have guys like Nigel who sit at the end of the bar without saying a word to anybody all night, or guys like Old Graham who live in the past because they don’t know where they fit in during the present.” Harry took a swig of his beer and then looked Steph in the eyes. They looked to him like glistening pearls and, for a few seconds, he stopped speaking, just staring into them. Frightened that the pause might become awkward, Harry carried on with what he was saying. “I come here because it reminds me that there are other people who have nothing left in their lives except regret. If I stayed at home I’d lose sight of the fact that I’m not alone in misery – that I’m not the world’s unluckiest man. It’s strange, but sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me going. Doesn’t matter how much I hate my life, I’m not unique and my pain isn’t special. I’m never alone because I’m part of a club. The Living Dead Club. To be a member you have to stop living. You can walk around like a person, but really you’re just a memory of who you used to be.”

Steph rubbed a hand against her forehead. The various rings on her fingers glinted in the fire glow. “God, you’re depressing. That’s just about the most melodramatic thing I’ve ever heard. Have you always been like this?”

“No.” Harry said, but did not elaborate. Once he’d been a positive, upbeat person, but now he wasn’t – and that was that. The death of his wife, Julie, and his son, Toby, had left a charred, sucking wound where his heart had been. All he was left with was a star-shaped scar on the back of his hand.

Steph must have understood the feelings that her question provoked in him, as she changed the subject. “Hey, Graham?” she shouted.

The old man was sitting on the floor by the fire and flinched. “What?”

“Can you go upstairs to your flat and get some blankets and stuff? It’s almost closing time but it doesn’t look like the power is coming back anytime soon.”

The old man nodded. “Good idea.”

When Old Graham tottered over towards the bar on his way to the staircase in the corridor behind, Nigel shifted along the floor and filled his place closer to the fire. The man’s greasy face turned in Steph and Harry’s direction. “Is it okay for me to bed down here tonight, Steph? I’m parked round the back, but I don’t fancy a night in the lorry.”

Steph shrugged. “Can’t exactly see you out on the street now can I?”

Nigel’s face lit up. “Thanks, Steph.”

Damien piped up from the opposite side of the fire. “So you live in a lorry then?”

Nigel nodded. “Sometimes I do. Travelling around the Continent most the time so what’s the point in paying rent? I book a hotel when I fancy a soft bed and a warm bath, but most nights the driver’s cab suits me fine. Never did much like being tied down in one place.”

Harry wondered what that must be like. Such freedom to be able to lay your hat anyway and call it home for a night. Part of Harry yearned to disappear like that, to become a nomad with no emotional ties. But it just felt unnatural. A man without a home, without a family, wasn’t really a man. It didn’t seem right not to yearn for those things, or mourn for them once they were gone. He wondered what had led Nigel to live such an isolated life.

Damien sniggered. “So, you’re basically one step up from a homeless person, huh, Nigel?”

Nigel shrugged. “Aside from the fact that I have a well-paid job and get to see a dozen countries in any given year.”

“Where have you been recently?” Steph asked, smiling excitedly. “I bet you have some stories.”

“I was in France last week, on my way back from Amsterdam, and Copenhagen before that. There’s some beautiful countryside along the way.”

“Am-ster-dam.” Damien said the word slowly as though he enjoyed the feel of it on his tongue. “I’ve been there. Next time you go, say hello to Cindy Suckalump. She’ll give you a discount if you mention my name.”

“Don’t be so crude,” said Steph. “I’m sure Nigel doesn’t know what on earth you mean.” The attention of the group suddenly turned to Nigel who was looking away sheepishly. “Oh my!” said Steph finally, realising that Nigel was just a man like any other.

Damien let out a raucous laugh. “Oh, he knows. Look at his face.”

Nigel seemed embarrassed but was smiling nonetheless, like a ten-year old boy caught with his father’s porno magazines. Harry leant forward and was about to speak, but was interrupted by a voice behind him.

Old Graham was holding something in the air triumphantly. “Got the blankets, folks. Brought me something else too.”

“And what would that be?” asked Lucas, returning from the toilets and tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

“I think we need to know what the hell is going on tonight,” Old Graham explained, “so I brought down me old radio.”

Steph slapped his hands together and congratulated the old man. “Excellent,” she said. “If nothing else, we could get some music playing. It’s getting a bit spooky in here.”

“Now maybe we can find out just what the hell is going on with this weather and when the power will be back on,” said Harry, but deep down, something told him he didn’t want to know.

Chapter Eleven

“What’s the plan?” asked Ben. His body had gone from mild shivering to full-blown quaking now. It felt as if the very air were made of ice. “We need to get out of here s-soon. I’m freezing”

Jerry nodded agreement, his face lit by one of the dusty candles Ben had found in the bottom drawer of the office filing cabinet. His arm was still around Jess’ waist, but she didn’t seem to mind. Ben suspected that if she’d not had a fright earlier, her need for personal space might have been greater.

“Guess we should grab the beers from the office and try to make it back to yours,” Jerry said.

Nice try, thought Ben. He was fully aware of his friend’s lame attempts to create a social situation in which he could get Jess drunk, but he wasn’t about to play along. “Leave the beers behind. They’ll only slow us down. Let’s get Jess home, then we’ll go back and crash at mine. I’ve got to be back here tomorrow morning.”

Jerry’s face sagged. “Well, it would only be polite to invite Jess back as well. She may want company after the night she’s had.”

The two boys turned their attention to Jess and the girl began to fluster as all eyes were on her. “Well, I should, you know, really get back to my mum and dad. They’ll worry otherwise. Another time though, yeah?”

Ben smiled as Jerry did the opposite.

Like I said, nice try.

“I think that’s sensible,” said Ben. “Where is it you live, Jess?"

“Costers Lane. You know it?”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, it’s on our way. I live just past it.”

Jess pulled away from Jerry’s grasping arm and clapped her hands together. “Great. We should probably get going then.”

Ben got the keys from the shelf below the counter and quickly locked the rear fire exit. It was not possible to set the burglar alarm, but seeing as it was half-ten at night and freezing, he was pretty sure his father would let him off this one time.

Pretty sure…

Ben inserted the key in the lock and turned it. “Ready?” he asked.

Jess and Jerry nodded.

They made their way out into the snowfield that had been a public footpath only hours before. It now seemed more like arctic tundra. Ben locked the door and they set off.

The wind continued picking up plumes of snow, which gathered in the air like wispy spirals. Ben’s jacket had no hood. He had to cover his face with a hand to keep the newly falling snowflakes out of his nose and mouth. His feet immediately went numb inside his boots as he kicked and heaved through the thick snow. “I can’t believe how bad it’s got,’ he said.

Jess replied. “I know. It’s really scary! The snow was bad last year, but this is like the end of the world or something.”

Jerry’s expression lit up. “Like The Day after Tomorrow. I totally said that earlier.”

“I wasn’t being literal. I don’t really think it’s the end of the world.”

Ben laughed.

Jerry blustered. “Yeah, well, I was just kidding. Just saying that the snow is pretty bad, that’s all. Most movies are totally based on science, so The Day After Tomorrow could happen.”

Ben wiped his face clean of snow and let out a sigh. “The world isn’t ending, Jerry. You thought Jurassic Park was based on science too, remember?”

Jerry jumped up and down in mock outrage. “Dude, don’t even get me started on Jurassic Park. That shit could happen, too.”

“No, it couldn’t.”

“Dude!”

Jess began laughing. “Is this what you two are like all the time? You crack me up!”

They both blushed. Ben hated when Jerry got him involved in one of his asinine nerd-fiction routines. It had been embarrassing him his whole life. It was his own fault; sometimes he just couldn’t resist winding Jerry up. It was one of life’s few pleasures.

“You know what?” said Jess, still giggling. “If we stop by my house, I can leave a note for my parents. I’ll crash at yours like you said. It could be fun.”

Jerry’s face lit up and, if Ben was honest, he too was pleased at the thought of having Jess back to his place. She seemed cool, and it would be nice to have more than just one friend. All they had to do now was make it home, which at the moment seemed easier said than done.

***

Ten minutes later, Jerry had to stop. Jess wasn’t thrilled about it because somewhere in the snow was the tall, hooded man that had frightened the life out of her earlier. She was certain of what she’d seen.

Well, pretty sure anyway.

“Dude, I can’t see two inches in front of me!” Jerry bumped into the back of Ben, sending them both into a stagger, the deep snow making it hard to keep balance.

Jess laughed at them. “Come on, Ant and Dec. I’m freezing my tits off here.”

Jerry regained his balance, pushing against Ben’s shoulders to steady himself. Ben huffed, most likely irritated that he was being used as a steadying post.

“Hey, if you want me to warm them up for you,” said Jerry with a smirk, “just let me know.”

“Nice try,” she said. “But I’m not as easy as that.”

Ben chuckled and pointed at his friend. “Wounded!”

“Hey, she said she wasn’t easy – not impossible.”

“Well, I must admit that’s closer than you get with most girls.”

“You ain’t so hot yourself, Gandalf.”

“I told you to stop calling me tha-“

“Children, children,” Jess interjected. “Put away the testosterone and try to remember I’m not a Star Wars figurine. I don’t like being fought over, and my packaging stays on.”

“Worth more like that anyway,” Jerry muttered. “Besides, I thought most girls liked being fought over.”

Jess stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not most girls.”

The three of them shared a laugh and they continued struggling onwards, crunching their footprints into the twinkling snow. The increasing blizzard made it difficult to see – and to hear – but they all saw clearly the shadowy silhouette standing in front of them.

Jess raised her hand and pointing a trembling finger. “It’s him. The man I saw earlier.”

Jerry put his arm around her. “It’s cool. Nothing to worry about.”

Ben stepped towards the stranger. “Sir? Are you trying to get home? We are too. Perhaps we could help one another?”

The shadowy figure stayed still, obscured by the veil of blustering snow and darkness.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Ben,” Jerry urged. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Me too,” said Jess. Although she could not make out any of the stranger’s features, she knew it was the hooded figure from earlier. She felt it.

The stranger remained silent, not speaking or moving, but undeniably there.

“Come on, dude. This is the type of situation where somebody ends up on the end of the meat hook.”

Ben shot Jerry an angry look. “Jerry, do you always have to be so annoying? There’s no such thing as monsters. This isn’t one of your stupid horror movies. I’m sick and tired of-.”

Ben’s speech was derailed by an explosion, not of sound but of light. Behind the shadowy figure, a palisade of flames ignited, rising from the very snow itself, blotting out the darkness and drenching their freezing bodies in intense heat. The sudden change in temperature made Jess’s skin pop and tingle, but her legs were still numb, buried by the snow.

The flames behind the stranger were mesmerizingly bright, illuminating his features in all their glory. He wore magnificent silver robes that almost seem to sparkle against the blazing backdrop of vertical fire. The hood over his head showed nothing but the red hot swirls of his eyes.

Jess laughed as the inappropriate image of a Vegas magician presented itself in her head. Maybe she was losing her mind.

Jerry shouted at Jess from behind her, but she couldn’t move, her legs paralysed by fear. Her eyes remained fixed on the hooded figure and the flames behind him. Whatever she was seeing, it couldn’t be real.

The lurching figure finally started to move. From beneath the silver robes came a crooked hand, all bony fingers and bulbous knuckles. It began to draw something long and grey, a slither of sharp metal.

Jess flinched. Is that a sword?

“He’s about to get stabby,” said Jerry. “Who is this guy?”

Ben made mumbling sounds, like he was trying to say something, but couldn’t find any words.

Jess regained the use of her legs and started backing away. “Ben,” she said, “I think you should back away and come over here with us.”

Ben turned and stared at Jess with wide, fearful eyes. “No shit!”

The three of them ran for it.

“Who the hell is it?” Jess managed to ask mid-run, the words coming out in huffs and puffs.

Jerry answered in the same out-of-breath way. “You mean what is that, don’t you? It ain’t no man.”

The conversation went no further as the three hurried away from the hooded figure. The snow slowed their escape down to a stumbling crawl and Jess couldn’t help but worry that if the creature pursued them they had slim hopes of getting away. “Is it thing following us?” she asked, trying to move faster, despite her clumsy snow-bound strides.

“I don’t know,” said Ben. He looked back over his shoulder. “I think-”

While Jess tried to catch up with Jerry a few yards in front, she waited anxiously for Ben to finish his reply. After several seconds, her heart surged with so much panic that she had to turn around herself.

When she looked back, she saw that Ben had stopped several yards behind her. He was still following after her and Jerry, but he was making slow, almost laborious progress. Beyond him, Jess could see nothing except snow and darkness. The burning palisade and the robed stranger were gone.

“Ben,” she called out. “What are you doing? Get a move on!”

It was a few moments before he replied to her. “I…I don’t feel right. I…” He fell down in the snow, his face disappearing.

Jess panicked. She had to go back and help Ben, but that meant heading back towards the stranger with the sword. .

Up ahead, Jerry stopped in his tracks, swaying and tottering like he couldn’t gain control of his knees. He looked confused as to why everyone had stopped.

Jess trudged her way over towards Ben, who was still down on his hands and knees, face buried in the snow. Within a few minutes, she managed to make it back to him.

“Hey, what’s wrong,” she asked, getting frantic.

Ben managed to roll onto his side and looked up at her. The sight made her stomach churn. His face had turned white as the snow, except for his lips, which were bright red with blood.

Jess swallowed a lump in her throat. “Jesus, Ben, are you ok? What’s happened?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Jerry came rushing up beside her, and immediately dove down into the snow. “Ben! Ben, what’s wrong, buddy? Shit, dude, you’re bleeding.”

Ben managed to laugh meekly at his friend’s arrival. Scattered specks of blood flew from his mouth and covered the snow in pinpricks of red.

“Oh my god,” said Jess, covering her mouth. “One of your fingers is missing!”

Ben stared down at his hand like he didn’t recognise it. The strangest thing of all, Jess noticed, was that the finger stump wasn’t bleeding. It was capped by a glistening patch of red, but it wasn’t moist at all. The wound seemed more like the surface of sandpaper than raw flesh.

Jerry reached out a hand to his friend. “Come on, B-Dog. Let’s get you out of here.”

Ben reached out to take Jerry’s hand, but when their hands made contact his arm crumbled away at the shoulder as though it were made of sand. The stump bled for a few seconds then appeared to glaze over. It left Ben staring at them with the same look Jess imagined soldiers wore when they realised they were holding their own intestines. Ben’s glistening eyes dried up until they looked like two lumps of clay set into his face. His lips cracked.

It took a moment for Jess to realise that Ben was dead.

It took several more moments for Jerry to understand it too, but when Ben’s entire body crumbled away to ashes and melted into the snow, he was finally forced to accept that his friend was gone. How and why made no sense at all.

Jess allowed herself the luxury of screaming, and she didn’t stop until she was completely out of breath.

Chapter Thirteen

Harry’s world felt better from beneath the snug security of the thick quilt. Despite the fact the cold was a little more tolerable, Harry still eagerly awaited the power to click on. It’d been almost three hours now and closing in on midnight.

“Come on, old man,” Damien shouted. The lad had declined one of Old Graham’s blankets, as it would probably ruin his hard man image, so he was instead closer to the fire than everyone else. He also had on his thick padded coat.

“Yeah,” Nigel joined in. “Haven’t you picked anything up on that piece of junk yet?”

Old Graham sat on a footstool by the fire and fiddled with his radio. It hissed and crackled. “I’m trying,” he grumbled. “Nowt’s happening.”

“When was the last time you even used that thing?” Damien asked.

“It’s been a while, but I knows how to work a bloody radio, lad. My generation grew up with the things.”

Lucas reached out a hand from his perch on the armrest of the two-seat sofa. “Give it here, old timer. I know my way around a puzzle.”

Old Graham obliged and handed over the crackling radio. Lucas immediately set about twiddling its knobs and pressing buttons. A frown filled his face gradually like liquid filling a beaker. “I think the thing’s a dud, fella.”

“Nonsense! I’ve used it a hundred times.”

Lucas gave it a whack. “Well, it’s gone on strike tonight.”

Harry was curious. “I’ve never known a radio to switch on and not pick up anything at all. They usually get something, even if it’s only faint.”

“Not if the antenna’s faulty,” Lucas said. “You’d get nothing but static. Let’s say you’re right though. Let’s assume the radio is working and still we’re getting nothing. What does that mean?”

Harry started to think about it, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “I guess it would mean that nobody’s broadcasting, or that the radio waves aren’t getting through.”

“Exactly,” Lucas said, as if he was revealing the most obvious fact in the universe. “So those are two options. The third and final one is that the radio has popped its little electrical clogs. What’s the most likely, Harry Boy?”

Harry felt silly, but worried at the same time. “I suppose it is just the radio, or the weather affecting things.”

Lucas smiled as if he’d successfully explained algebra to a monkey. “There you go! No need to assume the wor-“

Old Graham cried out. “Got something!”

Harry and Lucas broke off their discussion and turned to the old man; so did Steph, Nigel, and Damien. Old Graham waved his hand at them all and ushered them closer. His left ear was half-an-inch from the radio’s speaker. At first, all Harry could make out was more hissing and crackling, but as he got closer…

“What is that?”

“I don’t know,” Old Graham said without turning his attention away from the radio. “I can’t make it out, but something’s definitely there.”

Everyone gathered around and listened to the radio pop, hiss, and crackle, but behind those noises was something else. At first it sounded like horns blowing – trumpets even – but then there was…

Voices.

Garbled, disembodied speech that made sense to Harry for only mere seconds: …Pillars…Salt…Sin…

Nigel straightened his back and stepped away from the radio, which quickly returned to giving out nothing but empty static again. “Did anyone else hear that? Could anyone understand it?”

Old Graham shook his head. “Not really. Something about salt?”

Nigel shook his head. “Pillars. It was pillars.”

“Pillars of salt,” Steph added helpfully.

Damien turned his back on the group, walked back over to the other side of the fire, and then turned back to face them. “Pillars, Salt, Sin, that’s what it said.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Guess my hearing’s better than you old farts.”

Harry felt like screaming ‘shut up’ at the top of his lungs, but refrained. “Damien’s right. It said: Pillars. Salt. Sin.”

Lucas sat back down on the perch of the armrest. “What in heaven does that mean then? Sounds downright biblical.”

Harry didn’t disagree and thought about it for a moment, wondering who was broadcasting it. “Does anybody know what Pillars of Salt and Sin actually means?” He asked the question earnestly because he had no idea.

Steph was the first to offer an opinion. “Isn’t it from a Coldplay song?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You think we just caught part of a song playing?”

Steph shook her head and seemed to doubt her own answer. “It didn’t sound like singing, and the line in the song goes quite quickly. The words on the radio were drawn out and slow.”

“Plus, that song doesn’t contain the word, sin,” Damien added.

“No, it doesn’t.” Steph agreed.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Anybody else got ideas?” He looked around and raised his eyebrows. “What about you, Lucas?”

“Can’t help you there, fella. It’s probably nothing but Prayer Time with Father Bob for all I know. You can find all kinds of religious mumbo jumbo if you fiddle about enough. Either way, I need to go and visit the latrine again, so I’ll leave you folks to ponder.” Lucas got up from the sofa’s armrest and headed towards the toilets again, while the rest of them continued their conversation.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Old Graham wrapping a wool blanket around himself and pulling it tight around his shoulders. His words still fluttered slightly as the cold strangled his central nervous system. “No point worrying about it now. I’ll put the radio on the bar if anyone wants to have another go. I need to get warm.”

Nigel nodded and pulled up his own blanket. “Yeah, it’s getting a little too nippy for my liking. Do we have any more wood for the fire?”

Steph nodded and headed off towards the bar, but before she got there the sound of screaming made her turn back around.

“What the hell was that?” said Nigel

Harry up from the sofa quickly and placed his beer bottle down on one of the nearby tables. “Someone’s outside.”

Steph stepped away from the bar. “Harry, where are you going?”

“To help them.”

“I’d advise against that, Harry Boy.” Lucas was returning from the toilets. “You go out in that weather and you might not come back.”

“We can’t just do nothing,” said Harry. “Someone is screaming.”

Lucas walked over to him by the pub’s exit and pointed to the frost-covered window. “Look out there, fella. You’ll be blind the second you step outside, and trying to make it in a straight line for ten steps will leave you a disorientated sot. You’d probably struggle to walk ten steps in a straight line on a normal night.”

Harry scowled. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Damien stood laughing by the fire. “He means you’re a worthless drunk, Harry, and everybody knows it.”

The hackles of Harry’s neck rose. “What did you just say to me?”

Damien stepped towards Harry, but was still a good nine feet away. “I said that you’re a no-good, stinking drunk, and that if someone is hurt out there, screaming for help, the worst person that could turn up to help them would be you.”

Harry wanted to use words to retaliate, as that was the man he was – but none came to mind. The only thing that filled his head was a blind, boiling rage. He leapt across the room, landing a punch square on Damien’s nose, spreading his cheeks and scrunching up his face. Both nostrils gushed blood immediately.

Damien didn’t go down. He staggered backwards, clutching his nose in stunned bewilderment.

Everyone else in the room stood frozen and silent, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

Damien regained control of himself, dropping his hands so the blood and mucous ran down the light-blue shirt inside his puffer jacket. “You just made a big fucking mistake,” he snarled. “Cus I’m going to kill you.”

Harry’s soul deflated as he realised the seriousness of his actions. What had made him act so violently? That wasn’t him at all. Was it? Either way, he’d chosen a course of action and would have to stick to it.

Harry clenched his fists and spat defiantly. “Try it, you little fuckweed!”

Damien started towards him, taking each step casually as if he had all the time in the world. Harry tried to swallow but found a lump blocking his throat. He raised his fists and prepared for his first ever bar fight.

Lucas jumped between the two of them and placed a hand across Damien’s chest. “Calm down there, fellas. Thought we had an agreement? We’re all going to play nice tonight.”

Damien sneered. “Try telling that to your man here; wrecked a perfectly good designer shirt. He’ll pay for it, though.”

Lucas sighed. “You gentlemen can settle up another night. There’s no time for it now. There’s some lass screaming out there and our Harry Boy was about to do the noble thing and go offer assistance. You should do the right thing and let him.”

Damien shook his head in disbelief. “You were the one telling him not to go out there.”

“Well,” said Lucas, “that was before he was in as much danger inside as he is out. Besides, there’s a chance he might freeze to death, so you should be all for it.”

Damien backed off slightly, but pointed a finger at Harry. “We’ll finish this later.”

Harry was unsure what to do, not wanting to lower his fighting stance until he knew the situation was truly defused. He looked at Lucas who nodded at him reassuringly. He slowly lowered his arms and moved back towards the pub’s exit.

“Wait!” It was Steph. She sounded worried. “Let me find you a torch or something.”

“Yeah,” Old Graham agreed from under his blanket by the fire. “At least take a blanket with you.”

Harry waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure someone’s just slipped over. I’ll be straight back. It’s just a bit of bloody snow.”

“I’ll be waiting when you get back,” said Damien.

Harry sighed. He stepped towards the pub’s exit…

Clonk!

…before falling to the ground clutching his head as the door swung inwards and clubbed him in the forehead.

The world cast into darkness as a gale rushed in from outside and extinguished all the candles on the bars.

Harry moaned in pain.

“Shit! Harry, are you okay?” Steph asked from somewhere in the darkness.

Harry ceased his moaning and tried to get up. Pressure mounted in his skull, a swelling above his left eye. Reaching forward onto his hands, he planted his knees on the floor and prepared to get back to his feet. It was then that he realised someone was standing in front of him in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he said.

Everyone stood still in the darkness and waited for an answer.

“My name is Kath. I’m the manageress of the supermarket across the road.”

A collective sigh of relief filled the room. Steph quickly relit the candles on the bar.

“Try coming in a little slower next time,” Harry said, rubbing his forehead. “You almost broke my skull.”

Kath laughed nervously. “I’m so sorry. I guess the weather has put me in a bit of a panic.” The woman moved away from the doorway and towards the light. “Oh, that’s better. I was starting to forget what it was like to be able to see properly.”

Kath offered her hand to Steph and Steph shook it.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Steph. Why were you screaming out there?”

“No, that wasn’t me. It would no doubt be that silly girl.”

Harry moved over to the bar. “Silly girl?”

“Yes, Jessica. She’s just some ditsy teenager who works for me. She went wandering off into the snow when the power went off.”

“We should go look for her then,” Harry insisted.

Kath sighed. “Don’t bother wasting your time. Peter went after her; she’ll be fine. I’m sure they bumped into each other out there and that’s what startled her.”

“You sure she’ll be okay?” Steph asked. “We should check to make sure.”

Kath’s response was abrupt. “If she needed help there would have been more than one scream, wouldn’t there?”

“Guess that makes sense,” said Lucas, taking the top off a newly defrosted beer with his molars. “I say we top up that fire and get ourselves snug beneath those blankets.”

“Good idea,” said Old Graham, already making his way back to the fire. The rest of them followed, spreading the blankets into a line, before tucking themselves in side by side like sardines.

Steph brought over a crate of bottled beer and placed it by the fire hopefully thaw out. Harry passed an already recently thawed bottle to their new arrival, Kath. “My saviour,” she said, supping the beer greedily. “After the day I’ve had I could see myself becoming quite the alcoholic just to cope.” The comment brought a stiff silence. “Did I say something wrong?” Kath asked. “It was just a joke.”

Despite Harry expecting Damien to use the opportunity to revisit their earlier animosity, he declined to speak. Instead he stayed quiet and drank his beer.

“So,” Steph asked, “what exactly have you been through tonight, Kath?”

“God, if only you knew. The whole world has gone crazy. The electricity went out, my phone stopped working, and at one point I thought I was going to freeze to death. Thank heavens you’re still open, because I don’t know how on earth I would have made it home in this snow.”

“Your phone isn’t working?” said Damien.

Kath shook her head. “No, it doesn’t work at all. The landline didn’t either.”

“Guess the power affects the towers, or whatever you call ‘em,” said Old Graham.

“Maybe,” Kath agreed, “but don’t the landlines work even when the powers out?”

Harry nodded in the dark and rubbed at the throbbing lump on his forehead. “I think you’re right. Don’t they work off static signals?”

Lucas laughed. “Any telephone technicians in the house? Anybody?”

“What’s your point?” Harry asked.

“My point is that none of us really know how the phone lines work.”

“That’s right,” Nigel said. “Didn’t they go digital or something a time back?”

From the middle of the group, Steph cracked open another beer. Her words were beginning to slur slightly as she spoke. “Don’t suppose it matters. We’re stuck here not knowing all the same. This is the worst weather I’ve ever seen, it doesn’t surprise me that everything’s gone down the pan. Not like we have a government that actually knows its arse from its earlobe, is it?”

Kath chuckled. “Tell me about it!”

“Now, now, Ladies,” Lucas put both hands up. “A pub is no place for politics. You can go to a stuffy wine bar for the likes of that. A good old-fashioned boozer like this is meant for people to forget their troubles, inept governments included.”

Steph laughed. “Aha! So you think the government is inept as well?”

Lucas grinned. “Sweetheart, I think they’re all inept – and trust me, I’ve seen a few. I always say that religion and politics are just clever ways to make discontent people content with their discontentedness.”

Old Graham snorted. “Good one.”

Kath turned to Lucas, disapproval on her face. “I take it you’re a nonbeliever then, erm…”

“Lucas, my dear woman. You can call me Lucas. To answer your question: yes, absolutely I believe in the Almighty Father. I never condemned Him now, did I? I condemned the eejits that try to run things in his name.”

After a moment’s thought, Kath seemed to accept this. “Well, perhaps I can agree with you there.”

Harry joined in. “What’s your Almighty Father’s plan for tonight? Besides freezing us all to death that is.”

“Do I detect a heathen?” Lucas asked.

Harry swigged his beer. “I’m just a realist.”

“That’s just slang for being a moody sod,” Lucas quipped.

“Why don’t you believe, Harry?” Kath asked.

“Because if I believed that there was someone responsible for all the things that have happened in my life then I would be so consumed with rage that I don’t think I’d be able to go on living.”

“Is that because you’re such a loser?” Damien asked.

Harry wanted to get angry, but he was too tired. Maybe it was the beer, or something deeper inside of him that was just giving up. His heart felt weary.

“You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?” asked Lucas.

Harry turned in the Irishman’s direction. “What?”

“The only time a man gives up hope like you have is when they’ve lost a loved one…a child perhaps. Was it a boy or a girl?”

“It,” Harry spat, “was a boy. Toby.”

There was silence, thick enough that a snow plough would have blunted against it. Harry had never let anyone in The Trumpet know about Toby. It was his place to escape from all the pity and well-wishing that his onetime friends and family had become consumed with since the accident. This pub was his place to come and be alone with his pain, to remember his son the way he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” said Damien. No one else spoke.

Harry didn’t say anything either. He was consumed by a deep sadness. Not just for Toby or Julie – he always felt sadness for them – but sadness because he knew he could never come back here again. The Trumpet’s sanctuary of anonymity was gone.

“Okay,” said Lucas, raising a beer in the dim light of the fire. “We’ll change the subject, but first: Here’s to Toby, may his soul be somewhere safe and pleasant.”

The group raised their bottles and said Toby’s name. Harry stared into the fire.

Chapter Fourteen

Peter hadn’t seen Jess, or anybody else, for almost an hour, not since he’d parted ways with Kath. Earlier, the two of them had heard screaming and he was certain it was Jess. Kath had chosen to head for the nearby pub, caring only about herself, but Peter had decided to do the right thing and go to find his friend. It had not gone as well as he’d hoped.

Peter wasn’t one to lose his cool easily; no one in Poland was, not after what their grandparents had lived through. It gave them a unique perspective on what really mattered in life. Yet, Peter had to admit to himself that he was starting to get anxious.

Peter had been used to the freezing cold of his hometown, near Warsaw, but he’d never known conditions like this. It reminded him more of the Arctic Circle than Great Britain – the place he’d come to follow his dreams and earn money he could only dream of back in Poland. England had become as much a home to him as his own homeland, even if he wasn’t always made to feel welcome.

But tonight, Peter would have given anything to be back home with Momma and Poppa. He’d never felt as alone as he did right now.

“Jess,” he called out into the emptiness. “Jess, are you ok? It is Peter.”

There was no response. He’d almost given up hope of finding Jess, but that didn’t stop him worrying about why he had heard a scream. Jess was a nice girl, attractive and funny. Most of the Polish people in the town stuck to their own and socialised with each other – especially when it came to dating. It was easier that way and provoked less xenophobia than if the Polish men went around sleeping with the English women. But Peter often yearned to spend time with Jess, and thought about kissing her.

Peter hoped she was okay.

“Peter, is that you?”

Peter stopped in his tracks. The snow crunched beneath his polished work shoes. “Jess, is that you?”

“Peter, I’m over here. I need help.”

Peter turned a full circle, unable to pinpoint where Jess’s voice was coming from. “Jess, I hear you, but I not see you. Jess?”

The voice came closer. “Peter, I’m here. Help!”

Peter turned another circle. He spotted something in the distance and trudged towards it. “Jess, I…I see you.”

In the near distance, Peter could just about make out a grey shape in the howling blizzard. A sigh of relief whistled from his cold, blue lips and he began to head toward it.

***

Jess and Jerry fled in terror after witnessing Ben turn to dust. They were too much in shock to comprehend what they’d witnessed. They just knew they had to get out of there.

“I don’t have…a goddamn clue…what just happened,” said Jerry, fighting his way breathlessly through the snow.

Jess was beginning to slow down. They hadn’t gone far, but in the deep, sucking snow, moving any distance was an endurance test. “I need to stop,” she said. “I’ve got a stitch.”

Jerry halted and looked at her. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled hard. “Are you nuts? That thing will get us. You never stop when there’s a demon on your arse. Have you never seen Friday the 13th?”

Jess pulled back, her chest rising and falling in great heaves. “There’s…no such thing as…demons.”

“There is too. Exorcist was based on true events and so was The Entity.”

Jess shook her head. “They just say that so idiots like you go to watch it. That thing wasn’t chasing us when we started running. I think we can stop for a second.”

“You saw what it did to Ben!” Jerry seemed to struggle with something internally, before going on, like he was fighting back a wave of tears. “It killed him, and if we don’t get moving it’ll get us too.”

Jess nodded. “Okay, but where the hell are we going? I can’t see anything and I’ve already got lost in this snow once tonight.”

Jerry pulled on her arm again and the two of them started moving. “We need to find the pub. There is always someone there till late.”

“The pub it is then,” said Jess, getting her wind back and making a move.

***

Twenty minutes later, the two of them came to a stop at the bottom of the hill leading up to The Trumpet. It had taken the last of their energy, wandering around in the white darkness of the growing blizzard, to find it, and if it hadn’t been for the fear and adrenaline dominating her system, Jess was sure she would’ve keeled over by now.

“Thank God we found it,” she said. “I don’t think I can get much colder. My nipples could cut cake.”

Jerry stared at her chest.

“That wasn’t an invitation to ogle my chest. Just take my word for it, I’m cold.”

Jerry shook himself as if escaping a hypnotic trance. “Sorry! Well, it’s one thing finding the pub, but let’s hope somebody’s still in there. Else, I don’t know what we’re going to do. With the Siberian weather and Flame Boy on our tail, I don’t know what’ll kill us first.”

Jess shuddered.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know you’re scared.”

Jess didn’t admit it, but it was true. They were both fighting back the pangs of panic. Jerry’s cheeks had gone clammy and looked like they were burning up despite the chill. Jess worried that if they didn’t get under cover soon, they’d be in danger of getting frostbite or hypothermia.

She started to take the first steps up the hill, sticking to where she imagined the path lay beneath the snow. She peered up at the pub, which loomed over them ominously. “I think I see a light in there,” she said.

Jerry squinted. “Yeah, I think I do too. There must be people inside.”

The two of them hurried, taking steps as quickly as possible in the knee-high snow sloping upwards. As Jess neared the top, she became more and more certain that there was light inside the pub. Not electrical light, but a flickering, glowing light from a torch or-

“I think they have a fire in there,” said Jess, giddy at the thought of warmth.

“Jurassic Park!” Jerry fist-pumped triumphantly. “Let’s get our black asses in there.”

Jess’s brow wrinkled. “We’re not black.”

“Come on!” Jerry grabbed Jess by the arm and started helping her up the hill…

…but a noise from behind made them stop.

“Is that…growling?” Jess turned slowly as the low grumbling grew louder. It did indeed sound like growling but, when she looked back, there was nothing other than the drifting, windswept snow. She turned back to Jerry. “Let’s just get to the pub, okay?”

They picked up as much speed as they could, still hampered by the chilling embrace around their ankles and shins. When the growling started again it seemed to be coming from all directions, vibrating through the air all around them.

Jerry put his hand on Jess’s back and pushed. “I don’t like the sound of whatever’s making that.”

Jess was about to agree when she found herself off balance, her toe stubbing up against some hidden brickwork or stone beneath the snow. As she crumpled, her leg twisted and folded beneath her, leaving her facing back the way she had come. She shrieked at what she saw.

So did Jerry.

Chapter Fifteen

“Harry snapped out of his wallowing, leapt up in front of the fire. “The hell was that? More screaming?” He started for the pub’s exit again. “What’s going on tonight?”

The others emerged from underneath their blankets and duvets by the fire. Steph hurried up beside Harry and put a hand on his back, clutching his jacket. “That scream sounded really close,” she said. “You think it was the same person as earlier?”

“I hope so, otherwise that means there’s something even more screwed up going on out there. A single person screaming is a lot better than two people screaming.”

The cries continued, closer and more urgent.

“Go on, Harry,” Steph urged. “It sounds like they’re right outside.”

Harry nodded and made for the door, but, before he managed to get there, it sprung open. Luckily, his forehead was nowhere near this time and he avoided a second blow from the thick wood. “What is it with people flying through this bloody door?”

Two flailing bodies – a boy and a girl – tumbled through the entrance and ended up in a crumpled heap on the floorboards. Harry saw that they were just a couple of teenagers.

He offered them his hand. “Come on in why don’t you.”

The girl ignored his hand and sprang to her feet unassisted. She rushed over to the still-open door and slammed it shut, heaving her weight against it and sliding her arm up to the bolt, pulling it across with a forceful Clack!

Damien stepped up beside Harry, peered down at the teenage boy on the floor and then across at the panting girl slumped against the door. “What the fuck you two tripping about?”

The girl looked back at Damien, her chest heaving in and out beneath her fleece. Her eyes were wide and she said nothing.

Damien turned his glance to the boy instead. “What about you, knobhead? You got anything to say, or shall I kick your arse back outside? You’ve interrupted a private party and it’s bad manners to crash.”

“No,” the girl said urgently. “Please, let us stay!”

Damien went to speak but Harry cut him off, confident that he would take a more appropriate line of questioning than the young thug. “You can both stay. Of course you can, but what on Earth has gotten you so frightened?”

“There’s something out there,” said the boy on the floor, still trembling on his back, but now propped up on his spindly elbows. “There’s something out there, like a big freaking dog or something. It was like…like…Jaws with fur.”

There was silence in the room as Harry and the others studied the newcomers and considered their wild suggestions. The girl was nodding in agreement and they both seemed scared half to death by something, but what they were claiming seemed like pure...

“Bullshit,” said Damien.

Harry nodded, actually agreeing with Damien for once and finding the sensation strange. “It was probably just a stray dog,” he said, “stressed out by the weather. I’m sure it’s unpleasant out there for anyone, dogs included.”

The teenagers seemed to calm a little, although both of them kept glancing back at the door nervously. Eventually the boy got himself up off the floor and put an arm around the girl. They spoke between themselves for a moment, too quietly for Harry to make out the words. Boyfriend and girlfriend, he supposed, before asking them, “Beer?”

This seemed to be just the ticket as the two youngsters started smiling. Yet, despite them relaxing, Harry couldn’t ignore the bile rising from his stomach.

It tasted like dread.

***

Jess watched the elderly man come from behind the bar with more blankets, while beside him, a large greasy-skinned man had a shopping bag filled with food – sausage rolls, chicken, ham, and stale-looking bread. Jess’s mouth watered as the snacks were handed out amongst the group. She was surprised by how hungry she was.

“You say it was halfway between a Great Dane and a bull?” Kath asked Jess, her sneering lips spattered with porkpie crust.

Jess couldn’t believe it when she’d found Kath at the pub. A spiteful part of her had hoped the old bag had got lost in the snow. Jess made a mental note to find out where Peter had gone to. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Kath left him in the supermarket to guard it overnight in the freezing cold. Kath had it in for Peter ever more than she did Jess.

Kath cackled. “Well, bull is exactly what it is, young lady.”

“Yeah, as in bull-shite!” said a voice from somewhere else.

Jess sneered at the person who had spoken. “You’re Damien Banks, aren’t you?”

Damien’s face lit up. “You’ve heard of me? Well, you’d be a fool not to have.”

Jess folded her arms. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. You’re the dickhead that deals smack. Your mates are always causing trouble at the supermarket – knocking stuff over and threatening us all. Basically acting like an immature little boys. Same as you are right now.”

Damien’s smug expression dissolved into anger. The flesh in his cheeks changed from primrose to burgundy. “You better watch that mouth sweetheart. This is my pub and–”

“Actually,” said the barmaid – Jess thought she’d heard her name was Steph. “It’s my pub tonight, Damien, and we’ve all agreed to get along. That includes you, too, sweetheart. Don’t poke the natives!”

Jess nodded. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Damien smiled and held up his beer. “I forgive you, but only cus you’ve got nice tits.”

“She’s, like, sixteen, dude!” Jerry shouted, eyeballing Damien with suspicion.

Damien sneered. “You want to call your dog off, sweetheart? He’s likely to get himself neutered.”

Jess turned to Jerry. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

Jerry stepped closer and spoke in a hushed voice. “Sorry, it’s just that this guy is bad news, a right wannabe gangster.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “Everyone is aware of Damien Banks, which is why you should just stay out of his way. He’s dangerous enough on a normal night, let alone one where everything’s gone to hell. Let’s just finish our beers and try to stay out of his way until we can get help.”

Jerry nodded and re-joined the group. They were all resuming their positions in front of the fire

“So, lass,” said a good looking man with an Irish accent, “with a somewhat calmer mind, do you want to spin us your yarn about the furry beast you say you saw outside?”

Jess didn’t answer and instead looked quizzically at the man who’d offered to help her up off the floor when she’d first arrived. He was good looking too, but more tired and weary looking.

“Don’t worry,” he said to her and smiled. “Lucas always speaks like that. You’ll get used to it.”

Jess laughed. “Oh, well, I guess it was like you all said: just a dog or something.”

Lucas frowned. “Come now. If that was what you thought at the time then you wouldn’t have burst in here screaming like a banshee. At the time, you thought you saw something. What?”

Jess was hesitant, nervous at the thought of bringing it all up again after she’d managed to convince herself it hadn’t happened. “I er…I really don’t know. It was all so confusing.”

“It wasn’t a dog,” Jerry spoke up. “I’ve seen a hundred different breeds of dog and there’s nothing even close to what we saw tonight.”

The others switched their focus from Jess and listened to Jerry as he continued. Don’t tell them, Jess was thinking. They’ll think we’re both insane.

“We’d just started to climb the hill,” Jerry said, “when we heard growling. It started off just like a dog’s, but a dog’s growling can’t make your bones rattle like this. We started to get our asses out of there, but Jess slipped over.”

“I tripped on something under the snow,” Jess explained. “That’s when we saw it.”

“Saw what?” asked the elderly man of the group. “What did you see?”

There was silence for a few moments and it became unclear who would be the one to answer. Jess decided it would have to be her. “It was big, bigger than anything wandering around a housing estate should be. It had thick, oily fur that was totally free from snow, as though any flakes that tried to settle on it just melted. In a way, it really did look like a dog, but it was just way too big… and besides, its face was all wrong.”

Jerry supported her as her voice began to weaken. She appreciated it and had already started to consider him a friend. Relationships were forged easily at times like this, she realised. “Yeah,” Jerry said. “Its face was much flatter and rounded – more like an ape than a dog, except its mouth took up half its face. It was full of teeth; rows and rows of them like those chomp-monsters in The Langoliers. You ever see that movie”

Damien scoffed. “How could you make out all that detail in a blizzard?”

Jerry shook his head. “I don’t know. It was as though there was a glow around it, like a ball of light.”

Damien shook his head, obviously not buying any of it, but didn’t say anything. Jess saw a similarly incredulous expression on Kath’s face as well. Screw you both, she thought.

The others stayed quiet too, until Jerry finally said in a croaky voice, “We haven’t even told you about the sick bastard that murdered my best friend – turned him right into dust.”

Everyone stared at Jerry like he was insane. Only Jess knew he wasn’t.

***

When the teenagers finished their wild story about a hooded figure turning their friend into dust, Harry was rendered speechless. Of course, he didn’t believe such a ridiculous tale, but the story still managed to unsettle him. Whether it was true or not, something had obviously sent the kids running.

Harry swigged his beer and stared into the fire, listening to the conversation of the group rather than taking part in it. He tuned in to what Kath was saying.

“You silly, attention-seeking, twit,” the woman said. “You’re just trying to frighten everybody. I’ve never heard such codswallop in all my life.”

Jess slapped her palms against her forehead in dismay. “I watched Jerry’s best friend die tonight. If you hadn’t been too busy abandoning me then you might have been there to see it too.”

“How dare you! I did nothing of the sort. I shouted and looked everywhere for you, but you’d wandered off carelessly.”

Jess sneered. “Like hell you did. You’re full of shit.”

“That is it, young lady!” Kath’s voice quivered with rage. “Don’t you bother coming into work tomorrow because you are fired.”

Jess laughed. “We’re in a pub, Kathleen, not at work. I can say what the hell I like to you. Don’t worry though because I quit anyway.”

“Music to my ears. Now I can employ someone with half a brain.”

“Actually, you need to hire someone without a brain, then they won’t mind working for a pathetic bully like you. I understand though, Kathleen, it must be difficult being a spinster.”

“You spiteful cow! You know nothing about me.”

Kath threw off her duvet and leapt to her feet. For a second, it looked as though the older woman was going to go for Jess, but instead she turned away from the group and departed towards the toilet.

“You two don’t get on then?” Lucas quipped from the edge of the group.

“No shit,” Jess replied. “Got to tell you though, it felt really good saying that to her.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” said Harry. “Maybe you should just let things lie for now, though. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck in this situation together.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave her alone, so long as she doesn’t get in my face. I need to ask her where the warehouse guy went first though. She treats Peter like dirt and I need to make sure he’s alright.”

Jess shoved herself up onto her feet and headed after Kath. Once she’d taken half-a-dozen steps, a body crashed through the window.

Chapter Sixteen

“Peter!” Jess screamed.

Harry watched the girl drop to her knees, scrambling over to the body that was now splayed across the pub’s wooden floor. The injured boy was barely conscious, covered in blood and murmuring deliriously in what sounded like an Eastern European accent. Freezing cold wind and swirling snow flew in through the broken window and extinguished what little warmth had managed to remain inside the pub.

Harry clambered across the room and skidding to his knees beside Jess and the injured boy she had referred to as Peter.

Jess blinked at Harry; a hollow stare consuming her delicate features. Tears leaked from her grief-stricken blue eyes. “Help him, please.”

Harry choked on his words. “I…I…what’s…what’s happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” cried Jess. “Just please make him alright.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” said Jerry, rushing over to join them. The others in the pub stood on the periphery, watching curiously. “It’s whatever was outside. It’s the demon in the robes and the fiery sword.”

Harry blinked. “You’re speaking gibberish!”

“You reckon?” Jerry contested. “Then why don’t you tell me what can chuck a guy through a pub window like a ragdoll, huh?”

Harry had no answer for that. Jess shoved him hard on the arm. “You’re not helping. You need to help him.”

“Okay,” said Harry, shaking himself into action and raising his voice. “Let’s get him someplace comfortable. I need someone to bring me blankets, bandages, anything like that. Is there a first aid kit here?”

Steph stepped forward and nodded. “There’s one in the back. I’ll go get it.”

Harry smiled, glad to have help. Once Steph rushed off, he turned to the others. “Nigel, help me carry Jerry over to the couch by the fire. I need the rest of you to get that window covered up before we all freeze to death.”

There was a mumbling of agreement and everyone got to work. Harry slid his right arm underneath Peter’s shoulders and instructed Nigel to get his legs. He did so without argument.

The two of them shuffled their way across the bar, careful to avoid twisting or jerking the patient in their care. In the corner of his eye Harry was aware that the others in the pub were upending a table and pushing it up against the open window. Damien was also amongst the group and in fact seemed to be the taking charge.

“Okay, Nigel,” said Harry, coming to a stop besides the sofa, “you lower Peter’s legs and I’ll lower his body. Carefully does it.”

The two of them eased Peter down, one inch at a time, until finally he was resting securely on the sofa. Amidst the glow of the fireplace, the severity of the boy’s wounds became evident. Shards of glass protruded from deep gashes all over his body and poked through his torn clothing like alligator teeth. One of the boy’s eyes had also been mangled beyond repair. It dripped blackish-red gunge. Harry felt his stomach tighten.

Who the hell did this? Who could make such a mess of another human being?

“Peter, everything is going to be fine now.” Jess had arrived and was speaking soothingly to her friend, stroking a hand across his forehead. “You’re safe.”

Peter muttered something in reply but it made no sense, more of a gurgle than discernible speech. Harry continued to examine the boy’s body and was shocked to discover yet more wounds, more cuts, and more blood. Not to mention an ankle that looked like it was attached to the boy’s shinbone back to front, sticking out at a gruesome angle.

Harry placed a hand against Peter’s icy cheek. “Who did this to you?”

Peter opened his remaining good eye and seemed to concentrate for a moment. His eyeball kept flicking left and right as if it had a mind of its own. His mouth formed the words: “Skrzdlaty Diabel.”

Harry frowned. “Peter, can you tell me in English?”

The boy took a wheezing breath. It seemed to take every ounce of strength from him, but he managed to utter another word: “Winged…“

“Winged what?” asked Jess, tears streaking her cheeks.

Peter gazed at her and almost managed a smile, like he had only just realised she was there. “Winged…demon.”

Peter lost consciousness.

Jess went to put her hands on him, perhaps to shake him back awake, but Harry prevented her. “Let him rest.”

Jess leaned up against Harry. He could feel her shaking as she looked up at him. “What do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry honestly. “Probably shock.”

Jess shook her head. “If it wasn’t for all the other things that have happened tonight I may have believed you. There’s something out there, Harry. Something in all that snow that’s evil.”

Harry hated to admit it, but he was inclined to agree with the girl. Something most definitely was wrong tonight, but what?

“Harry?”

Harry spun around to find Steph holding a green plastic box. A first aid kit. He took it and thanked her, but she didn’t hear it, too busy looking down at the bleeding casualty on the sofa. Eventually, her attention turned back to Harry. “He’s a mess.”

“I honestly don’t know what could do this to a man….or why.”

Jess sobbed in the background.

Steph’s expression grew dim, her skin becoming ashen even in the orange glow of the fire. “Are we in trouble here, Harry?”

“I don’t know; but I can tell you one thing: I’ve never wanted to get out of this pub so bad. There’s something out there, Steph, and we’re trapped in here.”

Steph swallowed. “I’ll go check on the others. Just do what you can for him, yeah?”

Harry nodded and turned back to Peter. Jess was perched on the armrest of the sofa, looking sick to her stomach. He wondered how close she was to the boy. Wasn’t Jerry her boyfriend?

Harry knelt down beside Peter. The heat of the fire pinched at the flesh of his back, making it itch, but he put up with it for now. He placed the first aid kit down on the floor and popped open the lid. Inside were the things one would expect to find: gauze, bandages, tape, alcohol wipes, and plasters. He also found an eye dressing which he plucked out of the contents first.

After applying the dressing to Peter’s damaged, oozing eye and securing it around the back of the boy’s head, Harry moved on to the other wounds. He unbuttoned Peter’s work shirt to get a clearer look.

Jess slapped a hand across her mouth.

At first, Harry wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He unclasped the final button on Peter’s shirt and pulled the fabric away. A film of glistening blood covered the boy’s chest and stomach, flowing from deep channels scored into his flesh. As Harry took it all in, he realised that the gashes weren’t just random injuries.

“Somebody has carved words into his chest.”

Jess looked like she was going to throw up. “It’s sick. W-what does it say?”

“Hold on.” Harry pulled a couple of alcohol wipes from the first aid kit and ripped them from their packets. He gently rubbed at Peter’s wounds, clearing away as much of the blood as he could, fighting away fresh tides that sought to replace it. Slowly, the words became clearer.

SEnD…

Out…

ThE…

S…i…N…N…e…R.

“Send out the sinner?” Harry said the words out loud, hoping his brain would come up with some interpretation that made sense.

“What does it mean?” Jess asked.

“I have no idea,” Harry replied. In fact, Harry had no understanding whatsoever about the kind of monster it would take to carve words into someone’s chest. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Maybe we should go get the others.”

Jess agreed.

They dressed as many of Peter’s wounds as they could and left him sleeping on the sofa. The rest of the group were still stacking furniture up against the broken window and pulling the pub’s long curtains around the whole thing, trying to keep out the freezing gusts from outside.

“Good job,” said Harry.

Those at the window turned around. Each of them looked shaken and out of breath, even Damien. Kath was the only one who didn’t appear to be bothered. Harry watched the woman as she sat down on a nearby chair and began to pick at her nails as though she had not a care in the world.

“Harry Boy. How’s the nipper?” asked Lucas.

Harry rubbed at his eyes and let out a sigh. “Not good. Someone’s made a real mess of him, blinded him, and cut words into his chest.”

Damien overheard this and stepped away from the window. “Someone carved words into him? That’s harsh, man. What’s it say?”

Harry shrugged. “Something about sin.”

Steph slid another chair up against the barricade, reinforcing it further. She turned to face Harry. “Sin? I don’t understand. What exactly did it say?”

“God knows,” Harry said. “Just the words of a psychopath.”

Jess spoke up. “It said: send out the sinner.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Damien demanded. “Does someone in here know what’s going on out there?”

Harry pointed his finger at Damien. “Calm down. It probably doesn’t mean anything. We just need to stick together and everything will be fine. No one needs to panic.”

Damien snarled. “I ain’t panicking, I’m pissed off. It’s obvious that this is personal. Whoever’s running around out there like Freddie-Krueger-on-acid has a grudge against someone in here.”

“Nonsense,” said Harry.

“Maybe not,” Lucas chimed in. “You don’t use a human being as a memo-pad and hurl them through a window unless you’re trying to send a wee message. Maybe what’s happening tonight is all down to one person. Wouldn’t that be an interesting twist?”

A silence fell over the group as they scanned one another suspiciously, trying to work out who was the sinner.

Harry wondered if it was him.

Chapter Seventeen

Nigel Sutcliffe had sat and watched the unfolding situation with quiet interest. Things started out strangely enough that evening, if only for the dire weather conditions, but once the lights had blinked out, things became truly bizarre. What concerned Nigel most was all this talk about a ‘sinner’.

He sat, shivering, on a stool by the bar, listening and watching as the others all argued incessantly about the injured boy with the chest carvings. Who was the sinner, they demanded, and who was outside in the snow? Nigel decided it was a conversation he was better off avoiding. Because he was very much a sinner. Sometimes, he felt as though he’d been born to sin.

But was he the sinner? The one the person outside was looking for?

Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Nigel didn’t care what happened to his immortal soul. All that mattered to him was how much pleasure he could find in life. The skinny bitch he’d fucked and killed in Amsterdam last week had been a particular highlight. God how she’d screamed. He smiled at the thought. But his reminiscing was interrupted by the arrival of Steph at the bar.

She handed him a beer. “It just about defrosted in front of the fire,” she said.

Nigel thanked her. “Just what I needed. Things are a little crazy around here tonight, huh?”

“Tell me about it! I feel like I’m in a horror film. Still haven’t decided on an emotion yet, but I’m stuck somewhere between dazed and terrified.”

Nigel put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. His pinkie ring slid over the fabric of her delicate blouse and stirred something within him. The solid gold ring had a dolphin insignia and was his most prized possession – a memento of his first victim, a twelve-year-old blonde with chubby cheeks like a prepubescent Drew Barrymore. He’d bitten it off her finger as she wailed and squirmed in the back of his lorry. He’d worn the dolphin ring ever since, enjoying the way it rubbed against his penis as he masturbated over his dying victims.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Nigel reassured Steph. “I think whatever’s going on tonight is personal.”

“Personal? You mean ‘the sinner’?”

“Whoever’s out there causing trouble obviously has it in for one of us; but you know what I think?”

Steph shook her head.

Nigel pulled his hand away from her shoulder, already missing the warm throb of her flesh. He picked up his ice cold beer and took a deep gulp before placing the near empty bottle down on the bar. “I think this is a tiff over drugs. The only people I know sick enough to smash a kid to pieces and lob him through a window are smack-heads and dealers, and we just so happen to have our very own aspiring drug lord right here with us.”

Steph looked across the room at the others then looked back at Nigel. “You think this is all about Damien?”

Nigel shrugged. “He’s the biggest sinner I know. Beat some kid into a coma last year, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Steph admitted. “I heard that too, but whether it’s true or not…”

“Well, it’s certainly within his nature from what I’ve seen tonight. He’s been glaring at Harry all night, and he threw a punch at the Irish fella.”

Steph glanced over at Lucas, who was standing by the fireplace. “What do you make of him?”

“Lucas? It’s strange how he turns up for the first time on a night like this. Maybe he’s the eyes and ears for whoever’s outside. Could be some drug lord looking to come into the area and put Damien out of business. Maybe they’re making their move tonight because they’re hoping the snow will keep the police away.”

“You’re really sure it’s about drugs aren’t you?”

Nigel shrugged. “I don’t know anything for sure. One thing I do know is that if whoever’s out there is looking for a sinner, it’s not me. I’m a decent, God-fearing man.”

Steph laughed. “Good for you, but I don’t believe anyone’s one hundred per cent innocent. No one’s perfect. It’s where people’s hearts are that matters.”

“That’s a lovely way of seeing the world and it’s no doubt why you’re such a lovely woman.”

“Nigel, you’ll make me blush, you charmer.” She gave him a quick hug around the waist. “I’d best go check on the others. There are more beers to hand out.”

Nigel nodded slowly, taking in the scent of her. “Vital work. You’d best get started.”

Steph sauntered away, leaving him to enjoy the sight of her lithe figure fading into the darkness as she left the candle-light of the bar. Nigel felt himself get hard.

Was tonight the night?

Steph was the main reason he kept coming to The Trumpet to drink. From the first time he’d seen her behind the bar, squeezing her tits together as she innocently leant over tables to wipe them clean. Nigel knew he was going to have her right then, and the more he watched her sexy little backside wiggling around the pub, the more he knew he needed to have her soon. He’d been waiting for the right opportunity.

It had finally come.

Tonight was the night. The lights were off, the roads were closed, and a group of psychopaths roamed the snowbanks outside. If Nigel did Steph tonight, he could make it look like somebody else’s doing without any trouble at all. And if the others inside the pub were, for some reason, to find out, he would just have to deal with them too. He could be in his lorry come morning, a hundred miles away. Even snow this heavy couldn’t keep his rig from moving.

Nigel put his hand in his trouser pocket and rubbed at the flick knife pushing against his throbbing erection.

Yes, my little prize, tonight is most definitely the night.

Chapter Eighteen

“What the hell do we do?”

Harry heard Jess’s voice, but had no answers for her. Peter had remained unconscious since they’d patched him up and his condition only seemed to be getting worse. He needed immediate medical attention, but there was no way to get any. They were stranded inside the pub, with someone outside meaning to do them harm.

“We just need to do the best we can for him, right now.” Harry said. He could see the anguish on Jess’s face, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He wasn’t a doctor and could do nothing about the snow keeping them inside. Still, he felt like he was letting the poor girl down.

“He’ll be okay,” said Jerry, coming over and placing an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “We just need to keep him warm.”

The only place in the pub left with any warmth at all was by the fireplace, and Peter was now taking up most of the space. Harry decided to move over to the bar to join the others.

Steph was busy handing out fresh beers.

“Got one for me?” he asked her.

Steph smiled. “Sure, Harry, here you go.”

“Is anybody else wondering what we’re going to do for warmth now that Peter is taking up the fire?” said Kath. She had shown very little concern for her injured employee.

“Already on it,” said Steph. “Damien and Old Graham are down in the cellar looking for anything we could start a fire with. I’m pretty sure there’s an old steel dustbin we could stab some holes in and use as a furnace.”

Lucas laughed. “This gal is something else, don’t you reckon?”

Harry looked at Steph for a moment and their eyes met. “Yes, Lucas, she most definitely is.”

“You think the kid’s going to snuff it?”

Harry was taken aback by Nigel’s harsh wording. “What?”

“I overheard you talking to the girl. I could tell by your voice that you don’t hold out much hope.”

The negativity irritated Harry, but it was probably only natural considering the situation. “I can’t say – I’m not a doctor – but I know enough to see that the poor lad’s suffered more than anyone should.”

“You ever seen anyone in such a state before?” Lucas asked.

Harry conjured up images from his memory but quickly stopped himself. “No, I haven’t,” he lied. “I’ve never seen injuries like it before, which is why I’m not sure if he’ll last the night.”

“Well, then,” Lucas replied, “perhaps we should be worrying more about who – or what – did this to the lad. There’s someone out there looking to do us all harm, and we’ve got enough on our plates with the weather alone.”

“I agree,” said Steph from the other side of the bar. “I don’t like any of this. I feel like we’re cut off from civilisation. The phones are dead, the electric’s off, and we can’t go outside because some madman is knifing people up. I don’t even want to think about what the rest of the country is like. I’m starting to get really freaked out. This isn’t normal.”

“We don’t know there’s a madman outside,” said Harry. “Perhaps Peter made an enemy and they’ve got what they wanted just by hurting him.”

Nigel posed a question that made Harry’s logic falter. “Why throw him through the window?”

“Yeah,” said Steph. “If they wanted to kill Peter they would have been better off leaving him outside in the snow. Throwing him through the window makes it pretty obvious they were trying to frighten everyone inside the pub.”

Lucas put his beer down on the bar with a clink! “Maybe it was a message for the sinner,” he said.

“More talk about this bloody sinner,” said Nigel, banging down his own beer on the bar. “Why are we buying into this bullshit? If someone is crazy enough to carve words into someone’s chest then I think it’s fair to say they’ve lost a certain amount of marbles – probably all of them.”

“You’re probably right,” Harry admitted. “How would we even know who’s a sinner and who isn’t, anyway?”

“Exactly,” said Nigel, seemingly satisfied.

Steph pushed another recently-thawed beer over to Lucas, who was about to finish his current one. . “Nigel seems to think that it’s all about drugs, and that Damien is the one they want.”

“Well, well, well. Is that right, now?” Damien emerged from the bar’s staff area and moved through the hatchway. Old Graham was with him and seemed to be cringing. Damien did not look happy. “So you think I caused all this, do you?”

Nigel shifted on his stool. “I didn’t say that. I…I was just talking to Steph about who could be out there and…and…”

“…and you thought you’d blame everything on me? Why’s that then? Is it because you think you’re better than me? That I’m just some fucking mug?”

“No, I just thought…”

“You thought shit!” Damien tensed up like a wild animal.

Lucas leapt up and his seat and stood in Damien’s way. “Do I have to tell you again? Calm down for a spell, fella; it’s no good for the blood pressure.”

Damien turned his anger towards Lucas. “What are you talking about, you thick Mick?”

“I had your word that you’d behave,” said Lucas. “The only reason our Nigel is looking to blame people is because he’s afraid.”

“Hey,” Nigel protested. “No, I’m not.”

“We’re all afraid,” Lucas continued. “And when people are afraid they flap their gums. Tisn’t personal; just what people do to try and make sense o’ things. Stops their minds floating away we’em.”

“Yeah,” said Nigel. “I was just talking shit. Figured that, because you’re a tough guy, you’d have some tough enemies.”

“You’d better keep your accusations to yourself from now on,” said Damien, “because kicking your arse would be a nice way to warm up!”

Nigel nodded. “So, we’re good?”

Damien nodded. “Yeah, we’re good for now.”

Harry was glad Damien had been reigned in yet again. In fact, he started to wonder whether the thug was really the bloodthirsty psychopath people made him out to be.

“Can we get a beer for Damien?” Harry asked, trying to encourage peace.

Damien shook his head. “Not now. I found that old dustbin in the basement, but I need help dragging it up. It’s an old-fashioned wheelie bin but the wheels have rusted off. We should be able to start a decent fire in it and get some goddamn heat in here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s great. I’ll come and help you.”

Damien shrugged and walked back through the hatch, disappearing through the narrow door behind the bar. Harry followed him into the rear corridor and then down the stairs into the cellar. At the bottom, Old Graham waited next to a rusty old double-wide dustbin. The rest of the cellar was a mess, with mounds of wood and cardboard rotting away in the corners.

“You going to help or not?” Damien asked, tipping the dustbin onto its edge.

Harry hurried over and grabbed the other side, while Old Graham kicked away the debris that covered the route to the stairs. The pensioner turned out to be quite spry for his age.

“After three,” said Harry. “One…two…three…” He and Damien heaved, heading for the bottom of the stairs with the steel dustbin. The container was empty, yet still substantial in weight and thick with rust. Harry felt his hands chafing under the pressure. “How are we going lift it up the stairs?” he asked as they neared the bottom step.

Damien laughed. “Back giving out on you? We’ll just lift it, step by step. Piece of piss.”

The two of them stopped at the stairway and righted the drum back onto its base, dropping it down with a Wong! “Okay,” said Harry. “You ready?”

“Ready for what? A bit of lifting?”

Harry shook his head, unwilling to get into a pissing contest. He turned to look at Old Graham. “Maybe you could gather up some of this cardboard so we can use it for the fire?”

Old Graham nodded and got to work.

Harry signalled to Damien and the two began to lift. They hoisted the bin onto the first step with little effort, and then again onto the second and third. By the fourth, Harry was starting to lose his breath. “Can we stop a sec,” he said.

Damien grunted. “Maybe if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more stamina.”

Harry felt his pulse quicken as he fought the urge to lash out, but decided to let his actions argue for him. “Right, come on then! Let’s get this bloody thing up there.” He tried to sound full of vigour, despite the tightness in his chest. “Last thing I want is for your delicate little body to get cold.”

Damien snickered but didn’t rebuke. The two of them continued hoisting the steel dustbin upwards. They scaled the fifth step and then the sixth. The seventh and eight were hard work but they managed to shift the deadweight up using their feet to give it an added shove. With only two more steps left, Harry yearned to release the weight he carried. His shoulders burned with fire and his lungs started to cramp. Damien was right, a year of constant drinking had left Harry in the physical state of a man twice his age. He felt ashamed.

Just two more steps though and it would be done. He could make it.

They hoisted the bin once more. Damien began to slide it up onto the next step, but as he did so, the bottom edge of the dustbin struck against the outer lip of the step. Harry pushed his side up, trying to clear the centimetre needed to get the dustbin up onto the step, but he couldn’t manage it. He strained harder and willed his biceps to contract, but instead his arms lowered against his control. Harry grip failed, then gave out completely.

Damien cursed as the weight in his hands suddenly doubled. Harry watched helplessly as the lad tried to keep the dustbin under control by attempting to trap it with his leg. But it was futile. The hunk of steel twisted sideways and fell away from them both.

Harry stumbled forwards onto the step above as the dustbin struck his shin before beginning a spiralling journey down the old stone staircase. All of the hard work getting the dustbin to the top had been wasted, and it was Harry’s fault. But as he watched the rusty steel careen towards the bottom of the stairs, he felt a hundred times worse. Old Graham was bending over, gathering up all the cardboard just like he’d been asked. The old man was oblivious to the danger hurtling towards him.

The dustbin flew through the air.

A moment later, so did Old Graham.

Chapter Nineteen

Jess couldn’t stop worrying about Peter. She worried too about her mum and dad. They would be fretting. Usually they would stay awake until she return home from a late shift, finishing off a bottle of wine and arguing before finally retiring to bed. Jess hoped they were too drunk tonight to notice that she wasn’t home yet. With a bit of luck they would have had one of their rare nights of fondness and gone to bed early for a bit of nooky. What better way was there to stay warm on a night like this? Jess knew that probably wasn’t the way of things though. Their parents were more likely to throw things at one another than show affection. They hadn’t always been like that.

Jess convinced herself that her parents would be fine. Peter was a much bigger concern than her parent’s marriage problems. She looked down at her sleeping friend, surprised to find that his injuries still had the ability to shock her. Beneath the bandages, Peter’s left eye was caked with foul-smelling custardy puss, but that wasn’t what disturbed her most. It was the deep carvings sliced into the pale flesh of his chest. SEnD Out ThE SiNNeR.

Whatever it meant, it was the work of a sicko. Peter never did anything to anyone. He was a quiet boy, sweet and gentle. Not like the usual, football-obsessed, dickheads that lived in the area, or a thug like Damien. Despite the blood on Peter’s face, Jess could still make out his gentle features, his soft lips. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered if he’d ever thought about kissing her.

Bloody hell, Jess, she thought. Peter’s lying here, dying, and you’re thinking about making out with him. Jeez!

At that moment, Peter opened his good eye. Jess didn’t notice at first, but when he started to moan it startled her. He continued moaning until the strangled noises eventually began to form words. “Jess…ica.”

Jess nodded and smiled, tears gushing down her cheeks. “Yes, yes, it’s me. I was so worried about you, Peter. What on Earth happened to you?”

Peter focused intensely on her for a moment, lips puckering as if preparing for some great speech. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a final one. “Jessica…” he grimaced, “listen…to me.”

She put a hand against his cheek. It throbbed heat like a radiator. “I am, Peter. I’m here.”

“Get away,” he said, “out of here.”

Jess blinked. “What do you mean?”

A hiss of air whistled in Peter’s nostrils as though forcing its way past a blockage. He repeated himself, but more weakly, like he was going to lose consciousness again at any moment. “Get away. They are…coming.”

Peter’s good eye rolled back in his head, disappearing behind his drooping eyelid. Before Jess had time to consider what he’d been trying to tell her, she was alerted by a crash. Followed by cries of pain and screams of agony.

What the hell’s happening now? I don’t think I can take any more.

Making her way over to the bar area, Jess saw commotion taking place. Lucas, Steph, and Nigel were standing around, looking concerned.

“What’s going on?” she asked Lucas.

“Dunno, lass. The menfolk went downstairs to get us something to build a fire. Next thing I know there’s a load of caterwauling.” He moved into the doorway behind the bar and faded into the shadows. Before disappearing completely, he turned back. “Well, you coming or not, lass?”

Jess stood for a moment, then nodded. She followed after Lucas and they headed into an unlit corridor at the back of the bar. The sound of someone in pain became clearer, and so did the noise of people bickering.

Lucas sparked his lighter and gave them light. “I think they’re down there,” he said, referring to an open doorway on their left. It led to a narrow staircase, leading down. A breeze floated upwards from the cellar beneath. It tickled Jess’s cheeks and the inside of her nostrils.

Lucas placed his hands either side of his mouth and shouted down the staircase. “You fellas okay down there? We heard yelling.”

“We need help.” The voice was Harry’s. “Graham is hurt. I screwed up. I screwed up rea-”

“Just bring some blankets and whatever is left of the first aid kit.” The new voice was Damien’s and it cut Harry off mid-sentence. “Graham’s hurt, but he’s gunna be alright. No need for anybody to get their knickers in a twist.”

Jess couldn’t help but feel faint. Peter was at death’s door and now Old Graham was injured too.

Two down… How many more to go?

***

Kath almost felt bad.

Almost.

It’d been Peter’s decision to run off and look for Jess. Nobody made him do it. Ironically, it was Kath who eventually ended up finding Jess, and that had proven even more how idiotic Peter had been for not listening to her. Still, she couldn’t help but ruminate over what had happened to the boy. Someone had messed him up real nice.

Probably crossed the wrong people, Kath assumed. Polish Mafia or something. At least she hoped so. The alternative was that there really was a psychopath out there in the snow?

Not that being trapped inside The Trumpet with her current companions was any better. There was Lucas, prancing around like a drunken parody; Nigel, an ugly man who lacked any discernible personality; Steph, a low-class tramp; and that insufferable girl, Jess. Of all the people Kath could be trapped with, Jess would have been last on her list. Her little buddy from the video shop was no less irritating, backing up her absurd stories just so he could get into her filthy knickers. And that thug, Damien, was a walking billboard for dysfunctional youth if ever she saw one. To complete he agony, was Old Graham, a pensioner stinking of piss and beer, and Harry, a hopeless case from what she could ascertain. It was obvious Harry was a drunk because of the weathered look on his face. It was the same look her father used to have. Alcoholism was a slow, draining sickness which killed a man one drink at a time while making him neglect everything that was important. But no matter what anybody said, it was not a disease, it was a choice. A selfish, weak, and pitiful choice. Nobody ever forced a bottle to an alcoholic’s lips.

Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she would have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life. Instead she’d ended up supporting him all the time until she hit twenty-eight. The day she found the old drunk lying on the living room floor, rapidly fading from a severe heart attack, had been a godsend. The vision of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head at him and watching him die, was a significant turning point in her life. It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her. She would look out only for herself. Everybody else could go right to Hell.

All around Kath, the degenerates inside the pub with her scuttled like ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water to their chests while taking them from one place to the next.

Something was going on, but Kath didn’t really care. She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted to do was get involved. She would remain at by the bar, warming her hands over the candle flames and waiting for the power to return.

Slowly, everyone filtered behind the bar and left the pub empty. Kath suddenly found herself alone in the flickering shadows. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said out loud. “I’d best go see what those idiots have gotten themselves into.”

Kath stood up and headed for the darkness of the corridor behind the bar.

Chapter Twenty

“I’m so sorry, Graham.” Harry looked down at the old man’s twisted leg and felt the urge to punch himself in the face. How could he be so stupid, getting caught in a testosterone contest with a kid fifteen years his junior? He was pathetic and for the first time was finally realising it. He put his hand on Old Graham’s shallow chest and could feel the man’s ribs through tissue-paper skin. The scar below Harry’s knuckles reminded him that he had a habit of hurting people.

“Harry,” Old Graham whispered, not to be quiet but because he was obviously winded by his ordeal. “Harry, don’t worry. I’m okay, it’s just me leg. Get it fixed up in the morning, good as new.”

Harry didn’t want to lie to the man. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better. I’m not sure if we can get you help soon enough.”

Old Graham snorted. “Then just put me in a bathtub full of whiskey. By the time I drink meself dry, the snow will have gone and the ambulances will be back on the road.”

Harry smiled. “I’m really so-“

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, son, I’ll break my other leg just to shut you up.”

For reasons he couldn’t quite understand Harry felt like crying. All the times he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, and he’d never taken the time to see what a kind forgiving old soul he was. Harry had stopped taking the time to find out anyone after the crash that took his family. He was starting to realise how selfish that had been.

“Can I do anything for you?” Harry asked Old Graham.

“No, just get me a beer, and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.

Harry laughed. “I’ll do my best, but I’m thinking I’ll only be able to manage one of those.”

Old Graham opened his eyes wide like a startled rabbit. “What? You mean we’re out of beer!”

Harry stood up, wanting to laugh his ass off, but somehow finding it impossible. Laughter was a luxury he was all out of.

In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the shadowy staircase. By the time it got down to the last few steps, the source of the glow revealed itself. Steph was carrying a tray full of candles. She set them down on the floor.

“Hey,” said Harry, quietly taking her to one side. “I think he’s going to be okay for now. Tough as old boots, that one.”

Steph smiled. “Old Graham? Yeah, I could have told you that. Took a bullet in the Falklands. Didn’t even realise till he was back at base half a day later.”

Harry frowned. “He tell you that?”

“Yeah,” said Steph, keeping her voice down. “It’s one of his stories I like to believe; makes me think of him as a hero.”

Harry thought for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, I think it’s one I’d like to believe too.”

Steph stroked a hand against Harry’s shoulder and rubbed all the way from his elbow to his neck. The feeling made his stomach flutter and filled him with a mixture of excitement and remorse.

“How you holding up?” she asked him.

He didn’t know what to say. After a while, he said, “I really don’t know. With all that’s happened tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing my mind.”

“Me too. I feel like we’re the only people left in the world and we can’t go outside because we’ll either freeze to death or get eaten by monsters. Something isn’t right, but I keep telling myself that everything will be okay. I hope I’m not just being naïve.”

Harry reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “We have to keep reminding ourselves that this is reality, not one of Jerry’s horror movies. Whatever is going on is really strange, maybe even dangerous, but as long as we stick together, we’ll come out the other end of this and find out what the hell has been going on all night.”

“I hope so, because this is starting to feel too much like a nightmare.”

“My whole life is a nightmare,” said Harry. “I’m getting pretty sick of it.”

“When this is all over, I’m gunna take a holiday.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Me too. Maybe I’ll go skiing.”

Steph stared at him for a moment looking confused, but then broke out in hysterical laughter. After a moment, Harry was surprised to find that he was joining her. Maybe laughter wasn’t a luxury he was completely out of just yet.

Or maybe Steph is just a master of getting blood out of a stone.

Or feelings from a torn heart.

“Oh Harry,” Steph patted him on the shoulder. “You do make me laugh! I’m really going to have to get to know you better when this is all over, but trust me it won’t be while we’re skiing. Give me sand and sun, so that I never have to see another flake of snow again.”

“Okay, deal. Anyway, do we have a plan on what to do next?”

Steph nodded. “Damien said the dustbin was just too heavy to get up the stairs, so we’ll have to come down here and start a fire. He said a small windowless room like this would be easier to heat anyway. We just need to leave the door at the top of the stairs open so we can breathe. He’s not as stupid as he looks, you know?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” agreed Harry, wondering why Damien hadn’t condemned him for dropping the dustbin from the top of the stairs. The lad knew it had been Harry’s fault, yet for some reason, he was making out as if it had been an impossible task to begin with. Tonight had muddled Harry’s entire opinion of the Damien. He wasn’t ready to trust the lad, but he was at least starting to consider it.

“Everyone’s upstairs,” said Steph, “gathering stuff to burn. We’re going to leave Peter in front of the fire. Jess said she’d stay with him, but there’s not enough room for anybody else.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll have to keep an eye on them both. It may not be safe for her to be alone. I’ll go see if she needs anything and then go help the others.”

“Okay, Harry. I’ll get Old Graham nice and comfy, then get this place lit up. See you in a bit. Mind yourself in the dark.”

Harry moved aside to let Steph past with her candles and then he started to climb the stairs. He was taken back to earlier when he’d tried to climb up with the dustbin. He had a lot of making up to do to Old Graham, that was for sure, but at least Damien had turned the disaster into a sustainable plan B. It would be warmer in the cellar once they got the fire going and Harry started to feel far more hopeful about their situation.

The corridor at the top of the stairs was pitch-black, but Harry could make out a dim, flickering light coming from the bar’s candles at the far end of the hallway. He felt his way towards them and found Lucas standing at the bar. The Irishman was busy gathering beers and a large bottle of Famous Grouse whisky into an empty crisp carton.

“Getting essentials, I see?” said Harry as he re-entered the bar.

Lucas held up an uncapped beer and swigged from it, letting out a lip-smacking sigh at the end. “Don’t ya know it! I asked the old fella what he needed and all he said was beer and plenty of it. Can’t deny an injured war hero now, can I? What kind of man would that make me?”

“Never thought of it like that.” Harry fired off a mock salute. “Keep up the good work, private.”

Lucas returned the salute. “Will do, Major Jobson, sir!”

Harry continued on from the bar and over to Jess at the fireplace. She flinched, as though he’d startled her. It wasn’t surprising, really; sounded as if the poor girl had been through it worse than anyone else tonight. Other than Peter of course.

“You okay?” Harry asked her.

“Fine.” She stroked Peter’s forehead with a damp cloth she’d no doubt warmed in front of the fire. “I can’t leave him here alone, and I don’t think it would be right to move him either. Jerry has gone to find us some snacks. He’ll be back soon to keep me company. Anyway, I have this if I get into any real trouble.” Jess reached down beside the sofa and came up with a great shiny piece of metal.

Harry nodded. “The last call bell. Good idea. Not a single man whose ears won’t prick up at that sound. Just ring if you need help, okay?”

Jess seemed proud for a moment, but her sombre expression soon returned when she went back to nursing Peter. When she spoke again, she did so without looking Harry in the eye. “How’s Graham doing? I heard his leg’s pretty painful.”

Painful wasn’t a good enough word to describe the result of Harry’s stupidity. “Luckily, there’s no bleeding,” he said. “I think it’s broken, but he’s okay for now. Chipper as ever, long as he has us bringing him beer all night.”

“He seems like a nice old man. I hope he’s okay.”

Harry nodded. “Me too.”

He thought Jess was going to speak again, but instead of replying he caught her looking over his shoulder. Her eyes grew wide as if something concerned her.

Why is she staring like that? Harry wondered. Is something behind me?

Harry span around to find Damien standing close behind him. As usual the lad’s face was a syrupy mixture of frowns and scowls, but there seemed to be something else in his expression too.

“Come with me,” Damien said simply, before walking off in the opposite direction and leaving Harry wondering what to do.

Should Harry follow? Or should he grab a weapon and prepare to fight? It was hard to tell when it came to Damien. After the last few hours, Harry decided the lad had earned the benefit of the doubt, so he followed.

Damien had headed over to the pub’s rear corridor, which led to the male and female toilets, the rear fire door, and the seldom-used dance floor at the back of the pub.

“Take a look,” Damien said to Harry as he caught up. He was pointing at the exit door. “Look through the window at the top.”

For a second Harry had visions of doing as he was told and having his head rammed through the glass. Wasn’t that the kind of thing gangsters do? Made you dig your own grave? Harry sighed. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen. He stepped toward the door.

“Look through,” Damien ordered again.

Harry moved up against the door and put his face against the glass. There was no prompting necessary on where to look or what to focus on. It was clear for him to see.

“We have big problems,” Damien said.

Damn right they did!

Outside, towers of flame seemed to rise from the snow in all directions – ten, maybe even twenty feet high. The fire formed a wall around the pub like a fiery prison.

But was it intended to keep them all in? Or to drive them out?

What terrified Harry most, however, was the three giant crucifixes standing in the centre of the inferno. Each of them possessed a struggling victim being roasted alive by the flames. Their screams held no sound, but Harry could feel their agony as their flesh blackened and peeled from their bones, leaving behind charred husks of flesh.

“This nightmare just got worse,” said Harry. “I think I’d like to wake up now.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Damien had gone while Harry had been staring out the window.

Was the horror show outside not interesting enough for him?

Harry took another glance outside, blinking so that he knew what he was seeing was real. The fires still burned high, whipping back and forth in the growing blizzard while sizzling snowflakes filled the air like locusts. It was bizarre and unsettling to see both flames and snow mingle together in the same space; like two separate nightmares merging into one.

Harry started to feel like he was in a Salvador Dali painting, with the world melting away around him. He needed to make sense of the situation, but should he tell the others? He wasn’t sure, but was astounded by the fact that he wanted Damien’s advice about the matter. He couldn’t deny that the lad was calm under pressure.

But where had he gone? And why?

Harry glanced out the window one last time before moving away. It seemed like a bad idea to take his eyes off the flames outside, but he couldn’t stay there all night. It was freezing next to the fire exit, and an aggressive draught snuck under the door and rattled the wood on its hinges.

Back in the main pub area, the others members of the group were travelling back and forth, seeking out fuel for the furnace. Nigel was busy tearing cushions from the chairs and snapping the legs into kindling. Kath was gathering up beer mats half-heartedly.

“Hey, Kath,” he said to her. “Maybe we can find something bigger to burn? I don’t think those will last very long.”

The woman shot Harry a look that made him feel like she wanted him to die. Harry shivered, but a second later it was as if the look hadn’t happened, as Kath was now smiling at him politely.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. “I’ll go search for something else.” She threw down the pile of beer mats and they hit the table with a slap! Then she walked off towards the bar like a stroppy teenager.

Kath was an odd lady.

There was still no sign of Damien. Harry tried to figure out where he’d gone, and why so suddenly? And why had he chosen only Harry to lead into the exit corridor? It didn’t seem that anybody else knew about the flames outside yet. With the windows barricaded and the pub up on a hill, it was impossible to see anything outside other than darkness. So the question remained: did Harry tell the others what Damien had shown him.

Harry made the decision. He clapped his hands together. “Everybody listen!”

Lucas and Nigel turned their attention to Harry. Kath reappeared from behind the bar. At the far end of the room, Jess stood up from the sofa, leaving Peter asleep under the watchful eye of Jerry. Harry moved into a spot where they all could see and hear him. He clasped his hands together and tried to find the right words. “I think there’s something that we all need to be aware of.”

“And what would that be, Harry Boy?” asked Lucas, lifting himself up onto a bar stool. “Please tell.”

“It’s not easy to explain, but I think we can all agree that tonight is a strange night.”

“No argument there,” Nigel said. “I’m starting to get a bad feeling.”

Harry pushed himself to continue, his were palms sweating. “I think we can agree that there are dangers tonight, more than just the cold.”

“You mean what happened to that stupid boy, Peter?” said Kath. “I’m sure whatever trouble he has gotten himself into was something he deserved. That doesn’t mean that we’re in any danger.”

“You bitch!”

Harry turned to see Jess storming toward Kath from the other end of the pub. Jerry seemed unsure whether or not he should be following after her or remaining where he was.

Lucas moved away from the bar to intercept Jess in the middle of the room. “Calm down there, lass.”

“I swear to God, Kath!” Jess bunched her hands into fists. “If you say one more thing about Peter – and I mean, one more thing – I’m going to scratch your goddamn eyes out. This happened because of you, because you allowed him to wonder off alone.”

Kath snorted. “I’m not his babysitter. He’s a grown man, and if he can’t look after himself then he should have stayed in Poland. God knows we don’t need his kind here.”

“You…you racist!”

“Call me whatever you like, dear. I’m only saying what most of the country thinks. Peter was probably a petty criminal like the rest of them. Tonight he got his comeuppance.”

To everyone’s surprise, Jess’s small frame managed to escape Lucas’s grasp. She leapt towards a nearby table, snatching at the nearest thing she could find, which happened to be an empty pint glass. Harry watched in horror as Jess flung the glass through the air, pitching it with all the aggression of a baseball player.

It hit Kath’s forehead with an almighty thonk!

Immediately, the woman hit the floor, clutching at her face and screaming. A second later she was back on her feet and furious, like a champion boxer rising after a fluky haymaker. She was not happy. Her bloodstained forehead face was testament to it.

“I’ll kill you!” Kath growled, as a line of blood trickled down the side of her nose.

“Nobody is going to kill anybody!” Everybody turned to see Steph storming out from behind the bar. Damien was with her. “What the hell is going on? Why is Kath covered in blood?”

“The little bitch threw a glass at me. She’s insane.”

Steph turned to Jess with such ferocity that the young girl flinched and took a step back. “Is that true? Are you causing trouble in my pub?”

Jess nodded and took another step back.

Steph pointed a finger. “Go look after Peter – NOW! – and if I see you move for the rest of the night, I’ll throw you out in the snow myself.”

Jess moved so quickly it was almost a sprint.

Then Steph turned to Kath. “There’s a little kitchenette with a sink in the back. Take a candle from the bar and clean yourself up.”

Kath still bristled with fury, but she was beginning to simmer down. Slowly. “That girl should be locked in a padded cell.”

Steph sighed. “Well, for now we don’t have that luxury, so the best I can do is keep you two separated. Jess will be staying up here with Peter, so you come downstairs with the rest of us. Now, go get that blood cleaned up before it freezes on your face.”

Kath nodded unhappily and left the room, while Lucas and Nigel went back to their tasks. Steph and Damien approached Harry.

“What happened?” Steph demanded. Her breath fogged in front of her.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I was trying to get everyone together so I could tell them something and it all kicked off. Those two really don’t like each other!”

Steph shook her head wearily. “Tell me about it. I’d call the police if I could. There’s no excuse for that kind of violence.”

“It wasn’t just Jess’s fault,” Harry told her. “Kath doesn’t seem to have much respect for anyone else.”

“I don’t doubt it. But violence is violence, and on a night like this things are tense enough.”

“Speaking of tension,” said Harry. “There was something I was trying to tell everyone before it all went Pete Tong. Come with me.”

Steph followed. Damien too.

The three of them made it over to the exit door in the rear corridor. Harry pointed to the fire exit. “Look through the window, but try to stay calm.”

“What do you mean?” Steph said. “You’re worrying me.”

“Just look, and then we’ll talk.”

Anxiety etched itself across Steph’s face, but she obliged nonetheless, moving up against the door and peering through the glass for several seconds. “Jesus Christ,” she said finally.

“You see! You see what we’re up against?”

Steph turned back around to face Harry. “Of course I do. The snow out there is getting insane. We need to get that fire going right now or we’re all going to freeze. I don’t like this at all. This is bad.”

Harry didn’t understand. He pushed Steph to one side and peered through the glass again for himself.

The fire was gone. In fact it was as though it’d never even been there. The snow was deeper than before and there were no shallow areas where the heat of the flames would have caused it to melt. Everywhere Harry looked was cold, bleak, empty, and white.

But there was no fire. No fire at all. Nor were there three crucifixes or burning bodies.

“There were flames!” Harry mumbled. “Flames everywhere.”

Steph looked confused.

Harry looked at Damien, who was stood silently with his arms folded. “Tell her. Tell her what we saw.”

Damien shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

Harry blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “What am I talking about? You saw it! In fact it was you that showed me!”

“Think there’s a stripe missing off your Adidas, mate. I dunno what shit you’re chatting.”

“No, no, no. You saw the flames too! Why are you doing this, Damien?”

Damien didn’t answer. He just walked away, leaving Harry alone with a confused-looking Steph

“I swear it!” Harry told Steph adamantly. “Damien’s playing games. I don’t know why, but he is.”

Out of the blue, Steph hugged Harry and whispered in his ear. “If you say there was a fire outside then I believe you, okay? Just don’t get yourself worked up, because I need you tonight. I would have gone insane if you weren’t here helping me.”

Harry eased her back and looked at her. “Y-You really believe me?”

Steph nodded. “Yes! Now go make yourself useful. Old Graham was asking for you, so go see him. I’ll get all the toilet paper and hand towels. We’re going to have to get that fire going soon.”

Harry nodded and Steph left him in the cold corridor, wondering why Damien had not backed him up. Just when I thought we were finally getting along, he makes me look like a lunatic, right in front of Steph. Stupid, Harry. Real stupid! You should never trust a snake.

But Damien wasn’t worth the time right now, not when Steph had made it clear she needed Harry’s support. She was playing nursemaid, host, and leader, all at the same time. She was putting everyone else first, while all they did was bicker. Harry wanted to take some of the strain off of her, and he would, but first he was being summoned to attend to other business. Old Graham wanted to speak to him and Harry wasn’t about to keep the old guy waiting. He owed him too much already.

Before Harry left the corridor, something caught his eye. At the far end of the rear corridor was a light, coming from the pub’s unused dance floor.

Was somebody in the back room?

Harry stepped forward cautiously. It was probably just one of the others, looking for something to burn, the light coming from their candles.

“Hey, who’s there?” Harry asked.

No reply. The light seemed to get brighter, pulsing rapidly.

Harry continued down the corridor, creeping anxiously as he awaited a response. When none came, he called out again. “I said who’s there?”

Still no response. Harry was left with the decision whether or not to investigate. Tonight was a night where strange things were happening and wandering off alone was a bad idea. Nevertheless, his feet carried him forward.

Harry had to shield his eyes with his forearm as he took the final few steps towards the backroom. The pulsing light was blinding.

Inside it felt like a sauna, humid and hot. After hours of freezing, the aura of warmth was heavenly, but it was unnatural as well. There was no rational explanation for the backroom of The Trumpet to feel like the Brazilian rainforest, especially when it was snowing outside.

Rather than retreat, Harry stepped out onto the stiff wood of the dance floor. It creaked beneath his weight. From the end of the room, the bright light continued pulsing. It was coming from behind the elevated DJ booth erected against the far wall, but as Harry got closer the light began to weaken. He hopped up the three steps at the edge of the dance floor and hurried towards the booth. The light continued to fade. Harry had the feeling that if he didn’t get a look inside the DJ booth quickly, he would miss something important. Harry unlatched the door and rushed inside.

His heart skipped a beat.

It was the most wonderful and the most painful thing Harry could ever have hoped to see. He choked back a sob. “Toby?”

Cowering before him, engulfed by a rapidly fading glow, was Harry’s son. Toby hadn’t aged at all since the crash. He peered up at Harry with the same deep, soulful eyes he had always had.

“Daddy.” Toby’s voice was an echo, seeming to come from the walls themselves. “Daddy, I’m scared.”

It was impossible, an evil trick. Yet, somehow, Harry found himself speaking only affectionately. “It’s okay, Toby. Daddy’s here.”

The light around the Toby died, returning the room to near darkness. He looked just like a normal six year old boy now. “You promise you’ll keep me safe, daddy?”

“Yes, son. I’ll keep you safe.” Harry reached down to Toby, but the boy shuffled backwards out of his grasp.

“No, you won’t,” Toby said spitefully. “You can’t keep anyone safe. My daddy was strong. He taught me to ride a bike and would buy me chicken nuggets whenever I wanted. You’re not him! You’re weak. Weak and pathetic!” The words hissed and crackled from Toby’s mouth, not at all like the voice of a child.

Tears fell from Harry’s eyes. I am weak, he thought to himself. I failed you, Toby. I let you get hurt, and all I’ve done since is feel sorry for myself. But you’re not my son.

The apparition of Toby was so accurate that it sent a chill through Harry’s bones. But it wasn’t perfect. Harry could see the lack of humanity in its malignant eyes.

“I have to go now, Toby,” Harry said, backing away slowly. “I think you should go back to wherever you came from.”

The malice in the creature’s eyes gave away its age. There was something ancient and inhuman bubbling away beneath the surface as it cackled at Harry. The piercing sound filled the room.

“Running away is all you’re good for, maggot. You watched your family die and have been running away ever since. You are pathetic, wasting the life that He gave you. Death will embrace you soon. Leave this place Harry Jobson and be done with it. Your time is over. Reckoning is here.”

Harry didn’t understand, but he knew he had to get away. By taking Toby’s form, the creature had specifically targeted Harry, plucking at his grief like strings on a guitar.

Harry didn’t take his eyes away from the DJ’s booth as he sidled backwards along the dance floor, but it didn’t stop him noticing the light source growing behind him.

Harry spun around.

His heart stopped all over again.

Thomas Morris stood by the exit to the pub’s backroom. The man who had taken everything from Harry was here, and smiling at him like an old friend.

“Long time no see, Harry,” the apparition hissed. “You’re looking…older.”

Harry said nothing.

“You really gunna ignore me? With the history you and me have? Thought you’d have more to say.”

Harry’s fists clenched. “I have nothing to say to you!”

The apparition of Thomas Morris laughed again. “You never were much of a talker. You prefer to let actions speak for you, right?”

Whatever this thing was, it was not Thomas, and it could do Harry no harm. If it could, they why hadn’t it done so already? Harry stepped around the image of his old enemy and headed for the door.

Harry was thrown backwards and hit the floor hard.

Thomas immediately loomed over Harry. His inhuman eyes were filled with the same malignance that Toby’s had been. “You will pay for your actionsss,” it hissed at Harry. “Everyone will pay. It is time for…retribution.”

Harry cowered on the dance floor. The apparition had hit him; but how? Harry decided not to hang around to find out. He leapt to his feet and rushed for the door.

The apparition shouted after him, words both wicked and baleful. “You will die tonight, Harry Jobson. Death’s cold embrace awaits you. Go outside and face your end. Do not delay what is already certain.”

“Fuck you!” Harry shouted back. He reached the door to the pub’s corridor and glanced back one last brief second. It slowed him down, but he couldn’t help it.

Thomas Morris was nowhere to be seen.

Harry realised he was shaking. He took a series of deep breaths but still couldn’t relax. He needed to get out of that room right now, return to the others and tell them what he’d seen. Not that they would believe him.

He would just have to try to make them believe him. After what he had seen in the last hour, Harry knew that they were in great danger – from a source he could not make sense of.

Harry was about to leave, when the back room presented him with another gift. This time his heart kept its rhythm. Perhaps he was becoming used to seeing the impossible. Lying on the floor was his wife, Julie. Her body and face were battered and bruised, bones splintered and askew. Just like what she had looked like after the car crash that had killed her.

Harry gazed down at the twisted forgery of his wife and allowed his heart to scream for a moment. The final image of his wife’s dying form had always stayed with him, but never had he confronted it face-to-face. Not since the night it happened.

Julie tilted her head towards him, broken bones scraping and grating against each other as she moved. “Harry…” She spoke in a condemning whisper. “Why did this happen to me? Why are you not with me?”

Harry ground his teeth. This wasn’t his wife. This wasn’t Julie. Whatever it was, it was defiling the memories of dead people. He owed it no explanations.

“You’re dead, Julie,” Harry said, stepping over the twisted body and heading into the corridor. “And I’m not afraid of joining you.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Damien wasn’t sure why he had lied. Harry had made himself look a right muppet in front of Steph, but the fact was he was telling the truth. There had been flames outside, but they’d suddenly disappeared. Damien could have back Harry up, but had instead decided to leave him hanging.

Did the thought of Steph and Harry possible copping off together irritate Damien so much? He didn’t think he was so petty. Steph wasn’t like the usual girls Damien fucked. She was strong, with a mind of her own, and took control in the same way he did. He respected that.

But it was more than simple jealousy. Damien had gained a degree of pleasure from Harry’s frustration. Over the last few hours, Harry had shown himself to be an alright bloke. He may have been a deadbeat, but the geezer’s heart was in the right place. Maybe what pissed Damien off was the way Harry constantly played the part of the wounded soldier, always making people want to come up to him and ask if everything was okay. Oh, poor Harry, so full of pain and anguish, yet he still keeps going. What a guy!

Damien scowled. Harry had no right to make out like his problems were worse than anyone else’s.

He did lose his son though...

Damien shook his head and stood up from the cushion-less bench. He was beginning to lose sight of things. Tomorrow would be a new day and he would go back to not knowing any of these people.

Jess and Jerry were sitting nearby, with the dying polish kid who’d come through the window. Damien had chosen to stay near to the three of them just in case they needed help. He’d been impressed by the way Jess had glassed the old bird. Took balls.

As he stretched his legs, Damien continued to brood about Harry. Damien had things tough, too, but no one cared about his problems. No one ever gave a damn that his old man used to beat him black and blue growing up for no other reason that he felt like it. Trying to toughen you up, boy! Teach you to be a man. No one cared when the locally-feared, notorious gangster, ‘Big Jan’, had made Damien deal drugs at ten years old. No one will suspect a kid, his old man used to say, so get yourself on that corner and don’t come home till you’ve sold it all. And no one cared when Damien’s old man, ‘Big Jan’, had tried to pin an assault charge on him just to boost his street cred. People need to fear you like they fear me, Damien. Time to get a name for yourself.

The rage that ever flowed through Damien’s veins began to heat up. When his old man had gone down last year, he’d felt free for the first time ever. But it hadn’t lasted. Damien had been ordered to take over operations and report to his father in the nick via regular phone calls. Keep the money safe for me, Dame, for when I get out. Make me proud, son.

Yeah, I’ll make you real proud, dad! I’ll live up to the name of ‘Big Jan’.

Except Damien had never felt so small than when he was trying to be big like his father. For him, violence was an act, a well-rehearsed skill. There was no joy in punching a rival’s face, only emptiness. To his father it came easily. Like when he kicked the shit out of a local street dealer until he was a whimpering, bleeding mess on the ground. A kid no older than Damien.

Gazz Brown had been tough. He’d managed to knock Damien spark-out at a party and taken his stash of e. Damien’s father had not been happy – the supply had been his. Not happy at all. In a drunken rage, Big Jan – along with a group of ‘the boys’ – had taken Damien to go find Gazz. They’d found him round the back of the local supermarket, selling the e to the warehouse workers. Big Jan saw red – had gone red in fact. Like a wild bull, he had torn into the youth, cracking bones and shattering teeth, stamping and kicking long after the boy’s beaten body lay unconscious on the ground. It took almost ten minutes before the boys dragged him away, but by that time someone had called the Police. Somebody had to go down for it.

But not Big Jan.

Gazz ended up in a coma and Damien fessed to the crime. He’d gone to juvi for a stint, while ironically the fuzz got his old man twelve months later for Class A dealing. Big Jan went to Hewell Prison for 15 years just as Damien was getting out of kid’s knick. Upon his return, Damien had become feared on the local estate, viewed as a vicious, animalistic thug who had gone down for beating someone into a coma. His old man would have been proud.

But tonight was supposed to be the night when Damien did something to make himself proud. He was going to disobey Big Jan for the first time and do the right thing. Instead, he’d found himself trapped inside a rotten pub with a bunch of losers.

Losers like Harry, who only care about their next drink.

Finally it clicked. The reason Damien hated Harry so much was because the man cared more about getting wasted than anything else. Damien’s father had been no different, except it had been drugs instead of booze. Every time Damien looked at Harry, downing pint after pint, night in night out, he thought about how much he hated his father.

But Damien realised he had got Harry all wrong. Harry had been a good man and a good father, a bloke who cared so much about his family that, when they’d died, he’d just given up on life. Harry’s family had been his entire world – the exact opposite to Big Jan – and when they had died, part of him went with them. Damien finally understood Harry’s endless drinking.

And he could forgive it.

“I should apologise,” Damien told himself, “but first I gotta go take a piss.”

***

This is it! Nigel’s body teemed with excitement. Harry and Lucas were nowhere to be seen, probably in the cellar with the cripple. The grumpy shrew, Kath, had disappeared somewhere to clean the gore off her ugly face and Damien was at the other end of the pub with Jerry and the young girl, Jess. If he played his cards right, Jess would be dessert.

But first he had Steph with to gorge himself on.

I’m finally going to fuck her.

Nigel had watched with delight as everyone departed, except Steph who had gone toward the toilets alone. This was his chance. He would follow her in, knock her out cold, have his way with her, and then slit her throat with his trusty pen knife – sharpened to perfection. By the time he dumped her body outside in the snow, no one would be any the wiser. Nigel would plead ignorance of Steph’s whereabouts and, while everyone would fret and worry, that would be the sum of it. What else could they do but impotently panic? Only Nigel would know the truth.

First thing in the morning, he’d hop in his lorry and get the hell out of there as fast as the snow would flatten before his tyres. He would spend a few months in France maybe, enjoy some of the pussy on the South Coast. It was the easiest thing in the world. Raping and killing unsuspecting women had become as second nature to Nigel as taking a leak. Just another need to be taken care of. An itch to scratch.

Nigel eased open the door to the men’s toilets, where he’d seen Steph enter. The door creaked ever so slightly, but the sounds coming from inside, of Steph gathering up supplies, drowned out any noise he made.

The toilets smelt of stale piss and the room was lit by a single candle Steph had placed on the middle of three sinks. She was at the far end of the small space with her back to the door, gathering up bundles of handtowels from a storage cupboard.

Perfect! She won’t even see it coming.

With well-practiced grace, that belied his lumbering appearance, Nigel struck his blow. He clocked Steph from behind, hooking his fist into the side of her jaw and knocking her cold. The clunky Dolphin ring on his pinkie finger gave the blow a little extra impact. Steph’s body flopped sideways, collapsing into one of the toilet cubicles. Her head hit the ceramic bowl inside with a resounding thump!

“Good, girl,” Nigel grinned, “helping Daddy like that. You’ve found us a room and got yourself ready.”

He knelt over Steph and fumbled at her clothing, squeezing her breasts through the material. He could barely see in the dark, but that only made it more exciting. He’d fantasied about this moment for so long that every touch of her flesh was enough to send small beads of ejaculate spurting from his swollen cock.

He rolled Steph onto her back and slid his eager, trembling fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans. Despite the perishing cold, the flesh of Steph’s belly and groin was surprisingly hot.

Steph murmured incoherently.

“That’s it, you little slut, cry out for your Daddy. He won’t help you.”

Nigel fumbled excitedly at the buttons on Steph’s jeans. He round his teeth in frustrations when they refused to pop easily. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his excited hands and concentrated. The buttons came loose one at a time.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

“That’s it, darling, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Just as Nigel was about to start tugging down Steph’s jeans, he was alerted by a presence close behind him. He span around.

Then bit his tongue as something struck his jaw.

“What the fuck is going on here?” a voice demanded.

What the fuck indeed, thought Nigel as he unwillingly went to sleep on the piss-soaked floor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Harry been on his way to the toilet when he heard the ruckus.

After seeing the apparitions in the dance hall, Harry had hurried downstairs to the cellar to regroup. The vision of Thomas Morris had reached out and struck Harry, but he was almost certain that was the extent of the physical threat. If it could have done any real harm then surely it would have done so. Harry had no clue what was going on, but there was no need to panic the others with what had happened just yet, at least until he could figure out what to tell them.

It turned out that Old Graham wanted to speak to him about a rather embarrassing matter. The old man had needed to piss badly, but couldn’t get up with his leg the way it was. Harry understood the predicament, and accepting responsibility, but at first didn’t know what to suggest. Then he spotted the half empty bottle of Famous Grouse that Lucas had brought down. He gave the bottle to Old Graham who immediately necked the rest of the contents. “For the pain,” he said. Then Harry had given him the old man a few moments alone to refill the bottle.

Now Harry was on his way to the urinals upstairs, with a candle in one hand and a whisky bottle full of geriatric piss in the other. He hadn’t expected to run into trouble again so soon after his last encounter, but something was definitely happening inside the toilets as he approached.

The men’s toilet was dimly lit by candlelight, and it was too dark to see clearly what was happening inside. There was some sort of scuffle going on. A soft wet thudding that was immediately recognisable.

Someone’s getting a beating.

Candle in hand, along with the whiskey bottle full of urine, Harry ran forwards, lighting the room in a narrow sphere as he moved. At the back, he found…Damien. And then he found Nigel. Damien was beating the bigger man to a pulp, like he was tenderising a piece of beef. His knuckles made soft whapping sounds as they bounced off Nigel’s swollen face. What upset Harry most, was the sight of Steph lying unconscious in one of the cubicles. As Harry swooped the candle towards her, he saw that her jeans were unbuttoned.

Damien looked up and noticed Harry, but it was too late to give an explanation. Harry smashed the whiskey bottle full of piss over Damien’s head so hard that it might have killed him.

Part of Harry hoped it did.

***

Beside the fireplace, Jess watched over Peter, with Jerry beside her. She watched her sleeping friend turn paler and paler, and could not tell whether it was down to the cold or blood loss. Most of Peter’s wounds were bandaged, but they wept constantly.

“You think he’s going to wake up?” Jerry asked, tugging Jess out of her thoughts. His usual exuberance was absent for the time being and he had remained quiet for a while. Jess wondered if he was thinking about Ben; trying to make sense of what had happened to his best friend.

Jess shrugged. “He woke up once before, so who knows. How are you doing?”

“Me? I’m cushty? It’s this one we need to look after.” He pointed at Peter. “He looks bad.”

Jess shrugged again. “I think he might have it easiest of all, being asleep. Right now, I want to know how you are. You know...after what happened to Ben.”

Jerry’s face crumbled like a moist sandcastle and, for a short moment, Jess thought he was going to cry. He didn’t, though. “It’s stupid,” he said, “but I miss him already.”

“That’s not stupid at all.”

“Feels like it. I just keep wishing it was me. I wish I was the one that was dead and Ben was still alive.”

“Now that is stupid.” Jess shook her head despairingly. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be dead, would he?”

Jerry shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. All I ever did was annoy him.”

“Then why did he always keep you around?”

Jerry looked away from her and stared into the fire. “Fate, I guess.”

Jess wasn’t sure she understood. “What do you mean, fate?”

Jerry rubbed at his eyes and somehow succeeded in making them look even more tired. “Ever seen the play, Blood Brothers?”

“No.”.

“It’s a film about these two brothers who get separated at birth. A mother has twins and can’t afford to keep them both, so she gives one away to the rich family that she works for.”

“Okay,” said Jess, still not really following, but willing to listen.

“Somehow, the baby boy she gave away ends up making friends with the son she kept – his twin brother. They have completely different upbringings, one rich, one poor, but somehow they become best friends. Despite everything, they’re really very much alike.” Jerry stared at Jess and this time she was certain he would cry, but still he did not. He smiled instead. “That’s like me and Ben. You get what I’m saying?”

Jess didn’t. But then she thought about it a little harder and ventured a guess: “You and Ben were…brothers?” Jerry didn’t answer her but Jess knew it was a hit and not a miss. It still didn’t quite make sense, though. “Did Ben know?”

Jerry finally allowed a tear to escape his eye. He blinked it away and it crept down his cheek. “We…we had the same dad, but I never told him that. My mom only told me when I was ten. By then I’d already been friends with Ben for three years.”

Jess was shocked. “Why did you never tell him?”

Jerry wiped the tear from his face, but did nothing about the new ones that ran down to replace it. “Ashamed, I guess. My mom told me it was just a one-night stand and that it was while Ben’s dad was still with his mum.”

“You kept it to yourself because you didn’t want to hurt Ben or break up his family. I understand.”

Jerry avoided looking directly at Jess as he spoke. “Ben idolised his father; thought he was this great businessman. Truth is that the guy was a small-time jerk with more skeletons in his closet than Norman Bates, but if I told Ben what his father – what our father – was really like, it would only have hurt him. I didn’t want that. He was my brother.”

Jess felt emotionally winded by the story and had to remind herself to breath. What a beautiful sacrifice for someone to make, she thought, before hugging Jerry very tightly.

“What’s that for?” he asked her.

Jess pulled out of the hug and kissed Jerry’s cheek. “For being such a kind human being. I don’t think you realise quite how rare that is. Ben was lucky to have you as a friend, Jerry, and even more so as a brother.” Jerry whimpered. Jess patted him on the back. “Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.”

Jerry wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. “It’s okay. Think I needed it. Clears my head for what really matters.”

Jess frowned. “And what’s that?”

“What do you think? You saw what happened to Ben. There’s something evil out there and it’s not going to stop till it gets us all. If Peter could wake up and speak, he’d tell us to get the hell out of this messed up situation.”

“Peter already did warn me,” Jess blurted out. “He said I needed to get away.”

Jerry was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “No one believed us about what we saw, and I guess we kind of just let it go because we were embarrassed, but we both know that we’re not crazy. There’s something out there that isn’t human, Jess. It killed Ben.”

“I know,” she said. “We have to get away.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Make sure it’s tight”

“I am!” Harry tugged the curtain ties around Damien’s wrists and felt them dig into the boy’s flesh. “Any tighter and I’ll cut his arms off.”

“Good,” said Nigel. “Exactly what the dirty little rapist deserves.”

When Harry swung the whiskey bottle at Damien’s head it’d instantly shattered, sending streams of Old Graham’s salty piss all over the both of them. Harry could still smell the vinegary pong on his clothes.

Once Nigel regained consciousness, he and Harry had dragged Damien’s limp body into the bar and heaved him up onto a chair. They were now in the process of restraining him to it as tightly as possible. The last thing they needed was Damien waking up and endangering anybody else. They had enough on their plate as it was. Harry still hadn’t forgotten about the incident in the dance hall. Chaos, it seemed, had started coming at him from all directions.

Steph was lying downstairs on a pile of blankets, covered by an old duvet. She’d stirred briefly when they lifted her from the toilet floor, but remained unconsciousness ever since. Lucas was currently looking after her.

Harry felt sick for nearly trusting Damien.

“Nigel, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t walked in when you did. Steph is so lucky you were there.”

Nigel’s chest puffed up proudly. With the beating his face had taken, Harry thought he looked like a dishevelled bear. “I’m just sorry the little perv got the drop on me before I could take him down. My head’s banging.”

Harry gave the curtain ties one final, haughty tug. He was satisfied that Damien was now adequately restrained. “Vicious sod really did a number on you, didn’t he? Soon as the phones are working, we’ll call the police and get him squared away.”

Nigel seemed to flinch. “Police…yeah”

Harry looked at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Just a bit dizzy. Need to sit down, I think.”

Harry stood up, his frigid kneecaps popping. “I can keep an eye on things here. You go and rest, Nigel.”

“You sure? Can I get you anything?”

Harry thought about another beer, but for some reason he said, “No, I’m good, thanks.”

Nigel walked away gingerly, clutching at his ribs and holding his head. Harry tried to imagine the pain the guy was in. He was lucky to be alive after the walloping he took.

Harry stepped back and examined Damien. What could make a person so wicked as to want to rape and beat a person? It made his heart ache to think of the amount of hatred that infected the world. Damien was just one tiny ant in a whole colony of remorseless monsters. Harry started to wish that he’d asked for that beer after all. His mind couldn’t cope without it.

A strangled snort came from Damien’s direction and for a moment Harry thought the lad was going to wake up. His eyelids fluttered and his nose crinkled as though a fly had landed on it. But then he fell still again.

“What do we do with you now?” Harry asked. “Can’t exactly leave you in the middle of the room to freeze now, can I?”

Or maybe that’s exactly what you deserve.

Harry’s fists clenched themselves automatically as he thought about how frightened Steph must have been on that grimy toilet floor. He had to take deep breathes until the anger passed. It would drive him insane if he wasn’t careful.

Harry needed to get away from Damien – just being near the dirtbag made him sick – but it wasn’t an option. Damien could wake up and try to escape. The only place warm enough to keep the lad prisoner was by the fire, but that was already taken up by their casualty, Peter.

Prisoners. Casualties. What the hell is happening tonight!

The only other place was the cellar – once they got the new fire started at least – but there was no way Harry was going to put Damien anywhere near Steph. He was never going to let the kid anywhere near her ever again.

Harry walked over to Jess and Jerry. Both of them were on their knees tending to Peter’s wounds. Jess looked up at him as he approached and managed a weary smile.

“Hey,” Harry smiled back. “How you two holding up?”

“It’s starting to feel a bit like that film, Alive,” said Jerry.

Harry raised both eyebrows.

Jerry sighed. “You know…that movie where the plane crashes? The one where they’re all freezing to death, one by one? They all start to eat the dead bodies to stay alive? In other words, it’s freezing.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, never saw that film.”

Jess spoke. “We want out of here, Harry.”

Harry hadn’t expected that. Sure, it was an obvious thing to say, given the circumstances, but Jess was an upbeat person and didn’t seem the kind to complain. “We all do,” he said, “but that’s not possible right now. You know what it’s like out there. It’s not safe.”

Jess nodded. “That’s what I mean. It’s not safe here either. The snow is getting deeper and deeper outside, and it’s getting colder and colder in here. There’s something out there that killed our friend and we don’t want to hang around here until it gets us. We weren’t lying about what happened to us. There’s something out there.”

Harry pictured the flames outside, growing from the snow like shimmering beanstalks, with burning corpses hanging from them. Then he thought about the thing pretending to be his son, and how he need to tell someone. “I believe you. I saw things out there in the snow, too, which is why I don’t understand why you would want to go out there.”

“Because we’re sitting ducks here,” said Jerry. “I’d rather take my chances running to safety than waiting here to freeze to death. Do you really think we can all just sit around drinking beer and waiting for things to go back to normal? I hate to say it, but I think normal took a bus out of town. We’re all going to die if we stay here.”

“No one is going to die,” Harry stated firmly, “but I agree that we may not be safe here.”

Jerry narrowed his eyes. The cold air, fighting against the licking heat of the fire, made his cheeks blush like cherries. “So, you’ll help us then?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “If we go outside we’ll be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes, or the victims of something even worse. It would be insane to leave here before morning. Even then, I’m not so sure. I agree we’re in danger here, but I think we would be even worse off out there. We need to dig in and prepare.”

Jess’s lower lip trembled and she blinked several times. She looked at Harry pleadingly. “So what do you suggest? That we wait here until someone else comes flying through the window? Or until Damien tries to rape someone else?”

Harry felt his lips pull back in a snarl. “Damien won’t be hurting anyone else, don’t you worry about that.”

Jess shrugged as if his assertion meant nothing to her. “Fine,” she said, “but there’s something out there that’s less than friendly. You really just expect us to wait here till it tries to get in?”

“No,” said Harry. “We prepare ourselves. If whatever is outside tries to get in…”

Jess and Jerry both looked at him. “Yeah?”

“We make it wish it hadn’t.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jess decided Harry was crazy. He had to be. Why else would he suggest bunkering down in the pub and waiting for whatever was outside to get in? He didn’t understand the situation, and perhaps that made sense. Harry hadn’t seen what she and Jerry had seen; hadn’t seen Ben’s body disintegrate into a billion bloody granules of sand. No one else understood that there was a seven-foot psychopath out there with a film prop from Braveheart.

Braveheart? Jesus, I sound like Jerry.

Once Harry was far enough away, Jess turned to Jerry and whispered. “Are we really going to stay here?”

“You mean batten down the hatches like the kid from Home Alone?” Jerry ran both hands through his messy hair and sighed. “What choice do we have?”

“Maybe Harry’s right,” she admitted. “Maybe we’ll freeze to death out there as soon as we step through the door. I just don’t like feeling trapped, you know?”

Jerry nodded.

“So what do we do?” Jess asked.

“Arnie-up, I guess. Get some weapons and take it to the first thing that comes through the door.”

“Whatever happens, I don’t think they’ll be using the door.” Jess looked down at Peter who was still sleeping on the sofa. He seemed more peaceful now and she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. “I think windows are more their style.”

Jerry chuckled humourlessly. “No shit.”

Jess placed her hands on her hips. “Should we get started?”

“I think before we do anything we need to stoke the fire. I’m freezing my nuts off, and I think Peter’s turning blue.”

Jess looked down at Peter and saw the azure tint at the edge of his lips, like a thin line of biro. “I’ll go and check with Harry,” she said. “They’re building a fire downstairs. Maybe we can get some stuff to burn.”

Harry was stood with Lucas. The two of them were examining Damien in the chair and muttering. Jess couldn’t believe what Damien had tried to do. She had known he was a jerk, but…

Something felt off about the situation. Damien Banks was a lot of things, but Jess never pegged him as a rapist. Still, how much could you know about a guy, really?

“Harry,” Jess said, approaching him and Lucas. “The fire is struggling and we need something to burn.”

Harry nodded and rubbed at his chin. The stubble there made his face seem dirty. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “We’ll get it going again soon with some of the chairs Nigel broke up. I forgot to say earlier that I think I’ll have to leave Damien up here with you and Jerry. The only other option is to put him in the cellar, but with Steph…”

Jess waved a hand. “That’s fine, I understand. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

Harry stared into her eyes. “If he so much as twitches you need to shout down and get me.”

“Yeah, course. If he tries anything I’ll ring the bell or whack him with the fire poker. You tied him pretty tight by the looks of things, anyway.”

Harry looked down at Damien’s swollen wrists and seemed proud of himself. “I knew Boy Scouts would come in handy one day.”

Jess laughed. “I knew there was something outdoorsy about you.”

“No,” said Harry. “That’s just how I smell.”

Jess laughed again, this time louder. “You’re suddenly in a cheery mood.”

Harry stared into space for a moment before making eye contact with her again. “Guess I decided it was time to start taking part.”

Jess didn’t know what he meant. There were a lot of things she didn’t understand tonight. “Taking part in what?”

Harry smiled. “Life, I guess. Now, let’s go find you something for that fire.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She took Harry’s free arm as he grabbed a candle from the bar. Lucas nodded to them both as they passed, letting them know he was happy to stay behind and supervise Damien. As the two of them sauntered towards the bar, Jess felt a surreal feeling of safety that made her wonder if she was in some sort of denial about the fear she’d felt only minutes before. Strangely, Harry’s lightened mood made her feel that things might just work out okay.

Jess blinked twice and refocused her mind. Her skin felt tight under the prolonged attack of the cold. The chill felt like razor wire pulled tight around her flesh. She couldn’t wait to get in front of a renewed fire. Maybe she could even grab a short nap. She was exhausted. According to her watch it was almost 3am.

Jess descended the stairs while Harry lit the way with a candle. At the bottom they entered the cellar and were immediately met by Steph, who seemed to be recovering well from her ordeal. Old Graham lay on the floor beyond, snug beneath a blanket and seemingly quite drunk if the sound of his slurred singing was anything to go by. At the edge of the room, in shadow, sat Nigel, Kath was also in the room, but Jess didn’t care to pay attention to that old cow.

Steph took a step towards Jess and Harry and it became obvious that she was still a little shaky. “We have a problem,” she said only to Harry, as if Jess were not even there.

Harry’s happy demeanour soured slightly. “Steph, you should be resting. What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

Steph raised an arm behind her and pointed to a makeshift fire in the centre of the room. The steel dustbin was half-stuffed with wood and cardboard. Several chair legs pointed upwards like giant fingers.

Jess knew straight away what Steph was going to tell them and she didn’t want to hear it. She shook her head in despair. “That’s all we could find to burn, isn’t it?”

Steph changed her focus to Jess and nodded solemnly. “The cardboard recycling was done yesterday morning and we’re all out of coal. I was going to buy some from the supermarket to stock up. If we burn all the tables we still might not have enough.”

“We just need to last till morning,” said Harry. “We have plenty of wood until then.”

“I’m not so sure. Two separate fires is going to take a lot of fuel, but even if we can last till morning, what then? I don’t think this is just a bit of bad weather. Something’s happened. I’m sure some group of scientists someplace know exactly what is happening, but I think it’s starting to become pretty obvious that things are bad. We can rely on this all be okay come morning. Nobody is coming to help us and it’s only getting colder.”

“We’re going to freeze to death,” said Jess coolly, as if stating a fact.

Steph nodded. “Unless we do something about it.”

“Then let’s do something about it,” said Harry.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“What the Hell do we do?” asked Nigel, still shrouded in shadow.

Harry thought for a moment. “Steph, you’re absolutely sure that there’s nothing else we can burn? What about in Graham’s place upstairs?”

Steph shook her head. “Nigel already checked. It’s like a closing-down-sale up there. Barely enough furniture to fill one room. We’ll burn what’s there, but it’s not much.”

“Hey,” said Old Graham from the floor. “That’s all my worldly possessions you’re talking about…actually on second thoughts, you may as well burn it.”

Harry thought again, shivering as he did so. He wondered whether he was as cold as he felt or if it was just his mind exaggerating. Before he had time to decide which, his musings were interrupted by Jess.

The girl asked a question. “What about the supermarket?”

Harry looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Yes,” Kath chimed in from the other side of the room. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jess said, impatiently, “that the place is full of, like, a thousand cardboard boxes, plus all the bags of coal in the warehouse. If we grab one of the trolleys we can cart it all over here. There’re painkillers and other stuff, too, that we could give to Peter.”

Old Graham piped up from his resting place in the middle of the room. “Don’t bloody forget about me!” he slurred. “I could use some pain relief too.”

“Then we have a plan,” said Steph.

“Not yet we don’t,” Kath objected. “That is supermarket property you’re talking about. I can’t just let you in to ransack the place. It’s theft.”

Jess cursed out loud. “God sake, Kath, you still don’t get what’s going on, do you? Screw the supermarket! Our lives are more important.”

Kath snickered. “That’s debatable.”

Harry was starting to see why Jess hated the woman so much – she was wretched indeed – but before things got out of hand again, he decided to butt in. “Come on, the both of you. Fighting isn’t helping. Enough people have already gotten hurt tonight.”

“Yeah,” said Kath, rubbing the swollen cut on her forehead. “I’m well aware of that, thank you very much.”

“Look,” said Harry in his calmest tone. “We’re lost without you here, Kath, and if you were kind enough to let us into the supermarket then we’d all be in debt to you. Our survival would most likely be down to you and we won’t forget that.”

Kath seemed smug, as if her previously sour expression was just painted on and was now melting in the heat of the candle she held in front of her. “Well,” she said. “I guess I can’t just let you all freeze, but I hope you realise the sacrifice I’m making. I have responsibilities that can’t be taken lightly.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. Resisting the urge to slap the woman. “So, you’ll give us the keys?”

Kath laughed, as if someone had tried to convince her that the world was made of mashed potato. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “The store keys are to remain with an authorised key holder at all times.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Steph.

“That should be obvious. I’m going to have to be present at all times. I’m coming along.”

Harry bit his lip, seeing no other way to proceed. If the woman wouldn’t hand over the keys, he would have to take her along. The alternative was to manhandle her, and he wasn’t sure he could do that.

“I also must insist,” Kath continued, “that Jess is to remain here. Her employment was terminated earlier tonight and ex-employees are prohibited from entering the premises. Petty vindictiveness is all too common these days, I’m afraid.”

Harry caught the sight of Jess about to explode and quickly moved the conversation on. “Okay, that’s fine. It’s too important that Jess stays here, anyway, to keep watch over Peter and Damien. We can’t risk her going outside.” Jess seemed to settle down, but Harry couldn’t help but wonder how long he could keep the two women from each other’s throats. “Okay. Let’s just get to work. Sooner we do this the better. I’ll go ask Lucas if he’s up for the trip. Nigel, would you be okay to watch over things here?”

Steph grunted. “What would we ladies do without a man to protect us, eh?”

Harry leaned in close to her and spoke so that only she could hear. “After what you’ve been through tonight, there’s no way I’m going to leave you on your own. Nigel’s a big guy and I’d feel safer with him around. It’s more for my peace of mind more than it is yours.” Steph seemed affected by Harry’s words but he didn’t have time to wonder about how she felt about it.

“I’ll keep em safe,” said Nigel. “You can count on me.”

Harry reached forward and shook Nigel firmly by the hand. “I know I can. Thank you. And if that piece of shit upstairs tries to get free, you have my permissions to throw him on the fire.”

Nigel nodded and Harry made towards the stairs, starting to climb them one by one. As he ascended, he thought about whether or not this really was a good idea, to leave the modest safety of the pub and venture out into the snow. After what Jess and Jerry had said about their friend, Ben, and with Peter being thrown through the window, Harry half-expected to meet a fire breathing dragons outside. Not to mention giant plumes of impossible fire climbing into the sky while people burn to death on crosses. But without a well-fuelled fire, they were all doomed. There was no choice involved in what he had to do. The risk of death was better than the certainty of it. Whatever was outside, he would just have to face it.

It was time to start facing problems and doing something about them.

“Harry Boy, I take it you’ve been informed of our grave situation?”

Harry entered the bar area to find Lucas. The man was watching over Damien. “Yeah, they told me,” Harry said. “Nothing’s going right tonight, is it?”

“You can say that again. Still, I’m guessing you’re a fella with a plan.”

Harry nodded. “And you’d be right. Kath and I are going to go raid the supermarket for supplies. I wanted to ask you to come along.”

Lucas’ reaction was unexpected. The man seemed suddenly afraid. “Well, are you sure that’s the best course of action, Harry Boy? Should I not stay here and keep an eye on the womenfolk?”

“Nigel will do that. Plus, Jerry is by the fire with Peter.” Harry moved forward and placed a hand on Lucas’ shoulder. “I really need your help. We need the bags of coal they sell at the supermarket and I won’t be able to carry them all on my own. We’re going to use a trolley, but we will still have to lift it over the snow.”

Lucas shuffled uncomfortably, but seemed to come round to the idea. “Well, okay, I guess. I have little choice in the matter, do I? Can’t let an honest fella like yourself down. Bring on the snow, I say.”

Harry patted Lucas on the shoulder again. “I really appreciate it. We’ll be fine. Quick in and out, military style. Like you said earlier, I’m Major Jobson and you can be Captain Fergus.” Harry snapped off a mock salute and stood straight.

Lucas chuckled and returned the salute. “Sounds like a plan. I just can’t help but worry about bumping into something unpleasant out there. I’m not the bravest of men, you know?”

Harry understood the man’s fear; in fact he felt it himself. “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much,” he admitted, “but it’s either a quick trip to the supermarket or a slow wait until we freeze to death. I’d rather die trying than trying to die.”

Lucas clicked his fingers and did a little jig. “I like your spirit, Harry Boy. When do we depart?”

“No time like the present.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A baseball bat and a handful of kitchen knives was the best they could do. Harry hadn’t expected guns or a flamethrower, but he’d hoped for something a little more intimidating than kid’s toys and cutlery. Still, what they had was better than nothing.

“Right,” he said, handing the baseball bat to Kath and arming himself and Lucas with a chef’s knife each. “The plan is to get across to the supermarket quickly and quietly, sticking together at all times. Once we get there it’s over to you, Kath, because you know where everything is.”

Kath nodded and took over. “Our main priority is, of course, the coal, so we will gather that first. However, nobody touches anything else without my say so.”

“Would you mind if we breathe the air?” asked Lucas.

Kath planted her hands on her hips. “If you’re not going to obey my rules then we can forget this whole thing, right now.”

“Fine,” said Lucas. “Although, we could just tie you up like our young friend, Damien, then take the keys for ourselves.”

Kath’s face dropped in horror.

Lucas chuckled. “Just pulling your leg, lass.”

Harry slid off his stool and straightened himself up. “Okay, Nigel, you keep an eye on everything here and we’ll be back as soon as we can. Jerry, you make sure that Damien stays tied up nice and tight.”

“No,” said Jerry. He was holding the fire poker down by his thigh and shaking his head. “I’m coming with you.”

Before Harry had time to object, he found that Jess had beaten him to it. “Are you insane?” she said.

“No, I’m not,” Jerry replied. “Just tired of being useless. That’s all I ever was when Ben was around and I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry on being like that now he’s gone.”

“That’s very…noble,” said Harry, “and we all understand you wanting to honour your friend, Jerry, but there’s no need to take the risk. We’ve got it covered.”

“Dude, I don’t know you and you sure as hell don’t know me, but one thing you’ll learn real soon is that all of the shit me and Jess told you about is real. None of you have seen what’s out there. But I have.”

“What’s your point?” said Harry.

“My point is that I’m more qualified than you to go out there and face down the crazy, so what right do you have to tell me anything?”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t have the energy for this. “We don’t have time to argue, so I guess you’ll be coming along, too, then.”

Jess placed a hand on Jerry’s shoulder and nudged him to face her. Harry couldn’t hear their conversation, so he decided to take the remaining time to check up on Steph. She was standing behind the bar, relighting candles that had gone out.

“You okay?” Harry asked her. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

She smiled at him, her features so tired and faded that she looked like a shivering ghost in the candlelight. “N-no more than normal,” she said, chattering. “This place was never exactly The Ritz to start with. I’m used to trouble.”

Harry took her hand and felt a jolt run through his skin when he felt her squeeze back. The room was freezing, but her palm throbbed out heat. He smiled at her. “You don’t have to pretend, you know?”

Steph’s eyes welled up as though a tap had been turned loose somewhere inside of her. “You mean I should just be honest and say that I think we’re all going to die tonight?”

Her words hit Harry like a punch to the kidneys. Just when he’d started to find some strength and positivity inside of himself, Steph had lost hers. It was tragic because he knew that his strength had, in part, come from being around her. He’d taken advantage of Steph’s emotional strength and now the poor girl was drained. He squeezed her hand tightly. “No one is going to hurt you, Steph. I promise. I agree, some weird business has been going down tonight, but things will work out. Don’t be scared.”

Steph laughed and wiped at her nose and face. The skin of her wrist glistened as she pulled it away. “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, huh?”

Harry smiled. “Something like that.”

“You just get back here in one piece, okay! Then I’ll stop crying.”

“Okay, deal.”

Steph let go of Harry’s hand and pushed him away. “Well, get going then.”

Harry turned around and saw that Jerry, Kath, and Lucas were all waiting for him. They formed an orderly queue by the door. Lucas still seemed reluctant to go outside and Harry couldn’t say he blamed the guy.

It was time to get going. A sheen of ice had started to form on the wooden surfaces of the tables and snow drift was gathering at around the front door wherever it could find the thinnest of cracks. Whether or not they went outside, the weather was coming in to get them sooner than later.

Harry marched to the front door and placed a hand against the bolt, ready to slide it across and yank open the door. For one quick moment, he lost the nerve he needed to continue, but he took a breath and forced the fear deep down into his gut. “Let’s go,” he said finally, pulling open the door and stepping out into the snow.

***

Outside, the landscape was blank as an unused canvass. Harry could see nothing but white. A white so pure that its gleaming intensity made his eyes ache. But, despite the blankness, there was movement everywhere. Shifting, dancing specks of snow swirled in the air, each individual flake part of a greater never-ending whole. A blizzard. Harry thought about rushing back inside, regretting the plan already, but when he looked over his shoulder he could no longer see the pub.

Lucas, Jerry, and Kath were following closely behind, linking arms to form a human chain. Each of them seemed worried. They were looking for Harry to lead them.

But lead them where exactly? These people’s safety is in my hands and I don’t even know what to expect.

“You alright there, Harry Boy?”

Harry turned to Lucas. “I’m just…thinking.”

“Well, perhaps you’d like to do your wonderings some place a bit warmer. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a tad cold out here this evening.”

Harry nodded and started moving. The snow enveloped them past their knees. They had to swim through it more than they did walk. It wouldn’t be long before the snow was deep enough to swallow a man whole. The effort of each step left them panting.

Several minutes passed.

The snow went on forever.

“Do you have any idea of where we’re going?” Kath shouted from the back of their human chain, struggling to be heard over the howling wind. “We should have been there by now.”

Harry had been thinking the same thing.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” said Kath, accurately reading in on the meaning of Harry’s silence. It had been more an accusation than a question.

Instead of Harry answering, Jerry did. “Yeah, we’re lost,” he said, “but Harry’s not to blame.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, I’m not to blame?”

“I mean that the snow made us lost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kath.

“Come now,” said Lucas, stopping and halting everybody in the line. “Let’s hear the boy out.”

Jerry prepared to give his explanation. The others gathered around close, each of them shivering, except for Lucas who seemed to be coping slightly better. “It’s not normal snow,” Jerry explained to them. “It’s magic snow.”

Nobody spoke, although the incredulity was clear on their faces.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jerry, deadly serious. “You don’t believe me, I know, but I’m telling you that this snow is unnatural. It’s a force being wielded by a something evil.”

Harry decided to humour the boy. “Wielded by who?”

“Who you think? The guy in the robes and hood. The guy with the flaming sword. The snow is just his tool to trap us or get us lost and confused. Then he comes to kill us, just like he did Ben. I know you think I’m full of shit, but something killed my friend.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying his best to remain open-minded. “But, if you believe that, what the hell are you doing out here?”

Jerry smashed a fist against his open palm. “Because me and the monster out here have unfinished business. If he turns up, I’ll be the one to face him while the rest of you make a run for it.”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Harry asked. “You’re just a kid, not Rambo.”

But Jerry seemed perfectly sane as he spoke. “I need to take responsibility instead of letting other people do things for me. If this is the end of the world then the least I can do is make it hard for the bastard who started it. I’m going to give him the arse-kicking of his life.”

“Erm….fellas?” The group turned to face Lucas, who was looking at them queerly. “That bastard in question,” he pointed over Harry’s left shoulder, “is right over there.”

Harry spun around to see a shape in the distance. The dark silhouette of a man, taller than a man should be, was gliding towards them, slowly and methodically, as if it had all of eternity to reach them. In the last year there had been many nights that he had jerked from a nightmare, but this was the first time he’d ever felt like he was drifting into a nightmare.

And that nightmare was coming right at them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“I’d better go check on Old Graham,” said Steph, leaving Jess and Nigel to look after Damien and Peter. Harry and the others had been gone for almost half an hour. With the exception of Kath, Jess missed having their numbers around.

She turned to Nigel. “Best settle in. It’s already been a long night.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Nigel replied.

The two of them slid down on either side of the fire, leaving the middle clear so that its warmth could reach Peter on the sofa. Damien was still tied to a chair, though not as close to the fire as the rest of them. They’d dumped an assortment of blankets on him to keep him. Jess pulled a duvet over herself and let out a shiver.

“Not getting any warmer is it?” Nigel commented. “Don’t they say you should all huddle together to share warmth?”

“Yeah,” Jess agreed. “They do say that.”

Nigel patted the floor beside him. “Well? You want to come over?”

“No…it’s okay,” she said. “I’m warm enough for now, but thanks for offering.”

For a half-second, Jess thought she saw anger flush through Nigel’s face, but when he spoke he sounded harmless.

“Don’t mention it,” he told her. “I just don’t like to see a young girl suffer.”

Jess giggled. “What a gentleman.”

“Unlike some.” Nigel nodded towards Damien.

“I still can’t believe Damien tried to hurt Steph.”

“Well, believe it! The lad’s an animal. He’s lucky I didn’t fucking kill him.”

Jess was taken aback by the sudden outburst of anger. “Wow! Calm down. I was just saying it was a shock, that’s all.”

Nigel rubbed at his eyes and shook his head. His gold pinkie ring glinted in the fire light, the image of a dolphin flashing into her vision for a split-second. “I’m sorry. I just wish I was there to stop him sooner.”

“You stopped him soon enough,” Jess said. “He never got to hurt Steph. Well, not in that way, you know?”

Nigel nodded and smiled, but something about his expression made Jess feel uncomfortable. It felt like she was being looked at through a mask and that Nigel’s smile was hiding something.

But what?

“Do you mind holding the fort for a couple minutes?” Jess said. “I want to check if Steph needs anything.”

“No problem,” Nigel said, looking her hard in the eyes.

Jess shivered again, and she was certain it wasn’t because of the cold. She stood up and hurried away. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly didn’t want to be near Nigel. It was as if a veil had lifted, revealing him to be someone else. It was spooky.

Nigel remained by the fire. Jess suddenly felt stupid and paranoid. Nigel didn’t look like he would hurt a fly. But neither did frogs, until they shot out their slimy tongues and pulled you in to swallow you whole.

Jess stepped behind the bar and immediately felt the warmth coming up from the fire in the cellar. She shuddered at the pleasant feeling and started to take the steps downwards.

At the bottom, she found Steph sitting near the makeshift brazier with Old Graham. The two of them were chatting away as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Steph looked up at Jess as she approached. “Everything good up there?”

Jess shrugged. “I wouldn’t describe anything as good at the moment, but things are…stable.”

“How’s Peter?”

“Bad. I don’t know what to do for him. I’m hoping that the others come back soon. They’ve been gone a while now.”

Steph bit her lip. Her face was swollen on one side where she’d been struck and her right eye was half-closed. Jess wondered quite how much Steph had been affected by what had happened to her. It was obvious she was trying not to show any emotion, but the feisty barmaid didn’t seem quite as tough as usual. “Are you okay?” Jess asked her.

Steph seemed to snap out of a trance. “I’m fine. Just a bit worried, I guess, but that’s to be expected, right?”

“Hell yeah. You’d have to be made of stone not to be worried tonight. Speaking of which, how well do you know Nigel?”

Steph looked confused. “Nigel? Pretty well, I guess. Why?”

“He just makes me feel a bit…uncomfortable.”

Steph shook her head. “He’s never caused any problems in the eight or nine months I’ve known him. Keeps to himself, more or less.”

“A nice guy…f-from…what I seen…tonight.” Old Graham had fallen into a drunken haze, but still managed to fade in and out of the conversation. “A nice…guy. Can I have another drink?”

“No,” said Steph. “We need to lay of the beers. We’re all getting a bit too heavy headed.”

“Maybe, I’m just being silly,” said Jess.

Steph smiled. “I’d say so. Nigel saved me from being raped tonight! He’s a good guy.”

Jess nodded. Maybe she really was paranoid, just as she’d suspected earlier. Having Steph confirm it made her feel much better. She would go back upstairs and look after Peter, thinking no more about it. But first she wanted to check on Steph’s injuries. They looked pretty bad and Jess felt bad that Steph always seemed to be the one looking after everyone else. Jess wanted to try and look after her for a change. “Let me have a quick look at your face, before I go back upstairs,” she said. “You look pretty beat up.”

Steph waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Just a bruise.”

“I’d feel better all the same. I did first aid a couple months ago.” Jess slid down onto the floor besides Steph.

Half-asleep, Old Graham murmured something from the floor. “Let the girl…take a quick…gander.”

Steph sighed and leaned forward. “Okay, then, but keep your hands away. It hurts bad enough as it is, without being prodded.”

Jess leaned forward slowly and cringed at the sight of Steph’s bulging cheek. Her misty blue eye was bloodshot and teary. A second injury on her forehead seemed just as painful. The throbbing bump that was already turning purple around the split in its centre. “Jesus, you really took a whacking, didn’t you?”

Steph sighed. “Think I fell against the toilet bowl. Don’t really remember much more than that. Someone came out of the dark and hit me.”

“Someone? You don’t remember anything at all?”

“No. I just remember being hit.”

Steph went to pull her head away, but Jess stopped her. “Hold on a sec. Let me look.” Jess examined the swollen gash on Steph’s cheek, and noticed something. Something at the centre of the bruising, a patch of skin lighter in colour than the surrounding tissue. It formed a shape, perhaps matching the surface of whatever had struck her. The outline seemed to resemble a…

Jess’ eyes went wide.

Her mouth gaped open.

The mark resembled a dolphin.

Jess scratched at her head while she tried to understand why she recognised the shape. It didn’t take her long. “Holy shit! Nigel!”

“Did I hear someone say my name?” Nigel had reached the bottom of the stairs and was heading into the cellar.

Jess’s stomach cramped up as she tried to think of something to say. “Oh…hi, Nigel. Yeah, we were just talking about you. Steph just told me what nice guy you are.”

Nigel grinned like a hungry fox. Jess finally saw through the man’s disguise. His mask had slipped.

And beneath lay a monster.

***

When Jess had suddenly excused herself, Nigel had been concerned. Maybe his fumbled attempt at getting the girl to sit beside him had eroded the harmless veneer he worked so hard to maintain. It was possible that Jess had seen his true intentions.

Now, as Nigel walked down into the cellar, he wasn’t entirely sure. Jess certainly seemed jumpy at his presence but, considering the events of the last few hours, that was perhaps understandable. Steph seemed glad to see him, though. She smiled and waved a hand at him when he’d entered the cellar. It wasn’t surprising she trusted him. After all, he’d been working on gaining her confidence for the last eight months. As far as Steph was concerned, he was as harmless as a three-legged kitten with pneumonia.

Dumb fucking whore.

It didn’t matter if Jess suspected anything. They were both just his prey now; new victims to add to his mental highlight-reel of rape and torture. He figured he had at least an hour to have fun with them before he’d have to slit their throats, stash the bodies, and take a finger for his collection – and that was only if Harry and the others managed to make it back from the supermarket without freezing to death first. If they did make it back, Nigel would have a story all ready for them, and his trusty flick knife ready in his pocket just in case they didn’t believe it.

“Everything okay?” Jess asked him, still not giving away whether or not she suspected anything. “Shouldn’t someone be watching Damien and Peter?”

Nigel nodded, trying his best to look solemn. An emotion he couldn’t actually feel at all, but one he felt he was adept at emulating. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sweetheart. I think Peter’s waking up. I heard him say your name.”

Jess didn’t react for a moment and Nigel wondered how well his lie had gone down. Finally, she said, “That’s wonderful. G-great news.”

“Well,” said Nigel, offering out his hand, “you going to come see the poor lad or not? I’m sure you’re the thing he’d like to wake up to.”

Jess shifted uncomfortably, as if determined not to get up, but eventually she had no choice but to concede.

“Be right there,” she said. “I just need to talk to Steph about something first. Girl problems, you know? Shall I see you up there in five minutes?”

The girl knew.

And she’s trying to warn Steph, the little bitch!

Nigel closed his eyes and fought the urge to rip the girl apart right there and then, tasting her wet insides as she gulped her dying breaths. He had to work real hard to control himself and keep his cool. He would be nowhere without his control. Far better to have fun once everyone was tied up and under his power. That way there could be no surprises and the party could really get started. Killing Jess now would just cause chaos.

“I think you should probably come right now,” Nigel suggested, keeping his voice soft so as not to alarm an unsuspecting Steph. “What if he doesn’t make it and this was his last chance to speak to you, Jess?”

Steph placed an arm around Jess and gave Nigel a scolding look. She’d pay for it later. “That’s a little bit harsh, Nigel,” she said. “Let’s not condemn the poor boy just yet.”

“Thanks,” Jess replied.

“I do agree with him though, honey,” Steph added. “You should go right away. Peter hasn’t been conscious much at all tonight and you wouldn’t want to miss out on anything he could tell us about what’s happening outside.”

Nigel grinned. That’s a good girl. Always so eager to help daddy, aren’t you? Just like when you knocked yourself out for me in the toilets.

Nigel reached his hand out towards Jess again. “That’s what I was trying to say. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure Peter’s going to be just fine, but right now he needs you.”

Jess looked like one of the cats Nigel used to strangle as a child, before he moved onto women and children. Trapped and terrifyingly aware that death was rapidly approaching, yet powerless to do anything about it. The girl was afraid, and the sight of it made Nigel’s cock hard. He liked it so much better when they knew it was coming. Loved the look in their eyes.

Jess started to get up, ignoring Nigel’s outstretched hand and rising tentatively on her own. Nigel moved away to give her space, waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs. To his irritation, Jess instead turned to Steph and held out a hand. “Will you come with me? I’m not sure I’ll cope if Peter takes a turn for the worse.”

Nigel clenched his jaw. Don’t even try it! Just take what’s coming to you and stop making things hard.

Steph shook her head and Jess seemed to deflate like a leaking balloon. “I can’t. I need to stay here and look after Old Graham. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’m sure Peter will be fine.”

“But Old Graham’s asleep,” said Jess, sounding desperate.

To Nigel’s dismay, Steph seemed to pick up on the girl’s subtle pleas. She stared at Jess, as if trying to work her out. Nigel held his breath, waiting for the outcome.

“Okay,” said Steph. “I’ll come with you, but we’ll have to be quick.”

Nigel tapped his foot irritably as the two women huddled together and headed for the stairs. It was clear now that Steph had picked up on something in Jess’s tone, but Nigel doubted she had any idea of what was really going on. She wouldn’t figure out the truth until it was far, far too late.

Nigel crept up the stairs, making sure the women were following close behind. He kept his steps slow, so that Jess couldn’t fall behind and whisper something to Steph without him hearing.

When they reached the top, Nigel stepped aside and ushered the two women in front of him. He manoeuvred them into the candlelight of the bar and they re-entered the freezing lounge. It wasn’t even biting cold any longer, but a far deeper sensation, like his very blood was turning to ice in his veins. Ice seemed to cling to everything, and breathing felt like sucking in cold steel. “Come on,” he said top them, “let’s get over by that fire.”

The women walked ahead and Nigel kept close behind, rubbing his palms against his arms to try to generate some friction and heat – but the only thing getting him hot right now was watching Steph move. He thought about all the things that he could do to that sexy, slender body that would warm him up for the rest of the night. The only thing left to figure out was the best way to take Jess out of the picture. For now, he’d let things play out and wait for an opportunity to present itself. The flick knife in his pocket made Nigel consider just stabbing the girl in the eye and being done with it, but that would be a waste. He had to have his fun with her first. If Steph was going to be the main course, then Jess would be dessert. I’ll eat her nipples as cherries, Nigel thought as he let slip an excited laugh. He quickly stifled it when the women looked at him.

“Something funny, Nigel?” Steph asked.

He quickly shook his head. “Just the craziness of tonight making me a little loopy. I get the giggles when I’m nervous.”

“And why would you be nervous?” Jess asked in a tone that he didn’t like at all. It was almost goading.

“Well,” he said, “there’s a lot to worry about tonight, isn’t there, sweetheart?”

Jess took a step backwards and was nodding as though she knew a punch-line to a joke that no one had told yet. Nigel felt his blood pressure rising as he fought the urge to rip into the girl and punish her insolence. She kept her eyes fixed on him as she continued stepping backwards. Steph was watching from a few feet away, visibly unsure of what was about to unfold. Nigel took steps of his own, keeping pace with Jess.

“Or are you nervous,” Jess said, “because you lied about Peter being awake? Look at him, he’s still unconscious.”

Nigel grinned. Of course Peter was still unconscious. The kid was as good as dead. Pity he isn’t awake. He could have watched while I fuck his girlfriend.

Jess took another step backwards, placing herself up against the wall beside the fire. No more space to retreat. Nigel continued approaching.

You’re trapped now, bitch.

“Or,” Jess continued, “are you nervous because I know that you’re the one who tried to rape Steph?”

Nigel looked at Steph and watched the sudden shock wash over her. She took a sharp intake of breath. Jess’s revelation had sucked the wind out of him as well. He’d expected her to try and blow his cover, but the fact that she’d done right in front of Steph hurt him. Nigel hadn’t wanted Steph to know the truth about him until the very last moment.

Nothing to be done now, though. Time to start ripping flesh.

Nigel lunged at Jess like a cobra striking. Over committed to attacking, he was powerless to change direction as the teenager swung at him with the fire poker she’d somehow managed to grab without him seeing.

The last thing Nigel thought as the steel rod arced towards his skull was…

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“You want another piece of me, huh? Well, if it’s Mortal Kombat you want then that’s exactly what you’re going to get, you cross-dressing freak.”

Harry managed to reach out and grab Jerry before the lad ran off to his peril. “Hold it,” he said, clutching the boy by the collar.

Jerry struggled to get free. “Dude, not cool. Let go of me. Him and me have got unfinished biz’ness.”

Harry shook the lad. “This isn’t Star Wars and that’s not Obi Wan Kenobi.”

Jerry looked outraged. “Obi Wan is one of the good guys, you dork!”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I’m the dork.”

“Fellas, while I’d love to have a discussion on the many wee sides of the force, I think we should get going, pronto.”

Harry nodded to Lucas and then looked into the distance at the approaching figure. “Okay, let’s get back to the pub.”

Everyone agreed. They turned, ran…

…and stopped in their tracks.

“Holy shit!” Jerry cried out as ten foot flames exploded from the snow before them, cutting off any chance of escape. Harry felt the heat spread in a wide semi-circle around them, leaving no place to go but directly towards the robed figure.

“Time to enter the Thunderdome, bitch,” Jerry snarled.

“You reckon we should fight?” Harry asked everyone.

“You got a better idea?” Jerry said, limbering up.

“This is insane,” said Kath. “We need to run.”

“Where?” asked Harry.

“Don’t suppose anybody has a fire extinguisher?” Lucas asked, fanning his hands against the rising flames behind them.

Harry took several steps forwards. It was probably a stupid idea. “What do you want from us?” he demanded of the stranger in the snow. The robed figure stopped moving, still buried too far inside the blizzard for Harry to make him out clearly. Despite that, he could feel the stranger’s stare boring into him, digging at the corners of his soul. “I said, what do you want?”

Silence.

Then: “WE HAVE COME FOR…THE SINNER.”

Harry shook his head. What the fuck is with this guy? Did he overdose on bible studies as a kid?

“Who exactly is the sinner?” he asked.

More silence.

Then: “YOU ARE, HARRY JOBSON.”

Harry stumbled as his knees ceased functioning for a moment. Was he really the sinner? The cause of all of the havoc tonight? It seemed insane, but…

He’s right…I am a sinner. But how did anybody ever find out?

“Come on, Harry Boy, time to go.” Lucas grabbed him from behind. At first Harry thought it was to turn him over to the hooded stranger, but it wasn’t. Lucas and Jerry both dragged Harry backwards through the snow, heading through a small gap in the wall of fire.

“What are we doing?” Harry asked wearily as they dragged him along by the armpits. His legs trailed in front of him uselessly.

“Running for our lives,” said Lucas. “What the blazes do you think?”

“The supermarket must be nearby,” said Jerry, struggling with Harry’s weight. “At least I hope so.”

“It is,” said Kath. “We’re here.”

Harry looked up to see the dim shape of a building present itself through the blizzard, only twenty yards ahead.

They were going to make it.

Lucas and Jerry continued to drag and pull him across the snow. Kath overtook them, searching her pockets frantically, no doubt for the building’s keys.

Harry had a question, and he shouted it out. “Where’s the stranger? Where did he go?”

They reached the supermarket’s locked fire door and dumped Harry down. Lucas stared down at him and offered his hand. “I don’t bloody know where it is, but get up and be ready in case it comes back.”

Kath pulled her keys from her pocket and started sifting through them. “I can’t see a thing out here.”

Harry managed to stand, his legs turning from jelly to gradually-setting cement, not yet firm, but getting there. He looked back in the direction they’d come from and found his heart stopping in his chest. “You’d best hurry up and get us inside, Kath. I mean right NOW!”

Coming through the snow, with a steady and methodical purpose, was the hooded figure; but this time he was not alone. There were other robed strangers getting nearer. Dozens of them. Their ghostly visages melted into the background of the whirling blizzard and there could have been an endless legion of them out there for all Harry knew.

Kath frantically tried her keys on the lock. Lucas fell to his knees, muttering. Harry thought he heard the Irishman say something about ‘an army of Christ’, but there was no time to ask about it. The robed strangers were approaching quickly, almost seeming to glide across the deep deep snow.

“How’s it going?” Harry urgently asked Kath.

“I’m trying,” she said, sounding close to tears. “I’m sodding trying.”

As if things could get any worse, Harry heard something awful.

Growling.

The sound was so guttural that it might have emanated from a pack of rabid wolves. Alongside the army of strangers were a dozen beasts. They fit Jerry’s description of the creature that had attacked them. Giant dogs with innumerable teeth in their salivating jaws

“Hell hounds,” said Jerry. “Just like the one that attacked me and Jess. Believe me now?”

Harry clutched the chef’s knife tightly in his hand, but had a feeling it would prove useless. “Jerry,” he shouted. “If we live through this, I will be the first in line to apologise for not believing you, but now’s not the time for humble pie.”

Jerry seemed buoyed by the vindication and actually began to smile. He moved to Kath and picked up the baseball bat she had propped against the supermarket’s door and hefted it over his shoulder.

Lucas was still on his knees, but had stopped his incoherent rambling. He fixed his gaze on Jerry. “What the b’jaysus are you doing, lad?”

Jerry narrowed his eyes. “I’m getting even.”

With that, Jerry trudged through the snow at a speed as close to running as possible in the thick snow. He held the baseball bat high above his head as if it were a holy sword of Justice. The strange army of unearthly figures continued approaching with their hell hounds. Jerry didn’t seem concerned by any of it as he picked up speed.

“Jerry, get back here!” Harry shouted, but his words faded into the blizzard.

What is that boy doing?

Harry watched as Jerry came to a halt six feet in front of one of the giant dog-like beasts. He stuck out an arm and made a ‘bring it’ motion. “Let’s go, Cujo!”

Jerry swung the baseball bat down over his head in a downwards arc. It connected with the bulbous skull of the hell hound. With a snarling whine, the beast collapsed sideways into the snow, which immediately begun to melt around it. Jerry swung the bat again, connecting a blow with the beast’s hindquarters, causing it to yowl in agony. Before he had chance to swing it again, the beast rose to its feet and fled.

Jerry held the bat above his head and shouted triumphantly. “Flawless victory, motherfucker. Yeah, that’s what you get when you mess with the J-Meister.”

Harry watched the surreal image of the spotty, teenage boy taking on a pack of hell beasts with a decrepit baseball bat and wondered whether he was stoned. Had his drinking progressed to drug-abuse and he was now lying somewhere, hallucinating the whole thing? It was a thought he would’ve liked to have held on to very much, but he knew it wasn’t true. They were all in great danger and none of this was imaginary. It wasn’t a movie.

“Jerry! Get your arse back here, now!”

Harry’s warning came too late. The rest of the hell hounds swarmed over Jerry in a never ending wave. Harry was unable to take his eyes away as flesh and fat were shorn from teenager’s bones like meat from a turkey. Razor sharp fangs pierced every inch of Jerry’s skin and turned him into a bloody skeleton. Harry thought his ears would explode at the sound of the boy’s agonised screams and was grateful that they only lasted a few seconds as the beasts tore out his throat.

Harry sobbed.

“Thank God!” Kath said finally, unlocking the door and pushing it open so hard that she fell to her knees inside. Harry couldn’t move, eyes transfixed on the beasts feeding on Jerry’s twitching body.

Harry tried to blink, but couldn’t. “They’re going to kill us all.”

“Maybe,” said Lucas, yanking him backwards through the open door. “But there’s no reason for us to make it easy for them.”

Harry took a long hard swallow. Lucas was right. After all the hits life had thrown at him, there was no way he was going to take a beating lying down. “No,” he said. “The last thing we’re going to do is make it easy for them.”

Kath locked the supermarket’s door behind them, whilst outside an army of robed demons surrounded them.

Chapter Thirty

“Damien…

“Damien, wake up.”

Damien opened his eyes, expecting light to stream in and burn his retinas; but there was only darkness. Gradually, he remembered the evening’s events. The unending snow, the power cut, and everybody freezing. He could remember no more than that at first, but when he found himself tied to a chair he began to panic as the rest came flooding back.

“Steph!”

“I’m here, Damien. I’m going to untie you, but you’ve got to stay calm. We need your help.”

“That son of a bitch knocked me out. Harry, I’m going to kill you.”

“Damien, I can only untie you if you calm down. The only reason Harry hit you was because he thought-“

“I was going rape you.”

“Yes,” said Steph. “We got it all wrong. It wasn’t you, it was-“

“Nigel!” Damien remembered finding the sick pervert about to stick it in an unconscious woman. Not just any women either: Steph. Damien was a lot of things, but he was no rapist. Sex offenders and nonces were a whole other level of scumbag, subhuman slugs. He wrenched at his wrist restraints, furious when they refused to loosen. “Where the hell is that fucker? I’m going to kill him.”

Nigel appeared from the shadows. There was blood dripping down his face. “I’m here, princess, and guess what? This time you get to watch.”

Damien strained against his ropes, unable to see what was happening as Nigel raced past him. He heard the monster taunting the girls, and them crying out in fear, but with his back to the fire place and sofa, he could see nothing more

Damien struggled at the ropes around his wrists. Come on, come on. Need to put a stop to this before it gets nasty.

The ropes were tight. So tight that the skin around Damien’s wrists was abraded and sore. Still, he began sawing his arms back and forth, trying to create enough slack that he could slip him free.

A wet slapping sound.

Damien flinched as a body fell down in front of him.

Steph lay crumpled on the floor, dazed and barely conscious, blood seeping from a wound on the bridge of her nose. She murmured something to Damien, but it passed him by. It sounded like the word ‘poker’.

Damien continued rubbing his wrists back and forth, feeling the ropes loosen a couple of millimetres.

Yes, come on. Come one!

At his feet, Damien could feel Steph squirming on the floor, slowly moving past his legs. At first he thought she was making a run for it, but a tugging sensation at his wrists made him realise she was trying to untie him.

The ropes began to loosen.

With the extra slack Damien shifted in his seat and blinked while his eyes adjusted to the scene in front of him. Nigel had Jess pinned up against the wall beside the fire, struggling back and forth as the girl held onto his wrists and did her best to keep his hands away from her. She was putting up more of a fight than Nigel had obviously expected, if his frustrated grunts were anything to go by. Damien almost smiled as he watched Jess spit and bite at Nigel’s face, doing everything she could to defend herself.

Girl was a fighter for sure.

Damien felt the ropes fall away from his wrists. A jolt shot from his knees and spread through his entire body as he leapt out of the chair. He threw himself at Nigel, landing hard against the man’s broad back. It felt like hitting a brick wall, but the blow was enough to send Nigel face first into the wall. Unfortunately, Jess was in the way and got squashed. The air exploded from her lungs in a great ‘Oooomph!’ as she fell to the floor like a puppet without strings.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Damien swung his fist.

And missed.

Nigel ducked and countered with a punch of his own. His large, meaty fist connected with Damien’s ribcage with an echoing thud! The air surged out of Damien like a whistle on a steam train; a drawn-out, strangled wheeze that seemed to go on forever. He fell to his knees in agony.

Nigel stomped towards him like a greasy-haired rhino, grunting and snorting. There was still too little air in Damien’s winded lungs to launch a defence, and he was about to resign himself to defeat when he spotted something.

The fire poker, lying on the carpet next to his feet.

Damien snatched the poker and held it in front of him. It seemed to glow in the soft light of the fire like a gift from the gods. It was salvation; a tool to knock Nigel back to the hell he came from.

Damien rose up, swinging the poker up and over his head.

The clanging sound of solid iron hitting Nigel’s skull was the most beautiful thing Damien had ever heard. It was music.

Head banging music.

Nigel staggered backwards, half-conscious already and legs wobbling like those of a flailing boxer. Damien watched the whites of the man’s eyes roll back in his head. Nigel stumbled in a daze, before losing his legs completely and falling backwards. He landed right in the open fire.

With an agonising scream, Nigel’s eyes rolled back into their normal position as agony forced his mind back into focus. The top of his head lay in the flames, as if the burning wood inside were a pillow. Immediately his skin blistered and his hair smoked. Like a greyhound out of the starting gates, Nigel leapt upwards, screaming in both pain and fury. The fire was only embers now and that was the only reason Nigel hadn’t been roasted alive. The whole thing happened so quickly that Damien couldn’t think fast enough to react to Nigel’s hurtling back towards him.

When the knife slid through Damien’s ribs, it felt like a bee sting.

Then the pain became unbearable.

***

“What in the hell is happening tonight? I mean FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck.” Harry felt like he was going to explode. He’d just watched a teenaged boy get ripped to shreds like minced beef. This on a night where the world was being consumed by a never-ending snow storm and demons stalked the streets. On top of everything, it all seemed to have something to do with him. Harry was ‘the sinner’.

“Seriously, can anybody tell me what is going on? I just watched Jerry get ripped apart by God-knows what, and now we’re trapped in a pitch-black supermarket surrounded by a bunch of homicidal monks.”

“I don’t think they’re monks,” said Kath.

“No shit!”

Lucas ambled over to the fire exit and looked out into the snow. There was movement outside, but for now the creatures outside seemed to be staying away. “I think it would be shrewd if we thought a wee bit less about what those things are out there and a mite more about how to get back to the pub with what we came for. The others need us.”

Harry let air flow slowly from his lips, trying to calm his beating heart. It didn’t work and only left him feeling more anxious. “We’re fucked, do you know that?”

Lucas nodded. “Aye, but better to take a shagging standing up than to bend over and take it.”

The remark brought silence.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve obviously spent some time in prison, right?”

Lucas grinned. “You could say that, Harry Boy, and you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.”

“Okay,” said Kath. “Can we just do what we’re here to do? It’s even colder here than it was outside.”

Harry nodded and started moving. “Okay. Let’s get the coal, painkillers, and some food. Anything we need to take back, let’s get it all piled up over here.”

Kath and Lucas nodded and got to work. Before Lucas ran off into the darkness he saluted Harry and said, “Right away, Major Jobson.”

It was then that Harry realised something important; something he’d overlooked earlier, not once but twice. He’d never told Lucas his surname, or anybody else, so how did the man know it?

Harry looked over at Lucas and wondered if he’d been played from the beginning. Lucas knew more about Harry then he’d let on. But how?

And why?

Chapter Thirty-One

Jess finally managed to take a breath but it only make her nauseous. She’d watched helplessly as a badly-burned Nigel slid a knife into Damien’s stomach, and she was powerless now to intervene as Nigel heaved Steph’s groggy body onto a chair.

She scanned the floor for a weapon, looking for a solution, but the only thing she could see was the trusty fire poker, several feet away and out of reach. It lay near where Damien writhed on the floor, gritting his teeth against his pain. He’d tried to save her.

Jess need to reach the poker without being seen by Nigel. Even worse, she had to do it in such awful cold that her body had begun to shiver and spasm.

She would just love for Jerry and the others to come barging through the door right now and save her from this wretched nightmare. But, if tonight had taught her anything, it was not to hope for the best because things had a habit of just getting worse.

Jess started to move, crawling along awkwardly on her numb hands and trembling knees. She shivered constantly. The chill was bad enough that even the fibres of the carpet had begun to freeze. They were sharp and brittle like tiny needles digging into her palms.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Nigel said as he shook Steph by the shoulders. “I want you to be awake for this. No fun if you sleep through all the good stuff.”

Steph opened her eyes suddenly. She spat at Nigel. “Screw you!” But as soon as it arrived, the fight seemed to leave Steph. She was obviously too bruised and broken to keep it up. Nigel slapped her so hard, the sound bounced off the walls.

Jess stayed down in the shadows and winced. She continued crawling for the poker, just a few feet away now.

Nigel slapped Steph again, this time a backhand. “Spitting is very unladylike,” he shouted, “and anything unbecoming a lady will not be tolerated. If I wanted a bloke for entertainment then I would have tied Damien back up in the chair. Speaking of which, how are you big man?” Nigel turned to Damien who was still moaning on the floor. “Not such a hard man now, huh?” He took a run up and booted Damien in the chest, making him explode with fresh agony and gasp for air. Jess winced again, glad she wasn’t on the receiving end.

She carried on shuffling towards the poker. It was nearly at arm’s length now.

Almost there.

Almost…

Jess cried out as a heavy work shoe crunched down on her hand. She knew right away that she’d been too slow and that she would most likely pay for it with her life. Nigel twisted his heel and pushed down harder, cracking and bruising the delicate bones in Jess’ hand. She wailed in agony and struggled to get free.

Nigel laughed sadistically.

Jess’s screams increased as a rough hand tangled itself into her hair and yanked. The pressure on her hand was released as she was violently hoisted to her feet. She found herself face to face with Nigel. She tried to pull away.

“Not so fast, sweetheart. Now that Steph is nice and comfortable, you and me have some time on our hands.”

Jess fought to twist herself free, but it was like being held in a vice. “The others will be back at any minute,” she warned him. “You’re going to get your arse kicked, you sicko.”

Nigel smiled. “By who? Harry, the alcoholic? Jerry, the loser? Or Lucas, the thick mick? I don’t think so, sweetheart. They’re probably already dead, and if not then I’ll see to them later.”

The thought of Nigel killing the other’s filled Jess with rage. She decided to take a leaf out of Steph’s book and spat. Nigel flinched as the saliva hit his cheek and she used this opportunity to try and get free, driving her knee up as hard as she could toward Nigel’s groin. The blow missed the intended target but still managed to plant firmly in his mid-section. He staggered backwards, releasing her, as the air escaped from his lungs.

Jess made a grab for the poker, diving to the floor and reaching out with her hand. Her fingers closed around the metal and her heart skipped a beat as she realised she’d actually succeeded in getting the weapon. Now she just had to use it.

Jess leapt to her feet, poker in hand, ready to let Nigel have it.

But Nigel was gone.

Jess did a double take of the room. She knew Nigel was hiding somewhere, waiting to pounce. But from where? With the poker held out in front of her, she took a tentative step forward, expecting an attack to come at any moment. Her nerves were tattered and frayed by the constant jolts of fear. Moving past the sofa, she prepared to swing with all her might, sure that Nigel would jump out at her any second. She moved carefully, watchfully, deciding that the most effective hiding place for a killer would be behind the bar. There was only one entrance to the area behind it so, if she was quick enough, she could take Nigel out before he could manage to do anything to her. Jess slowed her pace, not relishing an encounter that was life or death.

The bar loomed closer, lit by a collection of dwindling candles. The struggling light shone on the liqueur bottles that lined the shelves, making them look like rows upon rows of crocodile teeth. The final few steps were nerve-wracking. Deep breaths, Jess. You’re ready for him. Armed and ready. Jess squeezed the poker in her right hand. Okay, here goes.

She took the final steps towards the bar and quickly sidestepped to see behind it. As she suspected, Nigel was crouched and waiting for her. What she hadn’t expected was how quick the big man would be – and how much it would hurt having a vodka bottle smashed over her head.

Jess felt the blood cascade from the top of her head in an instant. It ran into her eyes and into her mouth. She teetered backwards, legs folding as she hit the floor. Her ears picked up the heavy clunk of the poker skittering across the floor. Nigel was on her like a shot, pinning her arms down with his knees and straddling her chest. Held to her throat was the broken remnants of the Vodka bottle.

“Time to die, bitch.”

“See you in hell, you small prick mummy’s boy!”

The comment seemed to hurt Nigel and Jess started to laugh. Right now, the over-sized, sexual predator looked like an insecure little boy and she would take that satisfying image to her grave happily. Even as the jagged bottle descended towards her throat, Jess continued to cackle out loud, closing her eyes and waiting for it all to be over.

Jess had expected pain, but instead was jolted by a heavy force hitting her. She opened her eyes tentatively, and at first could not understand what had happened. Nigel had collapsed forward. Her face now buried in his fat belly. She punched and prodded at his lumpy body, trying to shove it off of her, but it wouldn’t budge. Nigel was unconscious.

What the hell had happened?

Jess finally managed to slump Nigel over to one side and slide out from underneath him. She still didn’t understand what happened, not until she saw…

“Peter! You’re okay?”

Her friend was standing over her, gripping a thick length of firewood which dripped goblets of blood onto the floor. He smiled at her, although his ruined face made the expression look ghoulish and grim. He released the length of wood and dropped to his knees. From the floor he spoke to her. “You okay…Jess?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thanks to you, that is.”

Peter nodded and his smile widened. Then he lost consciousness, pitching forward and hitting the floor. Jess felt like doing the same.

Chapter Thirty-Two

When Harry found a pile of children’s sledges, he thought that things were looking up, but only a little. Sure it would make getting the coal and other supplies back to the pub easier, but it didn’t change the fact that the supermarket was surrounded by monsters. To make matters worse, Harry had realised that Lucas was not who he said he was, but he decided to complete the task at hand before he confronted the man. Between the three of them they had managed to pile up more than enough coal to keep the pub fires going for a week, along with a bag full of over-the-counter painkillers. They’d even found a couple of torches and two dozen packets of batteries. Now that they were done and ready to leave, Harry was ready to confront Lucas about the secrets he was keeping.

“Lucas?”

“Yes, Harry Boy?”

“How do you know my surname?”

Lucas turned to Harry, confusion on his face. “What’s that now?”

“I said how do you know my surname? I didn’t tell you.”

Kath huffed. “Do we really have time for this, Harry? We need to get going.”

Lucas shrugged. “I didn’t realise it was such a secret, fella.”

“It’s not,” Harry admitted, “but I never told it to you.”

“The demon monks outside said it, didn’t they? They said, HARRY JOBSON YOU ARE THE SINNER. Or something like that.”

Harry thought for a moment. “No, Lucas, you knew before it before. You called me Major Jobson earlier at the pub.”

Kath looked pissed off, but at the same time seemed interested also. It appeared she wanted to see what Lucas’s answer would be.

But he gave none.

Harry took a quick breath, trying to stay calm. “Lucas, I asked you a question. Answer it, please.”

“Do you really want to do this now, Harry Boy?”

Harry’s stomach churned as he wondered whether he really did want to do this now. He had no idea who Lucas was, what he was planning, or what he was capable of.

Harry swallowed. “Yeah, I want to do this right now. Who the hell are you and how do you know me?”

Lucas walked over to the cash register and hopped up onto the desk. He took a long, deep breath. “Who I am is something we really don’t have time to get into right now, but how I know you is a little easier to explain.”

“Get started then,” Harry demanded.

Lucas shrugged. “I know you, Harry Jobson, because you’re the sinner. Same reason them outside know you – who, might I add, have nothing to do with me.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Not really, but you have my word, for what it’s worth. What happened tonight was going to happen whether I turned up or not.”

Kath stepped towards Lucas. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

Lucas looked tired of the questions already, but he still gave answers, despite sounding like he was doing them a favour. “Both are questions we don’t have time for. All I can say is that the fellas outside came for Harry. Does the ‘what’ or the ‘why’ really matter?”

“It fucking does to me,” said Harry. It felt like his stomach was going to burst open and spill his organs onto the floor. The scar on the back of his hand throbbed. It always did when he was losing control. It reminded him to keep his temper. “Why me? Why do they want me?”

“B’Jaysus, we’re going around in circles here, man. Because you’re the sinner.”

Kath shook her head. “Why is Harry ‘the sinner’?”

Harry sighed. “Because I murdered a man.”

Lucas acted as though he knew it all along – perhaps he did – but Kath recoiled in horror.

“Calm down, lass,” Lucas told her. “I’m sure he’s not intending to kill you.” He looked at Harry. “Are you?”

“No, of course not! The man I killed destroyed my life. It was revenge. There’re far worse people in the world than me,”

“I agree,” said Lucas. “In the grand scale of things, you’re pretty low down on the sin scale, but murder is murder.”

“But why did my sin cause all this? If that’s what you’re suggesting?” Harry felt dizzy. This morning he’d woken up expecting the day to end in a drunken stupor just like the 365 days preceding it. He’d never expected it to end like this.

Lucas stared at Harry intensely. His blue eyes seemed to light the darkness around him. “Because yours was the final sin. The sin what tipped the scales.”

Harry was about to demand what the hell that meant, but before he could grab Lucas around the throat and force him to speak sense, the doors blew inwards. Not a gust of wind swinging them open, but a concussive force that ripped them from their hinges and flung them across the room. The wind and snow flew in through the gap like the breath of a dragon.

Harry grabbed Lucas by the arm. “What the hell is happening?”

Lucas had to shout to be heard above the howling wind. “They’re coming to get you, Harry.”

Something didn’t make sense. “But we were safe inside the pub, they left us alone. Why?”

“They couldn’t enter the pub, but they can get at you in here. Don’t worry, though. I’m going to help you out.”

“I’m listening.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Go and get all of the skin mags.”

“What?” Kath joined them over at the cash desk. The wind had blown her dark hair into a freakish mess of tangles. “This is no time for perversions.”

“Just go and get all the smutty magazines,” Lucas reiterated. “You’ll see why.”

The monsters would be inside any minute. Harry almost slipped on a Gardening Annual as he raced over to the magazine display. On the top shelf was a long row of bikini clad women stacked three deep. Harry saw little choice but to do what Lucas had asked. He grabbed a copy of Nipples, then quickly gathered up several more rags of ill-repute, clutching the pile to his chest.

“Set the pornos down on the counter, fella,” Lucas yelled, “and pass me that broom.”

Harry did as asked. “Okay, now what?”

Lucas took the broom and placed it on the counter along with pile of magazines. He began tearing out the pages, piling up shiny images of naked men and women.

Kath had her hands on her hips. “What are you doing? We need to hurry. I can hear them out there. They’ll be in any second.”

Lucas ignored her and continued tearing pages. Eventually he stopped and grabbed a roll of Sellotape from a display. To everyone’s confusion, he then began to wrap the broom with the naked pictures before fastening them with tape.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. “Okay, Lucas, I’m all for arts and crafts, but how is this helping?”

Lucas shoved the porn-wrapped broom into Harry arms. “You’ll see. Right, that sorts out the choir. Now something for their lapdogs.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “The choir?”

“Aye, the choir. Somebody get me some salt.”

“Salt?” said Kath.

“It’ll deal with the growly fellas, trust me. Stop asking questions and get me some.”

Kath returned ten seconds later with a plastic tube of salt. She tried to offer it to Lucas, but he told her to keep it. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” was all he would tell her.

The sound of howling wind merged with the sound of growling.

Harry clutched the broom tightly. “Let’s just get out of here while there’s still chance.”

“Too late.” Lucas pointed over to the doorway as one of the hell hounds padded inside. Its ears flattened against its skull as it stalk towards them, snarling.

“What should I do?” Kath was holding the salt tube in front of her with a shaking hand.

“Give us a pinch,” said Lucas. He offered his open palm and waited while Kath sprinkled a pile of salt into his hand. Then he closed his fist and strolled, almost casually, towards the snarling hell hound.

The beast lowered his head, its rippling muscles tensing. Lucas carried on approaching.

Harry swallowed in anticipation. Insane. The man’s insane.

Lucas glanced back at them and nodded, as if to say ‘watch this’, then he flicked the salt from his hands, letting loose an arching stream of granules.

The beast howled like a beaten puppy.

The smell of burning filled the air, like sausages on a barbeque, along with something else...

Eggs?

No, something else.

It was sulphur.

The hound bolted, turning and running back out into the snow. It left behind a cloying puddle of dissolving flesh, sizzling like bacon the grill.

“Now we can go,” said Lucas. “We have a window.”

“What about the choir?” Harry asked.

“That’s what the broom is for. Make sure you use it when the time is right.”

“And how do I know when that is?”

“It’ll be when something starts trying to kill you.”

“Okay,” said Harry, looking out into the freezing dark night. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jess held Peter in her arms, amazed he was awake. Steph was looking after Damien, who was doing okay, considering he’d been stabbed. The blade had lodged between his ribs but hadn’t gone in more than an inch or so. Damien said it hurt like hell but that he’d be okay. He was acting too macho to let anyone take a closer look, but he had bled an awful lot to begin with. Still, he was up and about.

Nigel was out cold in the middle of the floor. They would tie him up once they’d caught their breath. For the time being, she, Steph, and Damien were ready to beat him down if he dared make the slightest move. Damien was currently standing over him with the fire poker in hand.

After having saved her and losing consciousness, Peter had eventually stirred back awake, semi-lucid again. Lying across Jess’s lap, his body-warmth pulsed through her clothing. He was burning up badly and she worried about his temperature being high.

“Did the bad man…hurt you…Jessica?”

“No, Peter. You saved me. You’re my hero.”

Peter smiled a grim, broken-toothed smile. “I am…sorry I let you go out alone. I…looked for you.”

“I know you did. It wasn’t your fault. No one could know what was going to happen tonight. I think it’s the end of the world. Nobody is saying it, but I don’t think the snow is going to ever stop.”

Peter closed his eyes for a few seconds and Jess worried that he would not open them again. His breathing was uneven and shallow. Jess shook him gently. “Peter, are you okay?”

He opened his eyes again. “I am…fine. The world is not ending, Jessica.”

“No?”

“No. As long as there are still beautiful things, we will be…okay.” He was looking at Jess and she realised that he meant her. “Can I…ask you…something?”

“Yes,” said Jess. “Of course you can.”

“Can I…kiss you?”

Jess was taken aback. After all Peter had been through tonight, the only thing he wanted was a kiss. And from me? Had he had feelings for her before all of this? Or was he just delirious?

“Yes, Peter,” she said, “you can kiss me.”

She leant forward but then stopped.

“Peter?”

Jess looked down at her friend and realised that he was dead. She leant down the rest of the way and placed her lips against his soft, delicate mouth. “Goodbye,” she said.

Damien noticed her tears and came over and asked if she was alright.

Steph was the one who noticed Peter lying dead on the floor. She shook her head solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

Jess nodded. “It’s okay. At least I got to say goodbye…in a way.”

Steph sighed. “Can we do anything?”

“No it’s…Shit, Nigel’s up.”

Nigel leapt from the chair, staggering about like a wounded animal. His skin was blackened, making him look like some nightmarish monster as he headed for the door.

“He’s trying to do one,” said Damien.

“Let him,” Jess said. “He can go outside and freeze.”

Nigel barged past the sofa and headed for the door. Then he was gone, disappearing into the night. Jess prayed never to see him again.

Jess snarled. “Good riddance!”

Steph put an arm around Jess. “Come on, sweetheart. We should get ourselves downstairs in front of the fire. The fire here’s about to go out and that broken window is going to freeze us to stone. Old Graham will be wondering what’s going on. I’m surprised we haven’t heard him shouting.”

“Probably still passed out drunk,” said Damien in a laboured voice.

“We’d best get down there,” Jess said. She took two steps when Damien doubled over against the bar, taking in long, laboured breaths.

“You’re still bleeding?” Jess said, spotting the blood dripping on the floor.

Damien waved a hand dismissively and Jess saw that it was soaked with blood. “Just a flesh wound,” he said and then laughed. “I always wanted to say that.”

“It’s not a joke, Damien. Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.”

Steph didn’t seem convinced. Jess wasn’t either, but what could they do? Jess suspected the wound was worse than Damien was letting on. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said finally, deciding there was nothing she could do.

They gathered candles from the bar and entered the rear corridor. The air seemed no warmer there, even though it had been filled with a warm air current flowing up from the stairs for most of the night. Now it felt as cold as the rest of the pub.

Steph led the way down. They reached the bottom and darkness greeted them. Both the fire and the room’s candles had gone out. Steph quickly re-lit them with her lighter.

Old Graham’s body shone into view. Even in the poor light, the waxy blue tinge that travelled the lines of the old man’s face were clearly visible. His eyes were dull like stones.

Steph fell to her knees, dropping her candle on the cement floor where it quickly extinguished. In the darkness, Jess and Damien had no choice but to listen to her scream.

***

Outside it was as Harry had feared. They were surrounded. In all directions, the robed figures loomed over them, standing motionless, shoulder to shoulder, a towering wall of bodies. Their hounds sat in front of them obediently.

“What do we do?” asked Harry.

Lucas shoved him forward. “Just swing at the first bastard that gets near. Kath and I will handle the mutts.”

Harry willed his legs to take him forward. After several false starts, he got going. The monsters remained in place but watched him with great interest. He felt like a lowly ant beneath their stares. A low growl emanated from the hounds but they made no attempts to attack, held at heel by their robed masters.

Did Lucas really expect to take on this army with only a broom and a salt shaker? They were going to die; any other outcome seemed impossible. Still, Harry wasn’t going down without a fight. If they wanted him, they would have to take him, kicking and screaming.

Once Harry was within a dozen metres of the robed figures, the hounds at their feet became agitated, their hackles rising as they paced back and forth.

Harry glanced back at Kath. “Ready with the salt?”

Her face was as white as the snow, but she nodded.

“Bring it on,” said Lucas. He grabbed a handful of salt from Kath’s shaker and flung it into the air. The granules caught on the wind and dispersed in a thousand directions, disappearing into the blizzard.

Nothing happened.

Then the hell hounds squealed. Their skin smoked and burned, sloughing off into the snow. They hustled backwards, colliding with their robed masters, before fleeing completely into the night.

“Your turn, Harry,” said Lucas. “You need to take on the big fellas.”

Harry raised the broom like a pike. Images of naked men and women fluttered in his eye line, making him think again about how absurd this was.

The robed figured stood like giant monoliths. When one of them finally made a move, Harry’s bowels almost loosed. The very air itself seemed to shake.

The tallest of the robed figures – almost ten foot tall – approached Harry and held out a hand. Curiously, Harry noted the creature’s outstretched arm was human, yet twisted and bird-like. It pointed a finger at Lucas and hissed. “WORMWOOD.”

Lucas was grinning ear-to-ear, but not out of good nature. The expression was more of a malignant grimace. “How you doing there, Mickey? Been a while?”

Kath’s eyes went unnaturally wide. “Y-You know this…this thing?”

“Aye. We go back a ways. It’s complicated.”

“It always is with you,” said Harry.

“Now would be a good time to sweep up the trash, if you get my meaning.”

Harry looked at the broom in his hands and took a gulp of air. Here goes nothing. He stabbed the broom forwards like a lance, aiming for the robed figure’s torso. The blow got nowhere near and that seemed impossible. Harry’s target had dodged aside with an unearthly blur of speed; a glowing wisp of light that didn’t actually seem to move so much as simply disappear and reappear somewhere else.

Harry cursed out loud. “Damn it! I missed.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Lucas. “Get your bloody arse moving!”

Harry realised that his attack had left a gap in the wall of bodies. The three of them hurried, stumbling through the deep snow, clawing themselves along. Before leaving, Harry had filled his pockets with lumps of coal, and he wished he could toss them aside, but he could not.

Despite their earlier lack of movement, the robed figures gave chase. They screeched and wailing as they drifted through the snow. Harry swung out with his broom as one drew closer. Like its friend, it blinked out of existence and reappeared somewhere else.

“What the hell are they, Lucas?”

Lucas looked back at Harry and smiled. “They’re angels, Harry Boy

“Angels?”

“Aye, Angels, with great feathery wings, but now’s not the time. Keep on moving.”

The three of them continued making their way through the snow. The ‘Angels’ continued to screech and wail but they kept a distance. They seemed in little hurry to catch up.

“Something’s up ahead,” said Kath.

Harry saw the shadow looming ahead. “Ready with the salt?”

“Yes. Ready with broom?”

They slowed down as the shadow became clearer. It was a person, heading towards them quickly.

Kath stated the obvious. “It’s coming right at us.”

“I think it’s…a person.”

“Nigel!” Kath shouted the word gleefully. “Are we glad to see you!”

Nigel staggered through the snow, huffing and puffing and wheezing. The man had dried blood on his clothes and terrible burns on the left side of his face.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked him. “You’re hurt.”

Nigel acted feral, like an injured fox. His words were erratic and slurred. “Fwine! I’m fwine. Jush hash an asshident.”

Lucas stepped forward and placed a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “You don’t look fine to me, fella. In fact, you look and sound worse than a chorus of drunks. What have you been up to, lad?”

Nigel lashed out, shrugging free of Lucas’s grasp. “Get sh’fuck offsh me.”

Harry didn’t like the way Nigel was acting. “What happened to you? Is Steph okay?” Nigel’s face scrunched up in a snarl at the very mention of her name. Harry spotted the bloody knife in the man’s hand. “What did you do? Did you hurt her?”

Nigel raised the knife towards Harry.

Lucas made a gesture for calm “Whoa, whoa, there, fella. We just want to know the lass is safe. Is Steph okay?”

Nigel spat blood into the snow. “You tell that bitch I’ll be back to finish what I started. I’ll slice her fucking fingers off one by one and add them to my collection. I’ll hang them from the rear view mirror of my lorry. You think she’s the first bitch to fight back. I’ve killed a hundred whores just like her.”

Harry snarled. He made a move towards Nigel, but Lucas stopped him. “No need, Harry Boy. Look!”

Beyond Nigel, the shadows seemed to come alive and cut through the snow. Nigel backed away, unaware that he was heading directly towards them. The shadows enveloped him, coming at him from both sides. He flinched at the sight of the hell hounds and tried to move away, but by then it was too late.

Nigel swiped impotently with his bloody flick knife. He took a chunk of flesh from one hound, but failed to keep away the other dozen that fell upon him.

It was hard to see past the writhing mass of matted fur, but Harry saw Nigel’s intestines being fought over in a macabre tug of war. Once the grim satisfaction of seeing Nigel get what he deserved faded, he felt only sick.

Harry turned away and continued on into the snow, back towards The Trumpet.

Back towards Steph.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Jess felt no warmer. Damien had managed to get the cellar fire going again, but it wouldn’t burn for long. Steph was confident that Harry would return soon, but the truth was there was no way of knowing. Now the three of them lay shivering beneath a dozen sheets and blankets, trying to hold on to as much warmth as possible.

“Poor Old Graham,” said Steph, still upset but past the worse of it now that she’d had time to calm down. She’d wailed for almost twenty minutes and Jess knew that Steph felt responsible for living the old guy alone. The truth was that Nigel was the one to blame.

Pervert. Hope he’s frozen to death out there or being eaten alive by one of those monsters.

Jess thought about the things she’d seen with Jerry and found it hard to imagine them clearly now. With the hours that had passed, it all felt like some weird hallucination. Monsters in the snow surely did not exist, but she couldn’t deny the death and bloodshed she’d witnessed. Ben. Peter. Old Graham. They were all good guys. She prayed that the others would make it back safely. She’d do anything, right now, to sit and listen to Jerry’s inane film references.

She decided to turn her mind to the present. “How long have you known Old Graham?” she asked Steph.

Steph let out a huff that was almost a laugh. “Whole time I’ve worked here. Eighteen months, I guess. He could bore you to death something awful, but he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. Complained a lot, but never about anyone or anything in particular. I think he was lonely. He just wanted to be around people.”

“Least he lived a long life,” Damien chimed in, his voice jittery from the chill that affected everyone’s lungs.

“He didn’t deserve to go like this though. He survived a war and this is how he dies?”

“I think he went the way he would have liked,” Jess pondered. “Drunk as a skunk and the centre of attention.”

Steph and Damien both chuckled. The sound was jittery as they fought to control their shivering. Jess too was beginning to shake.

“S-so, Damien,” Jess moved on, “are you really as much of a b-bastard as you like to make people think?”

Damien was silent for a moment, but eventually answered. “Who says I want people to think that?”

“J-Just the impression you give off. It confuses me though because, after tonight, I’m starting to think you’re not s-s-so bad.”

Damien cleared his throat. “You reckon?”

“I actually think you might be a nice guy under the hard man act. You just don’t want people to know it.”

“I agree,” said Steph. “I’ve seen a different side of you tonight.”

Damien was silent again. Jess could feel him rustling beneath the duvet. When he finally spoke up, he sounded as tired as he did cold. “M-Maybe the reason I’m not a nice guy is because p-people think bad of me no matter w-what I do.”

Jess frowned. “But you make people think like that. You choose to make people think you’re a t-t-thug.”

Damien laughed. “You think I…made people see me this…this way? I h-had no chance of ever being anything other than a t-thug.”

Jess sighed. “Is this the part where you say your daddy never hugged you enough?”

“No. This is the p-part where I tell you my dad had me selling drugs for him at e-eight years old. No one would ever expect a kid, huh? Or how about how my dad put a lad in a coma a couple years b-back and m-m-made me take credit for it around the…the local estate. You’re right, my dad never hugged me, because that’s not what monsters like him do.”

“Are you s-s-shitting me?” Steph asked.

“No, Steph. I’m not shitting you. Truth is, the day he was sent down I was glad. Thought it would s-set me f-free from his fu-fu-fucked-up demands. B-B-But I was just wishing on a fucking star. He calls me at least once a day, making sure I’m running his empire for him till he g-gets back.”

“You can’t blame everything on your dad,” Jess told him. “I s-saw you cause enough trouble to see that you enjoyed being the big man.”

“Of course I did. The only l-love and respect I got was from the boys I hung with. If people on t-the estate don’t f-fear me then I’m nothing. I’m alone with nothing.”

“Why didn’t you get out?” asked Steph. “You could have done something, I’m s-sure.”

Damien was quiet once more, but the sound of his breathing was heavy and distinct, laboured. “I was getting out tonight. I had a bunch of m-money stashed and I was going to st-stay with an old girlfriend in Edinburgh. I just had one last thing to do tonight and then I was out of here.”

“One last thing?” asked Steph.

“Warn someone.”

“Who?”

“The guy who gave evidence on my old man and sent him down. Took over a year but the boys finally managed to find out who it was. I was supposed to kill the guy tonight; take him outside and stick a knife in him. Guess my dad was beginning t-to d-d-doubt my loyalty.”

“Jesus,” said Jess, not believing her ears. “You weren’t going to do it though, w-were you?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” Damien raised his voice and it seemed to cause him pain. “I was…going to warn him…tell him to get the hell out of…town. Soon as the snow stopped…I was going to get on a train and never come back. Maybe even do something with my life.”

No one spoke for a while. It was a revelation, and not one Jess had expected. She felt sad that Damien might not get the chance to fulfil his plans for atonement. She closed her eyes, feeling more tired than she’d ever felt in her life. The cold was no longer bothering her as much as it had. In fact, she was starting to feel numb. Maybe she could finally rest for a while.

So tired...

***

Harry wasn’t sure how much further his aching legs would take him. He didn’t know whether the pub was two yards away or two thousand. All he could see was snow. His feet were like blocks of ice and it felt like he was walking on nerveless stumps. Kath was suffering too. She hadn’t spoken since they’d watched Nigel die. Lucas, however, seemed perfectly fine and entirely unaffected by the cold.

Was the man any more human than the robed figures?

Harry needed to know more. “If those giants are Angels, what are the dogs with them?”

Lucas continued looking forward as he walked, but answered the question promptly. “Hell Hounds.”

Harry scratched his chin. “But don’t Angels come from Heaven?”

“Aye, they do, Harry Boy, but Angels have dominion over Heaven and Earth, and also Hell in certain circumstances.”

Harry felt himself confused already. “Circumstances such as what?”

“You know, family reunions, birthdays, The Apocalypse.”

Harry spluttered. “The Apocalypse?”

“Aye, you know, Armageddon and all that, but it’s not as dramatic as you might think. There’re no horsemen, none of that fire and brimstone nonsense. The old man upstairs likes to do things a bit more efficiently. Biblical floods and such are more His style.”

“Or biblical snow storms,” Kath added glumly.

Lucas smiled. “Indeed, lass.”

Harry was trying to follow, but things still didn’t add up in his mind. If this really was the end of the world, and God intended to simply freeze the world to death, then why did he need…?

“The angels,” said Harry. “Why are they here?”

“Call them overseers if you will. God can’t just make the snow fall unendingly without having a presence on Earth. He needs vessels to channel his power – conduits. That’s why the Angels have come down here, to exercise His will on Earth.”

Harry nodded, an idea forming in his head. “So if we take out the angels, we can stop this?”

Lucas laughed, loud and hearty. “Do you know how many of them there are? We’re talking tens of thousands, and they don’t play nice. You can’t kill an angel anyway.”

Harry sagged. “I still don’t understand why they are doing this. It can’t be because of me?”

“I already told you, Harry Boy, it’s not just because of you, strictly speaking. It’s because of everyone, really. God gave Noah a second chance, but that’s all the big man had in his pocket of goodwill. He vowed that if the human race threw it in His face again then there would be no more forgiveness. But that’s what you all went and did anyway, with your sinful ways and what not. Fucking, murdering, raping, stealing, cheating, Facebook. You name it, you people have over indulged in it. Over time, you all tipped the scales way past the point of no return.”

“But not everyone is like that. And even if I believed what you’re saying, why doesn’t God just punish the bad?”

Kath sighed. “Because there were probably too few to make it worthwhile.”

Lucas nodded. “There are a few decent souls, admittedly, and He took that into consideration, which is why He allowed man to pass judgement on man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that He decided to judge mankind by its own values. Harry, after your wife and son were killed you made that choice for everyone, with your actions.”

Harry ground his teeth. “I had no choice. The guy had already lost his license for drink driving, but got behind the wheel again anyway. He was a lousy, fucking drunk and could’ve mowed down a dozen more children before he killed my son. He was an alcoholic. No good to anyone.”

“Sounds like you, Harry,” said Kath.

Harry snarled, but what was the use in arguing? “Maybe it is like me,” he conceded. “But what would you have done after losing your family to a man like me?”

“That’s the point,” said Lucas. “You had a choice. Did you get on with your life and make the memory of your family proud, or did you give in to sin? Did you know that the reason Thomas was a drunk was because he also lost a son? Kid died in the first days of the Afghanistan mess. Thomas was just like you, Harry. Ironic, no? Have you really behaved any differently to him?”

“No,” said Harry. “But I never drove drunk. I never let my problems endanger anybody else.”

“No, you just got hammered one night and murdered the fella. Understandable, I guess, but definitely not the right path. God decided to judge humanity by your actions, and your choice was vengeance. Now vengeance has been reaped upon you all. You committed man’s final sin – the last one that counted anyway – and you picked a gem: Though shall not kill.”

Harry thought about the night he’d murdered Thomas Morris. The night he crept into the hospital ward where he’d been admitted for a simple hernia operation. Harry knew all about it thanks to the local newspaper: Birmingham car killer hospitalised on private ward.

Getting past the lone prison guard turned out to be easy. It wasn’t as if they were going to place a highly-paid special detachment outside the door. It was just one guard, who obviously didn’t want to be stuck at a hospital at 3:00AM on a Friday night. Harry walked right by him and entered Thomas’s room as soon as the coast was clear.

Thomas Morris had been in a deep sleep. Even after Harry shoved the plastic bag over his head.

It took several moments for him to wake up and realise what was happening. The last thing the man saw through plastic smothering his face was Harry’s maniacal grin as he suffocated the life out of him.

Once it had all been over, Harry vomited in the en suite, then hurried out of the room. As he fled down the corridor, he snagged the back of his hand on the sharp edge of an unused trolley bed in the corridor. Blood had gone everywhere. A nurse in a nearby ward had sat him down and stitched the wound for him, remarking on how much it resembled the shape of a star. Harry had been silent the entire time, staring into space like a zombie.

Somehow he managed to walk out of the hospital without incident. He’d just killed a man and no one noticed a thing.

Harry went home and drank for seven days straight. Later he sold his furniture business, as well as his house and car. The sales left him with just over half-a-million-pounds with which to drink himself to death.

A year later, he was responsible for the extinction of mankind.

“Bullshit!” he said finally. “This is bullshit.”

Lucas put his hands up. “Hey, I don’t disagree, fella. I don’t want the world to end any more than you do. I like it here. I like crispy duck pancakes and ice cream sundaes. I like Manchester Utd and Strictly Come Dancing. I like a lot of stuff down here, but it’s not my call. And it’s not yours.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” Kath pleaded.

Lucas shook his head. “Unless you can convince the big man to change his mind – but I don’t think he’s listening. You can hold the choir off for a while with objects of depravity like the porno mags. Same reason they can’t enter the pub: it’s a den of iniquity and they can’t set their holy toes in it.”

“How do you know so much?” Harry demanded. The snow was sapping his strength and he needed more answers before he was too tired to ask for anymore. “How do you know so much about angels?

“Because I used to be one, laddie. Long time ago.”

“What? You used to be….” Harry suddenly understood. It came to him in a flash of inspiration. “They called you Wormwood.”

“That they did, but I prefer my rightful name, the name given to me by my lord.”

“And what’s that?” Kath asked, obviously not yet understanding what Harry had come to realise.

Lucas turned to Kath and grinned, his pointy teeth shining. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Lucifer, the Prince of Hell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Harry should have been shouting the word ‘bullshit’, but somehow he knew it was true. The reality of the situation just could not be denied. He was trudging through the snow with the Devil, pursued by murderous angels. There was just one more thing that didn’t make sense. “Why the whole Irish jig then, Lucas Fergus?”

“Would you prefer I had horns and a red suit? Let’s just say that Ireland is close to my heart. Good, fun-loving, people that know a good time. I can take many forms, and appear however I wish, but Irish is my favourite. Plus, ladies like the accent.”

“Why are you here? Are you helping the angels?”

Lucas shook his head vehemently, snow falling from his hair. “Those righteous do-gooders? They may be my brothers, but we parted ways long ago, and for good reason. A few members of the choir, the ones who were any fun, joined me in Hell. It’s the place to be, as long as you haven’t been sent there for, you know…treatment, as it were.”

“So, we’re all going to Heaven or Hell after this?” Kath sounded hopeful. She obviously thought she was destined for Heaven.

“Afraid not, luv. After the final sin was committed, He gave up on you all. You’re all coming downstairs with me to whichever level you deserve.”

“Level we deserve?” Kath sounded worried.

Lucas seemed to be getting a bit impatient now as they continued through the snow. “The different levels dish out appropriate punishment. A murderer gets murdered. Over and over. Forever. A rapist gets raped. A bully gets beaten. You get the general idea, right?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Kath shut up and stayed that way, seemingly lost in disturbing thoughts.

“That just leaves you,” said Harry. “You still haven’t told us what part you have to play in all this. You’re the Devil, which means you’re evil and can’t be trusted…doesn’t it?”

Before Lucas had chance to reply, Harry realised that, once again, they were surrounded.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“They’re not going to give up are they?”

“No,” Lucas confirmed. “Not until they have you.”

Harry raised the broom in front of him, hoping it would work as well as last time. “What will they do to me?”

“Send you to Hell.”

Harry nodded. “Thought so.” He eyed up the line of angels, wondering which one he should go for first. He decided to do as he did last time and aim for the middle of the crowd.

Before he had the chance, a pillar of fire zigzagged towards him, sending him into a sideways dive. The snow cushioned his fall but was still jarring enough to knock the broom from his grasp.

Harry looked up just in time to see another wall of flames rising in his direction. He rolled over, barely managing to dodge the burning death, but found himself even further away from his only weapon. “Lucas,” he shouted. “The broom.”

Lucas nodded, located the broom, and then went for it. He was too slow though and Kath got to it first.

“Great,” said Harry. “Throw it here, Kath.”

Kath drew her arm back and looked as though she was going to hurl the broom in his direction, but she didn’t release it. Instead she held it in front of herself and examined it. “Without this, you have no way of defending yourself, right?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “That’s why I need it.”

Kath walked away from him and started making her way over to the choir of angels. She approached the tallest in the centre. “You just want Harry, right? What will you do for me if I give him to you?”

She waited for an answer, but received none.

The monolithic remained still and silent beneath its robes.

Kath jabbed and wiggled the broom in the angel’s face, not getting close enough to make contact, but making her willingness to do so clear enough. “I asked you a question, so have some manners. Remove your hood and answer me!”

Incredibly, the angel obliged. He reached up and lowered his hood.

Beneath the old, grey cloth was unexpected. The angel’s golden hair spilled over his shoulders beneath a beautiful face with an exquisite complexion. His sparkling eyes were breathtaking cyan, and they were studying Kath curiously.

Lucas moved up beside Harry and whispered. “That would be Lord Michael himself.”

Harry considered for a moment. “You mean from the bible?”

“No, I mean from real life. That is God’s Field General himself, Archangel Michael. My brother, the Angel of death.”

“If he’s your brother can’t you make him stop? Talk to him?”

“You really don’t understand family do you, Harry boy? One thing about Michael is that the only person he listens to is his dear daddy. That’s why he was always favourite. Bloody eejit!”

Something was happening up ahead. The angel standing in front of Kath – the Archangel Michael. Jeez! – produced something from within his cloak. Something long and metallic that ignited in flames as soon as it hit the air.

“There she is,” said Lucas. “The beauty herself. You know, back in the day, that sword belonged to me. Michael took it from me during the Holy War. It looks better on him, anyway.”

Harry shook his head. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“The fiery sword of damnation. The sword that turned Sodom and Gomorrah to ashes.”

Harry rubbed at his face with ice-cold fingers. This was really it. The end of the world. God had called last orders on mankind and there was only enough time to get one last drink in.

Michael raised his fiery sword, singing the cold air and creating acrid smoke. Kath stood before him, mesmerised. All of her earlier bluster had evaporated and she was nothing more than a puny human standing before a giant.

Michael brought down his flaming sword with a brutal slash. The blade hissed and spat as Kath’s blood instantly congealed on its shaft, turning to black powder and peppering the snow. It had cut through her like a scalpel through cheese.

Kath turned around and faced Harry and Lucas. For a moment it looked like she was okay. Then her head started to tilt forward, independent of the rest of her body. Harry winced as Kath’s headless body fell forward into the snow, turning it red.

Harry ran, leaving Lucas behind; not seeing any reason to ask him to follow. He ploughed through the snow with all his energy, kicking and clawing with only one thing on his mind: Steph! He had no idea where he was going and only hoped that it was towards The Trumpet. With the apocalyptic freeze, as well as an army of flawless Angels trying to send him to Hell, Harry knew that the rest of his life was measured in minutes rather than hours or days. For so long he had wanted nothing but to die, to leave the world and all its pain behind him, but, right now, staying alive long enough to reach Steph was his only motivation.

The snowfall seemed to increase with every second. It was up to Harry’s waist now and still rising. Before long, there would be no world left. No buildings, no roads, no rivers. Nothing. Just unending snow, rising. Rising. Rising.

Harry struggled onwards, each step seizing up his calves, stabbing the tender muscle with icy daggers. If only he could go back and do the right thing. He’d known killing Thomas Morris was wrong. Had known it for sure when he saw the regret and the sorrow in the man’s eyes just before he died. Thomas Morris had killed Harry’s family, but at the moment of his death, he had been deeply sorry. Harry knew that because Thomas never struggled.

Now the whole world was accepting punishment for what Harry had done. He imagined the billions of people who had already frozen to death. He wondered how many people were still alive, trying to convince their children that the snow would stop soon and that everything would be okay, that it was just bad weather. Harry started to weep, but wiped the tears away before they froze. He had to keep going, didn’t deserve time to stop and cry. When the angels finally sent him to Hell he would welcome it, because that was where he belonged. But not now. Not yet.

Ahead, Harry saw the dark rectangle of a building up on a hill. It had to be The Trumpet. With renewed vigour, he began to dive and leap through the snow, sinking and climbing with every step. He was moving at a snail’s pace, but gradually, slowly, the building came into view. And it was indeed a pub.

“Thank God. Actually…screw that. Fuck God.”

He reached the bottom of the hill and looked up. The pub was dark, deserted. Lifeless. A dead building in a dead world.

As he climbed the hill, Harry felt the angels nearby. “Damn you,” he shouted back at them. They stood at the bottom of the hill, each of them now with their hoods down, exposing their beautiful faces and gossamer hair. Harry knew they brought only death and misery. “Damn you,” he shouted again. “Just let me see her.”

Lucas had said that angels could not set foot inside a den of iniquity. That meant Steph might still be safe inside.

He was nearly there, only a few more metres to the doorway.

Harry stopped in his tracks, falling into the snow and looking up at the figure blocking his way. He’d been so close. “Okay, you got me. Just get it over with.”

“Get what over with, Harry Boy?”

Harry looked up. “Lucas!”

“Aye,” Lucas offered out his hand and helped Harry to his feet. “I thought you were never going to get here, fella. Took your sweet time.”

Harry smiled, happy to see the Devil. But he wasted no time in pushing past him and barging the pub’s door.

It was frozen shut.

Harry was about to howl out in defeat when Lucas strolled up beside him.

“Keep your hair on, lad.” He placed a hand on the door. Steam came from his touch and the frost began to melt. Lucas banged his fist once, twice, and the door swung open slowly. He looked at Harry and grinned. “Three millennium in the Hellzone Boy Scouts.”

“No shit?” Harry made his way inside and headed straight for the bar, the sudden feeling of an even, solid floor disorientating his weary legs. The room was in darkness with the flickering flame of only a single candle left, but Harry had been there enough times to know where he was going blind. He made it to the bar in six memorised steps and was shocked to find Peter’s dead body on the floor. There was no time to fret about it now, though.

Grabbing the remaining candle, Harry made his way behind the bar and into the corridor. Immediately, the freezing temperature told him something was wrong. Earlier the corridor had acted as a flume for the warm air of the fire in the cellar below, but now the air was frigid. That meant the fire was out.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Harry took the steps two at a time, lucky to make it down to the bottom without tripping. As his feet planted on the cellar floor, he moved the candle in a quick semi-circle. The room smelt heavily of smoke, but the dustbin fire was unlit. Next to it was the unmoving form of Old Graham. Harry felt his gorge rise, the fear and sickness taking a hold of him as his mind screamed out with grief. He turned around slowly, illuminating the dark corners of the cellar, searching desperately…

He found Damien first. The lad was slumped in the corner. Harry knelt down to feel the lad’s cheek and quickly realised he was dead. Damien’s mid-section was covered in blood from some kind of deep wound. Was it the work of Nigel? Despite the freezing cold, Damien was without his thick puffer jacket.

Harry found it nearby, wrapped around Jess. She was dead too. Harry shone the candle light over her face and saw her lips and frosted eyelids. She had finally succumbed to the cold. Had she taken Damien’s jacket after he had died? Or had he offered it to her before?

The third body wrapped beneath the blankets made Harry feel feint, paralysed with fear.

Steph lay, swaddled up to the eyeballs by layer upon layer of sheets and blankets. She looked as delicate and as beautiful as Harry had ever seen her and he finally allowed himself to cry. He reached out and touched her face. Like the other’s it was ice cold. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I caused all this and that I never got to say goodbye. I used to think I came here every night to get drunk and forget about the past, but tonight I’ve realised I kept coming back to see you. You were the only person who allowed me to see tomorrow and know that it would be easier than today. It was you that took away my pain, not the booze.”

“…Harry?”

The word was barely a whisper. A few moments passed and Harry started to think that his crippled mind was playing tricks on him.

“Harry,” Steph whispered again, louder this time.

“Steph! Steph, yes it’s me, Harry?”

It didn’t seem like she could, but she knew he was there. It was obvious by the look in her eyes. “Harry…I was worried about you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it back sooner.”

“It’s…okay. I knew you’d come back. You’re a good man, Harry.”

Harry bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood in his mouth. “I wish that were true, but I let everyone down. This is all my fault.”

Steph shook her head, eyes still closed as though she were reciting a dream. “No, Harry. The only person you ever let down was y-yourself. It’s not your fault what happened...what happened…to you.”

Harry wiped tears and snot from his face. “You know what I wish, Steph?”

“No, Harry. What do you…wish?”

“I wish that instead of killing Thomas Morris that night, I’d have met you instead. Maybe you could have saved me. If God is going to judge us all, then he should have tested someone like you, not a loser like me. God stacked the deck against us all when he took my family and left me to be the judge.”

Steph’s face lit up in a smile that stuck for a moment before falling away. She went very still and did not reply.

“Steph,” Harry said softly, but it was no use. She was gone.

Harry moved forward and kissed Steph on her lips. He wanted nothing more than for her to be alive a moment longer so that she could kiss him back, but was thankful that he at least got to say goodbye.

Harry left the cellar and went back upstairs into the pub. He lit the way with the last dying candle. Lucas was already waiting for him, propped up at the bar with a beer in his hand.

“Harry Boy, how about one for the road.” He offered Harry a bottle, who took it from him silently. His sobriety didn’t matter much anymore. There would be no opportunity for him to clean himself up and make amends.

“It’s time isn’t it?” he said after sipping down some of the beer.

Lucas nodded. “Up to you, lad. To be honest I’m only here tonight because I’m duty-bound. The apocalypse and all that, you know? It’s kind of traditional that I be here. It would be like having a party without cake if the Devil didn’t turn up at the End.”

Harry took another sip of beer, before disagreeing. “That can’t be the only reason. You didn’t have to turn up at the pub tonight. You didn’t have to try and help.”

Lucas laughed his charming Irishman laugh. “Aye, that much is true. Michael summoned me here to watch the destruction of mankind as a kind of punishment. I suppose he thinks I had a hand in bringing down the ceiling – leading men astray and all that hokum.”

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t you?”

Lucas swigged his beer down to the bottom third. “Well, yes and no. When I fell from Heaven I hated you all with a fury unrivalled – God’s most prized creation and the keepers of freewill, yada yada yada. I sought to corrupt you all, to bring you down into the dirt so that God would see how lowly you little fellas were. You know what I learned, though?”

“What?”

“I realised that I was wasting my time. Man was doing a fine thing of fucking things up on their own. I had a hand, here and there, sure; but Hitler, Bin Laden, that plucky fella Ted Bundy, the nuclear-feckin-bomb? All that wickedness was on you. The worst, most corrupt men who ever lived are mostly men I’ve never met. I may be the Devil, but you lot are evil.”

“Then why does Heaven blame you? Why have they brought you here to watch us die?”

“Because I fell in love with humanity. I rebelled against God because I wanted to live by my own rules. After a few hundred years I realised that humanity was no different. I realised that man wasn’t in God’s image, but in mine. Men have spent hundreds of years fighting for their freedom, the same way I did in Heaven. Eventually I stopped trying to destroy you and started living amongst you. I buried my anger with God and stopped being the bogeyman you write books about. The only reason I’m here is so that Michael can make a point.”

“What point?”

“That anyone who goes against God’s will are destined to fall.”

Harry laughed.

“Why do you laugh, Harry Boy?”

“Nothing. I just find it amusing that the Devil is benevolent and God is wrathful.”

Lucas laughed too. “Well, I hope it teaches you not to believe what the media says. Especially the ancient Aramaic right-wing media. The bible got me all wrong, I tell you.”

The two of them shared a laugh and finished their beers. After a few moments, Harry put his empty bottle on the bar. “Time to go, I guess, but before I do, can I ask you a question?”

Lucas shrugged. “You’ve done little else for the past few hours. Why stop now?”

Harry took that to mean ‘yes’, so he asked his question: “You mentioned the levels of Hell, earlier?”

“Aye, I did.”

“Which is the worst?”

Lucas didn’t seem comfortable at the question. “Well…it’s all relative, really. The punishment fits the crime.”

“I know that.” Harry could feel his body shutting down under the constant attack of the cold. He had to finish this before he gave in to hyperthermia. “But surely some layers are worse than others. Where do the very worst go, like Hitler? People like that?”

“Well, if you listen to Dante Alighieri then there are just seven levels, but in truth the regions of Hell are never ending and infinitely wide. Time and space is eternal and there are an unfathomable number of planes of existence, but the deepest deepest level is reserved only for pure, irredeemable evil. Light doesn’t exist there and neither does hope of any kind. It is suffering and despair without beginning or end, a place where agony reigns and flays the skin of any soul unfortunate to end up there. It is a Hell beyond human understanding, and no human, not even the vilest, has ever committed sin harsh enough to be sent there. It is deserving of no man. It was created to hold one being: me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A Hell so bad that it was made to torture the Devil himself?”

Lucas nodded and seemed upset by the thought of it. “Aye, they call it…The Abyss.”

Harry took that information in and held onto it. The Abyss. The darkest, most desperate level of hell that is fit only for the Devil himself. A place of torture beyond anything a man could imagine.

“Lucas,” Harry said. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you and I sincerely hope that the Abyss never claims you. Sounds strange to say, but I think you might actually be one of the good guys.”

Lucas laughed. “I have many names, but that’s a first.”

Harry shook the Devil’s hand and walked away, leaving his candle on the bar and entering the darkness outside.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The blizzard had finally begun to die down, its job almost completed. The world had been rendered featureless. Everywhere Harry looked was buried beneath giant snow banks. Across the street, the tops of buildings were just about visible, but their doorways were covered up past their lintels. Lucas might have had something to do with the fact the Trumpet was not yet being buried.

At the bottom of the hill stood the angels, forming a line that seemed to stretch on forever.

Harry hailed them. “I’m coming down. I give up, okay?”

Archangel Michael nodded. He raised his arms out in front of him and shot fire.

“Hey!” Harry protested. “I said I’m coming down.”

But burning him wasn’t Michael’s intention. The stone steps leading down from the pub appeared beneath the rapidly melting snow as the fires quickly burned out.

Harry cleared his throat. “Oh, eh…cheers.”

He took the newly uncovered steps slowly, in no rush to test out the theory brewing in his head.

Michael was patient. Time probably meant little when you were eternal

When Harry eventually reached the bottom of the steps, he saw that Michael was smiling at him reassuringly, like a Dentist about to perform a root canal filling.

“Welcome, Sinner,” said Michael in a voice far than he’d used in previous instances. His presence was no less awesome because of it.

“It’s Harry.”

“As you wish, Harry Jobson.”

“Just Harry is fine…you know what, don’t even worry about it.”

“Are you ready? It is time.”

“I just have a couple of questions first.”

Harry thought he saw irritation stream through the archangel’s eyes. Obviously, The Angel of Death didn’t appreciate being delayed by a mere mortal. He probably found it ‘impertinent’.

“Ask your questions quickly, Sinner.”

There’s that word again. Fucker!

Harry decided not to let it bother him. He would have far worse to endure.

“After what I did, after I committed the….final sin, or whatever it is; it condemned everyone to Hell, right?”

Michael nodded.

“Do you think that’s fair?”

“It is His will.”

Harry nodded. “Right, right, didn’t think appealing to your better nature would work, so I guess I should skip straight to plan B.”

“Plan B?” Michael repeated without feeling.

“Yeah, I want to make a deal.”

Michael exploded, but managed to do so without moving an inch. He seemed to oppress the air around him. “YOU DO NOT MAKE DEALS WITH AN AGENT OF HEAVEN. YOUR WILL IS INCONSEQUENTIAL TO HIS DECISIONS. YOU WILL OBEY, SINNER.”

Harry swallowed, tried to gather himself, and continued. “Okay, okay, but my final wish is that you hear me out. If He ignores my offer then so be it. I will take what comes to me. Just, please, allow me to at least amuse you. I have given myself up willingly, after all.”

“Speak your deal. Amuse us.”

Okay, here goes.

“Send me to the Abyss.”

Michael actually seemed to flinch at the suggestion and Harry hoped that it was a good sign.

“Don’t send me to whatever Hell I deserve, send me to the Hell that no man deserves. Send me there and leave me there forever.”

Michael seemed to soften, no longer angry. It almost seemed like he was suddenly in awe of Harry. His sparkly eyes were wide and fixed. “You speak of things you can never hope to understand, Harry Jobson. The Abyss is a punishment befitting no man. Why would you ask for such endless suffering?”

“I’ll tell you, but first let me know, can it be done? Can you send me there?”

Michael nodded. “Yes.”

“Then my offer is that you send me to the Abyss in exchange for all of the souls that have been damned to Hell since I murdered Thomas Morris. Save Steph, Jess, Jerry, and all the others who don’t deserve Hell. Send me to the Abyss to pay for humanity’s sin. Will my torture there outweigh the debt needed to spare these people?”

Michael shook his head and began to be sob. The sight of it was almost heart-wrenching – the very act of an angel crying seemed to be the embodiment of the word ‘tragedy’. “The debt of suffering would be a thousand times more than that which is owed. You cannot imagine such suffering. You should not make such frivolous suggestions without knowing the full consequences.”

Harry stepped forward and was amazed to see Michael wince. Apparently, talk of the Abyss was enough to make the archangel anxious. “Then show me. Show me and let me decide. If I can still make the same decision afterwards, then you can decide if you will honour my proposal.”

“So be it,” said Michael, placing both of his hands upon Harry’s head.

What happened next was indescribable. Images and feelings shot through Harry’s very soul, showing him inhuman tortures at the hands of even more inhuman creatures. It was a place of endless and unimaginable pain and suffering. A place where every second lasted centuries and was enough to break a man’s mind into a million agonised pieces. It was the heart and soul of Hell itself.

Harry reeled backwards from Michael’s grip, falling onto his back and panting in the snow. Tears fell from his eyes and already his soul felt damaged just from seeing mere fleeting images of the Abyss. His soul was bleeding.

Yet, Harry forced himself back to his feet, weak, broken, and terrified. Taking a breath was hard, almost impossible, but he made himself speak. He had to speak.

“Spare their souls,” he said. “Send me to…send me…send me to the Abyss.”

Michael seemed sad, in fact the archangel’s very being seemed to turn melancholy. “So be it, Harry Jobson.”

God’s Angel of Death reached forward to place his hands on Harry’s forehead, but before he made contact, Michael took a step backwards and looked up at the sky. All the other angels did too. All of them gazed upwards in a never ending line. Harry looked upwards too, but saw nothing but empty, black sky.

Michael began to smile. In fact, joy itself seemed to cascade from the archangel’s body in bright, incandescent waves. He looked at Harry and nodded, as if he knew something that he did not. “Goodbye, Harry Jobson.”

Michael placed his hands on Harry’s skull.

The pain of his soul being ripped from his body was exquisite. Like having a thousand fish hooks dragged through the insides of his veins. Harry’s final thought was about how much worse it could possibly get.

Epilogue

A news reporter came onscreen. She was enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket. “Good evening, I’m Jane Hamilton, reporting for Midland-UK News. Fortunately, after nearly 19-inches of snow, the weather in Britain finally seems to be improving. Temperatures have begun to rise and the snow is predicted to end soon. Roads are in the process of being reopened while train links are expected to resume within the next few d-“

Harry found himself at the bar of The Trumpet. It didn’t happen instantly and it felt as though he had flowed back into his body like gravy through a sieve. At first he remembered nothing…

Until the person next to him spoke.

“How you feeling there, Harry Boy?”

Harry almost choked.

“Calm down there, fella. You made it. All is well for now. The big guy gave you lot another chance.”

Harry was stunned. “He…he did?”

Lucas sipped the pint in front of him. “It’s what you planned, isn’t it?”

“Well…yeah, but I didn’t expect to be back at the bar. I thought I really would go to the Abyss, or maybe, best-case-scenario, God would let me into Heaven for my good deed. I didn’t expect…this.”

“Well, as it turns out the man-upstairs loves a little sacrifice, here and there, and yours was a biggy. Reminds me of another fella who died for humanity’s sins once upon a time. The big guy decided your final deed was enough to convince him that maybe humanity still has a fighting chance. Good on ya, lad! Though you’re the only one that can remember any of it, so don’t expect a fanfare.”

Harry shook his head, blinking like he’d just awoken from a dream. “So why are you here? Here now, I mean?”

“I wanted to say goodbye. I like this crazy, fecked-up world as much as anyone, and without it I wouldn’t have a thing to do but sit around in an overcrowded Hell. Truth is I knew there was a chance you might turn things around.”

“That’s why you were here wasn’t it? To help me?”

Lucas hushed him and looked left and right shiftily. “Keep your voice down. If Michael and his choir of pansies hear that, they’ll come after me with their self-righteous wings all in a flap. I didn’t come to help you. I just wanted to make sure you were…properly informed of all the options.”

“Thank you.”

Lucas nodded. “Just enjoy your life while you can. You may have gotten a reprieve, but there’re are dark times coming. Just because God isn’t going to destroy you all, doesn’t mean you won’t somehow manage to do it yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just don’t plan on any cruises.”

Harry didn’t understand. He looked around the brightly-lit bar and still struggled to believe it. Everything was as it should be. The lights were on, the room was warm. “Well, Lucas,” he said, turning back around, “if you don’t fill me in on what’s going to happen, how can I know what to expect? Lucas?”

The Prince of Hell had departed, disappearing without Harry or anybody else in the bar noticing. Old Graham sat at the end of the counter, drinking by himself and staring into space. Harry found it ironic to be so happy to see the old codger. He made his way over to say hello.

“Hey, Harry,” Old Graham said when he saw Harry approach.

“Hey, Graham. You’re into History and all that, aren’t you? Weren’t you in the army?”

The old man beamed proudly. “That I was, twenty long years. Royal Signals I was. Hit the Falklands a full hour before the SAS did. Yet they got all the glory.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “I wanted to find out more about the past, and about brave men like you. I was thinking about going to the Imperial War museum this weekend. Would you come with me and be my guide? I’ll pay, of course. You’d be doing me a favour.”

For a moment, Harry thought the old man was going to fall off his stool, but he gathered himself and nodded enthusiastically. “You know, I haven’t been out of this bloody town in eight years. I would love to come, Harry. Thank you, I mean it.”

Harry patted him on the back. “Good. We’ll have to make a regular thing of it. Right now, though, I’ve got to go, so I’ll come by tomorrow night to see you. You’ll be here right?”

Old Graham laughed. “Does the Devil have horns?”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

Old Graham obviously didn’t understand and Harry was glad about that. Knowledge of the night’s previous events was a burden he was more than happy to shoulder alone. He walked over to the centre of the bar. On the other side was someone he wanted to talk to very much.

Steph smiled when she saw him. Harry couldn’t forgive himself for ever ignoring how beautiful she was.

“Harry,” she said to him. “Another drink?”

Harry shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve given up.”

Steph looked at him in bewilderment. “What since five minutes ago?”

“It seems like longer, but, yes, I have. Time to start living my life in better ways. Who knows when it will end?”

“Good for you, Harry. Does that mean you won’t be coming in here anymore? Cus that would make me sad.”

“Maybe,” said Harry. “Which is why I wanted to know if you’d come to dinner with me on your next night off.”

Steph’s seemed confused at first, but then she smiled. “I’m free Thursday night.”

“It’s a date then. You can tell me all about this pet grooming business you’re going to start up. I used to have a business myself. Perhaps I can help.”

Steph was surprised. “How did you know about that?”

“I don’t know, but I want to hear all about it, and about you. Right now I have to go, so I’ll be back tomorrow night to arrange with you.”

Harry left Steph in a fluster behind the bar and moved towards the exit. Damien was lying across the sofa, hogging the fire

“The fuck you looking at?”

Harry smiled. Finally he could see through Damien’s hard man disguise and see the lost boy beneath. “I just wanted to ask you something, Damien.”

“What?”

“I was thinking of starting up a carpentry business, like the one I used to have, but I need a partner – someone young and smart. An apprentice, really. I don’t have a son to teach what I know. I used to but he died just over a year ago. His name was Toby. You would have liked him.”

Damien’s eyes flickered back and forth, as if he expected a sneak attack to come at any moment.

Harry continued, not giving the lad too long to think. “I know you’re a busy guy, Damien, but I don’t think you enjoy selling drugs. You’re better than that and I’d really like to help you be successful in a less dangerous way. I need someone like you. I think we can make a lot of good honest money together. If your dad tries to make your life hard, he’ll have me to answer to.”

For a while it seemed like Damien was going to strike out and hit Harry, but then his eyes moistened and his lower lip trembled. “Y-You’re serious?”

“Extremely.” Harry went for a handshake. “Do we have a deal? A new start for both of us.”

Damien smiled and shook Harry’s hand vigorously. “Yeah, man. Yeah, deal.”

“Great, I’ll speak to you about it soon.” Harry walked away, but Damien stopped him.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. You know, for the opportunity and everything. Most people just think I’m a thug.”

“You and I are going to change their opinion.”

Harry headed over to the exit and prepared to leave. There was a lot to do in order to get his life back on track, but first he needed to find a phone. He had a call to make to the Police about a sicko named Nigel who liked to keep women’s fingers in his lorry.

Harry was going to start living his life again, putting the world right and making things better, one thing at a time. For the first time in a long time, he was finally looking forward instead of back.

The only thing to worry about was whatever Lucas’s final warning had meant. Dark times are coming.

Don’t plan on any cruises.

Harry shook the warnings from his mind and smiled. Whether humanity had one day left or one million, he had at least brought himself some time to die with dignity and pride. He had time to get his life back. Whatever happened next was up to God.

When harry left the pub, the snow had stopped and the sun was shining.

SPECIAL EDITION BONUS CONTENT

TALES FROM THE FINAL WINTER

And

THE PEELING OF SAMUEL LLOYD COLLINS

CHANCE OF SNOW

“I can’t believe this!” Richard turned away from the window and faced his family, each of them huddled beneath a blanket. “I know it’s winter, and everything, but this is Florida.”

Richard’s family, daughter and wife, said nothing.  They knew better than to converse with him in the state he was in. He wasn’t angry at them, of course – wasn’t angry at anyone in fact – but he’d built the vacation home in Florida purely to get away from home during the winter months. He expected snow like this in England, but not here.

Richard looked back out of the window and stared out over the lake that edged his second home. The water was starting to freeze over and snow banks had built up around its edges. If there were any alligators currently in there then he held little hope for their survival.

Least I’m not them, thought Richard.

“Why don’t you come and sit down, honey,” said his wife. “I’m sure they’ll be a weather forecast soon. They’ll tell us what to expect.”

Richard huffed. “Well, they didn’t bloody-well tell us to expect this, did they? Would have stayed in England if I knew there was going to be all this snow.”

“Miriam said it’s the same back home,” his wife stated. “I called her this afternoon. They’re completely snowed in.”

“It’s like this everywhere,” Richard’s daughter chimed in. “They said on the Internet that every country in the world is covered in snow. There’s a group on Facebook that say it’s all down to aliens.”

“Don’t be so stupid, Charlotte.” Richard went and took a seat beside his wife and wrestled the television remote from her hands.”

“Don’t snatch,” she said meekly.

Richard ignored her and flicked through the TV stations. He hated American channels; they were filled with so much dross. How he longed to flip on BBC One and get some straight-forward news. Eventually he found a station that seemed to be discussing the weather and he settled on it, resting back into the sofa.”

“…temperatures expected to drop further in the coming hours and are likely to remain there,” the weather report informed. “Be sure to wrap up warm, Florida, and enjoy the snow while we have it. It’s once in a lifetime.”

“Enjoy the snow,” Richard grimaced. “Who comes to Florida to enjoy the snow? They certainly don’t spend half-a-million building a house here to enjoy the snow.”

Richard’s wife stood up from the sofa and headed off. “I’ll go make a pot of tea and turn the heating up. I wish you’d stop stressing. We’re still on holiday and together, aren’t we?”

Richard let out a sigh and rubbed at his cold forearms. He turned to Charlotte who was sat on the armchair beside the sofa. “Am I being a bit of an ogre?”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Little bit. Just chill out, dad. You’re upsetting mom.”

She was right of course. Richard was not unaware of how tightly-wound he could be. That was why he’d built the holiday home sixty miles north of Miami. It was supposed to be their place to relax and spend some quality time together.

Good job you’re making of it!

Richard stood up from the sofa and made for the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked him.

“To apologise to your mother.” He headed through a door that bordered the lounge and entered the family kitchen area. It was a large, modern room with a breakfast bar at its tiled centre. It was his wife’s favourite part of the house. Currently, she stood up against the oversized ceramic sink, filling up the kettle beneath one of the chrome taps. He went up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She did not jump so she must have expected his arrival.

“You calmed down yet?”

Richard squeezed her shoulders gently and began rubbing. “When do I ever calm down? The best you can hope for is that I realise when I’m being insufferable.”

“And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Realised that you’re being insufferable?”

Richard turned his wife around to face him and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. “Yes, I realise, sweetheart. I’m sorry, okay?”

She kissed him back. “You’re forgiven. Let’s just enjoy ourselves for the rest of the week. They’ll be plenty of sun next time, I’m sure.”

Richard nodded glumly. “Hope you’re right.”

His wife was about to reply to him, when Charlotte’s voice carried from the other room. “Hey, mom, dad, I think you better come look at this.”

Richard and his wife looked at each other and frowned. Together they exited the kitchen and walked back through to the carpeted lounge. Charlotte was stood up against the window where Richard had earlier been looking out at the lake.

“What is it?” Richard asked her.

Charlotte turned around and faced him. Her expression was mostly one of curiosity, but Richard could see a hint of anxiety there as well. “Come look.”

Richard walked up beside his daughter and leant forward to look through the double-glazed glass window. Outside was the same, semi-frozen lake that he’d already seen, snow pilling up all around it as fresh powder continued to fall. “Everything seems normal to me, sweetheart.”

Charlotte nudged him on the arm. “Look closer, at the far end of the lake.”

Richard focused his eyes further afield. If it were not for the outdoor lighting then he would have seen nothing at all, but thanks to the illuminating glare of the high-watt bulbs, Richard could see what his daughter was trying to point out to him. “Gators?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte replied. “What are they doing?”

Richard’s best guess was that they were migrating. They were common visitors to the lake and they always seemed happy to bask and feed in a group, so seeing them all bunch together now was not all that interesting. What was a little more unordinary, though, was the fact that they were currently fighting their way from the lake, pushing and burrowing through the snow banks that towered over them. “Looks like they’re leaving the lake,” Richard guessed. “I’m not surprised with the water as cold as it is.”

“But where would they go?” Charlotte asked. “Surely they wouldn’t be any better off in the snow?”

Richard shrugged. “I expect they’re just as confused as everyone else is in Florida right now.” His wife was nearby and he smiled at her so she knew there was nothing to worry about. “Go get that tea on, sweetheart. We can settle down and try to watch a film.”

His wife smiled back and quickly departed, leaving him alone with his daughter. Charlotte was still looking out of the window, enthralled with the alligator’s behaviour.

“There must be at least fifty of them out there, all in a group,” she said.

“Will you just get away from that window? I want to close the curtains and keep the heat in.”

Charlotte sighed and turned away from the window. Richard took her place and prepared to close the curtains. He took one last look outside at the departing alligators and let out a chuckle. It really was something to behold. He stretched out sideward and grasped the curtain and started sliding it across the window, but, before he got it all the way across, something made him stop.

“What the…?”

Charlotte came back over to the window and looked out through the small gap that still remained through the curtain. “What?”

Richard didn’t turn to face his daughter. His eyes were too transfixed on what he was seeing. “There’s someone out there in the snow.”

“You’re joking,” said Charlotte. “They must be mad. It’s freezing.

“Mad or not,” said Richard, “they’re there.”

Richard left the window and marched across the lounge towards the French doors at the rear of the house. They led out to a veranda which doubled as a smoking shelter for his wife’s habit. As soon as he pulled open one of the doors, the cold hit him like a punch in the face. His nose started burning almost immediately as the chill bit at his extremities.

He stepped out into the snow nevertheless, but wishing he was wearing something more substantial than trainers – snowfall was not something he’d packed for. The growing wind also made him wish hard for a winter coat.

“Who’s out here?” he shouted into the floodlit night.  “This is private property. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

There was no answer and Richard took it as a threatening sign. He stepped cautiously as he approached the front of the house where he had seen the stranger. He couldn’t be sure, but it had looked to be a man; a tall one wrapped in a billowing coat – or maybe a cloak.

When Richard reached the side of the house that faced the lake, he was surprised to find the stranger was still standing there, quite assumedly. The man seemed to care little about his trespass.

“I said you need to leave,” he reiterated. “You’re worrying my family.”

“Their worry is well-founded,” came the stranger suddenly with a baritone voice.

Richard took a step towards the man. “Is that a threat?”

“A threat would imply uncertainty. There is none of that here.”

Richard examined the stranger with suspicion that was beginning to border on concern. The figure towered above the snow and was tall enough that Richard would not fancy his chances if the stranger attacked him. Unsettling too was the unusual cloak covering the man from head to feet – it was not something an ordinary person would wear in the 21st Century.

“Look,” said Richard. “What do you want?”

The stranger seemed to move very slightly to face him as he replied. “I desire nothing. His will is my will and I do only as requested.”

Richard didn’t understand. He was cold and extremely confused. “Who is he? What are you talking about?”

“You ask of Him? You should know your Lord and revere him with the love and respect he demands. Perhaps if you had, your fate would be less perilous.”

Richard had had enough. He took the final few clumsy steps towards the stranger and pointed a finger right at his face. “You get out of here, right now. I love America, I really do, but you don’t half have some bloody nutcases here. Leave, or I will call the police.”

The figure let out a laugh that rattled Richard’s very bones. “You demand nothing of me, mortal. Your threats are puny. Your insolence, maddening.”

Richard was lost for words. This person was obviously a madman, just by the way he spoke, but so too was he huge and menacing. What the hell should I do? Richard decided that lowering his tone would be best. Steering away from any animosity seemed far safer than inciting any. “I’m sorry to offend you. Could you just tell me who you are, please?”

The stranger lowered his head as if to focus on Richard more clearly. The cowl was too tightly wrapped to give anything away about the man’s face; not even the eyes could be seen. To Richard’s surprise, the cloaked stranger raised both hands and began to pull away the hood. Slowly the cloth fell away to reveal a face of utter beauty and a head full of mahogany-streaked hair.

Richard took a breath and struggled to let it back out again. “Jesus!”

The beautiful man shook his head and seemed angry at the word. “You do not speak of The Son without reason. I am not Jesus.”

Richard was in awe. “Then who are you?”

The stranger’s face was without emotion as he answered. “I am Mika'eel. I am the first Harbinger of this world’s demise.”

“I-I’m sorry? Demise?”

Mika'eel nodded. “Your time of decadence has ceased. This world is to be no more.”

Richard shook his head. “Are you…are you a terrorist?”

The man showed no expression – in fact he seemed incapable – but he did shake his head. “I am no terrorist. I spread not terror, but extinction. I bring snow and ice to freeze further the cold hearts of man. It is an honour for you to meet me, an Angel of the highest order.”

Richard choked. “An Angel? Are you crazy?”

“Crazy is a state of mind beneath me – as are you, Richard Pointer.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know all names, all fates, all journeys. Yours is a particularly interesting one. Your true mother abandoned you, but this you do not know. Yet that nagging feeling of rejection has spurred your every decision. You are a callous businessman, a competitive being, and a domineering husband. Your wife dreads you.”

Richard’s heart throbbed at the accusation, causing him actual pain. Perhaps the reason it hurt so much was because, deep down, he knew it was true. He was a control-freak and always had been. The fact that he allowed himself to control his lovely wife made him feel wretched.

“Do not fret, Richard Pointer. There are many men worse than you. Despite their dread, your family loves you. Go to them now. Comfort them as the end draws near. You have an opportunity that many will not. You know that the end is coming; you can say the things that need saying and die with an unburdened soul.”

Richard looked at the…Angel… and knew that it was all true. The world was truly ending and this being before him was its deliverer. Life was an inconsequential mess and it was now coming to an abrupt finish. Despite the fear that knowledge brought, Richard was indeed grateful for the gift of knowing. He would enjoy his final evening with his family; enjoy the final winter of man’s existence. Richard turned around and headed for the house, to be with his family and wait for the end of the world.

SPECIAL EDITION BONUS CONTENT

COLD SHOULDER

“Any more wine?” asked Amanda.

John turned to his wife and sighed. “Haven’t you had enough tonight?”

“Just go get another bottle and stop giving me grief. It’s not like I have work tomorrow. Maybe not all week if it keeps snowing like this – Whoop!”

John shook his head. He knew his wife was drunk because he was too. They’d polished off a bottle of red each and the heavy feeling it left him was dragging him towards sleep. Amanda was different though – she never quit while the night was still young. There was no point arguing with her, so John diligently went and got another bottle of Shiraz from the kitchen cabinet. There was another three bottles after this one and he worried. His wife would never drink them all – nowhere near in fact – but she may well keep going until she passed out.

Or turns nasty.

John re-entered the living room and unscrewed the bottle cap. He leant over Amanda’s glass and started pouring until the glass was almost full. He then topped up his own glass halfway.

“Sit down, honey. Never Mind The Buzzcocks is coming on. You like that.”

He did and was grateful that his wife was in an accommodating mood. He sat down beside her and put a hand on her lap. It was a struggle to focus on the television, however, because something was on his mind. “You think Jess is going to make it home from work okay?”

“Yeah,” slurred Amanda. “Why wouldn’t she?”

John shrugged. “The snow’s gotten pretty bad. Have you seen it recently?”

“Couple hours ago. Wasn’t that bad.”

“It is now. I’m starting to get a bit worried. You think I should try and walk down and meet her from the supermarket. Her shift finishes in ten minutes.”

Amanda turned the TV up slightly and frowned. “She’ll be fine. If you leave now you’d only end up missing her.”

John thought she was probably right. The weather was close to a full-blown blizzard now and it was difficult to see beyond a couple of feet. Unless he knew the exact path that his daughter took home, they would miss each other. He didn’t fancy going out in the cold pointlessly.

On the television, the programme began and John and his wife watched it. It was funny, but John couldn’t find it in him to laugh. The same wasn’t true of Amanda who was cackling at every joke, even if it was only mildly funny.

How the hell did we end up like this, he thought to himself secretly. Amanda hadn’t always been like this. The underlying edge of aggression she now possessed seemed to grow more volatile each year, and her drinking was becoming more commonplace. His own drinking had gotten much worse than it used to be too. After twenty years of marriage, an unspoken resentment had begun to take control of their relationship. John didn’t know how to stop it and was unsure if he even wanted to. It felt like something needed to change.

He wouldn’t change the past though. Most of those twenty married years had been joyous, moving down to contentedness in the latter half. And of course they had a beautiful daughter. Jess being born was the proudest moment of John’s life and he never stopped feeling that way about her. She was a strong girl with a character he admired. In fact she seemed to have many of her mother’s good points – he just hoped that she lacked some of the worst.

“You paying attention?” Amanda asked him, breaking him away from his thoughts.

He nodded to her. “Just tired. Think I might go to bed soon.”

Amanda huffed. “God, when did you become such a fuddy duddy? It’s not even ten yet.”

“I just can’t hold my wine like some people.”

Amanda scowled at him and leant away on the sofa. “What is that supposed to mean?”

John sighed and got up from the sofa. “Nothing. Nothing at all. You just do whatever you want, while I go to bed. Think that would suit both of us.”

“Would suit me better if your bed was somewhere else.”

Amanda often said nasty things when she was drunk, but that one was uncalled for. He turned around and faced her. “You keep saying things like that and you may just get your wish.”

Amanda stood up and came at him. “Don’t you threaten me.”

He took a step away from her. “You’re the one who bloody said it! Just sit back down. I’m not in the mood.”

He tried to walk away, but Amanda followed. “What’s your problem, John?”

He carried on walking. “What’s my problem? I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.”

“No,” said Amanda. “I want to know what your problem is.”

John hadn’t been aware that he had voiced a problem, but rationality was never a key component of one of Amanda’s arguments. He was starting to feel angry, but he had to keep a lid on it. The last thing the situation needed was two drunken people going at each other.

“Stop walking away,” Amanda shouted after him.

He did so, turning to look at her. He tried to stay calm. “Look, honey, I’m sorry if I upset you. I don’t want to fight. I’m just worried about Jess.”

Amanda huffed. “You needn’t be.”

Something about the way she had just said that raised the hackles on John’s neck. He felt a sudden stone of dread in his guts. “What do you mean by that?”

Amanda laughed and walked away. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” said John, following back after her. “What are you talking about? Why would I not worry about my own goddamn daughter?”

Amanda spun around and looked at him with a hatred that John hadn’t realised she’d had for him. Their marriage really was over, he realised. The suffocating sadness that he felt was lessened slightly by the relief that also took root inside of him. He didn’t care about any of that right now though. He wanted to know what Amanda had meant. She told him.

“She’s not even your daughter,” she shouted at him. “She never has been. I was shagging one of the neighbours when we lived in Burnley.”

They’d lived in Burnley at the start of their marriage, almost twenty years ago and left five years later. Jess was seventeen. Amanda sat back down on the sofa and stared at the television as though she hadn’t said anything. John felt a loathing for his wife now that was almost boundless.

He stood in front of her, blocking the television. “Say that again, and if you’re lying…”

Amanda scowled upwards at him. “If I’m lying, what? What you going to do about it? Just get out of this house and don’t come back. Jess isn’t your daughter so you’ve got no reason to be here.”

Rage took a hold of John as if his entire body was merely a marionette on a flimsy set of strings. Without thinking about it, or even realising he was about to do it, John picked up the half-full bottle of red wine and walloped it over his wife’s head. Amanda fell back, stunned, blood already seeping from a crack on her forehead. The bottle had not broken, so John swung it again, hitting her in the temple. The shock left Amanda’s face and was replaced by a look of bewilderment. Still the bottle did not break. Infected with an unbridled rage, down to his very soul, John swung one last time with all his might. This time the bottle shattered, smashing off Amanda’s forehead with an almighty crack!

John had never seen a dead body before, but he knew he was looking at one right now. He was glad. Now his wife would not become the full-blown monster she was threatening to become. The decaying rot of her spirit had been halted by death and she would pass on with her memory intact. A tear escaped John’s eye as he realised he would get to remember his wife as the woman he had loved for so long.

John picked up the wine-soaked dead body from the sofa and started dragging it to the front door. The plan was to dump her somewhere, close by, on the estate. Later he’d call the police and claim she hadn’t come home. Until then, he would dump the body and return, sit back and wait for his daughter to get home. He looked forward to raising Jess alone.

WHEN HELL FREEZES OVER

The snow was really falling now. A nervous person might even say that the weather had become unnatural. With every minute that passed, the temperature dropped and water froze. The cold was enough to kill a man stone dead – but not the man that currently stood beneath a blinking streetlight on a desolate council estate.

Although, in all honesty, he wasn’t really a man.

Lucas looked up at the moon and saw that it was full. There was something happening tonight, that much was clear. He just hoped it wasn’t the thing he was starting to suspect. Four-thousand years of existence was a long time, but Lucas wasn’t ready for it to end yet.

I haven’t watched the latest series of Dexter, for one.

Lucas walked forward, feet resting on the surface of the snow as if he were weightless. He’d never visited this particular town, it was without any notable history, but there was a lot of supernatural energy suddenly leaked into the world and he had traced it to here. Now he just needed to find out the source.

It wasn’t long before he found it. Lucas stopped walking across the snow and turned around. Behind him was an old friend, from long long ago.

“Gabriel?” Lucas raised an eyebrow. “I take your being here to be a bad sign.”

The Angel Gabriel stepped forward to approach Lucas and shook his head. “On the contrary, Lucifer. I would say that my presence is an extremely good sign. It signals the end of the decadent cesspool of this humanity. The Lord’s patience has worn thin and He has sent forth his armies to-”

“Still towing the company line, huh?” Lucas interrupted without his Irish accent. It was unnecessary in the current company. “You don’t seriously buy into the whole apocalypse thingy-majig, do you?”

“It is His will.”

Lucas sighed. “So it’s really happening then? I’d worried as much.”

“The scales have tipped. A sinner was chosen and failed to redeem himself…and therefore his species.”

Lucas took another step towards Gabriel. It wasn’t confrontational – the war between Angels was a one-time event never to be repeated – he just wanted to read the other Angel’s expression. “I always hated that contingency – from the very day Michael dreamt it up. It’s perverse to pin the world’s hopes on a single individual. So who is it anyway?”

Gabriel took in a breath that he didn’t need. “The sinner? Harry Jobson.”

Lucas closed his eyes and summoned knowledge – one of the few talents he still retained from his days in Heaven. Harry Jobson was a good man turned bad by events beyond his control, not from any taint of his soul. “That’s not fair!” Lucas said, and was aware of how whiny he sounded, but carried on anyway. “If anything, the revenge he took on the man that killed his family only proves the capacity of love he had for them in the first place. If man wasn’t capable of great compassion and loyalty, then revenge would be of no interest to them. That’s how He made them, so why should they suffer?”

Gabriel was silent and for a moment and almost performed a gesture approaching a shrug. There was a sadness to the Angel that Lucas could sense; like fumes from a petrol can.

“You don’t agree with this either,” Lucas stated.

Gabriel shook his head futilely. “My opinion is of no consequence.”

“No being should accept slavery as a birth right, neither Angel nor Man. To be created is not an obligation to servitude. We have the right to our own opinions. You should have joined me long ago, brother.”

Gabriel swiped a hand through the air and fried the falling snowflakes that were unlucky enough to touch him. “Blasphemy! Your unrighteous war sought to enslave man. Now you speak to me of such things as free will?”

Lucas shrugged and resumed his Irish accent. He no longer felt like showing reverence of respect. He was more human than Angel. “Well, a fella can change his mind now, can’t he? In fact the almighty father changes his own every five minutes so it seems.”

“He is your father too and you will speak ill of him no more. The time for wrath has arrived and you are summoned to be its witness. Your hand in Armageddon is such that you deserve a front row seat.”

Lucas wasn’t about to accept any more of this pious nonsense.  “Look, Gabriel. I know you spend your weekends at Vegas, counting cards and downing Amaretto cocktails like you’re trying to put out a fire in your belly, so why don’t you cut the bull and start speaking a wee bit of the truth. How can I stop this?”

Gabriel seemed to think for a moment before letting out a sigh that seemed to signal his walls coming down slightly. “Brother, you cannot. While my own fondness of humanity, and its vices, is something I admit too, I will not defy my Lord. Not all can have your strength of rebellion – and not all would even want it. It is done. A concordant has been met and at this very moment a plague of Angels descends to the Earth like you once did – thousands of falling stars ready for retribution. All life will be extinguished.”

Lucas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was this lack of rational compromise that turned him against Heaven in the first place. He didn’t miss it. “There are…loop holes?”

“Perhaps,” said Gabriel, already turning to walk away. “But can you remember them?”

Lucas shook his head. “I can’t, it was too long ago. Gabriel stop, I need answers.”

Gabriel turned back around. “I cannot remain here, Lucifer. I have…duties. If you need answers, perhaps you will find them in there.”

The Angel pointed and Lucas spun around. Behind him, on that hill, was a pub called The Trumpet. Lucas smiled to himself.

A drink sounds like a bloody good idea right about now.

NEWS AND WEATHER

“This is Jane Hamilton, signing off for Midlands-UK News.” Jane handed her microphone to a production assistant and let out a shiver. She was wearing a huge pink ski-jacket but the cold was still getting through. “Was that okay, Steve?”

Her cameraman, Steve, gave her a thumbs up. “Perfect. There might have been a slight issue with snow on the lens, but nothing we could do with things the way they are. “

“I know, it’s crazy, right?” Jane looked down from the motorway bridge and examined the tipped-over transit van. She had no idea what the contents were, spilled all over the snow, and each second only shrouded them further in layers of fine white powder. As a professional news reporter, Rule One was always to remain unaffected by the stories she was reporting, but this one gave her the willies. All of the meteorologists back at the studio were flummoxed by the recent weather – a few went so far as to say it was impossible. She took their expert opinions very seriously and had some serious anxiety about what the coming days would bring. People had already started dying and she couldn’t help but worry that the toll would continue to rise substantially.

“You okay, Jane?”

She let out a breath and watched it steam in front of her face. “Yeah, Steve. Thanks. I just don’t like this cold.”

“You want me to get one of the guys to fetch you a coffee from the van? There’s still a bit left in the Thermos.”

Jane cringed at the thought of the stale taste of lukewarm coffee from a flask. “No, thanks, that’s okay. I just want to get back to the studio. There’s going to be other things to report before the night is through, I can feel it.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed Steve. “We’ll get going in a few minutes. Mike and Tony are just trying to dig the van loose.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “What?”

Steve tutted. “Hard to believe, but in the short time you were reporting, the snow was heavy enough to cover the wheels.”

“Oh, hell!”

Steve waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it, Kitten. We’ll be gone in a jiffy.”

Jane narrowed her eyes. “I told you to stop calling me that. We’re not together anymore.”

“Pity,” said Steve. “You look hot in that ski-jacket.”

Jane laughed and decided to head for the van. The snow was beginning to melt through her boots and her thick socks were becoming soaked. It was hard to walk and, after only a few steps, her calves began to ache. She wanted nothing more than to wrap up warm at home with a DVD and her cat, Thompson, but she knew the night would be long. At times like this it was all hands on deck. The freak weather conditions would keep every news channel in the world busy until its cause was known.

“Hey, Mike, how’s it going?”

Mike was kneeling next to the van, mini-shovel in hand. “My hands are so numb you could put them on a pair of tits and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Charming,” said Jane, laughing. “I guess I should stay out of the van until you’re done. My weight would probably make it harder to get the van free?”

“Dunno,” said Mike, “but don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”

“You’re a dear,” said Jane. She patted him on the head and stepped into the van via the side door, then slid it shut after her. The van was slightly warmer than outside, but was still uncomfortably chilly. A bank of blinking monitors lined one side and she sat on the stool in front of them. The monitor on the left showed the studio feed that was currently going out live to the nation. The monitor on the right showed the feed from Steve’s camera outside – the images were still streaming but were not being recorded. Back at the studio, one of her colleagues was interviewing an ecology expert. He was currently refuting claims that a damaged Ozone layer could be the cause of all the snow.

Something caught her attention on the other monitor. The camera mounted on a tripod outside had picked up the image of Tony, the other production assistant. He was currently taking a piss off the top of the bridge to the deserted road below.

“Nice,” Jane commented, shaking her head. Steve was in the picture too, speaking on his phone. He was probably checking in with the studio to confirm it was okay to come in. Beyond them both of the men, though, was something else: a dark shape in the background, partly out of focus and obscured by the snowfall.

What is that?

The shape seemed to be coming closer, heading towards Steve and Mike at the centre of the bridge. Jane leant closer to the screen to try and make out some further details. The dark shadow didn’t seem like another person. It was closer to a small vehicle than anything else – perhaps a motorcycle.

As Jane continued watching, the shadow continued getting closer. Inch by inch, the shape revealed itself. When it became clearer, Jane was even more confused.

“What the…?”

It appeared to be an animal of some kind; a huge dog maybe – but too big and too hairy. It was creeping up slowly behind Tony, who was still taking a leak.

Jesus, is that guy part-camel or what?

Jane kept waiting for Tony or Steve to notice the creature, but they did not. She tried urging them through the monitor to look around, but of course she knew it was hopeless – she wasn’t telepathic. Just when she was about to lean out of the van and shout for their attention, the creature made itself known to the two men outside.

The over-sized hound pounced at Tony from behind, crushing him up against the bridges railings. The monitor didn’t give out sound but Jane could hear his startled cries from inside the van anyway. The bloodcurdling screams that followed were unpleasant enough, but twinned with the disturbing images on the feed monitor they were horrifying. The beast outside had pinned Tony to the ground and was ripping and tearing at his back. The snow turned red all around.

Steve realised the situation and made a run for it, most likely heading for the van. He exited the view of the camera and Jane was left wondering how close by he was. A second later her stomach turned as she watched the hound-beast leaving the mutilated corpse of Tony behind to give chase to Steve.

Jane stared at the monitor and tried to control her breathing. Steve’s screams were coming closer and it wasn’t long before she heard Mike’s join them. Outside of the van the two men were being attacked by something she couldn’t describe – something unnatural.

Banging at the van door.

“Jane, let me in. Open the door.” It was Steve.

Jane stared at the door handle and found herself unable to move from her seat. Every part of her mind screamed at her to let Steve in, but every fibre of her nerve-endings refused to let her move. Steve continued to scream as ripping sounds began. Whatever was out there was ripping him to shreds. Mike was probably already dead, and here she was, hiding like a coward while it all happened only inches away from her.

I just report the news. I don’t take part in it.

Steve’s screams finally stopped and Jane sat in silence, listening only to the sounds of her own panting breath. She turned back around to face the monitors. The live feed from the studio had gone black, but the camera outside was still recording. On it she could see the snarling face of a jagged-toothed demon appear from off-camera. Then she saw its jaws gape wide and the video feed was no more.

Jane waited in terror for what seemed like an eternity, hoping against all hope that the beast would go away. But it didn’t.

The van began to rock as the creature attacked it, trying to get at the prize inside. Jane Hamilton cowered in the rear of the vehicle, knowing it was only a matter of minutes until she joined the recent death toll.

CLOUD COVER

Quinton Barstow was worried. Flying an airliner was nothing new to him; he was more nervous driving a car in actual fact. In a car you have to trust in the driving skills of other people, and trust that people are even paying attention, but in a plane it’s just you and the clouds; nothing to crash into and nothing that could go wrong in the engines – there were just far too many ground checks to miss anything. Piloting an airliner was an almost fully-automated and pretty plain sailing – or flying to be more accurate, and excuse the pun. Yet he was worried all the same.

All of the above only applied, however, when the aircraft’s electrical systems were responding correctly. This evening they were not, and Quinton could think of no reason why. Any errors with the plane’s on-board computers should have been rectified by a quick reset, but he had tried that several times now to no avail. He needed those systems to compensate for what his eyes could not see. The current weather was making his natural vision near-useless.

“I can’t believe they cleared us to fly in this,” said Quinton’s co-pilot, James.

“They didn’t see it coming,” replied Quinton. “The weather reports for the week ahead were mostly clear. All of this cloud cover doesn’t make any sense.”

“You think we should bring her down at the nearest airport?”

Quinton looked at his dials and meters. The spindles spun and flickered without any sense of reason. They were flying blind. “I’m beginning to think so.”

“Okay,” said James. “I’ll try and contact ground support at Paris. They should be able to receive us.”

Quinton nodded his agreement and continued to examine his controls. The autopilot navigation system was displaying random error codes in sequence, as if it could not decide what its problem was. The dials continued to spin and the altitude indicator seemed to think that the plane had banked to the left 90-degrees. In twenty years of flying, Quinton had not witnessed such a catastrophic failure of instrumentation.

“I can’t reach anyone,” said James without any sign of exaggeration.

Quinton looked at him. “What?”

James thumbed at buttons and switches on the console but gave up with concerned sigh. “I’m getting nothing but static.”

“That’s nonsense. De Gaulle is only thirty-miles away.

“They’re not responding. I’m not even sure they’re reading us.”

Quinton did not like this at all. “Okay, we’ll hold position in the area for thirty minutes. Keep trying to reach someone. Try Heathrow.”

James nodded uncertainly and went back to twisting dials and flicking switches. Quinton would have liked to have inputted some commands into the guidance system and gone and stretched his legs, but the way things were, meant that he had to remain at the plane’s manual controls. He steered in a steady curve, planning to circle until they spoke to someone on the ground.

As was natural to an airline pilot in the 21st Century, Quinton began to worry about the bogeyman of all frequent flyers. He wondered whether his aircraft had been the target of terrorists. Had the on-board systems been tampered with in the effort to bring the plane down? Was this just step one of 9/11 part two?

No. Something told Quinton that his concerns were misplaced. For all the effort and planning it would take to disable a plane’s systems so entirely, it would be just as easy to plant a bomb on board or hijack the cockpit. Whatever was going on here had to be down to some other cause. Quinton couldn’t understand why, but he felt that it had something to do with the weather.

A knock at the cockpit’s door startled Quinton and he spun around on his cabin chair. After a hostess identified herself, he pressed the lock release and a red light above the door turned green. Samantha entered with a mug of coffee for both him and James. Coffee was as necessary to a pilot’s job as aircraft fuel and he couldn’t have welcomed anything more at that moment. He took one of the steaming mugs from the hostess and thanked her. She looked back at him with a scrunched up expression that he supposed meant she had an issue to raise with him.

“What is it?” he asked her.

She took in a breath as though she had many words to get out. “It’s really bizarre. I don’t even know how to explain it really. At first it was just one or two passengers but then more and more people started to complain, and now I think it’s everyone.”

“Spit it out,” Quinton told her.

“Okay, okay. Well, it would appear that anything electrical has gone a bit haywire. The passenger’s phones, ipads, mp3 players, et cetera have all gone a bit…funny.”

Quinton raised an eyebrow. “Funny?”

Samantha nodded. “All the displays have gone squiggly as if something is interfering with them.”

Quinton turned around and looked at his own malfunctioning gadgets. Something wasn’t adding up here, and anything unknown aboard a plane could be extremely dangerous. He leant forward and pressed the intercom button. The normal ding! sound did not occur. In fact nothing happened at all.

“Damn it! The intercom is down. Samantha could you inform the passengers to turn off all electrical devices. Tell them that…we’re passing through an electrical storm and leaving them on could permanently damage them. Also, please inform them that we will be performing an unscheduled landing due to adverse weather conditions.”

Samantha nodded, but didn’t seem comforted by his suggestions. Quinton couldn’t blame her, he wasn’t either. He turned to his co-pilot. “You got anything, James?”

James’ bleak expression told him the answer was no.

Quinton bit at his lip. There were no protocols for this. In the event of system failure, the plane needed to land, without question, but the danger of coming down unguided in the thick snow blizzard that hid beneath the cloud cover would be a near suicide-mission. The situation was dire, and as Captain it was his responsibility to decide what to do next.

“Okay, James, enough. We’re going to bring her down.”

The co-pilot’s eyes went wide. “We’re going to land blind?”

“What choice do we have? I would rather that then run the risk of falling out of the sky if the engines fail.”

James nodded. Quinton knew the other man thought he was right. It just didn’t make the decision any easier.

“Okay,” said James. “Reducing speed. Descending to 20,000 feet.”

Quinton prayed that the plane’s landing gear would deploy when approaching the runway. Being mechanical, he hoped they would. After all, the flaps and rudders were all responding.

Many tense minutes of ensuing silence were eventually broken when James spoke again. “Cruising at 20,000 feet. Runway is approximately twenty miles out.”

“Reduce altitude to 10,000 feet.”

James did as he was instructed and Quinton looked at his dials out of habit despite the fact they were currently useless. Once he reminded himself of this, he instead chose to look out of the cockpit’s wide, glass window. Now that the plane was descending, he could see the bulbous clouds below more clearly. They seemed unending, letting no light from below make it through. Which was why Quinton thought it inordinately strange when he saw several bright lights coming from above the plane.

He craned his neck to get a better viewing angle and saw that more than a dozen glowing spheres had appeared in the sky. They seemed to be falling, like meteorites, but Quinton knew that wasn’t what they were. He knew that, because they were falling too slowly, not free-plummeting the way a lump of space debris would.

“What the hell is that,” asked James, suddenly noticing.

Quinton stared out at the descending lights and wondered that himself. The way they moved was almost gentle, as if they had some great purpose that could not be rushed. It was then that a blinding light also filled the cabin.

The two pilots cried out and shielded their eyes, holding onto their chairs as they fought to stay seated. Mere seconds later, the light had gone again, and Quinton opened his eyes. The lights outside were still falling, but something inside the cabin had been altered. Something unexplainable.

Quinton looked down at his instruments with horror as he realised that they were no longer there. All that remained was a blackened husk of metal where dials and equipment used to be. The smell of ash lingered in the air, and Quinton felt dizzy as he realised something else.

His dizziness turned to panic.

The engines had stopped. They were going down.

Outside, the bright lights continued falling like stars, Angels from heaven. The plane fell faster.

Jack

It was funny how people found religion in times of crisis. People that hadn’t seen the insides of a church for years would suddenly get down on their knees and pray, whenever they were out of any other options. As much as Father Pitt enjoyed seeing his pews full of parishioners, he knew they were all hypocrites.

He considered giving another sermon, but then decided against it. Nobody was listening. His parishioners were huddled together in small groups and families, seeking only the shelter and community that the church provided, nothing else. They were not looking for tales of morality. As soon as the snow cleared, they would be gone again, returning to their mundane and selfish lives. In many ways the drastic snowfall was a blessing. Perhaps it was God’s way to send these lambs to Father Pitt, so that he may attempt to capture their spirits and return them to the Lord’s path. But he could no longer be bothered.

The church had been full for almost twelve hours now as the snow outside continued to fall so deeply that people had started turning up for fear that the world was ending. No one stated such absurdities, but their presence at the church spoke of a collective fear unspoken. At first, Father Pitt had served his calling well; had sought to help them with their anxieties and teach them about God’s plan for them. Within a few hours, however, he saw the futility of such pursuits.

Then they found the first body.

***

Mary found the body in the church’s sole toilet. It was a small, recently-built cubicle set inside the entrance corridor that led inside the church. Mary had been fighting the urge to urinate for a while, too chilly unwrap herself from her seat, but she could hold it no longer.

The toilet’s door had been unlocked when she tried it and she hurriedly stepped inside without thinking about it.

The dead man staring back at her made her yelp.

She had noticed the overweight man earlier in the evening, alone and praying. Now he was sat upright on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, guts spilling from his bulbous stomach which peeked out beneath his ill-fitting sweater.

Mary slipped on the bloody tiles and fell against the wall.

She screamed.

***

Dr Wallace came out of the toilet wiping his bloody hands on his shirt. In all his years of being a Doctor he had not seen such a grotesque wound. The man’s stomach had been torn in two, his large intestine severed and leaking out onto the floor. The smell was overpowering and would soon invade the interior of the church and make them all gag.

“What happened to him?” asked the woman who had found him.

“Mary, is it?” he asked. She nodded. “Well, my answer is that I have no idea, except to say that he was clearly murdered.”

Everyone in the church gasped. Some of the women began to cry. The church’s priest stepped forward, a look of utter despair on his face. “I don’t understand. How could he have been murdered with all of us here?”

“Yeah,” said a ginger-headed man wearing a green cardigan. “He was sat in the corner praying only twenty minutes ago. I saw him.”

Wallace shrugged. “All I’m telling you is that he didn’t die of natural causes. He was gutted like an animal. Also, I found this…” He offered out his hand so that everyone could see. It was a playing card: the Jack of Hearts. “It was forced into his mouth,” Wallace explained.

“Oh God,” said a young blonde of perhaps twenty. She had her hand to her mouth.

“What is it?” Father Pitt asked her.

“It’s Jack the Raper.”

Wallace huffed. “You mean that killer in the papers?”

The girl nodded. She wore a supermarket uniform and a name tag that read: Kelly. “That’s his thing,” she said. “His calling card or whatever.”

“How do you know that?” someone asked.

“Because I like reading about serial killers and stuff. I’ve googled this guy like a hundred times.”

“That’s sick.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Whatever! Doesn’t change the fact that this is him. He’s already killed seven people, and every time he leaves a playing card stuffed in their mouths – always the Jack of Hearts. The papers say it represents sin because of its link to gambling and the heart is supposed to show lust. There was a whole article on it from some professor guy.”

“Are you serious?” Wallace asked.

“Yes. The guy breaks into people’s homes, kills any husbands or men in the house, and then rapes and kills the wife. That’s why the papers have called him Jack the Raper.”

“I feel sick,” said a woman in the back of the assembled group.”

Wallace shook his head. He was feeling rather nauseas himself. “I have to report this,” he said.

“Well, no one has a mobile that works,” Kelly said. “I think the snow is interfering or something.”

“I’ll have to go find someone, then,” said Wallace.

“You can’t go out there,” said the man in the green cardigan. “The snow is three feet deep. We’re all stuck here. With a goddamn killer in the room no less. Jesus Christ.” Father Pitt cringed at the blasphemy and the man seemed embarrassed. “Sorry,” he quickly added.

Wallace wasn’t in the mood for a debate, so he headed towards the church’s exit corridor. He tried to ignore the faecal scent of the dead man in the toilet as he passed. Up ahead was the old, wooden door of the church. He grasped the large brass hoop that constituted the handle and turned and pulled. The door fell open with force, knocking Wallace back onto his ass. Snow flooded in from outside, piling up on the ancient carpet.

“I can’t believe it,” Wallace said as he scurried back to his feet. “The snow must be six feet now. How long have we been in here?”

“Last time we checked outside was about six hours ago,” said the ginger man in the cardigan. “It was nowhere near that high then.”

“It’s the end of the world,” said a woman in the crowd. She was the first one to finally say it. The first one to say what they were all thinking.

***

“We have to get out of here,” Bradley whimpered, reaching into the pocket of his cardigan and pulling out his phone. The LCD display still read NO SIGNAL and he sighed as he put it back away.

“Calm down,” Dr Wallace told him. “The more we panic, the less rational we will be, and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

“So what do we do?” Mary asked. “Are we in danger?”

“I’m sure we’re fine,” said Father Pitt. “We just need to stay calm.”

Kelly began flapping her arms. “Calm? Calm? How the heck can we stay calm with Jack the Raper around?”

Bradley was getting annoyed at the girl’s wild assertions of a serial killer being amongst them. Life was a pretty shitty place, for sure, but he wasn’t about to believe that this ‘Jack the Rapist’ was currently standing in the same church that he was. “Stop making assumptions,” he said. “We don’t know what happened to that man in the toilet.”

“We know he was murdered,” said Wallace. “And with the snow the way it is outside, we know that it was one of us that did it. No one else could have gotten in.”

“We know no such thing,” said Father Pitt. “Anything could have happened.”

Bradley had heard enough. He just wanted to sit down and wait for things to blow over. He went over to one of the pews and sat down. As soon as he did, the church’s lighting went out.

***

Kelly shook her head. This was bad. Snowed-in inside a church with Jack the Raper, and the lights had just gone out.

“Everybody hold on a minute and I’ll get some candles,” said Father Pitt. “It’s not a problem.”

Everyone mumbled anxiously in the dark and all Kelly could see was the soft, flickering shadows of their movement.

“This is so screwed up,” said a voice. Kelly thought it was the man in the cardigan, sitting on one of the pews.

Maybe he’s the killer. He is a bit of an oddball.

Jeez, I can’t wait to get out of here. I’m freezing my tits off and I don’t want to get raped and butchered.

Now that the quiet buzz of electricity had halted, the whistle and howl of the wind outside was the only sound.

When Father Pitt returned with an arm full of candles, which they lit one by one, they all found another body.

It was the cardigan man.

***

“We were just talking to the guy,” Kelly shouted. “Like two minutes ago. What happened?”

Dr Wallace leant over the man’s body, pulling up his ripped and bloody cardigan that was no longer green but red. Then he opened the dead man’s mouth. He pulled out another playing card and held it to the group. “It’s another Jack of Hearts.”

“I want to get out of here. Somebody get me out of here.” It was Mary. Apparently two dead bodies in one night was too much for her. She began fluttering about, shoving people at random and begging for their help. Her panic was infecting the other half-dozen people in the group. They were all starting to lose it.

“Should we slap her or something?” Kelly asked.

“No,” said the Doctor, who quickly grabbed the woman in a calm embrace. “Calm down, dear. We’re all here with you. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Yeah, right, thought Kelly. Two down already.

“This is the Devil’s work,” said Father Pitt. “Someone capable of such deeds has no place in my church.”

“We need to find out who it is,” said Kelly. “We need to check for…I don’t know; clues or something.”

“The playing cards,” said a nearby woman. “We should check everyone to see if they have any of those cards on them.”

“Good idea,” said Wallace, “But without resorting to a strip search, it would be very easy to hide such a thing.”

“No one is looking in my knickers,” said Kelly.

“Maybe that’s because you have something to hide,” said Mary, suddenly back in control of herself.

“Yeah, right,” said Kelly. “Little old me has been travelling around England raping and killing people. Are you on drugs, you daft cow?”

“How dare you call me that.”

“Ladies, ladies,” said the Doctor. “We can’t assume anything right now.”

“It’s probably you,” said Kelly. “There are lots of killers that worked in the medical profession. It’s even thought that Jack the Ripper was a surgeon. Then there’s Harold Shipman, the Angel of Death killings, and Marcel Petiot in France.”

“It’s you,” said Mary again, pointing her finger at Kelly. “You’re a freak. Who knows all that stuff you’re talking about?”

“It’s just an interest,” said Kelly. “It doesn’t make me a freak. I just like to read. You should try it sometime, you dumb bitch.”

Mary lunged through the candle-lit shadows and went for Kelly’s throat. Kelly jumped aside, up the steps that housed the church’s altar and lectern. Her foot struck something and she went hurtling to the floor.

“What the fuck is that?” she cried out as she fumbled about on her hands and knees. When she felt the soft, slick flesh of another dead body, she screamed.

***

It was crazy, but Mary was certain that the little blonde bitch had something to do with what was happening. She kept going on about serial killers, like they were some sort of heroes or something. The girl was small, sure, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stab someone to death.

And maybe she has an accomplice. Maybe I’m surrounded by bloody killers.

“That’s three people dead,” said Wallace.

“We’re dropping like flies,” said Kelly.

“God help us,” said Father Pitt. Let me head into the vestry and try to get a call through to 999. The police need to get here right away.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Mary. “I don’t want to stay out here.”

“Fair enough,” said Father Pitt. “Come along then.”

The two of them disappeared into the shadows, their candles bobbing along through the darkness. A shiver rushed along Mary’s spine as she realised she was now more alone than she had been. There was still a handful of people gathered in the church, but how could she trust any of them?

She gathered a candle in each of her hands and then went and followed Father Pitt. Inside her little cocoon of flickering light, she felt as if she might just make it. She just wished it was not so cold. It was as if the snow was never going stop falling and they would be trapped there forever.

***

Father Pitt had been gone for several minutes and Wallace was getting anxious. As a Doctor he was expected to be one of society’s wardens, in the same way as a teacher or police officer. It would not do for him to show his fear at the situation. People would be looking to him as some sort of authority. The priest, too – which was making him wonder where Father Pitt had gotten to.

“Is everybody okay?” he asked the group. “I’m just going to find out what Father Pitt is doing.”

No one said anything so Wallace felt it safe to sneak away for a few moments. He headed down towards the altar and then turned right into a small side door. Through it was a small antechamber that had been turned into an office of some kind. Lying on the floor, dead, was the older woman, Mary. A few feet away from her body an old swivel chair lay. Slumped over it, and also dead, was Father Pitt.

Wallace raced back out into the church. “They’re dead,” he shouted. “The priest and the woman are both dead. We need to get out of here right now.”

It was finally too much and the group lost it completely. Everyone began swarming around, heading for the nearest windows and doors. Wallace headed back to the church’s front entrance and pulled open the door again. Just like before, the snow piled in and covered the carpet; only this time it was higher than the doorway. He was faced with a sheer face of packed snow. Against all rationality, he lunged forwards anyway. He shoved both arms into the snow and succeeded only in getting his hands and wrists through before it compacted and became utterly solid. It would take a tonne of pressure to clear the doorway.

They were trapped.

And to make matters worse, someone back inside the church was screaming loudly. And then the scream suddenly stopped.

***

Kelly was about to shit a brick. Another person was dead; gutted just like the others. Even with a group of people huddled together, someone was managing to pick them off one by one. If only it wasn’t for the dark.

The latest dead person was an older gentleman who had kept to himself since entering the church. His wife had found him propped up against a large wooden cross at the side of the church. A playing card hung from his lips: a Jack of Hearts.

Now there was only a handful of the group left and Kelly wasn’t about to trust any of them. The main suspect in her eyes was the Doctor, but it could have been anyone. She had to keep her distance.

The wife of the dead man had now joined forces with a teenage boy in trying to smash through one of the stained glass windows. It held strong, braced by the snow against its other side.

The Doctor was sitting by the front door, slumped on the floor. It seemed like he had finally lost it, too, but it could have been an act. Then there was a middle-aged man and another woman who was likely his wife. That was all that was left of the group of strangers.

To think we all came here for safety. What’s the worst that could happen in a church?

Kelly wanted to be alone until she knew it was safe. There were bodies everywhere, which is why she decided that the church’s small side office would be as good as anywhere. At least it had a door she could close. She quickly headed there before the killer attacked anybody else.

Inside the office, the smell of blood and guts was strong, but she would have to bare it. She turned around and started to close the door. The pain she felt when the knife went into her guts was excruciating.

***

Wallace sat on the floor and shook his head. He stared into the flickering flame of his candle and asked himself over and over if he was dreaming. Half a dozen people murdered in less than an hour, and there was no escape. No way to find help.

As he sat there, Wallace’s mind began turning to maudlin thoughts; regrets of not having a family and instead choosing to be a slave to his work. What did any of it matter really? Curing people was a worthwhile pursuit for one’s lifetime, but it was a selfless task that brought a man no true happiness – not in the way a family did. Wallace had only come here tonight because he had nowhere else.

Why am I thinking things like that? I still have decades left. I am not going to die in this godforsaken church.

Wallace hopped up from the floor and headed out of the church’s exit corridor. The church’s interior was quiet. There was only a few people still alive inside, but right now they were making no noise and he could not see their candle-light.

“Hello!” Wallace spoke out, not knowing what else to say. “Where is everybody?”

“They are all dead,” said a voice from the front of the church.”

Wallace gulped and tried to force down an air bubble trapped in his throat. He knew who was speaking to him. Could hardly believe it, but he knew. “Jack the Raper?”

“That is what they call me. The unwashed, sinners. They read their papers, enjoy their trash, and scurry about their rancid little lives with utter disdain for the gifts they were given.”

Wallace took slow steps forward. “By God?”

“Of course,” the voice almost spat the words. “Who else? All of you came here tonight for selfish reasons. You seek his comfort when it suits you, but when do you give back anything of yourselves.”

Wallace stepped up before the altar and was surprised by who he saw. He shook his head. “But, you were dead.”

“Did you check my body?” Father Pitt asked. “Perhaps you should have. Now everybody is dead. And you will follow. The Lord has rained down an icy death upon us all, but you are not worthy to die by his majestic hand. I will do his bidding until my time is nigh. I will slice out your life like I have so many before. I will violate your sinful orifices and revel as your soul descends to Hell.”

“You’re a fruitcake.”

“No,” said Father Pitt, leaping forward like a man half his age. He drove a long thin blade into Wallace’s guts and looked him right in the eyes, smiling. “I am God’s will. And soon I will join him in the Kingdom of Heaven. Goodbye Doctor. Give my regard to the serpent king.”

Dr Wallace hit the floor, dead. The final victim of the man they called Jack the Raper.

WINTER BEFORE LAST

The drive had been a long one. Bristol was a long way from Stoke and the Boxing Day journey had been slow and cautious, the roads slippery with ice and slushed snow. Harry hated winter, hated the cold. In the summer, people came together – BBQs, festivals, zoos, and theme parks – but in the winter people stayed away from each other, wrapped up warm and ignored the outside world. Winter was the season of isolation and loneliness. Yet, out of all the dreary winters of Harry’s life, this one had been the best. Sure it was damp, icy, and grey; sure he had spent the last week with his wife’s condescending parents; and sure he was itching to get back to work, but this winter was great for one reason: Toby.

Of course he had spent several Christmases with his son already, but those had been interspersed with work and commitments. This year his furniture business was successful enough that he had been able to leave the running of it to his cousin and take a massive ten days off to spend with Toby and his wife, Julie. It had been total bliss to watch his son open his presents on Christmas morning, ripping open the packaging on his new bike and then moving on to the wrapped-up Nintendo DS beneath Julie’s parent’s tree. He’d never seen his son so happy, and he had never been so happy himself. What Julie had gone on to tell him that night had only made the day even more special.

He still couldn’t believe she was pregnant.

“You paying attention?” asked Julie, sitting on the passenger seat beside him.

Harry turned to her and smiled. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just so happy. Life is pretty good, huh?”

Julie smirked and shook her head at him. “I think you had a better Christmas than little man.”

Harry glanced back at his sleeping son on the back seat and agreed. In fact, he may have had a better Christmas than anyone.

“Anyway,” said Julie, “you should have come off at junction 16. You just missed it.”

Harry shook his head, annoyed with himself. “Bugger it. Okay, I’ll come off at the next one.”

Julie mumbled something under her breath and Harry just about heard her.

“Did you just call me a fish head?”

Julie shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Harry huffed. “Oh, really? Well it sounded like you called me a fish head.”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s rich, coming from a dog head.”

Julie hit Harry in the arm, causing him to swerve slightly. “Cheeky sod.”

“Whoa! Watch it, woman, you’ll have me in a ditch.”

Julie laughed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to endanger your perfect driving record.”

“Always pays to be safe. Baby on-board.”

Julie looked back at her son and smiled. She was so beautiful as a mother. There was something about her now, that Harry loved, which had not been there before Toby’s birth. It was something unexplainable to anyone without a child of their own.

Harry was just about to say, I love you, when something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The sight was followed by a lot of chaotic noise.

“Shit!” Harry saw the vehicle on the opposite side of the motorway swerve. It careened across several lanes and came crashing up against the central reservation several yards ahead. His stomach fluttered and he thanked God for the near-escape, but then the speeding vehicle cartwheeled into the air, flipping the balustrade upon impact and hurtling, end over end, down the other side of the motorway; the lane that Harry was occupying. Harry would have liked more time to react, but before he even thought to swerve out of the vehicle’s path, his entire being seemed to shudder as his consciousness was battered from his body.

***

Harry opened his eyes and then closed them again. A light had burned his eyes and he had to flutter his eyelids until the dull aching went away. He found himself staring at a blank white ceiling with a small, tinted window looking out at star-filled sky. It was a vehicle; the back of a van perhaps. When a paramedic appeared in his field of view, Harry realised he was lay in the back of an ambulance.

The woman’s name badge read: Penelope. “Hey there,” she said. “Everything is okay. You’ve just been in an accident.”

Harry shot up on the stretcher. “My son…my wife?”

The paramedic tried to ease him back down but he resisted. “There are people trying to help them right now.”

“Help them? What do you mean?”

The woman looked him in the eye for a moment but could not hold the gaze. Something seemed to trouble her. Harry didn’t feel like getting information about his family second hand from someone else. He pushed the woman aside forcefully and stumbled off of the bed. His legs felt like jelly as he hit the tarmac outside the ambulance. His breathing was painful too, but none of that mattered. He needed to find his family.

There were flashing lights all around him and fluorescent white jackets flitting to and fro. The motorway had been closed off, probably by sideways police cars at the entrance to each junction. Harry staggered forward. There was a huge fire truck up ahead and it blocked his view any further down the road. People seemed to be congregating in that area and he headed towards them, as fast as his confused feet would take him.

“Excuse me, sir?” A police officer walked up to Harry with a palm raised. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Harry swiped at the hand in his face and snarled. “Where is my family?”

The officer stepped towards Harry, but backed off when he saw that there was no chance of his authority holding any weight. The man tried a different tact. “They’re being rescued now.”

“Rescued from what?”

The police officer sighed. “My name is Officer Tonks. Why don’t you come and sit down with me and we’ll have a chat about what is going on.”

Harry looked at the man and saw genuine compassion, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry didn’t want a conversation with anyone but his wife. He turned away from the officer and hurried towards the fire truck. The man did not give chase.

Once Harry reached the bright red vehicle, he saw the wreckage beyond. His brand new Mercedes was a ball of twisted steel and a mangled truck seemed to be entwined with it. Before he knew it, Harry was vomiting all over the floor. Maybe he had a concussion, but he was pretty sure it was purely because of what he was seeing.

Despite his injuries, Harry ran forward, dodging past anybody that tried to stand in his way. Over at the pile of compacted vehicles, two firemen worked at the steel with heavy cutters. When they saw Harry coming at them, wild-eyed, they stepped aside with concern.

It was then that Harry saw what was left of his family. He could make out Julie’s crushed face, squashed beneath the Mercedes window strut. One of her eyes seemed to bulge from her socket. Harry fell to his knees and tried to reach out to her, but he could not. As he tried to crawl his way into the car, he saw the mess that had been his son. Toby’s body no longer resembled human form. If it were not for bloody scraps of clothing and puckered flesh and protruding bones, Harry would not have even known it was his son.

Harry screamed out, loud enough to reach the moon. Someone pulled him back by the armpits and he kicked out and struggled. The person turned out to be Tonks and the officer was no longer willing to stand by. He controlled Harry’s body with a well-trained grasp of how joints and pressure points worked. Harry was forced by his twisted elbow to walk away from the scene.

“Why?” Harry cried out. “Why are they dead and not me. Why am I fine?”

“I’d say because you’re lucky,” said Tonks, “but I think you’d probably hit me. You were thrown free from the car upon impact. So was the driver of the other car. Your family…well they didn’t have the luck that you did. I’m sorry, Harry, I really am.”

Harry felt weak and struggled to keep his legs from folding like accordions. “How do you know my name?”

“Paramedics found your driver’s license in your wallet. Would you like me to contact anyone?”

Harry shook his head. “…No. I-I will do it later. I want to see my family. I want them out of there.”

Tonks nodded. “I know you do. They’re working on it. Let’s just get you to the hospital for now. There’s no way to deal with something as terrible as this, so don’t try.”

Any fight Harry might ever have possessed was gone from him now. He allowed the officer to take him by the arm towards the ambulance and he would also let them take him to the hospital too. There was no reason to resist now, no reason to fight…no reason to care. Harry’s life was without purpose and always would be from now on.

As he neared the ambulance, Harry noticed something up ahead. There were two other police officers standing with a weary-looking man. They were breathalysing him. Harry’s own breath caught in his chest and the only way he could let it out again was by talking. “Is that the other driver?”

Tonks seemed to stiffen then and started leading Harry at a slightly different angle, putting distance between them and the other officers. “Yes,” he said. “He says he doesn’t know what happened. He’ll be taken in for questioning once the paramedics clear him.”

“Why are they breathalysing him?”

“Standard procedure,” said Tonks without missing a beat.

Harry nodded and let the officer think he was satisfied with the answer. Really, he was taking one last, long look at the man that had just murdered his family, and committing his face to memory. Harry realised that, in actual fact, his life still did have a purpose: to take the life of the man that took his.

Enjoy what’s left of your life, whoever you are, thought Harry, because I promise that this will be your Final Winter.

BOOK 4 OF 5

THE HOUSEMATES

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

– Edmund Burke.

“Competition is a sin.”

– John D. Rockefeller

“Game Over.”

– Jigsaw, Saw (2004)

DAY 1

The ferry glided ashore.  A bus waited on the hill.  Rain came down in silver sheets against the velvet darkness of the endless night.

Damien didn’t like wearing the hood over his head and had managed to peek out from beneath it several times in the last hour.  It was uncomfortable being in the dark, unable to see, unable to even hear properly.

Damien’s hosts had told him that the hood was necessary – that the location of the island must be kept secret.  The only information they had divulged willingly was that his destination was somewhere off the northern coast of Scotland.  The atmosphere’s cold, penetrating bite made it easy to believe that Damien had been taken north.  He rubbed at his shoulders.

Freezing my bloody knob off here.

Not wanting to push his luck, Damien pulled the hood back down over his face and listened intently.  It sounded like the captain of the small passenger ferry was about to give orders.

“Okay, everybody!  I’m afraid you will have to leave your hoods on for just a little while longer.  The house is just over a mile inland.  A bus will take you there now, and then you can finally take the hoods off and settle in.”

There were sighs of relief from all around.  Damien wasn’t sure how many other people were on the ferry with him, but he estimated at least ten – definitely enough bodies to constitute a crowd.  They were all wearing hoods the same as his.

So I have about a dozen competitors.  That puts my odds of winning pretty low.

Near the ferry’s bow, a man had begun ushering everybody ashore, barking orders in a clipped tone like machine gun fire.  Damien stumbled past the gruff gentleman and was hustled along onto what felt beneath his feet like a wooden jetty.  The freezing rain made him shudder as he left the shelter of the boat.

Remind me never to come to Scotland again if this is what it’s like.

Damien started up an incline, towards where he imagined the bus was parked.  An engine idled nearby and the acrid odour of spent petrol mingled with the scent of wet soil.  An owl hooted.

When Damien finally stepped onto the waiting bus, he greeted the heavenly warmth with glee.  It must have been several hours since his journey had begun and he was starting to feel the weariness in his bones.

Damien’s hosts had collected him from a train station in Sheffield, where he had then been driven even further north for almost three hours.  That was when he had been told to put the hood on.  He was ushered onto a waiting coach with several other people and then continued on yet another leg of the journey, which had ended with the trip on the ferry from which he had just departed.

The hood prevented Damien from seeing who his companions were on the bus, but he heard some of them chatting blindly up ahead as he navigated the aisle.

Time became a blur.  Weariness and boredom had led to a dazed passing of seconds and minutes and hours until Damien felt nothing but the desire to sleep.  He was glad to hear he was now only a mile away from his final destination.

Thought I’d never bloody get there.

He groped his way along the aisle of the stationary bus and found himself a seat on the left.  He sat down and relaxed back into the soft cushion.

Oh, yeah.  That feels better.  My arse is killing me.

Just another twenty minutes and this wretched trip will be over.

Nerves began to tickle at Damien’s psyche as he sat there and waited for the bus to get moving.  The bizarre nature of the situation began to sink in.  Home seemed far away; he already missed his friends, his work, his old life.  It was a situation he never would have got himself into usually, but…

When needs must…

The Devil drives.

Damien felt someone dump down on the seat behind him.  The bus grumbled into gear and started moving.  The rain continued falling heavy, thudding against the window panels on both sides.

Damien closed his eyes beneath his hood and allowed himself to rest.  He was worried that rest would be hard to come by during the days ahead.

The bus sped up, jerking and hopping as it traversed uneven terrain.  A couple of times it felt as though the vehicle had gone off road completely.  There were no sounds coming from outside, no noise from other traffic, no grinding steel of industrial buildings.  Wherever the bus was heading, it was seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

The stranger who had sat on the seat behind Damien leant forward and whispered.  “Pretty exciting, huh?”

With the hood still over his head, Damien was unsure if the woman’s question had been directed at him.  After a few seconds he decided that it was and gave a reply.  “I don’t know if ‘exciting’ is the word I would use.”

“Really, then how would you describe it?”

“Overdone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this is all a bit dramatic.  We’ve been whisked away in the dead of night under the cover of darkness to a destination we know nothing about.  Is it really necessary?”

“It’s just part of the experience.  Putting on a good show.”

“It’s stupid.”  Damien sighed.  He pulled the hood off his head and blinked his eyes.  He’d had enough of being in the dark.  It was ridiculous.  He understood the need for privacy, to a certain extent, but he was done feeling like a prisoner of war.

“Sir, please put your hood back on!”

Damien glanced down the aisle to see that the bus driver was twisting around.  The man was skeletal with cheekbones that leapt out at right-angles.  Beside him stood a colleague, a burly man in a set of black overalls and work boots.

“Sir,” said the burly man beside the driver.  His dark eyes had narrowed and were targeted at Damien like rifle sights.  “Put your hood back on or you will be disqualified.  You must obey the rules at all times.  That is what you agreed when you signed up for the show.”

Damien took a second to gaze out of the rain-soaked window.  A flash of lightning lit up the sky and the landscape came briefly into view.  The entire area was marked by grassy hills and craggy outcroppings; not a great deal else.

“Sir, I am going to give you three seconds…”

Damien rolled his eyes, grunted.  “Fine!  But this is getting stupid.”  He tugged the hood back over his head and cursed beneath it.

Why the hell did I agree to this?  I feel like a right dickhead.

The bus continued its journey for another five minutes before slowing down and stopping.  The passengers sat in silence while they waited to be addressed.

“Can everybody please shuffle to the front of the bus,” said a voice that Damien recognised as belonging to the burly man in the black overalls.

Damien got to his feet and felt his way down the aisle.  He bumped into someone in front of him and had to wait for them to get moving.  Once they did, he followed after them.

At the front of the bus, someone placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder and manoeuvred him down the steps.  His feet planted down on wet, crunching gravel.  Someone shoved him from behind and sent him stumbling forward.  It wasn’t long before he was standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest of his unknown companions as they were corralled into a group.

“Okay, everybody.  You can now take off your hoods.”

Damien ripped his off and let it fall to the floor.  He couldn’t help himself from stomping it into the mud.  Everybody else in the crowd seemed equally relieved and there was a collective sigh among them.

The man in the black overalls stood in front of the assembled crowd.  Several other men had joined him, all wearing jeans and dark jumpers.  The jumpers featured the logo of a great staring eye on the left shoulder.  It looked like the type of symbol the Masons would use.

Several yards ahead lay a vast complex that resembled a factory unit in many ways.  Barbed wire lined the edges of a ten-foot steel fence that ran around the sides and back of the complex.  Giant floodlights lit up the entire area.  It reminded Damien of a concentration camp.

“Now,” said the man in black overalls.  “You are about to enter our specially designed facility.  Some of you will spend up to ten days inside.  Some of you not so long.  In order to remain inside you must obey all rules at all times.  Failure to follow rules will result in expulsion from the house.  Failure to follow commands will result in expulsion from the house.  Failure to participate in tasks will result in expulsion from the house.  Cameras will be watching your every move.  Do all of you understand?”

The crowd mumbled affirmably.

The man continued.  “Each day inside the house will include a group task followed by a vote to eliminate one member of the household.  The winner or winners of the group task will be immune from receiving votes for twenty four hours.  Each evening will feature an elimination task between the two members of the group who received the most votes.  The loser of the elimination task will be expelled from the house.  Is that clear?”

The crowd mumbled agreement once more.

“After all contestants bar two are eliminated, the prize money will have been won.  Two million pounds split between the final two housemates.  Those housemates will then have a choice – they can leave with a million pounds each, or wage it against one another in a final elimination task.  The winner of the task will then leave the house with two million pounds in cash, while the loser will receive nothing.”

The group got excited and began looking around at one another as if to weigh up their competition.

They look like a bunch of rabid hyenas, Damien thought.

The man in the black overalls clapped his hands together, regaining everybody’s attention.  “Okay, my friends.  Welcome to the house and let the games begin.”

2

Damien kept to the back of the group as a pair of stiff-looking men led them through the facility.  The line of soon-to-be housemates filed down a claustrophobic hallway before entering a steel-framed doorway on their right.  It was like a prison door, thick and heavy.

Inside was a room lined on all sides with wooden benches and aluminium lockers.  It looked like something you’d find at a sports stadium.  Damien noticed that each berth had a name written across it in crude marker pen.

Marker pen?  Not very professional.

Damien located the locker with DAMIEN BANKS written across it and took a seat in front of it.  The other men and women in the room seemed to take his lead and all searched for their own lockers before sitting down too.  The man in the black overalls strode into the centre of the room and seemed to smile at their initiative.  Damien was getting a little irritated that the man was yet to introduce himself.  Manners were important.

Without manners we’re just a few steps above a monkey.

The man in the black overalls continued.  “Inside your lockers you will find several items.  Among those items is a pair of bracelets and a collar.  You must clasp these items onto your person and ensure that they are locked tight and secured.  Wearing these items is mandatory and will be required for certain tasks inside the house.”

Damien stood and turned around.  He opened up his locker and located the bracelets and neck ring inside.  They were made of a thin, shiny metal that felt very solid despite its low profile.  LEDs blinked from various places, which gave them the appearance of something out of a Star Trek movie.

It felt totally wrong to shackle himself but Damien placed the collar around his neck and clipped the ends together.  They clacked and held tight.

They best know how to get this thing off again.  I’m not really a collar and cuffs kind of guy.

Next, Damien secured both of the bracelets around his wrists.  They were exactly like the neck ring, only smaller.  They nipped at his skin until he twisted them around into a more comfortable position.  Something on the inside felt sharp.

“Once you have the items attached to your person.  Please place all of your personal belongings inside the locker.  This includes all jewellery, watches, mobile telephones, and any other communication devices.  Future possession of contraband will result in expulsion from the house.  Your luggage has been brought to the facility and examined.  All authorised items will be brought inside the habitat area of the facility, where you will be entering shortly.”

Damien took the sovereign off his finger and the thick chain from around his neck.  He placed them inside the locker.  His friend back home, Harry, was always on at him to lose the bling, and this was probably the first time he had actually done so.  He felt somehow naked without the jewellery.

“Okay.  Through that door is the entrance to the house.  Inside the house you will find a living area with a large sofa.  You are to wait there until further instructions.”

Damien looked over at a door set between the rows of lockers.  It was made of steel and seemed very secure.

The group reformed their line and one of the security guards ushered them through the open door into the next room.

A woman in front of Damien glanced back at him.  She had bright orange hair and was smiling.  “Not sure I like the collar and cuffs.  A bit much don’t you think?”

Damien smiled grimly back at her.  He recognised her voice as being the one who had spoken to him on the bus.  She’d obviously changed her tune since then and was also getting sick of the theatrics.  “You don’t have to tell me,” Damien said.  “This whole thing is a bit much.  Can’t believe I’m even doing this.”

She frowned at him with walnut eyes.  “Why did you sign up, then?”

“Why you think?  The money.”

She laughed.  It was a feminine sound.  “Guess that’s why we’re all here.  That or being famous?”

Damien rolled his eyes.  He couldn’t think of anything worse than being a ‘celebrity’.  “You think people are even going to watch the show?” he asked, having not actually paid it much thought.  “I mean, isn’t this kind of thing a bit old-hat now?”

“People love reality television.”

“I suppose they must.”

The queue entered an empty reception room and came to a halt.  Two more employees with eye-logo sweatshirts were standing inside; both were large and imposing like granite statues.

There was another door in front of the group and they were asked to enter through it, so they carried on forwards until they found themselves inside a vast living room.  It was actually quite homely compared to the industrial feeling of the rest of the complex.  A giant green sofa occupied the centre of the room in a horseshoe shape and looked big enough to seat everybody comfortably.  An open-sided kitchen area lay behind it with several brand-new, sparkling appliances.  Obviously no expense had been spared in setting up the ‘habitat’.

A long glass window with a sliding patio door ran the length of the far wall.  There must have been a garden outside, but it was too dark and too rainy to see at the moment.

Each corner of the room had a blinking camera set ten feet above the ground.

The door the group had entered through suddenly slammed shut.

Damien turned on his heels.  The man in black overalls and his burly colleagues were all gone.  The only thing that remained in their place was a heavy metal door.

The housemates were locked in.

The competition had begun.

Am I really doing this?  Do I even have a chance of winning?

Christ, I really need that money.

The woman with the bright orange hair came up to Damien and gave him another one of her beaming smiles.  “I’m Jules.  Good to meet you….?”

Damien shook her hand and nodded.  “Damien.”

“Damien?  Like that evil little boy in the movies?”

Damien rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, if you like.”

“So, Damien, what should we do?”

He shrugged.  “They said to wait here.  Maybe we should all just take a seat.  I’m dead on my feet anyway.”

Jules nodded and rubbed at her eyes, smudging her eyeliner a little.  “Me too.  I thought we were never going to get here.  Now that we have, though, I’m so excited.”

“You don’t even know what to expect.”

“That’s why I’m excited.  Don’t you just love the unknown?”

“No, you can’t prepare for the unknown.”

“Sometimes it’s nice not to be in control.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Everybody in the room began to mingle.  Damien did a quick head count.  He found that there were six women and five other men.  Twelve people in total, including him.

Eleven people between me and millions of pounds.

He took a seat on the long sofa with Jules and they continued their conversation.  A guy with slicked-back blonde hair and a finely-tailored suit took it upon himself to come join them.

“Hey,” he said.  “My name is Alex.  I work in banking.  How about you two?”

“I’m a carpenter,” Damien replied, wondering what a banker was doing there.  It couldn’t be for the money with all that they earned.

“I’m unemployed,” said Jules.  “I used to run a salon with my sister but she killed herself and…well, things kind of just fell apart after that.  This competition is my chance to get back on my feet, you know?  Even if I don’t win, I might get a gig on television or something like that.  I just want to move on, and this seemed like a good way.”

“A bit drastic, maybe,” said Damien.  “But I guess that makes sense.”

“So, what will you do with the money if you win?” Alex asked him, running a hand through his greased blonde hair.  “I want to set up a real estate business in Dubai, but I need more capital.  I have half-a-mil already, but winning this thing will really make sure that my business is a success.”

Damien didn’t reply.  The pursuit of fortune wasn’t something that interested him very much.  If you spent your whole life trying to get rich, you only ended up wasting life in the process.  Life was for living, not accumulating wealth that you could never hope to spend.

Seeing as how I am currently prostituting myself to win a million, I guess that makes me a hypocrite.  My reasons for needing the money are less selfish.

Damien realised that both Jules and Alex were staring at him, waiting for a response.

“Well?” Jules said.  “What do you want to do with the money, Damien?”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, examining the other housemates that were mingling with one another like dogs at a park.  “My reason for wanting the money is personal….private.  All I’ll say is that I need it.”

“Amen to that,” said Alex.  “Two million quid can fulfil a lot of needs.”

“It’s only one million,” said Jules.  “Unless you’re willing to bet it all at the end against whoever is left.”

“Got to go for the kill,” said Alex, clicking his fingers on each hand sharply like a pair of firing guns.  “No point getting to the end of this thing only to split the winnings.”

Jules wiggled her eyebrows at him playfully.  “So, you’ll definitely go head to head if you get to the end?”

“Absolutely.”

Jules turned her focus back to Damien.  “How about you?  Will you bet one million to turn it into two?”

Damien shrugged his shoulders.  “I only need one.  I’m happy to share.”

Jules seemed to think about things for a moment, chewed on her bottom lip.  “I’m happy to share, too,” she eventually said.  “One million is more than enough.  Lots more than I have now.  Besides, if I get to the end of the show, I’m sure I’ll make more money from TV deals and stuff.”

“I hadn’t even thought about that,” said Alex, clicking his fingers again.  “I could be set up for life.  I could buy a hundred properties in Dubai.”  He smiled greedily.

Damien wondered how the banker would react if he got eliminated from the competition early on.  It seemed as if the peroxide-headed man had no contemplation of not winning.  It was a foregone conclusion in his mind.

Good luck to him.  Nothing wrong with having confidence...

Whether it’s warranted or not.

There was a static hiss followed by an ear-piercing whine.  A booming voice filled the living area and seemed to be coming from a hidden speaker so loud that it would have held itself proud at a German rave.

“WELCOME HOUSEMATES.  I AM THE LANDLORD.  YOU WILL OBEY ME AT ALL TIMES.  FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN PAIN.  TRYING TO ESCAPE WILL RESULT IN PAIN.  MISBEHAVIOUR OF ANY KIND WILL RESULT IN PAIN.”

The housemates looked at one another with confusion.  As much as they understood that they were taking part in a game, the voice from the speakers was unnervingly authoritative, and the words were unsettling to say the least.

“What do you think he means by ‘pain’?” Jules asked.

Damien shook his head and frowned.  “I don’t know.”

“IN A FEW MOMENTS YOU WILL BE PRESENTED WITH A VIEWING SCREEN.  YOU WILL PAY ATTENTION TO THIS SCREEN AT ALL TIMES.  IF AN INSTRUCTION APPEARS ON THE SCREEN, YOU WILL FOLLOW IT.”

One of the walls, the one opposite the long glass window and patio door, began to open up.  A pair of secret panels slid apart to reveal an alcove within.  The alcove held a television screen that must have been at least sixty-inches wide.

“THE VIEWING SCREEN HAS A 4K RESOLUTION.  IT IS CUTTING EDGE TECHNOLOGY.  EVERYTHING INSIDE THIS HOUSE IS CUTTING EDGE TECHNOLOGY.  YOU ARE FREE TO ENJOY ALL FACILITIES WHEN NOT UNDERTAKING A TASK OR INSTRUCTION.  USE THE NEXT TWELVE HOURS TO REST AND RECUPERATE.  YOU WILL NEED YOUR ENERGY.  WE WILL BEGIN TOMORROW.”

The speaker whined and crackled, and then went silent.  The television screen illuminated brightly and then went dark.  It remained blank except for a single word displayed boldly across its centre: RELAX.

3

Damien made an effort to get to know the other housemates during the last hour or so.  He wasn’t the most sociable person, but he would fare much better over the following days if he tried to integrate himself as much as possible.  Just as he had dreaded, however, the other housemates were a predicable mixture of wannabe celebrities and those who just wanted to get rich quick.  They were vain and inwardly focused – possibly even sociopathic in some cases.  Damien understood their personalities.  They were a product of society, a society obsessed with surface rather than depth.  He had once lived a similar existence himself.  If it were not for his friend, Harry, he would have been no different to the other housemates, chasing money, sex, and worthless adoration from strangers.

Among the colourful group was a chain-smoking exotic dancer, covered in tattoos, named Jade; a retired school teacher, with a shock of white hair, called Patrick; and a stubble-faced mechanic called Richard.  The man was pretty uncouth and seemed to swear almost every other word.  There were also many other personalities inside the house, but Damien had yet to memorise their names or scope them out thoroughly.

“What say we check this place out?” suggested the exotic dancer, Jade, a cigarette clutched between two talon-like fingernails.  When she spoke, she spoke loud, as if she thought merely doing so would be enough to make her important.  In this instance everybody seemed to be happy to follow her lead.  Damien was also interested in exploring the place that would be his home for the next ten days, so he stood up and followed after Jade.  She was heading for a door near the kitchen.  The word PANTRY was written across it.  Jade grabbed a hold of the handle and gave it a hefty yank.

Her face lit up when she saw what was behind the door.

“Oh hell yes!  We’re in for some shits and giggles tonight, peeps.”

Damien wasn’t as impressed by what he saw.  In fact it made him groan.  The pantry was stacked full of beer and wine and cigarettes.   There were also snacks and soft drinks, but it was clear that the show producers wanted alcohol to play a large part of the group’s activities inside the house.  Damien had expected it would be the case, having seen similar reality shows, but having it confirmed kind of sucked.  Damien didn’t drink.

He glanced up at the nearest camera.

Now we’re all but guaranteed to have fireworks and they’re just waiting to film it.

Everybody whooped at the sight of so much party fuel and started handing it out.

Over in the kitchen, the blond guy, Alex, was rooting through cupboards and opening up drawers.  “There’s a shitload of food here,” he suddenly yelled out, clicking his fingers to an imaginary rhythm that must have been playing in his head.  “And we have steaks and some big fat sausages in the freezer.”

“Splendid,” said Patrick, licking his lips.  “I love a bit of fresh meat.”

“There’s a toilet over here,” someone shouted.  “No bathroom, though.  Weird.”

Jade took a bottle of red wine out of the fridge and palmed off the screw top.  She sauntered into the living area and took a swig directly from the bottle.  Damien winced.

Classy bird.

“So,” Jade said, taking another swig and wiping away the wine that found its way onto her bony chin.  “Let’s see what’s through door number two.”

She approached another door that was at the far corner of the living area.  It, too, had a label affixed across its top, but it was too far away for Damien to read.  He took a few steps closer until he could see what it said.

ELIMINATION CHAMBER.

“Must be where we do the tasks,” Jade guessed.  “I can’t wait.”

“That just leaves the bedrooms,” said the stubble-faced mechanic, Richard.  “So where the fuck are they?”

Damien looked around.  There were no more doors.

“They have to be somewhere,” said Jade.  “Everybody take a look around.”

The housemates dispersed, searching for a door that they might have missed.  After several minutes of investigation, though, everybody came up short.

“There aren’t any more doors,” said Jules, tucking her bright orange hair behind her ears.  The makeup around her eyes was still smudged which made it look like she had been crying.

“There has to be,” said Alex.

“Then where?”

Alex marched up to the long garden windows and tried the patio door.  “Locked,” he said, rattling the handle.  He adjusted his tie and cricked his neck.  “They must be playing games with us.”

Jade let out a feline growl and folded her brightly coloured arms.  “Okay, very amusing.  Can someone please tell us where our beds are, please!”  She strode into the centre of the living area and stared up at the ceiling as if addressing some deity in the clouds.  “Excuse me….Mr Landlord, or whatever you’re called.  Can you tell us where we’re sleeping tonight, thank you very much?”

There was no reply.  The house’s concealed speakers remained silent.

“HEY, YOU RETARD.  STOP SCREWING AROUND AND TELL US WHERE OUR BEDS ARE!”  Jade threw the bottle of wine in her hand across the room, smashing it against the nearest wall and leaving a deep red stain that was not unlike blood.

Damien raised an eyebrow in surprise.  Wow!  She’s like a spoiled kid.

Richard was covering his mouth with his hand, disguising a laugh as he watched the commotion.  To him it was obviously some form of entertainment to watch another person lose it.

Jade glanced around in obvious frustration.  It was clear that she was going to blow some kind of mental fuse at any moment.  The girl was unstable, that much quickly became clear.

Damien stepped forward, put a hand up to calm her.  “They’re just messing with us, Jade.  This is all for television, right?  Well, looks like the games have begun already.  Don’t let them get to you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Alex agreed.  “If you go off like a firework you’re liable to get yourself thrown out.  And that means no prize money for you!”  He actually seemed quite pleased by the notion.

Jade was breathing heavily.  She glanced around for a few moments like a nervous chicken.  Eventually the rise and fall of her heaving chest started to shorten and a semblance of calm returned to her harsh, angular features.  It was like a switch had been flipped, sending her someplace else for a while, but now she was returning to reality.

“You’re right,” she said.  “You’re right.  They want me to blow my lid so they can get some juicy footage for the cameras.”  She looked over at one of the cameras and extended her middle finger.  “Well, you’re not going to get one over on me so easily.  Swivel on this.”

Damien shook his head and sighed.  Great, I’m stuck inside this house with a bloody loon.  I hope they allowed her to keep her medication

“Well,” Jules interjected.  “I say that we just forget about our sleeping arrangements for now and get our S-W-A-G on instead!  Let’s party.”

Damien rolled his eyes.  Great!  Someone just used the word ‘party’ as a verb.

I’m screwed.

Jade grinned, large and wide.  Her frustration seemed completely gone now.  She hurried back over to the pantry and grabbed two more bottles of wine, holding them aloft her head like trophies.  “Who’s got the glasses?”

Alex clicked his fingers like guns.  “Let me help you, sweetheart.”

4

Without his watch on, Damien had no idea what time it was.  He assumed it was early morning and that the sun would make an appearance any minute.  The rain still poured, but seemed to be letting up slightly.  Its earlier rat-a-tat-tat on the window pane had given way to a gentle pitter patter.

The other housemates had drunk their fair share of alcohol by now.  Damien had stuck to soft drinks and water, much to the chagrin of the others.  They had treated him like he was ill somehow – like sobriety was some new form of leprosy.  Tracey, a slender woman in a blouse and smart grey trousers had tried on several occasions throughout the night to get him to drink.  She had become quite pissy when he refused for the third or fourth time.

As he watched them, though, falling around and chatting utter nonsense to one another, he was glad for his abstinence.  People did not realise the power of alcohol and how much of their dignity it could soak through.  It was worse than drugs, in Damien’s opinion.

The stuff almost killed Harry once upon a time.

Still, if there was anything positive to dwell on at all, it was that at least the housemates had a decent sense of humour.  There had been many a joke or humorous quip made in the last several hours and even Damien had cracked a smile now and then.  It was only in the last thirty minutes or so that things had devolved into drunken nonsense.  People’s eyeballs had begun to roll around like loose marbles in their skulls and their speech had turned to incoherent slurry.  Damien was now acutely aware of being the only sober person in the room.  A rabbit among foxes.  He wanted very much now to find a bed and get some sleep.  The metal ring around his neck had started to feel heavy.  The ones around his wrists were starting to chafe.

“You’re not like the others,” said a woman with Mediterranean features and a slender, petite frame.  She had introduced herself to him earlier and said that her name was ‘Danni’.  She had streaky brown hair and wore a crisp white blouse above a short black skirt.  Her legs were long, sleek and tanned.  They had caught Damien’s lustful stare on more than one occasion throughout the night and he hoped his leching had not been caught by the cameras.  He tried to be a better man than that.

But I’m still only human.

He frowned at the woman as she took the seat beside him.  “What do you mean, ‘I’m not like the others’?”

She smirked at him as if he were being deliberately ignorant.  “I mean that you’re not in here to get famous.  You’re not fanning your feathers like a peacock and trying to get attention like everybody else.  I don’t think the thought of being a celebrity appeals to you at all.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then my question is: why did you apply to be on a reality TV show if you have no interest in fame?”

Damien cleared his throat and looked away.  “I’m just trying to repay a favour.  I need the prize money.”

Danni crossed her slender legs and leant in closer to him.  He could smell the alcohol on her breath and it tempted him to grab a beer for himself.  The hoppy odour took him back to his wilder days where he would have been the life of the party, instead of just a spectator.  But, as much as he missed the feeling of inebriation, he was adamant never to go back there.

Danni was pulling a face at him.  “You want to repay a favour?”

He nodded.  “Yeah, and that’s all I want to say about it.”

Danni wasn’t put off by his hostile tone.  She nodded thoughtfully and looked him in the eye.  “Fair enough.  My reasons for being here are my own as well.  I’m not like the others either.  Being famous is the last thing I want.”

“And yet you are here like me.”

“Yes, I am.  Maybe we have similar agendas.  Maybe we should form a pact.”

Damien huffed.  “I think I’ll be okay by myself.”

She raised an eyebrow, thin and curvy.  “You think so?  The other housemates are here to party and cause chaos.  When they see you sitting here and judging them like you’ve been doing all night, they’re going to vote for you every time.  If you want that prize money.  You have to start thinking smart.”

Damien thought about it.  As much as he hated being inside the house, he was there for a reason.  If he didn’t win at least some of the money then this whole thing was a colossal waste of time.  And he would have failed a dear friend.

“Okay,” he said.  “I’ll think about it.  Let’s just see what tomorrow brings first.”

Danni smiled and rubbed a hand on his thigh.  “I’m looking forward to it.”

Damien sighed.  “I’m not.”

DAY 2

Damien’s back was aching when he opened his eyes.  The sun was out and shining through the long glass window.  But it was a dull sunlight and looked in no way warm.

Damien was sprawled back on the sofa with his legs stretched out on the floor.  It took him a moment to get his blurry mind focused and figure out what was going on.  The smell of stale cigarette smoke and standing alcohol brought it all rushing back.

Must have fallen asleep.  Wonder what time it is.

Oh yeah, that’s right.  No watch.

Some of the other housemates were already milling about, nursing obvious hangovers with tall glasses of water, while the rest slept on the sofa alongside Damien.  Danni was still beside him, snoring softly with her head tilted back on the cushion.  The metal collar around her neck blinked green from its LED lights.  She still managed to look pretty somehow.  Her long legs still managed to catch his gaze.

Alex came over to the sofa and handed Damien a glass of water.  The man’s eyes were red and bleary, his cheeks blotchy.  His tie was loose and his top button was undone, while his slicked-back blond hair was hanging limply across his forehead.

Damien took the drink and thanked him.

“Think we’d have been better off following your lead,” he said.  “I feel like a bag of shit.  Tracey’s been throwing up in the toilet for over an hour.  God knows what percent that wine was.”

“When did you wake up?” Damien asked him.

“Wake up?  Most of us haven’t been to bed yet.  Not that we’ve actually been given any beds to sleep in.  You got a couple hours, though.  I envy you.”

“Did I?  Feels like I was out longer.”  Damien pointed his toes and sighed as his calf muscles shuddered awake.  He got to his feet and rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck.  “Right, well, I could do with something to eat.  I’ll go see what I can rustle up.”

Alex clicked his fingers and pointed them at Damien like guns.  “Good man.  You’ll be the most popular guy in the room if you can find some bacon.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

A large, barrel-chested bald man stood in the kitchen, pouring a pint of milk with a meaty hand covered in scars.  He looked up with a fag in his mouth at Damien and nodded.  “How’s it going?”  He managed to speak while still holding the cigarette in his mouth.

Damien nodded back at him.  “Good, thanks.  Sorry, I can’t quite remember your name.”

“Chris.  Don’t forget it again.”

Damien smiled, but wasn’t entirely sure if the guy was being serious.  The dirty black stubble and wide scar across the larger man’s chin gave him a menacing look that suggested any sense of humour was completely absent.

“I’m Damien, by the way.  I was going to see if I can rustle us up some breakfast.”

“Want me to go get you an apron and some tampons?”

Damien frowned and cleared his throat.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“Let the split arses do the cooking.  You’re not a split arse, are you?”

Damien shook his head and sighed.  “Seriously, dude.  It’s not the fifties anymore.  Besides, I like to cook.”

The bigger guy just pulled his face into a frown and walked away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.  Apparently Damien’s intention to cook was highly amusing to Chris.

Don’t see him making many fans amongst the ladies of the house.

Either that or they’ll be falling all over him.  You never can tell with women.

I certainly got more interest back when I was an arsehole.  That was definitely one of the fringe benefits.

Damien headed over to the kitchen’s large refrigerator and yanked the door open.  To his delight there was a shelf piled high with bacon rashers.  The door’s inside compartment housed a dozen eggs.

If I can find some bread, we’re all set.

Damien turned around to check the cupboards for the rest of what he needed and was greeted by Danni.  Her brown eyes were sleepy but a pleasant smile adorned her face.

“Hey, partner.  Want some help?”

“I haven’t said I’m your partner, but sure.  I would love some help.  We need bread.”

Danni went over to a cupboard and pulled out a loaf of half-white.  “Spotted it last night,” she said.  “What are we making?”

“Bacon and egg sandwiches.”

“I think Jade is a vegetarian.”

“Then she can feed herself.”

Danni laughed.  “You’re not really a morning person, are you?”

“Not really an anytime person.  This is all a bit bizarre to me, being around so many strangers.”

Danni stepped behind him and started rubbing at his trapezius muscles.  “We won’t all be strangers for long,” she said.  “After a day or two we’ll all be settled in.  Besides, people will be getting voted out every day, so it won’t be long before the numbers start to thin out.”

Damien nodded.  He liked the sound of that.  The house would already benefit from seeing the back of thugs like Chris and temperamental divas like Jade.  As much as he found Danni presumptive – and invasive with the way she was massaging his shoulders – she was probably the most tolerable person in the house.

“So did you get much sleep?” he asked her, moving out of the grasp of her kneading palms and turning around to face her.

She moved to the counter and started pulling slices of bread out of the bag.  She placed them down in a line.  “I got a little bit.  I must have zonked out right after you did.”

Damien rooted around a low cupboard and found some frying pans.  He placed them on top of the kitchen’s range cooker and lit the gas hob.  “I was completely knackered after all that travelling,” he said.

“Me, too.  They drove me all the way up from Kent.  I was stuck in a car for twelve hours.”

Damien winced.  “Wow, I thought I had it bad.  Strange that they didn’t just fly you up.  I mean, it’s not very TV-like to stick one of their stars in a cramped saloon for that long.  A flight to Edinburgh would have been – what? – a couple hundred quid?”

Danni stopped what she was doing and looked at him.  “Hmm,” she said.  “I guess it wouldn’t have cost very much.  I suppose they’re just trying to stress us all out, make us tired and more prone to combustion.  You know how much reality TV producers love a bit of tension.”

Damien nodded.  “Unfortunately that’s what people seem to enjoy watching.”

“Human nature.  We love conflict.”

“Not all of us do.”

“You think us all philistines, don’t you, Damien?”

Damien grabbed a couple of eggs and began cracking them into one of the pans which he had just laced with cooking oil.  “I don’t think I’m better than anybody else, but I have a better grasp on my priorities than most.”

“How old are you?”

He shrugged.  “Twenty-three, why?”

Danni patted him on the rump with an unexpected slap.  “Because you’re twenty-three-going-on-fifty.  Try to remember that you’re still young.”

Damien broke another egg.  He knew he was prone to being a stick-in-the-mud, but it was just the way he was – at least how he was lately.

“I’ll try to loosen up,” he said.  “No promises, though.”

2

The egg and bacon sandwiches went down well.  Everybody, with the exception of Jade who had located some cereal for herself, polished them off in minutes.  It was perfect timing because, right when they were finishing off the last morsels, the voice of The Landlord came over the speakers.

“IN EXACTLY TWO MINUTES, THE DOOR TO THE GARDEN WILL OPEN.”

That was it.  The speaker crackled and went dead.

“The plot thickens,” said Danni.

“I hope they have a hot tub,” said Jules, sweeping back her orange hair so that it sat behind her ears.

“They always do on these things,” said Alex.  “They want to see us all naked.”

“Let me have a few more drinks,” said Jade, “And they might get to.”

Two minutes went by and the patio door clicked.

Jade was the first one there, shoving people aside on her quest to be at the front of the pack.  She pulled down the handle and slid the patio door aside.  The cold, autumn air came whistling in from outside, along with some sideways-falling rain.

“Wow,” said Jules.  “I had no idea the weather was so shit from in here.”

Damien agreed with her.  The glass windows must have been double – or maybe even triple – glazed.

“Well, I hope they’re going to give us our luggage,” said an older woman named Catherine, “because it’s not right letting us freeze out in the cold.  My creaking bones can’t take it.”

“I totally forgot about our luggage,” Jules said, folding her arms to fight off the chill.

Everybody filed out into the garden and started looking around.  To Jade’s glee there was indeed a hot tub bubbling away and emitting the recognisable smell of chlorine.  There were also a couple of benches around the perimeter and a long picnic table at one corner.  The whole area was laid out like a grassy central courtyard, with buildings on all four sides.  Directly opposite was an open door, but the other two buildings, the ones to the left and right of the courtyard, were just brick walls; no doors or even any windows.  What one of the walls did have was a huge painting of the staring eye that seemed to be the television show’s logo.  A large CCTV camera sat immediately above it.

“That door over there is open,” said Jules, pointing.

“Yeah it is,” Damien concurred.  “Let’s go check it out.”

Luckily Jade was already stripping down to her undies and leaping into the hot tub.  It meant he could check out the other building in peace.

The grassy area in the centre of the courtyard was almost a perfect square of about sixty-feet.  It was large and heavily waterlogged, which meant it took them a good few paces before they reached the building on the opposite side.  The door still remained open, just slightly ajar, suggesting it was okay to enter.

Damien pushed the door wider and stepped through.  He was pleased by what he found, but also a little dismayed.

Guess this is the bedroom.

Not exactly five-star.

The large room consisted of six single beds – not enough to supply them all with a place to sleep.  It could, of course, be just one of two bedrooms, one for the men and one for the girls.  What really worried Damien, though, was the state of the beds themselves.  They were antiques.  Grimy sheets covered the threadbare mattresses atop rickety metal frames.  They were not even fit to bed prisoners in.

“No way am I sleeping on one of those,” said Danni, who entered the room behind them.

“Me either,” said Jules.  “What the fu-”

“It’s just another game,” said Damien.  “To see how we react.”

Jules sighed and prodded at the bracelets on her skinny wrists.  They looked like giant bangles in the dim light.  “So you think there’s a real bedroom hidden somewhere?”

Damien shrugged his shoulders.  He was regretting his decision to enter the house more and more.  “Maybe,” he said.  “Or perhaps this is it.”

“It can’t be!”

“Makes sense,” said Danni.  “With only six beds, there’s going to be conflict between us, choosing who gets one and who doesn’t.  The mere fact that the beds are so awful is going to lead to a lot of grouchiness.”

Jules leant back against the nearest wall and seemed to deflate.  “They must really want us to kill each other.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Damien, “but it sure looks like they’re hoping for some good television.”

“What the hell, man?” It was Alex.  He had entered the bedroom and was now staring around in disbelief.  His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his smart suit jacket was gone.  He looked a little sweaty and pale.  “This can’t be the bedroom.  There’s not even enough places to sleep.”

“All part of the fun, I suppose,” said Damien.  “I don’t want to sleep in one those things, anyway.  I’m happy to opt out of having one.”

“Me too,” said Danni.

“Suit yourselves,” Jules said and headed off to the row of beds, “but even this is better than no bed at all.”

“They’re all dirty,” said Danni, wrinkling her dark eyebrows and screwing up her plump lips in distaste.

Jules stared back at the other woman as if she were an idiot.  “It’s just theatrics.  They probably just stained it with stage paint or something.  It’s not going to be real muck on the sheets.”

“Well, I’m not taking the chance,” said Danni.  “You’re welcome to it.”

“What about you, Alex?” Jules asked.  “Best claim one now or you may not be able to later.”

Alex looked at Damien and Danni for a few seconds and then shrugged his shoulders.  “Better than the floor,” he said, and then took the bed next to the one that Jules had picked out for herself.

Danni leant into Damien and placed a hand on his back.  “See,” she said.  “Alliances are already forming.”

Damien looked at her and let out a sigh.  He had no doubt that alliances would begin to form, but that didn’t mean that one was needed to win.

He walked away from Danni and re-entered the garden.

If I win this thing, I plan on doing it with my integrity intact.  No alliances, no tactics.  I’m just going to be me and hope that’s good enough.

Harry wouldn’t accept it any other way.

Suddenly Damien started to feel like winning the money might be out of his reach.

3

When everybody else saw the state of their sleeping arrangements they had been angry, yet had slowly come to the same conclusion: it was all part of the game.  It was decided that the beds would be divvied up later and that those without would make do on the large sofa in the living area.  It was only a problem if they made it one.

The garden was chilly, but it was where half the group had congregated since the rain had stopped.  Jade and a handful of others had settled into the hot tub with a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes, while the other housemates took naps in various places both inside and out.

Damien was sitting alone at the picnic table, his hands clutched together in front of him.  There was a stain on its wooden surface that looked a little like paint or maybe even blood.  It wouldn’t be the first time a clumsy woodman had left a piece of himself on the furniture he made.

Damien was thinking about Harry and feeling guilty for having left him alone to run the business for the next two weeks.  They worked well together.  They were a team.  Leaving behind their small woodwork shop felt like a neglect of duties.  But Harry was the reason he was doing this.  Harry needed money and Damien was trying to get it for him.  He just hoped that his friend understood.

Course he does.  Harry is the most compassionate person I know.

At least he was until recently…

I really shouldn’t have left him alone.

Damien’s mind was just about to take him down a dark alleyway when two people sat on the bench opposite.

The couple were Lewis and Sarah.  Lewis was an immigrant from the Ivory Coast, but had come to the UK as a child and, as such, had a strong Manchester accent.  Sarah was an Office Supply Manager from Luton.  The inactivity of her job was present on her curvy hips.

Damien nodded to them both but chose not to speak.  Sometimes he felt it easier to read people if you let them do the talking.

Lewis was the one to start.  “How you doing, mate?  Bit surreal being in here, innit?”

Damien nodded.

“You doing okay?”

Damien nodded again.

“You’re Damien, right?”

Damien nodded.

“Sorry, are we annoying you?” said Sarah.

Damien shook his head.

“It’s just that you’re not talking back to us.”

Damien thought about his intention to integrate and decided to open up before he annoyed them too much.  “I was just a bit lost in thought.  Sorry.”

“That’s alright, mate,” said Lewis.  “I get lost in a daydream now and then as well.  So, what were you doing before you signed up to the show?”

“Just working, I guess.”

“And what do you do, Damien?” Sarah asked.  She seemed to be getting a little irritated by his reticence.

“I’m a carpenter,” he said, forcing a polite smile.  “I run a little woodwork factory with my business partner.  We sell bespoke pieces mainly, but we also help out local charities with various things they need.  We just recently outfitted the local church with new pews.”

Sarah’s eyes went wide.  “Wow!  I wouldn’t have expected that from seeing you.  No offence, but you don’t seem like the caring type.”

“Really?” said Damien.  “How so?”

“You just come across as a bit…standoffish.”

“I’m just not good with people,” he admitted.  “Perhaps I was hoping to overcome that by coming here.”  It was a lie, of course, but he hoped it sounded convincing.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have no problem making friends if you win a million quid,” said Lewis with a greedy sparkle in his round eyes.

“Or two,” Sarah added, giggling and covering her mouth with a pudgy hand.

Damien nodded his head.  “Definitely.  Is the money the main reason that you’re both here?”

The two of them nodded.  Lewis said, “Don’t think I can take the rat race much longer, mate.  I dream of spending my days on a beach in St Lucia.”

“Hey, that sounds nice,” said Sarah, turning to him and grinning.  “Maybe I’ll come with you.”

“Make it three,” said Damien giving another insincere smile.

“ALL HOUSEMATES, PLEASE GATHER IN THE GARDEN.”

It was voice of The Landlord.  Damien frowned.  He didn’t feel like getting up.

Got to play by the rules, though.

Those who were inside the house filed outside quickly.  Jade and the others in the hot tub quickly towelled themselves off and pulled their clothes back on.

Once everybody was gathered together in the centre of the grassy courtyard the landlord spoke again.

“IN ONE MINUTE.  YOU WILL BE PRESENTED WITH TWO CONTAINERS.  EACH CONTAINER IS FULL OF HOUEMATE’S LUGGAGE.”

“Sweet,” said Jules.  “I want to grab a jumper.  My nips are turning to rubber.”

Everybody waited, looking around and wondering where exactly these containers were going to appear.  Then the ground began to move, right in front of the huge painting of the eye logo.

At the leftmost edge of the courtyard, a wide platform began to rise up on hydraulic stilts.  The platform was topped with grass and had been indistinguishable from the rest of the ground until it had started to rise up on metal cylinders.

“That’s pretty trippy,” said Lewis.  “I would never have even known it was there.”

Beneath the grassy platform was a pair of windowed enclosures.  They looked a bit like space-age transporter pods from a sci-fi show.  Each of the two glass pods was filled with suitcases.

“That’s our luggage,” Jade shouted excitedly.  “Thank fudge for that.  I need my makeup.  I look like a panda.”

The platform stopped moving and locked audibly into place.  Everyone in the garden looked around in confusion.

“Do we try and open them?” Alex asked.  He was back in his suit jacket again and had readjusted his tie.

“BEHIND THESE TWO CONTAINERS IS A PAIR OF HANDHELD PUMPS.  THESE PUMPS ARE ATTACHED TO A PAIR OF HOSES.  TWO HOUSEMATES MUST BRING EACH HOSE INTO THE CENTRE OF THE GARDEN.”

Everyone looked around at one another.  Jade stepped forward and a half-second later, so did Alex.  The two of them trod gingerly towards the glass containers and then navigated around to the back of them.  They reappeared moments later with steel pipes the length of broom handles.  The pipes were both attached to long red hoses.

The apparatus seemed heavy and both Alex and Jade seemed to struggle while dragging them along the grass towards the rest of the group.  When they finally managed it, The Landlord gave further instructions.

“JADE AND ALEX.  YOU HAVE OFFERED YOURSELF UP AS LEADERS.  CHOOSE YOUR TEAMS AND MAKE THEM EQUAL.”

Jade shrugged at Alex.  “I’ll pick then you pick, one at a time, yeah?”

Alex shrugged.

“I pick Tracey,” said Jade.

Tracey sauntered over to her teammate and smiled.  Then she stood with a hand on her slender hip as if she were giving a pose to the paparazzi.

Maybe she’s playing up for the cameras.

“I pick Damien,” said Alex.

Surprised to be picked so soon, Damien headed over to Alex and nodded his thanks.

Jade made her next pick.  “Catherine.”  Catherine was another person that Damien was yet to really make an acquaintance with.  She was the oldest housemate, along with the retired school teacher, Patrick.  She wore thick round glasses which, along with her shrivelled face, made her look a little like a mole.

Alex picked Jules.

Jade picked the big guy, Chris.

Alex: “Danni.”

Jade: “Lewis.”

“Patrick.”

“Sarah.”

Alex made the final pick.  “Richard.”

“NOW THAT YOU HAVE PICKED YOUR TEAMS, THE GAME CAN BEGIN.  IN YOUR GROUPS, YOU EACH POSSESS A PUMP – NOT UNLIKE A BICYCLE PUMP.  YOU MUST GRAB THE HANDLE AS A TEAM AND PUMP AIR INTO YOUR HOSES.  THESE HOSES ARE CONNECTED TO A HYDRAULIC WATER TANK.  THE FIRST TEAM TO FILL THEIR GLASS CONTAINER WITH LIQUID WILL WIN THE TASK.”

Damien cleared his throat.  “I don’t get it,” he said.  “If we fill the tanks up with liquid the luggage inside will be ruined.”

“THE TASK WILL BEGIN IN 10…9…8…”

“Hey,” said Damien.  “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“7…6…5…”

“Just get ready,” Alex ordered.  “We need to win this.”

“4…3…2…”

Damien was about to protest further but decided there was no point.  Being in the house meant submitting his will to the producers.  If they wanted to mess around with him, what choice did he have?  It was what he had signed up for and he would just have to go along for the ride.

“1…  START PUMPING.”

Both teams began pumping frantically.  Damien was a second or two late in helping his team due to his initial confusion.  It was hard work to hold the pump firmly.  The hose thrashed about wildly.  Damien grabbed the lower portion of the pump and held it tightly so that the others could work the handle more steadily.

The glass containers at the back of the courtyard began to rain liquid from their ceilings.  They almost looked like the gunge booths you saw on Saturday morning kid’s shows.”

“Come on,” shouted Alex, sweat already forming on his brow.  His Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his collar.  “Their tank is filling faster.  Pump!”

Damien struggled to hold the pump steady while his teammates worked away on the handle.  Every successful pump resulted in a hiss of air entering the hose and a gush of liquid entering the tank.  The containers were filling quickly.  The liquid inside was clear except for the slightly brown hue that seemed to swirl in random currents.

Both teams pumped furiously, all of them growing tired.  Their faces bloomed red and their movements became slower and jerkier as if moving through clay.

As the tanks became almost full, the contest was more or less even.  Alex’s team were just a pump or two behind Jade’s.

“Come on, come on,” said Alex.  “We’re almost there.”

A siren went off.

“We did it,” cried Jade.  “We won!”

Alex looked over at the other team’s tank.  It was full to the brim with the mysterious liquid.  He threw the pump down on the floor and hissed.  “Sod it!”

“Sorry,” said Damien.  “We’ll win the next one.”

Alex shook his head and scowled.  “If you hadn’t been messing around at the beginning we would have won.”

Damien felt a twinge of aggression in his gut, a tiger being poked.  He took a deep breath and petted it into submission.  “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Danni.  “It’s just a game.”

“A game we just kicked your arses at,” said Jade from over in her group.  She was dancing around barefoot like an excited child.

Alex muttered something under his breath.  Damien tried to reach out to the guy and apologise again, but was shrugged away for his efforts.

“Get the hell off me.”

Damien tried to look apologetic, but he was finding it difficult to ignore the guy’s bad attitude.  “Just chill, Alex.  It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t tell me to chill.  You just lost us this task.”

“And you might lose the next one, so cut me some slack and I’ll do the same for you in the future.”

“HOUSEMATES, THE TASK IS COMPLETE.  JADE’S TEAM HAS FILLED THEIR CONTAINER.”

Suddenly the liquid inside Jade’s team’s container ignited.  The fluid inside must have been petrol or some other combustible liquid.  The flames swirled around inside the obviously tempered glass.  Smoke escaped from the top of the platform via an unseen vent.

“What the hell?” said Jade.  “That’s our luggage in there.  They’re burning our luggage.”

Damien stared into the flames as they continued to rage and consume.  Leather and plastic melted and popped.

The other container, the one that had belonged to Alex’s team, began to drain away.  The liquid disappeared through the bottom of the glass compartment until it was once again empty of everything except for the luggage inside.

Then it popped open like an Easter egg.

“JADE’S TEAM.  YOU MAY COLLECT THE LUGGAGE FROM THE LOSER’S CONTAINER.  THIS LUGGAGE IS YOURS TO KEEP, REGARDLESS OF ITS FORMER OWNER.”

Alex and the rest of his team looked at one another with confusion and a certain degree of persecution.  Damien was perplexed.  What exactly did The Landlord mean that Jade’s team could ‘keep the luggage regardless of its former owner’?

Jade and her team wasted no time.  They hurried up to the open container and began dragging out the cases inside.  Six pieces of luggage in total – all random.  They were sealed in plastic bags which had protected them from the liquid.  Damien spotted his own suitcase immediately.

“Hey, that one is mine,” said Damien, pointing to the black shell case.

It was in the hands of Chris, who looked at him with an unfriendly sneer.  “You lost, mate.”

“Don’t be unreasonable.  My things are in there.”

Chris smirked.  The expression made the thick scar on his chin stretch wider.  “My things.”

Damien took a step forward but Danni stopped him.  “He’s just playing by their rules,” she said.  “Let him.  With a million pounds you can buy a whole lot more stuff.”

Damien didn’t like it, someone else taking his belongings.  He wasn’t the type of person to take shit from bullies like Chris.  He was the type of guy to stand up to them.  But he also had a temper, a temper he couldn’t always control.

I don’t get involved with confrontation anymore.  I just need to stay calm and let it go.  Be the bigger man.

“Oh yes!” cried Jade, struggling with a large purple suitcase.  “I got my own things.”

“Me too,” said Lewis and Catherine.

It appeared, however, that Tracey and Sarah had the luggage of somebody else.  The fact was given away by the disappointed frowns on their faces.

“Who do these belong to?” Sarah asked.

Jules and Patrick put their hands up.

“Then you might as well take them.  I wouldn’t feel right wearing somebody else’s clothes.  Besides, one of these will be full of men’s clothes.”

“I suppose that I agree,” said Tracey, shrugging her shoulders.  The two ladies handed over the luggage to their rightful owners.  That left everybody looking at Chris who was still in possession of Damien’s suitcase.

“What you lookin’ at?” he grunted at them.

“Well,” said Jules.  “After the kind gesture that Sarah and Tracey just made, are you not going to give Damien his case back?”

“Am I bollocks!  I won this fair and square.  His skinny shite probably won’t fit me, but it’ll still be better than spending ten days sitting in my own skidmarks.  No, sorry, but he’ll have to get over it like a big girl.”

Damien clenched his fists and felt his stomach knot up.  Danni placed a hand on his back and rubbed.  “Don’t let him get to you.  I’m sure this is just some big prank by the producers.”

Chris headed off to the bedroom, wheeling Damien’s trunk behind him like a treasure chest.  Damien stared daggers into the man’s thick back every inch of the way until he was completely out of sight.

Damien shook his head and huffed.  It best be some kind of prank, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

4

Damien needed every ounce of self-restraint he possessed to keep calm whilst he watched Chris saunter around in his trainers.  He knew the guy was only doing it to get a reaction.  It wasn’t worth taking the bait.

Damien knew Chris’s type well.  They thought that by provoking a reaction and trying to intimidate people, everyone would just assume they were genuine hard men and back off.  The truth in most cases, however, was that those with the most ‘swagger’ had the least to back it up with.  Their overly-aggressive manner was a facade designed to win fights without them ever starting.  If anybody ever actually called a bully like Chris out on his bullshit, he would probably crumble like a piss-soaked sandcastle.

Damien was sat on a stool in the kitchen.  He took a deep breath as he tried to turn his thoughts to matters other than wanting to chin Chris.  Aggression was not the answer, Damien’s older, wiser friend, Harry, would often say to him.  Violence was for fools, he would comment with a knowing look in his eye.  Harry had made his feelings on criminal behaviour very clear on that long ago evening when he’d offered Damien a lifeline, a way out of his then worthless existence.  Harry had stated firmly that Damien’s prior thuggery and criminal behaviour would not be tolerated if he was to offer his help.  Damien had agreed to change his ways, had wanted to in fact.  He was glad for Harry’s help.

And so Damien had trained as a master carpenter, working with Harry every single day and setting up a business.  At first, Damien had been excited at the potential to make an honest living, to even strike it rich, but that had quickly died away when Harry insisted on giving most of their profits away to charity.  Damien had cried bloody murder when half his pay cheque went to help an old people’s home replace their central heating.  Over time, though, he started to see the good that his hard work was doing.  The act of charity became deeply satisfying – more satisfying than spending the money he gave away would have been.  Despite everything Damien had ever believed about himself, and about life, he was happy to give his money away to those who needed it more.  Charity had not just changed Damien’s life – it had changed him as a person.  It gave him a clear perspective and unburdened his soul.  Previously he had felt like a pack mule, carrying his many sins around his neck and walking an endless, dusty road.  Now he was a galloping horse, surrounded on all sides by wonderful green fields.  He had been set free.

And Harry was to thank for it.

And now it’s he who needs the charity.  After all of the people Harry has helped over the last few years, he deserves to have somebody help him.  I’m going to make sure that person is me.  I need to pay him back for all that he’s done for me.

“Don’t let Chris wind you up,” said Danni, sitting on the stool beside him in the kitchen.  She was wearing a different top now, lent to her by Jules.  The two women were about the same size, only Danni had longer, and nicer, legs.

“I’m not letting him get to me,” said Damien, probably unconvincingly.  He could hear his teeth grinding between words.

“Good.  Because it’s probably best not to mess with that guy.”

Damien huffed.  “It’s not Chris that’s worrying me.”

“Then what is it?  What are you worried about?”

He looked at her and then looked away.  “I’m more worried about me and what I might do to him.”

“HOUSEMATES, ASSEMBLE IN THE LIVING AREA.  VOTING IS ABOUT TO COMMENCE.”

Damien stood up with Danni and went over to the sofa to join the other housemates.  Chris nodded at Damien from over by the couch.  He lifted up one of his trainers and rested it on his knee.

Just ignore him.  The only thing I should focus on is staying in the house longer than him.  That’s how I’ll beat him.

Everybody sat down on the sofa, backs erect, ready for what came next.

“ALL HOUSEMATES MUST NOW CONDUCT A VOTE FOR WHOM THEY WISH TO UNDERTAKE THE HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION.  AS LEADER OF THE WINNING GROUP IN TODAY’S TASK, JADE IS EXEMPT FROM THE VOTE.”

“Sound!” said Jade with a catlike grin on her face.  She pointed to Damien and nodded.  “We’ll start at this end of the sofa and go along one after the other.”

Damien sighed.  He hadn’t expected to go first, and was uncomfortable having to name someone openly – not that he had any problem with choosing the ‘who’ or the ‘why’.

He decided to just get it over with.  “I vote for Chris, because I don’t like him.  I don’t like him at all.”

Chris sneered at Damien, but Damien refused to make eye-contact.  The big guy had it in for him anyway, stealing his luggage and flaunting it around the house, so it wasn’t like he had just made a new enemy.

Although it’s worrying that the producers let a sociopath like him in with the rest of us.

Next up was Alex.  “I vote for Damien,” he said quickly, “because I feel that he lost us the task earlier.”

Damien sighed.  It was a fair enough answer.  Perhaps he was responsible.

Jules voted for Chris.  Damien had the feeling it was in support of him.

Jade voted for Jules.  It seemed like it was in defence of Chris.  Alliances were definitely forming.

Sarah voted for Danni because she thought the other woman was ‘a little bit cold.’  Lewis sided with her and voted for Danni too.

Catherine voted for Damien because ‘he didn’t join in last night and drink with everybody else.’

Richard voted adamantly for Lewis.  He didn’t explain why.

Patrick voted for Chris and, surprisingly, voiced his dislike of the man being because of him not handing over the luggage to its rightful owner like Sarah and Tracey had.  Damien nodded at the older man in appreciation.

Least somebody is on my side.

Tracey voted for Danni for the same reasons as Sarah.  That just left Chris to vote.  No mystery as to who the man would vote for.

“I vote for Damien,” Chris said, “because the guy swigs diet coke and spends his time in the kitchen like a poofter.”

Damien laughed it off.  The guy was an absolute jerk, but perhaps it highlighted the errors in Damien’s game plan.  It was only the first day and people were already voting for him.  He would not win the prize money if it continued.

“HOUSEMATES, THE VOTING IS NOW COMPLETE.  DAMIEN AND CHRIS BOTH HAVE THREE VOTES EACH.  THEY WILL COMPETE AGAINST EACH OTHER IN THE HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION TASK.  THE LOSER WILL BE REMOVED FROM THE COMPETITION.”

Chris blew Damien a kiss.  “Just you and me, little lady.  Can’t wait!”

And he calls me a poofter?

Damien said nothing.  He wasn’t going to waste his breath talking trash with an imbecile.  Whatever happened, one of them was leaving the house very soon, so there was no need to tolerate each other much longer.  Certainly no need for a confrontation.

“DAMIEN, CHRIS, PLEASE ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.  THE OTHER HOUSEMATES CAN WATCH YOUR PROGRESS VIA THE LIVING AREA’S VIEWING SCREEN.”

Damien stood up and walked towards the door.  A moment later, Chris overtook him and bumped him aside with his shoulder.  Damien scowled.

Bloody wanker!

The two of them stopped in front of the door marked ELIMINATION CHAMBER; the one that had been previously locked.

“Is it open?” Damien asked.

Chris tried the handle and it turned.  He stood aside as the door opened.  “Ladies first.”

Damien huffed and shoved his way through the door.  Inside was a stark white room that hurt his eyes with its brightness.  There was no furniture or fixtures of any kind.  The space was an empty cube.

Except for a small table in the centre of the room.

The steel table was on wheels, like the kind of thing you saw on forensic cop shows next to a dead body during an autopsy, usually with a whole host of bloody tools on it.  This one, however, held only a pair of pistols.  Damien stared down at the handguns with concern.  Chris went to pick one up, but The Landlord’s voice interrupted him.

“ON THE TABLE IN FRONT OF YOU ARE TWO BB GUNS.  THEY ARE LOADED WITH PLASTIC BALL BEARINGS AND ARE NON-LETHAL.  HOWEVER, PLEASE REFRAIN FROM AIMING THEM AT ONE ANOTHER.  DOING SO WILL RESULT IN DISQUALIFICATION FROM THE TASK.”

Chris winked at Damien.  “Might just be worth it,” he said.

There was a whirring sound and a compartment on the back wall opened up.  A pair of marksmen targets appeared inside.  Damien relaxed as he started to understand the task ahead of him.

It’s just target shooting, nothing sinister.

Then The Landlord said something which confused Damien all over again.

“YOUR BRACELETS CONTAIN ENOUGH NEUROTOXIN TO KILL YOU A HUNDRED TIMES OVER.  YOUR NECK COLLARS CONTAIN A COUNTER-AGENT.”

Chris’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched up.  “The fuck he just say?”

“I don’t know,” said Damien, unsure if he’d just heard correctly.  “It must be a wind-up.”

“IN ONE MINUTE YOUR TASK WILL BEGIN.  EACH TIME YOU HIT THE TARGET ON THE OPPOSITE WALL, YOU WILL RELEASE NEUROTOXIN INTO YOUR OPPONENT’S BLOODSTREAM WHILE RELEASING THE COUNTER-AGENT INTO YOUR OWN.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Chris shouted at the ceiling.  “Nobody is putting anything into my bloodstream.  Let me the hell out of here.”

“FAILURE TO PARTICIPATE WILL RESULT IN EXPULSION FROM THE HOUSE.”

“Fine,” said Chris.  “EXPEL ME.  I QUIT.”

There was silence in the room.  Chris looked around anxiously.  Damien expected men in the eyeball-logo jumpers to come piling in any second to remove them.

But no one appeared.

Then Chris cried out.

Damien stared at the other man.   “What is it?  What’s wrong?”

Chris’s entire face was beetroot red and drool spilled from the corner of his mouth.  A vein throbbed on his forehead.

“Jesus,” said Damien, rushing over to help him.  “They’re poisoning you.  They’re actually doing it.”

“It…burns!  I feel like I have fire in…in my veins.”  He scratched at his wrists around the bracelets like a heroin addict seeing imaginary spiders on their skin.

Damien spun around in a circle, looking for an exit or something to help, but the room was closed on all sides.  “Stop this,” he screamed.  “Stop this right now.”

Chris’s agony continued to grow.  The man dropped to his knees and bellowed in agony.  He sounded like a wounded bear.

Damien took shallow breaths as he tried to think of something he could do.  But how could he do something when he didn’t even understand what was happening?

Then he had an idea.

Damien picked up one of the BB pistols and aimed it at Chris’s target.  He pulled the trigger rapidly, missing with every shot, but gradually adjusting his aim.   Finally a ball bearing hit the target.  It flashed green and let out an audible ping!

He fired several more times until Chris’s bellows of pain became shallow whimpers.

He’s getting better.  The counter-agent is working.

But then Damien was struck by an unbearable pain.  It started in his wrists and seemed to shoot right up into his skull.  His chest went tight and his stomach distended.  He dropped to his knees and began panting.  His fingers seized up, locking the BB pistol in his hand.

“Help…help me,” he begged Chris.

Chris had risen back to his feet unsteadily and, while still in obvious pain, he seemed to be doing much better.  His cheeks had lost their redness and the vein in his forehead had stopped throbbing.  He went over to the table and looked down at the remaining gun.

“That’s it,” Damien said.  “You need to shoot my target.  I need the counter-agent.”

Chris looked down at Damien and nodded as if he understood.  He picked up the gun and raised it towards Damien’s target.

Yes, that’s it.  God, please hit the target.

Then Chris adjusted his aim and fired several shots upon his own target.

More burning hot agony flooded through Damien’s wrists.  He cried out for mercy, but Chris continued to fire at his own target.

More of the neurotoxin entered Damien’s veins.

He felt himself dying.  It wasn’t a feeling of fading or slipping away, but more an immense pressure building to a crescendo that would ultimately reach a breaking point and end his life.

Damien collapsed onto his side.

He’s going to kill me if he keeps firing.

God…it hurts so bad.

Damien realised that there was only one way to stay alive.  He raised his BB pistol up, tried to aim it, but his hand was shaking.  Tremors wracked his entire body.

He managed to fire the pistol, but got nowhere near the target.

Chris’s target pinged and went green again.

Damien’s agony increased.

He gritted his teeth and tensed every muscle in his body.  He fought with everything he had to keep his hand from shaking for just one single fleeting second while he aimed.

Just…need…to…keep…still….

Aim…carefully…

He squeezed the trigger slowly.

The gun fired.

Then fired again.

Both shot’s hit the target, lighting it green.  Ping!  Ping!

Damien felt a pinch in his neck as the counter-agent entered his system.  He felt better immediately.  The tremors stopped.  The pain in his muscles subsided.

He rose gingerly to his feet, breathing deeply to deal with the lingering pain, but knowing he had to move fast if he had any chance of staying alive.

Chris continued firing wildly and managed to hit the target again.  Damien’s agony increased but he ignored it, pushed it out of focus.  He took careful aim at his own target and let off another three shots.  Two of them hit.  Ping!  Ping!

Chris cursed loudly.  His face was growing beetroot again.  He continued firing his pistol rapidly, but was now shaking too much to hit the target.

Damien aimed carefully again, taking his time, controlling his breaths.  He let off two more shots.  Both hit.

Ping!  Ping!

Chris screamed in agony and fell down to his knees.  He placed his pistol down on the floor and put his hands up in surrender.  “I give up.  Please, Damien, stop.  I’m sorry, just don’t fire anymore.”

Damien took his finger off the trigger.  He looked down at Chris and wondered how the guy had ever seemed so imposing.  He was just a trembling mess now, whimpering on the floor like a wounded kitten.

Damien lowered the pistol to his side and looked up at the ceiling.  “Landlord, this game is over.  Chris quits, so let us out of here.”

“THE TASK WILL END WHEN ONE OF YOU IS DEAD.”

Damien shook his head.  “Are you insane?  You can’t just kill people for…what is this anyway, entertainment?”

“THE TASK WILL END WHEN ONE OF YOU IS DEAD.”

“Then you’ll have to kill me.  I won’t be responsible for taking another man’s life.  Not even a snivelling piece of shit like Chris.”

Chris leapt to his feet and roared.  The BB pistol was back in his hand.  “Screw you, bitch!”  He fired his weapon at Damien, again and again and again.

Something sharp bit Damien’s left eye, sending him spiralling to the ground in shock.  He cried out as half his vision suddenly disappeared.

Oh shit, oh shit.  I’m blind.

Chris continued to fire the pistol, the ball bearings bouncing painfully off Damien’s skull as he covered up as much as possible.

There was a hiss and the targets on the wall disappeared back behind the sliding panels from which they had appeared.  The Landlord came back over the speakers.

“HOUSEMATE, CHRIS.  YOU WERE INFORMED THAT AIMING YOUR PISTOL AT YOUR COMPETITOR WOULD RESULT IN DISQUALIFICATION.  HOUSEMATE DAMIEN IS THE WINNER.”

Damien was still on the floor, clutching at his eye as it wept an ocean of salty liquid down his cheek.  He needed a doctor.  The damage could be severe.

Chris continued aiming the pistol at Damien and was snarling like a mongrel.  “You piece of shit,” he shouted.  “You don’t deserve…”

Chris’s voice trailed off as his eyes went unnaturally wide.  He dropped to his knees and began wheezing.  His red face now went a deep purple and blood vessels began to break apart in his eyes.  Damien watched in horror as the man’s nose exploded in a torrent of blood and he collapsed face down on the floor like a beached whale.

“Jesus Christ.  Chris, are you okay?”

Chris didn’t move.

Behind Damien, the door to the living area reopened automatically.

“YOU ARE FREE TO JOIN THE OTHER HOUSEMATES, DAMIEN.  CONGRATULATIONS ON WINNING THE FIRST TASK.”

Damien remained on the floor for a while.  He was panting and moaning in pain as the counter-agent took its time doing its job.

Congratulations?  A man is dead.

What have I got myself into?

5

Damien stumbled out of the Elimination Chamber and fought the urge to vomit.  Everybody stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes as he re-entered the living area.  Behind him, the door to the white cube room closed on its own and locked.

“Please tell me that was all one big joke,” cried Jules.  She pointed to the large television screen.  “What we just saw isn’t real, right?”

Damien shook his head.  He wanted to say something, but there were no words that could adequately explain or even make sense of what had just happened.  His one eye was still closed and he might be partially blind, but even that, right now, seemed inconsequential.

“What happened in there?” Jade asked.  For once, her voice was softer and less sure of itself.  She folded her tattooed arms around herself tightly, almost as if to stop herself from shaking.  A cigarette burned down to the nub between her fingers.

Damien moved over to the sofa just as his legs failed him.  He dumped down against the cushions and lay back.  He shook his head over and over, and didn’t blink for what must have been several minutes.

“Is Chris really dead?” Tracey eventually asked him.  “Did they really just poison him?”

“Course they didn’t,” said Richard.  “No bleeding way.”

Damien looked at them all, making eye-contact with each of them in turn, and then said, “They killed him.  I know that for sure, because they almost killed me.  Whatever is in these goddamn cuffs is lethal.”

There was a frightened squeal from one of the group, but Damien didn’t see from whom.  What he did see was the ashen, terrified expressions of his companions.

“This can’t be happening,” said Jules.  “It makes no sense at all.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Alex agreed.  “Why would they kill Chris?”

Damien shook his head.  “I don’t know, but I think one thing is for sure – none of us is on television right now.  This whole thing must have been some kind of scam.”

Everybody groaned as the reality of the situation sunk in.  Jade had already gone and grabbed a bottle of red wine and was now gulping from it loudly.

“So, there’s no prize money?” said Sarah.

“What a crock of shit,” said Tracey.  “The money was the only reason I’m here.”

Richard hissed at her.  “Bitch, that’s the least of our worries.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t act like a bitch.”

“There’s no point falling out with one another,” said Danni.  “We have to figure this out together.”

“Figure what out?”  Richard flapped his hairy arms like a flustered bird.  “We’re stuck in the middle of God-knows-where with a madman injecting poison into us whenever he feels like it!  We’re screwed; totally effing screwed.”

Damien had a headache and his wounded eye had begun to throb.  The older lady, Catherine, seemed to notice his discomfort and sat down beside him.  “Let me take a look,” she said.

Damien allowed the woman to prod her fingers around his cheek and then slowly ease his eyelid open.  The pain wasn’t too bad, but the tears were unending.  It was like a tap had been turned loose inside of his eyeball.

“Can you see anything at all?” Catherine asked him.

“It’s all blurry.”

“That’s okay, blurry is good; better than seeing nothing at all.  I think you’re going to be okay.  Your eye is pretty inflamed, but it doesn’t seem like any permanent damage has been done.”

Damien sighed with relief.  “Thanks.  I hope you’re right.”

The old woman smiled at him.  “Well, I’m not a nurse – just a care worker – but I think it looks okay.”

“You’re a care worker?”

Catherine nodded and her glasses bobbed on her wrinkly nose.  “I was.  Retired last year.  I was hoping to win myself a nest egg to grow old on.  Guess that isn’t going to happen now.”

“Can we concentrate on something a little more important than his sodding eye and your career, please?” said Richard.  “Like how we’re going to stay alive.”

There was a sudden flashing that made all of them turn around.  The large television screen was alternating between bright green and dark red.  The flashing was so rapid that Damien was sure it would trigger an epileptic seizure in those who suffered from the condition.  Then the flashing stopped and the familiar logo of the staring eye appeared.

A video began to play.

An elderly gentleman in a worn, grey suit and a bright red dickey bow appeared onscreen.  His milky eyes held back tears.  “My…my son, Graham, supported the Baggies his entire life, ever since I took him to see his first game at The Hawthorns.  We used to live in Smethwick back then and could walk to the matches.  It kept us close, you know?  Going to see the match every two weeks gave us a bond that not every father is lucky enough to have with his son.  I miss those days.”  The old man began to cry silently.  Tears trickled down his weathered cheeks but he continued speaking.  “My son was a grown man with children of his own when that vicious thug killed him at the train station.  Graham always used to feel guilty for leaving his family on a Saturday to come watch the football, but it was time with his old dad; he wouldn’t sacrifice it.  I loved him for that.  He grew up to be such a kind man – a man I was proud to have raised.”

Someone off camera handed the old man a tissue and he used it to wipe at his eyes.  “That wicked monster stamped my son’s skull into the pavement, just because he was wearing a West Brom shirt instead of an Aston Villa one.  That was it, the only reason.  The wretched beast had a few beers before the match, came out the pub, and decided it would be fun to kill my son.  And what did he get for it?  Four years.”  The old man spat on the floor in disgust.  “He said my son had started the fight and that the killing was accidental.  The drunken louts he was with backed up his story.  But I know it isn’t true.  I know my son.”  The old man stared hard into the camera.  “And now I’m going to be the one having fun watching you die, Christopher Maloney.  I hope you rot in Hell you thug.”

The television screen went blank.

Alex ran his hands through his blond hair and whistled.  “What the hell was that?”

Danni put a finger to her lips.  “Shush,” she said.  “Something else is coming up on the screen.”

Sure enough, a new image appeared on the high-def screen.  It was a grid of silhouetted faces – three squares by four – twelve people in total.  The first silhouette slowly transitioned into a full colour photograph.  It had been taken recently.  It was Chris’s dead face, taken from inside the Elimination Chamber where Damien had left him.

“Oh God,” said Jules, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand.  “Oh God, oh God.”

More images began to appear onscreen.  This time it was a collection of words.  Beneath Chris’s photograph the word THUG began to blink.  It was what the old man had called him.

Below the other featureless silhouettes – unclear even in their gender – were the following words: COWARD, CHEAT, MURDERER, ABUSER, WHORE, TRAITOR, TRICKSTER, PEDDLER, PREDATOR, CRUSADER, and finally the word, THIEF.

“What the hell is going on?” Richard demanded of no one in particular.

“I don’t know,” said Damien.  “But I think we’re in a lot of trouble.”

DAY 3

It had been difficult to fall asleep for obvious reasons.  Chris’s death, and the inexplicable situation they had all found themselves in, had quickly led to panic.  Each of the housemates had tried to force the metal bracelets from their wrists, even going so far as to draw blood as they fought desperately to wrench their hands through the unforgiving steel rings.  Damien had worn the flesh almost down to the bone in an attempt to remove his own shackles.  But it did no good.  They had all searched desperately for a way out of the house.  But it did no good.  They pleaded and begged to be released.  But it did no good.  Eventually they had all succumbed to the weariness and fatigue of their shocked minds and given up completely.

Since then the housemates had huddled together on the large sofa, afraid to separate.  Jules had snuggled up against Damien and he had let her, understanding the woman’s need for comfort.  He needed it himself.

Now that the sun was rising and a new day approached, Damien felt afraid for the first time in years.  Would they still be forced to continue with this sick and twisted game now that they were no longer willing?  Would there be more tasks and more votes?  Would he have more to worry about more than a wounded eye?

Now that he’d had a few hours’ sleep, his eye had almost returned to normal.  It was sensitive and weepy, but the pain was mostly gone and he could see through it again.  He’d been worried for a while and was glad to have his full sight back.  He could think of nothing worse than losing his sight, or even just part of it.  But, now that it was clear it would be okay, there were other things to worry about.

We need to find a way out of here.

First I need to find out why we’re even here, though.  This isn’t just random bad luck.  Chris was killed in revenge by someone who knew him.  The old man wanted him here.

Is this all just one big grudge?

But who would have a grudge against me?

Damien’s mind was reeling.  While he had not always lived a good life – far from it in fact – he considered himself to be a good man.  Any enemies that he had were deeply buried in his past, and that’s where they should stay.

But sometimes forgotten enemies are the ones who bite hardest.

There was no one that came to Damien’s mind as a likely perpetrator for his recent predicament, so he decided to focus on other things for the time being – and right now that was food.  If he and the other housemates were going to have any chance of getting through the next seven days, they would need their strength.  They would all think more clearly with food in their belly.

Damien pulled himself up off the sofa and padded quietly to the kitchen.  No one else was awake yet due, once again, to the fact that they had all drank too much.  Now, more than ever, Damien was glad for his sobriety.  Anything could happen inside this house and he wanted to be ready for it – not drunk and in denial.

They’re acting like if they just get drunk enough it will all go away.

They need to get their heads out of their arses.

Damien headed over to the kitchen cabinets and pulled out some boxes of cereal.  He lined up a handful of bowls and began pouring in the corn flakes.  He finished it off with a pint of milk from the fridge.  He had expected to eat alone, but Danni woke up and joined him.

She took the stool next to him at the counter and grabbed one of the bowls of cereals.  Damien handed her a spoon.

“Get any sleep?” he asked while adjusting his collar to get at an itch.

“A little bit.  It’s not very easy to relax right now, you know?”

“You don’t have to tell me.”  He took in a mouthful of cereal and suddenly considered it strange that his tormentors had even bothered to provide fresh food and drink.  If they were all in the house to be killed, what did it matter if they were fed or not?

“You think they’ll make us do another task later?”

Damien nodded.  “I think this whole thing has been set up to punish us.  I felt the poison in my wrists.  It was real.  These people aren’t playing around.  I can only imagine the planning and cost that would have gone into keeping us all here.”

Danni nodded, stared into her cornflakes and mixed them around with her spoon.  “So you think we’re pretty much screwed then?”

Damien swallowed a lump in his throat and sighed.  “I really don’t know, but I don’t intend on giving up.  Once everyone is awake, we’ll keep trying and find a way out.  There must be something we can do.”

“I hope so, because I don’t want to die here.  I didn’t want Chris to die either, even with what he’d done in his past.”

Damien looked at her for a moment and felt his mind wander.  “You mean that man he killed at the train station?”

Danni nodded.

“I was thinking about that.  It was obvious the old man wanted revenge.  That was why Chris was here.  You think that’s why we’re all here?”

She looked at him as though she wasn’t following.  Her dark eyes went narrow.  “What?  You mean we’re all here because someone wants revenge against us?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, what are you guilty of?”

Damien thought about it for a moment, scanning back through the mental filing cabinet of his past memories.  “I’m guilty of a lot of things,” he admitted.  “But nothing that I deserve to die for.  If somebody thinks any different then I intend to meet them face to face so I can find out why.”

“Well,” said Danni.  “All I’m worried about right now is not getting voted for.  I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to do a head to head elimination like you did last night.  I’ll be as good as dead.”

Damien placed a hand on her arm.  He didn’t want her to be afraid.  She would be better off focusing on the present.  “You’ll be fine,” he said to her.  “We can all surprise ourselves when our backs are up against the wall.  We’ll find a way out of this, I promise.”

Danni smiled at him, but there were tears glistening in her eyes.  “Partners?” she said.

Damien nodded.  “Partners.”

2

Everybody gathered in the garden.  They seemed to feel less trapped out there; like they were somehow freer if they could keep the open sky in their view.  It was a little warmer today and the sun gave off a sliver of warmth.

The large camera above the staring eye kept watch on them all.

Damien knew that the real reason they were all gathered together in a group was because they were waiting for whatever came next.  They knew that the nightmare was not yet over – only just beginning in fact – and they were all dreading the sound of The Landlord’s voice.

I wonder who he is.  Is he a maniac?  Or does he have a motive for what he’s doing to us?

Damien looked up at the grey sky and put the time at about mid-day.  That was when the booming voice they had all been waiting for finally came over the speakers.

“HOUSEMATES, PREPARE FOR TODAY’S TASK.  IT WILL COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES.”

“Oh God,” said Jules.  “Oh God, Oh God.”

“Just calm down,” Jade chided her.  “I’m not going to have you screwing this up.”

“Screwing this up?   What am I doing?”

“Nothing,” said Jade.  “But if you end up on my team, I won’t have you freaking out and losing me the task.”

“Just back off Jade,” Damien warned.  “None of us are the enemy here.”

“No,” said Jade.  “You’re just the competition; only now the prize is getting out of here alive.”

“None of us is getting out of here alive,” said Alex.  “We’re as screwed as a kid at Gary Glitter day care.”

“Just be quiet,” said Tracey.  “You’re not helping anyone by stating the obvious.”

Their bickering was interrupted by a motorised whirring.  The hidden platform in the garden – the one that had contained glass compartments yesterday – was rising up out of the ground again.  This time it did not contain glass containers.  It contained a metal table with several sets of pliers.  There must have been some sort of preparation area below where someone was able to change around the equipment on the platform.

“HOUSEMATES, YESTERDAY CHRIS WAS ELIMINATED FROM THE COMPETITION.  THE PRIZE MONEY OF TWO MILLION POUNDS IS STILL UP FOR GRABS.  NOW MORE THAN EVER YOU MUST PARTICIPATE IN THE TASKS AHEAD.  YOU ARE COMPETING NOT ONLY FOR THE MONEY BUT FOR YOUR LIVES.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jules shouted at the raised platform as it were a conscious being.  “Why are you doing this to us?”

“BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT.  EACH OF YOU HAS WRECKED LIVES IN PURSUIT OF YOUR OWN SELFISH DESIRES.  YOUR SINS WILL BE EXPOSED.  YOUR ONLY SALVATION WILL BE BY SURVIVING UNTIL THE END.  ONLY THROUGH THE BLOOD OF YOUR COMPETITORS WILL YOU FIND ABSOLUTION.”

“This is insane,” said Alex.  “You’ll pay for this, whoever the hell you are.”

“I AM NO ONE.  I AM JUST A FACILITATOR FOR JUSTICE, A SERVANT OF THE SCALES.”

“You call this justice?” said Damien.  He had heard enough.  “I’ve spent the last years of my life helping people and giving to charity.  You think you are just by trying to kill me?  I am guilty of nothing.”

“ALL ARE GUILTY.  YOUR ACCUSERS ARE REAL.  YOU WILL PERFORM THE TASKS.  THE ELIMINATIONS WILL CONTINUE.”

“Screw you,” Damien said.  He sat down on the floor and crossed his arms.  “I won’t play your sick games.  Poison me if you have to, but I promise you I will die with a clean conscience.”

“YOUR OBEDIENCE IS NOT REQUIRED IN THE TASK TO FOLLOW, HOUSEMATE DAMIEN.  THOSE WHO SUCCESFULLY COMPLETE THE FORTHCOMING INSTRUCTIONS WILL WIN IMMUNITY FROM TONIGHT’S VOTE.  THEIR LIVES WILL BE PROTECTED FOR ONE MORE DAY.”

Damien remained seated on the floor.  He was not going to be a puppet.  Whoever was behind all of this would undoubtedly kill them all anyway, so why play along?  If he was going to die, he would rather it be sooner than later.

“HOUSEMATES, YOUR TASK IS AS FOLLOWS.  PICK UP THE PLIERS ON THE TABLE BEFORE YOU.  REMOVE THREE FINGERNAILS.  DO THIS AND YOU WILL BE SAFE FOR ANOTHER DAY.  FAIL AND YOU RISK BEING PLACED IN TONIGHT’S HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION.”

Everybody let out a groan as they digested what they had just been asked to do.  Jules looked like she might vomit and had gone deathly pale.

Damien stood up and went over to her.  He placed an arm around her trembling shoulders.  “Come on,” he said.  “Sit down on the ground with me and take some deep breaths.  You’ll end up panicking otherwise.”

Jules nodded and did as she was told, sitting on the grass.  “Would you blame me for panicking?” she said.  “This is a nightmare.”

Damien looked her in the eyes and made sure he held her gaze before speaking.  “No.  This isn’t a nightmare.  This is just the sick game of a psychopath.  The less we cooperate, the less power he has.  Don’t make the mistake of thinking he is anything more than a man.”

“He might be just a man,” Jade said.  “But right now he’s giving us no choice.  I’m not going to die in here.”  She marched forward, over to the table on the platform.  She picked up a pair of pliers and turned around to face the group.  Her chest heaved in and out as she took several deep breaths.

Then she placed the pliers against her little finger and clamped down hard.  She grunted, yanked and twisted, then let out a sharp yell as her manicured fingernail tore away from the sticky flesh of her nail bed.

She screamed.  “SHIIIITTTBALLS!  Wow…that hurt like a mother!”

“You need to pull two more,” said Alex, wincing as Jade held her bloody nail up in the nose of the pliers.

Jade took a few more deep breaths, seemed to mumble something under her breath, and then quickly clamped down on her engagement finger.  She tore the nail free quickly and growled with the pain.  A series of dry heaves took over her and she had to take deep breaths to keep from vomiting.  She was sweating badly.  Agony etched itself into the lines of her face.

The final nail Jade tore free was from her middle finger.  She screamed again, louder than ever.  It looked like she might pass out, but instead she put down the pliers and simply said, “I’m going to go get a drink.”

“JADE IS IMMUNE FROM THIS EVENING’S VOTE.  CONGRATULATIONS, HOUSEMATE.”

“Bite me,” she said as she left the garden on wobbly legs.

Damien remained sitting on the floor with Jules.  She was leaning up against him now and trembling.

“I’ll go next,” said Alex.

“I think I can do it, too,” said Richard.  “Especially if a bird managed it.”

Damien watched as the two men got to work with the pliers.  They hissed and cursed as they tore their nails loose from their fingertips.  They immediately grew pale and looked near to passing out.  If anything, the two men seemed to find the task much harder than Jade had.  They were close to tears by the time they were done.  Alex’s nose dripped snot and his eyes streamed tears.

“ALEX AND RICHARD ARE IMMUNE TO TONIGHT’S VOTE.  CONGRATULATIONS.”

“Think that drink sounded like a good idea,” said Alex.  “Come on, mate.”

The two of them went after Jade.  The relief of the task being completed was clear on their faces.  They could relax now, at least for the next twenty-four hours.

Damien looked around at the other remaining housemates.  Lewis and Sarah and Tracey were in a huddle and discussing something between themselves.  It didn’t seem like they had any intention of using the pliers.  The same seemed true of Patrick, who walked off without a word and re-entered the house.  Catherine went right behind him.

That just left Danni, Damien, and Jules.  Danni looked down at Damien on the floor and smiled.  “I’m with you.  If I’m going to get tortured and killed, the last thing I’m going to do is make it easy for them.

“Oh, God,” said Jules.  “They’re going to vote for me.  I’m going to end up having to do something even worse, like Chris had to.  I’m going to die.”

“Calm down,” said Damien.  “We’re all going to stick together and get through this.”

Jules pulled away from him.  “No, we’re not.  The maximum number of people that can get through this thing alive is two – and that’s only if they split the prize money.  There’re three of us here right now, so at least one of us – but probably all of us – is going to end up dead.  I’m weak.  I won’t make it.”

“Just calm down.”

Jules sprung to her feet.  “No!  I can’t go in a head to head elimination.  I can’t!”

She ran over to the table and picked up a pair of pliers.  Damien got to his feet and followed after her, although he kept his movement slow, not wishing to add to her panic.

“Get back,” she said, pointing the pliers at him.  “I have to do this.”

Damien wanted to stop her, but he also knew that if she went through with it, she would be safe and, as such, would calm down.

Jules put the pliers against one of her fingernails and yanked.  She screamed out in pain.  The nail had torn in half with a shard still attached to her cuticle.  Damien winced as she dived in again with the nose of the pliers and clamped down on the nail and a sliver of bleeding flesh.  She yelled even louder this time, as she yanked a chunk of her nail bed out along with the nail.  Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she continued on.  She looked up at the sky and screamed.  “Is this what you want, you sick fuck?”

She yanked her pinkie nail free in one go.  Then her engagement finger.  Then her middle finger.  Then her thumb nail.

“Hey, stop,” said Damien.  “You’ve done it.  Stop hurting yourself.”

Jules carried on ripping free her nails.  She managed to take off her index fingernail by the time Damien made it over to her and tore the pliers free from her hand.

He pulled her in tight as she sobbed and bellowed in agony.  She convulsed in his arms as the pain wracked her.  Then her knees folded and she crumpled to the floor and vomited onto the grass.

“Okay,” said Damien.  “It’s over now.  You’re safe.  You were strong and no one can vote for you.  You were strong.”

Jules just sobbed.

The camera and the giant eyeball watched them with indifference.

Danni came over to them both and knelt down.  She placed a hand on Damien’s back and rubbed up and down his spine.  “She might be safe, but let’s just pray that no one votes for us tonight.”

Damien sighed.  He didn’t believe in God, but right now he wished he did.  Because praying felt like a good idea.

3

Damien retrieved his luggage, seeing as how Chris no longer had any claim over it.  He swapped his jeans for a pair of tracksuit bottoms and swapped his button-up shirt for a warm hoodie that hid the collar around his neck.  He felt far better and much readier for any physical challenges that might lie ahead.  But he also felt unclean.  It had been more than seventy-two hours since he’d last washed and there was nowhere, other than the house’s single toilet, where one could conduct any sort of personal hygiene.  He considered using the sink in the kitchen or maybe trying to wash up in the hot tub if things got much worse – which invariably they would.

As he sat alone in the garden, Damien contemplated once again why he was in the situation he was in.  Primarily it was because he had volunteered in order to win the prize money – which was still up for grabs by the sound of things – but he was also sure that none of the housemates were there by random chance.  They had all been chosen for some reason.

The smart-suited gentleman that had visited Damien and Harry’s wood shop several weeks ago had obviously not been a ‘television producer’ looking for ‘ordinary people’ to compete in a game show.  It was obvious now that Damien had been targeted and mislead.  Whether or not that man posing as a producer knew how much Damien had needed the money was unclear.  Perhaps it was just a grim coincidence.  Perhaps not.  Damien would not have even considered entering the house if circumstances were different.

The other housemates would probably all have similar stories of how they had been convinced to be there.  He wondered if the man in the suit had been The Landlord, or just someone working for him.

The biggest question on Damien’s mind, however, was who would want him punished?  Who would want to enact revenge against him?  He had never killed anybody like Chris had, had never wrecked anybody’s life, at least to his knowledge.

Maybe those words beneath the silhouettes on the television screen are the answer.

He thought about some of those words now.  Murderer – was that one meant to be Chris?  No, the one beneath Chris said ‘Thug’.

So does that mean another one of the housemates is a murderer?

There were also the words Predator, Traitor, Peddler, and several others.  Damien had no clue which word was meant to apply to him.  None of them as far as he was concerned.

They must have the wrong guy.  I shouldn’t be here.

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE GATHER IN THE LIVING AREA.”

Here we go again.

Damien went and joined the others inside.  They had all assembled on the sofa.  There was a thickness to the air that was equal parts unwashed sweat, cigarette smoke, and palpitating fear.  Damien felt his own heart beating fast with anticipation.

One of us will likely be dead within the hour.

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE VOTE FOR WHO YOU WISH TO PARTICIPATE IN TONIGHT’S HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION TASK.  JADE, ALEX, JULES, AND RICHARD HAVE IMMUNITY AND CANNOT BE VOTED FOR.”

Once again, Jade started the voting.  “Damien.”

“I vote Damien, too,” said Alex.  He shrugged his shoulders.  “Sorry.”

Damien rolled his eyes.  Everybody seemed to be voting the same as they did yesterday.  Nothing had happened for anybody to change their minds about anything.

“I vote…Sarah,” said Damien, picking pretty much at random.  He didn’t want to condemn anybody to death.

“I vote Sarah, too,” said Danni.

“Why?” Sarah asked, apparently hurt.

Danni stared at her.  “We haven’t been asked to give a reason, but it’s because you hang around with Lewis and whisper whisper whisper.  I think you’re working on your own little game.”

“So are you,” Sarah rebuked.  “I vote for you!”

“I vote for you too,” said Lewis.

Danni chuckled.  “See?  There’s my point.”

“I vote Damien,” said Tracey.

“I vote for Sarah,” said Jules.  “Same reason as Danni.

Catherine surprised everybody by voting Lewis.  She said they had nothing in common, which seemed like a pretty mundane reason considering the situation.

Patrick jumped on Jade and Alex’s bandwagon and voted, “Damien,” while Richard finished off with a vote for Lewis, same as last time.  Again, he didn’t explain why.

“Hey, man,” said Lewis.  “Why you always be voting for me?”

Richard shrugged his shoulders.  “Because I like you least.  Isn’t that the point?”

“But why don’t you like me?”

“Why do you care so much?  We’re all strangers here.”

“HOUSEMATES, YOU HAVE VOTED.  DAMIEN AND SARAH WILL COMPETE IN THE HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION TASK.”

“No!” Sarah screamed.  “I won’t go in that room and play your evil games.”  She suddenly bolted, dodging furniture as she sought a way out.  She fled to the garden, scurried across the grass courtyard and leapt against the far wall, clawing at it as if she hoped to climb it through will power alone.  The other housemates hurried out after her, calling out for her to calm down.  As she jumped up at the wall, trying to drag her way up with her fingernails, her feet slipped out of her heels and left them strewn across the grass.

“Calm down, sweetheart,” said Lewis.  He approached her from behind slowly.  “You’re going to be okay.”

Sarah spun around and faced him.  Her eyes were wide and feral, bleary with tears.  “I’m not going to be okay.  They have us locked up in here like animals in a slaughterhouse.  If I go into that room to do the task, I won’t make it out again.”

“You don’t know that,” said Lewis.  “You might be the winner.  Damien might be the one who dies.”

Thanks, thought Damien.

“And you think that’s okay?” Sarah cried in disbelief.  “What then?  Even if I win, that won’t be the end of it.  There’ll just be another vote.  Who knows what sick, twisted games they have waiting for us.  I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have a choice,” said Jade.  “We’re playing for our lives here.  If you give up then you’re dead for sure.”

“It’s okay for you, Jade.  You’re a bitch.  You won’t think twice about screwing someone over in order to win.  I don’t have that in me.”

“Hey, fuck you,” said Jade.  “I’m trying to help you.  I won’t bother next time, but you’re going in that room whether you like it or not.”

“I will not!”  Sarah turned back around and began scrabbling at the brickwork again.

Lewis reached out a hand to her.  “Darling, there’s no way out of here.”

She spun around to face him again, only this time she shoved him aside and marched back across the courtyard.  She re-entered the house with the other housemates in tow.  No one knew what she was planning to do, but it held their rapt attention like an ensuing train wreck.  They were all happy for her to try and escape, if only to see what happened.

Funny how everyone is content to be a spectator, until it’s their turn.  Then they lose their minds.  Nobody was panicking when it was me in there.

Sarah headed over to the kitchen.  She was clutching at her mousy blonde hair with both hands and letting out a breathy moan.  Madness had taken over her and with each second that passed she seemed to descend more and more into a mental abyss where any rational thought was absent.

She opened one of the kitchen drawers.

“What are you doing?” Damien asked, suddenly getting a bad feeling.

Sarah pulled out a curved knife and pointed it at the housemates.  They all kept their distance behind the counter as she shouted at them.  “Stay back,” she screamed.  “Just stay back.”

“Hey,” said Danni.  “Calm down, sweetheart.  We’ll figure something out.  I…I’ll take your place.  Okay?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Jade.  “You’re talking about your life, Danni.  You can’t volunteer to go in her place.  This is a competition and she has to play by the rules.”

“I don’t care,” Danni said.  “I’ve had enough of this.”

Tracey shrugged her shoulders.  “Just let her.  What difference does it make?”

Sarah laughed, but it was a hysterical, unhinged noise.  “You hear that?” she shouted at the ceiling.  “You here that, Mr-fucking-Landlord?  She’s going to take my place.  She’s going to do the task, so leave me alone.”

There was silence for a moment.

Then the speakers crackled.

“UNNACCEPTABLE, HOUSEMATE SARAH.  YOU WERE VOTED FOR BY YOUR PEERS.  YOU WILL PARTICIPATE IN THE TASK.”

“No, I won’t.”  Snot and tears were now streaming down Sarah’s puffy face.  The knife in her hand wobbled.

“Come on,” said Lewis.  “Give me the knife, darling.  We’ll figure something out.”

She shook her head at him and seemed finally to get a hold of herself.  She took a deep breath and stopped shaking.  “I won’t go in there,” she said in a slow whisper.

Then she ran the knife across her wrist below the steel bracelet.

Blood jetted down her arm and dripped in a steady stream from her fingertips.  She stared at them all with a look of child-like wonder in her eyes.  She almost seemed to smile for a moment.  Perhaps she was glad to have made her own decision, instead of being forced into something she didn’t want to do.

Then her legs buckled.

Lewis tried to grab Sarah, but he wasn’t quick enough and she crumpled to the tiled floor.  The rest of the housemates stood around in shock while she slowly bled to death on the kitchen floor.

4

On the television screen a silhouette changed to a picture of Sarah.  Unlike the one taken of Chris this was a personal photo taken from a previous time.  It was a photo where she was smiling.  Beneath the silhouette was the word THIEF.

A video started playing.

A withered old lady appeared onscreen.  She looked tired and frail, perhaps in her final year.  When she spoke, her voice sounded like rustling leaves.

“When I met George, my best days were behind me.  I was forty-nine years old and divorced.  I didn’t think I would trust a man ever again.  But when I met my George, I had no choice but to fall in love with him.  He was a kind man, a funny man; worked hard every day of his life without a single complaint.  I loved him from the start.  I loved him completely.  His daughter, though, that was another matter.  She only came by when she wanted something – money usually.  When I married her father she made no secret that she did not approve.  She acted like her father was somehow betraying her mother, but the woman had been dead gone nine years – a tragic car accident, God bless her soul.  George still loved her of course – I never resented him for that – but he also loved me.  He provided for me and made me happy.  We had twelve wonderful years together.

Then he got cancer.  Sixty-six years old with only a year to live.  I cursed God for giving him to me for such a short while.  I had wasted so much of my life before I met him, and now I was going to lose him.  But I was thankful for the time we still had together.

We took a trip to Australia while he was still well enough and then came home to spend our last months together.  I retired from work and spent every day with him.  When the time finally came, he told me about his will, told me he was leaving everything to me and that I would be looked after.  I forgot about it for a while, focused only on spending as much time as I could with my George.  I was never interested in his money.

He lasted another week and then passed away in a fit of pain.  I’ll never forget his last, agonising hours.  It haunts me to this day.

I found the will a couple of weeks later amongst the things in his office.  As he had said, it left everything to me, with the exception of a small sum which I was to give to his daughter, Sarah.  Even though she had barely visited her father while he was ill, I was happy to honour my George’s wishes.  I invited her to the house and went through the will with her.  She was angry to receive so little.  She said that I had forced him to sign it all away.  She stormed up to the guest room in a huff and didn’t come back down again all night.

The next day the will was gone and so was Sarah.  As I hadn’t married George – our previous failed marriages had been enough to jade us towards the institution – Sarah was able to contest my claim towards her father’s assets.  She got everything apart from the house, which the court’s awarded to me after having lived there and paid bills for twelve years.  George had left almost two-hundred thousand pounds to me, but it all ended up going to Sarah.  She took it with a smug smile on her face the whole time, even though she knew that her father’s final wishes were being ignored.”

The old woman let her pale lips stretch into an ugly scowl.  She shook her head and looked off camera.  “I couldn’t afford to run the house on my own so I had to sell it.  It was the only part of George I had left.  At first I was going to use the money to place myself in a nice little nursing home, but I decided that without my George there was little point being ‘comfortable’ as my life was already over.  I opted to go into a state care home, where the conditions are of course much poorer.  I’ve been here for more than ten years now.  I’m an old woman; a lonely, bitter woman.  But I kept the money from the house for a rainy day.  I’m finally putting it to good use.

I hope the money was worth it, Sarah, because this is the price you are paying for your selfish ways.  You were a bad daughter to your wonderful father and I hope that when you die, you go to a far different place than him.”

The screen went black.  The silhouettes reappeared.  Ten shadows were left.  Ten words yet to find owners.  The THIEF and the THUG were dead.  Who would be next?

5

It had taken a good part of an hour for Sarah to die.  The blood that pumped from her wrist seemed to go on forever.  They tried to staunch it, by wrapping her arm tightly with a belt from Damien’s luggage, but it had only delayed the inevitable.  The tourniquet was just a band aid on a deep and critical wound.

During this time, while Sarah lay dying on the floor, not a single person had tried to enter the house.  No one had offered medical attention or even acknowledged the incident at all.  Now, more than ever, the housemates realised that someone wanted them dead and that no help was coming.  All they had now was each other, and yet they were also enemies in a game that had become about life and death.

The only reason the cameras were there was to capture their suffering.

Nobody knew what to do with Sarah’s body so they left her on the kitchen tiles for the time being.  Lewis seemed the most upset by her loss, but only marginally.  Obviously, there was only so much they could care about one another after only a few days.  It was clear that Lewis had lost an ally, though, and right now allies were extremely valuable.

“HOUSEMATES.  DUE TO SARAH’S EARLY ELIMINATION FROM THE HOUSE, THE NEXT MOST VOTED-FOR HOUSEMATES WILL PARTICPATE IN THE HEAD TO HEAD TASK.  ALONG WITH HOUSEMATE DAMIEN, BOTH LEWIS AND DANNI WILL NOW COMPETE.  PLEASE STAND BY TO ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.”

“That ain’t fair,” said Lewis.

“Just deal with it,” said Richard.  There was a smirk on his face.  “Everybody gotta go sometime.”

Lewis glared at him.  “Dude, what is your goddamn problem with me?”

“I just don’t like people like you.”

“People like me?  What…you mean because I’m black?”

Richard leant back against the rear of the sofa and smiled calmly.

Lewis shook his head and sighed.  “Man, that ain’t cool.  Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but the world moved on.”

“Don’t talk down to me, nig-”

Lewis squared right up to the bigger man.  “Now I know you weren’t about to say what I think you were about to say.”

Richard laughed.  He wouldn’t look Lewis in the eye, almost as if he couldn’t bear to.

Lewis stiffened.  “Look at me, you racist piece of shit.”

Richard shoved Lewis away from him and then swung his fist.  He punched Lewis on the jaw and sent him reeling to the ground.  Less than a second later, the larger man was stamping on Lewis’s head.  Over and over again.

The sound was sickening.

Damien leapt across the room, tackling Richard to the ground and climbing on top of him.

Richard looked up at Damien and grinned.  “My problem ain’t with you, brother, so get the hell off me.”

Damien shook his head in disgust and got up off the man, but he made sure to stand between him and Lewis.  Lewis was lying on his side, dazed and moaning.  A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth and from his nose.

Damien glared at Richard, but the man seemed proud of his actions.  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“Just looking out for my country.  Apes and ragheads have no place in a Christian land.”

“You’re no Christian,” said Danni.  “You’re a goddamn caveman.”

“You’ll thank me one day, sweetheart.  If we let them take over then we’ll be speaking monkey and living in holes in the ground by the end of the decade.”

“HOUSEMATES, THE DOOR TO THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER IS NOW OPEN.  DAMIEN, DANNI, AND LEWIS, ENTER IMMEDIATELY.”

Lewis was still on the floor and moaning.  Jules was crouched down beside him, trying to rouse him.

Damien looked up and addressed The Landlord.  “We need a minute.  Lewis is hurt.”

“ENTER NOW OR YOUR BRACELETS WILL ACTIVATE.  ALL THREE OF YOU WILL DIE.”

Damien huffed and looked at Danni.  She seemed equally as frustrated.  “This is ridiculous,” he said.  “Come on, let’s try and carry him inside.  We’ll help him through it.”

They went and grabbed Lewis under the armpits.  They managed to get him up into a sitting position when they saw that his left eye was bloodshot and closed over – either from Richard’s fist or from his stamping boot.

That guy is going to pay for this.

With an awkward heave they managed to get Lewis on his feet.  Thankfully he was conscious and managed to stand more or less on his own, but he was extremely groggy and disorientated.  They had to steer him towards the door at the far end of the living area to keep him from wandering off.

“I’ll get the door,” said Danni, leaving Damien to hold onto Lewis on his own.

“Racist motherfucker,” Lewis mumbled, leaning his weight against Damien.  “Gonna…gonna kick his ass once I get this over with.  Once I get this over with.  Once I…  Gonna kick his ass once I get this over with.”

Damien looked at Lewis and noticed that the guy’s pupils were different sizes.  Damien was no doctor, but he guessed it was concussion or maybe something even more serious.  Whatever damage had been inflicted by Richard’s beating would no doubt affect Lewis’s performance in whatever task lay ahead of them.  It was totally unfair.

But neither Danni nor I are responsible.  We just have to do whatever it takes to save our own backsides.

I’ll do my best to help him, but whatever happens to Lewis is beyond our control.

Danni held the door open and Damien helped Lewis pass through it.  Once again Damien was faced with the stark-white cube room.  Chris’s body was no longer there.  Someone had obviously come and moved him.

A clean-up crew.

How many people are working here?  Just the guys in the eyeball jumpers?  Or are there more?  What about the guy in the black overalls?  Is he The Landlord?

In the centre of the room this time was a large iron casket, standing upright and about six foot high.  The front of the casket was heavily rusted and had an opening in the middle about the size of a sheet of A4 paper.  There seemed to be something inside, attached to the back wall.

“HOUSEMATES, THIS IS A TOTAL ELIMINATION TASK.  IT IS ALL OR NOTHING.  IF ALL OF YOU SUCCEED, ALL OF YOU LIVE.  IF ALL OF YOU FAIL, ALL OF YOU DIE.”

Damien exchanged a glance with Danni.  The chance that they all might live was somewhat of a relief, but the ominous cabinet in the middle of the room gave them little cause for hopeful thinking.

Lewis didn’t even seem to realise what was going on.  He was slumped up against the wall by the door they had entered through.  He was muttering nonsense to himself.

“HOUSEMATES, YOUR TASK IS TO PRESS THE BUTTON AT THE BACK OF THE CABINET.  IT IS THAT SIMPLE.  GOOD LUCK.”

Damien stared into the hole of the cabinet and noticed the big red button inside.  It was no different to the emergency buttons you found at the bottom of escalators to halt them during an accident.

“We just have to press the button?” said Danni.  “Seems a little simple.”

Damien breathed out through his nostrils.  “Yeah.”

Then a whirring sound filled the room and they all saw the true nature of the task.  Inside the casket, a pair of metal fan blades began spinning in opposite directions.  They passed rhythmically over the gap in the middle of the casket, making access to the button perilous if ill-timed.

Danni groaned.  “God, we’re going to lose our arm if we stick it in there.”

“Not necessarily,” said Damien.  He was paying close attention to the whomp whomp of the passing blades.  “They’re not spinning that fast.  There’s a perhaps a second – maybe a little less – where the gap is clear.  If we time it just right, we should be able to press the button and get our arm back out before the blades catch us.”

“I’m sure it’s not as easy as you make it sound.”

Damien took a long swallow.  “I’ll go first.”

He approached the casket and the spinning blades.  His eyes fell on the thick rust stains that surrounded the enclosure, but he quickly realised that they were something else.

Bloodstains!

Does that mean that people have been here before?  Have there been other victims going through this in the past?

What is this place?

Damien could feel the cool air rushing from the blades.  Whomp whomp whomp!

He took a deep breath and tried to sync his inhalations and exhalations with the spinning of the blades.  He was still sure that there was a brief window between each crossing where a person could get their hand in and out.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

In…

Out.

In…

Out.

Whomp whomp whomp.

Damien inched his hand closer.  Close enough that he could feel the vibrations of the air on his fingertips.  The button at the back of the closet seemed tantalisingly close.  The task seemed so simple.  But the timing was imperative.

Whomp whomp whomp.

Breathe in….

Breathe out.

His fingers inched closer.

Come on.  I can do this.  Just pay attention to the blades.

Whomp whomp whomp.

Damien jabbed his hand forward like the head of an uncoiling viper.  His fingertips hit hard against the rubbery plastic of the button.

He yanked his arm back.

Whomp!

The fans continued spinning.  Damien’s arm was still attached.  He was panting like he’d just run a marathon.

“CONGRATULATIONS, DAMIEN.  YOU HAVE PASSED THIS TASK.”

Damien took in a relieved gasp of air.  “Thank God for that.”

“Guess, I’m next,” said Danni.  By the nervous twang of her voice, it was clear that she was not confident.

“Just take a few seconds and get the timing right,” Damien told her.  “You can do this.  Just take some deep breathes and watch the blades.”

Danni shook her head and smiled.  “I’ll do my best.”

Damien took a look at Lewis while Danni stepped up to the casket.  “Hey, man,” he said.  “You got to snap out of whatever daze you’re in.  This is serious.”

Lewis looked at Damien, but his eyes were not focusing at all.  “I got this, man.  Don’t….don’t worry about me…about me.”

Damien sighed and turned around just in time to see Danni shove her hand into the gap and press the button.

Whomp!

She turned around and faced him, a great big smile on her face.  She flapped her arms excitedly.  “I did it.  Fuck, I did it.”

Damien nodded and smiled.  “Good going.  See, I told you that you could do it.”

“What are we going to do about him?”  Danni motioned towards Lewis who was still slumped up against the wall and bleeding.

“I don’t know,” Damien admitted.  “He’s totally out of it.”

“HOUSEMATE DANNI, YOU HAVE SUCCEEDED AT THE TASK.  HOUSEMATE LEWIS, PLEASE PROCEED TO THE CENTRE OF THE ROOM.  YOU MUST MAKE YOUR ATTEMPT.”

Without argument Lewis staggered away from the wall and approached the casket.  From the blank expression on his face, he was either extremely confident or did not understand what he was doing.

“Be careful,” Damien told him.  “You have to time it just right.”

Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!

“I got this!” Lewis said cockily, but there was a slight slurring to his words.

He’s on another planet.  I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.

Damien and Danni exchanged a worried glance and then watched Lewis make his attempt.  He moved his hand forward slowly, a little bit at a time.  It seemed like he understood the danger and was being cautious.  Damien was relieved.

Maybe he might just do this.

Then Lewis wobbled drunkenly on his feet and fell against the casket.  His arm went into the hole.  He didn’t bring it back out again.

Blood arced into the air.  It filled the room in a fine mist and spattered Damien’s face.

Lewis tumbled backwards and began giggling.  His right arm was missing from just below the elbow and a jagged shard of bone jutted out of the stump.  The blades inside the casket were stained red and making a grinding sound as the bracelet from Lewis’s severed wrist rattled around inside it.

Danni turned around and gagged.

Lewis continued giggling as some kind of shock response flooded his system with euphoric hormones.  He suddenly lost the ability to stand and crumpled to the floor as though his skeleton had turned into custard.

Damien dropped down beside Lewis and urgently placed his hands on the bleeding stump of his arm.  The blood came thick and fast.

“What do I do?” Damien cried.  “I can’t stop the bleeding”

“Do nothing,” Danni said, shaking her head and sighing.  “There’s nothing you can do.”

“HOUSEMATES DAMIEN AND DANNI, PLEASE EXIT THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.  THE TASK IS OVER.  CONGRATULATIONS.”

Damien gazed down at Lewis.  The guy was still giggling but the sound was becoming weak and pitiful.  He was fading fast.

“We can’t just leave him.”

Danni took Damien by his arm.  “There’s nothing you can do.  Come on.”

Damien allowed himself to be led out the room.  When the door locked behind him, he couldn’t help thinking: Three down.  Nine to go.

6

On the television screen, one of the silhouettes changed to a picture of Lewis’s dead body.  The word TRICKSTER was written beneath it.

A new image appeared on screen.  It seemed to be some sort of rap sheet, like the ones police kept on criminals.  In the top left corner was a photograph of Lewis with thick dreadlocks and a goatee.  He looked like a different person – only the eyes were the same.  To the right of the photo was a list of crimes: Counterfeiting Notes & Coins, Forgery, Fraud by False Representation, Internet Fraud, Conspiracy to Obtain Money Transfer by Deception.

A news report began playing.  It featured a stern-faced police officer standing behind a pedestal and addressing a forest of microphones.

“Mr George Ochonogor is responsible for crimes amounting to many millions of pounds, obtained via confidence tricks and several internet-based deceptions often referred to as 419 scams.  However, I am happy to report that a large part of that sum has been recovered.  The suspect is, however, still at large.  Mr Ochonoger is a master of deception.  He has a fluent grasp of many accents, most notably from the regions of Manchester, London, Birmingham, as well as his natural Nigerian dialect.  He has lived in the country now for over a decade and has become naturalised with a keen ability to blend in.  During that time Mr Ochonoger has been responsible for the destruction of many lives.  The people he has stolen from demand that he be made to pay for his crimes.  If anybody has any information, please come forward.”

The video finished playing.

7

Jade and Tracey were pretty drunk.  They had necked perhaps four bottles of wine in the last few hours.  It had also been noted that the wine they’d drunk on previous nights had been replaced with new bottles and a carton of cigarettes.

“Why are they feeding us and giving us booze?” Jade slurred.  “If they’re jush gonna kill usssh.”

“Probably to keep us docile,” said Richard as he sipped from a beer can and puffed on a fag.  “Make us all drunk and stupid.”

“If you think that,” said Danni.  “Then why are you drinking?”

“Because there’s naff-all else to do, sweetheart.  Only thing a man likes to do is drink and fuck.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Damien.

Richard grunted.  “What’s climbed up your arse?  You look right pissed off.”

“Why do you think that is?” said Danni.  “Lewis is dead because of you.  If you hadn’t of stomped on his head he might have had a chance of doing the task.  I hope you saw what you did to him, you wicked man.”

Richard smiled.  “Oh, I was watching, sweetheart.  I watched every second.  I enjoyed watching that bloody mongrel get put down like the animal he is.  If I ever get to meet The Landlord, I’ll have to shake his hand.”

“You’re a piece of work.  A man is dead and you laugh and insult him?”

“An animal is dead.  You all saw what his crimes were.  He was a parasite, just like the rest of them.”

“Makes me wonder what your crimes must be,” said Danni, narrowing her eyes at him.  “I bet it’s worse than anything Lewis ever did.”

“Sweetheart, if you don’t take your beady eyes of me right now, you’re gonna lose ‘em.  I ain’t guilty of nothing, so keep your goddamn trap shut.”

Damien picked up his glass of water from the table and took a very slow, very long sip.  Then he placed the empty glass back down on the table with a soft clink!

“Richard,” Damien said calmly.  “I want you to listen very carefully to me, okay?”

Richard just raised an eyebrow at him.  The man seemed amused, yet slightly apprehensive.

Damien took a slow breath in through his mouth and let it out through his nostrils.  “I am going to say this just once, Richard, so I hope very much that you listen.  I am not a violent man, but once upon a time I was.  In fact, I was a mean, tracksuit-wearing, drug-snorting, beat the shit out of you, thug.   Lucky enough for you, Richard, I decided to change my ways and live a peaceful existence.  I have a good friend to thank for that; he showed me the light.  Tonight, however, I am willing to make an exception.  You see, if I hear one more tiny, piddly, microscopic morsel of racist, sexist, disrespectful rubbish spew forth from your ignorant fucking mouth, I am going to punch you in your windpipe so hard that all you’ll be able to do, while I stamp your skull into the ground like an orange, is cry out for your ugly mother.”

Richard smirked defiantly, but Damien could tell that the man’s confidence was rocked.  His cocky, self-assurance had been unbalanced.  His testicles were shrinking.  Damien couldn’t let the little peanuts recover.

“Now, you might be thinking to yourself that I am just making an empty threat, that my bark is worse than my bite.  That’s why I’m asking you, right now, Richard, if you do not believe me, come and try me.  Come over here and I will tear you apart like wrapping paper at Christmas.  I will make you part of the carpet.  Because you see, you racist piece of shit, I will beat you so bad that your goddamn soul will be bruised.  They’ll have to bury you in a coffin full of Tupperware containers.”

Richard went to speak but Damien waved a hand.

“Richard, if you want to see how sharp my teeth are, just open your mouth one more time.  That’s all it’s going to take.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed.  His lips kept moving as if he was unsure whether or not to speak – whether or not to answer the challenge.  Eventually he just got up from the sofa and took his beer and cigarette away with him into the garden.

All of the other housemates stared at Damien with wide, unblinking eyes.  He knew their looks well.  It was the expression of fear and respect.  It was a look he used to get all the time on the Birmingham council estates.

Guess I still got it.

He leaned back against the sofa and took a deep breath.  His knee was shaking and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his system.  What he was feeling was something he loathed and constantly fought to keep at bay, so much so that it sometimes made him feel nauseous.  It was a thirst for violence.

Yet, as much as he hated it, God did it feel good.

Day 4

Damien had decided to take up one of the rickety beds in the bedroom across the garden.  He’d chosen it last night, right after he had helped Alex drag Sarah’s body from the kitchen over to a spot at the far corner of the courtyard.  Everybody wanted her body as far away as possible.  Jules and Danni had cleaned up all the blood from the tiles.

The mattress on which Damien now lay was ripped, its springs digging at his back, but it was still a bed; just being in one made sleep easier.  It was a ritual the body needed.  It was still unclear why The Landlord had provided the housemates with only six beds, but Damien imagined it was just another way of breaking their will.

Besides Damien, only Alex, Jules, and Danni chose to sleep in the bedroom.  Jade, Catherine, Richard, Tracey, and Patrick slept in the living area on the sofa.  Two groups had formed and Damien reluctantly accepted that the other group was closer-knit than the one he was a part of.  Alex, for example, had voted for Damien twice now, and Jules was skittish and likely to do whatever was best for her.  Ironically, the only person he trusted at all was Danni; the one who had said from the beginning that they should be partners, that they were the same.

I just hope I get a break from the head to head eliminations.  I’m not sure I can take another one.

“You awake?” Danni whispered from the next bed over.  She was clutching at her metal collar and trying to scratch at the aggravated skin beneath.

“Yeah.  I’ve been awake a little while, just thinking.”

“Me too.  I have no idea what time it is.  I think it’s almost midday.”

Damien sat up on the bed and rubbed sleep from his eyes, adjusted his collar and bracelets.  Scabs had formed underneath.  “I think that, too.  There’ll be a task to do soon.”

Danni groaned.  “Can’t wait.  Wonder what sick torment will be imposed on us today.”

“Come on, guys. I don’t want to think about it.”  It was Jules speaking from another one of the beds.  “My fingers are killing me after what I had to do yesterday.  The pain has kept me awake all night.  Don’t think I can go through any more torture.  I certainly can’t cope getting voted into a head to head tonight.”

“Maybe you won’t have to,” said Danni.

“What do you mean?” Jules asked.

“Well, if we all agree to vote for another member of the group, we should be okay.”

“Not necessarily,” said Alex, the final member of their group joining in the conversation.  “There’s always at least two that go into the head to heads.  We would only be able to vote one person in.  The rest of them would probably be voting for one of us.  Plus we don’t know who will be immune yet.”

“Well, okay,” said Danni.  “I suppose I’m just trying to make the point that we can help our odds a little.”

“I like the idea,” said Jules.  “Who would we vote for?”

“Dunno, who would you like to?”

“Jade, maybe?  Or Richard.  He’s pretty horrible.”

“It’s not fair to conspire,” Damien said.

Alex huffed.  His blond hair was fanned out like a peacock.  “And you don’t think they’re planning against us?”

“Exactly,” said Danni.  “I think we should all vote Richard.  After what he did to Lewis, we can’t risk having him in the house any longer.  He could attack one of us next.”

“I sorted the Richard problem out,” said Damien.  “He got the message.”

Danni shrugged.  “You don’t know that.  He might just be thinking things through; planning a way to take you out.  You were pretty harsh to him last night, not that the pig didn’t deserve it.”

“Okay,” said Jules.  “I’m going to vote for Richard.”

“Me too,” Alex agreed.

“And me,” Danni added.  “How about you Damien?  You with us?”

Damien looked at them all, absorbed their apprehensive stares, and then allowed himself to be convinced.  As much as he didn’t like it, he accepted that this was how the game would have to be played.  He didn’t want to face another head to head.  It was somebody else’s turn.

“Okay,” he said.  “We’ll vote for Richard.”

2

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE GIVE YOUR VOTES.”

“I vote for Richard,” Danni said immediately, following the plan they had made earlier in the bedroom.

“Me too,” said Alex.

Richard scowled at him.  “Big mistake, little man.  You better hope I don’t come back out.”

Alex fiddled with his tie nervously.  “It’s nothing personal, Richard.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“I vote for Richard too,” said Patrick.  “You can threaten me all you like, young man, but you won’t frighten me.”

Richard huffed.  “We’ll see about that, Grand dad.”

Damien was surprised to see someone on the ‘other team’ voting for one of their own.  Perhaps they were not as close knit as he’d believed.  Patrick seemed, at the very least, to be a neutral party.  The older man had also stood up to Chris, too, during the first voting session.

The guy obviously doesn’t like bullies.  Good on him.

Damien cleared his throat.  “I vote Richard.”

“Screw, you all,” he said.  “Vote for me, I don’t give a damn.  Whoever is up against me is worm food.”

“I vote for Alex,” said Tracey.  “He clicks his fingers all the time and it’s really annoying.”

Alex became flustered.  “What?  You’re going to vote for me because of a habit?”

Tracey shrugged her shoulders.  “It’s annoying.”

“I vote for Alex as well,” said Richard, beginning to chuckle.  He nodded to Alex and begun laughing harder.  “Looks like you’re about to shit your pants, mate.  That’s two votes for you.  I fancy my chances against a faggot banker.”

Alex was turning pale.  “Oh, God.”

Catherine gave her vote next.  “I vote for Danni.  I’m tired of having to stare at her legs all the time.  I’ve never seen such short skirts.”

I know what you mean, thought Damien.

Danni shrugged and seemed to take the comment in her stride.

Jade was the only one with a vote left.  She used to it to seal Alex’s fate.

“HOUSEMATES RICHARD AND ALEX WILL COMPETE IN TONIGHT’S HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION.  PLEASE STAND BY.”

Alex began breathing erratically, pacing back and forth.

Richard sneered at him and laughed.  “That’s it, mate.  I would be shitting myself too.  You ain’t got no chance against me.”

“Shut it, Richard,” Damien warned him.

“Else what?  You’ll give me another one of your tough guy speeches.  Give me a break.”

Damien decided to take another tack.  He went over to Alex and took the anxious man to one side.  “Don’t listen to him, Alex.  He’s just trying to get inside your head.  You have as much chance of coming through this as him.  Take it from a guy who has already survived two of these things.  Just stay calm and focus.”

Alex pulled his tie loose, unbuttoned his collar.  “I can’t stay calm, man.  I’m shitting a brick here.  What the hell will they have me do?”

“I don’t know,” said Damien.  “Just keep your mind in the moment.  You think ahead and you’ll just make yourself panic.”

Alex took some deep breathes and then nodded enthusiastically.  The smell of sweat wafted from his pores.  “You’re right.  I just got to go in there ninja-style and do what I have to do.  No fear, right?”

“Exactly.  No fear.”

“HOUSEMATES ALEX AND RICHARD, ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.”

“Christ, here goes,” said Alex.  He took a few moments to collect himself and then clicked his fingers like a pair of guns.  “Let’s do this.”

Richard positively swaggered over to the Elimination Chamber door.  It was unlikely that the guy was completely without fear, but he was doing a good job of masking it.  It was more than likely just a mind game to try and unnerve Alex.  In all honesty it was a smart thing to do.

Damien sat down on the sofa in the living area and stared at the viewing screen.  Everybody else took a seat around him.

“You’ll be able to see everything from here,” said Patrick.  “We’ve watched your last two tasks.”

Damien stared at the television as it switched from displaying the grid of silhouettes to a live video feed that was coming from inside the white cube room.

Alex and Richard were now inside.  The door had closed behind them.  In front of the two men was an aluminium table with a hose attached at one end.  Two pipes stuck up from the centre of the table about a foot apart.

Damien groaned.  “What the hell have they got in store this time?”

“HOUSEMATES RICHARD AND ALEX, WELCOME TO THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.  YOUR TASK IS SIMPLE…”

Two gouts of flame ignited from the two steel pipes on the aluminium table.

“HOLD YOUR HAND OVER THE FLAME.  WHOEVER LASTS THE LONGEST WINS.  THE LOSER WILL BE EVICTED.”

The sound feed coming from inside the room was crystal clear.  Damien could hear everything, could hear the other men’s fearful breathing.  Richard even went so far as to voice his reluctance.

“You bleeding psycho.  Is this how you get your jollies?  You better hope we don’t meet.”

“HOUSEMATES, YOU MUST BEGIN THE TASK IN THREE SECONDS OR BOTH OF YOU WILL BE DECLARED LOSERS.  3…2…1…

Richards and Alex both sucked in a breath and thrust their palms over the red hot flame coming from the pipes.  The flaming apparatus was not dissimilar to high school Bunsen burners, but with a far more morbid purpose.

Both men started to yell.  Richard let out a manly bellow, but Alex’s screams were like that of a child.

The resolution of the viewing screen in the living area was so high that Damien could see the smoke trails beginning to form.  He could see the men’s flesh begin to blister and boil at the edges.  He could only imagine the damage being done to their hands.

Alex fell forward onto the table, but kept his hand in place.  He was making animal grunting noises and stamping his feet.  Richard gritted his teeth and tensed his entire body, went still like a statue.  He was completely silent now and took deep, slow breaths, almost as if he were trying to meditate through the pain.

“This is sick,” said Tracey.  “I can smell them burning.”

Damien couldn’t smell anything and wondered if the woman was exaggerating or if her horrified mind had merely created the imagined odour of singed flesh.

Alex began to sag, his knees bending, his legs bowing.  Sweat poured out of him in great gouts and his eyes began to roll back in his head.

Then he slumped to the floor.

Richard saw that his competitor had taken his palm away from the flame and quickly followed suit.  He yanked away his own hand and backed into the nearest wall.  He was snarling with pain, but also had a relieved grin on his face.

“HOUSEMATE ALEX, YOU HAVE LOST THIS TASK.  YOU ARE ELIMINATED FROM THE COMPETITION.”

Alex tried to get to his feet but was only able to make it to his knees.  He clutched his burned raw hand against his stomach while reaching at the ceiling with his other.  “No, please,” he begged.  “Don’t kill me.  Please, just-”

Alex’s words were cut off.  His eyes bulged.  Blood escaped his nose.  He clutched at his wrists desperately, but after only a few seconds, he collapsed face down on the floor.  He died the exact same way as Chris, poisoned by the neurotoxin.

“CONGRATULATIONS, HOUSEMATE RICHARD.  PLEASE LEAVE THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.  BANDAGES AND ANTISEPTIC HAVE BEEN PROVIDED IN THE PANTRY.  PLEASE TEND TO YOUR WOUNDS.

3

The customary video, intended to condemn Alex, appeared onscreen.  Everybody sat quietly on the sofa while it played.  It began with the word ‘COWARD’ being displayed on screen.

A CCTV feed began.  It was in black and white and seemed to have been recorded at night.  The scene showed an empty road, a zebra crossing in the foreground.

A stranger appeared on the screen.  It was a young woman.  She was dressed as though she’d been on a night out, high heels and glitzy dress.  She was about halfway across the zebra crossing when a long silver Mazda hit her.  Fortunately the car had only been travelling at about 20mph, but that just made it even more bizarre that the driver hadn’t managed to stop in time.

Then it became clear.  The CCTV images showed a clearly inebriated man falling out of the Mazda.  The man was undoubtedly Alex if the platinum blond hair was anything to go by.  He was wearing a crumpled suit and had party streamers hanging from his neck.  He’d obviously been at some sort of do; perhaps some opulent function arranged by the bank.

Alex stared down at the woman on the ground and shook his head in obvious horror.  The victim was badly injured, but still conscious.  She reached out to Alex weakly.

He continued staring down at her for a moment longer.

Then he got back in his car and drove away.

The CCTV video feed ended and a young woman in a wheelchair appeared on screen.  A huge divot of missing flesh scarred the left side of her face.  She was smiling, but the expression was ugly.  When she spoke she sounded manic.  “I was pregnant, you bastard.  But I found you.  Ha! I found you, you bastard.  I know who you are, Alex Strickland.  Now you’re going to pay.”

The video ended.  A picture of Alex’s dead face appeared amongst the silhouettes.

Another one down.

4

The mood was sombre.  Night had fallen over the house like a clinging blanket.  The garden outside was nothing but a black square through the window.  The remaining housemates were sharing a couple of bottles of wine, but no one was hitting the alcohol as hard as before.  Nobody had even spoken in the last hour or so.  Even Richard was contemplative as he picked at the bandages he had taken from the pantry and applied to his severely burned hand.  Nobody had offered to help him.

“We’re so screwed,” said Jules.  “Alex was a big time banker.  The people doing this to us don’t care about the consequences.  We’re just going to disappear off the face of the earth as far as the outside world is concerned.”

“Does anybody even know where we are?” Patrick asked.  His skinny neck looked odd inside the large metal collar.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Damien answered.  “I looked under my hood when we were on the bus.  I think we’re pretty far north, in the Highlands or something.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow at him.  “You managed to take a look?  Did you see anything at all?”

“Just hills and mud.  Like I said, the middle of nowhere.”

Everybody seemed to deflate.

“So even if we get away, there’s nowhere to run,” said Jade.

Damien shrugged.  “Who knows?  I doubt they plan on letting any of us get back to civilisation.  They can’t have us exposing what’s going on here.”

“What about the winners, though?” Jules asked.  “They said we can still win the money.  Surely they will let the winners go.”

“I doubt it.”

“It’s still the only chance we have,” said Patrick.  “I’m still intending to win if I can.  I don’t want to see anybody else hurt, but I’m going to do what I have to; anything that means me staying alive.”

“That’s fine,” said Damien.  “Long as you can live with the rest of us being dead, more power to you.”

“What choice do I have?” said Patrick.  “We’re all in the same boat here.”

Everybody went back to being silent.  There was no way around the fact that they could only live by witnessing the death of the others.  It seemed like nobody wanted to converse for fear of getting to know each other.  It would only make the days ahead harder.

More difficult to watch a friend die than a stranger.

Damien could sense any willingness for teamwork drain away as individual preservation became the new priority.  It was no longer about avoiding the vote; it was about surviving inside the elimination chamber once your number was up.

“We should try to escape,” said Tracey.  “I would rather die fighting than let someone order me around like a play toy.”

Jade shook her head.  “If we start trying to get out they’ll just switch our bracelets on.  They could kill us in seconds.”

“If we all try to escape,” said Patrick, “we will end up dead.  At least if we play the game two of us might live.  Or maybe even just one, but that’s better than none.”

Damien kept thinking about the notion of escaping.  It was a pretty pointless pursuit, but something kept tickling at the edges of his mind, a thought trying to find its way to his brain.

He stood up from the sofa and went over to the kitchen.  While he was still trying to grasp the thing that was niggling at him, he looked around at the cupboards and appliance.  He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for but his gaze settled on some old egg shells and a carton of milk.  An empty bottle of wine lay on its side on one of the counters.

That was when it occurred to him.

The alcohol.  They’ve been restocking the pantry.  They even left bandages and anti-septic in there for Richard earlier.

As Damien thought about the housemate’s recent movements, he became certain that nobody from the outside had entered the house, which meant that the only way they could restock the pantry was if they did so from outside.

There must be a door at the back of the pantry.  There has to be for them to keep filling up the room with alcohol and supplies.

Damien turned his gaze slowly to the pantry door.  He wondered if he was being watched right now, recorded by the unseen cameras that must have adorned the many corners of the house.

Slowly, he inched towards the pantry, letting out a soft whistle to try and act like he was just killing time and going through his thoughts.  He started to think about his next move.  Even if he found a secret doorway, it would likely be locked.  Even if it wasn’t, he was still at a massive disadvantage due to the toxic bracelets clamped around his wrists.

Still, like Catherine said, I think I would rather go down fighting.  If I can take a few lumps out of my captors then all the better.

Damien positioned himself in front of the pantry door and placed his fingers around the handle.  He pushed down and pulled the door open carefully.

“What are you doing?” Danni called over to him.

Damien flinched and spun around.  He realised that his heart was beating fast.  He had to talk slowly in order to remain calm.  He gave Danni a smile.  “Just looking for some snacks,” he said.

“We’ve put them all in the cupboards.  What do you fancy?”

“I erm…was just looking if there was anything else.  They might have restocked us.”

“I checked a little while ago,” said Jade.  “But you can grab us another bottle of wine if you’d like.”

Damien nodded.  “Will do.”  He turned back to the pantry.  The door had closed when he span around, so he opened it again and looked inside.  Other than a few crates of beer and several bottles of wine and some liquor, there was nothing inside except for empty space.  He examined the cramped area, searching for a doorway or hatch.  All he found was smooth walls on all sides.

His head dropped.  He let out a sigh.

How the hell are they getting into the pantry if not through a door or hatchway?

As Damien’s gaze fell to the floor, he spotted something.  The bottom of the pantry was carpeted.  The raggedy beige pile went from the doorway up to the back of the closet-like space.  On the left and right of the floor the carpet curled up against the skirting board, but at the back of the closet it did not – it was flat.  The reason it remained flat was because it went right under the wall and continued to a space beyond.  The wall at the back of the pantry was not a solid structure.  It had been placed down on top of the carpet.

It’s a partition.  Maybe they just slide it away or pull it back from the other side.

Carefully, hoping that the cameras were not picking up the inside of the small room, Damien rapped his knuckles against the partition wall.  It rattled and vibrated.  It was not secure.

Without thinking about the consequences, Damien rocked back and kicked out as hard as he could.  The partition skidded backwards along the carpet and then fell flat with a whomph of air escaping from underneath.

Damien wandered into the secret room and had no time to react as the man in black overalls struck him in the face.  He tumbled into the wall and tripped over the tangle of his own legs.  He slid down to the floor, looking up to see that he was in some kind of storage room.  There was a heavy, steel door at the far end.

The man in black overalls hopped forward and booted Damien in the chin.  “The game isn’t over yet, son!  So you’re going to get your ass back in that house and play along.”

Damien spat blood and scowled up at the man.  “I’m done being your bitch.  You want to kill me, do it now.  Tell whoever arranged this to go suck off a tramp because that’s all they’re good for!”

The man in black overalls took a run up and swung another kick at Damien’s face.  Damien managed to tumble aside and avoid the blow.  With the other man off balance, he scrambled up to his feet and got himself some space to fight back.

He put his dukes up and spat some more blood onto the carpet.  “Come on then, fuckface.  Let’s see how hard you really are.”

The man in black overalls glared at Damien and then came right at him.

Damien fought dirty.  He faked a wide hook with his right, but jabbed out with his left and struck the man in the throat, who immediately stumbled backwards, choking and spluttering.

Damien lashed out again and kicked the man’s legs from under him, sending him crashing onto his back, now winded as well as choking.  Damien stood over him, reading to put the man down for good.  “You ain’t shit, son,” he said, raising his foot ready to stamp.

Pain shot through Damien’s wrists.  He staggered sideways and then fell to his knees.  There was fire in his veins.  The bracelets had activated.  His body was being flooded with the toxin.  He clawed at them, ripping off a layer of skin.

This is it!  They’re going to kill me.

Least I got a few digs in.

The man in black overalls hacked and coughed, caught his breath.  He climbed back to his feet and grabbed a hold of Damien’s collar.  He began dragging him along the floor like a bag of sand.

Upside down, Damien’s head fell back and he saw the other housemates standing in the entryway he’d created when he’d kicked down the partition wall.

“Get back inside the house now!” The man in black overalls shouted at them all.  “Or you will all be dead in less than one minute.”

To Damien’s disappointment, the other housemates all complied.  They scampered back inside and allowed the man in black overalls to drag him through the pantry and into the kitchen.

“Why are you doing this?” Danni whimpered.

“Shut up.  Everybody go and sit on the sofa.”

Damien moaned as he was harshly dumped on the tiled floor of the kitchen.  The man in black overalls stared down at him and shook his head.  “You just made a big fucking mistake.”

The man in black overalls left.

Damien lay on his side and moaned.  Danni leapt up from the sofa and came running over to him.  She knelt down beside him.  “Are you okay?  Did they poison you?”

“Y…yeah, but I think I’m okay.  The pain is going away.  They must have activated the collar.”

Jules had come over, too, and was staring at Damien with worried eyes.  “What did you do?  What just happened?”

He sat up and caught his breath.  “I found a secret compartment.  I didn’t think about it, just tried to get through.”

“But didn’t you think that they would just use the bracelets to control you?”

“Of course I did, but I didn’t care.  I wanted to do something to fight back.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t do the same,” said Catherine.  “Perhaps that was our only chance.”

“What could we have done?” Patrick asked.  “Nothing, that’s what.”

“Would have been worth trying.”

“No point talking about it now,” said Richard.  “It’s done.”

Feeling a little better, Damien managed to climb up onto his feet.  He stumbled forwards but caught himself on the kitchen counter.  He held himself there as he addressed the rest of the group.

“These people deserve to pay,” he told them.  “Whatever any of us has done in the past, nobody has the right to judge us outside of the law.  Whoever is running this show is obviously getting rich by hosting some sort of revenge-a-thon.  While you might not admit it, I’m sure some of you can probably work out who has placed you here?”

Everyone averted their eyes and shifted nervously on the spot.

Damien nodded.  “Right, well, whether we admit to it or not, there is still a murderer, a predator, a peddler, a crusader, a whore, a traitor, an abuser, and a cheat here.  We have all been bought and paid for.  Do you really think they’re going to let the winner go?  What about the person that paid to see their death?  Do they get a refund?”

“Who cares?” Richard said, bashing his hand down on the counter and wincing as he realised it was his burnt one.  “We can’t do anything.  We try to take a shit without their approval and they can kill us dead.  These bleedin’ bracelets…”

Damien nodded.  “I know.  We are in a bad situation.  All I am asking you to do is to seize an opportunity if one presents itself.  If you get a chance to fight back, take it.  That’s what I did.  At least now I can die knowing that I kicked that pussy’s ass.  Even more satisfying is that he knows I kicked his ass, too.  Even if only for a few minutes, I took back the power they had over me.”

Danni blew air into her cheeks and then let out a chuckle.  “Alright, Damien.  If I have a chance to scratch their eyes out, I promise I’ll take it.”

“Me too,” said Tracey.

“And me,” said Jules in a quiet whimper.

“Don’t have to tell me,” said Jade.  “I would have done that anyway.  These wankers have it coming to them.”

Catherine and Patrick didn’t speak, they both just nodded.

Richard stared at Damien for a long time.  It started to become uncomfortable but then he finally decided to speak.  “For once I agree with you.  I got a lot of respect for what you just did.  Pity you didn’t kill the bastard.”

Damien huffed.  “Believe me, I was only seconds away.”

“HOUSEMATE DAMIEN, YOU HAVE COMMITED A GROSS VIOLATION OF THE COMPETITION RULES.  YOU TRIED TO ESCAPE.  THIS CONSTITUTES A FAILURE TO PARTICIPATE.”

Damien leant back against the kitchen counter and ran a hand through his short hair.  “Then kill me then.  I’m done with this.”

“ALL HOUSEMATES WILL BE PUNISHED.  YOU HAVE EXACTLY THREE MINUTES UNTIL YOUR BRACELETS RELEASE A LETHAL DOSE OF TOXIN.  YOU WILL ALL DIE.”

“Goddamnit!” Richard yanked at his left bracelet, but of course it was useless.  He glared at Damien.  “Good job fixing it, hero.  Now we’re all going to die.”

“Why would they do this?” asked Danni.  “Their whole plan is ruined if they kill us all.”

“This can’t be happening,” said Damien.  The burden of putting his peers in jeopardy was already crushing him.  “It doesn’t make sense.  I broke the rules, not any of you.”

“Maybe your escape attempt screwed everything up,” said Jade.  “Maybe they can’t continue with the game now that you found a way out.”

Everybody fumbled with their bracelets, the conversation now over as desperation set in and doom approached.  They all knew trying to get the shackles off would be futile, but the alternative was to stand there and accept death.

“HOUSEMATES, YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES UNTIL YOU DIE.  IF YOU WISH TO LIVE, YOU MUST CHOOSE A SINGLE HOUSEMATE TO SACRIFICE THEIR LIVES TO SAVE THE REST OF YOU.  EITHER ONE OF YOU DIES VOLUNTARILY WITHIN THE NEXT TWO MINUTES, OR YOU WILL ALL DIE.”

Jules shook her head.  “What?  They want us to kill someone?”

Damien sighed.  His empty stomach grumbled.  “This is my true punishment for breaking the rules.  Best way to break someone’s will is to make them watch while their actions hurt those close to him.  Well, I don’t expect any of you to pay for my decisions.  I should be the one to die.”

“No way,” said Danni.  “You said we were going to stand up to them.”

Damien headed over to the kitchen’s cutlery drawer.  He looked each of them in the eye.  “And I hope that you do stand up to them.  I already have.  I can die with my self-respect intact.”

“HOUSEMATES, YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE.”

“What do we do?” Tracey asked.

“Nothing,” said Damien.  “Let me handle this.”  He rooted around in the drawer and pulled out a serrated bread knife.  It wasn’t very sharp but he thought it would do the job if he sawed hard enough on his wrist.

“You can’t do this,” said Danni.  “We need you.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you.  I’m obviously here for a reason; because I hurt somebody.  Perhaps I deserve to die.”

“HOUSEMATES, THIRTY SECONDS.”

“Don’t do it, Damien,” Danni said.

“Screw that,” said Jade.  “If he doesn’t do it then we all die.”

“I can’t watch,” said Jules, turning herself away.

Damien held the knife against his wrist, just below the steel bracelet. He sucked in a mouthful of air and tried to steel himself.  It was going to hurt, he knew that, but so would the toxin if it was released.  He couldn’t let other people die because of him.

I’m sorry I let you down, Harry.

“TEN SECONDS, HOUSEMATES.”

Damien held the knife tightly and clamped down on his lower lip with his teeth.

Sod it!  Let’s get this over with.

There was a loud cracking noise.

Damien looked up just as Catherine slumped to the floor like a ragdoll.  Her head was twisted around at an unhealthy angle and her body was totally limp.

Damien’s mouth dropped open.  “Wha…?”

Richard stared down at the dead old lady at his feet and snorted through his nose like a bull.

“What did you do?” Damien demanded.

“What had to be done.  I’d rather have a young guy with some balls on my side than an old dear with rust on her pussy.  It was nothing personal.  Someone had to die and I chose the weak link.  You’re welcome.”

“You broke her neck,” said Jules, looking like she might faint.  “How did you even know how to do that?”

Richard smirked like a lizard.  “Two places you can learn to do that, sweetheart – prison and the army – and I’ve spent time in both.”

“HOUSEMATES, THE COMPETITION WILL CONTINUE.  THERE WILL BE NO TASKS TOMORROW.”

Damien placed the knife carefully down on the counter.  “You shouldn’t have done that, Richard.  I was willing to die.”

“Tough luck.  Guess I thought that if anybody is going to risk their neck getting us out of here, it’s you.  Can’t do that if you’re dead.”

“Still, you had no right.”

Richard obviously didn’t want to discuss it any longer because he walked away.  Damien glanced down at Catherine’s body and felt genuine sadness for the old lady.  His reckless actions had gotten her killed and she had seemed like such a nice old lady.

Five minutes later, Damien’s opinion of Catherine changed.

5

The video on the viewing screen was from a hidden camera inside an old person’s bedroom.  The elderly gentleman was frail and wispy beneath the rumpled sheets of his bed.

A nurse entered the room.  The woman was obviously a slightly younger Catherine.  She was wheeling a service tray in front of her and picked up a bowl from its surface.

Then she went over to the old man and held the bowl beneath his wrinkled chin.  With a spoon she scooped out some of the contents and held it to his lips.

The old man turned his head.  He did not want any.

Catherine’s body stiffened and she took another scoop from the bowl.  Then she rammed it into the old man’s mouth, almost choking him.  He thrashed and struggled on the bed, but was too frail to resist as Catherine forced several more scoops into his mouth.

Once she was satisfied, Catherine tipped the bowl into the old man’s lap and walked away.  The video had no sound, but it was obvious that the man was crying out in agony as the scolding hot broth saturated his bed sheets.

Catherine left the room with her trolley.  She seemed to be smiling.

The video ended.  The word ABUSER appeared beneath Catherine’s picture.

Day 5

Even though everybody was safe for at least a day, the tension had not gone away.  The group was now down to just six – exactly half of the group they started with.  The missing housemate’s absence weighed heavily on those remaining.  Jules had taken to crying frequently while Richard had started pacing the perimeter of the courtyard over and over.

Damien had dragged Catherine’s body into the bedroom across the courtyard.  He placed her on top of one of the scummy mattresses and left her alone, just like she had left the old man in the video.  Her death may have been partly Damien’s fault, but he didn’t care.  Catherine had been an evil person.

And so was everybody else that’s died in here.

Does that mean that the remaining housemates are evil, too?

Am I evil?

Murderer, whore, peddler, crusader, predator, and cheat.

Which one am I?  And which ones are they?

I don’t know if I can trust any of them.

Damien headed back into the living area and joined the other housemates.  They had all worked together on making a stew and it was now ready.  The smell of boiling beef and vegetables was mouth-watering.  With all that had happened, Damien had not eaten half as much as he usually would have.

“Grub’s up,” said Richard, offering him a bowl.

Damien took it and went and ladled himself a portion.  It was bland and rubbery.  It needed salt and better meat.  Still, it filled the void in his stomach and instantly made him feel stronger.  He could almost feel the nutrients floating through his bloodstream.

“How you holding up?” Danni asked him.

“Better now that I’ve eaten.”

“And at least we have the day off.”

Damien frowned.  “I wouldn’t call it that.  A reprieve maybe, but not a ‘day off’.”

“I’m just glad we don’t have to watch anybody else die today.”

Damien was curious about something, so he asked a question.  “Which label on the television screen belongs to you?”

Danni was about to spoon in a mouthful of stew, but she lowered her hand back to the bowl and glanced at him.  “Kind of personal.”

Damien shrugged.  “What’s anybody got to be shy about?  It seems like our darkest secrets will all be revealed eventually whether we like it or not.  I’d just like to know you now while you’re alive, instead of after you’re dead.”

“You think I’m going to die?”

He shook his head.  “No, I didn’t mean that.  I just mean that it might be better if we confess our sins rather than have them exposed by a maniac.”

Danni seemed to think about it for a moment; then she nodded her head slowly.  “You’re right.  I’m pretty sure that I’m the whore.”

Damien raised an eyebrow.  “Wow!  I didn’t expect that.  You don’t seem like the, ahem, whore type.”

Danni smiled and Damien saw for the first time that she had a gap between her two upper teeth.  It made her look cute and childlike.  “Thank you,” she said, seeming to blush.  “I’m not the person I used to be – just like you said that you’re not.  I was married once, but it was never a good fit for me.  I played around all the time.  I just couldn’t get enough.  I don’t know what it was, insecurity, immaturity.  I guess both.  Anyway, my husband knew that I was always sleeping around with other guys, but he pretended otherwise.  I knew how much he loved me and I think he was just trying to find the best way to cope with it.  I suppose he was insecure as well, otherwise he would have divorced me.  Eventually I went too far.”

Damien licked his lips and swallowed.  “How?”

“I slept with his brother.”

“Yikes!  That’s pretty cold.”

A tear formed in Danni’s eye and she nodded solemnly.  “I know.  But that’s not the worst part.  Sleeping with my husband’s brother was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  My husband hung himself the day after he found out.”

Damien shook his head and stared into her eyes.  He imagined her husband swinging by his neck, alone when he spent his final moments.  It was a tragic way to go.  Danni seemed truly remorseful but, damn, if it wasn’t a terrible thing she had done.  Although Damien hated the existence of such a misogynistic word, whore was a pretty accurate way to describe her actions.

“Anyway,” Danni said, wiping the tears from her eyes before they had chance to fall.  “I did a lot of thinking after that; re-evaluated my life.  Indirectly or not, I killed my husband – a kind and caring man.  I carry the guilt with me always, but I try to harness it to make better decisions.  My husband died three years ago.  I haven’t slept with a man since.”

Damien let out a deep breath as he digested what he had just been told.  As much as he condemned Danni’s actions, he was in no place to judge.  The man he had once been was no better than the woman she once was.

“I was a drug dealer,” he admitted.  “And a bully.”

Danni’s eyes went wide.  “Really?  You?  But you don’t even drink.”

He laughed, but it was more from embarrassment.  “When I threatened Richard last night, that was the real me; the me that I’ve been trying to run away from for the last few years.

“I don’t believe it.”

Damien shrugged.  “Well, whether or not you believe it, I did some pretty horrible things.  The fact that I’ve kept my nose clean for the last couple years doesn’t erase all of that.”

“No, but it’s a start.”

“Obviously not enough of one, or I wouldn’t be here.”

Danni reached out and placed a hand on her knee.  “It’s not your fault that you’re here.  You don’t deserve this.”

He smiled at her.  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you should forgive yourself for your husband’s death.  Suicide was his choice.  He could have just divorced you.  Doing what he did was probably just his revenge.  You should let it go.”

She seemed like she might start sobbing at any moment, but somehow managed to smile back at him.  “Thank you, Damien.”

“You’re welcome.  Now come on, I fancy a drink.”

“But I thought you didn’t touch alcohol.”

“I don’t, but if I’m going to die, what the hell!”

He checked in the fridge and grabbed a beer.  Danni asked for wine but there were no bottles left, so he headed over to the pantry.  For a moment he worried that entering would seem like another attempt to escape, but when he tried the handle, it was locked.  He banged the door with his fist and it held firm.

“They’ve cut us off,” he said.

“That sucks,” said Danni.  “I wouldn’t let Jade know or she’ll kick off.”

“And then she’ll blame me,” said Damien.

“No, I won’t.”  Jade had heard his comment and was frowning at him from the sofa.  “What would be the point in blaming you?  They did this to us, not you.  Still sucks, though.  I could really do with a goddamn drink.  I’m starting to stress about tomorrow when we have to start with their games all over again.”

Damien took a swig of the beer and gasped at the harsh yet satisfying taste.  “There’s still plenty of beers left,” he said.  “We’re not doomed just yet.”

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE ASSEMBLE IN THE LIVING AREA.”

Jules leapt up from the sofa.  “What?  We’re supposed to be safe tonight.  They said no tasks.”

“You goddamn LIARS,” Jade shouted at the ceiling.  “LIARS!”

Damien reached out to her.  “Calm down, Jade.  There’s no point getting wound up.”

Jade shoved him away.  “Screw you, Damien.  Who do you think you are?  Trying to tell everybody what to do like the Dalai Lama or something?”

Damien frowned at her.  “What?”

“Just get the hell away from me.”  She stomped off towards the sofa.

Danni leant in and whispered.  “She can flip like a switch, can’t she?”

Damien decided not to take offence and went and sat on the sofa.  He began to wonder what The Landlord had in store for them this time.  He had said there would be no tasks, so what was going on?

“HOUSEMATES, TONIGHT THERE WILL BE A VOTE.”

“What the hell?” said Jules.  “No way.”

“BUT THIS VOTE IS NOT FOR A TASK.  TONIGHT THE HOUSEMATE WITH THE MOST VOTES WILL HAVE THEIR SINS REVEALED.  YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO MAKE YOUR CHOICE.”

“What does he mean by that?” asked Danni.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Richard remarked snarkily.  “Someone is going to get their video shown.  Seeing as how you all have it in for me, I guess it’s going to be mine.”

“Not necessarily,” said Damien.  “We already know that you’re an arsehole, so what would we have to gain from seeing your past transgressions?”

“Good point,” said Danni.  “Then who?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t vote,” said Patrick.  The older man suddenly looked very nervous.  “We can refuse.”

Damien shook his head.  “They’ll just use the toxin on us, and believe me, you don’t wanna feel that.”

“Then what then?” Danni asked.

“How about spin the bottle?” Jules suggested.  She was staring at one of the empty wine bottles on the table.

Everyone looked at one another and then Danni shrugged her shoulders.  “Sounds good to me.”

“Okay,” said Damien.  “Let’s do it.”

Everybody gathered in a circle around the table and then got down on their knees.  Jade swiped an arm across the table to clear it of all debris.  Then Jules placed the wine bottle in the centre of the table.

“Everybody ready?” she asked.

There were nervous nods all around.  It seemed like nobody was happy about the prospect of having their ‘sins’ exposed, but they also all understood that there was no point fighting it.

Jules spun the wine bottle on the glass surface of the table.  It spun fast, becoming a blurred circle.

Then it began to slow down, passing between those gathered around it.

Jade.

Damien.

Danni.

Tracey.

Richard.

Patrick.

Jules.

Jade.

Damien.

Danni.

Tracey.

Richard.

Patrick.

Jules.

Jade.

Damien…

Danni…

…Tracey…

…Richard…

…

…Patrick.

The bottle stopped on Patrick and immediately the older man’s eyes went wide.  He cleared his throat and stood up.  He was trembling.

“Hey, Patrick,” said Damien.  “It’s going to be okay.”

“I…I don’t want to see what they have on me.  It will just be a whole load of lies.  We don’t even know that any of the videos we’ve seen are real.  They could be manipulated.  People can do anything with computers these days.”

Damien nodded and smiled reassuringly.  “I know.  Don’t worry.  We all have secrets.  We won’t hold them against you.”

“Depends what the secret is,” said Richard.

Damien opened his mouth to object but then closed it again.  Richard was right.  Not everything was forgive-able.

“Oh God,” said Patrick.  “I feel quite sick.  I think I’m going to get some fresh air in the garden.”

Patrick left them all in the living room and headed out through the patio door.  It had begun to rain again, but so far it was only a drizzle and a pitter patter at the window.

Behind them, on the television screen, a video began to play.

A handsome man in his twenties appeared alongside another man who might have been his twin.  Both were wearing smart shirts and silky ties.

“In some ways we should thank Patrick Mitchell.  If it wasn’t for him, my brother and I would probably not have been driven to start up our successful chain of health spas.  Our success came as a direct consequence of trying to run away from the people we were – the victims that we were made to be.  But, as far as we’ve come and as hard as we’ve run, we’ve never been able to get away from that man.  He’s always with us – always will be.

The other brother took over.  “Patrick Mitchell – Mr Mitchell – was our third-year teacher when we were eight years old.  He fucked us both.  It didn’t matter that we were children and that we cried out in pain, nothing would stop him sticking his dick in our mouths every chance he got.  I doubt we were the only ones.  He was good at frightening us into silence.  Long enough that, by the time we had grown up enough to want to do something about it, we had already moved too far with our lives.  We had become adults with families and children of our own.  We couldn’t put them through the hell of going public.  Fortunately, having money allows you to do a lot of things in private.  Paying for Patrick Mitchell’s death is something we would do a hundred times over.  I would gladly go bankrupt to see that man dead.  I can’t wait to see him suffer.  I hope he thinks of us as he dies.  I hope he sees our faces like we see his every night when we lie next to our wives.”

The video finished.  The word PREDATOR flashed on the screen.

2

“I’m going to bleedin’ kill him,” said Richard, leaping to his feet and grabbing the wine bottle up off the table.  “That fucking nonce!”

“Just wait a minute,” Damien said.  “Don’t do anything hasty.”

Richard glared at Damien.  “Are you kidding?  The guy’s a goddamnit child molester.  Nothing is worse.”

Damien took a deep breath and held it.  He didn’t know what to do.  He didn’t condone violence – at least not anymore – but what Patrick had done made him feel sick to his soul.  Despite wanting to do something to stop Richard, he found himself rooted to the spot as the furious man stormed out into the garden with the wine bottle rasped firmly in his hand.

“Hope he kills him,” Jade said, sneering.

“We can’t just start killing each other,” said Jules.

“We can when it’s a sick paedophile like Patrick.”

“Maybe we should do something,” Danni suggested to Damien.

Damien still didn’t know what to do.  He was conflicted.  He kept thinking of those poor brothers as children.  What misery they must have gone through.

Outside, Patrick began to cry out.

That was enough to get Damien moving.  He hurried out into the garden with the others following right behind him.

Richard was standing over Patrick in the rain by the wall with the eyeball painting.  He had the bottle raised above his head.  The bloody gash on Patrick’s forehead suggested that he had already been struck at least once.

“Richard, wait,” Damien yelled.

Richard spun around.  “Why are you trying to stop me?  This piece of shit needs putting down like a sick animal.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Patrick whimpered on the ground.  “Please leave me alone.”

“You’re a paedophile,” Jade snarled at him.  “You’re an animal.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I was a good teacher.  I never did anything wrong.”

“Who said this had anything to do with you being a teacher?” said Damien.

Patrick shook his head.  “W-what?”

“You said you were a good teacher, but we never said otherwise, which makes me think it’s true that you abused your position.”

Richard kicked Patrick in the ribs.  “How many little boys did you bugger?”

Patrick howled in pain and scuttled along on his back like a crab.  “Please,” he begged.  “It’s all lies.  I’m innocent.  Please stop!”

Richard kicked him again.  “Is that what the children used to say to you?  Did you stop when they begged you to leave them alone?”

Suddenly Patrick’s face twisted into one of fury.  He spat at Richard.  “How dare you judge me.  All of you are here for the same reason.  You’re all bad people – selfish people – evil people.  You’re all monsters.  Yet you feel you have the right to judge me?  I took what I wanted, just like all of you.”

Damien shook his head.  “Even evil has limits, Patrick.  If you did what you’ve been accused of, then there’s a special place in Hell for you.”

“I’ll see you all there,” he spat.

Richard swung the bottle down again and it cracked off the side of Patrick’s head.  Patrick fell back onto the grass, cross-eyed and stunned.  Richard knelt down and swung the bottle once more.  The glass finally gave way and wicked shards showered the older man’s face as the bottle smashed across his nose.  He rolled onto his stomach and started crawling through the grass like a worm.  Damien shook his head with pity.

Then he turned and walked away.

Richard stayed outside with the broken bottle and finished what he’d started, while the huge painted eye watched on.

Day 6

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE GATHER IN THE GARDEN FOR TODAY’S TASK.”

Everybody got up from the sofa and headed out into the garden.  Patrick lay dead at the far side of the courtyard.  Nobody had bothered to move him.  Sarah’s body was a dozen feet past him, rotting in the corner of the courtyard.  It was beginning to feel like a graveyard.

Today’s task was earlier than usual.  It still felt like morning to Damien, or at least early-afternoon.  It was a cold, grey day and it looked like rain would resume at any moment.

The platform in the grass courtyard began to rise up out of the ground.  This time it contained six glass containers full of clear liquid.

“THIS TASK IS MANDATORY.  ALL HOUSEMATES MUST PARTICIPATE.  IN FRONT OF YOU ARE SIX VATS OF SULPHURIC ACID.  HOUSEMATES ARE TO PLACE THEIR LEFT HANDS INTO EACH OF THE VATS.  HOUSEMATE RICHARD MUST REMOVE THE BANDAGES PLACED ON HIS HAND FROM THE PREVIOUS TASK.  THE THREE HOUSEMATES THAT KEEP THEIR HAND IN THE ACID THE LONGEST WILL BE EXEMPT FROM TONIGHT’S TASK.  THE OTHER TWO HOUSEMATES WILL GO HEAD TO HEAD.”

Everybody groaned.  “I can’t do this,” said Jules.  “My hand is already messed up from ripping off all my nails.”

“FAILURE TO ATTEMPT THE TASK WILL RESULT IN NEUROTOXIN BEING RELEASED.”

Jules put her palms against her forehead and started to cry softly.  She wasn’t freaking out like she usually did and actually seemed resigned to having to do the task.

“This is really going to suck,” said Tracey.

“Come on,” said Jade.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

Everyone lined up in front of the vats.  The liquid was clear and odourless.  Damien sighed as he looked at the innocuous substance.  It looked no different to lemonade, but he knew it was far more deadly.  A high school Chemistry lesson came back to him, making him remember something about sulphuric acid literally pulling the water from your skin cells and melting your flesh.  It might have just been the teacher’s way of scaring the class, but maybe it was true.

The anticipation of touching the liquid was enough to make Damien’s stomach churn, but not participating would likely result in his death.  As much as he had previously been ready to die, today was a new day and his will to survive had reasserted itself.  The longer he stayed alive, the more chance he might have of an opportunity to fight back against his tormentors.

I managed to get at them once.  Maybe I’ll get another chance to finish the job.

They all waited while Richard removed the bandage from his already injured hand.  Then The Landlord got them started.

“HOUSEMATES, PUT YOUR HANDS INTO THE LIQUID IN 3…2…1…”

Everyone shoved their hands into the acid.  For a couple of seconds there was silence as they no doubt expected to feel the caustic agony of the notorious chemical.  But there was no pain at all, just a numb tingling sensation.

But that soon changed.

With growing ferocity, the slight tingling became a searing pain, like grasping a white-hot poker.  The vats of clear liquid began to turn a mucky brown.

Damien bit at his lower lip as the pain kicked into sixth gear.  He looked down at his hand and saw that it had gone an angry red.  Wisps of smoke appeared and the liquid went murkier as his blood vessels broke apart and his flesh dissolved.

Jules screamed.  Everybody else cursed and hissed.  Damien bit harder into his lip and tasted blood.

Two seconds later, Jules could take no more and yanked her hand free.  She collapsed to her knees and convulsed.  Her screaming continued as she clutched her burnt appendage between her knees.

The other housemates continued to endure the agony.  It grew worse every second.

Damien felt dizzy.  The pain was like nothing he had ever felt.  A deep, burning pinch that felt like a million red hot pins being pushed all the way down to the bone.  The only thing that made him keep his hand in the acid was knowing that the other housemates were in just as much pain as he was.  He just had to hold on a little longer, outlast one more person.

Tracey was the one to break next.  The pain tolerance she had showed in the previous tasks had not gotten her through this one.  She pulled her hand out of the acid and screamed obscenities at the sky.  As soon as she was away from the table, Richard, Danni, Jade, and Damien all yanked their own hands free of the acid.  They cursed and snarled and they fought against the agony.  The pain did not subside even though they had removed their hands from the bowls.

“HOUSEMATES TRACEY AND JULES WILL COMPETE IN TONIGHT’S HEAD TO HEAD.”

“We need to go wash this stuff off,” said Tracey, apparently uninterested in the proclamations of The Landlord that signalled her possibly ensuing death.  She was a person that focused on the problems at hand, not the ones ahead.

“No,” Damien shook his head.  “I’m sure water will make it worse.  It reacts.”

“Screw that,” said Richard.  “I need cold water.”

Everyone hurried inside and straight over to the kitchen.  They shoved themselves into a huddle at the kitchen sink.  To Damien’s relief, the cold water didn’t seem to be making anything worse.  Richard sighed orgasmically as the cold water numbed his hand and seemed to gain relief from it.

“It’s helping,” Tracey informed Damien.

Damien nodded.  “I’m glad I was wrong.”

Everyone shoved their hands out in front of them and took turns getting their scorched flesh beneath the tap.  Danni headed away from them, though.

“I’m going to the toilet,” she said.  “I can use the water there rather than fight with you all over a single tap.”

Damien thought it was a good idea, although not exactly sanitary.  He let her go.

Once he got his turn under the kitchen tap he gasped.  The flesh of his hand was bright red and bubbling with the worst blisters he had ever seen.  Blood seeped out of every pore and mixed with the water from the tap.

My whole hand is going to end up scarred.

If I live long enough to heal, that is.

Jade grabbed a beer from the fridge and downed it in a single, long gulp.  Then she grabbed another one and started on it a little slower.

Damien turned around and opened the cupboard that housed the bandages they had got from the pantry after Richard’s Bunsen burner task.  He quickly got to work handing them out along with some antiseptic gauze in square packets.

He tore open his own packet with his teeth and laid the gauze on the back of his hand.  It stung and reignited the pain.  It didn’t get any better as he wrapped the bandage around his hand and fastened it tightly.

Everybody helped one another get their wounds bandaged up before starting on what was left of the beers.  Some hard liquor would have been better, but they had to take what they could find.

When Danni came out of the toilet she was clutching her injured hand under her armpit.  Damien didn’t see how the pain wasn’t made worse by the friction, but didn’t think about it too much.  He handed her some gauze and asked if she needed any help getting her hand bandaged.  She took the first aid supplies but declined his offer of help.  Shrugging, Damien went to the fridge and grabbed himself one of the beers.  It felt good to drink again.  It made him feel more like the man he used to be.  That man had been pretty repugnant, but he was also a tough son of a bitch.  And being tough, right now, was exactly what he needed.

Whether it was the hormones brought on by the pain, or if something had merely snapped inside of Damien emotionally, he suddenly felt alive and ready.  His senses were alert and all of the worries and concerns of his old life had been washed away as just one thing now became important: survival.

I’m Damien Banks and I don’t shit myself for no one.

Whatever you got for me next, Mr Landlord, bring it on.

You just better hope that it kills me.

3

“HOUSEMATES TRACEY AND JULES, please enter the Elimination Chamber.”

Tracey wore a look of steely determination.  Jules whimpered and fought with the rest of them as they were forced to grab a hold of her and shove her towards the door.  She begged them not to make her go in the other room, but none of them listened.  They had no choice.  They hated sending her to a possible death, but it was either that or they all died for insubordination.

Damien felt like a hypocrite as he stood back and did nothing.  He couldn’t actively make himself force the poor girl inside the Elimination Chamber, but he wasn’t doing anything to prevent it either.  He just stood and watched as Richard, Danni, and Jade dragged the poor woman across the carpet.

Although I’m sure I wouldn’t be as sympathetic if I saw her video.  Funny how your view of someone can be so wrong.  If anything, the videos I have seen have opened my eyes to some things.

I wonder what my video will show.

Damien wished some wonderful plan would come to him – a tarnished gem of an idea that slowly became a clear-cut diamond of inspiration – but nothing entered his mind.  As much as he wanted to do something for Jules, there was no course of action that made any sense to him.

So he stood by and did nothing as Tracey and Jules were shoved inside what would no doubt become their torture chamber.  Their only hope was to be the victor in whatever task was presented to them.  That was what had gotten Damien through the two occasions he had entered that room.

The television screen lit up with the live feed and everybody sat down to watch.  Today the white cube room was occupied by what looked like a pair of old-fashioned pommel horses, except the wooden body of the structure was pointed like a pyramid – an oak wedge on sturdy legs.  On both sides of the wedge was what looked like stirrups.  They were attached to the ground by steel cables.

“HOUSEMATES TRACEY AND JULES, PLEASE STEP UP ONTO THE APPARATUS IN FRONT OF YOU BY PLACING YOUR FEET INSIDE THE STIRRUPS.”

Tracey and Jules both stood there for a moment, stiff like boards.  Tracey was the first to take the step forward, probably hoping that enthusiasm would be the thing to get her through.  She climbed up onto the wooden horse and secured both bare feet inside the stirrups.

Then, visibly shaking, Jules did the same.  She was weeping as she climbed up and secured herself in place.

Danni was sat next to Damien on the sofa.  She leant in and asked him, “What are those things?  They look like a pair of badly made rocking horses.”

Damien shook his head.  “I don’t know what they are, but I’m starting to get an idea of what they’re intended for.”

“HOUSEMATES TRACEY AND JULES, PLEASE STAND BY.  THE TASK IS ABOUT TO BEGIN.”

There was a loud clank as the metal stirrups clamped around the two women’s ankles.  Both of them yelped in surprise and perhaps pain, depending on how tight the ankle cuffs were.

“THE APPARATUS ON WHICH YOU SIT IS CALLED A SPANISH DONKEY.  IT IS A DEVICE DATING BACK TO TIMES OF THE INQUISITION.  ITS INTENTION WAS TO EXTRACT CONFESSIONS.  THAT IS ITS PURPOSE TODAY.”

There was a short silence while the Landlord’s words seemed to hang in the air.  Then he continued.

“EACH OF YOU IS HERE FOR A REASON.  EACH OF YOU KNOW THE SECRET THAT CONDEMNS YOU.  YOU HAVE SPENT YOUR LIVES TRYING TO HIDE YOUR ONE BIG SIN, BUT THERE ARE NO SECRETS IN THIS HOUSE.  YOUR PAST HAS BEEN PLACED UPON THE SCALES OF JUSTICE AND BEEN FOUND WANTING.  REVEAL YOUR BIGGEST SIN…OR DIE.”

Silence filled the house, both inside and outside of the Elimination chamber.  Nothing seemed to be happening and Tracey and Jules shifted uncomfortably on their wooden perches.

Then there was an almighty grinding of unseen gears and the two ladies cried out in pain.

“What’s happening?” Danni asked.  Her brow was wrinkled and it was clear that she did not understand what was going on.  The view on the television screen showed no obvious cause for the women’s pain, but there was indeed a subtle difference, and Damien noticed it.

“The steel chains have gone taught.  The stirrups are being pulled towards the floor.”

Danni looked at him for a moment and then at the television screen.  She seemed to finally understand.  “My God!” she said, cupping her bandaged hand to her mouth.

Inside the elimination Chamber, there was another sound of grinding gears.

Tracey and Jules bellowed in pain.  Their bodies were being pulled down onto the wooden wedge and the pressure was threatening to split them apart from the groin as their legs were yanked down on either side.  Both women thrashed and fumbled at their wooden perches, trying to scramble away, but their ankles held them in place.

There was another grinding of gears.

Jules begged for mercy; so did Tracey.

The gears turned again.

Jules threw up on herself and wobbled wearily on the horse.  The pain was threatening to tug her into unconsciousness.

Tracey shook her head and gritted her teeth.  It seemed like she was trying with all her might not to cry out.  Perhaps she was trying to prevent herself from confessing whatever it was that The Landlord demanded she admit to.

Another grinding of gears and the women’s legs looked like they might pop apart at the knees.  Their entire bodies were stretched taught and the wedge seemed to drive up several inches into their vaginas.

“It’s going to split them in half,” said Danni.

Another grinding of gears and the ankle restraints tightened yet again.  The shackles were now several inches closer to the ground than when the task had started.

Jules seemed to collapse in place, her shoulders and head slumping sideways but her lower body unable to move.  Despite her physical breakdown, she began to mutter something.  The speakers in the ceiling amplified so that everyone could hear her words.

“I…I…slept with my sister’s husband.  Then…one night…I found her in…the bathtub.  She had…cut herself….”

Damien tilted his head and listened intently.  The story sounded oddly familiar.

Jules seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, but then lifted her head and carried on.

“I…I…wanted her husband and to have…to have our business…our salon…all to myself.  I left her there to die.  I didn’t call an ambulance.  I just went…home.  But her husband…he didn’t want me…he blamed me…he closed the salon.  He left me with…nothing.”

“HOUSEMATE JULES, YOU HAVE CONFESSED YOUR BIGGEST SIN.  CONGRATULATIONS.”

The ankle restraints around Jule’s ankles sprung open.  She slumped sideways and fell awkwardly to the floor.  There she lay, panting and moaning.”

“HOUSEMATE TRACEY.  YOU HAVE NOT CONFESSED YOUR SINS, THEREFORE YOU WILL DIE.”

Tracey was visibly weak from the pain, but her voice was strong as she shouted up at the ceiling.  “No, please.  I’ll confess.  I’ll tell you the-”

The gears cranked.

Then they cranked again.

Tracey howled in agony.  Blood began to leak down her legs and drip from the tips of her toes.

The gears cranked again.

And again.

And again.

Tracey’s eyes began to roll into the back of her head.  Her body was now pulled so tightly against the wooden pyramid that it seemed like a part of her body.

The gears cranked again.

Tracey’s head slumped forward.  She was either dead or unconscious.

The gears continued turning.

Clank! Clank! Clank!

Tracey’s body began to split.  Her legs pulled apart like the wishbone from a turkey.  Her body lost its form, no long even resembling the shape of a human.

The gears finally stopped turning.

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER AND REMOVE HOUSEMATE JULES.  THE PANTRY HAS BEEN RESTOCKED WITH SUPPLIES.  ENJOY.”

4

Five housemates left and Jules in such a state that she might not even make it through the night.

They had dragged her out of the Elimination Chamber and onto the sofa.  She was bleeding from between her legs, but it wasn’t arterial.  Her internal workings had been badly damaged, but luckily it seemed like nothing had ruptured.  Tracey on the other hand had looked like she’d exploded.  Blood pooled beneath her body as if every organ in her body had torn open.  The smell of faeces and urine had also been present.  The housemates had been sure to avoid her as they dragged out Jules.

Now everybody was sitting on the sofa, drinking the restocked supplies of alcohol and staring into space.  They were all obviously thinking about their own survival and how impossible it seemed, but also perhaps about their existence and how they had spent it.  Damien was certainly assessing a few things in his own mind.

He thought about his friend, Harry.  Harry would have told him not to lose hope, that God would protect those who deserved protecting.

But if I’m in this house, doesn’t that mean that I’m beyond salvation?  Isn’t this house full of deplorable sinners?  If I’m here then I must be one, too.  The fact that I don’t know what I’ve done must mean that I’m the worst of all.  I don’t even see the consequences of my own actions.  I am unrepentant.

Damien rubbed at his face and felt the fuzzy tiredness in his eyes.  The longer this all went on, the more and more he needed sleep.  With a bedroom containing Catherine’s corpse and the sofa not designed for napping on, it was difficult to snooze long and deep.  The exhaustion was beginning to take its toll.  But as much as Damien felt tired, he still also felt strong and fearless.  He knew that with the right opportunity, he would still have what it took to strike.  His only intention now, since survival seemed impossible, was to enact revenge on at least one of the monsters that kept him here.  For they were monsters, too.

The television screen came on.  It displayed the word WHORE.  An audio tape recording of a man’s voice began to play.

“Tracey was one of the best politicians I know.  She fought for equality, human rights, and safety within our society.  I don’t know why she eventually quit at such a young age, but then a lot of things in politics cannot always be explained.  I had heard rumours that she was planning to move abroad with the small fortune she had inherited from her mother.

My respect ran much deeper than mere attraction for her.  I was sad when she decided that she no longer wished to date me, but there wasn’t much I could do, so I said goodbye and tried to move on.

A few months later, when I began feeling under the weather – I was constantly getting the sniffles and stomach aches – I went to see my doctor in Hammersmith.  He had a pretty grotty office, but he was good at what he did and I had always been a happy patient of his.  Still, when he told me that my blood test results came back HIV positive, I doubted him.  I thought maybe the old guy had lost it.  But when my results came back the second time, from a different physician, I had no choice but to accept what I had been told.”

The tape crackled for a moment, but then cleared up.

“The thing that I couldn’t get my head around was that the only person I had slept with in the last year or so was Tracey.  I couldn’t fathom that it may have been her that had given it to me.  She must not have known.  I was furious at her, but also saddened and sympathetic as a fellow sufferer of a terrible disease that we both now shared.  I thought I would be delivering devastating news to her, but when I told her, she didn’t seem worried at all.  A couple weeks later, she gave me a call to say that her own results had come back negative.  I didn’t understand how that was possible.  The stupid fool that I was, I even apologised to her for causing her undue stress and worry.  She told me not to worry about it but to tell no one that we had slept together as it could damage her reputation.  Of course I promised to keep my mouth shut.”

The tape crackled again, this time for longer.

“It wasn’t until James Jeffrey stepped down from the cabinet, due to undisclosed health reasons, that I became suspicious.  I mixed in the same circles as James and I also knew that he was a friend of Tracey’s.  I went and visited him at home.  After some gentle prodding, he admitted that he had HIV and that he had also given it to his wife.  He admitted to cheating on her frequently and was now paying the price.  When I asked for some names, he reluctantly gave them to me.  Tracey was among the list of women.”

After some digging – not all of it legal – I managed to discover that Tracey had been diagnosed with the disease two years before I even slept with her.  She had HIV and was spreading it around without any shred of a conscience.  She had given it to me in the throes of passion that, at the time, I assumed were the beginnings of real love and affection.  I had been upset when she had ended it, but what I felt at that moment went far beyond mere anger.  I wanted the woman dead.  After all, she had killed me, one way or the other.  I thought about going to the Police, but I knew that it would destroy the reputations of any fellow politician that had been involved with her.  Many were innocent like me.  I decided to deal with things unofficially.  I once heard about an organisation that could solve these kinds of problems.  Luckily a friend of mine had their contact information – he had used them to take care of a man who had assaulted his wife.  I paid their asking price happily.  I might die one day due to this disease, but at least I will go knowing that Tracey died first.  Revenge is one of the few pleasures left to me.”

The tape crackled and ended.

The television changed from displaying the word WHORE to the grid of twelve silhouettes.  Beneath the photo of Jules was the word, CHEAT.  Beneath the photo of Tracey was the word WHORE.  The remaining silhouettes were attached to the words PEDDLER, CRUSADER, MURDERER, and TRAITOR.

DAY 7

Damien was sat alone in the living area, cracking his knuckles as he put some of his mental ducks in a row.  Everybody else, surprisingly, was enjoying the hot tub in the garden, smoking fags and a new supply of alcohol from the newly reinforced pantry.  Although the bubbling water was grimy, the trace amount of chlorine was still the best way available to get clean inside the house.  Damien himself would probably join them a little later.

The bracelet on his wrist had been taunting him for the last hour while he sat alone.  The blinking LED lights seemed to be winking at him.  The fact that something clung to his body and would not remove itself was frustrating on a very basic level – like finding a tick on your body and crushing it in anger.

It was still hard to believe the situation he was in.  Only a few weeks ago life had been normal, even a little mundane.  Damien had spent his days carving wood and fixing joints.  He leased a modest flat and wasted his nights shooting noobs on Xbox Live.  As much as Damien had turned his life around over the last few years, he realised now that there was still room for improvement.  He could have been living life more than he had been.  Now he wouldn’t get the chance.

The main reason Damien had been drawn to crime as a teenager, besides being surrounded by it, was his father.  The great Jan Olsson, son of Swedish immigrants, made a name for himself in the suburbs of Birmingham – Redditch, Bromsgrove, Studley, and Alcester mostly.  Drugs, prostitution, violence for hire, he had his fingers in a lot of crud-filled pies.  But robbing banks had been too much of a stretch for Damien’s kingpin of a father.  The bungling idiot had been caught and arrested on his very first try; a shoddy attempt to rob an Evesham building society.  He got fifteen years.

But Damien had still been under his father’s influence, even with him banged up.  He was expected to keep ‘the firm’ running in his old man’s absence.  Damien had done his best for a while – intimidating people and selling his father’s drugs – but it wasn’t who he was.

But he had no way out.  His father’s influence was everywhere.  Damien had been forced to commit to the role and had done many things he regretted.

Which is the reason I am here.

But then Harry had come along.  At first Damien thought nothing of the man who had started drinking himself to death in the local pub.  Harry was just another drunk.

But then one day, the man just stopped drinking cold turkey; never touched a drop again.  It was like he had woken up one morning a changed man.  When Damien found out that the man’s heavy drinking was all because of losing his young son to a drunk driver, Damien’s opinion of the man had softened.  The man’s love for his son, even years after his death, was honourable.

For some reason Harry saw something in Damien, too, and reached out with a job offer.  Even more fortuitous, he presented an opportunity to move away and leave their old lives behind.  They both needed to start again – to leave the painful past behind them.

Together the two of them moved north and started a business and a new existence.  Damien had quickly come to view Harry as somewhat of a replacement father.  Harry was kind hearted and intelligent, with a knack for seeing the best in people.  He had helped Damien become a better man.

I’ll never thank him enough for that.

But then Harry had got sick.

It began with vomiting and headaches.

Then he went partially blind in one eye.

By the time Harry went to see a specialist, the brain tumour was the size of a golf ball.  Glioblastoma multiforme – one of the worst kinds of cancer.  Harry had less than two years.

That was why Damien was in this abominable house – the sole fucking reason.  The World Health Organisation was running clinical trials for boron neutron capture therapy.  It was experimental, but had begun to show promising results.  It was perhaps the only chance Harry had, but it cost three-hundred thousand pounds.  Add on the cost of getting to South Africa and living there for up to twelve months while the treatment was underway and it became a hopeless dream.  Which was why Damien had allowed himself to be convinced by the stranger who had visited him with the proposition of winning the money he needed.  Take part in a reality television show for the chance to win up to two million pounds.  It must have been fate.  Harry would have said that God was offering him a chance, but the truth was that it was Damien who was being offered the chance and he had to take it.

Harry had agreed to him going, so long as he “kept his integrity.”  He said that Damien had worked so hard to become successful and respectful that he couldn’t let a bunch of television producers bring him down.

But it had all been a set-up.  Damien had made a deadly mistake.  That mistake left Harry with no hope of survival and, even worse, now no one would even be there by his side at the end.  The thought filled Damien with anger.  He clenched his fists and snorted.

“You okay?”  Danni was heading through the patio doors from the garden and shivering.  She was wearing a bikini that Jade had lent to her.  She looked at him and frowned.

“I’m fine,” he said.  “Just…reflecting.”

She took a seat next to him and brought her knees up on the sofa.  The soles of her feet were covered in blades of grass.  “I’ve been doing that, too,” she said.  “I don’t know how I haven’t gone crazy yet.  I mean, we’re all going to die.  Why are we not panicking?”

Damien chewed the inside of his cheek and wondered about the answer.  “I suppose we’ve all realised that panicking isn’t going to help, so why waste the energy?  If these are our last days then there are more productive things to do than scream.”

“But we’re all just sitting here and accepting it.  We’re like lambs lined up in a slaughterhouse.”

Damien shrugged.  “What can we do different.”

“You tell me.  You’re the one that told us to be ready for an opportunity.”

“And an opportunity is yet to present itself.  Don’t worry, though, I’m ready.”

“Good,” she said, lying up against him, “because I’m relying on you to save us all.”

Damien chuckled.  “No pressure then?”

“Hey, I’m just asking you to give it a shot.  What do you have to lose?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

Damien suddenly had a thought.  It was something that had been bothering him since last night.  “You told me that you were the whore.”

Danni flinched slightly at the word and then looked at him in confusion.  “What?”

“When I asked you what word on the television belonged to you, you told me that it was whore.  You told me about how you cheated on your husband and how he killed himself.”

Danni nodded.  Her eyes wandered off to the side as she failed to look at him.  “That’s right.  He killed himself because of what I did.  I don’t want to go over it all again.  It’s painful.”

Damien nodded at her.  He rubbed one of his hands down her naked arm.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just that one thing confuses me,” said Damien.

“What?”

“Tracey was the one identified as being the whore.  Plus Jules’s confession in the task that beat Tracey sounded a lot like the story you told me.”

Danni eyes narrowed at him and she seemed to be getting annoyed.  “So?”

“Well, don’t you think it’s strange?”

Danni looked angry for a few moments, but then her face softened.  She let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand against her forehead.  “I lied,” she admitted.  “Jules told me why she thought she was in here and I copied her story when you asked me what my sins were.”

“That makes no sense,” said Damien.  “If she so happily confessed her secrets to you, then why did she resist during the task?  She was almost ripped apart by the time she admitted to what she had done.”

Danni shrugged.  “I don’t know.  She was drunk and confiding in me.  I told her some secrets too.  Maybe that’s why she trusted me.”

“So what is the real reason you are here?”

“Honestly...I don’t know.  I’m not supposed to be here.”

Damien rolled his eyes.  “Welcome to the club.”

Danni shook her head.  “No, I mean I’m really not supposed to be here.  The people in charge here wanted Danielle Robinson but my name is Danielle Anderson.  I’m Danielle Robinson’s PA.”

“I don’t understand,” said Damien.

“When my boss was visited by a strange man and given the opportunity to enter the house and win the prize money she said she wasn’t interested.  The stranger seemed disappointed.  He left a card with an email address and told Danielle to contact him if she changed her mind.  She didn’t.  So I made a rash decision.”

“You pretended to be her?”

Danni nodded.  “We look alike.  Same figure, same hair, same age.  Only difference was that she was successful and I was fetching her overpriced cups of coffee.  I thought that if I pretended to be her I could change my life.  Even if the show producers found out, I would already have gotten my face on television.  It could be enough to change my life.

“Guess that’s exactly what it did.”

Danni laughed.  “No shit!  Looks like my sins are catching up with me whether I’m supposed to be here or not.”

Damien shook his head and thought about it.  As much as he felt like a victim for being in the situation he was, Danni was even more so.  She hadn’t even done anything wrong to warrant being in the house.

“That really sucks,” he said.

“Yep, really does.  Still, not much I can do about it now.”  She moved closer to him, close enough that her shivering, almost-naked body was right up against his.  Her face was only inches away from his own.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

“I don’t want to be a lamb in the slaughterhouse anymore.  I’m not dead yet.”

She kissed Damien on the mouth.  He resisted for a moment, but then wondered why and allowed himself to go with it.  He kissed her back and she draped her naked leg over him and got even closer.  Damien felt himself growing hard as his hands roved the smooth skin of her thigh.

Danni felt the erection and stopped kissing him.  She smiled and purred.  “Who’s a big boy then?”

Damien blushed.

“Get a room or I’ll spray you both with the hose!”

The other housemates had all re-entered the living area and were standing in a shivering huddle.  Jules was grinning and giggling like a schoolgirl, despite the obvious pain that caused her to hunch over like an old woman.  It was ironic to see her appreciate their affection after yesterday admitting how she had coldheartedly watched her sister die.

Damien eased Danni away from him and composed himself.  He was forced to place both hands over his lap.

“Good to see you have your priorities straight,” said Richard.  “Maybe you should be thinking more about how to get out of here and less about your todger.”

Damien shrugged.  “And I suppose you have a ton of ideas?”

“We’re expecting The Landlord,” said Jules, easing down very gingerly onto the sofa.  It appeared she might recover from her injuries, but it would take some time.  Probably time she would never have.  “It’s getting dark,” she said, “and we haven’t been given a task yet.”

Jade sighed.  “More fun and games.  Can’t wait.”

Damien felt his erection dissipate and was comfortable enough to get up from the sofa.  He glanced outside the patio windows and saw that the light outside was growing grey.  All of the other tasks they had done had been during daylight hours, followed by a head to head elimination in the evening.

“Well, I’m going to go put some clothes on before I freeze,” said Danni, slithering up off the sofa and brushing past Damien teasingly.

Richard whistled at Damien once she was out of earshot.  “Looks like you decided to go out with a bang, if you know what I mean.”

Damien nodded.  “You’re a master of the single entendre, Richard.”

Richard frowned.  “So, what’s the plan?  What do we do if we get another task?”

“We don’t have much choice but to do it.  The Landlord will release the toxin if we don’t.”

“Well, maybe that’s for the best,” said Jade.  “We could end all this now.  We just refuse to cooperate.”

Jules looked at Jade with her mouth open.  “And just let The Landlord kill us?”

“We’re dead anyway.  At least this way would be on our terms.”

“I agree,” said Damien.  “If I can’t get at the people doing this, then the least I can do is end their sadistic little games.  Never thought I would ever contemplate suicide but…if we’re going to die anyway?”

“Then we’re going to do this, then?” asked Richard incredulously.  “We’re just going to give up?”

“Giving up would be carrying on like rats in a maze,” said Damien.  “This is the only way we can actually go out on our own terms.  It’s the only way not to give up.”

Richard stared down at the floor but nodded his head.  “Okay, then.  I’m in.  Maybe if I’m lucky my corpse will shit itself when they try and carry me out of here.”

Everybody agreed to abstain from any tasks.  When Danni came back to the living area in a change of clothes, they brought her up to speed.

“So, we just…do nothing?”

Damien nodded.  “It’s either that or we just go through another few days of pain and suffering and then die anyway.  We want to just end this now.”

“But the Landlord said that they will still honour the winner.  They said that the prize money was still up for grabs.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Jade.  “There’s no way they can let any of us out of here alive.”

“Why not,” Danni said.  “We don’t know who any of them are, or even where they’re keeping us?  They could just blindfold us and dump us somewhere and we’d be none the wiser.”

“This won’t work without all of us onboard,” said Jade.  “I know it’s crazy how calmly we’re all discussing it, but when the alternative is torture and eventual death, the idea becomes easier.”

Danni shook her head.  “I…I just don’t know if I can do it.  I…I’ll see how I feel when the task is announced.  I think we should all see what we’re up against before we make any decisions.”

Damien scratched at his chin and realised that he had the fuzz of a half-grown beard.  “Okay,” he said.  “We’ll play things by ear.”

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE GATHER IN THE GARDEN.  YOUR TASK IS ABOUT TO BEGIN.”

Damien started towards the patio door.  “Guess it’s time to find out what we’re made of.”

2

As always, the platform in the garden began to rise up from the surrounding grass, right in front of the painting of an eye.  Today it featured a large, multi-coloured wheel.  It didn’t matter what it was for, because Damien, and hopefully the other housemates, were not going to play along.

The large wheel locked into place.  It was about seven foot high and cast a long shadow beneath a spotlight affixed to the back of it.  At the top of the wheel was an arrow, cut roughly from a scrap of metal.  The wheel itself was divided into five segments.  Each segment had the name and face of a housemate.

“HOUSEMATES, BEFORE YOU IS A WHEEL OF FORTUNE LIKE NO OTHER.  IT WILL DECIDE YOUR FATE.”

Damien rolled his eyes.  That’s what you think.  You can take that wheel and roll it right up your arse.

“ONE HOUSEMATE MUST COME FORWARD AND SPIN THE WHEEL.  WHOEVER IT LANDS ON WILL BE SELECTED FOR TONIGHT’S SOLO ELIMINATION TASK.”

“What’s a solo elimination task?” Jules asked.

Damien shrugged.  “Who cares?  We’re not playing along, remember?”

Jules nodded.  She seemed anxious, but even more weak and weary.  However afraid she might be, it was obvious that she had had enough.  She was ready for it all to end.  Jules, perhaps more than anyone, had felt the tortures of this house in full force.

“WILL ONE OF THE HOUSEMATES PLEASE NOW SPIN THE WHEEL.”

Instead, all of the housemates sat down on the grass.  Damien propped his elbows up on his knees and rested his head in his hands.  He relaxed his breathing and prepared himself for the pain that the toxin would soon bring.

“HOUSEMATES, PLEASE COMPLY.”

“How about you bite me?” said Jade.

“Yeah,” Richard growled.  “Why don’t you go back to the puddle of shit you climbed out of?”

“HOUSEMATES, REFUSAL TO CO-OPERATE WILL RESULT IN EXPULSION FROM THE HOUSE.”

“Big whoop!” said Jules.  “We’ve had enough of your crap.”

Damien looked at Jules, smiled and nodded.  Then he looked up at the starry night sky and smiled even wider.  At least they couldn’t take the view away.

“You’re just going to have to kill us,” said Damien.  “We’re through taking orders.”

“SO BE IT.”

The pain started immediately.  Ice and fire combined in every sinew of muscle, blood turning to broken glass in their veins.

Everyone tumbled onto their sides and scrunched up into the foetal position.  It did not help a great deal, but there was some comfort in going out the same way you came in.  Jules threw up in the grass.  The brownish goop covered her chin as she moaned.

Richard pulled so hard at his bracelets that blood began to flow down his wrists as flesh was shorn away by the sharp edges of metal.  Mostly, though, they all fought the pain bravely.  Each of them fought off the urge to scream in favour of a muffled growl of anguish.  Danni hissed and rocked back and forth in the grass.  Tears flooded down her cheeks.  Damien tried to move over to her, but his muscles cramped and made the short crawl impossible.

“SPIN THE WHEEL, MAKE IT STOP.”

Damien felt a pinch in his neck, followed by a slight alleviation of pain.  He was still in agony, but his muscles had unlocked and stopped their cramping.  The Landlord was giving them all a taster of the relief available from the counter-agent.

“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.  SPIN THE WHEEL OR ALL OF YOU WILL DIE.”

“Screw you!” Damien spat.

“Yeah,” said Richard.  “Bring it on.  I love this shit.”

Everyone remained on the ground, in pain and waiting for more.  They all remained resolute that this was how they wanted to go out, in a feat of courage and endurance – maybe even bravery.  Perhaps for some of them it was a means of redemption, a baptism of fire.

Danni wobbled up onto her knees.  She clutched at the grass in front of her and let out an animalistic moan.

“Just lie down,” Damien told her.  “It will all be over in a minute.”

“I don’t want it to be over,” she said.  “I don’t want to die.”

She began crawling on her hands and knees towards the wheel.  She dug her fingers into the grass as she went, as if doing so would help propel her onwards.

“Don’t do it,” said Damien.  “It will only result in more pain.  We can end this now.”

“Get back here, bitch,” Richard said.

Danni shook her head and kept crawling forward.  In normal circumstances, Damien could have caught up to her in a single stride but, overloaded with so much pain, he was forced to watch her make it over to the wheel.

When she got there, Danni used the scaffolds that held the wheel in place to pull herself back to her feet.  Her legs were wobbly like a new born fowl, but she managed to stay upright.  She placed both hands on the wheel and then let her full weight fall upon it.  She collapsed to the ground, but not before giving the wheel a great big yank on the way down.

The wheel spun.

The faces and names of the housemates became a whirl as they chased each other in a circle.  Each revolution of the wheel resulted in a click click click.  It really was just like a game show.

The most twisted, messed-up game show of all time.

Damien watched in horror as the wheel began to slow down.  The other housemates, including Danni, just lay on the grass and watched with wide eyes.

Click click click!

The wheel got slower and slower.

Click…click…click!

…click!

…

…

Click!

“HOUSEMATE DAMIEN WILL PERFORM TONIGHT’S SOLO ELIMINATION.”

Damien felt the counter-agent flood in through his collar.  He sighed, not with relief, but with defeat.  The torment was not yet over.  Danni had condemned him to another task.

She lay several feet away, tears streaming down her face as she looked at him.  She shook her head over and over and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

But apologies weren’t going to help anyone.

3

Danni had been apologising to Damien incessantly since the incident in the garden.  He had already accepted her apology, saw no reason not to as it changed very little.  He would just refuse the elimination task and do what he intended to do earlier.  If Danni still held on to hope for survival then good for her.  He would not begrudge her that.

Jade on the other hand was less forgiving.

“You bitch,” she shouted at Danni.  “We all just went through a shitload of agony for no reason.”

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I just don’t want to die.”

Jade shoved Danni hard, sending her stumbling back on her bare feet.  “We’s gonna die anyhow.  You just made damn sure it’s gonna hurt worse.”

Danni started crying.  “Jade, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to do what I did.  I just couldn’t help it.”

Jade went to shove Danni again, but Damien stepped between the two women.  “Come on.  It doesn’t matter now.  What’s done is done.”

“Like hell it is,” said Jade.  “I’m going to mess her up for what she just did.”

Danni whimpered.

Damien shot Jade a look that he hoped showed that he meant business.  “Nobody is doing anything.  We are going to sit down, have a drink, and wait for my task to begin.  Anything else is just a waste of energy best spent elsewhere.”

Jade met his stare and seemed in no way threatened, but eventually she relented and took a step back.  “Fine, but just so you know.  I don’t trust that bitch.  She’s been fanning around this place since the beginning like it’s a goddamn vacation.  Why is it that everyone gets how serious this is but her?”

“I do understand the situation we’re in,” Danni said.  “I just haven’t given up yet.”

“Cus you haven’t felt no pain yet.  At least, not like the rest of us.  I swear, next chance I get I’m sending you into that white room.”

“Enough with the threats, Jade,” said Damien.  “Correct me if I’m wrong but you haven’t been in an elimination task either.”

Jade held up her left hand covered in a thick bandage.  “There’s a reason for that!”

“We’ve all done what we’ve had to to stay alive, so why blame Danni for doing the same?”

Jade rolled her eyes and gave up the argument.  “I’m just saying that I don’t trust her.  She ain’t like the rest of us.”

I know, Damien thought.  She’s the only one here who is actually innocent.

“HOUSEMATE DAMIEN, PLEASE ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.”

“What are you going to do?” Richard asked him.

Damien sighed.  I’m going to go inside, see what the score is.  Likelihood is that I’ll refuse the task.  That might mean the rest of you getting a dose from the bracelets.  You good with that?”

Richard nodded.  “Do what you have to do.  Nothing’s changed from earlier.  I’m still tired of this shit.”

Damien nodded and turned away.  He marched over to the elimination chamber’s door and felt a growing numbness.  Even the fear of pain, and the agony itself, was becoming tolerable.  For the most part he was already dead.

He opened up the door and stepped inside the white cube room.  This time in the centre was a small table with a glass box on it.  From over by the door, it was unclear what was inside the box.

“HOUSEMATE DAMIEN, YOU WISH TO DIE SO HERE IS YOUR OPPORTUNITY.  IN THE CENTRE OF THE ROOM IS A BOX.  INSIDE THE BOX IS THE TOOL YOU NEED TO END YOUR LIFE.  PLEASE PICK IT UP.”

Not yet following, Damien went over to the glass box and opened it up.  He found an ornate looking revolver inside of it.  It was heavy in his hand.

“IN YOUR HAND IS A WEBLEY MK. IV REVOLVER.  IT TOOK THE LIFE OF GERMANS IN BOTH WORLD WARS.  NOW IT MIGHT TAKE YOURS.  A SINGLE BULLET SITS WITHIN ITS SIX CYLINDERS.  YOU MUST FIRE THE REVOLVER AT YOUR SKULL ONCE AND THEN AT THE CEILING ONCE.  REPEAT THIS UNTIL YOU ARE EITHER DEAD OR YOU HAVE FIRED THE BULLET AT THE CEILING.  IF YOU ARE STILL ALIVE AT THE END OF THE TASK, YOUR RIGHT BRACELET WILL BE REMOVED.”

Damien’s eyes went wide.  Did he just hear right?  If he survived this sick game of Russian roulette then he would be half way to escaping the neurotoxin clamped around his wrists.

Are they seriously considering letting a winner go at the end of all this?  Or is it just a sick game to make us all think there’s a way out.

Damien felt sure that the gesture was just a ploy designed to prevent a revolt like the one that happened earlier in the garden.  Still, it was a means to an end.  If Damien got one of the bracelets off then he only had one more to worry about.

Damien nodded and raised the pistol up against the side of his head.  He closed his eyes and had to stop himself from chuckling.  Of all the times he had seen this kind of thing in the movies, he never once imagined that it would happen to him.

Well, it’ll be a story to tell the grandkids if I ever get out of this hellhole.

Damien took a deep breath and placed his forefinger against the trigger.  Slowly he applied pressure.

Click!

A great gust of relief burst forth from Damien’s lungs and he actually laughed, somewhat maniacally.

He pointed the revolver at the ceiling and pulled the trigger again.

Click!

Damn it.  Two down, one in four chance left.

He placed the revolver’s muzzle back against his temple and took in another deep breath and held it.  He squeezed the trigger again.

Paused for a moment.

And then…Click!

Jesus goddamn bleeding Christ.

He let out another sigh of relief.

He pointed the revolver back at the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

Click!

Oh God no.  Fifty-fifty chance left.  Heads I live, tails I die.

Damien took a few, increasingly anxious breaths and felt his heart beating right up against his ribs.  His lungs no longer obeyed him and pumped erratically on their own.

Slowly, he lowered the revolver back to his head.  He nudged the muzzle against his temple.  If this bullet was going to kill him, he wanted to make sure it went straight through his brain; none of that lodged in the right/left hemisphere and paralyzed for life palaver.  If this was it, he wanted to do it clean.  He pressed the revolver harder against his skull, causing stars to invade his vision.

Here goes.  My dad always said there was honour in dying by a bullet.

Fuck him!

Damien pulled the trigger.

Click!

“Jesus effing Christ,” he said out loud.  A huge smile had taken control of his face and he was gushing as excited breaths spilled forth from his lungs.

He quickly pointed the revolver at the ceiling and pulled the trigger one last time.

Bang!

The explosion of the bullet leaving the chamber made Damien cry out in fright, but he was soon back to laughing as ceiling plaster rained down on him like snow.

“Woo!  That shit was intense.  I’m alive, baby!”

Damien felt positively insane and he had to mentally take note to take control of himself.  He forced his breathing to slow down and tried to calm down.  The urge to take a piss became urgently strong.  Even after resigning himself to death, the act of avoiding the grim reaper through a game of chance had reignited a fuse inside of him that he thought had gone out.

The bracelet on Damien’s right wrist suddenly sprung open and hit the floor with a clank.  The relief was instant and he immediately started rubbing at the irritated flesh that had been held captive for so many days.  Suddenly it felt like freedom was a tangible pursuit, and not just the hopeless dream it had seemed earlier in the day.

Damien was still feeling a little manic, but he was calming down gradually as he begun to have several thoughts; amongst them was one clear intention.

I’m going to get out of this goddamn house alive.

“CONGRATULATIONS, HOUSEMATE DAMIEN.  PLEASE LEAVE THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.”

Damien did as he was told.

Day 8

Damien hadn’t realised the weight of the bracelets until one of them was gone.  As he lay now on the sofa, staring out at the dew-soaked grass of the garden, he couldn’t help but rub at his liberated wrist over and over again.

Last night he had actually managed to get a little sleep.  From the snoring going on around him, so did everybody else.  With one of Damien’s bracelets gone, they had all opened up to the possibility that they might get out of there.  There was a chance that the winner would be set free – and maybe the runner up as well.

If The Landlord actually kept his word and honoured the contest, then it made everything a muddled mystery again.  If all the housemates were there to die, then it was easy to believe that this was all just a revenge for hire scheme that people had paid into.  But if anybody was allowed to walk out of here alive then things were obviously more complex than that.  What about the person that had paid for revenge?  Would they accept their candidate walking free?  If there was a winner at the end of all this, then was it really a game show?  And if so, then who the hell was watching?

Now that he had stirred from slumber, there was no way that Damien could fall back to sleep, so he got up from the sofa and went over to the kitchen.  The last resupply had provided them with some fresh coffee and tea as well as the usual ample amounts of alcohol.  Damien thumbed the switch for the kettle and took a seat on the stool as he waited for the water inside to boil.

Back home, he would often stick the kettle on for Harry, who was an avid tea drinker.  Damien preferred coffee.  With light of what had happened concerning his bracelets, he wondered if there was still the opportunity to win the prize money.  If the two million pounds really did exist, there was still a chance to save Harry.  However slim the chance for a cure might be.

Harry’s sickness had come on very suddenly.  It had started with a few strange comments about his friend ‘Lucas’ and had progressed to wild tales about ‘a blanket of snow covering the Earth.’  Damien had no idea what delusions Harry was talking about and at first assumed his friend had started drinking again.  But then, one day, after several bouts of severe headaches, Harry pointed at Damien and said, “You!  You froze to death.  What are you doing here?  You’re dead.”  Just as Damien was about to reply, to say that enough was enough, a violent gout of blood burst forth from Harry’s nose and he collapsed to the ground unconscious.

The ambulance had arrived and carried Harry away.  Twenty four hours and several tests later, doctors confirmed that he had a brain tumour.  It was the reason for his bouts of confused babbling and manic delusions, and it was killing him.

Damien had wept, perhaps for the first and only time in his life.  When his father had gone away to prison he had felt almost nothing, but the thought of Harry leaving was too much to bear.  Despite having changed so much, Damien didn’t think he could continue on the same path without Harry’s guidance.  He selfishly needed his friend to stay alive so that his own life was not upended back into the chaos he had only just managed to claw his way out of.  Most of all, though, Damien couldn’t face Harry dying because he loved the man.  He was family.  Harry was a father in the true sense of the word; not through biological potluck or obligation, but through genuine affection and loyalty.

I can’t lose you, man.  I have to get out of here.

Damien forwent his favoured drink of coffee and poured himself a cup of tea.  He then took the steaming beverage over to the sofa and sat down in the spot where he had been sleeping for the last few hours.  It was still warm.

For once, Danni had not slept beside him.  He assumed that she was still feeling guilty about spinning the wheel when everybody else had decided not to.  Although, as things turned out, it hadn’t been a bad thing that she did.  If there was a chance that somebody could get out of here alive, then what Danni did was fortuitous.

Although it could all just be a ruse to make us start participating in the games again.

Damien knew that there was still a large, even more likely possibility that all of them would still die inside the house, but they had nothing to lose by hoping otherwise.  If Damien could just get the other bracelet off his wrist…

He took a sip of his tea and sighed as it relaxed him.  It was a simple pleasure.  He then took some time to study his fellow housemates – the final competitors.

Jade lay asleep in a star shape, legs and arms sprawled outwards.  She slept like she lived, loudly and with little regard for those around her.  Richard lay beside her.  His body was folded in, arms and ankles crossed.  The racist piece of shit had fallen in line somewhat since their situation became more desperate, but Damien hadn’t forgotten the man’s true colours or what he had done to Lewis.  Richard was a remorseless animal and that could not be forgotten.  If anybody deserved to be here it was him.

Then there was Jules.  What the woman had done to her sister was reprehensible, but was it due to malevolence or mere selfishness.  From what he knew of Jules, she was an anxious, emotional person.  Her insecurities may have been more to blame for her past actions than an actual desire to cause pain.  Out of everybody who had had their sins exposed, hers were perhaps the most forgivable – the most human.

Maybe that’s why Danni tried to palm the story off as her own.

Jules slept silently and still, more at peace than the nervous worrier that she was while awake.  In fact, out of all of them, Jules was the only one who made no sound at all while she slept.

Jade’s eyes fluttered and she was awake, staring directly ahead.  Then she took in her surroundings and saw that Damien was awake as well.

“Morning,” he said to her softly.

She smiled at him glumly while rubbing at her eyes with a balled up fist.  “Morning.  Did I miss anything?”

Damien shook his head.  “I’ve only just woken up, but everybody’s limbs seem to be attached, so no change yet.”

Jade chuckled.  “Ever get the feeling you took a wrong turn in life?”

“All the time, but not lately.  I don’t care what these maniacs think I’ve done, I know that I deserve to live out the rest of my life.  I’ve made mistakes in my life, but I’ve owned up to them.  I don’t answer to these tossers.”

“Then who do you answer to?”

Damien shrugged.  “My conscience.  And right now it’s clear.”

“I hope one of us gets out of this alive,” said Jade.  She let out a long sigh.  “And if it’s me, I’m gonna make sure I bring these fuckers down.”

Damien placed a finger against his lips.  “Best keeping those intentions to yourself.  You don’t know what they can see and hear.”

Jade nodded thoughtfully.  Her usually impulsive nature seemed subdued this morning.  “You’re right,” she said.  “I’ve always needed to learn to keep my mouth shut.  Perhaps I’ll work on that if I get out of here.”

“I think we would all do well to work on ourselves.”

Damien went back to drinking his tea as Jade dozed off again.  After a few minutes, Danni and Richard became awake, almost like a sixth sense told them that they were being watched.

Damien said, “Morning,” to them both.

“Did I miss anything?” Danni asked.

Damien chuckled.  “That’s the exact same thing that Jade said when she woke up.”

Danni smiled.  “We must be developing a hive mind.”

Richard stretched out his legs and then got up.  “I’m going to go stick some toast on.  Anybody want any?”

Nobody did.

“Suit yourselves.”

“I fancy a cuppa,” said Danni, getting up.

“I just boiled the kettle,” said Damien.  “Should still be warm.”

Danni nodded and headed off into the kitchen.  Jade had fallen back into a deep sleep and Jules was still unmoving.  Damien watched her for a while and wished that he could sleep so serenely.  His own slumber was full of fits and morbid dreams.

She looks so peaceful.

As he studied Jules, he had a strange feeling come over him.  Her body was a little too still; her sleeping a little too restful.

“Hey, Jules,” he said quietly.  Then he said it a little louder.  “Jules!”

Jade opened her eyes and looked at him.  “Jeez, man!”

Damien smiled at her.  “Sorry.  I’m just trying to check if Jules is okay.  She hasn’t budged in a while.”

Jade turned sideways on the sofa and faced Jules.  “Hey, Jules,” she said jarringly.  “Yo! Jules, wake your lazy ass up!”

Jules remained still.

Damien leapt up from the sofa.  “Oh fuck!”

He went over to Jules and grabbed her by both shoulders.  He shook her vigorously.

There was no response.  Jules head flopped left and right, but her eyes did not open.

Then Damien noticed the blood.

Between Jules’s thighs, dark and drying on the sofa cushion was a vast bloodstain.  It looked as though she had lost pints of the stuff.  Her skin was almost white.

“She’s dead,” said Damien.

“You’re shitting me,” said Jade, leaping up from the sofa.

Damien shook his head and sighed.  “Her internal injuries must have been worse than we thought.  She must have been slowly dying since the task she was in.”

“Least she went in her sleep,” said Jade.  “Maybe she didn’t even know nothing about it.”

“Perhaps.  I hope so.”

Damien went and informed Danni and Richard in the kitchen.  They were both shocked.  For one of them to die so quietly, amongst all of the dramatic death and chaotic torture, was a surprise.

“I just hope she’d made peace,” said Danni.  “She did a bad thing, but if she regretted it enough then she deserved forgiveness.”

“None of that means shit,” said Richard.  “Dead is dead.  There’s no judgement, no redemption.  We live our lives, good or bad, and then we die.  Nothing we do matters worth a shit.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Danni.  “We carry our sins to the grave.  Whether or not we die with a clear conscience makes a big difference.”

“Not to me,” said Richard, shoving a slice of buttered toast into his mouth and biting down.

Danni shrugged.  She could see there was no point having a philosophical debate with the man.  “So what should we do with her?”

“We’re all in this together now.  I say we put her somewhere peaceful.”

Danni nodded.  “Okay.  We can put her in the bedroom with Catherine’s body, but cover her with blankets and make it a little nicer for her.”

“Okay.  Sounds good.  I think you and I should be able to manage on our own.  She won’t weigh much.”

Damien took Jules’s head while Danni took her bare legs.  Together they transported her across the living area and towards the patio door.  Jade helped out by sliding open the door for them.

The grass was wet as they stepped on it and Damien was cautious not to slip.  As he looked up at the sky, he felt sure it was going to rain again.

The door to the bedroom was hanging open.  The dead, mutilated body of Patrick lay nearby and had started to smell.  Damien wrinkled his nose in disgust.

I feel like I’m in Hell, surrounded by rotting flesh.

What makes me really frightened is how used to it I’ve gotten.

Damien and Danni shuffled through the bedroom door and approached the nearest bed.  They eased Jules down onto the mattress respectfully and then stepped back.

“Should we say a few words?” Danni asked.

Damien shook his head.  “What would be the point?”

He grabbed a couple of grimy blankets from some of the other beds and draped them over Jules.  Danni helped him pull the sheets out so that they covered every inch of her.

“I think that’s about as respectful as we can make it.”

Damien nodded.  “At least we tried.”

“Promise you’ll do the same for me…I mean, if it comes to it.”

He looked at her and nodded.  “I promise.”

2

The Landlord’s booming voice was due any moment, they all knew it; could even feel it in their bones probably.  The routine of the house had become ingrained in them all and when something was about to happen they expected it, like a sixth sense.

I see dead people.

Couple of ‘em are in the garden.

As expected, the speakers in the ceiling crackled.  The Landlord began to speak.

“HOUSEMATES, I WOULD LIKE TO CONGRATULATE YOU ON COMING THS FAR.  WITH THE UNFORTUNATE DEATH OF JULES, YOU ARE NOW THE FINAL FOUR CONTESTANTS.  HALF OF YOU HAVE THE CHANCE TO LIVE, AT THE EXPENSE OF THE LIVES OF THE OTHERS. FOR SOME OF YOU, THESE WILL BE THE FINAL DAYS OF YOUR LIVES.  FOR AT LEAST ONE OF YOU, THESE NEXT FEW DAYS WILL SIGNAL THE BEGINNING OF YOUR NEW PATH.  YOU WILL BE REBORN AND RELEASED BACK INTO THE WORLD, BUT ONLY IF YOU ARE VICTORIOUS.”

Damien scratched at his forehead and realised that he was sweating.  He had survived so much already and now that an end was finally close, he felt like perhaps his luck would run out.  Everything The Landlord said suggested that there was a way out of this house for somebody, but what if Damien ended up getting this far only to fail one of the final tasks?  The thought was infinitely worse than if he had died in the very first task against Chris.

“THERE WILL BE NO TASK TODAY IN CELEBRATION OF YOU HAVING COME THIS FAR.  THE PANTRY HAS BEEN FULLY STOCKED FOR YOU TO ENJOY.  THE VIEWING SCREEN WILL BE DISPLAYING MOVIES FOR THE NEXT TWELVE HOURS.  ENJOY YOURSELVES, HOUSEMATES.  YOU HAVE EARNED IT.”

Richard rolled his eyes.  “The prick almost comes off as being benevolent.”

“So, I guess we can relax for a while,” said Jade.

Damien folded his arms.  “It’s just prolonging everything.  I would prefer to just get this whole thing over with.  I don’t understand what there is to gain by waiting.”

“What do you mean?” asked Danni.

“I mean, whose benefit is it for?  If we’re in here to play games and die, then why wait?  Dragging it out suggests that there is something to gain by us being alive.”

Danni frowned.  “And what would that be?”

Damien thought about it, looked up at the nearest camera, and gave the only answer he could come up with, “Entertainment value.”

“You think we really are being watched by an audience?”

Richard laughed.  “Yeah, I bet we’re on Comedy Central.”

“Of course not,” said Damien.  “But perhaps we’re part of some black market venture.  People will pay for anything, believe me, I used to sell a lot of it.  This could all be some black market game show to entertain sick fucks with fat bank accounts.”

“They could be betting on us,” said Jade.  “Maybe that’s how they fund it all.  We get nominated and paid for by whoever feels wronged by us, and then the people running the show allow people to place bets on who will win the tasks.”

“And who will win the entire thing,” said Damien.  “That would be the big pay off.”

“Which would mean,” said Jade.  “That the promise of our lives is real.  It would undermine the game to kill us all.  The betting only makes sense if there is a true winner to bet on.”

“Maybe they expect the two million to keep us quiet.  They probably expect us to take the cash and just try and put the whole thing behind us.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” said Danni.  “The housemates who have died here are not worth the risk of us trying to expose everything.  They were all bad people.  If we win, we should just take the money and run.”

Damien nodded.  “I see what you’re saying.  The dead housemates were all pretty disgusting, for sure.  That doesn’t make this right, though.  We’re all human beings, not play things to be tortured and killed at the whim of those richer than us.  I can’t live in a world where that is okay.”

“Then what?” said Richard.  “You’re going to bring this whole thing down to its knees?  I’m sure it’s that easy.”

Damien shrugged.  “Honestly I don’t know what I’ll do.  But, even if the other housemates were evil and deserved what they got, these people have still screwed with me personally.  I’m not sure I can let that go.”

“Me either,” said Richard.  “But I’m sure the money will help.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Danni.  “I just want to go back to my life.  I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“Yeah, me either,” said Jade.

“No, really,” said Danni.  She went on to tell them all what she had told Damien, that her boss was the one who was supposed to be inside the house but she had impersonated her in order to change her life for the better.

“I applaud your balls,” said Richard, “but things didn’t really pay off for you there, did they?”

“That really sucks,” said Jade.  “I’m sorry you got caught up in all this with us sorry bunch of criminals.”

“You don’t know that we’re criminals,” said Richard.  “We have no clue what each of us has done.”

“I wouldn’t say no clue,” said Damien, pointing behind the sofa to the television.  The silhouetted grid of faces had changed to display only a single line of four shadows now – one for each of the remaining housemates.  Beneath the silhouettes were the final four remaining words: PEDDLER, MURDERER, TRAITOR, and CRUSADER.

Just as Damien had finished pointing at the screen, it switched over and displayed the opening credits to some movie.  The jaunty soundtrack suggested a comedy, which was ironic as nobody would be in anywhere near the mood to enjoy it.

“Well,” Jade said.  “If people are watching, I’m going to give them a show.  Let’s go see what goodies are in the pantry.  This might be my last chance to get shitfaced.”

“Screw it!” said Damien.  “Think I’ll join you.”

He followed Jade over to the pantry door and felt himself relax at the thought of having a drink.  Despite the many ills of alcohol, nothing was quite as relaxing as a couple bottles of beer.

And that was exactly what they found inside the pantry: bottles and bottles of Mexican beers, fresh limes, and several crates of beer; not to mention a huge bottle of tequila and a smaller one of scotch.  But that wasn’t all there was.  Something else was inside the pantry.

3

Damien’s eyes went wide.  “Holy shitballs!  Chris?  You’re alive?”

The former housemate, Chris, was trussed up inside the pantry.  His eyes were glassy and afraid – the left one wasn’t even moving.  The many bruises that adorned his face suggested he had been through quite an ordeal.

Damien shook his head in confusion.  An ordeal that happened while he should have been dead.

Jade reached into the pantry and yanked the gag out of Chris’s mouth.  He spluttered and coughed as he was suddenly able to breathe through his mouth again.  His swollen nose must have been difficult to draw air in with.

“What are you doing here?” asked Damien.  His skin was tingling with the sudden shock of seeing a dead man still alive and well.

Maybe not ‘well’ exactly, but alive at least.

When Chris spoke, he sounded timid and afraid, not at all like the brash Neanderthal he had been previously.

“The…the toxin didn’t kill me.  They…they used the counteragent to revive me before I was dead.”

“Why?” said Damien.  “Who?”

Chris shook his head and blinked.  It was clear that his left eye was damaged as it remained stationary even as his other eye moved about freely.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “I only spoke to that big guy in the black overalls.  “He told me I was going to get another chance to win the game.  He called me a ‘wild card’.”

Damien sighed.  He reached into the pantry and started struggling with Chris’s bonds.  They were too tight.

“Can somebody go fetch me a knife,” he said.  “I need to cut him free.”

Danni hurried and got Damien a knife from the kitchen, but even with the sharp blade it still took almost ten minutes to cut Chris loose and get him out of the pantry.  They helped him over to the sofa and sat the poor guy down.

“I don’t understand why they let you live,” said Jade.  “You were disqualified from the competition.  The Landlord told us we were the remaining four contestants.”

“Maybe he’s in on all this,” said Richard.  “He went out first, without a mark on him.”

Danni huffed.  “I don’t see what having a person on the inside would achieve.  We’re all under control and doing what we’re told.  Cameras cover our every move, I imagine, so why would they need a pair of eyes inside the house?”

“I don’t know,” said Richard, glaring down at Chris.  “This just seems a bit fishy to me.”

Damien laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, you just never struck me as the type of guy to say ‘a bit fishy’.”

There was a brief moment of silence, but then Richard cracked up laughing too.  “You know what,” he said.  “That might just be the first time I ever said it.”

Danni sat down beside Chris and patted him on the knee.  “Did they tell you anything, Chris?  Did they give you a reason for placing you back inside the house?”

Chris shook his head.  “Just that I was being given another chance.”

Damien folded his arms and chewed at his lip.  He didn’t like this.  Chris was the biggest jerk in the house when this whole thing had started, even more so than Richard.  Having him back inside with them would only mean bad things – and Richard’s accusation of Chris being a part of what was going on was not entirely without merit either.

Damien unfolded his arms and sighed.  “Alright, well, not a lot has changed.  We still have a day to rest, so let’s get the beers out.  We can figure this all out later.”

Jade headed back over to the pantry and returned with a six pack of cervezas and the bottle of tequila.  “Let’s get wasted,” she said as she set them all down on the table.  “There’s plenty more when this is through.”

Everyone settled down onto the sofa.  Jade handed Chris a beer and he took it gladly.  Damien took one for himself and enjoyed the crisp taste as it hit the back of his throat.

Danni was sitting beside him, a shot of tequila in her hand.  She leant in close to him so that the others couldn’t hear.  “Do you think Chris is the traitor?”

Damien frowned at her.  “Huh?”

“Murderer, peddler, crusader, traitor.  Do you think that Chris could be the traitor?”

Damien shook his head.  “No.  He’s the ‘thug’, remember?  Before he arrived there was four of us left and four words on the screen.”

“Then one of us is the traitor.”

“What are you getting at?  I’m more concerned about the fact that one of us is a murderer.”

Danni sighed.  “You’re not understanding me.  Maybe the traitor is here because of a betrayal in the past, but maybe they’re betraying us right now.  Maybe there really is someone on the inside.”

“You mean like a mole?”

Danni nodded.

“Maybe.  Like I said, though, I don’t see the point.  I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.  I think that Jade and Richard probably just screwed someone over in their past and that’s why they’re here.  Anyway, Jade said she didn’t trust you either.  I guess we’re all wondering who we can rely on.”

Danni cleared her throat and took a sip of her tequila.  “Perhaps you’re right.  I’m paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia when someone is actually trying to kill you.”

In fact it would be crazy not to be paranoid right now.

“What did they do to you?” Jade asked Chris.  “You’re all messed up.”

Chris blinked and once again his left eye appeared dead and unmoving.  “Most of it is due to whatever shit they shot into my wrists.  When I woke up from the dose they gave me in the cube room I was blind in one eye and had the shakes.  I still feel like I could drop dead at any minute – can feel it in my heart.  The toxin has messed me up inside.”

Jade cursed under her breath.  “That sucks man.  Least you ain’t dead, though.”

“May as well be.”

“Is it true?” said Damien.  “That you killed a guy at a football match.”

Chris stared at Damien with his one good eye.  “How you know about that?”

“They played a video after you were dead – when we thought you were dead.  They play a video after anybody dies.  It looks like the reason we’re all in here is because someone on the outside wants to take revenge on us.  Your video featured the father of the man you killed.  Up until now, we’ve never had the chance to verify if the video accusations are true.  So, is it true?  Did you kill a guy?”

Chris nodded solemnly.  “Didn’t mean to.  I’d had a shitload to drink and got into one of my moods.  I was looking for trouble, but I went too far.  I beat the guy to death.  Not proud of it, but it’s in my past.  Can’t say I think too much about it.”

Damien shook his head.  Chris’s lack of regret was disgusting.  “Well, it looks like the guy’s father spent a lot of time thinking about it.  He gave his life savings to get you in here.”

Chris’s face contorted.  “That sonofabitch.  If I ever get out of here…  He better hope he dies of old age before I find him.  I remember the old fucker in court, giving me the evils the whole time.”

Damien huffed.  “Can you blame him?  You killed his son.  You made his grandchildren orphans for no other reason than because you had too much to drink.  You deserve everything you get.”

Chris smirked.  His bad eyes was watery and red.  “So do you, else you wouldn’t be here.  Maybe you should leave your judgements to yourself because I honestly don’t give a shit what you think.”

Damien nodded.  “You probably don’t, but I promise you that you won’t make it out of this alive.  I’ll happily die if it means taking you with me and away from that money.”

Chris just laughed.  “We’ll see.”

“Yeah,” said Damien.  “We will.”

4

Damien had removed himself for the most part.  Chris had seemed to regain some of his vitality after several bottles of beer, and he and Richard seemed to be having a grand old time as they laughed and hollered on the sofa.  Jade was enjoying their company, too, but seemed to keep drifting off into her thoughts.  Damien had noticed her several times staring into space.

Damien and Danni were sitting in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of red wine and sharing stories.  Damien told her all about his friend, Harry, and how he was very sick.  Danni had expressed her love for the theatre and did her best to convince Damien to try it one day if he ever got the chance.  Her favourite show was The Lion King.  He promised he would go see it.

“It’s pretty noble you being here to help your friend,” she said.  “A much better reason than most of the other people in here, me included.”

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” he said.  “If anybody deserves to get out of this, it’s you.”

Danni stroked his forearm with the tips of her fingernails.  “Thanks.  It’s terrible to say, but I hope both you and I get out of this.”

Damien sighed.  “I’d like to see us all get through this alive, but I suppose, if it’s down to just two, then, yeah, I would like it to be me and you.”

She leant forward and kissed him.  Then she picked up her glass of wine and held it aloft.  “Here’s to you and me not dying.”

Damien picked up his own wine and clinked it against her glass.  “And to you and me going and getting a drink some place a lot nicer than this.”

“Do you think Chris is going to be a problem?” she asked, her thoughts suddenly seeming to grow darker.

Damien nodded.  “You can count on it.  The guy is a psychopath.”

“It looks like he and Richard are getting pretty close.”

It was true.  The men had been boozing together like a couple of old friends.  They obviously understood that they were the pariahs of the group, but now that the numbers were so low, they had everything to gain by teaming up.

Damien cleared his throat and put down his glass.  “That’s because Richard knows he’s on his own in here.  No one has forgotten what he did to Lewis.  The only person likely to condone that type of behaviour is Chris, so they make a good pair.  In fact, they should marry one another.”

Danni topped up the wine glasses.  “They’re going to be much harder to deal with as a team.  Chris being back could really hurt us.”

Damien took a swig of his wine.  He was beginning to really enjoy the taste.  He might even prefer it to beer.  “We’ll take things as they come.  Even if those two morons have each other’s backs it doesn’t matter, because you’ve got mine and I got yours.”

“What about Jade?”

“I think she’s starting to crumble.  She hasn’t been herself the last day or so.  She’s not even thinking about sides, but even if she was she would probably realise that she’s the odd one out now that Chris has arrived.”

Danni pulled some of her brown hair out of her face and looked over at Jade on the sofa who was still staring into space.  “Too bad for her.  She was doing so well.”

“Yeah, she’s a tough bird.”  Damien finished off the last of his wine and realised that the bottle was empty.  He looked at Danni and raised his eyebrows.  “Another?”

She nodded.  “Of course.”

Damien went over to the pantry and got another clutch of bottles.  He placed two white in the fridge and took the remaining red one back to the counter.  Danni unscrewed the top and began pouring.

“I’m glad I met you, Damien.  If there’s anything good to be gained from this whole thing, it’s that.”

“Likewise,” said Damien.  “Without you to talk to I think I might have gone insane.”

Danni sipped her wine and then chuckled.  “Give it chance.  There’s still time.”

Day 9

“GOOD MORNING HOUSEMATES.  TODAY IS THE PENULTIMATE DAY OF THE COMPETITION.  TODAY ONE OF YOU WILL DIE.”

Damien felt his heart beating.  With things being so close to an end, everything seemed much more imminent.  The lack of housemates meant that the chances of him being involved in a grizzly task were much higher.  There was a one in five chance today that he might die, and those odds were only going to get worse.

“WILL ALL HOUSEMATES KINDLY ENTER THE GARDEN AND AWAIT INSTRUCTION.”

Everybody filed out into the garden.  There was a light drizzle that threatened to get worse as thunder rumbled off in the distance.  The sky above them was a brooding grey.

As if on cue, the courtyard platform began to raise, bringing with it the latest task for the housemates.  This time the intended horror was clear.

“Oh God,” said Danni.  “They’re sick.  Totally sick!  I’m not doing it.”

Damien grabbed her shoulder and gave her a reassuring shake.  You can do this.  There’ll be nothing to it.”

Risen up out of the ground was a wooden shelf fixed horizontally at head height.  Affixed at spaced intervals were five glass bowls like old fashioned fish tanks, only much larger.  At the bottom of each bowl was an opening covered by a folded leather flap.  Inside each of the bowls were hundreds of swarming wasps.

“PARTICIPATION IN THIS TASK IS MANDATORY.  INSIDE EACH OF THE GLASS BOWLS IS A COLONY OF SAXON WASPS.  THEY HAVE BEEN AROUSED BY A CHEMICAL PHEROMONE AND ARE CURRENTLY IN ATTACK MODE.  THE TASK AHEAD OF YOU IS AS FOLLOWS… PLACE YOUR HEADS INSIDE THE GLASS BOWLS.  THE FIRST TWO PEOPLE TO REMOVE THEIR HEADS WILL PERFORM IN TONIGHT’S ELIMINATION TASK.  PLEASE BEGIN.”

Damien swallowed a lump in his throat and stared at the buzzing fury in front of him.  The yellow and black blur was an embodiment of ferocity.  Their hundreds of tiny bodies made up a single attacking organism.  And he was about to shove his face right in the middle of it.

“I don’t think I can do this,” said Danni.  “In fact I can’t.”

“You have to,” said Damien.  “Or else you’ll end up in the elimination task and might die.”

“You’ll die now,” said Jade.  “The Landlord said this task was mandatory.  That means anyone who refuses gets the cuffs.”

Danni shook her head and looked like she was close to freaking out.  Damien held her hand.  “I can hold onto you from here,” he said.  “Just close your eyes and take deep breaths.  I promise I will get you through this.”

Danni looked at him.  Her dark eyes were like saucers.  But she nodded.  “Okay.”

The five housemates stood in a line, looked at one another and then crouched below the leather flaps at the bottom of the bowls.

“After three,” said Jade.  “One…two…three…”

All five housemates shoved their heads into the glass bowls.  There was no screaming, just terrified silence broken only by buzzing.  Damien closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, making sure to close up any entry into his body that the wasps could exploit.

The stinging began immediately.

Damien gritted his teeth harder as one sting became several became dozens.  The pain was not at first agonising, but as the number of insect attacks increased the throbbing in his cheeks, forehead, and neck increased.  The discomfort was added to by the repulsion of a thousand little legs creeping over his flesh.

Screw this!

Damien yanked his head down through the leather flap and leapt away.  He batted at his face with both hands and spat and blinked fitfully.

He realised that everybody else was doing the same.  There was nobody left with their head still inside the bowl and everyone was moving about the lawn and batting at their heads in the same way as him.

Danni looked up at him with a glowing red face.  Her upper eyelid was swollen and a little black speck marked her.  She looked truly miserable.

Damien approached her, ignoring the burning agony that engulfed his own face.  “Hold still,” he said.

Danni stopped wriggling and kept her weeping eyes on him.

Damien reached out a hand and moved his fingers toward her face.  “Don’t move and don’t blink.”  He grasped the stinger between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it from Danni’s eyelid.

She flinched.

Damien held the insect appendage in front of her.  “It was stuck in your eyelid.”

Danni groaned.  Her lips were fat and swollen, like she’d had a collagen injection.  “That really sucked,” she said.

“I know.  But who pulled out first?  When I pulled out and opened my eyes, everybody else was out too.”

Danni shrugged.

“HOUSEMATES JADE AND DANNI.  YOU WILL BE IN TONIGHT’S HEAD TO HEAD ELIMINATION.”

“Guess that answers your question,” said Danni.  “Looks like it’s finally my turn.”

2

Danni and Jade were standing outside the door to the elimination chamber and waiting for the go ahead.  Danni was holding herself nervously, so Damien went over to give her a pep talk.

“Just keep a level head and you’ll be fine.  Jade is erratic, you can benefit from that.”

“If I benefit then that means Jade dies.”

“If you don’t, then you die.”

Danni nodded.  Her face was still very swollen from the wasp stings.  She had the features of someone six stones heavier.  “Good point.  I feel really sick.”

Damien put his hands on her shoulders.  “Just breathe slowly.  Don’t think about anything but what you’re doing right now.”

“HOUSEMATES DANNI AND JADE, PLEASE ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.”

Danni gave Damien a last fleeting look and smiled.  “Here I go.  Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

Damien went and took a seat on the sofa.  He could see everything inside the cube room via the viewing screen in the living area.

Danni and Jade stood in the white room, side by side.  In front of them was a large metal disc.  It was a circular saw.  Damien groaned when he spotted it.  On the floor next to it, hooked through a series of steel rings, was a sturdy rope.

“HOUSEMATES DANNI AND JADE, PLEASE PICK UP THE ROPE IN FRONT OF YOU FROM OPPOSITE ENDS.”

Reluctantly, the two women did as they were asked.  They held the rope up between them like they were about to engage in tug-of-war.

The metal saw disc started spinning.  After a few slow revolutions it kicked into gear and became a lethal blur of sharp teeth.

“HOUSEMATES, THE GAME IS SIMPLE.  PULL YOUR OPPONENT INTO THE CENTER OF THE ROOM.  PLEASE BEGIN.”

Jade and Danni just stood there and stared at one another with terror-filled eyes.  Then Jade yanked the rope.  Danni went stumbling forward, towards the spinning blade.

Damien lurched to the edge of his seat in the living area and let out an anxious breath.

Danni managed to stop herself just in time.  Less than half a foot away from the saw blade she managed to dig in her heels and pull back on the rope.  Jade stumbled forwards in response and the two women were back to where they started.

Both of them started to pull and strain, the effort making their already red faces turn beetroot within seconds.  They were in a physical battle for their lives.

“Come on, Jade,” Chris shouted.  “Give that skinny bitch a ride on the wheel.”

Damien stood up from the sofa and faced Chris who was standing behind it.  “I’d be quiet if I were you.”

Chris just smirked.

Jade began to gain a slight advantage and Danni started to slide along the floor.  Her bare feet kept turning and adjusting as she tried to gain purchase, but she was slowly losing.

Jade’s teeth showed as she grunted with effort.  She yanked the rope like a dog with a chew toy.  The more she began to gain a few steps, the more determined she seemed to get.  The fact that she was pulling an innocent woman to her death was apparently not in her mind.

Danni gritted her teeth and leant back, almost horizontal.  She managed to get the rope going the other way.  Jade began to slip and slide; she lost her footing and fell down to her bottom.

Danni yanked harder and dragged Jade to within inches of the whirring blade.  Her eyes stretched wide as she stared into the spinning death.

Jade managed to pull back a few feet and a stalemate ensued.  Both women groaned and huffed as they fought desperately to gain an inch on their opponent.

Damien and the others watched breathlessly from the other room.  Even Chris had his mouth shut.

Jade yanked, Danni stumbled.

Danni got a grip.

Danni yanked.

Jade stumbled.

“HOUSEMATES DANNI AND JADE, YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO DECIDE A VICTOR OR BOTH OF YOU WILL DIE.”

Neither women could afford to show a reaction to The Landlord’s statement, but the increased effort showed on their faces.  They had now gone bright purple and their eyeballs bulged.

Jade was the first to slip.  One of her ankles turned inwards and she lost her purchase.  Danni took advantage and summoned the last of her strength reserves.  Jade slid on her heels, unable to dig in.  The spinning saw blade got closer and closer.

Jade managed to strike her heels into the ground just a few inches away from the lethal metal teeth.  She looked at Danni, her eyes wide and pleading, her chest heaving in and out.  “Please!” she said.

Then Danni gave the rope one final yank and Jade went stumbling forward.

Watching the viewing screen, Damien cried out in horror.  He had expected the blade to saw Jade clean in two, but it didn’t.  Jade fell onto the blade and it quickly hollowed out her insides.  Her head and neck and waist and legs remained intact, but her middle was gone.  She slumped to the floor with the saw blade continuing to spin inside of her.  It almost looked like a part of her torso.

The bracelet on Danni’s right hand snapped open and fell to the floor.

3

Danni came out of the elimination chamber covered in blood.  She had a faraway gaze on her face that suggested she may have lost a part of herself to the horror.  Damien led her over to the sofa and gently sat her down.  Jade’s video had already begun to play on the television screen.

“My brother was stabbed twenty nine times and left to rot on the bathroom floor,” said a middle-aged woman with brown hair greying around the temples.  “His head was almost hanging off.  I knew that Jade was the one who did it.  She was a manipulative bitch from the day my brother met her.  They argued and fought all the time if she didn’t get her way, and I had seen her lose her temper several times.  All the drugs they were doing together just made things worse.  When Jade had been doing coke, her temper was insane.  She’s the only one who could have killed my brother.

But the police found nothing to stick.  They found the knife but no fingerprints.  They caught Jade out in a few lies, but nothing conclusive.  The fact that she was high all the time meant that anything she said could not be verified one way or the other.  No one was ever brought to trial and my brother’s murder is still unsolved – officially.  I know that Jade did it, though.  And now she’s going to face my trial…my punishment.”

The viewing screen went blank.  The Landlord’s voice came over the speakers.

“CONGRATULATIONS REMAINING HOUSEMATES, TOMORROW IS YOUR FINAL DAY INSIDE THIS HOUSE.  SOME OF YOU WILL DIE, SOME OF YOU WILL GO FREE.  GOOD LUCK AND SLEEP WELL.”

Day 10

Everyone worked together at breakfast to fry up sausages, eggs, bacon, toast, and mushrooms.  For some of them – perhaps all of them – it could be their final meal.  They all ate their morning feast in silence.

They all felt the loss of Jade harder than any of the other housemates.  She had been loud and ever-present, the mouth of the house.  Her loss was a silent hole in the atmosphere.

Can’t believe she was a cold blooded murderer, Damien thought.  I had her more pegged as a reformed drug addict or a thief.  Well, maybe what happened was what got her straight.  Maybe she was trying to put the past behind her.

Well, guilty or not, at least I can stop worrying who the ‘murderer’ is.  All that’s left is the ‘peddler’, the ‘crusader’, and the ‘traitor’.  I wonder which one is Danni and which one is Richard?

“I wonder how long we have,” said Danni, placing down her knife and fork on her empty plate.  “I mean until the tasks begin.”

Richard shrugged.  “Not long I suppose.  I didn’t sleep a wink last night.  Think it’s the first time I’ve ever been afraid.”

“That’s quite an admission,” said Damien.  “You’re not really the vulnerable type.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said.  “I plan on leaving you all for dead, but I can’t help but freak out about what I’ve just lived through and what’s still left ahead of me.  There’s no way to truly survive this thing.  Even the winners can’t exactly just go back to their old lives like nothing happened.  This crap will stain our souls forever.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” said Damien.  “Maybe we’re supposed to learn a lesson and be better people than we were.”

Richard nodded his head, almost imperceptible, and then went to say something, but Chris cut him off.

“When I get out of here, I’m going to be rich – with balls of steel to boot.  Surviving this thing is going to make me feel like a fucking legend; walking away when everyone else is dead…pretty epic!”

Danni huffed.  “I guess some of us aren’t capable of changing.”

Chris shrugged.  “Some of us don’t want to.  Who gets to decide what’s right and wrong?  We’re all born on this earth the same way and it’s up to us what the fuck we do with our lives.  Just because someone wears a uniform and tells me something is the law don’t make it so, as far as I’m concerned.  I never once agreed to live by anybody else’s rules.  I never agreed to pay taxes or obey the law.  Other people just made that assumption.  I do what the hell I want with my life and I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to feel bad about it.”

“You know,” said Damien.  “There’s something liberating about what you say, Chris.  Maybe we should all follow our own moral compasses and do what we personally feel is right.  The problem is that you have the moral compass of a brain damaged Hitler.”

Chris grinned.  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it any way you want.  Just know that the world will be a better place without you.”

“World would be better without a lot of things, mate.  Shame life ain’t perfect, nor is it ever likely to be.”

“Not as long as people like you are in it, no.”

“Weren’t you a bit of scumbag once?” Richard commented.  “So who are you to judge?”

Damien nodded.  “But I was a scumbag by circumstance, not by choice.  When push came to shove I took a better path.”

“Good for you,” said Chris.  “And yet your path led you to the exact same place as mine.  Guess that would be proof that nothing we do matters, so might as well do whatever we feel like.”

Damien said nothing.

“Seems like he’s finally run out of self-righteous juice,” said Chris, nudging Richard in the ribs and laughing.  Richard joined in the laughter but seemed to be hiding some sort of regret behind his eyes.  Maybe the guy had actually done some thinking and didn’t like the conclusions he had come to.

Damien still chose to say nothing.  There was no need for words any longer.  The only thing that mattered now were the tasks ahead.  He could deal with Richard and Chris simply by winning.

“HOUSEMATES, TODAY THERE WILL BE NO ELIMINATION TASKS, ONLY A FINAL GROUP TASK THIS EVENING.  THIS WILL DETERMINE THE VICTOR.”

Richard and Chris whispered something to one another and then nodded conspicuously.

Damien did the same with Danni.  “Those two are going to be working together.  We should do the same.”

“Of course.  You don’t even have to say so.  I have your back.”

Damien smiled and kissed Danni on the cheek.  “That means a lot to me.”

“Shall we head to the garden?  That’s usually where the fun and games take place.”

Damien nodded.  They left Richard and Chris conspiring in the kitchen and went out into the garden.  It was raining moderately but it wasn’t a problem.  The days of worrying about things as mundane as comfort were long gone.

Damien took a seat on one of the perimeter’s benches.  Danni stood in front of him and stroked her fingers through his hair.  Nothing was said between them.  They both just held each other in the rain as they waited for their fates to begin.

2

Night had fallen and spotlights came on and lit the garden as the platform began to rise.  Damien and Danni were both still together, sitting side by side on the bench and leaning in against one another.  The mutual warmth and the comfort of having each other near had lulled Damien into a relaxed daze.  He quickly snapped out of it when he saw the platform coming up out of the ground.

Here we go.  Return to Thunderdome.

“HOUSEMATES, ASSEMBLE IN THE GARDEN.”

Chris and Richard strolled out from inside the house, both of them smiling confidently.

“Let the games begin,” Chris said, grinning.  “I think I owe you one, Damien, after our first head to head.”

Damien nodded.  “Try not to get disqualified this time.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m going to be winning this one.”

On the platform was a wooden tool rack.  On the rack were four handheld axes, not much bigger than hatchets.

“HOUSEMATES, EACH OF YOU MUST PICK UP AN AXE AND THEN RETREAT TO A CORNER OF THE GARDEN.”

Danni looked at Damien nervously.  “I don’t like this.”

Damien sighed.  “Me either.  Come on, let’s just go along for now.”

All four housemates marched up to the platform and took one of the hand axes from the rack.  Then they each picked a corner and retreated to it.

“ALL OF YOU HAVE DONE WELL TO BE HERE.  YOU HAVE BEATEN YOUR OPPONENTS IN VARIOUS ENCOUNTERS AND HAVE PROVEN YOURSELF WORTHY.  YOU ARE WARRIORS.  NOW YOU MUST FIGHT FOR YOUR ULTIMATE SURVIVAL.  TO WIN, YOU MUST MURDER TWO OR ALL OF THE REMAINING HOUSEMATES.  YOU HAVE THE TOOLS AT YOUR DISPOSAL, NOW USE THEM.  GOOD LUCK.”

Damien stared down at the axe in his hands with disbelief.  This whole thing had been a nightmare from the beginning, and many people were dead, but Damien had not been made to directly take the life of another until now.  There had been competitions where he‘d needed only to focus on winning.  Now he was being told to actively murder his opponent.

I can’t do it.

Danni screamed.  Damien looked up and over at her.

Chris was hurrying towards her without a shred of remorse as she cowered and begged in her corner of the courtyard.

He’s going to hack her to pieces.

Damien bolted, racing across the grass.  He had to get to Danni before Chris did or she was dead.

But there was no way he was going to make it.  Chris had had too much of a head start.

He’s going to kill her.  Then those two bastards are going to team up and come after me.

Chris came within feet of Danni who was cowering on her knees.  If she hadn’t clammed up in terror, she might have been able to get away, but the danger had frozen her in place.

Chris reared back with the axe, ready to strike.

Without thinking, Damien raised his own axe from several yards away.  Then he flung it as hard as he could.  The weapon tumbled and spun through the air towards its target.

The weapon struck Chris in the side of his head.  It didn’t embed itself like in the action movies.  It just thunked against his skull and fell to the floor.

Danni screamed in fright as Chris hit the ground.  His head had been split open and a wide open gash travelled from the top of his skull all the way down behind his ear.  He lay on the ground convulsing and yelping.  The axe might not have sliced his head in two, but the blunt force trauma alone had been enough to put the man down.

Damien made it over to Danni and dragged her upwards to her feet.  “Come on,” he said.  “Snap out of it.”

Richard was standing near the centre of the garden.  He had been watching what had happened and seemed worried.  His partner had been taken out of the game and suddenly the numbers were not in his favour.

Richard held his hands up and smiled.  “Hey man.  We can’t go around killing each other just because of their say so.  You ain’t no killer, man.”

Damien glanced down at Chris who was on his back and staring up at the sky dazedly.  His breathing was irregular and laboured.

“Well,” said Damien.  “In a couple of minutes when Chris is dead, I will be a killer.”

Richard nodded and an atmosphere of mutual understanding formed in the air.  They each understood the situation.  There was no compromise to be had.

Chris moaned on the floor, still dying.

“This is pretty screwed up, huh?” said Richard.

Damien nodded.  “That’s an understatement.”

Richard sniffed, readjusted the grip on his hand axe.  “We’re going to have to go for it, aren’t we?”

“’Fraid so.  Sorry.”

Richard threw his axe to the ground at his feet and shrugged his shoulders.  “Tell you the truth, I probably deserve it.”

Damien frowned.  “What are you doing?”

Richard got down on his knees.  “Taking responsibility for the things I’ve done.  Just do it.  Make it quick.”

Damien took a few steps forward, but kept the axe by his side.  “You can’t just give up.  That’s suicide.”

Richard nodded.  “I guess.  Tell you the truth, I was contemplating it anyway.  The reason I signed up to be here was because my life sucked.  You two should take the money.  I don’t deserve it.  You’ve already seen the kind of man I am.  I’m full of anger and violence.  To be honest, I’m tired of feeling that way.  I never meant to be the man I am, but….  Well, there’s not much else to say, so just get it over with.”

Damien took another step forward, raised the axe above his head.  But lowered it again.  He looked at the painting of the eyeball and felt like it was watching him.  “I can’t just kill you, man.  It’s not right.”

Richard looked up at Damien and nodded.

Then he sucker punched him right in the nuts.

Damien hunched over and fell backwards, stars clouding his vision as all of the air was forced from his lungs.  Richard grabbed his axe back up off the floor and stalked after him, ready to swing the axe.

Damien tried to catch his breath, put a hand up to protect himself.

Rage contorted Richard’s face as he chopped the axe downwards.

Damien closed his eyes and waited to be cut open.

Something struck Richard from the side and his swing went wide.  He staggered to his right and dropped the axe on the floor again.  There was a confused, disbelieving look on his face and it soon became clear what had happened.

Danni knelt down beside Damien, a bloody axe in her hand.  Damien looked over and saw the blood begin to spray from Richard’s neck as his hacked-up jugular ruptured.  The guy dropped to his knees and tried to stem the wound with both hands, but it was no use.  His face was already beginning to grow pale as Death sharpened his scythe in anticipation.

Damien was still in agony.  A wave of nausea had taken over him and he was taking deep breathes to try and send it away.  His whole midsection ached as pulses of dull, throbbing pain emanated from his groin.

“Are you okay?” Danni asked him.

Damien huffed and puffed.  “Yeah…are you?”

She smiled at him.  “I’m great.  This thing should finally be over now.  We made it.”

Damien looked left and looked right.  Richard and Chris were both slowly bleeding to death.  They would each be dead within the next few minutes.

“HOUSEMATES DANNI AND DAMIEN, CONGRATULATIONS.  YOU ARE THE VICTORS.  PLEASE ASSEMBLE IN THE LIVING AREA.”

3

Damien managed to catch his breath after the blow to his testicles and was now sitting on the sofa anxiously.  Was this really all over?  Even if it was, would he really be allowed to walk free?  Would he be given the money he was promised?

A million quid each for me and Danni?

Enough to give Harry a chance.

Danni leant into Damien and he put his arm around her.  She said, “We did it.  We stuck together and we made it to the end.”

Damien kissed the top of her head.  “Yeah, we did.  We made it.”

But at what cost?

“HOUSEMATE DANNI, HOUSEMATE DAMIEN, THE COMPETITION IS NOW OVER.  PLEASE ENTER THE ELIMINATION CHAMBER.”

Damien groaned.  “Thought I’d seen the last of that place.”

“Me too.  Maybe that’s where they’re going to let us out.”

Damien stood up and took Danni by the hand, while also picking up the hand axe he had left on the sofa.  He felt better with it.  Together the two of them walked towards the elimination chamber door, two survivors ready to leave a warzone.

Damien held the door open for Danni and they both stepped into the white cube room.  It was a place of death and suffering, but perhaps now it was the room where their salvation would take place.

In the centre was a long metal table.  There were two large open briefcases, one at either end.  Between them, in the centre, was a large red button.

Damien stared at the two briefcases on the table and actually let out a whistle.  They were both filled with piles and piles of money, stacked neatly in thick wads of fifties.

“That’s a shit load of money.”

Danni looked at him and grinned.  “You’re telling me.  I guess this whole thing was legit after all.  They’re giving us two million pounds.”

Damien suddenly felt lighter.  More and more he was beginning to believe that he might just get out of this thing alive.  But there was just one thing he didn’t yet understand.

What’s that button for?

“HOUSEMATES, CONGRATULATIONS.  BEFORE YOU IS TWO MILLION POUNDS IN CASH.  IT IS YOURS TO SHARE EQUALLY.  YOU ARE ALSO FREE TO LEAVE THIS HOUSE THROUGH A DOOR THAT WILL SOON OPEN.”

Damien and Danni exchanged glances and smiled.

“HOWEVER, YOU HAVE ONE FINAL DECISION AHEAD OF YOU.  ON THE TABLE IS A BUTTON.  PRESS IT AND YOU WILL RECEIVE 100% OF THE MONEY.  YOU WILL NOT BE REQUIRED TO SHARE.  PRESS THE BUTTON ON THE CENTRE OF THE TABLE AND YOUR FELLOW HOUSEMATE WILL DIE, LEAVING YOU ALL THE CASH.”

Damien sighed.  “That’s messed up,” he said.  “We’re not about to betray each other after all that we’ve been through.  A million each is more than-”

Danni sprinted over the table and pressed down on the button with both hands.

Damien had remained rooted to the spot for the single second it had taken for Danni to betray him.  His mouth was hanging open.  He did not understand.

Danni turned around and faced him from the table.  Her remaining bracelet sprung open and clattered to the floor.  She was finally free.

Damien shook his head at her.  “W-why?”

Danni grinned.  She was suddenly very ugly and distorted, like a complete stranger.  “Richard was the ‘crusader,’” she said.  “He burned down a mosque in Leeds and tried to incite a local race war.  “And it’s pretty obvious that you’re the ‘peddler,’ what with all the poison you helped push on desperate people that needed help more than they needed a line of coke.  So, who does that leave?”

Damien sighed.  “Traitor.”

Danni smirked at him.  “Pity you figured it out a little late.  It’s been fun playing you like a fiddle.”

“What?  Are you saying that you were a part of this?”

“Duh!”

“But why?  What was the point of you pretending to be like the rest of us?”

She rolled her eyes.  “Why do you think?  I’m here to make sure that no one walks away the winner.  Can’t have you spilling the beans, can we?  You can call me the contingency plan if you like.  Oh, don’t get me wrong.  You’re the winner, but as for letting you walk free, that just can’t happen.”

Damien couldn’t make it add up in his brain.  “But the tasks, the games…  Why put this money in front of me if it was all just a scam.”

Danni held her bandaged hand up in front of her.  She unravelled it to show that she had no injuries – no acid burn.  “The wasp stings sucked pretty bad, but all of the other tasks were faked.  There was only water in my bowl during the acid task.  The task I was in with Jade was weighted in my favour.  There was a slight incline to the floor that gave me a little helping hand from gravity.  Of course I made it look close, but it never really was.  As for the money, well that’s payment for me and my team.  We’re a cash only kind of organisation.  Every time we do this, we get a couple suitcases of cash sent down from the people running things.”  She ran a hand over the money in the suitcases.  “God, how I love payday.”

Damien snarled.  “You bitch!”

“Hey, I’m one of the good guys.  All of you deserved to be here.  You’re the scum of the earth.”

Damien shook his head.  “No.  I changed.”

“Perhaps, but there’s a kid called Gaz Brown that hasn’t walked since the day you beat him to a pulp.  Poor kid doesn’t even know what day it is.”

Damien sighed, and then actually laughed to himself.

“What?” Danni asked.  “What’s so funny?”

“I didn’t lay a finger on Gaz Brown.  My father was responsible.  He just let me take the street cred for it.  You got your facts wrong.”

“We never get our facts wrong.  Gaz Brown’s father paid a lot of money to see you held responsible.”

“Well, sorry to break it to you, but he’s got the wrong guy.”  Damien tightened his grip on the axe in his hand.  “And now I’m going to hold you responsible for the fuck up.”

He ran at Danni but only made it half way.  An unbearable burst of agony shot through his left wrist.  Immediately he dropped the axe and keeled over.  The pain took over him in waves.  His diaphragm seized up and his mouth filled with saliva.  The steel collar sprung free of his neck, any chance for the counter-agent gone.

Danni came and stood over him.  “Nobody ever gets out of here alive.  I’m very good at what I do.”

Damien stared up at her and gritted his teeth.  “I’m…going to…kill you.”

“Not in this life.”

Damien used the last of his strength to grab the hand axe from the floor beside him.

Danni’s eyes went wide.  She leapt back and put several feet of space between them.  Then she began to laugh.  “You idiot.  You’ll be dead within minutes and yet you still fight.”

Damien grimaced, but managed to pull a smirk across his face.  “The axe wasn’t meant for you.”

Before Danni could realise what he meant, Damien chopped the axe against his left wrist.  The flesh and tendons split apart and fragile bones broke.

He chopped again.

Then one more time, as hard as he could manage before shock sent him weak.

Damien’s left hand slithered across the floor as his arm came away from it.  The bracelet that had circled his wrist fell to the floor and leaked a yellowish liquid that must have been the toxin.

Danni’s eyelids were stretched wide open, making her eyes look like marbles inside her head.  “Get me out of here,” she shouted and backed up towards the opposite wall.  “The fool’s lost his mind.”

Two large men immediately entered the room through a hidden back door.  They bundled Danni through it to safety and then started towards Damien.  One of the men was the big fucker in black overalls.

Damien’s head was spinning.  He felt sick and close to unconsciousness, but he had to get away.

He managed to get up off the floor and stagger backwards, keeping his eyes on the two approaching men, while making his way to the door that led back into the house.  In his right hand, he still held the axe but it felt unbearably heavy in his hand.

The two guards said nothing.  They just stalked after him with murderous intent.  The man in the black overalls was smiling.

Damien reached behind himself and fumbled for the door handle.  He found it and was relieved when it turned.

The men picked up their pace.  Damien fell backwards through the door back into the house.  He landed on his rump, but quickly got himself together and kicked the door closed again, before the two larger men could come through it.

He sat on the floor, axe held ready in his hand, eyes on the door.

The door remained closed.

The two men were not following.

Why aren’t they coming in here to get me?

Damien looked down at the gushing stump where his hand used to be and knew the answer.

I’m bleeding to death.  They don’t need to come after me.  They can just wait until I die.

Damien managed to prop himself up on his one hand and slowly climb to his feet.  He took a deep breath and tried to keep his mind from spinning.

I’m not dead yet, you ass hats.

Damien turned on the spot, looking for a way to preserve his life.  It didn’t take him long before he found one.

He stumbled over into the kitchen and placed himself in front of the cooker.  With his right hand he twisted the knob for the gas hob and pressed the clicker to ignite the flame.  The lower left hob hissed and then lit up with a bright blue flame that slowly turned orange.

Damien began to hyperventilate but caught himself just in time, before he went into full blown panic.  He watched the flame with grim fascination.  The destructive force of fire might possibly be about to become a life saver.

Damien shoved the bleeding stump of his left arm over the naked flame and screamed as he forced himself to hold it there.  Every automatic impulse firing from his brain ordered him to remove his flesh from the burning agony, but he fought it.  He fought it for almost twenty seconds before he flopped backwards against the cabinets behind him and slid to the floor in a gibbering daze.

He stared down at his stump to see that it was blistered and blackened.  But it was no longer bleeding.  His veins, arteries, and capillaries had been cauterised.  He was no longer bleeding to death.  Infection would probably be the thing to kill him now.

But not for a while.  I have time for a little payback.

Damien reached up from the floor and rummaged around in the drawer above his head.  His hand came back with a 12-inch chef’s knife held firmly in its grip.

They would be coming to get him, Damien knew, but this time he was ready for them.  It was time for the owners of this house to play one of his games.

And it’s a game you’re going to lose, Mr Fucking Landlord.

4

Damien had grown thirsty.  He didn’t know how long he’d been slumped on the kitchen floor but it seemed like a while – maybe hours.

He climbed up off the floor and bent himself over the sink.  Turning on the tap, he placed his mouth beneath it and gulped and gulped until he was out of breath.  He let out a gasp and wiped his mouth.

Right, so what’s the plan?  I might be free of those damned bracelets, but I’m still inside the belly of the beast.

Damien looked around the kitchen and managed to find a spare bandage from the first aid kits they’d been given during earlier tasks.  He wrapped up the burnt stump of his left wrist and yelled out as a fresh burst of pain reignited itself.

He rooted around the kitchen until he found half a bottle of whiskey and quickly unscrewed the cap.  He downed the entire contents.  The spirit burned his throat and made him gag, but the warm fuzz immediately flowed through his veins and made the pain in his wrist melt away.

Damien picked up the chef’s knife from the counter and took it over to the heavy metal door where he and the other housemates had originally entered the nightmare of the house.  As he expected, it was locked tight, impenetrable.

Next, he checked the doors for the pantry and the elimination chamber.  Both had been locked from the other side.

They’ve caged me up in here.  Left me to rot.

There were no other doors that Damien could try.  He kicked and hefted his shoulder against the pantry door but it wouldn’t budge.  Unless he chanced upon a sledgehammer, he would never get the door open.  For all he knew, Danni and her cohorts could be locking the place down right now, deserting ship.  He would be trapped inside for days as he slowly starved to death or died of infection.

I can’t let it end that way.  I have to get out of here.

Damien was feeling better as the whiskey saturated his system.  He was confident and relaxed, but he was also a little fuzzy.  Despite the slight inebriation, he was still crystal clear about one thing: The longer he was trapped inside the house, the less chance he had of getting to the people responsible for putting him there.

Maybe I can get out through the bedroom.

Damien headed out into the rain-soaked garden and trudged across the courtyard into the bedroom.  The smell of death hit him immediately.  Catherine’s body had been stagnating for several days now and Jules had joined her not long ago.

Damien pulled his hoodie up over his nose to keep away the stench.  Catherine’s face had turned a mottled alabaster with sickly patches of purple.  The wrinkled skin of her old face had begun to slide back as though it were making a break for the back of her skull.  Damien had never seen a decomposing body before and he would gratefully have this be the last time.

And if I don’t get out of here, the same thing is going to happen to me.

It didn’t take long before it became clear that there were no points of egress inside the bedroom.  Not a single door or window had been built into the walls.  Escape via there was not even a possibility.

Not wanting to be around the dead housemates any longer, Damien headed back out into the garden.  The sight of Patrick’s body in the far corner made him sigh.  There was death everywhere.  It seemed even more pervasive now that his was the only heartbeat left in the house.  He was alone in a mausoleum.

There has to be something I can do.  I just need to think.

He scanned the garden and thought about trying to scale the walls.  It might be doable if he tried stacking up furniture and climbing the ten-feet to the top, but the thick layers of razor wire would have made it impossible to make it over to the other side.  He would be cut open like a peach against a cheese grater.

He peered up at sky and let the rain caress his face.  The rhythmic patter allowed him to focus inwards, to put his thoughts in order.  It was almost like he was connecting with some calming, intangible force that sought only to inspire him.

Perhaps that’s what God is.

Eventually something occurred to Damien.  There was maybe just one single way that he could escape the house; one last exit that he hadn’t tried.  And he was standing right next to it.

The raised platform that had brought the housemates the axes with which to kill each other was still in its upright position.  The fact that it had risen almost every day with different equipment on it suggested that it lead to another area of the facility, and therefore would lead to a way out.

Damien hurried over to the platform and stood inside the compartment that had housed the hand axes.  If he could just find a way to make the platform descend, it would take him out of the courtyard to some place new.  But there were no controls or buttons that he could see to operate the pneumatic platform.

Damn it.

The platform had two girders on either side that held the patch of grass above which provided its disguise when the platform was lowered.  Running up both girders was a coarse black wire.  Damien prodded the wires and discovered that they were firm, yet slightly pliant.  Their sponginess suggested that the rubber shielding housed not copper wires or fibre optics, but something else: gas or air.

It’s part of the pneumatics.  The air pumps through these cables and lowers and raises the platform.

Damien tried to pinch the cables closed, but they were too strong.  Then a better idea occurred to him.

Damien realised that he still held the chef’s knife in his hand.  He held it up in front of him.  Then he slashed at one of the cables.  Immediately there was a hiss of air.  Damien slashed at the cable again and it split apart, the two severed ends pointing in separate directions.

The platform grumbled and shifted.

Damien spun around and slashed at the remaining cable.

More air hissed.  The platform began to move.  It tilted and then settled, before easing downwards as if sinking through a vat of custard.  The ground beneath Damien’s feet descended slowly.  He used the time to prepare for whatever came next.  The last thing he saw was the great staring eye painted on the wall beneath the spotlights.

5

The platform came to a stop inside some sort of staging area.  The ground was bare cement and an oily odour clung to the air.  It was not unlike an empty garage.

The only things inside the room were several tiers of metal shelving that housed a variety of equipment.  Amongst the equipment were petrol cans, batteries, containers, cattle prods, folded-up tables, the large ‘wheel of fortune’, and more hand axes like the ones used to kill Chris and Richard.

Damien exchanged his chef’s knife for one of the axes, but decided to keep the blade spare.  He slid it into his waist band at the back beneath his hoodie.  He then trained his eyes on the doorway ahead.  It was hanging open.

That’s good, because I was getting really sick of locked doors.

Damien took a step and wobbled as the whiskey in his system started to play havoc with his motor controls.  The alternative was being sober and feeling the full blown agony from his wrist.  He accepted that the grogginess was a necessary evil.

Passing through the doorway up ahead, he found himself inside a warehouse area.  Various pallets were stacked up with machinery and various other things.  There were also huge stockpiles of booze and snacks.  Much more than twelve housemates could consume in ten days.  A forklift truck sat abandoned in the centre of the warehouse and several hard hats hung from a nearby wall.  It was quite an operation.

What the hell is this place?  It can’t just be about a handful of people with a grudge.  This place is permanent; like an actual business.

Damien glanced left and right as he moved between the pallets.  The harsh glare of the strip lighting above made it hard to see clearly.  Shadows cast their ominous tentacles over everything and made it feel like something nasty could jump out into the light at any moment.  Damien took his time and moved slow.

The way up ahead was clear, the warehouse deserted.  It was eerie without the bustle of labourers and warehouse workers.  It was like an empty boat drifting at sea: it made no sense without people.

Where is everybody?

There were several more doors leading off from the warehouse, but none of them were open – only the one up ahead was.  Light spilled out from a corridor beyond.

Damien approached the open door and moved through it silently, his axe held high and ready.  He was beginning to feel a bit like James Bond.

A one-armed, axe wielding James Bond.

Maybe James Bond’s working-class cousin.

At the end of the corridor was an unlocked office.  Someone was inside.

Damien bent his knees and crept along the wall.  The man inside the office was facing away, rummaging through the drawers of a desk and stacking papers and folders into a pile.

Getting ready to clear out of here?

Damien snuck into the office and positioned himself behind the stranger.  He raised the axe and prepared to strike a blow against the back of the other man’s skull.

But he reconsidered when he saw who the man was.

Damien took a step back and spoke.  “So we meet again?”

The man in black overalls spun around and almost hopped up onto the desk.  There was fright in his eyes but not necessarily terror.  He looked down at the axe and then up at Damien’s face.  “What are you doing down here?”

Damien held up the bloody stump of his arm.  “Didn’t you hear?  One of the monkeys escaped from the zoo.”

“You should have bled to death by now.  You shouldn’t be here.  You should be in the house”

Damien couldn’t help but laugh.  “Seriously?  Should I just go back, then?  Just wait for you to kill me like a good little boy?”

The man seemed to realise the absurdity of his words.  He stiffened up and seemed to get over the surprise of seeing Damien, but he was clearly still wary of the axe ready to strike him.  “What’s your plan then, Rambo?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much you help me.  I want to know what this is all about.”

“You already know.”

Damien frowned.  “Revenge?  People have paid to have us all killed?”

The man nodded.  “In a nutshell, yes.”

“Who’s running this thing?”

The man looked away.

Damien raised the axe threateningly.

“Okay, okay.  This whole thing is run by Black Remedy.  It was set up to allow people to take revenge on those who have wronged them.  Bets taken on the black market just add to the profit margin and allow us to keep doing this.  It’s a rich man’s day at the races.”

Damien shook his head.  “That’s insane.  How do Black Remedy expect to get away with it?  They’re a public company for Christ’s sake.”

The man huffed and looked at Damien like he was an idiot.  “Because they’ve been getting away with it for decades.  You think you’re the first person to be here, son?”

The hair on the back of Damien’s neck stood up as he thought about just how long ‘decades’ was and how many people could have been tortured in that time.  “You people are going to burn in hell.”

“So are you.  You all deserve to be here.  We’re just giving people justice.”

“And taking bets on it all.  Very noble.  Tell me why it looks like you’re in a hurry to get out of here?”

“Because we’re shutting up shop.  We always do after the competition concludes.  Next year we’ll do the whole thing again someplace else.  We only ever stay in one place for two or three years at a time.  They’ll be razing the place to the ground in less than an hour.”

“Who will be?”

The man shrugged.  “Site security.”

“The men wearing the jumpers with the eyeball logos on them?”

The man nodded.

“You’re in charge of them, aren’t you?”

The man nodded.

“Well,” said Damien.  “You better hope that you’re not still asleep when they start the fire.”

Before the man had chance to understand, Damien whacked him with the thick head of the axe.  The blow struck him in the temple and sent him sprawling back over his desk.  The papers he had been gathering fell to the floor in loose piles.

Damien was glad they would soon be setting fire to this wretched place.  He just needed to make sure that he wasn’t inside when it happened.

6

Damien found his way up a flight of stairs and was now out of the basement and on the ground floor.  There were people buzzing round in various rooms and offices and he was forced to stick to the wall like some sort of drunk, one-handed assassin.

The ironic thing was that the people on this floor were all wearing shirts and ties, milling about like ordinary office workers – except that, instead of telesales and purchasing, they were administrating the running of a death camp.

How do these people sleep at night?

Damien wanted to take his axe to every one of them, but there was no way that he could succeed in the task.  He had to prioritise and, right now, that meant escape first and foremost.

The floor was set up like a typing pool, with multiple workspaces all set up with blinking computers.  Disturbingly, some desks had pictures and personal effects on them too.  The people here looked at photographs of their families while signing off on the deaths of innocent victims.

Well, maybe not ‘innocent’, but human beings at least.

Damien peered around a partition wall into a nearby cubicle and saw that its computer displayed strings of numbers which looked very much like betting odds.  The whole floor must have been one giant bookmaking operation.

The main problem about escaping through it was that there were a dozen men and women all scuttling around the place like busy worker ants.  Getting past them would not be easy.  Damien eyed an exit up ahead, but there were several cubicles to get past first.

This is so much easier on Xbox.

A young woman with a pink neck scarf and a grey pencil skirt was bent over a desk up ahead.  She was typing away at a computer, deleting files most likely.  Damien watched her for a few seconds and then crawled up behind her, close enough to smell her lavender perfume.

Damien crept past the woman and slid into the next cubicle that was empty.  He hid behind the partition wall and took a breather.  His heart was beating like a kettle drum and each throb sent a spike of pain through his mangled wrist.  He hadn’t even had time to contemplate that he was now missing a hand.

I don’t have much future as a carpenter if I can’t hold a nail.

Damien waited until the coast was clear again and crept another few cubicles ahead.  A young couple were flirting up ahead and he had to wait several minutes before they parted ways.  The man headed over to the opposite side of the office, while the woman walked right past the cubicle in which Damien was hiding.  The way to the exit was clear.

Time to move.

Damien sprung out of his hiding place and bumped right into a man who was kneeling down on the floor.  The middle-aged office worker had been filling up a cardboard box with papers on the floor.  He’d been hidden by the partition wall.

The man looked at Damien in surprise, and then shock.  “Hey!” he shouted.  “It’s you!”

“No shit,” said Damien and then smacked the man square in the jaw with the axe handle.

Everyone in the office stopped what they were doing and stared at Damien.  Apparently his escape from the house had gone unnoticed as they were all terribly shocked to see him.

They’re not used to having to face one of their victims.  I’m not just a name on a betting form any more.

Damien realised that they really had been planning to leave him to bleed to death in the house.  More fool them for not checking that the job was done.

Nobody made a move for Damien.  They were merely office workers and he was a bloody, half-insane mess.  They weren’t about to take the risk in being the company hero.  What someone did do, however, was trip an alarm.

The siren began wailing throughout the entire building.  It seemed to incite the office workers as they all started to filter out through side doors and stairwells.  Damien ignored them and headed for the exit he had been seeking from the beginning.

He started to jog and then sprint as he entered a carpeted hallway.  It was like being in the head office of any ordinary firm.  It was furnished and homely.

A door on Damien’s left made him skid on his heels.  He stepped back and peered through the glass pane on the door.  Two people stood inside the room.  One of them was a stumpy little man with a balding head and bookish spectacles.  The other one was Danni.

Damien needed to escape this place before the security guards arrived.  They would be planning to bury Damien on the spot or perhaps just leave him to burn when they started the fires.  But, seeing as his chances for survival were so low anyway, Damien decided to change his priorities.  He couldn’t resist the opportunity that had just presented itself.

This place was built for revenge.  Maybe it’s about time that I got some of my own.

Damien turned the handle and kicked open the door.  Danni and the stumpy man spun around in fright.  They had both been staring at a computer screen with their backs to the door.  Damien wasn’t sure but it had looked like a video call with someone, but as soon as he entered the room, the window on the screen closed.

The sound of footsteps thudded down the hallway outside.  Damien locked the door and hoped it bought him some time.

Danni was the first one to speak.  “Damien!  What the hell are you doing here?”

Damien suddenly went dizzy, but he fought it and hoped it didn’t show.  Whether it was the booze or his injuries, he did not know.  He let the axe swing menacingly by his side as he spoke.  “We promised to go out and get a drink, remember?”

Danni backed up against the computer desk.  The stumpy man stood in front of her and put a hand up.  “Now look here, young man, none of this was personal.  If you stay calm, I’m sure that we can work something out.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Damien, “but who in the blue hell are you?”

The man cleared his throat and seemed to think.  “I-I’m just a technician.  I just look after the computers.”

Damien smiled.  “Guess this has nothing to do with you, then?”

The man smiled and nodded.

“Except,” said Damien.  “That you look after the computers at a building that tortures and murders people.”

“Now look here!”

“No!  You look here, you fat little weasel.  One more word out of your maggoty lips and I chop ’em off.  You get me?”

The man shut up.

Danni was still cowering up against the desk.  Damien looked at her and grinned wide.  He imagined he resembled some sort of deranged lunatic.  The feeling was good.

He took a step towards her, draping the axe casually over his shoulder.  “Oh now, what to do with you, my sweet sweet darling.”

“Damien, just calm down.  You sound like a mad man.”

“The alternative is being a dead man, so I’m fine with having a couple screws loose.  Besides, who would blame me?”

Somebody bashed a fist against the door and yelled something.  It was one of the security guards outside in the hallway.  Danni made a run for the door, grabbing at the handle.

Damien swung the axe at her head, but buried it in the wall only inches away.  “SIT.  THE.  FUCK.  DOWN!”

Danni backed away from the door and took a seat on a nearby swivel chair.

“Please, let us go,” said the stumpy man.

Damien sniffed.  “I just have a few questions first.  You understand how it is, first day in the office and all.  Let’s think of it as an orientation.”

“So ask your stupid questions, then,” said Danni.  There was a look of insolence in her eyes.  She did not enjoy being on the bad end of this exchange.

I hope the irony isn’t lost on her.

“Well, firstly I want to know where we are.  How far to the nearest civilisation?”

The stumpy man answered.  “We’re on the Isle of Mull.  There’s nowhere for miles and the only way to reach the mainland is by ferry.

Damien sighed.  I’m screwed.

He pointed the axe at the stumpy man.  “Then I need to use a phone.”

“No can do.  When the alarm was tripped, all outside communication was locked down.  The whole place is designed to make sure you don’t get out of here alive.  The only mistake was assuming you were already dead.  We should have kept our eye on the cameras.”

“You were watching me?  I thought you were just a technician.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly and he nodded eagerly.  “Yes, yes, I am.  I was working on the camera feeds when they left you to bleed to death in the kitchen.  I-I can’t believe you survived.”

“I’ve survived a lot over the past ten days, so why quit now?”

Danni sniggered.  She was lounging in the swivel chair now with her hands on the armrest.  She seemed quite amused by it all.  “You’re a dead man,” she said.  “You’ll never get out of this place alive.”

The banging on the door increased and several faces appeared at the glass window pane.  More security guards.

Damien sniggered back at Danni.  “I wouldn’t be finding it so funny if I were you.  I may be screwed, but that just means I have no more fucks left to give.”

Damien swung the axe without warning and brought it down on Danni’s left hand which was braced against the armrest.  She bellowed in agony.

Blood sprayed into the air.

Damien kicked Danni’s severed hand aside as she dropped to her knees and wailed like a cat on a bonfire.  He  stared down at her without pity.  “Guess we’re even.”

The stumpy man slid up against the wall and looked like he was about to piss himself.  There were tears forming in his eyes and his lower lip quivered.

Damien lunged at the man and grabbed him by his sweat-stained shirt collar.  “You’re coming with me,” he said.  “Time for the guided tour.”

7

When the door opened, Damien came out behind the stumpy man.  The sharp edge of the axe was pressed up against the man’s windpipe and Damien was ready to slice it open at a moment’s notice.  The half-dozen security guards had evacuated the office floor of personnel and they were the only ones left.  Damien kept them at bay by drawing a little blood with the axe.

The stumpy man bleated.  “P-please, help me!  He’s insane.”

Damien grinned.  “You better bloody believe I am.  I am one bloke you do not want to test right now.”

The security guards kept their distance but maintained pace with Damien as he backed down the corridor with his hostage.

“How do I get out of here?” Damien asked the stumpy man.

“I-I don’t know.”

He drew the axe along the man’s throat and drew a little more blood.  “Guess again.”

“The…the corridor on the right.  Take the corridor coming up on your right.  It leads to the car park outside.”

“This goddamn place has a car park?  I bet it has vending machines and water coolers too.  You people are sick.”

“We provide justice,” he said.  “A…a service.”

Damien took the corridor on his right.  The guards pursued him cautiously.  “You sound pretty passionate to the cause for a lowly technician.”

“W-we all believe in what we do.  It is a just cause.”

“Except that I’m innocent of the crimes you allege of me.  I wonder how many other mistakes were made with previous contestants.  I hear you’ve been doing this a while.  How many innocent people have you killed in that time?”

“None of them were innocent.  And who gave you that information?”

“Why do you care?”

“B-because I am worried who else you’ve managed to hurt in your escape.”

Damien was nearing the end of the corridor.  “The only person you need to be worrying about right now is yourself.  Now, which way do I go?”

The stumpy man pointed his trembling finger.  “That door, there.  It leads outside.”

Damien backed up against the door and shoved it open.  It led to a small waiting area lit by the growing light of dawn.  Everything outside the windows was dark blue, heralding the imminent arrival of the sun.

“What will I find out there?”

“Staff vehicles.  That’s all.”

“That’s all I need.”

Damien kicked out and slammed the door he had come through closed.  It hit one of the guards and sent the group of them back into the corridor.  Damien used the brief advantage to slip out of the reception room and out onto the hard concrete outside.

It felt surreal to finally be out of the facility, away from the house.  He felt like a caged sparrow suddenly being released.  But he also knew that he was far from free.

The guards flooded out behind Damien and begun ordering him to give himself up.  Instead, Damien searched around for another option.  Up ahead was a long bus, perhaps the one that had brought him there to begin with.  It was full of people who looked all ready to set off.

“Who are all those people?” Damien asked his hostage while pointing at the bus.

“The benefactors.”

“You mean the people who paid for us all to be here?”

“They just wanted to see justice served.”

“So you gave them a front row seat?”

Damien thought about all the videos he had seen; all of the broken and damaged people looking for a way to ease their pain.  As much anger as he felt, it was not directed at the people on the bus.  They were victims, too, and could perhaps be excused for their bad judgement.  They were not the cause of all this.  They were being used no differently to the housemates.  Their pain was being used as a way to profiteer.  The people responsible were the ones who had turned suffering into a business.

“Where are they heading?” Damien asked.

“The ferry.”

“Then I hope they go back to their lives and manage to find some peace, because this shit is over.”

“Sir, I need you to release Mr Hammond and put down the axe,” said one of the guards.

Damien smirked.  “Mr Hammond, huh?  Nice to put a name with the face.”

“I’m just a technician,” he said.  “Let me go.”

“But we’re just getting to know each other.”

“What would your friend, Harry, think about all of this, Damien?  He would never condone you taking a man hostage, or cutting off a woman’s hand.”

“Danni is a lot of things, but a woman isn’t one of them, and if you mention Harry’s name again I’ll cut you.”

“Just let go of me and we can work something out, son.  You can take the prize money and go and help your friend.”

Damien hesitated for a second as something became clear.  “You’re not a technician are you?  You know too much about me.”

The stumpy man used Damien’s lapse in concentration to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes and escape his grasp.

The guards were on Damien immediately.  An elbow caught him in the chin and made him see stars.  He tried to hold onto the axe, but before he knew it, it had already dropped to the ground as half a dozen bodies piled on top of him.

If it were not for the whiskey dulling his senses, Damien would have probably lost consciousness; especially when his skull hit the pavement with a clonk!

“Get him up!” said the stumpy man who Damien now knew was The Landlord.

The guards dragged Damien up off the ground and held him in front of their boss.

“You really should have bled to death.”  He sneered.  “It would have been easier on you.”

Damien spat a mouthful at blood.  “Piss off!”

The stumpy man wound up a punch and landed it against Damien’s ribs.  The air rushed out of him.

Two hundred yards away the bus full of ‘benefactors’ departed for the docks.  Damien wished he were with them.

Least I got some payback against Danni.  If nothing else, there’s that.

“How on earth did you get into this?” Damien said.  “How do you sleep at night?”

The Landlord smirked.  “How do you think I got into this?  Money.  As for how well I sleep, well, let’s just say I’ve never been one for sleeping anyway.  It’s overrated.”

“So, what now?  You kill me in cold blood?  You got the stones for it, you fat fuck?”

“I never get my hands dirty.  I just give my word and things get done.  Allow me to demonstrate.”

The Landlord leant in to one of his guards and whispered something.  The guard nodded and then headed off.  While that was happening, the other guards moved Damien further away from the building.  The Landlord followed them.

Two minutes later the facility blew up.

The force of the blast was like a gale force wind.  The flames lit up the dawn sky and plumes of smoke twirled in the air like billowy dancers.  The air filled with ash and debris.

Damien choked and spluttered.  “Jesus!  Weren’t your people in there?”

The Landlord shrugged.  “A few.  All of my permanent staff are out of the way.  Those left inside were expendable.  Better just to part ways with them.  New project, new staff.  That’s the way we do things around here.”

Damien huffed.  “Beats severance pay, I guess.”

The Landlord waved a hand dismissively.  “Take him somewhere private.  Bury the body.”

A guard grabbed Damien from either side and dragged him along the concrete.  They steered him towards a patch of scrubland at the edge of the car park.  The sun lay on the horizon ahead.

“So you couldn’t just get a job at a supermarket like everybody else,” Damien said as the two men dragged him by his arms.

“Shut up,” said the guard on his left.

“No, seriously.  Why do this?”

“Because it pays better than working at a supermarket.”

Damien’s feet left the concrete as it gave way to mud and grass.  He knew there were only seconds left until the two men killed him.

But he wasn’t out of ideas yet.

For the last few yards, Damien had gone limp and weak, acting as if he were already a beaten man.  The guards either side of him held on to him tightly.  Too tightly.

Suddenly, Damien sprung backwards on his heels and broke free of the men’s grasp.  Immediately they spun around and came after him.

Damien was ready with the chef’s knife hidden behind his belt.  He slid it out and pointed it forward.  The nearest guard ran right into it.

Damien pushed the knife deeper into the guard’s belly and pulled him into a tight hug, using the man’s body as a shield against his colleague.  Then Damien pushed the wounded guard backwards and sent him colliding into his friend.

The two guards fell to the floor, one bleeding on top of the other.  Damien swung his leg and kicked the uninjured man in the face, cleaning his clock and knocking him cold.  The other guard bled out on top of him.

Damien knelt down and wiped the bloody knife against the dead guard’s jumper.  Then he stood up, turned around, and stared back at the flaming remains of the facility.

With the sun behind him, Damien was hidden in shadow.  He used that fact to his advantage as he studied his surroundings.  There were still a few handfuls of personnel loitering around the area, but most were getting into a fleet of black Range Rovers and driving away, completing their mass exodus.  The Landlord was amongst them, talking on a phone and ordering people around.

Damien cut a wide arc, heading as close to the flaming remains of the facility as he could stand.  The very air itself was heated and it was like walking through a sauna.  Hopefully the constant shifting of the fires would mask his own movement, but he kept low and moved quickly.

Once he made it over to the nearest Range Rover, Damien crouched down beside one of the large 21” rims.  He peered around the back of the vehicle and watched as more personnel departed.  As each one left, Damien’s odds increased.

They’re making the mistake of assuming I’m dead again.  They really need to get better at this.

Somebody was coming.

Damien looked left and right and saw nowhere to go that would not leave him exposed.  He reached up and grabbed at the handle of the Range Rover’s rear passenger door.  It was unlocked.

He pulled the door ajar and slid inside the vehicle, squeezing down into the spacious foot well and making sure he was out of sight.  Then he hooked his trainer inside the door’s armrest and pulled it shut again.

Two seconds later, the driver’s door opened and a body jumped behind the wheel.  The vehicle rocked back and forth on its springs and then settled.

The front passenger door opened and somebody had brief conversation with whoever was in driver’s seat.  They spoke about ‘cases’ and the driver said to ‘leave them with me.’

Then the engine grumbled to life.

Then the Range Rover started moving.

Lying in the foot well, Damien had a seductive desire to go to sleep.  He had been through so much and his body was wrecked and his mind was begging for downtime.  What he wanted more than anything else in the world right now was a soft bed someplace safe.

But not just yet.

Damien sprang up from the foot well and sat up on the back seat.  He quickly leant forward and placed his knife against the driver’s throat.  When he saw it was The Landlord, he could not believe his luck.

“Well well well, looks like I caught the right taxi.”

The Landlord’s eyes went wide and then settled on the rear view mirror.  The fear in his expression was clear and it gave Damien a satisfied grin.

The Range Rover started to slow down.  Damien dug the knife into The Landlord’s throat.  “Slow down and you die.”

“What are you going to do?”

Damien eyed the two suitcases on the front passenger seat and saw what was inside them.  “I’m going to have a little revenge of my own,” he said, staring down at the millions in cash.  “Then I’m going to take my winnings.  Just keep driving.”

The Range Rover switched off its lights and cut through the hills, heading in the opposite direction to the other vehicles.  Damien kept smiling at all the money on the front seat and then at the terrified expression on The Landlord’s face.  Maybe things were going to work out after all.  Harry was going to get his procedure…  And The Landlord is going to get what’s coming to him.  Looks like I win, thought Damien as he watched the sun rising beyond the hills.

“Stop here,” he said an hour later, once they were truly in the middle of nowhere.

The Landlord swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed.  “There’s nothing here.”

“That’s the idea.  Stop out now, or I leave you without fingers.”

The Landlord brought the car to a stop among a couple of stony outcroppings.  The rain had seized and the sun had risen.  In the dry daylight, the Island was pleasant, even picturesque.

Damien leant forward and prodded the knife into the back of the Landlord’s neck, making the man wince.  “Give me the keys and then get the fuck out.”

The Landlord nodded and opened up the car door.  He handed over the keys and slid sideways, hopping down to the ground below.  Then he ran.

Damien giggled as he jogged after the heavyset man.  He allowed him to get a few steps, getting a taste of freedom, before tackling him to the ground and straddling him.  Damien raked the edge of his knife down the Landlord’s cheek and made him cry out as blood spilled from his split skin.

Damien leapt back up to his feet and stared down at the man.  “Get.  Up.  Now.”

The Landlord made it only up onto his knees.  He knelt before Damien, lacing his hands together and pleading.  “Please, just let me go.  I will make you rich beyond your dreams.”

“I already have your money.”

“I can get you more.”

“I have enough.  Now get to your feet.”

“Please.”

Damien kicked the man hard in the face.  He felt the crack of his nose and smiled grimly.  The Landlord whimpered on the ground, blood pouring from his nose.  “Pl-pl-”

“If you beg me one more time, I am going to stab you in both eyes.  Now.  Get.  Up!”

Gingerly, the Landlord stumbled onto his feet, his hands out in front of him, ready to ward off further blows.  But Damien wasn’t interested in hurting the man.  He wanted the Landlord to hurt himself.  That was the only punishment that would be sufficient justice.

“W-what are you going to do?”

Damien motioned back towards the Range Rover.  “Get back to the car.”

For once, the Landlord didn’t argue.  The man made his way slowly back to the vehicle.  He stumbled and tripped over the craggy rocks hidden in the grass, but he kept on moving, too afraid to turn back.

When they got reached the Range Rover, Damien held the knife out at the Landlord’s face.  “Open up the bonnet.”

The Landlord looked at him with confusion, but knew better than to argue.  He headed around to the open passenger door and reached under the dashboard.  The bonnet popped.  “My people will be coming for me by now,” he warned.  “The best thing you can do is get out of here while you can.  You need to get your wound looked at.”

Damien looked down at his bloody stump and grimaced.  The pain was phenomenal, but the thrill of what he was about to do made it manageable.  “Don’t you worry about my pain, worry about your own.  Open up the bonnet.”

The landlord sighed and went over to the front of the car.  He hoisted up the bonnet and left it standing open.  “Now what?”

Damien grinned.  “Now you put your face on it.”

The Landlord raised both eyebrows.  “What?”

“Put your goddamn face on the engine or I’ll peel your face off with this knife.”

“But we’ve been driving for an hour.  The engine is red hot.”

Damien rolled his eyes.  “No shit!  You’re going to put your face on it and keep it there for thirty seconds.  You do that and I’ll let you live.  Fail and I’ll slit your throat.  Your choice.”

The landlord folded his arms.  “I won’t do it.”

Damien nodded.  “Makes you a bit of a hypocrite, doesn’t it?  I mean, all those people you forced into your sick, twisted games, and you’re not even willing to play them yourself.  Well, my fat friend, it is time for you to practise what you preach.”  Damien leapt forward with the knife and forced it under the man’s chubby earlobe.  He wrenched and sliced until the appendage came away in his hand.  The Landlord stumbled backwards against the front of the car, screaming and clutching his head, but Damien gave him no chance to feel sorry for himself.  He grabbed the Landlord’s head and shoved the side of the man’s face down onto the hissing engine.  The Landlord’s screams immediately turned to animalistic bellows.  He struggled and thrashed, but Damien held him there.

“You have another twenty five seconds,” Damien said.  “Take your face away before that and you die right here.  You time starts…now”

Damien stepped back and let go of the Landlord’s head.  To his pleasure, the man kept his face against the steaming hot engine, squealing like a wounded pig.  His arms and legs thrashed wildly, but his face stayed on the superheated metal.

“That’s it,” said Damien.  “Just twenty seconds left.  You’re almost there.  Nineteen…eighteen…seventeen…sixteen…fift-”

The landlord pulled his face away and staggered down to his knees.  He put his hands up to Damien and wept.  His face was a pink mess, skin ripped away, still sizzling on the engine.  Exposed muscle glistened.  “Please,” the man begged.  “Please.  It hurts too much.”

Damien nodded.  “I understand.  Not everyone is cut out for this.  There has to be losers.”

He strode forward and slit the Landlord’s throat, leaving him to die face down in the dirt.

The only thing Damien thought about, while he stood there over a dead body in the brisk countryside of Scotland was how he felt nothing at all.  He had just executed a man and he felt nothing.  He had won the competition but lost part of his soul.  He had entered the competition for humble reasons, but by the end, it had made him a monster.

Damien threw the bloody knife down on the ground and got behind the wheel of the Range Rover.  As he drove away, he wanted to cry, but somehow he just couldn’t.

One Week Later…

“We still can’t get a fix on The Landlord, Mr Raymeady.  It looks like maybe he went off the grid with the money instead of giving everybody their cut.”

Samuel Raymeady looked up from his mahogany desk and studied his employee with his charcoal eyes.  “No matter,” he said.  “In a few days, the money won’t even matter.  There are much greater things ahead.  It’s time to see some real change in the world.  The time for punishing worthless sinners, one soul at a time, is over.  It’s time to take a larger approach.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Samuel smiled, his snake-like incisors glinting in the orange glow of his office lamp.  On his desk lay a vast sheet of paper.  It was the blueprint for a cruise liner his company, Black Remedy, owned:  The Spirit of Kirkpatrick.  “You’ll see,” he said, folding his hands on top of his desk.  “You’ll see very soon.”

BOOK 5 OF 5

SEA SICK

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE RELAXING…

Police Officer Jack Wardsley’s life ended the moment his partner died, stabbed to death by a deranged druggie. Now, years later, Jack is a changed man. His recent record of police brutality and a reputation for not following the rules has prompted his seniors to give him an ultimatum: take a few weeks off, relax, and find some way to let go of all the anger – or find another job.

That’s why Jack is about to board The Spirit of Kirkpatrick, a cruise liner built for relaxation and fun. Pretty soon, however, Jack realises that a little R&R is the last thing he’s going to get. There’s a virus onboard, making people insane and it won’t be long before the entire ship is overrun with blood and death. There is nowhere to escape.

But just when Jack thinks his number is up, he wakes up in bed. It’s the same day as before, but will this time be different, or is the virus fated to escape again and kill all those aboard?

It won’t be long before Jack realises there are others onboard just like him – and that some of them know more than they’re letting on.

Day 1

The bus came to a screeching halt at the end of the pier, unloaded its passengers, and then quickly drove away, spluttering noxious black fumes behind it. The driver had seemed in a hurry ever since he’d picked everyone up from the airport.

The monolithic Spirit of Kirkpatrick was currently occupying more than nine-hundred feet of Palma’s dockland, sitting somehow majestically in the Majorcan waters despite its gargantuan bulk. Its multiple decks were stacked endlessly towards the sky, while portholes lined its red-painted hull like hundreds of staring eyes.

It was Jack’s first time on a cruise-liner, and he wasn’t looking forward to it at all. Most people would have been excited to spend a week on a four-star passenger ship, hugging the beautiful coastline of the Mediterranean while taking in the sights, but not him. For Jack, relaxation – and even the very idea of enjoyment – was a function he’d lost the use of long ago. The only reason he was even there at all was because he had to be, the choice made for him.

An overly tanned holiday rep approached the group, her skin leathery and loose. “Good afternoon, everybody,” she said wit a Spanish accent. “I hope you all are ready for your holiday. Are you very excited?”

The group cheered.

Jack rolled his eyes, eager to get things over with, and to get away from all these overly enthusiastic holidaymakers. The leaky-nosed children and fondling lovers all looked at Jack strangely, no doubt wondering what a middle-aged man was doing on a family cruise all by himself. Honestly, he was wondering the very same thing. Once aboard, his plan was to find the quietest part of the ship and spend the entire week there, reading novels and drinking whisky. The other thing he intended to do was sleep – or at least try to. Rest wasn’t something that came easily anymore.

“If you’d all just like to come this way.” The leather-skinned holiday rep ushered everyone into a cramped vestibule on the dock. It contained a flight of narrow steps that led up to an enclosed gangway running alongside the ship. At the top of the stairs, Jack saw a row of tables, with more olive-skinned holiday reps sitting behind them.

The passengers were ordered to form an orderly line and wait for instructions. A cheap-suited gentleman eventually came to greet them, a sycophantic smile slapped across his smug, moisturised face.

“Hello, everybody,” he said. “Welcome to the Spirit of Kirkpatrick. My name is James and I’m a member of the customer service team. If you could all get your boarding passes ready, you will find a passenger number at the top. Can all passengers with a number beginning 02 or 03 follow Karen over to the far desk? Everyone else, please follow me to the near desk.”

Jack pulled out his boarding pass and checked the number: 0206606-B. The passengers split into two groups and he joined the queue leading to Karen. The woman’s desk was filled with bright blue squares, credit card sized pieces of plastic.

“Can I see your boarding pass, please?” one of the reps asked Jack. The name badge on his sky-blue shirt read: Brad.

Jack handed over his paperwork and waited while it was examined. Satisfied, Brad plucked up one of the plastic cards from the table and offered it to Jack. “Welcome aboard, Mr Wardsley. Someone will take you to your room once you are onboard.”

“Thank you.” Jack moved away to join the longer queue that had now formed further along. A wide hatch on the side of the ship had opened up and people were beginning to go onboard. Queuing directly in front of him were three young men. They talked loudly and impatiently amongst themselves, seemingly drunk. One of them, Jack noticed, sported a ridiculous haircut, full of shaven lines and childish squiggles. It made his skull look like a hedge maze. He was the loudest of the three and every other word was laced with profanity. Jack took a deep breath and tried to keep his calm. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the queue started moving and the three young men disappeared up ahead, barging their way, impolitely, to the front. With a bit of luck, the ship would be big enough that they wouldn’t cross paths with Jack again.

They had better hope so.

Now, a little girl and her parents stood in front of him. The mum and dad were muttering to one another, as if engaged in some kind of spat, but their little angel was oblivious to the tension. The girl was playing with a life-sized baby doll and pretending to feed it with a miniature milk bottle. Her golden pigtails and rosy-red cheeks made her the picture of innocence.

As the queue continued moving, Jack saw through the hatch entrance into the ship’s interior. Well-trodden, red carpeting led down a narrow corridor before entering into a wider area beyond. Midway down the corridor was a Filipino woman, checking people’s passes as they came aboard. Standing just outside of the ship’s entryway was a bearded man holding a plastic container. The tub seemed to be full of rubbing alcohol and the man squeezed a small amount onto each passenger’s hands as they entered the ship. The paranoia of swine and bird-flu, Sars, and Ebola, as well as a whole host of other overblown health scares, seemed to increase every year. Jack wondered what good, if any, a tiny dose of alcohol would do if a super-virus did manage to get aboard. It seemed like a naïve precaution to him.

The little girl and her parents took their turns with the alcohol, rubbing their hands thoroughly like surgeons scrubbing up.

“Can my dolly have some, too?” the little girl asked the bearded man with the dispenser. “I don’t want her to get a cold.”

The man seemed unmoved by the girl’s cuteness, but he obliged anyway and squirted an extra blob onto the plastic hands of the dolly. Jack smiled at the innocence of it all as he passed by the family and headed inside the ship. He skipped right by the man with the dispenser, feeling the alcohol rub was a waste of time, and instead showed his pass to the Filipino woman standing inside the corridor. She nodded her head and waved him through.

The open area at the end of the corridor housed an extravagant foyer with a staircase on the right and an ornate balcony overhead. On the left was a jewellery store and gift shop. Jack was hungry, so his focus fell immediately on a pair of smoked glass doors in front of him, with the words, OCEAN VIEW RESTAURANT, written above in green calligraphic script. From the sound of it, and by the shadows behind the glass, the restaurant was already heaving.

Jack’s group was probably the final intake for that day. Everybody else had probably arrived earlier that morning or perhaps even on a previous day. It made him feel like a newcomer to a party already well underway.

A crewmember noticed Jack standing aimlessly and hurried over to him, smiling warmly as he approached. The Filipino man’s gawky appearance and bemused expression made Jack think he was unused to greeting passengers, but was trying to make himself useful. His uniform was a light-blue waist jacket with a white shirt beneath, black bowtie and trousers. Dark hair, slicked back, made him look older than the thirty or so years he likely was.

“Hello, sir. Let me show you to your room. Do you have your boarding pass?”

Jack nodded and handed it over.

“Ah, okay. Cabin B-18. Is very nice – a double.”

Jack took the man’s word for it. He hadn’t booked the cabin himself and had only expected the bare minimum. If his superiors authorised the extra expense of a bigger room then he was grateful, but they needn’t have bothered.

“Right now we are on A Deck. We take the elevators down to B deck. This way, please, sir.”

Jack followed the man, rounding a corner beyond the staircase and entering into a slim hallway. On the right was a pair of brass-framed elevators where the crewman prodded at a silver button on the wall.

While they were waiting, Jack asked what the man’s name was.

He tapped his name badge that Jack had missed. “Joma. My full name is Jose Mariano Panalan, but you can call me Joma for short.”

Jack nodded, but found himself without a follow-up comment. An awkward silence began to crystallise, but Joma managed to stop it from manifesting fully.

“Can I ask what your name is, sir?”

“Jack.”

“Like the playing card, yes?”

Jack shrugged.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Joma took Jack gently by the arm and ushered him inside. “Is your first time on cruise, yes?”

“It’s my first holiday in ten years.”

Joma whistled in awe. “You must be excited then, no?”

Jack was about to answer that no, he was not excited, but reminded himself that the man was just making small talk, not offering therapy. “Yes,” he decided to lie. “Very excited.”

Joma stared at Jack, drilling into him as if he had a secret tattooed somewhere on his skin. “You not bring your wife?”

“I’m not married.”

Joma didn’t probe, which was good. They remained in silence as the elevator descended to B Deck. It was a relief when the doors finally opened again.

“This way,” Joma said.

Sconces lined both walls of the corridor and bathed the ceiling more than they did the deep red carpet, creating a strange, yet calming atmosphere. Joma padded along between the various cabins until he came to one and stopped outside of it. “18-B. This your room, sir.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, reaching into his pocket to find his wallet.

Joma waved his hand. “You no need to, sir. All gratuities included in your fare.”

Jack liked the sound of not having to tip. He’d been unsure about the etiquette aboard a cruise liner and it was a relief to find out what was expected, so much so that he decided to give the man a tip anyway. He’d been preparing to do so throughout the entire week, so if this was going to be the only time he was obliged to hand over money, he’d still be way ahead of budget. Jack gave Joma a five-euro note.

“This very kind of you, sir. You need anything at all, you come see Joma. He work the bar in the Voyager’s Lounge. It very nice and quiet. You have headache, you come to Voyager’s Lounge and Joma make it go away.”

It sounded nice. Jack thought there was a reasonable chance he could actually end up there one evening, which made it all the better that he’d gotten off to an amicable start with the bartender.

“Thank you, Joma. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

“You settle in good now. Have lovely week, okay?”

“I will.” Jack turned away and inserted the plastic card he’d been given into a slit in the door handle. He was pleased when it disengaged the lock on the first try. He usually struggled with fiddly things.

His cabin was spacious, with a private bathroom and living room separated from the bedroom by a curtain. Jack had seen smaller bedsits in his time and was pleasantly surprised by the luxury. Also impressive was the fact that his luggage had arrived ahead of him. His bag sat on the floor in front of the wardrobe.

He had to admit he was almost happy. It was nice and private, and there was even a respectably large LCD television in the room, already switched on and displaying information about the ship. According to the text on screen, the Spirit of Kirkpatrick weighed 40 Tonnes and was powered by two Sulzer LB66 diesel engines. Its top speed was 22mph, which seemed slow compared to other methods of travel. Many more facts and figures also popped up on screen, but they weren’t interesting enough to prevent Jack from turning off the set with the small black remote he found on the bedside table.

The bed itself was what truly interested him. It was a double and looked indulgently comfortable. He intended to spend at least the next twelve hours there. Even before he had boarded a plane at 8AM, flying two-and-a-half-hours from Birmingham Airport before taking a forty-minute coach ride from Palma airport, he had been weary. Two years now since he’d last slept through the night, and he was hoping with every scrap of soul that if he could gain anything from his enforced holiday, it would be a small amount of sleep. He didn’t hold up much hope, though. Even now, as tired as he was, he knew the nightmares would not let him sleep. All he wanted was to get through the week as easily as possible. No thrills, no excitement, no anything. Then he would go back to the miserable life he was used to. The life he was already missing, for it was his.

Ironically, despite everything he had just thought, Jack fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Day 2

Jack awoke with a start. The fuzziness, that filled his head and covered the back of his eyelids, was a feeling he’d not experienced for some time. It was the feeling of a deep sleep being exited. It must have been a very deep and embracing slumber because it had somehow left him feeling more exhausted than rested. His throat was dry and sore.

He sat up in bed, blinking his eyes. The room was dark, all light from the cabin’s porthole blocked by a thick curtain. There was an alarm clock on the bedside table, shaped like a cube, and it displayed the time in glowing red numerals. It read: 14:00.

He had slept for twenty-four hours.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jack pulled back the duvet and dumped his sweating feet onto the floor. He stood up and shimmied around the edge of the bed carefully, mindful of the darkness of an unfamiliar room. The main light was likely by the cabin’s exit, so he headed over there now. In the dark, his probing fingers eventually found a set of knobs and he turned on the light.

The room lit up and everything came into colour. Jack’s eyes were still fuzzy, and the sudden onslaught of light made them ache. His luggage lay sprawled against the wardrobe door and must have been what had woken him. It probably tipped over when the ship crested a high wave. As if to confirm his suspicions, the ship listed suddenly and the luggage bumped against the wardrobe doors with a bang!

With the mystery solved, Jack stretched his arms above his head and let out a long, overdue yawn. He had to admit he felt better, almost as though a storm cloud had lifted from his mind. The world’s colours and smells had become more lucid. If not anything else, then at least the cruise had given him a brief respite from insomnia. Maybe his bosses at the police force had been right about him needing a change of scenery in order to relax. Who’d have thought it?

He pulled aside the curtain separating the bedroom from the lounge and padded over to the porthole. Outside, a lifeboat obscured his view to the left, but he could see the Promenade Deck beyond and the blue-green Mediterranean Sea stretching out in the distance. The water was vast and endless, every inch of it shifting and rolling with a life of its own. Jack knew little of the ship’s itinerary, but he supposed that today would be a day at sea. Which meant all the passengers would be onboard, reducing the amount of area for some quiet time. Hopefully tomorrow they would hit the coast of France and the passengers would disembark.

Something struck the porthole.

Jack leapt back, his breath catching in his throat. He ended up laughing to himself, though, when he realised it was just a seagull, come to perch on the ledge. The mottled bird stared in at him with beady black eyes, then flew away to pursue adventures elsewhere. Maybe he was just trying to tell Jack that waking up at 2PM was unacceptable, even for a grown man on vacation.

Jack let out one final yawn and decided he would indulge his sleepiness no more. A shower was the next order of business. The small bathroom was cooler than the rest of the cabin and a breeze seemed to enter from somewhere and skim across the tiles. Jack hadn’t unpacked his things yet, so he was pleased to see that, with the exception of a toothbrush, everything he needed was supplied. There was soap and shampoo in the shower cubicle and a roll of non-branded toothpaste sitting in a glass jar at the rear of the sink. He reached over into the shower and twisted the knob jutting out from the wall and the showerhead immediately hissed, a freezing cold jet of water coming out of it. Jack yanked his arm back and tried to keep from cursing. His temper was part of the reason he’d been sent on the cruise in the first place, so he intended to try and gain some control over it if he could.

After a few minutes went by, during which the use of the toilet had become necessary, Jack reached back into the shower to test the water. It was warmer now, so he stripped off his clothes and stepped inside. The soothing heat immediately caressed his body and made him shudder. It lulled him back into a sleepy daze, so he turned the temperature down a little and made the water lukewarm, cold enough to bring back his focus. He took a few minutes to wash his aging body, getting soap into places he had forgotten he had. Then, once clean and sufficiently refreshed, he turned the shower off, stepped out carefully, and dried himself with one of the plump towels provided.

He crept, naked, back into the bedroom, where his clean clothes were still in his luggage. He hoisted his bag up onto the bed and pulled out a pair of long khaki shorts and a nondescript red t-shirt. For footwear, he chose a pair of white tennis pumps. Once dressed, he found himself reluctant to leave the room. Rather than exploring the ship, he could just as easily spend the day reading in bed and swigging from the unopened bottle of Glen Grant he had in his luggage. He’d prefer it, in fact, but it would be ungrateful seeing as he wasn’t the one paying for the holiday. Like it or not, he needed to make the best of things.

He grabbed one of the books out of his luggage – an Andy McNab Thriller – and prepared to leave. As he reached the door, he noticed that a piece of paper had been slipped underneath it. He bent down to pick it up and saw that it was the ship’s newsletter. Printed in cheap black ink, as though from a photocopier, it was headed by the day’s date – 14.10.2012 – and the name of the ship in bold, SPIRIT OF KIRKPATRICK. Jack scanned the page and saw that it was indeed a day at sea as he’d earlier surmised. The afternoon activities included, amongst other things, afternoon bingo, a five-a-side football tournament, an ice sculpting display, and an audience with a magician. The evening was scheduled with a production of Half a Sixpence followed by a comedian he’d never heard of. Jack didn’t fancy any of the activities, but when he looked at the lunch options he was pleased to see that there would be hotdogs served on the Lido deck at 3PM. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and rightly so. It’d been over twenty-four hours since he’d last eaten.

He folded the newsletter into a square and placed it in the pocket of his shorts. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

A pair of elevators lay a dozen yards ahead and Jack decided to choose a deck at random, pressing the buttons without really looking.  His blind selection brought him out on the Broadway Deck. It was much brighter than B Deck, with natural light flooding in from an exit at one end of the corridor. Jack’s view of the opposite end of the corridor was obstructed by a large room-service cart crammed full of stripped bed sheets and pillowcases.

He decided to head for the exit, the glow of sunlight beckoning. Just before he got there, though, the floor rolled beneath his feet and sent him crashing against the wall. He swore loudly and was glad no one was around to hear him. The rocking lasted five seconds or so and made his empty stomach churn terribly.

“God damn it.”

Once he was sure the rocking was over, Jack peeled himself away from the wall and carried on down the corridor towards the exit. He pushed open the heavy, glass door and stepped out onto the Promenade Deck, but was immediately forced back into the doorway when a pair of giggling boys hurtled past like Olympic sprinters. Jack was about to shout after them but stopped himself when he realised there was no point. The two boys were already disappearing around the corner.

Jack took a breath. Keep calm. Not worth it.

The boys turned a corner up ahead and disappeared from sight. Jack took in a lungful of sea air and forgot about them. The fresh, unpolluted oxygen soothed his nerves. The feeling of saltwater on his face was invigorating as he strolled to the railings and leaned over. His experiences of being aboard a boat were few, yet he was surprised to find that the rhythmic swaying of the water had a placating effect on him. Looking out across the Mediterranean, he felt completely alone, as if society and all its wretched ills were far far away.  The sea was so calm that he almost felt the urge to jump in and disappear beneath its waves.

It could be finally be over.

Jack stepped back from the railing, unsettled by the urges his brain was sending him. While he’d contemplated suicide many times over the last two years, drowning was way down his list of ways to go. Struggling desperately for oxygen and swallowing lungfuls of stinging salt water was not a good death. No, if he were to ever kill himself, drowning would not be the way.

A little disorientated, he headed in the direction that the two boys had run in. It led him to the rear of the ship where the Lido Deck was located. It was a large, rectangular area spread over two tiers. On the bottom was a modest swimming pool inhabited mostly by children, while the top level seemed to be a sun deck full of sunbathers and chairs and tables. Jack chose to head for the latter.

When he got up there, he saw at least two-dozen people. Some lounged, while others sipped pints of beer and cocktails at the plastic tables. Jack’s fondness for alcohol made itself known as the thought of a scotch and coke made his stomach flutter. While his meals were paid for, his drinks were not, so he intended to take it easy, but with his lack of hobbies and not being a smoker, there would be enough in his bank account to go wild if he felt like it. Whether or not he did, however, would be the true test he faced this week. To get shitfaced, or not to get shitfaced, that was the question.

Jack wanted to read his book and enjoy what was left of the sun so he glanced around for a lounger. There were none free, of course, and it was hardly surprising considering the late hour. He was just about to resign himself to one of the hard-backed chairs, when somebody spoke to him.

“You can have this one.”

Jack looked down at the young woman. She was a teenager, with blonde curls framing a Nordic face. She was pointing to the lounger beside her and smiling.

“Isn’t it taken?” Jack enquired, nodding at the bright green beach towel that covered it.

“I haven’t seen anyone use it for hours. Someone must have forgotten their towel and left it here.”

Jack nodded his thanks and flung the ownerless green towel onto the deck before plonking himself down. He let out a sigh of pleasure as he eased into the backrest.

“The sun’s not that warm now,” the girl told him, “but it’s better than being in England.”

“Where abouts are you from?”

“I’m from Leeds. Can’t you tell by my accent?”

“It’s not that thick for a northerner.”

The girl laughed, her eyes seemed to sparkle and there was a glow about her. “Yours is pretty thick, though. Birmingham, right?”

“Good guess,” Jack admitted. “I try to hide it. Being a Brummie isn’t the most sophisticated thing in the world.”

“Neither is being a northerner.”

The conversation seemed to fade out then, as it often did between two strangers making polite chitchat. During the silence, an attractive brunette with striking, dark features came by to take their drink orders. Jack requested a cold beer, while Claire said she was good. He shuffled on the lounger until he was comfortable then opened the cover of his novel. Before he started to read, he gave his surroundings a cursory glance, more out of bored interest than anything else. An elderly couple kissed and cuddled nearby like lovers half their age. It was romantic in many ways, but Jack couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable all the same. Some things were better kept in private. Perhaps he was just jealous of not having someone to grow old with himself.

He turned his mind to other things and looked down at the pool below. The water was still crammed with splashing children. It now appeared that one of them – a young boy – had slipped while exiting the water. The boy’s mother was currently nursing an injury on his knee, rubbing at it vigorously, which only seemed to make him cry even harder.

“Were you in the army?”

Jack looked around and saw that the teenage girl was talking to him again. “Huh?”

“Were you in the army?” She pointed to the Andy McNab novel in his hands. “Your book looks like it’s about war.”

“It is, and, yes, I was in the army once. Six years in the Signals.”

“I bet you saw some nasty stuff. Were you in Iraq?”

“No. That was after my stretch. I was still in my twenties when I left the service. The army wasn’t really for me.”

“Don’t blame you. I wouldn’t be able to hack it, being screamed at all the time by some dickhead sergeant.”

Jack was silent.

“Oh God,” she said, putting a hand to her embarrassed face. “You were a sergeant, weren’t you?”

Jack allowed himself to laugh. “By the time I left I was, yes.”

“Sorry. What did you do when you left?”

“I joined the police force. Been an officer ever since.”

The girl’s eyes widened at that. People were always shocked when they found out they were talking to an off-duty police officer. It was as though they didn’t expect police officers to be actual human beings.

A third person arrived and stood between them. It was the lad Jack had seen the day before, queuing at the pier; the one with all of the lines and squiggles buzzed into his hair. He was currently topless and displaying a perfectly carved set of abs right in Jack’s face.

The lad tilted his head suspiciously. “How you doing, mate?”

“Good,” Jack replied. “I was just chatting to your friend…”

“Claire,” the girl on the sun lounger replied. She sounded a little nervous now.

“She’s my bird, not my friend.” The lad extended his hand out to Jack. “My name’s Conner. Who the hell are you?”

Jack ignored Conner’s offer of a handshake. “I’m Jack,” he said flatly.

“Jack was just telling me he’s a police officer,” Claire explained.

Conner took a step back, then crudely snorted back a wad of snot. He moved his attention to Claire, suddenly acting as if Jack had ceased to exist. “Come on, babes. They’re about to start serving hotdogs. The lads are already down there.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

Conner clicked his fingers in her face. “Get moving.”

Claire got up reluctantly and seemed to flash an awkward glance over at Jack. She reached down and pulled on a long t-shirt that covered her down to the knees. Then she shuffled into a pair of pink, jewelled flip-flops. She stepped up beside her boyfriend, ready to go.

Conner sneezed. Sneezed again.

Claire put the back of her hand against his forehead. “Your cold still bad?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m starting to feel well rough, innit. Steve and Mike have got it, too. We haven’t stopped sneezing for the last hour. That’s why I need you to stop lazing your fat ass about, so you can look after me.” He went in for a kiss but Claire dodged it.

“Don’t give it to me, babe!” She planted a kiss on his forehead instead, before wrapping an arm around him. “I’ll look after you, honey. Let’s go get some hotdogs inside of you.”

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

They both glanced down at Jack as they walked away; Claire with a warm smile on her face, Conner with an aggressive scowl. Jack kept his own expression plain. If the lad wanted to treat his girlfriend like shit then that was his business. She’d dump his sorry ass eventually.

He lay back and closed his eyes for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Then the smell of cooking sausage meat wafted up onto the sun deck and he was powerless to resist his growling appetite. He closed his book and hoisted himself up off the lounger. He was so hungry he could eat a whole pig.

Heading down the steps back towards the Lido Deck, Jack couldn’t help but notice something a little bit odd. It appeared that Conner and his mates weren’t the only ones with colds. Several other passengers were sneezing and coughing, too. A nasty bug was obviously going around. Jack just hoped he didn’t catch it, too, but by the time he joined the queue for hotdogs, his only thoughts were about food.

***

The hotdogs had been good and plentiful, and once Jack had filled his belly with three or four, he decided to explore the ship. He was surprised to find out that there was a sports deck and casino. His initial plan was to find somewhere peaceful to read his book, but somehow he’d found himself unable to settle anywhere in particular. He visited the ship’s five bars, speaking briefly to Joma at the Voyager’s Lounge and ordering a double bourbon whisky at an American-style pub called Columbia.

He’d eventually ended up at a place called High Spirits and that was where he was now. The barroom was immediately next to the sun deck, but it was also, more importantly, right above the Lido Restaurant where they served a twenty-four hour buffet. It would not be long before he wanted to eat again, and when he did all he would have to do was descend a short flight of stairs to find a wide array of snacks waiting for him. Drinks upstairs and food below. Perfect.

Looking at his wristwatch, it was now ten-past-eight. There was a comedian onstage, scheduled to tell jokes until ten-o-clock. Jack would most likely get a bite to eat after his set was finished and then retire to bed with the book he was still eager to begin.

The room’s waitress – another Filipino, as a majority of the serving staff seemed to be – brought over the drink he had ordered – another double bourbon, this time with coke. Jack took the drink and thanked the lady, before leaning back and listening to the rotund comedian’s latest foible.

“The wife and I were sat having a cup of tea with my mother-in-law the other day when, out of the blue, she says to me, ‘I’ve decided I want to be cremated.’ I said, ‘Alright, get your coat.’ ”

Jack moaned. Mother-in-law jokes. How original.

He sipped at his drink and glanced around the dim lounge. The attendance was high, with nearly all of the tables occupied. He spotted the family that had boarded before him, the middle-aged couple and their daughter. Their little girl was not the lively spirit she’d been earlier and was now laying limply across her mother’s lap, damp blonde hair matted against her forehead as she clutched her dolly against her chest. At first Jack assumed she was exhausted from the excitement of being on holiday, but the longer he watched the little girl, the more certain he became that she was unwell.

Periodically, the girl would let out a hacking cough followed by a pitiful moan. Each time it happened, the mother stroked a hand through her daughter’s and looked at the father worriedly. The two parents didn’t look much healthier than their child, though, and as Jack studied the rest of the lounge he saw that quite a few people seemed under the weather. The sneezing fits he had noticed earlier on the Lido Deck had now been replaced by a chorus of harsh, chesty coughs. Everywhere around him, sick people were rubbing at their clammy foreheads and bloodshot eyes, all looking extremely sorry for themselves.

Something wasn’t right, Jack thought to himself. There were too many people sick for it to be a simple cold virus.

Jack downed his drink and placed the glass back down on the table. Slowly, he began to rise from his seat. For some reason, he felt that any sudden movement would be bad. He took another look around the room, making sure that what he was seeing was correct and not an embellishment of his weary mind, but there was definitely at least one quarter of the barroom audience who were sick – maybe even as much as half.

Just as he was about to abandon his table and get somewhere less contagious, Jack was stopped by his Filipino waitress. “Is okay?” she asked him.

“Yes, fine. I’m just feeling a bit…claustrophobic.”

“You want I bring you glass of water?”

Jack shook his head. “No, thank you. That’s very kind but-”

The waitress shot forward into his arms, pushed by some great force. As Jack tried to steady the woman, he saw that Claire’s boyfriend, Conner, was the one who had shoved her. There was a wild spark of anger in his feral eyes.

“What the hell is your problem?” Jack shouted. “What are you on?”

Conner gave no answer. He rushed forward with his arms outstretched, grabbing at Jack’s throat. Jack choked and spluttered as the fingers wrapped around his windpipe, but it was only the shock and surprise that had distracted his reactions. He quickly regained his focus and stamped his heel into Conner’s instep.

But Conner carried on attacking as if he hadn’t noticed.

The lad continued to claw and wrench at Jack’s neck and even tried using his teeth as a weapon. Jack was confused, but not deterred by the lad’s ferociousness; he turned his body sideways and hooked Conner under his right armpit, then gamely flipped the lad over his hip in a basic judo throw. Conner went cartwheeling to the floor and stayed there, grasping at the air and disoriented. It was then that Jack heard the screams coming from behind him.

He spun around with his hands in the air. “It’s okay, everybody. Just remain calm. Everything is under cont-”

The entire lounge area was filled with panicking men, women, and children. They struggled and leapt over chairs as they tried to exit the room as fast as they could, but only ended up trampling one another. Even the rotund comedian was pushing and punching people out of his way. Dotted throughout the room, several groups of people were engaged in frenzied scuffles. The passengers were attacking each other, as if some spell had taken them all over and incited them to violence. The coppery tang of blood began to fill the air.

Jack turned to the waitress, still standing next to him. She’d remained rooted to the spot ever since Conner had shoved her in the back. Jack placed a hand on her shoulder.  “What the hell is going on?” He had to shout the words at her, trying to snap her out of the daze she was in. It must have worked, because she blinked her eyes and seemed to come back to reality. But the only thing she did was flee, abandoning her duties and racing away into the crowd. A moaning from behind Jack made him quickly forget about her.

Conner was back on his feet, preparing for another attack. His eyes leaked blood. It coursed down his pallid cheeks in crimson rivulets. He was snarling like a rabid pit bull.

Jack wasted no time. He drove his fist forward as hard as he could while twisting his pelvis in order to get his full weight behind the blow. Conner’s nose spread wide and exploded as the punch connected, and Jack felt the fragile bones snap beneath his knuckles. Again, Conner behaved as if nothing had happened. He staggered back from the blow, but seemed entirely unaffected by any pain. He came straight for Jack again.

Jack swung his fists again and again and again.

And again...

His triceps eventually began to tire, he had thrown so many punches, and his hands were swollen and matted with gore; yet Conner’s shattered face continued to snarl at him. The lad’s arms continued to reach out and snatch at his neck. All around Jack, the room continued combusting in chaos. Members of security had run in to check out the disturbance, but were quickly tackled to the ground by the groups of crazed passengers. Jack couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw men and women who had themselves been attacked, now joining in the frenzy, as if they had somehow been converted to the cause.

It was time to retreat. Jack could not restrain Conner much longer with punches alone, and it seemed like the only way to put a stop to the lad for good would be to kill him, and Jack was not prepared to do that.

So he ran.

He pushed and barged his way between tables, chairs, and other passengers. Many people were also trying to escape the room, but many more were like Conner, bleeding from their eyes and snarling like animals. Several eyebleeders reached out for Jack as he dodged by them, but luckily their reactions were slow and their clumsy snatches too late. He reached the lounge’s exit and bounded through the open doors. Outside, bodies lay scattered throughout the corridor. Numerous adults lay weeping and moaning, nursing open wounds, which bled unimpeded onto the carpets. Those uninjured sought to help those who were hurt.

At the end of the corridor, Jack took a sharp right and barged through the double doors of the Lido Restaurant. The room inside was deserted, compared to the busy High Spirits lounge, but there was still a small group of would-be diners left in the room. Several staff members also stood around, looking confused. Some wore kitchen uniforms while others were dressed like waiters; all wore mortified expressions on their faces. They obviously had no clue what was happening outside, but the amount of screaming was enough for them to know it was something bad. Very bad.

“What is going on?” a burly man in a chef’s uniform asked.

“I have no fucking idea,” Jack admitted. “But we need to get these doors locked, right now.”

The chef gave no argument and hurried to the doors, where he quickly twisted the latch. He turned back to face Jack. “Okay, the doors are locked.”

“Good,” Jack said, wishing there was a barricade blocking the room rather than a flimsy pair of frosted-glass doors. “We need to get help.”

The chef shrugged. “What help?”

All of the people in the room gathered and looked at Jack for an answer, but he had none.

“I don’t know,” he had to tell them. “What do ships usually do when they’re in trouble? Don’t they send out a mayday or something?”

“Isn’t that planes?” a staff member said.

“Don’t know?” Jack said testily. “Isn’t it your job to know?”

“Hey, I’m just a waitress.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry.” Jack glanced back at the doors and flinched as another scream rang out close by. “Okay, we shove a load of tables up against this door and wait until we know more.”

“More about what?” someone asked from the back of the room. It was a female voice.

Jack stood on his tiptoes and looked over the crowd. “Claire? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? Where else would I be?”

“I mean, how come you’re not with Conner?”

Claire moved her way to the front of the group and looked at Jack with confusion. “He and his mates are having a drink in High Spirits. I was just about to join them, but I fancied a bite to eat first. What’s going on out there, Jack?”

“Everyone has gone batshit insane,” was his reply.

“What do you mean?” the chef asked.

Jack flapped his arms in frustration. “I mean, full-blown, Night of the Living Dead, crazy.”

Claire actually laughed then, despite the screaming outside. “You mean like zom-“

“Look,” Jack said, cutting her off. “I don’t know what the hell is happening. I just know that we’re in danger. We need to get those doors secured quickly. I’m not saying another thing until then.”

***

“Their eyes were bleeding?” Claire asked once the doors were sufficiently barricaded. “That’s crazy.”

“I know it is,” Jack said, sighing at the absurdity of what he was trying to tell these people. “But I’m telling you that there’s some sort of super-flu on this ship, and it’s turning people rabid.”

“What makes you think people are sick?” Claire asked. “It could have just been a fight breaking out.”

Jack looked her in the eye and spoke very slowly. “There was blood pouring down people’s cheeks like tap water. One of them came at me like a man-possessed. I must have punched the guy in the face a dozen times and he just kept coming. Can’t say I liked the guy before he went mental, but I’ve never given someone a beating half as bad as that and still had them remain standing.”

“You never liked him before?” the chef reiterated. “So you knew the guy who attacked you?”

Jack wished he could take back his words, but it was too late. He looked across at Claire and saw the understanding dawn across her face. She leapt up from her chair. “Oh my God. It was Conner, wasn’t it?”

Jack leapt up from his own chair to cut her off, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop her heading straight for the barricade of tables and chairs that the group had set up beside the door. Before anyone could stop her, she pushed aside a dining table and caused several more to collapse out of the way. She was going to open the doors.

“Claire, stop!” Jack shouted.

But Claire wasn’t listening. She unlocked the doors and managed to prise one open, just enough to get her slender body through the gap. Jack managed to grab her by the wrist just as she was about to disappear.

“Don’t go out there,” he warned her. “It’s dangerous.”

“I have to go. You’ve hurt Conner and I need to see if he’s okay.”

“He’s not. He is definitely not okay, but that isn’t my doing.”

“He needs me.”

“If you go out there, you’re going to get hurt.”

Claire seemed to hesitate, half in the door, half out.

“Just let her go,” said one of the other passengers from behind Jack. “We need to get those doors closed again.”

Jack couldn’t do that. He pleaded with Claire. “Just come back inside and we’ll work all of this out, okay? Whatever help Conner needs, he won’t get it by you placing yourself in danger.”

She seemed to mull things over and, eventually, her panicked expression softened. “Okay,” she said. “Just let go of my wrist and I’ll come-”

Before she could complete her sentence something seized her and made her scream. Jack had been about to let go of her wrist but now he clutched it even harder, pulled with all his strength. But as hard as he pulled, crying out with exertion, Claire failed to get free of whatever had her, until, just when it seemed his arms were about to fail, she flew into his arms.

The doors slammed closed as the other passenger threw themselves against it and started reforming the barricade.

Jack fell to the floor, with Claire a trembling in his arms. The girl was bleeding all over him.

“Jesus Christ!” Jack cried out, cradling Claire in his arms. “Goddamn it.”

Claire’s left wrist was hanging open, spewing blood like a geyser. Already, her eyes were misting over as shock seized her nervous system. The wound was deep and looked like a vicious bite. Jack shouted at the others in the room to help him – he needed towels to wrap the wound – but they were only interested in securing the doors. They didn’t know Claire and were not willing to help her if it meant endangering themselves. It was the way people always acted in a crisis; Jack had seen it enough times before.

Outside, the crazed passengers had become aware of the group’s presence inside the Lido Restaurant and were now hammering at the doors. Jack knew it wouldn’t take them long to bust through.

He looked down at Claire, wanting to reassure her that all would be okay, but it would’ve been pointless. She was dead.

Jack looked down at the young girl in shock. He eased her down onto the floor and hunched over her, ready to perform CPR. He pumped the heels of his palms against her chest rhythmically, trying to keep oxygen in her system while trying to jumpstart her heart. Every now and then, he would place his ear against her mouth and try to make out if she was breathing on her own.

“She’s gone,” the chef told Jack, grabbing his shoulder. “You can’t help her.”

“Shut up,” Jack growled, still aware that nobody had offered him any help when he’d asked for it. These people were selfish and he didn’t like them one bit. But he did like Claire; he wasn’t ready to give up on her. He scowled up at the chef. “Just shut your mouth and give me some space.”

“Hey, she’s moving,” someone said. “Look at her hand.”

Jack looked down at Claire’s twitching hand and was confused. She was definitely moving, but when he leant down by her face there was no breath coming from her nose or mouth. He must not be sensing it, so he moved his head closer, placing his ear right up against her lips.

“Gragh!”

Pain exploded at the side of Jack’s head. He pulled away and felt his ear rip clean away from his skull. Wailing in agony, he watched Claire chewing it between her blood-soaked teeth.

Everybody screamed.

Claire twisted and turned, then sprang to her feet like an animal. In many ways she looked just the same as before, but Jack could already see the wells of blood beginning to form in her eyes.

She came at Jack with her arms outstretched, exactly like her boyfriend had earlier, and he was so horrified by what was happening, that by the time he even managed to consider an appropriate response, Claire’s teeth had sunk her teeth deep into his windpipe.

Day 3

Jack awoke with a start. The fuzziness that filled his head and covered the back of his eyelids was a feeling he had not experienced for some time, yet it was vaguely familiar. The vibrations throbbing through his skull were akin to a hangover and Jack tried to remember if he’d gone for a drink after boarding the ship. Strange as it was, he only remembered going to bed as soon as he’d been shown to his room.

He sat up in the bed and blinked his eyes. The room was dark. There was a cube-shaped alarm clock on the bedside table displaying the time in glowing, red numerals. It read: 1400.

He’d slept for twenty-four hours.

“Jesus.”

Jack got up and moved around the edge of the bed, headed over to the room’s exit, where he fumbled for a light switch that he somehow knew exactly where to find. The room lit up. His luggage had crashed against the wardrobe and woken him. The ship must have crested a tall wave. As if to confirm his suspicions, the room tilted and the luggage bashed against the wardrobe again.

Jack felt tired, disorientated – almost sick. Perhaps he was coming down with a cold. He had slept for hours, but still felt tired. He went over to the cabin’s porthole and looked outside. Beyond the Promenade Deck was the vast expanse of the blue-green Mediterranean. The ship was currently at sea.

Something hit the window causing Jack to leap backwards. He sighed when it only turned out to be a seagull perching on the ledge of his porthole. The bird stared in with its beady black eyes. Bizarrely, Jack felt like he’d met the creature before. The seagull had an expression of disapproval on his face and flew away a moment later.

Jack let out a yawn and decided to go for a shower. It was a strange morning so far and he wanted the hot water to help wake him up. After months of barely sleeping, finally getting some rest had left his mind muddled and confused. Once he was fully refreshed he would feel better. He was sure of it.

The small bathroom was cooler than the rest of the cabin and a breeze seemed to enter from somewhere and skim across the tiles. Jack reached into the shower and twisted the knob jutting out from the wall. The showerhead hissed and sprayed a freezing jet of water all over him, making him curse and yank back his arm. He decided to take a leak while the water warmed up.

His bladder bulged and took a long time to empty, but, by the time he was finished, the water in the shower had reached a few levels below scalding and he stepped inside gratefully. The heat was wonderful, fingering his flesh right down to the bone. It almost sent him to sleep and he had to lower the temperature a little to shock his system back awake.

Once he felt clean and refreshed, he stepped carefully out of the shower and dried himself off with one of the towels provided, then then crept, naked, back into the bedroom. His clothes were still unpacked and he reached down to grab his luggage. As he did so, he paused, a strange feeling of déjà vu coming over. It was like he knew what he was about to do before he actually did it. He’d had a dream where he’d shifted his luggage onto the bed just like this. He couldn’t remember much else. What the hell was wrong with him?

He chose to put on a pair of khaki shorts, nondescript red t-shirt, and a pair of tennis pumps. Then he grabbed the Andy McNab paperback novel and headed for the door. On the carpet, he noticed a sheet of paper had been slipped inside. It was the ship’s newsletter, printed in cheap black ink. It was headed by the day’s date – 14.10.2012 – and the name of the ship in bold, SPIRIT OF KIRKPATRICK. He glanced over the day’s activities and decided he wasn’t interested in any of them, but was pleased to see that the poolside BBQ would be serving…

Hotdogs...

Jack loved hotdogs, but for some reason he didn’t want any right then. He almost felt sick of them, as though he’d eaten a load of them recently and now fancied something else. He decided to head for the pool anyway. He took the elevator upwards from B Deck and stepped out into the corridors of the Broadway Deck. To his right was a room service cart full of towels and bed linens. To his left was an exit leading to the Promenade Deck. He headed towards it and the floor tilted beneath him, sending him crashing against the wall. He waited for the ship to steady and then continued cautiously down the corridor, still feeling that strange sense of déjà vu the entire time. As he stepped out on to the Promenade Deck, he was almost knocked flying by a pair of sprinting children. The two boys raced down the side of the ship without any regard for other people’s safety and disappeared around the corner. Jack had been about to shout after them, but stopped himself when he saw it was useless.

Jack headed after them, reaching the rear of the ship where it opened up into a large rectangular area spread over two tiers. On the bottom was a modest swimming pool inhabited mostly by children, while the top level seemed to be full of sunbathers. Jack stood for a while, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his back and the invigorating sea air. It was the first time he’d set foot upon this part of the ship, yet for some reason it felt familiar. The people, too, seemed familiar.

He decided to take the stairs to the upper deck. With any luck there would be a sun lounger free. If not, he would have to make do with one of the tables and chairs.

“You can have this one,” a fair young woman said to him as he searched for a lounger.

“You sure it’s free?” Jack asked her.

“No one has been using it for the last few hours. I say they’ve given up any right they had to it. I think someone has forgotten their towel and left it here.”

Jack thanked the girl for her help, but then found himself staring at her.

“Something wrong?” she asked, shifting a little in her lounger. He was making her uncomfortable.

Jack shook his head and broke his stare. He plonked himself down onto the lounger and lay back with his novel in hand. “Sorry, it just feels like we’ve met before.”

“Ever been to Leeds?”

“Not lately,” Jack replied. “You ever been to Birmingham?”

“Nope.”

Jack opened up his paperback. “Guess I’m just imagining things.”

“I’m Claire by the way.”

Claire…

Jack didn’t answer the girl, so she took another turn to speak. “Wait, don’t tell me my name sounds familiar as well?”

Jack laughed and suddenly felt silly. He was probably frightening the poor girl with his odd behaviour. “We must have met in a past life. I’ve just been having one of those days, you know? I keep getting…I don’t know, déjà vu, or something.”

“Yeah, I get that sometimes. Think it’s just the mind playing tricks.”

“Yeah, probably.”

A member of staff came over: a brunette with dark hair and eyes. She asked if either of them wanted a drink. It was exactly what Jack needed, so he ordered a double scotch, handing over his room card for payment. Claire ordered something called a mojito.

“What’s one of those when it’s at home?”

“It’s rum, lime, sugar, and some other stuff. Think it’s Mexican or Cuban. I don’t usually drink much, but I guess one won’t hurt. ”

“Have you been to either of those places?” Jack asked. “Mexico? Cuba?”

Claire laughed. “Nope. I had a mojito in Spain last year and thought it was nice. You ever been anywhere interesting?”

“Not lately. Unless you count Tipton?”

The waitress came back with their drinks and Jack eagerly took a long, eager swig.

“You really are having one of those days, aren’t you?”

He gasped, then told her, “I woke up this morning just feeling really…odd, I suppose. Maybe I’m shook up from a nightmare I had or something.”

Claire took a sip of her mojito and was about to carry on with the conversation when someone appeared between them. Jack recognised the lad immediately, although he had no idea how.

“Conner?” he asked tentatively

The lad looked down at him with a surprised look on his face. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Jack. Have we met?”

It was obvious the lad was confused, even though he masked it with aggression. “You don’t know me, mate. How’d you even know my name?”

“I don’t know.”

Conner turned his stare at Claire and told her to get up. “The lads are waiting downstairs. Let’s get go-” A violent sneeze interrupted his words, followed by another, and another.

Claire stood up and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You still got a cold, honey?”

“Yeah,” Conner said, sniffling. “Me, Steve, and Mike haven’t stopped sneezing for the last hour. I feel well, rough, innit. My eyes are itching like buggery, as well.”

Claire wrapped an arm around her boyfriend and started leading him away. “Okay, let’s go get some food inside you. I’ll look after you.”

The two teenagers walked away, both nodding at Jack as they did so. Conner still seemed curious about their interaction, but seemed happy enough to forget it. Jack thought about following their lead by getting some food, but still didn’t fancy hotdogs. He would eat later. For now, he’d relax in the sun and enjoy his whisky.

An elderly couple smooched in front of him like teenagers, making him feel a little uncomfortable. Jack looked past them down to the pool area and nosed the other passengers. There were kids swimming in the pool, adults drinking at tables, and lots of people eating the freshly served hotdogs. The one family that stood out, however, was a mother and a young boy. The mother was covering her son’s knee with a wad of plasters from her handbag, covering up a wound that was too far away for Jack to see clearly. For some reason, he was positive the young boy had slipped poolside. He thought this, not because it was a likely conclusion, but because it was a one-hundred-percent certainty in his mind – he just knew it for sure. Could almost picture it happening, despite haven’t not witnessed it.

The next thing Jack noticed was a lot of people sneezing. It seemed like a particularly nasty cold had found its way onboard and infected a whole bunch of people. So much for the rubbing alcohol yesterday, little good it had done.

Jack reached down and picked up his scotch, finishing it in one burning gulp. As if by magic, the brunette waitress reappeared to take another order from him.

“Perfect timing,” he said to her.

She replied in an eastern European accent that fitted her look well. “What is it I can get for you, sir?”

“Same again, please. Where are you from?”

“Romania.”

Jack nodded, interested. “Most of the staff onboard seemed to be Filipino. You stand out.”

The waitress smiled politely and he noticed her name badge read TALLY. “They hired me because I speak many languages,” was he humourless reply.

“Really? What languages do you speak?”

“Russian, German, French, and, of course, English and Romanian. I speak a little Mandarin also.”

“Wow,” Jack said. “That’s impressive. My name is Jack. It’s nice to meet you, Tally.”

“I’ll be right back with your drink, sir.”

Jack watched the waitress walk away and had the sense that, although she was faultlessly polite, she too was having a bit of a bad day. There was something about her curt, clipped tone that told him so. She seemed stressed. Working on a cruise ship was most likely a thankless job at the best of times.

Within two minutes, the waitress returned. The double scotch he’d ordered was more like a double double. “I just charged you for one double,” she said. “You look like you need it.”

“Is it that obvious I’m having such a weird day?”

The waitress shrugged. “I can sense these things. You give me a shout if you need another.”

Jack offered up his glass in thanks. “Will do, Tally. Thanks.”

He lay back in his sun lounger and sighed. He was finally beginning to relax. Sun, booze, and pretty waitresses. Maybe the week wouldn’t be so bad after all.

***

When Jack opened his eyes it was nighttime, not completely dark, for the deck was lined with spotlights, but dim enough that the sea and sky had become featureless black sheets beyond the illuminated boundaries of the ship. The Spirit of Kirkpatrick was sailing through a black Limbo, an endless abyss. Jack would be glad to see land again.

The tingling heat in his chest told him he’d consumed more than a few whiskies during the afternoon and early evening, and would now be forced to pay the price. He’d intended to take it easy on the booze, but his problem was that trying to stop once he’d started was a battle he usually lost. He was on holiday, though. He could forgive himself for one night of indulgence. There was little wrong with drinking and falling asleep in the sun.

Jack glanced at his watch and saw that it was a little after eight. There was still plenty of time left to enjoy the evening. He stood up from the sun lounger, bones clicking, muscles stiff, and had a quick stretch. From the deck he was standing on, there was an entrance leading back inside the ship. A plaque beside the door read: HIGH SPIRITS.

He headed inside and found a cosy bar lounge, with a small stage and dance floor at the front and a long bar at the back. There was a chubby comedian currently telling jokes and doing his best to make the audience laugh.

“The wife and I were sat, having a cup of tea, with my mother-in-law the other day when, out of the blue, she says to me, ‘I’ve decided I want to be cremated.’ I said…”

…alright get your coat.

Jack had heard the joke before and probably hadn’t thought it was funny the first time. A drink was in order, so he ordered one from the bar and chose to linger there on one of the stools. Another gentleman was already sat at the bar, nursing a pint of foamy lager, but his head was hanging limply from his shoulder, as if he lacked the strength to support it.

“You okay there, pal?” Jack asked the man.

The man turned his head slowly to face Jack. His face was a grim mask of perspiration. His eyes were bloodshot.

Jack recoiled. “You really don’t look well, buddy. You want me to go get someone?”

The man ignored him and turned back to his beer. The congestion in his nasal cavities made his every breath sound like a thunderous snort. Jack glanced behind the bar and caught the eye of the Filipino waiter, who just shrugged and continued polishing glasses. “Nasty cold on ship,” he said.

“You’re telling me,” Jack replied. “Is something being done about it?”

“Ship dock at Cannes in morning. Shuttle take people to local hospital if need. I think is nothing to worry about. It is what happen at sea.”

Jack examined the sickly man slouching beside him and wrinkled his nose in revulsion. The man’s snorting breaths had lowered in pitch now and sounded more like growling. Jack put a hand on the man’s sweat-soaked back and leant in. “Hey, buddy. I think we best get you to the ship’s doctor. You don’t look good at all.”

The man shrugged away from Jack’s grasp. His movements were erratic, aggressive.

“Hey, calm down, mate. I’m just trying to help you.”

The sick man swung an arm, swiping his pint of beer across the bar and onto the floor. He turned to glare at Jack. His eyes leaked dark fluid down his cheeks and snarled like a beast.

Everything came back to Jack at once, like capsules opening up and leaking into his brain. He remembered the attacks, the crazed passengers ripping each other apart like cavemen and bleeding from their eye sockets.

Jack shook his head. “No…”

The sick man kicked his stool away and bared his teeth at Jack.

“Oops, looks like someone’s drunk too much over there,” said the comedian from the stage. “Don’t worry, mate. Rehab is for quitters, anyway. Give my regards to the floor.”

Jack put his palms out as the sick man took a step towards him. “Stay back.”

But the man did not stay back. He rushed at Jack with his arms outstretched, his teeth bared. Jack sidestepped quickly and slid out his leg, tripping his rabid attacker to the floor where he landed in a heap.

The sound of laughter ignited the audience as the comedian made another joke at the sick man’s expense, but then came the sound of screams. Someone else was being attacked.

The man Jack had tripped started to climb up off the floor. Jack kicked the arms out from under him and sent him sprawling back down onto his face. The screams in the room grew in number.

Jack spun around to see Conner attacking waitress, while bystanders fought to pull him off her. There were other pockets of the audience that erupted, too, as scuffles and fighting took over.

Jack knew he needed to get out of there. Things were about to get very bad – he remembered. He’d seen it before.

He ran.

As confusing memories continued coming back to him, the layout of the ship started to become familiar. He knew that the corridor leading away from High Spirits would take him down a set of stairs to the Lido Restaurant. The young blonde girl, Claire, would be inside there, along with some other people. There was no way he should be able to know that, but he did. He knew it for sure.

As fled down the corridor and took the stairs, Jack discovered that his innate knowledge of the ship was correct. He skidded to a stop in front of the Lido Restaurant’s doors and waited outside, wondering whether or not to go inside. Things inside the restaurant hadn’t turned out so well for him last night, if he remembered. Then Jack thought of the absurdity of remembering what was going to happen. He was living the goddamn same day all over again. The more he thought about it, the closer to insanity he verged. Without any other plan, he decided to barge his way inside the Lido Restaurant.

He recognised every single person. They all looked at Jack anxiously, not knowing what was going on outside, other than it was causing a lot of screaming. Jack locked the doors immediately, then dragged the nearest table over and started building a barricade.

“What are you doing?” asked a man dressed in a chef’s uniform.

“We need to make sure this door stays closed,” Jack shouted. “There’s been an outbreak or something. People are sick, crazy.”

Was he sick and crazy, too?

The group of people inside the restaurant panicked. Jack remembered how they had refused to help him previously when he had needed their help. He’d been trying to help someone who was hurt.

“Claire!” Jack shouted into the crowd, not seeing the girl but knowing she was there.

Claire appeared at the front of the group. She looked afraid and confused, yet less panicked than the others. “You’re the man from earlier?”

“Yes, I am. I’m a police officer and I need your help. We need to get every table we can in front of this door. We’ve got about two minutes before people start trying to smash their way in.”

“What people?” the chef asked, looking at Jack like he was a madman.

“The infected passengers. Whatever is wrong with them has made them psychotic.”

“You’re the one’s that’s psychotic,” Claire shouted. Her opposition surprised Jack. “You were acting like a weirdo earlier, too. Going on about déjà vu and knowing Conner’s name without him even telling you. Who are you?”

The chef put a hand up to Jack. “I think you need to sit down, sir, and allow us to get security.”

The man moved toward the doors, but Jack stepped in his way. Despite being the smaller of the two men, he knew he could take the chef down if he had to. “If we don’t get this door secured,” he said slowly, “people are going to get hurt.”

The chef leaned forwards and placed his face right up against Jack’s. “Is that a threat?”

Jack thought about taking the man down but sighed instead. He put his hands up in supplication and said, “Just trust me, okay? Please.”

“Sorry, I can’t do that, sir. Please move aside.”

“No.”

The chef made a grab for Jack, but quickly found himself twisted into a combined armlock and chokehold.

“Do I need to put you to sleep,” Jack asked.

The chef hissed with pain. “Let go of me.”

“I can’t do that, buddy. I need that door barricaded. Claire? Claire, listen to me. Start dragging tables over here in front of the doors. Anyone who fancies being useful should help her.”

Claire huffed but did as she was asked. The elderly couple Jack had seen smooching on the sun deck helped her and, together, they started sliding tables across the floor in front of the doors. The rest of the group stood frozen, doing nothing to help.

“You need to get it right up against the door,” Jack shouted, pointing to one of the tables Claire and the old couple were adding to the barricade.

Claire glared at him, and suddenly her intentions became clear. She did not trust Jack, and didn’t want to help him. She had other ideas.

Jack let go of the chef and shouted. “Claire, don’t!”

His plea went ignored.

Claire unlocked the doors and pushed aside the nearest table, tipping it onto its side, and then she opened up the restaurant to the crowd outside.

One of the eyebleeders spotted Claire immediately and raced towards her. It was an older man, and he pounced on her viciously, grabbing her in a tight embrace and tearing at her throat with his teeth. Claire’s body was already limp and dying as a thick torrent of blood exploded from her jugular and filled the air with a fine red mist. More eyebleeders flowed into the restaurant. The elderly couple were the next to be attacked.

The old man stood in front of his wife protectively, but his defiance was ignored as the flesh of his cheek tore free between the teeth of an infected teenager. Both the old man and his wife were dead within minutes, ripped apart like two leathery fillet steaks. The eyebleeders moved on to other victims.

Jack had backed away to the far side of the room by then. His instincts urged him to help the screaming, scared victims, but he didn’t have any idea how. He’d tried to protect the people in the restaurant, but they had turned against him. They weren’t his responsibility anymore.

He looked around the room and searched for a way out. A throng of thrashing bodies blocked the restaurant’s entrance, but the area behind the buffet train led to a staff area or kitchen. There was no telling what was behind the door, for sure, but it was the only viable destination, so Jack sprinted through the restaurant, barging aside anyone who got in his way. He managed to make it to the door behind the buffet train.

It turned out that there was a kitchen inside. It was a simple and confined area, with no other exits or ways out. If the eyebleeders found him hiding inside, there was nowhere to run. He’d managed to corner himself.

Jack began ransacking the room, looking for a weapon. He yanked out drawers and pulled open cupboards, but found only crocks and useless cutlery. Just when frustration and despair started setting in, his eyes fell upon what he was looking for. In the centre of the room was an island, and hanging above it was a selection of industrial knives. Jack grabbed the largest one he could find: a 12-inch chef’s knife. It felt good in his hand. Hefty.

He crouched in the centre of the room, eyeing the doorway anxiously. His breathing threatened to become a loud pant, so he concentrated on slowing it down.

The screaming outside begun to fade.

And then stopped.

The sound of silence took hold and a sense of foreboding took its place.

Jack waited in silence. Waited and waited.

Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him and he crept towards the door, knife held out in front of him. He reached the door and stopped still, listening for anyone who may be standing on the other side. The first person to attack him would get the knife in their groin, but he didn’t know how he planned on dealing with the second and third.

He placed his hand against the door and pushed it open gradually and, when it was several inches ajar, he peered out through the gap. The narrow view he had of the room showed nothing but overturned chairs and table. He began edging himself through the gap in the door, keeping the knife out in front of him. The room was covered in blood and bits of flesh – there was even a severed hand laying on one of the buffet carts – but there were no bodies. Several tables and chairs were tipped over and the pools of blood grew thicker the closer he got to the entrance of the restaurant. The puddles were deep enough that whoever shed so much blood must certainly have been dead. But still he could see no bodies. Where the hell was everybody? Was it possible that the situation had been dealt with? Jack didn’t know what sort of security a cruise liner employed, but it had to be somewhat competent with so many passengers to protect. A brief flash of memory reminded him of what had happened the last time – the first time he’d been through this madness. Security had failed miserably to control the chaos in High Spirits; he held little hope they had done any different now.

The double doors of the restaurant were closed again. Blood and dirty handprints smeared the frosted glass. He opened the doors carefully, stepping into the hallway outside where he found more blood. It was all over everything. The entire ship had turned into a scene from a horror movie massacre.

Jack headed away from the Lido Restaurant and towards the Sport Deck, which was located at the front of the ship. He passed by the upper level of the Broadway Lounge, with its balconied seats looking down on an empty theatre stage. There was less blood in there, but it was also deserted like everywhere else.

Jack’s stomach churned, his senses telling him to get the hell out of there, even if it meant jumping in the sea.

Outside of the Broadway Lounge a short hallway led to staircases on either side. Jack knew it led to an area outside with tennis courts and a 5-v-5-football pitch inside a Perspex enclosure. Technically, he had never visited there before, and shouldn’t know a thing about it, but he remembered it in perfect detail from the – dream? – he’d had. The first time he’d lived through this day, he had explored the ship, and now he remembered all of it.

He stepped out onto the Sports Deck and was horrified. It was laid out exactly as he knew it would be, with two tennis courts, a basketball D, and the enclosed football pitch, but this time the tennis courts were swamped with a seething mass of bodies. All of them were eyebleeders, hundreds of them in total, both passengers and staff. The entire mob as focused on the Perspex enclosure of the football pitch. They clawed and bashed at it with their bloody fists.

The enclosure was filled with screaming children and a handful of terrified adults. The doors were locked from the inside and the hard plastic walls were withstanding the assault for now, but it would only be a matter of time until the sheer weight of bodies uprooted it. Even now, Jack could see the structure swaying to and fro as its bolted foundations began to loosen.

There was nothing Jack could do. He was a capable fighter, but no man could effectively take on a hundred crazed attackers. There was no choice but to get the hell out of there; no choice but to leave the children to their fate.

He started backing away slowly, not wanting to gain the attention of the infected mob. If a single one of them turned around and saw him, he was done for.

As Jack crept backwards, his back hit against something.

The equipment rack, full of tennis racquets, went crashing onto its side. Jack froze.

Up ahead, each of the infected people began to turn around, one by one, until two hundred bleeding eyes were staring right at Jack.

The mob let out a screech.

Then it came for him.

Jack sprinted and barged his way back inside the ship, colliding with the walls as his panicked run played havoc with his balance. He took a right turn and leaped down a flight of stairs, heading back towards the Broadway Deck. He had to find help, or at least somewhere he could hole-up until rescue arrived. His instinct to fight was non-existent and he wanted only to find somewhere he could curl up on the floor and close his eyes until it was all over. Jack had never been a coward before, but right now he was as full of fear as a human being could be.

Jack reached the bottom of the stairs and flung himself forwards so hard he almost fell down. He was forced to stop before he’d even taken a few steps.

The foyer was filled with infected passengers, as many as had been upstairs. Blood covered the carpets and walls like thick industrial paint.

Jack shook his head in desperation. He was in hell. He had died in the line of duty, stabbed by some drug dealing scumbag, and was now on a boat to hell.

The infected passenger looked upon Jack and let out a collective screech. Jack fled back towards the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as the screams of a hundred demons followed behind him. Halfway up, Jack was met by the infected passengers from the Sports Deck. They stumbled down the stairs towards him, tripping and rolling together like a grizzly snowball. Jack found himself trapped as attackers came from both above and below him. A rat caught in a corridor.

There was nothing he could do as the bodies began to envelop him, teeth ripping into his flesh and rending it from his bones. He wouldn’t have thought it would take so long to die, but it felt like hours.

Day 4

Jack woke up screaming. The day ended the exact same way.

Day 5

Jack stayed in bed all day, afraid to leave his cabin. At midnight he fell asleep…

Day 6

…and woke up at 1400hrs. The day was still the same.

Day 64

Jack threw himself overboard.

Day 65

He woke up in bed. The day was still the same.

Day 77

Jack killed himself a dozen different ways.

Day 89

But he always woke up in bed. The day was always the same.

Day 99

Jack prayed to God.

Day 100

His prayers went unanswered.

Day 101

Jack rose out of bed, woken by his luggage falling against the wardrobe for the hundredth time. The clock read: 1400 as it always did. Like a robot he walked across the room, went for a shower, and then got dressed. Some days he just stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours and hours until, inexplicably, he would fall asleep at midnight exactly. There was never any fighting it. Some days he made the effort to get up and do something, but no matter what he did, the day would always end in the same agonising way.

Being ripped apart by a mob of snarling lunatics.

The eyebleeders appeared every night, always between eight and nine. The High Spirits lounge was the first place to turn bad. Conner and the little girl with the dolly were always the first to attack. Very few places held out for long. Jack’s investigations had proven that Carlo’s Casino on the Eagle Deck became overrun with infected passengers at around the same time as High Spirits and the two infected mobs would quickly converge on the other places between. The safest place to be, Jack discovered, was in the lower decks of the ship, where frightened passengers remained locked up in their cabins. He had no idea how the infection had gotten onboard, but it was clear from the moment he woke up each morning that it was too late to help anybody. As soon as he left his room and explored the ship, he would always notice people sneezing and coughing, growing pale and sickly. The little girl with pigtails seemed to be the worst, a little further ahead in her condition than everyone else. Perhaps she was the originator. Patient Zero or whatever they call it.

Jack had once disgusted himself by almost throwing the little girl overboard one morning, but had soon found that he lacked the ability to commit such a heinous act. He doubted it would help, anyway. The virus had already taken a firm hold on the ship by the time he woke up. The passengers were doomed, and only he knew it. In a way, that made him the most doomed of all. He was alone in the misery of knowing what was to come each and every day. He could not warn anybody or be taken seriously until it was too late.

Today, as Jack stepped out of the elevator onto the Broadway Deck, he stared scornfully at the room service cart to his right. He hated that goddamn cart. Its mere, expected presence offended him.

He walked towards the entrance to the Promenade and braced his legs as the ship rolled suddenly. He hardly noticed the sudden movement anymore, so ingrained was it in his routine. The ship’s movements had become as predictable as his heartbeat.

Jack opened the door to the deck outside and immediately turned to his right.

“Slow down!” he shouted as the two young boys sprinted by him. They slowed down for a second, but then accelerated back to their original speed as soon as they were far enough away, racing towards the pool area. The little brats never took any notice. Jack had come to despise them.

On the Lido Deck, the usual people were present. The same children swam in the pool. The same parents drank beer and read their trashy autobiographies. The same smiling staff carried their precariously stacked serving trays.

Jack went up the steps to the sun deck and threw aside the green towel that covered the sun lounger he now thought of as his. Claire looked at him warily as he dumped himself down.

“You okay?” she asked him. “You looked upset.”

Jack forced a smile. “I’m fine. How about you? Missing Leeds?”

“Huh? How did you…?”

“Your accent,” he said.

“Didn’t realise it was that thick? You’re from-”

“Birmingham. Yes, well done.”

“Funny, how you meet all different kinds of people on holiday, isn’t it? Are you here with your wife?”

“No,” Jack said. “Work sent me.”

“Really? I wish I had a job that sent me on cruises. What do you do?”

“I’m a police officer.”

Claire seemed confused. “I don’t understand. Why would you be sent on a cruise?”

“Because I had a nervous breakdown,” Jack replied bluntly, for he knew that it didn’t matter what the girl knew or didn’t know about him. She wouldn’t remember a thing this time tomorrow.

To his surprise, Claire acted concerned. “That’s terrible,” she said. “My brother had one of those when he was younger. He has an anxiety disorder and has to take pills. I’m not surprised people struggle to cope with the world when it’s such a horrible place. I hope you get through it.”

Jack studied the girl to see if she was genuine. She seemed to be. “That’s a compassionate thing to say to a stranger.”

“Like I said, my brother has been through something similar. I know how horrible it can be. If we were all a little nicer to strangers then perhaps we’d be happier.”

Jack was wary, but couldn’t help but like the girl. Every time he spoke to Claire, they seemed to have a fresh conversation and he ended up learning something new about her. The more he got to know her, the more he found out what a caring and strong-minded person she was. What he didn’t understand, though, was why her boyfriend, Conner, had such a hold on her. In the various encounters Jack had with the couple, Conner would always order Claire around as if she were his slave. Claire was always nervous and let him. There was something going on there, but Jack hadn’t yet learned what. Trying to find out would be a waste of his time. It wasn’t as though he could change anything.

As if on cue, Conner appeared and did his little routine about the hotdogs and being ill. Claire followed after him and the two of them went downstairs. Everything was always the same, like clockwork. Events could vary somewhat, due to whatever involvement he took in them, but nothing was ever really different. The night would always end the same way and the morning would always start anew.

Jack decided to take a nap, knowing with certainty that he would wake up at 8PM, alone and in the dark, just before the attacks began.

Been there, done that. Got ripped apart by zom-

Wait a minute…

Jack sat up as he suddenly realised something. Today, everything was not the same. One small thing had changed. One thing had not happened today that always happened. Something was missing.

For the first time in the last one hundred days, the brunette waitress with the dark eyes had not come to take his and Claire’s drink orders. She hadn’t turned up when she was supposed to.

Day 102

Jack spent the entire previous evening trying to locate the brunette waitress, but he had failed to find her anywhere. Asking other members of staff where he could find her had been of no help. They were all cagey and distrustful of him. Today was a new day, though, and he would have longer to look.

He had awoken at 1400hr as usual. The seagull was at the window on time and the shower needed time to heat up. Everything was the same as it always was. The only thing that had changed was the waitress’s movement. And, of course, him. Jack didn’t stay the same, because each day took another chunk of his soul. He had begun longing for death, all his hope finally evaporated. But now things were different. There was someone else on the ship like him, someone who was not fixed in place or stuck in time.

Jack got dressed and headed outside. He decided to go and take the sun lounger next to Claire and wait for one hour to see if the waitress turned up at her usual time. It was probably the best place to start – the one place he knew where she was supposed to be.

Jack threw aside the green towel and sat down. Claire, as always, said hello.

“Hey,” he said back to her, glancing around the deck for the waitress. “How you doing today?”

“Good, thanks. The sun has been out most of the day, but I think it’s going in soon. Should have come earlier in the year. The days are too short in October.”

“Why didn’t you come earlier?” Jack asked her, before glancing around for the waitress again.

“Why do you think? Money. I’m a hairdresser. I could barely afford to come in October, let alone during peak time.”

“What about your boyfriend? You should have made him treat you.”

“Conner? How did you know I came with my boyfriend?”

“I saw you together. We boarded at the same time.”

“You couldn’t have. We arrived separately.” The girl seemed a little freaked out for a moment, but then she shrugged. “You must have seen us somewhere else, I guess. Anyway, Conner doesn’t earn much more than me. He’s a mechanic at a place his dad owns, but he doesn’t get paid a lot.”

“How long you two been going out?”

“Six months or so. How about you? Are you with anyone?”

Jack thought about the last time he had kissed a woman and shook his head. “I’ve been single for a long time. Not really interested in being with anyone.”

“Bad break up?”

“Something like that.”

Jack looked around the deck again, becoming more and more anxious when the waitress failed to appear. If she didn’t turn up, he would have to resume his wild goose chase. Before he started hunting, though, he wanted to ask Claire one last question. He wasn’t sure why.

“Does Conner make you happy?”

Claire raised her eyebrow. “What? That’s a bit of a nosey question.”

“I know,” Jack admitted. “You seem like a nice girl, that’s all. I hope he treats you well.”

“He does. Well…most of the time. To be honest, I-”

“Hey, babe, who’s this?” Conner stood in the gap between Jack and Claire’s sun loungers and didn’t look happy.

“My name is Jack. I was just having a chat with Claire, here. Is there a problem with that?”

Conner’s eyes narrowed. “Depends. If you’re on the pull, old man, then you and me have got a problem for sure. She’s half your age, d’you get me?”

“Yes, I do get you,” Jack said. “Thankfully there are no laws against chatting to someone, regardless of age.”

Conner snarled like a kicked dog. “You cheeking me, mate? Because that would be a mistake.”

Jack couldn’t help but smile. The threats meant nothing. He knew Conner’s fate, and it wasn’t at all good. “You sure you’re up to making threats?” Jack goaded. “Because you’re not looking so hot, to be honest.”

“Yeah,” Claire butted in, trying to stop the back and forth between them. “You look bad. How are you feeling, babe?”

Conner turned his attention from Jack toward his girlfriend. “I’m fine. Just a cold.”

Claire put her arm around him. “Let’s go get some food in you. This guy wasn’t doing anything except talking to me, so it’s not worth causing trouble over. You know I only love you.”

“You better,” Conner said, with a slight edge to his voice.

The two of them started walking away, but Jack shouted after them. “Hey, Conner,” he said.

Conner turned around. “What?”

“It seems like a lot of people onboard have a cold. Do you have any idea where you caught yours?”

The lad shrugged. “I was fine until I got on this bloody ship. Probably just some bug brought on board by a greasy Spaniard.”

Nice, Jack thought. He’s a racist as well as a thug. What a catch, Claire.

“Maybe you should go to your room and lie down,” Jack said. “It might make you feel better.”

“I don’t need advice from you, mate. I don’t even know you. There’s a doctor on the bottom deck. I’ll go see him if I need to, but you can mind your own business.”

“Just trying to help,” Jack said absentmindedly, already thinking about other things. The first thought was that Conner had gotten sick once onboard the ship, not before. The second was that there was a doctor onboard. Jack was irritated at himself because he had known that already – it said so on the ship’s newsletter that came every day. There was a chance that the doctor could make some sense of whatever was infecting the passengers. Perhaps the ship’s doctor would already know something about what was happening. The question Jack now had to answer was whether to spend the afternoon looking for the brunette waitress or seeking out the ship’s medical centre.

He eventually made the decision to visit the lower decks and check out the infirmary. The reasoning being that he had no idea where to find the waitress, anyway, so there was just as much chance he’d find her there as anywhere else.

The main elevators in the foyer of the Mariner Deck – where High Spirits was located – took Jack all the way down to C Deck and opened up right outside the medical bay. It was a grim, green painted corridor with a couple of offices and consulting rooms on either side. There were no members of staff present so Jack went and took a seat on a green-cushioned bench running along one side of the corridor.

Voices came from somewhere nearby, most likely the ship’s doctor with a patient. Jack had expected the waiting area to be filled with coughing passengers, but it was just he, sitting there alone.

He checked his watch a while later and was surprised to see that twenty minutes had gone by. For the last several months, every minute had seemed like an hour. Each day seemed longer than the last, but the last twenty minutes had flown by in what seemed like seconds. The anticipation of learning something new made time abstract and inconsequential. He felt alive again, his investigative spirit reawakened.

Someone entered the corridor a short time later. It was the two parents and their pigtailed daughter. Jack knew that the little girl was one of the first to turn savage in High Spirits, but whatever was wrong with her, the doctor obviously didn’t do anything to help. Jack could only assume that the family came here every day, looking for answers but failing to get any. Everyone onboard followed the same routines.

Except the brunette waitress.

Jack was still eager to talk to the brunette, but right now he had other things to concentrate on. The doctor had just entered the corridor.

The towering medic was dark-skinned and heavily bearded, obviously from African descent. When he asked Jack to follow him into the consulting room, he spoke English well but with a French twang.

“Are you the doctor?” Jack asked as he entered the confines of the small office. There was a padded examination table in the centre of the room and several cabinets lined the walls.

“Yes, I am Doctor Fortuné. What is it I can do for you, sir?”

“I need to know what was wrong with the little girl who just left.”

“I’m sorry? Are you ill yourself?”

“No,” Jack replied. “But lots of other people on this ship are. I need to know what is wrong with them. I want to know what you know.”

The doctor seemed irritated and confused. “I’m afraid I cannot discuss these things with you, sir. If you are not ill then you will have to leave.”

Jack sighed. He respected the confidentiality of the Hippocratic Oath – as a police officer, he abided by similar virtues himself – but this was not the time for ethics or convention.

“Okay,” Jack relented, deciding to try a different tactic. “But there’s something nasty going between the passengers onboard this ship and, in the interest of my own health, can you tell me what I should be looking out for? You have a duty to inform me if I am at risk.”

The doctor let out a long breath and relaxed a little, apparently happy to have the loophole presented to him. “Okay, sir. What I can tell you is that there seems to be a highly contagious cold virus aboard this ship. There have been several cases this morning already, but none are at all threatening. It is just a cold, my friend. Nothing to worry about, okay? Wash your hands regularly and avoid touching your face. You will be fine.”

“It can’t just be a cold,” Jack protested. “People don’t turn into psycho killers because of the sniffles.”

The doctor looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, yeah.” Jack chuckled. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, does it?”

The doctor stared at him.

“Look,” Jack continued. “Is there anything unusual about this cold going around? You said it’s highly contagious. Is that normal?”

“Yes and no. Cold viruses are often highly infectious, but the numbers of cases I’ve seen today is a little high. Still no reason for alarm.”

Jack sighed. This was going nowhere. “Okay, Doctor. Thank you for your help.”

He was almost out the door when the doctor suddenly spoke up. “Actually, my friend, there is one thing that I found a little strange.”

Jack spun back around. “What?”

The doctor seemed to change his mind about divulging the information and looked upon Jack with scrutiny. “Who are you, exactly? Why are you so interested in this?”

“I’m a police officer, and I have a very bad feeling. This isn’t just a cold virus, I assure you.”

“Do you know something I do not?”

Of course Jack knew many things the doctor did not, but there was no way to explain any of them without sounding like a lunatic. “No, I don’t anything for sure,” he said. “Just, please, tell me what you know.”

The doctor let out a sigh and started talking. “There’s something strange about this cold virus. The people who have it are suffering from elevated blood pressure. The later it has gotten in the day, the quicker their pulses have been when I’ve measured them. It’s almost like their hearts are speeding up.”

Jack grunted. “Jesus. Isn’t that something to be worried about?”

“I don’t know. I cannot explain it, but the measurements are still within safe levels. It’s just very strange, that is all. A simple cold should not affect a person in such a way. At least, not typically”

“What would happen if their heartbeats keep getting faster?”

“Tachycardia can cause excitement and even mania, but eventually it leads to ischemia.”

“What’s that?”

“It is where the heart beats so fast that it can no longer supply the body efficiently with blood. The resulting oxygen deficit can result in the vital organs shutting down and muscle deterioration.”

“What can be done for someone with…ischemia?”

“An antiarrhythmic agent could be administered but, as I said, what I have seen is nowhere near the required levels to make a diagnosis like that appropriate. My prognosis is still a simple cold virus. In fact, I shouldn’t have spoken as freely with you as I have.”

“Okay,” Jack said, understanding he would get nothing more. “I’ll leave you to your work, but I do have one last question.”

The doctor sighed. “What is your question?”

“If someone’s heartbeat gets to a dangerous level, how would I know?”

“They would become lethargic and pale. They might also have chest pain.”

“If I bring someone like that to you, could you help them?”

The doctor frowned at Jack, probably trying to work out what was going on here. “I could try.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “That’s a start.”

He left the doctor alone and headed back towards the elevators. A plan had begun to form in his mind.

***

It was ten-past-seven and Jack was sitting in High Spirits, nursing a shot of bourbon. The parents and their daughter were sitting two tables ahead. The little girl lay across her mother’s lap as she did every night at this time. She was both lethargic and pale.

It was Jack’s intention to get the young girl downstairs to the doctor, before eight-o-clock when her condition would take an irreversible turn for the worse. Once the little girl started tearing into people, there was no doctor in the world who could help her. Jack needed to get her to the medical bay before that happened. The only thing standing in his way was getting her parents to comply. He was not without a plan, though.

He stood up from his table and headed over to the family. They looked up at him as he approached, immediately distrustful. Jack wore his most reassuring smile, perfected during years on the force. It was something he relied on to calm people down when he had little else at his disposal. Thankfully, it worked now, and the family loosened up and smiled back.

“Hey, there,” he said in a friendly voice. “I’m sorry to come over like this, but I’m a nurse at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. I couldn’t help but notice how poorly your little angel looks.”

The mother looked on the verge of tears. It was obvious the woman was feeling under the weather, too, but her concern was only for her daughter.

“She’s been ill since she woke up this morning. The doctor said she just has a cold, but I’m beginning to worry.”

Jack nodded as if he knew exactly how she was feeling. He’d never had children himself, so he didn’t have a clue, but he could imagine it. He knew what love was like.

He made sure to look both the father and the mother in the eyes as he spoke. “Why don’t we take her back down to the medical bay now? We can get the doctor to have another look at her.”

The mother’s eyes widened and she seemed alarmed. “Oh, God, you think there’s something wrong with her, don’t you?”

Jack held his hands up and shook his head gently. “She’s fine, I’m sure, but it’s obvious that she’s suffering. We should go see what the doctor can do to help her.”

“Why, might I ask, are you so interested?” the father asked in a clipped, Scottish accent. Despite the accent, his speech was very prim and proper, in stark contrast to the casual idiom used by his wife. His age was also at least fifteen years her senior – perhaps mid-fifties.

Jack answered quickly, wanting to appear confident. “It’s my job. I don’t stop caring about public health just because I’m on holiday.”

The father seemed to mull this over, eventually saying, “Okay then. Come on, Vicky. Let’s take her down.”

The mother handed her daughter to her husband and stood up on shaky legs. Jack reached out to steady her, but she shrugged him away and told him that she was fine. Together, they travelled down to C Deck. When they reached the medical bay, they found it dimly lit and deserted.

“I don’t think the doctor works at night,” Vicky said, sounding worried.

“He’ll be on call,” the husband responded. “There’ll be some way to contact him.”

“There is,” Jack said, pointing a finger.

In the waiting room was a notice on the wall. It read, above a small red button, CALL FOR DOCTOR. Jack went and stabbed the button with his finger. Five minutes later, Doctor Fortuné arrived, looking sleepy yet well presented in his white lab coat.

“Can I help you?” he asked, seeming to recognise all of them but not quite able to recall why.

“Our daughter needs help,” Vicky said.

“This man here is a nurse,” said her husband, pointing at Jack.

The doctor shook his head. “No, he is not. He told me that he was a police officer.”

So he does remember me, thought Jack, cringing at the position he was now in.

“What?” The husband sounded furious and his demeanour and stance changed to one of capable intent. Jack knew then that the older man was ex-army. From the tone alone it was obvious.

“Oh, God, Ivor,” Vicky whimpered. “Who is this man?”

“I don’t know, but he has a great deal of explaining to do.”

Jack took a step back. “Okay, I admit I lied, but I only did it because I’m worried about your daughter. The doctor gave me some signs to look out for earlier. Things to suggest that this cold bug going around is getting worse.”

The parents looked confused. Doctor Fortuné shook his head. “Sir, you have to stop meddling in affairs that do not concern you. I assure you that there is nothing onboard that requires your attention.”

As if to disagree, the little girl in her father’s arms started to moan.

“She’s lethargic,” Jack said. “She’s pale. Her condition is worsening. Look at her. Look at her.”

The doctor glanced at the girl and then focused his attention on the father. “Has she been having any chest pains or bouts of breathlessness?”

Ivor nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “Let’s go into the office and have a look at her, then.”

The family headed into the consultation room and Jack went to go with them, but Ivor put a meaty fist against his chest. “I’m not sure what your situation is, friend, but I politely request that you stay away from my family.”

Jack could tell it was a veiled threat and decided not to push it. If his plan worked then the doctor would help the young girl, if not then the night would end as it always did and nobody would be any worse off. His only intention was to find out if the infected passengers could be helped – or even cured. Maybe if he found a way to save them, he would be released from the hellish prison he found himself in every day. Perhaps that was the reason he was here.

He needed to stay close and see what happened, so he took a seat on the same green bench he’d been sitting on earlier in the day. From inside the nearby office, he could hear the voices of the worried family and the concerned doctor. He looked at his watch: five-past-eight. Not long left. All around the ship, infected people would be gearing up to explode. There was nothing to lose now, so Jack stood up and pushed open the door to the doctor’s office.

Ivor glared at him as he entered, but didn’t say anything. His little girl was laid out on the examination table, breathing in shallow gasps. Her condition was bad, Jack already knew that, but he had never been this close to one of the infected right before they turned into a monster.

“How is she?” Jack asked.

“She’s tachycardic,” the doctor replied. “You were right to bring her to me. I’ve given her something to slow her heart rate, but it is still worryingly fast.”

The girl’s mother, Vicky, was sobbing on a chair in the corner, while her husband stood beside her. Jack went over to the both of them. “I’m sorry for deceiving you both,” he said.

“Thank you,” Vicky said between sobs. “You knew she need a doctor.”

“How did you know?” Ivor asked. “You’re not even a nurse.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a police officer, and ex-army like you, Ivor. I’ve gotten pretty good at sensing danger.”

Ivor lowered his guard finally and shook Jack’s hand. “Major Curtis, good to meet you.”

“Sergeant Wardsley. Pleased to meet you, too, sir.”

Ivor laughed. “Been a while since I had a sergeant calling me that. Takes me back.”

“You been retired long?”

“Good ten years now. I married Vicky two years before I signed out. Wanted to spend time with her. Have a family while I still had some lead in my pencil. A few years and we had this little gift from God, Heather.”

“Well, it’s good to meet you all.” Jack turned to the doctor. “How is Heather doing, Doc?”

“I think she is stabilising, but we need to get her to a hospital as soon as we reach port. How did you know this was going to happen? All of your questions this morning…?”

“I don’t know,” Jack lied. “I just had a bad feeling. But you’ve helped her, right? She’s going to be okay?”

“I believe so. As long as I can keep her heart rate under control.”

A noise from behind the doctor made everyone in the room jump. It was Heather on the examination table. She was having some sort of seizure, but, almost as soon as it had started, it stopped. Doctor Fortuné hurried over to the girl and placed his stethoscope against her chest, moving it around frantically. The concern on his face made it obvious that her heart was doing things it wasn’t supposed to. He started performing CPR, pressing down on Heather’s chest and using a breath pump on her face. He kept at it for several minutes while Jack started to get worried. The girl’s parents were frantic.

“Get away from her, Doc,” Jack warned. “I don’t think you should be that close to her.”

Ivor shoved Jack hard. “What are you playing at, man? She needs help.”

Jack ignored the shove and rushed towards Doctor Fortuné, tackling the medic around the waist and moving him away from Heather.

Vicky wailed in torment while her husband shouted obscenities.

Heather sprang up on the bed. The little girl glanced around the room curiously like a freshly hatched vulture. Vicky cried out with joy and raced across the room to her daughter.

There was no time for Jack to stop her.

Heather leapt off the table and met her mother in an embrace. Vicky squeezed her daughter tight, tears streaming down her face. “Thank God,” she said. “Oh, thank God.”

Heather bit her mother’s neck, tearing her jugular in two. Blood arced high enough to splatter the florescent lights overhead and cast spotty shadows over the room.

Ivor screamed, probably for the first time in his life if his tough military exterior was anything to go by. Doctor Fortuné stood there, stunned, but Jack acted fast. He grabbed Heather around the throat and dragged her back towards the examination table.

“Get something to tie her down,” Jack shouted at the other two men.

Jack expected Ivor to resist him, but the Major was more than willing to comply. He and the doctor upended the room looking for something to use for bindings, and eventually they found several bundles of dressing tape and a roll of bandages. Quickly, they brought it over to Jack.

“Ivor, grab her feet, and I’ll get her wrists. Doc, you strap her down.”

The doctor ran the tape beneath the examination table and wrapped it up around Heather’s body in tight circles. Heather kicked and squirmed, and by the time Jack was done, she looked like an Egyptian mummy. The final roll of tape was used to bind her forehead to the table, keeping her head in place.

With one crisis over, Ivor’s focus turned to his wife who was bleeding on the floor. The husband dropped to his knees and cradled his wife in his arms. “Jesus Christ, we need to help her. Doctor, do something.”

Doctor Fortuné grabbed a bundle of gauze and bandages and did his best to cover Vicky’s neck wound. The blood seeped between his fingers, but slowed down a little. The final thing he did was inject her with something, which Jack presumed was a clotting agent. Ivor kept his hand pressed tight against his wife’s neck, placing as much pressure as he could. The ex-army man didn’t need to be taught basic first aid.

“Is that all you can do?” Ivor shrieked. “You have to stop the bleeding.”

The doctor shook his head. “I cannot. I am not a surgeon.”

Ivor began to sob, holding his wife in his arms. The doctor looked shaken, so Jack put a hand on his bony shoulder and turned him around. There was only a small window of opportunity to get answers.

“What do we do, Doc?” Jack asked. “What’s wrong with the girl?”

The doctor stood in a daze for a moment, staring down at Heather on the examination table. The girl was gnashing her teeth, as though she were chewing the very air itself. Her eyes were red and bleeding. He went and placed his stethoscope against the girl’s chest, then looked at Jack with a complete lack of understanding written across the creases of his face.

“This cannot be,” he said.

Jack stared hard at the man. “What? What is it?”

“She has no heartbeat.”

“Are you telling me that she’s dead?”

The doctor took a penlight from his breast pocket and shined it into Heather’s eyes. She snapped and hissed as his hand got close to her mouth.

“What do you see?” Jack asked. “Why are her eyes bleeding?”

“I don’t know. It’s some kind of subconjunctival haemorrhaging. Her pupils are not reacting to the light and are unable to focus.”

“She’s not breathing,” Jack noted.

The doctor looked at the girl’s chest. It was completely still. “I believe she is dead,” he stated matter-of-factly. “At least, she should be.”

“What the hell are you lunatics talking about?” Ivor shouted from the floor. Vicky was growing weaker in his arms. “If she’s dead, then how on earth is she moving, you imbeciles?”

No one said anything. The situation was beyond rationalization. Jack stared down at Heather and watched her mouth working feverously. He knew that she wanted to taste human flesh and, if they unbound her, she would immediately attack the nearest person in sight. Maybe it was a biological imperative of the virus coursing through her body – a way of spreading itself to new hosts. An infected host bites an uninfected host and passes on the virus through saliva.

Jack frowned and began to understand something. Passes it on…

Before he had chance to say figured anything out, Ivor wailed in fright. Vicky had gouged her fingernails into his cheeks and was pulling his face towards hers. Her strength must have been twice what it usually was, for Ivor was powerless as she sunk her teeth into the chubby flesh beneath his left eye. It almost looked like they were kissing passionately, but Ivor’s screams suggested otherwise.

Jack grabbed Ivor around the collar and tried to drag him away, but Vicky hung on with her teeth. Jack pulled harder, until the flesh of Ivor’s cheek ripped away. Ivor stopped his screaming long enough to get to his feet, but continued whimpering like a little boy. He stumbled away from his wife and shook his head. “What in damnation is happening to my family?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Just keep away from your wife.”

Vicky rose to her feet awkwardly like a puppet risen up on tangled strings. She scanned the room with feral eyes. There was a brief moment of inactivity, a brief pause while nobody moved, but then she lunged. Her bloody fingertips stretched towards the gaping wound on Ivor’s face, as thought the sight of her husband’s blood excited her.

Ivor probably could have killed most men with a single punch to the throat, but he was unwilling to retaliate against his own wife, so he allowed Vicky to collide with him, and the two began to wrestle. Jack came up behind the Vicky and grabbed her in a full nelson, pinning her arms above her head while restraining the movement of her head – and jaws.

“Okay,” Jack said, struggling to restrain the woman in his arms. “Ivor…listen to me. I need to know exactly how your daughter could have caught this thing. Has she been in contact with somebody else who was sick? What about you and your wife? You both have it, too. Have you been exposed to anything?”

Ivor was flustered. Understandably so, for his family was dead, yet he somehow found the strength to concentrate and answer. “We came straight from the airport in Palma. We were with a bunch of other passengers the whole time who were all perfectly fine.”

Jack needed more. He needed answers. “You and your wife were arguing the day you came onboard. What about?”

“Arguing? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” Jack said, still struggling to restrain Vicky thrashing about in his arms. “Does it have something to do with why you’re sick?”

“Of course not.”

“But you admit you were arguing?”

Ivor shook his head and seemed to battle with the fringes of despair. “We…we were arguing about what was for the best. I had an old friend from the forces waiting for us in Germany, all ready to help us disappear. Vicky was having second thoughts.”

Jack was confused. He’d expected the conversation to lead somewhere else. “Second thoughts about what?”

“Vicky turning herself in.”

Jack frowned. “What the hell are you talking about? What did she do?”

Before Ivor had time to answer, Doctor Fortuné let out a sudden yelp. Jack turned his head to see that Heather was partially free from her bindings and was now sat up on the examination table. She was munching on something, and when the doctor turned around he was holding out his right hand and trembling. He was missing a thumb.

Jack thought about what happened to Vicky after her daughter attacked her and reached an unwelcome conclusion. “Doctor, I’m sorry, but you’re infected now. You need to isolate yourself somewhere, quickly.”

But the doctor wasn’t listening. He stumbled around the room deliriously, gushing blood from his thumb-stump. The sudden commotion caused Jack to lose his grip on Vicky. She pulled free of his grasp and pounced on her husband, tearing out his windpipe before he even had time to scream.

Ivor crumpled to the floor, dead.

Jack acted quickly, scouring the room for something to defend himself with. Even though he knew dying would result in nothing more than waking up again at 1400hrs, he couldn’t help but fight back. It was his instinct, a human behaviour rooted deep inside him and making it impossible to accept any sort of death willingly. There was also the fear that, eventually, the spell would end and whatever happened to him would be permanent. There was a part of Jack that longed for death and welcomed an end to his nightmare, yet he was finally beginning to get somewhere.

A glass paperweight sat on a nearby stack of papers. Jack wrapped his fingers around it and hefted it through the air with all his might. It cracked against Vicky’s skull just as she turned to face him.

The paperweight was as solid as Jack had hoped it would be and he heard it shatter against Vicky’s skull. She crumpled to the floor, like a curtain cut from its railing.

Jack had come up against the infected dozens of times now, ever since his first encounter in High Spirits, and it seemed like the best way to put them out of action was blunt-force trauma to the skull. Jack was absolutely certain of it now.

Ivor lay dead on the floor, but Jack knew it would only be a matter of time before he was on his feet again, windpipe dangling down his chest but still snarling. But there was a bigger threat to deal with right now.

Heather was still sitting up on the examination table, reaching out for Doctor Fortuné who was frantically cleaning his wound in a nearby sink. Heather, who had just been declared medically dead by a professional, was almost free of her bonds now, with only the ones wrapping her legs still remaining. Jack still didn’t have the ability to hurt the girl, regardless of whether she was dead or alive, so he grabbed more tape from a nearby cabinet and wrestled her back down to the table. He managed to secure her without being bitten and was confident that she would be held in place long enough for him to get his ass out of there. Not that there was anywhere to run.

He picked up the bloody paperweight from where it lay cracked and broken on the floor and turned to Ivor’s bleeding corpse. It felt wrong to bludgeon the skull of a dead man, but it had to be done, so Jack raised the paperweight above his head like a caveman brandishing a rock and brought it down on Ivor’s forehead just as the old Major opened his blood-soaked eyes. Jack was sorry he hadn’t done it quick enough to spare Ivor from coming back.

Jack stood back up. His red t-shirt was darker in patches where blood stained the fabric. He had blood on his face and hands, too. It stirred memories in him that he wished he could erase – memories of his partner lying dead in his arms, another innocent victim of humanity’s rotten core.

Jack placed the gore-encrusted glass cube down on the nearby desk and took some deep breaths. Death surrounded him, the room filled with it. He was nauseous and weary, lost in an endless abyss of screaming terror and unbearable pain. Everyday the same, however different it might appear to be.

Something clamped down on Jack’s shoulder. His trapezius muscle burnt with searing splinters of agony. Doctor Fortuné had turned, and Jack had paid the price for turning his back. He’d been bitten.

He punched the doctor away, then placed a hand to his ragged shoulder and felt the blood coursing from his neck. Jack had been torn to shreds a dozen times by the infected passengers – a dozen different ways on a dozen different nights – but he had never been bitten and left to turn. He had to be infected now. What was going to happen?

Doctor Fortuné launched another attack.

Jack dodged to the side and pushed the doctor to the floor, before deciding to make a run for it. He flung open the door to the office and sprinted out into the corridors of C Deck, leaving the medical bay behind him and heading for the passenger section of the deck.

When he got there, he found it filled with eyebleeders. They wandered between the cabins, dragging anyone uninfected from their rooms as they opened up to see what the commotion was.

Jack skidded on his heels, but his knees were weak and he tripped and fell helplessly to the blood-soaked carpet. He ended up on his back, looking up at the chaos that surrounded him. People were being torn limb from limb, their flesh gouged by human teeth, children and adults both. Jack was powerless to help any of them – he always was. Every night he was an impotent witness to a thousand deaths. But tonight, for some reason, the eyebleeders were ignoring him.

And part of him knew why.

Jack’s vision went cloudy and a dull buzzing filled his skull. It was becoming hard to think…to feel. His entire body was numb, and it took only a few minutes more before he lost all sense of himself. His eyes began to bleed and he got up off the floor to join the shambling mass of infected.

Day 103

Jack woke up screaming. He leapt out of bed and immediately started trashing his room, ramming his fists into the television and making them bloody a covered in glass splinters. Then he ripped the bedside cabinets away from the wall and hurled them across the room. He kicked holes in the wall. He pulled doors from their hinges. When security finally came to apprehend him, they locked him inside the ship’s brig and left him there. The tiny, square room kept Jack safe from the infection that night and he sat there in silence until he fell asleep at midnight.

Day 104

Jack woke up and smashed up his room again. He spent another night in the brig. It was safe there.

Day 198

Jack had given up hope. The last slither of it had died the night Ivor and his family had died in the medical centre. No matter what Jack did, he couldn’t stop the infection. He couldn’t prevent the passengers from turning into monsters. Nor could he find out what was the cause of it all. Even if he did know, it wouldn’t do any good. It would still kill everybody all the same.

He’d stopped trying to find answers, had stopped wondering why this was happening, or whether or not he was in hell. He dragged himself out of bed at 1400hrs every day and went outside, performing the same rituals over and over. The routine had even started to become comforting in some strange way, and Jack looked forward to the seagull at his window and prepared himself for the boys racing down the Promenade Deck. Predicting the recurring elements of his day made Jack feel in control, made him feel that he was the master of his own existence. It was all he had.

The sun was out above the pool, as it always was. One of Jack’s few blessings was the warmth of its rays. It was the only thing that still connected him to the world. He was stuck on a cursed ship in the middle of a featureless sea, but he still shared that same sun with the people in Mexico and Japan and England. He was still connected to them in some small way.

Jack decided to take a dip in the water today. He took off his t-shirt and dropped it onto the floor. He stepped in front of a small boy running around the edge of the pool and caught him just as he was about to fall. The boy wouldn’t know it, but Jack had just saved him from a nasty knee-scrape. He received no thanks for it, however; he never did whenever he saved the boy.

Jack sat on the side of the pool and dangled his legs in the crystalline water. Once he was ready to engulf himself in the cold kiss of the pool, he slid down beneath its surface. The water was cold enough to make him shudder at first, but after a few quick breaststrokes, his body adjusted. The sun beat across his shoulder blades and the soothing sensation flowed down all the way to his toes. Kids swam and played all around him, splashing water and throwing inflatable balls to one another. In spite of Jack’s usual depression, he actually found a moment of brief respite. The pool was relaxing and he started to feel happy, but it would only be temporary. The pool would soon lose its charm if he were to spend more than a day or two coming there in a row. Everything he did became boring eventually. He couldn’t even gamble in the casino, for he knew the cards before they were dealt.

He waded over to the edge of the water and placed his forearms against the cool cement of the pool’s coped edge. He let his legs float away behind him and closed his eyes, trying to blank his mind, to forget that he was trapped in an endless limbo. He wondered if it was his punishment. Was it what he deserved for what he had done? The murders he’d committed? Had his actions damned him to hell? Was he evil?

Jack never thought of his actions as murder – more as justice that could not be rendered in any other way – but perhaps some celestial judge saw it differently. If there was a God, maybe He saw murder as a sin regardless of motives. Jack could admit that he was a killer, but there was no way he would ever admit to being an evil man. In the grand scheme of things, he was firmly planted on the side of good – he knew it in his heart. Especially when compared to the countless wicked souls he had spent his lifetime apprehending. He’d spent a majority of his existence trying to help others, trying to make the world a safer place. If this was his reward – damnation – then God could go straight to Hell himself. If He thought He could have done better, then He should try living on this rotten earth for a while. Maybe then God would understand the true shithole he had created.

Jack had never been one for contemplation or philosophical thinking, but he had found himself turning to it more and more lately, if only as a way of keeping sane. He would ask himself questions to try and occupy his mind and then obsess desperately over the answers. It was one of the few good ways to pass time. He knew, though, that it would only be a matter of time before his mind started to unravel from the strain of it all. The loneliness and isolation of his repeating world would eventually drive him mad. Eventually, he would run out of questions to ask and there would be no more answers to find.

“Jack?”

The sound of his name shocked him for nobody ever spoke it anymore. Nobody knew him. He glanced up to find someone standing at the edge of the pool looking down at him. The sun, shining behind, presented the figure as a silhouette, but Jack could still tell who it was immediately. It was the brunette waitress.

Jack’s mouth fell open and he tried to swallow. He tried to speak but failed. The waitress smiled at him, but she looked weak and weary. She was not wearing the uniform she’d had on when Jack had first met her; clothed instead in simple jeans and black t-shirt.

“I think you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “Come with me, Jack. I think I know what is happening.”

***

Tally’s cabin was at the aft of A Deck. When Jack had previously searched for her, he’d knocked on just about every cabin door on the ship, but most had not opened and there was no way to tell if people were ignoring him or if the rooms were empty. He’d eventually given up on finding Tally and it seemed that as soon as he did, she had found him.

Her room was nice, personal, with a wide assortment of chintzy knickknacks adding to its charm. Jack took a seat on the foot of her neatly made bed while she sat down on a chair beside the room’s cluttered dressing table.

“So, what do you know?” Jack asked before she even had time to settle in her seat.

“The day is resetting.”

Jack sighed. “I know that! The day keeps repeating over and over.”

Tally shook her head. “No, you do not understand. It is not repeating. It is resetting.”

“What’s the difference?”

“For the day to be repeating it must first exist, an unchangeable part of our timeline. That is not what is happening. For whatever reason, this day is being wiped clean at midnight and reset to start over.”

“But the same things happen every day. Repeating.”

Tally looked at Jack as though he was a child. “No. The things that happen on this day are fated to occur. They happen because they are a culmination of the almost infinite events from the days preceding them. What people do tomorrow is a product of what they do today. The world ripples and those ripples do not change.”

Jack tried to understand. He sort of did. People kept acting the same way because they were acting however they would have if the day had just gone on as normal. There were no factors to make them behave any differently, so they didn’t. Things only changed if Jack did something to directly influence events.

As if reading his mind, Tally said, “This is why you can change things, Jack. If the day was repeating, so too would you repeat. Your free will exhibits that the day is being reset, and that you are the only passenger of this ship who can still remember the previous version of events that have been erased. Whoever did this chose you for something.”

“And you,” Jack quickly added.

Tally shook her head. “No. At first I was like everybody else. I didn’t realise what was happening.”

“So what changed? How come you know now?”

“I am Romany. My people have dealt with magic for centuries. We have built up certain…resistances. At first, I was oblivious, the same as everybody else, but the longer the spell was in effect the more it failed to get through my natural defences. At first I just felt a little odd, daydreaming about things that hadn’t happened – or at least I believed so at the time – but then, gradually, I became aware of what was happening. I stayed in my room for many days, trying to make sense of things. On one of those days, I saw you knocking on doors and asking about me. I was frightened, of course, and I hid from you, but I also realised that whatever is going on wasn’t just happening to me.”

“What is happening?” Jack urged her to tell him because the anticipation was killing him. This woman sitting in front of him perhaps held the knowledge to end his suffering.

Tally sighed. “I do not know for sure, Jack, but I believe there is a pathwalker aboard this ship.”

Jack swallowed a mouth full of saliva and stretched his eyes wide to clear them of their fuzziness. He wanted to make sure he had heard her correctly. “Did you say a pathwalker? What the hell is a pathwalker?”

“A pathwalker is a very powerful being. Human, yet…changed. They undergo a ritual at a young age, which allows them to see across the many threads of time. They are the true seers of the future and the past. They can also see sideways.”

“Sideways?”

“Yes, sideways. Every time you make a decision, Jack, there are a thousand paths you did not follow. Each of those paths play out in an alternative version of events, with alternative versions of you.”

“That’s sounds a bit Movie of the Week to me,” Jack said.

Tally did not seem to understand his incredulity. She carried on with her explanation as if she were reading it from a textbook. “Think of time as a piece of string made of many tiny threads. Each time you choose left, another version of you chooses right, and the string is pulled apart into two separate threads. This happens millions of times every second and the strings eventually become a tangled weave, a tapestry of existence. We call this tapestry the celestial pathways. And a pathwalker can grab a hold of every one of these tiny threads and see the events that transpired there. They can even, sometimes, affect those threads. I think we are seeing an example of that now, although there are consequences.”

Jack rubbed his forehead and let out a long, laboured sigh while he tried to absorb everything. It sounded like a bunch of hocus-pocus and new-world superstition but, with what he had been through for the last six months, he really had no option but to believe what Tally was telling him. He had to believe in something.

“So, this pathwalker?” he said. “He’s evil, right? Like some kind of witch?”

Tally shook her head. “No, Jack. Not at all. Pathwalkers are good. They are protectors of the world. I do not know one might be doing this, but it will be for good reason.”

Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He couldn’t agree that anyone responsible for the hell he was in was good. There was just no way. Jack had to find out who this pathwalker was and force him to stop doing whatever it was he was doing. This madness had to stop. Even if it meant he had to kill the son of a bitch.

Day 199

Jack had gone back to his room after talking to Tally. He’d needed to think things through. What Tally had told him, about pathwalkers and time-threads, was a lot to take in for a sane person. His already-crazy world had suddenly grown to include time-controlling wizards and magic-resistant Romany gypsies – and, for some reason, he’d been selected to play some part in a plan he knew nothing about. Tally hadn’t even gotten around to discussing the virus onboard. It had almost seemed like a background event to her.

Previously, Jack thought he was in Hell for the sins he had committed, but now he found himself struggling to believe in another version of events. Why had this pathwalker – he felt stupid even thinking the word – picked him over a thousand other passengers? What was so special about Jack?

He’d woken that day at 1400hrs, as always. In some way he had hoped that the new knowledge of the situation would have been enough, all by itself, to break the spell.

No such luck.

He’d agreed to meet Tally again at around four. It was now a quarter-to and Jack was still lying on the bed in his cabin, fully clothed and ready to leave. His depression had lifted at the realisation he now had a companion onboard – someone with whom he could share his fate. Not being alone made a huge difference to his world. One of his basic human needs had been restored.

He got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, glancing in the mirror. Although it had been the best part of a year since he’d boarded the Spirit of Kirkpatrick, it looked like he’d aged a whole decade. It was hardly surprising, considering the stress and misery he’d been subjected to, but he was also concerned that he might actually be aging. The day was being reset at midnight each night, but he wasn’t. He was living through every day as if they were sequential, his life ticking away.

Jack left his room and took the elevator up to the Broadway Deck. He was going to meet Tally by the pool and together they were going to search the ship for the pathwalker. Hopefully, whoever it was would be shrouded by a sphere of glowing light and wearing a mage’s robe.

Tally was already waiting when Jack reached the pool. She was again dressed in casual clothing and seemed to be hiding out from the other members of staff. If they saw her, she would probably have to explain why she wasn’t at work like she was supposed to be.

“Hey,” he said, walking up to her. “How are you?”

“I am fine, thank you. Are you ready?”

“I guess so. Do you have any ideas where to start?”

“No. It could be anyone. Pathwalkers have belonged to every race since the dawn of time. They could be as normal as you and I. My mother taught me stories about them from far and wide.”

“Great. Just a thousand or so passengers to check on then.”

“Plus three-hundred staff.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you know if it was a member of staff?”

Tally shrugged. “I’ve not spoken to most of them. It is a big ship and we all have our own areas.”

“So, where should we start?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess we should try to make a plan.”

“Okay, is there anything to look for specifically to find a pathwalker?”

“They will be outside of the spell, like us. Have you noticed anybody else not following a pattern?”

Jack stared at his shoes and thought about it, before looking back at Tally. “I honestly haven’t. You were the first person I realised was like me.”

“Okay, so we have nothing. We should just start at the bottom and work our way up.”

“You mean at the bottom of the ship?”

“Yes. Let’s go down to the Orlop Deck – that is the lowest part of the ship. There is a small amount of cargo onboard. Maybe that will give us some clues.”

“Cargo? I thought this was a cruise liner.”

Tally sighed impatiently. “The ship is owned by BR shipping. They take advantage of their cruise itineraries by offering free freight service to their subsidiary companies.”

Jack scratched his chin. “BR? BR? Where do I know that name from?”

“Black Remedy. They are the largest commercial entity in the world. I would think they are familiar to everybody. Samuel Raymeady is the richest man in the world.”

Jack clicked his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it, Black Remedy. Jesus, they have their fingers in the holiday business?”

Tally shrugged. “Looks like it. Now come on. We may feel like we have eternity to find the pathwalker, but we do not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Enough!” Tally took Jack by the arm and dragged him away from the pool. “No more questions,” she said. “We have to get started.”

***

Tally took them down to the bowels of the ship via the elevator. She first had to key in a code on the console that allowed her access to the non-passenger parts of the ship.

The Orlop Deck was stifling, lit only by fluorescent strip lighting and possessing no windows or soft furnishings of any kind. The floor was uncarpeted, leaving the metal walkways exposed, and the sound of machinery was constant.

“The cargo hold is aft,” Tally said. “This way.”

They headed down a walkway towards the back of the ship. There were no doorways on this level and everything was wide open. Up ahead there were several cargo pallets, wrapped tightly in saran wrap and secured to the floor by ropes and buckles. Some of the pallets were stacked ten feet high.

“What is all this stuff?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. BR usually transports medicines from their plant in Portugal to other countries in Europe.”

“How do you know so much about Black Remedy?”

“Because I like to know who I work for. Plus, all the staff know that the lower hold is used for shipping. It is no secret.”

“Then, what do you expect to find down here?”

“Evidence of a spell.”

Jack frowned. “Huh?”

“You cannot just reset time without having certain things prepared. Somewhere on this ship there is a candle burning. If we find it, we find the person who cast the spell.”

Jack looked suspiciously around the cargo hold at the various boxes and crates. “We’re looking for a candle?” he said. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“Because if you saw the candle in question you would have mentioned it anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because the candle will be burning with a bright blue flame. It’s probably being kept somewhere private, undisturbed – like the cargo hold.”

Jack moved between the pallets, prodding at various boxes and crates. Sure enough, they all had printed labels reading: BR PHARMACEUTICALS.

“You think this stuff has anything to do with the virus onboard?” he said. “What do you make of what has been happening to people every night?”

Tally hoisted herself up onto a pallet with the agility of a circus performer and began scanning the area from an elevated position. “I know nothing of the virus except that it is man-made.”

“How do you know it’s been engineered?”

“Because nature does not bring back the dead to kill the living. Only man is wicked enough to create such a thing.”

Jack pulled at some of the wrapping around a pallet and attempted to get at the contents inside. “Maybe there’s some nasty substance in one of these boxes that got loose. I’ve read things about Black Remedy being involved in all sorts of dodgy practises and corruption in the past – that’s how they got so powerful in the first place. Maybe they’re into weapons and chemicals and stuff.”

Tally sounded uninterested. “Perhaps. It all sounds a like conspiracy to me. I think, if we find the pathwalker, we will find answers for all our questions.”

“You think the virus and the day being reset are related?”

She jumped down from the top of the pallet and landed right in front of him. “Of course they are. You really think that two unnatural things happening at the same time in the same place are mere coincidence?”

Jack saw her point. “I suppose not. Then how are they related?”

“I told you,” Tally said irritably. “Pathwalkers are a force of good. They protect the world. And right now one is trying to protect people from the virus aboard this ship. That much is clear. There must be some way to save all of these passengers. That must be your mission.”

Jack grunted. “If this pathwalker is so righteous and helpful, why doesn’t he just come out and help us directly. Why is he hiding?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be against the rules.”

“The rules?”

“Yes, the rules.” Tally seemed to be getting impatient with his questions. Her temper was growing consistently short. “For magic to be successful,” she said. “It must be performed within the realms of certain restrictions. To break those rules could bring about catastrophe; especially when manipulating time itself.”

It was all sounding a little too hocus-pocus again for Jack, so he resumed his search of the cargo hold. He had the strange feeling that he was being watched, but he shook it away as paranoia. Up ahead, was a pallet stacked several feet high with blue, plastic crates. They looked like beer coolers, and when he went over to check the contents, he found no labels or identifying marks at all.

“I’m going to take a look inside one of these boxes,” Jack shouted over to Tally. “They don’t look like the others.”

“What do you think is in there?”

“Only one way to find out.” Jack ran his fingertips over the box’s seams but could no obvious way to open it, so, carefully, he tipped the crate onto its side, cringing when he felt something shift inside.

“There,” Tally said, pointing her finger at the crate. “In the corner.”

Jack examined the base and saw that one corner featured a keyhole. As he looked closer, he could see that the cargo pallet had been stacked upside down, with all the crates positioned with their lids pointing down. He could think of no reason to pack everything upside down, other than to prevent people looking inside.

“We need to get this box open,” he said.

“I think you should just step away from there, right now,” came a voice Jack did not recognise. “No sudden moves, pardner, understand?”

Jack turned around to see a man standing behind him: medium height, average looking, and rather dumb-sounding when he had spoken – despite the threatening intent of his words. He sounded like one of those drawling cowboys from grainy westerns. And, just like a cowboy, he was pointing a revolver at Jack.

“Who are you?” Tally asked, not seeming to notice the firearm in the man’s left hand. “What are you doing down here?”

“I’ll ask the questions, lady. Why you snooping around other people’s property?”

“I am an employee of the ship. I am allowed to be here.”

“Not here, sweetheart. You need to back away and leave this area well alone.”

“This is a staff area,” Tally told him. “You are the one who must leave.”

The man waggled his revolver at her. “D’you realise I have a gun pointed at your pretty little face, lady? I’m not kidding around.”

“Shoot me,” she said bluntly. “Believe me when I tell you I’ll get over it.”

The man seemed confused by the comment and the revolver lowered slightly. Jack decided to try and take control of the conversation while the man was briefly unsure of himself.

He chose politeness as his opening tactic. “Why do you have a gun, sir? Is this area restricted?”

The cowboy’s smile was crooked and he repeated the word, “Sir? I like the sound of that.” He moved the gun closer to Jack’s face. “But I’m afraid I’m still going to have to insist you both mosey on out of here. This is my cargo and you’re trespassing, so could you kindly fuck off?”

Jack didn’t appreciate being sworn at, especially when he had so many questions. “What the hell are you guarding?”

“None of your business. Now get!”

Tally started backing away and Jack decided to follow her. They could force the issue and see where it led, but it would probably be better to take a step back and re-strategize. It was clear that the ship’s cargo hold was being used to transport something they weren’t supposed to know about.

“Where are we going now?” Jack asked Tally as they headed back to the elevator.

“We’re going to see the captain,” she said. “To let him know that there’s an armed man aboard his ship.”

***

Tally used her limited credentials to get herself and Jack inside the ship’s Bridge. It was clear by the reaction of the technical staff that a waitress was not welcome in that particular area, but her insistence – and possibly her beauty – eventually got her through. After convincing a young radioman that there was an urgent matter that needed to be brought to the captain’s attention, she and Jack were finally led inside a small office to wait. It was set up like a meeting room, with an oblong table and leather-backed chairs arranged at its centre. Both Tally and Jack took a seat.

After a short wait, a white-uniformed man entered the room and observed them suspiciously. Each arm of his jacket was emblazoned by four horizontal stripes and an executive loop, while his white peaked cap featured a small emblem of an anchor on a blue oval background, which itself was encircled by a golden wreath of oak leaves. Jack knew from his days in the forces that this man was the ship’s commanding officer.

“I am Captain Marangakis,” he said, addressing them with the stern tone of a man who had little time to be wasted. “I understand you wish to inform me of something.”

“Yes, sir,” Tally said respectfully.

The captain remained standing, his back straight. “Well? What is it?”

Tally told him. “There’s a man with a gun in the cargo area.”

The captain nodded very slowly and stared at them both for a moment, and then he pulled up a chair and sat down. Before he said anything, he removed his cap and placed it carefully down on the desk in front of him. His head was balding. “May I ask what exactly you were doing in my cargo area?”

Jack didn’t have an answer that would suffice, so he decided to ignore the question. “Did you hear what we said? There is a man with a gun down there. Does that not concern you?”

“That man is allowed to be there. He is a member of BR Shipping’s maritime security force. He is here to protect their assets.”

Jack spluttered. “What? You’re telling me that you know that this cruise liner, full of children and families, is being used to transport dangerous cargo?”

“Who said it was dangerous?”

Jack sighed. “You don’t pay an armed guard to protect something benign.”

The captain bored a hole into Jack with his narrow brown eyes. “I assure you that the cargo in this ship is of no danger to anyone. It is merely BR policy to protect their possessions.”

“Okay,” Jack said, willing to play along. “Then tell me what is being stored down there?”

“Who are you to demand anything of me? This is my ship.”

“I’m a police officer. Sergeant Jack Wardsley.”

“Well, Mr Wardsley,” the captain seemed to make a point not to use the word Sergeant. “We are currently one-hundred and sixty miles off the coast of France, so I regret to inform you that your authority is null and void aboard my ship and equally so when we land in a country that is not your own. In fact, right now, I find you guilty of trespassing. What do you think I should do about that?”

Jack tried to calm things down. “I respect your authority as captain of this ship, but something is very wrong here. People are sick and getting worse – speak to Doctor Fortuné. I have concerns that it may all be a result of what is being held down in your cargo bay. Black Remedy owns this ship, and they are also one of the world’s leading investors in medical research. It worries me that they use their own cruise liners as transporters for pharmaceuticals and God knows what else. It’s unethical.”

“That may be,” the captain agreed, somewhat surprisingly. “But it is their ship and I am their employee. You, sir, are the only danger here. I’m afraid I must insist that you disembark at Cannes. Until then, you will immediately accompany me down to the holding cells. I cannot have you running around my ship spreading your paranoid delusions. You too, young lady.” He nodded to Tally. “Your service aboard this vessel is no longer required.”

Jack and Tally both sighed in unison, but neither of them resisted. They could try all over again tomorrow.

Day 200

Jack met Tally by the elevators on C Deck. They discussed what to do and both decided that this time they would forget the subtle approach. It seemed the armed guard in the cargo area had free reign to be there and probably even license to kill if he deemed it necessary, so they would only be wasting time by trying to be gentle.

“So we have a plan then,” Tally stated.

Jack nodded. “It should work. Not like we have anything to fear, is it? If we get shot then we’ll try something else tomorrow – or today, or whatever. You know what I mean.”

They took the elevator back down to the cargo bay and stepped out onto the walkway. Jack stayed back while Tally headed off towards the cargo area, making a big show of being there, clomping her feet down on the metal walkway and whistling loudly. Jack crouched down and hugged the walls of the hull, ducking behind the various machinery and boxes that littered the metal walkway. When Tally reached the shipment pallets in the cargo area, she made a B-line for the blue, plastic crates. Immediately, she started tugging at one, trying to get it free from the pallet. It was only seconds before the cowboy appeared behind her.

Jack put his half of the plan into action and crept up behind the gunman while Tally distracted him by crying and begging for him not to shoot. Jack ran up behind the cowboy and struck him in the back of the head with his fist. Years of combat training meant that the attack was a guaranteed knockout blow and the victim hit the floor face-first. His revolver skittered across the metal walkway. The plan had worked flawlessly. Now it was time to get some answers.

***

The first question Jack asked the cowboy, once the man had regained consciousness, was what his name was. When he refused to answer, Jack pointed the gun and asked the question again. “Don’t make me lose my temper. What’s your name?”

“Caleb Donovan.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You shitting me? What kind of fruity name is that?” Jack was doing his best bad cop impression, hoping that he could use intimidation and insults while Tally used a softer tactic more befitting to her age and beauty.

“My name is Caleb Donovan and that is all you are getting from me.”

Jack slapped the man with the back of his hand, feeling no remorse, for any bruises he caused would disappear at midnight. He knelt down and looked the man in the eyes. “Look, Caleb. My friend here can happily go and turn your cargo upside down right now, or you can just tell us what’s inside. It seems less messy if you just go with the latter option.”

The cowboy frowned. “Why do you care anyway? Are you here to steal it?”

“Steal what?” Jack asked. “What the hell have you got here? Did you make everybody onboard sick?”

“Sick? What are you talking about?”

Jack slapped the man again, but it seemed to have little effect. Donovan’s square jaw seemed more than capable of absorbing a blow or two. If anything, Jack’s throbbing hand was coming off worse.

“Do not play ignorant,” Tally said. “Someone has infected the passengers with a virus, and you just so happen to work for a company that specialises in medical research. Not to mention you’re holed up down here on your own, with a gun.”

“It’s my job, missy. I’m paid to be down here with a gun. Ask the captain of the ship.”

“We did,” Jack admitted. “Doesn’t mean I trust you or what you’re doing down here. Why do you need to protect it the cargo?”

“Why d’you think? Pirates, terrorists, opportunistic passengers like you. The world is a dangerous place, pardner. It needs people like me to keep belongings with their rightful owners. Take this situation for instance. Seems I was right to bring a gun onboard.”

“Pity you couldn’t keep a hold of it,” Jack said, waving the revolver in front of him. “But we’re no thieves. I just want to know what the hell is happening onboard this ship.”

The man scrunched his face up in confusion. “Why do you keep saying that? What’s wrong with the ship? It’s cruising along exactly as it’s supposed to be.”

Jack looked down at Donovan and tried to figure out if the man was lying. There were no telltale signs that suggested he was being deceitful – no twitches or furtive glances – but, with an adequate amount of training, anyone could bend the truth effectively.

“What’s in the boxes?” Jack demanded.

Donovan sighed. “Look for yourself. I’d rather that then betray my employers.”

Jack nodded. “Fair enough. Tally, go check it out.”

Tally nodded and headed over to the pallet of blue, plastic crates. She clawed at the cellophane wrapping and gradually managed to wrench one of the boxes free. It fell to the floor as the weight came loose, too heavy for Tally to handle by herself.

“Shit! Be careful,” Donovan told her.

“It’s locked,” Tally said, thumbing the edges of the crate.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot,” Jack said. “Come check the guy’s pockets.”

Tally edged over to Donovan, wary of the man despite him being subdued. Jack kept the gun sighted at the man’s chest the whole time, while Tally located the keys in his breast pocket. She headed back over to the crate with them.

“You sure you wanna do this, pardner?” Donovan asked Jack.

Jack nodded. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re gunna stir up a shit storm you don’t wanna get caught in.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Holy shit!” Tally shouted. “Jack, look at this.”

Jack spun around to look at the contents of the crate and was shocked by what he saw. In the brief moment he was distracted, Donovan leapt up and skilfully took the gun from Jack. He fired two bullets right into his chest.

Day 201

Jack woke up breathless. He’d never been shot before and the pain had been blinding, yet mercifully brief. Now he was in his bed again, ready to start another version of the same day. It felt like every time he got close to any sort of answers, something bad happened and sent him spiralling back to square one. But it was nothing more than a setback this time. Yet, Tally had said something a couple days ago that worried him. We may feel like we have eternity, but we do not. Jack wondered if his ability to withstand bullets to the chest would eventually end. Maybe next time, he would stop waking up in bed unharmed and would just be dead.

He had to find out what the deal was with Donovan and his cargo. Why was the ship’s hold crammed with blue plastic crates full of American Dollars? There had been only a brief second to see what Tally had discovered in the crates before Donovan shot him to death, but Jack calculated that if all of the crates on all of the pallets were full of money, then there was several million dollars in the cargo hold.

Jack hadn’t seen what had become of Tally, because he’d been inconveniently dead, but he assumed Donovan would have dealt with her the same way. She’d probably woken up screaming in her bed the same way he had. He hoped she was okay.

Jack decided to hang around the pool area and wait for Tally. It was the most likely place she would go to find him and he wanted to make sure he was there if she needed him. After performing his morning ritual of saying hello to the seagull at his window, he got in the shower and took a little longer under the steaming torrent of water than usual. His tired and battered body kept him there. He ran his soapy hands over his shoulders, kneading his trapezius muscles and the back of his neck. The pressure felt good and he moved his hand down along his shoulders and inwards towards his chest.

Shit!

Jack hissed in pain as a dull throb erupted behind his ribs. He looked down at his naked body and was shocked. Below his left nipple was a patch of discoloured skin – a deep bruise spreading out in a ragged oval shape. It was exactly where the bullets had entered. His injuries hadn’t completely healed. Did that mean he would be able to die soon? The thought filled him with both fear and excitement. He wanted to die, to be released from his torment, but he also wanted to live – especially now that his investigations were finally getting somewhere.

He quickly dried himself and got out of the shower, putting clothes on and heading immediately for the Lido Deck by the pool. Once there, he headed for the sun deck on the upper balcony. Although he was still eager to discover more about the cash in the hold, he needed five minutes to himself. Discovering that he could now be hurt permanently changed things – made it necessary to think stuff through a little more cautiously. He was vulnerable again, and that brought with it fear.

Claire was upstairs in her usual spot and Jack took the sun lounger beside her, not bothering to remove the green towel.

“I’d move that,” she said. “It’s been there all day. Probably pretty funky by now.”

Jack smiled at her. “I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll let you know if I start to itch.”

“Okay, but if you get fleas don’t pass them on to me.”

“I promise.” He leant over and offered her his hand. “Jack.”

“Claire.”

“Good to meet you, Claire. You here with anyone?”

“My boyfriend and his mates.”

“His mates? None of yours?”

Claire shifted in her seat. “I don’t really have many friends. I spend all my time with Conner.”

“Your boyfriend?”

She nodded.

“I bet you did have friends, though? I mean, before you got with him.”

Claire didn’t answer, just shrugged.

“Well, listen up, Claire. You seem like a nice girl, so I’m going to give you a little bit of advice. I’m older than you, and a police officer, so I’ve seen it all. I’ve seen a lot of nice young girls get isolated from their friends and family by a controlling boyfriend. It always happens gradually, so slowly that the girl doesn’t even realise what is happening. My advice to you is to get away while you still can. Find your friends and tell them that you’re sorry. They’ll forgive you. Then tell Conner to go take a hike.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said defiantly, but there was a slither of doubt in her voice.

Jack looked her in the eye. “Am I wrong?”

She was silent for a while, but eventually let out a sigh and nodded. “No, you’re not wrong. He’s horrible to me. Doesn’t let me do anything. But I love him. He’s just young and acting tough in front of his mates, you know? He’ll change, I know he will.”

Jack laughed but he didn’t mean it to be cruel. “You know how many women have said that before you? And how many have regretted it? You shouldn’t have to wait for a man to treat you right. You’re a nice girl, Claire. One day you’ll see the big difference between men and boys. Not all guys will treat you like Conner does. You’re wasting your life with him.”

She seemed close to tears. “I can’t leave him.”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t. I’m…we’re...”

Jack was about to respond to Claire, but before he could, Conner appeared. Right on schedule, Jack thought ruefully.

The lad tilted his head towards Jack and scowled. “How you doing, mate?”

“I’m good. Claire and I were just in the middle of a conversation.”

“The conversation’s over, mate.”

Jack stared at Conner, not breaking eye contact for a single second. “Why is that?”

“What you mean, why is that? Because I fucking said so.”

“Can’t Claire make up her own mind? Is she not allowed to have a conversation unless you allow it?”

Conner looked down at Jack as though he were a new species of ape. “You crazy or something? I’ll fuck you up, mate.”

“I’d very much like to see you to try.”

Claire jumped up off her lounger and rushed in front of Conner. “Honey, just leave it. I don’t even know the guy.”

“She’s right,” Jack said. “She doesn’t know me at all. But I know you, Conner. You’re a sad, pathetic, little bully who controls women because you’re so scared of them leaving you. The reason you think like that is because you’re a piece of shit, and you know it. No girl would ever stay with you unless you chipped away at her until she was nothing.”

Claire fought to restrain Conner, who looked as though he might take off like a rocket. She glanced back over her shoulder at Jack and shook her head at him. “I thought you were a police officer. Why are you causing trouble?”

“Police officer?” Conner grunted. “Come on, baby, let’s leave this pig alone. He’s messed up in the head, innit. Not worth getting arrested for.”

The two teenagers headed down the stairs and disappeared. Jack turned his attention to the elderly lovers kissing against the railing for few moments and wondered what their story was. Had they been in love for decades or were they both widowers who’d met each other later in life? Who knew?

Jack lay back in his lounger and smiled. The altercation with Conner had been pointless, but had given him a small sense of satisfaction. It was enough of a break from the usual doom and gloom to re-motivate him towards solving the mystery of the ship. As soon as Tally arrived, he would go back down to that cargo hold and make Donovan give him the answers he needed. Until then, he was going to lie back and enjoy the sun. Because, if Donovan managed to shoot him again, it may just be the last bit of sun Jack ever got to see. There was something comforting about that.

***

Jack awoke in the dark, alone and shivering. The moist, salted air skimmed across the deck and brushed his face. He often fell asleep on the sun deck, but assumed this time Tally would wake him up. For some reason, she hadn’t turned up.

Maybe Donovan shot her in the head and she’s dead – really dead.

Jack prodded at the bruising on his chest and huffed in pain. His gunshot wound was a mere abrasion, but what if Tally had taken a bullet to the brain? Or even if she’d healed, would bruising be enough to stop her waking up?

Jack checked his watch and saw that it was a little after eight – almost time for the infected to attack. There were limited areas onboard that offered safety, and even those would become overrun eventually. The passenger cabins were the most secure, able to withstand the nightly terrors for the most part. Jack thought about going to his room now, where there was a bottle of Glen Grant with his name on it. He couldn’t risk getting hurt tonight, not after waking up with residual bruising from his previous night’s fate.

He stood up and breathed in a deep lungful of sea air. The view from the ship was the familiar unending darkness of a night at sea. If he really was in Hell, it was at nighttime that he truly felt it. The world became absent once the sun was gone.

It would be happening soon. Jack needed to hurry. His cabin was two decks below and the elevator was slow. He raced down the stairway to the pool area and headed for the Promenade Deck. Probably less than five minutes now until the attacks began, but Jack was confident he could make it to his room.

He hurried inside the corridor and summoned the elevator from the lower decks.

The elevator began to rise.

Arrived at Jack’s floor.

The doors opened.

And someone pointed a gun in his face.

“Hello, pardner. I was hoping to bump into you again.”

Jack’s eyes went wide. “Donovan?”

***

Donovan escorted Jack down to the cargo hold, the gun buried against the small of his back the whole time. If it went off, Jack’s spine would be shattered. And it might just stay that way.

Jack stepped out onto the steel walkway and headed left under the directions of his captor. They were heading towards the blue crates and the other pallets belonging to the Black Remedy Corporation. The plastic boxes had been pulled free of their cargo area and placed on the floor in parallel lines. All of them were open, displaying millions of dollars in US currency.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Donovan said seriously.

Jack took it all in with bewilderment. “What is it for? Why have you put it all out on display?”

Donovan lowered his gun, although kept it where they both could see it. “In the interest of openness, Jack. Think you and I both want some answers.”

“Okay. You think maybe we can be open without the gun?”

Donovan seemed to think, before holstering the gun inside a leather slip on his belt. “Fair enough, but you just behave yourself, you hear? You already know I’m not afraid to use it.”

Jack’s eyes went wide as something occurred to him – something that should have been obvious the moment Donovan stepped out of the elevator. “You mean you remember-”

“Blowing your ribcage to pieces? Yeah, I remember, alright. Yet, here you are now, all alive and such. Ain’t it odd?”

Jack was short of breath. “How…how long have you been reliving the day?”

Donovan headed between two pallets and reached into the shadows behind them. He came back with two folding deck chairs and set them out side by side. They each took a seat. “Let me see now… Guess it must be a good six, seven months now. How ‘bout you?”

Jack shook his head. “I lost track, but probably about the same. How come I’ve never seen you before? I mean, up until the last couple of days.”

“I have a job to do, to stay here and keep an eye on all this money. I take my profession very seriously, pardner.”

Jack looked around at the bare and desolate space and could barely believe it. “You’ve just been sitting down here on your own for half a year?”

“That about sums it up. Figured whatever’s gone wrong will right itself soon enough. Least I used to think so, until I met you and your lady friend, that is.”

“Tally? What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” Donovan looked ready to go for his gun at the merest hint of aggression, so Jack stayed quiet. “After I shot you dead, the girl backed off. We had ourselves a little chat and discovered that we’re in the same boat – figuratively speaking. Which is why I’m now a little more willing to…cooperate.”

Jack leant forwards. “You mean you’ll answer my questions?”

“If you’ll answer mine.”

“Deal.”

Donovan got up from the chair, making Jack flinch, but then stepped away and went over to the same pallets from where he’d gotten the deckchairs. This time, he came back with a bottle of bourbon whisky.

Jack grinned. “I think we may have just gotten off on the right foot.”

“You a whisky man, Jack?”

“Scotch usually, but what you have there is close enough.”

There were no glasses, so Donovan took a swig and handed over the bottle. Jack took a swig, too, and gasped as the liquid burned his gullet. He glanced at his new companion curiously. “What time do you wake up every day?”

“6AM, same as I have my whole life. It’s a sin to waste the day.”

“I wake up much later than that. In fact, I wake up eight hours later than that.”

Donovan whistled. “I’d expect as much from a listless teenager, but a grown man…? Now that’s a crime.”

“Well, you could say I had a few problems even before I came aboard this goddamn ship. That’s not really important now, though.”

“I guess not. What do you make of all this, Jackie? Your girl said we were under some sort of spell, that some fella hiding onboard is pressing the cosmic reset button every night.”

“Every night at midnight,” Jack added.

Donovan took another swig of the bourbon then cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t rightly stay up as late as that. I like to get my head down by ten each night. Sleep makes the man.”

Jack chuckled. “Maybe that’s why I feel like such a shattered mess.”

“You got things on your mind, Jackie?”

Jack took a longer swig from the bourbon and lost his breath for a moment. Eventually, he nodded but gave no answer to the man’s question. There was no way he was willing to trust Donovan with the absolute truth just yet. Not until he got some answers of his own. “What is all this money for, Donovan?”

“From what I understand, it’s a bribe. A harmless, run-of-the-mill payoff.”

Jack frowned. “To whom?”

“Tunisian Government.”

Jack swallowed, tried to follow. “Why would Black Remedy be sending a load of US currency to North Africa?”

“Because the people there just overthrew their president. There’s a new guy in town that’s a little bit more with the times. He has plans to start a new Tunisian health service – much like your National Health Service. Black Remedy wants to ensure that they get the contract to supply said service. Tunisia’s currency isn’t worth a damn internationally, hence the US cash.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Sounds like this new president is as corrupt as the old one.”

Donovan smiled in amusement. “But at least this guy’s a corrupt democrat. That’s about as good as a country like Tunisia can hope for at the moment.”

“So what then,” Jack asked, wanting to get the full picture. “You’re supposed to deliver the cash to a person?”

“After the ship finishes its itinerary of the Mediterranean, it’s heading to Algiers and then on to Tunis where the cash will be collected at the docks. There’re a few pallets of pharmaceuticals as well to act as samples for the new health service, and some other bits and bobs I won’t go into.”

“So that’s it?” Jack said. “All this money, the drugs, and you with a gun, is just down to a bunch of corporate corruption?”

Donovan set the bottle of bourbon down on the floor between his legs and leant his elbows on his knees, looking Jack in the eyes intently. “That’s about the gist of it, pardner. Truth be told, I don’t have any more of a clue about what’s going on than you do. I’ve been sitting down here, day after day, thinking this whole thing was about me – supposing maybe I was in a coma or something. I figured I was stuck in some sorta weird dream.”

“I wonder why you haven’t been affected like everybody else.” Jack pondered. “Tally said that I was probably chosen by whoever cast the spell, but what’s your role in all this?”

Donovan shrugged. “Now that I’ve met you, Jackie, my best guess would be that whatever Hoodoo this practical joker has been casting doesn’t extend to the cargo hold. I mean, why would it? There’s not supposed to be anybody down here. My being here is a secret. I figure it takes a lot of effort to cast a spell that messes with time itself, so why stretch it further than you have to?”

“You really think that the cargo deck is unaffected?”

“In actual fact,” said Donovan. “I can pretty much prove it.”

“How?”

Donovan picked up the whisky bottle from the floor and sloshed the liquid inside. “Because, Jack, tomorrow morning when I wake up, this bottle will still be empty and I’ll have to go upstairs and buy another one. The ship’s been sailing nowhere for months now, but anything that happens down here stays just the way I leave it.”

Jack stared down at the half-empty bottle in shock. The more he learned, the weirder it all became. If what Donovan was saying was true, then the lower deck of the ship was a sanctuary from the spell. Time existed here as it was supposed to. It didn’t make complete sense, but it was another valuable piece of the puzzle. Knowledge was power and Jack had a feeling that he needed to know everything he could to have any chance of getting out of this mess.

“What about the virus?” he asked Donovan. “Black Remedy has to be behind it.”

Donovan shrugged. “I know nothing about it, you have my word. Seems kind of counter-intuitive, if you ask me. If the ship is overrun with a lethal biohazard, there isn’t going to be much chance of the cargo reaching Tunis, is there? Whoever caused the outbreak is unlikely to have anything to do with Black remedy.”

Jack sighed. “Then I’m shit out of answers. I was hoping these crates would be full of diseased monkey parts or phials of glowing green liquid. Would have made things simpler.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Jackie.”

Jack waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I guess I just need to go back to the drawing board.”

“Perhaps. But not tonight, pardner. Tonight we drink and make merry.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

“Like hell you don’t. I’ve been isolated down here for over six months. You’re going to have a knees-up with me tonight, even if I have to shoot you to keep you here.”

Donovan was obviously joking about shooting him, but Jack thought the invitation wasn’t the worst idea he’d heard lately. It would be nice to take a break for just one night. Upstairs, the passengers would already have started tearing each other apart. It was too late to try and help them tonight, not that he’s even planned to.

“Okay,” Jack said, picking the bottle of bourbon up off the floor. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get off this fucking ship?”

Donovan grinned at Jack and said, “I’ll go get a flu shot.”

***

“So how long have you worked for Black Remedy?”

“Not long.” Donovan’s voice was approaching a full-on slur now. “I was a prom-promis…promising young boxer once, if you can believe it. I got hurt pretty bad, before I ever got the chance to…belch!...to really make it. I could have been a contender, maybe make a comeback, but my girl was against it. In the end, I just did what made her happy.” He shook his head and sighed. “Then my girl up and leaves me a year later and both my parents pass on within the same decade. If it wasn’t for shit luck I’d have no luck at all.” He took another swig on the bourbon and spoke in a croaky voice. “Anyway, started doing private security when I hit twenty-five-or-so. Been doing it ever since. Black Remedy is just the latest in a long line of gigs. The pay is good, but not as good as if I’d been a professional fighter. Don’t that just suck?”

“Yeah, that sucks,” Jack admitted. “Still, least you were good at something. My whole life has been the epitome of average. Average kid, average teenager, average police officer, and not much else.”

Donovan looked at Jack with bleary eyes. “You…you’re a cop? That’s not average. That’s honourable. You p-p-protect people.”

Jack shook his head, which made his drunken vision tilt to and fro. “That’s American cops you’re talking about. British cops spend most of their time dealing with drunks, wife-beaters, and bad drivers. We never do anything to make a real difference. Goddamn justice system protects the criminals more than it does the public. It’s become cool to be a thug in the UK.”

“Then why…why don’t you…why don’t you do something about it?”

Jack laughed. “You think it’s that easy? I’m just a sergeant. No one listens to me. Anyway, I did do something.”

Donovan leant forward. “Oh really? What did you do, Jackie?”

“I killed a bunch of drug-dealing scumbags. Took them out while they were all lying around stoned. One of them even started giggling while I slit his throat. Never seen anything like it in my life – not even in the army. Drugs make people so screwed up that they laugh at their own murder.”

Donovan was looking at Jack with wide, worried eyes. “That’s stone cold. You just rolled up and killed them all, no kidding? The hell got into you?”

“My partner was shot to death,” Jack said, feeling both angry and upset by the thought. “She was trying to help a family being terrorised by a bunch of yobbos. The leader was a lad called Frankie Walker. The sonofabitch shot my partner in the goddamn hospital while she was checking on one of his victims. When I got there she was lying up against the wall in a pool of blood, already dead. Her face had gone grey, like it was made out of ash. She was a beautiful person, Donovan, and this Frankie snuffed her out like a cigarette butt. He was dead at the scene, too – shot by his own brother. His gang remained on the streets, though, still intimidating people and acting like they owned the place. I dealt with it.”

Donovan didn’t say anything. He just looked at Jack and shook his head sympathetically. It was the first time Jack had spoken about his actions outside of the force. To speak about such things freely would have sent him to prison. His superiors had found out what had happened from a not-yet-completely-dead witness at the scene, but they covered it up, lest the public condemned the entire service. Most of Jack’s colleagues were partly glad that a prolific street gang had been taken out of action, and there was little sympathy for the victims, but the men and women Jack once considered friends were now suddenly very afraid of him. He became isolated and angry, a loose cannon with nobody to remind him of the rules. The decision to protect Jack by covering up his crime proved to be a mistake. He had only gone off the rails even further and was now untouchable by virtue of the secret that bound him and his superiors together.

“You must have loved her a lot,” Donovan said eventually. “A man doesn’t feel that much rage unless he’s failed to protect the woman he loves.”

Jack nodded. “We’d been together a little while, but had been hiding it from our colleagues. We were saving enough money to get a house and then Laura was going to quit the force and have a child with me. I lost everything.”

“And someone had to pay?”

Jack nodded. “I don’t regret it.”

“Well, I don’t blame you, pardner. Seems that the world gets worse and worse each day. Bout time some good folks started fighting back. Still, how the hell did you get away with such a thing?”

“I didn’t. I got suspended from the force, under the guise of bereavement – having my partner killed and all – and they stuck me in therapy for six months. I started drinking and stopped looking after myself. Eventually, after a couple years of watching me self-destruct, my bosses authorised a budget to send me on this cruise, to try and break me out of the emotional tailspin I’ve been in. I get the impression it’s their final gesture of kindness before they finally discharge me. Tell you the truth; if things ever go back to normal, that’s just what I want. I can’t do the job anymore. I’ve seen how little justice there is in the world and I can’t be a part of a broken system anymore.”

“I hear ya. Ain’t no place left that hasn’t witnessed the evil of man. Bad guys all over.”

Jack gave Donovan a surprised look. “Yeah, and you’re one of those bad guys.”

“What’s that now?”

“You’re delivering bribe money to a corrupt politician.”

Donovan seemed to think about it. “Well, yeah, I guess now that you mention it, I am one of the bad guys. Maybe I’ll rethink things, too, if this nonsense ever ends.”

Jack laughed heartily. “This nonsense? That’s one way to put it.”

Donovan swigged the last drop of the whisky and leant back in his chair with a satisfied grin on his face. “Hell, that’s the only way to describe it, far as I’m concerned. I’ve never known anything make less sense in my life.”

“You’re right,” Jack said. “This is all a big load of nonsense.  I still need to get to the bottom of it, though.”

Donovan stood up, disappeared for a moment, and then returned with another bottle of bourbon. “You sure do, but there’s no need to rush, pardner. You came on this cruse to relax. So relax.”

Jack took another swig and did just that.

Day 215

Two whole weeks went by in a daze of whisky-fuelled madness. Jack and Donovan had started their friendship playing cards in the cargo hold, but had eventually progressed to full-on hellraising in the ship’s various clubs and casinos. Donovan often ended his nights with drunken dalliances involving any women as wasted as he was. Jack would often retire with a bottle of Scotch as his companion.

One night, Donovan confided to Jack that he’d been close to losing his sanity by the time he and Tally had stumbled upon him. Learning that he was not alone had changed everything – had made him see the fun that could be had with the situation. Jack was beginning to grow concerned with the American’s reckless pursuit of hedonist distractions, but could hardly blame him after being cooped up alone for six months. Jack kept reminding himself that anything Donovan did was inconsequential. The day always reset regardless of what they got up to at night.

Tally had been missing ever since the night Jack took a bullet to the chest. He’d checked her cabin several times and several areas of the ship, but she was nowhere to be found. Whatever she was doing, it was clear she did not want company. Jack just hoped that she was okay and would seek him out when she was ready.

It was currently 5PM and Jack was in the Voyager’s Lounge. It was the quietest drinking venue on the ship and therefore the least likely place to run into Donovan. Jack had nothing against the over-zealous American – in fact he liked the guy – but he needed a break from the all the partying for one night. It was time to get his thoughts back in order and focus on the things that mattered. Things like the virus onboard that still slaughtered everybody each night.

There was only a single person who frequented the Voyager’s Lounge that displayed symptoms of the virus. The victim was a respectable-looking gentleman in an evening jacket and spectacles. He was always alone and reading a magazine, constantly sneezing and wiping his nose. In just a few hours, the man would begin to bleed from his eyes and tear into the flesh of anyone unlucky enough to be within sight of him. Right now, he was just an ordinary man trying to relax on vacation.

It was hard to humanize the eyebleeders once they had turned, so irrational and brutally insane they were, but it was important to remember that prior to their conditions they were ordinary people – people with families, like Ivor and his girls. Jack was trapped on this boat, forced to relive the day over and over, but so was Ivor. The poor man had to watch his family die every night.

Jack was beginning to realise that his situation was actually better than most, which was why he’d decided that he was going to find some way to put a stop to whatever was happening. It was selfish to spend his time drinking with Donovan. Jack still had the benefit of freewill, and it was up to him to end everybody’s suffering. Whether the passengers knew it or not, all of them were relying on Jack to save them.

Joma tended bar, as he always did at this time. His shift started late and would continue until the eyebleeders arrived. Jack had never seen whatever fate befell the friendly waiter, but it was safe to assume he died a grisly death like everybody else.

“Hello, Mr Jack,” Joma said from behind the beer taps. “I hope that your room is to your liking.”

Jack had to think for a minute, then realised that, to Joma’s understanding, Jack had only entered his cabin for the first time yesterday.

“Yes,” Jack replied. “It feels like home already.”

“That is very good. Can I get for you a drink?”

“Yes, I think I fancy a pint of lager, please.”

Jack handed over his cabin card for the drink to be added to his account, but Joma waved it away. “One free of charge. You give Joma good tip and he look after you.”

Jack couldn’t even remember how much he’d given the man now, it was so long ago, but he took his free pint gladly and nodded his thanks.

Joma picked up an empty wine glass and began polishing it. “There’s a bad cold going around today, no?”

Jack nodded. “Real bad. Didn’t think anyone else had noticed.”

“Joma noticed. Many people sick today. Sneezing, coughing, very bad.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself,” Jack commented as he examined Joma’s face. “You look exhausted.”

Joma seemed a little embarrassed that the focus of the conversation had suddenly turned to him. “Joma is fine, Mr Jack. He just work long hours. Lots to be done, many drinks to be served. It is tiring work.”

Jack looked at the man and placed him at a little over forty, which was strange because when they’d first met, he probably would have placed the guy at a little under.

“So how long have you worked on the Kirkpatrick, Joma?”

“Almost four month now. Joma work aboard other ship before.”

“Why did you change?”

“Changing of scenery.”

“I supposed one of the perks of the job is being able to travel the world.”

Joma smiled and seemed to look off into the distance thoughtfully. “That is true, but I miss home very much. The most beautiful places are where people love you. The Mediterranean cannot compare to home. Do you agree?”

Jack sipped from his pint and placed it down gently on the bar. “Perhaps I would have agreed with you once.”

“But no longer?”

“Where do you find beauty when nobody loves you?”

Joma thought about it while polishing another glass. “I think you find it in hope, Mr Jack. Hope that one day somebody will love you. I pray you do find love, my friend. A man is stronger with love.”

Jack thought about what Joma was saying and actually found himself smiling a little. “I hope I get the chance one day to see if you’re right.”

“Joma has no doubt. Another drink?”

Jack looked down at his near-empty pint glass and was shocked he had drunk it so quickly. “Yeah, make it a whisky, please. Cheers.”

Joma got to work, thrusting a low-baller glass against the base of the optic and pouring the brownish-gold liquid in a measured amount. He handed the glass to Jack and smiled. “Joma have to charge you for that one, my friend. He lose job otherwise.”

“No problem.” Jack handed over his cabin card. “Say, do you know a girl named Tally? She works the Lido Deck during the day.”

Joma raised an eyebrow at him. “You make a friend already? Yes, Joma know Tally. Pretty girl. You like her?”

Jack felt his cheeks blush and then wondered why he’d had that reaction. “Yes, I like her, but not in that way. I was just wondering where she goes at night.”

“Unsure, but some of the day-staff like to sneak off to the Sports Deck at night. It is closed to passengers then and they like to go and have drink together. Perhaps you find her there.”

Jack thought back to the last time he had visited the Sports Deck. It hadn’t been locked up then. In fact, it had been full of children, trapped inside the Perspex enclosure like sardines.

Jack turned back to Joma and asked him a question. “Are you sure the Sports Deck is locked up at night? I’m sure I saw children up there a few months…uh, late last night.”

Joma nodded. “They have an under-twelve football match between eight and nine, but other than that it is locked up tight. Too dark for people to be running around outside on deck. Dangerous.”

Jack glanced back around at the bespectacled gentleman in the corner, who had gone from sniffling to coughing and hacking up phlegm. It would only be an hour or so until the Sports Deck was overwhelmed with eyebleeders. If Tally was there, as Joma suggested she might be, it would not be a great time to talk to her. He needed to get back to his cabin, for now, where it was safe. He would visit the Sports Deck earlier tomorrow and hope to find Tally. He would then at least have enough time to see what was going on with her and try to convince her to start helping him again.

The thought of seeing Tally sent a shiver through Jack’s spine. He really wanted to see her again. Maybe he would find out what had made her disappear.

Day 216

Jack checked the ship’s newsletter that came under his door every day and learned that the Sports Deck was open until 6PM. He decided he would get there an hour before. If what Joma had told him was correct, he’d eventually be asked to leave, and the deck would then remain empty until the children arrived at 8PM and were attacked a short time after.

Arriving at the Sports Deck now, in the mid-afternoon, it was full of people milling about. Young couples batted tennis balls back and forth gently, while an older generation played bowls on a small green in the corner. Ahead was the enclosed football pitch that would later play host to a monstrous siege. It was a place of fun and hijinks, which made its eventual fate even more tragic.

Jack took a seat on a spectator bench beside one of the tennis courts and watched a game being contested between two teenage girls. They seemed very competitive and even donned the appropriate athletic skirts and nondescript white panties. If only they knew how little their game meant.

The Mediterranean Sea shone gold beneath the wide rays of the setting sun. Once the sun disappeared, the ship would be surrounded by featureless night. The pleasantness of day always gave way to the horrors of night.

Jack shivered at the thought of approaching darkness creeping towards the ship, ready to engulf it. He hoped Tally would turn up soon, for there was something about the Sports Deck that sapped him of strength. All of this young, vibrant life and joyful energy made Jack miss the world terribly. What he now wanted more than anything was to just go back to his old life. He wanted his actions to matter again. He may have become jaded by his impotency as a police officer, but at least there was always the hope that he could do some good. But onboard this damned ship his actions were useless, his effect on the world less than a mayfly.

Sitting there alone, surrounded by obliviously happy souls, Jack found his thoughts turning to Laura. He didn’t want his mind to go there, but he was powerless to stop it. His memories charged forth, a trainload of grief crashing through his emotional barriers and forcing their way into his consciousness. His partner, Laura, was only just past thirty when Frankie Walker shot her in the stomach. There had been no need for him to kill her, and he did so just for kicks. The decline of young morals in the United Kingdom seemed an unstoppable force. They fucked each other indiscriminately in every hole, snorted drugs from A to Z, attacked each other, as well as robbing old ladies from as young as ten years old. The United Kingdom was anarchy. And it was getting worse.

But Laura had always seen the best in people. She believed in the inherent goodness of society and that people would generally make the right decisions if given the chance. It was a naïve outlook, Jack used to think, but he had often envied her. It must have been a great comfort to see the world in such positive colours instead of the bleak black grime and sodden greys that Jack did.

Jack missed Laura’s smile – the one she showed only in private when the two of them were alone. But he knew that he would never get to see it again. It’d been erased from the world by the ills of a sick, decaying society. Laura had died because she’d made the mistake of showing compassion for a husband who was trying to protect his family. The husband’s wife and child had been tortured and stabbed by a local gang. Then the husband had gone and murdered one of the thugs in revenge. Laura and Jack had been given strict orders to take the husband in – and they had the chance to – but he had begged them for one more night to finish what he’d started. Laura had said yes, and despite his better judgement, Jack had gone along with it. They had let the husband go. Jack knew it was crazy, and the only reason he went along with it at all was because he loved Laura. That love had made him weak – not strong like Joma suggested – and he had been unable to do his job the way he knew he should. He should have been angry with Laura for that, but it was just who she was – and that was something he could never blame her for. He wished more than anything that he could go back to that evening and arrest the husband. No one else would have died that night. Frankie Walker wouldn’t have ended up cornered with a gun and Laura wouldn’t have been trapped inside a hospital room with him. She’d still be alive. And jack’s hands would be clean of blood.

Footsteps behind him.

Jack’s eye caught movement to his side and snapped him of his daze. Tally had entered the Sports Deck, copped one look at Jack, then turned back around and tried to leave. She wasn’t quick enough, though and Jack caught up with her in in the corridor.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and spun her around to face him. “Why have you been hiding from me?”

She shrugged free of his grip and looked angry. “I haven’t been hiding from you. I’ve been coming here every night. You just haven’t seen me.”

Jack tried to stay calm. His heart was beating fast for some reason. “Why have you been coming here instead of coming to see me? I thought we were friends.”

Tally laughed, a cruel sound. “We are not friends, Jack. We are just two lost souls floating aimlessly in the abyss.”

“But you were the one that said there was a reason for all this, that there was a way to stop it. We haven’t found the pathwalker yet. We can still find a way to end this.”

Tally rolled her eyes. “We have not found the pathwalker because he does not wish to be found. Whatever is happening on this ship is nothing to do with me, Jack. I wasn’t chosen; you were. The only reason I’m even in this mess is because of my heritage. If I was not Romany then I would be as ignorant as everybody else. I wish I was.”

“Me too,” Jack said, “but that’s not how life goes, is it? When it starts raining shit, it’s not always up to us whether we have an umbrella.”

Tally looked at Jack like he was mad, but then she cracked a smile and shook her head, obviously irritated at him for getting past her shields but powerless to hide her feelings now.

Jack grinned. “See? It’s easier to face all this with company – I mean, company who still remembers you in the morning. We shouldn’t be alone in this, Tally.”

“We’ll soon get sick of each other, Jack. Doesn’t matter how much I like you, I don’t want to spend the next thousand years with you.”

“You admit you like me then? Here I was, thinking you were avoiding me.”

Tally rubbed both her eyes with the palms of her hands. “God, Jack. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I just want it to be over. I want my life back. I have a daughter back home.”

Jack felt his jaw tighten. “Shit, Tally. You never told me that. What’s her name?”

The tears came quickly and unexpectedly so Jack went forward and held his friend, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her head. If only there was something he could say…

“Her name is Delilah, and she is my little angel. I miss her, Jack. I feel like heart is bleeding out into my chest and only seeing her face again will stop it. Damn it, I need a drink. Can we go get one?”

Jack agreed. “We’ll go to the bar.”

Tally shook her head adamantly. “No! I can’t be around people at the moment. They just remind me of what I’ve lost. Do you have anything to drink in your cabin?”

Jack chuckled. “Hope you like Scotch.”

“I suppose it will do. Long as it will get me drunk.”

“Oh, it’ll do that alright.”

Jack took Tally to his room.

***

Half the bottle of Glen Grant was gone and Jack’s vision was bleary. He’d been drinking alcohol most days now, for a couple of weeks at least, but his tolerance never increased. Every night at midnight the day reset and Jack’s constitution reverted back to how it was the day he’d first boarded. When you considered the fact he was still aging, it seemed a little unfair.

Tally was as drunk as he was, lying on the bed and staring, transfixed by the television. Toy Story 3 was playing and a big pink bear was stomping around a playroom like a tyrant while the other toys cowered. Jack wondered if the film would make Tally miss her daughter, so he pressed a button on the remote and switched the channel to something else: an infomercial about Cannes – their ever unreachable destination.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked her. “Why did you disappear on me?”

Tally rolled onto her side and faced him on the bed. “I just needed some time alone. Some of the crew go to the Sports Deck for a drink at night so I thought I would join them, try to forget about things for a while. It worked the first night, and I even started to have fun. It was only staff members and none of them were sneezing or coughing. I thought it would be a good place to stay during the attacks. But…”

Jack nodded. He knew the story already. “At 8PM a bunch of children showed up?”

Tally seemed to recall the memory in vivid detail. Wrinkles appeared across her brow. “Yes. A couple of them were under the weather, so sat on the sidelines with their parents. A lot of the adults were also very ill. I knew then that things were going to go bad.”

“And you were right,” Jack said, remembering the trapped children from his own experience on the Sports Deck.

Tally continued. “When the attacks started, some of the children started leaking…leaking blood from their eyes. A couple members of staff locked up the healthy children in the football enclosure to keep them safe, and without thinking, I ran in after them. It wasn’t as safe as I’d hoped.” She started sobbing. “We were trapped in there for hours, Jack, while mutilated children and their torn-apart families tried to get in at us. There was so much blood up against the glass that, after a while, I couldn’t even see out anymore. I could just hear the moans and whining of the infected people. The dead people.”

“You think the infected are dead when they attack?” Jack had made a similar summation himself a long time ago – ever since meeting Doctor Fortuné. It was good to hear he wasn’t alone in this theory.

Tally nodded emphatically. “I saw a man with his intestines hanging out. He kept tripping on them as he walked around the deck. There was no way he was alive. The infection kills them and then they get up again. It is evil, Jack. Whatever it is, and whoever created it, is pure evil. Being with all those children, trapped and scared, while other children – dead children – tried to get at them, it… it broke me. I kept going back, hoping I could do something to stop it, but it happens the same way every time. There’s no way to stop it. We are in Hell.”

Jack looked at her and could see the pain etched across her face. Even if things worked out some way, neither of them would ever be the same. A part of their souls, their spirit, had been broken.

“We can put a stop to this, Tally. Someone is responsible and they need to pay. We’ll make them pay.”

Tally nodded at him. It seemed as if she was finally back on his side. “You still think it has something to do with what is down in the cargo?”

Jack said, “No. Donovan showed me everything. He’s as clueless about all this as we are. The cargo is full of money and pharmaceuticals – normal pharmaceuticals. The money is just a payoff to some dodgy Tunisian official. Plain old corruption.”

“How can you be so sure he is telling the truth, Jack? He shot you.”

Jack shrugged. “I’ve spent the last two weeks getting to know the guy. He seems on the level.”

“Maybe it’s just an act.”

Jack frowned. “What are you getting at? What happened after Donovan shot me? He said that you two talked about things, so you know he’s like us, right? That he keeps repeating the day.”

Tally nodded. “I know. He told me. He was expecting us that second night when he shot you. He planned to get rid of you so that he could be alone with me. Killing you was okay, he said, because it wouldn’t be real – just like what he was planning on doing to me. The bruises would be gone in the morning.”

Jack swallowed. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

Tally looked him in the eyes. “What do you think I am saying?”

Jack felt sick. He had shared drinks with Donovan, night after night, as friends, and the whole time he had been hiding the fact that he had…that he had… He couldn’t even say the word.

Jack closed his eyes and shook the thought away. It hurt too much to think that his mistake, getting shot by Donovan, had cost Tally so much. Him being killed was indeed temporary, but what Donovan had done to Tally would stay with her forever. There was no reset button for rape. No wonder she had hid herself away.

Jack held Tally in his arms and they kissed. Neither of them instigated it; it just happened. They kissed until midnight stopped them.

Day 216

Jack awoke in a rage, but managed to calm himself down as memories of kissing Tally soothed him. She was gone now, of course, disappeared with the reset, but somehow he could still feel the warmth of her body next to his.

The alarm clock read 14:07. Jack had wasted almost ten minutes in a fuzzy daze as he thought about Tally, but now that those thoughts were gone his mind returned to vengeance. Donovan was a savage dog that needed putting down. Jack had dealt with monsters like him before, during his career as a police officer, and he should have been able to spot the man’s true nature. Instead, he’d spent two weeks making merry with the guy. It made Jack’s stomach turn.

He got out of bed and decided to forego his usual shower. He got dressed immediately from the clothes in his luggage and also removed the unopened Glen Grant bottle. Then he stormed out of his room towards the elevators.

On his way to the upper decks, Jack could not keep still. He paced the small enclosure of the lift and cursed beneath his breath. He felt unsteady, his body coursing with adrenaline, but he also felt strong and powerful, ready for action.

The elevator doors opened and Jack leapt out. He had only meant to step forward, but his anger made his every move erratic and aggressive. The fury inside of him was like nothing he’d ever felt before. By making Jack trust him, Donovan had made him feel like he had somehow played a part in Tally’s torment. He was going to find the man and kill him. Then, when the day reset, he would kill him again. And then again and again for as long as this whole thing lasted. Donovan would spend the rest of his days suffering, as Tally would for what he did to her.

Jack knew Donovan would already be in one of the ship’s drinking establishments by now, for his day started at 6AM not 2PM like his. Carlo’s Casino was the cowboy’s favourite hangout. Jack was confident her would find him there. And find him he did.

Donovan was standing at the Blackjack table and seemed pleased to see Jack. He lifted his glass in the air and smiled. “Hey, pardner. How you doing?”

“You son of a bitch!” Jack sprinted across the room and made it over to Donovan before the man even had time to lower his drink. He was completely unprepared for the blow from the Glen Grant bottle, which cracked his skull right above his left eyebrow. The bottle did not break.

As Donovan fell backwards onto the floor, the small gathering of people inside the casino screamed and backed away to the corners of the room. Jack glared down at Donovan, who seemed shocked and confused, holding out his hands in front of him defensively. “What the…what the hell, pardner? Why would you…?”

“You’re going to regret the day you ever laid a finger on Tally, you piece of shit.”

Before Donovan had chance to reply, Jack bashed his skull in. The heavy whisky bottle finally broke and he was quickly arrested. He spent the remainder of the day in the brig. But it was worth it.

Tomorrow, he intended to do the same thing all over again.

Day 234

Jack had taken care of Donovan a dozen times now. Sometimes he would fail to find him, while other times he would find the cowboy trying to hide out in one of the bars or blending in with the crowd on the sun deck. Whenever Jack spotted Donovan he attacked with a righteous fury that only seemed to grow each time they met. Sometimes Jack would bludgeon the man to death like he had with the Glen Grant bottle. Sometimes he would use a knife. Once, he even threw the man overboard and let him drown. But no matter how many times he killed Donovan it never made Jack feel any better.

At first Donovan had fought back but, after failing to defend himself for the tenth time, even with his concealed handgun, the man had seemed to resign himself to being murdered. He focused more on hiding from Jack than trying to stop him. But Jack had become an unstoppable menace, unwilling to accept any outcome other than Donovan’s murder.

Yet he was beginning to tire of the violence. It left a ragged dent in his soul and clawed at the sickly wound that had been opened years before. Jack had allowed rage to overcome him once before, when Laura had died, and it left him feeling numb inside, broken and weary.

Maybe what he needed more than Donovan’s death were some answers. Perhaps he needed to understand the pervert’s motivations in order to gain closure. He wanted to hear the man beg for his life, repent for his sins, and admit what he’d done.

Jack checked all of the ship’s bars today, and all of the restaurants, but Donovan was nowhere to be found. It was early in the day so most of the passengers were outside in the sun, which made it easier to search the Kirkpatrick’s interior. But after almost two hours of looking, Jack had come up empty. Wherever Donovan was right now, he wasn’t in plain sight.

Where the hell is he hiding? Where would he feel safest?

The answer came to Jack and seemed obvious. There was only one place where Donovan had ever managed to get the better of Jack. One place where he knew the layout enough to have the upper hand...

The cowboy was in the cargo hold.

Jack was standing inside the Beluga, the ship’s àl a carte eatery. It was a lavishly decorated room, with chandeliers and wall-mounted swordfish. The tables were set with black and white linens and the silver cutlery sparkled. It was the last room Jack had searched for Donovan, but had been another dead end. Now he was certain he knew where the man was.

He headed for the door, but noticed Ivor and his family sitting at one of the tables. Ivor was staring into space, straight-backed and unmoving in his chair. Vicky was holding Heather in her arms and seemed close to tears. The little girl looked terribly ill, yet not as bad as she was going to get.

For reasons unknown to him, Jack was compelled to take a seat at their table. He wanted to give them reassurance, even if any that he did give would only be empty lies. Fate was going to be unkind to this family, but showing them a measure of kindness would not be a bad thing.

“Is she okay?” Jack asked Ivor, nodding towards his little girl.

Ivor broke away from his thoughts and looked down at his shallow-breathing, fitfully-sleeping daughter. “Yes, she’s fine. Just a bit under the weather. Who are you?”

Jack smiled at the man and offered his hand in a friendly manner. “My name is Jack Wardsley. I’m a police officer from Birmingham. I just saw your daughter and wondered if there was anything you needed?”

“I think we need to take her to the doctor,” Vicky said. She was so focused on Heather that she didn’t even bother to look at Jack.

“She’s fine,” Ivor said. He stared at Jack with a stern look on his face. “What exactly do you want, friend?”

Ivor seemed distrustful of Jack and annoyed by his presence. Jack thought back to the night Ivor and his family had been attacked, when Ivor had mentioned something about Vicky turning herself into the police. Maybe it had something to do with what was going on.

Jack returned Ivor’s stare and made sure not to blink. It was power struggle that military men like Ivor would often use to measure an opponent. “The police know what you’re planning,” Jack said flatly. “Running away to Germany isn’t the right idea.”

Ivor’s stern expression dissolved into one of fear. “What…how do you…?”

“I just did what I thought was best,” Vicky blurted out. “The man deserved it.”

Ivor glared at his wife. “Shut up, woman!”

Jack decided it was imperative to keep Vicky talking – she was the weak link here. If the conversation fell too heavily on Jack then it would become obvious he didn’t really know anything about them and that his claims were merely bluffs. “Tell me about it, Vicky,” he said reassuringly. “Help me understand.”

Vicky started sobbing weakly, but was controlled enough to answer. “God, you even know my name? The jig really is up, isn’t it?”

“I’m the only police officer onboard, Vicky. Tell me what happened and I’ll make a decision about what I’m going to do.”

“What do you mean?” Ivor asked. “If you’re with the police then the only thing you’re planning to do is arrest my wife. Well, you’ll have to get through me first, friend.”

Jack ignored Ivor’s posturing and kept his focus squarely on the man’s wife. “Just tell me the story, Vicky. I’m listening.”

“Okay,” she said, sighing in a way that suggested she was preparing for an emotional release. “I’m a nurse at the Alexandria Hospital in Redditch. You know it?”

Jack nodded. He knew of it vaguely. Redditch was a moderate-sized town outside of his usual policing area, but he knew the hospital there had a bad reputation and was regularly at threat of closure.

“Well,” Vicky continued. “Most of my shifts are on the ICU ward, where I look after people in critical condition. I’ve been on that ward for a couple years now, and I’m one of the most senior nurses on the floor.”

“Okay.” Jack nodded. “Go on.”

“A few weeks ago they brought in a guy called Nigel Moot.”

“Nigel Moot?” Jack knew exactly whom she was talking about. Nigel Moot was a prolific serial killer – the UK’s first high-profile murderer since Harold Shipman. The man had raped and killed over two-dozen woman in the UK, and many more throughout Europe via his job as a long-distance lorry driver. The last Jack had heard of him – which was a week or so before he’d boarded the Spirit of Kirkpatrick – Nigel Moot had died in hospital from a severe knife wound to the stomach. His assailant was unidentified, but it was assumed that it was an unknown, surviving victim of an attack.

Vicky told him what he already knew, but he let her go on. “Nigel Moot came into hospital with a burst appendix, unconscious and dying. Inside one of his pockets was a photograph of a mutilated woman. When the Police were called they searched his truck and found a secret compartment full of grisly trophies – women’s fingers and other horrible mementoes.”

“None of that information was released to the public,” Jack said. “How did you find all that out?”

“From the police officer of posted outside Nigel’s room. He knew he wasn’t supposed to tell me anything, but I promised to keep it to myself. I was the one who had found the photograph in his pocket. Anyway, once I learned what that man had done, I felt sick to my stomach. I was disgusted that my time was being used to keep a monster like him alive. All of the women he had killed, all the lives he had destroyed, and here he was lying comfortably in a hospital bed being pumped full of life saving drugs.”

“You killed him.” Jack stated, knowing he was right by the look on her face.

Vicky nodded and tears began to stream down her clammy cheeks.

“The beast deserved it,” Ivor grunted. “In all my days in the army, I never once had the chance to put a stop to someone as evil as Nigel Moot. My wife is a hero.”

“I gave him an overdose of morphine,” Vicky admitted. “I wasn’t thinking at the time. It was like I was on autopilot, and I couldn’t think about anything else except ending that wicked man’s life. It was stupid, I know. The morphine is tightly regulated and I was the only person on shift. It was obvious I did it, but I don’t regret it. That monster was going to pull through and to live out the rest of his days in some plush prison for celebrity inmates. Just look at that Charles Manson guy in America – he’s as happy as Larry. I couldn’t allow that.”

Jack nodded. He looked at Ivor and could see past the man’s blustery exterior to the emotions beyond. He adored his wife and would truly do anything to protect her and his daughter. This was a good family – a loving and supportive unit. Jack wished their futures held better fortune.

He sighed. “I understand what you did, Vicky, and why you did it. To be honest I would probably have done the same thing. Perhaps most people would, if only they were brave enough.”

Ivor grunted. “But regretfully you’re still going to have to arrest her, right? You coppers are all the same.”

“No,” Jack said, deciding he would tell them a kind lie. “When the boat docks, I’ll allow you to leave. I’ll say that you evaded me. Although, can I give you some advice?”

Ivor and Vicky both nodded.

“Give yourselves in. The public will understand why you did what you did and the papers will make you a hero. I’d be surprised if you spent more than a couple years in prison, and when you get out the magazine deals alone will set you up for life. It’ll be better than spending your life on the run. You’ll have nothing to worry about, I promise. People will understand.”

“Perhaps he’s right,” Vicky said.

Ivor shook his head. “We’ve been over this again and again. We’ll be fine in Germany.”

“Well, it’s up to you,” Jack told them. “I won’t stand in your way.”

“Why are you helping us?” Vicky asked him.

“Because I’m guilty, too. I’ve also killed people who deserved it.”

Ivor’s eyes went wide. “Really? I didn’t know that the British police force were in the habit of using lethal force.”

“They’re not,” Jack explained. “I wasn’t on duty. My partner had just been killed, and I decided to do something about it. I tracked down those responsible and killed them. The first murder was difficult, but it got easier. I even started to enjoy it by the end. I wished I could have taken out more of them, to be honest.”

Ivor shook his head desperately. “Good God, man. Why are you telling us all this.”

“Because it’s the truth. And I’ll tell you something else as well; I’ve never been the same since. So believe me, Vicky, when I tell you I understand what you did and what you are going through. It doesn’t get any easier, I’m afraid. At least you have your family around you. You’ll manage to pull through somehow.” Jack wished it were true. He would truly have liked to see Ivor and his family sail off into the sunset together. But it would never happen.

“Thank you,” Vicky said. “That means a lot from a stranger – a policeman, no less.”

“Yes,” Ivor said. “You’re a kind man – in the grand scheme of things, at least. And the things you did… I think most people would understand them, too.”

Jack got up from the table. “You all take care now. I wish you luck.”

He wore a smile on his face the entire time as he headed out of the room, on his way to commit another murder.

***

Jack took the elevator down to the cargo hold and resumed his mission to locate Donovan. Funnily enough, out of all the places he’d encountered the cowboy during the last two weeks, the cargo bay wasn’t one of them. In fact, it was about the only place that Jack never found the American. Yet, as he arrived there now, Donovan was standing in plain sight, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Given up even hiding now?” Jack asked. “You really are pathetic.”

“Just calm down there a second, pardner. You been coming at me like a wild bull with its tail on fire for two weeks now, and you haven’t once stopped to tell me why.”

Jack stalked him, speaking slowly. “You know why.”

“I truly don’t, pardner. Truth is you got me terrified. One night we’re drinking together, nice as pie, the next you start coming at me like a mad man. Killing me over and over, for heck’s sake, strange as that sounds.”

“I wish that were true,” Jack snarled, “but we both know that killing someone on this goddamn ship is impossible.”

“You believe that, Jackie? Do you really think that what you’re doing isn’t plain ol’ killing?” He lifted up his shirt to show a deep purple bruise where Jack had previously stuck a knife in. “You think that when you stab me, shoot me or drown me, I’m okay? You told me a story once about how you let rage overcome you. It didn’t turn out so well for you, did it?”

Jack thought about how killing the drug dealers had changed him, how it had sickened his soul. But what he had been doing to Donovan was not the same. The man was a rapist – the lowest form of human being.

“You’re wandering down a dark and shadowy path, Jackie. You give in to that rage again, after what it did to you the last time, and there might be no coming back from it. We could be stuck on this ship for all eternity. Do you really want to lose yourself to violence? Is that how you want to spend your existence?”

Jack felt his heart pounding in his chest, his fists clenching of their own accord. “What do you suggest I do, then? You’re a sick monster. Should I just forget about it?”

Donovan shook his head and exhaled wearily. “I’m not the one who’s sick here, Jackie. You obviously have something inside of your head that’s making you do these crazy things, and I for one would like to know what it is.”

“You know exactly what you did, Donovan. Don’t deny it.”

Jack was through with talking. He lunged for Donovan, but this time the other man was ready for him. This time the cowboy whipped his pistol from its holster and smashed the grip against the bridge of Jack’s nose, breaking it. Jack went blind, his vision exploding in bright colours and white flashes. The pain overwhelmed his entire skull. Blood flowed down the back of his throat and choked him. Donovan attacked again, this time smashing his fist squarely into the centre of Jack’s chest and crushing the wind from his lungs. He fell to the floor, blind and breathless.

“Now,” Donovan said calmly. “I hope I just made it clear that I can take you on any day of the week if I choose to. You’re a capable man, Jack, no doubt – but I’m better, understand?”

Jack said nothing, until Donovan prodded him with his toecap and caused the pain in his ribs to reignite. “Okay, okay, I understand.”

“Good, because the reason I haven’t fought back until now is, firstly, because I was pretty darned surprised when you came at me, but secondly, because I like you, Jackie. You’re a buddy, stuck in the same shit puddle as me. The kinder part of me is certain that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for your loopy behaviour, but the more cynical side of me is getting pretty worn out with having to fight you. So can we please have a discussion about what we have going on here between us?”

“You know wha-”

Donovan booted Jack in stomach. “No, Jack! I do not know shit about shit, so enough with that, okay? You sound like a self-righteous asshole every time you shout that at me. I don’t know why you’re so angry, or what I’ve done to you, but so help me God you have about six seconds to tell me.”

Jack gasped and managed to catch his breath. “T-Tally.”

“What are you talking about?” Donovan asked. “What about Tally?”

“You…you fucking raped her, you sick fuck.”

Donovan hopped forward and swung his leg like he was taking a penalty kick. The blow caught Jack under the chin and sent him halfway to oblivion. He barely managed to remain conscious, felt like he was falling asleep.

“How dare you accuse me of such thangs,” Donovan shouted. His accent had become thicker than ever. “I ain’t hurt a woman my whole entire life. You say those things ‘bout me again, Jackie, and my violent temper is gunna get the better of me, d’you hear?”

Jack rolled himself onto his side and spat a mouthful of blood onto the metal grating. “You…you…you deny it?”

“Deny it? I’m goddamn telling you that the very notion is offensive to me. I don’t know what that broad has been filling your head with, but she left this place as happy as a lamb the night you got, you know, plugged. I’m still sorry about that, by the way, but I guess we’re pretty much even now with the way you been behaving.”

Jack managed to stumble up onto his hands and knees, flinched when Donovan reached out to him. But it was only an offer of assistance. Jack took the hand and climbed to his feet unsteadily.

Donovan nodded to him. “You going to behave now, Jackie?”

Jack didn’t see any option but to agree. He was beat. “I’ll listen to what you have to say, but you best be telling the truth or so help me…”

Donovan pulled out a couple of chairs from the storage space behind the pallets and helped Jack down onto one. “There’s only one liar aboard this ship, pardner, and it ain’t you or me.”

“You really did a number on me,” Jack admitted, wincing in his chair.

Donovan chuckled. “Well, you can’t say you never had it coming. I wouldn’t worry, though. I figure you’ll be perfectly fine this time tomorrow – ‘cept a little bruising here and there.”

Jack huffed and found that it hurt his ribs immensely. “Tell me why Tally would say that you attacked her if you didn’t?”

Donovan shrugged. “Beats me? But think about it, you’re a police officer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that for every two women who’ve been genuinely attacked, there’s a third making false allegations. Usually just to destroy a man’s life out of some sort of spite.”

Jack thought about it. It was true that in his years on the police force he had seen woman cry rape before when it wasn’t true. What was so maddening about those claims was how much harder it made things for genuinely abused woman to seek justice. Nonetheless, it was true that some people were capable of such lies, but was Tally? Jack didn’t see any sense in it.

“Why would Tally want to accuse you?” he said. “What would she have to gain?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, pardner. Maybe it would be best if we went and asked her.”

“I don’t know about that. She went into hiding after…after what you allegedly did. I don’t want to scare her away again.”

“Look, Jack. I don’t know what the hell her deal is, but she’s up to something. I don’t know what she has to gain by making us enemies, but it obviously factors into some agenda she has. Maybe she’s behind this whole time-crap magic that’s been going on. Maybe I was getting close to something she didn’t want me to know about.”

Jack laughed. “What, by getting drunk and gambling? You haven’t discovered anything.”

Donovan nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, but either way, the only person who knows for sure is her.”

Jack thought about it and decided he agreed, with certain conditions. “Okay, I’ll go find her and talk to her. But you stay here until we speak again.”

Donovan sighed. “She convinced you of lies last time, so what makes you so sure you won’t buy the same line of bullshit again?”

“Because I’m a good police officer. And if I have reason to suspect someone is lying then I’ll know whether or not they are. I had no reason to doubt her before, but this time I’ll search a little deeper.”

“Okay, Jackie. I trust you.”

“If I find out that she’s telling the truth…”

Donovan raised his gun at Jack. “Then you and me will have a problem, which is why I’m hoping you’re as good as you say you are at detecting bullshit.”

Jack turned around and said nothing.

***

Jack hadn’t seen Tally since the day she’d told him she’d been raped – the night they had lain together like lovers. Jack was mad at himself for not checking in with her sooner – letting his vendetta against Donovan consume him.

Jack couldn’t believe he was in a situation that now involved a rape accusation in addition to a deadly manmade virus and a supernatural time spell. Coming aboard the Kirkpatrick to relax was the single most stressful thing to ever occur in his life. Irony didn’t even begin to describe it.

There were likely two places Tally would likely be: the Sports Deck, if she were still trying to help the children, or her cabin. It was still pretty early in the day, so Jack was guessing the latter. He had a quick think about where she’d led him on the night he’d visited her room. He remembered it was aft on A Deck. He headed for the elevator and pressed the CALL button. A couple of minutes later, he was on A Deck heading towards Tally’s cabin. A maid passed him along the way, smiling and nodding, but other than that, the entire deck was deserted. He located the cabin he felt sure was Tally’s and knocked on the door. After ten seconds of waiting, he knocked again.

Then somebody knocked on the back of Jack’s head and the lights went out.

Day 235

At 1400 Jack did not wake up. Not until 1425 did he finally stir. His head whirled with a faraway throbbing. Whatever had struck him in the back of the head had been enough to knock him out cold for the rest of the day, or had perhaps even killed him. Midnight would have eventually come and started things over again. For the first time ever, Jack had overslept.

Putting his feet onto the carpeted floor of his cabin, he eased himself up until he was standing. The room tilted and for a moment he thought it was his vision, but then he realised it was the ship that was rocking. He was usually out in the corridor by now, heading for the Promenade Deck and the two racing little boys.

He went into the bathroom and stared at the mirror. The flesh beneath his eyes was dark and his pupils were wide. He looked tired, and felt it too.

He had fallen for Donovan’s bullshit.

After leaving the cargo bay for Tally’s cabin, Donovan must have followed him and attacked him. It was a risky move because the man knew that Jack wouldn’t stay dead, but obviously he had decided it was time for him to fight back. In a way Jack didn’t blame the man, but it now made things very clear – Donovan was one of the bad guys.

Jack felt that familiar anger rise up in his guts, but took a deep breath and suppressed it. He turned on the taps and splashed some cold water on his face. Forgetting everything else, Donovan had been correct about one thing: Jack was being consumed by his rage. It had destroyed his life once before and now he was allowing it to control him again. Running around the ship like a madman and committing murder would never have been acceptable to the man Jack used to be – the man who was in love with Laura. Once upon a time he had believed in justice and doing things by the book. Now he had become something else.

Something still needed to be done about Donovan, but there had already been too much violence. Jack would have to find another way. A way that meant not losing a part of his soul.

He got dressed and sat down on the end of the bed, staring at the blank television screen and thinking about the virus onboard. It was still unclear whether or not it was the reason for everything that was happening. Was there really a way to stop it? To save everyone from their grisly fate? Jack had tried before, but it had been no good. What was he missing? Why was he stuck here? Who was responsible? There were so many questions that his throbbing skull began to ache even worse.

As he turned his thoughts to how he was going to spend his day, Jack decided that all he wanted to do was find Tally. He’d been jumped right outside her room and it was a possibility that Donovan had hurt her again. Jack needed to make sure she was okay.

But when he went and tried her cabin again, there was no answer. The next place he searched was the Sports Deck, but that, too, was free of Tally’s presence. He would try again later, but decided, for now, to visit the pool area and sun deck. Perhaps Tally would be working there again, trying to find some comfort in her old role.

He ordered a drink from the bar in High Spirits and took it out with him to the lounger beside Claire. They exchanged small talk as usual but Jack paid no mind to her today. He was more concerned with keeping a look out for Tally. Every second she didn’t appear made him worry worse.

“You’re in a nosey mood,” Claire said to him.

Jack looked at her, hearing her words but not really absorbing them. “Huh?”

“You keep looking around the ship and staring at people.”

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose I do. I’m a…health inspector. I travel on cruise liners to look out for signs of infectious illnesses.”

Claire went pale. “What?”

Jack put a hand up. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re talking Avian Flu at worse, and that wouldn’t threaten a healthy young girl like you. Have you seen anyone with cold or flu-like symptoms?”

Claire nodded her head enthusiastically. “My boyfriend.”

Jack kept his voice calm, not wanting to panic the poor girl, but saw that he had an opportunity to ask her some important questions. “I’m sure there’s no reason to worry, but do you know where your boyfriend might have caught it from? Has he been mixing with anyone else under the weather?”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t think so, but then I flew out a day earlier than he did. Him and his mates got drunk and missed the original flight. They had to board in Majorca instead of Barcelona like I did.”

That was interesting, thought Jack, because Claire was healthy and Conner was not. They had boarded in separate locations. Conner had boarded the same day Jack had, but Jack himself was perfectly fine. He felt like he was close to something, but not quite there. “What about your boyfriend’s mates? Are they ill?”

“I think so.” Claire looked worried. “They had the sniffles this morning at breakfast. I don’t know how bad they are, though.”

“Like I said, no need to worry, miss. I’m sure it’s just a cold virus spreading.”

“What if it is something worse? Would I be at risk?”

Jack looked at Claire and wondered why she was so concerned about a cold. “No. There’s no reason you would be at risk. Flu viruses are only a danger to the elderly, the very young, or-”

“Pregnant women,” Claire answered for him.

It all made sense. That was the reason Claire put up with the way Conner treated her. He was the father of her baby.

Jack sighed and shook his head. He’d seen so many young lives wasted by unplanned pregnancies. A baby was a wonderful thing, but uneducated, jobless teenagers were just adding to the cycle of benefit-supported, ambitionless families that were nothing but a drain on society. Not all were like that, of course.

“How far along are you?” he asked.

“A few weeks, I think. I haven’t told Conner yet. I was planning on doing it this week, maybe tomorrow at the Captain’s reception. We’re getting dressed up.”

Jack smiled, hoping that one day tomorrow would actually arrive and Claire would get to put on her dress. “Well, I hope that he takes the news well and that you’re very happy together. In the meantime, please don’t worry. There is a very good doctor onboard and I have no reason to believe there is anything to worry about.” He wished it were the truth.

Right then, Conner’s cue to arrive came and the young couple had their predictable conversation about hotdogs. Jack chose not get involved today, but was disappointed not to have learned more about how Conner caught his flu. The answer was lurking there somewhere, right beneath the surface, like a blackhead, but there hadn’t been enough time to squeeze it free.

And Tally still had not appeared.

Jack decided that the only other person with any possible answers was Donovan. It was time to pay another visit to the cargo hold.

***

The cargo bay was deserted and Donovan was nowhere to be seen. The pallets and crates lay undisturbed. Jack called out, but there was no answer. He moved around the space cautiously, aware that Donovan was dangerous and also in possession of a firearm.

“I’m done with this shit, Donovan. Whatever you’re deal is; I’m ready to put a pin in it for now. When everything goes back to normal then you and I will have a different conversation. Right now, all I want is answers. I need to find Tally.”

There was still nothing but silence. Jack headed further into the cargo area, looking left and right between boxes of pharmaceuticals and the blue crates of cash. Towards the back of the area were some thick metal cases that he’d not noticed before, each the size of a footlocker. Behind them something else lay on the floor, sticking out into view by only a few inches. Jack took slow steps towards the mystery object, ready to throw a punch at the first sign of a threat.

As he got closer, it became clear what he was looking at. On the floor, sticking out from behind the crates was…

A foot.

Jack found Donovan lying on the floor, covered in blood so thick it had congealed against the metal grating beneath him. The blood was old, his body stiff. The cowboy had been dead for a while. Jack knew enough about rigor mortis to deduce that Donovan had been murdered shortly after speaking with him yesterday. He had not reset at midnight. He wasn’t coming back. It also meant that Donovan was not the one who had attacked me from behind.

Now, more than ever, he really wanted to speak with Tally.

Day 236

Jack got out of bed and made a mental checklist of the things he needed to do. Finding Tally was number one. Finding out who the pathwalker was came a close second. Stopping the virus was number three and underlined twice.

There was a knock at the door.

Jack frowned. No one ever knocked on his door.

As the only one left who could exercise freewill, it had to be Tally.

Jack quickly opened the door.

Two large Filipino gentlemen stood there, wearing the bright red waist jackets of Security. Jack didn’t understand what had brought them there. What had changed?

“Yes,” Jack said. “Can I help you?”

“Could you come with us, please, sir?” It wasn’t a question; it was an order.

Jack closed the door slightly, bracing his foot behind it to keep it still. “I’m sorry? What is this about?”

The man on the left, identical to his colleague in every way except for a wispy black beard, answered the question. “We’ve received reports that you assaulted a member of staff during the early hours of this morning. We need you to come and answer some questions for us, please.”

Jack balked. “That’s impossible. Whom am I supposed to have hurt?”

“Please, sir, if you could just cooperate.”

“Cooperate, my arse. I haven’t done anything.”

The two men tried to barge through into Jack’s cabin, but he held the door firm with his foot. The man on the right reached out to grab him but received a punch in the face for his efforts. Jack had been hoping to move past the violence of the past couple of weeks but it didn’t look like he was going to get the choice. He threw an overhand right at the remaining security guard and sent him to the floor to join his partner.

Then he ran – where the hell to, he did not know. He was in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea and there was nowhere he could go that would be free of security’s reach. There was a chance he could take them all down, but that was only if the team of guards was small. For all Jack knew there could be a hundred members of security.

He took the elevator up to the Broadway Deck and hurried through the jewellery store and onto the balcony of the theatre in the room beyond. There was a couple drinking at the bar, but nobody else around. Jack considered sitting down in the corner and lying low, but it was too out in the open to remain undetected. He was at a total loss and close to panic. As a police officer, he was far happier being the pursuer than the pursued.

Who the hell had accused him of assault?

The answer dawned on Jack quickly. There was only one person who could have accused him, someone with a habit for making false allegations.

What the hell was Tally playing at?

Jack heard concerned voices coming from outside of the lounge’s main doors and decided it was time to get moving again. He headed out of the rear exit and entered the Lido Deck, knowing it would lead out past the 24-hour restaurant and out to the pool area. Once he got there, he would run out of ship and there’d be no place left to run.

As it turned out, Jack wasn’t even able to get that far. Spread out throughout the pool area was half-a-dozen security guards. They spotted Jack the moment he stepped out into the sunlight, and then came at him in unison. Jack held his hands up and decided there was no point in fighting them. At least by allowing himself to face charges, he would get the full lowdown on what exactly he’d been accused of. Hopefully he would also learn who had accused him.

Although he already had a pretty good idea.

***

Security took Jack down to the brig. He’d been there before; only this time they placed him in a small interview room instead of a cell. Walking in to meet him was Captain Marangakis. The man did not look happy.

“Captain,” Jack acknowledged with a small nod.

Marangakis did not take a seat at the table, but stood behind one of the chairs opposite. The man liked to remain in positions of authority, always looking down. “Are you Mr Jack Wardsley?”

“I am.”

“I’ve been informed that you’ve been accused of some pretty despicable behaviour aboard my ship.”

Jack leant forward across the desk. “I haven’t hurt anyone. Whoever has told you otherwise is a liar.”

Marangakis took a seat, yanking back a chair and dropping himself down with such force that it must have hurt. “The accusation has been made by a member of my crew. I see no reason why she would lie.”

“It’s a she, then?”

“I’m sure you know very well. You’ll be placed in the brig and handed over to the French authorities as soon as we make port.”

Jack laughed. “And when the fuck will that be? I’d love to know.”

The captain seemed confused, which was hardly surprising. “We’ll be there in a little over twelve hours. I’d be in no hurry if I were you.”

“We’ll see,” Jack said. “Do you want to show me to my room?”

The captain nodded to a guard standing by the door and the burly man went to take Jack by the arm.

“There’s no need to get grabby,” he said. “I’ll play nicely.”

He accompanied the guard to the cell next door and allowed himself to be locked inside. It was probably the safest place to be, anyway. Once the infected became violent they would wreak havoc on every area of the ship, but they wouldn’t be able to get inside the brig. After what had happened to Donovan, Jack was starting to worry that the spell was wearing off and that if the infected were to rip him apart, he might not get put back together again. Despite how much his life sucked, he didn’t want to die when he was so close to answers.

The guard left Jack to sit and contemplate his fate. His previous life of walking the streets as a policeman by day and drinking himself into a stupor by night, now seemed like a distant memory; a fuzzy recollection of a vivid dream. It would once have seemed impossible to think it, but Jack was actually starting to miss the life he had all but lost. Given the chance, he would make more of it then he had. Perhaps that was something positive to come out of this hell.

Jack lay down on the room’s uncomfortable cot and closed his eyes.

He awoke a few hours later to the sound of screams and chaos, the noise of passengers being torn apart. The eyebleeders were doing their thing, as punctual as ever. Jack closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Day 236

Security took Jack away again, citing the same allegation.

Day 245

For over a week, the ship’s guards had come to arrest Jack, and every day he had gone with them peacefully. His intention was to see how long Tally – if she were in fact responsible – would keep it up. It appeared, however, that she was content to have him detained indefinitely. For some reason she wanted his movements aboard the ship restricted.

But why?

Day 246

Jack got out of bed quickly and hurried to get dressed. He selected some jeans and a white t-shirt from deep within his luggage, along with a baseball cap. He hoped the change of clothing would allow him to move undetected by whoever it was making accusations about him.

He slipped on his trainers and rushed out of his cabin. It had only been a matter of minutes since he’d awoken but it was quick enough to get out of there before the security goons came for him. How long he could evade them, he did not know, but hopefully it would give him some time to find Tally and ask her some pretty serious questions.

He took the elevator down to the cargo bay, intending to make sure that Donovan was truly dead, but also planning to give the area a more thorough search to see if he could find anything helpful.

The cloying smell crept over him immediately, fingering at his nostrils. The odour was death. Jack had come across it many times before, mostly at the homes of lonely pensioners left to perish in their ice-cold flats. It was the smell of a corpse settling into the fabric of its surroundings.

Donovan still lay dead at the back of the cargo area and had now started to decompose. His flesh was waxy and mottled and his lips had started to fall away from his gums, leaving behind a sneer. The stink coming off of him was putrescence mixed with faeces and it made Jack’s eyes water. He stepped over the body and examined the metal walkway beyond. There was nothing noteworthy he could see, but from the way Donovan’s body was angled it seemed that he had been doing something with one of the metal footlockers. When Jack tried to open the nearest one he found that it was locked, so he searched Donovan’s pockets, cringing at the feeling of the gelatinous flesh beneath the clothing, and eventually found a set of keys in the man’s breast pocket.

Jack tried the keys one after another until he found one that fitted the nearest footlocker. The lid was heavy and he had to use both hands to lift it up. Once it was open, Jack couldn’t believe his eyes.

The crate was full of grenades, packed into a bed of foam. They looked like standard NATO-issue HE grenades, and when Jack checked the other footlockers, he found that they too were full of explosives and, in several cases, assault rifles and side arms.

Whether or not Donovan was a bad person, or just a man doing his job, nothing good ever came from giving people guns. If these weapons were to reach Tunisia, they would most certainly result in people’s deaths.

But did the guns have anything to do with the virus?

Jack’s head began to ache again. It was time for a drink. Time to think things through.

***

Jack chose to visit the Voyager’s Lounge. It was obvious that security was searching everywhere for him, and out of all of the places onboard, this was one of the quietest. So far Jack’s low-key disguise had managed to keep him undetected. He’d even managed to walk right past a guard on the Promenade Deck. It was likely that his accuser had described the clothing Jack he usually wore – red t-shirt and khaki shorts – and not the clothes he was actually now wearing.

Jack had been in the Voyager’s Lounge for a couple of hours and had downed enough whisky to make his body feel warm and content. He had made good use of the peace and calm to think about what his next move was, and somehow the whisky helped. It was now pretty clear that the only person who truly had the answers he needed was the elusive pathwalker. Jack still had no idea who it was – or even what it was – but he was going to make it his main priority from now on to find out. It was something easier said than done, though, especially with security on his back each day. There was even a chance that Tally had made up the whole story about pathwalkers just to mess with him.

Joma turned up for his shift, signifying that evening had arrived. Jack went up to order another drink an, thankfully, it didn’t seem that the friendly bartender knew that Jack was wanted for arrest.

“What can Joma get you, sir?” he asked happily.

“I think I fancy a pint, please.”

Joma nodded. This time he didn’t offer to pour the drink on the house. Obviously, he didn’t recognise Jack with the baseball cap on. He stepped in front of the lager tap and began to pour the frothy draught into a spotless pint glass. It was then that Jack noticed something a little weird.

“What happened to your hand, Joma?”

Joma looked down at the wound on his hand and tried to dismiss it as nothing. “Joma burn himself in kitchen.”

Jack looked closer. “Looks bad. Is that…is that wax?”

“No, is just cream for burn, Mr Jack.”

The wound on Joma’s hand was red-raw mixed with a spotty patch of gleaming white substance. It looked exactly like a burn caused by molten wax. Jack stared at Joma and noticed something else. The man had aged at least ten years since the day they’d first met. Joma was no longer around forty – he looked over fifty. And when he had called him ‘Mr Jack’ he made it clear he remembered Jack – so why no offer of a free pint this time?

Jack’s eyes went wide. “You’re the pathwalker.”

Joma seemed struck by an invisible blow. It seemed like an appropriate reaction for someone who had just had their cover blown.

He nodded at Jack and seemed defeated. “I think we should go somewhere and talk.”

“No shit,” Jack said.

***

In a backroom behind the Voyager Lounge bar, Jack took a seat in stunned silence on a small leather sofa. Joma tipped away the pint he’d poured Jack and went and got him something stronger.

He handed over the new, smaller glass and took a seat on the couch beside Jack. “You’re a whisky man, right?”

“You should know by now. You’ve served me enough times.”

Joma shrugged. “You haven’t been by for a while.”

“What’s going on?” Jack asked, cutting straight to the point.

“I think you know,” was Joma’s reply, no longer speaking in the third-person.

“I haven’t got a clue about anything. All I know is that some kind of flu gets loose onboard every night and kills everyone. Every single night, over and over and over again. Oh, yeah, and not to forget that there’s a small arsenal of weapons in the cargo bay, and someone keeps accusing me of rape – most likely someone who I thought was my friend.”

Joma smiled and actually seemed to find Jack’s frustrations amusing. He raised one palm as if wanting to summon calm upon them both. “I apologise for the turmoil I have brought down on you, Jack, but I assure you that it was very necessary. It was only meant to be you who was conscious of the true reality, but there is a gypsy onboard that I did not know about.”

“You mean Tally?”

Joma nodded. “Usually I would be able to sense her kind, but she is not an avid follower of her own ancestry – it made her spiritual aura…diluted. If she was a regular practitioner of the magiks then I would have sensed her immediately.”

Jack frowned. “Is Tally some sort of witch?”

Joma shook his head and laughed. “No, no. She is just from a people blessed with a natural resistance to magic. Her ancestors were probably close to what you call witches, but their methods are all but lost now. I have come across very few Romany that truly remember their old ways.”

Jack rubbed at his forehead and sighed. Things were getting into mumbo jumbo territory again and he didn’t want his natural cynicism to kick in and cloud his ability to listen carefully. “What about Donovan?” he asked.

“You mean the American man running around the ship like a drunken cowboy?”

“Yeah, until somebody murdered him.”

Joma’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows lowered.

“You didn’t know? I found him dead yesterday in the cargo hold.”

Joma nodded as if something had clicked into place. “The lower deck of the ship was outside the range of my spell. The hull of the ship is stuck in time, but the cargo area within is a vacuum where time exists as normal. There was not supposed to be anyone down there, but it would appear this…Donovan…was an unfortunate stowaway.”

“He was transporting weapons and cash to Tunisia to bribe the Government on behalf of Black Remedy.”

Joma shrugged. “Such things do not surprise nor concern me. They are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. What is more worrying is that somebody killed this man in the hold. The only possible suspect is-”

“Tally. I’ve already started to come to terms with that.”

“It could be no one else. If there were another onboard outside of the spell, I would know of it. Other than you, she is the only one.”

Jack sipped his whisky and looked down at the carpet. He still couldn’t fathom why Tally would murder Donovan. He couldn’t imagine the petite, beautiful girl committing such a brutal crime, and understood no reason why.

“Why is she doing this, Joma? Killing Donovan and trying to set me up so I have to go into hiding? I don’t see what she has to gain.”

“I see many things, Jack, but unfortunately I cannot see a person’s motivations for what they do. Perhaps she seeks to stop you from succeeding in your task.”

“Task? What task? If I am here for a reason, I would really like to know it. Why you didn’t just come find me on day one and tell me.”

“That would have been against the rules. A person cursed with the ability to see across the pathways is forbidden from taking direct action to change future events. I must let them play out, but you are not bound by those same rules. You can change things, Jack.”

“You’re saying you can’t get involved, but you can stop time?”

“Not stopping time-“

“Yeah, yeah, resetting it. I know.”

“By resetting the day, I am not directly altering events. I am just allowing the possibility for them to play out differently. You are the X factor that will decide where the future will lead.”

Jack stood up and stretched his legs. The backroom was tiny and featured only the sofa and a side table, so he walked up to the wall and rested his forehead against it. “Why me?”

“Because you’re alone.”

Jack turned back around. “What?”

“If you had a family onboard, you would not be willing to do the things you have done to find answers. You would have been focused only on their safety. Slowly, over time, you would have become broken by their inability to break free of the spell.”

“So the only reason I’m in this hell is because my life was already a tragic mess?”

“In a way, yes, but I also sensed that you were a protector – someone who values human life.”

Jack sniggered. “Shows what you know. I killed a bunch of people before I cam aboard this shop.”

Joma nodded. “I know this, Jack. When a man takes a life it colours his soul. I saw death on you the moment you boarded. Did they deserve it?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then that proves you are a man willing to do what is necessary and what is right. My assessment of you was correct from the very beginning.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Joma stood up and walked over to Jack, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Save the world, my friend. That is what you are supposed to do. How, exactly, I do not know, but once you find a way, all will become clear.”

Jack was about to ask what the hell that meant, when a body came crashing into the room. It was another waiter. The terrified man was bloody and wounded, a wide gash running down the side of his neck. He tried to speak but could only manage to gargle on his own fluids before falling to the floor, dead.

“Shit.” Jack looked at his watch and saw that it was twenty-four minutes past eight. The infected had turned.

Joma looked down at his dead colleague and shook his head. “We need to get somewhere safe. I didn’t realise we’ve been talking for so long. I should have locked the door.”

Jack looked at the splintered frame of the flimsy door. “I’m not sure it would have made much of a difference. We’re going to have to go out through the bar area.” He peered out through the gap in the doorway and saw what he didn’t want to. “Damn. There are a couple of eyebleeders out there.”

“I can’t go out there,” Joma said anxiously.

“You’re going to have to. If we stay in here, they’ll eventually get in. Plus this dead waiter on the floor will be back on his feet soon. I’ve seen it happen before.”

“You need to get them out of the lounge, Jack, and barricade the doors.”

“It will be easier if we just run.”

“I can’t take the risk, Jack. I can’t.”

Jack pushed the broken door as closed as he could get it, then looked across the small room at Joma. “Why not? Why can’t you leave?”

“Because if I die the spell is broken.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Then you want to be careful I don’t bloody kill you. There’s nothing I want more than for this goddamn day to end.”

“If I die, then this is exactly how the day will end. Everyone onboard will become infected. And then it will get a whole lot worse. I’ve seen it, Jack. That’s what this whole thing is about. If I die tonight, the spell will be broken and there will be no hope left at all.”

There was no time for Jack to ask questions. One of the infected in the lounge had already spotted him peering out from the doorway and was coming over. It was an overweight man with a torn belly hanging out of his shirt like raw hamburger meat. He sprinted for Jack as soon as he clumsily managed to round the bar.

Jack braced his back against the broken door and fought to keep it closed. He looked at Joma for answers. “What the hell should I do?”

“Maybe, they will go away if we just keep them out of this room.”

“Are you serious?”

The infected man behind the door began to shriek like an animal and Jack’s body jolted as the weight against the door increased. The other infected passenger in the room had obviously joined the fat man’s efforts. Jack wouldn’t be able to hold the door for much longer. Joma ran up to help him brace it, but it was awkward for them both to find space and leverage.

“This isn’t going to work,” he said. “They’ll be in here as soon as we start to tire.”

“Maybe they will get tired first,” Joma suggested.

“Wake up. They’re not like us. I think they can just keep going until something tears them apart.”

The conversation became irrelevant when the dead waiter in the middle of the floor began to twitch. His fingers clawed at the carpet and a low moan started to escape his lips. Jack felt his skin tighten up in terror as he realised they were about to be surrounded by infected on both sides of the door.

“Your colleague is going to be on his feet any minute, Joma. We need to deal with him right now.”

“You do it,” Joma said in a voice so thick that it sounded as though he was on the verge of puking. “I’ll hold the door.”

“You sure you can hold it?”

Joma nodded.

Jack moved away from the door, fully expecting the two infected people to come crashing through it the moment he did so. Fortunately, Joma was able to hold it, allowing Jack to move over to the dead waiter, who was beginning to clutch and kick at the floor in an awkward attempt to get to his feet. Blood dripped from the man’s eyes and merged with the dye of the carpet fibres. Jack did the only thing he could think of; he raised his foot and brought it down as hard as he could on the waiter’s head. The blow was met with a wet thud, but it wasn’t enough to do the job, so Jack stamped again, harder, crushing the infected man’s skull against the floor.

Then he stamped again.

And again.

Eventually the waiter’s skull was a pulped mess against the carpet and left Jack feeling sick. Stamping on a person’s head was something he never thought he would be doing.

He turned around to face Joma and realised that the man was about to lose his struggle to keep the door closed. He stumbled away as the door flew open and the two infected passengers piled in.

Jack shoved Joma aside and met the two dead men head on, planting an open-palmed strike against the overweight one. The blow was only enough to send the man staggering backwards and colliding into his mate. Jack already knew that hand-to-hand didn’t work against the infected, but it could at least get them out the way.

“Joma, stand behind me. When I move, you follow. Understood?”

Joma scuttled behind Jack and stood an inch off his heels. “Understood, Jack.”

“Okay. When these two clowns get close enough, I’m going to try and shove them aside. Then we run for it.”

Jack made himself rigid, ready to strike like a cobra. The two infected recovered from their disorientation and came at him again. Jack sidestepped them both and shoved out with his arms. Their momentum took them over Jack’s outstretched leg and they clattered to the ground in a heap.

“Run!”

They bolted back into the lounge, which was now empty. The reception area beyond was not. There were almost a dozen infected passengers out in the hallways. They had not yet noticed Jack or Joma standing nearby.

That all changed when the overweight passenger came stumbling out of the lounge’s office and let out an animalistic shriek. The noise alerted the others outside and all at once they turned to look into the lounge area.

“Damn it!” Jack rushed over to the double doors and shoved them closed. A dozen bodies threw themselves against the wood and rabid fingernails tried to claw a way through. Jack turned the lock and put his back to the door, but arm came smashing through one of the door panels and grabbed a hold of his collar. It was sudden and unexpected/ Jack had been unprepared to resist. His found face being dragged into the shattered opening of the door, and could smell the sweet, putrid tang of open wounds and bleeding flesh. From behind him, Joma cried out as the overweight man and his companion stalked him around the lounge. Jack needed to get free, or everything he was fighting for would be for nothing.

He grabbed at the errant hand on his collar and yanked it away with a twisting snap! The fingers became tangled in his shirt and kept a hold on him, so he braced his feet against the door and kicked out hard. His t-shirt tore and he went flying backwards, landing on his hip. The double doors seemed to hold out on their own, despite the frenzied arms poking through the broken window, so Jack scrambled to his feet just in time to save Joma from being tackled to the ground. The overweight man had gotten a hold of him and was struggling to take a bite. The back and forth tussle sent both men off balance.

Jack shoved the overweight man just as Joma was about to tumble over. Immediately, Jack started to pummel his fists into the man’s pudgy face, not because he had any hope of incapacitating him, but because it would at least keep the man down.

“Joma, find me a weapon,” he shouted. “Something solid.”

After a moment of shocked inactivity, Joma got moving, leaving Jack to deal with the overweight man on the floor by himself. Along with the blood spewing forth from the man’s eyes, Jack’s barrage of punches had left his face a crimson mask. He was still snarling, though, ready to bite.

Jack was so consumed with keeping his current opponent down that he did not see the other infected passenger coming up on his flank. The man leapt up onto Jack’s back and instantly began biting and tearing at the back of his neck. Jack screamed out as he felt a chunk of flesh come away from the bone. He shot to his feet with the passenger still clinging to his back. The overweight man began to rise to his feet in front of him, and Jack knew there was no way he could defend himself against both of them.

Suddenly the weight removed itself from Jack’s back and he spun around to find Joma standing over the body of the infected passenger with a heavy, glass ashtray. One corner of it was covered with blood and matted hair. Jack snatched it away from Joma and quickly turned to the overweight man who was now fully on his feet. He brought the ashtray down on the man’s head and no other blows were necessary.

“Okay,” Jack said, panting and moaning. “Let’s barricade ourselves back inside the office. We have to make it until midnight.”

***

The infected tried their best to get in, but with the sofa pushed up in front of the office door and several bar tables placed on either side of it, Jack and Joma were relatively safe. Safe enough that Jack had relaxed sufficiently to polish off almost a quarter bottle of whisky. The fuzzy feeling in the bottom of his guts was pleasant and almost made him forget the horror on the other side of the door. The bite on his neck had stopped bleeding and was now just tacky and moist. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He didn’t have long.

“You need to end this,” Joma said, flinching as something unseen was tipped over in the lounge. “Time is running out.”

“What do you mean?” Jack took another swig of liquor. “You still haven’t told me what the hell it is I’m supposed to do. Is it still against the rules now that your cover is blown?”

“No,” Joma said. “You found me, which makes anything I say to you a consequence of your actions, not mine. It is now within the rules that I tell you what you need to know.”

“So tell me already!” Jack almost shouted it. “I’m tired, Joma. So goddamn tired of this shit.”

Joma rubbed at his face and seemed to have yet more wrinkles. “This virus…. It’s not just a danger to the passengers on this ship. It’s going to wipe out the entire world.”

“You’re shitting me?” Jack gulped the whisky down to halfway and let out a long sigh. “And you know this how?”

“I saw it, Jack. People like me, those that can see the pathways, have dreams. These dreams show us glimpses of the future – especially tragic events. We see death on a grand scale. A person’s death causes a small pulse in the fabric of existence, but when many people die at once it creates a ripple that travels in all directions – including backwards. When one of these ripples travels backwards it can reach some people through their dreams. I dreamt of this ship, Jack. I dreamt of the virus. I saw the end.”

“What, so this virus turns into…what? An epidemic?”

“More like a global pandemic. It will wipe the earth clean of life in less than a year. The world will fall apart. It will be hell on earth.”

“How does it happen?”

“The ship will dock in Cannes tomorrow and from there the virus will spread throughout Europe and into Asia, reaching farther afield through national airports and contaminated food shipments. Once the Spirit of Kirkpatrick hits the mainland the virus will become unstoppable.”

Jack swallowed, and found his throat unbearably dry. “I don’t get it. Who would want to unleash something like this?”

“I don’t know, Jack. When I had the dream, I caught short flashes of the man responsible, but, for some reason, whenever I tried to focus, I kept getting images of a…of a doll’s face. All I know for sure is that if you do not stop this virus from reaching the shores of France, everyone is doomed.”

Jack felt faint. The throbbing of his neck wound had progressed to a full-on drumbeat pounding in his ears.  “So what do I do? How do I stop it?”

Joma seemed to deflate. “I don’t know. I just knew the danger was coming and acted as fast as I could to stop tomorrow arriving until you could find a solution.”

Jack took another swig of whisky and felt himself getting a little dizzy. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the surrealism of the conversation, or the fact that he was dying. “How did you stop tomorrow coming? Tally told me you’re a pathwalker, but how do you mess with time itself?”

“By giving up the essence of my soul.”

Jack found himself laughing at the drama of the statement, but then he thought about what it meant. “What do you mean? Is that why you’re older than you were?”

“I’m dying, Jack. Every time the day resets and I hold back tomorrow, I age. Only eight or nine days at a time, but eventually I’ll run out of life and then the spell will break upon my death. You have to put a stop to this before it puts a stop to me. There is a candle in my room that gets smaller every day. It is how I fused my essence into the flow of time and gave myself the power to manipulate it.”

Jack shook his head and looked at Joma. The man was haggard and drawn. He hated to think how he would look in another week or two. “So, to save the world you had to give up your life?”

“It’s my purpose, Jack. Many of my ancestors have done the same thing. Global catastrophe is something that threatens us more often than you think, and it always starts with a small-minded group of people with big ideas. I was born knowing that I may have to die before my time. That is the burden my people carry – it is our honour and our duty. Don’t make my premature ending be in vain, Jack. You must find a way to stop this. You have to-”

Jack feel forward from the sofa and onto his knees. There was a burning in his stomach that was in contrast to the numbness everywhere else. He looked up at Joma and saw the man through a red-hazed filter. “The bite wound on my neck…I’m changing. You have to…”

Joma raised the glass ashtray over his shoulder and brought it down hard on Jack’s head.

Day 247

Jack sat up in bed and cursed out loud. His death had cut his conversation with Joma short just when things were becoming clearer to him. While he had learned many of the answers he had sought, he still had no idea what the hell he needed to do. Joma had said that time was running out and that if Jack didn’t stop the virus it would wipe out the world. It was time to focus.

He went into the bathroom to take a cold shower and clear his mind, and as he lathered himself up, he tried to put the pieces together. If Joma’s dreams were to be taken literally, then the person responsible for the outbreak had something to do with… a doll? It also seemed that Tally was somehow involved and that Donovan had been nothing but an unlucky bystander. Jack himself was only in this mess because his life lacked any meaning. He was only a lost soul with nothing to lose – a perfect martyr.

Once his shower was over with, Jack got dressed and thought about where to go next. He didn’t know how to find Joma during the day and he couldn’t waste time looking for him. They would catch up later at the Voyager Lounge, but until then his only priority was finding a way to contain the virus and stop it infecting the mainland.

There was a knock at the door.

Jack suddenly realised what a fool he’d been. With all that was going on in his head, he had forgotten that security would be coming for him. He had to get out of his cabin, but there would be no avoiding the guards outside.

Jack opened the door and immediately took a swing. He clocked the bearded man on the left with a haymaker and then backhanded the man on the right. Both guards stumbled backwards, but remained on their feet. Jack tried to run by them, but the wispy-bearded guard made a grab for him. He tried to struggle free but the other guard made a tackle at his thighs and knocked him off balance.

Jack was powerless to resist as his arms were secured behind his back with zip ties. The plastic cords pinched at his flesh, and he could do nothing as the guards hoisted him to his feet and escorted him to the brig.

***

They stuck Jack in the same office as before and left him to wait for the captain to arrive. He started to think that perhaps he was about to have a golden opportunity to stop the virus. If he could convince Marangakis that there was a deadly virus onboard the ship, perhaps he would quarantine it and alert the authorities. If the people on the mainland knew what to expect, they might be able to keep the virus thing contained.

Captain Marangakis entered the room. Jack stood up to greet him, but his offer of a handshake was declined.

Hardly surprising seeing as the man thought Jack was a rapist.

“Captain Marangakis, I am aware of the seriousness of the accusations that your waitress, Tally, has made against me, but I assure you that they are without merit. She has an agenda, of which I am not fully informed of yet, but I would ask that you put her petty vindictiveness aside for one moment and listen to me, because there is something far more important that we need to discuss.”

The captain’s interest seemed to have been piqued and he silently took a seat opposite Jack before staring him in the eye. “What are you talking about?”

“There is a weapon onboard this ship – and I don’t mean the illegal shipment of arms you have in your hold.”

Marangakis leant back in his seat and seemed surprised. “A weapon you say?”

“Yes, sir. A biological one. Someone onboard has released a virus among the passengers. If you take a walk around the ship you will see that about one third of your passengers have developed cold-like symptoms. By the end of tonight, most of them will be dead and the entire ship will be infected. You have to quarantine everyone to their cabins and keep them there. You have to tell the French Government to be ready for us when we make port in Cannes. The virus can’t escape onto the mainland.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve, Mr Wardsley, but I will not allow you to cause a panic aboard my ship. My doctor has already informed me of the nasty cold going around my ship, but he also assured me that it is nothing to worry about. Your claims are unsubstantiated and you are just trying to subvert attention from the crime you have committed.”

“Allegedly,” Jack corrected the man. “Tally has made an allegation. That doesn’t make it true. As for Doctor Fortuné, with all due respect, he has no idea what he’s up against. No one has ever seen anything like this virus before.”

Marangakis huffed. “This mysterious pathogen of yours gets better and better, doesn’t it? I suppose you’re going to tell me next that it’s more contagious than AIDS and deadlier than cancer.”

“You don’t catch AIDS, Captain. You catch HIV, which develops into AIDS. The virus onboard this ship makes AIDS seem like a sore throat. You have to take me seriously.”

“No,” Marangakis said. “I do not. This is my ship and you are my prisoner. You will be taken to the brig and detained until I can hand you over to the French authorities.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Whatever you need to do, but please just put a call through to the mainland and warn them to take precautions. Tell them I’m a terrorist, for all I care, but take what I’m saying seriously. Please.”

Marangakis examined Jack, focusing on his face. He let out a sigh and clasped his hands together. “You realise that if I do as you ask, they will add terrorism to your list of offences. If you make empty threats about a virus onboard, you’ll be in a great deal more trouble than you are already in.”

Jack just wanted to put a stop to the festering evil onboard this ship once and for all. “I’m telling the truth,” he said. “Just, please, accept the chance that I might be right. Warn the mainland.”

Marangakis cleared his throat and stood up from his chair. “Fine, but on your head be it, Mr Wardsley.”

The captain left the room without a further word and Jack was taken to the cell that he was beginning to think of as his.

***

The infected attacked the passengers at a little after eight as usual. Jack knew there was nothing he could do to prevent the deaths onboard, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was a ‘big picture’ problem now, and all that mattered was preventing all that death from spreading into the world. Jack hoped with all his being, that as midnight came and the ship grew quiet, morning would finally come and start a new day. If that happened then the future would be corrected and Joma, having seen it was so, would retire his spell. The ship would reach the coast of France with all passengers dead – except for Jack locked safely away in his cell – and the authorities would take adequate precautions to contain the virus. This could all be over in a matter of hours.

Day 248

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Jack saw the alarm clock flashing 1400 on the bedside and smashed his fist against it. The unit shattered and his hand came away bloody. But the pain was nothing compared to the frustration he felt. The best chance he’d had to end this thing had been a failure. Whether the captain had simply ignored his pleas to contact the mainland, or if he had done so and the authorities still hadn’t been sufficiently prepared to contain the virus, the spell was still in place. Only Joma could tell him why. Only Joma could tell him whether or not his actions had been worth a damn.

Jack got dressed in a hurry and left before the guards came. He was in no mood to tussle with them today. Every hour he wasted would kill Joma a little more, and he was getting tired of all the dying.

He still didn’t know where to find Joma during the day, but he didn’t have time to wait around until the evening, so he headed for the Voyager’s Lounge. When he got there, he approached the barman on duty.

“Hey, there. I was looking for Joma.”

The man was polishing a glass with a stringy rag. His English was nowhere near as good as Joma’s. “He not here till half-seven, my friend.”

“Do you know where I could find him now?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. He a quiet man. He keep to himself.”

“Do you know which is his cabin?”

The barman gave Jack a suspicious look and placed the glass down on the bar. “I can no tell you that. You will have to speak to him later, here.”

“Please,” Jack said. “I really need to speak with him. It’s important.” He slid a hundred euros across the bar, the first time he’d used money since visited the ship’s casino.

The barman frowned, but then relented. “Okay, but you no cause trouble. His cabin C14.”

Jack thanked the man and headed for C Deck.

The elevator seemed to take forever to descend and Jack almost leapt out into the corridor when the doors finally opened. He was now in the middle of C Deck, and all the lower-numbered cabins were at the fore. Jack headed for number 14 cautiously, aware that the guards would probably be searching for him by now.

When he finally reached the door, he knocked quietly.

There was no answer.

He knocked again harder. “Joma? Joma, are you in there?” He leant against the door, placing his ear against the wood to listen. As he did so, the door swung open. The lock had been busted. “Joma? Are you okay? Call out if you can.”

The room had been witness to a struggle. The television was knocked into a strange angle and the room’s telephone was hanging by its cord. At the back of the room was a small table, where a thick white candle stood as its centrepiece. The wax had melted down to a length of about only three-inches and the flame had gone out. He could tell by the thin trail of smoke still filtering from its blackened tip that it had been extinguished recently.

Jack’s guts turned over when he noticed the blood on the bed.

He took several, creeping steps across the room, following the blood trail that led over the far side of the bed. He had a bad feeling.

Joma lay dead in a thick pool of his own blood. It seemed to still leak from a deep crater in the side of his head. The murder had been recent.

Jack dropped to his knees beside and shook Joma’s body. “Damn it, Joma, you can’t be dead. I don’t know what to do. I need more time.”

Joma opened his eyes. They were blood shot, not focusing properly, but they were alive. “Jack…”

Jack couldn’t believe it. “Joma! Yes, it’s me. What the hell has happened?”

Joma’s eyes closed again, but fluttered back open gradually. “T…t…”

“Tally? Are you trying to tell me that Tally did this?”

“T…Tomorrow. You only have…tomorrow.”

And then he let out one final breath before fading away like the melted candle on his table. Joma was dead. The spell was broken.

Day 249 - 1400hrs

Jack woke up with a start. Today was his last day before tomorrow. Today was his last chance to save the world. He fought against the urge to stay under the covers and accept whatever fate chose to bring, but he could not allow himself to sit idle while the fate of billions rested in his hands.

Damn Joma for putting him in this position.

If Jack was going to try to stop the virus one last time, then he had to get going. The security guards would arrive soon and they would waste time he could not afford to lose. He headed over to his suitcase and hoisted it up onto the bed. He yanked out half its contents and laid them on the bed. Of the things that lay in front of him, Jack’s eyes came to rest specifically on the unopened Glen Grant bottle. The liquid inside sang to him, but he covered the bottle with an evening shirt. Better to keep a clear head.

The next thing he examined was his paperback book. It was crazy – and almost ironic – that in all the time he’d been stuck aboard the Spirit, he had never managed to make it past the first page.

The final thing his eyes fell upon was something he’d almost forgotten he’d brought along with him. The small leather wallet lay open on his bed, a silver shield and crown above a slogan, which read: SERVING-PROTECTING-MAKING A DIFFERENCE. On the opposite side of the wallet was Jack’s identity card for the West Mercia Police. Once upon a time, the small wallet had meant everything to him, then it had meant nothing at all. Now it seemed to matter again. He’d taken an oath once, to serve and protect the innocent by bringing the guilty to justice. That oath applied now more than ever. Jack was a police officer, and it was his job to do what needed to be done.

He got dressed and left his cabin, knowing it would be for the very last time. He took the familiar elevator upwards and stepped out into the familiar corridor with the familiar laundry cart on his right. He walked towards the Promenade Deck and skipped, mid-stride, as the ship tilted expectedly. Stepping outside, he turned immediately to his right and put a hand up.

“Hey! Hey, lads.”

The two boys stopped in their tracks, a mere second before they would have collided with him. Jack smiled at them both and said, “You kids be careful now, you hear? Don’t want you falling overboard and getting eaten by a killer whale.”

The two boys giggled and then walked away calmly, keeping their speed within sensible levels. It was the first time they’d ever listened to him.

Jack went in the same direction, towards the pool area. He needed to be wary of security looking for him, but there was someone he wanted to speak to one last time. Before he went upstairs to speak to Claire, though, he strolled over to the edge of the pool just in time to catch the young boy about to go skin to his knee. The boy tripped over his own feet, but fell right into Jack’s arms. The mother came rushing over to thank him. With that task completed, Jack headed up to the sun deck.

Claire lay sunning herself beside the empty lounger with the green towel. Jack grabbed the towel, balled it up, and threw it into the sea, happily watching it sink beneath the waves.

“I…er, think that belonged to someone,” Claire said.

Jack sat down on the lounger. “It’s been here a really long time,” he said. “Nobody is going to miss it.”

“Did you have to throw it overboard, though?”

Jack shrugged. “I didn’t like the colour.”

“Fair enough.”

“Claire?”

“How do you know my name?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just listen to me, okay?”

Claire looked worried but remained quiet.

“Something is going to happen tonight and I want to know that you and the baby are safe when it happens.”

Claire’s worried look changed to full on fear. “What? How…”

“I know I’m frightening you, but it’s important you just do as I tell you. If tomorrow comes then you’ll understand why.”

“If tomorrow…what?”

“Be in your cabin by eight-o-clock tonight, okay? Make sure you are nowhere near Conner. Conner is sick and so are lots of other people. Stay away from them all.”

“You’re frightening me. I’m going to call someone.”

“You’re doing the right thing, Claire. You want to have this baby because you know you’ll make a good mother. I think so, too, but you don’t need to be with someone who treats you the way Conner does. You deserve better. You can do it alone, so don’t stay with him just because you’re scared.”

Claire was speechless, but something in her eyes suggested she was taking Jack seriously. She was probably wondering how he knew all of these things about her life, and hopefully that was enough to unnerve her into staying in her cabin.

Jack looked her in the eye. “In about ten seconds, Conner is going to turn up and question you about why you’re talking to me. Then he’s going to ask you to come look with him to get hotdogs. I know this and everything else that is going to happen today, which is why I want you to stay in your cabin tonight. If you ever want to see Leeds again, you have to lock yourself away.”

Conner appeared on cue and stared at Jack suspiciously. “How you doing, mate?”

“I’m good,” Jack said. “I was just about to move along.”

“Sounds like a good idea, mate.” Conner let out a sneeze then turned to Claire. “Come on, babe. I need you to look after me, I feel like shit. We’re all getting hotdogs downstairs.”

Claire glanced at Jack for a split second, and he saw the shock in her eyes that his predictions had come true. He just hoped he’d done enough to keep her safe tonight. Because tomorrow was finally on its way.

Jack got up from the lounger and passed by the old couple kissing on the balcony. Despite being sick of the sight of everything repeating over and over, he had to admit there were certain things he would miss. Ironic, that he had prayed for the day to end but, now that it was, he was sad to see it go. There was comfort in the things he could predict with certainty. The unknown was terrifying.

1500hrs

As Jack moved around the ship, it became clear that Tally had set security on him again. If he even managed to succeed in stopping the virus, he would have a bunch of jumped-up sexual assault charges to deal with once he reached the mainland. Wherever Tally was hiding, she’d have hell to pay if he ever found her. He’d trusted her.

Cared about her.

Jack wondered again if Tally was the one behind the virus. A young Romany girl didn’t fit the typical mould of a terrorist, but then who knew what was going on in a person’s head? Terrorists could change colour and religion over time, but they were all the same breed of fruitcake in the end. Hatred for humanity was not exclusive to any one kind of people.

After leaving Claire on the sun deck, Jack snuck aboard the Mariner Deck, where he evaded a pair of security guards by stepping through into the Lido Restaurant. Being the largest eatery onboard, and open twenty-four hours a day, Jack wondered if the virus had been transmitted via the food. Was there a way he could find out if anything had been contaminated? He looked around the self-service buffet carts, at the trays full of chips, spaghetti, fish fingers, chicken nuggets, beef curry, and a whole host of other edibles, and realised that there would be no way of telling. It wasn’t like he was going to find a glowing green pork chop on a bed of pus-filled maggots. He had a matter of hours to do something to help the passengers onboard, and prodding through several dozen buckets of cheap food was not going to be a sensible use of time.

Jack estimated an infection rate of about a third of the total passengers. No members of staff seemed unwell, which made it a safe assumption that the staff-only areas were exempt as possible locations for the outbreak. Come to think of it, he had also seen staff eating inside the Lido Restaurant throughout the day, so that made his theory about the food being contaminated ever more unlikely.

Ivor and his family were sitting at a table in the corner. Their little girl, Heather, was sicker than anybody. She might be the key to solving everything. If Jack could find out how she caught the virus, he might have the answer as to how everyone else caught it. Then he might have half a chance to get things under control before it was too late.

He took a seat at Ivor’s table. Poor little Heather was as sickly as ever, snoozing restlessly in her mother’s arms. Vicky looked ill herself – and mortified – while Ivor wore his usual stern expression that Jack knew was just a front of a frightened father.

“How are you folks doing?” Jack said.

“We’ve been better,” Ivor replied in a gruff voice. “Who are you?”

“Officer Wardsley.” Jack offered his hand. “I understand you’re all planning on fleeing to Germany?”

Ivor’s jaw dropped and Vicky began to sob.

Jack put his hands on the table and smiled. “Don’t worry. No one else knows that you’re here. I just wanted to say that I agree with what you did, Vicky. Nigel Moot was an evil man and deserved to die. As a mother of a young daughter, what you did was understandable.”

Vicky looked at Jack as though she were hallucinating him being there. “T-thank you.”

“May I offer you some advice, though?”

“Yes…please.”

“Forget about it. Put what you did behind you. If you don’t, it will eat away at you until you’re a broken mess, trust me. What you did was a moment of madness, but anyone else would have done the same. Don’t let it change you. Your daughter needs you.”

“Why are you saying all this?” Ivor demanded. “Is this some sort of trick to get my wife to confess?”

Jack placed a hand on Ivor’s shoulder. The man’s skin was clammy and hot beneath his shirt. “No tricks. I just wanted to let you know that I hope everything works out okay for you all.”

Ivor said nothing. He just studied Jack.

“Your daughter looks pretty sick.”

Ivor grunted. “It’s just a cold.”

“Do you know where she caught it?”

“No. Children often get sick when they travel.”

“How long has she been under the weather?”

Ivor shrugged, seemed irritated. “Since last night. We’ve all been feeling a little unwell. It’s just a cold.”

Jack took a moment to think. Last night. Vicky got sick the evening they all boarded, which was yesterday. Why hadn’t Joma cast his spell a day earlier if that’s when everything started? How was Jack supposed to prevent something that had already begun?

He stood up, feeling beaten but not yet down. “One last question, Ivor. There’re a lot of people who have come down with the same cold your daughter has. Do you have any ideas about how it could have spread to so many people?”

Ivor shrugged. “I’m not a bloody doctor, man. I suppose, if I thought about it logically, the most likely place to catch a cold is in high traffic areas. Places where people are bunched together. The lifts, restaurants, maybe the tunnel we all queued in before coming onboard.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully, mulling it all over. “Hey,” he said, “you know there’s a doctor on the lower deck, right? You should take your daughter down there now to see if there’s anything to make her feel a little better.”

Ivor nodded. “We were just discussing that.”

“Good, the doctor’s name is Fortuné. He’s a smart man. Goodbye, both. I hope your daughter gets well soon.”

Jack left the family alone for the last time.

1600hrs

Jack looked at his watch and grimaced when he realised it was approaching four-o-clock. Just over four hours until the infection reached its final phase. With each second that passed, it seemed more and more unlikely that Jack would find a solution. He had few facts to go on, but he listed them off now.

Ivor and his family became ill the night after boarding – yesterday.

Ivor’s daughter, Heather, is at a more advanced stage of infection – was that due to her age?

Conner is another passenger who boarded the same day as Heather. He’s also sick, but his girlfriend, Claire, isn’t. She boarded a day earlier. She hasn’t caught the virus from Conner, so it seems unlikely the virus is airborne.

Donovan worked for the world’s biggest drugs company and was smuggling arms overseas. He was murdered, most likely by Tally.

Tally made false accusations about Jack, to hinder his movements onboard. Why? And how did Donovan factor into her agenda?

The ship is at sea and due to dock in Cannes tomorrow. Why did Joma stop the ship today? Why not back in Palma, before the virus was even transmitted in the first place?

Jack felt like a blind man groping his way down an alley. The answers were in front of him, but he could not see them. Why was it that Claire wasn’t infected but Conner was? Why was Heather worse than everyone else? Where onboard was busy enough, and cramped enough, to infect a third of the ship’s passengers?

What was he missing?

“Sir, can you come with us, please?”

Jack turned around to see four of the ship’s guards approaching him. They didn’t seem like they were willing to talk.

Jack threw a short uppercut to the closest man and threw him into the others. One of the guards dodged out of the way and managed to throw himself into a tackle, but Jack managed to apply a front face lock and cinch in a guillotine chokehold. It was only a matter of seconds before the guard pass out in his arms, but then Jack found himself trapped beneath the man’s bulk.

Unable to move, he was helpless to resist arrest as the other three guards recomposed themselves and bore down on him. They hoisted him to his feet and dragged him away. Jack knew he was on his way to see the captain again.

1700hrs

Captain Marangakis entered the room with the same authoritative display he always did. This time, Jack lacked the patience to show the man respect. He rose up from his chair and grabbed the captain with both hands, spinning him around and wrapping an arm around his throat. The two guards in the room were taken too much by surprise to act,

“It’s time you and I went and made a phone call,” Jack said, yanking Marangakis towards the door.

“You’re in very deep trouble, Mr Wardsley,” Marangakis said defiantly.

Jack squeezed the man’s windpipe and made him choke. “Shut up. How do we get to the Bridge from here? We need to contact the mainland. There’s something very dangerous aboard this ship, and I don’t mean me.”

“What are you talking about, you maniac?” Marangakis fought against Jack’s arm, but he was going nowhere.

“The Bridge? How do we get there?”

“There’s a…there’s a ladder outside this room. It leads to an elevator.”

Jack dragged the captain backwards into the corridor, keeping his eyes on the guards who were pursuing him. He found the ladder, which actually turned out to be a steep staircase. It led to the ship’s surveillance rooms and security offices, and Jack saw an elevator further down. He dragged Marangakis towards it, keeping an eye on each of the doorways as he moved past them. In the furthest security office, the one right before the elevator, something caused Jack to halt.

Tally!

Tally sat in a small room lined with a bank of monitors. She looked bored, inspecting her fingernails. Jack shook his head in disgust. She’d pulled the false accusation trick so many times now that she had become tired of having to sit there every day while security looks for him. Accusing a man of rape had become routine and pedestrian.

Tally looked up and saw Jack through the glass pane in the door. Her eyes widened immediately.

Jack prodded Marangakis in the small of his back. “Open it.”

“And let you terrorise that poor girl even more? Never.”

Jack applied more pressure onto the lower discs of the man’s spine, until he cried out in pain. A guard rushed to intervene, but Jack shouted. “Get back or I’ll snap the captain’s neck as easy as a twig.”

The guard stopped and took a single step backwards.

“Now,” Jack said. “Open this door, captain, or I’ll hurt you.”

Marangakis reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a navy-blue key card. He swiped it against the door and a metallic click rang out as the magnetic lock disengaged. Jack shoved the captain hard in the back and he fell forwards, head smacking against the thick wood of the door.

Tally leapt up from her swivel chair as Jack entered.

He kicked the door closed behind him and pulled the handle to make sure that the lock had reengaged. Marangakis fled to a corner of the cramped room and turned around to face Jack. The expression on his face was one of outrage. Jack didn’t give a fuck.

“Stop all this right now,” Marangakis demanded. “If you do not-”

“Sit down, shut up. I’m trying really hard to use violence as a last resort, but time is getting too tight for diplomacy.”

“J-Jack, what are you doing here?” Tally trembled in front of him, bent at the knees like some frightened child.

“Cut the act, you lying bitch. What’s your game? What are you playing at?”

“W-what? Just stay away from me. HELP! God, please help me.”

“Leave her alone,” Marangakis demanded.

Jack pointed a finger in Tally’s face. “She’s lying. I never touched her. She’s a part of what I’m trying to warn you about. There’s a virus aboard this ship and she knows all about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, just don’t hurt me again. I have a daughter.”

Jack took a step towards Tally, veins threatening to burst under the strain of his boiling blood. He almost raised a hand to hit her, but kept his temper under control, and instead leant in and whispered to her. “Your daughter would be ashamed of you. That’s if you even have one.”

Before Jack could gauge Tally’s reaction to his words, Marangakis piled into him. Jack’s feet tangled up and he found himself being rammed backwards against the room’s desk, where he felt something sharp dig into his back, followed by dampness. Marangakis pummelled him with meaty fists, left and right, knocking his vision loose and disorientating him. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Tally flee through the door while several guards came inside.

Jack struggled to get free, but he was outnumbered. He rolled and twisted, managed to shrug the captain away from him. But the guards surrounded him inside the small room.

Jack winced and straightened up from the desk. He reached around behind him and pulled loose a blood-soaked pencil that had been embedded in his shoulder. He thought about using it to stab Captain Marangakis, but decided not to. If he injured anyone today it would be permanent and, like it or not, the people he was fighting were innocent. They didn’t deserve to die.

They still needed taking down, though.

Jack swung a fist and backhanded Marangakis across the bridge of his nose. Then he reversed the swing into an overhand right and clocked the nearest guard in the jaw. In the narrow space of the room, Jack was able to take down the other men, one by one. In a wider space they would have overwhelmed him.

Captain Marangakis was slumped on the floor, looking like a melancholic Teddy bear. He looked up at Jack wearily and said, “You’re a madman.”

“Yes, I am, but trust me when I tell you that I’m trying to help you and everyone else. Terrorists have released something monstrous onto this ship and if it reaches the mainland, we’re not going to make it. And when I say we I mean the entire human race. I don’t know who’s responsible, but the only lead I had just ran right out that door. I need to find Tally before it’s too late. Don’t try to stop me.”

Marangakis looked at Jack with zero indication that he believed him at all. Some things just couldn’t be accomplished in a single day, and convincing Marangakis of the danger aboard his ship was one such thing.

Jack sighed. “Look, just send out an SOS to the mainland, okay? Keep an eye on your passengers and in a few hours you’ll be wishing you’d listened to me. It might be too late for most of us, but you can still save a lot of people if you just a warning.”

He turned and raced back into the corridor, needing to find Tally before it was too late.

1800hrs

Time was running out fast. Jack raced out onto the Promenade Deck and was faced with a setting sun above a dark blue sea. If he didn’t do something soon, this would be the final sunset the world would ever get to enjoy. He had two hours left, and he prayed to God that Joma’s visions of the future had been wrong, because it was starting to feel like there was no way to stop the virus reaching the mainland.

Jack didn’t know how much more he had left in the tank. He was tired and bleeding. His shoulder throbbed where the pencil had speared him and, as he reached his hand around again, he felt the cold kiss of blood against his fingertips. This was one wound that wouldn’t be healing itself at midnight.

He headed down the Promenade Deck and passed by a table and chairs. A half-empty bottle of water lay discarded there and Jack picked it up, unscrewing the cap. He poured the tepid liquid onto his hands and begun rubbing them together, washing away the blood on his fingertips. As he did so, something seemed to click into place at the corner of his mind. As his wet hands rubbed together, Jack was reminded of something from a long time ago, but was in fact only yesterday. There had been a bearded man at the entrance to the ship when Jack had boarded. The man had been dispensing alcohol rub to all the passengers coming onboard.

But it had never been alcohol rub, had it?

Finally, Jack knew how the virus had got aboard. Claire hadn’t been infected because she boarded the day before Conner. Only Jack’s boarding party had been infected because of the bearded man dispensing the virus right onto their hands. Poor little Heather had got a double dose, thanks to the extra squirt her dolly got on its plastic hands. Joma’s vision of a doll now made sense, but it was of no help. It was too late to help those infected. Poor Vicky would turn at eight o’clock, same as she always did. The only reason Jack hadn’t been uninfected was because he had dodged past the bearded man and gone straight aboard.

He never had a chance to stop this thing. The man responsible had never even boarded the ship. He was still out there somewhere, hundreds of miles away in Majorca, or maybe even further. He had dispensed the deadliest virus known to man and could probably release it all over again some place else. Even if Jack managed to stop the virus onboard reaching the mainland, then it could mean nothing, for the virus was already on the mainland – in the hands of a bearded man so callous that he would infect a child face-to-face.

Jack shuddered, but damned if he was going to play along with a scheme to infect the earth. If killing the passengers on the Spirit was the bearded man’s Plan A, then Jack was going to do his damned best to make sure the sonofabitch was forced to come up with a Plan B. Hopefully, there would be somebody else willing to get involved next time, because Jack was done after this. At least, he was going to be if he went through with the idea that was forming in his head. The world might still have one last chance, if he could do what needed to be done in time.

With a dry mouth, and a heavy heart, Jack headed for his cabin. There was a bottle of Gen Grant there with his name on it.

1900hrs

Jack had retrieved the bottle of scotch from his luggage and brought it down to the cargo hold. He’d also brought with him a blanket to cover Donovan up with. It felt good to share one last drink with his buddy, who had just been a man caught up in a bad situation, no different to anybody else on board. Donovan was not an innocent man, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was not responsible for anything that had happened since the Spirit of Kirkpatrick had set sail from Majorca. Jack was no innocent man, either. He had been a man consumed by rage, and perhaps always would be, but at least now he had the chance to make up for his past mistakes, to atone for the lives he had taken by doing something to save others. Despite all he had been through, starting with the loss of Laura and ending with what he was about to do this very hour, Jack still valued human life. He was still better than the monsters who had released a virus onto a ship full of passengers.

There were good people onboard the Spirit; people Ivor and his family, Claire, Joma, and Doctor Fortuné. It was for people like them that Jack was willing to give his life.

He took another swig of the whisky and enjoyed the taste one last time. The bottle was almost empty and he had drunk it so quickly that he was yet to feel its full force. He figured being drunk would make it easier, less frightening.

“Well, pardner,” Jack looked down at Donovan beneath the blanket, “if there’s an afterlife and you’re already there, get me a drink ready.”

“Seems like you’ve already had enough to drink, Jack.” Tally appeared from behind the pallet of blue, plastic crates full of cash.

Jack stood up, unsteady on his feet, yet clear in his anger. “I ought to wring your neck.”

“Try,” she said flatly. “But I promise that this time the bullet will kill you permanently.”

Jack looked at the revolver in her hand and immediately recognised it as Donovan’s. “How did you get that?”

“What, this?” Funniest thing. When I first…dealt…with Donovan, I took his gun for protection in case you came after me, but I woke up the next day and it was gone. Guess where I ended up finding it. Right back in Donovan’s holster. Weird, because he wasn’t under the spell like we were, was he? He stayed dead when I killed him, but I guess the fact that the gun didn’t belong with me meant that Joma’s spell kept having to make a slight adjustment and put the gun back where it came from. Interesting stuff. Pity Joma’s not here to explain it.”

Jack shook his head. “Why, Tally? Why kill Donovan and Joma? Why set me up for something I never did? I thought we were friends.”

“A friendship forged through fire is brittle, Jack. We are not friends; we are just the victims of fate. My true friends, my family, my daughter, they are waiting for me someplace else. You won’t stop me seeing them again.”

“What are you talking about? I thought we were both looking for a way to end this. Donovan was, too.”

Tally laughed and lowered the gun slightly, but she was too far away for Jack to reach her before she could raise it again. “Donovan wanted to end it, alright,” she said. “He wanted to end it all.”

“What do you mean?”

“The night Donovan shot you, he took me hostage. He knew all about the day resetting and that he hadn’t really killed you, but he wanted to know who the hell we both were. We spoke for the rest of the night and I told him what I knew, about the spell and a pathwalker being onboard. It seemed to be a relief to him that there were others besides himself that knew what was happening.”

“Of course it was a relief. We were all in this together, I thought.”

“Me, too, at first,” Tally said, “but then I found Donovan drinking himself to death in the Casino one night and he told me something. He told me that he was going to carry on drinking and screwing as many women onboard as he could, but that when the whisky stopped tasting good and the sex stopped being fun, he was going to sink the ship in order to kill the pathwalker and end the spell. He wouldn’t tell me how; just said he had a plan. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t stand around and wait for him to kill me and everyone else.”

Jack took a step towards her. “So you killed him first?”

Tally raised her gun. “And you’ll be next if you don’t step back. I thought about killing you before now, but I guess I took pity on you and decided to stick security on you instead. I couldn’t risk you finding the pathwalker and making rash decisions. I knew if I could just hold you off long enough the candle would eventually melt and the spell would end. Then I could go home to my daughter, along with as much of the cash in these crates as I can carry.”

“Is this what this is all about? Greed?”

“No, not at all. That’s just a bonus. This is about me being with my daughter again, plain and simple.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Joma told me what is at stake.”

“I know. I was watching you on the security cameras in the room the captain put me in. Once I knew Joma was the pathwalker, thanks to you, it made things much easier to expedite. Now, the spell is broken and you and I are going to sit tight until we reach the shore. I am going to see my daughter again, Jack. Now back away, before I change my mind and just shoot you.”

Jack did as he was told and stepped back. There was no chance of grabbing her before she could get a shot off. She was in control and he was beginning to feel sluggish from the booze in his system.

“If this ship makes it to land,” he said, “the whole world is going to be wiped out.”

“I’m not about to throw my life away and never see my daughter because of the nightmares of an old shaman. Joma could have been wrong.”

Jack shook his head. “You know that’s not true. You were the one who told me about pathwalkers and their abilities in the first place. You told me they were protectors. Joma gave his life so that billions of others wouldn’t have to. Your daughter included.”

Tally seemed to hiss as she spoke. “I can keep my daughter safe, don’t you worry, but I can’t do it stuck on this godforsaken boat.”

“You don’t get it, do you? The virus on this ship is unstoppable. If it reaches the mainland they’ll be no hope for anyone. It’s up to us to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I’m going to see my daughter and you’re not going to stand in my way.”

Jack glanced at his watch. It was just after eight. The infected would be attacking any minute. The lives of the passengers onboard were about to come to an end and this time it was for keeps. Jack felt sorrow for them, but he now knew that their deaths had always been inevitable. There had never been any chance to save them. What he needed to do now was make sure that their deaths were the only ones caused by the virus. Tally was the final obstacle in his way of achieving that goal.

It was time to end this.

Jack turned and ran, diving behind pallets as the sound of gunshots rang out behind him. If there’d been any doubts at all that Tally was prepared to kill him, they now vanished. There was no persuading her.

Jack peeked out from behind a stack of boxes and was met by another gunshot. The bullet hit only inches away from his face and sent shards of plastic up in the air. Jack crouched down and scurried toward the rear of the cargo area. Tally had said that she didn’t know what Donovan’s plan had been to sink the ship, but Jack was pretty sure he knew what the cowboy had been planning.

He reached the rear pallets of the cargo area and slid around behind them, using them for cover. Tally had stopped shooting now, which made it impossible for him to pinpoint her location without breaking cover and exposing himself.

He had to work fast.

Jack took out the keys he’d taken from Donovan’s body earlier, before he’d draped the man with a blanket. He inserted them into a nearby footlocker now, and opened it up to reveal a collection of US assault rifles. Jack had never fired an AR-15 before, but he hoped his military background was enough to help him through. He opened up a small green box on an adjacent pallet and pulled out a handful of rounds along with a magazine to load them into. After a quick look over his shoulder, Jack thumbed the rounds into the magazine and slammed it into the base of the rifle with a satisfying clink. He disengaged the safety and disengaged it, before pulling the charging handle and priming the weapon to fire. It was time to go to war.

“Don’t move, Jack. I don’t want to kill you, but you know I will.”

Jack had his back to Tally and was pretty sure she knew nothing about the rifles in the footlockers or, more specifically, the one he was holding against his chest.

“If you kill me,” he said, “then you’ll be responsible for billions of deaths, not just mine. Do you really want that, Tally? Is that really something you can be okay with?”

“You’re not going to convince me, Jack. I’ve made up my mind. My daughter is the only thing that matters.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Jack span around and fired off three rounds. Tally flew backwards, clear off her feet, as if her body was attached to bungee cords. Her blood soaked the floor where she came to rest on the metal walkway. Her eyes remained focused on Jack, not yet dead.

Jack walked up to her slowly, kicking away the revolver lying only inches from her grasping hand. He pointed the assault rifle at her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I promise you this is the only way your daughter will ever be safe.”

Tally spat blood at him.

Jack pulled the trigger.

2100hrs

The sound of people being butchered and torn apart on the upper decks was the only thing Jack could hear now. It made him even more resolute about what he needed to do. As an explosion erupted from somewhere above, he thought about Claire and her unborn baby, cute little Heather with her dolly, and the two small boys racing around the Promenade Deck. They would probably all be dead by now.

He looked down at the six crates full of grenades he’d laid out next to one of the ship’s diesel engines. There must have been more than two hundred of the handheld explosives in total, and while Jack was no demolitions expert, he was fairly certain an explosion of such magnitude would be enough to cause a pretty significant breach in the ship’s hull. The Spirit needed to sink fast to prevent it being rescued by any nearby vessels. The virus needed to disappear without a trace beneath the depths of the Mediterranean.

There was one grenade missing from the crates. It was in Jack’s hand and he was staring at it in a half-sober haze. The Glen Grant had rendered him pretty inebriated, but he was still clear in his focus and lucid in his intent. From the moment he had boarded this ship, there had only ever been one way of leaving it. He just hadn’t been aware of it until now. Whether or not Joma knew things would end this way didn’t matter now. It didn’t change what needed to be done. The only way the virus could be stopped was if every single person aboard the Spirit of Kirkpatrick died and disappeared. There could be no survivors.

Jack yanked the pin from the top of the grenade and felt the spring-loaded ‘spoon’ release into his palm. Once he dropped the grenade into the pile of explosives he would have only five seconds. Five seconds of life left to live, five more seconds of pain and grief and anger. It was five seconds longer than he wanted or needed.

Jack opened his palm and let the grenade fall. It seemed to roll slowly, bouncing into the crate and coming to rest amongst its brothers.

He started to count.

“One…”

I…

“Two…”

Love…

“Three…”

You…

“Four…”

Laura…

“Five…”

The Next Day

Sixty-miles off the coast of France, Commander Harrington looked down from the foredeck of the Merchant Navy bulk carrier, Barstow. The rolling sea of the Mediterranean was littered with debris: passenger belongings, clothing, wooden fixtures of the ship, and pieces of scrap metal. While nothing had been determined yet, it seemed as though the passenger liner, Spirit of Kirkpatrick, had suffered some kind of explosion, perhaps from within the engine compartment. Harrington had been a seaman for many decades and seen such things before, but not with a passenger ship in modern times. With lawsuits being the way they were, safety checks on passenger vessel were beyond overcautious. It would remain to be seen what the cause was, but Harrington wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the explosion was a deliberate terrorist act.

The commander was no stranger to death at sea, but the thought of one thousand passengers and five hundred crewmembers sinking to their deaths left a numb space in his stomach. Civilians were not suited to terror. They did not embrace it like servicemen did. He pitied the suffering they would have gone through as they realised their time was up. The worst kind of death was one you could see coming, even if only by a few minutes.

What the hell had happened to those people? There hadn’t even been even an SOS. Whatever had happened had happened quickly, suddenly. If it had not been for the fact the Spirit had gone radio silent, no one would have even known it had gone down. If Harrington hadn’t been in the area, there would have been barely a trace that the ship left. Already the debris on the water’s surface was sinking beneath the waves, removing all trace that a ship had ever floated there. His men were currently doing their very best to retrieve whatever they could before it was lost forever.

Midshipman Brown approached with his trusty clipboard in hand and saluted Harrington from a few yards away. “Commander, we’ve received word that the French Coast Guard is just a few clicks out. They’ve requested we hand the situation over to them and that we have their thanks for our quick response.”

Harrington smirked. “Typical French. Don’t like the British stepping on their toes. Okay, Midshipman, let the crew know we’re out in thirty.”

“Aye aye, Commander.”

Harrington took a stroll along the deck, glancing over his men and supervising the wrapping-up of their efforts. They had divvied up the detritus as best they could, sorting it into separate containers: some containing scrap metal and parts of the ship, others containing personal belongings that could later be claimed by the passenger’s families. Harrington walked up to one of those containers now and examined its contents.

There were many things inside: an Andy McNab paperback novel, a jewellery box, and all sorts of other mundane possessions. There was even a scorched police badge. One thing that caught his eye in particular, however, was a little girl’s dolly. Harrington picked it up and studied its dented face, trying to imagine the child it had belonged to. He felt his heart sag. The doll was a soggy mess now and seemed to sum up the tragedy quite succinctly. Its frilly dress had already started to succumb to the exposure to salt water and its small plastic hands had gone a sickly green as if some sort of chemical reaction had taken place.

Harrington decided to take the dolly with him and made a personal promise to himself that he would find out whom the toy had belonged to. It would be difficult, he knew, because whatever secrets the Spirit of Kirkpatrick had to tell were now well and truly lost beneath the sea, but he could at least try.

Captain Harrington turned on his heel and addressed his crew. It was time for them to leave. “Let’s get back to the mainland, seamen. I don’t want to think about what happened here anymore. We’ve been around enough death and misery for one day. Time to call it a day”

Two hours later, Commander Harrington felt a cold coming on.

PLEA FROM THE AUTHOR

Hey, Reader.  So you got to the end of my book.  I hope that means you enjoyed it.  Whether or not you did, I would just like to thank you for giving me your valuable time to try and entertain you.   I am truly blessed to have such a fulfilling job, but I only have that job because of people like you; people kind enough to give my books a chance and spend their hard-earned money buying them.  For that I am eternally grateful.

If you would like to find out more about my other books then please visit my website for full details.  You can find it at: www.iainrobwright.com.  Also feel free to contact me on Facebook, Twitter, or email (all details on the website) as I would love to hear from you.

If you enjoyed this book and would like to help, then you could think about leaving a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or anywhere else that readers visit.  The most important part of how well a book sells is how many positive reviews it has, so if you leave me one then you are directly helping me to continue on this journey as a fulltime writer.  Thanks in advance to anyone who does.  It means a lot.

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About The Author

Iain Rob Wright is one of the UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.

His work is currently being adapted for graphic novels, audio books, and foreign audiences. He is an active member of the Horror Writer Association and a massive animal lover.

Check out Iain's official website or add him on Facebook where he would love to meet you.

You can also get his free Horror Starter Library by clicking the link below:

HORROR STARTER LIBRARY

www.iainrobwright.com

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Copyright

* * *AN SG HORROR RELEASE* * *

Part of the SALGAD PUBLISHING GROUP

Redditch

UK, Worcestershire
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HORROR PACK VOLUME 1 copyright 2015 by Iain Rob Wright
www.IAINROBWRIGHT.com

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