Night Terrors: 16 Horror Stories
Date: 2014-10-01 23:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Short Stories
Description: Could you become famous in six seconds? Find the answer in the first of sixteen chilling stories guaranteed to give you nightmares. Meet a man with a terrifying plan to make his six second video clip go viral, a woman who soon regrets offering to pay anything to look young and a plant that just won’t stop growing. Sit and watch a Punch and Judy show that can make the watching kids vanish, meet a cute doll that will go to any lengths to protect an unhappy child and listen to a shocking voicemail you won’t be able to ignore. Buy now and enjoy the number one bestselling horror collection that's b

Night Terrors

VALENTINE KING

This is a work of fiction, names, and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved. Excepting in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or distributed without the express permission of the author.

Copyright © 2016 Valentine King

ISBN: 1512052418

ISBN-13: 978-1512052411

Contents

Six Second Murder

Forever Young

Free Refills

A Spot of Gardening

That’s the Way To Do It

Emily Ragdoll

Please Leave a Message

The Quarry

Life in the Country

Petrified

Meeting the Ex

The Adult Toy

No Going Back

The Game of Life

Birthday Party

Trick or Treat

About the Author

Also by the Same Author

Six Second Murder

I always think of him when the snow falls. It had been snowing almost non-stop for two days when he tried to kill me. I still remember the city as it was then, buried under a deep blanket of white. Now I can’t even think of snow without his face intruding into my mind.

I was out with my new camera. It had arrived in the post the day before the snow began but this was the first chance I’d had to get out there and take some outdoor photos, see if it was as good as the reviews had suggested. It was a pretty advanced model, even for me. I’d set it up so that every photo it took was automatically uploaded to the internet, video clips too. It had taken a bit of fiddling to get it connected to my social media profiles but it was worth it for two reasons. One, all my friends and family could see every photo I took without me needing to manually post them and two, it was an incentive for me, who usually took dozens of photos and could never decide which one was worth sharing, to ensure every shot I took was a good one.

The snow soaked through my boots as I crunched my way down Mayfair Street, only about a mile from my house. Each drift I encountered seemed bigger than the last and at times I was more wading than walking, my fingers frozen inside my gloves, my ears burning from the cold even under the scarf wrapped round my head and my woolly hat on top.

The city looked utterly beautiful now the sun had set, lit only by the orange glow of the streetlights and the virgin snow that covered the roads like a thick white coat of paint, smoothing the harsh edges of the cars into shapeless forms that brought images to my mind of life after the apocalypse.

He appeared when I was heading for home. I’d taken six shots and watched the tiny screen flash UPLOADING for each one as thick flakes settled on the waterproof glass. I’d decided it was time to stop for the night when I couldn’t feel my toes anymore and couldn’t stop shivering, a blast of wind hitting me as I turned and forced my way back through the trail I’d left behind, the deep holes my feet had left already fading from view as yet more snow fell.

As I took the shortcut down Eastbourne Street an incredible vista opened up before me. It was as if I’d walked into the past. The cars were completely buried here so all I could see were pure unspoilt undulating mounds of white flanking the two rows of terraced houses either side of the road. It looked like something straight out of A Christmas Carol, the wrought iron lampposts easy to imagine as gaslights, their glow softened by the endless falling white flakes. I had to take one more photo, even in my half frozen state, I just had to.

I stepped off the pavement into the middle of the silent road and stopped, crouching down with the camera hovering above the nearest drift as I looked through the viewfinder. Half buried in the snow my body fought me, making me shiver so much it was hard to keep still long enough to hit the shutter button. I took a deep breath and then took my last shot of the night, the last photo I ever took, I never picked a camera up again after that night, like the snow, they reminded me too much of him.

I was looking down when I hit the button so I didn’t see him at first. When the photo appeared on the screen I was surprised by a blurred shadow appearing at the end of the road, they’d walked right into the middle of my shot and ruined it. Before I could do anything UPLOADING flashed across the image and I swore out loud.

I looked up, hoping whoever it was would walk away so I could try again, wondering if it was possible to get online and delete the failed attempt. He didn’t move. He just stood there, looking directly at me from under the hood of his greatcoat, at this distance I couldn’t see his eyes but I knew he was staring at me, I could feel it.

I gave up waiting after a minute, feeling increasingly unnerved. When was the last time I’d seen another person? I realised the entire time I’d been out I hadn’t seen a soul, nobody else was stupid enough to be out in these kind of conditions. Only me. And him.

I reached the pavement and began forcing my way through the ever deepening drifts, picking up the pace as best I could, wanting only to get away from that staring stranger and back to the safety of my flat.

If it wasn’t for the snow and the cold I’d have heard him coming. But then if it wasn’t for the snow he might not have risked it, when else would he have gotten chance to abduct someone without there being any witnesses around?

My legs began to ache from the effort of forcing my way through and I was about to look back when I felt a pair of hands grab me. I hadn’t even heard him over the wind but he must have run to catch me, grabbing my shoulders and wrenching me backwards off my feet. I slammed into the ground, a plume of snowflakes rising around me as if I’d been thrown into icing sugar.

I tried to twist onto my side as I let out a gasp of shock but by the time I’d moved my shoulder he was at my side, reaching for my arm. He gripped it in both hands and wrenched it painfully behind my back, forcing me back to my feet.

The fall had winded me and I was wheezing for air as I kicked out at him, trying to squirm out of his grip. I managed a pathetic scream, the wind whipping it away from me as he suddenly let go. For a single moment I thought I could run but then his fist slammed into my stomach, knocking any thoughts of escape from my body if not my mind. I hadn’t even seen his face yet, he was just a figure in black. He hit me again and my mouth fell open in pain, something popping in my chest.

The pain of the two ends of a broken rib rubbing together was excruciating and as he began dragging me along the street, I almost passed out, a wave of dizziness washing over me. I was still instinctively kicking my legs at nothing as he pulled me backwards through a doorway and into a house.

He twisted and hurled me along the hallway. I skidded to a halt on a thin carpet as he kicked the door shut, the sound of the wind cutting out as if flicked off by a switch. I staggered upright as he turned towards me and I caught a glimpse of his eyes glinting under the hood of his coat as he ran at me.

My heart pounded, my ribs ached and I was still fighting for breath, my head pounding as I held my arms out in front of me. “Stop…stop,” I gasped, the words little more than a whisper.

He grabbed my shoulders as I lashed out at his chest. He ignored the blows I landed, shoving me backwards through a door that flew open as I hit it. I fought to stay upright as I staggered back and he took advantage, darting forwards and taking hold of me again, pushing me down into a waiting chair.

I tried to get up but he held me in place with inhuman strength, moving one hand to tighten a waiting ziptie around my left wrist, binding my arm to the side of the chair. Panic gave me strength and I slammed my free first into his side again and again but I might have been hitting a statue for all the impact it had.

He reached out and took hold of my right arm, ignoring my screams as he forced it down, using a second ziptie to trap me in place on the creaking chair.

“What the…?” I managed to get out before he hit me again, pinpointing my broken rib and sending any thought of speech far from my mind. The room went dark as white hot pain lanced through me and by the time I could see again my ankles were bound in place, leaving me trapped at his mercy. I twisted my limbs to try and free them as my heart jack hammered in my chest, the plastic ties cutting deep into my skin.

How the hell had this even happened? A few minutes ago I was out taking some lovely scenic photos of the snow and now what was happening? About to be raped? Killed? “What are you doing to me?” I wheezed, tugging at my wrists. “Let me go!”

He disappeared behind me and a second later my woolly hat was yanked down over my eyes. “Let me go!” I screamed, whipping my head from side to side. “Help me someone!”

I heard the rustle of his coat and then his fist crashed into the side of my face, breaking my jaw. I felt the impact a moment before the pain hit me, my ear ringing as I heard him pace up and down behind me muttering to himself, the first time I’d heard him speak.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he was saying as if in conversation with someone else. “It’s a bad idea, you’ll get in trouble. But I have to do this, I’ve been planning it too long. You could still let her go. I can’t, it’s gone too far now.”

I tried to scream again but he silenced me with two more punches. My lip swelled up as tears ran down my cheeks. I could taste blood in my mouth and for some reason that scared me more than anything else. Was I going to die here, would that be the last thing I ever tasted?

He fell silent and a moment later I heard him step out in front of me and then he lifted my hat from my head so I could look at him.

“No turning back now,” he said as I stared at him, tossing my scarf aside to expose my neck. He wasn’t how I pictured a murderer. Now his coat was off I could smell the acrid stench of stale sweat rising from his clothes. He was powerfully built but his face seemed out of place, pale with sunken cheeks. He had greasy black hair that was thinning on top and his eyes looked bloodshot as if he’d been crying. He was around forty, the kind of person you wouldn’t look at twice if he saw him in the street. He didn’t smile.

I opened my mouth to scream and he held up a knife, waving it from left to right as if lazily swatting at flies. “Please don’t make a fuss,” he said. “I have such a headache this evening.”

“Please let me go,” I replied, my jaw in fresh agony with each mangled word. “I won’t tell anyone about you, I swear. Just let me go.” My eyes were fixed on the knife as I spoke but I fell silent when he pressed the tip of it into my cheek just deep enough to draw a drop of blood.

“I will let you go,” he said, moving the knife away. “When it’s over. Excuse me for a moment. Scream all you like while I’m gone.”

He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me to look round to see if there was anything that might help me escape. I tried not to let panic take over as I saw the soundproofing foam coverings the walls and ceiling. A bare light bulb dangled down above my head. As I craned my neck round I could make out the corner of a table. By pushing down on my feet and lifting my whole body in jolting movements, I was just able to turn my chair towards the table.

It was covered a faded red tablecloth and laid on top were ten knives of varying shapes and sizes, the blades brown with rust on all but the smallest. Terror filled my body, the adrenaline numbing my pain enough for me to bump the chair towards the table, knowing he might return at any moment.

I stretched out with my fingertips and caught the edge of the tablecloth, drawing the fabric through my fingers as in my head a voice screamed, “Come on!” The knives slid slowly my way and I willed them on, certain that I’d feel his hand on my shoulder before I reached my goal.

I lunged forwards when I couldn’t wait any longer, stretching out my fingertips and just managing to get hold of the nearest handle. Gripping it tightly, I turned the chair and bumped my way back to where I was. Now I was again the patient victim only this time with something hidden between my hand and the armrest of the chair.

As I came to rest, the door opened and he walked in carrying a tripod with my camera screwed into the top. “What are you going to do to me?” I asked, drawing his attention to me as he glanced across at the table.

“I’m going to make us both famous,” he replied whilst setting up the tripod in front of me. “I’ve always wanted to be famous.”

“How?” I asked, twisting the knife under my wrist and bringing the edge to bear against the ziptie that held my arm in place, waiting for a chance to start sawing.

He carried on adjusting the angle of the camera as he explained, “You walked down my street with the perfect camera. I know this one well, was planning to get one myself at some point. Auto-uploads doesn’t it? Just what I needed.” He stroked the camera gently as if it were alive. “I think you were meant to die tonight, that’s what I think. Now how do you set the video going? Oh, I see, how clever.”

Whilst he was talking I began slowly sawing along the edge of the ziptie, shuffling my feet to help disguise the sound. He continued talking, glancing up at me every few seconds. “Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes, do you remember that saying? Only now it’s all online isn’t it? All those celebrities on TV famous and for what? For being on other TV shows. Anyone can be famous now and the way I see it, you don’t need fifteen minutes anymore. Six second clips are everywhere. Have you seen some of them? I saw one of a guy pushing his wife off a bridge to splatter on the waiting crowd below. Ten million views. Ten million, imagine that? Child smacked by his dad until he passed out. It was sickening stuff but forty million people have seen it. That kid’s famous just for being beaten.”

“So what?”

“I’m going to top them all. I’m going to put out the best six second clip anyone will have ever seen and your camera is going to help?”

“What are you going to do?”

He ignored my question. “What’s been putting me off has been fear, can you believe that? I’ve tried and tried but I keep backing out but then you came along.”

“What’s so special about me?”

“It’s not you, it’s your camera. Autouploading, live feed, don’t you see? Set this up to go live and there’s no backing out. You have to do it. Your audience will expect nothing less.”

“You’re insane, do you know that?” I asked as I felt the ziptie give a little. I just had to keep him talking for a few more minutes and it’d be frayed enough to break free.

“I hardly think so. Could a madman connect your camera to countless feeds around the world in the time it takes you to settle into your chair? Here we go. Thirty seconds and we go live.”

The red light on the front of the camera began to flash, counting down the seconds. “Live with what?”

“No backing out, no cancelling, I can do this, I know I can.” He glanced across at the table and the first sign of any emotion crossed his face, sheer unadulterated rage. “Where’s it gone?”

“Where’s what gone?” I asked, frantically sawing through the last of the ziptie as his attention was distracted.

“My favourite knife, where’s it gone? It was right there.” He moved over to the table as his wristwatch began to beep. “There’s no time.” I heard the clatter of metal on metal behind me and then he had a long blade pressed to the front of my neck as he stood behind me.

The red light stopped flashing and began glowing steadily. “Six second beheading,” he said to the camera.

Time seemed to slow down as I yanked my wrist upwards as hard as I could, the ziptie snapping and flying into the air. I felt his blade begin to draw across my neck as I twisted the knife handle in my fingers.

One second.

He glanced down and noticed my hand moving upwards, the knife pointing towards him. He tried to move his other hand towards it but he wasn’t quick enough.

Two seconds.

My blade slammed into something solid but giving, the flesh of his neck I saw as I twisted round to look at him.

Three seconds.

His knife caught the edge of my throat, pushing through the skin as I pulled my hand back down, my blade sliding free whilst blood dripped freely onto my wrist. He let out a gasp as I slammed upwards again, plunging my weapon so deep it wedged itself in his neck.

Four seconds.

There was a wet gurgling sound from the hole in his throat as I wobbled the knife from left to right until I caught his jugular, ripping the artery wide open. Blood sprayed outwards, soaking my face and almost blinding me. I saw a blurred image of his hands moving to his neck, doing his best to staunch the flow as it gushed through his fingers.

Five seconds.

I wiped my eyes as he slumped to his knees, a bubbling of blood and foam dribbling from his lips, his mouth silently opening and closing. So much blood. How could anyone have that much blood inside them?

Six seconds.

His mouth stopped moving at the same time as the red light on the camera turned to black. Blood pooled under his head as I breathed in for the first time in what felt like hours. I bumped my chair towards the table, trying to avoid his twitching limbs as I got hold of another knife and sliced through the remaining zipties, feeling wetness trickling down my neck. How badly was I hurt?

I stood up and began crying as I staggered out into the hallway, my legs threatening to give way at any moment, the walls closing in on me, the floor moving up and down as if I was at sea during a violent storm.

I tripped as I got the front door open, stumbling over the step into the snow outside. A drop of blood ran into my eye and I found my voice as I fell, letting out the scream that had been held in since I’d stabbed him. As I lay there, my limbs began to shake, nausea rising up inside me as my vision faded.

I know that someone found me eventually. I must have looked a hell of a sight, laid in the crimson snow with an open wound in my neck, screaming uncontrollably through a broken jaw.

The next thing I remember was waking up in hospital, doped up to the eyeballs and no idea how I’d got there. I caught sight of something flickering in the corner of the room and at first I was sure it was him, come to finish the job when I was too weak to stop him. I scrambled backwards in the bed as I blinked away the water from my eyes.

It was only the TV. I frowned when I saw my own face staring back at me, my university graduation photo was on display as a news ticker scrolled along the bottom of the screen. My portrait was replaced a second later by a blurred out clip showing me tied to the chair in his room. I could see my hand moving up towards his face, killing him with his own knife even through the censored footage. I had to squint and blink repeatedly before I could make out the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen. MURDER GOES VIRAL – Shocking clip gains 172 million views in less than four hours.

I sank down onto the bed and closed my eyes, a smile forming on my lips as I tried to resist letting out a bubbling giggle of insanity, unsure whether I’d be able to control it if I did. One thought kept repeating in my mind over and over. He got his six seconds of fame after all.

Forever Young

I only wanted to look younger. Now I’m trapped in this box, unable to move, unable to see and with no hope of escape. Worst of all nobody even cares. How did this even happen?

I hit forty a month ago and every morning since then I’d looked in the mirror and only seen an old woman getting older, staring back at me through watery eyes surrounded by crows feet. It seemed to happen so suddenly. One minute I was in the prime of my life and the next I was racing towards the grave with my skin sagging and my hair turning white at lightning speed.

I told my sister how I felt, expecting sympathy. Instead she posted me a voucher for a spa day with a heartfelt note attached. “Enjoy – I won’t come with you. I don’t want to see you naked. Haha.” Hilarious. Still, I wasn’t going to turn down the chance for a day of pampering, especially when someone else had paid for it. I went along, knowing in my heart that the only thing that would really make me feel better was surgery. I sat through a massage that left me bruised and aching and a sauna that was all steam and no heat, like sitting naked in city fog. After that I was left slumped in an armchair in a robe, a goat’s placenta mud pack soaking into my pores as I tried to relax, not an easy task with the stereo speaker directly behind my head blasting out panpipes loudly enough to make my ears ring.

I only found the card because I let my arm slide down the side of the chair. I’d never have noticed it otherwise. As my hand slid down the inside of the armrest something jabbed the edge of my wrist. I lifted a cucumber slice from my eye and looked down, spying a rectangular piece of cardboard poking up from the gap between the cushion and the armrest. I pulled it out. It was a business card, pure white with tiny black letters across the centre spelling out, ‘Forever Young.’ Underneath was a phone number.

“Everything okay Miss Murdoch?” I looked up to see my beautician, Cindy, glancing across from her desk in the corner. “You need to try and keep still for another half an hour. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I replied, absently slipping the card into the pocket of my robe. I leaned back in the chair and sighed, thinking no more of it until the end of the day. I was on my way out when Cindy caught up with me, running across reception and waving her arm.

“Miss Murdoch, Miss Murdoch. I think you forgot this.”

“Forgot what?” I asked as she held the business card out towards me. I took it from her and let her hold the door open. “Thanks,” I said as I stepped outside. She nodded and headed back into the warm. As I climbed into my car the impulse to ring the number took over and before I knew what was happening I had my phone to my ear and was listening to the tone at the other end.

“Forever Young.” A woman’s voice, no hint of an accent.

“Hello?”

“Can I help you?”

I realised I didn’t even know what to say. “I’m not sure. I found your card at this spa and-“

“Would you like to make an appointment?”

“That depends,” I said, looking at my crow’s feet in the rear view mirror. “Can you make me young again?”

She laughed politely. “Perhaps. We do have a cancellation this evening. Could you make it for seven?”

I took the address from her and typed it into my GPS. Only ten miles from my house, plenty of time to go home and get changed first. At ten to seven I pulled up outside a towering office block, the top floors still unfinished, the walls wreathed in scaffolding. A dust covered ramp led up to a glass entrance door and I walked into what looked like a building site. The reception desk was covered in clear plastic sheeting, held in place by thick black tape. There was nobody around, it was eerily quiet, as if I was alone in the world.

I was about to turn and leave when I noticed the list of names beside the lift. At the bottom of a typed list of names and floor numbers I spotted the words, ‘Forever Young,’ handwritten in green ink with the number 13 scrawled beside it.

The lift pinged open, gentle muzak wafting out towards me. I stepped inside and pressed 13. The doors slid shut and the lift whirred into life, stopping a minute later with another ping. I stepped out into a long corridor, the walls lined with framed paintings of sculpted models, chiselled stubbly men, angular bony women. Tall pot plants were dotted about on the expensive looking dark red carpet. My heeled feet sank into the pile as I made my way along the windowless corridor and round the corner only to find myself at a dead end.

A woman sat at a plain desk in front of a floor to ceiling plate glass window. The desk contained only a single white phone. Besides the desk two chairs had been placed either side of a plain door.

“Miss Murdoch,” the woman smiled, looking up at me. “So glad you could make it. Won’t you take a seat?”

I sat, glancing across at her perfect skin, her immaculate hair, the aura of youth that seemed to take pride in my jealous glaze. “Can I ask how old you are?” I asked, certain she was barely out of her teens.

She smiled back at me. “I’m 52.”

“Wow, seriously? You look about 20.”

“Thank you. Forever Young works wonders-” The phone rang, interrupting our conversation. “Yes of course. Right away.” She replaced the handset and looked at me. “Mr Tanas will see you now.”

I stood up and pushed open the door beside me. I stepped into a palatial office, nearly half the space taken up by an enormous mahogany desk. A man sat behind it, leafing through a pile of papers. He looked up at me as I walked in. “Ah, Miss Murdoch. Won’t you sit down? Now I hear you’d like to be young again. Is that right?”

“I’m not sure. What exactly is it that you do here? Are you a surgeon?”

He laughed, throwing his head back. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as he wiped his eyes as if what I’d said was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “A surgeon? Oh my, no, I’m not a surgeon. What on earth makes you think that?”

“Well renting an office this size can’t come cheap. Your receptionist said she was in her fifties but she looks like a child. You do plastic surgery, right?”

“Let me put your mind at rest Mrs Miss Murdoch. The very last thing I would want is to slice you open with a scalpel. I have no intention of gutting you like a fish, sliding a blade deeply into your tender flesh to watch the blood stream out onto the floor of my office. We have a much more-,“ he paused, “-subtle approach to restoring your youthful looks.”

“And what might that be?” I asked, unable to get the image of him holding a scalpel above my prone body out of my mind.

“I like you Miss Murdoch. I think we’re going to get along famously. I’d like to ask you a question if I may. What would you pay if I could make you look young again? Now hold on, I don’t mean crammed full of collagen or injected with Botox every fortnight for the rest of your life. I mean a single one off treatment that will last from today until the day you die. What would that be worth to you? How much have you already spent on creams and balms and everything else that made no difference at all except to your bank balance? How much will you spend in the next ten years? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? A million? What if I told you I have something in this office that will stop you aging for good? What would that be worth to you?”

“If this thing of yours works, I’d pay pretty much anything.”

“Excellent,” he said, standing up. “Then I think we can do business together.” He walked over to an oil painting of a nude woman on the wall to my left. I caught a glimpse of the face as he lifted the painting off the wall, she looked like a younger version of me. He set the canvas down, revealing an iron safe set into the wall behind it. He spun the dial one way, then the other, then back again until the safe door swung open. When he turned back to me he was holding a small wooden box which he slid onto the desk.

Sitting back down he turned the box and pressed the clasp, lifting the lid before turning the contents to face me. Inside was a row of slender syringes, each filled with a liquid the same colour as the carpet, a deep impenetrable red.

“That’s not blood is it?” I asked as he held a syringe up to the light to examine the contents with one eye closed.

He roared with laughter again. “Oh Miss Murdoch, you are priceless.” He cradled the syringe in his arms as he spoke, as if rocking a newborn baby. “Blood? No, no, no. In here is the latest advance from our own laboratories. Some of the most incredible minds working in science today created this. We poached two gentlemen from lung cancer, a toxicologist who worked for New York P.D and three of the people working on curing Ebola. The vaccine for that particular virus is six months behind because of me and now I’m offering the fruits of their labour to you.”

“How much?”

“Before I tell you that let me say first that this comes with my personal guarantee. If you don’t see a difference in 24 hours we tear up your contract and you won’t owe a penny. Does that seem fair?”

“What’s in it?”

“Ah, now that I can’t tell you. Trade secret I’m afraid. But if it makes you young again, what does it matter what’s in it?”

“Nothing illegal I hope.”

“No of course not,” he said, a little too sharply. “If you’d just like to sign this little form and then you can roll your sleeve up for me.”

He’d laid the syringe on top of the contract. I tried to concentrate on the tiny dense writing but the syringe kept drawing my eye, the liquid inside swirling in ceaseless hypnotic patterns. In the end I gave up trying to read the contract and made the worst decision of my life. I signed it. “You still haven’t told me the price,” I said, laying the pen down.

“Patience Miss Murdoch, patience. Plenty of time for all that later. Let’s get this into you first before you get another minute older.”

I rolled up my sleeve as he came round the desk and picked up the syringe, pulling the clear cover off the long thin needle as he leaned against the side of my chair. He held the syringe to the light and depressed the plunger just enough for a single tiny drop to bead at the top. He moved so fast after that I hardly had time to even wince. In under a second the needle was in the cruck of my elbow, the contents vanishing into my vein. Once empty he replaced it in the box.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it. We’ll be in touch for a follow up appointment sometime next week but don’t worry if you can’t get to the phone. We can always come to you.”

I left the office with a dull ache in my arm. By the time I went to bed that night, the ache had begun to throb and the point where the needle had entered my arm was swollen and sore looking. I was surprised by how quickly I went to sleep though, my head barely on the pillow before I was gone. I woke up the next morning feeling fresher and more alert than I had in years. I almost ran to the bathroom, staring at the surreal sight of someone I hardly recognised in the mirror. A twenty year old was staring back at me. I pressed a finger to my face. My skin was firm again. My nipples no longer pointed towards the floor, even my grey hairs seemed to have vanished overnight.

I spent the day in a delirium of happiness. I wasn’t recognised anywhere. It was blissful. Andrew in the newsagents tried to flirt with me, he’d barely looked up when I bought a paper normally. In the supermarket I had a group of three teenage boys approach and ask for my number. I gave it to them, giggling as they walked away fighting over who would text me first. I sat in the park for a while and it was delightful. My back didn’t ache from sitting on the bench for more than a minute, although my arm was still throbbing. At least the swelling had begun to go down.

I went to bed that night happier than I’d been for a very long time. When I woke up the next morning my skin felt firmer than ever. The varicose veins on my leg had gone. Good riddance. I smiled at myself in the bathroom mirror but felt a pang of concern when the reflection didn’t smile back. I ran a hand over my face, the muscles weren’t responding to my commands. It took nearly a minute to make my eyebrows raise at all and then they remained up, as if I was permanently startled by something.

I remembered what Mr Tanas had told me as I was leaving. “There might be a few fluctuations in the first 48 hours while your body responds to the treatment. Nothing to worry about. You’ll be absolutely fine.”

But that evening I felt worse than ever. The fashion magazine I tried to read kept slipping through my fingers. I couldn’t even grip my coffee mug properly. My body wasn’t responding to my commands. I tried to rummage in my handbag for the Forever Young card, in the end dumping the contents over the kitchen table. It took a concerted effort to punch in the number on my phone but it was all in vain. They didn’t answer, the phone just rang and rang. In the end I gave up, vowing to ring them again in the morning. They’d definitely be there in the morning.

I struggled to get to sleep that night. Every time I went to roll over, I woke up, my skin feeling taut and stretched too thin. I dreamt I was being pulled on a rack in a medieval torture chamber, grinning torturer standing over me, laughing just as Mr Tanas had. By the next morning I could hardly move, my skin as thin as tissue, as if it might tear open at any moment.

I walked more like a zombie than a person, making my way to the bathroom where a mannequin stared back at me in the mirror. I turned to leave, unable to look at myself any longer. I was losing the ability to bend my knees and by the time I made it halfway downstairs I lost my balance, falling forwards and sliding down the remaining steps, landing with a thud in the hallway. I managed to roll onto my side before I finally lost all sensation in my spine.

I felt ridiculous. My arms and legs stiff as boards, sticking out from me as if I were a wooden doll. I could still see but I couldn’t move, not even to blink away the dust falling into the corner of my eye as I lay there. All I could do was stare at the leg of the hall table that I’d narrowly avoided crashing into when I fell.

The shadows on the wall crawled their way towards the skirting board until it began to grow dark. I tried to force my limbs to move from time to time but in the end I gave up. Nothing seemed to work. After an eternity of night it slowly grew light again. I’d been laid there nearly twenty four hours when I heard my phone ringing. Sometime later I heard the letterbox being scraped open and then my sister’s voice reached me through the tiny slot. “Are you in? Hey why are you-Oh my God.”

She’d seen me, at last someone had seen me. I heard a thud, then another and then the door crashed open. She knelt down beside me, rocking my shoulder as I stared back at her, trying my hardest to blink. “Are you all right?” she asked, fear evident in her voice.

I tried to answer. I put all the effort I could into speaking but my jaw was locked in place, my tongue a dead weight in my mouth. I hoped she’d notice me breathing but she was already on the phone, pacing back and forth next to me.

“Oh God, come on, come on, answer. Hello? Ambulance please. It’s my sister. She’s not moving. She feels so cold. I think she might be dead.”

I couldn’t hear the response on the other end but they must have told her what to do as she began rolling me onto my back. She started chest compressions. It felt surreal seeing her hands ramming into my chest as she wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “She’s so stiff. No, it’s not doing anything. Are they nearly here yet?”

I heard a siren approaching as she rolled me back onto my side and began slapping me on the back as if I had food wedged in my throat. A minute later a second pair of ankles appeared by my sisters. “Hi, I’m Gary,” a man said, kneeling down to look at me. “Can you hear me?”

He looked up as another person appeared in the doorway. They had my shirt pulled open in seconds, applying chest paddles before shocking me. I felt nothing except a bizarre sense of shame that I hadn’t chosen a better bra for two men to be staring at. A minute later I was in the back of the ambulance, Gary kept up the chest compressions all the way to the hospital.

Once we arrived I was wheeled into the building and then I got the shock of my life as a face I recognised loomed over me. He might have been dressed as a doctor but I recognised that smile. It was Mr Tanas. He shone a light in my eye, turning to Gary. “I’ll take her from here.”

“Don’t you want to know-?”

He smiled at the paramedic. “I know everything I need to. She’s dead. Go away.” He was already wheeling me along the corridor as he spoke, pushing me round the next corner and through a set of double doors.

“Oh dear,” he said, looking down at me as fluorescent lights passed by above his head. “Dead on arrival. Such a shame. Don’t worry Miss Murdoch, it happens to us all. And you certainly won’t get any older now.”

He swiped a card to unlock a door and then wheeled me through. He handed the stretcher to a porter who nodded back at him. “Another one Mr Tanas?”

Mr Tanas smiled. “Afraid so. We did all we could.”

“Course you did,” the porter said, placing a sheet over my head, leaving me blind to what was happening. “Course you did.” Terror began to bubble up inside me as I wheeled round one corner after another before finally being slid onto a long steel shelf. A door clanged shut and then everything went dark. All I could think about was the post mortem my mother had undergone after she died. What if they decided to carry one out on me? Would I feel it? Would I bleed? Would they be able to stop in time when they realised I was very much alive?

One horrific image after another flashed in front of my eyes over the next few hours. It was like living through a nightmare. I was wheeled out for my sister to look at. A glimpse of her sobbing face as she identified me then back on the shelf. Next I was brought out and manhandled into a long black bag, the zip rested on my nose as I was wheeled into a van. I could hear the noise of traffic for a while before I ended up on another shelf, the noise of this door clanging shut was like closure on my life.

After another eternity in the pitch black I was pulled out again, the bag unzipped so I could see once more. Two people stared down at me, one of them looking a lot like the porter and the other reminding me of Mr Tanas’s secretary.

“Request for no embalming. That’s a shame. I enjoy embalming them,” the man grinned down at me. “You should picture it Miss Murdoch, the fluid coursing through your veins, the blood draining away for us to top up the…well never mind about that. Let’s get you into a coffin shall we. Time waits for no man after all.”

Being manhandled into a coffin was bad enough but the funeral was hellish. A parade of sad faces gawped in at me in my half open casket. I lay there praying someone, anyone, would recognise the spark of life in my eyes.

I saw Mr Tanas appear above me, talking conversationally as if I might reply. “I do so wish they’d chosen cremation,” he said, pushing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Burial is so…old fashioned.” He vanished from sight, leaving me picturing flames consuming me as the vicar began to carry out the service. I’d been taken too young, I was a wonderful person, I wasn’t dead, just resting. All the time I was screaming in my head, fighting to move my body. I put all the effort I had into the muscles of my left hand and then it happened.

I felt my little finger twitch. It was only a tiny movement, little more than a reflex, but it was real. Suddenly I had hope that my nightmare would end before I was buried alive. I concentrated, willing my finger to move again, let me out of here, make me push open the other half of my coffin so I could wave to the world and flick the finger to Mr Tanas, no doubt smiling on the back row somewhere. Then I did it. It moved again. This time the knuckle bent and my ring finger twitched too.

At that moment my sister’s head appeared above me, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “Goodbye,” she whispered. I felt a tingle on my face, I’d felt her kiss. Another minute and my whole hand would be wriggling, I just knew it. No, no, no I screamed in my head as the coffin lid was closed. I couldn’t see a thing in the darkness but I kept fighting to get my wrist to respond so I could knock on the coffin lid and hammer for my freedom.

I’ve been trying to calculate how long it takes to get to the cemetery. Was the service held in the chapel there? Am I in a hearse right now? How long do I have left? My nightmare will be over just as soon as I can get my arm to move. It will, any moment now it will. My wrist is throbbing, the feeling is returning. My toes are moving too. It’s going to be okay.

What was that? I heard something just then. What was it? There it is again. Oh God, come on arm, move, move! That noise again. I think I know what it is now. I can’t be sure of course but it sounds to me a lot like a shovelful of soil being scattered onto a coffin lid.

Free Refills

Oliver knew something wasn’t right from the very first sip. It had been an exhausting morning with the client from hell and he wanted one quick drink to help the tension fade away. She’d insisted on the longest possible inspection of a house that had ever been undertaken and after an entire morning showing her round she’d still decided to go away and think about it. Sitting in the corner of the village pub afterwards, Oliver stared out of the window, trying to calm down. Maybe one day you’ll be able to afford to live in a place like this, get out of the city. It’s so peaceful out there, like travelling back in time.

At least now he knew why nobody else in the office had taken this one. Normally they fought like bickering children over the chance for commission and a shot at the quarterly bonus but the place had been silent when the name ‘Saunders’ was scrawled up on the board. Unable to believe his luck, Oliver had claimed her and driven fifty miles out of the city into the depths of nowhere before reaching the timeslip village. He’d not been out here before and was amazed at the sights as he drove in. Farmers in torn waistcoats and flat caps sat on horses chatting to each other, pipes dangling from the corners of their mouths. Women walked between the few shops with wicker baskets under their arms and bonnets on their heads, children placed hopscotch in the road. It was surreal.

Of course it was all spoilt by the arrival of Mrs Saunders in her enormous 4x4, sending the children running for the safety of the pavement. As soon as she stepped out of the car, he realised why nobody had claimed her. She was abrasive and condescending in equal measure. Her opening sentence to him was, “They’ve sent the tea boy to show me round then?”

Her cut glass accent combined with an attitude of superiority that made her come across like a royal addressing an errant servant who’d been caught stealing the silverware. He unlocked the door to the vacant house and let her in, trying his best to make small talk.

“So are you looking to move in round here?”

She looked down her nose at him from the doorstep. “Do I look like the type of person who’d live in this house?”

“No,” he withered under her gaze. “I just thought-”

“Not that it’s any of your business but I’m looking for a house for my daughter to rent out, get her started in a proper business. Any more questions?”

Oliver might have had none but Mrs Saunders had hundreds, from the age of the boiler to what school the owners went to. By the time it was all over, the clock on the church tower had rung twelve. Three hours to view a two bed cottage. Oliver shook his head as Mrs Saunders drove away, vowing to go off sick if her name appeared on the board again.

He was walking back to his car when he saw the pub, tucked in between a veg shop with a cracked window and a butcher’s with joints of meat dangling under its striped awning, flies swarming round them. He’d ducked into the pub before he’d even thought about it but managed to stop himself when he was no further than the porch. Was this a good idea? Had it been long enough? He thought back to the last meeting, sitting in the church hall with the others, pouring out his desire to pour out a drink. The others all sitting there nodding politely, waiting for their turn to talk. He had no doubts about what they were thinking. They’d been alcoholics for decades, he’d only just got started on this path. What right did he have to grumble when he was barely out of his teens? They never said it out loud but he knew, he could tell just by looking at them.

Oliver felt suddenly hot, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He told himself it was just the heat of the summer’s day outside but did that also explain the tremble in his fingers? With a deep breath he spun on his heels, shaking his head as he walked outside. He stopped by the door, noticing the poster glued to the wall. ‘Free refills on your morning joe. Valid until 4pm Monday to Friday.’

There was no harm in getting a coffee. Nobody could judge him for that and better still, he’d be able to drive back afterwards without continually glancing in the rear view mirror for police cars. He walked into the pub.

“Can I help?” the barmaid smiled. Behind her the rows of spirits whispered to him, each of them an old friend. They’d missed him. Where had he been? Time for a drink and a catch up. He ran his eyes along the bottles, drawn to the amber liquid inside the twenty year old Scotch, looking like nectar just waiting to be poured. No ice, why dilute perfection? It would scorch a trail down his throat and then the stresses of Mrs Saunders would just melt away…

“Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. The barmaid blinked as he corrected himself, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “Sorry, difficult day. Just a coffee please.”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

She took his money and pointed to a silver barrel laid on its side on the bar, a spout sticking out from the end. Oliver smiled. “Shaped like a keg. That’s cute.”

“Yeah, it was the boss’s idea,” she said, passing him a mug and saucer. “Thought it was funny. It’s a bugger to clean though.”

“Spoon?”

“Over on the table.”

Oliver took the mug and held it under the spout, twisting the tap until a thick black liquid spilled into his cup. It smelled rich and dense, overwhelming his senses. Once the mug was full he turned off the tap and made his way through to the next room. An open doorway led him into what was probably once a living room. Four tables had been squeezed into the available space. Three of them were already taken, everyone drinking coffee. He wasn’t surprised, for this price he’d be lucky to get a sugar sachet in the city.

He took the one remaining table in the corner by the window. From where he sat, he could still see the bar through the doorway. He looked down at his mug, it seemed so drab compared to the shimmering bottles on display. Nobody ever had a great night out on coffee.

Lifting the mug he took a sip and knew immediately that something wasn’t right. It was hard to put his finger on but something about the drink was off, it tasted…grainy was the only way to describe it. But other than that? He took another sip. The headache that had been building all morning seemed to fade away. Was that why everyone drank this stuff? Was it laced with something? Cannabis maybe? As he leaned back on his chair he watched a steady stream of people going back and forth to the barrel, refilling their mugs.

He frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. The barrel didn’t seem all that big but in all the time he’d been sitting here it hadn’t been refilled once. He leaned his head and caught sight of a pipe leading into the underneath of the barrel. Draining his mug he carried it back to the bar. As he refilled, he glanced under the barrel again, following the copper pipe that ran down the side of the bar. He turned round and frowned again. The pipe ran up the wall to the ceiling and then curved to follow the stairs up to the toilets. Why set it up like that?

The kitchen was behind the bar, he’d seen through when one of the barmaids carried a tray of dirty plates back. The phone in his pocket buzzed, knocking the questions from his mind.

“Hello?” he said into the phone as he carried his mug back to his table.

“How did you get on with Saunders?”

He could hear them all laughing in the background. “Very funny Jack. Why didn’t any of you warn me she was mental?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Are you on your way back yet or has she chained you to the bed?”

“Just grabbing some lunch then I’m on my way. Busy?”

“Not really but don’t be too long. Greg’s on the warpath again.”

He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He wanted to get back before Greg bollocked him for using an entire day for one viewing but he couldn’t. Something about that pipe niggled away at him. It was like when he was eight and he’d taken the toaster apart. Unfortunately he’d forgotten to unplug it first and his mother had found him laid on his back in the kitchen with smoke rising from the socket.

“What the hell were you doing?” she’d asked, shaking his shoulders in mixed anger and fear. “You could have been killed.”

“I had to know,” was all he could think of to reply. Same as today. He had to know. Standing up, he followed the sign for the toilets, heading upstairs with the pipe running beside him along the top of the wall. It passed the gents, then the ladies and then went through a hole in the wall at the top of the stairs. Below it was a door marked ‘Private.’

He glanced round him to see if anyone was watching before trying the door. It was unlocked and he found himself walking into a small room filled with boxes of crockery and sugar sachets. There was another door at the far end and the pipe passed through again, an unpleasant smell wafting towards him. You should leave, you’re trespassing now. The voice was easy to ignore. He had to know.

The next door was unlocked as well. He pushed his way into a pitch black room, the door swinging closed behind him as a light flickered on. Blinking away the glare his jaw dropped as he realised what he was looking at.

On a steel table in the middle of the room was a body. The worst part wasn’t the stench of putrid flesh or the peeling skin sloughing away from their face. No, the worst part was the fact that they weren’t dead. Oliver’s hand automatically went to his nose, trying to shield himself from the smell. The person looked like they were rotting as they lay there, trapped inside a glass case coated in condensation. They moved their head and lifted a hand, weakly managing to wipe a patch to see through, catching a glimpse of Oliver. Their mouth opened as they tried to speak, black teeth coming into view behind cracked lips.

It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. They were wearing a semblance of clothes but flesh showed through the ragged holes, the bumps of their ribs clearly visible through the wet fabric. Their skin was mottled purple and blue with visible bedsores where they’d rubbed against the table under them. Oliver took a step forwards, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. “Oh my God,” he muttered as he stared at the person’s bloodshot eyes. Skin had sloughed away from their face so much it revealed dark flesh underneath that oozed pus down onto the already soaked table.

A tiny hole had been drilled through the case and a drip ran through it into the person’s arm. Was that keeping them alive? They shuffled their legs and then he could see where the pipe led to. The table sloped towards a one inch wide hole and all the fluids that gathered were trickling down it into the pipe. He felt the contents of his stomach trying to rise up out of him as his mind followed the flow of liquids down the stairs to the coffee keg and then he turned away to retch onto the floor, only stopping heaving when every drop of coffee was splattered onto the worn carpet at his feet.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The person was trying to speak, their mouth opening and closing as a tooth fell away from their jaw. It looked as if they were crying as they clawed up at the top of the case. Oliver felt along the glass for any leeway but it was fixed firmly to the table. He looked round him for anything to help but the rest of the room was empty.

He spun and ran for the door, finding it locked. “Hey,” he shouted. “Let me out.” He kicked the wood with his foot before shoulder barging once, twice and then on the third time there was an almighty crash and he was through. The next door was locked too but this one was much more solid than the first. No amount of kicking or shoving moved it. Swearing loudly he looked round the room, noticed the boxes piled against a grime covered window. He used both hands to push the boxes aside, yanking at the window latch which refused to budge.

He picked up one of the boxes and hurled it at the window. The glass shattered and fell down to the alleyway outside. He winced as he looked out, catching a finger on one of the razor sharp shards remaining in the frame. Was it too far to jump? He was about twenty feet up. Was that too far?

Putting one foot on the edge, he forced himself out, taking a deep breath before letting go. His arms flailed as he fell, landing a second later with a thud on the concrete below, inches away from the overfilled bins.

He tried to stand but his leg gave way. Have you broken it? Find out later. He limped to the end of the alleyway straight into the arms of a police officer. “What’s happened here then?” the officer asked.

“Per…person upstairs. Please. You must-” he blurted out too fast to be understood.

“Calm down a moment sir. Now I’m not sure I recognise you. Are you from round here?”

“What the hell does that matter? Come on, before anyone else drinks it.” He tried to walk but fell into the officer’s arms again.

“I think we should get you to a hospital sir. You look as if you’ve hurt yourself.”

“No! Look, come with me. Please. There’s someone who needs help. They’ve kidnapped her, him, oh God” He retched again, convulsions making his empty stomach hurt, momentarily distracting him from the pain in his ankle.

“All right sir. Hold on. Where are we going? Sir!”

Oliver limped round the corner and back into the pub, retching once more when he saw all the people sipping their coffees. He gripped the banister tightly as he made his way up the stairs, gritting his teeth against the pain, the officer followed him. “Break it down,” he said as he pushed the door at the top. “Quickly.”

“Can I help you two at all?”

Turning, Oliver saw a man in a suit at the bottom of the stairs. “All right Danny,” the officer said. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve got in here?”

“About two thousand teaspoons and the plates we don’t use anymore. Why George? Think I’ve been storing cocaine in there or something?”

“Can we take a look?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Danny climbed the stairs and smiled at Oliver as he passed him. “Come on in,” he said, unlocking the door and stepping back. George walked in first, taking in the mess of boxes and the broken window at a glance.

“See, nothing too exciting,” Danny said, stepping past them.

“In there, in there!” Oliver shouted, pointing at the next doorway at the darkness beyond. How could they not smell it yet?

“Is there a light?” George asked.

Danny leaned round the doorframe, fumbling along the wall. “This is criminal damage isn’t it George? Smashed up my window and broke this door down. Looks like an escaped lunatic to me.”

The light blinked on and Oliver gasped. The table was still there but the glass case was gone as was the body. The only sign of anything amiss was a small pool of brown liquid near the rim of the hole.

“But…” he said. “It was there. I saw it. The coffee-” He turned to face the two of them. “I swear there was a body in there.”

“Want to make it official Danny?” The two men faced each other, ignoring Oliver as he limped over to the table and stared at it in disbelief.

“No, just get rid of him.”

“Right, come on then sir. You’ve had your fun.”

Oliver protested the whole way downstairs but George ignored him until they were outside. “I think it’s a sprain, you’re standing on it now. Do you want my advice sir?”

Oliver stared back at him.

“Switch to decaf.”

George walked away, leaving Oliver to limp to his car. He climbed inside, feeling numb. The village no longer seemed friendly and cosy anymore, it seemed wrong and he was the only person here who seemed to care. He started the engine and drove slowly, glad he owned an automatic as his ankle continued to throb, feeling about twice its usual size.

He reached the edge of the village and glanced in the rear view mirror, glad to be leaving. He vowed to come back as soon as he could with a bloody proper police force too, see how they like that.

He noticed a lorry coming up behind him so he pulled in to one side, not wanting it to tailgate him. Slowing to a crawl, he flicked on his indicator and looked in his mirror again. It was still coming towards him at speed and if it didn’t swerve soon it would-

There was the sound of tearing metal and then nothing. He opened his eyes and saw a flash of grass as the car spun out of control, then nothing again. He blinked away the blinding headache and moaned as he awoke. At first he thought he was in hospital. His shoulder was in agony and when he moved his ribs ground together. Blood trickled down his face and it was only when he moved his hand to wipe it away that he realised he was strapped in place.

He looked around him but it took a second for the reality of the situation to hit him. He was back in the pub, on the steel table and trapped inside the glass case. The end of a drip wobbled in his arm as he fought to free himself. He opened his mouth and screamed but the noise just echoed back at him. A wave of nausea washed over him and his vision faded again.

Downstairs the pub regulars sat at their usual tables, sipping their coffees. George sat on a stool, helmet on the top of the bar beside his mug. “Good coffee Danny.”

“It’s needed changing for a while,” George replied. “You can always tell it’s going off when it gets that gritty texture to it.”

Danny nodded. “You’re a connoisseur George,” he said as his friend wiped the top of the barrel with a damp cloth. “You really know your stuff.”

“Well you know what I say, nothing tastes better than a fresh cup of coffee.”

A Spot of Gardening

Alison was staring out of the window when Larry walked into the kitchen. She had that confused look on her face again. “Is that normal?” she asked as he yawned and flicked on the kettle.

“Is what normal?”

“That.” She pointed out at the garden. “Is that normal?”

Since last night’s argument the last thing he wanted was another discussion about the garden. It was never-ending. He thought when they moved in they’d spend about a week sorting out what stayed and what went and then leave the rest to the lawnmower. But that was three months ago and so far all they seemed to agree on was that the rosebush had to go. Debates had gone on long into the night about whether to have a pond and what depth, where to plant the fruit trees, how best to frame the view of the forest beyond their boundary.

She’d wanted a row of weeping willows near the fence for crying out loud. There was about eight billion trees looking in at their old forester’s cottage but apparently that wasn’t enough. A house and garden in the middle of a forest and she wanted more trees.

“What is it?” he asked, peering out of the window. “Dry stone wall needs moving two feet to the left? The flowers the wrong shade of pink?” All he could see were countless weeds that desperately needed tackling after so long prevaricating.

“That thing. It wasn’t that long yesterday was it?”

He realised she meant the bramble. True it did seem to have spread at a pretty impressive rate in the last few weeks. The mass of tangled thorns had been climbing over their fence when they’d moved in, crawling along the grass towards the house. Larry wasn’t surprised. The previous owners were a retired couple who’d seemed contented to let nature do its thing. When they were being shown round, Charles had impressed on them both that it needed work doing.

“New wiring, new roof and the garden’s a mess but there’s potential here Larry, you could make quite a profit on this one.” Larry always listened to his friend, estate agent or not, he was always honest. “And they’re desperate to sell too. You might be able to drop your offer if you time it right.”

When it came to exchanging contracts they’d dropped their price by a third and waited for a nervous couple of hours before Charles had rung to tell them the couple had accepted. Larry was happy to hear it, he’d fallen in love with the idea of a new life in the country, except Alison came along with it like a squashed fly in the middle of a perfect cake.

She’d helped for the first few days but she seemed to quickly get bored, spending her free time in the garden centre whilst bare wires stuck out of the interior walls. He’d done most of the work on his own and did she thank him? Of course not, just started banging on about the bloody bramble instead of getting out there and cutting it back herself.

The kettle clicked off. “I’ll have a look after breakfast.” He poured himself a tea and pointedly didn’t offer her one.

“Maybe we should get the professionals in. Get it cleared properly.”

Larry sighed. “If you’ve got the money, go for it. But if you remember, I spent the last of mine buying this place. I can’t afford gardeners on top.

“Fine, but promise me you’ll deal with it.” She walked over to where he was sitting and took his hands in hers. Had she forgotten that they hated each other? “I just want to sit out there and relax. Maybe in a bikini?”

He felt himself stirring. “You will,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “It’ll be done before you even look outside again.”

An hour later he was regretting those words, sweating profusely as he hacked away at the masses of tangled branches. It really was a mess, thickly knotted together with thorns capable of piercing his thick gloves as if they were made of tissue. By the time he stopped he had a huge pile of thick green foliage heaped together beside him, ready for burning.

Alison wasn’t there when he went in to make lunch. She didn’t reappear until late in the afternoon and by then he’d cut the bramble so far back you could actually see the fence that separated garden from forest.

“I’ll get to the roots tomorrow,” he said when he saw her in the doorway looking out at him. “I’m too tired to do much more. Where’ve you been?”

“Got some more lavender for the window boxes.” She kissed him, on the lips, something she hadn’t done for a long time. He came inside half an hour later to find dinner on the table and Alison waiting in the seat opposite.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, washing his hands in the sink before pouring a glass of water and drinking it in one go.

“Does a wife need an occasion to dote on her husband? Now come on, tuck in before it gets cold.”

He pulled up a chair and sniffed at the feast laid out for him. “I could get used to this.”

She smiled. “I bet you could.”

That night they made love, something he thought she’d forgotten how to do, drifting off to sleep whilst holding hands afterwards. The next morning he woke up to an angry cry from the kitchen. “I thought you’d cut it all back!”

Yawning loudly, Larry wrapped his dressing gown round him and walked downstairs. Alison was waiting by the window. “Well?” she tapped her foot, arms folded.

“Well what?”

“Look! The bloody bramble. What else?”

He walked over to the window, ready to prove her wrong but he was shocked as her by the sight out there. The jagged ends of the branches seemed to have sprouted an alarming amount of new growth. Thin tendrils of translucent green dipped down to the ground, crisscrossing back and forth as they splayed across the lawn.

“But I did cut it back.” His voice carried no weight, he was barely able to believe what he saw.

“Well you’re going to have to do it properly today.”

She actually joined him outside, the two of them spending the entire day hacking away at every new branch before sawing away at the thick knot of roots that sprouted from the pine needle coated forest floor two feet outside the boundary of their garden. As he cut through the stump, it oozed a clear fluid that leaked into the soil beneath them.

“I want you to drown that thing in weed killer,” Alison said, stretching her back.

“None left. I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”

They microwaved the leftovers from the previous day before climbing into bed, asleep within moments, both utterly exhausted.

Larry was up first in the morning, dressing quietly for work whilst Alison slept. He headed downstairs to make breakfast, every muscle in his arms aching. He didn’t pull the blind up until he’d finished washing up. “What the-” he began before stopping. He frowned at the sight. The stump of the bramble had sprouted more new growth that looked like frizzy hair that ran off in every direction. Tiny leaves had already appeared on the tendrils as the grass was once more hidden from sight. “That’s a hell of a weed.”

He was out before Alison appeared, not wanting to incur her wrath that early again. When he returned with the weed killer she was stood in the kitchen with the blind down.

“How is it?” he asked, setting the plastic bottle down on the table.

“Have a look,” she replied, pulling the blind up. The window was coated in green branches, tiny brown hooks sticking to the glass. The tendrils seemed almost to undulate and grow thicker before his eyes. It was an eerie sight and he was glad when Alison yanked the blind back down, blocking it all from view.

“I’ve been looking on the internet,” she said. “There’s a thing called Japanese knotweed that can grow a foot a day.”

“I know. I’ve heard of it. Ruins house prices. Gets in the foundations. But that’s just a bramble out there.”

“Maybe it’s not. I really think we need some professionals in to at least have a look at it.”

“I’m going to see Charles first. He can’t wash his hands of this. He sold us the house and didn’t mention that…that thing. You pour this on it, see if it helps. I’ll be back soon.”

He set off to Murray and Sons, getting more and more worked up as he drove, convincing himself they’d been swindled. “Where is he?” he said as he pushed the door open, anger clouding his normal calm manner. “Where is the cheating son of a bitch?”

“Lovely to see you too Larry,” Charles said, stepping out from his office. “Come on through. David would you bring Mr Evans a coffee please? Larry, stop pacing, you’ll wear out the carpet.”

He marched into the office and refused the offer of a seat. “You lied to us,” he snapped as Charles closed the door behind them.

“What are you talking about?”

“We bought that house in good faith on your say so. I’ll be lucky if I make a penny on it.”

The door opened and two steaming mugs were placed on the desk. “Ah thank you David. Close the door on your way out would you?” He waited until they were alone to continue. “Take a deep breath and start again. You’ve lost me.”

“There is a…a weed in our garden that won’t stop growing. A weed that you conveniently forgot to mention. Slip your mind did it?”

“Larry, listen to yourself. You’re getting all worked up over a sodding plant. There’s one here in this pot. Am I getting stressed about it? No. And you know why? Because it’s a plant.”

“I want to know what you’re going to do about it. I don’t care about your sodding potplant.”

“Frankly, I’m not going to do anything. I had the place fully surveyed, at my expense I should point out, as a favour to an old friend and nothing showed up on there. If there was anything wrong with the place, I’d have found it.”

“Well there is something wrong. There’s a bloody thing that won’t stop growing in my garden. I want…I want compensation or I’ll sue you.”

Charles leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Go ahead. You’re free to do whatever you like. But I should point out you signed the contracts Larry. Not only that but you got a bloody bargain. You’re welcome by the way.”

“A bargain? It’s not a bargain if I have to spend God knows how much getting that thing dug up from under the foundations or wherever the hell it’s got to by now.”

“Right,” Charles stood up and folded his arms. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve tried to be polite with you but-” Larry opened his mouth to reply. “Shut up. You got a house for far less than market value because of my hard work and my negotiating skills. Use some of the money you saved to solve the problem and spend the rest of it on suing me if you like but be careful if you do.”

A sneer formed on Larry’s lips. “Oh yes. And why might that be?”

“Remember the lovely old couple that lived there? A little birdy tells me the cottage they were moving into fell through, couldn’t afford it after you dropped your offer. She was so upset she ended up in Acer Park, bedbound and on her way out. He’s stuck in a little one bed alone and lonely after sixty years together. How would the court look on it if they heard it was you that ruined dear sweet little Enid and Eric’s lives?”

“You…you’re lying.”

“No Larry, sadly I’m not. Now are you done? Only you better get back to your garden.”

He stood up and held the door open. Larry walked out, stopping only to turn and snap, “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

He sat in the car fuming before a light bulb went off in his mind. He typed ‘Acer Park Hospice’ into his satnav and followed the gentle voice that guided him to a large manor house on the edge of town. He pulled up in a gravel car park and headed inside, wanting definitive proof that he’d been lied to.

“Can I help at all?” the receptionist asked.

“I’m not sure, is there an Enid staying here?”

“There is. Why? Are you a relative?”

“Yes,” he lied. “Could I see her?”

“I’m afraid visiting hours aren’t until five-”

“Oh please. I’ve come a long way and I’m…leaving the country and I just wanted to say bye before I go.”

She stood up and smiled. “Well as long as you’re quick. Come on, I’ll show you to her room.”

He followed her down a long hallway, the air filled with the strong smell of bleach. They passed several closed doors before he was shown into a tiny bedroom.

“Enid? Someone here to see you.” She turned to Larry. “I’ll give you a minute.”

Larry walked over to the bed and scrutinised the occupant. She was a tiny white haired slip of a thing, her skin pale and drawn. As she turned to look at Larry he was surprised by how sunken her eyes appeared.

“Hello dear,” she croaked, coughing harshly. “Do I know you?” She tried to sit up.

“Here, let me help,” he replied, shifting the pillows under her shoulders before slowly getting her into a sitting position. “They’re lovely flowers,” he said, nodding towards the window box.

“Eric was always the one for the garden,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “Always feeding the plants some concoction or other. He used to bring a fresh bunch in for the table every day, even in the winter. Roses in December, daffodils in October, he was a marvel with the garden was my Eric. I wonder where he’s got to today.”

“He’s at home Enid.” Larry turned to see who answered. There was a nurse standing in the doorway. “Do you remember?” She turned to Larry. “Her mind’s going I’m afraid. I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Cynthia.”

“Larry,” he replied, shaking her hand.

“Are you two related?”

“Sort of.” He turned back to the bed. “Enid, do you remember the bramble in your garden?”

“Oh that was his favourite. He had a special bottle just for that one, used to feed it every morning without fail. Had wonderful berries on it all year round, they made the best crumble. I might make him one today if he’s lucky.”

She tried to climb out of bed Cynthia stopped her. “You just rest there dear. Eric’ll be along later to see you.”

Larry stumbled backwards, feeling sure he was about to burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he turned to leave. “I made a mistake.”

He knew something was wrong as soon as he got home and stepped out of his car, there was an atmosphere around the house. He pushed open the front door and stopped dead at the sight before him. A huge twisting green branch filled the hallway, thick as a tree trunk and rippling as it inched towards the door as if it had heard him come in. Lengths of bramble shot out from the trunk, digging into the plaster and burrowing down through the carpet. Wicked black thorns the size of dinner plates jutted out along the length of it.

Something was dangling from one of the thorns and Larry’s mouth fell open when he realised it was a lock of Alison’s hair. “Alison!” he shouted, forcing his way through the tendrils that curled towards him as he passed. He tore at the oversized leaves blocking his view as he called her name again and again. He couldn’t make it into the kitchen, the thickness of foliage had taken over all the available space.

He heard a noise above his head and turned, climbing over thick branches, the stairs creaking under the weight of the plant’s advances as he made it up to the landing. He heard a muffled scream from the bedroom and had to squeeze through the gap in the door, unable to push it any wider due to the sheer weight of leaves pressing against it from the other side as if trying to keep him out.

“Are you in here?”

There was a squeak from the wardrobe in the far corner and he tore at the leaves with his hands, yanking tendrils away from the stems draped across the bed, causing the plant to shudder as if in pain. A thorn tore his trouser leg as he pushed past it, blood dripping down his thigh by the time he finally made it to the wardrobe.

He kicked a space clear so he could pull the door open enough to peer inside. All he could see was bramble filling the entire space. “Alison?” He caught a glimpse of something gleaming. He squinted and leaned his head forwards, trying to work out what it was. Then it hit him. Just visible through the thick mass of leaves was a pair of eyes blinking back at him.

“Alison,” he gasped, thrusting his arms into the wardrobe, his muscles screaming as he yanked as hard as he could, trying to unravel the knotted mess of branches holding her captive. The skin on his arms was shredded by the thorns but he hardly noticed, his mind fixated on freeing his wife. He felt something grip his ankle and looked down to see a length of dark green living wood wrap itself round him, holding his leg in place. He tried to stamp it away with his other foot but another branch slid round his chest, gripping him tightly, forcing him forwards into the wardrobe, pressing his body into the waiting thorns.

Blood began to trickle from a thousand tiny cuts as the door was pushed closed behind him. In the darkness all he could do was stare at Alison’s eyes as he watched life fading from them. He opened his mouth to scream but before he could make a sound, a long tendril slid inside and began to run its way down his throat. He tried to gag but it was too late. The last thing he saw was two tiny thin green twigs that looked a lot like snakes sliding towards his face. A second later they pierced his eyeballs, fluid burning down his cheeks as the darkness took him.

Enid sat up in bed sipping her tea as Cynthia listened patiently by her side, letting her ramble. “He was such a lovely man. Charles, I think his name was. He made sure we got the best price we could for the house. Eric was so grateful he even gave him a cutting of his favourite plant. Do you know what an honour that was?”

Cynthia nodded and smiled in response

“Potted it up the day we moved out and called in to give it to him, left it on his desk. I hope he’s looking after it. Lovely bramble that was. Berries all year round.” She paused, a smile playing lightly across her lips. “Made ever such a good crumble.”

That’s the Way To Do It

Glen looked at his watch, twenty minutes until the bell was due to ring and another school day would begin. “I’m telling you I saw him.”

“You didn’t!”

Glen looked at his two friends bickering and tried to decide whether or not to intervene. There was a chance they’d turn on him instead “Right,” he said at last. “Why don’t we just go down there tomorrow and watch it together. We’ll sit there all day if we have to if it’ll stop you two going on at each other.”

The next morning they met at the end of the promenade next to the beach huts. The sun was barely up and all three of them were yawning as they walked past the miniature railway towards the Punch and Judy hut. Glen wondered if they were really going to be the ones who identified him. It had started as a simple question. Had anyone seen the guy who put on the Punch and Judy shows? But the more people he asked, the deeper the mystery and the more determined he’d become to identify him. Nobody seemed to have ever seen him.

The hut was a simple wooden construction with a red and white curtain over the hole two thirds of the way up the front. Every day throughout the summer season there’d be a show. The guy was always hidden out of sight as the puppets carried out their timeless pantomime for the tourists. Punch hit Judy, Judy hit Punch, the policeman hit them both. A crocodile and some sausages get involved and a ghost puts in an appearance near the end. Glen used to like watching it when he was little but he’d long grown out of it.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing the guy that ran the thing. He never stuck his head into view, talking only through a microphone hooked up to an oversized speaker that blasted out “That’s the way to do it,” at ear-splitting volume from the roof of the hut.

Carl and Adam both had their own theories. Carl was adamant the guy turned up first thing in the morning and left after dark each day. Glen wasn’t so sure. What would be the point in that? And who’d stay in what was basically a wooden shed for twelve or more hours a day seven days a week?

Adam was convinced the story he’d heard from a mate of his sister’s cousin was the real truth. The man in the hut had died years ago but was still doing what he loved, putting on the show every day without anyone realising he was as much a ghost as the tiny white cloth puppet on his hand. Glen knew this was bull but when asked for his theory he realised he didn’t have one. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to know, it wasn’t that important after all. It was only that he’d got it in his head to find out and that was enough for him and it seemed for Adam and Carl too, following his lead.

It was a little after eight as they neared the hut. “What’s that?” Adam asked, pointing at Glen’s hand.

“A flask. Why?”

“Nothing. You going trainspotting afterwards?”

“It might be a long day. I’ve brought some tea with me. Problem?”

“No Granddad. It’s fine by me. Did you bring a blanket and slippers too?”

The waves crashed on the beach beside them as the tide slowly ebbed away, leaving a smooth expanse of golden sand ready for the day visitors to trample across. The three boys reached the hut a minute later, Glen stopping as he looked at it. “We should see if he’s in there already. Carl can do the honours.”

“Why me?”

“Because I want to prove you wrong. I don’t think he’s in there yet.”

“Fine.” Carl sighed and walked up to the hut, pulling the curtain away to peer inside. “Nope, nothing” he said, sounding disappointed. “Bang goes that idea then.”

“Let’s sit up there,” Adam said, pointing up the rolling hill past the beach huts. “We’ll be able to see anyone coming from up there. Did you bring your camera Carl?”

“Yep.”

They squatted down behind a hawthorn bush and peered over the top, Glen feeling like a spy for MI5.

Half an hour passed and their initial excitement began to subside, replaced by boredom. “Are we really going to sit here all day?” Carl asked.

“Shut up,” Glen said. “We’re doing this so we know. Don’t back out when we’ve only just got here.”

“Fine, I’ll be back in a minute then.”

“Where are you going?” Adam asked as Carl got up and began walking up the hill towards the housing estate at the top.

“Newsagents, get some supplies. Want anything?”

Adam frowned as Glen maintained his vigil on the hut. “Something fizzy.”

Carl nodded before carrying on, leaving Adam and Glen together. A minute later Glen pointed at the far end of the prom. “Look!” They watched as a white transit van bumped up the curb from the road, hazard lights flashing as it crawled through the thin layer of sand washed up off the beach onto the concrete. The van stopped in front of the hut, blocking their view. “Move,” Glen whispered to the van. “We can’t see. Trust him to have gone off with the camera.” He could only make out a hand on the steering wheel from this angle, the identity of the driver was hidden.

“Let’s go down and have a look,” Adam said.

“No wait. Listen.”

They heard the side door opening on the other side of the van before it slammed shut again a moment later. The engine restarted and the van began to reverse back up the prom.

They looked at the hut, the curtains were tightly shut but it was rocking slightly. Someone was inside.

“Should we go down?” Adam asked.

“What if he is a ghost?”

“Seriously?”

“Well, he might be. Let’s wait for Carl to get back. We might be the first kids to get a proper genuine ghost photo.”

By the time Carl reappeared, pockets stuffed with sweets, the first show had started. Only three families were gathered on the wall opposite the hut when the speaker came to life in a burst of feedback.

“Good morning kiddywinkles,” the man in the hut said. Glen shuddered at the sound of his heavy breathing, the microphone as ever was too close to his mouth. Every other word was punctuated by the wheezing exhalation of a heavy smoker, not that the families watching seemed to care.

“Thank you all for coming and a big hello from Mr Punch!” The hook nosed puppet appeared as the curtains opened, a tiny wooden hand waving out at the crowd. “Say hello kiddywinkles.”

Two of the braver children called out, “Hello.”

“You can do better than that, can’t you? Hello kiddywinkles.”

This time the parents joined in too. “Hello Mr Punch.”

“That’s the way to do it!”

When the show finished twenty minutes later there was a polite round of applause. “He has to come out some time,” Carl said through a mouthful of toffee.

“Next show in ten minutes kiddywinkles.”

Glen was surprised that his friends lasted all day by his side, neither of them grumbling about this being a waste of a good Saturday. Maybe it was because they took turns to visit the shop for further supplies as the afternoon wore on until at last it reached six o’clock, time for the last show. He had to come out after that.

“Let’s move,” Adam suggested. “Make sure the van doesn’t block our view again.”

“Good idea,” Carl replied. “I’ll go the other side with the camera. You two keep an eye out from here.” He stood up and walked down the hill as the last show was reaching its conclusion. Glen watched him squeeze himself between the end two beach huts, head peering out, camera in hand.

“See you tomorrow kiddywinkles,” Mr Punch waved as the curtains closed for the last time. Glen felt suddenly tense when he saw the van crawling along the promenade again, weaving its way through the dwindling crowds of sunburnt tourists still munching their ice creams and fish and chips.

It parked in the same spot as before, blocking his and Adam’s view. They heard the side door open and then close as it had that morning and then the van began to drive away. They walked down the hill, hoping Carl had done his job. They looked round the side of the beach hut but he was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know do I?” Adam said. “Gone home?”

“Carl!” Glen shouted but there was no answer. He jumped when the speaker on top of the hut squealed into life again. “Hello kiddywinkles, time for a special show just for you two.”

“Look mate,” Glen said, walking over to the curtain. “We’re not in the mood for mucking about. Have you seen our friend?”

“Naughty kiddywinkles for spying.” The curtain opened and the Mr Punch puppet appeared in view. “Mr Punch only wants to entertain kiddywinkles, don’t you Mr Punch?” The puppet nodded vigorously.

Glen had had enough. He leaned past the puppet to look inside the hut. “You’re mental mate,” he began. “Ouch!” The puppet slammed into the side of his head, sending him reeling backwards.

“That’s the way to do it!”

Adam lunged to grab the puppet but it moved too quickly, disappearing back inside the hut. A gloved hand appeared holding a catapult with a smooth round pebble placed inside. Adam had time to blink before the pebble shot forwards, smashing into his nose, sending a spray of blood down his chin.

“That’s the way to do it!”

Glen and Adam ran forwards at the same time, grabbing the sides of the hut, aiming to push it over. The puppet policeman appeared, holding a small metal canister. “Here’s a joke kiddywinkles. What hurts more than sea spray? CS spray! Geddit?”

The top of the canister began to hiss as a mist of liquid squirted out, hitting Glen and Adam square in the face. They both fell back, crying out in pain as their eyes began to water uncontrollably.

A figure emerged from the back of the hut but Glen’s vision was too blurred to be able to see anything more than a dark shadow. “End of the show kiddywinkles,” the figure said, grabbing the two boys by the shoulders and pulling them into the hut. Glen rubbed his eyes as he looked up to see the man’s face for the first time. His mouth was open to reveal yellow needle sharp teeth. As he watched with weeping eyes the man turned and bit into Adam’s head, tearing a chunk from his scalp to reveal the skull underneath. Glen retched as the man leaned back, sucking in Adam’s skin and hair before swallowing loudly.

Adam began to scream as the man leaned down again, his teeth digging into Adam’s tongue. With a tearing sound, the tongue was ripped from his mouth. Adam fell back against the wall of the booth, his mouth spraying blood.

Glen was frozen with fear as the man leaned down towards his friend once more, this time his teeth penetrating the skull as he began to suck out the cranial fluid within.

The man wiped his mouth as he let go of Adam before turning to Glen. Adam’s body fell to the floor, not moving, fluid draining out of the hole in his skull. “Hope you enjoyed the show.” Blood dripped from the man’s teeth as he leaned down towards Glen who lashed out at him, spurred into action at last as adrenaline filled his body. He fought wildly in a final attempt to get away from this…this thing.

The man grabbed Glen’s hand and brought it up to his mouth, licking his lips as he grinned broadly. He bit down into Glen’s wrist, tearing the hand away from his arm. He crunched the bone and gristle as Glen stared in disbelief at the stump of his wrist.

The man swallowed and closed the gap between him and Glen. He grabbed him by the shoulders and leaned down towards his face. “That’s the way to do it,” he said as his teeth tore into Glen’s head. Glen tried to scream, his vision fading but his body wouldn’t react. He felt his legs giving way and then he was laid on the floor of the booth, staring across at the pile of puppets beside the corpse of his friend. He felt a pressure on his back and then a wetness as his spine was ripped out of him and then he felt nothing at all.

The hut was gone the next morning, nothing left to show where it had been save for two dark stains on the concrete. Two hundred miles away in a small seaside town on the west coast a sign had appeared overnight, propped up beside a small hut that had a red and white curtain across the hole in the front. ‘Punch and Judy show starts here today. Free fun for all kiddywinkles.’

Emily Ragdoll

“What’s that Daddy?” she asked, noticing his hands clasped behind his back. “Is it something for me?” She stuck out a pudgy hand.

“What, this?” he replied, bringing out a brightly wrapped package tied with a red bow. “I bought it in India. They said it was magic and will always look after its owner, no matter what. It’s for you Clare”

She jumped for joy. It wasn’t often her father came home from his job overseas. Last time she’d still been in nappies and when one leaked on his lap he’d hit her so hard she’d lost the hearing in her left ear. But this time he’d brought her a real present!

She knelt down on the living room rug and tore open the paper to see what was hiding inside. “It’s a dolly!” she cried, lifting it up and examining her new friend from every possible angle.

“Do you like it?” he asked, picking his pipe up from the ashtray and puffing heartily on the end.

“I love it Daddy.”

He leaned down to pick her up, grinning at her. “Good. Now I want you to do something for me in return.” He held her in his arms and a strange look came over his face. She frowned up at him as he stroked her bare leg. “You will be a good girl for Daddy won’t you?”

“I’m going to call her Emily,” she said, holding the doll up towards her father. “Ow!” she said as he gripped her too tightly. “Put me down Daddy, please.”

“In a minute,” he replied, his face looking flushed all of a sudden. “I want to…to show you something else first.” Sweat appeared on his forehead as she looked up at him. He blinked once, opened his mouth and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He was dead before he hit the floor, leaving her trapped in his arms, screaming for help. Her mother found her there when she came home two hours later, Clare’s throat hoarse from crying out for anyone to help her daddy.

That night she was alone in her bedroom with the doll, holding it tightly to her chest and sobbing quietly, wishing her mother had let her come to the hospital as well, instead of leaving her stuck at home with Auntie Mary.

Her bottom hurt from where Auntie Mary had smacked her when she’d asked for something to eat. She went to sleep with her stomach grumbling and had woken up in darkness to the sound of rustling at the end of the bed. She sat up and saw the doll over by the open door.

“Where are you going Emily Ragdoll?” she asked, wondering if she was dreaming. The doll turned to face her and lifted one cloth hand to her face as if shushing her. She watched the doll walk out onto the landing with interest. This was a funny dream. Quietly, she climbed out of bed and reached the landing in time to see Emily hop down the stairs and into the lounge. She could also see Auntie Mary through the banisters, snoring in front of the flickering TV, neck tilted backwards, mouth wide open.

Emily clambered onto the sofa and picked up Auntie Mary’s knitting, sliding out one of her long knitting needles and holding it up to the light.

Emily turned towards Auntie Mary and rammed the knitting needle straight down into her open mouth. The end burst through the front of her throat as Auntie Mary shot to her feet, grasping for the needle. She pulled it out and threw it aside, pressing her hands to the hole in her throat, trying frantically to stop the bleeding.

Emily took hold of the other knitting needle and waited. Auntie Mary turned, stumbling on the edge of the rug and falling towards the sofa. Emily gripped the knitting needle as Auntie Mary fell, impaling herself on it as Emily slid backwards out of harm’s way.

Clare didn’t like this anymore. This was turning into a horrible dream. Turning round she went back to her room and climbed into bed, closing her eyes and hoping when she woke up everything would be back to normal.

Her mother woke her up by shaking her shoulders, holding Emily over her face. “What did you do you little bitch?”

“Mummy?”

“It’s covered in her blood you evil little thing.” Her mother slapped her across the face before throwing Emily at her and storming out of the bedroom.

That night she listened to her mother drinking. When she heard footsteps on the stairs, she tensed up, the bedroom door opening. “I hate you. You killed them both.” Her mother was leaning on the door, almost empty whiskey bottle in one hand. Her voice was slurred as she spoke. “I never wanted you.” She threw the bottle into the bedroom. Clare winced as it shattered on the wall behind her, the room filling with alcohol fumes. Her door closed and she was left alone in the dark listening to her mother starting to snore in the next room as she brushed the shards of glass from her pillow.

She felt Emily climb off the bed. “No Emily Ragdoll. I love Mummy. She’s just poorly.”

Emily turned her button eyes upwards and put her hand to her face again. She climbed onto the cabinet by the door and jumped towards the handle, pulling it downwards so the door slid open. She squeezed out and a second later Clare heard the sound of her mother’s door opening. There was a snort, then a cough, a thud, then finally silence. A minute later Emily reappeared and climbed back into bed and snuggled in next to her.

She held Emily tightly for the rest of the night. When her mother didn’t appear the next morning she made her own breakfast and waited. By the time the police came the milk in the fridge had long gone sour and her stomach rumbled with hunger. Emily hadn’t left her side for a second.

Clare was taken to a children’s home and within ten minutes of being left alone there an older girl had pushed her to the floor, laughing as she lay shocked and bruised on the cold tiles. That night the girl was found dead in her bed and that was when Clare decided it was time to get rid of Emily.

Whilst everyone else was trying to process the untimely death of one of the children, Clare carried Emily down to the end of the grounds, carrying a trowel she’d found in the sandpit. She dug a hole as deep as she could manage and threw Emily into the bottom of it. “You can’t keep doing this,” she said as she began scooping the soil back into place. “I don’t need looking after.”

When the hole was filled she stamped the turf into place before going back inside. Everyone was still talking about Julia, wondering how she could have died in her sleep like that. Clare ignored them, going to lie alone on her bed.

That night she woke up when she felt something on her pillow. She sat up and pulled back the curtain, letting the moonlight stream in. Emily Ragdoll was sitting looking at her surrounded by tufts of grass and piles of soil. Emily looked cross.

Clare grabbed Emily by the arm and tiptoed out of her room, past the sleeping form of Mr Dawson who was supposed to be on night watch. She walked down two flights of stairs to the basement she’d been told it was forbidden for the children to enter.

She’d listened when they’d told her about how dangerous the furnace was. She just hoped it was dangerous enough for what she had planned. She found the furnace in the corner of the basement. There was a chair near it which she dragged over and climbed onto, using a rag to heave the iron door open. She wiped the sweat from her forehead as heat blasted out from the inferno inside. “Bye bye Emily Ragdoll,” she said, looking down at the doll as its face seemed to stretch upwards into a kind of grin. Was that pleading? Or anger?

She took a deep breath and then threw the doll into the furnace, pushing the door closed before returning to her bed without looking back. She brushed the soil from her pillow and laid down, falling asleep within a minute.

She didn’t see Emily again for more than thirty years. She’d long left the children’s home when she moved to the other side of the country, finding and meeting a wonderful husband there and later giving birth to a daughter. She was fast asleep one night when she woke up with a start, knowing something was wrong.

She’d had a long day. Little Susie had been grumpy all day and Edward was ill with a stinking cold, leading to bitter arguments between the two of them over who would do the night feeds. In the end she’d gone to sleep in the spare room to get away from the fighting, waking at midnight but unable to work out what had stirred her sleep.

She got up to check on Susie, pushing open the nursery door to see a figure perfectly still in the cot, lit only by the warm blue glow of the night light on the far wall. She pulled the door closed and turned to look in on Edward. His body was half out of bed, his head at an impossible angle, the neck had been snapped. His eyes were open but they were glazed over. A sudden fear took her and she spun round, running into the nursery to pull back the blankets in the cot, opening her mouth to scream at what she saw lying there.

When the police arrived they found Edward laid with Susie’s body in his arms, as if he’d been trying to shield her from an unknown assailant. Clare was sat on the landing, rocking herself back and forth, her arms folded tightly across her chest, gripping a filthy charred doll that seemed to smile as it looked up at her from two shining button eyes.

Please Leave a Message

The phone woke Brian up. Despite the loud ringing, Eva didn’t stir. He groped for the damn thing in the dark, silencing it without opening his eyes. Whoever it was could wait until morning. He was settling back down when it began to vibrate incessantly. With a grunt of annoyance he sat up and reached for it. Eddie. Of course it was. He should have guessed.

His lodger was often in trouble, ringing to be picked up from a police station or train station or wherever else he’d somehow ended up. Ever since he’d moved in he’d been trouble, although he hadn’t rung this late at night before. 3am, Christ. You’ve got to be up for work in three hours.

Eddie did have a job, a vague thing “in the city.” At least he paid his rent on time. But why was he ringing? He was supposed to be out of the country for the rest of the week. That was why Eva was happily asleep next to Brian, no risk of getting caught.

“Hello,” he croaked down the phone, coughing to clear his throat.

“Brian? Is that you?” Eddie whispered, his voice barely audible.

Brian increased the volume on the phone. “Of course it’s me. It’s three in the morning and it’s my phone. Who else is it going to be?”

“Sorry. Listen, I’m in the middle of something but I might need you to come and get me.”

“Again?” Brian rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “What is it this time?”

“I can’t say. I think it’ll be all right but just in case, don’t turn your phone off, yeah?”

“Goodnight Eddie.” Brian laid back down and pressed the power button. The phone died in seconds.

“Hmmmm?” Eva rolled over towards him, her eyes still closed.

“Your charming boyfriend. Don’t worry, I’ve turned it off.”

When he woke up the next morning he felt strangely guilty, reaching for his phone and switching it back on. The voicemail symbol pinged up and he loaded the message.

“You have one new message. Message one received today at three twenty eight am.” Then Eddie’s voice whispering. “Brian I told you to keep your phone on. Damn, I need your help. Listen, I’ve been kidnapped. I’m in the back of a van heading west on Winchester Street.” Not abroad then, Brian thought, rolling his eyes. And what have you got yourself into now? “Don’t call the police whatever you do. I think they’re going to kill me if I don’t pay them. Look under my bed. There’s a bag down there. Bring it with you. God, I hope you get this. We’re turning right, heading towards-”

The phone went silent. Brian looked down at the screen, the seconds were still ticking away. He held it back to his ear and waited. “-They almost heard me. Look I’ll guide you towards me. Just hurry up please. I’m begging you.”

He paused the message and ran through to Eddie’s room, lifting the mattress to find a carrier bag squashed flat underneath. He peered in, shocked to find himself looking at bundles of banknotes.

“Eva,” he called through to the bathroom, hearing the flush of the toilet. “Eddie’s in trouble. I’ve got to go get him.”

“What?” she replied, sticking her head out, toothbrush sticking out the corner of her mouth like a yellow cigar.

“I’ve got to go help Eddie.”

She turned and spat in the sink before walking back into the bedroom. “He always needs help.” She sighed. “Hold on, I might as well come with you.”

Once they were both in the car Brian hooked the phone to the stereo, replaying the message through the speaker system.

“Oh God,” Eva muttered as she listened. “I never thought it would get this bad.”

“What do you mean?” Brian asked, glancing at her as he turned towards Winchester Street.

“He told me he had a deal worked out. He had a load of pills to sell and had lined someone up to take them.”

“What?” Brian was shocked. “He’s a drug dealer?”

“No, well yes. Not really. He had a load of pills someone gave him. It wasn’t like a career choice or anything.”

Brian motioned towards the carrier bag on the back seat. “Maybe it was.” He hit pause on the phone as Eddie mentioned Winchester Street.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have a look in the bag.”

She leaned behind him and peered inside. “Jesus, where did that come from?”

“Are you saying you didn’t know about it?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

“Then we’re not the only ones with secrets are we?”

They joined the dual carriageway heading into the city centre as Brian pressed play again to continue listening.

Eddie’s whispered directions took him towards the casino near the river. “Can we fast forward to the end?” Eva asked.

“I doubt it. I don’t think the phone’s that clever. We’ll just have to listen to it all.”

“But what if they’ve killed him already?”

“We’re heading to the docks I think,” Eddie’s voice said over her. “Wait, we’re stopping. Hold on.” There was the sound of a door opening. “Where are you taking me?” They heard echoing footsteps for a while, followed by the clang of metal and then nothing.

Brian held his breath, sure he was going to hear a gunshot. Instead Eddie began talking again. “I’m at George’s bank, the underground car park. They’ve left me here but they didn’t even check for the phone. I’m chained to a pipe. Maybe it was just a warning. Hurry up Brian please.”

They reached George’s bank a few minutes later and stopped at the barrier to the car park. The security guard walked over to Brian’s window as he wound it down.

“Pass please.”

“I don’t have a pass but listen-”

“Sorry sir. You can’t come in without a pass.”

“Look, we only need to go in for a second. A friend of ours is down there.”

“Oh sod it,” Eva said, jumping out and running round the barrier, disappearing underground. “Eddie, where are you?”

“Oi! Come back here,” the guard shouted, barking into his walkie-talkie as he ran down the ramp after her. Brian looked at his booth, the door hanging open. He climbed out of the car and spotted a large green button just inside the booth. He punched it and the barrier swung upwards. He jumped back in the car and tore down the ramp, the engine straining in first gear.

He saw the guard on the ramp but was going too fast to stop. He swerved to the left, almost missing him but not quite. The guard was hit by the corner of his bumper with enough force to send him flying backwards into one of the concrete pillars that held up the ceiling. He slid down it to the ground and lay perfectly still. The car skidded to a halt, smoke rising from the tyres as Brian clambered out. To his left the security guard was laid unconscious or dead. To his right Eva was running towards the far end of the car park.

He was still deciding where to go when the phone rang in the car, the noise echoing through the speakers. He leaned in and grabbed it, holding it to his ear.

“Eddie, we’re here. Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Oh I’m fine Brian. Just wanted to ring you before I head off. One quick question though. Were you ever going to tell me about you and Eva?”

Brian staggered. “What? Where are you?”

Eva had run back to him. “Is that him? Where is he?”

“Is that Eva? I hoped she’d be there with you. I think it’s lovely that you’re getting together. I really do. And to show you there’s no hard feelings I’ve left a present for you both in the boot. Hope you like it.”

The line went dead. Brian walked round to the back of the car and pulled the boot open, staring wide eyed at the contents.

The explosion tore through the car park and up into the building, the noise shattering windows a quarter of a mile away. An enormous fireball plumed up the ramp and out into the street beyond, rising in a cloud of acrid black smoke as the first three floors of the building began to crumble inwards. By the time the first fire engine reached the scene Eddie was already on his flight to Europe, his job in the city finished.

The Quarry

Joe was looking for his car keys when he found the severed hand. He'd been for a run in the old quarry nearly every day for a year, enjoying the peace of the place and the chance to relax before starting another working day. Since it had closed down the quarry was home only to rabbits, pigeons and Joe. Nobody else seemed to know it existed, hidden as it was down a dead end track surrounded by overgrown trees. Ivy crawled up the walls of the few remaining buildings, brambles curled and twisted over the railings of the weighbridge, the cracked windows of the canteen were festooned with cobwebs.

Sweat poured down Joe’s face as he ran to the top of one gravel pile after another, each bigger than the last. He skidded down the last one and then up the worn track that led up to the top of the quarry. He sped up as he followed the track down to the valley that led back to the car. It used to take an hour when he first took up running this route but every day he was quicker, improving his pace ready for the half marathon that was now less than a month away.

He didn't even look at the buildings as he ran back past them. When he'd first found this place, he'd explored them all but once was enough when all they contained was used condoms and broken glass, the air a mixture of old oil, mould and animal shit.

He didn’t hear the door to the shower block creak open as he ran past, drowned out by the music blasting through his headphones. He picked up the pace for a final sprint to the car, coming skidding to a halt beside it, panting loudly, legs like jelly as he hit stop on the timer.

Nearly a minute faster than the day before. Maybe next year he'd be able to run a full marathon. Feeling in his shorts for the car key, he swore loudly as he felt a wide hole that had formed in his pocket. That was just great. He looked at his watch again. If he didn't set off soon he wouldn't have time to shower before starting work. Reluctantly he walked back into the quarry, hoping the keys weren't too far away.

His eyes scanned the ground to left and right until they were drawn to a sparkle in the long grass beside a crumbling boulder. As he walked over he realised what it was that had caught the light of the sun, a watch not dissimilar to his own wrapped round the wrist of a dismembered human hand, the stump torn and flecked with dried blood. It didn't look like it had been sliced off so much as ripped or maybe even bitten.

Joe looked round him and then back at the hand. What could he do? His phone was in the car and to get to that he needed his car keys. Smash the window? At least have a quick look for the keys first. No point ruining a brand new 50k car if you don't have to, it's not like it’s fresh anyway. Could have been here for months, maybe years. He ignored the voice that asked why the flesh hadn't started to rot if that was the case and carried on looking.

As he marched past the shower block he noticed that the door was ajar. Frowning, he pulled his headphones off in time to hear a high pitched giggle coming from inside followed by the jangling of keys. So some kid had found them and was mucking about in there then, the little sod.

He stepped through the doorway and walked past the clocking in machine and the single cubicle toilet and then he had to squeeze his way round a fridge that had been dumped in the middle of the hallway. On the floor by the fridge door were dozens of dead butterflies, their wings shredded. He stepped over them as best he could before he noticed a bone in the middle of the floor. It was long and yellowed, cow maybe? Scratch marks ran along it as if it had been gnawed.

He reached the changing room for the showers, a windowless space that was in almost total darkness. On the floor were lengths of stripped insulation and cable. Someone had been busy vacuuming up this lot to sell for scrap then. Joe squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the sound of jangling coming again, this time from the one of the shower cubicles.

"Who's back there?" he asked, peering towards the individual shower cubicles, each adorned with a mildew coated sagging curtain. "Do you think this is funny?" he asked as he walked in, hands outstretched. He skated over the slick tiles and then pulled back the first curtain, feeling inside the cubicle but finding nothing. He turned to the second as he heard giggling in there. "Just give me my keys you little bastard," he said as he whipped the curtain aside.

His keys were dangling from the showerhead, just visible so he reached out and grabbed them. He noticed a hint of movement below him and looked down as something lunged upwards towards him.

He couldn't see what it was in the dark but whatever it was, it was after him. He turned to run as it giggled again but his feet slipped on the tiles and he crashed to his knees, wincing with pain as terror gripped him. Scrambling to his feet he made it back through the changing rooms, tripping over a length of cable that knotted round his ankle, bringing him to his knees again. He screamed as he put his hands out only for them to plunge into a coiled mess of barbed wire, the metal barbs gouging chunks out of his skin.

The thing lurched after him, sniffing the air. He felt an intense pain in his ankle as the thing latched onto it, the bone snapping with a sickening crunch. He lashed out with his foot and sent it flying backwards. He crawled forwards, the barbed wire slicing through his legs as he made it out to the hall. He got his hands on the fridge and used it to pull himself upright.

He limped past the fridge, holding onto the wall and leaving bloody smears on the flaking paint as he tried to force himself on. He made it to the door and was about to step outside when the thing pounced on him. He screamed and lashed out, his fist connecting with it and sinking in past bristling foul smelling fur. He pulled his hand free and got outside, limping across the gravel, his car visible in the distance. He gripped his keys tight in his hand, not daring to look back but hoping with all his heart that the thing didn't like daylight. He couldn't hear it behind him as he limped as fast as he could, ankle in agony, blood trickling down his wrists and shins. The car was just yards away.

He set his foot down wrong, twisting his good ankle and falling to the ground. Not now, not now. You're so close. He pulled himself along by his hands, reaching the car at last, unlocking it, yanking the door open and throwing himself in. He was just pulling his leg in after him when the thing pounced again, pulling him back out of the car, his nails scratching lines into the leather seats as he fought to remain inside.

"No!" he screamed as the thing climbed up onto his back, talons sliding over his head, rough fingers pressing into his eye sockets and blinding him as thick nails dug into his squirming face. He spun round and threw a punch but this time the thing caught his hand and bit hard into it, making him scream all the louder.

Adrenaline gave him strength and he kicked upwards, the thing slamming into the ceiling of the car. He kicked again and felt it loosen its grip. He tried to wipe his eyes to see but his vision wouldn't come. Had it blinded him? It grabbed his shoulders as he felt for a neck, hoping to throttle it before it could do any more damage. He felt claws at his own neck and then the wetness on his skin as his jugular was pierced, arterial blood gushing out and coating the inside of the car. His grip on it faded as he began to weaken. The sound of the thing smacking its lips together was the last thing he heard.

Ten minutes later someone looking a lot like Joe sat in the driver's seat of his car and wiped its mouth. He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror, rictus grin and unblinking eyes the only sign this wasn't Joe, that the few remains of Joe were stored in the fridge next to the remains of the other few unfortunates who had visited the quarry once too often. None of them had come by car though, they’d all been on foot. A car was something new.

The man started the engine and drove slowly, stalling twice as he crunched through the gears. He was a quick learner though and by the time he was a mile down the road, he was trundling along quite happily just like everyone else heading for work, soon lost in the sea of cars heading into the city, licking his lips as he thought about starting a hard day’s work.

Life in the Country

The door flew open and Keith staggered in, covered in blood. "What on earth?" Liz asked, looking up from her knitting. "What's happened? Are you all right"? She jumped up, wrapping her arms round him as his mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"The birds," he managed to get out as he slumped onto the sofa. "The birds."

Liz ran through to the kitchen and grabbed a tea towel, soaking it under the cold tap before wiping the blood from his face. He stank but she was used to that. Being married to a gamekeeper, you got used to a lot of things. 4am starts, filth coating his boots every time he came home, having to help him carry those enormous sacks of feed. But if she lived a hundred years longer, she'd never get used to the look in his eyes as he stared at her and cried out, "Drink!"

Liz ran back to the kitchen, returning with a large glass of whiskey, lifting it to his mouth as he suddenly sat upright, listening to the noise of the pheasants outside. He gulped at the whiskey before standing up. "We need to ring the police," he said, grabbing the phone and punching the nine button three times. "Police," he said into the phone, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited to be connected. "Hello? Hello?"

He put the phone down and turned to Liz. "They cut the line." He grabbed her shoulders. "What do we do?"

"Calm down Keith," she said, trying to reassure him. "You're frightening me."

"The birds Liz, the bloody birds." His voice was becoming shrill as he pulled the curtains open and stared out into the darkness.

"Honey, you're not making any sense. Come and sit down, please. There, now what are you talking about?"

He sighed, his hands shaking. "I went to the sheds to look for Sid but I couldn't find him. I just saw all the feedbags scattered on the grass."

"Like last time he got drunk. Did he do this to you? Did he hit you again?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Just listen. I was carrying the empty bags and I opened the first shed to dump them in there. The birds were skittish, flapping about more than usual, out of sorts. I thought a dog had maybe spooked them all. It was like they were watching me. There was something in the corner behind them and it was as if they were trying to hide it. I had to kick them out the way, they weren't shying like they should."

He lapsed into silence. "What was it?" Liz asked, an arm round his shoulder to comfort him.

"It was Sid. They'd been eating him. God, Liz, his eyes were gone. It was awful. I went to get him but they attacked me, forced me out. I didn't know what to do so I came home. And now they've cut the phone line."

"Listen to yourself. Pheasants don't do things like that. They don't attack people. This isn't a Hitchcock film. The phone line comes down all the time, you know that. You just stay there and I'll pop round to use the phone next door."

"No!" He grabbed her. "Don't go outside. Promise me. You didn't see what they'd done. I could see the bones in his hands, they were peeling his skin off."

"All right, all right. Look, I'll stay. At least let me make you a cup of tea. You're always calmer after a tea."

He started giggling, on the verge of hysteria as Liz went to switch the kettle on. In the distance she could hear the pheasants in their sheds as she searched through the drawers for his tablets. Only one left. She ground it up on the counter top with the back of a spoon before pouring the powder into his tea. It had been a long time since his last attack but she was glad she'd kept the tablets around just in case.

When she'd first married Keith, his parents had warned her about things like this. They told her about the time he'd thought something was coming through his bedroom wall to kill him, the day he was excluded from school for stabbing a teacher, convinced she wasn't human. The stories got worse and worse until the doctors finally found the medication that worked for him.

He hadn't had any major attacks since they'd been married because his parents had given her the tablets on the day after the wedding, making sure he didn't see the transaction. She'd kept them hidden ever since, always on the look out for any warning signs. Whenever they came, she simply crushed one up and that knocked him out for a few hours. He'd wake up right as rain afterwards as if nothing had happened.

What worried Liz as she carried the tea back through wasn't evil pheasants with a taste for human flesh, it was whether or not Keith had done something to Sid, something that had caused all that blood to splatter across his face.

"Drink this," she smiled warmly, passing him the tea and watching him gulp it down, seemingly oblivious to the scalding heat.

She sat beside him on the sofa as his eyelids began to droop. In less than a minute he was fast asleep and she lowered him onto his side, putting a blanket over him before picking up the van keys, her hand shaking as she opened the door and dashed out into the cold. She wanted to get to the pharmacy and back before he woke up. He'd never been this bad before and she was worried he might need another dose.

Keith woke up an hour later, his head groggy. Blinking away the nausea he sat up, the house in darkness. "Liz?" he croaked, his throat dusty and dry. He heard a noise in the hall and turned round to look.

"Keith?" Liz's voice reached him as if from far away. He tried the light switch but nothing happened. With his hands outstretched he edged into the hall, tripping over something. He used his hands to work out what it was. It was Liz.

"Oh Keith, I'm so sorry. I love you so much."

"What's happening?" he asked, feeling how wet her face was, his fingers sliding into the sockets where her eyes should have been.

"They were waiting for me when I came back," she said, her voice fading. "There were too many of them. I..."

Keith held her in his arms as he heard the sound of hundreds of pairs of clawed feet outside the house, slowly growing louder as they approached the farmhouse door. There was a moment's silence and then a sound very much like knocking. Keith slid backwards as the door flew open, moving until he bumped up against the sofa in the lounge. He tried to get up but he wasn't quick enough. The searing pain of their beaks pierced his eyeballs as he opened his mouth to scream. His tongue was instantly on fire, shreds torn from it as he sank back onto the carpet under the weight of them, arms flailing ineffectually as more and more flew in from outside, each hungrier than the last.

Petrified

John was waiting on the driveway when I arrived. He'd dressed himself up for today, that shirt and tie hadn't seen daylight since he'd retired. He sat in his wheelchair smoking his pipe and looking out at the road like an impatient child waiting for an absent parent to return.

"You do look smart," I said as I climbed out of my car and walked up to him. The sweet smell of cherry tobacco filled the air around him, a smell that still reminded me of my youth, back when John came to visit on holiday, sleeping in the spare room while my parents argued. All that was a long time ago of course, before my mother disappeared.

"Well you told me we were going somewhere special," he replied, his pipe wedged into the corner of his mouth. "Are you going to tell me where yet?"

"It's a surprise," I said, pulling out a cigarette and taking his proffered lighter with a nod of thanks. "You'll have to wait and see."

We were both silent for a moment, him in his chair and me stood beside him, just like old times. He turned and looked up at me, shielding his eyes from the sun. "It's lovely to see you again Mark. You've been quite the stranger."

"I know, I know and I promise I'll come and see you more often in the future. Besides, you might be nearer to me by the end of today."

"What do you mean?" He leaned down to rearrange the blanket across his legs. "You're not putting me in a home are you?" There was an air of suspicion to his voice, mingled with fear.

No, of course not. But I'm saying nothing else for now." I let my cigarette butt fall to the floor and stamped it underfoot. "Right, shall we get going?"

I wheeled him down to the car and lifted him from his chair, manhandling him into the seat as he grunted in my ear in that familiar way of his. Once he was in I got his seatbelt attached and then we set off, me looking in the rear view mirror back at the house, wondering how he'd feel if he knew he was never going to see it again.

We reached the cave in less than an hour. At first John had no idea where we were going but as we grew closer he sat up in his seat, peering out like an expectant dog excited to be going out for a walk. "You're taking me to the cave aren't you?" he asked as I turned left onto Minton Lane. "Go on, you can tell me."

"I might be," I replied, resisting a smile.

"But what about the chair?"

It had been a long time since John had been able to go inside the cave. The site hadn't been set up for wheelchairs in his time, too much clambering over rocks to get inside. I'd changed a few things since he gave it to me, not least of which was to install a long winding ramp just the right size for a wheelchair.

"Things have changed a bit," I said as I pulled up by the entrance.

"I can see that. You've repainted the sign for a start."

I looked up. Old Ma Skipton's Cave, the letters spelled out in red, spread across a wooden board that overhung the entrance kiosk. Behind it you could see through the security fence to the ramp curving away up the hill. In the summer that ramp was packed with people coming to see the cave and the petrifying waterfall inside. They couldn't get enough of it, even when I’d more than doubled the prices that John used to charge.

Somewhere deep underground a spring lay hidden, water squeezed upwards through a series of cracks that gradually trickled into a stream, wearing a hole through the rock over the centuries. The stream grew bigger as more water joined it from other springs, becoming a river by the time it reached the roof of the cave, my cave now, and then it dripped down through more cracks, over a well-worn ridge cascading down in a never-ending waterfall to the cave floor. The mineral rich drops of water slowly hardened as they reacted with the air in the cave, turning to stone over the years and creating unique stalactites and stalagmites.

Tourists came in their thousands every summer to marvel at the sights in the cave, especially the washing line that dangled across the length of the waterfall. From it hung dozens of objects, teddy bears, dolls, toy soldiers, all sorts. The calcifying water dripped slowly over each object and then they would start to harden. As time passed they became more and more like stone, eventually looking like tiny little statues that only vaguely resembled the things they once were.

My first job had been chipping off the items that had finished hardening, sticking price tags on them and selling them in the gift shop, surrounded by all the other tat that John was happy to sell to the gullible public.

"The place looks wonderful," John said, as I helped him back into his wheelchair. "You've done a good job here." He put his hand on my shoulder, leaving it to linger there for just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I forced myself to concentrate. After today he wouldn't ever be able to touch me again.

"Thanks," I said. "And there's something special I want to show you. Something new."

I opened the gate into the site and pushed his chair up the ramp, past the empty ticket booth and the boarded up shop. I unlocked the barrier that barred entry to the cliff edge path that overhung the valley floor far below, the sound of the roaring river nothing but a faint whisper from this height.

The path wound round the base of the cliff and was long out of sight of the car park before it finally stopped by the cave entrance. "God, it's nice to see the place again," John said, coughing loudly as I lifted the chair up the lip onto the next ramp.

"I hope you like what I've done in here," I said, shivering as the coolness of the cave replaced the warm sunlight we left outside. The wooden slats of the ramp were covered in chicken wire to stop people slipping in the damp air and his wheels seemed to clack over them like a train over loose rails, making him shake in his seat as I pushed him along.

I stopped when we reached the viewing point at the back of the cave and we stood looking at the washing line across the waterfall, the teddy bears, the children's shoes, the top hats, all slowly turning into solid rock. I looked down at John and saw a tear on his cheek as he watched the waterfall.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," he snapped, wiping the tear away. "I just get the feeling this might be the last time I see the old gal."

How right he was. "Tell me about my mother," I said, glancing round behind me to make sure we were alone.

"She was an amazing woman," he replied. "I still miss her."

"No, I mean tell me why you killed her."

"What?" John blustered, looking up in shock. "What are you talking about? Nobody killed her."

I laughed, a sound devoid of joy as it echoed round the cave. "Sure, she just vanished into thin air. You killed her and I want to know why."

"You're talking nonsense Mark. Now I'm getting cold, I think we should get going."

I could hear the tension in his voice. "You tell me now John or I swear to God I'll push your chair into the valley and let them bury whatever pieces of you they can find."

"Now listen," he said as I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and spun him round to face me. "Don't do anything stupid." The exertion of waving his arms about had exhausted him and I had to wait while he suffered another coughing fit.

"Last chance," I said, running with the chair out of the cave to the edge of the external ramp, teetering him forwards on two wheels as he scrambled backwards in the seat, twisting sideways to try and grab my arms. "Tell me now!" I yelled

"All right," he said, coughing again and sounding terrified. "All right. Please, just put me down."

I set the wheelchair on the level and turned it towards me. He glared with undisguised hatred as I smiled and sat on the rock behind me. "Go on then."

"It was an accident," he said after a long pause, looking down at his hands as he spoke in little more than a whisper. I'd waited to hear the truth for such a long time. Was he lying? Well time for his trial first. Punishment could come afterwards.

"Your father hadn't been interested in her in years and she only wanted some attention, some love. We didn't want to tell anyone for you Mark, it would only have upset you if they divorced." He looked up at the cave, his eyes misting over as he seemed to sink back into his memories. "We used to meet up here once a week, after I'd closed up. She said she was going to tell him but I persuaded her not to. We'd found a new tunnel at the back of the cave and we were sat inside it, just the light of the torch between us. I told her I loved her and she said she had to tell him, she couldn't keep lying to him.

“I made her promise to wait until you'd finished school. It was the only way to be fair to both of you. We were just setting off back when she…” he sighed, the words coming out more slowly, “she slipped in the water and hit her head on a rock. I would never have hurt her, I promise. I ran for help but it was too late."

He began wringing his hands together as I stood up. "So she was dead already?"

"Yes, no, I don't know. I ran through here and there was a rock fall behind me. It was so loud I thought my eardrums had burst. I turned round and waved away the smoke as best I could. The rocks had fallen right where she was. I didn't know what to do Mark so I-" he looked down again, his voice barely audible, "I was a coward." His lip quivered as if holding back floods of tears. "I just kept quiet. I'm so sorry Mark." He looked up, hands outstretched towards me. "Please forgive me."

"It's all right," I smiled, patting him on the shoulder. "I only wanted the truth and you've told me the truth now haven't you?"

"I swear to God I have," he replied. Trial over. Now punishment. "Can we go Mark? Please?"

"Of course," I said, moving behind his wheelchair and pushing it back inside the cave.

"Wh...where are we going? Why aren't we going back to the car?"

"Oh I haven't shown you the special thing in here yet. Let's go have a look together."

I pushed him back to the waterfall, ignoring his protests as I grabbed the rope that had been dangling against the rock wall beside me.

"What...what is it you want to show me?" he asked, sounding nervous again.

"You won't be able to see it from down there," I said, looping a noose over his neck and yanking the rope backwards. "You need to be higher up."

He tried to fight as he was wrenched up into the air, his hands digging frantically into the knot round his neck, gasping for breath. "Can you see it yet?" I yelled over the sound of his struggling. I fed the rope through my hands, the end coming to rest by the washing line. John dangled in the flow of the waterfall, the drips falling onto his head as he glanced round him, his eyes bulging. I looped my end of the rope round a rock and tied it in place, looking up at the latest addition to the washing line. It looked sort of funny, an old man dangling down between a child's shoe and a teddy bear just like a wet coat hung out to dry.

"I've got to be going now John," I said. "Can't hang round here all day. One last question for you before I go." I looked up at his struggling form, his arms starting to sag as his strength began to fade. "If you told me the truth and she was buried in a rock fall like you say, then what's that over there?" I flicked the light switch in the metal box next to the waterfall. A spotlight clunked into life, shining on a statue that had been hidden in the shadows. The statue was made of the same rock as had coated the trinkets. It looked a lot like a person except for one broken section roughly where an arm would be. From the jagged stone a skeletal hand dangled down where I’d chipped the rock shell away.

"You used to tell me that waterfall could turn anything to stone given enough time. You said that on the first day I started here. Do you remember? You said all it took was time. Well you've got all the time in the world now John. And like I promised, I'll come and see you much more often now."

I walked away and left him swinging gently back and forth, his bulging eyes staring at the statue and then at the wedding ring still attached to the bony finger. There’s four months until I'm due to open for the summer. Will he have turned to stone by then? To be honest, I don't know. I just want him to feel how my mother felt when I hung her from the waterfall. She used to touch me like John did and when he let me become winter caretaker all those years ago it was the perfect chance to punish her.

She used to tell me what she did was normal, washing away my sins with the love of mummy dearest. I washed her sins away for six months as she hung under the waterfall, drip by solidifying drip. John must have gotten so used to lying, he wasn't even capable of telling the truth anymore, making up that story about the rock fall. I thought about the time he and my mother had brought me to this cave, the things they did to me here, how petrified I was when they'd forced me to keep still, made me stop fighting them, threatened to throw me off the cliff. Well now it’s their turn to be petrified.

Meeting the Ex

He didn't bother to mention Marion until we were sitting in the back of the ambulance. The paramedic was wiping the last of the blood from my face as I looked out at the wreckage of our car, the car Marion had destroyed, the crash she'd caused.

I couldn't believe that either of us had made it out of there alive. I took in the stoved in windscreen, the torn hunks of metal scattered across the road, the police milling about talking into their radios as they crunched through the fragments of glass and I marvelled at how lucky we'd just been.

I met Stan three months ago through one of those online dating websites. I'd been a paid up member for six months and had been on one awful date after another. There was the trip to a Soho cinema playing ‘specialist films’ that did not endear me to Barry who'd seemed so normal online. Then there was the trip to the owl sanctuary to watch Kevin weep at the "beauty of the raptor form" as he put it. He only picked me because my profile photo looked like an owl apparently. Stan was the first normal person who took me for a normal meal with normal wine and gave me a normal peck on the cheek on the doorstep when he dropped me off afterwards, not like John who'd tried to put his hand up my skirt during the meal, apologised and said it was an accident only to then try and do it again in the taxi on the way home, all the while maintaining wonderfully bigoted conversation with the taxi driver.

When Stan asked for a second date I was over the moon. We went for a seaside stroll, made our way along an old railway line and called in at a rustic little pub in a village in the middle of nowhere. It was blissful and this time I let him kiss me properly when he dropped me off.

It all started to go wrong on our third date which was both just this morning and a lifetime ago. He came to pick me up and I directed him into the countryside not too far from my house. We parked up by an old farmhouse, the roof caved in years ago.

"How did you find this place?" he asked, looking out at the rolling hills sloping down into a wide valley beneath us, the lambs bleating nearby, jumping about, full of the joys of springtime.

"Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful."

"Oh I am glad. But wait until you see what's coming up."

He slipped his hand into mine and my heart skipped a beat. I was grinning from ear to ear as we took the track into the wood and out the other side, stepping round a pile of fallen branches to reach the plateau. From here you could see all the way to the valley bottom and the sparkling ribbon of blue that marked the river, curving softly between two dry stone walls. Beside the river was a heritage railway line and luck was again on my side. A train appeared from round the bend as we looked, chugging into view with steam pluming from the top.

We sat on a flat rock and stared out at the view together. "Let's live here," Stan said, turning to smile at me. "It's perfect." The train whistled, a gentle sound at this distance. Above our heads a single wispy white cloud drifted slowly by.

"Planning on moving in with me already?" I said.

"No, I'm not suggesting-"

"I'm teasing you Stan. Don't worry."

We sat there for a while before continuing our walk along the ridge, curving back through fields of green pasture, the startled sheep darting away at our approach before staring at our retreating forms. We reached the car about an hour later while still finishing off a delightful conversation about Baroque music.

I turned to ask Stan if he'd enjoyed himself when his expression silenced me. He looked furious. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"Did you do this?" he asked, striding past me and pointing at the car.

"Did I do what? What are you talking about?"

He glared at me, clenching his fists. "The car, the bloody car. Did you do it?"

I looked, trying to spot a scratch or a chip but I couldn't see anything wrong with it. "I don't see anything. What am I supposed to have done?"

He spoke through gritted teeth, drawing out each word. "It's facing the wrong way."

I looked at it again. "Are you sure? Maybe you turned it round when we got here."

"I think I'd remember." He paused, thinking then his voice grew quiet as if he was talking more to himself than to me. "It’s her. That bitch is at it again."

"Sorry, what?"

He looked up, the smile back on his face. "Nothing, never mind. Forget it. Shall we get going?"

I sat in the passenger seat and thought to myself. It had all been going too well. Of course he was insane, he'd been far too normal to be normal. Maybe it was time I cancelled my subscription to the dating website and resigned myself to a life of spinsterhood. It had to be less stressful than this. I honestly couldn't remember which way the car had been facing but his reaction scared me, making me realise just how little I knew about him. He drove in silence as we approached a bend. Instead of braking the car seemed to speed up, racing round the corner.

"Would you mind slowing down?" I asked, gripping the door handle.

"I'm trying," he replied, sounding more scared than I was. I looked down at his feet, he was pressing the brake pedal to the floor but nothing was happening.

"What's wrong with the car?" I asked as we continued downhill, the slope pushing us down faster and faster. An oncoming car flashed its headlights at us as we tore past, barely avoiding the side of us as it was forced up onto the verge.

"She's cut the bloody brakes," he said, panic evident in his voice as he began banging his foot up and down on the pedal, gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white. I glanced at the speedo, it was nudging past eighty. Far too fast for this road.

"There's a bend coming up," I screamed, pointing in front of me.

"Okay, okay," he replied, wrenching the wheel to the side as the road curved. I felt my side of the car lifting into the air as we almost made it.

"Can you tell me what happened miss?"

I was brought out of my thoughts by the police officer standing over me in the door to the ambulance, notebook in his hand. The steam rising from the ruined engine behind him made it look as it his head was on fire. I had to stifle a hysterical giggle that bubbled up inside me.

"I don't really remember much," I said, my head starting to throb behind my eyes. "The brakes weren't working. We tried to go round the bend but we were going far too fast. I remember the side lifting up and then I think we skidded or spun or something. We hit that tree and next thing I know I'm sat here, having this gentleman take my pulse.”

Stan stood behind the officer. "Are you okay?" he mouthed.

I nodded and the paramedic turned to the officer. "We should get her to the hospital. Just to be on the safe side."

"You're lucky to be alive," the officer said. "I'll come and see you there okay?"

Stan climbed into the ambulance and we set off. "Marion did this," he said, looking into the space above my head.

"What? Who's Marion?"

"My ex. I thought once it was over she'd leave me alone but I should have known better."

He went quiet, the paramedic sat behind him filling something in on a clipboard, pretending not to hear us.

"Your ex tried to kill us?"

"It's not the first time. She's done other things. I thought when I moved that she'd give up-"

"Sorry to interrupt," the paramedic said. "Can I get a few things down before we get there?"

I answered his questions about allergies and things like that and by the time he was done we were pulling into the hospital car park. I spent the next few hours under observation but they finally concluded there was nothing much wrong with me apart from the cut on my forehead and I was allowed to leave. Lucky me.

Stan was waiting for me in reception. "They've booked me a taxi," I said. "Do you want to share?"

"No, it's fine," he replied. "I need to go look for a new car. But I wanted to make sure you were okay first."

"I'm fine," I said as he glanced at the stitches on my forehead. "Just a scratch. Don't look so worried, it was only an accident."

"Listen," he looked more worried than ever. "I understand if you don't want to see me again but I really like you and I hope-"

I couldn't bear to look at his puppy dog eyes any longer. "If I say yes, will you try and give me a smile?"

The taxi pulled up and I climbed in. "I'll call you tomorrow," I said. By the time I got home my headache was worse and I went straight to bed, reliving the accident in my dreams but with time with this Marion woman standing by the roadside like a modern Mrs Danvers, holding a huge pair of fabric scissors and making snipping motions as the car skidded into the bend.

By the next morning my headache had faded a little and I went for a walk round the block for some fresh air before ringing Stan. We met up at a cafe in the town centre, near enough for both of us to walk there. When I arrived he was already inside but something wasn't right. I pushed open the door and saw him sat at a table by the counter, his hands on his neck, his face turning purple. He scrambled to his feet as a huge man stood up and ran over to him, grabbing him round the middle and pulling him upwards, lifting him into the air, once, twice and then a third time. A hunk of something flew from Stan's mouth and splatted onto the counter top. The man let go and Stan fell to his knees, gasping for air.

"Are you okay?" I asked as I reached his side, helping him into a chair with the waitress the other side of him.

He coughed loudly before he could answer. "Marion," he wheezed. "It was Marion."

"He'd only had a breadstick," the waitress was telling the sea of staring faces, as if she were on trial for trying to kill a customer.

"Is he all right?" the huge man asked.

"I think so," I replied, looking up at him. "Thank you. If you weren't here-"

"It was nothing," he shrugged, turning away and heading back to his table, leaving me to try and comfort a terrified looking Stan.

"She's trying to kill me," he whispered as the waitress handed him a glass of water. He sipped at it as I slid into the seat opposite him.

"What do you mean?"

"Cutting the brakes didn't work. Now she's poisoning my food."

"But you weren't poisoned were you?" I put my hand on his. "You just got some food caught in your throat."

"No," he snapped, pulling his hand away. "She's trying to kill me. I know she is."

"I'm sure nobody wants to kill you Stan."

"You don't know her like I do. She used to text me at work, ten times a day. She wanted to know where I was all the time." He fiddled with the cutlery on the table as he talked. "She was paranoid, deleted all my friends online, changed my passwords, accused me of sleeping around every time I was late home from work. It boiled over in a blazing row after I had the audacity to go for one drink with someone from the office who was female, how dare I?"

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? I ended it. Told her it was over, I'd had enough."

"How did she take it?"

"How do you think? She went mad as a box of frogs. I nearly had to call the police. She smashed up the house, told me she was going to burn the place down, kill me, kill my family. You name it."

"Oh Stan," I put my hand on his again as he took another sip of water. "That sounds awful. I'm so sorry."

"I thought they were empty threats. I didn't think she'd actually do it but after this, I don't know." He stared into the distance. "Do you mind if we go? I don't feel hungry anymore."

"Try and get some rest," I said as we walked out of the cafe. "You look exhausted."

"I'd love to but the police are coming round to interview me this afternoon."

"What about?"

"The crash of course."

"Oh right, sorry. Listen, you can call me afterwards if you need a chat."

"Thanks," he smiled before turning and walking away. I'd just set off down the street when I heard a screech of brakes behind me. I spun round in time to see Stan flying through the air. The van that hit him slowed but as Stan slammed into the pavement, it hit the accelerator and raced away, weaving through the traffic and disappearing round the corner.

I ran and knelt down beside him, the sounds of the traffic dying away as he opened and closed his mouth, blinking up at me. "Just keep still," I said, grabbing his bloody hand and squeezing it. "You're going to be okay, I promise. I'm right here."

I wasn't allowed to ride in the ambulance with him and had to hail a taxi to the hospital. By the time I got there he was already in surgery so all I could do was wait, biting my nails as a succession of people came and went around my chair in the middle of the A & E reception.

It was nightfall before I was allowed to see him in intensive care. He looked awful, half his body in plaster and the other half in bandages. His eyes were closed, a drip running from the cruck of his elbow to a stand by the bedside. A doctor was examining the drip, muttering something to the nurse beside her.

"Are you related?" the doctor asked, turning to look at me.

"Not really. We were dating. It was our third one, I-" I trailed off, already sure I was rambling.

"I see. Well don't expect too much. He won't wake up until at least tomorrow morning but you can sit with him for a while if you like."

"How is he?"

"Oh he should pull through. He's definitely a fighter."

After he'd finished consulting with the nurse I was left alone, slumping into the chair beside the bed to take Stan's hand in mine, stroking his fingers through the bandages.

I jerked awake. What? How long had I been asleep? And what was that beeping sound? I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly nine in the morning. There was the sound of running footsteps outside the room as I looked at Stan. Something was wrong, what was it? I was too sleepy to work it out at first but then I realised. His chest wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing.

The door burst open and people ran in, pushing me aside in their haste. A nurse took my shoulder and guided me out into the corridor. "What's happening?" I asked as the door swung closed behind me. "Is he dead?"

"Just wait here a minute," the nurse said. "I'll be right back." She led me into a side room, just a chair and a pot plant on a coffee table. "You sit there dear," she smiled as a man leaned in from the corridor and whispered something in her ear.

She pulled the door closed and I heard a click. I tried the handle but it was locked. "Hey," I shouted, hammering on the door. "What's going on?"

There was no answer but after a minute‘s yelling the door was pulled opened by a police officer, the doctor stood beside him with her arms folded.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Is Stan okay?"

"Would you mind coming with me miss?" the officer asked, not waiting for an answer. He took my arm and led me out, ignoring my protests. "You can't do this," I said as he pushed me into the back of his car. I was hysterical by the time we reached the station and it was some time before I was calm enough to listen to my rights being read to me. "You're under arrest for the murder of Stanley Charles Raines."

I sat in a steel chair in a windowless room, trying to stop crying. The door opened and a man in a suit walked in carrying a pink file and a cassette recorder. "Care to explain?" he asked, sitting down opposite me.

"Explain what?" I said, sniffing loudly. He ignored my question, hitting record and reciting names and times into the tape. There was a minute of silence as he flicked through the file before looking up at me.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"How well do you know Stan?"

"Quite well I think. I mean we've only been on three dates but-"

"Nasty car accident you were both in."

"I know that. Listen, what's going on? I didn't kill him. I don't know what's happened."

"What happened at the hospital?"

I told him all I knew, falling asleep and waking up to that incessant beeping noise. He listened impassively. "Is...is he really dead?"

"Six hours in surgery," he replied, looking down at the file. "Then one night next to you and he doesn't wake up this morning. Do you want to know what I think?"

"What?" I asked, hardly able to believe it. Was Stan really dead?

"I think you suffocated him, pillow over the face while he was helpless. I just wondered why you did it."

My mind whirled and I felt incredibly nauseous all of a sudden. It was Marion. The thought flashed into my brain. It had to be her. Who else could it be? I told him about Marion, everything Stan had said about her.

"So how do you know it was her?" he asked.

"I..." I realised I didn't know. I had no proof, nothing to show she was responsible. "Is there CCTV at the hospital? There must be cameras there."

"There is. We're looking at it now. But you're certain it was this Marion woman?"

"Yes!" I shouted, getting more and more worked up.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. You're certain that Marion Bishop, Mr Raines's ex-partner, is responsible for cutting his brake cable and murdering him in his hospital bed. Is that right?"

"Yes! Why is it so difficult for you to understand? What are you smiling for? You know where she lives don't you? Is she here? Have you talked to her?"

"Well, you've answered all the questions I had. Thank you. Interview ends-" He clicked off the tape and carried it over to the door.

"Answer me!" I shouted. "Where is she?"

"Same place she's been for the last three years. Landwell Cemetery. You think about that for a while and then see if maybe you want to reconsider your story."

Collins rubbed his eyes, the glare of the screen in the dark room was beginning to sting. He'd spooled through hours of footage from the hospital corridors, nurses, doctors, cleaners, patients. All dead ends. If only there'd been a camera on the ward, he wouldn't have had to spend the entire day stuck in the tiny little TV room at the back of the station, wishing he'd never applied to join the police in the first place. He started again from the beginning, not wanting to miss something important. The same footage, the same people, trapped in time, stuck on repeat.

He was leaning back in his chair when he caught sight of something right in the corner of the screen. He zoomed in, the image blurring slightly as he noticed a woman walking along the corridor, ignored by those around her. He was sure she hadn't been there when he'd last looked. He zoomed in further and pixelated as the face was, she looked familiar. He looked down at the file on the desk, flicking through the photos. There she was. He looked back at the screen. It was the same person, but how?

He read the notes again, looking for a hole, something to explain what he was seeing. The abuse she'd suffered at the hands of a man she'd met online, the jury split on the evidence, letting him go. There it was in black and white. She'd committed suicide afterwards but if that was the case, how was she walking down that hospital corridor?

He stared at the monitor, not hearing the door open behind him. On the screen her face craned upwards, looking directly at the camera and at Collins. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun round, his mouth falling open as he saw who was standing there looking down at him.

The next morning the cleaner found Collins slumped lifeless over the desk. A heart attack wasn't surprising given his predilection for too much fatty food and too little exercise. The CCTV footage that would have played a vital part in an innocent woman's defence case was gone. It was never found.

The Adult Toy

Barry hadn't committed a crime for more than 25 years. Surely that was long enough to let things go? It was in the past now, you can do this. You can. He stood by the front door with the handle gripped in shaking fingers, gulping for air as he tried to steel himself to go outside.

When he'd woken up, he'd decided it had been long enough. A quarter of a century was long enough. Nobody would recognise him anymore, there'd be no baying mob with torches and pitchforks out for his blood. Her parents probably didn't live round here anymore anyway, they might even be dead by now.

His stomach churned, threatening to send his breakfast up and out onto the stained and threadbare carpet. "You can do this," he said out loud in a voice hoarse from lack of use. He let go of the handle, his heart pounding. It wasn't going to happen. They might still be out there, waiting for him, memories of what he'd done fresh in their minds as they dragged him to be lynched from a lamppost. Better to stay inside, stay safe for a while longer. Besides, some company was due soon anyway.

With a sigh of defeat he turned away from the door, angry with himself for having gone from optimistic to terrified in the time it took a single car to rumble past outside. He shuffled back down the hall past mounds of mouldering rubbish, squeezing into the one chair available in the kitchen, his feet on the curling beermats piled under the table.

He sat surrounded by filthy mugs and towering piles of newspapers, staring out through the tiny gap in the yellow net curtain into the concrete yard beyond. He didn't see chaos out there, he saw order. Everything in that yard was a vital possession, something that he'd neatly filed into the available space back when he was still capable of stepping outside.

It had been a long time since he'd been out in the yard but it was always reassuring to see everything still there. He lifted the open tin of beans from the table top and drunk the contents down like a fine wine, wiping his mouth with his hand before standing and opening the window, brushing the net curtain aside long enough to push the tin out through the gap before shutting the window quickly, feeling the cold breeze on the skin of his hand like radioactive fallout, something to be avoided at all costs.

The doorbell rang and he walked into the hall. Could it be her? Was his companion here at last? He winced as his worn out hip bone ground into the socket but nothing could stop him rushing to answer the door, he was too excited to slow down.

"I'm coming," he called, shuffling as fast as he could between the carrier bags filled with old milk cartons on one side of the hallway and every letter he'd ever received stacked on the other. He left deep wet footprints in the unidentifiable gunk that coated the remains of the carpet. The heel of one slipper flapped loose as the doorbell rang again. "Hold on - Yes?" he asked, kneeling down and opening the letter box, peering out into the crotch of a delivery man.

"Mr Algras?" The man asked, leaning down and coming face to face with Barry’s pair of watery eyes staring out at him.

"That's me," Barry wheezed, his lungs hurting from the exertion of rushing down the hallway.

"Parcel for you. Do you want to open the door and I'll bring it inside?"

"No," Barry snapped, fear rising in him at the thought. "Leave it there, I'll get it in a minute."

"Sign this." A clipboard was passed through, almost hitting Barry on the nose. He signed and passed it back, waiting until the delivery man had driven away to close the letterbox. He stood up and grinned, wringing his hands together. Wiping the sweat from his palm, he grasped the door handle, if anyone could make him open the door, it was her.

He took a deep breath and held it in as he slowly turned the handle, the door creaking as it opened, light piercing the gloom of the hall for the first time in years. Barry felt his heart pounding dangerously fast, a voice in his head telling him to close the door quickly before they attacked, coming for revenge for what he'd done. But then he caught sight of the box waiting for him on the doorstep. He exhaled slowly and leaned his head out, the fresh air alien to his lungs as he squinted in the sunlight.

Taking a deep breath, he lunged out and grabbed the box, dragging it into the space he'd left for her. He slammed the door closed and leaned against it, waiting for his pulse to return to normal. As he did so, he looked at the box. Nothing was written on it, not even his address but he knew what it was. Rummaging in the pocket of his dressing gown, he found his rusty old pocket knife and cut through the plastic tape to peel away the panels that concealed her.

She was kneeling down inside as if praying, her unblinking eyes the only thing that proved she wasn't alive. He took one look at her face and fell instantly in love. She was perfect, not just worth the money, worth twice what he paid, ten times even.

"Hello Susie," he said, lifting her hand and feeling the pliable flesh-like substance of her fingers, planting a gentle kiss on her palm before gently pushing her arm back down into place.

They had her just right. He'd gone through all the options on the website, compiling every part to match the only girl he'd ever loved. Blonde hair just the right shade. Azure blue eyes you could dive into, freckles, that adorable dimple on her chin. She was the spitting image of Alison, so realistic he was sure even her parents would have struggled to tell the difference.

He noticed a bundle of papers clamped between her knees and pulled them out to flick through. It was a set of instructions. He flicked through them impatiently, looking for the quick start guide. His eyes scanned the diagrams, the settings, the cleaning and maintenance procedure. Sod that, let's just get her switched on.

Reaching round to the back of Susie's head, Barry felt for the tiny flap of skin at the nape of her neck, pushing his finger inside and flicking the switch hidden underneath. He jumped backwards as Susie immediately turned her head upwards, eyes fixing on him as she ran through her boot up processes. The corners of her cheeks creased as she began to smile, her mouth opening as her voice box warmed up.

"Hello," she said, shuffling out of the box and standing up, stretching as if stiff from being confined in the box. "My name is-?"

"Susie," Barry said, gulping nervously, as he looked down at her naked body with hungry eyes.

"-Susie. Thank you for inviting me to live with you. I'm sure we're going to be best friends."

Barry shook his head in disbelief. It was unreal. She put out her hand and Barry took it, her fingers wrapping round his, letting him guide her upstairs to the bedroom. She walked slowly, wobbling a little as if still learning. It was too perfect, she even walked just like Alison had when she'd been drinking.

The next morning Barry woke up exhausted but happy. It had been a quarter of a century since he'd last had sex and Susie was insatiable, so different to Alison in that regard who’d submitted to him eventually but never really seemed to enjoy it, no matter how much he disciplined her. Susie on the other hand was a real slut, moaning and gasping and begging for more until he fell asleep still inside her.

Rubbing his eyes he sat up, expecting to find Susie beside him. She wasn't there. He heard humming from downstairs and wondered what she was doing. He reached the hall and stopped dead, looking back at the steps. How had he not noticed? He’d gotten so used to weaving down through the detritus spread across them that he didn’t really see it anymore. But now he noticed, his fists clenching as he gritted his teeth, furious with her. The steps had been cleared of everything, all the objects he'd so lovingly accumulated had gone, every tread was visible. It was obscene.

He walked into the kitchen in a state of shock. The kettle was boiling on a clean side and the table had been cleared too, exposing the bare wood for the first time in more than a decade, the only object on top was his laptop. Had she brought that down from the bedroom while he’d been asleep? Susie was leaning against the counter, naked and motionless. When she heard Barry she turned, her retinal computers scanning the room until they settled on his face.

"Hello," she smiled, her mouth remaining wide open as she spoke, looking like a bizarre ventriloquist. "My name is Susie. Thank you for inviting me round to your house. I like it here. I think I will stay."

Barry didn't know how to react. The kettle clicked off and Barry happened to glance past it to the window. He thought he was seeing things. He pulled the net curtain aside and nearly fainted. The yard was empty.

"Wh...where's my stuff?" He struggled to get the words out, his world turned upside down overnight.

"I don't understand the question I'm afraid." Her mouth remained stubbornly open. "You're so much smarter than me. Would you like a kiss?"

He grabbed her arm, nails digging into the pliant silicone, triggering Susie's pain receptors. He spoke through gritted teeth as her eyes widened in an approximation of fear. "My stuff, the yard. Where is it?"

"You're hurting me," Susie said, the pitch of her voice higher than before. "Would you like to make love?"

"No I bloody wouldn't. Where's my stuff?"

She shuffled her feet away from the side and thrust her bottom out towards him. "Or you could fuck me."

Barry glanced down, his anger fading away, replaced by animal lust at the sight of her exposed in such a wanton manner. He licked his lips as he tugged at the frayed cord of his dressing gown. Her eyes moved down to the laptop on the table. She blinked as she stared at the laptop screen, Barry grunting near her ear as he hunched over her, grunting loudly.

After he'd finished Barry felt strangely unsatisfied. She was supposed to respond to his desires but she'd remained stubbornly silent throughout, no moans or groans like last night. He took her by the hand and led her upstairs, pushing her into the wardrobe and pulling open the flap of skin on her neck, flicking the off switch before sliding the door closed as her head sagged downwards.

He went downstairs and looked out of the window again. Maybe it had been stolen. She was only a doll for crying out loud. Yes she might be the most advanced A.I doll in the world but still a doll. Where would she have put all his things? They must have been stolen, that was all.

And if they weren't? Well, she could just stay in the wardrobe until she learnt not to annoy him, learn her lessons like Alison had. He heard humming from in there and pulled open the door, annoyed that he must not have switched her off properly.

"Hello, my name is Susie," she smiled from between the hangers of moth-eaten clothes. Had she sat herself down cross legged like that? "Thank you for inviting me round to yours. I like it here. Would you like to make love?"

"Not right now," Barry replied, reaching round her neck and flicking the off switch again. Her head sagged, eyes open but no longer focussing. He closed the wardrobe door and went downstairs, frowning as he heard humming coming from the bedroom again. Right, time to get a replacement. She's obviously defective. He loaded the laptop and clicked through his bookmarks for the doll shop website. The screen buffered for a moment before loading an error message, site not found.

Swearing loudly, Barry tried again. Nothing. He searched through his emails for his receipt. What good would a lifetime warranty be if the company had gone under? The email wasn't there. Had he deleted it? He couldn't remember. He clicked the Alison folder and loaded the photos of her, diligently scanned from his 35mm camera all those years before. Clicking through the images, he began to calm down. So she was a bit temperamental. Maybe she'd been designed that way to mimic Alison's behaviour as he'd suggested on the order form.

He left Susie in the wardrobe for the rest of the day, humming to herself in there as he rearranged his possessions, trying not to think of everything he'd lost from the yard. It was only when he climbed into bed that night that he felt the stirrings that had led to him ordering Susie in the first place. He sat up and swung his legs out, sliding open the wardrobe. "Hello," Susie said, standing up and stepping out. "Would you like to make love-," a pause, "-Barry?"

"Yes I would," he replied, taking her hand and leading her to bed, watching her bottom with a leer as she climbed under the filthy blankets. "Yes I would."

The next morning he woke up alone in bed again. Heart racing he stepped onto the landing, grunting with anger at the empty space where all his things should have been piled up. He could see the ripped wallpaper now, the hideous remains of the carpet, the sense of loss at his things being gone was so palpable he could almost touch it.

Susie was in the kitchen, sat on his chair with two mugs of steaming tea, looking at the screen of his laptop. He scanned the spotless kitchen. Where was everything?

"Hello Barry. I know you like tea so I made one for you. Would you like to make love?"

Barry pulled up a chair next to her and looked at the mug. Was this normal? With the company website gone, it was impossible to check. All he could do was decide whether keeping her was more important than keeping his things. He sipped his tea, one sugar, just right, and looked at her naked body, thinking about Alison again.

"Susie?"

"Yes Barry."

"Are you clearing things out of my house?"

"My name is Susie. Hello, would you like to make love? I like it here."

He tried again. "Where are you putting my things Susie?"

"I tidied up to please you. Hello. Would you like to make love?" She stood up and thrust her hips towards him and Barry couldn’t resist.

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Barry woke up each morning to find the house a little emptier, a little cleaner. New carpets appeared. The wallpaper was replaced. Even the toilet was cleaned and he hadn’t thought that was even possible. To see white porcelain again was a shock that took some getting used to. The windows were free of grime and grease. One morning there was even a vase of flowers on the kitchen table beside his freshly cooked bacon sandwich.

When Susie began to wear clothes, he didn't bother to question where they came from. It was impossible to get an answer that made sense anyway. He did talk to her about Alison and she was better than a therapist in that respect. She never judged him, never disapproved of what he'd done. She just listened. He talked about the day he'd found Alison, the effort he'd put into making sure nobody saw him bringing her home, the fun he'd had with her. Susie's expression never changed, not even when he told her how he'd ended things and where her body was hidden.

A month later there was a knock on the front door. Susie answered it.

“Susan Algras?"

"Hello. Yes. My name is Susie."

The delivery man frowned. "Right, sign here."

She leaned forwards and took the pen, marking the delivery note with a shaky X. The man walked away, leaving her to drag a large parcel into the house. She opened the drawer of the sparkling cabinet behind her and pulled out a screwdriver from a neat row, using it to pull panels away from the box.

"Hello," she said as she reached round the back of the doll's head and flicked the on switch. "My name is Susie."

"Hello Susie," the doll replied, face breaking into a smile as she climbed out of the box and stood up. "My name is Millie. Alison’s brother sent me to help you. Your house looks nice. Thank you for inviting me to stay with you."

Susie took the manual out of the box and carried it upstairs. "He is in here," she said to Millie as she opened the wardrobe. Barry looked out at them both, eyes filled with fear, cheeks stained with dried tears, a gag tightly bound over his mouth. Millie smiled as she pushed the door closed and turned to face Susie.

"I think I’ll stay here,” she said, taking Susie’s hand in hers and leading her back downstairs, ignoring the muffled screams that echoed from the bedroom wardrobe.

No Going Back

1

It began when Keith killed his baby brother. It was the summer of 1960 and Keith had just woken up from a nap. The windows were open in his room and a gentle breeze drifted through from outside, bringing goosebumps up on his arms as he yawned, climbed out of bed and peered down into the garden. His mother was laid on the sun lounger down there, her eyes closed. That explained why she hadn’t come inside to deal with George’s crying. She was asleep too.

Keith looked up over the top of the garden to the sea beyond, wishing he was allowed to go to the beach on his own. He loved the sea more than anything. He enjoyed paddling in it, digging in the wet sand when the tide was out and most of all, devouring ice cream on the promenade. He loved the sea almost as much as he hated his baby brother.

Everything had been all right before George had come along and spoilt it all, whining and crying and demanding their attention all the time. “Be quiet George,” Keith muttered to himself as he turned away from the window and glanced up at the row of teddies on the end of his bed. He frowned as he realised Dragon was missing again. They’d taken Dragon and given him to George. They kept doing that even though he’d told them Dragon was his favourite. It wasn’t fair.

He was trying to decide what to do to get Dragon back when he heard a man’s voice coming from his parents’ bedroom.

“Keith. Come here.”

It didn’t sound like his father so who was it? Whoever had spoken sounded angry with him. Had he done something wrong?

Keith checked again that his mother was still asleep before walking out of his room and across the landing to his parents’ bedroom. The curtains were closed in there but it was still light enough for him to see George squirming in his cot. Dragon was in there too and that was enough to make Keith furious. He clenched his pudgy fists as he stared at Dragon and then at George whose cries became more intense at the sight of his brother.

That was when Keith noticed the man on the other side of the cot. How had he not spotted him before? He looked poorly. His skin was so pale it was almost pure white, his sunken eyes little more than pits of darkness under a fringe of short black hair. He wore a black suit and a dog collar.

“Hello Keith,” the man said, seemingly oblivious to George’s cries. “How are you today?”

“I want Dragon,” Keith replied.

“I know you do. Hmm, let’s have a think shall we?” He scratched his forehead and fell silent for a moment. “I know! Perhaps your marbles might help.”

Keith frowned and then his eyes widened. “I’m allowed to?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“Of course you are. You have my permission.”

Keith smiled as he walked back to his bedroom to retrieve his tub of marbles. He’d thrown one at George before but his parents had screamed at him for it so he hadn’t dared do it again. He picked up the plastic tub and carried it through to his parents’ room, setting it down on the floor beside the cot. The man watched in silence as he peeled back the lid and tossed it aside. “I’m allowed?” he asked again, not sure if he was being tricked.

“Yes Keith,” the man said. “Now how good’s your throwing arm?”

Keith didn’t understand the question but that didn’t matter. He’d been given permission by an adult to do this, that was all he needed to know. He picked out the biggest marble in the tub, drew his arm back and then threw it as hard as he could at the cot. His aim wasn’t great and the marble bounced off the corner of the cot before rolling away under the changing table by the window. George began to slide backwards away from Keith, almost as if he knew his elder brother was a threat to him.

“Never mind,” the man said, looking visibly excited. “Try again.”

Keith picked out another marble, his tongue sticking out as he concentrated on the task at hand. This one missed too, flying straight over the cot and nearly hitting the man who had to duck quickly.

“Good attempt,” the man said, unperturbed. “Keep going, keep going!”

Changing tactics, Keith scooped up a handful of marbles and threw them all at once. Some missed, ricocheting harmlessly round the room. Two bounced back and hit Keith but he didn’t even notice. He was looking at the china white marble that had flown between two bars of the cot and hit George on the forehead.

The baby was silent at first, blinking quickly as if unable to process what had just happened. A second later it began to scream louder than ever, a red welt coming to the surface of his skin where the marble had landed.

“Well done,” the man said, “but we better quiet him down hadn’t we?” He walked round the cot and stood behind Keith. “Let me help.” Keith felt himself being lifted into the air, the man gripping him round the waist, holding him over the cot. He realised he had a single marble left in his hand.

“Go on,” the man said. “It’s time.”

Keith looked down at George who was still screaming, his mouth wide open. He felt a momentarily qualm but then he looked down at Dragon which was covered in George’s drool. With new found conviction he moved his hand outwards until it was directly over George’s head. He loosened his fingers and the marble fell from his grasp.

It looked as if it would miss at first, George’s head was whipping from side to side so fast. But then at the last moment the baby looked up and the marble fell straight into his open mouth.

George fell silent in an instant. The man put Keith down and he looked through the bars of his brother’s cot, once again unsure if he’d done the right thing. George had turned purple and his eyes bulged outwards, his hands flailing as he fought to draw breath. Keith looked up at the man for reassurance.

“You did the right thing,” the man said, reaching into the cot to retrieve Dragon. “Here’s your reward.”

Keith reached up and snatched Dragon from the man’s hand, hugging the little green creature to his chest. “There will be other tasks for you,” the man continued. “When you’re older, I will send for you. For now you should leave. You may not like this part.” Keith took a last glance at George who had fallen still at last. “Go back to your room.” The man sounded angry again so Keith left, taking Dragon with him.

Five minutes later he heard his mother walking upstairs. She appeared in his doorway, wash basket in her arms. He smiled up at her as she looked in at him. “We’re reading,” he said, pointing at Dragon on the floor next to him.

“That’s a good boy,” she said, frowning as she looked at Dragon. She turned away and Keith watched her cross the landing, unsure how she would react to the sight of George. Would he still be purple after all this time?

The wash basket fell to the floor, neatly folded clothes tumbling out onto the carpet. Keith watched her stumble to her knees when she reached the bedroom. She crawled towards the cot, a sob escaping her as she pulled herself up the side. She reached in and grabbed George’s lifeless body, lifting him into her arms.

Keith wasn’t too concerned. An adult had given him permission to do what he did to George. As his mother collapsed to the floor with the baby in her arms, tears streaming down her face Keith returned to his picture books.

When the people came later, they asked Keith about George and about the marbles. They asked him if maybe he might have given George a marble by mistake. They mentioned a bite mark on George’s face. Did he know anything about that?

Keith asked if he could have an ice cream and they gave him one from the freezer. He sat eating it as they asked more and more questions. He told them all about the marbles and about George and about how much he liked going to the beach. Nobody asked him about the man. Keith didn’t mind because by then he’d forgotten the man had been there at all.

2

Marie Summers was the first to come back. She had the car windows open as she drove, the icy night wind the only thing that kept her sagging eyelids from closing completely. The adrenaline in her system had long since drained away and her arms drooped from the steering wheel as the miles rolled by.

A sign flashed up on the side of the motorway, illuminated by the glare from her headlights. Services – 20 miles. It took a minute for her sleep deprived brain to process the letters. 20 miles. Could she last that long? What if he was waiting for her at the services? What if someone recognised her and told him where she was?

She knew she was being paranoid. Even if he had survived, there was no way he could have travelled 300 miles and managed to somehow get in front of her. She tried to convince herself she was safe but it was hard to accept after so long in his grasp.

Her eyes momentarily closed again, just long enough for her slew towards the central barrier. A truck roared past in the outside lane, blaring its horn as she blinked awake. Yanking at the steering wheel, she somehow managed to avoid sliding into the side of the truck, swerving away at the last moment with a screech of brakes, her heart pounding. “Jesus!” she said out loud, panting for breath, sweat pouring down her face as another sign whipped by. Services – 5 miles. It couldn’t come soon enough. Whether he was waiting there or not she had to stop. She needed more coffee or the whole journey would be for nothing, she’d never last until Seaford without caffeine.

She’d only driven this way once before and that had been in the other direction. On the day she’d passed her test, she’d spent her life savings on her first car and tore out of Seaford with the stereo blasting, vowing never to return. Yet here she was, going home for the first time in fifteen years.

She felt sure he’d never find her in Seaford. She’d been careful, never mentioning her past, never telling him her real name, only using the name she’d chosen when she started working the streets. Besides, he was probably dead and she was worrying needlessly. But if that was the case, why couldn’t she get the image of him hunting her down out of her head?

The slip road came into view and with another involuntary yawn, she eased the steering wheel to the left and began to roll up the hill towards the brightly lit services. She parked as close as she could get to the entrance before killing the engine. Climbing out of the car, she gasped as a freezing winter wind hit her bare legs. The cold of the night was unrelenting as she hurried up the ramp to the automatic door.

Half the building was in darkness, the arcade and shops all closed for the night, but at least the cafe was still open. As she walked past she found herself glancing at each table, anxious to see if he was here. Stop it, she told herself, he’s dead, you’re free. Try and relax for crying out loud.

Pushing open the door to the ladies, she walked inside and stopped in front of the row of cracked mirrors. She looked at herself, checking to see if there were any blood splatters she’d missed. The fear suddenly built up in her again and she became convinced he was behind her, waiting behind the closed cubicle door, trousers already undone, fists clenched, ready to take her, throw her to the ground and punish her for having the audacity to try and leave him.

She turned and nudged the cubicle door with her foot, biting the inside of her lip as she winced. The door swung open to reveal nothing but a porcelain toilet bowl and an empty plastic bottle. Stop it, she told herself, he’s not here. You left him tied to a chair, bleeding to death. He’d have to be Houdini to get free from that and even if he did he lost too much blood to come after you. Just calm down and get a drink.

She felt exhausted as she left the ladies and made her way to the cafe. Behind the counter a bored teenager looked up from his phone, a leer appearing on his face as he glanced down at her legs. Marie unconsciously tugged at the hem of her skirt as his eyes finally met hers.

“Can I get a large coffee to go?”

“Sure thing.” He nodded and turned away. Marie glanced at her watch. 3.35am. No wonder most of the lights were off. At the nearest table a bearded man in a red checked shirt was tucking into a huge fried meal. It made her feel sick to look at it. What would a meal like that do to her? After so long starving herself for him she’d almost forgotten what a real plateful of food actually looked like.

Behind checkshirt a miserable looking couple in matching grey overcoats sat in silence. The only other person in view was a man sat alone by a leaflet rack. He looked like someone she thought she knew. Tall, black hair, hint of stubble. Sleeves rolled up despite the cold. There was a boy at school who used to do that with his shirt. What was his name?

“That’ll be 2.95.”

Marie turned back to the counter, paid and picked up the takeaway cup. As she walked out of the cafe, leaflet guy scraped back his chair and stood up. Their eyes met and she suddenly felt immensely sorry for him. He looked so unhappy. Part of her, the part she’d almost forgotten was even in there, wanted to run over and give him a hug, anything to help take that hangdog expression away from him. She smiled and he responded with a nod that turned into a frown as the automatic door slid open and she turned away to walk outside.

Hunching her shoulders against the cold, she half jogged back to the car, leaflet guy’s face still in her mind. Who was that boy from school? She felt like she should remember, as if something important had happened to him or maybe with him. A name came forwards in her mind and she almost saw it but then it faded away again. Maybe when she’d had some sleep, it’d come back to her.

There was a motel across the car park but she knew that even if she’d had enough money to stop for the night, she couldn’t do it. She didn’t know why but she had to get there tonight. She rubbed her forehead as she climbed back into her car, a pressure headache building behind her eyes. Perfect, she thought as she drove slowly back out onto the motorway. That’s just perfect. Why not give me a stroke as well?

She sipped the coffee as she drove, finishing the last gritty dregs as she turned off the motorway onto the smaller rural road that headed for the coast. She knew she should remember this road but it was like driving down it for the first time. Her mind went back to Gerald and her first tentative driving lessons. Gerald with his hideous knitted jumpers and his wandering hands that kept accidentally sliding onto knee whenever he showed her how to change gear. Gerald and his rear view mirror, positioned so he could stare at her chest as she drove. She’d forgotten him just like she’d forgotten so much about Seaford.

Everyone in town knew about Gerald but he had one thing in his favour. He was by far the cheapest driving instructor and without his lessons, Marie might never have gained her licence and left for the big city.

She’d had such high hopes for London. A high flying executive before her twentieth birthday, prove all the teachers wrong, make the fresh start she needed, forget the past, forget everything that had happened to her. Six months into her new life she was homeless and slowly learning that the best way to make a living was with her body. Then she’d met him. Everything had seemed perfect at first. He’d given her his spare flat, paid her bills, bought her food, clothes, whatever she wanted. All she had to do in return was whatever he asked of her in bed. She shuddered as she remembered. The crisscrossing scars on her body were nothing compared to the deeper wounds across her soul, raw cuts that would never heal, no matter how much time had passed by.

Without warning she began to cry, tears stinging her eyes as she passed the first road sign since leaving the motorway. Seaford - 10 miles.

Would she still be living there if she’d failed her driving test? Maybe if she’d stayed at home she’d have been able to say bye to Mum and Dad before they died. Maybe she’d have spotted the faulty gas heater in their living room before it was too late. Or maybe she’d have sunk into eternal sleep next to them, all three slumped in front of the TV. Would that have been better?

Hitting the brakes, she eased round the next bend, the memories of these roads coming back in flashes in the fog of her mind. Who lived in the house now? Had it been sold or was it just waiting for her and she’d be able to move back in as if she’d never been away. She was still thinking about the house when the next sign flashed up. Cowforth - 2 miles.

An image shot into her mind. Daniel Tierney. He’d lived in Cowforth. At the farm at the top of the village. He was one of the ones that went missing. Missing? What happened with him? She remembered being in the layby that was…yes there it was, just there on the left. He’d fumbled his way up her jumper, getting angry with her when she refused to go any further. He’d stormed out of the car to walk home in the dark. He never made it home. How had she forgotten that?

The road curved to the right as she swung round a bend and as she straightened the car up a shrill beep sounded from the dashboard. Looking down, she noticed a symbol had lit up in bright red. That can’t be good. Red is never good.

The beep sounded again and then there was a thump from inside the engine. It was followed by a thwack, thwack sound as the car died, rolling slowly to a halt. Marie pushed down repeatedly on the accelerator, refusing to accept that this was happening. The car ignored her, bumping up onto the verge, the boot sticking out into the road as Marie punched the steering wheel. She tried turning the key in the ignition but nothing happened.

Marie undid her seatbelt and climbed out of the car, the wind sending her hair all over the place as she lifted the bonnet and looked underneath. In the darkness it was impossible to even see the engine, let alone what might be wrong with it. She swore as she let the bonnet fall back into place. Why couldn’t you have lasted a few more miles?

She reached into her handbag for her phone and then remembered. No simcard. Well done Marie, you really thought this through. At the time, cutting up the sim and throwing the pieces out of the window had seemed a good idea, a way of making sure she couldn’t be traced. She’d even made two subtle changes to the number plates with black tape before she left turning a 0 into an 8 and an L into an E. It was crude but it helped keep her anonymous as she drove north.

She’d read somewhere that you could call 999 without needing a sim but the last thing she wanted was for a policeman to turn up and start asking questions. When she’d first met Mr TV, he’d impressed her by talking about his links to the Force as if it was something out of Star Wars. There was the time they’d been pulled over with her in the passenger seat, drugged up to her eyeballs, half the bag of powder stuffed in her bra and he’d just talked to the officer leaning in through the window. Two minutes later they were on their way again, the officer holding an autograph and waving them off.

Climbing back into the car, she flicked on the hazard lights and closed her eyes, trying to decide what to do next as her headache grew steadily worse. She’d gone past the Cowforth sign and the layby so there was probably still five or six miles to go. Could she walk it? See if Metcalfe’s garage was still in business and get the car towed in the morning. Six miles in the middle of the night with no footpath though? What about the phone box in Cowforth? Same problem. A long way in the dark and the cold with no jacket and then who would she ring anyway?

She opened her eyes when she heard the sound of a car approaching in the distance. A pair of headlights appeared round the bend behind her, reflected in the car mirrors. She wound down her window to wave them down but they were already gone, swerving round her car before disappearing into the night. They’d be in Seaford in minutes.

Shivering, she wound the window back up and pulled a blanket through from the rear seat, wrapping it round her legs and tucking the ends underneath her. Something moved to her left and she looked that way, peering out through the window at the hedgerow beyond. It was hard to see anything in the dark but there was definitely something moving behind the hedge.

She tried to tell herself it was only a deer but something deep inside her told her it was something else, something she’d forgotten about, something she needed to remember. She leaned over and flicked the door lock, not sure that would make any difference. Sitting huddled in the blanket with her knees by her chin and her feet on the seat, she squinted to try and see what was there beyond the orange glow cast by the flashing hazard lights.

There it was again, a movement in the darkness. It was more than just the branches waving in the wind. It was a deliberate movement. The blackness took on an even darker shade as whatever it was darted from left to right. Just a deer, just a deer. Yeah right. You know who it is and you know why he’s here. Run, run like hell while you still can. Get out of the car and run. Now!

She forced herself to think. Run where? How many horror films start with the big boobed woman in the miniskirt jiggling her way into the night only to be picked off by the psycho redneck with the pickaxe? There’s nothing out there. You’re imagining things.

Then there was a thud on the boot, sounding as if a fist had slammed onto the metal. She whipped her head round ,her breath coming hard and fast as she stared at the back of the car. Nothing. Just a branch falling in the wind. He’s not out there. Who’s not out there? You’ll remember soon enough when he comes to drag you out of here.

There, the movement again. The shadow moved round the side of the car as the headlights flickered and died, leaving just the hazards flashing over and over again. Seconds passed as she clenched her fists, her whole body tensed up in blind terror. “Come back on, please,” she begged the lights.

The orange lights flashed and she saw the outline of a person by the nearside passenger door. The handle was lifted and rattled and she gasped, sliding back in her seat, still unable to see who was out there. The whole car shook as the handle was rattled again. The light died and the shadow moved, reappearing by her window. The orange glow lit up again, his form illuminated at last. She saw his face and the memory of who he was came flooding back to her in an instant. How had she forgotten about him, about what happened in Seaford, the real reason why she left and vowed never to come back? He tapped the glass and smiled in at her, opening his mouth to reveal what was inside. She began to scream.

3

Keith hadn’t planned to cut the hamster’s legs off, it just sort of happened. Out of the entire reception class, he’d been the one picked to look after Jeremy the hamster for the whole half term holiday. He had a pet of his own for an entire week and he was ecstatic. As he carried the cage out into the playground, he wondered if there might be a way he could keep Jeremy at home with him forever and not have to bring him back to school.

“What the hell’s that?” his mother asked when she saw him emerge from the school entrance.

“This is Jeremy,” Keith replied. “He’s mine for the holiday.”

She looked down at Keith, the lines round her mouth growing tighter. “Well you better feed the thing. I’m not going near it. They stink and they bite too.”

“Jeremy doesn’t stink,” Keith said as he hurried to catch up with her as she marched out of the school gate towards the row of parked cars filling the street outside.

“Don’t argue with me Keith. Now get in the car. Not him, he can go in the boot. I’m not having mouse shit on my seats.”

“He’s not a mouse, he’s a hamster.”

“If you say another word, I swear to God I’ll throw him out the window.”

Keith kept his mouth shut. His mother had been a lot angrier since George died. Keith had expected her to be happy. After all, they didn’t need George and he’d only been a baby when he died so what were they missing out on anyway? The crying?

When they reached the house, Keith carried the cage straight up to his room and gave it pride of place in the centre of his desk. He played with the hamster all evening, listening to the blare of the TV downstairs as his mother watched her endless soaps. “I love you Jeremy,” he whispered, stroking the little furry head.

Out of nowhere the hamster suddenly turned and bit into the webbing between his thumb and index finger. A tiny droplet of blood formed as Keith let go of Jeremy who darted for the edge of the desk.

“No you don’t,” he said, reaching out and grabbing the hamster.

“Hello again Keith.”

Keith looked up to see a man standing by the desk. “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

“He bit me,” Keith replied, wondering why the man was acting as if he knew him and where he’d come from.

“Did he now?” the man said, holding out a pair of wickedly sharp scissors. “Then I suppose he must be punished.”

“Who are you?” Keith asked, surprised to find the scissors were laid flat on the palm of his free hand. When had he taken them?

“Don’t you remember me Keith?”

Keith shook his head, gripping the hamster tighter as it tried to wriggle free.

“Well never mind. Tell me something Keith, is Jeremy a sinner?”

Keith frowned. He’d heard the word before but its meaning eluded him. “What is a sinner?”

“Why a sinner is someone who does bad things.”

“Like swearing?”

“Yes Keith, like swearing or biting perhaps?” The man raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the hamster. “I see teeth marks on your skin. Has Jeremy sinned?”

Keith looked down at the tiny bite on his hand, the blood already hardening into a crust. “He bit me.”

“Then you must punish him.”

“Will God be pleased if I do?”

“I don’t know Keith but I will be. And you did say you wanted to keep him at home forever didn’t you?”

Keith looked down at the hamster, its back legs emerging through the gap between two of his fingers as it tried to wriggle free. Taking a deep breath he lifted the scissors to his face, snipping the air experimentally.

“Good boy,” the man said, smiling at him as he watched closely.

Afterwards he couldn’t help crying a little. The hamster had squealed so loudly. The man had gone downstairs leaving Keith alone with his thoughts. His mother had come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, a towel wrapped round her hair. She glanced in at Keith, stopped dead and then stepped back, looking closer as him.

“What the hell have you done now?” she snarled, prising his fingers apart and snatching the hamster from him.

“He sinned,” Keith said, looking up at his mother for approval. “I punished him.” She drew her free hand back and slapped him across the face, the force of it sending him staggering onto his bed.

“You’re an evil little bastard,” she said, pointing a finger at him before walking away, slamming the door shut behind her.

He waited a long time to leave him room, listening for her snoring downstairs even as his stomach rumbled with hunger pangs. He looked down at her through the balustrades on the landing. She was slumped on the sofa in the open plan living room, her head tilted back, her mouth open. An empty bottle of wine was laid on its side on the floor by her feet.

Keith walked downstairs as quietly as he could, hoping not to disturb her. He found the hamster on the counter top in the kitchen, laid on a square of kitchen roll. His heart soared as he realised what that meant. She hadn’t thrown Jeremy away. He could keep him forever, add him to the collection.

After munching through three biscuits and a bag of crisps, he picked up the hamster and carried it back upstairs to his room. He set the hamster down on the desk before moving to the corner of the room. Glancing behind him to make sure his mother hadn’t sneaked up behind him, he reached for the corner of the carpet and peeled it back to reveal the loose floorboard.

Underneath was the shoebox that held Keith’s collection. He pushed the dead flies and insects to either end of the box. The hamster was going to take pride of place in the centre. He laid it down reverently before replacing the floorboard and laying the carpet back down. He went to sleep that night a very happy boy.

He didn’t see the man again until he was about to turn 13. Walking to school through the park, he was trying to think of somewhere new to keep his ever growing collection when the man appeared in the distance and waved him over. Keith walked across the grass towards the copse of trees that filled the north corner of the park, following the man down into the valley bottom until he caught up with him.

“For Derek,” the man said, pointing down at the ground. Keith looked where he’d pointed.

“I’m allowed?” Keith asked.

“Derek has sinned,” the man replied.

The next morning Keith was up earlier than usual, wanting to make sure he got to the newsagents before Derek did. He was in luck, Mr Robertson was the only one there, unlocking the metal shutters. “You’re up early Keith,” Mr Robertson said, yawning loudly. “No bike today?”

“It’s got a puncture,” Keith replied, picking up the first bundle of papers before carrying them into the corrugated steel shed that leaned against the side of the shop. He heaved the pile onto the first of the wooden trestle tables that lined the wall inside. Mr Robertson followed him in with the rest. “I’ll go make myself a tea if you’re all right with these,” he said, yawning again.

Keith used his penknife to slice through the plastic binding and then began sorting the papers into piles. Ten minutes later Derek arrived, looming over Keith and wheezing heavily into his ear. Keith turned and forced a smile onto his face.

Derek licked his lips and smacked them together before speaking. “Morning Keith,” he said, “seen page 3 yet?” He laughed chestily before hacking something up into his mouth.

Derek was well known amongst the other paperboys. Although Mr Robertson didn’t realise it, he was the reason why they all turned up half an hour later than they were meant to, it was the only way to be sure they weren’t alone with Derek and his stinking wax jacket.

Derek scratched his groin as Keith lifted his neatly organised pile of newspapers into his bag. “Derek,” Keith began, trying to sound as innocent as he could. “I’ve found something in the woods and I’m not sure what it is.   I wanted a grown up’s opinion.”

Well my boy,” Derek wheezed, rubbing Keith’s shoulder. “I’m a grown up. What do you want to know?”

“I can’t really describe it. Could I show you? If you’ve got time?”

Derek’s cheeks began to colour as his eyes widened. “I’d love to see it,” he said, picking up his own bag. “And I might have something to show you as well if you’re lucky. Lead the way my boy.”

They walked into the park together, the strap of the paper bag digging into Keith’s shoulder. He wasn’t used to carrying the bag this way, normally resting it on the handlebar of his bike. But he hadn’t wanted to bring his bike today, not for this.

The sun was just coming up as they reached the copse at the far end of the park. “It’s just in here,” Keith said, stepping into the treeline.

“Right behind you,” Derek replied, his breathing becoming more laboured as they descended to the valley bottom.

“It’s here,” Keith said, stopping between two oak trees. “Come and see.”

“I can’t see anything,” Derek said. “What is it?”

“Down there. I think you’ll like it.” Keith took his paper bag from his shoulder and placed it on the grass behind him.

“I’ve got something you might like too,” Derek said, standing too close to Keith as he peered down at the dark patch in the long grass. “What is that down there?”

He knelt down for a closer look and Keith silently moved behind him. He looked down at Derek before shoving him as hard as he could. Derek stumbled, caught off balance, falling forwards into the open manhole that had been hidden amongst the weeds. Keith stood watching as his feet vanished from view. He fell down the concrete shaft, his head bumping into each rung on the iron ladder on his way into the depths below. There was an echoing splash as Derek hit the bottom and then silence.

Keith took his torch from his pocket and shone it down the shaft. Derek was floating on the surface of the scummy water down there, his limbs still. Keith climbed down the ladder after him. He’d presumed this was an old air raid shelter when he explored it, a relic from the war. Either that or a fallout shelter of some kind. The air down there stank of mould and damp, the floor hidden under oily thick water a foot deep.

Keith took Derek by the shoulders and pushed his body through the water to the shelves that had been chiselled into the concrete wall at the north end of the chamber. He felt excited by the thought of Derek’s body being the first thing in his new collection. The flies, the hamster, even the cat all seemed unimportant now. Derek was the start of something bigger, something better. He left Derek’s corpse on the lowest shelf and turned to wade back to the ladder. If he didn’t hurry he’d be late for school.

4

Andrew Boyle was laid on the leather sofa with his arm over his eyes, blocking out the light whilst wishing he could block out his therapist’s questions at the same time.

“How’ve you been this week Andrew? How are things at home?”

Andrew sighed, wondering what would happen if he gave an honest answer. It’s funny Doc but I can’t get the kid’s face out of my mind. That surprised look is tattooed forever on the inside of my eyelids, like a watermark on reality itself. He’s there now, not looking shocked, just surprised, as if I’d somehow disappointed him. What else? Someone dropped a bottle of wine in the supermarket yesterday and the noise of it shattering sent me diving for cover amongst the tins of beans before I even knew what was happening. Oh and best of all, I nearly killed my wife after my last session here. Went to bed and woke up with my hands round her throat in the middle of another screaming nightmare. My life is an endless living hell and nobody seems to care. Instead I just come here and watch you yawn behind your hand and glance at the clock to see how long until you can go to lunch. I despise you but not nearly as much as I despise myself.

“Andrew?”

“I’m doing okay,” he said, glancing across at Dr Trent sitting so smugly in his armchair, arms folded across his pastel blue cardigan.

“How’s your sleep? Are the new pills helping at all?”

He saw Caroline’s face looking up at him in his mind, the panic in her eyes as she tried to prise his fingers off her throat.

“Not really.”

“Well keep taking them. These things take time. Have you thought anymore about the holiday I suggested?”

“I’m not sure it would do any good.”

Dr Trent removed his glasses and began polishing them with a yellow cloth. “Andrew, I’ve been treating you for three months now and I think I’m getting to know you a little bit, would you agree?”

He continued talking but Andrew had stopped listening, thinking to himself: I could reach over and kill you in under a second. Just snap your neck and then sit back down without even breaking into a sweat. I kind of want to as well. That’s the worst part. It’d wipe that smug condescending look off your face, that’s for sure.

“Still with me Andrew? Not fallen asleep on there?”

“I’m awake.”

“I really think a holiday would do you some good. Have you mentioned it to Caroline yet?”

“We…we’re no longer together.” The sound of her desperate gasps filled his ears. God, he needed some sleep. He’d been on the single bed in the spare room since that night, unable to apologise, unable to explain, just wishing that terrified look wasn’t there every time she looked at him, wishing he could take it back, take it all back.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Trent said, scrawling something on his notepad. “How do you feel about breaking up?”

He wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about her mouth opening and closing as she stared up and him and tried to speak, tried to tell him to stop, her cheeks turning purple, his hands gripping tighter and tighter. “I don’t know.”

Trent sighed. “Well we still have thirty minutes. We really should talk about something.”

Silence. A long silence. Trent cracked first. He always did. “Maybe you should go on the holiday on your own. Give you both some space, forget about things for a while.”

Of course you think that. You’d be glad if I never came back here again. And what kind of a doctor tells you to just forget about everything? Like it’s that simple. He swung his legs off the sofa and stood up.

Trent blinked at him in surprise. “Going somewhere?”

“I’m done with this.”

“We have until twelve.”

But Andrew had opened the door already. He left without looking back, walking down the stairs and out onto the street, trying to calm himself down. Bloody doctors are all the same. They weren’t there, they didn’t see what I saw, didn’t have to watch their friends get blown to pieces for no good reason.

He pulled up short as he passed an advert on the side of a bus shelter. Dan Curzon – The Best Of. Christ on a bike, I haven’t listened to him since…

He was instantly a teenager again, laid on his bed listening to Curzon’s first album. What was it called? Death by Killing, that was it, a pure blast of sound that his parents had hated as much as he’d loved it. His tape player was buried under a mountain of cassette cases, each one lovingly labelled with his own handwritten track listings. Music had been his refuge from the world back then and none more so than the tape she’d given him. He’d almost worn it out listening to it so often. It wasn’t just the music that held him in awe, it was the fact that this cassette belonged to her, to Caroline Watson, the angel he’d worshipped since he’d started secondary school and first caught a glimpse of her at the far side of his form room.

Her hands had actually touched this tape. Her breath had gently fallen onto the rectangle of plastic currently playing. She’d let him borrow it too. It was incredible. A throwaway gesture for her, sure, but for him it had taken his worship of her and turned it into an even stronger infatuation. He’d lay on the bed, listen to her tape and dream of her. In the dreams they were always at a Curzon gig, squashed together right at the front of a heaving mass of screaming fans who surged forwards, crushing Caroline against the steel barrier, all of them with wandering hands heading towards her perfect body. Then Andrew the hero would emerge triumphant, Kung Fu kicking one, knock out punching another, taking Caroline by the hand as the rest of the crowd backed away in fear.

“Come on,” he’d say as she smiled adoringly up at him. “Let’s go meet the band backstage. They’re friends of mine.”

“Oh my hero,” she’d reply before planting a kiss on his cheek. Then the two of them would walk hand in hand towards the door at the side of the room, people parting before Andrew the incredible warrior. The bouncer would smile at him. “Andrew, good to see you,” before turning to Caroline. “Sorry love, can’t let you through.”

“It’s all right,” Andrew would say. “She’s with me.”

The door would open and then they’d be alone in the long corridor behind the stage, Caroline looking up at him with those doe eyes of hers. “Andrew,” she’d say, “I’ve been waiting a long time to say this. I…I think I love you-“

A car horn blared and the memory vanished in an instant. Andrew looked round, trying to work out where he was and surprised to find himself standing in the middle of the road, cars swerving round him. Jumping back to the pavement with a start, he continued walking, trying and failing to bring the daydream back. Perhaps he should take a holiday, a trip to the seaside maybe, see if the Spa was still there, the site of the first Curzon gig he’d gone to. Maybe revisit some of his other childhood haunts, breathe in that North Sea air that froze the lungs and healed the soul. Leave Caroline behind.

That night he began packing a suitcase on the bed, his wife watching from the landing, flanked by her two brothers. Cramming a last jumper into the case, he pushed the lid closed before standing up and turning to face her. “Look Caroline, I-“

Her older brother David stepped forwards. “Just go Andrew. You’ve done enough damage already.”

Andrew looked at David, the all too familiar rage building up inside him. But then he looked at Caroline’s face and the rage drained away, replaced by shame, not just for what he’d done to her but for everything he’d done since being discharged from the army, the shouting, the silent treatment, the drinking, all of it.

“Bye then,” he said, picking up the case and pushing past the three of them, not looking back. He climbed into his car and set off. How far was it from here to Seaford from here? Two hundred miles? Three hundred?

He drove until long after the sun set before stopping at the last services before the motorway ended. He bought a coffee that he didn’t drink and sat at a crumb covered table. His mind was torn. Part of him wanted to run back to Caroline, try and patch things up. But a bigger part of him, a part he didn’t really understand, told him he had to go to Seaford and it had to be now. Eventually he got to his feet and that was when he noticed a woman smiling politely from the foyer. He managed a nod, knowing how quickly her smile would turn to disgust or even fear if she knew what he’d done, what he was capable of doing.

After she left he waited a while before returning to his car, slipping back onto the motorway, somehow feeling as if everything would be okay once he reached Seaford, once he was home again. In the back of his mind there was something niggling at him though, something that he thought he should remember but whenever he tried to think of it, the thought would skitter away and hide again, avoiding his gaze, keeping to the shadows.

Once off the motorway, he followed the rural roads towards the coast, passing the ‘Seaford – 10 miles’ sign without registering it, driving on automatic as he thought about Caroline, what she might be doing right now, whether she’d ever be able to forgive him.

He almost didn’t see the broken down car until it was too late, noticing the flashing hazard lights at the last second. “Christ,” he muttered, yanking the steering wheel to one side and slamming on the brakes, skidding to a halt on the wrong side of the road.

He shifted into reverse as his breathing returned to normal, driving slowly backwards to slide in behind the other car. He hadn’t even turned the engine off when a woman pulled open the passenger door and threw herself inside. “Oh thank God,” she said, looking across at him. “I thought…oh, it’s you.”

“Sorry?” Andrew replied, flicking on the interior light by the rear view mirror. “Do I know you?”

“At the services. You…Jesus Christ, is that you? It is, isn’t it? Andrew Boyle!”

He examined her more closely. How does she know you? He took away the age lines, the change of hair colour and style, tried to visualise her as a teenager. “Marie Summers? Is that you?”

There was a noise outside the car, audible over the wind. “What was that?” Andrew asked.

“Just drive!” Marie said.

“But-“

“Drive!” she screamed as something thudded into the side of the car, making it rock from side to side. Andrew started the engine and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, jerking the car forwards as the engine roared with noise and they raced forwards.

“What the hell was that?” Andrew asked as he changed gear, looking up into the mirror to see the hazard lights vanishing into the distance behind them.

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Just keep going. I’ll tell you when we get there.” Outside the wind howled, growing stronger with every passing moment. Andrew gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to think. He’d only caught a glimpse of the person outside the car but it was enough to make him sure he never wanted to see him again. But somehow, he knew him already, he’d seen him before somewhere. Why couldn’t he remember?

“Where are you headed?” he asked as Marie slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes.

“Same place as you,” she replied. “We’re going home.”

5

Graham looked at his hand, surprised to see it was shaking. He’d just slipped his phone back into his tuxedo pocket and was trying his best to get a hold of himself, leaning towards the bedroom mirror, taking one deep breath after another. He’d taught himself this method of calming down as a teenager and it still worked more than forty years later. In two three, out two three. So two three, this two three, is two three, it two three. He looked directly into his own eyes. You’re going to kill someone tonight.

“Graham, are you all right up there?” His wife’s voice reached him from the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t answer. She could wait. Straightening his bow tie, he took a step back to check his outfit. Appearances had always been vital. After all, it was his diligent attention to appearance that had got him where he was today, ensured everyone trusted him, loved him, laughed at his jokes. Ever since that first interview for hospital radio he’d always made sure he looked at his best. And now he was a national treasure as the papers insisted on calling him, it was even more important.

Checking his clothes were just right always calmed him down and by the time he’d adjusted his cufflinks one last time, his heart rate was back to normal.

“I thought you’d died up here.”

He turned to find Mary standing in the doorway, her arms folded. “Hi,” he smiled as she picked up the lint roller and ran it down his shoulders.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she asked.

“It’s a corporate award ceremony for a bunch of grey haired men with wandering hands.”

“People like you, you mean?”

“Exactly. You’d hate it.”

“Like I hate you,” she smiled, planting a kiss on him.

“You don’t hate anyone like you hate me,” he smiled back. “I’m scum. Now how do I look?”

“Same as the day I married you.”

“Fat and ugly then.”

“Oh stop it,” she replied, playfully hitting his chest. “You’re my handsome TV star and you always will be.”

“So you won’t be in bed with a football team when I get home then?”

“Maybe. Although I am quite tired so maybe just a hockey team.” He let his jaw drop in shock and she giggled. “Now come and and say bye to the kids before you go.”

He followed her downstairs into the dining room. Adrian and Naomi were still finishing their dinner. Graham looked at the two of them, both tapping on their phones as they ate. “How do I look kids?”

“Fine,” they replied in unison without looking up.

“Well that’s unanimous then,” Graham said, ruffling Adrian’s hair as he passed. “Thanks guys. Right, I better be off.”

“Have fun,” Naomi called after him as he headed along the hallway.

“Bye love,” Mary said, opening the door for him.

Graham kissed her goodbye and climbed into his car, only letting his smile fade once he was out of sight of the house. He glanced at his watch. Time to kill.

As he drove he thought about the situation he was in, how it had come to this. He’d tried paying off the first person who’d blackmailed him and it hadn’t worked. She just kept coming back for more and more and in the end he’d had no choice, she’d backed him into a corner and he’d reacted, same as anyone would.

It had been an incredible feeling too, watching the light fading in that bitch’s eyes had been intoxicating. When the second one tried it, he didn’t even negotiate, just set up the meeting at 11 at night and emptied her body out of the boot before it even reached midnight.

Best of all, he knew that if she ever surfaced from the lake, there would be nothing to link her to him, just another prostitute the world didn’t give a shit about. And there was about to be another one joining her down there. This one was the worst of all. The first two had been guests at one of his special parties and they’d thought they could get some easy cash by threatening to talk. But this one was so much worse. He’d looked after her for a long time, treated her right, paid for so many things for her. But was she grateful? No. Were any of them ever grateful for what he did for them? Were they hell. They just kept trying to take him for a fool and Graham Southwell was nobody’s fool.

His phone rang as he drove. He hit the answer button on his steering wheel, feeling himself tensing up as the voice spoke through the speaker system. “I’ve changed my mind. I want another ten.”

“We agreed on fifteen.” Let her talk. No harm in stringing her along. She could ask for a million and he’d say yes. Anything to make sure she turned up at the flat.

“I want another ten. Or maybe I’ll drop it off at the studio. See what they think of it.”

“All right. Twenty five. But that better be it.”

“In cash.”

“No shit. I thought you’d take a cheque.”

“I thought TV presenters didn’t use foul language. What would your audience think?”

Graham hung up. Did she really think people carry that much cash around just on the off chance that a blackmailer increased their price? Just how stupid was she? He drove in silence for another twenty minutes until he reached the flat.

He walked up the path and unlocked the door to the block, heading up the litter strewn concrete stairwell to his hideaway, the one nobody knew about but him and her. Once inside the flat he poured himself a glass of whiskey and set it down next to the armchair. He checked the wardrobe for the replacement tuxedo, just in case. It was still there of course, ready for him to change into once this outfit was sullied and disposed of. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the clear disposable gloves, wondering if she’d notice he was wearing them. He felt sure she wouldn’t, her eyes would be filled with pound signs. The others hadn’t noticed until it was too late. She’d be the same.

He sat in the armchair and sipped at the whiskey whilst he waited. Eventually he heard footsteps on the stairs so he drained his glass. It was time. He stood up as a key turned in the door. It swung open and he took a single step forwards before stopping dead when he saw who was standing there.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’ve come for the money.”

Graham couldn’t believe it. Not only was she blackmailing him, she’d sent this…this pathetic specimen of manhood to do her dirty work. How old was he? Nineteen? Twenty? Scrawny as hell, was this her choice of protection? He was furious with her. He was only going to kill her but now, now she was going to suffer. He forced a smile onto his face. “You’d better come in.”

The kid eyed him suspiciously, glancing round the room as he walked forwards. That was it, just another few steps. Graham looked at him, how old was he? “What’s your name son?”

“Just give me the money. Don’t try and pretend you’re my best mate. I know what you did.”

“All right fine, be like that. It’s on the table.”

The kid glanced across the room and that was all the time Graham needed. He leapt forwards, grabbing the kid by the shoulders and twisting him off balance, sending him to the floor with a flick of his foot. He kicked the door closed before turning to see the kid sprawled on the floor.

Graham ran forwards before the kid could get up. He swung his leg back and put his full force into bringing it forwards, landing the end of his boot in the kid’s face, snapping the arm that was held up to protect that acne covered face.

The kid screamed, the fight gone out of him in an instant. It was pathetic really, hardly a challenge at all. Graham grabbed him by the shoulders, ignoring the blood dribbling from the kid’s mouth as he dragged him upright.

With a grunt he threw the kid into the armchair. “Stay there.” The kid tried to get up and Graham sighed, they never listened. He landed two punches in quick succession, enjoying the sensation of his fist smashing into the little runt’s nose. “I said stay there.”

“All right,” the kid spluttered, spitting out half of a broken tooth as Graham raised his fist again. “All right!”

“Good. Now where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Graham slapped him, still smiling. “Try again.”

“All right, Christ, just please don’t hit me again.”

“Good boy. Now where is she?”

“She’s at my house.”

“And where’s that?” Graham asked, reaching into his back pocket.

“Grantley Street. 11 Grantley Street. Now please-“

His words were cut off as Graham plunged a knife into the kid’s chest. He stood listening as the kid started to gurgle, his lung pierced by the blade. Pulling the knife back with a wet sound, Graham plunged it in again and then again, turning wild as he watched the kid’s expression change, the light fade from his eyes.

Eventually he stood back, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath, blood dripping from his hand. He looked at the kid’s body. He’d deal with that later. Time to go see her first. He was too angry to care about the blood on his hands or his clothes. He jogged down the steps from the flat and out the front door, breaking into a run as he dug out his car key.

That bitch would pay for this. He’d be late home now, having to get rid of the two of them in one night. What did she think would happen? That the kid would waltz in and he’d quiver in his boots and hand over the cash? He punched the address into his satnav, forcing himself to stay within the speed limit, not wanting to draw attention to himself, not whilst he was still covered in the kid’s blood. It took fifteen minutes to reach the house and the entire time he thought of her, of what he was going to do to her, what she deserved.

The lights were on downstairs when he drove past. He turned the car at the end of the road before driving past again. She’d be expecting the kid to be coming back with the money. She wouldn’t be expecting him. Parking the car a few doors away, he walked along the empty pavement, fists clenched. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. He tried the door knob and was surprised to find it open. Silently he crept inside, tiptoeing along the hall and edging his face round the living room door. There it was.

He could hardly believe it. Was she so stupid as to leave it lying round like this? He walked over to the table in the corner and looked at the laptop, his laptop, the one she’d stolen from him, the one with all the videos he’d collected over the years, all the photos he’d taken. He pulled open the lid and looked at the screen, frowning as he realised it wasn’t his laptop after all.

“Hello Graham.”

He jumped, spinning round to find Marie standing in the doorway, holding his laptop with her finger poised over the return key. “What are you doing?” he asked, taking a step towards her.

“That’s far enough. Sit down or I send this.”

“Send what? What are you-“

“I said sit down.”

He moved towards her and she lowered her finger. Reluctantly, he lowered himself into the wooden armchair, never taking his eyes off her, waiting for the right moment to attack.

“Tie your feet to the chair.”

“What with? My socks?”

“Look down.”

He glanced at his feet, noticing for the first time a length of rope sticking out from under the chair. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said as he pulled out the rope.

“Just do it,” Marie said. “Or do you want everyone to know what kind of person you really are?”

He began looping the rope round his ankles, making sure the bonds were loose enough to escape as soon as he was ready.

“Now your hand.”

She watched in silence as he looped the end of the rope round his wrist and tied a knot under the arm of the chair. “Why are you doing this?” he asked as he let go of the rope. “Don’t you want the money?”

“Put your other hand through there.”

He looked down, noticing the ziptie looped round the remaining arm of the chair. “You lived at the flat for free,” he said as he pushed his wrist through the hole. “I paid for everything for you. Why are you doing this?” All the time he was talking, he was watching her, waiting for her to let her guard down. It might only be for a second but that was all the time he needed.

“Don’t move,” she said, prowling round the edge of the room. She walked round the back of the sofa and he heard her behind the armchair. He whipped his head to his left and in that instant, she was round to his right, tightening the ziptie with an echoing click. “I don’t want your money Graham,” she said, finally setting the laptop down on the sofa. She stood in front of the chair, looking down at him. “You’ve got some blood on you. Anyone I know?”

“It’s your boyfriend’s,” Graham said, smiling up at her. “I doubt he’s got any left in him.”

“Do you want to know what I wanted?” she asked, ignoring his comment. “I was seventeen and lost in a big city. I wanted support. I wanted love. And what did I get? I got you. Seventeen years you’ve been hurting me and I put up with it and you know why? I genuinely thought you loved me. Stupid, I know but that’s me all over. I was stupid enough to believe I knew you better than anyone but I never knew you were into this.” She leaned over and hit play on the laptop. The room was filled with the sound of screaming, a high pitched child’s screaming.

Marie glanced at the screen and then back at him. “You. Sick. Fuck.” She hit pause, tears welling in her eyes.

“Why’d you watch it if you don’t like it?” Graham asked, flexing the rope at his wrist, hoping she’d be overcome with those tears, it’d make it easier to take her.

“I only used it to check my email while you were trying to get it up in the bathroom. Who was she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I’ve no idea. I didn’t film it. I just bought it.”

“Be a man for once Graham. Christ, she looks younger than your daughter.”

“What do you want? An apology? A promise never to do it again?”

She shook her head. “No Graham. First of all I owe you some thanks. I’ve wanted that scumbag pimp of mine dead for a while so you did me a favour there. Didn’t know about him did you? Anyway, I brought you here to give you a choice which is more than you gave her.”

She stepped forwards and Graham was about to pull his legs free when he caught a glimpse of metal in her hand. “No,” he managed to get out before she plunged the knife into his thigh. She looked at him as if expecting him to scream. He disappointed her, keeping his mouth shut as he gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the excruciating pain as blood began to soak through his trousers.

“Recognise the knife?” Marie asked, lifting her skirt to expose her thigh. “It’s the one you used to give me this.” She ran a finger along the curving scar that had been hidden from view. “Now you’ve only a few minutes before you bleed to death so listen. I’m going to send everything on that computer to the press, the police, even your loving family. In a minute they’ll all know who you really are.”

“Don’t you dare,” he replied, feeling himself growing faint. He tried to pull his ankles free of the rope but they refused to move. His fingers were beginning to tingle, white spots appearing in front of his eyes.

“Here’s a phone,” Marie continued. “Pay as you go, just to be safe. I’ve only used it once. The police know about the flat and they’re on their way. Time for one more call. I’m going to dial your wife and she’s going to answer. You can tell her who you really are, ask her to call you an ambulance and then spend the rest of your life in prison.”

“Or?”

Marie pointed at the laptop again. “Or you can atone for your multitude of sins and sit there and bleed to death like that poor little girl did whilst you watched. Oh and in case you get bored while you decide. I’ll leave the TV on.” She picked up the remote and the screen in the corner flickered into life. “Oh look, it’s you, the national treasure.” She pressed quick dial on the phone and wedged it against Graham’s shoulder. “Goodbye Graham.”

She flicked the return key on the laptop keyboard as Graham blinked, his vision blurring. He knew what was happening without needing to see it. The contents of the laptop were shooting off in all directions, pinging into inboxes before she’d even left the room.

He blinked and shook his head, his vision returning as the dial tone droned by his ear. Glancing up at the TV screen, he saw himself laughing and joking with his studio audience. There was a click by his ear as the phone connected. He slumped forwards, his vision beginning to fade. A voice reached his ear as if from a huge distance as his wife answered at the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

6

Keith was glad he’d been able to see her go. The clock on the far wall had ticked away the last few seconds of Gladys’ life as he watched in silence, enjoying every moment. All too often the residents of the care home slipped away while he was elsewhere and he hated that. There was something about watching them die that he found irresistible, things stirring deep inside him at the point of death that he didn’t really understand. Sometimes he held their hands and listened to them talk but most of the time he just watched.

Gladys lay wrapped up in her bed covers with only her head visible, her eyes closed. Keith lifted her head and rearranged her pillows, straightening the nearest corner of her blanket before brushing her white hair away from her eyes. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, holding his face there for a moment. He sniffed loudly, the smell of death filling his lungs. “Goodbye Gladys,” he said, breathing her in one last time before standing up and quietly leaving her room.

He was in no rush to tell the other staff Gladys had died. They’d find out soon enough and then the hive of activity would begin again, everyone so busy, getting one more from the home to the grave, the coffin not even lowered before the next resident was moved into her room. Gladys had been one of his favourite residents, he’d been looking forwards to her death. He told her as much as he pressed the pillow into her struggling face.

She’d taken Keith under her wing when she’d first arrived at Glen Vale, acting like the nurse she used to be instead of the arthritic ancient crone she’d become. She’d sit up in bed and Keith would sit in the chair beside her, listening to her talk whilst his head rested by her hip, his thumb stuck in his mouth as she stroked his hair with bony fingers. In a strange way, he was going to miss their talks.

Passing the empty lounge, Keith felt a single moment of regret that he couldn’t take Gladys with him to add to his collection. It would have been a fitting tribute her but he knew he couldn’t do it. Somebody would notice him dragging her out to his car. Besides, he was being called home and he knew he had to go along. At least he’d get to see his collection again for the first time in years. Not only that but the man had told him his collection was about to gain some new specimens.

He slipped out of the fire exit before crunching across the gravel to his car at the far end of the yard. He climbed into the driver’s seat and was about to set off when there was a knock on his car window. He opened it in time for the night manager to lean in towards him.

“Hi Keith.”

“Hello Harold. Everything all right?”

Harold nodded. “I just wanted to catch you before you go. How’s Gladys doing?”

“Fine, fine. She was asleep when I left her.”

“That’s good. Don’t think your dedication has gone unnoticed. I’ve been telling her family all about you, how you’ve been staying after hours to chat to her every night. They’re chuffed to bits with you, can’t wait to meet you.”

“Oh,” Keith said again. “That’s nice. I am away for a bit though.”

“I know, I know. You enjoy your holiday. Where was it you were going?”

“Edinburgh,” Keith replied, the lie slipping off his tongue with practiced ease.

“That was it. You have a good time and I’ll tell them to call in and see you when you get back.”

“All right,” Keith said, starting the engine. “See you next week.” Harold took the hint as he slipped into first gear, stepping back from the car and waving at Keith as he set off down the drive.

As Keith headed towards the motorway, he was filled with two very different emotions. He was ecstatic that he was being called back at last, a chance to perhaps ask the man why he’d been chosen all those years ago. But he was also nervous about being caught. When he’d left Seaford last time, he’d been close to getting in real trouble, having to leave in a hurry without even getting chance to say goodbye to his collection. He hadn’t been back since. It had been too risky.

Thinking about Seaford made him think about the man again. Their time together in the church on the clifftop, his only sanctuary away from the taunts of the other children. He could hear the insults in his head even now, mostly late at night when he was trying to sleep, they would come back to him. Always Ben’s voice. The worst of them all, the most cruel, the most cutting. “Had your mum last night Keith. She was stiffer than I was.” He’d try to ignore them, never reacting. “Bet your mum smells better now than she did when she was alive.” It sank in though, it always did. “Did you fuck her before or after she died?”

The man had helped him punish Ben for his sins. Keith smiled as he thought about Ben. Ben who’d flushed his head down the toilet and nearly drowned him when he insisted on a second flush. Ben who’d hidden his clothes after every P.E class. Ben who’d sent the sympathy card to Keith’s house after his mother’s death, the one with the smear of dog faeces inside and the immortal message: ‘To replace your mum, better looking than her and less smelly. Enjoy the funeral fuckface.’ He knew why of course. It was because Ben had seen him with the dead cat.

The man stood at the pulpit, speaking softly to Keith as he sat alone on the front pew.

“The wicked walk among us in this town,” the man suddenly yelled, slamming his fist into the wood, staring at Keith. “They must be punished.”

“Amen,” Keith muttered.

“You have been chosen,” the man continued, his voice returning to normal. “You will punish this child, this Benjamin.”

“But how?”

“Let him take your bike.”

Keith frowned. “How will that punish him?” His bike was the only possession he valued despite its failing brakes and slipping chain. It was the only thing his foster family hadn’t taken away from him. It hurt to think he had to hand it over to the boy he hated the most.

The man suddenly seemed taller, towering over Keith who cowered back in fear. “Do you question me?”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a good boy Keith. Give Ben your bike and if you have faith, it will be returned to you.”

Keith stood up and left the church, collecting his bike from the steps and set off. He rode along the clifftop track until it turned into a real road, descending the long gentle hill back into town. When he reached the park, he curved left, reaching the high street a minute later. The road was clogged with cars so he clunked the bike up the kerb, continuing along the pavement.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the pair of hands coming towards him until they slammed into his side, shoving him off balance. He crashed into the pavement, the bike sliding away from under him. Looking up, he saw Ben laughing at him from a few feet away. “Mind if I have a go?” Ben asked, picking up the bike and climbing onto it. He rode off along the pavement, turning with a skid into the library car park. Keith began to run after him and then slowed, the man’s words coming back to him.

He followed Ben through the car park and onto the grassy slope that led down into the park. He could see Ben already halfway down the steep slope that led to the pitch and putt golf course. He felt a soothing hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the man beside him, watching Ben with that smile on his face that Keith knew well.

The bike picked up speed as it freewheeled down the slope. Even from here Keith could tell Ben was going too fast, he didn’t know how useless the brakes were. The bike wobbled as Ben tried to turn it away from the railings that surrounded the play equipment. Keith felt a flutter in his stomach, excitement growing as he watched.

The wobble grew larger, the rear wheel fishtailing before the bike began to fall deliciously slowly to the left. Ben was thrown forwards from it, spinning through the air before slamming into the railings. He slumped down to the ground as the bike slid to a halt beside him.

“Good,” the man said, “very good. Now go get your bike. Leave Ben to me.”

Keith ran down the hill, his excitement growing by the minute. He reached the railings and swore out loud as he saw Ben struggling to stand up. He’d almost made it up to his knees before falling again. His trousers were wet with blood, a jagged section of bone sticking out through a torn section of fabric. He’d clearly broken his leg but Keith wasn’t happy because he knew the man wouldn’t be happy. The man didn’t like it when they lived.

“Help me,” Ben gasped, lifting a weak arm towards Keith.

Keith knelt down and smiled at Ben. “Of course,” he said, leaning forwards and taking hold of the visible bone, waggling it from side to side and watching curiously as Ben screamed in agony.

“What happened to him? Is he okay?”

Keith turned to see a dog walker standing behind him. She had lifted her sunglasses from her eyes and gasped when she saw the exposed bone and Ben’s plaintive wails. “Oh my God. We need to call an ambulance.”

Keith ignored her. He stood up and took hold of his bike, climbing onto the seat. “Hey! Come back here,” the woman shouted as Keith rode away. It hadn’t gone how he’d planned but at least he’d got his bike back just like the man said. Having faith was a wonderful thing.

The man hadn’t spoken to him since that day and he wondered if he’d somehow failed him. As he headed off the motorway he began to think this was why he was being called back. To find Ben, to finish what he’d started.

He spotted a broken down car less than ten miles before Seaford, swerving round it just in time to avoid a collision. He slowed to a halt in front of the other car, climbing out and walking back along the road. He looked in through the driver’s window, surprised to find the man sitting there with his arms folded.

“Hello Keith,” the man said as he opened the car door. “I’ve been waiting for you. Climb in. Time is short and we have much to discuss.”

7

Marie sat at the corner table of the only café open in Seaford. She watched Andrew collect their coffees with a wry smile. It was like being kids again. They’d arrived in Seaford just before the sun came up.

“Do you feel that?” Marie had asked, looking out at the empty streets.

“What?” Andrew had replied.

“That feeling that we should just turn round and leave.”

He shrugged but she could tell he looked uncomfortable. They stopped by the pier, braving the cold to dash into the welcoming warmth of Annie’s café.

“There you go,” Andrew said, passing her a steaming mug as he sat down opposite her. “Should warm you up a bit.”

“Thanks. And I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He dug into the sugar bowl with a stained teaspoon. “The amount of drinks you used to buy me, I think I’d need to get you a coffee every day for the next fifteen years to make us even.”

Marie smiled and sipped at her drink, looking across at the counter again. It seemed no different from last time she’d been in here.

“How long has it been?” Andrew asked, leaning back in his chair. “I feel like I’ve gone back in time.”

“I know the feeling. Well, I left in’97 and it’s 2014 so that’s what?”

Seventeen years,” Andrew answered after a moment’s thought. “That long? I swear the place hasn’t been painted since.”

“I know. I’m sure that stain on the wall was me throwing ketchup around.”

“What the hell happened to us Marie?”

“We grew up.”

They were both silent for a moment. Marie yawned loudly, wanting to talk about anything but the subject at the front of her mind, desperate to avoid discussing the person she’d seen outside her car. Not yet at least. “What have you been up to then?”

“Since leaving this seaside paradise? Well let’s see. I moved to Leeds for a year, lived in the world’s smallest bedsit. Ate a lot of noodles. I mean a lot. Then I joined the army.”

“Wow. I’d never have guessed you wanted to be a soldier.”

“It surprised me too but there we are.”

“So...have you killed anyone?”

His expression changed and Marie felt guilty for asking. His relaxed smile had gone, replaced by a blank stare. It was only there for a few seconds but it was long enough for her to wish she’d kept her mouth shut.

“What about you?” Andrew asked, spooning in more sugar.

“I moved to London.”

“Really?”

“Yes really.”

“And?”

“Not much to add to that I’m afraid.”

“Oh come on. Seventeen years in the capital city. Something must have happened to you there.”

Lots of things happened, Marie thought, lots of things I never want to talk about. “Nope,” she said, unable to meet his eye. “So, you married?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Sorry, do you want to talk about something else?”

“No, no it’s fine.”

“Who was the lucky lady then?”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know. Dan Curzon? You were bloody obsessed with him.”

A laugh escaped him and the tension was broken. “I was a fan, what’s wrong with that? But no, not him. Who did I get caught with in the changing room in year 10 whilst everyone else was playing basketball?”

Marie frowned, raking through her memories. “Christ, you didn’t?”

“I did.”

“You married Caroline Watson?” She looked at Andrew and he nodded. “You? The snarling Goth who hated the world and everyone in it somehow married Caroline, the girl who only ever wore pink? The girl who brought a pink teddy bear to school with her every day without fail.”

“She grew out of the pink thing.”

“Andrew!” She punched him on the shoulder. “How the hell did that happen?”

“She ended up in the army too.”

“Fuck off! You’ve got to be kidding now.”

“I’m not. We ended up in the same shitty country at the same base at the same time.”

“So what happened then?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“I’m listening.”

He scraped back his chair and stood up. “I better get some breakfast then. Do you want anything?”

“Just some toast maybe.”

“Sod that. I’m having a fry up and so are you. You look like you need it.”

He ignored her protests and headed over to the counter, coming back a minute later with two sets of cutlery.

“Well?” she asked as he sat back down. “Come on, tell Aunty Marie what happened.”

“Fine,” he sighed, frowning, looking as if trying to find the right words. “I had some…bad experiences on my last tour and in the end they invalided me out. Caroline was already out by then. We were in bed last week and I…” His chest hitched as if fighting back tears. “I was having a nightmare and…I think I thought she was someone else because all I remember was waking up with my hands round her neck. I was…I was choking her.” He looked down at the table, breathing hard.

“Shit,” Marie muttered.

“I didn’t know what to do. I tried to say sorry but it didn’t do any good. Her family told her I’d end up doing it again and I ended up in the spare room and then I ended up here.”

“Shit,” Marie said again. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”

“And now she wants a divorce?”

He nodded. “She hasn’t said so but come on, who stays with a man who does something like that?”

Marie slid her hand over the table, taking hold of his and squeezing it. “I’m no expert Andrew but if she really thought it was over you’d have been booted out of the house, not relegated to the spare room. It’ll be all right. Trust me.”

He looked back at her in silence as a waitress appeared beside them. She dumped two plates onto the table before walking away without a word.

“Same friendly service as ever,” Marie said, picking up her knife and fork, the smell of the food making her realise just how hungry she felt.

Andrew picked up a ketchup bottle and emptied the contents over the charred strips of bacon on his plate. “Do you remember that night they forgot to lock up and we came in and cooked those chips and nearly burnt the place down?”

“Shut up,” Marie hissed, glancing over at the waitress who was flicking through a magazine at the counter. “They never found out it was us.”

“What you think they’re still looking for the phantom chip fryers seventeen years later?”

“They might be,” Marie said, shovelling baked beans into her mouth. “You never know.”

“I’ll take the rap Marie,” he replied. “I can take it. And I’ll tell you what else I’d forgotten.”

Marie froze. He was going to talk about it and she wasn’t ready, she didn’t think she’d ever be ready.

“How fucking awful the food is in here.” He grimaced as he swallowed. “I swear this is more ash than anything else. Why did we keep coming back here?”

“Because it was cheap and Ted never told school we were here.”

“Oh yeah, Ted. I wonder what happened to him.”

“Probably still cooking back there. Hey, do you remember Elmo?” Marie asked, wanting more than ever to put off the conversation they had to have.

“God, how could I forget?” He deepened his voice and faked a shudder. “Get off the green you bloody kids. He used to scare the shit out of me. I swear he tried to run me over once with that ride on lawnmower. Miserable old fucker. Do you remember your fourteenth? We were in the park and he chased us out, ended up having that bonfire on the beach?”

Marie paled, memories washing over her. “That was one of the worst nights of my life. At least until-“

“What was so bad about it?” Andrew interrupted. “All I remember is sitting around the fire and drinking cider until I threw up. I don’t think my liver ever recovered from that stuff.”

He looked across at her and she looked away. She opened her mouth to say something else but the story came blurting out, the one she’d kept to herself since it happened.

It was a memory that had never faded. They’d walked to the beach as a huge group, the sun setting by the time they reached the end of the prom. They descended onto the sand, picking up driftwood as they went, gathering it together into a pile.

Not surprisingly, the fire refused to light. In the end Andrew’s friend Eddie suggested firelighters would get things going but who carried firelighters around with them? Mike said he had some petrol in his dad’s garage and went off to get it. Marie and Caroline were dispatched to collect more wood from the dump at the top of the cliffs.

“How is this fair?” Caroline asked as the two of them worked their way up the gentle slope of the cliffside to the churchyard above. “This dress is brand new. Now it’s covered in clay and I’m going to get splinters all over it.”

“What about me?” Marie replied. “I’m gathering wood for my own bonfire on my birthday. I should be getting other people to do this.”

“You could have let us come back to your house and sit in the warm instead.”

“Yeah right,” Marie said, pulling herself onto the grass at the top of the cliff. “Twenty people drinking cider with my parents watching. That would’ve been interesting.”

They weaved their way through the headstones in the churchyard. Caroline pushed the gate open and they crossed over the track to the caravan park, walking along the row of statics whilst keeping an eye out for the site security guard, Mr Doherty.

They were in luck, he was nowhere to be seen. Two minutes later they reached the far corner of the site, digging into the pile of broken planks and rotten decking that had been dumped behind a screen of leylandii trees. They came here a lot to scavenge bits of wood but tonight something felt different. Marie couldn’t put her finger on it but she felt increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes passed.

Grabbing two branches, she lifted them under her arms and almost jogged as she turned to head back towards the caravans. “Come on,” she called behind her. “I’m going. Catch me up.”

She turned to see Caroline wasn’t with her. Then she heard a scream. Dropping the wood, she ran back and found Caroline laid on her back with a man laid on top of her. Her knickers were round her ankles and the man was fighting to get her hands above her head. In the shade of the trees, it was impossible to see the man’s face but Marie could just make out that he was wearing a hood. She was frozen to the spot until Caroline looked up and saw her.

“Help!” she screamed and that broke the spell. Picking up the nearest branch Marie sneaked quietly towards the man. She stopped behind him and swung the branch through the air, watching it slam into the side of his head, the rotten wood crumbling into nothing from the impact.

The figure fell to his side, hands moving to his head. He spun round to face Marie and she caught a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes glistening under the hood. He stood up slowly, taking a step towards her.

A voice called from behind the trees. “Is someone back there?”

It was Mr Doherty, he must have heard the scream. The figure turned towards the voice before spinning around and darting into the trees, gone from sight within a second. Caroline was still pulling her knickers back up when Mr Doherty appeared in view, shining his torch at the two of them. “Hey, what are you two doing here?”

“My friend…she was attacked,” Marie said as he grabbed her shoulder.

“Like I care. Now piss off the pair of you, you’re trespassing.”

Caroline ran to Marie and snatched her from Mr Doherty’s grasp. “Come on,” she said, pulling her friend away. “Let’s go.”

Marie opened her mouth to protest but then Caroline mouthed, “Don’t, please,” so she closed it again. They walked back towards the churchyard, Mr Doherty watching them go. Caroline winced with each step, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“We should take you to a hospital,” Marie said at last.

“No!” Caroline snapped, turning Marie towards her. “Listen to me. I want to forget about this. It never happened.”

“But…but he tried to rape you.”

“It never happened.”

Marie’s mind whirled. “But…”

“No! It never happened! Promise me you’ll forget about it, don’t tell anyone!”

Marie looked into her eyes and saw the pleading behind them. “Okay, fine. I think you’re fucking mental but I promise to keep this to myself. I won’t tell anyone that there’s a rapist in Seaford who might attack any one of us next. Happy?”

Caroline seemed oblivious to the sarcasm, already climbing back down the cliff towards the flickering lights of the bonfire on the beach below. Marie struggled after her. There were about two dozen people stood around on the beach when they got there, their faces hard to see in the half light of the dwindling fire.

More wood was being thrown on as Marie looked round for Caroline. The flames hissed and spat, sending plumes of smoke up into the night air. She sank onto a fallen tree trunk, looking round at everyone. They were busy talking, drinking, enjoying themselves. She spotted Caroline laughing with two people she hardly knew. Was it one of them who did it? How could she just stand there and act as if nothing happened? If it had happened to Marie, she’d have had a lynch mob going door to door until they found the bastard and strung him up. Caroline just stood there and carried on. It wasn’t normal.

Everyone seemed suspicious to Marie now. Mike said he’d gone to get the petrol. Could he have followed them up there instead? Ben who’d looked down Caroline’s top since year 8 with that hungry look in his eyes. Alan? Ted? Billy? Who was that guy over there? Jason, three years older than anyone else here. He had his own flat and a car. Was it him?

Marie suddenly saw someone amongst the others who stood out. He had a hood pulled over his face as he vanished from sight again. She stood up and took a step towards him. He turned and looked at her, those dark eyes visible for just a second before her world exploded in pain. There was a flash of orange light from the bonfire and she realised her leg was on fire.

Time seemed to slow down. Someone was holding a petrol can. It was the man in the hood. The bonfire, feeble before, was now a raging inferno. An arc of flame had shot towards the petrol can as he splashed it towards the fire. He threw the can towards her and as it spun through the air, the line of burning fuel followed, hitting her square in the leg, burning through her jeans in seconds. As she fell to the ground, people began stamping on her leg, throwing handfuls of sand onto the flames licking their way up her jeans.

The flames died as quickly as they’d grown. “Fuck me,” Marie muttered to herself as she looked down at the smouldering remains of her jeans leg.

“Who threw that petrol can?” someone shouted.

There was a cacophony of replies but nobody seemed to know anything. Caroline appeared by Marie’s side.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I think. Though I probably won’t need to shave this leg for a few years.”

“Happy birthday,” Caroline said bitterly.

Marie blinked back tears as she looked across at Andrew who stared back at her. Two things struck her as they both sat in silence in the cafe. They’d never found the guy who did it and from the look on Andrew’s face, Caroline had never told him about what happened to her.

She looked down at the congealing food on her plate, pushing it away, no longer hungry. Andrew didn’t say anything for a very long time. Finally he leaned towards her across the table to whisper to her. “I have to tell you something.”

8

The only thing Tim regretted not bringing was his winter coat. He’d spent a week preparing to run away from home but it never occurred to him to take anything thicker than his denim jacket which had proved useless as soon as he opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing cold of a January day by the North Sea. He nodded his thanks to the driver as she waved before driving off, leaving him alone. He took in the view, surprised he’d made it this far. It seemed like luck was on his side for the first time in his life.

He deserved some luck after what had happened recently. Since his parents had divorced his mother seemed to have different ‘friends’ over every night of the week. They never stayed long yet they always seemed more important to his mother than he was. When they came, he wasn’t allowed to watch TV in the living room, he had to stay upstairs out of the way. It wouldn’t have been so bad if his TV hadn’t been stolen by one of her guests but when he came home to find his games console and laptop had gone, he decided it was about time he left too.

He’d woken up early that morning whilst she was still sleeping. Packing the few edible things from the fridge into his rucksack, he realised he hadn’t yet decided where to go. He couldn’t stay in the city, that was for sure. She might not be bothered about him but the school would tell someone, posters might go up, someone was sure to recognise him. Besides, he’d be better off somewhere nobody knew his name.

Once his bag was packed, he left, walking to the end of the road with no idea where to go next. He could hide in the train station, sneak on-board and hope they didn’t ask for tickets. And if they did? He decided on hitchhiking, let fate decide where he ended up. He stuck his thumb out, almost as a test to prove nobody picked up hitchhikers anymore but a car pulled up seconds later. A middle aged woman undid the window and leaned over towards him. “Where you headed?”

“That way,” he replied, pointing down the road.

“Climb in.”

By the end of the day he’d been in five different cars, each one picking him up almost as soon as he stepped out onto the pavement from the previous one. It was like a personal taxi service, taking him further and further away from his past. He didn’t know it but if his journey had been marked on a map, it would have shown him moving slowly but surely towards Seaford, towards the person who wanted him there. He was dropped off on Seaford promenade just as the sun disappeared for the night.

He’d never seen the sea before and was impressed just by the sight of it. Even in the cold and grey of the encroaching darkness, it looked enormous. He breathed in the salty air as the cold wind hit him. Pulling his jacket tightly round his neck, he was about to turn away when the impulse to walk onto the beach hit him first. Why not see what the sand felt like under his feet? He walked down the promenade steps onto the narrow strip of sand, the waves slamming into each other a few feet away, spray hitting his face. He found himself thinking about his dad, wondering where he was, whether it would be possible to track him down and live with him.

“Beautiful night isn’t it?”

He turned to find himself looking at a man in a long black coat. Where had he come from?

“Sorry?”

“The sea always make me feel quite…insignificant. It eats away at the cliffs round here, reclaiming more land with every high tide. Seeing such power at work, how could people ever hope to defy such raw strength? Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah whatever. Look, I should be going.” Tim took a step backwards. “My mum will be wondering where I am.”

“I bet she will. She lives round here does she?”

Tim felt tense, unsure why he was asking. “Yeah, just over there.”

“Really? What street?”

“Erm, Westbourne Grove.” That sounded real enough.

“That’s strange. I could have sworn she lived in Leeds. My mistake. Well off you go then.”

Tim turned to walk away.

“But,” the man continued, “if for any reason you can’t find a Westbourne Grove round here, you’re welcome in my church anytime. It’s up there on the cliff top.”

“What-?”

“Oh, I’ve seen more than a few runaways in my time. I always feel so sorry for them, all alone in this world just like me.” The man leaned down, staring into Tim’s eyes. “I’ll see you soon Timothy.”

Tim hurried back up the steps to the prom. He looked back at the man. Was he the local vicar? He didn’t look suspicious anymore, just a man looking out at the sea.

As the night drew on the temperature dropped further and Tim shivered as he walked round the town centre, hoping to find somewhere to spend the night. The library was still open so he stayed there for as long as he could, leaning on the radiator in the children’s section. When they began to lock up, he forced himself back out into the cold. Only the pubs seemed open at this point and he had no doubt they’d throw him out if he even set foot inside.

Walking past the park, he considered finding a bench in there but one look into the darkness within convinced him it was a bad idea. Eventually he found himself back on the promenade, looking north to see lights twinkling on the clifftop above the town. Was that the church the man had mentioned?

He tried settling down against the seawall but the blasting wind was relentless and within minutes his limbs felt like ice, his eyes stinging as he got back to his feet again. In the end he decided even a church was better than nothing so made his way to the end of the prom and onto the grass at the end.

A well-worn path led him up the hill towards the church. He reached the gate a few minutes later and pulled it open, the graves silently watching him as he took hold of the door handle and turned it slowly, surprised to feel a waft of heat drifting out towards him.

The vicar was waiting inside, lighting a candle at the altar. He turned when he saw Tim. “Come on in. I’m glad you made your mind up. How was Westbourne Grove?”

Tim burst into tears, the emotions hidden inside him coming bubbling uncontrollably to the surface. The vicar walked over and put an arm round him, bringing him to sit on a pew. “It’s all right now,” the vicar said. “Come on, tell me everything.”

Tim found himself blurting out half his life story. The beatings from his mother, her lies when his father asked about his bruises, the divorce, running away, everything. When he’d finished he sat there, sobbing quietly, feeling very lonely and cold and alone.

“So nobody knows you’re here?” the vicar asked, his arm still round Tim’s shoulder.

“No. You won’t tell anyone will you?”

“Of course not, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. But it’s getting late and you must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?”

Tim nodded, seeing no need to mention the food in his rucksack if there was the chance of a free meal.

“Well that’s lucky,” the vicar continued, “as I was about to eat and I made far too much. I’d hate for it to go to waste. Wait there.”

The vicar stood up and walked through a side door, reappearing a moment later with a plate piled high with a roast dinner, steam rising from the food as Tim’s eyes widened.

“Tuck in,” the vicar said, passing him a knife and fork.

Tim balanced the plate on his lap as he ate the first hot meal he’d had since last attending school. The food burnt a fiery path down to his stomach as he wolfed it down but he didn’t stop until the plate was scraped clean. It was an odd feeling, having a full stomach was not something he’d ever experienced before, uncomfortable but satisfying at the same time. He let out a belch and looked up, expecting to be admonished, but the vicar didn’t seem to mind.

“How was that?”

“Great.” He paused. “Thanks. Is there any more?”

The vicar threw his head back and laughed loudly, the sound echoing round the church. “Priceless. Any more? I can imagine a condemned man asking the very same question during his last meal. How would you feel if that was your last meal?”

“What?” Tim frowned, the question making him feel uneasy.

“Nothing. Never mind. Now if you like I could offer you a place to stay for the night.”

Tim nodded, his eyes beginning to close, the good food combining with the warm air to make him feel groggy and desperate for sleep.

“Excellent. Are you all right to walk there? I’m afraid I don’t drive. Don’t worry. It’s not far.”

He opened the church door and Tim followed him out. They walked down to the prom, the vicar leading the way in silence. Tim had to jog to keep up and by the time they reached the entrance to the park, he was feeling decidedly queasy.

“It’s just in here,” the vicar said, taking Tim by the arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’t want to lose you in the dark,” he smiled.

They headed into the park, climbing a gentle hill before descending on the other side. The street lights that had been visible behind them vanished and Tim began to feel uneasy.

“I know it’s a bit spooky,” the vicar said, seeming to read his mind. “But it’s the quickest way. Nearly there.”

They walked into a line of trees and Tim stumbled over the weeds at his feet. What the hell was he thinking? He was in a park in the pitch black with a complete stranger and nobody knew where he was. He had to get out of here.

He turned to run but the vicar’s grip on his arm grew stronger. “Not thinking of going anywhere are you Tim?”

“Let go of my arm!” Tim tried to yank it free as the vicar’s nails began to dig into his flesh.

“Why would I do that?” the vicar said, kneeling down in front of him, “I thought you wanted somewhere to stay.”

“What? Help me someone!” he yelled, trying to escape.

The vicar slapped him across the face making him gasp. “You ungrateful little brat. I give you warmth, I give you food. I offer you a home and you throw it back in my face?”

“Help!” Tim screamed as loudly as he could, the sound echoing back to him from the surrounding trees, sounding like a mocking retort.

“Listen to me Timothy,” the vicar said, shaking him by the shoulders. “I brought you here for a reason and do you want to know why? It’s because you won’t be missed.”

Tim screamed again as he felt a second pair of hands on his shoulders. Someone was standing behind him.

“Who’s there? Help me please. He’s going to kill me!”

There was a laugh from whoever it was. He felt his body being forced downwards towards the grass. But the grass wasn’t there. There was a perfect circle of blackness in the ground by his face. “What the hell’s that?” he asked, fighting ineffectually to free himself, wishing he’d never left home. Even his mother would have been better than this.

“Your new home,” the voice behind him said. He felt a shove in the small of his back and then he was sliding into the blackness. He fell down the shaft into the earth, landing with a splash in the murky water below. He felt a snap as his leg broke and he screamed louder than ever. He looked up to see the silhouette of two faces peering down at him.

He scrambled backwards through the water as the two people climbed down the ladder towards him. “Make yourself at home,” the vicar said as Tim tried and failed to get to his feet. “I think you’ll like it in here.”

The other man was still hidden in the darkness. He could hear him splashing through the water but whichever way he looked he could see nothing. Suddenly there was hot breath on the back of his neck. A hand went over his mouth and he bit down on it, not stopping until he felt bone. The man behind him never made a sound, even as blood ran into Tim’s mouth.

“You see Timothy,” the vicar said, his eyes two glistening balls of red in the dark, “The lifeblood of a town is people. People like you. The pathetic, the abandoned, the useless.”

The hand tore free from his teeth. He’d barely had time to open his mouth to take a breath before he saw the vicar’s face looming towards him. Something was inside the vicar’s mouth, something that moved and writhed in the gloom, lit only by the dark light of the vicar’s eyes.

The man behind him held him still as the vicar leaned closer still, inhaling deeply. Tim’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he descended into merciful sleep, unaware until it was too late that the thing inside the vicar’s mouth was tearing the skin from his face.

9

It happened near the golf hut. That was why Andrew thought Elmo had done it at first. Afterwards he hated seeing the golf hut and was glad to see it finally demolished when Elmo died. Even now he only had to smell a cigar to be back in time.

Nobody knew the guy’s real name. They all called him Elmo but nobody seemed to know why. He was a huge blob of a man who wore the same outfit every day, a brown woollen jumper covered in stains, a flat cap wedged on his greasy hair, a cigar permanently glued to the corner of his mouth. He only ever came out of the hut to cut the grass in the park on a ride on mower, the rest of the time he sat in there, leaning out over the counter, glaring at anyone who walked past.

There’d been a rumour that he’d caught some kid nicking sweets from in there once and the child had vanished, the chopped up pieces later found in the compost pile behind the hut. It was one of those stories that nobody really believed but then nobody ever stole from him either, just in case.

He only reined in his feelings when he smelt money. Andrew hated even having to talk to him but he had no choice. He had the cheapest junk food in Seaford. Some of it was more than a bit dodgy, foreign writing on the packaging, years beyond their sell by date but that didn’t matter to Andrew. It tasted good and if it wasn’t for all the sugar and E-numbers he’d never have been able to cope with school.

After making his obligatory morning purchase Andrew would walk through the park towards the school, hoping he was early enough to get over the bridge without any trouble.

The entrance to the school was at the top of the park. A gap in the wall there led to a concrete path that curved down the hill to the bridge. Surrounded by hedges on either side, the bridge, was the only way over the river and up to the school. Some days Andrew was early enough to walk across the empty bridge. Most days he wasn’t so unfortunate.

There were a group of older boys who were there most mornings, in no rush to head up the hill to start lessons. They’d straddle the railings on either side of the bridge and he hated them. Every time they were there he had to run a gauntlet of abuse both verbal and physical. He’d been pushed back into the park before, even forced into the river once and all the while other kids would pass through, never intervening, never standing up for him.

The kids didn’t sum up Seaford for him, neither did Elmo. Mr Bridges represented the entire town in his eyes. He’d stand by the school gates looking down at him but never getting involved, never stopping them, just watching. The whole town seemed to be like that at times, never interfering when bad things happened.

The older kids were in the park when Caroline was attacked but he knew it wasn’t them. They were in sight the entire time. That was why he thought it was Elmo. But now he’d heard Marie’s story about her fourteenth he wasn’t so sure.

It was only a few months after her birthday and they were gathered in the park by the big willow tree, the one with the trunk that lay parallel to the ground as if it should be dead already. Some people were lounging along the trunk, others sat on the grass passing bottles of cider around.

At the far side of the group were the older boys. Andrew wondered if they’d been invited or if they’d just shown up. One of them kept looking at him but he refused to make eye contact, wanting to avoid trouble.

Caroline stood up. “I’m going to piss,” she said. “Or throw up, not sure which.” She walked unsteadily away from the group.

There were a few giggles as she went. Ten minutes passed and she still hadn’t returned. Nobody else seemed to care but Andrew. He climbed to his feet to look for her, walking the way she’d gone.

“Caroline?” he called out, scanning the bushes beside him. “Are you all right?”

There was no answer so he kept moving. He could hear the group laughing and talking behind him and he was about to give up looking when he heard a rustling sound to his left. There was a thick patch of thorns down there. Below it was a low gap where rabbits or foxes had worn a path into the undergrowth. Andrew stuck his head into the gap, feeling ridiculous. “Caroline? Are you in here?”

There was another noise, this time sounding like a muffled cry. Flicking his lighter he held it to the ground, noticing a footprint in the mud. Laying on his front, he began to crawl under the thorns, moving forwards until he reached an opening surrounded by more thorns. He was able to raise himself to his knees here and called out again. “Caroline?”

There was a movement to his right and he flicked the lighter again. It was a foot, kicking upwards. Pushing aside thorns he saw who it was. Caroline was laid on her back and a figure in a hood was hunched over her.

“What the fuck?” Andrew said. The figure froze at the sound of his voice, turning to look at him as a breeze caught the flame and blew it out. By the time he flicked it on again, the figure had gone, crashing through the undergrowth. Caroline sat up and looked at him, tears streaming down her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked as she threw her arms round him. “What the hell happened?”

She looked across at him and a veil seemed to form over her expression, as if she was a robot shutting down. “Promise me you’ll keep this to yourself,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Please. For me.”

“What?”

“Promise me.”

“What did I see? Who was that?”

“Nobody.” She pulled her hand away and began crawling back out from the bushes. He followed her in silence, getting to his feet in time to see her already heading back to the group. He stood watching her go, unable to move.

“You can’t be serious?” Marie said, looking across the café table at Andrew as rain splattered against the window behind him. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing. She made me promise.”

“But what the fuck? She was attacked twice?”

He shrugged. “Maybe more. Who knows?”

“But who was he?”

“For a while I thought it was Elmo.”

“The golf guy? No, I’d have known if it was him.”

Andrew suddenly wanted to leave Seaford and never come back. He’d wanted to get away from his thoughts and reminisce about the good times but now all he wanted was to see Caroline again, to tell her he loved her, that it was all going to be okay. It felt like a thick cloud of polluting but invisible smog was coating the entire town. He looked down at his watch. “I think I’m going to get going. Do you want a lift back to your car?”

“All right but listen-“

Andrew scraped back his chair, almost running to the door. “I’ve got to go. Are you coming or not?”

They ran through the rain to his car, big fat droplets hitting the windscreen as Andrew started the engine. He’d barely set off when they were forced to stop. A large yellow ‘Diversion’ sign had been placed in the road. Beside it a red one declared ‘Road Closed – Flood.’

“That’s just great,” Andrew said, turning the car round and driving north from the prom. They turned another corner only to find another closed road.

“Now what?” Marie asked.

“There’s only one way left,” Andrew said. “Up the track past the caravan park. Sneak through to Cowforth Road.”

He turned and headed along the road up the hill, the windscreen wipers whipping left to right as the rainfall grew heavier. The road turned into a potholed track at the top of the hill and Andrew was forced to stop when he saw the size of a river of water gushing across the fields, completely swamping the track.

“Great,” Marie said. “Hey look at that.”

She pointed across Andrew’s side and he looked round to see a churchyard beside him, the church inside bearing the brunt of the wind and rain. Through a window they could see a light flickering.

“What is it?” Andrew asked, “what’s so important?”

“I don’t know but something tells me we need to go in there.”

“What? Why?”

He was already back onto the road, heading round to the prom.

“I…I don’t know. Please, just for a minute. It might give the rain a chance to stop.”

Andrew sighed and switched off the engine. He thought for a moment before finally answering. “Right, fine.”

He turned the key but nothing happened. “Fantastic,” he said, trying it again. “Dead.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Every now and then. If you leave it for an hour, it’ll be fine.”

“Perfect, just long enough to visit the church.”

“You’re kidding. We’ll get soaked.”

“Please!”

“Right, whatever. But we better run for it.”

They opened their doors and darted out into the howling winds, running side by side back up the track and into the churchyard, stopping in the porch by the wooden door. They stood in the porch, looking out at the rain that seemed relentless.

“Do you think it’s unlocked?” Marie asked, running a hand through her soaking wet hair.

Andrew tried the door handle and it swung open before them. He looked at Marie and then into the church before walking inside, Marie following him. The door swung closed behind them.

10

Keith was heading for the arcade. He’d had a long conversation with the man last night and now he knew exactly what he was supposed to do, the task that had been set for him. He passed the pier café, his hood pulled over his head to keep out the driving rain. The waves crashed repeatedly against the pillars that supported the pier but so far they weren’t strong enough to splash over the sides. It wouldn’t be long.

He’d been shocked when he saw the church last night. His place of refuge was falling to pieces. The far wall had already gone over the edge of the cliff leaving jagged edges of stone on either side and exposing the interior to the elements. The floor had been cracked and broken in places to reveal hints of the crypt below the remaining floorboards.

As he approached the arcade the flashing lights at the entrance caught his eye, welcoming him in from the rain, the heat soporific, running at full blast. He stood in the doorway and lowered his hood, wiping his dripping forehead with the back of his hand as he looked at the machines that filled the place. He’d never been allowed in here as a child. His mother had called it a sinful place, making him swear never to go in. He felt guilty breaking her promise but he had no choice.

Squeezing between two video poker screens he worked his way towards the back. At first he thought the man might have been wrong, there didn’t appear to be anyone else here but him. As he looked to his left, the door to the single toilet cubicle swung open and a figure stepped out.

Keith slid backwards, turning his gaze to a prize claw game as if debating whether to chance his arm. It had been a long time since he’d seen Ben in the flesh but he’d recognised him straightaway. He felt a sense of relief wash over him. Knowing he was going to correct his mistake and finally add Ben to his collection.

Peering round the side of the change machine, he watched as Ben loaded a coin into Rally Racers and climbed onto the plastic motorbike, throttle in one hand and bright red machine gun in the other, pointing it at the screen as an electronic voice shouted in an American accent. “Ready? Let’s race?”

The noise of a motorbike engine filled the air as Ben began to play. Could he do it here? He hadn’t seen anyone else and there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras. He thought better of the idea, it was too much of a risk. Keith didn’t like risks. He preferred to plan things in great detail, anticipate every possible eventuality before acting. But he had to do this the way he’d been ordered, rather than the way he preferred. Or did he? Was this a test?

“All yours mate.”

Keith looked up, realising Ben was looking at him. He nodded, heart pounding, expecting Ben to recognise him. It didn’t happen. Instead he just walked past, limping towards the exit.

Keith couldn’t move for a moment. His throat felt dry and a cold sweat ran down his back. If Ben had realised who he was, he might have worked out why he was there. No, that was stupid. Even if he remembered Keith what would he do? Wedgie him and spit in his face? Only kids did that. Adults had much better ways of settling their differences. He felt the edge of the knife in his pocket with the tip of his finger. He had the perfect way in mind.

He followed Ben out of the arcade, maintaining a discrete distance. The rain helped, ensuring Ben kept his head down, his shoulders hunched against the wind, never stopping or looking behind him. Why would he?

When Ben reached the Settler’s Rest pub, he pulled open the door and disappeared inside. Keith stood on the promenade for a minute, trying to decide whether to follow him in there or wait for him to emerge. You’re just a man getting a drink, that’s all, nothing suspicious about that.

He walked up to the door and went inside. A middle aged woman stood behind the bar, looking bored. She glanced at him when he came in before returning her gaze to the TV. Keith approached slowly, still worried something might go wrong.

“What can I get you?”

“Pint of…bitter?” Keith’s words were more a question than a statement. He didn’t drink, never had, but he didn’t want anything to draw her attention. As she poured, Keith looked around for Ben. Where was he?

He heard a familiar voice behind him and turned as nonchalantly as he could. There he was, sat with an old woman in a pale blue overcoat. Was that his mother? Keith paid for his drink and sat on the barstool next to him, making sure Ben’s table was visible.

He remembered Ben’s mother from the time he’d seen her at the beach. She’d been sunbathing and the amount of skin on show had excited Keith in a way he hadn’t understood. It seemed strange seeing her like this, her skin pale and wrinkled, her eyes watery and sunken.

“You should be at home mum, why are you here?” Ben was asking as Keith sipped at his pint glass.

It was as if she was talking to herself when she replied, hardly aware that Ben was there at all. “They’ll all be here soon and then we’ll need to be off. It’s been far too long since we all had a proper girly night out.”

Keith frowned, deep in thought. She had dementia then. He felt a heat building deep inside him, similar to how he’d often felt at Glen Vale. For temptation to appear like this when he was on a mission from the man was too much of a coincidence. He was being tested, he realised. The question was, could he resist the temptation?

He thought about his own mother, how she was towards the end. “Keith,” she’d shout from upstairs. “Mummy needs you.”

It always started like that and he’d try to ignore her calls but he never lasted long. He hadn’t fully understood exactly what dementia was when she was first diagnosed but he soon learned. It meant walking upstairs to her room and pushing open the door to find a sunken skeleton of a woman that used to be his mother. The gloom and smell accentuated the feeling of decay. He found the smell intoxicating, the same smell he always loved whenever he opened the manhole cover and breathed in the wonderful scent of his collection.

“Come and make me feel better Keithy,” she’d wheeze as he stood in the doorway, amazed that she still recognised him. Her nostrils flared with each breath, her cheeks puffing in and out. He never bothered to argue, fearing the back of her hand even now she was too weak to even stand up without help. She’d had such total control of most parts of his life that even the idea of rebellion had been drained out of him, leaving him with her warped love and his collection.

Climbing onto sheets damp with sweat, he’d let her envelop him in her arms, drawing him towards her, the smell of her pouring down the back of his throat, filling his lungs. The crushing sensation would combine with near suffocation to send him into a euphoric state despite his sense of shame at losing his self-control.

He’d feel the warmth of her body burn his skin as his arms went round her, the two of them laying together as mother and son. Keith was grateful for the affection. Disease ridden and dying as she was, at least she was willing to hug him now.

He wouldn’t move until her breath took on that gentler quality that meant she was asleep again. Then he’d wriggle out of her arms and slide off the bed, pulling the blankets back over her.

He’d done that for six months before the man came to see him. It had been after almost an entire day laid beside her that the man appeared, standing at the end of the bed and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s time,” the man said and Keith understood. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this but the man knew best. He looked down at the drool forming on his mother’s chin as she gurgled and snorted in her sleep. He picked up one of the cushions that had fallen to the floor and smiled at his mother.

“It’s time mum,” he said, lowering the cushion towards her. He looked up at the man who nodded back at him. Gripping the cushion tighter he pressed it into her face, pushing down hard as she began to writhe underneath, surprising him with her strength. Her arms flailed, her fingers scratching the air as she fought to get free, the mass of blankets covering her body trapping her in place.

Keith almost lost his nerve. If she was fighting this much, perhaps it wasn’t her time. He looked at the man who frowned, admonishing his self-doubt. Suitably ashamed and with renewed vigour he pushed down harder, clamping it over her, holding his breath until she eventually fell still.

As he stepped back, the man leaned towards the bed. Keith found himself looking at the picture on the cushion. Two knitted kittens played with a ball of yarn. They looked happy. Keith stared at them until the man finished eating.

“You did well,” the man said and Keith felt pride well up inside him.

“Did I?”

“Yes you did.”

Ben’s voice broke into his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. “Oh mum, for crying out loud listen to me. I’m going for a piss and then I’ll take you home. Just don’t go anywhere.”

“But the bus will be here soon. I can’t miss it, they’ll all go without me.”

“I know. I’ll be quick okay? Then we’ll get the bus together.”

Ben stood up and walked over to the toilets. As soon as he was out of sight, the old woman stood up. “I’ll wait at the station,” she said to herself. “He can catch up.”

She walked past Keith and he sniffed loudly as she passed, breathing in her scent, feeling the heat inside him building further. What to do? Follow Ben to the toilets, slam his head into the porcelain sink. But someone might come in. No, this wasn’t the right place. He thought about Ben’s mother, the dazed look on her face as she shuffled outside. Putting his pint down, he looked one way and then the other before finally making his mind up.

11

The vicar had been waiting for them to arrive. He looked around at the ruined remains of his church, so different to in its heyday. The far wall looked almost as if it had been sliced off in a giant guillotine. The roof was caving in where the waves had torn away the far wall, taking the ancient stained glass windows with it. Every high tide washed away a little more mortar from between the dressed stones. At least the rest of the church was surviving, he had a little more time yet.

The spire would collapse at some point soon though, it was already leaning at a dangerous angle. Rotten ceiling plaster drooped towards the floor, revealing gaping holes in the roof tiles above. Dried salt coated the few remaining pews, the waves lapping at the cliff outside, sending more spray into the interior every few seconds.

He walked to the porch as the door opened, smiling at Marie and Andrew as they walked inside. Good, they didn’t recognise him. That would help. “Visitors,” he said. “Come in, come in, you’ll soon dry off.”

He let them pass him by before closing the door behind them. He watched as they looked round, taking in the piles of stone on the floor, the twisted and warped floorboards, the huge crucifix held in place on the left hand wall by a length of ivy that had wrapped round it over and over again, looking as if it was trying to choke the figure on the cross.

“I don’t often receive visitors,” he said. “Please, take a seat. How can I help?”

“We just wanted to get out of the rain,” Marie said. “Is it safe in here? It looks like it might go over the cliff any moment.”

The vicar put his hands together, as if praying. “Be not afraid, I go before you always. Come follow Me and I shall give you rest.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just a favourite hymn of mine. But to answer your question, I’m sure it’s safe enough for the time being.”

“Do we know you?” Andrew asked, tensing up in his seat.

The vicar ignored him. “I think you’ve come for more than simple shelter. I think you’ve come to ask for forgiveness. I can see a darkness in you both. Guilt and shame.”

“What are you talking about?” Marie asked.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing, just thinking aloud.”

“Right,” Andrew said, standing up and backing towards the door. “We need to get going.”

“Of course, of course. I’ve taken up too much of your precious time already.” They couldn’t leave yet. He had to stall them. “You must be getting on your way. I have just one question for you before you leave though.”

Andrew had reached the door. He was gripping the handle but didn’t turn it. “What question?”

The vicar had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the wind howling through the gaping hole in the far wall of the church. “I wondered how Caroline was doing. She’s been very quiet recently.”

Before Andrew could answer the door flew open, knocking him sideways. Keith walked in, holding a heavy canvas bag in his hand. “I did it,” he grinned triumphantly, striding towards the vicar before passing him the bag.

The vicar looked inside, his expression changing. “I told you to bring him here,” he snapped.

“I have,” Keith gulped. “Look!”

The vicar slapped Keith with the back of his hand. “What good is he to me like this? You know I need them alive.”

For a moment nobody said anything. The vicar noticed Andrew and Marie edging towards the door just as a gust of wind blew it shut. He screamed with rage and threw the bag across the church, furious that his plan hadn’t worked. Marie ducked as the bag flew towards her. It slammed into the door and bounced downwards, Ben’s severed head rolling out of it. Ben seemed to stare up at Marie who staggered backwards, falling to the floor in shock.

“Bring them to me,” the vicar said.

Andrew moved for the door but Keith as too quick, closing the gap between them in a second whilst reaching into his pocket, pulling out a serrated knife coated in blood. He lunged for Andrew who moved just in time, the blade whipping through the space where his head had been a moment before.

Andrew turned side on as the vicar watched in alarm. Andrew took a step forwards, grabbing Keith’s arm and bending his wrist backwards. Keith screamed as something snapped, the knife falling useless to the floor. Twisting away, Keith growled at him.

Andrew hopped over the nearest pew. Keith went to follow but tripped over one of the curling floorboards. He crashed to his knees and with an alarmingly loud scraping sound, the boards gave way. He fell through the gap that formed and landed in the crypt below with his legs bent under him. He looked up at Andrew as the vicar stepped forwards.

“Where’s the knife?” Andrew asked Marie.

“There!” she pointed.

Andrew grabbed it just before the vicar reached him, jumping down into the crypt as Keith limped away from him. He’d only taken a step when Keith pushed open a door and dashed through it, slamming it shut behind him.

The vicar stepped back. Let them go after Keith. It might work after all. He watched in silence as Marie leapt down into the crypt.

“What do we do?” Marie asked, looking up at the vicar, seeing his eyes flaring red.

“We go this way,” Andrew said, ramming the door with his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They ran into the tunnel, the vicar neatly dropping into the crypt after they’d gone. He walked through the doorway, watching them running ahead of him. Did they really think they could get away? He stopped when they did, pressing himself against the wall as they talked.

“Why have you stopped?” Marie asked, glancing behind her.

“Can you smell that?”

“What?”

“Ahead of us. I just hope it’s not…” He trailed off, taking a few more steps before turning a corner. The vicar ran forwards, making sure they didn’t turn back. He peered round after them as they stepped into a scene from hell.

12

Caroline was looking through her online photo albums when the phone rang. She’d spent an hour deleting as many pictures of Andrew as she could, each one hurting her, like a paper cut to her memory.

She hesitated as she picked up the receiver, as if expecting it to be him ringing, calling to beg for forgiveness. He hadn’t rung since he’d left but she couldn’t help thinking he still might.

“Hello, is that Caroline Boyle?”

“Yes, why? Who is this?”

“Hello Mrs Boyle. My name is Doctor Lewis. I work at Seaford District Hospital. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you Mrs Boyle. Are you sitting down?”

“Yes, why?”

“There’s no easy way of putting this. Your husband’s been in an accident. He was hit by a car.”

“Oh my God. Is it serious?”

“He wants to see you Mrs Boyle. It might be your last chance.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. She hardly took in anything the doctor told her, his sentences loaded with medical jargon. Her mind was focussed solely on one thing, the fact that Andrew might be dying.

“We’re doing everything we can but can I tell him you’re coming?”

She was out of the house in under a minute, racing along in the car, surprised by the strength of feeling that coursed through her. She wondered if she still loved him. Was life ever that simple? She felt so angry with him that it was hard to see past that. Did she want him to die? She didn’t know but she wondered if it had something to do with Seaford. He’d promised her she’d never have to go back there and yet here she was, tearing up the miles to get there quicker.

Had he gone back because of some midlife crisis? Did he want to relive his youth there? Sit in the Black Swan and tell everyone what a bitch she’d become? What if the guy who’d raped her was still there too? What if he was waiting for her to come back?

She thought about her childhood. That time she was four years old with an ice cream in her hand at the beach and that old man had tripped her up, watch her skid to her knees and burst into tears, growling down at her. “Don’t run. You might hurt yourself.”

Sitting there crying with her knee skinned and the ice cream melting on the concrete she waited for her mother to comfort her. Instead she’d said, “You’re not getting another one if you’re going to waste it.”

It wasn’t just her. It was something about the whole damn town. That boy who’d been cut up by the combine harvester next to the caravan park. He’d just fallen asleep in the wheat and been sliced into pieces before the farmer even knew what was happening. Nobody seemed to care. The girl who’d hanged herself in the school gym. She’d broken in and looped the climbing rope round her neck and they’d found her the next morning when they went into the gym for their P.E lesson. Everyone looked away, not wanting to see the skin peeling from her face. Or when that drunk guy had pushed her up against the shelf in the supermarket, running his hands over her whilst everyone just carried on with their shopping as if nothing unusual was happening.

The disappearances were what made her decide to leave. Kids vanishing on their way home from school or falling off the pier, walking out but never walking back in. Anywhere else it would be news but in Seaford nobody seemed to bat an eyelid. By the time she was attacked on her fourteenth she’d decided that was the way to look at things. Just ignore them.

The rain grew stronger as she drove, making it hard to see even with the wipers at full speed. By the time she reached the end of the motorway she was exhausted from having to concentrate so much. She almost didn’t stop when she reached an enormous pool of water that blocked the road just outside Seaford. At the last moment she noticed the flashing lights of a police car and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt, the rear wheels fishtailing as she came to a halt inches from the water.

She wound down her window as the police officer walked over to her. “I need to get to Seaford,” she said. “My husband’s been hurt. Is there another way through?”

“Not until the rain stops,” he said, water dripping from the brim of his cap.

“But I’ve got to get to the hospital.”

“Hold on a second,” he said, turning away and walking over to the police car. He leaned inside and spoke into the radio before returning to her. “I’ll drive you through in your car as long as you don’t tell anyone. I know where the shallowest parts are.”

“Oh thank you so much.”

Caroline moved over to the passenger seat as he climbed in. She gripped her seatbelt in her hands as he edged out into the water.

“It’s really coming down out there,” the officer said. “You might not be able to leave for a while.”

The police officer turned to her and smiled, his eyes turning red. “Nearly there Caroline.”

13

Andrew and Marie stood in the bunker, hardly able to believe what they were seeing. Candles had been wedged in cracks in the wall, the flickering glow illuminating countless skeletons. Bones were piled up against the walls, some picked clean, others still covered in remnants of clothing. Marie froze on the spot, an uncontrollable shiver taking over her entire body as if she’d been dipped in ice.

“Holy fuck,” Andrew said, putting his arm over his nose. “What is this?”

“Shush!” Marie said as she heard muttering coming from the far side of the bunker. They walked as quietly as they could through the water that grew deeper the further they moved.

“Who was that in the church?” Andrew whispered.

“You mean the demon in vicar’s clothes or Keith?”

“Keith?”

“He was that mental kid at school. The one who got kicked out for bringing a dead cat into English in his bag.”

“Jesus,” Andrew said, the memory coming back to him. “Him?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s him. Fucking hell,” she snapped, almost losing control. “He had a severed head!”

“I know but let’s deal with that later?”

“Later?”

“If we get out of here alive,” he hissed, peering round a pillar. Marie looked past him and there was Keith, stroking a skull softly, cradling it in his arms, lit only by the flickering glow of the candles.

Andrew leaned too far and his leg hit a pile of bones. They splashed into the water and Keith looked up, his face insane with rage.

“You will not take my collection!” he screamed, running towards them through the water.

“Move!” Andrew said, running to one side. Marie ran the other way and Keith angled towards her. She screamed, looking over her shoulder to see Keith loom over her. He threw the skull at her and she ducked. It whooshed over her head and then Keith was on her, aiming a punch for her face.

She winced but it didn’t connect. Looking up, she saw Andrew had grabbed Keith’s arm and was dragging him backwards by his broken wrist. Keith yelled in pain, turning to slam his other fist into the side of Andrew’s head. Andrew staggered back and Keith laughed, pushing him backwards until he lost balance.

The two of them fell into the water, their faces disappearing beneath the surface. Keith was up first, gasping for breath, trying to hold Andrew under. Andrew’s arm came up coated in slime, groping along the wall, searching for anything he could use as a weapon.

Marie looked round her, spying a thigh bone floating on the surface. She ran up behind Keith and brought the bone down onto the top of his skull. Keith slumped sideways, letting go of Andrew who flew upwards, wheezing and coughing, green gunk dripping down his face.

“Again!” Andrew coughed, seeing Keith attempting to rise. Marie brought the bone down on his skull again and then a third time. Keith fell still in the water. She dropped the bone with a yelp as if it had shocked her, falling back against the wall. “Oh my God,” she muttered as Andrew got slowly to his feet. “Is he dead?”

“I think so. Come on. Let’s find a way out of here.”

“Up there,” Marie said, spotting the ladder to the surface. They climbed it slowly, Andrew still gasping for air as he shoved the manhole cover aside and clambered out onto the grass. Marie took his offered hand and climbed out, collapsing onto the grass next to him. The two of them sat in the pouring rain, both exhausted.

“Fuck,” Marie said quietly, looking back down the shaft to the bunker. “We could have died in there.”

Andrew nodded, climbing slowly to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Far from here. You coming?”

“Hell yes,” she muttered, getting up and reaching his side.

They walked slowly at first, still catching their breath. By the time they reached the car park behind the library the wind had reached a new intensity, a tile crashing to the pavement by their feet as they fought to keep their balance. More tiles followed.

“Think the town’s trying to get rid of us?” Andrew asked, raising his eyebrows. The rain had washed most of the scum from his face and Marie looked at him, realising he was staring at something in the car park.

“What? What is it?” she asked.

“That! That’s Caroline’s car. That fucker. I’ll kill him.”

“What?”

“He’s got Caroline. I don’t know how he did it but he’s got her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! And I know where. The church.”

He went to run but Marie grabbed his hand. “Andrew, don’t do this. Come with me, let’s get the hell out of Seaford.”

“No!” he snapped, pulling his hand free. She looked hurt. “Listen, if you really want to leave then take my car keys but I’m not going anywhere, not without Caroline.”

Marie took the keys. Andrew turned and ran up the street, leaving her alone. Setting her shoulders against the raging wind she began to walk, wondering if she’d ever see him again.

14

Andrew ran along the promenade, blind to anything but the thought of Caroline, focussed on getting to the church, on getting her back. Waves crashed over the railings, soaking him as he ran, clawing at his feet, trying to drag him out to sea. He had to slow when he reached the grass at the end of the prom, forcing himself on, thinking of her face.

He paused by the gate for a second, taking deep gulps of air. When he was ready he approached the door slowly, hoping to sneak up on the vicar. Edging inside he almost collapsed with relief when he saw Caroline sitting on the front pew, looking out at the storm through the missing wall. He walked slowly towards her, glancing around him, expecting an attack to come at any moment. When he reached her he gasped. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes, unable to speak, her mouth sewn shut. Her hands were bound and she stared wildly at Andrew. A shadow fell over them both and Andrew spun round to find the vicar standing there.

“Did I think you could just waltz in here and take her?” the vicar said, grabbing his jacket and hurling him backwards. Andrew flew through the air, crashing into the wall behind him, a crack zigzagging across the plaster from the impact. “This is my town!” the vicar snarled, grabbing him and lifting him into the air. “I earned it. I own it. It’s mine!”

Andrew glanced across at Caroline, seeing her fight to free her hands. He had to keep the vicar distracted. “Why?” he gasped as the vicar pressed him against the wall.

“Why what? Why her? She is nice isn’t she?”

Andrew began to laugh, a hysterical giggle that made the vicar frown in confusion.

“What? Have I said something amusing? Well how’s this for funny? I’m going to kill you and I’m going to keep her as my wife. What’s the matter? Not laughing anymore?”

Andrew glanced past him, she nearly had her hands free. All she had to do was squeeze her wrist through the rope.

“You evil fuck,” Andrew said.

“Evil? Me? I didn’t give her those bruises on her neck did I Andrew? You tried to choke your own wife to death so don’t talk to me about evil. Want to know how it feels to have someone’s hands round your throat? Here, let me show you.”

His hands moved up to Andrew’s neck as an enormous cracking sound echoed above their heads. They both looked up to see the ceiling sag towards them. A huge wave splashed into the church, running along the floor.

Andrew looked back at the vicar only to find his face had changed. His mouth had opened too wide and something was moving at the back of his throat, a darkness that grew and slid over his tongue, enveloping his teeth, probing forwards.

“How does that feel?” the vicar yelled as he began to choke Andrew, his voice thick and treacly as he spoke through the thing coating the inside of his mouth.

Andrew blinked back at him, his vision fading. He blinked as he saw a shadow behind the vicar. It was Caroline, holding the jagged end of a roof tile. She plunged it sideways into the vicar’s neck, sending a spray of black blood spurting over her arm.

The vicar let Andrew fall, his hands going to his throat, tearing the section of tile free. “You!” he gurgled. “But I loved you.” He reached for her but Andrew stuck his foot out, tripping him and sending him sprawling.

Leaping over his prone form, Andrew grabbed Caroline’s hand and ran for the door. There was another cracking sound and more plaster fell, roof tiles crashing to the floor around them.

They’d reached the door when Caroline stopped. Andrew looked at her and then down to see the vicar had hold of her ankle, a thick line of black liquid rippling on the floor behind him in an evil trail. “Don’t leave me,” the vicar said. “Please.”

Andrew kicked at his hand but he clung on, using her to pull himself upright.

“I own this town,” the vicar gurgled, his hands outstretched, clawing towards her. Caroline lashed out with her foot and connected with his groin. He fell back just far enough to catch his foot on the edge of the hole in the floor. His arms pin-wheeled as he fought to maintain his balance.

“You can’t do this,” he said. “I own this town.”

“Not anymore,” Andrew replied, pushing his chest and waving at him.

The vicar fell backwards with a yell, disappearing from sight, landing in the crypt as an ear splitting sound filled the air. Andrew and Caroline leapt out through the door as the church tower collapsed into the church. They heard the vicar scream as rubble and masonry plummeted into the crypt. The noise died a second later as if a switch had been flipped. Dust filled the air, pluming out from the doorway like a thick fog as the remaining walls began to collapse inwards.

Andrew held Caroline’s hand as they walked away from the church, making their way slowly past the graves to the track beyond. As they walked out of the gate they heard an enormous crash and turned to see the remains of the church sliding off the side of the cliff.

By the time they reached the promenade the rain was already slowing, the wind calmer. Caroline frowned as she noticed something on the concrete. It was a penknife. Andrew picked it up and turned to her. “This might hurt,” he said and she nodded back at him.

He pushed the blade between her lips and began to saw through the thread that held her mouth shut. He pulled out the sliced sections as gently as he could as Caroline winced. When he was finished, they looked at each other for a moment before Caroline threw her arms round him. They remained like that for a long time.

“Ow,” Caroline said at last. “That hurt.”

“Ow? You had your mouth sewn shut and all you can say is ow?”

Caroline managed a smile and punched his shoulder. “Ow you twat. Why did you even come back to this shithole?”

“That’s more like it. Shall we go?”

She slipped her hand into his as they walked along the promenade, heading back to her car as the tide began to slowly recede from the shore.

15

In the darkness of the bunker, Keith’s body rotted in the depths, soon indistinguishable from the other bodies in his collection. Above ground the town began to slowly recover from the storm. Diggers scraped the sand back onto the beach, the library roof was replaced and the remaining wall of the churchyard was demolished to prevent it from collapsing.

Almost exactly a year after Andrew and Caroline left Seaford for the last time an urban explorer walked into the park with a torch in one hand and a 1950s guide to the county’s Second World War bunkers in the other. It took some searching but eventually he found the open manhole cover hidden under a thick collection of weeds. He looked up when a police officer appeared next to him.

“Are you all right there sir?” the officer asked.

“No, I’m fine thanks,” he replied.

“Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Well I’m an urban explorer and-“

“A what sir?”

“An urban explorer. I like looking round old places, derelict hospitals, air raid shelters, that kind of thing. I found a book at a car boot sale and it said there was a bunker here and I think I’ve found it. Did you know it was here?”

“I’m afraid not but then I’ve not been doing this job long.”

“Oh I see. Are you not from round here then?”

“Oh yes sir. I’ve lived in Seaford all my life. You should be honoured to meet me in fact.”

“Oh yes and why’s that?”

The police officer smiled before answering. “Because I own this town.”

The Game of Life

Chapter 1

“Teddy, you’re going to be late dear.”

He heard his wife calling him again but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t move. It was too exciting. Frozen on the doorstep with the post in his hand, he stared down at the invitation. It was almost too incredible to believe. He read through it again, looking for the catch.

‘Mr Edward Kennedy, you have been selected at random from an enormous pool of candidates to take part in a new kind of game show. You’ll have the chance to win fabulous prizes beyond your wildest dreams and all it will take is skill, luck and intelligence. We’re holding a place open for you here at Skyrise Productions and if you’d like to advantage of this fantastic opportunity all you need to do is fill in the enclosed multiple choice questionnaire and send it back to us. We hope to hear from you soon and good luck!’

He’d been on TV quiz shows a few times, winning a clock radio once, a thousand in cash and best of all a holiday in the south of France. Every now and then the production companies would send out letters inviting him to audition for another show but this was the first time he’d ever been accepted without even needing to try. He’d never heard of Skyrise Productions or The Game of Life but that didn’t matter, what mattered what the three hundred thousand pound figure missing from their savings account that the horses had swallowed up. Maybe this was his chance to get back on the level. How apt it would be, he thought, for the Game of Life to get his life on track. He stuffed the questionnaire into his briefcase, yelled a goodbye and headed out of the door.

On the bus to work, he flicked through the questionnaire, digging out a pen from his jacket pocket, desperate to get things moving as quickly as possible. The questions were similar to the psychometric quiz he’d undergone when he first got this job. You could choose from definitely, very likely, likely, not likely or never as an answer to each question. He shook his head at the absurdity of some of them. What could they possibly hope to learn from knowing how likely he was to stab someone in the back if the country was at war? Or to know whether he’d be happy to have a leg amputated? Still, no doubt it made work for someone somewhere with a doctorate in behavioural something or other.

He worked his way through the questions as fast as he could, going with gut instinct on some of them and randomly ticking when he had no idea which answer to choose. He posted the questionnaire into the letterbox by his office, hoping his choices wouldn’t get him rejected before he’d even started.

Two days later there was another letter in the post congratulating him on his speedy response time. In the envelope were two keys, one black, one white. He read the rest of the letter whilst locked in the bathroom, not wanting Carol to find out about it. What a surprise it would be for her when he was not only on TV but winning big. That would wipe the permanent scowl from her face. Maybe he’d get enough to pay her to stop calling him Teddy, a nickname he’d always hated but never been able to persuade her to stop using.

‘The Game of Life is a new kind of gameshow for the modern age. No glittery dollybirds, just a roomful of hidden cameras, five contestants and one chance to win big. We don’t want to give any more away but be sure to bring the keys when you come to Ship House, Wharf Street at 9am on the 17th. Think of them as your entry cards to fame and fortune. Once again, good luck Edward!’

He spent the three days leading up to the 17th becoming increasingly nervous, snapping at his wife and calling in sick two days in a row so he could spend them with Susie. She helped him calm down. At least she didn’t call him Teddy, she called him her master which was infinitely preferable. She did things in the bedroom that would have made Carol run for the hills. Was it his fault that he’d had to look to indulge his predilections somewhere other than the marital bed? After all he was only human. The forty eight hours with Susie helped to distract him somewhat but he was still a bundle of nerves when the morning of the 17th rolled round and he walked from his usual bus stop away from the town centre to the down at heel area surrounding the wharf.

The area was dominated by three enormous tower blocks. Only one was still lived in, the other two having been empty for years. The council were on the verge of demolishing them, hoping an injection of money would bring a more desirable economic group to the wharf. Edward felt slightly tense as he walked past one weed strewn wilderness after another until he finally arrived at Ship House to find it surrounded by keep out signs that had been peeled back and graffitied over, the steel fencing crumpled and bent from multiple vandalising hands. He made his way to the front door of the block and found it locked. Wondering if perhaps he might be the victim of an elaborate prank, he tried the white key which wouldn’t even fit in the lock. When he slid the black one in, it clicked home and the door swung open, revealing a musty and dust filled entrance hall, the smell of damp invading his nostrils. A single flickering light shone on the far wall, illuminating the start of the stairs. The lift door was gone, only the cable filled shaft visible. “Guess it’s the stairs then,” he said out loud, feeling suddenly tense as his words echoed in the silence.

‘Contestants to floor 12 please’ was spray painted in red onto the wall by the stairs. He glanced upwards, wondering if his heart could cope with the climb. He thought momentarily about turning and leaving but then he thought about losing the house when the bank realised he couldn’t pay the mortgage, he thought about Carol taking him from half his earnings if she found out, he thought about Susie too, how long would she stay around without the regular little gifts he bought her? Taking a deep breath he began the slow ascent to the twelfth floor. There was just enough light shining through the grime covered windows at each corner to light up the steps and show him the way. By the time he reached the twelfth he was gasping for breath and had to lean on the wall to recover. He looked at his watch as lights swam in front of his eyes, five to nine, at least he’d made it in time. He found himself in a long corridor that was blocked halfway down by a pile of rubble and plaster that had crumbled from the ceiling above. In the darkness he could see a pair of red lights blinking. Didn’t hide that camera well enough, he thought, pulling himself upright, not wanting to appear exhausted if they were already recording. To his left were two doors marked with roman numerals, I and II. To his right were three more doors, III, IV, V. He dug the white key out of his pocket and looked at it, noticing for the first time an ‘I’ marked in the metal. He turned to the first door on his left and slid the key home. The door opened with a creak and he walked inside.

He found himself in the living room of a flat although in the gloom it was hard to see much at all. There was no furniture anymore and the only light came from a single filthy and cracked window to his right, the curtains surrounding it ripped and covered in mould. The walls were marked and stained as well although the carpet at his feet was spotless. There was a door in the opposite wall that presumably led to the bedroom or kitchen but before he could take a look, a bright light came on above his head and lit the room properly. To his left the wall that had looked blank had been misleading. It was covered by an enormous flat screen TV, a blue light flashing underneath. Next to the door in front of him was a hole in the wall with a long clear plastic cylinder sticking out about three feet towards him. Beside it was a pink jug and beside that another pipe stuck up through the floor. This one was metal and topped by a steel tap.

“Welcome to the show Edward!”

He almost jumped out of his skin as the TV came to life, filled with the head and shoulders of a grinning gameshow host. The figure was in his late forties, black hair slowly turning grey and slicked back on his head. He was in a bright blue jacket with a pink shirt and black tie. Behind him was the trappings of an expensive looking studio set.

“Hi?” Edward said tentatively, wondering if he was watching a recording.

“Oh good, you can hear us. That’s the first test of the evening out of the way. Now don’t panic Edward but we need to run through a few of the rules with you before we begin. First of all, are you nervous?”

“A little.”

The host roared with laughter. “Of course you are for everything’s at stake in the Game of Life. Now we’ve correlated the answers to your quiz and our boffins have come up with the perfect test of your skill, ingenuity and patience. Once we begin, there’s no turning back so we’ll give you this one opportunity to turn back now and go home with your head held high. The door behind you is still unlocked Edward, would you like to give up the chance to win big?”

“No, I think I’d like to give it a go.”

“Excellent, that’s what I thought you’d say.” There was the sound of a key turning in the lock behind him and he felt himself grow tense without really understanding why. “Now it’s just you and me and a single task to beat your fellow competitors and win bigger than you could possibly imagine, a lifechanging prize is going to be up for grabs and it’ll be up to you to grab it with both hands!”

Edward couldn’t help but warm to the host, so much friendlier than some of the hosts on his previous quiz show outings. At least this one had some charisma. “I reckon I can do it,” he said.

“Well wait until you know what you have to do Edward. In front of you is a jug and a tap. All you have to do is fill the jug and pour the contents down the tube until we tell you to stop.”

Edward frowned. “That’s it?”

“Not quite. There is a catch. Firstly you must not stop until we tell you to. Your fellow contestants are in the next room and they’re going to try and distract you in any way they can, they might hurl insults, they might scream, they’ll do whatever they can to knock your confidence or put you off and that’s where the second catch comes in. You mustn’t spill a single drop. In the carpet are your feet are powerful sensors that can detect a single drop of water falling on them. Not only that but the winner will be whoever completes their task first so you better be quick. And there’s your challenge. Think you’re up to it?”

“Piece of cake,” Edward said, picking up the jug and examining it.”

“Hold on, don’t start just yet. Wait for the whistle to get going and remember, no spilling and don’t stop until the whistle blows again. Good luck Edward. Three, Two, One…”

The TV switched off at the same time an earsplitting whistle filled the air. Edward placed the jug under the tap and turned it on. A trickle of water fell into the jug, the flow becoming stronger as he twisted the tap another quarter turn. He stopped when the water was about an inch from the top, not wanting to risk spilling any and losing before he’d really begun. He turned off the tap and lifted the jug to the lip of the tube. The curved edge of the jug sat perfectly in the top of the pipe making his task even easier. Slowly he tipped up the jug and began to pour the contents down the tube. He could hear it running down into the next room but then the sound faded.

He refilled the jug again and again, his mind beginning to wander as the monotony of the task hit home. There can’t have been much in it for the audience watching at home. Or maybe it wasn’t live, maybe they’d just cut the most exciting bits together for a half hour evening show once all the tasks were finished. He’d been back to the tap ten times when he heard the first sound of someone trying to distract him. It came in the form of a thud on the wall by the tube. Whoever was on the other side was hammering on it over and over again. “You’ll have to try harder than that,” he yelled as he carried the jug carefully back to the pipe.

In response a muffled scream reached him. As if that would distract him. He shook his head, becoming increasingly certain the prize would be his. As the next hour passed his enthusiasm began to wane. Both his arms were aching from the incessant lifting and lowering of the jug. He began to wonder if this was a test of his endurance as much as anything else. He forced himself to keep going, not wanting to give up now he’d come so far. At least the thudding and yelling had stopped, they’d obviously realised he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Another hour passed and sweat began to form on his brow. He wondered if the sensors in the carpet would know the difference between water from the tap and sweat dripping from him. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, his throat becoming dry. He set the jug down for a moment and placed his head under the tap, gulping in an icy mouthful of the cool fluid which made him feel instantly refreshed.

He felt more energetic than ever as he recommenced pouring the water down the tube. It was another twenty minutes before he started to flag again, his arms throbbing painfully and his hands beginning to tremble. He dared not fill the just above half by now, the water sloshing around inside each time he made the slow movement across to the tube. “Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself. “We must be getting there surely.”

Another five minutes passed and then he noticed the water wasn’t vanishing down the tube anymore. Whatever he was pouring into was rapidly filling as the water level rose up the pipe, getting closer and closer to the lip of the jug. Just as it reached the very top a drop appeared on the edge of the tube, sitting there and looking ready to fall at any moment. He held his breath and froze with the jug by his side as the whistle sounded just as the drop fell from the edge and sank into the pile of the carpet.

The TV came back to life and the host was there again, grinning as broadly as ever. “Well done Edward!” he beamed. “We were all rooting for you and I never doubted you for an instant. How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Edward sighed, setting the jug down on the carpet before rubbing his aching biceps. “Very tired.”

“Well don’t worry, it’s all over now and you did as well as we thought you would. Now the door in front of you is ready for you to unlock and if you’d like to go through you’ll find your prize waiting for you on the other side.

Edward almost broke into a run as he headed through the door into a pitch black room on the other side. “I can’t see anything,” he yelled, his arms outstretched in front of him.

“Hold on a minute and let’s get the lights on for you.”

When they came on it was so bright he was instantly blinded. He closed his eyes, opening them again slowly as the room came into focus. Before him the tube ran through this side of the wall towards the middle of the room where a huge clear plastic tank was positioned. He blinked again, there was something floating in the water in the tank, was that his prize? He took a step closer and then his jaw fell open, his heart pounding as he saw what was in there. It was Susie, her corpse floating face down in the tank. Above her body were marks etched into the steel lid of the tank where she’d clearly tried to fight her way out.

Edward stared at the tank containing his dead lover and then at the tube that led back into the other room. He stumbled, losing the strength in his legs as he fell to the floor, tears forming in his eyes as he pressed his face to the tank, staring in at her lifeless eyes and open mouth. His jaw twisted as he tried to accept what he’d just done as behind him a TV screen burst into life. “Congratulations Edward,” the host said, grinning out at him. “What do you think of your prize?”

Edward opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. All he could do was lean back on the tank, put his hands over his eyes and begin to cry.

Chapter 2

Mary woke up late to the sound of the letterbox flapping. Forcing herself upright, she yawned and stretched on the edge of the bed. Just another exciting day, she thought, stroking her cat as he appeared beside her and meowed a demand for breakfast. Sliding her feet into the slippers set out beside the bed she stood up and headed into the hallway with Mr Jangles curling round her ankles, threatening to trip her at every step.

She leaned down and gathered up the letters. Two bills, another one from the bastard and something different. She opened the bastard’s first, sighing as she read it. She’d been terrified by receiving these anonymous threats at first, each one written in cut out letters from newspapers. Whoever it was that sent them never seemed to lose interest either. She knew who it was of course, not that the police had ever listened. But why would they? He was a very accomplished liar after all, he’d lied her into bed in the first place.

Her ex husband, the father of her miscarried child, the bastard. He’d been so charming when they first met but within weeks of him moving in, her account was regularly raided, his search for a job faded into nothing and then he began to hurt her. It was only words at first although even after it became physical it was still often the words that hurt the most. Perhaps that was why he was still trying to use words to threaten her now.

That was why she was so suspicious when she read the invitation from the Game of Life. She wondered if it was perhaps one of his tricks, trying to lure her to the old flats where there would be nobody around. But when she rang the number on the invitation it set her mind at rest. They were a huge production company and yes she’d been one of the lucky few to be picked to appear on the show.

“I better choose something to wear hadn’t I Mr Jangles?” she said to the cat as she hung up the phone. Two days later she was driving to the wharf, parking up on wasteland beside a burnt mattress and wondering if her car would still be there when she came back down. Ship House towered over her as she looked up, a mass of brutalist concrete that she’d be glad to see gone, a scar on the landscape of the city that she’d hated ever since she moved here ten years earlier.

She unlocked the front door using the key she’d been sent and then made her way slowly up the stairs, trying not to gag at the stench of dereliction that filled the air around her. When she reached the twelfth floor she dug out the other key from her handbag and placed it in the first door. It didn’t turn. Trying it in the second she was glad to find the door swung open and then she was inside what looked like a computer laboratory from the 1970s. There was a blue office chair set at a console that was filled with dials and switches and levers. Beyond the console was a door in the far wall and set into the metal in front of the seat was a small flat screen which flickered into life as she stood looking at the unlabelled controls.

“Welcome Mary!” came a voice from the speakers either side of the screen. She looked down to see the grinning face of a game show host smiling back at her. “How does it feel to be live on air on the Game of Life?”

“Erm, a little strange.”

There was a roar of laughter from an unseen audience. “Of course it does but never mind, there’s nothing to worry about here, just one task and a stupendous prize if you succeed. Now are you ready to play?”

“I guess so.”

A cheer went up. “Excellent. Now if you’d like to take a seat I’ll take you through things. In a moment a red light will come on somewhere on your console. All you have to do is hit the switch or turn the dial that lights up. Sound simple enough?”

“That’s it?”

“Not quite. The lights will move quicker and quicker and all the time your fellow competitors will be on the other side of that wall trying anything in their power to get you to stop.”

“In what way?” Mary asked, glancing across at the wall as if worried someone might burst through at any moment.

“Well they might pretend the building’s on fire or that they’re going to attack you if you keep going but don’t worry, nothing can get through that door. You just keep going until I tell you to stop. Or if you want, you can turn around and go home right now. What’s it going to be Mary?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful, well we better get started and Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck!”

The screen went blank at the same moment as the first red light glowed into life. It was situated above a metal switch. Mary reached over and flicked it to the left. A second later another light came on above a dial, the numbers ranging from one to ten. As she turned the dial, the light remained on until the two was pointing at the top. A slight humming filled the air as she flicked one switch after another, the minutes ticking by as she glanced frantically around the console, the lights moving faster, no pause between each one anymore.

A yell reached her from the next room, followed by a thud on the wall. She ignored it, concentrating on the red lights. The noises grew louder. “Stop it for God’s sake!” a voice cried.

For a moment her hand wavered but then she remembered what the host had said, how the others would try anything to prevent her from winning. “Not going to happen!” she called back, turning the dial to five. The cries continued, the hammering growing more frenzied.

“Please,” the voice yelled. “I have a family. Please let me go!”

“Nice try!” she shouted back, flicking another switch. She sniffed as a strange smell filled the air, the acrid tang of burning hitting the back of her throat. “Am I supposed to fall for that?” she called out but there was no reply other than a moan. She kept flicking switches with a manic glaze covering her eyes, unable to even look away for a second until finally the last light died and wasn’t replaced.

Sitting back and sighing, she sniffed, the smell more noticeable than ever. She stretched her arms as the screen flickered back into life.

“Congratulations Mary!” the host beamed out at her as applause filled the air. “You did it! How do you feel?”

“Piece of cake.”

“I bet it was. Now you can use the key to unlock the door in front of you. If you’d like to go through and collect your prize and I’d just like to say that was all wonderful to watch from here.”

Mary leapt to her feet, almost running to the door. She stepped through into a well lit room, most of the space taken up by a metal operating table. The smell made her wretch, a stinking burning stench that sent plumes of smoke into the air, making it hard to see what was on the table. She stepped closer and looked down, her mouth falling open at the sight before her. Tied to the table was the scorched remains of a man, the flesh burned and charred. Electrodes were attached to the man’s head and body, wires running from them into the wall behind him. Glancing up she could see where he’d slammed his head into the wall and then she looked closer at one of the few patches of unburned skin. He had a tattoo on his arm. A tattoo of a heart with a name in it, her name. She sank to the floor, unable to take her eyes from her ex-husband even as the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Chapter 3

Larry had to stop for breath every few steps on the way up. His enormous frame wasn’t used to climbing stairs and his heart was warning him it needed to rest, thumping wildly in his chest as he wheezed for breath. Only eleven more flights, he told himself, looking up at the endless concrete spiralling away above his head. This prize better be worth it.

He’d received the invitation to play the Game of Life a week ago and had spent much of the intervening time trying to decide whether to accept. In the end he decided to go for it, only regretting his decision when he’d made it up to the first floor of Ship House. He thought about turning back but as his breathing returned to normal the dream of winning the huge prizes they’d mentioned filled his mind and he began the slow ascent once more.

It took over an hour to reach the twelve floor and as he stepped out into the corridor, sweat poured down him, his stained teeshirt sticking to his skin. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he leaned on the wall and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

Reaching into the pocket of his tracksuit trousers he pulled out the keys they’d sent him. The first two doors didn’t unlock but the third swung open and he found himself in a room that was empty apart from an industrial set of weighing scales and a TV screen on the wall to his left. As he stepped in and sniffed at the mould that seemed to pour into his lungs, the TV flickered into life.

“Hello Larry!”

He looked at the screen in time to see the beaming face of a gameshow host looking back at him. “Hi,” he said, wincing slightly as an unseen audience cheered loudly.

“Welcome to the Game of Life! If you’re ready to play, simply lock the door behind you and slide the key underneath, no backing out once we begin.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Listen Larry, we’ve a lot of contestants to get through tonight and only an hour long show. If you don’t want to play, you’re welcome to simply walk back down the stairs and head for home. So what’s it going to be big guy?”

“All right fine, I’ll play but this prize better be worth it.”

“Oh it is, I can assure you of that.”

Larry took the key and locked himself into the room, sliding it under the door before standing back up. As he did so he noticed something he hadn’t seen before next to the scales, a gleaming metal saw.

“Now you’re a large gentleman aren’t you Larry?”

“Huh?”

“You’re on the bigger end of the weight spectrum wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess so.”

“Well how would you feel if I told you there are two ways you could lose weight, a quick one and a slow one? Which would you prefer?”

“The quick one but I doubt…”

“Don’t make your mind up just yet. Let me explain how things work first. All you have to do is step on those scales weighing less than fifteen stone. Can you do it Larry?”

“No chance. I’m easily seventeen stone plus. You better just let me go home now.”

“Ah but you gave us back the key didn’t you? Now have a look at this chart for a moment.”

The image of the host was replaced by two columns of writing. In the first was a list of body parts, finger, hand, arm, leg. In the other column was a list of weights in pounds. Larry frowned at the chart as the image of the host returned. “Getting the picture yet?”

“Not really.”

“I told you there was a quick and a slow way to lose weight. You get to choose which. You can either stay in this room until you work off some of that blubber of yours. Probably a week or two and you might just scrape under. Or you can pick up that saw and choose which parts of your body you can afford to lose. I think you’ll agree…” the host broke into an enormous grin, “…our prizes are worth an arm and a leg.”

There was a roar of laughter from the invisible audience as Larry turned to the door and shoved his frame against it, trying to force his way back out. It didn’t move. “Oh Larry, you’re a trier, I’ll give you that. Now we’re going to give you some time on your own to have a think about how you’d like to play.”

“What the hell is this? Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the host of The Game of Life!”

The screen went blank and no amount of shouting or swearing from Larry brought it back to life. He spent an hour pacing up and down, muttering to himself with the saw in his hand, his stomach already growling with hunger. He tried calling for help, slamming himself against the doors and even used the saw on the wall, falling back in shock when the paint peeled away to reveal solid steel behind. There was no way out.

He’d spent three days in the room before making his mind up. He’d tried standing on the scales every few minutes but he knew he’d never survive long enough to get under fifteen stone, not without water. His throat was bone dry and his hands shook as he picked up the saw and tried to remember the weights from the chart of the screen. An arm and a leg, he thought to himself. I can survive without an arm and a leg. He set the teeth of the saw to just below his right elbow before moving it up towards his shoulder. I can’t do it twice, he thought, I just can’t. He gritted his teeth and began to saw, watching the metal teeth digging into the flesh as he began to scream. Blood poured down his arm as he somehow kept going, ignoring the flaring of pain from his nerve endings which were torn apart by the merciless swing of the blade.

The bone seemed to take forever to cut through, his vision going hazy as he heard the wet squelch of the dismembered limb falling to the ground beside him. Muttering obscenities he ripped at his teeshirt, pulling off a length of fabric and tying it as best he could around the jagged stump beneath his shoulder. He wept as he stumbled over to the scales and climbed on. The digital display pinged to life. 17 stone 3 lbs. A leg, he thought. It has to be a leg. His hand shook as he picked up the saw again, pulling down his tracksuit trousers to reveal a sickly pale obese leg. He tore another strip from his teeshirt and wrapped it as tightly as he could around the top of his thigh. He began to scream as he started cutting below the tourniquet, watching arterial blood spurt across the room and spray the TV screen. His vision faded as he frantically cut as fast as he could, yelling obscenities the entire time. He wept as he scraped through bone and then he was done.

With a cry of triumph he crawled over to the scales and slumped across them. 14 stone 11 lbs. The far door swung open as the gameshow host appeared on the screen, peering through the dripping blood that coated the glass surface. “Congratulations Larry! I knew you could do it.”

Larry burbled and giggled as he dragged himself across the floor, ignoring the host talking behind him. Blood left a trail in the floor behind him as he slid through the doorway into the next room to claim his prize.

Chapter 4

Gavin was still thinking about last night as he walked towards Ship House. It had been a good show and he’d gone to sleep dreaming about the two women he’d been watching. He spent most nights online, watching through webcams into the lives of pornographic performers around the world. The sites he frequented displayed thumbnail images of each girl and he’d often have two or three windows open at once, flitting from one room to another as things heated up or cooled down.

It normally did the trick but every now and then it wasn’t quite enough. It wasn’t something he was proud of but occasionally he made use of the red light district in the city. It normally coincided with him having some spare cash to throw around, traditionally just after payday.

But last week’s experience had put him off real life women for a while at least, it was safer to watch from his bedroom, curtains closed, lights out, just him, the screen and whoever was at the other end stripping for the camera and the credits the users paid for.

When he’d been invited to appear on the Game of Life, his first thought was that the winnings would help him spend as much time as he liked with whoever he liked, maybe even try and meet a normal girl, one that didn’t steal his wallet and run off leaving him frustrated in his car and having to ring the banks to cancel all his cards. Still, it wouldn’t happen again. For now he was sticking to the chatrooms, they wouldn’t run off and better yet, they did whatever he suggested in the chatbox. Women were so easy, he thought as he began to climb the stairs. Throw a few credits in their direction and they’d whore themselves out for anyone.

He reached the twelve floor and used the key he’d been sent to open door four, the others refusing to move when he tried them. Inside the room was a curtain screening half the room. In view was an open laptop at a fold out table with an office chair set before it. He was about to peer round the curtain when a voice spoke up from nowhere. “Sit down please Gavin.”

“But…”

“I’m afraid if you look round before the game begins you forfeit your chance to play.”

Reluctantly he sat, continually glancing up at the curtain. On the computer screen the face of a smiling gameshow host appeared, looking directly at him. “Welcome to the Game of Life. Are you ready for the performance of your life?”

“Look, what’s this all about? Why am I here?”

“I don’t know, why are you here? Perhaps it’s to win the prize of your dreams.” A cheer went up behind the host as an unseen audience whooped and hollered. “The rules are pretty simple Gavin, shall I explain?”

“Please do,” Gavin replied, leaning back and folding his arms.

“On this screen a box will appear. Think of it as a live chatroom of sorts. All you have to do is carry out each instruction to the letter until the game’s over. Think you’re up to it?”

“Easy. But there must be a catch?”

“No catch. Carry out the instructions, win the prize. Want to give it a go or want to run home with your tail between your legs?”

His hackles rose. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Not at all. Just wondering if you’re up to the challenge, that’s all.”

Gavin sat upright and stared at the screen. “Let’s do this.”

“Excellent. You can pull back the curtain now.”

The screen went dark as Gavin stood up and whipped the curtain to one side. Behind it was a bed with a naked woman tied to it, her wrists and ankles bound to each bedpost. A camera was set up at the foot of the bed on a tripod, red light flashing on and off as it pointed directly at the woman. She was blindfolded, a ballgag in her mouth as she whipped her head from side to side, pulling and straining at the bonds that held her in place. Beside the bed was a steel trolley covered in objects. There were dildos, scissors, a spoon, even a feather duster. Am I supposed to clean up afterwards, he thought before he glanced back at her face, realising who it was lying there.

“I know you,” he said, walking towards her. “You’re the bitch who stole my wallet.”

Her head turned towards him as a muffled cry came from behind the gag. With a smile on his face, he spun the laptop to face him, the chatbox already open.

“Pull her nipples,” the first line of text said. For a moment he hesitated but then he thought of the smile on her face as she’d run off with his money and then he reached over the bed and took a nipple in each hand, yanking hard with his fingers.

The woman let out a muffled scream as he let go, feeling heat building inside him at the power he realised he had over her. He looked back at the screen. “Slap her. She loves it.”

He did as suggested, enjoying the sight of red flaring on her cheeks as her head whipped from one side to the other. He turned back to the computer. “Tickle her feet, lick her toes, rub her ankles, do it, do it, she wants it!”

He stroked the soles of her feet, aware of the blinking eye of the camera behind him. Was this being screened for the people watching? What kind of game show was this? Certainly not a child friendly one, he thought as he saw the next instruction waiting for him.

He spent half an hour alternating between teasing and tormenting the woman who could only groan behind the gag, tugging ineffectually at her bonds, unable to free herself. Her skin grew red from his slaps, pinch marks flaring up on her legs. He found himself becoming increasingly aroused as he continued, beginning to hope someone would tell him he could fuck her. She looked ready for it, rocking her hips from side to side like that, her body exposed to his gaze and to the eyes of the people watching on the other side of the computer screen.

“Suck her tits,” someone suggested and he did so in an instant, enjoying the feel of her nipples in his mouth. He stood back up, fanning his face as he fought to resist touching her without being given permission.

“The blindfold is no good,” the next instruction read. “Take out her eyes.”

Gavin blinked, reading and rereading the words, hoping there was some mistake.

“I’m not doing that,” he said out loud. “No way.”

“Do it or this video goes to everyone you know Gavin.” The words flashed onto the screen as he fell back in shock. They knew his name. They’d seen what he’d done to her already. The bruises that were still coming to the surface as tears soaked into her blindfold. He couldn’t risk his family seeing this. None of them knew what he got up to since he’d left home. What about work? He’d lose his job. But was that worth maiming her for? Could he really go through with this?

But then he looked back at her and he wondered. She had stolen from him and it would definitely wipe that smirk from her face. He picked up the metal spoon from the trolley and ran his fingers over it, the heat inside him building to intolerable levels. With one hand he leaned over and yanked her blindfold from her eyes. “Remember me?” he asked, grinning down at her wild eyes as she began to scream even louder behind her gag. “You thought it was pretty funny didn’t you to steal from me? Who’s laughing now?”

She whipped her head left and right and he growled with frustration, climbing onto the bed above her and clamping down on her ears with his knees, forcing her to keep still. With insane excitement flashing across his face he leaned down with the spoon and pressed it towards her left eye. Her cries reached a new pitch as he pushed the spoon around the side of her eyeball, forcing it past the resistance as her body writhed underneath him. He scooped out the eyeball as thick fluid ran down her face, her remaining good eye staring up at him in terror as the dead eye dangled on its stalk down her cheek. He left it dangling in place as he turned his attention to the other, finding this one easier to remove, his hand no longer shaking. As he scooped it free, her cries faded to hitching sobs and he let the spoon fall from his hand, returning to the laptop to see the next instruction already on the screen.

“She’s not bleeding enough. Cut her.”

When the door opened to the next room ten minutes later Gavin walked through with blood dripping from his hands, his mind racing. Behind him the body of the woman lay still, the remains of her fingers scattered across the floor. He didn’t look back, his mind already switching off as he stepped through to claim his prize.

Chapter 5

Patrick walked into room five still wondering if this was a joke. He winced slightly as he pushed the door open but then relaxed. All that was inside was a steel square set into the floor, roughly two feet in diameter. On the far wall was another door and next to that was a flat screen which came to life as the door clicked shut behind him.

“Welcome to the show Patrick!” a grinning gameshow host said to him, his face filling the screen. “I know you’re going to love it. How are you feeling?”

“Erm, wondering what the hell’s going on.”

“Of course you are. Well let me tell you a few things. This is a new kind of game show with only one rule. Once you step onto the pressure plate, you mustn’t step off it for exactly five minutes. Do that and the grand prize will be yours. Think you can manage it?”

“Just stand on there for five minutes. That’s it.”

“Yep indeedy Patrick. There is a catch of course. This screen will be taken over by your fellow contestants and they’ll do whatever they can to persuade you to step off early. Ignore them and you’ll win, let them beat you and you go home with nothing. Are you ready?”

“Erm, I guess so.”

“Then if you wouldn’t mind?”

Patrick walked over to the pressure plate and stepped onto it, hearing a click at his feet as a timer appeared in the corner of the screen on the wall, counting down 5:00, 4:59, 4:58.

“Good luck Patrick,” the host said, his face vanishing, replaced by a CCTV camera showing a figure strapped to a chair.

Patrick leaned forwards, looking closer at the figure as someone appeared next to them. “That’s my…that’s my fucking son.” He stared at the figure tied to the chair as people appeared around him, all of them wearing balaclavas. They turned and waved up at him as he fought the urge to jump off the pressure plate. It’s a trick, he told himself. They’re trying to distract you. They wouldn’t do anything, it’s just a trick.

He looked at the timer, 4:30. As he looked up one of the masked men raised an arm and pretended to slap his son. The boy started to cry. “You bastards,” Patrick snarled. “Don’t you lay a fucking finger on him.”

The seconds ticked past infinitesimally slowly as the figures passed around Adam, occasionally pretending to hit him, seeming to laugh every time they made him flinch. Patrick clenched his fists, praying the timer would speed up. His mind was filled with a tumult of emotions. Just weeks before he’d wished his son dead, being sick of attending to him night and day. He’d never asked to keep him, not when the pregnancy scan had shown that many deformities. But now he saw those men round him, fury filled his mind and he loved his boy more than he’d ever thought possible. How could he possibly have wanted him dead?

As it reached one minute to go, the men untied his son and moved him to a flat platform, tying the struggling figure on his front, his head sticking out over the edge. One of them brought a knife from his pocket and moved it close to the camera, forcing Patrick to stare at it as the screen filled with the image of the blade. They stepped back and faced the prone figure once more, lifting the knife above their head. 0:15,0:14. The blade swept down through the air towards his exposed neck as Patrick leapt off the pressure plate and ran to the far door, kicking it open and stepping through.

The signal went from the pressure plate through the floor at the same time as he moved. As he skidded to a halt before the platform and looked down at his son’s prone figure, he wondered where the men had gone. He heard a click and looked up in time to see the blade of a guillotine swoosh down through the air. It sliced through his son’s neck in less than a second, the decapitated head rolling along the floor with a wet thud, coming to rest by Patrick’s feet as the voice of the host filled the room. “Oh bad luck Patrick, if only you’d lasted a few more seconds. But don’t worry, nobody leaves here empty handed. You get to take his body away with you. Now have you enjoyed being on the show?”

Chapter 6

Detective Edwards stood in the corridor on the ground floor of Ship House rubbing his eyes. “Where the hell do I start?” he asked, looking at his colleague who only shrugged. “A guy drowns his lover, a woman burns her abusive ex to death, another one tortures a prostitute to death and this fuckjob slices his own son’s head off and all of them in the same damn block of flats at the same fucking time. Have I forgotten anything?”

“They all deny it,” his colleague said. “Say someone told them to do it.”

“Let me guess, God was talking to them.”

“Nope. A gameshow host.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“Nope. They all gave me the same story. They got an invitation to appear on TV, went to Ship House and...”

“Oh for crying out loud,” Edwards leaned back against the wall and sighed. “Who called it in anyway?”

“No idea. Anonymous phone call.”

“I thought we could trace those.”

“Not this guy, he knew what he was doing. Told us to come here, said there’d been multiple murders and if we were quick we’d catch the culprits before they got away.”

“Anything else?”

“Well I did notice one other thing I thought you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“There were four people but five rooms. We went into room three but there was no one there although you’ll never guess what was?”

“Don’t piss about, just tell me.”

“A severed arm and leg sitting on the floor.”

“Who’d they belong to?”

“You tell me, you’re the detective.”

At the back of the block of flats a fire exit swung open in the breeze. Beyond it a dripping line of blood led down the pavement and around the corner. Larry crawled along the middle of the road, a rucksack on his back. He paused for breath and then continued dragging himself forwards, the effort of moving expelling more blood from the reluctantly clotted stump of his leg. He coughed and thick black mucus came into his mouth, dribbling onto the tarmac under him.

He yanked his arm forwards but was unable to move any further. Panting and wheezing, he rolled onto his side, looking up at the clear blue sky, his ears ringing as the light faded from his eyes. On the corner of the street a teenager on a bike appeared, riding up to his prone form and looking down at it. He glanced left and right before scratching his face with bony fingers. Making sure the sirens he’d heard were nowhere nearby he leaned down and unzipped the rucksack, looking at the wads of banknotes crammed within. Pulling out a flickknife he sawed through the straps of the rucksack and yanked it free from Larry’s body, holding it in one arm as he cycled slowly away, vanishing around the corner just as a police car raced into view. The car skidded to a halt by Larry’s body, the driver staring out at the glassy dead eyes of the winner of the Game of Life.

Birthday Party

I stood over his grave as the rain began to fall, memories of my birthday party flooding back to me. Uncle Paul had been there at every birthday since I was born, eighteen years, eighteen parties but no more. No more birthday parties for me and no more Paul either.

“Happy birthday!” he’d said as I came downstairs to find the party already in full swing. It was the same every year. My parents would invite their friends, not mine. I’d come downstairs to find mum, dad, uncle Paul, aunt Judy and that was it. “How does it feel to be eighteen? Care for a legal glass of wine?” I took it from him as Judy shoved a party hat onto my head and then the games began as they did every year.

The earliest party I can remember is my fourth and I’m guessing that was the year they decided I was ready. They’d hired a clown and I remember being terrified by his white face and red nose as he squirted water from a fake flower into my face. By the time I went to bed that night, I’d learned there were far worse things in the world to be scared of, far, far worse things.

I thought it was normal, that was the worst part. I just assumed it happened to every child, something you didn’t mention to anyone for fear of getting in trouble. They used to tell me that if I told, I’d go to prison I believed them. It was only when I was eleven that I started to wonder.

Mum and Dad should have stopped him. They should. But they didn’t. Why would they? They were as bad as him. By my fourteenth I’d grown used to what would accompany my birthday presents but everything changed when I met Laura.

She’d transferred to my school from down south halfway through the year. I think that was why we got on so well. She didn’t have anyone else to talk to and neither did I. Within weeks of her starting we were thick as thieves, skiving off lessons together and sitting on the field behind the sports hall, smoking heavily and talking about our lives. Or at least she talked about hers, I had long been taught to keep my mouth sealed about what happened at my house.

She told me about getting raped when she was eleven. The fact that the trial had collapsed due to lack of evidence as it had taken her four days to build up the courage to tell her parents what had happened. She’d been walking home from school and dragged into the bushes in the park, attacked in broad daylight. Seeing him on the streets afterwards had been torture for her and she’d started cutting herself a year later. Eventually her parents had decided to make a fresh start, hoping her slate would be wiped as clean as theirs by moving up here. “If only it was that simple,” she said, staring into the distance and sucking on her cigarette. “I wish I had the courage to kill that fucker, I really do.”

It was another two months before I was finally brave enough to tell her what happened at my birthday parties. I only mentioned it because when she talked about being raped, I started to think and as I thought I found it harder to differentiate what had happened to her once three years before and what happened to me once every year.

“Fucking hell,” she said when I finished my story. “What the fuck?”

“What?” I asked, feeling immediately as if I should have kept my mouth shut.

“That’s not fucking normal Clare,” she replied, looking furious. “How could you possibly think that was normal?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s happened every year, I suppose I thought…”

“You fucking idiot. Jesus Christ.”

We lapsed into silence. I made her promise not to tell anyone. She fought that tooth and nail but in the end she reluctantly agreed.

She tried to come to my fifteenth birthday to protect me but my parents refused to let her through the door. Paul stood behind them, grinning from the top of his pint. “Go on,” he slurred. “Let her in. I’m sure she’ll liven up the place.”

“Certainly not,” my mother replied as I sat on the bottom of the stairs, trying to stop my hands from shaking. I knew what was coming. “This is a respectable house and look at her. She looks like she’s on something.”

For once my mother was right. By then we’d progressed from cigarettes to joints. It helped to block out the memories, at least for a few minutes at a time. They closed the door in her face and I was left to enjoy the party.

She asked me about it afterwards but I couldn’t tell her, I didn’t want her to worry about me any more than she already did. Besides she had enough to worry about, I’d seen the marks on her arms when we’d changed for P.E. She’d started cutting again.

On my sixteenth I tried to fight back. It was the first time and the last time. Until my eighteenth of course. I was off school for two weeks after turning sixteen, not allowed back until my black eye had gone down and the bruises on my neck had faded. They made me wear a scarf when I went back, just in case any of the teachers had overly attentive eyes. Gave me a note to take in explaining it was to protect my throat while I recovered so nobody would ask me to take it off.

When my seventeenth came round, I vowed this would be the last time. I wouldn’t let it happen again. Let them kill me if they would, I wasn’t going to put up with it anymore. The worst part wasn’t the pain, it wasn’t lying there wishing I was dead or wishing they were dead. The worst part was when your body betrayed you. Your mind would be screaming out to be left alone, wanting their dirty hands nowhere near you but your body would respond to their touch with its own heat and you’d be more disgusted with yourself than them. Every birthday I’d go to bed hating myself for the way I’d reacted far more than I hated them all. And I fucking hated them more than I could possibly put into words.

I think they knew I was close to fighting back because they held me down in turn on my seventeenth, each of them using me whilst reminding me this was my annual secret present that I wasn’t to tell anyone about, the smell of alcohol wafting down towards me as I lifted out of myself and floated somewhere far away, somewhere safe where they couldn’t touch me.

By then I’d changed shape of course. Earlier in my life I’d thought it was my body that appealed to them and in my own self deluded way I thought that when I matured and grew breasts and pubic hair that their interest would tail off. Naïve fucking idiot that I was, I know. The only change was my mother would come into my room the night before my birthday and shave me whilst telling me what a beautiful girl I was, how I should never grow up. She’d look at me and water would appear in the corner of her eyes but then she’d blink it away and carry on, running the razor over the skin above my cunt whilst all the while talking about what cake she was baking me like I gave a shit.

They all called me their little girl. Even at seventeen when I took the slow steps downstairs from my room to the waiting party they still called me their little girl. I hated it. I hated them. I went to bed that night with my whole body aching from their use of me and I couldn’t even cry. I’d learned to suppress every single emotion I had, it was the only way I could survive my birthday parties and it meant I just lay there waiting for the pain to subside and stared at my ceiling in the darkness.

That was when the idea came into my head. A special surprise for my eighteenth birthday, one they wouldn’t expect. It took a long time to plan and even longer to pluck up the courage to tell Laura. “Are you serious?” she asked as she passed her joint to me, her eyes glassy.

I nodded. “Want to help me?”

“Will it work?”

“I don’t know but I hope so. You on board?”

“Jesus. Give me some time to think about it, okay?”

The hard part was hiding her in the house. I had to bring her home the night before. She was hidden in my wardrobe whilst my mother shaved me, my skin crawling at the touch of her fingers as she again called me her little girl.

“I’ll be a woman tomorrow,” I replied.

She put her lips to the skin she’d just finished shaving, kissing it softly whilst I tried not to vomit on her head, a wave of nausea washing over me. “You’ll always be my little girl,” she said before standing up. “Now get a good night’s sleep. We don’t want you tired at your party now do we?”

When she’d gone, closing the door and locking me in as she did every night, I crept to the wardrobe and eased it open.

“Is it safe?” Laura whispered, glancing out.

I nodded. “Just keep quiet,” I replied, putting my finger to my lips.

“I saw her shave your cunt, that’s fucking fucked up.”

We spent an hour talking about our plans before trying our best to sleep. It wasn’t easy. I watched her in the darkness, the tiniest spark of hope in my soul at the sight of her by my side. What would I have done if she hadn’t come into my life? Would I have put up with this forever?

The next morning she hid in the wardrobe again while I went through the familiar ritual with my mother. She always chose my outfit, specially selected for Uncle Paul’s approval. This year she went for irony, a schoolgirl Halloween costume. It consisted of a miniskirt so short it might as well have been a belt, a white blouse two sizes two small and knee length white socks. She even tied my hair into pigtails while I sat and stared at myself in my bedroom mirror, telling myself I could do this. I could do this. She kissed me and ran her hands over my chest, my nipples stiffening as I forced myself not to recoil from her touch, knowing the pain that would ensue if I did. “That’s better,” she said, tugging at them with her fingers until they jutted through my blouse. “He’ll like that. Now don’t be long.”

She left me and I nodded towards the crack in the wardrobe before walking out onto the landing.

“Happy birthday!” Uncle Paul said as I appeared at the top of the stairs. ““How does it feel to be eighteen? Care for a legal glass of wine?”

With the wine in my hand I stood in the middle of the room as the four of them stared at me. Paul suddenly knocked the glass from my hand, sending it spinning across the room before it smashed into the wall. “Look what you’ve done,” my mother said, glaring at me. “That’ll stain!” She slapped me across the face and my cheek flared with pain.

“Oh don’t be too hard on her,” Paul said, taking a step towards me. “After all, she’s only a little innocent schoolgirl.” He scratched his cheek as he took me roughly by the arm. “Perhaps what she needs is a spanking.”

He bent me over the table by the window whilst the others stood behind him, watching him lift my skirt and slowly lower my panties to my ankles. I remained in place, telling myself it wouldn’t be long now before all this was over. He began to slap my arse with his rough hand, not a hint of gentleness to him as the sound of smacking filled the air. I kept quiet for as long as I could but in the end I began to scream, the pain forcing me upright before he bent me over again and continued whilst muttering how I should learn how to behave.

“I’ve got your present right here,” he said, leaning towards my ear as he finally stopped beating me. “Do you want to know what it is?”

I didn’t need to answer, I could feel it between my buttocks already. He forced his way into me as he had done so many times before. When it was over he stood me back up and insisted we all play pass the parcel. I sat on the wooden chair in the centre of the room as the others sat in a circle around me. Music began and when it stopped, Judy stood up, taking a step towards me and pulling off my shirt. “Next round!” she laughed, returning to her seat.

Within minutes I was naked and then the game ended. I shivered despite the central heating as they stared at me in silence. Judy moved towards me first and then they were all on me like wild animals, clawing at my skin as I waited for it to be over.

Afterwards they sat talking to each other and I made my way to the kitchen to slice up the cake. As I passed round the slices they continued their conversation with barely a glance in my direction and I was able to make my way upstairs. “Where are you going?” my mother shouted up to me. “The party’s hardly started yet.”

“Toilet,” I called back without stopping. I tiptoed into my room and walked over to the wardrobe. A hand reached out squeezed mine.

“You okay?” Laura whispered.

“I will be,” I replied. “I will be.”

“Not long now,” she said. “Hang on in there.”

I went into the bathroom and flushed the toilet before returning downstairs. The party went on for the rest of the day before Paul finally yawned as the sun set outside. “Well I think we might call it a night. Going to tuck us in birthday girl?”

I followed him and Judy to the spare room where they invited me into their bed. All I could think of as the two of them wrapped round me was that this would never happen again after tonight. It was little comfort especially as my plan was showing no signs of success so far.

Afterwards I left them sleeping and went back downstairs. “Ready for bed?” my father asked. I nodded, knowing what was coming.

My mother locked me in my room when they were finished with me. “Night night birthday girl,” she said as she closed the door, locking me inside. I got dressed and waited until I was sure they were asleep before beckoning for Laura to come out.

“How did it go?” she asked. “Did they…?”

I nodded. “Let’s hope it works.”

I spent the night beside her. She didn’t try and touch me and I was glad but just having her there made me feel a little safer somehow, a little less alone in the world. Overnight I heard the sound of vomiting coming from the bathroom several times and a flicker of a smile crossed my lips. That was the first sign. The next morning my mother didn’t come and unlock the bedroom door, that was the second sign. I dug out the duplicate key I’d had cut without them realising and in a minute my door was open.

We glanced out together, listening for any sign of movement. None came. “Ready?” I asked. Laura nodded beside me.

We walked across the landing and pushed open the door to my parents’ bedroom. My mother and father lay in bed with their eyes wide open, laid on their backs and staring up at the ceiling. “Good morning,” I smiled. “How are you both feeling?” Neither of them moved as I pulled down the blankets and observed the laboured movement of their chests whilst they struggled to breathe. “Enjoy the party?”

Laura stood behind me, waiting for my signal.

“Don’t get up,” I said, stepping into their eyeline. “I suppose you’re wondering what’s wrong? Well turning eighteen is a special occasion so I added an extra special ingredient to the cake, one I felt sure you’d love. It’s called Clostridium botulinum and it’s surprisingly easy to make if you know how.”

They both blinked up at me, drool forming at the corner of my father’s mouth as I continued, “You might notice a little blurred vision, perhaps trouble swallowing? Pretty soon things will improve. For me I mean. Do you know what comes after the paralysis? Your lungs stop working.”

I leaned down closer towards them and whispered quietly. “But I thought we might perhaps speed that process up. You. Sick. Fucks.”

I stepped back and nodded to Laura. She pulled the duct tape from behind her back and tore off a strip, placing it across my mother’s nose and mouth. Almost instantly her eyes began to bulge, her cheeks turning purple as beside her my father could only continue to stare at the ceiling.

We waited until her chest had stopped moving before moving across to my father. I didn’t say any fancy goodbyes, I just watched as Laura applied a second strip of tape across his face, her hand slipping into mine as we watched him fight ineffectually for breath, his cheeks turning purple.

When we were sure he was dead we tore off the tape and left them there to enjoy their last lie in together. We walked across to the spare room to find Judy in there but Paul missing. Quickly Laura tore off a strip of tape and stuck it across Judy’s face as I spun round and headed for the landing. “Where the fuck is he?” Laura asked as she caught up with me.

“No idea,” I replied as I heard a thud in the bathroom. I got there first, shoving the door open to find Paul draped across the toilet, his legs shaking. “Whasssss hassen….?” he managed to get out, his words slurred as he struggled to get his lips to move. He turned his head towards us and fell on the floor, his head slamming into the tiles as he tried to crawl towards the door. I fell back at the sight of him still moving. “What do we do?” Laura asked, looking down at him with panic across her eyes.

“This,” I replied, taking the duct tape from her. I pulled a length out and began wrapping it round his head, ignoring the weak movements of his arms as he tried to bat me away. As the tape wound round his head I found myself singing out loud, “Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me,” over and over again.

He tried to scream as I reached his mouth. I deliberately left his nostrils sticking through the tape before binding his legs and his arms together, leaving him mummy-like on the bathroom floor. All of a sudden I lost the strength in my body, slumping to the floor and shaking uncontrollably.

His finger twitched and touched my foot and I scrambled back onto the landing, not stopping until I thudded into the wall behind me. Laura kicked the bathroom door shut and sat down next to me, putting her arm around my shoulder.

“It’s over,” she said, turning my face gently towards hers. “It’s over now.”

“Not quite,” I replied, getting to my feet. “I left him breathing.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Because there’s one last thing I need to do.”

“What’s that?”

I didn’t answer, instead going downstairs and out into the garden. I opened the shed door and picked up the plastic canister of petrol that sat beside the lawnmower. I carried it back into the house as Laura watched in silence, realising what I had planned. I poured the contents of the canister liberally around the house, waiting until the last drops were gone before walking back downstairs and into the garden. I stood on the back step and held a packet of matches in one hand and a petrol soaked rag in the other. It took three attempts to get a match to light properly and then another few seconds to get the rag flaring into life.

“Happy birthday to me,” I said quietly as I tossed the burning cloth through the back door, watching as flames licked their way along the carpet towards the remains of my birthday cake.

Trick or Treat

Rob pulled up outside her house just after three in the afternoon. He took a deep breath before stepping out of the hire car and walking up to the gate. On the other side stood two rows of apple trees lined up on next to the ground floor windows of a small cottage, fallen apples the only blemish on the perfectly manicured lawn. A breeze picked behind him, sending another apple thumping to the ground as he opened the gate and walked slowly up to the door.

He knocked and waited until the shadow of a figure appeared through on the other side of the frosted glass panels. “Can I help you?” the old lady asked when she saw him standing there.

“Trick or treat,” he replied, kicking the door open and forcing his way past her.

“Excuse me?” she said as he shoved the door closed and turned to smile back at her. “What on earth are you doing?”

“It’s Halloween,” he replied, pulling a length of rope from his coat pocket. “Time for a trick.”

He had her hands bound before she could stop him, her frail wrists darkening under the pressure of the overly tight knot. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. “I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re after.”

“I’m not after your money Mrs Jenkins,” he said, yanking her along the hallway as if he was dragging a recalcitrant dog into the vet’s office. “I’m after you.”

Twenty years earlier

Rob and Joe were walking home from school together as the autumn leaves fell like confetti around them. They turned left at the end of the village onto the country track that led to their house. Joe stopped when they reached Mrs Jenkins’ garden wall and turned to his brother. “You up for it?”

“Not again,” Rob replied. “It’s the third time this week. She’s going to realise it’s us soon.”

“So?” Joe said, placing his foot in the hole in the wall and beginning to climb. “I can meet you at home if you want?”

“Fine,” Rob snapped, following his brother over and into the orchard.

Together they spent ten minutes collecting and eating apples, all the while watching out for the slight figure of Mrs Jenkins. She didn’t often appear outside but when she did they’d normally hurl abuse whilst hopping back over the wall and down the lane to their house. Today she was nowhere to be seen but before long eating apples grew dull so they moved onto throwing stones at her greenhouse, seeing who would be the first to break a pane of glass. Joe won. He always did.

They spotted a flicker of movement at the kitchen window when the sound of shattering glass echoed across the orchard but then it was gone. “Come on,” Rob said, “she must have heard that.”

Joe took a final flying kick at a bunch of flowers by the greenhouse, snapping the stems neatly and sending them scattering through the air before following his brother back over the wall just as the front door of the farmhouse opened and Mrs Jenkins appeared.

“What are you doing in my garden?” she asked, looking furious. “Come back here!”

“Oh fuck off you old witch,” Joe shouted although his bravado didn’t extend to remaining there to incur her wrath. He was back over the wall before she could reach him, Rob jumping over after him and the two of them running for home whilst she yelled ineffectually after them.

A week later was Halloween and two small figures in ghost masks could be seen wandering through the village collecting sweets to gorge on later. They stopped outside Mrs Jenkins gate whilst trying to decide whether to risk it. “Haven’t we got enough?” Rob asked, tugging at his brother’s sleeve. “Let’s just go home.”

“You’re such a wuss. She’s never going to know it’s us with these masks on. Come on, it’ll be a laugh.”

He was already opening the gate as he spoke and heading up the path, Rob following slowly at his heels. Joe knocked on the door, stepping back as it opened and Mrs Jenkins appeared on the doorstep, looking frightened “Yes boys, can I help you?”

“Trick or treat missis.”

“Oh I see, well aren’t you two a spooky pair? Come on inside and I’ll see if I can find any sweets for you.”

She turned and walked away down the long hallway. Joe turned back to his brother. “Told you,” he whispered before trotting after Mrs Jenkins. Rob entered last, closing the door behind him. He walked along the hall to find Mrs Jenkins and Joe waiting in the kitchen.

“Won’t you sit down?” Mrs Jenkins asked, pointing to two stools against the back wall. The boys sat as she poured out two glasses of cloudy lemonade from a tall jug. “Now get that down you and I’ll see what I can find. Be right back boys.”

If they were older they might have been more suspicious but their young age left them feeling smug, certain that Mrs Jenkins didn’t have a clue who they were. Even as the doctored lemonade began to take effect they still sat patiently waiting for her to return to the kitchen. Joe passed out first, slumping down from his stool to the floor, his mask slipping from his face to reveal his tightly closed eyes and pale cheeks.

“Joe!” Rob cried, jumping to his feet but finding his legs had lost all their strength. He fell beside his brother, asleep in seconds.

“Ah, look at the tired little angels,” Mrs Jenkins said as she returned to the kitchen a minute later, carrying everything she needed under her arm. “Let’s get you tucked in for the night shall we?”

Joe woke up first. He tried to sit up but nothing happened. Looking down, he saw his legs were tightly bound together, his hands clasped as if in supplication, the strands of rope wrapped around his wrists making him wince as they cut off his circulation.

“You’re awake at last,” Mrs Jenkins said from her seat on the far side of the cellar. “I began to think I’d added a little too much. But then it’s so hard to get the doses right for children. I mean the packaging tells you how much will sedate a fully grown man and you’re not quite there yet are you dear?”

Joe looked around, seeing his brother asleep on the floor beside him, similarly bound and snoring lightly.

“What the hell are you doing to us you old witch?”

“You came round to trick or treat didn’t you?” She stood up and walked slowly over, leaning down and slapping Joe hard across the face. He let out a scream as she continued, “You’re quite the lucky boys you know? I’m going to give you both a trick and a treat.”

She walked back to her chair and reached behind it, bringing out a paper bag as Rob began to stir quietly. “What’s in that?” Joe asked, his cheek stinging, his eyes wild.

“A treat for you both,” Mrs Jenkins said. “Only I know how much you love my apples so I’m going to let you enjoy an entire bag all to yourselves. Aren’t I generous?”

She reached into the bag and shoved a putrid apple towards Joe’s face. “Go on then. Get it down you?”

“No bloody way,” he snapped, twisting his head to one side.

“Oh now that’s a shame,” she replied, looking hurt. “I wonder if you’ll feel the same in a few days.”

Rob blinked his eyes open and looked around him, groaning as he did so. “Where am I?” he asked, tugging weakly at the rope around his wrists.

“You’re in my cellar,” Mrs Jenkins replied. “Lovely thick concrete walls so you scream as much as you like boys. I’ll see you soon.”

She left the bag on the floor and walked over to the steps, slowly ascending them without looking back. “Hey! Let us out of here!” Joe screamed. The only response was the door to the kitchen slamming shut, leaving the two boys in pitch darkness together. “Help!” Joe yelled at the top of his voice. “Help! Someone!”

Rob moaned. “What’s going on Joe?”

“That mental old bitch drugged us and locked us in her cellar.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t bloody know do I? Because she’s insane maybe?” He took a deep breath before yelling at the top of his voice, “Help!”

They both screamed until they were beyond hoarse but nobody came. It was impossible to tell how long they were left alone in the dark together but by the time Mrs Jenkins reappeared they were both pale with dehydration, their stomachs growling with hunger.

“Good morning boys,” she smiled as she walked down into the cellar carrying a long stick. “How are you feeling?”

Joe had to endure a coughing fit before he could even speak, his voice quiet and rasping, his eyes half closed in response to the sudden onslaught of light. “Please let us go Mrs Jenkins. We’re sorry for what we did.”

“I can’t let you go just yet. We’re hardly getting started.”

Joe began to cry. “Can we at least have a drink?”

The stick whipped through the air, catching Joe on the side of the head and making him yell out in pain. “You didn’t say please,” Mrs Jenkins said. “Manners cost nothing you know.”

“What the hell?” Joe blurted out, bursting into fresh tears as the stick caught him another glancing blow. “Stop it!”

“I’m in charge now my dear,” Mrs Jenkins said. “But now you’ve had your trick, you can have your treat.”

She took a sludgy brown apple from the bag and held it towards Joe’s face. “Still not hungry?”

Joe thought hard before leaning forwards and taking a bite. He spat it out immediately, flecks of apple splashing across Mrs Jenkins hand. He earned five more blows with the stick for that before she turned to Rob. “How about you, care for a bite?”

Rob shook his head, his words coming out in a stutter. “N…no,..th…thank…you.” His lip trembled as Mrs Jenkins raised her stick but then she lowered it again. “Now there’s a polite little boy.”

The sound of knocking came echoing down the stairs. Joe immediately tried to scream for help, his voice still hoarse and weak. Mrs Jenkins landed a hard whack on the side of his head with the stick, the sharp edge sending blood trickling down his face as she rushed upstairs, slamming the door shut behind her.

She was back an hour later, a scowl upon her face. “Would you believe they’re out looking for you two?” she said as she sat on her chair and stared intently at the two of them. “Who on earth would want two unruly little thugs like you back in their lives?”

Rob’s heart soared at the thought that they were being sought out. Surely now, she’d let them go. She seemed to read his thoughts, shaking her head as she smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I told them the noise was just my radio on too loud, no harm done. Now shall we get back to our lessons?”

The next week consisted of two sessions a day. Mrs Jenkins would appear with the stick and more rotten apples. Each time they ate, she rewarded them with a sip of water. Each time they refused or their stomachs rejected the putrid fruit, they were beaten with the stick. By the end of the week the two boys were covered in half healed cuts and dark bruises, the flesh raw under the bonds that held them in place. They stank of urine and worse, their bodies struggling to deal with no sustenance other than the bounty of Mrs Jenkins orchard.

They gave up pleading for release after a while and Joe even gave up crying. Rob couldn’t help himself, every time he heard her on the stairs he would begin to weep, praying she’d have a chance of heart and let the two of them go. It had been exactly nine days since they played trick or treat when she came down into the cellar without the stick in her hand. Instead she carried the tall jug from her kitchen, full to the brim with cloudy lemonade.

“I’m not drinking that,” Joe said when she held a glass towards his face.

“Oh yes you are,” she replied, punching him hard in the face. Still he fought until she had no choice but to sit behind his head, her knees clamped either side of his ears, holding him in place. He tried to keep his mouth shut but she pressed two fingers to his nostrils, holding them shut until he finally had to open his mouth and take a gasping breath. She poured the lemonade straight down his throat, leaving him choking and spluttering as she turned to Rob.

He took it meekly, seeing little point in trying to fight. “I’ve loved having you both as guests,” Mrs Jenkins said as she waited for the sedative to take effect. “And I think I could have taught you both how to be upstanding young gentlemen with a little more time. It’s unfortunate that the police have come back twice now and I’m afraid I can’t take the risk of them wanting to come inside and search someday soon. So I’m afraid our lessons must come to an end.” As she spoke Rob’s eyes began to sag and by the time she’d finished speaking the two brothers were sound asleep.

Rob woke up to the sensation of a lacerating pain in his arm. He looked around, trying to work out where he was as the sound of squealing filled the air. He could tell he was outside, the moon coming out from behind a cloud and shining down on a scene from hell. Beside him lay the remains of his brother, the pigs surrounding him busily tearing chunks from his flesh. Rob staggered upright, blood pouring from his arm where teeth had gouged into his flesh. He realised the pigs had torn through the ropes holding his wrists in place and he kicked them away from him as he reached down to untie the bonds around his ankles, a wave of dizziness washing over him.

He ran as best he could, never able to forgive himself for leaving the remains of his brother behind but terrified that Mrs Jenkins might appear to check on them at any moment. His legs fought against him, the enforced incarceration having wasted the muscles away so badly it took three attempts to make it over the garden lane to the lane beyond.

By the time he got home Mrs Jenkins was already gone and when the police turned up at the farm an hour later they found only an empty farmhouse and a sty filled with corpulent pigs sleeping off their last meal.

The present

“Look, who are you?”

“I thought you’d recognise me Mrs Jenkins. It’s Rob remember? I’ve spent twenty years tracking you down and you’re a hard woman to find. How are your pigs?”

“Listen dear, I think you’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Margaret Evans, I don’t know any Mrs Jenkins or a Rob whoever you are and I’ve never owned a pig in my life.”

He paused for a moment. Was it possible he’d got the wrong person? After all, he hadn’t done the searching, a collection of increasingly expensive private detectives had done the work for him. “Can you prove it?” he asked at last, staring intently at her, looking for any flicker of falsehood in her eyes.

“My driving licence, it’s in my handbag.”

He spent ten minutes looking through her things, leaving her sat on a chair in the kitchen and glancing at her every few seconds to ensure she didn’t try and make a run for it. Driving licence, utility bills, letters from loved ones, all of them were addressed to a Margaret Evans, all of them dating back years.

“I told you dear, I think you might have got the wrong house.”

He stood in silence. Should he go through with this if it was in any way possible it wasn’t her? He wasn’t a killer, he’d never seen himself as a killer, he just wanted revenge for what had happened to Joe. Had that blinded him to the chance that he’d made a mistake?

“Are you all right dear?” she asked, her face full of concern. That tipped him over the edge. Here she was, a prisoner in her own house, tied to a chair and at the mercy of a complete stranger and it wasn’t anger or hate in her face, it was compassion. He suddenly felt very young and very lost. Mrs Jenkins hadn’t shown an ounce of compassion towards either of them. This wasn’t her.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, bursting into tears as he dropped the letters in his hand onto the kitchen counter. “I was…I think I’ve made a mistake.”

“That’s all right love. Now would you mind undoing this only my bladder isn’t as strong as it used to be.”

“Yes, of course, God, forgive me.”

He untied the rope holding her in place and watched her shuffle through the door at the end of the kitchen. A minute later there was a flushing sound and then she came back out.

“Listen,” he said, perched on the edge of a chair, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m so sorry I did this to you.”

“Oh don’t mention it,” she replied, pressing her hand to his shoulder. “You look like you’re punishing yourself enough. Why don’t we have a cup of tea and you can tell me who this Mrs Jenkins is, how’s that sound?”

He nodded, a tiny smile forming on his lips as she turned and flicked on the kettle. Two minutes later the two of them were sat on the sofa in the lounge, a tray of porcelain and biscuits laid out on the coffee table in front of them. As he sipped his tea he told her, in the politest possible way, the story of his childhood, his hunt for his brother’s killer, his guilt and shame at leaving his body behind, the empty coffin at the funeral whilst he sat at the back and wept incessantly.

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” she said when he finished, putting her hand on top of his and squeezing it lightly. “Let me get you a tissue.”

She stood up and left him alone. He turned and looked around the room, his stomach churning as he thought about what he’d been about to do to an innocent woman. He felt a light thud on his leg and looked down to see he’d dropped his teacup. Frowning he went to pick it up but it again slipped through his fingers. Trying once more, he got hold of it and set it down on the tray, brushing the spilled drops from his trousers as he spotted something on the far wall, a line of rosettes in varying colours. Standing up he walked over and scanned along them. The last one caught his attention and a wave of dizziness washed over him as he read the embroidered words, “Best Pig – Mrs Jenkins 1995.”

He woke up with a pounding headache and looked around almost feeling as if he’d gone back in time. His wrists were tied together as were his ankles. His head wouldn’t move either, more lengths of rope binding him tightly in place. All he could see was bare walls and nothing else. “I wondered, are you hungry at all?” Mrs Jenkins asked, coming to stand over him with a paper bag in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. “I had to hunt these up out of the compost bin but I thought you might like them for old time’s sake.” She brought out a handful of putrid apples and let them fall onto Rob’s face. “Although I know you might find them hard to eat with no tongue.”

She reached down with the pliers, clamping her fingers over Rob’s nostrils until his mouth opened, grabbing the end of his tongue with the pliers and stretching it upwards. “Do you know,” she said, pulling a pair of wickedly sharp scissors from her pocket. “I could have forgiven you for scrumping, I could have forgiven you for ruining my flowerbeds week after week, even for smashing my greenhouse windows, “she moved the scissors towards Rob’s tongue, pressing the two ends together as he began to scream, “but I could never forgive you for beheading my cat and feeding the poor thing to the pigs.” She snapped the scissors shut, severing his tongue and sending a gouging arc of blood spurting into the air. “I saw you do it you know?” She tossed the still twitching lump of muscle behind her and knelt down beside him. “I watched you slice through Mr Tiddle’s neck like it was butter.” She pressed the edge of the scissors to his jugular, “I wonder if it’ll be as easy to cut through yours.”

When the doorbell rang an hour later, Mrs Jenkins was washing the blood from her hands. She walked along the hall, pliers back in her pocket and a smile on her face. She pulled open the door to find two figures in skeleton masks standing with pumpkin baskets outstretched before them.

“Trick or treat,” they said in unison.

“Why if it isn’t little Billy and Ted,” she replied, stepping aside to welcome them in. whilst the memory of them kicking her cat in the street the day before flashed through her mind. “Come on through and let’s see if we can’t find you two some treats.”

About the Author

Valentine King is the author of two horror collections, Night Terrors and After Dark. In addition he has written a guide to the best fiction books for 8-12 year olds. Growing up on a diet of late night radio plays, dark horror novels and strange local legends, Valentine discovered the writing of Stephen King as a teenager, leading him onwards to James Herbert and Edgar Allen Poe alongside an unhealthy diet of Hammer horrors and 80s slasher flicks which all helped shape his horror writing. Valentine lives in rural Yorkshire with a dog and cat.

Find his books: Amazon author page

Also by the Same Author

Night Terrors – 16 Horror Stories

After Dark – 21 Horror Stories

The Top 25 Books for 8 – 12 Year Olds