

It's Later Than You Think

By

Alexander Turnbull

It's Later Than You Think

By Alexander Turnbull

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Alexander Turnbull

v5 September 2013

*

Written in the gaps between everything else.

Contents

  1. Scraps

  2. Suffer Little Children

  3. The Gentleman's Flight

  4. Chain

  5. The Journal

  6. The Laughing Man

  7. Forefright

  8. Stranger on a Plane

  9. A Walk on the Verge

  10. Tea With Mr Ogrizovich

  11. The Inevitable Man of Straw

  12. Prey For The Damned

  13. One Last Tale

Dedicated to my family, who drive me to think of these odd things.

# Scraps

The sign above the gate swung loosely in the breeze, rusting chains emitting a pained squeak that drifted lazily up the lane. Once-blue lettering read:

'Wilks' Auto Salvage: Have a Rummage Through Our Damage!' This had to be the one: his fifth and final call of an increasingly over-cast afternoon, if he couldn't find something to turn into cash here he was in trouble. His stomach turned at the thought of a certain vicious Glaswegian knocking upon his door first thing in the morning.

Muddy water welcomed him across the threshold and not for the first time Carl regretted not wearing his boots. Formerly white trainers stuck noisily as he tried, unsuccessfully, to edge round a vast, brown puddle that reflected the sullen slate sky.

A loud bark alerted him to the fact that he had been spotted. To his left a hut of corrugated iron spilled from the yard's contents and from it sprang a large, black Doberman. Uncommonly large, in fact: and uncommonly ferocious. Carl froze.

''E's alright – 'e don't bite. Well not if I'm 'ere 'e don't!' the man chuckled, emerging from the hut. He was old – well over seventy – and wizened. 'What y'after then?' He was dressed in a filthy-blue engineer's overall and wiped his hands on an oily grey rag. Incongruously he wore a Russian-style hat complete with ear-flaps. He squinted in the daylight, face wrinkled and improbably malleable, and Carl wondered just how bad the man's eyesight was.

'Mark-two Astra: need a few electrics and cooling bits. Got 'owt?'

'Aye – down the back there,' he indicated, 'third aisle. Couple of Astras and Cavaliers; s'all parts-bin stuff, yer Vauxhalls.' Carl knew this but thought it wise to keep quiet; the last thing he wanted was to be shadowed around the yard by this old crock.

'Cheers pal,' he replied, wondering how much he could conceal in his baggy clothing. He walked past the dog, which stood growling beneath its breath. Carl grinned: he suddenly had a good feeling about this one.

The yard was huge: to the left was a large shack which contained the pick of the parts: the sought-after, valuable stuff which needed looking after. Door skins, wheels, interior trim and the like. Stacks of part-worn tyres swayed precariously, exhaust systems leant like decaying tree-trunks beside a row of bonnet and boot lids propped like plates in a dishwasher. Upon their faded colours chalk identified the donor: Mondeo, Civic, Metro. Carl reached the turning at the end of the row when the voice called after him.

'Careful how you go now, there's some vicious sharp edges back there!' Carl turned and raised an appreciative hand in reply.

'Silly old git,' he murmured. The old man grinned back, and for a second Carl thought he saw something unpleasant, something malevolent. 'Silly old git,' he repeated, then turned away.

The path was a twelve-foot wide river of mud whose banks were stacks of salvaged mechanicals – rusted axles, engine blocks and gearboxes. Carl gave one or two a disinterested prod. The floor was strewn with debris from their extraction – wires, pipes, spark-plugs and valves. Funny to think so much stuff was just thrown away. He imagined some sad anorak throwing his hands up in wonder at finding some long lost part in the dirt: - 'Golly! An offside-widget arm for the little-known 1953 Triumph Skegness three-litre drop-head death-trap!' Carl enjoyed making himself laugh.

He slalomed between patches of standing water, peering down aisles like some decaying mechanical supermarket. Deeper-in the cars grew closer, the stacks higher, the light dimmer. He came to a crossroads at what he guessed to be the yard's centre: a crane stood in brooding silence. Then it started to rain.

'This is pants,' he told himself, and the thought brought him to a halt. Ahead the rows continued; cars stacked four and five high amid the gloom. High enough to prevent him being able to see the perimeter of the yard: just lots of cars and lots of mud.

What the hell was he doing? Did he really need to be spending his Sunday afternoon scratching round for second hand car-parts?

'You need an alternator, Carl. And you can't afford that and pay McKenzie. So get looking if you value your...'

(kneecaps)

He winced and without realising it he began to limp.

He made a right at a stack of Fords. There was an inherent sadness in the face of your Mark-four Escort, he always thought. It seemed to frown unhappily as if knowing how unloved and poorly engineered it was. God it was depressing back here, he thought just as his foot disappeared into a particularly deep patch of mud.

At the bottom of the aisle, with four stacks either side, he found the Vauxhall graveyard. Twenty or thirty griffin-badged cars stacked alongside a single rogue Renault 5, against what may have been the back fence. Beyond that was undergrowth. Or rather overgrowth: how long since that lot had been trimmed? All the cars wore those particular colours of 1980s Luton: ochre yellow, drab beige, an almost olive green. There was even a metallic gold Opel Manta GTE. How lovely.

'Aha!' he murmured as a he spied an Astra of the type required: stack three, car two, sandwiched between a black Nova and a Mark-three Cavalier. 'To work,' he whispered, removing a set of spanners from his pocket.

He negotiated some random suspension entrails and four assorted wheels to stand before it, bonnet at chest-height. Finding it jammed he felt for the catch and, after scraping his knuckle, found it. The warped bonnet gave with an uncooperative groan, only for Carl to discover he'd been beaten to it: no engine, no ancillaries. Just a yawning, empty engine-bay.

'Balls!' he said and slammed it shut. A cloud of rust billowed out the front grille and up into his face. He cursed, raising a tatty sleeve to wipe his eyes. He blinked, eyes watering profusely. That was all he needed. To console himself he crawled around and inside the car, watching his step in the narrow gap between the two cars with another pair balanced overhead. Within a minute he'd liberated eight bulbs and an ashtray and stashed them in his copious pockets. Anything bigger would need to be lobbed over the fence as usual. He felt marginally better for the petty pilfering, the thief's equivalent of hair-of-the-dog.

Climbing down again he was most pleased to find the thermostat, discarded on the floor. This was one of his five rare 'hit-list' items. He gave it a rub and examined it: he'd need to throw it into the kettle to check but it looked serviceable.

'Re-sult!' he announced to the world and secreted it away on his person.

Carl moved from car to car, stack-to-stack, extracting what he could conceal in his clothes, choosing a large hose to act as the sacrificial item to be paid for.

It was just as he decided to give up for the day – light fading fast, no sign of an alternator - that he saw it. Sitting atop the fifth stack from the end, quite clearly in view and yet somehow previously unseen, sat an incongruous, exciting shape. Maybe the light had cast it in shadow for it was dark, possible green metallic in colour.

'What the hell is one of those doing here?' Carl asked out loud.

As a rule such yards cater for the every-day kind of motoring DIY-er: Ford, Vauxhall, Rover, Renault and the like. Maybe an old Bee-Em if you were lucky. Nothing higher up the motoring pile: no Mercedes or Astons or Rollers – these were the preserve of the classic-car dealer: water-tight lock-ups and glossy catalogues. So by rights the car at the top of stack five shouldn't have been there at all.

But there it was.

'1955 Jaguar Mark II...' he whispered. 'Three-point-eight litre...' he added in reverential tones. He stood and stared upwards as the sun emerged. Carl saw the proud chrome oval radiator cowl, pitted and dull. Carl saw the delicate wire wheels, familiar from countless classic-car mags. Carl saw the beautifully feline curve of the front wings sweeping up to meet the delicate A-posts, which framed the wonderfully curved windscreen.

Carl saw pound-signs.

He hurriedly began to climb. Base camp was a white car, no longer of interest. He stood on broken window frames to get a leg up, then moved up to the next car, a grey Cavalier. His fingers reached over and gripped the door-trim of the Escort above and he felt it squelch like an old rotting bath sponge.

He swore and, as a reflex, let go. He fell backwards with a sharp thump and felt a stab of pain in the small of his back. The next stack prevented him falling further but now he was wedged at an awkward angle and it took some careful wiggling to regain his footing. In the process he established that neither stack was very stable.

Straight above him the door of the Jag was ajar. Carl had one foot on the open window frame of the Cavalier and the unidentified car he had fallen against. Bracing himself he stepped under the door and hauled himself up so his head was just above the bonnet of the Jag. He peered inside.

It was incredible – the interior looked pretty much intact! The black leather was old and cracked: it had - what was that word? – a 'patina'. It was amazingly complete, no tears. And the smell! There was no way the old guy could know how much one of these things was worth otherwise he wouldn't have left it out here. But how else had it got there?

Carl looked around the cabin, at the chrome stalks, the switches and dials, and the radio. The original radio! It was all still here! Even Carl knew there was no way he could get the entire car out for a song – even the squinty eyed crone would smell a rat if he wanted to buy it. But why buy when you could try first? He quickly emptied his many pockets of small-time Vauxhall bounty, and commenced re-filling them with as much classic Jaguar as he could manage.

He worked fast, removing a few under-bonnet and boot items such as the toolkit. Most of this would have to go over the fence – and he started looking round for some plastic sheeting. He didn't know exactly what everything was worth but he was fairly sure he'd amassed a substantial haul – hundreds, possibly thousands. Certainly he had more than enough to pay off McKenzie. He grinned and stood upright, breathing in the air: sometimes, just sometimes, the Gods were very kind.

Rain fell lightly on his face as he looked out across the yard. He could see over the stacks, could see the jib of the crane and the entrance. The hut was hidden from view, but a tell-tale wisp of smoke from some sort of fire betrayed its location. Beyond this a car accelerated along the lane and Carl was suddenly struck at how distant it sounded. He saw rooftops and factories and chimneys: and suddenly he felt cut off and remote in the middle of a large city, barely five miles from where he lived.

Carl's concentration was limited at the best of times, but was it the combination of heavy metal spare parts, or a sudden gust of wind channelled up between the stacks of wrecked cars – or possibly the cars themselves – that turned events against him?

One moment he was king of all he surveyed, the next he was slipping across the bonnet of a 1983 Vauxhall Cavalier Commander, scrabbling desperately for a handhold to avoid a twenty-foot drop. He found it at the second attempt by grabbing a windscreen wiper, but only after his first grasp had torn a six-inch gash down the outside of his left hand on a broken aerial. Pain flared up his arm and blood started turning the bonnet crimson. Carl screamed, as much in frustration as in pain. He'd had a few accidents so he knew it would heal with stitches but in the meantime by God did it hurt!

Dangling, his feet kicked wildly at thin-air, searching for the bonnet of the car below. Finding it after a few goes he was relieved to take the weight off his right hand, which now stung like anything and took a look at his left. The gash was deep, blood filling a puddle on the lower car, rivulets running through panel-gaps into the engine. He opened his mouth to call for help when a noise came from beneath him. A faint sizzle, which could have been water on hot metal; then a metallic sound which was probably just one of the cars settling after the disturbance. Finally came a low grinding which was strangely alien, yet oddly familiar.

'Help!' Carl shouted, still staring at the wound. Stem the flow – he needed to stem the flow. 'Oi! Help!' he tried again, frantically looking down to figure out where the best tourniquet would come from. He was struggling – no belt or t-shirt, just a jumper, jeans and his old brown bomber jacket. His vision was beginning to blur – was he about to faint? Surely not, not here. Not now. He shook his head to clear it, breathed deeply. The air was an odd mix of grease and oil and...something else he couldn't quite place...

A groan rose from the stack of cars, then as if in answer another followed from along the row; then another, further off. Carl was only partly aware, his eyes firmly fixed on the pool of blood accumulating beneath his immobile hand. It felt huge. With some effort he brought it closer to wrap it in his jumper but the blood seemed only to flow faster. Instead he kept it half-outstretched, like one of the beggars on Stockport Road.

No one answered, not even the dog. He tried again but still nothing. Surely they could hear him? Again, that feeling of distance...

Silly old – probably deaf, probably watching 'Deal-or-No-bloody-Deal'. He'd give him a sodding offer he couldn't refuse if he got out...when, when he got out.

'Shiiiiiiiii...!!!' hollered Carl again, channelling all his pain and frustration into that one colourful expletive before instantly regretting it as the pain in his hand began to throb incandescently. Down – he had to get down. Which way was best for a one-handed man? A sudden swaying of the stack told him he didn't have the luxury of choice. The wind had picked up and his position seemed suddenly precarious. Down down down...it's the new up, boys...

What? What the hell did that mean? Again he shook his head in an attempt to clear the fug.

The collapse caught him unawares: the noise seemed to follow later as if unconnected. His immediate thought as the Jag started to topple forwards was:

'Not good,' - a rather masterly understatement.

The beautiful, feline Mark II slid off the Cavalier, which in turn slid off the car beneath and the pair shot forwards into the aisle. Carl, still holding on with one hand was pulled down with it, luckily on top of and not beneath the front wing. He landed with a monumental 'whump' on the bonnet thanking the Lord that he had not fallen further. He felt the metal give beneath him as it was designed to do beneath careless pedestrians. It broke his fall.

Momentarily he rested. And then the rapidly descending Jaguar took his arm off. The Jag scraped down the side of the Cavalier and simply sawed it right off – clean as a whistle – coming to a noisy, crumpled halt beside the Cavalier. Carl's arm appeared to reach right inside it like some magic trick. It was an odd illusion in which Carl had little interest, for at that moment his whole world was compressed into a spiralling black-hole of pain perched massively on the end of his former arm. It had been taken off just below the elbow and the stump was re-spraying the British Racing Green door of the Jaguar a bright new shade of 'Carl-Bleeding-Scarlet'.

Carl could not believe the pain: his gashed left hand was forgotten, a self-pitying scratch by comparison. There was no rational thought, no sequence, just reflex. His body and mind were in acute shock – he twitched and shook for before lying still, blinking and trying to remember to breathe.

Seconds ebbed, possibly minutes. His body went numb. The yard was silent except for the rain, which fell steadily upon mud, metal and rhesus-positive. Opening his mouth Carl found himself unable to speak, lips mouthing soundlessly.

Legs, he thought, I have my legs. To prove it he tried to move them and found he could do so with relative ease. His thoughts caught up slowly and it took all his energy to make them stay still. Legs – he could move, propel his body. How far? Could he move far enough? Could he reach the hut?

The hut – he wasn't even sure he could turn around let alone reach the hut, which was now an eternity away.

But the pain, dear mother of Christ, the pain!

Isolate the pain – separate it. That's what it said in the SAS books. Isolate the pain somewhere that isn't here.

(focus, focus)

Jeez-us...! He had tried to move, tried to twist. His stump had dragged across the metalwork an inch, maybe two. And it had hurt like bejeezus. This was going to be tough.

(too tough)

He had to move – he was losing blood fast. How long did he have? He took a number of deep breaths then tried again, this time shouting as he moved. It helped – the act of letting out the pain channelled it like rain off a roof. His trainers propelled his body in a series of blindingly painful squeaks along the slippery metal until his face hung over the lip of the bonnet. The drop was seven or eight feet. He wasn't going to try head first so he took an extra three pushes to manoeuvre himself so his feet dangled over the precipice. Without waiting for doubt to put in an appearance, he pushed.

He landed on his feet but the impact shot through his weakened body and collapsed it to its knees. This time the scream came and it was pure, white-hot pain.

(nobody's coming)

Still nobody came. Carl grabbed his right stump with its blood and dirt-coated counterpart in an attempt to stop the drain of life from his body; the increasing dizziness told him he didn't have long. His vision began to deteriorate into a series of flashes.

A sudden whining gave him hope. Turning expectantly, instead of the

(wizened)

yard-owner he saw only cars. Stacks of cars, which suddenly loomed like towering monsters to his increasingly slow senses. His breath quickened and he began to hyperventilate. The cars seemed to move, the walls closing in...he'd be crushed!

'No!' he whispered loudly, denying them. Carl turned, heard more metallic grinding and groans. Tried to run. Started to stumble. Splashed in the mud. Lost his balance due to the arm deficiency and fell once more to his knees. Behind him a crash: he turned to see a stack tumble – four cars coming nose down in the mud where he had been standing just seconds before.

'H...help!' he called, weakly, staring. He was three stacks from the end of the row – from the crossroads with the crane. He staggered, each painful step a drain. From there he'd surely be heard – just there, got to make it to...

Another stack crashed down, this time beside him but the car rammed the stack across the aisle to form a jagged bridge above his head. Not waiting to thank this change of fortune Carl staggered on, blood pouring, pain hollering.

'Aargh!' was all he could manage now with each slowing, staggering step, 'Argh!'

His vision strobed: rain came on more heavily encouraged by a lazy, numbing wind. His body shook, his face streamed.

'Nearly – nearly there...' he commentated, head upturned, breath rasping. One more stack...

The stack collapsed in slow motion faster that his injured frame, blocking his escape. Carl stopped and fell, splashing helplessly to his knees. Ignoring the pain he simply looked at this new but insurmountable obstacle; he fell to the floor and rolled onto his back. The pain had equalised across his body: a deafening, immobilising roar. His chest rose and fell: his heart thumped at his eardrums and in his head and in his hands. Hand. Carl looked down, shock returning. His body began to shake uncontrollably.

A scraping noise forewarned the next collapse, right alongside him, but he was powerless. This time it was only the top-most car that toppled. It paused for a tantalising second during which it seemed to resist gravity. But the wind caught it and a Red Escort van thumped to the ground right at his feet.

Correction – right at his knees, removing his previously operational legs in the process.

The impact stunned him, and after this Carl could no longer feel: hear yes; see just; feel no.

No.

Thing.

Any.

More.

He hears them when they come, sees their shadows. His hearing seems more acute and each metallic click and collision he marks in the space around his body. He hears them land in the mud, splash in puddles. Sees their shadows meet and combine and merge.

Things which click and scrape and scurry. Things with thin, beak-like appendages, and blunt stubby, oily ones. And vicious sharp edges.

(mind those)

Oh, so sharp edges...

They pierce his flesh and he feels them get to work.

*

The little bell was attached to a thin wire that ran the length of the caravan and out into the yard. It rang not once but an insistent three, four times before falling silent.

'Ooop! 'ere we go Mabel, let's see what we got!' Ron wiped his oily hands on an ineffectual grey rag and sat down in his faded, yellow armchair. Beside him a broad metal tube, which looked like the flue of a coal fire rose up to the ceiling. There was a metallic 'ching-ching' sound and two objects fell down the chute into a cast-iron grate.

'Looks like They decided t' take this one, Mabes girl. Got a wrist-watch,' he picked it up and looked at it. Gave it a shake. 'Mmm. Prob'ly a seller that one, not my sort of thing. Ooo...!' and he picked up the second object 'Hip flask! I'll have that.' And he grinned some more. 'What about a wallet then?' And as if on command a brown leather wallet plopped into the small grate. Ron grinned. 'Ah!' he sighed as he opened it and leafed through its contents, 'Happy days!'

From the other corner there was a rustle as a jumbled assortment of blood-stained clothing tumbled down a laundry chute into a large box marked 'charity'. Ron looked down at Mabel, who sat expectantly, face staring intently at a smaller hole lower down the wall. Resembling a drainage gutter its open spout protruded over a wide metal bowl. A sudden gurgling and Mabel stood, tail wagging, tongue licking her lips. She whined expectantly. From the drainpipe came a number of objects: red, spongy objects, which fell with a slick, wet sound into the dog's bowl. The first few were unidentifiable – maybe organs, maybe muscle – but lastly came an eyeball and three recognisable, bloody stumps. These three sticky, severed fingers landed on the bloody mass like sausages atop mashed potato.

'Aha! Happy days indeed, Mabel,' Ron exclaimed as Mabel gleefully tucked in, 'Happy days indeed.'

* * *

# Suffer Little Children

The short version? I did it. There – finally said it. You want the long one?

I watched those tall forbidding doors swing open and unleash a wave of sensations. First the incense, sweeping towards our neat little crocodile in the porch making me gag. I hated that sweet, cloying odour - always have. But I remained calm. Chris Thompson turned and made as if to vomit but Mrs Huckstone silenced him with a well-practiced pursed-lipped glare. Before turning back he looked directly into my eyes and mouthed a clear, round expletive. Only seven yet eyes so filled with hate. But I wasn't about to let him spoil my Special Day.

From within the church the first lines of the entrance hymn floated towards us on the May breeze:

'Suffer little children to come unto me,

For theirs is the kingdom of hea-ven...'

The front few rows started to shuffle forward and I could hear the organ, proud and foreboding. How relevant is that to a seven year-old? It was a sound I associated with formality, with authority. With fear.

'Suffer little children to come unto me.

For theirs is the kingdom of the Lord.'

Moving into the aisle I felt a cold draught around my legs and through my thin, light-blue shirt, the finest that Asda could provide. Spring never brings the weather you remember. Luckily I'd come prepared as always with a vest so I was warm despite the ridicule.

I stumbled – I'd been counting my steps like we'd practiced, watching Chris Thompson and Miranda Parkinson ahead to check I was in time. I wasn't sure what I'd done wrong 'til I heard a giggle from behind which spread through the rows. Cummings, David – red hair, freckles, evil streak.

'There came unto him children, little children,

That he might lay his hands upon them...'

The choir sounded fresh and alive, unlike the muffled tape recording that had accompanied numerous stuffy rehearsals.

Can I have it now, please, that kingdom? I remember thinking. If it's mine, hand it over.

I passed the rear-most pew: saw the sheen of newly applied polish, which raced the incense to induce nausea.

More giggling. I knew what they were laughing at. But I wasn't going to show myself up today of all days. I'd prepared meticulously. I was good at planning – it was one of the things they teased me about. Ordering my pencils, ruling all my lines, even the creases in my shirt.

'Pray for and bless them, children little children,

Gathered round our Lord.

Suffer little children, to come unto me,

For theirs is the kingdom of hea-ven...'

I'd been preparing for weeks – the walking, the prayer responses, not needing the toilet. Walking slow and tall, thoughts fixed on my stamps. They couldn't read my thoughts - that was how I kept control, my storm room. (I avoided thinking of the stamps floating in the urinal as that was still upsetting. I've got over it since, though – you do have to move on after all.)

Helen Hawkins went first, having reputedly cried her precious eyes out for an hour until they agreed to let her do so. Her radiance and expensive dress masked a rotten soul.

Am I sounding bitter? Shouldn't really, not now.

Ben Fields came next – I actually quite liked Ben, he didn't kick with the others, just punched half-heartedly. Then Yvonne Sellers, Christine Johnson, Mike Biggs...how easily the register repeats even after so many years. I was in other classes after it all died down, but this was the one that sticks in my mind. Given what happened I suppose that's not really surprising.

Each in turn opened their little mouth and received 'The Body of Christ' – a thin, stale piece of unleavened bread that tasted of grass, paper or flour, depending on whose older brother or sister you believed.

'The disciples said:

'Children, little children, leave the master to his Prayer...''

It hadn't been difficult slipping away before the ceremony in the melee that inevitably precedes these events. Mr Little and I had punctuality in common, and he had insisted rather to our parents' frustration that we all assemble a full forty-five minutes before kick-off, so to speak. As a result we all had to stand in silence in the porch, on the step and on the forecourt. Heaven knows what we'd have done if it had rained. As it was we all just got bored and cold.

I remember the air: cool, swirling; fragrant. Flowers adorned the foyer – it was Ascension Day, May 21st. It was also Cup Final Day. I remember the light – how funny is that? It was glowing as I recall it; my shirt was the sort of blue you only see in holiday brochures or soap-powder ads. The girl's dresses were white as snow beneath an arctic sun. The daffodils were a rich, creamy yellow. The greenery like liquid, pouring off careful arrangements and button holes and...

Not having anyone talking to you has its advantages. Once the inevitable funnies had been hurled and other novelties distracted the ringleaders I was able to slip down the side of church to the vestry. Security was lax in the Catholic Church back then.

''Be gone and stay not children, little children

Gathered round our Lord''

When it was Thompson's turn I had a good view of events being a good six inches taller. His head tilted as Father Mulligan reached out in his finery:

'The Body of Christ,' he intoned.

'Thanks be to God,' the scrawny-haired bully diligently replied. Yeah, thanks for feeding me your son, God. Nice one, appreciate the gesture. Thompson crossed himself as he turned aside to receive the wine and I wondered if he bothered with the silent 'My Lord and My God' as we had been instructed.

'Suffer little children, to come unto me,

For theirs is the kingdom of hea-ven...'

What I actually thought was 'what does it taste like?' knowing that I myself would not have the chance to find out. I also wondered whether he'd manage to get through us all before...well, before.

The equipment had all been laid out on a table – nothing special, just some old kitchen job. Funny really, given the pomp and self-importance of the ceremony itself. Chalice, Ceborium – I knew them all – although I'm not sure of the spelling even now! Is that right? I don't know – but you know what I mean. The silver cups with the fancy engraving that look like Holy Grails. It was the first time I'd seen them close up, with time to study them I mean. They were beautiful and not as imposing as I had imagined. But I was still wary; I touched the Ceborium – cold and hard – half expecting fire to leap forth and burn me to a cinder, God aware of what I had planned. The fact that it didn't just strengthened my resolve. I knew I could bluff my way out if found. I was smart enough, even then.

Hannah Jones next. Ah! Hannah, Hannah. Had a crush on her for eighteen months – barely a month has passed that I haven't thought of her since. But that was always the point – like so many people she was a great idea, but a horrid person. Like the rest, she took the host.

'But Jesus said:

Children, little children, stay my blessing to receive...'

One-by-one they filed slowly down the aisle and willingly accepted their destiny.

Finally Colin – my own best friend, Colin Robertson. He too stepped up, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. I saw Colin take the host out of the corner of my eye – or rather I saw Father Mulligan's hand rise, pause, then place it upon his outstretched tongue. He diligently crossed himself and moved to the wine before turning to walk away down the right side-aisle. I felt a bit sorry about Colin, the only one I was. He was OK. But he was part of it – part of the cancer. Some good flesh must be sacrificed alongside the bad. I learned that from my later years at the hospital.

Now I was left with nothing between me and the Priest. I remember raising my eyes and looking up at the figure of Christ. High up above the altar, facing out across his congregation, a life-sized bronze sculpture which actually floated away from a severe silver cross. He was rising, you see - not dying but rising.

'And here is the thirteenth station...Jesus rising from the dead so that we might live...!' Mr Scrimshaw had always ended this passage in hushed tones. But this was the first time I had actually looked – properly looked upon the sculpture. It was beautiful, mesmeric and disturbing. Here was a pathetic figure captured masterfully at the defining moment of his story, of the story.

'The important part is not the nativity, nor the crucifixion...but the rising from the dead; that is why two thousand years later we all come to worship.'

'Forbid you not that children, little children

Shall gather round the Lord.

Suffer little children, to come unto me,

For theirs is the kingdom of hea-ven...'

Now I stared at him, really stared, just as I had stared at the bullies. But he had no power over me like they did. I lived very much in the real world, where sticks and stones certainly did break bones. And it bloody well hurt. I'd never done confession – that part never made sense to me. I mean I'd done it, been forced to, but I had the courage of my own convictions – did everything for a reason. No apologies, then or now. As I looked I sought not to explain but to say 'this is your fault, you could have stopped this. You stood by and watched just like all the others. As much as anyone, you're to blame.'

Do I still think that, all these years later? It doesn't matter – I can't change the past. All I can do is tell it like it happened.

'For you must be like children, little children,

Humble simple, pure at heart...'

I heard the first cough just as I stepped up onto the gold-carpeted altar. It was soft beneath your feet. I heard voices but like Father Mulligan I just ignored it and went on with the charade – we were both professionals. More strangled coughs from different angles – I thought I heard Jeff Coates – poor little Jeff, former victim but eager kicker of heads himself given half a chance.

'The Body of Christ.' I looked up, closed my eyes and reached out with my hands as I had been told I could. I felt cold fingers as the old Priest placed the host in my upturned palm, and as I re-opened my eyes I looked directly into his. I remember I smiled – I had always planned to smile. I wonder if he remembered that smile, and how he would have described it.

I turned away, crossed myself like a good little Christian and heard Cummins, last in line, take his turn. I glanced back, just to check, and sure enough I saw the priest finish off the last of the hosts – greedy sod – you'd think he didn't need to get any more holy, wouldn't you? That always made me laugh, how his greedy self-righteousness was the death of him.

There was no laughter, just coughing. Rather a lot of it. The choir abruptly stopped. By the time I regained my seat there were shouts, cries: a scream. I saw Hannah, clutching her throat. Cummings being shaken by his mother! Thompson's face was turning blue; Jeff Coates vomited profusely.

Miranda was first to fall to the floor, eyes bulging.

'She's dead! She's dead!' shouted a hysterical female voice. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And so there was: It was a very wonderful pandemonium. I of course maintained my decorum. Eyes forward, hands on lap – I slipped 'my' part of Christ's body (which part, I do not know) into a sweet wrapper as the effects of my little additive took effect.

I finished the hymn off in my head, the line etched in my brain over many weeks, many months:

'For it is to these children, little children,

The kingdom of heav'n belongs.'

It was a mix of stuff I'd found in our shed, by the way, just in case anyone's interested. All helpfully marked with skull-and-crossbones'. If memory serves, it was one part drain-cleaner, two parts rat-poison. I think there may have been a dash of creosote. It said 'toxic' on the label, and all I can say is it did what it said on the tin. Thankfully it's very absorbent, that unleavened bread.

I never touched mine, of course, but I think the time has finally come to see if the effects have worn off, and to find out what it really tastes like.

I watched the Cup Final, alone in my room, free from disturbance. And it was great because of course we won. After that I enjoyed school, too.

Right then, down to it.

Cardboard. It tastes like c

* *

Signed Harry Elsworth, aged 91, Thursday 22nd February 2061.

Note discovered on desk beside body and a very faded Jelly Tots packet.

* * *

#  The Gentleman's Flight

The sun reflected unpleasantly off the runway into terminal building where Simon Forbes stirred his overly friendly mug of tea. It sat on his table alongside the inevitable hugeness of a raspberry muffin, its steam swirling lazily in the sunlight, orange lettering screaming 'Have a good morning!' The coffee bar was scattered with casual travellers who chatted inconsequentially or read papers with leisurely interest. An unfeasibly cheery little fellow with a peaked cap and an African accent scampered past flicking a damp cloth and an 'Are you OK, sir?' in his direction. Forbes smiled and resisted the temptation to ask for sarcastic advice on how to drink his tea.

Focus on the job, he reminded himself.

The dark silhouette of a 737 leapt for the sky from the damp runway, it's smiling logo suggesting a landing in drier conditions. Out across the brick peninsula that housed the airport's gates snaked a thick, black cable, tacked untidily to the flat tar roof just outside the window. Simon imagined it channelling liquid campness out to refuel the flight attendants of the waiting umbilicalled aircraft.

9.47am - he was due on board Easy-Jet flight EZ635 Geneva in 8 minutes. 'The Gentleman's Flight', Richard had always called this back at the office: more civilised than getting the red-eye, with its bleary-eyed commuters and noisy, unhappy families. The only ones who seemed awake at five-thirty in the morning were the holiday-makers in the bar who would always seem intent on starting their holiday the moment they got through security. 'The Gentleman's flight' – he always flew during the day, knowing he operated badly on lack of sleep. Lack of concentration could be costly in his line of work.

The tea was dead and he was finishing off the last crumbs of muffin when a text arrived. From Joanna, she of the short dark hair and dimples he'd loved since that first party.

How's your day? Mine fine – can't wait to see you back tomorrow – kids missing you already! xxx He smiled – only a day. He hated being away and knew that even though she didn't show it Joanna disliked it more. She'd struggle to sleep more than usual and counted the hours until his return. He hastily fired off a response, mentioned the muffin, then packed up and made for the gate.

The walk was short, a blessing at provincial airports which nearly made up for the less convenient routing. Luckily Easy-Jet direct to Geneva made trips during the winter a lot more palatable, even though an overnight stop was inevitable. Indeed it was one of the reasons he'd taken this particular job on in the first place.

Life had run pretty much to course for Forbes. A lower middle-class upbringing had held few surprises: a full complement of relatives for numerous family occasions with little if any family intrigue. School had been routine, aided by a general ability in most subjects which saw him skip through with strong O and A levels and onto an upper-second in Geography at Nottingham. Only then had things got tough as he realised he lacked the passion needed for success, and later still did he come to think of being simply 'good' at most things as a handicap. No great socialiser, his lack of enthusiasm for booze and late nights meant he saw no benefit in associating with those who enjoyed them, and whilst a gentle wit in small groups he was lost in the self-important hubbub of student life. If it hadn't been for the drama society he'd have been completely at sea.

Lack of imagination secured a job in accounting, his overall ability enough to prove himself competent with a medium sized firm in Leeds. Simon started to think he'd found his feet in this more stable, predictable world with its plans and routine and direction, a home for his brain and fastidiousness. More importantly, there had been Joanna. Married within eighteen months of the only Christmas party he could ever recall enjoying, the pair were parents within two years. When Sophie was followed a year later by Victoria life was complete.

'Will all passengers travelling to Geneva on EasyJet flight EZ635 make their way to gate number seventeen immediately that's gate number seventeen.' Simon had already arrived at the head of the escalators to beat the rush and gain position in the seating queue. It was all about tactics, he used to tell colleagues. Of course these days he tended to be on his own.

Moving walkways took him beneath the tarmac at Geneva, the walls a riot of imaginative advertising for 'premium' watches and banking services. Famous Hollywood Celebrities, air-brushed models and sleek formula-one cars enticed him to this brand or that. Another bizarrely marketed a watch sharing its DNA with the Titanic! Presumably some small internal component was reclaimed from the seabed – a modern version of the shards of saint's bone and martyrs hair which littered Christian churches.

Waiting for the bag which would not return home he eyed his fellow passengers – skiers, tourists, a few other professionals like himself, but a lighter mood than a red-eye. For a moment he even felt like the gentleman. The large black Puma holdall showed up towards the end of proceedings by which time impatience had started to make him perspire, and it was an uncomfortable forty-one year old, slightly balding, average sized male who stepped out of the terminal building precisely four minutes later. The grey coat, the black bag, the quick call on his mobile – nothing stood out. He was an average face in an average crowd, memorable to no-one. And that suited Simon Forbes just fine.

The Kempinski's wide marble entrance hall led up to a reception where the formalities were completed in minimal time, his enquiries answered, his plastic key-card proffered and the complex business of breakfast explained. A further ten minutes saw him sprawled out, unpacked, on his nearly double-bed. Nearly, because he felt sure that there was a conspiracy by hotels the world over to have beds only ninety-percent as large as those outside. Just big enough that you weren't sure, just small enough so that they could cram more in. Like Cadbury's Crème Eggs.

Forbes had a routine for hotels, as he did for most things; it calmed and reassured him. First he took off his shoes – scrunch the toes, feel the carpet. Second he would put on the TV for company – something he'd inherited from his mother. Third he would unpack – shirt first to un-crumple, then underwear, then toiletries. Then pockets onto the desk, careful to segregate them from the various items of hotel detritus. He put nothing away, leaving everything on view for the security of knowing he was less likely to leave anything behind. After half an hour he would shower – nice and warm – a luxury he always made the most of. For the moment the feeble TV speaker spat rapid French news-items across the fifteen-foot-square room which overlooked the same side street he'd vacated earlier and he heard the rain begin its assault upon the single, oblong and unsurprising window. Now he had to prepare for the meeting at the heart of his visit which, now he was here he found himself quite looking forward to.

Hotel bars in commercial districts are sad places full of lonely travellers wishing themselves elsewhere. 'La Forestiere' excelled by not disappointing. From the shining Formica-topped bar to the small wooden tables and dimmed lighting it was all desperate-to-please. Even the drinks mats had smiling cartoon faces that depressed in their eagerness. The bar area was delineated from the reception by potted rubber plants and a long frosted-glass partition with the legend 'Forestiere' in scripted fonts, the logo being repeated on the leatherette menu covers and uniform of the barman who smiled disinterestedly as Simon approached.

'Sir?' the tone was polite yet dull.

'Beer please.'

'Grand or regular?'

Simon scowled in thought, 'Normal, please.' Normal, average, regular: that was Simon.

The barman grabbed a long glass from the brightly lit rack and placed it beneath the ornate tap as Simon surveyed the bar. The evening's intake appeared to tick all the stereotype boxes. To his right was a group of six youngish men in 'business-casual' attire, attention fixed upon two laptops on a low table. A similar pair – possibly German – sat one table removed, one talking not so quietly on his mobile while his companion tried to glimpse what the first group were looking at. A collective laugh arose and drifted his way. Along the back-wall was a smiling couple, undoubtedly tourists, possibly recently married. They hunched over a map planning tomorrow's itinerary and where to eat. A similar but less happy couple sat over in the far corner behind four Asian tourists whom it would be easy to poke fun at.

Speaking of which, the ubiquitous middle-aged American couple were present and correct off to one side, the man just rising to go to the bar asking his short, grey wife in her powder blue jacket what she would like – loudly. Behind the collective chatter a piano worked its way through an uninspiring and occasionally unintelligible playlist. The whole was unremarkable but, provided you didn't think too deeply, not too offensive. Yes, predictable and 'not at all offensive'.

'Depressing, init?' a man's voice broke in, reading his face perfectly. Simon had of course not left him out of his mental listing, only his visible summary.

'I was just thinking that. Simon Forbes.' Simon turned to face the tall, wiry figure in the smart jacket and jeans, proffering a hand as he did so.

'Tom Metavichi,' the handshake was robust, the skin tanned and leathery. 'Can't even get a decent beer,' he nodded towards the tall pale glass the bartender had just placed on the bar in front of Simon. Simon grinned.

'Yeah – at least when you're stuck in Frankfurt or Brussels you get proper beer as compensation. Cheers!' he held up his glass and Tom tilted his stein in response before taking a large draught.

'Ah – better than nothing though. And there are, erm, other positive elements...' Tom's sentence trailed out across the foyer towards a tall leggy blonde posing for admiration by the lifts. She caught his glance and returned it with much practiced self awareness before disappearing slowly inside.

'I-saay!' grinned Tom in a voice that may or may not have been a conscious imitation of Leslie Phillips. 'Oo the things I could do with that...!' he added into his glass, eyes still fixed on the memory of her backside. The old phrase 'lounge lizard' suddenly sprang to Simon's mind, but he gave the expected conspiratorial smile nonetheless, playing along with what behavioural psychologists would have described as 'grooming talk'.

'Not for me I'm afraid – family man,' he held up his left hand and twirled the simple gold band as he did when he got nervous.

'But it doesn't hurt to look, eh?' another laugh.

'Well, maybe not...I suppose it would be rude not to...'

'Exactly!' they both took further swigs of their respective drinks and Simon settled on a bar stool next to the older man.

'So what's you line, Simon?'

'Me? Erm...consulting, I suppose you'd call it. Difficult to classify to be honest. Only been at it eighteen months. It's a start-up – my own company.'

'Oh right,' replied Tom, eyebrows raised. 'Entrepreneur? How many people you got?'

'Well, just me to be honest. Low overheads.'

'Fair enough – we all have to start somewhere. In electronics myself – communications, 4G, solid state. Self-made, turned over eighty-million last year. RadStar PLC – probably never heard of 'em, right?'

Simon nodded apologetically and confirmed that he hadn't.

'We don't market broadly – specialist componentry – high-end stuff. Not mobile, we're talking next generation gear mainly for the defence industry. You wouldn't believe the kind of money we can charge...but it's supply and demand, a seller's market so what can I do...?' He drank a toast to himself and Simon reluctantly joined him.

'You got into the right market at the right time then?' he ventured timidly.

'Not a bit of it – and if you mention luck I'll lamp you one.' Simon didn't doubt it. 'Sorry – I didn't mean that to sound...' But of course it did. 'No, I mean I worked very hard, and I spotted the opportunity, way back in...God...eighty-nine? Telecommunications – that was always the future – still is of course. Never mind the City, bankers, accountants – it was obvious to me where the future was. So I got off me arse and got stuck in...I make no apologies – anyone could have done it – you could have done, but you didn't.'

'No – I went into accounting,' Simon replied, then after a pregnant pause burst out laughing which Tom immediately amplified.

'Sorry – speaking from the hip as usual...'

'No, no – you're absolutely right.'

'But you've gone solo now in the world of consulting?'

'Only for the past eighteen months. Before that I spent nine years in accounting – sort of fell into it. Funny, Christmas in my third year at university and the last thing I was going to be was an accountant for all the usual reasons: boring, one of the sheep...but when I looked at the options and the money, well. I guess I played safe.'

Tom's smile hardened into a one of grim condolence.

'Ironic isn't it?' he said, 'Our smartest graduates get given the same list of low-risk medium salary management jobs while everyone else is encouraged to be a Del-Boy entrepreneur and start their own small business venture. But at least now you've seen the light!'

'Well, more like I got forced to. I was 'invited to seek other employment opportunities'...'

'Ah! Gardening leave.'

'Precisely. "Pursuing other interests".'

'Well, if you don't pursue you don't get. I'll drink to that – you ready for another?' Simon glanced down and realised that he was.

'Barman – same again please. Room 211.'

The second round was spent with Simon listening to Tom's version of 'how to get ahead in business' which he felt sure comprised the plans for a book – and with him fending off probing questions as to the exact nature of his 'consulting', which naturally he did not wish to divulge, given Tom's crucial role in it.

'Look, sorry to be evasive but I mean it's a competitive market, my idea – my business model...'

'Your "USP", Simon...'

'Right yes, my "Unique Selling Point'...well, it's secret, and if I divulge it to someone like you...' You'd run a mile, he thought.

'A sneaky bastard, you mean?'

'I'd maybe use less flowery language but yes, if you like. Sorry – got to keep it under wraps until I really get my hand in and build up a reputation. Right?'

'OK - got it. So you're worried if I knew what it was I'd copy it, get in first, eh? Hmm, you see you've got me thinking now.' Tom's face contorted. He was obviously enjoying the game this amateur was trying to throw up. 'Not to worry – I'll buy you out if you get big...!' and again he grinned the slightly patronising grin which had punctuated the evening thus far.

The third round saw a temporary diversion into the inevitable realm of football as the barman switched channels and rather bizarrely Wigan versus Reading flashed up. Tom was a proud Leeds fan, though all trace of Yorkshire had been expunged from his accent. Simon confessed his passion for Manchester United, which of course set the cat amongst the pigeons for the next half hour.

Round four fuelled a brief debate on U.S. foreign policy, which soon descended into mockery of American politicians and then most other things American too. Simon felt only measured guilt at the attention their increasingly loud behaviour was attracting.

A brief toilet-stop and Simon swayed along the corridor into an end cubicle where he proceeded to sing loudly at the occupant of the neighbouring units. He was actually starting to enjoy himself, could feel the adrenalin rushing – yes, this felt good. He sang louder.

'What the bloody hell was that?' Tom asked when he returned to the bar. 'Sounded like someone in pain.'

Simon grinned, goonishly.

'Just overwhelming and ecstatic relief, sir,' he replied with an air of drunk formality. 'Barman...?'

They continued.

By one-thirty the bar had emptied and the two had fallen to a small circular table in the centre of the bar. Tom was slouched back in his chair whilst Simon propped himself up with both arms under his chin. He'd found the past two hours an enjoyable chore, and was now listening to Tom babbling on about the women he'd known – it was quite a lengthy conversation.

'Barbara – that was the black-haired girl I mentioned. Went like the Intercity to Newcastle. By God – many a happy afternoon spent wandering over those peaks!' Tom was a bore but good value for money.

'Do you know what they called me at school?' asked Simon suddenly.

Tom seemed taken aback by the change in conversation, or at least the fact that for the first time in a while they were not discussing him.

'Was it "Forbesy"?' he asked, cracking up at his own humour. 'Or "math-mo" – how bout that. Bet you were the class swot weren't you?'

Simon slowly raised his gaze to meet Tom's.

'Gentle.'

'Gentle what?'

'Just "Gentle",' he replied and the clink of glasses being washed pierced the silence of the bar.

'Who?'

'Me.'

'No – I mean who called you Gentle?'

'Well – everyone. Teachers, parents. But girls mainly.'

'Ahhh now that can be good – very nineties. You were a nineties man in the – what, eighties?'

'Not the way they meant it. It wasn't a nice "gentle" – it was a "he's harmless" gentle. He's inconsequential, gentle.'

'Hmm – not so good then. When did it stop?'

Simon thought for a moment and took a swig of beer.

'I don't think it actually ever did,' he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 'I hated it. Especially Georgina McAndrew.'

'Ah yes, Georgina...' Tom added in mock camaraderie with a wistful look in his eye, tilting his glass as he did so.

'Please shut up while I'm wallowing in self-pity. Where was I?'

'Wallowing in self pity.'

'I was - thank you that man. I was the reliable one, the predictable one. Amongst all my year I was the least...the least threatening one...'

'Nonsense – I think you're very threatening, Simon...' Tom's brow furrowed, helpfully.

'I got on well with all the girls...'

'I remember thinking when I saw you – 'he's threatening'...' Tom trailed off and laughed drunkenly into his stein, which resulted in an unfortunate amount of beer leaving the glass and coating the front of his shirt. This made him laugh all the more.

'I was nice. That's what I was. Nice. Is there any worse word in the English language?'

'Herpes?'

Simon ignored him: he was staring off into a nostalgic corner.

'"Nice" – it's the very opposite of onam...oonamo...what's that thing that means a word which sounds like what it's describing?'

'On-o-ma-to-poeia Simon.'

'That's the boy – onamato...what he said. Well 'nice' is the very opposite.'

'So an un-onomatopoeia, then.'

'That's easy for you to say.'

'Wa-hey!' another swig of beer, more dribbling. Tom replaced his nearly empty glass on the table resolutely. 'You need to toughen up, Simon. That's what's needed.'

'Toughen up?'

'Yep – you're one of life's nice-guys. And no one ever tells you that that's not a good thing to be. Except me. I'll tell you – if you're ever going to be a success, Simon me old friend, you need to be badder. Meaner,' he snarled in what was meant to be a humorous parody of himself. 'No prizes in life for niceness. Apart from at young ladies finishing schools. And believe me I know, I've had the mucky dreams.' He looked up, and Simon all of a sudden was looking very dejected and rather pathetic.

'Take me,' he continued. 'You think I got where I am by playing by the rules? Rubbish – I'd still be sat on Barnsley market with a stall full of knock-off radios. You've got to tilt the table sometimes – make things roll your way. This consulting thing of yours – web based I'll bet? All very well, but real business is done face to face. Get out there, make things happen. Meet the people, force the deals. Success won't just land at your feet.'

'I know, I know,' Simon's gaze was trapped inside his glass. He was concentrating hard. 'Trouble with my...erm...the line of business I'm in...' he caught himself.

'Aha! Nearly slipped there, nearly had you!' Again Simon smiled thinly.

'It's a bit tough to publicise, it's a bit...'

'Ah...I'm getting the drift. OK, don't want to know more but let's just say I'm sympathetic. Some of my sidelines aren't altogether legal. You have a USP you're bloody good at your job – I'm assuming...'

'I am – very professional I am.'

'But conventional means of advertising are closed off to you?'

'Conventional means, that's it...'

'Word of mouth – get yourself talked about in the right circles. Aggressive networking...'

'What about competition?'

'Screw 'em, Simon. That's where the reality differs from the text books. You need to screw 'em. Can't leave that one to chance!'

'How do you mean?'

'Oh come on – payoffs to common suppliers, bad mouthing, phony deals, internet forums. Toxic word-of-mouth. Difficult to talk specifics when I don't know what you do but the same applies across the board. A pound less in their pocket is a pound more in yours. And if they have something you want...figure out how to take it.'

Simon, as planned, looked completely clueless. Tom continued.

'You think I thought up all the technology myself? Did I hell - I more or less stole most of it...well, bought, but at a very favourable price shall we say. Made sure no one else got any of the subsequent royalties...'

'Subsequent royalties...' murmured Simon sleepily.

'Oh you're buggered, aren't you?'

Simon just nodded in response.

'Ha! Too bloody gentle, aren't yer?' the broad grin and the hint of a Yorkshire accent beneath the wide-boy vowels. 'Right – well I'm afraid I need my beauty sleep,' and downing his glass he got up to leave. 'I have sixty-million riding on my having my wits about me at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, so...' Simon tried to do the same but succeeded only in sitting down again this time at a less stable angle. Tom looked down at him.

'Oh bloody hell...come on, I'll drag you up.'

It was unclear on the way up to their rooms who was dragging whom, both men banging into walls and doorways. An observer would rightly have had Tom down as merely drunk whilst Simon they would have pegged as nearing unconsciousness – an accident undoubtedly waiting to happen. Only two people did see them, neither paying them very much attention though, engaged as they were in their own pre-coital negotiations. Only later would they be called upon to recall events.

'Number are you?' Tom asked as they stumbled to a halt halfway along the second floor. Simon mumbled incoherently then proceeded to dribble messily all over Tom's patent leather shoes.

'Bugger!' exclaimed Tom half-heartedly. He considered for a moment bending to wipe them but thought better of it and instead looked down at them disapprovingly. Reaching into his pocket he drew out a key card. 'Right, well I'm buggered so I'm afraid it's every man for himself from now on...' and it was as he turned to the door of his room that he felt a sudden impact on the back of his skull.

*

The throbbing pain pulsed in time to the music, and for a while Tom could not tell where one started and the other stopped. There was also the faint, soothing sound of running water. He kept his eyes closed knowing that a sudden influx of light could send things spiralling down that dark alley where pain was waiting. Instead he stayed perfectly still. Carefully does it and we may just get through this, he thought.

He explored his senses as each came on-line. He was warm, presumably in his room, soft material beneath his naked body. How odd – had he fallen unconscious before getting into bed? What did he remember – the weedy guy in the bar, the drinks, more drinks – Gentle Ben – why did that phrase come to mind? A wave of pain engulfed his brain and when he winced it was worse. Trying to raise an arm to apply what he hoped would be soothing pressure to his temples he found, to his surprise, that he was unable to do so. News of this discovery crept slowly to his brain – there was no hurry – but an unfamiliar voice interrupted its journey.

'Wakey wakey – you with us?' It took a few moments to place it: Gentle Ben – what was the weedy guy's name? And what the bloody hell was he doing here? 'Earth calling Tom Metavichi – come in Major Tom!'

Tom opened his eyes. What the...?

'Surprise! We sure ain't in Kansas anymore Toto!'

What they weren't in was the Kempinski Hotel. It was a hotel, but definitely nothing of the grade of the Kempinski – this was palatial: marble, mahogany...He absorbed snippets of information, his vision struggling, his brain aching as the throbs grew more insistent.

'Posh, isn't it?' the voice echoed, and Tom realised he had disappeared into the bathroom. He could tell from the size of the echo that this unseen room was at least the size of the one in which he lay. His mind reeled – what the hell was going on? What had he...oh no...had they...?

Simon – that was his name \- appeared grinning from what Tom figured to be the bathroom rubbing his hands on a thick, white towel.

'Don't flatter yourself – we didn't do anything. It always has to be about you, doesn't it, Tom?' his tone was relaxed, light-hearted. Surely he must have as bad a head as he, Tom, did? 'Rest assured, nothing like that – I'm boringly heterosexual. Like I said, nothing interesting about me, Tom. Don't try to move, by the way, you'll find you can't. Endoxin Retro-something or other; a drug I got hold of on the internet. Works a treat.'

Tom's head was fast clearing but what replaced it were questions rather than answers. He attempted to move again but had the strange sensation of trying to run underwater.

'Running in quicksand - that's what I heard it feels like,' Simon had disappeared back into the bathroom. Still calm, still reasonable. Beneath the water he thought he caught a soft metallic sound. Eyes blinking he fully exercised the only part of his anatomy over which he retained control (what about his bladder, he wondered). He took the room in for the first time. It was a suite of some sort, the hotel he did not recognise but the type he'd seen before when paid for by wealthy customers (never himself, of course). It was only in the real up-market hotels that the usual global hotel formula was broken. A chaise-long, elegantly carved dresser, gilt mirrors and picture-frames. A free standing wardrobe, no sliding mirrored doors here. All this distracted him for a matter of seconds before the disturbing reality of his situation came crashing in. There was no evidence that the room was occupied – no clothing or personal effects. He tried to speak, to ask why he was here but got as far as:

'Waaa...?' three times before giving up. His breathing – another part of his body that seemed to be working – quickened. He didn't like this.

'You'll find that after the strain of trying to talk even that will become difficult - probably a good thing because I don't know if anyone ever told you this but – you're quite boring.' He heard Simon's echoing calls once more, this time seemingly weaker. 'God – listening to you last night: it's right what people say – bloody verbal diarrhoea!' again the tone was light-hearted. It was starting to grate. 'So full of yourself, aren't you? What marvellous things you've done, how clever you are.' The water continued to run and every now and them Tom heard an elusively familiar metallic clink.

'Whaa...?'

'...are you doing here? All in good time – and don't strain, the feeling will come back – but it'll do so in its own sweet time so don't go forcing it.' Now he sounded like a doctor. Was he a doctor? Maybe that was what he'd meant by consulting? Simon appeared to read his mind.

'No, I think it's time I filled you in a little – I was a bit unfair last night, to be honest - I actually did want to hear all about you, from your own lips. I think you always need to hear both sides of the story, don't you? They were right, by the way. And now it's my turn, only fair. I wouldn't want you not knowing both sides of the story too. That would rather defeat the object in fact.' The voice sounded amused, but Tom was damned if he knew why.

'Me,' Simon announced, appearing once more around the doorway. 'I told you I left accounting to "pursue other opportunities", well that's perfectly true. I was an accountant – nine sodding years of it. Oh it's easy to bad mouth now of course, now I'm successful in a different field, and I don't want you to go away with the idea that I hated every minute. I didn't. But of course you don't really know until you look back from outside, do you? God the monotony! It really does wear you down, and the only way to survive it is to stop thinking – about it, about everything. The money justifies the means, so to speak.' He walked in front of Tom, still holding the towel. He was wearing a dress.

'Trouble was I couldn't stop thinking. Drove me mad – the routine, the constrictions, the lack of...life. Nearly had a breakdown – saw others go the same way. Scares you,' he paused by the window, staring out although all Tom could see was darkness.

'Where was I? Yes, so I was at a party one night with some friends and we got into one of those late-night "bright idea" discussions – the big idea that will make your fortune. Came up with a pack of 'em - all great, all fab, all destined to be forgotten in the morning haze. But next morning instead of thinking "another time" like I usually did, I thought – "why not now, this very minute?" Just like that – one question, one answer.

'So I took the day off, sat in my civvies all day and thought – what am I good at, what do I enjoy, what do I want to achieve? And do you know what?' Tom was not in the mood for guessing but correctly concluded it was rhetorical. 'Had the answer by lunchtime - actually had the bare bones before ten if I'm honest, but there were details to work out. But it was there – in black and white. I opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Didn't tell the wife of course – didn't want to shock her,' he grinned and looked directly at Tom for the first time since leaving the bathroom. His eyes were benign, friendly. Gentle. He was the face of the bank clerk, the airline steward. The under-achieving second cousin who was good to his mum.

Tom strained to move – he was only taking half of all this in. Like he really wanted to hear this guy's pathetic life story. If he wasn't at International at nine to meet Mr. Tanganiki negotiations would be put back six months. What the hell did this apology of a man want? He made a mental note to pass his name and description to Hicks, his "fixer". He'd be sorry he dicked around with Tom Metavichi, hell yes.

'I just need to check on something – won't be a moment.'

Was he gay? Sounded gay, despite the protestations. And the dress! That was it – he'd gone off one day and set up camp in the great pink playground. And what was going on here – was he getting his kicks? Was he about to? Tom suddenly shuddered.

The taps were adjusted, and now some definite metallic noises followed by thumps and scraping. S&M paraphernalia? His eyes strained towards the door and as he did so he caught sight of a professional-looking camera set-up on a tripod – Canon, Olympus maybe. A thought began to slowly dawn.

'Right then, I think we're nearly ready, don't you?' water still running but gentler now. He came over again, towel in hand and now sat down directly in front of Tom who was transfixed by the camera. 'Ah – you've seen it. So I suppose you've guessed. Yes – bit of a trap, I'm afraid,' he sounded a little sad. 'Photography – number one on the list I made. I'm a damned good photographer. No I mean really good – competition-winning good. You see that was it – I was, am, a good photographer but I never used my talent before! How screwy is that? Never. Family holidays, occasional walks in the woods. I get asked to do family weddings of course but where's the challenge in that? So I put it to better use, something more creative, something more original. Now - I can honestly say I'm one of a kind.' He paused, seeming to drink in his own pride. Tom was silent.

'And you're thinking I'll get caught, right? Well you see that was item number two on my list – what am I good at. Organisation. I'm renowned for my meticulous planning – attention to detail. I was seen drunk and going to bed, taken by you. You – you will be surprised to learn – were seen hailing a cab in company with a female prostitute half an hour later en route to this hotel, which is some fifteen miles from the Kempinski. I shaved my legs specially.

'As to the fact that you are probably planning how you will hunt me down – well, we'll come to that in a minute.' Simon seemed to evaluate Tom's body. It was a process Tom did not enjoy and for the first time his anger dissipated and to his surprise he felt unease replace it.

'Right I just need to go and get a few things...' said Simon and he trailed off as he got up and went back out of sight. 'Creativity – that was number three on the list – and I have to say it's been sorely tested over the past twelve months. You're my ninth job in that time – doesn't sound a lot I know but you'd be surprised at how well it pays. Actually on second thoughts you wouldn't.' The taps were turned off and the sudden silence scared Tom to his core. When Simon spoke again it was with deliberate slowness.

'What – did - I – enjoy? I enjoy fairness, Tom. Always have done. I'm a fair-minded person – people often say it. Fairness – know what that means? I think that's where we differ, Tom. We have a different view on that old chestnut, me and thee.' He paused for undoubted dramatic effect. 'Does the name "Josephine Blake" mean anything?' Tom gave a jolt. His mind scrabbled for purchase on the name – it rang a bell but...

'I realised I was a big fan of fairness. And thus if I was going to take a – what shall we call it? – change of direction in my life, it should be to do something worthwhile. Now I'll be honest and say I'm not a big charity type as I know neither are you, but there are other ways of giving. So what could I give – what did I have to offer to help keep this world straight on its axis? The question I asked myself, basically, was "how can I help?" Have you ever asked that question, Tom, have you? Have you balls.'

This last word was spoken with a venom that contrasted with the previously trivial demeanour.

'Josephine Blake – impressive woman. Started her own tech company aged forty-seven using her husband's life insurance. Within twelve years she's got a turnover of over three million. Fancy starting your own company at an age many would throw you on the scrap heap, especially a woman, Tom; takes some balls, that in my view. She was very good, very clever. Didn't set her sights too high, modest clientele. Won't bore you with the detail, Tom, as I think you know the rest. But I think it's important we do go over the finale to this well-worn tale. Not a happy one, is it Tom?' Tom looked directly up at Simon and both now knew the other's mind.

'You contrived to buy her debt and put the pressure on, sent round "the boys" to scare her. What was the phrase you used when you gave her the details of the compulsory buy-out? She had two alternatives – sell to you or...' Tom was silent. He remembered, but was unable to speak. 'Maybe we'll come back to that too. We'll have to keep track me and you – can't leave any "loose-ends" now can we?' He stopped and sighed, putting both hands on his knees, making a show of the effort of getting to his feet that he did with an air of finality.

'Right then, sunshine – let's get this thing over with so we can both be on our way.' Simon bent over Tom's naked body and propped him up comfortably on the pillows. He wriggled one arm beneath the other man's legs, one under his shoulders and with a murmured, 'Bend at the knees...' lifted him clear off the bed. Tom was surprised that this eleven-stone weakling lifted him, a strapping fifteen-stone of muscle, with apparent ease.

'Oh I'm fit, have to be. That's something else I changed in addition to a remarkable alcohol tolerance. I used to be right a lazy bastard, your classic couch potato,' he turned sharply and Tom could see an inverted world, neck muscles limp and unresponsive. He was totally incapable of resisting whatever twisted perversion this guy had planned. But he'd get him back – be sure. Josephine Blake...where did she come in?

'Dead, Tom; six feet under. It was her daughter who approached me. Takes after her mother from what I can tell. Confident, bolshie even. But fair-minded. Seen my work, talked to people, wanted me to take the assignment,' Tom's head twisted unpleasantly and he felt a wave of nausea. Was that a good sign? His fingers – he could feel his fingers, his whole hands in fact! Christ that felt good. Maybe – maybe he could still turn this guy over – for the first time he willed Simon to carry on rambling his incessant drivel. Come on – more, more! He raised his chin slightly, now twisted his arm. Each second brought a few more degrees of movement to some limb or extremity.

'Killed herself. Straight off Tesco's multi-story in Romford. Wham! Saw the newspaper cutting. You'd probably say she was weak. Maybe so would I. But I'd also say what you did to her was shitty. Shameful. Unfair. And that's where I come in.'

'Taking...crappy photos...to blackmail people - is that the best...you can do?'

'Ah! It speaks!' Simon paused at the bathroom door. Tom managed to draw his head level with his chest, saw into the brightness of the bathroom. 'It's been getting a bit dreary just listening to myself. Unlike you I don't like the sound of my own voice – this really has been for your benefit, Tom...'

'Excuse me if I don't f*****g thank you!' Tom started to wriggle but was still weak: Simon had no trouble tightening his grip.

'No, you're entitled to be a little angry. But it's a bit late. No there's just time before you regain your strength for me to finish our little story and let you know why we're here.' Simon stepped into the bathroom, and Tom's head swung around, lolling with the momentum to one side fully exposing him to the apparatus which straddled the large, sunken bath.

'Remember I asked how I could help? Remember I asked myself what did I want to achieve, Tom? Well I found a wonderful confluence of those two things, Tom. I found my true calling.' Gazing at the leather, and shining steel Tom's newly regained senses allowed him to register that he had indeed now wet himself. 'What I wanted was to get back at all the smug, arrogant tossers in this world, Tom. All the bastards who had spend their lives pushing through doors, climbing up ladders and generally trampling on anyone who wanted to play fair. People who wanted to play by the rules, people like me – "Gentle". Any idea how much that name hurts, Tom?' Tom felt warm water course down his legs. 'Any idea how much that cuts even after all these years? Well – boot on other foot, Tom. I've found my calling – I gave up accounting and stepped off the treadmill. I'm a pool-cleaner, Tom: a gene-pool-cleaner. I'm the chlorine, the dredger. The thing that removes the accumulation of crap and restores the balance.' Tom felt himself being raised high up into the air above the apparatus that sat glinting over the bath like a huge, sci-fi insect. Sharp edges raised like teeth, waiting.

'You see I many be gentle, Tom,' he whispered into Tom's ear, 'but sometimes, sometimes I can be a right bastard...!' And he let him fall.

The drop was maybe three feet, no more, but it seemed to be filled with many seconds. Seconds in which Tom had time to register that movement was returning; seconds in which he thought it may be sufficient to twist his body in such a way that...Seconds to realise that no, it wasn't. His ears registered Simon distantly

'Death by a thousand cuts, Tom, that's what you told her,' and he actually had time to speculate during the first part of the sentence upon the sensations he would encounter before its conclusion.

The feeling of a thousand gleaming razor blades, lined up and rigid, ready to warmly greet his naked flesh. A horrific but inescapable funnel which led down towards the steaming, hissing water below. The scalding of his back, his buttocks, his scalp. His hands and feet scrambling up the walls of the funnel, gleaming blades frantically slicing and cutting into him, bright white lines of pain turning red, vision failing. His mind clouded, his limbs regained of their full strength lashed and scraped and scrabbled – fingers sliced, toes flailing, and he screamed as the skin and bone and sinews and blood...so much blood...

'Say cheese!' The flash of the camera was the final thing Tom Metavichi knew.

'Ooh that'll be a nice one!' said Simon "Gentle" Forbes, cheerfully. Definitely enough to get that twenty-five per-cent creativity bonus, he thought.

Grinning he packed away the camera with meticulous care as Tom's lifeless body continued to colour the bathroom. Within ten minutes he was done, bag packed, calling card placed. Poetic-Justice.com, it read, black on grey – they'd turned out rather well. He smiled and breathed deeply: life was better when you did a job you loved, he thought.

Meeting went well, he texted Joanna. Order the garden furniture! Back on the gentleman's flight. Curry for tea?

* * *

# Chain

Rain was in the air. The boy felt sharp pinpricks on his cheek and shortly after the first shining droplets landed like tiny UFOs, kicking up dust around where he worked in the struggling sun. A wind was getting up and blowing dark clouds across the rambling garden. Angry shadows captured first the swings and then a pushbike before gloomily approaching his encampment. He considered going inside, but then remembered that He was inside, probably up in their room. He'd stay out until the last possible moment, rain or not.

The hole had grown to satisfying proportions during this shift – he'd dug it out maybe six inches vertically and a foot in width in the past hour-and-a-half and it was now approaching four in the afternoon. Time meandered on these long, still summer holiday afternoons and digging a large hole in your back garden was as good a use of it as any. It wasn't a hole with a purpose – he didn't intend to bury anything, he wasn't digging anything up. He did have a vague idea that he may find some old coins like Lee Trundle had and be featured in the local paper, but this was purely incidental. Holes were something to be proud of, an achievement in themselves. And anyway, what else was there to do?

He scratched at the earth with the coarse broken plank, which was now half the size it had been when liberated from the Johnsons' fence that morning. Splinters occasionally broke off and lodged in the earth and he'd scoop them out with the clay and soil debris that accumulated in an untidy but satisfying mound behind him. Neither it nor Jeremy himself was visible from the kitchen window thanks to the single concrete garage and the long unkempt grass. He'd been working blissfully undisturbed for a day and a half now but as he watched the skies it seemed like rain may imminently stop play. The spectre of having to go up to his room and battle with Him loomed. He dug with renewed vigour.

If it had not been for the final dying rays of sunlight he may not have found it at all. About to pack it in as the rain came heavier his eye had been caught in the side of the pit by a glimmer of silver, and thoughts of Lee Trundle's smug face beaming back from page two of the Winton Argus leapt to mind. Had they been Roman or Greek? How would he know the difference?

His hand immediately shot out to the grimy centimetre protruding from the clay and quick-bitten fingers confirmed it to be cold, hard metal. His pulse quickened. He scraped around the object but rather than the expected coin what he found was a rounded chain link maybe a centimetre across, like the one attached to their bathplug only bigger. A necklace? He pulled but it held fast, presumably attached to other links, which in turn were attached to – well, what exactly?

Jeremy's enthusiasm soaked up the now pounding rain, and he began uncovering the chain, link by link. Three, five, eight, twelve – now flexible, and each link slightly bigger than its predecessor. That was odd: what was it Mr Phelps had said in rugby practice? 'A chain is only as strong as its weakest link'. He continued to dig – fourteen, sixteen...he was now digging down again after burrowing into the side of his hole. He was confident the damp clay would not collapse but was now having to reach down, digging as much by touch as by sight.

Just as he was considering leaving it for the day, with fading light and sodden t-shirt, Jeremy's soil-caked fingers met the end, one final arch of metal attached not to another link but to an anchor point, a flat surface of metal facing downwards. His hand explored and he tried to see inside the little hollow he had formed but by now the light had diminished to such an extent that he couldn't see past his wrist where the chain now disappeared over a small lip. It took another five minutes to hack away at the stubborn clay with the plank before he could finally see what the chain was attached to.

It was a plug: metallic, maybe fifteen centimetres across but definitely a plug. It was a dull, unexciting colour – a mix of the faded copper of the pipes in the airing cupboard and the corroded steel taps at Nan's house. It was streaked and corroded – unsurprising if it had been buried for...well, for how long? And why would anyone bury a plug? Was it lost? And why was it so big – what sort of bath needs a plug six-inches across?

The rain hammered down around him and in the bottom of the hole things were starting to get very messy. Jeremy looked up but just saw dark streaks against a slate-grey sky. His hair was matted to his skull. He reached in and gave the chain a sharp tug, confident that freed from the clay it would pop up in his hand and already he was considering what he could use it for. Maybe this would get him into the Argus too – maybe it too was valuable – a long lost Roman plug! He shook this slightly stupid notion from his head. But the plug remained steadfastly where it was and all he succeeded in doing was to hurt his arm and pull himself down into the muck.

He cursed, suddenly aware of the state he was in. He'd need to sneak in and get changed before anyone saw him. Anger rose in his neck, the same anger that had seen him kick the bedroom wall and break the garage door. He set his teeth and clenched both fists.

It was as he looked up again that he saw the light. In the dimness to which his eyes had quickly grown accustomed an orange glow suddenly appeared. It was escaping from the plug or rather, as he leaned in and examined it closer, from around its edge. As his eyes attuned, he could see that the plug was not simply embedded in the soil: it was in fact in a plughole, fashioned from the same metal as the plug itself. It was from the imperceptible join between the two that the light crept, living for only a couple of feet before abruptly dying. And oddly, as far as he could tell, it cast no shadow.

As he stared he noticed more: six small circles outlined in the same orange light punctuated the bezel, three close pairs at regular intervals. He squinted: were they...no, couldn't be...

Jeremy froze, apprehensive of something now squarely Out-Of-The-Ordinary, but captivated by its hypnotic glow nonetheless. And there was a noise. It started low but was growing louder. It was persistent, and somehow unsettling. A groaning, yawning hum it ebbed and flowed. Jeremy knew exactly its source. And he knew exactly what he was about to do.

Slowly he reached out a hand towards the plug and touched first the chain to re-familiarise himself with its texture. Was it warmer than it had been before? He ran his fingers thoughtfully along each link: what was down there, what was underneath? Now his fingers settled around the plug again. This time he took a good grip and stood, ready to place his weight against it – and also ready to run like hell in case...well, just in case.

When he later thought about it he could not recall deciding to pull the plug. In fact he remembered thinking the exact opposite, that maybe he should leave it alone, that maybe if he took out the plug something Bad would happen. But...

One, two, th... The plug came away easily and Jeremy was thrown back against the side of the hollow before sliding down its slippery sides into the watery base now rapidly filled with sound.

The low groaning that had squeezed through the gap was now cranked up to eleven and roared around him, filling his ears, his mind, his whole body. It was painful yet enthralling. His hands shot to his ears but it seemed to make no difference – the noise seemed to permeate him. The light was equally startling. The orange glow became a swirling vortex, the light seeming to have mass and body, forming then reforming into a variety of indistinct shapes. He imagined it as a living creature, expecting it to close upon the shape of some animal or man but it refused to comply.

His mind scrabbled for an anchor. He tried to look around but against the brightness could see nothing of the garden or the house, the orange glare obliterating the rest of the world. He tried to move backwards but the noise was a wall against which his body refused to push. So there he remained, transfixed.

How long he knew not, but inexorably he was drawn towards it. His feet did pin-steps, his back began to arch and now he began to feel suction, like an enormous vacuum cleaner. The pull grew stronger: it pulled his clothes. He felt a resurgence of his childhood fear of the plug hole, the fear that had made him only take out the plug once he was safely wrapped in a towel on the bath mat, a fear that had him waking up in a cold sweat at the thought of fingers, then a hand, then finally his shoulder being sucked down that swirling, sucking vortex. Now his eyes bulged as he scrabbled in the dirt, feeling his legs go from beneath him. It was still raining and the bottom of the pit had turned into a quagmire.

His mind was suddenly awash with regrets, wishes. He was about to die, sucked underneath...and all because he'd been out here digging because he didn't want to be in the house with That Bloody Dog. He felt his blood grow hotter, felt the same anger rising as it had in the garage. If he saw its cheery little face again he'd happily kick the scraggy moth-eaten crapping thing...

His fingers clawed at the dirt, the only thing keeping him from oblivion. And from far away, from 'outside', he heard a howling. Growing louder it seemed to arch overheard before, with some effort, he looked up...to see a bewildered, wide-eyed and drooling Ralph plummet towards him. He put his hand up before realising the family pet's trajectory was not towards him. He watched the dog grow larger as it fell then with a loud 'thud' it landed - stuck, wedged in the six-inch plug-hole. Blood splattered; the sound of suction rose painfully at the constriction, protesting violently like the vacuum did when he tried to suck up too much soil. The dog whined and Jeremy thought he heard a series of pops as the animal's ribcage gave way before finally all that showed was its chubby backside. This too got stuck before with a ripping of squeezing flesh and one final crunch (the pelvis?) it disappeared with a faintly comical 'pop'.

There was a metallic 'clang' as the plug was sucked in to fill the orifice. The orange light vanished and the chain fell back with a dull 'clang'. For the first time in his life Jeremy heard the deafening silence he'd read about in books. His brain slipped into neutral, and it took him all his time to remember to breathe. It was an eternity before Jeremy had the energy to lift his head and look across to where the dog had disappeared. Had it happened, had it really?

He saw the circles glowing – he leaned in closer and...yes...they were, they really were. Faces – each pair a frowning face and a happy one. Suddenly one of the frowning faces blinked out, leaving just the smiling one lit. The other two pairs remained lit for a few seconds before all five faded slowly into the deepening gloom.

*

Two things remained fixed in Jeremy's head as he sneaked into the house and got himself cleaned up: the glowing face-pairs, and the cracking sound as Ralph disappeared. Ralph – hated family pet, scourge of his waking hours, stealer of the sofa, crapper on his bed. Ralph – his mum's pride and joy, that small scruffy terrier she had cuddled in the evenings. (Before she'd been taken away). And what of the pairs of faces, one now on its own? Three happy but only two sad. One less sad face. One - less.

Dad hadn't bothered to call either of them in, his mind was elsewhere. Jeremy went to bed without seeing or speaking to anyone, his head a mess.

*

He woke with a start. Angry, glowing-red numerals shouted five-twenty and reminded him of the faces that had haunted his dreams.

He'd killed the dog. There was no getting away from it. He'd thought of him and the hole had sucked him to a (splintering) death. He didn't know what was down that fiery drain but poor old Ralph sure hadn't been alive to see it. Involuntarily tears spilled down his cheeks and soaked his pillow. Alone in the dark his mind attempted to organise its thoughts. The orange glow, the frightening suction, the awful sound of that unearthly waste-disposal...He shuddered and unconsciously pulled the duvet around him. He was thirteen for goodness sake...too old to believe in monsters under the bed.

(But what about ones who lived in drains deep beneath the garden, ones who roar and suck?)

He twisted and turned but a return to sleep was impossible. Shock had allowed him to drift off but with the effects waning there was now no shelter; it wouldn't let him rest. Stuffiness had led him to leave a window open but now the curtains billowed to the rhythm of a wind that threw rain upon the sill. In the darkness Jeremy wondered. He wondered about the plughole, and its power. Had it really taken Ralph just because he had thought about him at that moment, just as it got angry? No, it was him who had gotten angry, wasn't it? Anger was the key...his anger; that was the trigger. Jeremy's eyes flicked open.

*

The air was cold, the grass damp and springy beneath his bare feet. Striding through the rain in the half moonlight he had to know – had to find out.

Once hidden by the garage he flicked on the torch and trusted to his father being dead to the world in his sea of alcohol. The narrow beam located the ditch that appeared to have a floor of polished silver. The puddle had receded slightly but it was still mightily damp in there. He stepped down into the water and immediately regretted his choice of stealth over protection, his skin freezing on contact. He gave a thirteen-year-old curse through gritted teeth then looked down.adHad

The dull metal circle betrayed its location with two shining silver arcs picked out in the moonlight. The chain trailed off heavily into the black and silver waters that now encased his feet. Was this the same demonic device from earlier? It looked so quiet, so still sat out here in the moonlight. He placed the plastic Asda shopping bag he had brought with him on the side of the pit and sat carefully down upon it. Soggy feet were one thing but there were limits.

Jeremy took a deep breath and attempted to gather his tumbling thoughts. Anger, anger. He knew he had a lot of that in him. Dad knew it, Mum had known it (God rest her soul) and of course the teachers... There had been talk at one stage of Anger-Management sessions with a psychologist. Him, see a shrink! He hated Mrs Davies for even suggesting it. And he hated his Dad for even listening. Mum always said he was just full of energy. But of course it had got worse since... And as for that do-goody social worker after the shoplifting incident – bet she was front row at St. Thomas' every week, the sour faced old cow. His mind paused remembering his Mum's face.

In the darkness Jeremy's face hardened as he forced himself back to the matter at hand. He needed to be organised, disciplined; this was science. Experiments ought to be carried out properly. Three options presented themselves and thrilled him. Could he? If the faces on the plughole bezel were to be believed he had two more 'goes'. He felt like Aladdin – shame he could only make things disappear and not appear. Could he hate his family's comparative poverty? Hmm...now there was a thought. His mind ran onto thinking of ways of reversing things, bad things... But first-things-first – he needed a test - something less controversial but something that would still make a difference. And something that only affected him. He was the guinea pig. He couldn't waste the little frowning faces.

Jeremy was a pleasant-faced if sullen thirteen year old blighted by acne from an early age and he hated it with a passion. Creams, tablets, doctors, the lot had failed him and he was consequently the butt of jokes not just from enemies but friends, family and even teachers. In particular there was one large, festering sore at the side of his nose that had been in residence since before Christmas, and it was this that he now set front and centre in his mind as his control experiment.

Image fixed, he reached out for the chain and grasped it. It was cold and wet in the darkness. He tried to recall the sequence without losing the image of the hated spots but the earlier incident was hazy and confused. First he had pulled it and only succeeded in 'switching it on' – the orange light had started after this. As soon as the thought entered his head his hand was acting and the familiar orange glow began. Last time it had seemed to come on like a light switch, but this time the light came on gradually, pulsing, each time a little brighter. Once again Jeremy was mesmerised and once again he heard the low moaning and roaring growing louder each second like a huge subterranean generator starting up.

It was the second pull with which it had come free, with surprising ease he recalled. And again his hand was acting, seemingly without conscious thought. The idea scared him, and for the first time Jeremy was unsure about what he was about to do, a jumble of consequences falling from an over-stuffed cupboard. What if it went wrong, what if the plug consumed his arm or a leg, or all of him as it had done Ralph? What if Ralph came back? Or something worse...?

He changed his mind - he'd been too rash, he needed time to think about this - but communication lines to his hand were down: it was too late. The plug slid from its cylindrical housing and fell with a heavy splash into the puddle. A sudden roar accompanied the powerful orange vortex of light whose intensity far eclipsed the earlier glow and hurt Jeremy's eyes. Oh crap, thought Jeremy...

Immediately he felt himself sucked towards the hole. Not just a hand or his clothing but his whole body. Momentarily he lost his mental image; the hole was more powerful this time, too powerful. It seemed far larger. Hungrier.

'Ohshitohshitohshitohshit!' he shouted, frantically trying to brace himself with wet arms but discovering that each was carrying an invisible paving slab. Eyes wide now with terror he stared wildly into the vortex. His legs slipped, feet vainly trying to find purchase. The roaring now oscillated and behind it was an awful gurgling, guttural sound that he found churned the contents of his stomach.

'This zit! Take this zit!!!' he screamed, but the vortex wanted more and pulled him inexorably downwards. He fell to his knees, unable to withstand the weight on his legs any longer. Falling forward he managed to plunge his hands into the mud on either side of the hole and pushed with all his might. His face was within eighteen inches of the hole and his vision filled with the piercing, angry light. Staring down into an unimaginable depth he saw dark shapes writhing, but his eyes hurt and he had to close them.

He screamed, or tried to; the roaring filled his head, the light burned through his clenched eyelids and still he pushed against the terror, desperately trying to keep himself from being consumed. He felt the skin on his cheeks lifting, being drawn downwards, downwards...

'Spots...take all the... f**king spots for... Chrissake...!' he screamed, horrifically aware that these may be his final words.

There was an audible 'pop' from beside his nose, and a stringy-object suddenly shot from his face towards the hole where it stayed, suspended like a river of snot. But it was too thin and there was a small round blob at the far end. As he watched the string got longer, and he felt a curious sensation from his face: he could feel pin-pricks all over, followed by a strange, unpleasant crawling beneath the skin, as though ants were on the march. Was this the start, was the hole actually sucking his brains out? Would his last sight be his innards being sucked out?

Another 'pop' sent the string an inch longer, then another, and another. Along the string which shot from and pulled against the side of his left nostril he saw a number of very small lumps, all stuck onto the string by meandering tributaries. The word 'tendrils' sprang from an old episode of Dr Who. His body was sprouting tendrils. The pinpricks and the skin crawling continued, now working down his neck and suddenly onto his back. The tendrils grew, a whole forest of them pulling from his face through the one hole which was painfully growing wider by the second. He howled as a large lump popped hotly out accompanied by a shower of hot red droplets. The tendril line continued to grow like a forest of tangled fairy lights being ripped through his face. At this thought he threw up.

It took him an eternity of ten seconds to realise what was happening. With vomit still in his mind and the still growing string sprouting from his face Jeremy realised with fascinated horror that the hole had answered his prayer. The tendrils were the roots of his spots – rather than coming individually through his skin they were all coming out through the hole of the large, gurning beast beside his nose. It was, of course, impossible – it didn't work like that, he rationally knew. But still the tendrils came, thick and messily.

The thought horrified and exhilarated him. He was nearly sick once more, but just as suddenly as it had started, with one final painful 'pop' the putrid tendril-mass flew down into the light and Jeremy fell to the mud with a cold splash. The plug flew from where it had lain, cracked him on the chin before clanging back into place. The chain fell, Jeremy breathed and only silence remained.

*

Jeremy lay dazed, blinded and exhausted for some time, bleeding quietly in the damp morning air. He looked up, bleary-eyed at the plughole. On the bezel, just visible, one of the second pair of orange faces winked out, and just one complete pair – one smiling, one frowning – were now visible. Two down, one to go. He raised his hands slowly to his face. It was wet, sore and pockmarked. But there were no spots. No spots! It had worked...! But by God it had been painful. Jeremy breathed deeply, filling his lungs with anger. His thoughts of the many people who had given him grief. Now he knew how to work this thing, now he had a weapon, now he had some power...!

Jeremy got up and turned back to the plughole.

***

'Dinner's ready!'

There were various moans and groans at this interruption to the story.

'What did you do Grandad what did you do?' the children screamed excitedly.

'What did I do? I got rid of something so horrid that it shouldn't exist. I got rid of something off the face of the world! What do you think I did?'

'We don't know, Grandpa Jeremy, what did you do?' this other voice was slightly sarcastic and wilfully bored in a worldly, above-it-all kind of a way. This was Kevin, at nine the eldest grandchild.

'He made Lee Trundle disappear, didn't you Grandad? Or that horrid teacher-woman?' said six year-old, wide-eyed Lisa.

'No he didn't, he wouldn't have hurt a person, would you Grandpa?' responded a disbelieving Simon.

'He killed the flipping dog!' retorted Kevin.

'Dogs can sometimes be nasty and hurt you,' said Lisa, the youngest, solemnly.

'Ha! So can people!' laughed Kevin. 'Come on, he's making this one up. There's no plughole in his garden. He's just winding you up before Christmas dinner. Come on – I'm hungry.' And with that Kevin jumped down from the bunk bed and ran to the top of the stairs. 'First down best fed!' he shouted back to the others. The other two looked at each other and Simon made to stand up.

'Come on sis'. Thanks for the story, Grandad,' and he too disappeared from the room. They heard his scampering footsteps down the stairs followed by a pause-and-thump, which signalled his trademark, death-defying leap down the final three.

'Simon!' his mother scolded. Granddad Jeremy sat back, his stiff, aging joints complaining.

'You don't want to know how my story ends?' he asked Lisa.

'I do! I do Grandad!' squeaked Lisa, still in rapt attention. 'What did you do – was it Lee, or that soshul-worker or, or, did you get lots of money or...?' Her eyes sparkled in the way only Lisa's could as she stared up into that warm, craggy, pockmarked face.

'Well come here and I'll whisper it to you...' Lisa got up and stood by him, her head on a level with his if he stooped which of course he always did. He whispered something short in her ear, and her face changed from one of anticipation to puzzlement.

'But I don't know what that word means. Is that what you got rid of?'

'Yes – totally got rid of. Go ask your mother,' Jeremy replied with a gentle grin. 'Go on – I'll be down in a minute or two. My bones aren't as fast as yours.'

OK.' And she disappeared.

Lisa's mother was in the kitchen dishing up.

'Mum?'

'Yes dear but better make it quick, I'm very busy.'

Lisa looked up at her mother, busy with her plates and a slotted spoon, a mother who would never be eaten aware by a bitch of an illness with a funny name.

'What was cancer?'

* * *

# The Journal

Maud had to admit as she locked the heavy, black front doors that the whole episode had shaken her more than she would have expected. She turned the cold iron key, heard the reassuring 'thunk' as the mechanism slid home and gave a pained wheeze of relief. Her harsh breathing continued as she bent awkwardly to slot home the lower bolt. Her ears filled with a thudding heartbeat that took her back to Kathleen, propped up in her hospital bed, describing the onset of her stroke. 'Fierce pounding, Maud, like my head was about to burst!'

Was this how it started?

Maud took the metal-framed Lo-Step™ from its station behind the door and slid its rubber feet along the black and white chequer-board floor tiles with more vigour than usual. Lifting had become an expensive luxury. She carefully stepped up the short flight and reached for the top-lock, feeling the metal's reassuring weight within her fumbling fingers. The bolt slid home with a comforting report, which echoed across the entrance hall and only then did Miss Maud Reether, 71, and spinster of this parish, pause to take stock.

It was eight fifty-five on October 29th and the Riddleswick Civic Library had just closed for business on a wind-swept autumn evening. Outside it was dark and a gale had picked up, stirring leaves and litter with equal amusement between the bike-stand and the large planters out front. Maud had risen from her immaculately maintained counter punctually at eight-ten according to the large, ivory-faced clock above her head. The General Fiction and Reading areas were populated with just three souls – Mrs Potts (Jean), Mr Wenthrop, the new school caretaker, and a youth she neither recognised nor cared for who had entered just after seven and had seemingly taken root on one of the deep sofas near the windows overlooking the park. In the darkness she could see his reflection despite his attempts to hide, but he had appeared to be reading and that after all was her mission in life so she let him be and he in turn had caused no problems.

'The library will be closing in fifteen minutes,' she announced, secretly enjoying the sound of her voice as it bounced off the double-height ceilings, heavy oil portraits and solid oak shelving. A number of faces looked up awakened and surprised at the presence of another human being in the hitherto empty silence. Above them the portraits loomed down with equal distain.

With her usual unsubtle rattle of keys Maud moved off across the floor towards the entrance hall with its wide sweeping arc of staircase and made her way slowly upstairs. The routine had used to start at eight-fifteen but the years had forced a gradual lengthening.

'Old age is like a bout of wind after eating cabbage,' Kathleen had espoused in one of her brief moments of lucidity 'Unpleasant, but not altogether unexpected. So don't complain and make the best of it!' And Lord knew that woman knew what she was talking about!

The upper floor – Children's, Non-fiction and Periodicals – had been slightly busier. Some of the better behaved children from the local primary were in researching the black-death whilst Mr Webb (mainly non-fiction – war and local history) was going through the Gazette back issues on the trail of some long-forgotten plan for a by-pass. His on-going battle with Councillor Willoughby was becoming the stuff of legend. Mind you she wasn't one of Maud's favourites either after the much-publicised 'multi-media library modernisation' proposal. And her not even a member! And she dyed her hair: poorly.

'Fifteen minutes Mr Webb,' she had whispered, adhering to her own closely valued rules but accompanying then with another flourish of the keys. The thin man grunted and shifted in his seat which, truth be told, made Maud feel a little uncomfortable. She shivered without realising it but noted the children packing away. Lastly a middle-aged couple with academic spectacles peered up from Archaeology and smiled thinly as they collected their copious A4 notes, colour-coded ring binders and neatly sharpened pencils. Maud always warmed to respecters of authority.

By the time she descended the staircase with its much-admired curlicues and double-radius wooden banister – over two-hundred years-old – she had been overtaken by the children and the couple, and only Mr Webb took his time, appearing at the foot just as she re-entered the general reading room.

'Just this please Miss Reether,' smiled Jean, handing over yet another Barbara Cartland. She returned the smile and glanced at the familiar overly-romanticised hand-illustrated dust jacket. An abominable tome, but it takes all sorts she'd reminded herself.

Ten minutes later the door closed and Maud breathed a sigh of relief thinking she was alone, and it was only as she started to tidy round that she had discovered that not to be the case. Rounding the end of 'Detective Stories F-L' there, lying sprawled on the brown cotton sofa was the youth, a lanky unkempt stick of a boy unimaginatively attired in a black hooded jacket and quite the scruffiest jeans she had ever seen. They may originally have been blue, at the least the parts without holes, but they now appeared green, suggesting long periods of exposure to dirt and none to soap and water. Their owner looked little better and appeared to be asleep.

'Ahem! The library is closing – you will need to leave!' she announced from a distance in the voice well-trained after thirty-seven years of shooing late-stayers off the premises. Authority, it cried; and Maud wore it like a medallion. The man remained still. She paused, drew in a tired breath and tried again:

'Excuse me, young man – the library is closing.' This time he stirred, opened his eyes and turned over. A large hard-backed Tom Clancy fell heavily to the floor, splaying bent pages against the ground. The dust jacket of a second book, a paperback, was just visible beneath his thigh, this too splayed and as he righted himself she heard the sound of tearing. She winced and her lips involuntarily pursed.

'I really think you had better leave!' she said trying to remain calm despite her inner anger at such vandalism. It was then she had felt the faintness coming on.

Oh not now! she had thought as her head began to throb and the room swam. Come on Maud! Faces in the paintings seemed to zoom towards her. She just needed to get this last one out and then she could rest. She would not admit that running the library single-handed was becoming too much – she'd deny it with her last breath even to Kathleen.

'I can handle it, I can handle it!'

She had handled it, and he had left, as they usually did, but when it was all over she wasn't sure how she'd managed it. He had been somewhat abusive, which not all her drunks usually were. She suspected other substances were involved in his confused demeanour – what was it Kathleen called it? – he was 'spaced out'. She remembered some physical contact, some shouting and then the fresh air as she opened the doors to remove him. Yes, she remembered the air – fresh and cool, her hair had been blown right across her face.

It wasn't the first such 'episode'. A week earlier she'd had to sit down in the basement storeroom for half an hour to regain her balance after the shock of finding her first edition of A Tale of Two Cities water damaged in the cellar. A leak from the roof-light, which let on to the library's courtyard had channelled water conveniently along the very shelf and down onto the small cardboard box which was now sodden and sagging with a pregnant bulge. And before that there was the episode with the cat, which had badly scratched her arm after being disturbed in the huge rhododendron bush that dominated the back yard. Thankfully it had not been back since.

She hadn't mentioned her little 'turns'. Not to Kathleen, not to Fred, who didn't call as often as a good nephew should, and certainly not to Doctor Patrickson with his child-like manner and clammy hands. It was of no consequence, part of getting old to be sure, but something that she could handle, just like the library. She had no need of an assistant, like she had no need for a man. Never had, never would. That book was most certainly closed.

Maud turned from the locked doors just as the wall clock softly chimed nine in the reading room. The gentle sound made her smile and relax as it always did.

'You're doing fine, Maud!' she said to the faces on the walls 'Just fine!'

Maud loved silence especially after hours when she could be alone with her books, her tables, her chairs. Surveying the second floor on her way up to the attic flat she replaced a number of books untidily left out, straightened the rugs as she always did and switched out the lights. Moving over to the periodicals a broadsheet newspaper had been left open, its pages at differing angles making it a chore to re-assemble. Maud's lips pursed once more – Mr Webb, not her favourite reader – untidy, unwashed and just a little creepy. He lived across the park in a tall, three-storey terrace full of dogs, old radios and bad smells. According to reports. Like them he 'lingered' and Maud, tolerant though she unquestionably was, did not particularly care for him.

She folded the paper – a seven year-old edition of 'The Riddleswick Gazette' with the headline 'Pool to Butcher Jubilee Park' – and replaced it on the rack. Self-doubt induced her to dredge up the details. The scheme for a new 'leisure centre', brainchild of a new boy on the town council wanting to make a name for himself, had split the population. Whilst the Gazette had made its opinion only too obvious through its headlines there were those who claimed facilities were needed if the younger families weren't to abandon Riddlesworth, leaving it to die along with its aging population. Facilities – huh! They had shops, a cinema; they had an excellent local operatic and dramatic society and they had a library. What more did they need? She stopped when she recalled the tragic end to the dispute, the death of the councillor in question in a fire. A shiver arched down her back – it was so easy to get bogged down in the trivial things... She crossed herself and thanked God for her life and her good fortune, then smiled at her robust memory.

She switched off the lights, unchained the modest barrier across the staircase marked 'Private' and had just started up the steep flight to her flat when something caught her eye. Glancing along the top shelf of 'British Classics, 1600-1800' – an innovation of she was publicly proud – she noticed the corner of a book poking out and silhouetted against the moonlit glow of the window. Maud paused: it was sticking out at quite an angle. She sighed, knowing she would have to go and straighten it, well aware that this was probably some-sort of compulsive-disorder thing in her nature.

'Everything's a syndrome these days, nothing can just be "how people are", can it?' she muttered, negotiating the bottom step, which was slightly higher than the rest, noting that her knee was particularly bad today. 'They'll find a,' (pause to wince at pain) 'Pill...one day to cure then all and bingo – we'll all be...identical...' She smiled at the thought, a good idea for science fiction – not a genre she cared for.

Maud had never written: she considered it a noble and mystical art. She had ideas: that wasn't the problem, after all, people just wrote about what they knew, didn't they? And she could write – she wrote letters to friends, the papers, large companies. All you had to do with a book was to write longer: what was it the King of Hearts said? "Just carry on until you reach the end. Then stop". But writing, proper writing - that meant writing the right things. The very act needed talent, needed an inner...intelligence, which was something she knew she did not possess. That was why she held proper authors in the highest esteem. Others dealt only in this world, but authors created their own, better place.

The book was a heavy, dull-brown leather-bound tome entitled 'The English Countryside – A Journey Through Twelve Counties on Horseback in the Spring'. It was a nineteenth century reprint of an obscure seventeenth century work, which had not been loaned out during Maud's time at the library. More importantly it was in The Wrong Place.

Maud sighed yet again and took it down ready to return it to its rightful home which was all of three yards away – how could some people be so lazy? It was as she took it down, its heft forcing her to brace as it fell from the shelf that Maud noticed notebook.

A slim, red and blue ring-bound A5 notebook wedged up against the back of the shelf, hidden and easily missed. Placing the heavy book on the ledge she reached in and slowly removed it, then peered at the cover through gold-rimmed reading glasses that hung on a chord round her neck.

Maud turned the book over – no markings, and no dust she noted – then casually flicked through it. It looked new and appeared empty, until she got almost to the front when she discovered a few pages with writing in a distinctive purple ink that was almost luminescent. It looked recent. Closely packed scribbling in a neat, deliberate hand – maybe three hundred words which could have been written by a child. At the top there was a title:

Murder in the Autumn, it read, neatly underscored with a double ruled line. Neat. Out of curiosity Maud began to read:

Outside the leaves swirled in a whirlwind of colour, dancing merrily around the warmly wrapped passers by. With the falling back of the hour darkness came early, taking patrons of the library by surprise and by early evening the premises were all but deserted. The killer knew this, and stepped calmly up the library stairs... Someone was writing a 'who-done-it' set in a library – not very original, but it had started prettily enough. She thought of the children sat around – maybe one of them had got bored, the Black Death was hardly the most enervating subject to fire young imaginations.

The clock in the reading room confidently stuck nine o'clock just as the cushioned shoes reached the top-step. Drying blood caked the killer's rough hands and... But her eyes would allow her to read no further. This was one area where she was prepared to admit some deterioration – her solution to the optician's gloomy proclamations being to stop seeing opticians. Smiling, she replaced the young writer's notebook in the gap on the shelf and with it the heavy brown tome that hid it for the moment – young aspiring authors should not be discouraged she decided.

The stairs were particularly steep tonight, a mental barometer of her overall health and wellbeing. At the top she paused for breath, felt her aching right forearm, and then unlocked the door. Unhurried she proceeded to the kitchenette to make her routine cocoa. Twenty eight minutes later Maud was asleep beneath the five layers of blanket and quilt, empty cocoa-mug on the (immaculate) commemorative Royal-Wedding mat, slippers neatly parked on the (thick) bed-side rug and radio-alarm (a modern, digital item from the 1980s) set for Terry Wogan.

She slept well.

'This is BBC Local Radio News at seven-thirty.' An unfamiliar voice broke into Maud's dreams and immediately the cogs started to whir slowly to life. 'The headlines: the dead body of a twenty-one year old man has been found in Riddleswick this morning...' Maud's eyes flicked open. Something was wrong: where was Terry? 'Police are treating the death as murder, the man suffering numerous knife wounds...' She was on the wrong station – how had that happened? She reached out to fumble for the station selector but then realised she had no idea which button it was. 'Over now to our reporter Jane Mathie who is on the scene in Riddleswick Jane?'

'It was here, in Jubilee Park near Riddleswick Library at around six o'clock this morning that a man walking his dog discovered the body of an unidentified twenty-one year-old male in one of the ornamental fountains. Police were immediately called to the scene and sealed off a large area and a high privacy tent has been erected around the scene. We've been told that the victim died from multiple stab-wounds in what Police are describing as a frenzied and prolonged attack. They are appealing for anyone in the vicinity of the Park and Library who saw anything suspicious last night to contact them immediately...'

Maud was awake and sitting bolt-upright: murder – MUR-der. Here. Now. She looked around unsure what to do next – this wasn't in the routine. Flustered she threw back the covers, got out of bed too quickly, stumbling against the bedside table and only catching herself on the heavy mahogany chest of drawers. Her mind seemed to have been shocked from its morning routine. Grabbing her dressing gown from the end of the bed she hurried to the sash-window and drew back the floral curtains.

What should have been semi-darkness was shattered by a blaze of illumination. A large white marquee had been erected over the fountains and this bathed the remainder of the park in a bright glow. Further lights dotted the lawns, highlighting a dozen yellow-jacketed policemen and women who were examining the grass and gravel paths minutely on hands and knees. Moving quickly to the second, smaller window at the front of the library she looked down two-stories onto the heads of a number of reporters – newspapers, radio and some, presumably from the television, with cameras.

'Goodness me!' she exclaimed then blushed and clasped her hand over her mouth. Murder! Here! Now! Her first thought was to phone Kathleen, but then she remembered she was in hospital. Her next thought was calmer, and more logical – murder, here. While she had been in bed, not two hundred yards away. She shivered and pulled the dressing gown tighter across her chest. In her mind faces flashed, unbidden. She glanced at the bedroom door then recalled her nightly security routine, thankful for its thoroughness. Yet something clawed at the back of her mind - something important.

A knock at the front door interrupted her. Two tall silhouettes showed as she threw on the hall lights.

'Just coming! Won't be a minute!' Her declaration was a little premature – it took her five to open up, revealing a smartly dressed policeman in his early thirties and a rather plain looking uniformed policewoman.

'It's Mrs Reether, isn't it?' the man inquired with appropriate gravitas.

'Miss,' she corrected primly.

'Oh, I'm sorry, erm, Miss Reether... I'm Detective Superintendent Llewellyn and this is WPC Williams. We're here to talk to you about this morning's incident in the park – I am assuming you have heard?' Later Maud would recall disjointed fragments of a day filled with tea and questions. The library opened promptly at ten as usual but the day was plagued with journalists and policemen using it as a warm refuge against the harsh October weather. The regulars milled around and most didn't linger beneath the suspicious gaze of fifty outsiders. All except Mr Webb who seemed the only person able to block out the day's events and continue his business as if nothing had happened.

Maud made herself busy. Indeed so successful was she that mid-afternoon when DS Llewellyn returned she looked at him blankly as if expecting him to return a book.

'I said I'd be back, remember?' Maud blamed her forgetfulness on the busy morning she hadn't had. They went into the small office where the young man sat himself casually on a stack of hardbacks.

'Ahem!' she objected accompanied by a sharp and meaningful glance.

'Oh, sorry. Are they, erm, valuable...?' he asked looking down with what someone less charitable than Maud may have interpreted as distain.

'All books are valuable, Mr Llewellyn.' He picked one up and turned it over in his hand to glance at the 'blurb' on the rear.

'Not a big reader myself, to be honest,' he seemed proud of this admittance. Maud's cheeks hardened as he re-seated himself on the desk. 'Look I think we may want to move you out for the night, just to be on the safe side...'

'Safe side? Whatever do you mean?'

'Well, we're advising everybody in the area to be extra vigilant and with you being here on your own...'

'I'm quite able to look after myself thank you very much, officer,' she said indignantly.

'Sit down Miss Reether. The, er, man who died – we've had confirmation that he was the man you threw out of the library last night.'

'You said it did not sound like him based on my description this morning, has he changed his face since then?' she challenged, uncomprehending, worry starting to accumulate in her stomach.

'I said we didn't have an ID this morning on the victim – well, we also didn't have a face – his injuries were...' Somehow the trail of dots was worse than a detailed description. Maud suddenly felt ill. 'We've identified him as twenty-one year old Kevin McIntosh...here...' and he handed over a slightly blurred passport-sized photograph. Maud hesitated then raised her glasses to examine it. 'Is that him?' She nodded slowly and returned the photo.

'Now obviously we don't know who did this or why yet – it's looking likely to be gang or drug-related based on what we do know – but just as a precaution is there someone you can stay with for a few days?'

Maud stared at the ground, lost.

'What? Oh, er, no. No there's no-one...' She looked up decisively. 'But there's no need, as I say. I'm quite fine here. I'm sure no-one is going to come looking for a humble librarian. All I have to steal are my books and they can be had for free...' She trailed off, unsure yet wanting to appear resolute. The policeman had a look of someone whose troubles had just been added to.

'Look, I strongly advise that...'

'Do you? Do you indeed? Well I think the choice is mine and I choose to stay right where I am young man!' DS Llewellyn gave-in with the use of the term 'young-man' – here was an old woman with her heels firmly dug-in. He held up his hands in surrender.

'Right, right okay.' He reached into his coat and pulled out a card. 'My number in case you change your mind or if you recall anything more about last night. Please use it.'

She took it and placed it beside her office phone then, with a half-hearted 'thank you' he turned and left. Beneath where he had sat the copy of Black Beauty lay, its dust jacket bent and torn slightly at one corner.

The day wore on and the light faded quickly beyond the plate glass creating a more claustrophobic atmosphere indoors. Echoes of whispered conversations filled the rooms alongside the scraping of wooden chairs across expensive parquet flooring. Maud filled her time anxiously tidying and shushing, and clearing away empty food and drink cartons, which were strictly not allowed. But behind this her fear grew in direct proportion to the darkness. In thirty-seven years she had not been afraid within her world. Lonely, yes, if she were honest: but never, ever had she been afraid.

And something else too – there was something niggling, some loose end waiting to be tugged. She knew the feeling – usually it was a bill to be paid, or a book to be collected. Or the oven to be turned off (not that she would admit it). This time she couldn't put her finger on it, only abating late in the afternoon when there was a commotion as television people wanted to interview her. She declined despite entreaties from various members who only stopped when the television people chose one of them instead – Melanie Craddock (two Dan Brown's and a request for anything by someone called 'Jordan').

The evening routine went unchanged despite the continued presence of police in the park and poor PC Johnson stationed outside the front door. He declined her offer of tea and a Kit-Kat but thanked her for her thoughtfulness. Altogether she preferred him – a man in his mid-forties – to DS Llewellyn. But so long as he caught the killer: that was the main thing.

Again it was as she started up the stairs that she made what she realised was a habitual last check along the shelves. And again she noticed a book out of place. Realisation crashed into her mind like the bottom lock on the front doors clanging home: the journal. There was something in the Journal which...what? Without thinking she nipped back down the stairs – a term relating to stealth rather than speed she could attest – and using the step once more reached up to the top shelf. Sure enough, in the same shadowed alcove she found the journal just as before, but the book had definitely been dislodged at some point during the day. This time Maud took the book with her back down the step, inexplicably turning to look around her as she did so. No sudden noises or creaks, beyond the ones she knew well.

Maud pulled out a chair – lifting – and settled herself at one of the reading tables. As soon as she opened the journal she knew there was more writing, which must have been added during the day. Without really knowing why, she began to read.

The story at once had its effect and Maud's mind began to fill with a horror she had already suspected. By the end of the page, hand shaking, she knew she was reading an account of the previous night's murder – the library, the youth, the park, even the fountains. The writing was flowery yet lurid in its detail. Plenty of unnecessary description built the horrific, gory images of which DS Llewellyn had only hinted. Maud's mind reeled yet was voyeuristically fascinated: how on earth had this been here before the murder? The journal, these very lines, had been here the previous night before she had gone to bed. Maud was not superstitious, not a believer in the supernatural so her mind immediately provided the only logical conclusion: this was a plan – the murderer had actually planned the killing - right here – in her library, and had written it down. Her mind immediately ran back...to Mr Webb, sat in this very section only hours earlier!

Maud closed the journal sharply and as she did felt her head going woozy. The table-top swam away then back like a tide gradually creeping up the shore. The light, plentiful enough to read in, seemed to dim, her vision tunnelling. She clutched the table with bony, white knuckles but it was no use. She was unconscious before she hit the wooden surface.

She woke blinking: by her watch she had been unconscious for forty-seven minutes. The memories this time sprang straight to mind. Police - she had to call the police and tell them what she knew...or what she suspected. She opened the journal, which still lay in front of her, to check she had not dreamt what she had read: it was all still there. Once more she closed it, thrusting it across the table as though it were a venomous snake. Fingerprints, they'd want fingerprints. She made a half-hearted attempt to wipe hers away before realising she was equally wiping away the killer's. Blast – what to do, what to do?

Calm, Maud. That's what Miss Marple would be, calm. It was at times like these that she had always managed to find that inner strength. God help that it should not desert her now.

Murder, here, now. Deal with it.

She took as deep a breath as she could muster then stood, checking her balance by holding the back of the chair. She turned and walked slowly to the foot of the stairs, took another deep breath then climbed. Eight...ten...twelve...she had to stop just once to steady herself...fourteen...there. The telephone lay on a small side table in the sitting room of the flat and beside it was the card with DS Llewellyn's number on it. Despite her earlier misgivings she felt sure he was the person to contact – she had no time to waste with some young girl on the emergency number.

'DS Llewellyn,' the voice said flatly. She had planned her piece and tried not to ramble. The journal, the killing, the night before. He sounded first incredulous, almost patronising. But she knew how to convince him.

'He was disembowelled, wasn't he? The boy in the park?' a detail not revealed to the press. It worked: she heard the sudden change in his tone, one she recognised as a senior citizen, of being taken seriously. A moment of resentment flashed across her mind but was filed away for a more appropriate time. She hurriedly told him about her suspicions, about Mr Webb.

'Just you worry about yourself. Stay right where you are. Are all the doors and windows locked?'

'Yes they are.' And then she remembered – there was a policeman right outside. In the panic – yes, panic – she had forgotten.

'Ah...He isn't there at the minute - something came up and he was called away,' he sounded odd somehow. 'But I'll be with you inside fifteen minutes. We'll have someone over at this Webb's by that time as well. Just stay in the flat, I'll call you when I get there.' She said lots of okays and a few thank-yous, not quite knowing what for. Then he rang off and once more she was alone.

The journal made compulsive reading and she had to admit it was moderately well written – the work of an intelligent, well-read individual not some lunatic. She pictured Webb, with his scrawny intellectual beard, his large bottle-bottom spectacles, his thinning hair, scribbling away and shivered but read on. Yet something niggled. Before she could explain it however she made another discovery. Towards the back of the book was some more writing, another account. No date, but she instantly knew what it was. It was the story of a fire, a fire in which three people were killed. A man had been trapped in his house, unable to rescue himself or his wife and young child...If she did not know better she'd have thought the account fictional: there had been no suggestion of arson at the time but according to the story the killer had gone round and...it was horrific. She closed the book with an air of finality, resolving not to open it again. The story was that of the councillor who'd tried to push through the swimming pool plan. Maud was nearly sick. Her heartbeat was thrumming loudly in her ears and in her eyes. If something was going to burst now might very well be the time.

But now another question crept into her head: had this story been there when she had read it earlier? She thought she'd flicked through and just found the murder of the young man. Had this been there then?

'Yes – it must have been,' she said out loud. Again her mind started to float and she may have nodded off, but then she was brought sharply back to consciousness by a noise she recognised – somebody was trying the front door. Maud started. Looking around she grabbed a large hole-punch tucked under the desk and moved to the top of the stairs. She heard the phone ringing in the flat and was about to turn to answer it when she heard a familiar voice at the door.

'Miss Reether – DS Llewellyn – are you there?' The phone continued to ring. She breathed a sigh of relief: 'Just coming!' she answered weakly and started down the stairs. She repeated her call twice more before reaching the doors, unlocking them as fast as her arthritic fingers allowed.

DS Llewellyn stepped inside the door immediately, eyes sweeping the entrance hall. In the dim light he looked as if trying to work out a puzzle.

'Are you alright? Is anyone here? Has anyone called?'

'No – I'm fine, really I just...' and she broke off, panic welling up in her throat.

'It's okay, you're fine,' he assured her. For a horrible moment she thought he was going to hug her but thankfully he just smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder instead.

'Are you okay to show me this journal of yours?'

'Yes of course. It's up...' she threw an arm vaguely behind her, 'Sorry, I'm all of a fluster.' She explained about the story of the fire. He looked increasingly concerned. 'It's up in the reading section, I'll get it for you...' she said more definitely.

'No, I'll go...we need it as evidence.' He looked down at her. 'We'll go together – come on,' and taking her arm he guided her up the stairs.

'Did you get that Mr Webb?' she remembered as they reached half-way. She knew by his hesitation that they had not.

'Not yet, he wasn't in when we called. But it's just a matter of time – there are forty policemen and women out looking for him right now including two right outside. Nothing to worry about.'

'You're sure?'

'I am.' She wasn't.

'There's something you're not telling me isn't there?' she ventured just before they reached the top. Again the pause was telling.

'Well you'll hear of it in the morning anyway I suppose. There's been another death – a Councillor Willoughby, at her office just down the street. That's why Johnson – the PC posted on your door – was called away.'

'Murder?'

'We don't know yet, but it's likely. There's no evidence that the two are linked though.'

'But none that they aren't?' she finished.

'Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in an Agatha Christie?' he said, grimly.

They reached the desk and she showed him the journal, which lay right where she had left it. He surveyed the area, then casually picked up the hole-punch, weighing it in his hands. He turned questioningly.

'I wasn't sure who you were.'

He smiled: 'Better safe than sorry.' But he kept hold of it and Maud felt a touch of unease. She watched him take a thin pair of latex gloves from his pocket and rolled them on before picking up the notebook and starting to read. Maud watched as his brow furrowed, eyes scanning rapidly, lips pursing occasionally.

'Very distinctive ink. Never seen a purple like this before.'

'Almost luminescent,' she replied, helpfully.

Outside the wind had picked up again, howling past the east side of the building, rain scattering against the tall wire-laced window overlooking the park. Her mind wandered, wandered to the fact that Webb was still out there, in the darkness and the rain. Had he gone on the run? He'd killed three times, what more did he have planned?

'Oh my...!' She heard Llewellyn exclaim. He was staring at the Journal with a look of shock. He turned his head sharply. 'Miss Reether...'

'Maud, please.'

'Maud – has anyone else come into the library?'

'Why no.'

'You're sure, there's no other way someone can get in?' Her mind slowly toured the building and paused in the leaky basement.

'No, I'm sure. I mean some of the windows are a bit decrepit but...'

'I need to check something...stay here, shout if you need me.' He picked up the hole-punch and turned to go back downstairs.

'What...?' she started but he turned and gestured for her to be quiet and Maud, who took instruction from few people, did so. Wondering why he didn't use his radio Maud watched his head disappear over the edge of the staircase and into the gloom below. But the anxiety had caught up with her and she passed out.

'Maud! Maud!' the familiar voice was low but insistent. 'Are you alright?' She opened her eyes, becoming aware simultaneously that she was cold, and that she was lying on the floor of the reading section. The young features of DS Llewellyn formed above her. She reached up with a shaking hand. Her mind was still foggy and struggled to pin down a thought – names and faces blended into each other – shocking images appeared unbidden. One particular thought appeared with the rest, one that scared her in her confusion. She cried out.

'Maud – it's okay, I have back-up coming." Had he? "You're okay. You must have fainted – not surprising given all you've been through. It's my fault I never should have left you, I'm sorry.'

'What what did you go for?'

'Nothing, it doesn't matter.'

'I need to know...I think I have the answer...it isn't...it isn't Webb...'

A puzzled look spread over Llewellyn's face together with something she found threatening. All of a sudden Maud was gripped with panic and she knew she needed to get away.

'Maud...Webb's dead...downstairs...I read it in the book.' But Maud wasn't listening: there was just one thought in her mind.

'I'm sorry Maud but you know what I have to do.' His hand still gripped the hole-punch as he advanced towards her. His face was calm, his features sane. So sure. So sinister. Maud stepped back, aware of the pressure of the desk against her legs. She tried to think of how to defend herself, where to hide. But she knew she was backing herself into a corner.

'Wait...!' she said in vain, holding her hand up, 'Please, just leave me alone...I...!' Her face hardened – she refused to give in. She'd never needed anyone else, she didn't need help in the library, and she could take care of herself. Be positive, Maud, she told herself. Her hands fished frantically in her cardigan pockets - through the tissues, the rubber bands, then she felt something hard, cold and metallic. Her pen, her pale gold Parker fountain pen. She whipped it out and up, cap off, at the same time feeling her back press against the bookcase marking the end of the room: the end of the line.

'Come on Maud...' Llewellyn was saying, but then she was on him. He was taken by surprise. Hand outstretched the pen met his throat and with a 'pop' she felt it puncture the skin and bury itself deep into his flesh where she left it. Blood immediately pumped across Maud, the shelves, the desks and the floor. She was always amazed at how much there was, and how far it could spray from a severed artery.

Both figures remained static for a long second before the detective's body crumpled heavily to its knees, hands scrabbling up at the pen, at Maud, then up at the bookshelves. A gargling noise floated from his wide-eyed, open-mouthed face before the struggle ended and the policeman's body collapsed forward and crashed lifelessly into the growing scarlet puddle on the polished wooden floor.

In the silence Maud became aware of rain dashing a the windows, of the wind which howled through gaps in the tiled roof, and in between heard the loud, relentless ticks of the ivory-faced clock in the hall below. She realised she had been holding her breath and exhaled.

Maud looked around as if woken from a trance. There was blood and mess everywhere, but it would tidy. She steadied herself then bent to retrieve her pen, pausing as always for it to suck-up a good dose of blood to mix with the blue ink. The purple was indeed unique. She sat down in her usual place at the desk, wiped blood from the barrel of the pen on the hem of her cardigan and began to add the latest chapter to her rapidly expanding book. After all, you could only write what you knew.

'Almost luminescent,' she murmured.

* * *

#  The Laughing Man

Jake hit the rail faster than intended. The rough iron burnt his sweating palms but its stillness and solidity calmed his racing heart. Lungs gulped the cold February air as an icy breeze whistled past his bare ears. Red and green marker-buoys bobbed into and out of sight as rolling waves rose and fell on the sea. Jake really didn't want to be out on a night like this, but the homeless had no choice.

'Oi! Gypo – here!' Jake turned, heard pounding feet beneath the wind. Three, four pairs? Eight feet to do the kicking. Luckily his were faster. The spindly fifteen year-old pushed away just as dark figures appeared in the stark white pool of streetlight on the concrete promenade. His acceleration surprised his four pursuers who had already begun to slow in anticipation of capturing their elusive prey. The tall, shaven-headed leader's colourful expletives were lost on the wind before he changed direction and the pack followed.

Jake knew to plan ahead: never run from, always run to. A natural athleticism enabled him to hurdle various street furniture that waylaid his pursuers. Hurtling along the sea-front, dark void of roaring ocean to his right, wind rushed to meet him, the fact he could no longer hear his pursuers made him run all the faster.

A group of four cars and a bus headed towards him: he glanced over his left shoulder to see two vehicles coming up behind. Without checking his stride he turned and pelted in front of the first, which immediately braked with a screech and an angry stab at the horn. From the corner of his left eye he saw a flash of warning from the oncoming car but continued undaunted. He stumbled across the far pavement but managed to keep his feet. Without checking to see if his plan had worked he bounded off, almost floating, turning left down the access ramp beneath the Pleasure Beach. The welcome darkness of the tunnel swallowed him. For a second Jake slowed, instinct taking control. What was it? Just the dark, he thought, a friend to clothe him. A little alarm bell rang, but a bigger one reminded him of what would happen should he be caught; this provided the impetus to get him moving once more.

Sheltered from the wind he could hear clearly and what he could hear was silence. Blissful, safe, silence. No footsteps, no abuse. He leant on his knees, panting. A distant shout reassured him he hadn't been spotted; now to get out of sight and hole up for the rest of the night. Beside him the peeling posters of the summer season's attractions were decaying: 'Vince Sparkle's Ice Spectacular' seemed even less appealing in the half-lit gloom than it had back in August. And the 'Bobby Bloom Comedy Circus' was eerie in its cheery insistence despite water damage and a missing lower quarter, the remaining tatters billowing, as if bitten off by some angry creature. Maybe it had seen the show, thought Jake, grinning for the first time that night.

Why they chased him didn't matter – it was a given, like the weather. It was enough to know he didn't want to be caught, not after last time. Three of them had got hold of him in an alley behind the Tower. There were names and accusations and bravado. Then he'd been kicked and punched and kicked again and there was blood and pain till he passed out. The next time, a week later, he'd been smarter – you learned through your mistakes in this game. He'd seen them down by the station. Not fast enough to avoid being spotted he'd at least had the wit to know when to make an early escape. They'd chased him for most of an afternoon, dividing into pairs to try and corner him. It had been an accident of course, but he wasn't sure if that would stand up in court. It certainly didn't stand up in the court of the streets. Either way it had happened. One of their number less quick witted than his comrades had lost a battle with a forty-tonne Scania destined for Asda. He'd survived, but lost a few teeth and the use of two limbs for six months.

They weren't happy. But then the excitement of the death at the Pleasure Beach had come, right at the end of the season in October and he hadn't seen them for three months. After lying low in Lytham for a few weeks – not easy amid the BMWs and iron gates – he'd returned. From what he picked up from other members of Blackpool's homeless community they were a particularly nasty gang from up the coast at Fleetwood. He figured they'd found a new hobby – throwing stones at old ladies possibly.

The murder had taken Blackpool by storm. Had it happened in the summer then maybe it wouldn't have been such a big thing, but the town really did go to sleep in the winter, saving all its remaining energy for Saturday stag and hen-dos. The other nights were grim – quiet, cold and still. The discovery of a mutilated body in the shut-up amusement park grabbed the headlines but for Jake it just meant one more nutter out there; he'd met plenty. So tonight, out of practice, he'd been taken unawares. As he stood regaining his breath he suddenly realised that whilst the tunnel leant the safety of darkness he was trapped should they come at him from both end. Looking round for shelter he saw the familiar shuttered entrance where they'd used to enter when he'd come as a child. Those memories were the ones that had led him here when he'd first run away, but he'd fast learned you could regain the place but never the time: that was what had been special. Running to one without the other wasn't enough: Blackpool without his family was just any other lonely seaside town.

He examined the wall – smooth, no openings. His anxiety rose as he glanced up the road. There must be a way in. He heard a voice: then a shadow across the mouth of the tunnel, briefly illuminated by a passing bus. Jake pulled frantically at one of the chipboard panels then, when it refused to budge he pulled harder.

'Come on, please come on!' he hissed. With a half-hearted final yank of resignation it came away from the frame. He imagined half a dozen rusted nails at his feet and pushed the board as far from his ankles as possible before threading his way inside. But not far enough – as he fell forward into an empty space behind the panels his right foot refused to join him, and when he pulled the tearing was not of denim but of skin. Pain seared up his leg and he fell to the floor. Tears involuntarily came to his eyes but he bit his lip and told himself he couldn't look at it yet - safety first. Jake limped through the darkened space towards a chink of light a few yards off. Despite the town being his home these last eighteen months it was his first time inside in four years since it all happened. Oh well, here he was out of necessity rather than choice – if ever there was a time to lay the ghosts...

'Gotcha!' a violent push on both his shoulders propelled him through the gap where he stumbled, his damaged leg immediately giving way.

'Right, pay-back time, you scummy little f**k!' Jake span and tried to re-gain his footing; a dark figure approached with something more than menace. It was a crow bar. 'You did for Ronnie, so now we do for you, pal.' Jake looked up from the ground seeing only a silhouette against the light from a newly uncovered moon. He felt his bladder ache.

'It was an accident – honest!' he stammered, knowing the truth was unlikely to help. 'He ran out – I was just...'

'Trying to get him killed!' One of the others had found a voice and Jake realised he was surrounded. 'He was a good lad, Ronnie.'

'No he weren't – he was a t**t!' said one, which drew laughter from the others. 'But that ain't the point. Point is he was one of ours, and no-one goes down in my crew without there being casualties on the other side.' This last was stated as if a prelude to action and Jake waited for his life flash before him, determined at least to enjoy the good bits second time round.

The leader came forward then dropped to one knee right in front of him. Jake braced himself but instead of a fist he heard a guttural whisper by his right ear:

'This is where they found him, you know.' His breath stank. Jake opened his eyes. What was he talking about? Then it hit him and he realised he'd forgotten: funny how the world shrinks when you're in the s**t. 'Right here. Know what happened to him?' Jake had heard a rumour. 'Had his head taken off.' The leader clearly relished this detail. 'Not clean, like you'd cut meat – the wound was jagged – torn. Like it had been ripped off.'

Jake's mouth had gone very dry and he was shaking from head to foot. Why was this relevant, why would...? From the shadows Jake heard a horribly slow, metallic scraping.

'And you know the best bit? They never found it yer know, the 'ed. They never caught 'em yer know...wonder where they are...?'

Jake reacted to the horrific inference and by scrabbling behind him with both hands and feet. For one glorious moment he nearly gained his footing – in his mind he could actually see himself disappearing magically into the night, his escape the subject of future tales of daring, then...he hit something hard and unyielding: head first.

'No no no. No escape this time, matey.' Jake could see the moon run a glinting silver along the edge of a long, sharp blade.

And then there was a wrong sound. Something happened which Did Not Belong.

There was laughter: not from the figures around him, but from behind, and above him. A harsh, metallic, laughter. Jake froze, as did he attackers. Before the spell could break the scene was illuminated: from the same source as the laughter shone a beacon, lighting the four stunned faces in front of him. They stared behind him – he stared upwards. They were the Close Encounters scientists gawping stupidly at the mother ship. Jake realised exactly what it was that was making that odd, inhuman cackling sound. And he acted first.

Keeping low so as not to break their line of sight he dived sideways, springing around the circular plinth. Not waiting to look back he slid into the shadows towards the nearest buildings. Only having gained the security of a doorway did he turn to see the four figures standing before The Laughing Man.

A no doubt cute and novel idea when dreamed up in the thirties this larger-than-life human puppet sat perpetually encased within a cylindrical glass cabinet, slowly revolving upon a golden throne. Operated by some kind of primitive electronics he rocked and swayed from side to side, slapped his hand on his knee and all the while laughed such a huge and hearty laugh that the whole thing shook in sympathy. Upon his knee was a smaller version of himself – a three-foot puppet of a puppet, who also laughed and swayed even more wildly than his master. Like the rest of the amusement park the both looked shabby and basic after years of neglect – plasterwork throne chipped, face blotched and pitted, clothes showing signs of repair upon repair. Jake had always regarded it as a childish device, sat amid a throng of people and noisy rides it was an archaic irrelevance. Yet tonight, as it shone alone in the darkened park it gave him the creeps; and he wondered whether he'd always steered clear on purpose. Disney it definitely wasn't. As he watched the tableaux turned away from the watchers and towards him, and as it did he heard his pursuers awake.

'He's escaped! Get 'im...!'

The Laughing Man slowly turned.

'Which way did he go?' Jake withdrew into the shadows, suddenly realising the light from the cabinet was about to illuminate his hiding place. He stared hard at the laughing puppet, willing it to stop. And it did.

'S***! That's all we need. Who's got a light on their phone? Come on!' A small light appeared, far too weak to find him. Thanking this second piece of luck Jake pushed his way back into the doorway and felt something give. More voices in the darkness:

'Right. Scud – go round the back and guard the walkway to the other side of the park – it's easier to get out that way. Shocker – hunt round to the right. I'll take the other side. Oh and Dud – stay here and guard the gate mate.'

Murmurs and stifled laughter.

'Dudley bricked himself when that puppet started laughing!'

''K'off, Scud!'

'Leave it – get moving. I ain't letting that scumbag go this time.' Then running footsteps faded. Time to move.

A musty haze filled Jake's nostrils, the smell of damp and decay. Around him hard, cold walls; beneath his feet rough, short pile carpet. Jake had thought he was breaking into the lavatories but there were no tiles, no smell...Where was he?

It had been fifteen minutes since he'd broken in – broken being too strong a word – more like 'fell' in – the door had not been properly closed let alone locked – anyone could have gotten in. Which of course meant they could too. No windows afforded light and he felt his way around what seemed like a maze in pitch darkness. Cold, straight walls, odd corners... Then it hit him: it was a maze – a maze of mirrors. Now he remembered - he'd been in here many years ago. He recalled how the maze had mirrors and plain glass and odd lighting so that you ended up more lost that you thought possible in such a confined space. It wasn't big, as the phrase went, but it was certainly quite clever. Or at least it had been to a nine year old. In the dark he saw little.

A sudden wrenching sound alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone.

'Hello scumbag – I know you're in there!' A pathetic opening gambit – he knew nothing of the sort – but it made Jake jump. He bumping his head against one of the mirrors, bit his tongue, felt the pain and blood swell up in his face. Standing stock-still in the darkness he prayed his pursuer did not have a torch.

Then there was a sudden light and Jake nearly cried.

*

Alan 'Shocker' Shockman, 18, did not have a torch. He had a phone that emitted such a feeble light it barely illuminated his gaunt face. Its three-foot diameter glow reached a couple of black walls and a tatty black curtain before petering out into darkness. Then the light went out.

'Pants.' He stabbed at it with quick-bitten fingers but it failed to cooperate. 'Hey – s**t-face,' he called. 'Look, come out, I'll give you a bit of a kicking then let you go before Trev gets you, how 'bout that? Then we both go home, right?' The words were muffled – no echoes. The space was limited in size. 'I wanna go home, it's cold and we've been chasing you for hours. Come on out.' Shocker held his breath and strained his eyes wider and his ears farther, probing the room for give-aways. Was the boy here? 'Come on – you're just putting off the inevitable.'

Silence.

'Look, if you get out and Trev gets you...' Shocker hoped the trailing sentence contained sufficient menace to make his offer more palatable. 'He's a bit of a nutter he is, but you don't argue like,' and he chuckled to add what he hoped would be a note of camaraderie. Would he let the little runt escape from Trev if he did get him? Probably not. Everything he'd said was true – and more: truth be told he himself was scared of Trev, that's why they all hung round with him – better the devil who knows you. And him bringing the bloody blade out with him: well that was a step too far.

He was getting mighty angry having to hunt round in here instead of them being down the pub or home watching porn with a six-pack. Hmm...the decision was deferred for the time being.

'Right, I'm not counting to five or 'owt. You just sodding well come out now or I'm coming in. And I'm armed,' he added as an afterthought.

One, he thought to himself, two...five. He pressed the phone to activate the light, holding it out in front of him, hoping to catch the runt by surprise. But what he saw in the quarter-light took him rather by surprise instead.

'Boo,' said a low, gravelly voice.

The pathetically limited reach of light fell upon a face not three feet from his own. He had been crouching yet this face was below his eye line. It was a hard face, a mean face: a grinning face. A face made from plaster and coloured in blotchy, touched-up paint.

It was the face of the Laughing Man's puppet.

Shocker froze. For a split second his brain seized, not wanting to absorb the evidence before him. Two seconds later his mind concluded this must be a spare puppet kept in a store cupboard; but then the face broke into a slow, wooden grin and raised its hand to its face. Shocker opened his mouth ready to yell but the puppet beat him to it.

'Shh!' it insisted, white-gloved finger pressed comically to its horrible, red lips. Its eyes twinkled, the only part which looked alive. The finger withdrew and slowly the mouth opened with a mechanical clicking. Inside something glinted, and as the wooden orifice widened Shocker was mesmerised by rows of razor-like teeth that sat, row upon row, waiting.

He just registered a warm trickling sensation down his leg before the face shot towards his own.

*

Jake heard the scream. It came from the door, and as he looked he thought he saw a faint glimmer of light illuminating what his mum would have called a 'kerfuffle'. There was a snapping sound, another scream; then scrabbling, thumping, and running footsteps diminishing outside in the concourse. He had no idea what had happened – maybe the bloke had been spooked – but either way he breathed a slow sigh of relief. It was a minute or so before his own sense of the creeps forced him from his hiding place.

The concourse was quiet and dark. The moon afforded just enough light for him to gain his bearings but didn't help him penetrate the many shadows where an attacker may lurk. Yeah, good word for them – lurkers. And the cylindrical glass case containing the laughing puppet had also returned to darkness after its spontaneous malfunction. Jake thought of what the guy in the maze had said – so Trev was the leader, and there had been how many? Three others? And one had possibly just done a runner. He wondered what to do: hole up again, make a run for it, or try to pick his way through the shadows to safety? Holing up was most sensible but something made him decide against it, something he'd sensed in the mirror maze. Run, then? He knew he could out-run them – his speed and agility had been his greatest asset on the streets, keeping him out of trouble on more than one occasion. But with numerous pursuers in a confined space – easily cornered. He was regretting coming here now – usually he kept out in the open for just this reason. The long broad seafront was his battleground – but here numbers counted against him. Stealth it would have to be.

Jake examined the scene, planning a path around the shuttered shops towards the west exit with its low fencing. He fancied his chances of scaling this but would need time to do so. He had to get there unnoticed. He set off at a crouch, watching his footing but moving with speed. This beat hiding; already he felt better.

*

Dud had been left to hold the fort and was proud of it. Trev would only have left his best lieutenant in charge of this site, the Centre Of Operations (Dud's capitalisation).

'You just stay here,' had been his specific instruction after giving the others theirs. This had made Dudley Marsden, 19, very proud. He wasn't very bright but the others tolerated him, as he was often the one who'd happily do the jobs no one else wanted to do. Of course they didn't tell him that. Currently he was engaged in removing the putty from some metal-latticed windows.

Unlike Shocker, Trev's outburst and sudden production of the machete hadn't fazed him - mainly because he wasn't able to make the connection between it and the murder he'd read about in the paper. Unable to establish fast links between long and short-term memories things like this often passed him by, but it did make the others laugh. And anyway he had other people to help him do that – mum, Trev...mainly those two – so what did it matter? What he did have, however, was damn good eyesight – though no one knew it – so he actually made a top-notch lookout. And what he saw creeping through the shadows across the far side of the concourse made him grin broadly.

'We-ll hel-looo scumball!' he hissed softly. 'I'll show you who's boss...' and without waiting or thinking to alert the others he followed his instinct.

*

Jake was pleased with his progress – it wasn't as far as he thought and so far there was no sound. He thought he'd heard a shout or two over the other side of the park, near the ramp the one named Scud was guarding, but that was it so on he went. He resisted the temptation to speed up – haste would be his undoing – but he did think he could risk a short dash across the frontage of the small-kids Alice-in-Wonderland ride.

He darted up onto a bench and over the low wall that surrounded the ride then inside one of the card-characters which arched its back across the track. Again the darkness struck Jake, a stark contrast to its daytime cheeriness, and once more a shiver ran down his spine. He looked out across the remaining five yards and rose to cover it. As he did so he intuitively glanced left and instantly saw the bulky figure that had just broken cover not ten yards away. The pose – shoulders hunched, hands wide open on outstretched forearms like some Scooby-Doo villain – should have been comical, but in his current predicament and with the glimmer of light on that machete blade still fresh in his mind Jake didn't find it at all funny.

The pair stopped and stared at each other for a near-comical second before Jake's greater presence of mind told. He ran. The concave frontage of the ride entrapped him and again he was backed up against wooden doors. This time though no pounding was required – they just opened – and without time to wonder how or why Jake pelted inside with the sound of heavy footsteps in pursuit.

*

Dud wasn't happy; a few more steps and he'd have had him. He was a big bloke, and holding him there while he shouted Trev would have been easy. That would have showed them. But now he'd have to go in and drag the little s**t out. He looked up as he entered the doorway. 'Alice-in-Wonderland' he read.

'Going on the baby rides are we?' he called softly into the darkness, 'Come on then baby, let's play.'

*

Jake wasn't happy either. If he'd been a bit quicker, not paused under that card to congratulate himself...But no time for that now; now he was in hiding again. Better find another place to...

But he got no further in his planning because that was when the lights came on. Suddenly he wasn't in darkness but a moderately well lit tunnel. It was decorated with plastic flowers that arched over his head before it turned into a brick well as he ran along the thinly spaced tracks. He sped up - at least he could see his footing. Out of the tunnel into a grotto and scenes lit one after another – the white rabbit, the mad hatter; the two stripy fat twins whose names escaped him. Then came a mechanical grinding sound. Jake glanced round to see one of the ride cars coming towards him. An ugly little fibreglass contraption rumbled up to his shins and he had to throw himself onto one of the displays, wiping out the tea-party in the process. Dazed he slipped down the sloping scene coming to rest amongst the hidden lighting and speaker cables in the hidden gulley behind the frontage. The car rumbled away and he suddenly panicked that the big bloke was right behind. Jake held his breath, listening. At first he heard nothing – no footsteps or shouts, just the faint rumbling of the car as it wound its way off through the other galleries. Then Jake realised there was something else, something very soft, but definitely out of place. A low, laboured breathing; controlled to keep the noise down, but definitely breathing. And it was very close. Jake imagined the bulky figure standing just on the other side of the low barrier, imagined that if he happened to look over it or made a noise the game would be up. Nowhere to run to, as the song said.

The breathing was punctuated by what sounded like a licking of the lips. The man was considering his next move and Jake could do nothing but remain perfectly still. His own quickening pulse pounded in his ears. And something else: a new sensation, from his back – a warm, prickly feeling. It took a moment before he realised that his t-shirt had ridden up and the bare flesh on his back was resting against one of the arc-lights. And it was burning. Pain seared across his lower back and side, then there was a smell – singeing hair and skin. Jake bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. Agonising moments passed. Then some more. Then...A sigh, footsteps moving off in the direction of the car. They receded, then disappeared. Jake waited - a minute, then two. The pain was intense. Then one more minute for luck, before finally he risked a tentative look over the parapet.

All was clear. Jake bounded softly back off the track, feeling his burnt skin flex painfully. He let out a large but extremely silent breath.

*

Dud followed the car, figuring rightly that it would cover any sound he might make. He saw the king and queen of hearts, playing cards, the March Hare and of course the bloody white rabbit countless times, but no runt. Half way round he started to lose his breath and the car so decided to take a rest. As with Jake, it was as the rumbling of the car receded that he realised he was not alone.

'You may have noticed that I'm not all here.'

Dud whipped round, nearly breaking his neck in the process. What the hell...? He saw no-one, had heard nothing, so how...? After a pause for thought he dropped for cover, just as nothing happened. More nothing happened over the next minute before he risked raising his head.

'He went that-a-way!' said the voice. Dud followed it, and for a good few seconds his brain refused to play along.

A broad grin hung in mid-air, seemingly illuminated from within. Dud moved his head to establish that it really was there, three-dimensional, just hanging. The teeth were large, almost cartoon-like, and between them very realistic and oddly red spittle oozed. The air seemed to fizz and swim – Dud assumed it was a heat haze until he realised it was icy cold in here. Then before he got any further the haze coalesced into something familiar – a sort of face. An animal's face...a cat, in fact.

'...that's Cheshire Cat to you, numb-nuts!' the face suddenly blinked into being accompanied by a cartoonish popping sound. Dud's jaw literally fell open. The face hung alone for a few seconds before the haze produced a body to go with it with pink and purple stripes. It looked like one of those fabulously detailed CGI films where you can actually see the fur move in the breeze. Dud was mesmerised.

'What-yer-doing-Dudley?' the cat shouted in Trev's voice, and as it did so the face started moving closer - no, floated closer. 'You're supposed to be chasing that little rodent!'

Dudley collected his few thoughts and answered Trev who had somehow taken on cat-like form.

'Erb...er...well...I...' But he got no further. The purple stripes gave a shimmer, like a magician changing the silk handkerchief into a pigeon. The colours snapped into blue and green, the face shrunk into that of a familiar plaster puppet with a manic grin and a small, golden crown. The blank, white teeth with the traces of blood narrowed and sharpened into pointed fangs that glistened in the artificial light. The paw, which had become a white glove rose up to lips which just managed to close over those vicious looking teeth – slicing and ripping as they did. He noticed shining silver claws protruding three inches through the virgin white fabric.

'Shh!' he heard it utter in a compelling whisper, which he just had to obey; before the face and claws shot towards him, teeth bared, eyes hungry.

*

Jake had twisted his ankle. A fork in the tracks caught him out and he'd slipped between the rails in the darkness. He was sitting rubbing it when he heard the scream. It seemed to flow down the tunnels like a sewer flood: he heard it first then felt it race towards and then over him. Another piercing scream that set his teeth on edge; then a wailing which quickly diminished. Sounded like his pursuer had come a cropper too but what on earth had happened to him? But twice now he'd escaped through dumb good luck, which made a change. Jake picked himself up and limped on: which way now?

*

Scud heard the scream, and bored as he was guarding the walkway, ran to see what was going on. Didn't sound like the boy, sounded more like...

'Dud? Dud! Where the hell are you off...?' No answer. He watched Dud disappear round the far side of the dodgems and heard the big man's distinctive foot-slaps continue into the distance. Then he heard footstep, smaller ones. What the hell had happened there? This was when he wished Trev had a phone: brain cancer he claimed – idiot. With a shrug and a self-satisfied shake of his long, greasy blonde hair he walked forward, determined to find out what had sent Dud into a panic.

*

Jake reached the end of the tunnel and peered out from the comfort of the shadows into the now moon-lit concourse. The cold, cylindrical cabinet sat silently in the centre of his vision, the only thing he didn't see. It must have been getting on for an hour since he'd first stumbled into the park and he was all of fifty yards away from that same entrance.

He saw Scud amble across the scene, unconcerned at who saw him. He was a lightly built, wiry character and Jake knew him to be the fastest of the bunch so he could take no chances. Luckily he seemed to merely be wandering rather than searching. He looked up at the moon, across at the Alice-in-Wonderland ride then off to the right where (unknown to Jake) he'd seen his partner high-tail off.

'Trev! Trev!' Scud hollered. 'Dudley's buggered off!' He half shouted, half sang this. Far away he heard a muffled answer. 'He's s**t himself and ran off, the soft sod!'

No reply this time and Scud stopped dead in his tracks not ten feet from where Jake stood. Jake froze, not even risking trying to sink further back into the safety of darkness for fear his movement should registered on the youth's peripheral vision. He held his breath – something he practiced regularly. Body tensed he felt the pulse well up in his ears so loudly he felt sure it would give him away. Or burst. Then Scud moved on, seeming to make his mind up.

Jake continued to hold his breath for a while, just to be on the safe side.

*

Trev was having no joy. The little runt had outsmarted them and he didn't like it. When he thought how close they'd been... He'd been fully prepared to give him what was coming there and then in front of that bloody puppet but what happened? Some power-surge and they'd all stood like Muppets while he ran off. He'd get double for that.

He heard a scream and shouted to ask if the others had got him, but when nothing came back he stood station, ready to catch the runner. When none came he fume all the more, hacking at some old wooden beams with the machete. He imagined, as he often did, the damage it would inflict upon human flesh.

*

Scud was in fact not only the quickest but also the smartest of the bunch, no matter what Trev might think. It wasn't saying much given the competition – and god-forbid he'd never say anything to Trev himself – but quite often it was Scud who stopped them doing something monumentally stupid.

So it was Scud who was the only one to out-smart Jake that night. Realising Jake would be in hiding, and roughly figuring the area in which he must be hidden he acted as if to move off then ducked under one of the vending vans when he was out of sight of the concourse. From his vantage point he could a wide area but he himself was invisible in the shadows. Once more he dreamed of that future in the Paras: guts, glory and an automatic rifle.

*

The concourse was quiet when Jake eventually emerged, limping. His right leg pulled him along just fine but his left hung at an odd angle – ligaments possibly. Not permanent but with speed gone stealth was his only weapon.

He slipped silently back along the front of the Alice ride, amid the cards and the 3D rabbit and the colourful rendering of the Cheshire Cat. The air had turned icy as the sky cleared and Jake cursed as it flood-lit the open spaces. Maybe they'd got bored? He quickly shook the notion from his head – complacency would be the death of him, he thought, then regretted it.

He worked his way painfully back to the wooden shop-fronts opposite the Ghost Train – a very old and rotted hulk which had never scared him even as a youngster. Now it was everything outside which scared him. The wood was rough and splinters fought for access to his skin and under his nails but he didn't notice. Senses heightened, counting the feet and inches he made his way carefully, legs taut and ready to run, or hobble, in either direction. Unavoidably there was the risk they they could box him in but there was nothing he could do bar climb the shallow buildings behind him. Twenty, thirty, fifty feet and he could see the next open area – smaller and darker than the last. He was half way there – half way out.

In the centre was another cylindrical kiosk, this one for selling tickets. He froze, certain he'd seen movement. His mind balanced on a knife-edge: part whispered 'stay still, be safe'; the other yelled 'run!'

'Run!' came a shout from very close by. Before he could gain traction a hand grasped his collar and pushed him sharply. Jake floundered and sprawled painfully onto the asphalt. He hit a bench and had the presence of mind to roll beneath it as a mane of blonde hair brushed his cheek and a dark figure fell beside him, cursing. A hand grabbed his leg and pain raced up his body in response. A kick elicited a sharp crack and a cry. He didn't wait for a medical update and just ran.

It's amazing what adrenalin could do thought Jake, as he sprinted from the scene, using his damaged left ankle and knowing he'd pay for it later. He was away, across the open tarmac – no time to think tactics, a straight race – just how he liked it. Past an ice-cream kiosk – hurdle a bench – ankle screaming - swerve past the litter-bin. A shout behind, lost on the breeze. Pounding footsteps: you've got a head-start, don't look back. Ahead was the fence – six feet of wooden slats followed by a further three of wire mesh and barbed rollers. Thirty-yards, twenty-five...fifteen. He plotted his trajectory... Head clearing he breathed deeply, counted off the steps: onetwothree...

...and failed to see Trev.

'Gotcha!' The larger youth shoulder-charged him.

Whoof! The breath was forced out as though he'd been squeezed by a garden roller. Up became down and left became right, his internal gyroscope jarred to hell. Tumbling, a flash of the moon and then...

Thwack! His head struck something hard. Lucky: the same impact against the concrete paving would have killed him. His face scraped a rough surface, hands scrambling for purchase. A fist struck his jaw, then a foot met his shin. Pain flared hotly and strangely blue as if he could see the electrical impulses bringing pain to his brain.

'That!' another boot, 's for Ronnie. And this,' A kick from the right this time, 'is for making me waste my bastard night chasing you round this f****g dump of a fun-fair!'

Jake lay foetal on the freezing floor. His world span when he closed his eyes. He saw a shiny black boot drawback and clung his hands tightly across his face.

'Right – no messing this time...prepare to bleed...' And he heard the ominous 'shing' of a blade being unsheathed followed by conspiratorial laughter muffled by his sleeves across his ears.

'Trev – are you really going to...? Hang on, Trev. Trev, hang on...!'

But then he is up on all fours and mechanically he grabs a rail and pulls himself through just as metal strikes metal. Jake's second wind carries him through the gap and he rolls across a floor which gives beneath him. Above him a canopy, around him groping hands grab air. Now what?

'Ca'm 'ere!' bellows a voice beyond anger. It is something altogether more primitive. Another 'clang': he crawls painfully across the man-made floor, suddenly aware that his left hand won't work properly – it just sort of flops forward, shattered. But there is no pain – why no pain?

No time passes – he crawls, and crawls. Nothing stops him. At any moment he expects a hand, a foot – a burning, slicing blade. He looks up and sees a faint, blurred glittering ten yards ahead. His mind wants to identify this place for him but his body is otherwise occupied – all power to main engines!

Jake is delirious – happy, hysterical, broken and in pain. Some part of him remains separate and observes. Observes the hands – one reaching one flopping – one over the other padding blindly towards the glittering lights. Observes the two shadows that stalk their quarry maimed, laughing. They are laughing.

And all of a sudden the laughter is not that of two youths but of that horrible, deathly mannequin encased in its glass prison. Jake can see it clearly rocking back and forth and side to side as the plinth slowly rotates. But that's not here, he's not there...he's...

Pad, pad, hand over hand...how many more until he reaches those glittering shapes? Pad, pad; his good hand reaches out – at first he thinks his eyes have misjudged the distance but then he feels the cold hard glass of a headlamp, feels its roundness fill his palm. It is reassuring: it feels like success.

Then he is blind. For a second he mistakes it for pain – thinks it the blade, come to lop off a limb or a head...But he turns his head and it fades. It shines behind him, starkly illuminating two figures suddenly struck dumb, no longer laughing, strangely uncertain. Jake is still trying to assemble the situation; he hears a rumble, an electrical whine and then...music.

'Let's twist again, like we did last summer...' Is it real? He thinks of Clive and his records, the old thirty-threes in the loft, the musty evenings just the two of them...and he is crying. The comforting hardness is advancing – a shape pushes him roughly out of the way and falls to the floor. As it does the light fades and he sees two more dodgem-cars behind this one, and senses at least one more behind him. Jake falls onto his back, canopy over-head, music and lights filling his mind. Again he turns, this time inside his head. He sees the four of maybe five dodgem cars move in a line toward the far end of the rink. There are gaps in the line and the two scared looking figures, stumbling backwards in retreat, seek them. One succeeds but gets trapped. Two more part as if taunting the other man who picks his moment – Jake sees fear, indecision in his face. The man, runs between the two cars, towards Jake, but they swerve and collide.

Snap! Just like that – a leg. Trev goes down listing like a toy battle ship. The first man is still stuck. The two cars imprisoning him pull back, as though to free him then suddenly come back with force, meeting in his abdomen. Muffle cracks which may be ribs; a half-hearted scream which peters out into a gargle as the body crumples to the floor. But the dodgems do not stop, they continue their ballet, interweaving, running into and over their prey time repeatedly. And now Jake sees the drivers: small, colourfully dressed little puppets with small gold crowns and immaculate white gloves. Five puppets, five grins. Ten eyes – innumerable teeth. How can they possibly have so many teeth?

One passes close-by and a white finger rises to its lips and utters a soft, almost sighing:

'Shhh...'

*

Jake wakes some time later: the night is colder than ever. Strangely he finds he is standing, and he sways as he thinks this, unsteady on an ankle he can feel is three times its recommended size. His memories ooze back into place and a dozen improbable images dart across his mind's eye. His left hand aches dully and cannot be moved. One eye is half closed and he cannot move his neck. His right hand, his good hand...

...is clasping something; something soft, something small. He looks down to see a hand: a small, white-gloved hand. He follows the arm up to a shoulder and from there to the face of the Laughing Man's puppet, smiling its ancient and cracked, grease-paint smile.

'Shh!' it says, and beckons for him to turn around.

He knows instinctively what he will see, and the instant the thought forms so the laughter starts – or possibly he notices it, as he thinks it may have been there all along. The plinth rotates inside the case; the large, seated figure slowly turns to face him. He sees first it's jovial profile before it slowly, inexorably turns its terrible gaze upon him.

The rotation halts but the laughter continues. The face looks directly at Jake and Jake suddenly feels a coldness engulf him. The large figure stands. Without hurry it moves to the edge of the cabinet and 'pop'...moves through the glass as though it were water. He sees this puppet is huge, far larger than any living man. In fact as he looks it grows like a picture reformatting to widescreen.

And the laughter is louder, louder now and inside his head and Jake wants to scream but can't because of...

'Shhh...'

...the darkness. He can only stare into that huge, horrible face as it comes towards him, he can only stare at the head as it is thrown back with renewed laughter and the mouth widens and the teeth oh the teeth and Jake knows he knows what comes next and when it does he watches and all he can do is wait he cannot speak he is back back in the attic and the mouth widens impossibly wide and from it there is thunder and light and heat and he is looking into an oven now a roaring volcano and feels the heat singeing his hair as the bloodied lips stretch slowly over his head and he can see down the never ending throat as the teeth lightly scratch his neck then settle just above his shoulder blades and...

* * *

# Forefright

The carriage smelt stale. Rows of red and grey striped seats queued empty to greet him and after a brief hesitation during which he was conscious of the two large youths looming behind him he stumbled into one on the left. His unfamiliar rucksack struck the seat and turned him mid-flight to land face down in the pungent fabric. It was an inauspicious start to the journey. The youths sniggered but Chris was glad to be ensconced in the snug glass and velour cocoon where he would spend the next three hours of his life.

He'd been early to the station, father dropping off while mother stayed at home so as not to upset herself. This was the first time her sole, fourteen year-old offspring had gone significantly 'away' on his own. He wasn't too thrilled either but he'd kind of been given no choice.

'Your great Aunt Laura has offered to take you to the British Museum. If you want to be an historian,' the 'an' was added with meticulous care, 'it's an excellent opportunity. You're going to see Important Things.' Right. The fact Aunt Laura was magnetically rich and mother was one of numerous sycophantically diligent relatives was nothing to do with it of course. As always Chris had kept this thought to himself.

So he'd been packed off Down South in his best anorak with a stack of corned-beef sandwiches, a brand new A4 pad and three biros from John Menzies. Oh and clean everything, of course. Dad bought the tickets while he gazed round the busy station. Dad had loitered, unsure what to do next, until Chris had shooed him back to the car. The parting 'Take care' concealed the usual gloom that years later he would associate with depression, and he had been first in the queue by a good half hour. At WH Smith he'd bought a Sudoku book, a packet of Softmints and a tea which he'd proceeded to spill all over his new Reeboks whilst trying to prise off the lid.

The train pulled out at ten twenty-five, though Chris took a minute to realise what was happening such was the train's smooth acceleration and his own inexperience. He'd only ever been on museum-piece steam-trains before and an intercity express was somehow more exotic. He spent the first fifteen minutes gazing fixedly out of the large tinted window as the view into people's back gardens gradually gave way to a countryside he knew from adverts. He half expected talking cows before shaking the notion from his head.

'Careful, anorak boy!' It was the two older lads who'd laughed at his earlier fall making their way along the carriage. 'Watch you don't fall out the window!' and they both cracked up as they bumped and crashed through the door.

Funny as f***, thought Chris; he took out a well-thumbed spy thriller and settled down to lose the time.

It only took fifteen pages to realise his mistake: words began to float off the page causing his head to ache and his stomach to rebel. Regretting the thickness and quantity of the chicken soup he'd consumed before setting off ('You may not be eating till late!') he snapped the book shut and lay his head against the seat which suddenly felt hard and uncomfortable no matter at what angle he lay.

Chris closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out the noise and the movement but this only made things worse. The rhythmic 'click-clack' now annoyed instead of reassured, as did the side-to-side sway and the whoosh of air through the vents. He looked down: his knuckles on the armrests. He relaxed his grip but found his stomach and head similarly tight.

Damn, he thought. Why now? He breathed deeply. Just sit it out, he told himself. But he knew exactly what was happening, because the pattern was always the same.

Migraines ran in the family. Each member had his or her own foibles or characteristics – the cause might be chocolate, cheese or red wine, while the effects included headaches, vomiting and even black-outs. The remedies were simpler, usually involving lying down in a darkened room, something which patently was out of the question for the next...he checked his Timex, carefully...two hours ten minutes. His hands clenched the armrests again. Maybe it was just travel sickness? He knew how to find out, because he knew what would happen next. His migraines were extremely well behaved – they ran strictly to timetable.

Onset: mild headache, nausea.

First two hours: blurred and tunnel vision, disorientation; sit down and do something un-taxing.

Next two hours: nausea, possible vomiting; don't do anything at all and be close to a toilet.

Final four hours: severe, debilitating headache, inability to move. Lie down, try to sleep, don't do anything but watch the clock.

So according to that he'd be just ready to vomit all over rich Aunt-Laura when he met her at Euston. Great.

The train entered the darkness of a real tunnel, which lasted for ten or twelve seconds. When they emerged Chris' heart sank – it was as if a sliver of darkness had lodged in the corner of his eye, for all he could see there was a grey, watery blur. Here we go, he thought. The migraines were the result of stress so far as anyone could tell, but his mother's scepticism of modern medicine ('It's all placebos for profit!') meant avoiding such situations was his only defence. This usually meant staying in his room, keeping out people's way and generally going along with what he was told. He looked down at his watch: two twenty-five - eight hours to go.

The tunnel vision ran to schedule. It always started in the bottom right corner of the right eye with a cloudy, fluid mass that dispersed the light and distorted his vision. The same soon happened in the bottom right corner of the left, then the bottom left of the right. There were varieties of severity, though. Sometimes the tunnel vision could stop there, making movement tough but not impossible. At others, such as cousin Rachel's 21st, it had been almost total, like looking through treacle. He progressed through the lower and upper blurring faster than he recalled, and soon the outer rims were blocked off too.

He soon knew that today was going to be A Very Bad One. The fields began to wander, then fade. It was an eerie feeling losing the ability to see what you knew you were looking directly at. It was worse amongst people, of course. Not only were you unable to recognise faces easily (though an SAS night-vision technique of looking 'next-to' the person partly got round that); it also rendered facial expressions invisible.

The central blur grew. Chris held his head still, knowing now that all he could do was ride it out. Like many things in life he'd have to sit there and take it. He watched in fascination as the extremities expanded in time with his pulse. He felt the blood pump through his eye-sockets, and saw the grey mass reach out across his view. The left eye was down to two narrow windows, top right and bottom left, half way between centre and outside. The right meanwhile was a write-off – only a narrow doughnut shaped gap was available through which to view the world. Three-quarters of his vision was now of his own, inner world. A pulsing, writhing world that moved in time with his heartbeat, continuously exploring new areas of his vision and which failed to vanish when he closed his eyes. Welcome to Chris-world. First time it had scared him to death. Now it just pissed him of.

Click-clack - fields became suburbs, became city-centres, then suburbs once more. Birmingham? The blurring eased slightly and for a hopefully second Chris thought he was through the worst. And then something new happened.

He'd been staring blankly at the seat in front, bored by what little he could see of yet another provincial town when the grey-mass in the corner of his right eye jumped. Not gently, or in rhythm with his pulse but of its own accord. Maybe this was just a new feature to keep him entertained. But it was the kind of movement that intrigued him and stopped him being distracted by Coventry. The mass seemed to move sharply upwards, then towards the centre of his vision. Unable to look directly at it – when he painfully turned his eyes the vision moved with them – his peripheral vision saw a definite shape. It remained an amorphous blob, but the remarkable thing about it, the thing that temporarily allowed him to forget his predicament, was that the movement was repetitive. It was like watching an action replay on a rolling loop. It moved sharply up and to the centre of his vision then snapped suddenly after three or four seconds back to where it had started. Over and over. He counted – five times, ten, twenty...each identical.

Quietly Chris started to panic. Was this the start of a brain haemorrhage? A blood clot? He nearly cried out but thought of the fuss ('Oh, Chris...' Such a disappointment, that voice would say). Now he noticed another detail: as it moved, the blob seemed to change shape; it was stretching. Chris was held in fascination. Yes, it was actually stretching. He rubbed his eye, imagining some creature stuck inside, trying to get out, trying to punch a hole in his aqueous humour. He imagined the 'pop' and nearly retched.

Maybe it was something really, really small, magnified ten-fold due to its proximity to his pupil. That would also explain the blurriness – it would be impossible at such short distance for his eye to focus. He remembered a story he'd read about a short-sighted man who'd mistaken an insect on a window for a mechanical monster on a far-off hill Was that it? He knew it was possible to see particles in the eye when you were in bright light: maybe this was just one of those. A moving one. A living, breathing, crawling one... Again breakfast threatening to reappear.

Not good, he thought. This was not good. He remembered to breathe – something he'd not previously thought necessary. But suddenly he had to force each inhalation. He took three deep breaths as the doctor had shown him and felt slightly better. Control, Christopher, take control. The blob was still performing its repetitive dance. Why would it do that? If it were alive, why would it do that? Creatures don't just go on repeating the same moves – well apart from humans, and it definitely wasn't one of those. For a split second Chris almost smiled at the thought of a ballroom dancing couple stuck inside his eye but then noticed something else, for now the living blob was not alone.

At the centre of his left eye the shape was moving upwards, vertically, out of his immediate vision before again, like the first, snapping back to its starting position. Then it repeated the move. No change in shape, just movement. And what's more, he could see the same movement in the top of his right eye. This was more than mere coincidence, and Chris was startled to discover that he still had the presence of mind to realise that this ruled out the 'creature' explanation. The three blobs continued to move, and the cycle time was about the same: the 'snap' that occurred to reset each to its starting position happened at the same instant. Roughly seven seconds. It was like a synchronised ballet, like they were all connected. But how, and what were they? He tried to move his head to one side but realised that while he had been absorbed the headache had started. Boy, had it started.

He winced as a huge mechanical hand squeezed his head with spiked fingers. All the blobs pulsed a scalding crimson, each suddenly veined and detailed. He felt vomit rising in his throat and had to fight to keep it at bay. He realised he was wet – drenched in fact; shirt, face, arms - all drenched in sweat. An elderly couple staggered past but Chris barely registered them.

'Are you alright young man?' a creaking voice asked. The words reached Chris as a disconnected jumble, random pieces of meaningless input. The woman went away to speculate on what substances the youth of today indulged in to the expense of manners.

Chris had lost all track of time, the endlessly repetitive movie engulfing him in its mesmerising show. As he sat terrified new thoughts seeped into his mind and after fighting for what seemed like an age he finally allowed them to trample his consciousness. Twice, three times he lost it, the lights faded, but for how long he could not tell. Seconds, maybe. Or half an hour. He tried to glance out of the window but managed only five degrees of movement before the giant hand clawed its way into his skull. Outside were houses, over-passes and offices that he hoped belonged to London. He hardly dared hope yet without it he would sink into despair. Oh to lie down, even if only to face his dreaded Aunt.

A new shadow appeared, this one seemingly outside the window, overlaid on his vision of the city. This one was tall, occupying his entire field of vision like a building. At its summit there appeared a bluish tinge, like a neon advertising sign. Chris hadn't the energy for curiosity but when he turned e-v-e-r s-o s-l-o-w-l-y back to face the seat ahead he immediately noticed that something had changed. The blobs – still going through their graceless ballet and dominating his vision, were now more well defined, more solid. Indeed, they were mere blobs no longer: they had shape, sticky out bits, they were – well they looked like, nom surely not...people? Chris grinned hysterically, tears welling in his eyes, ignoring the pain: little people living in his eyes! How fantastic was that!

The train slowed but as it did so the blurred figures started to come into focus – Chris fancied he could see actual faces, real humanoid faces.

Oh Christ, he thought, I've gone mad. I've actually gone mad.

The figures continued to move and as they did the faces contorted, going through a sequence of stretched, almost impossible movements. All the figures seemed to move in impossible ways – early in the sequence – maybe the first three seconds, they were rising slowly but after that they seemed to shift rapidly, expanding, fragmenting, before the vision reset in that flash of light.

When would this be over, how long had he to go? The sweat made him feel suddenly very cold. Again he attempted to look out the window and found he could manage ten degrees, no more. Was it starting to fade? Had his imminent arrival started to calm his mind? The effect was marginal but...

The tall shadow, the one with the blue top: there were now two of them. There had definitely only been one previously. And even more oddly, while the first one moved its twin moved independently, tracing a curved path which matched the left-hand curve of the train. Chris stared, the pain now intolerable. He wanted to shout, to scream. He looked back at the seat ahead quickly – too quickly. Oh sod sod sod sod sod! He screwed his eyes up but that only made the pain sickeningly worse. Help me! His mind screamed. He opened his eyes. The train was slowing, they had to be stopping. How long could he hold on? Throwing-up was inevitable. How fast were they going – fifty? Sixty? Tough to tell. One or two people were starting to get luggage down from parcel shelves. To his right a woman rose from her seat and stretched up into the shadow of the first 'blob' which was now itself almost a figure.

And Chris stopped breathing: they matched. The woman and the blob matched.

Now he knew he was going mad.

But there was more. Because in his looping visual movie the blob-woman ended her routine by dancing. Why would she suddenly stop, sudden cease?

Not dancing – screaming you idiot – she's screaming!

Oh Jesus – what was his brain doing...

He flicked back to the seat, concentrating, teeth gritted, hands clutching, trying to will the visions away. Breathe, breathe! But they had no intention of obeying. The figure in front, just above the seat back, was also now a person – a man of fifty. And as he watched, the man in the real seat in front rose up, right into his 'shadow'. This couldn't be the power of suggestion – this one he'd seen perform before the real thing...

Oh God – a thought gnawed away in a distant corner of his brain

Breathe, just breathe, nearly over. It's coincidence – the mind playing tricks...Concentrate on a fixed position. The sweat was coursing down his temples but he didn't care. Just get me through this please just get me through this...

But he knew, and it made sense.

It's them, I'm seeing them...but when? Now he took it all in. Four shadow-figures – the man straight ahead, cardigan-woman and a young couple with a baby. And all were now going through their tortured performances while the 'real' figures went through more mundane tasks: texting, checking pockets. Reaching for coats. Getting ready.

I'm see the future, he thought.

Outside the tall shadow with the blue top was static. But its twin was moving: a real skyscraper with a huge blue neon sign at its summit was arching towards him as the train snaked its way slowly towards Euston. Indeed at some point soon its path would intersect with the shadow, his mind projected. He watched it arc round and start its final, convergent course towards its destiny.

Destiny. Converge.

Around him the people fiddled and waited.

Vision and reality about to converge.

Across them their tortured shadows danced and as he looked the final level of detail flicked into place. Vision and reality overlaid; the same to start, them the visions were twisting and contorting. Bodies broken, blood, mouths screaming silently then...bright light.

Chris' eyes widened.

Ohmygodohmygodohmy...!

He looked sharply out the window, metal hand tearing at his skull. He didn't care. The two skyscrapers were converging, the vision – the future - and the present. Closing, slowly, nearly there, nearly there and then...and then...?

He looked back at his vision of the horror and carnage about to happen and his mind let go... He looked up to the handle marked – 'Emergency use only' and his head exploded in a riot of pain.

Vomit streamed down his thoroughly drenched shirt, sweat flattening his hair, spidery steel fingers clutched mercilessly at his skull Chris reached up – up –

Fingers touched, scrabbled – missed...

Outside the window the skyscrapers were converging...

Come on Chris, come on!

His fingers clawed his head exploded...And then he felt the cold, hard plastic.

Chris Mullins pulled down hard.

'So, do you suffer from migraines a lot, Chris?'

Flashes.

'Erm, well I've had them for years. Mum says I'll grow out of them'.

'Chris, Chris? Over here: have you ever had visions before?'

Chris blinked at the stupidity of the question and to throw off the last vestiges of the headache. The medic put a blanket round his shoulders.

'Erm...well no, just...blobs, you know...'

Laughter. Followed by light bulbs flashing, mercilessly.

'And when did you see the bomb on the tracks?'

'I didn't. I just saw...' he frowned for a second, trying to recall what he actually had seen. It was difficult to describe, and it was fading fast. 'I just saw what happened next.'

Chattering, and more flashes.

'And what can you see now?' More jostling of microphones in the outstretched hands of the gaggle of reporters on the station platform.

'I don't think I'll be travelling by train again. It gives me a headache.'

* * *

# Stranger on a Plane

Fourteen, sixteen, eighteen...damn.

She was beige with big glasses and was obviously oblivious to the fact that she was occupying his seat. He re-checked his ticket – twenty C; aisle. There was no one in the window seat, which was presumably where she belonged. Funny, he thought, most people preferred window seats. A full flight combined with the possibility that she may be A Talker fanned his already foul mood but he managed the minimum politeness quotient.

'Excuse me, but I think that's my seat?'

She looked up sharply. Oh don't let's have an argument about this you stupid old bint, he thought.

'Oh, am I?' Extreme politeness, but no checking of the ticket, he noted; she was well aware of her crime. He was fastidious about not inconveniencing other passengers – sit down and get out of the way then arrange yourself later. Judging from her appearance here was someone who didn't understand the rules of frequent flying. With a hiss of man-made material she hauled her moderate bulk over to the inner berth. It was painful to watch. Paul dumped his satchel on the seat and got out of the way of the gathering impatience behind him.

'Here's me getting in your way!' she exclaimed with a grin.

'That's OK,' he said. Just so long as we end the conversation right there though, he thought.

The woman turned to look out the window giving Paul the chance to take in his opposition. She was old – he didn't do the niceties of 'mature' or 'late-middle-aged'. Grey, wrinkled but lively, dressed in powder blue pants and the kind of beige jacket he thought had gone out of coffin-dodging fashion years ago. Key fobs and addenda abounded – a mini torch, bottle opener, even a compass from a belt. What the hell was she going to use a compass for? Badges, which he ignored being totally disinterested, and a sun-hat – grey cotton and just broad enough to cause mild irritation to those it overlapped.

As the doors closed and an unenthusiastic safety drill performed he grabbed his own self-preservation device: a paperback copy of John Peel's autobiography in which to immerse himself for the duration of the flight. As clear a signal of intent as a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on a honeymoon-suite door. End of social interaction.

'Is that a five?'

Bugger.

She was leaning over, right into his space, peering myopically beneath huge Diedre Barlow glasses. He took a breath and looked: it was her boarding pass for a connecting flight.

'It's a six,' he confirmed. She took it back and looked closer as if not believing the answer, but nevertheless it seemed to please her.

'Good – I thought it was a bit of a short turn-around – I'd never have made it! You never know in these airports.' Oh God, he thought – she's going to talk at me.

'No it's, er...a bit of a gamble sometimes, isn't it?' he smiled with as much finality as he could muster. Her gaze returned to the ticket.

'And that second flight will be local time, won't it, in Brussels?' Oh dear Lord. He looked across once more. She was now comparing her two boarding passes.

'Both are – they normally give the arrival time in local time as well as departure for the next, so you can compare the two like-for-like,' \- idiot. He wasn't sure he had managed to keep that last word out of his tone. Maybe she'd get the message; to clarify still further he returned to his book, pointedly raising it in for more intense study. For the moment she did, and remained thankfully silent as they took off. He sensed tension as she clutched her commodious bag just a little too carefully. It carried detritus – badges of cities visited – she had travelled after all, it seemed – a number of gonks, or whatever they were called, a small 'Eeyore', a metal letter 'A' on a key-ring. All neat and tidy. And at least she didn't smell.

He managed a total of two and a half pages – crisis averted, he thought – during which he was decreasingly aware of her fidgeting in the cramped confines of the window seat. Then just as he was getting re-immersed in the early Ravenscroft years:

'My friend in Warsaw can't fly since her operation.' Paul's eyes froze mid-sentence, lips involuntarily pursing. 'Great shame – she used to come and see me in Middlesbrough once a year.' He paused significantly before turning his head, hopeful that this momentary hesitation may yet put her off.

'Oh really?' he replied with disinterested, and well practiced, intonation. He looked at her, challenging her to make this anecdote worth his while.

'Yes.' She paused: was that it? 'She used to work in the same care home as I did. Thirty-eight years I worked there – she was there slightly less. Joined in...well what would it have been? Sixty-one I think. Long time. We both retired two years ago.'

Foul! Introducing kids into the conversation – and underprivileged ones at that. What chance did he have now? Yellow card offence referee!

'Wow,' he responded, injecting what he judged the requisite level of enthusiasm. 'Thirty-eight years?'

'Yes – I ended up running it. St. Wilbur's.'

'Did you enjoy it?' he enquired, marginally curious. His book dropped a few inches and he noticed her face brighten.

'Oh yes. Yes!' And now she looked him straight in the eyes, as if this was the question she'd wanted to be asked. 'I loved it: best job in the world,' and he noticed her eyes were green, and they sparkled. He'd never known anyone's eyes actually to sparkle before. She turned back to face the seat in front, smile broad, eyes flooded with memories.

'Did you find it very rewarding?' This was still a chore.

'Of course – who wouldn't? Hard work – and not always pleasant, don't get the romantic idea they were all little cherubs full of the joys of spring! Some of 'em could be right little...well I won't say it, but you know.' He smiled as she turned to him with the question. He could imagine. 'But it was getting too tough, so I was retired. And I have to say life has been much easier for the past two years. Much easier.' I was retired: what was the story there, he wondered? Instead he asked:

'So what do you do now – do you travel a lot?' His initial impression of her as a first-time flier was obviously off the mark. She turned with sudden sharpness.

'Well I suppose I do – more than I used to, anyway. You see I have friends, correspondents, all over. I'm a member of IPFA - the International Penpals and Friends Association.'

'Oh, right,' Paul was immediately on the defensive again – this didn't sound good.

'Yes – it's online now on the "web". They have members all over the world. Only a few weeks back I was in Japan.'

'Wow!' this time he found he meant it. 'So how many pen-pals do you have then?'

'Well, let me see...' she replied, diving into the large bag sitting upon her generous lap.

*

Rain drummed steadily upon the roof of the tent making normal conversation impossible.

'So – what do we have?' VanDijk shouted impatiently as he entered. The scene was chaotic – makeshift trestle-tables covered in paper work, laptops blinking, some plugged into a wire-infested hub which a couple of IT geeks were desperately trying to get working. He stepped over a power cable that suddenly arose across his path and bumped into a man in a white coverall, almost spilling the coffee he had just been handed down his already sodden trousers. At least it would have warmed him up.

'The fire services have released the main fuselage – they just have a section of wing to dampen down across in the west field,' the Sergeant pointed instructively at one of the four white canvas walls. He led the inspector to a central table across much of which a large map was pinned. 'We have isolated this area here and also this area across...here,' again he stabbed the map with two fingers, 'which is where the cockpit section landed. The area in between – in orange – is where most of the debris... and the passengers, are. We're trying to cover up as much as possible to avoid intrusion from the media.' VanDijk had heard a helicopter overhead that he knew wasn't one of theirs. He hadn't the time to disapprove.

'I assume no survivors?' he asked for the record. The sergeant shook his head and scrunched up his face – this was new to him too. 'How many?' the Inspector asked.

'One hundred and twelve passengers – seven crew. Should have been over two-fifty but there were a lot of no-shows...luckily...' he tailed off and the silence hung in the damp air between them.

'So what do we think happened?' VanDijk turned to the man in the white overall who had joined them.

'Rousseau – Chief Aircrash Investigation, Zaventem.' A Walloon - all he needed. 'It's far too early for me to speculate on causes, we've only just started to look at the wreckage.'

'I know that – but what do you think?'

'I'm thinking my team will need to complete our preliminary analysis before I can possibly...'

'Fine – how long?'

'Eighteen to twenty four hours.'

'And what do we tell the world's media before then? You know as well as I do they're going to make it up. Bombs sell more papers than metal fatigue.'

'Well – maybe that's not so far off the mark...' Rousseau answered.

VanDijk felt his heart sink.

'You're serious?'

'Well...like I say we've only just started looking at the aircraft, but it's looking like the plane broke up in mid-air, there was no May-Day signal, and reports are of a loud explosion. I wouldn't rule it out – in fact off the record, as I am not supposed to speculate, I think you should be prepared.'

'Oh Jeeeus...!' VanDijk looked to the heavens but found only canvas. His mind raced back to the telephone call, the warning, and the decision not to take action...

Oh Christ, Oh Christ...

*

'...here's another one in Germany – Bielefeld that one; Miata in Kobe Japan; er...Vienna; Bangkok. Two in the U.S. – Dirk in Texas, he's funny – you'd never guess it, but he's a funeral director! How about that? Some of the things he writes, well...' She flicked casually over another small, hand-written page and found more details of friends in faraway places. 'Peru – not been there yet; New Zealand – went to Wellington last year...'

'And how was that, I've heard it's nice...?' Paul found he was playing catch-up, but having given up on making progress in his book and despite himself he was actually quite intrigued. Again she turned sharply to face him, still clutching the bag, as if imparting an urgent secret.

'Didn't care for it.'

'No?'

'No. Not very friendly.' She wrinkled her nose then returned to the little cream address book. For someone so superficially harmless she didn't half have some firm opinions. But he had to admit they seemed to be based on first-hand knowledge so he really wasn't in a position to judge. He also had to admit at not a little guilt at his initial behaviour. Having realised he would get no peace he had given in and had started to find her highly entertaining – definitely a story he could relay at the end of this one-way trip. And sheepishly he thought of the many times he had buried himself in a book on countless previous flights, deliberately ignorant and antisocial toward those sitting next to him who may have had equally interesting stories to tell. How many hours?

Her matter-of-factly related tales of exotic travel and a diverse range of characters had kept him amused for over half an hour and with little more than that to go he was glad at not having resorted to his final tactic of feigning sleep. He didn't think he was a reformed character but...Well, it made you think.

'Don't you ever get confused with what they're all doing, your pen-pals?' he asked, puzzled at the thought of having so many compartmentalised 'friends'.

'I have a big book where I jot things down,' she illustrated this by miming the action of writing. 'What they tell me I note down – children, partners, job, pets...whatever. I mean it would be very rude not to pay attention to what people wanted to tell you. And what I've told them of course.'

'But when do you find the time to contact them all?'

'Oh...just whenever. I don't watch television, don't have a garden. So whenever I have half an hour I write – just...write. I find it very therapeutic. I think who's corresponded with me recently – I can get two or three letters some weeks – and what I've been doing. I tell them about my other friends. Mary – the florist from Winnipeg? – I've told that story a few times. She knows – I wouldn't betray a confidence. In fact I think she rather enjoys the notoriety!' Sounded hard work to Paul and he said so. Didn't she use a computer – edit the same letters to different people?

'Oh no – got to be hand-written. That shows it personal. I do get an occasional typed one and you do get the impression that it's one of those 'circulars'. No: making them individual is part of the fun – and you always think of new things to say or ways to say it. Plus what you talk about depends on what may interest them – just like when you meet friends face to face. I mean, you wouldn't phone someone and play them a pre-recorded tape of your news, would you?' That was a bloody good idea, thought Paul.

A 'ping' and seat-belt light lit in anticipation of their arrival: the plane had been descending for the past five minutes. He noticed his neighbour tense, her wrinkled hands clutching the bag on her knee with renewed vigour. On its creamy surface he noticed a monogrammed 'G' and he realised with something approaching shame that he hadn't even asked her name.

'What terminal are we arriving at?' she suddenly asked, agitated once more; and Paul saw that again she had her ticket out and was peering at it beneath those comically-endearing plastic rims. The hands were holding ticket, passport and address book in a complicated fan.

'I'm not sure actually. Hold on,' and he fished his ticket out from his trouser pocket. 'Doesn't say – but I think they only have one. This flight usually arrives at the "B" gates. Where is your connection flying from?'

'Oh – can you see, I'm struggling...'

He leant over. It was also B – but more importantly he noticed something else – something that had not registered earlier. She too was flying to Warsaw. More – she was in seat number 17A to his 17C: they would once again be companions for the second, longer leg of their journey... The feeling of guilt returned and instantly set about gnawing his innards.

'Oops!' exclaimed the professional pen-pal as he'd dubbed her. She had managed to drop her paperwork – address book and all. Paul quickly unclasped his seatbelt and twisted out of his seat into the path of the advancing food-cart.

'Aargh!' he cried as metal met bone on his hip and lower back.

'Ooo, I'm sorry sir – but we are coming into land and...' the stocky stewardess began. But within Paul the red was flaring.

'I was bloody-well picking something bloody well up...!' he retorted through gritted teeth, rubbing his side and wincing menacingly.

'Can I get you something?'

'Not unless you stock replacement hips on that pitiful trolley!' he spat back as he stepped out of the aisle and into the confines of his seat. Then he caught himself. 'Sorry – sorry,' this last to some other passengers who were giving him Paddington-style hard-stares. 'Sorry – I'll just...sit back...down...' He handed Ms 'G.' Penpal her address book and ticket.

'Thank you – I am sorry you got hurt there. Are you alright?' she asked with mild concern, and he rubbed his back and winced a bit more, just to make it clear to all concerned that his anger was fully justified as it Really Did Hurt.

'I won't die,' he answered then, thinking of the irony in that statement, reached down to touch his own briefcase sat asleep beneath his seat.

*

'What the hell do you mean another three hours? It's either a bomb or it's not. Either there's a bloody big hole in one part of the fuselage or there isn't. Even I've seen enough films to know that...!' But his angry words bounced from Rousseau's back as the investigator turned back to where his sub-team had stationed themselves in the far right-hand corner of the now bustling tent. VanDijk turned and strode out of the main structure, suddenly in need of air and another cigarette. The ventilation was inadequate and the atmosphere was starting to decay rapidly. Outside the rain formed a diagonal grey veil across his view. The light was starting to fade across the rolling fields east of Liege. Arc-lights pierced the gloom, emphasising the impending darkness, throwing hedges, telegraph poles and the outline of moving human figures into stark relief. Some meticulously searched with sticks, torches and gloves; others erected still new pieces of this macabre outdoor stage-set – lighting, fencing, electrical equipment, more tents. The fields were punctuated with the bright tell-tale sheets which spoke of fallen bodies, each reduced to numbers scrawled on a short, yellow board. Flashes punctuated the haze, photographers recording each terrible detail.

Five hours on site and the pace of the investigation was agonisingly slow. He had little more information now than when he'd arrived and he was getting calls half-hourly from his superiors demanding progress. It wasn't just the Belgian media now camped in the surrounding countryside. He heard someone else leave the tent behind him. It was Desmedt.

'Sir – passenger list,' he thrust a sheaf of paper anxiously in the Inspector's direction.

'Confirmed?'

'Yes sir – only one no show from the original, the rest definitely got on board. They did a count onto the plane itself – that's this sheet here, signed by the chief-steward.'

VanDijk looked down at the list – the names a mix of Belgians foreigners, the crash indiscriminate in its victims. But was there one name who wasn't a victim at all?

'What do you think – do we have a terrorist incident on our hands?' he asked grimly, still looking out across the still, grey carnage. 'Someone plant a bomb in the catering trolley, carry one on in their shoe? Make one with a bottle of water and an aerosol...?'

'I really don't know sir – I have a team checking for familiar names and of course the phone call but...in the meantime I guess we wait for the experts.' Desmedt appeared embarrassed and nervous of making his boss even more annoyed than he evidently already was.

VanDijk took a long drag on his cigarette then dropped it and stubbed it out with the toe of his right boot. He exhaled and watched the smoke quickly disperse in the rapidly cooling evening air.

'Yes...we wait.'

*

Paul waved a cheery goodbye across in her direction as they parted and marched purposely off in search of the nearest service desk. As he walked he thought, and as he thought his march became less confident. Why had he not told her he was sat next to her again on the connecting flight?

Easy – because he didn't want to sit with her again

Was that true?

Yep – one seventy-five minute flight was tolerable, but another two and a half hours? Nope.

Really?

Really – now where the hell was that service desk? They could move him - the flight couldn't possibly be full.

He rubbed his back as if to provide the answer to the question he wasn't asking himself. He started to hum then stopped when he remembered that was how he reacted when embarrassed – like the child covering its ears so as to ignore what it didn't want to hear.

He strode. He hummed.

He gave in.

She was harmless, if a little possessive of her bag and her 'pals'. He smiled when he thought of her address book. And her 'gonk'. For goodness sake – was it worth the effort? He slowed to a halt, paused, then turned to go in the other direction. She didn't know where he was going and he could pretend not to have noticed on her ticket – yep, it would be OK. He may have to draw the line if she asked for his address though...

He used the forty-five minutes to browse the shops – little point in buying from the glitzy and over-priced boutiques, but a nice enough way to pass the time. He wouldn't be needing to keep up with his e-mail from now on. His grip tightened once more upon the handle of his briefcase.

It was the magazines that caught him out – that and as it turned out a faulty clock. By the time he realised he was ten minutes late for boarding and had underestimated the time it would take to get to the gate – B47 was all the way down at the end, down some steps and...it was still open! The woman in the smartly folded blue uniform was just closing the glass door as he pelted up, sweating profusely. No no no...

'...no! Am I...am I in time?'

'Well...we have closed but let me see if I...' and she turned to use her radio. Come on – please please... He couldn't miss this flight – timing was everything, it had to be this flight, had to be. Suddenly the trivialities of who sat next to who was the furthest thing from his mind.

Come on!!

She turned, smiling, just as he put his hand in his pocket and made his second unpleasant discovery inside twelve minutes.

'If we hurry they will take you – your boarding pass and passport?'

His hands flew to every pocket, he even checked his case. But he knew precisely where his boarding pass was – knew with astonishing clarity exactly where it was nestling at this very moment.

'Sir? – we must hurry,' her voice was all Flemish efficiency.

'My boarding pass – I seem to have...erm...mislaid it – somebody on board has it – if I could...I mean, can I just...?'

'I'm sorry sir – I really have to close now. You will need to go to the service desk,' her voice as starchy as her uniform. Case closed.

'But this is my last flight...I have to get out on it!'

'No – that is it. I am sorry.' She turned and disappeared through the door, locking it against his vain protestations. No!!!!!!!!!! a plaintive wail this time as reality dawned. He wouldn't make it... No happy ending. He would need a new plan – he needed a plan B and fast. He carefully placed the aluminium briefcase on the ground beside him, mind blank. For months he had known each move to make, what to do next. Had it all worked out. But now he was stuck, and all he could do was watch.

He watched as the gantry was withdrawn, then he watched as the blue and white 737 drew back from the stand. He watched the rain begin to fall harder, pounding the fuselage, running in torrents across the windows where the interior glowed warmly in the failing light.

And he watched as the window of seat 17A passed him by, and a familiar face beamed out at him, waving a piece of paper. And without needing to look too hard, Paul knew exactly what it was.

*

'Sir! Call for you. Chief at Zaventem. Says he needs to talk with you – says it's urgent. About the crash.' Desmedt held the mobile phone out to his boss who stood smoking next to his car. It was dark, and the countryside was alive with islands of light and the sound of generators. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and shuddered to think of the amount of caffeine that was in his system. He felt awake yet unbearably tired.

'VanDijk,' he stated into the handset.

'Hallo – Inspector? We have been trying to call you for the past hour but could not get through. I had a witness who says they have information about the crash – they sat with a passenger on an earlier flight acting suspiciously with a bag. Agitated. We think this person was on the crashed flight.'

'Really? Well can I speak to them?'

'They are on their way to you there – I had an officer take them as I thought it would be easier to question,' VanDijk drew a sharp intake of breath. Idiot.

'Thank you. When did they leave?'

'Oh – thirty-five, maybe forty-minutes ago. They should be with you in fact by now. As I say I tried to get through earlier but...'

'I know, I know. Thanks – I'll talk to them when they get here.'

*

'So let's get this straight – you sat next to this individual for the whole of the flight?'

'Yes.'

'And you say they were nervous, acting strangely. You said they seemed oddly pre-occupied with a bag?'

'Yes...yes, that's right.'

'But that's it?'

'Well – look I didn't say she did it but I mean – I just thought she was odd, you know?' Paul took another drag on his cigarette and leant back in his steel-backed chair away from the table between him and the Belgian detective who in his opinion seemed to be treating this rather too lightly.

'And this was...?' he looked down at his notes, 'a largish, elderly lady in a beige coat and a sunhat. Don't know her name, possible initial 'G'. And she was sitting in seat number 17-A.'

'Yee-es,' Paul was growing weary. He'd been through it twice in the hour he'd been here and once at the airport and still he felt he was on trial. 'That's it – that's all I know. Does it help? I mean I'm sorry but it's just some information – and if I may say so I get driven all the bloody way here only for you to act like it's not important. I really have better places to be.'

'No – no, not "not important". It's just...'

'Just what?'

'Mr Carroway, we found the cause of the accident two-hours ago. Metal fatigue in the tailfin. The black box confirms a loss of control by the pilot which, combined with a radio malfunction meant no distress-call was received. The pilot valiantly tried to land safely but the tail section became detached and...' He left a pause for the imagination. 'This will not be released to the press for a week or two until the full investigation is completed but I have it on good authority,' he glanced across at Rousseau who was busily packing away his laptop, 'that it is open and shut. There are no hints of foul play after all. I tell you this to allay your fears – you will not of course pass this information on to the press,' this was definitely not a question but Paul was too tired to worry about the implied threat.

'Mr Carroway – I would be more suspicious of you than I would of our mysterious Mrs 'G' – you after all were originally booked on the flight before suddenly cancelling...'

'The old bat took my bloody boarding pass!'

'I would remind you that this "old-bat", as you put it, would seem to have saved your life, Mr Carroway.'

Paul pulled himself up suddenly. So obsessed had he been with the idea that she had bombed the plane that he hadn't actually thought about it that way.

'But she may have caused the crash – I mean, maybe it wasn't a bomb. Maybe it had metal fatigue but she...I don't know...'

'Mister Carroway. I'm not sure what happened today, who you spoke with on the plane or indeed if she stole your ticket. But I can tell you that you must be very much mistaken about her being on the crashed plane,' he placed a sheaf of well-thumbed A4 paper on the table between them. 'Here, taken from the photographed passports, are all the people on that flight, and as you can see, none fits your description. Further,' he pre-empted Paul's objection, 'I can guarantee you that no-one was sitting in seat 17A because there is no 17A on this configuration of aircraft. The window you describe between the two S's on the outside is a blank, it is painted out. What is more, the two adjoining window seats in front and behind were both occupied by men.' He allowed this to sink in before continuing in a quieter voice. 'I took the liberty of having the crew of your previous flight questioned also – this was when I considered you a suspect, you understand. They said you had become drunk and rather abusive, is this true?'

'Well I'm not sure what that's got to do with this...I was going on to a very important meeting – my whole financial future hung...still hangs, on my getting to Warsaw. New job, new life. Tomorrow morning I was due to I was...' VanDijk waved his hand and sat back.

'We all have out stressful days. Look at me? I woke up this morning and the most stressful thing I had in my diary was organising a parade through the town. No, Mr Carroway. The thing I was going to say was that of the four people we spoke to, all confirmed that you were on your own for the whole of the flight – sat next to an empty seat the entire time,' he added.

Paul sat and stared back at him blankly, brain suddenly in neutral.

'But...' was all he could manage.

VanDijk stood up and made to leave.

'Mr Carroway – thank you very much for coming along, I really do appreciate it and I wish you luck with your move to Poland. A car will return you to the airport. But might I suggest that you go to a hotel for the night and get a good night's sleep? And before you go to bed, you – like the hundred and thirty two other no-shows for that flight – thank your guardian angel that you lost your ticket.'

The policeman stood, stubbed out another cigarette on the damp grass, then turned and left the tent.

* * *

# A Walk on the Verge

In his semi-drunken state Carl ignored the noise deciding it was none of his business. He kept his head propped against the window of the Transit-van and continued to dribble as the M6 swept past in the darkness. But what started as a gentle rubbing sound between junctions thirty-one and thirty-two grew to a drone between thirty-two and thirty-three, and by thirty-six was a full-fledged and rather painful grinding. Carl objected to this interruption to his sleep and later he'd think if only he'd ignored it there might have been an awful lot less blood.

'Anyone else hear that?' asked Pete from the driver's seat. No one answered: Carl continued to dribble while Shaun just stared out the window, ears plugged into his iPod. A packet of mints bounced off Shaun's shaved head and caught his attention. He ripped out an earplug.

'Oi! What was that for?'

'Cos you're an ignorant twonk,' replied Pete.

'Woz matter?'

'Houston, I think we may have a problem.'

'Nah – the quote is "Houston we have a problem", not "I think we have a problem".'

'Shurrup. Point is we have one. Listen?'

(The grinding was now accompanied by an intermittent groaning)

'No.'

'Yes you do.'

'No I mean, yes I do, but no I don't 'cos we're only half an hour from home and once the van's back at Joycie's place it's not our problem anymore. So carry on.'

'Ah – it was that kind of no was it? Didn't realise.'

Pete pulled onto the hard-shoulder and braked.

'What you doing? I said carry on...Come on Pete, I wanna go to bed!'

'So do I but best take a look. Probably just that back wing rubbing on the tyre again.'

'Why do we have Captain Sensible in the band eh Carl?' Shaun looked round for support. 'Carl?' But the third band member was still welded to the window in his drunken stupor. The van was still rolling.

'Come on, if we're going to stop, stop.'

'Can't mate – brakes are shot.'

'Awww f...'

The van finally came to a halt in the pitch black, engine rumbling unevenly.

'So no brakes – can we still make it?'

Pete lost his patience.

'No, course we can't "still make it", you dylan!'

'But look there's no one else on here at this time of night, and if you drive rea-ally slo-ly...'

'Tell you what, Shaun. Yes, we'll do just that...'

'Great!'

'Yep, we'll do that...'

'Okay then let's go...' Shaun replied a little more uncertainly, possibly sensing a lack of sincerity.

'Yes Shaun, and if we have to do an emergency stop, like for an old dear crossing outside Tesco, then I need you to open the door...'

'...erm, right...'

'And stick your fat arse onto the tarmac 'till we stop, alright?'

Like the van, Shaun's optimism ground to a halt.

'Right: shall we look at the damage then?' Pete opened the door giving Shaun his patented "you idiot" stare and a moment later Shaun reluctantly followed.

Carl opened one eye and let it roam round the cabin, noting the bulky musical apparatus beside him and the fact he was alone. He frowned marginally, turned an eye to the window and noted the cloud of smoke which was enveloping the side of the van.

'Still want to carry on, Einstein?' said Pete outside. Shaun grasped the idea of a rhetorical question without knowing the word for it. To him it was a 'keep quiet' question. The two men stood three feet from the van and watched smoke billow from the wheel arch. They bent to look: flames licked the tyre and the plastic wheel-trim began to melt.

'Arse,' said Shaun.

*

Shaun stopped playing 'Star Wars' with the torch beam along the over-grown verge when he failed to spot and consequently tripped over the metal shell of a yellow workman's lamp. His expletives briefly illuminated the scene before he was cast into darkness as his tumbling torch blinked out.

'Oh...great.' Shaun had drawn the short straw with Pete to go for help – Carl not being in any fit state to go anywhere unaccompanied. Pete reckoned a service station to be no more than two miles ahead and as none of them had AA cover it was the only option. Pete would try to flag help down at the scene but at one in the morning he held little hope.

For the first half mile Shaun had enjoyed himself – flashing the torch around, examining the roadside debris (a toilet seat for God's sake, a bloody toilet seat!) and whistling "Smells like teen spirit". Then he'd enjoyed shouting expletives into the darkness. – a curiously liberating experience After this a blister set in on the ball of his left foot. By the mile mark he was grumbling and limping, and it was during one attempt to distract from the boredom that he had come a cropper and now found himself sprawled on his face. Blood trickled from his nose and ruined his t-shirt. After the humiliation of only thirty people at the Preston gig this was a swell way to end the evening.

Shaun got to his feet and took in surroundings that could generally be described as dark. In fact he struggled to see where hard-shoulder met road met verge. He had the wit to stand still and retrace where he had been walking in an attempt to locate the torch. It was then that he heard it: a shout, which must have been an animal but which was nearly saying a word. Sheep? Stray dog?

Light suddenly showed over the brow of a rise in the road a mile or so back – a car. Shaun's first thought was that it had picked the others up and was coming to his rescue but with dismay he realised it wasn't slowing. His second thought was that it would illuminate the area and could show were the torch was. He dropped to a crouch and studied the shadows. The car raced towards him – yes, a torch, in the inside lane ten yards back, there it was! The car's lights left an imprint on his vision. Turning quickly Shaun sought out the tell tale shadow of the torch in the diminishing red glow of tail-lights but temporarily blinded he struggled and fell to his knees. Luckily, as he did so he hit the torch. Unluckily, so had the car.

'Pants!' shouted Shaun as he felt the shattered remains. He picked up what he could and tried to push them back together in the hope that this random recombination would replicate what the factory in Korea had done in the first place. No success; more expletives. Shaun hurled the pieces across the motorway and shouted up at the star-filled sky.

Done, he looked round. There was just enough light to see where the motorway was, but not enough to avoid treading on stuff. The same whether he went on or went back. Guesstimating he was closer to the Services than the van, Shaun pressed on.

The first thing he knew about the car was when it assaulted his right knee. His head hit the back window and he fell for the second time that morning, rolling into tall grass and stones.

'Sh-iiiine a light!' Swearing wasn't any fun on your own, he realised. The car was an abandoned hatchback, probably nicked. A cursory inspection revealed no wheels and missing side windows. He didn't bother checking any further, and moved on.

The bridge was a simple concrete arch across both carriageways, silhouetted against the sky. Shaun had been walking for five minutes during which he'd made slow progress, and after initially being annoyed by the dark now he was getting freaked by it. The bridge created a pool of pitch black beneath it that he would have to cross to reach the Services.

'Who goes there?'

Shaun stopped and stood, staring blindly out in front of him, unsure how to proceed. The voice was low, gravelly. He wanted to shout out but...

An odd noise like wind-chimes arose from somewhere up to his left: a hollow, xylophone-type sound which sent a chill down his back. The voice repeated:

'Who goes there?' then added, 'are you a friend or are you a foe?' The word foe was almost spat. Shaun was unnerved. Respond or leg it? On a whim, he chose the latter.

*

Pete had been listening to Shaun's iPod. The radio in the fifteen-year-old transit had long since gone the way of the brakes and Carl wasn't much company so it provided the only way to pass the time. It was common knowledge that Shaun had appalling taste in music but Pete had still scrolled open-mouthed through some of the utter bilge contained on its four mega-bytes.

'Dollar! For chrissake Carl...Leo Sayer?!' The fact he was reliant on this man's ability to play bass was kind of scary. Although Shaun also sported a series of ridiculous hairstyles, so the clues had been there, he considered.

'Are we nearly there yet, Pete?'

Carl had awoken; the words were slurred but oddly endearing, like a small child.

'No Carl. Shaun's dawdling as usual...could be a long wait.'

'Oh. It's just I need a wee.'

'Well do it here.'

'What...in the van?'

'Recap Carl: we've broken down, Shaun's gone for help...'

'Can't you phone?'

'...and we can't phone because I'm the only one with money on theirs, and what did Shaun do with Pete's phone...?'

Pete turned and looked encouragingly at Carl whose face was a shadow fighting for memory beneath an alcohol-fuelled fog.

'Come on...' said Pete, 'he put it in...?'

Carl's face brightened and he pointed back at Pete.

'...your pint! That was funny...!'

'No, it wasn't Carl, because I couldn't call Debs to tell her we were stuck in that jam and now she'll be worried and...oh what's the use...' and he opened the driver's door.

'Where are you going?'

'I'm gonna find Shaun – he's been gone nearly an hour – probably fallen over his shoe-laces and got lost.'

'What about me?'

'What about you? You're a grown man, Carl. If you need to piss go ahead – outside the van. And not in the fuel tank – it's not funny when it's your own vehicle, kind of defeats the point.'

Pete took the keys out of the ignition and grinned back at Carl.

'Just in case – I think we all remember last time, don't we?'

Carl's face clouded.

'What shall I do?'

'Have a nap,' he opened the door and got out. 'Oh, and don't open the door to strangers. You never know who the bogeymen are,' and he laughed a bogey-man-type laugh before slamming the door behind him.

Carl watched him disappear into the darkness then went back to sleep.

*

You didn't really understand the true meaning of dark, living in a city, thought Pete. You needed to be out in the country without the orange glow of a nearby town or village. There was nothing – nothing at all. The sky had a hazy glow that meant you could see the outline of the horizon if you strained. But below that was nothing: abso-bloody-lutely nothing. And it made you feel very alone.

His feet followed the line of invisible cat's eyes between the inside land and the hard-shoulder. He judged he'd see any cars coming up behind him a long time before they reached him. Precisely two cars passed him in the first mile, both caning it up the middle lane. Good job he wasn't injured or in need of help.

By the light of each car he checked for some sight of the Services or maybe Shaun. Actually he didn't want to see Shaun, as he thought if he did he'd quite probably lamp him one. Again he questioned what had possessed him to send Shaun first. Oh well, what was done was done.

The second car showed red lights up ahead which turned out to be the rear reflectors of an abandoned Escort. The third car showed him a bridge, and in his mind he convinced himself that the Services were just around the next bend. Pete increased the length of his stride and realised too late he'd lost the cat's eyes.

'Fudge,' he exclaimed unenthusiastically and stopped. He didn't want to find he was out in the fast lane when the next car came. Turn left: easy. So he veered slightly to the left, slowed to feel for cats eyes but with no success. Oh well, not far.

It was the bridge that caused him to fall. Within a few strides it reared up and took him by surprise just as he reached the grass verge beside the hard shoulder. One moment he was on solid ground, the he was flailing off into the overgrowth.

'Who-ssat?' a voice suddenly called from up to his left. Pete sat up, wide-eyes trying vainly to grab some light.

'Shaun?' he asked. 'Shaun – if this is you pissing about I am going to seriously t**t you.'

'Shaun-Shaun, corn corn, torn torn, fawn fawn...!' The child-like voice didn't sound like Shaun, but who the hell else was around this time of night?

'Shaun – ok just stop, come on we have to get to the...'

A flame opened a hole in the darkness; maybe fifteen feet up a slope to his left, with the underside of the bridge arching overhead, there was a ball of light around a long match. It lit up a short, stocky figure covered in...was that hair?

'Erm...Hi, look we broke down and I just need to get along to the Services and...'

'Service-service, Peter-Purvis...'

Pete suddenly got scared, very scared. He tried to stand and realised the extent of the injury to his ankle. It screamed and refused to take any weight. Pete forced it, ignoring the bright-white pain and started to hobble. The figure was moving down the slope towards him.

'Um, um, eeeeerrr...' Just noises but Pete felt his stomach loosen. He was half-running, outpacing the thing, which ambled slowly down the slope. Just get to the Services, he kept thinking, get past this, don't worry about who (or what) it is, just get past it. The slip was inevitable, given what had been placed in his way. A sharp, stabbing sensation around his leg, something cutting into the flesh and new, searing pain shooting up his left leg.

'Aaaaargghhhhh!' he screamed and went down holding this new injury and the mechanical animal trap which had caused it. The gently glowing ball and its odd carrier advanced and it was all Pete could do to watch it and wonder. The head was wide and set low on squat shoulders. He was dumpy, and yes, really was incredibly hairy. In daylight, and without his being helplessly caught in its trap this might have been a comical moment.

But then Pete recognised the spherical object it was carrying, and began to scream.

*

After emptying his bladder Carl slept like a baby, drooling down the nearside window. In his sleep he didn't dream and turned only twice: once to get comfy, and once to scratch himself. It was his own snoring that finally got the better of him and he awoke with a question ready-formed on his lips:

'Pete?'

No reply. Let's try another:

'Shaun?' Same answer.

Vague memories of arguments and smoke crept lazily into his head and Carl "hmph-ed" upon realising he'd probably have to move.

The air outside was cold and still as he stepped onto the tarmac. It was also very, very dark, one of the few things Carl would admit to being afraid of (to himself at any rate). He decided to break the stillness.

'He-llo-oooooh!!!!' he howled, succeeding only in projecting a string of spittle into the night where it arched like a string of sticky fairy lights and stuck to his t-shirt.

'Futtocks!' he announced, before examining the van for provisions. He found a jumper and a Snickers bar and, momentarily appeased by the latter, set off in what he assumed to be the right direction.

*

Carl stumbled along for half mile before taking a well-earned break – fumbling along to find your mates was hard work. He polished off the Snickers with no discernible thoughts passing through his head. Carl was one of those rare, blessed individuals who literally could empty their minds. His life was all the more stress-free as a result.

Torrential rain often has the effect of speeding things up and so it proved; Carl swore mildly and tried to lift the back of his jumper over his head. Ironically he was the only one who did not find the abandoned car – he overtook it in the inside lane having wandered some way off course. Only when a lorry came sailing past did he realise his error and regained the hard shoulder. It was a diminishing glow before it occurred to him that he should have tried to flag it down.

Ten minutes and gallons of water later Carl's evening had reached an all-time low when:

'Oi!'

The voice was croaky and echoed strangely. Carl stared hard into the darkness for the source but the noise of rain on tarmac defeated him.

'What you do here?'

Never one to dodge an easy question Carl answered:

'I'm lookin' for Pete and Shaun – 'ave yer seen 'em?'

The unseen voice seemed to think about this before offering:

'Yes – come up.'

Come up? What did he have, a penthouse? Carl was drunk but not stupid. Actually, yes he was stupid, but the drunkenness counteracted it and left him briefly lucid enough to decline.

'Nah – yer alright. I'll just carry on to the...erm...' and he attempted a half-hurry which came out as an arthritic jog. There was scuffling, then a series of 'clunk's which suggested hollow things being banged together. Then Carl saw a faint light – fire, up a slope to his left, under what he now realised was a concrete bridge.

'Friend here – hurt,' the voice said. 'Hurtie-hurtie!'

Carl stopped and looked closer: he could see a shape moving.

'Pete? Shaun?' No response.

'Is he tall and lanky, or short and kind of ugly, with a goatee beard – you know like Shaggy off Scooby-Doo?'

'Head bleeds.'

Blimey! Action-stations.

Carl ran at the slope, climbing up the soft earth, ignoring the brambles tearing at his legs and arms.

'I'm coming ship-mates!' he called. The wild undergrowth was surprisingly thick up here and he battled to get through, shielding his face as he went. Only when he reached the top, nearing the fire, did he raise his head to see what had become of his friends.

The first he knew of the trap was the whooshing whiplash sound of the rope snaking along the ground toward him, then the tightening around his ankles and finally a strange, falling sensation followed by the exact opposite as first his legs, body, then finally his head and arms were hoisted into the air. His body swung quickly to his left, the fire streaking past his eyes and Carl managed one energetic:

'Whoaaaa...!' before his head hit the concrete stanchion and knocked him clean out.

*

The noise reminded Carl of washing the dishes, that hollow sound of crockery jostling under water in the sink. Random, gentle, calming. He concentrated on this as he span: head foggy, aching at the back where it had made contact with...with what? Carl's brain took a few seconds to re-load.

Gig, van, rain, fire...It's a trap!

His eyes shot open and immediately wished they hadn't. He was spinning slowly, suspended by his feet from what he couldn't tell but the fire was still alight five feet below and the rain had eased. He suspected they were sheltered by the bridge. Yes, 'they', because he was not alone. Carl couldn't see him but between the hollow knocking he could hear various scrapes and bangs. And it was humming. No, mumbling. It was an unsettlingly happy sound.

'Eh eh eh, ta-num-de-de-derm. Eh. Eh-eh-eh...'

Unfamiliar with such situations Carl did what any normal person would do and vomited profusely. It dribbled unpleasantly up his nose and he had to blow furiously to avoid it re-entering his body. His rotation slowed allowing him to look round. The fire was placed in a well-trampled clearing; around this the undergrowth was remarkably thick and Carl guessed they were invisible from the road.

'Eh-eh. Eh-eh,' the thing said. Around the fire were various branches and pieces of fire-blackened metal. Some had black lumps attached, others had strings of what presumably were plants.

'Eh, der-der. Der-de-der-de-der.' Was it trying to communicate?

The hollow knocking returned as a breeze brought the smell of roast beef. Carl looked for its source, panic stirring. The mumbling came closer and then Carl saw it.

A short man with his back to Carl was occupied by something on the ground. Bulky, under five feet in height and dressed in an old overcoat and trilby. He wore scabby black boots and had a red scarf draped across his left shoulder.

Was he really being held captive by a tramp? A moth-eaten, rope-for-a-belt with all-kinds-of-furry--creatures-hanging-from-it tramp? For what – for wanting to poach his rabbits?

'Look – I don't want yer rabbits, keep 'em,' he shouted. But that knocking - that wasn't washing-up in the sink was it?

'I'll buy you dinner – I've got money, we can go up to the services.'

'Eh-eh-eh.'

'Sausages and mash. Mmmmm!' Carl stopped, realising how idiotic he sounded. 'Come on, how about dinner. Breakfast. What the hell time is it?' And he tried to raise the hand with the watch on it, only to realise it was tied to the other and lashed to the ground.

'Whoa now come on, pal. Don't be silly, let's not go too far. I get the joke and everything but I mean...'

Carl's ramblings were curtailed when his host turned to face him. And all of a sudden words weren't so easy to come by. It looked like a...

'...pig...?!'

Carl's ability to play word association led him to say the first thing that entered his head and this was a fair assessment. Not a pig, the thing nonetheless shared that creature's snout and pointy ears, whereas the tusks were more those of a hog. They were long, yellowy and gnarled. Its skin was grey and leathery; the hair sprouting in random clumps set around large boils, the head over-sized, as though a papier-mâché mask.

'Eh-eh-eh.' The noise was more like a snuffle and the creature came towards him, sniffing. Unlike a pig this thing had a huge, fanged mouth that opened in an almost human grin before uttering the single word:

'Din-ner'. It turned its back and Carl suddenly realised that what he'd taken to be rabbits on his belt weren't rabbits at all. And what he had taken to be a scarlet scarf across its shoulder was no scarf...

Entrails adorned the creature like liquorice. Every now and then it would turn its head and nibble on one, disgustingly. And upon the belt he realised with horror that he recognised the hair, the distinctive dreadlocks... He tried to pretend these were not his former friends but...

'Jeeeeeeeessssuuuuuuuuus chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiist!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

All around were traces of butchery: the clearing was sodden despite being sheltered by the bridge not by water, but with blood. It was everywhere. And so were bones, organs, lumps of meat, unidentifiable squidgy bits. All lined up neatly, filed. Carl looked up and saw rows of muscles and tendons strung up to dry. Below them bowls caught the blood. The word 'disassembly' appeared in Carl's mind, a mind that was a mess as his eyes pinballed from one obscenity to the next. The knocking that he had known was not bowls in a sink... There were five of them hanging down on strings of varying lengths so they collided at odd angles. Three were clean, dry, a dull ivory colour. But the last two skulls still glistened with blood. The last two skulls were Pete and Shaun's.

'Noooooo!' And he realised he was howling. Carl retched, then retched again, this time not caring where it went. A third and fourth time then he was dry but still his stomach wanted to expunge the visions contained within him.

'No!' Spitting and dribbling. The blood, the skulls, the scalps...! 'No, no, no...!' He started to hyperventilate, which seemed to attract the creature's attention. It came sniffing and Carl could smell meat on its breath; could see bits of flesh stuck between its teeth...bits of...people.

More dry vomiting: Carl's stomach began to cramp.

'Go on then!' he screamed, 'kill me too – go on you ugly b*****d, kill me too then, see if I care!' and he twisted for all it was worth against his bonds. The creature raised podgy hands with three fingers and a thumb each, all with tremendous claws. It raised one above Carl's inverted head, towards his belt. Two, piggy, malevolent eyes bore into Carls' own, unwavering. Suddenly a series of hot, stabbing pains arose in Carl's stomach. A jolt made them stab hotter, a jolt which coincided with the look on the face smiling then, soundlessly, the creature brought its huge claw slowly down Carl's stomach, opening up three gaping wounds as it did so. Even as he called out for Jesus and all the saints to help him Carl knew it could have ripped him wide apart had it wanted. And this scared him more than anything, because it meant the creature preferred its meat fresh.

He saw it eat Pete's face. How long had he been there: two hours? Three? It was still dark, and his strength had been steadily draining with the blood that ran down over his tear-stained face into a bowl placed carefully beneath. Despite the careful arrangement of all its stock the thing didn't eat - it gorged; stuffing the limp, flaccid piece of flesh that had been the band's lead vocalist between its untidy jaws. The sound was the obscene, the meal being accompanied by a series of hm-nck and yampf-yampfs. It dribbled as it chewed on the nose, finishing with the left ear that it obviously considered a delicacy, savouring it with a purr. It then threw itself onto the grass and writhed in self-satisfaction like some huge mutant cat.

Carl had little strength. Covered in blood and vomit, the effects of the alcohol had worn off as had the initial fear. What had replaced them he didn't know but it was dull and numb. He'd given up shouting after failing to make an impact on the eight vehicles that had passed on the motorway below, a motorway that existed in a different universe. Now he conserved what energy he had for...for what? He'd looked for ways to escape with no success and now he was merely numb: numb with hopelessness and simple but immense sadness for his two dead friends.

It was during the second night that Carl came closest to giving up: a night of no sleep, of strange noises, of unadulterated terror. Having survived one day and at one point not having heard the creature for some hours he had started to imagine his ordeal over, that the next sound he might hear would be human. But while the traffic increased no one stopped, no one called, no one came and he began to dream of death. His empty stomach occasionally let go as did his bladder but he had ceased to care. He was weak, bordering on delirious and his head felt about to explode. A couple of times he passed out only to experience the horror of realisation anew each time he awoke. As the evening drew on and the sun disappeared into the most terrifying sunset he had ever witnessed, Carl prayed that it was his last.

There was no single moment of revelation: the idea formed outside his rational mind. He was as surprised as anyone when it announced itself, fully formed at five in the morning. It sat and grinned at him, and internally if not bodily, Carl grinned back.

The creature had slept and obviously awoke feeling like fresh food. The sun had started to make itself known across the far side of the motorway but it was still too faint to provide hope of rescue.

'Hm-eh. Ahhhhh-eh! Eh!'

'Yes, yes, get on with it...' he managed.

The creature stood in front of him and readied a small knife with which it obviously intended to remove Carl's scalp. Hands tied to the floor, feet to the bridge above, Carl waited until the creature got really, really close. A thick, greenish tongue licked what could have been lips then it raised the knife so it rested against his forehead.

'Heh-heh, nyam, nyam...' was all it said by way of explanation.

Carl counted one, two, three to steady himself then...

The plume of vomit and blood sprayed into the creature's face and entered its mouth, eyes and even its pointy ears. The thing bent slightly, raising an arm to its face. As it did Carl summoned all his remaining strength to recoil the tension in the ropes and swung his body forward, perfectly slamming his head into the thing's ugly, pugnacious snout. There was a soft, wet 'crunch' as bone gave way and what must have been blood oozed like mulligatawny soup.

Not waiting, Carl swung forward towards the raised arm with the knife. The fist had relaxed and with his mouth open wide he closed around the blade. It seared his tongue and his mouth filled warmly with blood but he kept biting. The figure fell, fist thankfully releasing its grasp. The knife went with it, falling, then it was back against his mouth and he bit and this time it was the handle and it remained still.

The creature hit the ground and was still. Not having considered what he would do should his plan get this far Carl realised if the creature got up he was stuffed.

It didn't.

The inside of his mouth hurt like hell and he could feel it swelling as blood trickled from his lips. The hours of keeping all that vomit and blood contained had given him lock-jaw and they now ached so much he was afraid he would drop the knife. After a minute he managed to control his breathing and then asked himself what to do next.

'I ganow, Carw,' he answered, which made him giggle and nearly drop the knife. He looked down at the ground, ignoring the mess and instead looked at the angle of his hands. It was a long shot, but all his earlier frantic searching had revealed few options.

'You geck one shock ak gis, Carw,' he told himself. Summoning up his concentration and with one eye on the unconscious hog-creature Carl bit his tongue again, resulting in a resurgence of the pain that had begun to subside and a flow of blood. He let it flow off the end of the knife then looked down to see where it fell. He manoeuvred his manacled hands and head as best he could and when he was happy they were aligned he opened his teeth.

For a second it seemed like the knife had stuck and he envisioned it falling to one side but then it dropped straight as a die, following the droplets into his upturned palm. Gotcha! It was heavier than expected and he fumbled but once grasped he closed his eyes and carefully exhaled a long-held breath.

From there it was slow work: the angle was good but the rope thick. There were eight distinct strands woven together and each took time to saw through. Finally, work at the bottom end done, hands now free, he turned his attention to the more difficult prospect of freeing his feet. HHHHHHHbhhhhhbmis stomach screamed in agony as he tried to pull his body upwards, blood oozing freely from the flexing wounds. Not the fittest, Carl was still the supplest of the band and he managed to reach his feet just as the creature stirred.

'Hn!'

One strand of the eight down, now two.

'Hmm-hyeh. Ehhhhh....eh.'

'No, no, no!' muttered Carl under his breath, swollen tongue filling his mouth, stomach slashed with ribbons of heat. Three down, four, now five...!

'Der-de-der!'

It was getting easier. Six down, just two to go.

'Aaaargh!'

Seven!

The creature rose to its feet and turned, roaring to face Carl. Then it lunged at him.

The final strand gave way as it took its second step. On its third Carl fell heavily in a heap on the floor. By its fourth Carl had sprung to reach for the skinned heads of his two friends and the other victims. Cutting the strings in one movement he slid them into his palm then paid out the line so the skulls swung like grotesque nunchucks.

'Right, you ugly b*****d. See how you like this!' Carl swung the skulls around his head. One flew off and he heard it explode against the concrete but the others accelerated before he hurled them with all his anger at the creature's head.

'Bon-appe-f****g-tite!' he shouted.

Against the bright glare of an approaching truck Carl saw them make heavy contact. The troll-thing stopped in its tracks, stunned, then staggered. It hung for a moment, silhouetted – an inhuman, deformed monster. For a second Carl thought it was going to come at him anew, and he readied the knife. But instead it collapsed, falling backwards down the slope up which he had clambered a lifetime. ago

Carl watched it tumble through the shadowy undergrowth. It half-ran down the final third, dazed, then staggered out onto the carriageway right under the wheels of a forty-tonne truck delivering Rice Krispies to Tesco. The sound rather than the sight told the story – a sound that would wake him in a cold sweat for years to come. A horridly appropriate snapping and popping. The lorry didn't stop, the driver oblivious to the carnage beneath his wheels. It thundered on amid the spray and in its wake left a trail of glistening road-kill in the rising sun.

Carl stood limp with nothing to do. Pain, sadness and exhaustion brought him splashing to his knees in the mud. For a while he just looked blankly out across the motorway before eventually looking down at himself, covered head to foot in blood, sick and dirt. The tattered tour t-shirt was splattered red, the name of the band, 'Gruff', barely legible.

Carl sat beneath the bridge and watched the sun come up over the morning traffic.

* * *

# Tea With Mr Ogrizovich

Green paint peels uninvitingly from the weather-beaten door as once again he knocks without success. Of course the boy doesn't want to do it – doesn't want to go in at all. But today is the day and again he checks his bag to make sure all equipment is present and correct. Standing in the rain Paul sighs and looks up to find out where all the water is coming from.

'Come on,' he mutters as the downpour hisses off the concrete. Cold fingers start to find their way down his back and he brings the anorak up tighter to seal the leak. Every time, thinks Paul: every flipping time! He bends to lift the flimsy plastic letterbox flap.

'Mr Ogri-zo-viich!' he calls into the musty emptiness of the hallway and imagines the aged gentleman slowly putting down his paper and gradually making his way to the door. Shuffling footsteps confirm his hypothesis accompanied by a low, resonant mumbling punctuated by a deep, chesty cough.

'I'm just...I'm...Who is it?' a suspicious voices replies.

'It's me, Mr Ogrizovich: Paul,' says Paul. 'It's Thursday, remember?'

The footsteps halt. Paul can see faded tartan slippers on the hall runner, as if movement and thought share the same muscles.

'Paul! Why, they never told me you were coming today!' A moment's contemplation. 'You usually come on Monday – why have they changed it?' Paul has long since stopped trying to correct what he suspects are deliberate bouts of forgetfulness.

'Can I come in?' he asks.

'Eh?'

'In – you need to let me inside.'

'In...? Of course! Now hang on a minute,' the shuffling resumes. 'Now where the devil is the, erm...'

'It's on a string behind the door!' advises Paul hearing the old man scrabbling about on the telephone table.

'So it is!' Still hunched down, looking through the letterbox, Paul pulls an 'oh yeah' face for nobody's benefit but his own, only straightening when he spies a distinctly unappealing pair of grey, elasticated trousers approaching the door. It takes ten further seconds for the key to locate and turn in the lock.

'You need to pull it – hard!' calls Paul.

'I know I know,' comes the irritated reply before Paul and Mr Ogrizovich finally come face to face for their regular Thursday afternoon meeting.

'Oh. It's you,' says the taller of the pair in disappointment.

'Me again – on time as always,' replies the ten-year-old, chirpily. Got to keep the old folk happy, he can hear Mrs Oldfield telling the class; you may be the only person they see all week.

'I suppose you'll be wanting feeding?' Mr O. enquires as he makes the long return journey along the passage.

'What you offering?'

'Jammie Dodgers.'

'No Viscounts?'

'Gone up five-pee – you'll have to do with Jammie Dodgers,' the old man snaps.

'Fair enough,' and Paul follows, s-l-o-w-l-y, along the short hallway and into the sitting room to the left. The house is a small fifties-semi with a modest front garden and a more respectable one out back. Enough for a greenhouse and a vegetable patch. Downstairs has a front and back room plus the kitchen which is plenty enough for the old fellow on his own to cope with. No wife, no pets, no relatives as far as he can gather. So the smell must be all Mr Ogrizovich. The house itself is run-down, looking like it hasn't been decorated since it was built to Paul.

'Sit down then,' says Mr O. indicating the familiar small wooden chair placed near the centre of the room facing his own large armchair and an inadequate gas-fire. Paul watches as Mr O. go through the entertaining manoeuvre of getting into his. Bending slightly at the waist he allows himself to fall backwards, bouncing on a well-upholstered pattern of vines and flowers - for all the world like a small child experimenting with a well-filled nappy. Paul stifles a giggle.

'Go on, help yourself,' a bony hand points vaguely to the square coffee-table which sits between them and upon which rests a large plate containing exactly four of the afore-offered biscuits. The nails are long and twisted and hard.

'Thanks,' replies Paul and takes just the one. Mr O. does likewise and eyes Paul up whilst eating hungrily. His face is impossibly craggy, more like crevices than wrinkles, thinks Paul.

'Homework?' Mr O. asks lightly.

'Maths and R.E.'

'Can't help you with the maths,' snaps the old man, stirring a mug of tea which has appeared from somewhere. 'I don't do counting. What's R.E. then – is that religion and stuff?'

'Yeah it's like the bible and the sacraments and all that.'

'Enjoy it?' The question is accompanied by a suspicious glance that Paul notes. Mr Ogrizovich's hair is thin and wispy: a sudden draught sets it dancing across his shiny, liver-spotted scalp. Paul likes it – it is interesting. He makes a face as if considering the question.

'S'alright,' he says slowly, 'but they don't half ask daft questions.'

'Like what?'

'Well, for homework Mr Ashton – that's my R.E. teacher...'

'I guessed that.'

'Right. Well he gave us this,' Paul reaches into a side pocket of his satchel and withdraws a faded blue exercise book. He opens it at the last used page and holds it out hopefully to Mr Ogrizovich who takes it and commences trying to decipher its contents. Paul grins as he watches the old man minutely adjust the distance in order to focus.

'"An interview with The Devil",' he reads deliberately. '"Imagine you are sent to interview The Devil himself: what would you ask, and what would he answer? Use your..." what's that word?' He points.

'Imagination,' says Paul.

'Ha!'

'Exactly. I mean, how do I go about that then?'

'Hmm – tough one, that.' Mr Ogrizovich gets more amenable the more they talk. There is a moment's silence during which Paul considers the fruitlessness of the question whilst munching on a Jammie Dodger. He wonders whether Mr Ogrizovich will bite.

'Right – role play,' announces Mr O.

'What?'

'Role-play,' replies the old man, testily. 'I...' and he pauses to direct all his energy to the arduous task of rising from the armchair, '...will be The Devil. You,' this time the pause is for dramatic effect, 'Well you'll just be you. Sit down there. Oh, you are. Right – got your paper and a pencil?' The joints are loosening.

'Erm...yes,' says Paul, following instruction, removing said articles from another flap in his bag. He holds them up for approval.

'Good,' replies the now standing, slightly less old-looking Ogrizovich. 'Now – you've got to get in character right from the start so from now on – I'm The Devil, you're a "you": Mr interviewer-person. Right?'

'Er...ok,' agrees Paul.

'Right.'

There is silence. Then a bit more. Paul looks at Mr Ogrizovich awaiting further instruction. Mr Ogrizovich suddenly knocks on the door to the sitting room and after a few seconds Paul realises what he is doing.

'Oh!' he flusters. 'Erm...come in!' and he grins at the absurdity.

'Pardon?'

'I said...'

'I know boy! But don't talk to me like that again!'

Paul is startled by this sudden change in mood and makes to collect his things. Rising from his seat he mumbles:

'Sorry I thought you were going to...'

Looking at Mr Ogrizovich's face Paul stops as something strange has happened: it has changed, contorted somehow. It's something he's never experienced before: it's a smile.

'I am, I will... I'm in character!' he whispers.

'Oh, right. I see,' replies Paul, sitting back down.

'Think – I'm The Devil, I'm a V.I.P if ever there was one. More important than the bloody Prime Minister or any so-called celebrity. Come on – imagine!'

Another knock at the door.

'Ah – come in...sir.'

'Better!' again whispered, before a louder, more strident voice replies: 'Where are you, boy?'

'Here!' Paul rises instinctively and sending his book to the floor in a flutter of pages. He retrieves it just in time for the old man – who is now, of course, The Devil – to amble up to him. The old man looks taller. Paul holds out his hand.

'No time for that!' comes the snapped response, 'I'll give you one hour. Proceed!' And he sits with a solid and suspiciously well-controlled thump. Paul draws his breath and does likewise.

'Right so...erm...'

'Come on come on!'

'Right...so. First question...where do you live?'

Mr Ogrizovich's face contorts once more and this time it isn't a smile. His hands rest lightly upon the rounded arms of his chair.

'Where do I live?' he repeats incredulously. 'Is that really the best you can do? Come on. Try again!'

Paul flusters, staring down at his blank page. This is hard.

'OK then. How old are you?'

'Ah...good question. I am just a little bit older than the universe.'

'And how old is that?'

'Does it matter? I've been around longer than anything else, that's all that matters. Next!'

'Erm...Are you older than God?'

'Yes.'

'Is he your brother?'

'Don't be stupid, boy.'

'Are you an angel?'

This causes a pause.

'In a way I suppose. But not with wings and all that stuff.'

'Did you live in heaven?'

'You're obsessed with where I live, aren't you? No, I never lived in heaven.'

Paul thinks this could actually be quite good fun.

'Is this what you really look like?'

'No, this is just my human form.'

'What is your real form?'

'Whatever I choose – I exist not in these three dimensions. My true form makes no sense here. It would be like trying to draw smoke.'

Paul likes this idea and hurriedly scribbles it down.

'Are you as bad as people say?'

'Define bad.'

'Well – do you like doing bad things?'

'Who said I do bad things?'

'Well...' Paul has to think, 'everybody.'

'Everybody who follows that god-bloke you mean.'

'Christians you mean?'

'Not just them – they follow the fellow who died on a cross. No – all of 'em. Let me ask you: what exactly have I done?'

Paul stops to arrange his thoughts.

'You tempted Jesus in the desert.'

The old man averts his gaze for the first time from Paul and looks into the distance. His eyes narrow.

'Yeeees,' he agrees, 'I did, didn't I? Long time ago that. I did tempt him, yes. But he had the choice, his decision. Never forced him to do anything.'

'Hmm. What about murderers?'

'What about murderers?'

'Well...they're evil.'

'And?'

'And doesn't evil all come from...erm...' Suddenly Paul is unable to complete the sentence.

'Me? All evil comes from me does it?'

'That's what they say.'

'They, they, they. Think for yourself lad!' and Paul notices spittle drip from the corner of the cracked and fleshy lips, lips which he has never seen so red.

'Does all evil come from you?' Paul persists.

'It's already there.'

'Where?'

'Here, there: all around. All I do is channel it.'

'Into people?'

'Into anything – people, flowers, wasps – I like wasps. The sea – whatever.'

'You can channel evil into the sea?' Paul frowns at what he sees as a controversial and unnecessary piece of ad-libbing. Mr Ogrizovich simply nods resolutely. Paul draws in his breath.

'Note it down, note it down, boy!' says Mr O and so Paul does.

'Evil – why are you evil?'

'I'm not, I'm a channel. Just told you. Pay attention my boy!' Oddly Mr Ogrizovich's voice seems clearer and more fluid now.

'Why do you channel evil then, why not good?'

'Channel good? Good? Why would I channel good – the world and his dog are trying to do that. Evil is far more challenging.'

'But it's, it's...'

'What?'

'It's...evil.'

'And?'

'Well, good's...better.'

The room darkens as it looks like rain: Paul glances at the window and when he turns back his interviewee's face seems to reflect the weather.

'Define your terms lad – what do you mean by better?'

'Well...I mean...we all want to be able to do what we want, right?'

'S'called freedom, boy.'

'Right – freedom. So what you do, evil, well that prevents people from doing what they want – it causes people to be sad.'

'Ah! Boo-hoo! Better argument required – try harder!' the tone is more strident.

'It's not fair – everyone should be allowed to have freedom, to be happy.'

'How ridiculously idealistic. No, they damn-well should not!'

'Yes they should!' protests Paul. 'It's what they want and if it doesn't hurt anyone else then...'

'Doesn't it?' Mr Ogrizovich sits back in his chair and smiles a self-satisfied smile. He joins his hands, elbows still supported upon the arms, newly supple fingers neatly entwined. Paul notices the length of the fingernails and notes the word 'gnarled' down for future reference.

'No – no one gets hurt by someone being happy.'

'What about a lottery winner – ever thought of the millions who put money on it?'

'What about them?'

'Some of them can't afford it, get addicted. Some old dear spending the final few quid of her pension? A lone mother spending the family allowance in vain hope of a new life? They suffer.'

'But...but...it's not their fault, the winners...'

'Why yes it is – it's their greed which is channelling itself through those playing the game,' an even calmer, smoother Ogrizovich patiently explains. 'Cause and effect, my boy: cause and effect. To have winners you have to have losers. That's economics, that's the world you lot have chosen to create. We can't all get what we want, as The Stones so wisely said.'

Paul is getting confused – he needs to stop and take stock. He wishes he'd come prepared. Mr Ogrizovich is extremely persuasive: Paul watches as he smiles and plaits his fingers.

'You said the sea before: are you saying you cause all bad things to happen?'

'I did.' A simple answer with which the giver seems content.

'What – earthquakes, floods, storms – all that, that's you?'

'Yes. Of course – why would I limit myself just to the self-important bi-pedal life-forms of this planet?'

Paul makes to answer but this time the interviewee wishes to be more expansive. He sits forward with alarming speed, clutching the arms of the chair with bony knuckles. Paul thinks he hears a hissing as those long, twisted nails dig into the faded fabric.

'You people disgust me; you think it's all about you, don't you? Climate-change, man-made? Ha! Makes me sick. Like a fly on a wheel – "look at all this dust we're making!" Pah!' he sits back slightly. 'I cause havoc – that's what I do! Sometimes to spite the earth, the sea creatures or maybe just some irritating algae. The fact that some mangy humans get in the way is incidental, but on your news its "three Britons were killed today when..." As if I would waste my energy!' And he sits back like a petulant schoolboy. This amuses Paul no end and he writes it down.

'What about God – do you know him?'

'Know him? Do I know him? Oh yes – have him round for tea every night. We watch "I'm a deity get me out of here!"' Paul sniggers. 'No, I do not "know" God. People always assume I do, but no.'

Paul decides it is time to go for the jugular.

'I don't think you should exist.'

There is a slight pause.

'Beg pardon?' replies The Devil, and the voice seems to rumble sonorously through his chest and within the armchair and Paul can feel it come up through his wooden chair and into the seat of his pants. For the first time he is scared.

'Erm...' he says, chewing his pencil, 'I don't think you should exist. You should be killed.'

Ogrizovich glares down at him and suddenly the notion that that face could have formed a smile only minutes before seems as preposterous as the idea of him watching T.V. with God. The features darken and the old man seems bigger, but it must be that he's drawn his chair closer.

'And why, pray tell, would that be?' The fingers twist, digging, this time into the backs of his own hands, and Paul is horrified to see blood begin to bubble down into Mr Ogrizovich's lap.

'You serve n-no purpose in the modern universe and should be eliminated, and I have been sent to eliminate you!'

There is a pause during which Paul enjoys the idea and then quickly regrets it as he sees the look in the old man's eyes. The brow lowers and the face falls in thunder.

'I'm not quite sure I understand you...' he growls and Paul feels it in his stomach rather than hearing it with his ears. Mr Ogrizovich leans forward and Paul hears a cracking, stretching sound. He has the sudden idea that as soon as he starts speaking the old man will pounce so he hesitates, licking his lips. He finds his throat constricted and all that escapes is a hoarse croak.

'Tell me, tell me boy...you're here to do what...?'

The tightness grows; his eyes bulge and he claws at his neck.

'I'm...I'm...' but his terrified eyes see rippling in the old man's shirt, muscles he has never noticed stretch the fabric in impossible directions. Then a seam splits and through it Paul sees leather. Hard, red leather the texture and colour of a bad burn.

'Go on, tell me!' the rumbling continues. Paul feels himself gripped by the throat, though the old man's arms remain upon the chair; no longer the thin, frail limbs of an octogenarian but now huge menacing weapons. Paul reaches sideways, trying to find a hand-hold but succeeds only in scrabbling empty air.

'I...need...to breathe...!' he whispers.

'No you don't...very over-rated...' says the figure sharply, and in the shadows Paul sees a mouth grin, and he sees teeth, teeth like he has never seen before. They glisten in the gathering gloom and seem to emit a dull yellow light. They were many and they were sharp and they were so very long...

Paul concentrates, remembering his role, who he is. He summons up all his energy.

'I'm here...' he manages, and feels the grip relax slightly. 'I'm here,' he manages again, feeling the tightness ease, 'to banish you from this universe, you Devil!'

Then there is a noise like no other. It comes from the walls, it comes from the ceiling and the chairs and the table and his stomach... Not conventionally loud it nevertheless fills everything \- it is his whole universe – it is a furnace, bellowing and belching. He is nearly sick. The noise forms words and he can see them – he can actually see the words forming like the noise is writing them across the sky.

'That's Mister Devil to you, lad!! Who do you think you are talking too? I told you to be more respectful!!!' the words take on solid, black form before melting like smoke above a bonfire. 'And suppose I don't want to be banished, what exactly are you going to do about it?' More smoke. The smell is pungent – the rotten-egg odour attacking him in waves that make his head swim.

Paul hesitates curious as to whether he will be able to see his own words. The room has all but vanished from around them: there is just darkness and this deep red, pulsating shape in front of him. He sees it writhing and rippling slowly. The leather is alive, alive with flames that roll and lick across its surface as it morphs. More limbs have grown – there are six - no, eight. The head still half in shadow has what may be horns but they are uneven and asymmetric – ugly and twisted like blackened trees in a scorched forest.

'Well?' And the noise obliterates his vision. He waits for it to dissipate and realises a headache has appeared which threatens to tear apart his skull.

'I shall banish you,' he says simply, and reaches into his satchel. 'Don't go away,' he calls, head bursting. 'I know I have it here somewhere...' But he gets no further. With a quickness that belies its size the creature raises itself from the chair not with its legs but its arms, pulling itself up onto the ceiling with claws that dig into the distant Artex. Dust rains down as Paul takes his hand from the front pocket of the bag.

'Here we go,' he says calmly and raises his hand.

From the ceiling the creature hangs suspended by claws that pierce the suburban ceiling, allowing its face to hover less than two-feet above the boy. Scorching breath envelops Paul's face and he inhales its acrid fumes. The creature looks with disgust upon the object through a cluster of glistening black eyes. Paul sees the silver crucifix reflected in every one.

The huge body is suddenly ripped from his gaze as if through bad editing: one second the pincer-like teeth and heavy brow and oozing leathery redness fill his vision; the next they are across the room in the far corner, cowering. A lamp shoots towards the old cathode-ray-tube T.V. that implodes in the corner. The horrid, dank, purple curtains fall from the bay window and outside is no longer Patterson Avenue.

The noise comes again but the tone has changed and now forms no words. A hiss – like water in a volcano, Paul supposes. And he pauses to write it down, without lowering the crucifix.

'I have to say this is going incredibly well Mr Ogrizovich, thanks very much,' but the creature that was formerly Mr Ogrizovich does not hear him. Its eyes track the crucifix warily. Paul puts down his pen.

'Now, that one is to hold you...' Paul explains indicating the silver cross, 'while this one is to finish the job off.' And he draws out a second object.

What Paul withdraws from his bag could be called a gun but isn't.

'This is a rod of anti-matter – held inside a proton shield, obviously. Should do the trick I think.'

'Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!' howls the creature that isn't Mr Ogrizovich.

'Now, now – sorry but you have to go – as I say, you serve no purpose – you're a pest pure and simple, and you have to be dealt with,' more noise. 'It's no use complaining – I see your sort all the time; you settle into a universe and lord it over everything, making everybody and everything miserable. No – there are places for things like you. Come on, it's time to go,' and Paul stands for the first time and advances, taller than before, anti-matter rod (in its proton shield) held out before him.

'You can't – you can't...!'

'Ah – the creature finds its voice. I think you'll find I can.'

The face scowls, then:

'You caaaaaaa...' and Paul doesn't hear the end, again he sees it; and when his vision clears the house and the creature have vanished.

*

Above him the sky is red – a bright, clear red, and all about is glass – dark glass – broken into shapes and large sizes all jagged and dripping with an oozing blackness which steams and which may be oil but isn't. The smell is sulphurous, making his face screw up and he places his hand across as if that will make a difference. A strong wind howls across this glass desert making it difficult to stand. He resists the temptation to grab for something to steady himself, imagining clearly the shredded flesh which will likely result.

'I'm still here!' he shouts into the red-ness. Shapes move in the distant sky – ungainly shadows which cannot possibly fly. In the distance a huge wall, flat and shining black is just visible, a vertical cliff he knows to be never-ending: he recognises Augen when he sees it, he's just surprised that this is the creature's tether. Oh well – if this is how he wants it... Paul grasps the weapon and looks around.

Mr Ogrizovich is lying on the floor. Paul looks down upon him. Gone are the horns, the rippling muscle, the eight legs and seven eyes. Back is the old man in the baggy elasticated slacks with just two of most things. Like Bruce Banner at the end of The Hulk.

'I serve a great purpose,' the old man whispers as his gaze meets that of Paul. 'You cannot banish me – their life would be worthless.'

Paul considers how to go about this – does he un-shield the rod from a distance, or wait until he gets closer? He tries to recall the user manual.

'I...I...it is I who gives life meaning!' only the voice remains of the devil, still able to penetrate him to his gut.

'Is that right?' answers Paul disinterestedly, still trying to remember the correct operating sequence.

'Yes...yes... Listen – I cause the problems, the disease, the calamity, even death. Without all those things, without things to strive against – the life of these humans – everything – would be pointless!'

Paul's eyes meet those of the old man who is not an old man still lying prostrate before him. The man looks back at the small boy who is not just a small boy standing over him.

'If you banish me they would all live forever, have everything they wanted. Imagine - it would be hell!'

'That's very funny – I must remember to write that one down,' replies Paul.

'According to Kant the meaning of life is that it is finite.' The man was warming to his devilish argument, he could see Paul thinking. 'Finite. Their success, their enjoyment, their achievements. Climbing the tallest mountains, rowing the widest oceans, curing disease – all meaningless if there is no death. They like to live dangerously, like to take risks. Need to. Why would you do that? Why do they not just sit and wait patiently, safely for death to come? Some kill themselves, drink poisons...'

'You poison them – you are the channel, remember?'

'No no no – they want to – that's nothing to do with me. I lied!'

Paul raises his eyebrows.

'I'm the devil – sue me. Look – they do it and it makes them feel good. If they have a safe, happy, can-do-whatever-you-like life they get bored. There would be no meaning – none. This way – with me around – they have to make choices. Use their time wisely. Without me none of the rest of the stuff – none of the stuff their so-called god provides - has any point. None!'

Liquid black glistens and oozes around them on sharpened glass spears. In the sky dark living shapes stretch, break and reform like oil upon water. There is an unbearable smell of decay. Beneath it two figures that do not belong – one an old man on all fours, pleading up at a ten year old boy in scruffy jeans and a blue sweat-top.

'Get up,' says the boy. He looks troubled. He looks down at the objects he holds in his hands and as he does the old man cowers. A hiss escapes the old man's mouth and his false teeth shoot from it and fall with a plastic clatter to the floor.

Paul grins.

'You're trapped,' he says after a moment's pause. 'You can't get off this unhappy rock, can you?'

'I am...trapped. Yes,' the old man admits. His head drops and around them the redness fades as though stage-lighting has been dimmed. The replacement darkness flickers, a smaller space shimmering into focus. Mr Ogrizovich's front room reappears first in two and finally three familiar dimensions.

'Why don't you just destroy the whole place? Have a comet hit it if you hate it that much? You could do that – you could obliterate it all!' Paul shouts, swinging his arm around the room and as he does the room dissolves into a panorama of trees and hills and mountains and glaciers and cities and deserts all the views possible...pages from a travel brochure folding one upon the other. The arm settles, pointing at Mr Ogrizovich, a wizened old octogenarian sitting in his favourite armchair.

'You - you say you never met God? I wonder.'

'What do you wonder?'

'I wonder if he exists – this giver of all things pleasant.'

The only sound is the faint hiss of the gas-fire in the small sitting room.

'God gives life, life is finite, finity gives meaning. But you make it finite, Oggy, you. You're right – they can't live without you. I can't...' he pauses, 'I can't banish you,' he finishes quietly.

The old man looks dumbfounded, then suspicious, then triumphant. His response comes in those familiar bass tones. 'Of course you can't, I did tell you my dear boy...I did tell you...' and that unlikely smile returns and for a moment there is a ripple beneath the shirt and an oily glint in his eye.

'Right, well, that's-that then.' Paul closes his exercise book, newly recovered from the floor. He recovers his satchel and carefully replaces the book, the pencil, the crucifix and finally the anti-matter rod and gets up to leave.

'I'll see myself out, Mr Ogrizovich. Thanks for the help with my homework. I do enjoy our chats,' he says, and he means it. 'I'll see you next week shall I?' he calls from the door.

Mr Ogrizovich ambles out into the hall and stops.

'Well – can if you like I suppose...' comes the ill-tempered response, 'Coming round to eat all a man's biscuits, wasting my time when I could be...'

'Would you prefer it if I didn't come back, Mr Ogrizovich?'

The question hangs, physically written in the air with solid, curling letters of gold and green. The words twist, alive, before pulling apart into wisps of cloud that dissolve into nothing.

'No, no. You come back - if you must. It's nice to have someone to talk to, I suppose. Custard-creams next time?'

'Viscounts, Mr Ogrizovich, I prefer mint Viscounts. Bye then!' he calls in his sing-song voice as he descends the step and closes the crumbling, ancient piece of wood behind him.

* * *

# The Inevitable Man of Straw

Every Tuesday and Thursday Marcus was fascinated by the dancing trees on the long, straight road to Leuven. Denuded by winter their blackened arms twisted against the leaden sky and if he stared long enough it seemed to him that they span.

'I hope you're ready to work on that front-crawl today Marcus? It really wasn't good enough last week you know.' Marcus grunted in response, rudely awoken from his happy place.

'What did you say young man?' his mother said in her reproachful tone up-front. If she hadn't been driving she'd have hit him with her famous "hard-stare".

'Erm, yes I will mother.'

'That's better. If something's worth doing...'

'...it's worth doing well,' he completed; and the journey wore on.

*

It was just past the garden equipment shop outside Bertem when he first saw it: arms lazily outstretched, standing solitary in a field of swaying corn. The crop rippled and shimmered in the breeze and a circle formed around the baggy figure as if the corn were leaning away. Marcus gazed at the hollow, featureless face. Like the trees it seemed to twist to follow him and he found himself drawn to it. Face pressed hard against the glass he finally lost it behind an advertising hoarding. But he knew it still watched him. Marcus slumped back in his seat.

'It's coming,' he said, unsure why.

'Pardon?' asked his mother impatiently on her mobile, 'Did you say something?'

*

The lesson was horrible and ended with him being laughed at in the changing rooms. He still couldn't get the hang of breathing only to one side and as a result swallowed a good lungful of child-water that made him splutter and choke. The journey home was filled with the usual lecture on things he already knew.

'You need to breathe in the turns, Marcus. You know how to do that, don't you?'

He found himself nodding in case she could see him in the mirror.

'And your arms – you're not lifting...!' She demonstrated, narrowly avoiding killing them both as she swerved in front of an on-coming lorry. He listened to its horn cry out then step a half-tone down as it receded.

'Doppler effect,' he mumbled.

'What?' cried his mother, still speaking. 'Look – if you're not going to take this seriously we'll just stop this swimming lark altogether – it's no fun for me trekking all the way up here and back twice a week you know! I've got plenty of things I'd rather be doing with my time.' This wasn't quite true. Or any true, in fact. Her face swelled with pride when she announced to people that her son was a future champion. That he'd beaten the school breaststroke record in year two – year two! She talked on:

'But you'll be letting a lot of people down if you do. You're already on the team at your new school back in England.' England. Back to England, the home in which he'd never lived.

By the time they got to Bertem the light was starting to fade and Marcus only remembered the scarecrow at the last minute. He thought he knew where to find it but found he was mistaken - it was a good half-mile further up the road than he expected. Again it seemed to turn as he passed – which was just the "dancing-trees" effect of course – its blank face holding his gaze. The crop surrounding it was still and less corn-like.

*

By Thursday the crop looked different again – had it been cut? Pity he'd missed that – he was fascinated by huge farm machinery. He sat behind a mother attentively ignoring him, journey spent on the phone discussing their impending move and how it would affect her.

On the way back she again argued at him and he didn't notice the scarecrow, unless it had been moved. Did they put scarecrows away for winter?

*

Weekends were fun – Marcus was left to his own devices; alone in his bedroom, playing with his cars, his Lego, watching Thunderbirds DVDs. With his parents pre-occupied he could put out of his mind what he didn't want to think about.

The scarecrow surprised him on Tuesday: it appeared a full mile up the road on the near side of the motorway bridge rather than beyond it. It was a different scarecrow - of course. But one bought from the same shop because it looked near identical: similar grey jacket, similar blue-check shirt, same round, featureless face, which followed him up the road. Similar but different. Of course it was.

*

'He's not interested, Margaret, not interested in me or Marcus...hmm...yes, we could just go to hell as far as he's concerned. I mean, he's off looking at this new factory in Suffolk and it's down to me to decide the house... Well I know, but he knows what I want, I've told him... Yes... No, I don't know how many times...'

Marcus' face was switched off: he tuned out of the endless wittering, thankful that if she was on the phone to Margaret or Cassandra then she was ignoring him. And that suited him: mostly.

He was all anticipation as they turned out of St. Pauluslaan onto the main road. Would it have moved again? Been moved again, he meant - of course.

(It's coming)

The phrase leapt into his mind and Marcus, a cautious boy who was always wary about new thoughts sat bolt upright. The words not only appeared, glowing in blue neon, but echoed around his skull. He very nearly asked: "What is?" out loud before catching himself. Instead he asked the question in his head, half expecting an answer in a way no adult ever would. Passing Vossem the trees began their routine. Marcus gazed, mesmerised, and as a result nearly missed the familiar baggy figure just past the Leefdaal turn.

'He's moving,' thought Marcus and, in childlike fashion, he accepted the fact. Only on the way home did the first fingers of fear begin to creep. Maybe it was the bad lesson, he was tired. Maybe the fact it was starting to grow darker, trees eerie shadows as rain pattered the windows. Or maybe it was the fact that the scarecrow had not only moved another half mile but now faced the way he was travelling, legs arranged in walking pose, left arm pointing: pointing...

It's coming.

*

Marcus didn't sleep. His dreams were full of shadow-men and spiky trees striding across a flat and fiery landscape. Three times he woke just when it seemed the spindly fingers were about to grab him.

Downstairs he heard arguing, which was just part of "normal". He strained to listen.

'...and all you care about is that bloody car! Not a thought for me during all of this. Maybe I want to stay?'

'Claire – it's complicated. We just don't have the option...'

Marcus applied the pillow-method of noise abatement and returned to a stuffy, troubled sleep.

*

Tuesday was horrible: after three nights with little sleep Marcus considered feigning illness just to avoid going but knew death was the only sure-fire method of convincing his mother. Besides, having resolved on that course of action he found himself strangely curious to find out just how close the scarecrow had got.

The answer was that he was nearing Vossem. No longer in a field he stood, striding ominously through a swirl of fallen leaves. His arm no longer raised in salute was caught in mid-swing by its side. For the first time Marcus noticed it carried a sack in one hand, a sack that bulged heavily. Had it been there all along? Who had moved it, and why?

Marcus put in his worst performance yet. The instructor had a word with his mother and Marcus dreaded a lecture that never came. Instead he saw Mother biting her lip in the mirror. She even refrained from using the phone.

He closed his eyes as they passed Leefdaal. What was the saying about the sound of a falling tree in a forest? Does a walking scarecrow move if there's no one there to see him? Marcus squeezed his eyes shut 'til head hurt: he heard the car stop at the lights then pull away again, saw the glare of the street lights in Vossem through thin eyelids, kept thinking "must keep closed, must keep closed!" over and again. He didn't think "open': it just happened. But luckily the accidental view

(he'll never know, no one will know)

showed only the cross-roads where they turned, well past where the scarecrow would have been. Marcus sighed. No nightmares. He sat back as they waited to turn. A lorry, lights blazing, thundered up the main road towards them. Mother tutted her impatience and Marcus stared at the mammoth wheels as they rumbled by and then his mother turned the car across the junction.

And of course there He was: standing right at the junction, as if waiting for them to turn.

(it's coming)

And he was pointing, pointing as if guiding the way. Guiding the way to Marcus' house.

Marcus did not sleep.

*

Wednesday was hell. School was the opposite direction to swimming, and while he could have walked, or taken his bike, he refused. Didn't want to turn a corner and find that inanimate, stuffed figure walking, walking towards him just like a real person. Thursday was little better. It was cold, windy and Marcus reasoned that any normal scarecrow would have been blown away without its stick or whatever held it up. Marcus was a logical boy, rationale boy. So this made perfect sense. Just as it made perfect sense that scarecrows didn't move. Didn't follow you. Didn't hunt you like a dog.

'Yes, we'll take him thank-you Mrs Jameson. I'm sure it's a bug – he'll be fine in the morning. Thank you.' That sing-song voice. Mother hustled him out of the school reception and towards the car park.

'Well – that was embarrassing, Marcus. Fancy wetting yourself in class at your age!' Waves of disapproval engulfed him. 'I'm ashamed, I really am.' She bundled him into the car.

'Maybe it is some kind of bug: Michael's mother says he's started wetting the bed again...' She seemed to stop and think. 'This had better not be a ploy to get out of swimming.' She did some more thinking, possibly the longest portion of Marcus-thinking she'd done for a while. 'On the other hand maybe we shouldn't risk it. Go on – I'll ring and cancel. But I'm not paying – I'll tell them it's an act of God.' God made me wet myself, thought Marcus as they drove slowly up their street, their house coming into view amid the trees and walls. Still, that's one less thing to... What was that? The car swung into the drive and Marcus had not been concentrating. Along the street in the opposite direction – the one that eventually led to swimming – there had been...possibly been – a baggy figure.

Mother was talking.

'...and get into bed. If you're ill then there'll be no games or television.' They both got out, Marcus more quickly.

'Okay,' he replied, remotely.

*

Marcus' room overlooked the scruffy patch of grass beneath the enormous pine that guarded the neighbour's garden. To the right he could see the road for a distance of about fifty yards. Later this stretch would be illuminated but for now it was a dull, shadowless grey. And thankfully, as Marcus looked out in his pyjamas, it was empty.

The evening dragged and he amused himself with model cars and TV neither of which fully held his attention. Soon he'd have to start packing; the boxes were being delivered Monday.

He stayed away from the window, where the net curtains flapped dangerously in a draft

(coming)

despite the window being resolutely closed. No danger of having a window open tonight. His bedroom always spelled safety – maybe if he just stayed here it wouldn't come? An old episode of "Cheers" distracted him from the gathering gloom. A dim orange glow on the branches of the pine that brushed against the house told him street-lighting had taken over from the sun. He got up and pulled aside the nets.

And there he was. Not on the pavement but the rough, three-yards of verge in front of the big house opposite: the one with the electric gates and swimming pool. The scarecrow stood to attention. The streetlight overhead threw a small, black puddle at its feet.

('What's that puddle beneath your chair, Marcus Bent?')

It was looking straight up at – no - into the window. A needle of pain pierced his chest and raced through his buttocks and legs. The scarecrow's round, featureless face gazed blankly up at him from beneath its broad-brimmed hat. Marcus was held by its gaze for a second, thirty... Had to physically tear himself away, sobbing, and collapsed in the corner. It was there – it had come to get him. It had come.

*

No, no, no...! Come on Marcus, you're panicking. It's just a scarecrow, one that for some reason someone is moving around.

(following you. You)

Just a normal, everyday scarecrow.

(hunting you down, boy!)

Marcus found himself breathing rapidly. He climbed onto his Star Wars duvet, felt it give comfortingly beneath his weight. The TV flickered with adverts in Flemish. Marcus was smart, Marcus was clever. Marcus came from a rational, logical household. But of course rationality diminishes with the fading light. Logic hides with the sun.

*

Three more sets of adverts came and went as he breathed and waited and waited and breathed. And looked at the window where the orange glow grew stronger. Could he look? Had he got closer? Surely He was there now for the night and if he was out there then he couldn't be

(in here)

Marcus shuddered. Without thinking he got up, walked to the window and threw back the net curtain.

The scarecrow hadn't moved a muscle. (Or a piece of straw). It stood, stock still on the verge beside the hedge. The empty street looked ominous in its stark orange and black shroud, deep shadows making it look more alive. Marcus half expected the scarecrow to move, to leap towards him or start running across the street, maybe even to fly... But of course it did nothing of the sort. It just stood, staring. And he stood staring back: scared witless. He didn't dare move, or even take his eyes off it. While he stared he had it cornered where he could see it and it knew it could be seen. While he stood there, it could get no closer.

But

(it's coming)

a tell-tale ache in his stomach told him his body was about to get the better of him: he needed the loo. Slowly, very slowly he walked backwards from the window, trying to maintain visual contact for as long as possible before he turned and dashed along the corridor to the toilet.

He relieved himself under pressure, and as usual it refused to come.

'Come on!' he implored.

'Marcus? Marcus? Is that you – what's all the fuss?'

'Nothing Dad – just the telly.'

'Well keep it down, dear; your mother and I are trying to talk.'

'Okay'. Tell them, why didn't you tell them? Re-entering the room the darkness hit him; the pervasive orange glow covered two-thirds of it and only the corner containing his bed-head had escaped. Marcus hesitated before going to the window, eyes sweeping the room as he went just in case. But He hadn't moved and Marcus became sure it wasn't going to move again that night.

But he stayed up for most of it just to be sure.

Just in case.

*

One a.m. came and went: Marcus had only stayed up this late once before, on New Year's Eve at a family party the previous year. There had been fireworks and games to keep him awake. This time there was just some odd foreign film. He closed the main curtains across the nets, blocking out the orangeness fully.

He got up at half-hour intervals and looked through bleary eyes at the dull moonscape outside. He didn't need to open the nets, the figure stood in stark, illuminated contrast to its surroundings. The sudden movement of a cat nearly cost him a change of pyjamas.

At first he sat on the bed, bolt upright, ready for action. By two he was lying, head propped up on one arm. The process of staying awake beyond the body's limits became a bargaining game: I'll just do this, but I'll stay awake because I'll bite my tongue, or sit at an uncomfortable angle. By two-thirty Marcus was under the covers. By three-fifteen he was drifting

(it really is coming)

but by a quarter to four the battle was lost and Marcus was fast asleep.

*

In the sensory pecking order hearing wakes first but Marcus' eyes took in the first gulp of information. It was still dark save for the thin, orange outline of the curtains. His eyes widened, drinking in as much of the meagre light as possible to provide more input for his brain. The air was surprisingly cool and fresh.

Seconds passed during which only one thought filled Marcus' brain – a picture of a scarecrow, no longer standing but walking, walking across the street, onto their drive – onto their drive. He could hear the gravel, see the swinging limbs...

Marcus realised he was clinging to his duvet with sweating palms and white knuckles, his rapid breath filtered through thirteen-tog duck-down and Darth Vader. His ears reached out across the room, searching, dredging.

Nothing.

His eyes halted, trying to catch peripheral movement. They widened until it hurt and he briefly imagined his eyeballs popping out and rolling to the floor.

Nothing.

Minutes past and Marcus stayed as still as he possibly, possibly could. There was something here, something that had not been here before.

The silence became deafening, the darkness claustrophobic. After a minute or an hour he allowed his left hand to creep down his chest where it was warm and safe then along the mattress to the cool extremities of the bed. From here he stretched across the narrow, dangerous gap between bed and table and for a moment the emptiness was horrific before he felt blissful contact with wood.

He gulped air, allowed the duvet to fall slightly so he could welcome the coolness of a fresh noseful. Now his hand crept an inch, then two, and hit

(straw!)

metal – the base of the bedside lamp. Breathing out he waited; breathed in as slowly and as quietly as was humanly possible. He couldn't move. What time was it – surely it must be getting light? He stared at the orange outline, trying to determine if it was getting brighter.

But something was different; his racing heart confirmed. Impossibly fast and impossibly loud – it bellowed in his ears. Cold fingers searched slowly, felt for the familiar plastic switch. Sat poised, ready for a call to action. His pyjamas were soaked, his brow dripped and he felt cold, so cold. His hand shook. He took a deep breath.

And then Marcus realised what was new, what had changed. His hand froze and his breath stalled. It was unmistakable: he'd smelled it lots of times, driving through the flat, open fields. He could smell straw. And it was close.

In the lonely silence Marcus froze, not daring to move, not daring to breathe. And in that void came a low wheezing and the breeze of a dry-breath creeping slowly across his wet cheek...

* * *

#  Prey For The Damned

'Body-parts – organs,' he replied. Again they looked blank. 'Guts, gore - all anatomically correct, we'll get medical attestation to our accuracy. I want to see and hear a living heart, still pulsing, ripped from an open chest cavity. I want to see sinews stretched as limbs are ripped off. And sound effects: I want to hear bones crack, saws chew, flesh explode...and I want the smell, the smell of charred, cooking flesh. You've read it, you've seen it: it's time people woke up and smelled the real thing. We have the hardware – let's get out front and be the first to really use it! That's the next step – it's very simple, Doug.'

A pin dropped, and everybody heard it. The men round the table shifted uneasily: this wasn't what they wanted to hear: this was making them feel uncertain. And not a little queasy.

'But the censors will ban it, Danny, you know that! We've been through this time and time again. We tried to push the envelope with "Time-Commandoes" and look what happened?'

Danny sighed, audibly.

'Look what happened? What do you mean "look what happened"...?!'

'They banned us in forty-six states and most of Western Europe, Danny. The only place we got a licence was Australia. No one ever made money being big in Australia.'

'Ayers-Rock?' suggested Jack, helpfully. There were chuckles around the boardroom table just as coffee arrived. Why? Why was he surrounded by such creative microbes? wondered Danny.

'What happened, Clive, was that AcroSoft, your AcroSoft, got the best god-damned publicity it could ever wish for! We were in every paper in the English-speaking world. Not just the gaming-sections – front pages. Front-bloody-pages! Black market copies sold for thousands on E-Bay. Tell him Jack.'

Jack, a quieter, more studious version of Danny in tank top, beanie and stubble sat casually back in his chair. The nine older men leant on the huge rectangle of smoked glass, chewing pens and fidgeting their nerves.

'Awareness of AcroSoft products went up forty-five points inside a week. We saw boosts in sales of Tremor, Force of the Gods, Hammer-blood and even the Bud Chambers trilogy which was a three-year old title.'

'Four people died Danny! Died!'

There was a pause. Danny looked down into the street and saw the shining black car waiting as usual. Give me ten minutes, he thinks, that's all it will take.

'And?' he asked.

'And? They put it down to the violence in the game, Danny. They were copy-cat killings for God's sake!'

Danny turned directly to Clive and appealed to his CEO.

'Do we really have to put up with this every board-meeting Clive?' he asked with practiced sarcasm. He turned back to the table and began slowly pacing behind its members one by one. 'Escapism, gentlemen, that's the name of the game – pure and simple. An essential part of human existence, right Jack?'

'Nine out of ten US psychologists agree it is a major contributor to positive mental health and well-being...'

'Health-and-well-being,' Danny emphasised.

'But they cut off their heads Danny. Have you no feeling of guilt? No sense of responsibility...?'

'Balls to responsibility: we make video-games, not guns, not even cigarettes. If they hadn't played the game they'd just have shot or stabbed or poisoned them. Come on – these nutters are out there. If someone wants to kill you they kill you. End of. Murderers do not sit around waiting to be prompted for ideas by sodding video-games.'

There was as split-second when somebody could have objected, could have taken him to task; but the tall, casually dressed boy from the home counties was on a roll.

'We need to make another splash, guys. We need to stay ahead, capitalise on our advantage. You look at any industry, and the winners are the ones who take the risks, break the mould. Gaming is now the most lucrative entertainment industry on the planet; they make more off Bond games than from the films. This is a time for visionaries, gentlemen – there are opportunities out there just waiting to be grasped, and we have to be brave enough to reach out and grab them. That's what this company once had a reputation for – a reputation which, thanks to Mr Dick-man here, is long gone...'

'Dan-ny...'

'No no, Clive, please: let Danny be as childish as he wants,' Charles Rickman cut in with irritated patience, the sole American in a room full of Brits. 'I'm only head of marketing for this whole she-bang after all...'

'Right – a head of marketing who decided in all his State-side wisdom to put this company's money behind a range of "educational" products.' Jack marvelled at the amount of venom Danny squeezed into that single word, 'just as the market for first-person shooters went ballistic! Pun intended. Well done Dick-man – high-score!' and Danny slid a game-carton across the desk towards the rotund American where it knocked a glass of mineral water onto his sparkling trousers.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!' Clive stood and raised his hands. His sixty-two year-old voice still commanded respect when called upon but he was increasingly feeling he was losing his grip. Not that he would admit it to his board let alone his arrogant chief "imagineer".

'What's done is done. You more than anyone, Danny, ought to appreciate the need to take risks...'

'Yeah, when there's a payback...what were the sales, Charlie? Did we even get a one-share with any of your preachy-school textbooks? Did we f...'

'That's enough!'

And it was enough: enough to shut them up at least. All faces turned to Clive in his tweed suit, flushed jowls and high-pressure tan. How long could he have left?

'I think we need to listen to all proposals here – one more wrong move,' he avoided looking at Rickman with embarrassing deliberateness, 'and we're sunk – all of us.' Now he did circle the table looking at each of his eight uneasy-looking board members in turn. 'Let's not forget it was Danny who put this company on the map, folks: we have a lot to thank him for.'

Danny did not drop his gaze: the praise was fully deserved.

'Most of you didn't even know there was a map...' Jack muttered beneath his breath and Danny smiled, turning his gaze from the table to stare out across the rooftops of the wet City. Now he had them – he always had. The car waited – he could see the driver. For a split second he sensed he was being looked up at, appraised. A sudden doubt way, way back in his mind was saying something. He shook the thought from his mind – the day had been long.

'So, what? We just let him drive us into the ground with another un-marketable game?' Janus now spoke, a ferret-like creature with an unhealthy interest in mathematics.

'Steve – we'll worry about the numbers later. First it needs to sell. Ray?'

A slick, academic man in a tight-fitting jacket and colourful shirt paused before responding in simple, clipped tones.

'Well the target's clear – it's the magazines which make or break a new title. Get top review ratings in the October/November editions and you've got a Christmas number one.'

'We got an eighty-eight per-cent average with "Raiders" two years ago and it still bombed. What the hell do we need?'

'Ninety-three to ninety-five – that's the target.' Silence followed this proclamation: a high bar, a very high bar and they all knew it. No one had had a ninety-five this year, or last. Jack watched Danny wait, wait to let the thought settle: to simmer. He watched him look down at his shoes absent-mindedly, still staring out the window. He watched him mentally count, "always count to five Jack, always make it five", before announcing:

'I can give you ninety-nine.'

There were low whistles, questioning murmurs, harrumphs. He turned to face them.

'Test group results are off the chart. A ninety-nine per-cent average across the twelve panel-mags in the UK, Europe and the US. I personally guarantee it.'

He had them.

Rickman was stunned: what the hell had this young British scum-bag, a scum-bag off whom they had all made an unfeasible amount of money over the past eight years, got up his sleeve this time? Only Jack didn't bat an eyelid: instead he surveyed the faces around the table, and smiled.

Gotcha, he thought.

It was Clive who broke the moment.

'Right then Danny – you know the drill: five-minute pitch, no more, then we vote. As always the majority has it.'

Danny smiled, turned and began the finest pitch of his life.

Jack timed it – and of course it was five minutes on the dot. They'd worked out the promo-video timing of course – forty-five seconds of hard-punching bass-abusing HD mayhem - but he always marvelled at how much Danny crammed into the verbal section of his pitches. They seemed so random, so ad-libbed and yet he knew them to be meticulously planned, as all the most influential speeches were.

The door closed behind them and they walked back along the grey-carpeted corridor to the lifts. Below, the atrium echoed with late night sounds while rain pattered on the vaulted glass ceiling, the last of the August twilight permeating the top floor of the Plaza.

'Think they'll go for it?' asked Jack.

'Of course. They have no choice – from what I hear they've got nothing from any of the others and this is all I'm giving them. So if they don't take it they've buggered. Simple as that.' He smiled with that broad, boyish grin. They arrived at the polished, piano-black lifts.

'Even with all the, erm...'

'Blood guts and gore? Oh yes – they'll come round.' He pressed for the lift: the indicator started to rise from the third. 'Janus and Roper will put up a fight – all mouth, no trousers - but ultimately they'll vote with Clive who needs the cash. Oh he puts on the great-old-company routine, but three mistresses won't keep themselves. Randy old bugger.' Jack grinned. Unlike other designers Danny kept up to speed with events outside the world of gaming and usually used them to his advantage. The floor indicator climbed up past ninth.

'I thought Dickman was going to throw up at the brain-ripping sequence!'

'Yes – I was particularly proud of that – brought a lump to my throat.'

'And a few others. And the sound of the breaking pelvis when the guy gets hit by the rocket-propelled grenade...mm-mm!'

'That's what it's all about, Jack. Porn needs high-def and 3D; gamers want Hi-Fi – High-Fidelity violence: sights, sounds, smells. I remember when blood was taboo, then sex – imagine that? - then it was severed body parts you couldn't do. We're fast-forwarding through fifty years of cinema censorship. They all fall down, Jack, all the taboos must be broken if we are to reach the truth.'

'I think we just shattered them and trampled them into the dirt there – especially the rape scene...I have to admit even I was a bit...not a lot I mean just a bit...' he tailed off as the lift thankfully ping-ed an interruption. They stepped in and Jack hit the button for the eighteenth where they both worked. The doors closed inaudibly and it began its rapid descent. Five seconds and ten floors had passed when a bing-bong made Danny lift his phone. He took one glance and smiled.

'And?' asked Jack.

'What do you think?' replied Danny, grinning.

As the lift doors opened Jack stepped out but Danny remained.

'Not coming?'

'Need to get home: car's waiting. Pack away for me will you?'

'Sure. And tomorrow we get to work fine-tuning our ninety-nine percent-er.' Jack took a step away then seemed to gain courage to ask something which had been on his mind all along. 'Is there anything you wouldn't put in a game, Danny?'

Danny stood in the centre of the lift, hands in pockets, face thoughtful. A faint grin spread across his face with the effort. As the lift doors began to close Jack expected a jokey-response but the doors simply sealed across a face that was not searching for an answer.

*

London was wet and sodium streetlights glittered orange in the dark rain that spattered the Mercedes. Pedestrians were sensibly scarce and what few there were scurried to drier destinations. Danny sank into the soft leather and reflected rather smugly upon a successful day in the saddle.

'Yes!' he shouted to the world of which he was the undoubted master, 'Yes, yes and yes again!'

Up front the driver said nothing; he just aimed the three-pointed star on the bonnet up the on-ramp to the M4. It was sometime after ten and what traffic there was hurried silently past the double-glazed cocoon. Danny felt content; taking a hip-flask from his pocket he flicked the lid and took a long swig.

'Good day at the office, sir?' asked the unfamiliar driver with passive formality.

'Depends if you call one-million-quid good.' Danny saw a smile appear in the rear-view mirror.

'I'd say that was quite good, sir, yes.'

'You are looking at the highest earning game-designer on the planet. Fact, not bullshit my friend. I just sold the concept of what will be the biggest game-title of all time. "Prey For The Damned" – get used to the name. By Christmas you won't be able to move in this country without seeing or hearing the name. There will be shortages – purely intentional of course. We'll be headline news, an event. The event of the year!' Danny took another hit and wiped his mouth across his sleeve.

'Video game you mean?'

Danny could hardly believe his ears. He sat forward, but found the seatbelt had no give and held him fast.

'Video game? No, my friend – this is no mere video game!' he almost choked. 'We are talking a one-eighty degree hemispherical high-def screen, full-body-armour and viewer-perspective mapping, with eight-point-one surround-sound and Odour-ama. We don't just have real streets and real cars mapped in there, we've got real anatomical detail – brains splattering across the screen; bombs taking torsos apart... This is the real deal, man, the real deal!' Danny chuckled. 'I have US studios already queuing for the film rights and we haven't even started production yet! Top of the world, that's what I am, top of the world, ma!'

The driver grinned at him in the mirror and he grinned back.

'"Prey For The Damned", eh? Catchy. Well good for you, sir, good for you. I hope you sleep well tonight.'

Danny was much too busy with self-congratulation to worry about the odd comment: this was a taxi driver, a smiling new one who obviously didn't know who he was. No matter. He was much too busy feeling smug to consider the smile anything other than admiration, anything other than gormless, naïve envy. Never considered the possibility that his day was about to take a turn for the worst.

A jolt woke him with a start and again he felt the pull of the seatbelt.

'What the hell...?' he managed, surprised to have nodded off.

'Sorry – debris in the road, sir.'

'Bloody big debris...' Danny said, looking out the back window at the rain-soaked road, 'what the hell was it?'

'Could have been a dog, sir.'

'Ouch!' said Danny, slightly taken aback but amused nonetheless. Bleary-eyed he peered out into the gloom. 'What time is it – we must be there.' "There" was Crawford and the three-quarters-of-a-million-pound house with quad-garage he shared with beautiful wife Jane, 26, adorable daughters Becky, 7 and Kate 4, and Figaro and Lenz, a pair of pedigree Irish Setters. Pictures available exclusively in Hello magazine this month. But there was not here. And here didn't look like anywhere in between.

'Where the hell are we?' he asked, cupping his hands to the cold glass. They were on an A-road in a built up area; houses, shops, traffic lights blurred in an orange glow.

'Diversion, sir, sorry. Had to go via Guildford.'

'Guildford? What the hell are we doing anywhere near...Whoa!'

Danny looked out the front screen straight into the face of a pedestrian crossing the street.

'Watch out...!' he shouted as if the second warning would change everything but the car did not slow. Was the guy blind? At the last second the young man dodged to one side, throwing himself against a shop front and the Mercedes sped past.

'Are you mad? You nearly killed him you mad f***!'

The driver slammed on the brakes and Danny grabbed the handle to get out. But before he could do so the car was thrown into reverse and started to accelerate violently backwards, tyres squealing. Danny shot forward, head hitting something hard before...

The impact was severe, the breaking of a large glass window unmistakable. The car halted, the driver placing it – placing it – back in drive and pulling out of the now concave shop frontage. Danny looked out the intact rear window and with horror saw the broken figure of the young man sprawled, lifeless and bleeding, across the boot. As the car pulled forward the shattered body slipped to the floor leaving jagged, crimson tracks across the paintwork.

'Jeeeee-zzzus!' Danny sat open-mouthed as the carnage receded: that could not possibly have just happened.

'Whoa, stop! You just...!'

'I know I know...I very nearly missed him. I'll do better next time, sir.'

'Whaa...? Next time, what the hell...stop! Stop the f**ing car!'

The driver was calm: terrifyingly calm.

'Well you see sir, I look along the bonnet,' he nodded and Danny's gaze helplessly followed, 'and take aim through the three-pointed-star there. Mainly I get them first time. But occasionally – well, it is very dark, sir, you'll have to forgive me.'

The car sped on.

Danny was dumbstruck. Shocked from his initial anger and faced with this calm, calculating response his stomach went cold. Realisation dawned that he was in the car with a nutter. No, he was in the car with a...well, a mur...with a mur...

He couldn't say it, couldn't think it. How bizarre? Maybe it was like when they said your legs freeze at moments of terror...you lose the power to say mur...

The car continued as if nothing had happened. Calm – he should remain calm. Bugger that - he should get out...!

Danny reached for the door, looked out. They were doing maybe forty, no more. A few cuts and bruises maybe – he didn't expand on the "maybe". He paused, suddenly aware of the driver watching him in the mirror. He waited for the man to speak, or the car to speed up. Neither. The look said 'nothing has happened, nothing to see here'.

Had it?

Yes, yes! his mind screamed, yes it bloody did! Now jump you flaming idiot! And in one movement Danny grasped the chromed handle, braced his feet on the floor, pulled the handle, and...

...crashed painfully against the firmly locked door.

'Don't go hurting yourself, sir. Just sit back and...'

Thump! Another jolt and Danny was thrown up against the glass, just in time to get a fleeting glimpse of a horror-stricken face bounce past the window. Looking out the back he saw a tangled body bounce and roll to a stop in the middle of the road, limbs flailing. A following van screeched to avoid it but failed and he saw a red explosion.

"Shit!"

A 'ping' drew Danny's attention to a red, digital display up front. It read fifty.

'It's twenty five for a kill,' explained the driver. 'Hady, by the way,' and he turned, reaching his hand out to Danny who sat sprawled in the corner, hand braced against the ceiling. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance.'

'Watch out for the...!' Two on-coming cars parted, headlights passing down each side as the taxi crossed the central line and headed up the opposite carriageway.

'What – is – your - problem!?' Hady replied loudly to the horn beeps and tyre-screeching which accompanied the manoeuvre before he lazily swung the wheel to get the car back onto the right – left-hand – side of the road. Danny's mind freewheeled as the automatic gearbox calmly changed up into top. He fell back against the seat, mind ablaze. What the hell was going on? His heart pounded in his ears: this guy was a nutter, very possibly a druggy, or maybe having a breakdown. And he had to do it now, when he was due to meet Jane and the kids. The kids, the kids. The thought struck him that he may not see them again. He tried to shake it free but the shitty thought had its hooks in real tight.

No, no: he had to get out of this. He'd think his way out – it was just like when they faced a tight corner with the coding or insufficient processing power: re-order the routines, think round the problem.

'Where are we going?' he found himself asking.

The driver frowned slightly.

'I'm taking you home, sir, aren't I? Or have your requirements changed?'

Which made Danny think: does he know where I live? Is he even the real driver?

'Erm...yes, home. You know where that is?' He hoped the answer was no.

'Twelve Lexington Gardens, Sudbury-on-the-Hill? Yes?'

'Yes...' Why was he having this conversation when he had just seen at least one person murdered? How was he being so rational? Because you're humouring him, playing along, lulling him, aren't you? Or is it because it didn't happen, didn't really happen and it's all in your head, Danny? No murders here, nothing to see. Just a hard day in the saddle.

Now he could say it, oh yes now the word was easy.

Ohdamnohdamnohdamnohdamn!

He clenched his fists and looked around for inspiration. No way out...the only option was to physically stop the car. No sooner had he thought it than he was throwing himself forward. Nothing if not impulsive.

The thin wires which ran unseen from ceiling to floor passed all of their four thousand volts down his arm and through his torso and through his now shaking legs to the floor. There was a faint crackle and a smell of singed carpet and hair as he collapsed to the floor.

'Jeeeeeeeeez-us...!' he half yelled, half whimpered.

'Oh yes, should have mentioned: stay in your seat – for your own comfort and safety, sir.' But Danny's was still on stunned and the levity went unappreciated. Suddenly the car swung to the right and there were headlights, bright and startling. Danny glimpsed the black silhouette of the three-pointed-star on the taxi's bonnet, and through it the fast approaching Fiesta.

'Watch...!' He dived across the seat. A lurch to the left, a dreadful grinding of metal on metal then a chuckle from the driver as the car recovered.

'Ooh tight, tight...!'

Danny lay, panting. Why him...why now? A ping from the dashboard.

'What are you doing? What do you want?' he stuttered, his train of thought simply leaking out his mouth. The pause briefly suggested he might get an answer.

'Now you see, there's no straight answer to that...It's a bit like asking someone to describe the colour red,' then after a moment's consideration he confirmed, 'Yes, definitely red.'

Danny propped himself up on the seat, sweaty hands slipping on the leather. The taxi was cruising at around sixty. The ride was normal, the seats normal, the driver...looked normal...but the wires, the locks...and the murders.

Murders.

The murders. The more he said it the more he felt unclean, like he was giving in. He rolled the word round his head then shook it out.

'Why?' he asked simply asked.

'My Dad was a conservative – small "c". Always suspicious of progress – nothing good would come he always said,' and the man smiled – Danny saw the corner of his mouth rise – just as he saw the group of pedestrians waiting at the bus-stop. 'He also said...' and the car swerved, just as Danny had dreaded it would. It ran up the kerb with a sickening jolt, Danny thrown against the side glass once again...

...and then the bodies were falling like skittles – a massed tangle of arms, shopping, heads. Blood, sharp 'cracks', terrified faces... He lost track of who was what was whom. The digital counter shot up to two hundred and fifty in eight, sickening 'pings'.

'...and he used to say, "just because you can, doesn't mean you should".' The car thumped back down onto the road. This time Danny didn't look back.

'Very insightful that, I thought, Mr Morris. Don't you?'

Danny clung on: hands, feet, buttocks clenched in a collective effort to hold on to his seat, to his sanity. His life.

How quickly we reach our limit, he thought: how close we are to the edge.

(To the nutters)

'Look – money, I have money, I can pay you – will pay you...!'

The man laughed, and in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the taxi's black interior it sounded huge, booming, almost inhuman.

'Sorry, no...aha...money won't really do it, no, Danny!' Bad sign, thought Danny, him using my first name. Not a good development at all.

'Not even a lot of it?' Danny ventured, regretting saying it almost at once. The car swerved, this time onto the other side of the road. Traffic lights – red ones – flashed past.

'I guess you need more telling, don't you?' The car swerved left, then right, glancing a blow first along a double-decker bus then a van. Sparks flew, the car bouncing in a metallic slalom, rear-end fish-tailing wildly. Danny desperately braced himself, seat to ceiling, a hand on each.

'What the hell do you want?' he bellowed, spit dribbling down his chin and across his shirt. He felt his face begin to boil, and his stomach to turn. Tears threatened.

'What I want, more than anything else, is to understand...why?'

Danny was confused.

'Why what?'

'Why. Why you do it, and why you don't care?'

'What?'

The car swung left, under control but bumped violently up onto a wide stretch of pavement. The surface was wet, glistening under weak streetlights. A huddle of youths turned, faces peering briefly from beneath drawn hoods before scattering. Thump, thump – legs, arms. Bodies reeling. The sharp 'crack' of a shattered limb or head. Danny felt nauseous. The car hit a litterbin and a pile of bin-bags pregnant with the day's leftovers went flooding over the car. They were still doing over fifty. The weather meant pedestrians were few but off-guard. One took a glancing blow then the driver swung right to target another through his three-pointed assassin's sight. Whump – crack! Spine splintered, head bouncing off the bonnet. The body flailed, twisted, and Danny could see the face - the horrible face – a death-mask of terror and disbelief which hung for an eternity across the centre of the windscreen. Every nerve in Danny's body screamed. The electronic counter read four hundred and fifty in glowing, blood-red digits.

'No – for God's sake no!' he sobbed, '...why are you doing this...why don't you just...stop?' he finished weakly. What the hell did you say to a homicidal taxi driver?

'Suppose you tell me, Danny?' the driver replied, the car coming back down with a heavy thump, trembling, onto the road. Danny's face lacked comprehension.

'What?' Violence filled his brain, he was numb with shock: there was insufficient processing power for thinking.

'Excuse me a mo...' a deft right flick of the wheel was enough to tip an on-coming scooter-rider under the wheels of the articulated lorry it had been over-taking. Danny's disbelieving eyes registered a mess of defiant limbs go spinning round the wheels of the trailer, and in another horrific freeze-frame he saw a white helmet burst. It was no use – he vomited. All over the offside window and down the door.

'Now, I'm going to have to charge you extra for that I'm afraid.'

The counter reached five-hundred. An additional word - 'Bonus!' – flashed across the display and the digits raced up to five-seven-five. A synthetic American voice intoned:

'Hoo-eee! The boy's on a roll!' as Danny's lunch dribbled from the perforated leather.

'As I was saying – suppose you tell me, Danny, why d'you just keep on keepin' on?'

Danny looked and felt like he'd just been beaten up. Dazed, fragile, queasy he registered the question, considered it slowly before asking:

'With...what...?'

'All the games-shit, Danny, why keep pushing? Why is enough never enough?'

The world's highest paid games designer sat back, eyes wide, suddenly strangely lucid. And petrified. It had been like this as a child – he always felt OK after emptying his guts, at least for a while. And he started to understand what the mad f*** was getting at.

'This is something to do with my games?' he asked.

'Is that all they are to you, games?'

'Well, no, they pay the bills I mean...' Honesty: he'd stick with it for now. He needed to understand what this mad schmo wanted, what he was thinking...he needed something to hold onto. Because he was thinking – that was the scariest part. Throughout all of the madness of the past twenty minutes this guy – Hady – had been as cool and calm as you like. And more than anything it was that that scared the living shit out of him.

'Ever consider the responsibility that goes along with that, Dan-my-man? Ever do that?'

'No,' said Danny simply and truthfully.

'You feel no responsibility for what happens when people play your twisted, little games? No sense that maybe you're provoking, teaching, twisting minds?' The man was actually trying to have a logical debate in the middle of a killing spree...! This was too...he couldn't even think of a word. How to play it...Danny's mind stepped up a gear...he could get out of this...but was it better to play along or not? What was the 'win-win' strategy here? Every level had a 'win-route', right?

'They're like books, films...we open up the taboos and...' he recalled an article he had read '...Individual responsibility – that's the point,' he concluded.

'Wrong answer I'm afraid...' and to prove it Hady hauled the car round in a tight one-hundred-and-eighty degree spin, tyres smoking. Around them other cars scrabbled to a stop in the rain or tried to avoid the sudden manoeuvre. He heard scrapes and shattering glass. The taxi halted amid blaring horns and screams. Danny seized the moment and tried the door again – maybe the locks were speed sensitive.

'No, they aren't,' replied Hady, then planted his right foot and the Mercedes shot forward through two approaching men, bending them in the opposite way to which nature intended. The noise alone was sickening.

'You see, that's the argument used by so many lazy people,' he replied. 'What's the phrase? "Standing on the shoulders of giants"? I like that – makes you feel humble, gives you a sense of responsibility. Who is responsible for that next small step towards oblivion?' And to illustrate the point he slid the taxi down a row of parked cars. A shower of sparks rained down the side of the car for a hundred yards, a cacophony of alarms springing to life. Danny tried to make out where they were but the combination of speed, rain and darkness, mingled with the pervasive aroma of vomit made it difficult. Terraced houses, a row of shops; could be anywhere.

'It's time for a reboot, Danny. You can't keep on keeping on without consequences,' and again as if to prove the point the car swung unexpectedly down a side street. The speed picked up, more glancing blows off parked cars, and ahead Danny saw a dead-end. 'Gotta shake that attitude out of your sorry hide boy...'

The car shot through a barrier then straight into a large wooden advertising hoarding. Wood splintered, the bonnet crumpled, a wing-panel come lose and flapped in the wind.

'Shit!' was his only response. He was going to die, of that he was suddenly certain. This man didn't care if he too died, and they were the worst sort...was he a relative of one of the ones who'd...?

Danny bounced violently up and down in the back seat as they crossed open ground but the car showed no sign of stopping. Suddenly a view seemed familiar – what was it? Trees, a low building. A bench destroyed. Bushes went flying.

'Nearly there now...' There. Where?

He looked around and recognised the park – the park where he went to walk the dogs. The park, where he went to play with Becky and Kate... A deep sense of terror grabbed his internal organs as an odd fuzziness in the windscreen blurred the illuminated street ahead. His first thought was that the screen had shattered in the impact, but turning his head it moved, as if a defect on the outside, not the glass.

'Now – with extras I think the price is...' Hady pressed a button on the meter. The car sped across the grass, pitching and rolling with the uneven ground, throwing up divots and debris as they went. The figures on the digital display span like a fruit-machine. A picture suddenly appeared in place of the left hand figure, an unfamiliar face.

'Elisa Monterey,' Hady explained. The face stared up at him for a brief second then vanished, to be replaced by another, this time with the awkward features of an elderly man.

'Brian Jameson.'

A third face.

'Harriet Jeffries,' Hady added as it too vanished, figures still spinning, car still speeding. 'Know what they all have in common?'

It wasn't a question. A sudden image of severed heads slammed into his mind in glorious high-definition Technicolor. Danny closed his eyes and the display pinged its final total.

'Your fare, sir,' said Hady, and whistled. Danny opened his eyes. There on the display directly in front of him were two new photos, two he knew very well. His insides collapsed.

Kate, gap-toothed grin and new school uniform; Becky, rosy cheeked, gripping her favourite cuddly toy from kindergarten.

'No – no...you can't do anything...if you so much as...I'll f**kin' kill you, you...!' The car shot through a fence and he was thrown back in his seat. They swung into Lexington Gardens, taking out dustbins and a startled cat.

'Now – number twelve, number twelve...' the driver muttered. But his driving betrayed that he knew full well where he was headed. Danny felt suddenly cold, his mind simply repeating the word:

'No, no, no, no, no...' ever more forcefully.

'Ah – there they are!'

In sheer terror Danny saw three figures in the road ahead – Jane in the middle in her duffle coat, a child on either side, trustingly clutching her hand. How could they be going to school at this time?

'Ooo...it's a split. Reckon I can get 'em both? Betcha I can...!' grinned Hady.

The figures were framed in xenon-headlight beams, three-pointed-star at the centre. Danny stared in wide-eyed horror as Jane raised a hand to her face; saw Becky pull at her mother. Saw the odd 'blurring' just off to their right that now did not matter. He was just scaring him...he knew that...he knew this...that had been the point...so he wasn't going to...he wasn't actually going to...

Wham! The impact was unspectacular considering it wiped out his family. The now familiar thuds, the crumpling of shattered frames across the bonnet.

(Frames which he knew and loved and cared for and would have protected to the ends of the earth and carried through burning fire and over broken glass...)

Becky ricocheted to one side, Jane sprawled across the windscreen but it was Kate who made the greatest impact. Her small body literally flew over the bonnet straight towards Danny. He saw her face, her beautiful eyes, her fair skin that burned on even the mildest day.

'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!' he howled as he threw himself forward far too late to make any difference. The wires caught him and held him immobile as Kate's head cracked against the screen like an egg. The car kept on keeping on for seconds which seemed like hours which seemed like weeks and Kate's pathetic broken body was held in place by air pressure alone. Danny saw the blood – oh God he saw the blood – thick and oozing through her hair and down the side of the car while his own hair sizzled with electric current... He gazed into her eyes - her lifeless, trusting eyes that pierced his soul and then motion seemed to stop...game over.

Grass has a definite odour especially when early morning dew brings it to life. Or maybe in the darkness other senses are heightened. Either way it was the first thing Danny became aware of when he awoke, face down in Portman Park.

His brain fired shots around his body, searching, probing. With some effort he sat up, muscles screaming: most of him hurt, some of him burned. Then memories started falling into place, piece by piece. A picture of the taxi ride formed and as he reached the end his mind rejected it.

'Hmmmmmmm...? Nooooooooo. That didn't happen – it didn't really happen I didn't really see...'

But he had.

He lay and cried – lay and melted in tears. Gone – they were gone! They had been amputated from his life – and he felt guilt, incredible waves of guilt...

(But the flickering.)

Suddenly he had to get home – had to see, had to face it. He pulled himself to his feet, started to hobble towards Lexington Avenue.

'They – they're...' Tears welled up as images flashed across his eyes, images which did not disappear when he closed them. Images burned into his retinas.

Then he started to move, to half-run. He stumbled, then ran.

Gone – they were gone – there would be police and ambulances and...

But the flickering.

He turned the corner of the alley and into the road: in the half-light it all looked normal - horribly, obscenely normal...how could everything just carry on after what had happened...after it?

(The flickering though...he had seen flickering.)

Ahead he saw the gate and on the drive Jane's Discovery... His heart pounded. What if...? He reached the gate...thunder in his ears, fire in his heart – The lights were on. The lights were on! He turned, looked, hoped, willed, pleaded with every God he didn't believe in... From where he stood he could see right inside the front room and he looked, he looked straight...

...into the eyes of his beloved Jane. She was on the phone, chatting. Of Becky there was no sign but there at the window was the face of Kate, just visible over the ledge. Thumb in mouth, blanket clutched to her face. When she saw him her face lit up. The thumb disappeared and he could see her mouth the word "Daddy!" and point. Jane stopped chatting and came to the window. Tonight her 'where-the-hell-have-you-been?' face was the finest sight on God's green earth.

*

'Danny – another card for you!' Jane shouted up the stairs.

''K – thanks. Be down in a minute,' came the reply as he adjusted his tie. Damn if he could ever get the things to look right. He stepped back from the mirror, a two dimensional image.

'I gratefully accept this award for services to family entertainment,' he said softly. 'I humbly accept this...no no no...no need for that...I respectfully accept...Oh, bugger it!' and he turned and left the bathroom.

He bounded downstairs and saw the pile of mail on the table in the hallway.

'This all there is?' he shouted to his wife.

'Fat-head!' came the response from the kitchen. 'You may have confounded the critics but you'll always be the same arse I married!'

'Love you more!' he replied playfully, flicking through the cards

(flick, flicker...so real, so real)

opening each one in turn. Most were from relatives and friends, a couple from career-managing colleagues.

'It's amazing how life-like your excellent self-help counselling package is! It's just like being there!' the sycophant wrote. Danny took a deep breath. Another letter was a rather grand letter from the National Video Arts Committee.

'Thank you for your contributions to multi-media education...' it began before eulogising at some length about how his change of creative direction had been 'most welcome if unexpected.'

He started to crumple it up but thought better and instead placed it behind the clock on the mantle.

(So - real...)

Last in the pile was a plain brown manila envelope with no postmark or stamp. Of course he knew immediately what it contained. It was posted by hand, just like the others and he shivered. The first had freaked him out, and if he was honest they still kept him awake...but he now accepted them, and never once considered sharing their contents.

Inside the familiar single sheet of paper contained an updated version of what was essentially the same photograph. Taken from the interior of a car the picture showed three people crossing the road. The photo was taken by somebody lying low, somebody hiding in a back seat possibly. And the view would always haunt his dreams.

The photo was blown up so the figures were clear, perfect in every detail. It was taken in such a way that across the face of his eldest daughter was the three-pointed-star radiator emblem of a Mercedes-Benz. And below, written in straggly blue felt-tipped pen was the message:

'Just because you can doesn't mean you should. Signed, Poetic Justice.'

* * *

# One Last Tale

One For Sorrow

Blood filled his bottom jaw as the metal clamps spread his cheeks and bit deeply into the tender flesh. Sweat ran down either side of his nose as he struggled to breathe the pungent air but in the darkness he could hear every rasping word.

'What are you afraid of?' The words floated inside his immobile head, part of a haze of sensations flooding his confused mind. He tried to speak but a flood of hot, bitter liquid ran down the back of his throat and he gagged, cheeks pulling tighter by their steel restraints. The cycle of pain continued.

'Tell me your fears,' the voice coaxed. It was gentle and soft yet each syllable crept across his skin like a large insect: crawling - crawling.

'I...' he managed.

'Ye-es?'

He tried to swallow.

'I...' he tried again but his head swam; brain desperately casting anchors into a sea of memory. In the darkness a vision of green appeared: the hillside, a place he knew he'd never been. And books – row upon row of books. That one was easier: the library – or was it a bookshop? In the darkness it was tough to tell wake from sleep and only pain kept him honest. Alexander – a man called Alexander; and a hillside, the hillside in the dream. He saw rain but heard nothing.

'I'm still here,' the voice said, 'we've got all the time in the world, you and I.' And then a white light obliterated the visions, the white light he knew of as pain, the pain.

Two Chairs By the Fire

The third step had creaked as usual and the sudden pained eruption made him wince. The wood appeared to have been eaten away though by what he couldn't tell. He strained his ears: there was no reason to fear detection for this regular appointment but an impulse told him it would be a Bad Thing. Hearing nothing he slowly lifted the offending foot, limiting the wood's readjustment to a muted groan.

The staircase was narrow, its panelled walls close and with no banister to steady shaking hands. The sudden pop of a fire triggered a memory. 'Meet me by the fireside; bring another tale' the note had said. And he had.

The stairs opened into a dim, low-ceiling room panelled with dark, heavily engraved wood. It was narrow at this near end, no more than thirty feet wide, but deep – so deep the far end was lost amid the gloom. And utterly filled with books. Some way along to his right a shallow flight of steps indicated a mezzanine and just beyond this the warm orange glow of a hidden fire marked the only visible source of light. It was warm and airless: he took a deep breath before advancing. So many books! They looked old and tattered; were they valuable? He walked through a haze of déjà vu; the three steps onto the mezzanine were carpeted and silent. He followed the glow from the fire whose crackling comforted and intimidated in equal measure. The fireplace was a large, carved stone affair that rather dwarfed the meagre conflagration within. Three or four logs of eighteen inches in length sat on a wrought-iron grate, flames licking lazily their extremities. Beside it were two chairs – one low and snug in faded threadbare cloth; the other tall, a green leather winged-back. It was from the latter that the voice addressed him.

'Sit down Robin,' it soothed, 'and tell me a tale.'

Three Buses

It was three buses to Milworth and for each one it seemed the bus company had sought the oldest and most decrepit example to run the Sunday service. Not so bad on a long, straight city-centre shuttle, these aging leviathans were ill-suited to the winding arteries up and down the valleys of the Peak District. Picturesque the rolling hills may have been but through windows long untroubled by a cleaning cloth they seemed drab and strangely two-dimensional. The message had been clear and after all these months Natasha had been only too eager to act. Sandy was one of the good ones, one to be trusted. She'd applied her make-up with unusual precision, packed a snack and set off before anyone else in the house was awake.

From the top deck of the 192 the streets looked repulsive; row upon row of tedium to which she knew she didn't belong. Natasha pitied the humdrum people in their humdrum homes, eating their humdrum lunches watching EastEnders. Not for her that terrible mediocrity. She squirmed on the mock-velour seat and looked down to check for chewing gum residue.

The internet was a wonderful thing and like all wonderful things one could hardly imagine a world without it. Natasha was just old enough to remember and it made her shudder. Her Mac was a window into the real world, a world of variety and vitality, a world beyond 32 Clegheaton Road. A world populated by like minds, kindred spirits. Souls who knew, souls who understood. Souls who cared.

On the corner of Osbourne Street a small landscaped hillock bore a bench upon its ten-foot peak. Natasha knows the story, why there is a gap at the end of the terraced houses; remembers the old woman and her children, and their many pets; remembers the names and the taunts and the graffiti. But she doesn't remember the fire, doesn't remember the shouts and the screams, nor the mattresses thrown from upper storeys. These pathetic facts are passed on second hand in class, this peeling bench their memorial. And today upon that bench is a boy of maybe twelve. He watches the traffic, filling his face from a white paper bag. As she watches him, the only figure out on a cold afternoon, he lifts his head. His jaws chew slowly and his eyes meet hers. She freezes, unable to smile. He just chews, slowly chews. And then, equally slowly, he crosses himself, like in church. In the name of the father...

Then the bus pulls away from the lights and he's gone. Natasha turns to face the front, plugs in her iPod.

Forgotten Dreams

A face appeared around the wingback; it was old and wizened and not unkind but sinews on its neck stretched with such effort that he feared they might snap.

'Erm, I'm not Robin,' he said.

'Oh? Then who are you?' asked the man.

'I'm...well I'm not Robin,' though that name did ring a bell, didn't it? 'I'm...someone else, I just...' Can't remember your own name – fancy that! 'I'm just not Robin. Who are you?'

'Oh you know me, Robin, I'm Mr Turnbull, same as always. Nice to make your acquaintance, again. Do sit down, you look like a man carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders.'

Not-Robin sat down as instructed despite not telling his legs to do so. That was two things he couldn't remember. Something else had happened today which had worried him but he couldn't quite recall that either. Not-Robin pulled at his collar and widened his eyes: the atmosphere was stuffy – that was it – it was tough to concentrate. A small table stood between them upon which were placed two glasses: one containing a red liquid, the other blue.

'And pray what do you have for me tonight?' Mr Turnbull asked.

Did he have something? On a reflex he reached inside his bag and drew out the yellow folder in which he kept his stories. Opening it he saw the familiar title page that read 'Swings and Roundabouts' and passed over twenty sheets of A4. Mr Turnbull took them with a slow hand and an even gaze.

'Thank you... And tell me, Robin, is it good?' There was something unpleasant about the way he said it. Something...murky.

Not-Robin had to think before answering in the affirmative. And all the time his mind refused to focus: he knew who he was and where he was and why he was here but...somehow the words for each of those things wouldn't come. Instead they hid, just out of sight.

The manuscript sat upon the old man's lap while he looked more intensely at his guest. The pages seemed to have weight beyond their physical dimensions: the folder dug into the blanket that he now noticed was draped over the old man's legs. The image seemed to bore into his brain, seemed to expand and contract like a dozing animal. Not-Robin felt a surge of identity, a connection with the manuscript and knew that part of him was written on the pages. Invisible tentacles bound him to every word and with each minute movement small hooks dug into his flesh.

He shivered.

'It's my best,' he stated.

'Good, good...' the man purred. He placed a hand upon the title page and for a moment Not-Robin thought he was about to stroke it but instead he took a sharp intake of breath.

'You know I've liked your work, Robin.'

'My stories? Thank you – that's the idea.'

'Do you recall the first?'

And suddenly, just then, he did. Like a light in the closet that first story appeared before him. It had been based around the creepiness of the library his father had taken him to as a child. A Victorian edifice of huge oak bookcases, heavy oil portraits on over-sized walls; massive wrought iron chandeliers and those brass floor vents that everybody knew ate seven year-old boys for breakfast.

'A murder in a creepy library...how very traditional,' the distaste was apparent. Not-Robin frowned.

'I thought you liked it, that's why I came back.'

'No – that's not why you came back, is it?'

'But...'

'It was a start, though not a very promising one,' and his gaze suddenly left the pool of fire and struck out across the gloom to a glass case that sat amongst the book. It was tall and as Not-Robin stared he realised it was illuminated faintly so that a bluish glow lit each of its seven shelves. His gaze fell upon the third shelf where a slim, rectangular object nestled in the dust. Not-Robin got up and moved across, picking it up and shaking from it the dusty detritus of what could have been many years. He'd not seen this before on his visits.

'It's the exercise book from the story...' He knew before he opened it, but sure enough there inside was the blue ball-point writing just as he'd described. He recognised the words.

'But how, I don't understand...why have you...?'

'I've done nothing. It's not alone.' And suddenly his gaze was drawn to the shelf below where a pretty collection of shiny silver objects was arranged in a fan, reflecting the blue – no, now orange – light which fell upon it from inside. Not-Robin only recognised the objects when he reached to pick one up.

'Ow!' Blood appeared along his index finger and dripped quickly onto the shelf beside the razor blades. Not-Robin inserted the finger into his mouth to receive attention. There must have been a hundred blades, innocently looking up at him. He watched in wonder as the blood began to run along the shelf. But rather than slow to a halt it continued, trickling to each blade, one after another until each had a thin line of crimson at its biting edge. As the final one was coated there arose the sizzle of a hot plate and a wisp of smoke carrying the faint smell of barbequed beef. Razorblades – just like in his story. Not-Robin realised his mouth was dry.

'Not mine, yours...'

Not-Robin looked back at the old man. Old and wizened, but not unkind.

'Where are these from?' His heart raced while his brain remained on intermittent.

'I think we both know that, Robin. But come – tell me about your latest work – I'm all ears.'

The story came thick and easily, and it was his best. As he spoke he got the impression Mr Turnbull was reading it anyway – a kind of bizarre subtitles. He found himself embellishing, adding detail as he went. And all through the matter of weight kept coming back, the weight of the story was important. He felt it, he worked to increase it; he saw it in the way the old man's blanket sagged beneath the pressure.

The man with the stories in his head, the stories fighting to be told, the stories that would not let him be until they were committed to the page. A story so real, so alive at times it scared him. He took sips of the red liquid and found Mr Turnbull doing likewise with the blue. Blue and red; red and blue.

When he was done the old man simply said 'thank you' and turned his head to the fire. Not-Robin sat back in his snug, comfy, all-enveloping armchair and relaxed. His head hurt, his vision blurred and the air seemed thick.

'How many is that?' The question crept slowly across the gap between them.

'Stories? I...er...I don't know,' and he didn't. With horror he found himself not even trying to remember, instead he just waited to see if the closet light went on. And when it didn't, it didn't.

'Take a look around...' And Not-Robin was back on his feet. How he got there he didn't know – he felt his mind's grip loosening and images flickered like an old-fashioned Helioscope. Flick! The exercise-book. Flick! The razorblades. An address book, an over-sized bath plug, a silver chalice – flick, flick, flick!

Not-Robin was back in his seat, images worn into the periphery of his vision.

'Thirteen, Robin, thir-teen. Thirteen times you've climbed those stairs, and twelve I have sent you away. Twelve times you have returned promising more.' Was it really thirteen? His mind recalled the room, the chairs...but nothing else. He was confused. Thirteen?

'Twelve months you have been visiting, and thirteen stories you have brought...thirteen stories with which to bargain.'

Bargain?

'Bargain...for what? You can have them, I don't want them.' And he didn't. Suddenly like the man in his latest effort he desperately wanted, needed, to get them out of him and onto paper, wanted them to be far away, wanted rid. But the display cases...the objects, they weren't on paper, they weren't fiction. They were real.

Not-Robin's head was a stew: he looked up, expecting the old man to respond, to provide the answer, but instead he peered through half-closed eyes that questioned but did not answer. His stick remained firmly clenched in both hands. Twelve months, twelve months? Robin made to get up from his seat but felt impossibly weak. He staggered to the displays.

Twelve months? It couldn't be – he'd been...what had he been doing recently? Work, work, think work think...what did he do? The second and third fingers of fear slipped down Robin's shirt.

A figure caught his eye – a thin, wisp like wraith in the gloomy depths. Its gaunt haggard face turned to face him; it opened its mouth and with slow horror he turned to face the reflection of starvation - the reflection of himself, Robin.

'Bargain for what? Why, to bargain for your life, of course.'

Five O'Clock Shadow

By five-to-five they'd reached Brunton and Natasha had to change buses. The bus-station was all but empty, a few oldsters heaved wheeled-trolleys with proud stoicism beneath a plastic canopy earned by two wars. Natasha pitied these aged examples of what happened should you choose to coast through life.

She took a seat on the top deck and was waiting for it to pull out when she noticed a boy on the waste ground opposite. He was scrawny, possibly ten or eleven years of age dressed in scruffy jeans and one of those big snorkel type anoraks. He was grubby-looked, ill-fed and was playing with a dog, an equally scrawny collie which leapt around his legs. The boy wielded a large stick, a piece of broken tree fallen in the previous night's gales. He beat it on the ground making a Coke can dance. Natasha felt drawn to the look of hopelessness on his face, a hollow, empty look. She felt immediately sorry for him, had a sudden impulse to run down the stairs and call to him, ask him if he fancied coming along. Felt sure he'd have some stories to share too.

As if in answer to her silent wish the boy suddenly stopped and looked up, looked straight across the bus station into her eyes. Natasha felt a jolt of embarrassment, yet she did not look away. Had she made a connection, was he thinking the same?

She noticed the dog also react: it lay flat on the floor next to its master, staring not at her but up at him in expectation. The boy held Natasha's gaze. He didn't smile, didn't move - just stared. She thought she saw curiosity, thought she saw hope. She saw him raise the large wooden stick in his hand above his head, as if signalling.

Her bus started, too late now to call to him. The dog moved in front of the boy so it sat between him and Natasha. The boy raised his other hand to hold the branch; she saw him tighten his grip; saw his muscles tense. And she knew what he was about to do. He craned the heavy club behind his head and with all his might swung it down in front of him...

The bus pulled behind another double-decker and through its flashing windows Natasha watched in horror as the branch fell again and again...Then a row of terraced shops came between them. Natasha's hand went to her mouth, for a second she feared she would be ill. She scrambled off her seat to stare back at the waste ground but the place where the boy had stood was empty.

Six of the Worst

The weight of being suddenly caught up with Robin's emaciated frame and he collapsed against one of the display cabinets. Made from rough oak its single open side revealed a series of bones arranged haphazardly on four narrow shelves. They looked almost human.

'I don't understand,' he stammered although deep down he felt he did. Mr Turnbull rose.

'Oh I rather think you do, Robin, I rather think you do.' He crossed to where Robin leant awkwardly. 'You're the storyteller. Every twenty-second of the month you've come to tell me tales of the supernatural, of what scares you.'

'Why would I do that?' Robin was finding breath hard to come by.

'Because I asked you to; it's all I've ever asked.' He lowered his face – he was taller than Robin imagined, and his thin, wet livery lips splayed not twelve inches away from Robin's own. 'I needed a story from you, a story that would scare, a story that would horrify. Each month you would arrive, hopeful that this one would please. Clowns and plane crashes; poison and cannibals – you really dug out the graves!'

'Scare?' Robin was wilting under a scorching sun. 'And did they?'

'Well you're not dead, are you?' asked Mr Turnbull laughing with the sudden bray of a donkey. Robin's vertebrae tingled in sequence. 'No, not dead...' He reached out a hand and held it against Robin's cheek. A quick and sudden flick of his long, twisted fingernails generated a hot stinging sensation on Robin's cheek followed by a gush of blood on his shoulder. But the pain was remote, as though experienced through gauze. He let the blood flow as the fire flickered in a breeze.

Memories burst into Robin's head: of being here, of the old man standing over him. Of running, running out the door. 'Same time next week...' But the man said it was every month. His sense of time was collapsing; his head felt like an over-inflated balloon and the air was hazy and thick. Mr Turnbull was back in his chair, hands upon his stick and yet Robin didn't see him move.

'Sit down, Robin.' And Robin found himself moving towards the chair, even while his head turned to run. His legs swung, propelled by his own momentum before he too sat down in the big armchair. The big comfy armchair that suddenly had pictures of creatures upon it that slithered and crawled.

'Relax, Robin, your stories passed, but not because they scared me: because they scared you. That was good, just good enough. So each night I asked you to return. Sorry if your memory is a little foggy on the subject, that's one of the inevitable side effects.'

Side effects?

'But I think you're done now, aren't you?' and he played with something which had suddenly appeared in his hands. It was small and stiff and sandy-coloured, a bundle of twigs or straw. Robin realised what it was and felt that familiar cold finger on the nape of his neck.

'Recognise him?' asked Mr Turnbull. 'I liked that one – creepy, creepy as all hell. I like all sorts – creepy, twisted or weird. You did weird real good, Robin, real good! But now, well now I think it's time to take you back.'

Robin sank into the welcoming arms of the chair.

'...right back. You see our closest terrors start early, so we have to go right back to the start. That's where the real juice is.' Robin noticed his hands closing tightly around the arms of the chair, nails digging in. He felt a crawling sensation at the base of his spine.

'What is your earliest fear, Robin? What's your first memory of being truly afraid?'

And Robin realised it wasn't just fear causing the tingle, but real crawling, real creeping. He looked down at the arms of the chair and saw that the pattern on the fabric wasn't a pattern at all.

'Really afraid...'

The pattern was alive. Or rather it was life: the creatures were real, and like none he had ever see. Things with multiple wings and legs and spines and holes writhed and twisted around and upon and inside each other. Things with no heads slithered across things with heads where God wouldn't put one. Robin recoiled. Then the seat gave way. He tried to rise but felt the cushions hemming him in.

'The cinema, if I am not too much mistaken. "Island at the Top of the World", 1974?'

Robin pushed hard with his hands, felt insect-like bodies crack beneath his palms and hot needles pierce his flesh. Puss of varying hues ooze out onto the fabric where it sizzled holes and dripped inside. Robin whimpered.

'A spider on the armrest? A seat which tipped backwards and ate your behind?'

And Robin was five and his weight was insufficient to tip the red-velour seat forward and beside him his parents weren't looking and Robin knew the seat would swallow him before they looked back.

And Robin felt the cushions soft and

(infested)

against his flesh as he was squeezed down bent double backside-first face and limbs kicking and screaming... Sweating profusely he found himself whining as the view of Mr Turnbull became framed at the end of a tunnel. It couldn't be happening, this was just the familiar nightmare, but the light was diminishing and he was being sucked deep inside the chair until with an obscene kiss the walls met and he could see no more.

Seven Again

Twisting and turning his body was drawn further into darkness. He must be beneath floor level, yet still he descended. Walls pressed in, soft yet tight, dry and cool yet as he moved in fits and starts rather than one smooth transit they became warmer and moist. This change was mirrored by the sound: the soft rasp of material replaced by a liquid sound, the sound of feet plugging quick sand. Robin's gut felt compressed. A stabbing pain speared his left side; arms and legs splayed out front unable to control his movement. Another pain as his body was forced double, pressure building at the tail of his spine.

Robin lost track of time. His mind struggled to fix on anything: the book shop – or was it a library – the only constant; visions flashed before him – of a small clown, of a black Mercedes car – all his creations. All things which he knew came from inside his head, and yet...

And all the while down and down; spiralling, squeezing...

Suddenly there was solidity under his backside, tunnel sagging beneath his weight. But now he felt a steadying floor supporting him. Reaching behind his back one wriggling arm met the blockage: warm and wet, yet firm, muscular. There was a long indentation into which he tried to insert his finger. It pulsed as though alive. In fact it felt familiar like...

He felt it give, felt it open and he fell. Cool air signified he was clear of the tunnel and he fell for some seconds before meeting something hard in the darkness. His weak body sprawled and Robin came to rest flat on his back, heart pounding in the silence. He breathed hard, nerves on edge. The floor was cold, the air filled with the smell of decay. Not of a compost but of damp, rotting meat. His stomach turned; mouth open wide he could taste it on his lips and his tongue.

What the hell was happening, how had he got here? He tried to retrace his steps – he'd left the house...when? Three, four? And walked...no, he'd cycled, hadn't he? Up a hill, he'd cycled up the hill with the houses either side...And he remembered grass, wet grass. Where had that been if not the hill? Memories fell over each other in their eagerness to make themselves known. He'd walked up the hill and the grass was green and wet after the afternoon shower and...he tried to conjure the outside of the bookshop (library?) but found its appearance elusive. How could he not recall somewhere he'd been at least twelve times? A sudden worse realisation hit him: he couldn't recall what he did in-between visits. Nothing joined the 'then' with the 'now'.

Thud! A tremendous noise shook the floor around him. It shook the contents of his stomach, his fillings. A second thunderous sound did the same and Robin dreaded the coming of a third, a third which he associated with more night terrors. With sudden certainty he grabbed his chest with his hands: the skin was ribbed as it hadn't been for years. Mind screaming, his hands made their way to his face and sure enough there was no sign of stubble. The tipping-seat in the cinema – how old had he been? Five, six? A third, thunderous footstep shook the air; raising his head, face bathed in sweat, the seven year-old Robin stared in fear.

Thud! A fourth footstep in the darkness. Was it nearer? Of course, because it was coming for him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't hide, couldn't run. It would not quicken its step but nothing and no one could slow it down; not walls not parents not Superman himself could stand in its way because it was Relentless.

Thud! A dead, empty sound, accompanied by dust falling before the Monster. Robin desperately tried to push off the floor. In wide-eyed horror he discovered he was unable to move – arms, legs, head all pinned to the floor, tethered with unseen bindings that cut into his young flesh.

Thud! The loudest yet, and a dull glow appeared past his feet. Squinting, Robin knew exactly what he would see. He recalled the bulky shoulders, the impossibly huge legs; the concave hollow of stomach beneath that barrel chest.

Thud! The glow faded yet in his mind's eye the figure grew clearer: cartoon-like hands with their flat palm beside un-opposable thumbs that could not grip but could crush. And all swathed in mile upon mile of horrid, rotting bandage...

Thud! The glow returned as though the monster had stepped beneath a spotlight. A clang signified it had hit the light that now swung unhurriedly to and fro causing monstrous shadows. How far? Fifteen yards? Robin's stomach collapsed in on itself and he felt warmth in his trousers. Those outstretched arms!

Boom! It disappeared again and of course the darkness was worse. When it stepped heavily back into the light something odd had happened.

Thud! It was shorter, half the height, yet still strode in the same terrible, hypnotic rhythm. Its bandages were no longer just white but blue and gold and they were no longer bandages but clothes, fancy blousy clothes...

Thud! They too were rotten but in place of dumb cartoon hands it had white gloves and in place of that terrifying faceless mask it possessed a face. And it was grinning.

Thud! Five yards and the view blurred with seven year-old tears; Robin struggled against his bindings, felt them chew and warm blood ran down his wrists. It was no use: he watched the figure draw closer, eyes fixed upon him. Razor-like fangs meshed and chewed its own lips and blood and flesh fell from its white painted face, down its clown outfit to the floor. With one step it would stand at his feet, looking down upon him...Just one more step...

Boom! The clown stepped through a dark patch and re-emerged as the mummy, towering above him.

'No...no, please...no...!' he sobbed at this soul-less, face-less manifestation. He twisted his head, the only movement allowed, and prepared to be crushed.

Silence: the pungent smell; his own whimpering sniffles. Then he was rising, pulled up into the air by bindings that tore at his wounds. He screamed, a long, throat-ripping lung-burning yell, sure his limbs would be severed. Faintly he registered the receding figure that alternated between relentless mummy and that diminutive, laughing clown of his own creation.

Robin's yell continued as his mind slipped into neutral. The sharp, white pain denied him the ecstasy of passing out and so when his ascent was finally arrested and the terrifying apparatus came into view he was fully aware and fully awake. Robin took a stuttering breath and started to scream once more.

Something He Ate

Natasha was always amazed at just how much countryside there was: it seemed to go on forever. Admittedly the rounded hills blocked off the view a few miles into the distance, but what lay around, among and draped over them was a many-hued green patchwork, its misshapen quilted squares sewn together with dry-stone walls and hedges.

Through grimy, rain-soaked windows she observed their slow climb out of Mablethorpe, valley spread out beyond the unevenly weathered stone wall to their left. Her rendezvous with Sandy was the next stop, somewhere further up the hill. And now that the time and place approached she found fingers of doubt picking at her collar. With each slow mile, diesel engine labouring to haul them to the top, her unease grew and a knot formed in her stomach as Sandy started to become real. No longer just an understanding electronic confidant he was about to materialise from the ether. Was he young or old? Black or white? Had he lied about his age? Did it matter?

(will he be handsome, will he be rich)

A ray of sunshine bit through the cloud and lanced the valley below. Where it struck the grass seemed suddenly luminous, a coloured shape picked out in a black and white photo. Natasha found it profoundly and unexpectedly beautiful.

The road was narrow and a small van was trying to manoeuvre into or out of a side road. Protruding three feet or so it blocked the bus' passage and as a result the driver had to halt. Natasha found herself impatient: two o'clock they'd agreed and they were already late. Would he wait?

The van was 'faffing-about', as Grandad would have said, trying to edge into a gap clearly too narrow. A man in overalls and a cap was hanging out of the driver's window trying to look behind whilst declining the bus driver's sage advice. Natasha drummed her fingers on the cold metal rail of the seat in front. Across the valley the pool of light had evaporated and the sky had grown darker: it was about to cane it down. Then a movement caught her eye: a lone figure standing in the next field amid the gloom. A smallish, thin figure dressed in an oddly old-fashioned suit; it was a heavy brown with a hat of similar material. He looked very out of place, standing stock-still, apparently watching the scene. This was obviously not the same boy she had seen before – he was taller and maybe slimmer \- but there was a similarity. A familiarity that gnawed.

The bus edged forward then stopped abruptly in a volley of shouts. A third voice joined in, a woman had taken it upon herself to dismount and conduct proceedings. From what Natasha could see her assistance was making no discernible difference. She turned back to the boy half expecting him gone, but there he still was staring directly at the bus. No - at her. And as if on cue he raised his left hand which she now saw contained a collection of red rags. Red ribbons dangled, and the furry surface of the cloth flinched in the breeze. He held the rags out in front, as if offering them to her. Natasha found herself unable to take her eyes off him, off the rags. Rags that were not rags, of course. Rags that he raised to his wide, hungry mouth. Rags that had until very recently been living things, running and scurrying amid the grass.

The bus moved off, leaving the boy standing chewing. Twice more he raised the carcass to his mouth and twice more he ate before they turned the next corner. But in her mind the image remained frozen. And all of a sudden Natasha desperately needed to get off the bus.

Dinner at Nine

Robin's head was encased in a glass bubble, sealed around his neck above the shoulders. His head was clamped in position by with powerful metal jaws with spiked teeth and gears. Two delicate, shining arms held open his cheeks, two more his eyes, another his nose, spreading each orifice wide. A slow mechanical cranking sent gears and pinions into action once more and each of the spiky fingers of delicate torture widened him still further. He screamed. It was like he was being slowly opened, unhurriedly disembowelled.

A hydraulic hiss accompanied the raising of a small wooden door revealing the inside of a six-inch diameter tube that he'd taken to be for the admission of air. The faint scratching hardly registered through the pain but the sight of scurrying brown faces, of sharp piercing claws and dirty, diseased fur fully focused his attention.

'Look, Robin,' the calm unseen voice said. 'Some friends from childhood have come to see you. They're hungry, Robin, they like flesh.'

The first rat came warily, nosing around the flat bottom of the glass bulb. It approached just as a second came into view then a third, faster and larger.

'Don't worry – you are allowed to feed the animals...' the voice smiled with high-grade malice.

First contact was his neck, a claw scratching then tugging the skin. The pain registered low on the scale against the clamps but he knew what was to come. Using his skin for purchase the rat climbed onto his jaw. For a brief second Robin thought it may not be hungry, may not want to eat...and then it bit deeply into the soft flesh of his bottom lip. Pain swamped his jaw and ran down his neck and chest. His body convulsed. The rat didn't just bite, it ripped. Teeth tore, trying to prise his lip free. Blood first ran then spurted as a second pain lit up his ear. This unseen assailant also pulled and gnawed. He tried to shake his head but, clamped in place, succeeded only in tearing open wounds which had started to congeal.

'Robin, Robin...' the voice enticed. He tried not to listen, was surprised he could do so over the intense screams of pain. The third rat tore a chunk from his nostril.

'Fear is warmth, fear is vitality...So many flavours'. Turnbull – that was his name. Was he remembering or forgetting? 'These are your flavours, Robin, they are your creation.' His mind struggled for grip. Think – think of something solid! Stairs...hillside...the cabinet with the notebook. Think, think dammit!

He knew he was screaming as the rats paused briefly. More screaming and again they paused. The control felt good; although the pain was intense he felt the fear subside. Since childhood he had feared this torture, had woken in sweats, yet now it was here, literally in his face it no longer held such power.

'Screw yooooou!!!' he managed to scream, throat burning, mouth ragged.

A hiss announced a change in the glass bubble – Robin felt a draft circulate and smelt a noxious, cloying odour. The rats reacted, scurrying back down the tube up which they had come. One fell before it made the tube and lay writhing, but its death was interrupted by the clamps releasing their grip. They didn't move they just seemed to fade, merging with the blackness around him. Support suddenly removed, his body crumpled to the floor where he lay, hurting.

'No,' he said, speech slurred by his torn mouth, hand raised to survey the damage. 'No, this is where I take control. I am not going to wait for the next one!' Robin staggered to his feet, head swimming. He staggered in the dark, figuring no matter what room he was in he'd hit something sometime. He had the impression it was big, but every room had an entrance and... He hit the door with a thud, not pausing to think how unlikely this was. Reaching for a handle he found it unsurprisingly locked, but a quick fumble and a twist had it open in a second.

'Ha!' he said wincing slightly as his cheek ripped. The door opened as if it had not done so for some time letting in a faint light. Stepping out carefully Robin found himself in a stairwell with a wrought-iron spiral staircase, just like the one in the bookstore.

'Basement,' he said, 'I'm in the basement,' and swiftly he started to climb. I'm one step ahead, he thought, I need to keep moving.

The first flight brought another door, one which Robin thought was not the bookshop. The next brought a landing with a sofa and a small bookcase. The third brought him to the top and a larger, ornate door.

'End of the line, everybody off,' he murmured before turning the handle, legs aching, face bursting.

The room was dimly lit and lines of books suggested his intuition had been correct. Ducking round the door, ready to run back to the stairs he saw the glow of the fire to his left, meaning it stood between him and the main door. Was there a back way? He looked to the right and saw nothing but shelves running off into the gloom. How big was this place? It had seemed small before but now it felt immense.

'Keep moving – come on!' he encouraged himself and, taking a deep breath, stepped out into the aisle.

No mummy met him, no voice commanded him to stop. He kept moving, instinctively crouching, tasting the musty air. Fear spurred him faster as he neared the exit. Nearly there, he muttered, nearly...

'Going somewhere, Robin?' Turnbull sounded extremely old, voice harsh and strained. Robin bolted for the stairs. There was a roaring; he turned - red carpet approached. A split second later his mind accepted that it was not a carpet but liquid, a crimson liquid that rushed across the full width of the shop. It plumed over the mezzanine creating swirling rapids. Inches deep it raced towards him and Robin realised he'd frozen.

'Come – on!' he shouted; the sudden sound propelling him to the stairs where he slammed against the wall. Winded, he leapt down the top three steps before the red liquid swept over edge of the stairs and immersed him. It was warm. He made for the door as the liquid covered him and found its way into his mouth. It tasted of iron. Robin lost his footing and slipped heavily in the bloody waterfall. It contained lumps – glistening, rounded masses, some with hair. A large one landed on his cheek and oozed onto his chest. Robin convulsed, feeling nauseous then.

'Ro-bin. Come back and finish your tale – we haven't finished!' The voice was close. The blood still came making it difficult to draw breath. He looked down, strings of matted hair forming a curtain around his face; he drew a large breath and dived into the red pool. It was repulsive: he could feel more lumps, more chunks more

(bites)

of what he could not, did not want to think. For a second he thought the door was entirely submerged, but then there was the handle just above the surface. The blood level rose. He reached and remembered with a thrill that it opened outwards!

Robin turned the brass handle and threw himself against it. It gave! He released his breath, struggling to recall the layout of the room beyond...Then he was standing waist deep, wondering why the blood was not draining. But what he saw instead made him sick.

Instead of an 'outside' there was a wall, a glistening, uneven wall which pulsed with mottled red blotches. Robin reached out to touch it and immediately regretted it. As his flesh made contact

(flesh upon flesh)

a javelin of pain stabbed his heart and threw him backwards. Robin stared at the flesh-wall and all around him the blood deepened. He heard the voice from the room far away and yet so clear:

'Are you afraid yet, Robin? Oh I do hope you are.'

A Ten-Minute Walk

Natasha's breath puffed like a steam train as she climbed the hill. The road was narrow with no pavement and she was forced to walk on the broken tarmac or sully her new boots in the stream that ran alongside. To her right was a bush-crested hillock while to her left a low wall underlined the view across the misty valley that swept back towards town. Not expert in estimation her guess that they were a thousand feet above the valley floor was somewhat on the high side, but her guess that she had half-a-mile to go to reach the car parked at what looked to be the top of the hill was pretty much on the mark. A ten-minute walk she thought. Her breath continued to billow: it was bitterly cold and she regretted her choice of the more stylish but less practical fingerless gloves. She just hoped it would be worth it. Would Sandy wait? Stories, he'd said – come with stories.

The bus driver hadn't been very understanding at her use of the emergency alarm and had thrown her off despite her protestations. She recalled swearing as the doors closed which probably just served to underline the correctness of the decision in the minds not just of the driver but also the six or seven passengers who silently watched her disembark. She swore again; iPod battery dead she walked in silence and so she heard the birds cry in the increasingly leaden sky.

The car turned out not to mark the top of the hill, the road flattening slightly and a further half-mile hike lay ahead. For a moment she imagined this scenario repeating infinitely, always climbing but never reaching the top, but her mind quickly dismissed it. Despite her gothic tendencies Natasha was known for her rationality: she was curious, intrigued, but always sought the logical explanation. But on top of the three boys she'd seen

(watching)

this momentary lapse quickened her pulse.

'Get a grip, Nat,' she chided, taking a deep breath that froze her lungs. She lengthened her stride and carried on. The boys: for some reason they kept slipping back into her mind when she wasn't concentrating. A local estate fat-freak and two in-bred country bumpkins – nothing to be scared of. Natasha started to hum as she often did to drown unwanted thoughts. Finding the humming insufficient she started to sing, 'Lil' Devil' by The Cult instead.

The weak sun was struggling and the light had begun to fade. It was cold, the buses were on the hour and Natasha's enthusiasm for the enterprise had plateaued. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and looked at it again, a hand-drawn diagram showing the road, and the church with the strange rune marked immediately behind it. She looked up ahead: he'd said it was an odd church with no steeple and a low tower so she wasn't altogether surprised not to see it. A dog howled and Natasha felt her body tighten. She swallowed, mouth dry; then forced a smile.

'Silly!' she shouted, 'I'm being silly!' It was meant to make her feel better, feel in command of her surroundings. But the air devoured her words. Fog was creeping up the valley, the first grey fingers swirling soundlessly across the tarmac ahead. Natasha pulled her coat up around her chin and quickened her pace.

Eleventh Hour

It was late and he'd be in trouble. He'd only intended staying for a quick one but that had led to the inevitably not-so-quick second and a game of pool and, well, now it was well past eleven. Tea would be in the dog but that animal would be evicted as he replaced it in the doghouse for the night and quite possibly longer. That all this struck him only as he turned the corner into Wilberforce Gardens just underlined his own weakness and again he kicked himself as he stopped the car on the drive.

The lights were off and for a moment he breathed a sigh of relief: maybe no lecture, not this evening; maybe he could steal off to work early in the morning and let the impending storm blow itself out. But of course it wouldn't, and the realisation that such a delay would probably only intensify its rage tipped him further into the vat of self-pity.

Even before the car drew to a halt he knew something was wrong. With a thud he realised the front door was wide open, and the noise he'd assumed to be the TV was no such thing.

'No! Please God no!' (sob), 'Don't...!' A loud crack and something breaking. Without thinking, and totally against his nature, Gareth Newman, mild-mannered estate agent from Walsall, barged through the front door and straight into hell.

Lit by one remaining bulb the living room looked like a train crash: furniture violently swept aside; curtains wrapped around chairs and a table splintered, as though the whole building had rolled. Ornaments were smashed, drawers scattered, papers strewn; carefully chosen Farrow-and-Ball paint was now black, brown and bright crimson, a trail of the latter leading to a raw, bleeding huddle in the corner.

'Miranda!' He flung himself at her cowering figure.

'Gareth!' she sobbed but could not raise her arms. 'They've...they've...!' The words choked her.

'What the hell happened,' then: 'Kids, where are the kids?'

Miranda looked up and her face was bruised and marked, blood streaming down each temple. She winced raising an arm, unable to talk with tears, other arm a broken flower.

'What...where...?' Gareth's mind raced, suddenly as far from drunk as it was possible to get: blood, trashed house, missing children - a whirlwind swept his brain. Then a voice:

'Gareth? This way...'

Heart pounding he didn't recall moving, he just seemed to float up the stairs in a dream. The stairs were gloomy, an eerily illuminated chaos: bookshelves overturned, soil from the rubber-plant ground into the carpet, footprints heading off into each of the three bedrooms. At the end of the corridor sat a large cloaked figure beneath a single swinging bulb. An icy dread pierced Gareth's chest; he wanted to scream his children's names but his breath was held by an incredible weight squeezing and crushing.

'You asked me what scares you most and here I am,' a voice spoke beside his ear. It was stark, matter-of-fact.

'I don't know what you mean! I never asked anything! I don't know you!' Finding his lungs he denied the question, rejecting what was about to happen, pulse thundering.

(You asked)

'I didn't, I never asked...'

But of course he had, he had asked what scared him the most; in the piercing black eye of night he had asked the lonely silence, challenged it to produce something new.

And now the silence had answered.

'A simple choice.' The figure spread its arms like some sick Christ, one pointing towards each of the children's bedrooms. In that moment Gareth ceased wanting to go to his children's rooms, at that moment the last thing he wanted was to look inside. He tried to step back but found himself on a moving walkway. He scrambled desperately on all fours but within seconds he was at the feet of the hooded Christ. He noticed the Doc Martin boot as it crashed into his face. His nose exploded spewing fresh blood across the carpet.

'Choose!' thundered his assaulter.

Gareth held his face in his hands trying to stem the flow. His vision swam and his face swelled. He didn't want to rise but knew he must. He didn't want to look but felt compelled. Both bedroom doors were open; the scene in both was the same: he didn't want to scream, but he couldn't stop himself.

The apparatus of torture sat in the middle of each ruined room; a glistening chrome and leather dentist's chair on a single metal stand. Into them were strapped ten-year-old Jake and seven-year-old Christina, utterly terrified in their nightwear. Each small head was held in a vice-like clamp that reached round and above with spidery steel fingers; eyes and mouths were pulled wide and Gareth was thumped by déjà-vu.

'Ahhhhhhhhh!' shouted Christina, mouth held wide. 'Ahhhhhhhhh!' she cried in a voice that had screamed for hours. Her cheeks were streaked red, her hair lank and matted. He made towards her.

'One you choose, the other you condemn.'

Gareth stopped on the threshold, arms frozen, mouth dry; he turned to look across at Jake in the other room who looked back pleadingly, tears flowing. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. Beside him a table held a row of shiny, metal tools that sparkled sharply. Jake's legs were spread wide, his arms held back from his ten-year-old chest. One he could save.

'...and the other shall know your choice.'

Suddenly the penny dropped. Looking down he realised his feet were roped to each door – entry to one room would close the door to the other.

'...and each door automatically locks once closed.'

'Bastard!' One he could save. 'You utter bastard! Don't do this please don't do this, please! I'll do anything, anything you want! How much, tell me how much? I'll take you to the cashpoint, give you the car. The house! Have the fucking house but...!' he choked back the tears 'Don't, please don't take my kids!'

'One you can save, the other you condemn.'

'And the other shall know...' Gareth repeated numbly. 'Jeeezus Christ...!' And he cried. He expected the voice, and when it came it felt like thunder.

'Choose!'

Gareth's mind raced: could he rush one room, release one child and get back to the other? In his mind's eye he saw the door locking. Could he break out? But what damage could he inflict? Either way he would still have chosen, would still have made a conscious choice to rescue one of his children. A choice the other would remember, would take with them as their last thought in this world, and their first in the next.

'No...No...!' he wailed, dropping to his knees. Another boot connected firmly with his temple, bringing a flash of light and a stab of pain.

'Last chance,' and movement in Jake's room alerted him to the fact the man was not operating alone. A grey figure stood behind Jake in the moonlight; a second figure took up station behind Christina. His two children, his two beloved children. Birthdays, school plays and the two-wheeler he'd not yet got around to teaching her to ride joined the maelstrom inside his pounding, petrified head.

'I...' he said.

Twelve Feet Under

As he walked into the room his vision narrowed. Focusing on the figure in the chair, tears streaming he shouted:

'I'm coming! I will come and get you...!' The last lie. 'I, will, come for you!'

As he reached out his vision tunnelled and so it seemed that as the small, spread-eagled figure looked up at him it grew ever farther away. Behind him a door locked and the grey figure stepped away and seemed to melt into the wall which slid back to reveal a window, a window into the torture chamber in the room next door...

The view was now as if through a letterbox. His hands reached but never felt, his peripheral vision filling with light. The feeling was like being squeezed out of a dark tunnel backwards, backwards into the light...

A cool draft engulfed his tears, his heart tight, chest held hard.

'I'm coming...!' he screamed, pushed every last pounce of breath into that shout in the hope that it would help him push back into the world where his children were about to enter an unimaginable hell...

'You chose,' the voice said with satisfaction.

Robin turned: Turnbull was sitting in front of the crackling fire. Robin looked around blinking.

'What...?' he managed. His head span, his mind randomly picking up pieces of memories and trying vainly to re-assemble them. Children, he had children, but not here. The hill...he had children... Where? Near the hill?

'Now that was a good one. Scared you, didn't it?' Stories, he wrote stories... But the children were real, they were real. He hadn't invented them, had he?

'Ah! What is real and what is fiction? It matters not. What matters are feelings...Feelings give life, feelings feed old and weary bones, Robin. My weary old bones. Ah yes,' and he stood taller and straighter than before. 'Emotions are the stuff of life.'

He looked down at Robin who had collapsed to his knees. All control, all strength had left him; his legs were crumpled, arms flaccid. His head gradually emptied, plug open, inlet pipe clogged. Robin was shutting down.

'I think it's time I let you out, Robin. I think all your tales are told, don't you?' Turnbull took a large Samurai sword from its place above the fire and drew it, unhurriedly, into the air. A small, tear-stained face appeared in Robin's mind. A face he knew was real.

'Nooooo!' he screamed, and pushed up with all his strength. He took Turnbull by surprise. Winded the old man lowered the sword and Robin knew where to go: up.

He pushed the old man, felt his dry, dusty frame give way and made for the stairs. Memories floated like leaves and one by one they settled. He grabbed the rail and hurled himself up two at a time. Up, up – this was where he'd come in, not the stairs and door from earlier. He recalled getting to the top of those stairs each day with a story: yes, that he had done time and again...but he couldn't recall the world outside for a very good reason: there wasn't one. He continued his climb. Up: one floor, two... He'd come down from...where? The leaves, look at the leaves... A hillside, a valley. Up, up. Three storeys, four. And now he tired, slowed to one step at a time. No sound behind: was the old man following?

Climb, climb! Think, think...darkness, a metal pole in a hole. Wood. What did that mean? The hillside, what came after the hillside.

(Children, you have children)

Chest constricting, lungs labouring. Must rest.

No rest (for the wicked) push on...

'Hello Robin.'

A reflex expletive; Robin looked round and couldn't quite take in what he saw.

The wrought-iron staircase was now shrouded in dim cloud. He looked down and child-hood vertigo made a violent return as he realised the staircase was floating four or five stories above the roof of the bookshop. He stopped, clinging to the centre pole, feet and blood frozen. A beating in the air made him look up and another mind-expanding sight greeted him. A giant lizard, greenish-grey and leathery in texture hovered ten feet away. Huge wings beat heavily; the lumbering body undulated and writhed. Its face was uneven and damaged, lumps of skin and flesh hanging loosely. And yet its features were recognisable: Turnbull.

'You seem anxious to leave. I thought you were done,' the heavy voice rumbled, 'but maybe you have more tales to tell. What do you say, Robin?'

'Sod you. Just sod you! If you've done anything to my family...!' His foggy head wasn't helping.

'Just a story, Robin. From your head, not mine. I just helped with the special effects!'

Robin climbed. He came around to the side where the Turnbull-creature waited, snout perilously close. Go on, eat me, he thought.

(Not eat – devour)

He ran faster: round and round. And each time the lizard got higher, and each time he expected it to pick him off. He was getting out; but he imagined teeth cutting into his torso. He was getting out. And the more he thought it the more he thought it might really happen.

A mistaken look down halted him. Nausea swamped him and he held on for dear life: the creature might not frighten him, but the height did. There was as loud exhalation.

'Ah! That's good!' said Turnbull. 'Carry on – it's such a pleasant view...'

That's it, he thought, fear. It feeds on fear! My fear! It's enjoying me being scared. No, it needs me to be scared. That's it. That's it!

The thought so excited him that he turned towards the creature and grinned.

'Ha-haaaa!' he shouted, as though catching out a trickster. 'Gotcha!' Robin thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty, a flicker of doubt.

And that was all he needed. Off he went, two steps at a time. Up, up, up...

'Up, up and away, in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooooooon!' he sang, springing from step to step. With each he felt fitter, with each he felt lighter. With each he went higher.

Below him the creature slowly rose. A roar announced a burst of flame that incinerated the lower twists of the spiral but Robin, now sure, climbed on.

The door was simple, wood, unremarkable but for two things. One, it was two hundred feet in the air; and two, it was horizontal, not vertical. It was also some six feet above the top step.

'Shit!' said Robin. Steadying himself on the top-most section of the rail he stared across the gap. The door had a brass handle, enough to grip but possibly not enough to take his weight. That he had to get through it was beyond question. A beating noise announced the approach of the creature. No fear, thought Robin, don't give him that. Don't feed the animals: this last made him laugh out loud. A groan confirmed that he had found a weapon.

'One, two, three...!' And he leapt. A moment longer and he knew he would have stood for eternity: sometimes you just had to get on and think later. For a second he was airborne – and then the handle was cold in his hand, door thankfully staying closed. It held his weight as he swung, pendulum-like. Tightening his grip he closed his eyes. The door may open inwards, he'd never thought of that. Shit. If it did he was stuck. Instinctively he looked down.

(Don't!)

Too late. The bookshop was a doll's house, around it a vague sprawl of houses, a river. Between him and it the creature, twenty feet below. Turnbull's wizened face leered up at him.

'Don't worry, Robin, I hear your fear! Now let me taste it!'

Ten-feet, five-feet.

Robin felt his grip give...felt his fingers lose concentration. Too late he re-tightened. He fell – felt his feet hit the thing's snout. He looked down, startled. In the same instant Turnbull looked up, and Robin had a choice.

'Jesus loves everyone,' he shouted, 'except you, you cunt!' And, laughing, he twisted the handle and opened the door.

Turnbull roared, flames shooting sideways then arching after him. Swaying from side to side he reached inside the doorway. In the darkness was a metal bar that he grabbed, and pulled himself inside. Flames licked the doorframe, an angry, reptilian snout hit his legs. He kicked, stared into Turnbull's eyes and then...the door slammed.

Darkness. Blessed darkness and blessed silence. He breaths: it is stuffy, but he is free to take it in. He fills his lungs and Robin Stevens breaths out. And he remembers. Remembers Paul and Catherine (not Jake and Christina); remembers the advert and the hill and the climb and a boy sat on a gravestone.

A noise like rain showers from above then pauses. Another, then another. Now more muffled, like layers. Layer upon layer. He screams in realisation and pushes up with every ounce of strength and anger. Above him there is a creaking as he pushes against something solid. He pushes again, pounds, kicks; wood splinters shafts of light appear around the edges of the coffin lid. Cool, damp soil rains down onto his face and he spits and splutters and punches the wood and clambers to sit up, blinking in the daylight.

He launches himself out of the grave. Legs bleeding with splinters, face lacerated and one arm broken he stumbles across the churchyard and doesn't look back.

The Thirteenth Guest

Natasha hears but disregards the distant shout. The gate to the churchyard is rusted and sharp and she is careful not to catch her nails. Round the back, his instructions said. In the north-east quarter, just off the terrace at the rear. The path is covered with fallen leaves, the trees bare. The bleakness appeals, those black and crooked shapes pure and expressive. No pretence, nothing hidden. Natasha picks her way round the side of the church. It is an ugly edifice, but all is fog, white, swirling, and for Natasha the scene is perfect: how many times has she dreamed a scene like this? She searches the rows of headstones. The small map marks each individually and she counts them off: one, two, three, four...

She starts at a noise: a boy of maybe ten or eleven sits upon a tomb, legs swinging. Natasha emits an involuntary noise of alarm. The boy looks up from beneath an old-fashioned cap. His face is thin, wide-eyed: innocent. He raises a polite arm in greeting.

'Hi, my name's Sandy,' he says, smiling. 'What are you afraid of?'

* * *

And that's the end, go home now.

