 
# A Chip off the Old Block

# Darren Worrow

## A Chip off the old Block

## Darren Worrow

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All Rights Reserved.

No part of "A Chip off the old Block" may be reproduced or transmitted or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

No similarity between any of the names, characters, institutions, persons or substances in "A Chip off the old Block" and those of any persons living or dead is intended and any such similarity is purely coincidental.

1st Edition published 2015 by Smashwords.

For more information on Darren Worrow:

www.darrenworrow.webs.com

## 1.

"Ol' George tolds me yer argh jar-key," whistled the old farmer through his two last remaining blackened teeth. The rest of his teeth were lost with a long forgotten history of sugar sandwiches and other sweet stuff that was told would be good for him back in his youth. It was a history that no one dared to ask him of, unless they had a decade of free time on their hands in which to bore themselves to an early grave.

His breath took on the funk of a thousand dead moles decomposing slowly in an old shed and it yielded a yellowing puff of mist which unwelcomingly materialised into the air whenever he opened his gapping cake hole to talk, wheeze or merely puff out smoke produced from his pipe.

"Well, erm, not quite," I informed the old codger, "I'm a DJ, a disc-jockey. I drop tunes and that, mix them up you know, in a club. Drum and bass a bit of dubstep, that kind of a thing....y'know."

"There be march call fer art in Larndon ewe?" the old man inquired. He was a best friend of my now late granddad George; I met him once or twice but have serious doubts that he would recall it. The last time I did see him it was at the other end of the village hall during a friend of the family's wedding some six years ago. He was trying desperately to charm a bridesmaid five times his senior and she had obviously stole some champagne and was hanging onto the drapes of a window in which to keep herself steady. Had she had the capability to flee the scene crying then I think that she would have; she had the blank expression of a dead fish in a pool of killer whales and perhaps she would rather have been one there rather than herself, there at that very moment.

I wanted to bust away from the conversation with this haggard farmer just as much as the bridesmaid but social etiquette and morals told me I should at least try and humour the guy for as long as I could possibly stand it. "Yeah, a lot y'know," was my answer, simple but to the point.

"Ever warn argh Grand National?" he asked with another puff of yellow invading the space between us.

I coughed and thought hard about my answer to this. Need I explain the history of popular music from the fusion of country and blues to form rock 'n' roll, the following trends and youth cultures of the Mersey-Beat scene, the flower power then glam and punk rock, heavy metal, gothics? Then onto how they fused with Jamaican ska and rock steady and that's influence on the skinheads and modern music, the development of electronic music, the new romantics, hip hop, house, acid house, trance and techno, breakbeat to drum an bass? No best not I figured, best just to lie through my teeth, "Yes, yes I did, won it at least ten times."

The fragile old man rocked back and forth in the comfy chair that he claimed for the evening, "I say ewe, blardy proper jarb moi sarn, proper loike!" he giggled away happily hoping that a lengthy discussion into horse racing and all things equestrian that passed his weary mind would now pursue.

The force of his jubilation had slammed the lids of his eyes shut as he threw his bald head back, his last few strands of wiry grey locks shaking with the excitement of meeting a Grand National winning jockey. He had planned his quick-fire round of questions regarding the subject, burst open those flailing eyes and scanned frantically into the space where I was once standing, "Where 'e be garn tharn?" he questioned himself.

I tried really I did but I had to get away, onto the next village resident, a charming old hag in a Harris Tweed skirt and a Barbor jacket, sipping her gin and tonic and leaving the glass stained with scarlet lipstick marks that were of the most unsuitable tone for her skin colour, a pasty, wrinkly white. "Oh Daniel, let me take a look at you!" She speaks in her well-to-do accent as she presses her senior face so close to mine I could feel the mascara and Blue Nun clog my nostrils like a dense, thick fog. "Ohh," she screeches so loud that she trickles some of the contents of her tumbler onto the carpet without noticing, "You look so grownup what what? So, how's school?"

I forget she used to be the headmistress of the village school and the only conversation she could successfully still initiate had to be around the subject of education, anything else she tended to waiver off until she could find a place in the tête-à-tête in which to tangent it back to school. "I am 28 now Mrs Farnsworth, school is but a fleeting memory for me!"

"Oh," she laughs with a kind of squawk like hawks arguing over the last bit of road-kill rabbit. It was effective enough to alert the entire room, or at least those that had their hearing aids turned up fully. She leans in close to me, so close in fact that, with the added slap on the back, any closer could be deemed assault. She whispers in my ear, "It's my mind see, it can't keep up."

I just grin at her, what the hell do you expect me to do? I look around the room at the series of aging folk that move sloth-like, clasping saucers with cold cups of tea precariously shaking on them or grasping firmly to small tipples in tumblers as they causally confabulate nonsense that none of them can recall, if they were lucky enough to hear and comprehend, a minute or two after it was said. The more they engage in this dire act the more life without old George Wheeler would seem plausible and manageable.

I stood there wondering if they really were friends of my granddad at all or if they were just stragglers passing the church that morning and felt the need to gate-crash the funeral for want of a decent vol-au-vent and perhaps the odd pineapple chunk squashed on a stick accompanying a square old mature cheddar.

The room is so dark and dingy, it suits the company inside. I wonder if granddad envisioned his farewell as a younger man as anything nearly this dull. My mind then moved onto wondering if all of us end up this dilapidated, if this was the end result of years of life. Shit, surely there was someone under the age of 80 in this god forsaken village other than the over-excitable spotty nerd of a vicar that took the service. There just has to be, for if this was to be my new home for the time being I will surely die of boredom, I predicted a month before I follow in my Granddad's steps. They always said that I was just like him, a chip off the old block.

Ted Turner, a round-face, red nose and oversize country bumpkin loudly intrudes the conversation, something I am quite thankful for. "Alreet Danny-boy, owl yer doin' ewe?!" he bellows, now not three centimetres away from my fed-up face, frantically shaking my hand with his humongous chubby sausage fingers and a grip that can strangle a crocodile. Ted is the youngest of the group; I reckon he's approximately 60. He is a well know character around the village, I've met the guy, like every time I've been about. It is said that he is as much a permanent fixture at the Dog and Duck as the bar itself.

"Fine thanks Ted, all things considering." I held my head as I remembered the reasoning behind this bizarre event.

"Arr, Ol' George be a gard man, well larved through-art dare ol' vill-large," Ted informed me, confirming that I was now located firmly within the deepest, darkest area of Wiltshire. Getting used to this fractured accent would be something I will have no choice but to accept. It made everyone sound so backward; even if they are a professor of The West of England University they still sound as if they are as thick as two short planks to my ears.

"Don't lark so darn boy," Ted laughed, he must be a mind-reader, "Dis place ain't sar bard, yer'll gart used to it 'ere. See, nothing rand 'ere fer miles cept ar few ol' deaf folk. Yer carn blarst yer towny music loud as yer warnt ere moi friend!"

With that remark I suddenly saw an upside to the move. Before this I must admit I hated the idea of moving into granddad's old cottage, into this boring village but now, Ted was right, I could be free from the constant harassment of noise complainers, those urban neighbours from hell. Here I could, as Ted said, blast my party vibes as loud and as often as I want. Anytime, night and day, yeah I could practise; become the best DJ this side of the Atlantic Ocean. When I return to the big smoke every club will want to book me, every festival would make me the headliner and most of all, every girl would want my pants on their bedroom carpet.

So with that notion I begin to shape this old person's stinky room in my imagination the way I'd like it, I could stick the decks up in that corner, create a chill-out space over there, X-box zone over by the door I figure, ah yes, I could picture it all now.

Wicked, that's what it could be. Potentially the most pucker, blinding rural retreat for the party-head, the free-party of the century with every mad, hedonistic nut-case from here to kingdom come all off their rockers, raving hard, larging it under this roof to the sounds of my adventures on the wheels of steel. It'd be massive. Just then my bubble of thought was popped by Mrs Farnsworth, who plunged her crumpled mug into my personal space and muttered, "Son, do you know where the toilet is, I have to change my colostomy bag?"

## 2.

The smell of old people magically transforms into the funk of manure when I step outside and spark up a cigarette. I sigh as I notice the only other two guests that are aged on my side of Gandhi's. The girl is sitting on the patio chair, uncontrollably weeping into her wine glass while the man stands gallantly at her side, trying to caress her shoulders like they are made of Play-Doh. He keeps offering her most pathetic words of comfort and gives flustered comments to try and bring her out of the state she was in. You can see the strain of desperation on his face as he struggles to keep his temper from rising over his stiff collar. It's hard for me to tell whether he is in on the act too.

Dressed in black my big sister Joanne was never one to get over emotional. The death of old Granny D, the death of even her beloved puppy Scraps never warranted this much of an outburst. No, she is hard as nails and not even that close to Grandpa George. I take another puff of my cigarette and thought so definite that it accidently nearly spills off my lip, mind you; neither Granny D nor Scraps had a country cottage to spare upon their untimely deaths.

It was clear long before the passing of granddad that Joanne had her beady eye on this place; she dropped more subtle hints than she ever showed love towards Granddad. She would wander the cottage even as a young girl and proclaim her dream of living here. Openness of such quality faded during her growing up as she became aware that being so obvious was never a good thing, but I knew the thought was still there. It wouldn't surprise me if I find out that some elaborate plan to lay claim to the cottage was concocted by her stuck-up husband, Frasier or whatever trumped up name his snobby parents sadly scribed on his birth certificate. That is of course if he was even born at all and not spawned from some mushy dreary rubber plant on planet boring.

"Ohhhhh Danny, Ohhhhhhh!" cries Joanne, holding out her arms preparing for a fake embrace from me. I checked out the soggy, snot-ridded handkerchief she waved about like a white flag and I decided that I should snub the gesture; that it isn't a white flag at all. This only causes more, higher pitched wailing and Frasier or whatever his snobby name is, beckons her into his rich and manly arms once again. It makes me want to puke up my cheese and pineapple stick it really does.

"Sorry, sis," I thought it best to say, "I'm dealing with this in my own way, y'know?"

She never really has been the best big sister to me, never really gave me the time of day save the period of our lives when we were toddler and baby respectively and that was only because she saw me as her plaything. I was no more important to her than any other of her dolls and toys. Cute little Joanne, always centre of attention, ballet, singing and dancing shows, horse riding star, what a clever little girl she was. Me though, I was the cheeky chap, none too bright, always the one with the muddy face, the grass-stained skid marks on the front of my trousers, the scruffy little so-and-so. Well, now here we are all grown up, me, still the scallywag, Joanne, still the centre of attention. If only mum and dad could see us now, ha!

Mum and Dad emigrated to Australia many moons ago. Told us grown up kids that it wasn't the end of the world, there was always the telephone, and they would write, visit over Christmas, things like that. So I got one letter a month after they made the move then I tried to call but the number was wrong. They never made contact again and Joanne reckons it was the same for her. It was the only civil conversation us siblings had had since the departure of our parents. If she knew of their whereabouts she was not letting on and so as far as I am concerned they made an escape rather than a move.

So the only other existing member of the family other than me and Jo has now passed over to the other side. Granddad was a great granddad indeed, he thought he was seeing me alright when he often posted me a cheque however he had failed to keep up with the rate of inflation and a fiver did not really amount to a hill of beans in this day and age. I never minded; I know it is the thought that counts and so I would keep in regular contact with him, sometimes I even made the trip from London to see him but it was getting fewer as his illness set in. I'm not proud of that fact it was just so upsetting to see him like that you know, better off remembering him when he still had his marbles I reckon.

Which, as far as I'm concerned is far more effort than my sister put in. She however was ready to make a claim to the property; that much was obvious. The will would take some time, time in which she could, if left unattended rearrange this place to suit her whim, bring in her worthily goods and start to make the cottage her home. This would exclude me; they will try and push me out; that much you can be sure of. What she didn't know is that I need this place, the landlord of the flat I rented was hot on my tail for the outstanding arrears and so I did a moonlight flip, got myself and my shit out of there and packed it all up in my little Mini Cooper. Maybe I overloaded that motor, but whatever the crap thing broke down just outside the village and I had to get a tow from a tractor the rest of the way here.

This will be my hideout, I need it but I also need to tell her that I have to live here even if it is just up to the time the will is read. I take another puff on my fag, go over to tell her exactly what my situation is, I offer her the deal that she should return for the will and we could sort it out then, I said in no uncertain terms that I'd be willing to move out if granddad had left it to her or sell it if it was to be split 50/50. However for now I need to stay here.

She bursts out in another fit of cries, louder than before, in-between outbursts of yelping and wailing she manages to utter her disgust, "all you ever wanted Granddad for was his cottage, you didn't love him like I did, you selfish little boy!!!" With that Frasier or whatever his snobby name is escorted her to their car, firmly staring over his shoulder as he went, pointing daggers for eyes in my direction. What a fucking knob.

Oh well that went as well as expected, I thought, life here would be alright now that bitch has gone. These old village folk can't be that bad, can they? Just then Mrs Farnsworth hobbles her way out onto the patio, "Son, Son, was that the nurse? Has she gone? I think my colostomy bag has split, I need some help to......"

I go to fetch a mop and bucket from the garage.

## 3.

Compared to the capital this place was tiny, but I am told it is considered, not only a large village but the second largest in the county. It is idyllic, carved neatly between the rolling downs a miss-mash of humble thatched cottages, some relatively newer, pre-war houses on a couple of cul-de-sacs that the more upmarket villagers dubbed as "estates" with a kind disgraced spit, a mud-bath football pitch with two rusting goals, a play-park with equipment that looks like it was erected back in 1963, a village green with a community village hall and a small high street with around four shops and a couple of pubs, one of which was boarded up. Other than the grubby surrounding farms, some modern upper-class houses and a manor house all on the outskirts that is about all there is.

I took a short walk but that was all I needed to confirm my suspicions that I will struggle to raise myself out of a cloud of boredom here. I decide that my only option is to try the pub. A tiled roofed run down red brick building stands at the centre of the village with a sign above the door which reads "Dog and Duck," swaying with a rusty creek in the wind. The windows are darkened from the outside looking in, perhaps it is closed. I push the door and nothing happens, it must be closed. The eerie silence surrounding the place also suggests its opening time is not nigh. One harder push in desperation is all it takes; the door swings open with a creek. I step inside to a waft of musky odour and funk of stale ale. A room full of people greet my eyes, it would appear that prior to my entrance they were doing absolutely nothing, merely awaiting my arrival; weird. Every person present turns their weary heads towards my direction and stares a glum stare at me, paranoia has a new home.

My eyes circle the room, scanning the distorted and twisted faces trying to locate the one which is my side of 60. I fail. The moment is lost and slowly, one by one the faces turn away, some looking at the bottom of their glass, others face their drinking partners and mutter something that I suspect is about me. I contemplate my next move, suppose it should be to approach the bar and order, but something pins me to the spot, a fear of the unknown. I'm a stranger; that is what I am, dressed in my skinny jeans, high-tops and a Super-Dry T-shirt and this place, it was obvious had never seen anything of the sort.

That was when my paranoia breaks by a shout, "Alreet Danny-boy!" It was the unmistakeable accent of Ted Turner and so I pick him out of the crowd and waste no more time, moving swiftly towards the section of the bar where Ted perches on a bar stool. Ted starts muttering something at the old man closest to him. "Who?" inquires that old man.

"Ol' George, frum Yew Tree Cartage, y' remembers George," answers Ted.

"Who?" the old fellow asks again.

"OL' GEORGE!" shouts Ted.

"OL' GEORGE?" shouts back the old fellow.

"Yeah, ol' George...."

"CARN'T BE, HE DIED LAS' WEEK!"

"NO," bellowed Ted, "IT BE HIS GRANDSON!"

"WHO?"

"'E's GRANDSON!"

"WHO'S GRANDSON IT BE?"

"OL' GEORGE,"

"Oh argh, I knows, I met at art wake," the old man quietens his tone for no apparent reason while I just stood and stared. Nodding the old geezer put his arm around my back, "me an ol' George go way back ewe."

"That's nice," I comment.

"YER WHART?"

At this point a middle-aged, rather chunky lady behind the bar comes over to where we are, "Right moi lover, you mus' be George's lad, pleased to meet yer. If yer want some advice it be darn't be tarking with these old fogies. What can I's get yer?"

So I reply "Oh thanks, I'll have a WKD Blue please."

"Art whart moi lover?" she chirps.

"I said a WKD Blue......it's ermm, it's a.....never mind, just get me a vodka and Red Bull."

The lady is still looking confused, the longer she stands there the more my eyes were diverting over the top of the tight low neckline white blouse she wore and straight down the humongous valley of bosom swelling beyond it. Better think quick, I reflect, it is not as if I fancy her or nothing like that, far from it in fact but a pair as immense as these beauties man could not help but gaze. "Ermm, have you got any cider?" I ask, expecting a designer bottle of thin yellow fizzy liquid as is the style that is currently trendy in London.

"Sure, moi lover, course we 'ave," the lady says and she grabs a grubby pint glass and lodges it under the tap of a barrel.

"I'll get art one Carol," perks up Ted, fumbling in his pocket for some change.

"Thank you," I say as the glass is thumped on the bar-top, splashing a few dribbling drops down its side. I notice that it seems to be a rather thick, grungy liquid, is a bright orange colour and has small chunks of apple core floating randomly around in it.

"So you loike art village sarn?" asks Ted, he seems to be serious too.

This one got me stumbled, I felt it best in this awkward circumstance to basically lie through my teeth, "yeah, it's...ermm...great!"

"Yer lying barstard!" laughs Ted brashly. The old fellow laughs along too and so did a couple of others though i suspect they never actually heard what was said and were laughing purely because Ted was. "Yer young kids, nuthin' ter do fur 'em rand ere, I carn't blame 'em but they all moves art after a while, ewe."

So I make this statement, however obvious to them it is that I was bending the truth I felt it important in making a good impression to continue to insist that I was serious, "Well, that's up to them innit, I like it here Ted, I really do."

"Well I'll be...welcome to the village then moi yarng friend!" Ted announces, raising his glass to which the others follow, adding a cheer to boot and they all take a huge gulp of their pints.

Ted's old friend buys in the next round and this is followed by the bloke next to him who was introduced as Alf. Alf seems friendly enough, after three of these pints of scrumpy I am beginning to fit right in, at least it feels that way. "Yer rand next moi sarn," Ted addresses me. At which point I freeze, realising that I haven't the money to cover it.

"I'm most dreadfully sorry," I began in my most formal of tones, "I have enough for....."

They all laugh twice as loud as the loudest previous laugh, partly because they didn't really expect me to get a round in and partly because of the stupid, stuck-up accent I put on. I laugh at them laughing; it's a kind of cackle. "I'm sorry," I revert back to my normal accent, "I will make it up to all I promise....I need a job though," I titter.

"Yer gart a car?" asks Alf.

I make a heavy sigh, recalling the steam rising from the engine of my beloved Mini Cooper and the mechanic standing over it in that country lane rubbing his chin. "No, are there no jobs in the village then?"

"Gart any farming experience?"

"Are you having a laugh?!"

"Then there be only one place for you to go to yarng man," says Ted as he drew back the yellow stained net curtain and pointed through the glass. A cold silence sweeps the room. Suddenly time stands still and the only sound is the eerie tick of the old grandfather clock in the corner, it feels like death has come to visit as the dust particles on the bar dance to a silent beat. "Ol' Gerry," Ted breaks the silence, "........the butcher!" The company around the bar look glumly at each other and then entomb their heads in their drinks as if they were waiting with abated breath to hear the newcomer's reaction, to see if they can smell my fear.

I not could help but wonder why this was happening, another unexplained, weird country custom perhaps. The silence continues until the door suddenly creeks open. Everybody holds their breath in fearful anticipation. It was just Mrs Farnsworth, "'I say, have you boys got a spare carrier bag I could have.....I've had a bit of an accident?"

## 4.

Stumbling back to Yew Tree Cottage was just a blur but I do recall falling over the threshold and into the country kitchen. I had that whole eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach and a whole lot of alcoholic apple mush too. It was a dark walk, I am not sure the council here have heard the news that electric street light had been invented, news travels slowly in a place like this unless it's some gossip about some old farmer having it off with an underage stable girl in his barn, then it spreads like wildfire.

My stomach is only held in my body by my hand covering my nose and mouth as the stale funk of senior citizens invades my nostrils. They have gone but they could have taken their stench with them, it lingers everywhere, from the sideboards where hard cupcakes remain half eaten, paper plates rest with used cocktail sticks on them and an empty bottle of sherry lies abandoned on the table to the rafters where cooking pots and pans hang on hooks, exploiting the drafts from the sash windows to make a slight harmony by knocking together.

I continue my stumble, over the irregular floorboards that seem to ascend or descend completely at random spaces. It's not just because of the intoxication that I cannot control my balance, but it sure doesn't help. Without closing the door I fumble for a light string and yank it down. The little room I have located floods with light, my eyes tingle and I pull back with a subtle cuss word. It seems like three seconds before I can face it again and slowly remove a finger at a time from my eyelids. My bodily emergency alarm is pleading with me now and I unbuckle my belt with haste. Without a second to lose I manage to relieve myself and keep all but a slight dribble in the pan. "Arghhh that feels good," I whine and shake, yank the light off and fall back into the kitchen.

At this point I decide I need to refill, with a glass of water. So I find the kitchen light switch and bang that on, look depressingly at the mess everywhere and find a glass to fill at the sink. The water chills me as it goes through my gullet and into my belly. I feel somewhat better but the head is still spinning like one of those contraptions they use for zero gravity training at NASA space centre. The word gyroscope is far too complex for my frazzled mind to conjure up.

I look around me, assessing all the chairs for the most comfy looking one and decide that such a verdict matters not, I would quite happily crash out cold on the stone floor and still feel comfy and relaxed. I spun around and unintentionally gave it a try. The stone felt nice on my face but my knee hurt, the one I collapsed on. Reaching my arm out I found a sofa chair of which its floral cover looked like it was designed by a William Morris obsessed hippy in late 1970s. I heaved my lank body upon it, man; it was like sleeping on roman stone pillar. I tossed and I turned, the thoughts of Joanne and her stuck-up husband came to me, they were circling the room, deciding where to put the chaise lounge and the ottoman. The whole dream could be defined as a nightmare and it was slyly averting me from my slumber.

If I tried now to close my eyes my head would spin the room and if I lay there with my eyes open I was awake enough for my mind to settle on this thought. They paraded around in their merriment, "What about Dan though?" he asked her. "Dan who my love?" she asked in return. "Your brother Dan?" he asked her back. "Oh ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, very funny dear...."

I shout "Fucking arseholes!" the sound wringing through the beams. I stand up deciding that it is no use trying, you cannot demand sleep comes to you. I pace around the room, here and there memories come flooding back to me, as a little boy visiting Granddad, playing with his hoary toy car on the floor under the kitchen table, I move around the ground floor, a memory lies in every nook and cranny. Some are nice some are not so. There was dear old Nan, standing at the stove emptying a jar of salt into the stew boiling on the hotplate. My Mum directs a tut at Dad as if he should intervene. What could he do, Nan was insistent that salt was good for you and nobody could deny her stew was far tastier then anything Mum could knock up. Far greater in fact than anything I have ever tasted since. I glanced away from the stove, my thoughts returning to Granddad; at least he is up there now, enjoying my Nan's stew once again.

Into the hallway the memories never cease, there is a cupboard under the stairs with a small wooden door that intrigued me as a nipper; one look at it bought back a sudden bizarre event. My Granddad was so adamant that the cupboard was out of bounds to children that he did not care to play it subtly when telling us so. He would turn red in the face, I swear steam came bellowing from his ears when he waved his cane around and shouted in his flushed state, "keep out of there, no children are allowed down there I say!"

In his generation this threat would probably have done the trick, no kid would risk the punishment but I was a London street urchin, cheeky was my middle name. Well, it's James really, but let's not go there. I knew that it was an idol threat; I knew he would not strike us with that cane and so I perked up, "when I am big I can go in there then!"

"NO!" he demanded, "cheeky scallywag, you can never go down there, no one should ever go down there, only me and Father Christmas!!" I giggle as I remember every visit to Granddads up to the age of about fourteen, considering if I was grownup enough to dare venture in there but I never did. When I was old enough to ask him what was in the cupboard, it did not bother me so much. I lost the childlike imagination that would conjure up wild imaginings of what hid behind that door; my mind was occupied by parties, girls and when we were going home to my PlayStation.

I stare at the door as a thousand memories flood back to me at various stages in my adolescence daring to open the door and peek inside, but I never did. I giggle, "What a scaredy cat!" I give this some thought, it is immature I know but hey, I'm drunk, the adult excuse for acting like a kid. Granddad isn't here, I pondered as I grasped my hand on the door knob, he will never know, I consider but I pause, a fear has overcome me, I shrug it off with an insane snicker, time to put it all to rest, it's only going to be full of coats and shoes.

The monsters, the devils, witches and ogre's that once occupied this cupboard will not be there now, of course not, then why I find myself impelled to back out of opening it is beyond me. Without wasting any more time on childish fears I swing the door open and something hits me.

The foul odour of musky damp country clothes and Wellington boots hits me hard and nearly knocks me back, my lifetime dread has been overcome, it was as my mature mind suspected, nothing more than a cupboard. I laugh; ram my head in between the hanging coats, "Hello, Narnia where are you?" Nothing except dust that piles up my nose, I batter the coats back and suddenly stop my musing. There is something behind the coats, another door, very old and worn. "Christ on a bike, what's in there?" I ask myself out loud.

Frantically wanting to put myself out of my anxiety I thrust the handle to the door but it is locked, the keyhole is a grand brass locking devise and they don't make them like this anymore, it will not budge through force. I try anyway and knock the wind out of myself, heading back into the hallway I am seeing stars flitter about my head in a daze. A voice cries out, "Keep out of there!" It is my granddad, of that I am sure.

I rustle my head with my hands, shaking it all over the place and run down the hallway screaming but I am not stopping there. I yank open the front door and scarper halfway down the path. Now the cold air can smash into me, calm me down a bit. There is an old bench in the front garden and so I sit down. My baccy is in my top pocket and I take it out, roll one up and spark it, breathing the smoke in deep. As I let it out with a sigh I consider that it is a common thing for bereaving family members to hear or even see their deceased relative days after a funeral. I ain't into all that spiritual stuff and firmly believe that the mind can play cruel tricks. Back in the acid house days I did some, let's call it mind expansion exercises and know just where the mind can take you. It is a product of an irrational mind, I know that, might even find it amusing in a few minutes after my body has gotten over the initial shock.

I sit and I wait for the amusement of the situation to come to me. Take a few more puffs of my cigarette and listen to the silence. It is silence like no other, a silent night in London is still filled with the sounds of hundreds of factories working nightshifts, trains and cars and busses moving on their way, nightclubs and pubs in the distance, stag or hen nights falling out of taxis. They merge to make one enormous hum that you don't even realise is happening until you listen to the silence out here in the country, it is pure silence, totally void of background noise. Then I hear it, the drone of a groaning being in the distance somewhere, what the fuck is that? I ask myself gripped in horror, sounds like night of the living fucking dead out here?

Mrs Farnsworth is nowhere to be seen; perhaps it's my time to change my underwear.

## 5.

Very much like the back of a hippo's knee Gerry Butcher has a prematurely wrinkled face. All his riches were made through a hard days graft and no one could take that away from him, the thing is he just never found the time to apply some Oil of Ulay to it even if he would have wanted to. Granted his hard work established him as the tough but wealthy village representative he was today, but Gerry's downfall is in his expectance of his staff to be as thoroughly dedicated to the cause of his business as he was. When offering them the very bare minimum wage that he legally could with no scope for a promotion as these positions in the hierarchy are prefilled by his sons and his younger brother, no overtime rate but long working hours, no other perks such as a Christmas bonus (the guy never emerged from his office over the yule tide to offer them his word of gratitude and to wish them a merry Christmas let alone chuck them a free turkey) or any other incentive it was crass of him to demand such of his staff and he seemed blind to just how badly this effected staff morale. This ethos led only to frustration in the ranks and caused him to react in such a way that would seem him to be, in technical terminology, a heartless bastard.

Further to this Gerry thought himself as a bit of a jack-the-lad, he wore his hair long which would have been the style in his youth and perhaps there was a part of him that was laid back, he certainly attired himself in causal 1980s fashion, material slip-on shoes, white trousers, pink polo shirts and generally gut-wrenchingly archaic clothing which was vastly unsuitable for his late middle aged body. Inside work he wore the traditional butcher's uniform but if you caught him outside he looked like an over-inflated Don Johnson that had succumbed to wrong side of the Miami drug underworld for the past three decades. Like an aging Grateful Dead roadie he poses in the yard by his 1972 e-type jag and yells out in his stern macho voice to a young girl from the delicatessen counter who accidently drops a box of pasties, "art be coming art yer wages moi love!" The girl shot him a fearful look, she knew he meant it.

He shakes his head from side to side, his grey locks waving with the movement and then he storms up the mezzanine stairs to the makeshift office above some refrigerated stock rooms. I stand there waiting for him, as I was told to do by a rather scatty-brained office girl. Well I say girl, she was about 45, overweight to the point that she was completely spherical and she wore makeup like she was a clown about to enter the big top. She welcomed me quite nicely and professionally but when he arrives at the top of the steps he takes a quick glance at me and sticks his brash head in the door, "What be it now?" he hollers at her and she promptly drops some folders and the telephone off the desk with a clump.

Alarmed and flustered she waddled around the desk, creasing her rolls of flab in an attempt to bend and reach it. He sparks up, "If yer broken art phone it be coming art of yer wages!"

"Yes, quite, sorry," she stammers, "there is young lad to see you, about the driver's job."

He says nothing more to her and strides up to me, pulling a posh packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and flipping the top open in one swift movement, "Smoke?"

Being that I am slightly nervous, I haven't had much sleep due to the fact that it is simply too quiet here and all the strange noises I hear too, plus I am a rolly kind of guy, that fag looks as if it is going to clog my lungs and make me cough my guts up so I politely refuse wondering if I did the right thing or not. He shrugs and sparks his up, blowing the smoke in my face before he says anything more. "I don't need any drivers yet boy, but what be yer name?"

"Dan."

He stops at this and takes another puff. A couple of vans have arrived back in the yard and parked up below us. The two of them are in a heated discussion and my eyes wander below the railing to watch them. "But if yer leaves yer number I'll call you when......"

Suddenly he stops mid-sentence and looks over the railings too. The two men, both looking like they were competitors for the annual village idiot contest were now pointing in random directions and shouting. "Fuck this!" one screeches.

"Oi, just do it!" yells Gerry from above them and the man looks up flustered and annoyed. He has turned a bright purple and he raises his fists to head level and shakes them. Then he tugs off his blue jacket and throws it on the concrete, "I can't take this no mores!" he screams, stamps up and down on his coat and walks off.

Without considering the man any longer he routinely turns to me giving it, "Oh well, looks like yer in Danny-boy, start tomorrow; 7am."

What the fuck am I letting myself in for? I wonder but shake the guys hand and thank him nonetheless. I cannot believe I am committing to this, back home, one night, two hour set behind the decks I can make more money than I'll probably get for the week here but the needs be. It has bought back all that Ted said about the young people moving out of the village, perhaps he is right, there is nothing to do here.

Procrastination is usually my middle name but if I'm going to do this job tomorrow then I need to unpack my gear from my knackered up car. All my worldly possessions have been crammed into the back of this Mini Cooper, what does that say about me? The London flat I was in was furnished, it should have fucking been for the extortionate rent that Greek bastard swindled me out of. So I had a few bits and bobs I couldn't get in the boot but most of it went in. It is not like I even had to plan my packing, I just lobbed it all in under the cover of the dark, before he had time to get up, come over and whine about where his rent money was. So the objective is just to get it all into the cottage and maybe, if I have the time, set up the basics, like a toilet bag, a few clothes and my decks.

I could do with a bit of a spin on the decks but it took me most of the night to sort out all the wires, get the amp set up and then there was not nearly enough sockets in this cottage to plug it all in, I need another ganger. I also needed some dinner. The village shop would be closed and normally, back in London it would time to call out for a pizza but I know this isn't going to happen here. Granddad's fridge would be my only shot, it was filled with the leftovers from the party and anything behind that was way out of date. Yogurts, cheese and butter would all need to be shaved before risking consumption, some steaks in there were blue and I don't need some obnoxious butcher to tell me that that isn't right. Even the milk is lumpy and smells worse than the cheese. Sniffing the milk put me off my appetite so I made do with some crusty brown ham sandwiches, some sausages on sticks and a stale cupcake.

I sit in Granddad's favourite chair, frantically pushing the red button on the remote. It felt light for a remote so I flipped it over and a scabby worn slice of duct tape covered the empty gap where the batteries used to live and so I had to get up, imagine in this day and age, and turn on the TV manually. Just the five channels then, no Sky, makes you wonder how he survived for as long as he did.

An old film from the 80s is on, all about a man falling in love with a shop manikin, aptly called Manikin. Well, it was a bit more technical then that, I mean the manikin does magically turn into a fit bird but only when no one else can see it; pretty suspect if you ask me. I sigh at the whole absurdity of it and that is the last I know of the evening.

## 6.

So that Gerry geezer is nowhere to be seen. Instead I am directed to a lanky lad that is younger than me. He stands in his white uniform clutching a clipboard. He has similar enough features to Gerry for me to assume that it's his son. His sharp nose is pointed firmly towards the moon and he smirks with an aristocratic leer as if he is the head boy of a private school who has just been given a bunch of comprehensive kids to order around. That preppy snicker is aimed at a couple of drivers who stand around him relishing all that spouts out of his conceited mouth. They listen well, as if in worship of their god and then scamper off across the yard.

I spot another driver who is far more laid back through the frame of an open door. He appears to be pouring himself some water from a kettle into a travel-mug. He looks just slightly older than me, quite normally dressed for this sort of place in a t-shirt, jeans and pumps, and, for this place, quite together too. He stirs his drink and adds milk, humming a tune I don't recognise and slips his driver's coat expertly over his shoulders. With it draping at the sides like a Jedi Knight he saunters through the door and across the yard to the condescending kid, "fucking snob!" he sniggers at him.

It is ignored, the boy has pointed his nose at me, grimaces his cheeks in confusion and scans at his clipboard. When his elongated face peeps back up at me he looks like he intends to say something, his mouth opens but nothing comes out. He scans back down again and shakes his head from side to side. Then he extends a hand to greet me, I touch it with mine and he gives off a squeak, "you are Dan?"

"Yes I am," I confirm and shake his hand.

"Hummm," he replies but it is of no use to me.

Just then a huge guy, built like a brick shit house that the manufacturer of has mistakenly increased its dimensions tenfold from the original architects blueprints, struts past like he was Clint Eastwood. His face is swollen with red blotches and stubble sprouts out at all angles from the oversized blemished chin. His eyes are but piss-holes in the snow, blackened wrinkles surround them like a panda's. He is dressed in white, white wellies, white overalls although they are blood splattered and he wears a blue hairnet that is pushed so far to the rear of his head that it only holds in an estimated ten percent of the actual hair on his head. Around his midriff he adorns a clinch belt like a cowboy, although there is no six-gun in his holster rather an array of cutting instruments, a cleaver, a boning knife and a large hacksaw. "You, cunt!" snaps the kid checking his Rolex, "what are you doing out of the butchery, it is not your break for another six hours?"

"Art of striploins in't we, an' chicken carcase an all." The man stumbles past him, crossing the yard to the large fridges under the office and swings open the door, his cleaver swinging against his leg with the force.

The kid mutters something under his breath, sounds like "I'm going to have to tell Daddy," but I didn't quite catch it. He scans the yard to see the driver from the tearoom causally sauntering past and he points him out to me, turning to meet my eyes with an agitated glare, "I haven't got time for all this," he complains as if it is my business. I shrug.

"Oh just go and see him, he'll show you what to do......"

I took a brief second to take it in and clock the guy he is pointing out when his abhorrently noble tone takes hold, "...OK?"

I stumble, not in fear but in disbelief at his unwelcoming welcome, "Yes," I figure I would be best in the company of someone else, anyone else, "ok."

I walk over to him promptly and he takes a sip from his travel-mug, "Jim, that's me name," he grins at me, "starting today?"

"Yeah, my name is Dan."

"Kettle's just boiled fellow, grab yerself a brew if you can find a clean cup," he causally informs. "Get it while you can, that bastard is going to take away the urn and replace it with one of them new coffee machines. Says it easier but he knows he can charge people 40p a cup, stingy bastard that he be."

With that statement it is clear that Jim is an alright kind of guy, a genuine hater of his employment and his employers, it is the traditional British way. I go over to the door, jump inside and examine the mugs lined up to find a clean one. "Oh no," he points out, "don't use them they're the butchers, they'll cut your fingers off and use 'em for sausage-meat." He slips past me and reaches high to a dirty white shelf, here is one of my old ones, clean it out and it should do. I'll be outside having a fag, come and see me when yer ready innit."

I wash out the mug but there's no hot water. I cannot be too fussy I make a tea and pop my head back outside. He is puffing away without a care in the world, leaning on a beaten up Peugeot Expert van, "this'll have to be your van," he informs me and I so peer inside the cab. It has seen better days. It looks like it's had more blokes inside it than Katie Price. There is litter in the cab, everything from empty sweet wrappers, coke cans and mouldy apple cores to used oil canisters, some jump leads and plastic bits that have been broken off the dashboard and fittings. I open the door to take a closer inspection and the wind mirror drops off. It seems the duct tape holding it on has worn out its stickiness.

"It be the best we got," informs Jim, dropping his dog-end to the floor and treading it on it.

At that point the other two drivers scamper over like lost chickens. The first guy is dumpy, barely 4ft tall with oversized jam-jar glasses and a serious skin issue; it was flaking off as he walked, exposing sore looking warts and boils. His Dandruff decorated driver's coat was six sizes too large for him and so you could not tell if he had hands or just stumps hiding up those dark sleeves. From the bottom you could see no jeans under his coat but just four inch turn-ups.

The second guy is his exact opposite, a lanky streak of piss, bendy and supple like his bones are made from flexi-cable. His skin was as smooth as a baby's bottom, like it had been stretched and pinned behind his African elephant sized ears. His nose is thin like a tube and his lips blend into his cheekbones like it was all one piece of android moulding. His hair is a fair ginger, not wiry. And if eyes were a window into the soul, well, he has no soul. There is a vacant look about them both, as if although the lights are switched on, no one was home. He displays his total lack of attention as he sniffs and ponders everything around him like a chicken that had just been put in a new coop and was exploring its surroundings with interest.

"OK," says Jim, "it's not rocket science, you take this clipboard with these receipts on, you marry them up with the order trays in that fridge there," he points, "then deliver them, take a copy of the receipt to be signed by the customer."

"Sounds fine," I utter taking the clipboard.

"Right then, you will be going south."

The little guy with the jam-jar glasses perks up, "W...w...w...where I be g...g...going den?"

"Oh, this is Graham North," Jim introduces him to me and then he turns back to him, "you'll be going west, as normal."

"I...I...I...I be going North," he mutters and tries to wander off.

Jim grabs his arm to stop him wandering, "No, you'll go west, your name is north," he explains. He turns to me, "the other guy goes north, he's Kev West."

Kev West looks up from his musing, "Baaa!"

"H...h...he be g...g...going west?" stutters Graham.

"No, you're going west!" Jim starts to get annoyed but it sounds routine, so much for me to assume that it is just an everyday occurrence.

"Baaa!" says Kev, nudging the plastic wall mounted bin with his nose.

Graham nudges me in the arm, "D...d....d....d...don't worry about 'im lad, he's m...he's m....he's m.....he's mad he be."

"Ok," I reply, getting rather worried now, I think I may have spotted that. I have to wonder if the entire county has dumped all its village idiots into one village, this one. It surely would be easier on all the other villages to have them all congregating in one area. Kev wanders like a lost sheep into the butchers area and Jim, who it must be said is the only one here playing with a full deck of cards, follows him, telling me to follow.

Inside it looks like a rugby team are playing dressing-up games as doctors or mad surgeons. There are a load of butchers, massive hulks of muscle and little else with blood splattered overalls and white wellies. Each one stands over their respective cutting blocks all with an assortment of dead pieces of meat and flesh in various states of dissection. By the time we enter one has hold of Kev and has bent him over his block. The butcher pushes his pelvis into Kev's rear and is simulating anal intercourse shouting "yer likes art duntcha? Yer farking luff art carnt!"

The other butchers egg him on, shouting "Yer dirty carnt!" and "gis art to ar carnt praper!" Kev smiles a routine smile as if they do this every time and he is somehow laughing along with them instead of being, quite literally, the butt of the joke.

"Is that normal?" I whisper to Jim.

"Oh, just ignore 'em, bunch of farking animals," he whispers back. Well, I think, if they try that on me, no matter how many knifes and cleavers they wear around their waists I will punch the fucker out.

Jim swings open the door to the fridge and goes inside. He points out the trays ready to be taken for delivery, they are randomly thrown across the floor but above them hang great segments of dead cows, all dripping their blood upon the orders. Jim uncaringly ducks underneath them and pulls a few trays closer to him, "this one be yers, the dog n duck, you know where art be?"

"Yeah," I inform him, recalling the drunken night there, the criminal always returns to scene of the crime.

"Then Hargold House," he says pulling another one, "out arn Pig Lane Farm. This one be just along the lane some more, Mrs Farnsworth and this one be going art of thar village, Witcher Farm House, watch out fer is daughter mind, she is flipping mad as an old trout....."

That's a surprise, I think as I grab the trays and put them in a pile, trying hard to avoid being rained on with cow's blood.

"Oh," he sighs, "yeah, this be art at Biggin's Hill, I'll warn you about that in a minute, fer now jus' load 'em up on yer van."

So I walk back through the array of civilised butchers as they converse while they work. One says to the other, "yer carnt, yer farking carnt!"

The other one replies, "fark you yer farking carnt!"

The first one sparks up now, pointing, "Carnt!" as he releases his grip on Kev's hip and without protest the driver enters the fridge to get his trays.

The second shouts, "Yer be art carnt, carnt!"

I decide to leave it there, dragging all of my trays to the door so that I do not have to go in there again, slipping on something pulp on the way out. I pick up my Converse trainer and look at the thing sticking to my soul, oh, just a head of skinned rabbit, nice.

All loaded but one and ready to go Jim wishes me well, "it be better when yer art of this shit-hole," he informs and I have a tendency to agree, could it possibly be any worse? As I throw the last tray on the back of the van a split plastic bag dribbles some brown coloured muck onto my hands, what the fuck is that, liver? I ask myself, it looks more like Mrs Farnsworth has been scooping around here with her colostomy bags. I check about the yard but she is nowhere to be seen.

## 7.

With one almighty screech of a worn fan belt the van pulls out of the pub carpark, steam rising from under its bonnet. I try to lock the safety belt in but the plastic holder surrounding its working has long ago bitten the dust and so it takes a little bit of concentration. Narrowly missing the carpark fence as I fumble with the seatbelt connection and I am out towards Pig Lane, looking on the left and right for Hargold House. The pub drop was simple; I just went in through the back door, and dumped it on the table in the kitchen where the busty barmaid leaned over, bulbous fleshy mounds near to flopping out and signed my ticket with a smile. I smiled back but not to her face, I cannot help it, fascinating things they are.

An old farm hand was smoking the tiniest of roll-ups out on the driveway, sitting in his JCB with his feet lodged up on the control panel. He called out that he was going up to "Argh house," and that he would deliver it for me. I thanked him and handed him the meat. One wheel-spin in the mud and I was back on Pig Farm Lane, this was a piece of cake, lardy cake.

I was concerned about the next drop at Mrs Farnsworth's but she thanked me rather formally, stood at the door in a rather expensive but aging dressing gown. I figure that she did not recognise me out of context and so I jumped back in the van ready to do battle with the shoddy seatbelt. Just then I can see her in my wind mirror, leaving her doorstep and waddling over with one arm in the air and the other clutching her groin. She is calling out to me and through the open window I yell, "Can't stop Mrs Farnsworth, goodbye then!"

At Witcher Farm it is time to stop for a smoke at the top of their track. I throw the end out of the window and ponder what might be wrong with the farmer's daughter, just as Jim warned me. I stride up to the door, she cannot be as bad as certain others around here I wager as I slam the giant door knocker to the wood panels of the grand looking door.

A well-to-do man in his fifties answers the door with a very well spoken, "hello?"

"Hi Mr Witcher, it's your delivery from Gerry Butcher's," I inform him.

"Oh," he sounds suddenly surprised but delighted to see the meat arrive, he scorns me up and down but I am used to this. Everyone knows everyone here and if they see someone they don't know it immediately makes them suspicious. It is not considered rude, just curiosity, I have gotten used to it now. "Jolly good," he continues, taking the bags from me, "thank you!"

From the inside I can hear a high pitched wail as I spot a rather smashing looking young girl in jodhpurs with a long blond ponytail striding past the hallway, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, saddle up Blossom, I'm nearly ready!" She pushes the door open even further and I can see that although she has remarkable family resemblance to her father, a thin face, large protruding teeth, she wears it really rather beautifully. There is something rustically sexy about her presence. She is not dolled up like most London girls but wears minimal makeup. The exposed bits of flesh, the neckline of her riding attire and her arms are bronze and muscular though not large. She looks as if she is accustomed to a hard day's labour on a farm and she brings about a certain confidence in her speech, "Daddy, oh..." she stumbles for a brief second as she checks me out, standing at the door with a bag of sausages, some bacon and a kilo of topside. Oh yes, I consider, I have a special pork sausage for you... "Hi!" she smiles one of those smiles that tell you there is, no matter how small, a chance that she might just allow her knickers to be resting on my bedroom carpet.

"Hello," I say back. I have no more to say while her father stands at the door, aware that some electricity has passed between us.

In a huff he says goodbye and nudges the girl away. As the door closes abruptly I hear a screech, "I'm Sally!" I'm honoured; I think and make my way back to the van with a grin, what is wrong with her, ermm nought!

I approach Biggins Hill House, the last drop still wearing a smug grin on my face, she may well be the niche to entertain me in this dire village, just have to prise her away from the over protective clutches of her old man. As I find the track the strong winds has blown some black clouds across the sky and the sunlight that once shone down has been completely obscured. It has suddenly and without warning become as black as night. With a sigh I find the house on Biggins Bill, it looks run down as if a once prosperous estate had been left to the hounds of hell. The dilapidated ruins of the ancient grand house lies within grounds left to nature, tall grass has invaded the broken concrete driveway with huge clefts where tufts of grass grow so tall I can hear them trampled by the wheels and chassis of the van as it trundles slowly along the track.

Jim warned me about this place, he told me to drop the meat on the veranda, right outside the front door and leave it there, turn away and walk as quickly as I can back to the van. He suggested I get in, spin it round and leave the place without looking back. Bearing in mind the whole eccentric value of this village advice like this should be taken heed of. Mind you, having said this he also forewarned me about the crazy farmer's daughter Sally and she turned out to be perfectly charming, very fit to boot, so, who knows; Jim seems like the sanest among the employees of Gerry Butchers but I am beginning to see the cracks in him too. He seems to have an affliction of exaggeration, a tendency to embellish the facts.

Still though this place looks creepy, but the bad weather has made it this way; had the sun still been shining it wouldn't be so bad. Lots of country houses, properties where if in London their owners would take such pride with they would be immaculately laid out and kept, tend to be working places, farms and workshops and therefore have been left to serve as such, rubbish and debris dumped all over the place. This place maybe unusual to me, a kid from the big smoke but I recall taking walks with Granddad and seeing that the country ethos for such tidiness is vastly different.

I walk up to the large front door with no fear; I bend and put the meat on the doorstep. There are broken plant pots lying tipped over on their sides, a few aging milk bottles growing fungi inside and some yellowing junk mail blowing with the gentle zephyr. I turn away and make some ground back to the van. I hear the door creak open, don't look round; it's probably for the best, I figure. There are grunting noises and shuffling going on as I step into the van and close the door. The window is open slightly where I blew the smoke from my cigarette out and I can still hear the most obtuse human bellows coming from behind me, what in the world can be making that noise I have to ask myself.

Curiosity got the better of me and I turn my head to peek. With horror I stare, I cannot distract my eyes as people from the house have come out onto the veranda and, bent-over they huddle together, tugging and pulling frantically at the bag like a pack of wild animals. The darkness has silhouetted their features and I can only make out parts. They look horrid, disfigured and mutant. A shiver rides up my back as my mind tells me to look away. As I do, starting up the van the last glimpse I catch of them is just plain bizarre. They fight over the bag as if they are a pack of wolves fighting over the spoils of some road-kill. The larger one, maybe a father of the family has trodden on the head of a small one, possibly a child and the child screams in agony. Unperturbed the large guy continues to thrust his face into the bag, tugging out bits of squidgy raw meat with his jaws. Bits of the stuff dribble down and the children scamper aggressively at each other to catch and consume them. The father figure then looks up at the sound of the van starting up and howls an uncertain screech, his mouth still dribbling with blood he thrusts out his right arm as if to wave me away. I take heed of the threat and pull the handbrake, slam my foot on the accelerator and vow to always take Jim's advice in future.

## 8.

"Give-arus anuffer ones of yer Mick Jagger bongs!"

I had to titter at old Ted Turner, lying on his back spread eagled over three round pub tables while Alf stands over his grubby chequered shirt which is pulled up to his neck, wobbling a cheap disposable lighter over his chest hair about to spark it. They may not have Sky TV but they certainly know how to make up their own forms of entertainment.

"It's called a Jager Bomb," I laugh, cracking open another tin of Red Bull.

"Flipping barm? Yer lart 'ave gart barms on yer brains, all art Islamb-mik extra-scheme-ism stuff garnin' arn; yer an yer farking towny drinks, I'll 'ave twenty of art farkers an still be standin' ewe!" Ted shouts in jubliabtion, "but narw fer me party trick, light 'er up praper Alfie me ol' shagger!"

With chest hair alight he dances like a tribal shaman around a campfire, patting his chest and laughing an insane chortle. Then he falls to the ground and rolls over, distinguishing his chest as he goes. The crowd applauds his efforts as he rolls to his back and smiles at me, "warna go?"

"No, no thanks I think I'll pass." These people may be completely bonkers but compared to what I have seen today they pale in comparison. The whole weirdness of this village has been well and truly highlighted, the family at Biggins Hill House are the epiphany of all that is wrong here and no crazy party trick by Ted Turner and gang down the Dog N Duck can convince me otherwise. I yearn to ask them about it, to see what they know but they seem to be having fun, I don't want to spoil the mood. In their drunken mentality I fear they would laugh it off, call me names and insult my lack of knowledge about the local custom. The fact that to me it resembled something from a bad zombie flick may well have been in my imagination. It was just a very hungry family that seem to have no moral standard or intelligence either.

I make my excuses and leave the pub. What impeccable timing I have as I see Sally Witcher wandering through the square clasping a small terrier under her arm. "Hi!" I shout from across the way, she looks sweet with her ponytail and what most of my mates in the city would consider very unsexy attire, just denim dungarees and a tight white crop top polished off with some professional agricultural wellies; but hey, she somehow makes it look very attractive.

She turns sharply and surprised, "oh," she stumbles, "hello. Say, have you seen my dog, it's a little terrier, goes by the name of..."

I point to the contents of her armpit, "is it that one?"

She lets out an enormous giggle which attracts an elderly couple from across the square; that immediately starts to whisper gossip to each other. "Oh yes, silly me!" she whimpers and blushes a very attractive red colour.

"So, what are you doing?" I ask her.

"What? Nothing!" she snaps like I was giving her an inquest.

I jump in, "I didn't mean it like that, ermm, I just mean what you doing, kind of like, I don't know, how are you kind of a thing...if you see what I mean?" Arse, what a naff start I think to myself.

She considers it a while, "I think so," she purrs, slightly edgy with my persona, which must differ from other people in the village, "just walking my dog is all."

I look at the mutt under her arm and move onto the beautiful soft skin wrapping that bare arm and to the contours of thin material covering her pert breast as the dog cradles against it, "it looks like you are doing most the walking and he is getting carried," I point out.

She giggles again but the couple across the square have long shot down a lane, "oh I see what you mean, she always runs off, nearly went under a bus once so I like to keep her right here," she points at the underneath of her breast and I take the full opportunity to have another gander.

"Lucky mutt," I brave and hold my hand out to its snout but it shakes, displaying its teeth and then it tries to snap at my finger. I withdraw while she is giggling and blushing. This is in the bag, I congratulate myself. Out with the make-or-break line then, "so, do you want to go for a quick drink?"

"I'd love to!" She sounds delighted, the terrier not so.

I take a thought at Ted Turner and his gang, probably standing on their heads while downing pints of scrumpy by now. Is it wise to take her in there, "is there another pub we could, errm go to?"

"Ha-ha, you're so funny," she giggles.

"A restaurant maybe, ermm, I suppose a club or a cinema is out of the question?"

She just giggles to the point where she is very unstable, "I love your accent!" she quivers, like "Rickey from Eastenders, how sexy!"

"Well, yes, I never really thought of it quite like that before. Listen," I look at the pub, its steamed window glares red, yellow and orange light flickering through it that sounds of cruel jubilation erupts from inside, a betting that another fire-related party trick is underway, "I am not sure I really fancy going back inside there."

She leans in close to me; I can smell her unperfumed scent, the aroma of a real woman. It is intoxicatingly warm, "we could go to yours...." she proposes, then suddenly jumps back, "...not like that, I mean, I mean, you know, just to, well, have a drink, if you have a drink there, I mean I wouldn't like to impose its just...." her posh accent increasing in sincerity as she speeds up her dialogue.

I decide to interrupt politely before she rides the train off the rails and through the platform, "......just because there is nothing else to do in this village, nowhere to go you mean?"

"Yes," she smiles, "never has been."

I take her hand, "well, there is one thing, you could come and have a drink with me, have a chat and well, get to know each other a bit. My name is Dan by the way."

"Yes, I know, everyone knows you are George's grandson. I liked old George but Mrs Farnsworth organised the funeral guests, stupid busybody and she doesn't like my father, it's a long story, she sighs as I take her hand and we wander through the light rain back to Yew Tree Cottage.

The night is again silent and for a while we chat. Then a silence bestows us, it is not an uncomfortable one, it is quite welcoming. I always think if, at this early stage, you can feel comfortable with another person, you know without having to talk complete toilet then you have the basis of a firm and great relationship. I feel positive about our meeting, her hand is soft despite the idea that she has a hard laborious day and I feel a special something within the energy the clasp gives off. Not that I'm into all the new age energy stuff but it has some credit, it is that force that tells you something is welcoming or not, it tells you if a person will warm to you or not and this chick is positively burning the skin of my hand.

Just then the sound comes again, the moaning from afar. I stop walking. "What's up?" she beams. I should tell her, get it off my chest, what with the day I've had she might be able to put my mind at ease with a few country customs, might explain a few things or else, hold me tight in her fear too. "That noise, can you hear it?"

"I cannot hear anything," she acts confused.

"That groan, the grunting noise coming from miles away, can you hear it now? It sounds like Night of the Living Dead out there!"

"That mmmmooooaaannnnn? That ggggrrrrooooaaaannnnn?" she asks, a certain mirth in her tone.

"Well, yeah."

"If you listen even harder, does it not sound like it's unhuman to you?"

Now I am worried, I try to hide my shiver, "yes, it does sound unhuman....."

"Does it sound, if you really listen more like a MOOOOOOO?"

I listen again; it is indeed more of a moo. I look into her eyes confused, they sparkle in the darkness like pearls in their shells, "It's the cows," she concludes, "the cows go 'moo,' city boy."

## 9.

We cleared out a fair portion of my Granddad's drinks cabinet and giggled on the sofa to a rather boring 1980s American comedy in which Bruce Willis takes out a scatty brained Kim Basinger who acts wild when she has had too much to drink. As we chatted through the film a lot of barriers came crashing down and I felt at ease with this girl.

For some unexplained reason I was going on about the strange locked door under the stairs and she was positively spooked. I suppose that my drunken mind may have thought if I could give her the creeps she might progress her wondrous backside another cushion closer to me and we could lock in an embrace that would eventually lead us to a night of erotic pleasure. I was half right, she did indeed appear a bit spooked and she was interested in it, she said that I should find the key; it might give us a clue as to the weird stuff that went on in the village as my Granddad loved to research the village and all its history and strange occurrences. When I found the key I should call her she said and she would come down and we could open the door together. I liked this idea and was still intrigued by what it was that she called "the strange occurrences." This led on to me saying that you know what is strange, those people up at Biggins Hill House and she sighed and agreed. "They are animals, horrible, horrible people," she groaned. Then she asks me to do her a favour, when I dropped off my delivery there tomorrow, pop around her house before and she will swap the stuff for some from their own farm as the offal that Gerry gives them is wrought with something horrid, it was cheap and nasty and they came out their house at night and did their doings on her lawn and it was disgusting. If I swap it for the offal she would give me it would not give them the runs and they would poo in their own house.

I shuddered and agreed, it was a bizarre notion but from what I had already seen I could quite believe that this was not nice and how could I refuse an excuse to see her again anyway. That said the conversation moved onto Bruce Willis, for some reason how much she liked chocolate orange and even the whereabouts of Lord Lucan. As far as a night of romantic coupling was concerned we never made it past the cuddling and gentle pecking stages before we both fell asleep right there on the sofa.

I awoke then in a daze, she had gone but left me a note thanking me for a wonderful evening and she looked forward to seeing me again. She stressed the importance of visiting her house to swap the offal delivery before going to Biggins Hill House. That in turn reminded me I had to work, "Shit, shit, shit, it's half-past fucking six already!"

I threw on some jeans and a least grubby t-shirt, splashed my face with water and run the toothbrush quickly across my teeth. I leg it to the High Street and round the back alley to the yard of the busy butchers. My head could not handle it today, the fussing and the abuse as I spotted that spotty dweeb of a boss's son standing where he stood yesterday with a sneer on his boat race. "You're late!" he rasped in his preppy accent. Before I can apologise he continues, "It's only your second day and you are late, are you a cunt?"

"No, sorry, I had, I overslept," I claim.

"No, you are a cunt," he firmly states but I figure I will not rise to this stuck-up arse-hole.

I go to get in my van as a butcher wanders past, "you'll be a carnt when dey gis yer yer initialisation ceremony!" he giggles.

I locate Jim as the kid appears to scarper off somewhere. "Don't worry about him," he says, I wasn't, just wish he could have a little bit of manners but I guess he was bought up like that. There is banter and there is just being plain nasty and the whole family here are on the nasty side of the borderline. The employees seem to be immune to it, most of them so brainless they don't understand how they are being abused.

"How long have you been here?" I asked him, wondering why he wasn't inflicted by this general stupidity that seemed to sweep the place.

Jim was at the kettle making himself a brew, "only a couple of weeks, I haven't even had my initialisation ceremony yet, got it tomorrow."

"What is this initialisation ceremony all about then?" I ask, intrigued.

"Oh it's not much, just something Gerry likes to talk through with all new employees; they seem to get through a lot here!"

Humm, I wonder why, I ask myself ironically but I feel irony will be wasted here as I observe Kev wandering around with his delivery receipts baaing like a fucking sheep.

Jim takes a sip of his tea from his travel-mug and steps outside. He whispers under his breath, "What did I say abart that Witcher daughter, you should keep away from her!"

"I didn't see anything wrong with her from where I was standing!" I quip. I understand how gossip travels here; it is the only thing that is faster than a snail.

"She be trouble mind," he says and wanders off. I shrug it off, none of his fucking business.

So without getting worked up about it all I decide to ignore it and I load up my van quietly. I can hear the mirth of the butchers as in between their extensive use of the C-word they taunt me about Sally. "She be a rioght goer art Sally be!" says one.

The other takes a couple of legs of lamb from off of a hook, "Hey new carnt!" he calls, I know it is directed at me as he sticks it too his midriff with the hole of the lamb's anus by his crotch, "bet yer balls deep las' night new carnt, eh? I said huh?"

"At least I'm getting some," I quip to the sound of roaring laughter from the others.

"Carnt!" he moans and the others join in a chorus of the word.

So I do the delivery for the pub then I go up to the other drops and just like yesterday it is fairly boring and uneventful. When I get to Witcher Farm I know she is worth taking the bullshit from those animal butchers back at HQ. She opens the door with just a towel wrapped around her. "Just the one sausage today, but it's a beauty!" I joke and she invites me in.

"Daddy's gone to market," she informs me.

"Can I borrow that towel, my van just hit a water buffalo?" I inquire and she giggles and kisses me. She strides with pride over the kitchen side and asks if I want a cup of tea.

"Yes, go on then, just milk please, I'm sweet enough."

"Sorry, I've only just gotten out of the shower," she giggles.

"Do not let that worry you," I reply with a smile.

"I had such a lovely evening last night, sorry to run out on you but I had to get back, you don't know how people talk in this village."

"That is alright, don't apologise, I learn fast, yes."

We hold hands over the kitchen table as the sunlight shines its rays through the sash windows. She kisses me full on the lips and we share a perfect smooch. I cup my hands over her towel around her pert breasts and try to tug at the offending item. "Naughty!" she titters, "you have some deliveries to make. Anyway you stink of raw meat and it's not very sexy, I will come over later if you want, either after or during your shower!"

"Yeah I better get back to it," it sounds like a nice suggestion and I was getting hot under the collar. She walks over to her fridge, bringing out a bag of offal.

"Yes, ok, I remember."

"Please give them this instead of Gerry's crap, it would mean so much to me....." she purred as she got off the chair, ".....so much that I would be willing to do anything....." she continued, slightly allowing her towel to shimmy lower. I sat observing her bare back being exposed, her perfectly formed, muscular shoulder blades and the slight indentation of her spine. As the towel dropped lower her gorgeous hips came into view and then it slips past her rounded backside, her body was tantalising, I want her right here and now.

I stood up and uselessly pushed my manhood down; he popped right back up again like a springboard. Meanwhile she pulled the towel back up and tied it. She turned to face me and planted a kiss on my mouth, "Go now saucy! Raw meat is not a turn on," she giggled, "see you later!"

I agreed and left the house. After such a warm invitation the last thing I wanted was to be sickened by the sight of the family up at Biggins Hill and at last I decided to take heed of Jim's advice, I dropped the meat and run, not looking back. Though this time I did not hear them come to the door and it all seemed a lot more pleasant in the light. It did all seem a bit crazy, a bit OTT, my imagination does run wild sometimes. This place isn't so bad.

On the way back Mrs Farnsworth was walking along the High Street. I avoided her again but I did sense a suspicious smell about her person.

## 10.

Late for work again, she didn't come over last night but phoned and apologised, said her father was not well and she had to babysit her kid sister while her mum took him to the doctors, a fair excuse. I went looking for a key to the cupboard under the stairs but didn't find it, resolving myself to playing my X-Box, a world of Grand Theft Auto sent me into some warped dreams rather than the idea that Sally might visit me in this dream and my Granddad's shower would be used in such a way it had never seen the light of before.

Gerry was out and about when I arrived, smoking his posh cigarette with certain vigour.

His son looked up from his clipboard, I swear it is permanently attached to him, "you're late again," he quipped in his public schoolboy prefect way, "second day in row."

I don't know why they were so concerned, any earlier and the orders would not be ready anyway and the drivers were left to wander the yard bored, drinking tea and smoking tabs. Kev found a tuft of grass which he was pulling up and munching on, nothing will shock me any longer. Graham was stuttering nonsense again, confused if he was going north or west.

"I am sorry," I apologised to the pair of them, the kid snubbing me with his nose in the air and the old man just putting the stare on me, "I had some, errmm, family issues."

"We're yer farking family now!" sneered Gerry, "You've got yer initialisation ceremony in a few days ewe, I'll be letting yer knows when." With that he walked back into the shop yelling at the butcher who dropped his cleaver, "art'll be coming art of yer wages!"

I walked over to the drivers; Kev had blades of grass in his mouth, "baaaa!"

"I be goin' north?" said Graham North, "ewe be going west?"

"Baaa!"

"I thought you go west Graham, Kev goes north?" I ask, addressing the question more to Jim as he normally sorts it out. He is standing there without his custom cup of tea and fag. "Hey Jim," I say to attract his attention, "why doesn't Graham go north and Kev go west, wouldn't that be easier?"

He did not reply; he just stood there stiff as a post.

"Are you okay Jim?"

Still nothing, I swished my hands across his eyes, he did not react.

"Feeling alright Jim?"

Finally he replied, "Argh."

"So, what do you say, Graham goes north, you know, to make....."

"Argh."

"It's just a suggestion, I don't want to get above my station but....."

"Argh," was all he had to say, he did not move until I walked off and then it was exceptionally slow and disturbing. I had to wonder what had happened to him, but it passed and I loaded up my van.

The deliveries today was even more boring, I had much further to go. The father answered the door at Witcher's and so I did not even see or hear Sally. I moved on, dropped the meat at Biggins Hill and they did not venture out again. I went off to the next hamlet and a few more villages after that, Friday's are busy. Just outside the following village of Piddleton the fan belt finally gave in and I was stuck in a layby. I phoned the shop and they were angry with me, like it was my fucking fault. They sent out Jim to collect the goods and go on and deliver them. They kept in constant communication with me while I was broken down which was nice but as soon as Jim arrived and picked up the meat they did not bother to call again.

"Argh," said Jim when he arrived, moving at the speed of a snail on dope.

"What is wrong with you Jim?" I asked, it was very disturbing and at last I thought I may get more out of him as we were away from the yard.

"Argh," was all he said. This is when I recalled him mentioning his initialisation ceremony.

"Did you have your initialisation ceremony? What did they do to you Jim?" I was deeply concerned now.

"Argh." He wobbles as he said it, his hairline blowing across his forehead as he went. I grab out at him and in steadying him I notice this scar across his forehead.

"What happened to you? Did they do this?"

"Argh."

I scratch my head, I had to let him go, knowing I'd get no sense out of him. He was as brain-dead as the rest of them. He was fine yesterday, before his so called "initialisation ceremony," I had to find out more about this before I underwent my own one. That was when I recall what Sally said about Granddad George and his fascination about all things weird in this village and this definitely qualifies.

By the time that the grubby old man fixed the van and sent me on my way I had pondered it all over with careful precision, there may have been some large gaps in my thinking but something was forming here.

It was dark when I got back, the shop had shut so I parked up the van and threw the keys in the letterbox. I walked home; the cows seemed very close tonight, like they were wandering the streets. Then as I turn the corner I saw Alf from the pub. Man, he was half-cut, pissed as a fart he staggers across the street. He had a gormless look on his face, more gormless than ever.

"Alright Alf?" I call out and he jumps suddenly, sniffing the air in my direction. He begins to wander in my direction, ever so slowly, holding his hands out like, I figure, like, for want of a better metaphor but none seem to be more accurate, a zombie.

"Hey Alf, are you okay?" I ask, beginning to back off. I notice that his eyes are rolled back in the head, no sign of pupils. He groans like either a very drunk person, of whom he normally is, or a zombie. He meanders aimlessly like a drunk, or a zombie. "The guy is a drunk," I mutter, unsure of my analysis.

He still only answers my calls with a groan. I pick up the pace a bit and he seems to copy my speed. If he was drunk he would have fallen over by now, but he pursues me steadily. Now I am running, he is defiantly not himself. I get home and lock the door. The sound of the cows in the field are really prominent now and I cannot sense the "moo" sound, they sound like human groans, or groans of something that was once human.

Just as I consider this I get that incurable feeling that someone is behind me, that inbuilt protective perception that acts as a warning, my stomach goes up through my throat, it is getting closer with a foul stench about its person. I will turn; I have to turn, don't I? I turn around and stare into its eyes, clad with large glasses the wrinkled face peers back at me, "sorry to disturb you my love," says Mrs Farnsworth, "but I've had a little accident...."

## 11.

While I cleared up her mess I managed to question Mrs Farnsworth before I released her back into the wild. Mop and bucket in hand I stood there and demanded that she told me all she knows about my Grandfather's research. "Oh," she moaned it was such a long time ago, there were terrible things going on in the village you know, but, oh, I think I've said too much."

I continued to mop the rug, "He kept some secret locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. I know that, I need to find the key....."

"Oh, he used to tell you kids that only he and Father Christmas knew where the key was..." she giggled, "always the joker was your granddad, he took me out once to a little restaurant in Salisbury, long before he met your grandmother mind you. We were young, free and wild at heart. We waltzed the night away, oh what a charming man, the lights, the champagne and the good food, well, yes, the great food, it gave me the.....oh.....oh dear me....."

I came to realise that this was not the person to shed any light on what was going on at all, this was purely the person to spoil the rug and she needed to be driven out no matter what she knew. She was too crazy to recall it anyway. So I made my excuses, told her I had to have an early night and kind of scooped her manually off of the chair she was sat on and beckoned her to the door. She was still talking to the door some five minutes later but none of it had any significance, it was all total dribble.

I had called Sally with no luck, told her voicemail that I needed to speak to her, it was urgent. I put the phone in my pocket and threw my jacket over my shoulders. I checked to see if the coast was clear, I did not want to bump into Alf, he looked like a flesh eating zombie to me but worse than that, I hoped I didn't bump into Mrs Farnworth.

I shake my head at my thoughts, the guy was plainly drunk, zombie? Fuck off you idiot, my mind is racing ahead of itself. I need to get to the Dog N Duck quicker than I've ever needed to get to a pub before and that is saying something. The High Street is very quiet, no one is around. I smash through those pub doors to a greeting, "Alreet Danny-Boy, ewe look loike ewe needs a pint moi sarn!" yells Ted.

"Thank you Ted, a cider would be nice."

"One pint o rumpy crack moi lover!" he shouted at the barmaid.

"Listen Ted, do you know anything about what my Granddad was researching in the village?" There I asked him, straight out with it.

"Whart ewe warn t'know abart art fer den?"

"Well," I sighed, stopping to thank the girl for my drink, "some strange things going on here you know?"

"No, I don't be knowing nuthin'," said Ted, "whart strange things art be den?"

"Do you know Sally Witcher?"

"Yer, old Barry's daughter," he pondered, "oh, you been....."

"It's not like that."

He checked my eyes. "Yeah!" he laughed, "you made yer bed yer lie in it! Dirty bugger! Course it be nuthin' to do with me who yer warna be shagging but hey, watch out fer them, she can be a rioght witch!"

"A witch?" I ask quickly, without thinking, it could just be a turn of phrase and probably is.

Ted looks worried, like he has slipped something out he did not want to, "sorry moi sarn, did I say witch, ha-ha, I meants a rioght bitch!"

I sip my pint, "oh I see, ok! Also," I continue, "was Alf in here earlier, you know, getting pissed?"

"Yer he be in ere!" said Ted.

"No he ain't been," perked up the barmaid.

"He always be in ere!" protested Ted.

"He ain't been in ere tonight though," she added.

"He must ave...."

"He ain't," the barmaid's statement is indisputable and she stands with arms crossed, adamant.

Ted sunk to the bottom of his glass, "maybe yer rioght, I only got down ere a while ago....." he looks away from her and whispered to me, "women, always rioght these be." Then he hiccupped.

"Are you sure he wasn't in here?" I asked her.

"'undred per cent lover," she claimed.

"Look sarn, whart's all this be abart then, don't be trudging up der past, sum fings art be best left alarn yer follow me?" Ted said, it seemed quite vague but it had a serious undertone. I feared whatever Ted did know he was hiding. I downed my drink and said my goodbyes. I left the pub and in the coolness of the night air I thought, trudging up the past huh? Only him and Father Christmas, yeah, I remember Granddad saying that. Father Christmas, yeah, Father Christmas, yeah! I recalled him getting down an old box from the loft, it was full of old Christmas decorations, in it there was a plastic Santa Claus that was hollow and he would put little presents in it, sweets and stuff; he called it his Father Christmas. I ran back to the cottage and found a stepladder in the mysterious cupboard, it was a long shot but it was all I had. I positioned that ladder under the loft hatch and made my way up. I opened it up and ran my hand up and down the rafters nearby in search of a light switch; no such luck.

A quick trip to the garage to locate a torch and I was back up that stepladder. Has Granddad given me a clue, all these years, and if so why? Did he want me to one day find out what was in there? Well that day could be very close. I ducked under the rafters and carefully trod on the beams, flashing the torch around the dusty old attic. After a short while of searching I found it, the Christmas decorations box.

I scampered over to it and rummaged around inside, like a stark revelation had hit me, eureka moment was near; I had faith in my suspicion and it paid off. Sure enough the plastic model lie in the box of musky decorations, "sorry Santa," I tell it and twist his head off. Decapitating Santa Claus was worth it for there in the bottom of the empty hull, a key.

I try to remain calm; I close the loft hatch, switch off my torch and make my way down the runs of the stepladder. I make my way downstairs and turn on my foot to face the cupboard; I open it up, throwing the coats to one side. I fiddle with the key in the lock and with an almighty wrench it jerks unlocked. I tense up, my childhood dream of discovering the world beyond this door flooding my neurons, making my apprehension irrational, making my excitement peak. Fuck Mrs Farnsworth, I might now pee my pants.

The door opens slowly with a clichéd creak; the bottom grinds on the floor the frame is tense and spiders scurry to the sides hoping they are out of danger. They have webbed the front quite intensely; no one has been down here for a while, not even old George himself.

I shine my torch through the cobwebs and clear them to one side, taking my first step into the unknown. My mind filled with mystery, my imagination running as wild as Bigfoot in the forest. My jawbone is tensed up to my skull, teeth waiting to grind but holding steady. My fingertips feel like icicles, stalactites waiting to snap off. My eyes are bulging out of their sockets and my nose dribbles relentlessly. With every step into the dark my symptoms increase tenfold and by the fourth step down I finally feel something under my foot, slippery, paper-like. I bend to pick it up. It is some kind of manuscript, a...a magazine of sorts. I raise the torch to it, an issue of Playboy Magazine from the 1960s, a plush looking red headed vixen on the cover posing in a giant red lacy corset. My heart beat stops its hard pounding on the inside of my stomach and I feel a massive release of pressure, "have I just found my Granddad's secret porn stash?"

## 12.

The kettle boils, waking me up from my day dream. I pour the tea, "You want a cup? Jim? You want a cup of tea?"

"Argh." Jim stands there looking vacant, how he is making his deliveries is anyone's guess. I might have thought all this was in my imagination, all this a product of the insomnia I have been suffering with since moving to the village. I cannot sleep, it is simply too quiet, I am not used to it. I long for a taxi to honk its horn, an underground train to rush past, an aeroplane to take off or a bus to pull over with squeaky brakes. I perchance to hear a bunch of stag party-goers hollering out some extremities or even more, a whole city of these things and so much more bubbling into a concoction of clamour. I might have thought I was making this all up but there was Jim, not the sharpest tool in the box but clever enough to articulate a conversation, to stimulate a social situation, overnight turned into a blubbering idiot, just like that.

I wander over to him, stare into his glazed eyes, he doesn't seem to even notice me. Kev mooches over and sniffs me, "Baaaaaa!!" In examining them both, they are not zombies, that much is certain. The undead cannot come out in the daylight and they look mutant, disfigured and have discoloured skin, a dull yellowy green, at least I think that's right; it is in the movies. Jim and Kev look perfectly normal, it is just the lights are on but no one is home. They do their duties uncompromisingly, unquestionably but that is all they seem to do. They scurry off now to fill their vans with trays of meat.

Gerry strides over, "Danny boy, alright then?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Yarng Michael has been singing yer praises," he informs me, "I be delighted to tells yer you have passed yer initial period and are a fully-fledged member of ar team here at Gerry Butcher's Family Butchers, well darn!" He extended his hand to shake mine. Everything in my will power had to hold me back from confronting him but it was clear this was neither the time nor place. "Now, there be a little ceremony we do, it be just a silly thing really but it be a tradition art stretches back to ar grandfathers days. Arse butchers loike ter follow in art trade yer knows, so if ewe would do arse thar honour of being ere arand abart seven o'clock tonight, we can get it done."

I shook his hand; this would be a prime time to question him, to find out what really happened to Jim. I will be sure to find out and if he gives me any shit I will deck him. "Ok Mr Butcher," I said with confidence, "I will see you then then."

Other than this there is nothing special about the rest of the working day, all quiet on the western front. No one seems to be around, no answer at Sally's house so I leave the delivery in the porch. Biggins Hill House is equally quiet, no zombies there I laugh to myself.

I get back to Grandfather's cottage, I'd like to call it home but I still have that eerie feeling about this whole village. I grab a pen, consider it silly but still I write down on the back of an envelope: Sally; missing? Jim; brain-dead? Ted Turner; knows something? Alf; drunk or zombie? People at Biggins Hill; weird. Gerry, well, he's just Gerry. Right, well that all amounts to sweet Fanny Adams. I go back to the cupboard, open that strange door. Shine the torch down the steps and walk down to the bottom. Was the dirty mag just a decoy? I shine the light on the wall, they are adorned with a vast variety of weapons, axes, a chainsaw, guns and rifles, meat cleavers.... Why?

In the corner sits an oak desk, an old dusty book lays there on the table, I wander over; flip it open to a random page. My Grandfather's writing inside reads: May 21st 1967: no reported incidents. May 22nd 1967: no reported incidents. May 23rd 1967: no reported incidents. May 24th 1967: no reported incidents. The last entry reads: May 25th 1967: no reported incidents. I hereby close this report, the epidemic seems to have been culled and since no incidents have been reported I feel that we have succeeded in eliminating the malevolent for good. If anyone should find this report in the future let it be known that the wickedness of this village is now something in history and I am delighted to have completed my labour.

I sigh, this is seriously something, I flip to the beginning of the book: A wicked, evil supremacy has annexed our village this day, 3rd March 1949. I believe rumour has it that the witchcraft at the Witcher Farm House has caused this effect and so far as I can gather the witch hunt is justified. They dabble in the dark arts; they experiment with the unknown that much is fact. How they have managed to assemble this army of undead is unknown and their reason for doing so is equally questionable. However it is my theory that it is their doing that has plagued our humble village so. Today I massacred twenty-eight undead, I find that you need to completely decapitate the head in order to render them useless, else they rise again and attack blindly. Though they are agile they are also lethargic and act slowly, they attack in large numbers and that is their strength. They are dangerous as they convert their victims, consciously or not to their army in a matter of minutes. Once the soul hath left the body they rise again. I accept this sounds irrational but I only note down my findings here..... It goes on, spooking me. Grandfather was either drafting a pretty neat horror novel or, I looked at the instruments of torture hanging up around me, there really was a zombie apocalypse in this village.

The whole thought makes my blood go cold, I stand up straight and hit my head on the rafter. Rubbing it I check the time, shit, and its quarter to seven. I need to find out what Gerry knows, what is going on with him, if it relates to all this or if it's just something completely different. I get up the stairs and throw my jacket on, leaving the cottage in a rush. The cows are being rather noisy tonight.

On the way to the High Street my mind is flowing, where does Sally rest in this puzzle, has she been deliberately avoiding my calls? Everyone says she is trouble, Ted even suggested she was a witch then claimed it was a slip of the tongue. Here though, in Granddad's words her family gets a mention as being the root to the zombie invasion. I know I cannot trust her, I don't know who to trust; I have to watch my back.

It is all well and good saying stuff like that but it was not meant literally, I don't really watch my back and I just charge blindly to the butchers. Therefore when a yellowy green coloured Alf with facial deformities, abscesses and gaping holes for cheek bones where he has obviously been gnawing his own flesh launches himself at me from behind wailing "Arugggggggg!" I naturally shit myself. This is no pisshead, well, he is a pisshead but it goes further than this, I mean rather the normal bloodshot eyes his pupils are missing, just dirty brown golf balls where his eyes should be.

I swing around, forcing him off my back as he was about to open the vast stinking hole that replaced his mouth and bite down on the fleshy part of my neck. He flies across the cobblestone street, landing with a thud on the floor. A man his age would normally stay down; hurt from such a fall but Alf brushes it all off as if it was a paper-cut. He stands again as I watch horrified, my mouth gasping for air.

I cough and get my breath back, "honestly, when was the last time you cleaned your teeth Alf, Jezze."

"Arugggggggghhhhh!" he moans, coming towards me. In the struggle his worn jeans have split and everything is hanging open as he exposes himself to the cool night air.

"Will you take a look at yourself Alf, sort it out mate," I shun him, turning away.

As I take another look I can see a large crowd gathering behind him, where the fuck did they come from? There has to be at least twenty lost souls moaning and groaning with their limbs at reach and their eyes in the back of their heads.

I turn to run but another group has congregated behind me, there is only one way to move and that is down the High Street. I back down an alley between the buildings not really contemplating the geography of where I am. Geography was always a sour part of my education, the teacher was a numbskull. They find me; I think they use the sense of smell, a little less of the Lynx deodorant next time I come out. The neck of the alley has been swamped with them and so I smash through the nearest door.

That was when I realised where I was. Gerry Butcher gave me a sly grin, "Alreet there Danny? Yer just in time....."

## 13.

I am delighted to note that only the most brutal looking hulks of butchers have been selected to attend my initialisation ceremony. They stand causally smirking around the room, sharpening their favourite knives and choppers with steel rods. They are all attired in their work gear, complete with the aprons they use for the more, shall we say, messy jobs.

Gerry stands proud in the centre of them, arms folded. "Have you seen it out there, its pande-fucking-monium!" I inform them all.

"Yes, it be a terrible thing," added Gerry. The rest of them smirk silently.

"Isn't it bad for business?" I quip; I must get the truth out of him via a battle of wits, a physical battle I will clearly lose and besides he is in one of those sly moods and for a naturally sly person this is not good.

"Quite the contrary," put Gerry, "providing I have enough stock. So, are you ready for your initialisation ceremony? It won't take ten minutes."

"Well I thought we might have a little chat, you know, get to know each other some more first," I suggest, placing my hand flat down on the chopping block. A swift movement from the goliath next to me sees a cleaver crashing down and wedging in the block. It was fortunate I moved my hand out of the way. The guy sniggers, I snigger back, "steady, health and safety regulators are just outside, why don't you go let them in?"

"That sounds simply lovely," comments Gerry beginning to pace the room slowly, "you see you never told me you be ol' George's grandson. He was a good man, well-loved throughout the village. I was so sorry to hear the news but now we have you here and it is a pleasure to meat you, I mean meat you, no I mean, no, hold on, that is what I mean."

"So, since I am going through your mincer anyway, or at least that is what I suspect this initialisation ceremony is all about perhaps you could explain a few things to me first," I inquire.

"What do you take me for?" Gerry seemed shocked by the accusation, "I am a fair man and despite your mixed up notions of whart be going on here yarng man I assure you I am not the enemy here."

"Then what is your involvement with these, these zombie things? I mean, see it from my angle. A driver is not the sharpest tool in the box but at least he can tie a shoelace. When he comes out of your so-called initialisation ceremony he appears to be as lobotomised as the others, the one that has the brains of a small sponge cake and the other who thinks he is lamb. What is the connection here?"

"Oh Danny, Danny, Danny, please try and see it from my point of view. You see the driving jarb be really quite simple you don't need to be Einstein to do it, heck, you don't even have to be his cat," Gerry came closer to me with every step, maybe to prove his sincerity or to murder me, I am not sure which one. "This zombie thing is not my fault, it is the fault of that dirty strumpet that you've been seen knocking about with. She is the one you need to question yarng man. It was her family that started the whole thing, the séances, the witchcraft; calling up the spirits of the dead and all. Whereas I was the one that saved the village from the zombie apocalypse, with my father we had a plan that would resolve the issue fairly for everyone involved. You see I am not a brutal man like your grandfather George whose only idea to help was to mindlessly slaughter the living dead. It would never fully stop them from rising from the grave, the situation would have just continued if it wasn't for me. So, you see, all I ask is one small thing from you in order to continue the good work we have so far performed here. Will you help us Danny boy?"

"Do I get a choice?"

He laughed a hearty roar, "well that's the grey area see, much as I would like to say yes these employees are dedicated to the cause too and you really wouldn't want to offend them now would you?"

I looked around the room at all these screwed up expressions, "carnt," one whispered very quietly, confirming my suspicions that Gerry was right; upsetting them would not be good. "So can you expand on the process any further, just so I know what I'm letting myself in for?"

Suddenly he snapped his fingers and four butchers leapt on me, pinning me down to the block, sawdust filled my hair and sprayed my eyes as my head collided with the wood. My hands were held down, my legs prevented from kicking out by apron ties wrapped tightly around legs of the block and mine too. "I will be delighted to explain it to you Daniel, really I would but I must ensure that you are restrained; sorry about that but believe me the process sounds far worse than it actually is."

He wanders around the block perpetually so one second I could see him the next I could not, I think it was supposed to scare me but instead it just made me dizzy. "You see it is quite a simple operation," he continued, the bleating of a live lamb could now be heard in the background. "In order to keep the zombies happy I feed them what they like, human brain, no other brain will do. Give them any other brain and they will be sick and angry and they have no choice but to run around the village in search of humans to suck their brains out. Not nice, I am sure you will agree. So my father and I stopped the massacre by agreeing to supply the only existing zombie family up at Biggins Hill, your granddad and his mob brutally murdered the rest of them, I am a more amicable person you see. I gave you the brains to give to that family didn't I; change it for some lamb's brain under the instruction of the witch didn't you? Following yer dick, wasn't you?"

"M....maybe...." I scream as I see a lamb being held down on the other block.

He notices that I have seen it and leans down to my eye level, "so, I think you can guess what is going to happen now Danny-boy. Jim had it done, Graham and Kev as well as many others and they all turned out fine. I make an incision in your skull, cut around the bone, take your brain out and replace it with this lamb's brain. A few minutes to tie up the central nervous system and wham bam, it is done. You go home and I will see you in the morning bright and early. The zombies get what they want and stop killing all the villagers, simple, ok ready now, it won't hurt!"

"It won't hurt me," I yell, having found the penknife from my sock I pull it out, slashing across the butcher to the left side of me, he flinches out of the way and falls towards the lamb that breaks free and tries to make an escape. In the kerfuffle they all try to regain control of the animal and leave me to cut my legs free and scarper for the inside door to the rear of the shop front. From here I plan to smash the window with the metal trays or anything else I can lay my hands on but Gerry has ordered them, "forget the lamb for now, and get him!"

They change direction and head for the door, corner me off and grab me. The knife slides across the floor and they pin me yet again, at least this block is slightly more comfortable and tidy, being it is for shop display. "You cannot get away Danny boy!" Gerry shouted, "Begin the operation!" They guys surround me, grinning; a hacksaw is lowered to my head as the lamb is bought in through the back door.

Saved by the bell, hopefully; they all turn their heads as they hear the door's bell ding, "Whart carnt fergot t' lock yer door?" shouts the head butcher, Dean.

"Morning!" announced Mrs Farnsworth.

"It is afternoon, we are closed Madam."

She shuffles over to the counter, "can I have some 5oz gammon steaks please?"

I see my opportunity, "Help!" I scream, "Mrs Farnsworth, they're trying to kill me!"

"Oh hello young Daniel," she sparks up when she spots me held to the table, "I didn't know you work in here too. Now," she addresses, Phil, the man coming to see her at the counter.

"Can I help you madam?"

"What did young Daniel say?" she asked.

"Huh? Oh, he said, 'try the pork chops, Mrs Farnsworth, they're buy one get one free!"

"Oh that does sound nice yes," she replied, oblivious to the fact I was being held down against my will she reworks her mental shopping list.

I try once more, "They want to MURDER....." I cry as loud as I can before Dean's shovel sized palm clasps down on my mouth.

"What did he say again, it's my ears, not what they used to be?" she whimpered, holding her hand to her ear.

"He said you really want to try the burger Mrs Farnsworth."

"Oh no," she recoiled, "run right through me that would."

It was no use; Mrs Farnworth was served with some pork chops and led outside. Gerry opens the door for her, "good evening Mrs Farnsworth you take care out there now." Seconds after she left the doors were being barged in; horrific groans yelled "Brains! Brains!" as random arms waved around the door frame. Gerry forced the door shut, "Yeah, just wait you farking impatient animals!"

He turned to the butchers, "Whart are yer all gawking at, get on with it, and Phil, whart on earth were yer thinking of, buy one get one free, we never do promotions here?!"

"But under the circumstances....." whimpered Phil, waving his hands in the air so that his wig wriggled on his head.

From beyond the window pane I can make out Mrs Farnworth talking to the gang of zombies, "oh hello, lovely evening isn't it, yes, do you know what time the next bus........ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

## 14.

The grip on my neck goes suddenly limp as I observe the swishing of a black cloak working overtime, manoeuvring faster than my bloodshot eyes can focus. Like a carefully choreographed ballet the thing that came bursting through the window shunned off the shards of glass was now somersaulting, back flipping and hauling the silver display trays like ninja stars across the butcher's shop, strips of fake plastic grass and sprinklings of sawdust blowing with the force.

The grip loosens completely and I manage to roll onto my side. The hands that held me rise up to the butcher' own space where his head used to be. Now the head has been severed and a geezer of blood rains down on me while the decapitated cranium flies through the air like a football and lands on a display tray at the front of the shop where it greets the heads of the other butchers with an expression of total shock. The flying trays return boomerang-like to the thrower and they catch them and hurl again.

Gerry is now the only man standing, he makes a break for the back door but a tray comes whirling through the air and pins him by the greying hair to the door frame. He takes a look at the hair falling from his sideburns, "art haircut cost me a blardy fortune," he shouts in anger, "it be coming art of yer wages son!"

I am delusional, is that Batman or what? The figure halts its speedy combat and poses proud and satisfied under the dimming lights I get to my feet and nauseatingly wipe the blood from my face in horror. I am surprised to notice that the unknown figure removes the hood of the cloak to reveal a cat suit clad Sally Witcher looking extremely sexy and heroic.

"Sally?"

"Daniel, are you okay?"

"Yes, I've been waiting for you to respond to my voicemails and texts....."

"Oh that, yes, sorry, you know I wanted to, I was just a bit scared....."

I look at the carnage all around me, "scared Sally?"

"Yes," she parades around the shop, checking the butchers have gone to meet their maker. "You know, how you might react to me being a witch and all, what with everything that was going on. I wanted to tell you Dan, really I did. I just didn't know how to bring it up. Dan, I just want us to try and get on like a normal couple, you know, none of that really matters does it?"

Again I check the surroundings, the last butcher still standing held up with the force of the jet of blood crashed to the floor when the blood stopped spraying. "I'd like to say yes Sally but, well, I don't know, I'm so mixed up at the moment. I mean did you deliberately restart this zombie apocalypse?"

She shoved a human carcase off the block where it fell and perched her pert buttocks upon it, "you should know I come from a long line of witches and warlocks it is in our nature to reap havoc," she sighed, "look Dan, I did not mean to, it was a mistake. Father convinced it would good for the village, economically speaking. The undead are actually rather nice people when you get to know them and remarkably they are more intelligent than most of the people in the village, work harder too. I just thought it would be nice to have a few more of them around...."

"Nice? Nice Sally? They're flesh mauling, brain eating zombies!" I scream, noticing Gerry in agony, trying to pull a clump from his hair to break free of the tray that wedges him to the door.

"Oh yes, I will admit it has got slightly out of hand now but I didn't want it to go this far, really I didn't Dan," she pleaded sulking into her hands, "I am just such a silly girl sometimes I should have known they would massacre the entire village..." she lifts her hands and spots Gerry making his escape since he yelped with the pain of tugging his grey locks free. A meat cleaver on the block suddenly gets picked up and is sent spinning into the air, landing right through the face of Gerry and lodging in the back of his cranium. He waddles around for a bit and I watch in repulsion as he smashes face-first onto the floor.

"You....You.....You killed him?" I cry.

"Ten out of ten for observation Dan, but did I get here too late," she strikes up an erotic pose, "do you fancy me or Shaun the Sheep?"

"You....You....You killed him?" I repeat with the shock.

"Ok, yes I did."

"He...he...he...he owes me four days' pay!"

Just then the zombies come clambering haphazardly through the broken window, moaning and groaning. There are hundreds of them waiting to get in and not in an orderly fashion I might add. The ones in front see us and whine "brains!"

"We have to get out of here!" I exclaim.

"They will feed on the butchers brain's first as they are the easy prey," points out Sally.

"Yeah but how long will it take for them to finish that off?"

We both take a look at the great hulks of mindless butchers lying in pools of their own blood. A couple of zombies have begun the feeding frenzy and now the body of that butcher starts to make it to his feet, "CARNT!" it yells at us.

"Not long with brains their size," concludes Sally and suggests we head off. I'm frozen on the spot and relying heavily on her resilience to guide us. She recommends going to pub, not something I would usually protest about but under the circumstances I am anxious about anything and everything. Do I trust this girl? Do I have a choice at the moment? Am I about to contemplate my new, relaxing lifestyle in the countryside? Does my health insurance cover me for a zombie apocalypse? Are the sausages in here handmade or do they buy them in?

## 15.

It was slow progress heading towards the Dog N Duck but now we are here it feels more homely than it ever did before. There was a plague of them gathering outside on the High Street as Sally launched her full scale attack using the utensils from the butchery, even the cleaner's buckets came in handy for putting over my head to hide my eyes from the more scary moments.

I supposed that the cleaning staff at Gerry Butcher and Sons had some overtime on their hands but they were used to cleaning and mopping up blood so things aren't so bad for them. Sally handed me a cleaver and told me to aim for the head, "any other wound will not halt them, you have to take the head off in one swoop," she explains callously like she was explaining how to put up wallpaper.

"Yes, I've seen the movies," I add, swinging the thing aimlessly around the air. They fail to back off, stupidly walking into the path of the weapon, some heads are chopped and I feel quite proud of myself. "How am I doing?"

"Just like George, you are a chip off the old block," she applies me with flattery but I get the impression it is solely to motivate me when she informs me to try using a bit more vigour next time, "really give it a good swish, like you really mean it!"

I try again at a zombie-Michael, Gerry's son who came running over still holding his clipboard, "yes I know, I'm late again, sorry how about you take some of this to make up for it?" I ask him, swiping hard at the neck. The blade sliced his ear free but failed to impact on his head and he crept so close I could smell what he had for breakfast this morning, Shreddies if I am not mistaken, with hot milk (just for the record, I'd rather have a bowl of Coco Pops.) His gaping hole for a mouth opened wider as he tried to take a bite out of my arm, "steady, you nearly got munched like you were a cheese cracker there," she complained as she came up behind me and pressed her gorgeous body into my back. I could feel the pressure points of her two pert breasts digging into the soft flesh either side of my spine and her hips grinding into my bottom, it was nice; electricity still existed between us. "Here, like this," she purred, she could tell we still had something as she used her arms to guide my own gracefully through the neck of the attacking flesh-eating zombie and she glanced at me with her beautiful smile.

It was a romantic moment that only two zombie slayers could have understood but it was over too quickly as she karate kicked the door of the pub open and we danced inside. The door was closed and a chair propped under the handles, "you think that will hold them?"

"Enough for a pint and a game of pool yeah," she figured.

We looked around us at the deserted public house, "oh alreeet there Danny-boy!" yelled Ted Turner who was sitting on his usual bar stool at the bar, sipping a pint of ale.

"Ted?"

"Argh?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yer, why would I not be tharn ewe?"

"Well you know, what with the zombie massacre out there an all...." I questioned him but he barely looked around.

"Arggh, art, yer it is making fer a quiet night in ere, didn't expect anyone else would make it really. Whart yer drinking?" he turns and looks shocked, "whart she be doing here?!"

"Sally is on our side Ted," I explained, "she is....."

"She be a farking witch! She be art thar lart art started the whole fing yer know?"

"She is with me, she is fine. It has all been one great big mistake on her part and she is sorry," I tell him.

"That is whart they all say yarng Danny, yer still 'ave a lart to learn abart women. But if yer insist, I be welcoming her for yer, hello ar witch, whart's yer poison, eye of newt, tail of frarg?"

"Just a pint of lager will be fine Ted, with a top please," she requested.

Ted calls out to the open hatchway below the bar, "Carol! Yer gart punters; art grockle an 'is witch!" He waited a while and repeated his call, "I don't knows wharts taking her so long down thar, women and barrels darn't mix."

I just stand and gawk at them all, "don't you think we should check on her, there may be, you know, one of them down there?"

Ted asks "One of whom?"

"The zombies, are you not concerned about them Ted?"

"Na nart me, they took my brain out years ago. I worked fer Gerry fer years see ewe? I learned to adapt ye knows, yer carn't start grumbling abart it, just 'ave to get on yer knows."

"Why did you not tell me you knew?" I asked angrily, hands on my hips.

"Didn't think it wars art important really," he explained, "a few brain surgery operations frum a crazy sadistic butcher never 'urt no one. It be dis bitch who be bringing it all back ewe, trudging up thar past, some things ar just best left in 'istory."

"Like fox hunting?" I ask, being sarcastic, I know how he feels on the subject.

He looks angry, "see art be where yer city dwellers dunt no shite abart country ways yarng man. Always wif yer meddling in ar customs and ways yer be, passing new rules in yer fancy parliament int yer, fink it's all very clever dun't yer, well I tells yer," he points a stern finger, "all dis stop everthing, stopping yer blardy fox hunting, stopping yer blardy zombie massacre, it all be the same ol' shit jus' art different name, no good city folk an yer Mc-farking-Donald's, fark yer!"

Sally turned to him, "you talk some serious crap Turner, fox hunting is a barbaric sport that not everyone in the countryside agrees with, everyone loves a good zombie massacre though, no harm in that!"

"Ewe shirt the fark up yer witch, ewe comes in 'ere expectin' ter change it all abart, asking fer all yer gofic shite on thar jukebox, all art Fields of ar Nephilim an All Abart Eve claptrap, 'ave yer 'eard it boy, blardy noise it be?"

I tended to agree with Ted who had now given up waiting for Carol the barmaid and slipped around the other side of the bar and began to pour a pint from the pumps. Suddenly without warning she appears from up the cellar, her face is green and yellowy, her eyes rolled into their sockets and she stands gormlessly on the top runner of the ladder. Ted turns and sees her, "Abart farking time woman, how larng it takes yer ter change a barrel? I started pouring thar pints....."

"Urghhhhhhh!" she whined.

"No, don't thank me," he continued, "I don't need any of yer wages nor nuthin'."

"Ted watch out!" I yell, "She's been bitten!"

Ted regarded her, "she's been more tharn bitten in her time I tells yer, dirty slapper. Ere though, you do look a bit green...." She held out her arms and her wrist dangled from her limb, bloody and shredded. "Ewe wanna run art under a cold tap larve."

She lurches at Ted biting hard into his skull and trying to tear it apart, "hey!"

"I thought you said your brain was removed Ted?" I thought it best to inquire.

"Now I comes to fink of art, art moight 'ave been ol' Willy art green grocer I worked fer. Yeah art be 'im, so larng ago nar I forgets see. Nart been a green grocer in argh villarge fer donkey's, supermarket see, did do nar good fer no one!" he continues to explain while still pouring the pint and nudging the barmaid away from tearing at his skull, "starp art ye saucy minx, blardy tickles!"

I jump up onto the bar with the cleaver and take a swing at the girl, Sally reminds me, "Take the head off!"

Ted puts the pint on the bar and takes heed of Sally's request, using his fingers to swipe the froth from the top of the glass, "oh-argh, sorry moi larver, I ain't no professional..."

I slice enough for the head to slip past the neck but some nerves still keep it attached. The body plonks onto the bar, its teeth riding up past its nose. Ted meanwhile rubs the top of his head, "Feels quite bad t' me, oh well, last orders art thar bar ladies and gentleman."

The zombies start to come up from the open cellar, "I suggest we drink up." We took a rain-check on the game of pool and drunk our drinks quickly, I was never very good at the game anyway and she might just have shown me up.

## 16.

The night sky seemed so much darker than normal, as if a gloom shaded the moonlight and a blanket of despair had fallen on this little village, which was a shame, it was bad enough before all this occurred, I mean they don't even have a drive-thru Starbucks.

Our butcher's tools were getting plenty of use as we carved our way through the mass of green looking people, out of the pub and onto the High Street. As I slashed one to the ground another would spring up and while I slayed them the one I previously slashed came back up again like that game at the funfair where the frogs pop out the holes and you smash them with a cloth mallet, just with a bit more green slime.

Sally bravely took the front and I took care of the rear, and what a lovely rear it was, her tight cat suit showing it for all its splendour, leaving nothing to the imagination. If I could just get some time on my hands I could get my hands on those lovely peachy moulds, I could shape them with my soft touch, I could slap those cheeky cheeks and I could.... "WHAAAAA!" I scream as one goes for my jugular.

Sally swiftly turns and with her boning knife she cuts slowly along its neck line. The creature did not flinch; they appear to be too concerned with their own attacking to bother about defending themselves. I watch as its head rolls off and it still grins at me. "Thanks," I feel I should politely be grateful, "so where are we heading?"

"Back to your granddad's cottage he has everything we need there...." She says with a wheeze, still slaying as another one jumps onto my back and she swipes it off like it is a fly. "Stay alert, can you not talk and fight at the same time?"

"I never was very good at multitasking," I point out, concerned more about her coming round mine, did I leave my dirty pants on the floor, did I clear away the dirty magazines, shit the dirty mags!

"An' a nuffer fing abart yer goths," Ted complains as he wanders a few feet behind us, spilling a swig of his pint that he pinched from the pub, "'ave yer seen 'em Danny, ave seen thar way dey dress an all? Yer carn't tell thar boys frum thar girls you carn't. A few in ar pub thar other day, I said yer farking sexless I dids, and do you know whart she said, she said art gothic girls like sex too. Well, I didn't know where ter lark I didn't, so I gets me cark art and laffs 'ere 'ave a go on this beauty then,' but she slapped me thar frigid cow."

"Won't he turn?" I ask Sally.

"Yes, but it might not be such a bad thing; it will shut him up."

"I am not sure why you were so insistent on bringing him along, didn't think you liked the guy," I add, he is a hindrance on our progress, harmless though he is.

"I plan to hollow him out so you can wear him like a onesie, it will act as protection for your own flesh in case of a bite," she said as innocently as if we plan to make a paper-mache Halloween mask.

I cringe at the thought, "Listen, I'm not sure if I'm really up for that."

"It is for your own protection."

"I don't want to look like Ted Turner!" I protest.

"Is there anyone else here that you'd like to be inside?" An awkward silence followed. "Actually don't answer that."

Now with the cottage in sight we manage to riddle ourselves free from attack long enough to make it safely inside, it would appear they want to give the cottage a wide berth. "'Ave yer gart any plasterrrs?" asks Ted, rubbing his zombie bite.

"How are you feeling Ted?" I ask.

"Oh nart so bad yarng man, thar ol' dodgy knee is playing me urp a bit ewe know, but mustn't grumble."

"No, I mean the bite?"

"Oh yer art, she always bin a bit of argh wild card 'as ol' Carol, 'art of gold though."

"Listen Ted," I say as he plonks himself in a sofa chair, "make yourself at home yeah, Sally and I have to go down to the cellar, Sally thinks there is a way to stop this crazy mess and the answer lies in my Granddad's research, I'm not sure, can science provide us with an answer to paranormal activity, do you think?"

"Ok ewe, make sure yer wear a Johnny," Ted answers. He has a point as he starts to snooze off the ale intake.

We go down through that once mysterious door into the secret attic, my memories of long gone days sitting by the door wondering why we wasn't allowed to explore here come racing back to me, old Grandpa George, his secret life as a zombie slayer was something I would never have been able to take a wild stab in the dark at, now, wild stabs in the dark where plentiful, I just wondered when I might get to give this crazy chick her portion of one.

She leapt down the stairs and began to thrust herself through my Grandfather's things, his book she sped through, turning pages and rubbing her chin. The tools she took many of, arming herself and advising that I did the same, I did. Now though she was rummaging through the drawers and seemed to have got stuck into a pile of papers inside. "What do you hope to find here?"

"Nothing, I have already found it," she perks up. In her hands she browses a scroll, unravelling it with keen interest, "just as I thought, father told me of this scroll, that it was stolen from our house many years ago. He suspected that George took it...."

"Hey, my granddad wasn't a tealeaf," I put in.

"That does not matter now, it has been returned to its rightful owner. I don't think he was too sure exactly what he had his hands on, the importance of it," she beams a smile at me.

"And what exactly is it?"

"These written here are spells Daniel, ancient spells passed down through our generations of warlocks and witches, did you study Latin?"

"I studied Latin Lovers part 3 on DVD, man those girls really...."

"De vocatione ad converterent alica immortuorum," she interrupted while I remembered that video and those lovely bronze girls lying on the beach naked.

"No, I don't recall any of them saying that, what does it mean?"

"The spell to reverse the call of the undead, that must be the one we need, we have to go to Biggins Wood, just past our house. Deep in the wood there is a sacred stone where we must direct our spell, this will call upon the spirits and ask them if they would be so kind as to make the dead inanimate as things should always be. They will then cease to walk and return to their places of rest, simple really."

"Dead simple, excuse the pun," I added but she did not see the funny side as she continued to study the text.

"There will be hundreds of them there though, our journey to the wood is going to be perilous, wrought with danger from the pure evil that the zombies bring; we will be exposed."

"I like the sound of the last bit; can we not skip the danger and pure evil and just expose ourselves here and now?"

Sally turned to face me, her face flush with solemnity, "this is not the time for messing around, seriously Dan; your silly wit will get us both killed!"

I back off, "ok, ok, I am sorry." Just then I hear an almighty smash up the stairs, "shit, Ted!" I run up the steps and realise what happened when I get eye level with the floor, I recognise those old flesh coloured stockings and purple comfortable shoes but when I move further up and I am shocked to see that the Harris Tweed skirt is missing and the woman stands with a nude waistline, her top half is blooded but just fine. I cringe and reel backwards at the sight before me, my grandfather's desecrated hallway rug flowing with a river of brown diarrhoea as more of the fluid concentrate flushes from her naked torso, "Hi sonny, I've had a bit of an accident," Mrs Farnsworth says in a zombie-like whine, her pupils rolled back and her skin yellowy green.

## 17.

I come into the living room through the hallway door, carrying the served head of Mrs Farnsworth by the scruff of the hair, "Ted?" I asked as the head swung back and forth, "do you know anything about this?"

"Argh, art be Mrs Farnsworth, local busybody, if yer finds thar rest of her I suggest art you leave it where it be."

"Yeah, a bit late for that; Listen Ted, Sally and I are just nipping out for a bit could you try and be a good fellow and not allow too many of those dreadful zombie-like people in, they really make a horrible mess?" I ask of him in my most polite of tones, I can do no more.

"Argh, yarng love, yeah ewe go, it be fine," assured Ted as the window came crashing through. Hundreds of zombie arms reach through the broken glass cutting themselves but carrying on regardless. They climbed in through the window as more smashed in, whining and groaning and reaching out for us, "oh great," I shout, "Sally, can you come up here a moment?"

Sally arrives on the scene, hands on her hips she sighs, "oh dear, the net curtains. We have to get out of here; there are a multitude of them outside. This is too much for us to handle, we will get mauled. The best thing to do is let them in and head to the woods, they will leave once the spell is complete."

"That's all fair and well, what about all my stuff?" I anger.

"They are just things Dan, they can be replaced. We need to go, come on, and you Ted!"

As we run to the front door, battling off the zombies with swords and cleavers, as you tend to do when faced with a zombie invasion, I seize hold of the door handle, swing it open as the final arms try to grab out at us. Ted falls out of the door and Sally follows, crushing the last remaining arm in between the door and its frame. She slips it ajar and the arm retreats back inside. All is deadly quiet outside compared to the carnage inside, but from the horizon we hear the massive groan of millions of zombies, "we will never make it alive to Biggins Hill on foot," pointed out Sally.

That is when I picked out the sound of a car's engine and then a high-pitched voice came out of the darkness making us all jump out of our skin, "Daniel! What do you look like?"

In the driveway sat Frasier's new Audi, the engine still running. Joanne had got out of the motor to knock on the door, "Joanne?" I would like to say she was sight for sore eyes but I would be lying.

"What have you been doing Daniel, you look like shit?" she snapped, my sister was always straightforward with the truth.

"A bit of this a bit of that, you know? So what brings you guys out here?" I ask trying to act causal.

"I am disgusted with you Daniel, how could you?" she protested something with her hands on her hips and a stern stare in my direction.

"I'm sorry, how could I what?" I was genuinely confused.

"We had to come here Daniel because I suspected that you were trying to claim the house for yourself, it is not yours to take and when I get here what do I find?" she pointed furiously at the window to the living room which showed silhouettes of a chaotic array of people with arms and legs all over the place and making a tremendous noise. "You are having a party! A party in Granddad's house just a week after he has passed. Why don't you just go and dance on his grave you heartless bastard?! If you refuse to move out we will be moving in until the will is read, you can have the box room and be sure not to get in my way!"

I gave this a lot of careful consideration, a number of options were open to me but in the long run it is best, I decided, to simply agree, "Ok," I calmly said, "that is fine; you have the house, go right in and make yourself at home, I will move out."

She was the one now with a confused expression, "really?" she stumbled. I don't think she was expecting that reaction. "You mean you are not going to fight over this?"

"No, no, I understand perfectly, you were always Granddad's favourite so it is only right that the cottage should be yours."

"That is very grownup of you Daniel, thank you." I could tell she struggled to get the last words out. Then after a moment of composed order her face went red again, anger reappeared, "then all these people can get out of MY house!" she demanded and stormed right in through the door, I'm guessing right in the puddle of mess that Mrs Farnworth had kindly left us by the way she screeched "URGGHHH!" Then the volume of her voice exploded by a billion octaves, "FRASIER!" and his oversized ears, probably due to an ancestral history of interbreeding with only the aristocracy of this country, perked up.

He came running to the door calling "Yes honey bunny bunny boo-boo?" He stopped by me and gave me a welcoming look by which took me by surprise and in his well-to-do accent he said, "frightfully decent of you Daniel, you know I used to think that you were a bit, you know, immature but I want you to know that I think what you are doing here and now is really respectable of you." He held out his hand to offer me a handshake, I did not take it.

"No problem at all Frasier, you guys make yourself at home."

He chortled, which is like a very posh giggle, "well, perhaps after we have dispersed this party. Maybe you could pop over one day, I'll take you to polo or something?"

"No, I can't stand that trumped up bollocks you posh cunt and it's not a party it's a zombie apocalypse."

Frasier took a moment to take in what I just said and when he had digested it fully he gave an even heartier chortle, "oh ha-ha-ha-ha, very funny Daniel. I admit that comprehensive school wit gets me all the time."

Just then the most horrific scream one has ever heard came from inside the house and it was distinctly the voice of my sister. Frasier's cheerful face suddenly dropped and he ran inside.

"That was a bit mean," said Sally.

"They deserve it," I added and tried to change the subject by pointing at the brother-in-law's Audi sports car with the engine still purring under its bonnet, "come on; what are you waiting for, we've got a spell to cast?"

## 18.

The first job is to turn the stereo off of Classic FM and tune in Kiss; I need some banging drum n bass if I am going to be driving through zombies at high speed. This is when Sally insists that she should drive, typical; women can't wait a minute while I adjust the bass and treble. She pushes me out of the car and starts to rev the engine. Smoke belches from the back tyres as I run around to the passenger side.

"When we get thar it be yer round," Ted ordered from his crunched up position in the tight back seats.

"We are not going to the Dog N Duck Ted," informed Sally as she let the handbrake free and we stuck to the back of our chairs like glue.

"Why hasn't he changed yet?" I offer.

"I am not certain, are you sure you are a man Ted?"

"Larst time I checked, hold yer 'orses," Ted fumbled with his fly, "hey, when did argh gets me argh carck ring?"

"I mean are you sure that you are human Ted?" she reiterated.

"Well there warz thar UFO sighting thar day they found me as a baby in argh basket," figured Ted.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"I don't know, perhaps the producer is leaving it open for a sequel?" she suggests.

"I wish this was a movie, the hero always gets the girl at the end, how do you feel about my chances?" I put my hand on her thigh and smile.

Sally steers up the track leading to Biggins Hill, "You think you're the hero, you're just the delivery boy?" I choose to ignore that remark.

We were knocking over zombies like they were skittles. Ted cheers with every kill we made. "You don't like those zombies do you Ted?" I ask in jest.

"Argh yer 'aving a larf? They comes rand ere, taking argh jarbs or else claiming argh benefits, blardy kill thar lart of 'em I says, blardy workshy zombie barstards, I pays mio taxes yer knows, never expected nuthin' frum thar state loike whart they do. Yer knows whart I finks? I finks they shud all be....."

"Did you have to start him up again?" Sally inquired.

"Thought it would pass the time," I joked.

We pulled the car up sharply deep in the woods after swerving through the trees like a scene from Return of the Jedi. Sally pointed out a large clearing, there was a mound with a stone standing in the centre, "the sacred stone," she pursed with an elated whisper.

"Why don't you stay in the car, Sally and I have some business to attend to?" I asked of Ted.

Ted gave this some thought, "oo-argh I sees, loike art is it?" He gave a long drawn out wink, "yer kids don't mind me, garn on, kinky, out in the out open an all.......can I watch?"

"Stay here, look after the car." Sally and I got out and walked up to the stone, it was quiet here but you could still hear the horror in the village below.

She opened the scroll and announced loudly to the sky, "Caeli desuper et inferni visita nos sumus, omnes scire , quod incipit , non est quod quaerimus , auxilium nobis est caelum , infernum porta tuos et tolle tibi sicut partes cito relinquat et pro nihilo abire iam credunt . Find fart tui et libera nos fidem , et peccetis in infernum , et sic incipimus , et terra sub hoste pedis tolleret auferte immortui sicut meteora, quae sicut Nigellus Farage tollat , ubinam et quod beatum hunc aerem ex sphaera relinquere terras , qui nos in pace iam noli inquit nos relinquere : tu es magnus Satanas bestia stupri."

The sky produces a visual feast, energy is building in the stratosphere and like a whirlpool it is sinking into our little circle, smashing off the peak of the stone like a spectrum blasting off a colourful show of light. Suddenly we are all that exist in the eyes of the creator, his soul belongs to us as we summon him, our power is ultimate at this point and our demands will be met, the sensation is overwhelming, uplifting, a euphoric consciousness floods our neurons and flares off back into the sky, uniting the stars and planets surrounding us. She does go on a bit though, "is it done?" I whispered, "can we have sex now.....just wondering....."

"Stulte nos , stulte nos tardior quid pariet serimus tollat malitia entibus problema noodles urna tolleret , et auferte omnem auferre, venustus Debbie McGee odoris cernimus, quae odimus et ea quae non sunt magni . Aufer Bruxellense pullulat et inebriamini louts auferre , ut haec accipere contemnat, modo a nice admiratio relinquo sumentes de LUTUM funera , funestissimis irrumabo accipere immortui sunt!"

Now I'm just tapping my foot. Sally is exhausted, she falls with the power at the head of the stone and I race to her side, "it is done my love, the undead will retreat back to their graves."

"I love you," I tell her softly, caught in the mood of the moment, hoping she will tell me it is mutual, and maybe get her knickers off.

"I cannot love you in return, I am sorry, not in the way you would like me to for I am a witch and we are not compatible," she says in sorrow. A single tear drops and joins the dew on the grass.

"That is the single lousiest excuse I have ever heard!" I protest, "You could have just text me YR DUMPED LOL, like all the other girls do."

She looked up, "I do not want to dump you, I have a love for you in my heart believe me but it would be against my people's faith, I would be beckoned to bequeath my soul at the gates of hell for all eternity....though there is another way," she quickly picks up the scroll and reads on, "The mortale incantatores; the mortal spell. While the gateways of heaven and hell meet here at this moment we have time to recite this spell and I will denounce and terminate my immortality, but you have to honour me, marry me and live with me forever more or we will both be cast into a pit of hell fire."

"Yeah ok," I go and shrug my shoulders.

"Are you sure you have given this plenty of consideration my love?" she asks as she falls into my arms. I can feel her beauty against me, her wonderful body pressed against mine, her diamond eyes sparkle in the moonlight, of course I want this, "yes, I do, please," I get down on one knee and hold her hand in mine, "Sally, please will you marry me?"

Ted is looking through the window, "thar pub wars nart such a good plan after all, I fink he's had enough ter drink already."

"Yes!" she was delighted and turned to the stone to cast the spell, "Abracadabra!"

"Abracadabra?"

"Yes; abracadabra!"

"Is that it, just abracadabra?!"

"Yes, I have terminated my contract with the spirits; I am but a mortal like you now."

"So, we can have it off then?"

She puts her arms around my waist and kisses me passionately, "nothing would give me greater pleasure than to lie down with you here in this dew soaked grass and throw away our coverings and express our love on a physical plain."

"Is that a yes?"

Ted perks up in his seat and rubs his shovel-sized hands together; "now we're talking!" he dribbles.

## 19.

As we stood there watching the shadows in the village streetlights below us Sally pointed out in her wonderful accent, "look, they are all heading down Church Lane, back to the cemetery," as she uncaringly peeled down her cat suit. Her breasts were firm and inviting as she sauntered erotically over to the stone.

"Ted," I shouted, "avert your eyes; go for a walk or something!"

"Oh-argh, miss art on all thar action I does," he mumbles.

"If you go for a walk we will hook you up to the internet when we get back to the village," Sally suggested as she sat by the stone, tugging at the bottom half of her attire, "there is enough dirty videos on there to keep you busy until the cows come home."

"Farking hell!" he cries "thar cows, they need milking, I best be arf, I'll walk down to village, it's a nice evening fer it, ewe kids ave fun now."

I shout "Yeah; bye then!" and turn to my beautiful maiden with a Cheshire cat smile.

"Get those jeans off and come over here!" she demands of me, who am I to refuse? She professionally pulls the cat-suit off of her feet and lays down in the grass naked. She giggles as I hold my breath. This is it; I think to myself and tear off my clothes, joining her by her side. She rolls over to face me, it is then that I see her face, it has changed. Her once supple skin is saggy and wrinkled. Her eyes are dull, far less inviting, her nose has extended into a large corkscrew, her nostrils have flared, and teeth are missing as she smiles at me, the ones that remain are blackened and her hair is grey and wiry.

I jump up in shock, an uncompromised expression of horror flushes my face, an expression of horror that tops all my previous expressions of horror during the whole zombie massacre incident and mate I'll tell you, there was a few.

"What?" she asks as she sees me recoil. I gasp and wheeze but words do not come to the front of my mouth. She suspects what could be wrong and feels her old, worn face, "oh," she whimpers, falling to her knees with her hands over her face, "it would seem that the spirits have revoked my youth and beauty spell!"

"What does that mean, I mean, like, how old are you?"

She looks up to me in sorrow, "I am one hundred and seventeen years old, young for a witch."

I turn my back on her, shake my head. "This cannot be, I'm a DJ and a DJ cannot go out with a minger, it's the law."

She tries to play the only hand she has, "have you heard beauty is in the eye of the beholder?"

"Yeah," I reply, "I'm a DJ remember, it was a track my Massive Attack wasn't it? DJ Shadow remixed it."

She exhales and turns her head away from me, "How about the story of the ugly duckling?"

"Huh?" Now I think I see where she is going with this, but still I cannot bring myself to accept this outcome. "This isn't like the ugly duckling story though is it? This is the ugly duckling story in reverse, shit!" I walk in circles, trying to get a grip of my anger.

"Beauty is only skin deep is it, what about inner beauty? You still can love me......if you wanted to, if you really liked me...."

A silence filled the air as I thought about all I have done in my life. I have made some bad mistakes, woken up to a few in my time but this goes beyond all reason. I need to be assertive, I cannot tell her lies, this will simply not work while she is so repulsive looking. Maybe I am shallow, maybe I am a chauvinist but I cannot see past this to her inner beauty. I have to tell her the truth, be honest with her and not lead her astray; if I tell her I think it could work I would only be delaying the inevitable. I turn back and look her in the watery eyes, "let's see how things work out shall we?" Damn!

Hand in wrinkly hand we walk back to the High Street, the aftermath of the chaos is all around but the undead have returned to their graves.

There is always plastic surgery I am thinking, trying to make good of a bad thing. We remain quiet though as we pass the butchery Graham comes wandering out of the alley with Kev following, "H...h...hello art f...f...friend, y...y...y...you nart loading up than?"

"Baaa!" went Kevin West.

"T.....t....they garna be ages yet, t...t...they int even started ter prep up art c...c...c...carcases.... I dun't knows where they b...b...be," Graham informs me.

"I think they may be the carcases you were looking at Graham."

"Yer w...w...whart?"

"Did you not hear all the hiatus last night?"

"N...n...n...no, I sleeps loike a lamb I do moi f...f....friend."

"Baaa!" went Kevin.

"Well, I'm taking a few days off I think," I contemplated aloud.

"G....g....good fer ewe, s...s...s...spendin' it with yer granny t...t...too, nice," said Graham.

"No," I corrected him, looking Sally fondly in the eyes, they still have their sparkle, "she is my fiancée," and with that I took hold of her hand again and we wandered off under the pale morning sun. I made my bed....

And that is the end of my story, I will stay with Sally in the village; it's not such a bad place really now all the crazy stuff is well and truly over.

## 20.

Ted Turner wanders to the gate of his field and coos in his cows for milking with professional ease. The cows begin to make their way across the meadow with its plush green pastures. Ted breathes in the fresh country air, and breathes back out with a happy sigh; he loves his life in the countryside, he knows no other.

"Ere, whart be going arn ere tharn?" he questions himself when he sees that one of his cattle lies on its side, inanimate. He leaps over the gate like he was twenty years younger and battles through the mud to where the cow is quiescent. Ted notices that the animal has been cut along the midsection with a certain professional precision, organs have been removed from it cleanly without signs of a struggle or brutality. Ted rubs his eyes and is disturbed from his passage of thoughts by an immense whirling sound hovering overhead.

Ted stares up to the sky directly above his head and is stunned to see a grey oblong disc suspended about thirteen feet above. Coloured lights from its underside guide the bizarre object to the ground where metallic tripod feet protrude from the base and gently caress the pasture.

Ted looks in amazement as a hatchway opens from underneath the object revealing a blinding light from inside the disc and a set of steps fold outward. Ted rubs his chin and shakes his head from side to side as two beings descend the steps. They are about three feet high, skeletal with oversized bald heads. They are green in colour and have large black pearls for eyes. They stand in the field looking around them.

"Ere!" shouted Ted waving a fist at the two aliens, "'Ave ewe been mutilating moi cattle?"

The creatures look embarrassed and slightly ashamed of themselves; they look away while one puts its hands around its back, looking at its feet as it swings its foot about to and fro.

Ted yells "Ewe 'ave 'aven't yer? An' I'll bet yer art yer bin argh ones art been making all them circles in me top field too, ain't yers, squashin' all moi craps darn?!"

Just then a larger alien appears from the hatchway and stares at the red faced humanoid shouting loudly, "Edward Turner?" it bellows in a ghostly deep voice.

"Yeah, whart, ewe warn a photer or sumfink?"

The creature looks confused for a moment and then speaks, "our leader has summoned you. You are to come with us with immediate effect; son of Zuboid."

"Sue who? Listen pal," Ted starts up complaining while the strange creature pulls a zap gun from seemingly nowhere and aims it at the farmer's head, "I darn't be gart no time fer arrrrrttttt............."

Oo-argh, it be yer ol' pal Ted Turner ere. Art be thar end of this bark but thar be more barks by art Worrow bloke, if yer liokes this warn.

Blags it fer free did yer? Yer blardy cheapskate! Thar blardy least ewe cud do nar be ter buy some more, the old fellow's gotta eat dun't ewe know.

Lark art fer these flipping shaggin'ly gard barks:

Thar funny ones:

## The Hargreaves Code

## White Space-Van Man

## Stark Trek: White Space-Van Man 2

## The Perminator

## The Hex Factor

The serious ones:

## KELLY

## One Piece Missing

## Saffron

And if you fancy sampling a variety he writes a pretty neat short story too:

## Tales of Worrow

## Tales of Worrow volume 2

## Selected Poems; (Yeah right, selected from the waste paper bin you mean)

## Before I go please check out "I am not Frazzle."

## Ten short stories,

## Ten awesome authors,

## Ten reviews and counting, all five stars,

## All the proceeds to a charity for children with disabilities and learning difficulties

