

### Eat My Shorts

### Mercifully brief fiction

Copyright 2014 Dean Baker

Published by Dean Baker at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Stuck In Traffic

Always Remember Your Dreams

Dougie's Doins

Immortal Danger

HST Memorial

Jesse's Torment

The Siege

Only Beer can beat depression

The Drifter

The Hotel Cassa Grande

Jenny And Lee

Bandit Country

Removing The Stain

Last Supper

Park Bench Gigolo

Seamus and Finnegan

Her Handwriting

The Tinderbox

The Moose Hunter

The Siege Of White-Castle

Watch Your Step

Mind Your Own Damn Business

The Return To Rooks Hall

Reclining With An Electronic Woman

Wank Olympics

Last Confession

Pride And Lustfulness

The Bully

Cherry With Ice

Miss Clara And Cleetus

The Peephole

The Nail Biter

The Introduction

Time Waits For No Man

The Little Red Dot

That One Moment

About Dean Baker

Other books by Dean Baker

Connect with Dean Baker

Acknowledgements

This book is a collection of my short fiction. Some stories have previously been published online in web-zines. Others are previously unpublished. I leave it to you, the reader, to decide if they should have remained so!

Huge thanks, once again, to my loving wife (and chief editor!) Julie Borcsok, and my parents.

Stuck In Traffic

First published in Blue Almonds Magazine 2005

"Aw, shit,"

Stuck in traffic, the awful midtown traffic. Rachel hated it, more than anything she could think of right now, sat in her idling Chrysler at 8:35am on a grey morning in New York. She was late and this traffic was making her even later. This wasn't the impression she had wanted to make on her first day. It was all his fault.

She'd protested when he'd unilaterally invited himself into her apartment last night.

"I'm tired and drunk and have to be up early in the morning. You're taking advantage," she'd said as he put his foot in the doorway to stop her shutting him out.

She recalled the events of last night as You're so Vain came on the radio.

All the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner, they'd be your partner.

She'd never quite gotten Steve out of her system. It didn't matter how many times he'd cheated on her, if he snapped his fingers she came running.

I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee.

He was just so damn charming, and of course, handsome. She blushed as she thought of all the things he'd said and done the night before. But when she awoke that morning he was gone. He always was. She even wondered for a few seconds if it were a dream.

Suddenly the driver behind tooted his horn and she snapped out of her trance and moved another couple of feet forward as the traffic advanced slowly towards the bridge. Rachel looked forlornly into the rear-view mirror. I look like shit. Bags under her eyes staring back at her, she smiled sarcastically, pushing the mirror away. Enough reminders. Nervous and impatient, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting in line with the rest of the traffic.

The move to psychiatric nursing was supposed to be part of the big change in her life.

Proof she'd moved on from being a doormat for Steve. Now one night with him had jeopardized the whole thing. She had caved in again.

"Damn you Steve!" she said, and pounded the wheel with the palm of her hand.

After another twenty minutes of queuing she finally arrived at the hospital and hastily parked, racing along the corridors to make her appointment with Dr Stephenson and the rest of the inductees. She skidded along the halls, perilously close to toppling over at several stages and cursing her decision to wear the small stylish heels instead of the sensible dowdy flats her mother had bought her. She burst into the room through the large wooden doors that clattered loudly, causing everyone to turn round and stare. She stood there, acutely embarrassed, and offered a gushing apology.

"Thank you for joining us....eventually," Dr Stephenson said, causing an eruption of laughter from the crowd.

"I'm very sorry Dr Stephenson," she blurted out, her face crimson. "I got stuck in traffic,"

"Oh yes the traffic," he said, scratching his head with a pen which he casually slipped into his jacket pocket. "The same traffic everyone else got up early to avoid?" he left the question hanging, which was received by yet more laughter.

Rachel wanted the ground to swallow her up as she took her seat at the back and the doctor resumed his lecture.

"We must try to decode the logic of insanity," the doctor said, adjusting his spectacles. "We must be able to comprehend what causes the human mind to dysfunction. I am now going to take you on a tour of the wards and show you some of the most disturbed individuals we house here. Study closely their habits and symptoms. All will be different, but I believe all have the same central cause for disturbance. Please step this way," he said leading the crowd into the hallway.

Rachel followed the group as they ambled down the brightly lit corridor, Doctor Stephenson continuing to dispense his wisdom to the captive audience.

"Now the first thing you should remember is that a psychology degree cuts no ice with me," Doctor Stephenson said sharply. "A certificate from Harvard is not knowledge. Thirty years of clinical psychiatry experience is knowledge. Now is when you start learning,"

Rachel cringed as the doctors booming, arrogant voice echoed off the walls.

"We have just about every type of psychopath here. Murderers, Schizophrenics, self-harmers..."

The group peered through the small windows of each cell, eyeing the inmates like caged animals.

"Also, as many of you will know, we have Richard Marvin, the infamous Invisible Man housed in this facility. I'm sure you'll all want to see him but at present none of you have the correct security clearance I'm afraid," the doctor said as the group let out a collective groan.

Rachel had read the paper Dr Stephenson had published on Richard Marvin. That paper had made his name in the psychiatric fraternity and Dr Stephenson treated Marvin like his own pet. Demand among the media for access to Marvin was still high and Stephenson's ego had grown fat in his position as custodian of the infamous criminal.

"Here we have a very pathetic individual. A pyromaniac by instinct..."

As the doctor gave his self-important analysis of the patient, Rachel found her mind wandering. Thoughts drifted to Steve and the night before. The way she'd felt when he called, the flush of excitement when he'd arrived at the bar. She couldn't help herself.

Rachel followed at rear of the group, almost on autopilot. And as the party reached the last cell Rachel realised that she'd made no notes. She'd been barely paying attention at all.

Damn you Steve.

"Well group, I hope you have all made copious notes on what you've seen today. These and many more cases will be presented to you each day as part of your work in clinical psychiatric nursing, if you qualify," Dr Stephenson said looking at his watch. It was now five to twelve.

"Now I guess is the time you've all been waiting for, lunch!" he said as a collective giggle rang out amongst the group. "We'll reconvene in the lecture hall at one. Don't be late," he said turning on his heels.

*

"Jesus, can you believe the ego on that guy?" Rachel overheard the woman next to her say as she ate her lunch in the cafeteria.

"I didn't study my ass off to be told that a psychology degree is worthless," the woman added.

Suddenly Rachel's mobile phone beeped as she received a text message.

I'll meet you at work at 5:30pm. We need to talk. S.

She deleted the message with a sigh but despite this she couldn't shake her thoughts off Steve. Why couldn't he just settle down and commit? I'm a damn fine catch! She thought, as her mother had told her a thousand times after Steve had cheated on her yet again. When is he going to realise that we're good together? Rachel sat, elbows on the table supporting her head in her open palms, thinking of the wedding she'd always planned on a beach in Hawaii and the beautiful white wedding dress she lusted after in the shop window at Bloomingdale's.

As Rachel daydreamed, Steve was stood at the counter of the florists just fourteen blocks away looking lost.

"Can I help you?" the assistant asked as he nervously browsed the selections of flowers.

"I need something special," he said. "Something that says I'm sorry, and will you marry me?" he added with a nervous laugh.

"Well, that's a lot so say with just flowers," the florist responded staring into his eyes. "But I think I might have just the thing," she added with a toss of her golden hair.

She was a blonde, tall too, his favourite kind. He knew he had a chance of getting her number if he tried. But now, he felt able to resist. He could only think of Rachel. Was he cured of his roving eye at last?

"Here," she said, handing him the wrapped bouquet. "These should do the trick. That's a hundred and twelve dollars,"

Steve's face dropped.

"I can see it's a while since you bought flowers," she said.

Steve just nodded and pulled out his credit card.

Rachel sat on her plastic seat, chasing her food round the plate with her fork, her mind preoccupied. Suddenly, all about her, plates were noisily picked up and placed on the long white counter. She checked her watch, it said twelve fifty five. Lunch was over. Back in the lecture room Rachel struggled to focus on Dr Stephenson's dull vocalizations. She stared blankly ahead, absent minded.

*

Deep in the heart of the hospitals secure unit, Richard Marvin was pacing in his cell.

"Do it Sullivan," he hissed, as he pressed himself against the cell wall. There was no response. "Do it Sullivan, now's the time. Do it. Just like we talked about,"

A stifled moan escaped from the next cell. Albert Sullivan, a paranoid schizophrenic stood on his bed, sobbing, and reached for the mesh grill in the ceiling behind which was a single light bulb. In his left hand he held a sharpened piece of metal. He was holding it so tightly that blood was dripping from his palm. In the next cell Marvin concentrated his thoughts on the pitiful wretch next door. Sullivan could feel the thoughts pulsing in his brain, making him nauseous. Pouring sweat and using the makeshift screwdriver, he slowly removed the screws and the grill dropped to the blood speckled floor.

Richard Marvin, life inmate, gained his notorious sobriquet from a hysterical press three years earlier amidst a spree of vicious murders. Nobody had ever fully understood how he gained entrance to seven homes without signs of forced entry. Marvin had never talked, even under sodium pentothal. To the public he was an enigma, the Invisible man.

"Do it Sullivan," Marvin hissed, closing his eyes.

Sullivan slowly unscrewed the naked light bulb, dropping it to the floor with a muffled smash as it burned his fingers, blood running down his forearm.

"Do it now Sullivan!"

Sullivan was trembling. He blinked his tear filled eyes and then plunged his fore and index fingers into the exposed socket as a thunderous crack rang out and a blinding light lit up the cell. Sullivan's body convulsed violently and he fell to the floor. In the lecture room Rachel was suddenly roused as the lights dimmed for an instant and the group stirred.

"What was that?" a woman in front of her asked, as the group began to chatter amongst themselves.

"Quiet please," Dr Stephenson said sharply. "Nothing to worry about. Probably just a dip in the power. Let's continue,"

Sullivan lay slumped on the floor of his cell, dead. He'd played his part. Marvin quickly pushed the cell door. It opened, just like he knew it would. Sullivan's suicide had disrupted the electronic locking system just long enough to allow Marvin to slip out of his cell before the backup system took over and the lock mechanism kicked back in. It was just like he'd planned. A glint flashed in Marvin's eyes. He was free. The pillows from his bed were left stuffed under his blanket for when the warden came to check, just like he'd planned. It would be morning before they realised he'd escaped. By then it would be too late. Back in the induction room Dr Stephenson suddenly halted his pontificating as the beeper located on his hip vibrated violently.

"Ah, it appears that I'm required elsewhere for a few minutes. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves," he said before disappearing.

*

Steve approached the hospital steps and skipped up them two at a time like an eager schoolboy. Clutching the expensive blooms tight as he entered the lobby, he looked at his watch anxiously. It was now five fifteen. He eyed the middle-aged receptionist and as she took a phone call, he seized his chance to slip past her desk and enter the halls of the hospital. He had no Idea where he was going, the corridors were like a maze. He wandered aimlessly, soon realising he was lost.

Dr Stephenson cleared the message from his beeper as he navigated the halls towards his destination. He'd been summoned by Howard Rosen, the hospital director. He knocked on the door of Rosen's office before entering. What he saw filled him with horror. There, slumped at the desk was Rosen, his throat had been cut. Before Dr Stephenson could say or do anything, the door locked behind him. He spun round instantly and was confronted with a terrifying sight.

"Hello Dr Stephenson," Marvin said coldly, before powerfully pushing the doctor backwards into the corner of the room. He felt a flush of adrenaline course through his body as he looked deep into the doctor's eyes. Dr Stephenson saw the face of a maniac, and tensing with fear, shrunk backwards feeling behind him with his trembling hands.

"What...What are you doing out of your cell Richard? ...You know this is forbidden," he barked, aggressively, trying to mask his genuine terror. It was a classic tactic that had served him well in the past, but Marvin knew who was in control.

"Shush," Marvin said, raising a thick muscular arm and gently putting a finger to his lips. He reached into his coat and pulled out a long bladed scalpel. It shone in the dark light of the room, like a ray of moonlight. Dr Stephenson gasped for breath, unable to scream, paralysed with fear.

"You spout all kinds of garbage to the press and the trainees, you think you know what makes me tick. You think you're smarter than me. Don't you?" Marvin said in a controlled rage.

"No," the doctor spluttered. "No, please..."

"Liar!" Marvin hissed. "Pathetic, cretinous worm. At least have the courage of your convictions," he goaded the doctor.

Dr Stephenson winced.

"You want to know what makes me tick?" Marvin asked, as Dr Stephenson cowered in the far corner of the room.

"You want to know why I kill. Do you want to understand?" Marvin said.

Dr Stephenson didn't make a sound.

"Do you want to understand?" Marvin said louder this time.

Dr Stephenson was shocked into responding.

"No....no....don't kill me!" he pleaded.

Marvin straightened himself, as if preparing to address a crowd.

"Five years ago I reached a crucial epiphany. In that moment of divine clarity I realized that I must give in to my primeval urges. I must not resist the urge to kill. We are all capable of murder. Even you," he said pointing a long outstretched finger. "Though I doubt you have the courage,"

Dr Stephenson tried to avoid Marvin's gaze, but the tall muscular giant stooped and grabbed his face. Gripping with icy fingers, Marvin stared at the Doctor with steel grey eyes. Stephenson felt them burn like lasers.

"It's the will of nature. It's undeniable," he continued, Dr Stephenson struck spellbound, trapped in Marvin's cold stare.

"I saw a documentary on Chimpanzees. About their habits...Cute, little chimpanzees. They looked so...human...so familiar, like little children. Then the chimps saw a tiny monkey in the trees...They chased it, this small monkey, they were screaming and squawking. Twenty chimps, chasing this little monkey...When they caught it...when they caught it, they tore it apart. These cute...little chimps became...murderers, right in front of my eyes...and I thought my god! The beauty of it. Even the noblest of apes, docile one moment...a perfect...killing machine the next. It was suddenly clear to me. The urge, the urge to kill. Natures command. It should be obeyed. They said I was insane. But I'm not insane. I'm enlightened. Politics, religion, society. Hiding from nature. Nature's laws. Do what thou will shall be the whole of the law," Marvin said, tightening his grip on Stephenson's face and grimacing. His upper body was almost in spasm as the primeval instinct surged through his veins.

The doctor sensed what was approaching and summoned up the very last of his courage. He made a grab for Marvin's right wrist and throat. Dr Stephenson screamed as Marvin's powerful left hand peeled his fingers from his throat like they were putty. He felt the full power of Marvin's exceptional strength. His spirit collapsed totally as Marvin held his limp body like a rag doll. Richard Marvin looked into Dr Stephenson eyes as he pushed him powerfully to the floor and towered over him, a mountain of evil.

"I must kill you. I must obey. Your death will be beautiful,"

The doctor slumped against the wall and sobbed in terror. Light glinted off the long scalpel in Marvin's hand. He looked up, putting his hands up in front of him and let out a short shrill scream.

"Now he sees," Marvin said after he had finished mutilating the body.

He wiped the blood stained weapon on Dr Stephenson's trousers. Then, placing the scalpel on the edge of the sink, he washed his hands as the flowing water in the basin turned pink, then dark crimson. He looked deeply into the mirror, ran a hand through his black, greasy hair and then took a white coat from the coat stand, turned and left through the door, into the busy hospital hallway.

Steve was now totally lost and beginning to lose hope. To his relief as he turned the next corner he could see a figure approaching, the fabric of his white coat swishing louder as he neared.

"Excuse me, I'm lost," Steve apologised. "I'm looking for Rachel Wilson," he added, scratching his head.

"What department is she in?" Marvin enquired.

"Um...she's a psychiatric nurse, just starting today actually," Steve replied.

"Hmm...If she's being inducted she'll be with Dr Stephenson," he added, a spark lighting up his eyes. "They won't finish until 5:30pm, there's a coffee room just through here. You can wait there if you like," he said leading the way. Steve followed.

The pair entered the waiting room. Steve felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning round, he came face to face with the killer.

"Feel free to help yourself to coffee," Marvin said, before turning on his heels and walking away.

Steve sat fiddling with the bouquet of flowers as the minutes ticked by. He checked his watch, it was twenty past five. He was bored, a dozen thoughts entered his head, each causing him greater confusion. Had he made the right decision? Could he really commit to one woman for the rest of his life? Was Rachel the right one for him? Suddenly his phone beeped, a text message received. He delved into his pocket and read the message.

Been thinking about you all afternoon can't wait to see you. Tina xx

Steve made up his mind. He stood up, dumped the bouquet in the waste bin and left.

*

Half an hour later, Rachel checked her watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. The display read five fifty five. Her day now finished she sat anxiously in the lobby waiting for Steve, feeling tired and emotional. The day had really been too much for her. A tear slowly began to trickle down her cheek. She put her head in her hands to stifle the sobs, unable to control her weeping.

"Can I offer you a tissue?" a deep voice said as a Kleenex was held out in front of her by a muscular arm.

"Thank you," Rachel said taking it gingerly as she looked up through her misty eyes to see the handsome doctor.

"Are you ok?" the doctor enquired.

Rachel composed herself and laughed, slightly embarrassed.

"I'm fine, it's just been a long day. It was my induction, I'm a nurse,"

"A newbie eh?" the doctor said with a broad smile. "Well welcome aboard..." he said pausing for Rachel to enlighten him with her name.

"Oh I'm Rachel," she said gently shaking the large outstretched hand of the doctor.

"I'm Doctor Sullivan," Marvin replied. "Are you on your way home?"

"Well I was waiting for someone but it looks like they're not going to show,"

"Oh dear, well I'll walk you to your car. The streets aren't safe at night," he said in a soft voice.

"You're very kind," Rachel said as he held open the door for her and they disappeared into the busy New York streets.

Always Remember Your Dreams

"Careful fool! You'll tip us over!" said Buffalo tail.

I'd not sat in a canoe since I was six years old and it took me several seconds to gain my balance.

"Take this," he said as he shoved a paddle into my hands and I looked about me at the creek. "Come on," he said, playfully splashing me with water. "Or we'll never get across."

I dipped my paddle into the grey, dirty looking water. "It doesn't look like I remembered it," I said.

Back then the water had been so clear that it seemed only arm's length deep, like you could reach down and touch the smooth pebbles on the creek bed or feel the tails of fish tickle you. Now, when I looked over the side, the water was a foggy grey colour, strange things floated on the surface, and you couldn't see the bottom.

"What happened to the water?" I said.

"It's been like this since the white men came with their wagons looking for the yellow metal. Ever since, the creek's been like that, filled with the white man's trash. No fish swim in it now." said Buffalo tail as he reached into the sack cloth of provisions, took out some beef jerky and began to eat.

"It even feels different," I said, gingerly paddling to avoid splashing myself with the filthy water.

"Go and wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored, and you shall be clean." said Buffalo tail, through his mouth full of jerky, mocking Miss Jackson, the hateful Sunday school teacher of our reservation.

I looked out across the unfamiliar, foul smelling water, and recalled the last time I had been here; when as a child the transparent water moving over the pebbles of the creek bed, had been icy cold to my small fingers when I dangled them over the side of the canoe. I remembered playing by the edge of the creek and feeling the pebbles, slick and wet under my feet, the clear water rippling the reflection of the sky, the birds and the trees. Now, when I looked down at the water around the canoe, it reflected nothing but my, blurred, ghostly image. How could they give up the old creek for this dead water? In which even the reflections looked like ghosts? You could smell the foulness as our paddles cut the surface.

I looked to the opposite shore for a place to land, anxious to get across the creek which was now a stranger to me, a body of water that almost seemed to wail in the throes of death and decay.

We paddled in laboured rhythm as the gurgling sound of the oars dipping into the water merged with our own breaths until our paddles skimmed the jagged stones of the bottom and Buffalo tail and I stopped paddling and we came to rest on the shore.

"We crossed the River Jordan, Halleluya!" Buffalo tail sang out and brought me out of my daydream.

We jumped from the canoe and dragged it up the shallow bank, hiding it amongst the bushes.

"Do you think we'll be able to find Uncle Running Bear?" I asked.

"From what my pa said, we can track him by the smell."

"But what about the forest demon?"

Buffalo tail paused and thought. "I'm sure it's just a story the white men tell to keep us away from the forest,"

"I'm not so sure," I said. "Little Moonlight said he'd seen it, and it eats the souls of young children,"

"If you believe Little Moonlight then you are a bigger fool than he is," said Buffalo tail. "Now come on,"

I shrugged and followed Buffalo tail.

Bored of the restrictive reservation, we had left early in the morning, before we would be missed in school, to come to the forest. Buffalo tail had got into some trouble with Miss Jackson and was keen to avoid another licking from the stinging cane, and I'd taken little convincing to follow him as we packed up some provisions and headed for the creek. Little Cloud's Pa had taken me in since my parents had died of the Cholera. We'd not heard of old uncle Running Bear for the past two years when Buffalo tail told me one night that he'd been seen back on the reservation looking tired and weak.

"Pa said that the gangrene in old Uncle Running Bear's foot had come back and that the family had sent him across the creek to live in the forest because the stink was so bad."

"Poor old Uncle Running Bear," I said.

"Pa told us that he thought that Uncle Running Bear might die this time."

Buffalo tail continued up the bank, towards the trees of the forest and I followed, scanning back and forth through the underbrush. It didn't take long for us to run into a small trail that followed the waterline, and we took that toward the west, into the shadowy woods.

"He must live around here somewhere," said Buffalo tail. "He can't move much with that injured foot,"

"So where is he? I hope the forest demon hasn't gotten him,"

"Maybe he's looking for food or plants for medicine?"

"Maybe," I said.

"Quiet!" said Buffalo tail suddenly and held a finger to his lips. "I hear something."

It was a slow, shuffling sound, like an injured Elk or a lame Wolf dragging a back leg.

"I bet it's Uncle Running Bear!" said Buffalo tail, and started up the trail into the woods.

"Wait!" I called after him. "It might be the forest demon!" and I raced after him, scared to follow but more afraid to be alone. Soon Buffalo tail was out of sight and I was aware of the shadows of the tall trees, clawing at my skin like ghosts. A shiver ran down my spine. "Buffalo tail? Where are you?"

I stopped and trained my ear, the drumming of my heart-beat loud in my ears. Then I heard his footfalls to the west and I ran quickly between the trees as the light flickered in the gaps between the branches and the sky, every shadow a potential demon waiting to grab me. I burst through a bush and to my relief found Buffalo tail. He was stood trembling amongst the trees and in the distance was a huge silhouette, massive and black. The terrifying stooped figure of a demon, and it was wailing in some evil tongue that I couldn't understand.

Buffalo tail heard my footsteps behind and turned to see me, wild fear in his eyes.

"Run!" he shouted and I tried to turn but my feet were like huge boulders and refused to move.

"Stop!" the demon said.

Then we heard a loud thud, and a trembling arrow embedded itself in the trunk of a tree to our left. I turned to look at it and saw a flash of movement as the hind of an Elk disappeared into the bushes.

"Foolish kids! What rights have you to disturb my home?"

The dark silhouette shifted, looking momentarily like a giant black monster before coming out of the tree shadows to approach us, grumbling under his breath.

"Uncle Running Bear!" Buffalo tail cried out. "It's me, Buffalo tail!"

"What are you doing up here? And who's with you?"

"It's me, Little Cloud!" I said, relieved we were not about to be eaten by a demon and raced to him.

"Little Cloud? You've grown like a Corn stalk," he said ruffling my hair.

"We came to see you Uncle Running Bear," said Buffalo tail.

"We thought you were the forest demon," I said, noting the smell of his rotten foot.

"Forest demon? There are only the spirits of the animals in these woods. I would have sent one more to the spirit world if you two mischief makers had no disturbed my hunting. Have you brought me anything to eat?"

"Yes Uncle Running Bear," said Buffalo tail, feeling about himself for the bag of provisions but it was not there. "I must have lost it,"

"Foolish children," grumbled Uncle Running Bear. "Well, now you're here, pull that arrow out and follow me."

"Yes Uncle Running Bear," I said as I struggled to pull the arrow out.

Uncle Running Bear limped back deeper into the forest, and Buffalo tail followed, leaving me behind as I struggled with the arrow. The tip had buried itself so far in the bark that I had a fierce struggle to dislodge it. By the time I had wrenched it free, Buffalo tail and Uncle Running Bear were out of sight. I scanned the trail, looking for Uncle Running Bears tracks and saw the marks of his shuffling and run as quickly as I could to find them.

When I caught up, Uncle Running Bear led us to a small cave amongst the trees and motioned us inside.

"Is this where you live Uncle Running Bear?" I asked.

"Yes Little Cloud." he said, gesturing to us to sit. "When I was your age, when the people became a burden and too old to remember their own name, folks would bring them to the mountains and seal them up in caves with just a little opening for food. Every day they'd come and leave food, until they knew the old person was dead."

"That's sad Uncle Running Bear," I said.

The smell of Uncle Running Bear's foot was even more apparent in the confines of the cave and I edged away from him as far as I could.

"Well I'm saving our family the trouble. They won't even have to carry me to the mountains. And maybe the Wolves eat me before I die. Wouldn't that be a shame?" he laughed and began to light a fire.

"You can't die Uncle Running Bear. You're not old," I said.

"Not old? I've lived long enough. Seen enough of the world. I've fought in many battles, loved many women and lived many lives. I've seen the white men come and take our lands and our braves fall under the hooves of their horses and their long knives and thunder sticks. I am tired." he said, suddenly melancholy. By now he'd lit the fire and was warming his hands over it. Despite the stink of Uncle Running Bear's foot, Buffalo tail and I edged closer to share the warmth.

"Now tell me why you came up here? You didn't come up all by yourselves just to visit me, did you?"

"No," said Buffalo tail.

"Did your father send you to bring my body back?"

"No Uncle Running Bear. We, we...we ran away,"

"Run away from that damned reservation? Sitting in one place all the time is what a white

man does. That's no life for our people," he said and fumbled in a cloth bag and pulled out a long pipe. "No, give me the sky and the trees and the birds and the wind and the spirits of my ancestors."

Uncle Running Bear filled the pipe with some tobacco and lit it with a flaming stick from the fire. Soon there was a cloud of smoke in the small cave which made me cough but also helped mask the rancid smell of his foot.

"Is this Yankee pipe weed too harsh for you Little Cloud?" said Uncle Running Bear. "I stole it from a white man who pitched his tepee down by the creek. He was cutting down trees. Got me some of his Whiskey too. I left some bear dung and scraped some footprints right by the tepee and sat in the trees and watched. In the morning he packed up his things in a hell of a hurry!" Uncle Running Bear laughed and slapped his thigh.

He raised the pipe and took another deep drag, savouring the smoke in his lungs before blowing it in a long plume at his foot which he had wrapped in a crude bandage of dry moss and leaves, bound with strips of dried sinew. "Helps cover the smell, huh?"

Though I was too embarrassed to say, I could still smell the rancid odour over the tobacco smoke. Uncle Running Bear gave a slight grimace and reached for the bottle of Whiskey, taking a long swig.

"Yankee white man may have a black soul but his Whiskey is plenty good medicine." he said with a smile.

"How did your foot get hurt Uncle Running Bear?"

"That young braves, is a long story,"

"Pa said you was shot by the poison arrow of the Pawnee," said Buffalo tail.

"Your Pa talks too much and drinks too little."

We nodded dumbly.

"Listen," said Uncle Running Bear. "You two go out into the woods and fetch me my arrows, and I'll tell you the story. It's going to take you a while, and since you brought no food with you, I'll have something ready for you to eat when you get back."

''Yes, Uncle Running Bear," we said.

"Now go fetch those arrows, and bring up some water while you're at it." he threw a leather water bag to Buffalo Tail, and shooed us off. We walked a little way down the trail before he called out, "Yah! Look to the lower branches of the trees. That's where you'll see my arrows. They'll look like the one you took from the tree. If your eyes are good, you should find them,"

"Yes, Uncle Running Bear!" we called back.

When we were out of earshot, Buffalo Tail punched me on the shoulder and said, "Uncle Running Bear is crazy. His foot has made him sick."

"We have to find his arrows."

"It'll be dark soon. We'll never find his darned arrows."

"But he can't hunt without them, and then he'll die."

"Pa says he's halfway to the spirit world anyway. I'm hungry, let's just go home,"

"But Uncle Running Bear says he has food for us,"

"What food? He hasn't got any and he's too sick and drunk to shoot straight anyway. I'm not staying out here in the woods to fetch arrows for a drunk old man." he shoved the water bag into my belly and stalked off down the trail to the creek.

"You're going?" I said. "How will I get across the creek if you take the boat?"

"I'll come back in the morning. You're going to be out here all night looking for his lost arrows."

"But what about Miss Jackson?"

Buffalo Tail ignored my pleas and I watched him disappear into the trees back towards the creek. In a few moments, I could no longer hear the sound of his footfalls, and the woods grew so quiet I remembered the forest demon and began to get scared.

Steeling myself and suspicious of every creak, scraped branch or shadow I searched as silently as I could for those arrows. Suspecting a demon lurking behind every tree I searched until it got so dark I could no longer distinguish colours in the shadows. I was afraid, yet anxious to find the arrows for Uncle Running Bear so that my fear of the dark forest and the demon was outweighed by my will to find those arrows. I struggled through tangles of shrubbery, scratching me painfully, because I thought I had glimpsed a feather on the other side. To my relief I had happened on a place where Uncle Running Bear's aim must have been at its worst, and I found four arrows.

Glad to have completed my mission, I returned to the creek to look for Buffalo Tail but there was no sign of him, just his tracks running to the edge of the creek. The boat was gone.

"My, you've gotten yourself plenty dirty," Uncle Running Bear said when I returned to his cave with the arrows and the water bag. He had added wood to the fire, but my grumbling stomach lurched at the sight of a couple of Crows he had skewered, which were slowly roasting above the flames. But the moment I smelled the cooking meat my stomach clenched with hunger and my mouth filled with saliva.

Uncle Running Bear took the arrows and the water bag with a nod.

"I could only find four arrows Uncle Running Bear."

"A blessed number," Uncle Running Bear said. "The sacred number four, for the four winds, who are the ancestors of our race, and the four celestial rivers watering the terrestrial paradise."

I nodded. "What about the other arrows?"

"Well, you plucked that other arrow from the tree, let's forget that one. Five is not a good number. It sounds like the sign of the snake, which is bad medicine"

He ran each arrow through his fingers, checking to see if the shafts, and their feathers. Satisfied he laid them next to his bow.

"I'm hungry. Here, eat." Uncle Running Bear said and took the two roasted birds from the flames.

I sat at the edge of the fire and took the spitted bird from Uncle Running Bear. I now realized that he had shot and cooked only two birds, and I looked from mine to his.

"What's the matter? You have the smaller one?"

"No, sir. I was just wondering,"

"If both of you had come back? Well, then, I suppose you'd be fighting over the one, huh?" He laughed and tore a piece of meat from the breast of his crow. "Buffalo tail takes after his Pa. He never had patience,'

I ate, too, chewing around the black crow feathers, and the meat tasted magnificent in my intense hunger. My face warmed by the fire, and my stomach rumbling even as I ate, I tore the meat from my bird and sucked the bones until they were dry. When I was done Uncle Running Bear passed me the water bag to wash down the last scraps of crow meat.

"I have not had company at night for many moons," said Uncle Running Bear. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"You promised to tell about your foot," I said.

"Well, there's a story. But everyone's life is a story, isn't it?"

I expected Uncle Running Bear to smoke while he talked, but his foot must have been hurting him plenty so that he took a huge swig from the Whiskey bottle and just closed his eyes, as if to let the firelight warm his eyelids. He sat with his legs crossed, his bad foot on top, and he told the story as I looked into the fire.

"I was coming home from a celebration for Old Chief Grey Bear's fourth wedding. It was past sunset, and they told me to stay the night with them, but I stubbornly refused their hospitality and came over the mountain. They told me not to go that way, warning me of the evil spirits, but I took no heed. It was easy to walk. The moon was out, there was enough light to see the trail. I had feasted well at the celebration and drunk much Whiskey. I wasn't thinking of demons at all when I first saw the light. It was a strange glow in the distance, like a flaming torch in the shadows or camp fire in the woods."

Uncle Running Bear paused and I felt a sudden chill run over me. I shuffled closer to fire, away from the dark shadows of the cave.

"I thought someone was out there, so I called out to him, 'Howisiwapani! Who's out there?' No answer came. Then I thought maybe it was someone who was injured, so I started into the woods to find him.

"I shouldn't have left the trail. But I was drunk and foolish. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the woods, and the light suddenly disappeared, and I was alone in the darkness. I was reaching out around myself so the tree branches wouldn't scratch out my eyes. Then the light flickered again somewhere to my right and floated high amongst the trees. And that's when I knew it was a spirit. I started thinking of all the stories about those who had seen the lights at night and were snared by demons. I started running back toward the trail, but wherever I ran, the light appeared in front of me.

"I lurched blind, in circles. My clothes torn like rags, my arms full of bruises and scratches from the branches of trees. But I kept running, because I could feel the spirit chase me. It was some female spirit, and I knew it would get me. I had heard stories about the spirits of dead virgins hunting unwary men at night and I was afraid.

"I ran and ran, until finally my strength was gone, and I collapsed against a tree. The light came at me then. It grew brighter and brighter until it was a brilliant green, blinding light. A beautiful squaw came out of the light. It was as if a dream. She was dressed in buck-skins with tiny silver bells along the seams of her leggings. She had long black hair and green eyes. She didn't speak but she motioned me to come with her. I stood up and followed her into the light, and then I found myself lying naked on a bed of furs in a wide tepee, with a fire in the centre, spewing green flames. Pale green smoke rose up to the top of the tepee, then the woman held up a shining jewel brighter than the sun. White light was shining everywhere and the beautiful woman threw off her garments, the silver bells tinkling and climbed on top of me, and pushed herself down onto me. That squaw must have been the spirit of a princess, waiting for centuries for a foolish man to come along and release her into the next world. She felt cold, not like a Sioux woman, but somehow I managed to squirt my seed into her, and then everything grew dark again and I lost consciousness. When I woke up the sun was rising. I sat there for a long time, my eyes stung blind to the light. When I finally had the courage to open them, I saw that I was sitting against the tree and there were two little wounds on my foot. Everyone says it was the bite of the Rattle-snake, but that's not true and no medicine man could ever heal it. Sometimes, when I dream I remember just how beautiful everything was. She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and mating with her was heavenly. And that's why I have never mourned the fate of my foot. It was the price I paid, for my foolishness that night, but also for my pleasure and I will bear it until I pass into the spirit world. Now, your little Uncle Grey Cloud didn't tell you that story, did he?"

"No, Uncle Running Bear."

Uncle Running Bear laughed. "Throw some more wood onto the fire and light me my pipe."

I added the wood and lit the pipe and handed it to him. I was glad of the smoke as the rotten smell of Uncle Running Bear's foot was getting more pungent with the heat of the fire. I could see him sitting there, gazing into the fire and thinking his thoughts, breathing deeply, exhaling long plumes of the tobacco smoke, his black eyes glinting in the firelight, as if sat in some kind of trance, talking with his spirits and his dreams.

After some moments he breathed deeply and opened his eyes. When they fell on me he said "Say what's on your mind now, Little Cloud?"

"I was thinking about your bow, Uncle Running Bear."

"What about my bow?"

"An English missionary came to school once. He told us about an outlaw named Robin Hood. He lived in a secret camp in the woods, and his bow was as tall as a man."

"A bow as big as a man?"

''The missionary said it was made from a special tree only found in England. They called them longbows, and they could shoot arrows that could pin a man to a tree."

"Long bows? Hmm." Uncle Running Bear said thoughtfully.

"The missionary said Robin Hood attacked the English chiefs and gave their money to the rest of their tribe."

"The chiefs must have been plenty angry." said Uncle Running Bear.

"They were, they hunted him in the forests but he escaped them many times. When he knew he was about to die, he shot an arrow out of his tepee and told his braves to bury him where it fell."

"I like that story," Uncle Running Bear said after a moment. "This Rowbin Hoo sounds like a fierce brave."

"Yes, sir."

Uncle Running Bear stretched his arms and yawned. He tipped the ashes from his pipe into the fire and then coughed and spat into the flames. "Hmm, this Rowbin Hoo had plenty honour." he said and rose stiffly to his feet, then picked up his bow and one of his precious arrows. I suddenly sensed the dreadful significance as Uncle Running Bear stretched and drew the bow, bending it nearly back on itself against the nocked arrow, the coloured feathers glowing in the fire light. He looked out of the mouth of the cave, directly into the night.

"Little Cloud," he said.

''Yes, Uncle Running Bear?"

"Bury me where this arrow is found." And he let the arrow fly with a hiss of air, and the arrow arched high up into the darkness and disappeared. He lowered the bow and looked at me, his eyes flickering with the light of the fire.

"Swear to me, that when I am dead, you'll find the arrow, and make sure they bury me where it has landed."

I sat silent and confused.

"You swear it?"

"Yes, Uncle Running Bear, I swear." I was suddenly afraid, but then his stern face broke into a wide smile and he sat down by the fire, looking tired and old.

"You should always remember your dreams, Little Cloud," he said. "When you die and move on to the spirit world, you forget your old life and all the wondrous things, just like you forget dreams. What a shame to forget." he said and lay down to sleep.

That night I dreamed many dreams. Of fierce warriors, great battles, beautiful princess squaws and even Robin Hood. I was terribly stiff when I woke in the morning, just before dawn. The fire had burned out in the night and I shivered in the morning chill. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I rolled over to wake Uncle Running Bear and to tell him of my dreams, so that I would not forget but the old man was cold as stone and as still as a fallen tree. Suddenly I was struck with the feeling of warmth, as if Uncle Running Bear's spirit was with me, like a robe of Bear Furs or Beaver pelt and as the first bright rays of the sun came up through the trees I felt the spirit soar into the heavens and heard the whispering on the wind always remember your dreams.

Dougie's Doins

Little Dougie Netherscott trudged down the cold Yorkshire village street of Denby Dale headed for the grocers shop on an errand for his elderly mother. He wore a battered flat cap, ragged cord jacket and trousers and woollen fingerless gloves that barely kept out the cold. He took in a deep breath and blew onto his ice cold fingers which caused a cloud to billow up around his face in the crisp October air.

Little Dougie Netherscott had a rare old life. He hadn't been to school for near on three year and passed his time ferreting about in the woods and fields when he wasn't running errands for his old dear mother. Today he had come for a loaf of bread, some tea and a pound of bacon. His mouth watered at the thought of the bacon, all crisp and smoky and smelling gorgeous. For a short while it took his mind off the cold.

There was a jingle of bells that echoed in the chill morning air as Dougie opened the shopkeeper's door and entered quietly. The shop was full of the usual crowd. Old man Norris's shop served primarily as a commercial establishment but also doubled up as a meeting house for gossip mongers. The mothers would stand for ages chatting and informing their neighbours of any goings on in the village. Dougie was just glad to be out of the cold.

Mrs Wiggins and Mrs Winthorpe were engaged in animated gossiping as Mrs Wiggins youngest, the perpetually hungry Timmy, held on to her dress hem and tried to gain her attention.

"Mam, whats fer tea?"

Dougie edged past them all. He had more important business to attend to. If the rumours were right this would be his lucky day. Little Dougie Netherscott handed his list to Old man Norris who was busy sorting deliveries for his delivery man Dave McGuiness. As usual Dougie took himself to the back of the shop where there were comic books and magazines to read. But Dougie Netherscott had not come to read the Beano or Dandy. If the rumours were true he would see something much more exciting than Desperate Dan.

He could still hear Mrs Wiggins chatting away, intermittently chastising young Timmy.

"Shut up Tim! No Mavis. Thursday is no good at all, cos I gotta go meet Slack Alice up the 'orsemeat shop,"

"No! Not Nutty Slack? Old Nutty Slack Al from Mutton on the Crouch? Pernicious purveyor of nags nuts and brains to the quality? Blimey. Didn't know she were a mate of your'n," said the familiar voice of Mrs Winthorpe.

"Did I say she were a mate? Did I? I'd as soon crochet tripe into gloves as spend time with Alice, but me mother 'as trouble down there, and Alice 'as remedy, or so I'm told, so I've said I'll call in after and pick summat up,"

Dougie walked past the table and the comics, letting his hands stroke over them lightly and then continued further down toward the far back of the shop. Further back, to where he could hear distant voices.

Little Dougie Netherscott crept up to the thick felt curtain at the back of the female fitting room and squinted to spy through the gap. Dougie's heart leapt, the rumour was true. Old Mrs Norris's youngest daughter Zoë was being fitted for a new bra.

Zoë Norris was a year older than Dougie at fourteen, but had developed a rather legendary reputation in the village for having a prodigiously large bosom. What little Dougie saw through the gap in the curtain made him gasp. Zoë, Old Mrs Norris and Zoë's older sister Maureen were all in the changing booth. Dougie was going to get a two for one deal on the Norris sisters today. He couldn't believe his luck. Both girls were stood wearing their normal knee length skirts but from the waist up all they wore were their bra's. Maureen was a little bit on the big side for a sixteen year old but Dougie didn't mind. Mrs Norris busied herself as she took measurements with her tailor's tape measure, the girls stood upright, arms outstretched, and bosoms in clear view.

"Right now girls, I'll just fetch your new bras," She said before whipping the front curtain open and leaving the booth. Now it was just Zoë and Maureen.

Dougie felt lighter than air as he stood peering through the curtain grinning. As soon as their mother was out of earshot Zoë and Maureen began an excited conversation.

"So come on our Zo, tell us about this new boy in class," Maureen said, beginning to unhook her bra whilst nudging Zoë.

The bra dropped to the floor silently. Dougie nearly passed out in shock as soon as he saw Maureen's naked breasts. It was the first time he'd seen a woman naked, except for the Seaside postcard he found with the top-less Mermaid. But Maureen was different. She was real, young, with smooth, wrinkle free pale white skin and full pendulous, swinging breasts.

"Oh Maureen, he's really dreamy. He's got really gorgeous eyes and a floppy front fringe. I think he likes me,"

"Really? How can you tell?"

"Well we've held hands,"

"Is that all? If that's all then he's not that smitten is he?"

Dougie held his breath so that he could hear the girls' whispers more clearly. After a few seconds he was forced to exhale, as silently as he could, secretly wishing he could hold it a lot longer, his eyes fixed on Maureen's breasts. However he could still hear snatches of Mrs Wiggins' conversation at the front of the shop. Mrs Winthorpe had a right gob on her and he found her noise an unwanted distraction.

"So wot's Slack Alice got for your ma's trouble down you know where, then? Nag's nuts? Gristle poultices?" Came the loud Winthorpe drawl.

Dougie doubled his efforts to concentrate and strained his ears to hear Zoë and Maureen's half whispered conversation as his eyes, wide as saucers peered through the curtain.

"We'll he has done other stuff," Zoë said, looking down at the ground bashfully.

"Like what?" Maureen asked, intrigued.

Dougie held his breath again and for a second could hear only his own heart beat going ten to the dozen.

"Well one time he put his hand....you know...." Zoë began.

"Where? Where did he put his hand?" Maureen asked, Dougie's mind asking the same question.

"You know, on me tit..."

"Is that all?"

"He really likes touching them. But he gets all embarrassed. I like him though,"

Dougie just stood staring, hands gripping the curtain tightly, imagining how Zoë's tits would feel. By now Zoë was reaching behind her back with her arms, the moment of truth was approaching. Dougie couldn't hear the bra hooks unfasten, but he could feel it, deep down in his soul. His most urgent, secret desire had been fulfilled. Slowly Zoë pulled the bra away to reveal the most enormous, perfect, joyous breasts he'd ever seen. They put Maureen's into the shade easily, and Zoë two years younger too. They were bobbling, animated, mountains of perfection. The nipples were nearly as big as the teats on a baby's milk bottle. They were the most amazing, wondrous thing that Dougie could ever imagine.

As the two girls stood topless in the booth Zoë began to whisper something else to Maureen but then Mrs Wiggins and Mrs Winthorpe were in the background again and all Dougie could hear was the irritating whine.

"Mind you. I'm partial to a bit of horse gristle meself. So if when you've done with, pick us up a slab, there's a duck,"

Dougie could hear nothing of Zoë's whisperings so his eyes took over from his ears. He could see the goosebumps appearing on her skin and the soft downy hairs on her forearms as she rubbed them to keep warm. Zoë stood examining her body in the full length mirror with nearly as much care as Dougie. She touched her breasts and then cupped them, one in each hand, pushing them together into a cavernous cleavage and looking down on her wonderful creation. They looked like a dead heat in a Zeppelin race. She smiled, proud of what she saw. She loved her breasts. So did Dougie.

"Hurry up 'mam, it's freezing," Called a shivery Maureen.

All the while little Dougie peeked excitedly as Zoë and Maureen stood bare breasted, shivering, their smooth, naked flesh a beacon for lust, their huge, youthful breasts, jiggled with each shiver. Dougie could just about make out Zoë's whispers again as a raised voice came from the front of the shop once more.

"Mind yer business, our Vera, whatever you're calling yerself this week. I don't discuss me mother's doin's wi' just anyone. From what I've 'eard about you, you're partial to more'n horse's gristle. No bloody wonder yer've a grin stapled to yer mug,"

"Now look 'ere, our Mavis. I does NOT want the world to know about my leanings. I never flaunts them in clean company.... unlike some people I could mention,"

The disagreement became more and more heated until old man Norris was forced to intervene, but Dougie was miles away in his own secret pleasure zone.

"Ladies, please. If you want to argue take it outside, not in front of my customers,"

Dougie heard a loud tut from Mrs Wiggins before the jingle of the doorbell as Mrs Wiggins and Mrs Winthorpe disappeared. Dougie could faintly hear Timmy Wiggins, still pestering his mother for food.

"There's nowt fer tea but Bread and scrat ya little beggar!" She shouted at the ravenous child.

Dougie could hear Mrs Norris's footsteps coming back and so decided to make an orderly retreat but he couldn't resist one last peek through the curtain before he left. As his eyes looked on young Zoë Norris as she stood in front of the mirror she looked up and saw his stare reflected. Their eyes locked and Dougie froze in fear and embarrassment like a stunned rabbit. But Zoë Norris just winked at him as her mother threw back the front curtain and handed the girls their new bra's.

Dougie breathed a huge sigh of relief as he collected himself and then gathered his mother's groceries from Mr Norris's counter. He felt like he was floating on air as he left the shop to the noise of the clinking bell, almost giddy, and if the rumours were correct he'd have another treat next week. Word was that Mrs Wiggins youngest daughter Hannah was due for a new bra. Dougie rubbed his hands together at the thought, not even noticing the cold. Nobody ever knew of Dougie's doins, well nobody except Zoë.

Immortal Danger

First published in Descending Darkness magazine 2005

The girl dances close to me, eyes locked into mine, seducing me with her stare and her movements. Slick, sensual movements meant to excite and arouse. The sharp, flickering, swooping lights in the club give subtle disguise to her actions, making her appear almost as a ghost.

She moves in closer, almost close enough for me to feel her breath on my neck, her hands rest on my hips as we embrace and she slowly moves in for the first soft kiss. Her lips are moist and full, gentle pressure on my own as the kiss continues, sweet, soft and sensuous, her hand on the small of my back. The music and the lights no longer register, there is no sound but our heartbeats, joined as one and I see nothing but her, as if caught under a spotlight.

She pulls away and steps back, swaying narrow hips and shaking her hair. She licks her full, blood red lips and raises a curled finger beckoning me. Her lips mouth the words I want you. No words pass between us, only thoughts and desires. The blood is rushing through my veins like a raging river, my heart beat, like a rapid hi-hat drum. I'm driven by desire for what's about to happen. I cannot control it.

I follow the girl through the crowd, the faces around me all melting away until they are just one featureless crowd, the light bouncing off heads and backs and shiny dresses. Away from the dance floor the air is fresher and cooler, like crossing a threshold. No turning back. She turns her head and looks over her shoulder at me. Still leading me by my hand she bites her bottom lip, eyeing me with desire.

We fall into the stall in the men's room, the door bolted securely behind us. She grabs me the instant the bolt shuts and pins me to the wall with a fierce, strong, powerful kiss. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small piece of folded paper. On the porcelain lid of the cistern she arranges two lines of powder and snorts one through a rolled up $20 bill. She rubs her nose, the nostrils red and slightly inflamed, then holds out the bill to me. I snort the second line and my nose feels like ice and my brain suddenly registers the rush.

The girl then kisses me again, roughly, powerfully. That kiss lasts for what seems a thousand years. Time stands still. I'm in another place, another dimension, swept up in a swirling vortex of white light and transported somewhere else, like Dorothy. When I land, I'm back in the stall and the girl is wiping her lips and there's red on the back of her hand and on the corners of her mouth.

Her eyes are locked on mine and the stare says a thousand words to me. All of them mean desire. I move forward to embrace her but she shoves me back against the wall and puts a finger to my lips. I lean against the stall and close my eyes, the feeling rising in me to a crescendo. Still no words escape our lips, communicating through the eyes, the touch, the mind. Her thoughts transmit to me. I want you. Mine echo hers.

When we embrace once more and my heart is beating at an inhuman rate, I brush her hair back and the long slender neck is exposed, veins tantalisingly pronounced below the skin. My desire accelerates and exceeds her carnal yearning. Slowly with a slight tinge of remorse for the loss of another innocent soul, I feed.

It is not our choice, it is our curse. The necessity; the desire for human blood, uncontrollable, beyond compulsion. We are the damned and wretchedly so. We live in the shadows of your world, where we cannot be seen, yet you see us everywhere. In your dreams, your fantasies, your imagi-nations. You are afraid of us and though we pose you a mortal threat, it is us who are in immortal danger of you. One stake, in the right place, and we exist no more. We fear you more than you could ever fear us. Yet we cannot exist without you. Our destinies are tragically intertwined as we embrace and fall, twisting through time. Damned to everlasting existence, with the perpetual torment of gnawing hunger inside. We hide from you, living in fear, yet unable to run from your presence. Always there must be that closeness, that proximity for we must feast and feast often. Always feeling the fear, the immortal danger. Always knowing that this next banquet may be our last. We did not choose this existence, we did not covet it, did not wish it. Yet we are as we were made, as we were created, as we were born. We are truly damned.

HST Memorial

First published by Gonzo Beats magazine 2006

So the Doc finally did it.

Under normal circumstances I might have choked on my cornflakes when reading the headline: Renowned writer commits suicide, on Yahoo this morning. But knowing of Hunter S Thompson, It was no great shock. I always got the feeling he was just the kind of sick bastard to do something like that. Ironically I just finished reading the Rum diary again last Friday...

I think if he were alive and reading the papers today he might even be vaguely embarrassed by the manner of his death. Like most artists he would probably have secretly craved to be shot down by a sniper at the peak of his career, Like Lennon or Kennedy, and become a super legend, rather than suffer the embarrassment of slow decline and age.

He was a champ and an inspiration to me, and many others. But at 67, he was treading water and he knew it. Two years since Kingdom of fear, and with only occasional bursts of activity, mostly for ESPN, I think he realized he'd come to the end of the road.

Initial reports are scant but confirm that a gun was used. Short of hearing that it was a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the back, I doubt anyone will suspect foul play. The only advice I could have for the Pitkin county sheriff's office searching Thompson's home, is to watch out for booby traps.

Maybe this direct action will help preserve the memory of Thompson at his best. Doing it his way. I'm sure a thousand hacks will probably write the headline Gonzo but not forgotten, and for that reason alone I'm sad that he's dead. But another part of me hopes that wherever he's landed, he's somewhere near his heroes and also in spitting distance of his foes. I'm sure if he were presented with that he'd hunch down to stomp on the terra and gnaw on their skulls. Nixon, beware. Wherever you are, he's going to find you and he's going to gnaw on your skull...

Hunter was an original. Many try and live the lifestyle he created, that was christened Gonzo, but they are living that life by choice. Thompson had no choice. It was just the way he was made. And thank goodness he was. It was a fantastic ride at times but now it's over. Now we just have the action replays. In the final analysis he will be remembered as odd, intelligent, canny, vocal and brave. A literary Kamikaze. Or in his own words: 'A high-powered mutant of some kind, never considered for mass production. Too weird to live, too rare to die,'

If there's any justice, and the life of Hunter S Thompson proved beyond doubt that there isn't much of that in this world, but if there are just a few small grains of golden justice left, today all the radio stations will play Mr Tambourine man all day long.

As some kind of eulogy, I guess the most fitting would be the tribute he paid one of his own heroes, Jack Kerouac: 'Four dogs went to the wilderness. Only three came back. Two dogs died from Guinea worm and the other died from you. Hunter S Thompson,'

Jesse's Torment

The old man stood in front of the full length mirror. His eyes looked on his reflection and saw not the figure of an aged, wrinkled old man but a young, rugged, mean looking son of a gun. He smoothed the creases of his thick, grey cotton shirt and trousers, a little looser than they used to be in his prime. He adjusted his collar, then he reached onto the table for the gun belt and fastened it round his waist with fluid movement. He'd done this a thousand times. Though his hands were old and covered in liver spots, his fingers worked the big belt buckle expertly. He then opened the bureau drawer and retrieved a silver object. He studied it and half smiled, before pinning the badge onto his chest without looking down, the motion automatic to him, the five pointed star glistening in the light.

How he wished that Ranger had been on duty that night, eight short months ago when his wife was felled by a mugger's blade in a back alleyway. Fifty years of marriage snuffed out like a candle. All for the sake of a few dollars.

"I should have been there, I should have saved you, Thelma." he whispered to himself, choking back the tears.

The trial was a joke. Too young to be held responsible. The judge's words echoed in his mind like hoof beats.

The funeral was a sombre affair and half the town turned out to pay their respects to Thelma. Still numb, he could hardly believe he was throwing dirt on his own wife's coffin. His childhood sweetheart. It was as if he was stuck in a bad dream. Not even his few remaining buddies could console him.

"It was my fault Bill. She wouldn't have ever been in that alley if I hadn't sent her for my medication,"

"You couldn't have known that Jesse. These kids today, they just don't know right from wrong." said Howard glumly at the wake.

"In the depression we were sending kids to the county jail for stealing bread, and they were starving. These kids murder for fun. It ain't right Bill." said Jesse.

"I know, I know. But it's a different world out there now."

"Right is still right. The kid has to pay."

"There ain't nothing nobody can do, Jesse. You just gotta let it go."

But he couldn't let it go. Those kids had taken everything from him. Without Thelma he had nothing left, nothing except his contacts. The Rangers always look after their own.

"This could get me jailed," said the Lieutenant with some reluctance after Jesse had pleaded with him in his office. "but hell, you're a legend around here, Jesse. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger."

Jesse shook the lieutenant's hand with the firmest grip he could muster. His face didn't betray an iota of emotion, but the handshake spoke volumes. It expressed an eternity of gratitude. He took the slip of paper and left the office. Outside, he caressed it like it was a precious diamond. But it contained something more valuable than all the money in the world. It contained a list of addresses.

As Jesse stood in his bedroom. Taking the hat from the trunk at the foot of the bed and placing it on his head, he stared at himself in the mirror. He could feel the years falling off him, like he was being reborn. The reflection was a figure of authority, of steel, of respectable decency, the law. Just how he used to be, when he was a Texas Ranger. In his day he mixed it with the most feared criminals in the land, real bad asses. But he hadn't been able to save his own wife when some punk kids made for her purse. Only cowards and injuns used knives.

He returned to the trunk and took out a cloth sack. Inside the sack was a pearl handled Colt peacemaker. He held it in his hands, feeling the familiar weight. Placing it on the bureau, he opened the drawer and took out a box of shells. Slowly he loaded the six chambers, the cylinder clicking each time he revolved it. His hands moving smooth as silk, expert, he then holstered the weapon and returned his gaze to the mirror. The old man could see himself as a young, fearsome Texas Ranger, not an aged, infirm old-timer. Like an old movie, he saw himself as he used to be. He could see himself as he was the day he won his commendation, the day of the shootout with Clyde Barrow.

With a stiffened resolve the old ranger fixed his hat, shook out his hands at his sides, let the right rest on his pistol. He could see Thelma in the mirror, emerge from behind and throw her arms around his neck. He could almost feel the soft sweet kiss she'd plant on his cheek each morning before he reported for duty. A lump rose in his throat but he tensed his jaw and locked it away.

"It's nearly over, Thelma. I promise you. You shall be avenged," he prayed, eyes closed, Thelma's face flooding his thoughts. The die was cast. Soon Jesse's torment would be over.

Just as during his Ranger days, he narrowed his eyes and stepped out into the sunshine, prepared to unleash hell. Justice may have been a little late, but it was coming.

The Siege

First published in Blue Almonds Magazine 2005

The large contingent of Fleet Street reporters and police was a welcome sight to Ken, proprietor of the Café De Peckham greasy spoon café. He'd never seen so many people in the café at 2pm in the afternoon. Usually his clientele consisted of a few builders in the morning for fried egg, sausage and beans, a few pensioners for a cup of tea at eleven, then a few office lunchtime regulars. The sight of fourteen hungry and thirsty tabloid hacks and police was manna from heaven. He could smell the money. If only there was a police siege every day. The accounts departments of several newspapers would be dealing with a few extra expense claims today. Ken rubbed his hands with glee.

The gaggle of journalists had been holed up in his café since 11:45am, when the first Police squad arrived and cordoned off the street. These hacks obviously had good contacts.

The armed response unit boys were knocking back the tea and tucking into the bacon sandwiches with gusto as they hid from the bitter November cold in the sanctuary of Ken's café. Ken felt on top of the world.

It wouldn't be long before the TV news crews came in again too. He felt sorry for those poor sods outside in the freezing cold, holding a camera, waiting for something to happen.

The fact was that bugger all had happened since 11:30am when the first shots had been fired. At first Ken thought it was a robbery. The Jewellers on Thorpe Street had been turned over more times than a spit roasted pig. Nobody knew it was a nutter till the police arrived and roped the area off.

The news filtered quite quickly. First the coppers told the fast arriving local reporters, who immediately piled into Kens café to use the phone. Then the regional boys and news crews arrived and jostled for a prime spot before coming inside to get the gossip. They were quite relived that no-one had been killed yet. It meant they hadn't missed it.

It wasn't till about half twelve though that the full story emerged. It was quite hard to imagine. I mean where does a traffic warden get a machine gun?

Ever since then the police had been trying to coax the stupid bugger out of the lettings office three doors down.

The official story was that the guy had been a traffic warden for three years and had been told he wasn't issuing enough tickets. With the new local council targets, he was facing the sack unless he could pull in a hundred and twenty fines a week; a tall order. According to his two colleagues, who arrived soon after it all started, the guy had flipped. He'd become a demon overnight, ticketing disabled drivers, mobility scooters; anything stationary that had wheels got a ticket. They said he

even ticketed a street sweeper!

But this morning something snapped. Apparently he'd seen a car parked in a handicapped space. When his initial approach to the driver to move the car was rebuffed with some choice language, he calmly turned around, went home, and returned with a machine gun. He then proceeded to pepper the thankfully empty vehicle with lead. All hell had broken loose in the street with people plunging into shop doorways for cover. When the police arrived shortly afterwards he ran into the lettings agency and took the staff and one customer hostage.

It's only 2pm and I'm already £400 up. If I'd known this was how wound up traffic wardens can get I'd park in the disabled space every day. Ken thought to himself.

Only Beer can beat depression

First published by Gonzo Beats magazine 2005

As the numbers started coming in on the big screen TV the incessant chatter, whooping and boisterousness in the bar carried on unabated. It made depressing reading to me in my already sullen mood so I did the only thing I could. Open direct negotiations with the bartender to extend my ridiculously large bar tab even further. The results for Ohio had just been announced as too close to call, it was going to be a long night. I could only dig in, maintain composure and hope for a miracle.

I ordered another beer and shot of Old Crow. I'd been drinking all day, anything to numb the pain. Being an election night correspondent is a shitty thing at best, but on a night like this, when the integrity of the nation is at stake, our future prosperity...on a night like this there are no words to describe the utter hopelessness. You can only get very drunk. Ripped to the tits in fact, and enjoy the last hours of freedom, before the hammer comes down and the cops lead you away to the meat wagon.

The bar was packed with press. Greasy local hacks one step up from cab drivers, international correspondents with their suitcases full of stolen Hilton soap, the national reporters polishing their balls in the men's room, they were all there.

It was a savage scene, America's elite. The premier communicators. All with nothing to say and an enormous expense account to say it with.

One whiney New York post pressman hovered noisily, too close to me. I couldn't miss his conversation.

"Kerry is dead and buried, there's no hope. I'm leaving on the first plane to Marekesh,"

I was rattled to my senses.

"You rotten bastard!" I shouted, grabbing him by the throat. "Some of us are stuck here! Some of us have ex-wives and alimony to pay. Some of us can't afford a plane ticket. Do something!"

By this time the bartender had leapt the mahogany and was grabbing my wrists in restraint. The New York post hack was white with shock and was led away by a support group.

"Any more trouble and you're outta here buddy," The bartender scowled. "Goddamn Journos,"

Next to me the Chicago Tribune guy sat deflated on his stool.

"I never even felt this bad about Nixon. We're gonna be a laughing stock. How can we elect a monkey for president? Twice!!" he screamed, throwing his beer bottle against the wall and covering the juke box with glass and foam.

"Hey!" Shouted a Gin drunkard pimping for the Village Voice. "Careful with the Jukebox jerk!"

"Yeah, don't punish the music," I said. "It's all we have left,"

At that moment a guy in a Fed-Ex uniform approached the jukebox and put on Sympathy for the devil.

The Drifter

First published by Gonzo Beats magazine 2005

A lynch mob gathers in cliché town:

The drifter was dragged out of the courthouse into the blazing sun.

"You're an outlaw Josey Wales," the Sheriff said, throwing him down in the dirt.

"Don't call me that. I'm the man with no name," the drifter replied.

"You're a nut," someone shouted.

"You're crazy in the coconut," said someone else.

"What are you? Some kind of frontier psychiatrist?" the drifter asked.

There was no answer.

"There's gold in them there hills, but only for those with true grit, and I'm choc full o that!" the drifter shouted with a hoarse cry.

"I'll pay you to hang him. He's not just a drifter, he's a shootist too. He's the man who shot Liberty Valance," a man said, giving the sheriff a fist full of dollars.

The sheriff asked for a few dollars more.

"Heck," the man said. "For that much I'd expect you paint my wagon!"

"Then scoot on off back to Oklahoma boy," the sheriff said.

Just then a posse of riders tore into town with blazing saddles. They were the searchers and looked like a wild bunch. The deputy stopped them as they approached the drifter.

"Where are your badges?" he asked.

"Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!" they screamed. "We're just here for the hanging,"

The undertaker giggled like a schoolgirl and pulled out his tape measure and started taking the drifters vital statistics. He whistled while he worked. The camp town ladies sing this song do-dah, do-dah. The sheriff went to his office and fetched a noose.

At that moment a lone ranger on horseback slowly trotted into town, his face white as a sheet. Tonto the Indian said his name was Pale rider. A notorious outlaw, he'd done a lot of bad things and was damned to be un-forgiven. The mood of the crowd was tense. They wanted blood and all hell might break loose if they didn't get it.

"Get back you damn savages!" the deputy called out.

Just then a pistol shot rang out. A blonde woman stood holding a smoking gun and a mule by its rope.

"Who you think ya are lady? Annie Oakley? Put the gun down dummy!" the Sheriff shouted.

"You insulted my mule," the lady said, spitting tobacco juice into the dusty ground. "He doesn't like that. You better apologise,"

Everybody got their guns ready.

"There's two kinds of people in this town. The quick and the dead. The quick ain't dead and the dead ain't quick," she said almost in a whisper, a thin cigar gripped between her teeth.

The crowd hushed, expecting a gunfight. All were silent, the good, the bad and the ugly. It was a standoff. The pose with blazing saddles were restless and began to fidget with their pistols. The crowd were nervous of them. They were guns for hire, young guns. The standoff continued. Nothing could be heard but the wind and the drifters breathing.

Suddenly an eagle squawked loud in the sky and the disturbance triggered a shootout. Thirty guns blazed in two seconds and the dusty floor began to soak up the blood. The assembled crowd was dumbstruck with shock and started crossing themselves.

"This is a sign from god!" someone shouted, and while everybody knelt to pray the drifter did escape.

The Hotel Cassa Grande

First published by Gonzo Beats magazine 2005

I very rarely talk about my days in Cuba before the revolution. Those days are long behind me now and so much has changed since then. But when my grandchildren ask if I was ever in fear of my life when the Communists seized power, I say No way. I was only ever in mortal danger once during my time in Cuba, and that was long before the revolution, when I stayed at the Cassa Grande Hotel.

The Cassa Grande hotel was a swinging place of lodging right on the beachfront in Havana. It was always buzzing with vibrant, fun-seeking young people and humming with soft salsa music. I had stayed there on my two previous business trips, expenses be damned, courtesy of the import company who employed me.

One particular day, after a business lunch with my two Cuban assistants, Ramon and Raul, we retired to my room for some rum. The booze soon relaxed my Cuban friends and we quickly began a discussion on local politics.

"Ramon, you and me need to make as much money as we can, we need to be ready to flee if the Communists take over," Raul said, knocking back his third shot of rum and grimacing.

"Those filthy pigs will come for us all," Ramon added. "You gringo's are in no danger, but we Cubans, for us there is no protection," he said pointing at me.

"Quit whining you two," I said. "You're giving me a head-ache. The company pays you well enough, and besides, the Communists wouldn't dare try anything. Do you really think we'd abandon you?"

Ramon and Raul looked at each other and shook their heads.

"No Senor Floyd, we know you will take care of us,"

"Now let's finish our drinks and get ready for some night-life. If you think your days are numbered you might as well grab some fun while you can!" I said, giving Raul a friendly slap on the back. "I'm just going to get some air out on the balcony," I added, as I pulled a large cigar from my top pocket and fumbled for my matches.

The view from the balcony was spectacular. A perfect view outwards of the emerald waters of the Gulf of Mexico. To the left the busy streets could be seen, car horns noisily beeping in the traffic. Directly below was the luxurious pool patio, expensively installed, with a well-stocked bar and sun lounging area. I fixed myself another drink of Rum and ice, as Ramon and Raul watched TV, and returned to the balcony.

I was sipping the ice cool liquid, relaxing, admiring the view, or at least trying to catch a glimpse of the female sunbathers stretched out fourteen floors below. The balcony wall was fairly low so I placed a foot on the balustrade and lent an elbow on my knee as I peered over the housekeepers, as I relaxed with my cigar and Rum. My mind was elsewhere. I certainly didn't remember hearing anyone come in, but I'll remember her face for the rest of my days. It hadn't registered in my brain, when a few moments earlier I'd seen one of the housekeepers, on the balcony opposite, shaking the dust out of a rug. Meanwhile though, I remained oblivious to the agent of death who worked cleaning the room behind me. In her defence, and mine for that matter, she couldn't have known that there were three of us. She would never have guessed in a million years that some juicehead gringo would be out on the balcony in the mid-day sun.

The majority of her work completed she picked up the rug and, probably in a hurry to finish and get on with the next room, barged straight through the French doors holding the rug up in front of her singing.

"Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera,"

She caught me forcefully in the small of the back, a shock that firstly sent me flying over the balcony, and secondly caused me to frantically grab at the first thing that came to hand. I was in basic survival instinct mode.

The first thing she saw was me disappearing over the side.

"Ay, Dios mio, ayudalo! Virgen Santisima, auxilio socorro!" she screamed and lent over the balcony to see.

Fortunately I managed to grab onto the balcony struts, my hands gripping like iron vices. All she could see at first was eight snow-white knuckles as I swayed to and fro, dangling from the balcony. I couldn't speak. I couldn't think. All I could do was grip tightly. Maybe that was best. The brain taking control of the body, and deciding how to best utilize resources. By now she had screamed another three times, and Ramon and Raul had come running. Surely thinking that she'd found a rat, not an American dangling from the balcony.

She turned to meet them as they swept onto the balcony leaning over and seeing my face, now white with fear.

"Oh my! he's killing himself!" Ramon said.

"Your crazy talk of Communists has caused senor Floyd to jump fool!" Raul shouted at his buddy, fierce with anger, his livelihood hanging from the balcony.

I could hear the woman frantically trying to explain what happened in Spanish, her shadow reflected on the white walls as she waved her arms around to illustrate her story.

"Senor, por favor quedese ahi, por favor senor; ay mamacita, que no se caiga!" she bellowed down to me.

Ramon reached down to try and grab me. It was no use. I was hanging at full stretch. They couldn't reach down and grab my arms, and if I had offered up a hand I would have fallen for sure.

"Auxilio, socorro! Por favor, alguien, ayuden que este hombre se cae!" the housekeeper continued to shout.

I looked down at the crowd below. They looked like lazy ants, completely oblivious of the commotion occurring fourteen floors above. By now several other housekeepers had heard the shouting and screaming and come to see what the fuss was about. There must have been about seven people on the balcony by now, all of them ranting in Spanish.

"El senor se resbalo y se cayo por el balcon, pueden ayudarlo, por favor?" Raul explained to them.

"We will not let you die Senor Floyd," Ramon said, returning to me and looking into my bulging eyes. I frantically battled to operate some kind of basic makeshift respiratory system.

"You are right under the pool, if you fall, you will land in the water,"

The stupidity of the statement caused me such indignation that I was forced to respond.

"You're crazy! It's goddamned concrete down there. Get the fire department for Christ sake! I'm gonna die!!"

I honestly felt like I was about to be killed.

"They won't get here in time senor. You won't be able to hold on. Just let go. Trust me," he said.

I could feel my arms suddenly weaken and turn to jelly. The Auto-pilot had been over-ridden and now my mortal frailties took over. I looked down again. It looked like I must have been at least a mile up.

"The concrete's directly below me!" I shouted.

"No senor believe me, it just looks that way. You will land in the pool. Trust me. Just let go,"

I decided to test the theory. I kicked off one of my shoes and watched as it descended. It seemed to take an eternity to fall, before it clattered into the concrete below with a loud crack that echoed up off the building, creating an awful din. Screams rang out from below and people started to look upwards now at the figure that was dangling from a fourteenth floor balcony. They immediately assumed it was a suicide and called the manager.

"The shoe hit the concrete Ramon!" I shouted at him, my voice a mixture of fear and hate.

"Only slightly," he said.

"What the hell do you mean only slightly!!"

"Well it was only a foot or so from the pool senor Floyd. If you swing yourself backwards and forwards and then let go you should make it. Trust me,"

"I'm not a goddamned gymnast!" I shouted.

"Well if you don't try senor you will be dead for sure," Ramon shouted back.

My hands were burning now. I knew I couldn't last much longer. There wasn't any alternative. So with all the grace of a paraplegic gymnastic team, I started to sway backwards and forwards.

The spectators below attempted to add their own brand of encouragement and rhythmically chanted "Salta, salta, salta, salta," Jump, jump, jump, jump...

As I looked down below me I could see movement by the pool as sunbathers evacuated the area below the balcony.

"Don't jump senor!" came a loud voice, which bellowed from a bull-horn below. "Suicide is never the answer!"

It could only be the manager. Obviously he didn't want a suicide on his hands and furthermore a mess on his concrete pool area. The worst kind of publicity. Tough luck. On the furthest outwards arc of my awkward swing I bit the bullet and let go. It sounded like ten thousand screams followed me down and rose up to meet me at once. It happened in slow motion, which I thought, especially at the time, was quite strange. I could feel the gathering momentum charge up my body as I gained an incredible velocity, hitting the water like a bullet, tearing into the pool in a huge explosion of spray. I careened through the water like a knife in butter. Thank god I'd hit the deep end.

All the people around the pool gathered at the edge to see if whatever it was that had hit their pool at roughly eighty-five miles an hour would surface. I felt as though my lungs were about to burst. My legs instinctively kicked for the surface like a mad man. After what seemed like a fortnight I finally broke the surface and gasped for my first breath in almost an entire minute. I struggled for the side of the pool and dragged myself out. Nobody said or did anything. They just looked at me, their jaws agape. The tension was unbearable. I could feel literally a hundred eyes burning me.

"It's ok," I said raising a hand to the crowd and coughing, the awful taste of chlorine in my throat. "I slipped," I added, feeling like some kind of explanation was necessary.

By now Ramon and Raul had raced down the stairs to see if they would be seeking alternative employment.

"Fourteen stories! I don't believe it!" Ramon said in delight as he grabbed my right hand with his left and raised it like a boxing referee awarding me a title bout.

Raul hugged me like I was his lost child, and beamed a broad smile.

"Thank god!" he said, clasping his hands.

With that we all bolted for the lobby and ran all the way upstairs to our room. From now on we'd have to keep a low profile.

"Now fellas," I asked. "What do you say to one more Drink?"

Jenny And Lee

'So I took him round the back of Drury Lane for a knee trembler,' said Maggie as Lee Enfield approached the steps of the boarding house, he saw Jenny laughing with several of the other street prostitutes.

'A real fancy pants Lord eh?' said Jenny.

'He smelt of peppermint, better than the stink of Dockers and Sailors,' Maggie said.

'Not half, there's some that smell half rotted,' said Maude as a sheepish looking man in a cloth cap was led up the steps and into the rooming house by another prostitute.

'Said he was a Lord, so he did,' Maggie continued. 'Had this fancy top hat he was scared about losing. The whole time he had one hand holding on his hat and the other holding his trousers. He paid up and he was gone before five minutes,'

'Nice bit of business that,' said Maude.

'I should say so,' said Maggie. 'Enough for a pint of Gin,'

'Evening ladies,' said Enfield, flashing that charming grin and nodding as he passed them on the steps.

'Evening to you handsome,' said Maggie tipping him a wink. 'Something here take your fancy?' she said swishing her skirts and exposing the flesh of her bare calf.

'I'm afraid I'm dead tired ladies,' he said and as he passed, Maggie poked out her tongue and made a face.

Enfield could still hear them gossiping as he walked through the doors.

'He's a handsome bastard that one,' said Maude. 'My Albert says he has no right to be, the amount of fights he's had,'

'He'll have met his match with you,' said Maggie laughing. 'I wouldn't want to meet you down a dark alley,'

'Maybe not, but there's plenty of fellas who would,' said Maude.

'Sauce pot,' said Maggie. 'But I wouldn't kick him out of bed. Might even let him have a ride for free,'

'Saucy minx,' said Maude. 'But Jenny's the one to give us the scoop on our Lee. He's called on you a couple of times now hasn't he?'

'He never!' said Maggie. 'You lucky cow. How was it? Was he rough? A proper beast? '

'I wouldn't know. He only paid me to help him play cards,' she said, playing with her shawl.

'Cards she says! Oh aye, I've never heard it called that before,'

'Honest, he only wanted me to distract the bloke he was playing,' said Jenny.

'Put him off his game eh? I bet you did that alright,' said Maggie and they all laughed.

As the laughter subsided Maude said 'Coming to the Eagle for few jars Jen?'

'No thanks, I've got a headache,' she said, and pushed past the cackling women.

She almost bumped into Enfield as she burst into the lobby of the boarding house.

'Slow night?' he said.

Jenny nodded her head.

'Have you got enough for somewhere to stay tonight?'

She shook her head.

'Have you eaten?'

'Not since this morning,'

'Here,' said Enfield reaching into his pockets and pulling out some coins. 'Take this down to Moe's, he should have some pies left and there should be enough left over for a bed in the lodging house,'

'I'm not hungry,' she lied, shaking her head.

Enfield shrugged and slipped the coins back in his pocket.

'Thanks again for helping me out the other night,'

'It's no trouble, besides, you paid me,'

'All the same, you did me a turn,'

'It was nothing,'

'Everything alright is it?'

'Yes, I'm fine. I just can't face going back to the lodging house,'

'If there's someone bothering you, I can take care of it for you, you only have to say the word,'

'It's not that,' she said. 'Lee, can I...stay here tonight?' she said, pulling her shawl tighter around her neck.

Enfield hesitated for a second, then saw the look of embarrassment in her eyes.

'I'm sorry, I should go. Pay no mind, I'm just being silly,' she said and turned to leave.

'Nonsense,' said Enfield and grabbed her by the arm. 'You're welcome to stay. The place is no palace but it's better than a doss-house,' he said opening the door and going inside.

Jenny followed, her smile now beaming.

'Besides,' said Enfield. 'You're a mate,'

The smile faded slowly from her lips.

'I think I've got some bread and cold mutton left,' he said as he opened a small cupboard. 'There's a bit of Brandy too if you like?'

Jenny shook her head.

'Well, you get your nose into that,' said Enfield, moving some books out of the way and putting half a loaf and a plate of mutton in front of her. 'And I'll find a blanket,'

When he returned Jenny had made light work of the slightly stale bread and the mutton. She was perusing one of his books, a war journal.

'You deal in stolen books now do you?' she said.

'No Jen, I read e'm. They last a bit longer than Penny dreadfuls,' he said taking the book from her and putting it on a small shelf where his small collection of lead soldiers stood, then lit the small fire which was all that heated the single room.

Jenny wandered over to the window sill and picked up one of the toy soldiers.

'My little brother got caught stealing one of these,' she said as she held the little toy in her hand. 'Dad gave him a hell of a beating. Not for the thieving, you understand, but for the getting caught,'

'Nice feller you old man,' said Enfield.

Jenny then watched as he cut himself a hunk of bread from the loaf and sat himself down on the armchair.

'So how come you're skint? What happened to the two guineas I gave you the other day?' She remained silent. 'You can't have spent it all, not two guineas. Where did you go? Fortnum and Masons?' he said through a mouthful of the bread.

'I gave it to me mum,'

'You did? Well that's a good girl. So why aren't you staying there tonight?'

'There ain't the room,'

'No room? I'd not turn away someone who just subbed me two guineas,'

'She don't approve,' she said sadly.

'Don't approve? Of you being...a street girl?'

'No she don't. Told me my money was dirty and not to darken her door. She took the money all the same,'

'Why did you give it her?'

'Wasn't for her, it was for my brothers 'n sisters. I did it for them. There's seven mouths to feed, and since dad died...'

'I'm sorry Jen,'

'I'm not, he was a bloody drunk, and a gambler. Not even a good one like you Lee. He was always broke. He chucked me out as soon as he could. Mum never said a word. How else was I to support myself on my own?'

Jenny pushed the plate away and stood up, tears rolling down her cheeks.

'What's the matter girl?'

'I don't know, it's just...'

'What is it? You can tell me,'

'Will you...hold me?' she said through sobs and stood in the middle of the room crying like a little lost girl.

Enfield embraced her tenderly and she melted into his arms.

'I'm tired Lee, tired of this life,'

'Hey chin up girl, it can't be all that bad. You'll find your rich patron one day,' he said. 'You'll be on the stage, with a nice home to go back to and a flush husband and maids. Coal on the fire, food in the larder,'

'It seems so far away Lee,' she said.

He lifted her in his arms and laid her down on the bed.

'You can take the bed for the night Jen. Looks like you need it more than I do,' he said and he tucked her under the blankets. 'You've got to believe in yourself. If you don't, nobody else will. Now you get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning,' he said and made to move back to the arm chair.

Jenny held his hand tight. 'Lee, will you stay here with me?'

'Ok,' he said wearily. 'Budge over, don't hog all the bed,'

At that she laughed as he lay down on top of the blankets and Jenny turned and laid her head on his chest, listening to the slow rhythmic beat of his heart. Within a few minutes she was sleeping soundlessly.

*

Enfield woke with a start at the loud tap on the little window. It was morning.

'Don't you pretend to be sleeping Enfield. You know it's rent day. Now don't keep me waiting,'

Enfield rubbed the sleep from his eyes and lifted the head of the still slumbering Jenny from his chest and placed it delicately on the pillow. He then got up from the bed and walked over to the cracked window, pulling back the thick sack cloth curtain that obscured what little light came through. Outside in the chill morning street stood Mr Dunstan, the landlord.

'Ah, there you are. You'd better have that rent money. And don't forget that's two weeks you owe this time,' said Mr Dunstan gesturing with his cane.

Enfield pushed open the creaking window as Mr Dunstan peered inside.

'Hmm, I see you've taken to having guests, and of the female persuasion. I should charge you double for that,'

'Give over Dunstan,' said Enfield, tired and in no mood for the petty and officious landlord.

'Give over? Give over? I let you have a week's rent on account when by rights I could turf you out on your ear and you say give over?'

'I'd like to see you try and turf me out Dunstan,' said Enfield giving the little man a stern look.

'Well...there's no need for...drastic action, that is if the rent is paid,' said Dunstan backtracking, the confidence he'd drawn from his imagined indignation now evaporating like snow in the desert.

Enfield walked over to the armchair and rifled his pockets as the seedy Mr Dunstan stepped closer to the window to peer at the prone figure on the bed, no doubt hoping for a peek of exposed flesh. He jumped back as Enfield turned and came back to the window.

'Here you go,' said Enfield throwing the coins out the window onto the street.

Mr Dunstan scowled and quickly bent over to scrabble on the ground for the loose coins, his hat nearly falling off as he did so.

'There's no need for unpleasantness,' said Mr Dunstan.

'Piss off Dunstan,' said Enfield and shut the window and the curtain.

'Charming,' came the voice of reproach from outside.

As Enfield walked back to the bed, Jenny was yawning and stretching out one arm as she awoke from her slumber.

'Morning,' said Enfield.

'What time is it?' said Jenny, her eyes puffy from sleep.

'Six,'

'Oh Christ, I'd better get moving,' she said, looking embarrassed. 'I didn't mean to impose Lee,'

'It's no imposition. I know you'd do the same for me if I needed it. Do you want some breakfast before you go? You shouldn't start the day on an empty stomach,'

'Thanks, but I'd better be off,' she said, blushing slightly. 'I'm sorry if I was...' she trailed off.

'If you was what?'

'Nothing,' she said, gathering up her things. 'Thanks again Lee,' she said as she opened the door and closed it behind her.

Enfield walked to the window and opened the curtain. He saw Mr Dunstan lurking outside and doff his hat to Jenny.

'Good morning madam,' he said.

'Piss off Dunstan,' she replied, holding her shawl tightly to her chest.

'Charming,' said Mr Dunstan with a look of astonishment.

Bandit Country

Northern Ireland 1987:

Corporal Saunders shifted the gears of the army land-rover as he reduced speed to negotiate a speed bump. He could see little through the small slit in the frontal armor plating of the windscreen, but could hear the jeers of the Catholic residents that lined the street and the occasional Pling of stones thrown by children. Corporal Saunders hated the patrols.

They left the town and the jeering residents behind as they advanced onwards into the countryside of Crossmaglen. The road deteriorated the further they advanced. This was bandit country, no road maintenance had taken place for fifty years, the landscape barren and desolate.

"Shit." Saunders cursed as the tire deflated quickly.

"Flat tire Corp?" Adams enquired.

Corporal Saunders pulled over to the side of the dirt road and stopped the Land-rover. He issued a deep, frustrated sigh, silently cursing the heat, the provos, and the whole damn country. Slowly with grudging resignation he unfastened his seat-belt.

"I guess I'm changing the bloody tire then."

The cool breeze gushed in through the open door and washed over Corporal Saunders face, refreshing him as the rest of the passengers let out a relieved sigh.

"Thank god for that." Private Mike Williams said, shielding his eyes from the in-rushing light that now flooded the inside of the once dark vehicle.

"I'll give you a hand Sir." Private Jim Adams said, jumping out of the Land-Rover and following the Corporal outside.

"Brown nose." Williams jeered.

"Leave the door open will you Jim," Jones said in his broad Welsh accent.

"There's a good chap."

Jim Adams leant back into the vehicle through the door and grabbed the wheel brace from its mounting, leaving the door open as instructed. Private Jones scooted from the back of the Land-rover, over the passenger seat and into the driver's seat.

"What are you doing Alec?" Adams asked.

"Just checking the radio." Jones said, bouncing about in the driver's seat and playing with the steering wheel like a child.

Outside Corporal Saunders was removing the steel cover of the spare wheel that hung on the back of the grey vehicle.

"Would have to happen now of all times. Supposed to be phoning the wife this evening." The Corporal said.

"Yeah I know, my missus worries as well. Can't change her mind." Adams replied.

Suddenly a loud rifle shot shattered both the silence and Corporal Saunders head, the bullet entering through his right cheek and throwing him backwards with violent force.

"Fuck!" Adams screamed as a second terrifying shot smashed into Private Jones's chest, causing him to emit a piercing scream from inside the vehicle.

Adams hit the floor and rolled under the vehicle, his training taking control, pulse racing. Inside the vehicle above him he could hear Private Jones still screaming.

"Jones!" Jim heard Williams shout from inside.

"What the fuck! Did anybody see anything?" Adams shouted from beneath the vehicle.

"Fucking sniper!" Burns roared in a mixture of horror and disbelief. "It's an ambush."

"Jim! Jim!" Williams shouted, unsure of the situation.

Another loud shot cracked, crashing through the window of the side door.

"Shit!" Adams cursed, flinching under the cover of the Land-rover. He could see Corporal Saunders body laying on ground, lifeless, blood pouring onto the dirt road.

"I'm ok Scotch," He shouted back. "But the Corp's dead."

Another thunderous roar rang out. Jones screamed once more as a red hot rifle round tore into his right thigh.

"Arrrggghhh!" Jones shrieked.

"What the fuck is happening Jim?" Williams shouted, his voice betraying his terror. "Can you see him? Can you see anything?"

"I can't see shit Mike," Adams said, his face pressed hard into the dirt, straining to see from under the vehicle. He shifted towards the light to try to gain a better view, the sunlight blinding him. Suddenly the dirt just in front of his eyes exploded, sending debris in all directions.

"Fuck!" Jim cursed, flinching again. "I see a muzzle flash, he's up the hill."

"We've got to get some backup Jim. Jones. Jones." Williams called.

Jones was slumped over the steering wheel, nearly unconscious from shock and blood loss.

"Jones," Williams whispered. "Jones, can you hear me?"

Jones let out a gargled response. " Yes ."

"Jones, can you reach the radio?" Williams whispered. Jones didn't move.

"Jones!" Williams whispered, louder this time.

"I...I...think so." Jones struggled, his breathing labored.

"Jones, you've got to click the handset. We need to get help."

"What's happening?" Adams called.

Jones slowly moved his trembling arm towards the radio set to his right. The resulting shot took off his arm at the elbow, spraying blood all over the dashboard and windscreen.

"Christ!" Burns screamed, jumping through shock.

"What happened?" Jim shouted, feeling more and more alarmed, not knowing what was happening above him.

"It's Jones, Jesus Christ!" Williams cried. "We've got to get him in the back."

"No!" Burns said coolly. That's just what the sniper wants, another target."

"We can't leave him there," Williams shouted at Burns. "He'll die."

"We can't risk it. I've seen this before, they want to take us, one at a time."

"Fuck that, I'm going to get him." Williams said and attempted to get up from the bench. Burns grabbed him powerfully by the shoulders and forced him back into his seat, looking deeply into his eyes.

"Sit the fuck down OK. We'll get him out of this. Just trust me Mike." Burns said, a never before heard authority in his voice.

"We've got to get out of here!" Mike grunted. "They could be getting ready to rush the vehicle. We have to get out of here. It's an ambush."

"Shut up Mike. Let's think."

"They could be coming right now!" Williams shouted, acutely aware that they were trapped in a metal box.

"No Mike, if they were going to they'd have done it before now. I think there's only one sniper." Burns Rasped.

"Scotch," Adams whispered from beneath the Land-rover, shifting his position. Another explosion of earth scattered in front of him, once again reminded of the mortal danger he was in. "Scotch I've got a plan."

"Aye what's that?" Burns whispered curtly.

"We're on our own, we're not going to get out of here unless we can get the vehicle moving."

"How are we going to do that?" Burns asked. Searching his mind for a solution. "The first person to try and jump in the front is going to get a round in the head."

"We need to do it fast and we need to do it with co-ordination. Now listen." Adams said, peering desperately upwards towards the green covered hill, his mind racing.

"I'm going to roll out from under here and hide on the other side. Mike, when I say, you start firing out the window. When you open up I'll rip open the other door and pull Jones out. Scotch you come out the back door and try and keep the bastards head down. Mike, when Scotch starts shooting you shut the other door and then start the engine. If we get that far we drive the fuck out of here ok?"

"Ok." Burns and Williams agreed in unison.

There was a tense calm. No shots had been fired in nearly a minute. All that could be heard was the men's breathing. Jim Adams' mind was racing and sweat was pouring from his brow. The adrenaline was pumping and he tried desperately to calm himself and focus.

"Mike, get ready. I want a quick burst...... now!"

Williams stuck the muzzle of his SA80 through the open door and squeezed the trigger, letting an un-aimed burst spray the distant country side. As he did Adams rolled out from under the vehicle and slammed the open door as a round smacked into the side of the Land Rover, just to his left, where Williams' gun had been, seconds before.

Adams raced to hide behind the vehicle but not before a bullet stung his calf and he stumbled to the ground. The pain coursed through his leg and he clutched at it before trying to crawl to safety. As he did so a bullet thudded into the ground to the right of his head.

"Jim! What's happening?" Burns shouted.

"I've coped one Scotch, leave me. Get out of here."

"Fuck that Jim. There's only one sniper up there. We'll have that feinian bastard! Come on Mike." Burns said as he and Williams jumped out of the other door and crouched behind the Land Rover, their rifles cocked and ready.

Burns was immediately felled by a bullet that came from behind him.

"Fuck!" Williams screamed as he dived for cover in a ditch by the road.

"Jim? Are you alive?" He shouted.

"Yeah. Where's Scotch?"

"He's gone. There's more than one sniper."

"Fuck."

"Hold on. I think someone's coming."

Adams could see nothing lying prone on the floor. The first thing he heard was Williams rifle fire. Three quick rounds. Then a pistol shot, replied to by three more rounds from Williams. There was a moment of silence before Williams fired again, his shots returned by the unknown approaching figure. There was one more shot, before Adams heard Williams cry out in pain, obviously hit. Now all Adams could hear was his own breathing once more.

After a few moments he could hear the gunman approach. Slow steps that crunched gravel underfoot. From his prone position looking under the Vehicle in front of him on he could see a pair of boots pass by the Land Rover. He then heard another three shots. Williams lived no more. He then saw the boots approach him as he lay defenseless on the ground. Adams looked up to see tall figure casting a shadow over him, shielding him from the bright sun. A blonde haired lad, no older than 16 or 17.

"Saiorse." He said. Freedom.

The masked man sensed Jim's terror. Putting the revolver to Jim's head, he pulled back the hammer and then pulled the trigger. There was a dull click, and the masked man laughed a loud, piercing laugh before turning and walking away.

Jim Adams lay motionless in front of the Land Rover, paralyzed with shock. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before he gathered the courage to crawl to the vehicle and call in an SOS on the radio.

Within ten minutes a detachment of riflemen arrived to secure the position.

"Fucking savages....." A private said in shock, the sight of Jones's body causing him to retch.

The bodies of Saunders, Burns, Williams and Jones were zipped up in green canvas bags and carried aboard the helicopter. The two young medics struggling with the dead weight, detached from the emotion of the scene, unable to comprehend the horrors that had recently unfolded. Jim Adams envied them.

The medics soon returned and replaced the fluid drip attached to Jim's arm.

"Ok, let's shift him." The youngest medic said.

Jim Adams lay on the stretcher, physically and emotionally shattered as he was carried onto the helicopter, its rotor blades causing a wash of air all around.

"You ok mate?" The medic asked.

Jim just stared out of the chopper's doors at the grass outside as it swirled in the maelstrom of rotor wash as the aircraft slowly ascended. Jim Adams closed his eyes, relief washing over him. At last he knew he was safe.

Removing The Stain

First published by New Camp Horror magazine 2005

The phone rang loudly, echoing with an irritating shrill. A hand fumbled for the receiver and the call was answered with a sleepy huff.

"Phillips, what is it?"

He struggled to listen to the voice on the other end of the line, but suddenly something jolted him to his senses. Something that was said shook his mind awake.

"Ok, I'm on the way down," he said.

At the station Louis Grant, newly transferred to homicide, was scratching his head as he stared through a two way mirror at a young blonde woman who sat on a chair. The girl's stare was fixed to floor and she made no movement except for a slow rocking.

"Is the girl still catatonic Lou?" the night sergeant asked as he held a cup of coffee, staring through the mirror.

"Can't get nothing out of the bitch. I'm no interrogator. I only just transferred. I did the textbook stuff, but this ain't nothing like robbery. I'm used to trying to get witnesses to shut up. This one hasn't said a fucking word. I got better things to do at 4am that be ignored by a fruit loop. Dick Phillips can take over, he's the senior,"

"Dick Phillips? Man I thought he'd retired?"

"No way. His old lady cleaned him out in the divorce. That fat jerk will still be working homicide when I'm commissioner," Grant laughed.

"No doubt," the sergeant said, taking a sip of coffee and ambling back down the corridor.

Phillips got out of bed, part of him wishing he'd never answered the phone. He really needed his sleep, but something Grant had told him troubled him. Something terrible had happened. As Phillips drove the midnight streets he wondered how much longer he could stand the job. All he dealt with, day after day, was misery, despair and horror. Phillips pulled up opposite the station with a heavy heart, and tapped out a lucky strike from the carton in the glove box. He smoked it down to the filter before he flicked it out the window and resignedly crossed the street. He was greeted in the hall by his young rookie partner.

"Jesus Dick, you're wheezing like a ninety year old. You wanna get yourself to the gym buddy,"

The rookie was right. He was out of shape. A simple jog across the street shouldn't have made him puff like this. He was only in his early fifties.

"You are not gonna believe the shit you're about to hear," Grant laughed as the two men headed down the grungy, dimly-lit corridor to the interrogation rooms.

"I know it sounds grim," said Phillips. "I gather this girl ain't no princess,"

"Not exactly mother of the year material," Grant smirked.

To him it was all a game, a big joke. He never seemed to show any compassionate response to the horrific side of the job.

"Fact is we can't get squat out of her," Grant said leaning against the door to the interview room nonchalantly.

"Hmm," Phillips murmured, scratching his stubbly unshaven chin as he scanned the report.

"I mean, what makes a woman kill her own baby?" Grant asked, scratching paint from the doorframe.

"Maybe it was an accident?"

"Yeah right Dick," Grant snorted, slapping Phillips on the back in an irritating jokey fashion. "Maybe she got confused at meal time. That's a classic old man,"

Phillips peered into the interview room through the two way mirror and stared at the girl. She was a petite young woman in her early twenties. Beautiful, flawless skin, enormous jade green eyes, and long golden hair. She looked so fragile, like a china doll. But her natural beauty was juxtaposed by the shameless, appalling nature of the charges against her. Phillips lingered outside the room, scanning the report for any further details that caught his eye, but none of it matched up to the profile.

"I can't see any previous history in this report at all. Have you had her checked by a doctor? What about medical records? Has she been treated for Munchausen's?"

"We got nothing. She's got no file. If she ever saw a doctor it wasn't recorded. Let me know when you're ready," said Grant. "I've gotten all I can out of her, which is zip. Maybe you can work that Dick Phillips magic and I can finally get home? You might not have an old lady, but I sure as hell do,"

Phillips flipped through the pages of the report until a set of photographs tumbled out. What he saw sickened him. The corpse of a small baby, with horrific burns all over its tiny body. Phillips took a deep breath and then entered the room. The woman just sat rocking backwards and forwards on the chair as the police inspector stared at her.

"Hello. I'm detective Phillips," he smiled, sitting down and setting the file on the desk. The woman didn't change expression.

"I gather you've been speaking to my colleague Detective Grant. Can I ask your name?"

There was no response, only the sound of the chair creaking as she rocked slowly.

"Look we know what happened with your baby. What we need to know is why you did it so we can try and deal with this situation. I'm trying to help you here. So can we start with your name?"

Phillips waited for an answer. But it never came. He switched his gaze back to the file. It was virtually bare. The only information they had was what they found at the scene. The neighbours had called the cops when the screaming was at its worst. But nobody could say anything about who the woman was or where she came from.

"Look, sooner or later you're going to have to talk to someone. If not me

then the judge when they try you. Do you want to die? I don't believe that anybody in their right mind would deliberately harm their own child. If you don't help me, I can't help you,"

There was a long pause, then suddenly a whisper came from the woman's thin pursed lips. It was so quiet Phillips almost missed it.

"Baby was dirty. Boil everything, everything must be clean..,"

"What?" Phillips asked, edging closer to the woman. "What did you say?"

The woman gave no response. Her mouth clamped shut, like her jaw had been wired. Her eyes were glazed over as she rocked back and forth. Then there was a knock at the door and Grant arrived with three coffees.

"Has she given her name yet?" he asked as he handed Phillips his coffee.

Phillips looked at the steam rising off the cup and imagined the screams of the baby. He put down the steaming cup, his stomach churning.

"She hasn't said a goddamned word," he said with a sigh.

"Told you she wasn't much of a talker. When I told her she had the right to remain silent I didn't think she'd take it so seriously," Grant said with an arrogant laugh.

Phillips felt the bile rise even more.

"You want this?" he asked the girl with a grin as he held the hot steaming coffee in front of her unflinching eyes before setting it down next to her.

"She's not gonna give us anything Grant. Put Grisham in records on it. Take her sheet and the mug shots," Phillips said handing over the file.

"Sure thing Dick," he said, closing the door behind him.

Phillips just sat watching the woman. Why won't you talk?

*

Grant handed over the file to Grisham who sat at his computer terminal. He was a bulky man with grey hair and a huge beard, and he wore large framed glasses which made him look like a school librarian.

"We got a real nut ball this time Grish," Grant said with a smile. "You won't believe this. Boiled her own baby to death,"

"My god!" Grisham said, honestly shocked.

"She boiled it in a pot like Glenn Close. Unbelievable. We can't get a name out of her. I think she's mute or something. Can you run her through the system?"

"Sure thing," Grisham said, as he took the file and began running the data through the computer.

Soon he hit upon a match in the files.

"Christ," Grisham said.

"What is it?" Grant asked, intrigued.

"This girl was at Waco. She was a branch dividian. Got out just before the place went to hell,"

*

Outside the interview room Phillips stared at the woman through the glass unable to penetrate her silence. Unable to see the images that played in her mind. The brainwashing, the strict rules, the orgies, worst of all. Replayed over and over again. Then the nervous breakdown, the excessive washing, scrubbing. The compulsion. The shame. The desire to feel clean. To be free of the stain.

Her mind replayed them in her head over and over, the images prompted by the questioning. She couldn't stop the flow of memories. The scene slowly unfolded silently like and old home movie. The baby, crying and distressed; the stench of the unchanged diaper, the vomit over its clothes. Walking to the stove and switching on the gas underneath a large pot full of water. Slowly peeling the filth encrusted clothes from its wriggling body until it lay naked, writhing in its own dirt. Holding up the soiled clothes at arm's length, the only way to kill the germs by boiling them. Everything must be sterile. Then carefully placing the baby's clothes in a plastic bag and setting it down on the floor. The pot on the stove bubbling as the water reached boiling point, then picking up the shrieking baby with her gloved hands.

"They won't get my baby. My baby won't be dirty,"

The steam rising in wisps from the boiling pot, the baby's cries ringing louder and louder. Slowly lowering the child into the water, legs first, shrieks tearing from its tiny throat.

"All better," she says as the baby's cries cease.

Grant approached detective Phillips and handed him a computer printout whilst eating a donut.

"Anne Evans," He mumbled through a mouthful of donut. "She's one of them Waco religious freaks,"

"It doesn't surprise me," Phillips said, sipping his coffee. "God knows what she's been through. I don't think she's gonna talk to us," he added as the woman continued to rock backwards and forwards.

"Any Idea why she did it?" Grant asked.

"It beats the hell out of me. Nobody really knows what went on in that cult. Something must have driven her to boil her own baby. Whatever it was she's gonna need a shit-load of shrinks to figure it out. I'm not a damn doctor, I think she needs a psychiatric ward rather than a police cell. Poor girl,"

"Screw her. I'll make the arrangements. Get this sicko off our hands," Grant said, looking at the woman with contempt, before shaking his head and heading down the hall.

Phillips just watched the woman continue to stare ahead blankly, rocking to and fro.

Last Supper

It was a hot night in Bethlehem as Jesus and his friends sat around a plain wooden table in the most swinging joint in town. The table was laden with a huge feast. The owner had had a feeling of intense joy ever since he took the booking two weeks before. Jesus of Nazareth, party of thirteen, full menu twenty shekels a head. It was the run up to Easter so most people were fasting for lent and business was slow at the Bethlehem Tavern and Grill. The dinner party was an extravagant affair; there was chicken, pork, beef, Lobster, pate, a real mother of a blow-out. He hadn't had a party this big since Hymie Goldblatt's bar mitzvah. The tavern keeper sang as he laid the table, thinking of the lovely profit.

As Jesus and his friends sat at the table, eating heartily, drinking deeply and making merry, the group clapped and cheered as a troupe of dancing girls took to the small stage.

'Shake it baby!' said Thomas, raising his wine goblet in the air.

'Here's to you holy sister!' Matthew called, raising his. 'And here's to the overthrow of the repressive, fascist, Roman tyranny in Bethlehem, Galilee and er... hereabouts,'

'Oy!' the rest of the group shouted in unison.

A tall, dark, leggy dancing girl approached the table wearing a flimsy gown.

'Is there a Jesus here?' she asked playfully.

Judas slapped Jesus on the back roaring with laughter, wine dribbling down his stubbly chin and onto his cream gown. 'Here's the man you seek!' he said pointing to Jesus.

The girl fixed Jesus in her gaze and slowly approached; hips and shoulders moving seductively. As she neared Jesus she gave a shrug and the flimsy gown dropped to her feet. She feigned an embarrassed 'Oops!' and put a delicate finger to her chin, then stepped forward and addressed Jesus.

'What's the special occasion big boy?' she asked playfully, placing her hands on the edge of the table and leaning down towards the still seated Jesus. His eyes locked onto her firm breasts.

'Off to the big house tomorrow,' said Jesus with a cheeky smile.

'Prison? Then no doubt you'll not see a woman for a long time. Perhaps I should give you something to remember?' she said and began to perform a dance so indecent and obscene that the group could do little but watch in amazed awe as the girl and her accomplices broke more taboos and sacred commandments than Jesus could name.

When the dance was over and the girls were sweating and panting from their efforts and the snakes they had performed with had been put back in their baskets the group clapped and whooped and cheered and the girls bid them a good night and exited the Tavern.

The feast resumed in earnest and Jesus reflected what a great night it had been so far, his last night of freedom.

'It's such a shame to be going to prison. I shall miss all the fine things the world has to offer,'

'I know, the law is a pain in the balls. What was it? Money laundering?' John asked as he drained the last from his goblet and bit into an apple.

'Tax evasion,' Jesus corrected.

'Tax evasion?' John repeated. 'And the son of god isn't immune to tax? You'd think they'd cut the spawn of the almighty a little slack wouldn't you?'

'Obviously not,' said Jesus resignedly. 'Income from spreading the word of god, charitable donations and the proceeds from leper curing are all taken into account. Pass the bread,' Jesus responded with a sigh.

As the night drew late and the rest of the taverns guests had left, Jesus and party were still laughing riotously and drinking heavily and telling bawdy tales of preachers and the unholy women who plied their trade by the banks of the river Jordan. Anxious to close up, yet afraid of offending his highly inebriated guests the Tavern keeper timidly approached the table. The last of the wine had been drunk and now only the potent local Hebrew spirit was left.

'Tastes like viper piss!' Mark said, spitting out a mouthful of the detested liquid.......

*

"What the fuck is this?" the editor said to me angrily, flouncing up to my desk and thrusting a piece of paper under my nose.

I studied it for a second.

"My story?" I proffered.

"Don't get smart with me. I asked for two thousand words on the last supper. You give me this...this...tripe," he said, purple with rage and barely suppressing an urge to throttle me.

"That's what I wrote. The last supper,"

"The last supper? The last meal Jesus Christ our lord shared with his disciples, where he was betrayed by Judas which led to the crucifixion?"

"You read it then?"

"Where in the name of god did you get the balls to submit something like this to my magazine?"

"You don't like it?"

"Where in the bible does it say Jesus Christ was convicted of tax evasion?"

"It doesn't say he wasn't,"

"Don't get cheeky,"

"What about a bit of artistic licence?"

"Listen I'm no fundamentalist but if I run a story about a drunk, tax evading Christ we'll get complaints. I mean, how can you have a last supper with strippers?"

"If you were being put away for a ten stretch you'd want a few strippers on your last night before lock up,"

"Do you want to be living on unemployment benefits? I want two thousand words on the last supper, I want insightful, honest, FACTUAL words, with no boozing, no strippers, no hookers and no blow up sheep, on my desk in four hours or you won't work in this town again.

Understood?"

"Yes boss," I said with a fake smile, watching the lard arse waddle out of the office and back to his desk. "Philistine," I muttered, once he was safely out of earshot.

Park Bench Gigolo

First Published in Skive Magazine 2005

He sat on the rough wooden bench staring at the ducks in the pond. Craig had been doing this every day for a week now, every day since he'd been fired from his job. The day after he lost his job his fiancée, Rachel, had dumped him for an insurance salesman called Charles. That had hurt the worst. Now Craig was without work, without means to pay his bills and most importantly, without a fiancée. His rent was paid up till the end of the week and after that, he'd be homeless. He didn't even have enough money to get absolutely stinking drunk. As he sat staring at the pond, he felt nothing but despair.

The old lady sat down next to him without a word. She leant down and scrabbled in her handbag for something. Her hand emerged moments later with a toffee, which she expertly removed from its plastic wrapper, and popped into her mouth. She then carefully folded the wrapper and put it in her pocket, resisting the urge to litter as is the way of old people. Slowly, quietly, the old lady began to sob.

'Oh Bert, I miss you so much,' she whispered beneath the veil of tears.

At first Craig was slightly irritated by her tears, he was trying to brood. But after a few moments the sobs started to tug at his heart strings and he turned to the lady to enquire what was wrong.

'Oh it's nothing, pay no attention to me. I'm just a silly old woman,'

Craig fumbled in his pocket for a tissue and handed it to the old lady.

'Thanks,' she said with a smile.

Her face was old and wrinkled and lined by age and weather. Her skin looked like elephant hide. Her eyes were watery dull in colour, almost faded through time, yet they still had an intangible sparkle to them, some kind of essence.

'Three years ago today I lost my husband. We used to come here every day,'

'I'm sorry,' Craig said, genuinely, he'd come to know loss all too well.

'I've been so lonely these past three years. I think of my dear Bert every waking moment. In the morning when I wake and he's not there, when I make breakfast or lunch or tea. Most of all, at night. I miss him most of all at night when there's nobody to hold me, to make me feel secure, to make me feel like a woman,'

Craig gulped slightly at the last sentence, slightly embarrassed in the way most English men are at the slightest mention of sex in public conversation. His eyes were immediately drawn to his feet. He concentrated on them intensely, inspecting them and analysing every possible detail. Then when he'd done that he shifted his gaze slightly to the right and studied the grass. When he'd grown bored of that he shifted his gaze a little more to the right. He could see a leg, an old, pale white, mottled, veined leg. Then a hand, a wrinkled hand, with liver spots that was lifting a brown dress up to expose more of the old, pale leg.

'I'm so lonely,' the lady said almost in a whisper. 'I've almost forgotten how it feels to be physically loved by a man,'

Craig suddenly felt an overwhelming sensation of nausea. The old lady carried on her monologue, oblivious to Craig's mounting embarrassment.

'I know you young people think you invented sex, but me and my Bert had a wonderful love life. We couldn't keep our hands off each other from the day we married,'

Craig's stomach contracted as he was suddenly presented with an image of the lady and Bert he wished he'd never seen.

'Of course my Bert left me a lot of money. He had a generous pension and a large life insurance policy. But money can't keep me happy, can't keep me from being lonely. It can't keep me...satisfied,' she said, still not looking at Craig directly.

Suddenly Craig felt a hand on his knee. He felt thin, bony fingers. Then the fingers moved higher, onto the flesh of his thigh. Craig froze.

'I could pay you,' the lady whispered. 'I don't ask much, just what every woman needs. I know times are tough for young people today. Money always comes in useful,' she said in the most tempting half whisper she could muster.

Craig wanted to run. To get up and run full pelt, as fast as he could; in any direction. But he was so shocked that he couldn't move.

'I'm Gladys,' the lady said. 'What's your name young man?'

'C Craig,' he stuttered.

'Craig, such a lovely name. My great grandson is called Craig. Such a lovely boy,'

Craig could hardly reconcile the concept of mentioning a great grandson in the same breath that she'd used to proposition a total stranger.

'So would you be...interested?' Gladys enquired timidly.

Craig's mouth was primed to tell her to fuck off. But as he turned to look at her, he saw the loneliness in her eyes. The same loneliness that was in his own eyes when he closed them at night and thought of Rachel. He thought of the flat. Rent due on Friday or it's the streets for you my boy.

No money for food, no money for bus fares to the job centre. He'd slept with some really ugly women when he was a student. Fair price for a place to crash at 3am when he'd had a skin-full. He saved the taxi fare home, ugly bird got a bit of attention. They were always grateful. But even then they were only ten or fifteen years older, mid-thirties, forties, never an old lady. Craig looked up at Gladys's pleading eyes. She's just an old lady, nobody would ever know. I'm sure it'd be over before I know it. Within ten minutes they were back at Gladys's place.

Gladys showed Craig into the bedroom and shut the door behind them. When it was over Craig left quickly, looking both ways before he emerged from the doorway.

When he got home he went straight to the bathroom and vomited. When he'd finished retching, he sat on the toilet seat, head in hands, unable to believe he'd actually gone through with it. He felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the notes. Two hundred and fifty pounds. A week's wages. A weeks rent. He stared at the notes, holding them up to the light. The Queens face stared back at him. She was the same age as Gladys. He couldn't stand the stare of the Queens eyes. It was like she knew. He could almost hear her say Granny shagger.

Craig sat on the rough bench watching the ducks. Actually he was only looking at the ducks. He wasn't really watching them, that would signify that he was paying them attention. Craig sat looking at the ducks but thinking about Gladys, barely able to believe he'd gone through with it. Horrific images replayed in his mind. Sagging breasts, wrinkled thighs, false teeth. If people knew how he earned the money to pay his rent, well, he didn't want to even begin to think about what they'd say. It would never have happened if Rachel hadn't left him. Correction, it'd never have happened if he hadn't lost his job. Then Rachel wouldn't have left him and then it would never have happened. Never again he vowed. Never again.

The rent money was a god send. It bought him time to try and think of a way out of this mess. He took the bus to the job centre the next morning and was put forward for an interview the following week. He window shopped for a new suit for his interview and saw a very respectable single breasted one in Burtons. All he needed now was seventy five pounds for the suit and the new job was sure to be his. Once he had a job he could feel a man again, worthwhile. He could try and win Rachel back and then everything else would fall into place. On the way home he bought himself a takeaway curry and a six pack of lager with the last of Gladys's money. Things were looking up.

The next morning his credit card bill arrived through the letter box like an envelope of doom. He owed nearly three thousand pounds. Without a job he was stuffed. Even with one it'd take years to pay off. There was nothing else for it.

The next day he returned to the bench. Gladys arrived at the usual time, you could set your watch by her. They went back to Gladys's place and once again Craig satisfied her in the way only a man could. He felt awful, but Gladys was so happy and having the time of her life. It wasn't really that bad either. She was unattractive, but when he closed his eyes and thought of Rachel it didn't seem so unpleasant. Afterwards Gladys made them both a cup of tea and when he was refreshed Craig made to leave. Gladys insisted on a kiss before he left and Craig obliged (though wincing slightly) before leaving.

'See you soon lover,' Gladys called after him, a little too loudly for his liking.

Craig slept with Gladys twice more before the revulsion, shame and guilt got too much. It wasn't right. A man of his age and a woman of her age and anyway, Gladys was starting to get attached to him and it wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair to keep taking her money. For the next few days Craig stayed away from the park.

But soon a brooding depression brought him back to his favourite sanctuary, the park bench. He saw a small mallard swim up to the edge of the pond. It looked up at him as he sat on the bench and Craig returned its gaze.

'Sorry mate, I haven't got any bread for you today,'

'Granny shagger,' the duck said before turning and swimming away.

Craig did a double take. Unsure if he'd actually heard what he'd thought he'd heard. Surely his ears were deceiving him? He shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them the duck was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, he assumed he'd imagined the whole thing. The guilt complex, classic Freud.

He decided to take a walk to stretch his legs and clear his head, following the path that ran around the grass fields in a circuit. As he approached the park bench on the return leg of his journey a young couple passed walking a large Labrador. Craig smiled at them and they returned his smile. He longed to be with Rachel again. To be part of a couple.

'Granny shagger,' the Labrador said as it walked past, sniffing at Craig's shoes.

He looked at the couple who gave no reaction. Surely they must have heard it too? But they carried on walking, the woman tugging the Labrador's lead.

'Come on Charlie,' she called to the dog.

Craig was dumbfounded. Feeling awful, he slumped onto the bench. Was he cracking up? He was so caught up in his own thoughts and self-pity that he failed to notice the old lady sit down on the bench next to him. It was only when she started rustling a plastic shopping bag that he noticed her. Great, another reminder, he thought. She produced some old crusts of bread from the bag and broke several pieces off, throwing them to the ducks in the pond. The mallard swam back over and Craig was expecting it to taunt him further, but this time it remained silent, attacking the crusts of bread with glee.

His mind returned to his situation. He was still behind on his rent, he still owed his mother nearly three hundred and he'd even pawned his guitar. His situation was bleak.

'Are you ok dear?' the lady said softly as he rested his head in his hands. 'You look a bit upset,'

'Oh it's nothing. Just got a few problems that's all,'

'Hmm,' the old lady said, throwing another scrap of bread to the ducks, who fought each other mercilessly to devour it.

Craig resumed his brooding and the lady carefully folded the plastic bag

and put it in her pocket and got to her feet. She was about to leave but she changed her mind and sat back down on the bench. Slowly she whispered 'Are you the young man Gladys told me about?'

Craig was staggered.

'What did Gladys tell you?' Craig demanded angrily turning his face toward the old lady.

'Well...she ....er...she told me you were...sympathetic to an older lady's needs,' she said nervously.

'She told you what? Sympathetic?'

'She said that you were a nice young man who understood how lonely an old lady can get,'

Craig couldn't believe it. The way this lady said it, it sounded so sordid and calculated. He wondered how many other people Gladys had blabbed to? His face was twisted with confusion, embarrassment and anger as he stared at the pond and the ducks.

'Oh, I have money!' the lady said, suddenly remembering and reaching for her handbag.

'Keep your voice down for god sake!' he hissed at her, his face crimson with embarrassment.

Dora handed over one hundred pounds and after checking the coast was clear, Craig reluctantly led her into the bushes.

*

The woman was groaning louder and louder as Craig performed his duty.

'Keep quiet!' Craig hissed at her.

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and carried on, anxious for it all to be over. After this he was finished. He'd buy that new suit, ace the interview, everything would be peachy. Just get this over with, he thought. He was so busy that he didn't hear the bushes rustle and the twigs snap under feet, nor the tentative call.

'Gran? Are you there?'

But he heard the scream. He froze stock still for an instant, a feeling of icy dread washed over him. Then he turned and gasped in horror.

'Rachel,' he said. 'I can explain...'

Seamus and Finnegan

Seamus and Finnegan were stood outside the pub again. They spent a lot of time stood outside the pub. Almost as much time as they spent inside the pub. The reason they were stood outside the pub was that the door was closed. After about 10 minutes of staring at the door their hearts leapt as someone approached. They edged towards the door as the man grabbed the handle and opened it, swiftly following him through before it shut behind them.

'Phew that was close.' Seamus said.

'Thought we might not get in today.' said Finnegan.

Once inside the pub they took a stool each by the bar and awaited the barman.

Seamus and Finnegan were well known in their home town of Tipperary, Ireland. Seamus was called Seamus because when he was born his mother named him Seamus. Finnegan was called Finnegan because that was the name that was written inside his coat. Whether or not the coat was his originally, nobody knew.

'Could we have a pint of Guinness please?' Seamus asked the barman.

'One each? Or one between you?' The barman asked with a wry smile.

Seamus was stumped by the question as was Finnegan.

'Why don't you two have a pint each while you think about it?' A regular said, slapping the pair on the back and roaring with laughter.

The barman poured two pints of the black stuff and handed them to the pair. Seamus took a large sip of the cold ale.

'Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are broken.' he sang.

'Come on Seamus, let's play the fruit machine.' Finnegan said grabbing his friend by the arm.

They moved over to the other side of the bar and set their pints on top of the gaming machine and settled in.

'Don't know why we bother, we never win any fruit,' said Seamus.

'You have to keep putting in these pound coins and stop all the little cherries from looking out the window else all the money comes out and you have to put it back in again. I see some bloke on here for hours one night. He couldn't be bothered to put it all back in so he had to take it all home with him. His pockets were jingling with the stuff, so they were. Poor chap.' Said Finnegan as a local farmer passed by them with his dog.

'What a pair of feckwits.' he said as he went.

'They've got one of them fruit machines in the toilet now Fin, so they have. Except this one gives out fruit flavoured bubble-gum.' Seamus said, chewing on a strawberry flavoured condom. 'It's not bad. I got some yesterday. They've even got whiskey flavour!'

The barman looked at him and winced. But Seamus just puffed his cheeks and blew, the end of the condom protruding from between his lips like a small novelty balloon.

As Seamus chewed his gum and Finnegan dutifully put coins in the fruit machine the two friends couldn't be happier. There was one person missing though.

'Where's your friend Patrick today fellas?' asked the landlord.

They had forgotten about Paddy. Seamus looked at Finnegan, Finnegan looked at Seamus. Both were stumped.

'Here's not here today.' Seamus said beaming a bright smile as he answered the landlord. 'He's somewhere else.' he added with a nod, the feeling of wisdom making him feel ten feet tall.

'Daft fecker.' The landlord sighed as he polished a glass and replaced it in the overhead rack.

Once Finnegan's coins were spent the two moved over to watch the flashing lights of the cigarette machine. A few minutes later the pub doors opened again and the local Guarda officer entered the pub. Suddenly several men began to slowly make for the exits covering their faces with newspapers.

'Is there a Seamus or Finnegan in the pub?' the officer asked politely.

'Over here Brian.' The landlord signalled, pointing out Seamus and Finnegan, who were still sat, eyes glued to the cigarette machine.

'Seamus and Finnegan?' the officer said, causing the pair to turn their heads.

'Yes.' they said in unison.

'Which is which?' he asked.

Seamus and Finnegan just looked at each other.

'The tallest one is Finnegan, the other one is Seamus.' the landlord said.

The officer had to look down at their stools to see whose feet were nearest the ground to identify the tallest man, he then addressed Seamus.

'Seamus, we'll need you and Finnegan to come down with me to the station. I'm afraid I have bad news for the pair of you. Your friend Patrick Murphy was killed today and he has no listed next of kin. As you are his friends we need a formal identification of the body.'

'We can do that easily.' Finnegan said with a smile. 'Seamus knows exactly what Paddy looks like!'. The officer rolled his eyes.

Officer Brian O'Toole drove the pair down to the morgue in his patrol car.

'So how did Paddy die?' Finnegan asked as they drove.

'He jumped from a cliff I'm afraid. We think it was suicide. Did Patrick seem the type to commit suicide?'

'I don't know. His wife left him recently, for another woman. Oh and he was evicted from his flat because his wife wiped him out in the divorce. Then his father died, then his mother, then his dog. But apart from that he was grand.' Seamus said.

'I see,' Officer O'Toole said with a frown. 'Was there any reason you two know about as to why he'd be up on a cliff with a bird-cage?'

'Well he did say he had wanted to be a bit more adventurous. He said he wanted to try that Budgie-Jumping.' said Finnegan.

'I guess he never got the chance.' said Seamus.

In the identification room the two were led to a covered table. The sheet was pulled back to reveal a pale lifeless Paddy.

'Can you confirm that this is the body of Patrick Murphy?' The officer asked.

'It looks like Paddy.' Seamus said. 'But I can't be sure. Can you turn him over?'

'Does he have a tattoo or something?' the officer enquired as two orderlies struggled to turn over Paddy's body.

'Could you take off the sheet?' Seamus asked.

Slightly bewildered, the orderlies complied and the body was presented, face down and naked. Seamus observed the corpse intently, rubbing his chin in concentration.

'No. That can't be Paddy.' Seamus said finally, shaking his head with determination.

'But the wallet found with the body belonged to Patrick Murphy. Are you sure this isn't Patrick Murphy?'

'Certain. This can't be Paddy. It looks like him but it can't be paddy. Paddy had two arseholes.' Seamus declared proudly.

'Two arseholes?' The police officer said scratching his head.

'Yeah, everywhere we went, when the three of us were together, people would always say There goes Paddy with them two arseholes.'

Her Handwriting

First Published in Skive Magazine 2005

I never could read my wife's handwriting. It was another of her traits, her laziness.

She didn't work. She didn't clean the house. She was too lazy. Too lazy to even write legibly. A miserable lazy cow.

Nina lived off my money and my tolerance. Spent like there was no tomorrow, lived like she hoped it was true.

My mother told me never to marry just for looks. But when the dick is hard, the mind is soft. Or so they say.

At first I accepted her faults. I thought, despite it all, my Nina was a sweet girl. But over the years, the little things, the untidiness, the extravagant purchases, the cold detachment, began to outweigh the positive.

The sex had gone off the boil after the wedding night. I didn't really understand why, I just accepted it.

But now I see her for what she truly is. I see what she does.

The house was always a tip. I chanced upon the piece of paper when clearing up. The paper led me to the computer. The computer led me to the website.

www.sluttyhousewives.com

The images I saw on that site caused a rage inside me, my trophy wife adorning someone else's mantelpiece. I guess Nina finally found her vocation.

The rage led me to look at the notepaper again. That's when I noticed the address in Barnes. Flat 7, Nelson house, Kennington Street.

The address led me to the flat, which led me to meet Ken. Meeting Ken led to Ken's death. But I don't really want to talk about that.

The flat was a hovel, full of takeaway pizza boxes and other filth. It was Nina to a T. I didn't dwell there.

As I stepped out through the door I saw wife walking down the hall towards a door. It suddenly occurred to me. Was that 1 or 7 on that notepaper?

I never could read my wife's handwriting.

The Tinderbox

First Published in Skive Magazine 2005

It was an old miner's dynamite detonator. The old wooden type with a cross handled plunger. They called it the tinderbox because when the plunger was pushed down, sparks would fly from the exposed ends of the electrodes. They would usually demonstrate this fully by bringing out the wooden box, setting it down on a table in front of you, then pulling up the plunger. They'd usually leave it there several seconds, as you sat frozen in fear. Then they'd hold the electrodes up, to eye level so you could see and then a hand would push down the plunger and the sparks would flash from the electrodes leaving you in little doubt of what was to come.

To start with they'd attach the little metal clips to your big toe. You'd tense and struggle for a second before a hard slap to the face would end your movement. Then the hand would hover over the plunger for a second, your heart pounding as you awaited its fall. Then the plunger would go down and your leg would jerk and your foot would feel like fire and you'd jump off the chair if they hadn't strapped you in. Then everything would be silent except for your own breathing and the beat of your heart, now faster than ever.

Then after they had done this a few times they would get bored and move on. They'd clamp the clips to your chest and watch your muscles spasm as the devil hot sparks shot from the electrodes and burned your flesh. You'd jump and jolt and scream in pain but when your screams ceased there would be silence again and your eyes would settle on the hand hovering over the plunger and wish for death rather than feel the sting of the tinderbox. But the hand would push down again, and again, your body jerking as if in a seizure, your brain hazy with pain, emotion and thought. Then the tinderbox would be silent for a moment.

The owner of the hand would stop and smoke a cigarette. You'd smell the sickly tobacco smell and wish that it would last forever because you knew that when that cigarette burned all the way down to the end, it would be discarded by the hand and the hand would remember the plunger and then the pain would be back, worse than ever before. Once the cigarette was finished, the electrodes were clipped to the ears and each pull of the plunger brought white hot bolts of lightning through the eyes and ears. There would be the feeling that the head would explode or the scalp melt or the hair catch fire, the muscles of the neck contracting, jerking the head wildly, the fear that the neck might snap, the fear, always the fear.

Then just as the searing pain in the ears and eyes and brain begins to subside, the electrodes are applied to the genitals. The eyes go wide with greater fear than previously thought possible, pleading silently as the hand grips the plunger and pulls it upwards. The hand hovers over the plunger, the head shakes, the numb, bleeding tongue inside the gagged mouth mumbles No! No! No! Please! Then the plunger is pushed down and the sparks cascade, the legs flying out uncontrollably, the stomach and abdomen convulsing as if trying to escape the body. The searing pain in the groin, sparks burning the flesh of the thighs. The muted screams, the tense grip of the hands on the arms of the chair, the whiteness of the knuckles. The whole torso taught, every muscle reacting. Then nothing, except the slowly diminishing pain. The removal of the clamps, the laugh of the torturer and the aggressive, forced return to the dank tiny cell.

For decades this was the ritual. The daily routine for both victims and torturer. The names of both forgotten in time. Only the tinderbox was remembered, its powers and deeds and presence forever carved into the memories of those who knew it. It sits on my writing desk, the only thing salvaged from the prison after it was burned to the ground in a riot. From time to time people will gaze upon it and ask me what it is and I never refuse an opportunity to tell them all about the tinderbox.

The Moose Hunter

First published in Thieves Jargon magazine 2005

The hunter adjusted the sights on his rifle. The moose was less than a hundred yards away and breathing heavily, vapour coming from its mouth in clouds like cigarette smoke. The hunter had been tracking it for two hours now and he was tired. Tired, and impatient for the shot.

He was near enough now and on higher ground, looking down at his prey. The moose lowered its head and moved its shaking legs in the deep snow. It was at least two hundred yards from the tree line, extremely vulnerable in the open. This was what the hunter was waiting for.

He looked back down the scope and zeroed the cross-hairs onto the moose's right flank. His breathing calmed to a slow pace as he prepared for the shot, his finger curled round the trigger. Rifle steady, he breathed in, then exhaled and squeezed the trigger. There was a heavy thump in his shoulder as the rifle recoiled.

The moose was jolted by the hit, a sting in its right side. It tottered, legs plodding in the snow, then fell sideways. The hunter breathed a sigh of relief, lowered his rifle and pulled his cap down before getting to his feet. He pulled out his powerful binoculars and surveyed the stricken beast on the slopes below. It was down but still breathing, puffs of breath visible from its mouth.

The hunter picked up his rifle and walked back to his Jeep. He set his rifle down on the passenger seat and started the big diesel engine which roared to life. Shifting the gears, he pulled away, the snow chains gripping the snow. Slowly the hunter climbed down the snowy slope into the valley towards his prize.

He was flushed with excitement when he reached it, deathly still, but breathing. He climbed out of the jeep and took out his hip flask, taking a sip of whiskey before slapping its top back on with the flat of his hand and putting it back in his jacket pocket. He then took off his thick gloves and pulled out his long bladed hunter's knife. It was cold. Damn cold.

The hunter knelt down beside the moose and located the tranquiliser dart. He swiftly incised at its entry point with his knife to loosen the skin so he could remove the barbed dart. Once free he put the dart in his pocket and sheathed his knife.

Pulling a small length of rope from his knapsack he attached one end to the moose's huge antlers and retreated towards the jeep. He attached the end of the rope to the winch which he operated to pull on the rope in an attempt to heave the beast off of its side into a more upright position. With some effort he managed to set the animal so it was straight, resting on its knees. By now the hunter was very fatigued, sweating and breathing hard. He sat down on a snow drift and rested, taking another hit from his hip flask. Once he'd got his breath back he then set to work.

Even though it was minus two degrees with wind chill he started to remove his warm snow jacket. The wind was icy around his neck as it became exposed. He then pulled off his woollen sweater, feeling the goose bumps rise on his chest and arms. His nipples stiffened with the cold as he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers. He'd had the forethought not to wear any underwear this morning which definitely saved time.

With his trousers round his ankles, not to mention a rod stiff erection he waddled towards the rear of the still motionless moose. Taking a kneeling position immediately behind, he lifted up the short tail with his right hand and guided his throbbing twitching penis towards the moose's warm, steaming cavity. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he felt the warmth of the moose on his previously icy cold penis and clasped his arms around the moose's girthy frame. It felt so invitingly warm against the bitter cold.

Slowly he began to thrust, his arms holding on tight as his hips bucked back and forth and his now blue little behind danced with the motion. His breathing became heavier, more little puffs of steam rising from his throat with each thrust and groan.

"Oh, Oh, Oh, Yeah, yeah, yeah."

By now he'd quickened pace. He was really giving it to this moose, slamming his groin into the beasts behind with vigour.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah,"

But suddenly he heard a noise that made his heart fill with dread. His thrusts ceased and his dick began to go limp.

"Hey, Moose fucker!" A voice called through a loud hailer which echoed off the mountains of the valley.

The hunter withdrew himself from the moose and rolled to his side, his trousers still around his ankles. He grabbed at them furiously, trying to locate his pistol. As he did so, a rifle shot smacked into the snow to his left. He rolled once more, making for the cover of a snow drift before another shot caused an eruption of snow where he'd just been.

"You missed cocksucker!" He shouted as he frantically struggled with the holster of his side-arm. The shooter on the hill meant to kill him.

The hunter should have been freezing, naked in the snow but the adrenaline rush of mortal danger was keeping his mind off his body temperature. He popped his head above the snow drift and tried to see where his attacker was positioned. He saw a faint muzzle flash and felt the force of the passing bullet as it smacked down in the snow. From the inaccuracy of the fire he knew his attacker was using open sights, no scope, and was a lousy shot. He popped his head up again and aimed a snapshot roughly where he'd seen the muzzle flash.

"You better prey for mercy you dick licker!" He cursed loudly as he fired the pistol twice quickly.

Another shot rang out which shattered the windscreen of the hunter's jeep, followed by a crackling declaration from the loudhailer on the overlooking ridge.

"I'm gonna kill that fuckin moose you lousy prick!"

The hunter felt fear grip his heart like a cold iron vice.

"No!!" He screamed, jumping up from behind the snow drift.

"Don't shoot!" He shouted, throwing his pistol down and putting himself in between the rifleman and the moose with his hands raised.

"You love a moose more than me? You...You fucking...miserable...limp dick moosefucker!" The voice screamed, an eerie echo resonating round the valley.

"Silvia?" The hunter called, confusion on his face.

"Yes, Silvia, you fucking bastard. I followed you this time you perverted fuck!"

"Silvia listen, it meant nothing, it was just sex. I swear. Let's talk aboot this."

"Just sex? What the fuck are you saying?"

"I can't give it up. It doesn't mean I don't love you anymore. Put down the gun you paranoid bitch."

"It's too late Greg. It's over. I can't share you with a moose. If you can't love me then you can't live."

With that a shot rang out. The moose hunter felt it whiz past his cheek. He span as it flew past and grazed the moose's rump which exploded in a spray of fur and blood. The beast was suddenly roused to its senses, staggering to its feet in the deep snow. It turned round and saw the half-naked hunter. Disorientated and slightly spooked, the beasts natural defence mechanisms flew into action. It lowered its head and pointed its huge antlers in the hunter's direction. The hunter stood trembling, his trousers still round his ankles, as a very scared and aggressive moose prepared to charge. It began to trot forward picking up speed. The hunter suddenly turned and fled, the moose pursuing him through the deep snow. It was no use however as the snow was so deep it was like running through a field of candy floss as he struggled to hold up his trousers with one hand. The moose caught the hunter in the small of the back and knocked him down, trampling over him before coming to a halt. It stood breathing in the snow for a second before beginning to return towards the felled hunter for the final attack. Its hooves cut through the snow as it neared the stricken hunter, about to finish him off, when a single shot rang out and the moose stuttered its steps, stumbled and fell in a heap on top of the hunter.

By the time Silvia had reached the pair in the valley the moose was dead. The hunter was near death too, pinned down beneath a ton of dead moose.

"Greg, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it....Why a moose you stupid fuck? We could have been happy. I love you Greg."

"I know..." Were the dying words of the moose hunter as the snow began to fall.

The Siege Of White-Castle

First published in Zygote In My Coffee magazine 2005

A knight in a shining white Chrysler galloped towards the castle. Inside he carried a hunger, a hunger to test the faith of all the saints. It was three am.

Inside the castle the dark lord sat, feet on counter, sipping from a bejewelled flagon of mountain dew. He was lord of the keep of the white castle. Slowly with absent motion he ogled the naked lady calendar on the grease stained wall.

The knight reigned in the horses of his Chrysler as he drew level with the eastern portal of the white castle. He wound down the window and a gauntleted hand emerged to press the button of the inter-com.

'Six mini burgers and fries, if you please,'

As he awaited an answer to his challenge he adjusted the steel visor of his heavy helmet and ruffled the plumage of the decorative feathers that were attached to the top.

Startled by the crackling of the intercom the lord of the keep let go of himself and he fumbled to raise his britches.

'Shit!'

The knight revved the horses of his Chrysler in impatient impulse.

'H Hello?' The lord of castle replied.

'I require six mini burgers and fries my liege,'

'What?'

The gauntleted hand emerged from the window once more and depressed the intercom button.

'I require six mini burgers and fries to sustain me for the duration of my quest,'

'Quest?'

'My quest. The quest for the holy grail,'

The lord of the white castle glanced through the window at the knight in the Chrysler who was bedecked in a suit of shining armour, complete with steel helmet. From the radio aerial flew a banner, a noble coat of arms.

'Are you mental?'

'Excuse me?'

'Are you a wacko?'

'My lord, I am on a holy quest. I seek the cup of Christ to further the glory of god. I require six mini burgers and fries. If you will not acquiesce to my demands I shall lay siege to your castle and crush you,'

'Ok,' the dark lord said, raising his eye-brows.

Moments later the dark lord returned to the eastern portal with the knight's desired sustenance.

'Three eighty,' he said as he handed over the bag.

The knight opened a velvet purse of silver coins and pressed the required payment into the palm of the dark lord. Then he suddenly paused in contemplation.

'What about my free toy?'

'Free toy?'

'The sign says I am entitled to a free cuddly toy with every purchase,'

'That's only with the kids value meal,'

'Are you denying an agent of the king the spoils of victory? If you do not release my free toy this instant I shall lay siege to your white castle and reduce it to a ruin,'

'Listen I don't have time for this dude. Get the hell out of here before I call security,'

'Damn your heathen soul to hell, you knave,' the knight cried before unleashing the Chryslers horses and charging off into the moonlight. 'For the glory of Saint George! God save the king!'

The dark lord tutted loudly and shook his head.

'What an asshole,'

Watch Your Step

First published in Zygote In My Coffee magazine 2005

'Yeah, I won't make it. Stuck in traffic. Accident... at... the er... chemical plant babe, looks real bad,'

He was spinning a bullshit yarn to one of his plethora of girlfriends as to why he couldn't see her that night. As he walked distractedly along the busy street, talking on his mobile phone, he was oblivious to his surroundings.

'Yeah the fire crews are trying to put out the fire but the town's covered with a huge cloud of...shit!' he cursed as he stepped into a freshly laid, moist and pungent smelling dog turd.

'What was that Michael?' his girlfriend Marsha, a supermarket check-out girl, enquired.

A man overheard the outburst and stopped beside Michael, perplexed.

'Did you just say there's a shit cloud coming?'

Michael ignored him as he tried to wipe the gooey brown mess off his feet on the curb stone.

'Michael? Are you there?' Marsha called down the line as he tried to carry on walking with a sticky shoe and the man still tapping his shoulder.

'Did you say there was a shit cloud coming?' the man jabbered as he continued to poke Michael with his finger.

'Huh?' Michael wheeled round to see what the guy was blabbering about, but by the time he'd turned the man was running off down the street.

'I think there's a shit cloud coming!' the man shouted to the crowd of pedestrians as he ran, tripping over a trash can.

Several of the crowd turned to see what the commotion was all about. They chattered amongst themselves for a few moments before starting to rush down the street in a panic.

At the supermarket Marsha turned off her mobile phone with a sigh, flicked her cigarette butt to the floor and returned to the front of the store. She was nearly knocked off her feet by a crowd of fast moving people. A horde began rushing into the supermarket and grabbing food off the shelves, pushing past store security and check-out staff.

'There's a shit cloud coming! Get the hell out of town!' and old man screamed as he vaulted the barrier and raced from the store.

Panic erupted as the remaining customers grabbed whatever they could carry and fought past streams of people who were trying to get in. Screaming and shouting was all that could be heard. It was pandemonium.

Down the street young men were looting an electrical store. One large trucker in a cotton shirt hoisted up a man-hole cover and smashed it through the large plate-glass window. A gang of eager looters streamed in and began ripping off TV's, VCR's and DVD players with abandon. The town's lone Police deputy just sat in his car, fearful of the crowd, pleading in vain over the loudhailer for order.

In Mr McBride's barbershop the Mayor was just finishing his shave as the radio announced a state of emergency throughout the county.

'Unconfirmed reports of a cloud of noxious material said to be descending on Hollow County have caused panic. State troopers and the National Guard have been alerted as mass hysteria, full scale riots and looting are sweeping the devastated towns of Gary, Kent and Friarsville. Further reports as we have them,'

Suddenly a startled, red faced man burst into the barbershop, a bag of groceries in one hand and a VCR under his arm.

'You guys better get on out of here! There's a shit cloud coming!'

Everybody jumped to their feet and raced out onto the crowded streets now thick with panicked people, like ants on a sugar bowl. Down town a fire was raging in a block of tenement buildings. People were running in all directions.

'Hey! There's a huge shit cloud coming, run for your lives!' a voice shouted behind them as the town began to burn.

Mind Your Own Damn Business

First published in Wild Child Magazine. Editor's choice award Feb 2005.

Tommy Walsh slowed the rig down and stopped. The brakes hissed and the engine rumbled as the young hitchhiker climbed into the passenger seat, his hair and clothes soaked from the heavy rainfall. The young man settled into the seat without a word of thanks. Slamming the door, he cast Tommy a sidelong glance. Tommy wondered if the youngster was a little nutty.

"So where you headed?" Tommy asked.

The boy stared dead ahead, arms tightly clutching a small black rucksack.

"Don't talk much do you, kid?" Tommy said, shaking his head. He waited for a reply, keeping his gaze on the road, wishing the downpour would stop.

Trust me to pick up the only mute hitchhiker on the highway, he thought.

As he shifted the gears, the truck reached cruising speed, and Tommy sighed. He glanced at the boy's saturated rucksack. Was the bag full of money? Diamonds from a heist? He laughed inwardly. He's just a kid, probably a stoner or a runaway. Returning his attention to the road, Tommy knew he had several hours of driving before he reached his destination.

The throb of the engine and the hiss of the rain provided a monotonous background noise. Tommy couldn't keep his mind from wandering and a little seed of imagination began to grow. He glanced over at the kid, who was still clutching the bag, and Tommy's curiosity began to gnaw at him. After a moment, he asked, "So what you got in that fancy bag, kid?"

The boy remained still and silent. Had the kid heard him, Tommy wondered? He repeated the question. "Say kid, what you got in that bag?"

The hitchhiker looked straight ahead. Tommy could barely hear the boy's whisper above the rain drumming on the cab. "None of your damn business,"

Chuckling, Tommy said, "Touchy little prick, ain't ya?" With a shrug, he returned his gaze to the road.

"Big Tommy, this is Lovelorn Lila—over," Tommy's CB crackled and the alluring tones of a female trucker buddy seeped from the radio.

"Hi Lila, how's tricks? Ain't heard from you in a coons age,"

"I had trouble at home. That SOB husband of mine has been fooling around again,"

"Shucks Lila, surely you're enough woman for him?"

"I swear I'll castrate that man one day. Are you headed West? I'm due a rest break soon,"

"No dice Lila, I'm going East-bound and down. See you on the highway some time. Keep on trucking. Over,"

"Over,"

The conversation refreshed Tommy as the driving rain bounced off the windshield and the wipers kept a steady comforting rhythm. But as the miles slowly passed, the boredom returned. The kid still gripped the bag tightly, his face tense. What if he's got drugs in that bag, Tommy thought. He was beginning to regret picking the kid up. Anxiety soon got the better of him so he tried a different tactic.

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have a pack of cigarettes in that bag of yours would you?"

No reply passed the boys grey, silent lips. Anger stirred in Tommy's gut. His voice raising a notch. "Hey, I'm doing you a favour, kid. Now I don't mean to be nosey, but I think for my own peace of mind you should tell me what's in that sack,"

Man, I hope the boy doesn't turn out to be a damn drug mule, Tommy thought. The need to know about the bag's contents overwhelmed him. His curiosity was like an itch, and the longer he ignored that itch, the worse it grew.

Again, the boy whispered, "None of your damn business,"

Tommy slapped the wheel of the rig and stepped on the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road.

"You know, you're about the rudest most ungrateful kid I've ever picked up. I wish I'd left you on the highway a hundred miles back. In fact, I should have my head examined for picking up a damn hiker, especially a piss-crazy kid with a bag full of only God knows what,"

The hiker remained still and silent, the bag clenched in his hands.

"Listen, kid, either you tell me what you got in that bag or you can get out of the cab. I ain't having no dope runners in my rig,"

Suddenly the boy's face softened, his ice rigid posture melting. Softly, he said, "It wasn't my fault..."

"What wasn't your fault?"

"Please mister, please just forget it!" the kid shouted.

"Hey, wait!" Tommy called as the hitcher jumped from the cab into the torrential rain. A truck horn ripped through the dark, a bright pool of light enveloping the youngster. An instant later, the boy disappeared under the wheels of a Peterbilt.

Tommy's heart leapt into his throat as the rig skidded to a halt and swerved onto the dark verge of the highway, the brakes screeching. He looked through the open door into the mist where the boy had disappeared. There was nothing left but a pool of blood and guts, like a road-kill coyote. The kid was human hamburger.

Tommy snapped to action. The engine roared as he shifted the truck into gear, booted the accelerator, and in a blind panic swung back onto the highway, past the stationary Peterbilt as its driver climbed down from the cab.

Tommy's mind raced. He couldn't believe how fast it had all happened. One minute he was talking to the kid, the next he was gone. Tommy winced at the thought. The cops would be involved and they'd be bound to ask questions, so he kept on driving. Guilt reared its ugly head. If only I hadn't spooked the kid, if I'd been more understanding...but he kept on driving, that vision of the kid branded on his mind. He looked at his hands on the wheel; his knuckles white, fingers gripping like vices. When he relaxed his grasp, he glanced down. Look at me, I'm shaking. He saw his reflection in the rear view mirror; his own eyes looked back at him with guilty accusation. You killed him.

The light from Tommy's headlights swept left to right across the rain soaked road, the truck swerving wildly as his mind churned over and over.

The miles passed Tommy by like a fleeting dream, hardly registering. He drove on autopilot, sweeping into the truck stop at high speed, nearly clipping the back of another big rig as he slammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to a juddering halt. He slumped forward over the wheel and let out a huge breath, the engine throbbing in time with his beating heart. Calm down Tommy boy, he thought. It's over. It's over.

He then looked down and saw the rucksack. No...It can't be! The bag sat on the passenger seat as the rain tapped on the windshield. Tommy shuddered. It lay still, an uninteresting lump of dark material, but Tommy was struck by a feeling that evil lived inside of it. He felt truly terrified, but he had to know about its contents; some intangible force compelled him to look. His shaking hands reached forward. Pausing, his tendons jerked spasmodically as he grasped the bag. Sharp, quick breaths misted the cab windows and Tommy's heartbeats quickened pace. With a last deep breath, Tommy peered inside. He gasped, retching, eyes bulging, and snapped the bag shut. He flung the cab door open, leapt from the rig and ran, feet pounding across the wet asphalt. The lights of the truck stop bar were reflected in the mirrored pools of rainwater as Tommy stumbled towards sanctuary. He made for the bar as if the Hounds of Hell snapped at his heels, almost falling through the door. As Tommy burst into the bar bringing in a draught of rain-fresh air, one of his drinking buddies looked up from his stool.

Tommy's friend, Herb, a forty six year old encyclopaedia salesman, sat knocking back his fourth beer of the evening.

"You ok buddy?" Herb asked as Tommy slumped at the counter, his breathing heavy.

"Just... get me... a drink," he said in a whisper.

"Gloria? Two bourbons with ice," Herb called, scratching his crotch. Looking back at Tommy, he said, "You look like you had a hell of a day,"

The barmaid rubbed a hand over her tired face and pulled down a glass, filling it with bourbon. She placed it on the bar next to Tommy with the slight trace of a smile. She shrugged before turning and fixing Herb's drink. Tommy said nothing, knocking back his bourbon and grimacing at the bitter taste before signalling for another. His hands shook as he took the second glass.

"Whoa, take it easy old man," Herb said, taking a small sip from his own glass. "What's got you in such a state?"

"H...hitch-hiker..." Tommy stuttered.

"Shit Tom, what he do? Rob you? I thought you knew better than to pick

up hikers?"

"He...he... was just a kid. He...he had a bag..."

"Just take it easy Tommy. Tell me what happened,"

Tommy's face contorted with horror as he reluctantly recalled the events on the road. The images replaying in his head like a home movie or a dreaded nightmare. He stuttered and grimaced as he explained the details.

"Poor little bastard," Herb said, his voice full of genuine sympathy. "But what can you do with these kids when they're dope fiends?"

Gloria leaned against the bar-top, chin resting in her open palms, openly listening to the conversation. However, her attention was drawn away when someone called to her from across the room.

"Gloria? The damn TV keeps switching channels. It won't stay on the ball game,"

She sighed and lethargically moved to answer the complaint, moving out of earshot of Tommy's unsteady voice.

"I didn't... want to be dealing with the cops..." he explained. "So I high-tailed it out of there...and I'm just driving like a mad man... I didn't have a clue where I was going. So I start to come to my senses... and I stopped here..."

"Well I can see how that could spook a guy seeing something like that. It's a shitty thing Tom," Herb said. "All you can do is get steaming and try and forget it buddy,"

"But Herb... it ain't through," Tommy said, downing another bourbon.

"What?" Herb's drink halted half to his lips. He paused, setting the shot glass onto the bar top.

"The... kid left the bag on the seat of the cab, I don't... know what to do with it. I can't go... to the cops," Tommy heard the slur in his voice, feeling the sway of the bourbon.

"Shit," Herb said. "No bag in the world is worth getting killed for. What was in it?"

"You...you don't want to know, it's...Christ..." Tommy said trailing off, head swimming with fright, shock and guilt barely numbed by the whiskey.

"Jesus, Tommy, what was in that bag? A Severed head?" Herb joked.

"You don't want to know... You really don't,"

"What was in the bag Tommy? Shit, you can't tell a story like that and not finish it," Herb said, his voice full of frustration.

"It ain't no story, Herb! Haven't you heard a damn word I've been telling you?" Tommy felt his anger surface. "The bag is evil,"

"Aw shucks, Tommy, it can't be that bad, Come on, let's you and me go on out and you can show me,"

"I can't do it... I can't. Please I'm begging you... as a friend,"

"Come on, don't be a pussy. You're drunk. You've had a rough day. We'll settle this," Herb's mind was already playing out the possible scenarios.

"I gotta get out of here," Tommy whispered as he got to his feet, his face a mask of confusion.

"Hey, Tommy. Wait!"

Gloria, approached Herb. She threw a beer towel over her shoulder, and asked, "What the hell's gotten into him?"

"Don't ask," Herb said, getting down from his stool. He stubbed out his cigarette and made for the door.

He emerged into the dark lot, the rain still falling like lead. Tommy was nowhere to be seen but his truck wasn't difficult to find. The interior light glowed like a beacon from the open cab door.

"Jesus, Tommy, you want your rig ripped off?" Herb muttered as he screwed up his eyes against the stinging downpour.

He approached the rig with determined steps. Surely, the old trucker had finally gone round the bend, he thought. He climbed into the cab, wiping the rain from his face and scanned the cab for the hiker's bag.

"Aw, Christ Tom," he cursed, noticing the keys still in the ignition. He removed them, and retrieved the rucksack which sat still sodden in the foot-well. Herb then jumped down from the cab and locked the door before putting the keys behind the left front tire and returning to the bar.

Inside, he shook himself off and dried his face with a beer towel.

"What the hell's going on with you and Tom Walsh?" Gloria asked. "He took off in a big hurry and you're soaked like a drowned puppy,"

"Nothing Gloria, just get me a bourbon would you?"

Gloria sighed and poured the drink.

Herb took his stool. The bag sat on his knees, feeling like a lump of ice. Jesus, what's in this? The thing almost seemed to be pulsing and Herb began to experience a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, he opened the bag. As he did so, there was a sense of stepping over a threshold into the unknown. He peered inside. His stomach convulsed and Herb shut the bag, struggling for breath, his heart beating ten to the dozen. He raced from the bar in a big hurry, the bag tumbling to the bar-room floor.

"Hey Herb, what's up? You didn't finish your drink," Gloria called after him as he crashed out through the door without answering.

"Hey, Gloria? The damn TV's on the Fritz again," came the call from the end of the bar.

"Be there in a minute, Harry," Gloria sighed and walked around to the other side of the bar. "God forbid you might miss a home run," she muttered under her breath.

The rucksack lay on the floor, the top half open, tantalisingly close to revealing its contents. She bent down and curiously opened the bag...

The Return To Rooks Hall

I did not want to come here. I have no plainer way of expressing my reluctance, my dread at the prospect of being transported back to this place. The mere thought of this monstrous grey bricked, soulless, yet somehow possessed, sinister building, causes my mind untold suffering. My constitution is affected to the degree of nausea and sweating, and a pounding in my heart and brain. I was without thought but one. I must never come back to this place.

My first episode of fear and anxiety had been activated by the receipt of a note. I had opened its pale white envelope with trepidation and examined the message closely. The paper had been heavy bonded and thick with visible ridges, expensive in its production. The words were written in a light blue ink, in a very flowery hand. The tails of the letters showed a flourish and character. The message was addressed to Jonathan Meeks, I, but the identity of its author was not determinable. It was to all intents and purposes, a wholly anonymous communication. But there was no confusion in the message it contained. There could be no misunderstanding. This place wanted me back.

I am unable to explain exactly the sensation of dread this place causes in me or its origin, except to say that when in its proximity the house seems to exude an atmosphere of evil. Some ungodly force surrounds this residence and manifests itself in an unquantifiable sensation coupled with a barely audible, high pitched screeching, like a locomotive braking on steel tracks. My nerves become tormented, my skin prickly, my hands frantic in their scratching about my arms and neck and face, my breathing laboured, forcing me to my knees.

It was my firm resolution never to live again within these walls once I had consent to leave. As far as my acquaintances, associates and colleagues were concerned, my life did not begin until after I departed this place. Any details of my time before that joyous day were buried deep in the dark recesses of history. I had been robbed of my childhood, my physical health, my mind, even my own identity. My future wellbeing depended on remaining far from this place.

A good many years it had taken to recover my mind, nerve and composure and to return to normality or some semblance of it. A charitable foundation had sponsored my education and I found myself through luck and hard work, a partner of an established law firm. Yet now I was to be called back, back here, to this place, this place of dread, terror and fear. The note had awakened in my mind terrible memories of the past, the noises, the smells, the sensations of my torment. Even casting my eyes upon the paper had caused me distress.

The house calls you. Return at once. Only through repentance can salvation be granted.

Why now? This was the prime question I had in my mind. Why would the house want me back after all these years full of vibrant life and productive existence? My mind had been restored and surely my redemption could be gained by good deed and pious existence? But the note rebuked this notion. The note commanded, taunted and mocked me. Why now?

Unable to sleep that first night, my mind was awash with thoughts. I excused myself from my workplace that next morning, so tired and distressed was I by the feelings of dread the note had solicited from me. Unable to compose myself I suffered another sleepless night. The note remained on my bedside cabinet, mocking me, accusing me, the high pitched whine of the house ringing in my ears. I screamed for it to stop but it would not cease. It was during that second troubled night that I began to write a journal. An attempt to exorcise the thoughts doubts and fears that raced in my head: an effort to stave off the madness.

This ancient house of Rooks Hall was always steeped in myth, legend and mystery. Many knew the tales that were told of the place and the orphanage that was founded here many years ago. Yet few know the full extent of the history of suffering this place owns. Few can contemplate or even begin to grasp the depth of its evil, the power of its force. How many wretched beings have lived within these walls? Suffered? Perished? How many tormented souls haunt the place? Where does this evil come from? What is the source? Why does it want me back? Am I part of the evil? Or am I merely an agent of the wickedness?

I have never spoken of these things to any living soul. Nobody of close acquaintance to me has knowledge of my past, of my illness, of my madness. Nobody knows of what happened in the grounds of this evil place.

It was, until the receipt of the note, my firm belief that those days were behind me. For many a year those dark, terror filled days seemed like a lifetime ago; an eon away; a different era altogether. Yet on some nights, seeming to come out of the blue, out of the deepest recesses of my consciousness, the dreams would come; transporting me back to the house. My nostrils filled with the familiar odour, the musty, sterile, nauseating odour. The odour of damp, of cold stone, rotting timber, mold and decay. My ears filled with the screeching, the sound stabbing at my brain, and I would spring awake, perspiring, shivering in frightened terror, and only then would the fear release its grip from my throat.

But the house had wanted me back. It had brought me back. It had called me, drawn me with some strange, dark, irresistible force, against my will, against all reason. I was compelled by some indescribable unseen, mysterious power.

On this, the third morning after the arrival of the note I rose and dressed nervously and feebly. Upon examining my reflection in my dressing mirror I observed a quite marked and rapid deterioration in my appearance.

Now cadaverously pale of complexion, my eyes were diminished in colour and bloodshot, lips somewhat thinner than before and devoid of shade. My cheeks were sunken slightly, the cheekbones now more prominent and my hair softer and noticeably thinner. About the temple, a distended vein throbbed visibly, blue beneath the pale flesh. My reflection did not resemble the image I had admired just days beforehand, before the arrival of the note. So much of a change, in fact, that I doubted for a second the reflection was my own. I indeed was drawn to feel that the reflection owned me rather than the opposite. There was but one course of action open to me now.

Once dressed, I took to my carriage and began the journey to Rooks Hall with great reluctance and foreboding. The morning was bleak and sunless with a fair wind and a fine, warm rain that has continued unabated. The countryside seemed to get darker and bleaker the further I travelled from my lodgings, the nearer I drew to this cursed place.

As the journey proceeded I began to feel the madness creeping up on me, returning, gaining control once more, by degree. The treatment with laudanum had helped alleviate the symptoms of my illness, but had it ever completely cured it? Or just suppressed it enough to allow my mind to function? Had the madness been locked away in some subconscious limbo? Awaiting its chance to return and seize control of my body once more?

Driving the horses through the open gates of the grounds and along the extensive driveway the devilish spectre of Rooks Hall loomed in the distance, filling me with despair and dread. The horses began to slow as we approached; the high pitched whine now audible, then they halted and reared up, nearly upturning the carriage. I did my best to settle them and then un-tethered them from the carriage and let them trot away to a more bearable distance. My heart wished the same option were available to me, my skin was beginning to itch.

As I made my reluctant approach to the main doors the whine increased in volume. The old building looked just as grey as it had all those years before when I was trapped within its walls. Clearly uninhabited now, the main doors were half open like a shallow frown. As I crossed the threshold and stepped into the hall, trembling, the light cascaded into the ancient hallway, illuminating the great room. All was still, save for the dust particles that hung in the air, revealed by the light from their prolonged slumber in the darkness. All was silent, except for the slow, rhythmic ticking of the large clock that stood ominously at the far end of the great hall.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

My eyes fixed on the clock, its round face, static hands, and its oak cabinet reverberating with the ticking: time marching, unstoppable.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

It was as if I were looking down a dark tunnel, all light in my periphery vision had vanished, all that remained, all that dominated my sight was the menacing towering clock and the eerie, unsettling ticking.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Each tick was like a needle to my brain, a stabbing, irksome, maddening malady of my senses. The itching returned to my body and struck me down like a thunderbolt from the gods, my hands crawling over my body, unable to relieve the intense irritation. I staggered to my feet, urged on by some force, compelled to advance within the house. Approaching the large thick beamed staircase, I froze at the base of its steps. There on the balcony was Beaufort, blonde hair, laughing, laughing. Laughing as he always did before his death; before his body was broken by the fall. Broken by the fall from the balcony, pushed, yes, pushed by me.

I turned my head, the laughter still ringing in my ears. I turned back, and the boy was gone. Yet the laughter remained, it echoed from the bowels of the house. Slowly, against all will and reason, I ascended the stairs, my legs moving without my consent. As I reached the dormitory I paused beside the door, hand resting on the handle, resisting. But the house commanded and I obeyed. I entered to see the bare room; walls covered with mold and flaking plaster. Then the images flashed, the bodies, the faces of the slain looked at me with unnerving accusation. The children, bodies twisted, disordered, the Abbess, bloodied and bowed. Still the laughter, mixed with the whine and the creak, the itching and the pounding of heart and head. I could remain no more and fled the room, rushing down the hall and the stairs and past the ticking clock and bursting through the doors into what was now bright sunshine.

Gathering my breath for an instant, I paused before hearing the call of the lake. The whine had returned, paining my ears and brain. I approached as if in a trance as the blue waters of the lake shimmered like a sea of diamonds. Baliss stood, by the shores of the lake, paddling in the water, just as he did the day he drowned. Held head first under the gloomy water by my hands. He smiled and waved and then was gone.

Broken, disoriented and paralysed of will, I sit by the shores of the lake. I Search in my waistcoat pocket and I retrieve the message. I hold it to view and examine it once more. It is blank, the words gone. Those flowery, delicately crafted characters gone. Had they ever existed?

Sudden clarity of mind descends on me and I now know why the house has called me. Why I have returned to Rooks Hall. I reach for my journal book, this journal book you hold in your hands, and allow my pencil to exorcise the evil in this place, the evil in me.

I hope that this testament will go some way to explain the grounds for my actions, for I do not seek forgiveness or redemption, I know I am beyond that prospect now. I believe myself not evil, but an agent of evil. And if this house itself is not evil, it too is an agent of it. I have seen many terrible things in my short, tormented, years, and the undoubted source of those evils I have witnessed and facilitated, is this house.

I wish the house unmade, wish that it had never existed. I wish to see every stone removed from its walls and scattered to the ends of the earth, yet the house lives on, breathes new evil with every new dawn. No fire has ever destroyed it, nor ever could. The house will live forever.

So my only achievable course of action is to wish myself unmade. To remove my tortured soul from the power of the evil force of this house and to attempt to find peace and forgiveness in the eternal afterlife of heaven or to burn in the eternal suffering of hell. For to remain on this earth, a murderous, medium for wickedness is offence to nature. I pray that whosoever finds this journal shall understand my motive and explain my intentions to others. And in finality, I ask but one thing, that my body, once discovered, be removed from the lake and given a Christian burial in accordance with the teachings of Jesus Christ, whose forgiveness is all I seek.

Jonathan Meeks April 12th 1827

Reclining With An Electronic Woman

Todd looked at the ships instrument screen. The APU vessel on his scanner registered a surge in power. It was charging its front guns, standard APU procedure. They were always prepared for runners.

The vid-screen crackled as the image of an APU officer presented itself.

'This is Sergeant King of the Confederation Android Protection Unit. You are ordered to disable your shields and weapons systems and prepare your docking mechanism. You are being boarded on Confederation authority. This is an official recreational android search. Please state your ships registration and the operating numbers of all crew on board,' the Sergeant's voice crackled.

Todd complied and punched the numbers into the encrypted com-link between the two ships. He knew the score; he was a seasoned freighter captain. Sooner or later everyone gets boarded. From his flight control seat he switched the autopilot computer to docking mode and the vessel slowed to a crawl. He could hear the throb and pulse of the APU ships engine as it descended towards him from above. The aged cockpit rattled slightly as the APU ship hovered above and then connected with Todd's freighter like an animal mounting its mate. Then there was a loud thud as the docking ports connected.

Inside the airlock of the APU ship the two APU agents King and Robinson waited.

'I'm nearing retirement age now kid so I need you to back me up. I was a fast gun in my day, but I'm too old to keep drawing on fuck droid runners and I know it. Sooner or later my luck might run out. Keep your eyes peeled,' said King.

'No problem, I got your back. Just don't get nervous, you'll make me nervous,' said Robinson and checked his weapon.

Todd got out of his seat and approached the boarding hatch doors and unlocked the air seal. The APU ship's doors opened with a hiss and cautiously, two agents emerged, guns first into the airlock.

'APU, Hands up,' the agent Robinson said, the voice full of caution, crackling through his helmet speaker.

Todd put his hands on his head as ordered. He knew when a pulse rifle is aimed at you it's wise to do as you are told. The two agents towered above Todd's five foot six frame in their black uniforms. King approached the slovenly dressed and unshaven Todd.

'I'm agent King and this is agent Robinson of the APU. How many crew?' the agent asked.

Robinson could almost see the training screen instructions flashing in front of his eyes. Announce your presence, confirm the crew strength, secure the cockpit, and avoid surprises.

'Only me,' Todd answered, hands still held up as he headed for the cockpit. 'Just one freighter captain,'

King motioned Robinson towards the cockpit.

'Relax, take a seat,' agent Robinson signalled Todd to take a seat. 'Now, what's your cargo, destination and operating code?' Agent King nodded his approval to the rookie, step four of the boarding procedure, establish cargo, destination and shipment code.

'Cargo is Labour droids for the governor on Mars. Fifty. Operating code for this shipment is 1626,'

Robinson tapped the operating code into a handheld computer and waited a few seconds before nodding to his partner.

'It's good. The code checks out,' he confirmed.

'Of course it checks out. Do I look like a fuck-droid smuggler? Death penalty ain't for me buddy, no way,'

'You seem a little jumpy sir,' said King.

'Me? Well you try standing at the other end of that pulse rifle huh? You might get a little jumpy,'

'You understand that we are APU officers and that we are empowered to search all vessels for recreational droids?' agent King stated.

'Yes sir,' Todd affirmed with a nod.

'May we see your cargo log?' agent Robinson asked.

'Sure, no problem,' Todd punched the vid-screen over to the inventory menu and selected the cargo read-out.

King stepped closer to inspect the screen, analysing its contents. Labour Droids, moisture converters, agricultural equipment. Everything seemed routine.

'I'm legally obliged to ask you before we search, do you have any unauthorised, outlawed or unlawfully modified non-human life forms aboard this ship?' agent King asked in serious tone.

'No sir, as I said, just a consignment of labour droids. These are for the governor, his personal gardeners,'

'I've seen those gardens on TV. They are something,' Robinson said excitedly, drawing a look of disapproval from King. They were here to do a job, not socialise.

'Man, you know it,' Todd said. 'Modelled on the hanging gardens of Babylon. And the governor does love his gardens, spends a fortune. But I guess the confederation doesn't mind as long Mars keeps producing Silithium,'

Todd was right. On Mars the governor had total power and drew a huge income for governing the human colony and the mineral mining industry that fuelled the burgeoning galactic empire. Every star-ship in the Galactic confederation fleet, every O2 generator on every colonised planet, and every pulse rifle in the hands of every confederation soldier got its Silithium fuel cells from minerals mined on Mars.

'Please show us to your cargo hold,' agent Robinson motioned with his pulse rifle.

Todd slowly got up from his chair and made his way down the length of the freighter. He opened the hatch to the lower deck and slowly descended the steel ladder as the two APU agents waited at the top.

'Cargo's down here,' Todd waved at them.

Robinson moved to descend the steps as King grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.

'Wait,' King said, taking his pulse rifle off safety. 'Ok, I've got you covered,'

'Jesus King,' said Robinson. 'You're really starting to give me the creeps,'

Robinson descended first with King covering him, then King followed, caution etched on his face. The decks of the ship were dim and dingy, the only light coming from the soft overhead emergency lighting. The ship looked visibly aged to Robinson; she was a near obsolete model. At the end of the walkway there was a hatch that led down to the cargo deck. Todd descended the ladder first and stepped down onto the steel deck. The APU agents followed, rifles still trained on him. He made for the large doors of the cargo hold and opened them by the control pad, keying in the code. The doors slowly swooshed open and the bright lights flickered on, illuminating the cargo. It looked like a meat locker, or a morgue. The androids were stored in clear zip locked PVC body bags, hung in racks of twelve.

'Step over here please,' agent King said, addressing Todd who complied as ordered. 'Robinson, you stay here with the captain. I'm gonna take a look around,'

Robinson stood next to Captain Todd who leaned against the cargo bay doors. The rookie agent began to feel a little uneasy. He was uncomfortable with silences.

'So where did you get this crate?' Robinson asked. 'Ippillion class freighter? Christ, she must be fifty years old. A GX280 moon shuttle is probably faster,'

'When I'm governor on Mars I'll upgrade. What can I tell you? She ain't much for manoeuvres but she hauls whatever cargo the confederation asks her to and she don't give me no trouble except for the port side gun. Never got round to gettin that fixed,'

'What kind of dough does the confederation pay for hauling this shit?' Robinson enquired.

'Barely minimum. After taxes it ain't much to talk about. Just about enough to keep my wife off my back and sink a few beers on a Friday night,'

'Yeah, it's the taxes that kill you,' Robinson agreed.

'I've been busting my ass for fifteen years flying freighters for the confederation. It's solitary work flying the trade routes. The wife's always complaining that I'm away too long and that we never have enough money but I says to her, there's only one way to a better life in this galaxy, working against the system. And I ain't that brave or stupid!' Todd laughed.

'True,' said King. 'Besides, I've seen what they do to humanity. My best friend's father quit his job and ran off with a Fuck-Droid,'

'Jees, what happened?'

'APU picked him up a couple months later in some motel room,' said Robinson, drawing a finger across his throat. 'Iced him there and then and de-activated the droid,'

Everybody knew de-activation was just a nice word for extermination.

'What happened to the kid?'

'What do you think? No father, no money, no food. Whole family ended up in the shelter,'

'How long you been with the APU?'

'Bout a year. The bounty on de-activation is pretty good,'

'Yeah?'

'Oh yeah. They set it real high so's to discourage corruption. Nobody is gonna run with a captured fuck-droid and forfeit four figures,'

'Four figures? Sheesh, I'm in the wrong business,' said Todd.

King returned soon after and motioned Robinson and Todd to come inside. The three men took up position near the racks of androids.

'You're legally required to be present during a search Captain,' King said.

As they inspected the racked droids Robinson couldn't believe how incredibly lifelike they looked, like real humans, their features slightly obscured by the thick plastic. Agent King prodded one of the bags with the muzzle of his pulse rifle, and then pulled out his scanner.

'We'll just be a moment,' said agent Robinson, who too retrieved his scanner and began scanning the racks of androids.

'These were not your usual labour droids,' King whispered to Robinson. 'No utilitarian standard features, these droids are all unique, also mostly female,'

'Well, like the guy said, they are for the governor of Mars. Anything is possible for that guy,'

'Maybe,'

Robinson stared at a tall blonde droid. She was beautiful. Flawless soft skin, delicate fine features, high cheekbones, pert breasts, narrow hips, long slender legs. He wanted to touch her, to feel her, to caress. He looked on the perfect specimen of the female form and compared the body to that of his own wife, flabby from childbearing and idleness.

'Jesus, I can see how a guy could be tempted,'

'Stow that shit, Robinson, even if you're joking. You know the rules. Anyway, what's the point of having an obedient fuck droid if you aren't alive to use it?'

Robinson swallowed hard and put the thought to the back of his mind and concentrated on his scanner.

As Captain Todd watched the agents he recalled the conversation in the freighter pilot's bar on Pluto. He hadn't had a moment's hesitation when the syndicate rep approached him.

'I hear you might be interested in a little non confederation work. Is that right?'

'Might be,' Todd stated flatly.

'We're not interested in maybes Todd. This is skin job smuggling. Penalty, if caught, is death. You're either dead or you're not, there's no maybe. We need committed pilots we can trust. Not spineless freighters who drop their cargo at the first sign of an APU ship. Are you in or out?'

'Two ex wives? Credit blacklisted? Give me a break. I'm in,'

'Ok, we'll make all the arrangements, deliver the merchandise to your ship, get you a water tight shipment code...'

'Water tight?'

'Don't worry, it'll be a Martian governor's code. Nobody would stop a shipment for the governor. I got friends in high places. Can your crate hold sixty Andy's?'

'You bet,'

'Smuggling bays?'

'Three,'

'Krylium lined?'

'Impenetrable to Andy scanners,'

'They better be. Ok, the deal is ten percent of the bottom line figure for every fuck droid smuggled, any problem with that?'

'Fuck no. It beats the shit out of mineral transportation,'

Todd had always fantasised about banging a fuck droid.

'Do I get to break any of them in?' he laughed. The syndicate rep didn't. He just gave Todd a menacing look that he didn't take to be positive. Todd's smile faded.

'This shipment should clear you a hundred and eighty thousand credits easily, if you don't screw up. You do a couple more and you could be looking at fifteen percent,'

Todd licked his lips.

'Show up tomorrow night at docking bay ninety four,'

Todd downed his drink in one and with that the syndicate rep was gone.

*

King reached the far corner of the cargo hold and grabbed Robinson by the arm.

'These are definitely not standard Labour Droid's,' whispered King as he analysed the scanner readout.

Even for the governor of Mars, these LD's were extravagant, something that caught Kings suspicion. He switched off his scanner.

'I think we should call it in,' said King.

'Call it in? It's for the governor. You're not suggesting... Everyone knows that the governor has concubines on Mars. Why would he need RA's too?'

'Why would somebody need an LD that looked that good? Why does it need breasts?'

'Are you nuts? That guy could crush our balls in a meat-grinder,'

'That's if they're even for the governor. That Operating code came back as a pending shipment from two months back, no cargo was assigned. For all we know the original cargo was dumped and he picked up some RA's on the way,'

'Then why use the operating code? And who smuggles fuck droids in plain sight? If he is telling the truth are you seriously going to go up against the governor of Mars? Think about it, you're six months away from retirement,'

'My scanner picked up traces of Krylium. Something's not right with this shipment,' he stated flatly.

'But the technical readouts from the scanners all came up normal,'

'So there is only one course of action, a physical search for circuitry modification or installed genitalia. A strip search,'

'Aw shit Jim,'

They selected three droids each at random, removing the clothing to look for genitalia and opening the circuit control panels to look for tampering. Todd stood by anxiously; they were taking a long time. When they finished, agent King set his nerves at rest. All the tests were negative.

Todd stood nervously, arms folded across his chest, watching them scrutinise his cargo. He chewed quickly on a nail and then finally, to his relief he saw the two APU agents break off.

'Everything seems to be in order. We'll punch your operating code into the database which should stop you getting boarded again this trip. Apologies for the inconvenience and thanks for your co-operation,' agent King said, shaking Todd's hand as he entered the airlock with agent Robinson.

'Like I told you, routine Andy shipment,' Todd said with a shrug.

Once they had undocked from Todd's freighter Robinson broke the ice, the suspense was killing him.

'So what are you going to do Jim?'

'For now, nothing,'

As soon as the APU ship disappeared off the scanner, Todd set to work. He opened the smuggling hatch in the floor and disappeared below deck, re-emerging with an Andy under his shoulder. He hooked it up to the charging outlet and eyed it closely. Todd began to think what every other red blooded male had thought since the invention of RA's.

God, look at this one, perfect beautiful face, gorgeous ass, huge tits. Who would want a real woman?

Todd put the craft back on autopilot. He felt good. He had enough commission coming his way to clear all his debts. A few more trips and he could live comfortably for the rest of his days. Buy a large plot on a private star near Orion, live out the rest of his life in opulence and seclusion, and maybe even buy a harem of obedient fuck droids. He stood entranced looking on the seductive curves of the RA with urgent desire.

Thirty six hours till we reach Mars. Looks like I got plenty of time to have me some fun with this one.

He retired with the Android to his bunk as the craft hurtled through space towards Mars, completely oblivious to the device the APU agents had planted on his ship. He was being tracked.

Wank Olympics

'Some say it's just a room full of dirty old men, some say it's just harmless fun. But others say it's the ultimate athletic challenge, the zenith of sexual freedom fused with the brute determination to break all records. In the month that brings you the first ever professional Wank Olympics we ask what drives a man to become a professional Wanker?'

Dexter Walker smiled to himself as he watched the words fire off the printer. He held the page up to the light and chuckled to himself. This was the weirdest assignment of his career. He had the lead for his documentary, which had Pulitzer written all over it, now he just had to go over the interview footage and stitch together a story.

Dexter sat back in his chair as he fired up the VCR.

Dexter to camera, background is a gymnasium:

"Lance Stroker is a 34 year old Yoga instructor from San Francisco. He's lived in the bay area all his life but in two weeks' time he sets off to Tokyo for the biggest challenge of his career,"

Lance to camera:

"I'd always touched myself as a kid, we all did. But I really took to it. To me, it wasn't just tossing off, it was a science. I strive for the ultimate perfection in masturbation,"

Dexter off camera:

"Lance is obviously a committed athlete. His purpose built training room is a testament to that fact,"

Lance to camera, background is a gymnasium:

"To compete at the top level you have to train really, really hard. I'm not just going there to make up the numbers dude, I'm there to win. Nobody stands in my way. I'll take on all comers,"

Dexter off camera:

"The true cost of such blind devotion to his art cannot be underestimated, as Lance would be the first to explain,"

Lance to camera:

"It's cost me over the years. Cost me big, and not just money. Two marriages, a lot of failed relationships, my eyesight, even my job once,"

Dexter off camera:

"That's when the 'Frisco-Fister' turned professional,"

Lance:

"I was tired tossing off with old men, stroking for meaningless amateur titles. I have a gift and I genuinely feel I'm the best in the world. To realise my potential I had to devote all my time to training. So I turned pro,"

Dexter to camera, background is a suburban street:

"Bob Tosser is a 53 year old accountant from West Bromwich in England. He's captain of the British team and ranked 37th individually in the world. But the culture gap between US and UK Wanking couldn't be bigger,"

Dexter, inside suburban house:

"Bob, what would you say to those critics who say that you have no chance in Tokyo and that the days of amateurs are over?"

Bob:

"Well I'd say they are a complete pack of Wankers. I mean, they've got it all wrong haven't they? At the end of the day it's just a laugh isn't it? It's about enjoyment. I'm just going to there to pull one off and see what happens. These Yanks have taken all the fun out of Wanking,"

Dexter off camera:

"Bob trains no more than four hours a week at his local Wank-club in Oldbury. Cream team, old school friends, have no sponsorship and even have to supply their own magazines,"

Team member to camera:

"I confiscated this one off a kid in the Geography class I teach," (Holds aloft a copy of Big birds monthly.) "I don't know, kids today eh?"

Dexter off camera:

"Bob's team morale is pretty good at the moment, the group having come second in the European championships in Helsinki a month previous in the synchronised Wanking category, an event where each team must climax either together or sequentially,"

Bob to camera:

"It was a tough group we were in, the sequential group, we did well just to qualify. The Swiss, French and Dutch were difficult to beat off. We breezed through the quarterfinal but the semi was quite hard. Best of three matches, one win each and the last match was drawn. Judges couldn't separate us so in the end we had to toss for it. I called and luckily we came up trumps. I got head. Of course the bloody Germans beat us in the final. Wankers,"

Dexter off camera:

"So what's the secret to synchronised Wanking bob?"

Bob:

"It's all about rhythm, like rowing a boat. If one of the guy drops his stroke rate, he drags an oar, slows everyone down. You have to concentrate, close your eyes, and go for it. We Wank in the sequential class so it's even more difficult. You really need to know your team mates and how long their fuse is. I'm a tail ender, which is why I'm captain. It's the most important leg, if I blow too soon, or take too long. It's curtains,"

Dexter to camera:

"The team Wank in a shed in Bobs back garden, since they were kicked out of the local community hall after an incident during a women's guild meeting,"

Bob:

"The council double booked the hall. We were there first," Bob explained.

Dexter off camera:

"But training in unprofessional environments is not without its dangers. In fact Wanking itself is a notoriously dangerous sport. The obvious injuries like palm blisters, wrist sprains, failing eyesight and carpal tunnel syndrome are insignificant compared to the relatively unknown side effects of sustained, professional Wanking,"

Inside shed:

Dexter to Bob:

"How can one avoid such horrific injuries Bob?"

Bob:

"Take up golf instead?"

Dexter to Bob:

"And how do you find the local reaction to your activities?"

Bob:

"Well it's not like we advertise or anything but people do talk. We've been raided by the police twice this year on suspicion of being a paedophile ring. People hear about a group of men Wanking together, and they put two and two together...,"

Dexter:

"And make four?"

Bob:

"More like one really, but the police were quite nice about it all. They tidied up the place afterwards, even repaired the door. One even asked about joining,"

Dexter to camera, background is Tokyo city:

"On the flipside Hidetoshi Wankajima is the undisputed world freestyle champion and also the world record holder for the fastest ever recorded climax of 2.6 seconds. A very quiet, reserved man, he seldom gives interviews. But when we ambushed him after a long days practice we managed to get a few words from the self-proclaimed Master Meat Massager,"

Hidetoshi:

"Me very versatile, me rub it long time. Cum very quick, no one beat off faster,"

Dexter off camera, stock footage of Japanese TV advertisement:

"Hidetoshi enjoys almost god like status in Japan and has taken full advantage of his fame to build a personal fortune. The face of Madame Palm hand cream and Kleenex, he runs his own porn film production company to supply athletes,"

Hidetoshi:

"Me make lot of money. Everybody Wanky Wanky these days. Buy many films, make me very rich,"

Dexter to camera:

"But out of the hysteria of professionalism and mass marketing has come a new saviour. Chuck Jerkofski, The Philadelphia-Fist-Fucker, who came out of nowhere to explode onto the scene less than two years ago. In a phenomenal rise, he's taken seventeen amateur titles in the last eighteen months and is set to make a very a big impression on these first games. Raised in a strictly catholic home, where masturbation and even sexual thought were banned, Chuck nurtured a secret desire to become the world's leading solo swordsman,"

Chuck to camera, sat on Gym bench:

"I always loved to stroke it. I had to wait till the dead of night when everyone was asleep, and I had to be very quiet. I couldn't stash any porn in my room, it'd be found easily, so I used to imagine the mother superior nude,"

Dexter off camera:

"It's thought this secret self-pleasuring practice and depravation of visual stimuli helped Chuck develop an amazing photographic memory for arousing imagery that has propelled his career,"

Chuck, smiling:

"Now I just lie back and rub, it's natural, easy. I just get in that zone and....wow baby! It's like magic!"

Dexter off camera:

"The study of tantric methods increased his stamina further which unfortunately culminated in an appalling injury earlier this year during a marathon Wank session,"

Chuck, looking serious:

"I was inexperienced, pushing way too hard, the pace was suicidal. I ended Wanking myself into a coma,"

Dexter to camera:

"However, the clash of professional and amateur, and the creeping spectre of Viagra are not the only controversies foreseen at these games. Religious outrage at organised, corporate sponsored, televised Wanking has grown steadily. Several high ranking Bishops and priests have vocalised their distain. Wide scale picketing and a boycott of the Olympics are planned,"

Footage of religious rally in Wichita:

"Jesus didn't touch himself. Bob Hope didn't touch himself. We need to teach our children that it's wrong to whack off in a camper van. I caught three young kids whackin off in my camper van last week. Can you believe that shit?"

Dexter to camera:

"But whatever happens on the picket lines, to most spectators, participants, or TV viewers, the most important thing is what happens when competition commences, and who's still standing proud on that winner's podium,"

Stock footage close-up of medal ceremony:

Dexter walker chuckled to himself and slowly repeated the words 'Pulitzer. Pulitzer. Pulitzer,'

Last Confession

A tall yet shabbily dressed figure sat alone in a booth in a New York Diner. He wore a grey trench-coat, dirty and creased, under which was a sweat soiled shirt. He was pouring sugar from the sugar dispenser into a cold cup of coffee, which had stood un-drunk for forty minutes. It was a cup of coffee destined to remain un-drunk.

Debbie noticed the strange character but paid him little attention as she folded her morning paper and concentrated on a style column. This was her routine each day, up at 6:30am, breakfast at the diner in her favourite booth, then the metro to the office. She dreaded it. She hated her job but always seemed to find a reason not to just quit and take up something new. Something more fulfilling.

The overly bright halogen lighting of the diner created a sterile atmosphere, like a hospital theatre. There was little chatter amongst the customers, most sat alone, eating, drinking, and staring at newspapers to mask their depressed moods.

The shabbily dressed man was now stirring the cold cup of coffee rhythmically. He didn't appear to have any agenda for being there, his hollow grey eyes fixed on a distant object. Debbie suddenly started to feel a strange feeling, like she was being watched. She looked up from her paper and realised that the man was staring at her. She noticed his lifeless yet bloodshot grey eyes that looked like they hadn't seen sleep in a long time, and his pale white hands stirring, his fingers thin and elegant, almost feminine. Flustered by the unwanted gaze she ruffled her newspaper and pretended not to notice the man's stare.

Suddenly the rhythmic stirring ceased and the long thin fingers put down the plastic spoon on the pristine white table top, staining it with a drip of black coffee. The man got up, edged out of the seat and approached Debbie's booth.

"Can I sit here?" the man asked in a low almost robotic voice, a voice that didn't seem to come from a living, breathing human.

Debbie looked up from her paper at the man. He looked very creepy, like a vagrant.

"It's ok," she said, gathering up her bag and paper. "I'm leaving."

The man moved quickly, like a draft of cold air and was suddenly sat right next to Debbie, forcing her into the corner of the booth, behind the pillar, out of the line of sight of the counter. She felt something prodding her in her side.

"You're not going anywhere." the voice whispered.

Debbie froze in terror, a million thoughts rushing through her head at once.

"Don't scream, don't move or I'll kill you." he said calmly, no hint of emotion.

Debbie was terrified. She stared ahead at the pillar, scared to move, almost too scared to breathe. Both sat at the table, looking directly ahead, no eye contact, no sound. Finally Debbie's captor broke the Ice.

"I suppose you're wondering what this is all about aren't you." the man stated, rather than asked.

Debbie said nothing, still staring blankly ahead, trying to figure out how she had managed to find herself in this situation. There were hardly any people in the diner now, most having left to begin the daily commute. Nobody to help. After a few seconds silence the man resumed his speech.

"Well I'll tell you. You can probably guess that I've killed people, lots of people. I'm not sure exactly how many, but it's a lot. Lots of faces, but I can't really remember them clearly." he said.

Debbie was still frozen with fear, too scared to move an inch. Maybe someone will come in she thought, or rather hoped. Maybe the waitress will ask us if we want more coffee. But it was hopeless. Teresa was waitressing. Debbie could see her reflection in the plastic coated menu, slouching at the counter, reading a magazine. Debbie had been eating in this diner three years and Teresa was the laziest she'd ever come across. A man in a check shirt came in and sat at the counter and Debbie contemplated screaming.

"I know what you're thinking," her captor said, a chill running up Debbie's spine. "You think I'm crazy," he added, a wave of relief washing over Debbie's fraught nerves. "Maybe I am. But then again this world is enough to drive anyone crazy. Anyway, were getting off the point." he continued, like he was anchoring a news programme.

Debbie noticed that despite his scruffy appearance he was well spoken and articulate.

"Ironically, the reason I'm holding a switchblade to your ribs is that I'm done killing. I'm wishing to make a confession."

Debbie swallowed hard.

"I wanted to confess to someone, not the police, not a priest. I'm not seeking to turn myself in or gain forgiveness from god. I just want someone to know what I did. Do you understand?" he said again in his soft, yet emotionless manner.

"Yes." Debbie said in a whisper, lying through her teeth. Debbie just wanted it over. She just wanted this psycho out of her life, forever.

"Good. Because I'm going to give you a list of names. The ones I remember."

Debbie was filled with a feeling of dread.

"I'm telling you all this because soon I will be dead. I want you to remember my name. It's Anthony Capuzzo. C-A-P-U-Z-Z-O."

Debbie swallowed.

"I have killed a lot of people. I'm a very sick man. Totally beyond help. I know the only way to stop is to kill myself. But if I do that no-one will know what I did. No-one will know who I killed. But I must die. Do you understand?" he said coldly.

"Yes." Debbie said without moving, still completely terrified.

"I picked you totally at random, I'm sorry it had to be you but there it is.

But take comfort from the fact that if we'd met under different circumstances it would have been much worse."

Debbie felt a twisting in her guts as she imagined the horror.

The man reached into his pocket and casually pulled out a folded piece of notepaper. He unfolded it and set it down on the white table in front of Debbie.

"Tell the Police to search apartment 34B, West Fiftieth Street. Look directly ahead, close your eyes and count to one hundred. Move before that and you will die."

With that he got up and after placing a five-dollar bill on the counter next to Teresa, calmly walked out of the Diner.

Debbie sat terrified, staring straight ahead at the pillar.

Ninety seven, Ninety eight, Ninety nine, One Hundred. Debbie paused for a further few seconds before reluctantly and tentatively opening her eyes. Total relief washed over her as she realised he was gone. She couldn't believe what had happened to her. The note lay there on the table top, staring at her, the names crying out to her from the page. She felt sick, her heart still racing, scared, confused, violated. She just wanted to forget all about it, but she knew she never could. Not now, not now she was involved. She silently cursed the name Anthony Capuzzo. She knew her life was changed forever.

Debbie was now on autopilot, getting up from her seat, reaching for her purse, she picked up the list and Capuzzo's five dollar bill. She could almost feel it radiating evil.

"You ok Debbie?" said Teresa, still leaning lazily against the counter.

Debbie didn't reply, she just put the five dollar bill on the counter and left the diner. She knew what she had to do.

At first the cops had thought she was crazy, a crank. But the Terror she'd felt in the presence of Anthony Capuzzo made her story compelling to the Lieutenant and finally, she'd been taken seriously. A police search of apartment 34B, West Fiftieth Street had confirmed the story. It had then taken over two hours to finish her statement, after which she was seen by a doctor, prescribed some sedatives and driven home in a squad car.

'You don't have to worry about a thing Miss. Capuzzo is dead. He can't hurt anyone anymore. You'll be safe. We'll need to talk to you again in the morning. Try to get some rest,'

Inside her apartment, Debbie was sat on her sofa, covered in a blanket, watching the news.

'Today the body of Anthony Capuzzo was found in an apartment in West Fiftieth Street, an apparent suicide. He was believed to be an undiagnosed psychotic who's killing spree went undetected for over a decade.

He has so far been linked with murders dating back to 1989. The final number of victims remains unknown at this time but all appear to be of Hispanic descent. Police records reveal that Capuzzo served three years in a correctional facility for theft before being released in July 2000. An un-named female is believed to be helping the police with their investigation.'

Debbie switched off the TV, opened the box of sedatives and swallowed two pills. She knew that as soon as she closed her eyes, she would be hearing the names of all those people, killed in horrible, horrible ways. The thoughts and images of their terrifying deaths would haunt her dreams. As she slowly drifted off to sleep, she cursed the name Anthony Capuzzo.

Pride And Lustfulness

Miss Caroline sat on a stiff backed Queen Anne chair in front of a window in the large stately home of Naff Hall, looking out over its impressive gardens. She watched a tall, strapping, young man digging in the flowerbeds as she silently and skilfully busied herself with her embroidery. The dark-haired young man stood up to his full height and stretched his arms wide, showing off the full masculinity of his frame. Wiping sweat from his brow he glanced over his shoulder towards Miss Caroline in and their eyes locked for an instant before she averted her gaze bashfully and he returned to his digging.

It was a hot summer's day and the digging proved tiresome even for the broad shouldered garden hand. Hot and bothered and soaking with sweat he slowly stripped off his now damp white over-shirt, revealing to Miss Caroline a perfect view of his muscular back and rippling shoulder muscles. She felt a slight flush as she imagined herself running her hands all over his hot sweaty, musky, body. She longed to feel his muscular arms embrace her and hold her, to exist in the vortex of a man's powerful physical presence.

Suddenly a sharp pain in her left index finger shocked her to her senses. Absent minded, she had pricked herself whilst sewing. Looking down she noticed that a small amount of crimson red blood was visible. She frowned slightly before gently tending to the wound with her delicate cherry red lips. When she lifted her gaze back to the window, the young man was gone and her heart sank a little. Soon there was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Miss Caroline said in a slight fluster before her governess Mrs Halifax entered the room.

"My Dear Miss Caroline," she said a note of concern in voice. "You appear a trifle unsettled,"

"No Mrs Halifax," Caroline replied. "I am most contented,"

"I have news for you Miss Caroline. New owners have taken possession of the neighbouring farm. A most wealthy company comprising, I am told, of several bachelors. One of which is said to boast of an enormous inheritance. I have just taken a note from a messenger," Mrs Halifax said excitedly.

Caroline's mind was still clouded with unnatural and sinful thoughts concerning the young garden hand.

"We have this day been invited to a ball at Weathertop house," Mrs Halifax exalted with great glee.

Weathertop house was a slightly smaller stately home approximately three miles out of town that was habitually leased by gentlemen who usually stayed only long enough to learn just how dull Warwickshire can be. Caroline had lost count of how many times she had attended balls there, and danced and pretended to enjoy the attentions of its odious and loathsome temporary inhabitants.

"We must prepare ourselves for the event Lady Caroline. I have prayed many nights for a fine husband for you and sincerely wish that our search may soon be over. I only beg you to keep an open mind and not judge the gentleman too hastily,"

Mrs Halifax had long chastised Miss Caroline for her high mindedness and lofty expectations concerning her future husband. Caroline had rejected more potential suitors than Mrs Halifax could remember and she secretly feared that she might have to bear the shame of seeing her grow to be one of societies most reviled of members, the spinster.

Miss Caroline found dinner parties and dances terribly boring. For a woman of her intellect and education, ritual activities where abhorrent yet necessary. Society demanded that she marry and to secure her future she would have to marry well. Since her seventeenth birthday her governess, Mrs Halifax, had been charged with seeking her an acceptable husband. But in the small Warwickshire village of Lustborough, that had been her home since birth, there were few men of sufficient wealth or breeding to meet the required criteria. Miss Caroline dreamt often of being rescued from the dreary situation by a young, handsome, dashing, intelligent gentleman. For years her prayers went unanswered. The men of the village were all drunkards, buffoons, crooked merchants or ignorant farmers. Each one akin to a poorly bred troll in looks and charm. All except the young man she had seen. He was the one small ray of light in her miserable life. He was tall and handsome and though they had never exchanged words, their glances had communicated a thousand thoughts and desires. Her heart leapt in his presence and her insides warmed with uncontrollable yearning.

*

The next evening Miss Caroline and Mrs Halifax drew up to the gates of Weathertop house in their carriage with exquisite promptness and were greeted by their host's best footman. Led inside the grand house, they were greeted in the hall by their benefactor, the large and imposing figure of Mr Bradford and his wife, the Lady Bradford.

"Lady Bradford and I are most pleased to make your acquaintance and to engage your good company on this fine evening," Mr Bradford said in almost emotionless tone, yet with a leering, slightly unsettling look in his eyes as he gazed on the beautiful Miss Caroline.

Miss Caroline was revolted by the apparent sleaziness of their host, yet automatically offered a slight bow of respect as she entered the grand hall. On first impressions Miss Caroline observed that Mr Bradford was indeed a repulsive excuse for a man. Inside the hall the party was in full flow as the towns' notable society figures circulated in the usual fashion. All were tiresome bores Miss Caroline was forced to converse with in irritating regularity and she sometimes contemplated marriage as a means to escape the tedious ritual. Local businessmen, merchants, notables, young naïve debutants, haughty blustering bachelors, meddlesome governesses, they all participated in an orgy of what seemed false agendas and pointless posturing. Bradford most of all seemed to take pleasure in the stream of attention that was directed towards him. The local merchants were falling over to ingratiate

themselves in the hope of securing business from the expected renovations to the aging structure of the grand Weathertop house.

Miss Caroline's unrivalled natural beauty was also the subject of much attention if not some quiet comment amongst the unacquainted guests of Mr Bradford. Her detached aloofness was also noted and only after stern looks and no little prodding from Mrs Halifax did she even partake in limited participation of the evening's festivities. That night Caroline danced with several unmarried suitors. By far the most handsome was a tall yet haughty gentleman named Mr Bingley who eyed her lustfully from across the room.

"He is a most handsome fellow Miss Caroline. I hear he is an associate of Mr Bradford. It seems bizarre to me that a man as repulsive as Mr Bradford would have a friend as dashing as Mr Bingley," Mrs Halifax observed in whispered correspondence with Miss Caroline.

"He is a most handsome man I agree. But he is far too well aware of that fact. What the good lord gave him in looks, he took back in modesty. I fear that he is less interested in marriage than fornication," Spoke Miss Caroline.

It was true. Mr Bingley was a hopeless philanderer. He already kept a mistress and rumour abounded of visits to the backstreets of London when the fancy took him. And it did often. Mrs Halifax and Miss Caroline continued to circulate the room, drawing the attention of the male guests. Of the male contingent, there was not much to choose from. Mr Lloyd was similar in appearance to a warthog, Mr Coutts was too old and that only left the almost unbelievably shy Mr Barclay who had arrived late amidst a flurry of embarrassed apologies to Mr and Lady Bradford. Miss Caroline had however noted that he had paid a good deal of attention to her in the main hall. He was of average appearance, not dashing, yet not abominable in looks. However, he behaved in a most acutely self-conscious manner that it precluded the option of conversation.

As the night drew on Miss Caroline was most bored by the after dinner conversation. The intolerable Mr Bradford was regaling his guests with self-serving anecdotes and false praises of his own style, taste and good humour. Miss Caroline preyed god he might meet with a most unfortunate accident and was slightly shocked by her own lack of sympathy toward another human being, but after some thought let the matter drop in her mind. She had other matters to attend to, such as the ever growing stream of affectionate glances that seemed to flow from both Mr Bingley and, though slightly more covert, Mr Bradford. The newcomer, Mr Barclay also sent out furtive glances but was unable to maintain eye contact without blushing. Barclay was somewhat puzzling to Miss Caroline. He was if rumour were true, excellently wealthy. Miss Caroline was therefore careful not to discourage his attentions, but also not to appear to notice them too readily.

Meanwhile Mr Bingley and his friend and benefactor, Mr Bradford consulted privately in his study.

"The young Lady Caroline appears to have engaged your goodly attentions this fine evening," Bradford droned through puffs on his large pipe.

"Indeed she is a fine young lady, and one which I intend to have intimate knowledge of fairly imminently," Bingley said boastfully, sipping red wine from his glass.

"And are we to believe the good lady welcomes your affections?" Bradford enquired.

"It is of no consequence to me what the good lady believes," Bingley said sniffilly. "I intend to have her and would greatly appreciate your aid in doing so,"

"Aid?" Bradford questioned.

"I wish it to be made known to her governess that I am both interested and available in marriage,"

"But my dear friend, you are neither,"

"But luckily for me, the good lady should be completely unaware of those facts. And I intend to keep it that way for now. An unmarried girl of her age should be grateful for any male interest,"

In the main room Miss Caroline sat in deep conversation with her own governess Mrs Halifax on the subject of suitors.

"I fear the pickings here may be intolerably slim tonight Miss Caroline. I suspect the rumour mill has provided us with a false lead in our quest for a suitor,"

"Indeed," Caroline whispered. "Mr Bingley it would seem is a loathsome, arrogant and uncharitable man and his friend Mr Bradford a bloated repugnant creature,"

"I am in most hearty agreement," Mrs Halifax commented. "Though we must not seem inattentive to the function we were so courteously welcomed to. We were, lest we forget, graciously invited to attend," Mrs Halifax reminded.

"The men here tonight have again turned out to be either bores or letches or repugnant beasts. Only Mr Barclay seemed vaguely human,"

"Ah my dear girl, the very same conclusion as my own," Mrs Halifax exclaimed, clasping her hands to her bosom. "Mr Barclay does praise you with his numerous lingering glances and, though admittedly not an extremely handsome man, is reputed to be immensely kind hearted, generous and affable once he overcomes his shyness. I am sure he will make an approach if properly encouraged,"

Meanwhile Mr Barclay was receiving conflicting and, from Miss Caroline's delicate position, unwelcome advice from the meddlesome Bradford.

"My Dear Mr Barclay," The pompous Bradford plodded, as he cornered Mr Barclay in the study. "I could not help but notice the unnatural attention you have paid to the young Miss Caroline this wondrous evening. However I feel it my manly, nay friendly, duty to inform you that it is my strong belief that she already harbours a deep preference for our friend Mr Bingley. I have it on good authority that she greatly admires his fine features, charming character, impressive taste and style, not to mention his immense fortune, and intends to encourage an imminent approach which may lead to proposition of marital union,"

"My Dear Bradford," Gushed Barclay. "I had no Idea that they good lady was already spoken for. In fact I was advised that she was positively and actively seeking engagement. If I had known otherwise I would never have directed my attentions thus. I do so hope that I have not offended, either the good lady, nor your honourable friend?"

"Most certainly not Mr Barclay," Bradford replied, patting Barclay's shoulder. "Most certainly not. But I thought it wise to ensure that we are both party to an unmistakable and cordial agreement,"

"My eternal thanks to you for such a gracious and informative counsel," Barclay said uncomfortably before bowing slightly and removing himself back to the sitting room looking still rather embarrassed and a little glum.

"My dear Mr Barclay," Mrs Bradford exalted upon Barclay's ignominious return to the room. "Whatever can it be to cause you to appear so sullen?"

"I fear a bad turn has befallen me," he replied, struggling for an excuse for such a sudden change in mood. "My constitution is sometimes prey to sudden misfortune. I beg your leave to retire for the night and offer my heartfelt apologies for doing thus so early. I am eternally grateful for your hospitality," he said before fetching his coat from a maid and disappearing into the night.

*

The next day Caroline again sat at her window attending to her embroidery. She was in downcast mood regarding the previous evening's events and brooded on the subject of marriage. Though she did not actively wish to be married, she hated herself for slavishly pursuing it at the behest of society. Secretly she wished to be free. Desire would set her free. Observing the young garden hand arrive, her heart leapt and boredom, yearning and a compulsion to fill the void in her heart pushed her to attempt to communicate with the object of her hidden lust. Nervous, yet feeling emotionally charged, she approached the young man with trepidation, butterflies tumbling in her stomach. He looked up from his digging and returned an admiring gaze as their eyes locked. Remembering his place he bowed his head, wiped sweat from his brow and offered his greeting with a smile.

"Good day Miss," he said in a deep masculine voice. Caroline blushed.

"The roses in the beds have been attended to. They should come to blossom soon. A fair sight they shall be. But not as fair a sight as you Miss," he said smiling.

"Thank you," Caroline said nervously, eying the young man's muscular torso. She was overtaken with desire.

"My name is Joseph by the way," he said smiling. "I've seen you looking from the window. You look very pretty sat in your chair. They say in the village that there's none as pretty as you Miss Caroline," Caroline went crimson with embarrassment.

From then on there was no going back. Caroline was won over, swept off her feet, uncontrollably in maddened lust for the young man. Against her better instincts and judgment, and at the advanced age of twenty eight, Miss Caroline took her first lover.

Not a word was spoken as Joseph delicately took her hand and led her to the barn. He sat her down on a bed of hay and pulled the large wooden doors to. Her new lover soon joined her side and Miss Caroline looked deeply into his eyes before clasping his hand to her ample, eager, near quivering milk white bosom. Still innocent to the mechanics of nature, yet a slave to the whims of yearning she could do no other than to allow her lover to teach. Soon Miss Caroline was relieved of her garments and within a trice the full weight of the well-built, muscular gardener was felt on top of her, his earthy grunts growing louder. Slightly shocked, yet desperately excited, she threw her arms round his neck and held him tightly as he busied himself with his masculine activity. Though not by definition an active participant, and inhibited by a fear of the unknown, Miss Caroline could not help but glean some enjoyment from the hurried goings on that occurred to her body as she lay among the straw looking upwards at the rafters. She had never before felt so vulnerable, yet so happy.

Caroline was not entirely sure what had just happened, but she felt warm, safe and secure. Her lover spoke of his many female conquests. Caroline leaned of nearly all of them, from is first, a plump girl, three years his junior, rosy cheeks and an excited squeal, to the much older and experienced widows who had all contributed to his knowledge and skill. Caroline was reaping the full benefits now and she silently thanked them for their help, and god for providing her with such an eager and accomplished lover. After some time, he slowly pulled on his britches, and searched about him for his shirt, before gathering it up in a bundle.

"I should be going," he said. "The foreman will be wondering where I got to," Before pulling on his shirt and leaving Caroline a lingering glance over his shoulder as he left the barn.

Several moments later, once fully dressed, Caroline left the barn and returned to the garden, eying Joseph as he worked. She was still absent minded as Mrs Halifax approached accompanied by Mr Bradford, who eyed her suspiciously and allowed his glances to follow the garden hand as he departed for the stables.

"Mr Bradford has come to personally invite you to a ball to be held in Mr Bingley's honour this Thursday night," Mrs Halifax gushed.

"D..Dear Mr Bradford," Caroline stuttered. "It...it is truly an... an honour to receive your gracious invitation,"

"Then it is settled," he said, eyes still tracking the garden hand. "Mr Bingley and I shall look forward to your company. Good day," he said as he turned swiftly and departed for his waiting carriage. Joseph watched the carriage leave, a smirk of satisfaction visible on his lips.

"It seems Mr Bingley is to make an approach after all," Mrs Halifax excitedly addressed Miss Caroline.

Miss Caroline, offering a false smile, felt her head start to ache with troublesome thoughts. Would he be so eager to secure her hand and its associated conjugal rights if he knew that the gardener had been first to explore her hidden shores?

*

That night she sent a private note to Joseph via a chamber maid, sworn to secrecy on pain of dismissal, requesting another private meeting.

The next afternoon was yet another hot summer's day. Miss Caroline walked briskly along the path that followed the dirt road between Naff Hall and the nearby village of Lustborough before bearing off to her immediate right and into the surrounding fields. Gathering up her skirts to protect them from the muddy ground as she went, Miss Caroline walked with demonstrative conviction and no little haste. By the stile of a wheat field gate stood the gardener, beaming a large smile that was soon reflected in Miss Caroline's own features. As arranged, her lover was present. They embraced briefly, without a word being spoken, before he led her by the hand along a narrow gap between the wheat stalks, deeper into the secluded field. Following behind, Miss Caroline was captivated by the shimm-ering golden light that flashed through the gaps in the wheat stalks and repeatedly illuminated her lover. She observed in wonderment as it bathed his yellow blonde locks in glorious sunshine and she held his large, rough, powerful hand ever tighter as her suspense mounted. Soon after he stopped in his tracks and produced a small hand scythe from a cloth sack. The blade was old and dull but the garden hand rapidly set about cutting down the wheat stalks about his right hand side and soon fashioned a private chamber for them to habit temporarily. Miss Caroline drew up her skirts and sat down in her provisional abode.

Joseph slowly began to unbutton her white silk blouse. Deep pangs of desire were coursing through her veins as he continued to strip her slowly and sensuously, feeling the warmth of the complete focus of her ever mounting lust. The energy her desire created made her head buzz and her fingers numb. Joseph removed her skirts and then hooked his thumbs underneath her undergarments and pulled them down. Caroline looked the supreme example of the female form. Her beautiful long dark hair cascading over her womanly shoulders, a face so perfectly structured with eyes that could pierce the blackest of souls, a bosom so full, welcoming and nurturing, velvet soft thighs, acutely feminine calves, delicate ankles and lastly, a pert and shapely posterior. Feeling the cool ground under her feet, sent a shiver through Caroline's spine. Grabbing her Joseph coaxed her to the floor and fully removed his shirt as she took in the terrific sight of his bulging, muscular torso.

"You cause me to have wicked thoughts," Caroline said huskily as they slowly but firmly embraced. Her heart rate was quickening as her desire grew.

Caroline's hands began to wander and Joseph reciprocated the exploration, tracing every vertebrae of her long slender spine before gently grabbing her soft, fleshy, peach like behind. They kissed slowly and sweetly for what seemed to Caroline like three life times as she rested her weary soul in that tender, secure embrace. Joseph was the first to disengage and open his eyes. He noticed an extremely contented face looking back at him.

"Miss Caroline, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on," he said, automatically, his gaze lowering to her chest.

"Take me now!" Caroline said forcefully, her face flushed with pleasure and excitement.

Caroline closed her eyes as she accepted all the pleasure this man had to give, as he worked briskly and rhythmically behind her, his hands holding onto her hips firmly for purchase. Caroline braced herself as she was rocked back and forth by the force of her lover's powerful thrusts, her breathing growing shorter and deeper as she moaned in ecstasy.

"Faster," she ordered as the gratification she was receiving grew to an almost unbearable level. "Faster,"

The muscles of her lover's chest and arms rippled as he doubled his efforts as he delivered ultimate satisfaction to the object of his untamed lust, causing Caroline to emit short, sharp gasps. The exposed location of their venue was positively adding to the excitement as she reached the brink of fulfilment. Every muscle in her body contracted at once and the entire lower half of her body seemed in spasm for several moments. Joseph disengaged from their carnal embrace and lay on the floor panting. Still tingling, Caroline lay breathlessly on the ground, a bead of sweat rolling slowly from her collar-bone, travelling downward between her ample breasts. She felt elated, contented, and happy. But Caroline knew it couldn't last forever. Even as she lay in her lovers strong muscular arms and stroked his bulging chest, she contemplated who she should marry. Which suitor to accept? She knew she could never marry her gardener. He was just a poor farm boy and though it pained her to admit, she could live without his carnal pleasures but not without money, dignity, respect and honour. He could give her none of these things. Caroline could no more be content to be a poor farmer's wife than he could be making polite conversation over a banquet table. Sex was sex but money was money. It was time for Miss Caroline to marry. Society demanded it and society's call rang louder in her ears than the ache in her loins. But that did not mean she could not make hay whilst the sun still shone. Restless once more, Caroline once again engaged Joseph in sweaty, lustful activity.

Soon a rustling was heard nearby before a rather ruddy cheeked and slightly fatigued Mr Bradford burst through the wheat stalks and intruded upon the carnally entwined couple in their makeshift chamber.

"Whore!" Bradford shrieked loudly, obviously an observer for some time, as the brisk amorous activity suddenly and abruptly ceased.

A terrified Miss Caroline moved quickly to cover her modesty as her lover moved to find his britches.

"I always advised that you were a common little trollop Miss Caroline," he glowered. "But you have surpassed even my darkest suspicions of your dishonour and dastardly conduct. A farm boy! For pity's sake!" Bradford shouted before setting about beating the garden hand with his walking cane.

"Please," Caroline begged. "Do not harm him. I love him,"

This revelation shocked Bradford to his very core and his frantic swipes with his cane ceased and the farm hand scurried off into the wheat stalks.

"Love? What does a miserable harlot like you know of love? I will see your lover transported to the colonies for this....this outrage. And as for you, your days of inhabiting a civilised and decent society are ended for eternity. Your reputation will bear each and every dark stain that it is due. I shall take great delight in imparting this disgraceful knowledge to the entire village," Bradford barked at her.

"Please Mr Bradford, please don't disgrace me!" Miss Caroline begged as she held her dress across her body, tears of embarrassment and shame streaming down her rosy cheeks.

"You have disgraced yourself young lady. My good friend Mr Bingley himself had considered you as a wife, but after this there is no way he will take you. You will be shunned and it is as much as you deserve,"

"Please Mr Bradford, I beg of you, please do not expose me," she cried. Bradford paused a moment in contemplation.

"There may be a way that this...unfortunate business may be overlooked. Maybe there is a way for it to be forgotten and a line drawn under the matter," Bradford uttered in slightly lower tones.

"Anything," Caroline blurted through her tears.

"I am in the market for a mistress and as you seem no stranger to fornication I may have use of a young thing like yourself," Miss Caroline was stunned.

"You can't mean it?" she exhaled, her face nearly drained of colour from the shock of the revelation.

Her heart sank as she contemplated the dreadfulness of becoming the loathsome, repulsive, repugnant Mr Bradford's whore.

"You balk at sharing a fine bed with a civilized gentleman like me, yet happily cavort in the open air with a lowly farm boy?" he chided. "The matter is up to you. If you are not to accommodate me then I have no alternative but to inform the village of your...misconduct,"

Caroline sobbed.

"You have...a certain appeal to me," Bradford said as he prised Caroline's dress from her arms with the tip of his cane, exposing her breasts. "A certain appeal," he repeated.

Caroline nodded and looked up at him through tear streaked eyes.

"I shall be entertaining guests for dinner tonight. You are invited to join me and stay the night as my guest. After dinner my wife and I shall retire to bed. When she is asleep I shall call on you. Do not disappoint me,"

"But what of your friend Mr Bingley? You yourself informed me of his intention to marry me. Would you blackmail your good friends intended wife?"

"Most certainly," he said before turning on his heels and leaving Caroline alone, sobbing uncontrollably.

Once sure Bradford was gone Joseph returned to comfort Caroline.

"I am ruined. Bradford will tell the village of what he has witnessed, unless..."

Caroline once again burst into uncontrollable tears.

"Unless what?" Joseph prompted.

"Unless I become his mistress," she blurted out through sobs.

They then walked silently, hand in hand through the field before waving a tearful goodbye at the gate and Miss Caroline was soon alone again on the path back to Naff Hall. Tears streamed from her azure eyes and moistened her long delicate eye lashes as the pain and anguish of love and confusion burned in her heart.

*

Miss Caroline had managed to compose herself as much as was possible by the time she returned to Naff Hall. Mrs Halifax had grown worried about her extended absence but was quickly placated by the news of Miss Caroline's most unexpected invitation to be Mr Bradford's dinner guest. Assuming it an impromptu opportunity to spend time with Mr Bingley, she enthusiastically aided Miss Caroline with her preparations for the night's festivities.

Miss Caroline spent the rest of the afternoon embroidering in the lounge. However her mind was far from centred on needlecraft. She brooded on her most disadvantageous position. She was unsure of exactly what to do but she knew for sure she would never submit to the reptilian Bradford's lechery. Come what may, that man would never soil her body. He had to be stopped and she resolved to stop him by whatever means necessary.

*

After much contemplation, Miss Caroline decided in her mind to marry Mr Barclay. He was kind and generous and a good man. And until such time as they were married she would keep her lover who was more than capable of providing the carnal satisfaction she craved. Her mind wandered, imagining their next encounter and Miss Caroline blushed slightly at the vision. She was beginning to moisten and tingle until a sharp sting from her embroidery needle she suddenly snapped to her senses. To her relief all the other women were intent on their embroidery. Nobody had noticed. Caroline returned to her needlework.

Miss Caroline arrived promptly for dinner that night and took her place at the table. She was not surprised to be seated to Mr Bradford's left, his wife by his right side. She was not even surprised to feel Mr Bradford's hand on her thigh underneath the large banquet table. She was surprised however to notice the absence of Mr Bingley and the unexpected presence of the highly embarrassed and coy Mr Barclay.

For Miss Caroline this was too much. The devious Bradford had worked his dastardly mind to attempt to outmanoeuvre her, knowing her likely preference for Barclay, conspired to have him present and witness to her public shame should she refuse his advances. Miss Caroline's mind raced with fear and thought.

She could do no other than to accept her guest's covert molestations as the banquet proceeded, the odious Bradford ever boastful of wealth and good taste to his captive audience.

As the banquet drew to a close the guests retired to the lounge to play whist. And when the hour drew late and the majority of guests had left, Mr and Lady Bradford retired to chambers.

A fearful yet outwardly unruffled Miss Caroline retired to her room. She had decided how to resolve the issue. Mr Bradford had to be removed from the equation. She sat by the crackling fire in her room and awaited Bradford's arrival.

Upon entry to the room Caroline leaned coyly against the fireplace as Bradford hastily worked at removing his expensive clothes. Caroline took the wine glass from the mantelpiece with her right hand and then with her left, surreptitiously took the vial of arsenic from her bodice. In a trice the potion was mixed and as the visibly aroused Bradford turned to her, his pathetic manhood exposed, he took the glass and downed the contents in one.

"Now you filthy little harlot, I will show you the meaning of the word depravity. I hope you have enough energy to satisfy me," he said as he lay down on the lush four poster bed and patted the mattress to his immediate left. "Now take off your clothes my pretty and come and join me,"

Caroline, never letting the sickly false smile drop from her face, very slowly began to unbutton her bodice. The loathsome Bradford began to salivate as her bulging bosom approached visibility. Teasing, Caroline then reached down and exposed the top of her garter belt. By now Bradford was no longer salivating, he was foaming at the mouth, grasping at his throat, his eyes bulging. He looked to the wine glass on the bedside table and then back to Caroline before gargling his last words.

"You... bitch..." Bradford croaked and at that moment expired.

The town was awash with gossip surrounding the untimely demise of Mr Bradford for the next two weeks. The official explanation was reported as severe food poisoning. The entire kitchen staff at Weathertop house were dismissed, the grief stricken Mrs Bradford deciding to give up Weathertop house and retire to Derbyshire.

Miss Caroline was now free to enjoy numerous secret trysts with Joseph before she instructed an ignorant yet overjoyed Mrs Halifax to encourage a proposition of marriage from Mr Barclay. Her enthusiastic governess tied up the deal that very day. There was no time to be lost. Miss Caroline was with child.

The Bully

'Ow, you're breaking my arm,' said the small boy as he struggled in the iron the grip of the bully.

'Then shut up and give me the money, titch,' said the larger boy, giving the scrawny arm another jerk.

'Ow! Ok, ok, take it, take it, just let me go!' said the small boy, scrabbling in the pocket of his shorts for the coins, three shillings & six pence in all, and held them out.

'Very kind of you,' said the bully, snatching them from the boy's grasp with a smirk. 'Pleasure doing business with you. See you again tomorrow,' he added with a wink and tip of his cap.

The little boy slumped against the cold brick wall of the alleyway and cried. His arm was sore and bruised but not as much as his pride. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, picked up his cap from the dirty floor and trudged home.

*

'Where the devil have you been Tommy? And where are the groceries I sent you for? You better not have lost the money again,'

'I'm sorry mum,' said the boy, looking glum.

'That's twice this week, and Oh Tommy, look at the state of you! Have you been fighting?' said Tommy's mother, seeing the dirt on his clothes, his ruffled hair and running nose.

'It wasn't my fault mum,' said Tommy and burst into tears.

'There, there,' said the boy's mother, comforting him with an embrace 'You've got to toughen up my boy, if your father was still with us...' she trailed off as the sadness of remembrance gripped her heart. 'Did they take all the money?'

The boy nodded silently, wiping the tears from his eyes.

'Yesterday as well?'

The same silent nod.

'Hmm...' said Tommy's mother. 'Well I think it's time we sent you down to your uncle Peter in Portobello. He'll sort you out,'

'He'll teach me to fight?' asked the boy, looking up at his mother.

'I'm not so sure about that, but he'll teach you to look after yourself,' she said, ruffling the boy's hair with a smile.

The next morning Tommy left his home in Shepherds Bush and walked to Portobello Market. The noise, hustle-bustle and most of all the smells, left his senses in wonder. All kinds of delicious things were sat on the stalls, pastries, pies, jars of sweets and candies. Other stalls brimmed with fruit and vegetables as the street brimmed with people going about their business. Beside another stall stood a large bearded gentleman displaying a stack of leather bound books next to a sign that read Luckford and Son. Tommy wandered over to the stall and picked up one of the books, a volume of the Pickwick papers. As the boy stood flicking through the pages of book, wrapped up in the adventures of Samuel Pickwick, he failed to notice the large figure stood behind him.

'Put that back boy,' said the large bearded stall holder, grabbing Tommy by the wrist and grabbing the book from his hands.

Tommy jumped and struggled in the large man's vice-like grip. 'Ow, ow, sir you're hurting me,'

'You deserve a good thrashing, little thief,' said the man and made to slap the boy. But as he drew back his arm to strike, it was stopped dead in its tracks by a large calloused hand.

'And what makes you think you'll be the one to dish out a thrashing?' said a large booming voice.

The bearded man let go of Tommy and turned to face the man behind him. He was tall and wide, with muscular arms, the sleeves rolled up to reveal impressive tattoos.

'Uncle Peter!' cried Tommy and ran to his uncle who scooped him up into his arms. 'I never stole it, I was just looking, I promise,'

'Never mind lad, I know you wouldn't steal it,' said Uncle Peter, putting him down. 'Now, listen here Luckford, you lay a hand on my nephew again and you'll be the one getting a thrashing, understand?'

'Of course Mr Hancock, if I'd known he was kin to you I would never-'

'You'd better not,' said Uncle Peter, cutting the man off and with that he took little Tommy by the hand and led him through the market to his stall.

'This is a busy market lad, you stick close to me you hear?' said Uncle Peter as they walked through the crowds of market stall holders, shoppers and fetch and carriers. Women with large bustle dresses and wicker baskets were perusing the bread and men wearing cloth caps and hob-nailed boots carried large crates of wares or pushed handcarts loaded with goods, whilst all the while the stall holders and hawkers and costermongers cried out for custom.

Tuppence a pound! Who will buy my fresh strawberries? Tuppence a pound!

Jam tarts! Beautiful sweet jam tarts! Ha'penny each!

Fresh baked loaves!

Pies! Pies! Get e'm while they're hot!

They'd walked less than a hundred yards and little Tommy's mouth was already watering.

'So, you're mother sent you down here to help out did she?' said Uncle Peter as they reached his stall, stocked with fine looking Fruit and Veg. Tommy stared in awe at the wares. He'd never seen such fresh looking produce. 'I could use another pair of hands. Near every able bodied man has gone off to that damned war in South Africa. Well, I'm sure we'll find a use for a little un like you,' his uncle said in his booming voice.

'You'll teach me to fight?'

'We'll see. You help me out, and we'll see,'

Tommy couldn't hide his disappointment, but he threw himself into his work with all the enthusiasm he could muster. He worked all day, lifting crates, running errands, fetching and carrying and at lunch time he sat and ate a pie and an apple with the porters and stall holders. He watched the fast talking costermongers and their joyful joshing and play fighting. He listened as they read to each other the newspaper reports of the terrible battles in South Africa and he watched with keen interest as they sparred with each other, throwing punches, ducking and weaving and snapping quick jabs. After half an hour uncle Peter came to call him back to work and he went home exhausted but contented.

The next week followed a similar pattern, early starts, hard tiresome work, but also those wondrous lunchtime moments hanging around, pie in hand watching the costermongers at play. They soon took to the small lad and he learned their card tricks and they taught him some of their boxing moves. Within a fortnight, little Tommy had grown from a boy to a young man. Tough, lean, a little bit cocky but most of all keen eyed and quick with his fists.

*

That weekend, he'd volunteered to get the shopping for his mum. As he walked the street and turned into the alley-way he was unafraid. In fact he was looking forward to it.

'Alo, alo, look whose here? Ain't seen you in a while, where you been hiding?' said the Bully as he leaned against the brick wall.

'None of your business,' said Tommy standing upright.

'None of my business he says?' said the Bully. 'Well maybe I should make it my business. And while we're at it, how about you hand over your money?'

'Come and get it,' said Tommy.

The Bully approached and to his eternal surprise he got just what was coming to him.

Cherry With Ice

The Chrysler slewed off the highway and swept past the Cedar Motel, into the old abandoned lot behind, and came to a halt in the darkness. The radio newscaster announced the time. 3:04am.

Chuck slumped forward and rested his forehead on the leather bound steering wheel and drew in a sharp breath. It hurt like hell, every time he drew breath. It hurt because he had been shot. The pain was intense and he could feel the blood seep from the stomach wound with every movement he made. Chuck continued to rest his head on the wheel, gripping tightly with his fingers. It was pitch dark outside except for the distant lights of the motel and his headlamps. The only sounds came from the traffic whooshing by the front of the motel on interstate 76 and the slow throb of Chuck's engine, which he was too weak to switch off.

Roused with a start, the car still running, he realised he'd passed out. Chuck lifted his head to look around but could see nothing but darkness. The movement made the blood seep and the pain returned. He slumped back in his seat, which caused a jolt of pain through his body. The radio was still warbling. The clock on the dash read 3:36am. Reaching forward, he switched off the engine and the headlights, then flicked on the interior light and adjusted the rear-view mirror to see his own reflection. It didn't look good. He was deathly pale due to blood-loss and Chuck already knew he didn't have much time left. Nor did he have much choice. All he could do was wait. Wait and hope. Where the hell was Stan?

*

Twenty miles south on interstate 76, bathed in white glow from the neon sign, Cherry stood at the truck-stop. She was bored and absently kicking the base of the Chevron sign with the toe of her sandal, her arms folded across her chest. There hadn't been a truck by in nearly an hour. Her left hand clenched into a fist and then she relaxed her grip to reveal her nails. Cherry took pride in her nails, expertly manicured once a week, her regular treat. In her line of business you had to look presentable. There was a slight chill in the night air and Cherry gave a little shiver, her legs bare and exposed in her short denim skirt, her thin white blouse offering little more protection to the rest of her body. Her heart didn't exactly leap when she heard the truck approaching. Half of her wanted it to drive straight past, the other half just thought of the money.

3:43am: Chuck sat silently in the car, his heart beating slowly, his mind racing, awash with thoughts. Chuck was in the spot he was supposed to be if things got fucked up, as Stan would call it. If there was a problem or the heist was busted he was supposed to go to the old lot behind the Cedar Motel on interstate 76. Stan would be waiting with a fresh car, untraceable. Chuck was there waiting, bleeding, dying, but where was Stan?

Cherry plastered on the standard issue innocent young-girl smile all hookers use when picking up a John as she climbed aboard the truck.

The cab stank of stale sweat and fast food which attacked the back of her throat making her feel nauseous. She was eyed lustfully by the truck driver as she slouched into the passenger seat of the cab. He was big built, bearded and greasy looking. Cherry surmised that he wasn't a stickler for hygiene. On balance she really, really didn't want this guy's dick anywhere near her.

"Well ain't you something sugar?" the truck driver leered at her, peeking down her blouse at her cleavage and licking his lips with anticipation. "That's a sweet rack you got there honey,"

The red glow of the dashboard clock read 3:47am.

"So what'll it be mister?" Cherry enquired uneasily as the truck trundled along the interstate basked in the moonlight, the truck driver's meaty paw nestled between her legs.

"What's the hurry? You got somewhere else to be, sweet thing?" he asked.

"No," Cherry responded. "I just wondered what kind of stuff you wanted to do. I don't do anything weird ok?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head lady," the trucker cooed, squeezing her bare thigh. "You and me are gonna get along just fine,"

Cherry was anything but placated by his tone. An uneasy atmosphere hung in the stale smelling cab. The next few minutes passed slowly.

"So, where do you wanna do it?" Cherry asked impatiently.

"What's your hurry, sugar? Just relax, I know somewhere real private," the truck driver said as they approached the lights of the Cedar Motel.

Cherry's heart leapt. A motel, a real bed, clean sheets, hot water, maybe a shower, that would be great. Suddenly the prospect of a night with this man didn't seem so bad. The truck left the interstate and followed the dirt track that lead to the abandoned lot behind and the trucker turned off his head lights before stopping in the darkness. The dim glow of the cabs interior light was the only illumination as Cherry's young face revealed a look of disappointment.

"We're not going to the hotel room?"

"Are you kidding?" the truck driver laughed. "You're a god-damn whore lady. I wanna fuck ya, not marry ya. Jesus,"

*

Just calm down Chuck, stay calm, and keep it together. Stan will be here soon and then everything will be ok, Chuck thought, trying to compose himself and banish the slow rising panic that was building in him. The bullet wound still pained him intensely as his mind flashed back to the heist, the look in the eyes of the security guard who shot him with a .38 revolver. Then chuck blasting the old timer in the chest with his .45. Poor bastard never stood a chance...

*

The truck driver began to unbuckle the belt that held his faded, outsized jeans around his obese frame. As Cherry stared at his huge pot belly, inhaling the putrid air of the cab she began to feel the bile rise in her stomach. Then as the driver unzipped his fly, Cherry knew she couldn't go through with it.

"Let's see how you handle this," the driver said as he held his below average sized member in his hand and winked suggestively.

"Let's see some money first mister," Cherry demanded, choking back a dry heave.

The truck driver sighed, scratched his head and then reached into the glove box for his wallet. He opened it to reveal a nice collection of bills.

"I'm good for it baby, don't you worry," he said, setting it down on the dash reclining back in his seat so that he was almost horizontal.

Cherry leaned across the cab and tugged at the truck driver's jeans, pulling them down to his knees, the guy's dick now standing upright, but barely visible above his forest of pubic hair. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as he felt Cherry's hand. Reluctantly, she began to jerk him off.

"Oh yeah...that's it baby. Oh yeah,"

Stifling her urge to vomit Cherry looked up at the thick wallet on the dash and made an instant decision. She grabbed the wallet, flung open the door and jumped from the cab. The truck driver knew instantly what was happening and quickly pulled up his jeans.

"You fuckin' bitch!"

Cherry ran in blind panic into the darkness but she didn't get very far before the truck driver caught up with her. He grabbed her and spun her round, slapping her hard across the face.

"I'll teach you fuckin' whores who you're messin' with!" the truck driver roared and slapped Cherry again, hard across the face. She slumped to the dirt clutching her cheek.

"I'm sorry!" she shouted as the driver's hulking frame towered over her. "I was desperate ok?" Cherry could taste her own blood in her mouth.

"Well sorry don't cut it," he hissed and reached down and grabbed her by the wrist.

Cherry squirmed in his grasp and twisted away, running for freedom in the dark towards a blue Chrysler. The trucker caught her just five yards short of the bumper and grabbed her by the hair sending needles of pain through her scalp. Cherry screamed and kicked backwards at his shins.

"You little bitch!" he yelled as he grabbed her by the throat and then bashed her face into the bonnet of the car, eyes wild with anger.

Chuck was jolted to a weak consciousness to see a big man throttling a small woman on his bonnet. He wondered if he was hallucinating, but the volume of the shouting was all too authentic.

"Fuckin uppity whore!" the driver slammed her into the bonnet once more, Cherry's nose now streaming with blood.

Cherry knew she was going to die as she struggled in vain against the man's grip. Then as she was pulled up again she looked through the windshield and her eyes connected with Chuck's pale-blue bloodshot gaze.

Wump! Cherry's head bashed into the steel once more and was pulled back. Her wide eyes connected with Chucks again, pleading, begging for help. Wump! Her face smashed against metal again and she started to lose consciousness.

4:06am: Chuck slowly reached for the gun on the passenger seat, by the time he'd levelled it and aimed it at the driver's head Cherry had been bounced off the hood three more times and blacked out. As the driver brought her down for a fourth time he suddenly noticed Chuck. Their eyes met a split second before the glass shattered and the .45 round spun through the dark night air. The noise of the shot was deafening to Chuck as the sound reverberated through his ear-drums in the enclosed space. When it struck the driver it made a hole the size of a tennis ball in his face and he fell backwards. Chuck dropped the pistol and slouched back into his seat, exhausted. All was silent.

Cherry came around a few minutes later. The first thing she saw was the truck driver, lying in a pool of blood, half his face was missing. She gasped, but did not scream, too scared to make a noise. Then there, as she looked up, bathed in the moonlight, was Chuck's car.

Chuck emerged into consciousness due to a light shake from Cherry. He was now an almost ghost-like figure. Feebly Chuck explained the demise of the truck driver to a bewildered Cherry.

"So who was he? Your date?" Chuck asked.

"Hardly, he was a John. Mother-fucker broke my nose," Cherry explained, venom in her voice as she examined her face in the vanity mirror and stuffed tissue up her nostrils to staunch the blood. Her whole face felt bruised and her knees were scraped. Several of her expensively manicured nails were broken.

"You're a little young for a hooker aren't ya?"

"I haven't been doing it long. I don't think I'm cut out for it. You look real bad mister. How'd you get shot?"

"It doesn't matter," Chuck said. "The truth is lady, I aint gonna make it. I guess I pushed my luck too far this time," Chuck said slowly and painfully.

"Look don't try to speak, I can go to the motel, it's just a few hundred yards. I can call an ambulance..."

Chuck coughed and then winced in pain.

"No dice. We can't call an ambulance and besides, it's too late anyhow,"

Chuck lethargically fumbled in his jacket pocket, searching for something. Cherry moved to help him.

"Do you have medicine in there?" she enquired, turning the interior light back on.

"No, but I've got this," he said holding up a small leather pouch. He handed it to Cherry who untied the string and opened it.

"Jesus Christ, are these real?" Cherry asked, her eyebrows raised in wonderment.

"They're real," Chuck said lowly. "You think I'd risk a bullet in the guts for fake diamonds?"

"I guess not," Cherry said, refastening the string that bound the neck of the pouch.

"I want you to take them,"

"I...I couldn't...I mean they're stolen. Aren't the cops looking for them?"

"The cops will be looking for me, but soon I'll be dead. I don't want to die for nothing,"

Cherry smiled and took Chuck's hand.

"Thanks," Chuck whispered. "I didn't want to die alone,"

Cherry cradled Chuck in her arms, her blouse matted with his blood, as he slipped away to oblivion. Tears streamed down her face as she held the body of a man she had hardly known. Tears of grief mixed with tears of joy. She knew that, with a little luck, she'd never have to turn to hooking again. Cherry delicately planted a kiss on Chuck's temple before drying her eyes and picking up the diamonds.

The clock read 4:52am, slowly and with as much composure as she could muster, she walked through the darkness on unsteady legs, along the dirt track, out of the abandoned parking lot. It took her two minutes to reach the highway. Instantly, she knew something was wrong.

"Freeze lady! State troopers! Get down on the ground bitch!"

Cherry dropped to the floor in terror as armed police descended on her. She was roughly frisked but nothing was found on her, except the small bag of diamonds. As she lay face down on the tarmac, she heard the patrolman on his radio.

"Yeah, we got e'm, Cedar motel on interstate 76, female and two male Caucasians, Blue Chrysler. That's a positive on the ice Chief,"

Cherry was dragged to her feet. "You're going down for a long time, bitch," the trooper said as he shepherded Cherry to the waiting squad car. In the back, sat idle and cuffed, was Stan.

Miss Clara And Cleetus

A loud booming shot rang out in the dead of night. Clint Hopkins reloaded and drew a bead on the shadowy figure that made rapidly for the cover of the woods before firing once more from his front porch and hearing a yelp.

"God damn you Cleetus Brown!" he shouted after the figure. "We'll hang your black ass before mornin,"

"Now hold on now Clint," Sheriff Patterson said, grabbing Clint's arm as he rapidly tried to reload. "We don't know nothin for certain yet. Let me find the boy and have a talk with him,"

"Talk to him Jeb? That damned nigger molested my daughter!" Clint roared, pulling away from the Sheriff.

*

In the woods Cleetus Brown stumbled through the trees, determined to put as much distance between him and the Hopkins house as possible. His pulse was racing as he moved onwards, terrified, like a spooked rabbit. He was bleeding heavily from a wound in his side, on which he pressed his left hand. He could feel the blood oozing through his fingers with each step, his life essence ebbing away. Soon he became faint and slumped his large, weakened, frame against a tree trunk, too weary to continue.

*

"Where are you going Clint?" Sheriff Patterson shouted after Clint Hopkins as he flounced off down the moon lit driveway towards his ford truck.

"I'm going to get ma dogs and I'm going to hunt down that lowlife nigger Cleetus Brown. And then I'm gonna hang him from the highest branch I can find," he said, throwing his shotgun onto the front seat of the truck, pure hatred in his voice.

"But Miss Clara said she only talked with the boy Clint. There's gotta be a rational explanation for all of this," Jeb Patterson said, trying to calm Clint down.

"Horseshit Jeb!" Clint screamed back at him, climbing into the truck. "My only daughter ain't havin no negro child. The whole town'll be laughing Jeb. That dumb Nigger picked the wrong family to take advantage of,"

"Aw Christ Clint," Jeb cursed, realising that nothing in the world would change Clint's mind. "Let me come with you at least,"

*

In the woods a blonde barefoot girl aged seventeen stumbled awkwardly. Her bruised and battered body a pitiful sight. Her left eye was swollen up like a golf ball and dried blood filled her nostrils. Large bruises covered her arms which she held folded across her stomach. Her blue and white chequered dress torn and dirty, she staggered through the brambles, her bare legs scratched with each step.

"Cleetus?" she called out in a half whisper. "Cleetus? Are you there? Are you ok?" no answer came.

"Cleetus, I'm sorry," she said, tears running down her hollow cheeks.

*

The loud barking of dogs was heard as Clint Hopkins' truck rounded the corner of the narrow dirt road at speed, his engine roaring.

"Now damn it Clint, you're gonna get us both killed driving this mad. Calm down," Jeb Patterson said, desperately holding onto the door handle to stop from being flung out of the truck.

"Don't tell me to calm down Jeb," Clint shouted, even more angry. "No damn negro violated your daughter,"

Sheriff Patterson shook his head, remaining silent as the truck skidded to a halt next to the pen full of Dobermans, their shiny black coats reflecting the pale moonlight. Each dog was barking excitedly and jumping up at the fence, snarling and drooling, disturbed by the commotion.

"You're not really gonna set those dogs on im are ya Clint?" Jeb asked, hoping that Clint would see sense.

"Damn right I'm gonna set my dogs on im. But I ain't gonna let e'm kill im. Cleetus gonna live to see the noose," Clint said, opening the gate and leashing three Dobermans.

"You know I can't allow that Clint," Jeb said. "We been friends since we was kids, but there's laws," he added standing in front of Clint.

"Damn you Jeb, and your laws. My daughter was raped! I'm gonna make that Nigger pay. Now you either help me or get the hell out of here,"

The Sheriff relented, wiping his sweat beaded brow with a handkerchief as Clint led the still barking dogs onto the back of the truck.

"Just think about this Clint, let me handle it. You're madder than hell an it aint gonna do no good,"

"I ain't askin nuthin of ya Jeb, cept to turn a blind eye," Clint said to his oldest friend.

"There's nothing I can say to change your mind is there," Jeb said rather than asked.

"Hell no!" Clint affirmed, jumping into the front seat of the truck and looking back at Jeb with pain filled eyes, before tearing off down the dirt track.

*

"Cleetus?" Miss Clara called out again in the cool dark night, slightly louder this time as she slowly advanced through the quiet, peaceful woods, silent but for the sound of the crickets. "Cleetus, where are you?" she cried pitifully, feeling about her with an outstretched hand in the darkness.

"Miss Clara?" a deep voice replied, in obvious pain, only a few yards away.

Clara quickened pace and rushed to the source of the cry. There lay Cleetus Brown, his chest rising and falling with intermittent, laboured breaths. His eyes dulled with pain, his face almost drained of life.

"You're shot Cleetus!" Clara gasped in shock. "My god let me look at it. Is it bad?"

"It's bad Miss Clara, real bad. I don't think I's gonna make it," Cleetus could see Clara's own wounds in the silver moonlight. "Your pa beat you good Miss Clara. I's awful sorry," he said, a shiver running through him, the blood loss worsening.

Clara ripped a chunk of cloth from her petticoat and held it to Cleetus's wound. He winced in pain.

"He was so mad Cleetus, he wouldn't listen to me. He just started yellin an hollerin and hitting me. I thought he was gonna do for me there and then. If you hadn't tried to stop him I think he would have,"

"I couldn't let nobody hurt you Miss Clara. Not even your daddy," Cleetus said, almost in a whisper.

"You're a sweet, sweet man Cleetus Brown. You're my only friend. I didn't know who to turn to when Lucas wouldn't stand by me and the baby. I'm sorry things turned out this way,"

"It's ok Miss Clara, I knows you never meant no harm,"

"It's all Lucas's fault. I loved him so much Cleetus,"

"I know's Miss Clara, but Lucas Johnson is a bad man. It's a sin the way he done treated you. I just wanted your daddy to know that Miss Clara. But he don't listen none,"

"I know Cleetus, just try to rest," Clara said, holding her dear friend like an infant child.

Clara could feel the pain building in her abdomen, she left out a pained moan that brought Cleetus to his senses.

"Is you hurt bad too Miss Clara?" he struggled for breath.

"I think the baby is hurt Cleetus," Clara said through a wall of sobs and tears, her heart swimming in an ocean of pain.

Cleetus began to cry too. "Oh poor sweet Miss Clara, why the good lord gone and done this to you?"

In the distance they could hear the barking of dogs as Clint and the Dobermans approached.

Suddenly they could see a torch light in the distance.

"Miss Clara?" Cleetus gasped.

"Ssshh Cleetus, stay quiet," Clara said, stifling her weeping as both lay there by the foot of the tree trembling in fear.

The torch light got brighter as the approaching figure neared them. Cleetus shrank in fear as sheriff Patterson approached.

"I swear I done nuthin, I swear Mr Sheriff sir," he begged as Jeb Patterson approached, holding his torch light in front of him and illuminating the pair.

"Sweet lord, Miss Clara. Thank god I found you before your daddy did. Are you alright?"

"No Mr Patterson, I'm hurtin real bad, but Cleetus is worse," she said, before bursting into another fit of tears.

"I's just trying to explain to Mr Hopkins, to lets him know bout what Lucas did,"

"It's ok Cleetus. I know you wouldn't hurt Miss Clara,"

"Cleetus was just trying to help me Sheriff Patterson," Clara said, wiping the tears from her emerald green eyes.

The sound of barking dogs grew louder, and in the distance a screaming

mad voice could be heard.

"Cleetus Brown! I'm comin for ya! I'll send your nigger ass to hell!"

Cleetus looked up at Jeb with the look of a condemned man. He knew the game was up.

"Don't worry bout me Mr Patterson. You take care of Miss Clara,"

"No Cleetus!" Clara cried. "We can't leave him sheriff Patterson. Daddy'll kill im. Please help im,"

"I'll do what I can for Cleetus Miss Clara. I know he wouldn't lay a finger on you," Jeb Paterson said, but deep inside he knew poor Cleetus wouldn't see the sun come up in the morning.

His heart filled with pity as looked at Cleetus and Cleetus returned the gaze. Cleetus knew too.

"You got to promise Sheriff Patterson. You gotta. Cleetus never done me no harm," she said, the words an effort to speak.

"Your daddy aint gonna kill im I promise. He wants Cleetus hung. I won't allow that. Now come on Miss Clara," Jeb said as he stooped to pick her up. "We need to get you to the infirmary double quick,"

Sheriff Paterson gingerly picked up Clara's battered frame as she tensed in pain from the motion. As she was raised from the ground she looked back at Cleetus and whispered I'm sorry. Cleetus knew he would never see her again.

Jeb Patterson carried the girl like she was a china doll, her limp body draped over his forearms, onwards through the trees. She was in severe shock and the internal damage to her body was so painful that she lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Now don't you go dying on me Miss Clara," Jeb whispered as he hurried through the woods, silently praying to himself that he wasn't too late, the barking of the dogs still faintly audible.

Fortunately for Cleetus he was dead before the dogs arrived. Mad with blood lust, they attacked his limp, lifeless body. Clint knew he was dead and called them off. The body lay motionless at the foot of the tree, staring back at Clint with silent accusation. The moonlight shone on his coal black face, there was no sound but the panting of the dogs and the chirp of the crickets.

"You crossed the line Cleetus Brown," Clint Hopkins muttered under his breath, his veins coursing with anger. "You crossed the line boy. Why'd you have to go and do that? Why my sweet Clara?"

*

By now Jeb Patterson was driving off down the dirt road, Clara's motionless body in the passenger seat beside him. He drove quickly but carefully, mindful not to injure her further, as he navigated the bumpy road.

"Jesus what happened?" Doc Ramsay enquired as Sheriff Patterson burst through the screen door of the infirmary holding the unconscious Clara.

"Don't ask Doc, you just need to know she's hurt bad. Can you fix her?" he said as Doc Ramsay led them into a side room. He laid Clara's unconscious body on the crisp white linen of the hospital bed and stood back.

The grey haired old doctor looked at her with experienced eyes, eyes that had seen a good many injuries. He put a hand to her forehead and felt the heat of a fever. He then gently felt along her stomach and abdomen, before turning to Jeb.

"She was with child?" he asked, a concerned look in his eyes.

"Yes," Jeb said, looking down to the bare wooden floor boards. "Can you save them?"

The doc shook his head sadly.

"The child is long dead, only the good lord can save the girl. I'll have to operate to stop the bleedin,"

*

Clint Hopkins, a whirlwind of emotions, was knelt in the darkness beside Cleetus. As his body laid there, eyes still wide open, he looked completely at peace. Clint couldn't stand the intensity of the dead man's gaze and so gently closed the lids of Cleetus's soft, dark brown eyes.

"Why'd ya do it Cleetus?" Clint mumbled choking back the tears. "My sweet Clara," he sobbed as the tears flooded down his cheeks. "She's all I have since her momma passed. She had a future, she was gonna marry Walt Johnson's boy. She was gonna live in a nice house. She was gonna be somebody. Why'd ya do it Cleetus? I trusted you,"

Clint Hopkins dried his tears and got to his feet. Very slowly and very solemnly, he took up a shovel from his truck and began to dig Cleetus Brown's grave.

*

Lucas Johnson arrived at the infirmary some twenty minutes later. Walking into the waiting room he was greeted with a look of pure disgust from Sheriff Patterson, sat on a rickety wooden chair.

"What the hell you doing here Lucas?" the sheriff said, unable to mask his contempt.

"Doc Ramsay called. What happened?" he asked in mock innocence, looking sheepishly at Sheriff Patterson.

"You know damn well what happened boy," Jeb said, barely able to contain his anger.

"I got no Idea what you talking bout sheriff," Lucas replied looking at the floor.

"You could at least try and act concerned," Jeb said. "After all she was carrying your child," he hissed.

"No sir," Lucas said firmly but lacking conviction. Jeb knew he was lying. "That was Cleetus's child,"

"Horsehit boy! If you weren't Walt Johnson's boy I'd kick your ass all the way to Kansas!"

"But I am Sheriff. Just you remember that," he said arrogantly. "It's a shame for Clara, but she brought it on herself,"

Jeb exploded with rage. "You piece of shit!" he roared and slapped the boy across the face hard. "You just used her,"

Lucas glared back at Jeb with weasel eyes, holding his hand to his face.

"That may be so but I do believe you'll regret doing that sheriff Patterson," he roared, before storming out of the room, leaving Clara to fight for her life in the next room.

Doc Ramsay emerged soon after wiping the blood from his hands, a worried look on his old wrinkled face, his experience telling him to expect the worst. He signalled Jeb to come in. Clara still lay on the bed, deathly pale and unconscious as Jeb and Doc Ramsay stood by her side.

"I've managed to stop the bleeding Jeb. But it's in god's hands now," Doc Ramsay said apologetically.

*

Clint Hopkins burst through the screen doors of the infirmary thirty minutes later.

"Where is she Jeb?" he asked, his face a mixture of guilt and grief. The sheriff, who was sat on a wooden chair, got to his feet.

"She's with Doc Ramsay, you've damn near killed her Clint,"

"I know!" Clint sobbed, falling to his knees and crying the tears of a man unable to quantify his pain.

"Get up Clint," Jeb said sternly, Clint ignoring him, continued in his misery. "Get up god-damn it. You gotta go in there and see her," Jeb grabbed Clint under his arms and lifted him to his feet like a bar-room drunk. "Come on Clint, you owe her that much,"

When Clint entered the room on shaky legs to see his only daughter lying injured on the bed, his heart collapsed as the pain, anguish and regret pierced his soul like a white hot spear.

"It wasn't Cleetus was it?" Jeb said quietly, like he was talking to a child.

"No," Clint said, the tears stinging his eyes.

"When you called me over saying that Cleetus Brown was attackin your daughter that was a lie wasn't it?" Jeb continued to probe.

Clint said nothing.

"And when I found Clara beaten black and blue, that was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes!" Clint sobbed, his body burning with agonized guilt.

"When Clara said she and Cleetus was just friends she weren't lying,"

"Bullshit," Clint said.

"Clint, there's something you should know. The baby wasn't Cleetus's. It was Lucas Johnson's,"

"What?" Clint said looking up at Jeb through his watery eyes in shock and disbelief.

"Why was Cleetus there with her to tell me about the baby if it weren't his?"

"Because Lucas Johnson weren't gonna stand by your daughter. He just used her Clint. Cleetus was just trying to help,"

The realisation hit Clint Hopkins like a lightning bolt to the heart. His soul suddenly diminished in front of Jeb's eyes.

"Lord what have I done Jeb?" said Clint Hopkins, his spirit crushed.

Jeb Patterson gave no answer, he had none to give.

"I'm afraid it's not good news Clint," Doc Ramsay said solemnly as he stuck his head round the door. "She's in a deep sleep and I don't know if she'll pull through. It looks like that negro beat her half to death. I'm sorry. I hope you and the boys get him good,"

"It's taken care of Doc," Jeb said, a serious look on his face.

"Well be thankful for that at least Clint," the Doc added, before retreating back into the room.

"This sure is an awful mess Clint," Jeb said wearily. "An awful mess. We gotta stick to the story now. Give the poor girl some dignity,"

Clint slumped in the chair, held his head in his hands and wept uncontrollably for his dying daughter. Conceived in love and killed in hatred. His hatred. He was inconsolable with grief. Doc Ramsay re-emerged from the room once more.

"You wanna take Clint home?" Doc Ramsay whispered to Jeb. "He's had a hell of a night,"

"Sure thing Doc," he said lowly, fiddling with the brim of his hat, his mind clouded with thoughts. "Sure thing,"

The Peephole

The moaning was getting louder and louder and Greg was pressed right up to the peephole, squinting one eye to focus. The chick was taking a real pounding as she crouched on all fours, a big hairy-backed guy pumping her from behind. Todd, the new guy, stood next to Greg, pressed just as tightly to the wall.

"Man, this is hot!" he whispered, stifling a laugh.

The peephole was less than half an inch wide but through that hole god knows how many hours of pleasure Greg had witnessed. It was the only perk of a shitty minimum wage cleaning job. The hooker always used the same motel room; the management knew what she did. But as long as she paid for the room they didn't care and anyway, she was never there for more than an hour at a time. Just long enough to earn enough dough for a fix.

The girls' sound show was getting more and more elaborate as her tits jiggled and bobbled as the guy's weighty thrusts bounced her back and forth, her eyes tight shut as he gripped her firmly by the hips, sweat pouring from his reddened face, and slapped her ass hard. Todd stood transfixed, Greg took a long toke on his reefer and handed it to his friend.

"Pretty wild huh?" he nodded.

The hooker, then scrabbled from the big guys clutches, pushed him onto his back and began riding the guy like a Rodeo bull.

"Oh yeah, that's the shit baby!" He moaned louder and louder as she frantically humped the guy's hairy, hulking body, increasing her activity to induce an accelerated climax.

"Oh! Oh-yeah, Oh-yeahhh!" The guy gasped in a noisy culmination.

The hooker slumped onto her side, panting. She'd earned every penny. Todd gave Greg a silent high five and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke.

"Damn," he whispered, eye-brows raised.

Both returned their eyes to the peepholes as the girl scooted off the bed and scrabbled on the ground for her clothes, bent over, giving the duo a perfect view. Each looked on lustfully as she stepped into her panties and hooked on her bra. Each stood stock still in horror as the hairy guy reached from behind her and cut her throat.

The Nail Biter

Dr Stevens was late for work. He'd recently relocated to the area to take up a new position in the practice and was now becoming acquainted with the daily traffic grind. Queuing in the jam, his fingers drummed on the steering wheel with acute impatience. As his Buick crawled at an excruciating pace Dr Stephenson he began to perspire. He felt his irritation rise, and a prickly sensation at the back of his neck. In his rush to get to work he'd forgotten to take his medication. Glancing to his left he noticed a woman sat in an idling Chevy in the next lane filing her nails. His teeth itched. God-damn it! he thought, slapping the wheel with the flat of his hand.

He finally arrived at the surgery fifteen minutes late, briefcase flapping wildly as he hurried through the door past his receptionist, the middle-aged Patty Reynolds.

"Good morning Dr Stevens," she said in her sickly sweet New Hampshire drawl. He hated that accent. "You have two patients waiting, your eight o'clock and your eight fifteen,"

The doctor poked his head into the waiting room and saw little Jack Thomas, sat impatiently fidgeting, while his mother read an out of date copy of the New Hampshire Review. The boy sat there swinging his legs and looking at the old filled in crossword puzzle on the back page of his mother's paper. Instinctively the boy's hand moved to his mouth.

"Jack," Mrs Thomas said curtly, registering the child's habitual transgression.

"Sorry mom," Jack muttered, clenching his hand into a fist and resting it on his lap. Dr Stevens felt the prickles return to his neck.

"Dr Stevens?" Patty called, snapping him back to his senses.

"Just give me a few minutes," he answered briskly, as he disappeared into his office, shutting the door, not before noticing Patty's manicure.

His was a large office, well lit by the huge window which gave an excellent view of the town. He was flushed and sweating as he leaned against the door and drew a deep breath. His hands fumbled in his jacket pockets for the pills and opened the box, letting two red capsules tumble into the palm of his right hand. Going over to the sink, he filled a glass and threw back both pills and the water in one. Letting out a relieved sigh, he then slumped into his chair, touching his brow and feeling the dampness.

*

"So what can we do for you Mrs Hamilton?" Dr Stevens enquired of his first patient, a middle aged woman, her nails clean, unvarnished, un-manicured but well looked after.

"Well I'm afraid I'm having my old trouble again Dr," she whispered in a hushed tone, clearly embarrassed.

But the doctor wasn't listening, his eyes were fixed on the old ladies hands.

"My haemorrhoids Doctor, it causes me such pain," the woman continued.

But Doctor Stevens was barely registering her words.

"So if you could prescribe me some more of those suppositories I'd be mighty appreciative," she asked, raising her voice slightly, jolting the doctor back to cognisance.

"Certainly, Mrs Hamilton, certainly," the Doctor said, scribbling swiftly on his medical pad. "Hermoxitol wasn't it?"

"I think that's it," Mrs Hamilton affirmed.

"That should help things," the doctor mumbled handing her the prescription.

"Thank you so much," Mrs Hamilton smiled, taking the prescription and leaving the room.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Doctor Stevens slumped in his seat, sweaty and disturbed. He flinched when Patty Reynolds entered clutching the notes of his next patient.

"Can't you knock?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry Dr Stevens, Mrs Thomas and the Thomas boy," she said, handing him the file.

The doctor stared at her red polished nails and felt a pang. Maybe the medication had stopped working? Was he slipping again? He felt the want and need growing in him. His shirt felt damp with sweat and he felt his heart beating rapidly as his panic began to rise. In the grip of anxiety, he took several deep breaths to try to calm down. Get a handle on yourself.

Mrs Thomas knocked and entered the room, Jack holding her hand as the pair took a seat in front of the doctor's desk.

"So what seems to be the trouble Mrs Thomas?" the doctor enquired in the most focused and professional manner he could muster.

"Well it's nothing serious, at least I hope it isn't, I mean, I feel a little bit foolish. There's nothing wrong with him physically, it's just..."

"Just what, Mrs Thomas?"

"Well, Jack bites his nails,"

"Bites his... nails," Dr Stevens repeated, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Yes. Not just a bit or now and again, he does it all the time,"

Doctor Stephenson's stomach churned, his mind turning summersaults.

"Have you... tried the normal remedies?" he began, stumbling over his words. "Chemical... sprays etc etc?" he asked, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

"Yes I've tried everything I can think of but nothing seems to work. I don't want him to grow up a nail biter,"

The word rang like a gong in Dr Stevens head. Nail biter.

"Well... it's quite normal in youngsters. In fact I used to bite my own nails as a child. Mother cured me though," he said, scratching at his neck which now itched like crazy. "She'd make me dip... my fingers in vinegar each morning. The kids at school started calling me Vinegar Joe, I reeked...of the stuff. I quit biting my nails just to escape the bullying," the deeply buried memories scalded his mind.

"My, that's awful, I'm so sorry," Mrs Thomas empathised.

"Don't be. Sometimes... the harshest way... is the best for us. Thankfully today there are more... scientific methods to control habits Mrs Thomas. So don't you worry young Jack," he said, addressing the boy with a weak half smile and letting his eyes drop to Jacks clasped hands.

Cheeks flushed, Dr Stevens mopped beads of sweat from his forehead, his stomach like a tightly bound ball of wet string, churning over and over. He began to salivate as he stared at the two little fists which rested on the boy's lap. He scratched at his neck again, unable to resist the impulse. Open your god-damned hands you little bastard! he thought, but was suddenly seized by panic. Did I say that out loud?

"Are you ok Doctor Stevens?" Mrs Thomas asked.

"Why of course... I've just had a little cold recently that's all,"

"I see,"

The doctors' mouth felt like cotton wool, his tongue like a swollen football. He took a deep breath.

"Mrs Thomas, may I... have a moment alone with Jack?"

"Alone?" she responded a little taken aback.

"Yes, I'd like to talk to him alone... Just for a minute. Sometimes these problems can be... how can I put this? Psychological,"

"Well if you think it will help," she shrugged, getting up to leave.

Jack sat on the seat, his legs swaying to and fro, his hands in tight fists on his lap, eyes looking down at the floor.

"So... you bite your nails huh?" the doctor enquired as he rose from his chair, mopping his brow, neck on fire.

"Uh huh," Jack said quietly, looking up at the doctor with innocent young eyes.

"Let's look... at those nails then young Jack," the doctor said approaching slowly, his, palms sweaty, fingers trembling with anticipation, entire soul hungering for even just a tiny glimpse.

Dr Stevens took Jack's hands in his, breaths becoming more and more rapid. The boy was a little surprised when the doctor touched his hands with trembling fingers. At first he flinched, but then tentatively relaxed in the doctor's grip. Jack looked up, slightly worried, sensing something wasn't right. He could see the strange look in the doctor's eyes. Doctor Stevens just stared at the child's finger nails. There was hardly anything left. He'd chewed them down near enough to the quick. The Doctor's mouth was awash with saliva. Time stood still...

Shock was the only word to describe what the boy felt when the doctor started to lick his fingers, so shocked that he couldn't even scream. He just froze, in terrified bewilderment. Then the doctor started to bite the stubs of Jacks nails, the drool flowing freely and running warmly down the boy's wrist. Jack's fingers were sore and it hurt him. But still he didn't scream, not until the doctor fumbled in his briefcase and pulled out the scalpel. Then he screamed the loudest, most piercing scream he could, louder than anything he ever thought possible.

Everyone in the waiting room was jolted by the shriek. His mother hesitated for a spilt second before the feeling of dread had attacked her like a sucker punch to the stomach. Her little Jack was in danger. She jumped from her seat and rushed past the patients who looked around at each other, visibly disturbed. Patty Reynolds too had raced from her desk to Doctor Stevens office. Inside Jack struggled with the doctor who was trying to pin him down and secure his left arm.

"Stop struggling you snivelling little shit!" he shouted at Jack.

The doctor had slowly gained control and now had the limb nicely pinned to the desk and was pressing Jack's palm down firmly, his small fingers splaying out in a star-burst shape. With the knife poised to cut, and Jack looking directly into his bloodshot eyes, pleading for mercy, Patty Reynolds burst through the door, quickly followed by Mrs Thomas.

"Doctor? What in god's name..."

The doctor looked up and Patty caught the full power of his demented stare. Mrs Thomas screamed. As the doctor hesitated, Jack twisted and struggled to escape. Dr Stevens felt his grasp slipping. He grabbed at Jack's right arm; he couldn't be without those fingers, those beautiful ragged nails and sank his teeth into Jacks right hand. The boy screamed in pain as the doctor bit down hard, teeth ripping through his flesh, crunching the bones and severing three of his fingers. Patty Reynolds grabbed the doctor's shoulder, attempting to pull him off the boy. The doctor staggered backwards as he struggled with her, knocking over his chair. Freeing his wrist from Patty's hand, Dr Stevens slashed at her with the scalpel, and she fell backwards, hands in front of her face. He stepped toward Jack who cowered on the floor, his mangled hand bleeding heavily. The doctor wanted Jack's nails and he screamed and shrieked, mouth dripping with blood.

"Come here you little bastard!"

Dr Stevens approached slowly, scalpel raised, looming over the terrified boy, poised to strike, when a blood stained hand grabbed his ankle. It all happened in a flash but to Jack it was like a super bowl slow motion replay. The boy watched the doctor's arms claw back against gravity, flapping like a bird, but it was useless; he toppled like a felled tree, making a sound almost like wood creaking, as he crashed to the floor, directly onto the legs of his upturned chair. The doctor issued an unearthly scream as two shafts of wood pierced his chest and abdomen and he lay motionless, impaled.

Margaret Thomas was in a blind panic as she scooped up the lifeless body of her only son. The boy had lapsed into shock, at first she thought him dead as she quietly cradled and consoled him.

*

New Hampshire Chronicle July 12th 1979

A child was savagely attacked by a reportedly schizophrenic local doctor today. The child was named as Jack Thomas, seven. It is believed that the doctor suffered a severe mental episode before attacking the child. The boy is thought to be in a stable condition at the county hospital. His

assailant, Dr Elliot Stevens (alias Dr Steven Dines) who was pronounced dead at the scene, had been struck from the medical register in Maryland in 1976 for attacking Kelly Napier, a nine year old girl. He was given probation and treatment in a psychiatric ward before being released in December of last year. It is understood that he attained the position as general practitioner through false documents. The county sheriff's office has launched a full investigation.

*

Now a grown man, Jack Thomas has worked very hard to forget about the events of July 12th 1979. He still suffers occasional nightmares and the mental scars seem to hamper his life much more than the physical wounds that were inflicted. But as he sits on the bench in the waiting room of the antenatal clinic of the local hospital, thoughts of Dr Elliot Stevens are banished from his mind. He is waiting as his pregnant wife undergoes her routine four month scan. Jack and Kelly have been married two years now. As Jack sits on that bench he couldn't be happier.

Down the hall a woman is telling her child not to bite his nails. It reminds him of his own mother, not the voice, just the tone she uses, motherly and authoritative. Don't bite your nails dear, it's an awful habit. He's waiting for Kelly to come out of the antenatal clinic. She understands him and what he went through. As she emerges, smiling, she holds up the baby scan with the remaining three fingers of her left hand.

Our baby boy. Jack thinks happily. Our child will be strong, healthy, and vibrant and we won't give a hoot in hell if he bites his nails.

The Introduction

Maurice Bender was a desperate and homeless drunk. He'd been on the streets a long time and had seen a lot of people come and go, but Maurice was a survivor. After the takings from begging began to tail off he discovered another way of making a few dollars. Twice a week he would donate blood.

Selling his blood was not entirely without its drawbacks, dizziness, fatigue, even nausea. But the rewards were higher than begging and a lot less demeaning to the soul. He looked back fondly to the day he struck up a conversation with the Salvation Army officer at the homeless shelter. It was he who had introduced him to the doctor who ran the urban blood bank outreach program. He'd taken his blood, given him twenty dollars and his card and told him to tell all his friends. He even offered him a commission for every new donor he found. He couldn't believe his luck. These days he was never short of money for booze.

So when the new kid, asked him how to make a few extra bucks Maurice took him under his wing.

'So why you on the street kid? Surely you got some place else to be?' The cold windy streets were near deserted as a light snow dusted the pavements and clung to the frosty shop windows.

'No sir, uh,uh. No place for me but on the street. My old man been beating on me since I can remember. My mom as long as she's been married to him. She won't leave, but I couldn't take any more. Better to freeze to death out here than be beat to death back there,' the kid said, blowing onto his hands and thrusting them into the pockets of his thin shabby coat.

'That's rough kid. But you got no family to take you in? Aunts? Uncles?'

'No sir. Not out this way. My mom has some folks in Baltimore, but I never seen e'm. Wouldn't know where to start and my pop's folks are all dead. So, you were saying, there was a way to make a few bucks. It ain't nothing bad is it?'

'No way, do I look like I can handle danger at my age? Gimme a break kid. No, this is strictly legit,'

'So what is it?'

'You give blood,'

'Blood?'

'Yeah to the blood bank. They take some of your blood and they give it to sick people in the hospital,'

'Does it hurt?'

'Hardly at all, bit of a scratch when the needle goes in but it's over before you know it,'

'I don't know, I mean I never liked needles mister. I screamed the place down when the doc gave me my shots as a kid,'

'They pay twenty bucks a pop,'

'Twenty bucks?'

'Straight up,'

'Ok, I'm in. Gees, twenty bucks!'

Charlie shivered in his thin coat; he couldn't wait to get out of the cold.

The mobile blood donation centre was a small port-a-cabin and the regulars were already there. Joe, Hubert and Chuck were sat on a bench, by the counter stood two young nurses. The old men liked the company of the young flirtatious girls. The nurses looked up from their paperwork as Maurice and Charlie entered.

'Another new donor Maurice? That's three this month. You are a little trooper aren't you?' the brunette nurse said as she greeted Charlie and his sponsor.

'We'll be with you in a second. Just take a seat,' she added.

'Good luck kid, see you back at the shelter,' Maurice waved as he stepped back out into the chilly morning air.

Charlie sat down on a plastic chair, relieved to be out of the cold. After a minute the young blonde haired nurse came over and took Charlie to a desk and explained that, being a new donor, he would be paid twenty dollars for his first donation. She looked very young, nearly as young as Charlie himself, not what he expected at all. She was very slim with definite yet delicate looking features. Her uniform clung to her feminine curves. Her name badge read Elena. She was the kind of nurse fantasies were made of.

'You need to fill out this form,' she said softly as she handed him the paperwork. Charlie had gotten a fake ID with the bunkhouse's address on it and used it to fill out the form. She then produced a small device. Charlie's eyes widened.

'Don't worry. It just gives a little click and takes a tiny drop of blood from your fingertip. This allows us to check your haemoglobin levels - to ensure that giving blood won't make you anaemic,'

Charlie winced as she clicked the device and he felt a stab of pain in his fingertip. She held his finger up to the light and a drip of crimson blood formed. She paused for a second, before wiping a small strip of plastic across the finger and smearing it with Charlie's blood.

'All done,' she said. 'Now we'll just get the doctor to look you over and then we can get down to business,'

Elena took him to a small office and knocked before entering.

'New donor doctor,' she said, shepherding Charlie inside.

'Doctor Ceausescu,' he said introducing himself as he shook Charlie's hand. The hand was cold as stone. 'Please take a seat,'

The doctor had a strange accent; Charlie struggled to place it as he took his seat. It sounded like Russian or east European. He was tall, thin with grey hair and pale skin. His eyes were a dull light green and sunken with dark shadows under them, the product of too many late night calls, so the doctor said. Maurice told Charlie the doctor had been running the blood bank as a volunteer for some years now.

'How is your health young man?' the doctor enquired.

He looked intently at Charlie, sizing him up before asking him to lift his arms and stick out his tongue. Satisfied, he motioned to Charlie to rest his arms.

'Have you eaten anything today?' the doctor asked him.

'Yes,' Charlie lied. He had eaten nothing since the day before. He hadn't been able to hold anything down after downing half a bottle of wild turkey last night with Maurice and a group of drunks. He had eaten some breath mints while filling out the paperwork to keep his mind off his empty stomach.

'This being your first time in, you'll be given saline. But from now on try to eat something sweet before you come in,' the doctor said as he led Charlie back to the waiting room.

Charlie found a seat in the small room. He was naturally apprehensive about giving blood. Most of the donors seemed to be nursing colds, coughing noisily at intervals. Charlie sat nervously chewing his nails as the TV played loudly. It was tuned to a talk show, the guests screaming and fighting with each other onstage, egged on by an eager crowd. The show was titled Daddy, I ain't your baby. The people sitting around Charlie were absorbed in the show, commenting and laughing, at times, becoming nearly as excited as the people on TV. These local junkies and juice-heads had obviously had their fixes this morning. It was a sight that reminded Charlie of rehab clinics and men's groups, or even the food stamp office. Other people went outside to smoke while they waited to be called. The door constantly opened and shut creating an annoying draught.

After a few minutes the tall brunette nurse appeared with a clipboard and called Charlie's name. As he got to his feet he saw the smiles and nods of approval from his fellow donors.

'Break him in gentle Misha,' said an old black man with a laugh.

The nurse was very young and pretty with full lips and heavy eye shadow. She led Charlie to a back room which contained four beds and the blood collection apparatus. Every bed was occupied with someone hooked up to a machine.

'First time?' the pretty nurse asked him.

She had her hair pulled neatly back and wore a white medical coat. She took Charlie's chart from him and looked it over.

'Who referred you?'

'Maurice Bender,'

'Oh, I know Maurice. He's a regular,'

'Yeah, he told me. It's a nice place here. Warm,'

'Yeah it's not so bad. Okay, well I'll make sure you get stuck right. You just sit back and let me take care of it,'

Charlie was put at ease by the motherly tone. It reminded him of his own other when she would tend his bruises after another of his father's drunken rages. But her hands felt cool to him as she took his arm and prepared a swab.

'You have good veins,' she said, after swabbing the spot in the crook of his arm with alcohol. There was something about the way she looked at him he just couldn't place.

Misha prepared to hook Charlie up to a machine with digital meter and buttons. Charlie was as nervous as most people when getting stuck for the first time; he hadn't even gotten allergy shots in his teens. He had to admit this was a much bigger needle than he expected. But it wasn't as painful as it looked like being, and after taping the needle to his arm, Misha gave him a rubber ball to squeeze in his hand. 'That'll help you flow faster,' she said, her big eyes almost hypnotic.

Charlie began to feel light headed as she went off to attend to someone else, but at intervals she would look over at him. Charlie imagined she must be what Angels looked like in heaven. Charlie relaxed, thinking how pleased he was he'd found the plasma centre. It was much easier work than handing out flyers, and it was definitely preferable to hanging around the men's room. He hadn't sunk to that level yet and hoped he never would. He could quite happily make his way down to the blood centre and spend his time with Misha a couple of times a week. Maurice had explained it all. He would walk out of this place with twenty bucks in about half an hour's time and all he'd had to do was give a little blood. No sweat. He saw himself going right over to the coffee shop just down the street. A large Moccachino in the warm cafe would provide the recommended sugar for his plasma-drained blood. And then he'd get a cheeseburger and fries. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a cheeseburger.

There was no TV in the back room, but Misha hummed as she worked, her slim hips swaying seductively as she walked, earning her appreciative comments from the red-eyed drunks and bums who were her charges for the time being.

'Misha, when you gonna let me take you out, girl?' one old toothless guy, in the bed across from Charlie, asked.

He had a bald head and a weathered looking face. His sweatshirt had the Boston Celtic logo on it, but it looked like he'd fished it out of a dumpster.

'Sorry Ben, but you know the rules, I can't date the patients,' she replied, with a little smile.

'Misha, you been teasin' me too long. I see the way you look at me, don't fight it,'

Misha let out a little laugh, and some of the other guys around chuckled and nodded their heads. 'Where you gonna take me then? I'm no cheap date,'

'Anywhere you want baby,' he smiled toothlessly.

'Misha, you never mind him,' a black man in his middle years said. 'Sucker ain't gonna have no money five minutes after he get out of here. You know that,'

'Hey!' the bald headed man said. 'I can treat a lady when I need to. You know where to come if you want that good time now. I'm right here baby,' said Ben.

'You guys are too much,' said Misha. 'I'm taking my break,'

'I know you'll miss me girl,' said Ben.

Misha laughed and left the room, leaving Charlie a last lingering glance as she was replaced by Elena who busied herself checking charts and meters. Charlie kept pumping the ball and watching the digital read-out. The volume number kept going up, with stops every so often, and it happened that Charlie's blood, thin from lack of food, was flowing easily.

When the machine finally shut itself off, Elena smiled and pulled the needle out of him. She wrote something on his plasma bottle, and something on his chart, and then moved on to someone else. Charlie followed another man and took his bottle to a counter out front. As he walked to the office, Charlie began to feel a little light-headed. He put it down to the fact that it was his first time donating. He just needed to get some sugar in him.

Misha stood behind the counter checked his chart, had Charlie initial it, and paid him his twenty dollars with an intense smile. Charlie returned it, he really liked Misha. Money in his pocket, he took two steps, and then leaned against a wall. Misha's eyes never left him. He felt giddy, everything went white in his head, and he went down. Misha and two of the waiting donors rushed to his side.

'He must have fainted. Can you take him to the doctor's office please?' Misha requested seductively and the dead-beats complied. He barely weighed more than an infant. Then he was in the doctor's office, and Misha told the two men to put Charlie on the examining table. A few moments later, the doctor returned.

'What is this?' he enquired of Misha who stood over the unconscious boy, stroking his hair.

'He just collapsed,'

'Did you give him saline?' the doctor asked.

'No, I went on my break. Elena was supposed to do it,' Misha was still observing the boy. 'I didn't know he was a first timer,' Misha lied.

'That's what that chart is for,' the doctor said. 'Luckily he went down inside,'

*

By now Maurice had arrived back to the homeless shelter. Charlie was nowhere to be seen and nobody could say they'd seen him return from the blood bank. He was worried for the boy. With a sense of urgency he headed out on the streets to look for him, taking in the obvious places, outside the electrical stores, the cafes. He was nowhere. Reluctantly Maurice returned to the blood bank.

'I want to see the doctor,' Maurice whispered grabbing Elena's arm.

'Are you sick Maurice?' she said.

'You know what I'm talking about. Where's the boy?' he said, a little too loudly for Elena's liking as she nervously glanced around the room at the waiting dead-beats. Not that any of them were listening as they were all glued to Jerry Springer.

'The doctor will see you now,' she said sternly, eyes narrowed.

Maurice was taken to the back room office of Dr Ceausescu who greeted him warmly. On the table was a tall glass which contained a ruby red liquid. It was ice cold and a bead of condensation dripped down its side.

'Where is the boy?'

'Please, sit down Maurice,' the doctor motioned with one hand and took a seat before picking up the glass and taking a large gulp.

'Where's the boy?' Maurice repeated.

'Unfortunately Misha...took a shine to him. I'm sorry but there it is,'

'You said you wouldn't do that anymore,'

'What can I say? Sometimes she cannot help herself. Sometimes we like flesh too. We will hold him for a few days and then we shall feast on him,'

'But...'

'But...what? What would you have me do? We can hardly release him now. Besides, nobody will come looking for him. You know who we are and what we do. You are well paid for your services Maurice,'

'He was an innocent kid,'

'It is a little late for morals Mr Bender, don't you think? I administrate this bank for my organisation and they have a great thirst. Would you rather they lurked in the shadows? Preying on random quarry? As things are the bank balance is very healthy and it always pays you with interest for every soul you deliver. How long has it been since we made our deal?'

Maurice remained silent, looking at the floor. He felt guilty. He never intended for the boy to be harmed. He felt sorry for the kid and thought he could help him make a few extra bucks. But if he was honest, his greed had motivated Charlie's introduction to the blood bank. As Maurice got up to put his coat on, a can of beer fell out of his pocket, hitting the floor with a smack. The doctor looked down at it. Maurice scowled at him while the doctor raised his glass sarcastically.

'You have your favourite drink, and I have mine,'

Maurice stooped to pick up the can and then flounced from the office. Dr Ceausescu took another large thirsty gulp from the glass and smiled, his now protruding fangs stained with freshly donated blood.

Charlie awoke in a dark dank cell. The boy had no idea where he was. He could see very little and only a very small amount of light chinked under the door. He was cold, naked and alone. He tensed. Something was coming. As the creaking door opened, slowly spilling light into the room, he shrank back into the far corner of the room. He saw the red eyes glowing and the light glint off the exposed fangs. Slowly the dark figure advanced and Charlie held his breath. He felt the cold hands on his shoulders and the cool of Misha's breath on his ear. As he felt the fangs incise he screamed and then fell limp in her arms.

Time Waits For No Man

Time waits for no man, his father had always said when he was alive. And it was all too true. In a week, Charles 'Chuck' O'Bannion was to be married to a dowdy Irish Catholic girl chosen by his mother. His principle hobbies were those perennial corruptors of men, alcohol and women, hookers in particular. He had decided to celebrate his impending marriage with a full throttle, balls-out, final hurrah of debauched drinking, smoking and whoring (Though he had no intention of giving these things up in marriage).

On the night of his bachelor party, Chuck and his buddies first hit the bars. Then they descended on the night clubs. Then the strip bars, and when these avenues of fun had been exhausted, they finally hit the bordellos and speakeasies and brothels. Fuelled by excess of booze, Chuck selected the youngest, prettiest girl, with the biggest boobs on offer. Led to a private room, his eyes glazed with wanton lust, his hands groping and squeezing the hooker's rear as he staggered up the stairs after her.

"Cut that out!" the girl said, slapping his hand away. "Your time ain't started yet mister,"

Soon they were inside the room and Chuck was pawing the girl whilst she tried to undress, struggling to stop him ripping her blouse.

Once they were both naked, Chuck instructed her to get down on all fours. He immediately took up a position behind her.

"So you wanna do it doggy-style?" she asked looking back over her shoulder.

Chuck leant towards her and whispered something in her ear.

"No way, uh huh, I don't do that stuff mister,"

"Come on baby, you know you want to,"

"I said no!" she announced firmly.

"Don't fuckin' tease me bitch!" Chuck cursed, slapping her hard across the face and then pinning her down under his superior body weight.

The girl screamed and struggled under him as Chuck attempted to force himself on her. He pushed her head down into the pillow to muffle her cries as she thrashed her arms and legs to escape. The girl was beg-inning to suffocate and her struggles began to lessen. She flicked out a leg in a last desperate attempt and the blow connected between Chuck's legs. He was neutralised for several seconds whilst the girl clutched at her throat and regained her breath. But Chuck soon recovered his composure, grabbing the girl by her wrist as she tried to run.

"You're gonna regret that you little bitch,"

He pulled her close and she screamed loudly, then he slapped her again. Then there was a voice from the hallway.

"Fuck off!" shouted Chuck. "I ain't finished with her yet,"

There was a loud knock at the door before the voice called again.

"Misty?"

Knuckles rapped the door once again. The girl attempted to wrench herself free from Chuck's grasp but he stopped her in her tracks with a hard smack to the face and she fell to the floor with a whimper. The next moment the door was kicked in.

"What the..." was as far as the naked Chuck got before he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head.

He came round some time later, with no immediate recall of what had happened. Then suddenly he jolted as realisation dawned on him. Some bastard had knocked him out.

"Oh you're awake now?" a voice said as Chuck's eyes slowly managed to focus on his surroundings.

Blurred images slowly became clear and he could see he was in a store room, lit by a single bright bulb. A shift of his leg revealed that he was chained by the ankle to a radiator. A man sat a few feet away on wooden chair. The man was talking to him.

"I would have given you a wakeup call but you looked so peaceful down there,"

He was skinny as a rake and Chuck was slightly embarrassed to have been caught unawares by someone so slight. He was dressed in an expensive suit, immaculately pressed and spotless. He wore an expensive watch and was well groomed. Chuck surmised him to be a local hood. He hated Italians.

"You gonna get me my breakfast?" Chuck said with arrogance, still groggy and leaning on one elbow as he attempted to get up. His natural tendency was to front up tough and intimidate. It usually worked. Usually, but not this time. The hood rose to his feet and kicked Chuck in the ribs. He clamped his arms to his side and gasped, the wind knocked out of him.

"What can we get you sir? Maybe some Eggs? How about some OJ? Lots of vitamin C. It's the best cure for a hangover," the hood said, placing another kick to Chuck's ribs.

Chuck glared up at his attacker who sported a satisfied grin.

"The room service sucks around here," Chuck coughed from the ground.

The hood sarcastically applauded his prone captive.

"You know, you're right, where are my manners? I'm sorry. My name is Vinny. I didn't catch yours sir," he said.

Chuck laughed.

"I say something to make you laugh?"

"Vinny the Ginny," Chuck laughed.

"Huh, you like rhymes my friend? How about kick the Mick?" Vinny said and stamped down on Chucks chest.

Chuck wished he could have just one swing at the guy. The foot rose up again and another kick from expensive leather shoes left him struggling for breath.

The hood just stood looking down at Chuck who wiped dried blood from his forehead.

"You'd better kill me... Cos there ain't no beatin you can give me I can't take... The last guy to lay a hand on me was my father... and I killed him. I'll come back. When you least expect it, I'll be there... and I'll kill you,"

"Save it tough guy, I heard it all before. Each and every one of you Mick's always had an alcoholic wife beater for a father. No wonder you're all screwed up,"

Chuck spat at his feet.

"Nice manners, for an Irish pig," Vinny taunted.

"Cut me loose and I'll teach you some manners, on the house. My old man was at Anzio. He told me about you little ginny bastards, yellow, every last one,"

"That's very interesting," Vinny said without a hint of emotion. "I'm very interested in history myself. I like to collect antiques, clocks in particular," The hood took several steps away from Chuck and went to a small table. "I got a real beauty here buddy. Antique alarm clock. The old wind up kind, with a bell," He had to almost shout to be heard from the opposite end of the room, his words echoing off the bare walls.

When he returned he was holding an alarm clock and a small amount of what looked like plastic explosive. He wound up the clock and set it down on the floor about five feet from Chucks reach.

"Beautiful action..."

He then attached two wires from the clock to the explosive and stepped toward Chuck. Chuck's eyes were wide with fear.

"What...what is that?" he asked as he backed himself up against the wall, shuffling on his hands.

"You tell me tough guy. Now we'll see who has the brains. You got thirty minutes to get out of here, when this clock stops ticking BOOM! It's game over pal," Vinny said with a laugh as he made for the doorway.

Chuck thrashed his legs trying to bust himself loose from the radiator.

"Hey! Hey! Come back! How the fuck can I escape? I don't got no key! You sick bastard!" he screamed at the hood as he loitered in the door-way, framed in the moonlight.

"Watch the double negatives ok. You know what? You're right. I'm sorry, I totally forgot. Let me see what I have here," Vinny sarcastically fumbled in his pockets as if looking for misplaced keys. "Here, maybe this will be useful?" he said, throwing a flick knife onto the ground near Chuck's feet. He then shut the door, locking it behind him and there was a jingle as the keys were pushed through the letterbox.

"Good luck Houdini. You got thirty minutes. Time waits for no man,"

Chuck heard the voice through the letterbox, and it sent a shiver through him. It reminded him of being locked in his room as a kid. He closed his eyes and heard Vinnie's footsteps fade into the ticking of the clock.

"Fuck you, you sick motherfucker!!" he cursed defiantly after him.

Chuck slumped back onto the ground and rubbed his face with his hands. He let out a loud sigh and then sat up and began to examine the cuffs on his left ankle. Picking up the knife, he began probing into the keyhole with its point. But the knife slipped as he pressed down and he nearly sliced into his ankle.

Tick-tock.

"Mother-fucker!" he screamed, hurling the knife at the wall. It bounced off with a loud clang and skidded along the floor. Chuck searched around him for some kind of inspiration. He glanced at the clock, twenty five minutes left. When I get my hands on that ginny bastard... he vowed. He shifted to the radiator which was steaming hot. It was bolted to the wall with heavy duty masonry pins and he knew there was no way he could undo the bolts or pull it off the wall. But he tried anyway. Grabbing the chain, he and pulled and pulled with all his might. He soon ceased and collapsed onto the floor, bellowing with frustration and rage.

"Argh!! Motherfucker!"

Tick-tock.

His eyes shifted to the clock, its ticking echoing ominously off the walls of the empty room. He then looked to the small table, but he could never reach it, even if it had something useful on it, and he hadn't a clue on how to diffuse a bomb. Chuck lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, mind racing. He could only see his father and hear the voice of chastisement. You're a screw up Chuck, and that's all you'll ever be. He shut his eyes and concentrated hard, trying to block out the voice. Then something came. He immediately wished he hadn't thought of it. There's got to be another way. Chuck looked at the clock. Twenty minutes left. He was running out of time, still the clock ticked on.

"Oh you sick bastard, you fuckin' sick bastard!" he screamed. But in his heart he knew that in the time he had left, there was no other choice.

Tick-tock.

The thought that had come to Chuck was of the documentary he'd seen on the Discovery channel. A rock climber had gotten his arm trapped in a rock fall. He'd cut off his own arm to survive, like a trapped animal gnaws off its own foot. Jesus Christ, please. Not my leg. There must be another way. Please!

The clock now said seventeen minutes. Each tick brought Chuck nearer to death. He uttered a kind of primal scream, rallying himself and then took off his left shoe and bit down into the thick polished leather, the clock still ticking in the background. He heard the harsh voice of his father, Come on Chuck, be a man for once in your sorry life.

"Fuckin sick bastard sonofabitch!" Chuck screamed through gritted teeth and gripped the knife tightly, his hand tensed like a vice, as the clock ticked on.

Slowly, with tears in his eyes he rolled up his trouser leg and made the first incision. Chuck screamed as the pain seared up his leg and the blood began to trickle from the wound. Teeth clamped on the leather of his shoe, his scream of pain was stifled as he pushed the knife deeper into his leg and began to cut downwards and round. Slowly he cut through the veins and tendons and muscle of his lower calf, in utter agony, his nostrils filled with the smell of blood. Halfway through, he stopped, fighting the urge to vomit. His hands were now slick with blood, making him clumsy. He looked over at the clock, fifteen minutes left. His breathing became more and more rapid as he worked, he couldn't believe what was happening to him. But the years of wild living and rebellion against his catholic upbringing were now being revisited on him. He began to pray. Hail Mary, full of grace, hail Mary, full of grace...

Tick-tock.

The pain was not quite as intense now, as shock and adrenaline took over. The pool of blood he sat in was increasing by the second as he worked the knife around his leg. His most immediate concern was blacking out. He knew if he blacked out he might not awake again. He had to work fast. By now he had cut completely around the circumference of his lower calf and could see bone, which made him gag. He dropped the knife and closed his eyes for a second, breathing three long breaths, resting himself slightly. He knew in his heart that his father was looking down on him and that god was punishing him. But I only wanted you to love me pops.

Tick-tock.

The ticking clock prompted Chuck back to work. Time waits for no man son. He picked up the bloodied knife once more and took a breath to steady himself, then attempted to saw through the exposed bone. However after several seconds of rapid motion, he could see it was useless. The knife's blade was barely making an impression on the blood soaked bone. Exhausted now, and growing weaker by the second, he looked around forlornly for a sawing implement. But there was none, the room, apart from the bomb, the table and radiator he was chained to, was bare. The pool of blood around him grew and grew. Time was running out. Less than ten minutes by the hands of the clock. Those evil hands counted down without mercy.

He had to get through that bone. There was only one course of action. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. In utter panic now, Chuck spat out his shoe which clattered to the wooden floor loudly, then struggled to raise his half butchered leg, trembling weak as he did so, slipping in his own blood as he shifted. Hail Mary, full of grace. He placed his foot between the wall and the edge of the radiator, the exposed flesh sizzling as it made contact with the red hot metal. But Chuck could not feel the skin burn, only smell it, the rancid smell of his own cooked flesh. Hail Mary, full of grace, hail Mary, full of grace. Taking a large inhalation he held his breath for a second and then jerked his leg violently. There was a very intense pain that accompanied a dull crack. He shrieked in pain and then the limb was free as he broke down into tears, the agony greater than anything he'd ever felt.

Tick-tock.

Slowly and feebly Chuck crawled on his hands and knees on the bare floor boards. He could see his father stood in the doorway, a leather belt in his hands. Help me pops, please. Chuck Slipped on the blood slicked floor as he moved, his father beckoning him. I'm sorry pops, I'll do my chores, please pops. Chuck babbled as he crawled towards the door keys.

Tick-tock.

The arduous journey took him several minutes and when he reached them he gripped the keys like they were a commodity more precious than gold or diamonds combined. He let out two large breaths and then blacked out. The alarm clock ticked round slowly until the hands reached 12:00pm and then the bell began to ring. It rang for several seconds and then fell silent.

Vinny returned some hours later. He removed the clock from atop the lump of blue modelling clay and chuckled to himself as he stood over the

body, careful not to step in the huge pool of blood that surrounded it.

"The dumb bastard actually did it," he said with a smile before he and three other hoods dragged Chuck to the trunk of a waiting car.

Thirty minutes later Chuck's body was dumped in the Hudson. A trawler-man spotted it a few days later and it was recovered by police divers, bloated, pale and missing its left foot. The body was identified by Paul Farrell, Chuck's best friend and a funeral service was held at St Francis's church in his hometown of Queens a week later, his fiancée in attendance.

Nobody was ever charged with the murder of Charles O'Bannion.

The Little Red Dot

The editor sat at his plush desk in a large office on the fourth floor of the tower block that was home to Mesmerize magazine. Behind him a large wall-to-ceiling window bathed the office in light and warmth. He had settled in to read another short story submission when a red dot appeared on the screen, much to his irritation.

'Damn computer!' he cursed, rubbing the screen with his thumb. The mark refused to budge. He pressed the intercom button angrily. 'Valerie?' he cried, 'Get that damn little twerp from IT down here now. The computer is on the fritz again!'

'Yes Mr Kay,' came the meek voice over the intercom.

The editor rubbed his temples; he was starting to get a headache again. When he returned his attention to the screen, the red dot was gone. His eyes narrowed as he noticed its absence, but he shrugged and carried on reading.

The story was good, very good. Better than any of the dross he'd read in

the last few weeks. It gave him great pleasure in rejecting it. The author had submitted a number of short stories in the past, all very good, which he had also rejected with glee. You see, the editor loved his job, but sometimes tired of reading short stories all day long. What he loved about his job was the power he wielded and the only amusement he could glean from his occupation was to pick an author, usually at random, to antagonize.

One particular author had been studiously submitting for several months, always polite in his approach. The editor had been grooming him, rejecting his stories automatically in an attempt to solicit a reaction. However, after several rejections the author still remained courteous in his correspondence. Slightly disappointed, the editor escalated the condescension of his emails, suggesting the writer's stories were either too long, or too short or too outrageous or too tame, depending on the subject matter. But again this was only greeted by more submissions, either longer or shorter depending on the editor's latest whim. He had begun to grow bored, the most appalling disaster that could befall him. The editor wanted to irritate this man, to make his blood boil, to make him doubt his abilities as a writer and he wanted the ultimate proof of his anger and frustration. He wanted an irate response. He loved to trade insults. In fact he lived to trade insults. And so finally, he made one last attempt to provoke a reaction. To every submission by his chosen author, he would simply reply with a Haiku. The first Haiku was brushed aside, much as he expected, as was the second, third and fourth. He was beginning to lose faith, when one day after the fifth rejection Haiku, the guy finally bit!

The editor's palms were sweaty with excitement as he launched them at the keyboard in that first email orgy of filthy words, insults and abuse. His heart raced, his face sported a large grin and, for the first time in nearly a year, he had managed a slight erection. He had sighed deeply as he hit the send button, which was like an orgasm to him. His months of hard work had finally paid off. But his pleasure was short lived. The author did not respond to his email and furthermore had not submitted any further stories for over a month. The editor was to be denied his pleasure. The dot, however, had not disappeared, it had merely moved. Slowly it made its way around the room, unseen, until it found its resting place squarely on the back of the editor's head. Across the street, in a disused office block a lone sniper steadied his rifle, cocked it and let off the safety. He squinted down the scope and zeroed in on his target. Watching the little red dot dance lightly on the back of the editor's head like a mark of death, he slowed his breathing in preparation for the shot, his finger on the trigger. He began to apply pressure when the head moved. The sniper cursed silently.

'You called for me Mr Kay?' Danny, the IT junior asked meekly as he knocked and entered the office to the editors urgent beckoning.

'Yeah, this damn computer had a red mark on the screen a minute ago, it's gone now but I don't want it to come back,'

'Sure,' Danny said nervously, as the editor rose from his seat and Danny took his place in front of the computer.

'Let's see,' he mumbled with anxiety, he hated Mr Kay who was usually short tempered and rude.

'I'm going to the John to take a crap, if that heap of junk isn't fixed by the time I get back you're fired,'

'Yes Sir Mr Kay,' Danny replied.

As Danny checked the computer for a fault the red dot began to travel the room again, before settling on the back of Danny's head. The eyes peered down the scope, searching for the dot.

'C... come in?' Danny said tentatively in reply to the secretary's timid knock.

'Some letters for Mr Kay, I'll just leave them on his desk,' she whispered as she placed the papers neatly on the bureau.

Danny returned to his work, searching in the root directory for corrupt files when he spotted a misplaced media document. It was a video clip. Curiously he fired it up. Just as quickly he shut it down again, gasping in shock and horror. The video clip was sick child pornography. Danny began to feel nauseous as he counted nearly a dozen more files in the directory.

'Is that computer fixed yet? It damn better be!'

Danny nearly doused his shorts as the editor burst into the room. He quickly closed the screen.

'Y yes Sir Mr Kay,'

'Well then, stop gawking and get the hell out of here, I'm busy,' dismissing the boy without gratitude.

The editor returned to his desk and the sniper watched him through the scope as he began to write the next rejection email. The editor was busy imagining the irritation he could cause with his words, typing away with abandon. Once finished, he hit the send button and let out a contented sigh. It was then that he noticed the pile of letters. He picked up the first and opened it, a circular which he screwed up and threw at the bin. He missed and the screwed up ball of paper hit the wall and bounced under the filing cabinet. He opened the second envelope which initially seemed empty. He tipped it upside down and something small fell out onto the desk. It was a small paper swan, folded origami style. The editor unfolded it and looked at it. It had some small writing on it. The editor reached into his desk drawer and took out a magnifying glass, squinting through it to make out the tiny words. It was a Haiku!

Seven point Six Two

On its way to you

Contemplate life

Fucker

Turn around

The editors last seconds on earth were spent pondering the meaning of the note in confusion. As the words finally sank in the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The little red dot returned to his screen and danced about, then moved down to the desk, resting on the piece of paper he held in his trembling hands. He heard the words of the note echo in his head. Contemplate life fucker. Surely it was a prank? A disgruntled contributor? There were many of those. They were just trying to scare him. Slowly his emotions morphed from curiosity, to fear, to anger. How dare they. Then he saw the red dot dance again on the note, Turn around. Slowly he turned his head round to face the window behind and scrutinised the tower block opposite, searching for an open window. After a few seconds he caught sight of something, a brilliant flash. It was the last thing he ever saw as his head exploded in a mist of blood and bone fragments. The silenced, high velocity round blew his brains apart like a dropped honey-dew melon and the torso fell back-wards onto the expensive bureau.

*

Just a fortnight later, the applicant sat in an office awaiting his interview. After a short while a portly, balding office manager entered the room with two coffees.

'Thank-you,' the applicant said as he took his cup.

'Well this should be short and sweet,' the office manager said with a smile.

'Short and sweet? No extensive interview?'

'Certainly not. We've read your resume, very impressive. A solid portfolio of work published in respected magazines. I'm sure you're more than qualified to edit our humble zine. You know fiction,'

'Well, I guess you're right,'

'And of course, there hasn't been an overwhelming clamour of applications. Yvette tells me that you are unperturbed by the...unfortunate incident concerning your predecessor?'

'Yeah, tagged by some nut job with a grudge, tragic business,' he replied, shaking his head,'

'I assure you the office has been completely redecorated,'

'I see,'

'Well if there are no further questions it's my privilege to welcome you aboard as editor of Mesmerize magazine,' the manager beamed, shaking the new editor's hand.

As he took his seat at his new desk he swivelled to take in the view from the large window. From this vantage point he could see the entire city. He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and with practised movements, folded it into a neat paper swan and sat it on the desk.

That One Moment

'Two pound a pound, fresh Strawberries, two pound a pound,'

'Slow down,' my wife said, holding our crying baby girl as I pushed my way impatiently through the crowds. It was a hot day. One of those stiflingly hot July days when all the tourists come to Portobello and just moving becomes a mission. 'Hold on,' she said as the baby continued to wail. 'I need to see to her,'

We were almost level with Gail's Bakery, having fought through the crowds, and the smell of fresh baked bread reminded me of my hunger.

'It was your idea to come here,' I said, unable to keep the resentment out of my voice. A brief peek at the militaria stall whilst my wife perused dusty antiques was the only thing that vaguely appealed about the whole venture.

'I thought it would be nice for all of us. Just let me see to her,'

'Fresh Strawberries, two pound a pound,'

'Just stop her crying, will you, it's giving me a headache, I said as I was jostled by anonymous elbows.

'I'm sorry, but she's not enjoying this. Look, let's just forget it and go home shall we?'

'You dragged us all this way and now you want to go home?' I said, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of the sun on the back of my neck. My shouting just made the baby cry more.

'You're getting upset. I think we should just go home,'

'Strawberries, two pound a pound,'

'If you want to go home, you go home. I've had enough of this,' I said, loosening my collar in the stifling heat.

'I think you need to calm down,'

'Don't tell me to calm down,' I snapped, my head throbbing.

'Ok, Ok, just please stop shouting, you're frightening her,'

'Then go home the pair of you,' I said, angry at the heat, the pressing, jostling crowd, and the baby's incessant crying.

'Two pound a pound,'

'Ok, have it your way. I'll take her back to the car, you always have to spoil things,'

'I always spoil things?' I shouted, exasperated.

'Just give me the keys,' she scowled.

It was that look, that scowl that tipped me over the edge. 'You want the keys?' I said and I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the keys. 'Take them!' I shouted and hurled them at my wife.

I can see it happen now in slow motion, I can still feel the sensation of the weight of the keys leaving my palm, the velocity and the bright shining glare, as the sunlight glittered on the silver metal. The instant they left my hand I wanted to stop time, to reverse it, to take back those keys and hold them tight in my hand. The instant I lost contact with those keys, I lost contact with my old life. Even now I feel sick as I see in my mind's eye that bunch of keys fly through the air like a glittering bomb of anger. When it landed it blew our world apart. I can still hear the scream of our daughter as they hit her, and then after a shocked pause, the horrified scream of my wife. The look of horror on the face of the old lady next to her, as they blood ran down the baby's face, the look of disgust on the face of the market stall holder as I rushed towards my wife and daughter. Everything seemed to blur as people crowded round and my wife continued to scream, voices, cries, screams merged into once cacophony of noise which was soon joined by the wail of the Ambulance siren.

Later, I remember sitting in the waiting room outside the operating theatre and feeling a deep fear, deeper than any I'd ever felt before, and an even deeper sense of shame burning all over my body. I felt the muffled sobs of my wife and her blunt rejection of my feeble pleas for forgiveness pierce my heart like needles. Then as the surgeon emerged from the theatre and my wife rushed to his side, I saw the shake of his head that told all. I sat dumbstruck as I witnessed her collapse into his arms, the nurses carry her to a chair and then later the reproachful gaze of the doctor as he explained to me my daughter's blindness. The blindness my anger caused. My guilt and shame burned like a fire under my feet.

The years passed, through counselling and anger management my marriage somehow survived, and though I gave every ounce of love in my soul to my wife and daughter, I knew there was no way I could ever erase the damage I had caused. There would always be the inescapable truth of my act and the life it forged for all of us. Our life ended the instant the keys left my hand and every moment since has been a living purgatory. I would often lie awake at night and imagine an alternate future, one in which I had not lost my temper, not thrown those keys, not robbed my child of her sight and our family of a future. For there is now only misery in this house where once there was love and laughter. Every time I look at my daughter I'm reminded of my shame. Every time she comes home from school in tears from the bullying, repeating the names given her by her tormentors, One-Eye, Cyclops, each word is like an icicle stabbed through my heart.

This morning I left a note on the kitchen table for my wife and daughter. I picked up the pills I'd been hiding for weeks and came back to Portobello today, exactly five years from the day our life ended. It all seems so vivid and immediate. The hot sun, the bustling crowds, the smell of the food stalls, the laughter of the stall holders and the cries and giggles of children. I see these lives going on around me and envy every last second of their joy, for I now have none. I order a coffee and sit outside Gail's. I take the pills out of my pocket and swallow them with the coffee. As my senses start to dull, I see the bustling, vibrant market and think back to that one moment, that instant the keys left my hand and my heart breaks for the very last time.

END

About the Author

Dean Baker is an award winning writer, who holds a degree in Political science, English literature and is currently the Men's Olympic 100m champion. He's also an extremely gifted liar, which helps him write incredible fiction.

Having escaped a life of grinding affluence, via careers as a spy, parking attendant, carpet Salesman, air-traffic controller and street-sweeper he attained a position of subsistence level mediocrity in the IT industry. He then surveyed his vista and decided that the world of fiction would be his new domain and immediately began to unleash his works of brilliance.

The first, The Big R, is a hilarious romantic comedy, released to critical acclaim by select members of his family and friends.

Other books by Dean Baker

If you enjoyed Eat My Shorts you may well appreciate other full length works from my trusty word processor:

The Big R

Losing The Plot

Connect with Dean Baker

I really appreciate you reading my book! To learn more about me and my writing, follow the links below:

Visit my website: https://www.zer0-talent.weebly.com

Favourite my Smashwords author page: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/wisty>

