 
Horror Showcase

By Stuart Neild, Ian Woodhead & Dave Jeffery

Spicy Meat, Two Skins, Beg the Other Man, Sewing Lessons ©Ian Woodhead 2010

The Smoking Assassin, Special Boy, The Return of Borley Rectory, So You Think You're a Werewolf? ©Stuart Neild 2010

Daddy Dearest, The Last Rose of Summer, Wish You Were Here?

Foresight ©Dave Jeffery

Cover Design: Michelle Woodhead

This free eBook may not be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, without the written consent of the contributing authors

The Smoking Assassin by Stuart Neild

They say that I'm the greatest assassin, note assassin, not killer, that ever lived. That title, I can, surprisingly enough, live with and, believe me, I've lived a long time and don't intend on dying anytime soon.

Not that I don't know what death is. I'm hardly a stranger to it, or it to me. You cannot be a killer or assassin, call it what you will, and not be on some kind of terms with the grim reaper. I wouldn't say we were personal friends, modesty doesn't permit me that much, but, we have brushed shoulders on more than the odd occasion and death has never complained at the work I have thrown his way.

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever heard death speak, who has? Certainly not anyone that's living to tell the tale. He's not the kind of guy to waste his breath, unless he has to. I suppose he knows how precious breath is. He should know, he goes around stealing the final breath from everybody and everything.

In the cold light of day, death, or the grim reaper, call him what you will, has a much better hit ratio than I or anyone else throughout history. I can't see that changing. I know I'm not going to live forever and as surprising as it might seem to some people, I don't want to live forever. Who in their right mind does?

I think what surprises people more, is that I do have a mind of my own. Well, let's be perfectly honest, of course it does. Yes, I think that's what surprises them the most of all. If I do give them the benefit of a rare last request, a very rare benefit I might add and they hear my voice and take note of the intelligence, the actual thought behind what I say, what I do and how I do it, how could they fail to be surprised. They wouldn't see that knockout punch coming at them from the left side.

Did I mention I'm a big fan of boxing, a massive fan actually? All the divisions, heavyweight, middleweight, lightweight, I'm there, title or non title fight. I must admit I have a particular liking for the lighter weight fights. I suppose it's because I identify with them more. I have to be pretty light on my feet if you get the joke. You see, I have a sense of humour, you didn't expect that. Like I already pointed out, they never do.

But where was I? Oh yes, the importance of being as light or rather lighter than the proverbial feather, when one is going about their calling. And it is a calling. People call me and off I go, to do their dirty business for them. You should see some of the people that request my services, you just would not believe. Little old ladies, little old men, the young, the old, the obese, the slim, all ages, sizes, creeds and colours, from all walks of life. There is no one set of democratic that use me. I can honestly say, hand on heart, if I had one that is, I really am an equal opportunities assassin.

Take this one guy for instance; he was C of E, that's Church of England to the not so educated. You see, I told you I was smart. Anyway, this C of E guy, he wanted his neighbour - a Jehovah's Witness - knocking off. The C of E guy went through the right channels and rituals and Bob's your Uncle, Fanny's your Aunt and I choke the life of this little Jehovah's guy. Now there was nothing anti Jehovah's Witness on my part or on the C of E guys part. No, it wasn't the fact that the Jehovah's Witness religion had offended him or his C of E religion, no sir, no siree, it was the fact he thought the Jehovah had been knocking off his wife. It turns out it wasn't the Jehovah but some atheist down the road from him. Not that he knows that to this day. But I knew it, I knew it at the time but, well, it wasn't my place to say.

Did I get away with it? Well of course. I'm here aren't I, in all my glory in front of you. I always get away. I always get in and I always get out. Even in this era of DNA and finger prints. I only leave the traces of things I want them to find and even if the authorities do find out about me, what are they going to do? I am as they say, untouchable. And as if finger prints or DNA would apply to me.

I'll tell you another favourite little anecdote of mine. There was this leader; well he said he was a leader, more like a little tin pot dictator if my opinion counts for anything. This leader of some Godforsaken government in some Godforsaken land, he thought he was untouchable, that nothing could get at him. Little did he know I was the untouchable one and that no matter how many guards, or how many precautions he took, he was not stopping me from getting into his building or any building for that matter.

Anytime, any place, anywhere. Satisfaction is always guaranteed with my services. The individual that required me to, how can I put it, snuff out, the dictator was, you'll never guess, a little girl. When I say little, she was ten years old and had some help from her grandmother, who knew a little more about these things, but that's by the wayside, this dictator, he had so many enemies, so many attempts on his life, from inside his regime and out of it and not one got anywhere near to getting the job done.

I did what numerous heads of state, politicians, kings, queens, armies, spies, bombs, weapons of mass destruction and your ordinary garden variety of killer could not. I was in and out like a puff of smoke if you pardon the pun. And all on a little girls say so, with, as I pointed out, a little guidance from her grandmother. It seemed this particular dictator picked on the wrong one when he butchered this particular little girl's father. I guess sometimes, that's just the way it goes.

Now, I can see you quaking. I think the realisation has hit home to you what this is really about. Take your time, swallow hard. I know it's a shock, it always is. You thought nobody or nothing could get to you. You were wrong, you realise that now, but don't blame yourself. Even if you had taken precautions, what precautions could you have taken for this? What fail safes could you have put in place?

Very little and none that would have worked, even if I do say so myself.

You see it's the luck of the draw. You knew you had enemies, hey; we all have our haters and those that we hate. It's just that one of your haters got the jump on you, before you did on them. They had that bit more knowledge, that bit more belief.

So here I am, a demon from the darkest parts of I wouldn't care to say where and you wouldn't want to hear anyway. You wouldn't want scaring to death and that's certainly not what I'm about anyway.

In case you hadn't guessed it, but I'm sure you already have, I'm a smoke demon, plain and simple. I waft along on the breeze; I trickle through the slightest of openings and use my very essence, to fill my victim's lungs with enough smoke, so that they'll never breathe a drop of fresh air again. In fact they won't breathe any air again.

Not if I do my job right.

Which I always do.

Now where are you going? You know you can't run away from me and even if you could, I'd always be waiting.

Would the cigarette that attractive lady lit up in the corner, really be just a cigarette, or would the smoke coming out of it, be not just cigarette smoke, but me?

Would that smoky face in your children's bonfire really be just bonfire smoke, or would it be my reflection, laughing at you, knowing full well that when you slept that night, I would drift into your room and you would never wake again?

I think you catch my drift.

Anyway as much as it's been pleasant talking to you and honoured you are, as I pointed out, I could have crept in on your unconscious form, I really must get on with things. You have no last requests apart from me letting you live? Oh you are such a card. I knew you'd ask that one.

Now just relax and sleep. I promise you it will be painless. Just close your eyes and we'll drift off together.

Spicy Meat by Ian Woodhead

1

Jim nearly fell off the stool in his back room when his shop door flew open. Bloody hell, he must have dozed off. His eyes shot up to the clock and almost wept when he saw the time. It was nearly three in the morning, oh shit. That meant the customers who had somehow found their way here were now part of Jim's bargain, he hoped to Christ that they weren't locals.

He watched the three youths stumble into the shop through the security camera. They weren't from around here which was a blessed relief. Jim clocked the shaven heads, hard lean bodies and unmistakable swagger. He recognised this type of customer. He hoped the thugs in sports clothes wouldn't turn violent.

Aiden rapped his fist on the scratched glass counter, his rings, several on each finger, left a few more marks on the ancient surface.

"Service, you fucker! Come on, there are people out here starving to fucking death."

"Maybe they just forgot to lock the door."

Aiden growled and turned, he resisted the urge to give the cunt a slap. George had been coming out with dumb fucking comments like that all night. He booted George's brother instead.

"Oi! What the fuck did you do that for?" Trevor asked rubbing his shin.

"Stop with the complaining. I only tapped you for fuck's sake. You got that cos I don't hit girls do I? Now why don't you explain to your thick as fuck sister why the shop ain't closed. Explain the basics."

Aiden spun back round and leaned over the counter, where the fuck were the food people? While he was here he thrust his arm over to the till. What a fucking shame, a couple more inches, he'd be able to reach the buttons. Instead he swiped a menu, chose what he wanted and made the menu into an airplane. He listened to Trevor tell his brother off and smiled. George wasn't a bad lad to have around; he was just a bit slow on the uptake that's all.

Considering how small he was, the kid was still a hard little fucker and handy with his fists. George had proved that earlier tonight when they set upon those four trendy fuckers queuing up outside that nightclub. The cunts thought they were really hard, impressing those girls with them and everything. It was the worst mistake of their lives when they all started gobbing off. George hadn't hesitated when Aiden and Trevor jumped them, he piled in too, punching, booting and screaming and at one point, even biting. God, it was well funny, it was like he was possessed or something. In the end, he had to pull him off when they heard the approach of sirens.

George reminded Aiden of himself when he was sixteen, only he wasn't so fucking dumb.

"Can I help you?"

Aiden jumped. Where the fuck did he come from? He gave the man the once over, wondering if he could take him, then Aiden noticed the man's hand casually resting on something below the counter and sighed. He probably had something close by like a cricket bat or pickaxe handle or something. It's what he would have, especially at this time in the morning. Although it would be a good laugh to drag the fat fuck over his own counter and give him a good kicking, who'd feed him and Aiden was well fucking hungry.

"Do you shove onion in your salad?"

The man shook his head.

"Right, in that case I want an extra large donner with salad and shit loads of chilli sauce and don't fucking skimp on the chilli."

"I'll have the same," Trevor replied. He looked at George. "What about you?"

"Can I have a pizza?"

Aiden launched the plane at him. "No, you can't have a fucking pizza. Pizzas take fucking ages and we ain't waiting."

George sighed. "Fair enough, I'll have the same."

"Have you got all that, cunt?" Aiden said.

But the man was already preparing them. God, the bloke was fucking quick, he'd done two already. When the man turned, Aiden leaned over the counter again, this time he looked the other direction. He grinned when he spotted the baseball bat leaning against the wall. He'd hammered in a few nails into the business end. What an evil bastard, Aiden's respect for the kebab man went up a few notches.

"Oi! If that's my kebab, don't skimp on the meat."

The man added a few more strips, winked at Aiden then added a few more.

He was going to have to remember this place; the cunt behind the counter defiantly knew the basics.

The man handed over three parcels, he made a point of ensuring the overloaded behemoth went to Aiden.

"If you are paying together gentlemen, that will be £15."

Trevor slapped a pound coin on the top. "That's all I've got you cunt. Take it or leave it."

Aiden sighed; he took out his battered wallet and gave the bloke a twenty pound note. "Here you go mate, keep the change."

The brothers stared at him as if he'd gone fucking mental.

"What's with the fucking eyeballing?" he shouted. "This is a top bloke, show him a bit of respect." He picked the coin off the counter and threw it at Trevor. "Shove yer change out of yer arse and get out of the shop."

He nodded to the bloke and followed the brothers out into the cold night. He didn't see the man smirking to himself.

2

The brothers were already tucking into their food; Aiden kicked their discarded wrappers into the road. "What's the verdict lads?"

George nodded then burped and his brother held up a chill-stained greasy thumb.

"The meat's a lot fucking nicer then our local shop," he said in between chewing. "It's well fucking hot."

He had yet to open his, Aiden saw how much the man had piled on and he didn't want to look like a total cock by spilling it all over the pavement. He stopped under an old fashioned streetlamp and carefully took off the first layer of paper. Oh god, the spicy meat aroma coming through the shiny paper was incredible; it was like the best smelling donner meat ever. If he didn't get this down his gob like yesterday, he'd end up drowning in his own fucking drool.

Aiden ripped off the remaining layer and dug through the salad, eager to find a nice, juicy strip of meat. He found a good sized piece and popped it into his mouth. Aiden chewed contentedly, the taste was divine and lived up to the reputation hinted from the initial aroma. The lad was in the land of bliss and set about demolishing the rest of it, thinking what an all round top night it had been.

The only problem was that, due to his unexpected generosity, his wallet was a bit lighter. That cash was part of his Ma's board money for the week. His Pa would knock the fuck out of him if he handed over less than what was owed.

"The salad's full of fucking onion by the way," remarked Trevor.

"Its white cabbage you dozy bastard. Do I have to explain the basics?"

Trevor grinned, "Bollocks, its fucking onion. I swear."

Aiden decided there and then that Trevor would give him the note, it made sense in a way. Trevor had been a right cocky fucker all night, if he got all smart then he's just stamp on the ginger cunt's head. It would be interesting to see how George would react to that. He threw the soggy pitta bread and the rest of the salad onto the cracked paving slabs. He didn't want it now, that fucker had put him off.

"Where the fuck are we anyhow?" asked George.

"You dip-shit, we are just outside..." Aiden spun around; he didn't have a clue where they were.

The gaudy neon signs and metal shutters had been replaced by huge blackened stone mills on either side of the narrow street. He hadn't seen a single car since the kebab shop. He looked behind him. There was no sign of the place, had they really walked that far?

"Where are we Aiden?"

He could hear that undertone of panic creeping into Trevor's voice. He shrugged and shook his head, not wanting to speak in case the same panicked tone was heard in his voice too.

"Why can't we just fucking calling a taxi?" George dug into his pocket; I've still got a fiver left."

"Cos we don't know where the fuck we are! How the fuck can we tell em where to go you thick fuck," snapped Trevor.

George pulled his mobile out of his other pocket and marched off down the road.

"And just where the fuck are you going?" asked his brother.

"Away from you two cunts, I'm gonna find a street sign. I'm sick of you two having a go at me."

Trevor growled. "That's it, I'm gonna chin the midget."

Aiden caught Trevor's shoulder as he rushed past. He shook his head. "Leave him be Trev. Besides, looking for a street sign is a well top idea. Come on."

He hurried after George. To be honest, he wasn't really bothered if Trevor was behind him or not, he was getting a bit sick of him lording it over George. That was supposed to be his job.

George come to a halt at the first junction, he looked well fucked off. He stopped next to the lad and followed the lad's gaze. Aiden hadn't noticed before, but all the roads were cobbled.

"It's not cunting fair, there's no bastard signs anywhere. What's all that about?"

He almost felt sorry for the little lad, he so wanted to get one up on his older brother.

Trevor hadn't noticed his brother's anxiety, he had his back to them, the boy was just standing there, a few feet away, not moving.

"Oi! Gobshite. What's up with you?" Aiden walked over, curious at Trevor's odd behaviour. "I'm talking to you, Trevor."

Aiden was a little pissed off at Trevor's lack of response. If he was having a game with him, he was so going to kick his fucking arse. "I said I was talking to you Trevor. Don't you fucking ignore me."

The older brother turned around, he put his finger up to his lips then turned back. "I think I'm in love," he whispered.

Aiden then saw her, a young woman, about their age, on the other side of the street. She was un-fucking-believably beautiful. He pictured himself kissing that heart shaped face and running his hands through her raven black hair, then slowly peeling off that thin, short dress. Oh Jesus, he was drooling again, fuck, he so wanted that woman.

Aiden's fears of being lost were swept aside as his young mind went into sexual overdrive. He wanted the bitch and he was going to have her. His lust for her was interrupted when he found himself sprawled, face down on the cobbled street.

"Get your beady fucking eyes back in your bastard head. I saw her first." Trevor reached into his back pocket and pulled out his knife, the thin blade snapped open with an audible snick. "She's mine."

He slowly stood up and made a show of brushing the dirt off his black pants. Aiden was in no hurry, he knew that he could take the cunt, with or without his little pig sticker.

"You had to wait for my back to be turned first didn't you? It's the one and only time you'll touch me you red haired fucker." Aiden sensed Trevor's brother running up behind him. What would he do? Aiden had no fear of taking both of them on, George may have balls of steel but he lacked any real fighting skill. If the little bastard had ideas above his station as well, he would soon put the cunt back in his place. The girl was his.

"Jesus Trev," gasped George. "What the fuck are you playing at? Aiden's your mate. He's the only one you have left."

"But I saw her first."

"Come on bruv. Put the knife away."

Aiden just stood where he was, staying silent. Watching the exchange with interest.

Tears were now streaming down Trevor's face. He looked at the boy standing in the road. "It isn't fucking fair. I've tried to be like you all my bastard life. So why does everybody hate me?" Trevor gazed at his little brother. "Even that cunt there likes you more than me and now you want to take her off me." Trevor stepped off the kerb. "Well, it ain't fucking happening."

Aiden licked his lips; his heart was thudding in his chest. He couldn't believe he was going to say this. "We could share her."

Trevor let his hand fall to his side. "What?"

"It's what mates do innit. We could each take turns while the others hold her down." Aiden licked his lips again and watched his vision of loveliness get farther and farther away. "We could make her last all night."

Both brothers's nodded as one; it wasn't difficult to imagine what sick, depraved and violent fantasies were going through their minds, no doubt they were very similar to what were going through his mind.

"We'd better get a move on," said Trevor. "She's getting away."

The three youths raced across the road, the sound of their boots slapping on the stone cobbles sounded like thunder to Aiden's ears. Something was wrong; the girl wasn't reacting how she ought to. Why wasn't she running? Why wasn't she screaming? She must have heard them running towards her.

His thoughts of lust and violent sex began to evaporate as his heightened sense of self preservation kicked in. He started to slow down. The two brothers raced on ahead, they hadn't noticed anything wrong.

Trevor got to the girl first; he reached out, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her back. Encouraged by his brother's actions, George had one hand trying to unbuckle his belt while the other was desperate to get inside the front of her dress.

"I wanna go first," he panted.

The girl reacted to the sound of his voice by screaming, it was a sound of rage, not terror. She pulled her head forward and Trevor found himself holding a handful of black hair attached to nothing. She turned and leaped into the air, still screaming. She landed on George, knocking him to the floor; the girl straddled his body, grabbed both sides of his head then pressed her thumbs against his closed eyelids. George wiggled like a speared fish, his meaty arms came up again and again, striking her body everywhere but the girl was like a limpet, she would not let go. Finally his arms slapped to the ground as she pushed her thumbs through his eyeballs and into his brain.

Trevor whimpered and turned to run when she climbed off his brother's inert body. She sprinted after him at an impossible speed. The girl leapt again and caught his ear with her outstretched hand; she dragged him along the path like a dog before pushing him hard against a building. She licked her lips looked into his terrified eyes then sank her teeth into his cheek. Trevor's screams turned Aiden's blood to water. He struggled like mad, just like his brother had, but could get her off him.

Aiden felt his bowels and bladder loosen. Some part of his brain was telling him that this couldn't be happening while another part was ordering Aiden to get the fuck out of here before she went after him, but his feet felt like they were glued to the floor. Trevor's knife fell from his limp hand and fell onto the cobbles.

The girl held Trevor by his neck and pulled off another piece of his cheek with her teeth, she looked at Aiden whilst chewing and winked. He watched her swallow before diving back into the open wound.

Aiden could take no more of this; he pulled up what little strength he had left, turned the other way and ran for his life. His heavy footfalls were soon joined by the sound of bare feet hitting stone. He let out a hoarse shriek when he felt her hand brush against his collar.

3

Jim already had the garage door open by the time the first of the screaming started. He would give it another five minutes before he made his move. Jim had no wish to be caught in the siren's spell too.

The preparations had already been made. The mincing machine, electric saw and tables had all been sterilised and were ready for use. All that remained was to pick up his part of the bargain. Jim hoped that she'd leave him some this time.

The stock he had left would barely last another night.

Her time was up. Jim slipped on his latex gloves, zipped up the raincoat and picked up his wheelbarrow before heading off into the night.

Wish You Were Here? by Dave Jeffery

It started as a joke; a whimsy to entertain its instigators as they traveled on their two week tour of southwest England. But like the four men who climbed inside the large red camper van with Mr. Rowling's prized garden gnome sitting on their dash board, jokes come in all shapes and sizes. There are big jokes, small jokes, the simple and the complex. Yet jokes are unique in that they are often flavoured by the demeanor of their creators. If a person is mean their jokes taste bad. And the theft of Rowling's gnome had meanness at its heart; so it turned very sour, very quickly.

And in the most unexpected of ways.

It wasn't as if Mr. Rowling was the epitome of goodness and light. He too had a streak of meanness that was deep and thick, but at some point in time, the retired grave digger had been honest enough to make a decision to divorce himself from people. Not that he disliked people per se; he just didn't like the ones that could still walk over his pristine front lawn and talked garbage. As far as Mr. Rowling was concerned human beings were a lot less objectionable when they were as dead as a cassette tape.

His frequent rants at those who dared to step a millimeter across his boundary, were often watched by his small army of gnomes, cheery faces un-blighted by his cussing. Rowling considered these brightly painted allies his only true friends, accumulated over twenty years and more reliable and loyal than the living variety. His gnomes didn't judge or criticize or deride him. If he considered his gnomes as his allies then their leader had to be Liam, the first he had ever bought. It had been over twenty years ago now that Rowling had see the little ceramic man, face beaming out from beneath a red, pointy hat at a car boot sale, of all places. And Liam had pride of place on Rowling's front porch, his chubby hands resting on his big belly, clad in a green coat with huge golden, painted buttons.

Yes, Liam was very dear to Mr. Rowling which made him the prime target for kidnapping when the grumpy grave digger unleashed a torrent of abuse on the four drunken men who staggered onto his lawn on the eve of their summer holiday.

As they relaxed in their camper, they had great plans ahead: sun, sea and sending pictures and postcards of Liam the Gnome's southwest tour.

'I wish I could see that guy's miserable face when he gets the photos of his poxy gnome surfing in Newquay!' Neil Jones scoffed as he kicked back in his seat.

'It'll be great,' replied his best friend, Aled 'Taffy' Jeffery. 'The guy's as sour as a grapefruit.'

'At least a grapefruit is useful,' Colin Jewkes chuckled patting the gnome sitting in front of him on the head.. 'Hey, Billy, you want to shoot the first picture?'

'You bet, my man,' William Thompson said delving into his pocket and pulling free a slim digital camera. 'Say cheesy garden ornament!'

They laughed as a double flash white washed their space for a moment.

'What you putting on the postcard, Taffy?' Neil asked with a broad grin.

Aled thought for a moment, 'I think we should introduce this little guy's traveling companions. That'll really get the guy fired up, right?'

'Once we've stopped for a breather let's get some tourist to get us all together. That way, he'll be able to see what a great time we're all having with his pal.'

And this is what they did. A young French girl took the photo, and even asked them to take one of her giving Liam a kiss on his porcelain cheek. The girl's lipstick remained on his face for a few days afterwards. And she would later give evidence to the police that the four boys didn't look like they had a care or enemy in the world.

Colin drove the first one hundred and sixty odd miles, completing his stint by pulling into a Holiday Inn just off of the M5 at Exeter. Here the men shot a photo of Liam at a table in Burger King with a huge burger and fries heaped in front of him.

'Here, let me help you out with that, you little porcelain dipstick,' Taffy giggled as he hoisted the burger from the carton.

'Careful, Taffy,' Neil said with mock seriousness, 'That gnome's got Rowling's meanness in it. You'd better watch your teasing.'

'I'm thinking that we'd better make sure that this fella has a really good trip. A bit like the condemned man's last twenty four hours,' Taffy replied mischievously.

'What do you mean?' Billy queried.

'Well, we're going to Land's End, right?' Taffy explained. 'How 'bout if we take a picture of this sorry piece of porcelain sky diving into the Atlantic? Make a great farewell for Rowling, eh?'

'I'm not too sure about that, Taffy,' Colin said and the way he said it made them all realize that he wasn't kidding. 'That does still belong to Rowling. It's a bit cruel to just bin it.'

'Oh, Colin!' Neil chastised, 'It's just a battered old gnome. Rowling will bitch about it for a while and then console himself with the other _five hundred_ he owns!'

'It's just a laugh, right?' Taffy reassured him.

'I guess so,' Colin said though it was strained.

The others chose to ignore it. A decision they would soon come to regret.

The group set off on the next leg of their journey, this time Neil taking up the driving honours, but traveling only forty miles before parking up at a picnic area on the edge of Dartmoor National Park. The plan was very simple, a mile walk to The Hoops Inn where they'd dig in for the night, drinking their body weight in real ale, then a walk back to their camper.

Well that was the initial plan.

'What do you mean you're not coming?' Neil said to Colin astounded.

'I just want to chill for a bit,' Colin said. 'I want to check out that place.'

They all followed his raised arm and pointing finger. In the middle distance there was a black shape nestled in the folds of the plush green landscape.

'Let's get this right,' Taffy said suppressing a smile. 'You'd rather go and check out a moldy old building than came and spend the night drinking?'

'Come on guys,' Colin said with a shrug. 'You know I'm a sucker for history.'

'Colin, The Hoops Inn has been in existence since the thirteenth century. Now that's history!'

'I'd like to do this, guys,' Colin laughed.

'Hey, it's your holiday too,' Billy said shaking his head in disbelief.

'I'll get some shots of the little fella while I'm there,' Colin said nodding towards Liam the Gnome who was standing on the campers' veneered table.

'Well you two have yourselves a wonderful evening,' Neil winked. 'Don't wait up!'

The evening was still and bright as Colin made his way towards the misshapen building he'd seen from the roadside. As he approached he was disappointed to find that the place was a derelict oast house and not a place of historical significance at all.

'Oh well,' he said to Liam whose head was poking out of a rucksack lashed to Colin's back. 'I guess I'll take a few photos of you and the oast house and catch the guys up.'

Colin unbridled the rucksack and set Liam free. He approached a low stone wall where he sat the gnome slightly angled away from the camera, as though scanning the long, flat horizon. He lifted his camera, framed the picture in the view finder and took three shots.

Smiling to himself, Colin punched the camera into _review mode_ then peered at the first image on the tiny screen. There was the gnome looking off into the distance as thought lost in thought. The picture was slightly blurred, the camera shake icon winking accusingly.

Colin forwarded the screen onto the next image. This time the camera was trembling in his hands in real time. Because the image showed Colin that the gnome had _moved._ It no longer had its cheery face in relief against the azure evening skies.

It was staring right into camera!

Morbid curiosity made him pull up the third and final frame, and that was when Colin threw the camera away from him as though it had changed into a deadly, poisonous creature. It landed on the soft grass, its tiny screen impossible to see; but Colin knew what was on it: the gnome, still smiling but the eyes - oh God, those eyes - no longer full of cheer, but a terrible wickedness turning its face into a mask of cruelty.

He found himself instinctively searching the wall for the gnome, part of his mind still telling him that he was imagining things, that maybe he should just turn round and head for The Hoops Inn.

When he saw that the gnome was no longer on the wall, Colin panicked. Instead of bolting back to the camper van he ran towards the derelict building; maybe it was instinct, the way a startled rabbit bolts for the nearest hole, even if it is a badger's set.

Inside the building was a grey world of light and shade. Dusty sunlight poured through several holes in the corrugated roof, and the corners were pooled in the blackest of shadows. From high in the rafters, chains and pulleys swayed like the ambling vines, the click of metal punctuating the silence.

Then he heard a giggle. It sounded playful, but in a mischievous, unsetting way. Colin's heart pounded, blood rushed in his ears, his body was going into an anxiety driven meltdown. 'This isn't happening?' he called out pathetically. 'It's not possible!'

'Oh anything's possible, Colin!' a small voice replied from the dark. 'As you will soon see!' These last words came as a vicious hiss and then Colin saw it step from the shadows, the gnome standing with its hands on hips and that smile now an ugly leer.

'Better accept that yer goin' to be hanging around fer a while, Colin,' it said hopping from one foot to the other.

Before Colin could question either his mind or the strange creature standing not three feet away from him, a length of chain appeared to come alive and wrap itself about his throat. Colin's hands clawed at their vice-like grip but to no avail. His kicking, gasping body was yanked high into the rafters where it danced like a faulty marionette for some time; while, far below, the gnome watched intently and did a jig of its own.

It was dark when Taffy got back, though the camper's interior lights were burning brightly. Taffy went inside, his gait lurching and alcohol fuelled.

'Hey, Colin?' In his drunken mind Taffy thought he'd whispered the words but in reality they were loud enough to wake the dead. Well, not quite.

'You sleeping, pal? You're missin' a great night. I'm under orders to bring you back with me. No excuses.!'

'Colin would love to come out to play, Taffy,' said a small voice. 'But he's, sort of, dead as a nail.'

Confused, Taffy stumbled around, trying to locate the source of the voice.

'Who is that? Colin, you joker, come on out and stop messing around.'

'I got pictures,' the tiny voice said. 'Colin's swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, Taffy. Want to see?'

Taffy had been shocked sober, his wide eyes now looking at Colin's camera which was lying on the kitchenette table; its tiny screen winking through frame after frame of Colin's body hanging in the derelict oast house.

'Oh my God!' Taffy muttered and tried to lurch towards the exit. But just as he was about to clutch at the door frame, he felt something land on his shoulder.

'Heads up, Taffy!' Liam said as he introduced the sharpe blade of a bread knife to Taffy's soft pink throat.

The man didn't get chance to scream before blood arced out into the night air.

And Liam filled in the blanks with whoops of delight.

A mile away, Neil was squinting at his watch as though he'd never seen it before.

'Where have those two got to?' He mumbled, his tongue not quite behaving as it should.

'Taffy probably never got to the camper,' Billy laughed. 'He's probably asleep in a ditch by now!'

They both howled with laughter, oblivious to the locals staring at them.

'We'd better go and see,' Neil said wiping tears from his eyes. 'I'm about done anyhow.'

The two men shambled out of the pub after loudly bidding everyone a good night. No-one reciprocated., not that either of them noticed. Neil and Billy held each other up as they staggered up the asphalt towards their camper van.

'You know something?' Billy said his head bobbing up and down as he walked. 'I think I see lights up ahead.'

'It's a road, Billy,' Neil scoffed. 'It's probably a car, you duck egg!'

'You're probably right,' Billy agreed, not really sure what he was agreeing to.

'Course I am! Look: here it comes now.'

In the distance, yet closing fast, a vehicle straddled the white line. It's headlights were stark in the dark, dazzling the two men as they stepped onto a grass verge, and waited for it to pass in swaying stony silence.

The roar of the engine was loud, and distinctive; a bubbling throaty din that Billy recognised immediately.

'Well, I'll be damned!' He said cheerfully as he stepped out onto the road and waving his arms in the air. 'Good old Colin's come to collect us! I knew there was a reason why I liked the guy so much!'

But even in his drunken haze, Neil could see that something was wrong. The camper van wasn't slowing down, in fact the engine revved as though the accelerator had been nailed to the floor.

'Billy!' He screamed. 'Billy get out if the road!'

The camper swerved then, hitting a bemused, open mouthed, arm waving Billy at seventy miles an hour, tossing him into the air where he span like a gull falling from the sky. He landed on the road with a sickening thud, seventy metres away.

One of his training shoes lay on the spot where he was hit.

The camper van continued for several hundred metres, and then the break lights blazed in the dark, a horrified Neil listened to tyres protesting in a squealing, screaming belch of smoke and burning rubber.

'It's coming back,' he whispered in dismay. 'It's coming back, for me!!'

He mounted the grass verge, clambering into a privet of sharp thorns that sliced into his exposed hands and arms, raked his belly, but the pain was bright, motivating keeping him focused, keeping him _alive._ He fought his way through the blockade and they found himself charging headlong into darkness. The wind was whipping into his face, licking his lacerated forehead and cheeks. As he ran he jabbered to himself, questioning what it was he'd just witnessed, was it an accident, was it some kind of terrible nightmare?

Then he heard the laughter. _The giggling._

'Who's there?' He said panic stricken. 'Leave me alone!'

'Too late for that, Neil,' a tiny voice said from near by. 'Should have left me in peace, sitting in my master's shadow. Now the joke is on you, my friend.'

Through his terror Neil tried to comprehend the words. His initial thoughts were ridiculous, he thought that the voice was referring to Mr Rowling's gnome. In fact, it was speaking as if it was Mr Rowling's gnome.

'I've gone mad,' he concluded to the darkness. 'It's the shock ... of... seeing Billy ...'

'You'll see him again soon, Neil,' Liam said. It was a malevolent whisper but it was so damn close that Neil bolted, running headlong, regardless of the danger of charging blindly into the night, anythin to get away from that awful, taunting voice.

'He didn't see the tree until it was too late to stop, too late not to smash into it a full pelt. A low gnarled knot protruded from the rough bark and Neil sighed as it entered his chest. His legs gave way but the knot held onto him, propping him, his shattered cheek pressed against the trunk.

And from somewhere in the darkness Liam the Gnome whistled a few cords of 'We're all Going on a Summer Holiday' before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

Six weeks later, Rowling was sitting at his kitchen table. The mug of tea he'd made had died and gone cold long ago, forgotten as he stared at the bundle of photographs that had arrived in a sealed package on that very morning.

They all contained the image of Liam, the gnome that he held so dear. One was on the dash of a camper van. Another was peering out from behind a pile of French fries; and one with his jolly face sitting on a crumbling stone wall.

But these were not the real focus for Rowling. It was the other photographs that demanded his attention. The one of a man hanging from the rafters of a decrepit old building, face blue and ballooned like a badly drawn cartoon; and the image of a man with his eyes almost as wide as the gash in his throat, wearing a bib of crimson as he lay in the dirt, or the picture of what used to be a person, now too mangled to be truly recognised, a twisted montage of arms and legs and blood, and then the penultimate frame of a man who looked as though he was hugging a tree, save for the twisted branch sprouting through his shoulder blades. And in photo there was Liam, his face cheery, his hands sitting on his ample belly, incongruous to every scene.

But it was perhaps the last photograph which had Rowling mesmerized. It was a group shot of all four corpses propped up in the living area of their camper van, their mouths pulled into macabre smiles long after death, with Liam sitting on the knee of Neil. And at the bottom of the image, written in neat loose script were the words:

Wish you were here?

Special Boy by Stuart Neild

The doctors surgery was sparse, just a desk, a couple of chairs and a screen with a bed poking out behind it. The doctor was sat writing his notes. He looked up and pressed an intercom.

"Next," he breathed into the intercom.

The door opened and a meek looking woman in her late thirties walked in.

"Hello Heather," his smile was professional but not without warmth. "Take a seat."

She took a seat.

"So, Heather, how are you?"

"I'm fine, I think," she answered cautiously.

"That's always a good sign," his smile was less professional, but a little warmer.

She momentarily turned away.

"As soon as you start thinking you're fine," he said, "you're normally well on your way to being fine. Healthy mind, healthy body." His smile dropped a little, an uneasy silence followed. "So, what can I do for you?"

"I'm not sure you can do anything, but I know you'll listen. You're the only one who has ever listened to me," she mumbled.

"But it's not just me that listens to you Heather," he assured her. "That's one of your problems; you think you're all alone. You're not alone though, you can take my word for it."

She leaned back in her chair, "I suppose so," she allowed a rare shy smile to come forth. "I'll admit there is a certain someone I've met. We've bonded you might say. We're very close, inseparable really."

"That's good," the Doctor nodded. "A healthy relationship is a good thing."

"Is it?" Heather looked perplexed. "You see, I'm not sure if you or anyone else would view this relationship as good or healthy."

"I not sure I fully understand what you're implying," he frowned, "but I will say one thing here and now, an abusive relationship is the last thing you or anybody needs."

Heather looked shocked. "There's nothing abusive about him. He's innocent. He's probably one of the most innocent beings that have ever existed." Her eyes and expression dipped, before she cheerfully brought her head back up. "Would you like me to tell you about him?"

"Pleased do, I'm intrigued," he urged.

"I thought you would be," Heather relaxed. "A good listener is always intrigued." She licked her lips. "I met him in the museum of all places."

"Which museum is that?" he asked the question with a Doctors intuition, he had an idea he would feel uneasy about the answer.

"It's not one that you would know," Heather began to chew her lip. "It's a little place, just outside of town. It's called the museum of natural horrors."

"I know it," Now it was the turn of the Doctor to bite his lip. "A freak show."

"I believe that was the name for the establishment in less politically correct times," she sighed. "I was attracted to the museum in the first place because it felt as lonely as I was. It was a comforting solitude though. It was there, as I killed a few hours of the day, that I first met him." She stopped. "You will tell me if I prattle on too much won't you? I know your time is valuable."

"Don't worry about the time," the Doctor urged her on. "You're my patient and what would a Doctor be without patients, you're just as valuable as any time."

Heather flicked her hair back. "That day wouldn't be the last time I saw him though, I knew it wouldn't be," she gave a sigh, "as soon as I laid eyes on him I felt compelled. From that moment on we had an unbreakable bond."

"So you started a relationship with this person you met?" the Doctor asked.

"It was the like, I'd never had before," Heather answered.

"Was the relationship Sexual?" the Doctor asked clinically.

"Does everything have to come down to that?" Heather replied hurt.

A veil of silence floated, fleeting between them.

"I went back to the museum the next day," she carried on. "It was the day after that I met Yanick."

"Is Yanick your special friend?"

"No," Heather gave a playful shriek.

*

Heather felt herself slip back in time. She was no longer at the Doctors surgery. She was no longer talking to the Doctor. She was looking at the jar with Yanick standing beside her.

"He's quite magnificent isn't he?" Yanick said.

"Yes, he is," Heather agreed.

"He's one of my oldest exhibits and in some eyes my very finest."

"Yes," Heather carried on staring at the jar.

"I notice you have been attending my little museum for sometime now. Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Yanick."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Heather could still not force her gaze away from the jar.

"I am, as they say, from the old country, thank you very much. I have seen many sights, many wonders. He is just one of the many wonders I have purchased, and will continue to purchase, to make my museum the greatest ever."

"How much did he cost?"

"Many money. Many old country money."

"I'd like to buy him," Heather proclaimed.

"The exhibit is not for sale, thank you very much," Yanick declined.

"How much?" There was emotion in Heather's voice, a sense of urgency.

"Who could put a price on such a thing?" Yanick rubbed his chin, his eyes glinting.

"Maybe the museum owner?"

"Which would be me, yes," Yanick giggled.

"So how much?"

"Fifty thousand," Yanick snapped.

"I don't have that kind of money," Heather recoiled.

"Only joking," Yanick grinned. "Twenty thousand should cover the cost of an exhibit and may I add, I would be very reluctant to sell."

"I don't have anything like that sort of money."

"Then it is five o'clock and time for me to close the museum. Goodnight and God bless."

Heather gazed at the jar for a little longer, before slinking away without protest.

"Weirdo," Yanick cursed as she left, "and what's worse, a weirdo without cash."

*

Time rushed forward. Heather found herself back at the surgery, the Doctor seated opposite her.

"Yanick didn't realise," she grinned, "that he was listening and that he would tell me how Yanick had mocked me. He didn't realise the depth of the special relationship I had with my special boy."

"Special boy?" the Doctor asked, confused.

"Yes, that's what I called him, my special boy. He had no other name," her tone grew cross, "to them he was just a thing in a jar, a freak of nature that had been still born at birth."

"Heather, you must realise what you've been through recently, the breakdown of your marriage, the loss of your own baby, the realization that you yourself can no longer produce children."

"You think I'm losing it again, don't you?" Heather said dismayed.

"I hardly think losing it is the right term for it," the Doctor corrected her.

"Maybe it's not the right medical term," she snapped back, "but it's what you're getting at. So let me assure you here and now, I'm not losing it in any shape or form. You can put any thoughts of putting me back in hospital on hold."

"It won't come to that," he assured, "you're making fine progress, this is just a blip."

"So do you want to hear the rest of this," she stopped, she looked angry, "blip?"

"Please, it's what I'm here for," the Doctor's words faded away.

"I found myself back at the museum, day after day. I spent hours on end gazing at my special boy. He needed a Mother and with me not being able to have children," she paused "well, it just seemed the right thing."

"Go on," the Doctor gently nudged, as she paused yet again.

"And then one day disaster struck," Heather's voice trembled, "it seemed Yanick didn't own the museum after all. He'd been selling exhibits that weren't his to sell to his private collectors, as well as taking anything he could get his grubby hands on, including the museums admission cash. I went to the museum the other morning to find it closed for good."

"That might not be such a bad thing," the Doctor calmly chipped in.

"Would you deny a Mother's love for her son?" Heather pleaded.

"He wasn't your son," the Doctor said firmly.

"I know what you're thinking," Heathers eyes narrowed, "he was just a dead still born freak in some jar. That's how they all viewed him. But there was something else. He reached out to me. He wanted me as his mother, rather than the cold biological mother, who had not only cast him aside, but profited from his suffering. More than anything he wanted a home."

"Where is he now?" the doctor coughed nervously.

"He's inside me," Heather touched her heart. "I can feel his heart beating next to mine."

"That's quite a charming little story you've told me," there was still nervousness in the Doctor's voice.

"But it's not over yet. Don't you want to hear how he came to me, how he found his way home?" Heather asked.

*

Heather could picture the scene perfectly as she retold the events. It was night; she was alone at home, lying still and silent in her bed. She had been thinking about him constantly, when she had heard the thump and the dragging sounds, just outside her bedroom door.

"You can imagine how afraid I was, lying alone in bed, when the realisation struck me I was no longer alone," Heather said, then closed her eyes. She could see her bedroom door opening wider. She caught sight of the crawling movement towards the bottom of the bed. She felt the covers at her feet rise slightly.

"Yes, I'll admit I was terrified at first. But when I realized it was him and what he wanted, I relaxed."

"And what did he want?" the Doctor asked in a now very stern, professional manner.

"Isn't that obvious?" Heather laughed, "he'd come home. He wanted us to be together forever, to never be parted." Heather stood, her features beaming triumphantly. "You want to see him don't you? Well you can't see him, but you can feel him."

She took the Doctors hand and placed it on her stomach. The Doctor allowed his hand to be guided by her, or at least he did until he recoiled away in shock.

"You felt him kicking, didn't you?" Heather beamed, "he doesn't do that for just anyone. He likes you."

The Doctor picked up his stethoscope and listened.

"It's impossible. I gave you a full medical the other week. There's no way you could be so," he felt his words and his perception of reality stop abruptly.

"Be so heavily pregnant," Heather finished the sentence for him. "But you can hear him, feel him and so can I. And it's going to stay like that, always. My special boy is home."

Two Skins by Ian Woodhead

She couldn't believe what her eyes were showing her, that dirty little slut really was about to make the move.

Emily Brooks could have ground her teeth in frustration; well she would have, if she hadn't left them in a jar beside the bed. What on earth did she have to go and do a stupid thing like that for?

She knew that he would be here at this year's organised ball; her housing block had been on tenterhooks ever since Arthur Goodhall had made the announcement, at least all the women had.

Emily felt her best friend's had rest upon her knee.

"Calm down dear, we all know that the tart doesn't have a cat in hell's chance of wooing him, she's just too common."

She turned and smiled at Doris, keeping her lips sealed tight.

Doris gasped, "Oh you silly old cow, you've forgotten your gnashers haven't you?"

Emily nodded, feeling a couple of tears run down her cheek. With sleight of hand that would impress a stage magician, Doris's hand held a pristine white handkerchief. She dabbed Emily's cheeks dry.

"I want you to calm down lass; we're supposed it be enjoying ourselves, not pining over some bloke like a bunch of hormonal teenagers. We are old enough to know better."

Emily nodded, "Of course, you are right dear." Doris must think she was born yesterday to think that she hadn't noticed the blood red lipstick, the seldom worn eyeliner and that expensive pastel patterned dress that Doris's daughter had bought her five years ago. Doris is the one who should be old enough to know better, her own husband had only been in the ground for nine months.

She tucked her hanky in the sleeve and smiled at Emily, showing off her own perfectly white teeth. "There you go bright eyes. You may look like a month old peach without your teeth in but it's still a million times prettier than that Stephanie over there."

How dare she say something as mean as that! What a twisted evil bitch. Emily was about to tell Doris that she looked like she had been buried with her husband and just dug up when Doris grabbed Emily's dress and pulled.

"Oh, this is going to be fun to watch," Doris said excitedly. "Stephanie is about to embarrass herself in front of everybody."

Doris sat back in her high seat chair, her eyes glued to the woman in the floor length maroon dress gliding across the wooden dance floor towards a tall, white haired man. He was stood next to the buffet table; he seemed oblivious to the adoring looks every woman in the room was giving him.

Stephanie stopped to avoid two excitable youngsters from colliding with her who had just finished overloading their paper plates with bun and snacks.

Emily forgot who had brought them, normally bringing youngsters was frowned upon but nobody seemed to mind this time. Two little bright rays of sunshine were like a breath of fresh air in this room full of pensioners and they were getting a lot of attention.

The kids may have created a lot of excitement and generated a lot of fuss but now, they might as well not exist. Thirty pairs of female eyes watched with breathless anticipation as Stephanie Jacobs put on her best pouting smile and engaged the man in conversation.

Emily didn't need to look at her best friend to see how badly she was reacting to the scene in front of them. She could hear Doris grinding her own teeth from where she was sitting.

Stephanie reminded her of a starving cat, sidling up to her owner and begging for scraps of meat. Emily found it sickening which was a little weird, a few moments ago, she was cursing her own cowardice for doing having the courage to approach this gorgeous man.

He reacted to her crass attempts at seduction, first by a twitching of lips, then with a grin and finally a collective sigh echoed from twenty nine broken hearts when rewarded Stephanie's persistence by bending down and giving her a long, slow smouldering kiss.

She was a little surprised at how little it affected her that such a beautiful man would choose someone who used to have the reputation of being the village bike over everyone else in the room.

Doris had, at last, stopped making that dreadful noise with her teeth; she turned to see how her friend was fairing up. If looks could kill, that Stephanie would be a walking corpse by now. The pair walked towards the exit, her arm linked through his.

Doris glared at Emily, that look of hatred she'd given Stephanie was still etched on her face. "This is all your fault, you brain dead gummy bitch."

"I haven't done anything!" Emily replied, flabbergasted at her friend's unwarranted venom.

Doris struggled out of her chair and leaned over the old woman. "You've jinxed me, that's what you've done."

Emily tried to get up but the other woman pushed her back. "If I hadn't chosen to sit next to Esmeralda's ugly sister, I may have stood a chance."

She leaned to one side, desperate to catch the eye of anyone one who could help her, Doris had gone insane. There was little chance of anyone coming to her aid. There were fights breaking out all around the hall. The two little girls were hiding under the buffet table; the little darlings looked scared out of their wits.

Emily forced that feeling of panic back down and straightened up the best she could. "Listen to yourself for crying out loud woman. You're seventy eight years old. What's got into you?"

"I wanted him to get into me!" she screamed. Doris clenched her fist and pulled her hand back. "Thanks to you, that's not going to happen."

Emily closed her eyes; she didn't even feel the punch connect.

2

Emily awoke to the quiet sound of someone besides her sobbing. She opened one eye a crack. Good heavens! Her friend Doris was in a right old state, whatever could be wrong?

At that moment, the picture of her wiping that hanky across Emily's face rushed to the front of her mind. What else had happened? She couldn't remember, that was a little disturbing, she hoped she hadn't drunk too much and made a fool of herself. She didn't feel hung-over.

Emily opened both eyes, bright sunlight streamed through the window. This wasn't her flat. It took a moment to get her bearings. Emily was laid out on the settee in Doris's living room.

"Doris? Are you okay love?"

The woman started and looked out of the window while hurriedly wiping her face. Doris turned back and smiled down at her looking a little more composed.

"Never mind me dear, what about you?"

"I'm fine," replied Emily, a little confused. "Why? Shouldn't I be?" Emily shook her head then cringed as wave of pains crashed through her. "Ooh that hurt," she whispered. "What happened to me?"

"I hit you. Knocked you out with one punch so I did." She stood up and stepped away from Emily. "It wasn't my fault!" she gasped. "It was him, that new boyfriend of Stephanie, he made me do it."

Emily sat up; she tried to ignore her throbbing head. The image of that beautiful man came back to her and thrust all other thoughts out of her head. How could she have forgotten about him? Emily remembered his long hand caressing Stephanie's and imagined that same strong hand on her own waist then sliding further and further down.

Doris shook her shoulders. "Snap out of it woman, you're beginning to drool."

"Who is he?"

Doris shook her head. "I have no idea but i do know one thing. The man has disappeared and so has Stephanie."

She helped Emily up off the settee. "Can you walk?"

"I think so," she replied. "Why the sense of urgency?"

Doris shook her head then let out a long sigh.

"Look Doris, she got her prize and that's that. She's a big girl and I'm sure Stephanie will be fine, they'll be both no doubt shacked up n some hotel in town and having the time of their life."

"Have you quite finished little Miss Prim and Proper?" Doris asked while tapping her fingers against the window frame. "We need to find them before the police do. While you were having your little sleep, there was a full scale riot going on. Mrs. Hardaker is in hospital with three cracked ribs."

"What? Why what happened?"

"Alice Bronson walloped her with a broken chair leg. The police think that this man released some gas into the atmosphere, oh I don't know. All I know is that I think our friend Stephanie is in serious trouble."

She wondered if that was the only reason, while the woman had been yapping on, a few chunks of memory from last night did come back, including all those horrible things Doris said to her last night.

She padded up to Emily and planted a kiss on her cheek. I know, why don't you sit back down and I'll make us both a nice refreshing cup of tea.

She was a little taken aback by her generous offer. Emily was the one who made the tea that had always been the rule. Emily did as she was told and sat back down, fighting the urge to follow Doris into the kitchen. She really didn't know what to make of Doris's gas story, it sounded as implausible as a bush of grey haired oldies having a riot.

Yet something a bit peculiar happened last night, that was for sure, Emily could not discount those unfamiliar feelings of lust that had coursed through her veins earlier on.

"We'll get these drunk and then we'll get off." Doris said through the serving hatch.

She was up to something. Emily watched her nice as pie, face disappearing back into the kitchen. Emily wanted to believe that this was just her way of apologising. In all the forty three years of Doris's low level bullying, Emily had never heard the woman apologize for anything.

Oh God, it was obvious, she felt like such an idiot for not spotting it earlier. Doris still had the hots for the man. Doris wouldn't give two hoots about Stephanie's welfare. She hated the woman. No, Stephanie had stolen what Doris had claimed as her property. She wanted it back, oh Jesus.

Her friend padded back into the living room carrying a breakfast tray holding two cups.

"I've already cooled them so we can be on our way." She set the tray down on the table. "We had best hurry though; I'd hate to think of the trouble poor Stephanie could be in."

Emily wanted to go home and not to take any further part in this madness. She took a tiny sip of the lukewarm tea, making it last. As if Doris would allow her to go home.

She watched Emily take another tiny sip. "Has your throat closed up?"

Emily licked her lips then set the cup down, she refused to drink any more, it was horrible. "You don't understand..."

"No, you don't understand," interrupted Doris. "The longer you take the less chance we have of getting to poor Stephanie."

This pretend concern of hers was beginning to grate somewhat. "If the police don't know where they are, what chance do we have?"

Doris drank down her own vile potion in one go then smiled down at Emily. "My dear friend, I've always regarded you as a precious flower. You know that don't you."

Emily nodded.

"Well, precious flowers needed to be nurtured, to be looked after and kept safe from undesirable elements."

Good lord! Doris was talking to her as if she was a little girl. Emily suddenly felt her own blood drop a few degrees. Doris had always spoken to her like this; it had only been since last night that she had been aware of it. Had she really been under a veil for over forty years?

"Well that Stephanie is one such undesirable that I've tried to keep away for my precious little flower."

Doris stroked her cheek and Emily surprised herself by not flinching.

"I made it my business to find out all I could about that wicked woman." She suddenly spun around and marched over to the room door, she unhooked Emily's coat and threw it at her. "Come on, it's time to go, it's bloody obvious that you don't want my tea.

"Go where Doris?"

"Do you really believe that she can afford all that jewellery on her pension? What about those many dresses thrown around her scrawny frame or the holidays to foreign parts twice a year?" Doris chuckled, "They aren't the only parts that the whore visits either. Have you not noticed just how nervous our caretaker is around her?"

"What are you trying to say?"

Doris opened the front door then pulled out a ring of silver keys from her purse.

Emily gasped. "Oh my goodness, they are the caretaker's master keys. Where did you get them?"

"Never you mind," she replied. "Now get your coat on and follow me."

3

Emily scampered through the residential hallways, struggling to keep up with Doris. What was wrong with her? Was Emily so much of a lily-livered coward that she could even say no to one old woman? To tell her that enough was enough. You do what you have to, I just want to go home and have a lay down.

Even Henry was mocking her this morning. Henry had been her loyal friend for decades. Emily was so familiar with her friend's back that a number of years ago, she had given that huge mole to the left of Doris's shoulder blade a name.

Her sandaled feet were moving on their own volition, it should be easy to just stop, turn around and scurry away. She doubted that Doris would even notice.

Doris rattled through the keys. "Here we are."

She sighed; it was too late now anyway.

"This will be where the little trollop will be holed up, her own private room courtesy of a certain sex-starved caretaker who has a deviance for the older generation." Doris unlocked the door.

Emily briefly wondered if Doris had to become part of his harem in order to obtain those keys. The mental picture of those two locked in a passionate embrace popped into her head. Emily grimaced and squashed the thought away before it turned her stomach. It was bad enough knowing that she would be burping up that dishwashing tasting tea all day without the thought of Doris having sex as well.

The door clicked open and before Emily could gather her senses, the other woman's hand whipped out and hooked around her wrist and pulled Emily through the door.

"I don't want you scampering off before the fun starts little miss rabbit eyes."

Emily whimpered. "You're hurting me Doris. I wasn't thinking of going anywhere, I promise. We're friends remember."

Doris let go and smiled. Emily forced herself to return the smile.

"Thick and thin?"

"Of course Doris. Thick and thin."

Why was it so dark in here? Emily peered into the living room. The curtains were still drawn; even so, it shouldn't be this dingy. The flat was filthy, there was dust and what looked like cobwebs everywhere. The neglected feel to this place hadn't stopped Doris though; the woman was too intent on reclaiming her prize to notice. Emily sniffed, what the hell was that? A weird chemical smell had reached her nose, sort of a cross between ammonia and gone off meat. Good lord, that was just rank.

"Can you not smell that Doris? There is no way that this is a love-pad, look around you."

There was no response.

"Doris? Are you okay?"

The other woman began to shake.

"Stop it Doris, you're scaring me."

The shakes had now grown into a full blown seizure. Emily panicked and fell back against the hallway wall. She put her hand through something that felt like damp paper then Doris turned, staggered forward a couple of steps then fell to her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her jaw swung open and strings of drool hung from either side of Doris's mouth. Emily followed the other woman's eyes and shrieked.

4

Gillespie had observed the two females enter his new home with great interest. The elevated levels of oestrogen emanating from the first female excited him to a point where he was forced to expel the last of the contents from the endorphin sac under his thorax.

These two must have been in the hall last night. Gillespie thought that he had picked them all up, still, he wasn't about to complain. It was annoying how the other woman wasn't reacting to his pheromones. It was unusual but not unknown. If she wasn't receptive as an egg chamber, he could always add her to the larder. His babies will be ravenous when they hatched.

He watched the unaffected female wipe what was left of his man skin on her clothes. Gillespie slid silently across the ceiling, the suckers on his six black, legs held him securely in place.

Somehow, the unaffected woman must have sensed him and screamed before making a run for the door. He dropped down between them. She was almost at the door, and he scuttled after her, eager to stop the woman from escaping. Then an irresistible scent reached his receptors, compelling him to stop and turn, the other woman had begun to remove her clothes.

Daddy Dearest by Dave Jeffery

Daddy was mean. Not in the fiscal sense like keeping his money secure behind the impregnable doors of a city bank. He was mean in the way he fetched bright blood with his small hard knuckles, or the manner in which he'd laugh when tears cut tracks through the gore on his kid's faces.

Our faces.

Lindsey and me.

Lindsey is twenty three now, a woman with yellow hair and a slightly crooked smile. But I'll always remember her as a gangly thing with freckles and a sense of mischief. Even with all the beatings Daddy Dearest doled out. Gangly, yes. But weak? It was never a word I could associate with my sister. Even when she lay on her bed, bloodied and bruised as Mickey Mouse peered down from the walls that grin saying more than those black, black eyes. Daddy's birthday gift for her tenth birthday was three fractured ribs. Yes, he put tears on her cheeks and bruised her pale freckled skin; but he never took the light from her eyes.

Lindsey.

My Lindsey.

Never ceasing to amaze, to rise above the adversity of parental abuse. Taking the blows that had my name on them, giving me comfort in the dark as Daddy Dearest slept off another bottle of Ol' Jack, his thundering snores hiding my sobs and Lindsey's soft "shushes" as she stroked my battered body.

Never ceasing to amaze.

Until the day came when she had the opportunity to leave and said "no". Me, of course, that was the reason. She was my protector, my champion. I was her dependent, a ten year old, under weight boy who flinched when a chair scraped the floor boards or a car horn sounded in the street. A boy who still pissed the sheets when he heard the dull thud of a whiskey bottle hitting the rug and the click of his bedroom door as it slowly opened wide, allowing the demon that was daddy loose in the room.

She'd said no and remained my armour, and I swore that as I grew older, stronger I would take the baton and protect her as she'd protected me. But the opportunity never came. Ol' Jack turned daddy old before his time, made him decrepit and impotent and in this Lindsey, _amazing Lindsey_ , dumfounded as she usually did by giving up any hope of college to support daddy in his long suffering journey. I suspected pleasure in her actions, retribution. I told her my thoughts once. And she'd slowly shaken her head.

"I'm not looking after the man who beat on us, John," she'd said. "I'm looking after the man before mamma died. The kind and gentle man who loved his family."

A man I didn't know.

Mother had died before I could walk. She was a shadow in my mind, given form in the pictures hidden in the cellar for a lifetime, until Lindsey rescued them and placed them on the dresser in her room. Initially Daddy Dearest was too consumed with his grief to allow it. Then he became too consumed by Ol' Jack to care. For him it was medicine. For me it was just an excuse to camouflage the meanness.

When I heard he was sick at his own hands it pleased me. No one, it seemed, was immune to daddy's abuse. Over the years he'd even managed to fuck up his own body as well as ours. The night Lindsey called and told me that she thought daddy was dying part of me screamed out with joy. But another part, the part still wearing the bruises and the fear and the guilt, began whimpering like a hungry, mangy cur searching for scraps.

"You need to come, John," her soft voice said through the grilled plastic of the receiver. "He's really sick."

"The guy has always been sick." I toyed with the Zippo in the pocket of my jeans and wondered if I'd used all my smokes.

"Funny guy," she said the static not disguising her sarcasm. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah." I rubbed at my brow and closed my eyes. I was fighting against the effects of half a bottle of Ol' Jack. The legacy of Daddy Dearest, his one and only lasting gift: dependency on a bottle. "We knew it was happening, Lindsey. The quacks told us as much last month."

"This isn't cirrhosis, John," Lindsey said. Her voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial. "I'm talking about _The Sickness_."

The world did a jig, and I grabbed at the wall, disorientated by the booze and the shock of her words.

"You got to get the hell out of there, sis," I said. "Just get gone and don't look back."

"But what if I'm wrong?"

"Then you're wrong."

"I can't, John." The voice was non negotiable, the kind of voice she'd used when the offer of college came through several years ago.

"You owe that shit nothing, Linz," I said sourly. "He's lucky you're still there for him."

"That's as maybe," she said through the fizz. "But you know why I stayed. I made my bed."

"You don't have to die in it," I said quickly. "You know how this thing works. You know what _The Sickness_ does."

She knew. We all did. But no one knew why it happened or how to stop it. _The Sickness_ came and went. But it always stayed a while. And when it did it played merry and it played hard; victims floored with a fever and then the bone quaking agony of multiple convulsions until they died, clawing at their throats as though attempting to rip it open and allow in precious oxygen.

Then the real problems began.

When those who had succumbed to The Sickness came back from the dead.

I could remember the first time it had happened. Hell, I was there now, my mind swirling back in time; no longer in the hall of my cramped apartment, but in a rail car; hand clamped to a smart phone watching the news, watching a small town on a small screen, cordoned off by a fleet of green military vehicles. Then shaky footage, the news crew letting the cameras roll; capturing the terrible yet incredible events and sending them out to the world.

"As you can see," the news reporter said off camera, "It's quite incomprehensible, but the dead are walking, ladies and gentlemen, _the dead are walking_!"

The screen fills with shuffling shapes, they come from homes, from stores, from vehicles scattered about the streets. These things were once human, but no longer. They are broken and malformed, each emitting a low pitiful mewling sound that combines to make an eerie sound track that drifts ominously from the speaker in the smart phone.

"The medical teams are going in, ladies and gentlemen," the commentator continues. "Oh, thank the good Lord! The doctors are attempting to deliver any aid they can to these poor, unfortunate souls."

On screen, medics move amongst the military; white coats amid a sea of green fatigues. Tentatively the medical team approach the shambling throng of people heading towards the cordon.

I'm aware of people around me, other passengers are peering at the screen, united in their fascination and, if they are totally honest, their revulsion of the scene on the screen.

And this is before the screams begin.

They are thin and long, even in the confines of the rail car, but they are the sounds of agony and fear, bleeding into one another to create a cacophony that chills the bones of those huddled around a smart phone five hundred miles away.

"Holy Jesus!" The commentator is back. The excitement in his voice is gone, replaced by a hoarse rasping whisper, vocal chords taut with horror. "I can't believe it! Oh, Christ on a bike, this is the most hideous thing I've ever seen. They're attacking the medical team, wrestling them to the ground, biting them."

Not biting the medical team, John notes. _Eating them_. White coats made red with gore, skin torn and ripped as cloth, in strands, in chunks, by mouths that are wide and mewling. I watch, dumbfounded, as the crawling image of a middle aged medic screams silently at the camera as his head is pulled away from his body by a teen in a bloodied school uniform.

The screen shudders and it is not the camera man this time. It is my hand shaking so violently I almost drop the phone.

"Hey, keep the thing still, man," a large black guy said, his eyes wide with fear. "We gotta know how this happened."

But we never did know, did we? No, all that came out of it was a town cordoned and burned by the army. And " _The Sickness_ ", a term that rendered the ultimate act of inhumanity into a sterile noun, two words to be whispered for fear they should suddenly become aware and return, reaping their terrible wrath.

"John? You still there?"

"I'm here, Linz."

"So what do we do?"

"You're asking me?" I said. "You're the practical one, remember?"

"I need you here," she said, putting the obvious into words. "I need your support."

There it was, Lindsey cashing in her dividends, recouping her investment when she needed it the most. Years of protecting her younger brother from the monster who was now destined to become a monster right there in the family home.

"What stage is he at?" I said; voice low. Accepting.

"Early," she said. "The fever and tracking."

Tracking: the veins coming up to the surface of the skin, blue tributaries that would turn rose red, morphing the skin into a lattice of livid wheals. Then the shakes would begin. Vicious and final.

And death would come, followed by rebirth and the quest for flesh.

"Ten hours tops, start to finish," I concluded. "Two hours to get to you, traffic being good. When did the tracking start?"

"Three hours."

"Then time's ticking. Okay, Linz, I'm there."

"Okay, John," she said relief clear in her tone. "Thanks. I'm not sure I could finish it."

I now understood her dilemma; the reason why she was determined to call in her chips from the past. Lindsey's memories were forgiving enough to stay and play nurse maid to mean Daddy Dearest. She was dutiful enough to put aside her hate of him and mix in some duty to sweeten the taste and make her life more palatable. But when the man died and the monster emerged she couldn't say with certainty she could do what needed to be done. She didn't trust herself to go to the wood shed and get the axe from the shelf, next to the tacks and screws and cobwebs, and take it to Daddy Dearest, take it to his head until it was cleaved from his quivering, shivering body.

No she knew she may not be able to do such a thing. But she was sure that I could.

Because my sister knew me well.

*

The city lights were a memory, winking out on me over ninety minutes and a hundred and fifty miles ago. The view from the window was that of white lines in the yellow haze of my head lights and the twinkling blues and greens of the car's interior dash splashed against the wind shield.

As I drove I listened to news reports and weather bulletins, flipping between channels to listen to any announcement suggesting that _The Sickness_ had returned to our fair land. I found nothing. But I knew all too well that this meant little. There had been sporadic incidents since the village of the damned had chowed down on the three medics on national TV. _The Sickness_ was often popping up, but the incidents were isolated, townsfolk raising the alarm as well as their axes and shot guns before things got out of hand.

The military would come, scientists in tow, and neutralize the site, either spraying the locale with a clear liquid that gave off the sweet aroma of liquorices, or the flame throwers would come and raise the site of the occurrence to the ground.

My mobile purred into life and I activated my Bluetooth.

"Linz? You okay?" I swallowed the panic trying to climb out of my throat.

"Not Lindsey," a voice said. "Dr Conlon."

The family doctor. _Our_ family doctor. The one who had resided over our cuts and bruises and breaks and said not one fucking word to the world.

"What you doing there?" I said coldly.

"Your sister called and said your father is sick," Conlon said carefully.

"First, he ain't my father," I said. "Second, since when did you come runnin' when someone says they're hurt?"

"Now, son, I'll be the first to admit that things were misinterpreted. But that stuff is done. We have to look at what's being dealt out to us."

"Keep an eye on Linz," I replied, my words greasy with malice. "When I get there I want you gone, got that?"

I hung up and the road became my companion for a while.

*

The house appeared from behind a group of maple trees, the car headlights giving the broad leaves a sheen that writhed like flames as they were tousled in the breeze.

Its omnipotent image brought the kind of memories that I'd sought to bury over the years. The kind of memories that had driven an 18 year old kid to bail and put distance between this house and its secrets. But the miles did nothing to blunt the experiences, not really. Not in a way that really mattered, the way that would allow me to move through life without the booze.

I pulled the car onto the short drive, alongside a blue Ford I presumed belonged to Conlon. No sooner had I switched off the engine, the porch door opened and the slim figure of Lindsey appeared and ran to me. I held onto her in silence, the moment filled with the tick ticking of the car's engine blocks cooling down after their late night drive.

"Thanks for being here," she said into my shoulder. I could smell her perfume, something cheap from the local store.

"Why the doctor?" I said.

"He dropped by. I needed the company until you got here. Better than being on my own, I guess."

"You should be used to it," I said pointedly.

"Maybe. But this is different." She stepped away from me, her face wan with embarrassment. I felt guilt pulse through me and I feigned a smile to soften the moment. She bought it, but only just.

"Come inside," she said. "He's in his bedroom."

Lindsey turned and walked into the house I'd left behind years ago. I followed, stepping reluctantly in the past, hoping that I'd have enough in reserve to stop me going to the dresser in search of some comfort from Ol' Jack. Maybe I'd get lucky and my sister who fought for me, hurt for me, sacrificing her heart and soul in the process, wouldn't see just what a disappointment I'd become. And if all else failed, there was always the hip flask I kept in my pockets.

The lounge was as I remembered it, the heavy leather sofas were soft with use, the big cushions molded in the shape of our asses over the years. Threadbare rugs covered the beaten floorboards and in the fireplace flames licked at the kindling of a recently lit, half assed fire. I scanned the walls, my mind making a conscious effort to block out the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, where bottles lay imprisoned behind leaded glass, muting the temptation, but not stopping it from calling, calling to me.

It was the axe that silenced them as abruptly as a concrete path silences the screams of a high rise jumper. A wedge of bright metal rested on the tattered rug, its long wooden stave dull against the highly polished rosewood cabinet. It seemed fitting that the tools of daddy's demise should keep company. The axe, it seemed, was a statement; our salvation fashioned from iron and oak. And in its shadow things would end; Lindsey's life of blind servitude; my life of guilt and self loathing.

And Daddy Dearest? Well he'd die twice today, though he deserved more. I would cleave his head from his scrawny neck, retribution wearing the face of mercy. And as the blood pumped out onto the floor I would see the red tide was turning and life would be so very different, life would be right.

"What stage is he at?" I asked her as I stared at the stairs just visible beyond the lounge doors.

"The doctor suggests that its advanced," Lindsey said. "He hasn't long to go."

"Conlon needs to leave," I said. "For his own good."

"I was hoping that you'd be there before it comes to that," my sister said slowly.

"That's not what I meant."

She looked at me for a second yet in that moment we exchanged a lifetime; Conlon's disregard of the Hippocratic Oath on his road to become hypocrite incarnate. All the years of abuse selectively shelved in lofty positions, safe from prying eyes. And part of me knew that the doctor's presence was an extension of this family need to keep the dirty linen in the basket for fear the stink brought too much attention, for fear that people would need to see exactly what kind of stain was soiling the air.

"Let's go take a look at him," I said heading for the stairs, which were in deep shadow.

"Maybe you should take this," Lindsey said dragging the axe away from the cabinet. "You know, for later?"

"Yeah."

I took it from her without comment. It was heavy and the weightiness gave me assurance that it would do the job and save us all.

I mounted the stairs leaving Lindsey to stare after me, her bright blue eyes muted by the darkness. Ahead, a slab of light appeared; a door opening in the gloom. But not just any door.

_His_ door.

The sanctum of Daddy Dearest, the place where he kept company with his new companion: _The Sickness_. In the doorway a figure wavered in the light. I held my breath, stopping my advance mid way on the stairs, my hands lifting the axe in a subconscious act of preparation. I sensed danger. But it was muted, as though drifting through a thick mist.

"Hope you're not planning to use that on the living, John."

Conlon's tone was passive, but far from cordial. I lowered the axe, but only a little.

"I hadn't intended to but who knows? It may give those not willing to take a hint a little incentive."

Despite his age, Conlon was a big man. He had height, a good head and shoulders over me, and he had weight, his waist an inner tube of flesh that was barely contained by the belt of his pants. In the light of the doorway he stood a bloated bell shaped silhouette using the frame as support.

"Maybe we should accept that in this we're on the same side?" he suggested.

"Just leave," I said. "Then I'll accept whatever you want."

His shape sagged a little, his belly bouncing. "Maybe I should call the authorities?" he said softly. "Maybe I should let folk know that _The Sickness_ is in town and it's stopped to pay you guys a visit?"

"Maybe I take this axe to you and say it was a piece of mercy, that Daddy Dearest chowed down on your lard ass and you begged for someone to end it?"

It started out as a bluff, the ego rising from the ashes like a phoenix ready for magnificent rebirth. But as the words came to form, becoming real in the gloomy stairwell, I considered it. And as fleeting as the thought was, it felt so right I became numb with shock that I even paid it any mind. I ushered the errant thought into a dark corner where it glowered, resentful and defiant.

"A boy left here," Conlon said. "And a man has returned. Time works its magic doesn't it?"

"Not on everything," I said.

"Happen that's true," the doctor said.

The silence rolled in the way a sea fog clogs the coastline in spring. I felt someone far away lower the axe, a sign that nothing changes. Not really. There's no end to the war but there is always place for a cease fire. And that time was here, now, in the gloomy stairwell of a house choked with bad memories.

"You gonna help with this?" I said.

"Yes."

"You know I hate you, right?"

"Yes," the big man said. "The shine might come off of that hate once this is done."

There was hope in his tone, absolution seeking out a chink in my armour. But why now? Years of regret perhaps? Years of guilt eating him away like a cancer?

"You coming to do this John? You coming to do the deed?"

Not Conlon this time. No resonance to the voice. Just a hiss, reed thin and gasping for air.

Daddy Dearest.

My skin crawled and my balls shrank. The hairs on my neck played host to goose flesh and the little boy who wet his pants when he heard the door click open at midnight, bringing Daddy Dearest and the stale sour odour of Ol' Jack, screamed soundlessly in the locker chained shut at the back of my mind.

"Yes," I said. But my voice was a small thing, lacking real conviction. "I'm coming to finish it."

There were only seven steps separating the landing and me, yet there may as well have been ten storeys. My legs were uncooperative cylinders of leaden flesh, jittering with each footfall, and my heart was pumping way too fast.

My bravado had taken a vacation, gone off to console itself with false promises that it may return sometime soon with new vigour. I called out to it, but it was useless. The little boy was here, his bladder a ball of hot steel getting ready to flow.

"You need to hurry Johnny boy," Daddy Dearest whispered. "My times almost up. And I don't want to be coming back. Oh, my. No, I don't, but I can feel the hunger, like a hard day on Ol' Jack, the need to feed."

I was on the landing now, my feet shuffling across the heavy pile. The axe, now a sudden weight against my arm, trailed behind like a lame third leg, its steel heel bringing with it fibres and dust devils. My lungs were steel and my throat: fire. I fought to stay focused but the world wanted to flip, and send me screaming into a pit of fear.

Conlon watched my trial, his face a mixture of bemusement and remorse. In that moment, as I realised that perhaps bridges, whilst not returned to their former glory, may be patched up just enough to allow safe passage, a huge cry punched through the air. It was agony vented into the ether, agony coupled with anger that is born from the last vestiges of hope.

Daddy Dearest was dying. It was the sound that in another time, another place I would have celebrated. Hell, I'd have probably cranked up the dial and danced to its tune. But this wasn't the dark corners I found when Ol' Jack was hauling the shots. I was stone cold sober and Daddy Dearest was in the room barred only by a doctor stewing in the juices of guilt.

"Time to do the do, John," Conlon said. "Then I'll sign the certificate. And no one knows."

"Your price for absolution?" I said.

"I already paid that this evenin'."

He stepped aside and the light played on a large damp stain on the arm of his shirt sleeve. Blood. Soaking into the cotton fabric.

My face acted puzzled on behalf of a dawning mind and he nodded sadly.

"The hunger starts early." His words explained more that just the chunk Daddy Dearest had relieved from the bad doctor's arm. It also gave an answer to his sudden change of heart. _The Sickness_ was in him. And soon he would follow Daddy Dearest into its endless world of hunger. The Dear Doctor needed out.

And he needed me to do it. I was taken aback that my earlier thoughts of murder would now come with sanction.

"I'll help you to help me," Conlon said, his smile slack and forlorn.

I never thought the time would come when such an enemy would become an ally. But that time had come knocking; dressed in its Sunday best.

I stepped into the room, where a small part of hell played out before me.

*

Daddy Dearest lay still upon his bed, the bedding a ruffled mess, streaked with blood. His limbs, twig thin and bare save for the crimson wheals cross-crossing his skin, jutted out from his pale blue pajamas, toes and fingers clawed by the agony that had taken him to his momentary death. My eyes traced his gaunt stiffened outline until they alighted upon Daddy Dearest's face, which was twisted into a mask of pain, mouth clamped in an crimson, oval grimace, cheeks sallow, and his eyes so wide they appeared to be without lids. I had seen those eyes many time, looked into them, and they were as terrifying in death as they were in life: piercing blue, devoid of expression or remorse, love or morality, rolling back into his head like a shark about to take a bite.

The blood on the sheets belonged to Conlon. I felt both disgusted and relieved by this knowledge. After all, it could so easily have been Lindsey with a chunk missing from her forearm.

"You're going to have to do it soon. John," Conlon said beside me. "I can support you through it. Then you know you'll be able to do me."

" _I know that now," I thought._

"Got to take his head clean off. No other medicine for _The Sickness_."

"If you're the expert, maybe you should do it?" I hissed.

"I can't swing that axe hard enough," Conlon said holding out his bloodied arm towards me, just in case I wasn't getting the message. "No, John, this is your duty."

I was about to respond, saying anything that would get the time passing without having to focus on what was unavoidable, but then I saw Daddy Dearest move. Only a finger at first, the one that used to have a wedding band as a sign of his eternal love for the mother I'd never known. It was a slight and deliberate movement, the clawed digit unfolding as though it were a flower seen through time lapse TV. The other fingers followed suit, accompanied by the protesting pop and snap of seized knuckles.

"Oh sweet Jesus," Conlon whispered. "Ain't that the damnedest thing?"

Damned alright. No doubts about that.

Even knowing it was coming to this made no odds to my ability to act swiftly. Last time I saw such a thing it was blunted by a TV screen. But up close and personal it was something else. It needed something to happen. It needed something from me.

"Do it, John!" No whisper from Conlon this time. Daddy Dearest was jerking into life like a mannequin bouncing down a stairway, arms and legs tight angles, C3PIO wearing a flesh suit.

I lifted the axe just as the first piteous moan wavered from Daddy Dearest's throat. It was a sound at once woeful and deadly and turned my heart to ice.

"For Christ's sake, do it!"

Another voice, loud and shrill: Lindsey's voice from the doorway. I yanked my head towards her, caught the blend of shock and fear in her eyes. It held her gaze for a moment longer than I intended.

The next thing I knew, Conlon was screaming.

Daddy Dearest had hold of the doctor's shirt, dragging the hem from out of his pants and exposing his big belly. Daddy's reanimated corpse was using Conlon to haul itself up from the bed, dragging the bad, bad doctor forwards, towards its yawning mouth. Before I could take aim with the axe, Daddy Dearest was clamping down on Conlon's flabby cheek and tearing him a new mouth.

I heard Conlon's high pitched protest shortly before Daddy Dearest ripped the wad of flesh away with a sickening purring sound. Lindsey retched in the doorway.

"Get out of the way!" I yelled, stepping back so that I had room for a decent swing. But such instruction was fruitless, since the big man and Daddy Dearest were now intertwined. I clamped a hand over my mouth as daddy's hands sought Conlon's navel and the hooked fingers yanked open his abdomen, exposing a visceral kaleidoscope to the world.

Conlon wore a quasi-comical expression of disbelief and agony, his breath a prolonged hiss. His big frame flopped forwards, his ample innards slopping out onto the bed linen, and for a time the world stood still, punctuated by the greedy slurping of Daddy Dearest getting to know the doctor _really_ well. Inside and out.

I fought to gain composure, barely able to stand. Daddy's feeding had punctured something other than Conlon's abdomen, and the room was beginning to fill with the reek of vomit and shit. I gagged but swallowed hard. I hefted the axe and stepped up to the bed where ol' DD was buried up to his shoulders in the cavity he'd opened in the doctor's belly.

"Heads up, you asshole!"

Daddy Dearest pulled his head out of Conlon with a sucking slurping sound. The ice blue eyes peered out from a crimson mask, and he was suddenly interested again. But by this time the axe was slicing through the air, and my arms prepared for steel to make contact, which it did seconds later, shearing one of his arms off at the elbow. Even for me, this was a spectacular miss.

"Shit!"

The arm struck the head board where it writhed like a mottled pink and red snake. Daddy Dearest pumped his blood onto the doctor, but neither was in any state to be concerned by it. Seemingly invigorated by his recent feed, daddy came at me, forcing himself upright, his remaining arm reaching out, his bloodied mouth hanging open.

Again I swung the axe, this time making contact with his forehead, but I was off balance and it was a glancing blow, knocking his head fiercely to one side, and lifting a piece of his scalp so that it waved in the air before slapping back into place like some macabre peddle bin. I tried to create more space, moving away from the bed towards the doorway, but Conlon's legs got the better of me. I went down hard, going so far over on my right ankle that I heard the tendons shear shortly before the bolt of hot fire shot through my calf.

I cried out and clutched at my fractured ankle, the pain now the centre of my universe. And in the melee the axe went spinning away from me, skittering under a bed that was now seeping with gore, dulled only by the cloud of bright spots speckling my vision. And through this the shape of Daddy Dearest emerged to say "hi" in the only way he knew how.

*

Through the pain I raised a hand to fend him off. It was feeble and resulted only in his teeth ripping off two fingers and a thumb. The pain in my ankle, the knuckle splitting agony flaring in my right hand, were nothing to the knowledge that even if I got out, even if I could do what I did so well and ran away from the clutches of Daddy Dearest, _The Sickness_ would soon be coming to pay me a visit. And all I could think of was Lindsey, standing in the doorway watching her world come apart, and making sure that she would be okay, making sure that she didn't have to _do the do_.

Daddy Dearest was on top of me, possibly far stronger in death than he ever was in life. But I fought. Even with the severed fingers and the shattered ankle I fought, driving him off, shoving him so hard he pin wheeled backwards and into the dressing table where his head struck the vanity mirror turning the glass into a tangled web of cracks. Then I was at the door, where Lindsey was wan with despair.

"Oh God, John. What do we do?"

I knocked her sideways onto the landing and reached for the key jutting out of the door. I'd yanked it out before Lindsey could realize my intention.

"Time for me to take care of Daddy Dearest, Linz," I said as she scrambled back to her feet. "Time for you to get the hell away from here."

I shut the door on her screams and jammed the key into the lock, turned it and yanked it to one side so that it snapped in the tumbler.

Heavy pounding on the door now as Lindsey called my name over and over, and Daddy Dearest climbed to his feet; his stump weeping, echoing the tears coursing down my cheeks. He stumbled over to me and I reached into my pockets, the Zippo and the hip flask becoming wet with my blood.

"Well how about it, daddy?" I said hoarsely. "How about you an' me share a little Ol' Jack?"

Of course, Daddy Dearest was way past such things. His poison was very different these days. I sparked the Zippo, its flame a testament to the searing heat in both my hand and ankle. Daddy loomed, the hip flask blessed us both, splashes of alcohol maybe not enough to endure under the touch of flame, but enough to help it take hold, enough to send us both to the places we were destined to be.

Never to return.

Daddy lunged and I sparked him up. His nylon PJ's roaring into a blistering heat, the burning material hanging like fireflies in the air before landing on the alcohol splashed about my own clothes. Even as the flames licked at my skin, I felt different, I felt _The Sickness_ going to town on me. I rolled about the floor, ensuring the fire took hold of the room, of the house. The world became a blinding place of fire heat and pain and I knew that of all the people in the house only one truly deserved to be free of it.

Though I guess it would be some time before Lindsey would even contemplate such a thing.

So you think you're a werewolf? by Stuart Neild

"So, Lucy, you really believe that you're a werewolf?" Dick asked the attractive lady as he pointed the camera at her.

Lucy, a slim woman in her early twenties giggled and did a little skip and dance. She was obviously playing up to the camera.

"I guess it's hard to believe when you see me like this now," she laughed.

"You could say," Dick replied.

"But wait till you see me come full moon, I won't disappoint," she gave a twirl like a ballerina for good measure.

"I bet," Dick laughed.

"You're not taking me seriously. That's very naughty," Lucy scolded playfully.

"It's not that I'm not taking you seriously, it's just that I have a very laid back manner," he assured her.

She stopped dancing around and looked into the camera lens seductively.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were flirting with me," Lucy pouted.

"And what kind of professional would that make me," Dick replied with a twinkle in his eye.

"A human one, as opposed to a werewolf, like myself," she said half heartedly, before going back to merrily dancing around for the camera.

*

Dick sat relaxing in his friends flat. The feel of the leather upholstery against his own leather jacket felt good. Dick felt like a man on top of his game, he felt like a man on top of the world.

"If you ask me, I think the woman's a crazy," Dick's friend, Ron joked, "and you're even crazier for going along with it."

"As it is, I didn't ask you," Dick replied with equally good humour.

"Well, I'm giving you my opinion anyway," Ron explained in-between swigs of his beer, "after all, what are friends for?"

"In this case, you're a friend who can help me with my editing."

"Ron the editor, that's my name."

"So can I count on you for this?"

"How much footage are we talking?" Ron's eyes narrowed.

"A few hours," Dick shrugged.

"Can you give me a rough estimate? I mean, I do have a life," a note of seriousness crept into Ron's normally jovial voice, "if you want me to do this, you have to fit things round my life, not visa versa."

"It shouldn't be too big of a project," Ron assured, "it's not like I want you to do all the editing, I'll help. I just wanted an expert guiding hand."

"An expert guiding hand eh," Rob sounded chuffed, "I like that. Make sure you put that by my name on the end credits."

"Consider it done," Dick quickly agreed, sealing the deal.

"So when are you seeing this female Lon Chaney Junior again?" Ron asked.

"Tomorrow night."

"Really? It's getting a bit close to full moon isn't it? I mean, if she really is a werewolf."

"She isn't a real werewolf," Dick snapped.

"I suppose were-woman would be the correct term," Ron mused.

"Whatever the term, she isn't one," Dick was adamant.

"So why humour her with this documentary?" Ron asked.

"Because I want to humour her," Dick answered, "people like eccentrics. I think they'll like this documentary."

"They'll just think she's a nut," Ron said over honestly.

"A pretty nut though," Dick smiled.

"It's still a nut all the same," Ron sighed and finally let the matter drop.

*

The restaurant wasn't the most exclusive in town, but it was obviously expensive enough to impress Lucy. She leaned across the table and touched Dick gently on the hand

"It's nice of you to take me out," she said softly.

"It's OK. I'll write it off against the documentaries budget," he smiled.

"It seems weird, us talking together like this, off camera," Lucy said with a hint of shyness in her voice Dick had never noticed before.

"It's nice," Dick paused, "isn't it?"

"It's very nice," she assured him. "It's just that tomorrow night is a full moon."

"I know that," Dick replied a little bemused.

"You don't really believe I'm a werewolf do you?" She sounded hurt.

"I believe you're a fox," he smiled and she smiled back.

"But seriously," the light heartedness faded from her voice, "the reason I approached you to film this documentary was so people could see what it was like. I wanted them to see my suffering."

She caught a look of sadness in Dick's eyes at this statement. "Hey, don't look so glum. We still have tonight. And then I want you to stop filming."

"What?" he exclaimed startled.

"Things have changed," she spoke softly, "and I want you out of the picture before I change tomorrow night."

"I don't understand," Dick said.

"I think you do," she said knowingly, "at first it didn't matter, but you've been so kind. I've developed feelings for you."

"What, you want to come back to my place?" he joked.

"Yes," she said seriously, "yes, I do."

*

Lucy's flat was cramped but clean, it was kind of nondescript in Dick's eyes, but then again the only thing registering fully in Dick's eyes at that moment, was Lucy getting undressed.

"I've got protection," he said, holding up a condom as if it were a police warrant.

"You're going to need more protection than that," Lucy laughed as she held him in a passionate clinch.

"What do you mean?" he squealed a little as he felt his breath tightening.

"I need these in case I scratch you in the throes of passion," she said letting go of the clinch and pushing Dick away.

She reached down into her handbag and pulled out some skin tight rubber gloves.

"And this gum shield," she held it aloft, "I wouldn't want to get carried away biting you and infect you that way."

Dick stood limply holding up his condom which was still in its wrapper.

"I think you've got the rest covered," Lucy giggled pointing to the condom and then hopped onto the bed.

*

Dick didn't need any excuse or any prompting from Lucy to jump into the shower with her.

"I thought you might want me to scrub your back for you," he offered.

"Be my guest. I hope I wasn't too much of an animal for you last night?" She laughed.

But Dick did not laugh back. He'd just noticed the strange clump of thick dark hair at the bottom of Lucy's spine.

*

"So, how did you get on?" Ron asked eagerly.

Dick just nodded his head and laughed.

"Yeah?" Ron pushed.

"Yeah," Dick smiled.

"So give me details, was she good?" Ron's brow began to perspire.

"She was," Dicks words trailed off, "she was very good," he finally found the rest of his sentence with a big grin.

"Good, I mean great, I mean I'm happy for you man," Ron congratulated Dick. "So, when you seeing her again?"

"Tonight," Dick swiftly answered.

"I forgot, the big full moon deal. The night she changes," Ron gave out a howl.

"It's isn't funny," Dick scolded.

"Now from your point it isn't funny, from my point, it's hilarious," Ron chuckled.

"She'll only see me again if I have a silver bullet," Dick said deadly serious.

"You're kidding," Ron whooped, "do you have to have a little silver gun to go with it?"

"Just a normal gun and a silver bullet," Dick sighed. "She says it's for my own protection."

"Oh, she's good, she's very good," Ron slapped his thigh, "I'm going to edit your little documentary like I've never edited before. On top of that, I'm going to lend you my gun and on top of that, I'm going to get you a silver bullet."

"I didn't know you had a gun," Dick said uneasily.

"Don't worry about it," Ron began to push Dick out of his flat, "go get yourself ready for tonight. Wash your hair or something. I've got things to do here. We have to prepare."

*

The setting Dick had chosen for the nights shoot was perfect in his eyes. But the eyes he had been looking through at the moment of choosing had been the eyes of a cameraman and director; he'd been blind to anything else. The shooting was taking place on derelict land, a clump of disused factories that had been left, like festering sores on a once pleasant piece of countryside.

Dick and Lucy were far out of the city and too far if anything did go wrong.

Not that Dick thought for a second Lucy was a werewolf... not for a second.....

"Well, here we are," Dick started to unpack his camera while Ron began to unpack the rest of their equipment.

"Whose this?" Lucy pointed suspiciously at Ron.

"It's Ok," Dick assured her, "it's my best friend Ron, he's going to help with tonight's shoot and edit the whole documentary when we're done filming."

"Hi," Ron waved at Lucy.

"Did you bring the silver bullet?" Lucy asked desperately.

"I got the silver bullet for him," Ron took the gun out of his pocket and waved it in the air, as if this would illustrate the fact.

"Ok, it's nice to meet you Ron, but it's not you I'm worried about," Lucy nodded in the direction of Dick. "Hand the gun over to him. A werewolf always attacks the one it loves."

"This girl knows her stuff," Ron whispered into Dick's ear.

"You can take over this," Dick pushed the camera at Ron.

"I thought I was just the editor," Ron huffed as he took the full weight of the camera.

"Don't come any closer," Lucy waved Dick away from his impending march towards her.

He did as she asked.

"It's Ok," he assured her. "Everything is going to be fine."

"I hope so, but I think not," Lucy said sadly, "I should know, I've lived with this curse for a long time."

Dick began to walk towards her again.

"I said stay back," she shouted.

He stopped.

"I searched all over the world to find someone I'd love and would love me," Lucy sobbed, "and in the end I found you."

"This isn't the end," Dick felt his own emotions welling up. "You're not a werewolf, you're just a bit mixed up."

"Then I've been mixed up for a long time," she wiped away a tear, "probably a hundred years, since I became this thing."

Dick turned to Ron, only to notice his friend was already filming.

"Don't mind me," Ron grinned, "carry on, this stuff is priceless."

Dick turned back to Lucy, "I blame myself for this Lucy. I've humoured you too much, this has gone too far."

"You should go, you should both go," Lucy screeched, "I've changed my mind about everything, the documentary, you, the whole lot. I just want you to go now."

The full moon slid from behind the cover of a cloud.

Lucy fell to the ground plastering her hands to her eyes, screaming like a wounded animal.

Dick rushed over to her. This time he stopped in his tracks, not on Lucy's say so, but at the look of evil on her face when she took her hands away from it.
"I told you to go," Lucy hissed, "and now it's too late." Lucy Sprang onto Dick, who screamed falling backwards.

A shot rang out.

The rabid animal look on Lucy's face fell aside, as a look of surprise took its place.

Lucy pushed Dick away and clutching a bloody wound in her chest, she stumbled away leaving a trail of blood behind her.

"What have you done?" Dick screamed at Ron.

"I shot her," Ron held his hands aloft, half in fear and half surprise at what he'd done. "She went crazy on you man, crazy," Ron emphasized, "did you see the look in her eyes?"

"You shot her point blank," Dick carried on screaming.

And then he saw that Lucy was gone. All that was left was the trail of blood. Dick stopped screaming. "We have to find her."

*

The trail of blood led into one of the crumbling structures. Ron and Dick entered the disused warehouse through a door, which was hanging limply from its hinges. Moonlight streamed through smashed windows and into the concrete coffin of a building.

"Where did she go, it's a dead end, she couldn't have got past us," Ron pointed out that there was no where to hide in this empty shell of a bricks and mortar.

"Lucy," Dick pleaded.

"This is screwed up shit," Ron's voice now shook as much as his body. "The trail of blood stops here," Ron pointed down to the middle of the floor.

Both men slowly looked up towards the deep growling sound that was now audible just above their heads.

"About that silver bullet," Ron's voice quivered even more.

"Yes," Dick replied.

"Is now a good time to tell you I never got one?" Ron asked.

The growling from above began to grow louder, as the dark, shaggy shadow hung down ready to make the next move.

Sewing Lessons by Ian Woodhead

Oh fiddle! This was a disaster. The dinosaur stampede was getting closer and closer, they just couldn't outrun them. They had already caught and eaten that Maggie Philpot but that was okay, she was a bitch and deserved to get eaten. If they didn't do something soon, those horrid beasts would eat them as well. Either that or turn them into two big pizzas! She looked to Darren, her eyes fluttering; he would make it all better. She turned and almost screamed. There was a big, massive tyrannosaur at the front now, that brute would tear them into tiny pieces, or even worse.

"Oh my Lord! What are we going to do?" asked Lucy.

Darren just stood there, his legs apart and his hands pressed firmly on his hips. He wasn't scared of a few silly dinosaurs. Darren was so fearless and strong. He was a hero, Lucy almost swooned again.

"We can climb that big, massive mountain over there," he said with his head held high. Darren had such a manly voice. "I'll return you to your palace then I'll come back in my helicopter and my bazooka and turn all the dinosaurs in burgers."

"But my legs hurt, Darren. I can't make it."

Her hero laughed, "Don't you worry my sweet, I'll carry you."

Lucy jumped into Darren's strong arms"

The dinosaurs were right behind them!

"Jump my darling," gasped Lucy, "or they'll eat us."

Darren jumped into the air just like superman but Lucy fell from his arms and hit the ground. Her head bounced off and rolled under the toy box.

2

Oh, now that was so annoying! Sharon Henshaw could just scream, it was getting to the exciting part as well.

She laid her Darren doll gently down; she didn't want his head to fall off as well, then gathered up the dinosaurs and dropped then into her empty cornflake box that she was using as the mountain.

It was going to be the stitching again, she just knew it. The cotton bobbin that she had sneaked out of her Mummy's sewing drawer was just rubbish; it just wasn't strong enough, not even if you doubled it up.

Sharon picked up Lucy's body and held the neck part close to her eyes, she ignored the smell, Sharon was used to it now. Her careful sewing did show a few signs of stress but it was mainly intact. The problem this time was with the skin, the head must have been too weak.

"Bugger!" Her hands went to her mouth and she looked around her room just to make sure that she was still alone. If her parents heard her say a naughty word, she would be in so much trouble.

She must have been too eager with the new head, that's what it was, Sharon should have let it dry out first like the others but how could she wait? The head was just so pretty and Lucy had needed a new head for like almost forever.

The head hadn't rolled that far, she could see tufts of yellow feather from where she sat. With the help of one of her pool cues, she had the head out in no time. Lordy, it ponged. She held it between her thumb and forefinger and picked at the ragged flesh at the base, bit's just kept falling out, this would never do, no amount of drying would sort this out, the skin was like wet toilet paper. It was such a shame, the head really was pretty.

Three days ago, Sharon just happened to hear an odd noise coming from next door's garden, it sounded like digging but who would be doing that at ten at night? She looked out of her bedroom window and spied Mrs. Raynor digging a hole, how odd was that?

Her Daddy had told her the next morning that the woman's canary had died, apparently, Mrs. Raynor was heart-broken. Lucy's heart wasn't, it was racing, she'd never had a fresh one before. All her other spare parts had come from dead things found in the road, old, dried up and usually pretty flat. Ugly too, it took an age and a lot of poster paint to make them look anywhere decent.

She remembered watching that canary, singing away in its cage, it was so pretty and such a vibrant colour. The head would look just brilliant on Lucy's body. Well she paid the price, that smelly old head was no good for anything now. It would take her an absolute age to find another head and Sharon so wanted Darren to rescue Lucy from all those dinosaurs.

"Sharon? Are you ready for your tea?"

Oh bum. She had clean forgotten the time, now that she had been reminded; her stomach informed her that she was absolutely starving. "I'm coming Mummy!"

"Don't forget to wash your hands, and did you clean that window like I asked you to?"

Bum again, no she hadn't. Some of the local kids had started a new game of throwing eggs at their windows; they were the same small gang that were really mean to her at school. They called her horrid names and said really nasty things about her family. Most of them just weren't true; her Mummy had told Sharon not to let them upset her as they were all going to burn in hell anyway.

Sharon rushed into the bathroom to wash her hands; she promised herself that she would do the window straight after tea. If it was fish fingers, she knew she would just scream. Sharon loved fish fingers.

3

She pushed her almost empty plate to one side. Not too far though as Sharon didn't want to damage Daddy's new jigsaw puzzle. He'd already completed the edges, which was pretty quick, even for him; he's only bought it yesterday. Unfortunately, it was really big so it took up most of the table space.

Just as she expected, her tea had been just yummy gorgeous, she had wanted to lick the plate but that would have been rude so instead she used a combination of her spoon and knife to scrape the parsley sauce off the plate. It took some time but it was worth it.

Sharon could eat that again. Daddy had yet to touch his plate, he was too engrossed in his puzzle but she knew that he's eat it eventually, no doubt when it was all cold and yucky.

Mummy coughed into her hand. "Now then, Donald," she said. "Remember our little discussion,"

Was her Mummy finally having a go and Daddy for letting his dinner go cold? She hoped so; maybe he would then get real mad at her and storm out of the house. How cool would that be, Sharon would then be able to steal his fish fingers.

Her Daddy sighed before reaching into his back pocket. He brought out a very grubby looking piece of folded up paper and threw it across the table. It landed on her plate.

"Your Mother and I have a surprise for you," he said.

That strained smile that kept slipping off his face told Sharon that the surprise wasn't his idea.

"Well don't just look at it," Mummy said. "Open it up."

Sharon wasn't sure that she wanted to, not after the last surprise. That involved Maggie Philpot and her gang dragging her into the school toilets. They pushed her head down the pan and kept flushing the water, she almost drowned.

Her Mummy saved her the trouble; she marched over, snatched up the paper and unfolded it before placing it back down on the table. Sharon saw two jigsaw pieces fly off the table and wondered if her would say anything but his eyes were now on the plate of food, he might as well be on another planet, her Daddy had acknowledged that Mummy was now running the show.

Her eyes drifted down to the sheet of paper and her hear sank down into the pit of her stomach, these posters had been placed in all the shop windows in the village, there had even been one tacked to the school notice board. It advertised an annual fare and promised a fantastic time would be had by all. With a tombola, bouncy castle, pet parade and cake stand, how could you not enjoy the afternoon? Sharon would rather eat her own feet then go to this. Why were they showing her the poster? Her family had never been to one before.

"So? What do you think?"

She looked into Mummy's expectant face and wondered if the woman had gone insane.

"I think it's the worst idea you've ever had."

Sharon heard her Daddy trying not to choke.

"All the kids from the village will be there and they all hate me. Please don't make me go."

She shook her head then smiled. "Look Sharon, I know children can be mean sometimes, it's not you that they hate you sweetheart, it's just because that you don't dress like them that's all." She hurried over to the back of the table and lifted up a large box from behind her Daddy's chair. "Now it's time for your second surprise." Mummy dropped the box on the table and lifted off the lid.

"Oh no," Sharon muttered.

Mummy lifted out a bright pink frilly dress, complete with a pair of red sparkly shoes. "Isn't this so beautiful? You're going to look adorable in this."

She looked down at her own ensemble of black jeans; ragged black woolly jumper topped with black boots and couldn't agree less. She'd rather die than where that horrible thing, dresses were for dolls.

"It's time for you to start fitting in young lady and to make some friends. I'm not having my neighbours thinking that I'm bringing up a freak."

Sharon made one more attempt to get through to Daddy but he was still planet hopping. She feared that her life had now come to an end.

4

She had so wanted to show her Mummy that it was a really bad idea. For the first half hour, it had been easy. The dress had made her itch in some very uncomfortable places, her bare legs were freezing and people kept staring at her. It was just horrible. She wanted to leave, go back to her comfortable bedroom and play with her toys. Then Daddy pulled out his wallet.

The Ferris wheel was just awesome, so was the Carousel and really handsome lad kept winking at her on the dodgems. Sharon had never been so happy.

Of course she saw everyone she knew from school and yet none of them said a single horrid word to her, she began to wonder if her Mummy had been right after all about the dress. Maggie Philpot approached her as they were passing the test your strength machine and apologized for being so naughty and invited Sharon to her birthday party next week, her Mummy was almost crying with joy.

"Does my pretty little girl want an ice-cream?"

Sharon nodded happily. She had already eaten a hot dog and a burger earlier. Not to mention her yummy dinner. Sharon was turning into a greedy fat pig. She giggled at the thought of her growing a snout and trotters.

"Wait on mister; are you not going to ask me?"

Her Daddy smiled. "I thought you were watching your figure."

He was being very brave. Daddy had been slapped for less.

"I can always make room for ice-cream," she replied.

That was a good line; Sharon stored that one for later use.

"Well what flavour do you want?"

Mummy shrugged. "I'm not sure what I want, what flavours do they have?"

"How am I supposed to know? We've never been here before."

Mummy let out a theatrical sigh, then bent over and kissed Sharon on the cheek. "Men, they are all bloody useless. Will you be okay poppet while I spend a bit more of your Daddy's money?"

Sharon nodded and watched her parents hurry over to the ice-cream van, hand in hand. It looked liked she wasn't the only one who was having a great time. She didn't want this day to end, although it would do very soon. Some of the rides were already beginning to close. She was going to make it her mission to persuade her parents to bring her here tomorrow, would daddy's wallet survive the strain? If not, she'd come on her own. Sharon had nearly eight pounds saved up, she was sure she'd be able to make it last

Her new friend, Maggie was leaning against the pay booth for the dodgems ride; she appeared to be trying to attract the attention of the handsome man who had winked at Sharon. She wasn't having a lot of luck and the group of kids crowding around her appeared to be making fun of her, that wasn't very nice.

"Hi there Maggie, what time does your party start? You never said," she shouted. Sharon did notice that her dress was far nicer than Maggie's. Maybe she was going to get a really nice dress for her birthday.

The girl and her friends wandered over, they didn't look very happy, in fact, they almost seemed like different people to the ones she encountered when Sharon was with her parents. She cast her thoughts back to the encounter at the toilets, they looked like that. Sharon took a step back, suddenly wanting her parents.

"You've got poo on your new shoes stinky Sharon. You can't come to my party. I was lying. Everybody hates you and you smell funny."

All of Maggie's friends broke out in hysterical laughter. Sharon took another step back and spun around, looking for her Mum and Dad, oh God! This was so unfair, they had tricked her. She wanted to rip this horrible dress off right here and now. Something hard and sharp hit her in the small of her back, knocking her to her knees.

"Everyone knows that you eat poo stinky Sharon."

She tried to block their mocking voices out; they were all calling her horrid names now. Sharon looked over to that ice-cream van, her parents were nowhere in sight. Oh God, this was all their fault. She should have stayed at home. Those horrible kids getting closer. Well she wasn't going to stay here so they could throw more stuff at her, no way. Not in front of all these people. She leapt up and raced towards the entrance, Maggie and her friends were close behind her. Sharon glanced at the startled faces of the adults around her, not one of them were raising a finger to help, one man even smiled as if it was okay for them to do this.

They was no way that she would reach the entrance before they caught her, those kids were just too fast. Sharon now knew that the adults wouldn't intervene; they would probably just stand around and clap while the kids beat the shit out of her.

Sharon said a naughty word, she just didn't care anymore. She ran around a massive red lorry and crawled under the wheels. Sharon was already filthy from her fall so a bit more mud would make little difference. The kids hadn't expected her to do that. Sharon further confused them by doubling back and ducking under the first tent she came to.

The interior was dark and quiet and for some reason it smelled a bit like a pet shop. Sharon crawled over to a table, there were a watering can, some hedge trimmers and a bucket under it. She moved them out of the way and took their place. It wasn't fair, why did everyone hate her? What had they done wrong to her? Why they did they have to be so mean? Sharon wanted to push them all off a big cliff. She squealed then clamped her hands against her mouth when she heard footsteps on the over side of the fabric. They were so close, she could even hear them breathing.

"Where did she go?"

"How the fuck do I know? Go have another look."

Sharon's eyes nearly popped out of her head, that was Maggie's voice and she really was going to go to hell for saying that word.

"I think she's scarpered, I bet Stinky is hiding under her Dad's car."

Sharon listened to the footsteps receding and took her hands off her mouth, just in time for something in the tent to squeak. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, the tent was full of little cages, each one containing a small animal. Oh God, this must be the pet parade, her parents hadn't taken her in here.

Sharon crawled over to the first cage; there was a black and white rabbit inside with huge brown ears. She read the hand written note attached to the cage door.

My name is Twolegs and I Belong to Maggie Philpot who is eleven years old.

Sharon didn't read any further. She looked over at the hedge trimmers and smiled. It looked like Lucy was getting a new head after all.

The Last Rose of Summer by Dave Jeffery

Her beauty consumes. A hungry animal, a sighing sated heart. A million and one metaphors as to how she feeds the growing obsession.

Need?

Want?

Crave?

All these things and more as I watch her svelte, lithe frame traverse the shop, moving with poise and grace amongst brogue, sandal and boot, the way her paisley top clings to the small swell of her breasts, the flatness of her stomach, the pert peach sway of her buttocks, gift wrapped in a tight skirt and the blackest of woollen stockings.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Her voice is soft, young. The badge on her chest tells me what I already know.

Rose Delaware: Sales assistant.

"That's good of you," I say. "I'm looking for a new pair of loafers."

"You've come to the right place," she replies, giving me the kind of smile that comes with the salary. False - the product of a training course. I've seen it too many times. I own a mirror after all.

"What size?"

"Ten."

"Colour?"

"Burgundy."

_The colour of long dead blood_.

She nods and walks away from me, heading for the store room. I watch her, savour her; imagine her body bucking beneath me as I rob it of life.

I discretely adjust my trousers with a hand in a pocket.

After a few moments Rose is back, her black bobbed hair is a contrast to her skin, smooth and porcelain pale. My monochrome muse kneels at my feet, pushing the fringe from her ice blue eyes, tucking it behind her right ear, where a scar shaped as a sickle smiles up at me. Inside I return its amity. And wonder if she weeps when she comes.

She will, of course. Maybe not at the beginning when she's disorientated by the hood and the chloroform. But maybe when she feels her bonds, tight and secure about her wrists and ankles. Maybe at the realisation that she is naked, her flesh goosed by the cool breeze coming in through the warehouse window, her sex exposed and shaved, nipples so taut they crinkle. But weep she will. They always do, at the end, either pleading for life or begging for death, they always weep. It saddens me for a while, the sound of it, but then it irritates, gives the unreasoned beast reason to surface, to feed. And when it begins to chow down, it doesn't stop until insides are outside and the bright red splashes arc in the air like scarlet fireworks sent to the heavens.

"Would you like to walk in them?"

I look up. My pretty Rose is standing now, her smile indifferent. She does not know me. But later she will come to know me very well, she will no longer be indifferent, she will whisper my name over and over, blood and semen coating her throat.

"Sir?"

She appears irritated. I like that, a little fire in which to temper my steel.

"Yes, I shall walk in them."

I go through the motions, a charade in which the outside world will see a man trying on shoes, a non-descript man, a man who has layers of artifice beneath which he hides. An expensive wig, a moustache that will be shaven off with the same razor that will later remove Rose Delaware's pubic hair.

The same razor that will put a smile on her throat.

"These will do nicely," I say.

I sit back down. My performance done.

The world is not a stage; it's a hunting ground where the clothing of sheep will forever hide the wolf. And this wolf likes his clothes very much, takes comfort from the false fleece that allows safe passage through a world where morality marauds unchecked.

"They're a fine shoe," Rose says. "The finest Italian leather. Special occasion?"

"Yes."

I shall wear them tonight where they will be slick with your blood.

"Yes, very special."

"I'll pack them for you."

With care, of course. Not as the beast will later dispose of her after he lies sated and spent, bundling his Rose into bins bags, severed and separate, ready for burial. An arduous but necessary task, tidying the spoils.

The spoilt.

The beast has risen twelve times this summer. The same in previous years; never greedy, never hurried. Just like the time spent with my twelve beautiful red Roses. Miss Delaware would be the last Rose of summer. Today, the beast will sow its seed and consume the crop. Then, it will sleep.

But summer comes so fast, doesn't it? The beast lies dormant, a bear in a deep dark cave, waiting for the spring. The restlessness begins at the start of the year. New Years Eve, that time when a year gone by is wiped clean, alcohol washing it away along with accrued sin. Yet as others revel, I plan. A new town, a new city, a new phone book. So many Roses it is always difficult to choose. But choice is part of the ritual, part of the awakening. They are always young, always ripe for reaping, and when my twelve Roses are selected then they are cultivated, ready for the beast to turn them red.

"There y'go," Rose gives me another faux grin. Her teeth, small and white and perfect, are framed in small pouting lips. Later they will be smashed out with a rubber mallet and stacked inside her navel.

She offers me the bag containing the shoes.

"Thank you, Miss," I say taking it from her, the bag creaking like something in need of oil.

Then I leave the shop, cross the grey street teeming with dull figures and find a coffee house. I settle down for a latte with a duplo espresso and an onion bagel with creamed cheese. I stare at the shoe shop opposite, my booth a haven from the hubbub about me. I will leave this place of solace in twenty minutes. Rose will leave the store in twenty five, her shift behind her and an evening of unforeseen pain ahead.

She will walk to her car, a small thing with metallic blue paint, highly polished with an immaculate interior, the hallmarks of redundant weekends and a life on her own. And as she walks to her metallic blue chariot, bouncing a key ring that is more ring than key, in her delicate hands, I will wait with the rag and the hood and the promise that tonight will not be a night she has to spend without company.

I check my watch, an expensive piece that keeps good time. My only luxury - keeping good time. For beautiful Rose it is a commodity that is running out. Like clear water pouring from a desert well. Soon it will be dry.

And Rose will be defiled and dead.

I leave the shop, and make my way west, pre-emptively following Rose's route. I sense the tension around me; see the people moving with purpose across the urban landscape. I see them as indiscernible shapes, shadows in a fog of obsession. But I can almost taste their fear. They have purpose, and that purpose is to go home, the place instinct equates with safety and comfort.

The banner headline on the newspaper stand suggests otherwise.

White Orchid Kills Again! Woman slaughtered in her own home!

_White Orchid_.

Somewhere inside the beast stirs. It is not its time so I pet it, placate it. And for now it returns to its restless slumber. The city has two predators, yet only one has celebrity. White Orchid is sensationalist, leaving his work for all to see. There is no subtlety. The kills are left in their homes, nailed to chairs, to walls, to head boards. A single white orchid jammed and blossoming from their open mouths. It is the act of someone craving notoriety, not the way of someone taking pride in their work. And like thirsty dogs the press lap it up, giving the ultimate accolade, a monstrous Monika for the public to whisper when they are alone in the dark.

White Orchid.

I balk at such a thing. It cheapens the craft. And the MO is slovenly, White Orchid claiming men and women, young and old alike. No precision. No caliber.

I make my way to the car park. It has three storeys and CCTV. In the public toilets en route, I remove a layer of artifice, to expose another. The wig is discarded in the cistern, the cistern filled with bleach tablets, the horse hair fizzing and hissing like a huge guinea pig in a sea of fat. And like the moth from the pupae, I emerge from the toilets as something different. Most will see a man, but beneath lurks the monster, pensive and patient, in tune with the hunt.

Rose Delaware moves through the car park, the pillars throw black blocks of shadow onto grey tarmac, her pale skin turning ashen as she courts the darkness. I become fascinated by her legs, athletic, yet not too muscular, but supple. It is a good sign. Her hips may not dislocate as she struggles against her bonds. These things happen sometimes. It matters not to the beast, though the screams can be tiresome. They can detract from the enjoyment of an event, like a wasp at a barbeque. Or forgetting to bring your favourite knife; the one with the razor's edge that opens deep canyons in taut flesh.

A sound to my right.

The chime of the elevator. It has big, dull doors that peel apart to reveal its innards, a silver car for those laden with too much shopping or too much fat to use the stairs from the mall beneath. I skulk into the shadows, use them, become them.

Movement.

A figure steps from the elevator car, the doors now patient and silent. A man, a big man, wearing an expensive suit. The warm breeze circulating through the car park brings after shave mingling with the diesel. His scent.

In his hands, the newcomer carries a box. It is garish, and has a motif that is too small to see from my hiding place.

Then he is moving and there is something in his stride that concerns me. Each step is different, one hesitant, the other brisk, as though someone is battling with the decision on which pace to use. I have seen it before, back in the early days when I was a novice. Trying to maintain control on the excitement, trying to keep the beast leashed.

My heart, a slow calculating thing, picks up pace. This is no man. This is a predator. And he is here to make claim on my prize. As he passes me I see the box up close, confirming what I already know. The motif is that of a flower, a silhouette with three broad leaves and a coned tuba rising like a vase. The motif is white.

_A white orchid_.

I nod with resignation, and feel my face contort into quiet rage. White Orchid has opted to pluck my Rose from the Earth. The beast is now awake and has something to say about it, but it is still chained, unable to be allowed the kind of liberty that would have it gripping and gouging, stamping and snapping, with a howl in its throat. Rose is mine. She is the last of this summer and I will not be denied. This appeases the beast. It lies down as if to resume its nap, but this time its eyes remain open.

I take a breath and do what I do best. I watch. I calculate. Assess how this will go. White Orchid will not nail my Rose to a concrete pillar in a city car park. He will subdue her somehow, and take Rose back to the small flat she has in the city suburbs. A flat with five rooms and an air of solitude.

Rose is nearing her car when she sees him. I feel my muscles pull taut. I can be on him in seconds should he chose to kill her here. Yet I know that even the sensationalist in him will not allow for getting caught. It is clear that he enjoys his work too much to retire so soon.

Rose looks up and her face, pale and pretty, changes. Not to surprise or fear. Instead, it smiles, and her eyes become doe like and coquettish, blinking rapidly as though battling tears.

"Hello, you," she says. Her voice is quiet and tremulous. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"I just had to see you, Rose," the man replies. He has a rich and resonant tone. I'm unsure if this is natural or enhanced by the high ceilings about us. "I had to see you in the flesh."

"You couldn't wait until eight?" Her smile is bright, fuelled by his faux flattery. At least I now know how he intends to subdue her. Not with violence but with seduction, the oldest form of entrapment. I relax with the knowledge. He will woo her; then take her home.

And I shall follow.

"You brought it?" she is saying, her head nodding to indicate the box in his hands.

"I said I would." White Orchid offers the box and she takes it gingerly. "Just in case you didn't recognise me."

"It's beautiful."

"So are you," White Orchid feigns embarrassment very well. "Your avatar really doesn't do you justice," he finishes.

I watch my Rose flush, her cheeks becoming twin plumes of fire, increasing in their intensity as White Orchid leans down and plants a kiss on her brow. I watch her thighs squeeze together as she fights the tingle that is awakening her sex.

I stamp on the green eyed monster threatening to maul the beast within. White Orchid, it seems, is not as I'd envisaged.

Rose plays with the box. "Must've been tough to get one of these. I'll admit I didn't think you'd do it. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"You don't know me," White Orchid replies holding up a placating hand. "We all have problems with trust, right? That's why we use the agency."

Dating agency. Slick. My intrigue was growing. Maybe I'd misjudged White Orchid. No need for harsh chemicals or a cosh to the neck, just a few kind words to those who aren't use to hearing them. No novice here I now realise. Instead a smooth operator, a sophisticated killing machine. I admire all except his choice of target.

I may regret having to kill him. But needs must when the monster drives.

"I hope to know you a little more after tonight," Rose says; her eyes coy beneath her fringe. The flush is still there, but fading. She is growing confident in his presence. She is taking the bait. Soon Rose will be in the trap, torn and bloody.

I take my eyes away from the scene for a few moments; search the car park for my van. It is dark and inconspicuous, the plates false, as much a lie as its current owner, and as such destined to disappear as effectively as the dismembered remains it will carry later this evening. My ride is several spaces away from Rose's vehicle.

"The table is booked for eight thirty," White Orchid says.

"What if I told you that I'm not hungry?" Rose replies. I watch as she gives White Orchid a playful, knowing smile. I see her tongue flit across her lips and the big man leans down again to push it back into her mouth with his own.

For a moment I am lost. I see his hands cup one of her buttocks, caressing it, kneading it until his fingers grow bored and slip down to the hem of her skirt, his hand a pink, five legged spider traversing to her thigh, where it stays for a while.

Then I hear it, the sound of silky pleasure escaping from Rose's throat, her mouth still working on the kiss. A quiet, subtle sound that will ensure that Rose Delaware will become another of White Orchid's trophies.

I know that I must stay focused in order to stay in the game. Otherwise he will claim her. I am mesmerised as the two finally separate their faces.

"Shall we go to your place?" White Orchid asks.

"Can't we go somewhere else?" Rose's voice is breathless with lust.

But I'm more surprised by White Orchid's response to her request. Again he thwarts my expectations. I expect him to suggest otherwise, to get clumsy and make up some excuse as to why they should go back to Rose's cold, emotionless flat.

Instead he nods. "We could go to my place?"

"I'd like that," she says. "Do you have your car here?"

"I came by train."

"This is my car. Direct me."

Rose activates her remote key fob and the door locks pop on her car. It is a dead sound. I feel it is apt considering the pending fate of its owner.

Rose climbs in after putting the box containing the white orchid onto the back seat. The killing machine called White Orchid then sits beside her. I see him place a hand on her thigh just before her door shuts me out.

The engine fires first time and Rose reverses out of the parking space. The car waits a moment as the two of them kiss again, then it pulls away, its tail lights blood red, a terrible portent of things to come.

I have to cover ground quickly if I am to not lose sight of White Orchid. I'm in my van within moments, but my actions are not frantic. Despite the increasing clamour of the beast, the cold computer in my head continues to calculate, plotting what must be done. Panic will not resolve this matter, only determination and the absolute certainty that Rose Delaware will have no one inside her tonight but me. My sex, my hands, my Italian leather loafers, she will have them all.

I begin the hunt.

I keep my distance, allowing two cars to stack between the van and Rose's car, my elevated position keeping the metallic blue shimmer in sight. I'm aware that at the car park exit there a "right turn only" sign that will lead Rose into the city. I won't lose them; the one way system will be my ally for a good few miles.

On the street the night is making itself known, blackness nuzzles against the city skyline. Street lamps have woken, their sodium flare in competition with the multifarious side lights of vehicles clogging the streets.

Rose is still two cars ahead. I'm adept at being incognito, a predatory chameleon, fuelled by caution and prowess. As the traffic thins out I drop back, waiting for Rose's car to peel away from the city and into suburbia. It happens within ten minutes. Now there is only distance between my van and her tail lights.

She takes a right turn. Then a left. Buildings are becoming both sparse and squat. I recognise it as a fledging exclusive estate, an elite ghetto that faces the river, giving extensive, executive views.

The car pulls to a stop at a gated entrance. I pull over, three hundred yards behind and watch as White Orchid gets out of the vehicle and types a code into a keypad bolted to the gate house.

My eyes scan the walls circumventing the luxury incomplete apartments. It is token, more statement than a valid means of protection. It can be scaled easily, and I prove this once the tail lights have crossed the threshold and the gates have clicked shut.

On foot I follow, keeping to the deep shadows cast by the buildings about me. There are few lights in the windows of the four storey buildings. Not all it appears yet have occupiers. I see Rose's car park up outside one of the smaller apartments. It has only two floors and is mostly dark; the sign outside suggesting that it is part apartment, part show home. I guess this as White Orchid's cover. The consummate salesman making the ultimate deal. I hunker down and wait; my breathing slow, steady. A light comes on in a ground floor window, a rectangle of yellow, quartered by its frame. I move quickly, time is now a more pressing enemy. I make it to the foyer, a small space furnished with a small sofa and an abandoned reception desk. In future times I'm sure it will manned by a man on the minimum wage, now it is but a show piece, a façade that, like the perimeter wall, offers little security.

The computer in my brain has already identified a means of escape once I have secured my Rose, saved her from one kind of death only to introduce her to another. Her car will become the Trojan horse, I will subdue White Orchid; the beast making short work of him. Then Rose will be grateful, will come to me and then in a moment of trust, I shall make her mine. She will move from apartment to car boot and then to the van, where the night can truly begin.

The corridor ahead has four doors, two embedded in each wall. Three of the four have "for sale" labels slapped upon surfaces of rich mahogany. The fluorescents overhead are hidden behind ornate, frosted glass, but the light is low wattage, casting a gossamer motif on the walls and floor.

In the stillness I hear the delicate tinkle of glass and a loud thump. It is a sound I can place in an instant: the sound of a body hitting the floor. And it has come from behind the door without a label.

White Orchid works fast. Again I have misjudged him, the beast inside curses me for my complacency.

I stride towards the door, hoping beyond hope that my Rose isn't too damaged. My palm encapsulates the brass handle just as the first scream slices through the air.

It is high pitched, the sound of someone in great pain, no, not pain; agony. I can hear another noise, the rhythmic metallic chime of hammer against nail.

White Orchid is working hard on Rose. The beast within can no be contained no longer, it knows its prey is in danger of being wrestled away, sullied and spoilt.

I lift a foot. It meets mahogany, the force of the blow taking the door off its frame with a harsh, splintering crash.

Inside the apartment all the lights blaze. There is opulence here, leather and crystal and chrome. But all pale in significance next to the blood. It has pooled in plate sizes patches, seeping into the lush white carpets. It splashes against the walls like some macabre abstract painting. Even the beast is quelled by its beauty, and the sight of the thing in the room. The thing that was once a person, but now nailed to the floor, through the wrists, the feet, the groin.

It's mouth remains open, the scream no longer high pitched since vocal chords have been expertly severed so that only a bubbling hiss remains rising into the air as a fine red mist. And the white orchid is now out of the box and jammed in the things mouth.

The beast salivates, but the computer calculates. Then it draws its conclusions.

The thing nailed to the floor of the apartment isn't Rose Delaware. It is White Orchid. But no sooner do I realize this I also recognise that I have once more misjudged the other predator holding this city in its maw.

My red Rose is White Orchid.

I cannot help but smile with the knowledge of it, even as a shadow falls across me, and I feel the needle sting of a hypodermic in my neck and my muscles collapse under the influence of a powerful anesthetic.

My red Rose stands over me, still beautiful, yet now I see her for what she truly is: brutal and brilliant. Soon I shall begin screaming as she gives me her love. And through it all, my Rose does indeed weep. But her tears are not that of sorrow or regret.

They are the sparkling jewels of pure and absolute joy.

The Return of Borley Rectory by Stuart Neild

Two men and a dog strode forward, on top of the lonely snow drenched hills of Buxton.

"You could have picked a better time for sightseeing," Nigel grunted. He wrapped his scarf back round his mouth, and into the position it had been in, before the wind had dislodged it seconds earlier.

"A little jaunt like this will do you the world of good. There's nothing like fresh air," Boag-Munroe assured him, "especially freezing fresh air. Anything that is that cold to your skin and breathing must be doing it good," he smiled. Boag-Munroe seemed completely at ease in the sub zero temperatures and raging elements.

Besides Boag-Munroe strode his giant of an Alsatian dog, Toby, or as Boag-Munroe nick named him Toby Jugg, after a Dennis Wheatley novel, the haunting of Toby Jugg. The beast, for it did look a vicious brawler for all of its obedience to its master, had been nothing but a fluffy ball of fur when Boag-Munroe had bought it a couple of months after his return to England, but now nearly a year and a half on, the dog stood as a useful companion, and ally. Or at least that's how Boag-Munroe saw it. Nigel was a little more dubious of the dog.

Nigel struggled forward as the wind pushed him back, the snow swirling into his eyes. "The elements won't do me much good if they cause me to stumble blindly over a cliff."

"You have to be over melodramatic don't you," said Boag-Munroe with no emotion, "there's no cliffs round here. Well, at least I don't think so."

"Is it so melodramatic, to ask for us to go back to that pub we past, and wait for the storm to die down? We could freeze to death out here. They'd say we were two idiots, frozen for taking their dog for a walk into no mans land and deserved all we got," Nigel blurted, his face red with the cold and from his own rising blood pressure.

"Did you know that pub we past, the cat and fiddle is the highest positioned pub in the country?" Boag-Munroe announced causally.

"Do you know what, I can believe that, and we're still travelling up and out into the wilds. I've never seen anywhere so desolate." Nigel went a little redder.

"I know, it's beautiful isn't it?" There was still no emotion in Boag-Munroe's voice.

It was beautiful; the sight of deep snow in the heart of Buxton's rugged countryside would have been a pleasure to anyone, or at least anyone that could stand such extreme elements.

"We could die out here," Nigel's lip trembled for a few seconds, until with mighty effort he brought it under control.

"It's a possibility," Boag-Munroe stopped. He stood knee deep in snow, the wind tugging at his three quarter length, black leather jacket, almost ripping it from his body.

Nigel noticed the coat was unbuttoned, as if Boag-Munroe was playing a game with the elements, goading them to do there worse to him. Nigel thought he caught a wry smile on Boag-Munroe's lips, but then it was gone, hidden in the blizzard that raged about them.

"This snow hurts. In fact I don't think its snow its just balls of ice attacking us," Nigel whimpered.

A particular vicious gust of wind hit them blowing Nigel backward. Boag-Munroe stood his ground. Toby did so likewise beside him.

"I've been here before," Boag-Munroe exclaimed.

"I've been here before," Nigel snapped. "It was the height of summer and it was foggy and cold then. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now. Let's go back to the van before we forget where we parked.

"With the rate of this snowfall," Boag-Munroe shook his head, "I reckon the van will be pretty useless now to anyone. The roads were bad enough coming. Time is never kind, especially when you're up against it. I reckon the roads will be cut off now."

"We'll go back to the cat and fiddle," Nigel injected.

"We could, but wouldn't that seem like giving up? I haven't seen what I came to see."

"What could you see out here? It's all white, white and more white."

"I want to see what I saw in my dream. I want to see it for real."

Nigel didn't have an answer for that statement. If anyone else had come out with such a proclamation, he would have been the first to have proclaimed them mad. But his good friend James Boag-Munroe was different, utterly different.

"If we press on we should make it to our destination in time," Boag-Munroe grinned.

"In time for what?"

"In time to stop us from freezing to death. We won't make it back to the pub in time, whether it's the highest pub in the country or not."

"Did you dream that as well?"

"Do you really want me to tell you?"

They carried on upward, the snow was relentless, but so was Boag-Munroe. He cut through the elements like a knife through butter. Nigel did his best to stagger on, with even Toby beginning to falter a little.

Nigel stumbled. "We going to bloody die out here I know it," he looked up at Boag-Munroe as best he could. Boag-Munroe was partially hidden behind the swirling ice debris.

"We all have to die sometime," Boag-Munroe's answer was as sharp as the frost. He thrust his hand out to Nigel, half helping him up, half dragging him to his feet. "But not today, not us. It's the 9th of March, my birthday, be happy."

"Thirty seven today aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you're going to see thirty eight? Why couldn't you just have a cake like anyone else?"

"Come on, we've got work to do."

"Work? And I thought this was just a little jaunt in the country."

The wind and snow attacked the lone figures even more. They climbed higher.

For the first time Boag-Munroe fell in the snow. He scrambled back up searching for Nigel. Nigel however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Nigel," there was no panic in Boag-Munroe's voice or his actions. He stood upright. The snow was now totally blinding. A muffled cry came into earshot from the left. The cry was enough for Boag-Munroe to home in on. For the umpteenth time he plucked Nigel up and out of an icy grave. Toby licked Nigel's ear.

"This is no time to lie down Nigel. We haven't finished our sight seeing tour."

Nigel gasped at the vision of a large brick house in front of them. Only it wasn't just a vision, it was real.

"That's....,"Nigel's words trailed off into disbelief.

"Yes," Boag-Munroe nodded.

"But it's impossible."

Toby growled. His lips snarled and the hackles on his back became visible even in the raging snow.

"Nothing is impossible, as you're soon to find out," Boag-Munroe climbed down from the icy crown of the hill they were perched on. Nigel scrambled over following almost blindly, stumbling as he did so.

They stopped, Nigel catching his breath before the magnificent house, Boag Munroe catching thoughts.

"Is that really what I think it is?" Nigel's breath was still uneven.

"Yes," Boag-Munroe looked focussed. His gaze was as cool and icy as the weather. "It's Borely Rectory," he turned to Nigel. "Now you didn't expect to see that in the icy wilds of Buxton did you?"

"Borley Rectory," Nigel's mouth gaped open at an unappetising angle.

"The most haunted house in England. Maybe even in the world," Boag-Munroe added without fuss or fanfare.

"But it was destroyed by fire in March of 1938, reduced to rubble. How can it be here, here and now and in Buxton of all places?"

Boag-Munroe smiled. "Why don't we go inside and find out?"

*

"This can't be right. This is a dream. Are we dead, did we die in the snow?" Nigel asked as he moved stealthily, behind Boag-Munroe, not daring to touch anything, as if doing so might wake him up from his dream, and plunge him into the nightmare to end all nightmares.

Toby stayed by his master's side, although he too, looked uncomfortable.

"It'll be dark soon," Boag-Munroe sniffed, "we'd better get a fire going or we could be in real trouble."

"We are stood in the most haunted house in history, a house that no longer exists. I'd say that if we're not in trouble now, we are at the very least," Nigel stopped, words failing him. "Well at the least," he finally started up again, "we're in a very strange situation," he coughed, realising how wet he had just sounded.

"That's what I'd call it as well," Boag-Munroe, not sharing Nigel's fears, outstretched a gloved hand and touched the walls, the fixtures and the furniture, "a strange situation indeed. One of the strangest. Why is this place here?"

"Shouldn't you be asking how?"

"How can be explained easier than you think," Boag-Munroe quickly replied. He stood in the middle of the room. "It's a reconstruction. A room by room, brick by brick, lovingly constructed project. But why and for what purpose, and who is behind it?"

"You mean there's something you don't know," Nigel said sarcastically.

"I wouldn't be here if I did know, what would be the point. The question is do they know we're here?"

Nigel looked spooked. "These people, I take it you're talking about people? What if they're still here now?"

"In answer to question number one, I don't know if it is people, not how you might envisage them, and number two, if they are still here, it'll make our job easier."

"And what is our job?"

Boag-Munroe smiled, "As if you don't know."

Nigel looked perplexed. "No, I don't know."

Boag-Munroe put his hands behind his back. "It's good that you ask so many questions, questions are good, you can never have enough of them, questions make life interesting, don't you think?"

Nigel looked even more perplexed.

"Good, that's that settled then. Let's explore."

"But," Nigel protested.

But Boag-Munroe wasn't listening. He was watching his faithful dog, who was in turn standing transfixed, looking above with a menacing growl embedded in his throat.

The sound of furniture being moved across floorboards emitted from the ceiling above them.

"I think we have guests," smiled Boag-Munroe, "now here's one of those interesting questions again. Are they human guests, or are they something else?"

Boag-Munroe made his way to the darkened stairway. Toby cautiously followed, his body moving in a slow pouncing position. He was expecting and ready for trouble.

"Where are you going?" Nigel asked in a pitch a little higher than a whisper, as he found himself rooted to the spot.

"To pursue the only thing I find more interesting than questions," Boag-Munroe replied, "answers."

*

The darkened passage at the top of the staircase was empty. Nigel would have breathed a sigh of relief if it were not for the fact he could see the passage trailing off, into pitch darkness. He knew it was a trail he would have to follow, unless he was to be parted from Boag-Munroe, which was never a good idea at times like these.

The magnitude of Nigel's situation began to take hold. Borley Rectory had been a real nightmare house. The amount of hauntings that had been investigated there by such renowned investigators as Harry Price, had ranged from spectral headless horse's dragging an equally spectral carriage behind it, a phantom nun that used to stare at people eye to eye from the kitchen window, to violent poltergeist attacks. Nigel had investigated his fair share of haunted houses in the past, but reconstruction or not, Borley Rectory was dangerous, and somehow it had been brought back into life at a new location, in the twenty first century.

"The blue room," Boag-Munroe commented, stopping outside a closed door. "This was one of the epicentres of activity," his hand waved over the door handle.

"This was where the poltergeist activity was at its height," Nigel gulped a dry gulp of fear, "its violent height." In some kind of blind futile gesture, he had been hoping the words would deter Boag-Munroe from opening the door.

The sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor screeched from underneath the closed door.

Toby spat a frenzied bark in the unnatural sounds direction.

"There's something in there," panic was not only resounding in Nigel's voice, it was plastered all over his face.

"They say some people went out of there minds after visiting the blue room," Boag-Munroe calmly noted, "shall we see what the blue room holds for us?"

The dragging sound stopped.

Boag-Munroe twisted the handle gently, the door creaked open. Utter darkness filtered out from the room in all its shapeless glory. A candle holder flew out from the black; it swished a mere inch past Boag-Munroe's unflinching face and over Nigel's ducking head. The candle holder bounced off the passage wall landing at Toby's front paws.

Boag-Munroe looked down with distaste at Nigel sprawled out on his stomach. "It was no where near you. Honestly, I've never seen such dramatics."

"If you want dramatics James look at that."

Boag-Munroe turned round to face the message that had been scrawled on the wall in what looked like child's crayon. It read, save your souls.

"Well Nigel, do you think our souls are worth saving?" Boag-Munroe smiled.

The only answer Nigel could give was the sound of his whole body trembling.

Toby entered the darkness of the blue room, his growling now sedated he searched and sniffed into every nook and cranny.

Boag-Munroe shrugged his shoulders dismissively, disappointed that he'd found nothing of interest in the room. "Let's check the kitchen out. Let's see if this is Borley Rectory before the nuns window was boarded up or after."

Boag-Munroe swept back down the corridor, his black leather jacket trailing behind him, making him look more like a giant bat, swooping down than a human being.

Nigel took another apprehensive look at the chilling message on the wall then gave chase.

*

Boag-Munroe pulled up a wooden chair and sat at the kitchen table.

"Well there's our answer," Boag-Munroe said.

"What answer?"

"The windows not boarded up," Boag-Munroe leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table.

Toby put his front paws on the table, rearing up onto his hind legs. He looked like a werewolf.

Boag-Munroe tossed Toby a dog biscuit procured from one of his deep pockets.

"By rights, if we wait long enough, she should put in an appearance."

"Who?" Nigel's tongue was on auto pilot.

"The phantom nun of course."

Nigel's mind drifted back to an earlier thought. "Shouldn't we start a fire before we freeze to death?"

"I've been thinking about that. Fires and Borley Rectory don't really mix."

"Frostbite and I don't mix that well either," Nigel pulled up a seat and sat nervously by Boag-Munroe, "What's going on here James?"

Boag-Munroe rocked back on his chair then sprang up suddenly to attention. "I'm not sure, but I intend to find out."

Nigel moved to stand also. Boag-Munroe placed one hand on Nigel's shoulder and with the other hand a finger to his lips.

"They know we're here," Boag-Munroe whispered, before throwing Toby another biscuit.

"Who knows we're here?" Nigel was growing more frantic.

"Whoever is conducting the experiment."

"You're telling me that someone has reconstructed Borley Rectory as some kind of giant paranormal experiment?"

"Exactly," Boag-Munroe agreed. "It's not the first time I've come across something like this, and it probably won't be the last."

Toby stopped crunching on his biscuit. The sudden silence became highly noticeable.

The sound of giggling laughter drifted into earshot. Nigel felt every hair on his body stand on end.

"The blue room again I think," announced an unruffled Boag-Munroe, "after you", Boag-Munroe gestured for Nigel to lead the way.

"No, after you," Nigel stuttered, "or maybe Toby would like to lead the way?"

Toby's head tilted side-ways.

Boag-Munroe smiled and led the way back to the blue room.

*

The words scrawled on the passage outside the blue room had changed. Now help me Marrianne was scrawled in place of the previous message.

Boag-Munroe acknowledged the new text. "Very interesting, classic Borley Rectory messages."

"It just gets better and better," hissed Nigel sarcastically through gritted teeth.

And it did, especially as the first explosion hit. They twirled back to see flames engulfing the stairway they had just come up. Boag-Munroe quickly snuffed out a piece of Toby's fur that had caught fire.

"If I'm not mistaken, it seems whoever is running this experiment has decided it should now end, and go out with a bang at that," Boag-Munroe shouted through the chaos.

Another explosion rocked the passage where they stood. The stairs now gone, the only other exit, a window at the other end of the passage, was now doused in flames.

"Petrol bombs I think," Boag-Munroe said as calm as the proverbial cucumber.

"You think. How about thinking about what we do now that we're trapped," Nigel screamed.

Black billowing smoke drenched the passage in darkness.

"We're going to die," cried Nigel.

"We are if we stop here," Boag-Munroe pressed forward but the flames from where the stairs had been beat him back. "It's useless that way," he sounded more like a driver who had just been annoyed by a road diversion, than a man about to die in a flaming pit of hell.

Toby let out a blood curdling howl.

"We're totally trapped. We can't get to the windows," Nigel was gasping with smoke inhalation.

"So it would seem," Boag-Munroe's voice stayed as ice, even amongst the rising heat of the flames.

The fact that Boag-Munroe was pausing in thought made Nigel all the more frantic.

"We need to do something," Nigel coughed.

"It all about waiting for the right moment," Boag-Munroe calmly announced.

"We don't have many more moments. We're going to die James."

"Panic," Boag-Munroe snapped, "that's what kills most people. Knee jerk reactions are the cause of many a death. Like I said, it's all about waiting for the right moment."

"Is the right moment going to come before we suffocate or burn to death?"

Nigel's final line of sarcasm was duly answered. It was always the way in no win situations, sooner or later something had to give. Over come by fumes, beaten back by flames, all their exits cut off, something certainly did give. One minute Nigel was looking to his friend, the next the floor exploded in front of him and Boag-Munroe fell through it into a fiery pit of hell.

Seconds later Nigel and Toby joined him.

*

The only way to describe it was like falling from the flaming skies, into the pit of burning hell itself. Everywhere and everything around Nigel was bathed in red. Boag-Munroe stood up like a red demon amongst the flames.

"Our lucks in Nigel, we're alive," Boag-Munroe said.

"For how long," Nigel coughed with what he thought might be one of his final splutters of breath.

"The floor gave in," he dragged Nigel to his feet.

"I noticed."

"At least the smoke isn't as bad down here. The winds rising it up, it should give us valuable seconds," Boag-Munroe coughed.

Toby shook his fur free of ceiling debris and licked Nigel's hand.

Nigel found that his legs we're less willing to work than his mouth. He slumped to the floor feeling the smoke overcoming him and dousing him with unconsciousness.

"Stay awake," Boag-Munroe shook Nigel back to consciousness.

"Have I missed something?" Nigel reacted dazed.

"A way out," Boag-Munroe snapped.

Another piece of ceiling fell down narrowly missing the trio. Nigel noted that in front of the window was a wall of flames where the curtains had hung.

"The kitchen, it's the only way out," Boag-Munroe grabbed the disoriented Nigel by the collar.

Now the smoke was coming thick and fast suffocating the life out of them. Behind the curtain of flames Nigel heard the window crack and finally smash, but there was no hope of getting to it, never mind through it.

They stumbled into the kitchen, drowning in the smoke. The whole of the kitchen ceiling was a mass of flames. The only hope of exit was the nun's window, but to get to that would mean running the ultimate flame gauntlet. It wasn't just the ceiling on fire now, but the walls themselves. Trees of fire were sprouting up all over from the floor.

Nigel felt the blackness of unconsciousness beginning to overcome him once more. Perhaps it would be better that way, no terror, no pain, just the oblivion of a never ending smoke filled sleep.

For what may well have been the final time, Boag-Munroe plucked the drowning man up from the waves of smoke.

A chair crashed through the nun's window. Nigel felt himself being bundled through and falling back into the cold night's snow. His eyes half open, he watched Boag-Munroe drag his now unconscious Alsatian companion, up and out of the window. The dog fell the short distance with a thud into the snow, which doused the little patches of flames that sparked in the dog's fur.

Finally an exhausted Boag-Munroe scrambled up, about to make his escape through the window before he stumbled, the smoke finally overcoming him.

Nigel felt helpless and was helpless as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

The last thing he saw before he totally blacked out was Boag-Munroe stumbling at the finally hurdle once more, and falling from view as the whole of the kitchen ceiling caved in one of the brightest and most vicious explosions Nigel had ever seen.

*

Blue snow. The first thought that filtered into Nigel's blurred mind was that he was lying in blue snow. The follow on thought to this was what the hell was he doing sleeping in any kind of snow, never mind the colour?

The whole of the previous events came flooding back, jamming into his skull, rewarding him with a crushing headache as he sat up. The body of Boag-Munroe lay face down in that very serene blue snow that was lit that way because of the nights sky.

Instead of being trapped Boag-Munroe must have been thrown out from the house somehow with the last explosion, Nigel thought.

The slightly singed, but otherwise unharmed Toby stood guarding his master's body.

Nigel crawled to the body of his fallen friend. Toby stepped back.

Boag-Munroe was face down in the snow.

And he wasn't moving.

Nigel placed a hand on Boag-Munroe's shoulder. "James are you.....?"

"All right?" Boag-Munroe turned over in the snow, now lying face up instead of face down. "No of course I'm not all right." There followed a meaningful pause. "I think I've singed my leather jacket."

Nigel collapsed down, his energy not even at five percent, but he still found the energy to laugh. "Do you think it will live?"

Boag-Munroe examined the flame ravaged leather arm, "probably not."

"When we get out of here, we should give it a decent burial?" Nigel laughed

Boag-Munroe tried to stagger to his feet, but fell back down again. The flames we're finally dying out on what was left of the reconstruction of Borley rectory.

The laughter had made Nigel light headed again. He felt himself trying to fight the blackout, knowing his friend was injured. Maybe their luck had finally run out.

"We're going to die out here in the cold aren't we James?"

"Flames from the house might keep us warm."

"What flames? They're nearly gone. Look it's snowing, blue snow," Nigel fell back. He could see Boag-Munroe had found unconsciousness and Nigel the ever faithful friend, followed him there.

The blizzard that had died down from earlier began to whip up again. Soon they lay like highly detailed snowman, as the moonlit snow buried their bodies almost completely.

*

Was this death? Nigel felt himself floating high above the flames of Borley rectory recreated. He looked down for his friend but he was lost amongst the endless snow. He twisted to his side to afford a better look, but something, an invisible hand or force pushed him higher and away from the scene. A million stars zoomed in and out of his head sending him reeling with motion sickness as he rose to the heavens.

Were you supposed to feel motion sickness when you were dead?

The motion, sickness stopped and he found himself hanging high above the very earth itself.

So what do I do out here, he thought, and as he thought an increasing panic began to set in. The panic was akin to cement being poured into his body, replacing his blood, skin, his bones.

He found himself becoming heavy, like a giant stone he felt himself dragged down with his own dead weight, screaming towards the earth.

*

"You're alive then."

Nigel's eyes flickered open at the sound of Boag-Munroe's voice.

"Where am I?"

"Guess. If you get it right it will assure me you've still got some of your faculties left. Heaven knows you've lost enough over the years."

Nigel's hazy vision became accustomed to a bed in a hospital passage.

"If you'd had stayed unconscious for a couple more hours you might have got a bed in a room. Hospital cut backs eh."

"I must remember to go private in future."

"By the way Toby's fine. He's sat at home in front of a warm fire. I know its still early days but I don't think my jackets going to make it."

Boag-Munroe threw his burnt leather jacket down onto Nigel's bed.

"Are you still going on about the bloody jacket?"

"You don't seem to realise I've only got another four exact copies of it at home," Boag-Munroe smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"As if my brain was made of sugar and it's sifting through somebody's fingers."

"Who's fingers?"

"I'm not quite sure."

A cleaner made her way haphazardly cleaning splashes of blood up along the corridor. Boag-Munroe and Nigel's conversation halted as the cleaner shuffled past, coughing out smoky breath in all directions. They waited in silence till she past out of view, leaving a smeared trail of soap suds and diluted blood on the partially cleaned corridor.

"It was a lucky escape for all of us," Boag-Munroe stroked his chin.

Nigel dragged himself up from the makeshift hospital bed and propped himself up on his elbows. "You seem fine at any rate. One can't help but note it's only me that's been hospitalised and there's not even a graze on you, apart from your fashion slightly dented."

"Hey, what can I say," Boag-Munroe let out a world weary sigh. "That's just the way it goes sometimes."

"How did we get here?"

"Like I said, a lucky escape."

"We must have broke some record for lucky escapes in one night."

"Or unlucky breaks for getting into them into the first place, take it as you will, I know you normally look at things on the dark side."

"Me on the dark side?" Nigel coughed.

"Take it easy. You need rest."

"How did we get here?"

"Another of life's mysteries I'm afraid. Apparently we were found near the cat and fiddle after a phone tip off."

"But we were nowhere near the cat and fiddle."

"You know that, I know that, but if you want to voice a different opinion who do you think will listen, or believe you for that matter? If you not careful they'll be keeping you in for mental observation, instead of just observation."

"But the house, the rectory?"

"Forget it," Boag-Munroe snapped, before whispering, "for now."

Nigel's hand shot out from the covers and grabbed Boag-Munro's arm. "I need to know now; drop the mystery act, too much weird shit has happened already, I need to know."

"There's not a lot to know at the moment."

"For starters how did you know that place was there, who built it and who blew it up with us in it?"

"I told you I dreamt about it."

"Don't give me the dream crap, that a poor excuse that you give people when you want to avoid giving the real answer."

"You know me too well."

"Too damn right."

"I don't know who was behind the recreation of Borley Rectory or who blew it up, but I do know one thing, this kind of thing has happened before."

"We're in danger aren't we."

"The whole worlds in danger."

"And you're the only one that can save it", Nigel said mockingly.

Boag-Munroe paused, his face deadly serious, then nodded. "I guess so."

Beg the other Man by Ian Woodhead

She couldn't keep her eyes off his holdall. Edwin Calhoun coughed, rubbed his damp hand across his stubbled chin and attempted to smile at the pretty shop assistant but the best he could manage was a sneer.

While she counted out his money, he looked at the bag secured between his feet, checking for the thousandth time that it was still fastened. Oh Christ, he was going to have to get a grip on himself; she didn't know what was inside, how could she? It wasn't as if she had x-ray eyes.

She was just nervous because of how he was acting. Edwin took a deep breath, tried to imagine what she would look like naked, her slender hands sliding down her young, pale skin. No, he couldn't do it. The girl was just too thin for his taste. Edwin would never attain any level of relaxed state until he was out of this fucking city.

He grabbed his bottle and change and tried not to run out of the shop. Edwin didn't look back for fear that she would be staring at him. Would the woman remember what he looked like? He doubted it, the shop was packed when he entered and he guessed that it stayed like that throughout most of the day. No, he would be just another nameless face, one of hundreds she would have served today.

Oh God, who was he kidding? How could she not remember a shifty looking bloke of dark skin, well over six feet tall and built like the back of a truck?

Edwin ambled over to a metal framed bench; he made a concerted effort to act casual, to blend in with the crowd so the nosy bastards watching the security monitors wouldn't pick him out.

The text on the neon display boards refreshed, he scanned down the destinations and saw that he had just under ten minutes before his train was due out.

Edwin finally had the nerve to glance over at the shop where the assistant appeared to be in a heated argument with a little old woman, and the girl seemed close to tears. He smiled to himself, which was good. If she was to remember anything about today, it would be the old woman giving her grief. Edwin would be just another anonymous customer.

After he'd unscrewed the bottle and emptied the contents in four gulps, Edwin felt a little better.

The bag contained just under one hundred thousand pounds in used notes, until yesterday, it had belonged to someone else. He vaguely wondered how long it would be before it was discovered missing. A week? A month? Edwin didn't care, he was sure that it wouldn't be traced to him.

The bottle was disposed of, making his way to the ticket gates, Edwin's stomach rumbled as he passed a Burger King. He checked the prices, which he could easily afford, but it would mean opening the bag again in public and the first time had been bad enough.

He'd get something to eat once the train was moving. He'd have a quick wander to one of the toilets on the train to remove a bundle, he should have thought of that earlier. As he was bustled through the gate, he actually began to smile; it looked like he was going to get away with it after all.

2

The carriage he'd chosen hadn't been too full, just a smattering businessmen and a couple of students, there were no parents with screaming brats nor groups of annoying teenagers, his nerves has been scraped raw as it was without adding to the problem.

He had planned to spend the three hour journey up to Newcastle either staring out of the window or snoozing. Edwin needed some peace and quiet so he could wrap his head round what he was going to do next. Having some sort of plan would help.

Plans? Ha! If he hadn't been so impulsive, he wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place.

The train started to slow down, he watched the students get up and remove their rucksacks before walking up the gangway towards the exit. That was a shame, he was hoping that they'd stay in the carriage all the way to Newcastle, both were very pretty. The students ran up to a couple of young man and embraced. It was such an idyllic scene.

Edwin sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the Saturday morning sun warm his face. Looking back, he found it incredible how just one casual remark could drastically alter his life and cause the death of another.

Edwin Calhoun was, by trade, a window cleaner. After he'd left the army six years before, it had been the only job he could get. Well that wasn't strictly true, with his build and experience, Edwin could have walked into any security job in Leeds, unfortunately the vast majority of jobs would have involved working at night and that would have been a major problem for him.

Edwin Calhoun had an obsessive fear of the night. While he was in the service, the rigid life of the army had helped him keep his disadvantage under wraps but now in civilian life, the problem became intolerable.

Edwin felt the train start to move off.

His life as a window cleaner had been barely tolerable, although his was his own boss and was able to work when he wanted, the money was just rubbish, each week, he found himself with less and less. The only thing that kept him going was that, once the sun started to dip he knew he would be able to go home, lock his door and be safe inside his flat. Safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to step out again until dawn broke.

Yesterday afternoon had started in the usual way, he only had three customers all day, two in the morning and one just after two o clock. Edwin had always considered his last customer to be a bit of an enigma. He seemed pleasant enough and always tipped well but there was something about him that just didn't sit right. Edwin found out a couple of weeks ago that the man was just a lowly police constable which surprised him. He lived alone, in a large detached house decked out with all the latest mod-cons. Not that Edwin would ever discuss this, you didn't. It was part of that unspoken trust between window cleaner and the client.

The fellow was waiting at his gate when Edwin pulled up in his van. Even before he got out, he could see that the man was three sheets to the wind. Edwin licked his lips, it had been a hot day and a cold beer would go down a treat.

He usually called into the pub after his second job but the old lady had stuffed him full of cake and tea so this week he had given it a miss but sat behind the wheel, watching that man pour beer down his neck as if it was going out of fashion gave him an incredible thirst.

Edwin then made that impulsive remark; he asked him if he had a spare can. His face almost split with a grin.

"So the strong silent one does speak." He said. "I've got a better idea. Forget the windows, they'll make ok for another week. Let's go into the back garden, we can spend the rest of the day talking bollocks and getting drunk."

Edwin followed the man into the house, he scurried off into the kitchen and left Edwin standing on the welcome mat in the hallway, he didn't follow him, it seemed impolite.

Through the open door, he watched him search through the massive grey refrigerator, Edwin couldn't work out whether he was talking to himself or had presumed that Edwin was still behind him. He shrugged and walked through into the man's kitchen.

He still had his head buried in the fridge and asking Edwin's opinion about if Leeds had a chance against Liverpool on Saturday. Edwin stayed silent; he had no interest in football so was unable to offer any thoughts on the matter.

He began to wonder it this really was such a good idea. What did he have in common with this stranger? Edwin had never really been the type to mix and pretending to be sociable just to get a beer off him made Edwin feel like a hypocrite. Still, it was a warm day.

Edwin tuned the man out and examined the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was packed with really expensive gadgets. He couldn't understand how he was able to afford it. Were coppers so well paid?

He wasn't married and he'd seen no evidence of a shared occupant, besides this was a domain of a single man that was obvious from the amount of mess scattered around. Edwin's eye stopped roaming when he glanced at the cover over the dining table, the tablecloth was laid out perfectly apart from the ends. He could see the polished wooden surface from this position while at the other end, the cloth was draped over a chair, as if to conceal something.

The man was still deep in the fridge so he crouched down and looked under the table, what he saw almost took his breath away. There were bundles of used notes spilling out of a leather bag. He had never seen so much money. He stood up just as the man turned and passed him a beer.

Edwin popped the top and took a couple of gulps. It wasn't fair, why should this gormless looking idiot have it so easy. Why should he have to work every fucking day to scrounge a pittance while this flashy fucker lives like a king?

Edwin could feel the half full can or beer being crushed in his hand; he saw the look of alarm on the man's face. Edwin thought about having to go back to that foul three room flat when something inside him snapped.

3

Edwin jerked awake, oh fuck. He wanted to kick himself for dozing off. If he fell asleep, he would be vulnerable. The other man had been vulnerable and look what happened to him. In the army, he'd managed to stay awake for nearly four days. If he could do it then he could do it now.

He knew he hadn't slept a wink last night, he supposed the excitement plus the adrenalin and the need to destroy the evidence that Edwin had been in the house were the main reasons. The money could not have belonged to the man, no way, not that much. Where he'd got it from didn't really matter to him. Whether it was a dodgy deal with some drug smugglers or stolen from the evidence locker at work, he knew that someone would come looking for it eventually.

The scenario that Edwin had tried to create when the real owners of that cash did break into the man's house were that the bloke done a runner with the money.

He was no longer alone. Sat across the table was a very tall man wearing an expensive looking dark blue suit, most of his body and face hid behind a newspaper. Judging from the deep winkles in his hands, he wasn't exactly a spring chicken. He must have got on when the students left.

Why in God's name did he have to go and sit opposite him? The carriage was almost fucking empty.

Edwin wanted to move but he couldn't, he daren't. He needed to remain inconspicuous, to be just another commuter. He tucked the bag further behind his feet. Maybe he should just get off at the next station and catch the next train. Hell, forget about the next train, maybe if it would be a better idea to just find some anonymous Bed and Breakfast in the next town and get some sleep. He was out of Yorkshire now, not that anybody would be looking for him; he'd made sure of that. Yes, he was beginning to warm to that idea warm to the idea.

The man had placed his paper down on the table and was leaning towards him, staring. Edwin was pushed back into his seat he couldn't move a muscle. Those piercing dark brown eyes burned through to his very soul, stripping him down layer by layer.

He couldn't even blink, yet he knew that he had to break eye contact somehow before the man, damaged him permanently.

The man opened his mouth wide like a snake about to digest a meal. Edwin had no intention of being that meal, he caught sight of a couple of large black letters just beyond his periphery vision, it was enough to help him break free from his gaze. He looked straight at the man, this time no fear showed in Edwin's eyes. He brought his fists up and slammed them on the table.

"Get the fuck away from me!" He shouted.

One of the businessmen snapped his head around, he didn't look at snake mouth, it was Edwin who received the stare. The man soon found something else to occupy his attention when Edwin glared back at him.

When he turned back, snakemouth was no longer there, neither was the paper. Edwin rubbed his hand across his face, oh Jesus, he was losing it big time. Now he was seeing things and so much for keeping a low profile, he would have been less inconspicuous if he'd cartwheeled down the middle of the corridor, naked and painted blue.

That settled it; he was getting off at the next station. Edwin bent down and looped his hand through the handles of his precious bag just as the train entered a tunnel. The motion blurred green switched to stygian blackness. Edwin watched the fluorescent strip lights along the carriage start to glow but it wasn't the same. Edwin wanted the sun. Instinct commanded him not to shut his eyes; he didn't even blink, not after last time. He had no intention of being visited by yet another staring abomination.

He began to count; he got to ten, to fifty, to one hundred then began to sweat. Edwin blinked, he couldn't help himself. He looked at the remaining passengers, the man who had stared at him hadn't moved, he appeared to be asleep. Two seats in front of him sat a young man in a black suit with his head buried in a book and on his side at the end of the corridor was a red haired woman in her thirties clacking away on a laptop.

None of them seemed to be that bothered about the length of this tunnel but then again, why would they? Unlike him, they probably travelled this route at least once a day.

It had been over five minutes now, this wasn't right. Edwin licked his lips and pulled himself out of the seat

"He coughed. "Excuse me? Does anyone know how long this tunnel is?"

The passengers turned their head as one and three pairs of eyes punched into him like rubber bullets. Edwin staggered back, his waving arms managed to snag a handrail and keep himself from hitting the ground. The bag flew out of his hand and slid along the walkway. The carriage light flickered and Edwin whimpered when the three silently rose and walked towards him. He turned and fled down the empty corridor.

He had no idea if they were still in pursuit nor did he turn to check. Edwin barged through the open doors at the end of the corridor and into the next carriage, this one was empty too.

The thought that he was alone on this train crawled into his head, it refused to move. He reached the next carriage and almost cried at the discovery that this was devoid of life too. He stopped and sneaked a quick glance behind him. Edwin was alone. He considered his options. What choice did he have? He had to go on, he needed to find someone else, someone normal.

He worked his way through the empty carriage then stopped before he reached the doors that led to the next one. There was a green box just above him, the emergency stop, despite knowing that if he deliberately stopped the train in the middle of a pitch back tunnel, he's end up going into shock, he had to consider it. It was the only way he could think of bringing people to him.

He'd check just one carriage; Edwin took a couple of steps and peered through the window. He saw people! At fucking last, he was no longer alone.

He hurried into the carriage, waves of terror and dread just sloughing off him. One of them must know what was happening, they had to.

In his eagerness to reach them, Edwin stumbled over something left in the walkway. He glanced down then dropped to his knees in denial when he saw what it was.

Edwin unzipped the bag and thrust his hand in, shaking his head in disbelief when he pulled out a wad of bundled ten pound notes.

This was just impossible. How could he have gone full circle? He lifted his head, watching the woman with the laptop join the two mean. All three walked towards him, grinning.

Edwin hung his head, he gathered all the money together, placed the bundles in the holdall and zipped it shut.

Three pairs of shoes stopped in front of him, he didn't look up, he then felt his coat being grabbed. Edwin was hoisted off the carpet, spun around and pushed back. The three that were now behind him caught Edwin and pushed him forward. He came face to face with the very tall man again only this time he was wearing a train conductor's uniform.

The sickly stench of putrid meat blanketing the man forced Edwin to try to jerk back but he was incapacitated. Snake mouth blinked a couple of times before removing what looked like an old fashioned paper scroll from under his arm, he unrolled it.

Gavin Mitchell still had five months of life left to enjoy the wealth we gave him before we were due to collect what was promised to us."

Edwin couldn't read the writing on the paper, the letters were too small but he did notice a signature at the bottom signed in what looked like dark red ink.

"You, Edwin Calhoun denied us so we will have yours instead."

He saw movement by his feet, he watched with horror as the zip on the holdall moved down revealing the severed head of the man he had murdered.

"Thank you," it said to Edwin. "you saved me soul from eternal damnation."

The conductor growled and brought his boot down on the smiling face. The head burst apart like a blood filled ball.

Edwin opened his mouth to scream just as the train exploded out of the tunnel. He was not greeted with the pleasant sight of green countryside. Crimson light filtered into the carriage, he caught a glance of endless jagged mountain ranges before his head was grabbed and was worked to look into the conductor's cold, cruel eyes.

His hand grew and stiffened into talons.

"Your soul, Edwin Calhoun, now belongs to me."

Foresight by Dave Jeffery

"I've seen things you'd never believe."

Detective Ross stared at the disheveled figure sitting opposite. They were separated by an interview table and a fog of disbelief. Unseen colleagues watched the two way conversation from behind a one way mirror in the wall to his left.

"Well, we can all put a claim on that, Mr. Faulks," Ross said.

Ray Faulks fumbled with a bulky wrist watch, twisting the winding mechanism as though attempting to turn back time.

Ross let silence roll out. It was his ally at such times, no pressure, giving Faulks time to stew, consider his next move.

"No one ever believes me," Faulks muttered. "Why should you?"

"I'm paid by the hour," Ross said. "That means my mind is always open."

Faulks stopped playing with the watch on his wrist. He looked up, across the Formica expanse, and in those eyes Ross saw a man, haunted. Sullen sockets, smudged dark by lack of sleep, played host to bright blue irises dulled by fatigue.

"Then where shall I start?" Faulks said after a moment.

"Let's go with cliché," Ross replied. "Let's start at ..."

The beginning is a place of confusion. As always. A nether world of swirling images as the now fuses with the then. Faulks remembers climbing into the shower, his body taut with fatigue. He'd been dreaming again. But awareness had robbed him of clarity, his dreams scuttling for cover like rats in a torch beam. Yet whilst the details had become ghosts their essence remained.

He remembered looking down on a shivering landscape, the ground undulating as though fluid, waves of rock and tarmac washing against the skyscrapers that fought to stay upright in the onslaught. The dream lasted only seconds longer than the quake, but in that time the destruction was total.

And real.

The comic books called it pre-cognition. The scientists called it a myth. Para-psychology blamed primordial instincts long since redundant in the world of technology. Psychology blamed the subconscious fantasies of a disturbed mind in societal meltdown.

No matter how others chose to box it, Ray Faulk had it, owned it, lived it. For as long as he could remember, he'd seen things before they happened. At first the images had come as mere flashes, like ghostly shapes in a room lit by lightning. A boy holding hands with a tall man the day before little Timmy Weston was taken and found in a brook one week later, dead and defiled.

The terrible image of old man Clutterbuck, his body bent and broken as the Buick hit him on the corner of fifth, spinning him five times before his already shattered remains buckled on impact against the asphalt.

Terrible events, always just before they happened. No time to do anything about them.

Ever.

And the one time he did try, mommy came in and beat the silliness out of him, a sneaker in her hand and Ol' Jack on her breath.

So he suffered in silence yet it was others who paid the price. The guilt didn't help. Nuzzling against him, keeping his company through college and university. And after that there was Denise. No desire to impart his abilities to his wife to be. Just a bold lie to smooth the edges. He called them his "Blackouts". He'd had two decades to say the words enough to make them sound real.

But never to himself.

Because when he did start to believe his visions were part of a brain dysfunction that medics had given a thousand and one names, the images and events would strike him down without warning, a little psychic reminder that the curse was still along with him on his life's journey.

And the dream of the quake had been such a reminder. But Faulk consoled himself with the notion that at least this particular vision had been dulled by sleep. He closed the shower door and let the hot water blast away the last vestiges of memory, the steam fogging any lingering thoughts. It was working well, to the point where Faulks was about to count himself lucky for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime.

Then, as it usually did, a searing bolt of pain ripped through his brain, and then the world changed.

*

The shower cubicle is gone, yet the space about him is no less confined, metal panels, a mirror, toilet of stainless steel, the blended, over powering reek of piss and detergent. In his ears there is the reverberating roar of Rolls Royce engines. Beneath his feet the floor vibrates as the aircraft hits turbulence.

In his head he can hear the ping ping of the seat belt signs going on. He looks to the mirror where he sees a face that doesn't not belong to him. It is bearded and the eyes are dark. A scar snakes down the left cheek. The man in the mirror is silently recounting the same phrase over and over. Misplaced honour masquerading as a prayer for the righteous.

His eyes drop down and the mirror is replaced by the sink unit. There is a grenade rattling around in the basin. It sends a metallic stutter through the cubicle, until three heavy thuds on the toilet door have the man reaching for it. Faulk can feel its weight as though the hands are his own.

"Sir? Are you okay?" The voice from behind the door is that of a woman with a Philly accent. When the man doesn't answer the voice returns. This time it has bite. "The light is on, Sir. I need you to return to your seat."

Faulks is no longer in the man, in the plane, he is soaring above the 737, looking down on it, watching the sun bounce off the white fuselage in a series of bright starbursts. Then he hears the dull thud, sees the explosion near to the tail, a small thing that punches fire and flame and debris into the atmosphere where it is whipped away by the gale.

The 737's sleek out line buckles to a "Z" shape. It reminds Faulks of a bird riddled with buck shot falling from the sky. Then the plane breaks up into three pieces, disgorging its cargo as it tumbles through the clouds, the howling wind indiscriminate in its assault, shredding paper, dismantling metal, bolt and pin, stripping bodies of their clothing.

While his corporeal view affords much in terms of spectacle, his influence remains impotent. Yet this doesn't stop him screaming one word in a futile attempt to be heard above the wind.

*

"No!"

Faulks pressed his hands upon the smooth wet tiles. If the hot water wasn't enough to rouse him, the post vision headache was there to bring him into the here and now with the immediacy of a shark warning bell.

He fumbled for the shower controls, his head still bowed, hoping that the pounding jack hammer at his temples would take the edge off of his recollection of the 737's final moments. In days past he would have fleeting considered calling someone, demanding that something be done. Yet he knew that something had been done: a passenger plane had been brought down by an act of terrorism, if not right now, then it was imminent. Such was the nature of his abilities.

Sluggish, he climbed from the shower, towelled off and dressed for work. He picked up his ID badge and read his role in life:

Ray Faulks: Risk Assessor.

"Risk Assessor?"

The irony wasn't lost on him. Faulks broke into laughter, gripping a nearby dresser to take his weight, tears coursed down his face, the pain in his head threatening to pull his skull apart if he didn't stop. But he couldn't, wouldn't, for fear his mind would decide to go for a morning stroll and not come back.

*

"Have you been crying?"

Denise Faulks scrutinized her husband over the breakfast debris.

"Um?" Ray replied.

"Your eyes are red. Have you been crying?"

"Got soap in them." It was a good lie, fast enough to get the job done.

"Oh." There it was, her interest gone. Not just down to the lie of course. Their twelve year marriage had weathered storms and found tranquil waters long ago, now it languished in a sea of apathy, a Sargasso Sea, always under the threat of sliding off the map to a place marked "Here there be monsters". A place where Ray didn't wish to dwell for fear he uncovered the kind that spouted home truths instead of fire and teeth.

There was still love, that's the way he saw it. But you'd have to look for it beneath the familiarity. And Denise? Well, he hadn't asked her in quite a while, afraid that the "I love you's" and weekly cavort under the covers were nothing more to her than token platitudes, day to day duties no different to filling the dishwasher of taking out the garbage.

They'd talked of kids, tried for them even. But for some reason it didn't happen. Incompatibility saw to that, their careers did the rest. And time? Well, it worked its magic and created a languid world where one day became no different to another. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. The stability creating safe haven from the powerful interludes the visions brought to him.

"You working late today?" Denise said taking a carton of milk to her cereal.

"Yes. Why?"

"Thought I'd go catch a movie."

He folded the newspaper, placing the Reuters image of a city devastated by a 7.5 face down on the table.

"Anything we could go see together?" Ray asked.

"Not really. It's a chick flick. Thought I'd go with Amy, you know, from work?"

"Okay." He used coffee to swallow his disappointment.

Oblivious, Denise opened the milk carton and poured a thin stream into the cereal bowl. Ray watched the milky cataract, drawn to it, fascinated by it, the flow of it. No, it didn't quite flow did it? It oozed. And it wasn't ivory anymore, not really. It was pink, like a strawberry shake, but with each passing second pink was turning to red, bright red, as though it were blood, blood like that which poured from the lips of Denise as her mouth opened in disbelief as a thin line appeared on her delicate, white throat and her head slipped forwards, leaving only a stump of a neck behind it.

In a quasi-dreamlike state the head of Ray Faulks' wife landed on the table, upending the cereal bowl, rolled and came to a stop, lying on its left cheek, hair matted with milk and gore, the bowl trapped beneath it like some comical, ceramic hat.

And to his horror, Faulks heard Denise speaking, her voice distorted by blood and severed vocal cords.

"I'm so dirty."

Ray pushed his body away from the table and emptied his guts onto the linoleum, his hands clutching his knees, his shoes and socks slick with his breakfast.

With resolve he pulled his eyes back to the table where Denise stared back at him. And she was talking again, though this time her head was where it had always been.

"You can clear that up before you get gone," she said making no attempt to hide her disgust.

*

Stress. Couldn't be anything else, right?

Faulks was sitting on a park bench, lunch sack resting untouched on his lap. His revulsion over the breakfast vision hadn't dimmed with time, not merely because of the horror of it, but because it had felt different.

First off, no pain. Not before, not during, and no residual headache in the aftermath. Then there was the manner in which the vision rolled (like a head on a breakfast table) before him, no third party view, like a theatre goer watching the latest horror movie. And Denise had spoken to him. Interaction wasn't a usual part of the deal.

He looked up at the sky, as if hoping to find answers. Instead he found only a flock of geese cruising in a V at high altitude. A radio broadcast emanating from a nearby smart phone couldn't break his reverie. He already knew about the suspected terrorist strike on a Philly plane bound for New Orleans, after all. No suspicion in his mind, of course: fact. No survivors, no surprise.

Such was his world.

Until today.

"Ray?"

A voice on the breeze: soft, lilting.

"Denise?"

The day was turning sour. Like milk curdled by blood. Faulks shivered.

"I'm so dirty."

Denise again, the Pied Piper on the wind, mesmerizing his senses, pulling him along as though he was a small fish in a very big net.

He stood and followed her call. Those who witnessed him meandering through the park would later testify that he appeared distracted, as though he could hear what others could not.

His journey took him past lawn and shrub, his feet crackling the gravel on the paths leading him to the wrought iron gates that were the park entrance. And all the while: the desperate pleas of his wife echoing about him.

"I'm so dirty."

"I'm coming for you, honey," he whispered. "Just tell me where you are."

"Here. Here."

Across the park, Faulks could see a row of stores. A bakery, a Laundromat, a coffee shop. Each bleeding into the other under a shared awning. He crossed the street without looking, ignoring the blare of horns and curses his recklessness received.

He made the row of shop fronts, the urgency in Denise's voice mirrored in his foot falls. His breathing was rapid, fuelled by exertion and anxiety, his lungs curtains of steel in his chest.

"Hurry!"

The voice was close now. He locked on, the Laundromat mere feet away. Ray pushed open the door, its glass panel releasing dry cleaning fumes and the din from multiple machines chugging away in the confined space. But overriding this world: the sound of his wife screaming. It was the sound of terror and pain, fused as one long, thin shriek.

"Oh, God, baby, where are you?"

The machines were squat, bright blue things trimmed with stainless steel. There were several, all in use, but one drew him in with ease. It drew him because of the blood, three vertical tracks of crimson breeching the rubber door seal.

Through its translucent, portal hatch, Ray could also see it, fizzing and foaming, thick crimson bubbles painting honeycomb patterns against the glass. He ran to it, his loafers skittering on the tiled floor, where he landed hard on one knee, causing the other occupants to look up and quickly turn away fearing he'd been hitting the booze a little hard and a little early.

A young woman hid behind her magazine, hoping its pages would somehow make her invisible. A middle aged guy dressed in sweats and sneakers actually got up and left the Laundromat with the hunched swagger of someone who has never found time to run an errand and decided that this particular moment would do just fine, thanks.

Ray was oblivious to all of this, of course. In his world people weren't reading or running faux errands. They were bleeding, and screaming, and bathing in their own blood.

He pressed his face against the machine door, trying to peer past the gore, trying to see his poor, poor Denise.

A hand slapped against the glass.

Denise's hand.

It was writhing, slick with gore, the fingers working on finding purchase, the wedding ring tapping out its desperation. Instinctively Ray reached for it, placing his palm against the barrier. But Denise's hand failed in its attempt to find leverage and slid beneath the red, fizzing waves.

"No!" His fist beat upon the door filling the air with heavy, dull sounds. "Denise!"

Then the face of his wife came into view, and his frustration turned to horror, pure and absolute. Denise was barely recognisable as the woman he'd loved for over twelve years. Her long blonde hair had become slick, visceral tendrils slapped to her bloodied face as though she was enmeshed in thick, dark rope. One of her eyes was open, locked onto his, fear stamped into it. Yet the other was gone, leaving a vacant socket, that was periodically filling with a ghastly, gory bubble before popping like a thick raindrop hitting the street.

"Oh my God!" Faulks gagged.

"I'm so dirty!" Denise gurgled. Then her head upended, to reveal a stump of a neck that bobbed briefly in the red ripples before disappearing from sight.

The world winked out for a second and the bloody vista winked out with it, and then washing machine was once more a mere work horse full of pearly white suds.

Yet despite this, Ray Faulks reeled away from it, fighting his way out of the store, his tears fogging his view. When he finally got outside, he dumped his ass on the sidewalk and his head in his hands. And there, irrespective of those who peered through the plate glass Laundromat windows and the awkward glances of those passing by, Ray Faulks wept long and hard.

*

Running.

Tears forgotten and determination now back and operating at full throttle.

On the side walk, Ray Faulks had experienced a revelation. It began when he questioned how the flavour of his visions had changed, becoming more personal. And not merely due to the fact that the person who he saw in danger was his beloved Denise.

After a moment of hopelessness, Ray fought back; challenging, questioning and soon powerlessness fell away as a thought dropped into his head.

What if his powers were growing?

The notion had originally left him stunned. Yes, what if his ability was finally moving forward, evolving to the point where he could see things with enough fore warning to do something about it? And what better time for such a thing to happen than now?

He'd pulled out his cell phone and called Denise's accountancy firm. Suzie Watkins, a softly spoken woman who had been Denise's PA for three years told him that his wife had phoned in sick that morning.

"Taken ill on the freeway," Suzie had said. "Had to pull the car over so she could, y'know, let the badness out?"

"Why didn't she call me?" Ray asked. The silence in the receiver told him that Suzie didn't have the first idea.

He'd hung up after Suzie asked him to give her regards. Then he called home where the answer phone took his message telling her that he was on his way, and not to worry, he'd be there soon.

He took the subway; he used his feet, ignoring the protest from his lungs and the slow trickle of sweat traversing down his back. He stumbled once, fell twice, the second time skinning a knee, yet he still kept up his pace, the pain spurring him on.

Fate had finally found favour in him; his powers were now being used to gain an advantage. To make a difference, not confirm the frailty of life. And he would not allow this chance to go wondering.

He fumbled with the keys to the apartment building, dropping them on the steps where they skittered away from him as though they had a life of their own. Cursing, he grabbed them; jamming the key in the lock with such force he jarred his elbow.

In the foyer now, aiming for the elevator, slapping the palm of his hand impatiently on the wall as he watched the car descend, illuminated numbers over ahead marking its painfully slow progress.

A bright chime as the door opened made his heart lift. In the car, there was hope in him. He only needed to see his wife safe and well. Be with her. Protect her from what ever ills were coming over the future's dark horizon.

He alighted on their floor, ran the length of the carpeted hallway, and stood outside the door to their apartment, his hands outstretched, propping him against the door jamb.

There was music coming from behind the door. Wagner, rousing and insistent, and just loud enough to cover a ringing telephone.

Then he heard it.

A cry of pain. Faint. Distant. Coming from inside their apartment. He was too late. Too late to make his difference on the world.

"No!"

Ray unlocked the door and ploughed into the room. Frenzied, he scanned the lounge. Nothing.

"I'm so dirty!"

Her voice again, in his head. Calling him to her grisly demise. He was at the door to their bedroom before he realised and shoved so hard he fell into the room calling out her name.

For the next few moments time stood still.

*

Ray's eyes were drawn immediately to the body of his wife, who lay bound and spread eagled upon the bed, each limb secured with a thin leather thong. To his horror her white skin was coated with a thick red stream, which Ray could see as a thin red line running from her neck, down to her flat stomach where it pooled inside her navel like a deep red well, before smearing her sex in livid crimson.

A shriek, high and bright with horror.

But it didn't come from Ray. It came from Denise who writhed on the bed as she fought against her bonds.

Ray crawled towards her, confused now by what was reality and what was not. She should be dead, shouldn't she? Cut up like that, she should be goddamn, sure as dammit, dead.

Yet here she was, still bucking on the bed, her bloodied breasts bouncing, her movement forcing a squeak from the springs whilst the head board beat out a tattoo upon the wall.

Then confusion compounded. The smell hit him. A mixture of perfume, sweat and...

Strawberries.

A thick cloying aroma of strawberries that he recognised even before he saw the bottle of Hershey's in the hands of a bare assed man who was pushing himself into the corner of the room in an attempt to become invisible.

Not blood.

Not pain.

Not death.

None of these things. Instead: strawberries and bondage, ecstasy and betrayal.

Ray slowly climbed to his feet. The man in the corner was using Hershey's bottle to cover his manhood as he crouched for his clothes.

He made to speak, but then his mouth clicked shut as though he'd thought better of it, leaving Ray staring intently at his strawberry smeared beard. A beard that appeared ragged enough for Ray to consider if the guy had used a hedge trimmer to contain it.

In the moment their eyes met, Ray knew all about this man, a stream of consciousness washing through him, becoming part of him. Within seconds it was as though Ray had known him for ever.

It left Ray exhausted. He turned away from the guy.

"Leave. Now," he said.

The man didn't question it. He dropped the bottle, grabbed his remaining clothes and hauled his bare ass out of the room, Ray even stepping aside so he could pass unhindered.

The apartment door slammed shut and Ray Faulks turned back to his wife, who was laying still, her head turned away from him, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Ray went over to her, sitting beside her on the bed. The moments rolled out, neither of them able to say a word. It was Denise who finally called an end to the silence.

"I guess you want to know why?" She didn't turn to face him. She wasn't quite ready for that yet.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she said. "It does. Untie me and we can talk."

"Talk?"

"Yes. About how it's come to this."

"What?" It came out as an incredulous laugh. Oh yes, he'd really would like to know how it had come down to his wife being tied to their bed and doused in Hershey's strawberry syrup.

But not now. Not when rage bubbled in his gut. Not when his life was about to fall apart.

He stood, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth in an attempt to smother the sob that so badly wanted out. He left the room before it became too difficult to bear, only just making it to the lounge where it came out hot and angry.

He balled his fists and pummeled the walls with such fury a Lowry print fell askew and match stick men continued their stroll across the inclined industrial landscape. Anger and hate came in an emotional Tsunami that threatened to sweep him away into oblivion. Before he could stop it, in that whirling, swirling place a thought rose up like a primordial leviathan beating back the waves. And that thought was: what if that strawberry syrup wasn't syrup at all, what if it was blood and his beloved, betraying wife was lying in it, bathing in it, her chest and abdomen pulled apart like a dime store carpet bag?

It was the briefest of things, there for a mere moment. But it was soon gone.

Then the screams began.

*

"Then what happened?" Detective Ross asked. The coffee in front of him had died and gone cold a while ago.

"You saw what happened," Faulks said.

Oh yes, Ross had seen it alright. Twenty minutes after the fact, when an anxious, anonymous caller claiming to be the lover of a woman called Denise Faulks of 1220 Maple Leaf Avenue, Southwest, had stated that he feared for her life.

By the time Ross arrived, the cops responding to the call were outside the apartment puking on the carpet. Once he'd been inside, Ross could understand why. Mrs Faulks had been taken apart like ripe fruit exploding on the side walk. In twenty years of policing the detective had never seen anything like it. But one thing was for sure: it was the work of fury. A crime of passion the French would say, but Ross could only see whole sale slaughter, a husband so consumed with jealousy he'd torn his wife to pieces.

The question was how?

"I saw the results, Mr. Faulks," Ross said. "And I have your statement that you killed your wife."

"Then what more do you need, Detective?"

Ross thought about this for a while. "Proof," he said simply.

"You have the body of my wife," Faulks said. It was monotone, the voice of someone not quite with the program. "But I understand you need more because there was no blood on me, right? Because I killed her with my mind, and you don't quite believe it, despite what your gut tells you."

Ross smiled. If nothing else, Ray Faulks could read him pretty well. Even though her husband was there when they arrived, the police couldn't pin anything on him. All they found was an inconsolable wreck, repeating "she was so dirty" over and over and over.

"I saw it happen just like I saw all the other bad things happen," Faulks said through the detective's thoughts. "And I couldn't stop it because I was the bad thing. It was my destiny."

"There's no evidence. Only your word. How do we keep this holding water if it gets to court?" But Ross had been around enough liars to know the truth when he saw it.

"Maybe its not meant to go to court," Faulks said. He appeared despondent at the thought. "Maybe fate is my friend at last."

"As it stands today, Mr. Faulks, she's smiling in your direction, no doubt about that," Ross said cautiously. "But in my game fate wears a lady's face but barks like a bitch. It's only a matter of time before she turns and people get a piece taken out of 'em."

"A short time ago you didn't believe I could kill without touching a soul. Now you lecture on fate as though it is a reality. What does that mean?" Faulks said.

"You're the psychic," Ross said.

"I think you know I did it. I think that you believe I'm capable of doing it again if I walk out of this building tonight."

"Okay, you read me good," Ross conceded. "That's why I'll take that confession of yours and run with it."

Faulks nodded - a concession. He had willed his wife dead and deserved his punishment. He knew this with certainty. Only the virtue of due process would thwart him.

"I can give you more to run with," Faulks said leaning forward. "You're sitting with me. Tell me, the guys behind the one way glass, they got a tape running, right?"

Ross nodded.

"Then listen up," Faulks said. "Your anonymous caller, and my wife's lover is Lewis Harper. He lives at 117 Eisenhower Drive, East. Lewis is a sales assistant at Hertz rental."

Ross found that he simply couldn't stop his mouth from dropping open. He composed himself after a few seconds.

"Okay," he said. "But all that tells me is that you may know the guy. It's not proof that you did what you did, the way that you say you did it."

"You misunderstand, detective," Faulks said, his eyes suddenly distant, as though he wasn't focusing on this moment at all. "The proof will be when you turn up at Mr Harper's home address. I killed my wife and I must be punished. If it means moving on to retribution to get the deed done then so be it."

"What do you mean?" Ross whispered.

Ray Faulks looked up to the fluorescents for a few seconds. When his eyes returned to Ross, they were a mix of regret and fury.

"You've done something?"

"Indeed I have, Detective," Faulks smiled, and in that smile Ross saw a man who was slowly and surely slipping into madness. "My wife's lover had quite possibly the untidiest beard I have ever seen. I have just convinced him to shave it off using his hedge trimmer."

And with that Detective Ross watched as the grin on Ray Faulks' lips married with the madness in his eyes.

Ross nodded to his reflection in the one way glass.

"Get the car," he said. "Now!"

END
