

# A Peculiar Collection

By

Lisa C Hinsley

SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:

Lisa C Hinsley on Smashwords

A Peculiar Collection

Copyright © 2010 by Lisa C Hinsley

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Also by Lisa C Hinsley

Novels:

Plague

The Ultimate Choice

Blue Smoke and Madness

Coombe's Wood

Autobiography:

Coping (Part 1)

# A Peculiar Collection

Lisa C Hinsley

# Being John

#

The jug at the bottom of the opposite bed is nearly full again. The nurse finally notices when the liquid inside is a centimeter from the top. She clamps the tube, replaces the jug with an empty one, and then releases the flow. Creamy red fluid starts dripping again. It looks like someone mixed his blood with double cream.

The nurse is back, and walking our way.

"Hello John, how are you doing?" she asks my father.

My mouth drops a little, and I boggle at my mum. John? Who's John?

"I'm fine thank-you. Just waiting for the doc." My dad pulls his dressing gown tighter. "Is it okay that my family are still here?"

Visiting hours ended half an hour ago. We're in the corner and have been sitting quietly, trying not to be noticed.

"Don't worry about it. Let me know if you want anything else, John." She walks off in her comfortable shoes, eying the jug as she goes. It'll be full again in ten minutes. I've been timing it.

"John?" I ask.

My son, Tom, glances up from his book. I don't think he's reading, as he's not turned a page yet. He looks back down, and pretends not to be listening.

My mum looks sheepish. "We didn't want to bother them, when they got it wrong."

"But he's Michael, not John!" There's a wipe-clean board above Dad's head, which reads 'John Hinsley'. Everyone knows him by his middle name, but apparently not the doctors.

No one can think of much to say. We're all in our own silent worlds, probably thinking similar things.

Is Dad going to die?

It's the Friday before Christmas, and we're waiting for the results of his operation to remove an Extremely Rare Cancer. Apparently he's being studied with excitement within the medical profession. I'm so happy for them. This is my dad, and he's supposed to live to one-hundred and two. I told him so. He has to outlive his grandmother by a year, and my grandmother by two.

The doctor's come along and taken my father and mother into a consulting room. Tom and I are sheparded into a day room. It's supposed to be for patients use only, and visiting hours ended over an hour ago, and the nurses are being so nice I feel like slapping one of them and screaming, "Why aren't you bloody kicking us out!"

I sit in a plastic covered padded chair, and try and read a magazine that's over a year old. I leaf through in record speed; get to about the middle, where tales of the general publics' woes are confessed for up to two-hundred pounds an article. I throw it back down on the coffee table and flick on the telly.

I watch Eastenders, but I'm not listening. Tom's sitting next to me, silent, still on the same page. Maybe I shouldn't have bought him along. I figured he's thirteen, and old enough to understand about his grandfather being poorly. But the doctor's supposed to give us good news, and there's this swirling sensation in the bottom of my stomach that keeps making my blood thicken. It's the only way I can describe it. Like all my fluids have been mixed with corn starch, and my whole body is slowing and stiffening. I don't want them to come back in. Not with bad news.

They're gone for ages. I've stopped watching the telly. I'm eavesdropping on another couple. She's in after hours as well, visiting. They're talking about the man with the creamy blood dripping from a tube. Apparently he's very ill. I didn't need them to tell me that. I didn't see him move once, even when his wife came in and sat mumbling at his bedside. My dad's full of energy. You wouldn't know he's sick. It's not fair.

Mum and Dad came back in. Mum's eyes are red, and Dad is the color of ash. I go to her first, while Tom looks up with enormous green eyes. Mum's crying, and won't let go of me. Through my own tears, I stare at Dad. He's just standing there, hands deep in the pockets of his dressing gown, slippers on his feet, and a far away look. Then I have it. The most inappropriate thought possible. I imagine a Barbershop Quartet dancing into the room, with their funny sidestepping, hat-flicking routine. They're all humming, each at a different octave. Then they break into song, right beside my dad. "Congratulations, congratulations, your dad's got cancer, a really quite rare cancer..." I decide that none of this is real, reach for my dad, and we all hug and cry. I want him to be Mike again.

#

Note: Dad was operated on a second time a week after Christmas. They managed to remove all of his Extremely Rare Cancer, and although the doctor still seems excited to see him, Mike-John has no longer got cancer. Roll on five years.

# Wanted, Companion

#

Consciousness came slowly to Joel. Someone had turned on a tap during the night, and filled his head with pain. A slight smirk passed by his lips. That would be the lager. Or possibly the whiskey. But most likely a mix of two. He was never going to listen to Smithy again. A pounding beat crashed against his temples.

"Jesus Christ." He rolled out of bed, and staggered across the hall to the shared bathroom. For a few moments he stared in the mirror, pulling at the grey bags under his eyes and scratching his stubble. He reached for his toothbrush. Yesterday's muck needed scrubbing out of his mouth.

Yesterday was Guy Fawkes Night. He remembered getting kicked out of the fireworks display at Pangbourne Primary School. He and Smithy had gone straight to the petrol station and filled their pockets with cans of beer before buying the whiskey. The hard stuff was kept under lock and key. They'd laid down in the field behind the school, and watched the fireworks from there. The night started to get a bit hazy from then. At some point, he remembered chucking up in Sulham Brook. Then, in a moment of lucidity, he'd looked up. Yellow flashes of meteors were scratching the sky.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Just a minute." Joel lifted the lid to the toilet, and pulled down the front of his pajamas.

"Hurry up, would you. You've been in there bloody ages." Dafydd. He was Welsh and impatient.

"Give us a minute, mate." Joel finished up and flushed the toilet. He grabbed his toothbrush from beside the sink and unlocked the door.

"You took your time in there, didn't you?" Dafydd squeezed past. "I'm fit to bursting here."

Joel shrugged and returned to his room. Dressing was quick – pick yesterday's clothes off the floor, shake them, put them back on. He grabbed his satchel full of Big Issue magazines and left.

For breakfast he visited the Bent Spoon Café, found at the end of Dailey Road. He'd picked up a copy of the Reading Chronicle on the way and spread the newspaper out across the tabletop to scan the headlines. Some kid had blown himself up with fireworks during the night. Joel shivered, and slurped at his tea. He flicked through the pages quickly, slowing as he reached the personal ads. Maybe someone would be advertising to him. Wanted, reformed thief for security checks. Or: Ex-con needed for school visits. Maybe: Expert lock-picker essential for widespread mischief. He let out a small laugh, and took another sip of tea.

A notice in amongst the requests for gsoh's, tall, slim, blonde, busty, good looking, wealthy, open partners, playmates, something caught his eye.

#

Wanted. Young male companion

required for older man.

#

That was all, with a phone number below.

"Hmm." Joel ripped the ad from the paper and shoved it in the top pocket of his jacket.

"Hungry this morning, love?" asked Sue as she put a plate on the table.

"Had a corker of a night, yesterday."

"Ah." She put her hands on her hips. "Greasy hangover cure, is it?"

"How'd you guess?" He dipped a piece of toast in the baked beans, and scooped some scrambled eggs onto his fork.

Sue laughed. "You're the only person I know who can stomach that kind of food on a dodgy tummy."

Joel ate, his mind never far from the advert he'd ripped out of The Chronicle. During his time in prison, he'd been a bitch to this big guy named Ralph. He could cope with that, get a little cash in his pocket. The last forkful of eggs went inside his mouth. Still chewing, he paid Sue.

"Catch you tomorrow, love," she called out as the door slammed shut.

We'll see, he thought, and headed for the phone booth across the road. He took a coin and the scrap of paper from his pocket. The phone rang once before someone answered.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end of the line had a quavering quality reminding Joel of the very elderly. "Good morning, anyone there?"

"Hi, yeah. I found your ad in The Chronicle."

"Oh, yes?" the old man replied.

"Yeah. I was wondering if you'd hired someone." Joel ran his fingers up and down the steel cable joining the handset to the phone box.

"No. Are you interested in the position?"

"What do I have to do?" Joel asked.

"You perform errands for a weekly allowance. Of course, I expect you to live in the flat attached to my home. Is this acceptable?"

"Well, yeah," Joel said. He mentally packed and closed the door forever on his shitty bed-sit. No more shivering on street corners trying to sell the Big Issue.

"Come to the house for... let's say, ten o'clock?" The old man paused. "We can iron out the details over a cup of tea and a nice slice of cake."

"Where abouts do you live, gov?"

"Follow the Oxford Road out of Reading. Opposite the Tilehurst railway station are some large houses. Mine is Holly House."

"See you then, gov." Joel hung up the phone. He remained in the booth for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. This could be his chance to move up in the world. He pulled the satchel over his shoulder, and went to the bus stop.

#

Set back from the road, with a row of tall holly bushes and fir trees hiding the house from view, Joel almost walked past. It had occurred to him on the bus, that he didn't know the name of the man. Maybe this was an elaborate hoax. But when he peered under the arch and up the path, he knew he'd found the right place.

The house was Victorian, eclectic, with gabled roofs and a wide porch along the front of the house for sitting out on a warm evening. He walked up to a large door with leaded squares of colored glass, and side windows to match. To the left, in wrought iron letters, a placard read: Holly House. He pushed the doorbell and a deep bong echoed within the house.

An old man shuffled up to the door, and opened it wide. This man has no clue about security, Joel thought.

"Good morning, are you the young man I spoke to on the phone?" he asked.

"Yes gov."

"My name is Robert Saunders, and this is my humble abode. Do you care to enter?" The old man stood to one side to allow passage.

"I'm Joel, Mister Saunders." He tentatively held out one hand.

"So pleased to make your acquaintance."

Mr. Saunders led Joel through a spacious lounge. The room was filled with armchairs and sofas, as if to entertain large crowds of arthritic friends. A stone fireplace held a place of dominance on the far wall, a fire lit and crackling away. All around him, peering down from the walls, were enormous paintings of people. Some male some female, and a scattering of children stood straight and prim next to severe-looking adults. A few, Joel realized as he entered the room, bore a remarkable likeness to his host.

"Please make yourself comfortable." Mr. Saunders smiled and indicated towards the fireplace.

Joel worked his way through the maze of furniture to a seat near the fire. The fabric on the chair was hot to the touch, like sitting on an enormous hot water bottle. He sank into the stuffing, enjoying the heat.

Mr. Saunders placed a tray on a table before settling next to Joel.

"Help yourself to some tea and cake."

Mr. Saunders took a small plate and a slice of marble cake. On the older man's cue, Joel did the same, biting into it before he'd even sat back. "Umm, good," he mumbled and took another bite.

The old man nodded. "You must be somewhat curious as to the position I am offering." He put his slice of cake down. "I require a certain amount of discretion. Are you able to provide this?"

"Yeah. No probs, Mister Saunders." Joel took another bite.

"Good. I need you to bring back a lady for me."

Joel raised his eyebrows.

"Not every day. Once or twice a week. I am too old to 'pick up' a young woman. But you, with a shower and a shave, and some reasonable clothes, would have no trouble whatsoever." The old man poured the tea. "I will give you a suite of rooms for your personal use and an allowance of two-hundred pounds a week." He sipped his tea, watching Joel over the rim. "Each time you bring me a girl, I will reward you with a one-hundred pound bonus."

Joel's mouth fell open.

"Do you find this acceptable?"

Joel closed his mouth with a snap, and nodded.

"There are rules. I will not stand for 'parties'. Nor loud guests. And you will not ever enter my private rooms unless I have personally invited you."

"Sounds fair, gov." Joel poured himself a cup of tea, the saucer clinking as he picked it up to drink. "This for real?"

"Oh yes. Very real." Mr. Saunders stood. "Shall I show you to your rooms?"

The old man led Joel to the east wing of the house, where the ground floor had been converted into a large flat. There was a large bedroom, with a four-poster bed and an imposing wardrobe opposite, and a wide window opening out onto the rear garden. Beside the bedroom was a bathroom with a roll top bath resting on lion's feet. Across the hall was the kitchen, sufficiently ample for a table and chairs, and a private entrance for Joel to use. And at the end of the wing was an enormous living room, almost the size of the lounge they'd taken the tea and cake in.

"Will this do?" asked the old man.

"Yeah. This is great!" Joel ran his fingers along the mantelpiece.

"Then a deal is struck." He placed a few notes on a side table. "First weeks pay. In advance. And bring back a lady for my company this evening for eight o'clock sharp." Mr. Saunders turned and left without waiting for a reply.

Joel kicked off his shoes, and put his feet up. Things couldn't be better. Living in the home of a dirty old man, and he wasn't the one pulling the tricks. He thought about where he could find a girl for the old geezer. A prostitute would be easy, but he reckoned Mister Saunders required someone a tad classier. He decided to empty out the bed-sit first, and hand back his copies of the Big Issue. No more shivering in front of WHSmith's. No more shit from little oiks as they piled off the school bus. No more hoping his customers wouldn't notice if he short-changed them, because he didn't want to get kicked out of the hostel and there was never enough money. Thinking of finances, he jumped up and fingered the notes left by Mr. Saunders – two hundred pounds. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so rich. With a grin he stuffed the cash in his jeans pocket. He'd go and get his things, and figure out where to find a girl on the way.

#

Clearing his room was quick. He emptied the contents of the wardrobe into his rucksack, pulled the drawers of the bedside cabinet open and cleared out the few photos he had, most of his mum. He never knew his dad. Apparently he looked like him. After Joel had been thrown in jail, his mum had told him he acted like Phil as well. Hadn't heard from her since. Perhaps he'd write her in a few weeks, once everything had settled down.

On his way out, he stopped off to visit the manager of the hostel. Mike was out, the office locked up. Joel left a note outside the door, his key placed as a makeshift paperweight. He dropped his satchel full of the Big Issue onto the floor and leaned the bag against the wall. Mike could sort that one out, hand them round for the other residents to sell. Not much for goodbyes, Joel turned and left, the front door locking with a clunk behind him.

Now where? He stood on the steps to the hostel, leaning against the iron railings. Houses ran up and down on both sides, terraced buildings almost as far as he could see. Down the hill the main road would be busy. He might find a lady friend for his dirty old man. Joel nodded, and turned right.

Finding a woman, Joel discovered, was easy. Finding one that would come back with him was impossible. After three rejections, and one slap when he resorted to begging, he ran into Maz.

"Hey!" he called out to her, running to catch up as she exited the corner shop. "Maz!"

She turned at his shout, squinting his way before recognizing him, her frown turning to a grin.

"Hey, Joel. Whatcha up to?" she asked. She tore the cellophane off the pack of Silk Cut in her hands, and popped a fag between her lips. "Want one?"

"Cheers." He retrieved a lighter from his pocket and lit both cigarettes. As she closed her eyes for the first long drag, he looked her over. Maz was late twenties, with cropped blonde hair and slim under an oversized shirt, and he knew she was a good time girl. He'd had her a few times, always after a skinful of vodka, but he'd remembered afterwards what a great shag she'd been.

"Maz?" he asked.

She took the fag from her mouth. "Yeah?"

"I moved into a new place this morning. Playing butler to this old geezer."

"Oh yeah?"

He tapped the fingers of one hand on his thigh. "Want to come over, have a look? I've got the bottom floor of one wing to live in."

"Oh yeah?" Her eyes lit up, and she turned towards him. When she flicked her hair from her shoulder and exposed the soft length of her neck, he knew he had her.

"The old man thinks he's a bit of a womanizer. So watch out," he added. Fair warning, he figured.

"Sure, Joel. You got any food there?" She sucked on her cigarette, her eyes fixed on his. Maybe he could get some as well. Oil her up for the old boy.

"Food? You know, I ain't bought any yet. We'll go to Tesco's. What you want to eat?"

"Mmm. I fancy steak." She rubbed up against him, and hooked her arm around his. "Shall we?"

Maz jumped Joel before he could get the groceries put away. Under her baggy clothes, her body was compact, taught. And she was still a good lay. They cooked an early dinner in long shirts, and nothing else. Joel wondered if he could take her again before handing her over.

Halfway through their steaks, Joel figured out how to get her to his boss. "Maz?"

"Mmm?" she answered, her mouth full of meat. "This is delish," she managed, and kept chewing.

"The old guy I work for has a rule."

"Rules? I didn't think you were one for those."

"Well, people change."

"Go on then." She took a swig of beer.

"He insists on meeting anyone I bring here."

Maz raised her eyebrows, but kept eating.

"After dinner, I'll take you over to the main house."

"You'll need to dress me first." Her foot slid between his legs and under the hem of his shirt. "Can you manage that?"

Joel never ate steak faster.

#

Raised up on one arm, Joel gazed at Maz as she drew on a cigarette. "Come on, we'd better get dressed," he said.

"And I have to meet him?"

"I'm not going to lose all this because I decided to break one stupid rule on the first bloody day." Joel rolled off the bed, and onto his feet. He pulled on his jeans and tossed Maz's clothes at her.

"Alright, alright." She grabbed her bra, and put her arms through the straps. "You owe me another dinner for this."

"You're on," he said, and grinned back.

Joel figured he had permission to enter the main hall of the house. How else could he get girls over to the old man? He knocked on the door to the lounge and waited. The door creaked open, as if the old man had been waiting.

"Good evening," Mr. Saunders said. The room behind him was in almost complete darkness. Only the flickering orange glow from the fire provided some light. Mr. Saunders stepped out of the shadows. "So pleased to meet you." He kissed the back of Maz's hand. "Would you like to come in?"

Maz glanced up at Joel, but then followed the old man with hesitant steps.

"Thank you," Mr. Sanders said, and closed the door.

Joel waited in the hall for a long time. He tried listening, but the wood must have been thick, and he couldn't even hear a whisper of conversation. Eventually, he returned to his flat, and lay on the bed, thinking of Maz. He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep, until a rap at his door woke him.

Mr. Saunders stood in the main hall.

"Thank you. Your choice was appropriate. Did you have trouble coercing a girl to come home with you?"

"Uh, yeah. Hard to find a woman who'll go off with a stranger."

"Feel free to bring a lady of the night next time. Your task will be infinitely easier." He handed Joel an envelope. "The bonus."

"Cheers." Joel searched past the old man. "Did Maz go home already?"

Mr. Saunders nodded. "She was required at her place of work."

"Oh," said Joel, thinking she might have knocked before leaving.

"My needs were not satiated. Please find a girl for tomorrow tonight, eight o'clock sharp." His boss did not wait for an answer, and turned to go.

"Right. No probs, gov." Joel closed the door before opening the envelope. Inside were five crisp twenty pound notes. "Excellent."

#

Finding a working girl was easy at night, but in the middle of the afternoon, the task was virtually impossible. After walking about for over an hour, he sat down on a low wall behind Central Swimming Pool, and tried to catch the eye of the ladies. A young, black woman with an hourglass figure sauntered by. Despite the cold weather, she wore hot pants teamed with a puffer jacket.

"Looking for someone?" she asked as she passed.

A thought flashed through Joel's mind that the old man might be racist. But this girl was willing, and jumped in a cab with him minutes later. She chatted incessantly on the way back to Holly House. No way would Joel be greasing the wheels on this one. The boss was on his own. He knocked on the lounge door, then crossed the main hall and receded into his own flat, leaving Sammie to make her own introductions.

The next morning, he found an envelope slipped partly under his door. He opened it and counted the cash.

"Easy-peasy," he said. The old man hadn't knocked today, no requests for new companions. Joel dressed and went out. He took the bus back to Dailey Road. For a few minutes, he stared up at the hostel, in through the window that looked out from his old room. A couple of bottles rested on the inside of the glass. They'd already found someone to take his place. Better not fuck it up with the old geezer. He turned and walked down to the end of the road, and dipped into the Bent Spoon.

"Hey, Joel!" Sue called over from the hatch that opened into the kitchen. The cook put a plate of steaming omelet and chips on the shelf for her. "Missed you yesterday."

He found a table, surprised to find a newspaper under his arm. He must have followed his usual route past the newsagents. He shook his head, and opened the paper. The body of a woman had been found out on the train tracks between Tilehurst and Reading. The suspicion was she'd been drunk, and following the tracks. Then a fast train on its way to London had hit her. Joel grimaced.

"What can I do you for, love?" Sue arrived beside him, pulled a battered notebook from her apron, and retrieved the pencil from her ponytail.

"Give me the usual." He stared down at the headline again. "Any rumors going round as to who she was?"

"Sorry. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"Cheers."

#

Three days passed before Mr. Saunders knocked again. "I care for a young lady tonight. Please deliver her for eight o'clock." He turned on his heels, without further word.

"No probs, gov," Joel replied even though he knew the old man had gone. He might open up a bank account with his next bonus. Start clawing his way into normal life. Get a debit card. He left his flat after lunch, and caught the train into Reading. Just past the back of Waitrose, he spotted the yellow police tape of a cordoned off zone. He wondered if there was more to the death than the papers had reported.

Clouds blanketed the sky, dribbling rain down as he walked to one of the seedier neighborhoods. He found a young white girl first, with short spiky black hair, and enormous pupils. She staggered towards him, and flashed her tits. "Want some-a-this?" she asked. Then she doubled over and puked on the pavement.

"Classy," Joel mumbled, and passed her with a wide berth. Mr. Saunders advice came back to him now. After a shave and the purchase of some nicer clothes, he'd have no problem picking up girls. With a change of direction, he headed into town. He'd not bought anything new in a long time. His wardrobe consisted of Oxfam specials – nicked from bags left outside the doorway overnight. He decided on BHS as his mum had shopped there when he was little. The men's clothes were upstairs. He felt the cameras spin to follow him as he ascended to the upper floor on the escalator. He tucked his head down, and ignored the plain clothes security guard who emerged from an unmarked side door, and hovered a short distance away.

He resisted the impulse to show the cameras his cash and tell the security man to bog off. Next time he came, after a trip to the barbers and wearing reasonable attire, perhaps no one would even notice him.

To the side of Joel was a rack of jeans. He stared at the labels for a few minutes, realizing he'd no clue of his size anymore. He pulled at the waistband of the stained and ripped pair he currently wore. Then he took three pairs off the rack.

After some experimentation, he discovered he had a slim twenty-six inch waist. He chose the twenty-eights – he'd be having regular meals now. Chances were he'd gain weight. Before he left the cubicle in the changing rooms, he pulled out the envelope from his pocket. He'd taken two hundred with him. Counted it twice in his flat. But he licked a finger and recounted one last time. He didn't want to get to the counter and find there wasn't enough. The jeans were thirty pounds. He redressed his own scruffy clothes, and returned to the sales floor. After a small amount of consideration, he picked a polo shirt and a jacket that looked like suede. He tried that on in front of the mirror at the end of the rack. Satisfied it wasn't too baggy, he smiled at the security guard, and made his purchases. Before departing, he visited the disabled loo and changed his clothes to the new ones. Feeling almost like a new man, he shoved his old clothes in the BHS bag, and left the shop.

Even though he knew his hair was messy, and he had four-day stubble that was almost a beard, he saw immediately the change in attitude towards him. Other pedestrians didn't avoid him. Their eyes normally lit upon his hands, and grabbed securely at their wallets and bags as he passed by. Today, he garnered a couple of smiles from the ladies. He glanced skyward, and thanked Mr. Saunders silently, and made his way towards an area with some nice pubs. A classier companion might be found in one of those.

He met Louise in the Monk's Retreat. Tired from work but fascinated by his self-titled role as butler to the wealthy Mr. Saunders, she agreed to come back to Holly House. She'd been a little tipsy when he found her at the bar, and wrapped herself around him in the taxi. They had an hour before her introduction to the boss.

"Nice flat," she said as she stumbled inside, giggling. Louisa opened the door to the bedroom and peeked in. "What a bed!" she shrieked, and tumbled onto the mattress.

"Very comfy." Joel slid one hand under her shirt. He kissed her hard on the lips, then more softly as he followed the curve of her neck.

"Just a minute..." She struggled with the buttons on her blouse, popping them open one by one, her fingers clumsy. As her shirt fell open, he caught sight of the milky white skin beneath. She unhooked the front of her bra, and let her small, pert breasts free.

"Mmm," Joel lowered himself to her, licking and teasing the nipples with his tongue.

Louisa had her hands on the waistband of his jeans.

"I'll help you, shall I?" He unbuckled his belt, and released the top button. "Hold on..." He reached over to the top drawer of his dresser. The day before, he'd bought a box of condoms. If this was to be his line of work, then he'd better make sure he protected his assets. The rubber rolled down easily, and he eased into her seconds later.

By the time eight o'clock came round, he'd finished with Louise. Her tipsiness seemed less pronounced, but the sex had made her jolly and compliant. He led her to the lounge door and knocked.

"Good evening," Mr. Saunders said as he opened the door. He sniffed slightly at the air. For a moment, Joel wondered if his boss could smell the sex. The old man took one of Louise's hands and kissed the back lightly.

"Hello," she said. "Nice to meet you." Her eyes met the old man's, the gaze holding. She didn't even glance back as she was led into the room. The door snapped shut behind her, leaving Joel alone in the hall.

For the first time, he felt a pang of jealousy. The boss had taken her away and she'd not so much glanced over her shoulder at him to say goodbye. He waited outside the entrance to his flat, listening, waiting. Maybe the old guy would be quick, and she'd come back to him.

As he retreated back into flat, he heard a muffled thud from the lounge. He froze, his ears tuned towards the main house. A suppressed scream followed a second thump. Joel crossed the hall in two strides, his hand up, ready to bang on the door. He was not supposed to bother the boss, no matter what. Joel backed away. Then a thought came to him.

Outside, night had fallen hard, the overcast sky stealing any starlight. Joel picked his way around the perimeter of the house, stopping by the windows to the lounge. He stood back, sheltering behind the trunk of an oak tree. The old man was sat in one of the large armchairs, dabbing the sides of his mouth with a handkerchief. On a sofa beside him, Louise lay asleep on the cushions.

Huh. I must have tired her out, Joel thought, and continued to peer in through the window, searching for signs of a struggle. Louise rolled over. Mr. Saunders turned towards her, got up from his seat, and kneeled awkwardly on the rug. He lent down, Joel backing away as a kiss was placed on the side of her neck. In a soft spot that smelled of Sunflowers. The place he'd kissed not an hour before.

Back in his flat, lying on the bed he'd shared with Maz and then Louise, Joel wondered what he'd got himself into. He was going to have to exercise some restraint with the companions he fetched for the boss. He stripped down to his boxers and crawled under the covers. Sleep came fast, a dark dreamless state from which he woke with a start.

An envelope had been shoved under his door. Words, written in the spidery text of the old man, read: Thank you for last night's companion. Louise was indeed a sweet young girl. I have included a small extra bonus. Buy a razor and cut your hair.

Joel stared at the note, turned over the envelope in search of a signature or anything else. But no. Just the thanks and an order. He counted the money, and found an extra twenty pound bill. He pocketed the cash, and left for Tilehurst train station.

He returned a few hours later with a short back and sides, a new Gillette and another bag of clothing, this time from Marks and Spencers. He hadn't been followed as he chose underwear and pajamas. In Waterstones, he picked up a cooking book and resolved to learn to cook.

On his week's anniversary, Mr. Saunders pushed the allowance under the door, a note scribbled on the back. He required company for the night.

#

As Joel passed by the front of Reilly's Pool Hall, Smithy came out the entrance, and bounded down the concrete steps to the pavement.

"Hi-ya," Joel called out.

Smithy nodded, zipped his jacket against the wind, and walked past.

"Oi, Smithy!" Joel reached out, and grabbed at him.

"What the fuck you want?" his friend wrenched from his grasp.

"It's me, you wally. Joel."

"No." Smithy squinted at him. "What the fuck happened to you, mate?" He stepped up to Joel, and gave him a back slapping hug. "Been missing you, had some skunk the other day. Had to smoke it with Jeremy, and he spent the whole time going on about Alex. You know what he's like. But look at you. Did you win the lottery or what?"

"Got myself this butlering gig in Tilehurst. Helping out this old geezer. He's a bit of an eccentric, but he don't ask much of me."

"You? A butler?" Smithy let out a roar of laughter. "You're fucking kidding me!"

"If you can keep the noise down, you can come over one night. I've a stellar pad. Got my own flat and all."

"Always the quiet ones." Smithy took a box of cigarettes from his pocket. "Want one?"

Joel stared at the box for a second. "You seen Maz around?" He took a Camel from the pack, and popped it in the corner of his mouth.

"Funny you ask. She's not been at work all week." Smithy lit his cigarette, and tossed the lighter over.

"She having problems at work?"

"Nah. Not as far as I know. I went down there yesterday, with some green she'd ordered. Found out then. Why, when'd you last see her?"

"Tuesday." He dragged on the Camel, wondering where she'd gone.

"Look, I gotta go, mate. See ya round." Smithy left him by the steps to the pool hall, smoking and thinking. Smithy let out a cackle as he rounded the corner of the street. "A butler," he said loudly, and laughed again as he walked out of sight.

Joel wandered around Reading, trying to figure out where to pick up a girl. He should take some of the cards from a phone booth, and call one of the numbers. Or search in the Thompson's for massage parlors and escort services. The boss had mentioned prostitutes, so he must be expecting to pay. Finding himself going in circles, Joel stopped in front of a pub on the corner next to the Oracle. He opened the door, hoping to get lucky one more time. He checked his watch, he'd better hurry up if he was to make the eight o'clock deadline.

The first woman he ordered a drink for said thanks, picked up her wine, and retreated to the opposite end of the pub. But the second, a slightly older lady, with long loose hair, and a smart suit, accepted, and patted the stool next to her.

"I'm Lyn," she said, and extended a hand.

Joel wasn't sure whether he should kiss the back or shake. An image of his boss came to mind, and he chose to pull her hand to his mouth and touch his lips gently to her flesh.

"A gentleman." She smiled, and sipped at her drink, her eyes fixed on his.

She was easy to get into a taxi, convincing her she must meet his employer a little harder. She wanted to jump Joel, and he had a suspicion Lyn thought he was for hire. At Holly House, he left her mesmerized by Mr. Saunders, dashed back into his flat, out the front door, and to the shadow of the oak.

In the lounge, Mr. Saunders had Lyn by the arm as he escorted her through the chairs towards the fireplace. Yellow light flickered over the pair and his boss took her into his embrace. The old man withdrew. Joel rubbed at his eyes.

Surely not?

He moved a little closer, not believing his eyes. Mr. Sanders had changed. No longer was his face a map of laughter and frown lines. At least, not that Joel noticed. The eyes of his boss glowed cat-yellow. Lyn's head lolled on the old man's shoulder, sleepy and acquiescent. Mr. Saunders opened his mouth, revealing two long, sharp teeth. Then he lent towards the woman's neck, his mouth closed over her flesh.

"Holy shit." Joel stumbled backwards, and tripped on one of the oak tree's roots. He ran back around the house, and into his flat, his heart thumping hard. He locked the door, and threw the security chain. Then he checked all the windows, and before he dared attempt sleep, braced a chair against the door he shared with the main house.

Despite his precautions, Joel rolled about in bed, thinking of the women he'd delivered to his boss, the murderer. Early the next morning came the familiar swish of the envelope being pushed under his door. On the back, a note: I require another lady for tonight. I am still hungry for companionship. Inside, the bonus in twenty pound notes.

Two weeks ago, he'd been living day to day in a shitty little bed-sit. No one would hire him because of his criminal record. He spread the money from the envelope on the table, touching each crisp note in turn.

He boiled the kettle, and fixed a cup of tea. He took his time drinking, staring at the twenties. By the time he'd drunk his tea down to the grainy last sip, he'd made his decision. His new faux suede jacket hung in the hall cupboard. The interior pocket was jammed full of fliers. He tidied away the money and laid out the fliers. He closed his eyes and held out the index finger on his left hand. Slowly, he lowered the finger until it touched something. He opened his eyes, and read the text on the card.

"Well, Dani. Looks like today is your lucky day." He picked up the phone and dialed the number under her name.

# Transformations

#

The weatherman forecast rain and meteor showers for Guy Fawkes Night. But neither of these events interested Suzie. She chose to curl up under a blanket with the latest Jackie Collins romance propped up on her lap. Her cats, Sam and Alex, took up the other half of the sofa. The brothers lay in a heap on a cushion, legs and tails intertwined.

"Aren't you two cute." She scratched them in turn behind the ear. Their purrs resonated in the quiet room. Suzie took a sip from the wineglass at her side, and watched the cats settle back into sleep. With a deep sigh, she returned to the pages of her novel, where Lucy was about to give in and accept John as the love of her life.

Half an hour later, she snapped the book shut and drained the last of the wine. "Right. Bedtime."

Both perked up at the sound of her voice, and jumped off the sofa to follow as she placed her empty glass in the sink, and then through to the bathroom. Sometimes, Sam sat on the bathmat as she brushed her teeth and performed her night time rituals. Gargle and spit, then chuck the day's clothes in the laundry basket. But Sam must have been tired from his daily romps around the neighborhood, and had gone straight to bed. She'd discovered another scratch on him today, not on the hind legs like his brother, Alex. That chicken ran from danger and preferred to leave the fights to his brother. Sam's cuts could usually be found on his face and ears. Once he came home with blood on his paws, but had no obvious injury. Suzie pitied the cat that crossed him.

She adjusted the amount of bed the brothers took up so she had enough room to stretch, and lay down. Before snuggling under the duvet Suzie switched off the alarm. Saturday tomorrow, the day she could sleep as long as she desired.

A yawn turned into a stretch. The cats watched, waited for the inevitable last shove to the other side of the bed. For a moment, she ran her fingers over the indent on the pillow. With a prolonged sigh, she rolled over.

A yellow light flashed past a slight gap between the curtains, and as she plumped up her pillow, a second one streaked by.

"Hey, you two. Shooting stars." Suzie rolled out of bed and peered out the window in time to see three more wiz by. "I can make a wish." The cats waited on the bed, regarding her with their yellow eyes. Suzie whispered something under her breath. "There. Done." She smiled at the brothers, and tugged the curtains closed. "Sleep time."

#

"I'm hungry."

Suzie woke slowly. The sun streamed in the crack between the curtains, bathing her in warm light.

"I'm so hungry."

The dream hung on. The hero from her dream rolled up against her side. After a moments pause, he placed a kiss on her neck.

"Please feed us."

Only when the second voice spoke, did Suzie jump up. A jolt of adrenaline shot through her blood. She grabbed the duvet around her, and tumbled off the bed. Above her, leaning over the edge of the mattress, were the concerned faces of two young men.

"Can you feed us?" The one on the left said. He was olive skinned, his black hair falling long and glossy on either side of his face.

"It's late, and my stomach's rumbling," the other one said. His hair was also black, but worn short and spiky. This second man was paler skinned.

"What the hell!" Suzie backed away, still rolled up in her duvet, until she slammed into the wall. "My jewelry's in the cabinet over there and my bag's in the hall. Take the wallet, and go!"

The young men glanced at each other, the expressions on their faces soft and curious.

"Jewelry? We're hungry. We just want food." The darker skinned man slid off the bed, and approached her on all fours.

Suzie cowered into the corner, unable to take her eyes off the man's odd approach. When close enough, he rubbed her leg with the side of his jaw before flopping on the carpet at her feet, his stomach exposed.

"Good God, you're naked!" she shrieked. Unable to help herself, she took note of his firm torso. And very small penis. His balls were almost none existent.

"Sam, tell her we're hungry," he said, winking and blinking at her.

At the mention of that name, Suzie sucked in a long breath, and turned to the other man.

"Suzie, feed us." He climbed off the bed, in the same fashion of the first intruder, and sat cross-legged beside her. Then, he leaned over, as if to kiss her. She thumped the back of her head on the wall as she tried to get away, but as his lips came closer, he veered up to touch his nose to hers and withdrew, winking both his eyes at the same time.

"Sam?" she asked, uncurling slightly.

"Hello," the lighter skinned man said. And then, she was very sure, a grumble came from the back of his throat that sounded distinctly like a purr.

"Alex?"

The man lying prostrate on the carpet turned his face towards hers. "Hungry," he said, and nuzzled up against Sam.

"Jesus!" Suzie sat up, and glanced from one to the other. "But you're cats." Suzie sank down and held her head between her hands for a few seconds. "I'm asleep. Have to be." She pinched her arm hard. Did that work? Would hurting herself really make her conscious? Or would she be pretend pinching? She peered back up. Both men were still on the carpet beside her, naked and grinning.

"Hungry?" the one called Sam asked.

Suzie reached out to him, touching his cheek with her fingertips. He responded by rubbing against her hand. From deep down inside his throat, he started making the grumbling purr again.

"Okay," Suzie said, not necessarily to Sam and Alex, and stood up. "You seem real," she said, and paced the length of her bedroom. "Regardless of how you changed, or why, I can't have you knocking around the flat in your birthday suits." She opened the wardrobe door, and pulled out some men's clothes. "Here," she said. "John left these. He's about the same size as you two."

The brothers glanced at each other, and back at Suzie.

"Like this." She pulled a t-shirt over Sam's head. "Feed your arms through here." She grabbed one of his hands, and yanked it through the sleeve. "Now the other." She tugged the shirt down over his stomach, and stood back to check. "A little big, but not so bad. Now for some undies. Step in."

Sam stared at her, his eyes vaguely blank.

"Like this." She lifted one foot, and placed it in one leg of the boxers, then lifted it out again. "Now you." She guided him into the underwear.

She got him to dress a pair of sweatpants, and turned her attention to helping Alex into his clothes.

"Hungry?" Alex asked as she pulled up tracksuit bottoms and snapped the waistband home.

"Come on, you two." She rubbed at her temples, and then the worry lines between her eyes.

The brothers bounded ahead. She found them sat on the tiles next to their food bowls as she entered the kitchen. "There's not enough milk for both of you to have cereal." She searched through the cabinets. "I guess you'll have to eat what you're used to, for now."

Suzie popped the lid on a new can of Whiskers, and divided the contents between two plates. "Eat here," she said, and placed the bowls on the breakfast bar. "Sit and eat."

She thought the brothers might have difficulty balancing on the stools, but they had no trouble sitting, and dropped their heads to the counter, mouths wide.

"Urg." Suzie grimaced. "You boys stay here," she waved vaguely about the kitchen. "I've got to get dressed." At that moment, the doorbell sounded. Suzie glanced up at the clock on the wall, wrapped her dressing gown around her and tightened the belt. She'd expected maybe the postman. Instead, she found John waiting on the doorstep.

"What are you doing here," she asked, and closed the door a little, half hiding from him.

"I couldn't sleep. Every morning, I wake up, wishing I'd not walked out on you." John spoke with his head bowed, orating to his hands.

"John, you know we can't go back. There's nothing left to save." She pushed the door a little more closed. "It's early John, can we talk about this another time – I've not even dressed yet."

He put his hand out to stop the front door shutting completely. "I can wait, in the kitchen. I'll make you some of that brewed coffee you used to like to wake up to."

"I don't think so." She pushed against him. "John, move your hand."

"No. Let me in. We need to talk."

"It's not a good time, please. I could meet you later – at the Starbucks next to Sainsbury's?"

The pressure from John's side of the door eased a little.

"When?" he asked, peering in to see her face properly.

"At two."

Suzie sensed a movement behind her. She glanced to the right, catching quick movements. Moments later, she felt a breath on the back of her neck as Sam whispered, "Trouble?" Then he growled softly.

"You got someone in there?" The hurt in John's voice was palpable. "You already got someone new?" John shoved the door out of her grasp, and sent her flying across the hall. "And he's wearing my bloody clothes! What did you do, move him in the night I left?" John circled Sam. He rolled up his shirtsleeves as he moved, flexing his muscles and sneering. "You're really scrapping the barrel. How old is he – nineteen? Twenty?"

"I-I-I don't know," Suzie mumbled from the floor.

"You don't know, you don't know," he repeated, his voice high and whiney. "Well I know something. He'll not get the chance to vote." John lunged.

Suzie was not quite sure what happened next. Sam's movements were so quick, her eyes couldn't keep up. The vase disappeared from the hall table; the contents appeared in long streaks across the wall, the rim smashed off in one smooth movement. John fell to the ground, shards of porcelain embedded in his chest, his screams filling the flat. Sam held the remains of the vase in one hand and jabbed with it, as John crawled away, and towards the door. Alex appeared. He stood watching from the doorway to the kitchen, licking his lips in wide sweeps, and growling.

"You've got two?" John shrieked. "Keep them off me!" He maneuvered himself onto the path outside, climbing to his feet as he crossed the threshold, and for a moment, there was silence in the flat. Then Sam strode once, twice, and broke into a run, chasing after John.

"Holy shit!" Suzie looked for Alex. But he'd lost interest, and returned to the kitchen.

Suzie ran to her bedroom, and threw on some clothes. Seconds later, she wavered at the front door, listening for a struggle, shouts, yells, anything to hint where they might have gone. But the street remained quiet. Mr. Collins strolled by, a newspaper under one arm, his little Labrador puppy straining at the leash.

"Good morning," he said, and tipped his hat at her before turning into the path next door.

"Morning," she replied, and retreated inside. Maybe if Mr. Collins had not seen or heard a fight, everything might be okay. John could not be badly injured, or he'd have bled all over her carpet – and certainly wouldn't have run off down the street.

She turned to the mess in the hallway, and collected up the remains of the shattered vase. Water dripped down the wallpaper and onto the carpet. After she'd rubbed that dry with a tea towel, she gathered the flowers for sorting, and returned to the kitchen. Alex had left both plates licked clean. No doubt gone to his favorite spot on the sofa, where the sun flooded in throughout the morning.

Something scratched at the cat flap.

"Sam." Suzie ran over, her hands trembling as she fiddled with the lock, and opened the door wide for him. The smile fell from her face, her pallor swapping for a sickly green.

Sam strode in and dropped a head on the tiles. He sat down next to his offering and looked up at her. "You like?" he asked, and smiled.

# Where Angels Sing

#

The afternoon sun hangs low in the late winter sky. Birds sing for warmer days and swoop along a powder blue horizon in dark streaks. Trees tremble in the breeze, showing off their engorged purple buds, a testament to the lengthening days. And my car comes to a rest upside down, wheels spinning as they try to regain traction.

In my head, I can still hear the screeching of the tires; feel my stomach falling through my legs as the car skid in the water. Raindrops from the compact grey cloud above are drumming a beat on my Toyota's chassis in time to the red rain inside. Like a vice, the seatbelt squeezes me, distorting my torso into lopsided halves and all the while the pain grows. I open my eyes, my head aching from the rush of blood, and blink slowly I examine the inside of the car. All around me, chaos is gathered in piles. Used tissues mingle with pens, and various maps rub shoulders with half empty coke cans.

Struggling with the seatbelt, I press my fingers desperately on the red plastic release button while the other hand grasps at the slippery edges of what feels like cheese wire. But I'm pressing too tightly against the strap, gravity tries to tug me back down to earth, and panic makes my legs push. All the while I gasp for breath. I notice small noises, then realize I'm whimpering for help. My murmurs bring me back to my senses, for long enough to know what I need to do, to free my body. Before I can forget, I relax, and pull my legs under the seat. It's difficult, but I manage to lift myself towards the floor and release is a brief pleasure to be savored before I crash onto the roof.

Among the debris I'm lying in, I find my mobile and pray that this section of country road has a signal. With shaking hands I clutch the handset and press the green button on the selection 'home'.

Somewhere, just a few roads away, two miles from my twisted metal prison, a phone rings. Its cold mechanical tone doesn't care about the pain that's growing. The hissing silence between tones hears me begging for an answer. Crunched into a contorted pile of limbs, I hold my breath, one more ring left before the answer phone steals my thoughts.

"Hello?" Such a sweet word tickling my ear and kissing my mind, I struggle with my emotions. Forgetting to answer I burble incoherent turbulence back along the airwaves. "Hello, who's there?" Your voice gains a hard edge. I think you're about to slam the phone down.

"It's me," I cry, finally stringing syllables together. I listen to you pause, perhaps to take in the stridency of my voice. "My car, it slid... crashed. I'm hurt. There's blood everywhere..." A sticky wetness warms my back and a metallic taste coats my tongue as I speak.

"Where are you?" his shout echoes in my head, urgent words coated with fear. "Where are you?"

"At the top of the hill, on the tricky bend. I was driving too fast and spun the car. The sun was in my eyes and I didn't see the flood..." I sob as a fresh wave of pain crashes over me. "I wrecked the car, I'm so sorry."

"I don't give a toss about your car, just hang on..." I can hear you on your mobile, speaking with the emergency services.

A break in the clouds releases the sun at such an angle that light barrels in through the windscreen and blinds me. It flickers though the rain that still pelts the car. I close my eyes, but the darkness is too comforting, calling to me, insisting I stay its inky embrace. With enormous effort, I force consciousness.

"Tell the kids I love them, and how I'm sorry for all the times I yelled," I say, hoping you have the landline up to your ear. You pause in your information giving.

"Why are you saying that?" He sounds hurt, like I should know better. The problem is I do, but his words add to the cuts and bruises.

"I've always loved you, always, nothing else matters..." I say, trailing off as I catch sight of my left leg, it's broken, shards of white bone pierce my black tights. Strangely, I'm annoyed at the ladders streaking up and down what remains of my leg.

"Shut up!" he yells. I'm sure I can hear tears mixed in with his words, and I'm touched. Even the births of our children failed to steam my hard man's eyes. "They're on their way. The ambulance is coming, just hold on!" He's shouting again, ordering my body to obey. But it's going through a rebellion, the pain is lessening, the compromise - a silver fuzz that's stealing my vision.

"I love you," I whisper as the world loses its signal.

It seems as if I only blinked, but things have changed. I'm now high above the car and it takes me a moment to understand what I'm seeing as I haven't seen many cars up the wrong way. Like a balloon I float in a cloud of ambivalence over the flashing lights as they assemble. Bees are gathering to the honey pot, a swarm of bodies pulling mine free from the wreckage of my car. They hunch their shoulders at the persistent rain and two figures in green overalls pound at my chest and pump unnecessary air into my lungs.

I smile and look away. The sun on the horizon has been replaced by a sparkling city of crystal, a blinding white vista that beckons to me, insistent, and obediently, I bob through the air towards the vision. The confusion of human life is fading, leaving me only with satisfaction. Worries are now gone, guilt is forgotten. I wonder why I'd bothered to drive so fast.

My chest expands and pain surges under my skin. I stare at my front and frown, not understanding. Raising my head, I seek out the crystal city and its variegated silver beauty, but it's gone, replaced by dirt and blood and confusion, noise and shouting that insists I stay.

With a gasp, I return fully to my injured body, and watch the unwelcome and harsh reality of life as it rushes about me. It's too much, the translucent beauty of the vision I had cries for me, and as the paramedics force my breath back into me so I tear at the methods. Saline solutions go flying and I choke and gag pulling out the tube they forced down my throat. The compress on my leg takes more work. Two men are trying to stop me now, but I rip at the bandages with the last of my strength and blood pours freely. Behind me, a machine screams in a solid tone and the paramedic starts pumping at my chest again.

I wonder if later, they'll say I died with a smile.

But as my body fails, shadows congregate around me. Terrifying inky shapes creep out of the bushes. They're waiting for their chance, malicious intent oozing out in panic inducing waves. Desperately, I try to levitate into the sky, and back to the crystal city.

Now the creatures are slithering under the vehicles that encircle me, like inky spills on the tarmac. I don't want to be sure of their purpose. I want them to dissipate in the air, turn into a choking smog, and drift away. Instead, like individual mercury balls, they join until they're almost blocking out my light. The demented surround me and whisper in my ear. They babble incoherent suggestions of how wretched my existence is about to become.

Through the small tunnel they've left, I see in a distorted fisheye vision. One of the paramedics looks at his watch as the other reluctantly stops working.

The black creatures allow me this last precious glimpse of life before coalescing around and under me. They melt the tarmac I'm lying on, their heat painful to my back. Slowly, I dip within the earth.

I'm in a coffin of black shapes.

The world dims in painful slow motion, until all light has been exhaustively cancelled. No more gasping, no more chances, no more crystal worlds awaiting my presence. I am stolen, mute yet screaming.

# In the closet

#

"Mandy, please let me out," Kenny asked, and thumped his feet on the wall again.

"Shut up, would you," she said, and banged on the door.

He heard her pacing back and forth, with that tut-tutting noise she always made when she was thinking.

"I'll be good, I'll do anything you ask, just let me out."

There was no reply for a while, just the soft sounds of her feet on the carpet and that infernal tutting sound.

"I can't let you out," she finally said.

"I've changed my mind, Mandy, I'm not going to leave you." Kenny rolled over in the cupboard, and shuffled to the side. There was a slight gap where the door met the wall letting in a thin beam of light in. Kenny put his eye up against this and tried to see out.

"I'm not going to go. I'll tell Kath it's over and how I still love you."

Mandy sniffed as she paced past the Kenny's sliver of view. She had her hands in her hair, pressed against her scalp, as if her head really hurt.

"I don't believe you." She'd stopped on the other side of the room. Tut-tut-tut.

"What're you going to do, keep me in here forever?"

Mandy resumed pacing. He saw her for an instant, her face turned towards his. She wore a frown, and tears in her eyes.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do anymore."

"Simple. Unlock the door, untie my hands and feet, and we'll have a cuddle and forget about the whole thing."

"We can't do that!" She sounded so shocked, as if this hadn't occurred to her before.

"No," Kenny said. "I don't see it that way – more of a misunderstanding. Let me out, and we'll sort it all out together.

"No," she said in a wailing voice, as she flashed past his view of the room.

"Mandy!" Kenny shouted. "Let me out of here!" He rolled back onto his back, and raised his legs, and kicked at the wall as hard as he could. The soles of his shoes made a satisfying thump, so he pulled back and slammed his feet down again.

"What're you doing?"

He heard her run to the door, could almost sense her leaning up against the wood. The door handle moved a little, her hand must be on the other side. Kenny kicked at the wall again.

"Stop that!" She pounded on the door. "Stop that right now!"

"Not until you let me out."

Mandy walked away from the door, and from the periodic flickering of the light, he reckoned she must have started pacing again.

"Think... think... think...," she muttered. Tut-tut-tut.

He barely heard her above his beating on the wall. The doorbell rang out, its sound sharp against his banging. He stopped for a moment, his eyes widening in the dark. Then he thumped his feet on the wall again.

"Hello, Mr. Thompson," she said. "Would you like to come in?"

"Hi, Katrina," the voice of a man said. "I think I'll pass... you know, with him in the cupboard."

Kenny stopped, and listened.

"You okay?" Mr. Thompson asked.

"I'll be fine. He's back, and driving me crazy."

"I was asking around and found out some things."

"Yeah, like what?"

There was a moment of silence. "He's listening, isn't he?" Mr. Thompson said.

"Freaky, isn't it?"

"There was a tenant a few years ago, and she locked her boyfriend in the cupboard." There was a pause then he said, "Left him there until he died."

"Oh, God."

"I know someone who can help... maybe."

"Like an exorcist?"

"A medium. I'll give her your number if that's okay, and maybe we can get rid of your unwanted housemate."

Mr. Thompson said good-bye, and Kenny heard a rap on the cupboard door.

"Time to go, Kenny," she said.

"Let me out, Mandy!" he howled, and started pounding on the walls again.

# Mary Beth and Joe

#

Joe was running late. He hated delays, and was bound to be fuming when he walked in the door. Mary Beth tried to remember the last time he'd smiled as she rubbed her stomach. A foot, or maybe an elbow protruded. Her baby. Conceived during the month Joe wasn't home.

Mary Beth perched on the edge of the sofa, patting her tummy. The telephone caught her eye. Maybe she should call him, find out if he was okay. A small sly thought emerged from a dark corner of her mind and suggested he wasn't.

Someone rapped on the windowpane. Mary Beth gasped and fell off the sofa, landing hard on her tailbone. A second knock sounded, and Mary Beth ran to open the front door.

"Joe?"

Her husband waited, leaning heavily against the wall of the porch. Blood from a wound gushed out a slash in his shirt. Without saying a word to her, he lurched up to the house and staggered inside. He collapsed into a chair and compressed his stomach with both hands.

"What happened?" she cried.

"That bastard Ritchie."

"You weren't gambling again?" she asked.

Joe nodded. "He stabbed me." He pushed hard, blood oozing between his big fingers.

"I'll call for an ambulance, I'll get help!" Mary Beth turned circles, looking for the phone.

"No!" he shouted. Then, more softly, "There's no need."

"Why not? For God's sake, Joe, you're going to bleed to death." She ran out the room. "We need to call an ambulance, the police!" she shouted from the kitchen. Seconds later, she dashed back in, an armful of tea towels held to her chest. "I have to press these against..." Her breath hitched. "I'm going to ring for a doctor." She dumped the towels on Joe's belly and put his hands on top, then snatched the phone from its cradle.

"Don't bother."

"No!" she cried, the phone falling from her fingers. She dropped down on the floor next to Joe. "I'll do it." She fiddled with the tea towels, trying to make a bandage.

"I'm already dead."

"Don't be silly!" She pressed down. "You're right here, talking to me."

"I'm already dead."

"Stop saying that!" she screamed, tears brimmed. He was a hard man, but he was her man, and she was having a baby - he couldn't die. She balled the tea towels and held them down. To her surprise, they sank through his body, as if Joe consisted of quicksand. Mary Beth took a step back, tripped, and fell onto the sofa.

"I told you." The blood from his wound slowed to a trickle, his face bleaching to a creamy white. "Too late for me. But you can help."

Mary Beth nodded dumbly.

"Follow me, to the alley. You have to find the weapon, so the police can catch Ritchie."

"Catch Ritchie?" she echoed.

Joe stood up, straightening to full height, a faint smile on his lips. "No more pain." He stretched, palms pressed against the ceiling. "Nice."

Mary Beth stared at her husband, and then to the chair. Clean tea towels lay in a scrunched up pile. Dazed, she followed him from the house.

Joe ran in a slow motion bob, his feet not quite touching the ground. He turned into the alley at the end of a terrace of houses. In the shadows, under a weedy tree, she spotted a dark shape.

"Is that...?"

"Yeah." Joe scanned the scrub.

He floated away, towards the streetlight, Mary Beth walked into the shadows.

"Oh, Joe." She knelt beside his body and took his bloody hand between her own, knocking the mobile from his fingers. "What have you done?" She placed the palm against her cheek and sobbed.

"Mary Beth," he called from the other end of the alley. "It's here."

She put his hand down and struggled onto her feet. Then she walked with slow steps, carefully, as if in a thick fog.

"Pick it up."

Under the large leaf of a weed, a blade reflected the light from the alley's streetlamp. Far away, Mary Beth heard the shrill cry of a police car.

"I don't want to pick it up." She turned away from the weapon, her large brown eyes returning to the body of her husband.

"You must, you must pick it up."

He tried to put his arms around her, but they fell through, with an unpleasant sensation - wet and cold. She shivered, and picked up the knife. The handle had a coating of something wet. Joe's blood.

"Now go back to the tree."

Mary Beth trailed the ghost, a murder weapon held between thumb and forefinger, swinging back and forth as she walked. Sirens shrieked.

She placed the knife on the ground by his feet. With a restrained sob, she looked up at Joe, searching for guidance in his pale eyes.

"It's time to go. Lie with me, Mary Beth." He gave a gentle smile. "One last time."

She knelt down, shifted one of his arms, and rested her head on it. She curled up, her body pressed against his. The sirens reached a crescendo. Cars squealed into the end of the alley. Policemen ran at her and pulled her off Joe. She pawed at the body, wailing, struggling.

Four men had to carry her away. They placed her in an ambulance with a policeman.

Mary Beth screamed at him, "Go find Ritchie, he killed Joe!"

Sergeant Garroway shook his head. "Ritchie? Who's he?"

"He's a bookie, my husband had a tab with him. He murdered Joe!"

"You have a last name for Ritchie?"

"No..."

"Or an address?"

"No." She looked down the alley as the paramedic took her blood pressure.

"Did you put the knife at your husband's feet?"

She nodded.

"Where did you find the weapon?"

The back doors of the ambulance hung open, and Mary Beth pointed to the place.

"Under some weeds."

Garroway followed her finger. "That's a long way off," he said, peering into the dark. "How did you find the weapon?"

Mary Beth froze. "The blade glittered in the light," she whispered.

"So you ran past your dead, or dying husband, to the end of the alley. Then what? You picked the knife up and took it back to his body?" He raised his eyebrows, and then scribbled in his notebook.

"I didn't kill him." Her voice sounded thick, unfamiliar. "Why would I stab him?"

"There have been fourteen call-outs to your premises in the past..." He flipped back pages in his notebook. "...four years. Your husband was not very nice to you."

"He gets tired." She turned her hands palm up. Joe's blood coated her skin.

Mary Beth stared out of the ambulance as the paramedic put a monitor around her swollen stomach. Joe hovered under the tree, while two men circled the body, taking photos. They walked through her husband three times as she watched.

Slowly, Joe faded to shadow. She couldn't find the scar that ran down the length of his face. His clothes showed no definition. The tattoos across his knuckles had watered down into a blue-green smudge. But she didn't mistake the cruel smile.

He caught her with his eyes, and placed one hand against his stomach. With the other, he slowly uncurled his fist until one finger pointed at her. Mary Beth looked down, to her belly, mouth dropping open, eyes wide and wet. From across the alley, Joe broke into a full-bodied laugh that echoed in her head long after he disappeared.

# Naïve, Once Seventeen

#

I still cry when an ambulance screams past. Maybe the glare of the lights, the penetrating siren, attacks my emotions. As the alarm fades, my face heats up and tears fill my eyes until the world is underwater. My feet drift off the path, and I swim down the road. A wrought iron fence with sharp spikes encloses the park. I find an entrance and climb out of the water.

I miss him, even now.

#

"Where's your PE bag?" Mum shouts across the park.

I realize she's not there, not following me from the train station. She's been gone five years, decomposing beneath a cheap gravestone. Still, I search the hill, between the sunbathers, the lovers entwined. Bright snatches of fabric adorning writhing bodies, all laid out under the midday sun. Their clothing is disappearing, reducing until they're all naked. They merge, an unrepentant orgy.

I turn, sneering my distaste at their open carnal lusting. At the bottom of the hill, where the woods begin, I catch sight of something, ethereal, white, gliding through the trees. I follow it, floating alongside on the path.

A dog bounds out, all yapping, tail wagging merriment, his coat dripping. He makes my trousers damp as he licks my fingers. I'm still focused on my mother's phantom.

A voice calls from behind the wide trunk of a gnarly oak tree. "Billy, come here. You bad boy!"

A man with a creamy shirt, XXX printed in drops of blood across the front, emerges. My ghost. He flicks oily black hair off his forehead, bares his teeth, and growls at me until Billy runs from my side.

#

I remember where to go, to tiptoe alongside the saplings to the hidden place. The younger growth is new, but I've seen it all before. I travel to this park most nights. I float down from the stars on the cloud of my nightdress. He pulls me between the trees, over the bracken and bramble the council left to grow. I grasp at plants, to stop the pull. Shouting and screaming makes no difference. He takes me, silent and unyielding.

#

"Where's your PE bag!" she shouts, behind my left ear.

"I've got the kit, only the bag's missing!" I cry back. Without pause, I spin around, half ducking.

She's there. Blue grey hair, and a soft squidgy chest, huge in proportion to her cake-indulged frame. Some children cuddle up to mothers like that. I cower.

"How the bloody hell did you lose only the bag?" Her arm rises up and back. She does it slowly, savoring the terror on my face. The joints ping and pop as she extends her hand, clamps the fingers together. "Stupid girl!"

I've been watching for movement, to duck and run. She's too fast and my cheek burns as her palm catches my face.

"I'm sorry, Mummy." I start to blubber. In the middle of the park, by the copse of trees the locals call The Woods. She hates crying. Using the back of my sleeve, I wipe at my eyes, my nose. When I look up, she's gone. I'm staring into the red embers of the setting sun.

A jogger has stopped, seeing me cry. Listened to me talk to Mummy.

"You okay?" He starts towards me. I turn and run under the canopy, to the cool green-tinted shade

Before secreting further, I watch the man. Wires hang from his ears, feeding him messages. His shirt sticks to him, a patch of sweat down the middle. He's running now, pulling something small out of a pocket. The trees sigh, and the moment freezes. Jogger-man suspends in the air. Pollen, falling from white blossoms, sparkles like gold. Two birds, previously dipping and diving, show their best colors, captured as they play. The lovers on the hill are clothed again, books in their hands, the flapping pages still. A Scottie dog is jumping for a ball, almost catching it. His eyes roll around and find me. He wants his toy so much. I run into the woods, and time restarts.

#

The space between the plants increases with each step I take, until I'm creeping through a Redwood forest, a mere ant tripping over roots the size of trucks. The journey takes longer this way, feels like hours of hiking before I reach the brook that snakes past my favorite silver birch. I grow enough to wade through the water. The current pulls at me, I struggle, but I need to get to him, to the hidden place.

Bark from the tree weeps in strips, the ground ankle deep in its sorrow. I nestle down, and throw my arms around the trunk. Slivers float through the air. I want to hide here. Shrink back to my ant size, and wait until the peelings to cover me for good. I'll join him then. Twenty years too late.

#

Before I start digging, I peer between the trees surrounding me. I'm looking for my mother. She doesn't understand. She'd kill me if she did.

The woods chirp and chatter. Twigs fall, and leaves, as wood pigeons court up high in a chestnut tree. Somebody loved me once. Then they left. I pull the trowel from my bag and stab the ground.

I dig for days. Not sure how I survived the starvation. The hole is bigger than my house, and I've still not found him. When I finally see the corner of the bag poking out, the sky has darkened so that Venus is staring through the leaves at me. She's tut-tutting, arms on hips. And black, she's dark as coal, and the prettiest woman ever to be born. Her hair cascades in thick dreadlocks, past her feet, they wave in the sky, float there, like Medusa's snakes. But hers won't turn me to stone. She's interested in Doing The Right Thing. That's why I'm brushing the last crumbs of soil from the bag. That's why I'm not frozen in my grief, forever with one hand in a crater the size of Scotland.

Venus is setting. Her lips are blood red, and releasing their pout. She's spotted the material under my fingers. I know she approves, and wave her a silent goodbye.

I reach down over the edge, and tug at the bag. It's so small. The PE bag still has my nametag stitched at the top by the pull cord. I release the string, open it up and gently remove a tiny bundle wrapped in two tea towels.

The jogger is standing some ways off, talking into his mobile phone. And a siren, getting louder. I'm brave for my boy, and hold back the tears.

# The Girl That Could Fly

#

Clarity can be difficult to work with, and as Silvia stared out of her economy seat window, she found it hard not to scream. Obscuring the light was the face of a demon, its features long and drawn - bones growing in sharp ridges along its face and tugging painfully at the skin. Eyes of winter blue stared piercingly back at her, blonde hair pulled long and straight by the wind, it appeared to cling onto the side of the plane. Silvia looked to the middle-aged businessman with his gut hanging out and his hair cut short in admission of loss. He stared intensely into his laptop screen as he played cards. Silvia searched around to see if anyone else had seen, then fearfully returned her gaze to the window.

Her heart pounded and she shrank back in her seat as the creature smiled revealing almost human teeth, before it swooped away. Silvia stared unblinking as the creature landed on the wing. She could see now the bony wings with an almost transparent lace-like tissue covering them. The creature ducked and dived clearly enjoying the velocity of the wind, when suddenly it pulled its wings in tight and dove towards the ground.

Silvia stared after the demon for a second as the creature faded like a lost helium balloon, until she couldn't be sure what was and what wasn't. The fat man beside her never looked up from his screen, and with a shiver Silvia stared out into the sun.

#

Two weeks previously.

#

The weather had finally turned warm, and Lucy looked out of her bedroom window with a frown. The sky was cloudless, a perfect April day, warm and beckoning. She brushed her blonde hair, enjoying its silky feel before pulling the strands into a thick ponytail. She applied her makeup carefully, trying to conceal the altering shape of her face. Finally satisfied that she had covered as much as possible, she turned at an angle to the mirror and watched as she unfurled the growing wings from her back.

The bone structure was dark, in stark contrast to her Scandinavian coloring. Translucent skin was intertwining around the bones, binding them together, sealing the new bones in and nourishing them with red tendrils. Lucy stretched the wings out, clearly amazed at her twelve-foot wingspan.

"Lucy, you ready for school yet?" her mum called up the stairs.

Lucy's cheeks pinked, like she'd been caught doing something naughty and collapsed her wings. She put on her school shirt, pulling the fabric tight fasten the button then shrugged on her winter coat. She took one last look in the mirror, twisting her face from side to side as she examined the new contours. With a sigh, she pulled out the hair band, allowing her hair to fall around her face.

With shadows on her skin, and her jacket already making her hot in the spring air, she left for school.

#

Two weeks previously.

#

"Goddamn-it!" Lucy swore as she twisted her arms behind her in an effort to scratch her back. Her skin had been unbearably itchy, like bugs had been let loose in her veins and were uncomfortable in their new home.

She felt scabs seconds too late as her fingernails grasped at the edges and pulled them off. Ignoring the slippery sensation Lucy continued to grate at her back, unable to resist a particularly irritating patch of skin. She tried throwing her arm over the top, just another few seconds of scratching before she jumped in the shower.

That was when she heard the popping sound. Like when you pull your finger out of your mouth quickly or yank a tooth from its socket. Lucy felt suddenly satisfied, before she felt a strange new sensation from behind. She stared at her face in the mirror above the sink and began turning slowly. The first thing she saw was blood weeping down her slim back, then she noticed the stumps of bone that had emerged from either side of her back. Her shock at seeing the blood turned to curiosity as she discovered that she could move them.

Crimson trails dribbled down the backs of her legs and soaked into the bathmat while Lucy stared wide-eyed into the mirror. She wiggled the nubs with growing confidence, her expression sitting somewhere between horrified and amazed. She scratched absentmindedly at her face as she wiggled her new appendages.

#

Two weeks previously.

#

Lucy's bedroom had that thick scent of sleep. The curtains ruffled in a slight breeze and Lucy tucked her feet back under the covers. She made quiet smacking sounds and flopped her head to the other side before settling once more.

The curtains moved, too erratically for the draught, followed by a thudding sound as something landed on the carpet. A beetle like creature emerged from under the drape of the curtain and scuttled under the bed. It climbed up the corner of the bed frame, arriving by Lucy's pillow, her hot breath making its feelers tremble. It rested for a moment before clambering up onto the pillow and then up on her exposed neck.

Lucy twitched at the creature's sharp little feet pricked her skin, but it was already at the raised contours of her backbone. It stopped, chittering its pincers, giving them a warm up before biting around the bone. Lucy stiffened in the moments before an anesthetic spray from it's mouth hit her skin, numbing the area almost instantly. The creature held on for a long while, occasionally grasping harder as she tossed around the bed. Eventually Lucy rolled onto her back and the creature suffocated between her skin and the mattress.

In the morning, she noticed a red swelling on the back of her neck, put it down to puberty and decided to wear her hair down for a few days while she waited for the boil to go down.

# Camilla

#

Tom Metabus sat hunched over, preparing to head down the dark tunnel once more. As he tried to find a vein in which to pierce with his needle, he ignored the screaming from the other room. Janice would see to Camilla, she knew it was his turn to jack up. Tom finally gave up on his arms and began searching his legs. Somewhere, there would be a place to stick the needle in.

"Jesus Christ, Janice, can't a bloke get high in peace?" Tom threw the needle down in disgust. He just couldn't concentrate enough to steady his hands. He climbed off the sofa, ignoring the stains and smells, and stalked over to the bedroom.

It stank in there, it stank of rotten nappies and urine and vomit. The curtains were really just scraps of dirty grey netting doubled and slung over a curtain rail that had been there when the council gave them their flat. There was a bed with no sheets, just a mangy duvet with no cover and a few thin pillows. The cot in the corner was the nicest thing about the room, painted white, and not yet stained in the grime that covered everything else. Inside the cot a tiny baby tossed her arms and legs around, making a plaintive cry for milk.

"Janice, get up, the baby wants you."

Janice lay partly under the duvet. Tom prodded her before going to pick up Camilla. The shaking in his hands rippled up his arms and down his body, his mind returning to the honey colored liquid waiting for him in the syringe.

"Janice, get the fuck out of bed, Camilla needs her mum." He kicked her legs, waiting for movement, swearing, anything. "What the fuck, girl," he said after he'd pulled the covers off her body.

#

Tom cried for a long time, sometimes with tears, sometimes with drugs. Camilla began to grow up, knowing that she wasn't always going to be fed when she wanted to be, receding inwards to become quiet and withdrawn. One day, Tom sat crying on the bed clutching the elastic in his hands as he searched for a place to inject. Camilla stood in her cot that was no longer white, leaning on the bars and watching her daddy as he cried and slapped at his skin.

"Daddy make better," she said in her sweet infantile voice.

Tom looked up, his eyes grey and his face pallid. He stared at her for a long time, sorting out a great debate in his head. Eventually, he found a vein and injected the poison.

"Time to go Camilla," Tom told her, picked her up out of the cot and left the flat.

He paid a visit to the Social Services, found a social worker that appeared to understand and signed the paperwork she put together there and then. Then the hard part came, when he had to hand little Camilla with her carrot curls over to the woman at the desk. Camilla's lower lip quivered as Tom backed away, but he knew it had to done.

#

Six months later, Tom left the city, his friends, his acquaintances and his dealers and hopped on a train. Three hours, two changes and a bus journey later, Tom arrived in a small town he'd never been to, and rang the bell of a house he'd never seen before.

"Tom... hi. I'm Lucy!" she said in the over happy voice of someone who actually enjoyed life.

"Hi," Tom said, trying to at least smile. He was tired. It had been a long hard few months.

"I suppose you want to see Camilla," she said, opening the door wide. "Camilla," she called, "Look who's here to see you!"

Down the hall a little girl tottered, a little girl in ginger pigtails, a pretty dress and a wide smile. Her face was clean and covered in pale freckles. Tom couldn't remember any freckles. He scooped her into his arms, tears in his eyes. He swore never to let her go again.

#

Tom got a job nearby on a local estate. He learned the art of forestry, and Camilla grew up to respect nature. She would be outside, no matter how hard the rain fell, how furious the blizzard or how bright the sun shone. So it was no surprise when she excelled in sport, loving to run, swim and ride her bike down winding trails.

After Camilla left home, Tom would sit in the pub with a beer in one hand and the other pointed at the television whenever her face appeared. And he swore that Camilla could run so fast that blades of grass merely tickled the souls of her feet, and that she could cross a river without a single drop of water touching her skin.

# Motherly Love

#

Sally took a clean bottle from behind the sink, stifling a yawn as she reached for the formula milk. The baby alarm came to life as the infant upstairs found his second wind and started howling again. For a moment she thought about the codeine pills she'd tucked away in the back of the cabinet. She could grind a few of them up and mix the powder into the formula milk.

She shook her head, and put both hands on the counter, fighting exhaustion, avoiding him as he screamed in his room. He'd taste the drug and throw the bottle back at her. She'd disguise the bitterness with chocolate milk. In the morning. Put it in his sippy cup so he wouldn't be suspicious. She just needed a little rest. Not be worrying all the time about what Walter might do next. A few minutes, half an hour... Sally started, her eyes had been closed, only for an instant, but something had changed. She made up the bottle quickly, screwed on the lid and covered the teat with a finger as she shook the contents.

Yes, something was wrong. Sally knew it, felt it in her tired bones, and as she left the kitchen, she realized what it was.

Walter was quiet.

Sally froze, bottle in one hand as she dug in her dressing gown pocket for the baby alarm. Maybe the volume knob had twisted down as she'd moved about. She flicked the dial up to maximum and tentatively raised the speaker to her ear. There was no noise, not even the quiet sound of the baby as he breathed.

Silence.

"Shit," she muttered, and without taking her eyes from the stairs, she reached out and flicked on the light. A dim glow replaced the shadows as the bulb warmed up. Sally started moving once again, lightening her steps so she moved silently on the hall carpet. At the bottom of the stairs she gazed up into a darkness that seemed visceral. Something up there moved – she knew what it was. Walter. She'd taken too long, and now she'd get punished. His scent wafted down to her, filling her nostrils with an almost pleasant earthy odor, if she ignored the underlying stench of decay.

The shape on the landing moved off to the right, and for a second, Sally relaxed a little – maybe he'd returned to his room. Everything would be okay. He'd seen the bottle, was climbing back inside his cot at this moment, willing to play the helpless six-month-old for a little while longer.

The baby alarm, forgotten in one hand - volume still up to the max, suddenly crackled into life again and the child's giggle blasted from the speaker.

Sally shrieked and dropped the unit. "Why are you doing this to me?" she yelled up the stairs. "What did I ever do to you?"

After a moments silence Walter answered. "Ba-ba."

"I'll bring it... just promise not to hurt me."

Sally stared at the front door. She could let herself out and walk until the house was far behind. Bill had the right idea, but she didn't have the courage to choose his method, and she didn't have the courage to leave.

"BA-BA!" screamed out of the speaker.

"I'm coming." Sally turned away from the door and flicked the switch for the landing, but nothing happened. The bulb had burnt out. Or the baby had set her up. She suppressed a sudden laugh. Maybe she'd gone insane – Bill wasn't in the cemetery. He was stuffed in the chest freezer in the garage and Walter was an abused and neglected child. But the scars. She fingered the marks on her arms, so fresh and pink they still hurt to touch. With a quick shake of her head, Sally stepped onto the bottom stair, her eyes wide as the shadows deepened. Then quickly, she climbed, leaving the comfort of the light below.

"Walter," she said. "I've got your ba-ba." She reached the last step, and peered down the hall. The baby's door was closed. Bill had told her what to do before he locked himself in the bathroom and sliced open his wrists – given her instructions she'd kept with her since. But he'd chickened out on their plans. How could he leave her alone with Walter? The folded piece of paper in her pocket was soft from rubbing. She didn't need to read the words, they were so familiar, she just had to close her eyes and they appeared. Take a pillow. Press it down on Walter's head. Hard. But she daren't glance at the paper now. The baby might not be in his room, he might be elsewhere... waiting for her.

As if in answer, an impatient cry came out of the alarm. The sound arrived in stereo from the unit at the bottom of the stairs and the baby's room.

Sally took a deep breath and tiptoed down the hall until she was beside Walter's door. She grabbed the handle, pushed it slowly open, but only dared enter a single pace. The air was thick, filling her lungs almost to choking point, the stench of earth and decay stronger here. Bill would have run in, shouting. She couldn't do that. The light switch flicked up ineffectually under her finger. Another bulb burnt out. Sally waited while her vision adjusted to the dark.

The cot stood across the room. Her son lay on the mattress, his head rolled to one side, his eyes meeting hers. Blue eyes, soft with silent tears, and for a moment she forgot the past, the words a baby should not be able to utter (I want you, Mummy, come here NOW), the disturbed nights as she and Bill took turns sleeping, always one of them on watch. Now Bill had gone, taken by the child before her, and Sally no longer dared to sleep. She just dozed and listened. From the cot, Walter stared at her, his expression confused and lost. Sally grasped the milk bottle tighter and stepped into the room.

Too late she realized what was happening. As she released the handle, the door pulled away then whipped back at her. The impact knocked her to the ground, the bottle skittering across the floor and under the cot. It spun a few times, formula painting a creamy halo on the floorboards. A rat-like creature sprung out from the shadows behind the door and raced towards the baby. It glanced back at her, fixing her with glowing yellow eyes. Sally covered her mouth and nose at the foul stench, surprised into immobility as the creature launched off the ground and onto the headboard of the cot where it balanced precariously, sharp claws digging into wood.

"No!" Sally screamed as the creature tightened its scrawny haunches, steadying with its long tail.

"Get away from my baby!" Sally threw herself towards the cot. Time slowed, saving this instant for when Sally was crying into her pillow later that night, for next week when driving to the pharmacy in search of more TCP and bandages to cover the scratches, for next month when Walter whispered in her ear after finishing his bottle, "While you're sleeping tonight, I will cut you."

The creature dove headfirst off the edge of the headboard and into the cot.

"No!" Sally was almost there, her hands stretched out to grab her son.

She slammed up against the bars as the creature reached Walter. Timed perfectly with his cry, it slid into the baby's mouth. The leathery tail trailed out from between the baby's lips, then vanished inside with the rest of the creature. Sally made to grab Walter when his head snapped to one side. The soft blue coloring of his eyes had gone – replaced by steely grey. Sally snatched her hand back, and fell hard on the floor.

Walter sat up, slowly at first, his movements becoming more fluid by the second, and stood. He grasped the railing, and through the bars, fixed her with his gaze and said in his cute baby voice, "Ba-ba."

# After the Storm

#

The rain beat down upon the bungalow's roof as John studied the feast laid on the table before him.

"New start?" he asked, and shifted his gaze to his wife.

Sammie, oven mitts still covering her hands, nodded and returned to the kitchen. She walked back in a few seconds later, carrying a salad.

"I think that's best. Don't you?"

John didn't like the cold inflection in her voice, the way her words emerged sharp, like a knife. Beside him, a drop of water plopped onto the carpet. Sammie's eyes darted to the spot, her pupils large.

"I'll fix the broken tile tomorrow, I promise..."

The sound of metal chinking on ceramic brought John's attention back to the table.

"Eat," she said. "It's good." She handed him a plate piled high with lamb, vegetables and mashed potatoes. The food steamed in the cold air.

"And the boiler. I'll call the service man in the morning. First thing."

Sammie nodded, and sat opposite him. Another large drop splashed onto the floor.

"I'm sure you will."

The scent of mint from the lamb on John's plate wafted up, and his mouth filled with saliva.

"This looks gorgeous," he said. Than after a moments consideration, "Babe."

"I know."

The wind picked up outside, lashing the rain against the building, and rattling the glass in the window frames.

"Aren't you eating... babe?" John picked up his fork and skewered a floret of broccoli.

Sammie nodded, but then sat back in her seat, watching.

John raised the fork to his mouth, his lips wide. Something in her eyes made him stop for a moment, frozen with his tongue lapped out to greet the mouthful.

There was something different about her.

His wife sat forward, her long fingers balanced on the edge of the table, her own lips parted with the expectation of his eating. Then he knew.

She looked happy.

John returned a brief smile and popped the food in his mouth.

# Forgotten

#

We moved to Purley in 1999, on Colyton Way with the River Thames only a walk away. Dad got a job in the brewery and came home smelling of hops every night.

Next door lived a foul old woman, Rhonda Cook. We tried to be friends with her. Mum baked a Victoria sponge and took it round hoping for a cup of tea and a chat, but Mrs. Cook grabbed the cake and shouted "Interfering wench!" at us before slamming the door in Mum's face. Mum didn't try again.

Mrs. Cook used to stand on her porch, watching us kids in the street. I was fourteen, but would still play a game of ball, especially if Billy Roper was out. The old woman had amazing hair – pure white, and long enough to sit on. She never tied it up, and if the wind blew I'd stop playing and watch her hair whip about in the breeze.

A few weeks after we moved in, Jack Pritchard kicked a ball too hard. It rolled into Mrs. Cook's garden and came to a standstill near the steps to her front door.

Mrs. Cook put a hand up, like a ghostly lollypop lady, but none of the boys would have dared step foot in her garden anyway. She came down the steps carefully, as if each movement hurt, one arm twisted around so her gnarled fist pressed into the small of her back, the other clenched the banister. With slow, stiff movements, she bent over and scooped the ball off the grass. Then she had a hatpin in her hand, as if from nowhere. Slowly, she placed the point against the ball, made sure we were all paying attention, and pushed the pin in. Once through the flesh, she pulled the hatpin out, and tossed the ball back out onto the street.

Billy caught it. I could hear the hiss from where I sat.

"Bitch," he whispered, and stalked off.

No one dared openly taunt Mrs. Cook. She'd lived on the street longer than anyone; all the mums and dads who'd grown up locally knew her from when they were young. They said she looked old back then, and was just as horrible. But no one seemed to know what had made her so mean.

In the spring of 2000, the rain fell, and fell, and wouldn't stop. Billy and I went down to the Thames and threw sticks into the water, holding hands and standing as close to the edge as we dared, eddies swirling as the level rose. It was scary – I remember my heart beating hard, the nerve ends tingling all over my body. I couldn't tell if my heightened emotions were from the approaching flood, or Billy being so close.

He told me, "My mum says Lewis Carroll wrote a poem about this stretch of the river, for Alice in Wonderland."

"You've read Alice in Wonderland?"

"Why, got a problem with that?"

I wanted him to kiss me. I'd never kissed a boy before, never been interested.

"Nope, no problem at all." I stared at the Thames. The river was full of twirling branches, churning water and ducks trying to feed.

"We're going to get our feet wet," he said suddenly, and pulled me away from the river's edge. Water spilled over the bank and flowed towards where we stood.

We jogged back to the street, not knowing what to do. Billy told his Dad, who went down to the Thames, and ran back screaming, "The river's flooding!" Before an hour had passed, half a dozen men and women were knocking on doors, helping get people out and up to higher ground.

The water came fast. After a couple of hours, dirty water lapped against the steps to our house. We went up to The Barn and stayed for the night. In the morning, Billy and I returned. Grass, plants, pots, and a kid's tricycle, all were half-submerged under water. Some houses had been built up high, ready for the water. Ours was one of those, but three steps had disappeared under the thick silty liquid that covered our street. And everything stank. Billy said sewage had come up through the drains and mixed with the river water. I gagged, and left him there – he wanted to know whether the level was going up or down.

The flood stayed for a week, long enough to make all us neighbors best friends. Some people had family nearby, and left The Barn. I felt sorry for them, as the rest of us had a pretty fine time camping out together.

Another two weeks passed before they allowed us back in our houses. The authorities had to scrape off all the muck, so we didn't catch dysentery or something. Then we all teamed up and helped those who had fared the worst. I wore four pairs of marigold gloves right through, scrubbing and cleaning.

The only part of our house damaged was the bathroom. When the water levels came up, the toilet overflowed. We cleaned that up first, so we could share with the Pritchard's. Their house had been built at ground level, and two feet of water and mud had seeped in. The upstairs stayed dry, but they cooked dinners at ours for ages until the insurance company gave them a check to replace all their stuff.

Some time after the floods receded; we kids noticed a smell wafting from Mrs. Cook's house. Tim, from two roads up, threw a Frisbee, and it flew right over the roof, and into her back garden. We all froze, unsure of what to do.

"You seen her?" Tim asked, turning to me.

I looked over at her bungalow, thinking. "Not since before the flood." I finally said.

"Didn't anyone check on her, when they evacuated us?" Billy asked.

He was in year ten, one year above me, and his hair fell like chocolate brown curtains about his face. He tucked his fringe behind his ears, and tried to peer in the front windows without stepping in her garden.

"Dad knocked, but there was no answer. We figured she'd already gone," I said.

"Shouldn't we do something?" Billy asked.

"Like what?" Tim said, and tentatively walked down the now overgrown path. "I want my Frisbee. My brother will kill me if I don't give it back."

Tim disappeared around the side of the bungalow, opening and closing the tall gate to the back garden almost silently. He remained there a long time, when the gate creaked open; he beckoned to us, his face pale and tinged with green.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Billy went first, stepping carefully; no one had cleaned her garden after the flood. The mud had dried to a sticky paste, with a crust almost hard enough to walk on.

I kept thinking about the diseases we could catch.

"It's the smell." Tim pointed to a back window.

Mrs. Cook's home was built a couple of steps off the ground, but not high enough to stop the floodwater entering. Billy stood on tiptoes and peered in. He looked for a long time, cupping his hand above his eyes.

"Christ." Billy turned around. "You shouldn't look, Jane."

"She in there?" I whispered.

Both nodded.

"Is she okay?"

Tim walked off when I said that, rubbing the back of his sleeve across his face. I heard the gate open and slam closed in a series of rickety bangs.

We told Mum, but she didn't want to go in the bungalow. I don't think she quite believed us, so we waited until six o'clock, when my father strolled in, with a wide smile and the sweet scent of hops wafting from his skin.

He went straight round, knocking furiously before trying the door. It was locked, but Dad is a strong man. He threw his shoulder against the wood until the lock gave way and the door opened a little. A gush of stinky water poured over his feet. Dad didn't take any notice, and started slamming the door against the mud inside until he had enough room to get through.

"Stay here," he ordered us, took a look, and walked in, his boots sucking and squelching. The stench overpowered me; rank and so thick it coated my mouth and the inside of my nose. There were flies as well, they fled the confines of the room, more and more taking flight as Dad struggled across the living room.

He got to the back bedroom, clambered through the mud, and then backed out in a hurry. He struggled to get out of sight and started retching.

Before the emergency services came to remove Mrs. Cook's body, I decided I needed to see. I took a box around the back, and with everyone occupied at the front of the bungalow, I slipped from view. I climbed up to the window, and peered in.

The room must have been a foot deep in muck. It lapped up against the sides of the bedside cabinet, where she'd placed a book, the bookmark poking out the top. A glass with white scale coating the inside, the water long evaporated, stood on the bedside table. Mrs. Cook lay face down, spread across the floor like an angel, arms outspread, her nightdress black from mud and decay. Woolly blue slippers became one with her feet at the end of blackened swollen legs, and her hair floated on the top of the mud, still white and perfect.

I climbed down; glad her face had been hidden, and went home.

#

A year after the floods, we had a neighborhood party. Tables were set up in the middle of the street, flags and Chinese lanterns covered the trees and the fronts of houses. Two large boxes of fireworks sat on the front of Billy's lawn, waiting for nightfall.

Glasses were raised, and as a raucous cheer and impromptu hip-hip-hooray were shouted out, I glanced over to Mrs. Cook's bungalow. It was uninhabitable, still filled with silt and muck. Also smelly, and there had been talk during the day of each house on the street chipping in a little to hire some professionals and clean it up. None of the adults mentioned the fate of Mrs. Cook. Billy and I spoke of her sometimes, sat out on the banks of the Thames, our bare feet trailing in the water.

I ignored the party, and as I watched she appeared on the porch, her nightdress billowing out in the wind, her hair free and perfectly white, catching on swirls of air, moving as if alive. She put up a hand in greeting. I toasted her, as the others cheered at the cleanup effort. She turned as I drank, and opened her front door. But before she disappeared from view, she glanced back, and motioned for me.

I don't know why I did, but I got up and went over to her bungalow. She waited, holding the door open, but I didn't go in: the place was still almost knee high in mud. She transformed the living room, redecorating before my eyes, people moved about, as shadows. Three children dashed by, barreling past me and out the door. Their giggles hung in the air. Then I watched myself walk down the stairs, older, my hair long, almost to my waist. Billy followed, his hair speckled with silver at the sides, still grinning that cheeky smile of his. He caught up to me, kissed my neck from behind, and wrapped his hands around my stomach, clasping them together over a small bump.

Mrs. Cook floated from the bungalow, taking the vision with her.

#

I still think of her, seven years on. I've asked around about Mrs. Cook. She'd moved to Purley with her husband in the nineteen-forties, and after years of trying for a baby, he died in a freak car accident. I hope she's happy, and with him.

The council has put her bungalow up for auction. I think, perhaps, that Billy and I will put in a bid.

# Origins

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I have always loved to read about where an author found their ideas for stories – what inspired them to create. With the horror genre or even science fiction, this can require a giant 'right step' away from reality. For me, it could be when I read something or an event triggers me to think – but what if this happened instead?

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Below I have listed each story, where they've been published, and where the ideas came from. Hope you enjoy the origins.

### Being John

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As you have probably guessed, this is auto-biographical – my only published story about my life. My world came down around me when my beloved father was diagnosed with cancer. What followed was the most surreal Christmas ever, as the adults hid the news from my two younger children, and my eldest son ended up being my support on forays to the hospital with my mother. My husband stayed behind with the younger two children, trying to spark some semblance of fun into the occasion.

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Published December 2009 in Bits, Bobs and Baubles.

### Wanted, Companion

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This story was inspired by The Triffids by John Wyndham. Although my comets led to strange events and many stories, two of which are featured in this collection. On the surface, this is the age old tale of a vampire using a weak-minded human to aid where needed. But there is far more here. If you were homeless, unable to find work and alone, would you resist the suggestion of illicit activities for financial recompense? How strong would you be during a time of recession when nothing seems guaranteed?

### Transformations

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The second of my Wyndham inspired stories, this is about my childhood fantasies coming alive. I grew up desperately hoping my cat would morph into a human, that he did in fact change at night sometimes and watch me while I slept. I also decided (I was a precocious four-year-old with an imagination out of control) I was half cat – half human. This thought/belief/dream has never left me, and this story is a small outlet for my perpetual dream of felines-turned-human.

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Published in the ABCtales Magazine, Issue 17.

### Where Angels Sing

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The origins of this story occurred when I was four, and I saw something I could not explain. Desperately ill, my parents rushed me to the hospital, and as they arrived, I lost consciousness and stopped breathing. At that moment, I saw everything below me, as if from a height many meters above. When I looked to see where my parents were taking me, I saw a crystal city, so beautiful I remember it clearly to this day. I fell back into this world when they stuffed a tube down my throat and drained my lungs (I had pneumonia). It could be I was simply suffering from lack of oxygen, it may be my memories have corrupted over the years, but the thought of an afterlife with that crystal city beckoning is not such a bad thing. This story takes that moment from my childhood and asks the question, 'Is there somewhere else?' And more importantly, 'What do you have to do to get there?'

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Won first place in Spintinglers August 2007 contest, also published in their 2009 anthology.

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Published in Literary Magic e-zine Autumn 2007.

### In the Closet

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I am a vivid dreamer, and this story comes from one of those night time journeys when I travel into the odd world of my subconscious. I dreamt not of the ghost, but the part of the story not told here, the story of the woman who trapped a boyfriend when he wanted to leave.

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Published in the UKAuthors 2008 anthology.

### Mary Beth and Joe

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Mary Beth and Joe explores abusive relationships and a man so nasty, he takes his revenge through into the afterworld.

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Published in the UKAuthors 2007 anthology.

### Naïve, Once Seventeen

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I once read a sad article in a newspaper about a woman who, as a teenager, gave birth to a stillborn in secret and buried her baby in the park. Can you imagine how she felt at the time? I don't think I can even scratch the surface of the place a young mother finds herself when in this position. But I tried and Naïve, Once Seventeen was the result.

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Published in Secret Attic August 2007 edition.

### The Girl That Could Fly

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Another of my odd dreams, I thought this one worked better in reverse. I find it fascinating a demonic possession could be given by something as simple as a bite from an insect.

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Published in Twisted Tongue Magazine, Issue 3.

### Camilla

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I found a Greek myth in an old reference book I own, and decided to update it and place the tale in a modern setting. The myth was about a young couple chased out of the city for the husband's wrong doings. The wife dies, but the man escapes with his baby daughter in his arms. He comes to a sudden stop by a wide river with the mob not far behind. He calls to Diana to save his daughter, ties her to a spear and throws the baby over the river to Diana. The girl is saved and grows up to be fast and strong. I hope you find my updated version does the original justice.

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Published in Capture Weekly, July 2006.

### Motherly Love

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This was written for a contest run by Stephen King. I saw the movie Poltergeist when I was far too young (at a friend's house – isn't it always the way) and slept for the next six months with the lights on – no joke – and the wardrobe doors removed, as they were far too similar to those in the movie where the giant tongue rolls out. Possession became a concept that could happen, and did happen to those unfortunate enough to stand in an evil spirit's way. Motherly Love has elements of all of this, along with the theme of The Dome. At the time of writing I had not yet received the tome and took the idea of being trapped as my King influence.

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Published by Static Movement, 2010

### After the Storm

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Inspired by a number of undone jobs around the house, After the Storm appeared.

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Published by Voices from the Web, 2011-2012

### Forgotten

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In 2007 after weeks of rain, the Thames flooded. Our little village got a rough end of the deal, with half the roads and houses going underwater. This story came from that experience. Not included was the rash my daughter got after playing and swimming (without my knowledge) in stagnant water or the fun my youngest son had the day after the flood arrived as he waded up the high street, water well over the tops of his Wellington boots, catching goldfish as they swam by.

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Published by Static Movement, Dec 2011

# About the Author

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Lisa C Hinsley's career has been varied, working as an architectural technician, a pet sitter, a pharmacy supervisor and most recently a carer/companion for elderly ladies, all the while writing when she can. Born in Portsmouth in 1971, Lisa grew up in England, Scotland, and America. She now lives on the Wirral, in northwest England, with her husband, three children, four cats, and a dog.

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You can find out more about her here:

www.lisahinsley.weebly.com.

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