It was a hollow victory, Hugo thought as he tucked into his last meal. Now that the initial excitement of escaping the care home and boarding a plane to Switzerland had worn off, the stark finality of death began to sink in.
After all his dear friend Ron had done to help him – booking the Dignitas appointment, fetching his passport, lying to the staff and Hugo’s family, and driving him to the airport – he felt bad even thinking like this.
Continue readingHe heaved, sweating, and pulled another door from the wreckage. Crouching down behind it he hoped to gain some respite from the carnage that surrounded him. The curly-haired man closed his eyes and breathed deeply hoping to recentre himself.
When he eventually opened his twitching eyes he spied the remains of his guide a few feet away.
Carefully dodging every spike and shard that threatened his feet below, he eventually reached the guidebook and with trembling hands scrambled to find the right page. It was useless; he already knew he had gone too far and there was no turning back at this point.
Continue readingSamson was fucked.
Ankle deep in thick mud, his t-shirt, jeans and even underwear were soaking wet, all thanks to the remorseless grey clouds spewing down their cold, cruel, bullets of rain.
And the ominous rumble of thunder served as a reminder that he was ideal target practice for lightning bolts.
But Samson grinned, staring at the solid structure of the library’s clocktower off in the distance. He was going to return the library book in his backpack on time.
Continue readingThe ambulance outside alerted two of the neighbours.
‘Is Janice OK? Mrs Hughes asked. ‘She’s been looking very drawn.’
‘I saw her come to the door. I think it’s…’
‘Alex?’
‘Janice told me he’s been worse lately,’ Mrs Phillips said.
‘That overdose. Last summer, wasn’t it? Do you think he…?
Mrs Phillips clamped her lips together. This isn’t suitable conversation her stiffly proper expression seemed to say.
/
Eirlys was everything to him. He watched her grow as a baby, kept an eye on her schooling. On her reaching puberty he became over-interested, you might say. When she had boyfriends, well he had jealousy like a bridge has rivets. Eirlys’ marriage left him grey somehow, his spirit seemed to have drained from him. But he had the blues in him right from when we first dated, just kids. He was prone to them. Having a daughter gave him some relief, I suppose; her leaving home extinguished that. I tried to help him but his empty heart wouldn’t let me in. I’ve been expecting this ever since last summer. Longer, really, if I’m honest.
Continue reading
In the dusk is a sea monster, bulky, black and rubbery, glistening in the remnants of the light. It is almost still, as if waiting for a prey.
A fellow waves the crowd on board, taking the last of their money. At this the youngest of our crew, Paul, averts his eyes. It’s superstition: if he doesn’t look maybe this voyage might be uneventful.
More ragged travellers arrive. The fellow squeezes them on, extra bucks for him and his criminal smuggling network. He doesn’t care if he’s endangering people. He gives one of those on board a GPS, saying in English, ‘north west’.
Continue readingYoung Tommie Lewis was the apple of his mother’s eye, always a dainty boy with short dark hair, a little snub nose, large spectacles and a skinny build. School days were hard for Tommie. Sports day he would run, his arms and legs spinning as fast as he could, but he always came last. Nobody ever picked him for football. He usually sat on the sidelines wishing he could be first at something. In the juniors gymnastics became the bane of his life. Once he was made to climb the monkey bars. Getting to the top he froze. A teacher had to climb up to fetch him, handing him the rope to lower himself down. Poor Tommie just slid down the rope, causing blisters on his hands and legs; his mother played merry hell. So Tommie was forced to join the girls away from hazards.
Continue readingThe little bell above the door tinkles cheerily, and she moves through the beaded net curtain behind the counter to see who her latest customer is.
He’s looking nervous, fidgety, and like he’s bothered someone has seen him enter. She’s dealt with this type before. Probably after the… ahem, special merchandise that isn’t available to regular customers. He’s picking things up and putting them down again, trying to look nonchalant and utterly failing to pull it off. She needs to be careful how to approach him, so that he doesn’t startle like a baby deer and gallop off. That produces a smile that she has to work to suppress, the idea of this guy scampering anywhere would be worth watching just for entertainment value alone.
“Can I help you?” she asks, brightly. “If there’s something you’re looking for, we have additional stock out back, if you know what I mean.”
A look of relief washes over his face.
“Yes,” he mutters, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”
“So,” she responds, “what are you looking for, what’s your tastes? No need to be self-conscious here.”
He looks confused, then starts.
“You mean,” he says, “adult material?”
She nods.
“Oh, I think I’m in the wrong shop. I’m not after that.”
Ah. Oops. Misjudged him.
“I see,” she says as he turns for the door. “You mean the stuff in the other back room. You’d better come through.”
*
Two minutes later, they’re squashed into a too-small space rammed with miniature, carefully labelled wooden boxes, each containing a tiny vial. Within each, a cloud of viridescent gas swirls and pulses. He reaches for one, then stops, shakes himself.
“Who are you after?” she asks.
They both know what this means; one of the city’s residents is going to die tonight. Whoever owns the box controls the life expectancy of the individual whose label adorns the outside.
He mutters a name, and she steps away through the stacks to find it.
A moment or two later, she returns, reverently holding one on a small silver tray.
“You know,” she says, “the price?”
He nods, mute.
Her eyes glow gently as she holds it before him, his gaze transfixed. “So,” she says, “do we have a deal?”
“Don’t you want to know why?” he asks.
“I don’t ask questions.”
He nods again, then carefully picks it up, turning it back and forth. The life inside swirls like liquid in a half empty glass, but something is wrong. She’s seen all human emotions when people come in here; anger, fear, disgust, even lust for revenge, but his stare is flat, dull, almost lifeless. She tries and fails to repress a shudder. He seems inhuman, even to her.
Finally, he looks up.
“This one,” he says, “is me. We do not have an accord.”
He smashes it on the floor and, as the life force evaporates, he drops to his knees, finally free.
He put the advert in the spring edition of the estate magazine. Kind heart for sale, middle-aged, male, one previous owner. Offers?
The day the mag went through people’s letter boxes the new woman in the flat above knocked.
‘I’m Liz. Just introducing myself.’
‘Jed.’
‘Some nice people round here.’
‘Some.’
‘I mean look at this in the community circular. He sounds a proper decent sort.’
‘You think?’
‘I might answer that meself!’ She laughed, a nice laugh, like a tickle.
‘Save yourself the pen and paper, Liz.’
‘Oh? Do you know him? Is the bloke no good?’
He told her.
/
Liz and Jed, hand in hand, picked over the pebbles to the sand fringing the wide bay which simmered in the summer sun.
‘How do you think we’re doing?’ she asked.
‘Doing?’
‘Us. Doing.’
‘Alright.’
‘You really are the most understated guy. But then I like a quiet fellow.’
‘My wife said I was too quiet.’
‘She’s wrong!’ she insisted, a little too loudly. ‘And, look… if you ever want to tell me more about the crash, I’m a good listener.’
He shook his head.
‘When you’re ready, I mean.’
He grimaced, as though she’d punched him.
‘If you’re ever ready, you know.’
His expression became fearful.
Talking with him about feelings was like walking on the pebbles beneath her feet. Had his ex had similarly frustrating conversations with him?
/
She swept up the autumn leaves from the front of the drive. Dead. Same as Jed? Sex with him was OK but he never kissed her before, after, or during it. It was if he were anaesthetised. He told her, once only, details of the school bus accident. Three children had been killed, one being his sister, to whose limp hand he’d clung till they cut out the survivors. Blood was trickling down his head, into his eyes, so he couldn’t see his leg. Nor could he feel it: it was broken. He remembered a claustrophobic feeling, as if he were buried alive. His parents had never stopped grieving for their daughter and passed the infection onto him. He’d become withdrawn, reticent. ‘They treated your leg but not your trauma,’ she’d said last night. ‘You need therapy, Jed.’ He’d not replied. Did he have survivor’s guilt too?
She tipped the leaves into the recycling bag. When would he kiss her?
/
Snow was falling on an unusually cold December day. The estate was white, asleep under its shroud. Liz had called it off. ‘You’ve got to get off that bus, Jed. You’re trapped on it. I can’t help you, see. I just can’t.’ He’d be alone this Christmas. For the best really. Nothing lasted, did it?
He stood outside the flat. Snowflakes settled on his head, melted, ran down his cheeks. When the bus had skidded on the ice and turned over, he’d had bodies on top of him. He’d never been as close to anybody since. He went in, closed the door, shook the snow off.
He put the advert in the spring edition of the estate magazine. Kind heart for sale, middle-aged, male, one previous owner. Offers?
The day the mag went through people’s letter boxes the new woman in the flat above knocked.
‘I’m Liz. Just introducing myself.’
‘Jed.’
‘Some nice people round here.’
‘Some.’
‘I mean look at this in the community circular. He sounds a proper decent sort.’
‘You think?’
‘I might answer that meself!’ She laughed, a nice laugh, like a tickle.
‘Save yourself the pen and paper, Liz.’
‘Oh? Do you know him? Is the bloke no good?’
He told her.
/
Liz and Jed, hand in hand, picked over the pebbles to the sand fringing the wide bay which simmered in the summer sun.
Continue reading
Darren, God’s second son, was worried about the family’s legacy. Dad had an image problem, so he went to see him.
“Dad,” he said. “We need to give you a makeover.”
“What for?”
“All this divine retribution stuff,” Darren said. “It doesn’t play well. We need PR.”
“Where are we going to get that?”
“Ring the Pope.”
Continue reading
Billy Thomas was excited. His parents were going to a posh dinner in Swansea, this meant he was going to sleep in his grandparents’ house. A rare treat, they went there every Sunday for tea but rarely did he stay.
Carrying his bag of clothes he set off, his mam’s warning ringing in his ears to behave. Nan was waiting at the door and ushered him in, hugging him. She smelt of lavender and she was tiny – Billy was almost as tall as her – and she reminded him of a small bird.
Grandad was ensconced in his armchair; he had a ruddy complexion thickset with hands like shovels. ”Alright our Billy.”
Continue reading
Tobermory held his daughter’s hand as they walked along the corridor, their footsteps echoing from the stone walls. He sensed her looking up and gave her a little squeeze.
“Don’t worry, daddy,” Eleanor said, “I’ll be okay.”
“I know, Pumpkin,” he said, displaying a sad smile. “We’ll all be okay.”
“Did you bring Flibut?”
Tobermory pulled the stuffed, one-eared camel from his bag. “Yes, he’s here.”
“Because I couldn’t go without Flibut.”
He looked down at her earnest features, a pixie face in a halo of red curls. Just five years old, he thought, how could there be a god?
He could have scooped her up right there and bounded back down the corridor. But he knew the guards would pick him off before they got out. And a stranger would make the long walk with her.
Continue readingClarence had been a disappointment to his mother from the day he was born. He had been expected to be a she, to fulfil the prophecy of the seventh daughter to the seventh daughter.
Throughout his life, she had never forgiven him for spoiling her dreams. His sisters on the other hand, were delighted that they didn’t have a sister who would rule superior over them. He grew up, being showered with their love and also all the things they didn’t want to undertake themselves.
Continue reading‘How’d he get in this state?’ Potter protested.
‘You take that arm, I’ll take this,’ Evans directed him, murmured ‘Now’ and the two of them hauled the collapsed old man onto unsteady feet. They continued to hold him mistrustfully.
‘I’ll be alri`,’ the man said. His large jowls, as if transplanted from a boxer dog, wobbled with the rest of his plump body. ‘What was the sc…?’ Did we wn?’
Continue reading
Alfie disappears into the classroom without looking back. It swallows him whole. That’s good, I tell myself. He’s happy and I’m free to be ‘me’ again. It’s terrifying.
Turning towards the gate, I focus on the shiny new stilettoes that I hoped would bring me confidence. But I feel ridiculous. A pool of sweat is collecting beneath the too-tight waistband of my trousers, the material straining to contain my bulging flesh. Why did I let Ben convince me to pursue a career again, at my age? Asking his university colleagues to consider me for a job? They’ll see right through me. Inadequate. Embarrassing. Fat.
Continue reading
Feeling totally confused, Jaxon lay there. He could hear lots of noise, occasional conversation that seemed to be about him. His eyes refused to open; where the hell was he? Drifting off, the bleeps seemed to soothe him.
Out of nowhere appeared a boy about his age, wearing funny clothes like you see in the black and white photos his mam had. When he started to speak to him, Jaxon’s mind went into overdrive.
Continue reading
‘Which one of us would do it?’
‘He targeted my daughter. It should be me.’
‘You’d really…?’
‘Could I actually just go in there and…? Let me think. Smother him? Yes, yes I could.’
‘We might not need to, Natasha. I’ve not been feeding him.’
‘You’ve been cutting back on his meals?’
‘I’ve not given him any food in seven days. Just water.’
‘He’s looking very gaunt, Annette. Do you mean you’ve been deliberately…?’
‘I want him dead. I hate him. This way we just say he wouldn’t eat, we say he…’
‘Refused food… we say he didn’t want to live any more with the pain of the cancer… we…’
‘We wait two more days. He can’t last out if we starve him.’
/
In his studio they looked at the paintings, many of them of themselves in the first flush of puberty, thin, uncomfortable, unhappy, all naked. Natasha remembered him painting Annette many times, then her turn came. She didn’t quite know what was going on. It’s art, darling, her mother insisted, keep still for Daddy and stop complaining. Her mother had practically pimped her. Creation from exploitation? That wasn’t art. Post-Jimmy Saville his reputation had crashed. Now he was reviled by many, his works removed from galleries. Quite right. Burn them all. A vile paedophile.
His sister though believed they had aesthetic value, said each haunted portrait revealed her mixed feelings: fear of her father and her unbreakable connection to him.
/
Continue reading
“Do you remember… our games?” the old man struggled to speak. “I used to call you… Miss Fortune”.
On his first night at the casino, he was eager to play with the money his father gifted him. That’s when they first met. That night, as all nights that followed, she wore red: a slim-fit dress, high heels, and vibrant lipstick to match it. She was the goddess who joined them, mere people.
“Sure,” Miss Fortune replied, sitting beside his bed in the hospital. “And you were right.”
Continue reading
The cold autumn night was warmed up by the energy of people gathered for a party. There, Andrew thought his past was left behind.
A splash of light in the sky and a loud boom broke the night, and the Darkness came with it. Unnoticed among the crowd, casting shadows on itself on an enlightened street, a fully dark figure – Andrew felt it smile at him.
Continue reading
“How was it?” Alfie screwed his eyes in concentration and anticipating the usual sotto voce response, leaned forward in his riser-recliner. He had declined the invite to the Council’s Annual Fireworks Display. Storm Ciarán was rolling in.
“Brilliant!; not the wash-out expected.” Fiona’s explosive response caught him unawares. Hovering on the remote (retaining maximum control over his environment was important), his hand reacted in a surprised tremor. The chair, rented courtesy of his son, responded to the manual “rise” command; Alfie slid to the floor, pinned under the strategically placed wheely frame, a gift from his daughter.
“Fuck Me… Save me from this hell.” On his back, glasses dislodged, Alfie surveyed the intricate cornicing and central rose of the “small lounge.” The tantalising mistiness of detail recalled to mind that entertainment he and his late wife had so enjoyed at the Couples Parties before any of the seven veils had been removed. Sporadic pyrotechnics of private parties continued outside; Roman Candles, Peonies, and Diadems were corralled in raindrops as they burst across the uncurtained picture window.
Continue reading
A new message flashes. The little icon with her photo, all Bambi-eyes and dimples, sets his heart racing. And then there’s that other feeling. The one he shouldn’t have for someone her age. The one that twists his stomach and clamps his jaw tight.
The curtains are drawn, as always. His secrets fester like bacteria in the stale air, seeping into the furniture. They clutter every surface, filthy as the plates that litter his room. He cannot risk them spreading beyond the confines of this house. Not like they did in the old neighbourhood.
These new neighbours seem friendly. They posted that ‘Welcome’ note through his door, with the link to the community Facebook group. That’s where the fireworks display was advertised. And where he found the laughably easy to access local youth chatroom. Honestly, this lot could do with some internet safety training.
Continue reading