Tag: short story

Blessed Night

AJ.Dixon10 Comments

Blessed Night

By Adam Dixon

 

Andi strolled through the forest clearing, a filled satchel on her back and a bright smile on her face. Bathed in the pale glow of the full moon and soothed by the cool wind blowing through her dark hair, she was content as she collected the various flora which grew there. Her satchel was full to bursting with nettles, wildflowers and mushrooms, as well as with more valuable items such as blisterweed and Lady’s Folly posies. Already her mind raced with the potions she could brew from such a spectacular haul. She smiled and congratulated herself. Nice one, Andromeda, she thought, business is looking good!

But one item still eluded her, and it was the ingredient which had brought Andi so deep into the forest in the first place. It was the Moon-Spun Lily, a beautiful, delicate flower which only bloomed once a month; during the full moon, naturally. Andi had pinned down the area in which the flower would be likely to bloom and her collecting so far, although fortuitous, had simply been a way for her to waste time before the moon had risen. Now that it had, Andi could freely collect her prize. She strode eagerly towards her destination, her eyes flicking to the red compass point on her smartphone screen. She grinned at the device. How did the alchemists of old manage to find anything in the dark? She wondered, shaking her head at the thought. Thank the Maker for modern technology!

Andi passed through the clearing and penetrated the thickly wooded forest. The air smelled wonderful, with wafts of damp leaves, soil and the aroma of dozens of night-flowers filling her expectant nostrils. She breathed deeply as she walked, savouring the fresh air, the night sky and the freedom of being away from her laboratory. She lived for these excursions, and she refused to permit anyone else to undertake them on her behalf. This was what real alchemists did, and she was one of the best. She’d never catch her esteemed father taking the easy option! She imagined her father’s stern face observing her, just as he had done when she had stirred his bubbling cauldron as a child. Well, Dad, here I am! She thought triumphantly. Getting the job done properly, just like you! Her phone pinged, and she banished the image and looked around.

She gasped as she beheld the Moon-Spun Lily nestled between two small trees. Its milky white petals glowed with an inner luminescence, quivering as the breeze caressed it. Andi noticed the tiny droplets of pollen leaking from its flowers as they danced in the wind, only to be picked up and swirled off to another part of the forest. As well as being stunningly beautiful it also looked incredibly delicate. Andi raised her phone and snapped a picture of the flower; it was a poor substitute for the real thing, but she wanted desperately to capture the moment in her memory. She longed to stay and watch the flower as it swayed in the night, but she had work to do and a deadline to keep. Steeling herself, Andi withdrew a small pair of pruning shears and a silk bag from her satchel. Leaning forwards, she carefully snipped the stalk of the Lily and let it drop into the bag. Now that the flower was gone, the space between the two trees looked desolate, as if the life had faded from it. Andi felt a little sad, but she abruptly shook it off and turned to leave the forest.

A long, loud howl pierced the stillness of the night. Andi froze, her eyes widening. Every hair on her forearms stood on end and her heart hammered in her chest as the howl continued. The noise was answered by a similar howl, this one higher in pitch. Andi realised with terror that they were both close by. She slipped a hand into her jeans and pulled out a tiny vial filled with a gelatinous blue liquid. Her hands were shaking as she unstopped the vial and raised it to her lips. She threw her head back and downed the potion, feeling it burn as it slid down her throat. She crouched and leaned forwards, fighting the urge to choke and splutter. Oh man, I forgot how awful this one tastes! She thought, disgusted. The howls came again, nearer still. They were getting closer! Andi shuffled into the thickest section of trees, cursing the potion for not taking effect sooner. As she began to notice her hands and torso losing their definition, a huge shape crashed through the undergrowth and came to a halt where she had been standing moments before. Andi’s breath caught in her throat; it was a werewolf.

Standing on powerful hind legs it towered into the air, fully eight feet tall from its pointed ears to its claws. It gazed around the clearing with eyes of a deep red and saliva dripped from its gleaming yellow fangs. By the Maker¸ Andi thought to herself, transfixed. It’s beautiful! The creature possessed a savage beauty that Andi had never seen before, and the descriptions she had read about such beasts did it no justice whatsoever. It pawed at the ground impatiently and growled deeply from the back of its throat. A freshly-killed young doe was grasped in one if its giant paws, carried as if it were no heavier than an apple. A crash of branches announced the arrival of a second beast, this one just as majestic as the first and even larger. The two wolves faced one another in silence, crimson eyes locked together. Andi wiped a bead of sweat from her eye and realised that her potion had taken effect: she was invisible.

The wolves growled and padded closer, neither one breaking eye contact. Mottled brown fur swayed in the wind as it sighed through the forest, and fallen leaves crunched underneath massive paws. The wolves stopped within an arm’s length of each other and continued their rumbling observations. Suddenly, a gravelly voice issued forth from the maw of the first creature.

“Evenin’, Moon-Sister,” it growled. “A fine night for a hunt, eh?”

“Too right, Moon-Brother!” the larger werewolf said, its eyes tightening and a coughing sound racking its body. Andi looked on in amazement. It’s laughing! She could hardly believe what she was seeing. The first werewolf tossed its head and lowered itself into a crouch. It still stood over six feet tall even then.

“Ahh, but it’s nice to see another of my kind!” it said, the growl in its voice sounding pleased. “As much as I enjoy these evenings, they can be lonely.”

“That’s never bothered me, to be honest,” the female werewolf said as she joined him in a crouch. “My other life is always noisy, so I enjoy the peace, but I am pleased to meet you! It makes for a refreshing change.” The first werewolf acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his great head.

“Have some of my catch, if you like,” he offered the doe to his companion. The female laughed again, the strange guttural sound sending a shiver up Andi’s spine.

“Don’t mind if I do, Moon-Brother! Thanks!” She accepted the bounty and tore off a large piece of flesh with her razor-sharp fangs. Andi felt her stomach perform a somersault inside her. Oh, the poor thing! She thought, turning her face away from the scene. The sound of ripping meat and crunching bones assaulted her ears, and she fought hard to keep from retching.

“We know you’re there, human,” the female’s voice growled. “You may as well join us.”

Andi’s heart plummeted in her chest and an icy shock hit her in waves. She began to tremble and slowly turned to look back. Two pairs of blood-red eyes were looking straight in her direction. She gulped and tried to respond.

“How…how can you see me?” Andi managed to squeak.

“We can’t,” the male werewolf answered, his pink tongue lapping blood from his jaws. “But you reek of fear and excitement. We could point in your direction from a mile away.”

“Come and join us.” The female repeated. It did not sound like a request. Petrified, Andi made her way towards them on legs which threatened to buckle under her at any moment. She stood before the two creatures, clasping her satchel with both hands in an effort to compose herself. The female leaned forward and inhaled deeply through her wet nostrils.

“You smell like a garden centre,” she said, amusement in her tone. “Have you been rolling around in the meadows?”

“No…no, I’m collecting wild flora,” Andi replied, still struggling with her sentences. “You see…I’m…an al-alchemist.”

“Ahhh, one of those!” the male guffawed and chomped down on another piece of the doe. “That explains it, then! What’s your name, alchemist?”

“I’m…Andromeda….Andi, for short.” Andi replied, unsure where the conversation was going. “Do you…erm…do you have names?” She nearly bolted from the forest as the two wolves threw their heads back and howled in unison. She stood shaking, hoping desperately that she hadn’t offended them.

“No, Andi the alchemist, we don’t,” the female said with good humour. “Of course, we do as humans, but we don’t use those names during the Blessed Night. That would be wrong.”

“This is the one night we can forget about those lives of weakness and boredom; we can truly be free.” The male werewolf added, gazing up at the moon with a sigh. Andi thought about this, her fear lessened by this information.

“I see…” she said, rubbing her invisible chin. “So you enjoy being werewolves? I always thought it was a curse.”

“Some people will see it that way, obviously,” the male answered, shaking his head. “But for me, this is when I’m really alive. As a human, I’m weak, unfulfilled and miserable. Getting bitten by a Moon-Sister was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“It’s the same with me,” the female snarled in agreement, tossing the remainder of the doe away into the trees. “My other life would seem complete to some, but I’m not valued as an individual. These evenings are my own, and I love them dearly. They make me feel alive!”

“I see…” Andi said again, shocked at their frankness. She was fairly sure by now that they were not going to eat her, but she didn’t want to risk upsetting them. She began speaking, addressing them very cautiously.

“So, erm…you don’t want to stop being werewolves then? You wouldn’t want to find a cure?” The professional in Andi was considering how a potion might be brewed to that effect, but both beasts shook their heads.

“Not unless I find something in my human life which makes me feel so free,” the male wolf shrugged. He fixed his frightening eyes in Andi’s direction, and she saw the pain within them. “But I really doubt that’ll happen. Nothing completes me like this change. Nothing.” Andi stood still, absorbing this information. The wolf regarded her, silently crouching in the moonlight.

“So, what happens after tonight?” Andi asked tentatively. The wolves looked at each other, and Andi felt a spark of understanding pass between them.

“We return to our other lives,” the female said sadly. “We go back to being human.”

“Back to wishing the days away until Blessed Night comes around again,” the male added, his ears drooping. Andi was moved by their profound misery and was at a loss as to what to say.

“Stay with us whilst we enjoy the last few hours of moonlight, Andi the alchemist,” the female said. “We will not harm you.”

“Are-are you sure?” Andi asked, brightening at the idea. “Wouldn’t I be interrupting your solitude?”

“Nah, not at all,” the male werewolf replied. He patted the ground next to him with his blood-stained claws. “It’s nice to have company for a change.”

“Oh, alright then.” Andi smiled and sat down between the two hulking creatures, her fascination returning and her fears vanishing. She considered asking the beasts if she could take a selfie with them to preserve the moment, but she quashed the idea as quickly as it came to her. Best not push it, girl! She thought

Andi sat with the werewolves for several hours, listening to them describe the freedom of prowling the night as its ultimate predator, of how the soaring wind felt on their fur or how the moon called to them prior to their transformation. Andi was mesmerised, mentally noting down all of the information they provided. She was almost certain that her situation was unprecedented in human-monster interaction and so she intended to remember as much as possible. She gradually pieced together that the male werewolf was an undervalued, underpaid accountant whose wife had left him penniless. It also turned that the female was the wife of an extremely successful business tycoon, and by being so found herself in a constant state of near-invisibility. Andi in turn told them about her alchemy business, and her initial struggle to get out from underneath her father’s shadow as a potion-brewer. She even shared some of her more scandalous business requests, at which the wolves howled into the night once again and laughed. She found herself enjoying their company immensely, and as the light began to return she felt sadness at the inevitable ending approaching. The female stood up, stretching her long, hairy legs as the sky began to change to a pinky-grey hue.

“It’s almost time,” she announced with resignation in her voice. “I’ve enjoyed sharing Blessed Night with you, Andi the alchemist, and with you, Moon-Brother. Let’s all meet again some time, the Maker willing.”

“I’ve enjoyed it too!” Andi said, leaping up. “I’ve learned so much from both of you! And thank you again for your gifts.” She patted a pocket in her satchel, where a tuft of werewolf hair and a vial of saliva could been seen poking out of the folds.

“It’s a pleasure, Andi,” the male wolf bowed his shaggy head in her direction. “Thanks for a pleasant evening. Now, I’d better head home. Moon-Sister, may we meet again.” With that, the male bounded off into the trees, his heavy footsteps echoing around the rapidly lightening forest. Andi turned to speak to the female, but she was also out of sight. Andi felt very alone in the large forest, despite the sounds of its denizens waking all around her. She looked up at the sky and saw that the sun was rising sleepily in the horizon. She sighed heavily and looked at her feet, noticing then that she was not invisible anymore. She stooped to pick up the silk bag she had rested on the floor, and her thoughts turned back to her delicate treasure. The Lily is just like the two of them, she thought sadly, beautiful and fleeting. She turned wandered despondently out of the forest, her heart going out to the two poor souls who lived their lives perpetually wanting to be something else. She found herself wondering how many other people felt the same way, but didn’t have the brief luxury of a magical transformation to escape their misery. She shook her head, a single tear running down her face.

“Goodbye, my new friends,” she whispered. “Until we meet again on Blessed Night.”

***

If you enjoyed this story, why not check out Andi’s introductory tale?

https://adamdixonfiction.com/2015/11/08/fever-of-venus/

 

A Dangerous Man

AJ.Dixon22 Comments

A Dangerous Man

By Adam Dixon

 

Cold swamp water splashed and rippled as the angel fought against his bonds. It was useless; the spells etched into the chains around his wrists were ancient and beyond his power to overcome. His arms were stretched out and the chains were tied to strong trees on either side of the bank; he could feel his tendons stretching to near breaking point. His wings were broken, his feathers matted with blood. He recognised the area and knew that he was somewhere in New Orleans, Louisiana. He looked up at the figure crouching at the bank.

“What can you possibly gain from doing this, human?” he asked, his voice still strong despite his treatment. “Binding and torturing an angel of the Lord is not something a wise man should attempt!”

“I’m not a wise man, angel. I’m a dangerous man,” the figure responded in a gruff voice. “Acknowledge the difference and despair.” He chuckled at his remark, sounding pleased with himself. He stood up and a long coat settled around him like a shroud. He was a short man with broad shoulders and large, thick hands. In the near-darkness not a lot could be observed, but the angel could make out greying hair and the glint of a pair of spectacles on his nose. The angel could sense the dark power emanating from the man, it distorted the air and clung to him like tar.

“You have kept me here for two full days,” said the angel. “Is there something you seek to accomplish by binding me so? I demand to know the reason for my imprisonment!”

The man on the bank regarded the angel for a few moments, before pulling a revolver from one of his coat pockets. In a quick, fluid motion, he cocked the barrel and fired. The angel cried out in pain as the bullet smashed into his left shoulder. Blood splattered across his face and he moaned as the muscle beneath tore from the tension. Sinews stretched and ligaments groaned audibly. He gasped and clenched his teeth as he fought the darkness creeping into his vision.

“You’re in no position to make demands, angel,” the man replied, cocking the revolver again. “I suggest you get that into your thick skull, or you will regret it.”

“Why are you doing this?” the angel cried, his voice wavering. For two days he had kept his resolve firm, safe in the knowledge that his prayers would be answered and his escape would be assured, but now it was beginning to crack.

“Curiosity,” the man replied. “I already know how to kill you, but where’s the fun in that? I wanted to experiment a little, figure out what makes you squirm.” The man grinned in the darkness.

“The Lord Almighty is not without mercy, human,” the angel said, trying to fight the fear that gripped him. “If you release me now and repent, you may yet save your soul.” The man threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed through the swamp, bouncing off the trees in nightmarish cacophony.

“Now that’s funny!” the man said. “Really, that’s rich! Thanks, but my soul is beyond saving, no matter how forgiving your God may be. Personally, he can shove his forgiveness where the sun don’t shine, ‘cos I’ve stabbed, shot and strangled my way through the last thirty years and I’m not planning on stopping soon. Oh, it’s been so much fun!” The man laughed again, uncocking his revolver and spinning it on his finger.

“I’ve killed more people than I can count; I gave up trying years ago. But unfortunately, being untouchable started to get a bit stale after a while.” He stopped spinning his revolver and jammed it back into his coat. The angel could almost feel the fire coming from the man’s eyes, and he barely suppressed a shudder.

“You saw something when I touched you, angel.” The man sounded excited. “When I held your wrists to put the chains on, you groaned in your sleep and your eyes flickered. You saw something about me, didn’t you? What was it? Tell me!” The angel shuddered and lowered his head.

“I saw…visions,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “They contained you…grappling with the monstrous denizens of the night, and killing them…occult females with fire in their hands and blackness in their hearts…spectral beings and fanged men…” His eyes widened and his head shot up. “What is this, human? What in the name of the Almighty have you been doing?”

“Expanding my targets!” the man said, his voice feverish with glee. “I needed to find the thrill from killing that I’d lost, and lemme tell ya, it’s worked a treat!” He broke off, laughing and clapping his hands together.

“That’s where you come in, my feathery friend!” he continued. “You’re the jackpot I’ve been working towards! The big prize, wrapped up and all mine!” The angel began to tremble in his bonds. He could sense the twisted glee within the man and his heart grew cold with fright.

“Oh, human,” the angel whispered. “How low the Devil has brought you in his unclean grasp…”

“Let’s get one thing crystal clear…” the man’s voice had an unpleasant edge to it. There was a small splash as he leapt nimbly into the fetid swamp. The angel watched with rising panic as the man waded steadily towards him. The ooze stained the man’s dark coat as it rose above his waist. As he moved closer, three alligators who had been sampling the strange blood in their waters fled the area in terror. The man stood before the angel, the moon reflecting faintly in the lenses of his spectacles. He reached into his coat and withdrew a thin cylindrical object. Slipping one hand behind the angel’s neck he stepped in very close; it was like an embrace between lovers. The angel gasped in pain as the man pressed the object against his lower abdomen. It was sharp, oh so sharp!

“The Devil has no power over me, angel,” the man rasped, staring into the angel’s terrified eyes. He pressed harder and the sharp object pierced the angel’s flesh. He screamed in pain and a wild look of understanding passed over his face.

“You have it! This cannot be!” he stammered, horrified. “You possess the Holy Lance!” The man chuckled and looked down at the object in his right hand. It was the remnants of an ancient lance, the wooden shaft darkened with age but the bronze point still wickedly sharp. It slid from the angel’s skin smoothly, and he admired the blood which trickled down it in crimson rivers.

“Yes, the fabled Holy Lance,” he said with amusement. “Also known as the Spear of Destiny, if you’re feeling dramatic. Or even Lancea Longini, if you’re feeling pretentious.” He cackled and pushed the blade back into the angel’s side. The creature roared in agony, struggling desperately against his chains.

“How?” the angel asked through gritted teeth. “The Lance has been hidden and guarded for a millennia! How have you come to possess it, mortal?”

“Let’s just say that I gave its guardian a compelling reason to give it up,” the man said, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. He drove the spear-point even further into the angel, who gave an ear-splitting screech. Drenched in sweat and breathing laboriously, the dying creature raised his head to glare at his tormentor.

“God damn you, mortal,” he spat, fury clearly visible along with the horror in his eyes. The man grinned once again, his pink tongue darting across his lips.

“God can’t touch me, angel,” he whispered in his ear. “Nobody can.” With that, he withdrew the Lance from the angel’s side and buried it in his chest. The angel’s scream was unearthly in pitch and volume, causing the very air around them to hum and vibrate. A brilliant white light shone forth from his torso and illuminated the swamp. It lasted perhaps two seconds before it faded, leaving the man blinking. A rainbow of colours danced before his eyes in an aura surrounding the angel’s body. Once it had dissipated, he withdrew the bloodied Lance and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The angel’s wings had vanished, the skin on his shoulder blades was seared black and the smell of burnt flesh stung the man’s nostrils.

“Hmmm, now that’s interesting,” he muttered. He used the Lance to lift the angel’s face and studied it for a moment. It was odd how human it looked in death; it looked like any of the hundreds of men he had extinguished. He felt a little bit disappointed, but his excitement was so intense that he didn’t care.

“I definitely have to kill some more of these guys,” he said with glee. “I haven’t felt a rush like that in decades!” He chuckled and let the angel’s head fall. Reaching into another pocket he pulled out a golden key and unlocked the chains around its wrists. The angel fell into the water and floated away, face down. Wading back to the bank, the man pocketed the Holy Lance and began humming to himself. As he walked off into the night, the alligators slipped back into the water and swam towards the offered meal.

 

 

The Elves’ Hot Chocolate

AJ.Dixon9 Comments

The Elves’ Hot Chocolate

By Adam Dixon

“Well, I’m glad that’s over!” Barry the elf exclaimed, slumping back into the padded seats and closing his eyes. His green pointed hat slid over his mousey fringe. The large red sleigh bucked as it sailed over the clouds, jerking him forwards with a yelp.
“Oi! Pay attention, Baz!” barked a gruff voice beside him. Gary rubbed his head and glared at Barry. “You knocked off my hat, you clumsy oaf! It’s gone right over the edge! What am I supposed to say to Mrs Claus when we get home?”
“Sorry, Gaz,” Barry said sheepishly. He took the reins in a firm grip and surveyed the night sky. It was still dark, although dawn was fast approaching and the horizon was beginning to brighten. The sleigh flew onwards, guided by a red glow from the lead reindeer which cut through the gloom. Barry checked the reins fastened to the nine animals and gave a satisfied nod; everything was secured and in working order.
“I can’t believe I’ve lost my hat,” grumbled Gary, smoothing his grey curls with irritation. “Five years I’ve had it, and it matched my coat perfectly. How will I find another one like it?”
“Oh, shut up about your silly hat, Gaz!” A third elf popped his bald head up from the back of the sleigh and frowned at Gary. “It made you look like a gnome, anyway!”
“A gnome?!” Gary spluttered. “Why, you…”
“Yes, yes,” The third elf dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Never mind that. How long ‘til we get home, Baz?”
“North Pole ETA one hour, Harry,” replied Barry, glancing at the Sat-Nav screen. “That’s as long as we don’t make any more unscheduled stops.” Barry and Harry both looked pointedly at Gary.
“Hmmph!” Gary folded his arms and sat down with a thump. “You could hardly expect me to hold it in until we’ve finished!”
“We could expect you not to have drank all that hot chocolate once we got started.” Barry replied with a grin. “You knew how long we’d be out here, but you still had almost the whole flask to yourself!”
“But it’s been freezing out here!” Gary protested.
“I didn’t get any of it,” Harry pointed out. “Didn’t want any, though. Hot chocolate’s what got us into this mess in the first place!”
“And I suppose that’s my fault as well!” Gary said sulkily.
“Nah, we’re all to blame for it,” said Harry, clambering over the back of the seat and plonking himself down next to Barry. “It was a great idea, but we should have been more careful.”
“We only wanted to make sure Santa had a proper rest before Christmas!” Barry said indignantly. “What’s so bad about that? The sleeping potion from Mrs Claus’s cupboard seemed like the best way to make sure he got a good night’s sleep!”
“Extra strength, though, wasn’t it?” Harry said, tweaking Barry’s nose playfully. “We didn’t read the label properly. Plus, Gaz can’t tell the difference between teaspoons and tablespoons!”
“Hmmph!” Was Gary’s reply.
“I expect the old man is still snoring away, even now!” chuckled Harry.
“Will he be angry with us, Gaz?” Barry asked, his brow creasing with worry. Gary fidgeted a little, and shrugged.
“Probably,” he said. “If we hadn’t pinched that potion, we wouldn’t’ve had to come out tonight and do his job. Serves us right, really, if he is angry. But at least it’s all done now.”
“I’ll say!” Harry giggled. “I’m pooped after all that! I don’t know how Santa manages it every year, all by himself, too! I must have fallen down more chimneys tonight than Gaz has had pee breaks!” He ducked down as Gary threw one of his shoes at him. Barry and Harry burst into fits of laughter as the shoe sailed over the edge of the sleigh, followed by Gary’s wail of frustration.
“You’re right, though,” Barry said, wiping a tear from his eye. “It makes you appreciate the effort he puts in every year. I just hope we did a good enough job.”
“Of course we did,” Gary said, peering over the edge of the sleigh with a forlorn look on his face. “We didn’t do it as well as the boss, obviously, but we still did it. That’s got to count for something.”
“Yep, that’s right, Gaz,” said Harry cheerfully, pulling his friends into a tight embrace. “We messed up, but we’ve done alright in the end, and no child will be without a present this Christmas.”
“We have missed something, though,” replied Barry, pulling away and taking up the reins again. Gary and Harry looked him, confused. A grin spread across Barry’s face.
“We’ve not said the words yet.” He said quietly, his eyes glittering.
“Oh…” Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Do you…think we should?”
“Those are his words, not ours,” muttered Gary doubtfully.
“Come on, fellas!” said Barry, laughing. “We’ve nicked his whole job tonight! We might as well do it properly!”
“True…” Harry grinned. “But we all need to do it. All of us or none!”
“What do you reckon, Gaz?” Barry asked. Gary paused, looking at the eager faces of his friends. His frown broke and he chuckled, shaking his head.
“Oh, all right then. It wouldn’t be Christmas without it!” He said, beaming. Barry and Harry cheered.
“Come on then! On three…one…two…three!”
The sleigh sped through the clouds towards the North Pole, and three joyous voices rang out into the night.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

The Heist

AJ.Dixon14 Comments

The Heist

By Adam Dixon

“I knew today would be the day he finally killed me,” he rasped, breaking off to spit out more blood. “I knew it as soon as we started this job.”
“Shut up a minute and let me think!” I snapped. I felt bad about that, but the stress was getting to me. I couldn’t believe that it had gone so wrong. The job had been planned to the last detail and we should have breezed through it. I glanced back down at Wilko, watching him as he held his wounded stomach and struggled to breathe.
I was in shock. Breathing deeply to calm myself, I took in our surroundings. We were in an abandoned car park underneath a derelict block of flats; it was the rendezvous point that Wilko had suggested days ago, during our planning. Hiding in plain sight, he had called it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and Big John had been happy enough with it. Now it seemed like madness. We were essentially trapped in a giant open space just yards away from a busy street. What if someone had seen us pull into the building? It would only take one nosey sod to dial 999 and it would all be over. It was cold, dimly lit by the surviving lights above our heads and it stank of stale urine. It was not helping my mood at all.
“How the bloody hell did this happen?” I said aloud, half to myself. Wilko grunted and a pained sneer spread across his face.
“I’ll tell you how,” he wheezed. “We let ourselves get involved with bleedin’ Pyscho Bill, that’s how! I knew I should’ve pulled out as soon as he was let in, I bloody knew it.”
“Well, your foresight really helped you, didn’t it?” I replied spitefully. I felt another twinge of regret, but he was really getting on my frayed nerves. The smell of his blood and his piss-soaked trousers wasn’t helping, either; it threatened to make me add vomit to the list. Worse than that, I was scared. The day had tuned into a colossal cock-up and I could almost hear the judge condemning me to another long stretch in a dark, cramped cell. But more annoyingly, Wilko had a point. What had Big John been thinking, putting a loose cannon like Pyscho Bill in our team? We had had the group we needed: myself, Wilko, and Fingers handling the crowd, with Miggs and Tiptoes emptying the safe. A team of five men, all professionals, all reliable, and crucially, we had all worked together before. Next thing we knew, Big John called and told us that Fingers was out and Pyscho Bill was in, no arguments. We couldn’t believe it; Pyscho Bill was, as the name suggested, a maniac, a liability. We needed to get in there quick and get out with minimal problems and no mistakes. Wilko had been especially unhappy about the change; he kept saying that Bill had a serious problem with him from an old job they’d worked on. I’d told him he was paranoid, but I hadn’t felt comfortable around the man, either.
“Why did he just flip like that?” I asked in exasperation. Everything had been going smoothly: Joe Public were scared stiff and under control, and Miggs and Tiptoes were sweeping the safe nice and fast.
“We were on our way out the doors, for Christ’s sake! Why did he take a shot at you then, when everything was almost over?”
“Buggered if I know,” Wilko growled, struggling to sit up. His long grey hair was lank with sweat, and his wrinkled face looked more haggard than ever. “I told you, the bloke had a screw loose. He never liked me, or Miggs, come to think of it. That’s why he shot him next. Poor sod took one right in the face.” He shook his head in anger and grief. He and Miggs went back a long way, but I wasn’t in the frame of mind to get sentimental.
A stray cat moved into sight near the entrance, making me jerk and reach for my pistol. I swore loudly at myself for being so jumpy.
“I think we were set up,” Wilko declared, out of the blue.
“Oh, do me a favour!” I snorted, “you must’ve lost a pint too many if that’s what you’re comin’ up with now!”
“Mate, there’s something you should know,” Wilko reached out and gripped my wrist tightly. He stared into my eyes and I saw the serious, pleading look in his. “Pyscho Bill was Big John’s nephew. I think John knew that Bill was likely to snap and try to take us out, that’s why he put him in our team instead of Fingers.”
“What?!” I yanked my arm free from his grip, my anger flaring. “Wilko, I ain’t in the bloody mood for games!”
“I’m dead serious, mate,” Wilko insisted, and he certainly looked it.
“But…why would Big John want us all killed? It…don’t make sense,” I stammered. “Why let the job go ahead in the first place? If he wanted us all dead, he could’ve sent some heavies ’round to our gaffes and done us in individually.”
“I know, I know,” Wilko rasped, shaking his head. “It sounds daft, but think about it. It was bugging me from the start, why John insisted that we do it all old-school and not take any mobile phones and not to contact him until we were well away with the money. Usually he’d want to have ears on what’s goin’ on, and be able to bark out orders when needed. But this time he said he’d rather sit back and leave us to it.”
“Well, that’s cos he knew we’d be able to handle it!” I said, desperately. “Christ, he knows we’re all good for a simple job like this!”
“Maybe so, but he’d still’ve wanted to know what was happenin’ as it happened.” Wilko had set his jaw, a stubborn expression I had seen many times. “We both know that! I reckon that he stayed well away this time so it would look like our own doin’, nothin’ to lead it back to him. I also reckon he told Bill that he wanted us all dead, and that he’d have to wait until the job was well under way before he tried anything. That’s why he shot me and Miggs.”
“But that don’t make sense either!” I whined. I sounded pathetic, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t accept what Wilko was saying. “Why would Big John put his own nephew at risk? He must have known that Bill wouldn’t’ve had the brains to pull it off!”
“That’s what I’m thinkin’ too,” Wilko replied gravely. “An’ I reckon that Big John was bankin’ on Pyscho Bill getting’ taken out in the process. Look, the bloke’s an embarrassment to him, that’s why he never told anyone that they were related! Nah, he wanted Bill to go down too, and he’d deal with whoever survived some other way.” I was stunned into silence, a ton of ice settling heavily on my shoulders and melting slowly down my back.
“This is all getting a bit Reservoir Dogs to me,” I groaned, running both hands across my sweating face. “All that needs to happen now is for a copper to get tortured and you to end up as a bloody police mole! That’d just about top it all off!”
“Piss off!” Wilko snapped, immediately grunting in pain. “This ain’t a poxy movie and this ain’t a bloody joke. That arsehole has got me killed today, and you and Tiptoes will probably get banged up for your trouble! You’ll get done for murder as well as armed robbery, even if it was self-defence, and that’s if you’re lucky an’ all! What happened to Tiptoes, anyway? I didn’t see much after I took one in the derby.”
“He took off in the other car,” I said slowly, massaging my temples. “Just after I shot Bill in the chest. He looked like a ghost had turned up and booted him in the arse. He had all the cash, too.”
“Well, halle-bleedin’-lujah!” Wilko sang angrily. “At least one of us did alright out of this mess!”
“Tiptoes ain’t stupid,” I said, rounding on him. “He’ll have made straight for Big John to let him know what’s happened. It’s all gone pear-shaped so far, but it’ll be a lot bloody worse if that cash doesn’t get to the boss! Cos I don’t think you’re right about this so-called ‘set-up’ anyway. Once Big John learns what’s gone on, he’ll sort us out. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right, son,” Wilko sounded doubtful. “’Cos if you’re not and I am, Tiptoes is dead as soon as he gets to Big John.” We drifted into uneasy silence once again, a chill wind sending a shiver up my spine as I tried to think clearly. Maybe this was the universe playing a big cosmic joke on me and my partners: the old ‘crime doesn’t pay’ rubbish. Or maybe it was ‘no honour among thieves’. Har-dee-bloody-har.
“What I said is worth considerin’, is all,” Wilko said matter-of-factly. “It’s definitely the sort of thing a cold-hearted bastard like Big John could arrange. I don’t know why he’d want us all taken out, but I ‘spose it ain’t that important right now. You should think about what I’ve said and plan your next moves very bloody carefully, mate.”
“Why did we even take this job, Wilko?” I asked softly. I didn’t want to hear any more about Wilko’s conspiracy theory, it was making my brain hurt. “I mean, neither of us are hard-up for a bit of cash these days, the other jobs saw to that. We could’ve just sat on our laurels, bone-idle and comfortable for the rest of our lives. Why did we come back? What was so special about this job?”
“Weren’t the job, mate,” Wilko replied, pausing to spit blood again. “It’s ‘cos we can’t sit bone-idle, not forever. We’re too bloody greedy for a start, and we love the thrill of a big job like this one. That’s what it all comes down to. I’ve been on the wrong side of the law for thirty-odd years, and no job has ever made me want to change that for long. So I blow some of my ill-earned dosh on drugs, booze and women and then wait by the phone, hopin’ that Big John will call me again. I ‘spect that you’re the same.”
“Yeah, I suppose I am,” I said, thoughtfully. He was right, about the thrill of a job and also about being greedy. ‘Once a thief, always a thief’, as my old man used to say. How bloody true.
“Figured as much,” Wilko wheezed, closing his eyes. “Screw it, I’m done for. I knew that son of a bitch would kill me today, I bloody knew it.”
I didn’t have anything else to add, so I sat down on the damp ground next to my dying friend. I put my arm around his shoulders and waited. Time passed slowly, and my minuscule hope flickered and faded along with Wilko’s vital signs. Finally, my old pal let out a long, rattling breath and left me alone. I had no bloody idea what to do next.

Spook the Human

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Spook the Human

By Adam Dixon

 

“So, what are you up to these days?” Fred the house spider asked his friend Stan as they met for a chat underneath a leather sofa. It was dark and quiet and that suited them well. The humans had been out of the house for most of that day, so they could fully relax. Stan raised two of his front legs in a non-committal gesture.

“Not much, friend, the usual,” He replied lazily. “Just one day to the next; avoiding the humans and trying to find a suitable mate.” After a moment, his eyes lit up suddenly in the dark, eight globes of excitement fixed on Fred. “Oh, but I have done well today for grub! Two fat, juicy bluebottles flew straight into my web this afternoon, one after the other. Beautiful, it was, and I’d not long finished spinning it! How they wriggled and fought! It was such fun wrapping them up!”

“Well done!” Fred cackled. “Impressive! By the way, where is your new home? I thought you were in the front porch?”

“Yes, I was,” Stan sighed. “But that bloody woman decided to clean it, and she caught my web with that vile pink thing that she brandishes around when collecting dust. Anyway, I moved into the conservatory after that, just above the doors. Prime location, perfect for catching curious flies!”

“Good choice,” Fred was eager in his approval. “Maybe I’ll leave my web in the loft and move in there, if you don’t mind, of course.”

“Not at all, it’ll be nice to have some company.” Stan sounded pleased at the thought. “Tell you what, come over this evening and share my meal. Consider it a welcoming present.”

“Don’t mind if it do!” Fred replied warmly. They lapsed into an easy silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the house. The slight creaking of the floorboards, the whisper of a draught under the door, the electronic hum of the refrigerator. Then Fred spoke up again.

“Listen, I have to tell you about this hilarious game that my siblings and I have been playing,” He said excitedly. “We came up with it a while ago, and it is brilliant fun every time.”

“Alright, you’ve got my interest,” Stan replied stretching his rear legs a little.

“It’s called ‘Spook the Human’,” Fred continued. “It’s self-explanatory, really. You know how some humans are actually frightened of us? Even though they are several times bigger and stronger than we are?”

“Yes, I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Stan guffawed.

“Completely. But that’s the point of ‘Spook the Human’; the aim of the game is to reveal yourself to a human in order to scare them into running away from you. I don’t mind telling you that when it works, it is absolutely hilarious! Sometimes, if you get really close, they all but lose their minds!”

“That does sound quite funny,” Stan said, amused. “But surely they’d just step on you right away? It can’t be worth the risk.”

“Wait and see, my friend,” Fred winked four of his eyes at Stan. “I’ll give you a little demonstration when the humans appear again. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.” Stan agreed to wait, and so they stood motionless for a long time, silently enjoying one another’s company. Eventually, the colossal ‘bang!’ of the front door and subsequent tremors along the floorboards announced the arrival of at least one of the larger occupants of the house. As the vibrations came ever closer, Fred became more animated in his anticipation.

“It’s the woman!” He cried, his fangs trembling he hopped about excitedly. “She’s terrified of us! Wait…She’s coming in! Watch this!”

With a devious chuckle, Fred scurried out from underneath the sofa. He ran across the smooth laminate flooring towards the towering figure of the woman. He made it about three feet before the woman let out an ear-splitting screech and threw her arms up in the air. Spinning on her expensive heels, she fled from the room, a squealing mass of blond hair and designer clothing.

Fred went back under the sofa next to Stan, laughing loudly.

“See?” He said, blinking tears from several of his eyes. “She can’t stand us! It’s a riot every time!”

“That did look like fun, I’ll give you that,” Stan chuckled. “In fact, I think I’ll give it a go next!”

“Great! But there are some warnings about the game that I must give you,” Fred said, becoming serious. “It is good fun, but you need to be careful about which humans you try it with and where you try it. Some aren’t scared at all, and will attack you instead of running away. Two of my brothers got crushed by choosing the wrong humans, and three of my sisters were drowned in sinks. Just be careful, even though the thrill is in the risk.”

“Alright, I’ll be careful,” Stan said dismissively. “Come on, I want to play!” With that he inched closer to the edge of the sofa, scanning the room beyond. His hairy legs were quivering as he waited impatiently and he clicked his jaws together in irritation. Soon, the floorboards began quaking once again, and a blond-haired child of about four years old came galloping into the room, grinning from ear to ear.

Laughing, Stan shot out from under the sofa, his legs moving like a skeletal hand with too many fingers. The child saw him and stopped in her tracks. After a second or two of scrutiny, the child seized a slipper from next to an armchair and squashed Stan flat. Smack! Smack! Smack! Without a word the child walked out of the room, leaving a brown smear on the laminate where he had been.

“Bugger…” Fred cursed sadly. “I did warn him!” Fred shook his head with regret before stealthily moving off in the direction of the conservatory. Well, it would be a shame to waste those fat bluebottles…

 

Bad For Business

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Bad for Business

By Adam Dixon

George pressed the call button and said, “Mrs. Whitfield, you have a visitor.” A few seconds later the phone receiver crackled and a confused, high-pitched voice barked a reply.

“A visitor? Who is it, George? I’m not expecting to see anyone until tomorrow.”

“A tall gentleman with a large moustache and a bowler hat, Mrs. Whitfield,” George responded patiently. “He hasn’t give a name, he said that you would know him from that description. Shall I send him in?” The response was barely a heartbeat in coming this time.

“Oh, good Lord! Yes, George, send him in at once!”

George smiled at the man standing in front of him. He was in his fifties, his face impassive and his eyes steely grey orbs floating above an enormous walrus moustache. He stood erect with both hands clasped behind his back, his long black coat giving him the look of a funeral director.

“Mrs. Whitfield will see you now, sir,” George said, gesturing towards the door to his right. “Please go ahead and let yourself in.” The man gave him a curt nod before striding resolutely towards the door. His back was straight and his eyes were set dead ahead. As he passed, George’s smile faltered and a shiver ran up his spine. He smelled…strange. It was a musty scent yet somehow acidic, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Whoever he was, he gave George the creeps. The man opened the door to Mrs. Whitfield’s office and without a word he entered her inner sanctuary, slamming it behind him.

George sat at his desk staring after him, bewildered. Who on earth was that? He thought to himself. Mrs. Whitfield had seemed rattled, and that made George uneasy. This man was quite different from the usual suspects who dragged themselves into his employer’s office, seeking her legal aid concerning matters malignant and benign. For one, he seemed very sure of himself, whereas most of the people who passed through George’s line of sight were either quivering wrecks or hopeless optimists.

To pass the time, George decided to speculate on who this mysterious stranger could be. Perhaps he was an old client who needed help again, or he was a former adversary of Mrs. Whitfield’s? She had practiced law as a barrister several years ago, and this man had the look of a professional about him. Maybe he had crossed swords with Mrs. Whitfield in the past, and had come back for some personal reason. Embittered by a sound defeat at her legal prowess, possibly? That was interesting enough, he mused.

He could be Mrs. Whitfield’s estranged husband! He thought with excitement, his earlier discomfort vanishing. She had separated from Mr. Whitfield before starting up her own business, and perhaps he had come back wanting a slice of the cake. Perhaps he is an acquaintance of Mr. Whitfield, he thought, coming here on his behalf. Very juicy, that notion. He’d have to share that nugget with Debra from accounts. Maybe he was her lover? This one made George chuckle and he dismissed it immediately. Mrs. Whitfield was, although charming and attractive in her own way, completely asexual. Besides, the man George had let into her office didn’t exactly look like a man incensed by desire. No, come to think of it, he looked more like a man intent on doing some harm.

This last thought made him uneasy once again. George chided himself for considering such groundless notions, but he couldn’t help turning to stare at the office door, regardless. He sat in silence, straining his ears in the hope of catching a hint of the proceedings within. All he could make out were the muffled voices of Mrs. Whitfield and the stranger. It didn’t sound like they were arguing, so that was a relief. Soon, George’s curiosity got the better of him, and he gingerly picked up the phone receiver and held it to his ear. Mrs. Whitfield often forgot to toggle off the call button, which meant that George could eavesdrop on her meetings. Not a particularly noble, or indeed legal, thing to do, but it passed the time on slow days. Listening in on some of those conversations was like hearing a radio broadcast of The Jeremy Kyle Show. But this one wasn’t like that at all.

“I trust you realise why I’ve come to you now,” the man was saying, his voice a deep bass rumble.

“Yes, yes, of course I do,” Mrs Whitfield’s usually chirpy voice held an edge of tension. “But…does it have to be now? I’ve just gotten my life readjusted and my plans are secure. Things are going very well at present.”

“My dear woman!” The man laughed unpleasantly. “One could hardly expect this moment to come when it is convenient, could one? No, you have had ten years of success to this very hour, and now the payment is at hand. You must come with me!” The man spat the final sentence, and George could have sworn that his voice had become a rasping snarl for a moment.

“No, I will not!” Mrs. Whitfield was defiant. “Stay away from me!” George had no idea what was going on, but he had the feeling that things were about to turn ugly. He sprung out of his chair and rushed towards the office door. As he reached it, he heard a blood-curdling screech emit from within the office. He froze, unable to process what he was hearing. He then forced himself onwards, wrenching open the door and stepping inside.

The scene which greeted him defied all his expectations. The short, slightly plump Mrs. Whitfield was standing in the centre of the room holding aloft a large wooden crucifix. Her eyes were wild and there seemed to be a strange glow emanating from her hands. Backed against the wall, cowering and still screaming, was the strange man. He glanced past the arm which was shielding his sight, and George saw with horror that his eyes had turned blood-red. Half of his face was horribly burned and smoking skin was barely clinging to his skull. His walrus moustache was smouldering, the stink of burning hair and flesh filling the room.

“You ungrateful whore!” The man bellowed, his voice rasping again. “We had a deal, bound in blood! I will not be denied!” Mrs. Whitfield took a step towards the creature, brandishing her crucifix like a blazing torch.

“Yes, we did,” She glared furiously at the figure huddled against the wall. “But I’m a lawyer, dearie, and I always find a way out!” She flung out her right hand and a small glass sphere filled with water flew across the room. It struck the creature on his arm, shattering instantly and soaking it from head to foot. The creature bellowed in agony, and layers of skin began searing off its face and hands. Its moustache fell away as it burned, the impressive spectacle obliterated in seconds. At this final insult, the creature pointed a trembling finger at Mrs. Whitfield.

“You’ll pay dearly for this, woman!” It spat, baring its teeth in fury and pain. It straightened up, clasped its hands together as if in prayer, and abruptly vanished with a blinding flash of light. The after-image of the room still showed the purple silhouette of the creature before it had disappeared. George stood by the doorway, blinking rapidly and trying to make sense of what he had seen. He looked at Mrs. Whitfield, a dozen questions rendering him tongue-tied. Mrs. Whitfield lowered her crucifix and gave him a level stare.

“Well, that takes care of that pest, for now at least.” She said, matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, dearie, but it can’t be helped.” She frowned at the wet patch of carpet. “Hmmm, my contacts omitted to tell me whether or not Holy Water stains carpets. How irritating…” She trailed off, shaking her head. She smoothed her grey suit jacket absent-mindedly before glancing back up at George.

“Well, George? What are you still doing here?” She asked, somewhat dismissively. “Don’t you have some files to be checking for me? A few for Mr. Black’s wrongful imprisonment case, I believe?”

“I…Yes, Mrs. Whitfield, I’ll…erm…I’ll get on those right away.” George responded, dumb-founded. He turned around and walked with shaky legs back to his desk. He leaned heavily against the wooden frame for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Oh, and George?” He started as the phone receiver crackled. He could almost see the amused smirk on her face by her tone. He pressed the call button.

“Yes, Mrs. Whitfield?” George replied, shaken.

“Be a dear and don’t mention that little incident to anyone, will you?” She asked nonchalantly. “Demons in the workplace are terribly bad for business! Many thanks!”

With that, the phone was silent, leaving George staring at it in astonishment.

Fever of Venus

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Fever of Venus

By Adam Dixon

She stirred the bubbling green mixture in the pan, the heat from the rising steam warming her hand just enough to be pleasurable. It was hard work, brewing magic potions, and Andi had to find some pleasure in the process whenever possible. She closed her eyes and stretched, cracking her back deliciously for a few seconds. The problem was that modern witches simply didn’t have the time to make potions anymore; the effort of finding and preparing the multitude of ingredients was beyond them. Almost all of them had demanding jobs to maintain, such as being lawyers, business tycoons and high-ranking politicians; occupations which satisfied their own sinister, crafty agendas and allowed them to succeed in the world. They still had their spells and arcane hobbies, but they no longer had the leisure time to invest in potion-crafting. That is where Andi came in: as a member of an established and well-favoured family of alchemists she was trusted to fill this area of neglect in the lives of modern witches. Andi had learned her trade from her father, a near-legendary potions master, and she had been successful long enough to consider herself an expert in her own right. She brewed potions for uses good, foul and anything in between for a number of witches who paid her handsomely for her efforts. So, it was hard work, but the rewards were fantastic.

She was currently brewing a complex potion which rendered the unfortunate drinker paralysed whilst fully conscious. The effect could be moderated depending on the strength of the dosage; for example, two drops would cause paralysis for ten minutes, but half the bottle would incapacitate the drinker for twelve hours. It was a potion which had been created by Andi’s father, and it had become rapidly desired by witches who wanted to add something devious to their collections. As expected, it had also proven quite popular among those who had a proclivity for ill-acquired trinkets. Her customer this time was a young witch who had a taste for successful artists; enough said, thought Andi with a wry smile. She began stirring the potion first clockwise and then anti-clockwise in intervals, as the recipe required. She soon lost herself in the rhythm of her work and began to daydream, working by instinct rather than concentration.

Andi was brought back to reality after about ten minutes by a rattling sound coming from behind her. She turned around and saw that the Blood Receptacle was trembling on its pedestal. The Blood Receptacle was a large bowl fashioned from obsidian, making it very dark and strangely luminous as it sat proudly on top of a marble pillar in the corner of Andi’s laboratory. The bowl was filled three-quarters of the way up with blood, the viscous, crimson liquid partially visible through the glass. The blood was slopping to and fro in the bowl of its own accord, seemingly frantic. Andi sighed and turned the heat down on her Bunsen burner before moving towards the pillar. For all their readiness to embrace modernity, some witches still insisted on traditional modes of contact; Andi would much rather that they used the telephone.  She approached the insistent bowl and quietened it by placing her hands on either side of it. I hate this part, she thought to herself. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her lips to the surface and took in a mouthful of blood. Andi then straightened, and after waiting for ten seconds to pass she spat the coppery liquid back into the bowl with disgust and relief. The blood rippled in the bowl, and slowly the colour was drained until a clear, reflective surface was left. Moments later, the image of a face came into view, blurring slightly as the ritual was completed. A stern, female face of middling years stared out of the bowl and regarded Andi with cold grey eyes.

“Andromeda Hairlock, I presume?” A sharp voice issued forth, the sound wavering slightly. Andi beamed into the bowl.

“Yes, that’s me!” She said cheerfully. “But please, call me Andi. How may I help you today, lady sorceress?”

“I am in the market for a particular potion, Miss Hairlock,” The witch stated brusquely, her manner business-like and efficient. “Your establishment comes highly recommended.” The woman paused for a moment to peer more closely at Andi. “Although, I expected you to be much older, considering the strength of the appraisal.” The pride Andi had felt at the woman’s first words faded quickly and were replaced with annoyance. Her youth was a constant hindrance to her when dealing with prospective customers. She longed for the day when her glossy black hair turned grey, then she would perhaps encourage believability upon first encounters.

“Well, I do hope I can be of service, madam,” Andi said, ignoring her irritation. “Which potion are you looking to acquire, Miss…?”

“Ironbark. Clytemnestra Ironbark.” The witch replied, seemingly annoyed at having been asked. Andi gasped.

“My lady sorceress, it is indeed an honour to meet you!” Andi spluttered, inclining her head in what she hoped was a respectful manner. “Great elephants, I wonder what my father would say if he knew I was talking to a witch of such infamy and power!”

“Yes, I had hoped to enlist the services of your esteemed father,” the witch said matter-of-factly. “But I heard that he is currently indisposed, which is a frightful bother.” Andi’s smiled faded slightly.

“Yes, my lady sorceress,” She replied, caught off guard. “Father had a run in with a particularly nasty goblin who was trying to steal some of his notes. He is healing well, but remains unable to work for the time being.”

“As I said, a frightful bother,” Ironbark said coldly. “In my experience there are no other types of goblins but nasty ones. Loathsome creatures. Your father ought to have been more careful, I say. But no matter, his daughter will have to suffice.”

Andi had by now decided that she didn’t like this obnoxious, arrogant sorceress, but she could never turn down the opportunity to work for anyone so well-known. She bit back an angry retort and simply offered Ironbark a small smile and a nod, indicating that she should continue.

“I’ll say once again, I am in the market for a very specific potion,” Ironbark said brusquely. “I am prepared to meet any price for its production, and I am likewise prepared to wait as long as it takes for it to be brewed to perfection. I have never accepted lesser potions, Miss Hairlock, and I have absolutely no intention of starting with one as vital as this.”

“Understood, madam,” Andi replied warily. “I will do my utmost to provide the potion you seek. Which potion would that be?” I bet it’s a nasty one, thought Andi. She seems like a nasty sort of witch in person, and some of the stories about her are just terrible.

“Yes, well…” Ironbark hesitated, her image rippling slightly as she frowned and looked away. Why is she stalling? Andi pondered, curious.

“Miss Hairlock, I am looking to acquire the most potent reversal of a love potion which you are capable of concocting.” Ironbark said quickly. “As I said, money and time are no object, but I would prefer it to be created as soon as professionally possible. Can you aid me?”

Well, that was a surprise! Andi was stunned. Reverse a love potion? Clytemnestra Ironbark did not seem like the kind of woman who would even consider using a love potion in the first place, let alone reversing one. This was very interesting.

“Well, yes, lady sorceress, I certainly can aid you,” Andi said, taken aback, “There is no potion created which cannot be reversed. However, I will need to know which specific love potion was administered, so that I can correctly fashion its antidote.”

“Therein lies the problem, Miss Hairlock,” Ironbark stated, her cold eyes boring in to Andi’s. Was that desperation Andi saw in them? Surely not… “I…ah…do not know which potion I used, truthfully. I was hoping that you would be able to identify the draught from the information I can provide. First of all, I was informed that the potion I purchased had a short-term effect, possibly two or three days. I was additionally told that it was brewed from mermaid tears and foxglove at moonlight.”

“That sounds like Merlin’s Seduction,” Andi said, trying hard not to smirk. “You are correct, it’s only supposed to last for a couple of days. It focuses primarily on firing up the lust of the drinker; to render them completely enamoured and with an insatiable desire for-“

“Yes, yes, there is no need to spell it out!” Ironbark interrupted sharply, her cheeks turning slightly crimson. Andi had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. This was becoming a hilarious conversation!

“My apologies, lady sorceress,” Andi bowed her head, as much out of respect as to hide a wolfish grin. “But I assume that something has gone awry?”

“That is correct,” Ironbark said, regaining her stern poise and raising her chin slightly. “The effect is as described, but it has continued now for more than a month with no signs of…abating.” The flush returned to the witch’s cheeks. “The potion was red in colour, easily disguised in wine and it smelled faintly of wolfberries. Can you infer anything with that information?”

“Yes, I believe that I can,” Andi replied, her good cheer returning. “It sounds like you were wrongly sold a very powerful draught called the Fever of Venus. It is designed to increase the…erm…urges, of the drinker towards the first person they see. Depending on the strength of the dosage, the effect can last for months.”

“Great elephants!” Ironbark yelped, her eyes widening. She cleared her throat loudly, embarrassed by her outburst.

“But it is reversible,” continued Andi as if nothing had happened. “I will need to acquire some rare ingredients and brew it in a very complicated way, but I can do it.” She paused for a moment, allowing herself a visible smirk this time. “However, it may take me up to a week to complete the potion. Do you think you can…erm…hold off the…afflicted, for that long?”

“I suppose I will have to, Miss Hairlock!” Ironbark’s reply was haughty, and she was clearly incensed by Andi’s amusement. “I shall keep the wretch at bay until then, I am certain. Just ensure that you craft the item in that time, and not a day later!”

“Of course, lady sorceress,” Andi was insistent. “I will get to work this instant. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No, that will suffice,” Ironbark said almost rudely. “Send me an invoice for the ingredients you require and I will match the price without hesitation. Your fee will be generous as well, should your draught perform as expected.”

“It will, lady sorceress, on my Father’s good name it will.” Andi was quite keen to get rid of the unpleasant woman now, and betrayed her impatience slightly with her curt reply. Ironbark nodded, and after a moment spoke again.

“I…ahh…I would appreciate your discretion and professionalism in this matter, Miss Hairlock. This situation could prove disastrous to my reputation if ever it became public knowledge, and as I am sure you are aware, a witch is nothing without her reputation.”

“Of course, lady sorceress,” Andi replied in a serious tone. “My lips are sealed on this matter, don’t worry.”

“Good.” The old witch seemed greatly relieved. “Until next time, then.” With that, the image of the woman began to ripple, and with each wave the clear liquid began to turn crimson. After a short while the stern, yet embarrassed face of the infamous sorceress had disappeared, and Andi was left staring at her amused reflection in a pool of blood. She stood upright and lazily wiped the blood from her lips. Etiquette required that she did not do so during their conversation, another reason Andi wished that modern witches would ditch the macabre use of the Blood Receptacle. Seriously, what was wrong with the telephone? Or Skype, even? Surely that would save everyone involved a lot of bother!

Andi shook her head and walked over to her desk. She flipped open a huge leather-bound book filled with intricate drawings and long, detailed lists. The book was ancient, well-worn and lovingly preserved. She quickly located the page for the Fever of Venus and she spent the next few minutes working out the ingredients needed to reverse it and noting them down on her iPad. As usual, this blend of the traditional and the modern made her grin, and her thoughts turned to the infamous Clytemnestra Ironbark’s unfortunate situation. She found it amazing that such a historically shrewd and cautious woman could be so easily duped. She also found it hilarious.

“Modern witches,” she said to herself, chuckling. “Still just as clueless as everyone else!”

Fair Emma

AJ.Dixon30 Comments

Fair Emma

By Adam Dixon

The streets of Whitechapel were deathly quiet that night. The street lamps were sparse and their feeble glow barely penetrated the November mist. There were shadows on every corner, and in one of them lurked a solitary, patient woman. Jackie stood motionless, her eyes on the small lodgings across the street. Standing on street corners had become a familiar occupation of hers of late, but she was not there for her trade. A fellow night-worker was completing a transaction with a client, and they had entered the small house less than half an hour ago. She stood calmly, her gaze boring into the wooden door just yards in front of her.

Soon, a man staggered outside, cursing loudly as he caught his foot on the door frame. He almost tripped, but somehow managed to remain upright and wobbled off into the night, belching out a bawdy song and chuckling to himself. After a few minutes the street was silent once again, and Jackie slowly approached the house. It was in a state of disrepair, with the door a little off its hinges and one of the panes of glass broken in the window next to it. Raising a gloved hand, Jackie knocked softly on the door.

No response. Jackie glanced up the street in both directions. Satisfied that there was not another soul nearby, she knocked again, more firmly this time.

“Mary, let me in!” She called, her voice just above a whisper. She hesitated when she heard no movement from within.

“Come on, Ginger, let me in.” ’Ginger’ was the pet name affectionately given to the house’s occupant by the other working women, so Jackie was fairly confident that using it would help. Sure enough, soft footsteps approached the door and the coat draped across the broken window pane twitched. A moment later the door was opened, and Mary stood peering out uncertainly, dressed in her nightclothes. Mary blinked in surprise as she registered who it was.

“Oh, it’s you, Jackie! My, what a surprise you gave me! I though you was that drunk fella comin’ back! What brings you here at this time? Come in, come in.” She stepped to one side, allowing Jackie to stride past the threshold. It was dark inside, as there was only one candle lit. Once inside, Jackie turned to face Mary, who was bolting the door. The bolt was on the outside of the house, and Mary was reaching through the broken window pane to draw it. Jackie took a moment to study her. Also known as “Fair Emma” by her clients, Mary was young, attractive and buxom. She had fallen into poverty and then onto the streets for a living because life was cruel and uncaring. Jackie certainly didn’t care; it was like that for everybody, and it was only work, after all.

“Don’t mind me, love. Can’t be too careful these days, can we?” Mary offered, fiddling with the bolt. “Not after those poor girls have been done over, God have mercy on ‘em.”

“No, we certainly can’t.” Jackie replied, and casually removed the long knife from inside her cloak. She held it loose in her right hand, her intense stare fixed at the back of Mary’s head. The woman chattered on in her charming Irish way as she struggled with the rusty bolt, but Jackie just let the noise wash over her in a muffled haze. She could see a good section of Mary’s neck exposed as she leaned over with her head cocked to one side. The pale, recently-cleaned skin seemed to call to her, and she could almost smell the blood rushing through the veins and arteries within. Her breathing became shallower and her eyes glazed over. Her knife hand twitched, and she began to creep forwards.

“Oh, this bleedin’ thing!” Mary huffed, quite frustrated with her lack of success. “I’ll have the landlord’s guts for this! How’s a woman ‘sposed to feel safe in her own home, I ask you?”

Jackie didn’t answer, but took another step towards her. Her free hand reached out and hovered just behind Mary’s left ear. So close, thought Jackie, her excitement reaching almost painful heights. She edged closer still…

“There!” Mary declared triumphantly, standing up straight as she slammed the bolt home. She planted her hands on her hips, a satisfied grin on her face.

“Nice and safe now! No wrong-un’s gettin’ in ‘ere tonight, eh, Jackie?” She chuckled at the joke and turned around. Her eyes widened as Jackie’s hand clamped around her mouth and the raised knife fell.

Two hours later, Jackie staggered through the dark streets of London, her rapture so intense that it made her unsteady. She leaned against a brick wall in an alley for a moment, trying to collect her dazed thoughts. She was dimly aware that the clothes she was wearing were not her own. That’s right, she thought dreamily, these are Mary’s clothes…I burned mine as fuel for the grate; there wasn’t enough light…. Just as well, considering all the blood. Oh, but she had been brutal! She didn’t know why she had gone so far this time, as Mary was no different from the previous women. Perhaps it was because this time it had been private, with no chance of a witness and no chance of being disturbed? Or perhaps it was simply because Mary was young and attractive, and life had not yet succeeded in dampening her good spirits. Possibly. It didn’t matter, regardless, Mary was dead and the beast within Jackie was slumbering once again, satisfied with another active night.

Jackie wondered what the newspapers would make of the attack once Mary was discovered. It would be one hell of a story, and the press would undoubtedly link it to the string of recent murders around London. Jackie giggled as she thought of how close they had come with their headlines before, but that their misconception would ensure her safety. As far as London was concerned, the monstrous Jack the Ripper will have claimed another life and was still at large. Jackie straightened and walked briskly through the morning mist. Oh yes, the Ripper had indeed been hunting that night, and she had loved every second of it.

Reminder

AJ.Dixon3 Comments

Reminder

By Adam Dixon

Ken opened his eyes slowly. His attempts to retreat back into the safe oblivion of sleep were denied by the sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window. What greeted him that morning was what always greeted him: feelings of self-loathing and despair. He groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut from the glare of the new day and from the punishments it promised. He fidgeted in his bed, trying to find some source of comfort within his duvet beyond the warmth of his body. There was none to be found and Ken glanced miserably at his digital clock on his bedside table. The neon-green digits declared proudly that the time was 07:11 A.M. Ken groaned again, noting how pathetic it made him sound even to his own ears. You are pathetic, whispered the malicious voice in the back of his head. That voice was often one of the first things he heard during the day, as well as one of the last. It was his own voice, but with a sneering, hateful edge to it. ‘Fantastic,’ thought Ken sarcastically, ‘this is going to be another brilliant day’.

Ken’s mind began to drift as he lay there, drifting to dark places. He felt increasingly as if he was merely a passive bag of meat and bones that was directed according to the whims of his brain. He thought about the torment that a new day could bring him, and a familiar feeling of crippling inadequacy and incompetence began to settle on him like a lead blanket. Why bother waking up at all? The voice seemed amused, as always, and faintly triumphant. He stared miserably at the ceiling, noting dispassionately the cracks in the paint and the stains from a recent leak. Another day with the empty hours extending endlessly before him like a barren stretch of motorway. Could he manage to endure another day like that? Ken didn’t know.

His eyes slid slowly from the ceiling and across his room. He was in the attic of the house, so his room was small and slightly cramped, with exposed beams jutting out from above. His belongings were scattered around without any particular order or thought. His jeans were tangled around the back of his desk chair, one leg drooping sadly a few inches from the floor. His t-shirt was crumpled on the carpet, the creased face of the Darth Vader print gazing forlornly up at him. Various unopened letters lay in a stack on his desk, on top of which sat a half-finished bottle of whiskey. Two more empty ones lay in the waste-paper bin beside the desk. Upon seeing these last objects, Ken’s self-loathing deepened. ‘Great,’ he thought, ‘become an alcoholic while you’re at it too. Why the hell not?’ His untouched medication was still in the white and green pharmacy bag. One box of finest citalopram, courtesy of the NHS. God bless ‘em, eh, Kenny-boy? Oh yes, the voice was definitely amused this morning. Ken had been told that he should to take them, but so far he had ignored that piece of advice. He knew he should trust the drugs, but he still refused to admit that he needed them. Even in his misery he was stubborn.

Looking again at his desk and saw that his mobile phone was flashing. He had set it to silent so that he wouldn’t be disturbed when he eventually managed to sleep. He had seen the screen light up a few times during the night as he lay awake, but he couldn’t summon the motivation to get up and retrieve it. He stared at it for several long minutes. You won’t find anything, the voice mocked, nobody cares enough to contact you. Ken tended to agree, but he decided to check his phone just in case. Sitting up required a herculean effort as Ken felt like his limbs were made of stone, but he managed it and reached over to snatch up his mobile. He instantly slumped back down in bed and held the phone up in front of his bleary eyes. He swiped his screen and saw the tally from the previous afternoon to that morning. Five missed calls and three text messages. So it seemed that some people cared after all. Big deal, the voice scoffed, they tried to call you, so what? None of them understand. Ken sighed, deflated. It was true, nobody who knew him understood what he was going through. They were sympathetic to a point, but Ken could almost hear the doubts forming in their heads and the things they would be saying if they had the nerve speak up. Things like “come on now, Ken, pull yourself together”, or “you’re twenty-one, what have you got to be depressed about?” or his personal favourite “lighten up, mate”. Lighten up? Lighten up?! As if it were so simple! Like the thoughts and feelings in his head could be changed from melancholic to cheerful like flicking a bloody light switch! Some people were so patronising in their ignorance that Ken wanted to scream at them. They didn’t understand, so what was the point of trying?

Unbidden, another voice echoed in his head. This was a woman’s voice, civil if not quite friendly, and authoritative. Remember, Ken, not everyone will be able to understand your feelings. But any who try will be worth having around. Ken grunted, but his contempt was only half-hearted. That had been the voice of Dr Matthews, his counsellor. He had been visiting her sporadically over the last six months, after his friends had begged him to see someone. Ken had expected to come face to face with an old crone when he turned up for his first meeting with her, and he fully expected it to be a waste of time. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Dr Matthews was in fact a red-haired beauty in a suit, probably closer to thirty than forty, but that didn’t change the prospects of the meetings in his mind. It had been difficult enough to drag himself out of bed for the damn thing, and he fully believed that he wouldn’t be returning. Strangely, however, he had returned. Dr Matthews had been irritatingly emotionless and almost condescending in her manner, but she had managed to coax a semblance of conversation out of him more than once. Just talking for a few minutes about his pains seemed to alleviate them somewhat, much to his astonishment. Dr Matthews seemed full of those obvious motivational phrases which seemed to come straight from syrupy self-help books, revealing such gems as “it’s okay not being perfect”, or “stars can’t shine without darkness”. The latter almost made him laugh out loud when she said it, except that he could not bring himself to laugh. What kind of watered-down psycho-babble was that? It merely served to cement his notion that Dr Matthews knew absolutely nothing and wouldn’t be able to help him. The stupid bitch would just keep spewing out this drivel in order to earn her salary. As if she really cared about him. Nobody else did, and she was a complete stranger.

Except…she wasn’t a stranger anymore. Not really. After seven or eight sessions with her, Ken had revealed as much information about himself and his struggle with his mind as he could, and that was a damn sight more than most people knew. He had begun to enjoy talking to her, even if he didn’t completely believe she was helping him. Perhaps that was a start. It got him out of the house at least. Just take each day one step at a time, Ken. That’s really all you can do. That was another pearl of wisdom from the good doctor. But that that one made some sense, at least. Sometimes Ken tried to act on that advice, and sometimes it worked and he would get up and actually do something. Nothing earth-shattering, of course, usually just getting out of bed, showering and tidying his room. Sometimes he would even read or talk to his friends online, although never for very long. He found their good spirits hard to bear. He had nearly applied for a part-time job online a few days before, but had backed down at the last moment, his cursor hovering over the ‘APPLY’ button for a tense few minutes. He had even made some progress with his university studies, even though he was still behind. He felt slightly more useful those days, more whole. Perhaps he had Dr Matthews to thank for that. Maybe she wasn’t completely useless.

Something else Dr Matthews had said rattled around in his head whilst he stared at his phone screen. Real friends will listen because they care. Instead of lying around wallowing every day, try calling someone. You may find that they can help you just by starting a conversation. Ken desperately wanted to call back everyone who had left him a message, but his thumb simply hung in the air in front of his phone screen; it was a mute, dumb appendage which failed him this morning. That’s what Ken tried to tell himself, that it was his thumb’s fault this time. He put his phone down in disgust and rolled on to his side to resume gazing around his room without interest. His stomach growled softly. Ken ignored it. Leaving his room to get something to eat was beyond the realm of possibility if he couldn’t even will himself to make a phone call. Just lie here and feel sorry for yourself, the voice sneered from inside Ken’s head, that’s all your good for.

Ken lay in miserable silence for a long time afterwards. He realised after a while that he was caressing his phone screen with his thumb, swiping the menu backwards and forwards and pressing random applications. He stopped, and after a moment’s pause opened his text messages. Two messages were from James, his best friend, and the other was from Chloe, another friend. Ken’s heart fluttered a little as he saw Chloe’s name. That often happened, because Ken fancied the pants off of her. He thought she may have liked him back, but he hadn’t allowed it to progress. After all, why would she want to be with a useless lay-about like him? But still, he liked that she had texted him. Her message was from 20:15 P.M. the previous evening. He opened it. It was short and sweet.

”Hi, Ken! Hope you’re doing alright. Pub some time? Gimme a call when you’re free x”

So, she wanted to meet up. A nice thought, but Ken didn’t see it happening any time soon. He sighed sadly, and opened the messages from James. The first one was predictably lively, sent at 19:25 P.M.

“Alright, mate? Me and a bunch of the guys are heading over to The World’s End in about an hour, so get your head out of your arse and join us, you old hermit! We’ve not seen you in days, and we’re starting to forget just how ugly you are. Come out and remind us!”

At another time Ken would have smiled at this kind of message from James, and more than likely would have sent a witty rejoinder advising him to ask his mother for the reason he hasn’t been seen for days. Following that he would have left the house and joined his friends. Perhaps he would have invited Chloe along too. But now it simply made Ken feel worse, as if he didn’t deserve to intrude on other people enjoying themselves. He saw that the next message from James had been sent at 23:15 P.M. Most likely James had been drunk by this point, and quick check confirmed that three of his five missed calls had been from James, at 21:23, 22:30 and 23:12. This message had come after his third failed attempt to reach Ken. It was not as lively as the earlier text.

“Ken, I know you’re having some trouble. Don’t lock yourself away, mate, it can’t be good for you. Call me if you need someone to talk to, I’ll make the time for you. See you soon, you hermit.”

Ken could have wept. He was slowly losing his ties to his friends through his apathy, and it was soul-destroying. Maybe he should try to contact them, at least to check in with them. He wouldn’t be able to explain his absence, as he could not find words with the depth to do so adequately. He checked his phone again. The two other missed calls were from his mother, at 20:45 P.M and 21:00 P.M. That made Ken feel slightly uplifted, bizarrely, even though he didn’t speak to his mother as often as he used to. He supposed she was worried about him, just like James was. Chloe didn’t really know about Ken’s difficulties, so her contact was just a friendly invitation. Maybe he should call them back. James said he’d make the time…

Ken sat up and dialled James’ number. It was early, but he was clinging to the hope his friend had given him. His heart leapt up as he heard James’ cheerful bass rumble, but sank immediately as he realised his call had gone straight to voicemail.

“Hello! This is James, sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, if you’d like to leave a message I’ll-“. Ken ended the call in disgust. So, James hadn’t really meant it when he had said that he’d make the time talk to him. Part of him knew that this was a little unfair, as James was likely sleeping off his night of carefree drinking, but another part of him didn’t care. This was the stronger side of him, his cynical, pessimistic side. I told you they don’t care, the voice said. Ken gritted his teeth in frustration. It was a moment or two before he realised that the dial tone was sounding from his phone’s speakers, and he saw with dumb horror that he had unconsciously called Chloe. He was about to cancel the call, when he thought better of it. Maybe she would pick up…

No. Her phone rang four times and then went to voicemail. Hers wasn’t even personalised. She had rejected the call. Again, the ever-shrinking voice of reason within him suggested that it was still early and perhaps he had woken her up…But the spiteful voice drowned it out completely. See! She doesn’t care either! Ken wondered why he had been cursed with a psyche which was so thrilled by his own pain. It was enjoying this! He whimpered and swung his bare legs out and over the edge of his bed. Surely someone would talk to him? It seemed so unfair, to be foiled right when he had finally summoned the courage to speak for the first time in days!

Dr Matthews! He could call Dr Matthews’ office and see if she was at work already. He knew it was a slim chance, but she was a professional, wasn’t she? Surely someone would be able to direct his call to her? He dialled the number for her office and listened with bated breath as it rang. It rang, and rang, and rang. Ken groaned with impotent anger as the precise, business-like voice of his counsellor’s secretary answered:

“Hello, this is Dr Matthews’ office. I’m sorry, but there is currently no-one available to take your call. Please call back during our opening hours, which are-“. Ken spat out a vulgar curse as he cut off the automated message. So, even the good doctor was unreachable? Fat lot of good she was to him! Just when he had begun to like her too…

Ken got out of bed and stood still, holding out his phone with a shaking hand. There was one more person he could call, who surely, surely, would want to talk to him. She was always up early, always. He breathed deeply with his eyes closed, composing himself and forcing down his rising dread and panic. You’ll regret this…the voice jeered at him.

“Shut up!” Ken cried, realising how ludicrous it was to be answering his imagination. He glared at the phone again, and then he called his mother. His free hand found his mouth, and he began gnawing on his fingernails anxiously. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…

Ken stood very still as fresh waves of despair began to creep into his body like a virus. Calling his mother had been supremely difficult, even more so than calling his friends or Dr Matthews’ office, and so to be ignored by her as well was so much worse. He let his phone drop to the floor as his grip loosened, the thud as it hit the carpet sounding far away. Hurt, angry tears followed it, spilling unbidden from Ken’s eyes. Dr Matthews had been wrong. Nobody cared enough to answer his calls, not even the red-haired bitch herself. He hated her deeply as he realised this, and he was once again hopelessly devoid of direction. He was alone, adrift in a sea of misery with no land in sight.

As he cast his eyes around his prison-like room once again, his gaze fell upon something near his window. There, on top of his wardrobe, with one end draped over its edge and hanging seductively, was a black tie. Ken stared at the tie, vaguely recalling that it was part of a suit set he had bought recently to wear for job interviews.  The last time Ken had used it had been a week or so beforehand; he had given up on the idea of going out one evening whilst he was half-way through dressing himself. He had slung the tie vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe and there it had remained, forgotten. Until now.

With his tears glistening on his cheeks, Ken took a step towards the wardrobe. He was still staring at the tie, marvelling at how much it resembled a thin snake lounging casually in its domain. He took another step, his legs seeming to move by themselves. He passed his desk and his left hand found the back of his office chair. He gripped the edge of it and pulled it along with him, its wheels squeaking in protest. Or perhaps in alarm. It didn’t matter, Ken was oblivious to it. The only thing he was focused on was the black tie. The long, serpentine, seductive tie. As he drew nearer to the wardrobe he reached out his right hand slowly and pulled the tie from its resting place. It slithered off of the wood with a sound like a silken whisper, or a sigh of relief.

As Ken looked at the tie now safely in his grasp, he became aware of how fast his heart was beating. It was hammering against his chest like a lunatic throwing himself against the door of a padded cell. He could almost feel the blood rushing through his veins, accelerated cells vibrating with anticipation. Do it, whispered the voice in his head, you’re worthless anyway, and no-one will miss you. Ken whimpered slightly, blinking through his tears as he approached his window. He dragged his chair, which was still squealing its protest, directly in front of it and stepped up on to the seat. The chair groaned slightly under his weight and leaned to the left, but Ken kept his balance. With oddly steady hands Ken pulled his curtains shut, blocking out the morning sunshine and his small view of the world beyond. He cast one end of the tie upwards, watching it rise lazily into the air and over the wooden beam above his head. It came back down and hung limply in front of his face. He felt that it was almost expectant.

In his dazed mind-set, Ken briefly wondered if he should leave a note, but dismissed it instantly. That would mean delaying his chance to escape his torment for the benefit of those who didn’t care enough to help him when he needed it most. No, they would just have to deal with the outcome of their neglect. It was their fault anyway. Grimly, Ken slipped one end of the snake-like tie over the other and knotted it tightly. He then slid the knot upwards with a sharp tug so that it settled against the wooden beam. At least the Scouts wasn’t a complete waste of time, the voice scoffed gleefully, but Ken was unable to appreciate the dark humour in its words. He took a deep breath and carefully turned around on the unsteady chair so that he faced away from the window. He closed his eyes and tied the other end of the tie around his throat.

“I wanna be the very best, like no-one ever was…”

Ken’s eyes snapped open. The theme from ‘Pokémon’ filled his ears, with the low murmur of vibration accompanying the music. It was his mobile; someone was calling him. He didn’t even realise that he had turned the sound back on. He must have done it whilst he was fiddling with his mobile earlier on. Too late, sneered the voice in his head, but Ken cast his eyes down on to the carpet regardless. He couldn’t read the text from the caller I.D., but the picture on-screen was clear enough. It was his mother. She was calling him back. She’s too late! The voice screamed at Ken, you can’t back out now, it can all be over!

But Ken ignored it. With a plaintive cry, he tore the half-knotted tie from his throat and leaped from the chair, his sudden motion sending it crashing to the floor. He landed awkwardly and twisted his ankle. He swore loudly in pain and crawled on his knees towards his phone. He snatched it up desperately, swallowing a sob before slamming his thumb down on the ‘answer’ button with feverish strength. With shaking hands he lifted the phone to his ear.

“H-hello?” his voice quavered as he spoke. He hardly dared to hope.

“Ken! Hello, darling!” His mother’s chirpy, high-pitched voice assaulted his ears like honey-filled water balloons, shocking him intensely but oozing sweetness and life afterwards. It occurred to Ken that hers was the first real voice he had heard that day aside from his own, voicemail messages and malicious imaginings notwithstanding. It felt so good that Ken almost wept with gratitude.

“I’m sorry I missed your call, my love, but I was helping your father in the garden. Well, by ‘help’ I mean bringing him a cup of tea and telling him off for starting so early. I mean, honestly, who in their right mind starts weeding at half-past seven in the morning? But you know what he’s like, never one to waste the sunshine!” She broke off with an affectionate chuckle. To Ken it was like a damp cloth gently mopping his fevered brow.

“Anyway, love, how are you?” his mother continued. “I tried your mobile last night but I imagine you were out and enjoying yourself!” Ken looked guiltily over at the whiskey bottles decorating his desk. He cleared his throat carefully. His mother was mostly in the dark about how bad things were for him, and so he spoke cautiously.

“Yeah, I know you did,” his voice only cracked slightly this time. He hoped it just sounded as if he had recently woken up. “Sorry I missed it, I was…busy. I’m fine though, thanks.” The lie was an easy one to tell; it was well-rehearsed and barely required thought anymore.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Ken could almost sense his mother’s doubts. It was true what they said: a mother knows.

“I just thought I’d check up on you anyway. You know that I like to know what you’re getting up to. So does your father, of course, but he’ll never bother to pick up the phone to talk to you himself. I swear that it must be some kind of male pride rubbish. None of you ever call one another directly, and you only know that you’re all still alive through your mothers and partners!” Ken swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. She had skated dangerously close with that one. A mother knows, indeed.

“I must admit, I was surprised that you called me so early,” his mother wittered on. “You never were one to wake up early after a night out! Not that I’m complaining, mind you, it’s lovely to hear from you at any time. Have you got any news to share? You have been a bit quiet recently.”

Ken closed his eyes and wiped the moisture from his cheeks before answering.

“Erm, no, mum. I don’t really have any news. I’ve not really been up to much recently. I’ve been a bit…distracted, you know?” He finished lamely.

“Well, you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted, Kenneth,” his mother chided. Her use of his full name brought back childhood memories of being scolded. It almost made him smile. “You’re going to end up owing a lot of money once you get your degree, so you may as well study hard and get a good one!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Ken found himself smiling after all, a weak bubble of a smile rising tenaciously to the top of his torrent of emotions. Relief, self-loathing, happiness, anger and exasperation all fought for his immediate attention. However, it was disgust which prevailed; Ken was disgusted and full of revulsion at what he had almost done less than two minutes beforehand. If he had left his phone on silent… He prayed that his voice did not betray his feelings as he spoke again.

“Listen, mum, would you like to meet up? Today, I mean. I don’t have any lectures today, and I could use an excuse to get out.” The former part of that statement was a lie, but it had been a full fortnight since Ken had actually managed to attend one of his lectures. The latter, however, was all too true. Ken knew that he needed to get out of his bedroom as soon as possible. He couldn’t cope anymore. He held his breath as he waited for his mother to answer him. If she said no…

“Oh, that would be lovely!” His mother crowed, her delight full and genuine. “Where would you like to meet, and when?” Ken released his breath, emptying his lungs with a sense of relief which approached ecstasy.

“Let’s meet in the park,” he said quickly, excitedly. “This morning, preferably. Maybe in an hour? I’ll buy you some breakfast if you like. My treat. Ask dad as well. Please?” Ken didn’t like the pleading tone his voice took towards the end of his sentence, but it seemed to have some effect. His mother was silent for a few moments, and Ken knew that she was weighing something in her head.

“I don’t see why not, seeing as you’re awake,” she said slowly, her earlier chirpiness replaced with concern. “I’ll have a word with your dad, I’m sure the weeds can wait until later.”

“Great!” Ken’s reply was a bit louder than he had intended. “So, I’ll see you both in an hour then? In the park? By the fountain?”

“Yes, darling, that sounds lovely.” Again, his mother was silent for a few seconds. “Ken…” she said quietly. “Are you sure everything is alright? You sound a bit…off. You can talk to me if you need to, you know.” Ken squirmed as he fought down more tears. ‘I know I can,’ he thought, ‘but where can I start? What can I possibly say to make you understand?’ He took a deep breath and answered her.

“Yes, I know, mum. I haven’t been great recently, but I’m alright now. Let’s just meet up, okay? I’ll tell you more then.”

“Alright, my love,” his mother replied. “See you in an hour then”.

“Yep,” Ken said. He hesitated. “Thanks, mum. I love you”.

“I love you too, darling.” His mother sounded surprised and touched. “See you soon. Bye bye!”

“Bye.” Ken remained on his knees for several minutes after the line went dead. He then slowly got to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his twisted ankle. He’d have to come up with an excuse for that one, as he knew his parents would notice it. That, however, was unimportant. What was important was that he was getting out of his room! He was about to leave and spend time with people who genuinely cared about him. His mother had literally saved his life, albeit unwittingly. She would never find out either, Ken determined. Never. He thought again about his incredible luck concerning his phone volume. He shuddered as a chill ran down his spine.

Ken started moving about his room with a fresh purpose. As he dressed himself, he realised that his plan for the morning had made him feel better than he had in days, in weeks even. Life had had some of its colour restored. Not all of it, of course, but the bleak drabness of his recent existence was no longer so apparent. He pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans, a clean white shirt and slipped into his scuffed black trainers. He peered in the mirror long enough to run a comb through his unruly brown hair and to wipe away any trace of tears from his face. Feeling nervous with excitement Ken moved towards the door and opened it.

As he passed through the threshold and on to the landing, Ken stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder towards his bedroom window. He looked at the fallen office chair lying abandoned on its side. He looked at the black tie hanging from its knot on the solid beam. A new thought crept into Ken’s mind, spontaneous and unnerving. He turned around and walked back into his room, back to the window. He lifted the chair and set it back down on its wheels so that he could climb on to the seat and reached for the tie once again. A few seconds of fumbling saw the tie slide free of the beam and rest in Ken’s hands. Carefully, Ken climbed back down, gingerly putting weight on his injured ankle. With slow, precise movements he lifted the collar on his shirt and slipped the tie into place. He folded the collar back down and tied the tie neatly. As a final touch he pulled the tie tightly around his neck. A nice, snug fit. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled on it once again. It was now a little too tight, constricting his throat in a somewhat feeble chokehold. That was good. It would serve as a reminder of that terrible morning and how it had almost ended. The voice in his head said nothing.

Ken smiled to himself, and walked out of his bedroom.