My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
Chocolat White smiles with all her teeth on show. “Can you tell me why you’re interested in the position of Nebula Experience Host?” she asks, red lips closing over all those teeth.
Don’t say the money. Don’t say the money. Smile. Lie. “The opportunity.”
Chocolat’s smile dims a bit. Wonder how many people give that answer. “Okay, Renly, last question: are you curious?”
What? Chocolat’s rich brown eyes are intense, peering through the screen, her scrutiny obliterating millions, if not billions, of miles and the earth’s magnetic field, as if the question was that darned important. What is the right answer to this stupid question? “Um, I’m a moderate level of curious?” Nice. Excellent non answer. Bravo.
Chocolat’s smile turns fixed, caught in an anti-gravity limbo on the precipice of total collapse. “Could you elaborate?”
Quick, quick. Evasive action. Think of the money. Fix this. “I think that my greatest skill is reliability. I believe in giving my all to the role I’m in and fulfilling all my responsibilities,” you say. “I think that having too much curiosity can detract from that at times.” Don’t sound like you don’t care, Renly! You don’t want Chocolat to think you’re only in this for the money! Remember your buzzwords. Smile! “It’s good to widen horizons and seek opportunities. I already said I like those, didn’t I?” Slow down, now, don’t babble. You don’t want to sound desperate either… “But I’m not one of those people who inserts themselves into business that doesn’t involve me…unless asked, by my, uh, supervisor. Of course.”
That was good. That sounded clever. Just the right level of meaningless that it could mean anything to anyone. Why do job interviews have to be such a production, anyway? No one wants a job for the ‘opportunity’ or the chance to ‘meet interesting new people’. It was all about the money. It is a truth universal that people sell the precious days of their lives for money in exchange for labour. Curiosity? Please. Who does this Chocolat think she is?
Whoever she thinks she is, her expression shifts, something sparking behind her glossily tempered veneer. She blinks her big, doll eyes. Then she smiles. Big and bright. It’s hard to tell – Chocolat is clearly a professional and accomplished smiler – but it seems like she liked your answer. Good job, Renly.
“Oh, I agree. Very much so.” Nod. Nod. Gold earrings jangle. “It’s important to recognise when discretion is needed,” she says seriously, sounding relieved. “Now as our Experience Host,” she adds getting back to business, “it will be your responsibility to greet patrons, collect payments and make sure waivers are signed before each viewing. You’ll also be responsible for filling the concessions stands and directing patrons toward the rest of our product line available for viewing.” Chocolat’s smile turns glassy. “Not that we expect too many sales on that front. Everyone comes for the Red Nebula. Only the Red Nebula.”
Who cares? It’s a concession stand and an interstellar movie of a big red cloud of space gas. Not exactly riveting stuff. It must be space boredom crawling into people’s brains making them watch this stuff. It’s not like there’s much to do for passengers waiting for connecting shuttle flights on the Hub. Oi, look out. Don’t be caught napping or listening to me. Chocolat is waiting for a response. Smile, nod. Use words.
“I understand,” you say, solemnly. Nice touch.
Nod, nod. Jangle, jangle. Chocolat smiles. “Good. Good. I’m glad. Very glad.” Chocolat looks down, breaking eye contact for the first time. She plays with a screen set into her desk and reaches up to tap the discreet ear bud lodged in her ear. There’s a pause, just long enough to be awkward before the smooth and silky Chocolat White zones back into the screen. Smile. “Good news, Renly. We at Interestellar Entertainment believe you’re perfect for our team and would like to offer you the position.”
Boom. Holy wow. Who knew having no curiosity and an ability to cobble together meaningless words into inane sentences could work out so well? Good on you, Renly. You’re going to space to sit on your backside and sell move tickets. But think of the money! This job pays five times above the average rate for a space port employee for a fraction of the hours. You can quit a wealthy woman after a few months. This is going to be great. Now say something insincere and peppy before she changes her mind. And smile. That’s Chocolat’s language, after all. Tooth-to-tooth communication is important in front line sales.
“Thank you so much, I look forward to the opportunity to be part of your team.”
This is it, Renly Field. You’re on the way up and headed beyond the stratosphere. Don’t forget to get all your shots.
Well, okay. It’s been a few days since you got out of quarantine, and I hate to say it but I’m going to anyway – space is boring. Lot of blackness and floating rocks. The moon is a white billiard ball with a bunch of launch towers sticking out of it like needles. The Earth is a blue and green marble everyone’s seen before. The best thing you can say about Space Hub is its very secure, no chance of depressurisation. The great void of space isn’t getting in here, no sir. It’s shiny too. Very few scuff marks. Not a spot of rust. If it wasn’t for the tourists puking after leaving decompression it would be one of the cleanest places you’ve ever seen.
Unfortunately, space is murder on the bile ducts. It’s like anti-gravity of the stomach. Tourists declare what they had for lunch all over the glittering floors with alarming regularity. And don’t get me started on the anti-grav kiddie play area. Whoever came up with that whizz-oh idea needs to be jettisoned out of the nearest airlock. There are flight announcements every thirty seconds, flaring across everyone’s intravision lenses and people still miss their flights. Which goes to prove that the human idiocy has well and truly gone galactic.
Not that you need to worry about that, Renly. You’re not Hub staff. You’re part of Interestellar. You sit behind the concessions stand, refilling the Virtua Crème slots and schilling tickets as the universe spins around you. Really makes you feel part of something bigger, doesn’t it?
“Hi, I’m Amygdala, but you can call me Amy,” says the girl sharing your shift. She’s tiny and bird-boned. Her face is round. Her eyes are round. Her mouth wobbles, lips twitching downward. She looks like she’s waiting for a kick. But what can you expect from a girl named Amygdala, the fear centre of the brain? Poor little bird. Wonder if she has a brother called Pituitary gland?
“Hi, Amy. I’m Renly Field. Have you worked here long?”
“Yes,” Amy hisses, eyes darting from side to side, looking for who-knows-what. She leans in and whispers, “Longer than anyone.”
Okay. Weird. Are you supposed to commend or commiserate? Amy does not seem proud of her tenure. She looks terrified. Like someone stuck in that moment between fight or flight when the panic bites down hardest. “Oh, well. Chocolat told me the company rewards longevity.”
“What would she know?” Amy demands, shifting to aggression. “I’ve been here longer than her. I was here when Phil was here. He was manager after Leyla. She didn’t last long.” Amy’s eyes jump from corner to corner like a cow in an abattoir.
Grand. This is super, Renly. You’re stuck on a six-hour shift with a complete loon. Remember to smile and speak softly. No sudden movements. “Oh. That’s interesting. Did she move on to a new position in the company?”
Amy’s expression is sulky. “No. She died.”
Oh good. Now we’ve jumped straight into the creepy zone. Get away from the weirdo, Renly. Nice and slow. “How terrible. I think I’ll go check on the blueberry crème interface port. I saw some kids messing with it earlier.”
“Is this your first day?” Amy demands, following.
“Second.” Smile, Renly. And pick up that scoop over there. If you have to, gouge out the weirdo’s eye.
“There wasn’t a Red Neb showing yesterday,” Amy says disgustedly.
“No. Chocolat said that was why it was quiet. Have you, uh, seen the show? I’ve heard the live feed from the nebula is popular.”
“Of course, I haven’t,” Amy sneers. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Is that a real question? Is this girl dissociating? “You are indeed.”
“They’ll be here soon,” says Amy. “Then you’ll know.”
“Know what?”
Amy’s lip curls. “The truth.”
Okay. This is going to be a long shift, Renly. Just as well you perfected apathy in your teens. Indifference is your middle name. Well, actually it’s Barbarella. But the point is, Chocolat was very clear about what was expected and it all boils down to ignoring everything weird that happens in this place. You can do that. You’re good at not caring. You’ve worked in retail before.
Still, Chocolat had been very insistent, in an odd, vaguely manic and very smiley way. “The Red Nebula is our most popular interstellar feed,” she’d told you that five times on the first shift. “We have showings every other day. We sell all-day tickets and send in the drones to deliver refreshments. Gene – you’ll meet him soon – he’s in charge of cleaning the viewing room once the patrons leave. You can imagine, after sixteen hours, things get a bit messy.” Chocolat grimaced delicately.
“Sixteen hours? People really stay in there that long? What about bathroom breaks?” Or catching their flights? Aren’t people meant to leave this space port?
Chocolat gave a full body wince. “Like I said. It gets messy. The nebula is said to be absolutely captivating. Once you see it. Well. You can’t pull yourself away. We send in android helpers to deal with medical emergencies.”
What? “Medical emergencies.”
“Yes,” Chocolat sounds a bit too chipper. “I’m told viewing the nebula is a transformative experience! Once in a lifetime! Literally, sometimes. We have a lot of people suffering hypoglycaemic comas. Strokes are common. Seizures are less common, but we get those too.”
That’s nice. Variety in medical emergency is important. “All that from looking at space gas?” you ask.
Chocolat scowled. “The nebula is more than simple space gas. Red Neb is the pillar of creation! It is life!” – it’s actually possible to hear the pop of each exclamation mark as she speaks. That’s impressive – “You have to feed life, to bring it forth, Renly,” Chocolat scolds, intoning seriously, “Life is hunger.”
“Right. Life is hunger. Got it.”
Chocolat smiles. Her eyes dart. “Good. Good. It’s good that you understand. Understanding is important.” Nod. Nod. Nod. Jangle, jangle.
Smile, Renly. Remember to talk with your teeth. “Absolutely. We’re definitely on the same page here.”
“Excellent! Now, it’s important you understand this one thing. Red Neb is not for your eyes. You must never, ever, go into the feed room. The experience is only for paying customers.”
You hear that, Renly? The coma theatre is not for you. However will you survive? Ha. Probably a lot better than the poor suckers who pay to soil themselves and die. Seriously, space brings out the nut in everyone.
Look out. Daydream over. Someone’s coming. Get a look at this guy. He looks so…moist and sweaty. Is he sick? How’d he’d get by security? Sick people aren’t allowed in the Hub. He walks like a zombie. Oh, look at that. His fingernails are all black. Gross. And now he’s gone and got his greasy mitts all over the counter. You just polished that!
“I’m here for Red Neb.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The showing doesn’t start for another hour.”
Do you think this guy has an eye condition? They’re really bloodshot. And sort of crazed. In a glassy, half-dead sort of way. “I’m here for Red Neb.” And now he’s repeating himself. Whizz-oh.
“I understand that, sir, but —”
“Just charge him and let him in,” says Amy. She’s standing in the corner in front of the drinks machine with her arms wrapped around her middle. “He’s a regular,” she adds quietly.
Great. Smile, Renly. “Please extend your arm, sir, and I’ll swipe your barcode.” Oh, look at that. He’s shaking. This isn’t disturbing at all.
And here’s more of them. How old do you think the woman in the middle is? She looks like someone sucked all the moisture out of her. She has sandpaper skin.
“We’re here for Red Neb,” says the woman. Her companions don’t look like they can speak.
“Please, extend your arm for payment. Is this your first time? Have you signed the waiver?”
And now it begins…the horde descends. Look at them. There is something not right about this. These people look half dead.
“We’re here for Red Neb.”
“Have you signed the waiver?”
“What waiver?” asks a patron with short, neon orange hair. They have a glow of health and youth to them. Obviously, they’re a first timer.
“This waiver. The Red Nebula is a once in a lifetime experience,” smile, Renly. “The transcendental stimuli can be…intense, for some.” Well, done. Chocolat will be proud.
“I’m here for Red Neb,” says a woman, shoving Orange Neon out of the way. She has a frantic look in her eye. Almost feral. Her skin is sallow. Cheeks sunken. There is a line forming behind her. Just how many people have come for this stupid feed, anyway? This is a space port. How many regular customers can there be?
Plenty as it happens. You’re getting the hang of this though, Renly. “Please extend your arm for payment. Waivers can be downloaded from this terminal here. We have a two-for-one offer on Virtua ice crème and twenty percent off real ice cream.”
And on it goes.
You meet Gene on day seventeen. He’s tall and grim, with cynical eyes. You like him immediately. “How bad is it in there,” you ask him during lunch break. Red Neb has been viewing already for seven hours.
Gene pauses, finger hovering over his nutri-pod controls. He’s going for tuna fish and mayo flavoured sludge today. “You don’t want to know,” he says. It’s proper ominous. Very impressive.
He’s right. You don’t want to know. You just want to talk to him and its not like there’s much else to talk about. Interestellar’s back catalogue is laughably bad. It’s all space debris and recasts of ancient NASA footage. Honestly, Renly, it’s like they’re not even trying. “Don’t you ever get curious?” you ask.
“No,” he says. “That’s why they hired me.”
I’m sensing a pattern here.
“Oh, me too,” you say eagerly. You and Gene just two, bored, incurious peas in a space pod.
Five people die on day seventeen. Including sweaty zombie guy from day two. On day nineteen a first timer croaks nine hours into a viewing. One of the android’s malfunctions and upturns the hover stretcher. The body is desiccated. Just like packet macaroni. None of the repeat viewers care.
“Seriously, doesn’t anyone in the Hub concerned about what’s happening here?”
“Everyone signs the waiver,” says Amy.
Gene adds, “A lot of the repeaters shuttle out here just to see Red Neb. Business in the hub’s been slow since the XSpace scandal. Red Neb is good for their business too.”
So no, then.
On day thirty-one you decide to try out the Virtua Crème ‘Happy Nostalgia,” flavour to celebrate your first big, juicy pay packet. You can’t remember what simulated taste it evokes in the gustatory cortex of your brain but it did leave you with a dose of the warm fuzzies. Which was nice as day thirty-one was a particularly fatal day. Twelve whole corpses.
On day forty-nine, something unexpected happens. Amy hurries up to you as you start your shift. She looks particularly on edge. Which is saying something. Amy doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘relax’. “She’s done it. Cocoa brains had to go and take a look.” Disgust drips from her tone.
“What do you mean? Has something bad happened to Chocolat?” You saw her yesterday, hovering in front of the feed room’s doors. You thought she was checking on the drones. They’ve been glitching a lot recently.
Amy’s eyes are huge and wide, showing too much white. “She went inside,” she whispers.
Cocoa brains indeed. “Why’d she do that?”
Amy scoffs. “Why’d you think? She got curious.” On Amy’s lips the word sounds like a curse. It sort of is.
On day fifty-one, Mocha Leit replaces Chocolat. She’s a smiler like her predecessor. “It’s lovely to meet you all. I’m looking forward to getting stuck in and really learning how everything works around here.”
“I give her a week,” Gene murmurs.
“She won’t last that long,” Amy insists, fists clenched at her sides and arms shaking. “She’s too keen. She’ll look.”
“Four days,” you wager. “Winner gets to knock off early on Friday.”
Kaleesi Amadour, Mocha’s replacement, is not keen. She takes a hands off, remote approach to work. She seldom shows up. This works very well for all concerned. Especially her.
On day seventy something really bad happens. The feed breaks. It might not have been so bad, if anything about the Red Nebula Experience was in any way normal or sane. It might even have been a good thing for the large number of first timers you swiped in and sent on their way to meet Red Neb, but then one of the repeaters came bursting out of the feed room screaming.
He showers Amy in spittle, leaning menacingly over the counter. “You have to get it back. I have to see. Red Neb can’t survive if I don’t look. Creation must be witnessed! Don’t you understand? Red Neb needs me!”
You’re hiding in the supply closet, holding a collection of fresh Virtua Crème cables in your hands like tiny lifelines when the enraged repeater grabs Amy and slams her head into the counter. Repeatedly. You do the bare minimum, Renly, you deserve some credit for that. You hit the alarm for security. But we both know they won’t come. There are too many fatalities in the theatre. Hub Security stopped responding ages ago.
The repeater runs off into the Hub, becoming someone else’s problem. You boot up the androids to cart Amy away and call Kaleesi. She arrives four days later. “It’s a shame, but she had been here a long time,” she says.
“Interestellar rewards longevity,” you say.
Kaleesi agrees. “But everyone should know when its time to cut and run,” she adds. The two of you exchange a knowing look. Think of the money, Renly. Think of the money.
“How long have you worked here,” you ask Gene nervously on day ninety-nine. There’s really only one answer and that’s too long.
“I started after Amy,” he says, sounding a mite defensive. He knows what’s up.
You nod and grip his hand tightly. “Don’t you think it’s time to look for another position? Somewhere far from here?”
“No one else pays as well as Interestellar.”
Money doesn’t spend well when you’re dead. “You have savings though, right?”
Gene gives a shrug. “I’ve got student debts.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I hope they recruit someone to replace Amy soon,” you say thinking about how you’re the last one on your shift now. You’ve been here a while. When the new recruit starts, you’ll be the one with longevity. Despite everything that worries you. Surviving is a lot harder than dying.
“So, you’ve really never wanted to take a peek?” Enzo asks on his third day on shift.
“Of course, I haven’t,” you say. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Your eyes dart around the foyer. Today is a feeding day. The horde will be upon you soon.
Day one hundred and fifteen you start abusing your Virtua Crème privileges. Sweet Chill and Happy Vibes are your favourites. You keep yourself hooked up to the flavour jacks for most of the shift.
On day one hundred and twenty-three a couple and their young child wander up to the counter. “Hi,” says the woman with corkscrew curls. “This is our first time. We heard the Red Nebula Experience couldn’t be missed. Three tickets, please.”
That kid can’t be more than six. “I’m sorry, ma’am, no minors. Red Nebula is an intense experience. It’s adults only,” you say, heart pounding and smile straining. “You have to sign a waiver to watch.”
“Oh.” The woman shares a frown with her wife over the kid’s head. “That doesn’t sound entirely safe,” she says.
You don’t say? Four months and this is the first time anyone has figured that out. This is a red-letter day. The couple and their child leave. You spend some time curled up in a little human ball in the supply closet after they leave.
Curiosity kills Enzo on day one hundred and forty. “I thought he’d last longer,” Kaleesi sighs. “His mother is sick and he needed the money to pay her bills.” She shakes her head. “That’s curiosity for you. I bet he wanted to see what creation looks like.”
“I think it looks bloody,” you say. Kaleesi toasts you with the dangling cable from her food tube.
On day one hundred and sixty-six you lose patience with Gene. “Seriously, how much money do you owe?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I like to gamble.”
“God.” You thump down on a box of industrial cleaning wipes in the supply closet. “You’ve been here too long, Gene. You know that right? You’re on borrowed time.”
“It’s fine. I know not to look.”
“So did Amy,” you snarl. “It didn’t save her.”
Do you ever wonder what is being birthed in the feeding room, Renly? How many lives, will it take before the pillar supports more life? What if the answer at the heart of creation is nothingness? What if life isn’t the only thing that hungers? What if, between the veils of glowing space dust and burning hydrogen in the nebula there lurks a hunger greater than the weight of the universe? What if Interestellar’s satellite feed has let that hunger seep into existence? What if it spreads? What if its hunger can never be sated?
Not that you worry about that, Renly. Because you’re not the curious type.
By day two hundred Enzo has been replaced by Keiko and Keiko has been replaced by Kofi Beane (yes, really. He agrees. His parents are idiots). Kaleesi makes a rare appearance. “I’m out,” she says. “I’m going back to Earth. It might be on fire but I don’t care. I like my odds down there better than up here.” She gives you a look. “There’s a position at the gift shop on Alpha Sector, you know? I’d apply if I were you.”
She’s right. You’ve been here too long and you’ve outlived too many idiots. Red Neb doesn’t need to see you to kill you. But you’re the queen of apathy, aren’t you, Renly? No one does indifferent like you do. You think about all the money in your account you haven’t spent. You think about Gene.
He says, “I like it here. There’s job security.”
“We are literally feeding people to a soul devouring nebula,” you point out the obvious, resenting that you have to.
“And we’re good at it,” Gene retorts, increasing his stake in the cortical poker game as you argue. “You should apply for Kaleesi’s job. You’ve got the experience,” he says.
Now there’s an idea. You hadn’t thought about promotion. You’ve never been management material before. But Gene is right. You know what’s required for the role and you’re callous enough to do it.
You put in your application on day two hundred and three. The higher ups briefly shut down Red Neb’s satellite feed on day two hundred and fourteen, after thirty-three people die. A riot breaks out in Theta Sector when the feed stops playing. It’s ugly. Red Neb loses several repeaters without getting the chance to finish them off. You and Gene aren’t there. You were smart enough to take leave and scarper. Kofi Beane was not.
On day two hundred and ten, you’re the one interviewing for his replacement on live feed back to Earth. You smile until your face hurts. “Can you tell me why you’re interested in the position of Nebula Experience Host, Roxana?” you ask in your best professional voice. You can’t remember now who you’re mimicking.
Young, empty headed and dull-eyed Roxana stares at you as if you’re the idiot. “The money.”
Smile. Keep smiling. “Okay! One more question: Are you curious?”
“Huh?”
“Curious, Roxana. I asked if you were curious. Do you like to know things and ask questions?”
“…No.”
“Excellent! You’re perfect. You start Monday. I can tell you’ll serve Red Neb very well.”
But not too well, eh, Renly? You and Gene are on to a good thing here. You don’t want the competition. Feeding Red Neb is the best job you’ve ever had. And it turns out, the nebula isn’t the only one hungry for more.
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear and Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten Urban Fantasy/Horror short stories. It is available to buy on Amazon here
In a dystopian Britain, Lorraine has a severed hand problem. A trip to the woods turns to tragedy for Bethany and a deal with a love-struck demon goes awry for Chris. This is just a taste of the ten short stories of urban fantasy and horror gathered here. Spotlighting a strange and twisted suburban world, where a P.A’s unrequited love for the new girl in the office attracts a nightclub genie, vampires contract with the local cleaning service for discreet stain removal and everything and nothing is as it seems. Each self-contained story provides humour with a bite and chills with a smile focusing on the lives of normal people in an abnormal world where no one is entirely innocent and everyone has something to fear.
Your feet are wet. Your body cold. Your neck hurts. The road is dark; rain glitters on the asphalt, studding the blacktop with a million broken stars of light. Night chill pinches your bare arms. You look down the stretch of road in front and behind you, watching for a car. You need a ride and you’ve lost your phone.
You walk along the grass verge, heels clasped in your hand. Stupid, stupid Tessa. You should’ve gone home with Jason. It’s not like the fight was that bad. Now you’re stuck out here alone in the dark. And the wet. And the cold.
You’ve ruined your dress. There’s mud all up your legs. Your hair is a complete mess. You’re cold. Really cold. Did I mention that? And as for your neck? You’ve only gone and wrenched it bad, haven’t you? The back of your scalp’s all tingly, like icy needles are pricking through your skin and spilling melt water down your neck.
It’s been a horrible evening. Which is a crying shame because you were really looking forward to the dance. Retro, it was. A proper old-time bop. You did up your hair in victory rolls and your lips are fire engine red. Your skirt is out to here. Such a good find in the charity shop. You were so chuffed when you found it. Actually, you were feeling really special when the evening started. Then Jason had to ruin it.
Couldn’t stop whining about the footie. Couldn’t get into the swing of things and throw you over his shoulders and through his legs like a supportive boyfriend should when Ella’s playing. Then he went on and on about how everything has to be your way and you never want to do any stuff he likes. Well, obviously. Jason’s boring. All he wants to do is watch sports and play video games. And not with you, neither. Not after that hissy fit about the highest score and a certain someone’s power up bonus.
Look, you tried to share his passions. You really did. Ask anyone. They’d all agree. You were completely committed to gaming nights with him. It’s not your fault you were a better player after three weeks than he was after three years.
It was dumb though, refusing Jason’s offer to drive you home. And the funny thing is you can’t remember much about the argument now. Or how you got out here. Wherever here is. It’s like the middle of nowhere or something. Really creepy. The trees are all pointy and shaggy; firs, you think. An owl is hooting. There should be a full moon. And a witch flying past on a broomstick. Instead, there’s rain sheeting down and you’ve got an awful crick in your neck.
It’s the cold that’s the worst. You are so cold, Tessa. Scary cold. Sleepy too. You feel all loose and weird. Like nothing connects quite right. Floaty, almost. Maybe you’ve got hyperthermia? You should be feeling all sorts of nasty stuff under your feet. Dirt and stone and maybe even broken glass. But all you really feel is the cold and the wet and the dark.
Yeah, the dark. Seems strange, doesn’t it? That darkness should have a texture and a weight, but you can feel it. It sticks to you like tiny burrs, rolling up in your skin and rubbing bits of you away as you walk.
Suddenly there is light. It fills your world. You move like you’re in a dream, stepping out into the road like a nitwit right in front of an approaching car. There’s a moment as the car bears down and the light consumes you, burning through your eye sockets and lighting up the darkness inside your skull that memory tingles.
There was another car, wasn’t there Tessa? It’s engine a roar; its lights so bright. You tried to flag it down. The driver didn’t you see. He couldn’t have seen you. Or he would have stopped, wouldn’t he?
This one stops. Driver’s window slides down with a soft hum. An elbow on the door, a face in the dark. ‘Where are you headed?’
Where are you headed, Tessa? It’s been a long night, walking the road. You’re cold. Can you remember?
Words are a long time coming. You don’t sound like yourself. Your voice is as cold and as lost as you feel. ‘Edenbury Avenue, Little Forthay.’
A smile. ‘I know Little Forthay. It’s on my way home. Get in.’
You get in the back. The upholstery is fuzzy. The car is clean and dry. It should be warm but you’re cold. You look out of the window as the car starts. The darkness clings to the glass, smearing it with slithers of rain.
‘You mind if I listen to the radio?’
You say nothing. You’re sleepy. The seat’s headrest puts pressure on your neck. The back of your skull feels wet and slippery. You watch the world go by.
‘That’s some party frock you’ve got there. Fancy dress, is it? Near scared me to death when I saw you. Thought you were a ghost or something.’
You’re starting to get travel sick. Your skin feels tight over your bones. Your neck throbs and cold stabs your heart. You have a strange feeling, as if a great hook is lodged in your chest and with every mile the car eats up you feel an invisible rope draw taut.
‘What were you doing out on Old Fork Road at this time of night?’ the driver berates you in fatherly tones. ‘It’s not safe. The Council should put in streetlights. There are too many accidents. In fact, there was a nasty hit-and-run only last week. A young girl. Hitchhiker, just like you. You just can’t be too careful these days.’
A sharp wrench. A painful yank. Bright lights flare in front of your eyes. Pressure slams into your chest. You taste copper on your tongue. The driver twists to look into the back seat. The rope hauls you back. Your neck snaps forward.
You’re back on the road. Your feet are wet. Your body cold. Your neck hurts. Your chest feels like an empty cavern. The rain has stopped. The moon is out. No witches, though. You walk along the verge, shoes in your hand. Your dress shines white. You need a ride and you’ve no one to call. The darkness seeps in through your pores. It weighs you down. You can’t feel your feet. You watch the road for lights.
‘Where are you headed?’ the driver asks. Is he the second? The third? You can’t remember, Tessa. Why can’t you remember?
‘Edenbury Avenue. Little Forthay.’
The car is cramped and dirty and the inside smells like oil. There is a blackened banana peel on the back seat and a dirty t-shirt on the floor. You slip in without disturbing the crisp packets underfoot. You can’t tell if it is warm or not. What even is warm? Whatever it is, you’re not it, Tessa. You’re cold as night. Cold as the road. Your chest feels tight already. Your head hurts terribly.
‘That’s a pretty dress,’ the driver leers through the rear-view mirror.
You watch the world go by. Everything is silver gilded and cold. The hook in your chest digs a bit deeper. You can feel the pull of the road. The night. The darkness.
‘Not much of a talker, are you? Here. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I pull over and you come sit up front with me? Warm you up a bit, eh?’
The driver turns. The rope pulls taut. Your neck snaps forward. Bright lights. Pain. Copper on your tongue.
You are back on the road. Your body is cold. Your neck hurts. You can’t feel your feet. You walk along the verge. You wait. The darkness fills your chest. You look for bright lights.
‘Where are you headed?’ the woman asks.
‘Edenbury Avenue. Little Forthay.’
The car is clean. A baby seat waits beside you. You wait for the snap, the pull, the agony. The darkness runs alongside you, keeping pace. The lady doesn’t talk much, but she watches, worry reflected in the rear-view mirror.
This time you make it all the way to Little Forthay. The luminous village sign welcomes you and warns you to drive carefully. Buildings rear up on each side of the road, pushing back against the dark. The road gives way to a roundabout. You start to hope.
‘Did you say Edenbury Avenue?’ the woman driver asks. ‘Isn’t that where they built the new crematorium?’
The hook gouges. The rope pulls taut. Your neck snaps forward.
You are back on the road. Your body is cold. Your neck hurts. There are flowers by your feet. Bouquets wrapped in cellophane. A sad little teddy bear. Water-logged cards gone pulpy and unreadable.
You walk along the verge. The darkness cocoons you. You need a ride. The road is long. You wait for lights in the darkness.
‘Where are you headed?’
The car is a van. You sit up front. The dashboard is covered in cigarette ash. The inside of the cab smells greasy. The driver puts his hand on your thigh. You don’t feel it. You look out of the window. You don’t see anything. The driver swerves and pulls over. He reaches for you.
The rope pulls. Your neck snaps. You are back on the road. Your body is cold. Your neck hurts. The flowers are gone and there is a streetlight standing tall in their place. Its light does not reach you. You walk along the verge and you wait for someone to take you home.
‘Not like that,’ Arthur growled as together he and Winkles watched the Woman-Giver-Of-Food, henceforth to be known as Woman, leave the kitchen. Arthur continued to stare for some time after she’d disappeared just in case that improved the situation. Winkles watched Arthur, but when watching proved unfulfilling, Winkles shuffled forward and sniffed Arthur’s flank instead.
‘Oi, watch it.’ Arthur broke off his intense, brooding stare into the middle distance located somewhere between the rectangular door frame and the hallway skirting board and turned back to Winkles.
‘How should I do it then?’ Winkles asked eagerly.
Arthur flicked his right ear. In the room of soft furnishings Woman had turned on the Crackle- Box-Of-Moving-Images. ‘Do what?’ he asked, briskly striking the back of his ear with his right leg. Ahh, that was the spot. But of course, satisfying the itch only led to more developing and soon Arthur was forced to park his backside on the cold tile while he dealt with some troublesome tufty bits in his creamy belly fur.
‘You know what,’ said Winkles. ‘You said “not like that”, remember?’
No, Arthur did not remember. How should he be expected to remember something that happened fifteen licks and several scratches ago? He regarded Winkles with a level stare, still hunkered over his belly with right leg all grand battement as the French say. Alarmed, Winkles dropped his gaze to the floor. Then he sniffed the floor, following a trail that led him the base of the wastebin.
Arthur, concerned that Winkles may have discovered something interesting he was not previously aware of located on the floor at the base of the bin or caught up in the overhanging folds of stinky black bin liner, hustled over. He sniffed the tile. Distracted by either a very small flying insect or absolutely nothing at all, Winkles skidded over the tile and struck the smooth, brushed metal door of the humming monolith that was the Receptacle-Of-Food-We-Do-Not-Get-To-Eat in a determined and forceful manner.
Arthur looked up from the tile, blinking. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Dunno,’ replied Winkles. ‘I’m not doing it anymore.’ He cracked his jaws open around a tremendous yawn and whined, ‘I’m hungry.’
Oh, yes. Arthur remembered now. Food. Woman was in dereliction of her duties. This must be remedied forthwith. ‘Come young one, watch and learn,’ Arthur ordered, marching out of the kitchen, tail all-a-swish. Winkles bounded after him, skidding on the tile and almost face planting the ceramic. Arthur afforded him the great dignity of pretending not to notice.
In the passageway containing the Mountain-Of-Many-Sitting-Ledges, Arthur confidently led the way toward the beckoning welcome of the soft, bouncy human lounging spot with its solid inner bone work covered by eminently scratchable fabric that felt so good wrapped around his claws. He made a mental note to instruct Winkles on the fine art of upholstery kneading at a later date. A note that was, naturally, forgotten as soon as Arthur crossed the threshold and a host of new smells greeted him.
There was the burnt dark beans smell permeating the air and the burned sponge slices with melted oily, creamy good-to-lick yellow stuff on it that the Woman liked to slurp and munch respectively, combined with the smell of static from the crackle-box and the tantalising reek of the outdoors wafting in through the open window, all underlaid by his own reassuring scent, marking his territory in proud pheromonal manner. Smugly, Arthur noted that Winkles scent was but a whisper in the room.
The enticing flicker of daylight shining through the window meant that Arthur was forced to restrain himself with lordly discipline from leaping up on the window ledge immediately to make sure everything was exactly as he left it beyond. This was an important part of his day, the constant inspection of the manor and its environs. Passing birds hopping about the garden needed to be verbally threatened. Falling leaves needed to be observed on their slow passage groundward. Intruders needed to be watched for. The slightest variation in plant pot positioning had to be noted for later, so a considered investigation could be undertaken during the early morning territorial patrol.
But that was later. Now Arthur was on a mission. Woman must be held to account. Stopping with rump on the ground, head held aloft and feet neatly side-by-side, Arthur looked haughtily over the round of his shoulder to Winkles, who looked up guiltily from his rump-waggling wind-up to an attack on an unknown assailant that was possibly, but not conclusively, nothing more than a ball of dust caught in the short fibres of the carpet. Arthur despaired of him. Briefly. Then he remembered what it was he was doing. ‘Observe,’ he commanded. ‘This is how a master works.’
Leaping from a sitting start to the jutting rise of the Woman’s squishy lounging nest, Arthur landed deftly on four paws to announce his presence with a proud yowl. At least that had been the plan. Alas for the grand plans of cats, a cruel twist of fate led to a sudden commotion at the front door. The Metal-Mouth-Of-Doom vomited a deluge of rectangular waste of no particular utility onto the scritchy-scratchy mat that was Not-Good-To-Sit-On with such force Arthur found himself performing an impromptu grand jete very much en l’air and falling back to the carpeted floor. Horrified by the intrusion, the indignity and the noise, he and Winkles took off up the mountain at top speed. To make matters worse, Winkles had the audacity to lick Arthur on the face.
Several wrestling holds later and to the detriment of the contents of an incidental table that found itself, incidentally, the staging post for a fabulous flying leap onto Winkles’ back, Arthur recalled himself. Food. The mission was food. Discipling the stripling’s impertinence would have to wait. The mission took precedence.
Arthur bumpity-bumped down the mountain, Winkles thumping down after him in mournfully inelegant fashion. Returning boldly to the upholstery paradise, Arthur wasted no time singing his own praises. After all, if he didn’t, who would? Woman could not be trusted to know his worth if he didn’t tell her. After all, she didn’t even know he was hungry. Her negligence was truly abominable. Forgiveness could only be bought with food. And perhaps a round of combat training exercise involving the stick with a brightly coloured feather dangling from a string? But first, food. Food always came first.
Alas, Woman was in particularly stupid form this day. Athur endured a round of petting with strained patience, his loud purring and headbutting as he strutted back and forth over the table a clear warning to all intelligent beings that diversionary tactics would only be tolerated for a short time.
Watching the pampering from the floor, Winkles could not endure. Leaping up onto the bouncy cushion beside Woman he lent his own voice to Arthur’s campaign and received a welcome head scritch for his troubles. Arthur was not impressed, but Winkles, drunk on sensation, did not care. He collapsed onto his side and presented his belly, front paws demurely tucked in as his four legs assumed that rarest of moves performed only by cats in moments of glorious abandon known as legrand battement quatre!
Arthur’s disgust at this display of weak-willed surrender required nothing less than a full body leap into Woman’s lap, followed by a quick pirouette and a tail side-swipe to the face. Someone had to take a stand for honour. Alas and alack, acts in defence of principle were never without risk. Arthur was unceremoniously dumped from Woman’s lap onto the carpet. To make matters worse, Winkles sat on the cushions licking his paw. Arthur’s ears went back, his eyes went wide. His stare promised retribution. In fact, so intent was he in communicating Winkles doom, he was forced to perform a quick pas de chat to get out of the way of the seismic thunder of Woman’s feet.
This was it. The pivotal moment of the campaign had arrived. Woman was on the move! Arthur tore after her, yowling in a continuous stream of complaint punctuated only by his paws striking the floor. Winkles hurdled the escarpment of the cushion nest and bounded after Arthur who made sure to shoulder check the young pretender at the door to the kitchen. Hierarchy must be upheld!
More than the strategizing, more than the feint and the attack, more than the yowling, this was the hardest part of any operation. The wait.
The important cupboard was opened. Bowls were rattled. Plastic wrapped sachets flapped in the air a moment before Woman mercilessly loped off their heads, spilling meaty goodness first into Arthur’s bowl and then into Winkles. Arthur began purring loudly, serenading Woman with his praise. The smell, oh the smell! Arthur was tempted to chase his own tail in pure joy. Agonised by anticipation Arthur and Winkles experienced raptures in the time it took for Woman to deposit the food in front of them.
The first mouthful was life. The second mouthful was heaven. The third mouthful was…okay. Arthur looked up from his bowl and found Winkles watching him. ‘I don’t like this,’ said the youngster.
Arthur concurred. He sat back on his haunches and licked his chops. His mood deflated. Victory, now achieved, lacked savour. How could this be? After all that had been risked and endured, could this cold, lumpy slop truly be their reward? No, something had gone horribly awry! ‘This is your fault,’ he told Winkles. ‘I said you were doing it wrong. The timbre of your whining has resulted in this poor fare.’
Winkles ignored him. In his despondency, he had begun earnestly grooming his belly fur. Arthur watched him for a moment, observing his technique until he could take no more, exclaiming, ‘Not like that!’
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear And Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten horror/urban fantasy short stories available to buy on Amazon here. Below is an extract from one of the featured stories Thou Shalt Not Suffer.
Thou Shalt Not Suffer
‘I can’t do this anymore.’ There is a room in darkness; the only light the blazing flicker of a TV screen, HD colours reaching out from beyond the liquid crystal display. There is an armchair in the room drawn up close to the TV. There is a cat and a terrarium with a big warty toad crouched on a smooth stone, regal as a dragon. There is a woman. She strokes the cat, her eyes glued to the TV. She is smiling a rictus grin. *
‘This was a mistake.’ She can smell the gas. Her wrists and ankles are strapped. There is a strap across her chest and banding her forehead. She cannot move. The ceiling is very white like an operating theatre. The walls are clear ceiling to floor Plexi-glass. The gas is coming from vents in the ceiling. There are other holes in the floor. She cannot see them because she is strapped to a stretcher in the middle of the room but she knows they are there. The flames will come from the vents in the floor. Tears leak, steady as a tap, down her face. They tickle as they wriggle past her earlobes. She is numb with terror. Panic mounts. She thinks she could pull loose of her body and float like a helium balloon to the ceiling. She wishes that she would.
She cannot turn her head but movement flickers in her peripheral vision. Beyond the windows people are taking seats in the auditorium outside the tiny glass room. The prosecuting lawyers. The Pontiff’s representative. The witchhunters. Keith’s family.
How many people are out there? How many people are going to watch her burn?
Her sobs are muffled by the thick leather mask covering her lower face. The metal grill allows her to breathe and makes her look like Hannibal Lector. They put a sack over her head when they wheeled her in through the baying crowds outside but the witchhunters removed it when they installed her in the room. They want her to see the gas ripple in the air. They want her to see when the room explodes in flame.
Outside the bedroom window the doppler-wail of sirens screamed pass and brakes screeched as unmarked police cars careened around the corner. Mathilde heard the heavy, air-cutting whop-whop of a police chopper’s rotor blades from somewhere above her fourth floor safe house and paused in the process of applying her foundation.
The lights were low in the flat, the heavy curtain pulled almost closed, allowing only a hint of the chaos outside to seep in with the muggy, mid-summer air. Ninety minutes ago, the ambassador was murdered at a diamond tiara and black tux affair in the political heart of the city. The perpetrator was still at large.
But not for long. Mathilde looked down at the array of make-up spread out before her in disgust. All of it was department brand only, in a myriad shades of bland with the occasional splash of humdrum thrown in for added spice. The make-up belonged to Melanie. So too did the off-the rack party dress hanging from its hanger on the back of the wardrobe. A hideous thing, it looked like someone had beheaded and plucked the top half of an ostrich, while leaving the bottom fully feathered before applying silver sequins to the torso. Mathilde would sooner slit her own throat than wear it.
She clenched her fists. That was the point though, wasn’t it? Mathilde wouldn’t be wearing it. Melanie would. Stupid, bubble-head Melanie stumbling home from a work’s party with her hair in last season’s style, her face spattered in department store beauty and her backside waggling in feathered delight. God damn Melanie Tumbridge, orthodontic nurse, depressed singleton; a woman who had never travelled further than a trip to Sharm El Sheikh. A woman who spoke only English, and only just. A woman who could barely raise a hand to a spider let alone swat a diplomat straight off the mortal coil.
Melanie was her antithesis. Her nemesis. She was everything Mathilde despised in this world. And yet they had never met. Nor would they ever meet. It was impossible. Like a couple of cursed Gemini twins, she and Melanie were two minds trapped in one body, doomed to exist as nothing more than distorted reflections of the other.
According to the Division, this was the best way to protect operatives and prevent exposure. How could anyone hope to catch a killer who could cease to exist? No polygraph could catch out Melanie. Facial recognition technology could not account for two women with one face who shared not a single facial expression in common. Mathilde left not fingerprints, no traces, but even if she had it wouldn’t matter. DNA might be all but infallible, but the human mind was not. It was easy to fool a mind to disbelieve the eyes when confronted by a pudding like Melanie Tumbridge. Melanie would never crack under interrogation; never slip up. Because she could not slip. As far as she knew she had a full life of blah-blah-blah, don’t-forget-to-floss to account for every hour of her day.
Slowly, Mathilde breathed out, unclenching her balled fists. She flexed her fingers, encouraging blood flow. It did no good to get upset. Reaching up to unclasp the elegant tear-drop diamond necklace from around her neck she pooled the platinum chain in her palm, stroking a fingertip over the cool stone.
This was her seventeenth successful liquidation for the Division. She’d gouged out her legend from Barcelona to Bila Tservka, Phnom Penh to Perth, and criss-crossed the globe back again. She was the best. The diamond of the Division.
And yet, they thought nothing of erasing her.
Restless, Mathilde stood. The bedroom of the safe house was made up to look lived-in and was used by any operative who needed a bolthole in the city. It looked like a room someone could live in and maybe even like it. But not Mathilde. She had no home. She’d lived out of a suitcase since she was eighteen. A creature of purest utility, the Division had taken her and whittled down her softer edges until all that remained was something flat and hard and sharp enough to cut.
Was that why they’d made Melanie so fluffy? Melanie who wore a purple feather boa to a friend’s party unironically. Melanie who had a tasselled counterpane on her bed in her alarmingly aquamarine bedroom with its flat-pack white painted dressing table and backlit mirror covered in failed selfies. Melanie with her love of sour cream and onion flavour crisps and freezer aisle lasagne. Melanie. Melanie. Melanie. Why was it that her life with all its clutter and needless distractions filled Mathilde’s head even before the switch?
Mathilde paced between the bed and the door, on the far side from the window. She beat her right fist into her left palm, the diamond chain still around her wrist. If only she could pulp Melanie’s memory so easily.
It wasn’t supposed to work this way. Melanie was supposed to be the airhead armour that kept Mathilde safe. Melanie was meant to be the cipher. The pretender to the air they both breathed, and the life Mathilde owned. So why was it growing harder to escape her fluffy clutches every time Mathilde emerged from the Deep Sleep?
‘It could be that increased duration increases the risk of false memory saturation,’ Jose had suggested the one and only time Mathilde had mentioned it after the job in Taipei. She’d had to go under as Melanie for nine months that time. Her revival had felt like a bad birth; she’d emerged into the light blinking Melanie out of her eyes, the memory of the bubble-head’s terrified pleading still ringing in her ears.
‘Why are you doing this to me? Let me go. I don’t want to die.’
Stupid Melanie. She couldn’t die. She wasn’t real. And yet…she felt real.
‘Naturally,’ Jose replied. ‘Deep Covers are meant to provide a fully immersive experience, or what’s the point?’ The technician had tossed the spent hypodermic into the medical waste bin.
Mathilde had watched him do it, thinking that everything she was had been condensed into that syringe. What did it say about Mathilde that she was the toxic agent that needed to be inserted to be brought back? Exactly who was the cover and who was the real person; the woman who died after every successful mission or the woman who lived in-between?
Mathilde glanced at the digital radio on the bedside table –an old-fashioned thing without a connection to Wi-Fi. She was running out of time. She was expected at the rendezvous point in forty minutes. From there she’d be taken to one of the Deep Sites dotted around the city. Jose or another almost identical lab drone would sit her down, swab her arm and prepare to put her under. Another job done. Another small death as a reward.
What if she ran? Like a bullet from a gun, the thought tore a path through her mind. What if she ran and never stopped running? What if this time she didn’t consent to lie down and die to protect the Division? What if this time she lived and used what they’d taught her to spring from one hotel room to another, to dance across borders, to hew too close to enemy lines? She was the Division’s diamond, but to their enemies she was more precious than that.
Ridiculous. The Division was everywhere. It had its fingers in everything. Mathilde knew how it was. She’d seen behind the curtain. There was no escaping. And why would she want to? What life was out there for her, if not this one? A life like Melanie’s, full of banal pleasures and friendships with people who had no idea she was an empty vessel? Mathilde might have no one, but she had herself and her skills; her peephole into the world behind the curtain. Why would she give that up and risk death?
To live, a little voice whispered in her head. It wasn’t Melanie. The Happy Tooth Fairy wasn’t astute enough to realise Mathilde existed. The treacherous voice belonged to Mathilde, which only made it worse. Like a diamond, she was in danger of fracturing. Her fatal flaw exposed.
She twirled around the room, Melanie’s stupid dress fluttering around her backside. The tote bag with the needle mocked her from the dresser. The bag was Melanie’s. It had a pattern of cherries on it. Mathilde scraped the blunt nails of her hand over her palm, nipping her bottom lip hard enough to bleed. The weak, salt tang of blood was sour on her tongue.
Mathilde had her orders. Inject the contents of the syringe, head to the rendezvous; go to the Deep Site. Die so Melanie could live. Wait until the next time the Division needed its diamond agent.
Rinse and repeat.
Mathilde reached down to brush her fingers through the poofy feathers of Melanie’s dress. The other woman’s thoughts were seeping into her brain. Gemma would be at the party; she could ask her about Layla and Collette’s new baby and coo and ooh over pictures of tiny, wrinkled walnut people to her heart’s content.
She might call Iain; try and patch things up. Explain her odd disappearing acts. Maybe she and her friends would talk about the tailbacks and roadblocks caused by the assassination? Or maybe Melanie wouldn’t care about trivial matters of international espionage. Because Melanie had a life. A life that didn’t start and end with murder.
Mathilde frowned, swiftly reaching up to brush wetness from her face. Tears? Mathilde hadn’t cried for real since completing basic training. What was this? Had the Melanie-rot spread so far, so fast? She shivered, breathing through the hitch in her throat. There must be a glitch in the programming. She’d tell Jose and— The burner phone on the bed rang exactly twice. Mathilde flinched. It was time. She had to go. She was already late.
She swept up the tote bag, dug out the needle, prepped it with practiced, sure hands –and set about performing her second murder of the night. The drug hitting her blood stream was cool, soothing, washing away all regret and leaving only clarity.
It was almost a relief. Death was easy, after all. Mathilde understood it. It was all she understood. She’d leave the living to her enemy. Melanie was better at it. And then, after yet another bloody birth, she might finally have the strength to fix her broken whole.
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
ALDLIS CHRONICLES 