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Urban Horror Special Issue, edited by Tommy B. Smith. Featuring fiction by Spencer Wendleton, David Turnbull, Laurence Klavan, Stanley Riiks, Iain Paton, Richard Farren Barber, Jeffrey B. Burton, Trost, Toni Nicolino, Tom Johnstone, Charles D. Romans, Mike Chinn, Tim Emswiler. The Urban Horror Special Issue is available in three great formats, the Compact A5 Edition, the Large Format A4 Edition, and an ebook. Large Format A4 Collector's Edition http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/morpheus-tales-urban-horror-special-issue Compact A5 Collector's Edition http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/morpheus-tales-urban-horror-special-issue-digest-size
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1
2
Urban Horror Special Issue Edited By Tommy B. Smith
Under the City Lights: An Introduction By Tommy B. Smith Page 2
Harm’s Way By Spencer Wendleton Page 3
The Threefold Man By David Turnbull Page 8
Hole In The Ground By Laurence Klavan Page 11
Shoot Out By Stanley Riiks Page 15
Preacher Man By Iain Paton Page 18
These Fears By Richard Farren Barber Page 23
The Twain By Jeffrey B. Burton Page 26
Noisy Neighbours By Trost Page 31
The Coming By Toni Nicolino Page 34
X x By Tom Johnstone Page 39
Unseen By Charles D. Romans Page 44
Cold Rain By Mike Chinn Page 48
The Mysteries Of Long Division By Tim Emswiler Page 52
Cover By Gareth Partington - www.garethpartington.com
Artwork By Lubi (Page 7), Wojciech Dziadosz (Page 14), Ewa Zydowicz (Page 51), Steve Upham
(Page 17), Shaysapir (Page 22), Justin Coons (Page 25), C.E.Zacherl (Page 30), M. Sabas (Page
38), Lacy Jae Slaunwhite (45), Dave Migman (Page 47), Matthew Freyer (Page 56).
Proofread By Samuel Diamond and Trevor Wright – www.morpheustales.com/the%20team.htm
All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All
Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the
copyright holders.
Under the city lights, the crowds push along each side of
faces, unremarkable amid the bustle of any other day, have a story, and today isn’t
just any other day: it’s the day their stories are told.
These people and the city streets they walk, and the smog of fuel exhaust,
cigarette smoke, and various industrial pollutants conceal a jagged patchwork of
urban nightmares.
Think of this as a glimpse into the deepest shadowy secrets of that city, a city
that, on the darker fringes between reality, dream, and imagination, you’ll soon fin
yourself passing through. It might be a place that seems distant and alien, or perhaps
you’ll find it strangely similar to your own city, if only for a moment. Perhaps it
your city.
The writers and artists herein have pushed through the illusion of civilization
into a place that lies hidden beneath its shroud. Among the city streets and the
building facades, the subways and the back alleyways, city lights and urban nights,
you’ll find a stark cityscape battleground, and you’ll witness its terrors. You’ll see
those predators of the city night, as well as those who will discover their city isn’t the
place they thought they knew, and you’ll even see those who would try to change it.
There remains only one direction from here, forward through the pages to
follow, straight into the urban horror. Read on
Tommy B. Smith
The Morpheus Tales Special Issues Collection
Limited availability! Visit our website to order you
www.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.com
Under the city lights, the crowds push along each side of the busy street. Some of the
faces, unremarkable amid the bustle of any other day, have a story, and today isn’t
just any other day: it’s the day their stories are told.
These people and the city streets they walk, and the smog of fuel exhaust,
smoke, and various industrial pollutants conceal a jagged patchwork of
Think of this as a glimpse into the deepest shadowy secrets of that city, a city
that, on the darker fringes between reality, dream, and imagination, you’ll soon fin
yourself passing through. It might be a place that seems distant and alien, or perhaps
you’ll find it strangely similar to your own city, if only for a moment. Perhaps it
The writers and artists herein have pushed through the illusion of civilization
into a place that lies hidden beneath its shroud. Among the city streets and the
building facades, the subways and the back alleyways, city lights and urban nights,
a stark cityscape battleground, and you’ll witness its terrors. You’ll see
those predators of the city night, as well as those who will discover their city isn’t the
place they thought they knew, and you’ll even see those who would try to change it.
e remains only one direction from here, forward through the pages to
follow, straight into the urban horror. Read on - and enjoy the ride!
The Morpheus Tales Special Issues Collection
Limited availability! Visit our website to order your copies now!
www.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.com
3
the busy street. Some of the
faces, unremarkable amid the bustle of any other day, have a story, and today isn’t
These people and the city streets they walk, and the smog of fuel exhaust,
smoke, and various industrial pollutants conceal a jagged patchwork of
Think of this as a glimpse into the deepest shadowy secrets of that city, a city
that, on the darker fringes between reality, dream, and imagination, you’ll soon find
yourself passing through. It might be a place that seems distant and alien, or perhaps
you’ll find it strangely similar to your own city, if only for a moment. Perhaps it is
The writers and artists herein have pushed through the illusion of civilization
into a place that lies hidden beneath its shroud. Among the city streets and the
building facades, the subways and the back alleyways, city lights and urban nights,
a stark cityscape battleground, and you’ll witness its terrors. You’ll see
those predators of the city night, as well as those who will discover their city isn’t the
place they thought they knew, and you’ll even see those who would try to change it.
e remains only one direction from here, forward through the pages to
and enjoy the ride!
r copies now!
4
“Whatever you do, don’t jump from that window!”
It’s the best I could throw at her, the woman being a complete stranger to me.
Poised at the edge of her apartment window,
evening, the other half in the apartment under the veil of nicotine
from letting herself plummet five stories onto the sidewalk below. Her face was crawling with
emotional confusion; it took all that was left of her to commit suicide, and here was this stranger
barking things at her to botch her plan.
“Let’s talk, okay?” I attempt to talk her down again. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll be fine.
Give me a chance. We can fix wha
She pivots another inch out the window, choosing not to talk, and once I see the foot
hanging inside the room jerk upwards, her body tipping toward the outside of the building, I rush
her, plunging myself through the window, shattering the glass and breaking my collar bone against
the wooden frame that’s half-rotted by poor upkeep. Falling after her, I catch her in my grip, turn
my body, and it’s me who breaks her fall, me who breaks every vertebrae of my
splits my skull.
It’s minutes after touchdown, and I come to. The woman is crab
and bashed up body. That could’ve been me. Thank God it wasn’t me,
nightgown stained in my blood whi
shocked is she at how close she came to dying. She sobers up after watching me suffer long enough
and then races to a payphone to call the police.
And by then, my wounds have healed, my vertebr
and re-hinges. Rising up from the street intact, I’m fleeing to the nearest garbage
alley to collect myself and my sore, aching body, to find out how much more time I have left to
live...
Up from the flesh of my forearm, the skin tightens like a snare, the muscles pressed so hard
against the tissue they threaten to break through. After thirty seconds of sharp constricting, up come
those tight purple veins that form into numbers, the numbers written i
Saving that woman’s life gave me another twenty
Enough time to sleep for awhile, and that’s what I do in the nearest garbage bin I can find.
“Terrill, wake up. You wanna coffee? I can smell it comi
brewed.”
I know it’s Donald who’s lifted up the lid of the garbage bin
eyes and acne-pocked skin and shaggy beard and shocks of long hair, all of it giving him the
appearance of a coot prophet. I w
gangly trench coat or the stained “Cardinals” ball cap. “I’ve got a few hours before work, how
about you? We should talk. I have important things to tell you. About our work, I mean.”
I check the faded impression on my forearm, and I’ve got fifteen hours to live.
“Yeah, coffee sound good. And a cigarette. But I’m not so sure about the talking about work
part.”
The Mission was a brick building where the homeless, drunks, burnouts, winos, and off
hookers came for their meals. But it was also for people like me, who had a job to do in the city.
Save the weak. Sacrifice yourself to extend another’s life. Throw oneself into harm’s way for the
sake of humanity. It was what Donald and hundreds of
committed to, though not voluntarily.
“Whatever you do, don’t jump from that window!”
It’s the best I could throw at her, the woman being a complete stranger to me.
Poised at the edge of her apartment window, half her body eclipsed by the shadows of late
evening, the other half in the apartment under the veil of nicotine-coloured curtains, she was inches
from letting herself plummet five stories onto the sidewalk below. Her face was crawling with
fusion; it took all that was left of her to commit suicide, and here was this stranger
barking things at her to botch her plan.
“Let’s talk, okay?” I attempt to talk her down again. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll be fine.
Give me a chance. We can fix whatever’s wrong. It’s not worth taking your own life.”
She pivots another inch out the window, choosing not to talk, and once I see the foot
hanging inside the room jerk upwards, her body tipping toward the outside of the building, I rush
f through the window, shattering the glass and breaking my collar bone against
rotted by poor upkeep. Falling after her, I catch her in my grip, turn
my body, and it’s me who breaks her fall, me who breaks every vertebrae of my
# # #
It’s minutes after touchdown, and I come to. The woman is crab-walking from my bleeding
That could’ve been me. Thank God it wasn’t me, she thinks, her hands and
nightgown stained in my blood which quickly begins to evaporate, though she doesn’t notice, so
at how close she came to dying. She sobers up after watching me suffer long enough
and then races to a payphone to call the police.
And by then, my wounds have healed, my vertebrae connecting together with rough clinks
hinges. Rising up from the street intact, I’m fleeing to the nearest garbage
alley to collect myself and my sore, aching body, to find out how much more time I have left to
e flesh of my forearm, the skin tightens like a snare, the muscles pressed so hard
against the tissue they threaten to break through. After thirty seconds of sharp constricting, up come
those tight purple veins that form into numbers, the numbers written in a strange circulatory scrawl.
Saving that woman’s life gave me another twenty-four hours to live.
Enough time to sleep for awhile, and that’s what I do in the nearest garbage bin I can find.
# # #
“Terrill, wake up. You wanna coffee? I can smell it coming from the Mission. Fresh
I know it’s Donald who’s lifted up the lid of the garbage bin to peer in at me with his buggy
pocked skin and shaggy beard and shocks of long hair, all of it giving him the
appearance of a coot prophet. I was a thirty year old version of Donald, except I didn’t wear a
gangly trench coat or the stained “Cardinals” ball cap. “I’ve got a few hours before work, how
about you? We should talk. I have important things to tell you. About our work, I mean.”
he faded impression on my forearm, and I’ve got fifteen hours to live.
“Yeah, coffee sound good. And a cigarette. But I’m not so sure about the talking about work
The Mission was a brick building where the homeless, drunks, burnouts, winos, and off
hookers came for their meals. But it was also for people like me, who had a job to do in the city.
Save the weak. Sacrifice yourself to extend another’s life. Throw oneself into harm’s way for the
sake of humanity. It was what Donald and hundreds of others throughout the country were
committed to, though not voluntarily.
It’s the best I could throw at her, the woman being a complete stranger to me.
half her body eclipsed by the shadows of late
red curtains, she was inches
from letting herself plummet five stories onto the sidewalk below. Her face was crawling with
fusion; it took all that was left of her to commit suicide, and here was this stranger
“Let’s talk, okay?” I attempt to talk her down again. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll be fine.
tever’s wrong. It’s not worth taking your own life.”
She pivots another inch out the window, choosing not to talk, and once I see the foot
hanging inside the room jerk upwards, her body tipping toward the outside of the building, I rush
f through the window, shattering the glass and breaking my collar bone against
rotted by poor upkeep. Falling after her, I catch her in my grip, turn
my body, and it’s me who breaks her fall, me who breaks every vertebrae of my spinal column and
walking from my bleeding
she thinks, her hands and
ch quickly begins to evaporate, though she doesn’t notice, so
at how close she came to dying. She sobers up after watching me suffer long enough
ae connecting together with rough clinks
hinges. Rising up from the street intact, I’m fleeing to the nearest garbage-and-piss-reeking
alley to collect myself and my sore, aching body, to find out how much more time I have left to
e flesh of my forearm, the skin tightens like a snare, the muscles pressed so hard
against the tissue they threaten to break through. After thirty seconds of sharp constricting, up come
n a strange circulatory scrawl.
Enough time to sleep for awhile, and that’s what I do in the nearest garbage bin I can find.
ng from the Mission. Fresh
in at me with his buggy
pocked skin and shaggy beard and shocks of long hair, all of it giving him the
as a thirty year old version of Donald, except I didn’t wear a
gangly trench coat or the stained “Cardinals” ball cap. “I’ve got a few hours before work, how
about you? We should talk. I have important things to tell you. About our work, I mean.”
he faded impression on my forearm, and I’ve got fifteen hours to live.
“Yeah, coffee sound good. And a cigarette. But I’m not so sure about the talking about work
The Mission was a brick building where the homeless, drunks, burnouts, winos, and off-duty
hookers came for their meals. But it was also for people like me, who had a job to do in the city.
Save the weak. Sacrifice yourself to extend another’s life. Throw oneself into harm’s way for the
others throughout the country were
They say that all humans are threefold beings; mind, body and soul. When the mind ceases
to be sentient and the husk of the cadaver commences its descent into decay, the soul
the veil to whatever the afterlife holds. This is a notion common through generations of mankind’s
religions and philosophies. I for one believed that this was the way of things. And in holding this to
be true, I fully understood and accepted
I realise now that I had no real concept of damnation.
I was never what you might call a good person. I wasn’t minded to be kind to children or
animals. It would not have occurred to me to help an old lady across the street or bes
deed upon a neighbour. I gave nothing to charity and was entirely unmoved by television footage
depicting scenes of starvation in Africa or the aftermath of earthquakes in Asia. You could say that I
possessed the polar opposite of the mores whic
go so far as to say that I had no moral compass whatsoever.
I gained my pleasure from inflicting intolerable suffering upon my fellow beings, delighting
at the delicious crack of a bone, the crimson ejac
lesion, or the strangulated cry for mercy, which was music to my ears. But it was the actual moment
of death that brought me the greatest joy.
The instant of ending.
The inevitable division and separation of
whole.
I would watch in rapture as evidence of the soul’s departure reflected in the deadening eyes
of my victims. I would marvel at the instantaneous blinking out of their sentience. I would sigh in
wonder at the metamorphosis from the tense struggle put up by the animate body to the limp sack of
lifelessness slumped in my arms.
I had conducted a meticulous survey of this city. I knew how to navigate its darkest places;
the heaths and canals, the subways and d
shadowy spots beneath the bridges and the mazelike labyrinth of alleyways which snake through the
theatre district. Here I would prowl, awaiting the latest foolhardy citizen who misguidedly allowed
themselves to believe there would be no harm whatsoever in straying from the main thoroughfares
in order to achieve a quicker route from A to B.
I disposed of the earthly remains of my victims in hacked off hunks and chunks, secreting
them away in the veiled nooks and crannies I had charted and logged over the years. I knew that I
could rely on the efficiency of the feral creatures, the stray dogs, the urban foxes and the river rats,
to finish the job I had begun and leave no incriminating trace.
I was not a serial killer. I refuse to be labelled or pigeonholed in such a trite manner. My
career of slaughter followed no particular pattern. I had no modus operandi. No targeted population
type. No deep-rooted psychological imbalance egging me on. I could not b
guessed. I was a craftsman; each magnificent atrocity a separate and entirely individual work of art.
Besides, the city can be a cold and anonymous place. Each year hundreds of people simply
go missing. The police and the authorities s
each case the attention it deserves. Logging and filing of details is about as far as any investigation
goes.
And so, while discovery was always a distinct possibility, I felt, with considerable
justification, that I had carte blanche to simply carry on torturing and murdering for the sheer joy
that it brought me. Always, always, always I experienced an intense euphoria in the highly charged
aftermath of my sadistic deeds. Almost trancelike in its quality
of perception. This I considered to be my magnificence, my glory, my majesty.
This was ultimately my downfall.
They say that all humans are threefold beings; mind, body and soul. When the mind ceases
to be sentient and the husk of the cadaver commences its descent into decay, the soul
the veil to whatever the afterlife holds. This is a notion common through generations of mankind’s
religions and philosophies. I for one believed that this was the way of things. And in holding this to
be true, I fully understood and accepted that my soul was damned.
I realise now that I had no real concept of damnation.
I was never what you might call a good person. I wasn’t minded to be kind to children or
animals. It would not have occurred to me to help an old lady across the street or bes
deed upon a neighbour. I gave nothing to charity and was entirely unmoved by television footage
depicting scenes of starvation in Africa or the aftermath of earthquakes in Asia. You could say that I
possessed the polar opposite of the mores which go to make up good person. In fact I myself would
go so far as to say that I had no moral compass whatsoever.
I gained my pleasure from inflicting intolerable suffering upon my fellow beings, delighting
at the delicious crack of a bone, the crimson ejaculation of fresh warm blood from a newly sliced
lesion, or the strangulated cry for mercy, which was music to my ears. But it was the actual moment
of death that brought me the greatest joy.
The inevitable division and separation of the three equal parts that make the sum of the
I would watch in rapture as evidence of the soul’s departure reflected in the deadening eyes
of my victims. I would marvel at the instantaneous blinking out of their sentience. I would sigh in
the metamorphosis from the tense struggle put up by the animate body to the limp sack of
I had conducted a meticulous survey of this city. I knew how to navigate its darkest places;
the heaths and canals, the subways and derelict buildings. My territorial hunting grounds were the
shadowy spots beneath the bridges and the mazelike labyrinth of alleyways which snake through the
theatre district. Here I would prowl, awaiting the latest foolhardy citizen who misguidedly allowed
themselves to believe there would be no harm whatsoever in straying from the main thoroughfares
in order to achieve a quicker route from A to B.
I disposed of the earthly remains of my victims in hacked off hunks and chunks, secreting
led nooks and crannies I had charted and logged over the years. I knew that I
could rely on the efficiency of the feral creatures, the stray dogs, the urban foxes and the river rats,
to finish the job I had begun and leave no incriminating trace.
a serial killer. I refuse to be labelled or pigeonholed in such a trite manner. My
career of slaughter followed no particular pattern. I had no modus operandi. No targeted population
rooted psychological imbalance egging me on. I could not b
guessed. I was a craftsman; each magnificent atrocity a separate and entirely individual work of art.
Besides, the city can be a cold and anonymous place. Each year hundreds of people simply
go missing. The police and the authorities simply do not have the manpower or resources to give
each case the attention it deserves. Logging and filing of details is about as far as any investigation
And so, while discovery was always a distinct possibility, I felt, with considerable
ation, that I had carte blanche to simply carry on torturing and murdering for the sheer joy
that it brought me. Always, always, always I experienced an intense euphoria in the highly charged
aftermath of my sadistic deeds. Almost trancelike in its quality, tantalisingly close to a higher plane
of perception. This I considered to be my magnificence, my glory, my majesty.
This was ultimately my downfall.
5
They say that all humans are threefold beings; mind, body and soul. When the mind ceases
to be sentient and the husk of the cadaver commences its descent into decay, the soul passes beyond
the veil to whatever the afterlife holds. This is a notion common through generations of mankind’s
religions and philosophies. I for one believed that this was the way of things. And in holding this to
I was never what you might call a good person. I wasn’t minded to be kind to children or
animals. It would not have occurred to me to help an old lady across the street or bestow a good
deed upon a neighbour. I gave nothing to charity and was entirely unmoved by television footage
depicting scenes of starvation in Africa or the aftermath of earthquakes in Asia. You could say that I
h go to make up good person. In fact I myself would
I gained my pleasure from inflicting intolerable suffering upon my fellow beings, delighting
ulation of fresh warm blood from a newly sliced
lesion, or the strangulated cry for mercy, which was music to my ears. But it was the actual moment
the three equal parts that make the sum of the
I would watch in rapture as evidence of the soul’s departure reflected in the deadening eyes
of my victims. I would marvel at the instantaneous blinking out of their sentience. I would sigh in
the metamorphosis from the tense struggle put up by the animate body to the limp sack of
I had conducted a meticulous survey of this city. I knew how to navigate its darkest places;
erelict buildings. My territorial hunting grounds were the
shadowy spots beneath the bridges and the mazelike labyrinth of alleyways which snake through the
theatre district. Here I would prowl, awaiting the latest foolhardy citizen who misguidedly allowed
themselves to believe there would be no harm whatsoever in straying from the main thoroughfares
I disposed of the earthly remains of my victims in hacked off hunks and chunks, secreting
led nooks and crannies I had charted and logged over the years. I knew that I
could rely on the efficiency of the feral creatures, the stray dogs, the urban foxes and the river rats,
a serial killer. I refuse to be labelled or pigeonholed in such a trite manner. My
career of slaughter followed no particular pattern. I had no modus operandi. No targeted population
rooted psychological imbalance egging me on. I could not be profiled or second-
guessed. I was a craftsman; each magnificent atrocity a separate and entirely individual work of art.
Besides, the city can be a cold and anonymous place. Each year hundreds of people simply
imply do not have the manpower or resources to give
each case the attention it deserves. Logging and filing of details is about as far as any investigation
And so, while discovery was always a distinct possibility, I felt, with considerable
ation, that I had carte blanche to simply carry on torturing and murdering for the sheer joy
that it brought me. Always, always, always I experienced an intense euphoria in the highly charged
, tantalisingly close to a higher plane
of perception. This I considered to be my magnificence, my glory, my majesty.
6
“Closed for Renovations.” He had always thought it one of the great and unappreciated lies,
up there with putting things in the mail and not in your mouth. Was he alone in thinking it? Barry
Bumgardner felt alone, standing before the shuttered Steen’s, which had been his
for the past - how many, twenty?
recognizably Steen’s, the aisles never altered enough to look like any other store, the new owners
always too lazy to change the name, the identity of the original owner of no interest to the new
Asian, Latino, and now Albanian o
every day - “Break a leg!” “Down the hatch!”
This time, however, was different
windows, though not well enough to preven
interior, with paper boxes strewn about unassembled, and a few steel racks fallen over like robbery
victims, the Terra Chips and Pirate Booty and low
mail lay in a small pile near the front door
rush away.
“Closed for Renovations.” The sign would probably stay there until a new store showed up;
at some other places it had taken years, time definiti
believed in the first place, the way time caught people in lies nobody ever bought
visiting relatives” (for ten years)
Still, pondering the future didn’t ch
Steen’s was gone, and the organic kind, without the cow hormones or whatever
for you. He turned, his feet feeling heavy, and walked at the pace of a man twice his age (forty
- his age, not twice his age) to, well, he guessed Green Harbor was the nearest place now, though
the milk was hormonal, the bananas were always brown, and he saw a mouse in there once.
Barry’s head throbbed. The four
want to go. Steen’s had been just fine with him, and so his resistance increased time, and not in a
good way. (Other people might not mind as much, Barry thought, b
home. They only passed Steen’s on the way to
place three or four times a day,
What did he have, kids? - and went in for one item at a time: salt, a sponge, this morning milk.
Truth be told, he liked to leave his apartment, which sometimes seemed suffocating and where he
spent all day writing freelance brochures for U.S. stamps, and, besides, going up and down the
stairs was the only exercise he got, being somewhat plump and pasty, so
Then something cheered him on the way to Green Harbor and distracted him from the
endless length of the trip.
He realized he would be passing Elegamento’s, his usual newspaper store, and that today
was the second week of the month
bought magazines, preferred to just stand and read them right there in the store, but he always
bought something - usually a single small pack of tissues
irony, he thought that tissue packets represented free
from one end of town to the other ranged from twenty
sixty cents, was right in the comfortable middle
seemed to witness his behaviour
and that was all that mattered.
But when he reached it, he read the sign, dumbfounded: “Coming Soon: A New Dru
“Closed for Renovations.” He had always thought it one of the great and unappreciated lies,
with putting things in the mail and not in your mouth. Was he alone in thinking it? Barry
Bumgardner felt alone, standing before the shuttered Steen’s, which had been his
twenty? - years. Sometimes it was “Under New Management” but always
recognizably Steen’s, the aisles never altered enough to look like any other store, the new owners
always too lazy to change the name, the identity of the original owner of no interest to the new
Asian, Latino, and now Albanian owners, as unimportant as the meanings of expressions one used
“Break a leg!” “Down the hatch!” - and didn’t question.
This time, however, was different - brown wrapping paper was taped on all of Steen’s
windows, though not well enough to prevent his peeking through. Today he saw a dark, abandoned
interior, with paper boxes strewn about unassembled, and a few steel racks fallen over like robbery
victims, the Terra Chips and Pirate Booty and low-fat pretzels gone from their shelves. Unopened
lay in a small pile near the front door - bills, Barry figured, and the real reason for the owner’s
“Closed for Renovations.” The sign would probably stay there until a new store showed up;
at some other places it had taken years, time definitively exposing the lie of the sign, which nobody
believed in the first place, the way time caught people in lies nobody ever bought
visiting relatives” (for ten years) - but were too polite to challenge.
Still, pondering the future didn’t change his present quandary: where to buy milk now that
Steen’s was gone, and the organic kind, without the cow hormones or whatever
. He turned, his feet feeling heavy, and walked at the pace of a man twice his age (forty
is age, not twice his age) to, well, he guessed Green Harbor was the nearest place now, though
the milk was hormonal, the bananas were always brown, and he saw a mouse in there once.
Barry’s head throbbed. The four blocks seemed to take forever, because,
Steen’s had been just fine with him, and so his resistance increased time, and not in a
good way. (Other people might not mind as much, Barry thought, because they didn’t work at
hey only passed Steen’s on the way to and from their jobs, whereas he actually entered the
place three or four times a day, since he never shopped in bulk - where did he live, the suburbs?
and went in for one item at a time: salt, a sponge, this morning milk.
e told, he liked to leave his apartment, which sometimes seemed suffocating and where he
spent all day writing freelance brochures for U.S. stamps, and, besides, going up and down the
stairs was the only exercise he got, being somewhat plump and pasty, so why not spread it out?)
Then something cheered him on the way to Green Harbor and distracted him from the
He realized he would be passing Elegamento’s, his usual newspaper store, and that today
was the second week of the month and so the time for new magazines to come in. He rarely if ever
bought magazines, preferred to just stand and read them right there in the store, but he always
usually a single small pack of tissues - to pay Elegamento’s for its time. (W
irony, he thought that tissue packets represented free-market capitalism at its best, since their price
from one end of town to the other ranged from twenty-five cents to a dollar; and Elegamento’s, at
right in the comfortable middle - another reason he liked the store.) If the owners
behaviour with something less than pleasure, they always recognized him,
But when he reached it, he read the sign, dumbfounded: “Coming Soon: A New Dru
“Closed for Renovations.” He had always thought it one of the great and unappreciated lies,
with putting things in the mail and not in your mouth. Was he alone in thinking it? Barry
Bumgardner felt alone, standing before the shuttered Steen’s, which had been his local greengrocer
New Management” but always
recognizably Steen’s, the aisles never altered enough to look like any other store, the new owners
always too lazy to change the name, the identity of the original owner of no interest to the new
wners, as unimportant as the meanings of expressions one used
brown wrapping paper was taped on all of Steen’s
t his peeking through. Today he saw a dark, abandoned
interior, with paper boxes strewn about unassembled, and a few steel racks fallen over like robbery
fat pretzels gone from their shelves. Unopened
bills, Barry figured, and the real reason for the owner’s
“Closed for Renovations.” The sign would probably stay there until a new store showed up;
vely exposing the lie of the sign, which nobody
believed in the first place, the way time caught people in lies nobody ever bought - “My wife is
ange his present quandary: where to buy milk now that
Steen’s was gone, and the organic kind, without the cow hormones or whatever it was that was bad
. He turned, his feet feeling heavy, and walked at the pace of a man twice his age (forty-five
is age, not twice his age) to, well, he guessed Green Harbor was the nearest place now, though
the milk was hormonal, the bananas were always brown, and he saw a mouse in there once.
because, of course, he didn’t
Steen’s had been just fine with him, and so his resistance increased time, and not in a
ecause they didn’t work at
and from their jobs, whereas he actually entered the
here did he live, the suburbs?
and went in for one item at a time: salt, a sponge, this morning milk.
e told, he liked to leave his apartment, which sometimes seemed suffocating and where he
spent all day writing freelance brochures for U.S. stamps, and, besides, going up and down the
why not spread it out?)
Then something cheered him on the way to Green Harbor and distracted him from the
He realized he would be passing Elegamento’s, his usual newspaper store, and that today
and so the time for new magazines to come in. He rarely if ever
bought magazines, preferred to just stand and read them right there in the store, but he always
to pay Elegamento’s for its time. (With
market capitalism at its best, since their price
five cents to a dollar; and Elegamento’s, at
another reason he liked the store.) If the owners
with something less than pleasure, they always recognized him,
But when he reached it, he read the sign, dumbfounded: “Coming Soon: A New Drugall’s.”
“Shoot the fuckers,” yelled one of the gang members. Before the yell had finished echoing
around the interior of the old abandoned factory in Hackney, the two gangs drew their weapons and
started firing. It all seemed to happen in slow motion.
One of the four floodlights was knocked over. The darkness encroaching, sliced by the
bright lights.
An explosion smashed through them, a shotgun blast pounded round the large metallic
room. The scatter shots of an AK
nearly knocked a sixteen-year-old off his feet as others ducked behind rusting machinery. A well
muscled gang leader grabbed hold of a youngster, holding the youth in front of him like a shield.
The ticker-ticker of an Uzi blasted to the
ripped off, and his leg flew up into the air to splat down on the floor several feet away, setting off a
puff of dust.
The leader pulled his sawn
in front of him. His head exploded, splattering brains and face over a glass window behind him. A
hail of bullets. His chest ripped open, organs flying out in all directions before he hit the floor.
One of the other floodlights exploded in a his
room.
Someone else screamed.
An arm flew into the air heading towards the ceiling, the hand fixed in a claw, the forefinger
twitching as though still pulling a trigger. Where the arm was detached by force from
body, meat and blood dripped down from the air, tracing its path. The half
dismembered Superman arm. It punched into the wall and dropped to the ground, still leaking
blood.
There was more shouting, more screaming,
firing and sound of shooting was non
“Fuck-ers,” one shouted, poking his head over the top of a rusting injection
barrel. A bite tore a hole in his right trapezium between his shoulder and his neck. His head tilted,
drooping forward. He didn’t scream. He attempted to lift his pistol but couldn’t move his right arm.
He toppled over, blood pumping out of his neck onto the ground bene
cheap vampire film. He lay staring at the pool of blood, watching his life draining out of him.
A girl appeared from behind one of the other machines, her leather jacket flapping behind
her like wings, screeching at the top of h
moved twenty feet. Suddenly she was between the two gangs in a no
still, looked round and realised there was nowhere to go.
She was torn apart before she took another s
collapsed beneath her and still her entire body shook, ripped into pieces, her torso pocking, blood
ejecting from the random holes rapidly appearing in her.
“Shoot the fuckers,” yelled one of the gang members. Before the yell had finished echoing
round the interior of the old abandoned factory in Hackney, the two gangs drew their weapons and
started firing. It all seemed to happen in slow motion.
One of the four floodlights was knocked over. The darkness encroaching, sliced by the
An explosion smashed through them, a shotgun blast pounded round the large metallic
room. The scatter shots of an AK-47 sounded. Screams followed. The bo
old off his feet as others ducked behind rusting machinery. A well
muscled gang leader grabbed hold of a youngster, holding the youth in front of him like a shield.
ticker of an Uzi blasted to their left; they turned, but too late. The youth’s arm was
his leg flew up into the air to splat down on the floor several feet away, setting off a
The leader pulled his sawn-off shotgun up and fired into the darkness, dropping
in front of him. His head exploded, splattering brains and face over a glass window behind him. A
hail of bullets. His chest ripped open, organs flying out in all directions before he hit the floor.
One of the other floodlights exploded in a hiss and sizzle. Darkness swept deeper into the
An arm flew into the air heading towards the ceiling, the hand fixed in a claw, the forefinger
twitching as though still pulling a trigger. Where the arm was detached by force from
body, meat and blood dripped down from the air, tracing its path. The half-limb looked like a flying
dismembered Superman arm. It punched into the wall and dropped to the ground, still leaking
There was more shouting, more screaming, a shriek and the faint sound of sobbing. The
firing and sound of shooting was non-stop, almost deafening. Ratatat. Bang. Ticker
ers,” one shouted, poking his head over the top of a rusting injection
tore a hole in his right trapezium between his shoulder and his neck. His head tilted,
drooping forward. He didn’t scream. He attempted to lift his pistol but couldn’t move his right arm.
He toppled over, blood pumping out of his neck onto the ground beneath him, like a victim in a
cheap vampire film. He lay staring at the pool of blood, watching his life draining out of him.
A girl appeared from behind one of the other machines, her leather jacket flapping behind
her like wings, screeching at the top of her lungs as she ran. Five guns pointed at her before she’d
moved twenty feet. Suddenly she was between the two gangs in a no-man’s land. She stopped dead
still, looked round and realised there was nowhere to go.
She was torn apart before she took another step, flesh splattering in every direction
collapsed beneath her and still her entire body shook, ripped into pieces, her torso pocking, blood
ejecting from the random holes rapidly appearing in her.
7
“Shoot the fuckers,” yelled one of the gang members. Before the yell had finished echoing
round the interior of the old abandoned factory in Hackney, the two gangs drew their weapons and
One of the four floodlights was knocked over. The darkness encroaching, sliced by the
An explosion smashed through them, a shotgun blast pounded round the large metallic
47 sounded. Screams followed. The boom of a .44 magnum
old off his feet as others ducked behind rusting machinery. A well-
muscled gang leader grabbed hold of a youngster, holding the youth in front of him like a shield.
ir left; they turned, but too late. The youth’s arm was
his leg flew up into the air to splat down on the floor several feet away, setting off a
off shotgun up and fired into the darkness, dropping a dead body
in front of him. His head exploded, splattering brains and face over a glass window behind him. A
hail of bullets. His chest ripped open, organs flying out in all directions before he hit the floor.
s and sizzle. Darkness swept deeper into the
An arm flew into the air heading towards the ceiling, the hand fixed in a claw, the forefinger
twitching as though still pulling a trigger. Where the arm was detached by force from the rest of the
limb looked like a flying
dismembered Superman arm. It punched into the wall and dropped to the ground, still leaking
a shriek and the faint sound of sobbing. The
stop, almost deafening. Ratatat. Bang. Ticker-ticker. Bang.
ers,” one shouted, poking his head over the top of a rusting injection-mould machine
tore a hole in his right trapezium between his shoulder and his neck. His head tilted,
drooping forward. He didn’t scream. He attempted to lift his pistol but couldn’t move his right arm.
ath him, like a victim in a
cheap vampire film. He lay staring at the pool of blood, watching his life draining out of him.
A girl appeared from behind one of the other machines, her leather jacket flapping behind
er lungs as she ran. Five guns pointed at her before she’d
man’s land. She stopped dead
tep, flesh splattering in every direction. Her legs
collapsed beneath her and still her entire body shook, ripped into pieces, her torso pocking, blood
8
On a dreary Glasgow morning, she hears him long before she sees him. A deep voice, with a
hard edge, each word spat out into the air. A small crowd has gathered on Buchanan Street. Some
youths mock him, gangling apes clad in football shirts. He towers abov
narrow, bearded face framed by lank hair. He wears a round collared shirt underneath a waistcoat
and a long black coat. Like a gospel rocker or a wild w
Spittle flies from his lips as he
surreal.
“WHO WILL JESUS DAMN?
“The Book of Romans says Jesus will DAMN the HOMOSEXUALS, and the
FORNICATORS, and the WICKED, and the MALICIOUS. He will damn the DECEITFUL and the
PROUD and the COVENANT BREAKERS and the HATERS of GOD.”
He waves a worn Bible in one outstretched hand.
“The Book of Mark says THIS,” he shouts. “‘
it is better than having two hands to go into HELL, where the WORM dieth not, an
quenched.’”
His voice builds towards a climax.
for thee to enter halt into life, than having two feet to be cast into HELL, where the WORM dieth
not, and the FIRE is not quenched.
His scream reaches its crescendo. “‘
better for thee to enter into the KINGDOM of God with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast
into HELL, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT and the FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED!
He slumps forward, sweat pouring down his pallid face. She walks away, hardly hearing his
murmur.
“And these names shall be writ in the Book of the Damned…”
She pauses. The first names slip by, but the third one sounds familiar.
“David Smith, Hater of G
She shudders, but grins nervously and walks on towards work. Grand buildings overshadow
her as she heads toward the Council Chambers. Her pass gets her through the security door and to
her desk in the planning department. She walks across to David Smi
leans back in his chair, sipping coffee from a football mug.
“David,” she smiles, “you’ll never guess what I
“And what would that be then, Sarah?” He is too well
doesn’t think he is gay.
The telephone interrupts her. “Hello, planning department, Sarah Baxter speaking.”
The day passes quickly with a dozen applications to write up for decision by the councillors.
She’ll be blamed if it goes wrong and get little praise if it goes rig
final result, and finally hits the “send” button, dispatching the report to her manager.
She forgets about the preacher until the end of the day. She turns towards Buchanan Street,
to get her bus westwards, but pauses near
“No thanks,” she murmurs to herself, “I’ve had enough preaching for one day.”
So she walks past the railway station instead.
On a dreary Glasgow morning, she hears him long before she sees him. A deep voice, with a
hard edge, each word spat out into the air. A small crowd has gathered on Buchanan Street. Some
youths mock him, gangling apes clad in football shirts. He towers above their heads, dark eyes in a
narrow, bearded face framed by lank hair. He wears a round collared shirt underneath a waistcoat
Like a gospel rocker or a wild west preacher, she thinks with a smirk.
Spittle flies from his lips as he shouts, and the spectacle suddenly seems more sinister than
“WHO WILL JESUS DAMN?
“The Book of Romans says Jesus will DAMN the HOMOSEXUALS, and the
FORNICATORS, and the WICKED, and the MALICIOUS. He will damn the DECEITFUL and the
VENANT BREAKERS and the HATERS of GOD.”
He waves a worn Bible in one outstretched hand.
“The Book of Mark says THIS,” he shouts. “‘And if thy hand offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for
it is better than having two hands to go into HELL, where the WORM dieth not, an
His voice builds towards a climax. “‘And if thy foot offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for it is better
for thee to enter halt into life, than having two feet to be cast into HELL, where the WORM dieth
d.’”
His scream reaches its crescendo. “‘And if thine EYE offend thee, PLUCK IT OUT, for it is
better for thee to enter into the KINGDOM of God with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast
into HELL, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT and the FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED!
He slumps forward, sweat pouring down his pallid face. She walks away, hardly hearing his
“And these names shall be writ in the Book of the Damned…”
She pauses. The first names slip by, but the third one sounds familiar.
“David Smith, Hater of God…”
She shudders, but grins nervously and walks on towards work. Grand buildings overshadow
her as she heads toward the Council Chambers. Her pass gets her through the security door and to
her desk in the planning department. She walks across to David Smith’s paper
leans back in his chair, sipping coffee from a football mug.
“David,” she smiles, “you’ll never guess what I saw this morning…”
“And what would that be then, Sarah?” He is too well-groomed to be straight, but she
The telephone interrupts her. “Hello, planning department, Sarah Baxter speaking.”
The day passes quickly with a dozen applications to write up for decision by the councillors.
She’ll be blamed if it goes wrong and get little praise if it goes right, but she is pleased with the
final result, and finally hits the “send” button, dispatching the report to her manager.
about the preacher until the end of the day. She turns towards Buchanan Street,
to get her bus westwards, but pauses near the corner.
“No thanks,” she murmurs to herself, “I’ve had enough preaching for one day.”
So she walks past the railway station instead.
On a dreary Glasgow morning, she hears him long before she sees him. A deep voice, with a
hard edge, each word spat out into the air. A small crowd has gathered on Buchanan Street. Some
e their heads, dark eyes in a
narrow, bearded face framed by lank hair. He wears a round collared shirt underneath a waistcoat
, she thinks with a smirk.
shouts, and the spectacle suddenly seems more sinister than
“The Book of Romans says Jesus will DAMN the HOMOSEXUALS, and the
FORNICATORS, and the WICKED, and the MALICIOUS. He will damn the DECEITFUL and the
And if thy hand offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for
it is better than having two hands to go into HELL, where the WORM dieth not, and the FIRE is not
And if thy foot offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for it is better
for thee to enter halt into life, than having two feet to be cast into HELL, where the WORM dieth
And if thine EYE offend thee, PLUCK IT OUT, for it is
better for thee to enter into the KINGDOM of God with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast
into HELL, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT and the FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED!’”
He slumps forward, sweat pouring down his pallid face. She walks away, hardly hearing his
She shudders, but grins nervously and walks on towards work. Grand buildings overshadow
her as she heads toward the Council Chambers. Her pass gets her through the security door and to
th’s paper-strewn desk. He
groomed to be straight, but she
The telephone interrupts her. “Hello, planning department, Sarah Baxter speaking.”
The day passes quickly with a dozen applications to write up for decision by the councillors.
ht, but she is pleased with the
final result, and finally hits the “send” button, dispatching the report to her manager.
about the preacher until the end of the day. She turns towards Buchanan Street,
“No thanks,” she murmurs to herself, “I’ve had enough preaching for one day.”
As I stepped down from the bus
started to run, weaving between the straggled lines of passengers waiting at the bus stands.
Andrea’s warning had been stark
seconds - and it’s over”. I ran through the exit, a blast of cold November air splashed my face and
then I was out in the street.
The pavement was busy with people
balanced and stepped into the street
its horn. I didn’t have enough breath to curse myself. Andrea deserved better than this. She’d
serious when she warned me; there were too many previous convictions to be taken into account. I
didn’t want to lose her. It wasn’t my fault: the bus was l
I nearly passed the alley; the entrance was no larger than a doorway. I must have walked by
it hundreds of times before without noticing
barely penetrating ten metres. There was a stink of old drains, rotting cabbage, stale urine.
I plunged in.
The ground switched from concrete slabs to cobblestones. I took the opportunity to catch my
breath and slowed down to a walk. In a few seconds I’d be through the passage and into Andrea’s
arms.
A row of dark shop fronts crowded in on both sides of the passage. Flecks of yel
from a cast iron lamppost reflected in the glass. Shadows piled up in the corners like u
rubbish. It was hard to see anything clearly. A lace balcony hung over the street, bearing down on
the snakeskin cobblestones. I couldn’t make out the names of any of the shops
windows betrayed nothing of the interior.
I paused and from behind came the scuffling noise of feet on the rough stones. I looked back
but saw no one in the shadows. Even the narrow entrance was now hidden from view. The alley
simply disappeared, sucked up by the darkness.
I started walking again and then I sto
silence. I turned around, dreading what I might see.
“Hello?” My voice fell flat to the cobblestones.
Beside me, the windows of a shop, the
disturbing reflections of me, sightless eyes staring out at me from under balcony eyelids.
Time to get out of here. J
the McDonalds and HMV and Nottinghamshire Building Society. I turned my back against the da
(and did I expect to feel a blade cleave through my shoulder blade?)
sure that I could hear the steady echo of the person following me, r
lamppost, clung to it and looked back to see who was beh
The footsteps shuffled to a halt
The light above me flickered. Yellow light turned brown and then died completely.
Darkness rushed in to surround me. In my blindness I heard the quick tap of footsteps hurrying
towards me, and voices, whisper
language. A waft of stale air passed
coming.
I gripped the lamppost, something tangible and real amongst the choir
words in strange tongues. For a second, just a second but no less real because of its brevity,
something crossed the back of my hand. A hand upon mine. Soft. Wet. Cold.
The lamplight flickered back into life, but too late
echoing against the narrow walls of the passage. I whirle
there was nothing. No movement in the thin alleyway.
As I stepped down from the bus, I heard the clock chiming in Slab Square. Late again! I
started to run, weaving between the straggled lines of passengers waiting at the bus stands.
Andrea’s warning had been stark: “If you’re late, you’re dumped. Anything more than a minute
I ran through the exit, a blast of cold November air splashed my face and
The pavement was busy with people, so I ran the kerbstone tightrope beside the road. I over
balanced and stepped into the street, and the truck that barely missed me blatted the night air with
its horn. I didn’t have enough breath to curse myself. Andrea deserved better than this. She’d
there were too many previous convictions to be taken into account. I
didn’t want to lose her. It wasn’t my fault: the bus was late, the traffic was awful, the
I nearly passed the alley; the entrance was no larger than a doorway. I must have walked by
times before without noticing. I looked in, it was very dark, the street light beside me
barely penetrating ten metres. There was a stink of old drains, rotting cabbage, stale urine.
The ground switched from concrete slabs to cobblestones. I took the opportunity to catch my
a walk. In a few seconds I’d be through the passage and into Andrea’s
A row of dark shop fronts crowded in on both sides of the passage. Flecks of yel
post reflected in the glass. Shadows piled up in the corners like u
rubbish. It was hard to see anything clearly. A lace balcony hung over the street, bearing down on
the snakeskin cobblestones. I couldn’t make out the names of any of the shops
windows betrayed nothing of the interior.
rom behind came the scuffling noise of feet on the rough stones. I looked back
but saw no one in the shadows. Even the narrow entrance was now hidden from view. The alley
simply disappeared, sucked up by the darkness.
I started walking again and then I stopped. The same scuffle and then that syrup
silence. I turned around, dreading what I might see.
“Hello?” My voice fell flat to the cobblestones.
Beside me, the windows of a shop, their panes melted and warped with age, threw back
ons of me, sightless eyes staring out at me from under balcony eyelids.
Time to get out of here. Just a couple of seconds until I was back amongst the city streets,
McDonalds and HMV and Nottinghamshire Building Society. I turned my back against the da
(and did I expect to feel a blade cleave through my shoulder blade?). I ran the next couple of steps,
sure that I could hear the steady echo of the person following me, ran and grabbed hold of the
post, clung to it and looked back to see who was behind me.
e footsteps shuffled to a halt just beyond my view.
The light above me flickered. Yellow light turned brown and then died completely.
Darkness rushed in to surround me. In my blindness I heard the quick tap of footsteps hurrying
whispered words I couldn’t understand, too low, too quiet, like a different
e. A waft of stale air passed, loaded with the stink of rot and disease. Something was
post, something tangible and real amongst the choir
words in strange tongues. For a second, just a second but no less real because of its brevity,
something crossed the back of my hand. A hand upon mine. Soft. Wet. Cold.
The lamplight flickered back into life, but too late - I was already
echoing against the narrow walls of the passage. I whirled around, pole-dancing the lamp
there was nothing. No movement in the thin alleyway.
9
I heard the clock chiming in Slab Square. Late again! I
started to run, weaving between the straggled lines of passengers waiting at the bus stands.
nything more than a minute - 60
I ran through the exit, a blast of cold November air splashed my face and
so I ran the kerbstone tightrope beside the road. I over-
the truck that barely missed me blatted the night air with
its horn. I didn’t have enough breath to curse myself. Andrea deserved better than this. She’d been
there were too many previous convictions to be taken into account. I
ate, the traffic was awful, the-
I nearly passed the alley; the entrance was no larger than a doorway. I must have walked by
the street light beside me
barely penetrating ten metres. There was a stink of old drains, rotting cabbage, stale urine.
The ground switched from concrete slabs to cobblestones. I took the opportunity to catch my
a walk. In a few seconds I’d be through the passage and into Andrea’s
A row of dark shop fronts crowded in on both sides of the passage. Flecks of yellow light
post reflected in the glass. Shadows piled up in the corners like unattended
rubbish. It was hard to see anything clearly. A lace balcony hung over the street, bearing down on
the snakeskin cobblestones. I couldn’t make out the names of any of the shops, and display
rom behind came the scuffling noise of feet on the rough stones. I looked back
but saw no one in the shadows. Even the narrow entrance was now hidden from view. The alley
pped. The same scuffle and then that syrup-thick
panes melted and warped with age, threw back
ons of me, sightless eyes staring out at me from under balcony eyelids.
amongst the city streets,
McDonalds and HMV and Nottinghamshire Building Society. I turned my back against the dark
I ran the next couple of steps,
an and grabbed hold of the
The light above me flickered. Yellow light turned brown and then died completely.
Darkness rushed in to surround me. In my blindness I heard the quick tap of footsteps hurrying
too low, too quiet, like a different
, loaded with the stink of rot and disease. Something was
post, something tangible and real amongst the choir of voices chanting
words in strange tongues. For a second, just a second but no less real because of its brevity,
screaming, my voice
dancing the lamppost, but
10
Martin Vickers slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, lethargically won
where on earth he was, and then remembered his night’s stay at the HealthPlus Sleep Health
Martin tilted his head toward the natural light pouring in through the side window of his sleep
room. The sun had already risen.
He’d done it. Although it had taken weeks of ineffectual treatment, all culminating in an
overnight stay attached to a variety of sensors in the Sleep Health Centre, he’d finally gotten a full
night’s sleep without the convulsions, the fever
within minutes of dropping off.
Martin then did something he’d not done in months. He closed his eyes and went back to
sleep.
“The sleep hygiene’s not doing anything, doctor.” Martin was pale, his eyes bloodshot.
“Ditto the sleep diary.”
Dr. Kanner looked up from the chart before him. “No caffeine after lunch, right?”
“I haven’t touched caffeine since this living hell began.”
“No alcohol within six hours of bedtime?”
“We’ve already covered this. When it started in mid
before bed, hoping that would send me quietly off to la
miles on the stationary nightly, hoping exhaustion would do the trick. Didn’t help. Practically
OD’ed on Tylenol PM. Did nothing.
“We want to avoid sleep aids if at all possible,” the doctor replied, shaking his head. “I still
think your body is psychosomatically working through the stress of those lay
It was now Martin’s turn to shake his head. He managed a te
who worked on tunnel monitors for trains. “My area got off easy. We only took one hit and he was
able to choose early retirement. That was at the end of last year, way before these night terrors
began.”
“Night terrors?”
“That’s what Cindy, my wife, has begun calling them. Night terrors. This is driving her
apeshit, too. I’d switch rooms with the baby, but I need Cindy to be there. She wakes me when the
writhing starts, when I tangle up the sheets and sweat like a pig...
“What does your wife think is causing all this?”
Martin shrugged. “Like me, she has no idea. It came out of the blue. Latel
foetal in a corner of the bed. She says I’ve taken to breathing as though I’m in Lamaze or
something. I’m at the end of my rope, doc.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“Free-falling. A carnival ride in a swirl of darkness. But I get the sense that something is in
there with me - something not terribly pleasant
I’m scared shitless. Cindy wakes me up by this point and I live in fear of dropping off again.”
Martin opened his eyes again. The digital on the bedside table flipped to 7:20 A.M. Martin
couldn’t believe he’d slept in that long. He wanted to
The door to the sleep clinic’s hallway was wide open. Dr. Kanner, an early riser himself, had
promised to stop by at six o’clock to review Martin’s sleep patterns with the sleep centre’s
technologist. The physician must have glanced inside
baby, and decided to let the poor guy get some more rest. God bless the good doctor.
Martin pressed the clicker to alert the technologist that he had woken and to come remove
the sensors.
Martin Vickers slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, lethargically won
where on earth he was, and then remembered his night’s stay at the HealthPlus Sleep Health
Martin tilted his head toward the natural light pouring in through the side window of his sleep
lthough it had taken weeks of ineffectual treatment, all culminating in an
overnight stay attached to a variety of sensors in the Sleep Health Centre, he’d finally gotten a full
night’s sleep without the convulsions, the fever-like chills, the nightmares a
Martin then did something he’d not done in months. He closed his eyes and went back to
# # #
“The sleep hygiene’s not doing anything, doctor.” Martin was pale, his eyes bloodshot.
Dr. Kanner looked up from the chart before him. “No caffeine after lunch, right?”
“I haven’t touched caffeine since this living hell began.”
“No alcohol within six hours of bedtime?”
“We’ve already covered this. When it started in mid-July, I tried drinking some Guinness
before bed, hoping that would send me quietly off to la-la land. No such luck. Then I did twenty
miles on the stationary nightly, hoping exhaustion would do the trick. Didn’t help. Practically
OD’ed on Tylenol PM. Did nothing.”
“We want to avoid sleep aids if at all possible,” the doctor replied, shaking his head. “I still
think your body is psychosomatically working through the stress of those lay-offs you mentioned.”
It was now Martin’s turn to shake his head. He managed a team of mechanical engineers
who worked on tunnel monitors for trains. “My area got off easy. We only took one hit and he was
able to choose early retirement. That was at the end of last year, way before these night terrors
hat Cindy, my wife, has begun calling them. Night terrors. This is driving her
apeshit, too. I’d switch rooms with the baby, but I need Cindy to be there. She wakes me when the
writhing starts, when I tangle up the sheets and sweat like a pig... when the screaming begins.”
“What does your wife think is causing all this?”
Martin shrugged. “Like me, she has no idea. It came out of the blue. Latel
in a corner of the bed. She says I’ve taken to breathing as though I’m in Lamaze or
thing. I’m at the end of my rope, doc.”
“Do you remember anything?”
falling. A carnival ride in a swirl of darkness. But I get the sense that something is in
something not terribly pleasant - watching from the shadows, biding its time
I’m scared shitless. Cindy wakes me up by this point and I live in fear of dropping off again.”
# # #
Martin opened his eyes again. The digital on the bedside table flipped to 7:20 A.M. Martin
couldn’t believe he’d slept in that long. He wanted to stand and cheer.
The door to the sleep clinic’s hallway was wide open. Dr. Kanner, an early riser himself, had
promised to stop by at six o’clock to review Martin’s sleep patterns with the sleep centre’s
technologist. The physician must have glanced inside, seen Martin sleeping like the proverbial
baby, and decided to let the poor guy get some more rest. God bless the good doctor.
Martin pressed the clicker to alert the technologist that he had woken and to come remove
Martin Vickers slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, lethargically wondering
where on earth he was, and then remembered his night’s stay at the HealthPlus Sleep Health Centre.
Martin tilted his head toward the natural light pouring in through the side window of his sleep-study
lthough it had taken weeks of ineffectual treatment, all culminating in an
overnight stay attached to a variety of sensors in the Sleep Health Centre, he’d finally gotten a full
like chills, the nightmares and nausea he suffered
Martin then did something he’d not done in months. He closed his eyes and went back to
“The sleep hygiene’s not doing anything, doctor.” Martin was pale, his eyes bloodshot.
Dr. Kanner looked up from the chart before him. “No caffeine after lunch, right?”
tried drinking some Guinness
la land. No such luck. Then I did twenty
miles on the stationary nightly, hoping exhaustion would do the trick. Didn’t help. Practically
“We want to avoid sleep aids if at all possible,” the doctor replied, shaking his head. “I still
offs you mentioned.”
am of mechanical engineers
who worked on tunnel monitors for trains. “My area got off easy. We only took one hit and he was
able to choose early retirement. That was at the end of last year, way before these night terrors
hat Cindy, my wife, has begun calling them. Night terrors. This is driving her
apeshit, too. I’d switch rooms with the baby, but I need Cindy to be there. She wakes me when the
creaming begins.”
Martin shrugged. “Like me, she has no idea. It came out of the blue. Lately, she finds me all
in a corner of the bed. She says I’ve taken to breathing as though I’m in Lamaze or
falling. A carnival ride in a swirl of darkness. But I get the sense that something is in
watching from the shadows, biding its time... and
I’m scared shitless. Cindy wakes me up by this point and I live in fear of dropping off again.”
Martin opened his eyes again. The digital on the bedside table flipped to 7:20 A.M. Martin
The door to the sleep clinic’s hallway was wide open. Dr. Kanner, an early riser himself, had
promised to stop by at six o’clock to review Martin’s sleep patterns with the sleep centre’s
, seen Martin sleeping like the proverbial
baby, and decided to let the poor guy get some more rest. God bless the good doctor.
Martin pressed the clicker to alert the technologist that he had woken and to come remove
Mark Mansfield did not know his neighbours very well. He did not even know their names.
Every evening when he checked his letterbox, squeezed between so many others at the foot of the
creaking old staircase that led to his first floor flat, he could not help but see his neighbou
Some were scribbled illegibly, others were neatly printed, and all were inserted into the small
plastic window of the tenants’ respe
was simple enough, but matching them to his neighb
of them was Nguyen Van Quan, so Mark thought it a safe bet that this name belonged to the aging
Asian man he sometimes met on the staircase. The other names, like John Grant, Darren and Sally
Ingham or Vincent Franks and Felicity O’Callaghan didn’t so easily reveal the identities of their
owners.
Although Mark did not know his neighbours, there was one thing he knew about the couple
that lived upstairs from him on the second floor. They loved to dance; they we
about it. At least three times a week they would dance around for hours. Sometimes they danced the
tango, other times they danced to African music. The old building was so poorly insulated that
Mark could hear everything. It seemed as t
bongo drums while the other, his partner, spun around and shook her body. As far as he could tell it
was all some kind of kinky foreplay, and it was more than a little disruptive.
Mark wanted to complain t
their ritual he changed his mind. He could not do it. He did not want to make enemies with them,
and he was afraid that they would thi
had nobody to keep him company. It was silly of Mark to think like this, however. His neighbours
almost certainly did not know that he was single because he had not yet scratched his ex
name off his letterbox label.
Living alone did not bother Mark as much as he had feared it would the day he came home
and found Karen doing exactly what she had said she would eventually do; packing her bags. There
was no need for blame or anger. Their life together just wasn’t working out the way it shoul
and she had been the one mature enough to take the first and final step.
At first it had been difficult for Mark to suddenly find himself a bachelor again, but the
sadness was not deep and did not last long. He quickly realised that he had not bee
Karen and that they had been together for so long already simply because that was what a man and
a woman who fancied each other did. He had gone out to dinner and to the pictures with her for a
while, then they had started sleeping over at e
that it would be cheaper for them to pay one rent instead of two. So Karen moved in with him. It
just happened. It was a natural progression that eventually came to an equally natural end. They
were not meant for each other, they had never really been in love, at least not the way Fred Astaire
and Ginger Rogers upstairs seemed to be.
Mark did not feel bored or lonely living by himself. He found plenty of ways to occupy his
time. He often went to the family home to have dinner with his parents and little sister, and at least
twice a week he would meet up with his friends for a few too many pints. Although he refused to
admit so to himself, Mark quite liked single life.
know his neighbours very well. He did not even know their names.
Every evening when he checked his letterbox, squeezed between so many others at the foot of the
creaking old staircase that led to his first floor flat, he could not help but see his neighbou
Some were scribbled illegibly, others were neatly printed, and all were inserted into the small
plastic window of the tenants’ respective letterboxes. Reading the names displayed in front of him
was simple enough, but matching them to his neighbours’ faces was another matter altogether. One
of them was Nguyen Van Quan, so Mark thought it a safe bet that this name belonged to the aging
Asian man he sometimes met on the staircase. The other names, like John Grant, Darren and Sally
Franks and Felicity O’Callaghan didn’t so easily reveal the identities of their
Although Mark did not know his neighbours, there was one thing he knew about the couple
that lived upstairs from him on the second floor. They loved to dance; they we
about it. At least three times a week they would dance around for hours. Sometimes they danced the
tango, other times they danced to African music. The old building was so poorly insulated that
Mark could hear everything. It seemed as though one of them, presumably the man, played the
bongo drums while the other, his partner, spun around and shook her body. As far as he could tell it
was all some kind of kinky foreplay, and it was more than a little disruptive.
Mark wanted to complain to them, but whenever it came to going up there and interrupting
their ritual he changed his mind. He could not do it. He did not want to make enemies with them,
and he was afraid that they would think that he was jealous because - since Karen had left him
had nobody to keep him company. It was silly of Mark to think like this, however. His neighbours
almost certainly did not know that he was single because he had not yet scratched his ex
bother Mark as much as he had feared it would the day he came home
and found Karen doing exactly what she had said she would eventually do; packing her bags. There
was no need for blame or anger. Their life together just wasn’t working out the way it shoul
and she had been the one mature enough to take the first and final step.
At first it had been difficult for Mark to suddenly find himself a bachelor again, but the
sadness was not deep and did not last long. He quickly realised that he had not bee
Karen and that they had been together for so long already simply because that was what a man and
a woman who fancied each other did. He had gone out to dinner and to the pictures with her for a
while, then they had started sleeping over at each other’s places and then, one day, Mark suggested
that it would be cheaper for them to pay one rent instead of two. So Karen moved in with him. It
just happened. It was a natural progression that eventually came to an equally natural end. They
meant for each other, they had never really been in love, at least not the way Fred Astaire
and Ginger Rogers upstairs seemed to be.
Mark did not feel bored or lonely living by himself. He found plenty of ways to occupy his
family home to have dinner with his parents and little sister, and at least
twice a week he would meet up with his friends for a few too many pints. Although he refused to
admit so to himself, Mark quite liked single life.
11
know his neighbours very well. He did not even know their names.
Every evening when he checked his letterbox, squeezed between so many others at the foot of the
creaking old staircase that led to his first floor flat, he could not help but see his neighbours’ names.
Some were scribbled illegibly, others were neatly printed, and all were inserted into the small
names displayed in front of him
ours’ faces was another matter altogether. One
of them was Nguyen Van Quan, so Mark thought it a safe bet that this name belonged to the aging
Asian man he sometimes met on the staircase. The other names, like John Grant, Darren and Sally
Franks and Felicity O’Callaghan didn’t so easily reveal the identities of their
Although Mark did not know his neighbours, there was one thing he knew about the couple
that lived upstairs from him on the second floor. They loved to dance; they were absolutely crazy
about it. At least three times a week they would dance around for hours. Sometimes they danced the
tango, other times they danced to African music. The old building was so poorly insulated that
hough one of them, presumably the man, played the
bongo drums while the other, his partner, spun around and shook her body. As far as he could tell it
o them, but whenever it came to going up there and interrupting
their ritual he changed his mind. He could not do it. He did not want to make enemies with them,
since Karen had left him - he
had nobody to keep him company. It was silly of Mark to think like this, however. His neighbours
almost certainly did not know that he was single because he had not yet scratched his ex-girlfriend’s
bother Mark as much as he had feared it would the day he came home
and found Karen doing exactly what she had said she would eventually do; packing her bags. There
was no need for blame or anger. Their life together just wasn’t working out the way it should have,
At first it had been difficult for Mark to suddenly find himself a bachelor again, but the
sadness was not deep and did not last long. He quickly realised that he had not been in love with
Karen and that they had been together for so long already simply because that was what a man and
a woman who fancied each other did. He had gone out to dinner and to the pictures with her for a
ach other’s places and then, one day, Mark suggested
that it would be cheaper for them to pay one rent instead of two. So Karen moved in with him. It
just happened. It was a natural progression that eventually came to an equally natural end. They
meant for each other, they had never really been in love, at least not the way Fred Astaire
Mark did not feel bored or lonely living by himself. He found plenty of ways to occupy his
family home to have dinner with his parents and little sister, and at least
twice a week he would meet up with his friends for a few too many pints. Although he refused to
12
The sirens shouldn’t have frigh
alarms that drifted to the fourteenth floor apartment from the city streets below, yet something about
the reckless, urgent shrieks caused the hair on the back of her neck to dance. She made her
the open window in the living room and slammed it shut. The sirens continued despite her action.
Four minutes, eight minutes, seventeen minutes, twenty
abruptly silenced. The sudden quiet proved far more unse
trucks and police cars. Now, Asil was left with nothing to analyze but her own thoughts, and she
pictured her mother standing by the doorway, coat on, purse in hand.
When Carla Shaw left, she said she’d be back in a
mother’s ability to appear as if she was gazing at her daughter, when in actuality, she had been
staring just over Asil’s head.
She can’t even look at me
her chest, and she couldn’t suppress her aggression. “Don’t pretend to care about leaving me alone.
Just go already.”
Carla recoiled, as if her daughter’s words possessed the brute force of a thrown punch.
Surprise and disgust curled her face into an
twitched, pulling the right side of her mouth into a pseudo
when she stopped, turned back, and called out mockingly, “Don’t go anywhere.”
Asil had fantasized briefly
throwing it at her mother’s head, but she hadn’t the strength or mobility to enact such a cruel but
satisfying punishment, so she’d simply watched her mother walk away.
That had happened two day
Asil shook the memory away and turned her attention back to the window. The silence
outside was short-lived, replaced by a cacophony of typical city sounds: people shouting, radios
blaring, horns sounding. A native New Yorker, Asil considered the r
commonplace, but today was different. Like the sirens, the seemingly innocuous sounds of the city
mildly repulsed her.
She opened the window and the restlessness of the sidewalk invaded the room. Asil shoved
her face toward the windowpane,
window guards that clung like prison bars to the frame. Manhattan landlords required tenants living
with a child younger than seven to keep the metal contraptions over each window. Asil h
outgrown that stage of her life nine years ago, but her mother hadn’t noticed the progression.
A woman’s terrified scream caused Asil to jump. The mournful howl reminded her of the
stray cats in heat that gathered in the alleyway behind the apartment b
bestial, and caused a sick, hard cramp in Asil’s gut. Something was happening out there, and her
inability to understand the commotion taunted her. She studied the window guard. It could easily be
taken down with a Phillips-head
disquieting racket firsthand.
Below, glass shattered and the murmur of voices increased to a panicked roar. Asil backed
away and manoeuvred through the living room headed for the kitchen, where a
in a drawer next to the stove. Carla Shaw rarely touched such items. She left that duty to her
daughter, who, at an early age, learned how to hang curtain rods and shelving, how to assemble
small pieces of IKEA furniture, and most imp
when her mother barricaded herself inside with a bottle of OxyContin. Recalling the countless uses
for the Phillips-head in the past, Asil wondered why she hadn’t taken the bars down sooner; they’d
always made her feel like a prisoner.
The sirens shouldn’t have frightened Asil. The sound was no different tonight than the daily
alarms that drifted to the fourteenth floor apartment from the city streets below, yet something about
the reckless, urgent shrieks caused the hair on the back of her neck to dance. She made her
the open window in the living room and slammed it shut. The sirens continued despite her action.
Four minutes, eight minutes, seventeen minutes, twenty-two minutes passed before the sound was
abruptly silenced. The sudden quiet proved far more unsettling than the brash horns of the fire
trucks and police cars. Now, Asil was left with nothing to analyze but her own thoughts, and she
pictured her mother standing by the doorway, coat on, purse in hand.
When Carla Shaw left, she said she’d be back in an hour. Asil recalled marvelling at her
mother’s ability to appear as if she was gazing at her daughter, when in actuality, she had been
She can’t even look at me, Asil remembered thinking. The idea had caused a hateful ache
her chest, and she couldn’t suppress her aggression. “Don’t pretend to care about leaving me alone.
Carla recoiled, as if her daughter’s words possessed the brute force of a thrown punch.
Surprise and disgust curled her face into an ugly mask; sweat peppered her brow and one cheek
twitched, pulling the right side of her mouth into a pseudo-smile. Carla had one foot in the hallway
when she stopped, turned back, and called out mockingly, “Don’t go anywhere.”
Asil had fantasized briefly of retrieving the glass paperweight from the foyer table and
throwing it at her mother’s head, but she hadn’t the strength or mobility to enact such a cruel but
satisfying punishment, so she’d simply watched her mother walk away.
That had happened two days ago.
Asil shook the memory away and turned her attention back to the window. The silence
lived, replaced by a cacophony of typical city sounds: people shouting, radios
blaring, horns sounding. A native New Yorker, Asil considered the r
commonplace, but today was different. Like the sirens, the seemingly innocuous sounds of the city
She opened the window and the restlessness of the sidewalk invaded the room. Asil shoved
her face toward the windowpane, hoping for a clear view of the street, but was stopped by the metal
window guards that clung like prison bars to the frame. Manhattan landlords required tenants living
with a child younger than seven to keep the metal contraptions over each window. Asil h
outgrown that stage of her life nine years ago, but her mother hadn’t noticed the progression.
A woman’s terrified scream caused Asil to jump. The mournful howl reminded her of the
stray cats in heat that gathered in the alleyway behind the apartment building. It was primitive,
bestial, and caused a sick, hard cramp in Asil’s gut. Something was happening out there, and her
inability to understand the commotion taunted her. She studied the window guard. It could easily be
head screwdriver, and once she removed it, Asil could witness the
Below, glass shattered and the murmur of voices increased to a panicked roar. Asil backed
away and manoeuvred through the living room headed for the kitchen, where a
in a drawer next to the stove. Carla Shaw rarely touched such items. She left that duty to her
daughter, who, at an early age, learned how to hang curtain rods and shelving, how to assemble
small pieces of IKEA furniture, and most importantly, how to disassemble the bathroom doorknob
when her mother barricaded herself inside with a bottle of OxyContin. Recalling the countless uses
head in the past, Asil wondered why she hadn’t taken the bars down sooner; they’d
made her feel like a prisoner.
tened Asil. The sound was no different tonight than the daily
alarms that drifted to the fourteenth floor apartment from the city streets below, yet something about
the reckless, urgent shrieks caused the hair on the back of her neck to dance. She made her way to
the open window in the living room and slammed it shut. The sirens continued despite her action.
two minutes passed before the sound was
ttling than the brash horns of the fire
trucks and police cars. Now, Asil was left with nothing to analyze but her own thoughts, and she
n hour. Asil recalled marvelling at her
mother’s ability to appear as if she was gazing at her daughter, when in actuality, she had been
, Asil remembered thinking. The idea had caused a hateful ache in
her chest, and she couldn’t suppress her aggression. “Don’t pretend to care about leaving me alone.
Carla recoiled, as if her daughter’s words possessed the brute force of a thrown punch.
ugly mask; sweat peppered her brow and one cheek
smile. Carla had one foot in the hallway
when she stopped, turned back, and called out mockingly, “Don’t go anywhere.”
of retrieving the glass paperweight from the foyer table and
throwing it at her mother’s head, but she hadn’t the strength or mobility to enact such a cruel but
Asil shook the memory away and turned her attention back to the window. The silence
lived, replaced by a cacophony of typical city sounds: people shouting, radios
blaring, horns sounding. A native New Yorker, Asil considered the raucous symphony
commonplace, but today was different. Like the sirens, the seemingly innocuous sounds of the city
She opened the window and the restlessness of the sidewalk invaded the room. Asil shoved
hoping for a clear view of the street, but was stopped by the metal
window guards that clung like prison bars to the frame. Manhattan landlords required tenants living
with a child younger than seven to keep the metal contraptions over each window. Asil had
outgrown that stage of her life nine years ago, but her mother hadn’t noticed the progression.
A woman’s terrified scream caused Asil to jump. The mournful howl reminded her of the
uilding. It was primitive,
bestial, and caused a sick, hard cramp in Asil’s gut. Something was happening out there, and her
inability to understand the commotion taunted her. She studied the window guard. It could easily be
screwdriver, and once she removed it, Asil could witness the
Below, glass shattered and the murmur of voices increased to a panicked roar. Asil backed
away and manoeuvred through the living room headed for the kitchen, where a box of tools resided
in a drawer next to the stove. Carla Shaw rarely touched such items. She left that duty to her
daughter, who, at an early age, learned how to hang curtain rods and shelving, how to assemble
ortantly, how to disassemble the bathroom doorknob
when her mother barricaded herself inside with a bottle of OxyContin. Recalling the countless uses
head in the past, Asil wondered why she hadn’t taken the bars down sooner; they’d
There he is again, the man with the muslin veil that hangs limply over his wide
hat. Passersby ignore the table, with its Xeroxed leaflets weighted down with pebbles from the
beach, but still flapping in the wind l
“Please sign the petition, Councillor Mergrave,” calls the reedy, muffled voice, “against the
new mobile phone mast.”
Hilton Mergrave sighs.
“I shall take on board your concerns, and make representations
The veiled man offers his own dry, crackling laugh, making the gauzy material over his face
ripple. The material must have been white once, but Hilton notices a nasty yellowish tinge, darker
where the mouth must be.
“But you must remember that people need good mobile phone reception,” Hilton points out,
hiding his growing feeling of repulsion. “That’s why the mast is being built!”
“People also need food.”
“Yes, of course they do,” Hilton agrees, trying to keep his breakfast down. “But
what that’s got to do with mobile phones.”
“Bees,” the man continues in his grating monotone, “pollinate fruit trees and most other fruit
crops. Now their numbers are dwindling. Scientists are wondering why. One theory is that mobile
phone microwaves are interfering with the bees’ guidance systems.”
There are no gestures to illustrate the speech. The hands remain tucked under the paste table.
The feet however are visible, open
“So that’s why you’re wearing a bee
“No, I wear this veil to protect
“You see, they’ve been interfering with
Hilton nearly bursts out laughing.
“Oh, come on,” he says, “I accept that there has been an alarming decline in the bee
population. But I think the cause is more likely to be intensive agriculture than mobile phone masts,
don’t you? And,” glancing round pointedly at the
see many other people stopping to rally to your cause, do you?”
The man in the veil says nothing, just tilts his head. The pale muslin shrivels inward at the
mouth as the man sucks in a rasping breath. T
edges away from the table, feeling a purring vibration in his trouser pocket.
“Everyone uses them nowadays!” he says.
“I don’t,” the man says.
“Well, anyway, I must be off
When Hilton has put several metres between himself and the stall, he retrieves his phone and
checks the message:
Hi, Hil. When can we meet to discuss your donation? Edie x x
He stops in his tracks.
Edie?
Then he remembers: the chugger
softly touching his elbow, as she coaxed him to let her take his particulars. He joked that he would
be happy to offer her a donation, if she gave him her number. She laughed along, laughed it off, h
wasn’t sure which; you never can tell with these chuggers.
There he is again, the man with the muslin veil that hangs limply over his wide
hat. Passersby ignore the table, with its Xeroxed leaflets weighted down with pebbles from the
beach, but still flapping in the wind like demented butterflies, pinned but still alive.
“Please sign the petition, Councillor Mergrave,” calls the reedy, muffled voice, “against the
“I shall take on board your concerns, and make representations in today’s meeting.”
The veiled man offers his own dry, crackling laugh, making the gauzy material over his face
ripple. The material must have been white once, but Hilton notices a nasty yellowish tinge, darker
ember that people need good mobile phone reception,” Hilton points out,
hiding his growing feeling of repulsion. “That’s why the mast is being built!”
“Yes, of course they do,” Hilton agrees, trying to keep his breakfast down. “But
what that’s got to do with mobile phones.”
“Bees,” the man continues in his grating monotone, “pollinate fruit trees and most other fruit
crops. Now their numbers are dwindling. Scientists are wondering why. One theory is that mobile
rowaves are interfering with the bees’ guidance systems.”
There are no gestures to illustrate the speech. The hands remain tucked under the paste table.
The feet however are visible, open-toed flip flop sandals displaying their filthiness.
“So that’s why you’re wearing a bee-keeper’s hat, is it? As a gesture of solidarity?”
“No, I wear this veil to protect me from the microwaves,” the man replies quite seriously.
“You see, they’ve been interfering with my guidance systems.”
ursts out laughing.
“Oh, come on,” he says, “I accept that there has been an alarming decline in the bee
population. But I think the cause is more likely to be intensive agriculture than mobile phone masts,
don’t you? And,” glancing round pointedly at the various people hurrying indifferently by, “I don’t
see many other people stopping to rally to your cause, do you?”
The man in the veil says nothing, just tilts his head. The pale muslin shrivels inward at the
mouth as the man sucks in a rasping breath. The material there seems even darker now. Hilton
edges away from the table, feeling a purring vibration in his trouser pocket.
“Everyone uses them nowadays!” he says.
“Well, anyway, I must be off - council meeting. I’ll try and plead your cause!”
When Hilton has put several metres between himself and the stall, he retrieves his phone and
Hi, Hil. When can we meet to discuss your donation? Edie x x
Then he remembers: the chugger - charity mugger. All eager smiles, golden limbs and hand
softly touching his elbow, as she coaxed him to let her take his particulars. He joked that he would
be happy to offer her a donation, if she gave him her number. She laughed along, laughed it off, h
wasn’t sure which; you never can tell with these chuggers.
13
There he is again, the man with the muslin veil that hangs limply over his wide-brimmed
hat. Passersby ignore the table, with its Xeroxed leaflets weighted down with pebbles from the
ike demented butterflies, pinned but still alive.
“Please sign the petition, Councillor Mergrave,” calls the reedy, muffled voice, “against the
in today’s meeting.”
The veiled man offers his own dry, crackling laugh, making the gauzy material over his face
ripple. The material must have been white once, but Hilton notices a nasty yellowish tinge, darker
ember that people need good mobile phone reception,” Hilton points out,
“Yes, of course they do,” Hilton agrees, trying to keep his breakfast down. “But I don’t see
“Bees,” the man continues in his grating monotone, “pollinate fruit trees and most other fruit
crops. Now their numbers are dwindling. Scientists are wondering why. One theory is that mobile
There are no gestures to illustrate the speech. The hands remain tucked under the paste table.
toed flip flop sandals displaying their filthiness.
keeper’s hat, is it? As a gesture of solidarity?”
from the microwaves,” the man replies quite seriously.
“Oh, come on,” he says, “I accept that there has been an alarming decline in the bee
population. But I think the cause is more likely to be intensive agriculture than mobile phone masts,
various people hurrying indifferently by, “I don’t
The man in the veil says nothing, just tilts his head. The pale muslin shrivels inward at the
he material there seems even darker now. Hilton
ead your cause!”
When Hilton has put several metres between himself and the stall, he retrieves his phone and
charity mugger. All eager smiles, golden limbs and hand
softly touching his elbow, as she coaxed him to let her take his particulars. He joked that he would
be happy to offer her a donation, if she gave him her number. She laughed along, laughed it off, he
14
The faint popping sound was almost swallowed by the soft music coming from the old
Buick’s speakers. The car’s single occupant reached over without looking and pulled the cigarette
lighter free, then covered the glow with his other hand as he lit the non
from his lips. The glow probably wouldn’t be enough to attract attention, but he wasn’t about to do
without heat and smokes, regardless. Still, he cupped the smoke
the passenger compartment instead of out the open window.
He glanced at the radio and it read eleven p.m. in soft, digital letters. Not many cars in the
parking lot of the big shopping mall at this time of night, so h
running. He had not been given enough warning, so he had not been able to collect his
the paranoia kicked in. The client had
worked out cleanly. That was just one of many things about this evening
the lone man; another was that late December was definitely not the time of year to be sitting in a
parking lot with no heat, while he waited for all of the holiday shoppers to
do his job.
Well, his other job, anyway. On a good day Matt Daniels was a heavy equipment operator
working out of the local union. On a bad day, and sometimes even after a good day, the little black
pager he always carried reminded him that it was still there. No vacation days away
bugger, or personal days off either. And the fact that he was freezing in the parking lot outside of a
stupid shopping mall on Christmas Eve proved that holidays were a myth. And all of this because
he had once been in the wrong place at t
it. Of course, along with that there was also the fact that his left eye had stubbornly insisting on
healing after one particularly nasty beasty had tried to claw through it
These days Matt’s vision was just a
wisdom of the “people” that should know was that the poison on the creature’s claws had damaged
his left eye in such a way that it perceived
perceived it. Matt Daniels could see the hard shadows when everyone else only noticed a blurring
on the edges of their vision, which was easy to ignore. His part
lucky he was to have kept the eye.
unique quality of vision. Matt believed them. He believed them every time he looked into the mirror
and saw the thin scars that started above the bridge of his nose and disappeared below his le
missing his eyelid, but cratering a small spot at the top of his cheek.
As quietly as possible, he left the vehicle and made his way across the abandoned lot. People
were so arrogant, he thought as he slipped up to the doorway. They were so confid
knew, and in their position in the grand scheme of things,
that Matt could see, they wouldn’t sleep so well at night. Or even in the day for that matter. But he
shrugged those thoughts aside and fis
jacket, and slowly passed it over the lock a few times until he was rewarded with
faint click. He spent several moments looking through the glass to assure himself that the securit
guard hadn’t doubled back, then slipped the device back into his jacket and replaced it with a large
revolver. Yeah, this one was bound to get messy, he thought
The paranoia was the real problem. N
The faint popping sound was almost swallowed by the soft music coming from the old
Buick’s speakers. The car’s single occupant reached over without looking and pulled the cigarette
e, then covered the glow with his other hand as he lit the non-filtered cigarette that hung
from his lips. The glow probably wouldn’t be enough to attract attention, but he wasn’t about to do
without heat and smokes, regardless. Still, he cupped the smoke in his left hand and
the passenger compartment instead of out the open window.
He glanced at the radio and it read eleven p.m. in soft, digital letters. Not many cars in the
parking lot of the big shopping mall at this time of night, so he couldn’t risk leaving the engine
running. He had not been given enough warning, so he had not been able to collect his
client had run, and he’d had to pick up the trail on the fly, which seldom
. That was just one of many things about this evening’s activities that annoyed
the lone man; another was that late December was definitely not the time of year to be sitting in a
while he waited for all of the holiday shoppers to clear out so that he could
job, anyway. On a good day Matt Daniels was a heavy equipment operator
working out of the local union. On a bad day, and sometimes even after a good day, the little black
pager he always carried reminded him that it was still there. No vacation days away
bugger, or personal days off either. And the fact that he was freezing in the parking lot outside of a
stupid shopping mall on Christmas Eve proved that holidays were a myth. And all of this because
he had once been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had somehow lived to tell no
it. Of course, along with that there was also the fact that his left eye had stubbornly insisting on
healing after one particularly nasty beasty had tried to claw through it and into his skull.
vision was just a bit more deliberate than it had been. The conventional
that should know was that the poison on the creature’s claws had damaged
his left eye in such a way that it perceived light in a manner different from the way normal humans
perceived it. Matt Daniels could see the hard shadows when everyone else only noticed a blurring
, which was easy to ignore. His part-time employers had told him how
s to have kept the eye. They insisted that he was even fortunate to have gained such a
unique quality of vision. Matt believed them. He believed them every time he looked into the mirror
and saw the thin scars that started above the bridge of his nose and disappeared below his le
missing his eyelid, but cratering a small spot at the top of his cheek.
he left the vehicle and made his way across the abandoned lot. People
were so arrogant, he thought as he slipped up to the doorway. They were so confid
n in the grand scheme of things, but if most of them could see the t
they wouldn’t sleep so well at night. Or even in the day for that matter. But he
shrugged those thoughts aside and fished a small device out of one pocket o
slowly passed it over the lock a few times until he was rewarded with
faint click. He spent several moments looking through the glass to assure himself that the securit
guard hadn’t doubled back, then slipped the device back into his jacket and replaced it with a large
revolver. Yeah, this one was bound to get messy, he thought as he slipped inside.
The paranoia was the real problem. Not his own, but the clients’.
The faint popping sound was almost swallowed by the soft music coming from the old
Buick’s speakers. The car’s single occupant reached over without looking and pulled the cigarette
filtered cigarette that hung
from his lips. The glow probably wouldn’t be enough to attract attention, but he wasn’t about to do
in his left hand and blew it out into
He glanced at the radio and it read eleven p.m. in soft, digital letters. Not many cars in the
e couldn’t risk leaving the engine
running. He had not been given enough warning, so he had not been able to collect his client before
, and he’d had to pick up the trail on the fly, which seldom
s activities that annoyed
the lone man; another was that late December was definitely not the time of year to be sitting in a
clear out so that he could
job, anyway. On a good day Matt Daniels was a heavy equipment operator
working out of the local union. On a bad day, and sometimes even after a good day, the little black
pager he always carried reminded him that it was still there. No vacation days away from that little
bugger, or personal days off either. And the fact that he was freezing in the parking lot outside of a
stupid shopping mall on Christmas Eve proved that holidays were a myth. And all of this because
had somehow lived to tell no one about
it. Of course, along with that there was also the fact that his left eye had stubbornly insisting on
into his skull.
bit more deliberate than it had been. The conventional
that should know was that the poison on the creature’s claws had damaged
the way normal humans
perceived it. Matt Daniels could see the hard shadows when everyone else only noticed a blurring
time employers had told him how
insisted that he was even fortunate to have gained such a
unique quality of vision. Matt believed them. He believed them every time he looked into the mirror
and saw the thin scars that started above the bridge of his nose and disappeared below his left ear,
he left the vehicle and made his way across the abandoned lot. People
were so arrogant, he thought as he slipped up to the doorway. They were so confident in what they
but if most of them could see the things
they wouldn’t sleep so well at night. Or even in the day for that matter. But he
hed a small device out of one pocket of his heavy leather
slowly passed it over the lock a few times until he was rewarded with a soft buzz and a
faint click. He spent several moments looking through the glass to assure himself that the security
guard hadn’t doubled back, then slipped the device back into his jacket and replaced it with a large
he slipped inside.
The empty Chinese takeaway had been firebombed. Some of the boards were ripped down
and now a hole yawned black and scorched in what was once a win
upended, dribbling a gray stream of garbage across the street. A slogan was daub
wood, but fire and the dull rain had smeared the sentiments. Adam couldn’t read whatever
justification the fire bombers had left.
Hunching against the weather, he limped along brown streets and gray structures. His
building was no different from any other:
out of the dank. After a week he was still finding it hard to identify. He groped in damp pockets for
his key, just about to unlock the peeling front doors
It was a tramp huddled against the narrow steps. His face w
dripped off his nose and long, ratty hair, his
impulse, Adam searched his pockets, producing a crushed pack
both cold and damp. There were only two cigarettes left; Adam had more up in his flat
He tossed pack and matches towards the tramp, opening the front door and blundering into the
comparative dryness. He slammed the door shut on any words of thanks.
Inside it was dark. The absentee landlord still hadn’t replaced any of the dead light bulbs
along the hallway, corridors or stairwell. Every day it grew dimmer, the uniformity of all six floors
augmented by the creeping darkness. The only light filtered in from the wet, gloomy street
like trying to see through a dirty mist. He had no idea how many others lived in the converted
house; he’d never seen anyone. In the intensifying gloom, it was unlikely he
Adam climbed the ancient stairs to the third floor. He was beginning to shiver
was always several degrees colder than outside. He hadn’t been able to dry out his coat properly
since he’d moved in. Outside his flat, he had to hold
right one. At least inside all of the lights worked; he’d bought plenty of bulbs himself when he’d
moved in. He flicked on several lights, revelling in the brightness, careless of the electricity bill.
The chaos it revealed was familiar:
He’d get round to sorting it all eventually.
Whilst the oven was heating up
cigarettes and lit up. He sat on an as
anonymous street, and flicked spent ash through the window, finally tossing the dog end outside to
dissolve in the gutter. He heated a tray of frozen lasagne and ate in silence, staring at the
television screen. It had died last night halfway through a commercial break, and he couldn’t afford
a new one.
Once he’d finished he grabbed his damp coat and left the flat. The unpacking could wait
another night - he fancied a drink down
tray in one of the bins lining the entrance hall.
The George was a dismal place, as f
from Adam and the barman, there were only three others
emptied glasses, staring into space. They weren’t talking. Adam bought a pint of bitter and made for
a corner of his own. The plastic bench felt sticky and smelled of stale beer. The brown walls were
dotted by faded prints of boxers and football teams Adam didn’t recognize. He sipped at his drink
It tasted watered down.
He went back to the bar and bought a whisky
scotch into his pint and took another taste. Better.
The empty Chinese takeaway had been firebombed. Some of the boards were ripped down
and now a hole yawned black and scorched in what was once a window. The recycling bins were
ended, dribbling a gray stream of garbage across the street. A slogan was daub
but fire and the dull rain had smeared the sentiments. Adam couldn’t read whatever
justification the fire bombers had left.
Hunching against the weather, he limped along brown streets and gray structures. His
nt from any other: just another many-storied, decaying behemoth looming
out of the dank. After a week he was still finding it hard to identify. He groped in damp pockets for
unlock the peeling front doors when he heard a muffled soun
It was a tramp huddled against the narrow steps. His face was streaked with grime,
f his nose and long, ratty hair, his ragged clothes glistened with absorbed rain. On
impulse, Adam searched his pockets, producing a crushed pack of cigarettes and book of matches,
both cold and damp. There were only two cigarettes left; Adam had more up in his flat
He tossed pack and matches towards the tramp, opening the front door and blundering into the
slammed the door shut on any words of thanks.
he absentee landlord still hadn’t replaced any of the dead light bulbs
along the hallway, corridors or stairwell. Every day it grew dimmer, the uniformity of all six floors
creeping darkness. The only light filtered in from the wet, gloomy street
like trying to see through a dirty mist. He had no idea how many others lived in the converted
house; he’d never seen anyone. In the intensifying gloom, it was unlikely he ever would.
Adam climbed the ancient stairs to the third floor. He was beginning to shiver
was always several degrees colder than outside. He hadn’t been able to dry out his coat properly
since he’d moved in. Outside his flat, he had to hold his keys inches from his face to identify the
right one. At least inside all of the lights worked; he’d bought plenty of bulbs himself when he’d
moved in. He flicked on several lights, revelling in the brightness, careless of the electricity bill.
os it revealed was familiar: a miniature cityscape of crates, boxes and crazily
He’d get round to sorting it all eventually.
Whilst the oven was heating up, Adam raised the sash window, dug out the fresh pack of
n an as-yet unpacked tea chest, watched the rain falling in the
flicked spent ash through the window, finally tossing the dog end outside to
dissolve in the gutter. He heated a tray of frozen lasagne and ate in silence, staring at the
television screen. It had died last night halfway through a commercial break, and he couldn’t afford
Once he’d finished he grabbed his damp coat and left the flat. The unpacking could wait
he fancied a drink down at the pub. On the way out he dumped his empty lasagne
tray in one of the bins lining the entrance hall.
# # #
was a dismal place, as forlorn outside as it was inside, and all but deserted. Apart
from Adam and the barman, there were only three others - all huddled in a dim corner, nursing half
emptied glasses, staring into space. They weren’t talking. Adam bought a pint of bitter and made for
a corner of his own. The plastic bench felt sticky and smelled of stale beer. The brown walls were
d prints of boxers and football teams Adam didn’t recognize. He sipped at his drink
He went back to the bar and bought a whisky - a double. Back in his corner he emptied the
scotch into his pint and took another taste. Better.
15
The empty Chinese takeaway had been firebombed. Some of the boards were ripped down
dow. The recycling bins were
ended, dribbling a gray stream of garbage across the street. A slogan was daubed on the filthy
but fire and the dull rain had smeared the sentiments. Adam couldn’t read whatever
Hunching against the weather, he limped along brown streets and gray structures. His
, decaying behemoth looming
out of the dank. After a week he was still finding it hard to identify. He groped in damp pockets for
when he heard a muffled sound close by.
as streaked with grime, water
ragged clothes glistened with absorbed rain. On
cigarettes and book of matches,
both cold and damp. There were only two cigarettes left; Adam had more up in his flat - dry ones.
He tossed pack and matches towards the tramp, opening the front door and blundering into the
he absentee landlord still hadn’t replaced any of the dead light bulbs
along the hallway, corridors or stairwell. Every day it grew dimmer, the uniformity of all six floors
creeping darkness. The only light filtered in from the wet, gloomy street - it was
like trying to see through a dirty mist. He had no idea how many others lived in the converted
ever would.
Adam climbed the ancient stairs to the third floor. He was beginning to shiver - the building
was always several degrees colder than outside. He hadn’t been able to dry out his coat properly
his keys inches from his face to identify the
right one. At least inside all of the lights worked; he’d bought plenty of bulbs himself when he’d
moved in. He flicked on several lights, revelling in the brightness, careless of the electricity bill.
of crates, boxes and crazily-piled books.
Adam raised the sash window, dug out the fresh pack of
, watched the rain falling in the
flicked spent ash through the window, finally tossing the dog end outside to
dissolve in the gutter. He heated a tray of frozen lasagne and ate in silence, staring at the blind
television screen. It had died last night halfway through a commercial break, and he couldn’t afford
Once he’d finished he grabbed his damp coat and left the flat. The unpacking could wait
b. On the way out he dumped his empty lasagne
and all but deserted. Apart
all huddled in a dim corner, nursing half-
emptied glasses, staring into space. They weren’t talking. Adam bought a pint of bitter and made for
a corner of his own. The plastic bench felt sticky and smelled of stale beer. The brown walls were
d prints of boxers and football teams Adam didn’t recognize. He sipped at his drink.
a double. Back in his corner he emptied the
16
The window was open. He had escaped again.
Saraya hurried to look out over the sill, but she knew that he was long gone, down the fire
escape and into the shadows of the courtyard far below. She called his name, and was answered by
the angry voices of neighbours telling her to shut up, and by the echo of her voice from the identical
building opposite her own. Her son did not answer. A chill breeze came through the open window,
not fresh enough to cut the odour of the overflowing dumpsters scattered around th
She sat on his bed and cried, and tried to imagine how many tears she had shed for that boy
in the course of the fifteen years of his life. The number was beyond estimation. This, she thought
as she wiped a sleeve across her eyes, is the life
No, not all mothers. Some mothers had enough money to make ends meet, had a husband,
had children who obeyed and respected. But how could she expect her son to obey and respect her,
when he had no respect for anything else? He was well aware
knew that this was a game of stud; no tossing in the bad cards and waiting for the dealer to throw
down some new ones, crisp with the hope of better fortune. At least that was the way he saw the
world through his adolescent-approaching
sweatshirt.
Saraya, of course, knew better. Life had provided her with two fine teachers
own mother. And she had tried
understanding as her mother had been. But things were different then. Rebellion was less lethal
then.
She opened his closet, took the gym bag down from the shelf, and could tell just from the
weight that the gun was still inside. She br
pursed - if he didn’t have the gun with him, he couldn’t shoot anybody. But then the thought burst
upon her that her son was also defenceless against someone else who did have a gun.
She opened the bag, saw the gun without allowing herself to focus on it, and then realized
that the knife was missing. The big, brutal switchblade must be tucked inside her son’s jacket,
ensuring that he would not be caught unarmed, and that she would get no rest until
come back home.
She had taken so many weapons away from him already, and he always managed to replace
them. She had stopped trying. Confining him to his room was worse than ludicrous, but she had not
stopped trying that.
She went back to her own room, sat heavily on the sagging mattress, and began to do what
she did best.
She began to wish.
They were nothing but faceless shapes in the darkened basement storage room, until one of
them thumbed the lighter to life and brought the flame to the bowl of the pipe.
The crack hissed as the flame touched it, an unearthly sound, as soft as barely
laughter. Lew liked that sound, and he was not at all happy when a voice from the darkness
drowned it out.
“Come on, Kareem,” Serious said, a subtle note of derision clinging to his pronunciation of
the name. “I didn’t come down here so’s I could wa
Lew’s hand went reflexively to his pocket, his fingertips tracing the outline of the folded
knife.
“How many times I got to tell you, motherfucker,
made it clear that he was not just talking tough. Serious remained silent, unwilling to make a verbal
retreat, but just as unwilling to advance on an unpredictable enemy.
e window was open. He had escaped again.
Saraya hurried to look out over the sill, but she knew that he was long gone, down the fire
escape and into the shadows of the courtyard far below. She called his name, and was answered by
bours telling her to shut up, and by the echo of her voice from the identical
building opposite her own. Her son did not answer. A chill breeze came through the open window,
not fresh enough to cut the odour of the overflowing dumpsters scattered around th
She sat on his bed and cried, and tried to imagine how many tears she had shed for that boy
in the course of the fifteen years of his life. The number was beyond estimation. This, she thought
as she wiped a sleeve across her eyes, is the life of a mother.
mothers. Some mothers had enough money to make ends meet, had a husband,
had children who obeyed and respected. But how could she expect her son to obey and respect her,
when he had no respect for anything else? He was well aware of the cards life had dealt him, and he
knew that this was a game of stud; no tossing in the bad cards and waiting for the dealer to throw
down some new ones, crisp with the hope of better fortune. At least that was the way he saw the
approaching-ancient eyes, perpetually shaded beneath the hood of his
Saraya, of course, knew better. Life had provided her with two fine teachers
own mother. And she had tried - Good Lord, how she had tried - to be as w
understanding as her mother had been. But things were different then. Rebellion was less lethal
She opened his closet, took the gym bag down from the shelf, and could tell just from the
weight that the gun was still inside. She breathed slight relief between lips that seemed permanently
if he didn’t have the gun with him, he couldn’t shoot anybody. But then the thought burst
upon her that her son was also defenceless against someone else who did have a gun.
bag, saw the gun without allowing herself to focus on it, and then realized
that the knife was missing. The big, brutal switchblade must be tucked inside her son’s jacket,
ensuring that he would not be caught unarmed, and that she would get no rest until
She had taken so many weapons away from him already, and he always managed to replace
them. She had stopped trying. Confining him to his room was worse than ludicrous, but she had not
r own room, sat heavily on the sagging mattress, and began to do what
# # #
They were nothing but faceless shapes in the darkened basement storage room, until one of
them thumbed the lighter to life and brought the flame to the bowl of the pipe.
The crack hissed as the flame touched it, an unearthly sound, as soft as barely
laughter. Lew liked that sound, and he was not at all happy when a voice from the darkness
“Come on, Kareem,” Serious said, a subtle note of derision clinging to his pronunciation of
the name. “I didn’t come down here so’s I could watch you smoke. Pass the fuckin’ pipe.”
Lew’s hand went reflexively to his pocket, his fingertips tracing the outline of the folded
“How many times I got to tell you, motherfucker, don’t be callin’ me that.” Lew’s voice
t just talking tough. Serious remained silent, unwilling to make a verbal
but just as unwilling to advance on an unpredictable enemy.
Saraya hurried to look out over the sill, but she knew that he was long gone, down the fire
escape and into the shadows of the courtyard far below. She called his name, and was answered by
bours telling her to shut up, and by the echo of her voice from the identical
building opposite her own. Her son did not answer. A chill breeze came through the open window,
not fresh enough to cut the odour of the overflowing dumpsters scattered around the courtyard.
She sat on his bed and cried, and tried to imagine how many tears she had shed for that boy
in the course of the fifteen years of his life. The number was beyond estimation. This, she thought
mothers. Some mothers had enough money to make ends meet, had a husband,
had children who obeyed and respected. But how could she expect her son to obey and respect her,
of the cards life had dealt him, and he
knew that this was a game of stud; no tossing in the bad cards and waiting for the dealer to throw
down some new ones, crisp with the hope of better fortune. At least that was the way he saw the
ancient eyes, perpetually shaded beneath the hood of his
Saraya, of course, knew better. Life had provided her with two fine teachers: time, and her
to be as wise and caring and
understanding as her mother had been. But things were different then. Rebellion was less lethal
She opened his closet, took the gym bag down from the shelf, and could tell just from the
eathed slight relief between lips that seemed permanently
if he didn’t have the gun with him, he couldn’t shoot anybody. But then the thought burst
upon her that her son was also defenceless against someone else who did have a gun.
bag, saw the gun without allowing herself to focus on it, and then realized
that the knife was missing. The big, brutal switchblade must be tucked inside her son’s jacket,
ensuring that he would not be caught unarmed, and that she would get no rest until he decided to
She had taken so many weapons away from him already, and he always managed to replace
them. She had stopped trying. Confining him to his room was worse than ludicrous, but she had not
r own room, sat heavily on the sagging mattress, and began to do what
They were nothing but faceless shapes in the darkened basement storage room, until one of
them thumbed the lighter to life and brought the flame to the bowl of the pipe.
The crack hissed as the flame touched it, an unearthly sound, as soft as barely-suppressed
laughter. Lew liked that sound, and he was not at all happy when a voice from the darkness
“Come on, Kareem,” Serious said, a subtle note of derision clinging to his pronunciation of
tch you smoke. Pass the fuckin’ pipe.”
Lew’s hand went reflexively to his pocket, his fingertips tracing the outline of the folded
be callin’ me that.” Lew’s voice
t just talking tough. Serious remained silent, unwilling to make a verbal
17
Morpheus Tales Publishing proudly presents the Urban Horror Special
Issue, edited By Tommy B. Smith.
A truly dark and dangerous special issue from the UK’s hottest and most
controversial genre fiction publisher.
The Morpheus Tales Urban Horror Special Issue is available in three great
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18