New Story: No. 5 of 52 - In The Long Hot Summer

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

fifty-two-stories.blogspot.com

This story is dedicated to “Firekind”, with thanks for the support and encouragement.

IN THE LONG HOT SUMMER

By Daniel Brown

Most people have a spooky story to tell, something that happened to them that they can’t quite explain. For the most part they are all much of a muchness, thinking about their great aunt Mabel who they haven’t seen in years an instant before the phone call informing them that she just died; smelling their fathers aftershave around the house two days after the funeral. All very normal and all very easily explained, coincidence or grief, sometimes just mistaking something perfectly normal and their own mind filling in the blanks to make it something weirder than it really was. None of this explains what happened to me back in nineteen ninety five, although I sometimes wish it did, maybe then I would be able sleep properly. I might even be able to enjoy summertime again, but perhaps that season has been permanently tainted in my memory. The only reason I haven’t spoken about this, or put it down on paper before is the certainty that no-one, not even my wife or closest family would believe what I’m about write. I only ask that if you see me in the street or get involved in correspondence with me please, don’t bring it up. I’m only telling once and what I tell you is exactly what happened.

The summer of ninety-five was a hot one, and up until august one of the best of my life. I had finally found a girlfriend, I was due to start college in September and my parents’ financial troubles had finally cleared up, meaning I was no longer the poor kid relying on his mates to fund any recreational substances to while away the long summer evenings. The days were long and boring, but we made up for it by letting the nights roll past in a haze of joint smoke, snakebites and some really heavy petting with our girlfriends. If some kids from one of the other council estates near ours wandered past and felt like starting a fistfight well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Bad for the image you see.

Now before I go any further, I need to set one thing absolutely straight. On this particular night I hadn’t taken any drugs at all and I had only drunk one can of cider all day, on account of my girlfriend coming over from Pegswood and me having always been prone to brewer's (or smoker's) droop. We had spent the afternoon in a friend of mine's back yard; let’s call him Malcolm, I’m telling what happened but the other people involved might not appreciate me throwing their names around; we had been doing what we did most afternoons, listening to reggae music at tooth shaking volume and talking bullshit, claiming to have screwed this or that girl when all we had actually done was finger her through –not in- her knickers; claiming that a friend (usually non-existent) who the others didn’t know had set us up with this amazing dope (also, sadly, fictional), no throat burn and trips like you've dropped an acid tab, you know the sort of thing.

Somehow the conversation got around to the primary school we had all gone to, how much we had enjoyed it and how secondary and high schools were hell holes compared to the place, so that by the time we were finished talking about it, in our heads the school was heaven on earth and the teachers were one step removed from sainthood. It wasn’t of course, the teachers were as lazy and incompetent as others we’d had at later schools and the place was falling down around the pupils ears, but nostalgic talk on a hot summer afternoon with the strains of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” in the background, that can make anything seem brighter and more like perfect than it really was. To cut an already long story slightly shorter, we decided that as it got later we would break in to the place and have a look around, think about the old days and raise a can of special brew to good times gone forever. The irony of sixteen year olds toasting the old days passed us by completely, teenagers always taking themselves and what they say so seriously.

As the day wore on the feeling of pleasant expectation wore off, its place being taken by a sense of edgy tension. Looking back it’s easy to say it was foreboding, but none of us were flighty enough to even think about that sort of thing. A more likely explanation was the fact that we knew we would be breaking the law properly. Despite the booze, drugs and fighting none of us were serious criminal types. If some idiot left a push-bike hanging around unsecured we wouldn’t hesitate to nick it, but breaking into somewhere was a different thing entirely; if we got caught doing this there would be some heavy repercussions and we all knew it.

The good natured banter was beginning to pick up more than a hint of nastiness, we were all starting to square our shoulders and waiting to see if we would be the first one to swing a punch or get head butted. The girls couldn’t have timed their arrival better if they had tried to. For the only time I can remember we were all coupled up, five lads and five girls, no one playing gooseberry and, amazingly considering how old we were, there was no one trying to get off with someone else’s partner or any of that crap. Suddenly instead of five nervous lads trying to out-macho each other, it was five lads full of bravado trying to convince their girlfriends to come along for the ride, telling them what a laugh it would be and what a great story it would make when we all went off to work or college or whatever. (For most of us, including myself for long periods, it turned out to be the dole queue.)

By about nine-thirty we had all of the girls convinced, a few snakebites having worked wonders for their sense of adventure, and we set off for the school. Carl, my closest friend at the time, told us to walk ahead and he would catch us up. He had gone to convince his older brother David who, unlike us, was a serious criminal type to help us get into the building without tripping the alarm. David and Carl caught up with us before we had even gotten around the corner, David being keen to keep me on his good side since my older sister was quite a looker and he was always asking me to put a good word in for him. I never had the heart to tell him he had no chance, imagine a bald chimp with chronic acne and yellow teeth and you have a perfect mental image of him back then. Add thirty pounds or so around the gut and you have him as he is now.

Is it just me or am I rambling a bit? Even now twelve years and several miles away, sitting alone and putting the words on paper instead of speaking aloud to people who might call me mad, a liar or both I still find myself hesitating. By now you must be anxious to know what the hell has me so shaken up? OK, but you won’t like what I tell you.

We reached the school in good order, having a lot of fun boosting a bunch of girls in short summer skirts over the playground wall as we went. David let us into the building as the last of the true daylight gave way to dusk, before scuttling away like a scalded dog. His last words before he left still ring in my ears now.

“Better you lot than me, old Scranner Bill’s supposed to wander around the place after dark. You’ll not catch me going in for love nor money.” With that he was back over the wall and pelting home as fast as legs would carry him. The four girls from Ashington shuddered and the lads, including me, tried hard to pretend that the mention of the name hadn’t bothered us in the slightest. My girlfriend Cheryl, being from Pegswood, didn’t know the local legends, but the looks that had passed between everyone else were enough to have her worried. She looked up at me, her eyes full of questions and being a horny sixteen year old I was happy to give them, a scared girl being that much more willing to cuddle up. I leaned into her and lowered my voice to provide just the right pitch.

“Do you want know about Scranner Bill?” she nodded slightly, obviously unnerved but like any teenager always ready for a scary tale. I looked at the others and they all nodded as well. I shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, -On your own heads, be it- and paused to light a cigarette for dramatic effect. I then told the old story exactly as it was told to me.

“Scranner Bill lived in one of the houses next to the Pavilion bingo hall just down there.” I nodded towards the large bingo hall that was separated from the school yard by a narrow alleyway and a not very high brick wall. “This was way back in the twenties, maybe even before that. Bill was a bit weird, didn’t leave the house very much, he never used to get washed or change his clothes, he looked like a right scranner so everyone took to calling him Scranner Bill and the name stuck. Ashington people were really proud back then you see, largest mining village in the world and everything, so someone who walked around like that stood out a bit. Bill had a wife at first but she ran off with the milkman or the tickie-man or someone. Well Scranner still had needs you know, but none of the women would go anywhere near him. There was no porn films or anything like that all those years ago, so Bill just found himself getting randier and randier. Eventually he must have thought to himself that if a woman wouldn’t go with him willingly, then maybe he could take what he wanted by force, because he took to hanging around the Hirst park and jumping out on women taking a short cut and grabbing a feel of whatever he could get hold of.

Naturally, he couldn’t carry on like that for long before he got caught; then sure enough one night he jumped out on a lass to do his pervy thing and it turned out the lassies boyfriend was walking twenty yards behind her to catch the twat who had been harassing women on a night time. Scranner tried to make a run for it but the lass held onto his arm while her bloke caught up and old Bill got the shit kicked out of him. Supposedly he was in hospital for months, he got most of his teeth knocked out or broken and back then there wasn’t an N.H.S. so he couldn’t get falsies or the broken ones fixed.

When he got out of hospital, the word had got around what a creep he was and all the windows of his house had been put out and the women used to cross the road when they saw him. Blokes would ignore him completely or swing a kick at him as he passed. He certainly wasn’t getting any action now, willing or otherwise and he started to twist even further when the kids in the area picked up on the name Scranner Bill and started chanting it at him when he went out for his shopping. The grown ups all hated him as well so no one used to give the young ‘uns wrong when they would go to his house and throw stones or rotten fruit and veg at his windows. After a little while he decided to kill two birds with one stone and solve his randiness and get some revenge on the kids all at once.” I pointed towards the ramshackle outbuilding at the bottom of the school yard, joining onto the wall nearest the bingo hall. “That used to be the school toilets, there not being any indoor toilets for poor people back then. If you wanted to use the netty back then you walked all the way to the end of the playground, a hundred yards away from the nearest teacher, then go into gloomy, unlit stalls and do your business as quick as you could. Can you guess what dirty old Scranner's next trick was?” Cheryl’s eyes widened in shock. Before she could say anything I leaped in with the final twists in the sick little tale.

“That’s right. He took to lurking in the stalls in the girls end, with a cut-throat razor in his hand. When a little lassie opened his stall he would grab her and put his hands over her mouth before the poor little soul could even scream. He would show the terrified little mite the razor and tell her that if she told anyone what happened he would come to her house and cut her and her mammy and daddies throats in their beds. The little girls kept their mouths shut of course, so he was able to do this to a lot of kids before the teachers figured out anything was going on. It wasn’t until the older kids, eight or nine years old, started wetting themselves rather than go down to the toilets that the grown ups clicked that anything was wrong.

One day one of the teachers sent the janitor, a big bloke who’d fought in world war one, down to the toilets to find out why the girls were so terrified of going there, so he took a big stick with him expecting to find a rat’s nest or something. He went through the stalls one by one, until he reached the one second from last. As he opened the door Scranner lunged out expecting to find a little girl who would freeze with shock. Instead he finds a burly janitor with a bloody great stick in his hands and Scranner runs for it. In his panic Scranner runs into the main building instead of out through the main gates. The janitor’s right on his heels so he panics further and pelts up the stairs to the top floor. When he gets there he hasn’t got a clue what to do next so he bursts into the library and sees a little lass there picking a book. He grabs the little lass around the shoulders and puts the razor to the kids’ throat screaming at the janitor to get away or he’ll cut her open. The janitor backs off and starts yelling for someone to get the police.

When he hears the police mentioned old Scranner really panics. Child molesters have a life of hell in jail now, but back then the guards didn’t keep them in separate cells or anything like that to protect the bastards from the other inmates. He knocks the little lass down and puts the razor to his own throat. Before he cuts it though he screams at the top of his voice that no child will ever be safe in that building because he’ll walk the halls forever after, even death won’t stop him having his fun” Cheryl had gone as white as a sheet and even the others, who all knew the story were looking a little apprehensive. I drew my finger rapidly across my throat in a cutting motion. Everyone jumped, Cheryl and Carl’s girlfriend Tracy screamed. The tension was broken and we all laughed, even I couldn’t keep up my dramatic storytelling face. I was still smiling when I told them the final lines of the legend. “They say that Scranner Bill still haunts the place, his ghost wandering up and down the corridors looking for another little girl to molest. It’s a load of crap, mind.” Cheryl looked slightly more relaxed but still a touch nervous, just the right side of scared for snuggling under my arm as we poked around inside the school.

“David believed it though. He ran like the clappers after fixing the alarm.” Cheryl said.

“Aye, but he’s a pillock.” I told her. She still looked a little nervous, so God help me I encouraged her. “If he really believed anything was in there, would he have let his little brother come in after dark? He fancies my sister as well, so letting me put myself in danger isn’t the best way to win her over, is it? He was just trying to make us scared. That’s the sort of shit big brothers and sisters do.” She nodded her head, convinced by my perfectly sensible arguments. “Besides, I’m here to look after you aren’t I?” We all took one last look at the outside of the building, a redbrick Victorian monstrosity, its shabbiness matched only by its ugliness and stepped inside.

Inside the school we all travelled packed closely together at first, the legend still close to the front of our minds. Gradually we began to loosen up as we reminisced about the teachers we had known, marvelled at how tiny the chairs and desks were and generally lost ourselves in nostalgia. We looked in the assembly hall, stared at the tiny moveable platform where I had made my stage début in a school play of the Three Little Pigs. Cheryl laughed and made “aww” noises when I told her about my big bad wolf costume, which had floppy ears like a rabbit and a perky, curled up tail like a Labrador puppy.

After looking at how minuscule the toilets were Cheryl asked me to show her upstairs. Everyone else had found a quiet corner to amuse each other in, so I agreed thinking that a little privacy wouldn’t go amiss. Halfway up the stairs we stopped on the little landing where the headmasters’ office was. I couldn’t help myself; I had never liked the headmaster of the place so I forced the door of the office and marched over to sit on the swivel chair behind his desk. Cheryl walked over, sat on my lap and- well let’s say hands wandered. After a few extremely pleasant moments had passed we left the office and walked up the last few flights of the twisting staircase.

The upstairs cloakroom was exactly as I remembered it, although the coat hooks had seemed higher to me when I used them as a child. I kissed Cheryl and told her to look around while I used the urinal in the boys’ toilet. She asked me where the library was and I pointed her through the heavy fire door, into the long narrow corridor which bisected the upper floor of the building and told her it was the first door on the left. I went into the toilets and chuckled when I had to squat so that I could pee into the trough.

As I emptied my bladder, an odd sensation crept over me. The feeling that I wasn’t alone. I glanced over my shoulder and of course there was no one else in the room, yet the feeling wouldn’t leave. Memories began to seep back into my mind, not the warm glow of nostalgia, but of lonely, terrifying walks down a seemingly endless corridor to use the bathroom; all the while a sinister presence lingered behind me. An oppressive weight hanging in the air as the all pervading sense of being watched and somehow mocked followed me from classroom to bathroom and back.

My urine dried up midstream as memories of countless terrified visits to these very toilets filled me completely, the horrified knowledge that this was only half of the ordeal finished and that to get back to class I would have to walk once again past the library where he could be lurking waiting to leap out and grab me, press his razor to my throat and- CHERYL! I couldn’t even fasten my fly as I leaped towards the door. Still the sensation of being watched hung over me as I grabbed the handle and pulled the door. It wouldn’t budge, not even an inch as I heaved and wrenched with every ounce of muscle that I had. Cold breath pricked against the back of my neck and the feeling of being mocked once again hung heavy in the air, I pummelled the door and screamed for Cheryl, telling her to get out, to run like hell.

No sooner had the first syllable passed my lips when the urinals cleaning cycle kicked in with a screech from the plumbing. I turned to see what the noise was and still the presence was behind me, despite the door being pressed into my back. Even as I registered what was happening with the urinals, the long chains from the wall mounted cisterns in the stalls began to descend on their own one after another and the taps in all the sinks spun round to full pressure. The sound of all the rushing water and groaning from the pipes drowned out my shouts completely. I turned back to the door, feeling the presence shift so as to be behind me all the time and once more began to wrench at the handle.

After what felt like an eternity, yet couldn’t have been more than a minute the water noises subsided. I took a deep breath and bunched myself to yell as loudly as I had ever done before when suddenly the force holding the door closed vanished and the heavy wooden handle flew back towards me, striking me hard on the chin. I collapsed to the floor, momentarily stunned, as the door swung open ahead of me. The sensation of otherness vanished as suddenly as it came and I jumped to my feet, shaking my head to clear it as I lunged for the door before it closed again. Then I heard Cheryl scream, long and loud, the most blood-curdling sound I have ever heard a human being make.

Despite being only ten or twelve paces away through a fire door, the journey to the library was the longest I have ever made. Cheryl’s scream was still echoing in my ears as I burst into the library to find my girlfriend and get her out of this nightmare, but the sight awaiting me was almost more than I could bear. Cheryl was floating at least three feet off the ground and pinned against the wall, her short denim skirt was pushed up past her navel and despite her struggling to hold them her knickers were being stretched away from her body by a force I couldn’t see. As I moved forward to reach her, the air in front of her shimmered and I could see her attacker clearly. A man was pinioning her shoulders and pressing her into the wall, but his feet were also floating above the ground. I stepped to my left to get a better angle for grabbing him when the air shimmered again and the floating man was gone and in his place an identical figure standing halfway in and halfway out of the floor wrenching at Cheryl’s underwear. Cheryl saw me and recognition flared in her eyes, recognition and hope. Hope that her boyfriend would make it all stop, make it all OK again. Her attacker saw that look too, his head twitched in my direction and then it happened.

He moved without moving; a sort of flickering, like a piece of film with several frames missing; travelling from one place to another without crossing the space in-between. As he turned towards me I could see everything clearly for the first time. It wasn’t more than one attacker, but one attacker in more than one place. I looked at the man, now in three different places at the same time and struggled to hold my mind together as realization dawned. His head began rising towards my own and I saw the lank, matted hair; the broken and rotted teeth and smelled a foul stench, like rotting meat and sulphur. It was him, Scranner Bill and he was coming towards me. His head rose fully and as I met his gaze his eyes blazed red, like hot coals when air blows across them. He grinned and raised his right arm above his head; I saw a glimmer of light playing on the steel of a cut-throat razor and I broke, utterly. I ran.

I ran like a madman, with no direction or destination in mind, I simply had to escape from the terror in front of me. Cheryl’s anguished scream was the last thing I remember hearing clearly that night as I leapt down the twisting staircase four steps at a time. It was a miracle that I didn’t break my neck and sometimes, when I lie awake at night trying desperately not to remember, I wish that I had. I ran for what felt like hours, so panicked and half crazed with fear that I didn’t even end up at home, not far at all from the school.

Instead the next thing I remember is standing at Church Point in Newbiggin, convinced that I was about to die of a heart attack and as I recalled why I was standing there hoping that I would. I thought about just walking into the sea, letting the current wash me offshore and dying of hypothermia, but I lacked the courage for that as well.

Well, there it is. Is it what you were expecting? I didn’t think it would be. Do you want to know what happened next? Nothing. That’s real life for you, though isn’t it? No happy endings, no neat conclusions tying up loose ends, just weak human beings dealing with the consequences of their actions, every single day. I should tell you what happened to Cheryl, you’ve come this far so I owe you that much.

About a month after the incident I saw her on Ashington high street. She walked up to me, reached out as if to touch my arm then pulled away. She looked me in the eye and said in a voice so gentle it breaks my heart even now to think of it,

“I understand, you know. You couldn’t stop it, I'm- I'm sorry.” That was the last time I saw her. She went to live with a relative in Ireland not long after that. I understand she’s married with a couple of kids now, I still see her parents around Pegswood occasionally and they tell me news about her. I can only assume they don’t know what happened. As for the rest of the group from that night, I don’t see them any more; I mean who still has the same friends as when they were in high school anyway? That’s what I always tell people anyway and sometimes I even believe it myself.

By the way if you ever get the fucking stupid urge to go the school yourself, it’s too late thank God. It was pulled down a few years ago and a new one was built on what used to be the sports field. I don’t know what stands where the old building was, I don’t go to that part of town any more. The bingo hall is still there, although it’s a Gala bingo these days, my wife plays there occasionally. I’ve done a little historical research though and I don’t think he ever lived in those houses on the side, so please, don’t bother the people who live there and, if you have any soul at all don’t bother me. I’ve said all I will about ghosts, and I won’t be speaking of the subject again as long as I live.

- END -

New Story: No. 4 of 52 - The Pathologist

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

The Pathologist
By Daniel Brown

The pathologist looked at the corpse laid out on the table, neatly dissected with the internal organs properly positioned. He approved of the spotlessness of the lungs, the lack of inflammation or fatty tissue around the liver. It was obvious to his experienced eye that this young woman had enjoyed a clean, healthy existence. He had no doubt that stomach contents and toxicology would come back clear. He stripped off his apron, gloves and scrubs. His erection growing as he left his victims kitchen, he admired his work once more, certain the media were right to christen him the pathologist.

-END-

New Story: No. 3 of 52 - Hanging Around

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

fifty-two-stories.blogspot.com

HANGING AROUND

By Daniel Brown

Graham looked at the back of Becky's neck and felt his breath catch. He felt like a bit of a weirdo for loving that particular area so much, but he just couldn't stop thinking about it. It was on his mind when he went to sleep, it was there behind his eyelids when he woke up and all day when he was working his mind would drift onto thoughts of her pale, clear skin. He constantly imagined himself kissing it, feeling the wisps of stray hair that were always escaping her pony-tail caressing his cheek, the soft clean smell of her, mingling with the fruit scented perfume she wore and the scent of her shampoo. Her neck consumed him.

Becky looked around the table she was sitting at, then back at the hand of cards she was holding, taking in the faces of the other players, then reached down into the pile of loose change in front of her. She picked up some money then threw it into the pot in the middle of the large pine table.

“I'll raise by twenty pence. Anyone else comfy with raising the stakes a bit?”

The only two players of the seven at the table still in at this point, threw their cards down and started telling Barbara, the hostess for the evening, to make a cup of tea. Becky leaned forward to scrape the money from the pot into her ever increasing pile, giving Graham a brief glimpse at the small of her back as her t-shirt rode up slightly. He quickly looked away so as to avoid being caught letching, trying to calm his thumping heart as he did so. He couldn't remember ever being so hooked on a girl that the thought of her neck or lower back set his pulse racing. Backsides and legs...? Check. Boobs...? Hell yes! But the nape of the neck...? That was a new one on him and frankly, it unnerved him.

In order to distract himself, he told Barbara to sit back down and play the next hand while he made the tea for everyone. As he stood up he decided to keep his mouth shut next time. There were eight people crowded around the table, his friend David and Barbara's husband Jack sitting beside the open fire chatting about fishing, plus himself. Eleven cups of tea in total. He wondered briefly if it was too late to sit back down and let Barbara take care of it after all, when nine people all started telling him how they took their tea and old Bobbie giving him really precise instructions for how to make her instant coffee, because there's always one. The thought of telling them to stuff it and buggering off home passed briefly through his mind but Becky was there, grinning at him like he was seven flavours of stupid and he couldn't even think about leaving. This was the first time in the three weeks since she had first walked into Barbara's kitchen for the nightly card game that she had even acknowledged his existence, to go home now would be to admit defeat, that he was incapable of talking to a girl he actually liked. Sighing heavily, he turned to the kettle and lifted it off it's cradle ready to fill it when he heard Becky calling to him. He turned back to see what she wanted and saw that same amused smile playing across her elfin features.

“I'll sort out my Aunty Bobbie's coffee.” She turned and spoke to Grygor, who's turn it was to deal the cards. “Leave me out of this hand, I'm going for a smoke anyway so I'll give Graham a hand with the drinks.” Leaving the game she wound her way past the crowd of bodies clustered around the table, collecting the cups from the previous round of tea and coffee as she went. Reaching the sink she gently moved Graham to one side. “You won't get very far making a drink with out these will you?” she looked up at Graham and smiled again. “Bet you won't volunteer for that again in a hurry.” He shook his head and smiled back, feeling like a total pillock.

He desperately tried to think of something to say but, for someone who could usually talk the hind legs off of a donkey, he found himself completely stumped. He turned away and opened the cannister that held the teabags, dropping three of them into the huge metal teapot that Barbara and Jack used when they had a full house. Grabbing the cups from Becky as she rinsed them out under the hot water tap, he lined them up on the bench trying vainly to remember who had asked for their tea in what manner. His heart almost leapt into his mouth a few seconds later, when Becky leaned in close to him, placing her head almost on his chest so as to hide what she said from everyone else in the room. His heartbeat racing madly he leaned down a little so as to hear what she had to say, as it was obviously for his ears only. She motioned slightly with her hand.

“Don't you want to wash the teapot out first, before putting fresh teabags in?” she whispered. Graham looked at the teapot for a second, embarrassment welling up inside him. He felt a curious sense of detachment as the blush surged up, seemingly starting at his toes and setting his whole body alight as it made it's way up to blossom on his face. He wondered if there was any way out of the situation with his dignity intact, but he couldn't think of one so just let his mouth go onto autopilot.

“Full marks for observation there, Becky. Next time I'll be testing you're ability to listen carefully by randomly inserting a word into pineapple the conversation and seeing if you notice it.” Becky laughed.

“That's you're story and you're sticking to it, right?”

“Like glue.” he told her. She shook her head at him and carried on rinsing cups. After about ten minutes and a great deal of confusion, he and Becky managed to unite everyone with the correct hot beverage and retreated outside to have a cigarette in peace and quiet.

“So are you going to give me one, or what?” Graham stared at Becky, unsure if he had heard her correctly or what the hell to say if he had. She let him squirm for a few seconds, with that “you aren't half a pillock.” smile on her face, before pointing to the cigarette he was dragging on furiously to cover his confusion. “One of your smokes, I had my last one before.” He stared at her again for few seconds, hugely relieved and deeply disappointed at the same time, then remembered that she had actually wanted a reply to what she had said.

“Erm, yeah of course.” He scrambled madly through his pockets, temporarily unable to remember which one of them held his cigarettes or, judging by the amount of fumbling he was doing, how his pockets worked precisely. After what felt like a ridiculously long time he was finally able to fish his smokes out of the needlessly complex contraptions his pockets had turned into. He handed one over, relief flooding through him that the stupid ordeal was over with.

“Could I have a light as well? I've left mine in my handbag.” Oh shit! thought Graham, Not again. He started the whole rigmarole of searching his pockets once more, cursing internally as he went. Finally he was able to give Becky a light when a thought occurred to him, the first coherent one since she'd spoken to him inside.

“If you haven't any smokes left, how did you think you were going to get one?” he asked. Becky smiled again.

“'Cos you're a soft touch, that's why.” she told him. “Grygor's always scrounging them off you and so is Jack. You're too soft with people, you should tell them to bugger off now and again. It's not up to you to keep them in smokes when they don't buy enough of their own to last them.”

“Says the lass who's just scrounged one from me.”

“Yeah well, that just proves my point, doesn't it?”

“Not really. Grygor's teaching me to play the guitar and Jack often slips me a few eggs from the chickens he keeps in his allotment.”

“So why do I get a smoke from you then?” she asked. Graham felt the words of his reply forming before they left his mouth. He tried to stop them but he could only observe himself, powerless to stop his big mouth running away with him.

“Because you're pretty. It cheers me up to see you after I've spent a whole day being treat like crap, just 'cos I'm the Y.T.S. kid.” Bollocks! he thought. She's going to think I'm weird or something. Once more he found himself wracking his brain for something to say, but his mouth went into standby mode. He found himself just looking at her while she tilted her head to one side,no doubt deciding on a scale of one to ten, just how creepy his last remark was. She pinched her cigarette out halfway down and put the remaining half in her pocket, presumably for later.

“That's what us trainees are for isn't it? I've been at the hairdressers for three months and all I've done so far is make tea and sweep up hair. I work thirty five hours a week for less than thirty quid and don't get to actually learn anything. I'm not sure why we bother.” With that she turned and went back indoors, leaving Graham standing alone on the doorstep to ponder if things could have gone any worse. As best as he could tell, in the space of five minutes he had managed to look like an idiot who couldn't work his own pockets, implied she was a scrounger and then paid her a really smarmy compliment. Short of insulting her parents and maybe flicking his cigarette ash into her hair he couldn't think how much worse he could have made it. Finishing his own smoke Graham went back inside the house as well, figuring that he would say his goodbyes and get out before he humiliated himself any further. He only wished his eighteenth birthday would hurry up and arrive, so that he could go to the pub and drink away memories like those of his last conversation.

# # #

Back in the house the game was still in full flow, Becky seemingly continuing her winning streak after her short break. Graham moved over to the kitchen bench where his tea was cooling and took a sip, hoping his arrival would go unnoticed and he could slip off quietly when he was finished. David saw to it that he wouldn't.

“Come back to lose some more money? Someone as crap at cards as you are should learn when to pack in.” David cried from his habitual spot in the armchair beside the fire.

“I don't see you at the table showing your skills.” he answered.

“That's right. I know when it's somebody else's lucky night.” David laughed and started talking to Jack again, arguing over the finer points of which beach was better for fishing and which rod to use.

“Do you want dealt in for the next hand?” Becky asked him, startling Graham somewhat as he didn't think she would ever want to talk to him again. He felt himself begin to panic, not knowing whether to say yes so as to spend more time mooning over her and losing money hand over fist, or tell her no and go home before the night got even more embarrassing and expensive. Finally caution won out and he chose the latter.

“No thanks, I've lost enough money for one night I think. Besides, I've got to be up at half past six for work tomorrow, so I'd better get my head down.” He cursed himself for a coward even as he said it, but couldn't face putting his foot in his mouth again.

“Okay. Can you wait quarter of an hour though? I'll give this lot a chance to win some of their money back then you can walk me home, I've got to be up for work as well and Aunty Bobbie's going to playing for a while longer, so I can't walk home with her,” Aunty Bobbie looked a little surprised, but rallied magnificently, unseen by Graham in his blind panic.

“Erm, yeah? I'll be playing for ages yet.” she told him. “Absolutely ages, about an hour after you leave probably.” she addressed the last part to Becky, who nodded and studied her cards intently telling Graham “I won't be long, just let me play another few hands and we can go.” Graham shrugged his agreement and jumped on to the bench he was leaning against to wait it out.

As he sat waiting for Becky, three feelings crept over him. The first was a sense of profound terror, as he realized that he was going to have to spend at least fifteen minutes alone with Becky while his brain shut down and his mouth ran away with itself making him look like a buffoon; the second was elation that he would get Becky alone for fifteen minutes or so, which thrilled him more deeply than he thought possible. The third feeling, the last to float to his conciousness, was a sensation of cold, spreading damp around his buttocks and his heart, so recently aflutter, sank as he realized that he should have wiped the bench dry before perching on it. He was going to have to walk Becky home with a wet arse... his mind went into overdrive, trying desperately to fathom a way out of the situation. Various solutions came into his mind and were dismissed instantly as impractical, rude or downright silly. There was no way of reaching his coat without everyone sitting at the table seeing the whopping great wet patch that was no doubt spread all across the seat of his trousers, he couldn't leave his coat behind and edge out of the room sideways, because everyone would think he was simple and just making a dash for the door without waiting for Becky was downright ignorant. Fear sweat broke out under his arms, both cold and too hot all at once as he realized what his only solution was; he was going to have announce his stupidity and brazen it out.

“Hey Dave,” David looked over at him, “you know when you sit on a bench?” David nodded, wondering where Graham was going. “Make sure that you've wiped all of the cold tea off it first.” David started roaring with laughter, along with everyone else in the room including Becky, as he hopped off the bench and made his way over to stand in front of the blazing coal fire, hoping the heat would dry him off a little. His ears burned almost as fiercely as the flames from the fire, while he stood there feeling the back of his jeans get progressively hotter, hoping that they would dry quickly so that everyone would stop looking at him and shaking their heads or rolling their eyes.

Graham winced internally when Becky announced that she was all done, and started clearing the pile of loose change from the table and into her purse. He stepped away from the fire, pulling up short almost immediately as pain shot through the entire lower half of his body. He clenched his teeth, desperate not to let the agony show on his face as his overheated jeans brushed against the back of his legs, making him feel as though his legs and backside were cooking in their own juices. Trying furiously to walk as though everything was normal, he made his way over to the coat rail hanging in an alcove beside the fireplace and grabbed his coat and was reaching for Becky's when she spoke to him.

“Bloody hell, you've got a hot arse!” Graham froze.

“You what?” He looked over shoulder to find everyone in the room staring at his rear end.

“Look at it!” she cried, “It's got smoke coming off it!” Graham twisted himself around, contorting to see the seat of his own trousers. His eyes were greeted by wisps of steam, rising from the still evaporating tea soaked into the denim.

“Glad you noticed, good to know the exercises aren't wasted.” Nice one, he thought, make yourself look big-headed. He put on his coat, glad that his backside was no longer the focus of attention, passing Becky's to her as he walked towards the door, in a hurry to get out of the kitchen before anything else could possibly go wrong. Becky trailed after him, saying her hurried goodbyes as Graham chirped a quick “See you later.” over his shoulder as he passed out of the door.

Outside at last he let the cool night air soothe the burning of his face and ears, a blessed relief from the constant embarrassment he had been labouring under for the past half an hour. He had to admit it was nice to feel a chill wind around his buttock region as well. The door closing behind him let him know Becky was out and ready to go.

“Have you left the oven on or something? You were out of there like a shot.” she asked.

“Sorry, I just needed some air.”

“I'll bet you do, your arse must have been burning in front of that fire. The look on your face when you moved, I thought you were going to go screaming round the room like Yosemite Sam looking for a bucket of water to dunk it in.” Graham couldn't help himself, the build up of tension, excitement and embarrassment overwhelmed him and he let out a bellowing laugh, one that just kept going and going. Just when he thought it was over, he looked at Becky and seeing the look of bafflement on her face set him off again. After a few seconds, he managed to gasp out the words,

“I'm sorry, it's just the thought of me with my arse on fire...” and he pantomimed running around clutching his buttocks, screaming and collapsed into fits of laughter again. Becky's mouth twitched a little, then suddenly she was off as well; a high pitched, monotone tee-hee-hee sound that set Graham laughing even harder.

For two or three minutes that was all they could do, stand and laugh uproariously, the sound of each others laughter egging them on to even deeper fits of giggles. They almost had themselves under control when they saw Jack and Barbara at the kitchen window pointing at them and looking puzzled, which set them off again. Becky was already doubled over, clutching her sides with her legs tightly crossed and the sight of Jack and Barbara proved too much for her. She waved her hands frantically for Graham to come over to her, so over he went, and was almost stunned out of his giggling fit when she clung onto him, both arms flung round his shoulders for support and her head buried into his chest as tears of mirth rolled down her cheeks. His own shock at her touch, something that would have mortified him a few minutes before, was now one of the most hilarious things he could imagine and for the first time he found himself comfortable in her company.

After another few minutes had passed, they were finally able to control themselves enough to start walking. Graham tried hard not to pay attention to the fact that Becky was still holding onto him, her arm around his waist now, as they strolled up the narrow alleyway that led into the village proper, so he left his arm around her shoulders and tried to act as natural as possible so that she wouldn't remember herself and pull away from him.

“So where do you live anyway?” he asked.

“With my Aunty Bobbie.”

“And she lives... I'm not from here remember?”

“Oh, right. Hollis Road, where the village joins onto the motorway, what about you?” he pointed back the way they had just come.

“With my Brother, three doors down from Jack and Barbara.” she looked a little guilty and started to apologize, but Graham just laughed and told her to forget it, not wanting the evening to end yet. He couldn't bear the thought of getting this far, feeling at ease around her for the first time and making things awkward again by leaving her to walk alone after dark; besides, what kind of prat left a woman to walk home alone at night, even in a village as small as the one they lived in? He tried to change the subject quickly.

“So why do you live with Bobbie?” he cursed himself for it worried that it was too personal, but to his surprise she told him. She talked about her parents, the constant arguments between her and them over the fact that she wanted to be a hairdresser rather than going to college and becoming a nurse like her mother or an IT consultant like her dad and older brother. She told him about her little sister and the constant hairdresser jokes, the perpetual sniping about not being clever enough to do anything but cut hair and her parents tacit approval by not chastising her sister for the remarks.

“I'm not thick,” she continued “I'm not shallow either, I just love doing something where nearly everyone you see walks away happy and more confident. It's nice to see people pleased with what you've done rather than just relieved that you haven't left them in the shit, like an office job.” Graham noticed that they weren't walking any longer, but were standing outside the door of a terraced house. He smiled at Becky, not for any particular reason, but because he couldn't think of an answer to everything she had told him that didn't sound trite, stupid or both. She cocked her head at him again, as if sizing him up.

“Why are you smiling?” She asked. Graham looked at her for a second, took a deep breath and told her. Everything.

“Because tonight, now, is the first time I've been able to talk to you. I think you're gorgeous and funny and clever, much cleverer than I am and every time I try to talk to you my mind goes blank and my tongue dries up. I've got nothing to say and even if I did I wouldn't be able to say it. My heart races, my stomach starts churning and I break out in a sweat, so that I'm frightened to stand near you in case I stink. I can't stop thinking about you, except when I'm near you, in which case I can't think at all and just now, when we were talking and you were holding on to me was the most exciting and most frightening thing I've ever done.” he paused for breath, putting his hands in his coat pockets so that she couldn't see them shaking. “There, that's why I'm smiling. If I've just freaked you out that's fine, just say so and I'll leave you alone, I just wanted to say it while I had the chance.” he braced himself then, for the laughter or the look of horror that would tell him just how enormously he had screwed up by telling her how he felt. Her expression never changed, she just stared at him with that same look of deep thought on her face. And then it happened.

Suddenly and without him being aware of her moving she was in his arms again, her lips pressing into his own, driving all of the uncertainty and fear, all thought of any description out of him. His head swam as he placed his still shaking hands around her waist, feeling her mouth open slightly and her tongue flicker against his. His whole body caught fire, from the top of his head all the way to his feet tingled, like the most exquisite pins and needles. Beyond his control, he felt himself begin to grow hard. He was about to pull away in embarrassment, when she rubbed her hips against him, breathing deeply through her nose as a small moan of pleasure escaped from deep in her throat.

Becky broke the kiss then, planting small kisses along his jawline and back towards his neck, all the while pressing herself ever more firmly into his grasp, her hips seeming twitch of their own accord as she gasped and wriggled against him. As the delicate warmth of her kisses and the soft caress of her breath reached his ear, he moaned aloud himself, the first sound he'd made since he'd finished talking, the pleasure almost overwhelming him with it's intensity. He thought he would faint, as she whispered into his ear, the faint tickling as she breathed “Do you want to come in?” almost as much as he could bear. Not trusting himself to speak, he could only nod his agreement. Becky pulled away from his embrace, fumbling madly in her pockets, almost dropping her keys as she fitted them into the door.

Graham was dizzy with a combination of nerves and happiness, unable to speak or form a coherent thought, he merely stood there unable to believe what was happening, when he saw it. Becky had her back to him and he could see her neck; the pale, soft skin that had consumed his thoughts for weeks, a small patch of white between the collar of her coat and her tied up brown hair. As she she opened the door, Graham stepped forward, placing his hands on her hips and moving her ponytail aside with his nose. He pressed his mouth into the nape of her neck, feeling Becky's shoulders drop as she rubbed herself against him, another gasp of delight coming from her as he did so. At last he felt the sensation of his lips nuzzling against her beautiful neck, breathing in the mingled scents of her perfume and shampoo. He made a small noise of contentment as he felt the gentle touch of the loose hairs that had escaped from their binding brushing against his cheeks. Rather than take his lips away from the object of his passion, he took a deep breath through his nose and reality finally hit him. The loose hairs that were caressing his cheeks so softly, moved into his nostrils, tickling his nose so vigorously he pulled away involuntarily and spluttered. Becky half laughed, a husky chuckle that set his pulse racing. Turning around into his his embrace, she nuzzled his throat and told him,

“For god's sake, just come in and shut the door.”

-END-

New Story: No. 2 of 52 - Redcap

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

fifty-two-stories.blogspot.com


REDCAP
By Daniel Brown


Cold rain misted down over the barren Northumberland landscape, turning the country footpath Alun walked along into a treacherous quagmire which tried to wrong-foot him after every step. He glanced across the field he was cutting through, an unevenly furrowed marsh like expanse, dotted with the stubble of last season's crop. Over in the distance, perhaps three fields away from where he walked he could see a solitary light shining in the window of a farmhouse, the only patch of brightness in the rapidly descending gloom of the late afternoon. He had no clue how far away the building was, the idea of measuring wide open spaces being as alien to him as he imagined writing HTML or coding a login page would be to a fifty-something farmer, all he knew was that the sign of human presence cheered him a little. He had wanted to be alone when he left the house but had never realised quite how isolating the edges of the moors could be.

He had stormed out of the house in a fit of rage, the like of which he hadn't felt since his early teens, when outraged fury and a sense of being -and needing to be- in solitude was almost a default state of being. The argument was still festering in the back of his mind, stopping him retracing the route he had taken along public footpaths and bridleways to get back home. Rationally, he was aware that he was rapidly approaching the point at which he would become lost and unable to find his way home unaided, but the fury still rose to the surface and overwhelmed his thought processes, driving him relentlessly onwards like a train on the wrong track, beyond the control of its driver. So on he went, one foot in front of the other with metronomic regularity, as if to outdistance the corrosive thoughts and feelings which would float into his conciousness unbidden and unwanted.

Ahead, maybe one more field distant, Alun could see the landscape begin to dip into a small valley. Blanketed with woods and hidden by the shadows cast from low dark clouds and the October gloaming the vale seemed to loom menacingly, in spite of the fact that he was currently level with the tops of all but the tallest trees. Alun gave brief consideration to turning back and finding another path to take, if not the way home then at least somewhere less foreign to his urban upbringing, less likely to leave him feeling so thoroughly out of place, but his feet kept him marching forward, seemingly connected directly to his hind brain and unwilling to let him take even one step back towards the reasons he was so far from home in the first place; he pushed thoughts of discomfort from his mind and let his angry feet take him where they would.

As the woods grew closer he tried to figure out what had made him take such extreme offence at his girlfriend Louise's words in the first place. Each time he did his stomach would turn and his jaw clench in fury and he would try to centre himself and calmly go over events in detail, but everything was too mixed up, too many small injustices and petty resentments all jumbled together, a rancid stew of bile and rancour that stole all reason from him and left nothing but bitterness behind it. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his cigarette case, hoping some nicotine would settle his nerves a little and allow him to focus on something other than the welter of emotions that were preventing him from thinking clearly. He flicked his lighter once, twice, three times but each time the fumes of the fluid ignited the breeze would snuff out the flame before he could light the hand made cigarette dangling from his lips. He swore violently and at great volume, pausing his forward march and turning away from the breeze in order to light the smoke he now realized that his body craved with an urgency bordering on insistence. He couldn't help but smile slightly when he realized that this was the first time he had been able able to bring himself to stop walking since his fiery exit from home nearly two hours ago.

With his cigarette lit he inhaled deeply and let the drug infuse his system, soothing the physical agitation he now knew was affecting his concentration and leaned on the wire fence that ran parallel to the muddy footpath he had found himself on. He continued to draw heavily on his smoke and stared over the fence into the small, triangular area of land that marked where three fields met each other. The patch of spare ground was empty save for a stunted and gnarled hawthorn bush growing beside a stagnant pool of ground water, he could just about make out a faint patina of green foam in the fading light and wondered to himself why the farmer left the pool there rather than draining it, but reckoned that the farmer would know better than he ever could and let his mind go blank as he stared at the foul water. For the first time his mind was able to revisit the day's events in something like a calm and rational manner and he allowed himself to slip into reverie.

* * *

Things had started just as they always do, he had woken up alone Louise having already gone out to work before he had even stirred from his sleep. Once he was up, he had breakfast, jumped in the shower and headed to work, arriving at the office for about nine thirty. After signing his time sheet and logging into his terminal to begin that days assignment, he had seen the email alert. He opened his in box and was staggered to find a message from the senior manager telling him that a piece of malicious code had been detected in the company mainframe and traced back to his workstation as the point of ingress and he was to report to the bosses office for a “Security review and disciplinary hearing”. The hearing had gone as these things always do, there was no real opportunity to defend himself or put across his point of view, just a whitewash orchestrated by his supervisor Gavin; a sanctimonious prick who couldn't get used to the fact that Alun was in a relationship with his ex girlfriend, so he used his seniority to inflict countless minor indignities on Alun at every opportunity. The “hearing” was just another pointless power game from a sad cretin with an over inflated sense of bitterness against a perceived wrong, but after months of snide comments, poor performance reports and having credit for his good work assigned wrongly to Gavin or one of his office cronies Alun had snapped.

He had pinned the smarmy tosspot against a wall by his throat and threatened to knock him into the middle of the next century if he didn't admit to fitting Alun up by placing the offending piece of code into the system himself. He was a code monkey by nature, but he had learned to write code while he was a teen-aged prize fighter, boxing to pay his way through college and he still knew how to look after himself. Gavin had looked like he was ready to confess everything, but his boss had buzzed for security as soon as Alun had moved in his supervisor's direction and the guards had burst into the room, wrestling him away from Gavin, away from his chance to redeem his stuttering career and put himself into a position to stop merely lurching from one job related crisis to another. Instead he found himself suspended indefinitely without pay and sent home in ignominy. That should have been an end to it really, but Gavin had managed to make his way down to the cubicle farm where Alun was clearing his workstation and provoked him once again with some sarcastic remark about ex boxers being too thick to argue without resorting to violence. Alun hadn't so much lost his temper then, as focused it like a laser beam on Gavin and his weasely face. The shithead didn't even have time to flinch as Alun threw the punch that had sent him sprawling onto the desk unconscious, blood from his broken nose tracing a delicate, almost artistic, arc on the upholstered panels of the cubicle. He hadn't said a word to Gavin before punching him, and there hadn't seemed much point afterwards so he had simply finished clearing his stuff and left.

At home he found himself at a loose end, waiting for a knock on the door from the police that never came. The morning passed quickly in a haze of alternating depression at the mess he had left himself in and elation at the feeling of seeing Gavin fly backwards, the sensation of his nose crunching beneath his fist and his enemy's blood exploding onto his knuckles. He knew that he had proved Gavin's point about boxers in emphatic style, but he cared less about that than he did about the intense satisfaction that taking action against the little shit-weasel had given him. His only concern was at the possible legal ramifications of his assault. It was hard enough to find programming jobs as a former prize fighter, without adding convicted criminal to the list of strikes against him.

The afternoon was a different proposition altogether. After work had tried to contact him three times, he had set his mobile to divert all incoming calls to voice mail and that was when he had received the text message telling him to check his email. The email from the senior manager was like a hammer blow, driving all of the sense of elation from him instantly. He had been fired with immediate effect, which was only to be expected, the part that had sent his already conflicted emotions spiralling downwards was the small line at the end, almost a post script, that said Gavin wasn't sure whether or not to press charges and would make a decision in the next few days. After all that had transpired at work, his self destructive attempt at putting things to rights, Gavin still had control, still had power over Alun's future and Alun knew that he was beaten.

He spent the afternoon sitting on the couch, listless and apathetic. He wanted to talk to someone, but the only people he knew in the village were his neighbours, who he didn't like, and one or two people from work. He wished he hadn't moved out of Newcastle, where all of his friends and acquaintances lived and everywhere he looked he could see shops, houses, take-aways, pubs, Metro trains and all of the other signs of civilization, but Louise wanted to buy a bigger house and they couldn't afford one in an area of the city worth living in, so they had moved out to a flea pit former mining village a couple of miles away from the edge of the moors, leaving him stranded and alone except for Louise and his, now former, work colleagues. He stayed on the couch, letting his resentment and anger build up to the point at which he thought he would explode if he wasn't able to tell someone how he felt, waiting anxiously for Louise to come home so that he could let out everything that was churning away inside of him, her practical and no nonsense attitude to misfortune always a balm to his overly emotional way of seeing things.

Just after three o'clock the door had opened and he heard Louise shouting his name from the kitchen. He rose to his feet for the first time in what seemed like hours ready to pour his heart out, to spill out everything that had transpired over the past year; the disaster area that his job had become, the sense of loneliness he felt at being so far from home, his fears that he had completely destroyed his fledgling career before it had even begun properly, but he never got the chance.

“What the hell were you playing at?” Louise blazed at him, before even taking off her coat. “Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you even care? Are you trying to ruin everything we've been working for? How could you hit him, for God's sake?” Alun stood stunned for a second, trying to figure out how Louise could already know.

“You haven't been working with him for the last year,” he told her, “he's been making my life hell, assigning me the crappiest jobs, giving credit for my work to other people, submitting complaints about my timekeeping in my progress reports, my timekeeping for Hell's sake! I work flexi-hours! It doesn't matter if I turn up at eight thirty or eleven o'clock so long as I work my contracted hours every month, but that tosser had to make it an issue with the management. Endless sarcastic comments about the fact that I used to box for a living, always implying that I'm too thick to work a computer. I complete a job, he passes it on to someone else to check my code, then assigns them the credit for what I've just done! Today he planted a virus into the mainframe from my terminal, then had me dragged in front of the big boss to get chewed out for it. It was the last straw, I snapped.” He looked at Louise's face then and saw no softening of her expression, no flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “How do you know what happened anyway?” Her expression hardened further.

“Because I've spent the last hour on the phone with Gavin, trying to convince him not to press charges against you! Do you think I don't know how hard you've been struggling? He's kept me in touch with everything that's been happening at your work, God knows you don't, and I know how much trouble you've been having adjusting to office work, but there is no justification for hitting someone who does nothing but try to help you, none!” She pointed to the collection of trophies and belts on the wall, more than twenty of them, ranging from his first tournament victories as a junior through to the replica belt from his brief stint as British Middle Weight Champion. “Do you see those? Those are why you can't hit people! You could have killed the poor man for crying out loud! You need to make your mind up whether you're a real person like Gavin or some stupid council estate brawler, who can't leave his past behind him!”

Alun froze, pole-axed by everything he had just heard. His stomach hurt as if he had been punched, driving all the air from his lungs. Everything Louise had just said was raging through his head, too many pieces of information all vying for his attention at once and he struggled to focus on any individual sentence. He remembered the part about her keeping in touch with Gavin in secret, but his mind wouldn't stay on the subject, all he could hear was her last statement over and over again. Cold shivers ran down his spine as realization dawned about how his girlfriend really saw him. He wasn't accepted for who he was, he was a project, a work in progress; a working class thug to be whittled into the image she wanted, little more than a taller, more muscular version of her ex boyfriend. Fury began to build inside him as he thought about the course their time together had taken, gradually drawing him away from his old friends and haunts. Her insistence that he take the job he had so recently lost, in spite of the fact that her ex would be his immediate superior. Her determination to move out of the city, the way she managed to arrange things so that they saw her family at least once a week, yet they hadn't spent any time with his parents for close to six months.

Anger growing with every passing second, he saw his life mapped out ahead of him, lived at somebody else's pace, always by someone else's standards and attitudes. He looked at Louise's face, her thick blonde hair, framing her hypnotic green eyes and saw nothing but disgust and disappointment in her features. She wasn't upset or worried about him, or by what might happen to him as a result of what he'd done, merely furious at the fact that her plans might be derailed. For the second time that day he snapped. Grabbing his coat, wallet and cigarettes from the couch where he had left them he made to walk out of the house but Louise stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

“You're not walking away now,” she told him “there's too much to talk about.”

“Get out of my way.” his voice was flat, monotone.

“What will you do? Thump me as well?” She tensed up as she said it, as if expecting him to actually do it. He felt his rage build to a crescendo as she stuck this new dagger into him.

“Never!” he hissed “Not even if you came at me with a knife. I love you you stupid cow, but get out of my way, because I can't even look at you right now.” With those words he pushed her gently but firmly to one side and left, his head spinning and his feelings more confused than he could ever remember them being. He had let his feet had take charge then, trying to walk him further than his churning emotions could reach, he needed to clear his head and only distance would let him do it.

* * *

His cigarette finished, he pinched the lit end between his fingertips, to ensure it was extinguished before putting the butt in his pocket. Staring into the water, he tried hard to sort out the mess he knew his head was in but was unable to make any progress. A few short sentences and his certainty had been stripped from him and he was unsure whether he could go back to how things were with Louise, whatever happened with Gavin and his decision about pressing charges or not. Too many things were out of his hands and had been for too long for him to know what to think about anything any more. He stood paralysed with indecision, unable to go back but uncomfortable with continuing to walk forwards, unsettled as he was by the thought of travelling through the nearby woods in the darkness that would have fallen by the time he reached them.

As he looked into the pond, the gentle breeze that rustled the nearby hawthorn played across the surface of the water, stirring the green foam that lay on it. Shapes and patterns coalesced and broke up as he watched, hypnotized by the ever changing forms. Alun remained utterly still, unaware of the passage of time and paying no heed as the sky changed from purple to black, intent only on the kaleidoscopic picture he saw by the light of the early moon. Slowly the foam drifted into something he recognized, a shape reminiscent of a woman's face topped by a mane of tangled green hair. Before his eyes the foam split slightly leaving an opening where a mouth would be, which moved faintly with the motion of the water so that it seemed to whisper silently at him.

Enchanted, Alun leaned forward to better see the face in the water, mesmerised by the sight of something so unusual. The rustling of the hawthorn branches was synchronous with the movement of the lips and he fancied he could almost make out words carrying to him on the breeze. A vigorous movement of the water and the face split again, forming a pair of eyes that flashed silver in the moonlight. Alun stared into the eyes and imagined himself lying down beside the water to hear the words the woman strived to tell him, listening all through the night as she whispered secrets and tales of a life beyond his own experience. He began to climb the fence, thinking of nothing except what the lady in the water could tell him, desperate to hear the gentle voice breathe it's soft words into his ears.

Halfway across the fence the face began to take on a different aspect, more urgent, more demanding and Alun slipped on the unsteady wires in his haste to reach the woman he was now sure waited just below the surface. Her face continued to dominate his vision and as he heard the faint sussurous he thought he saw her expression change even further, to one of lustfulness and hunger. He imagined long sinewy arms bursting from beneath the surface and locking themselves around his neck, feeling the wet coldness of dead flesh pressed against his skin as they dragged him inexorably closer to the water, seeing an ancient face, withered and green break through the foam and staring into emotionless silver eyes as a mouth filled with sharp teeth turned black with age and corruption leaned forward to cover his own. He could feel the clammy sensation as fishlike lips pressed against his, sucking hard at the air inside his lungs as he was dragged to the bottom of the pond, locked in the last kiss he would ever know.

Alun fell backwards in fright, his left leg caught on the top of the fence causing him to land heavily on his back, winding him thoroughly. He scrambled backwards, desperate to put distance between him and the pond. Small stones scratched his hands and he pulled himself away from the fence, his trailing leg falling heel first on his right shin. He felt the heel of his heavy boots break the skin underneath his jeans, but the pain was secondary to his desire to be completely out of reach of any thing that might be lurking below the water. He leaped to his feet, looking wildly around him as he noticed for the first time that full darkness had fallen and other than the shadows cast by the faint moonlight he couldn't see a thing clearly. The breeze grew stiffer, rattling the bare branches of the hawthorn and Alun jumped half out of his skin at the sound.

He thought fast about his options and quickly ruled out travelling through the woods and still refused to contemplate going home. That left one option, he looked behind him quickly, loathe to take his eyes away from the enclosure that held the pond for even a few seconds. He fixed the light from the farmhouse in his sights and turned towards it, stepping quickly away from the source of his fear. As he went, glancing behind him every few seconds, the breeze picked up further making the hawthorn rattle and shake, like the sound of sarcastic applause in his ears as he retreated from what he had imagined.

The ground beneath his feet seemed to shift and turn as Alun made his way across the field in a straight line towards the light from the window, shining like a beacon in the night. Every few yards he would stumble and land hard in the mud, bruising his knees and hands on the myriad stones and roots that littered the ground. He could feel the breeze blowing through holes newly torn into the knee of both legs of his jeans and he was pretty certain that both of them were bleeding, thanks to their repeated sudden contacts with the ground. The farmhouse still seemed impossibly distant, but he had closed in enough that he could make out a faint patch of shadow that he assumed was a wall running around the edge of the yard. He only hoped that it wasn't too high for him to scale it and ask for directions to the nearest village, that wasn't the one he lived in, from the inhabitants.

As he travelled ever further from the pond he tried hard to convince himself he was an idiot for taking fright so easily, after all he hadn't actually seen anything other than foam on the surface of the water, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had only just escaped with his life. He would think hard about the events that had pushed him out here but the anger, while still present, was no longer dominating his every thought, it simply lurked at the back of his mind, informing his decisions and stopping him from making his way home, however badly he wanted to be there. He knew he would have to go home and face things eventually, and soon, but tonight no matter what the circumstances he had to be away from everything that had happened and everyone connected with it.

After what seemed an inordinately long time Alun reached the wall surrounding the farmyard. It was taller than he had hoped for, being almost as high as he was, and he thought he was going have to take a run up to lift himself over it. He touched the top of the wall to get a feel for how thick it was and found himself falling backwards in fright for a second time that night. No sooner had his hand touched the rough stone, than an almighty barking and growling sound began behind the wall.
Sitting on the ground with his heart racing in his chest, Alun felt anger surge through him once again, infusing his tired and sore limbs with new strength. He climbed to his feet, brushing the back of his jeans free of soil and mud, and started walking along the length of the wall towards where it turned away from him leading, he supposed, towards the driveway the farmer would use to get to and from the main road. He could hear the dog following him on the other side of the stone barrier, growling and snarling all the way, but he had enough of being scared for one night and had no intention of letting an animal put him off his intended course of action.

Rounding the corner of the wall he saw the stone stretching on for another fifty yards or so before giving way to a wire fence that ran down what appeared to be a long driveway. He broke into a run, longing for the feel of concrete or tarmac beneath his feet again. The dog on the other side began running as well, barking and howling all the way as it kept pace with him. Somehow he managed to keep his footing as he went, reaching the fence in good order and climbing over it with a speed he never would have believed himself capable of before. Hitting the tarmac road on the other side, he immediately felt better about things. He looked to his left and saw the dog, an Alsation of some description, on it's hind legs and gripping the chest high gate with it's front paws, growling at him in the low, steady tone that large dogs have which says “Keep away. I mean business.” Alun stuck two fingers up at the animal and looked to his right, towards the end of the driveway and felt his heart lift. Not too far distant he could see the lights of a small village, just a little way downhill from where the farmyard stood. He set off at a fast walk, pleased to be walking on a surface that didn't crumble beneath his feet or shift suddenly, sending him sprawling to his knees.

He didn't know how long or how far he had walked, just that lights in the dark have a terrible habit of appearing to be much closer than they really are. He arrived at the edge of the village, feeling bedraggled and worn out from his exertions and the emotional turmoil he had gone through. He cast his eyes around the small village looking for somewhere, anywhere, that he could go to for some kind of assistance, be it renting a room for the night or phoning for a taxi that could take him to somewhere that could. At the far end of the very small village, more of a hamlet really, he saw a large building with all of it's windows lit and a sign hanging from the wall. A pub! He all but broke into a sprint in order to get there. Even if they didn't have rooms for rent, they would have a payphone so he could have a pint while he waited for his taxi.

On reaching the pub he paused at the doorway to make sure he didn't look like a tramp or a vagrant, but decided that the cash in his wallet would dispel any of those suspicions. He looked up at the sign, to see if the name of the pub would tip him off as to which village he was in, but the place wasn't named for the village. The sign hanging above the door labelled the pub as “The Redcap Inn” and beneath the name was a painted image of what looked like a red bandanna with blood dripping from the bottom. Alun shrugged at the unique name and imagery, briefly wondering if the place was a biker pub as he stepped inside.

If the pub was a biker place, there weren't any in on that night. He looked around the small room that served as the bar taking in the half a dozen customers, all men, decked out in plaid shirts or waxed jackets clustering around the paraffin heater standing on the hearth of an empty fireplace. The Redcap, was about as country as a pub could get without the theme tune for Emmerdale Farm playing in the background. The men around the heater all stopped their muffled conversation to stare at him as he made his way to the bar, their eyes following his every step to the counter. He could feel their stares boring into the back of his neck as the barman walked slowly over from the stool he was perched on at the far end of the counter, before stopping in front of him and staring hard at him. He didn't offer a greeting, or even raise his eyebrows in acknowledgement, just stared at Alun as if he was part of the furniture or a painting hung on the wall. Alun decided to go first.

“What's good?” he asked, gesturing to the row of taps. The barman just continued staring at him.

“What about the Guinness? Pint of Guinness please.” The barman remained impassive. Alun was about to speak again when he heard a voice behind him.

“We can't serve you in here, not yet.” he turned around to see who was talking to him and found himself surprised to see an extra person there.

A short bloke, maybe five-foot six, was talking to him. The new fellow was wearing a green coat, the pullover type favoured by fishermen and gamekeepers, with a large rectangular pocket on the chest and bright blue jeans. His boots looked like safety boots, a scuffed and faded black with the steel toecaps clearly visible. The man was hideously ugly, that much was obvious. His nose was bulbous and misshapen, in the manner of men who'd drank too much whisky for too many years and his bright red beard was straggly and had bald patches scattered at random around his cheeks and neck. His face was wrinkled, but Alun couldn't put an age to him, the man could be anywhere from an old looking thirty five to a spry sixty. None of that was what made him stand out though, the thing Alun couldn't stop looking at was his head gear. The man wore a bandanna; a rich, dark red piece of fabric that glistened wetly in the fluorescent strip lights of the pub. The cloth was faintly mottled, with patches of colour that were almost dark brown or black. The man reached up and stroked his head covering.

“My name's Robin,” he said “and I'm the only one of my kind ever to have a name of his own.”

“I'm Alun, look I just want a pint and to make a phone call-”

“I'll bet you do.” Robin interrupted. “But you can't do that, you see. My hat is getting really dry bonny lad, and I had to get old Peg to startle you at the pond, then I had to get Finn to stop you heading into Bobby's farm 'cause the rules say the only place I can wet my hat is in here, Michael -flaming- Scot saw to that a long time ago, so after going to all of that trouble to get you in here you'll understand my impatience.” Robin reached into the pocket on the front of his coat and pulled out a folding knife. He opened the weapon and Alun could hear the click of a locking mechanism to hold the blade in place. The steel blade was easily seven inches in length and looked wickedly sharp. The half a dozen other men spread out, three covering the door Alun had came in and the rest moving to cover the door that he presumed led to the toilets. Alun looked at the men in disbelief.

“Are you lot seriously going to let him do this?” The men stayed silent, none of them even looking at Alun when he spoke.

“'Course they are, Redcaps always pay their debts in gold you see.” Robin told him, reaching into his pocket again and pulling out a large pile of yellow coins, which he tossed carelessly onto a table.

“Now, enough talking. I've been working all day to make sure you came in and I've got a raging thirst.” Alun thought back to the day that he'd had since leaving the house, the thing that happened at the pond, the dog that had leaned on the gate stopping him going into the farm, the way it had just held on to the top of the gate and growled at him- held on to the gate- Alun thought, and his blood ran cold. -what sort of dog can grab hold of anything?- He asked himself. Before he could think of an answer Robin lunged for him.

He swatted the knife away with his left hand and lashed out with a right cross that caught Robin on the chin lifting the smaller man clean off his feet. As his attacker lay stunned at his feet, Alun turned and looked at the men blocking the door. There was no help to be had there, their eyes were empty of anything that might be pity or shame. He could imagine the same look when they sent animals to slaughter. He turned back towards Robin, who was climbing to his feet again. He recalled Robin's words about working to get him into the pub, manipulating events, controlling him and Alun felt the pent up fury at the back of his mind beginning to spread out through his body. Black rage filled his mind and he looked at Robin, shaking his head and blinking owlishly as he tried to shake off the punch that Alun had landed on him.

The small man lashed out with the knife again, this time catching Alun on the forearm, the razor sharp blade slicing straight through the thin fabric of his coat and opening up a deep cut. As soon as the blood began to flow, a splash of vivid red appeared on Robin's bandanna. Alun reeled back, clutching his arm and staring in amazement at Robin's headgear.

“Aye, that's right bonny lad. Now stand still and I promise to bleed you quickly, you'll barely feel it.” Robin laughed and came forward again, this time more cautiously.

Alun moved sideways, away from the bar and into the middle of the room, trying to manoeuvre his attacker so that he was backed against the bar, but Robin stepped smartly to his right, flicking out with the knife to put Alun onto his back foot. Alun fell for it and recoiled from the feint, Robin changing the angle of his swing immediately and stepping forward while stabbing high and across Alun's neck trying to open his throat and end the fight quickly. Alun swayed to his left, ducking slightly, feeling the blade whistle past his ear and the sleeve of his attacker's coat brush his head.

While Robin was still over extended he threw his right fist into his opponent's ribs stepping forward as he did so and turning inwards so that he was behind the hunched over Robin. He struck forward with his left elbow, catching the smaller man in the kidney and was rewarded with a yelp of pain. He brought up his right arm and slammed the elbow into Robin's ear. When Robin stumbled forward he grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled him backwards and flung his own head forwards smashing his forehead down viciously onto the crown of Robin's head. The small man collapsed to his knees, before falling forward to lie face down on the floor, his right leg twitching spasmodically, a trail of urine spreading out on the floor from beneath him.

Alun looked down at the corpse of Robin Redcap, the bandanna on his head rapidly fading from red to white, even as he watched. He thought of everything that had happened in his life for the past eighteen months or so. The manipulations, the humiliations, the petty indignities inflicted on him by his boss and the lies told to him by his girlfriend. He thought of his previous life as professional boxer and the simplicity it afforded him and compared it to today, with all the complications that had ensued and the way he had so effortlessly fallen into the traps and machinations of others. Only twice today had he known exactly what to do, both of them being moments of instinctive action and violence. He remembered again the feeling of Gavin lying unconscious and the sensation of his nose breaking under his knuckles, the feeling of Robin's skull fracturing as he brought his forehead down to fatal effect. Earlier Louise had asked him if he was a real person, he thought about that for a moment and then he knew what to do.

He reached down and pulled the bandanna from Robin's head, seeing the massive dent in the top of his head, matted with blood and fragments of white skull poking through. He pried the knife from dead fingers and quickly drew the razor sharp edge across the corpse's neck. Blood oozed slowly from the wound and he held the cloth to it soaking it thoroughly, before raising it to his own head and pulling it down over his hair, tucking his ears beneath the damp, scarlet fabric.

He turned the corpse over, looking at the clean shaven and handsome young face, marred only by a slight crook in the nose where it had probably been broken at sometime in the past. The shallow rounded cheek bones and narrow jawline. It was a fighters face if ever he had seen one. He ran his fingers through his straggly red beard before reaching into his pocket, feeling for the shape of gold coinage. He pulled a few out and looked at the barman.

“Don't just stand there gawping Jed, get the drinks poured bonny lad.” Jed looked at him.

“Whatever you say Robin.”


-END-