Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection Page 20

  After Nigel, there was just Old Graham and Harry. Just the five of them, the full set. Tuesday was a lonely night.

  Harry swivelled round on the bench, pulled his right knee sideways onto the cushion, and peered out the pub’s main window. The Trumpet sat upon a hill overlooking a small row of dingy shops and a decrepit mini-supermarket that had steel shutters instead of windows. Steph once told him that the pub was barely surviving on the wafer-thin profits brought in by the lunchtime traffic of the nearby factories and, if it were to rely on its evening drinkers alone, the place would have closed its doors long ago – even before the public smoking ban came in and ruined pubs across the land.

  Usually Harry could see the shops and supermarket from the window, but tonight his vision faltered after only a few feet, swallowed up by the swirling snow and impeded by a thick condensation that hugged at the window’s glass. For all Harry knew, the darkness outside could have stretched on for eternity, engulfing the world in its clammy embrace and leaving the pub a floating limbo of light in an endless abyss. The image was unsettling.

  Like something out of the Twilight Zone.

  Snow continued to fall as it had nonstop for the past day and night. Fat, sparkling wisps that passed through the velvet background of the night, making the gloom itself seem alive with movement. Harry shivered; the pub’s archaic heating inadequate in defeating the chill. Even the warmth of the fireplace was losing its battle against the encroaching freeze.

  God only knows how I’ll manage the journey home tonight without any taxis running. Maybe Steph will let me bed down till morning? I hope so.

  Harry reached for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench. He traced a finger over his grubby wedding ring and thought about the day he had first put it on. He smiled and felt the warmness of nostalgia wash over him, but then his eyes fell upon the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of the same hand and the warmness went away. The old wound was shaped like a star and brought back memories far darker than his wedding day. It was something he dared not think about. He drank his beer.

  God bless booze and the oblivion it brings.

  Harry chuckled about how once he had not cared for the taste of lager – white wine had been his tonic of choice – but The Trumpet wasn’t really the type of place where a thirty-year old man could order a nice bottle of Chardonnay without being called a poofter.

  Funny how a person changes, Harry considered. Just wish I’d changed for the better.

  He took another sip of beer and almost spat it out again. In only two minutes since he’d last tasted it, the beer had gone completely and utterly flat, as if something had literally drained the life from it. But before Harry could consider what would cause such a thing, a stranger entered the pub.

  A second later, the lights went out.

  An exclusive preview from Ian Woodhead. I hope you enjoy the following.

  Copyright © by Ian Woodhead 2012

  About the author:

  Ian Woodhead is just past the age of forty. He lives in the north of England and is married to a wonderful woman. He has forgotten how many children he has. He had been writing for nearly twenty years but has only just gained the confidence to start showing his work. Ian finds it a little creepy writing about himself in the third person.

  Short story in entirety taken from the collection 'The Other Side of Dead', reproduced with the author's kind permission.

  Lumps

  David Kerrigan kept both eyes focussed on the console games graphics, as his fingers operated the four-way pad and the buttons. His mind just wasn’t as focussed as his eyes, it kept drifting away from the game and analysing David’s persistent but recent dilemma. He knew that one of them would be there by now; they always appeared just after five o clock.

  His mother and father were sat together on the communal living room sofa, both giggling at some comedy programme on the idiot box. David never watched television anymore, not after he had learnt that prolonged exposure destroyed your brain. He’d found that out on Google so it must be true.

  David had stopped telling them about the lumps moving across the walls. They thought that he was making it all up, tying to grab attention.

  He found his eyes drifting off the console screen. Oh bloody bollocks! This was all his mother’s fault. If she had bought him that new Psychokiller game like she promised then he would have had something better than this old game to keep him occupied.

  David had clocked it four times now. He’d found all the hidden rooms and the two levels that weren’t even supposed to exist. David was just sick of the bloody bollocking piece of crap. God! How could Mum be so mean to him? Did she not know that Psychokiller was going to be his second favourite game?

  Maybe he should have just one tiny peek, a brief glance to check to see if they were still there. It wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it was better than playing this thing.

  He put his console beside him on the chair whilst keeping a close eye on his parents. If they saw what he was about to do, they would go ape-shit, again and after the last explosion, they had taken away his internet privileges. David would rather die than have that happen again.

  They were engrossed, watching some old guy with a red, furry flower pot on his head and performing rubbish magic tricks. It had them both in hysterics. David just couldn’t understand why they were laughing. The man on the television clearly hadn’t rehearsed or practised the tricks enough; it didn’t make sense to David. Everyone knew that if you didn’t aim for perfection then people laughed at you. Maybe that was it, the audience and the drooling masses watching this were laughing at the idiot. Maybe it was a form of humiliation designed to force the performer to improve, whatever, as long as it stopped Mum and Dad from catching him.

  The best place to start looking was in the far corner, just above his father’s bookshelf. There was nearly always one there. David took a deep breath, squinted his eyes then counted to ten before he looked.

  There was no sign of anything; David was almost disappointed. He moved his eyes a little further towards the ceiling then grinned. There it was, hiding on top on the bookshelf. It was a pimple at first then it began to grow to the size of half a tennis ball.

  It slid further up the wall, still growing, finally its size stabilised. The shape altered until it resembled a turtle’s shell.

  He had no doubt that it reacted to his observation, it was as if they needed him to observe before they could function. It changed it’s colour to match the background, as it moved from the patterned lemon wallpaper on one wall to the wood panelling above the fire place.

  So they were still hanging around, David knew that he really should stop staring now. When one moved, lots more appeared, that was the rule. Soon there would be so many of them performing acrobatics on all four walls that he’d end up having a headache for the rest of the day.

  Two more were growing just above the curtain rail while the original one had settled back in its original position.

  “Mum! He’s doing it again.”

  David snapped his head down and glared at his older sister. Oh bloody bollocks, he no idea that she was spying on him. She had her eyes glued to that laptop screen, but he could still see that sly smirk that the grassing cow was trying to hide.

  “I thought that we had discussed this David.” His mother said.

  He tried to keep focused on his Mum’s tired face but it was difficult as two of the lumps were performing figure of eights on the wall directly behind her.

  His Dad stood up and pointed to the ceiling. “I think I see one, David. Oh my God! Look at the size of it!”

  “George!” His Mum admonished. “Don’t encourage him.”

  “She’s just trying to get me into trouble Mum.”

  There were five above his Dad’s head now; they followed him in single procession as he walked over to his son.

  “You’re just terrible at lying David. You’re eyes are moving about like they have a m
ind of their own. I think it’s best if you go to your room now.”

  He stood up, squeezed past his Dad and hurried over to the door. David kept his eyes on the door. There was no way that he was going to let his family see the tears. How dare they accuse him of lying.

  His sister sniggered. God, what a mouthy bitch, he knew for a fact that he would be on MSN right now telling her brain-dead friends all about her freaky brother. David was going to get her back for this.

  He pulled open the door, sneaking one glance behind him before he shut it. His parents were sat back down and plugged into some more rubbish on TV. Twenty lumps were now clustered on the wall behind his sister, none were moving, he got the impression that they were all watching her computer monitor.

  David slammed the door as hard as he could and ran up the stairs.

  Chapter Two

  David climbed his way out of some already forgotten dream and opened his eyes. His sleep fogged brain cleared straight away when he saw just how dark it was. The only illumination came from the streetlight outside his bedroom window.

  He climbed off the bed and padded over to the light switch by the door. David glanced at his DVD player as he passed it. It was almost nine, that couldn’t be right. He remembered closing his eyes after watching an episode of Star Trek on his PC, that was at six, it only seemed like a couple of minutes ago.

  He turned his head towards the window at the sound of someone revving their engine. If it was nine, it meant that his Mum was going to pick his annoying sister up from her dancing lesson. Maybe, she had tripped up and broke her ankle. Now that would be funny, he could only hope.

  He wondered if she had saved him some tea. God, he hoped so, he was starving. He also hoped that his Dad hadn’t eaten it or Wendy hadn’t spat in it before she went out.

  David opened his door and peered down the hallway, checking for any signs of activity. There shouldn’t be anyone about; Dad will be sat in front of the TV. He sneaked over to his sister’s bedroom door and put his ear against the wood. Her room was as quiet as the grave. There was no clattering of computer keys or the sound of her irritating horsy laughter. He opened the door a crack, he had to make sure that she wasn’t in.

  Wendy wasn’t in there, he grinned when he spotted her laptop thrown on her bed. David would have his revenge tonight. Wendy had no idea that he knew her Facebook password. The mouthy bitch would soon find out what it was like to be a social pariah.

  He needed to stuff his face first; David couldn’t believe how hungry he was. David clicked the door shut and padded over to the stairs.

  There was movement behind him, David glanced behind him and saw three lumps circling his sister’s door handle. He turned away and shrugged to himself. He was sick of seeing the damn things now. They kept getting him into trouble; David was getting bored of them.

  It had been three weeks since his first encounter with the lumps. David would never forget that first sighting, God, what an adrenalin rush that had been. He had never realised until that moment that it was possible to be terrified and excited at the same time. Those feelings had long since passed but the memory still sent delicious shivers down his spine.

  David had been given the dubious honour of looking after the house while his Mum and Dad took Wendy out to celebrate getting into university. He knew that Dad would have rather eaten his own feet then wander around clothes shops with two women all day but Mum had told him straight when he started to complain about missing the match on TV. She had informed Dad that he ought to be ashamed of himself, that this was a very special time for their daughter, something that she’ll remember forever. She had said a lot more but David had to go to the toilet so he had moved his head off their bedroom door.

  Poor Dad, it must be very humiliating knowing that he was under Mum’s thumb. Not that David really cared how henpecked Dad was, he was only too happy to have them out of his hair for the day. He intended to spend those bliss filled hours trying to day crack this new game that Mum had bought him for his console and he needed a little peace in order to achieve that.

  The first one had appeared just after noon, he had just sat back in his chair, his console was between his knees. David was feeling very pleased with himself and a little smug too. It had taken him just one hour to crack the first level. David had discovered the previous night that the fastest time to complete the first level was thirty one minutes; he intended to beat that record once he’d cracked the game.

  A few drops of sweat ran into ran into his eyes, he used the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the horrible salty stuff away. He felt dizzy and a little sick, David always felt like when he had to concentrate for long periods.

  He went through all his previous moves, trying to think of ways to improve his time. His play wasn’t flawless; there were a couple of occasions when he hesitated but nothing so dramatic that would take off a whole thirty minutes. There must be something that he missed, perhaps some object that warped you through some the level or most likely a hidden short cut. David sensed frustration building up.

  David rolled his t-shirt down and waited impatiently for his vision to clear before he commenced the next level.

  He glanced over at the wall; there was a big bulge there. What the bloody bollocks was that? That lump wasn’t there earlier, he was sure of it. Was prolonged exposure to the screen making his eyes go funny? David blinked a few times, no that didn’t work, the bulge was still there. It looked as though his Dad had wallpapered over a hubcap.

  David stood up, his game forgotten; he just had to check this out. The lump moved. He screamed and fell back into his chair.

  He watched with astonished eyes as the lump used its body to draw patterns across the wall, starting first with simple shapes like squares and circles before tackling more complex patterns like a figure of eight and a pentagram.

  Another one grew out of the wall, this one was smaller. It moved towards the original lump and started to copy the shapes the other one was making.

  David wasn’t sure whether he was dreaming or hallucinating. He reasoned that it was possible that Wendy had sprinkled something on his cornflakes; she had been very pleasant to him all morning, not one snide comment or anything so it was probable that she had been up to something. Where his sister was getting hallucinogenic substances was a mystery but he figured that she will have met some dubious looking hippy bloke at her new university. Everyone knew that those places were drug dens.

  So he was tripping, fine, there was nothing he could do about it so he might as well wait until it had been flushed out of his system. David settled back into his chair and watched this weird follow the leader game. A few seconds later, another one appeared. It reminded him of those tin helmets that soldiers had on their heads during the First World War. That one started to do its own thing.

  Within minutes, all four walls were covered in moving lumps, all different shapes and sizes and all performing simple and complex patterns.

  His parents found him spread-eagled on the floor, his eyes were like saucers and the carpet was covered in drool. They thought he was having some kind of seizure and rushed him to the hospital.

  Their worry and concern soon changed to accusing him of attention grabbing hysteria after David had been pronounced fit and well by the doctor and he made the mistake of telling them about the lumps moving around the wall.

  The family had left the hospital the same night after his parents spent an hour having a private talk with a couple of senior doctors. Wendy had told David that he was about to be sectioned and next week, surgeons were going to cut into his weird little brain. Mum and Dad were just signing the consent forms.

  His parents pretended that the whole affair had never happened, which was fine by him. Although he found the whole scenario tremendously exciting, the attention was intolerable.

  When the lump re-appeared in the living room the next evening, David stayed silent. He just sat there, mesmerised by what only could be described as wall-dancing. David would have stayed
there all night if his mother hadn’t demanded to know what he was staring at.

  He mumbled something about not feeling very well and ran up stairs to his bedroom; his mind was overflowing with a million unanswered questions.

  David sighed as he walked away from his sister’s door, wishing that he could somehow regain some of that enthusiasm that had gripped him in those early days.

  The faint smell of something meaty hung in the air, he was pretty sure what that meant but David wasn’t going to build his hopes up just yet.

  He crept down the stairs, his feet instinctively missing the floorboards that creaked. He wondered why he was bothering, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had run down the stairs in big boots, Dad wouldn’t have heard, not with him cranking the volume on the television up but some habits were almost impossible to break. When he reached the bottom of the steps, hunger pangs overrode caution and he ran into the kitchen, his arm outstretched, finger at the ready.

  David pressed the door release on the microwave and lovingly gazed at the bountiful plate of goodness in front of him. There was homemade steak pie, mushy peas and chips, all covered in rich, dark gravy.

  It was his second favourite meal.

  He used the tip of his finger to draw a six pointed star in the cold gravy that had congealed upon the pie crust. It seemed to be the lumps most popular shape, he had often wondered why. He closed the microwave door and set the timer for three minutes.

  David used to sit for hours and hours, drawing their patterns into his red exercise book. He used two books; he used his green book to write down all his theories on what they actually were, a new form of life, invading aliens, or creatures from another dimension. He didn’t have a clue what they were but he had to keep all options open, no matter how stupid they sounded.

  His green book had been his constant companion for two whole weeks. The prominent bulge in his front pocket had given his sister plenty of source material for hilarious gags over his sexuality, the piss taking cow. His dad even joined in with the jolly japes a couple of times. The book was lying on his bedroom window sill now covered in dust; he hadn’t opened it in a week.