THE FIEND

We were on holiday and I believe we were wandering around Sienna. We’d had a couple of bottles of wine between us at the restaurant and subsequent bars. Earlier on, we couldn’t have been more in love, congratulating our good fortune in meeting each other ten years ago. At a subsequent stage of the evening, however, you resorted to sarcasm and I took to overreacting. That’s right, you were walking and it was me who was wandering, getting left behind with each drip drip drip of sarcastic comment; plodding slower and slower until suddenly, I saw them, the footprints on the tarmac. Black, the colour of tar, long and narrow with talons at the end and I recognised them. Last seen ten years ago, the evening I met you.

Could I have drawn them to your attention? No. Only I can sense The Fiend and then I can only perceive its traces – footprints behind you, shadows in the bedroom with us, a soft mocking laugh when I whisper that I love you. There was nothing I could do, except make the last of your time with me as nice as possible. After all, you couldn’t know that with each passing day, wherever you went, around on holiday, then back home, those footprints followed and each time I checked they were a little closer behind you...

The evening you returned from work with the footsteps just one pace back from yours, I took a little time out to remember the parties, the laughter, the good times, the love making and the sound of your key in the door. Then I quietly put those things away. I sat in the corner of the living room, watching the big black shadow rear up behind your armchair. You made the mistake of turning round, your eyes widened with fear and you screamed. Only, no sound came out because your head had disappeared inside the blackness, your torso followed, then your legs and finally your feet. I didn’t cry, because you no longer existed to me.

“All right?” the new man is leaning over me in bed.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, “go back to sleep.”
He does so. I switch on a bedside lamp and glance round me. A different room, but the same handwriting is on the wall. I get up and rub it off before he can wake again. These men I’m sent always come with instructions. I must adjust and comply, because the moment I relax, switch off or lag behind, is the second the Fiend’s footsteps will appear and I will endure the horror of failure again.

THE HORRIBLE THING IN THE TOILETS AT WORK

“Boss, you gotta believe me.  I was in the middle cubicle, all the other toilets were empty.  I’d sat down and I couldn’t get away.  That’s when I heard it breathing, a horrible rasping noise, sibilant and cold.  It told me I deserved to be destroyed, but first it was going to take everyone else.

“First I doubted, then people started to disappear.  Abdul went to the loo in the middle of a meeting and didn’t return.  “Abdul’s taking ages,” I stated.

“Abdul who?” you asked.

“The guy who’s perpetually on his phone during presentations.”

Everyone looked at me blankly; “There is no Abdul here,” you said, shortly.

“Next was Sam, the receptionist.  She knew Abdul.  I was about to tell her the Thing in the bogs got him, but she said ‘Just a minute, got to make a visit’ and she didn’t come back.  What do you mean there’s no receptionist?  There’s a reception here isn’t there?  There were more disappearances – Kyle, John, Andy, Jen ...  I can’t understand why you’re shaking your head.

“Tell me you recall Mary, my best mate.  I wouldn’t let her go to the loo alone, I told her about the Thing and she nodded in that understanding way of hers and asked me what it thought I’d done.  Of course I couldn’t tell her.  We went to the ladies together, me into the middle cubicle, she into the end.  Then I heard it, that raspy growl – in ... out ... in ... out.  I shat myself, quite convenient considering where I was.  I shouted a warning, but ... silence, the Thing had gone.  I thought maybe Mary got out, but there was no sign of her in the office.  I asked you and you wore the blank look you’re giving me now; “Mary who?” you said.  That’s when you asked me if I was stressed.  “I’m seeing the on-site counsellor,” I answered.

You replied; “There's no counsellor here.” 

I knew then it’d gotten Carly, the only person I could speak to. I was going to warn her about the Thing, but I just didn’t.

“Stop looking at me like that, I’m not insane!  There’s a Thing in the toilets that’s killing everyone!  It’s saving me til last - you know like the best bit of dessert for the last mouthful.  Please believe me!  No, I can’t tell you why.  I can’t tell anyone!  Look, think about this rationally!  This is a huge building, a massive organisation and there’s just two of us here, working on a project designed for heaps of people to do!  Put it together – empty reception, empty corridors, empty offices!  What do you think’s happened?  What do you mean you’ve got to make a phone call?  Wait a minute, where are you going first?  Don’t go to the toilet!  Oh God!  Please!”

Well, she’s gone in there, hasn’t she?  I’m left alone in this open plan office, I can hear it now, I think it’s got into the air conditioning vents.  Perhaps it’ll find its way under my desk, slither up my chair ... I’m pretty certain it’s invisible.  Well, at least no-one knows what it is and why it’s here.  I do.  Maybe I should just leave the office.  Thing is, gotta pay the bills, haven’t I?  I wonder if it got everyone in payroll ... I'm confronting it.  I've got some bleach, that’ll kill any nasty unclean Thing and I’ve got a plunger.  I’m going to lure it back to its territory.  I'm going to the loo - I might be some time.

TITSZZZ

The office Christmas party started when Josh opened a bottle of Moet, tools were downed, glasses found, cakes taken from the fridge and party poppers let off.  It was Mad Friday and by 6pm the judgement of Josh, Simon and Derek was completely skewed.  When they went on a perfume sniffing mission, involving them burying their heads into the décolletage of every female, the office manager promptly suggested the three leave for town.

On their way out, they noticed a whisky bottle in the kitchen and decided to take it.  They piled into the room laughing at their audacity.  The cleaner, in an extremely bad mood, was putting glasses into the dishwasher.

“Hello darlin’!” shouted Josh, looking at his mates giggling, “I’m gonna sniff the cleaner’s tits!”
She straightened to protest, but he swept her slight frame up, sat her on the counter and buried his head in her tiny chest; “Peanuts!” he yelled.
“That’s what she smells like?” Simon laughed.
“Soap is what she smells like, peanuts is what she has.  You need a boob job, love!”
Simon thought it was hilarious, but Derek intervened, pulling Josh off; “Town,” he said and mouthed an apology to the cleaner.
“Wait,” she said, without hesitation, “there are women with better tits at eibmoZ Club.  It’s where WAG’s and models end their night.”
Simon handed her his smartphone, “Plug the postcode in, sweetheart.”

Later, they found themselves in a graveyard.  Puzzled, they suspected it was a joke, but were willing to see it through.  Then they saw a crypt with fairy lights round it and a neon sign – eibmoZ CLUB.  The bouncer wore a hooded coat that rendered his face invisible.

“You can’t come in,” he grunted at Derek, “you’re drunk.  You two are welcome.”
It was a fair call, probably was Derek’s home time, he stumbled away, while Simon and Josh entered, walking down steps into a wall of thumping R&B music.  The club was dark, but they could see females in silhouette writhing on the dancefloor, long haired, thin with huge tits and curvy behinds – perfect!

They skipped the bar because they still had the whisky bottle and headed straight to the women; “Wanna sniff your t ...” Josh stopped mid sentence, staring at the redhead in front.  She was wearing a mini skirt and low top, but her flesh was hanging off her thin arms and decaying, her rib bones stuck through her exposed midriff, her face was slack and her tits were huge lumps of silicon yellowing with age.  She grabbed his head and pulled it against her, the overwhelming smell of corruption causing him to puke.  The music stopped; Simon, aware they were surrounded, pulled Josh up; “Ladies, excuse us, it’s the end of the night.”

“The night never ends here,” they chorused.
One of them pulled up her skirt to flash her silicon enhanced bony behind; “We’ve been waiting for lads like you!”
There were too many too push past, Simon and Josh gave up and let the wall of surgically enhanced women in various states of decay close in.  At least these girls were up for it.

Outside the cleaner leaned against the crypt wall, sharing a large cigar with the bouncer.  She gave the starlit sky a contented look and said to nobody in particular; “Merry Christmaszzz.”

THE FUCK BUDDY

He didn’t do relationships, they were messy; people got hurt, he explained to Maria in the bar and she nodded in agreement.  Fuck buddies were better.  Somehow he got side-tracked by his reflection in her eyes and they ended up in bed.  Maria was an excellent fuck buddy, she complimented him on the music he wrote, laughed at his jokes and told him he was intelligent.  So he saw her again and again.  She never nagged about his drinking, she encouraged it and as he worked from home he could get away with a lot.  He and his mates would always wind up in the same bar as her and hers.  Eventually, it became a mixed group so his friends started inviting their girlfriends along.
One afternoon after sex, they went into town and accidentally met her parents, who turned out to know his parents through the Rotary club.  The next Sunday they all went out for a family lunch together, her smug sister and harrassed looking brother-in-law came too.  Maria whispered to him; “At least we won’t end up like my sister and Paul.”
Maria became Omnipresent; as well as the drawer of stuff she had already, more and more of her things started to appear in his flat.  His guitar collection disappeared into storage to make room for potted plants and Disney DVD’s.  He went out without her like old times, but the lads brought their girlfriends and he felt left out, Max even got engaged, he never thought Max would marry.  One night, Maria was waiting for him when he got back, didn’t she have a home to go to?  She’d made him a bacon sandwich; “You need your strength.  It’s Ikea tomorrow for shelves for our second bedroom.”
“Our second bedroom?”
She gave him a confused look; “I did move in two months ago, daftie!  Remember, I sold my flat.  Have another whisky.”
Time passed in a blur – Ikea, work, sex, nights in by the telly, takeaways, routine sex, Max’s wedding in Las Vegas of all places, parents’ wedding anniversary, too tired for routine sex but doing it anyway  ... A cat appeared in the flat, it’s name was Gotye after the musician, but Maria pronounced the name Got Ya.  The endless family social events were easier if he had a whisky in his hand.
It was at the birthday party of Paul, Maria’s brother-in-law that he suddenly had a horrible moment of clarity.  Couples were everywhere, the women talking babies and the men with same harrassed look on their faces that he’d seen in the mirror that morning.  He looked across at Maria, her figure was sagging, she was tucking into a large plate of buffet food.  He knew it was time to leave, saw the exit and headed for it.
Paul stepped into his path, whisky in hand; “Can’t go out that way mate, you’ll set off an alarm.  Your wife’s got an appetite, hasn’t she?  Eating for two eh?”
“Hang on!  Did you say my wife?”
Paul looked puzzled; “You married her weeks ago, doubled up with Max and Suze at Vegas, you were well drunk,” he showed him the pictures on his smartphone, Max and Suze, Maria in a white dress and him in a suit looking harrassed.
“I don’t remember ...”
“There you are love,” Maria put a glass of whisky in his hand, “drink it, all in one go, you’ll feel better.”
He could have sworn that, from the corner of his eye, he’d seen her put something in it.

PHEASANTTSSZZZ

At the end of Friday, Roger opened the office hole puncher and scattered little paper circles over the floor, lazy ass of a cleaner wouldn’t vacuum otherwise.  Strange gypsy creature, came from Eastern Europe, country was full of foreigners, didn’t feel like England anymore.  Roger replaced the hole puncher and turned, there the cleaner was looking at him.  Had she seen what he’d done?  Embarrassed he made conversation; “Ah, you’re in early.  It’s the weekend, what?  Off to do something interesting tomorrow?”
“I am working.  What are you doing?”
“Shooting, supposedly, weather’s stormy, damn birds may not fly.  They’re very stupid - pheasants,” he looked at her, thinking of pheasants with the h missing and putting her into that category.
The cleaner hesitated a moment, then said; “They’ll fly at sedaH Park.”
“Cedar Park?  Never heard of the place.”
“sedaH Park.  They need birds culled, shooting is free.  You can eat them afterwards.”

It was blowing a gale and raining at Roger’s friend’s estate.  He wasn’t perturbed, in fact the weather challenged his marksmanship, but the birds didn’t fly.  He mentioned sedaH Park to his friends, but they wanted to go to the pub.  So he drove alone as directed, down a tiny country lane that got narrower and narrower, until he reached a large entrance.  On the pillars either side were two statues of large scary looking pheasants.  As a man pulled the gate open, the window of Roger’s Range Rover slid down; “Hello there, come to shoot, told it’s free.”

The man said nothing, he pointed down the lane with a thin gloved hand, his body completely covered by waterproofs and his face concealed by a large hood.
On Roger drove, he saw a sign for a car park and pulled in; his was the only vehicle there.  Normally his chocolate labrador, Buster would come bounding eagerly out when he opened the boot, but Buster cowered whining.  “What’s wrong with you, old boy?  Fed up of the weather, what?  Out you come!” ordered Roger.
Buster emerged reluctantly.  He padded at Roger’s heels, tail still, into a field surrounded by woods, the only sound was the hoarse cries of pheasants calling to one another.
“Where are the bloody beaters?” wondered Roger, but at that moment, a pheasant broke cover and flew into the windy sky.  He raised his gun and fired, first kill of the day.  The bird fell into the trees.
“Go on!” Roger ordered and Buster loped off to retrieve the body.
Pheasant after pheasant followed.  Good old whatshername the cleaner, she’d given him an excellent tip.  “Buster!” he called into the rain, suddenly aware his dog hadn’t returned, “Buster, where are you, old chap?”
Suddenly he noticed something, the sky had blackened and appeared to be moving.  He realised what had caused it, hundreds of pheasants were overhead and flying towards him, wings whirring, to his horror he saw the corpse of a pheasant he’d just shot suddenly, awkwardly take flight and join its comrades.  He rubbed the rain out of his eyes; “Can’t be,” he muttered, raising his gun.  He fired again and again, but the enormous flock of birds kept on coming.  “What the ...?” the first one swooped at him, knocking off his hat and bumping his head hard; “Ow!” shouted Roger outraged, he couldn’t believe it, these stupid pheasants were attacking him.  “Help!” he yelled, but his cry was cut off, a pheasant dived straight into his face and pushed its head and neck into Roger’s open mouth, beak tearing at his throat.  Roger fell backwards, dropping his gun and they were upon him, his body a mess of pheasant feathers, blood pouring into his windpipe, he couldn’t breathe.  The last thing he saw was the beak of a pheasant coming down towards his eye, he tried to close it, but the beak tore on through the lid and the pheasant grasped its prize, Roger’s eyeball.

Once the pheasants had finished their meal, they dispersed, wandering around the field idlely, pecking at seeds, like game birds do when they’re being left alone.  Buster came back from the woods and dropped the corpse of a pheasant his master had shot next to what remained of Roger.

THE EMOTION VAMPIRE

Monday - I was confident in Jo, she’s sweet and positive with boundless energy.  So, I didn’t see a problem when Mother invited herself down for a whole five days.  It was time Jo met her and I was convinced she’d survive.  My work as a systems engineer is paramount, it takes me round the country and involves long hours; I couldn’t take time off to spend with Mother.
“Don’t worry,” said Jo smiling, “I’ll take her round Hampshire.  It’ll be fun!”
Mother arrived on the train from Scotland, her face pale and drawn, her hooded eyes dull.  She dawdled through the door, without complimenting our new house or introducing herself to Jo.
“Such a long journey,” she complained, “you live so far away.  Somebody sat in my reserved seat.  I had to stand for ages.  The train was so noisy.”
Mother’s moaning washed over me like toddler’s prattle.  Jo, on the other hand, sympathised.  She made Mother a lovely meal, Mother took one spoonful, pulled a face and pushed the rest of it round her plate.  This didn’t surprise me as Mother doesn’t eat, but Jo was disappointed.

Tuesday - I returned from work to find Mother looking a little better, she was complaining of course, about the amount of litter in Portsmouth docks and the customer service in the restaurant, apparently they’d had to wait ages, but there was a little more colour in her cheeks.  Jo’s smile was rather strained, her welcome home kiss brief.  “It’s been a long day,” she whispered.

“How did it go?”
“Oh, it was fun,” but her voice lacked conviction.

Wednesday - Jo took me aside.  “I’m not feeling too well,” she stated, “I think I’m coming down with something.  Is there any way, you can take some time off?  I need to rest at home.”

“I’m sorry, love, but I’m really busy,” I answered, “just send Mother off on her own tomorrow.”
“I can’t do that, it’ll spoil her trip,” Jo replied gamely, “I’ll manage.  It’s strange she doesn’t eat anything.”
“She doesn’t need to,” I remarked as I went through to the sitting room, Mother had overcome her listlessness of earlier days, she was sitting upright, examining a purchase she’d made.  Apparently they’d trailed round shop after shop at West Quays looking for a particular jumper in a specific size.  After hours and hours, they’d found it.  “I think I’ll take it back tomorrow,” she complained, “the wool isn’t very soft.”
Jo shot her a very nasty look and I was surprised, it just wasn’t like her.

Thursday - Jo stood in the hallway, as I came through the door.  “I can’t do it!”

“What do you mean?”  I stared at her pale face, there were dark shadows under her eyes.
“She’s draining the life out of me!  The constant moaning, I can’t stand it!  I’m going to say something, I really am!”
“Don’t you like my mother?” I asked.
She gave me an anguished look; “I want to.”
“Try harder,” I advised and went through to the living room.  Mother was looking so well, glowing cheeks, bright eyes.  Jo was doing a great job, if only she could hold on for just for one more day.

Friday - Mother greeted me in the hall.  She was brimming with cheerfulness and positivity; “It’s been a fine enough day,” she smiled, “we went round the New Forest.  It’s so pretty.  Shame about those manky, scraggy ponies.”

In the sitting room, Jo was lying on the couch, she didn’t want to eat and could barely speak.  I left her to it and shared a takeaway with Mother.  The next day, Mother returned home in a whirl of energy, leaving me with Jo, who like all my previous girlfriends, has changed, from a lively, positive, energetic person into a negative, moaning old bag.  I am so disappointed in her.

SHOOOEEEESSSSZZZZ

“My weekend?  Sweet of you to ask.  Dinner Friday, shoe shopping all Saturday.  I love shoes, I have quite the collection” Monica crammed her lunch box into the office fridge.  As she did so, a carton of milk toppled from the top shelf and fell onto the floor.

The cleaner eyed it in dismay, she’d just finished, now she’d have to start again, the milk was running everywhere.  Teach her a lesson for asking the office manager how her weekend was.

Monica continued regardless; “I do love Louboutins, don’t you?”
“I prefer Irregular Choice, but I’d be lucky to own a pair of those,” the cleaner answered, mopping up in efficient movements, gypsy hair concealing her disgusted expression.
“They’re the cheap funky ones, aren’t they? I own a pair of Loubies, they’re the best!”
The cleaner hesitated, then said; “I heard nataS did the best, most expensive shoes.”
“nataS?  Haven’t heard of them,” Monica’s face darkened, “do you have a pair?”
“Only special people can own nataS.  Indeed, most people say that nataS owns them.”
 

The conversation preyed on Monica’s mind all day.  She couldn’t find any reference to nataS on the internet, luckily the cleaner directed her to a boutique that sold them.  When she stared into the window, ignoring the Big Issue seller nearby, she realised she’d found her new Mecca.  Shoes of all colours and persuasions; platforms, wedges, courts, boots and a beautiful pair of red heels, bejewelled with what looked like diamonds.  To.  Die.  For.  “Mon Mon gotta have,” she breathed, a bit of drool smudging her lipstick.  She dived into the shop; “Mon Mon gotta have!” she repeated desperately to the blonde assistant.

“Well of course,” the assistant replied smiling and brought the very shoes from the window.
“How did you know it was those?” Monica asked.
“I could hear them calling out to you!” the assistant laughed, “you’ll find they’re your size.”
They fitted perfectly and, like the best designer shoes were easy to walk in.  The price was astronomical, even more expensive than Loubies, but Mon Mon gotta have and Mon Mon decided to meet her friends in the coffee shop wearing them.
She walked out of the shop with a cheery goodbye and tried to turn right, back into town, but her feet turned left and she started marching the wrong way.  “Oh!  Help!” cried Monica, but only the Big Issue salesperson heard and having been ignored earlier, wasn’t inclined to help.  On down the street the shoes took Monica, then another left turn, into a dark narrow street.
Leaning against the wall was the cleaner from work.  Monica nearly cried out in relief; “Oh!  Won’t you help me!  The most stupid thing is happening ...!” she began.
The cleaner simply laughed; “Like I said, nataS owns you!” she mocked.
On went Monica, the alley became constricted, the shoes stopped outside a door.  Hoping there would be someone beyond it to help, Monica pushed it open, the shoes walked her inside; “Help me!” cried Monica.
"Up here!” called some voices, “through this door.”
The shoes let her run up the stairs, allowed her barge through the entrance, then all of a sudden she was pitched forwards, she fell on her front, grazing her hands and turned to see the shoes walk by themselves out of the door, which slammed shut behind them.  In front of her were a row of scared looking faces, women like herself wearing the best designer clothes, all with bare feet.
“Welcome,” said one of them, “to the human collection.”