Whispers - Volume 2: A Second Collection

by Stuart Keane

  Nicolas coughed and hacked, choking on the fumes.

  "Who's there?"

  Nicolas opened his eyes. The fumes immediately brought tears to his eyes. He coughed violently. Before he could respond, the strange voice prompted him again.

  "I can hear you … answer me, who's there?"

  Was he imagining that? Did someone just speak?

  Nicolas cleared his throat. "My name's Nicolas. Who's that?"

  "Nicolas? Oh, thank the Lord! Nic, mate, it's Paul."

  "Paul? Paul, you piece of shit, get me down!"

  Silence for a second. Nicolas spat into the pool of vomit, aware it was slowly leaking out of the pillowcase onto his chest. The warm bile was growing cold and lumpy. He tried to place his mind elsewhere. "I … I … I can’t," Paul responded.

  "This isn’t the time to fuck about, Paul! I'm covered in sick and my wrists are fucking bleeding. You better be ready to get a kick in …"

  "I can't because I'm tied up, too."

  The revelation slammed Nicolas in the heart like a sledgehammer. His breath shot out of him, inflating the pillowcase a little. He moved his head back, not wanting the puke-covered whiteness to slick his nose again.

  "What do you mean you’re tied up?"

  "I can't move. My arms are strapped down or something. I can't see. There's a bag or something over my head."

  "Paul, calm down. I'm in the same position as you. Is the bag white?"

  "Why in God's name does that matter?" Nicolas heard Paul apologize to God as he said that, taking the Lord's name in vain.

  "Paul, listen to me. It's not important but snap out of it, God isn’t going to get you down from there. Listen to me. Mine's white. What's yours?"

  "Mine's pink. It could be a pillowcase or something … it's moving on the wind."

  Nicolas knew some small talk would keep Paul distracted. Being a man of the Bible, Paul didn’t like confrontation, he was the wimp of the group and Nicolas always acted like an older brother to him. Paul was a nice guy, loyal, innocent and friendly. And he knew how to have a great time, but sometimes he lived for his religion and in certain circumstances, it wasn’t appropriate.

  Like now.

  Crucified in the middle of God knows where.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Nicolas and he grinned. "I think it’s a pillowcase or something. It's warm, like when you wake up with your head between piles of pillows."

  "True. Wait, what did you say?"

  Nicolas frowned. He felt drying vomit crack in the crease lines. "I said we have pillowcases on our head."

  "No, before that. Did you say God won't get me down?"

  The emphasis was there and Nicolas knew where Paul was going. "Yes, Paul. Don’t panic but I think we … we've been crucified …"

  Two seconds of silence. Then, "Arghhhh fuck, fuck, fuck. Get me down, get me down!"

  Paul never swore and the cursing made Nicolas jump. His left leg lifted from the knob and nearly sent him falling. He quickly regained his footing. "Paul, calm down, it's okay, we're only tied down. There's no nails or anything, okay?"

  He knew that last sentence was a stupid one, he'd know if his hands or wrists were shafted with spikes of metal. It seemed to work, though. The screaming stopped and Paul calmed down. His breath was hardly audible.

  "Paul, you have to stay calm, okay? I don’t know how we got here but James is probably behind it. Probably did this because he thought we'd tie him up somewhere. The groom getting one up on the best men. Crafty sonofabitch."

  Paul was still breathing heavily. He didn’t speak.

  "C'mon, Paul. Chat with me. It'll keep us occupied until James comes and releases us. He's getting a fucking cleaning bill, though."

  "Why would he do this to us?"

  "I don’t know. I hate churches … no offense, so for me, it's an easy prank. For you, I suppose there's some joy in crucifying a man who's in love with Jesus."

  Paul didn’t say a word. Nicolas knew he was nodding. He did that a lot.

  "So we just wait until he comes back?" Paul's voice was jittery.

  "I suppose so. But we're in this together, okay? Talk to me." Nicolas tried to reassure Paul, knowing the slightest issue could push him over the edge.

  "Are your wrists hurting?" Paul's voice was calm.

  Nicolas closed his eyes. "Yes, they're a bit sore, yes."

  "Mine too. He could have loosened the binds somewhat. What a cock."

  Nicolas smiled. Cock was a mundane word. He preferred cunt, fuckface or shithead. "Yes, he's a right cock."

  "I didn’t even want to come out. I had Mass this morning and I'm missing it for this."

  Nicolas felt his eyes widening in surprise. "You can miss Mass? Isn't that against your religion or something?"

  "Nah, we can miss the odd one. We can always make it up another day."

  "But we're co-best men so it's worth it, right?"

  "Not now, no." Nicolas agreed with that. Paul was right on the money. "My arms better heal before the wedding."

  Nicolas nodded. "I suppose a week is enough."

  Silence filled the unknown distance between them. Paul coughed. Nicolas started to breathe through his mouth. The vomit had dried now, caking the white surface. His neck felt lumpy and stiff. "Hey, Paul?"

  "Yep?"

  "Is your pillowcase tied on?"

  "I think so. I can feel the restriction on my neck."

  "I puked in mine … if that helps."

  Paul laughed, an insane and crazy laugh borne of frustration and disbelief. Nicolas had to admit his situation was pretty funny. After a moment, Paul calmed down. "You're joking, right?"

  "Nope, vomited right here in the bag. Abdul's kebab paid me a visit."

  Paul gagged. "Seriously? I told you those things were bad for you."

  "Yeah well, after this I won't be eating another one."

  "Think of it as a dietary decision. You'll be better off for it. The Lord will see you onto the right path."

  Nicolas rolled his eyes. He said nothing.

  A gust of wind rocked him again and this time, his body hung in the air to the right. The pillowcase loosened and slipped again, the binding slapping the bottom of his nose. It scraped some of the dried puke from his chin, grinding into his stubble, making Nicolas wince. His mouth tasted the fresh, open air and Nicolas gulped in huge mouthfuls of it. It felt cool on his sweaty, vomit-covered skin, and the gust stopped, returning him to his upright position. Goosebumps prickled his cold skin, making him shiver.

  "Did you feel that?" Paul asked.

  "Yeah, the wind keeps swaying me around. The crucifix isn’t very secure."

  Nicolas expected another panic attack from Paul. He was surprised when he came back with, "Mine's secure. It didn’t rock much; I felt the wind going up my legs. It's chilly, like morning air. You don’t think it's too late, do you?"

  "I don’t think so. You're right … it feels too cold to be afternoon. Who knows, though, we hit the bar pretty hard last night."

  "I'm never drinking again. Becks has a horrid aftertaste."

  "Well, you did drink seventeen of them."

  "They were small bottles, though."

  "Yes, but you didn’t indulge in one of Abdul's disgusting kebabs. You know that’s the cure for any hangover right there. Well, in moderation." Nicolas slapped the roof of his mouth with his dry tongue. He opened his mouth again, letting the chilled air soothe his throat.

  "I heard the guy jerks off in the mayo. Why would you risk eating that shi—stuff?" Paul uttered in revulsion.

  "It's an urban myth. He'd have the health inspectors down his neck quicker than a whore's drawers hitting the deck."

  "I don’t think Abdul would give a toss. Or maybe he would, considering the rumour. I suppose you're right though. I prefer a steak myself. None of that processed rubbish."

  Nicolas said nothing. Despite the hangover, he felt pangs of hunger in his stomach. "Man, I could murder a kebab now." He stifled a smile.

  "You’r
e kidding, right? You're an animal, Nic." Paul laughed.

  "I suppose so. Wouldn’t say no to a cheeseburger either …"

  The wind rocked Nicolas's crucifix again. He moved backward this time, tilting back, similar to being in a dentist's chair. The pillowcase flapped against his half-exposed face. Nicolas wished the cotton sack would slide off and leave him be. It loosened slightly but held. The crucifix returned to its standing position.

  No such luck.

  Nicolas felt tightness in his legs; his muscles were starting to seize up.

  "There goes the wind again," Paul chirped.

  "I'll vomit again if it doesn’t let up," Nicolas responded. He poked his tongue out, lapping at the fresh air. The pillowcase sat strapped diagonally across his face, pushing against his left nostril. Small pangs of pain shot through his face as the grip tightened.

  "Stop talking about vomit. I'm feeling queasy." Paul hocked in his throat. Nicolas grunted in revulsion. "Now that's disgusting."

  "Where do you think we are, Nic?" James's back garden? His workplace?"

  "I don’t think Megan would allow this to go on, especially with a baby on the way. James has matured a lot recently, and she lets him off on certain things, but crucifying his best friends in the garden for a prank … yeah, that’s pushing the boundary."

  Nicolas rolled his tongue over his teeth, feeling the morning fuzz. He heaved again and continued. "Not to mention he wouldn’t want us disturbing Mrs. Farnsworth. Stupid old bat would drop dead and sing a Hail Mary at the sight of us. Mind you, it's his stag do so Megan might not be home. Who knows?"

  "True. I don’t think it's the workplace. He works on an industrial estate and I haven’t heard a single car since we've been holding our impromptu mothers’ meeting. Just that fucking creepy wind." Paul started whispering again, repenting his vehement sin.

  "I recognize the wind. There's a familiarity to the sound. I just don’t know where I know it from." Nicolas lifted his legs again. Left, then right. Keeping the blood circulating. His wrists were numb now, the pain almost bearable. His legs were growing tighter, relieved slightly by his movement. He winced.

  Paul spoke. "I like Megan, though. You weren’t wrong; she's helped James grow up a lot. The guy deserves someone like her after the shit he went through."

  "Yeah, Aimee was an absolute bitch. She took him for granted …"

  Paul interrupted. "Not to mention she fucked his boss … stupid whore."

  Nicolas nodded, aware no one could see the motion. "Megan's a good match for him. I can’t wait to meet their kid. They're going to be so happy together."

  "I heard he's calling the kid Jesus. How cool would that be?"

  Nicolas snorted. "In your little world, very. I wouldn’t fancy its chances in school, though. Mind you, growing a beard in adulthood may provide some interesting career choices."

  Paul laughed. Silence returned for a moment.

  The wind blew in the background. The rustling grew and subsided, several times over. Nicolas was aware of the lack of technological sounds. No cars, no cellphones and no machine noise. No hum of power lines. He noticed his brow creasing in thought.

  The wind picked up again. Familiar with the routine, Nicolas waved his head from side to side violently, trying to shift the pillowcase. The wind rocked the crucifix and the cotton slipped, gave and flew off his head. A whipping noise sent it to the unseen background and Nicolas was free.

  Yes!

  The cold morning air was refreshing on his face. His eyes squinted, cautious of the sudden glare. He closed them for a moment to let the cool air soothe his sweaty, puke-encrusted skin. After a moment, Nicolas opened his eyes a fraction and took in the surroundings.

  "Thank fuck. Paul, my pillowcase just came off. I'm free."

  "Yes. Well, it’s a small result. Mine isn’t going anywhere. What can you see?"

  "I'm just letting my eyes adjust to the light." Nicolas looked down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with the sky.

  His eyes cleared and his vision returned. The colours faded in like a bad film cut until his vision sharpened and his focus took over. "Thank God, I can see."

  "Oi," Paul exclaimed in anger.

  "Sorry, mate. I apologise. Let's see where we are."

  Nicolas couldn’t see his feet.

  He frowned, feeling the stiffness of the vomit on his brow.

  A dark-brown, wooden pole stretched to the grassy ground below him, his feet hidden behind a flailing white sheet peppered with blue flowers. He shifted his left foot to confirm his suspicion. A stout wooden stub was secured to the pole itself but he could only confirm by touch alone. As he moved his leg, the sheet billowed out from his touch. It covered him from neck to toe.

  That’s not a sheet … it’s a huge white shirt.

  He saw a pair of oversized brown trousers below him, starting from the bottom of the shirt to the ground. Attached to the pole, they touched the ground, crumpling because they were too long, swelling occasionally with the wind. He estimated his feet were three or four feet off the ground, a sizeable fall. A jolt of concern seized his brain.

  This looked a bit strange.

  The ground was grassy and dry, the tips of the grass yellow with age. The grass was tatty and damaged from overuse. Like someone, something, or both passed through here regularly, wearing a groove into the dirt.

  Nicolas looked up.

  He was in a cornfield.

  "What the fuck?"

  "What?" Paul answered.

  But Nicolas didn’t answer.

  His tired, alcohol-abused eyes fell on a dilapidated house in the background. A farmhouse. The paint on it was white and flaky, milky with age and neglect. The wooden roof was in a serious state of disrepair, tiles were missing and a small hole was visible above the front door. Planks and nails barricaded the glassless windows. The grass and foliage around the exterior was long, unmaintained, overgrown, and messy. A shopping trolley, upturned and rusted, sat tangled in the grass. A dirt path, nearly invisible behind weeds and a cracked brick wall, wound its way to the main road that ran parallel to the building itself.

  The road snaked past their location, between two cornfields. They sat in one, the other stretched into the foreseeable distance. On the horizon, the sun was rising behind three small hills, casting an ambient red glow on everything in its path.

  In another situation, the view would have been beautiful and magnificent.

  "Holy shit," Nicolas uttered, caught up in the moment.

  "What do you see? Where are you?"

  Nicolas snapped out of his stupor. He craned his neck to the sound of Paul's voice. His eyes settled on his friend.

  "What in God's name …?"

  "I told you not to …"

  "Shut up, Paul. Just shut up a minute."

  Paul remained silent. Nicolas closed his eyes and squeezed them shut. He reopened them, not believing his eyes.

  The scene was familiar. Paul was dressed in identical clothing to Nicolas. Long white shirt dashed with blue flowers, long brown trousers that upended when they hit the dirt. However, from this angle, the full, horrifying picture became clear.

  A huge crucifix, Paul's arms outstretched and bound to it, stood off to Nicolas's right, just within his peripheral vision. To the eye, he looked crucified. However, the long sleeves of the white shirt smothered his arms, drowning them in their inflated size.

  Straw protruded from the holes in the arms. Nicolas' eyes glided central to the arms and saw the pillowcase. A cartoonish, almost creepy face was scribbled on it, its crude felt-tip mouth permanently crafted in a smirk of malice. The eyes were merely dots centered in egg-shaped circles. A brown fedora hat rested on Paul's head. Nicolas guessed that due to the inflated size of the monstrosity before him that it lay on the peak of the crucifix.

  Nicolas realised his original guess had been wrong.

  They hadn't been crucified.

  There were dressed as scarecrows.

  "This is fucked up. Right, Paul �
�� you mustn’t panic, okay? You promise you won’t?"

  Paul said nothing. His movement was almost imperceptible beneath the gigantic clothes that covered him. Nicolas wondered if he was looking in his direction, following the sound of his voice. "You're fucking joking, right? You say something like that and expect me to remain calm?"

  "Well, some new information has come to light … but at least we aren't crucified." Nicolas considered his next words carefully. "We're dressed up as … as scarecrows."

  Paul laughed hard. "You fucking what?"

  "Easy, Paul. Don’t you want to—?”

  "—No, I don’t fucking want to repent my sins. Jesus fucking Christ, Nicolas. First we're crucified for whatever reason is going through James's twisted little mind. That’s fine, I get the reason behind it, ha ha, fucking hilarious. I'm religious, you ain't, and it terrifies you. Well done, score one for the groom."

  "So why is this worse?" Nicolas looked along his arms and realised straw was poking out of his makeshift arms too. He couldn’t feel the straw on his hands.

  "You really are a dickhead aren’t you? The crucifix had a reason. It worked in the context of a prank. This doesn’t. What in the name of Satan's scrotum does this have to do with anything? It doesn’t. And I don’t fucking like it."

  Nicolas realised his friend was right. He looked up and opened his mouth to say something … his eyes focused and looked to the right of Paul.

  He screamed.

  A loud, guttural, horrific scream.

  "What? Did you fall?" Paul asked innocently. "Don’t tell me you broke your arm or something?"

  "My God … James!"

  "Oh he turned up, did he? It's about bloody time. Okay, James, this is a great prank and all. Now, do you think …?"

  "James! What the fuck!"

  Paul stopped mid-sentence. "Nicolas … what, you’re scaring me."

  James’s impaled corpse sat on a crucifix inches from where Paul stood, inert. If not for the pillowcase, Paul would have smelt or seen the dead, bloated corpse that sat before him. His face was a mutilated mess. Someone had ripped his jaw off, leaving his top teeth and bloody, drooping muscle in its place. A piece of sinew wobbled on the intermittent wind. Unlike Nicolas and Paul, James wore his own clothes, his wrists savagely impaled to the crucifix with brutal looking pairs of pliers. Someone had forced the metal claws through his flesh, severing the skin and muscle, and dried blood had congealed around them.