Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection

by Craig Saunders

  ‘Fat chance tonight, then. We don’t have anything to go on. All we’ve got to go on is rumour and speculation. She’s a ghost.’

  ‘Nah, she’s no ghost. She’s just a sneaky bitch.’

  Trout nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose so. Still, even if she does show, we don’t know what she looks like.’

  ‘We’ll know. She’ll be…’ he paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully ‘…haughty. Exotic, dusky…’

  ‘You’re just quoting H. Rider Haggard.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nevermind. So what do we do? Start shopping for the first woman to come in with a dark complexion? You seriously think she’ll look like herself? A spot of camouflage and she could probably look like anyone she wanted to.’

  ‘Well, we watch and hope for a break. The prize lot’s under guard. There’s no reason for the posh knobs not to go ahead with their little auction, and it’s the perfect bait. Got to have the right bait, s’what my old Granddad always used to say. At least until the pike got his foot, then he didn’t take me fishing so much anymore. Anyway, she goes for the lot, we nab her. Easy as pie. If she shows…if we find her.’

  Spiggot cracked the window and flicked his lighter with a practised hand at the tip of his cigarette. He took a long drag, satisfied and confident. It was a look he’d perfected over the years. Trout thought he was just too bloody thick skulled to ever entertain any doubt.

  ‘Chances are, she won’t be there,’ he said, puffing out a long stream of smoke which blew straight back into the car. ‘She’d be a fool to make a move at a public auction. But then we can’t chance missing her. If she shows, we’ll get her. She’ll stand out like a sore thumb.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Trout, unconvinced. ‘There might be a few foreigners there. And third-generation immigrants, for all we know.’

  ‘You’re forgetting someone special…’

  ‘No, I’m not. If her henchwoman’s there, we won’t know what she looks like, either.’

  ‘Sure we will. We just collar the biggest bitch there.’

  ‘Witness accounts tend to exaggerate. You know that. Just because everyone calls her the Amazonian doesn’t mean she’s actually some seven foot mythological warrior goddess.’

  ‘No?’ said Spiggot with a smirk. ‘Then why’s she called the Amazonian?’

  ‘Perhaps she’s from somewhere in Pan-America? You know, maybe the Amazonian basin?’

  ‘Get real. Nothing’s that tidy. What’s the point in having a nickname like that? Next people’ll be calling themselves ‘The Spic’, or ‘The Liverpudlian’. What’s the use in that? Got to be descriptive, your common or garden hardcase. More imaginative than most.’

  Ho-hum, thought Francesca. Just another day in the brave New Anglia with Spiggot this new religion’s unwitting missionary. Spiggot didn’t seem to care or even notice that his less than PC nicknames for everyone offended her sensibilities.

  A hell of a way to start the day. She could only pray that things would look up before their shift was over. Perhaps he’d be in traction by the end of the day and she could get a new partner.

  Fat chance. Spiggot had such thick skin bullets would bounce off of him.

  But, she thought, he can only make it a grey day if you let it. Her therapist was always telling her, carry your sunshine on the inside. Then, no matter what the day throws at you, just smile and sing it in your head…

  Sunshine on a rainy day…

  She smiled. ‘Okay. Let’s go set up.’

  She hit the northern bypass. Driving like the wind, she pulled onto the Coastal Dual at 2.00pm precisely. Only then did she click on the squawk box and call in to update Headquarters on the most successful thief of the New World; the Egyptian Lady from Stoke.

  *

  ‘What? What now? Aren’t you supposed to be making tea?’

  ‘Well, I’m no expert, but isn’t it a bit…erm…boring?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Bit unnecessary.’

  ‘I meant it.’

  ‘No, not the profanity. You know, the whole painting him as a bigot thing. He’s supposed to be the hero, the protagonist, the reason people follow the story. And you’ve just made him out to be some kind Satanic copper bent on destroying the world with vitriol and bile.’

  ‘Oh. Well, he’s an arse. No sense in making stuff up. Anyway, didn’t you just admit you’re not an expert?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s just common sense. Got to be powerful…emotional. Action packed, start off with a gunfight, perhaps a bit of snogging, you know…some pizzazz.’

  ‘Pizzas? What’s pizza got to do with it?’

  ‘No, not pizza, pizz…nevermind. Still, my start was better. Snappy.’

  ‘Fuck off. How’s that for snappy?’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll go and put the kettle on then, shall I?’

  ‘…’

  ‘Right you are.’

  *Sample End*

  More Bonus Material!

  Here's a samples of my buddies' work, all of whom I'm proud to call friends, and all of whom are outstanding writers. So, without further ado...the bonus material...

  The following is an excerpt from a new friend of mine, Mr. Iain Rob Wright. He has novels available on Amazon, Animal Kingdom from Grand Mal Press and The Final Winter among them. Oh, he's also one of the UK's bestselling indie authors, and getting bigger all the time.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Published author, Iain Rob Wright, was born in 1984 and lives in Redditch, a small town in the West Midlands, UK, with his loopy cocker spaniels, Daisy and Oscar, his fat old cat, Jess, his many tropical fish, and the love of his life, Sally. Writing is the passion that fills his life during the small periods of time when he isn't cleaning up after his pets.

  Horror is his beloved genre, and his many inspirations range from Stephen King and Richard Laymon to J A Konrath and Brian Keene, as well as a whole host of other twisted minds.

  Check out his official website for freebies, news, and updates at: http://www.iainrobwright.com

  Copyright © by Iain Rob Wright

  THE FINAL WINTER by IAIN ROB WRIGHT

  -----

  Chapter One

  Harry sipped his latest beer while yet another news update flashed across the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter appeared onscreen, enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket and covered in snow. “Good evening,” she said politely, a slight shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed during the previous 24-hours has left the nation’s transportation network in disarray.” The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across – and half-buried by – the snow.

  The reporter let out a breath that steamed the air and then continued. “Major roads have now been closed off and the nation’s rail links have been terminated until further notice. Schools are closed, along with nonessential businesses, while hospitals are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll of weather-related fatalities is now at twenty-seven and feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist anyone in serious need and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

  Harry shook his head. How long they gonna keep this up? We get it, the weather’s bad! No need to tell us every ten minutes. Life’s depressing enough!

  “Even more concerning,” the television reporter continued, much to Harry’s displeasure, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout every nation of the world.” A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top right of the screen, then slowly turned white to represent the recent snowfall. “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented snowfall, some for the first time in centuries. Never before in recorded history has such an event been known to occur. C
ertain religious leaders are calling this-”

  “Rubbish!” Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge, threw his hands up in disgust and shouted in Harry’s direction. “Bloody fear mongers; that’s what they are. A little snow and the country trembles at the knees.”

  Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man. He was pointing to the ancient, dust-covered television set mounted to the back wall by a pair of rusted brackets. Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, what?”

  Old Graham huffed. “More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill. Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that yourtube or myface to tell you about it!”

  Harry glanced at the television again. The weather was starting to affect the signal and the picture flickered and hissed constantly. The endless evening-news updates had shown locations from around the globe, half-buried by blankets of slush and snow: The Pyramids of Giza ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains, the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks, and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

  Harry returned his gaze back to Old Graham. “I agree it’s a bit much, but the fact that it’s snowing everywhere is at least a little odd, don’t you think?”

  Old Graham huffed again, the sound wet and wheezy. “You think Canada or Switzerland are panicking about the weather? This is a heat wave to an Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

  Harry thought about it for a moment. According to the news segments throughout the day it had been categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. Whatever was causing the snow was something else entirely, said the scientists, if only a random occurrence. But, whatever the cause, Harry wasn’t about to allow himself to get rattled by media-frenzy and speculation. The freakish weather didn’t concern him – nothing ever did anymore – and he knew that if he got into a conversation with Old Graham about it he’d be stuck listening to the wrinkled codger’s piss-n-vinegar all night. It had happened enough times previously for Harry to learn about lonely pensioners and their penchant for long-windedness.

  Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen, but, when he looked over again, Old Graham was still gawping at him. Harry sighed and decided to give in and talk to him. “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

  “You bet your balls it will.” The old man sidled along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

  Harry rolled his tired eyes. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I used to be married.” With that, the old man howled with laughter until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar. “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were Old Graham’s parting words before tottering off toward the pub’s toilets.

  Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box full of MALT ‘N’ SALT crisps against her chest. She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans. She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed. “He bothering you again, Harry?”

  Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. He sighed. “He’s okay. Just had too much to drink.”

  Steph snorted. “You’re one to talk. What time did you get here today?”

  “Noon.”

  “Exactly, and it’s now…” She glanced at her watch. “Nine in the evening.”

  Harry smirked. “Yeah, but at least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

  “I’ll give you that. Although, I’d like to remind you that you puked on my knee-highs last Sunday. I had to throw them out, and they were my favourite pair!”

  Harry stared down at the foamy liquid hissing away in his glass and, for a split-second, felt enough shame that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead. He quickly let the guilt go and downed the last of the beer, dregs and all. He had enough regret in his life without adding to it. “I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

  Steph frowned. “You’re not pathetic, Harry. Just unlucky. Things will look up for you one day. You only turned thirty a couple months ago, right? Plenty of time to get back on your feet.” She stopped and looked over at the plate glass window of the pub. “As long as this dreadful snow doesn’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine. Time heals all wounds.”

  Harry sighed. Steph knew about his past and sometimes it made him uncomfortable. “You really think so?” he asked her.

  “You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you puking on me every week. Doesn’t matter how handsome you are!”

  They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little. It wasn’t often that he heard such things from a young woman nowadays. Not when he looked about ten years older than his actual age (he hadn’t been able to face a mirror in months so maybe now he looked even worse).

  He pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently. The overflow from the glass slid down over the black heart tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin wet and glistening. Suddenly, an unprompted desire to lick the beer from her young flesh found its way, unwelcomed, into Harry’s head. He chased the urge away with thoughts of his wife.

  Julie had been gone a long time now, but Harry never stopped considering himself married. Never once did he forget his vow to love her forever.

  Until Death Do Us Part...

  He took his fresh beer, slid off his seat, and moved away from the bar – away from Steph. The worn, tattered padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last three hours had sent his backside numb and he now craved the relief of a cushion. He headed towards a bench below the pub’s large front window and, at the same time, saw Old Graham returning from the toilets. There was a small urine stain on the crotch of the old man’s grimy, cotton trousers and Harry was relieved to see the pensioner returning to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

  Thank God for small mercies.

  Harry eased down onto the faded bench cushion and sighed as the blood rushed back to his ass cheeks. He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat. There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: CROWN ALES, FIT FOR A KING. Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard. It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for but, for some reason, it seemed to halt his thoughts temporarily, keeping back the demons that haunted him. The brief respite allowed Harry to breathe freely again, if only for a while.

  Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room. The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end while a stone fireplace crisped the air at the other. In the middle of the pub was a dilapidated oak-wood bar that was older than he was, along with several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs. In a backroom was a small, seldom-used dance floor that Harry had only seen once at New Year’s. It was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time. Much like the people that drank there.

  Tonight the pub was low on drinkers. It usually was on Tuesdays and Harry preferred it that way. He wasn’t a big fan of company. Of course it helped that the snowfall had stranded most people to within a hundred yards of their homes and blocked up the main roads with deserted, snowbound vehicles. With the weather as bad as it was, getting to the pub, for most people at least, was not worth the risk. For Harry it was, because
the alternative was being alone. And that was something he hadn’t been able to face for a long time. He wondered if it was something he ever would be able to face again. So he had braved the snow and made it to the pub in one piece, surrounding himself with people he barely knew.

  But at least I’m not alone.

  Somehow Steph had made it in tonight as well, holding down the fort as she did most evenings. Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime. She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could’ve just been the barmaid’s code: to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people. Maybe, deep down, she counted each second until she could kick everybody’s drunken-asses out and go home. Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept good control of the place.

  Even Damien Banks behaved under her watch. Weekdays were usually free of his sliming presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception. The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, a flashy phone fastened to his ear.

  No doubt controlling his illicit little empire, Harry thought. Probably refers to himself as ‘the Don’.

  From what Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – the degenerate scumbag pushed his gear on the local estate like some wannabe drug lord. No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends (or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret). There were rumours that the shaven-headed bully had once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, then taunted the family afterwards, revelling in the grief he’d caused.

  Harry shook his head. He’s the one who deserves to be in a coma, instead of lounging around like he owns the place.

  There was one other person in the bar tonight. A greasy-haired, oily-skinned hulk named Nigel. Harry had not spoken to the over-sized man much, but spotted him in the pub at least a couple of nights each month. A lorry driver, from what Harry gathered, and spent a lot of time on the road. Poor guy will probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.