by Richard Ayre
A Hatful of Shadows
Richard Ayre
Copyright © 2016 Richard Ayre
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.
All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also by Richard Ayre
Minstrel’s Bargain
Point of Contact
Thanks as usual to my family and friends. Plus of course Cath-Always
A special dedication to the bump currently cooking in my daughter Emily. Miles will be my first grandchild. When I write anything for you Miles, I promise it won’t be spooky. Maybe something about a rabbit. (Or a zombie rabbit. Don’t tell your mam)
This book came about over a lot of years. Some of the stories here were written decades ago and were lost to the vagaries of time and house moves. Some are new. Some are old but have been re-written.
I decided to do this for a number of reasons. One, because I was bored with Cath watching Nashville. Two, because it got me away from writing the sequel to Minstrel’s Bargain (writers block) and three, because I like writing short stories.
Short stories are fun. I like to get into the characters quickly and build a story around them. In this way they grow organically, with little planning. This makes them write themselves. Sort of. The idea is there at the start, but the writing process takes over and they sometimes go off on a tangent I had not at first envisioned. A good example of this is A Dead man’s revenge, which started out very differently from what it eventually became.
There is a mixture here. Mostly horror of the supernatural kind, but also a snippet of science fiction, as well as a tale about problems that happen every day, and affect thousands of people. Problems such as depression. A very real horror if ever there was one.
I have included a little bit of information about when each story was constructed and why it came about at the end of each tale. You may find this interesting or you may not give a toss. Each one is pure fiction, even Villain of the piece, which is probably the most personal story I have ever penned but is not anything I have ever contemplated in any serious form.
I hope you enjoy these little stories. I enjoyed writing them. And remember, if any of them really frighten you, just tell yourself that there is no such thing as the supernatural.
Yeah. Tell yourself that…..
Table Of Contents
Fifteen Minutes
The Faceless Man.
Home at last
The Door
The villain of the piece.
No Triple X
Communication
A dead man’s revenge
Toy Soldiers
Soulbringer
Biography
Fifteen Minutes
Fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour. 900 seconds. Whichever way you look at it, it’s not a lot of time is it? What can you do in fifteen minutes? Cook a meal? Not really. Not unless the meal is some plastic, cellophane topped corner shop pap you bought as an afterthought when you went in for a six pack and a cheeky copy of Penthouse.
Take the dog for a walk? Right. Maisie loves a fifteen minute walk doesn’t she? Just get her warmed up why don’t ya’? She really enjoys it when you get out her leash and waggle it in front of her like it’s Christmas, and then you’re both back in the house after a dismal sojourn round the block, sat in front of X Factor before she even has a chance to do a poop and scoop at the local park.
No, fifteen minutes, in the grand scheme of things, is not long. It’s the break teachers have mid-morning when they sit around the table in the staff room and complain about how hard their lives are. (I kept him back after class and I said to him, your behaviour is just not acceptable Peter. There is a fine line between banter and bad taste. You can’t call Sanjeet an ‘Injun’, however well-intentioned you meant it.) It’s the time it takes to read a short story. It’s the time it takes for the woman you love, the woman you have given up everything for, to tell you that she has met someone else and you suddenly realise your entire future has been thrown onto the bonfire to be scattered and blown away in fragments of charred, glowing embers.
However (and I know this from experience) fifteen minutes is a hell of a long time when you’re dead. I know. This sounds very strange. But love can do that to a person. Please just listen. I’ll try to explain. But I haven’t much time left.
When I was on my death bed I thought my life had been worth something. I was a millionaire. Actually, without blowing my own trumpet too much, I was a billionaire. I had everything. A yacht the size of a cross channel ferry, several houses; one in Mayfair in London, another in Montmartre, Paris, and another couple of nice des res in various parts of the world. Then there was my favourite, Minstrel’s Bargain, a sprawling, gleaming, glass fronted, architect designed 3 story affair set on a hill overlooking the sea on Grand Cayman. I had everything a man could want. I had cars, I had designer suits, I had wine cellars stocked with the most expensive hooch you could ask for. And I had Annie.
Yes. I had Annie.
When I first met Annie I was fifty six and she was twenty three. I was in Trafalgar Square. I had just finished some business (more ne’er do wells shaking with fear and more Elizabeth’s in my bank account.) I was feeling very satisfied as I strolled the bright, sunny hotspots. It was mid-July and the place was rammed. Tourists sat slurping ice creams with their feet in the fountains, cooling off after visiting the must see’s. Everyone was smiling and chatting. The traffic roared and honked around the square and the Londoner’s hustled and bustled about the edges. They looked dull and grey in their everyday work clothes compared to the gaudy vacation ensembles of the tourists who yakked and preened like parakeets amongst pigeons. It really was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and my shadow was short under my Tom Ford shoes.
I literally bumped into Annie. I was looking up at Nelson on his column and wondering idly what he must think of the London he had helped save when she slammed into me. She wasn’t a tourist this one, she was definitely a local. She had a phone to her ear and held a Styrofoam coffee in her free hand. She hadn’t been looking where she was going either and we collided head on. I looked down in surprise as her coffee sprayed all over my tan Armani suit, showering us both in cappuccino. I grabbed her elbows but it was too late. The suit was ruined. I stared at her and dripped. When I saw her face, my breath literally stopped in my lungs.
Her eyes were wide with shock, and they were dark, dark brown. Her face was sultry; high cheek bones, wide, red lipped mouth and beautiful, straight white teeth. (Those teeth were what I really loved about Annie. I called them her defining feature). Her hair was short; pixie style I think they call it, and her frame was small and slim. She was wearing a dark suit and white blouse. As I held her at arm’s length I instantly took in the tightness of the trousers around her hips and legs and the way her breasts pushed against the equally tight blouse and short jacket. I really was speechless. She was the most exquisite thing I had ever laid eyes on.
For a long while, the noise from the traffic disappeared and the tourists and their racket faded away. All there was for me was Annie. I stared and stared. People talk about love at first sight but I had never believed it for a second. But that’s what had happened to me on that warm July day. I had, for the first time in my life, fallen instantly and irrevocably, in love.
She was the first to speak (for the moment I couldn’t.) Her voice, as I expected it to be, was beautiful.
‘You clumsy bastard
,’ she breathed. She yanked her arms from my grip and stared down at her soaking, froth covered clothes and her voice rose. ‘What the hell are you playing at? Why don’t you look where you’re going?’
She stared at me with those wonderful eyes, waiting for a response. It was all I could do to shake my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I managed to stutter out.
‘Sorry? What good is that to me? I’ve got an interview and you’ve fucking soaked me!’
I shook my head again. I didn’t know what else to do. She looked at me in disgust and mimicked the head shake herself. Then she brushed as much of the coffee from her suit as she could and stormed off, muttering about ‘fucking idiot daydreamers.’
I watched her disappear into the crowds (even in my stunned state I grabbed an eyeful of that wonderful arse as she hurried away. I couldn’t help myself.) Slowly, I took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the ruined suit, and then, my thoughts whirling, I hailed a taxi and went home.
And that should have been that. Annie should have stayed a strawberry laced memory, something to be dragged out whenever I managed to pull one of the hangers on that were inevitably around the places I inhabited. I could close my eyes and imagine Annie’s ripe, young body beneath mine as I screwed some mindless darling before sending her on her way in the morning. Maybe with a couple of hundred quid tucked into her handbag, or a couple of ounces of coke. I had plenty of both.
But fate had other things in mind. Fate wanted me to suffer. Because I met Annie again. It was about six months later. I was attending the opening of a very grand looking art gallery on the Embankment. As I had stumped up a lot of the cash needed for the talented (or so I was told) young artist who was making storms wherever he went, I figured I should see what my money had paid for. As a ‘businessman’ I was always looking for an opportunity, and the type of people who went to these places were the type of people I wanted to do business with. Rich people.
I was talking to some guy, I didn’t know who he was but I’d been told he was a very influential young author, when a girl across the gallery caught my eye. She was dressed in a short skirt, with matching dark nylons and a white blouse. She carried a silver tray full of champagne glasses and she swayed and smiled through the crowds. Once again I felt my breath catch in my throat. It was her.
She came across to me and the author (who was banging on about existentialism or some other such bullshit) and she smiled.
‘Would you like a drink sir?’ she asked, her voice smoky and silky smooth when she wasn’t calling me a fucking idiot. The author nodded and took one, placing his empty glass on her tray. He turned back to me. ‘Of course, if one wants to engage with the dream state, one has to dream, you understand?’
‘I usually drink cappuccino,’ I said to her and smiled.
She smiled back at me, flashing those lovely teeth, but it was clear she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. She was smiling because she was being paid to smile. The author stared at me as if I were a heretic. I ignored him. He looked around and sipped his champagne in embarrassment. Eventually he sauntered off to find someone else to bore.
‘We’ve met before,’ I said to the waitress. She was still smiling but it was clear she didn’t remember me. I felt a little disappointed. ‘Trafalgar Square,’ I went on. ‘You bumped into me and your coffee went everywhere.’
I watched as recognition finally came into those clear brown eyes. She stared at me. I think she was trying to remember what had happened with the coffee.
I was smiling now too. I’ve been told I have a wolfish grin. ‘You called me a fucking idiot daydreamer,’ I reminded her.
Her face fell and drained a little in colour. She remembered now, I could tell. She remembered exactly now. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting this way and that, looking for escape.
‘I….I’m afraid I have to serve other guests sir,’ she stammered, and moved away quickly. She didn’t serve other guests though. I watched as she went through the double doors that led into a separate room that was acting as a kitchen for the night. I followed her.
When I went in she was leaning on the makeshift counter with her back to me. There was no one else in the room. I let the door close softly behind me.
She turned at the muted noise and nervously straightened her skirt and blouse, smoothing her hair at the same time even though it was perfect. She stared at me with those amazing eyes and I was surprised to see fear in them. Not nervousness. Real fear. I smiled what I thought was my best winning smile, designed to put her at her ease. I believe she thought I was going to get her sacked or something. Some small minded snidey rich guy revenge for calling me names. (I wasn’t going to do that. I’ve been called much worse in the past. It doesn’t really bother me.)
My smile didn’t look like it was winning her over. I could see she was speechless. Her mouth opened twice but no words came out, and then, as the belief that I was about to take my revenge on her settled deeper into her mind, her eyes became lacklustre and the stare became resigned. As if she had been in this position many times before.
I kept the smile on my face, once again feeling in control, something that being around this girl had up until now, proved impossible for me. That’s why she struck me so much. She stopped making me feel in control. I took a couple of steps towards her and stuck out my hand.
‘My name’s Harry,’ I said. ‘Harry Lane.’
For a second she looked indecisive, then she plastered a grin across her own beautiful face and took my hand. It was small and soft and delicate. I had a lot of trouble letting it go.
‘Annie,’ she said. ‘Annie Green. I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you in the past Mr Lane. I have absolutely no excuses for my behaviour that day, except that I was very busy…’
‘Did you get the job?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘You said you were going for an interview when we, err, bumped into each other. I was wondering if you got the job.’
‘How do you remember….?’ She started, then she shook her head. ‘No. No I didn’t get the job. I had coffee stains all over my suit.’ She then stared at me defiantly. If I was going to get her sacked she was damned if she was going to beg me not to. She even crossed her arms and cocked her head to one side, as if to say ‘Over to you Jack. Give me your best shot.’
I liked her gumption. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I would hate to think it was my fault.’
She frowned at me, as if she couldn’t weigh me up. ‘I’m sure we were equally to blame’, she mumbled. She turned back to the trestle table and placed more glasses on a tray, turning back to me once more as the door opened and another young girl came in. She gave the two of us a quick glance, then hurriedly replenished her tray.
Annie lifted her own tray and cocked an eyebrow at me. Was I going to get her sacked? She evidently came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t do that, gave me a tight smile, then vanished into the gallery once more.
I picked up a fresh glass of champagne and wandered back into the gallery, ignoring the rich and the famous. I had only one thought on my mind now. I wanted Annie. Not at that point as a possession you understand, but simply because I wanted her to like me. I had never felt like that before.
It was easy to find out about her. I simply talked to the gallery owner and she was more than happy to give me the name and number of the catering agent, who in turn got me everything they had on Annie Green.
I was in my office on the following Monday trying to decide what I was going to do about it. I had no falsities about how I looked. I tried to keep in shape, but time is a bastard, you know? Fifty six is not a great age these days, but there’s only so much a person can do. I was a regular at the mega expensive gym I subscribed to, I didn’t smoke and hardly drank. My office was also on the eighth floor and I always took the stairs. The tiny confined space of the elevator was something I couldn’t abide so the stairs were the only option. This helped with the waistline. But I was only four years off sixty. A lifetime of nightclubs and str
ip joints and casinos had taken their toll. I would have described myself as ‘fair but fading.’ But then again, I had something that not every fifty six year old-with-the-hots-for-a-young-cutie has. I had money. And I planned to use it.
I got in touch with the owner of a very prestigious restaurant I often visited and had helped finance, and got him to ring the catering company. They got in touch with Annie, and a few days later she was hired as a waitress. (It transpired the catering job was minimum wage and erratic. I already knew this of course). I gave it a month and then rang him again, asking how she was getting on. He said she was fine, she knew her stuff. I suggested he should make her Front of House and that an interest free loan may have been on the cards if this happened. It did. He said Annie was over the moon with the promotion and the wage increase, unlike the previous holder of that position who was now scouring the job centre ads.
Another month after this I visited the restaurant and I was pleasantly overjoyed to see she was thus employed. I can be a very good actor when the situation calls for it. At the end of the night I hung around for drinks with the owner and talked with Annie. I found out all about her. I won’t bore you with the grim details, as I’ve already said, time is running out, but Annie’s story was just one like a million others of council estate girl makes good. And strangely ends up working for one of the most prominent eateries in London. I ordered her a taxi and paid for it. Later that month I took her home in the taxi, pretending I was going in that direction (as if I would go anywhere near the shit hole neighbourhood she lived in.) This went on for a little while until I was sure Annie was more than aware of how rich I was. I thought I would have to be the one to make the move but I was wrong. Annie was clever as well as beautiful.
One night, approaching my fifty seventh birthday, Annie asked where I lived. I asked if she wanted to see it and of course, being Annie, she said yes.
