X2: Another Collection of Horror

by C. M. Saunders

  The hardest part was being away from Louise for so long. He missed her terribly, but usually tried to channel the frustrations of the self-enforced fasting period believing, as most writers do, that any experience could be a positive one. It was a matter of perception.

  Lou, understanding as she was, missed him, too. So much so that she insisted he carry his mobile with him at all times. Just in case. And she appreciated the nightly texts and odd call. She got lonely sometimes, and liked to be kept up to speed on how the writing was going.

  Due to some unusual, and unforeseen, requirements by his publisher, this particular wilfully induced exile had lasted longer than usual. It was now entering the tenth week.

  Truth be told, Rick had, in fact, completed the book over a fortnight ago. Since then he had been doing rewrites. He was growing very tired of continuously dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s. Wasn't that what editors got paid to do?

  It could soon be time to find a new, more professional publishing house. And maybe a more understanding agent. His current representative, John Nettles, would have Rick cooped up inside the caravan all year round if he had his way.

  Although John had been in the business for almost a quarter of a century he had not built up a very large quota of successful writers, so he relied on the ones he had a bit too much, expecting them to sacrifice their personal lives and work themselves into the ground just to keep him in sharp suits and cigars.

  Rick decided to give Lou a quick ring. She would love to hear his voice.

  The telephone rang just three times before she picked up.

  “Hello? Rick? Is everything alright?” she breathed, her sweet voice full of intense curiosity.

  “Hi, babe. Yes everything's alright, I just miss you, that's all...”

  They talked for about fifteen minutes, during which time it was agreed that Rick should begin the ninety minute journey home early the next morning. He had wanted to leave that very moment, even though it was approaching midnight. But Louise was worried the car might break down en route or something unthinkable happened, leaving him stranded miles from home alone at night. Bless her, she was such a worrier.

  After hanging up the phone, Rick made himself a cup of strong coffee and stretched out on the caravan's uncomfortably hard bed. He thought about the book he had just finished, and the next one he would write, before his mind inevitably turned towards Lou. It was not unusual for him to get like this when working alone for long periods of time. He got lonely, distracted and desperate for human contact. Not to mention incredibly horny. It was part of the creative process. That release at the end of a cycle had come to be symbolic.

  All at once, he made a decision. Or a string of decisions which all came together with a climactic click.

  He would never again set foot inside this caravan. From now on he would do all his writing at home, in the office under the stairs. And he would begin the search for a new agent ASAP. He would take a few months off, maybe take Lou on a long romantic holiday. She always fancied Venice or Rome.

  Finally, and most pertinently, he made up his mind to drive home that very minute.

  Fuck it.

  At that late hour, the roads were virtually deserted, so the journey took precisely eighty minutes. Not too shabby.

  Parking the car in the next street to avoid waking Lou prematurely, Rick walked briskly through the crisp night air to their comfortable commuter-belted semi-detached.

  He smiled to himself as he quietly slipped his key into the lock and opened the front door.

  Imagine how thrilled Lou would be to see him!

  The house was still and dark. Lou must be in bed already. Of course she was. Where else would she be?

  The house was exactly as he remembered it. Everything in it's place.

  Except for the unfamiliar odour tickling his nostrils.

  What was that?

  It was a familiar smell, but he couldn't place it.

  Rick tip-toed up the stairs, the smell getting progressively stronger as he went. He arrived at the plush master bedroom and, without hesitation, gently pushed open the door.

  Lou was in bed all right, but she wasn't alone.

  In the near-darkness Rick could make out another dim figure lying in the bed next to her. One of the two was snoring softly.

  Dizzy and almost numb with shock, Rick reached out and snapped on the light.

  Lou sat bolt upright in bed, gasped, and clutched the duvet to her naked breast as bright artificial light flooded the room. John Nettles, the agent with a love of sharp suits and cigars, simply rolled over and carried on sleeping.

  The smell.

  Cigar smoke.

  It was then that all the pieces of the jigsaw slipped effortlessly together and Rick sank to his knees with a wail, his world crashing down around him.

  Treat Night

  It was a mild Tuesday evening in May, and Stuart and Valerie Hudson were at Guido Franchi's, their favourite Italian restaurant down on Clover Street. Franchi's was a nice place. Reassuringly expensive though not prohibitively so, with good quality food and a relaxed atmosphere. Best of all, it was in easy walking distance of their apartment. Being the location of their very first date almost five years earlier, it also held some sentimental value for the young couple. The perfect location for a Date Night.

  They led a modest existence; Stuart was a landscape gardener and Valerie a financial consultant, but they were childless (so far) and could easily afford to eat out several times a month. The pilgrimage to Franchi's place had become a semi-regular treat. A treat that would probably have to be phased out when they managed to conceive. But until then, what the hell?

  Over lightly-spiced cannelloni and meatballs they talked softly and giggled occasionally, revelling in the comforting sense of familiarity and warm ambience that enveloped them. Then, when the meal was over and their second bottle of house wine almost empty, Valerie delicately dabbed the corners of her mouth with a red napkin, stood and excused herself.

  Stuart watched his wife move gracefully through the open-plan ground floor towards the staircase in the back corner that led to the toilet upstairs. He couldn't help but feel his chest swell with pride as one by one, every man in the room's head turned to follow her as she passed. Naturally, in the wake of all that clandestine male adulation came the inevitable female wrath, and he smirked as half-a-dozen wives and girlfriends scowled, silently sounding their disapproval.

  It wasn't just that she was beautiful, though she most definitely was. It was something more with Valerie, something deeper, more spiritual. A strange, indefinable quality that had men hooked the minute they lay eyes on her. She was intoxicating, and Stuart counted his blessings a thousand times a day. He was the luckiest man in the world.

  Taking a sip of wine he gazed out of the window, enjoying the soft warm buzz of alcohol. Whenever Valerie left him, even for a moment, he was always left with a vague sense of loss. It was almost as if every time she left, a small part of him was wrenched away. Not stolen, but borrowed. He would feel whole again when she returned. The yearning manifested itself almost as a physical ache, somewhere between his heart and the pit of his stomach. If left untreated the condition would escalate, eating away at his insides like a cancer, until it became unbearable. Luckily for him, they lived together, and also spent most of their leisure time in each other’s company.

  Stuart absently glanced at his wristwatch, noting that the time was 9.35. The street outside was virtually deserted and he watched a solitary piece of litter, what looked like a grease-streaked Burger King wrapper, dance lightly down the street on the breeze.

  He drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. Valerie wouldn't want any more. Not tonight. Too much wine gave her a headache. He always drank more than she did on these forays, which was the way it should be, he thought. When your wife puts away more alcohol than you do, you have problems. Or she has problems.

  He craned his neck and scanned the interior of the restaurant. It was less
than half full. Still, not bad for a midweek evening. The majority of the clientèle consisted of couples talking quietly and gazing into each other's eyes, struggling to get back to normality after Valerie blazed a trail of devastation through their partner's affections. It was reassuring to know that even the financial crisis couldn't come between a couple in love and good Italian food.

  Stuart sighed deeply, took another sip of wine, and drummed his fingers lightly on the cloth-covered table.

  Valerie, I love you.

  The seconds rolled by. He wanted a cigarette. He had almost broken the habit, and was down to just two or three a day, but the nagging desire was always there like a spectre hovering over his shoulder, growing larger and more annoying by the minute. It was like a thirst, but the kind of thirst a drink couldn't slake.

  He should probably wait until they left the restaurant. It was either that, or go outside and stand on the doorstep like a fucking vagrant. Stuart thought about it, and the more he thought about it the more he wanted a cigarette.

  On the way out he passed the front desk. The Maitre d' looked up quizzically, probably worried that Stuart intended to leave without paying the bill. To put his mind at rest, Stuart showed him the pack of Marlboro Lights he held in one hand and motioned to the front exit. The Maitre d' nodded politely. Was that a touch of empathy creeping into his expression? He must be used to seeing bored other-halves sneaking outside for a clandestine smoke. Maybe he was a smoker himself.

  Outside, Stuart tapped a cigarette out of its box and lit it, pulling his collar up against the cold. A guy in a trench coat rushed past. They made fleeting eye contact. Feeling like he had just been caught doing something wrong, Stuart felt obliged to smile and mutter a ‘hello.’

  The guy in the trench coat ignored him.

  Stuart completely understood if people didn't want to breathe in his second-hand smoke in a confined space, but he disliked being made to feel like a miscreant. The smoking laws marginalized you, made you feel like a second-class citizen, not even fit to share the same space as holier-than-thou non-smokers any more. If the government didn't make so much tax on tobacco products, and the pharmaceutical companies so much money from cancer treatment and after-care, it would probably be made a criminal offence. What would be next? Outlawing biting your nails?

  He greedily drew the smoke into his lungs and exhaled into the night air. Three puffs later his head was spinning pleasantly, the nicotine mixing with the alcohol in his blood stream. He smiled and propped himself up against the wall next to Franchi's door, peering discreetly through the glass. No sign of Valerie yet.

  Too soon, the cigarette had burned down to the filter. That was Stuart's cue to go back inside. Valerie still hadn't returned, so he made his way through the restaurant and repositioned himself at the table. His empty plate had been cleared, along with the empty wine bottles, but Valerie's plate remained, a handful of meatballs drying quietly next to a small clump of pasta.

  Stuart checked his watch. It was 9.45. Valerie had never been the kind of woman to rush anything, not her dinner, a toilet break, nothing. Every decision she made was carefully calculated and meticulously followed through. It was an admirable quality, but could be annoying at times. At least, it would be annoying if he didn't love her so damn much.

  His mind was cast back to the day they met at a book launch, and the way he kept clamming up and tripping over his words each time he tried to talk to her. Only months later did she confess that during those awkward opening exchanges, she actually thought he had learning difficulties. He chuckled aloud at the memory. Then, remembering he was in a public place, rushed to stifle the outburst with the back of a hand. It wouldn't be good for his image to be seen alone in a restaurant giggling to himself like a crazy loon.

  He cradled his rapidly-draining wine glass in his fist and scanned his surroundings once more. Everyone else appeared to be deep in conversation with their significant other. Stuart was beginning to feel left out.

  Valerie, where are you?

  His eyes settled on the staircase in the rear corner of the room. He he let his gaze linger there for a few moments, almost willing Valerie to reappear at the top like a Hollywood actress being fashionable late for her own party.

  When it became apparent that her Ladyship wasn't ready just yet, Stuart reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, hitting the button to check his text messages and holding it up to his eye-line in one well-practised movement. His vision swam in and out of focus. He blinked, but it was a few seconds before he could ascertain that there was nothing new in his in-box. Unperturbed, he gave the international signal of lonely people everywhere and opened his in-box anyway, reading old messages over and over again to give any casual observer the impression that he was far more popular than he actually was.

  He noticed, not for the first time, that every single message in his in box was a generic, banal or purely instructional message from Valerie. He kept every message she had ever sent him. It would only be a matter of time before they took up every scrap of memory on his phone.

  DON'T 4GET 2 PIK UP SOME TOMATOS AND OLIVES 4 THE GREEK SALAD ON UR WAY HOME! XOXO

  I'LL B THERE BY 5, PROMISE! LOVE YOU TOO BB! X

  K, HAVE A GR8 DAY LITTLE MAN!

  She often called him Little Man when she was in a playful mood. Not because of his height, he was a healthy 5' 11'', but as a reference to her favourite film, Stuart Little.

  For the hundredth time, Stuart asked himself why he couldn't bring himself to delete any of Valerie's messages. Nobody else ever sent him messages, anyway. But if they did, their messages would be unceremoniously dumped moments after being read. Who wants a phone full of old text messages?

  Stuart sighed loudly. His glass was now empty, and Valerie's remaining meatballs were beginning to look more like supermarket cat food than carefully seasoned and marinated red meat.

  Where the hell was she?

  How long did it take to relieve yourself?

  Even taking into account a quick facial touch-up, this was a marathon toilet session. He was beginning to grow impatient, and the nagging sense of loss so familiar to him seemed to be getting worse by the second. It felt like it wouldn't be long before that huge void opened somewhere within and everything inside him would be dragged into it and swallowed whole.

  Fuck it. He couldn't take it any more. Let her barrack him if she wanted, but he was going to call her. Wasn't that why he had pulled out his phone in the first place? Heck, wasn't that why the damned things had been invented?

  He waited another few seconds, his right forefinger hovering over the handset, before hitting number 1 on speed-dial. The bluish-black screen instantly informed him that he was calling Valerie. He put the device to his ear.

  It rang once, twice, three times, then the fourth ring was cut short by a female voice. Thank God!

  But it wasn't Valerie.

  The voice didn't even sound human. It was an electronic clone politely telling him that the number he was dialling was not in service.

  Not in service? What? That was impossible. There must be a mistake...

  Frowning, he tried again. The result was the same.

  What the hell? How could that be?

  There shouldn't be a reception problem unless Franchi's toilet was a lead-lined nuclear fallout shelter in disguise. And even then, wouldn't the electronic voice be telling him that the device he was calling was temporarily unavailable?

  There was something wrong. He could feel it. The confusion ebbed away as the steadily growing hollow void in Stuart's gut collapsed on itself, threatening to consume him from the inside out. Worse than that was the encroaching sense of panic that made his hands shake and his breath come in short, shallow gasps.

  Wiping a sweaty palm on his freshly laundered brown trousers, he tried calling once more. This time, when the clone answered and informed him that the number he had dialled was not in service, he had to fight to suppress the anger rising within him like sour bile.


  The fucking machine woman was wrong! Of course the number was in service! It belonged to Valerie, his wife, who was less than a hundred yards away!

  Instead of making a spectacle of himself, Stuart laid his phone on the table in front of him where he could stare at it quizzically, imploring it to ring.

  It didn't.

  He told himself to focus. Stop overreacting. There must be a technical glitch of some kind, something wrong with one of the phones, that was all. It probably happened all the time.

  Yeah, right.

  It seemed as if there were two warring factions at work inside his head; blind terror pitted against the voice of reason, and at that moment blind terror was winning at a canter. He checked his watch again. Now it was 10.02. Valerie had been gone almost half an hour. How much longer should he wait? When would be an appropriate time to panic?

  Three minutes. He would wait another three minutes. That would mean Valerie would have been gone over half an hour. Then he would raise the alarm.

  He sat and watched the second hand on his watch crawl over the face. Those seconds were unbearable. All he could think of was bad shit. What if Valerie had been beaten up, robbed and left for dead on the toilet floor? What if she were being raped by a gaggle of crack heads right now, at this very moment?

  And then there were the multitude of less dramatic but no-less awful scenarios. She may have slipped and hit her head, was having convulsions, some kind of fit, maybe swallowing her tongue and choking on it. Or maybe she had suffered a sudden brain aneurysm, a stroke, a heart attack. She was young, just thirty-three, but you often read about things like that happening. Bad things happened to good people all the time, and quite often those bad things didn't care how old you were or how you lived your life.

  Stuart tried to pacify his raging emotions by scrambling to find some more mundane explanation. Maybe Valerie had gone ‘number two’ and found herself in a cubicle lacking the necessary tissue paper, or perhaps she had just bumped into an old friend, started chatting, and lost track of the time.