X2: Another Collection of Horror

by C. M. Saunders

  That seemed unlikely. Even so, he clung to that particular scenario like a life raft in a tumultuous sea.

  But nothing he thought of could quash the notion that something terrible had happened. He could feel it. Sense it.

  He drummed his fingers lightly on the table as his eyes flicked anxiously at the staircase in Franchi's rear corner. Nobody was going up, and nobody was coming down.

  It was 10.04.

  He took a deep breath, picked up his phone and hit the first digit one last time. After three rings the now-familiar automated voice kicked in. Without waiting to hear the message again he hung up, pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and crossed the restaurant.

  The place was emptying now. It was heading for the quiet period, that lull between regular diners leaving and city drinkers on their way home from the bars coming in for a late supper. There were just three couples remaining, and one of those was preparing to leave while a solitary waitress busied herself changing tablecloths. Stuart thought about approaching her, but she looked very young. No more than nineteen. She wouldn't know what to do, and Stuart wasn't sure she had even seen them come in. To his shame, he couldn't remember if it was the same waitress who had taken their order and served their food a lifetime ago. He glided past her and made for the staircase at the back.

  The stairs were covered in a plush red carpet with yellow trim, and his feet sank into it as he took the stairs two at a time, using the handrail to pull himself along at a quicker pace. At the top was a large function room, now not in use, and a corridor leading to the toilets. Stuart rushed past the men's room, stopped outside the ladies, and listened.

  Nothing.

  No voices, no running taps or flushing toilets. He called Valerie's name, his voice echoing around the white tiled walls.

  “Valerie? Are you here, babe?”

  No answer.

  He risked poking his head around the corner, just to make sure his wife wasn't lying prostate on the floor.

  She wasn't.

  The bathroom appeared to be empty, though all four of the stall doors were tightly closed. He thought about going in to knock on the doors, but didn't want someone else to come in while he was doing it and get the wrong idea. The raw sense of loss he felt somewhere deep in his chest cavity showed no sign of abating. He would have to explore other avenues. Turning on his heels, he made his way back down the stairs.

  The Maitre d' was distracted, and must have sensed trouble as he actually took a step back when he finally looked up and saw Stuart approaching. His brown eyes widened, his angular jaw dropped open and his mouth, framed by a wispy, continental-style beard and moustache, formed a small 'O'.

  “Can I help you, Sir?” he asked in a strong, probably-fake French accent. Which in itself was a little farcical as they were in one of Cardiff's finest Italian restaurants.

  “I certainly hope so,” Stuart began.“It's my wife. She seems to be missing.”

  “Missing, Sir?” A look of bemusement fell over the Maitre d'.

  “Yes, missing. She went to use the toilet upstairs over half an hour ago and hasn't returned.”

  “Sir...”

  “Listen, I know what you are going to say. You are going to ask me to return to my table and wait, right? Well, I'm not going to do that. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. She may be hurt or injured, and I want her found this instant.”

  “But, Sir...”

  “But nothing. Why don't you just do your job, man? A lady has gone missing. From your establishment. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Can you grasp the seriousness of the situation?” Stuart was powerless to prevent his voice rising a few octaves, and became dimly aware of the other conversations in the restaurant coming to abrupt halt as various rubbernecks tuned in to watch the unfolding drama.

  “Of course, I understand what you are telling me, Sir. But I would thank you not to shout. Please try to remain calm.”

  Stuart noticed that although the young Maitre d' maintained eye contact with him, he had lifted the telephone receiver that had been lying on the desk and was hurriedly punching numbers into it.

  Thank God!

  Finally, the little fake French prick was taking matters seriously and either calling the police or his boss. Whichever came first would be fine, just as long as he summoned some form of help.

  The Maitre d' turned away and began speaking down the receiver in a long, hushed monotone, one hand covering his mouth, probably so as not to alarm the other diners. People going missing from the premises wasn't good for business.

  When he had finished speaking into the phone, the Maitre d' levelled his gaze at Stuart and said,“help is on its way, Sir.”

  Stuart breathed a shaky sigh of relief.“Thank you. That's all I bloody wanted. What's up those stairs anyway? The Bermuda Triangle?”

  Even as the words left his lips, Stuart realized how stupid he sounded. He remembered reading somewhere that when faced with stressful situations, people often resorted to cracking lame, sometimes inappropriate jokes as a kind of coping mechanism. It was as if the wiring in the brain got muddled.

  The Maitre d' simply stared, eyes slightly wider than normal. Stuart didn't know if he was alarmed, scared or stoned. Thankfully, the noise level within the restaurant was beginning to rise again, the remaining guests apparently confident that any confrontation had been avoided and opting instead to discuss what might have happened.

  Stuart drummed his fingers on the desk and checked the time again. Now it was 10.12. He cast his eyes anxiously in the direction of the staircase, willing his wife to magically appear. She didn't.

  “Fuck it!” he said, a bit too loudly.

  The Maitre d' retreated a step and held up both palms. Stuart recognized the gesture as a too intended to diffuse potentially volatile situations and instantly felt a stab of shame.

  “Please, Sir, I would appreciate it if you refrained from swearing. Please don't make a scene.”

  That's when Stuart finally lost it.“Make a scene? Make a fucking scene? My wife is missing. MISSING!”

  “I appreciate what you are saying, Sir. Really I do. But please try to remain calm. Help is on the way.”

  The notion that something terrible had happened to the woman he loved was now almost overpowering. Stuart ran his fingers through his hair, which was matted with sweat. In some dark corner of his frantic mind, he acknowledged that it was wrong to blame the young Maitre d'. Whatever had happened here was unlikely to be his fault. But it felt just as wrong to not be angry with anyone. All the negative emotions he felt had to be channelled somewhere. He mumbled an apology, took a deep breath and tried to follow the Maitre d's advice.

  Suddenly, all the strength left his legs and his knees began to buckle beneath him. Although his eyes were open (he was positive they were open!) everything around him disappeared into a vast sea of impenetrable greyness.

  Luckily, he was alert enough to grab the edge of the desk to stop himself sinking gracelessly to the ground. When the swoon passed and his vision swam back into focus, the first thing he saw were his white knuckles clinging on to the edge of the counter.

  “Sir, would you like a glass of water?” said the Maitre’ d. You don't look so good. Can I suggest you take a seat?”

  So the Maitre d' did have a heart, after all. When Stuart raised his head, which seemed impossibly heavy, the young man was pointing in the direction of the nearest corner where an inviting empty table lay.

  “It's okay,” replied Stuart.“I just felt a little faint for a second. I'm okay now.”

  The chair certainly looked appealing, but he didn't want to sit down. He was too edgy. Besides, it would be better if he was here at the desk when the emergency services arrived, then he could explain what had happened the instant they walked in through the door. He couldn't shake the notion that time mattered. Every second was potentially the difference between life and death.

  Then came what seemed to be an impossibly long passage of time. It was as if everythin
g was running in slow motion. Stuart began to wonder what emergency services the young Maitre d' had summoned. Who do you call when someone goes missing? The police, he supposed. The Boys in Blue.

  Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Stuart shuffled his feet anxiously and glanced at his watch again.

  Now it was 10.21.

  It had been almost 45 minutes since Valerie had left to use the bathroom. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her; what outfit she was wearing, how she had fixed her hair. But to his horror, he couldn't remember what she looked like.

  What the fuck?

  He knew he would be required to give the police a description when they arrived. But his mind was blank

  Alarmed, he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, which contained numerous photos. Valerie in the kitchen, Valerie on the morning of her first day at work, Valerie drinking a mocha at Starbucks, Valerie, Valerie, Valerie...

  Just then two uniformed bobbies walked through the door. One was slightly overweight and greying, the other much younger, bigger and fitter-looking. Obviously a rookie. Together, they could be the perfect crime-fighting duo, Stuart thought. One possessed the knowledge and experience, the other the youthful exuberance and eagerness that would surely fade in time.

  “Mr Hudson? We haven't seen you for a while. Things aren't so good tonight?” It was the older cop who was talking.

  He looked familiar. Where did Stuart recognize that face from? And how did the cop know his name?

  Never mind. It wasn't important right now.

  “It's my wife, Valerie. She went to the toilet about...” Stuart quickly consulted his timepiece,“...forty-seven minutes ago. And she hasn't come back. Can you please find her for me? I tried calling her, but her phone must be switched off. Either that or there's some problem with the network. I don't know.”

  But there was no sense of urgency emanating from the policemen. Instead, the older one folded his arms and said,“Have you been drinking tonight, Mr Hudson?”

  Stuart was dumbfounded.“Yes. Yes, I have. But what's that got to do with anything? My wife is missing!”

  “You know you aren't supposed to drink when you are on medication, Mr Hudson.”

  That statement confused Stuart more than anything ever could.“What? I don't know what you mean officer. It's my wife, you have to find her...”

  “Mr Hudson...”

  “Is this the guy?” It was the younger cop's turn, the eager one. He was actually flexing his beefy arms as he spoke, and eyeing Stuart suspiciously as he talked to his older comrade. Stuart got the distinct impression that he was one step away from being forcibly ejected from he and Valerie's favourite pseudo-Italian restaurant. He glanced at the young Maitre d', who was pretending to be busy by pointlessly ruffling sheets of paper together behind the barrier formed by the front desk.

  Ignoring the young pretender, the older cop said,“Come on, Mr Hudson. Lets get you home...”

  “What? I don't want to go home! I have to find my wife! What's wrong with you? Why aren't you doing anything?”

  But before he could argue the point, Stuart was being marched out of Franchi's and over to a waiting squad car.

  As they walked, the two cops chatted in a hushed tone. Stuart tried to listen, but the words floated around him and then passed over his head, their meaning lost forever. He was aware on some subliminal level he really didn't want to listen, didn't want to understand, didn't want to know what the policemen were talking about.

  “Won';t take us long to drop him off. He's local,” the older cop said.“Wife was murdered about three years ago. I was first on the scene.”

  “Did he do it?” asked his partner.

  “Nah. They were eating in this place at the time. She went to the toilet, and got involved in some kind of domestic fracas on the way back. Bloke giving his missus a hard time. When the wife intervened the guy stabbed her in the neck with a steak knife in front of a packed restaurant. She was dead before the ambulance arrived.”

  “Too bad,” said the young cop.

  “Yeah, anyway. Afterwards, this guy, the husband, refused to accept what had happened. He blamed himself and had some kind of mental breakdown. Never got over it. Now he comes here a couple of times a month looking for her. Has dinner, gets a bit tipsy if he drinks on top of his meds. He's not dangerous, he usually leaves quietly after a while. But sometimes he can be a bit of a nuisance. Runs around crying and causing a scene. Puts punters off their food.”

  “Shouldn't he be locked up somewhere?”

  “What for? Missing his wife?”

  Stuart listened, still trying to process all this new information information. He knew whatever they were talking about was important. More than important. Vital. It concerned Valerie. But he couldn't understand. Maybe he didn't want to understand.

  As the squad car pulled away from the curb, he tried Valerie's mobile once more.

  Sorry, the number you dialled is no longer in service...

  Handsome Jack

  “So do you really believe in ghosts?” It was Rhys who finally threw the question out there, undoubtedly giving his companion, Mark, more than a twinge of satisfaction at having held out for so long. It seemed like a valid thing to ask. This was, after all, an impromptu vigil in a supposedly haunted pub.

  Mark had probably been anticipating such a remark since the moment the chubby landlord had wished them a good night and waltzed off into the bitter winter chill. There had been plenty of time to think up a suitably impressive answer.

  “The existence of the paranormal cannot be disputed,” he began, his eyebrows raising slightly.“The real question is not whether or not ghosts exist, but why they exist.”

  Rhys rolled his eyes and groaned inwardly as Mark grasped with both hands this latest opportunity to show off his vast reserves of supposed knowledge and belittle one of his peers in the process. After all these years, the pattern was getting a little boring. But Rhys bit his tongue as his friend powered on.

  “That said, I do believe there is a perfectly reasonable scientific explanation for just about everything. Even such crazy things as aliens and ghosts. We just don't know what that explanation is yet. The truth is, people aren’t nearly as clever as we like to think we are. We can split the atom, big deal. We can walk on the moon. But we don't even know what lives on the bottom of the ocean.”

  Mark paused for maximum emphasis, and Rhys could feel him studying his expression as if to gauge the effect of his infinite wisdom.

  Mark was just about to deliver what he probably thought would be the killer line, when the uncomfortable silence he had so lovingly created was broken by a loud, searing scratch that seemed to come from all around them at once. The sound of fingernails being drawn agonizingly over wood.

  The blood drained from Mark's face.“What was that?” he said.

  Rhys stood up and peered into the semi-darkness that surrounded them. He could see nothing unusual. Even so, his mind was cast back to what the chubby landlord had said earlier that evening...

  ***

  “Oh, yes. Definitely something strange going on here, there is. Wouldn't like to guess what, mind you. But lately, there's been all sorts of goings on. Weird sounds, mostly. That's how it seems to start.”

  Rhys stole a glance at Mark. They had known each other for so long that very often, no words were necessary between them. The landlord wasn't pulling their legs. He was telling the truth. Or, at least he believed he was. Sincerity was evident in his pallid, drained complexion, his furtive, darting eyes, and his nervous, fidgety, manner. He carried with him the air of a man at the absolute end of his tether. He kept flicking stray strands of black, greasy hair out of his eyes, and he stank of Jack Daniels whisky. That was no surprise. He had sank two double measures in the short time that Rhys and Mark had been in the bar, courtesy of a couple inquisitive minds and suitably deep pockets.

  “So what kind of weird sounds do you hear?” Mark asked. He had always been the more out-going on the two, his
life an endless search for excitement. In any given situation, he was the one asking the most questions, pushing the envelope wherever possible.

  The landlord thought for a moment, then replied,“Thumps, mostly. Bumps, scratches, that kind of thing. Like something moving around in the walls. Something you can't see.”

  “Could it be mice?” Rhys asked.

  The chubby landlord laughed.“You think I don't know what mice sound like?”

  Rhys was the more serene and thoughtful of the two. His parents sometimes told others that he liked his own space, which was as damning an indictment of social awkwardness as any.

  Though he and Mark were opposite characters, they had been friends since childhood, and had often been labelled two sides of the same coin by people that knew them both.

  But just recently, they had been growing steadily apart. Rhys was getting tired of his oldest friend's bravado and misplaced machismo, and was steadily phasing him out of his life. These days they met up only a couple of times a month. But for old time's sake, they always tried to make it a night to remember.

  Hence tonight's ghost vigil.

  They had been drinking at a nearby pub when they bumped into a mutual acquaintance who told them about the recent happenings across the road at the Prince of Wales.

  They were sceptical at first. Especially Mark, who suggested the stories were being fabricated in an attempt to boost trade at the ailing establishment. Never-the-less, intrigued and slightly intoxicated, they set off together to investigate.

  When they arrived, Mark wasted no time in confronting a fellow patron who was glad to point them in the direction of the owner. At first, the chubby landlord, who introduced himself as Les, seemed reluctant to talk about the disturbances. But a double JD and coke quickly loosened his tongue.

  “Apart from the strange sounds, is there anything else?” asked Mark.

  “Oh, yes!” Les replied, his eyes opening wide.“Things get moved around a lot. Little things, keys, money, my watch. Bloody annoying, that is. I took to hiding the important stuff, but the bloody thing always finds it. It turned into a kind of sick game. But I got tired of playing, and moved in with my sister up the street. I don't appreciate all the graffiti, either. Makes the place look untidy”