Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror

by Jamie C. Pritchard

  The section which has caused much of the pre nerves, the one he had been humming was just a few bars away. A combination of quick notes while simultaneously plucking had gotten the better of him on numerous occasions. Of course a few bum notes were okay in practice, but not today, certainly not for the anniversary. Unfortunately his left hand loses the melody. The shock of doing so makes him stop. He looks at the headstone with a guilty face then resumes. Once again he’s reminded why she used to stress that “School work isn’t nearly as important as practicing.” Fifteen years later the principle was the same and he can see her leave for work in the morning, now mostly grey, while he pushes on with the musical journey. A look from his bedroom window reveals that one of his old buddies from primary school has begun a new family.

  The same phrase comes but this time he aces it, hoping to please his tutor. It’s going to take a great effort to do so. Erring so far into the piece is a greater inconvenience for her than it is for him. Genuine feeling is put into the next minute. Momentum seems to have come back his way when a rustle in a nearby hedge causes another halt. Somebody else might be here. Or is there? No there isn’t. Must have been a small mammal. She hated interruptions. Whenever the phone or doorbell rang she would cuss under her breath something rotten. Though it wasn’t his fault he would often get punished. Well this was definitely his fault. “There is a fine line between playing and slaying a piece,” she would say, and he had just stepped over that line. Though the final part is played as well as his best practice sessions he knows what is coming. In a way he is resigned to the fact.

  It was now him sat on the piano seat, no longer wearing a top. He was given something to bite down on. Most parents wouldn’t even do that, at least that’s what she used to say. “Now you messed up a few times today so we’re going to touch you a few times with it.” ‘It’ referred to something that was being heated. At the same time a cold bath was being run to ease the immediate pain but she always did it on the back so it was harder to sleep. He guessed that was a fair compromise. “Now bite down hard,” he was told as he felt heat radiating off iron. The first touch always made him jump. That often caused a few more touches that didn’t count. “Now that’s your fault! Hold still!” He would nod, bite down hard and try his best. It was just part of the routine and usually happened twice a year which included those that ran from 10-37. His back is a lattice of white scarring.

  He re-enters the present and looks at the headstone. For the rarest of moments thought ceases. A gust of wind soothes. “Are you trying to upset me!?” He can hear her voice; see her standing at the top of the stairs. He knows he has done a disservice today. Curiously, at the same time, he feels that emotion which he never acted on while she was alive, the one that broiled within during the last months of her life. It reached its crescendo after barking at him that her soup needing more seasoning for a third time. As he finally gave it as she lay withered in bed his face was twitching with anger. Part of him wanted her to yell at him once more. Though she didn’t so much was going off inside, for as she threatened to vanish it dawned how little he was to be left with.

  All I have known is to play for you! For your pleasure! And now you’re going to leave!? Just as I am reaching my full potential you check out. What has this all been for if its purpose was to hit a peak? Forget it. I ask myself for the very first time. Do I even love the instrument or is it the arrow I must keep lodged in? From one angle it’s surprising how long I have been under the spell. From another it’s not. You’ve kept me here, made me a stranger to my own town. Now a middle age man who doesn’t know the first thing about the joys of youth! O the irony of learning pieces about themes I have not the slightest comprehension! They fall on dead feelings, as does everything else. All I see before me are desolate lands which don’t bear walking over.

  He sits on the faded memorial with his head bowed. Sadness fills him from top to toe. The emotion however begins to change. Irritation catapults into anger, so much so he jumps onto his feet with a scowl. His breathing is excited. He looks at the name and he hears her voice again. It’s the fading voice of the woman he last knew, of the one he was learning to hate. The picture fleshes out again. She is giving him that look. He is begging her to and she obliges. “This is not right again, it needs more pepper! Now go down-” It makes it all the sweeter he cut her off. The violin comes down on her jaundice face and cracks her nose, cuts her cheek and the corner of her brow. A second later that side of her face comes out in bruises. She’s a sorry sight. There is no venom left in her, just dependency. Wait. Can she even breathe?

  He refocuses. A crow has taken flight. His hands hurt. The violin has been destroyed on the headstone. Instantly he gets on his knees with a worried look. That blemish that will cost a few bob to fix. What has he done? Guilt and regret eat him up. He is so sorry and wants the heavens above to know. She is still watching and he can’t even imagine her reaction to that one. For an hour he clutches onto the headstone, whimpering, nose leaking. It takes almost as long to pull himself together. Now he knows what must happen. It’s only fair.

  He decides to leave the wrecked violin there, as a token of his wrongdoing. He gives it a last look before starting to make the trip home. He got that on his fifteenth birthday. Ah, you see! There were good times. The savings are running low but he must dig into them for a new one. Again the owl watches him make the turn, perfectly indifferent. Down the first flight and he looks out at the town that will always be home. That difficult part is hummed again. He must get that right if he is to begin atoning. The likelihood is her second favourite piece will need performing and that means double the effort. Fortunately there are 364 days to practice until the next anniversary.

  Back at ground level he observes the slight incline. It’s a bit more drizzly but he sees someone take out the trash. A kid follows who is quickly shooed back in. It does make him wonder - about that chance at normality - at least what is considered normal. In reality the thought scares just the same as it did when she would threaten to leave if he didn’t cooperate. He must continue to cooperate while she listens from a cloudy seat above. He must complete this mission, whoever the beneficiary. Confess he may popular thoughts are the cause of unhappiness there is something else. Like one of the giants he takes a kind of pleasure in indulging them.

  To play with pain! That is true art! And surely that can only stem from true love!

  In one person’s world things have never been clearer. The faceless citizen re-enters home and prepares a cold bath.

  Where Do You Get This Tattoo?

  1

  There are dangerous cities and then there is Grevden. Most of what survives pays for protection and the syndicate who lends the muscle has its paws on everything. Though much of the dirty work goes on behind closed doors you will often see the aftermath with feet sticking out of trash. You’d think that would be enough to deter anyone thinking of living here. Truth is Grevden’s reputation attracts trouble, yobs who will go to stupid lengths to impress. Things might not be so bad if it meant a touch of vandalism but over the years has formed a hierarchy of vicious boy racers who think anything is fair game. The police are concerned with trying to contain rather than stop them. The latter scenario duly comes about when they overstep their turf. There’s never time to mourn, not while new hooligans are queuing up, and so this bloody life is recycled.

  It helps to be part of a clan, makes it harder to be killed for fun. There are still those who go it alone. They are wise to keep a low profile and tend to bunk in the soaring council flats where there’s nothing worth stealing, full of junkies and the elderly. Occasionally you’ll see AWOL gang members but only in one of these dingy rooms will you find a retired policeman. To know his past is to understand his privacy. He didn’t go easy on criminals. A lot of them still have an injury to remember him by. Were it not for his aggression he would still be employed. The force wanted more detective work from their star ass-kicker. “John, you gotta to stop looking to bust ‘em stra
ight away, it’s dangerous…John, stop trying to file your nightstick into a spike.”

  Yeah, that was it, John Triggs. It could take a moment to remember while brooding over all the shit he had been through. Everything could feel a bit unreal going days without speaking to anyone, then coming home to gaze at a gallery of mug shots. Though he missed the crack they were not there purely for nostalgia. He still kept an eye on the underworld, knew who the top dogs were. He even did the occasional bust (crazy as that was), impromptu ones when he saw a mugging in numbers he could handle. Thinking about that while pouring stale coffee made him smile, until he realised just how stale this was. Taking the cup away from his mouth, John observed his crummy flat and gave it that how-did-I-get-myself-into-this-mess look. Fortunately, for the sake of his marbles, he had held onto a couple of friends. Today seemed like an ideal one to go meet up with Patrick at Café Black.

  John exited his council estate to enter an alleyway. He preferred using the fire door at the side as it was more secretive. Nobody cared the alarm was broke. From here the main road was just ten metres away. As always, just before he was out in the open the hood went up. It didn’t obscure his vision too much. Grevden looked as it always did. Tall buildings, more concrete than glass, shot up to a smog-filled sky. The architecture was uniformly ugly. There were no cranes, no signs of new development. Actually the main shopping centre was shut long ago – now a crime headquarters. Many old pubs had been taken over for similar use. Passwords were needed for access which often changed to force members to be in the loop. The two shops you could always rely on were adult stores and pawnbrokers.

  Before John hot-footed it across the road he noticed a tramp eating out of the bin and a couple of junkies arguing. That was normal. The important thing was they posed no threat. The real threat was the florescent cars which screamed past. Customized Nissan Skylines and Subaru Impreza’s rocketed towards red lights in a game were they had to burn through unscathed – the closer the call the higher the score. John picked his moment at the crossroads by the café then ran for it. When he pushed the door open he saw Patrick right away nursing a cup of coffee. He virtually lived here. John saw a tired employee tag in a fresher face. “The usual?” he was asked then nodded. The usual was a bacon & black pudding sandwich with coffee. Patrick looked up after recognizing the voice and did his grimace-smile.

  “Still not sleeping well?” queried John as he slid along the opposite couch. Patrick compressed his lips. “My bed is lumpier than a year-old bottle of milk with marshmallows.” He was a good ten years older than John (50-ish) and lived in another big council flat. Like John he was on welfare but usually blew it in all on prostitutes, so he posted leaflets of Café’ Black to get free meals. “If the lumps were even then maybe I could sleep but one jabs me in the neck while one pokes me in the belly.” John sniggered. “Mine isn’t great either.” Patrick took that as a challenge. “Yeah, but you can sleep in yours, right?”

  It was one of their favourite routines to compare how shit their digs were. Since they had last met another tap of John’s had gone which made for a good comeback. Patrick nodded but wasn’t done.

  “Remember, my TV has three stations and they’re all the same.”

  “I don’t have a TV.”

  “Okay, but I bet you don’t have to wait an hour in between flushing.”

  “No…,” for a second John was beat, “but you probably don’t have to kick your door shut.”

  “My flat is starting to smell like a landfill.”

  “Actually mine smells like that as well, but I don’t think it’s the mountain of trash outside.”

  “What…so it’s you?”

  That got John good. “I was thinking of fixing the door, oh god, ha-ha-ha-ha, but’s what’s the fuckin’ point?!” Patrick laughed with him for many minutes. If it wasn’t for these laughs they would have hanged themselves. John accepted his breakfast in a rare, cordial manner. When Patrick settled the grimace returned. He waited for John to finish before talking serious. John brushed the crumbs off his hands and looked more like his vigilant self.

  “So have you heard about what the B’s have been getting up to?” asked Patrick. He was referring to The Killa B’s – probably the most unreasonable of the boy racer gangs. John pushed his plate away from him. “I know they have been expanding because I see more of them at night.”

  “It’s not that,” Patrick had a more serious than usual look on his face, “they’ve started meddling with Jarlo’s business.” John held a frown while replying “What business?” Jarlo was the head of The Walker Cartel which essentially ruled Grevden, a guy who everyone knew but had never seen. “Well you know the cargo trucks they steal from Betson’s warehouse?” John nodded. “They have started taking one for themselves.”

  “Ha! Are you sure it’s the B’s? Tez can just about aim a gun, never mind organise something like that.” Tez was the gang leader.

  “Yeah well they must have gotten their shit together because the only way to-” Patrick stopped when he noticed the waiter looking at him and dropped the volume, “the only way to get into the warehouse grounds would be to tail their convoy in a similar car, take out one of the drivers and calmly leave without being seen and when it was decided.”

  “Yep, difficult to imagine Tez and his boys are behind that one…unless someone is working with them who shouldn’t be.”

  “Well yeah, that’s the other option.”

  “And don’t the Apostles notice it being driven back to wherever they keep ‘em?” The Apostles were another rampant gang who liked to pretend there was some good moral grounding for what they did. Patrick shook his head. “If they’ve got the hijack down than they must have a squeaky clean escape route already sorted.” He gazed at John. “C’mon, you should know that.”

  “Just seems too slick for anything for the B’s to be involved with.” John made an indifferent face then took a gulp of coffee. Patrick saw a smile surface. “What?” he asked. He started to smile too. “What is it?”

  “I took down a B the other night.”

  “You what? Again?” Patrick looked to see if there was a flinch. “You’re not joking are you? You’re fuckin’ nuts.” John kept smiling and nodding. He almost laughed. “So what was the reason this time?” Before he began he gave his tired face a massage.

  “I swear the last couple have been completely impulsive.” John leant forward. “So I had just left Mindy’s after a lap dance. It was around 3 a.m. and I was tipsy as well. I’m two blocks from my digs and before I cross the road I can see a couple of lads cornering someone in an alley. You see a lot of that with gang members disciplining each other but when I got close enough I could see this was an innocent. As I initially passed them the two B’s looked at me until I went. Of course I stopped round the corner then picked my moment, waited until they started shouting. Then I sailed in. Boom! That’s where I got that one.” John showed him two of the knuckles on his left fist which were missing skin. “Down he went. The other one got a knee to the jewels. Initially the victim looked even more scared but then raised a hand of thanks before running away.” John sat back into his chair looking mighty pleased with himself. “Yep, another successful bust.”

  “A bust? You just beat people up.” John thought about that then nodded.

  “Were they packin’?”

  “Do you have a shit mattress?”

  Patrick shook his head, laughed then sighed. “Christ. I dunno. It’s your life.” It was not long until he ordered lunch. “So what are your plans today?” John smiled like a man with no burdens, not even tiny ones. “Hmm…I’m going to figure that out as it unfolds.”

  2

  There was a no-nonsense air about him on the streets. With his hood up John sharply eyed those who passed. Hands were loosely kept in pockets. He knew all the safest routes but they still had their share of dodgy characters. A few tried to stare you out which John made sure never happened. Sometimes he locked onto someone he had recently ‘busted�
�� which got the adrenaline going. Staring them out was never more essential as he knew that when you look away it rouses suspicion, makes people think. There was none of that today which allowed him to consider what he was going to do. Particulars of the talk with Patrick, namely how the B’s were doing what they were doing, made John eager to find out. There was only one person for the job.

  You had to carefully thread yourself between territories but about a mile from the main road was a park. The tall, dark buildings pulled back like curtains to reveal a spot that may have been nice decades ago. Much of the grass was now mud while the untouched areas had been left to grow out of control. The fountain in the middle was broken and covered in graffiti. Where there used to be well-kept gardens were scattered dugouts, but this was not some junkies’ hideout. This was a place of relative calm. Folks came here to chat and even have a laugh, mostly ex-gang members who denied their past. Many “useful” people went here (that was the word John used) and the most useful was a guy called Tip.

  This skinny and talkative man spent a lot of time here. Rarely was he disengaged. If you didn’t know him you’d think cocaine but he knew what he was yapping about. For years he had managed to brush shoulders with every gang while remaining a free agent. What the passwords are for certain buildings, when gangs are planning on raiding somewhere, the hideouts of leaders - he attained all kinds of information that rivals would love to know, and so with knowledge came bargaining power, but rather than tell them exactly who said what he would give them a hint, a tipoff – hence the nickname. This also enabled him to wriggle free when accused.

  John knew Tip would be here and saw him leaning against a lamppost, talking on his mobile. He was interrupted a few times by randoms. John signalled at him. Initially he was ignored but then Tip remembered that rain coat. He ended the phone call and smiled, more impressed than happy to see him. That’s not to say he didn’t enjoy their conversations. He did because the ex-cop knew almost as much as him about the underworld. John walked into this social hub and towards the lamppost.