Aphelion

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  It’d take a little while, but his headache would soon subside to a manageable level. In the meantime he just had to make sure he didn’t lean in too close to the…

  “Drowning your sorrows last night, then, eh, Cor?”

  He closed his eyes. He bloody hated it when that tit used the diminutive; it implied a familiarity that wasn’t warranted. Slowly, Corey opened his eyes again and turned to face the intruder. “What do you want, Dunc?” he asked, placing particular emphasis on the last word. He knew Duncan was no fan of being called that—besides, it made the owner of the name sound incredibly thick. And Corey liked that.

  Duncan Leman was a short man, somewhat overweight and not very tidy. One of the sort who figured that since they spent their working hours hidden behind a PC and phone there was no need to worry about their appearance. It was the middle of winter and the fool was dressed in khaki shorts and a sickeningly bright t-shirt. Corey wanted to hit him just for dressing like that.

  Duncan shrugged. “Don’t want anything, mate. Just making an observation is all.”

  “Yeah, well don’t. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  Again Duncan shrugged. “Mate, we’re all entitled to our opinions.”

  Corey chewed his bottom lip and shook his head. “No, really. It’s just the fact that you think I’m entitled to your opinion that grates on me.” He nodded at the door behind Duncan. “Sod off.”

  As expected, Duncan didn’t take the advice, which suited Corey well. The headache had yet to leave, and Duncan’s continued presence was only serving to irritate it. He turned away from Duncan and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Corey pocketed the tablets and turned the tap back on.

  “Why are you always so aggressive, Cor?”

  Corey couldn’t believe the stupidity of the man. “Shit, dude! Do you actually have a brain in that head of yours?” he asked, as he splashed water over his face. “I’m pretty sure I spelled it all out yesterday. I don’t like you, Duncan.” He pulled a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser and proceeded to dry his face. “You’re pond scum. Now, fuck off, before I ask less politely.”

  Duncan smiled and narrowed the gap between them. “One step closer to the edge, Cor.”

  Corey raised an eyebrow, continuing to watch Duncan in the mirror. He was clearly provoking Corey; intentionally, too. Duncan wanted Corey out of the job. Corey wondered why. He also decided not to rise to the bait.

  “Yeah, whatever, dude. I’ve got work to do.” He went to move around Duncan, but the shorter man merely stepped in the way. Corey sighed. “Mate, sorry, but I ain’t getting no second warning for you.”

  Duncan, at least, had the good sense to look disappointed. “Now that is a shame, ’cause I know that unc…Mr Roberts wants your ass.”

  Corey stepped back, and regarded Duncan in a new light. The slip was clear, and Duncan hadn’t been quick enough in covering it. The boss was his uncle, eh? So, it was a tag-team event. He decided to laugh it off. For now. “Yeah, well, if he wants a piece of ass he should try Heaven. I’m spoken for!” With that he barged his way out past Duncan.

  *

  Corey flicked the lamp off, and for a few moments stood by the archway that connected the living room to the kitchen. The soft orange glow of the fire created a calming atmosphere in the room, making Corey not want to move. He knew he had to, of course, since it was the early hours of the morning and he needed some sleep before work. But he felt chilled, and not the least bit tired. Iracema was good at making him feel relaxed. The soft flickering shadows on the walls, coupled with the slight inebriation, made him more relaxed than sleepy.

  He walked across the room, and stopped before the mirror hanging above the mantle. He stepped closer, and remained there, watching his reflection and the way the fire below cast shadows across his face, giving him a much more definite bone structure than he usually had. He rubbed a hand across his jaw line, ending on his chin. Once again he wondered if he ought to go for a beard. Not a goatee; that was too expected these days. No, he wanted a full beard, but nicely trimmed…Frakes style.

  He turned his head slightly to the left, to check the shadow line across his jaw. He stopped, his eyes never reaching his jaw. Instead they rested on the figure. Once again it was there, silhouetted against the window. Corey swallowed hard. This time he was not drunk. He’d barely had two bottles of Budweiser.

  Not daring to remove his eyes from the silhouette, Corey started to move to his right, to where the lamp stood.

  “Don’t turn the light on.”

  Corey froze. For a moment he forgot to breathe. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Not that he knew what he was going to say. Forming thoughts was hard enough.

  “Turn the light on, and I’ll be gone.”

  Nonetheless Corey felt his fingers reaching out towards the lamp. He knew he wasn’t close enough to reach the lamp, but his fingers seemed to think otherwise. It was as if some primal instinct was forcing his hand to move, to take away the darkness.

  “Listen to me, Corey Jordan. It’s time to put an end to the pressure.”

  Somehow he managed to find his voice. “Pressure?”

  “Yes. Duncan Leman.”

  Once again Corey swallowed hard. His throat was incredibly dry. Which made little sense, since he’d only recently polished off a bottle of liquid. The way the Silhouette said that name. It sounded very familiar. Somehow, although Corey couldn’t quite get his mind around how, he knew he should recognise the voice. “Who…who are you?” he asked lamely.

  “That, I cannot answer.”

  For the first time Corey noticed that the Silhouette had its head turned away from him. Which was nice, Corey considered, since those opaque eyes scared the crap out of him. “Why not?”

  “It is unimportant.”

  The answer was simple enough, but Corey wanted to object to the finality of it. Somehow, this person was in his house. Once more standing in the middle of the room, lit by the lights outside the window. And there was no way he could have got inside. Corey made a point of locking the front door behind him when he returned home, and considering the weather lately, Corey had not opened any window or the back door in days. And then there was the previous night….

  Drunk he might have been, but Corey was certain he had seen the Silhouette. Certain that the person had vanished once the light came on. Of course, he’d convinced himself it was his drunken imagination…but now, here in his living room, he realised that deep down he had been certain all the time. “Turn the light on and I will be gone,” the thing had said. And it was a thing, of that Corey was in no doubt. Whatever was standing in his living room, it wasn’t human. It simply clothed itself in the silhouette of one.

  “Go to St. Andrew’s Square.”

  The voice brought Corey back. St. Andrew’s Square? He knew it. It wasn’t too far from where he worked. He opened his mouth to ask why.

  “Don’t ask, Corey Jordan. Go there. 22a. St. Andrew’s Square. The door will be open, enter the house, and on the top floor you will find Duncan Leman.”

  “It’s his house?” Even before the Silhouette nodded its head, Corey knew the answer. He felt an odd sense of excitement suddenly, as if he’d taken a direct hit of adrenalin. “What do you want me to do there?”

  “Just go there, Corey Jordan. You will know.”

  Corey nodded his head slowly, and with his next words he knew he’d made a promise that could not be broken. No matter the consequences. “Okay.”

  *

  St. Andrew’s Square was one of those old quadrants that Corey usually loved to visit. Located in South Kensington it was rather typical of what he’d come to expect in London. A small garden in the centre, cordoned off with black railings, and surrounded by Victorian houses with three storeys. What he loved so much was the fact that around the corner was a built-up area, very cosmopolitan. A complete contrast to the quadrant he was standing in. Only London seemed to carry off the mix of old and new with such grace.
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br />   This time, though, there was nothing about love behind his reason for being there. This time is was simple need. He had to find out what the Silhouette was talking about, and more…he needed to do this. He didn’t know why, but something was compelling him.

  He walked around the quadrant until he came to 22. The building was three storeys up, and down below…“22a” was engraved on the wall beside the door at the bottom of the stone steps. He noticed that the door, as the Silhouette had promised, was indeed open. Only a fraction, but enough for someone looking closely to notice.

  Corey looked up and down the street, just to make sure he wasn’t being observed. It was almost five in the morning, and all those with common sense were tucked away in bed, happily enjoying their trips to Nod. Gripping the collar of his coat tightly about his neck, Corey descended the steps carefully.

  Once he reached the bottom he stopped. He glanced up the way he had come, worry plaguing his mind. He was almost certain he was being watched, yet he could see no sign of anyone. Trying to ignore the cold feeling running down his back, he gently pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold into the basement flat that belonged to Duncan Leman.

  He found himself in a long corridor, which reminded him of his Gran’s old place from when he was a kid. The grossest wallpaper he’d ever seen lined the walls, made up of distorted squares in the most lurid shades of green and yellow. The carpet itself clashed hideously with the walls, being a dark burgundy colour. Corey found himself shuddering, and this time not because of his unease, but rather through repulsion at the décor.

  The door at the far end of the hallway was open, and he could see the kitchen beyond. Much like the hallway, it seemed to be from another age. He knew he was in a Victorian house, but he’d expected a bit of modern stuff inside. Mind you, he reflected, considering who lived here….

  There were a further two doors along the left side of the hallway, both of which were slightly ajar. Cautiously, Corey crept along the passageway and approached the nearest door. As luck would have it, looking through the crack in the door, Corey saw that it was Duncan’s bedroom. And the bed was occupied.

  Corey pushed at the door, hoping that it would not creak. It didn’t. He stepped into the bedroom and drew closer to the bed. The duvet covered a rather lumpy form, which he guessed was Duncan. But then his eyes alighted on the smaller shape on the other side of the bed.

  Corey frowned and continued to creep around the bed. When he was close enough to get a good view of the upper half of the second shape, Corey saw a woman’s head poking out of the duvet.

  Not just any woman though. It was Iracema….

  It was she who Duncan had been so racist to, and now here they were…in bed. Together!

  Corey swallowed. He heard a sound behind him and turned.

  Behind was the window, and before that window…Corey was unsurprised to see the Silhouette. He wanted to speak, to ask something, but he didn’t wish to disturb the sleeping forms until he knew for sure.

  The Silhouette nodded. For a moment Corey wondered what it was nodding at, then he realised. It was an answer to his unspoken question.

  His heart hardening, Corey turned to face the bed.

  He had no idea how he was going to handle this, but he knew he had to do something. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came from the Silhouette. The words sent a shiver down him. Not because of what was said, but because of the voice. He had heard it before, of course, but now he knew whose voice it was.

  His own.

  “This ends now, Duncan Leman.”

  Corey heard the movement behind him, but he did not dare to look. Just the knowledge that the Silhouette had his voice was enough—to actually see himself was not something Corey was ready for. But the choice was soon taken out of his hands. The Silhouette came into his line of sight. First as a dark shape on the periphery of his vision and then before him, as it neared the bed.

  Corey felt his breath being stolen away from him. He stood there, immobile. Able only to watch. As the Silhouette approached the bed, the shadow fell off it—him. As the shadow fell, dripping away like watered-down oil, Corey took in the appearance of his doppelganger. There was something almost clinical about the suit he wore. It was a dull grey affair, straight slacks, and a body-hugging top, with a short but tight-looking collar. Corey swallowed when he got his first full look at his double’s face. If he had passed the man in the street, Corey was sure he’d probably have never noticed the similarity, since the Silhouette’s face was a lot harsher than his own. It was his face, but at the same time it wasn’t. The full Frakes-style beard only helped to highlight the differences. Sunken eye sockets, containing the orbs of pure white that he had seen before, and a nose that had clearly been broken on several occasions.

  His observation of his distorted self was interrupted by movement from the bed. His head snapped around, in time to see Duncan struggle into a sitting position. As soon as Duncan’s eyes alighted on the Silhouette his mouth fell open. Amidst the fear, Corey also saw recognition in Duncan’s eyes.

  “No, you’re not dreaming this time, Duncan Leman.”

  Duncan moved his mouth to speak, but no words came. In a way, Corey found that oddly reassuring, knowing that it wasn’t only him who had trouble getting words out in the presence of his doppelganger.

  “You knew this time would come,” the Silhouette continued. “The scales of justice are tilting, and not in your favour, Duncan Leman.”

  Corey looked over at his double again. For the first time in ages, a laugh erupted from his mouth, which caused the Silhouette to look at him. Corey resisted the urge to flinch, but once more the nervous laugh came out. The Silhouette frowned.

  “You have no need to fear me, Corey Jordan. Only he does,” he said in a cold voice, gesturing to Duncan with one hand which, Corey noticed, was deeply scarred.

  “But,” Corey began, with a deep swallow, “you’re…”

  “You?” The Silhouette nodded his head slowly. “Yes. As one of our favourite writers might have said, I am you, seen through a mirror darkly.”

  As explanations went that was of no help to Corey at all. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Understanding later. Action now.” The Silhouette resumed his attention on Duncan, who was still sitting in his bed, silently watching the exchange between the two Coreys. Iracema had yet to stir. A small mercy Corey was thankful for. “Stand up, Duncan Leman. Face your fate with dignity.”

  Duncan looked around wildly, and shook his head. Finally he found his voice, but when it came it was pitiful. “No,” he said barely in a whisper.

  The Silhouette raised a hand, and pointed a finger at Duncan. “Stand.”

  Corey watched as, clearly despite himself, Duncan removed himself from the bed, revealing his nakedness to Corey. It wasn’t the actual sight of his lumpy naked body that repulsed Corey, so much as the thought that that nakedness was once embracing Iracema. His Iracema!

  “Yes, Corey Jordan. Such righteous rage is needed.”

  Something stirred in the darkest corner of the room. Corey glanced over, and a black shape, a shadow, emerged from the corner, moving close to him. Without meaning to, he opened his hand and the shadow drifted onto his palm. His fist tightened around something hard. Corey looked down, and saw the black club he was holding.

  “No, no,” Duncan said, sniffing away like a scared child.

  Corey stepped forward, fully aware of what he had to do. Scum like Duncan Leman were not allowed to continue. Stealing Iracema from him, the racist attacks, everything about Duncan was wrong. Duncan staggered back against the wall, his whole body shaking.

  “And now your dream comes true, Duncan Leman,” the Silhouette said.

  “Please no. I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

  “Don’t you dare, Dunc! I always knew you were scum,” Corey said, raising the club in the air. “I just never realised how much.” And, with a sadistic pleasure he never knew he could possess, Corey
proceeded to strike Duncan with the club. Again and again and again….

  *

  It was sometime later when Corey stopped, his rage having drained away. He looked at the pulpy mess that had once been Duncan Leman, and he stepped back, the club falling out of his hand. He felt satisfied, yet at the same time disgusted with himself. He knew that, without a doubt, the world was a better place without people like Duncan, but he still felt sickened by the violence he was able to dish out.

  He turned to the Silhouette. Explanations later, he had said. Well, it was later, and Corey was sure he deserved some answers now.

  The Silhouette was gone. Corey looked around the room frantically, and as his eyes came to rest on the bed they widened in horror. There was no one else in the bed, and no sign that there ever had been. His throat went dry.

  He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the warmness between them. He glanced down, and noticed the dark red substance that covered his hand. Blood. The exact same blood that covered the corpse on the floor before him.

  “Oh god,” Corey breathed, as realisation dawned.

  One Mistake

  He looked down at the card in his hand; the rather shaky card. No, that wasn’t true. Cards, being inanimate objects, didn’t shake by themselves. It was his hand that was shaking, the nerves threatening to get the better of him. Clasping his wrist, he attempted to steady the offending hand, and focussed once more on the address scribbled on the back of the card. He had to admit his handwriting was pretty shit, really, and hard to read at the best of times. And writing while nervous helped his script none. Still, he was familiar with his own writing enough to be able to decipher the address, and looked up from the card at the small house before him.

  No doubt about it. The address was the same.

  But did he really want to do this?

  His legs started moving, one foot down, then the other, taking him towards the house. He stopped at the front door, and his knuckles rapped loudly on the cracked wood. He waited. And as he waited he thought. Why was he here, and why in the hell had he even bothered calling the number on the card?