by Birch, S. C.
This book is an entire work of fiction. Names, places, locations, and products have been imagined by the author for the sole purpose of populating this book. Any similarities to any persons living, dead, or otherwise are entirely coincidental.
Published by S.C.Birch
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or modified in any form, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Chapter List
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day One
Owen Parker was stood in his brand-new house, fondling a thing that was his.
“This is mine.” he said, still holding the key to the front door. Owen turned and looked at his foyer, this was his too. In fact, the whole house was his – and it was fucking huge. Owen dropped his keys on the table by the door and was so elated with his new home, he was nearly skipping through it as he made his way to his large and open living room.
“This is mine, too!” he said and stood amongst his furniture, too filled with excitement to sit down or be still.
The movers, electricians, and joiners had all done a remarkable job – everything was set up exactly how he had imagined. Owen walked to a long wooden unit, atop of which rested his record player. Almost squeaking with excitement Owen looked at the rows and rows of vinyl he had been collecting over the years. He traced the sleeves with his fingers and collected a record with hits from the 60s.
Gently he loaded up the record and turned up the volume higher than he had ever been able to before. When he heard those first cracks as the needle worked its way to music, he closed his eyes and smiled. Luxury. He swayed to the music, feeling it in his bones.
Owen was a handsome man, not that he cared particularly. But he was, and many millions agreed. His hair was black and thick, his eyes were grey and bright, and his face, angular and sharp, gave him the look of someone who was a bit of a cheeky rouge. And the scar on his left cheek only amplified this scoundrel-esque appearance. That scar was a thing of great interest for the world. Although Owen found it absurd that thousands of people near enough worshiped his mild facial deformity.
As side one of the record ended, Owen flipped it over, then felt a little itch of boredom develop so he wandered his house looking for his dog Mortimer (who, for the record, was the laziest Staffordshire bull in existence). The tubby grey dog was found sleeping on Owen’s bed. Owen gave Mortimer a little poke in his side. Mortimer continued to snore. Owen poked him again, a little harder this time.
Mortimer yawned, rolled over, and fell asleep again.
Then Owen’s boredom itch felt like a scab that had started healing. Persistent and unwavering. So he walked along the hall, poking his head into the rooms he found and admiring them. When he opened the door to his library he grinned broadly. Each wall was lined with shelves, and each shelf was crammed with books. Pride; this is a nice sensation, Owen thought.
“All these are mine!”
Owen walked to the books, taking in a mental inventory of them. Some were old, some new. Some he was sure he was never going to read but liked the look of them at the time he bought them. Owen now had the means to spend stupid money on stupid things, and he was going to enjoy this new ability shamelessly. After minor television appearances and the occasional voice work, he had finally made it to a movie. Less than a month ago his first feature film had premiered; ‘The Day The Dead Came Back’. It was a low budget B movie, but it had become a startling success with Owen as the unexpected breakout star of the flick. The world fell in love with him. Even those who hadn’t seen or heard of the movie knew about Owen Parker. And the last month of Owen’s life had been a constant flow of interviews and red-carpets. Which had earned him a nice wage. Technically speaking, only a few days ago Owen still lived with his parents in a council estate no one ever wants to grow up on. He had bought a new home for his parents first, then his. Just because he could. At twenty-three years old, Owen was doing pretty well for himself.
Owen headed to the kitchen and grabbed a packet of crisps. The vintage music echoed around the house and made it seem emptier somehow. He checked his watch and figured now was as good a time as any.
He grabbed his phone and sent a message to his go-to group chat.
Owen: “Right, guys, house is ready when you are.”
The group chat was titled ‘Liz is Typing’. The dumb result of autocorrect going awry. Nobody remembered how it started or who Liz was. But she was an integral part of the group now.
Emily: “So now you remember we exist!”
Owen: “I’ve been busy.”
Cameron: “Terrible excuse.”
Owen: “Just hurry up and get here.”
Emily again: “Fine! God! Be round soon!”
A few messages and a shower later, Owen was in his car and heading to the nearest supermarket. It was a solid half hour drive away. Owen liked that. The town was posh but he felt just far enough away from it to be sucked in. He lived in what he considered to be the outskirts of society. Surrounded by trees, grass, fields, and all that natural wilderness and farmland stuff.
Owen pushed around his trolley with his headphones in and music playing loudly. He scooped up snacks, foods for grilling, and a painful amount of booze. And so distracted was Owen that he was unaware of the locals staring, pointing, photographing, and gawping at his presence.
As he walked to the checkout he noticed that most of the trollies and baskets he passed were filled with a garish pink and lime can. As he was unloading his trolley he spotted the source. ‘Moonshine’. The pink and green, jagged stand directly behind him was such a headache to look at Owen wasn’t sure how he had missed it. The stand was filled with these Moonshine cans. Owen despised energy drinks. They were, in his mind, just a tar-like liquid filled with sugar that stank like rotten meat. At least every second person, he noticed, was picking up a can. The reason why was beyond him, until he saw the ‘50p per can’ sign.
By the time he arrived home, Emily and Jack Brooker were waiting outside the tall wrought iron gates in their little blue car. Owen waved, opened the gates with the remote he kept in the drinks holder and led them through.
“Finally, Our Lord graces us with his presence! The hell you been?” barked Emily as she climbed out of the creaky car.
“Getting food! So shut up or you won’t get any!” Owen barked back. The two had a little standoff were they both pulled stupid faces, then shared a hug.
“Thanks for coming.” Owen said.
“Thanks for finally inviting us back into your life! Ass.” Emily replied.
“Don’t mind her.” Jack said while picking up a couple of carrier bags from the back seats, “She’s been a pain the entire fucking drive.”
“Fuck you, dick bag!” Emily said and shot her brother a look of pure bile. Jack and Emily were twins and twenty-two years old. They loved each other deeply, but neither hated another living person as much as they hated each other.
“Already? You’ve been here three minutes.” Owen said, grinning.
Emily spun herself around and punched Owen’s arm, “Shut up!”
“See.” Jack said and gestured at his violent sister. It really had been a long drive.
Owen grabbed his shopping bags and escorted the twins into the kitchen. They put their stuff away, but not before sneaking in a quick beer.
Then the trio made their way to the living room and hurled themselves down on the sofas. Mortimer followed their shouting and, with a lot of difficulty, heaved himself up onto the sofa and flopped on top of Emily.
“You like it then?” Owen asked as he watched the twins look around the room.
“It’s fairly decent, mate. Bit small, though.” said Jack.
Owen lobbed a cushion at him, “Fuck off. Buy your own house first then have a crack at me.”
Jack smiled broadly, and Owen groaned. He had just walked right into that trap.
Yeah, and when I do get my own home,” said Jack who was still grinning, “it’ll be ‘cos I worked hard and earned it! Not because I took my shirt off and had it on with a girl in front of a horde of frustrated and sweaty cameramen. I mean, mate, face it. You basically just whored yourself out!”
“For the love of all the Gods, Jack!” said Emily, “Just shut up and give the man his well-deserved moment.”
“Thank you, Emily.” said Owen as he smiled at his defender.
“Loads of actors start in porn.” she added.
“I wish it was porn,” Owen said, “that’s less embarrassing.”
Jack laughed, then said, “By the way, still fucked off we didn’t get invited to see it.”
“I told you already. Because I wasn’t the lead guy they wouldn’t let me bring friends.” said Owen, trying his hardest to be an actor. The real reason he hadn’t invited them was because he knew that his friends, especially the Brookers, would torment him relentlessly. It really wasn’t a great movie.
“Lies.” replied Jack. Owen had failed.
“We’re not watching it without you. That’s gotta be like the law, or something.” Emily said. “You owe us big time. Bitch.”
Jack nodded, “Life debt, dude.”
The buzzer from the electric gates buzzed (as buzzers often do). Owen shrugged off the Brookers and headed to the front door.
“The house is gorgeous, isn’t it?” said Emily. She wasn’t really asking a question, more just expressing her awe.
“It really is. Can’t believe he got this. Or the film. Or any of it, really.” replied Jack.
“I know, right? Still, like, stupidly happy for him and that, but it’s weird seeing him be all rich and shit.” Emily nibbled on her bottom lip for a moment, “So how we gonna sabotage him?”
“Leave it with me.” Jack said, “I’ll come up with something.”
The Brookers
Owen, Emily, and Jack had known each other for what felt like forever. They had grown up four doors apart and went to the same schools. In fact, one of Owen’s oldest memories was of the twins fighting over crayons when they were around five years old. But the three had helped each other through school and the little amount they had lived thereafter. Emily and Jack knew of Owen’s acting aspirations (obviously, he never stopped talking about it) and always supported him, drove him to auditions, ran through lines with him, and constantly berated, belittled, bullied, and chastised Owen to keep him trying after his numerous rejections. And it worked, as backwards as that logic is. Jack was the tallest of the group, broad, and he always looked messy. Sometimes verging on filthy. He had an unhealthy affinity for making online videos and was forever filming his friends’ shenanigans. Jack had light brown hair and seemed incapable of shaving as he always had an unkempt growth across his face and neck. His sister, on the other hand, had once shared his hair colour. Currently, it was bright red. Last week it was purple and the week before that it was blue. Emily was the shortest and loudest of the group. And because it was summer (which was a mild rarity in this country), she was relishing the heat by wearing a pair of cropped denim shorts and a loose white top. And although they were twins, they shared almost no genetics, apart from the same natural hair colour and double-jointedness.
Owen walked to his front door, pressed one of the buttons on the electronic box beside it, and went outside.
“So what did you bring me?” he asked the two bodies climbing out of the newest car to park in his enormous driveway.
“Isn’t my presence enough?” asked Cameron, the tallest and blondest of the two men.
Owen shook his head, “Never.”
“Don’t worry,” cut in Daniel, the darker and wider of the two who was wearing a top that showed far more cleavage than any man should show, “Cam’s just kidding. We brought some stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Cameron as he pulled out bags from the boot of the car, “I think Owen got that.”
Cameron Nixon and Daniel McCauley
Cameron Nixon was the third youngest of the group at twenty-two and a bit. He only just outlived the Brookers who were the youngest. He was tall and scruffy and refused to leave home without two things; a zipped hoodie and a chain with a ring on it around his neck. Cameron knew the group as he and Emily had worked together in a comic book shop (which they both agreed was the best job they ever had) in their teens and she introduced him to everyone. He was their ‘techno-guy’. The one everyone ran to whenever a piece of technical equipment broke for no discernible reason. Or if they ever wanted to win an obscure pub quiz on the origins of superheroes. Cameron was a dork. He knew it and had zero shame.
Daniel McCauley was Cameron’s anthesis. He was the oldest of them all at twenty-five and was sensible, charming, and a little dumb. Daniel was indecently handsome, and he knew it. He had perfect features, caramel coloured skin, and deep black hair and eyes. He was gorgeous and well-groomed and refused to leave home without two things; a perfect gel-to-hair ratio and just the tip of his t-shirt tucked into his belt. He had dedicated his life to beauty by training others in a gym to look as beautiful as possible, but never quite as gorgeous as himself. Daniel was, without question, the slut of their group. He knew it and had zero shame. The two very different boys shared a flat as being a personal trainer (no matter how stunning you may be) doesn’t earn a lot of money, at least not for Daniel. And Cameron quite liked sharing a flat with Daniel, so their agreement worked well. Nobody could quite recall how they became friends with Daniel. One day he was just there.
“House is looking good.” Cameron said as he sat in the living room after helping unload supplies.
“You don’t get to move in here.” Daniel said.
Cameron closed his eyes for a moment, “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good!” Daniel eased up, “Hi, guys.”
Jack gave the man-nod of acknowledgment and said, “McCauley.”
“So… Drinks?” asked Owen.
“I’ll come help.” said Emily as she lifted herself from her seat and headed to the kitchen.
As they walked, Owen was aware that Emily was trailing behind a step or two and playing with her thumbs. He smiled – she was so predictable. It was funny to him.
“Owen…?”
“Emily…?” Owen said, mimicking her. He had heard his name asked like that many times before.
“I was thinking, right. You know how, like, you’re famous and everything now -”
Owen cut her off and opened the fridge, “Nope. Whatever it is, it’s a no.”
“But!” Emily flapped her hands around, “You haven’t heard what I was going to ask!”
“I don’t need to. You’re going to ask me to pull a favour. And it’s a no.”
“But why not?” Emily whined the whiniest whine possible.
“Because your favours are always a nightmare!”
It was true. Whenever Emily asked for a small favour they always ended in disaster and she never repaid them.
“But please!” Emily whined again.
Owen sighed. “What?”
“Well, I was wondering if you could, like, in your next interview or something, just you know, casually mention that you really like my band…” Emily smiled with the cutest smile she had in her pulled herself up onto t
he balls of her feet. She knew how to play him.
Owen accepted defeat. “Fine.”
“Really?” Emily squeaked.
“Yes, really.”
Emily squealed and threw her arms around Owen, “Thank you!”
Owen shook his head with a smile, carted the drinks away, and handed them out. Then the buzzer went again. So he slipped away, opened up the electronic gate, and watched as Grace walked up the driveway with a printed set of directions and a map in one hand and a little gift bag in the other.
“Hello, darling.” said Owen as he met Grace halfway and gave her a hug.
“Hello.” Grace said back.
Grace Thompson
Grace Thompson was the most peculiar of their lot. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t quite fit in with them; she just didn’t really fit in anywhere. She was quiet, reserved, and a bit odd. Grace was twenty-three but dressed like a middle-aged woman who collected buttons. Her hair was golden like the colour of autumn leaves and her face was soft and delicate – although she didn’t see it in herself, mostly because she didn’t care one way or the other, but she was very beautiful. Almost ethereal looking. Grace had met Emily in high school and, for whatever reason, the two were inseparable. Maybe it was because Emily talked so frequently and loudly while Grace hardly spoke at all. But they were friends and that was what mattered. Today Grace was wearing an outfit that looked like it came out of a dead relative’s attic with not only a huge scarf on even though it was a warm day but a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“I got you this.” she said, handing Owen the gift bag.
