Shades of Green

by Ian Woodhead

  He put his hand in his pocket and brought out two little pieces of flattened metal squares, looked at the picture on the cartridge one more time, then closed his eyes. He concentrated, feeling the metal flow into their new shapes. Ernest opened his hands, looking at the two little chains with a cartoon turtle as a pendent. He smiled then threw them at the boy.

  In dream-like slow motion, the boy placed one of the necklaces over his head. The fires burning in his eyes went out. In another few minutes, the boy would be able to explain to the next passer-by why he had killed his own mother.

  The tramp walked back towards the iron gates without looking back. He hoped he’d still be able to get to the fish shop before it closed; he was starving.

  Chapter Eight

  Alan sensed he had almost reached his goal. He had been tracking the ambiguities in the game’s background for almost twenty minutes now. The designers had left half a dozen back door routes hidden in the code but only one would lead to the alternate ending. This was the seventh game he had played from the same software developers and he knew what a devious set of snakes they were. He moved the control stick left then down to avoid the mutant hyena disembowelling him. He spied a save disc icon hidden in the jungle and managed to reach it before the mutant hyena’s pals could turn him into flesh confetti. With his progress saved, he put the controller down and flexed his fingers.

  His mother had bought him this game this afternoon as a reward for not freaking out when she told him his brother had rung up and informed them that he was staying out at Tony’s flat tonight.

  He had put on a suitable show of course, but didn’t milk it too much as he wanted her to buy him this game. She expected him to start kicking off every time he didn’t get his way. Sometimes he thought that she revelled in having an emotionally disturbed twenty four year old man in the house.

  His mother had always been a little domineering and maternal and she had gotten worse when his father had left her for someone else who wasn’t going to treat him like a naughty schoolboy every time he got in from work. Finding out that her eldest son had been found tied in a hessian sack in Holburn woods next to the mutilated corpse of one of his friends was like a dream come true to her and after getting over the initial shock, she ploughed all her efforts into making Alan feel more comfortable.

  There had been more than one occasion when he wanted to stop the charade, tell the interfering old bat to get out of his bloody hair and go to the pub. Alan stopped himself by remembering the promise he made to himself when he’d been inside that hessian sack, watching his friends die and wondering if he was next.

  He never told anyone what really happened in those woods six years ago, he couldn’t. Nobody would understand.

  Alan estimated that he had fifteen minutes of game time left, he wanted to finish it before putting it on his rack with the others but it would mean intense cramps in both hand for the next two days. He could have completed the game within a few minutes if he had been brave enough to play it without his gloves but he’d have to spend a couple of hours cleaning the controller in hot soapy water before contact and he didn’t think it would cope with the treatment.

  It wasn’t watertight and besides, it would be cheating. Alan ejected the disc and put it back in its cover, then selected an old favourite from the rack. He placed it in the machine, watched the opening credits, and then shut his eyes.

  Mother sat in her usual spot, the old, tatty armchair that had belonged to her grandfather. It was the only thing in the house that wasn’t immaculate. Her favourite soap was blasting out of the television but she wasn’t paying attention, her mind was elsewhere, she was wondering if she ought to go check on Alan and make sure he was alright. It worried her when he was so quiet, he took the news about Damien staying out a little too well for her liking. Perhaps she should check on him, bring him a cup of tea up and a few biscuits.

  Alan opened his eyes; he stood up and ran to the door, opened it and peered down the stairs. Oh bloody hell! If she came up here, he’d never get rid of her.

  “Mother?” he shouted.

  She had that door at the bottom of the stairs open before he had time to close his mouth.

  “Are you okay petal? “She asked, her face filled with worry. She wanted, no she needed to give him a hug. She thought all the world’s troubles could be solved with a big hug.

  “Do you mind if I come downstairs and watch television with you?”

  “Of course I don’t, sweetheart.”

  Alan thought she now looked like a happy puppy, a big, fat happy puppy.

  “Well, can you make sure the room is clean before I come down? Oh and do the kitchen as well.” He shut his door before she could respond and sat back down in front of his TV screen. The room and kitchen was already spotless, he suspected her hygiene problem was worse than his but she’d still get the Hoover and dust cloth out. That should keep her busy for an hour at least.

  Getting inside somebody’s head was a piece of cake as long as they were in close proximity, doing it at a distance required a little preparation. His mother was singing, she must be ecstatic, he had forgotten the last time he’d sat downstairs.

  Alan pushed his hand under the bed, he hated this bit, but it was the safest place in his bedroom to hide anything. His gloved fingers brushed over the leather lace and he sighed with relief; every time he did this he was expecting it to be gone. The lace was part of an old bag belonging to his mother. He pulled it out, opened the bag and shook the contents onto his bed. A signet ring and a square piece of flattened metal fell out onto the covers. Damien thought one of his ex girlfriends must have taken a fancy to it when the ring had gone missing a few months ago. As for the other object, he picked that up and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t need this to view his brother but he was going to use it anyway, despite the dangers.

  He told himself that he was brave and strong, then removed his gloves. It still terrified him to have his naked hands exposed. Already he could feel the dust settling onto his naked skin. He wanted to get this over with before he lost his nerve. Alan placed each object into the palms of his hands, closed his fingers around them and shut his eyes.

  He had an aubergine and was flipping it from hand to hand. Tony laughed and offered lewd suggestions. His head lifted and turned to Jennifer, she was also laughing but it was so forced, Tony was embarrassing her.

  The vegetable was cool yet smooth and firm and for someone who had been forced to wear gloves for nearly six years, it felt fantastic. He willed his brother to drop it and pick up some broccoli, followed by a mushroom, but he had no influence on his movements; Alan was just an unseen ghost. He told himself to get a grip and stay focussed. He’d only have a few more moments before Damien’s spirit perceived there was another one inside and ejected him. Damien’s hands enveloped Jennifer’s.

  This just wasn’t fair. If events had turned out a little different, it could really have been him in that supermarket, holding hands with her instead of receiving these second hand emotions.

  “Why can’t we just order out?” That was Tony speaking.

  Damien’s eyes looked into the basket he was carrying; it was full of Mediterranean vegetables and a packet of fresh chicken.

  “What are you moaning at? It’s not like you’re cooking it.”

  Alan struggled to get to grips with his galloping emotions and concentrated on the scene. Damien’s eyes lingered on a necklace around Tony’s neck, Alan felt the metal in his hand warm up. They headed to the checkouts.

  “You’re still using my gas and electricity to cook it,” muttered Tony.

  The other one had already got to one of his friends, oh this was a disaster. He had try and get them to get that necklace off him.

  “Are you trying to say that I’m a shit cook?” Jennifer dropped a block of feta cheese into the basket.

  “If I say yes, does that mean we can leave all this weird crap here and get a pizza instead tonight?”

  The pull b
ecame stronger. It felt like he had a noose around his neck. He only had a few seconds left.

  Tony grabbed Damien’s shoulders and pulled him close to his face. The basket fell from his hands and hit the tiles with a resounding crash.

  “Hey Alan,” spat Tony, “Why don’t you go downstairs and say goodbye to your mum? She’ll be in the guts of a monster tomorrow.”

  Damien’s spirit ejected the intruder. The last thing he saw before the scene faded was Jennifer rushing over to Tony who had collapsed into a baked bean display.

  Alan’s eyes shot open, the memory of Tony’s last words still fresh on his mind; how the hell did that fucker manage to get a mechanism around Tony’s neck? And why hadn’t he thought of doing that instead of playing his stupid spy games? This wasn’t fair, Tony was supposed to be his, he was supposed to protect Damien and now that dirty tramp had gone and re-written the pissing game.

  He lay in the foetal position, pressed up against the side of his bed; his mother was still involved with cleaning which was a relief, because if she had walked in here now, Alan suspected that the fat cow would have a bloody seizure. He was unable to move, stuck in this position and would be for another few minutes. After being inside Damien, his own body felt alien, like a suit three sizes too big for him and until the feeling crept back into his limbs he’d be stuck like this.

  He’d come back after six years and this time he was going to be sure to finish the job. No kids were going to blunder in, not this time. The tramp was out there even now, shuffling around Holburn and spreading his poison, handing out mechanisms like sweets and recruiting his army.

  Alan couldn’t even leave the house without getting panic attacks. The tramp had the pick of the town’s choicest cuts while he had to make do with whoever came to the house. He hadn’t been given a great choice from his mother’s friends.

  The man who worked in the pet-shop exemplified her choice of associates. He came round to see her at least once a week, usually on a Thursday as she only had one soap to watch that day. Considerate was Pete’s middle name. Alan liked the man and was grateful for the time he spent with his mother but he wasn’t exactly the Man With No Name or the Terminator. How was he supposed to prepare an army from scrag-ends and old bone? Alan didn’t have a choice though; he had been going to start Pete’s indoctrination later this afternoon. That would now have to wait.

  He cringed when the back of his neck cramped up. Pins and needles turned his hands and feet into tight balls punctured with hot spikes. This was the first sign that his spirit had at last accepted that this was his own body. He lay there, curled up tight against the foot of his bed and waited for the pain torturing his body to subside. For the first time in his life he looked forward to holding onto his mother’s oversized flower patterned dress and snuggling into her warm, dumpling like bosom.

  Chapter Nine

  Pete stood on the threshold of the shop, the door open wide, revealing a scene that he had dreaded happening for two decades. Someone had broken in and turned his beloved shop into an abattoir. He walked further in, trying not to stand in the ripped opened bags of bird seed and stepping over the mangled mouse cages. He closed his eyes and listened for sounds of activity; surely the bastards couldn’t have killed all his animals. The only sound he could make out was his own uneven breathing.

  He stood in the midst of the wreckage, tears streaming down his face, unable to understand how anybody could commit such a vile act. He stepped back and stood on something small and brittle, it felt a bit like he’d just stepped on a walnut.

  The realisation of what it really was didn’t take long to sink in. Despite common sense telling him not to, he opened his eyes and watched the bloodied pulp slide off his heel and land on top of the rest of the mouse’s body. Hot bile rose in his throat; he ran out of the shop and threw up by the side of the road. He eased the door shut and leaned against the wall, letting the cool night air bring him round. Pete didn’t want a tremor in his voice when he rang for the police. How was he going to explain why he’d disturbed the crime scene?

  He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his phone. God, his hands were shaking. He dialled the number and looked across the street. The light in the window above the tobacconist was shining out, and save for the street lights it was the only light still on.

  The shop belonged to Dave Chambers, an old friend of his. He lived above his shop and it was him who had phoned him earlier, telling him that he thought someone was in his shop. He looked at the splintered wooden door and the two hardened steel security bars bent out of shape and shuddered.

  This wasn’t the work of teenage thugs from the local school.

  Why the hell weren’t they answering? For crying out loud, this was Holburn, just how busy could the coppers be at this time? Come to think of it, they should have gotten here before him. He doubted Dave would have just rung him and not then called the police.

  He let it ring for another minute then put his phone back. This was unbelievable, since when did the police not answer their phones? They were supposed to be the emergency services.

  Pete didn’t know what to do. He had no intention of going back in there, not by himself. Where was Dave? Like the police, he should have been here as well. He looked up and down the deserted high street and then back at the window above the shop. He could just pop over and ask him if he’d had more luck in contacting the police, he supposed, maybe he got a good look at the intruders.

  He ran over the road, still puzzled as to why the street was empty. Even the two pubs were shut and barred. It may have been past midnight, but he knew for a fact that the lights should still be on. It was an open secret that the pubs in Holburn didn’t officially close until past three.

  He tried Dave’s shop door first before deciding to go round the back. As he walked along the cobbled passageway that separated Dave ‘s shop and the hairdressers he had the feeling that someone or something was keeping a very close eye on him; he blamed the feeling on finding out that some bastard had just stamped all over his livelihood, but it didn’t make the mood go away.

  A high wooden fence enclosed the back of Dave’s shop. It had already been covered in graffiti and crude drawings despite only being up for a couple of weeks. The padlock on the gate was still locked, but Dave had given him the combination about five minutes after the builders had finished. As far as he knew, he was the only one Dave trusted. He tapped on the fence panels as he walked past, wondering just how secure Dave’s property was.

  He inserted the correct numbers into the keypad and waited for the machine to recognise the sequence. Pete heard frantic sniffing at the base of the gate. He assumed it to be Dave’s dog. He’d bought him off Pete a few years ago, a cute little black and white terrier puppy. Dave was convinced that he would be able to train it to be some sort of killer guard dog. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was no way that puppy would become his killer dog. Besides, he had needed the money.

  “Casper?”

  No answer, that was weird. The dog knew his voice; it should’ve been jumping against the gate and yapping by now. As the LED on the security box changed to green, something banged against the frame.

  Pete jumped back, No way was that Casper. He thought the gate was going to fly off its hinges. He heard a deep growl then the receding sound of claws clicking on concrete. He kept telling himself that it had to be Casper; Dave didn’t have any other animals. So why did it sound like a bloody lion?

  The green light was flashing now, he only had a few more seconds to open the gate before the system locked him out and the house alarm started to shriek. Pete was acting like a scared old woman again. Of course it was Casper;if Dave had bought another dog, he would have told him. He lifted the handle and pushed the gate open.

  In the past few weeks, his friend had spent a fortune on upping the security for his shop. Pete suspected that the tobacconist was now better protected than the local bank. Dave always found something else to talk about whenever
Pete brought the subject up.

  Knowing all this, he should have felt secure and able to relax, yet when the gate swung shut and locked, Pete almost shrieked and wanted to get the fuck out of there.

  Jesus; the feeling wasn’t diminishing this time, in fact, it was getting worse. He ran over to the back door, skirting past the overturned mop bucket, almost slipping in the soapy water spilling from the bucket. He pressed his back to the wall, closed his eyes and tried to count to ten.

  There was nothing there, Pete was alone. He got to five before his eyes shot open, convinced that there was somebody standing over him. Telling himself that he was acting like a stupid little girl wasn’t washing anymore; he knew there was something wrong here. He needed a weapon; the only thing close by was the mop, but someone had got to it before him, it had been snapped in half.

  Pete picked up the wooden pole and pointed the splintered spike towards the door. That feeling of being watched just wasn’t going away, it was driving him mental. He jabbed the end of the mop against the door, ready to strike at anyone who may have been ready to jump out. The door eased open revealing just a normal kitchen, there was nobody there. The anticlimax swept through his body, he almost laughed out loud, wondering what the hell had got into him, yet he didn’t drop the stick.

  “Dave!” he hollered. “Are you in there?” He considered shouting again but decided that bold action was the next best step. He looked at his watch and found he’d been here for nearly half an hour. Christ! He thought he was only going to be five minutes. He still hadn’t heard any sirens. He hadn’t heard anything. Pete walked into Dave’s kitchen wondering why it was so clean. For the first time ever, the sink wasn’t overflowing with dirty plates. He’d even shifted the overflowing ashtrays, pizza boxes and various other crap that fought for space on the surfaces. Even the cooker had been scraped clean. This sudden and unexpected level of cleanliness shocked him more than finding his shop had been violated. The kitchen hadn’t been this clean since his wife had passed away. Good lord, had the old bastard got a girlfriend?