by Steve McHugh
“What the hell?” Nigel shouted from upstairs after opening the window and seeing a triumphant Layla standing over his unconscious girlfriend.
The window slammed shut and Layla knew it wasn’t over. Nigel would try to hurt her, that was just the way people like him were. The constant need to dominate. To hurt anyone who made people question his toughness. In another era he might have been a gangster thug, roughing people up for nonpayment of loans.
Nigel burst through the door, making a huge racket in the process, and charged toward her without a second thought.
Break him, she thought to herself, but instead she calmed her mind and let her years of training take over.
Layla stepped toward Nigel at the last second, grabbing hold of his jacket and launching him over her shoulder. He slammed into the rear of the Fiesta, smashing the back window. He slumped to the ground and tried to get back to his feet, but the second he put his arms in front of him to steady himself, Layla kicked them out, sending him back to the concrete.
She grabbed his arm and locked it at the elbow, causing him to cry out. Break it, the voice said.
“I’m gonna kill you for this,” Nigel screamed.
“Take your time,” Layla said, and broke his arm at the elbow.
Break more.
She placed a foot on the back of Nigel’s head and was about to stomp his face into the concrete when she stopped herself and darted away. She’d come too close to seriously injuring him, but that wasn’t who she was. She wasn’t a psycho. Sharon began to stir, forcing Layla to take immediate action.
Layla used Sharon’s phone to call the ambulance, before running into the building, hoping that none of the other tenants had seen what had transpired. She reached her front door and almost broke the key in the lock in her haste to open it.
She slammed it shut behind her, locking it and using the chain and bolt to make her feel more secure. She expected the police would come for her at some point during the evening. She’d badly beaten two people, leaving them breathing, but hurt.
She had a shower, and watched the water turn pink as she washed away all traces of blood from her hands. She wasn’t a psycho. She wasn’t her father. She remembered how good it had felt to hurt Sharon and Nigel, how much tension had been released after doing it, and she knew she’d enjoyed it. She knew she’d felt good about it. She refused to become her father’s daughter. She refused to allow that enjoyment of violence to turn her into a new version of him.
Once she was washed and dressed, she sat on her sofa and waited for a knock at the door that never came. The ambulance turned up—she could see the flashing lights through her second bedroom window—but no police knocked, no one came to arrest or even question her. How was that possible?
Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, full of dreams where she hurt people and enjoyed it. Where she went out to hunt random people, reveling in their pain and torment. Where she’d become the very thing she feared most.
6
Layla spent the following day in a sort of semi-daze. Half expecting the police to come by at any moment, she stayed in rather than have them track her down while she was out. By the time she had to go to work, her concern about the police had disappeared. She’d seen both Sharon and Nigel return home; neither of them looked good, and Nigel’s arm was in a sling. She wanted to feel guilty, but it didn’t last for long. Her neighbors were bullies, threatening people they thought they could get away with intimidating. Hopefully that had now come to an end, at least for a while.
Just as she was about to leave for work, she discovered a card put under the door. She opened it, feeling nervous that it was a death threat or something, but it merely said:
Hopefully we’ll get some peace for a few weeks.
Thank you.
Your friendly neighbors.
It had made her feel better, although she had no idea how they’d come to figure out that she was the one who had done something.
By the time she got in her car and set off for work, she was beginning to feel better about what had happened. She was still concerned that she’d come home to a broken window, and there was always the fear of what she would become if she continued to fight, but she had been forced to defend herself. Just as she had been against Rob. What were the chances it would happen three times in the span of a few days? Hopefully zero. With any luck, she could go back to ignoring the joy she got from fighting. From hurting someone who deserved it.
She pulled up next to the card reader at the train depot and wound down the window, swiping her card and waiting for the large gate to move slowly open. Her car now had so many miles on it that it was probably due for retirement. It had developed the ability to start only when it felt like it, and reliability had been replaced by a game of chance as to whether or not the car would make it to its destination, no matter the distance. On the plus side, it hadn’t been damaged in the fight. Small mercies and all that.
Eventually the gate opened enough to allow her entrance. She drove inside, the gate closing behind her. She had never really thought about it before, but one electric gate was hardly going to stop anyone determined to get in. A child could probably climb it in a few seconds; it wasn’t as if it had a barbed-wire top or anything.
She parked the car and got out. The evening was cold and drizzly, as it usually was at this time of year. Several people waved or said hello as they ended their shift for the day. She returned the courtesy automatically, wishing she were joining them as she entered the depot. It wasn’t that she disliked the people; the majority were both pleasant and friendly. And in fact, she considered a few of them to actually be her friends, but there was a minority who thought that because she wasn’t a technician, she wasn’t worth their time. And the majority of management were dicks, but she imagined that was the same in every company on the planet.
From the outside, the main building looked like a large aircraft hangar, but inside it was divided into two parts. There was a walkway along the left-hand side where those not working on the trains could walk in safety, although they had to wear a bright orange high-vis vest at all times. It was a rule that once broken was quickly punished with a trip to some random human resources person, who’d probably been employed a week earlier, and would be replaced a week later.
“Hey, Layla,” a man called from behind her.
She turned and smiled as Marcus Dawson walked toward her. He was nearly six feet tall and a little chubby, although he’d recently started going to the gym to get rid of it. He was in his mid-thirties and had grown a beard since Layla had last seen him a few weeks earlier. Unfortunately for him, it was growing in patches and didn’t look as cool as he’d probably hoped. “Hey, Marcus, how’s you?”
“Late,” he said, as he caught her up and they began walking together.
Layla checked her watch. She was thirty seconds late. Damn it.
Before anyone was allowed to work in the depot, they had to go to the shift manager’s office and sign in to the big book on the desk next to the supervisor. Being late was punishable on a random basis, depending on who was sitting at the supervisor’s desk.
Marcus worked in the main office downstairs, while Layla worked upstairs, where the majority of the management sat during the day. She knew him well enough to say hi and keep a conversation going, but that was how she would describe her acquaintance with most people in the depot. She kept mostly to herself at work, preferring to come in, do the job, and leave.
Marcus opened the door to be greeted with the smiling face of Jack Simmons. “You’re late, Marcus. Do you want to tell me why?” Jack Simmons was the kind of man who, after being given a small measure of power, thought he was a king amongst men. His inflated opinion of himself was only matched by how much of a kiss-ass he was to those above him.
Layla hoped she could just sign in and leave, but Marcus was in front of the signing-in book, blocking her and forcing her to wait.
“I didn’t realize you were my supervisor, Jack,” Ma
rcus said, his ability to open his mouth and put his foot in it more than evident.
“I’m a supervisor, Marcus. If you like, I can have a word with your manager about your attitude.”
“You go right ahead,” Marcus said and left the office.
Layla signed in to the book.
“Late, Layla?” Jack asked.
“Little bit.”
She looked over at him and he winked. She fought down her gag reflex and managed a weak smile before leaving the office. Jack was well known in the depot for hitting on every attractive woman almost as soon as they arrived. And to him, “attractive woman” meant anyone who wasn’t male.
Everyone on site knew about this tendency, although only a tiny number of people actually complained about it. Some women even seemed to find it charming or funny, but Layla just thought he was a creepy jerk. A man with a huge ego who liked the sound of his own voice so much that he couldn’t imagine a world where a woman wouldn’t find him irresistible. Layla wondered how his wife felt about that.
Layla left the office as quickly as possible and walked a short distance to a gray door. She opened it and stepped into the corridor beyond, walking the few steps to a second identical door, which she pushed open to reveal the staircase to the floor above.
“He’s such a dick,” Marcus said as he left the nearby kitchen area, a cup of something hot in his hand.
“Yes, but you antagonized him.”
“Because of his earlier mentioned dickish personality.”
“You know he’s going to talk to your manager, right?”
Marcus nodded but didn’t seem overly bothered, and walked off humming something to himself. Layla shook her head; sometimes people just couldn’t help themselves.
She ascended the stairs and used her swipe card to get into the managerial section. The reception area was unmanned, the receptionist having gone home some time earlier, along with most of the managers. Layla imagined work here during the day was something akin to having to sit next to a hornets’ nest for eight hours; working from four o’clock to midnight might not be many people’s idea of a good shift, but it was quiet, peaceful, and it was a lot easier to ignore e-mails than it was to ignore someone standing beside you.
She entered the office and found her desk at the far end, next to a large window overlooking the rails that sat outside of the main building. A bridge ran over them, connecting the main office to the outside world, and a quick count told Layla that four blue-and-white trains were waiting for work to be done on them. She had no idea what work, and she didn’t much care.
Each train coming into the depot would be given an examination, and the work completed was written down to be inputted onto the database. Layla’s job was to input that data.
She’d recently started going out onto the depot floor to help with simple tasks, but she wasn’t safety-critical competent, so wasn’t allowed to do anything that involved the electrical or safety systems. Even so, she was looking forward to a two-week block where she was going to shadow one of the teams of technicians. She’d spent a lot of time as a young teenager learning how to fix her mom’s old motorbike, which was probably where she’d gotten her love of metallurgy. Maybe working on trains would bring back that same sense of enjoyment.
Until that time, though, Layla was, to all intents and purposes, left alone to work without outside interference. She didn’t mind that. The work was repetitive and easy, with little in the way of taxing mental stimulation.
Layla logged on, and after waiting for the system to come to life, opened her e-mail, before leaving the office to go to the small kitchen to make a cup of tea. It would be a while before the computer was capable of doing anything much, thanks to the background security stuff opening and running checks. She wasn’t really sure what people might want to steal, but upper management sure liked telling everyone that they should be on the lookout for such people.
She returned to her desk a few minutes later, mug in hand, to read one such e-mail: apparently attackers were out there ready to steal sensitive information. She clicked on the little green tick, acknowledging she’d read it, and promptly removed it from her mind.
She’d been working for two hours when she stretched back in her chair and realized she needed another drink. Keeping track of over a hundred trains was hard work, and the fact that she was the only one in the depot doing the job meant a lot of people were waiting for the information. Even so, everyone needed a break.
She walked down the stairs to the kitchen, where she found several technicians just leaving, about to start the night shift.
“You still here?” Andrew Green said as Layla entered the kitchen. The depot was ninety percent male, and that percentage went up during the evening shifts. There were nights when she was the only woman in the entire building. Andrew had once been a technician, and was one of the old guard, someone who’d been here since the depot had opened fifteen years earlier, and would likely retire here.
He worked with Marcus, doing something that Layla had never quite figured out. Most people seemed to think that the downstairs office was where they put the people no one else wanted to work with, but Layla didn’t agree. She liked the people in there; they were fun and chatty, and actually had a sense of humor. Trains are all very well for work, but at the end of the day they’re just trains. Layla thought that sometimes people in management needed to be reminded of that.
“I could say the same about you,” Layla said as she flicked the switch on the kettle.
“Overtime. I’m here for a few more hours yet. We’ve got to get the figures out by Monday, so it’s all hands on deck. Even Star and Aoki are here.”
Star was the third member of the team, a twenty-two-year-old woman, fresh out of university, who was not only excellent at her job, but also well known for saying exactly what she thought to anyone who annoyed her. Aoki was the final member of the team, and the youngest at just over twenty. Layla didn’t know much about him, except that he’d moved over from Japan to work for the company only a few months ago.
“Say hi for me,” Layla said, pouring the hot water once the kettle had boiled.
“We’re having a team-building thing next weekend, if you want to come?”
“What are you doing?”
“Paintballing. The whole office is going, twenty-two of us. Marcus suggested it. Personally I just think it’s an excuse for him to shoot the boss and get away with it.”
Layla paused for a second. “Sure, e-mail me the details and I’ll see if I can make it.” She returned back upstairs to her office and, after a few minutes, received an e-mail from Star.
You coming next weekend then?
Layla replied straightaway.
I don’t know.
You have to come; otherwise it’s just going to be me and twenty blokes. Most of whom will try really hard not to shoot me because I’m a fragile flower of a girl.
Layla laughed, her voice echoing around the large room.
I guess I’ll have to join you then. We can gang up on the others.
That’s the plan.
I assume there will be drinking afterwards.
It wouldn’t be a team event if drinking wasn’t part of it. We’re not allowed to charge the company for the alcohol, though, so if anyone asks, we had Coke or orange juice all night.
The boss is okay with that?
What the boss doesn’t know won’t kill him. So, you’re coming?
Layla nodded and then reminded herself no one could see her.
Looks that way, yes.
Star sent back a smiley, and Layla went back to work, barely looking up until it was completely dark outside. The entire shift had, as usual, lacked anything one might call eventful. By the time she’d finished inputting all of the data from the work done by the technicians earlier in the day, it was just before midnight. She had about an hour’s worth of work left to do before she could go, and considering she wasn’t going to be in for a few days and didn’t like leaving work f
or the day shift, she decided to complete an overtime form and work the extra hour.
It was half past twelve when she looked up from her computer screen and glanced out of the nearby window. Lights were on below her, showing the safe walkways between the tracks, and she considered getting one last hot drink. But when she looked at the bridge, she thought she saw movement on it. She got up from her chair and stared at the top of the bridge, but there was glare from the office lights and she couldn’t make anything out. Switching off the lights was impossible—they were triggers to motion sensors—so she cupped her hands around her eyes to try to see better.
“Probably just a bird,” she said to herself, although she knew she didn’t believe it. Whatever she’d seen had only been there for a moment, but it had been big.
She got up from her desk and walked to the opposite end of the office, pushing open the only working window—the rest remained locked at all times. The second she put her head out, allowing the noise of the depot into the office, there was more movement on the bridge. Something was on top of it. For a second, Layla couldn’t quite work out what it was. It was too bathed in darkness for her to make out. Then it stood up.
Layla’s mouth dropped in shock as a near-eight-foot-tall figure stood up on top of the bridge. She stepped back from the window, tripping over the cable that ran behind her. She fell to the floor just as the window and surrounding wall in front of her exploded, raining down bits of glass and brick all around her. She rolled under the nearest table, covering her head with her hands.
After a few seconds, Layla scrambled to her feet, ran for the door, and almost launched herself through it in one motion. Coughing as the cloud of brick dust surrounded her, she caught a glimpse of a huge twin-headed battle-ax imbedded in the wall further down the corridor. Whatever had thrown it had been strong enough to send it not only through the outer wall and window, but also through the internal wall. Layla knew she didn’t want to meet its owner, and sprinted in the opposite direction.
The door at the far end of the corridor burst open and a monster stepped through. He had dark green skin with brown splotches across his bare arms and wore some kind of leather armor with two spikes across each shoulder that reminded Layla of something out of a fantasy film; all black and foreboding. The creature’s long black hair was tied in plaits, as was his long beard, and two horns jutted out from either side of his head, nearly touching the ceiling. He smiled at her, showing fearsome, razor-sharp teeth. He looked like he could crush steel in his frying-pan-sized hands.
