by steve higgs
‘Now that was a great story.’ Acknowledged Jagjit. ‘How about you Big Ben? You seem to get ten times as much action as the rest of us put together. You must have a couple of amusing fails in your history.’
Big Ben wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know about scoring any fails, but I can think of one incident that was a little embarrassing.’
‘The floor is yours.’ Jagjit indicated. We all swivelled our chairs a little to listen.
‘About a year ago I met a drop-dead gorgeous woman who just wanted to shag. I was at a party and had only been there for about ten minutes when she approached me and five minutes later, we were in her car on the way to my place. Well, I must tell you she was the worst shag ever. It was like poking a mannequin. Nothing happened. She didn't make a sound or move or talk or anything. I had to check she was still alive at one point. In the end, I gave up and rolled off.'
‘I’m not sure what is embarrassing for you in any of this?’ said Hilary.
‘I'm getting to it. So, without further conversation, she went to sleep, and I was lying there awake and I still had a cock like a steel pole and I was horny now. She was super-hot to look at, so I figured I would just have a crafty wank next to her.'
‘She caught you, didn’t she?’ asked Jagjit.
‘Well, caught would be a relative term. She woke up when I threw the covers off and came on her tits.’
At that point three ladies walked into the pub, the cool air spilling in around our feet. The conversation stopped though and we all took a draught from our glasses as they passed.
They got to the bar and were out of earshot. Big Ben leaned forward conspiratorially so that he could speak to us in a hushed tone. ‘I have always wondered how couples keep sex interesting when they have been together for years. I have always found that I can never see a girl for more than a week because the sex gets better for a few days and then starts to tail off after you have done all the experimenting stuff.' Thankfully he did not feel the need to graphically regale us with exactly what experimenting meant to him.
‘Anyway,' Big Ben continued ‘I have read that there is a simple way to ensure you make the lady scream during sex even when the relationship has been going on for years.'
‘Oh, yes?' said Hilary, now looking interested to hear what Big Ben had to say.
‘Yes, chaps. The trick is that you phone her up and tell her what you are doing.'
All the Women Gone. Friday, 15th October 2306hrs
As I walked home, being led by my two little dogs, a thought occurred to me. I still hadn't checked my phone to see the message I had sent to Hayley. What had I sent her that had made her so angry? I read it now and saw my error immediately. I had addressed the text to Jane and not to Hayley. Jane had walked in right when I was writing it and I guess my brain misfired when I was trying to work out how to start the message. From Hayley's perspective, it must have been like saying the wrong name in bed. If read from the perspective that it was genuinely addressed to a girl called Jane, then I had been bonking her as well as Hayley. Is this why words like darling exist? To avoid such pitfalls? In just a few short days I had managed to lose every woman I had been interested in or had shown interest in me.
Hayley had seen me with Jane, put two and two together and come up with the completely wrong answer. I had already learned that she was a passionate woman, so I was telling myself that reaction was in character. Natasha's brief interest had quickly waned when I failed to call her. I had spurned Poison's advances because I felt that I should. Going home to an empty bed that could have her nakedness writhing around in it instead made me consider that it might not have been the best decision though. Sharon Maycroft had suggested she was in my debt and would be paying me with sex but that had been weeks ago, and I had not heard from her since. And Amanda, the jewel in the crown, the brightest berry on the bush, was currently in Paris have the shit romanced out of her by a multi-millionaire playboy. Mr. Wriggly was so disappointed he was refusing to talk to me.
The sky was clear tonight which brought a chill to the air. The rain and clouds of the week had been keeping the temperature up. It felt like frost might come and it matched my cold mood.
Epilogue: The Baby Shower. Saturday, 16th October 0900hrs
Saturday morning rolled around, and it was baby shower day. It was usual for me to have a decent lie in on a Saturday morning. My life in the Army had been filled with early morning physical training sessions which would often start at 0600hrs and thus had me out of bed a good while before that. This led to the practice of having a few pints on a Friday night and a lie in on a Saturday. Today was no different and I had stayed in bed until almost 0900hrs. The dogs had held their bladders for long enough by then, so I had rolled out of bed and let them into the garden.
While the dogs ran around outside, I went to the bathroom. I inspected my face, convinced I must have a black eye or at least some bruising from the slap Hayley gave me. There was no visible trace though, just a tugging sensation in my face as I moved my jaw.
I could hear the dogs barking to be let back in. They had completed whatever tasks they reserved for the garden and wanted their breakfast. I dealt with them, put the kettle on to make some tea and pulled out the toaster for crumpets. I love crumpets. They are not on the list of anyone's nutritious diet, but they were too good to never eat. I made my cup of tea while the toaster worked its magic and through timing born of the benefit of experience, the crumpets leapt into the air just as I was placing my cup of tea on the breakfast bar. I ate four of them smothered in melting butter and then ate a pink grapefruit so that my breakfast was not just stodgy white carbs.
The baby shower would dominate my day, but my caseload was empty again, at least until Monday when I would begin looking for a new case. For now, I had nothing better to do and was glad for it. I had organised virtually every element of the baby shower and had paid for most of it from my own pocket. Had I not done so, the party would most likely have been arranged at my parent's house or the church hall and my mother would have invited dozens of little old ladies from the church who somehow knew my sister and me, but like off-screen characters in a movie, we had heard their names, but could not actually remember ever seeing them before. Instead of that, the party was at a very pleasant tea room in Rochester High Street. Rachael would have an afternoon with her friends, most of whom were still childless and several of whom were single, which was of some interest to me since I would at least be there to meet them at the start.
I bumbled around the house for a while and took the dogs for a nice walk but at 1120hrs it was time to go. I intended to make sure the venue was to my liking and would stay to greet my sister and her friends and of course my mother and her friends. The venue had a function room and would serve a thoroughly British afternoon tea with platters or freshly made sandwiches and trays of unctuous cakes and warm scones with accompanying jam and clotted cream. The place was called Fleur-de-tea, I had eaten there before, an experience which had provided the confidence that my sister would be well looked after, well fed and entirely separate from other customers. I also knew that they were not licensed, so my mother would be cut off from her usual supply of wine and would stay sober and thus more manageable for the event.
In my car on the way there, I ran through the event in my head. There were thirty guests coming, all women. I would settle my sister in as the centre of attention and make sure my mother was given pride of place next to her as the grandmother of the imminent offspring. I was balancing the sensibilities of one with the demands of the other. I introduced myself to the proprietor and exchanged a fifty pounds note for his assurance that the ladies would, in fact, be well looked after. There was a further fifty on offer if I heard a good report from the ladies later. He seemed only too pleased to take the money and do exactly as I had asked.
He asked if he could get me anything and supplied a cup of tea upon my request. I watched him make it to be sure that he used fresh water, not already boiled
and thus deionised water. He knew his business though and could make a good cup of tea. He did not charge me for it, which was sensible. I would have hit him with a raised eyebrow if he had.
I relaxed with my beverage in one of the window seats just watching the world go by outside. Before my thoughts could drift, a face appeared right next to mine on the other side of the glass, and then another face right next to it. The faces belonged to Karen Archer and Sophie Sheard, two girls I had gone to school with. Only they were not girls now. I had emailed them this week to organise the party but had not communicated with either of them since we left school almost twenty years ago.
I smiled at them. They waved, went to the door and came inside. Unsure of the correct protocol, I elected to get up and offer my hand to shake but Sophie got to me first and wrapped me up in a hug. Then kissed my cheek and made way for Karen to do the same.
We started chatting and generally catching up, but within minutes others joined us and then my sister arrived, bereft of children for once.
Mother would be here soon, so I escorted Rachael and her friends to the private function room and left them there.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rachael.
‘Outside to receive mother and confiscate her wine.’
‘Will you be back?’ asked Sophie.
‘No. I think this is an event for ladies. My part in the proceedings is largely complete.’
Sophie followed me to the door. ‘See you around, Tempest. I have your contact details now.’ she gave me a smile, which I returned and then I was out of the function room and heading outside. Sophie had been flirting with me. It was pleasing.
I did not have to wait long for my mother. She had walked to the venue flanked by a dozen of her pensionable aged friends. I recognised a couple of them.
‘Hi, Tempest.’ Mother said as she approached.
‘Hello, mother.’
‘Why don’t you all go inside?’ I asked of the ladies with mother. ‘I just need a quick chat with my mum.’
They filed in offering greetings as they passed.
Once the last one was inside, I turned back to my mother. ‘Hand it over.’ I instructed. ‘You can have it back later?’
‘Hand what over, Tempest.’ Mother replied knowing full well what I meant.
I played along though. ‘The cold bottle of wine you have hidden in your handbag.’
Mother allowed her shoulders to slump. ‘Alright, Tempest. You win.' She said and pulled a nice-looking bottle of crisp Italian Pinot Grigio from the depths of her bag. ‘Anything else?' she asked, handing it over grumpily.
‘Yes, mother. Enjoy your afternoon.’ I said kissing her cheek. ‘And remember that this afternoon is all about Rachael.’
‘Yes, Tempest.' Mother said, her tone changing to one of contentedness. She was happy to be a grandmother.
I watched as mother went inside, then left the delightful tea room behind me and headed back to my car. I stopped though as a thought occurred to me. Mother had handed over the wine far too easily.
I backtracked the few paces I had taken and peered through the window. Across the room, I could see Rachael surrounded by her friends and mother's little old ladies, all of them fussing around her and making her feel special. Exactly as it was supposed to be. Off to one side, my mother was fiddling around in her undergarments and laughing congenially with a lady I knew to be one of her closest friends. As I watched, she pulled a hip flask from its hiding place. It was undoubtedly filled with gin and was why she had given up the wine with so little fight.
I chuckled to myself, congratulated her on a game well played and left her to it.
Postscript: The Klown. Saturday, 16th October 1217hrs
Across the road, he stood in plain sight. His intended quarry had not seen him though, too wrapped up in his own life, his pathetic hopes and pointless dreams. He watched as the man walked away from the tea shop.
He called himself Deadface. He was a Klown. He wore oversized shoes, though not so oversized that he could not run in them. Colourful trousers held up with braces rather than a belt. A garish, multi-coloured jumper of horizontal stripes and he had a large plastic flower pinned just above his left nipple. In his right hand, he held a solitary balloon on a string. It fluttered forlornly in the light breeze, pulling against the string and being held in check only to reach for the sky again immediately as if the only thing it wanted was to escape the creature holding it.
His face was painted. Mostly it was white, except around the eyes which were a very dark blue and the mouth which was a bright red. The manner in which these areas had been decorated betrayed his true nature. The paint to his eyes might have just been thrown at his face. The lines between dark blue and white were not crisp or defined. It gave his eyes the appearance of two holes that might go straight through his head, or worse, go in and then descend to hell. The mouth looked more like a chainsaw wound.
He reached up with his left hand to scratch his face. In it, he held a long, razor-sharp blade, the hilt of which had finger loops that resembled a knuckle duster. From each knuckle protruded a half inch long spike.
The awful wound beneath his nose opened. ‘Not yet, Tempest Michaels. Not yet. But soon.'
He turned and walked away.
The End
Zombie Granny
Zombie Granny
Blue Moon Investigations
A Short Story
Steve Higgs
Text Copyright © 2017 Steven J Higgs
Publisher: Steve Higgs
The right of Steve Higgs to be identified as authors of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved.
The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘Zombie Granny’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Rochester High Street - Saturday 23rd October 1155hrs
I was on my way back to the office when my phone rang. The car system picked it up, the screen advising that the caller was James, my newly employed and very LGBT admin assistant.
‘Good afternoon, James.’
‘Tempest, I have a client at the office, will you be long?’
‘About another five minutes. What sort of case is it?’ I was asking if he considered it a real case i.e. there was a crime to investigate or mystery to solve or was the case a questionable one. I got a lot of the latter. Just yesterday a rather well-spoken lady wanted me to help rid her of a plague of gnomes that were ruining her lawn. It’s definitely not moles she assured me. I didn’t take the case.
‘It is to do with the zombies.’ James continued, excitement in his voice. When I first met James, he was part of a vampire-wannabe cult and I was still trying to convince him that everything supernatural was a load of baloney.
‘James, we have been through this several times now. Do you remember what we agreed?’
‘Erm.’ He started. ‘That there are no genuine cases, because there is no supernatural or paranormal and all the creatures like werewolves and vampires and pixies do not exist.’
‘That’s right, James. That is the entire premise of the business for which you work.’
‘But isn’t there some actual evidence to support the notion that the zombie legend, which was spawned by slaves in Haiti as they were worked to death by the French colonists, has some s
cientific grounding. Also, is it not true that the tetrodotoxin poison from the pufferfish can, in sub-lethal doses be used to create a state of suspended animation whereupon the person can be controlled?’
I said nothing for a few seconds, ‘James, are you reading to me from Wikipedia?’
‘Little bit.’
‘Make some tea. I will be there soon.’ I was supposed to be a private investigator available for hire to solve crimes, but a young lady at the paper that ran my first advert had misread my business and I had been marketed as a paranormal investigator. The phone had been in a constant state of agitation ever since, so perhaps I should be grateful to her. I was, however, regularly asked to investigate stupid nonsense. A recent case I took on started with the client claiming that her neighbour was a shape shifter - it turned out he was a cross dresser and entitled to be left alone. Another one, that thankfully I was bright enough to turn down, was from a man that assured me he had been cursed by his ex-wife and his todger no longer worked. Occasionally there was a genuine crime beneath the strange circumstances, but the more regular explanation was that the client was daft.
This would be my first zombie case, but I should have seen it coming. The first report of a zombie attack had occurred three days ago in Sevenoaks, a large village with a postcode price-tag high enough to warrant Ferrari opening a dealership there. The zombies had appeared just after lunchtime on a Thursday. They had attacked several shoppers in the village centre. The television and radio had gone crazy with various experts giving their thoughts on what had caused the outbreak.
The second and third incidents had occurred the following day, one in Gillingham and one in Canterbury, but not simultaneously. In all three cases, the number of zombies appearing was limited to a handful, but they were still wreaking havoc. In each case the ensuing panic appeared to have caused several local businesses to catch fire. I had watched the news last night where footage taken on a teenager’s phone had been played. In the clip, which lasted about thirty seconds, a little old lady with a perfectly set, pastel-pink perm and matching coat had lunged directly at the phone. Her facial features were contorted, her eyes were utterly deranged, and a deep, guttural sound emanated from the back of her throat.
