by Ian Woodhead
For the first few weeks, they didn’t leave each other’s sight. They shared a similar pain, each girls having valid reasons for fleeing from their homes.
Prior to meeting her new companions, Alison genuinely believed that no other person would be able to relate to the trauma that she had endured just a couple of nights ago. Listening to Maggie, she found that her own experience just paled into significance.
Maggie’s boyfriend ran with a large gang that terrorised a large London housing estate. Another gang took offence at his ambitions, as punishment, they snatched the girl outside her own home, stuffed Maggie into the boot of their car and drove her to a derelict warehouse. Over the course of a full day, the gang members took turns in raping her.
Danielle didn’t want to tell them why she had run away, not at first. Her story came out a couple of nights later after they’d drunk four large bottles of cider that they’d shoplifted from a late opening off license. Slurring her words, Danielle told them that her stepfather had been using her as a sexual plaything since the age of thirteen.
Alison picked the phone off the ledge; it had been weeks since she’d used this thing. The original idea had been to use the phones to warn each other if any of their clients became violent.
She had forgotten how long it had been since Alison had run into Danielle and Maggie. Unlike her, they had both fallen foul of the local dealers. Their money now financed their habits.
The phone vibrated again, this time it was a message. Alison threw the remainder of her sandwich on the seat beside her when she saw it was from Maggie.
“Oh, god!” she cried.
She quickly read the message, feeling her heart slam against her rib-cage, somehow they’d already found the body of the dealer. Maggie pleaded with her to return the stolen money, saying that the associates would be lenient if she did. Alison shook her head, completely thrown by the text. How the bloody hell could anybody know that she’d been the one who’d killed him? Especially Maggie. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Like I’m going back to that hell-hole.” She muttered. No, she’d already chosen her future and nobody, not even her old friends could make her change Alison’s mind. Thinking clearly, it was obvious how they’d known about Glen; the bastard must have been their supplier.
“They chose their demon, let them live with their decision.”
Despite her harsh words, Alison really wished that she could have taken her friends away from the city.
The train began to slow down; they must be getting ready to stop again. Alison watched a young couple pass her seat; they both looked to be in a great deal of stress. She heard him tell the woman not to worry about her parents; there was no way that they could have gone missing. The violence in London couldn’t really be as bad as the news were making it out.
When they had gone, Alison sat back in her seat, thinking about what it must be like to worry about such meaningless rubbish.
Chapter five
He opened one eye a crack, she’d left his side; George sighed in contentment, rolled into the warm vacant space and pushed his face into the pillow. He could still smell the woman’s unique perfume. Where had Anne disappeared? More importantly, would she return?
He pricked up his ears at the sound of singing coming from downstairs.
“She’s still here,” he sat up and rubbed his face, wincing when he remembered that he hadn’t shaved this morning. “That poor woman must have thick skin. I’ll have to have a bloody good shave before we do that again.” That thought brought another smile to his face; he reckoned that the chance of another round of bedroom Olympics with that virile woman was defiantly high on the agenda.
He finally located her voice; Anne must be in the kitchen. His heart suddenly went into overdrive when he remembered Gruff was supposed to be in there too. George jumped out of bed and padded over to the window. His dog sat on his patio staring at the kitchen window. George couldn’t believe he was seeing this; she’d made friends with his dog already. Bloody hell, that woman was amazing! He gazed down at his shrivelled penis. “In more ways than one.”
Gruff must have sensed that he was being observed, he looked up, barked once then darted across his garden, the big oaf crashed through his pea plants before sitting down in his carrot patch, for some reason, George wasn’t the least bit bothered. He left the window and crawled back into the warm bed.
For the first time since Madison passed away, George felt happy. He’d go see her later today to explain his actions, he was sure she’d understand. Madison would want him to be happy.
He giggled, George was happy alright; he lifted the covers and discovered that his little man was now not so little. “Bloody hell, it’s like I’m sixteen all over again.”
George heard the side door open and Anne calling Gruff a naughty boy. His dog always rolled onto his back every time George told him off. He could imagine doing the same with Anne. He was unsure of how he felt about another person getting so friendly with his only companion. He heard the door shutting and put aside his stupid jealous thoughts.
The bedroom door slowly creaked open and Anne reversed in, holding a breakfast tray. The sight of the tray confused him a little, he had no idea he’d been cooking him food, he’s yet to detect the pleasant aroma of bacon or sausages. Perhaps it was a bowl of cornflakes. No, it couldn’t be, George had no cereal in the house.
She placed the tray down on the covers and saw two white bowls, both full of multicoloured berries and assorted nuts and other less identifiable bits. What the bloody hell was this? It looked like hamster food.
“Come on, George, eat up, this is good for you.” She put her hand under the covers, he groaned when her fingers walked closer to his penis. “It gives you stamina.” She gripped his shaft. “Because, believe you me, you’re going to need it.”
He picked a dried strawberry out of the bowl, popped it into his mouth and chewed. George closed his eyes and sighed softly when she climbed back into bed beside him, Anne kissed him on the tip of his nose.
“I’m sorry,”
George opened his eyes, “what for?”
“Well, for making the first move, for acting all slutty.”
He spat out a half-chewed berry. “Don’t be sorry, Anne, I didn’t think you were slutty, a little forward, perhaps.”
She laughed, “Yeah well, one of us had to make the first move.”
He nodded, wondering if he had been giving out the wrong signals. George had found her attractive but not in that way. He decided to keep that nugget of information to himself.
“Tom is going to be so upset when he finds out, you know.” She grabbed his hand and gently squeezed.
“Tom? You mean the butcher?”
Anne nodded, “Yes, he’s been after me for years. You’re a good man, George. Your aura is clear.”
He blinked, “My what is clear?”
Anne giggled, “Your aura, your life energy.” She squeezed his hand again.
What on earth was the woman going on about? He’d listened in on her respecting the planet speeches many times before, usually in the lounge of the Rose and Crown and definitely after he’s downed more than a couple of pints of the pub’s fine ales. George had never really listened to her actual words; he just enjoyed the way that she was able to get under the skins of the other locals. The other reason he listened in was that the woman had such a beautiful voice.
“George, I promise that I’ll explain everything a bit later on.”
Somehow, he doubted that he’d ever share her enthusiasm. Organic farming and eating like rabbits and squirrels was all very fascinating but as for all that stuff about auras and life-force? Well that last thing he needed was some lecture that bordered dangerously close to strange hippy talk.
“Don’t you like your breakfast, George? You haven’t eaten that much of it. I’m sorry, but it’s the best I could do with what limited ingredients I could find.” Anne smiled, “Never mind, I’ll make you a decent meal before
we go out.”
George wasn’t sure what to make of that that last remark, had she just insulted him? “It’s me who ought to apologise, this – stuff isn’t really the sort of food I normally eat.”
“Don’t you worry about all that, we’ll soon have you eating proper food, before you know it; you’ll be as fit as an ox. It will happen too, believe me, my darling; your aura tells me everything.”
Suddenly, he saw an image of his future, an old man wearing bio-degradable overalls made from organic avocados skins and eating lentil soup from half a coconut while Anne danced in the moonlight and prayed to the gods of grass and nettles.
George held back an icy shiver. That was one future that he never intended to live. There was no way that he could live without his daily dose of bacon, sausages and pork pies, nobody, no matter how sexy, would be able to turn him away from his meat intake.
No bloody wonder young Tom hadn’t been able to jump into bed with this sex-crazed widow. He dismembered dead animals every day. Anne would probably regard the butcher as despicable as Satan or whatever equivalent nasty thing she believed in. Knowing what he’d learnt so far, it would be some sort of forest goblin or something equally stupid.
“I’ve often wondered why Dean’s aura was so different.” She said.
“What? Sorry, you’ve lost me, Anne.”
“Dean, your son, his aura is almost black. I’m not saying that he’s a bad person or anything, it doesn’t work like that; dark auras usually mean that the individual is cursed.”
“Look, Anne,” he growled, “Can you not bring my son into the conversation? I don’t want his name to kill the mood.”
With all her talk about new age rubbish, George didn’t think that there was much mood left to kill.
She smiled demurely, threw back the covers then straddled his thighs. “I’m so sorry; the last thing I wanted was for you to get upset. Let me make it up to you.”
Anna removed George’s dressing gown before she placed her left hand around the base of his penis. “I know another way of making you happy.” She whispered as Anne lowered her head.
Chapter Six
He couldn’t believe that his old nickname was still there, carved into the wooden bench. Dean slowly traced his forefinger along the crude knife cuts that spelled out the words, Space Cowboy.
Dean yawned and stretched then leaned back against the wooden slats. The train was about to leave the platform. Apart from Dean only the scruffy girl got off at Seeton Crossing station. He wondered if the girl was due to depart here or if that conductor had finally caught the fare dodging mouth on legs and threw her off. He shrugged; she hadn’t seemed unduly stressed when she stepped onto the platform.
Whatever the case, if she hoped to find any spare money here, then she was in for a major shock. Folk in Seeton were tighter than a pair of wasp’s knickers and were suspicious of all strangers.
The train left the station, bound for the next crappy village. He watched the young girl cross the footbridge; she must have seen the ancient metal sign that pointed the way to the village square. He sighed and gazed down at his handiwork. Dean felt the beginnings of a nostalgic smile reach his lips.
He vividly remembered vandalising this bench. It had been exactly two days after he’d celebrated his fifteen birthday.
“Oh my god, that was eighteen years ago.” He said. “Has it really been so bloody long?”
Dean rubbed his finger across the knife marks one more time. “Eighteen years and the council hadn’t even bothered to re-paint the bench. Nothing round here has changed then.”
Even when he was a kid, this crappy village was stuck in its own little time bubble. Dean remembered himself and his other stroppy teenage mates desperately wishing they could leave this shithole and venture out into the real world.
The station was the only place in the village where they got to see real strangers, people who didn’t know everything about you and your family, sometimes the train even stopped here and these strangers got off.
They called themselves the Seeton Massive. Dean chuckled to himself, he hadn’t thought of that name in years. It was Tom Mayland who thought up the name, ironic, considering he was only a shade above five feet.
Dean used make fun of his blonde girly hair that grew halfway down his back. He was adamant that when he got older, he’d be a rock star, with shit loads of money, a garage full of fast cars and beautiful girls hanging off each arm. His dad owned the village butchers so everybody knew that, despite his boasts, the lad wasn’t going anywhere, there had been a butchers shop owned by the Maryland’s since like forever. His destiny had been set in stone since he was a baby.
Gavin Ellis, the largest of the group used to boast that his family owned this village; it was true that his dad was head of the council and they lived the largest house on the outskirts of Seeton. The running joke that in the old days, there weren’t that many folk in the village so the Ellis’s shagged their sister’s and auntie’s, uncle’s and brother’s which probably explained why their entire family all resembled the back end of a horse. Nobody would dare say any of that to his face though. Gavin’s temper wasn’t that long and he did have a tendency to talk with his fists if he believed somebody was making fun of him.
The last one of their group but certainly not the least was Sarah Winwood. Dean sighed; now that was a name that brought back a few happy memories. Everybody in the gang fancied her like crazy.
Dean had lost his virginity to that girl, at the tender age of fourteen. It may have been just a quick and messy session behind the old youth club but as far as he was concerned, Dean had now become a man.
Thinking back, Sarah had been responsible for al the lads in the group to lose their cherries. She’d even been with Gavin.
At any other time, it would have been cool to hook with the others and re-live old memories over a few pints at the Rose and Crown. Dean reckoned that the chances of all of them still living in Seeton would be pretty high, not many folk left the village and those who did, generally made their way back.
“Just like me,” he whispered.
He needed to visit his mother as well and try to explain to her why he hadn’t been able to visit her grave. Of all the actions the institute had taken, initiating a lock-down just after his mother had passed away was the one that hurt the most.
The graveyard wasn’t that far from here. In between the station and the village, he looked up and saw an old man walking over the bridge, he reminded Dean a little of his old man. His stood up and watched him walk towards the platform, could it be him? The man then stopped by a large red transit van and climbed in. No, it wasn’t him. Oh, bloody hell. How was he going to explain his actions to his dad? He wouldn’t be able to understand what Dean had been working on for all this time or why he hadn’t been able to come up and visit. The daft old sod was too set in his ways, locked into the past like the rest of them here in Seeton.
Perhaps he ought to ring ahead and prepare him? That seemed like a logical idea. If he forewarned him that Dean was coming up to see him then most of his dad’s anger should have fizzled out by the time he knocked on the front door.
“Oh, crap!” Bollocks, he’d just remembered that he still had a company phone in his jacket pocket. How dumb was he? They’d easily be able to trace his location if he’d been stupid enough to use that.
Dean removed the phone, prised off the back cover and took out the battery. He dropped it on the floor then stamped on it until he heard the casing snapped he then kicked it off the platform. There were times when his own stupidity surprised even him. Well, it looked as though his dad would be getting a surprise visit from his darling son after all.
He looked up to find that the station platform was no longer deserted. A tall teenage girl wearing a very tight green t-shirt walked past the bench; she held a ghetto blaster in her left hand. Dean tried not to stare at it, bloody hell. Had the kids round here not heard of mobile phones? He hadn’t seen one of those things since th
e eighties. This place really was stuck in its own little time bubble.
The radio was on, Dean caught a snippet of a newscaster mentioning disturbances in the capital; gunfire had been heard in various locations around the city.
His mouth went bone-dry; he knew exactly what that meant. He watched as she wandered over to the timetable then rushed towards her, eager to hear the rest of the news. Dean heard something about barricades of abandoned vehicles around the parliament buildings and something about bonfires across London Bridge before the woman looked at Dean funny, turned off her radio and hurried over to the far end of the platform..
He stood there; in the boiling sun and feeling as if, he had just stepped out of an ice-cold shower. He had failed to contain it; somehow, the infection had spread out of the institute and into the capital city. He staggered over to the wall and put his hands against the cool bricks. The full implications of what he had helped to create were now beginning to sink in.
“Christ, Linda’s in London!” Dean looked wildly around the station then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the public telephone was still in the same place. “Thank Christ for that,” he muttered. Dean rushed over and groaned when he saw Seeton’s new generation of kids had completely trashed it.
“You stupid little fuckers.” He growled. Dean saw the woman slowly making her way back to the train timetable bolted to the side of the station building.
“Miss?” he shouted. “Excuse me, miss. I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you have a phone I could use? It’s really important.”
The woman looked at him like he was speaking in a foreign tongue. She then quickly shook her head then turned her back to him.
“Fuck, what an ignorant cow. What the hell was he going to do now?” Dean hurried off the station platform, towards the bridge, there used to be a couple of phone boxes just near the village square, surely one of those still worked.
