I switched my gaze back to the driver’s cab just as the demon’s head exploded in a violent spray of black blood and then it dropped from sight even as the entire engine heaved itself from the rails and smashed back down onto the tracks mere inches from my legs. As the quaking vibrations of the impact faded, I found myself enveloped in a crushing silence.
Cally Eastfield held out her hand to me. ‘Quickly now, out of there,’ she ordered.
Too stunned to do anything else, I obeyed and joined her on the platform. After shaking bits of broken glass from my hat I asked, ‘Is it over?’
She smiled demurely. ‘Yes, I think we can safely consider this train to be cleansed of all demons and evil spirits.’
‘You saved my life down there. For that I’ll be eternally grateful.’
Her demure expression changed to one of awkward embarrassment. ‘Ah, look, best to be honest with you. That incantation I gave you. It wasn’t exactly a spell for banishing demons.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘Not really. It was more a demonic challenge. You were provoking the demon into a fight to the death.’
‘Why the fu...?’
Miss Eastfield placed her hand over my mouth. No cursing, please, Mr Deuchar. For the next few hours this platform is a sacred place and I won’t see it sullied. You see, if I’d simply come along and tried singing the demon back to hell, it would have fought back and I’m not as strong as I used to be. I needed the demon to be fully distracted and let its defences down. I’m afraid I was using you as bait.’
I was speechless, right up to the point when two railway policemen grabbed hold of Cally Eastfield and marched her away. As they departed I heard one say to her, ‘Oh, it’s you again. You’re for it this time, lady.’
I wandered back down the platform, only wanting to get out the station and back to the normality of my office. A hand barred my way. It was Ian Shand looking extremely apologetic.
‘Terribly sorry, Mr Deuchar. Took our eye off the ball somewhat.’ He gestured to the old train sitting on platform four. ‘That’s a DP1. That is to say, a Class 55 Deltic, built by English Electric in 1954. Haven’t seen one of these outside the York railway museum since 1973.’
I plucked Shand’s woolly hat from his head and dropped it into the deep gap between the train and the platform. ‘Just send me a cheque for my time, Shand,’ I growled as I strolled off towards the barrier where angry passengers were milling around after hearing their train had been delayed indefinitely due to a technical fault.
After leaving the station, I made my way back to the office. To my surprise the door was already open and a woman with long blonde hair was sitting at my desk with her back to me. I tossed my fedora at the hat stand where it nestled snugly on the wooden hook and I slipped behind my desk. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss…’ I started to say, then stopped abruptly. Across the desk I couldn’t help notice the blonde-haired woman had a large black moustache. And a claw hammer.
‘About those pictures you sent my wife,’ said Mr McQueen.
The Crocodile of Corfu
There I was on holiday in Corfu, enjoying my sixth rum and coke beside the swimming pool, when the crocodile spoke to me. Not a real crocodile of course. It was a bright green inflatable toy that some kid had left beside my sun-lounger. Being in the holiday spirit, I’d been admiring its cheeky grin and probably encouraged it by smiling.
‘How you doing, mate?’ it said. ‘Having a good holiday?’
‘Yeah, having a great time. Thanks for asking,’ I called back. I wondered if I ought to cut down on the drinking. During the day at least. ‘What about yourself, Croc? How’s tricks with you?’
The crocodile sighed mournfully. ‘To be honest, I’m feeling a little deflated.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to cheer you up? I’ve few good jokes that’ll make you laugh.’
‘No, I really am feeling deflated. I’ve a slow puncture and getting all soft and flabby. Not a good state for a respectable inflatable to be. Listen, I hate to ask, but you couldn’t see your way to giving me a quick top-up could you? A couple of big puffs should do the trick.’
The rum had made me mellow and I was happy to oblige. ‘No problem. Where’s your valve?’
‘Underneath. If you turn me over you can’t miss it.’
I flipped the crocodile on its back and sure enough the rubber valve was sticking out prominently. Pulling off the cap, I sealed my mouth around the opening and blew as hard as I could. The crocodile gasped in what sounded like intense pleasure.
‘That’s it, big boy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. You’re making me so hard…’
I removed my mouth from the valve and bunged in the cap, before hastily turning the beast back onto its stomach. My face was burning with embarrassment. ‘Why, you sneaky plastic ...’
The crocodile apologised. ‘Sorry about that. Honestly. Don’t know what came over me. Maybe it’s the heat. You’ve no idea what it’s like lying here all day in the baking sun. I know I shouldn’t ask, but could you help me out one last time?’
I shouldn’t have listened, but there was a note of pleading in its voice that tugged at my heart strings.
‘I’d appreciate it if you could put some sun lotion on my tail. You’ve no idea the agony I’m in.’
So like a fool, I poured a generous dollop of sun cream on my palm and smeared it back and forth along the creature’s tail.
‘Faster. Faster. Go on. Hard as you like. Yank my tail off!’
I let go and was about to rebuke the crocodile once more when a gruff voice yelled at me, ‘Hey! What the fuck are you doing with my daughter’s inflatable?’
I looked up to see a beefy, red-faced man with tattoos glaring angrily down at me.
‘Fucking pervert,’ he yelled as he pulled me off my sun-lounger and threw me head-first into the pool.
As I crawled gasping to the side, coughing up chlorinated water, I could see the crocodile grinning at me and too late remembered the old saying.
Never smile at a crocodile…
Mother’s Ruin
It was a slow night in the Eight Till Late. There had been a few guys buying cigarettes earlier on, and I’d also had the fun diversion of chasing off a group of spotty fifteen year olds with fake ID’s trying to buy bottles of cider. Since then, my attention had been taken up with deconstructing Henry James’s Turn of the Screw for an essay I needed to finish. To make the task more bearable, I’d filched a couple of Mars Bars from the confectionery tray.
At ten o’clock the shop door opened. I looked up, half expecting to see the spotty teenagers wearing false beards, back for another futile cider raid. Instead, it was a middle-aged woman wearing a green tweed coat. As she busied herself at the vegetable rack, I got back to my essay. The next time I looked up, she was standing at the counter right in front of me. It seemed that after filling her basket with cucumber, carrots, potatoes and a leek, she had taken the time to tie a large white handkerchief around her lower face. Then I noticed the gun pointing directly at my chest.
‘Empty the till,’ she said in a very calm voice.
‘Erm… are you really sure you want to be doing this? It’s been quiet in here tonight and the takings are pretty sparse.’
She was silent for a moment, giving me time to take in her appearance. Her tweed coat was buttoned up to the neck hiding what she was wearing underneath, but it couldn’t disguise the distinct swell of a matronly bosom. Her hair was dark and swept back in an old fashioned style. I expected to see panic in her eyes, but they remained locked firmly on mine, showing not a hint of fear or uncertainty. This was a woman who’d made up her mind to do something and was seeing the job through.
‘Empty the till or I’ll blow your head off.’
I opened the till drawer and removed twenty six pounds. I held them out feeling almost embarrassed.
‘Put the money in a bag, please. And don’t forget the loose change.’
I bundled the money into a c
arrier bag which she slipped into the pocket of her coat.
‘Now empty your pockets.’
I did as she asked. I had two pounds and thirty six pence. ‘Sorry, I’m a student. Wouldn’t be working here otherwise. But you’re welcome to it anyway.’
She hesitated, then her shoulders slumped beneath the fabric of the coat. ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘What University are you attending?’
‘Strathclyde. Doing a degree in English Literature.’
‘Working hard, I hope?’
I thought it was a bizarre turn for the conversation to take, but held up my copy of Henry James. ‘Got my head stuck in the books even when I’m working here.’
‘That’s highly commendable. Nothing makes me angrier than children not appreciating the sacrifices their parents make to give them a decent education.’
‘Have you got kids at University yourself?’
She nodded her head. ‘Two daughters at St Andrews. It’s costing me a fortune paying for their accommodation. That’s a lot of money for a single parent like me to find. I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. Robbing you, I mean. I hope you won’t lose your job because of me.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Hardly think they’re going to fire me over twenty six quid.’ I nodded at the basket full of vegetables. ‘You want me to bag those for you?’
‘Thank you. I’m making soup. It’s all I can afford to eat most days.’
‘Me too, if I wasn’t working here.’ I showed her my Mars Bar and took a bite.
‘That’s not very nutritional. If you’re going to steal food you should at least eat more fruit and vegetables.’
I laughed. ‘You sound just like my mum.’
That seemed to please her. Her eyes crinkled in that certain way that told me she was smiling beneath the handkerchief. She got even more mumsy when she tutted and pointed to my mouth. ‘You’ve got chocolate smeared, just there.’ She suddenly pulled the handkerchief away from her face, licked a corner of it and leaned across to scrub the chocolate from the side of my mouth. When she stood back I got a good look at her face. Although she looked to be in her early fifties, she was extremely attractive. Her lips were red and full and extremely kiss-able.
She took a step back from the counter. The gun which she had lowered when cleaning my face was now pointed firmly at my heart. ‘Sorry, wasn’t thinking, that was stupid of me. Now you’ve seen my face.’
She swiftly cocked the hammer and pulled on the trigger. Instead of flame and gun smoke and instant death, there was only a dry click. Before she could chamber another bullet, I grabbed the cucumber from her carrier bag and smacked her hard across the temple. She dropped silently to the ground.
I raced to the front door and locked it before pulling down the shutter. I checked the woman’s breathing and found her to be alive. That was good. Then I dragged her into the back room and unbuttoned her coat. The promise of that matronly bosom beneath the tweed was fulfilled in every way I could have dreamed of. The money she’d stolen would be returned to the till. The gun I could sell in one of the rougher pubs in the area. No-one would ever know she’d been here.
After stuffing the handkerchief into her mouth, I began undressing her. I’d always had a thing about older women and this one was a real prize. Much tastier than the last few I’d raped and strangled. When I’d had my fun, her body would be dumped in a nearby skip.
I stroked the unconscious woman’s cheek and said, ‘More fruit and veg you say? Let’s check out those melons.’
Memento
Selfish bastards. Sticking me in fucking Bedlam while they swan off to the Costa Brava for a fortnight. I still can’t believe my son and daughter-in-law abandoned me in this stinking shit-hole they call a Care Home simply because I refused to go on holiday with them and their genetically-challenged offspring. Whatever happened to honour thy parents? Just because I’ve got borderline Alzheimer’s disease and can’t be trusted to be left on my own in case I burn the house down or forget to feed the goldfish is no excuse for treating me like a dog getting booked into kennels while its masters go gallivanting. So what if I can’t remember things like what day of the week it is and sometimes forget to pull my trousers down when I go for a shit? I hope the fuckers come home with skin cancer. That’ll teach them. I realise that’s wishful thinking. No doubt all they’ll bring back is the usual useless trinkets as keepsakes of their time in sunny Spain. Cheap, worthless, tacky mementoes to remind themselves of a bland two weeks lounging around a swimming pool doing nothing remotely useful. It’s always the same old rubbish – key-rings, bottle openers, fridge magnets, ashtrays and painted seashells. Garbage that will soon be lost and forgotten. What they don’t know is that I have my own personal mementoes of my two week stint in purgatory.
Sitting here in this pokey little cell they call a bedroom, I lay out my collection on the bed. It’s not a bad haul. Over the course of my stay I’ve managed to steal over two hundred pounds from my fellow prisoners. Most of them are way ahead of me in the looney-tunes department. They leave cash lying around and don’t even notice it’s gone when they return, although it beats me why their families give them any money at all. I asked Mrs Gallway, the frigid-faced care supervisor who struts about like she has a cactus plant rammed up her skinny arse, about the money and she explained that it helps some people keep connected to the real world by allowing them to buy their own treats from the tuck shop. Fuck the tuck shop. That money is all mine now.
I’ve a few other souvenirs that are worth more than money. These are proper mementoes. I remember enough Latin from my wasted school days to recall the origins of the word lie in the imperative of meminisse which means to remember. I’m well aware my mental disintegration is a progressive beast; a drooling, crayon-wielding work-in-progress. At some stage I’ll lose the ability to easily recall my swashbuckling adventures from this enforced incarceration, so the keepsakes will hopefully rekindle the flames of my accomplishments here.
I pick up Mrs Johnson’s hearing aid which I stole the night I broke into her room and fucked her. Dozy old cow goes out like a light once she’s taken her medication. I simply waited until McKenna, the wanker with the scruffy beard who does the hourly night patrol, returned to the office to read his book and pick his nose, before making my move, creeping along the dark corridors and slipping into Mrs Johnson’s room without managing to disturb anyone or get lost in the labyrinth of carpeted hallways. Mind you, I almost got lost when I pulled her duvet off and positioned myself between those great, flabby thighs. It took a fair amount of fruitless grinding before I managed an erection worth speaking of, but I finally got there in the end. All the way through the act, Mrs Johnson kept mumbling in her sleep which was off-putting to say the least. I expect she was dreaming about having a conversation with her chiropodist or maybe even her gynaecologist given the relentless pounding I was applying to her starchy old stink-hole. When I finished off with a feeble squirt, I decided her hearing aid would make a nice memento of our coupling. I knew she had a spare one anyway.
I put down the hearing aid and pick up a scrap of cuttlefish bone, turning it over in my hand. I got this from right next door. My immediate neighbour in Stalag 17 is Bob Finlayson. Seems a decent sort of bloke, but he was granted permission from the High Command to keep a canary in his room, which in my book made him the Birdman of Alcatraz. Every single night I’d have my beauty sleep disturbed by the chirping yellow fucker pecking away at the plastic surround of its cage and it was driving me crazy. It was easy enough waiting until Bob had visitors before entering his room and throttling the annoying bird then flushing it out to sea via the toilet bowl. I left the cage door and room window open so he’d think the bird had escaped. I could hear him through the thin wall sobbing his heart out at the loss of his only true friend. I doubt he even noticed I’d swiped the cuttlefish bone.
Then there was Frankie Gilchrist. He acted as though he owned the fucking place. Always hogging the television remote in the common room and boring
everyone within earshot about the good old days when he owned a used car dealership. The way he went on you’d think he was Arnold fucking Clark. He was always flirting with the minimum-wage staff nurses, making them laugh with his old charmer routine. He even wore leather driving gloves and a tartan skipped cap when they wheeled him around the garden in his chair. I soon put his gas at a terminal peep when I broke into his room one night and smothered the fucker to death with a pillow. As a keepsake I took his false teeth which were in a glass of water beside the bed.
I’ve acquired a few other mementoes from my enforced stay here. Stupid stuff I couldn’t stop myself from lifting. Thefts inspired by nothing more than random opportunity. Watches, rings, spectacles, even Mrs Hardie’s wig that she wore after the chemo made her hair fall out. I’d have gathered lots more stuff if I hadn’t succumbed to so many involuntary periods of imbecility and crapping my pants. I’ll be taking everything with me today when my beach-bum son turns up to collect me. I don’t expect to be body-searched on the way out, but best not to take chances, so I stash the lot in the false bottom of my suitcase.
At two o’clock there is a knock on my door and it swings open to reveal not just my son, but the harlot daughter-in-law, too, which is surprising. Both of them are looking fit and tanned with no visible signs of melanomas much to my disappointment. I steal a glance at the daughter-in-law’s low-cut top showing off an indecent amount of bronzed cleavage. The dirty cow has obviously been sunbathing with her tits out, fostering no end of oedipal fantasies on my grandson, whatever his name is.
‘Dad!’ says my son, pretending to look pleased that I haven’t keeled over with a heart attack while he was away. ‘How have you enjoyed your stay here? Like a wee home from home, I hope.’
Mezzanine and Other Curiously Dark Tales Page 4
