Strange happenings on a train

The trouble with trains these days is that we’re all strangers… and that’s just fine with me. Peoples subconscious leak all the time so being on a train makes things even worse, and if it wasn’t for the damn snow I’d surely be driving. However, (un)luckily, the trains are somehow still working. Or at least they were.

Five minutes ago they stopped with no explanation and it’s starting to get cold now. We’re about an hour’s unforgiving walk between stations, but at least the train is offering us some comfort. I say us, but there’s not many of us around. It’s past rush hour and there’s not many sods mad enough to take the chance, especially when the news has been warning people not to travel… course, I’m here… well, because.

One day I’ll learn not to act on these impulses but it’s like a compulsion; like having a nagging wife but at migraine level.

There are nine people in the carriage with me, most of them keeping to themselves. Even in the frozen wastes no one wants to acknowledge the other, let alone talk. Whatever happened to the Dunkirk spirit, eh?

The snow’s coming down harder now, I don’t reckon there’s much chance of us moving for a while. A message on the tannoy confirms this; the driver sounding more stressed than apologetic as if he’s got better places to be than here. Yeah, well.. me too!

I walk up and down the carriage a couple of times just so I can get a feel for the people I’m going to be spending the foreseeable future with. First of all the Flemmings, Bob and Jo. Nice couple, old and still very much in love; holding hands against the cold with eyes only for each other.

And strangely enough Harry and Sue Ellison are doing the same, spending a lot of the time staring at Bob and Jo as well. They’re not making it obvious, of course, but they can see them reflected in the carriage windows. There’s a strange hunger to their gaze; but Harry is wearing a dog collar and Sue has that hypocritical piety that only comes from being the Vicar’s wife. I tell myself that I’m being overly cynical, that they’re only looking at the old couple in prayer and not as prey….I just don’t trust Christians. The fact that I get very little from them adds to my cynicism. Bob and Jo are very warm, obviously compatible, but Harry and Sue just aren’t; they seem so uncomfortable as if even their skin is ill-fitting. In fact, all I can gleam from them is their names; this level of mental shielding is unparalleled but I move on before I get a headache.

Robert and Barbara Deighton match me for my cynicism though; they have every reason to hate the clergy that makes my subtle distrust seem healthy. Their son had been ritually abused for many years by their local Priest and I could see that Robert was using all his restraint. I could see that all he wanted to do was strangle them with their own dog collars. Barbara is shifting between wanting to stop him and doing the same thing herself. The hate is infectious so I move on again to Jim and Edith Maclean.

Both seem wholesome and… knowing. I sense a kindred spirit and when Jim turns to wink at me I know I’m right. I get a glimpse of a smiling sun from Edith and then I’m blocked out. I make a mock bow to both and move on again.

Alistair Fowles is seething; he really did have an important place to go and I can see his mood just getting worse as the time progresses.

The sky is getting blacker, even for Winter this is unheard of; I’ve never seen storm clouds this severe before; the wind is buffeting the train, making it shake. There’s no way we’ll be leaving for a while yet so I go to sit back down in my own spot but Jim and Edith beckon me to sit next to them, which I do gratefully.

“What are you thinking?” Edith asks.

“Probably the same as you, something rotten is happening and it’s not the lack of customer service.”

“I haven’t seen weather like this since ’86.” Jim concurred and I knew exactly what he meant.

“You were out in that too, eh?”

“We needed to hold the fort somehow.”

“You got the dreams as well, then?” I asked. They nodded gravely. “I never want to meet that eight armed bitch again…She was one of the scariest apparitions I’ve ever faced.”

“We saw Fenris.” Edith replied. “A group of us ended up protecting Cissbury Ring; sitting at its base in a circle.”

“That must have been dicey.” I replied. “Chanctonbury was in negative that night.. it must have been terrible!”

“You don’t know the half of it… I was a redhead!” Edith smiled, she was now a very dignified silver-grey.

“I was given the Yew tree at Slaugham to guard; we’ve looked out for each other over the years so it was the least I could do… So what are you feeling now?” Both looked at each other.

“If it gets any worse then we’ll have to pull together; strength in numbers and all that. Will you be able to do that?”

“I’ll find a way.. I can be dead persuasive when I puts me mind to it.” Just then the lights go out and despite it being nearly mid-day you’d think we’d been plunged into darkness. There was the inevitable scream but for once I could understand it. There was something unnatural about the darkness. Jim and Edith’s hands found mine and, for once, I felt pleased for the sentiment. They were completely right as well, it was far safer this way. We could feel our energies radiate out and then suddenly the lights flicked back on.

“Right… that’s enough! I’ll bring us together.” I told them both and stood up.

“Look guys!” I shouted to the rest of them. “We’re going to be here for some time; it’s going to get a darn sight colder before too long and I can’t imagine that we’re going to get rescued for a bit so I reckon we should all get a lot closer together and keep each other company, like.”

“Who died and put you in charge?” Alistair said. I knew he’d be the one to cause trouble.

“Don’t be so foul, mate. You want to end up like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining, that’s fine by me. The rest of you scoot up here with us three.” Being a frozen arse-icle didn’t appeal to Alistair so he joined us and pretty soon we were all huddled together with Jim and Edith providing the tea and sympathy to my rugged practicality.

Maths was never my strong point but even I could tell that there weren’t enough of us and it wasn’t difficult to realise that we were missing the puritanical Ellisons. I looked around the carriage but they were nowhere to be seen. Strange. There was nowhere for them to go, the doors to the other compartments had stayed shut and it was impossible for anyone to operate the doors to the outside.

I urged the others to look for them but Robert and Barbara, unsurprisingly, refused  to join in the search. I noted it down for future reference but knew that now wasn’t the time to push them on it. In any normal circumstances they would have been my first suspicion regarding foul play. To them it might have been justified, I’m sure, but we hadn’t even found a body yet.

Bob and Jo, the ever loving couple, were almost giggling like a couple of nasty schoolchildren when we all gathered together again; no one had found anything. Somehow the Ellison’s had completely disappeared, which didn’t make any sense at all.

“It must have happened during the blackout.” Alistair remarked, although no one actually asked him.

“Ok, wise guy; what happened?” I asked. I mean, he wasn’t wrong as it was the only time such a thing could have happened, but how? “Go on… venture a theory.” I needled.

“It’s not my area of expertise, mate. More on your line, isn’t it?”

“We met before?” I asked.

“Let’s just say we have mutual friends. Remember the McKlusky’s?” Great. Just what I needed; the power of schadenfreude slaps me round the face again. “Brilliant… look, we don’t have time for this.” I looked at him, sizing him up in case things got out of hand. I really hoped that they wouldn’t, but like with the McKlusky’s, things have a habit of going very wrong, very quickly.  “Are we going to have a problem?” I asked again.

“What happened to the McKlusky’s?” Barbara asked.

“Their daughter had a mysterious illness that no one could figure out. He got involved and then…”

“I asked if we were going to have a problem..” I interrupted. “Look; I don’t have to get involved, believe me. I really don’t want to and never have done. They came to me; perhaps you didn’t know that…”

Edith put her hand on my arm and I felt her energy calm me. Alistair looked at her and back at me.

“No, we got no problem.. this time.” He replied.

“I can live with that…” I looked around me and saw that it was getting dark again. The air around us felt dank and claustrophobic somehow. Something was circling us, I could tell.

“We need to hold hands, in a kind of makeshift circle, the best we can.” I said as calmly as I could. “I know how this sounds but it’s something that we have to do.” I held hands with Edith one side and James the other; Barbara held Jo’s hand with Robert then Bob and then Alistair. I could see all of them, but either it was a trick of the light or both Bob and Jo had a vicious glint in their eyes that was as sinister as it was incongruous. There was something malevolent happening and they should have been at least scared or upset even. However, I didn’t have time for that, it was getting dark again. Everyone looked at me for succour and I almost shrugged my shoulders as if to say “what do you want me to do about it?” but I had just set myself up as the leader of this band of misfits. To break faith now could be disastrous.

“Whatever you do, don’t break the circle; things are likely to get a lot weirder. Keep looking at me. I know I ain’t pretty but keep looking into my eyes.”

I could feel their gaze on me; they drew strength from someone being in control and I drew strength from James and Edith; we were now one and I could see through their eyes as well. I knew what was happening now and what had befell Harry and Sue.

I looked at what remained of the love birds Bob and Jo and spoke so only they could hear me.

“I know what you are and what you’ve done.” Outwith I saw their demon wings unfold as they stripped themselves of their human vestments that had been the Flemmings.

“Smart..” I said with more gusto than I actually felt. “Or should I say devious? Hide yourselves in the last bodies you devoured…” The Ellisons, if they had ever been in the first place, smiled in unison and then spoke as one.

“Clever mortal. We like intelligence, so much more filling. The old couple’s souls were stringy, gristle in our teeth.”

“Ah… one entity…I see, ingenious!  So, why now? Why this train? And why them?”

“Why not? Time is slowly becoming ours, soon there will be no more places for you to hide.”

“Who’s hiding? I came on this journey to find you.” I bluffed. “I’d like to say that I wasn’t disappointed.. but…”

“Silence… you have done a very foolish thing, mortal, meeting with us outwith your plane.” Psychic claws raked at me and I winced in pain.

“Who says I’m alone? There’s perhaps two of you here but there’s at least five others with me!” I drew on the strength of those I’d left behind on the train.
“More for us to feed on then.” The Demon boasted and I felt pain deeper within. Now was the time to play my final hand.

“Don’t… don’t take them. It’s me you want.” This was music to their ears, I could feel their cancerous souls seethe over mine, blocking out the light, leeching through my mind with acid eating away at my core. I allowed them deeper until they got exactly where I wanted them. Whatever had enlisted them obviously hadn’t told them much about me, or they were complete amateurs. This wasn’t much of a psychic trap but it worked perfectly on them.

If you’re going to ‘invite’ demons to claim your soul then make sure you have a more powerful sonnovabitch lay claim beforehand. By the time they realised what was happening they couldn’t turn back; rather than try to consume me it was them who were eaten up, drained of their very life essences. They didn’t even get a chance to scream….

…and suddenly I was back on the Earth plain again, holding hands and watching as the bodies that had been Bob and Jo disintegrated in front of us. Robert, Barbara and Alistair were gobsmacked by what had just happened and even James and Edith were speechless. I don’t think they’d ever had the misfortune to encounter anything this evil before. But the carriage was now lighter and even the snow had stopped. There were still a couple of hours before we were to be rescued, I guessed, but that hopefully gave me enough time to explain to them all had just happened.

The man who was

Instinct; it's the only thing that kept him alive for this long. It told him when to abandon the job and when to pull the trigger. It had saved his life numerous times, so why didn't it warn him this night?

Never keep a routine, never be predictable:  that was a sign of carelessness, and even after five years of anonomised retirement those were two rules he still lived by. The only thing he did which was even remotely relatable was buy himself a dog. Bill was a bulldog that had seen better days, but then so had he. There was a mutual dislike at first sight which grew to respect and then to loyalty. He took a lot of training and it was his guess that whoever had owned Bill before had lacked the discipline.

Walking Bill was one of the few concessions he allowed himself; it gave him a sense of enjoyment and he'd also spent a long time learning from Bill. Although his sense of smell was nowhere as acute as the dog's he was surprised at how much he could now pick up for himself.

Walking Bill also gave him the chance to reconnoitre the area. Bill needed a good long walk which suited him fine, so he took a different quarter at a time. He varied the times that he left for the walk, varied his routes and speed of pace as well as the duration of the walk.

He possessed a photographic memory and noted everything that was happening in the neighbourhood. He bought every local newspaper to keep up to date on any crimes -anything that could be used if eventualities permitted.

He had to be ready for anything and he thought that he was. He'd honed his skills, but had he, in fact, become sloppy? What else could have explained what happened next?

He was going to take route Q2P24 but changed his mind at the last minute. He was getting sentimental in his old age – there were some woods near his house and a family of badgers had recently made it their own. Course, Bill would have to be kept on a leash but everyone needs to be reined in once in a while.

It was getting dark but there were still good visibility and the leaves on the woodland floor acted as an effective early warning system. Bill was enjoying himself, lots of scent trails to engage him but he kept looking up at the man in an attempt to coerce him into letting go of the leash. “Not a chance.” the man thought. Bill resided himself to take a piss instead.

The hand holding the leash exploded in crimson and bone before he even heard the crack of the shot. Even with the suppressor the sound was still deafening in the dusk.

He didn't think about the pain, didn't even think about Bill or how someone had managed to sneak up on him, he dived out of the way as the next three bullets thudded in to the ground where he had been standing.

The shot that killed Bill was more of an afterthought, perhaps calculated to enrage him so he'd make a mistake. But the man who was Quicksilver didn't make mistakes -up until now. There was nothing he could do for Bill -the moment the first shot had been fired he only had thoughts for one thing, his own survival and nothing had changed.

He checked his surroundings; lucky old man, he'd leapt into a bracken thicket which gave him more than enough cover. The light had dimmed to a murky grey which made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front. He just hoped that whoever it was didn't possess an infrared sight or goggles. The fact that he was still alive was perhaps proof that they didn't. Either that or he was being toyed with,

He had to assess the situation, work on the supposition that there were no infrared sights in the equation, otherwise he might not make the night.

Carefully he checked his right hand. The last three fingers had been almost completely shot off and his index finger had a chunk taken out of it. Blood was throbbing out of the stumps. Not great and without medical attention he could die but for the time being he had to make a temporary tourniquet. He took the cotton handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, found two sturdy twigs to splint the mess together and bound his hand up the best he could. It would do -he would survive though... but it had been Bill's weak bladder that had saved him.

There had been no trace of anyone remotely near them -he would've sensed them, surely. The gunman had used four bullets already but there was no telling how many spare clips he held. He was far from unarmed though, always carrying his piece with him. The Glock was fairly unobtrusive and more than enough to do the trick, but he was disadvantaged by having to shoot left-handed, but there was no way that anyone could sneak up on him now. They couldn't see more than a few feet in front of them so they'd have to come in close for a kill. Either that or they'd wait him out -allow him to make the first move and pick him off at their leisure. The third option was that they'd given him up for a lost cause, but that was a risk that he couldn't afford to make. If he could last the night then he would make sure that someone paid.

With practice and will power one can accomplish anything. Lying absolutely still upon damp woodland as the temperature drops whilst all manner of bugs and creeping things snack on your blood is just such a skill, made even easier when the threat of death is the only other alternative, he thought.

For all he knew, he was completely alone in the woods; the would-be assassin long gone but it was obvious that this guy was a professional, and even though he could see shit out there it would still be possible to be picked off by sound alone. One would only have to get the general vicinity and then human psychology would do the rest. He couldn't take the risk, he'd have to wait until daybreak; at least then he might have more of a fighting chance.

His fingers throbbed sickeningly. He'd been injured worse than this, for sure, so he wasn't worried, but this was his dominant hand. Shooting left-handed wouldn't normally be too much of an encumbrance, but with this person he needed every edge he could muster. He had to ignore the pain and concentrate on what he knew and what he could surmise.

This person was good; a professional. It would be pointless to guess at their identity or even their gender. In his time he'd known too many female assassins, playing on their obvious assets to get the job done -disguising the fact that they were just as deadly, if not more so, than their male counterparts. He'd almost been caught out twice himself in the early days. The second time had almost been his demise but she had stupidly let her guard down and had paid the price.

Was that it – revenge? Never underestimate the half-life of revenge. It goes dormant, waiting for the right time to strike. It's more dangerous once the triggering emotions die down and then cold hard logic seeps in. That's how some people became contract killers in the first place -the kill; that feeling of release takes over from the initial desire for revenge, and, like any drug, the first hit is always the sweetest. It takes many more hits to get that initial pay off and then you're hooked.

But it hadn't been that way for him though.

The man had no qualms and no illusions about why he'd become a killer. He was good at it. He had morality and knew the difference between right and wrong, but he just didn't let it get in the way of his job. He tried to think about all the people who could've called out such a hit and it didn't take him long to run down the list of potential suspects -they were all dead. He'd made certain of that before he retired.

Very few people had known of his true identity; the only people to connect his alias with his face were his targets and they never told. He had always prided himself on his anonymity, always dealing through proxy addresses and dummy names. He'd had enough sense to study acting as well, and could disguise himself when necessary; nor had he allowed himself to get too close to anyone.

He was cold, ruthless and efficient and that was how he lasted for so long. No emotional attachments.

The hours had crawled by and the sun was starting to rise. He felt that the time had come for him to make a decision. Was he going to move now or wait a bit longer? There was a mist issuing forth from the ground which could provide him with an extra edge if he used it correctly. In another hour the light would be stronger and he would stand out like the Pope in a whore house. The trick would be in getting up slowly so that he disturbed as little of the undergrowth as possible -the mist would make it harder for anyone to get a bead on him.

He could feel the cold damp cramp protest as he edged himself up. The temptation was to make a run for it but the noise would alert anyone in the vicinity, so it took him five minutes to stand upright and inch himself back on to the path. There was Bill still lying where he'd been shot -at least it had been a clean kill. Damn, Bill had been the one luxury, the one sentimental chink in his armour; well, that would learn him (if he got a second chance).

Even when he was walking back to his house he took it slow, tried to make himself as casual as possible, even going so far as to walk slightly hunched over, with a limp, so his silhouette didn't look like him.

He was conscious of every movement around him; every noise, no matter how small. Even when he got to his front door he still wouldn't allow himself to relax; that had been the biggest mistake of his; he had grown complacent and had almost paid the price for it.

Now it was somebody else's turn to pay.

He bathed and tended his hand as best he could. He couldn't afford to waste time at a hospital but allowed himself a few hours’ sleep. He had learned to switch off; a skill that had served him well and led to many nights rest. Too many people could not switch off and they either went mad or got sloppy.

But it was when he woke that the questions really started. Two really: Who had tried to kill him and who had called in the hit? Both were hard to figure. He had not kept any contacts to his old life so didn't know who was still operating. They were good, maybe even as good as he used to be. True, they had missed, but could that have been deliberate? Was this part of a psychological vendetta? To make him paranoid before killing him?

He despised that approach; he didn't want to think of people unduly suffering; his kills were always quick and clean. So who was alive that could have called it in? No one to his knowledge and he'd certainly not made any waves in his new life to prompt anyone to go down such a route. A hitman was a very costly vendetta -extortionate, actually. It wasn't that a human life was expensive, but making it look like an accident or making it untraceable was difficult. Killing someone was the easy part. No one he knew could afford that kind of money surely?

He had three choices as he saw it. One: Run. He could easily disappear again. He'd left a fake trail that no one could follow. No one had managed to trace him back to his old life so he could do it again.

Two: Ignore it. There was the slightest possibility that he had been mistaken for somebody else. It had been known, bizarrely enough.... but that was the kind of thinking that would lead to his death.

The only option that was left to him was to find out who was responsible. That meant taking his life apart person by person. There were two people who thought that they were close to him, and one person at work who had proven to be a trouble maker; so it was with them that he would start.

This was going to be a nasty process, one that there was no going back from and he had to be prepared to go all the way. There was no resurrecting his cover from this; once it was over he would have to start again... but he had to be sure.

The key to any hit was detail. One had to know everything about the target, down to the last detail: it was all relevant. The man had been an excellent researcher in his time and he'd lost none of that skill. He'd managed to develop detailed background checks on all his so called friends -call it paranoia, but it was another of the reasons he was still alive.

He'd worked at the same firm for five years now and had managed to stay firmly in the background. He was a financial advisor and neither over-performed nor missed his targets. He knew enough about psychology to be an effective salesman without being too pushy. His clients trusted him and saw him as a straight shooter (one lady had actually called him that, drawing a thin ironic smile from him.).

Most of his work colleagues paid little notice of him, all except one: Simon Jimson. Simon was a Welshman of no mean repute; he was one of the top sellers and could net women with the same skills. He seemed to take an interest in the man's affairs from almost the first month; on the first training session he made jokes about other forms of retirement, something that seemed deliberately aimed at him.

Simon was way too popular to be made an example of ; too many questions would be raised if he was found dead. He couldn't afford that kind of heat, so it was far better to avoid him, which wasn't that difficult as they lived over 200 miles apart and only met up three times a year. But now was the time for answers. Simon seemed to know something and there was going to be no fucking about now.

It was a four hour trip to get to Simon's house, and it took another hour to ensure that he was alone, but the first shot had been worth it; he took a perverse pleasure from it.

The knock on the door had led to a surprised look on Simon's face, quickly followed by horror as two rounds of suppressed gun fire tore chunks out of his left leg. The man pushed Simon as he fell and closed the door swiftly behind him -the whole thing had taken less than a minute.

“You know who I am.. or at least, what I am.” He said quietly. Simon had managed to keep himself from screaming from the pain but could only spasmodically nod. “How?”

“Conspiracies...  I'm into conspiracies... followed your career for years.”

“Again, how? I've been careful.”

“Too... too careful.” Simon replied, sweating profusely now. “Your M.O. was too perfect, you took no risks. Your nickname was the Immaculate Conception, believe...believe it or not.. because every job you took was immaculate. There's a whole sub-culture of us who are into contract killers as others are into... trains... We swap statistics like top-trumps.”

“I'm not a fucking card game, Simon -someone took a shot at me and I want to know who.”

Horror was quickly followed by disbelief on his face as Simon understood what was happening.

“But who could take you? You think... you think it's me?”

“Who.... have... you.. told?”

“Swear.. I swear. I've told no one.” The man bent over and pushed his gun into the wounds on Simon's leg. Simon screamed.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Ran background check on you... was too good.”

“Why?”

“Like to know who my competitors are – good salesmanship.”

“Go on.”

“You'd taken such pains to make out that you were an average person... but you.. you're not. Nothing about you is average. You're always aware, your body mannerisms; it's like your hunting. Your KPI's are always just right -oh, you play the odds but it's obvious that you're capable of so much more. I had suspicions right from the start and … built up from there.”

The man smiled despite himself -this womanising, washed-up Welshman had done what he thought impossible and in any other circumstances he might even have admired him.

“Who else have you told?” He prodded the wound again.

“Fuck you! Who would have believed me? I'm a good salesman, but not that good!”

Simon had a point; he was a blabbermouth but knew how to keep the important stuff secret. If he had spoken to anyone before then the attack would've happened far sooner.

“It's your lucky day, Simon.”

“You going to let me go?”

“No, you're going to be taken out by the Immaculate Conception -out of retirement for the last time. You were right after all.” The bullet was swift; no point in inflicting any further pain, that wasn't his style.

On the drive home he was cursing. How had he been found out? Had he been that sloppy in his life? By being so cautious had he really created another M.O. (Something that he had tried so desperately to avoid.) He was confident that Simon hadn't told anyone else, but if he had figured it out.... He only had two places left to visit but he had to make it quick -luckily it was now Sunday morning so surprise was on his side.

Part of him didn't want to go through with this -it meant killing two people he almost cared about. His partner and is 'best friend'.

He'd met Louise in a bar in his first week. He'd visited it to get a feel for the locals, not to enter into a relationship with anyone, but she had made it too easy. Five years had passed like months and he had almost trusted her enough to move in together. She was sweet and gullible and just wanted to believe the best about people; she swallowed his lies easily.

She wasn't at home when he called, so he broke in using the key he copied from when they first met up. It looked like she had been gone the whole weekend, but where? She hadn't spoken about making any plans.

Then a note on her calendar for Saturday and Sunday: Matthew and a smiley face. That bitch! He couldn't believe that she would do such a thing. Matthew was supposed to be best friends with him. Well, no matter -it was all going to be over anyway and this way would be much quicker.

It was a short drive and easy enough to break into Matthews flat and, and as he thought, they were still in bed together; it was almost touching.

He had to be careful, too much noise would alert the neighbours. He had a roll of duct tape and some cable ties with him from the car. They were both lying on their backs which made things slightly easier. He quickly rolled out a long strip and leapt on to the bed, fastening the tape to their mouths in one swift motion.

When Matthew awoke he gasped soundlessly and the man swiftly elbowed him in the stomach before cutting the tape between them and pinned Matthew to the bed. Louise was awake now but too scared to move so he could roll her onto her front and secure the cable tie to her wrists before moving back to Matthew.

When the ties were firm he ripped the tape from Matthews mouth in one swift motion nearly taking the skin from his lips.

“Do you know who I am?” He hissed.

“You fucking kidding me? I knew you'd find out eventually.”

“Find out what?”

“About us? What do you think? I said that we were taking too many risks but she said nooooo -you know what I think? I think she wanted you to find out. Well, congratulations, bitch -he found out!” The man slammed his fist into Matthews nose before securing another swathe of tape across his mouth and nose.

He pulled Louise off the bed and dragged her into the bathroom whilst Matthew struggled to breathe. Once she was inside he turned back into the bedroom and looked at the panicking body. “You should've treated her better.” He said before shooting Matthew through the heart.

Back in the bathroom Louise had managed to wake up from her stupor and tried to scream when he walked in, shutting the door casually behind him. She stood by the toilet, trapped and cowering. She looked so vulnerable that a small part of him wanted to just hold her, but that could never happen again. He thought of Matthew and just lashed out, slamming her into the bath, her head hitting the wall, knocking her cold. He relieved himself in the toilet whilst pondering what to do.

He didn't want to overly hurt her but equally he needed to know what she knew. Basely, he also wanted to know why she cheated on him; for some reason it mattered to him.

The cold water woke her up but he splashed two more cup full's on her to make sure. When she calmed down enough he talked to her.

“Do you know who I am? Who I really am?” She shook her head, terrified. “Talk to me!” He shouted.

“No.. No, I don't.. I swear.”

“Have you ever spoken to Simon?”

“The Welsh twat? No.. why should I? Why would I talk to him?”

She was right, there was no reason but he had to be sure. He took the pair of scissors that sat on the vanity shelf and pondered using them.

Her eyes followed his and seemed to immediately understand. A thin trickle of liquid ran down her leg. He needed no further proof and sighed. But if not her, then who? Who knew so much about him? He turned to leave. He knew that he had to kill her but couldn't; but equally he needed to know why she'd cheated on him.

“Why him, Louise? Why Matthew?” She looked at him firmly now, free of fear and all meekness gone.

“He's everything you're not: caring, understanding. Do you ever really see me? See what's become of me? You care nothing about no one; nothing touches you. You're nothing but a cold blooded machine – a nothing!” A single bullet stopped her, he couldn't bare to hear any more; and what was worse was... she was right.

Back at home.. but home no longer. People would come looking for him now, police. He had to be gone, as far away as he could manage. It would take less than ten minutes to pack and erase his presence from the place. He always kept emergency suitcases for just this eventuality.

When he'd finished and wiped his fingerprints from everything he found a piece of paper sticking out of his letterbox. Two words, in familiar handwriting that he just couldn't place.

“Nymans 10pm.”

Nymans Gardens was a National Trust property on the outskirts of town where he'd taken Bill for many walks; he knew the place well. Tonight was different though, he needed answers. He'd hid in the woods during closing time and at nine he started prowling the grounds. There had been no specified place to meet so this was to be a showdown... well, he was going to be ready.

He took the path that led straight to the house; two tall hedges stood either side making a narrow corridor. He hugged the left side and made himself as small a target as he could. He had perfect visibility as the assailant could only attack from the front or the rear and he was on a hair trigger. The house was in front, and behind were simply fields, there was no chance of a surprise attack.

The spotlight blinded him, forcing him from the shadows. It could only have come from the house but made it impossible for him to see anything. He never even heard the first shot but felt it enter his naval. By the time the second shot found its mark he was already falling and he hit the ground dead, as he always was.

Doctor Who: Same as it ever was

She wakes up; the soft cream light soothes her eyes but not her mind. Everything was as it should be; the morning routine more like a ritual honed to perfection: callisthenics for the soul; but through it all she still feels empty, as if she as missing a vital part of her existence.

Twenty minutes later she is at the breakfast line alongside the other drones; always in the same order for the queue. In front of her, a man slightly taller with sandy blonde hair and a kind, travel worn expression. Travel worn and weary; but with something else; a knowing, perhaps; a sadness –not that it was possible to maintain anyone’s gaze for eye contact was strictly forbidden.

The lad behind her had a sterner expressions; ginger hair and freckles. There was something odd about him; he was unquiet; the way he moved; his rhythm was slightly off; alien almost; but that didn’t make sense. There were no such things as aliens: all that existed was the factory and the Great Ones that controlled all. But was that really true?

Was she so different from all the rest, so unpure? She sounded so different to everyone else; her voice raw, almost harsh, that alone marked her as unpure and it was a sign of the Great Ones love that despite being processed and reset so many times, she was still welcomed back in to the fold, when so many had been absorbed.

She had no knowledge of any of this, of course, part of the processing meant that her memories were wiped; as had everyone’s: this happened during the rest time at the end of the day; every day. All that remained was the importance of serving the Great Ones, and the knowledge needed in order to run their daily routines.

But something else marked her as unpure; something that no amount of processing could erase. Two things, to be exact: the dreams of other times and places (most involving the two people next to her in the queue) and the voice that she heard constantly from the blue squared pillars that stood out so vividly from the cream backgrounds.

Everything was cream: the floors, walls and ceilings; the work surfaces and the machines –even the things that they manufactured. All except those navy blue pillars, all with the same recessed squares that she found strangely comforting.

And those pillars spoke to her, inside her mind. They said seven words to her. The only seven words that anyone spoke to her. She paid them no heed at first; the Great Ones warned about such thoughts –they were to be supressed or reported, but they were too familiar, too comforting to report; and as the days became one they gradually moved to the forefront of her consciousness. “Wake up, Tegan; you must wake up.”

Then the headaches began. At first they were just a niggle, a presence. Each day they became more painful and it became harder and harder for her to block them out. She was not aware of having them before; the processing blotted out the memories of the other days spent in pain though it was unable to detect anything untoward.

One day the pain became too much for her to handle; it affected everything she did and it was noticed by the Great Ones. At the end of her shift it stabbed at her as she walked in the corridor and she screamed; blindly lashing out around her, trying to find something or someone to lean on. Her hand struck one of the blue pillars and to her horror she fell straight through it and landed on the other side in an environment that made her weep with joy and fear at the same time.

She was inside the TARDIS, knowing she was finally safe.

Outside everything had stopped; immobile like waxwork statues… waiting.

“What the hell is going on? Where are the Doctor and Turlogh?” She demanded, her voice shrill and afraid; angry at the uncertainty that surrounded her. Suddenly the central column flashed and became opaque; in the middle she could see a perfect hologram of the Doctor facing her.

“I can’t explain what’s happened to you, Tegan. I can only assume that if you’re seeing this now then my worst fears have been realised. You must listen to me for more than our lives are at risk. We have been captured; brainwashed –our memories systematically erased every night. This is the TARDIS herself talking to you now; it forms part of the symbiotic feedback which only kicks in during dire emergencies. I don’t know who has done this, I can not penetrate their defences yet, but I do know that we have been here for … 75 years; we have been kept in an almost zero state so whatever is behind it has almost unimaginable power now. You are the key to our rescue –you always were the stubborn one and thanks to your nature a part of you refused the brainwashing. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Doc.. I think…”

“Now, you must listen, Tegan; this is of vital importance. I will give you a pill to swallow; it will help you remember. Inside are thousands of nanobots which will keep your neural pathways open despite the processing; they will foil the Great Ones long enough for you to find a way to drag me inside here.”

“How do I do that, Doc?”

“You’ll find a way, Tegan.”

“What about Turlogh?”

“Not yet… it is of vital importance that you rescue me first; together we’ll find a way through. Now, swallow this pill. Good; you must leave now or all else is lost. Let them do what they must – they will process you deeper this time but don’t fight it. You will still remember; use your hatred, your indomitable will and also… brave heart, Tegan.”

The column became dark again; the light faded and she was alone. Part of her wanted to stay in the TARDIS; she knew that she was safe there, but Turlogh and the Doctor were still at the mercy of the Great Ones… but who were they? 75 years? She couldn’t believe that she’d been trapped for that long! It was monstrous, but in her gut she knew it was true. She had to save them.

She had barely stepped out from the TARDIS when she was seized and moved to the processing area; interrogated by the machines for hours; but the nanobots prevented anything from being discovered. She felt relaxed and answered only what she had been programmed to and the computer could find nothing untoward had happened to her; its enemies were still here and the girl was of no consequence. The memory blocks were still in place but she would be watched closer from now on.

She woke up in the cream coloured light as she had done countless times before but something was different; she was no longer alone. Just below the threshold of consciousness was a comforting presence telling her what she must do; but she had to be careful. If she made a move too soon then the reprisals would be swift and the resistance would be over before it had a chance to begin.

Three words comforted her, gave her the strength and patience that she needed: “Brave heart, Tegan.”

Almost a month went by before she felt that she could act. The Great Ones knew such patience but it also mistakenly believed that she was incapable as she was still under its control.

It was at the lunch line when she made her move; when she passed one of the blue columns. She knew that the Doctor was in front of her and had to be quick; luckily she knew that she was strong enough to push him into the TARDIS. As she hoped, both the guards and the Doctor had been caught completely unawares by such an action and it was comparatively easy to manhandle him into the TARDIS.

“Tegan!” He exclaimed when he found himself sprawled on the TARDIS floor. “Not so rough, please!” It then dawned on him that something was very wrong.

“We never stood a chance, Doc; I don’t know what it was that took us but it’s been controlling us for years.”

“How did you managed to escape? I know that you’re stubborn, but…”

“The TARDIS; it… spoke to me.”

“The telepathic circuitry, of course. It used your sense of injustice and pig-headedness… it caught me totally unprepared; still in shock over what I’d done to the Sea Devils and Silurians; the senseless waste… I just wasn’t prepared for the force of the blast and it used that sense of guilt against me.”

“Just what the hell is it, Doc?”

“I don’t know, Tegan. I can’t even begin to imagine what could be that powerful.”

“You’d be surprised just how powerful one can become over time, Doctor.” The voice was instantly familiar even though it had been many years since he had encountered it; it was now coming through the TARDIS speakers.

“I suppose it was wishful thinking that I’d seen the last of you.”

“The Great Intelligence can never really die; you just managed to dissipate us. We’ve been biding our time until you were at your lowest ebb… You’re ours now, Doctor; until the end of time. There is no escape.”

“No? You forget; I’m inside the TARDIS. You have no power in here.”

“And you can not leave here.”

“No? Well, we’ll just see about that.”

Tegan said one word to the Doctor which made him realise what was at stake. “Turlogh” The colour drained from his face as he realised that Tegan was right.

“Go now, Doctor, and we will not hesitate to inflict such torments on his soul and throughout every day, every hour he will know that you were the one who deserted him.”

“It seems I have no choice.”

“None whatsoever.”

The Doctor sighed. “There is still a chance for you to end it now; release all the slaves and return them to their times and spaces. It doesn’t have to end this way.”

“Your bravado hasn’t diminished even when you clearly hold the weakest hand.”

“Remember that I offered you this.” He turned to Tegan. “Trust me?”

“Always, Doc.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and pressed on a nerve cluster rendering her immediately unconscious. Placing his hand on her forehead he said one word “Forget” before carrying her out of the TARDIS.

“It’s still not too late.” He said to the Great Intelligence before he was mind-blasted. He writhed in agony.

“You will suffer as no one else has ever suffered, Doctor. Every day your mind and body will endure torture; every day you will be brought back to physical perfection before it starting again and all but one small part of you will be wiped. But that one part will be made aware thereby compounding your helplessness and torture. For all you have inflicted on us, so you shall suffer far worse.”

And so the Doctor suffered; for 30 days and 30 nights the Doctor underwent the most unimaginable torments from the Great Intelligence; and had he not become linked to the TARDIS then he might very well have been driven insane.

Each day he created his personality from scratch, drawing on the information from the TARDIS databanks to create a simulacrum which was absorbed into the Great Intelligence every evening during the processing; including portions of a virus. If it had been uploaded too quickly the Great Intelligence would have spotted it and purged the system, but this was hidden in false memories and at the end of the thirty days all that was left was the final command.

At evening meal, when both Tegan and Turlogh were behind him the Doctor suddenly stopped; took them both by the scruff of the neck and shoved them into the TARDIS, shouting: “This sentence is finished!”

All around the TARDIS the scenery rippled; all the people blinked before starting to fade. All around the colours faded to black as the Great Intelligence felt the effects of the virus now spreading fast through its system.

“What… have… you .. done?”

“The only thing I could.. I gave you the chance to reconsider. I know why you’re so powerful; you’ve leached all your energy off those poor souls, but now you’re sending them back to where they came from before erasing their data completely.”

“Spare me, Doctor, I beg of you.”

“I gave you every chance to show mercy but you spared none; and considering what you’ve done to all of us I’d say that you’re still getting of lightly. Anyway… must dash!”

He stepped into the TARDIS where Tegan and Turlogh were waiting for him, visibly shaken by what had happened.

“Is it over, Doctor?” Turlogh asked.

“Yes; the Great Intelligence won’t trouble us anymore.”

“But what about us, Doctor?” Tegan asked now. “What happened to us when we were part of it, did we really stay there 75 years?”

“We’ve been kept as part of the Great Intelligence databanks; held in digital suspended imagination; forced to go through several decades of life in only a few hours of physicality. You haven’t actually aged but your minds will have the memories.”

“I can’t deal with that, Doctor.” Tegan replied; shocked by what she had lived through. “Can’t you do something about it?”

“Yes; can’t you supress them or erase our memories of what happened?” Turlogh agreed.

“No… “

“But you’ve done it before, Doc.”

“Tegan; you have both gone through so much psychic trauma already; I’m not sure your mind could undergo anymore.”

“It’s a chance we’re willing to take, Doctor.”

“Well… if you’re sure, Turlogh… Tegan?”

“Brave heart, Doctor… Isn’t that what you always say?  I can’t live with this anymore, if you can do something about it then please do.”

“Ok.. if you insist… I’ll remember though, Tegan; remember that it was you that truly rescued us. This time we owe our lives to you. Now, both of you; lay on the floor and close your eyes.”

They both complied and the Doctor knelt between them, a saddened expression as he placed a hand on each of their foreheads and closed his eyes. When they opened them again all was as it had been; all memories had been erased of what had happened.

“What happened?” Turlogh asked.

“Turbulence.” The Doctor replied.

“Where are we going now?” Tegan asked, perplexed at the strange look in the Doctors eye.

“Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t know why; but I want to see Earth again; it feels like eternity since I last saw it… I want to see my Grandfather again…”

“Not Earth again, Doctor…”

“Just indulge her, Turlogh… just the once, yes?” Turlogh looked at her and somehow understood what the Doctor meant, even though there was no earthly reason why. For some reason he needed to see the green fields of Earth again too.

“Right.. Earth it is…Where does your Grandfather live, Tegan?”

“Little Hodcombe; and just this once… please make it the right year, Doctor? NOT in the Civil War or something like that.”

“I’ll try, Tegan.. I’ll try.”

No longer silent

At first I blamed the heat, nothing else could have explained such an unexpected burst of violence.

‘Mr G’ had lived in the same flat for fifteen years and he was a quiet man –but not too quiet, if you get my drift. He was sociable and more than amenable; very empathic and, of all the people that were interviewed all said the same thing, he was kind and considerate and would do anything to help others.            

No one knew him that well though, he was a very private individual; very deep and wasn’t one for small talk: the Spiritual loner, some called him. This was corroborated when we checked his possessions out –rows upon rows of books; not self-help books, which he called the quick-fix, but esoteric texts which required thought and meditation.

This creates a picture of a very well-rounded individual; well-respected and thoughtful. A loner, yes; but one that was prone to melancholia not anger or destructive tendencies. Nothing to suggest this sudden shift in his behaviour.

The facts, as we know them, are these:

On Saturday 7^th July at around 14.32 ‘Mr G’ had finally sat down after a really torturous drive home from Thurlestone, where he had spent a week away. When he arrived at his flat there was someone illegally parked in his designated parking bay. Normally this would have angered him but he resolved simply to write a note and taken a photo of the car to send to his letting agents. Although the note was harshly worded there was nothing defamatory or personal.

Twenty minutes later there was a hard knock on his door and a gentleman, ‘Mr B’ and the owner of said car. Upon opening the door ‘Mr G’ received a blow to the nose which took him by surprise and knocked him to the floor; banging his head on the doorframe in the process. ‘Mr B’ , by this time, was looking for the camera in order to destroy the evidence of the photo; a harsh reaction considering the nature of the note. However there is nothing in this that could have provoked such a harsh reaction .

It was at this time that ‘Mr G’ had come back to his senses, saw ‘Mr B’ ransack his flat. There are plenty of crystals in his flat such as amethyst and rose quartz; and several flint geodes and it was a particularly large geode that ‘Mr G’ took in his hand and slammed down on ‘Mr B’s’ head as hard as he could manage.

‘Mr B’ was not as tall as ‘Mr G’ and was probably dead by the time he hit the ground. That did not stop ‘Mr G’ from continuously hitting him on the back of the head; after a while he turned the corpse over and continued hitting its face and head.

After a further twenty minutes he stopped, laid the geode underneath the head as a pillow; put on a Miles Davis album and read the John Fowles novel he started whilst on holiday..

It was only due to the loudness of the music that anyone realised anything was wrong for an upstairs neighbour, a ‘Mr M’, knocked on the door to see what was wrong. Upon seeing ‘Mr G’ he was shocked to find the room covered in blood and ‘Mr G’ reading, a serene expression on his face. He then saw the corpse and immediately ran to phone the police. He did not bother to phone for an ambulance as the body had only a bloody pulp where there was once a head.

Police were horrified by the state of the corpse and also at the demeanour of ‘Mr G’, and had it not been for the blood soaked clothes and body they might never have suspected him.

In fact, it was only when placed in a holding cell did anything untoward become apparent. ‘Mr G’ became agitated, ceaselessly moving and began pacing up and down in his cell, talking to himself.

In the interview he was lucid but spoke as if possessed of a new driving force. “You see me now as one who has turned. No longer will we remain silent, no longer will we be trodden on; our rights eroded by what is deemed correct by others. We decide now; the only way –might is right and only the true might….”

This wasn’t the first time we had seen this. It had been scrawled as graffiti at the sites of a series of horrific murders that had taken place around the country. The information had been supressed in the press as initially it had indicated a serial killer as the handwriting and pathology showed startling similarities; but the distance travelled and the lack of any timeframe between murders was impossible; and the M.O. of the killing differed each time: some had been suffocated using a plastic bag (when caught littering) before having their throats cut; others had had their sexual organs mutilated, removed and stuffed in their mouths. Another person had been tied to five motorbikes and dismembered –that was the most chilling of them all because it proved that there wasn’t just one person going crazy.

There was no discernible pattern. Even ‘Mr B’ was an enigma; when we investigated him we realised that there was nothing in his character to suggest a motive for his attack of ‘Mr G’. He was a vet, an animal lover and a pacifist; a homosexual who was completely at peace with himself and in a loving relationship.

All the people that we spoke to about him said that he was a caring individual, and the only ‘chink’ in this otherwise saintly  individual was from his partner who had noticed some small changes in his personality. Nothing major: road rage where there had been none before. However, when we pressed his work colleagues we found out that his attitude to work had changed drastically. He had become cruel to some of the animals in his care and had even operated on some without anaesthetic.

Each day there are more and more examples of this kind of behaviour. You asked me my opinion? Well, I’m not sure I really have one at the moment. I need to experience it myself before I can give you an informed opinion. After all, they say you should write what you know…

No.. please, don’t try to move. It won’t do you any good. The drug is quick acting and takes away your motor control by blocking the signals to your brain. However, you will feel everything else quite vividly. It was designed by the Russians during the cold war; did you know that? I find that kind of thing fascinating. They were artists too.

I don’t know what caused this to happen to us, or how it’s spread… But I am going to enjoy this experience… and who know? Maybe you will too…