27 - Make Mine a 99

Finally, some fucking sunshine. As if things hadn't been bad enough this summer, it's been the wettest June since records began. Since records began. Un-fucking-believable. Maybe that's why it's all kicked off the past few weeks. When the sun's shining and everybody's out and about, then there's enough trade for everyone, but when it's day after day of cold, shitty grey days then the market for ice cream gets a little bit more limited. Today's good, though. Today's pukka. I've got through a box and a half of cones and it's not even two o'clock. If it carries on like this, I'll have to restock, just so I don't run out when the schools let out at 3.30.

Speaking of which, shouldn't these kids be in school? Don't get me wrong, I like the fact they're out here, but you probably don't see the Germans or the Japanese letting their kids bunk off a Strawberry Mivvi, do you? Come to think of it, I'm not even sure they've got ice cream in those places. Germans probably do, but I dunno about the Japanese. If they do, it's probably all raw fish and hot green mustard. Still, for better or worse, there's nothing more British than an ice cream cone on a sunny day. We might not have an empire any more, but you can still rely on the ice cream van to turn up and make things just a little bit brighter. It's not like driving an ambulance or raising money for charity, but I like to think I'm doing my bit in making people's lives a bit better. I mean, look at that little bleeder there. Ice cream all over his face, but he couldn't be happier. Like a pig in shit, he is. Smiles like that make it all worthwhile. I'm not one of those people who goes too soppy over kids – some of them are right little arseholes and no mistake – but selling 'em ice cream's probably the best job I've ever had. Better than working the rigs and, let me tell you, the money's almost as good. I thought Terry was exaggerating when he told me about it, but if anything he kind of understated it. Hopefully the weather'll hold for a bit and I won't have to start looking around for something else. What happened to global warming, eh? We'd better get a good summer from here on out, because otherwise me and Lisa won't be going to Florida in September. She's a fucking nut for rollercoasters, Lisa is, and I've been promising her that we'll go over to Disneyworld and Universal Studios and that. But if this weather don't pick up, I don't know whether we can afford it. It's bollocks, but what am I supposed to do? I can't control the clouds in the sky, can I? I'm doing everything I can, for fuck's sake.

Ha. Some stupid posh tart just complained that I sold her little boy a cider flavoured ice lolly, as if it had real cider in it or something. Daft cow. Felt like telling her about some of the other stuff that gets sold out of ice cream vans, but that wouldn't do no good. No-one outside the firm needs to know about that. Anyway, she was making all sorts of fuss and insisted that I swap it for an orange one. Don't nobody want orange lollies anymore, so I had to rootle around in the bottom of the chest freezer. Found one right at the bottom, just underneath the Two-Ball Screwballs and just next to Frank's head. That's been in there since last night, when me and Tel took it off Frank's shoulders with a chainsaw. It was supposed to be a negotiation, but me and Tel didn't have any intention of doing business with that fat wanker, so we did what we had to. Part of me wants to tell the stuck up mum about Frank's head, but I don't think she'd see the funny side. I do, though. I think it's fucking hilarious. Maybe that's why I'm in such a good mood. That and the sunshine. I was supposed to get rid of Frank's head yesterday, but I didn't have a chance. I'll do it when the after-school rush dies down. Won't be a problem - I'll chuck it in the incinerator in Bexleyheath. In the meantime, I've got to keep an eye out – not just for Old Bill, but also for any of those Mr Freezy cunts. We told them before – the park and everything south belongs to us, but will they listen? 'Course not, cheeky fuckers.

Mr Freezy. Honestly. What sort of name is that? It just shows them for what they are: Johnny-come-latelys who don't know the first fucking thing about the ice cream game. Whippy, Softee, even a Creamee's ok, but Freezy? It just don't sound right. Ice cream's supposed to be friendly and inviting. Freezy sounds like a brutal winter. It don't make you think of summer days, you know what I mean? But, truth be told, that crew have been a bit fucking brutal. I mean, not so bad that we can't handle, but the cocky bastards came on to our patch and have been nicking our customers for months. Another year, we might have let it go, but with the economy the way it is and all this shitty weather, well, there's only room for so many noses at the trough, you know what I mean? So, yeah, things have got a little bit out of hand, but to be honest it was them that started it. The young one, Keith, he come in The Wheatsheaf the other week and starts giving it the big 'un, saying that him and his uncle are taking over. Me and Tel were just having a quiet pint, but that mouthy sod wouldn't let it go, so Tel smacked him one. Since then, it's all been kicking off. Started off harmless enough, just slashing tyres and that, but on the Jubilee weekend it all got serious and that's how come bits of Frank ended up in my chest freezer. It’s not just his head we put in there. We’ve got fingers, toes, the bits of skin where his tattoos were - anything that could be used to identify him. It’s my job to get rid of these bits, so we can’t be tied to it, but then the sun come out this morning and, well, I’ve got to make a living, haven’t I? Maybe it's a bit of a risk, but I don’t give a fuck. I'm not letting Lisa down. Not again.

I know I've got to take Frank's bits to the incinerator,  there's part of me that really wants to take his head and leave it on his wife's doorstep. She must be wondering where he is by now and I'd love it if I could tell her. I'd drive up to that mock-tudor shithole, drop the head on her doormat and ring the bell, before hopping back in the van and driving off. I'd make sure I played the chimes, so they know who done it. (We use "Greensleeves", because we're a proper ice cream van. Those cunts use "La Cucaracha", which is just stupid.) Imagining her expression as she sees Frank's frozen head looking up at her is keeping me going through the day. Truth be told I'm kind of on autopilot as I'm handing out cones, lollies and drinks. That's one of the perks of the job, really. Even the most complicated ice cream is a simple formula. Cone, squirt, nuts, sauce, flake, £3 please. I could do it with my eyes closed, which allows me to concentrate on what the blowback's gonna be for offing Frank. I'd like it if they all got the message and fucked off back up north, but I reckon that's just wishful thinking. It took some balls to come down to an area they don't know, with no backing, and try to make a name for themselves. Don't get me wrong, I still hate the fuckers, but you've got to admire their entrepreneurial spirit. That Keith's a mouthy one, but the older one, Patrick, he's the one most likely to get nasty. I've got a feeling that if any one person gets the blowback, it'll be Tel. Don't get me wrong, he's a fucking diamond, but he's getting on and he ain't got the same fire he used to. He's got weaker since his operation and everyone knows it. If they do come for him, do I have his back? Few years ago, there wouldn't have been any doubt, but everything changes and once they've had their eye-for-an-eye, we might be able to sort out a deal. One less mouth to feed means maybe I can take on the vans single handed and that would sort out a load of my problems. Tel got me into this game, but that don't mean I've got to put up with his skimming off the top for the rest of my days.

I'm wondering what it would be like to be in business for myself when a kid in front of me starts bawling his eyes out as I hand him his ice cream. Not that unusual, but it snaps me out of my thoughts.

"What's the problem, sonny?" I ask him. "Did you drop a bit on the floor?"

He just keeps on screaming and I can see a concerned mum in the background making her way over.

"Come on," I say, not wanting to deal with another stuck-up yummy mummy who thinks every geezer around wants to lick her fanny, just cause she can get back into her yoga gear. "Don't be like that. What's the matter?"

I glance at the cornet I just handed him and I suddenly see what the problem is. Instead of a flake sticking out of the top, there's a stubby finger with hair on the knuckles and a gold sovereign ring.

Frank's ring.

Frank's finger.

Exactly where the chocolate flake's supposed to be. "Oops!" I say, reaching over and snatching the cone out of the little bleeder's hands before he has a chance to say anything. "That's for adults only."

I chuck an ice lolly at him and slide the window shut, just seconds before his mum steps up. Time to call it a day, I think. Sun or no sun.

16 - XP

Tonight we take the Obsidian Gauntlet. It’s all I’ve been able to think about all day, throughout the eight depressing hours at the office and on the train ride home, all I’ve wanted to do is log on and get started with the raid. It’s been a long time, but finally, as a guild, we’re ready to complete this, the most challenging mission in our history. We’ve been through a lot together. We  fought through the mines of Angnorr, defeated the Goblin Hordes and reclaimed the Crystal Staff for the free people of the realm. But this, this is the big one. 

We’re ready, though. Everyone’s been a level 80 player for months now, but more than that, we’re good. When we play PvP, we work as one cohesive unit, with strategy and precision. The tanks go in to soften up the enemy, the archers and mages provide ranged attacks and I’m in the heart of everything, healing those who take damage. It’s a perfect system and we’ve become very good at it. Still, the Obsidian Gauntlet is like nothing we’ve ever faced. It’s supposed to be protected by a High Warlock and I can’t wait to see what sort of crazy spells he’s going to be firing at us. This is going to be good.

The plan is to get through the door, grab a sandwich and a bottle of water and then log on to discuss strategy with the other members of my party. Everyone else is champing at the bit to do this, but a few of the guys are in Europe and they won’t get home for another hour or so. That’s ok. The rest of us can share potions and make sure that we have proper balance in our spell books. The game works on an elemental system and we don’t want to make sure we’re only carrying fire spells, when the dark mage is only vulnerable to water magic. I’m mentally arranging my codex as I put my key in the front door. I’m met by the sound of Nick Drake and the wafting scent of Coq-Au-Vin.

The lights are low and the table’s already set with two places and a candlestick. The sight of it makes me freeze in my tracks and for a brief second I wonder if I can walk back out and go to an internet cafe, but before I get a chance to do it (or even ponder what this says about me as a person) Donna comes in from the kitchen, wearing something that’s either a very short dress or a quite-long negligee. Either way, it works on her.

“Hi,” she says softly, padding across the room on bare feet and slipping her arms inside my coat and around my waist.

“Hi yourself,” I say, trying not to sound suspicious. “What’s all this about?”

“I thought it had been a long time since we did anything like this, so…” She bites her lip and looks up at me. “It’s OK, isn’t it?”

And this is the moment when I could say “actually, I have things to do” or “not tonight” or even “oh my god, what’s that behind you?!”, but she stands on tip toes and kisses me and I forget about making excuses, because all I can think about is the taste of her lips. New lipstick? Maybe just lipstick. Usually, Donna just uses Vaseline as lipbalm, giving her lips the unpleasant taste of petroleum jelly. I’ve never told her how much I dislike it. This, though, I could get used to.

Finally, when the kiss ends, she touches my stomach gently and says: “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

“Smells great,” I say. “Can’t wait.”

“Can you open the wine?” she says, nodding at the bottle on the table. “I’ll be back in a mo.”

I watch her slink back into the kitchen. Has she always moved like that? At this moment, I honestly don’t remember. Still, orders are orders, so I make myself useful with the corkscrew and pour us each a generous glass of red.

“How was your day?” she asks from the kitchen.

It’s a simple enough question, but I have to stop and think about it. Having spent most of my time fantasising about tonight’s raid, the actual events that transpired are somewhat elusive.

“You know what?” I say, moving to the kitchen doorway and handing her a wineglass, “I can’t even remember. I’m sure something must have happened today, but I’m drawing a blank. It’s like I spend the whole day on autopilot. It’s only just hit me that I really don’t care what happens in that place. The job’s meaningless. They could get anyone to do what I do.”

“Come on, that’s not true.”

“It is, though. I’m not saying that in a depressed way, it’s just that there’s nothing to it. I’m basically getting bits of paper and typing them into a computer, printing them off and sending them somewhere else. If they ever get a scanner, I’m out of a job.”

Donna looks at me and wipes her hands on a tea towel in a way I find indescribably sexy. “Maybe it’s time to look for something else,” she says.

I feel like I just got that flash of light that surrounds your character when you level up. Health and vitality are suddenly fully restored as I take an XP bump that takes me over the threshold. Look for something else. It’s so simple and obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

“Maybe it is,” I say and smile.

“Can you take the potatoes through?” Donna asks. “I think we’re just about ready.”

Dinner is good. Better than good, in fact - it’s the best time Donna and I have had in a long time. When you live with someone, the business of cohabitation can take the joy out of things. You’re caught up in the cycle of work/after-work/sleep/morning that you forget that you love the other person and want to spend time with them. Being with Donna reminds me that I really do love her, not because I’m supposed to, but because she’s great. She’s funny and sexy and sharp and we talk in a way that we haven;t done in months, an intimate sharing process that I didn’t realise I’d missed. I suppose that’s how people in love are supposed to talk to each other, but I’m out of practice and I fumble around a lot. Donna doesn’t mind, however, and gently encourages me to go on.

In the corner of my eye, I can see the light on my Blackberry, presumably from other guild members. I spent £1.99 on an app that allows for custom alerts, so I could tell when I got messages in-game. At the time, I thought it was really badass, like I was a member of the Justice League or something, but now it just makes me cringe. When Donna goes out to get dessert, I grab the phone and see there are 12 messages my crew, but rather than send a group reply, I just switch the phone off. 

Donna comes in with a tub of ice cream and two spoons.

“Dessert,” she says with a smile, shrugging the straps of her dress off her shoulders and letting the garment fall to the floor.

Later, when we’re naked in bed and eating melted ice cream together, I see a recharge bar slowly accumulating in front of me. When it tops out, we’re definitely doing that again. The sex was better than it has been in ages, like the old days when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Just the feel of her skin on mine is bumping up the progress bar and we find ourselves giggling at each other and nuzzling away.

“So, better than ‘Elf Realm’ or what?” she asks, licking Strawberry Temptation off her spoon.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her refer to the MMO by name. Usually it’s just “that thing” or “that bloody game”. I tried to get her into it in early days, but she didn’t see the point. 

“Much better,” I say.

“So, what’s the appeal?” she asks.

“Of this?” I say, sliding a hand across her body.

“No…” she says, laughing, “of the game. You spends hour on it. There’s got to be something in it.” The surprise on my face must be clear, because she adds: “I’m serious. I want to know.”

“I thought you didn’t like the game,” I say warily. “You’re always complaining that I spend too much time on it.”

“I know…” she concedes, “but it’s important to you, so I’m trying to make an effort. What do you like about it?”

I think about it for a moment. “I suppose the social aspect of it’s one thing,” I say. “I’ve got to know people in different countries through it. I know it seems antisocial, just being on the computer, but there’s a real sense of community and you get to know people in a way that you don’t get a chance to in real life.”

“What sort of people?”

“Ah… well… there’s a guy from Wales who builds sundials. And there’s a girl in Holland who’s in a wheelchair, but it’s not so much about who you are in the real world, but who you play in the game. For some people, it’s about questing and getting loot, but I’m really into roleplay.”

“Ooh, kinky!” Donna says, gently twisting my nipple.

“Not like that,” I grin. “It’s more about putting thought into who you’re playing as and trying to act in the way that you think they would play. You try and talk the way they would talk, fight the way they would fight.”

“Like acting?”

“Yeah. Kind of. Some people have alternate accounts, where they play as different types of character, but I’ve had the same character since I started. You grow attached to them, you know?”

“What’s your character’s name?”

I hesitated. I’d never said it out loud before. Somehow, it made me afraid.

“Ladriel,” I said. “It’s kind of a bad play on words, like ‘Galadriel’ from Lord of the Rings, but a bloke.”

“You’re a tranny?” Donna says, teasingly.

“No, I’m not a tranny. But elves don’t think about gender the same as humans.”

“You’re an elf? What does that mean?”

“Well, you’ve got four basic races in the game: Humans, Elves, Trolls and Orcs and each of them are aligned to a different element. Humans are water, Elves are air, Trolls are earth and Orcs are fire.”

“So, does that mean that they cancel each other out?”

“Kind of. The setup of the game is that the Orcs and the Trolls are trying to wage war, while the Humans and the Elves are trying to find balance in the elements. And each race has its own homeland, so the Human come from the Islands of the Coast, while the Elves live in Forest Hills, the Trolls in the Caves and the Orcs live in the Volcano range.”

“So… what would happen if your character, um…”

“Ladriel.”

“So what would happen if Ladriel was to go to the middle of the Volcano range?”

“Well, as a Air Elemental he’d be vulnerable to their magic, so you’d only do something like that as part of a group.”

“But what if he went there by himself, without anyone else there to back him up?”

I shake my head. “That wouldn’t happen.”

“But what if?”

I was confused. I didn’t know why she was insisting on an answer to a hypothetical question. When she looked at me, I realised that it wasn’t hypothetical at all.

I jump out of bed and run to the box room where the PC is. I shake the mouse to wake the computer from sleep and double click the icon on the desktop. Connection to the game servers takes agonising seconds and as the rousing intro music plays, I say a silent prayer. 

It does no good. When the game finally connects, the memorial is there to greet me.

LADRIEL - DECEASED. LAST LOCATION: VOLCANIA

DO YOU WANT TO CREATE A NEW CHARACTER? 

OK / CANCEL

A long, low, non-verbal groan comes from somewhere deep in my stomach. Four years of play time. Thousands of hours invested. Millions of Experience Points. Gone. I feel the loss physically, as if someone has stuck a knife in my guts and is slowly drawing it up to the centre of my chest. 

I turn to Donna who - unlike me - has bothered to put on a dressing gown. Her face shows sadness, but no remorse. 

“Why did you do that?” I whisper.

“Happy anniversary,” she says.

“It’s not our anniversary,” I say, struggling desperately not to add two words afterwards. ”…is it?”

“No,” she says. “Last week.”

I can’t remember much about last week. There had been a big battle taking place in Ranger Falls. Orcs had made an incursion into the human homelands and…

“Come back to bed,” Donna says softly.

I look at the PC.

DO YOU WANT TO CREATE A NEW CHARACTER?

OK / CANCEL

I say “OK”, click “Cancel” and follow Donna back into the bedroom.

Back to level one.

14 - Parts and Labour

When I get to the garage at 6:30, I see Dad’s yellow Peugeot parked outside. He doesn’t wave or raise a hand as I pull in to park, nor does he say hello when I get out of the car and walk over. The only affection he shows is towards my dog, who bounds over to greet him. 

“Hello Tyson, hello boy,” he says, scratching the bull mastiff’s ears.

“That’s Buster,” I say. “Tyson was the dog we had when I was little.”

He nods, as if he knew that the whole time, but his eyes narrow and I know I’ve hurt him already. It wasn’t my intention - it never is - but I seem to manage it nevertheless.

“How are you, Milton?” he asks.

“Yeah, not bad,” I say. “You’re up early.”

“Ah, I don’t sleep much these days.”

“Car playing up?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Whenever I turn left it feels like there’s something grinding down there. I don’t think it’s serious, but you’re always saying not to take anything for granted…”

“I’ve got a couple in at the moment,” I said, “but leave me the keys and I’ll bring it in when there’s time.”

“OK,” he says, fishing the keyring out of his pocket and handing them to me. “When do you think it’ll be ready?”

“This afternoon, probably. Depends what needs doing and if I need to order any parts.”

Dad shrugs. “Ok, well, give us a call when it’s ready,” he says and starts to turn away.

“Wait…  do you want a cup of tea or something?”

Dad shrugs again. He does that a lot. Learning to read his indifference is an artform I’ve never mastered, so I decide to take the initiative.

I take my keys from my pocket and open the door set into the shutters. 

“Inside,” I say, maybe to the dog, maybe to Dad. Both of them step through the door at the same time, tripping over each other’s feet on the way in.

Once inside, Dad waits for me, unsure of where to step in the dark garage. Buster has no such circumspection and bolts over to the dog basket in the far corner. Once I get in, I flick the lights on. I’ve owned this garage for six years, but I can tell that Dad has never felt comfortable here. On some level, I think he was always perplexed by my preference for gears and grease over ink and academia. But then, sons have been disappointing fathers ever since the dawn of time. 

“Make yourself at home,” I say, knowing he won’t. 

I keep a box of Earl Grey teabags just for him and as I busy myself with kettle and cups, he stands around and doesn’t know where to put himself.

“Business going well?” he asks. “You always seem to be full.”

“It’s OK,” I say. “Gary was off sick on Friday, so we’re a bit behind.”

“Is that the new lad? How’s that working out?”

Gary’s been working here for three years.

“Fine,” I say and ask if he wants sugar. That’s not me being ignorant as to my father’s habits - he changes his mind with every cup.

“Mm,” he replies in an affirmative grunt. I drop a sugar cube into the mug and add milk.

“So, what have you been up to?” I ask, handing him his tea. 

He shrugs and shakes his head with a sigh. “Oh… Starting another book, you know… The Phoenicians.”

Dad’s interest in ancient history has withered a bit since he retired, but he keeps trying to write books and losing interest half way through.

“I think I remember them. Galleys and purple dye?”

“If you want to be reductive about it.”

“Well, I’d love to read some when it’s ready.”

Dad shakes his head in a gesture of unconscious rebuttal. He’s refusing, even though he says: “Hmm. Maybe.”

We sip our tea and say nothing for a moment.

“Is everything OK, Dad?”

His reaction is so startled, you’d think I just flicked an elastic band at his nose. 

“Of course. Why would you ask me that?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “You seem a little out of it.”

Dad snorts and that small gesture of ridicule makes me feel about eight years old. 

He puts down his tea and stands up to leave. “You’ll call me when it’s done?”

“Of course, but Dad-“

He hold up his palm. “I know how busy you are, so I don’t want to hold you up any further.”

“You’re not,” I begin, but he’s already turned to the door.

“See you, boy.” he says. 

I open my mouth, then shut it quickly. He was talking to the dog. 

It’s a relief when Gary turns up, dropping a bacon buttie on my lap and flipping the radio on to Capital Gold. He’s still not totally shaken the flu, but I’m glad of his company as it distracts me from the nagging chatter inside my head. We start ploughing through the backlog and manage to clear a good proportion of the jobs by the end of the day. It’s just as well, because the work was backing up so far that it was starting to test my customer’s patience. 

Getting round to looking at Dad’s car took a lot longer than I thought it would. As soon as I got behind the wheel of the Peugeot, I slid the seat back as far as it would go - an automatic gesture that I’d learned from the many times I’d had to do work on the yellow lemon. I started her up and listened for anything out of the ordinary. The starter was working OK and while the 1.6 litre engine was never going to sing, it didn’t sound like there was anything wrong with the tappets or cylinders. I give it a couple of revs in neutral and when it responds as well as it ever will, I put it in gear and start steering it into the garage.

As the wheels turn, I hear the scraping sound that Dad mentioned. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere on the offside wing. So I park the car inside, shut off the engine, get out and climb underneath. As I examine the wheelarch, I feel around with my fingers to see if I can detect any broken or buckled metal that might be causing the scraping sound. After a short period of blind fumbling, my fingers fall onto a hard lump wedged in between the arch and the axle. It’s impossible to tell by touch alone exactly what it is, but it’s certainly jammed in tight and no amount of yanking will budge it. I angle the light to try and see what’s stuck in there. It’s difficult to make out, but looks like a piece of metal and even though I can’t see exactly what it is, I can tell it doesn’t belong. I can’t get it out with bare hands, but after a bit of a wrestle with the wrench, I pop it out and it drops to the floor with a clink. 

The noise alerts Buster, who has been lolling around all afternoon, waiting for me to finish up and take him home. He scampers across to the new thing and I have to snatch it away from him before he covers in in slobber. As I do so, I can feel a sharp edge digging into my palm, one that could cut Buster’s mouth if he chewed at it. Eventually, he backs off and I’m able to have a better look for myself.

It’s a watch, or - at least - part of one. Most of the face is present, although the glass on the face has shattered. The rest is dented and dirty, probably from being jammed into a wheelarch for however long it’s been there. The most unsettling thing about it, though, is the way that the band has been ripped apart. The strap was made of stainless steel links, not leather, and the tear has created a jagged blade along one edge. I turn the broken watch over in my hands, trying to work out how it could have happened and how it ended up jammed into the wheelarch of Dad’s Peugeot. I tell myself that it could have been lying on the street and got picked up somehow as it was driven over, or that maybe there was some weird kind of electromagnetic field that attracted it to the car’s interior. It’s not very convincing, but I’m on the verge of believing it when I hear a unpleasant slobbering sound coming from the front of the car. I peer round and see Buster licking the radiator grille, his rough pink tongue lapping at the metal with so much gusto that I have to physically drag him away from the front of the car. 

I look at the radiator grille and between the white bubbles of canine saliva, I can see streaks of something red. Kneeling down, I look at the red marks and turn the smashed watch over in my hand and I try to think of an explanation for it all that doesn’t make my skin crawl.

I can’t.

I look along the bonnet of the car and I can see the indentation at its middle. I know that it wasn’t a stone or a carelessly placed shopping bag that made that impression, but the impact of a human skull.

I think about how the watch could possibly have got inside the car and try to envisage a scenario that doesn’t involve reversing over someone’s arm. 

I think about the blood was on the radiator grille and wonder how long you would have to spend washing it away and how bad a person’s eyesight would have to be not to notice that they hadn’t got it all. 

More than anything, I think about how much I love my Dad and how lucky I am that, for once, he’s got something I can fix.

11 - Hinged

i can hear them ticking. all of them. at first i thought it was just mr green next door, but then i heard it in the milkman and the man who came to read the meter. i left the house to get away from them, but everyone is ticking just under the surface. what worries me more is the slight echo i hear under the skin. it doesn’t sound soft and pliant like skin should. no. it’s bright and hard like metal and i don’t know what to think, because i don’t know what it says about what’s behind their faces. i thought i could get away, but now i’ve wandered around so much that i don’t know how to get home. i’ve been standing at this bus stop for a while now, but whenever a bus comes, the numbers change and i can’t keep track of them any more. still, i think the bus stop is a good place to be. even though there are only two walls, it’s safer than being in the middle of the street and as long as i keep touching the advertising hoarding, i will be safe.

a fat woman with shopping bags comes and sits on the little red bench in the bus stop. i push back against the adverting hoarding to give her as much room as possible. she pretends not to notice and makes out like she’s looking out into the road. i keep my back pressed against the shelter. i watch her with my peripheral vision and i listen to her tick.

eventually, she takes a packet of biscuits out of her shopping bag, opens it and eats the biscuits one-by-one. she’s as regular as a metronome and the crunching of the biscuits is in sync with the clicking behind her face. the tick-tick-tick-munch is only broken when my stomach growls with hunger. i haven’t eaten in a long time. the woman stops offers me the packet and i almost take one because i’m so hungry, but then i look at her face and i see that the right side has swung outwards from the hinge running down her face. there’s a catch just below her ear and it must have opened by accident. from where i’m sitting i can’t see what’s inside her head, but i reach out to push her face back into its proper position. the fat woman flinches and draws away from me, taking her biscuits with her. i try to tell her that i was only trying to help, but her clicking gets faster and more angry, drowning out my attempts to explain. in the confusion my hand gets separated from the advertising hoarding and my curtain of safety disappears. i run away. i don’t know what else to do.

coloured fog has descended from the sky, making it impossible to see specific details in the things around me. i have to navigate by tones, avoiding the dark purple and red areas and heading towards the blue and yellow safe places. i never seem to get there, even after hours of walking, so i have to rest in a neutral grey zone. the clicking here isn’t too bad. it’s not as intense or frightening as mr green or the fat woman. 

i don’t know this place. there are shops and people, but the fog makes it difficult to tell exactly where i am. it could be the high street near my house or it could be another place entirely. it all looks so familiar and so different, i don’t know what to do. i’m drawn to the light of a shop that sells televisions. the little people in the screens are much clearer than those walking around me and the fact that they’re behyind glass means i can’t hear them clicking. the man on the television reads the news and i’m happy just to watch for a while, but then he stops and looks straight at me. i9 freeze in place and realise i have to count to see how long this last for. 

one.

two.

three.

four.

five.

six. 

six.six. 

sixsixsixsixsixix-ix-ix-ix-ix-ix-ix-ix turns to clicks and i realise that he’s trying to wind me up, trying to start a mechanism inside of me. i turn away from the screen and when i do, i see the blank man standing next to me. he doesn’t have a face - just a blank sheet of flesh where his features would be. he seems to be trying to say something, but i don’t know what it is because he doesn’t have a mouth. he cocks his head to one side like a dog trying to understand and when he does, the hinge in the middle of his face creaks open and i can finally see the mechanism underneath - a clockwork instrument of flesh and bone. i see the white ivory cogs turning in tiny increments, connected by bands of cartilage and sinuous pulleys that push and pull the machinery inside his skull. small puffs of steam rise as the mechanism starts to work faster and faster and i can tell that something inside the blank man’s head is going seriously wrong. i can see the wheels starting to spin and the rotors sparking as they are pushed to capacity and beyond. the tiny bellows fuelling the furnace wheeze and cough and the cogs begin to fracture. the ticking gets faster and faster and i realise there’s only one thing that i can do to stop everything from going out of control. it’s up to me to fix it. that’s why i brought the screwdriver out with me. 

i take the tool from my pocket and jam it into the blank man’s head. there’s resistance as i force the crosshead into the machinery behind his blank face, but i can’t stop now. i continue digging through the machinery, prying away stanchions and crossbeams in order to get to the key components within. for the first time in a long time, the clicking stops. but as the clock winds down, a new sound replaces it - a shrill ultrasonic scream that hurts my ears. i don’t know if it’s better or worse, but it’s something new after the endless days of tick-tick-tick.

arms come out of the fog and wrestle me away from the blank man, pulling the wet screwdriver from my hand and forcing me to the ground. the shrill sound stops and there’s a low chatter of static that may or may not be words. even though i can’t see the television man, i feel certain that he’s smiling at me. it doesn’t matter. i think i’ve finally fixed it. tears of gratitude start flowing down my cheeks as the fog around me starts to flash blue. tall figures put me in handcuffs and say things i don’t understand. beneath their words, i hear their real language and i start to cry anew, because i realise that this is how it’s always going to be.

second by second. 

moment by moment.

tick.

tick.

tick.

10 - Full Disclosure

Freddie Jacobs didn’t know what Mr Perskine looked like, but he recognised him all the same. There was no mistaking a buyer, particularly the wet, pliant sort. They were Freddie’s favourite kind. He smiled to himself as he took a last drag off his fag, flicked it out of the window and sprayed some deodoriser to mask the smell. When the scent of Alpine Forest had spread through the car’s interior, he switched on the engine and drove over to pick up Perskine.

It was a horrible day, no mistake about it. The rain had come late last night and didn’t show any signs of abating. There were reports of floods in the next county, but that wasn’t about to stop Freddie from continuing with business as usual. 

“Mr Perskine?” he said to the bedraggled man standing in the rain and when he nodded, Freddie opened the passenger door and told him to get in.

Perskine clambered into the car awkwardly, dripping all over the upholstery. Freddie had just had it valeted.

“Don’t worry about the leather,” Freddie said, “just get yourself inside.”

Perskine used several combinations of the words “thanks”, “sorry” and “urgh” to get across what an awkward time he was having. Once he had finally settled, he turned to look at Freddie, who took control of the the conversation.

“Freddie Jacobs,” he said, sticking out his hand, “it’s good to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr Perskine.” 

“You too, Mr Jacobs.”

“Call me Freddie.”

Mr Perskine didn’t offer his first name. That didn’t bother Freddie. The customer was always right, even when he was uptight. 

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Freddie said. “The trains on that little line can be a bit erratic.”

“Is that so?” Perskine said. Freddie realised that he was undermining the transport links of the property he was trying to sell and backtracked smoothly.

“Can be,” he conceded, “but the property we’re going to is actually closer to Crowborough, which has the proper mainline service to Hastings.”

“Then why did I have to come here?”

The atmosphere in the car turned chilly. Freddie turned up the heater.

“Ah, well, I had other meetings in the area. Hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

“No,” Perskine said. “Not too much.”

Freddie realised that he had somewhat misread Perskine. While he was a bit of a cold fish, he wasn’t as wet as he first appeared and that business was a better option than banter.

“Seen many other properties in the area, Mr Perskine?”

“A few. Mostly around Mayfield, Rotherfield, some of the villages around that way.”

“Seen much you like?”

Perskine shrugged his shoulders. “OK, I suppose. A lot of new builds.”

“Not your sort of thing?”

“Not at the prices they’re asking, no.”

“And who’s been showing you them?”

“Peterson & Lowe. You know them?”

“Aha. Yes, I know them alright,” Freddie chuckled.

“Something funny?”

“Oh, no. Peterson and Lowe are a good company. Very successful, do a lot of business.”

“But?”

Freddie sucked his teeth. “Not exactly known for the personal touch.”

Perskine’s eyes narrowed. “No… I suppose not. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Look, I’m not knocking them,” Freddie said. “They’re a big firm. Six offices, lots of agents, big contracts. All well and good, but sometimes the customer gets left behind in the shuffle, you know what I mean? They’ve got all these agents trying so hard to screw each other out of commission that sometimes they forget that people have to live in the places they’re selling. It’s one way of doing business, I suppose, but I’ve been in this game for twenty years and I’ll tell you something that most agents have either forgotten or never knew.”

“What’s that?”

“The property business is the people business.” 

Freddie paused a moment to let his great truth sink in, before then going on to expand on it. 

“Sure, we deal in bricks and mortar, but it’s about people. It’s about their homes, their businesses, their lives. Our homes and our places of business are where most of our time is spent. The connection you feel with a place doesn’t just boil down to facts and figures. It comes from here-” he took one hand off the wheel and touched the centre of his chest. “-you know?”

“Yes. I do, actually.”

“You trying that to the kids Waterson & Lowe have got working for ‘em and they won’t know what you’re talking about.”

Perskine nodded, but didn’t say anything and the two men sat quietly for a while. Freddie glanced over at Perskine and saw that he was playing with his wedding ring. 

“You married?” Freddie asked, nodding at the gold band on Perskine’s finger.

“Oh. Um… yes.”

That ‘um’ told Freddie a lot.

“She’s not coming with you to look at houses?”

“She’s in the States at the moment. Working. You know how it is…”

Freddie nodded. He suspected there was some doubt as to whether the wife was coming back at all. From Perskine’s agitated state, Freddie guessed that he himself wasn’t sure of this fact and perhaps was banking on a new house and a fresh start to seal the deal. Perskine’s battered shoes and tatty briefcase told Freddie that money was tight, but a woman who flies to the states for business probably did alright for herself. People could be old fashioned, though - even career women who expected their husband to be the main breadwinner, even though he had no hope of living up her overachieving standards. Freddie had seen it all before, but said nothing. Instead, he just said: “You must miss her.”

Perskine looked surprised and said that he did. Very much. 

Conversation fell away again and as the A-road disappeared beneath the tyres of the Vauxhall Insignia. Perskine didn’t want to talk and Freddie was trying to ignore a feeling in his gut. Eventually, he could disregard it no longer and broke the silence.

“Can I be straight with you, Mr Perskine?”

“Um… Yes. Of course.”

“The house we’re going to look at probably isn’t for you. I mean, it’s nice enough, but it’s not going to be much different from anything Waterson & Lowe would show you. It might have the features you’re looking for  - two bed, one bath, blah blah blah - but it’s just a box on a street full of other boxes that all look the same. Fine if you like that sort of thing, but I get the impression that you’re after somewhere a little different. Somewhere that’s going to feel special. Somewhere that your wife will want to come home to. Am I right?”

Perskine looked at Freddie curiously, swallowed and then said: “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I want to take you somewhere else. It’s a bit out of the way, but it’s a one-of-a-kind property that’s going for an absolute song. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I suspect it might be yours and if you’re willing to indulge me, I think you’ll find it’s worth your while.”

“Ok…” Perskine said, slightly suspiciously.

“If you don’t like it, we’ll go on to the terrace in Furness Road, but for the sake of half an hour, I really think you should take a look. All right?”

“OK,” Perskine said. “Let’s do it.”

“There’s just one thing I need to know beforehand,” Freddie said, “and it’s going to sound a little bit peculiar, but I ask you to bear with me and just be honest.”

“Sure.”

“Are you superstitious?”

Perskine’s eyes widened with surprise. “Not as a rule, no.”

“What about your wife? Would you say she’s given to that sort of thing?”

Perskine snorted and said: “She’s American”, as if that was all that needed to be said. 

“OK then,” Freddie said as he flicked his indicators to change lanes. “Let’s have a look then, shall we?”

“What does that mean, about being superstitious?” Perskine asked.

“I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Freddie said, “I won’t leave anything out. But after you’ve seen the property, OK?”

Perskine considered for a moment and then shrugged and said: “Fair enough.”

Pine Barrow didn’t so much stand on top of the hill as it did crouch. The farmhouse squatted low, as if ready to pounce on anything that dared to cross its path. Not much did, however, as the house was some 500 yards from the road, with only a jutted driveway connecting it to the thoroughfare. 

“That’s it?” Perskine said quietly as the car approached.

“That’s it,” Freddie said, glancing at his client and seeing that he was already taken with the place. Sometimes you needed to help them along, talk them up and point out the reasons they and the house were right for each other. Other times, though, you just needed to stand quietly by while they got acquainted. Pine Barrow wasn’t like other properties, but they could go through that later. For the moment, Freddie was content just to quietly by while Perskine fell in love with the place.

The car crunched its way along the surface of the rough driveway. It sagged and bobbed on the pitted path, but Perskine’s eyes never left the house. Once the car was parked, the two of them sat there for a moment. 

“You want to have a look?” Freddie asked.

Perskine just nodded, but Freddie knew that this wasn’t due to taciturnity. He was smitten.

Strictly speaking, Pine Barrow was a farmhouse, although it hadn’t served as one for sixty years. The surrounding fields had been absorbed by a neighbouring farm, then turned over to the National Grid and other anonymous concerns. The house still stood, however, and had been modified and adapted by each of its subsequent owners, with various extensions and enhancements extruded out from its core. At the centre of it all was a tough stone structure, impervious to the elements. So it had to be, for as much as its position on top of the hill afforded Pine Barrow stunning views, it also left it exposed to the elements. Rain, wind and hail lashed against it constantly and such barrages left no trees to offer cover in winter or shade in the summer. Still, the enduring strength of the building gave it character. While the surface was battered, its heart remained strong and the weathered appearance gave it character. Freddie let Perskine admire the front while he got busy trying to find the right key. 

The back door led straight into the kitchen, which despite being stripped of most of its features still had enough of them to make a good impression. Perskine’s eyes went straight to the Aga.

“Yeah,” Freddie said, “that’s worth about three grand in and of itself. Heats the kitchen, too. I’ve never used one myself - more of a microwave man - but people tell me nothing but good things about them.”

Perskine nodded, but said nothing. Freddie let him find his own way through the house, trailing him at a discreet distance and making comments only when they seemed necessary.

“Fireplace works,” he said as they went through to the living room. “From what I’m told, between that and the Aga, you won’t go cold downstairs. Upstairs, well, you can put electric heaters in the bedrooms and there’s an electric bar in the bathroom.”

Again, Perskine nodded and allowed himself to be led upstairs. In each of the bedrooms, he looked in wonder at both the rooms themselves and the views out of the windows. All three bedrooms were all of a good size and he started to see himself making a future in Pine Barrow. Both he and his wife could have an office of their own and fulfil their long held dream of working from home. The box room would make a perfect walk-in closet for her clothes and even though the bathroom was small, there was a huge bathtub in there. Big enough for two.

When Perskine had seen enough, Freddie took him back down to the front room and asked him what he thought.

“It’s… amazing,” Perskine said. “It’s really, really… amazing.” He shook his head. “But there’s no way I can afford it. I would love to live here, but it’s got to be five times the price of what I’m looking for.” 

“You’ll be surprised,” Freddie said and mentioned a figure that made Perskine’s jaw drop.

“That can’t be right, can it?” Perskine said, agog. “That’s like giving it away.”

“But nobody wants it.” Freddie said.

“You asked me if I was superstitious,” Perskine said. “Is it… haunted?”

“No,” Freddie said and they both shared a laugh at the notion.

“Not to my knowledge,” Freddie continued, “and I’ve lived around here all my life. I don’t believe in that sort of thing, but there’s plenty that do and one of them would have told me by now. It’s not haunted, but nobody’s lived here for over ten years.”

“Why not?”

“It used to belong to John and Freida Cooper.”

It was clear that Perskine didn’t recognise the names.

“They killed thirteen people in this house,” Freddie said. “Chopped them up and buried the pieces in the ground.”

That made Perskine’s eyes widen.

“Wow,” he said. “Here?”

“Yeah.”

Freddie watched as Perskine looked around the house, the new information altering everything he thought he knew about the property. 

“Amazing,” Perskine murmured. He turned back to Freddie. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know a lot,” Freddie said with a sigh, “but from what I can recall, it was mostly hitch-hikers, or kids that had run away from home. They would offer them a place to stay for the night, or a hot meal and then… they would do away with them.”

“‘Do away with them’?” Perskine insisted. “How do you mean, exactly?”

Freddie sighed. “I don’t know all the details, but from what I recall it was mainly done with an axe from the woodshed. Frieda would make them dinner and she would flirt with them and then John would split their head open with an axe. There used to be a chest freezer in the kitchen. They would put the bodies in there for a while, then bury them in the cellar.”

“There’s a cellar?” Perskine asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

Freddie looked at Perskine, as if considering whether he could refuse. Eventually, he relented.

“If you must.”

After the right key had been found, Freddie opened the cellar door and handed a large Duracell torch to Perskine, who switched it on and gingerly crept into the cold, dark basement. Freddie stayed by the door, where it was light. After a few minutes of wandering around and shining the torch here and there, Perskine turned back to Freddie. 

“How were they caught?”

“I think they got careless,” Freddie said with a shrug. “They’d been doing it so long, they probably thought they could go on forever. Living here, you know, away from people, they must have got further and further away from reality. They just got sloppy, by all accounts.”

“Still…” Perskine muttered. “Thirteen people…”

“Yeah.”

“And now no-one wants to live here?” Perskine said, running the torch beam across the cold dirt floor of the cellar. 

“Live here? No. People visit from time to time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Freddie sighed, seemingly disappointed that he was forced into this further revelation. “You know the type - people who get off on murder and stuff. You don’t get ‘em so much any more, but a few years ago, when the case was in the papers, they were up here pretty regular. I mean, I doubt you’d get any now, if that’s a worry…”

“And, what, they just wanted to look around?”

“Some. Others wanted… well, there were a couple of teenagers who came here one night and… they said it was one of them suicide pact things. Both of them took pills and never woke up.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. And there was the homeless guy who broke in. Junkie, you know. Overdosed in the front room.”

“Blimey. And that’s why people don’t want to live here?”

“I suppose. It’s not like people think it’s haunted; it’s just that they know so many people died here. Not just with John and Frieda, but after that and all.”

“Was that all of them - the kids and the junkie?”

“No. There were a few more hitchhikers. They came here and never left. Nobody ever found the bodies. I think that when people come here, they sort of sense all the death in the air. That’s why most people don’t like it.”

“Huh,” Perskine said, taking one last look at the floor and ruminating on the secrets it held. “Well, that sort of thing doesn’t bother me. To be honest, I find it all quite fascinating. Has anyone ever written a book about it, because-?” 

Perskine stopped mid-sentence as a thought suddenly struck him. 

“But if they never found the bodies, how-?”

He turned to Freddie, who was standing in the doorway and watching Perskine very, very closely. 

“Um… I think I’ve seen enough now,” Perskine said. “Can we go back upstairs?”

Freddie didn’t move. He just smiled. 

“Really,” Perskine said. “I’d like to get out of here. Now.”

Freddie kept smiling.

He was, after all, in the people business.