Black Static Horror Magazine #2 Read online

  "A singles site?"

  Richard squirmed. “Not exactly. It's a little more adult than some of the others.” He hesitated, turned his head away. “To quote her profile, she's seeking younger men for daytime meetings. No strings. She says that she's married."

  "How do you know it's her?"

  "Her photo, Douglas."

  Douglas longed for reality to change again. Wondered if it already had. “What sort of photo?"

  "Not what you're thinking. She's wearing a red dress, she's got her hair down. She looks—"

  "I know how she looks."

  "I couldn't believe it. She's been a member for over a year."

  "This is ridiculous. Her photo? Anyone could see it. She must have known that someone would..."

  As Douglas faltered Richard said, “I'm sorry."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Look, I know this is hard, but—"

  "I don't believe any of it. Is this what that charade at the squash club was about?"

  "Charade?"

  "You were almost in tears. I didn't know you could act."

  "You're my oldest friend. I knew how you'd take it. Of course I was upset."

  "You've always been jealous of us, haven't you? Especially since Serena saw sense and left."

  "Why would I lie? I can show you the site..."

  "I don't need to see it. I don't need anything from you. We don't all screw around behind each others’ backs."

  "You're deluded,” Richard said.

  Douglas stood and made his way to the door.

  "She's making a fool of you,” Richard said, following him.

  Douglas walked to his car without looking back.

  Richard stood at the pub entrance and shouted, “Nothing ever touches you, does it? You're a fucking iceman."

  Douglas got into the car and drove away.

  He drove towards London. He didn't want to go to London particularly, he didn't like the place. It was too big, too crowded. He'd only ever been there to humour Gayle. But he didn't want to go home, either. Not yet, at least.

  Nothing ever touches you, Richard said, and he was right. For once he had cut straight to the heart of things. When Douglas was nine years old his baby sister died of meningitis. It happened with appalling speed, over a weekend. He remembered that suddenly no longer having a baby around meant that the house was quieter and it was easier to sleep. He remembered also being bewildered by the intensity of his parents’ grief. It scorched them, left them shredded, empty, useless to him, to each other, to anyone else as far as Douglas could see. His sister had been a tiny blob of a thing. She ate, cried, slept. It was sad when she died, a shock. But...

  Within a year both his parents were dead as well. His father had a heart attack. His mother took an overdose. Douglas found her body. He never forgot the look of relief on her face.

  As he approached Thetford his mind was clear and empty. Dusk was falling. Something by Bach played on the radio. The windscreen blurred suddenly, then cleared and Douglas saw the dual carriageway in front of him distort. It was rippling, forming languid waves of tarmac. The car in front of him, a silver Lexus, was flicked aside as though it was a toy. Douglas braked sharply, to no effect. He rode the waves, found he didn't need to steer. Ahead an articulated lorry jack-knifed and he passed it on the inside as the cab toppled sideways and ploughed into a transit travelling in the opposite direction. Douglas felt the heat of the vehicles as they exploded. He travelled faster and faster although his foot had left the accelerator. He felt no fear, no exhilaration. Debris passed him like a meteor storm; a chunk of masonry clunked off his windscreen, leaving no mark at all. He was no longer breathing. It didn't matter. He closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again he was parked on the hard shoulder, bent double, dry-heaving onto cold tarmac.

  When he straightened a coach screamed past, horn blaring, missing him by inches.

  * * * *

  "You're late,” Gayle said.

  Her voice came from the kitchen. It seemed higher than usual. Douglas hesitated in the hallway. He felt wiped out, insubstantial. He wasn't sure he could face Gayle. He no longer knew what to say, what to think. Everything was slipping away from him. “I'm sorry,” he said.

  She was standing by the sink, her back to him. Her shoulders were taut, her arms cradled at her front. He thought she was angry with him for being late. He knew he had an anger of his own somewhere, but he wasn't sure how to retrieve it. He expected the kitchen to smell of cooking, of the meal he had missed, but all the surfaces were clean and empty and the only scent was that of Gayle's perfume.

  "Richard was here,” she said.

  "What? When?” He was wrong-footed again. It was becoming a habit.

  "An hour. A little less. I know what he said to you. I know why."

  He thought suddenly that he should rush to her side, hold her, make sure she was real. But he couldn't. “What are you talking about?"

  Gayle turned. Her face was cast down briefly then she tilted it upwards into the light. There was a bruise under one eye and a crust of dried blood stained her upper lip. She had been crying, was close to crying again.

  "I rejected him once, years ago.” She was propped against the sink. Douglas was yards away. Neither moved to reduce the distance between them. She looked at the floor. “I've always found him attractive. But I love you, Douglas."

  He pointed at her face. “He did this?” She nodded. “Did he—"

  "No. He was angry. He lashed out."

  "But why now?” Douglas felt numbed by the stupidity of it all. It made no sense. Then a thought occurred to him and he cursed his own stupidity. His life had been built around absolute control but that was fading now, becoming useless. Something white and pure was swelling within him and it felt good.

  "I've got to go,” he said.

  Gayle's eyes held his, noted the expression on his face. He expected her to protest, to plead with him to stay with her and not to do anything rash. But she didn't.

  * * * *

  Richard answered his door promptly. Douglas pushed him firmly in the chest and he staggered backwards, falling onto his side as his leg caught the edge of a decorative table.

  "We haven't got a computer,” Douglas said.

  Richard hauled himself upright. “What are you doing?"

  "We haven't got a fucking computer!"

  The fact that Douglas swore seemed to shock Richard more than the physical attack. A flicker of fear crossed his face that Douglas relished. “Look, I'm younger than you, and fitter, so don't—"

  Then Douglas was on him, driving him into the lounge, bouncing him off one wall, then another, then pinning him to the thickly carpeted floor. Before Richard could speak he punched him in the face. It felt good so he did it twice more then his hand hurt so he stood and kicked at Richard's torso and groin until the prone man squealed and pulled himself into a ball. Douglas was breathing heavily. He rested on his haunches for a moment then kicked Richard in the back and buttocks with his left foot until he felt his big toe break. Richard was whimpering softly and barely moving. Douglas hobbled into the kitchen, found a bread knife, then went back into the lounge. He knelt on the floor, forced Richard onto his back then stabbed him in the chest until his arm felt numb and the knife blade broke and the air was rich and thick with blood.

  * * * *

  Gayle was out when he got home. It was just after eight, the time Douglas had thought it was when he had first arrived home and found Gayle in the kitchen. It had been a long day, though. Longer than it had any right to be. He slumped in an armchair, staining it with blood. Gayle won't be happy about that, he thought distantly. Then he slept.

  Gayle's voice woke him. She was in the kitchen again. She's always in the bloody kitchen, he thought, then looked at his hands.

  "I'm sorry I'm late,” she called. “Did you get my message? Clarissa is hopeless with that computer. It was hardly an emergency; I had it fixed in no time. But we had a couple of glasses of wine,
you know how it is. I don't like not being here when you get home from work, but I didn't think you'd mind. Why didn't you answer your mobile? You had me worried. Didn't you get yourself anything to eat? We can get a takeaway, I suppose, in a minute."

  Her voice carried on as she rattled around in the kitchen. Douglas was still looking at his hands. Then the living room door burst open and there she was, her face unblemished. When she saw him she stopped talking. She stood completely still.

  Douglas looked at her and tried to think of something to say. He waited for reality to reassert itself. Waited and waited.

  Copyright © 2007 Andrew Humphrey

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