Category Archives: Fiction

The 80’s on Trial

Image

The headlines in the UK at the moment are frightening. Icon after icon from the 70’s and 80’s is being hauled up before the courts accused of sexual assault, touching and sometimes even rape.

The offences in almost all cases, were described as ‘historic’ in other words, they took place around 30 years ago. But why does it feel that it is MY youth and growing up that is actually on trial?

That was around the time I worked in a large office, first in Dundee and then in Edinburgh. There was nothing exceptional about them – a bunch of people of varying ages all working and often playing together and producing a newspaper every week.

We were colleagues and we were (usually) friends. There was the occasional office romance but we were adults and we all knew that good terms were needed as we all had to work together, and it worked.

There was, what would definitely be classified now as sexual harassment, in abundance.

We touched each other. We massaged each others shoulders. We made rude jokes in front of each other. We tested limits – on one occasion I found a 4X magazine in my drawer with some fairly explicit images. Clearly a reaction was being waited for, so I took it out, flicked through it and dismissed it with a brief and scathing, “Nah, mine are bigger.” Then I chucked it to the side.

I remember one Valentine’s Day popping a red rose (man, these are expensive!) into a colleagues desk drawer because he complained that no one ever gave men flowers at Valentine.

We slapped each others bottoms. We stroked each others hair sometimes for fun and sometimes  if a colleague was upset. Occasionally we even hugged, especially in times of distress. We drank together at lunchtimes and partied together in the evenings. We sometimes went to disco’s together in the evening. No one took offence, because it was all part of the way offices ran in these days. Ok. It’ll bring that in a little. I am a journalist and it was the way newspaper offices worked. I can’t speak for insurance companies or other businesses.

In fact in many ways it gave me a really good insight into how to deal with men who got a bit ‘fresh’. It didn’t scare me. It didn’t worry me. It certainly didn’t make me feel that I had been assaulted or sexually traumatised in any way. I gave as good as I got.

Can there really be anyone who worked in office environments around that time who didn’t indulge in a bit of office banter or a bit of touchy feely nonsense? Are you wondering now whether someone from your dim and distant past will turn round and accuse you of harassment any day now? It has crossed my mind.

My only defence is that there were no power differences involved. We were colleagues on pretty much the same level. No one really had authority over anyone else – and we were all grown up enough to stop if our behaviour made anyone uncomfortable. But we all enjoyed it. It was fun. It helped make the office a fun place to work.

I’m sorry if that offends you, but it did.

In the same way that I don’t really feel any responsibility for the horrors of the slave trade and don’t feel any great need to apologise on behalf of my ancestors (who were farm labourers and almost certainly never had any contact with slaves either), I feel it is unfair to judge the behaviour of the 70’s and 80’s in the light of today’s much more restrained and politically correct accepted norms of working life.

I’m absolutely not excusing rape. Really, rape is a crime that is vicious, cold, horrifying and an extreme abuse of power.

But sexual assault – touching shoulders, slapping bottoms, slipping a hand around a colleague’s waist? In the 70’s that wasn’t classed as sexual assault. It shouldn’t be judged to be so today.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under crime, Uncategorized

Come Quickly!

woodland

By Jacky Cowper

Graham picked his way through the undergrowth.

“Cassie”. He shouted. “Come here, girl.”

He sighed as the brown and white spaniel failed to put in an appearance.

“Bloody dog,” he said, and looked around for somewhere dry to sit and have a fag while waiting for her to chase the rabbit or follow the scent or whatever else it was the stupid animal got up to every Sunday in the woodland behind his house.

There had been a lot of rain recently and the fern leaves were dripping. Dry spots were few and far between.

He leaned against a fallen trunk instead and drew the smoke down into his lungs.

No chance of an accidental blaze today anyway, he thought, flicking the lit end off into the muddied trail his boots had made.

“Cassie!” He yelled, angrier.

There was a muffled barking somewhere, but it was too far away to determine which direction it was coming from and whether it was even Cassie.

The woods were a popular destination for dog walkers in the district, though they were thick and dark and autumnal today. In the summer they were usually full of children playing on the tree swings, teenagers sitting round bonfires, even some campers braving a night in the woods.

A bird squawked somewhere nearby and something rustled in the leaves nearby.

He started nervously. He wasn’t really scared, but they were big woods and though there were no dangerous animals in Britain, he still got the creeps from time to time. He was conscious that he was alone, isolated.

He decided to press on a little deeper, thinking perhaps if he got the serious heeby-jeebies, he could find a nice protected spot and hide there and watch to see what was that he had heard.

He moved quietly, pushing leaves aside with his hands and occasionally his knees, careful where he stepped.

As he moved, he became conscious of an odd creak. It sounded almost like a tree being moved by the wind, but there was no wind. It didn’t belong here.

As he kept going, the sound got louder.

It was in front of him, somewhere through the bushes and the massive ferns.

Then his eyes were drawn by a strange movement, towards the top of his vision. A large growth on the tree, but the light filtering through the leaves was in his eyes and he couldn’t make out details.

He straightened up and shaded his eyes with his hand.

There in the tree, was a body. It was, or had been a man he thought, judging by the top and sports bottoms. Standard uniform for round here, he thought, but the face was dark, purple and swollen. The hands hung limply and one trainer had fallen off. It lay on the ground below the hanging corpse, on its side, a pool of water soaking in to it.

Graham thought he was going to have a heart attack. He yelped loudly and shot backwards out from under the tree and ran back, his hands wind-milling wildly, to the fallen tree where he had had his smoke.

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, dropped it, then swept it up and dialled 999.

His hands shook so much that he hit the wrong number twice and had to lay it on the tree to keep it steady enough to press the screen.

“Emergency,” the clipped and professional male voice replied. “Which service do you require?”

“Police, police. Now. Please hurry. I don’t want to be alone with it.”

“What is the nature of your emergency, sir?

“There’s a body, hanging. On a rope. I’m in the woods in Blairveggie estate.”

“There’s a squad car on it’s way to you now sir,” the voice said. “What is your name and your exact location?”

“My name is Graham. Henderson. I live round here. I was just walking the dog. Hurry up. This is so scary. Come quickly, I don’t want to be here alone.”

“The police will not be long Graham. Tell me about the body. Are you sure they are dead?”

“I think so. He was all purple, black, swollen. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Can you still see the body?” asked the controller.

“No,” Graham said. “I ran away.”

“That’s alright. It’s a normal reaction. Will you be able to lead the police to where he is?”

“Maybe, I guess.”

“What is your exact position? They will be with you very soon.”

“I’m about a quarter mile off the main path towards the back end of the estate greenhouse. I was looking for Cassie. She’s run off again. It’s pretty thick undergrowth round here.”

He heard a siren in the distance, but coming closer. “They’re here,” he said, and ended the call to wait for the police.

Still shaking and jittery, he pulled another cigarette from the packet and lit it, noticing how much his hand was jerking.

He could hear two, maybe three policemen crashing about in the woods somewhere nearby.

“Over here.” He shouted. He waved his hands, feeling a bit stupid in the darkened wood, but wanting to do something.

He spotted a peaked cap just through the leaves and yelled. “This way, this way. Come now. I’ll lead you.”

Then he turned away from them and started back along the path he’d created in the undergrowth as he ran from the body.

The police followed along the path and stopped when they spotted the corpse in the tree.

Graham just stood aside to let the professionals take over.

“Been there a few days I reckon.” Said the tallest of the three men. “Maybe a suicide. We’d not have found him without that call.”

The one with the beard got on his radio and requested an ambulance and the crime scene team, just in case. They’d take the photographs anyway.

Graham moved away, feeling ignored, but glad he no longer needed to look at the bloated body.

He’d done his bit. He’d been a good citizen. He shivered, conscious of the dampness around him.

The police were on their radios again, and he could hear another siren coming towards the woods from the opposite direction.

One policeman was shaking his head. “No, no sign. We’ll give him a ring. What’s the number again?”

One of the others took out a mobile phone and pressed several digits.

Graham felt the vibration in his pocket and pulled his phone out.

“There,” one policeman shouted. “Shit.”

Graham stood and began to walk back to the clearing, finally pleased they wanted to speak to him.

But the policemen were standing looking at the hanged man.

And listening as the bleeping tone, clearly audible, rang out from the left hand pocket of his jacket.

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction, new fiction

Sole Sisters

Thin Golden Strap Stiletto Sandals

Sole Sisters               

 by Jacky Cowper

“Nice shoes.”

She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, in spite of the fact we’d been standing together waiting for a bus for nearly five minutes.

She took in my large DM’s and the stud in my nose. Her face told the story. I was an insect, a piece of dirt to be scraped off her delicate gold and bejeweled sandals.

Undaunted, I tried again.

“Are they fancy, one of these labels; a big name? Designer shoes?”

She checked her watch again. Took out her phone and shook it.

“There’s no signal down here.” I said. “It’s a blackspot.”

“Damn.” She said. Then she looked at me. “What’s your problem? Can’t you see I don’t want to speak to you?”

She rooted around in her equally delicate bag. No ciggies either. She was really having a bad night.

I stuck my hand into my pocket and pulled out a fresh pack of 20. Immediately I had her attention.

I drew one out of the packet, tapped it on my hand, flicked the lighter and lit up, drawing a lungful straight down. I held it inside for a few seconds and then let it drift out of my mouth and nostrils into the dark night. It hung there, caught in the flickering on/off of the streetlamp for a minute before dispersing into the air.

I made as if to notice her for the first time. “Want one?”

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

She allowed me to offer her a light, cupping her hand around the flame as if holding a butterfly.

She sucked in the smoke, and blew it gently through her nostrils. They flared slightly as the heat raced through them.

Smoking together always brings about companionship, and her reluctance to speak to me was soon forgotten as we considered the chilly Edinburgh night. After another ten minutes, I didn’t need to look closely to see her shivering.

“Listen,” I said. “I only live a few minutes away. I was just being lazy taking the bus anyway. Come to my flat and call a taxi from there. I’ve got a landline.”

She looked doubtful, but after staring at the top of the road where the bus was due to appear, she nodded. “Ok.”

I led the way.

The pavement was uneven and she stumbled from time to time. Once she even reached out her hand and rested it on my shoulder. I felt it burn all the way through my jacket.

We reached the entrance to the close. She looked into the darkness through the arch and hesitated a little.

I stepped forward, showing her it was safe.

“Just watch your footing – there are bin bags all over the place at the back. “Folk round here aren’t too careful where they put their crap.”

She moved forward, her heels catching between the cobbles at the start of the old stair.

“It might be better if you take your sandals off.” I said. “You wouldn’t want to break a heel, would you?”

“Not likely,” she laughed. “These cost over £100!”  I felt cold slivers of sweat trace their way down my back and disappear into the waistband of my trousers. The little gemstones on the shoes caught a little of the feeble light coming from the street, and glinted like diamonds in the darkness.

She leaned on me as she bent over to remove them. The heels were thin, elegant, infinitely discreet, like her little feet. Clusters of green and red stones mixed with the solitaires winked at me. Then I felt her hand reach out, clutching the shoes.

“Here, would you take them for me?” she asked. “I’m having trouble with the cobbles.”

Somewhere off to the left, in one of the flats above us, a dog barked once, then there was a snarled human voice and all went quiet again.

She looked up, her hair caught for a moment in the light trickling down from the night sky.

She handed the shoes to me. I could feel the breath leave my body. They were divine. They were the sun, the moon and the stars all carefully whisked together and tied onto your feet with tiny golden straps that fastened round your ankle and over your toes.

She moved slightly ahead of me, her slender frame wobbling on the uneven ground.

“Over there, in the corner. That’s where the door is.” I called quietly.

She began to move carefully through the bin bags towards the door, almost hidden in the dark.

I laid the shoes down at the side of the dark close and jumped on her back.

She squawked as she went down, my left hand quickly clamped around her mouth and my right hand brought the knife out of my pocket and slid it across her slender throat. I felt her body buck under me, but she was fashionably thin and my weight on her back wore her down very quickly.

I held her head down, listening to the blood splash onto the plastic around us and breathing in the hot smell that seemed to fill the air completely.

It was quick.

She stopped moving even sooner than I’d hoped. I stayed still, hidden in the darkness, listening for any sounds that might indicate I’d been heard, breathing quietly in the stillness of the night.

Nothing. Not a car. Not a bus. Not even the clicking heels of a passer by or the muffled laughter of a couple as they bent into each other.

I eased myself back, onto my feet, dusted myself off.

I threw a couple of bags on top of the body and tucked her bare feet away under another bag. The bags were supposed to be deposited in a communal bin out on the street but no one in the stair ever bothered.

I stepped backwards and picked up the shoes. They’d been worth the wait, the plotting, the risk. They gleamed like diamonds in the dirt of my life.

I tucked them into my jacket and pushed the close door open, walking quietly up the stairs to my second story flat. I let myself in, turned on the lights and sat down.

I pulled the shoes out and laid them on the table in front of me. They glistened.

I smiled. Wiped them with my sleeve until every trace of dirt from the alley was gone. I held them close to my ample chest. I could smell the leather, feel the stones as I caressed them. They were mine now.

I stood up and picked them off the table. There would be plenty time for adoration later.

I walked over to my bedroom, opened the wardrobe door. I reached up to the shelf, pulled down the suitcase from the top.

I laid the case on my small single bed and opened it. Three pairs of encrusted sandals winked back at me. I eased them over, making room for the new member of their family. I looked at all my pretty things, laid out in a row. They were loved. They were all loved.

I hauled my boots off, looked at my toe sticking through the top of my sock.

I pulled the socks off too.

I picked up the blue sandals – my first acquisition, all the way from Aberdeen. I slipped the left one on, or at least as far as it would go. The sole said size 4 and I was an 8. God saw fit to grant me the love of delicate things, and the body of an all-in wrestler. I was a cosmic joke.

Blue sandals had been my first, a call girl. Too late she realized, when she got into the car, that the short fat guy was a short heavy woman. She might have lived if she’d just given me the shoes, but she fought for them. She was right to do so, of course. Who wouldn’t have fought for such beautiful objects?

They were well-worn, and they carried her scent for a week or so afterwards, but I didn’t mind. Now they had new companions. I ran my dumpy fingers across the blue shoes and the others in the case. The stones sharp and hard under my skin. I closed the suitcase, put away the memories of that Aberdeen night, the Dundee park, the Fife woodland.

The police arrived three days later. One of the neighbours had found the body – a bare foot sticking out had been a clue apparently.

It was just a regular questioning. Had I seen anything? No. Gosh officers, my rubbish bag is nearly ready to go out. I sat down as the shock hit me. I could have found it. The body. Was it a man or a woman?

A woman. So sad. Such an evil world. I shook my head in despair.

The police took in my big boots, my lumpy body. The short hair and the studs. They assumed the stupid expression that would naturally go with it. My feet were far, far too big to ever fit the small sandals that were missing.

I was an ugly sister for sure, not a Cinderella.

They thanked me and moved on to the drug-addled neighbour upstairs. I never heard from them again.

Why would I?

I had no connection with her. The tiny pieces of evidence they’d found on her body were from generic clothing. And it could have come from the bin bags anyway.

Every policeman knows that killers don’t dirty their own patch.

Except when they do.

That there’s no such thing as a completely random murder.

Except when there is.

That people are not killed for a pair of small golden sandals.

Except when they are.

Leave a comment

Filed under crime, Fiction, new fiction, Uncategorized

Mindgame

images

Mindgame

by Jacky Cowper.

There were four of them left now. It was nearly a week since Kissenger had gone over the wall.

Bethsheda was in the garden, feeding what was left of the small flock of chickens; Shenandoah was crashed out in the bedroom, sleeping off another hard day of sleeping; Garsch was rocking gently on the couch, watching the rerun of Kissengers escape on the wall monitor, and Hogg was in the shower, thinking.

Hogg thought a lot. Damn, it was all there was to do in this place. The walls of the Taskmaster Den seemed to creep closer and closer every day. Shit, he thought, as he soaped his hair for the third time. Maybe the bastard walls WERE actually moving. His grinned in spite of himself. Soap trickled into his mouth and he spat hard to get rid of it. Moving walls, sliding almost imperceptibly closer day on day, week on week, minute by minute. That was exactly the kind of crap these shitholes would pull. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He continued soaping his head, his body, with long circular strokes, working up a really good lather. It was his turn to do the ‘shower scene’ and he was determined to make it a good one for the watching masses. Who knew how many extra votes he might pick up if he looked shit-hot in the shower. Whore. He was a whore. He soaped harder and harder, covering his body until he resembled a large dollop of ice cream. He turned his back on the camera angle. No extra votes then.

His hand reached through the soap and touched the small hard lump that protruded just above his collarbone. He rubbed it gently and felt it move against the tendons in his throat. He pulled back quickly, and resumed soaping.

“What do you think you look like?”

It was Bethsheda’s voice, close behind him. A small hand slipped between his legs and started to work him into a sweat, in spite of  the lather and the cool water.

He paused soaping, allowing himself to enjoy the public intimacy. Bethsheda was sticking to her game plan. The public slut. It was rare indeed when she was fully dressed and not acting out somebody’s sexual fantasy. Rumour had it that she was streets ahead in the votes. All the guys liked a girl who would put out for the camera, and even the women enjoyed watching her antics.

Would they stick with her long enough to award her £250,000 though? If they did, the petite blonde, enhanced many times over, both surgically and chemically, would probably be the highest paid hooker in the world. Hogg stopped soaping and reached over to the tap, turning the water on full – and cold. Bethsheda shrieked, suddenly doused by the freezing shower, and ran from the room, slipping twice on the tiles as her high heels skittered.

She missed a chance, Hogg thought. If she’d have hung around she could have shown the camera how erect her nipples were due to the cold. The water was having the opposite effect on him. More lost votes then, he thought, looking down, as he turned off the flow and grabbed a clean towel from the rail. Wrapping it round his waist he made his way out into the main living area. Garsch was still lying on the settee. His flat, dead eyes were fixed on the screen. He was a large black man, his neck as wide as his head. Hogg often wondered how they got the implant past all these muscles. He looked up at the screen, just in time to see the moment Kissenger’s head disappeared, the small bomb shearing it clean from his shoulders and depositing it fifty feet from the rest of the corpse.

The footage had been a huge hit with the public. The way Kissengers body had continued to run for a full two seconds after the removal of his head had gained him an enormous fan base on You-tube. Facebook groups had sprung up demanding that his corpse be declared the winner of the contest. Others wanted the head to win. People are way past sick, Hogg thought.

So rumour had it anyway.

Of course they were cut off from the rest of the world – had been for ten weeks. No one knew where the rumours came from but – rumour had it –  Bethsheda had a seriously unhealthy relationship with one of the camera techs, and he kept her ‘abreast’ of developments.

Hogg turned away from the massive screen. He’d liked Kissenger. The small man had had been a real comic. An ex-drug addict, he’d kept everyone in stitches with his wit and endless supply of terrible jokes. Shenandoah hadn’t liked him much, but everyone else thought he was a hoot. He’d hoped to use the money to buy a lung transplant for his teenage daughter, but in the end the solitude got him.

The rumours suggested that the public had responded to his demise with such enthusiasm that the Taskmaster had donated the cash, and his daughter was now breathing more easily for the first time in her life. Such was the fame her father had achieved in death, her future career as a TV presenter was assured. A hospital reality show was lined up for her already, just as soon as she left the ward. Get well soon, Trix, thought Hogg.

Were the rumours just part of the bull? He wondered. Was anyone even watching?

“The votes have been counted. Come to the living area immediately.”

The Taskmasters voice boomed through the Den, loud enough to interrupt even Shenandoah’s sleep. She pulled herself to her feet – foot, really. Shenandoah was playing the disabled card, and playing it well.

She refused all offers of assistance even though her slowness had cost them success in their tasks on repeated occasions, ensuring that they had too little to eat and ramping up the tension in the Den. Hogg suspected she was the ‘spoiler’ – the one they kept in deliberately just to annoy the others and provoke reactions. Gaber had reacted, once, in the first fortnight. He’d called her a selfish freak after the fourth failed task in as many days. The premium phone number reaction from the watching millions had been swift and severe. His head had popped like a ripe tomato, splattering everyone in the room with matter – red, grey and white. They were cleared out to the showers while the techs cleared up. Shenandoah’s expression in the showers was unreadable. Hogg had thought he detected a smirk (one more down – and so easily) but he couldn’t be sure. After that, everyone treated her like royalty. On the fifth week, when Shenandoah had taken to her bed for long periods of time, no one complained. No one missed her.

Now she came stumbling into the main living area, her artificial foot on sideways. Always hungry for the sympathy vote, playing the angle.

She indicated with her crutch that she needed the higher seat tonight, and Bethsheda politely moved away. While Shenandoah parked her ample arse on the comfiest chair in the room, Bethsheda, tonight dressed in a neon string bikini bottom and a pair of outrageously high stiletto heels, perched herself on Garsch’s knee. The big man wrapped his arms around the tiny woman’s waist.

“Oh sweetie,” she whispered. “You can do better than that.” She pulled the massive hands up to her breasts and manipulated the wide fingers so that they began to play with her nipples, making them hard and very erect. “A lady’s got to look her best for her fans.”

“Good evening contestants.” The Taskmasters tin voice thundered through the room. “Here is the result of tonight’s vote.”

Bethsheda looked at Hogg. He stared back at her. She was still smiling as the implant bomb deep inside her neck was activated with a sharp ‘pop’ and her outrageously pretty head was reduced to something resembling mince. Her body shouid probably have hit the floor at that point, except Garsch was still holding her up, playing with her dark nipples. He finally reacted, pushing the body from his lap and tearing off his t-shirt, using the dirty grey material to wipe the foul smelling brain matter from his face. He hadn’t blinked once.

“I’ll never get used to that burned smell,” he said.

He walked over to the well-stocked bar (alcohol was another thing that got a reaction, so was encouraged by Taskmaster) and poured a half pint glass of neat vodka. He downed it in one long draught.

“That concludes tonight’s vote.” Taskmaster said. “Congratulations. You are the final three. Tomorrow night, one of you will win £250,000. Please go to the showers and use some of that wonderful Silkysoap Company ‘Liquid Luxury’ to clean up. Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

Garsch and Hogg were already well-lathered by the time Shenandoah hobbled in. Hogg was scrubbing as hard as he could bear. He could still feel the hot spatter and he was convinced clumps of Bethsheda were all over his body. The towel hadn’t provided any protection and he had been effectively covered in her.

“You scrub any harder and your skin’s gonna come off.” Garsch’s deep voice rumbled round the room like a distant underground train.

“Maybe that would be better.” Hogg replied. The two men turned their backs on Shenandoah as she removed her prosthetic leg and adjusted the catheter bag that was strapped to the remaining one.

“Can one of you do my back?” she whined.

Hogg shuddered, but it was his turn. He filled his hand with the so-called luxury liquid soap and began to lather the large fat-dimpled back.

“Oh, that’s so good baby.” She groaned. “Lower.”

Hogg had to fight down the gag reflex, but he worked the soap between the wide, flabby cheeks at the end of her spine, and worked the lather in. “Oh, you got a real talent there,” she said, slipping her hand between her legs and beginning to move it around.

“You’re done.” He said to her, retreating back beside the big man at the other side of the shower.

“Not yet,” Shenandoah said. “But soon I will be. I can manage the rest myself.”

Hogg rinsed and left the shower. He was followed closely by Garsch, the huge ex-boxer, afraid to be left alone with Shenandoah in amongst the soap, the steam and the skin.

They made their way back to the bedroom together, and settled down for another night of no sleep.

Garsch lay down and stared at the roof, at the tiny red lights from the cameras blinking in the darkness. Hogg curled on his side at the opposite end of the room. He was counting the beds again, looking at the tally of people who had died in the pursuit of cash. Vinnie the wannabe-actor; Max the disgraced MP, seeking public redemption; Lola the stripper; Rabbit the artist; Pehlt the writer, Gaber the poet. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. £250k for sitting on your butt for weeks on end, and a swift, painless death if you were voted out.

For a gambler like Hogg, with enemies on the outside who could make his death infinitely more drawn out, they seemed like good odds. It was win-win. If he won, his debts would be paid off. If he lost – then it wouldn’t matter. He had no one on the outside they could harm, so calculated he was safer in here.

His thoughts were interrupted by the lumbering figure of Shenandoah as she made her way into the room. Her plastic foot clicked on the tiles as she selected her spot and threw her towel to the floor. She lay two beds away from him, her bulk blocking his shadowed view of the rest of the room. He rolled on to his back and stared at the red lights. He smiled at the cameras and closed his eyes.

His sleep was erratic, short bursts of intense dreaming and periods of wakefulness that seemed to stretch out into the night forever. It was his normal sleep pattern, had been since he had been 12 when his mother had died. He used to look out of his bedroom window at the sky, wondering if she was watching him, the way his father had promised. Now he was finally content. He knew millions were watching him, out there in the darkness.

Hundreds of thousands of guardian angels, dialling that premium number just to keep him safe.

He rubbed the small implant again, felt it move. Maybe he could cut it out. They said it was close to the jugular and ran on the electricity produced by the body itself. They said any attempt to remove it would set it off.

They said a lot of stuff. No one knew what was real and what was shit. Shenandoah began to snore, her sagging neck magnifying the sound so that it almost shook the room. The noise drowned out Hogg’s thoughts and brought him back from the brink of sleep. He pulled the quilt over his head and rolled onto his side, away from the sleeping giant. He heard Garsch stirring in the darkness. Shenandoah’s bed creaked and then a wooden leg snapped with a loud bang as the bed hit the floor.

Her snoring was overwhelmed by Garsch’s harsh grunting. Hogg lay rigid in his bed. Shit, surely they weren’t screwing? A tiny giggle escaped his lips and he had to bite the top of the quilt to stifle the sound, as he imagined that meeting of monsters. No freaking wonder the bed had collapsed. A few minutes later he heard the big man yawn.

“That’s done then.” Garsch said in the dark.

The lights, voice activated, came on. Hogg blinked in the sudden glare and dared to look over at the combined mound of flesh to his side. Garsch was astride Shenandoah. His face was lit up by a cherubic smile. He was staring at Hogg. “I did this for you.” He said.

Hogg’s brow furrowed, then as his eyes focused, followed the big guy’s arms, to the massive hands wrapped around Shenandoah’s throat, her bloated face purple, her tongue protruding, her eyes bulging lifelessly, he began to scream.

His mouth was still open as Garsch’s massive head disappeared, spattering the entire room with gore. Hogg clawed at his tongue, trying to scrape the flesh and bone from the back of his throat.

He was still screaming five minutes later when the wall of the bedroom folded back and the techs frantically entered the room. They dragged him out, through the long tunnels built into the walls of the Taskmasters Den and through a silent door, gasping into the daylight. It was daytime? Hands brushed the filth from his face and someone threw a pail of water at him in an attempt to get rid of the blood. He tried to clear his eyes but the water half blinded him.

“Did I win?” He asked, the horror of the night beginning to be replaced by the slenderest trace of hope. “Do I get the £250k? He did it for me. He couldn’t stand the thought that the ugly fat bitch might have taken the prize.”

“You shouldn’t have said that.”

The Taskmasters voice came from somewhere behind him. “We don’t allow discrimination or offensive language of any form in the Den. Game over.”

Hogg heard the click as a button somewhere nearby, was pushed.

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction, new fiction