"Christmas kiss?" said the one nearest to her, his hair shaved close to his scalp, pitted with little bald patches were the scar tissue had covered the follicles. He was pointing towards his groin and she glanced down. He'd attached a sprig of mistletoe to his belt and she felt her stomach drop.
Now what? There were no taxis and the lads were going in her direction. She could always walk home, but it must have been a couple of miles away and she was scared and cold.
"Come on, you slag, give us a kiss." The man sounded angry now and that made up her mind. She turned and ran past them and down the hill, their hoots and jeers ringing in her ears and bouncing off the closed shop fronts around her.
* * *
Amanda kept running until she was on Northampton Road, a good half a mile away. The run had warmed her up slightly, but it had also given her a painful stitch in her side and her breath burned in her throat. Her feet hurt as well, where her new shoes had dug in.
Northampton Road ran down to an intersection, under the railway bridge and then up towards the A14. Halfway up the hill, she'd turn right for the short walk back to the flat. She wondered what Roger was doing now. Whatever it was, she wanted to be there with him and not out here, where the cold was starting to make her head ache.
Walking briskly, she set off down the hill. No-one was around and the traffic was light. The bus garage was all closed up for the night, the double deckers lined up in their bays waiting for the Christmas shopping Park & Ride tomorrow.
The intersection was deserted, the lights changing like a slowed down disco system, with no cars waiting for them to turn green. The bridge, half in darkness, seemed to call her to safety.
She crossed the road, feeling relieved - she was nearly home.
A man was walking down Northampton Road, about as far from the bridge his side as she was from hers. He was wearing a dark overcoat, smart trousers and carrying a briefcase. She thought quickly about crossing to avoid him but decided it wouldn't be necessary, he was a businessman on his way home from work.
Amanda reached the bridge, the road marked with narrowing patterns for lorries to follow so they didn't get stuck. The pavement was protected by a metal fence and she trailed her fingers over the cold metal, watching the floor but looking up every now and again to see where the businessman was. The pavement was wide, but you had to keep to your own side to pass another pedestrian.
He walked under the bridge at the same time she did and caught her looking at him. In the wan light of the dirty bulbs on the underside of the bridge, she saw him smile.
They met halfway, she against the metal fence, he against the brickwork.
"Goodnight," he said, as they passed.
"Goodnight," she said and then he touched her shoulder.
The tingles of fear that had been growing since the Royal Hotel, suddenly exploded into sheer panic. She turned quickly and he was standing still, facing her.
"Yes?" he said, "did you want something?"
She was confused now. Had he touched her or did she imagine it?
"No," she said slowly, shaking her head, "everything's fine."
"Good. So you didn't fancy a fuck then?"
Did she imagine that? She looked at him, his thin face and red cheeks, his curly brown hair cut short and couldn't believe it. He was smiling at her, as friendly as a vicar at a village fete. Was she going mad? "What did you say?"
His smile broadened and he leaned on the metal fence, resting his briefcase against his leg. "I asked if you wanted something."
Relief flooded her. She had been imagining it. She couldn't wait to get home now, to have a hot bath and climb into bed, safe and secure.
"No, I'm all right thanks."
His smile faded. "So you didn't want that fuck then?"
She hadn't imagined that. "I have to go," she said, shaking her head.
"I'll come with you," he said, but didn't move.
She turned and walked away quickly, wanting to put plenty of distance between them. She could be home in five minutes now.
His footsteps clicked on the concrete and a chill ran through her. He wasn't going away, he was coming after her.
She risked a glance back and he raised his hand in a friendly wave.
The sudden rush of terror made her head swim for a moment and then she began to run. A hundred yards ahead was a turn-off, leading into a small estate of executive type homes. She and Roger had looked here, on a whim, though their combined salaries wouldn't even buy them garage space.
Amanda ran harder, pumping her arms, trying to get some speed up. As she brought her right leg up, her shoe shot off and into the road. She limped along for a couple of strides and then kicked her other shoe off. The ground felt cold and gritty against her soles but she didn't care, that was the least of her worries now.
Just inside the mouth of the estate were four houses, the windows festooned with fake snow and childishly drawn Santa's, but the driveways were clear of cars and no interiors lights were showing. The road curved slightly beyond the last house, to lead into the rest of the estate and she was bound to get some help there.
Passing the last house, she glanced back. The man was keeping pace with her, hardly moving his arms, looking to all the world as if he was just slightly late for his train.
The estate was built around a circular drive, with half a dozen houses facing one another. The majority of them had cars on their driveways and, standing in front of one house, was a man smoking a cigarette.
"Hey," she called, waving, "help!"
The smoker looked up at her and then beyond, at the man with the briefcase. He took a final drag of his cigarette, threw it towards the road and went into his house, locking the door behind him.
What now? Did she rush over and hammer on the door, demanding that the occupants call the police, or keep running? Could she get out of this estate, or was it a dead end?
She veered away from the smoker's house and headed for another, larger house. The lounge and bedroom windows were lit, a pale Mondeo sat on the driveway and a Christmas wreath hung on the door. As she ran towards it, someone walked past the door and then a small window was lit, its glass frosted.
"Stop," shouted the man. "You can't run away from me forever."
Her heart pounded in her chest as she got closer to the house. Another few steps and she'd be on the driveway. Even if she got to the front door and nobody came out, perhaps she could break a window and then they'd call the police.
Her head exploded with pain and she fell to her knees, as a briefcase slid past her on the ground. Groaning, her knees raw and hot, she sat up.
The man stood over her, breathing deeply, hands by his sides, his fingers flexing. "How rude are you? I was talking to you."
Tears began to roll down her cheeks, even though she didn't want to show him that she was terrified. "What do you want from me?"
"What you offered under the bridge. You can't offer something like that and then walk away, that's not right."
"I didn't offer anything," she sobbed.
"What are you, love, a prick teaser?"
"I didn't offer you anything, I was just going home."
"Didn't sound like it to me," said the man and he began to unbutton his jacket
"Undo one more button and I'll scream."
He looked around, holding his arms out. "And what do you expect will happen? Do you really believe someone will come to your aid? Come on, love, get real - even if anyone does come out, I'll just tell them you've had too much to drink and we're having a fight." He looked down at himself. "You look a mess, with your knees ripped out of your tights and no shoes and here I am, in a suit. Who would you believe?"
His words stung her and, taking as deep a breath as she could, she screamed. The anguished sound echoed off the houses, building on itself until it became something unreal.
A flicker of doubt crossed the man's face, but he finished unbuttoning his jacket and looked around casually. "See?"
She screamed aga
in and saw the curtain flicker at the smoker's house. "Help me!" she shouted but the curtain dropped.
The man took a step towards her, grabbed under her arms and lifted her to her feet. "Come on, don't make this more difficult than it has to be."
She kicked out, aiming for his groin, but he anticipated it and moved to one side so that her toes connected with his knee. She yelled out in pain.
"Where did you want to do it then?" he asked gently.
"I don't want to do it," she screamed, "you're a maniac. Let me go."
He leaned towards her and she thought he was aiming for a kiss, but he stopped just short. "Keep it up, my story is looking more reasonable all the time."
She spat in his face and he dropped her, with a disgusted expression. Calmly, he took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped her saliva away. She began to scoot backwards, on her hands and feet. Her handbag slid off her shoulder and clattered to the tarmac.
Her rape alarm. Why hadn't she thought of it before? She upended her bag, the small alarm bouncing away from her. She reached for it and sat up.
The man put away his handkerchief and smiled. "Ah, the rape alarm. Don't you get it, you're drunk and this is a domestic. Nobody will come to your rescue."
Behind her, she heard a toilet flush and looked around as someone walked past the front door. He looked through the glass side-lights at her and she could see him clearly, his close cropped hair and glasses. She was convinced that he saw her too, but he shook his head and walked away, switching off the hall light in the process.
She couldn't believe it.
"What did I tell you?" asked the man and began to undo his belt.
Amanda pulled out the activator on the alarm and its insistent, piercing shriek bounced off the houses, painful in its intensity. The man looked startled for a moment and then he kicked it out of her hand. It bounced once and she reached for it, but he beat her there and ground it under his heel. The shriek whimpered once and died.
She looked around. Nothing moved - nobody came to their door or looked through a window.
"I think you're fucked," smiled the man and he punched her in the face.
* * *
She was vaguely aware of being carried and put down somewhere dark, the ground cold.
"Don't," she said, her voice sounding all wrong. Something cold and wet was on her top lip and chin.
"Hush now, it'll be nice, you'll see."
She heard the briefcase snap open and the man moved her legs apart and kneeled between them.
"Please," she begged. Why was this happening? She'd only come out for a Christmas party. Surely she'd wake up in a minute, in her own bed with Roger snoring gently beside her.
The man made a clucking sound. "Sorry, gone too far now."
He pulled her dress up to her stomach and put a hand into the waistband of her tights. She heard something click and felt cold metal on her belly. That moved and he was slashing at her tights.
"Please don't."
"I wouldn't worry, they didn't look too expensive. Anyway, I can't get in if you're wearing tights, can I?"
He peeled her tights off her legs, put the knife down and pulled at her dress. She felt it rip up to the neck and he parted it. "Has anybody ever told you that you're beautiful?"
"Shut up," she screamed and began to cry again, "just shut up, shut up, shut up."
He sliced through her bra and pulled each cup to one side. "No, love, you shut up, all right?"
"Help me," she screamed and he hit her again, her head bouncing off the ground, stars bursting around her.
Groaning, she closed her eyes.
* * *
She swam back slowly through the darkness, her cheeks stinging.
"Wake up, you bitch," he hissed and slapped her face.
Her body was riddled hot and cold, her groin and breasts feeling like they were on fire, her back, legs and arms freezing. She tried to raise her head, but a wave of nausea washed over her, making her groan. There was more of whatever it was on her face, cold and damp.
"Where am I?" How long had she been out? Had anyone come to see what was going on?
The man stood up. "You filthy cow," he sneered and did up his zip. "You disgust me."
With her left hand, she gingerly felt down her body. Her breasts, especially around the nipples, were very tender. She found deep cuts on her belly and her hand explored further, into her groin. Even the slightest touch seemed to stoke the burning that felt like it raged over the whole area. She felt more cold dampness and realized that it was blood.
She was hurt.
"See you later, you cheap whore," said the man and he picked up his briefcase.
"Wait," she gasped, reaching for him, "you can't leave me here."
He looked over his shoulder. "Why not? You should've thought of this before you came onto me."
She began to cry. "But I didn't, I didn't."
He shook his head and walked away, disappearing from view behind a wall.
Where was she? A high brick wall loomed up to her left and a wood panel fence ran alongside her right. Was she in someone's back garden? Had he dragged her into someone's garden, raped her and nobody had come to find out what was going on?
She tried to sit up, but her whole body seemed to erupt in pain at the movement and she was sick, not quite managing to get her head to one side. She felt the vomit splash her chest and arm.
Somebody walked up behind her and she whimpered, trying as best as she could to cover herself.
"Are you alright, love?"
It wasn't the rapist, thank God. She turned her head slightly and saw the man from the house, who'd used the toilet. He squatted beside her shoulder, away from the vomit.
"Is she okay?"
This voice was in front of her and she looked towards the street. It was the smoker, concern showing on his face. But there was something else there as well, almost relief that it was Amanda and not someone he knew.
"I don't know, I think so," said the man whose house she'd been violated next to.
A woman stepped around the smoker. "My God, she must be freezing. I'll go and get a blanket or something."
The smoker nodded at her. "The police should be here in a minute or two." He looked at the house owner. "I rang them when that rape alarm went off. I had no idea what it was, until Pat told me."
"You heard it?" sobbed Amanda.
The house owner cleared his throat. "I think we all did."
"So why didn't you stop him?"
"Jesus," said the smoker, "she's bleeding badly."
"Do you think we should move her?" said the house owner.
"Best not. We'll leave her like this, until they get here."
She put her hand to her groin, trying to ease away the pain. It was just like the rapist had said - nobody would come. She coughed and felt something dribble out of her mouth.
"Merry Christmas, you fuckers," Amanda said and closed her eyes, the sound of the siren a long way off, the ground very cold against her back and shoulders.
Ryan Bridger
A KRAMPUS CHRISTMAS
ERIC ERRICHSON HAD been naughty this year.
He hadn’t thought that stealing his sister’s diary was all that terribly bad; and he had good reason to tape its pages to the lockers at school. She’d broken his bike first, after all, and on purpose.
Setting a tack on Sister Bridget’s chair might have been what bumped him off the “nice” list any other Christmas season, but this was different: he was double dog dared. At that point it became about family honor, and that’s not naughty at all.
And it couldn’t have been the time when he rode his bike up through the neighborhood, smashing mailboxes and breaking windows as he went—he’d brilliantly convinced everyone it had been Bryan Jacobi behind the spree.
Besides, all that happened back in September when the sky was still blue, but barely.
Maybe none of those things had done it. Or then again, maybe it was all of them combined, mixed
with the other things he’d done and forgotten.
Whatever it was, Eric Errichson stood frozen in the living room, shaking and staring at the tall, goat-legged black thing that had emerged from the fireplace.
“Hello,” the thing said. Its long, red tongue, hung low to the knees, wagged while he asked, “Are you Eric Errichson?” He shook the rusty chains draped over his shoulders. Rusty bells attached to them sounded off in a cacophonic symphony.
Eric Errichson said nothing, but nodded.
“Good,” said the thing. “Do you know who I am?”
He said nothing again, but shook his head. He felt something drip onto his bare feet, realized he’d wet his pants.
“I am Krampus,” the thing from the fireplace said. It bowed, showing the full curvature of his spiraled horns. His shaggy, black fur blew in a phantom breeze.
“Oof!”
Eric’s eyes shot back to the fireplace. A plump, red suited old man had fallen there, struggled out with a large sack of toys.
“Saint,” Krampus growled.
“Krampus,” Santa Claus nodded, patted the beast on the shoulder and moved past. He began to fill Evelyn Errichson’s stocking with all manner of toys and trinkets.
“Santa?” sobbed Eric. “Help me?”
“Can’t do it, ho ho ho!” laughed Santa Claus. He wheeled around with a list in his hand, pointed somewhere in the middle. “See? Eric Errichson, not on the nice list.” He quickly finished stuffing the stockings that didn’t belong to Eric Errichson and disappeared up the chimney.
“Hello, Eric,” rasped Krampus in a voice better suited for something dead.
“Hello.”
Krampus swung a rusty chain, struck Eric in the jaw.
“Mom! Dad! Mom!” Eric tried screaming, but more blood spilled from his mouth than sound. Before he could count the teeth that fell on the floor, Krampus scooped him up and dropped him in an iron basket the giant goat-man had slung on his back.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 66