by Lex Sinclair
Tears brimmed in his eyes as he thought about the first day he’d arrived here at Willet Close. Hugh had been overjoyed to see that his new neighbour was one of his all-time favourite boxers. He’d offered to help Joe to move furniture. Usually in Joe’s experience most people who offer to help just say it but don’t literally mean it. Hugh meant it. He’d helped Joe for the best part of one morning and the best part of an entire afternoon on another day. Also, he’d proved he wasn’t just saying he was a fan to impress Joe - he proved it by showing him some of the DVD’s he had with Joe’s most notable fights. Now that lovely, retired postman with the limping gait and lazy eye was dead.
When he’d finished fighting his invisible opponent, Joe poured himself a glass of cold water from the tap, sipped it, then left the glass on the kitchen worktop half full and went up to the attic - where he and Hugh had spent many of their time in each other’s company - to look at the street below.
Standing by the dust covered window, it seemed almost as if the last few days had been a vivid dream and nothing more. There were no news vans parked on the kerb of the main road opposite their street, nor were there any military vehicles (The media had been told to take a hike, and the military vehicles had been moved to somewhere discreet. Furthermore, there was to be no more headlines concerning the goings-on in the suburbs). The government had decided to try a different ploy. The military were still patrolling the streets, but now he only saw glimpses of the soldiers passing by. They were hoping that the intruders would think that no one was watching the street any more, because over the last week nothing untoward had happened; thus acknowledging the fact that they’d wasted time and manpower on an operation that was futile from the start.
Joe’s own Neighbourhood Watch scheme had been to no effect; although at least when he and the boys were keeping a vigilant eye on their domicile they had a few laughs. Yet that was when they were all still very much alive and well. Things had changed drastically after witnessing Brian burning to death on the makeshift cross and hearing the shocking news of Hugh’s gory demise. Like a lot of his fellow residents, Joe had lost all the zeal he had once possessed, feeling as though he were now a shadow of his former self, wandering around his house, desolate, not wanting to do anything worthwhile. What was the point, anyway? Soon, what had gone on previously at Willet
Close would be a thing of the past. Soon the residents of Thorburn Close would be moving back into their homes, because there didn’t seem any point keeping those people in hotels when there was nothing sinister occurring in their street.
Of course, the case itself would never be closed until the perpetrators were either gunned down or apprehended. But like a lot of stories that grew old fast, people would gradually - not purposefully - forget, or at least grow tired of old news. It was the same wherever you went in the world. People disappeared every day. People were brutally murdered every day, too. And unless there was some substantial evidence suggesting who the wrongdoer was then the likelihood of solving the crime was highly unlikely. That in itself was no one’s fault, at least not directly. Nevertheless, the wounded were left without closure, always looking over their shoulder, pondering aimlessly at what or why the bad thing happened in the first place.
However, this situation was slightly different. Yes there were disappearances, fatalities and a big question mark that had no plausible answer. But where this situation differed was at the intruders being apparitions, becoming more and more tangible with every life they took, every body they devoured, every sacrifice that was made to the thing with the goat’s head.
Soon, the military would be gone, too. The Acolytes of Doom were far from stupid. They weren’t going to draw attention to themselves. They had all the time in the world.
That was probably the single greatest thing you didn’t have to worry about when you had eternal life - time. The threat, according to the authorities would be over in the next couple of weeks. The gang of murderers, they’d assume had fled when they had the chance, rather than risk being caught in the act. You couldn’t keep a 24/7 watch on a street where nothing happened, other than the hedges rustling in the breeze for long.
***
Another four days later, Joe’s prediction was proved to be spot on. He didn’t know how he felt about it all. Everything seemed to have been a big waste of time. Yet they were assured that every single day, there would be a patrol car driving to and fro every few hours, checking to make sure everything was how it should be. There was nothing more they could do.
Joe watched the General, who stood steadfast in the middle of the street. And for the first time, Joe noticed him snarl, shake his head in contempt, then jump into the wheel of the truck, start the engine and wheel spin off the mark - the back end fishtailing, burning rubber streaks behind in a cloud of blue engine smoke as he swerved around and raced down the street and out of sight. Joe knew exactly how he felt. That fierce-looking man, with a stare that could crack plaster and break glass, had stood under the ominous mushroom cloud all day and night like the Statue of Liberty facing downtown New York, dedicated to his mission, ready for action at any moment, only to be thwarted by an unseen adversary, who were waiting with inhuman patience on the very ground he stood upon.
Unbeknownst to the military, though, was what Joe and the other residents were acutely aware of. Joe also realised that the only way - if there was a way - to prevail over the malevolent forces which lurked around every corner, ready, waiting to pounce on each and every one of them when they were at their most fragile. Their insidious approach caused hearts to surge in their throats, eyes to protrude, hairs to stand up on their arms, contaminating their minds, destroying their tranquillity evermore.
Not five minutes after he’d watched the soldiers, somewhat reluctantly, get into their vehicles and depart, the phone rang. For a few seconds Joe merely stared at the receiver, actually considering not answering the call. If he didn’t and locked himself away in his house and lived like a hermit, perhaps this horrible dilemma would go away. He knew that not confronting his problems wasn’t the right thing to do, but sometimes the problem was so dominant and overwhelming, running in the opposite direction seemed the most comfortable and natural solution. Not only that, Joe had contemplated putting his house up for sale, packing his bags and heading for another residence where his life wasn’t in jeopardy. If he mentioned this to any of his loyal, trustworthy neighbours they’d be devastated and would most likely not be congenial towards him any more. Thanks to his opulence, unlike his fellow neighbours, Joe did have the luxury of moving, even if it meant losing a few thousand in the process. He’d still have plenty money to take care of himself for the rest of his life. But more importantly from his perception, he’d have the peace of mind he sought, and apparently kept eluding him for many years.
He willed himself not to pick up the phone; however, another part of him - the part that he called his conscience paid no heed to what he wanted and picked up the receiver and asked who was calling.
‘It’s me... Naomi. I was just calling to ask if you’d seen them leave.’
‘Yeah, I saw them.’ Joe was too emotionally exhausted to discuss matters that he had no control over whatsoever.
‘You sound different,’ Naomi said.
‘I’m tired.’ Joe sighed. ‘Why are you calling me, anyway?’
‘I was just wondering if you’d like to come over and talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, don’t bother. I thought we could keep each other company, that’s all. I thought you were still hurt and upset at what’s happened to Hugh, like I am with Brian. Thought you’d like to come over, so we could support one another. Forget it!’
‘Wait!’ Joe didn’t mean to raise his voice, but it was the only thing he could do to stop her hanging up on him. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right... I am hurt at everything. I came here to live the rest of my life in peace, and what I go
t is the exact opposite. Talk about bad luck, huh?’
‘I know exactly what you mean. One day Brian appears out nowhere at my front door, telling me how sorry he is for using me as a punching bag, and that he is a recovering alcoholic. All of this is true, in fairness. Then, just when I think that Corrie’s got a father again, before it’s too late -’
‘And you get your husband back,’ Joe said, silently scolding himself for blurting that remark, even though it was unintentional. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. I did love Brian... and a part of me always will. But after what he’d done, I’d never have got back together with him. Sure, I had feelings for him, but that was only due to the fact that he was Corrie’s father. It was nice, though, for him to come out here and sincerely apologise for his faults, ya know? It didn’t erase all those dreadful memories, but what it did do was get rid of the hatred I’d had festered for all these years inside of me for him.’
Joe didn’t answer right away. His eyes burned, his throat worked convulsively, causing discomfort. ‘I just keep thinking about what I saw - you with your husband, and thinking about Hugh.’ He choked back the emotions, not wanting Naomi to hear him break down. ‘Something’s gotta be done about this mess.’ There was no answer to a comment like that, so Joe continued. ‘I think there’s something one of us, or all of us, need to do...’
‘What’s that?’
‘Confront this atrocity head on...’
17.
Michael had been training hard - like Joe - mostly to rid himself of rage for hours at a time. Because he was angry and upset, he broke all his previous heaviest lifts he’d previously done. His muscles were so taut and sore from the vigorous workouts, he could barely move around the house without wincing when he ascended the staircase or bent down to pick something up he’d dropped.
He’d been in his garage doing deadlifts without the use of gloves or wrist straps, when the military took their leave. His intuition informed him in the last couple of days that the creatures of the night would remain hidden in their lair until it was safe to come out of hiding and perform their ritual murders once more. It was that knowledge that had ignited a powerful surge of incredible natural strength for him to lift more weight than he’d ever handled in his entire life.
But it was only since last night did the malicious, guttural voice started reverberating inside his head, taunting him, guffawing at who he was and what he’d become.
Oh, Michael, look at yourself? All this training; all this sweating and panting, for nothing. Because when you stand before yourself in the mirror and admire all those gleaming, bulging muscles, that’s all you can do. In your bathroom mirror with the kind soft glow of the dim light bulb you look like Mr. Universe, but in truth you wouldn’t have a prayer of competing next to those guys on stage, posing, flexing in front of judges and audience. And do you know why, Michael? Because you won’t do what’s necessary. You won’t take enhancement drugs to get the best out of yourself. Yet, we both know that there’s a little bit more to it than that, don’t we? You’re afraid. Just like you were the other night when a shadow of a figure floated past your window. You may have big muscles, Michael - but you ain’t got no balls! Cruel laughter boomed in his eardrums, mocking him. Although, if he was being completely honest with himself, Michael did have to admit, that the voice did speak a little bit of truth. He was afraid of standing in front of hundreds of people under the spotlights, wearing skimpy trunks, modelling his physique for critique. Furthermore, were the ramifications of abusing his body with growth hormone and steroids.
That’s bullshit, and you know it, Michael! How many of your gym buddies do you know do you hear complaining about the side effects of taking drugs to get the best out of themselves, huh?
He didn’t say so aloud (he didn’t have to), but he had to admit, not one of the bodybuilders he knew complained about any side effects. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean to say that there weren’t any. Yet every time he saw his friends, they appeared to be fine - the same as him. Only they’d got their awesome physiques a lot faster than he’d got his; and some of them had competed and won local competitions. Of course, Michael, like everyone else, was there to congratulate the winner when they showed their shiny gold winner’s trophy and medal, but he also felt a pang in his chest of envy. He wasn’t jealous as such, he merely felt slightly cheated, because here he was doing it the natural way - drug-free - and everyone else who used illegal substances was achieving great things. All he wanted was his piece of the pie; nothing more, nothing less.
Well, here’s your chance! Look on kitchen worktop where the blender is and see what I mean, Michael.
Michael shook his head, trying to get rid of the voices, refusing to get up from his seat in the living room and do as the voice asked.
Chicken!
‘Am not!’ Michael protested, not realising how childish he sounded.
Are too!
Maybe it would do him a world of good if he got up from where he was and sauntered into the kitchen. There was nothing there that he himself hadn’t put there, because no one else had been in the house besides him all day.
Go check out, Michael. Go check it out! GO... CHECK... IT... OUT! This was followed by more maniacal laughter.
Yeah, we’ll see who’s laughing when there’s nothing there. You’re just a stupid voice in my head.
No I’m not.
Yes you are!
No I’m not.
Yet when Michael entered the kitchen and saw what was lying on top of the worktop in plain view, he understood that voice inside his head had been telling the truth, after all. The voice had been telling the truth about everything! It knew Michael’s deepest desires, taunted him because his dedication (just like Joe) had cost him numerous break-ups with girls, who rapidly grew tired at him for constantly going to the gym and then eating at certain times of the day, keeping a count of his protein intake, as though his arm might shrink an inch if he missed a meal. Or his leg would ripple with fat if he had a McDonalds once in a blue moon.
I’m not just some voice in your head, Michael. I’m a very prudent voice of reason. What you see before you is a drug that will make you better than all the other guys in the country. Trust me on that, if nothing else. Also, no one will know, because it won’t show up in your blood or your urine samples. How GREAT is that?
‘This is not happening! This is not happening! I’m having an hallucination, that’s all.’
Michael, for your own sake, great a grip, would ya? Now listen to what I’ve got to say, because what I say next is not only truthful, but essential, too.
There before him was syringe filled with a clear liquid that he would bet his house on was not water.
All your life you’ve dedicated yourself to this bodybuilding lark, yes? Now, after many years of giving up your spare time lifting weights, doing the exercises with meticulous care, building your body from a skinny little thirteen-year-old - who used to get chased home by the bigger boys - isn’t it time you stepped up to take what is in fairness actually yours by right?
‘What’s in it for you? Why are doing this for me now, all of a sudden?’
All I ask in return is your complete and utter faith in me, Michael. Take the drug. Walk into your destiny. Realise your dreams... I believe people like you ought to be rewarded; not punished like you’ve been for being passionate about something. Don’t you?
‘Yes... I do.’
Then do what’s right, Michael or for ever hold your peace.
‘You just want me to take the drug?’
I want you to trust me. After all, I want to help you; not see you punished with loneliness. Do it. Do it, Michael.
For a long time, Michael stood unmoving by the kitchen worktop, contemplating. The voice inside his head didn’t sound so malicious any more. In fact, the voice sounded quite comforting. Not only that, th
e voice had spoken truthfully to him. The voice knew how he felt, sympathised with him even. The voice had a point. Why should others be rewarded when he wasn’t even given a second thought by his gym buddies? That was also one of the main factors why he’d opted to train in his garage... alone. He didn’t know how much more he could take, hearing how another guy had won a competition, while he trained harder than any of them, and was only not quite good enough due to the fact that he wouldn’t take the risk of using illegal substances.
Be afraid no more, Michael. Be a man, in every sense of the word. You deserve success. You worked hard for it... and unlike the other guys, you did it the so called “right way” and where did it get you?
‘Okay,’ Michael said, listening to the voice inside his head killing his conscience. Then he moved towards the worktop, rolled his sleeve up, exposing his left arm, where a long vein was visible from the front deltoid all the way down to his forearms. The bunched up material pinched the skin, causing the vein to stick out like a blue cable.
If this drug was as good as the voice inside his head suggested it was, then there would be no doubt that he’d have very good chance of winning not only the local competitions but the big shows, too.
Maybe instead of everyone joking that he’d win the Mr. Universe one day, he’d shut them up and actually win it. Not only that, but as the voice inside his head told him, they wouldn’t even know. And when the drug tests came back as negative everyone - even the judges and doctors alike - would be absolutely gob-smacked.
Michael picked up the syringe and injected himself, smiling through the cold sting piercing his flesh, as the toxic flowed through his veins into his arteries, no longer natural. What Michael believed to be the start of his dreams becoming a reality, until he reached the pinnacle of his desires, was all a wicked deception. The voice inside his head belonged to the thing with the goat’s head - and yes, the thing with the goat’s head spoke truthfully, in parts. However, it had used Michael’s hopes and aspirations and turned them against him, turning the drug-free bodybuilder, who may not have won any awards, but was nonetheless a winner in every sense of the word, into an intoxicated creature.