Angels in Black and White (Horror Short Stories)

by Saunders, Craig

  ‘If you’d listen to me instead of daydreaming, you’d get your work done on time and I wouldn’t have to ride you all day.’

  He prodded a thick ream of papers on the table. ‘I want those figures punched by lunch. Get a move on, there’s a pal.’

  Pal. Jack’s gall rose. He swallowed and smiled. ‘Of course, Mr. Davis. I’ll have them done by lunch.’

  ‘Good man, less of that daydreaming, eh? You know I try to be a pal here. Makes the day go quicker, eh?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Davis.’

  His boss thumped him on the back, knocking him forward. The back of his chair gave out and he flipped, whacking his knee on the table. He swore under his breath and rubbed it. He looked around. Sarah and Emma from the secretarial pool were laughing at him from behind their hands.

  His face reddened.

  Jack pulled his cock out, and Sarah bent over the photocopier. Her arse stuck in the air, her skirt bunched around her waist. She was wearing the stockings he liked today, just for him. His trousers fell down around his ankles. Her eyelids fluttered.

  ‘Fuck me, Jack, fuck me where I like it.’

  He stepped closer, pushed the tip of his cock against her wet slit. That was all the lube she was worth. He put it against her arse.

  As he was about to ram it home, he felt a hand reach between his legs, cup his balls. He turned his head to look down and saw Emma, smiling up at him.

  The phone rang. Jack turned his red face away and crossed his legs. His trousers were suddenly uncomfortably tight. The girls carried on laughing. Sarah said something to Emma, and they giggled as they walked away, looking back over their shoulders at him.

  He picked up the phone.

  ‘Jack, it’s Johnson. What’s happening with the Pickman accounts? I was expecting them in my inbox at six yesterday, and all I got was zilch. Accounting, that’s what you do, right?’

  Was everyone in this place a sarky arsehole or a prim bitch?

  ‘Sorry, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Davis pulled me off that. I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘ASAP, Jack, and I mean today. It can’t wait all fucking week.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Johnson.’

  He hung up the phone before the man could speak at him any longer. Fucking bastard.

  He pulled up his spread sheet and began entering the figures. £169,076.09.

  £45.94 – photocopier paper. £3,705.90 – travel expenses. Fuck, he could travel round the world on that.

  He tapped at the keyboard. His wrist ached. It had been aching like a bitch for a week now. He shook his hand free. He took some time out to stare at the ruby walls of his tiny cubicle. His troll, sitting on top of his monitor, looked back at him expectantly. ‘When are you going to waste these fucks?’, it seemed to say. Perhaps that was just his imagination.

  He checked his wristwatch. Ten minutes had passed. Page one, done. He flicked through the sheaf of papers. Sixty to go.

  He cracked his back, looked around. All he could see was the top of twenty other people’s heads. He didn’t even know who half of them were. They seemed to come and go, day in, day out, there was a different man, a different woman. They all had exciting jobs, working with computers. Is that what people get told these days? Pick a great career – use a computer.

  He rubbed his sore knee and swore quietly to his troll. He hadn’t had any career advice. If he’d have had his way, he’d have joined the army young and learned interesting ways to kill people. Then he would have come to work here. It would have stood him in good stead.

  Can you work an Excel spreadsheet?

  No, but I can strip an SA-80 in twenty-two seconds, and put it together again in another thirty-three. Plus, I can break your wrist with one hand.

  He drifted and tapped.

  He looked up. Thirty minutes.

  Time for a coffee break. He stood, his back creaking and aching like a set of balls on a month long hiatus from fisticuffs.

  He strode to the coffee machine, took a plastic cup and poured himself another dose of humble juice. He added two sugars. His waist could look after itself, pretty much. He’d never be fat. Instead he was gawky. That was what it was called. Gawky.

  He did press ups every night. He had a chest these days. He hadn’t had one at school. Stupid fuck kids who thought they were cool giving him wedgies, pinching and punching. Made his life a living hell. But what did that matter now? He was a man now. He had a job.

  One day, he’d show them.

  Chris Kitchener came up behind him and startled him. He slopped some coffee on the cuff of his shirt.

  ‘Steady there, mate. Sorry I made you jump.’

  ‘Didn’t make me jump, just slipped,’ Jack mumbled. Fuckers. Everyone here called you mate, or pal, or chum. Everybody pretended to be your friend, when all they really wanted to do was suck you dry, turn you into a useless husk of a man so their bitches could come along after and fill you with their piss and bile.

  He took the coffee pot and smashed the glass into Chris’ face. The coffee burned his face and he screamed. His left eye popped as a shard of glass entered the juicy orb, his skin melted in the heat.

  Jack stood over his writhing form and put his finger in the eye juice, watching with delight at the horror on Chris’ face as he took that juice and put it on his tongue.

  It tasted like jelly babies.

  Chris touched his shoulder. ‘You alright, man?’

  ‘Yep,’ Jack forced a smile. ‘Fine. See you.’

  It was all he could manage. He walked away, coffee cup in hand, the coffee burning his hand as he walked. Plastic cups. Just one more torture.

  He walked in a daze back to his cubicle with his ironic chair, the chair that hated him. He twiddled with the handle underneath and got the back to stick in the upright position. He scooted it forward so he was at his desk and took a sip of his scalding coffee. His lips burned and for a moment he savoured the pain. It woke him up more than the coffee.

  He set it aside and worked on figures. An endless stream of figures, dancing before him like sinners before the gates of hell. He wondered which figure represented the Area Manager’s tryst with his secretary, which represented the sneak trip to Macdonald’s for breakfast, who was waxing his travel expenses with a trip to the shops to buy his wife some lingerie. Let’s spice things up a little, Mavis, you go on top tonight, in this bra and panties set from Victoria’s Secret. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s bought and paid for by the share holders. How’dya feel now, huh? Do you want it up the arse?

  He chuckled to himself, then took another scald of his coffee to wash away the imaginary image of Mavis, folds of fat seeping free of her 44 DD bra.

  Ouch.

  Figures. Figures. He began tapping. By twelve, he had reached page thirty. He took out a banana sandwich his mum had made him. He ate while he worked. He pushed numbers around, and it felt good to bully something. It set him free for a time. He dreamed, but only on the surface of things. He didn’t let it go too deep. He had work to do.

  ‘Jack! Pal! How’re those accounts coming?’

  ‘I’m on it, Mr. Davis,’ said Jack, biting back a grimace.

  ‘I’m relying on you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Davis. Working through my lunch,’ he told him, and hated himself for sucking up. Fuck off, he thought, but only to himself.

  ‘Good man. Just as soon as you can. Mail ‘em to me, eh?’

  ‘Eh’ fuck.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Davis.’

  Jack’s boss walked away, and Jack turned back to his screen. All work and no play. His troll sneered at him. Pussy, it said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Jack told it, and flicked his screen up. Numbers. It was all done by numbers. Everything could be reduced to numbers, or so the mathematicians said. But Jack knew the truth; numbers reduced you.

  He set to tapping, and the pages flew by. For a few blissful hours, he had no daydreams. The clock ticked past, marking off numbers on the face. People passed his cubicle – seven. He went to the toilet. Twice.
>
  His phone rang. Twice he picked it up. More work. Demands from Mr. Davis. Twice he didn’t answer it.

  Then, it was just him and the numbers, sucking his soul out through his eyeballs.

  By four, he was finished. Five cups of coffee down.

  He hit send. See if Davis could wiggle his way out of that one.

  He looked up. There were fewer heads. It must be cigarette break time. He wished he smoked. Those bastards took up half the day developing cancer. If Jack got cancer, it would be for free.

  He almost wished he had cancer. A day off wouldn’t hurt.

  Johnson. Fuck Johnson.

  He stretched his legs out. The back of his chair chose that moment to pussy out on him. His legs flipped in the air again. He whacked the same knee.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Heads turned in unison. He wanted to put his fingers up to them. Bet one of those bastard bitches switched it back on him every time he stayed late and swapped it. Every day, no matter what he did, same chair.

  He put his face down.

  Fuck Johnson. He brought up the Internet. Click, click. What a beautiful variation from tap, tap.

  Variation, Jack realised, was why people kept on living. They waited for their shows to change, they tried tea one day instead of coffee, hot chocolate instead of tea, a mistress instead of a faithful wife.

  But they would never be free. They wanted variation, but within a strict set of boundaries. They wanted it to be comfortable. They wanted parameters.

  There were no parameters. You didn’t have to put up with the same old dross. Jack knew that. If you just had the imagination. You could go anywhere.

  Click, click. The sound of an empty chamber. Flick knife opening. Hammer on nail.

  Tap, tap. Brought to mind a drip. Endless. Rhythmic. Crazy-making. The sound of every day.

  Click…clickclickclick…click. New patterns. New rhythms. Alien and new. Nothing familiar about the sound.

  It relaxed him. A flood of pictures poured over him. Words. Stories, news stories, alien abduction stories, stupid-people stories, conspiracy stories. He washed in it.

  4.55pm. Time to get his jacket on. He looked around him. People were standing up, stretching out their aching backs, pulling on jackets.

  He caught a nameless drone’s eye. Dead, soulless eye. No imagination.

  Put him out of his misery. Go on. Take the axe. Look down. The axe is already in your hand. A swing, a hit. A cracking sound, and the axe is stuck. The rest of them look round. Perhaps they can all jump you before you pull the axe out. Perhaps you can beat them to it. Nothing to it, but to try.

  Jack grabbed the handle of the axe, and pulled. The sound he could hear was screaming. His. They were silent. Silent, waiting for freedom. Waiting to break out.

  The axe came free. For a moment, he thought he saw them smile.

  He shrugged his jacket on.

  A nod to a co-worker. No words. There is no room for words in a world of figures.

  Jack shouldered his way out the door, his phone ringing behind him.

  It would be Johnson. Too late.

  He walked slowly to his car. Put the key in the ignition. Pulled away, then a second before it was too late, slammed on the brakes as Sarah pulled out in front of him.

  She threw him the finger and he accelerated into the side of her car, staving it in. He leapt out of the car and ran around to the driver’s side, put his foot through the window, smashing the glass. He reached through and grabbed a handful of her pert, prim hair and rammed her head into the steering wheel, again, and again, and again.

  He mouthed ‘sorry’, even though the stupid bitch had pulled out on him.

  He drove sedately home.

  Put the key in the lock. Pushed open the door.

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘Yes, mother. I’m back.’

  He took his jacket and hung it on the peg. Only then did he go into the front room. It was his rebellion. Great things start out small.

  ‘You’re early. You can do my feet before dinner.’

  He looked at the obese woman before him, splayed out on the couch. She couldn’t reach her own feet. It was a miracle she could still get out of bed. Her mouth had a cruel twist, maliciously bent.

  ‘OK, mother,’ he said meekly.

  He walked to the shed, took the saw out. He oiled the blade lovingly, running a finger along the jagged teeth. He walked, sedately, back to the living room. He could afford to take his time. The fat, sick bitch wasn’t going anywhere.

  He did her feet. He always did as he was told.

  He tidied the kitchen, wiped the crumbs from the sofa.

  And that, thought Jack, was another perfect end to a perfect day.

  He turned on the computer in his bedroom. For a few blissful hours, it was just words and pictures. No demands. Instant access. He dabbled with some sedition, dallied over a little porn, did a crossword. Words and pictures. The sheer joy of it eased his shoulders.

  He wound his neck in, went to the bathroom and washed the blood from his hands.

  Then he stripped and changed into his pyjamas.

  Jack brushed his teeth carefully, taking time over each separate tooth. He squeezed some blackheads from his chin. Before he lay down, he got on the floor and did forty push-ups.

  Panting, he threw himself into bed.

  He lay perfectly still for a while, just staring at the ceiling, with a smile fixed on his face. Just another day of holding it all in. It was amazing, he thought, what you could do if you set your mind to it.

  He turned onto his side and closed his eyes.

  The End

  This story used to be 'A Children's Story'...but it didn't really work. I changed it. It's a sweet story, unlike many of the other tales in here. But I like it, so in it goes, into the melting pot...nom nom nom...

  The Bogie Man

  “Daddy!”

  Sarah sat in the protective light of her low-lamp, quilt pulled up to her chin. The scattering, scuttering sound came from behind her skirting board. Like tiny scrabbling feet.

  “Daddy!”

  Her father’s door crashed open and she heard the heavy footsteps of her father pounding down the hall toward her bedroom.

  “What is it?” he said, his breath coming in laboured pants even though the distance between her bedroom and her father’s was only a few metres.

  “Something’s in the walls. It’s coming to eat me up!”

  Graham Winters shushed his daughter and came to sit on her bed. He stroked her hair and smiled. Her father had a kind smile. He always had a smile for his daughter, even when she woke him in the early hours of the morning.

  Even since her mother had died his smile for her remained unjaded. She noticed how he didn’t smile or laugh so much when Nanna came to visit, or when he spoke to the workmen working on the new conservatory. He didn’t think she could hear him crying at night when he’d been drinking, like he had tonight. She could smell the beer on his breath, but she didn’t mind. It was somehow comforting.

  “There, now, sweety. There’s nothing in the walls. No mice, no bugs. The house is as safe as Fort Winters.”

  Fort Winters was Sarah’s fort, made out of a sheet and two couches pushed together each weekend. Only daddy and she were allowed inside. Her dolls kept watch for her.

  “It’s not mice, daddy. It’s the boogerman.”

  “There’s no such thing as the bogeyman, sweetheart,” he said. His breathing was calmer now.

  “There is, too. Gemima said there’s a boogerman and that he follows her around the house when she’s naughty. Her mum told her the boogerman would get her if she’s naughty. He follows her all the time. When she was naughty the boogerman took her Malibu Stacy away and locked her in her room!”

  Graham Winters scowled. “Well Gemima’s mum’s a little potty, and you shouldn’t believe anything she says. She’s a bit, ah…well, you know, like cousin Ben?”

  “Special?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”


  Sarah giggled.

  “So that’s settled then.”

  “Yes. Gemima’s mum’s potty.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but don’t tell Gemima. But my point is that there’s no bogeyman, or boogerman.”

  “But he’s in the walls. You can’t see him, that’s why you don’t believe in him.”

  Graham Winters sighed. “So he’s invisible, is he?”

  “Yes, he’s invithible.”

  “Invisible, sweety. And don’t lisp. You’re cute enough as it is.”

  “He’s really real. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”

  She’d got that from his mother. His mother had a lot to answer for. Not least Sarah’s lisping and adding a phantom ‘w’ when she wanted to be cute and get something she wasn’t supposed to have. His mother seemed to think it was a good idea for girl’s to get by on cuteness and looks.

  “The bwoogerman ith in the wallth!” she said, and curled the corner of her quilt cover around her fingers.

  Yep, his mother had a lot to answer for.

  He sighed again and gave up. Parenthood, it seemed to him, wasn’t about building walls, but tracks. Don’t let them bump into things, just let them follow along the lines you laid down.

  “OK, sweety, you got me. There isn’t a bogeyman, but there is a bogie man. It’s a secret that’s well kept. Only a few adults know he’s out there. He doesn’t follow kids around when their naughty, though. He follows them around and picks up their bogies. That’s what he lives on. He’s nice. He does adults a favour.”

  “Eeeuw! He eats bogies?”

  “That’s right. You know all those bogies you wipe under the table?”

  “I do not!”

  He smiled his special smile he kept just for her.

  “Well, I know you do, but that’s not the point…they’re never there in the morning!”

  “Really? They just go?”

  It was so easy to catch a child out. That’s why he didn’t do it. It didn’t seem fair.

  “That’s right. They’re all gone. That’s because the bogie man eats them.”

  “But he’s nice?”

  “Yep, he’s nice. He’s only a little thing. About the size of a Chihuahua. And he’s green.”