He had weird eyes, too. They weren’t too big or small, and they weren’t a funny colour or anything. But they were dead, like two coins pushed into clay. They weren’t the kind of eyes you would want to see looking at you across a pub, if you were a woman. If you were a man, they weren’t eyes you wanted to see at all. They were not good eyes.
I watched with an odd sort of fascination as the man stood with a loose-limbed solidity, turning from side to side to participate in the various shouting matches going on around him. And all the time he had this half-smile, as if he was enjoying every epic moment. I caught a momentary look on the face of one of his mates, a look of slight puzzlement, but I couldn’t interpret it any more closely than that. Not at the time, anyway.
After a while I lost interest and finally started reading my book. The pub was warm, but the window next to me was cool, and I can tune out just about anything when I’m reading. I don’t wear a watch, so I don’t know how long it was before it all went off.
There was the sudden sound of breaking glass, and the noise level in the pub dipped for a moment, before shooting up into pandemonium. Startled, I looked up, still immersed in my book. Then my head went very clear.
A fight had broken out. That’s what they do. They break out, appear like rain from clear April skies. Virtually all of the men around the table seemed to be involved, apart from a pair who were gloatingly watching from the sidelines. The rest of the pub were doing what people always do in these situations. The bar staff were either cowering or gearing themselves up to do something, and the other customers were shifting back in their seats, watching but trying to move out of trouble. I couldn’t really see what was going on, but it looked as if the men had taken on another, smaller, group who’d been sitting affably at the bar.
Amongst the general noise and chaos, I saw that the man with the bulky grey jacket was right in the thick of it. In fact it looked rather as if he’d started the whole thing. Once I’d noticed him again the rest of the action seemed to shade away, and I saw him loop a fist into the mêlée. A couple of the male bar staff emerged into the body of the pub, holding their hands out in a placatory way, trying to look stern. The ginger-haired one in particular looked as if he wished this wasn’t his job, that he was a waiter in some nice bistro instead. A couple of men responded by ploughing into them, and the fight immediately leapt up to a new level of intensity. People nearby hurriedly slipped out of their chairs and fled to the sides of the room. A beer bottle was smashed and brandished, and it all looked as if it was going to get very serious indeed.
As everybody was watching the new focus of attention, I happened to glance down towards the other end of the long table. The man in the grey jacket, I was surprised to see, had stopped fighting. He had his arm round the tall man with the earring, who’d been hurt, and was leading him towards the toilets at the back of the pub. I clocked this, and then turned to look back at the other end. The manager, a large man with forearms the size of my thighs, had come out from behind the counter. He was holding a pool cue and looked as if he had every intention of using it.
Luckily, I wasn’t the only person who thought so. The man waving the broken bottle faltered, only for a moment, but it was enough. The guy he’d been threatening took a step back, and suddenly the mood dropped. It happened as quickly as that. A gust of wind dispersed the cloud, and sparks stopped arcing through the air. The fight had gone away.
There was a certain amount of jockeying as the two groups of men disentangled and took up their previous positions. The manager kept a firm eye on this, cue still in hand. The other customers gradually relaxed in their seats and slowly, like a fan coming to rest, the evening settled.
When I’d finished my beer I started towards the bar for another, and then elected to go to the toilets first. It was a bit of a struggle getting through the crowd towards the far end of the bar, and my route took me a little closer to the men that I would have liked. When I passed them, however, I relaxed a little. They were still up, still feisty, but the main event of the evening was over. I don’t know how, but I could sense that. The mood was different, and something had been satisfied. The funniest joke had been told.
I hesitated for a moment before entering the toilets. As far as I knew, the man with the grey jacket and his wounded colleague were still in there. The Porcupine’s toilet is not big, and I’d have to walk quite close to them. But then I thought “fuck it”, and pushed the door open. You can be too bloody cautious. Quite apart from anything else, the mood in the aftermath of a fight tends to be one of fierce good humour and comradeship. A nod and a grunt from me would be enough to show I was one of the lads.
I needn’t have worried, because it was empty. I took a leak into one of the urinals, and then turned to wash my hands at the minuscule washbasin. There was a certain amount of blood still splattered across the porcelain, the result of a bad nosebleed, by the look of it.
Then I noticed that there were drops of blood on the floor too, leading in the direction of the cubicle. The door was nearly shut, but not actually closed, which was odd. It didn’t feel as if anyone was behind the door, and people don’t generally pull a cubicle door to when they leave. Not knowing why I was doing so, I carefully pushed it open with my finger.
When it was open a couple of inches I nearly shouted, but stopped myself. When it was open all the way I just stared.
The walls of the cubicle were splattered with blood up to the level of the ceiling, as if someone had loaded dark red paint onto a thick brush and tried to paint the walls as quickly as possible. A couple of lumps of ragged flesh lay behind the bottom of the toilet, and the bowl was full of mottled blood, with a few pale chips of something floating near the top.
My mind balked at what I was seeing, and I simply couldn’t understand what might have happened until I saw a large metal ring on the floor, nearly hidden behind one of the lumps.
Moving very quickly, I left the toilet. The pub was still seething with noise and heat, and the way through to the raised area was completely blocked. Suddenly remembering you could do such a thing, I ducked out of the side door. I could walk around the pub and re-enter at the front, much closer to my seat. Or I could just start running. But I didn’t think I should. I had to get my book, or people might wonder why it was still there.
The air outside the pub was cool, and I hurried along the wall. After a couple of yards I stopped when I saw a movement on the other side of the road.
The dog was sitting there. Now that it was still, I could see just how large it was. It was much bigger than a normal dog, and bulkier. And it was looking at me, with flat grey eyes.
We stared at each other for a moment. I couldn’t move, and just hoped to God it was going to stay where it was. I wanted to sidle along the wall, to get to the bit where the windows started so that people could see me, but I didn’t have the courage. If I moved, it might come for me.
It didn’t. Still looking directly at me, the dog raised its haunches and then walked slowly away, down towards the dark end of the street where the lamps aren’t working. I watched it go, still not trusting. Just before the corner it turned and looked at me again, and then it was gone.
I went back into the pub, grabbed my book and went home. I didn’t tell anyone what I’d found. They’d discover it soon enough. As I hurried out of the pub I heard one of the men at the table wonder where Pete was. There was no point me telling him, or showing him what was left. I had to look after myself.
I noticed all of those things. I was looking in those directions, and saw what I saw. I saw the earring on the floor of the cubicle, still attached to the remains of its owner’s face. I saw that the man in the grey jacket wasn’t there when I left, but that nobody seemed to be asking after him. I saw the look one of the other men had given him, a look of puzzlement, as if he was wondering exactly when he’d met this man with grey eyes, where he knew him from. And I saw the look in the eyes of the dog, and the warning that it held.
I didn’t
tell anyone anything, but I don’t know whether that will be enough. It wasn’t my fault I saw things. I wasn’t looking for trouble. But I understand enough to realize that makes no difference. Rain will sometimes fall, and I was standing underneath.
I haven’t been to The Porcupine in the last month. I’ve spent a lot of time at home, watching the street. In the last couple of days I’ve started to wonder if there are as many cats around as usual, and I’ve heard things outside the window in the night, shufflings. They may not mean anything. It may not be important that the darkness outside my window is becoming paler, as the moon gets fuller every night. All of this may amount to nothing.
But it makes me nervous. It makes me really very nervous.
Stephen Laws
GUILTY PARTY
Stephen Laws’ early short stories in the genre won a number of awards and led to his first novel, Ghost Train (1985), which achieved a degree of notoriety when posters advertising the paperback were banned by British Rail from their mainline stations for fear of alarming passengers. His subsequent books have included Spectre, The Wyrm, The Frightners, Darkfall, Gideon and Macabre.
His short stories have been published in various anthologies, magazines and newspapers, winning awards on BBC Radio and in the Sunday Sun.
As the author explains, the story which follows is taken from real life: “Years ago, when I worked for the now-defunct Tyne and Wear County Council, my fellow office cronies and I would hire a minibus for a jaunt to Stamfordham (a small hamlet outside Newcastle) about twice a year. We’d go up there, take over the pub, have a buffet, get drunk and incur the wrath of the locals (remember those first scenes in An American Werewolf in London when the two American guys walk into the pub . . . ?) The story was my attempt to place fellow-worker ‘Stuart’ in a dangerous situation. Just how much is fact and how much is fiction we can leave to the reader’s imagination . . .”
I’ve been a wild rover for many a year
And I’ve spent all me money on whisky and beer
But now I’ve returned with gold in great store
I won’t play the wild rover. No never.
No more.
The last chorus of the old song reverberated from the swaying occupants of the battered bus as it sped down yet another country lane. As if on cue, a sudden turn in the road sent the chorus leader, who had been standing in the aisle, crashing across two of the seats.
There was a roar of drunken laughter.
It had been a good night. The usual office Christmas party with hired bus and a pub far out in the wilds. Stamfordham was usually a quiet little spot. Not really too remote, but “countrified” enough to appeal to the most hardened of “city” types and to arouse the irritation of local residents when the “townies” arrived en masse to take over the only two pubs in the area.
Stuart heaved himself from the seat and struggled past Mark towards the back of the bus. Mark by this time had begun to lead the others in another typical “Oirish” folk song, “The Wild Colonial Boy,” and the strains of the boozy singers echoed in Stuart’s whisky-befuddled brain as he slumped next to Steve, who was near to falling asleep, partly because of the rocking of the bus but mainly because of the ten rum and cokes which had passed through his system.
Moonlight occasionally flashed through the ragged trees which reared and loomed past the windows as the bus rattled on its way, city-bound.
“Hello, my good man,” said Steve slurrily. “What brings you down here then?”
“Just had an idea,” said Stuart. “An idea for a story.”
Both men were fanatical dreamers and film buffs. Ideas for scripts and screenplays were often shouted across the office in between writing reports and drafting committee minutes.
“Just supposing,” Stuart went on after a slight pause. “That there’s been an office party just like this one, and we’re on our way home. Just like this. Then, suddenly, one of the people on the bus sees something . . . something . . . outside in the trees, by the glare of the headlights.”
Steve pursed his lips thoughtfully and screwed up his eyebrows. Then, after another pause, he looked at Stuart.
“You mean . . . something vague. Something . . . not quite right.”
“Yeah. That’s right. Something pretty weird. So that he’s not sure whether it’s the booze or not.”
“It would be a good starting point for . . .”
“. . . a horror film. Yeah.”
They continued to bounce ideas off each other. Clichés abounded. Stock situations seemed to spring readily to mind. Completely absorbed, they’d forgotten everything else. Suddenly, a chorus of voices brought Stuart back to reality.
“Stuart! Hi, man! You don’t want to sleep on the bus tonight, do you? It’s your stop!”
“Is it?”
Stuart bundled to his feet and pulled his coat on.
“Don’t forget, Steve! This is one we can take up on Monday! See you!”
As he bustled to the front of the bus, a flurry of arms slapped him amiably across the shoulders.
“Get a move on, Stu! We’ve got to get home as well, you know!”
The hiss of the pneumatic bus door. The bite of the cold winter air. With breath turning to steam, Stuart turned on the step and waved his arm in a mock dramatic gesture of farewell.
As he stepped down from the bus and into the night, the cries of farewell were snuffed out as the door snapped shut. With a coughing roar of the engine, a shifting of gears and a crunch of gravel, the bus sped off rattling into the blackness of the country lane.
Country lane?
What the hell am I doing in a country lane? thought Stuart, spinning none too steadily on one heel and surveying the blue blackness of his surroundings. In the cold moonlight he could just make out the row of hedges bristling on each side of the road.
Clutches of trees like gnarled giants crouched along the roadway, their spiny fingers dancing in the freezing air as if conducting the weird melody which the wind was playing amongst them.
“The stupid idiots have dropped me off in a country-bloody road! Miles from anywhere.”
It was a little while before he realized that he was standing directly under a rusted signpost and when he squinted up at the weatherbeaten lettering, he realized what had happened.
“Don’t forget,” he had said in the Bay Horse Pub, “I’ve got to be dropped off at Crawpost when we head back. My mate’s picking me up there and taking me on home.”
The signpost had only two placenames on it . . . Newcastle 13 miles: Crowfast Farm 2 miles. Maybe Crawpost had sounded like Crowfast after ten whiskies but it didn’t make Stuart feel any better disposed towards his fellow man as he started to walk down the lane. Turning up his collar he looked for a telephone box or the tell-tale flashing headlights of an approaching car. Nothing. Not even the distant glow from a farmhouse window.
Nothing.
He began to curse under his breath that the party had been organized so far away from Newcastle. Why couldn’t it have been held in the town? Or at least near to a bus route. Here he was, miles from anywhere on a lonely country road. Anything could happen. He could fall into a ditch and break a leg or something. Unnoticed for weeks maybe. That was a good idea for a story . . .
Stories later. The first matter of priority was a phone box or a farmhouse with a telephone.
It seemed that only ten minutes had passed before a gradual feeling of unease began to creep over him. Continually, he found himself glancing over at the other side of the road as the hedges hissed and swayed with the wind. Stuart was not a nervous man. Admittedly, being stranded out in the wilds was an irritating experience to say the least, but no reason to suppose that someone was . . .
Damn it, someone was following him! Creeping along behind the hedge on the other side of the road.
Stuart stopped. This was bloody stupid. There wasn’t anyone there. This is what comes of getting ideas for horror films, he thought. He continued to walk, the lonely sound of his footst
eps on the road somehow challenging the darkness. But he still couldn’t lose the feeling that something was moving over there.
Must be a cow.
Another five minutes or so passed as he walked. For an instant, he thought he saw something slinking past a gap in the hedgerow. Again, he stopped and stared at the hedge. There wasn’t anybody there, surely? Funny thing though, standing there in the moonlight staring at the hedgerow, Stuart had to admit that by a trick of the light it did look as if something was just visible on the other side. Something that crouched and watched.
Stuart laughed and kept on walking. He conjured up pictures of Cary Grant in a similar situation. Alighting from a bus in the film North by Northwest, he had found himself out in the open. Isolated and vulnerable. And there he’d been attacked by a crop-dusting aeroplane.
But that was in the daytime. No homicidal plane pilot in sight here. Just a rustling in the hedgerow which seemed to be keeping pace with him as he walked.
Unconsciously, he found himself walking slightly into the road; away from the gravel at the roadside which had been crunching underfoot. Was he afraid of giving away his position? Could that be his own shadow somehow reflecting in the shrubbery? No . . . his own shadow was right there in the middle of the road. The foolishness of the situation stopped him from crossing the lane and peering over the hedge.
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 12