by Various
QUENTIN S. CRISP
was born in 1972 in Devon, England. He has written stories since his childhood, generally in a dark and fantastic vein. His first collection of short stories, The Nightmare Exhibition, was published in 2000 by BJM Press, receiving praise from Thomas LIgotti amongst others. Another collection, Rule Dementia!, is expected from Rainfall Books in 2004. His influences range from Lovecraft through Burroughs to the likes of Mishima Yukio and Nagai Kafu. His interest in Eastern culture has led him to live in Taiwan and Japan, where he was generally to be observed walking aimlessly about alleyways and drinking great quantities of green tea. He is currently hovering in limbo somewhere between the planes of life and death.
The Night Of The Party
By Mark West
The party had been going well, until Tim Garrett decided to make his move.
The Brooks-Hammond Associates Christmas party was a big occasion, with every member of staff - from warehouse operatives through to the directors - attending. Held in the Gaffney Royal Hotel, everyone was expected to dress the part and behave accordingly. Of course, this never usually happened but minor infringements of both - like the sales girls in their tiny handkerchiefs of tops, or a warehouse man doing a drunken dance - were overlooked.
Amanda Clarkson was standing outside the ballroom, quietly smoking a cigarette, to get a respite from the pounding beat of the disco. For some reason, her office had sat at a table next to a set of speakers, where it was impossible to hear any conversation or think straight.
Even with the ringing in her ears, the hotel had that quietness to it that well-heeled establishments tend to have. Thick carpets muffled footsteps, the walls were covered with expensive wallpaper and paintings and the noise of the party was contained by the heavy doors. Out here, on her own, she could collect her thoughts before heading back into the onslaught of loud music and drunken conversation.
"Well hello there."
Amanda turned to see the speaker and cringed. She'd only been working at B-HA for six months, but had heard all about Tim Garrett, National Retail Sales Manager. A short, pudgy, balding man, he thought he was God's gift to young women and didn't hesitate to prove it. Amanda had been informed that, at twenty-one, she'd be a prime target and had better watch out.
"Hi," she said.
"Tim Garrett," he said, smiling broadly at her, "NRSM. And who might you be?"
"Amanda, I work in Finance."
"A new girl, eh?" The smile dissolved into a leer.
She nodded, moving slowly towards the ballroom door.
Garrett was leaning on the doorframe of the Gents. His tie was halfway down his chest, the knot tiny where he'd pulled it without loosening it first. His shirt - dark blue with white collars and cuffs - was dark at the armpits and there was a crusty trail of gravy down his front. His face was streaked with thin streams of red, where sweat had caused the colour to run in the party hat he was wearing at a jaunty angle.
"So how are you?" he asked and launched himself across the corridor, grasping the wall for support.
"Not bad," she said, reaching behind her for the door handle. One of the sales girls told Amanda that Garrett had cornered her at a previous Christmas party and managed to get his hand down her top before she could shake him off. "How are you?"
"Happier now I've seen you," he said and grinned at her, the pantomime face of the pleasantly pissed.
"Well, I was just going back in."
He lurched along the wall, ever closer to her. "What are you out here for, anyway?"
"To have a smoke and clear my head."
"Looks fine to me," he smiled.
"Thank you. Look, I'm going to go in."
"You're not trying to get away from me, are you?" he said slowly. He was still moving and she could smell him now - sweat, cologne and beer.
"Not at all." She hoped her face wouldn't betray the lie.
"Good, because you sounded rude then. Don't you like the look of me?"
What did she say to that? "You look a bit unwell."
"Well you look wunnerful, love."
She resisted the temptation to try and cover her knees, which her round-necked black dress didn't quite reach. "Thanks. Are you coming in?"
He was almost upon her now, just a few feet to go. "Nah, I wanna discuss some expenses."
"I don't do expenses," she said, still reaching for the door handle. Where the bloody hell was it?
He pushed off the wall and, lurched two quick steps forward and put his arms out, until he was in her face, an arm on either side of her head. The smell of him almost turned her stomach.
"Who cares?" he said and licked his lips. Amanda noticed that his tongue was coated yellow.
"Can you step back, please?" she said carefully, starting to feel a little worried.
"Why fight it? You know you want me, everyone does."
Tingles of fear darted through her belly. "Look, there's been some mistake. I just want to get back to the party."
"Don't fight it, Mandy. I've got a room, nobody needs to know."
"I will though." She tried to push him back but he was using his arms for support and she couldn't get any leverage against his bulk. "Please, get away from me."
"Mandy, Mandy, Mandy, what's the problem?"
Now she was scared. "I'm sorry, but you are. I don't like this, really I don't."
"Well none of my other bitches has ever complained." He moved his right arm and flopped against her. "Lovely tits," he said, moving his shoulder against her left breast. "Anyone ever told you that?"
She felt her eyes well with tears. "Please get off me, or I'll scream."
His right hand was resting on her thigh and began to move down, searching for the hem of her dress. She pressed her hands to his shoulders and tried to push him away, digging her nails in. The pain didn't seem to affect him and his hand continued its steady progress.
"Leave me alone or I swear I'll fucking scream."
He giggled. "Potty mouth."
She brought her knee up quickly and he folded over it, his breath woofing into her face. He went down like a sack of potatoes, his hands cupping his groin, tears spilling down his cheeks.
"You bitch," he gasped, "you fucking bitch."
"I warned you," she said, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.
"I'll fucking kill you."
Amanda stepped around him, frightened of what he might do if he got up. She didn't want to be here, she just wanted to be at home.
Garrett brought his knees up to his chest, his face scrunched up with the pain. "You wanted it, Mandy, you know you did. No-one'll ever believe you."
Starting to cry, Amanda walked quickly out of the hotel.
***
It was the week before Christmas, cold with a clear sky. Flashing lights and multi-coloured decorations hung from the lampposts and were draped between buildings, but Amanda ignored them. She didn't feel in the Christmas spirit anymore and the tears swamping her eyes blurred the lights and made it difficult to see.
She felt stupid and weak - she'd been told what he was like, so why didn't she go back into the ballroom as soon as he appeared? And what would happen on Monday - would he say anything or complain about her? What if he was right and no-one believed her version of events?
Taking a tissue out of her handbag, she dabbed at her eyes - she must look a right state by now, with trails of mascara running down her cheeks. Her coat was still in the ballroom, but she wasn't going to go back for it. She would get a taxi home, tell her boyfriend Roger that she wasn't feeling very well and go to bed and try to forget about this whole sorry mess.
Feeling slightly better that she'd made up her mind, she walked up Market Street towards the taxi rank.
***
Gaffney seemed to be alive with revelers. Groups of people poured out of the pubs, laughing and joking, holding one another up or engaging in play fights. Girls walked past, with tinsel boas draped around their necks. Men staggered in the road, shirts undone
, lipstick kisses on their cheeks.
The taxi rank occupied most of Dalkeith Place, but it was surrounded by four pubs and there must have been close to fifty people milling around, with no sign of any cabs. From her right, through an alleyway that led to the Cornmarket Hall and swimming pool, came a gang of four lads.
"Aye aye, look at that beauty."
She looked away quickly and kept moving. Don't make eye contact with them, just ignore whatever they say.
"Hey, love, do you fancy a Christmas kiss?"
She wished they'd leave her alone.
"Come on, it's Christmas. You can't ignore us now."
Resigned - they were coming towards her, what could she do? - she slowed and turned her head.
All of them were wearing pale Ben Sherman shirts and chinos - they looked as cold as she felt. None of them could have been older than her, but they all looked the worse for wear and bleary eyed.
"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 again 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.