Vicky swigged her mineral water and looked at herself in the mirror over the bar. Who was she trying to kid? Her eyes itched. She wasn't sleeping so well, and it showed. Her face, her posture, she was just so…washed out.
No wonder Grant didn't want to know.
Across the room, she heard his laugh swell, gathering higher pitched accompaniment from the women who attached to him like barnacles. That one there, that blonde, fresh out of law school. Were his eyes on her a little too long, a little too low? Her boobs wouldn't be tender like Vicky's, wouldn't be leaking…
Grant reached across to the tiny blonde, brushed the back of his hand across her cheek.
And then the hostess was fussing over her, sitting her in a hard chair while someone picked up the shards of her glass from the parquet floor.
On the other side of the room, Grant looked at her. Not with concern, with shame. Embarrassment. The blonde just smirked.
Vicky closed her eyes and let everything slip away.
She groans with exhaustion as she bumps the pram down from the bus. The adrenalin from earlier in the afternoon has seeped from her system and the heating on board has made her drowsy. The freezing wind imbues her with just enough life to walk up the hill.
At last she reaches the house — the family home — and swings the pram in through the gateway. Rooting through her handbag for her keys she retrieves the iPod from under the pram, and decides she'll have a play with it as soon as she gets in. Or should she have a bath first? Depends how long she thinks Kate will sleep for, she muses. Unwilling to disturb her, Vicky decides not to transfer the child upstairs to her cot. Instead she tucks the baby in and with a quick kiss to the forehead, leaves her in the pram.
****
The argument, when it came, had started small, hissed accusations raising in pitch and volume until they became a full-blown screaming match.
"What's she got that I haven't?" Vicky shrieked, face red and tear-streaked.
Grant slammed his suitcase to the floor, pushed his face into hers. Vicky flinched. "How about I just tell you what she hasn't got?" he yelled, arm shooting out to point up the stairs.
Kate woke on cue, started screaming and Vicky just acted, a low, primal urge.
She struck Grant so hard his face seemed to come loose.
Eyes burning, he stared at her one last time, then snatched up his case and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him. Vicky reached to the hall table, grabbed the first thing that came to hand, hurled it.
The iPod punched a hole through the glass pane in the door and sailed into the night, showering sharp raindrops behind it.
****
Eyes sandy with fatigue, Vicky runs a fingernail across the cellophane on the box until it slits. She peels it off and slips open the packaging. The iPod's light, lighter than the one she threw after Grant — compared to the first one she owned it's practically Star Trek.
Dr Wise had said it was symbolic that Vicky get a new player, an important part of the process. "Treat yourself," Wise had chuckled. "Make it easier for me to treat you."
Now Vicky's unable to contain her amusement at the irony. She'd only been in the shop, only been in temptation's way on doctor's orders. But for all that, Dr Wise had been right. Despite her fatigue, Vicky feels empowered, whole again. Like Grant, she's learned to take what she wants.
I know what I want.
She heads upstairs to plug the device into her computer. All her old songs are still on there from when Grant loaded them up. She'd had no idea how to do it herself back then. But since he left — since she got out of hospital — Vicky has learned her way around the software…Her first act had been to ruthlessly dump all their songs from the playlists.
She logs on: she's got maybe an hour of peace and quiet, of 'me' time. Downstairs in the pram, Kate snoozes quietly.
****
Upstairs in the cot, Kate snoozed quietly. Vicky had cried herself out by then, had nothing left inside.
Grant was gone.
She trudged up the stairs, footfalls lost in the thick carpet, carpet Grant still hadn't got round to replacing. Slipping into the nursery, she looked down into the crib, her shoulder accidentally brushing the wind chimes they'd hung as a mobile. They tinkled as she gazed at her child, the child Grant wanted so badly and now seemed to hold responsible for everything.
And in a dislocated part of her mind, she knew how to make things right again.
The flashing blue lights strobe through the window. Vicky parts the net curtains and peers out. In the street, three squad cars have pulled up and are disgorging policemen.
They've found her.
Vicky darts away from the window. If she can get rid of the evidence, they'll have no proof, nothing to pin on her. She pelts down the stairs, knowing the perfect hiding place but knowing too that she only has moments to get to it.
Panting, she flings open the basement door.
She wanders, numb, to the phone, drops the pillow and calls his mobile. He's not been gone long, she can still turn things around. She's fixed it all now. Fixed everything.
His voice travels back to her, crackly, recorded.
Bleep.
"Grant? Grant, it's me. I — When you get this, please call me back. Please. What you said, what that slu— what she doesn't have, I don't have it any more either. It's gone. You can come home. Please come home, baby. Please.
"I love you."
****
She opens the door before the first knock has faded, and regards the detective, who is standing with his fist raised ready to strike again. He looks taken aback. Perhaps he'd been hoping he'd get to break the door down.
"Mrs Victoria Burns?"
Vicky nods.
"DI Wentworth." He flashes something in a black wallet. "I have a warrant to search your home in connection with the abduction of Thomas Morrison this afternoon."
Vicky gives him her blankest look, then steps back from the door.
Wentworth steps inside, followed by a stream of uniforms. As the flow of bodies slows to a trickle, Wentworth takes Vicky by the arm, leads her outside.
"You can save us a lot of time by just telling us where he is. We've got you on CCTV taking the pram."
Vicky stares at him with dark-ringed eyes, says nothing.
A broad-chested constable emerges from the house carrying a piece of paper. "No sign of the little one yet, guv. Found this under the pram." He hands it to Wentworth, who peers at it: a receipt from the department store. An iPod. Paid on credit card.
"Come on, love," Wentworth pleads. "His mother's frantic."
Vicky shudders, and despite everything she's done, Wentworth feels sorry for her. "Are you cold, love?"
Vicky nods.
"Freezing."
Out
Mike Stone
I discovered last year that I can move objects by the power of my mind. Sounds grand, doesn't it, but what I wouldn't give to be able to reach for something with my hands again.
The apple I'm reaching for rolls off the end of the table and hits the floor. Mummy shouts at me. "Lisa! Now look what you've done. I've told you before, leave everything to me."
I close my eyes. Use my remaining energy to levitate the apple. It lifts gently off the carpet and hovers before her eyes.
"It's not bruised," she admits.
I lower it into the fruit bowl.
Her gaze goes to the clock on the wall and she wags a finger at me. "No more funny business. The health visitor is coming at three."
I blink slowly. Okay, Mummy.
She nods and goes to busy herself in the kitchen of our little one-bedroom flat.
Mummy hates me.
Mummy loves me.
It's complicated.
I'm a vegetable. Is that a politically correct expression? Tell it to someone who gives a shit. Call a cabbage by any other name and it still smells like a cabbage. Mummy has to feed me through a nose tube leading to my stomach. Check my body for bedsores and rub creams into t
he folds of my skin. Change my waste bags.
I'm twenty-two, but still Mummy's baby.
She can never be free of me, but knows I'll never leave her again.
I'm reliant on her and we accept it.
Except for the telekinesis.
I want to develop my talent and let others see it. It's a miracle, call in the researchers. But Mummy won't allow it. Not because she fears it, although I suspect she does a little, but because it chips away some of my reliance on her. Sure, you heard right. She wants me to be entirely dependent.
See, Mummy blames herself for my condition. She prayed I'd drop out of university and come home to her, and after an attack of meningitis during the first term, she got her wish.
And now Mummy's whole life revolves around me being the way I am. I hear her sometimes, out on the landing, talking to our neighbours. She says things like "My Lisa, she was so young and bright before…" and "She could have been a doctor if…" She'll start these utterances and then choke off, and they'll hug her shoulders and ask her round for a cup of tea. Which my mummy refuses, of course, on account of her not daring to leave me alone: "Not even for five minutes, in case…"
Last night I heard her tell Mr Barnes that she must have done something wicked in a previous life.
At first I tried to laugh it off. Great, thanks, Mummy. So now I'm a punishment, am I? But the more I thought about it the more it needled me. I can accept being a burden, really I can. I am what I am. But a punishment? I'm her daughter, for God's sake.
The health visitor will be here soon. Miss Denham's hands smell of Pond's cold cream, and she gets too emotionally involved with her charges. She over compensates for this by talking in a crisp no nonsense manner. I like her.
Mummy pops her head round the door. She's adopted a slight stoop for the occasion. She's such a fucking martyr. I swear if I could I'd give her a slap. Her eyes inspect the surfaces for dust — she doesn't want the place to be too clean, lest people think she's actually coping — then she ducks back out again.
I've recovered my energy since the aborted attempt to reach an apple for my mummy. I'm able to slide the pillow from under my head and pull it down onto my face. The first hitched breath is terrifying, but I'm nothing if not determined. I force the pillow down with invisible fists, numbing my nose and crushing my head into the mattress. The periphery of my vision fizzes with pale yellow sparks.
It's a gamble. Maybe I'll black out and my mind will release the pressure on the pillow before I'm dead. Then again it might not. Either way I'll be out of here.
And Mummy will still be the centre of attention. She'll appreciate that, I'm sure.
Out.
Ego
Gerard Brennan
Anto Morrison had no time for paranoia. So, he didn't imagine he could feel watchful eyes. He felt them. The moon offered little help as he scanned the shadows beyond his perimeter wall. Not one chirruping cricket performed in the surrounding fields. Somebody was out there. Time and legitimate business practice hadn't blunted his instincts just yet. Anto inhaled a lungful of summer-night air. His chest puffed and he felt the old beast within stir. He peeled his lips back from his capped teeth. Arms spread in a crucifixion pose, he roared at the stars.
"Come on out you, yellow bastards! I can feel you watching me!"
A hurried whisper then a rustle of leaves. Anto stood his ground beside his beautiful Jag roadster on his gravelled driveway. A sitting duck. If they had guns he'd be bleeding to death in front of his five-bedroom country house. They wanted up close and personal. Fine. It levelled the playing field.
"What? You want me to make it easier for you? All right, then."
He thumbed the remote on his key ring and the gates whirred open.
"Come right in."
Three wraith-like figures in ski masks and black fatigues stepped out of the shadows and huddled in the gateway. Anto grabbed his crotch and spat on the gravel. Show no fear. They broke into a run. The smallest of the three led the charge while the two taking up the rear strained to keep up with their leader. Anto didn't wait for them to overwhelm him with momentum. He sprinted towards the trio.
Little Speedy reached into an army surplus jacket. Anto took in the blade with adrenaline-induced clarity and adjusted his course. Little Speedy slashed at him but he was out of reach. Anto crashed into the one on the left. Drove a shoulder into his solar plexus. They went down, Anto on top. In a one-on-one, Anto would have had the advantage, but with two more opponents to worry about he had to keep moving. He rolled off the winded opponent and sprang to his feet. The leader was right on top of him. He dodged another slash and kicked out at knee-height. A leg folded and Little Speedy went down with a surprised shriek. The voice gave away what the painfully thin frame didn't. Little Speedy was a woman.
Anto buried another kick into her chest and stepped over her.
The third attacker crouched into a martial arts position, clawed hands held in front of him at shoulder height. Anto would have enjoyed an extended bout, but the first lump he'd floored was already on his knees. No time for fair play. In one fluid motion, Anto crouched, scooped fine gravel from the driveway and threw it at Karate Kid's eyes. Direct hit. Karate Kid yelped and abandoned his guard to rub his eyes. Anto landed a flurry of straight punches and broke the attacker's jaw and nose. Karate Kid crumpled to the ground like an empty kimono.
Anto turned on his heel and took a haymaker to the eye. He reeled back and caught his balance in time to take another hit. The first attacker charged and threw himself at Anto's torso. As they went down, Anto threw his knees into the attacker's chest. They had no effect. Air whooshed from Anto's lungs as he was pinned. Black dots exploded in his vision. He put claustrophobia far from his mind as the wiry man wriggled into a stronger position on top of him. The weight on his chest compressed his empty lungs, but he tried not to struggle. No point wasting energy fighting. His throat burned but he calmed himself. Waited for an opportunity to present.
And there it was. A slight relief as the attacker shifted his weight to attack. Anto bucked beneath him, adding force in the direction the attacker had moved. It increased the gap and Anto dragged himself with his heels and twisted his body as he sluiced through the gravel. His linen suit was truly fucked. The surprised attacker yelped and tried to scrabble to his feet. Too late. Anto pushed from a crouch with his arms and legs. Like an attacking tiger, he caught the ski-masked opponent by the throat and took him down hard. To avoid a second wrestling match, he slipped a thumb into one rolling, wool-framed eye and pushed. The little man screamed and jerked violently. Anto stood, then stomped down hard on his face. The screaming stopped.
A blow to his lower back shunted him forward. He twisted to face the source. The bitch was on her feet again. Her knife dripped blood. Anto's hand went to his lower back. It came back bloody.
"Ah, for fuck's sake," he said.
"I'm going to cut you to ribbons, Anto."
"Shereen?"
With a chuckle, she lunged at him, blade first. Anto sidestepped and slapped her wrist. She held tight to the blade and swiped at his hand. He danced backwards. The wound in his back throbbed.
"What the fuck do you want, Shereen?"
She pulled her ski mask off and stuffed it into her jacket pocket. Her red-dyed hair flopped freely, framing her long freckled face. She'd lost weight. Too much. Sunken eyes glared from their hollows and sharp cheekbones threatened to burst through her skin. She flashed a sarcastic smile and her teeth protruded like oversized dentures.
"You found a diet that works, then?" Anto said.
"Yeah, poverty."
"You'd have had anything your heart desired if you hadn't fucked me over."
She grunted and lunged. Anto sidestepped again. He push-kicked her hip and her feet left the ground. Anto tried to follow up with another attack, but she landed with a dancer's grace. He skidded to a halt, just outside the slash zone.
"This isn't going to end well for you, Shereen. I'd get out of here
before I take that knife off you and cut your heart out."
"Such romantic imagery. We both know you don't kill women."
"Things change, love. Don't count on it."
"Scary."
"What do you want, Shereen?"
"What I'm owed."
"I owe you fuck all, sweetheart. You put me away, remember? If anything, you owe me."
Shereen feinted to the right then switched to attack from the left. He threw up a protective arm and the skin split across the back of his hand. She grunted in triumph. He threw a punch and caught her jaw. She dodged his second jab and slashed out again. The knife ran across his inner forearm. He didn't risk a counter attack. Skipping back, he examined the damage. Blood dripped from the shallow cuts. He'd live.
Shereen rubbed her jaw.
"You hit me," she said.
"You stabbed me!"
She shook her head, dispelling her shock. "Are we going to have to dance all night, or am I going to get what I came here for?"
"You've got all you'll ever take from me."
"Don't be stupid. The longer we mess about here, the more blood you'll lose. You can't win."
Anto pointed to her fallen comrades. "I beg to differ."
"They underestimated you. Didn't think a man with money could have a hard edge to him. I know different."
Anto sighed. "Okay, I'll humour you, then. What do you want from me?"
"The one thing you care about. Your money."
"So this is a stick up? Could you not get a sawn-off?"
"Too noisy. And too easy. I wanted to fuck you over slowly, and see the defeat in your eyes."
"Sorry to disappoint you, love."
Anto strode towards her, clenched fists by his hips. She froze for a second, confused, then flicked the blade at him. It cut through his beige linen jacket and the white shirt underneath opening a gash along his collarbone. He grabbed the lapels of her jacket. Hooking the back of her legs with one of his, he swept her off the ground and pounded her into the driveway. She coughed and wheezed, but held fast to the knife. He felt another dull thud, this time in his left flank. With ease, he lifted her feather-light frame a few inches from the ground and rammed her back down again. The knife finally fell from her grasp. He pinned her arms with his knees and picked up the blade.
Scenes From the Second Storey Page 13