Short Stories, Found Online

by Jonathan Day

down at the shredded surface of his protective vest and then at the pistol Gauvin pulled from his belt as he dropped the shotgun.

  Connor was sure the policeman turned green with rage, and not into the absinthe fairy he was so familiar with. With a bellow of fury that reverberated about the grounds, this incredible hulk launched himself at Gauvin, landing a huge fist on his jaw, breaking it, and then snatched up the shotgun to smash its butt into the side of his head.

  Seeing his father laying motionless, Connor shrieked in terror and ran off.

  'Officer down! Officer down! Shots fired! Need medics and backup!' Harris shouted into his radio.

  Help instantly appeared in the form of Mr Kapoor and Mrs Prasad who had driven across the lawn and pulled up by the police car.

  'We need something to staunch the blood!' Mrs Gauvin called. 'He's bleeding terribly!'

  'There are some clean napkins in the boot,' Mr Kapoor remembered, but Mrs Prasad had already opened it and snatched a handful.

  Mrs Gauvin tried to loosen DI Dalton's tie. He seized her hand and refused to release her. But Cameron was immediately there. He expertly slipped the jacket from the detective's shoulders and unbuttoned the blood drenched shirt to expose the wound. This also revealed something else Mrs Gauvin and the butler had not been prepared for. She gave a small cry of horror and recoiled, while he allowed PS Harris to take his place.

  Mrs Prasad quickly handed him the napkins and then tried to calm Mrs Gauvin.

  What they were looking at came as no surprise to her.

  DI Dalton managed to focus on the man who had tried to save his life. 'You're mad at me, aren't you?'

  'Of course I am, you daft little sod!' The DI started to lose consciousness so PS Harris shouted. 'Oh no you don't! You stay with us!'

  Cameron brought some blankets and they attempted to keep the detective conscious until the ambulance arrived, which was rapidly followed by armed response, local police and senior officers.

  The paramedic took one look at DI Dalton's wound.

  She called to her ambulance care assistant, 'He's losing blood and going into shock!'

  The two women frantically tried to stabilise the patient.

  Eventually the paramedic stopped and shook her head.

  'I'm sorry. He's gone.' She turned to the large police officer clutching the detective's hand and still talking to him. 'What was his name?'

  PS Harris didn't respond, so Mr Kapoor stepped forward.

  He respectfully brought his hands together and inclined his head. 'His name, madam, was Maderu Verma.'

  Print Out Your Pet

  'Hey Terry, come and see this.'

  Terry left the file he was working on and went over to view the monitor Tyrone was gazing at.

  'Good God! What the hell is that!'

  'Must be a rubber toy of some sort. Think I should print it out?'

  'Well the bloke paid for it online - don't see how you can't. Apart from that, we've already done that one of the bloke mooning at the scanner, so we can hardly turn this one down. How large does he want it?'

  'Life-size.'

  'You've got to be joking...' Terry wandered back to his workstation and Tyrone sent the file to the 3-D printer.

  This one must have come into the supermarket early while they were busy stocking the shelves, otherwise somebody would have noticed. The creature looked too real to be a toy, and it was unlikely any manufacturer would have produced something that scared the wits out of infants. It was anyone's guess what it was meant to be.

  Every now and then Terry stopped adding colour to the customers he was working on in Sense to watch in disbelief as the gruesome, corgi-sized shapie was replicated, layer by layer, pixel by scary pixel. It had fangs, short bat-like wings, a crest of spines, and four dumpy legs supporting it like a wonky coffee table.

  No, that certainly wasn't a toy.

  Tracey wondered why all the other checkouts still had their queues while customers were suddenly avoiding hers. Perhaps the hair lacquer she had overdone that morning was driving away asthma sufferers. Then she became aware of a tall man in an ankle length cloak looking down at her. She could have sworn that only seconds ago he had been several aisles away.

  He held out the receipt for a 3-D shapie.

  This customer was creepy and she wanted to tell him that he was at the wrong till but, “Go to any checkout” in bold letters was on the bottom of the receipt.

  Tracey tapped in the order number and hit collect.

  It seemed to take forever for the item to arrive. When it eventually did, the shapie was in a large, sealed cardboard box.

  Marion placed it on the track, casting the sinister man an apprehensive glance before examining the receipt as though it was impregnated with a fatal toxin.

  This was going to be one of those strange mornings, Tracey decided. They happened every now and then regardless of what precautions you took. Smiling sweetly did not always deter awkward customers, though this one was politeness personified. He even dipped a courteous bow as he accepted his shapie. Most of them came in cellophane so the customer could see the result. They could be grateful, pleasantly surprised, or downright offended that any machine possessed the temerity to destroy the image they had of themselves.

  As this customer pulled the tape from his box with immaculately manicured, long nails Tracey was aware of something snuffling and grunting under the hem of his cloak. With the checkout track separating them, it was impossible to see what it was.

  Just wishing the man would go, she watched him take out the scale model of a hideous creature in black, red and silver.

  Tracey may have worked in a supermarket, but knew enough history to realise that centuries ago people really did believe in the Devil and his familiars. Perhaps the man had brought in some ancient heirloom to replicate for insurance purposes.

  The customer gave another polite bow, placed the model back in its box and swept towards the supermarket entrance with it tucked under his arm.

  Only then did Tracey see why people were backing away to let him pass.

  On a silver lead, waddling happily by his side, was the creature he had brought in to replicate. Pets were not allowed on the premises, but neither of the store's security men had offered to point this out to him.

  The sinister man's companion was squat, mumbling away to itself through fearsome looking fangs, and flapping its short stubby wings as though in frustration at knowing that they would never manage to lift it from the ground.

  Modesty Wear

  Bella had always been easily embarrassed and since childhood avoided the critical glances of other people.

  There was no reason for her to do this; she was an extraordinarily attractive 21-year-old and, the more beautiful she became, the more she felt the need to conceal the fact. Unfortunately Bella had no religious commitment to hide her modesty behind. All the veils, hijabs, shifts and ankle length habits were the preserve of nuns, Islam and the Amish.

  To make matters worse, she now yearned to go swimming.

  On the beach floaty sarongs and tissue thin garments were removed to reveal skimpy bikinis verging on the illegal, even if the wearers were 16 stone and in their fifties. They should have provided enough distraction for Bella to slip into the water unnoticed - or would have done if she had not been over six foot tall. Even in a one-piece swimsuit she would have been far too self conscious, yet wearing modesty swimwear would have probably attracted even more attention. Surely there was some costume she could feel comfortable in without looking like a Victorian matron descending the steps of a bathing machine on Brighton beach.

  Bella went online yet again and searched for swimwear that looked attractive, wasn't only available in the US, and came in her inconvenient size. There was nothing. Stunningly attractive, six-foot two tall young women apparently only existed in films or fashion magazines. As much as Bella aspired to be a model, the thought of quick changes in communal dressing rooms filled her with dread. It was something she mi
ght have overcome in the right environment, but that profession was already filled with underweight teenagers almost as tall as she was.

  Bella continued to secretly search online for modesty fashions when no one else in the insurance broker's office was watching when, one day, up popped something quite unexpected. It was an ornate, gold edged invitation to view a parade of designs which celebrated the female human form by enveloping it in sumptuous fabrics. Linked to it were one or two pictures that triggered her interest. This designer understood Bella's dilemma perfectly in creating costumes for all occasions - including the swimming pool.

  Convinced that it was all quite genuine, she hit PayPal to purchase the invitation and was sent a PDF to print out and present at the entrance.

  It was a beautiful day to stroll across the immaculately manicured lawn of the Georgian mansion where the longest catwalk Bella had ever seen had been installed. There was seating along its full length yet, despite the admittance fee being in aid of the local church restoration fund, the audience was small. The reason why was explained in the brochure handed to Bella.

  Apparently Malcolm Marconitti had an eccentric reputation that deterred high street clothes shops and other fashion outlets from stocking his creations and persuaded the buyers for major supermarkets to block his emails. Even critics and the local press failed to turn up. This was not something the clothes designer needed to worry about. He owned the Georgian mansion and funds to indulge his creative muse. Though it