Oliver Clarke's Blog: Little Slices of Nasty, page 21

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Eight

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

2nd September 2013

Green stared at the open door of the locker and felt a terrifying hollowness growing in his stomach like bilious balloon inflating there. He ran to the locker and shut the door, checking the number below the keyhole, pulling the key from his pocket and confirming that they matched. They did. He inserted the key and twisted it. It turned easily.

Green looked left and right, checking for the pale blue shirts and black and red trousers of the Carabinieri. He saw a pair of them on the other side of the main concourse walking slowly, oblivious of him. Closer by was another, lone officer, talking animatedly to a pretty, blonde tourist. Green looked back at the locker. Could it be chance? A random robbery? It wasn’t inconceivable but it seemed unlikely, too outlandish a coincidence.

He opened the locker again. There were no signs of forced entry, nothing left inside at all, just the stark, empty metal box. Green pushed down the panic that was rising inside him, he needed to keep a clear head, to focus on solving this mystery before it became a significant problem. Who knew about the film? Only three people that he could think of: his client, the Italian and himself. The Italian was clearly no longer a factor, which left Green himself and his client. He knew that any possible thread had to be examined, so thought back over the last few hours. Could he have lapsed into some kind of fugue state? Had the stress of killing the Italian momentarily tipped him over into a trance during which he had opened the locker and moved the case? It was possible, but he couldn’t divine why he would have done it. And if he had where would he have put it? Somewhere secure, that was a given, and that must surely mean another locker. If so where was the key? He checked his pockets and found nothing.

So how about the client? He couldn’t make sense of that either, why hire someone to find something and then steal it from them? Why go to that much trouble? Green ran a hand through his thinning hair, his scalp was damp with sweat.

What other possibilities were there? Could the Italian have had another buyer lined up? Someone who had followed him to the station? That was possible. Maybe even likely…

Green looked around again to see if anyone was watching him. Whoever had snatched the case must have seen him put it there. They had probably waited until he had left the station to visit the cafe and then grabbed it. He looked at his watch. His train left in thirty five minutes.

The shrill ringing of his phone brought him back from his thoughts. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. The name of his client stared back at him. Green rejected the call.

He looked around him again and saw the thing he had missed before. He’d been so busy looking at the people he hadn’t noticed the security cameras.

Somewhere was a control room with an underpaid, pissed off guard watching the feeds from all of those cameras cycling on a bank of screens. An underpaid, pissed off guard who had seen who took his suitcase.

Green cast his eyes around the crowded station, across the faces of commuters and tourists coming and going, trying to ignore them and look past them, searching for the kind of unobtrusive door that might hide the security suite. He could have examined the plans of the station before he arrived but he hadn’t and he cursed himself for that now, for his complacency. He’d built his reputation on the kind of attention to detail that meant the unexpected didn’t happen, and today twice things hadn’t gone to plan. First the Italian’s tumble from the window, now this. This bloody disaster.

His phone chirped. A text message indicating he’d been left a voice mail. He ignored it as he had the call, there was no time to do anything now other than focus on the matter at hand. At last he saw it, his eyes fixing on a grey rectangle in the wall with a small discreet sign on it. He walked to it, moving as quickly as he could without running. His stomach churned and he felt acid rising in his throat, the urge to run battling inside him with the knowledge that he needed to keep a low profile. He was walking at right angles to the crossing streams of people walking to and from the trains, a lone figure trying to fight his way across the natural currents of the station. A man swore at him in Italian, batting at him with a leather briefcase and Green felt anger blooming in his belly before his brain gained control of his body again and squashed it.

“Scusate,” he muttered, apologising to the man and stopping to let him pass.

The door was ahead of him, calling to him, and he made for it again, darting in front of a fat, suitcase laden American and finally breaking free of the throng. He took one last look around himself to make sure no-one was watching him with undue attention and then walked confidently to the door. If any member of the public should be looking at him he wanted then to think he had the right to open the door and walk through it.

He reached it and lay a hand on the cold steel, there was a keypad on the wall next to it and a card reader. This wasn’t going to be easy, there was certainly no way for him to open the door himself. That left him with two options: wait for someone to open the door and follow them through it, or seek out someone with a card. Neither was attractive, but then he didn’t have any choice in the matter. He had to get through that door or admit defeat and forfeit his payment for the job. It wasn’t just the money either, his reputation was at stake, without that he had nothing.

He considered the options again, waiting seemed foolish, he had only a finite amount of time until his train was due and the quicker he was on his way the better. Delaying his journey home wasn’t an idea he wanted to entertain. Besides, this was far too public a spot for the kind of commotion that might ensue if he tried to follow someone through the door. That left seeking out someone who had access. Once he had overcome that obstacle he would need to obtain both their key card and the pin code that went with it. Here again, he had two options: bribery or violence. He’d start with the former and progress to force if necessary. He wasn’t squeamish about such things, but a bribe was less likely to attract attention than a beating, or worse.

Now to find someone who had what he needed. He turned from the door and looked around the station concourse again. On the other side of it he spotted a cleaner, a short, slight man running a broom almost as tall as he was over the marble. Green smiled to himself. An easy target. As easy as any at least.

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Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Seven

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

James stared back at the man in silence. He looked more normal now, calmer, as if finding his target and delivering his message had exorcised some demon inside him.

James found that the link between his brain and his mouth seemed to be broken. Thoughts swirled around inside his head but he couldn’t articulate any of them. He’s got the wrong person. How does he know I’m going to die? How am I going to die? Why?

In the end the first word that made it to his lips was, “Sorry.” He said it knowing how ridiculous it was. “Sorry, have you got the wrong person?”

The man held up the piece of paper that he had been carrying and James saw that it was a photograph of himself. He was walking down a street in the photo, he didn’t know which one but he could see the out of focus faces of other people behind him, other people going about their daily business as he had been. He couldn’t tell when it had been taken either, probably in the last six months given by his appearance. The lighting was bright, which suggested spring or summer, but he supposed it could as easily have been clear winter day.

The man looked into his eyes and replied. “Your name is James Greenfield. You are forty years old. You are on your way now to the Embassy cinema to watch an all night show of horror films. You will not leave alive.”

The man looked away when he had finished speaking. His head turning to look back down the carriage, James could see it twitching slightly as the man’s eyes scanned every other face in there.

What is he looking for now? James wondered. He’s found me. His eyes stayed focussed on the man, looking for any hint that as to whether this was real or not. It felt like a dream, some nightmare that he would wake suddenly from to find Emma snoring softly beside him. It had to be that didn’t it? A dream or some kind of outlandish practical joke.

“Why are you telling me this?” he said at last.

The man turned back to look at him. “Because it is important they don’t succeed.”

“Who? Who’s they?”

The train slowed as it pulled into a station. The man had turned away again, his head angled to watch the doors as they slid open. James reached up to tap him on the shoulder and then suddenly the man was on his feet and running, heading down the carriage, past the first set of doors. James froze. Should he follow or stay in his seat and forget it all?

A woman was stepping through the doors nearest to him, as the man shot past her James saw her stop. Her eyes followed the running man until he reached the doors at the other end of the carriage and jumped through them onto the platform.  

The woman turned and stepped back through the doors.

James was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. His legs carrying him towards the doors without him consciously telling him to. He stepped out of the train and looked down the platform for the woman. She was running and beyond her James could see the man.

“Fuck,” he said aloud as he watched them. “What the fuck am I doing?” The doors closed behind him, meeting with a secure thud. The engine of the tube train whined as it accelerated out of the station, the thunder of its wheels clattering on the tracks building in the confined space.

The man was half way down the platform, clearly aiming for the exit at the far end of it. The woman was following him, running down the empty platform. She was well dressed, her clothes expensive looking even to James’s untrained eye. On her feet she wore trainers, at odds with her other attire but not that unusual. James was used to seeing female commuters dressed that way, heels in their bags or under their desks at the work. She moved quickly, faster than the awkward man. She would catch him eventually, unless he was very lucky, James was sure of that.

He followed, knowing it was a bad idea but unable to think of any other course of action that really made sense. As he started running the woman reached the exit and disappeared from his sight. James threw himself forward, determined not to lose her now that he had made his decision.

His footsteps echoed off the hard walls of the station as he ran, bouncing back to his ears and mixing with the sound of his breathing and the beat of his blood pumping in his ears.

I’m an idiot, he thought to himself, I should just stop and get on the next train and get the hell away from both of them, whoever they are. He didn’t though, he kept running.

He reached the exit and charged through it, down an empty passage and then round a corner. The passage took him into a wider area with twin escalators about twenty feet from him. The woman was halfway up the ascending stairway, running up it, oblivious to the slightly bemused stares of the passengers riding the other escalator down to the platforms. The man was nowhere to be seen.

James reached the bottom of the escalator as the woman got to the top. He saw her bright trainers disappear over the horizon as he started pounding up the metal steps. His breath was coming raggedly now, this was more exercise than he’d had in weeks and he could feel his body complaining. He willed himself onwards, making it to the top in time to see her pass through one of the turnstiles. They filled his view now, stretched wide in front of him, between him and the outside world. He fumbled for his wallet as he ran, pulling it out and opening it to get to his Oyster card. The guard standing at the end of the barriers stared at him suspiciously, James caught his eye and then looked away, willing him not to speak.  

“Oi,” the man called, and James turned to look at him. “What are you lot up to?”

James was about to answer when his right foot hit a wet patch on the floor. It skidded out from under him and he spun his arms to keep upright, losing his grip on his wallet which flew from his hand and skittered across the floor. James kept upright, managing to stay on his feet and stop just before he reached the barriers.

The guard was on the other side of them now, blocking his way and holding his hand up.

“What the hell’s going on?” he said. “First those two now you, running through here like fucking idiots.”

James took a breath. It was a relief not to be running again.

“The guy,” he started, and then stopped. Realising the story sounded ridiculous. “I think he snatched her purse or something,” he said. “I was following to see if I could help her.”

The guard frowned then shrugged. “Okay. Want me to call the police? I should really.”
James shook his head. “Hardly seems worth it, they’re gone now.”

The guard seemed satisfied with that, taking the easy option. James walked to his wallet and stooped to pick it up. He tried to do it as casually as possible, making it look like he was in no hurry now when in fact he wanted to get up to the street as quickly as possible, They probably were gone, but if he could get up there quickly he might just see one of them.  

He passed his Oyster card over the reader and walked through the turnstile, then walked as quickly as he could out of the station, not looking back.

 

The cold evening air hit him like a slap in the face. He gulped some of it down and thought over the events of the last fifteen minutes. Whatever had actually happened, whether the man was a random lunatic, whether the woman had really chased after him… Whatever was going on he was best off out of it. In the chilly reality of the London night he knew that doing anything else was stupid. Forget about it, he told himself. It’s bollocks.

He didn’t want to go back through the same station in case the guard questioned him again, instead he headed South West towards the next stop on the Northern line. He’d pick up a train there and get on with his night.

He’d been walking for about a minute when he heard the squeal of brakes from the next street over. A woman’s scream cut through the white noise of traffic. James shook his head and kept walking. Not his problem.

 

       

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Six

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

15th November 2013

The man pulled a kitchen knife from under his coat, it was flecked with brown rust on the sides but the cutting edge and point shone brightly. With a sudden roar he thrust it forward, the tip driving into soft flesh. Blood flowed around the blade, staining cloth, gushing down the blade and onto his hand. When the knife was in up to the hilt he twisted it until the blade was horizontal, and then pulled it sideways, slicing through skin and muscle, exposing the twisting mess of guts within.

“Nice,” said Jackson, looking away from the screen. “Really nice, so I’ve got to put up with eight hours of this shit have I? Eight hours of dodgy old horror movies and geeky fanboys whooping every time someone gets stabbed or an actress gets her top off.”

She looked at Ray and mock scowled, running a hand through her long dark hair. Her fingernails were painted crimson with a thin black line down the centre of each. “You don’t pay me enough for this shit,” she said.

Ray threw his head back and laughed, the rich boom filling the empty cinema. “I pay you more than enough. It’s not like you’ll even be doing much, you’ll be busy for the first how then it’ll quiet right down. All you have to do is chuck cans of beer and crisps at them and take their money. Not exactly rocket science for a woman of your intelligence and ability.”

“And charm,” said Jackson, “you forgot fucking charm.”

Ray laughed again and stood, turning and waving at the projection booth and then giving a thumbs up. On the screen in front of them the film stopped and the house lights came up.

“Work with me tonight,” he said. “I need this to work. The cinema needs this to work.”

“You’ve done allnighters before. What’s different tonight?”

“I’ve got something different tonight, a film that hasn’t been shown in the UK before.”

“What is it?”

Ray paused. “It’s called ‘Night of Obscene Horror’. That’s what the title would be in English anyway. It’s Italian.”

“So what’s the big deal with it? It’s just a movie, right? Another dumb, slightly sleazy, over the top, misogynistic schlock fest.” Jackson grinned that goofy grin of hers that she knew wound him up. He didn’t want to rise to it, knew that was what she wanted, but he couldn’t help

himself.

“No, it’s not just a movie. It’s was the last film by one of the great Italian horror directors. It’s only been screened a handful of times, never outside of Italy and not since the 80s. So it is a big deal, and a lot of people will want to see it.”

Jackson frowned. “But you haven’t advertised it have you? You’re selling it as the mystery film, the unnamed climax.”

“Doesn’t matter, people will find out after the showing and we’ll get a tonne of free publicity on the message boards. It’ll remind people that we’re the place to come for this kind of thing.”

“Why not name it up front? Why not advertise it?”

He looked nervous for a moment, she knew him well enough to see the signs. “Look, I didn’t get it from one of my normal distributors. I got a call about it out of the blue. Someone who said they’d tracked the film down. Not revealing that we had the film was one of the conditions to me screening it.”

“So I’m going to be impressed it am I?”

“I have no idea,” said Ray. “But I live in hope. Truth is I haven’t seen it and I don’t know what it’s about, no-one does. It might be fucking awful, but trust me, the crowd are going to go wild when they see what it is.”

“I’ll be sure to stock up on Kleenex then.”

“Seriously,” Ray said. “I’ve invited a couple of film critics, they’ll be writing about this for weeks. Right, I need to go and check on Henry. Make sure the old bugger’s okay and see if all the films have arrived. You coming or do you want to get the bar set up?”

Jackson looked over at the counter that stood at the back of the auditorium. A beer fridge built into it alongside a cupboard full of snacks. She already knew it was stocked so all she had to do was get the cash box from the office and she’d be good to go when the geeks started showing up. Not that they’d be opening the doors for a couple of hours.

“I’m good, I’ll tag along,” she said.

They walked to back and out towards the foyer. Ray opened a door with a peeling Staff Only sign on it. The staircase beyond it led up to a turn, red light shone down from around the corner.

“We’re coming up,” Ray shouted, winking at Jackson.

There was a long pause and then a low voice called down, echoing slightly off the smooth walls. “Who is with you?”

“Jackson, you remember her, right?”

That pause again, then. “Yes. Come up then.”

Ray whispered to Jackson as they started up the stairs: “Nice to have to ask for permission in your own bloody cinema.”

They’d reached the bend in the staircase. “What are you gossiping about down there?” To Jackson the voice from the top of the stairs sounded like a headmaster’s, slightly superior and accusing.

They fell silent and kept walking,

The door at the top of the stairs was ajar and when they reached it Ray pushed it fully open. Jackson could see Henry, the projectionist, carefully packing away a reel of film.

“Everything seem okay with it?” Ray said.

Henry straightened and nodded. “Yes, very good condition for a print of that age.”

“And you checked the three that came in last week?”

“I did. All fine.”

“And the last film?”

“Is here. The courier dropped it off an hour ago.”

Ray was silent for a moment and Jackson stared at him. He had an exciting look on his face, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the projection room.

“Have you looked at it yet?” he said. “Do you know what it is?”

“No,” said Henry. “I thought you’d want to be here for the great unveiling, so to speak.” He pointed at a large, sealed box in the corner. “Be my guest.”

Jackson watched Ray eagerly run to the box and peel back the strip of parcel tape holding it shut. Inside were eight round film cans. He pulled one out, the label on the side read ‘NdOO R3’. He pulled another ‘NdOO R6’

When he turned back to look at them Jackson found the look on his face slightly worrying. He looked excited but it was more than that, he looked hungry, he looked like nothing else mattered to him but the contents of the box.

“En Dee Oh Oh,” he said to Henry. “Is it what I think it is?”

“It is,” said Henry. “‘Notte di Orrore Osceno’. Barberini’s last film, his lost masterpiece.”

“So can we watch some of it?”

Henry smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Five

New Reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

2nd September 2013

Green sat in a cafe on the Via Marsala, at a small table near the back with an air conditioning unit blowing blissfully cool air over him. He was still wearing his jacket, the handle of his knife digging into his ribs now he was sitting. His sweat had for the most part dried now that he was out of the fierce Roman heat. He was aware that he stank but he didn’t care.

He had visited the station already and deposited the film in the suitcase that contained his change of clothes. He had then placed the case back in the locker. Out of sight should any unforeseen intervention from the local police detain him. He had just sent a text message to his client advising that the film had been secured and that “all loose ends have been tied”. As he typed those words he thought of the Italian’s shattered skull, blood leaking from it and the hole in his throat onto the pavement. A loose end well and truly tied.

Green had also drafted a second message with the locker number in it. That one would be sent in three hours unless he cancelled it, that way if he was arrested or otherwise prevented from collecting the case his client could still get their merchandise.

Green sucked orange juice through a straw as he waited for the waitress to bring his food. What was it about the film? He hadn’t questioned it too much when he’d been asked to acquire it, the amount of money he was being paid made questions an irrelevance, he would have taken the job whatever the answers.

He thought back to what he’d seen in the apartment, holding the film up to the light streaming through the window. The first frames had held the name of the studio and then the title of the film: ‘Notte di Orrore Osceno’, a phrase he knew translated as ‘Night of Obscene Horror’. He had spent a little time researching the film, more out of curiosity than because he needed any particular information. He had learned that it was a final film from an Italian horror director named Roberto Barberini and that Barberini had died before the film was released.

His client had told him what he needed to look for to prove the film’s authenticity, that title in Italian and shortly after it footage of a young boy playing by a pond. He had seen both. The boy five or so years old judging by his size, sailing a small sailing boat on the still water. His back was to the camera and beside him a man stood, hands in his pockets, watching the boy and the boat.

A female voice spoke to Green’s left, pulling him back from his thoughts. He turned his head and saw the waitress standing there with his risotto. The steam rose from it between them, the smell of cream and wine and fish assailing his nostrils and making Green realise how hungry he was. The last 36 hours hours had been exhausting but productive. Soon it would be over and he could collect his money, wash the blood from his hands, and move on.

The waitress bent to and placed the dish in front of him, his eyes followed her face, she was young, pretty. He saw her nose wrinkle at the fetid smell of him as she drew closer and his face grow hot again. Damn her, he thought, she didn’t know what he’d lived through today. She didn’t know that he’d killed a man. Let her do that and then frown at something as insignificant as body odour. What was it anyway, but the smell of honest labour, of masculine exertion?

He stared at her distaste and wondered what he might do to her if he had her alone. Whilst he rarely took pleasure in killing, Green did know the sweet release that could come from inflicting pain in the right circumstances, and with the right partner. The girl looked like someone he would like to hurt. As she bent he gazed down her back to the pronounced curve of her arse and imagined the joy of bringing his open hand down upon it.

Maybe she saw something in his eyes, maybe it was just the smell of him, but the waitress seemed suddenly uncomfortable. She let the plate drop to the table with unseemly haste and hurried away from him.

Green watched her go and felt the stirring of arousal beneath the table. He He would need to find an outlet for that once he was back in London. The money the film would bring him would be allow him to indulge himself for a good time to come. He knew many women who were more than happy to mask their distaste for this appearance and proclivities when enough money was involved. His right palm started to itch and he scratched at it absent mindedly as he watched the waitress walk away.

He lifted his fork and dug into the risotto, shovelling it greedily into his mouth.

He would have preferred wine with it to the orange juice, a nice Frascati maybe, but he needed to keep a clear head and do whatever he could to rehydrate himself.

When he had finished eating he wiped the oil from his mouth with a paper napkin and ordered a lemon sorbet and a bottle of mineral water. A young man served him this time, the waitress deliberately keeping her distance, leaning against the counter and staring at him. He was the only customer in the cafe, a couple sat outside drinking coffee in the shade of a parasol, but aside from them the place was quiet in the mid-afternoon lull.

He finished the sorbet and then sat and slowly drank the water, watching the waitress, waiting until the man went to serve the couple outside before waving at her for the bill. He watched her sashay over, felt his cock stirring again at the way her clothes. She dropped the bill on the table and hurried away with a sneer on her face like she couldn’t stand to be close to him.

“No tip for you, you miserable bitch,” he muttered as he counted out the euros from his pocket. Then he thought better of it, he needed to avoid attracting attention, act as much like a regular tourist as he could. He pulled out a five euro note and dropped it on the top of the pile.

The heat hit him again as soon as he walked out onto the street, making the coolness of the sorbet a distant memory. He hurried up the street, sticking to narrow patches of shade as much as he could, until he reached the impressive main entrance to the station. The mixture of old stone and modern signage greeted him with the promise of respite from the sun and he gladly walked into it. The clock on the main concourse told him he had forty minutes before his train departed, half an hour before he could board it.

He checked the departure board and saw that the platform had not yet been announced. From his research he knew it was most likely that his train would leave from 24. He had chosen the lockers nearest to that platform and walked to it now. The station was busy but not unbearably so, he could cope with the bustle he had to walk through if he kept his eyes focussed on lockers ahead. He let the people pass on either side of him, let the gleaming grey metal fill his vision.

He was ten feet away when he realised something was wrong. The locker he had left his case in was hanging open.

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Four

15th November 2013

James looked at the information board, one minute, it read. He looked back at the man on the platform. He was still heading towards him, striding deliberately, his feet eating up the distance between them. There was no doubt in James’s mind that he was the man’s target. He seemed oblivious to the other people standing on the platform, he didn’t even really try to step around them, just strode forward and let them move out of his way. His eyes were wide and staring crazily at James, alive with a light that suggested some fracture in their owner’s mind. They looked like eyes that had seen things they weren’t meant to. James realised that the man wasn’t blinking, his eyes so fully open it looked like the eyelids had been surgically removed.

James willed the train to arrive, if it got here soon he might be able to get into a different carriage and avoid the man altogether. Whatever it was he wanted, James decided there and then he didn’t want any part of it. The guy was trouble. It wasn’t just his eyes, everything about him screamed danger, his body looked like it was wound so tight his tendons might start snapping from the strain.

James looked away from him, eyes searching for the board, catching it as it flicked over. Due it said now. Due. The man was ten feet away and closing by the second; he didn’t speak, didn’t call out, just kept coming. James could hear the train approaching, feel the breeze as it pushed the air down the tunnel in front of it.

It was coming but he knew it wouldn’t be there soon enough, the man would reach him first. James turned quietly and walked further down the platform, there were a handful of other people waiting there, shuffling now that the train was near. Half a dozen of them all trying not to be noticed by the man who was still walking singlemindedly along the platform. James could hear his own breathing, fast and ragged sounding in his ears. Frantic. What the fuck was happening? It was five pm on a Friday, he was half a mile from his house and he was running scared from a stranger.

He looked back over his shoulder and now he could see the train coming, its lights shining out of the darkness of the tunnel. In front of it the man kept coming, his shadow tall on the smooth floor.

The wind was picking up, licking at the hem of James’s jacket and chilling the exposed back of his neck. As the train pulled alongside him he picked up his pace, jogging along next to the train. As it slowed he kept going, heading for the first carriage. He looked behind and saw that the man was running, still staring forward in that terribly focussed way. The lights from inside the carriages strobed across his face but that expression never changed.

As the train pulled to a stop James felt the panic growing in him, unbound by any logic. What the fuck is happening, he asked himself again? Who is this guy? Just some harmless eccentric, someone who thought he knows me, something worse…a genuine threat?

There wasn’t time to think about it now, the doors to his sighed hissed open but James kept moving. He reached the first carriage at last and jumped through those doors, feeling them close behind him. The carriage was about a quarter full, a couple of people looked up at James as he breathlessly entered it, then looked back down at their magazines or Kindles or iPads or laps again. Ignore the lunatic, he could hear them all thinking.

James grabbed hold of a pole to stop himself and stared back out at the platform. The man was nowhere to be seen.

He moved up the carriage and sat heavily on a seat right at the front of the train, next to the door that led to the driver’s compartment. There was a man sitting opposite him, he folded his paper and looked up.

“You okay, mate,” he said. “Look a bit flustered.”

James nodded as the train picked up speed, he felt normality creeping in again. He was on a tube train, going into town, talking to some guy. In less than an hour he’d be with his mates.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said. “Just some weirdo on the platform.”

“Lot of them about, too bloody many.”

James leaned back and nodded, hoping the guy would take the hint of his silence and not continue the conversation. He just needed a minute to collect his thoughts.

The man opposite him nodded and then went back to his paper. Thank fuck.

James closed his eyes, let the lids fall over them and tried to get his head around what had happened. He was starting to doubt himself, had the guy really been coming for him or was he just some unfortunate looking oddball? It seemed crazy to believe he had actually been trying to get to him, didn’t it? Paranoid. This was his life not some Hitchcock movie.

Just forget about it, he told himself, get into town, have a good night and forget it ever happened. And text Emma back, he had to do that as soon as he got above ground again.

He was looking forward to the night, although he didn’t know if he had the stamina for it anymore. An allnighter at the Embassy, five horror films played back to back to an audience of die hard fans. They’d used to do them a lot back in the day, him and the boys. Kiran, Will and Dan, they’d all been younger then, though. Nowadays, he was lucky if he got to eleven before his eyes started dropping, especially if he’d had a beer. Tonight would be a challenge, but a fun one, especially as the last of the films was the one to stay awake for. The promoters hadn’t revealed what it was yet, but they were advertising it as something special. Something that had never been screened in the UK before. A few people had speculated about what it might be on some of the movie message boards James visited from time to time. An extreme European cut of an old Hammer film, a lost Lucio Fulci slasher, something new from the German underground. Nobody knew for sure though, and nobody would until the projectionist loaded the first reel at about 5am the next morning.

Whatever it ended up being James was sure he’d enjoy it. Tonight was one of those times when the journey was as important as the destination. Maybe it was some sort of mid-life crisis crap, but he needed a night when he could regress to the simple pleasures of his youth. Where he could prove to himself that he still had a bit of life left in him.

The row with Emma and the freak at the tube station made him need it even more.

He sighed, time to forget about all of that. He wished now that he had bought a beer when he’d had the chance, he needed it to help him unwind.

The train started to slow and James opened his eyes to see the guy opposite him standing to leave. “Hope the rest of your night is better,” the man said. “No more weirdos.”

James laughed and thanked him then closed his eyes again, there were a lot of stops between him and his station, he might as well relax. He heard the doors hiss shut and the train pulled away.

As it built up speed, the gentle side by side rocking of the carriage and the rhythmic white noise of the wheels on the tracks soothed James. He felt the lids of his closed eyes growing heavier, settling comfortably against the tired eye balls.

Everything went black, soothingly and wonderfully dark and he drifted for a moment, floated through an untroubled nothingness.

And then, suddenly, he felt a presence next to him and some primal instinct jerked him out of sleep. He opened his eyes and saw the man from the platform, those wide eyes terrifyingly close, boring into James’s soul.

“I’ve come to warn you that you’re going to die tonight,” the man said, simply.

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Three

2nd September 2013

Green reached the bottom of the stairs, his face slick with sweat and his clothes clinging to him.

Why did it have to be so bloody hot here? He hated the heat, always had, even as a child. When the other kids had been outside frolicking in the summer sun he would much rather be alone in the cool of his bedroom. The solitude of the school holidays had felt like bliss to him, no need to interact with anyone but his mother, and her only sparingly. The intrusive noise of other people had appalled him then and still did now.

There was another way out of the building than the front door that the dead Italian has let him in by. Green’s careful preparation, scouring building plans and local maps, had revealed a rear exit leading to a courtyard garden. He knew that from there he could get to a back street that would take him away from the main plaza to an area where he could be easily find a taxi to take him to the railway station.

The public nature of the Italian’s death was unfortunate, but if he moved quickly and kept his head it shouldn’t be problematic. He knew the killing should bother him but it didn’t, it wasn’t the first and he doubted it would be the last. Murder was work for him, not even the goal of his labours, just a task that needed to be completed along the way. To a man, his victims had been fairly vile characters and he doubted that anyone wept for them. It might be an exaggeration to say that the world was better without them, but it certainly wasn’t any worse.

Green hurried along the hallway of the apartment building. It was old, once probably a single dwelling that had only in the twentieth century been carved up into individual abodes. The location was good and Green had no doubt that prospective tenants would be clamouring to rent the Italian’s room, despite the circumstances that had made it available.

The front door of the building had been covered with ornate cast iron bars to prevent anyone smashing the glass to gain entry. The ground floor windows had been similarly adorned, giving the building the look of an elegant fortress. This rear door was solid wood, painted the colour of pistachio ice cream, with a sign across the middle that read ‘Uscita Fuoco’ and beneath it in smaller script ‘Fire Exit’.

Green slammed a clammy hand on the metal bar that ran across it and pushed it open. Getting into the building may have been a challenge if the Italian hadn’t let him in, escaping it posed no such problems.

Beyond the green door the heat in the garden was fierce, the bright sun reflecting off the white walls of the surrounding buildings and focussed in the small courtyard where the high walls meant there wasn’t even the hint of a breeze. It was hotter than it should have been for that time of year, the temperatures matching those normally seen in the height of summer. The taxi driver who had driven him from Roma Termini had muttered about sunspots and global warming, happy to practice his English and share his conspiracy theories.

Green felt the hot air hit him and steal his breath like a punch to the gut. The light was dazzling him and he struggled for a second, his head spinning, sucking down hot air until he could see again. He thought for a moment about removing his jacket and carrying it, but that would rob him of the easy access to his knife that the clothing gave him. If he needed it again he would need it quickly.

The gate that led from the garden was ahead of him. He tried to ignore the heat and made for it. Once he got away from this infernal stillness and glare he would be alright. He just needed to do it quickly, or as quickly as his struggling body would allow him to anyway.

He could hear a siren now, coming from the other side of the building. He knew it might not be related to the misshapen corpse but it seemed unlikely that it wasn’t. Another incentive to move.

He pushed himself through the heat and reached the gate, pulling it open and stepping into the alley beyond it. It ran parallel to the street, between the backs of two rows of apartment buildings. A breeze blew along it and Green gulped down the fresher air hungrily. It was still warm but at least it didn’t sear his throat going down. He felt his strength returning, his head clearing of the dark panic that had threatened to engulf him.

The closest street was to the East so he walked in that direction, the afternoon sun on his back rather than his face, beating down on the back of his neck. He hadn’t even thought to apply sun block when he had left London the previous morning. The city been grey and damp, the sun just starting to rise as he travelled through Kent to the Channel Tunnel. He had arrived in Rome late that evening after a whole day travelling. Flying would have been faster but the security checks were more stringent and the enclosed space of an Airbus made his skin crawl from the proximity of the other passengers. The train wasn’t much better, but he could at least get up and walk around if it got too much. It wasn’t claustrophobia, just the constant closeness of all those other souls grating on his nerves.

He was booked on the sleeper back, which was even better, a compartment to himself, a place he could hide away in like he had in his bedroom as a boy. First he had to get to the station though. He had no possessions with him, just the film can still clutched under one arm. The clothes he had travelled in had gone in a bin outside the cheap hotel he’d slept in the night before. He’d left a bag in a locker at the station with pyjamas and his wash kit and a change of clothes for the journey home.

He reached the street and slowed his hurried pace, looking out of the alley for any sign of the police. There was none and he breathed a sigh of relief, ducking into a shadowed shop doorway and pausing to mop his brow with his handkerchief.

He didn’t think anyone had seen him in the window after the Italian’s fall, had no reason to suspect anyone was looking for him. Glancing at his wristwatch he saw he had three hours before he needed to be at the station but there was no reason to delay. He would take things calmly. Find a cab to drive him to Roma Termini and eat in a cafe nearby while he waited. Everything would be okay, he told himself, the Italian was dead, the film was in his possession. He just needed to play it cool until he could leave the city.

He stepped back into the sun and hailed a taxi.

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Two

15th November 2013

James was pulling on his jacket, checking the pockets for his cigarettes and his keys, when Emma stepped out of the living room and blocked his path to the front door.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said to him. “Not after what happened last weekend.”

He shrugged, “It’s because of what happened that I’m doing it. I need a night away,

some space to clear my head.”

“Do you still love me?” she asked.

“Of course I do,” he said back, without even thinking, it was an instinctive reaction to the question, drummed into him by years of repetition. He didn’t think about it. It was easier not to.

He put his hand on her arm and leaned in to kiss her, feeling her body stiffen slightly as he did. She didn’t back away though, let him plant a limp kiss on cold lips, pressed so tightly together it would have taken a crowbar to part them.

“I love you,” he said, his hand still on her. The words sounded convincing to his ears and he guessed they did to hers too, because he felt a little of the rigidity flow out of her. “I love you and I’ll be back tomorrow. I just need to blow off steam.”

“Okay,” she said and kissed him, not passionately, but at least with a little warmth. “Go and have fun with your weird friends.”

He smiled. “You could say it back, you know.”

A look came over her face like she’d eaten something she didn’t like the taste of and he knew she wasn’t going to say it.

“Fine,” he said, and left.

Ten minutes later he was at the tube station, stubbing his Silk Cut out on metal plate stuck on the top of a bin. It was wet from the rain that has been falling all week and the tip of the fag sizzled as he ground it down. Not that long now til the New Year and then he could go through the annual ritual of trying to give up again. He’d always told himself he’d give up when they had kids, but it hadn’t happened yet, despite lots of visits to doctors and clinic. Lots of poking and prodding and wanking into little pots. Nobody could really tell them what the problem was, but whatever was stopping them having kids was also eroding their relationship. Wearing it away like the sole of an old shoe that had walked too many miles without ever getting to its destination.

If there was one thing he could change, one thing he could give Emma, it was that. A life inside her.

But it seemed he couldn’t.

Bollocks, he swore to himself as he ground the last of the glow out of the butt. For tonight, at least, he’d try not to think about it, and, as cruel as it sounded, would try not to think about her. He needed a break from it all before it drove him nuts.

It was dark already, only 6 pm but the clocks had just gone back a week or so before and so the sun had set an hour previously. The neon from the lights in the shops along the street reflected out of the puddles of rainwater on the asphalt and made the street shimmer with colour in a way that made it almost attractive. He walked along it every day and it was when it was like this that he liked it the most. Forty years old, he thought to himself, Christ he really was becoming an

old fart, finding romance in the way this poxy little parade of shops looked. Even Starbucks hadn’t made it this far out yet, there was still just a greasy spoon that shut at 2pm, a nail place, a newsagents and an off licence. He thought about popping in to the latter to get some beers for the evening and then thought better of it. There would be plenty of places near his destination. Besides, it was too early to start drinking, as much as he wanted to. He had a long time to stay awake yet, no point in getting pissed and dozing off at 10pm.

He turned away from the inviting lights of the shop before they lured him in. He could almost feel the cold, sharpness of the lager pricking his tongue and trickling down his throat. That was another reason to wait, he wanted the taste a little too much.

James put his hood down and ran a hand through his hair then walked down the stairs into the tube station. From somewhere behind him on a streets he heard a shouting but he ignored it and let his feet carry him underground. He’d lived in London long enough to know that random yelling on the street rarely led to anything good.

When he reached the Northern Line platform it was quiet. He knew in an hour or so it would be busy again, with sharply dressed youngsters talking loudly as they made the trip into the centre of the city for a night of clubbing. Standing in their little cliques and laughing and gesturing as the smattering of smart theatregoers around them tried to ignore the bad language. This was the lull while people got home from work and changed before going out again. The twilight zone between daytime and nighttime when there was a moment of calm on the streets before it all started up again. That was true here anyway, the West End would already be full of drunkenly giggling office girls and leering, beer swilling young men. Christ, I sound like my Dad, James thought. Lighten up, man.

He had worked from home all week, partly to give Emma some support, partly because he couldn’t face going into the office. That week cooped up with her had nearly driven him over the edge. Tonight wasn’t just a night out, it was a necessity.

He walked along the platform away from the entrance, glancing up at the information board as he went. 5 minutes, not so bad.

Across the way was a huge poster advertising a product he couldn’t afford that was marginally better than the previous year’s version had been. Christmas around the corner and all the sharks were out, trying to part people from their cash. It was hard to believe times were as hard as the papers said they were when ever other person he saw had a £500 phone in their hand.

James pulled his out while he waited for the train. The status bar at the top told him he had a text message, it must have come while he was walking, phone deep in his pocket and his head thrust down against the rain. He swiped down to see who it was from. Emma.

I love you. Sorry I’ve been a bitch lately, have fun and don’t get too pissed.

He felt a sudden pang that he was leaving her for the night. Her photo was there next to the text, smiling up at him, a memento of happier times. He wouldn’t go back tonight though, he’d see her in the morning. The time apart would do them both good, there’d been too many harsh words recently. From both sides.

Besides, he’d made a commitment to the guys, Dan and Kiran and Will. The old crew. It had been a long time, too long. He would text Emma, though, he told himself, as soon as he was above ground and had a signal again.

He looked up from the phone and down the platform, willing the train to appear so that he could get where he was going and reply to Emma’s message. Two minutes, the board read.

A man appeared through the same archway that James had used to enter the platform. He had a piece of paper in his hand and glanced down at it and then along the platform. It looked stiff, like a photograph.

James slipped the phone back into his pocket and tried to ignore the man. He had a slightly desperate look about him, a frenzied eagerness that was somehow troubling. James risked another look. The man was well dressed, not some homeless guy who would bother the waiting passengers for change until the British Transport Police moved him on. Something else, was he a religious nutter? Was the piece of paper some pamphlet promising a free personality test and eternal happiness.

The man was staring at the paper again, then he looked up and before James could look away their eyes met.

Shit. James looked away quickly, but not before he saw the man’s face light up with sudden excitement. When he glanced up again a second later the man was hurrying along the platform. His target was obvious, he was heading for James.

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter One

2nd September 2013

Richard Green was a seeker; a gatherer of obscure objects, a curator of the unusual and the macabre. He had an ability to track down forbidden and arcane items and that ability had proved to be a very saleable one. Even in the current information age, with people able to call up whatever experiences they desired, no matter how depraved, at the touch of a button, there was still a market for people who wanted real things. Tainted things. Evil things.

It was the search for just such an item that had brought him to Rome, to a back street where he was now ringing the bell of a third floor apartment. Above him a man leaned out of a window and shouted down at him, “Signor Green.” His voice was light and only just reached Green’s ears over the noise of the cars that echoed down the street from the piazza it branched off.

Green waved at him in affirmation. The man disappeared and Green waited, his belly churning with the excitement that always accompanied the end of a hunt. It had been the same when he’d been on the force and had a villain in his sights.

The thrill of the chase was why he did it, that sensation of adrenalin coursing through his veins, opening his eyes wide and sparking in his brain. Of course the money was good too, far better now than when he had been a police officer. The money helped him to forget some of the things he’d seen and done over the years. It didn’t wash his soul clean but it helped him not worry about the corruption that he knew had crept into it.

A minute or two after he had disappeared from the window, the man opened the door in front of Green. He was short, his hair jet black and his pale face covered in dark stubble that looked as rough as sandpaper. He didn’t speak, just stepped back and gestured his visitor into the lobby.

When the door was shut the small man waved at the primitive elevator, swore in Italian, and then headed for the stairs. Green followed him.

He wasn’t used to the exercise and by the time they reached the second floor he was already sweating. He told himself it was the heat but really he knew it was his own lack of physical strength. His job required him to use his brain far more than his body, and that at least was still sharp even if his flesh had softened over the years.

They reached the third floor and the man unlocked a door. The paint on it was peeling, bubbled up in places, as if there had been some great heat behind it.

Green followed the man into the apartment.

There was an unpleasant odour to the man that assailed Green’s nostrils even over the rich scent of his own sweat. Beyond bad hygiene, it was a fetid stench that suggested some disease was rotting the man inside. Green looked again at his pale skin and yellowed eyes and wondered if the man might be dying.

“The film,” he said.

The man nodded and walked to an old wardrobe in the corner. It was a single room apartment, an unmade single bed in the centre of it, an impressive floor to ceiling window in one wall would have looked out on the city. In a small kitchen area over to one side was a two ring gas hob so caked with so much dirt that the sight of it made Green’s stomach turn. He looked back at the man who was walking back with a large round metal can in his hands.

“Mille euro,” he said.

Green nodded as he took the can. “If it’s what you claim it is. I need to examine it.”

Looking around the room again he spotted a small card table next to an armchair. “May I?” he said.

“Si, si,” the man replied and hurried to the table, clearing a wine glass and dog-eared magazine from it.

Reverently, Green lay the can on the table and then opened it, taking great care. If the film was as the Italian claimed it was worth far more than the thousand euros he was asking. Green sat in the chair, hearing it creek under his weight, but not caring. His focus was totally on the film now. The prize. His searching fingers found the end of the reel and he slowly lifted it, the negative unravelling. He held it up to the light streaming through the window and stared intently at the tiny images in front of him. Gently passing the film through his hands he examined as much as he dared and then nodded and lay it back in the can.

The man spoke slowly in broken English, “Is what you want?”

Green nodded. “Yes, exactly what I want.”

The Italian beamed. “You see me? I am in. In film.”

Green felt a shiver run down his spine as he stared back at the haunted looking little man, he hadn’t expected that revelation. It didn’t change what he had to do next though.

“I didn’t see you.” Green paused. “Sorry.”

“Is okay,” the Italian shrugged.

“That’s not why I’m sorry.”

Moving with a swiftness that belied his size, Green pulled a long, gleaming blade from inside his jacket. The sunlight that a minute before he has used to examine the film now glinted off the blade, flashing a bright slash across the Italian’s face, bisecting it. The man was dazzled for a second and then, as the light left his face, his expression changed to one of horror as he realised what was happening. And what was about to happen.

He raised his hands as Green swung the knife at him, the palm of his left hand meeting the tip of the blade. It drew a red line there, a crimson gash across the Italian’s pale flesh that suddenly opened like a hungry mouth and screamed blood. The man screamed too, as Green slashed again. A finger fell from his other hand, the fifth digit neatly severed, tumbling to the filthy floor as blood bubbled up from the stump.

Green knew that he had to finish the job swiftly, that the high, hollow screams filling the room would attract attention before too long. These things were a necessity but he had neither the skill nor the appetite for them. The things he had to find for his clients were bad enough without his having to kill to obtain them. He know though, that his soul was already irredeemably tainted, a little more blood wouldn’t damn him anymore than he was already.

His victim was backing away from him now, heading towards the window, the light from it flowing around his dark silhouette. It made him look somehow less human and Green took his chance, the split second when the killing might feel less like murder. Taking a heavy step forward, he lunged upward with the long cold blade. It caught the man on his darkly stubbled throat, driving through his screaming mouth, pinning his wagging tongue and continuing up into his terrified brain. The bright steel drove the fear away, replacing it with a darkness that enveloped the man as death took him.

The force of the blow lifted the small man off his feet and back through the window. The glass shattered around the lifeless body as it crashed out into the warm Roman day. Green kept a firm grip on the knife and the sharp, thin blade pulled out of the corpse as it fell away. A gout of blood came with it and he jerked his hand back to avoid being splashed with it. The blood fell to the floor in a red line that ran accusingly from the shattered window to Green’s feet. Outside he heard a scream and a thud as the Italian’s body hit the road. He stepped to the window and gazed down. The man looked even smaller robbed of life. His skull had shattered when it met the tarmac and his head was horribly misshapen now.

Green moved back from the window, there was no time to waste now. The police would be there soon and whilst there was always a way for him to extricate himself, he would rather not have the bother. He grabbed a dish cloth from the kitchen and wiped the knife clean before slipping it back into the sheath stitched into his jacket.

That done he grabbed the can of film and clutched it to his chest, running from the apartment and back down the stairs.

He was booked on the overnight train from Roma Termini to Paris and from there on the Eurostar to Waterloo. In twenty four hours he would be meeting his client in London. All he had to do was get to the station.

An experiment

After some deliberation, I’ve decided I’m going to serialise the novel I’m working on at the moment. It’s a slightly cheesy horror yarn and I think it’s quite suited to the serial approach. My intention is to publish a chapter here every Sunday until I’ve finished it, at which point I’ll probably put the rest up in one hit.

The motivation on my part is that having an active readership makes it much more likely that I’ll finish something I’m writing. Hopefully, you’ll get something out of the experience too.

Be warned that it may be slightly rough and ready at times. It’s also going to be excessively violent.

It’s called ‘Night of Obscene Horror’…watch this space.