Voices: The Best I’ve Ever Written?

I met with Iain Pattison in Manchester yesterday and during the course of a long conversation, we inevitably discussed our individual works.

I’ve always felt, and Iain agreed, that Voices is the best thing I’ve ever written, yet for some inexplicable reason, it doesn’t sell. I’m embarrassed that it is often compared favourably to the works of James Herbert and Stephen King.

It has only eight Amazon reviews, but all of them are five-star. In his comment on the work, reviewer Richard Hardie said ‘This is real horror at its best, not because it’s full of blood and gore (there’s plenty) but because you really believe it could be happening.’

But I’ll let you form your own judgement. Here is a long extract from very early in the book. College lecturer, Chris Deacon is on his lunch break with the daunting prospect of a tedious staff meeting ahead of him. It’s a perfectly normal, September day… so far.

I entered the refectory and to my dismay, found it jam-packed. Joining the end of a long queue, I thought about Spinners Shopping Mall, 200 yards away. It would be so easy to go there, pick up a sandwich at Carpenters Lite-Bite, then sit and enjoy the sunshine on the High Street.

The air in the refectory hung with sweat. Extractor fans, suspended from the ceiling, worked overtime, trying to suck out the heat, their constant hum drowned by the clatter of knife, fork and conversation.

I glanced along the queue, and then to my left where the vending machines offered chilled soft drinks, crisps and confectionery. Brian Richmond was busy feeding coins into one. I was tempted. I could grab myself a packet of ready salted, a Snickers bar and a can of Pepsi, and sit on the college lawns, soak up the sun and carry out a little people watching … except that most of our people were in the cafeteria.

Students crowded most of the room. In the rear, right corner were a few tables reserved for staff, and they, too, were full. Assuming I was served this side of one o’clock I’d still be hard pressed to find a seat.

Jenny Morton and Sally Brent passed me, their heads bent over a carrier bag, peering in as if they were checking on some living creature. Sally’s eyes met mine. She nudged Jenny and they both smiled. I smiled back. I felt like a father figure to them. In my classes, they enjoyed my tales of the pre-microchip era when arithmetic was instilled by rote, rather than at the touch of a calculator keypad.

The queue shuffled forward. In front of me stood a young man dressed in a grey pinstripe which looked too hot for the unexpected sunshine. If he was a member of staff, I didn’t know him. He kept checking his watch, every glance accompanied by an impatient sigh. Not a member of staff. Even faced with a general meeting in less than an hour, no tutor would give a toss about the time. I guessed him to be a council employee, probably on an inspection visit. Judging from the frequency with which he followed the time he was due back at the civic centre. Either that or he, too, wanted to get out and soak up the ultraviolet.

Looking past him, at the head of the queue I could see a redhead sorting through her purse, seeking something smaller than a twenty. Dressed in a purple skirt and matching jacket, she was another body I didn’t recognise. Probably a mature student. She counted coins into her hand, in that curious manner all women have. Peer into the purse, snatch the coin between finger and thumb, drop it into the palm, pause to count how much is in hand, then repeat the process until the sums add up. Her efforts did nothing to appease Grey Pinstripe’s angst.

On a table by the windows, Pauline Jackson was holding court with her new baby. Pauline was about twenty years old, and I recalled she had been heavily pregnant with the child towards the end of the last academic year. Azi Rahman sat perched on the windowsill behind her, his feet resting on the back of her chair. Steve Jessop and Emma Oates, two of our longest serving security officers, ambled towards them and motioned for Azi to get down. While he joked with Steve, Emma made a fuss of the baby.

Grey Pinstripe became more exasperated by the second, and there were still several others between him and the counter. Pauline’s baby began acting up. Emma tried to soothe the child while Pauline searched through her bag, presumably looking for his dummy or bottle.

I looked to the vending machine and tossed the options again. Snack and soft drink, or something more substantial and a cup of tea? Jan usually prepared only a light meal on Friday evening. It would have to be something more than crisps, chocolate and Pepsi.

Casting my eyes round the room once more, I saw Brian, one bag still on his shoulder, the other placed on a table full of students with whom he was talking. He drank from a can of Fanta and looked around. Our stares met and he looked away. There was something wrong with his face; a deep frown etched into his brow and a furtive fret in his eyes. Electronics students were always worried about something. It probably came from too many hours studying circuitry.

Four members of staff gathered in the centre of the aisle, stopping to chat. A cleaner came round them pushing her trolley, eyes everywhere, looking for litter on the tables.

Richmond hurried past, dashing out of the dining hall. Through a gap between the Chatters I could see his backpack left on the table. The cleaner made to pick the bag up.

Worried, bag left behind, in a hurry to get out. I thought about all those terrorism meetings and workshops where they had spelled out the vital signs. Worried, bag left behind, in a hurry to get out. My sluggish brain made the connection. Alarm bells rang in my head. I swivelled to look for Brian. Worried, bag left behind, in a hurry to get out.

I opened my mouth to shout a warning. The sweep hand on the clock above the service counter reached the top of the hour. The minute hand moved one last time to register 12:45. There was a flash of light and an almighty explosion.

A ball of flame expanded in all directions. With it came the noise of screams, of glass shattering as the windows disappeared, followed by an awful rending of metal. The triple extractors fell from their mountings and crashed to the tables below where they exploded into a thousand pieces. One of the blades embedded itself in the back of Grey Pinstripe’s head. He fell, one hand clawing at the back of his neck. I watched the light go out in his eyes.

At the same time, a wall of superheated air hit my lungs. The blast threw me back, slamming me into the vending machines. Something bloody, came my way. I had time to register it as the head of one of the Chatters before I ducked. It struck me a glancing blow on the forehead and my knees buckled.

Dizziness swimming around me, I took in the scene of carnage. Azi and the window where he was perched were gone. The emergency exit had been blown open and at least two students were hurled through it. Pauline was unconscious, one arm laying several feet from the rest of her. In his pram, the baby had a large piece of metal projecting from his chest. Steve Jessop had been thrown towards the service counter, where he lay unconscious, blood streaming from numerous cuts on his face. Emma stared down at a large piece of extractor fan filling the valley between her breasts. As I watched, she keeled over and lay still. Purse Woman lay strewn across Steve’s midriff, her legs slashed to ribbons. Her face was turned my way, but her eyes focussed on the bloody mess that had been Grey Pinstripe’s head.

There was nothing left of the students or the table where Richmond had left his bag. The cleaner’s lower legs were still on the floor. They were several feet apart and the rest of her had been torn from them. All around the central blast area lay the charred remains of what had been people a few moments ago.

Glancing to my left, I could see a counter hand spread-eagled across the hobs, her clothing and hair on fire. I prayed she was already dead. At the staff tables, several were already beyond help; one of the survivors was trying to revive the woman next to him.

Smoke and fumes filled my lungs, I tasted the coppery essence of blood on my lips, my head hurt front and back. I ran a hand across my face. It came away covered in blood. I don’t know whether it was mine or someone else’s.

It seemed as if time had come to standstill. I felt as if I was staring at this horror for minutes, but it was probably less than two seconds.

As the dazed survivors came to their senses, they ran, some making for the emergency exit, the rest, from this side of the room, rushing for the double doors to my right, and the safety of reception beyond them.

The explosion had melted the ceiling tiles and caused a brief flare; enough to kick in what was left of the sprinkler system. Rain poured on the bloodied and charred floor tiles, turning them into a gooey, slippery mess of blood, flesh and water. At the head of the panicked crowd, Marcia Reardon, a tutor from the Languages Department, slipped and went down. The mob trampled her. I saw her tongue loll out before she disappeared under the thundering feet.

I flattened myself to the vending machine as the crowd massed towards the door. A young girl was forced into the corner. She screamed as the herd crushed in on her and pressed her flat against the wall. Then her screams stopped and her eyes faded.

They crushed me too, forcing me back against the unyielding machinery. They were moving to the right. I fought my way to the left, my legs turning to jelly, strength wilting. The tiniest of gaps opened around me and I began to go down.

STAY ON YOUR FEET.

My brain shouted the order, but it sounded to me as a voice echoing around my head.

There was a short section of wall jutting out on the left, partitioning the vending machines from the service counter. I moved towards it, away from the doors where others were screaming for help. I heaved in a huge breath of the supercharged air. The heat, the poisonous mix of gases given off by a combination of the explosive and molten polystyrene tiles hurt my lungs. I made the gap by the tiny partition wall, and shrank into it.

Amongst the writhing mass of humanity desperate to be out of the building, I saw Jenny Morton again. Tears streaked her blood-spattered face.

“Mr Deacon!” She screamed. I reached out, grabbed her hand, pulled her to me and hugged her into the corner, turning my back on the crowd to protect her.

With Jenny sobbing, the air filled with screams, cries and shouts of the injured, I felt a rising dread, which threatened to swamp me and force me into the panicked mob, let them carry me off into mayhem and be crushed with them. My knees buckled again and I fell to them. Someone stood on my right ankle and I let out an agonised howl.

Jenny clung to me. An elbow hit me on the back of the head. Gripped by blind rage, I lashed out with my fist and someone collapsed alongside me. In seconds, he was smothered underfoot.

STAY ON YOUR FEET.

I tried to stand again. A lance of pain shot through my ankle.

I’m about to die, I’m about to die, I’m about to die. The thought hammered at my dimming consciousness.

My head spun, blackness threatened to engulf me. Terrified out of my mind, I forced Jenny further into our corner, and pressed my face obscenely close to her. She wept and I began to cry too. A vision of Jan came to me. It was as if I were crying for her to come and help me, come and get me out of this insanity.

***

So what do you think? I regret I’m unable to open the blog for comments, because I get too much hassle from lazy spammers, but you’re welcome to comment on any of the social media posts where you may have spotted this post.

Voices is published by Crooked Cat and available for the Kindle from Amazon UK and Amazon Worldwide and in all formats from Smashwords and other, good etailers. It’s also available in paperback ISBN: 1908910429 from Amazon.