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ROUTINE
by Iain Lowson
Glancing at the clock, he sighed.
David remembered the time when the television stopped. Rested. At a certain point every night, the last program would finish. That would be it. The announcer would, in tired, quietly relieved tones, chase the last few viewers off to bed, serenading their walk to switch off the bulky box with a drum roll and the brassy opening bars of the mono national anthem.
Nowadays, the television never stopped. Auntie Beeb chuntering on and on through the wee small hours, lulling David into sleep until some imported American explosion shocked him awake, helped by the Curry's-bought surround sound David had never quite set up right. Jean wasn't there to switch it off, nudging him awake, his own little anthem of gentle nagging to chase him upstairs. The glance at the clock had made David irritated at himself and at Jean for not waking him. He wished, out loud, that she had done so.
Shifting himself in his seat, ready for the checklist sequence of getting up, David's legs rattled the small table, setting cutlery dancing on the plate. The noise was muted by the weight of food still there, the ready meal curry he'd grown quickly bored of. Bored of the food, bored by the program, bored to sleep. Fumbling around the armchair, David found the handset. The 'doofer'. Too many buttons. He dropped it over the edge of the chair. It thumped onto the carpet.
With a slight groan, David leaned forward and pushed the small table back. Light from the television glittered across the coagulating curry sauce, the eerily glistening rice, and the bone-white plastic fork and spoon. He wished Jean had been able to clear them away, muttering the words under his breath.
Satisfied the table was out of the way, David sat back with another slight groan. He organised himself in his head; stick waiting, legs in place, hands braced on the armrests. all set. David pushed himself to standing, a long hissed breath seeing him through the familiar litany of aches and pains, reminding himself to check his balance before reaching for his stick. On his way past the television, standing in the doorway to the hall, he leaned his weight on the frame while he prodded the socket switch with his stick. He got it first time, plunging the room into abrupt silence and near darkness. David wished Jean had seen that, saying so with a smile as he glanced up. He was normally there for ages, randomly thumping the wall, leaving marks that would vex Jean in the morning.
Routine kicked in. David slowly did his tour. Front door first; chain on, lock checked. Back door; lock checked, outside light on, quick glance around the garden without really seeing it, light off. Cooker; definitely off. Fridge; milk definitely away, door definitely closed. Past the lounge, heading for the stairs; glance into the lounge, fire and tv definitely off. Bottom of the stairs; upstairs hall light on, downstairs hall light off, check all other lights off downstairs, begin climb. Up the stairs; satisfied smile at a job well done. Family protected for another night.
David stopped halfway up the stairs. His smile slipped away. Routine with no purpose became just a reminder. The pictures on the wall up the staircase offered no solace. David kept his eyes fixed on the top of the steps, determinedly ignoring the cavalcade of cadaver-grins he passed by. At the top of the stairs, routine demanded he stop and look back, confirming the darkness below wasn't violated in any way.
He stood, looking down. The stairs with their simple white bannister ran down into utter blackness. The hall light dangling above him seemed dim. David strained to see the bottom of the stairs. There was only the darkness. Nothing existed down there anymore. David shrugged. He went into the bathroom, giving himself over to routine.
Mouth tingling from harsh mint, David paused as he left the bathroom. His hand was on the light cord. He looked back at the top of the stairs, tempted for a moment to glance down again. He stood, breathing. Just breathing. Very deliberately, he pulled the cord. One click. He held the cord down. Letting it go was a conscious act. Click. Just the hall light left now. A slow shadow spread up the stairs. David blinked it away. He was tired, and cursed the endless television again for the false sleep it brought on. Reaching his bedroom door, David stopped on the threshold. Reaching into the room, he clicked the switch farthest away, the bedside lights coming on rather than the harsher main room light. Without turning, he moved his hand now to the hall light switch.
David became acutely aware of the space behind him. He could see the hall light was on, casting his shadow across the rumpled bed in the room before him. It felt, though, as if that light, that physical light fitting and the hallway it illuminated, stood on the brink. David shrugged off the responsibility. He didn't turn around. He just switched off the light before stepping into the bedroom and closing the door. Only then did he glance down to see, as routine demanded, if the bathroom light shone under the bedroom door. There was nothing. Nothing at all.
He was really tired now, sleep walking into his heavy pyjamas. Yet, when he settled down under the blankets and switched off the lights, the near-darkness chased away sleep. David lay, aware of the room around him in only the foggiest terms. The glow of the streetlight near the window he knew picked out vague details of the bedroom. In his mind's eye he toured the surroundings; two chairs, the wardrobe doors, the long dressing table, the radiator, the bed, a clock on the wall that didn't tick. David only watched the ceiling. Eventually he closed his eyes, the blanket of sleep drawn over him by the gentle sound of his wife's breathing close by him. David smiled.
Jean.
This was right, and no mortal truth could touch them. Not any more.
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Here is the second story. Again, next to no editing, just thrown out there. Just a warning for younger viewers - there's a fair amount of swearing, and the ante is upped in other regards. You were told.
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Wish You Were 'Ere
by Iain Lowson
"I'll fuckin..." he roared.
Eamon hunted around frantically, looking for something to throw. His pissed state didn't help, making focusing on the path difficult. He grabbed for a clod of earth that looked like a stone to him, losing his balance. The taxi driver, who had been swearing dire vengeance on Eamon for not having any cash on him and promising to come back tomorrow 'wiv back-up' to collect, had seen what Eamon was trying to do. He dropped the log book with the half scribbled address and tore away in a screech of tires. Eamon, still reeling, tried to throw his 'stone' but it disintegrated, spraying earth everywhere. Eamon scowled at his traitorous hand, completely unaware that he was slowly falling over. He was too drunk to feel the impact.
With a groan, he rolled onto his back, a process made easier by his considerable beer gut. Staring up at the sky, he began to laugh. Then he began to sing. When a neighbour timidly poked her head out of their door to protest about the four-in-the-morning sweary serenade, Eamon stopped singing and started shouting about how little he cared. The swearing redoubled. When the neighbour acidly pointed out that everyone knew what he had done to 'that poor woman', and that the police would be called, Eamon struggled to his feet, furious. The neighbour retreated quickly as further dirt clattered against her door.
"All you... you fucking... fuckers! You can't fucking touch me." Eamon staggered to the middle of the turning circle at the end of the cul-de-sac. He swept his arms wide, encompassing all of the brown-brick, ink-stamp houses. "Nobody can fucking... touch me" he bellowed. "No. Body. No police. No fucking boys in blue. Now fuck you very much and goodnight!" He swept out a low bow, falling onto his face. Laughing, he unsteadily got to his feet and staggered the short distance home.
Singing.
Slamming the front door by falling backwards against it, Eamon grinned at the hallway.
"Honey! I'm home!" There was no answer. Eamon smirked. "Oh yeah" he tittered. 'Forgot. Ooops." Taking the indirect route along the straight hallway, slipping briefly on the pile of unwanted post strewn across the floor, Eamon stripped off his black jacket and tugged off his black tie. He leaned heavily against the wall to pull off his black loafers, their polish stained with piss and grime from his post-funeral bender. Slumped on the floor by the lounge door, Eamon managed to drag off one shoe before getting distracted.
He'd spotted the framed wedding photo. It had been on the wall for the fifteen-ish years of his marriage. After Lizzie was gone, one of the first things Eamon had done on returning from his 'freedom bender' that night was to drag it from its hook and dump it in a corner of the hall near the downstairs loo. Now, Eamon pulled it out and grinned at it. There he was, at the reception in the pub by the lake, by the lake, slimmer than now, and with a bit more hair, half-empty pint in one hand, little Lizzie in the other. She looked brighter then than she had even after a year of marriage. Eamon had always prided himself on how quickly he broke her in.
"You would've fucking loved today" he said to the woman in the picture. "Lovely send-off. Your mother cried fucking buckets. Old sow. So did your dad, but then", Eamon leaned in conspiratorially, "I had kicked him in the cobblers. Coz he's a cunt. See, he didn't want me there. Said it was disrespectful 'n' that. Anyway. Fuck 'im." He looked at the picture. "Tell you what, I wish you were 'ere now." He looked sad. "I could do with a shag." He laughed at his own joke, pushing the picture away and struggling to his feet.
"Wish you were 'ere, Lizzie", he shouted, laughing. "This place is a fucking state for a start." He looked around, trying to work out what was missing. He grinned at his eventual realisation. "I need a nice cuppa." Eamon headed for the kitchen. He stood on the picture, cracking the glass. He didn't notice.
The kitchen stood testament to the two months Eamon had lived on his own. He couldn't find a cup, had run out of tea bags, so ended up slurping milk out of the carton. He'd put the kitchen light on, but the brightness hurt his eyes so he drank to the light from the fridge. Wandering into the lounge, flicking a lamp on, he considered watching some porn. Hand in pocket, he massaged his cock. Getting no reaction beyond a need to piss, Eamon gave up. He glanced at the cracked wedding picture.
"Ah Lizzie, if you could see this place now. It would do your nut in. I mean, you've really let this place go to the dogs, love. Daddy's not 'appy!" Eamon smiled viciously, blood warmed by memories of the consequences of Lizzie's 'failures'. He felt himself stiffen. "Now I really do wish you were 'ere, Lizzie" he growled. Time for bed. His hand back and working away in his pocket, Eamon headed for the stairs.
At the bottom of the carpeted steps, hand on the bannister, Eamon stopped. A flickering shadow had distracted him, as though someone had walked past the lamp in the lounge. A pulse of adrenaline had rushed through him, but he felt stupid now. He stood, swaying slightly, aware that he was starting to sober up a little. There was a bottle by the bed that would sort that out. He began to climb.
Eamon's breathing sounded loud in his head. Walking up the stairs always left him a little breathless, but now he was almost panting by the time he reached halfway. It wasn't exertion. Something was wrong. Eamon climbed on. He heard a step creak, muffled beneath the carpet. Not one he was on. He climbed, faster now, his breath gasping from his mouth, sweat cold on his ruddy neck, not looking back. He reached the top, convinced now that someone was there. Turning, he staggered back into the wall, fists raised. Panting, he stared down to the ill-lit hall at the bottom of the empty stairs. Pools of pregnant shadow stared back.
As his breathing slowed, a new sensation called for Eamon's attention. He looked down to see he'd pissed himself. Anger drove the fear away. Cursing up a storm, Eamon stiff-legged it to the bathroom. Tugging the light cord on the way in, he sat on the toilet, peeling off his trousers and boxers and dumping them into the bath. He vaguely dried his legs with a towel, chucking that into the bath too. Then, rearranging himself a little, he concentrated on having a crap.
The bathroom was long and narrow, with the toilet at the far end looking directly at the open door. Eamon became acutely aware of that doorway. The harsh light of the bathroom didn't seem to affect the hallway beyond. It defined the shadows. Eamon sat there, just breathing. It sounded too loud. He wished he could quiet it, or not breathe at all. He couldn't take his eyes off the door. As he watched, the shadows beyond the white doorframe seemed to deepen, the darkness spreading like a stain. Eamon watched the doorframe, the left side of the doorframe. The side nearest the stairs. He watched it because he knew what was coming. He knew. His breathing grew sharper, louder. Any second now, any moment, he'd see fingers curling around the edge of the frame.
Any moment.
Any moment now.
Now.
Now?
He farted. It fucking stank.
Eamon barked a laugh, then another. The first surprised him. The second was a challenge. It went unanswered, and he shook off the last clinging remnants of the fear that had gripped him. He cleaned himself up, standing to flush, still watching the doorway, but now from curiosity. The shadows had retreated. Eamon shook his head, feeling ridiculous. The thrill of fear had cleared his head to an alarming degree. Already, the hangover he'd have to deal with in the morning was lurking, full of painful promise. He really wanted that bottle by the bed.
Stepping into the hallway, Eamon turned right, still holding the light-pull. He casually clicked it and let go as he headed for the bedroom. Light vanished, plunging the passage into cloying darkness. Even as he heard the plastic ball at the end of the cord clatter back into the bathroom, Eamon knew he'd made an horrific mistake. Behind him, he knew, the darkness gave up its passenger. Its eager step, its reaching hand...
He cried out, leaping forward in terror. It was two, maybe three paces to the bedroom, but Eamon was running on thick sand against a silent, hurricane wind. Throwing himself through the bedroom door, he glanced back into the hall as he did, shrieking when he saw the depth of darkness there. Slamming the door, clicking the feeble lock on the handle, he backed off a step or two, his legs hitting the bed to stop him going further.
He stared at the door, eyes wide. The light from the street outside filtering through now dusty net curtains gave everything in the room an orange edge. Eamon was sweating freely, breathing in great gasps. Long moments passed. In the world beyond, a police siren grew closer and then faded away. It was a lifeline, one Eamon grasped with both hands to drag himself out of the pit.
His vision shifted, his focus widening from the door to take in every other detail of the room in front of him. The fallen waste paper basket half buried under used tissues and crumpled cigarette packets. The discarded clothes and shoes. The porn mags in the torn box that had been 'hidden' at the bottom of the wardrobe, now spilling out in full view. All of it normal. One thing drew him, though he couldn't see it.
Eamon glanced to one side. There, on the bedside table, was the half full vodka bottle. Salvation. Eamon backed up to it. The moment was gone, the terror driven away by a police siren and the promise of the bottle by the bed. Still, he wasn't ready to take his eyes off the door. Not yet.
"This is fucking stupid" he muttered, his fumbling hand reaching out. It knocked the bottle over. Knowing the cap was off, Eamon turned quickly, catching it before it fully toppled. Only some of the booze spilled, over his hand and arm. He spun back to the door, but it was still closed. Grinning, shaking, his nerves in tatters, Eamon licked the vodka off his forearm and hands. He took a quick pull on the bottle, still watching the closed door. The liquid burned his throat, but it held a lover's promise. He needed it. Throwing his head back and taking one, two, three long gulps, eyes closed in ecstasy, he moaned with pleasure.
Flopping down to sit on the bed, half naked, Eamon cradled his head in his hands. His relief was huge, but it was spoiled by one thing. The booze was finished. He glanced at the bottle then cast it to the floor in disgust. It clunked to the thin carpet, spinning once to end up pointing at the open bedroom door.
Terror washed in from the inky darkness beyond. Eamon was smothered by it, frozen by it, paralysed. His world was the open door and the numbing knowledge that the threat wasn't there. He felt the cheap mattress on the bed shift, heard it creak behind him as someone knelt on it, crawled across it, slowly, slowly. He felt a clammy cold creep over him, sucking the warmth out from him. His skin crawled. His hands curled reflexively, clutching the thin fabric of the bed sheet. He felt icy water seep under his buttocks, under his thighs, through the sheets balled in his fists.
There was a face by his left ear, but no breath touched his skin. He couldn't see it, but he felt it. Unable to not do it, he slowly turned his head. His conscious mind, shrieking in protest, lost.
Lizzie crouched beside him, dirty water running in dark rivulets down her cadaverously thin, pale body. Old bruises and strap marks showed black on her starved frame. The water streamed from her lank hair, run through with sticks and slime, gritty with dirt. Her mouth flopped open, too wide, spilling dark, dark ooze. Her fogged eyes blazed utter hatred. Eamon drew in a gasping breath, a scream gathering. Lizzie rushed at him, her slippery arms flowing around his neck, hurling him from the bed, her legs coiling around him even as he fell, and her mouth clamping to his. Eamon's last scream drowned.
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