Goodbye...and hello!

I've moved back onto Wordpress. Blogger is far easier but doesn't look as good. I've had some more success with stories...

- Phenomenon won £250 second prize with Dark Tales
- Cat Bite is to be published in the DEADication zombie anthology

There's a bit more on the go as well....all in all, time to move back to Wordpress.

So, I'm now at...

http://blackdogstories.wordpress.com/

Pyramid of the Cybermen

Ancient Egypt, 1500BC

The night sky hangs like a velvet cloak over the darkened Nile valley. All is silent, in the bazaars, in the temple and in the palace of the Pharaoh. But, with a sudden flash, the inky blackness is rent asunder by bright light. The star falls Earthwards in silence, casting long shadows as it descends. The High Priest is wrenched from sleep by the ground-shattering impact and stands at the temple window as he watches the afterglow fade from the sky. He closes his eyes in sorrow at the event, before turning to the hieroglyphs on the chamber wall. For this was foretold by the ancients, the falling of a star in the Valley of the Kings.

Egypt, 1921

The ancient brickwork collapses as the men force their way through into the chamber, their lanterns and torches fluttering in the fetid darkness. The small vault is lined with hieroglyphs and scattered with the relics of an ancient civilisation. But the torchlight flickers on the most dominant objects, three sarcophagi stacked against the far wall. The left and right coffins are of medium height, golden masked and bejewelled beneath the dust of ages. Small silver scarab-beetles are strewn across the floor and these glint in the yellow light.

‘Amazing,’ breathes the archaeologist. ‘Completely undisturbed. The grave-robbers never penetrated this far.’ He shines the lantern on the centre coffin, which dominates the other two. It is far larger, and mostly silver rather than gold, except for the mask, which shines untarnished. The golden mask has only blank ovals for eyes and a slit for a mouth, in contrast to the elaborately carved features of the other two coffins.

One of the labourers hisses in shock and drops his torch casting a shadow over the room. ‘Effendi,’ he cries, ‘it is cursed!’ The two labourers throw down their torches and flee in terror, leaving only the wan lamplight of the archaeologist’s lantern, which shines upon the centre coffin. And, on the stone floor below, the silver scarabs stir as darkness descends upon the room.

London, 1976

‘What do you think?’ The young bearded man in the Deep Purple T-shirt hunched eagerly over the meeting room table.

‘I like it,’ said Philip, a relatively young man in his early thirties. ‘What about you, Robert?’

The older man Robert nodded. ‘It’s good. It’s got everything. Cybermen, ancient Egypt, horror. It’ll certainly get a few letters from the Viewers and Listeners’ Association, all signed by Mrs Whitehouse.’

Derek sat in silent anticipation. The good news was usually followed by bad news.

Philip scratched his chin. ‘Only problem is that it might be repetitious. God knows we get enough stick for that at the moment. We’ve done Egypt with the Pyramids of Mars last season, and the Cybermen in the first season’. He turned to the dishevelled figure at the other end of the table. ‘What do you think, Tom?’

Derek cringed inwardly as the Doctor leaned on the table, head in his hands.

‘I like it, in fact I like it a lot.’ The Doctor was bored of the stuffy room and the pubs would soon be open. ‘It reminds me of Tomb of the Cybermen, and maybe we could pay tribute to that. Would Pat Troughton be interested in a cameo?’

Derek sighed in relief and tried to focus on the ping-pong of the three way debate between the script editor, producer and the Doctor.

‘Probably not unless it was a Three Doctors type thing again,’ said Robert. ‘But I like the idea of an ambitious Cyberman adventure, and to be honest we’ve done nothing really good with them since Invasion.’

‘Revenge of the Cybermen was a bit crap, to be honest,’ said the Doctor. ‘Running around those Wookey Hole caves. We could definitely do better. Maybe we could use some stuff from the British Museum? Mummy cases, you know, that sort of thing?’ He lit up a cigarette.

‘Good idea,’ said Robert. ‘It’ll save on production costs. I know some people over there, from documentary work. They’ll be happy with the publicity, particularly with all the cuts hanging over us all. In fact we could even film some of it on location, in the storage vaults. That would save on studio time, and I doubt they’d let us take anything offsite anyway.’

The Doctor slapped the table. ‘Wonderful,’ he boomed. ‘Well done, young Derek. Now who fancies a pint?’

#

Derek nearly slipped on the twisting stairway down into the basement of the British Museum. He couldn’t understand how the crew had got the equipment down there, let alone the sarcophagi. When he reached the whitewashed corridor at the bottom, he understood. There was a service lift just opposite. Doorways opened up into a number of vaulted chambers, and he followed the power cables to the third entrance on the left. He nearly gasped as he looked inside.

The scenery people had worked wonders with his idea. Sheets hung from the vaulted ceiling, painted to resemble stone blocks carved with hieroglyphs. The centrepiece was a deathly triptych of three coffins, the middle one upright against the wall. This was the largest, and clearly constructed of plywood, unlike the other two artefacts. The blank cyber-face was styled in gold, cybernetic cables and piping outlined in silver and paste-stone gems.

‘Good, isn’t it.’ The man held a clipboard with storyboard sketches. ‘I’m Justin, assistant director.’

Derek shook his hand and glanced around at the wider activity in the vaulted room. Two cameras had been erected, and a boom mike hung over the set. Arc-lights cast a hot glow on the set and some polystyrene blocks were stacked to one side, to be knocked out later by the archaeologists. Painted plywood plinths held genuine Egyptian artefacts, canopic jars and busts of the jackal-god Anubis, Lord of the Dead.

‘Those two are Unknown Mummy from the 5^th Century BC and the Priestess of Amon-Ra, 8^th Century BC. They’re not getting paid for this, or even credited. So the production manager loves this. We’ve reused some of the stuff from Pyramids of Mars and some art students painted the tarpaulins, just to get on the credits. The union won’t like it, but we’re on location so they probably won’t know. And these relics set the whole thing off wonderfully.’

‘What about the crew and cast? What do they think?’

‘Bit of grumbling, as it’s too far from the canteen. But the Doctor loves it.’ Justin smiled. ‘He’s found a wine bar in Bloomsbury, where he lunches with his cronies. He pops in now and again, usually pissed as a fart.’ The assistant producer laughed. ‘In fact, he was in here yesterday, as we were setting up. He was mobbed by children and must have signed a hundred autographs. Then he threw up in the toilet.’

Derek realised something was missing. ‘What about the Tardis?’

‘It really is smaller than it looks from the outside. It’s assembled on location.’

A man rushed over, carrying a headset. ‘Justin, we have a problem.’

‘What is it, Dave?’

‘No sound tapes. They haven’t been delivered. I phoned the workshop from upstairs, and they don’t have a record of our order. They’re all in use.’

‘What? That’s just fucking ridiculous.’

‘They lost a batch on Jim’ll Fix It.’

‘Maybe they should write in and ask Jim to fix them some new fucking tapes!’ Justin threw the clipboard on the ground in frustration.

‘If you go across, you might be able to throw some weight around, or get Philip onto it.’ Dave shrugged. ‘I’ve done all I can, and the guys are just sitting around upstairs.’

‘Okay.’ Justin sighed. ‘Tell the guys to knock off for the day. They won’t be paid, but get them a round in, when the pubs open.’ He handed over a crumpled note. ‘I’ll see if I can sort this shit out for tomorrow.’ He turned to Derek. ‘Could you do me a favour, mate?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Hang around here for a bit. Tell the rest of the crew and cast to pack it in for the day, when they show up. We’ve got two Egyptians, an archaeologist, a Pharaoh and a High Priest. That’s three actors plus the make-up girls. Then ask the porter to lock up for the night.’

‘Okay.’

‘Cheers, I owe you one. You’re working for free, you see.’

Derek was left alone in the vaulted room, dimly lit from the light bulb dangling above. The crew had switched off the arc-lights before leaving. He picked up the storyboard, flicking through the sketched images and scenes. Shortly afterwards, the make-up girls appeared, and he sent them homewards, unhappy and unpaid. Then, the actors came and went, more sanguine as they were used to this sort of thing and were slightly tipsy anyway. And, once again, Derek was left alone.

He walked around the vault, running his hands over the mummy-cases. Their painted faces looked up at his own, dark eyes of the priestess still lustrous even after centuries and millennia, the unknown mummy’s features harder to discern. The musk of mummification seeped through the coffins, an odour of mildewed linen, dust and spices. And, in the centre, was the imposing sarcophagus of the Cyberman, gold mask over the plasterboard lid. He pulled it ajar. Inside, the silvery carapace gleamed in the dim light, as did the golden mask over the familiar head.

Derek froze as the light overhead flickered. Something was coming down the stairs, thump after thump. Then a shadow loomed in the doorway.

‘Good afternoon,’ boomed the Doctor. He held up a bottle of wine, half-empty. ‘Or maybe it’s half-full,’ he roared. ‘You’ve been examining my arch-enemy, I see?’

‘Just having a look,’ mumbled Derek. ‘It’s quite a display. That’s not actually a person in there, is it?’ He felt stupid asking the question, even as it had formed on his lips.

‘No,’ said the Doctor, in a serious tone. ‘That’s a pain in the arse job, being a Cyberman. The head is screwed on, and you can hardly see out of it, and you sweat like a pig. They’ll have put a dummy in there, for the time being.’ He walked around the deserted equipment, fiddling with the cameras. ‘Wonder how these work?’ After tweaking a few knobs, he gave up.

‘What do you think?’ The Doctor gestured with a sweeping arm. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

‘It’s great, they’ve really captured what I was thinking about,’ said Derek. ‘I’m really pleased you like the script.’

‘I loved it!’ boomed the Doctor, as he plonked himself down on a faux-stone block. ‘It’s what the children want, to be thrilled and scared. They love a bit of horror, or at least I did when I was a lad.’ He swigged from the wine bottle. ‘But some people are on their high horse. Mary bloody Whitehouse, for a start. Even Robert Holmes reckons that young ones shouldn’t watch it. But he’s wrong, because I speak to kids all the bloody time!’

‘What – ‘ Derek couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

‘It won’t last forever.’ The Doctor sighed. ‘I tell myself I might as well make the most of it. Most of the time I think I am the fucking Doctor.’ He laughed. ‘Except bloody jelly babies. I can’t stand them. I carry this scarf around all the time, just in case there are kids around.’

He flicked the end of the scarf at Derek. The clothes weren’t too dissimilar from his on-screen wardrobe, shabby and subdued browns. All he needed was the hat.

The Doctor took a swig of wine. ‘They’re always trying to change the show, but they don’t understand the Doctor the way the kids do. The number of times I’ve had to put my foot down, it’s unreal.’ He looked Derek straight in the eye with a piercing glare. ‘I wrote Lis Sladen’s departure, do you know that?’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose not, it hasn’t been aired yet, but that’s why Sarah Jane was written out of your script.’ After another mouthful of wine, he sighed. ‘They’ll write me out as well, eventually, and it’ll be younger, fresher, hipper, more appealing. Or so they’ll tell themselves.’

Derek looked at his watch. ‘Err….I think they might be locking up soon.’ He grinned. ‘Fancy a pint, though? It’s great talking to you.’

‘Okay!’ The Doctor staggered up from his seat. ‘Lead on, my faithful assistant.’ He lingered by the camera. ‘In fact, let’s get a shot of you beside the Cyberman, just for posterity. Now where can I put this?’ He waggled the half-empty wine bottle. ‘Aha!’

The Doctor placed it on the mummy case, none too gently.

‘Should you be doing that?’ Derek was nervous. ‘That’s an ancient artefact.’

‘As long as it isn’t cursed!’ The Doctor laughed, echoing throughout the chamber. ‘The Grand Illustrious High Priestess of the Khazi! How about that for a fart-efact?’ He thumped the bottle down again, spilling a little wine. It looked like blood in the dim light.

He shambled over to the camera. ‘Lights….camera…’ After some fumbling and fiddling, it whirred into life. ‘Come on, let’s get a shot of you beside the Cyberman.’ Something crunched under his foot. ‘Oh fuck, I think I’ve killed a Cybermat scarab thingie. I wish it was that easy on the show.’

Derek posed uneasily beside the centre sarcophagus. ‘Are you sure you should be doing that, with the camera?’

‘Shut up, I’m the fucking Doctor.’ He aimed the camera at Derek. ‘They can wipe the tape anyway and reuse it. The bastards have done that to most of Pat Troughton’s episodes. Just open the mummy case, and put your arm around it. For posterity.’

Derek opened the flimsy lid of the fake sarcophagus. Cyber skin glinted from the gloom, and the overhead light made skull-like hollows of the blank eyes, above the expressionless slit-mouth.

‘Take that gold mask thing off the Cyberman. Put it beside that other gold thing.’ The Doctor waved towards a plinth with a bust of a large-chinned face. ‘That’s Osiris. I remember him from the Pyramids of Mars, a very nice chap indeed.’

Derek did as he was told.

Then, the light bulb flickered and dimmed, and the Cyberman lurched into life.

‘What the fuck!’ Derek screamed as the Cyberman lurched towards him, gloved hands outstretched to seize his throat. ‘This is a joke, isn’t it?’

For once, the Doctor was silent.

Derek jerked backwards and the silver glove closed on his arm with a vicelike grip. It wasn’t a joke. Only the sweat on his forearm allowed him to wriggle greasily free.

Something scuttled over his foot. A Cyber Scarab. Searing needles bit into his ankle, and he screamed.

That brought the Doctor to his senses.

‘A Cyberman,’ he boomed. ‘Quick, catch this!’ He tossed one end of the scarf towards Derek, who grabbed it.

Light shimmered on the Cyberman’s bulky form as it loomed towards the two men, hands poised to grasp and rend bone and flesh. It stumbled forward as if uncertain of it’s new mobility, blank circular eyes and slit mouth emotionless in its sheet-metal faceplate.

‘Pull!’ The Doctor and Derek pulled the scarf tight, both men crouching on the ground .

‘Tally ho!’ The Doctor leapt towards the Cyberman, dodging a swinging fist, and Derek followed him. Together, they wrapped the scarf around the silvery legs, three times in total. It was too slow to catch them with its clumsy blows and collapsed forwards. But the scarf was just wool, and would not last for long.

‘What do we do now?’ Derek was shaking in terror, as they retreated towards the doorway.

‘Get out of here!’ The Doctor darted out into the corridor and ran for the stairs. He grasped the door handle and twisted it in vain. ‘The bastards have locked up for the night!’

Derek wrenched the handle downwards as well, but the door was solidly locked.

‘Are there any other doors?’ Derek glanced nervously down the stairs. ‘It’ll be free soon!’

‘They’ll all be locked, the lift as well.’ The Doctor rummaged in his coat pocket. ‘But I’ve got an idea!’

‘What is it?’ Derek laughed shrilly. ‘A sonic screwdriver?’

‘You need to get back in that room. I’ll lure it along the corridor. But be quick, or I’ll be dead.’

‘Why?’

‘Get that statue of Osiris. Gold will kill it.’

‘But that’s just made up, for fuck’s sake!’

‘And so is that metal bastard downstairs!’ The Doctor’s staring eyes locked with Derek’s own eyes. ‘Just fucking do it!’

At the bottom of the stairs, a shadow fell across the corridor floor. It was coming.

‘By the moons of Gallifrey, I wish I wasn’t so pissed,’ mumbled the Doctor as they crept down the stairs. ‘You hide here, and I’ll distract it.’

Derek hid on the shadowed stairs, as the Doctor jumped out into the corridor.

‘Fancy a jelly baby, you bastard!’ he yelled, as he threw a handful of sweets at the Cyberman. Then, he ran away down the corridor, pursued by the Cyberman.

Derek cowered against the whitewashed brickwork as the Cyberman lumbered past. He dashed out just behind it, and sprinted for the chamber. Dodging the scurrying Cyber Scarabs, he grabbed the bust of Osiris. It was heavy, and the gold warmed quickly in his hand. He rushed back into the corridor, nearly too late.

The Cyberman bore down upon the Doctor, at the other end of the corridor. It grabbed his shoulders and squeezed.

‘Fuck, that hurts!’ gasped the Doctor. ‘I think I’m going to puke.’ And he did, wine-tinged vomit spraying over the metallic faceplate.

The Cyberman released him, wiping the vomit from its face, and the Doctor scuttled between its legs. ‘Quick,’ he yelled, ‘ram that statue into its chestplate!’

The blank metal face turned towards Derek as the Doctor ran past him. Derek thrust the bust of Osiris forward, against the grille on the Cyberman’s chestplate, grimacing at the stench of vomit clinging to the metal faceplate. The hard metal tore into the soft gold, fragments falling into the holes of the grille.

The Cyberman grabbed Derek and threw him along the corridor. He landed painfully beside the Doctor.

‘Quick,’ muttered the Doctor, ‘in here!’ He grabbed Derek and dragged him into the chamber where it had all began. ‘Something’s wrong here,’ he murmured, ‘and I don’t know what it is.’

Outside, the Cyberman lumbered along the corridor, getting closer.

Derek whimpered in terror. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘The mummy! It’s the mummy!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Its’ meant to be cursed, sank the Titanic or something. I remember now. Right, give me a hand.’ He darted across to the mummy case and grabbed one end. ‘Let’s get this onto the ground.’ Derek seized the other end, and they lifted it roughly from its plinth onto the ground.

The Doctor placed the heel of one boot onto the cracked face of the mummy-board. ‘Right, you desiccated fucker,’ he growled, ‘I don’t know what we’ve done, but we’re sorry.’ He raised his foot. ‘But if you don’t call off that Cyber bastard, then I’m going to grind your bandaged bones into dust! Starting with your skull.’

Above them, the light flickered.

Outside, the shadow loomed along the corridor. Then, with a wheeze and a crash, the Cyberman collapsed to the ground.

‘Come on!’ yelled the Doctor. ‘Let’s try the door again.’ As they ran out the chamber, the Doctor grabbed his scarf. ‘Miracle of miracles, it’s in one piece!’

They climbed over the Cyberman and ran up the stairs. Derek got to the handle first, jerking it downwards. This time, the door opened, at the bottom of the South Stairs. He crept up the stairs and looked round the corner

‘They haven’t locked up yet,’ whispered Derek. ‘But it must be close to closing time, because there’s no-one around and it’s dark outside.’

‘Let’s get out of here!’ The Doctor pushed Derek forward. Heads down, they walked briskly towards the front door, grateful that no one was around to observe them.

Once outside, they breathed in the cool night air, walking leisurely towards Great Russell Street, leaving the pillared plaza behind them.

‘I need a drink,’ muttered the Doctor.

They found a pub and the barman handed over two double Scotches. Derek reached for one, and the Doctor grabbed it. ‘They’re both for me. You’ve got a pint coming.’ He emptied the first glass in one swallow, grimacing at the bite of the alcohol.

The barman handed a pint to Derek.

‘What do we do now?’

The Doctor bowed his head in thought. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We saw nothing, you left early, and I was never there. They’ll think some pissed-up students broke in and did it. And they won’t be happy, with at least one damaged exhibit, so they’ll probably call the police.’

‘Shouldn’t we tell someone?’

‘Not on your flaming life!’ hissed the Doctor. ‘They’d probably shut down the show! Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Ever!’ He downed the second Scotch and stood up, leaving Derek sitting at the bar alone with his pint.

#

And so the show went on. But not for Derek. He was given his marching orders the next day, the scapegoat for leaving the door open. The Museum staff decided not to call in the police, much to the relief of the BBC, mainly because they assessed the damage to artefacts as thankfully minor, blaming students who had stolen the missing Cyberman as a souvenir. As for the Doctor, he finally fell from a radio telescope tower on 21 March 1981, his downfall witnessed by some six million viewers who declined in numbers with his each successors, until the series was suspended in 1989. The Doctor’s decline was mirrored by Derek’s ascent. Minor scripting credits led to larger commissions, until he landed the job of his dreams: script editor of the new Doctor Who series, which aired twenty-four years after the Doctors’ fall, after an interval of sixteen years.

And, during these years, the tapes from the infamous ‘cancelled Cybermen episode’ lay gathering dust in an archive, until someone found them.

East Sussex, 2011

Tom was greatly amused by page five in the Evening Standard. Some footage had been released on the internet, showing the apocryphal ‘cancelled Cybermen episode’, or at least something purporting to be that. So that night he sat in his study, staring at the computer screen as the video played.

here was no sound. Just grainy half-light footage of someone opening what appeared to be a mummy-case, and what definitely looked like a 1970s Cyberman stumbling out. For much of the video, there was little action, from the point where the Cyberman fell to the floor and staggered upright, to the moment when a shadowy figure grabbed something and fled from the room. Later on, it looked as if a mummy case was shifted to the ground by two people, with someone standing on it, until the people finally left. One of them looked a bit like the Doctor but, unlike the distinctive Cyberman, only the shadow of his curly hair laying claim to this possible identity.

Opinion was divided. Some reckoned it was genuine, some shouted ‘fake’. A few people recalled some forgotten scandal at the British Museum.

Tom laughed as he remembered the incident, all those years ago. Then he flicked across to the BBC website.

‘DOCTOR WHO SCRIPT EDITOR BATTERED TO DEATH’ screamed the headline.

he article had little detail beyond the name – Derek Adams – and the fact he had been ‘beaten to death’ by one or more assailants in his London flat. There was the inevitable police appealed for witnesses or information.

Downstairs, something rattled.

‘Is that you?’

There was no answer. Maybe it was the wind. Then, the lights flickered.

With acknowledgment, and dedicated to, Tom Baker, Philip Hinchliffe, Robert Holmes, Terrance Dicks and all those who created the universe of the Fourth Doctor, as well as the actors and crew who brought it to life.

Hallowed Be Thy Name

Marjory felt some nagging concern about the appointment of the new minister. After all, their former minister had been with the parish for nearly forty years, and it was enough of a wrench to place their spiritual well-being in the hands of a stranger. But she felt substance to her worries when the throaty roar of a motorbike outside heralded his arrival. He strode up the central aisle, buckles clinking on his motorbike boots, surplice fluttering behind him.

Marjory reached for her hymnal in anticipation of the service, reassured by the musty smell of the pages in her leather-gloved hands. She had to admit that the congregation had grown somewhat over the last few weeks, even if the worshippers appeared young and unkempt. Marjory always believed that she would be committed to the earth in the church she had attended from childhood. Recently she had wondered if she would outlast the church as she entered her ninth decade, and the renewed vitality was a comfort.

She leafed through the tissue-thin pages until she found the first hymn. O God of Earth and Altar by G K Chesterton (1874-1936). At least the hymns had remained old-fashioned. The organ swelled and she stood to sing, her papery voice drowned out by the others. As she sung, the bass notes of the organ surged through the church and hummed in the wood of the pews. The new organist had somehow increased the volume of the old pipe-organ, and had a fondness for the dramatic and gothic. Last week, during the youth service, he had even played a song called After Forever, by a band called Sabbath.

Dust-motes danced like angels as they sung, and after the third hymn, it was time for the reading and the sermon. The readings followed little set pattern, and this week it was from Revelation 13:18. Unusually the minister himself would read, rather than one of the church officers.

‘Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the Beast,’ boomed the minister, ‘for it is a human number…’ He was tall and thin, darkly long-haired with a handlebar moustache.

‘…and blood came out from the winepress, as far as one thousand six hundred stadia.’ He closed the book and leafed through the notes of his sermon.

‘Some say that young people are born to be wild…’ Marjory heard a murmuring amongst the congregation, towards the back, at this first line. The sermon seemed to be about youth lawlessness, a matter of some concern in the community.

‘Breaking the law is not acceptable…’ There were more suppressed whispers behind her.

The sermon was now coming to a close, reassuring words designed to restore confidence in the community. And there was a rumble of whispering as the minister reached his conclusion, ‘...sometimes it can seem as if we are living in a wicked world, with our old people living in fear of the dark.’

‘That concludes the sermon for today.’ The minister smiled. The organ roared once more for the final hymn. O Jesus I Have Promised by John Bode (1816-74). Another fine old traditional hymn, designed for the sombre notes of the organ.

This was followed by the Lord’s Prayer, which Marjory had indeed learned at her mother’s knee.

‘Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name….’

‘Bingo!’ A voice hissed from the back. Marjory couldn’t believe it.

The minister glared disapprovingly and began the prayer again.

‘Our Father, who art in Heaven…’

They stood as the minister raised his hands and intoned the Benediction. And then they all filed down the aisle towards the church door. A bucket-seated motorbike was tilted on its stand outside the gates, flames painted on the fuel-tank, outlining the words Heaven’s Angels.

‘Marjory, how delightful to see you,’ said the minister as he shook her hand outside. He was quite a pleasant chap after all, thought Marjory as she lingered, waiting on her friend Edie who had arrived late and was at the back of the church, among the last to file out.

Then she saw a young man with long hair, whispering intently to the minister. She could overhear what he was saying.

‘I got them all. Bingo!’ he said. ‘Last one was Iron Maiden, Hallowed Be Thy Name. Judas Priest, Breaking The Law. Iron Maiden, Fear of the Dark. Steppenwolf, Born To Be Wild. Black Sabbath, Wicked World.’

The minister frowned. ‘Yes, but the last one was the Lord’s Prayer. Those words are in it anyway.’ He reached inside his surplice and slipped something out of a pocket, handing it over to the young man. It was a half-bottle of whiskey with a black label. ‘Try not to shout out next time.’

Marjory’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe it. Then she saw her friend Edie, shaking hands with the minister, last in line. Edie hobbled across on her walking stick, smiling as she saw her friend through her thick bifocal glasses.

‘Marjory, how are you?’

‘Not too bad, all things considered,’ she replied. ‘But what about this minister. Isn’t it a disgrace?’

‘Oh, him and his motorbike.’ Edie smiled. ‘Well, let me tell you about something. On Friday night, those youths started up again, smashing their bottles and burning things just like every night. In my garden as well. I didn’t know what to do!’ She stopped for breath. ‘I was going to phone the police but they don’t even bother any more. Then I heard this noise. It was a motorbike, like that one.’ She pointed with a shaking hand.

Marjory watched as the minister mounted his motorbike and kick-started the engine.

‘In fact, it sounded just like that one,’ said Edie. ‘More than one of them. I don’t know what they did, but those lads haven’t been back. I had the first proper night’s sleep in goodness knows how long.’

From the nearby car park there was the roar of more motorcycle engines.

Maybe the new minister wasn’t so bad after all.

Halloween Special: Legacy

Legacy

There are places where the forests once held sway, where hidden glades once lay deep in darkest woodland, where secret paths once criss-crossed the land, linking places of ritual and sacrifice. Now these paths are gone, obliterated by the Roman, furrowed by the Saxon, fortressed by the Norman and built over by generations since. But, in some places, the mystery lingers and the dead still tread upon the paths they have ever walked.

Once, in the Anglo Saxon chronicles, there was a farm by a wood, near the ancient Bernwood Forest. By the time of the Domesday Book, this village had become Oldtone, and the oaken hulls of medieval fleets had claimed the woodland. But the town of Wotton Underwood remained, on the fringes of the Chilterns, and had crept back into a semblance of forested isolation since the closure of the railways and the construction of the motorway which avoided the ancient byways of pilgrimage and commerce. Perhaps this is why towns like Wotton Underwood were sought after by those seeking solitude and retreat from celebrity. The tree-shaded croquet lawns and swimming pools of rock stars and actors nestle behind high walls, red brick and flintstone contrasting with the steel gates that slide smoothly open upon electronic command, watched over by television eyes.

In the gatehouse, on Sunday night, the Special Branch officer lounged in his chair. He kept one eye on the flickering CCTV display, and another eye on the television. Halloween 3: Season of the Witch. Exploding dummies and worm-eyed robots. He knew it well. He sat, cleaning his spare pistol, the brush and rod sliding up and down the rifled barrel, picking into the recesses of the firing chamber. Satisfied with his efforts, he slid in the bolt and clicked the two halves of the weapon together. He worked the slide, which snapped forward as it should, checked the safety catch, pulled the trigger with a dry click and inserted an empty magazine. Then, something caught his eye.

Something flickered on the CCTV monitor, outside the gate. Then it was gone.

He spoke into his radio handset.

‘Base, this is outpost, over.’ The only response was the hiss of static. ‘Base, this is outpost, over.’ He picked up the phone, but the dialling tone was dead.

‘Fuck.’ He was in a dilemma, with a potential threat outside and his backup unresponsive. Priority had to be the safety of the Principal. He would need to check the external threat, before working out what was wrong with the communications.

So he heaved himself out of his chair and slid on an armoured vest and waterproof jacket, unlatching the door and stepping into the breezy October night. The tang of woodsmoke on the wind always reminded him of burnt urine, not that he had ever smelled it. There was something underneath it though, a scorched odour that was familiar. His mind groped for the label in vain, before he returned to reality.

‘Better check it out.’ He felt for the pistol in the shoulder holster and withdrew it, checking the safety catch as always. Then he remembered that his spare handgun was still on the desk in the gatehouse. ‘Fuck.’ It was a potential disciplinary offence to leave it unsecured, but he forced himself to relax. It was unloaded, locked in the gatehouse, and all his ammunition was in a belt-pouch in the small of his back, two spare magazines in total.

He sneaked towards the front gate, staying on the damp verge instead of crunching on the gravel. The gate was constructed of solid steel bars, hydraulically powered and proof against vehicles and explosive devices, certified by an army of risk assessors and security experts. But it could be climbed over easily enough, as could the wall. No intruder alarms had been triggered, at least to his knowledge given the communication glitch, but it was prudent to check. He peered through the railings, both hands clasping the pistol in a downwards grip.

There was something out there, a fleeting figure, in fact more than one. Then, the wind whipped up around his ankles and something invisible rushed at him, between the railings. And all went black.

***

‘Base to outpost, over!’ The officer sat in the mansion’s tapestry-lined hall, staring through the peephole of the blastproofed door. He clicked the transmit button on the radio once more. ‘Base to outpost, over.’ There was no response.

The Principal fidgeted behind him. ‘What do you think it is?’

The officer always found it strange hearing that voice, familiar over so many years from the television and radio news reports, but now stripped of its inflections and stage-mannerisms.

‘Not sure, Sir. But I’d better take a look. Outpost isn’t responding and the other two officers are off-site.’

‘Can it wait until they get back? My wife shouldn’t be long, perhaps just another hour.’ The permanently-tanned brow furrowed in irritation.

The officer had thought the Principal might be informal, given his well-known sofa-manners, but he was usually dismissive, as if continually pre-occupied.

‘I’d better check it out, Sir, just in case. I’ll call this in to headquarters as well. You should stay close to the Bolthole, just as a precaution.’

The Bolthole was a steel-walled and lead-lined ‘panic room’ which was proofed against high explosive, poison gas and radioactivity, with an internal air supply for two weeks. But it was not the done thing to call it a ‘panic room’ so it was known as the Bolthole.

‘Okay then,’ sighed the Principal as he walked up the central staircase towards the Bolthole, opposite the bedroom on the first floor balcony. The inside was rather claustrophobic, so he sat on a red leather chaise-longue, gazing idly at the paintings and tapestries that lined the wood-panelled walls of the grand hall. His wife had taken down all the weapons, or rather had told someone else to. Might send the wrong message, she had said, and they’re still going on about that ridiculous war. Not that he cared. He had his own worries. He took out his Blackberry and switched it on, listening to the door click shut as the bodyguard stepped outside.

Five minutes, then ten minutes, and twenty minutes passed. The Principal sat on the couch, shifting his backside as pins and needles plagued him, flicking through the newswires through longstanding habit. Then his patience snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake, where is he?’ He stood up and stretched, walking towards the Bolthole. Then, he stopped, muttering to himself.

‘She’ll be back soon. What’ll she say if I’m cowering in here? What if something’s happened, and the media find out. What will they say?’

He descended the staircase, hairs prickling on the back of his neck. He was mostly frightened, but felt a slight thrill of excitement. I could be a hero, he thought. Grab the bodyguard’s gun, shoot a terrorist. The fantasy sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. What would they say then, eh? They won’t be talking about wars and inquiries and whitewashes and deaths anymore! He smiled, a familiar grin spreading across his face. Might even be a new chapter for my memoirs, for the paperback version.

The Principal gently pulled the heavy door open, unused to the mechanism and more accustomed to doors being opened for him. He looked back over his shoulder before stepping outside. There was a flicker, in the mirror which hung on the wall by the staircase. Again. A spasm seized the side of his face. Maybe I’m going mad. He had taken most of the other mirrors down, anxious at the shapes which had flickered on the edge of his vision, but unable to confide in anyone. He wrenched his gaze away and stepped out into the cool night outside, closing the door behind him.

The bodyguards lay on the ground at the end of the driveway. He turned, to run back into the Bolthole. Fuck! He realised with a surge of terror that the door had locked behind him. Panic seized him, rooting him to the ground. Then an idea flashed in his mind. The gatehouse! He ran towards the gatehouse, feet crunching on the gravel. Then, halfway down the driveway, he saw them at the gate, felt the blast of icy air that preceded them.

Shimmering shapes of white and grey, hanging on the wind, black holes for mouths and eyes. Some crawled, some walked and some were incomplete, missing arms or legs or even both. Some were tall, some were small and some were babes in arms. The boy with the shell of a skull, hollowed by a cannon-shell. Limbless soldiers in scraps of uniform. Women, children, forever crawling away from the wreckage of car bombs. Ethereal wisps without any form to relate to, aviators once strewn amongst wreckage, soldiers atomised by high explosives. Bubbling skin, mist-tendrils still scorched by napalm and phosphorus. Suicides with broken heads, and the shapes of children yet unborn, never to be born, poisoned by depleted uranium. The ghostly evidence of mass destruction, still walking in the night after all these years, their numbers swelling even now.

The odours of war filled his nostrils, scorched flesh and decay, gunsmoke, kerosene, sweat and blood. He retched once, twice, emptying his stomach.

He sprinted for the gatehouse door and pulled at the handle, praying for it to open. And mercifully it did. He slammed the door shut behind him, and the lock clicked shut. Pain fluttered in his chest. He glanced around, saw the telephone and the pistol, and seized the phone receiver.

There was no dialling tone, just a hiss which grew in volume, a hundred thousand distant wails of agony. Getting closer and closer, like the faces pushing at the windows, white shapes contorted in pain and the agony of betrayal. He recognised them as the flashes which had fleetingly leered at him from mirrors and reflections, glimpsed from the corner of his eye over the last few years.

‘No…’ His cry of desperation grew in his chest. They would never leave him alone, never stop hounding him, even after the beasts of the media and the feral anti-war troublemakers had finished picking over the carcase of his legacy. And these were worst of all, the ghosts of his suppressed conscience made real.

He grabbed the pistol and the smell of gun oil reassured him. He pointed it at the writing shapes, pulling back the slide in the same way he had seen his bodyguards rehearse emergency drills, but his hand was shaking wildly.

‘Leave….me….ALONE!’

But he knew they never would. So he pointed the gun at his temple, squeezed his eyes shut at the same time he squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot echoed throughout the gatehouse and across the landscaped grounds outside.

***

Blue lights flashed across the flintstone walls of the mansion, but were lost in the depths of the woods. The Principal’s corpse had been zipped up in a body bag, like those of so many others under his watch and in the aftermath of his legacy.

No less a figure than the Deputy Chief Constable stood at the scene, and the only reason the Chief himself was not there was his absence on leave in the Caribbean. He stood, hands deep in the pockets of his fluorescent incident jacket, which covered the civilian clothes he had been wearing when called from home.

Helicopters roared in the distance, the noise getting steadily closer.

‘The top brass from the Home Office and the Met will be here any minute,’ said the Deputy, to the incident commander. ‘Do we have any idea what happened?’

‘Looks like he shot himself, Sir.’ The Chief Superintendent stroked his chin. ‘The two Special Branch officers say that there was some sort of disturbance outside, and they went to check. They don’t really remember anything else.’

‘What about CCTV?’

‘We’ve quickly checked the tapes. Most of them are fuzzy, and the tech guys will analyse them. Apparently there’s been electrical disturbances locally. But the gatehouse camera has clear footage.’

‘Does that show what happened?’

‘Pretty much. The officer call-signed ‘Outpost’ is cleaning his backup firearm, then he goes outside. Nothing much happens until the Principal enters the gatehouse in a state of panic, picks up the phone, then the pistol, before blowing his brains out.’

‘Looks like the Special Branch guys can say goodbye to their careers then. They shouldn’t have left the Principal and should not have left a loaded weapon lying around.’

The Chief Superintendent sighed. ‘Well, Sir, the officer claims he left it unloaded in accordance with the standard drills. You would think he had left a round in the chamber by mistake when he unloaded it, but the camera shows him firing off the action before loading the magazine.’

The helicopters touched down on the croquet lawn in a whirlwind of light and noise.

The Deputy Chief leaned closer to the Chief Superintendent to make himself heard over the noise. ‘Get ready for the media shit-storm tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But at least we’re in the clear.’

The rotors whirled, blowing up dust and gravel, slicing away the vague traces of mist which hung on the All Hallow’s Eve air. In the darkness of the woods, in the shadows, unseen figures slid away, except for one which lingered, wandering lost before eventually dissipating like the last wisps of smoke from a gun barrel or funeral pyre.

This story may seem to have a familiar protagonist and subject. I resigned from the Royal Air Force after the revelations of the Hutton Inquiry. If life ever chooses to imitate art.....Happy Halloween!

Update....Halloween story along soon

I haven't posted any stories up here for a while. This is mainly because I've been looking to submit them to various outlets. But at least one freebie will be along shortly, a Halloween special...

Good news....my story 'Preacher Man' accepted by Morpheus Tales for their 'Urban Horror' special. This was a cut-down version in the end, 3,000 words compared with the original that was nearing 4,000 words.

Dark Tales vol XV coming soon....

http://darktales.co.uk/volume-xv.php

Featuring my story 'Mira', extracts of which were broadcast on Leith FM.

Hell Screen

Shinichi sat at the computer, scratching his nose. He was looking for music files to download from the internet. Then, the email icon flashed in the bottom corner of the screen. He clicked on his inbox, and the message appeared.



From: Ryo
FW:

There was no message, just two file attachments.

video.mpg
program.exe

Shinichi downloaded the video file and clicked it. The screen turned an abrupt black, and then an image appeared. It was his friend Ryo, hunched over the keyboard, filmed through a web-camera. He looked frightened.

Sweat, or tears, trickled down Ryo’s cheeks. He glanced briefly over his shoulder and then turned his wide-eyed gaze to face Shinichi. Behind him, the room darkened, obscuring the rock music and anime posters, and shadows slowly took shape in the blackness.

The shapes edged forwards, towards the hunched figure of Ryo. They had the vague forms of people, dressed in ethereal layers of everyday clothes. Schoolchildren, businessmen, housewives. But they had no faces, just blank ovals.

Ryo typed as the faceless figures crept closer, his neck muscles taut in an effort not to look backwards.

Shinichi watched in horror as the ghostly shapes crowded around Ryo as he typed. The video bar showed only seconds left of the footage. Then, Ryo clicked his mouse button and the image vanished. Blackness filled the screen once more.

Shinichi sat back in his chair. Phew! He wiped his sweat-beaded brow. That was scary!

Then, a window popped up on his computer screen. The program.exe file had started automatically. The red link of the webcam flickered on and Shinichi sat up in shock as he saw his own face appear in the screen.

He cast a panicked glance back over his shoulder but there was nothing there. This must be a joke of some kind, he thought.

He looked back at the screen. A message flashed up: DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU. DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU. DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU.

The computer fan whirred in agony as strange impulses surged through the microprocessers and silicon chips. The room suddenly felt icy-cold, although scorching air was being blasted out of the computer, with the burnt-ozone smell of lightning storms.

Shinichi shivered in frigid terror. The room was darkening around him and he could sense the faceless figures creeping close behind him, getting closer and closer….

Another message flashed on the screen. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND YOUR SOUL WILL BE DEVOURED IN HELL UNLESS YOU FORWARD THIS EMAIL IMMEDIATELY TO ONE OTHER PERSON.

Ice-cold air tickled the back of his neck as silent tears trickled down his cheeks.

The message flashed a second time. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND YOUR SOUL WILL BE DEVOURED IN HELL UNLESS YOU FORWARD THIS EMAIL IMMEDIATELY TO ONE OTHER PERSON.

Shinichi clicked on his email account and desperately searched for names. His girlfriend Naoko. No way, he thought. Then he had an idea. Her sister Teiko, she’s a complete bitch. He found Teiko’s email address in a circular sent by Naoko earlier that day. With quivering fingers, he clicked ‘Forward’ and then typed in her email address, before clicking ‘Send’.

The red eye of the webcam flickered off. And, in the next instant, all returned to normality.

***
A mile or so away, in the Isogo neighbourhood of Yokohama, Naoko sat in front of the computer. Her sister shouted from the bathroom, over the noise of the shower. ‘Don’t switch my email off if you’re using my computer, I want to check it before I go out.’

An email popped into the in-box. It was from Shinichi, addressed to Teiko. What’s he doing, thought Naoko. He hates Teiko.

Curious, she opened the email. There was a video file and a program file. She clicked on the video and the computer screen went blank.

***
Naoko darted downstairs, clutching her bag. She was furious.

‘How dare he send a scary video to my sister,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I’ll dump him for this.’ She wouldn’t of course, but she was angry. Teiko was hard to get along with, but didn’t deserve that.

She strode past the noodle bar and stopped at the pedestrian crossing. The green ‘walk’ light came on and the loudspeaker played ‘Sakura’ as the traffic waited at the red lights. A black van sat with its engine idling close to the opposite side. It looked like one of the loudspeaker vans used by the uyoko dantai nationalists. She stepped out onto the road. On the other side, a group of people waited to cross.

The black van surged forward and knocked Naoko to the ground. She smashed her head on the concrete with a wet smack and a spray of blood. She lay on her back, unable to move. The people who had been waiting on the other side of the road had gathered around her. She looked up at them with failing vision. They have no faces, she thought as they reached downwards towards her.

(c) I Paton 2010