Twitch

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As two fried eggs bubbled in the frying pan, Alice busied herself retrieving a fresh pack of bacon from the refrigerator, nostrils cocked for the tell tale scent of burning albumen that would denote the food was ready for the plate. She stooped to the bottom shelf, one hand grasping for the vacuum packed meat whilst the other held fast on the fridge door handle to support her weight, hearing the melodious jingle of bells as the front door of Joe’s Café swung inwards, another sated customer on his way to begin a hard day’s graft on the local construction yard. Located just outside the town centre, the greasy spoon attracted all manner of customer throughout the day though, at six thirty in the morning, the vast majority were the builders, carpenters and general labourers that Hutson’s Holdings employed, each eager to fill their bellies with enough carbohydrates to see them through the morning.
‘’Bye, love,’ she heard as the door swung shut behind John, a plumber who contracted for Hutson’s most days of the year and whose appetite for fried meat was so capacious, Alice often worried for the well being of his arteries. Having worked in the café for two years, she was still to fully accept the sense of guilt that seemed to accompany the loading up of each plate of food, laden with bacon, sausages, black pudding, fried eggs, all dripping with the oil in which they were cooked. Though aware that the choice of diet was the responsibility of each individual, somehow she felt responsible for the fare on offer. If she had her way, they would be serving up cous cous and mung bean platters instead of the grease laden animal products currently on offer, though whether the working men would be as appreciative was another matter entirely.
She straightened her back, raw meat in hand, and moved back to the large frying pan, the two fried eggs dwarfed by the capacity of the vessel, taking a plastic spatula up in the same hand as she dropped the packet of bacon onto the work surface, scooping beneath the congealing whiteness to minimise sticking before turning the spatula over and using it as a scooping device, splashing boiling oil over the top surface of the eggs to hasten the cooking process.
‘Be with you in two, Greg,’ she called without looking back, feeling his eyes on her form without the need for visual confirmation.
‘No problem. Take your time.’
Creep.
Her work uniform consisted of dark blue trousers, a hair net and a white tabard with blue matching stripes, an ensemble she considered less than flattering, though Greg seemed undeterred. Each morning, as he chewed his way through a bacon and egg sandwich with brown sauce - ‘smother it.’ - his eyes barely left her, following her from griddle to table unerringly. The solitary time she had raised the courage to comment on it had led to a heated exchange, his denials and accusations still freshly etched in her mind, such that she dare not repeat her actions for fear of word reaching her boss. Joe himself, owner of the calorific emporium was not a man known for his patience and, two years in, she was considered something of a veteran, most of his employees falling foul of his ire within a few short months, most of his displeasure aimed at those whose customer service was judged to be below the levels of excellence ‘cash in hand’ labourers expected as they stuffed their faces full of All Day Breakfast.
‘I see The Lech is in again,’ June whispered in her ear, leaning back from the till on the main customer counter, Alice’s constant companion during the anti-social work hours she was forced to endure.
‘Don’t, June. He’ll hear you,’ she remarked, as quietly as she could against the spattering sounds the frying pan emitted.
‘Good. I hope he does. Someone ought to tell a man his age he ought to know better.’
Alice suppressed a grin, emotions divided as, whilst her heart was warmed by the camaraderie of her culinary companion, still she fretted lest Joe hear the tale.
‘Maybe I’ll undo another button or two,’ she remarked mischievously. ‘Make him choke on his yolk.’
June turned her way, eyes wide, amused by the unexpected feistiness, of a mind to encourage her cooking cohort to do precisely that but all too aware that the world of the now is a place altogether different to the one she was raised in, where a good natured flirt with a stranger was greeted as precisely that, where a woman could enjoy the company of a random male without fear of violation, and no-one had even heard of Rodney King, Saddam Hussein or HIV.
‘You be careful,’ she advised earnestly, looking her colleague dead in the eyes, bringing a look of quizzical amusement to Alice’s face.
‘Alright, June. Relax. I’m wearing protection, anyway,’ she said patting her hip.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Granny pants.’
June snorted involuntarily, a violent, physical reaction to the unexpected mirth from her colleague.
‘You’re wicked,’ she managed between chuckles.
Alice simply raised her eyebrows a couple of times in response.
The bread already in place on the plate, Alice deftly manoeuvred the two eggs across to join the bacon, slathering the concoction in brown sauce before dropping a second round on top, ensuring that the sandwich was stable before lifting the plate from the work surface. She turned, narrowly avoiding June counting pound coins into the till and made for the waiting customer, avoiding eye contact until the last moment, not really wishing to encourage him any further than she seemed able by her presence alone.
‘Here you go. Plenty of HP, just the way you like it.’
Greg licked his lips, not taking his eyes off her, his action filled with an intent that had little to do with the meal before him.
‘That looks lovely, Alice.’
‘Yeah, I bet it does,’ she thought, though outwardly she merely gave her thanks.
As she turned to head back to the food preparation area, Alice was surprised to find June standing right behind her wearing a troubled expression.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, more alarm in her voice than was appropriate, despite the look of concern.
‘I think we’re going to have to do something about him,’ June replied, a tilt of the head sending Alice’s eyes to the far corner of the room. At the corner table, a figure lay slumped forward, coat hood raised to hide the face of the wearer.
‘He’s not causing any trouble.’
Ted was a regular visitor, though Alice hardly considered him a customer. Most mornings he would arrive shortly after opening, purchase his usual cup of tea and, normally, he drank it and left without fuss.
But not today.
If it were possible his appearance, even from her current vantage point, was more dishevelled than usual, the coat he wore seeming more grime encrusted, the digits jutting from fingerless gloves, splayed flat against the Formica tabletop tipped by nails more filthy than ever.
‘Do you think he’s alright?’ she asked her companion.
‘Only one way to find out,’ was the logical reply and, before she knew what was happening, June was nudging her in his direction. Momentarily she tried to protest, but ceased swiftly. June was right. He’d have to go. He would put off the regulars who bought more than a 60p cuppa.
‘OK,’ she hissed through clenched teeth, causing June to end her physical prompting.
The boy at the table behind the tramp, facing away from the vagrant, stood, as if he thought Alice were going for him, but it soon transpired that he was moving to the other side of the table, all the better to view the spectacle.
Alice arrived at Ted’s table, unsure how to begin the exchange, uncomfortable at the best of times when talking to a homeless man, much less a homeless man who had apparently collapsed.
‘Ted,’ she called quietly, hoping the sound of his own name would stir him, not really wishing to touch him, an admission that made her feel only shame.
‘Ted,’ she said again, louder this time and, when no movement was apparent, she fought her instincts and reached out, touching his shoulder softly, rocking him a little from side to side.
Still no motion.
She turned back towards June, a small amount of desperation in her expression, utterly clueless as to how to proceed.
‘Wake him up,’ was her colleague’s only advice, as though she had not noticed that that was precisely what she was attempting.
‘How?’ she mouthed back.
‘I don’t know. Just nudge him harder.’
If the thought of touching him again were not so repulsive, Alice may well have laughed at the ridiculousness of the predicament, she, preparer of fried breakfasts standing over an unconscious derelict, trying to awaken him to throw him out onto the street, but the immediacy of the situation repelled all thought of comedy. She took June’s advice, reaching a hand out once more, though nervously now as she became aware that ten eyes were upon her; June, her constant companion eyeing the vagrant warily, Greg, as usual, a young lad, perhaps a college student, though an untidy one, who looked nervous as he studied his bacon and egg sandwich, eyes flitting from side to side, almost shifty, body language betraying the fact that he may be up to no good, though what harm could he possibly be doing sitting eating his breakfast? as well as Ben and John, two more builders from Hutson’s Holdings just polishing off their morning snack. Her hand made contact with the material of his coat and she pushed firmly, the appendage seeming to sink into the material, as if the matter beneath were insubstantial, amorphous, almost jellified and a horrifying vision flashed into her mind of packs of bacon years out of date. Putrefied in their packaging, any solidity long since lost as the organic structure was broken down to nothing more substantial than sludge.
‘Ted,’ she called again, louder this time, loud enough to wake anyone sleeping lightly and a sense of alarm crept into her thoughts, pondering the possibility that he had perished, unnoticed, whilst she had fried the fodder.
With a relief she found hard to conceal her hand, still placed on his shoulder, detected the first signs of movement and, with obvious reluctance, Ted lifted his head from the table, Alice noticing with an inward shudder that where his head had rested a patch of dampness remained as the cheap whisky consumed the day before was sweated out of his body in the warm interior of the café.
‘Sorry, Ted,’ she explained, ‘You’re going to have to make a move.’
He blinked up at her, apparently unable or unwilling to comprehend meaning in her message, jaw dropping open slightly, though sufficiently wide to see the purple meat of his tongue working within his mouth as if he were attempting to communicate.
‘Are you ok, Ted?’ she enquired, genuine sympathy in her tone, prompting June to hiss at her quietly: ‘Don’t encourage him.’
Sound came now, though unintelligible, nothing that could be considered word-like, a strangled utterance, deep, baritone, seeming to emanate from somewhere deep inside his diaphragm.
‘Whaaarrraaattttaaa.’
‘What’s he saying?’ she heard June whisper, choosing to ignore her colleague, concern her defining emotion, her natural tendency towards empathy almost overwhelming her to the point that all she really wanted to do was leave him well alone, let him rest where he sat until he felt the urge to leave of his own volition, though she knew that, now commenced, the operation had to be seen through to successful completion.
‘Come on, Ted, you need to get up.’
She leaned forward, attempting to slide a hand beneath the armpit nearest to her, her sympathy overriding her distaste at his lack of hygiene, but the tramp resisted, pulling away from her, lifting his buttocks off the seat and throwing his weight sideways, landing on the adjacent chair, nearest to the wall, back pressed flush against the wall, eyes widened as if terrified of her presence.
‘I’m not going to hurt you, Ted,’ she promised, unsure whether anything she was saying was registering at all, or whether the words she spoke were as meaningless to him as the sound he had made had been to herself.
‘Leave me alone,’ he bellowed suddenly, causing her to flinch back in surprise, away from the table, banging her backside against the top edge of a chair behind her, inflicting a little pain as the skin on her rump was pinched by the plastic lip.
‘Shit,’ she mouthed, not voicing the word, still conscientious despite her predicament, eager that the four remaining customers not hear her profanity.
‘Ted,’ she said once more, more sternly this time, even her level of patience becoming stretched, anxious that this encounter be terminated swiftly, worried that other customers may arrive and be obliged to wait, though simultaneously aware that no-one would really mind, the activity a source of light entertainment to anyone not actively involved, a soap scene made flesh, and that only served to annoy her more.
Alice watched Ted closely, not taking her eyes off him, worried for him still until, bewilderingly, he lashed a hand out unexpectedly and snatched up a salt shaker, holding it up in front of his chest, brandishing it like a weapon, though nobody in the room felt remotely intimidated by the action. Behind her again, Alice heard a chuckle and instinctively knew it was Greg, the lecherous pig taking pleasure from the suffering of another, giving her yet one more reason to despise him.
‘You need a hand, love?’
As the words were spoken, she sensed a presence to the rear and turned her head slightly, taking in Ben’s profile as he stepped forward, appreciating, even under such trying circumstances, the youthful good looks he had been blessed with.
‘Thanks, Ben,’ she said, moving out of the way slightly, allowing him access to the table behind which the homeless man cowered, salt shaker still held aloft in a pose akin to a Priest repelling vampires by the power of The Crucifix alone, though hungry workmen had fear of nothing, save a shortage of prime sausage meat.
‘Come on, mate,’ Ben urged as he loomed over Ted, his ample frame dwarfing the wielder of sodium chloride, one massive hand reaching forward to take hold of his collar, prompting him to fling the shaker at his face, transforming a comedy prop into an item of menace in an instant, forcing Ben to swing suddenly to the side to avoid damage to the face, the salt shaker striking him hard on the shoulder.
‘You little bastard,’ Alice heard him curse under his breath, though without real venom, before moving forward with greater purpose, his knees knocking the first chair out of the way so that he was standing right in front of the derelict, his size so out of proportion to the other that Alice was convinced that, should he choose, he could simply lift the seated man with one hand. Ben leaned down again, both hands tucking under the armpits this time, prizing Ted off the chair, the other man still resisting, squeezing the back of his thighs tight against the underside of the plastic seat so that, as the builder hoisted him skyward, the chair came with him, the rubber casings at the base of each leg the only thing preventing the wallpaper behind the seat ripping and, for one moment, it seemed Ben would lose his balance and fall straight backwards, onto the watchers, before he checked himself, stumbling slightly, planting his right leg about six inches behind his left for added support.
Still Ted struggled.
‘Jesus Christ, he’s like a fucking Tom Cat,’ he protested, prompting his fellow builder, John, to join the mêlée, Ben managing to manoeuvre the chair out of the corner just enough to allow his companion to move around behind it, to the opposite side. Working without the need for speech, as if the years spent together on the building site had allowed them to develop a means of communicating far superior to that of mere mortals, Ben stood his ground, meaty thighs and biceps labour hardened enough to hold the chair in midair, effectively trapping Ted, whilst Ben set to work on his thighs, using his equally powerful hands to lever first one, then the other free of the underside of the chair so that the seat eventually dropped to the ground. Still silent, all concentration focused on the task at hand, they moved as one, positioning themselves so that they could manhandle Ted from the building, a builder under each arm, the slighter mans legs dangling about four inches from the floor as they walked him to the door, John having to relinquish hold slightly to allow him to reach for the door handle, allowing Ted just enough motion to turn towards Ben’s face and, for one awful moment, Alice was convinced that he was about to take a bite out of him, ear or cheek but, instead, he screamed into the builders orifice.
‘Deceiver,’ he bellowed, causing Ben to flinch back in both surprise and pain.
‘Miscreant deceiver.’
Ben shook his head from side to side to clear his head, urging his companion by voice now, rather than telepathy so that the onlookers were privy to the words for the first time.
‘Fucks sake, John, open the door,’ his voice high pitched, desperate, perhaps a little afraid.
His companion did as he asked, managing to drop the handle sufficiently to swing the door inwards and, with little more effort, the three men crossed the threshold. Once outside, the builders released their hold and, as quickly as they could, returned to the sanctuary of the greasy spoon, John flopping back into the seat he had originally occupied, Ben content to merely lean against the nearest wall to catch his breath. After a moment or two, he felt the eyes upon him, everyone in the room staring at him anxiously, prompting him to straighten and, in a tone of voice more flippant than he actually felt, declare ‘He’s bloody mental, that one.’
It was hard for anyone in the room to disagree.

Ted stood on the pavement, eyes blinking rapidly to shield them from the sudden brightness though in a staccato rhythm as if every third or fourth blink the flap of flesh stuck to the lower lid before being peeled free, confusion his only companion. Though being accosted was hardly a new experience, actually being manhandled was rare as, based on the constant flurry of jibes and accusations flung his way on a daily basis, his appearance was such that most people sought to avoid him, not make physical contact. His memory of the morning was vague, a disjointed series of interludes that were unwelcome interruptions to his slumber; awakening behind the wheelie bins in the alley in which he had slept, stumbling over as he tried to mount a pavement, the construction workers entering the café as he tried to sleep. The cup of tea he purchased had robbed him of everything but his last twenty pence and now, after being physically ejected from the establishment, he was not even going to get to finish the dregs.
Ted turned on the spot, gazing back at the windowed front of Joe’s Café, narrowing his eyes slightly, attempting to peer through the glass frontage but the combination of sunlight and his own positioning on the street thwarted him, the dim light from within the eatery not strong enough to overpower his own Pepper’s Ghost staring back at him. Undeterred, he shambled forward, watching his own reflection as it shifted proportions the nearer he got, not coming to a standstill until his nose was less than an inch from the glass. He lifted a hand, shielding his eyes from the worst of the sunlight, cupping the hand around his right temple and cheek, forced to repeat the action with his left hand side as well and, even protected thusly could make out little inside apart from shadows, as if those within had evaporated, made silhouettes by an atomic blast that had occurred within that room alone.
Ted stepped back.
He hawked, sniffing hard and fast and loud, allowing the viscous fluids to gather at the back of his throat, rolling his tongue around a little, savouring the tang of his own waste product before expelling the huge gobbet at great speed onto the glass before him and, so thick was the outpouring that it clung firm, motionless for a second or two before slowly, slowly, like semi-cooled magma aside a volcano it began to crawl down the glass towards the ground, gravity the victor in this battle of physics, but not by much.
‘Miscreant deceivers,’ he shouted as loud as he was able, not sure whether those inside would either hear or care, unable to fight the impulse nonetheless and, with the echo of his own insanity still reverberating, he turned away from the glass, shuffling along the road, his awkward gait making every yard an accomplishment for, as he walked, it seemed he should fall to the floor, so off balance did he appear. He kept his eyes to the ground as he moved, feeling no reason to observe his surroundings, his familiarity with both the street itself and the looks of distress he caused passers-by all too familiar, so he chose to spare himself the little misery he could. Even when a friendly local greeted him, calling his name from across the street, he elected to ignore them, his sense of unease not yet having been stifled sufficiently to allow himself contact with another.
‘Leave me, leave me, leave me,’ he muttered to himself, though he was unaware that he was doing so until, after three minutes, no more, he returned to the alleyway in which he had slept, not out of any notion that this was his home, nor even out of a need for isolation as, no matter how many people were in his vicinity, he felt alone at all times. Instead, his choice to return to this spot was for no other reason than to find at least a degree of warmth. The combination of the cardboard boxes he had broken down behind the bins, nest-like, and the air conditioning vent from the adjoining hair salon pumping out a plentiful supply of heat during opening hours and beyond made this the warmest place in town, a secret haven he alone seemed to be aware of.
Ted turned into the alleyway, chancing a furtive glance over each shoulder as he did so, not worried about the general population that went about their daily routines, concerned only that another homeless person should spot him and, their curiosity piqued, come to investigate and, loner that he was, he had no interest in sharing the warmth around. Convinced that no unwanted eyes were upon him, he entered the alleyway and ventured into the gloom, the set of wheelie bins some ten metres in. He rounded the large yellow plastic containers, almost oblivious to the foul odours wafting from their depths, eager only to wrap himself in his cardboard pieces and sit beside the air-con vent. He stooped, lowering himself gingerly to the ground, placing his backside on the large piece of cardboard that served as his carpet, scooping up another large section to his right and placing it over his legs before retrieving one more and repeating the process with his upper torso. As he had hoped, the air conditioning was in action and the warm draught soothed his frayed nerves, settling his troubled mind at least a little.
Within minutes, he was soundly asleep, venturing to a place infinitely more bearable than his own grim reality.

The paint was peeled and blistered, in a state of disrepair and neglect that hinted at disuse.
Just as he wanted.
Quietly, the figure pulled the door open, confident that the well oiled hinges would not betray his presence with a squeal of protest, and indeed they did not. On the ground before him, a sleeping man, body and legs covered in cardboard, a look of relaxed contentment on his face that seemed utterly incongruous given his obvious plight. The figure stared down at the squalor, eyes narrowing to slits as his blood boiled in his veins, the sense of fury he felt right now the same as it always was in the moments just prior to administering his mercy.
Two short strides was all it took and he was beside the vagrant, meat cleaver aloft, swinging it down in a lethal arc, the razor sharp yet sturdy blade making contact with the tramp’s skull with such brutal force that the top of the head was near shorn in two, the figure forced to place one booted foot on the dead man’s torso simply to retrieve the weapon from the sheath of brain and bone. The blade came free with a slight creak, like that of a galleon on calm seas, as if the bone that was structured to remain fused was attempting to reconfigure itself, to revert to its natural state. With another swing, the figure lacerated the throat, the vicious implement cutting though skin, cartilage and oesophagus with expected ease, a certain death blow for the stricken man.
The figure calmly tucked the cleaver into the pocket at the front of his apron before reaching down to take the dead man’s legs, pulling him without effort, transporting him out of the alleyway and into the white tiled room beyond the neglected door. Quickly, eager to finish this, he returned to the alleyway and picked up the cardboard, returning this to the room as well, ready for burning at a convenient later date. Finally, the figure picked up the bucket he had placed in readiness, the water still so hot that to place a hand in would have resulted in a severe scald and hurled the contents at the wall and floor where the tramp had rested.
Task complete, he returned to the white tiled room and closed the door gently.

Twitch

The night was dark as the blackest of inks, a veil that hung over the room, unnatural in its intensity, at least to the perception of the eyes that peered blindly upwards from the young mans prone position on the bed. Every corner of the room, skirting to skirting, was shrouded, the blackness forcing its way into each inch of space as if capable of repelling light particles by force of will.
Twitch shivered slightly, not through any drop in temperature but almost through habit at this time of night. A quick flick of the eyes towards the only source of illumination, the digital display of his alarm clock, confirmed his fears. The time was fast approaching. The night would go one of two ways and, in all likelihood, the next ten or fifteen minutes would determine if his luck would hold for another night. Four nights straight he had been blessed, privileged, allowed to get through the hours of darkness without a visitation. On occasion, the intrusions were a nightly occurrence, as regular as the rising of the sun, whilst other times he could go two, three days at a time, a pattern seeming to develop before a sudden switch back to every day.
He shivered again, hands clasping the top of the duvet in the pose of cliché when lying in bed, alone, afraid. Had there been enough light to see, his slender frame would have disturbed the duvet only slightly. At sixteen he felt he should be developing more swiftly than he seemed to be, starting to broaden, to fill out, yet such luxuries eluded him. Always small for his age, the difference between himself and his peers had only accelerated during the last couple of years as his fellow teenagers kicked full swing into puberty, hair sprouting, voices croaking, gonads dropping into place, whilst he remained static, a mind old for his years trapped inside the body of a small boy.
A tear glistened in the corner of his eye, one he fought back, eager not to delve into mawkish self-pity, a habit he had noticed developing that he was anxious to stifle. He raised the duvet a little, up to his face, tilting his head forward slightly in the darkness to dab at the corner of his eye socket to rid himself of any evidence of the momentary lapse. Once dried, the duvet returned to its original position and Twitch placed all of his concentration onto the only sense that was of any use in his current state; his hearing.
He strained, feeling as if his ears were moving slightly, imagining in his minds eye a cartoon like effect as the organs adjusted themselves, twisting and pivoting to attain best position for auditory surveillance.
Then it came.
The rasp of metal against metal, a swift sound, a second no more, then a further noise, that of a doorknob being turned and the front door of the property swinging inwards.
The door closed as quickly as it had opened, though without a forceful slam as was sometimes the case – a good sign, perhaps – and Twitch was paralysed with fear. His bladder felt that now was a good time to begin communicating the fact he needed a pee though, truthfully, he knew that it was nought but a fear induced reaction, the nerves of the moment taking momentary control of his bodily functions. His teeth chattered too and, in the near perfect silence, the clack of enamel against enamel was worryingly loud. What if he were unable to hear the approach of the other due to his own reaction? Though he knew that thought was folly. Still listening intently, he clearly perceived the living room door swinging closed and, just as he was to breath a sigh of relief, the first footfall on the carpeted stairs.
Subtle.
Soft.
A slight creak, no more, as the wooden planks beneath the fabric groaned beneath the weight of the ascender.
Another creak, then another, and Twitch knew without doubt that the night was about to get very bad indeed.
He closed his eyes, praying to a God he was dubious existed that the stair climber would pass by his room, continue onwards to sleep off the liquor consumed during the darts match down at the local, though he knew from prior experience that his request would go unheeded.
He was right.
The door to his bedroom swung open, the brightness of the landing light spilling through the doorway after the freakish blackness of the room blinded him momentarily, but all too quickly his vision returned.
The figure stayed motionless for a second, maybe two, a silhouette that brought nothing but the promise of pain and intimidation as the frustrations of the other were meted out against his backside.
With a slight stumble, the man entered the room, swinging the door shut behind him, plunging the room into absolute darkness once more, a momentary mercy quickly countered by the sound of a belt being unbuckled in readiness for the thrashing to be administered. To begin with, when the beatings began, Twitch had pleaded with his punisher for clemency, attempted to appeal to his sense of logic for, as far as he could determine, the frequent assaults were for no crime committed. His cries of innocence fell on ears that were deaf to reason and sanity, so Twitch had changed tactic, threatening to report him to the police if he persisted, a strategy which backfired spectacularly when, following the threat, the thug administered the worst beating of them all.
So far.
The sound Twitch had come to fear above all else was audible, the vague swish of leather against denim as the belt was removed from the waistband of the wearer and Twitch prepared for the worst, gripping the duvet as tightly as he could as if that thin layer of fabric would offer protection against the coming onslaught.
Then, something changed.
Where usually the attacker moved in, ripping the duvet back and starting the lashing, instead a new sound was heard; a subtle popping followed swiftly by the unmistakable high pitched zzzzttttt of a zip being opened.
Twitch frowned, mind racing, processing this new behaviour as quickly as he could, unsure what was happening, his young mind sensing a fresh menace in the action though, perhaps because he was unwilling to comprehend the potential ramifications, unable to put purpose to the pursuit.
He moved then, the adult, a stumble to his step as he approached the bed of the child, the duvet pulled aside easily despite Twitch’s best efforts to keep hold of it but his frail form was no match for the monster at his bedside. He tensed now, waiting for the first stroke of the belt but, instead, he felt the other clamber onto the bed itself then, moments later, hands on his body, tugging at his pyjama bottoms, face mere inches from his own, getting closer before contact was made, the mans lips finding only his cheek, his rough, unshaven skin like sandpaper against the youths own flesh. Bewildered, Twitch struggled to sit up, but one strong hand pinned him in place whilst the other continued to yank at his pyjamas until the sound of tearing cloth could be heard. Twitch began writhing now, the full extent of his plight now apparent, but his efforts were a mere insignificance to the other who ignored the small balled fists slapping against his chest. His face lunged once more, finding Twitch’s lips this time and he felt the tongue pushing against them, trying to force its way into his mouth, the sickly odour of whisky and lager ripe on his breath whilst, further down, a busy hand snaked through the entrance it sought, clutching eagerly at the contents of the young boys underwear.
Twitch tried to scream, but the mouth of his attacker muffled any sound he might have made.

Luke

The lecturer had been speaking for hours, or so it seemed, an endless monologue of monumentally dull proportions, the soporific tone of voice of the man at the head of the class accentuated by the fact that there was little change in tone or pitch, his words coming in a steady, hypnotic stream, all with the same cadence, apparently with the side effect of shutting down Luke’s synapses one by one, rendering him incapable of thought, much less able to process the topic of today’s class. As the voice continued, a ceaseless wave of tedium, he felt his eyes begin to close, felt himself beginning to lose the battle to remain conscious, flitted into the realm that exists somewhere between sleep and true wakefulness where the events of the surrounding area somehow morph, become part of a dreamscape so that, instead of the voice being that of a university lecturer, it belonged to a driving instructor, Luke behind the wheel of a car he had never driven, unsure of the make or model, knowing only that, from the dashboard setup and the little he could see of the bonnet out of the windscreen, it seemed like something fast. In this pseudo-dream, Luke listened to the words being spoken by the instructor, but they had no meaning in the given context as he wittered on about the hexadecimal system as it applied to computer science, meaningless mumbo-jumbo as far as Luke was concerned yet the words seemed to serve a bizarre purpose as, each time the lecturer used the phrase Base 16, dream Luke changed gear, cranking up the speed of the supercar he was driving.
‘The use of the Base 16 system as opposed to regular….’ he droned
Up another gear.
‘Base 16 has many advantages in computing as it allows us to…..’
Another gear change, another so that, before long, the scenery outside was flashing by at alarming speed. Pedestrians were reduced to nothing more substantial than dim blurs of movement and Luke was compelled to weave in and out of oncoming traffic as he rounded the vehicles moving all too slowly in the same direction as he. A signpost up ahead indicated a large roundabout, with six differing roads converging, meaning that the lane he was currently in divided into three. He selected the far right option, something he frowned upon in others, screeching past a small blue van as it unwisely tried to jump into line before him, Luke slamming a hand onto the horn situated in the centre of the steering wheel, blasting past the offending vehicle, the thickness of the paint on car and van the only thing that prevented a collision. On the island now, he jammed the steering wheel to the right, intentionally over steering so that the car began to drift, the back end beginning to go before he spun the wheel hard to the left, controlling the action with the deftness of touch of one who has been racing performance cars for years. The voice continued to drone and, as he glanced to see his companion by his side he was startled to discover it was Harrison Ford, fully bedecked in his Indiana Jones outfit, fedora and all. He was applauding wildly, though no sound issued from the hands that were slapping together, the only noise apparent the squeal of tyres on tarmac and the endless stream of words, which Harrison was clearly miming, the syncopation of lip and word off by a fraction of a second as his brain processed the lecturer’s words and superimposed them onto the Hollywood superstar. Harrison raised his hands now, covering his face entirely, causing Luke to glance back at the road, the powerful vehicle still held in a perfect clockwise drift around the roundabout but, too late, Luke saw the rear side of an articulated lorry loom before him. He slammed on the brakes, hoping to come out of the drift and slip by the side of the large vehicle but there was no hope as, instead, the powerful sports car slammed into the back of the lorry, flames erupting instantly as the windscreen shattered and glass sped towards Luke’s fear widened eyes and….
…..he jumped awake, momentarily confused, not sure where he was for a second or two, at least not until the lecturer turned a disapproving eye his way and chided ‘Nice of you to rejoin us,’ which caused a smattering of sniggering from the rows of seats around him.
He hung his head down, knowing there was nothing he could say to excuse his behaviour, opting to endure the humiliation in silence.

The small room was filled with smoke, a pall so thick the TV screen in the corner was slightly obscured, the fast moving images on screen taking on a dullness that was artificial. The two young men lay side by side on the bed, half propped up by cushions behind their backs, separated only by enough space to place an ashtray which was half full of ash and discarded roaches, perfectly positioned so that the men had no need to move as they shared a joint.
‘I still can’t believe you fell asleep,’ said James, broaching the subject for perhaps the fifteenth time that evening, beginning to annoy Luke slightly, though any emotional intelligence he possessed was heavily blunted by the THC content of the cannabis he had imbibed over the past three hours, mellowing his mood drastically.
‘Leave it alone,’ was all he could muster as he used the control pad in his hand to guide the small blue hedgehog on screen, narrowly avoiding contact with an enemy, eager to protect the rings he had acquired as he worked his way through Scrap Brain Zone, an industrialised nightmare maze of lethal trapdoors, vents spurting geysers of fire and fiendish gear systems to be negotiated by only the bravest of players.
The two men sat in silence for a while, James content simply to observe his companions prowess, the narcotic in Luke’s system allowing him to filter out all extraneous input, totally focused, immersed in the game so completely that his body swayed in sympathy with the motion of Sonic on screen, prompting James to reach for the ashtray, placing it on his knee for fear of its contents spilling onto the bed linen.
‘Well played,’ James remarked as the level was completed, Luke dropping the controller back onto the bed between them, expecting his friend to pick it up but, instead, he felt a hand on his thigh, warm, eager, the fingers clenching and unclenching slightly, sufficient meaning in their motion to communicate James’ intent. Luke felt himself becoming aroused almost instantly, the material of his jeans sufficiently constricting to cause a little discomfort, but a pleasant one, though he did not respond in kind to James’ advances, placing a hand over that of his friends, gently, kindly, but with enough conviction to bring the motion to an end.
‘I’m sorry, James. I don’t think we should.’
The two men locked eyes and Luke picked up the disappointment in James’ expression, despite the speed with which he concealed it, choosing to laugh instead, though sadly.
‘It’s OK,’ he was assured. ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing.’
‘I love hanging out with you, and I just don’t want to ruin it. It was nice and all that, but it was a one off. Is that OK?’
James searched his eyes, perhaps scanning for any hidden agenda, perhaps thinking he was being played with, manipulated, but when no duplicity seemed present, he simply nodded, taking his hand away, moving the ashtray back to its original position and leaning forward to claim his smoke box.
‘No probs,’ was the only elaboration offered.
‘Your turn to skin up.’

Twitch

He sat, slumped forward, forehead pressed into the crook of his elbow, eyes cast downwards, unseeing. There was movement all around him, others in the room continuing their activities, almost as if they were oblivious of his presence. His eyes saw nothing, yet his mind was alive, churning, myriad thoughts tumbling end over end, no single thought concluding before the next commenced, as if a hundred separate voices screamed at him from within. The internal volume increased, voice upon voice upon voice uttering words, some with meaning, some no more than gibberish, a white noise building in his brain so that , for the first time in his short life he began to suspect insanity was to be a future companion.
And he welcomed it.
The voices continued their relentless chatter, but he looked elsewhere in his mind, their presence a distraction, no more, now that the real show began to play and, once again, for perhaps the hundredth time that day he replayed the previous night’s encounter. His nostrils stung and he was forced to shift position slightly, to wipe at the end of his nose to quell the sensation, the mere memory of the alcohol dowsed breath enough to cause a physical reaction in the present. The hands had continued their activity, rifled in his underwear and performed an act on him that he had never known before. At sixteen, though under-developed, still he had begun to become aware of the dual purpose of his genitalia through conversation with school acquaintances – he had no friends – a one off class on sexual relations and a brief explanation from his mother about the sexual roles as defined by gender, a conversation that had left him utterly confused as her terminology had been vague, obtuse, littered with threatening statements about punishers and punishment, virulent disease and the spread of homosexuality through media driven agenda,. Whilst hardly lacking in intelligence, Twitch had been able to make little sense of her statements and could in no way tie in the words she spoke with the pornographic images he had seen handed around on mobile phone screens in the school playground that had seen his own desire start to kindle.
Though his body was practically hairless, a situation he hoped would not continue for too much longer, still his penis had become active to the point that, daily now, he felt compelled to experiment; to touch it, to stroke it, to rub it against things – duvets, magazines, the fur of the pet cat – and had enjoyed the sensations that occurred. Whilst his ejaculation was hardly inspiring, as a tiny spot of sexual effluvia beaded at the urethral opening upon climax, still the feelings that coursed through his body were such that he desired them with increasing fervour. Each day, upon arrival home from school he would head up to his bedroom, careful not to run lest he appear too eager and alert his mother to his activities, before lying back on the bed, coaxing his small member from his underwear and setting to work stimulating it until the bead of semen appeared, the sensations that passed through his body as it manifested so pleasurable that, on occasion, he had to stifle a groan to ensure the privacy of his actions. When, last night, the other had rubbed him in the same way, the way that only he had ever rubbed himself previously, the duality of the thoughts and feelings was bewildering. He knew a couple of things: One, he did not want this man touching him at all, least of all in his intimate areas. Two, he did not find this man attractive in any way. Yet, strangely, alarmingly, the touch of those rough, calloused hands against the soft skin of his genitals was not as offensive as he had imagined, or had hoped. Instead, as the cruel, loveless hands rubbed and clutched at him, his body had reacted in a way that he did not intend yet had no control over. His penis engorged, encouraging the molester, making him believe that the actions were acceptable. Clasping at the boys penis more tightly than before, he pumped and stroked out a rhythm in a manner that Twitch had never yet imagined so that, before too long, his loins ached to release the precious droplet of semen and, when it came, he let out a small moan that could only have sounded to the other as a cry of pleasure.
The hands left his underwear but, before departing, the other set to work sating himself, Twitch unable to close his ears to the slapping sound of skin on skin, nor could he fail to be aware of the fleshy organ pressed into the small of his back as the other used his own palms to bring himself to climax. The warm, sticky fluid splashed against Twitch’s back, the man issuing an almighty groan as the last of the spunk was discharged before clambering from the bed and pulling his trousers back up.
Before he left, the other leant forward, an enormous hand stroking the sweat matted hair from Twitch’s brow. He felt the adult lean closer still, a kiss placed delicately on his forehead before rough, unshaven skin rasped against his own and the man whispered in his ear ‘Thank you.’
Then he was gone, a phantom absorbed by the night, leaving Twitch lying in a congealing pool of masculinity, unsure what to do, too afraid to move, too repulsed to lie still.
Now he sat at the dinner table, eyes staring sightlessly, letting the world occur around him, not wishing to be a part of any of it. If only he had the courage he could end it all right now. He knew where his mother stored her sleeping medication, had read the stark warnings on the label of the bottle. Danger of death if too many taken - fear talk to the sane, temptation to the desperate - especially if consumed with alcohol. Well, he knew where the meds were, and he knew also where she kept her stash of spirit bottles. A few mouthfuls of tablets slurped down with half a bottle of Russia’s finest ought to do the trick.
But he knew that he never would, knew that he never could. He was Twitch, weak, feeble, trapped in the flesh of a body so small he could fight back at nothing and at no-one, placed on this Earth simply to be an annoyance, to be in the way, an irritant, to get on people’s nerves and, most horrendous of all, put on this Earth to serve as a fuck buddy to his mother’s boyfriend when she was not available through either lack of desire or monthly cycle.
A single tear escaped the corner of his eye and dropped to the carpet but, his eyes so sightless, he was unaware.
‘Terry.’
He heard his name, his real name, being called from somewhere far away but, mind so numbed to the world of the exterior, he reacted not at all. His moistened eyes continued their blind inquisition of the carpeted floor, his head stayed bowed in the position of supplication as if the defiler of the previous night were in the room and Twitch could not meet his gaze.
‘Terry,’ it came again, nearer this time, a voice he thought he recognised but his mind could not focus sufficiently to recall the speaker’s face.
‘Terence.’
Strict now, before a light rap on the back of the head brought him to his senses.
‘Why haven’t you started setting the table?’
‘Sorry, Mom,’ he mumbled, scrabbling to his feet, momentarily afraid that she would catch a glimpse of the wetness of his eyes but, in her haste to return to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations the single spilt tear passed unnoticed.
‘Chris will be back in a few minutes, and you know how he can be if dinner’s not ready.’
Chris. Such an ordinary name, the very height of mundanity, yet the bearer of the name wielded extraordinary power over the life of Twitch. He moved slowly, a lethargy seeping through his every cell, almost as if the encounter of the previous evening had robbed him even of the will to live. Never an optimist, brow-beaten at school by pupils and staff alike, at least before Chris he found some small sanctuary when he returned home. Away from the mocking eyes of classmates and the accusatory words (idle, lazy, wastrel) of teachers, he sought solace in his bedroom, often retreating into the world of books and comics, science fiction his subject matter of choice. When not reading he could be found constructing model versions of his favourite spaceships from Star Trek, painting the hulls vivid greens and battleship greys, else sitting at his desk, fingers poised over the computer keyboards, his virgin attempts at creative writing offering comfort when a flash of inspiration took hold.
But no more.
Chris had soon put an end to all of that. Reading was something that girls did. Or homosexuals. ‘You aren’t a poof are you, Twitch?’ the nickname always uttered with a sneer, as if speaking the name of a slayer of infants; Model making the hobby of the weird and the obscene. ‘Keep that up and you’ll turn into a poof. If you aren’t one already,’ the advice given, and writing anything original was deemed beyond an act of freakery.
‘Why do you want to do that?’ Chris had once enquired and, surprised to be shown a level of interest, Twitch had tried to explain why he enjoyed the activity; to escape the real world, to find new adventures, to travel and explore strange planets and meet beautiful alien girls and kiss them and run holding hands with them through purple spuming waves breaking on blue pebbled beaches.
Before Twitch had time to realise, Chris’ face had become crimson with rage, as if affronted by the riot of imagination being described and a milestone in their relationship was reached: the first time he had struck Twitch. Not hard, just a rap of knuckles against skull.
Friendly, in retrospect.
‘Get this straight. You get your grades at school and you fuck off, you hear?’ he had hissed into his ear, softly, with a level of menace Twitch had never previously encountered from anyone, let alone somebody sharing the same roof.
Twitch had tried to explain to his Mom what had happened, but she was still in the early flush of love and was deaf to his complaints, she in turn accusing him of stirring up trouble, of making no effort with his soon to be new Stepfather, a wedding that, through Twitch’s eyes at least, was the most loveless thing he had ever seen.
The front door slammed shut, marking Chris’ return from the pub and, soon enough, his mood could be determined.
Twitch suddenly realised that he had been day dreaming again, motionless, and that the table had still not been set, the one chore he had been asked to complete. Hastily now, he reached for the set of three plates in the centre of the dining room table noticing, shamefully, that his hands trembled slightly as he extended them towards the crockery. He clutched at the ceramic rims, hearing the items rattle against each other as he moved to place them in their appointed places, one each for Mom and Chris, and one for himself. The base of the first plate he put in its rightful position vibrated softly against the placemat as he laid it down, causing Twitch to curse inwardly and urge himself to calm down. The second plate was deposited successfully, and the third, and Twitch was just about to reach for the cutlery when he felt – sensed more than anything – the presence of another in the room. Though he had not been conscious of any sound, he knew without doubt that Chris had entered the room, secretively, silently, clearly not wanting to be noticed, and Twitch puzzled over this even as his anxiety levels spiked. Was he trying to spy on him? To catch him out doing something that he shouldn’t? Or was this just another method of intimidation, another way to force Twitch to flee the house that was once his home?
‘Hello, Terry,’ came the voice from behind, nearer than he expected, so close he could actually feel the breath on the back of his neck, could smell the alcohol in the air as he inhaled. Twitch made to turn around, to confront the man eye to eye but was pinned to the spot as he felt a powerful hand against his buttocks. He swallowed hard, terrified, not sure how to react, every inch of his being willing himself to scream out, to bellow his outrage, to shout the nature of the crimes into the face of his molester while the woman he claimed to love looked on, but he knew he had neither the courage to do so, nor the will to bring so much pain into the life of his own Mother. Instead he remained still, statuesque, allowing the hand of the other to wander over his posterior as if exploring the fleshy anatomy, hoping to find something that had so far eluded.
As the grimness of the situation became clear, a plan of sorts formed and, reaching for the nearest of the dinner plates, Twitch swung his right arm in an arc, hurling the item of crockery at the wall farthest from him, knowing that the clatter of porcelain against brickwork would bring his mother running and, sure enough, as the plate exploded into four, maybe five pieces, the sound of swift footsteps was immediate, a sharp cry of ‘What the…? audible as she scurried into the room.
Twitch turned now, wanting to see the look of surprise on Chris’ face, but he was to be disappointed as, instead of a startled expression, the molester wore only a mask of rage.
‘You little bastard,’ he hissed through clenched teeth just before his partner appeared in the doorway, reaching for his belt even as she arrived.
‘What the hell happened?’ she completed her initial thought.
‘He’s off his head, this one,’ was Chris’ explanation. ‘Chucked it straight at me.’
And a frown of disappointment soured her features, a swift shake of the head before uttering ‘You bring it on yourself,’ a verbal cue for Chris to do as he felt fit, despite the lunacy of the logic.
‘But. He’s on this side of the room,’ he cried at his retreating mother desperately, hoping to make her see that what Chris claimed was impossible, eager that she know the deceptive nature of the man she shared a bed with, punching the table with one small fist in frustration.
‘You bring it on yourself,’ Chris whispered mockingly in his ear, before wielding the belt with harsh purpose.

Luke

They huddled together beneath the large covering, eager to be away from the rain that poured from the heavens, the downpour so fierce it seemed it fell not in individual droplets, but in one constant stream, as if a witch floated somewhere above them, emptying her cauldron on the earth beneath.
With backs turned against the elements, pressed in close together, it was easy to imagine them as penguins on the Antarctic tundra, fending off the biting, frost bitten wind, protecting the eggs rested atop their feet from the worst of the elements until their mate returned in the spring, fattened by fish to feed the newborn. The illusion was shattered as one of their number broke ranks, braving the torrential rain, holding a newspaper above her head as she left the protective covering and became sodden in a moment, ink from the paper smearing her face instantly causing the group of young men to laugh as one, though she was ignorant of the reason for their gaiety.
‘It’s not my fault I’ve got a lecture,’ was her retort, turning away from the gathering beneath the smoke shelter as they simply continued their mockery.
‘Oh, piss off then,’ she muttered beneath her breath, galvanising herself for action before breaking into a full sprint.
Luke watched her go, eyes focused intently on the way that her backside shifted beneath the material of her jeans as she ran, one buttock swelling then deflating, the other repeating the action. He had always had a bit of a thing for Sally, convinced that he was not in love, aware that it was only lust not life-long commitment that put the fire in his belly.
‘I think she likes you,’ he heard one of his companions comment, and felt a slight blush reach his cheeks as he realised he had been caught gawping. Despite the ribbing, still he could not tear his eyes from her form, watching as she dwindled into the downpour before, finally, she turned a corner and was out of sight. They were all looking at him now, the comment of Dave having brought everyone’s attention to his actions and suddenly he felt anxious, as if he had been caught doing something wicked, something shameful. He dropped his eye line to the ground, not able to think of anything to say to break the tension he felt, instead merely waiting for a conversation to begin, for the moment to be forgotten as everything so readily is when smoking good weed.
‘I think our young friend may well be in love.’
Dave continued the taunting. Always the joker, renowned for his inability to take anything remotely seriously, usually his flippant, off the cuff remarks were a source of amusement for Luke, but not today. Perhaps it was because he was not used to being the subject of the sarcasm, or perhaps it was due to the fact that the comments were hitting a little too close to home. Whatever the reason, his instinct was to fight back, to fling an insult or two, perhaps even a finger gesture of some sort, but he resisted, aware that to do so would reveal that the other had gotten under his skin. No, best ignore him. Allow him his moment, be the better man by not rising to the antagonisation.
‘Luke and Sally sitting in a tree….’ he crooned in a mockery of melody and, for the first time since he could remember, Luke felt himself becoming angry. Not searing, outright rage, more a simmering fury that the others’ words had kindled. He continued to stare at the ground, almost challenging the other to continue his taunts by his own lack of response as if he wanted him to continue, wanted an excuse to react.
“My mate Paul’s had her…..’ was all Dave managed before Luke shot forward, knocking the spliff out of James’ hand in the process, grabbing Dave by the scruff of the neck, pushing him sharply so that his back made solid contact with the wall behind him, face to face now, Luke’s eyes raging, fury coursing through him despite the blunting effects of the cannabis, angry now to the point that the effects of the drug were negated by the beat of his own heart, pumping violently in his chest.
‘You know what, Dave?’ he said, though not loudly, ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself?’
Suddenly, hands were upon him, pulling him away from the other man, strong hands, though gentle in their ministrations, easing him away from the other, pulling him out of arms reach, out of harms way, one of their number standing directly in front of him, blocking his path back to Dave should he choose to lunge at him.
‘Christ, I was only kidding,’ he heard Dave say, his voice higher in tone than usual, reducing him in Luke’s mind to a small boy whining when the big boys pick on him in the playground.
‘Yeah, well, you can kid too much.’
James’ voice, defending Luke’s actions, a pleasing turn of events and one that seemed to mollify the situation altogether, Luke relaxing somewhat as he realised he had an ally whilst Dave was forced to consider the place his own actions had in proceedings.
‘Yeah, OK,’ was all he said in response, though in his usual tone of voice now, calmer, neutral, the moment having passed.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Luke heard him say, though he was still unable to see him. ‘Luke.’
Dave’s head came into view over John’s shoulder – it was John who was standing in front of him, the last of the gathering, Luke realised – and repeated the sentiment.
‘Sorry, mate.’
Luke nodded his acceptance, John stepping aside now, confident that the chance of another flare up was remote, allowing Luke to step towards the joker and offer his hand, a simple gesture, though a necessary male ritual to reforge bonds once broken.
‘Don’t worry, fella. I over reacted.’
And the damage was healed as swiftly as it had been caused.
‘I tell you what, to make up for it, I’ve got something a bit special. Straight from the cobbled streets of Amsterdam.
‘Oh yeah?’
The whole group was interested now, all watching as Dave reached down and picked his bag up off the floor. He lifted the rucksack to hip height, turning it into his body and undoing the zip, delving a hand inside, producing a medium sized smoking tin, discarding the bag at his feet without care. He plucked the lid off the tin, before gripping it between his teeth to free up the same hand to retrieve the item held within. He held it aloft, displaying it to the group, a look of pride on his face similar to that worn by anglers when photographed after landing a prize specimen.
‘What is it? Asked James, a note of trepidation apparent in his tone.
‘Finest White Widow, my friend. Dutch dynamite.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ was all John could think to contribute, all still watching intently as Dave placed the joint in the corner of his mouth deftly, managing to insert the tip without dropping the tin lid, before gripping the lid between thumb and forefinger and clicking it back into place, dropping the tin down on top of his rucksack. He reached into a back pocket and retrieved a cigarette lighter, enjoying this moment in the spotlight as three sets of eager eyes were upon him, seemingly fascinated by his every action.
Dave spun the wheel to strike the flint, all eyes on the flame as it spat forth from the top of the device, and he brought it towards his face, drawing on the end of the joint as the twisted tip made contact with the fire, a red glow forming, a small pall of blue grey smoke appearing soon after. He took one drag, two, three, and the group watched on as his eyes seemed to lose focus slightly. He took the joint from his mouth after the third inhalation and passed it along the line to John, a smile troubling the corners of his mouth, though he said nothing, as if an amusing idea had occurred to him that he was unwilling to share. John took his drags and, as with Dave, his eyes transformed slightly, losing their clarity and he too seemed amused by something. James was next, and Luke watched him, more concerned than seemed logical for his close friend, and a nervous shiver ran through him as he watched him inhale the narcotic laced smoke. James too was smiling as he passed the joint to Luke who, whilst nervous, did not want to appear the killjoy of the party. After a moments hesitation, he brought the joint to his lips and took a toke, amazed at the instant response his body gave to the drug, feeling himself relax, his thoughts becoming cloudy, his vision gaining a warm, soft-focus hue, as if he were suddenly standing in the scene of a Bob Guccione soft-core offering, awaiting the arrival of the starlet. Another toke, and all sense of worry and anxiety left him and, when he felt James’ hand against his buttocks, kneading the meaty flesh he did not resist, instead leaning into the touch, encouraging the other man to continue the motion.
As the smoke was passed around once more, try as he might to prevent it, Luke was grinning from ear to ear.

Twitch

The television flickered mindlessly in the corner of the room, only one set of eyes upon it despite the lateness of the hour. Twitch had been given special permission by his mother to stay up late to watch a horror movie with the caveat that, should Chris arrive home early from the pub, he would have to record the rest and watch it at a later date. Though annoyed at the conditional nature of the agreement, he was still delighted. All day at school his peers had spoken of little else and all intended to watch it, some with the blessing of their respective parents, others more stealthily, either by discreetly setting the video recorder without the knowledge of the adults, or with headphones on their bedroom televisions. Of course, there were others still whose parents were indifferent to the actions of their offspring, who paid scant attention to their activities.
How he envied them.
Having garnered something of a reputation as a grisly video nasty, Twitch felt a sense of trepidation as the advertisements rolled on screen just prior to the start of the movie, eager to watch the nightmarish output, though worried lest he be blighted by nightmares come time to sleep.
‘What the hell,’ he thought, ‘It’s not like my day to day life is a barrel of fucking laughs, anyway.’
A little shocked at his own profanity, albeit in thought alone, he took to concentrating on the screen once more, glancing intermittently at the clock on the VHS player as if to confirm he had not missed the start, that he was on the right channel.
“if it gets too scary, promise me you’ll turn it off,” his mother called from the kitchen, her voice sounding only vaguely interested in the words that projected from her mouth.
“Mom!” he protested, though with little venom.
“We don’t want a repeat of last year.”
Though alone, Twitch blushed as his mother broached the subject he tried in vain to block from his memory. Almost a year to the day had elapsed since last he was allowed to watch a horror movie, a rather unpleasant tale of an American transforming into a werewolf after a hiking trip to the Yorkshire Moors ended in tragedy, and Twitch had been so frightened by the events on screen he had suffered the ignominy of pissing his pants. The warm trickle spread from his groin, staining the blue denim of his jeans almost instantly, the flow so sudden and so fierce as to saturate the gusset of both underpants and jeans in a moment, leaving a damp patch on the carpet and prompting his stepfather to dub him “A cowardly little pisser,” a taunt he used to this day. Though he had cleaned everything up – himself, the carpet and he had even washed his own jeans – Chris had insisted that he not be allowed to watch anything with an 18 certificate again, at least not until he had a job.
“When you live like a grown up, you can watch grown up movies.”
“Fuck you, Chris,” he’d thought, though of course had not dared declare.
His mother felt that enough time had passed for Chris to relent slightly, and was also persuaded by Twitch’s insistence that the accident had been more to do with excitement than fear. A lie, but only half of one.
Again now, as he waited for the opening credits, he felt that same nervous anticipation, aware that what he was about to view would terrify him, but also certain that the controlled nature of the fear was something he could endure, a year on. More mature in his outlook, or so he liked to think, he was ready for whatever Hollywood could throw at him.
“Now on Channel 4,” the TV announcer stated, doing her level best to add spice to proceedings by speaking in a voice dripping with dread, “Lock all of your doors and turn off the lights. It’s time for…”
The front door burst open, slamming shut a second or so later, Chris appearing at the living room door, staring down at Twitch with an expression of repulsion usually reserved for fly blown road kill.
“You still up?” he slurred, the alcohol consumption having robbed him of clarity of speech.
“Just watching a film,” Twitch said quietly, eyes cast downwards, counting the flowers on the pattern of the carpet, afraid to look up to face the expression of disgust on the face of his tormentor.
“Not anymore. Footie’s on in five minutes.”
Feeling defiant, Twitch challenged the assertion. “But, it’s Wednesday.”
“And?”
“Nothing,” he conceded with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Watch the footie with me if you want.”
Twitch just shook his head, still counting flowers, disappointment coursing through him.
“Suit yourself.”
Chris left the room, moving through to the kitchen, greeting Twitch’s mother with a well rehearsed, “Hello, gorgeous. Look what Daddy brought home.”
Twitch shut it out, blocked the sound of his voice with the white noise of his brain, blood pumping hard, anger beginning to spike at the injustice of it all. Every weekend he had to tolerate that fools obsession with football, a game Twitch had no interest in, a fact which gave Chris the opportunity to cast aspersions about his sexuality.
“Don’t like football? You a nancy?”
Twitch seldom watched television, save the odd science fiction programme here and there, yet the one time he actively wished to watch something he was being deprived of his pleasure by the repetitive habits of the man he had come to loathe, a level of hatred that seemed to be growing with each passing week. Even discounting the brutality he dished out with abandon, this latest act of selfishness was more fuel to the fire, yet another emotional barb, and Twitch was certain he had done it deliberately. Perhaps his mother had phoned him at the pub to alert him, lest he be angry when he returned, leathered, to find the ‘child’ still awake. Twitch could picture him swigging the lager back, emptying the glass as quickly as possible so that he could get back home just in time to ruin his step son’s evening.
“Bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth, quietly, barely audible, balling up a fist and striking the patterned carpet as he said it.
“Bastard,” he repeated, on the verge of tears now, though not tears of sorrow or regret, tears of rage, intense and simmering, emotions spiralling, on the brink of losing control. He repeated the obscenity, punching the carpet more firmly to match the growing volume of each repetition, feeling the moisture in his eyes building, about to spill, but he could not allow that, could show no sign of weakness or disappointment for fear of satisfying the sadist in the kitchen.
From the next room, Twitch heard cutlery and crockery scraping together as if food were being prepared and, the next instant, a warm waft of something spicy.
“Feeding time at the zoo,” thought Twitch, before once more striking the carpet and muttering the same expletive.
“What was that, love?” his mother called through, revealing that the volume of his outcries were far too loud for safety.
“I said it’s about to start.”
Fast thinking, Twitch.
“The film?” she called.
“The football.”
“Oh.” But nothing more, as if she understood instantly what had transpired and, as usual, was willing to allow it.
Chris came back through, a plate of steaming kebab in his hands which he placed on the coffee table, bending at the knee slightly and stooping forward to do so. Once the plate was in place, he released the item but failed to stand, focusing instead on Twitch who, this time, raised his gaze to meet him.
“Don’t touch that,” he warned, a level of malevolence in his expression that far outweighed that of any sane individual.
He straightened, leaving the room once more, through the other door this time, and Twitch heard him climb the stairs swiftly, probably on a toilet run before the sports programme began.
He stared at the plate of food, the grease already beginning to pool around the edges, the surface of the pitta bread moist with oil, looking more like the glazing on a donut than a savoury bread product and, suddenly, Twitch felt a rage overtake him that he was powerless to resist.
“Bastard,” he cried again, more a guttural scream than a coherent word though this time, instead of punching downward at the carpeted floor, he swept his hand in a horizontal arc, making firm and fast contact with the porcelain plate, casting it off the table, sending it spinning through the air in a parabola, lettuce, meat and other less identifiable food stuffs spraying everywhere before the plate came to rest, upside down on the sofa.
Twitch sat still for a second, perhaps two, eyes wide with horror, unable to comprehend what he had just done, knowing that punishment would be swift and without mercy, but not really caring at all. A small sound escaped his throat and, at first, he feared he was about to burst into tears, full flow but, instead, the noise intensified, his shoulders spasming, his throat constricting then relaxing, constricting then relaxing and, before he knew what he was doing, he was rocking back and forth with laughter. Great gasping howls of mirth were torn from his diaphragm, loud enough to bring his mother through as an interested party from the kitchen and the look of abject terror on her face when first she clapped eyes on his handiwork simply served to add weight to his mania.
Twitch raised a hand, pointing at the ruined portion of fast food on the sofa, unable to keep it steady such was the force of his laughter, tears streaming down his face, struggling to speak, the words coming but unintelligible.
“What have you done?” his mother cried, racing around the sofa, picking up the plate and desperately plucking pieces of reformed meat and strings of lettuce and cabbage off the upholstery, placing them back onto the plate as if she believed she could reform the construct to its original state before the beast returned.
“Stop it,” she yelled, turning savage eyes in his direction momentarily before recommencing the recovery operation.
“Just stop it, Twitch,” she shouted, voice rising in inflection through sheer fright as she heard the sound of heavy drunken footfalls on the stairs as Chris came to claim his meal.
Still laughing, though less intensely now, Twitch managed to state the obvious.
“He won’t be pleased.”
And with that, the door to the living room swung open and Chris loomed in the frame, blood shot, whisky blurred eyes taking a little while to take in the sight that greeted him; The teenager, on his knees, tears streaking his reddened face, a grin seemingly fixed in place on his face alongside a look of obvious pride. The woman, stooping, picking up pieces of organic detritus from the cushioning of the sofa before dropping them back onto the plate that had once contained his supper.
“What the…?” were all the words he could muster before anger overtook him, sobriety achieved in a moment as adrenaline took its hold. He strode across the room, one step, two, grabbing Twitch by the hair, yanking him to his feet, Twitch only preventing the hair being ripped out by the roots by allowing his legs to unfold beneath him until he was standing bolt upright, on tip toes, staring straight into the eyes of his abuser, the expression of mirth still in place despite the pain he knew was inevitable.
Twitch did not even see the blow that landed on his cheek, a slap, though firm and true that stung him into action, his fists flailing, punching at the mans chest uselessly.
“You little fuck,” the tormentor screamed, flecks of spittle issuing forth along with the words, landing on Twitch’s upturned face. He spun him now, using his superior size to twist him round before grabbing his right arm and forcing it painfully up his back, exerting such pressure that Twitch was frightened something must break, and he shouted aloud his protest, attempting to stand even taller to lessen the pressure. Chris moved him now, marching him forward, police officer style, taking him to the sofa where the remnants of the supper still remained, his mother backed off into a corner of the room, too afraid to continue the tidy up process, too afraid to intervene in the confrontation, too afraid, even, to signal disapproval of either Twitch or Chris.
He felt more tension now, this time on his neck, and Chris bent him forward at the hips, his strength such that Twitch had no chance of resisting, pitching forward, knees buckling so that he dropped painfully onto them and still he was forced further forward, eyes bulging madly at the pressure being exerted, a punishing amount of stress placed on the sinews of his neck and the vertebrae of his lower back. Still he pitched, almost onto the seat now as his attacker pushed his face downwards, downwards, until his skin made contact with the food that clung to the fabric, his head yanked from side to side, eyes streaming once more as a small amount of chilli sauce found its way into them.
Suddenly, the pressure released and Twitch was free. He scrambled to his feet, using his arms for support and span on his heels, fist raised in a posture of defence, though he knew that he was no match for the man before him.
“Get out of my sight,” Chris bellowed, and Twitch did as he was told.

Twitch lay in bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically, yet no more asleep than he had been during the beating earlier that same evening. His eyes were closed but his mind was alive, poring over recent events, the need to fight back tears long since past as the shame and humiliation he had endured had now been superseded by a broiling rage, a coldness within that scared him just a little. In his mind, he fantasised, taking the belt that was often used on his own flesh out of Chris’ hands, turning it on the bully, lashing at his exposed face and bare forearms as the larger of the two tried to defend himself, not even stopping when blood began to flow from the rain of leather-snapped blows, the crimson fluid seeming to fire him up further, bringing strength to thin arms and power to usually feeble wrists. In his imaginings, his upper torso rippled with muscle, the feel of the steel hard flesh beneath the shirt he wore empowering him further. Chris cried out weakly, slapping at the belt in futility as Twitch adjusted his grip on the belt so that now he struck buckle first, the metal prong pointing at an awkward angle so that, as flesh was found, maximum possible damage was inflicted, bringing a fresh flow of blood. Chris tottered now, knees giving way under the onslaught and crashed to the ground, arms still raised in defiance, though useless against the savagery unleashed.
In the darkened room, Twitch smiled to himself a little, though inwardly, afraid of making even the slightest movement, though the hour was late and the house was in total silence.
Upstairs, alone, Twitch was only too aware of the need for discretion as attentive eavesdroppers lurked just a few metres vertically from his position and, following the food incident, the blood would doubtless still be raised. He spent an hour and a half creeping about in his own room, making as little noise as possible – none was the ideal, though unachievable – rooting through drawers and cupboards, removing items of value and of practical purpose and forcing himself to discard the rest.
If this was to be a new start, best to make a clean break, hang on to nothing that would remind him of this time of misery and sufferance.
One item he could not be parted with, despite its low value and utter lack of practicality: a tiny, metallic replica Dalek, a souvenir of his trip to Longleat House in Wiltshire, the one and only family outing his mother had taken him on. As his hands came once more upon the small toy, cast to the back of his junk drawer and all but forgotten, for just a few moments the nightmare lifted and he was a young man once more, full of exciting thoughts of ray guns and floppy hats and mutations and police boxes. The flood of remembrance was welcome, though it came tainted, a sudden counterpoint to his current predicament and a reminder that life is not all about fear and trepidation and waiting for the next time the stepfather ‘tans yer hide.’ No, sometimes life can be fun and adventurous, full of possibilities and imaginings wild enough to boggle the mind.
As he bent his fingers around the alien figure, his knuckles ached where he had punched the carpet just a couple of hours ago, snapping him back to the present.
By half past midnight, the bags were packed, placed on the far side of the bed, laid down and squashed as flat as possible so that, even if a curious head poked through the doorway, all would seem normal. If the interloper stepped into the room, however, all his hard work and patience would be undone but, after the events of just a few hours previous Twitch was confident he would be left in peace for the duration.
Christ, he hoped so.
Under his pillow, just to the left of where his head lay, a steak knife had been secreted, stolen from the kitchen a few days previously, taken on instinct rather than with malice of forethought though, as he lay quietly in the crushing silence, Twitch wondered how much conscious thought had gone into the act of thievery. If Chris were to enter his room now, tonight, would he actually be capable of using it against him?
He thought he knew the answer, and that troubled him more than anything else.
His hands, resting comfortably on his gently undulating belly, parted suddenly and he lifted his left arm up above his head, probing in the darkness, sliding his fingers between sheet and pillow, locating the knife, blade end first, snatching his hand back a little for fear of cutting himself inadvertently, finger-walking back now, gingerly tip-tapping the digits along the length of the blade until he reached the handle, retrieving the weapon from its hiding place and holding it aloft, not able to see particularly well despite the night vision, but able to imagine. Chris, entering the room, removing some of his clothing before sliding onto the bed, sliding along the sheets, sliding belly first onto the business end of the knife. The startled gasp as steel made short work of skin before Twitch jerked forward, pushing the blade in further, seeking vital organs and finding them. The soft, warm splash in the darkness that once brought such terror now brought only elation as blood spewed from the molester’s mouth, spattering down on Twitch’s upturned face who welcomed it willingly.
He made a stabbing motion, alone in the darkness, once, twice, three times, fancying he could actually hear the sound of meat giving way to metal before finally, still conscious of the need for silence, he returned the implement to its spot beneath the pillow.
He glanced at the digital clock to his left, one quick, flick of the eyes.
Not long to wait now.

The red digits on the alarm clock display clicked forward by a unit of one, indicating that the moment had arrived. Though arbitrary, perhaps, 2am was the hour Twitch had selected to make good his escape. Any earlier and he feared that others in the house may not be soundly asleep, any later, perhaps a bladder related awakening could be a danger.
2am.
The moment his new life would start.
Twitch pushed the duvet back gently, slowly, afraid that even the sound of fabric against the wool of his jumper would make too much noise, eager to be as silent as was feasible. Having clambered into bed fully clothed, he was all but ready to make flight. He slipped the quilt down his torso, bringing it to hip level before wriggling his bottom upwards, the sheet coming with him, tangling against his feet at the foot of the bed, forcing him to shuffle himself free. Sat upright now, pillow squashed flat against the headboard behind the base of his spine, he swung himself clear of the covering, allowing his legs downwards, thigh muscles tensing, resisting gravity a second or two before his feet made contact with the carpet of the bedroom floor. He leaned forward, buttocks on the lip of the mattress and groped for his trainers, strategically placed in just the right position and, grabbing the tongue of the footwear, he used the flap of moulded, cushioned plastic as he levered his right foot into place. He tied the lace before repeating the process on his left. Gently now, he eased himself from the mattress, using his hands for support, wincing slightly as the bed springs creaked at the shift in weight, aware that his hearing had become hypersensitive due to the circumstances, but wary nonetheless. Unless somebody was standing right outside the door, ear placed against the wood, perhaps with a glass cupped to the organ, there was not the slightest chance that his delicate movements would be detected but the price of discovery would be a high one, only serving to add to his anxiety.
Stooping now, Twitch bent to retrieve the back pack, stuffed to bursting with his essentials: a few T-shirts and jumpers, a couple of pairs of jeans, some underwear, as well as the replica Dalek from which he could not bear to be parted. No toiletries though. Whilst reluctant to leave the house without a deodorant and a toothbrush, Twitch had been forced to leave them behind, fearful that his mother would become suspicious should she notice their absence from the bathroom cabinet. Hefting the pack up to shoulder level, he felt no weight, though he knew that the object was heavy enough, the adrenaline racing through him blunting any sensation.
Aside from fear.
Pack in place, arms through the shoulder straps on either side, gingerly Twitch made for the door, knowing that the most perilous part of the operation was about to commence. He reached out a tentative hand and grasped the handle, an old fashioned affair with a push down handle that, worryingly, had a tendency to squeal when pressure was applied. Hand held in place, breath caught in his throat, Twitch processed his options; slow and steady, fast but brief. Opting for the latter, Twitch tensed his bicep and pushed downwards, swift, as fast as the mechanism would allow and, mercifully, the handle let out only the faintest of groans, the suddenness and speed of the motion depriving it of voice.
Sweat dripped from his brow, despite the chill in the room. In his short life, he had never been so afraid.
Forcing breath into his lungs, Twitch readied himself once more, each component part of the process seeming to last for minutes on end though, in truth, he had left his bed no more than sixty seconds previously. He pulled the door inwards, adopting the same policy as for the handle, swift and sudden, and the door yielded to his instructions without protest, leaving Twitch standing in its frame, gazing out at a darkened, empty landing, to the left the door to the bedroom of the mother and the monster, to his right, the stairs and, at their foot, freedom.
Walking cautiously, though not on tiptoes – his physics lessons had taught him enough about weight distribution to understand that the more surface area pressed against another object, the less severe the pressure – rolling his foot, almost, toe to heel, moving as slowly as he dared, he headed across the landing and arrived at the head of the stairs. He paused, listening intently, a sound reaching his ears, briefly, then again, the momentary alarm quelled as he realised the source.
The sadist’s snores.
Placing his left hand on the banister, he lowered his body onto the top step, pushing down against the wooden rail attached to the wall to lessen the amount of pressure required on the stair itself, minimising the risk of telltale squeaky floorboards. His mother was a light sleeper, always had been and he knew that, should she detect motion in the house at night she would inevitably awaken the animal, afraid that intruders were in their midst and send him out to investigate. Even if Twitch outran him, the police would be called and he would be hunted like a dog through the streets, brought home to face the shame of his actions and, worse, his punishment.
Seven steps down, he paused again, his ears so attuned now that the slightest noise could be detected, the sound of his own racing bloodstream so loud to his ears he felt certain it would be audible to the outside world as well but, again, anxiety was transformed into relief as he realised it was not his own body generating the sound but a scooter passing by along the street, the high pitched whine of its engine incongruous in the near total stillness of the night.
He moved again, eager now, desperate to be away, though reluctant to hurry, afraid that haste at this point would bring someone running.
He reached ground level, head awhirl, all sense of reason evaporating as the endgame neared. The small, six foot by six hallway was illuminated by a streetlamp on the opposite side of the road and, in the soft light, Twitch could make out the shadow of the door handle, though he knew that it was his mothers habit to always bolt the door, both top and bottom. A final obstacle to overcome before the safety and sanctuary of the street was reached.
Stopping, the weight of the bag on his shoulders shifted, sliding down his back and coming to rest against the base of his skull, but he paid it no heed, mindful only of sliding the metal bolt out its housing as silently as he could, a feat made all the easier by virtue of the fact that the bolts were almost brand new, replacements purchased as Chris had kicked the old ones off their brackets after a particularly humiliating darts defeat down at The Fox.
The irony was not lost on Twitch.
‘Thank you Chris,’ he thought, ‘You fucking idiot.’
Not one predisposed to swearing, the profanity, though only thought, felt good.
As expected, the stainless steel bolt slipped easily and silently from its housing, as did its more elevated brother, and Twitch was free to open the door proper, pulling at it desperately, feeling the biting wind against his face and welcoming it despite its severity.
Breathing deeply at last, Twitch bathed in the glory of his accomplishment for only a moment, drinking in great gulps of frosty air to replenish his body before easing the door gently shut behind him, still anxious, though only fleetingly, lest a bedroom or landing light suddenly illuminate as Chris came prowling but, when no such illumination was witnessed, Twitch made for the road and away.
The house slept on.

Luke

The music was loud. Too loud, really, just above the decibel threshold that made holding regular conversations possible. Beneath the constant din, should you wish to converse with a companion, it was necessary to shout at them, to scream in their face almost, to behave as if you were an aggressor, not an associate.
Not that Luke cared.
The music was fine as far as he was concerned. He had little interest in holding a conversation, so relaxed was his mood and demeanour, content merely to sit and watch, to let the world happen to others around him. He was amazed at the type of things he was capable of thinking about these days. In the past, before the White Widow, he realised now that his thought processes had been clouded, stagnant almost, incapable of connecting obvious points of reference, particularly in language. Now, the seemingly obtuse had become commonplace, the complex almost laughably obvious. As he sat, slumped almost, his body so numbed by the drug in his system it was difficult to attain an upright posture, giving in to the need to slouch, allowing his musculature to soften so that the only thing holding him up was the back of the chair he sat in, he dwelt on the meaning of the word gargoyle. As he walked to the Student Union, he had noticed several of them atop buildings, grotesque animal carvings that adorned the rooftops, the world below witnessed through eyes misted with malevolence. He processed the word internally, revealing its origin, though unsure as to where the knowledge came from, not analysing the why’s and wherefores, interested only in the revelation. Coming from the Old French gargouille, for throat or gullet, the word shared a common ancestry with the word gargle, a simple enough word in English, though those that uttered it were oblivious to the history. He smiled to himself, pleased with his own cunning, moving his head slightly from side to side to observe those around him.
Dave and John sat opposite, deep in conversation, not even glancing his way, for which he was glad. He had no desire to speak, did not wish to become engaged in a heated debate over which games console was superior, the Mega Drive or the Super Nintendo, his mind awash with thought processes far and above such trivia. James was there, too, though seeming as distracted as he, gazing absently around the room, paying no heed to those that sat nearby
Luke felt a thirst develop and reached for his glass of lager on the table, having to struggle to sit up, muscles protesting at being put to any purpose, but the need for fluid over-rode the need for sloth and he accomplished his aim, taking a long draught of the amber liquid, sliding his tongue along the length of his lips once done to moisten them before returning the glass to its original position.
Luke stood now, steady on his feet despite the intoxicants flooding his blood vessels and, without a word to his companions, headed for the gents. To reach his goal, he was compelled to traverse the dance floor and, even at three thirty in the afternoon, several students were already inebriated enough to be making use of it, arms flapping at their sides as Vic Reeves and The Wonder Stuff bashed out their version of Dizzy, heads hung low so that the long hair of the females obscured their faces, providing an anonymity to their form that Luke found simultaneously disturbing and arousing. In his mind he played out a scene, taking one of them back to his student flat, walking beside her, talking, entering the bed-sit, forcing her down onto the bed whilst still standing so that only her arms made contact with the mattress, her body pivoted at ninety degrees. Luke hiked her already short skirt up with his free hand, the one not pressed into the small of her back to keep her where he wanted her, yanking her knickers halfway down her legs after he had done so, releasing them at knee level where they hung, held in place by the partially spread legs. Luke moved swiftly, hungrily, sliding his hand between the top of her thighs, gripping hard, forcing her legs further apart so that both orifices became available to him, hearing the tear of material as the force he applied split the knickers at her knees. He tugged at his own trousers, ripping at the waistband to free the button from its hole before yanking down the zip, dropping his trousers to his ankles then repeating the process with his white briefs. He glanced down at himself briefly, alarmed that his penis was yet to stiffen, taking the flaccid organ in his hand and manually manipulating himself, pumping along his shaft eagerly, pausing momentarily to bring his hand to his face, spitting into his palm, moistening the tip of his manhood with his own saliva, having the patience to wait until he was fully engorged before jabbing his erection into her anus, using both hands on her now, gripping her around the waist and just under the hips to draw her onto his member, not sure whether the moaning sounds she was making were voicing her distress or her pleasure, not caring either way, ramming into her savagely, knowing that orgasm was but moments away, closing his eyes now as the sensations built before spilling his seed into her.
Luke reached the edge of the dance floor, vision slightly distorted, almost hallucinatory, but he could still make out the illuminated sign above the toilets, knowing from repeat visits which was which. He placed a hand on the door and pushed, his nostrils instantly assaulted by the vile odour which dwelt within, choosing to ignore it, to push it to the back of his mind.
He had other things to think about.
He entered the room, noting the ubiquitous water pooled on the floor in patches, and the yellow brain stains in the urinals. He stood above one, removing himself from his jeans to allow voiding to commence, when the door behind him opened once more. He sensed rather than heard a presence in the room with him, though there appeared to be no movement. Anxious now, he finished his business as quickly as nature allowed and turned to see James leaning against the sink.
The two young men locked eyes and, without a word being spoken, suddenly they were in each others arms, lips pressed against each others, tongues probing, searching for access and finding it. Moving quickly, they stumbled walked towards the cubicles, both aware that their actions required an element of discretion, same sex copulation in a public place still frowned upon despite the decade. They bundled themselves into a cubicle, Luke going in first, James following, still locked in a passionate kiss, their breath coming in short gasps, James fumbling behind him to lock the door. The cubicle was a sealed unit, brickwork built around the doorframe so that no gaps were present either above or below, affording them total isolation.
Luke’s hands moved feverishly, working their way under the band T-shirt James was sporting, finding the meat of his belly, not toned but not fat either, somewhere in between, tongue still inside James’s mouth whose own tongue worked against it. For his part, James was at work, too, unbuttoning Luke’s jeans, delving within, finding what he sought and setting his hand in rhythmic motion. Luke felt James pushing against him, using his body mass to force him back, knees brushing against the toilet at the rear of the cubicle, then one of James’ hands beneath his armpit, urging him up and Luke complied readily, clambering onto the toilet seat, forced to break mouth contact as he straightened his legs. Standing before him, James completed the removal of the jeans and pulled his pants down too, Luke presented in all his glory, though there appeared to be a problem. Despite his desire, regardless of the arousal he felt surging through him, his phallus seemed none co-operative, the impotent side-effects of the narcotics in his system reducing his member to a shrivelled imitation of its true self, tiny in dimensions, like that of a small boy. One inch in length, no more, it was as if his own flesh had constricted into his body, the little skin that remained withered and wrinkled, resembling a tiny, pink elephants trunk.
James was undeterred.
He took the insignificance in his hand, working it between thumb and forefinger, attempting to coax some life into the thing, giving up after a while and using his mouth instead, sucking the entirety into his mouth as easily as a Chupa Chup, using a combination of tongue, tooth and lip to try to stir life into it, but without success.
Thwarted, the two men changed places, Luke the oral receiver, James’ body far more responsive to the ministrations.

Twitch

The minutes following his departure from the house were harrowing. As he crept along the familiar streets at such an unfamiliar hour, every noise he heard signalled peril, every shadow cast by tree or bush warned of danger. Though young, Twitch had read newspapers on occasion and, each time he had done so, the stark warnings were clear; being young and alone on the street at night was a way of inviting threats in varied forms. Drunks on their way home from clubs or pubs with after hours drinking, sexual predators on the prowl for the vulnerable and the helpless or, possibly most frightening of all, the police who, if they found him, would surely insist on returning him to the family home, no matter his protests. Perhaps, if he were spotted by a policeman he could inform them of the actions of his stepfather. Maybe they would arrest him, lock him up for years on end, out of his life for good. More likely, though, they would take the word of both Chris and his mother over himself. They were the adults, after all, and in his short life he had learnt that being young was synonymous with being considered foolish by anyone over the age of twenty. What did they think? That the minute you shook off the label teenager, suddenly your synapses reconfigured, matured in a moment, as the clock struck midnight.
He walked as quietly as he could, afraid of alerting anyone in the homes along the street to his presence, the silence almost absolute, the only sound he could hear the slight buzzing emanating from the base units of the street lamps that lined the roadside..
‘I may be young,’ he thought, ‘But I’m no more foolish than anyone.’
And he vowed to prove it, to find a way to stand on his own two feet, to build a life without the adults that had proved so ineffective at providing him with the essentials of life; safety, security and emotional nourishment. At school he often heard peers talk about their parents supporting them with their activities, be it sporting or otherwise, and he could not imagine a similar response, not even from his mother, for she was under the thrall of her new man, blinded by her love for him, unable to see what a despicable specimen he was, no matter how many times he proved that it was so. The beatings, the verbal torment and, the most recent humiliation for Twitch, the sexual molestation. When first the man had started to touch him late at night, he had considered telling his mother all about it. God knows, he felt the need to tell someone yet, after only a few moments reflection he concluded that to speak about it would be fruitless and would only lead to yet more accusations of hostility on his part. Why would he make something like that up? Why? For no good reason, though he knew for certain that she would interpret it thusly, so chose to hold his silence. Whilst the events of the evening had been the tipping point, the truth was Twitch had known for a while that he was going. That’s why, in his rucksack, in one of the secret inner compartments that were hard to find unless familiar with the article, he had secreted a small amount of money. Not too much, just ten percent of the allowance he was given as pocket money. He felt that to hoard more than that would have aroused suspicion as his mother was constantly asking him what he spent his money on. Ten percent of ten pounds was easy to fabricate. Simply claim that something cost a pound more than it actually did and the discrepancy was accounted for in his mothers mind. The small pocket contained eight pounds in total, leading Twitch to conclude that, for two months now, he had known this day would come.
And he was right.
As the minutes went by, his confidence began to grow. Now that the imminent threat of his flight being discovered had passed, his attention could shift entirely on planning what to do next.
Though he knew it would not be open at this hour, Twitch knew where he had to go.

The railway station was in darkness, as Twitch knew that it must be. The only source of illumination coming from within was from the concourse that served as an entryway to the platforms, with a small hatchway set into the right-hand wall from which tickets could be obtained.
To anywhere in the country, Twitch realised with glee.
Though the town in which he lived was small, from this location the entire nation was opening before him. London sounded appealing, though he knew that many people flocked to London when in similar situations and found nothing but misery and frustration. As he had no great desire to be either famous or a rent boy, London seemed inappropriate. Birmingham was another choice, being the largest city in the region, but Twitch eliminated this as an option, too, wary that his ‘family’ might assume that he would head there, resulting in the authorities focusing their search for him on that city. Indeed, many times, when in conversation with his mother, he had (deliberately?) expressed his fascination with Birmingham City centre; the hustle of people, the aroma of food of all ethnicity in the air, the noise of the traffic, the pigeons flocking like domesticated vultures, swarming in packs around even the tiniest fragment of discarded food. Though the place frightened him a little, he was nonetheless always excited on the rare occasion he was allowed to accompany his mother on a shopping trip. No, Birmingham was too obvious. She would expect that.
For Twitch, there was only one choice; Stourhampton.
Though he had never visited, he knew roughly where it was situated on a map of England, being approximately ten miles from Birmingham. A small to average size city, it offered the opportunity of work and accommodation, as well as being a more unlikely destination.
Decision made, now all Twitch had to do was find a place to sleep until the ticket office opened.

It was the movement that awoke him more than the sound. His brain registering the presence of another nearby had his body rallying, fighting off the shrouds of slumber that slowed the body and dulled the mind. His eyes opened, a dull pain lancing through his whole head as the brightness hit his night-accustomed retina. He shook his skull from side to side, casting off the last vestiges of sleep, aware of a new sensation now, a bone chilling cold that had seeped through the material of his coat, the right side on which he lay the worst affected area as it was nearer to the ground than any other part of him and, he fancied, the cold was such that he would not have been surprised had he found himself frozen to the concrete beneath the seat he had chosen to sleep under.
Twitch had found a portion of the wire fencing that protected the train track from unwanted intrusion to be broken, clearly cut through deliberately, probably by school children, he thought, seeking a hiding place when playing truant. He had scrambled through the hole, only just able to fit, despite the slightness of his frame, and lurched down the overgrown embankment in the dark, ears straining for the sound of an onrushing train, half expecting to be smeared across the track by a locomotive racing at full speed through the night as punishment for the temerity to run away from home.
‘That’ll teach him,’ he heard in his mind, though it was not spoken in his own voice, rather in the voice of the stepfather who had tormented him so.
In defiance of his wild imagination, Twitch made it to the other side of the double set of tracks without a train dismembering him in a random fashion, only able to halt his forward momentum when halfway across, genuinely relieved that nothing had been coming. He paused for a moment on the shingled verge of the track, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, the drop in light levels astonishing considering he was only, what, twenty metres from the road which was illuminated so brightly it may almost be the middle of the day, were it not for the absence of workers, shoppers and beggars. As his pupils dilated, allowing more of the limited light through, he was able to make out the platform a few hundred feet along the track, and made for it. He stayed on the side of the tracks as he was, reasoning that there was an identical platform either side, so his choice was irrelevant and, now safely on one side, he should remain there.
He walked quickly, eyes now fully adjusted, traversing the distance in good time, reaching the edge of the platform which sloped up from ground level, a very considerate design feature should you happen to find yourself on the tracks, alone, in the small hours of the morning. Twitch could not fathom a reason for the slope, thinking it would be better if there were a steep drop at the end to discourage people from leaving the platform, but he was grateful all the same having thought he would be required to scramble up a sheer wall. Once on the platform, Twitch had spotted his sleeping place instantly, a metal bench, set against a wall, with enough room beneath to squeeze a slender teenage boy. Why he chose to sleep beneath he could not say, perhaps for protection against the elements, the metal seat providing some small barricade against the chilly wind, or perhaps to feel more secure. From beneath the seat, he could be attacked from only one side, his back was covered so, in Twitch’s mind at least, the odds of something unpleasant happening were reduced. He knew he was being foolish. This was England, after all, not South Africa. The West Midlands is not known for it’s man-eating fauna and, even at stupid o’clock in the morning, you were unlikely to encounter wildlife any more malevolent than a hungry urban fox, which would flee at the first whiff of a human.
Still, nestled in his temporary nest, he had felt secure and relaxed enough to doze off into a fitful sleep. Now, morning had come, though quite what the time was Twitch had no way of determining from his current position. His eyes became more focused, getting used to the level of light and, from his current vantage point, Twitch could see nought but legs sweeping by; skirt clad legs, trousered legs, he even thought he saw one person march past in a kilt, though that could have been a flight of fancy, a woman wearing a tartan patterned skirt rather than a Scottish clansman in full battle gear.
Twitch struggled from his position, wriggling back and forth to ease his body out of the aperture, scrambling to his feet as soon as he was free, aware of the eyes upon him, though choosing to ignore them. He kept his head down, stooping to pick up the rucksack he had crammed into the tiny space with him, for fear of thievery, and headed towards the ticket office.
A quick glance at the clock suspended from the high ceiling indicated he had slept for longer than intended, that he had in fact enjoyed a veritable lie-in.
7:03am.
‘Lazy bastard, rotting in your pit,’ Twitch thought to himself, though again the voice that spoke was not his own.

The train journey to Stourhampton had been swift and uneventful and, once there, Twitch had set about exploring the new town, the town that was to be his home. Though neither profitable nor practical, Twitch had spent much of the first day simply walking the streets, stopping to rest occasionally and to eat, passing the solitary time by reading the one book he had allowed himself, Cold Fire, the new paperback by Twitch’s favourite author. The novel had been bought stealthily and hidden beneath his mattress, away from the judgemental eyes of his patriarch, a man so opposed to reading it was as if he believed books to be the carriers of disease, something to be feared, reviled and, where possible, destroyed, rather than enjoyed and embraced. Indeed, Twitch had taken to hiding his reading material after one drunken encounter with Chris had left him with three bruised ribs and a shredded copy of The Stand at his feet. Chris was the type of man who felt Fahrenheit 451 was a blueprint for good living rather than a warning of the dangers of oppression, so Twitch was forced to hide his books, under the mattress, in the place usually reserved for pornographic magazines, vibrating sex toys, or anything else which brings shame to those living in an ostensibly Christian country.
Now though, as day began to turn into evening, Twitch realised that he had made no plans, had laid no sensible foundations and that, through his own naivety and lack of planning, he was now to endure another night on the streets, this one made all the more daunting by the unfamiliarity of the locale. At least back home he knew the street layout, knew where the police station was should he get into trouble, knew which doors he could run up to and knock in an emergency. Here, he knew none of those things. He thought he might have spotted a signpost for the police station and felt sure he could find it again if the need came, but he certainly had only the vaguest idea of the configuration of the streets, his wanderings during the day having been confined to the shopping centre and one or two streets around its perimeter. The shopping centre had been pleasant, warm and inviting, luring him in, the warmth of its interior stalling any thought of what the night would bring, when the lights in the shops went out and the doors to the centre were locked for the evening. As the time approached, Twitch pushed his book down inside his rucksack and stood, a new mission in mind.

The alleyway was over-run with litter, the wheelie bins half way up overflowing, the contents spilling as the wind caught hold, lifting sheets of paper and scraps of food into the air with equal ease, casting them to the floor as soon as it had claimed them from the refuse container, the wind itself apparently appalled by what it had found.
Twitch ignored the debris, stepping over a squashed tomato and avoiding the cast off newspaper, reasonably pleased with the place he had found. Though it would never be featured at The Ideal Home Exhibition – Twitch had heard of this as it ran annually at Earls Court, a place he longed to visit as the name filled him with visions of knights and jesters, perhaps a queen at the head of a banquet table, with a halo of red hair splaying from a diamond encrusted tiara – it would nevertheless provide a reasonably comfortable place to spend the night. The wheelie bins themselves provided good protection from the wind which even this early in the evening had a good bite to it, whilst a ventilation grille of some sort or another was pumping out a healthy stream of heat, and Twitch sat next to this gratefully, feeling the side of his face flush as the flow of air found it.
Comfortable, feeling secure and relatively warm, Twitch leaned against his rucksack, happy just to sit in the warm current and let his mind wander as surely as the breeze.

The hand on his shoulder startled him, and Twitch jumped involuntarily. He had not been sleeping soundly, but had perhaps dozed off for a moment or two. However long it had been, it was long enough to have caused him not to notice the man who stood before him. In the half-light it was difficult to determine his features, appearing more as a silhouette than a genuine creature of form, Twitch able to make out the outline of a beard around the chin and cheek area, as well as the fur collar of a thick coat. Words were coming from the man, angry words, though barely decipherable, seeming to belong to a language that was almost English, just different enough to make comprehension a chore.
‘Smy plaze,’; he slur-shouted, the alcohol and tooth decay laced breath almost choking Twitch, causing him to flinch back in disgust.
‘Gerrit,’ seemed to be the next word he used, and now Twitch was forced to hold his hands over his head to ward off the blows that the older man rained down on him, bony hands connecting sharply with the cheek of the youngster, a desperate sense of déjà vu overtaking him. He had fled his family home to avoid precisely this kind of behaviour yet here, on his first full night on the streets, barely night even, the first evening, here he was, attacked by an older man with the stink of drink on him.
He might as well have stayed at home.
The fists kept up their onslaught, and Twitch was about to stage a fight back when the punishment ceased, but the next moment, a sound that Twitch had only previously heard on TV or in movies, that of a flick-knife being swung open and, even in the dimness of the alley, Twitch caught the reflection on the short yet potentially lethal blade. The tramp waved it menacingly in front of him, jabbing it towards his face.
‘Alright, alright,’ Twitch conceded, ‘I’ll move.’
The blows ceased as soon as the promise was made, and Twitch struggled to his feet, eyeing the stranger warily, picking up his rucksack and sidling past the bearded attacker, who had one more request before he would be allowed to leave.
‘Give me your money.’
When Twitch made no move to hand over any cash, the larger man brought the blade up to eye level, stabbing it an inch or two forward, the meaning in his movement apparent in an instant.
‘Give me your money or I’ll stick you.’
Defeated, too exhausted and afraid to resist at all, Twitch handed over his wallet, not bothering to fish the money out to keep hold of the item, for what use an empty wallet?
Twitch backed down the alleyway, watching with envious eyes as the thief settled himself into the exact spot Twitch had occupied just a few short minutes ago, the waft of the ventilation grille next to his bearded face.
With a sigh of resignation, and weary after the assault, Twitch turned his back and left the alley.

Luke

The glare of the television screen was the only source of illumination in the room, the light source casting a glow over the faces of the three men staring at it raptly as the closing scenes of The Godfather played out before their eyes. As Kay saw Michael lauded by his fellow Mafioso, she realised with a cold certainty that he had become his father’s son, despite his denials, despite his protests to the contrary.
The credits rolled and Dave reached behind his head, hand flapping blindly against the wall until the white plastic light switch was located.
The sudden burst of brightness causing the trio to squint momentarily until their vision could adjust.
‘Doesn’t matter how many times I see that,’ said Dave, voicing the thoughts of all present, ‘It just gets better and better.’
‘You know John hasn’t seen it yet. Says it’s not his type of thing,’ James informed them.
‘I always suspected he was queer,’ was John’s withering response, causing a sly glance to be exchanged between Luke and his occasional lover.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ replied James, apparently unfazed by the slight, ‘Though he did tell me he went to see Pretty Woman by himself at the cinema.’
Luke laughed now, a short, derisory sound, more a snort than a genuine giggle, and was forced to hold a hand up to his nose for fear of what may emerge.
‘He never did.’
‘Straight up. Said it was 'cos he fancied Julia Roberts.’
All three were smiling now, enjoying the ribbing of a friend in absentia.
‘Do you think as he tugs one off he’s seeing Richard Gere’s face in his head?’ John asked to more laughter.
‘I think he’s modelling himself on him. Check out the hair. Totally immobile.’
As the three of them lapsed into silence, all of their eyes were drawn back to the screen, the credits at the end of the movie still scrolling, a hush descending, though a comfortable one, each content to dwell on their private musings, the images of their friend obsessing over Richard Gere food enough for a minute or so of thought at least.
It was John that broke the reverie.
‘You want to score tonight?” he asked, a tightness to his voice, as was usual when the subject of contacting a dealer was broached.
‘Yeah, why not?’ said James, reaching automatically for his wallet, pulling it from his left front pocket and unfolding the leather pouch, inspecting the contents with the intensity of someone who had never seen such an item before. He pulled apart the separating flap of leather between compartments to check his finances, before informing the room ‘’I’ve only got a tenner on me.’
‘Same here,’ said James, though without the need for an on the spot audit.
‘Well, you two bell ends still owe me a fiver each for the last batch, so you’ve only really got a tenner between you,’ Dave informed them, as if they had forgotten, causing both to mutter something incoherent beneath their breath and, when they looked his way, found him tapping the side of his temple in a manner so exaggerated they couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
‘Call me The Elephant Man if you must,’ he elaborated.
‘That shit we smoked the other day was fucking good stuff,’ said James, and all were in agreement.
‘That wasn’t weed,’ Dave told them.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
Matter of fact, refusing to be drawn, waiting for the others to ask what it was, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. They waited several seconds, but Dave remained steadfastly silent.
‘You gonna tell us or what?’ asked Luke, sounding more annoyed than he actually felt.
‘It was smack.’
‘Fuck off, Dave. No way that was cocaine.’
‘Not cocaine, you tit. You can’t smoke Coke straight. Smack. Junk. The Big H.’
The two young men looked appalled.
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Not kidding. I got it off John, who got it off a guy he knows.’
‘But you said it was White Widow. And that’s just good grade green.’ Luke protested, throwing Dave’s own words back at him.
‘I lied,’ Dave said in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.
‘Fucking hell.’
It was James who cursed outwardly, but he was merely echoing the words swimming through Luke’s head, too.
‘Why did you do that, mate? asked James, visibly annoyed.
‘You just said you liked it.’
A simple statement, though the logic was hard to counter.
‘Yeah, but…’
‘But nothing. I had it. I knew you wouldn’t smoke it if I told you the truth, so I lied.’
‘Shit.’
The room fell silent again, though without the warmth to it, an awkward impasse, with neither party prepared to give any ground.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Luke after a while. ‘You should have told us.’
Dave held his hands up in mock surrender.
‘You’re right. I should of. I’m an arsehole.
‘You are an arsehole,’ James agreed, though without hostility, the frostiness having swiftly thawed.
‘So, the question is, do you want to score some more?’
James and Luke looked at each other, each hoping that the other would make the decision, neither willing to appear cowardly by declining, but each equally wary of trying the drug again.
‘What if we get addicted?’ asked James, directly to Luke, ignoring Dave now, almost as if he were not there, but Dave interjected all the same.
‘Addicted? You only get addicted if you are thick and don’t do it right. People who live in maisonettes get addicted to smack, not upwardly mobile, university sorts like us.’
There was a lightness to his tone that seemed forced somehow, contrived, as if he were attempting to appear casual when the very opposite was true.
James and Luke regarded him with suspicion suddenly.
‘Why do you care if we do it or not?’ asked Luke finally.
‘I don’t, mate, I just want us to have a good night and it seems to me the best way to achieve that is to get some decent shit in.’
The case for the defence was solid enough, and James nodded his agreement.
‘I can’t argue with that.’
‘Seems to me we have two choices. One, we spend twenty quid on some shitty weed that only does half the job or two, we spend a tenner on some H and get off our tits.’
Luke looked interested all of a sudden.
‘A tenner? Is that all it costs?’
‘Yeah, a ten bag. We buy it, split it between us, It’ll easily last the night. Maybe two.’
‘I’m in.’ James said instantly.
‘Ok,’ said Luke, though more reluctantly. ‘And just this once. I don’t want to get in the habit, you know.’
Dave stood up to head for the telephone by the bed in the other corner of the studio flat.
‘Don’t worry about it. If you just do it at weekends it’s fine.’
As Dave dialled a number, without the need to look it up, the glance exchanged between James and Luke was loaded with anxiety.

Twitch

The night had been long and arduous, the chill in the air which had lasted throughout his first day had deepened, plunging to near zero, or so it had felt. After the encounter in the alleyway had compelled him to move on, his state of anxiety had deepened as surely as the frost in the air, and he had wandered the streets blindly for an hour or so, tears threatening to spill on occasion, though he fought them back, desperate to remain in control, to battle through this initial period of uncertainty. Even as he had planned to make good his escape from the house of horrors, he had been aware that his immediate future was fraught with danger, though he had been unprepared for the danger to manifest itself so swiftly, and so absolutely. As he walked, he felt a sensation that had become alien to him, time having dampened the memory, the facial muscles that controlled the movement and expression on his face tensing and relaxing abruptly, repeatedly, beyond his ability to control, the involuntary tic that had earned him his nickname returning after several years absence. Of course, he knew why it had returned, as the stress and fear that coursed through him triggered the attack but it seemed the more he concentrated on keeping his face static, the worse the problem became so that, eventually, fifteen minutes or so after the first spasm, he resigned himself to the unwanted motion, choosing simply to ignore it in the hope that it would cease as swiftly as it had started.
The remainder of the evening had been spent huddled in a shop doorway, his first thought being that he would sleep right there, but a passing pair of policemen had soon put a stop to that, urging him to move on. He did as he was asked. It was not until after midnight that he had located the place that was to become his temporary bedroom, a bus shelter on a side street off the main thoroughfare of the town, the lateness of the hour leading Twitch to suspect that there would be no more buses stopping until the following morning, a suspicion that proved accurate. Twice during the night he had been troubled by passing pedestrians, the sound of their footsteps echoing harshly off the tall buildings that lined the street and, as they neared, he expected the footstep to belong to the same policemen who had moved him on earlier, though nobody disturbed him, whether not seeing him at all or, most likely, seeing him but not caring about his plight in the slightest. Though the shelter was enclosed on all four sides, with only a small entrance at front and rear to allow passengers to wait patiently for their transportation, still the wind found a way in, at times whistling through the metal construct. His sleep had been poor, a combination of the sheer cold in the air and the hard ground beneath his body leeching any warmth that resisted the winds icy fingers kept his teeth chattering, his body numbed, and the ever present sense of impending danger only added to his frustrations.
Now, as morning arrived, so too did the people. Businessmen in sharp suits strode through the city centre, young mothers with pushchairs trailed offspring on reins, and old folk bustled through the streets, perhaps collecting their pension, perhaps meeting a friend for coffee, or perhaps just out and about to fend off the crushing tedium of retirement.
Twitch remained in the bus shelter, eyeing the toings and froings at the junction with the main road some ten metres away, envious of all he saw.
Briefly, very briefly, he regretted his decision to leave home but quickly he banished the thought to the back of his mind, refusing even to acknowledge its existence, ignoring it as he tried to ignore the facial tic that had not been vanquished by the dawning of a new day. As the ambient temperature rose slowly in sympathy with the parabola of the sun in the cloudless, watery blue sky, so to the chill began to leave Twitch’s bones, the unpleasant numbness that had permeated through the night replaced now by a new sensation, a raging hunger that came on him suddenly, almost instantly, giving him cause to place a hand on his empty belly as if by depressing slightly on the empty food sac he could somehow fool his body into thinking he had eaten a hearty meal, though nothing of the sort happened, the hunger simply intensifying.
But how was he supposed to buy food when he had no money, nor even any valuables to trade for cash? The tramp the previous evening had deprived him of every penny he possessed so that now, on only the second day of his new life, he found himself unable to provide one of the essentials for life: nourishment.
‘What the hell am I going to do?’ he asked of himself, actually speaking the words aloud, believing himself to be alone, not really caring if he was or not, the imperative to eat over-riding any concerns about social conventions.
The muscles in his face spasmed incessantly, annoying him beyond reason, his thoughts distracted from the matter at hand each time it occurred. He placed a hand on his cheek, trying to stifle the movement somehow, but the action merely magnified his own awareness of the tic, as now the movement was detected by face and hand alike.
‘Stop Twitching’ he cried suddenly, louder than he had meant to, looking around himself immediately to check that no-one had been near enough to hear, despite his convictions of just a few seconds prior.
Without a clear plan in his mind, Twitch stood, picking the rucksack that had doubled as a pillow from the ground, and left the shelter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The sky transformed within an hour of leaving the shelter, the cloudless blue replaced by a threatening, heavy grey, the promise of rain made good as first a fine spray, then an almighty downpour lashed the pavements and buildings of the town centre. Once more, Twitch found himself huddled in a doorway, the hood of his coat pulled tight around his ears, cursing whichever deity dwelt in the heavens for his rotten luck. The few pedestrians that braved the elements barely cast him a first glance, much less a second, and Twitch knew that all he could do was sit it out.

‘Excuse me, could you spare any change?’
Twitch held out a hand expectantly, more in hope than anticipation, as a mother struggled past him with a double push chair, overly laden with groceries.
‘Piss off,’ was her curt response, and Twitch felt it as surely as he would have felt a blow to the head, though the pain struck in the chest, deep within, the first lance of the wound sharp and staggering, then coming in waves in rhythm with the beating of the afflicted organ.
‘No problem. Have a nice day, though’ he offered back, his attempt at sarcasm sounding flat and desperate even to his own ears.
The rain had abated, though not ceased entirely, coming now in a steady drizzle, seeming to find holes in his clothing where no holes existed to the extent that, occasionally, he would feel a droplet slide an icy finger down his spine. Another mother approached, this one sans shopping bags, pushing before her only one child so Twitch approached her, attempting to smile, though concerned that it came across more as a grimace or, worse still, a leer.
‘Spare some change please, love?’
He felt his face spasm even as he spoke and was aware of her eyes on his suddenly reddening cheek, the embarrassment of his affliction far outstripping the shame he felt at his plight but, surprisingly, instead of avoiding him, pushing straight past him or insulting him, she chose to come to a halt right in front of him.
‘Bit young for this aren’t you, love?’
Love. He liked that.
He nodded his agreement, a genuine sentiment. He was a bit young for this and was becoming more aware of the fact with each failed attempt to extricate money from strangers.
‘Yeah. I ran away.’
She pulled a face that was difficult to read, half smile, half frown, though Twitch was more distracted by her eyes that seemed to glow from within, a radiant chestnut colour emanating from the irises, mesmerising him.
‘Here you go,’ she said, holding out a hand towards his chest but, momentarily, he had no concept of what her action indicated. When realisation dawned, he yanked an eager hand up to meet hers, allowing her to drop the small coins into his palm, unsure of the etiquette now: He had never been taught such a thing at.
How do you thank someone after they give you cash, for nothing in return.
‘Tha-than-thanks,’ he stammered, feeling the tic in the left side of his face, dropping his eyes to the pavement, unable to meet the splendour of hers any more, his own failings and flaws seeming magnified under that beautiful gaze.
Twitch made to move away, but a hand on his shoulder prevented him and he was compelled to meet her line of sight now, aware that her action demanded interaction.
She looked at him intently, the blush reddening his cheeks once more.
‘Don’t worry. You’re special.’
And, the words spoken, she wheeled the child before her, moving away from him, leaving Twitch paralysed, able only to stare unblinkingly at her until she disappeared around a corner, away from the High Street.
Twitch could not move, and the lump in his throat made it tough to swallow.

As the sun reached its zenith, Twitch stood beneath the town clock and counted his money. It did not take long. Four and a half hours of continual street walking, asking anyone that did not look overly threatening for cash had yielded the paltry sum of two pounds fifty three, which he dropped back into the front pocket of his already grimy jeans.
‘Not even enough for a McDonalds’ he thought.
As he stood, wandering what kind of food to spend his earnings on, his eye was drawn to the pedestrianised zone that served as entryway to the town’s primary shopping centre. Three hours ago he had been forced to leave the area by an overly zealous security guard who had warned him of a severe penalty should he be found begging on his patch again, a warning he had heeded but now, money in his pocket, he felt he had every right to re-enter, as a paying customer. Before his unceremonious exit he had spied an as yet unoccupied hot dog stand, the food on offer not appropriate for the time of day but now, with shoppers aplenty and a hungry workforce manning the myriad stores, Twitch was confident that the fast food outlet would be open for business. He hoisted his rucksack into a more comfortable position, running his hands over his face roughly in an attempt to shake the weariness that had begun to settle, the combination of cold and hunger more draining than he could have imagined, and allowed them to drift upwards, running fingers through his tussled brown hair, vaguely repelled by the greasy cloy that coated his skin on doing so.
As he was about to move, Twitch detected movement to his left, and turned to see an unkempt man approaching, only two metres away.
‘Spare any change? The stranger asked, and Twitch could not help but grin in reply.
‘What yo smirelin at?’ the man asked, suspicious all of a sudden.
‘Nothing. I’ve been saying that all morning as well;’ he explained.
‘Whar ye mayn?’
There was a menace to his voice, the thickness of his Black Country accent adding gravel to his throat, and Twitch felt a sudden flush of alarm.
‘Oh, well, sorry, but I’ve been begging as well.’
Even as he said the word, he knew it was a mistake, and the flash of anger in the man's eyes confirmed his suspicions.
‘I eh no beggar,’ he shouted.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’m the same as you.’
Twitch’s voice had taken on a higher pitch than was usual, the fear that he felt begin to flow seeming to tighten his vocal cords so that they were capable of no more than the timbre of a small girl.
The stranger looked him up and down, distaste smeared across his features.
‘Yome nuffin liyke may.’
Twitch began to move, just wanting to get away now, away from the intimidating figure before him, but he wasn’t done with him yet.
‘Yome shit, is yo.’
‘Yes, yes. I am,’ Twitch agreed, thinking that perhaps if he humoured him the lunatic would leave him alone before, suddenly taking a sidestep, Twitch was round him, moving at pace, not running, but not walking either, glancing back anxiously to see if the man was giving chase, relieved to see that, though he was moving in his direction, it was a slow amble, his gait suggesting joints incapable of swiftness of foot. He kept moving, slowing slightly, but keeping up sufficient speed to increase the distance between them, heading for the pedestrianised area. As he rounded the corner, he was relieved to see a steady flow of people in both directions and, in the distance, some two hundred metres away, the sign atop the hot dog stand was illuminated. Twitch headed straight for it, one last look over the shoulder confirming that his new best friend was out of sight. As he neared the fast food stand, the frightening encounter was soon forgotten, the ripe aromas of fried onions and ketchup on cheap, hot sausages filling his nostrils, and the hunger which had abated somewhat took fresh hold. Now he knew how a dying man finding an oasis in the desert must feel, as his stomach grumbled in anticipation and his mouth was awash with saliva in readiness for the bounty just moments away.
‘What’ll it be, son?’ the portly gentleman behind the counter asked, wiping one hand on the red and white striped apron most commonly associated with butchers.
‘What can I get for two fifty?’ he asked eagerly, all thought of conserving some of his hard earned cash replaced by the urge to fill his belly.
‘Anything you want. A jumbo?’ he asked, a kindness in his eyes that Twitch read as compassion, as if he knew the plight of the skinny wretch that stood before him.
‘Yes please.’
As the man turned away, Twitch reached into his jeans pocket, fingers groping in the depths, locating each coin and manipulating them so that all would come out in one go. He pulled his hand clear and opened his fist, palm up, the lights of the hot dog stand reflecting off the silver surface of the higher value currency.
From nowhere, Twitch felt a blow to his side then a fingerless gloved hand snatched at his own. Some of the coins went tumbling and, before he had time to react, the man who had verbally accosted him just minutes earlier was upon them, his difficulty of movement apparently over-ridden by the promise of money. Twitch went to resist, maybe to push him over, but his own sense of decency prevented him, the decrepit state of the man scrabbling on the floor before him evoking sympathy, though not so much that he would not fight at all.
‘That’s mine,’ he said, as if he were imparting information the other was unaware of.
The other man made a noise, not a word, a strangled ‘ggrrrrr’ that seemed to imply threat, but Twitch persisted, even as the thief began to move away, satisfied that he had recovered all of the loot from the ground.
‘Heh, give that back.’
But the robber paid him no heed.
In desperation, Twitch turned back to the hot dog vendor, eyes wide, on the verge of tears once more.
‘That was all the money I had,’ he stated, a simple fact and a call for clemency all rolled into one.
‘Sorry, son,’ was the man’s response, turning away from the hatch to begin preparations on the next batch of food for paying customers.
Twitch moved on.

BCB

The mid-afternoon sun was watery and mild, lacking the strength to force the chill from the air, but the figure on the park bench had things on his mind far removed from the nature of the weather.
His eyes scanned the faces of the park dwellers, swiftly, anxious not to draw attention to himself yet yearning to know all he could about the people who shared the location.
Here, a young mother struggling across the concrete area surrounding the rusted, once green band stand, the hard surface broken, damaged, badly in need of repair, crumbling underfoot to the extent it was almost like walking on a shale beach. He drank in every detail in a moment, eyes flicking from head to foot, no need to look back again once the image had been committed to memory. Her face was pretty enough for one who had spawned so recently, the figure fair too, though more petite than was his type. The clothes she wore were unflattering, loose fitting, a blue woollen jumper that hung off her frame rather than accentuating it, white leggings that were also a couple of sizes too large, as if she were ashamed of her own form, eager to hide it from the eyes of strangers, perhaps even from the eyes of her lover. The figure nodded unconsciously as he processed the image, deciding that his suspicion was correct, that even as she was undressed by the hands of a companion she insisted on the lights being out, not wanting even the eyes of the one closest upon her as they shared an intimacy.
The figure allowed the image to remain in his mind for longer than usual, finding her form and posture pleasing, the firmness of her flesh apparent even beneath the bagginess of the clothing, and he fancied she would be a fine specimen, his hands travelling over her now, against her sides, over her hips, feeling the small swelling of her breasts as he continued to explore, reaching her throat and squeezing, squeezing, the eyes bulging in their sockets, hands balled into fists slapping against his chest uselessly until the total lack of oxygen rendered her unconscious. He lay her down, flat on her back, and proceeding to remove the clothing, a vague sense of nausea washing over him as he was compelled to touch the cheap man made fabrics, not having the foresight to bring his gloves to the park, expecting only to watch, not to touch, so absorbed in his own fantasy that he had even forgotten that that was what it was, He lifted her head, pulling the blue woollen jumper over it, struggling slightly, anxious not to damage her skull as the garment slipped free, cradling the back of her head as a mother cradles a new born infant, gently easing her head back to the concrete before slipping his hand free. The bra came off easily enough, a well practiced drill that did nothing to arouse him sexually, the sight of her bare breasts meriting only a brief inspection before he moved down the body, hoisting her buttocks into the air to allow him to slip the leggings off, the underwear coming away at the same time, caught in the gusset of the trousers and, once more, her nakedness moved him not at all, even as his eyes found their way to the ungroomed pubic region, a forest of brunette hair twisted and tangled together, indicative of a shabbiness of mind and total lack of focus, as far as the figure was concerned.
But she was a glorious sight, all the same, the milky whiteness of her skin in stark contrast to the dark grey of the concrete on which she lay such that even her evident unkempt nature could do little to dampen his delight. The sensations he felt were familiar, though not what a rational mind may expect. Instead of the rush of sexual stimulation that the sight of firm, naked flesh seems to inspire in most, instead he felt another desire entirely, one that was borne of instinct, not clarity of thought and that, just as lust was hard for most to control, so too this instinct, and he gave in to it readily, reaching a hand down beside him and retrieving the meat cleaver that, in his mind at least, lay on the park bench.
Stooping, dropping to one knee, he set to work.

When he returned from his reverie, the young mother was nowhere to be seen, his imagination having blinded him to her departure and, momentarily, he had lost all track of time. Priding himself on his self-control, these occasional lapses were a great concern, and he mentally rebuked himself, disturbed by his own weakness.
He continued his vigil.

The boy could be no older than sixteen, seventeen at the most and yet he was alone. The figure had observed the propensity for most of the young in the modern world to be surrounded by those of their own kind, as if they understood the mentality of the herring or the starling, that safety from predators was provided by numbers, yet here was something new to him, a boy on the verge of becoming a man, sitting in solitude, a sight of such heart stopping vulnerability that the figure felt a lump in his throat, the globus pharynges robbing him of breath for a second or two. The man child was unaware that he was being observed, seeming preoccupied with his own thoughts and, from a distance, it seemed he may even be crying, one hand or the other going to his face occasionally, wiping at nostril or cheek and the figure noticed also that, intermittently, the poor creature seemed blighted by a facial spasm, perhaps one of the very factors that led to his apparent status as a social pariah. The figure had not seen him approach so perhaps he had arrived during the moment of mental surrender, so did not know from which direction he had come, but he knew with absolute certainty that he would follow him when he left. Whilst following somebody was an activity he had undertaken previously, it was an act he engaged in only reluctantly, anonymity and discretion of paramount importance yet, on an occasion such as this, when a creature of such riotous beauty and fragility was presented, he could allow himself to bend the rules slightly.
The figure stood, leaving the bench that had been his resting place for the past hour and walked behind the seat, finding the grass that encircled the band stand viewing area. He walked steadily, unhurried, eager that the boy not pay him any attention and circled round to the bench that was directly opposite the one on which the child sat, dropping himself down, happy to wait, certain that, though he positioned himself so that he could observe the boy through the rusted green railings, he was unlikely to be noticed himself.
Though appearing outwardly calm, blood pumped furiously through his veins.
He waited patiently, a strength of character that came easily to one such as he.

When at last the young man opposite stood and made to walk off, so too did the figure, pausing just long enough for the boy to turn his back and head away from him before standing. He circumnavigated the band stand, electing not to traverse the steps and cross the raised platform for fear of detection should the youngster in front turn around. His levels of awareness were raised incredibly, seeming able to detect the motion of the cytoplasm within each and every cell in his body, attaining a level of concentration and focus that few are able to establish. When in this mood, this zone as he thought of it, he felt himself akin to the finest examples of humanity that had ever lived. The scientists, the great explorers, the thinkers, the poets and the prophets all shared a common trait; the ability to tune out the extraneous, to filter away the unnecessary and to rid their lives of clutter. Einstein himself famously owned only one style of clothing, having multiple sets of the same outfit so as no mental energy was expounded considering his attire each morning, instead merely reaching into the cupboard to pluck a clean version of the very thing he had worn the day before, and the day before that as well.
The figure looked down at his own dress momentarily, only now aware that, even subconsciously, he was operating on the self same level as one of the finest scientific minds in history. He too wore the same style of clothing each and every day. He too had multiple copies of the same shirt, the same trousers, the same socks. If someone were to see him one day to the next they would assume that he were wearing the same clothing, little realising that his infinitely superior mind was deceiving them.
He smiled inwardly and continued to keep pace with the young man in front, pleased with the realisation that he possessed a sense of kinship with a true historical great.
The man child left the park through one of three large gates that could be described as a main entrance, this one the nearest point to the town centre and the figure picked up his speed slightly, shortening the distance between himself and the boy to no more than twenty metres before dropping in line with the pace of his quarry, reluctant to get any nearer lest even the sound of his own footfalls alert the boy that he was being pursued.
At the wrought iron gates, the boy headed straight across the road, not even seeming to check that the way was clear, as if the thought of being struck by a speeding vehicle was of no consequence. The figure stopped in his tracks as he observed this strange behaviour, mind alive now, thoughts racing, pondering the significance.
Had the man child been rejected cruelly by a female?
In all his years, the figure had seen even the sturdiest of souls crumble pathetically in the wake of such an event, and the boy before him seemed so fragile he may very well snap entirely should any ill befall him,
Perhaps he was grappling with another pressure, this one exerted from within and without. As the boys blossoming sexuality was fully awakened, were his proclivities aimed squarely at those of his own gender so that now he was riven by both shame at the social indignity of it all and simultaneous anticipation of the muscular delights ahead?
‘Could I be so fortunate?’ the figure contemplated, eyes glazing over slightly now as his own musings took hold, counteracting the control and focus only moments ago he had been congratulating himself for so readily. As his eyes swam back into focus, the figure mentally rebuked himself again for his lack of clarity of thought as, now, the young man was nowhere to be seen. Moving quickly, the figure crossed the same road the boy had a few moments ago, head snapping left, right, left, trying to determine where the man child had gone but, within seconds, he knew it was useless.
The virgin had eluded him.

Luke

Though only mid afternoon, the thick, double layered curtains were drawn tight shut, blocking out all hint of the thin sunlight that fell over the town, though that was not the primary reason the drapes had been drawn at such an unusual hour.
James nuzzled Luke’s chest, flicking his tongue out to lap at the thin, blonde curled hairs that bloomed between the slight curvature of his pectorals, moving his head to the left to allow his lips to find his friends nipple, drawing it into his mouth, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from the other man, arousing James further still. As he sucked on the stiffening bud, he allowed a free hand to traverse the length of his companions torso, fingers gliding over belly and pubis, pushing through dense underbrush like a bird foraging for food, finding what he sought, gliding a hand along the shaft of Luke’s penis, feeling it engorge in his palm instantly, even before he reached the tip, the member achieving full thickness as he allowed his hand to glide back down the length of the shaft, gripping more tightly now as he felt the excitement of his lover mounting, moving his hand rhythmically up and down the phallus, tongue and mouth still working at the rudimentary mammary gland, feeling Luke’s body tense beneath him, the organ in his hand now firm as steel as he detected the first signs of peristalsis. He increased the vigour of his actions, lifting his own body so that he straddled Luke completely, physically pointing the shaft of his lover towards his own stomach, still speeding up, his mouth working feverishly now, knowing the moment of climax was near, groaning aloud in sympathy with his companion as he felt Luke’s body jerk momentarily, his back arching as fluids were forced forth, erupting, spraying impressively upwards, splashing against James’ belly, a sticky-warm confirmation of the intimacy of the act they had shared before he felt Luke’s body relax and slump back to the mattress, sated.
James stayed where he was for a moment, savouring the feel of the other man’s semen against his own skin, an image of his own father momentarily flashing into his mind followed by the sound of his statements of disapproval regarding homosexual activity, a frequent theme, though he quickly blocked these out, not wishing anything to interfere with the moment.
James allowed his own weight to shift, lowering his arms so that his chest came to rest against Luke’s stomach, his head still at chest height, and he kissed the area once, twice, three times before working his way gradually upwards, finding Luke’s neck and nuzzling once more before strong hands found his shoulders and forced him onto his back, Luke’s face looming large before his own, his lips being sought and made readily available, tongues intertwining for precious seconds before Luke broke free, breath coming in great gasps as both men’s excitement rose once more.
Luke planted one more firm kiss on his lips before uttering a promise so sweet he almost felt like weeping.
‘Your turn.’
And James could do nothing but close his eyes and surrender to the moment.

Luke entered the public house first, James tailing behind, seeming nervous, daunted almost at the prospect of being around so many people.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t stay long,’ Luke had promised as they had left his bed-sit, a promise he intended to keep.
He walked now with a confidence he did not truly feel, apprehensive at what was about to take place, though reluctant to show his anxiety to his lover, male pride standing in the way of honest expression. Luke was forced to squint in the comparative gloom of the interior of the establishment, eye line following the length of the bar, seeing nobody familiar, moving on, not wishing to catch the eye of anyone unnecessarily.
‘Where the hell is he?’ asked James, and it was a fair question, one that had already occurred to Luke himself.
‘I don’t know. Listen, let’s just get a drink and wait for him. He’ll show. He wouldn’t mess us around.’
‘OK.’
It was an agreement to the plan, though a reluctant one.
‘What you having?’
‘What do you think?’
Luke glanced at his companion, surprised at the tetchiness of the retort. Though a vaguely irrelevant question as James always drank the same thing, still it was unlike him to respond either aggressively or sarcastically.
‘You OK?’ he asked, genuine concern in his tone, forcing James to smile weakly, aware that his response had been disproportionate.
‘Sorry. Yeah, fine. I just hate this place.’
‘Fair enough.’
At the bar now, Luke leaned forward, hating himself for doing it but holding a five pound note out in front of him as if the sight of currency would somehow attract a member of bar staff more readily, perhaps have them swooning, impressed beyond measure by his staggering wealth. Jesus, he felt like a tit sometimes, though the tactic seemed to work as a pretty blonde barmaid spied him and approached.
‘What can I get you?’
‘’Two pints of Banks’s, please,’ and with a curt nod, she swivelled on her heels and made for the pumps, affording Luke a favourable view of her profile. A sudden hand on his shoulder made him jump, and Luke spun around, hand half raised, ready to defend himself, forcing a smile from Dave’s usually impassive face. He held his hands up in mock surrender, as if genuinely threatened by Luke’s actions.
‘Calm down, calm down,’ he said, affecting a comedy Scouse accent for no reason in particular, ‘It’s only me.’
Luke dropped his fist back to his side, still a little rattled, not pleased with the way his friend had greeted him, less pleased by his next comment.
‘So where have you two benders been hiding?’
It was James who responded, aggressively, his state of anxiety caused by having to frequent a pub he did not care for seeming to affect his manners as well as his mood.
‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’
He almost shouted the words, and Dave’s eyes widened in surprise, as did Luke’s and he almost went to place a placatory hand on James’s shoulders but prevented himself from doing, not wishing to make physical contact in a public place, as if that act alone would somehow betray the secretive nature of their indulgences.
‘Jesus, what’s got into you two?’
Dave did his best to sound amused, though truthfully he came across as merely confused, as two friends reacted to his introduction in a highly negative fashion.
‘You try and hit me,’ he said, pointing at Luke, repeating aloud the events which had taken place, almost as if he believed James and Luke had not been present, ‘Now you start screaming at me. You two high or something?’
‘Two fifty please, love.’
Luke heard the words but, momentarily, was unaware they were directed at him, so caught up was he in the bizarre exchange that he had all but forgotten about the pints he had ordered just a few moments ago. As realisation dawned, he turned, handing over the note that was now balled up in his fist, hoping that the pretty barmaid would not notice the moisture on the paper bill due to the sweat that had started to pour from him.
‘You not getting me one?’ asked Dave.
‘Get your own.’

‘We gonna do this or what?’
Dave sounded impatient, still a little annoyed at being snubbed at the bar and eager to get the transaction over and done with.
‘I’m still not sure.’
It was James who spoke, though it could just as easily have been Luke as the words echoed his own thoughts precisely.
‘What’s not to be sure about?’
‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
An honest admission, and one that should have been spoken without shame, yet James blushed slightly all the same.
‘There’s nothing to it. Just tell him what you want, hand over the cash and he’ll do the rest.’
‘What if we get caught?’
Another fair question, Luke thought, James’ second of the day, though Dave responded by slumping back into the seat on which he had been perched, a barely audible ‘fucksake’ hissed through clenched teeth, quiet, though deliberately loud enough for those he sat with to hear.
‘Come on, let’s go.’
Both pairs of eyes turned to Luke as he spoke, each equally quizzical as the nature of his statement was ambiguous, open to equal interpretation from both parties. Did he mean ‘let’s go, do what we need to do’ or ‘let’s go, let’s call the whole thing off?’
‘What are you both staring at? Let’s do it. Let's blow this thing and go home.’
The other two men could only follow as he walked away.

Luke could not help but feel conspicuous as the three of them stood at the far corner of the pub car park, hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched in a bid to fend off the wind which carried a surprising bite for the time of year. Even the tall privet hedge that lined the car park behind them did little to dampen the buffeting gusts that had them rocking on their heels.
The required telephone call had been placed fifteen minutes ago and now, at the exactly designated moment, a dark blue Renault, replete with dent on one door frame and a large scratch that ran the length of the vehicle, a clear act of vandalism committed by a set of sturdy keys, manoeuvred onto the car park. The tinted windows made identification of the driver impossible, though there could be little doubt that the dealer had arrived, and the pumped up rear suspension only served to confirm the suspicion.
‘May as well have drug dealer spray painted onto the bonnet,’ thought Luke, though with little humour, his sense of anxiety too acute to enjoy his own musings.
‘This is him,’ said Dave, stating the bleeding obvious. ‘Don’t say anything stupid.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
James, still unusually hostile, apparently not yet ready to forgive the slight of character at the bar.
‘Not the time mate,’ was Dave’s reply, greeted with a ‘fuck you’ retort that startled Luke a little, especially given the circumstances. Maybe this was how James dealt with pressure, by becoming angry, powering through the moments of stress with sheer bursts of testosterone.
The Renault’s engine died and the door swung open. One trainer clad foot hit the tarmac as the driver swivelled to drop the other to the ground, lifting his considerable frame from the driver’s seat with assistance from the doorframe.
Dave held out a hand, balled in a fist, horizontal to the ground and the dealer responded in kind, the two men’s knuckles making a dull clack as they struck, a minor show of masculinity as the greeting was conducted with more force than was customary.
‘What’s it gonna be?’ the shaven headed man said in a voice more highly pitched than Luke would have suspected given his size, though he was not about to comment on the vaguely effeminate tones at that precise moment in time.
‘Ten bag,’ said Dave with a practiced calm, this a routine he had gone through many times before, always the one to get the goods previously, today insisting that James and Luke come along to see how it works, firstly, but also to establish a relationship with the dealer so they could begin to contact him directly themselves. As Dave was familiar with the dealer, he knew he was a cautious man, wary of new clientele, no matter how highly recommended from trusted sources, insisting instead on meeting them a few times in the company of a well established paying customer before providing his mobile phone details for their personal use.
The exchange happened in the blink of an eye, his hand delving into the inside pocket of his green wax jacket, the type most commonly associated with the farming community and supremely incongruous given the context. The hand came out and he offered it to Dave, the two men pretending to shake hands for a moment, the bag of narcotics exchanged between palms along with the single note of currency, which the dealer then slid into the front pocket of his jeans.
He moved along the line, Luke’s turn up next.
‘What’s it gonna be?’ he repeated, no interest in originality or entertaining the men in front of him, the very model of efficiency, simply wanting the money in exchange for the drugs then to be on his way, as swiftly as possible.
‘Erm, ten bag,’ said Luke, just managing to prevent himself from stuttering, his own hand in his back pocket, gripping the ten pound note too tightly, pulling it free of the pocket and holding his hand out, his timing perfect as the dealer retrieved the drugs from the same pocket in the wax jacket and gripped his hand momentarily, Luke feeling the assuredness with which he used the small and ring finger to grip the note whilst simultaneously using the middle and index finger to push the small bag of scag into his palm, which he curled over to claim his prize.
The dealer moved on.
‘What’s it gonna be?’
Standing in front of James, the same emotionless tone, the same expressionless face, the same efficiency in the transaction, and then he was gone, slipping behind the drivers seat of the Renault, slamming the door shut without so much as glancing at them again, his interest in them summarily ended now their money was his, he drove away.
‘Well done, chaps,’ said Dave, ‘You’re grown ups now.’

Twitch

The hunger pangs that had first presented as a minor annoyance had now blossomed into full blown pain, Twitch’s stomach protesting at almost three days straight without food and, with his energy levels depleting with every passing hour, he knew he had to act swiftly else run the risk of starvation. It seemed incredible to him that, in the latter part of the twentieth century, a smart, physically fit, albeit not particularly strong young man could fall foul of the perils of starvation, but that was the position he found himself in as he wandered the streets of Stourhampton, the initial burst of enthusiasm and delight at being free of Chris, his tormentor of several years, long since distilled into a cold, weary dread at what the immediate future would bring.
A clap of thunder overhead reflected his mood and, within seconds, the rain began to fall, steadily at first but with ever increasing vigour so that Twitch was obliged to take flight, sore, trainer clad feet slapping against the pavement, not really sure where he was running to until he got there, bursting through the entryway to the town centre shopping mall, his speed too much for the automatic doors, barging one shoulder against them in his haste to be away from the rain, away from the cold, away from the interminable dampness that seemed to cling to him, that found the tiniest of gaps in his clothing, holes not visible to the naked eye, seeping through the fabric of T-shirt, sweatshirt and coat until chill-laced fingers found his skin and refused to leave him be.
Twitch scanned the promenade in front of him, eyes wide, alert, on the lookout for the security guard who had thrown him out just, when was it? Yesterday? The day before? Did it really matter? Time seemed all but irrelevant in Twitch’s new world. He had nowhere to go, no people to meet, no appointments to keep. He had no need to rush for the bus lest he be late for school, no reason to glance at his watch as he walked to the cinema to make sure he did not miss the trailers. Constantly hungry now, even his own body’s rhythms could not be relied upon to inform him of an approximate time of day, when the first growl of the stomach in the afternoon usually signals half past twelve, maybe one o’clock whereas now, the unending stabs of hunger rendered that methodology redundant. Eyes flicking left, right, left, scanning the faces of those who shared the promenade revealing no sign of the security guard, though Twitch knew he could be anywhere. Perhaps patrolling the concourse on the lower level, or standing stock still by one of the fake palm trees, half obscured, hoping to catch the unsuspecting in the act of one misdemeanour or another. He could even be on a break or a day off, or maybe in the security guard control room, which Twitch fancied was akin to a governmental war room, large screens monitoring all activity in the shopping centre, the constant sound of electronic beeps and buttons being depressed, multiple clocks mounted on the wall only, instead of showing the time in London, Paris, New York, these all displayed the same time, with the names of other large shopping centres emblazoned beneath them.
Bluewater.
Merry Hill.
Meadowhall.
Twitch was mystified as to why the guard in question had taken such an instant dislike to him, though was wise enough to realise that any hope of reasoning with the fellow was foolhardy. No, avoidance was the only sensible approach and, so far at least, the strategy was working just fine.
But where to for nourishment?
Twitch reached into his back pocket, fishing out the only coin he possessed, a twenty pence piece he had found on the floor earlier in the day, pondering what could be bought for such a paltry sum. It was just too little even for a chocolate bar, though he remembered a TV advert for Super Crunchies with a deplorably catchy jingle which claimed the packet of crisps only cost 10p.
Two packets of crisps.
His mouth watered at the thought.
As he continued to survey his vicinity, his eyes fell upon the familiar white and red sign above the entrance to Woolworths, on the other side of the promenade on which he walked, meaning he had to walk to the end of the section he was in, hang a right and pass beyond the escalators to get to the correct part of the building. Feeling very exposed, expecting a cry of ‘Heh, you!’ from the guard at any minute, Twitch moved as quickly as he could whilst still officially walking, Nothing is more likely to attract the attention of a watchful and, by the very nature of the job role Twitch thought, suspicious security guard than a young boy in flight. His feet made little noise on the polished tiled floor and he was across to the other side in thirty seconds, no more, plunging into the relative safety of the shop itself with immense relief. Whilst it was possible the guard could be in any one of the hundred or so shops, Twitch felt that he would have to suffer a remarkable stroke of bad fortune to bump into him whilst actually in a store, feeling more at ease now, away from the vulnerability of the concourse.
His stomach rumbled mightily, reminding him of his mission, and he set to searching the large store for the goods he sought. He did not have to look far. As his eyes adjusted to the relatively dim lighting inside the shop a sight greeted him that set his pulse racing and saliva squirting into his already moistened mouth. An entire aisle, just to his right, was dedicated to sweets and snacks, a veritable cornucopia of candy and crisps, enough to sate the appetite of even the most gluttonous, never mind a homeless young man who had not eaten in days. As ridiculous as it seemed, Twitch felt himself tremble slightly and, as a new thought occurred, one fuelled by sheer desperation and hunger, his facial tic reasserted control of his cheek. He approached the aisle as casually as he could, making every effort to appear relaxed and disinterested, too young to realise that in so doing he would almost certainly raise suspicion amongst eagle eyed, experienced staff, should any be present. He pushed one hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and let his shoulders drop a little in an effort to appear as nonchalant as possible. First his eyes alighted on the chocolate bars and it was all he could do to prevent himself from ripping one open there and then and devouring it like a beast, to hell with the consequences. But restrain he did, opting instead to quickly lash out his free hand and snatch a couple of Double Deckers from the display, hastily stuffing them into the front left pocket of his coat, all without once breaking stride. Though he had never previously countenanced the notion of shoplifting, it seemed easy enough to Twitch, the desperate nature of his current plight making actions that would ordinarily have appalled him seem almost commonplace. Still moving, his hand flicked out once more, this time clutching two Snickers bars – he still thought of them as Marathon’s really, despite the name change of the previous year - and dumped these into the right pocket of his coat. A quick glance down at his own chest and abdomen revealed no tell tale lump in the fabric of his coat, but Twitch elected to tug the bottom of the coat down all the same, straightening it out as best as the material would allow, eager that no-one be given a reason to be suspicious. Now all he had to do was get out of the store without being caught, and Twitch felt that the best way to achieve this was to make a purchase. The Super Crunchies still seemed appetising, despite the chocolaty treats he had pilfered and he located them quickly amongst the myriad other savoury snacks on the opposite side of the aisle. Smiths Square Crisps, Walkers Salt and Vinegar, Quavers, Wotsits and Monster Munch all tempted him, the bright colours and eye-catching fonts all promising savoury delights within the packets, but Twitch resisted the urge to try to steal some of these as well, not wishing to push his luck any further than he already had. Sticking to the plan, he crouched slightly to retrieve two packets of the ten pence a pack snack and straightened, yanking down on the front of his coat one more time just in case, turned, and made for the service area, retrieving the twenty pence piece as he walked to lessen the amount of time he would be required to spend in the store by a good five seconds, though every second gained was precious, one second less to be caught in the act. As the time of day was quiet, only one member of service staff was present behind the tills, the other seven cash registers deserted, and Twitch did his best to appear friendly as he approached the elderly lady on duty.
He placed the two packets of crisps in front of her, heart racing a little now the moment was actually at hand. Within a minute, no more, he would officially become a criminal, and it was a thought that did not sit well at all, despite his sense of utter desperation.
‘That your lot, son?’ the lady asked, smiling at him from behind the counter, and Twitch could only nod, struck suddenly mute, a combination of apprehension, fear and shame mixing together, a potent melange that seemed to paralyse his vocal chords. He wanted to speak, truly he did, knowing that his own inability to communicate could be viewed with suspicion, though the elderly lady behind the counter showed no signs of concern.
‘Last of your pocket money, is it?’ she asked cheerfully enough, and again all Twitch could do was nod, attempting a smile to go with the physical affirmation, concerned that the smile would instead be presented as a grimace or worse, a rictus grin, forced, shallow, the facial expression of a worthless criminal committing a felony.
‘Just stop talking and ring it through, you old bitch,’ thought Twitch, shocked at himself, starting to feel vaguely nauseous, a queasiness that started in his stomach and ended in his cranium, his eyes losing focus, feeling dizzy and frightened and wanting to piss his pants all at the same time, so disorientated by his own body’s rebellion that he did not even see as she put the packets through, holding a hand out for the cash, oblivious of her actions until she spoke, confirming the price, asking that he hand over the twenty pence piece he held in his hand before she would be willing to part with the goods. On the verge of vomiting now, Twitch, hands shaking badly, fumbled for the coin in his front pocket, forgetting that he already held it, blushing now on top of everything else at his own stupidity, just about managing to pass her the coin without dropping it to the floor, snatching up the two packets of crisps and turning towards the exit, genuine panic seizing him as he saw a member of staff at the doorway watching him intently, knowing all he could do was walk and try to look innocent, aware that he looked anything but. As he approached the staff member, a large, bearded man with a name badge that also stated his job title (Tony, Assistant Manager), the man in question took a step towards him and held a hand up, signalling Twitch to stop, but Twitch paid him no heed, pretended that he had not seen him, feigning ignorance.
‘Excuse me young man, I’d like a word with you….’
But Twitch was in flight before he could even finish his sentence, before he could take hold of him and demand that he turn out his pockets he was around him, the mans bulk no match for Twitch’s agility, streaking through the concourse towards the automatic doors once more, the cries of the fat man growing ever dimmer and, suddenly, Twitch felt a sense of jubilation, exhilarated by the audaciousness of his own actions, the blood pumping through his veins seeming to have a positive effect on his mind as well, blotting out the negativity and crushing doubts that had started to form, the flow of blood washing away the self-pity and mental recriminations, replacing it all instead with an animal surge of power and supremacy as, for the first time in his short life he actually felt alive.
As he reached the automatic doors once more, as he burst into the outside world where a slight drizzle still fell, Twitch could prevent himself no longer and bellowed for all to hear ‘I’m alive.’
‘I’m Twitch and I’m alive.’
He ran on.

Luke

The trips to the car parks had become more regular, almost daily by now, though not always the same car park, sometimes other pubs, other shops, behind the solicitors office, in the alleyway between the school and the greengrocers. Any place that eyes could not see, where lurkers and shirkers could not be spotted or viewed with suspicion. Luke and James had come to an agreement to take it in turns, Luke one day, James the next as, by now, Dave had long since departed. Luke thought about that from time to time, about the fact that it was Dave who had first suggested they start using H then, as soon as it became habitual, as soon as it became the norm – he refused to consider it an addiction - he pretty much vanished from their lives. Still, they had no need of him now. Their relationship with the dealer was strong, so all it took was a telephone call and their needs were serviced. Sometimes it took longer than was desirable, so either himself or James was left stranded on a car park or in a public toilet for long periods of time, multiple calls to the dealer being placed who always promised that he was on his way. He always arrived in the end but, sometimes, when you were rattling, ten minutes stretched into an eternity as the psychological and physical effects of withdrawal began to bite and the mind started playing tricks.
‘What if he doesn’t show?’
The thought of going through a whole day without any shit almost intolerable, actually panic inducing so you felt the urge to call the dealer constantly, every twenty, thirty seconds until he arrived, sometimes shouting, sometimes threatening to hurt you, never following through though. You were a paying customer after all, and he was not the only dealer in town and he knew it and, besides, it was ok for him to get mad as long as he kept on providing the goods.
The dealer arrived promptly this time, as Luke waited impatiently on the same pub car park as when first he had been introduced to him. He still drove the souped up Renault, though the dent had been repaired and the scratch long since removed.
‘Must be raking it in selling this shit,’ thought Luke as he watched the car approach.
The process was over in less than ten seconds, the dealer not even bothering to get out of the car anymore, no longer feeling the need to intimidate with his size and shaven head, not now he knew the client, not now he trusted the customer. The window came down, the exchange was made and the car drove off.
Simple as.
‘The easiest thing in the world,’ thought Luke.

James sat on the edge of bed as Luke arrived back at the student bed-sit. Luke looked him up and down once, momentarily startled by his appearance, knowing that he too must share some of the traits of his companion and not wishing to think about the reasons why. James seemed nervous, agitated. He was leaning forward at a severe angle, each hand clamped on a calf, arms tensed straight to prevent him from toppling forward. His hair, always untidy, seemed lank and greasy, and the colour of his skin was pallid and sickly, red blotches pronounced against the paleness. As he looked up at Luke, the eyes were bloodshot, the surrounding area dark, almost black even, and he blinked as though the sockets were full of treacle, not lacrimal fluid.
‘You get it?’
There was a hint of desperation to the tone, one that Luke had noted in his own voice when it was James’ turn to do the H run, so he decided not to comment on it, instead just nodding his head and answering with a quick ‘Got it.’
‘Hand it out then.’
James forced himself upright, watching Luke ceaselessly as he walked across the room and dropped his front door keys onto the bedside cabinet, the only piece of furniture left in the flat besides the bed and the television stand. He’d sold the armchair a few weeks ago, without the landlords consent, to fund himself whilst he waited for the student grant to come through.
‘Here you go.’
He placed one clear polythene bag onto the cabinet beside his keys and tossed the other to his friend, James catching the twenty bag and peeling open the plastic seal eagerly, raising the opening to his nostrils and sniffing deeply, a contended look swimming across his face like a well seasoned wine connoisseur nosing an especially rich and complex Cabernet Sauvignon before a meal.
‘Holy shit, man, it’s getting harder to wait.’
‘I know.’
Luke was non-committal, all too aware of the truth of his companions statement, fearful of the ramifications, though James seemed oblivious, already crafting a joint with Rizla and rolling tobacco, mixing the shit in with the tobacco with a practiced hand, making it look easy, though Luke knew otherwise. To get maximum effect, it was important to lace the joint with an even quantity of powder, so the buzz lasted for the duration of the smoke. Some preferred to add spice to the initial burn end of the joint by loading the front, though Luke was happy either way. Besides, he had taken to rolling his own now. Initially, James and Luke had shared the rolling duties – everyone knows it’s a pain in the rear to skin up – but as they had become more experienced, more hardcore, their preferences became more pronounced, so they went their separate ways as far as rolling up went. James preferred to pack his joint with more of a punch than Luke, who liked something a little more mellow, or as mellow as can be managed when imbibing huge quantities of heroin.
‘I hope this is better than the last few times, man,’ said James who had voiced his displeasure at the quality of the goods frequently of late. ‘I miss the gouge, man, when it’s not there.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
Distracted, thinking too much, Luke finished rolling his own joint, which he had accomplished whilst still standing, leaning down on the bedside cabinet to achieve his aim, delving into his own twenty bag then sprinkling the contents onto the tobacco laid out neatly in the rolling paper, careful to ensure the powder was well spread along the length. Once done, he held the completed smoke between index finger and middle, sitting down next to James who held out the lighter. Luke took it gratefully and sparked up.

The world swam out of focus as the narcotic hit his bloodstream, crossing the blood-brain barrier within seconds, his body’s own ability to break down the substance, to literally alter the chemical makeup of it giving rise to the wonderfully potent shifts in mood and thought. As the morphine was divided within his own brain, broken down so that two compounds were formed, the original morphine and a further substance, 6-monoacetylmorphine, these compounds bound themselves to his brains receptors, which responded acutely, swiftly transforming Luke’s electro-chemical responses so that, in place of the nerves and the worry and the anxiety he had felt just moments before, instead came a sense of calm that was unlike anything he had ever known. As he drifted, his thoughts turned inwards, taking him back in time, as images of his life blurred into focus briefly before distorting, as if each slice of life image was rising up from beneath a pool of mercury, the quick silver forming into beads that rolled off the mental photograph, revealing the contents momentarily before reforming to obscure the image once more.
Luke as a teenager, sitting in his bedroom alone, playing on his computer, a beaming, almost manic smile on his face as if he were the happiest boy who had ever lived.
Luke at primary school, shortly after playing football with some of the bigger boys, not so happy here, crying even, the grey trousers he wore ripped at the knee revealing a nasty cut to the skin where Thomas had pushed him over onto the rough tarmac, then ran off laughing.
Further back he plunged, thoughts swirling atop one another, a mental vortex over which he had no control, though he in no way tried to resist, the sensation of warmth and calm and security that enveloped him so potent he would have been unable to should he have so wished.
A baby, now, crawling on all fours, dummy in mouth, chasing after a ball his mother rolled just in front of him, just out of arms reach, enjoying the game. Though he knew it infeasible, this felt like a real memory, not a fabrication of his own drug-warped mind, and he was convinced that this had really happened, the memory so sharp and so focused that the events could have taken place in the last few months, not so many years ago.
Further still he travelled, into the darkness now, feeling nothing but warmth and moisture, a rhythmic double beat metronome his only companion in this strange place, a steady thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum that at first he did not recognise, so long had it been since he had heard it but gradually, realisation came. He was listening to his mother’s heart as he floated in her womb, encased by her protective flesh, suspended securely within her belly, free from worries or cares, oblivious to all except the sensation of nothingness.
He drifted on.

Twitch

The rich aroma of fried foods was more than sufficient to prompt saliva production in Twitch’s mouth and it took all of his will power to refrain from wolfing down the bacon and egg sandwich in front of him one go. It was early, not yet even seven o’clock in the morning, yet he was not the sole customer of the cafeteria. Five others were present, though that number was reduced by one as a man in blue overalls with a company logo embroidered onto the left chest which read John Watts Plumbing Services swung open the door and made for the outside world.
‘Bye, love,’ he called back into the shop over his shoulder, his farewell not reciprocated by either of the two female staff on duty though, judging by his expression he took no offence, apparently accepting that they were busy cooking and serving rather than ignoring his parting words.
Twitch’s stomach growled mightily, bringing his mind back sharply into focus, his eyes drawn once more to the sandwich in front of him, though still he resisted taking so much as a single bite. He was starting to learn the rules a little, beginning to become a little street smart. He had bought the small meal some five minutes ago and, whilst desperately hungry, he was playing out a strategy. The way he figured it, the longer he had food in front of him, the longer he could stay in the delightful warmth of the café and, after spending several nights out on the street, warmth was a companion he craved more than he would have believed possible. The staff in the eatery seemed pleasant enough and Twitch was convinced that, if he played it right, he could kill upwards of an hour in the place, maybe a little while longer. If he could make it to eight o’clock, perhaps even half past, the night chill would be slowly burning off and, with a good meal in his belly, he felt he could face another day on the street begging. Though still not very skilful when it came to convincing people to part with their money, the previous day had at least been marginally more successful than the one before and he had ended the day with enough money to buy the breakfast sandwich, and still with enough change left over to get a cup of tea should the women behind the counter ask him to leave.
‘Be with you in two, Greg,’ the prettier of the two serving staff called from behind the counter, causing the man on the table next to him to nod before replying.
‘No problem. Take your time.’
He had not taken his eyes off her the whole time he had been seated, Twitch saw, feeling sorry for the poor woman, and he made a mental note not to stare at women in that way as, watching the other man intermittently, he felt his skin crawl. Twitch’s eyes flicked back and forth between the man next to him, Greg the lady had called him, and the two women who seemed locked in conversation. The young one, the pretty one, pointed at her hip and made a comment, at which point the older lady laughed so hard Twitch heard her snort from where he sat and, despite himself, despite the prospect of the day ahead, he felt himself smiling too, finding vicarious pleasure in the amusement of another. He dropped his head back to his plate of food as the younger woman turned back towards the main area of the café, bringing Greg his order.
‘Here you go. Plenty of HP, just the way you like it.’
‘That looks lovely, Alice.’
Twitch found it hard to identify, hard to put into words, even in his own
mind, but there was something about the man beside him, something about the expression he wore, even his tone of voice, the way that he enunciated his words that set Twitch right on edge. It was as if he expected trouble, and his body were gearing itself up for it, prepping for flight or fight mode should the need arise.
‘What’s wrong?’ Twitch heard the younger lady say and looked up, expecting to find that she had been addressing the odious Greg, instead noting that the older woman was standing immediately behind her.
‘I think we’re going to have to do something about him,’ was the older woman’s response and, for one heart-stopping moment, Twitch was convinced that she was talking about him, thought that she was about to march over to him and demand that he eat up and get out, and stop cluttering the place up like the useless little shit-stain that he was. Of course, that didn’t happen, that was simply what he had been conditioned to believe, what he had come to expect. Instead, the two women were staring at a point in the room just to the rear of where he sat, prompting Twitch to swivel in his seat to see what they were looking at. On the table behind him, a man even more dishevelled than he was slumped forward, either asleep or unconscious, either way oblivious to all that occurred around him, a still full cup of tea on the table in front of him.
‘He’s not causing any trouble,’ the younger of the two women stated, a fact it was hard to disagree with given that he was dead to the world. When no reply was forthcoming from her companion, she issued a fresh enquiry.
‘Do you think he’s alright?’
‘Only one way to find out,’ the older lady said, and Twitch watched as she nudged her companion in the back, propelling her forward, clearly communicating that she was not going to be the one to deal with the man when he was awoken. The younger woman looked for a moment as if she were about to protest, but the insistent nature of the pressure from behind changed her mind.
‘OK,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.
Twitch stood, clambering out of his seat and scampering to the other side swiftly, eager to be in place for the show to commence. Having lived on the street for several days, with his only form of human interaction being told to bugger off when he asked for money, the prospect of a genuine spectacle unfolding before him was too much to resist. He plonked into his new seat and leaned back, every bit the cinema goer settling in before a matinee performance, only here the action was live, and bacon and bread took the place of the popcorn.
‘Ted,’ the woman called softly, apparently deluded, thought Twitch, if she thought that such a gentle cry would be sufficient to awaken a man in such poor condition.
‘Ted,’ she said again, more loudly this time and, when no movement was detected and with a vague sneer of revulsion crossing her features briefly before she hid her true feelings behind a veneer of respectability, she thrust out a hand to shake the vagrant. Her efforts were in vain and, clearly at her wits end, she turned back towards her companion who advised sagely ‘Wake him up,’ as if oblivious to the fact that she had been trying to do precisely that. Twitch felt like admonishing the older woman, to call her an idiot, something, anything just to show his contempt.
‘I’ve seen right through you,’ he could challenge boldly and, in his fantasy, his face would remain stoically static, not a tic in sight, ‘Sending the pretty one in to do the dirty work,’ and, even as the thought formed, he realised he had developed an instantaneous crush on the woman before him, the brave one, the one treading where a colleague twice her age dare not. Despite her bravery, her actions were becoming all the more desperate as several further attempts to awaken the beast were unsuccessful and it was only a firm shake to the shoulder that roused him, that tore him from his near comatose state.
‘Sorry, Ted, you’re going to have to make a move.’
And there was such anguish, such pity in that tone that Twitch felt that his heart would burst any instant. He wanted to leap up from the table and wrap his arms around her and kiss every inch of her face and tell her how proud he was of her but, of course, he did none of those things, too shy to even say hello when he had first entered the shop, ordering his bacon and eggs whilst staring earnestly at his own shoe-laces.
‘Are you ok, Ted?’ she asked kindly, prompting the witch behind her to hiss something that Twitch could not quite decipher, though something unpleasant, he was sure.
The tramp struggled into the misery of reality with a strangled cry and voiced his displeasure at being disturbed, demanding that she leave him be. Twitch’s earlier sense that something bad was about to happen had been directed at Greg, the lecherous old so and so on the table to his right now that he had switched sides, but perhaps his instinct had been wrong. Perhaps it was this homeless man that would be the source of the disquiet, and it soon transpired that he was. Twitch felt himself tense involuntarily, again preparing to either engage or flee, though his worries were allayed somewhat when a rugged looking man in a fluorescent jacket offered to assist. Though eased by the man’s presence, Twitch nevertheless could not ward off a slight shiver of envy as he watched the scene unfold, ‘Ben’ the pretty one had called him, all male confidence and well toned muscles standing in such close proximity to his first ever crush. Twitch even had cause to suppress a laugh as the tramp, having plucked a salt shaker from the Formica tabletop proceeded to hurl it at the builder, striking him firmly on the shoulder and prompting an expletive. All the same, this was a battle with only one outcome, the tramp no match for the two builders, the second man having to assist Ben as the homeless man put up quite the struggle.
‘Deceiver. Miscreant deceiver,’ Ted bellowed straight into Ben’s ear, causing the builder to stumble slightly and demand that his companion open the front door to the eatery post haste, which he duly did and, between them, they ejected Ted from the building, having to man-handle him all the way out before dropping him off on the pavement, like a rural veterinarian releasing an animal back into the wild.
‘Holy shit,’ was all Ben could say as he leaned against the wall to catch his breath, before all eyes turned front ways once more as Ted approached the glass frontage. For one horrifying moment Twitch thought he was going to propel himself towards the window, perhaps smash his way back into the café, despite his frail condition, equally appalled when instead he elected to project a gobbet of sputum against the glass before making his way down the street.
‘He’s fucking nuts,’ was Ben’s verdict.
Twitch tended to agree, turning back to his sandwich, eager to be away from this place now for reasons he could not entirely explain. The commotion caused by the expulsion of the homeless man should have been entertaining, not unsettling, yet Twitch’s brow became furrowed as he ate. Could that be an echo of a future time? Was that the fate that awaited himself some thirty or forty years down the line? He found it hard to believe, but his current situation seemed to suggest a path of continued vagrancy was at least a possibility. He was bright, yes, but the Social Awareness class they had at school about homelessness had stressed that all kinds of people become homeless. Teachers, policemen, even doctors can fall on bad times and wind up living outdoors, with no family to support them and no right to social benefits. Often, the very fact that you have lived on the street can lead to prejudice, which in turn leads to loneliness and isolation before inevitable mental health issues arise. Paranoia, schizophrenia, manic depression, all these and more, making it ever harder to return to a ‘normal’ life.
‘Whatever that means,’ thought Twitch, stuffing the last of his bacon and eggs, the bit that had slopped out of the butty on his first bite, into his mouth and standing to leave. He looked around himself, a little surprised to find himself alone. His preoccupation with his own destiny had blocked out the rest of the world so that now, as he returned to a place of awareness, a moment of opportunity seemed to have arisen. He clambered from behind his chair as quietly as he could, not wanting his footsteps to betray him and tiptoed over to the counter, to see what was happening. The four adults were present, in the kitchen area, Ben with his jacket and white t-shirt off, the young pretty waitress applying a plaster to the area with more diligence than Twitch felt strictly necessary whilst the other two were locked in animated conversation, presumably still discussing the morning’s unusual events. None of them had a clue he was there at all, so Twitch took his chance, grabbing two handfuls of crisp packets off the counter. He tiptoed back to his table, releasing the contents of one hand, four bags of salt and vinegar, so he could stoop down and pick up his rucksack. He opened it quickly, a calmness upon him that would have shocked him less than a week ago, knowing that he was just doing what he needed to do in order to survive. Stuffing the crisps into the rucksack as hurriedly as he could, he yanked the pull-tie shut and hoisted his bounty onto his shoulder, leaving the shop without anyone even noticing he was gone.
‘What a great start to the day,’ he thought.

The Black Country Butcher

The light from the overhead fluorescents reflected from the blade of the butcher’s knife, glinting as he wiped the length of the implement with a cloth to rid it of any blemish. He held the knife up to eye level, turning the handle to inspect both sides thoroughly then, once satisfied, lay the tool down on the stainless steel surface in front of him. The pig’s carcass filled the slab on which it lay, the beast clearly a fine specimen whilst it still drew air, but the man felt no pity for the creature, understanding that for one form of life to flourish, another must suffer. It was the same with mankind after all, as those with plenty deprived those with little intentionally, keeping them firmly in their place, providing just enough aid and assistance to keep them alive but insufficient to allow them to pose a threat. Beneath the animal, a large blanket, soiled with blood stains despite a vigorous wash, testament to previous scenes of slaughter.
The butcher stepped back from the animal before him, turning to the smaller, wheel-cast butchers block on his right, retrieving a pair of latex gloves and slipping them over his hands, a form of protection he did not enjoy, preferring to feel the flesh against his own though, working with meat long since dead, it was a necessary precaution.
The pig lay on its back, its legs already having been removed at source, the farmers wife presumably eager to make a broth from the trotters, so the butcher had no need to carve away at the thigh, commencing instead with the body cavity, using the long blade of the butchers knife to reopen the incision in the belly of the beast, cutting the length of its underside, little effort required as he was not slicing through thick layers of fat and flesh, instead simply following the mark made by another when the pig was originally gutted. Once rent, the butcher lay his knife aside, using his hands now, tugging at the opposing sides of the wound, yanking, prizing the gash apart to allow him to peer within, the sight that greeted him precisely as expected, all entrails removed save the kidneys which were left intact, untouched, bringing a small nod of appreciation from the man, understanding the precision and skill required to achieve such a task.
The butcher turned away again, back to the wooden block on his right, this time fetching a large towel, once white, now spattered with stains, some brown, others red, dependant upon age. He took the towel and wrapped it around one fist, delving deep into the creatures abdomen and wiping down all sides, removing as much of the residue and moisture as was possible before retrieving the knife once more and extracting the kidneys, placing these on the block in a large, clear, plastic box.
They could be dealt with later.
For the next part of the task a cleaver was required, so the butcher retrieved it from the block, moving the length of the surface in front of him so that he was at the top end of the beast, taking hold of the large head and manoeuvering it so that the spine of the animal was laid out straight then, with four precisely delivered blows, he severed the head from the shoulders, the assuredness of practice manifest in his strokes.
One further implement was needed for the most onerous part of the process. Next to the plastic tub containing the kidneys lay a meat saw, and the butcher moved to it, picking it up carefully, all too aware of the wicked sharpness of the business end, positioning himself appropriately so that he could move the length of the carcass, using his left hand, his weaker hand, true, but through practice he was almost as accomplished with either and set to sawing down the animals middle, along the vertebrae, using the spine almost as a child uses a ruler to draw a straight line, allowing it to guide the direction of the blade as he yanked the implement back and forth, back and forth, the teeth of the blade biting into flesh and bone, ripping through the organic matter as if it were no more substantial than candyfloss. Though the blade made light work of the meat, still it was a tiring activity, and the butcher wiped his brow with the back of his free hand, catching the sweat before it dripped into his eyes, taking a deep breath as, finally, the animals body fell into two pieces, rolling away from each other so that each flank lay flush against the stainless steel surface. He barely paused, moving quickly to separate the two halves, cutting each half into three to divide up the shoulder, ribs and loin, eager to finish now, to be done with this beast, his thoughts starting to drift, feeling himself start to lose control, the image of the boy in the park flashing into his mind as he worked, the sound of the saw against the meat and bone playing out in his imagination, the saw slicing down the length of another animal altogether, one with brown hair and a fragile frame.
The high pitched squeal of the metal teeth scratching against steel brought him back to his senses and, as his vision cleared he found to his surprise that the task was complete, each section of the pig was now distinct as a recognisable joint and, judging by the marbling effect of the fat running through the meat itself, this animal would prove very succulent indeed.
The butcher admired his handiwork.
His customers would be most pleased.

Luke

The streets of Stourhampton were so familiar to him that Luke could almost have walked them blindfolded without incident, were it not for the random elements; the pedestrians, the vehicles, the litter. He walked with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, warding off the surprising chill in the air with hunched shoulders and lowered head, driving into the wind with the top of his head rather than his face, as if that would somehow protect him from the elements. He shivered as he moved, reluctant to concede that his susceptibility to the cold was not all down to the wind chill, as much to do with the large amounts of heroin he was pumping into his system on a daily basis as the inclement weather.
He was alone now, all of his friends suddenly strangers to him, his life completely removed from the one he had been living just a few short months ago. To begin with, the drug taking had been great fun, as he, John, Dave and James had imbibed socially, enhancing their life experiences through narcotics. As he walked, he reflected on their activities, remembering the laughter and the joy that, though chemically induced in some ways, was nevertheless genuine as far as he was concerned. The time they had visited Alton Towers on a hot summers day and James had pulled a strip of LSD tabs from his jeans pocket on the drive through Uttoxeter. As they pulled onto the main car park, they had each dropped a couple of the tabs, the small green squares almost dissolving on their tongues, the active compound completely tasteless, colourless and odourless, though no less potent for all that, an invisible, silent predator that could strike when least expected. For Luke, the moment came on The Black Hole, an indoor rollercoaster set in pitch perfect blackness, where the only sensations for the rider are that of dizzying speed and the wind against the face, along with the rattle of the carriage along the tracks. As they clambered aboard the craft, Luke had already begun to feel the effects of the drug in his system, manifested in an uncontrollable burst of the giggles as he settled in and the ride attendant walked the length of the carriage checking that all safety devices were locked in place. Luke’s laughter became so ferocious and loud that the attendant felt compelled to ask if he was alright, which prompted yet more laughter, forcing James to explain his friend’s behaviour as a reaction to nerves. As the carriage pulled off, Luke managed to get a hold of himself, stemming the laughter, though not the flow of tears from his eyes and, as they entered the total darkness and the vehicle was hauled up a seemingly endless corkscrew ramp by the mechanised chain loop, the grating metal on metal sound of the chain dogs locking in place beneath the vehicle began to echo through Luke’s mind, growing in volume, as if an amplifier were affixed to the wall beside them and a sound technician was gradually twisting the volume knob, a technician who would not be satisfied until it reached levels beyond human endurance
‘You ready?’ he heard James call beside him, felt his hand on his thigh briefly, sweetly, before the chain dogs disengaged and the carriage began to move under its own momentum, still curving slightly on the plateau before the plunge, Luke’s heart beating fiercely in his chest as myriad senses all fought for dominance, the sensory confusion caused by the drug in his system making him believe he could see the sound of the wheels rattling against the frame of the ride then, as the crest of the hill was found, the coaster took off, plunging headlong through the absolute darkness, and Luke found himself screaming like a schoolgirl, arms held aloft, every nerve ending in his body alive, a wall of myriad colours almost blinding him as his eyes saw patterns and shapes that were none-existent, the twinkling stars and pale blue asteroids merging into one kaleidoscope of colour, enjoying every moment of the experience, even as they burst back into the light and the ride came to a halt.
That was then.
Now he was alone, the very idea of a trip to a theme park almost ludicrous. Theme parks require tickets to gain entrance and to get the tickets you need money to pay for one and, after dropping out of university, no more grant cheques were likely. Every penny he possessed had been spent on H so that now he walked through the streets of his home town, destitute. Even the roof over his head was at risk, having fallen behind with the rent payments, just about scraping up enough cash to cover one weeks worth, just enough to keep the landlord off his back for another seven days, though he now owed four weeks total. Or was it five? It was hard to keep track. Hard to take it seriously, if the truth be told, and Luke almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all. He was bright, his family reasonably well to do, father a dentist, mother a part time doctor’s receptionist, part time freelance writer on children’s health. Ironic then that her own child should be afflicted with an addiction so severe it looked as if, very shortly, he would become homeless. Not that he blamed his parents. Not that he blamed anyone at all, as one of the wonderful, one of the most alluring aspects of chronic heroin addiction is the desensitisation. He felt nothing at all. No pain at all, either physical or mental, when on a high and, when gouging in particular, that most evocative of times as the spirits soar and the body numbs, no emotional activity whatsoever. He simply floated now, drifting through each day, his only reason for getting up in the morning the urge to obtain enough H to see him through the day.
But now the money had run out, the well had run dry and his supply, inevitably, would be shut off as surely as a standpipe in a drought, and that was simply a prospect he could not bear to think about. Even though he was all but incapable of emotional awareness or resonance, still he felt that dread tingle of fear at the thought of going a day without his fix.
So he walked now, alone, all the people he had associate with as he descended into this drug fuelled existence long since moved on. Some were dead, for all he knew, for all he cared if the truth be told, all save James. James still held a place in his heart. The illicit love they had shared – for that was what it had been, he was sure now, even though he had never been able to admit it at the time, even to himself – had forged a bond between them that would never be broken, no matter the distance that separated them now, both in terms of lifestyle and time since last they had met. Most nights, as he drifted off into what passed for sleep, his thoughts inevitably drifted to James, wondering what he was doing now, who he was seeing, how he was spending his days. Each night he vowed to himself to make an effort to contact him, to track him down. It couldn’t be that hard, especially if he was still at the university yet, come the morning, all such notions were dismissed in favour of the driving need to obtain his fifty bag, by hook or by crook.
And by crook was his plan right now as he walked, hands still stuffed into his pockets, turning onto the street that would be his destination. He kept moving, taking one hand out of his pocket, running it beneath his nostrils as if ridding himself of some nasal debris, or tickling away an itch though the truth was he was simply keeping his hands busy, a nervous tic, almost, though he felt nothing inside at the prospect of the act he was about to commit. He reached the front gate of his intended house and swung it open boldly, not bothering to reach for a latch, knowing that none was present. The gate gave a low squeal of protest, as if voicing alarm at the intrusion, though not loud enough for anyone more than two or three feet away to hear, so Luke pressed on. Four quick strides saw him at the doorstep but he did not reach for the doorbell or letterbox to alert anyone to his presence, instead he delved into his back left pocket, producing a small copper coloured Yale lock and sliding it into place. The lock turned without resistance and, within perhaps five seconds of turning up the path that led to the front door, he was inside the dwelling, away from the prying eyes of curious neighbours.
Luke stood still and listened for a moment, holding his breath so that even the movement of air from hi own lungs did not interfere with his capacity to detect any sign of life within the building. When absolutely sure that he was alone, he called out.
‘Mom.’
No response but, just to be sure, he called again, louder this time.
‘Mom. It’s me, Luke.’
Only silence greeted him.
As it should be.
He moved quickly, aware that time was against him. His mother, reliable as ever, always popped to the supermarket on a Wednesday morning to pick up the perishables that needed to be replenished after the weekend shop. Bread, milk, cold cuts. The kind of things she liked to eat that could not be kept fresh between ‘proper’ shops, as she referred to them. This was always a short shopping trip, at least by his mother’s standards, an hour at most spent in the aisles so she would be out of the house for an hour and a half, no more. Having no idea what time she left, Luke was playing the percentages, assuming she had been gone for half an hour, giving him a clear hour. Even if she had been gone an hour already, as long as he was away within fifteen minutes, no harm done and should Worst Case Scenario come into effect, he already had his cover story prepped and rehearsed, mentally at least.
‘I’m thinking of going back to uni, Mom, trying again. I’ve realised now that dropping out was stupid. I just need my birth certificate. I didn’t think you’d mind.’
It was perfect, hitting all the right notes; plucking on the heart-strings, showing his emotional growth, showing him striving to make a better future for himself. She would fall for it hook, line and all that waffle, and he knew it. He even afforded himself a brief smile as he imagined the look on her face, but a brief one only for, despite his blunted emotional state, something in the back of his mind niggled at how deceitful he had become recently.
Standing in the centre of the living room he turned on the spot, eyes scanning over every surface, not really knowing what he was looking for, knowing that he would see it when he saw it, see it when he saw it. He had been telling himself that on the way up here and, at the time, it had seemed to make sense but now, here, it made no sense at all.
See it when I see it. See it when I see it.
‘See what, fuckface?’ he demanded of himself, just as his eyes alighted upon something appropriate. He dashed forward, eyes flicking down the entire stack. The CD cabinet was closed, though through the glass panelled front his parents’ entire collection could be seen. He swung the doors open, double doors, split down the middle so that the two pine panels pulled back on separate hinges and eyed up his prize. Randomly, not wishing to create large empty spaces, he grabbed CD’s, pulling ten, twelve from the stacks, three in all, eighty or so deep. No way they would miss twelve CD’s out of two hundred and forty and, down at The Swan, he knew a guy who bought them for eight quid a pop.
He shut the two front panels once he had his fill, wanting to take more, knowing that he should not, not through any sense of guilt about his act of thievery, merely through fear of being caught. This was not the first time he had stolen from his parent’s house when they were not home and he was certain it would not be the last.
He left the building.

Twitch

Though he had been reluctant to return to the scene of the crime, for fear his act of thievery had been noticed, the lure of the warm interior and the appealing odours of frying food were too strong to resist so Twitch sat once more at the same table, nursing a bacon and egg sandwich and, luxury upon luxury, a cup of cooling tea. His level of anxiety, coupled with the prettiness of the waitress, rendered him almost inarticulate as he had ordered his food and she had been obliged to ask him three times what it was he wanted, his mumbled responses the first two times apparently not recognisable as English words. Still, he had achieved his aim and sat now, reasonably content in the warmth, keeping his eyes fixed on the plate before him, not looking up when the door opened, not interested whether it was someone leaving or arriving. Not interested until someone spoke to him directly.
‘You homeless too, eh?’
He looked up, startled, to see a girl about his age wearing a green camouflage jacket and jeans that must once have been Levi blue.
‘Er, yeah. Is it that obvious?’
His voice betrayed his nervous state, but the girl just smiled back at him kindly, ruffling one hand through her unkempt, ginger-brown hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks, maybe months.
‘You’ve got that ‘startled rabbit in the headlights’ look about you. No offence. I used to wear the same face all the time as well.’
‘Oh.’
Twitch had no idea how to respond. He was not entirely sure if she had just insulted him or if, potentially, her friendly manner were a ruse, to get him to trust her before she ran off with his bag or pick pocketed him. He was shocked at his distrustful train of thought, appalled really, angry with himself for his instant wariness when, in all probability, she was just trying to be nice.
‘I’m Lisa, by the way.’
‘Twitch,’ he replied, feeling the urge to hold his hand out to be shaken, as he would with a male, not sure of the etiquette when meeting a girl, choosing to do nothing at all. Lisa’s face creased into a frown as she pondered the peculiar name but, as if on cue, Twitch’s face spasmed, just once, and she smiled at him again.
‘Now I get it.’
Twitch just nodded, embarrassed by his inability to control his own body, though Lisa seemed unperturbed.
‘You mind if I sit here?’ she asked, indicating the chair directly opposite his own and, not wishing to cause offence, he nodded, still not sure what to make of her, but happy now to play along, for a while at least.
‘It’s nice to meet someone else, you know, the same,’ she said, speaking quickly, almost urgently. ‘Gets lonely sometimes. Where’ve you been sleeping?’ she asked but, before he had chance to answer, she continued, almost as if she were having a conversation with just herself. ‘I sleep over behind the Safeway. They put all their crates and cardboard boxes out at night and, so long as it’s not raining, they keep you nice and warm.’
‘Sounds better than me. I’ve been in a bus stop the last four nights.’
‘You haven’t? Must be freezing.’
‘I will admit, it can get a bit draughty.’
She laughed at that, a warm, vibrant sound that helped Twitch to relax enormously and suddenly the world didn’t seem such a bad place after all.
‘I’ve heard about this squat nearby. You have to pay a couple of quid to sleep there but we can give it a try tonight if you….
‘You gonna buy anything, love, or you just here to socialise?’
The voice came from behind the counter, from the older one, of course thought Twitch, and Lisa sprang to her feet, her face neutral, not appearing anxious or apologetic, simply responding to the remark.
‘Yeah. I’ll have a BEST please,’ she told the woman.
‘You’ll have to pay first,’ she was told, rather rudely thought Twitch but, again, Lisa seemed unfazed.
‘That’s radical,’ she retorted as she handed over the money for her sandwich, moving back to the table without another word.
‘Stroppy bitch,’ she stated simply, and Twitch just stared at her wide-eyed, impressed with her performance beyond all sense of reason.
‘That was great,’ he told her, and it was nought but the truth.
‘That? That was nothing. Just wait and see what happens if the bacon is burnt,’ she told him and, for all the world, Twitch could not fathom if she were joking or not.
‘I might just marry this girl,’ Twitch thought to himself as the conversation continued as easily as if they had been friends for years.

‘Ok, this is how it works,’ Lisa told him, instructing him though not patronising him in any way, simply passing on her knowledge to someone in desperate need and, so far, she had asked for nothing in return. ‘You have to pluck on the heart-strings a little bit. To begin with, you’ll feel like an almighty bell-end, but you soon get used to it.’
Twitch was grinning from ear to ear, despite the seriousness of the topic of conversation, still startled each time she uttered a colourful expletive or vulgar turn of phrase.
‘What you laughing at?’ she asked him, feigning annoyance. ‘Don’t you want to learn?’
‘Yes, yes I do,’ he said through chuckles, ‘But it’s hard to concentrate when you keep coming out with words like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well….bell-end. Just not something I’d expect a girl to say, is all.’
‘You sexist pig. Now listen up, and listen good. Pluck on their heartstrings. Make them feel bad that they have money in their pockets, food in the cupboard at home and you don’t. You’ve got to learn to blunt that burning sensation you get on your face. That’s called shame. Forget about it. It will get you nowhere.’
‘OK, forget shame, pluck on the heartstrings. Sounds easy enough.’
‘It may well do, but theory and practice are two very different things.’
‘Yeah I’ve found that out the hard way,’ he agreed.
‘I know. It’s tough to begin with but, like everything else, the more you practice, the better you get. Now, you stand here and watch. I guarantee I’ll have a couple of quid within ten minutes.’
Twitch leaned back against the wall of the Midland Bank, happy to watch her work, eager to pick up tips. Maybe it’s easier for a girl, he thought. Maybe people are more sympathetic towards them, but his theory was proved unsound almost immediately as Lisa ‘worked’ the queue at the bus stop. She started at the front, and Twitch watched as the tall gentleman she spoke to simply shook his head before turning away, pretending she was not even there. The second man did likewise, even closing his eyes until she moved on but, what intrigued Twitch the most, was Lisa’s perseverance. She did not even pause when rejected, simply moved on to the next person, telling her tale, holding out her hand expectantly, with good cause third time around, as the elderly lady reached into her bag and pulled out a purse, handing over several coins and, though he could not hear, he knew that Lisa was thanking her profusely simply by the body language, before moving on.
True to her word, less than ten minutes after she had left him she returned.
‘Have a guess,’ she said.
‘I dunno. Maybe one fifty.’
‘You’re such a sceptic. Two pound thirty, my friend.’
Twitch was indeed impressed. By his calculation that hit rate worked out at roughly twelve pounds an hour and there were many real jobs, advertised in the local paper and in the front window of the job centre that paid nowhere near that much. It was hard work, for sure, but it seemed it was possible to earn enough money to get by.
Lisa’s tutoring continued throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, her apparently selfless actions gratefully received by Twitch so that, by four in the afternoon, they had amassed over twenty five pounds between them. True, Lisa had gained most of it but, as she had said, it takes time to find your feet.
Feeling pleased with himself, though exhausted, and simply happy to have found a companion, Twitch felt his life had taken an unexpected turn for the better.
He just hoped it would last.

Luke

He stood in the same doorway as before, this time reaching for the letterbox, rattling it twice, a cold, metallic, angry sound in the stillness of the street. His heart rate increased slightly as he heard footsteps on the other side of the door, footsteps which ceased, as they always did, for a second or two whilst the person on the inside spied through the peephole, making sure that the unexpected visitor was not an axe murderer, a serial rapist or, worse still, a Jehovah’s Witness. Sometimes, when the visitor was recognised, a small cry of delight could be heard, but not today, only adding to Luke’s anxiety.
Had they noticed the missing items?
Was today the inevitable day when his crimes would be uncovered?
As always he had a cover story prepared, though this one was flimsy, sounding unconvincing even to himself. He had needed to borrow the CD’s so that he could prepare for a quiz down at his local pub, a retro themed evening celebrating the 60’s, where all of the questions would be to do with the period. He had been assigned as the music specialist in the team, so he just wanted to listen to as much sixties music as he could. He forgot to ask beforehand and, as he was bringing them back, he was mugged. I’m so sorry mom, sorry Dad. I’ll buy them back for you as soon as I can.
It was a crock of shit, and he knew it, but it was the best he could come up with.
‘Luke!’
She sounded delighted as she opened the door and called his name, planting a kiss on his cheek as he made his way into the home he had grown up in, allowing her to hug him for a few seconds before breaking free of the embrace, walking through to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator.
‘Got any Coke, Mom?’
‘There’s a bottle of Pepsi in the door. Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
He reached for the half empty bottle, turning to retrieve a glass from the draining board only to find his mother staring at him quizzically.
‘You ok, Mom?’ he asked nervously, worried that the moment had come, that she would reveal her fears and he would have to fall back on his cover story.
‘Are you eating properly?’ was the question that came out, surprising him, though not unpleasantly.
‘Erm, yeah. I think so.’
‘You look like you’re losing weight.’
‘I’ve started running. I was feeling lazy.’
The lie came easily and with it an absolute absence of guilt, his capacity for feeling anything at all seemingly gone for good.
‘Well, that’s something, at least.’
He did not know what she meant by the ambiguous statement, and chose not to ask.
‘You sure you’re ok? You look, well….’
‘What?’
He spat the word out with more venom than he had intended, bringing a wide-eyed look of surprise to his mothers face.
‘You look really pale, that’s all.’
‘I told you, I’m fine. Stop worrying, will you?’
‘I’m your Mom. I’m designed to worry about you. It’s hard-wired.’
‘I know. I feel fine. Promise.’
‘OK. Do you want some lunch? I was going to make scrambled eggs. Can just as easily make it for two.’
‘Ok. Thanks, Mom.’
‘Go and put the TV on if you want. I’ll bring it through.’
Luke did as he was told, moving out of the kitchen into the familiarity of the living room, looking around the place for the remote controls. He located them but, as he did, so too his eyes found something else, something of much greater interest. He moved across the room, scooping up the remotes from the coffee table before drifting to the left, to the armchair beneath the windowsill, facing towards the TV. His mother’s handbag sat on the chair, its top open and, leaning over it slightly, Luke could just make out the top of her purse. He dropped the remote controls onto the chair, fishing within the bag for the purse with his left hand, snapping it back suddenly when his mother called out.
‘You need to press the button that says AUX if you want to watch the cable channels.’
His heart was in his mouth, he could feel it’s insistent rhythm pounding at his temples as he delved once more.
‘OK. Thanks.’
His hand found the purse and he lifted it out as carefully as he could, not wishing to dislodge the other contents of the bag unduly. Once retrieved, it took him only a second to figure out the latch to open the purse, a large bronze coloured buckle that looked more intricate than it actually was. The purse was divided into several compartments, and Luke rifled swiftly, worried that his Mom could step into the room at any moment, listening for a second, hearing the sound of cutlery being retrieved from a drawer, not really sure how long it took to make scrambled eggs but guessing not very long, a few minutes at most. The first compartment he dipped into contained cards, nothing more, the second coins, the jangle of which alarmed him, though he knew he was being hypersensitive through fear of discovery. The third compartment revealed his prize, three bank fresh twenty pound notes. Luke took one of them, pushing it into his back pocket before returning the purse to the bag where he had found it. He took a step back and eyed the handbag, satisfying himself that all appeared as it had been when he had arrived.
He sat down and waited for his meal.

The Black Country Butcher

The butcher sat on the bar stool, occupying the furthest position from the door, leaning forward, elbows propped against the short section of the L-shaped bar, his position slipping occasionally as skin slid over polished surface, forcing him to readjust.
The pub was quiet, though the butcher knew that was to be expected at six in the evening, a transitional time of the day for most public houses throughout the land as the denizens that infest them during the day headed home, many to empty flats and houses whilst even those blessed with the presence of another were likely to endure an evening of misery; swollen lips and black eyes mend in time, as many of their wives could doubtless attest, but a poisoned heart is harder to heal. So the daytime wastrels head for home, but the evening drinkers are yet to arrive, still shaking off a day at work with a warm meal and a shower before heading out the door, as keen to escape their domestic lives as they were to leave the factory at five o’clock sharp when the bell sounded to signal the end of their shift.
The butcher gazed around the pub, taking in the faces of his fellow drinkers, none of whom he knew by name though two or three by sight, occasional customers at the shop.
It warmed him to think that he had served them meat, exchanged cash for flesh.
As he had entered the drinking house, two of them had tilted their heads in his direction, subtle acknowledgement of the role he played in their lives and, keen to maintain the pretence that he was just like them, he nodded back, even doffing a quick double fingered salute to one of the men, index and middle finger touched to the temple briefly. He had no idea why he had done it, nor if it was appropriate, had simply acted in instinct, aping an action he had seen on some TV show or other, though the man in question had shown no reaction, the vacant eyes blinking out of his portly face displaying no hint of confusion or mirth.
Of the four other patrons, only one was of interest to him this evening. He too sat against the bar, though on the long stretch, right in the middle, directly in front of the till to ensure swift service when his glass needed replenishment. It was the shape of his head that caught the eye, coupled with the mannerisms as he moved.
The butcher watched him discreetly, eager not to draw attention to the fact that he was under observation.
There, as he leaned his head forward, dipped it low to meet the pint glass he was lifting up to his mouth, pursing the lips, actually elongating the mouth somehow so that it became a sucking device, looking for all the world like a horse taking refreshment, sucking muddy water from a slow moving river. Dropping the glass back to the counter, shaking his head from side to side slightly as if the flavour of his beverage were somehow unpleasant yet surprising both at the same time, every movement he made possessing an equine quality,
He would make a fine specimen, the butcher thought, picturing him on his stainless steel slab, a fresh kill, prime for dismemberment.
He kept watching.

Luke

‘You’ve got two days.’
The landlord jabbed his finger pointedly at Luke’s chest as he spoke, as if to emphasise just how serious he was before turning his back on the young man and leaving the bedsit.
Luke barely noticed him leave. For ten minutes, perhaps a little while longer, the man had been in his single room dwelling. To begin with he had seemed cooperative enough as Luke explained that he was struggling to find work, that as soon as he was able he would pay him the rent he was owed, that his debt would be the first one to be serviced. Then he had spotted the drug related paraphernalia on the bedside cabinet and, as if a switch had been pressed, the attitude changed. In place of the cooperation came obstruction and antagonism, in place of the understanding came the threat of police involvement and the promise of eviction.
Luke dropped onto the lumpy mattress of his bed, the only piece of furniture remaining, something else the landlord had picked up on the moment his ire had been raised. Inevitably, Luke had an explanation prepared, that of a previous tenant from next door breaking in and stealing the missing items. The landlord had not believed a word of it, nor could Luke blame him as it was a preposterous tale.
Why did you not report this immediately?
Why did you not call the police?
Why are you lying to me, you worthless junkie piece of shit?
Though he had not actually uttered the final phrase, the subtext was evident, not that Luke gave a damn one way or the other what the man thought of him, so long as he left him alone for the most part. Now, though, matters had come to a head and, unless he found the three hundred pounds he owed in back rent, he was out on his ear and, with no form of income, finding the money would be a feat indeed.
He moved, though not far, shuffling along the mattress so that the bedside cabinet was in arms reach.
He started to roll.

A new day, a new doorstep and Luke reached forward, sticking out his index finger to jab at the doorbell. From within, a pleasing chime sounded, unexpected, not the strident, ear-splitting tone he had anticipated, this was more melodious, gentle even.
Though sufficient to alert those within to a visitor.
Luke listened as bolts were withdrawn from their housings, three in total, as if that which resided beyond the doorway was of immense value, or the residents lived in perpetual fear of break-in, riven by paranoia even in the middle of a hot summer’s day.
The door swung open, revealing Craig, a fellow attendee at Luke’s university, before he dropped out. Briefly, for a moment, no more, Craig appeared puzzled, almost as if he did not recognise or remember the person standing on his doorstep, then recollection came and a cautious smile replaced the consternation.
‘Luke?’
‘How’s it going, Craig?’
‘Long time, eh? What you doing here?’
He appeared nervous, almost afraid and Luke wondered if his unkempt appearance had anything to do with his apprehension. He had intended to shave before leaving his bedsit but, in his drug addled state, had forgotten completely. His clothes were filthy, too, and he had not washed in days.
‘Not much. Just thought I’d come and catch up.’
And the truth of it was he did not really know why he was there. Somewhere, in the back if his mind, Craig’s name had registered. The need for money, desperately, something had triggered a recollection. Craig was well to do, or his parents were at least. Luke had been round to his home twice, no more, but even then, clear headed, with the only intoxicant in his system being nicotine, he had been impressed that someone of his age could reside in such relative luxury. Now he needed cash and, with all his real friends having melted away as surely as the savings spent on the narcotics he needed to survive, he had turned to the only person he could think of, though he had no clue how he was going to broach the subject in the first place. Timing was imperative. He could not blurt straight out with it, no matter the desperation of his situation.
‘OK, well, come in. Only for a bit, though. I’m expecting someone.’
‘Oh?’ Luke enquired, following Craig as he backed into the building, allowing Luke past so that he could close the front door behind him, once more engaging the three bolts.
‘Yeah. A girl I’ve been seeing for a while. Starting to get pretty serious.’
‘Sounds great,’ Luke said, thinking something altogether different, resentful at what he perceived to be a boastful comment, though reluctant to voice anything that could be perceived as negative.
‘Never insult a man you are about to ask for money.’
He had read that somewhere, or perhaps seen it in a movie. Either way, it was a maxim he intended to live by, for the next few minutes at least.
‘You want a cup of tea, coffee? Anything?
‘Coffee, thanks.’
He did not really want the drink, afraid that he may not be able to keep it down, his digestive system becoming increasingly erratic as his heroin intake multiplied, to the point that vomiting was now a twice or thrice daily occurrence, his body seeming eager to repel all but that most vital of substances. The offer of the drink did however buy him some time, albeit brief.
‘I haven’t seen you around campus for a while. You get a job?’
‘Bits and bobs, you know. Mainly cash in hand work, labouring, that sort of thing,’ he lied, out of his depth now that the scene began to play out, wanting out, having to fight the urge to simply flee, all too aware that, even if he did just head for the way out, three bolts barred his way, forcing a delay that would most likely result in explanations being demanded, accusations being hurled. No, best stick it out, play it as well as he could. Best case, he walked out of there with a few hundred quid in his back pocket – half for the landlord, the other half to the dealer – worst case, he got nothing, but was no worse off than when he arrived.
Craig continued to prepare the two drinks, depressing the plunger of the cafetière, forcing the ground coffee to the bottom of the pot, ready for pouring.
‘You’re looking for something permanent, I suppose? I don’t see you as a labourer all your life, somehow.’
‘Oh no, Craig? And what precisely do you see me as?’
That is what he wanted to say, was the first thought that went through his mind but, of course, that is where it stayed.
‘I hope not.’
Craig placed the coffee pot back onto the work surface, picking a bowl up and waving it in Luke’s direction, as if Luke should somehow be impressed that he kept his sugar in bowls, and that the sugar came in the form of a cube.
‘What am I, a fucking horse?’ he thought to himself once more, again choosing to remain silent.
‘Sugar?’
‘Erm, one please.’
Craig plucked a cube from the top of the pile, plopping it into the strong coffee before stirring it with a silver teaspoon with a cherub emblem at the tip of the handle.
‘What a wanker,’ Luke decided, eager to conclude proceedings now and escape as swiftly as possible, the prospect of remaining in the company of the other becoming vaguely unbearable.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled as Craig passed him his drink, scooping his own from the work surface before indicating that Luke should follow with a crook of a finger, as if the use of words was beneath him, choosing to communicate by gesture alone.
The two young men passed through the hallway, all pine flooring and pastel watercolours, clearly the work of a woman, though Luke had seen no sign of female life so far, and hadn’t Craig mentioned that a new girlfriend was visiting later, unless that had been a lie, a get out of jail free card to get rid of an unwanted visitor.
Well, that suited him just fine.
‘Excuse the mess,’ Craig commented of the spotless living room, a brown leather sofa dominating the space, pointing not at the television as in most households, but at the large French windows that, unusually for a living room, gave on to the spacious rear garden.
‘Looks like you’ve done ok for yourself,’ was all Luke could think to say.
‘I’ve been lucky, really,’ Craig conceded. It’s all Daddy’s money, though he sees it as an investment. He told me that…’ but the wisdom of his father was put on hold for a moment as the high pitched trill of the telephone interrupted his flow.
‘Excuse me a moment.’
‘Of course,’ said Luke, speaking now in an accent far more clipped than was usual, not sure if he was trying to impress or taking the piss.
As Craig left the room, Luke just caught his profile, the frown revealed involuntarily and Luke knew now for certain that any sense of hospitality was feigned, Craig as eager to be rid of him as he was to leave. He paced back and forth, every bit the caged animal, eyes scanning, not really looking for anything in particular, alighting on a half opened drawer that drew him in like an iron filing to a magnet, finding himself tip-toeing without even being consciously aware of it, sliding the drawer open, grimacing a little when it groaned slightly, relieved to hear Craig still talking on the phone, craning his neck now to peer inside, trying to spot anything of value within the drawers confines that could be easily pocketed, the depth of the drawer casting shadows that were almost impenetrable unless he moved to the side, his own body blotting out most of the light, pivoting his frame at an awkward angle, eyes glued on the interior of the drawer, not hearing the phone receiver being replaced in its cradle, not hearing the gentle pad of Craig’s slippered feet on pine flooring, not hearing as the living room door opened fully and the keeper of the house found him ferreting through this belongings.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ he demanded, not unreasonably.
Luke jumped, the back of his hand cracking against the top of the drawer as he snatched it back instinctively.
His mind went into overdrive, trying to find a plausible excuse, knowing that anything he said would appear ridiculous, saying it all the same.
‘I thought I heard a…’
He was going to say mouse, but Craig cut him off mid sentence.
‘Thought you saw a what? A hypodermic needle?’
Luke burst out laughing, not so much at the accusation implied in the comment – a correct one, as it happened – but still at the thought that he had been about to say mouse. I thought I heard a mouse in your drawer so I thought I’d root through it and steal what I could find to sell.
Could happen.
‘Get out of my house, you fucking junkie scum.’
The expletive did not sound right coming from Craig’s mouth, and Luke stood his ground, incapable of taking the situation seriously, his blunted emotions negating the fear or shame or guilt that would plague somebody normal.
‘Move,’ Craig challenged, though Luke remained steadfast, beginning to enjoy the game just a little, despite his addiction.
‘What if I don’t? What if, instead, I shove that remote control up your posh fucking arse? What about that, eh?’
Luke barely saw him move, Craig was across in an instant and, after the event, all Luke could recollect was the sound of something slapping against his cheek, though high pitched, clearly moving at great velocity, then strong arms hoisting him off the floor where he lay, barely conscious. Heroin, as a morphine derivative is a strong, highly effective painkiller, though Luke felt the sting of the blow all the same, testing his jaw, rotating it through each plain of its opposable hinge, ensuring nothing was fractured or worse, broken beyond repair.
‘You piece of shit,’ he heard from above him, though he did not even bother to look up, content to let the other man struggle. If he wanted him out of the house he was going to have to work bloody hard to make it happen.
‘I should call the police,’ he grunted, seeming oblivious to the delight the other was taking in his misery.
‘Give me all your money,’ Luke shouted suddenly, startling Craig above him before prompting a redoubling of his efforts managing, at least, to propel him over the threshold and onto the path leading up to the house, the physical exertion required to move him any further off-putting, releasing Luke and slamming the door straight in his face.
Luke did not move for several minutes, taunting the man inside, knowing he was watching before, reluctantly, knowing he must find money soon to avoid eviction and the dreaded withdrawal symptoms he stood and, with a last second, spontaneous one fingered salute at the occupied window, headed for his parent’s house.

Twitch

Lisa polished off the last few morsels, tipping the red cardboard carton on end and pointing a corner into her mouth to ensure that every crumb of the fries was consumed, Twitch following suit at the opposite end of the table.
‘That was great,’ Twitch stated as he dropped the McDonalds carton into the brown paper bag the meal was supplied in, holding the end open so that Lisa could deposit her empty carton as well.
‘Not bad for a day’s work, eh?’ she enquired playfully.
‘Listen, thanks a lot for today. I’ve really enjoyed it.’
‘You weren’t meant to enjoy it. The idea was you learnt from it.’
Twitch felt a momentary stab of guilt, was about to respond, was probably going to apologise but, when he looked more closely, he noticed the glint in the eye, read the tone of voice more accurately and realised he was being teased.
‘You had me going there for a second.’
‘I know I did.’
Twitch leaned back in the white, moulded plastic seat that surrounded the table at which they ate, as comfortable as sitting on shingle normally, it felt like the height of luxury compared to what he had become accustomed.
‘So what now?’ he asked her, no idea what the rest of the day would bring. Seven o’clock had been and gone and, outside, the sun was lowering in the sky, ushering in another night-time though, this time, one that did not seem to hold the promise of rain, which was at least an improvement.
‘We could give that squat a go if you like. Seems better than sleeping outdoors again.’
‘Squat?’ Twitch repeated back at her, as if the word were one that was new to him, the very formation of it against his lips and tongue feeling strange.
‘Yeah, I mentioned it this morning.’
‘You did?’
Twitch frowned, desperately trying to recall, drawing a blank.
‘Yeah. I didn’t think you’d heard. You were too busy staring at my chest.’
‘I was not,’ Twitch spluttered, redness burning at his cheek instantly before, once more, he caught the look in her eyes.
‘Teasing?’ he asked meekly.
‘You’re learning fast, kid,’ she said, standing suddenly, grabbing the brown paper bag and walking away from the table, leaving Twitch scurrying in her wake.

‘Where is this place?’
Twitch sounded anxious, though less so than he actually felt, making an effort to mask his true feelings as he did not wish to appear cowardly in front of his new found friend, especially one so pretty.
‘I don’t really know. I was just told along the towpath.’
As darkness fell, navigating the muddy canal-side path was becoming increasingly perilous and Twitch was genuinely afraid of stumbling and plunging headlong into the cold, slimy water just a foot or so to his right.
‘It’s a derelict building, hasn’t been used in years. It’s like the locals have forgotten about it, or something.’
‘Sounds charming,’ Twitch said, regretting it immediately.
‘Not complaining back there, are you?’ she chided, though again Twitch was able to detect the mischievous cadence to her words, becoming accustomed to her sense of humour, enjoying the fact that she seemed intent on ribbing him mercilessly when he made stupid comments or asked foolish questions.
‘Don’t be daft. Twitch The Tormentor, they call me, fearless and brave’ he fired back, pleased when he heard a slight snort of appreciation.
‘If we don’t find it soon, though, we may well end up sleeping rough again, truth be told, she admitted from the front but, just as it seemed their cause was a forlorn one, Lisa cried out, loud enough to startle her still nervous follower.
‘There. That must be it,’ and, in a strange way, Twitch was pleased to hear a note of desperation in her tone, too, the stress on the word ‘must’ almost pleading, as if she were willing it to be true.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he bleated.
‘Trust me, I’m a doctor,’ she called over he shoulder.
‘And I’m an astronaut,’ he retorted, surprised when he nearly walked into the back of her, the darkness preventing him from seeing that she had come to a standstill.
‘There,’ she said, lifting his hand and pointing it in the direction she wanted him to look and, sure enough, some thirty, forty metres away was a source of illumination, faint, flickering, and Twitch was just able to make out the outline of a building, a deeper blackness against the darkness of the sky, though he was unable to determine it’s precise form.
‘What’s between us and the building?’ he asked, squinting his eyes, trying to ascertain the nature of the terrain in front if them, be it grass or rock, strewn with jagged, rusting cans or as safe to cross as a meadow fit for grazing.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Lisa admitted, not helping his confidence one jot, before advising, ‘We’ll just have to tread carefully.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he replied and, for once, she was silent in reply, groping instead for his left hand that lay at his side, startling him so much he almost flinched away from her, glad that he didn’t as he felt her fingers intertwine with his own, her grip firm, the warmth of her skin a delightful sensation, the first direct human contact he had experienced in a while.
How long?
He thought back, not really wanting to but unable to prevent himself, the memory surfacing of Chris on his bed, tugging at his pyjamas, a large hand groping at small, not yet fully developed genitals, the scrape of stubble against smooth, unblemished cheek.
‘You ready?’ she asked from beside him, breaking the cycle of remembrance, Twitch nodding in the darkness before realising the uselessness of the gesture and voicing his consent.
They moved as one.
The mud of the towpath was replaced by grass that was dense underfoot, the thick vegetation extending over the front of their trainers, some of the longer blades managing to find gaps between the hem of Twitch’s trainers and his socks tickling the exposed flesh, the cold plant life making him think of skeletal fingers reaching up from beneath the soil, intent on pulling them beneath the Earth, to rest in eternity alongside the owner of the digits.
‘It’s not too bad,’ said Lisa, stumbling even as she said it, Twitch’s grasp on her hand the only thing that kept her upright.
‘I jinxed it,’ she said by way of explanation.
The building loomed before them now, taller than expected, a three storey structure, a town house, perhaps, rather than a detached, three up, two down structure that Twitch would have expected, given the location. When allowed out, one of his favourite activities was exploring the canal network near his home town, and he had not seen any dwelling with more than two floors, yet here it stood, foreboding in the silent blackness and, truthfully, given the choice, Twitch would have turned tail and headed back the way they had come, but Lisa had other ideas.
‘The light is coming from over here, I think,’ she informed him, tugging at his hand, urging him to move the way she desired and he put up little in the way of resistance.
As if a single entity, they hugged the exterior wall of the property, the front wall, Twitch presumed as it faced the waterway, though perhaps there was a road behind and the turf upon which they walked could once have been a rear lawn for all he knew.
‘There.’
She stopped dead in her tracks, again lifting Twitch’s hand in the direction she wanted him to look, straight at the window in front of them and, indeed, Twitch could see light emanating from within, dim, still flickering, and it took Twitch a moment or two to realise that it was candlelight, not an electric bulb being intermittently blocked from his view as he had initially suspected.
‘Where there’s candles, there’s people,’ she said, and he found the logic impregnable. She moved once more, continuing along the wall and almost tripped again, this time as her foot found something solid barring her way. Lisa examined the obstacle with her foot, swinging it back and forth before lifting it, finding the top of the hazard, realising that it was a doorstep, clambering onto it, knocking boldly without a second thought.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Twitch.
‘You want in, don’t you?’ she demanded and Twitch was forced to concede the point, his silence all the answer she required.
‘Well then, this is the front door. It seems polite to knock.’
‘Yeah, but….’
Though before he had chance to continue his protest the sound of hinges squealing interrupted him and, silhouetted by a dim light from within, a figure stood before them, tall, imposing, all the more so for the anonymity that the darkness and back-lighting provided.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Hardly a promising start, thought Twitch, though he said nothing, choosing instead to let Lisa do the talking.
‘We heard this was a squat. We want in.’
‘We’re full,’ the male voice informed them, the figure attempting to close the door in their faces, though something barred the way, and it took Twitch a second or two to realise that it was Lisa’s foot, pressed tight against the doorframe nearest to the jamb, the pressure making the figure’s job difficult, though not impossible should he choose to press the issue.
‘Let’s go,’ Twitch found himself saying, embarrassed now, and more than a little afraid, just wanting to be away, even if it meant another night in the bus shelter.
‘We’ve got money,’ Lisa said stubbornly, and at once the pressure ceased.
‘It’s two quid each. Per night,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.
‘Done.’

‘You can kip there,’ the man said, pointing at the only spare pace in the room that would once have been the properties lounge.
‘Thanks,’ Lisa said, ‘Appreciate it. You haven’t told me your name?’
‘That’s right.’
He turned his back and left the room, leaving Lisa and Twitch to squeeze in between the other bodies, perhaps twelve in all, plus two more now they had joined their number.
‘Don’t mind him,’ a voice said to them from somewhere in the room, the dimness of the candlelight making it difficult to discern faces in the gloom, though one of the slumberers moved, sitting up from her position on the floor, a cascade of blonde hair blocking her features momentarily before she brushed the locks away with the back of her hand, the face presented, even in the dullness of the room, making the breath catch in the back of Twitch’s throat.
She was beautiful.
‘I’m Teri. That was Pete. Don’t worry, he’s like that with everyone. ‘Specially when you’re new.’
‘Oh. Thanks. That’s reassuring,’ said Lisa, bending her knees and using her hands on the floor to rock back on her haunches before stretching her legs out in front of her, dropping her backside down onto solid ground, a huge sigh emerging unbidden, the involuntary action releasing at least some of the stresses of the journey here.
‘Lisa. And the shy one is Twitch,’ she said, pointing up at the boy, still standing awkwardly in the area in which he would sleep.
‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake,’ said Teri, ‘You’re making me nervous.’
He did as he was told.
‘Glad to be off the street?’ she asked either, both, it didn’t really matter which as it was Lisa, inevitably, who answered.
‘Yeah. Just nice to be indoors. Feels safer, somehow.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ agreed Teri, ‘Specially with all the vanishings.’
‘Vanishings?’
Twitch spoke at last, his interest peaked by her statement.
‘You mean you’ve not heard?’ she asked, half surprised, half disbelieving.
‘I’m new,’ Twitch explained.
‘Twelve that we know of, though who knows how many it really is.’
‘Twelve what?’ asked Lisa.
‘Twelve homeless. Vanish while they sleep.’
‘You sure they’ve vanished? Couldn’t they have just moved elsewhere?’
‘That’s what we thought to start with, until the bin bags started turning up near the cop shop.’
Twitch’s mouth felt dry, his heart hammered in his chest, though he was hooked on every word.
‘What’s in the bags?’ he asked, just enough spit in his mouth to allow him to form the words.
‘The vanished. Or what’s left of them. Guts mainly. And a note tied to the top saying where they were taken from.’
‘Holy shit,’ was all Lisa could manage.
‘That’s not the worst part,’ stated Teri confidently, clearly enjoying recounting the tale to her new captive audience. ‘Inside the bag, wrapped in plastic is another note, and all that’s written on it is a number. Each time a new bag turns up, the number goes down by 1.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Lisa again.
‘The first bag was found, you know what number was written on the note?’ She paused a second, giving them time to think, adding to the drama, building the tension before the big reveal.
‘One hundred.’
She fell silent.

Luke

‘Look, I warned you this would happen. Jesus Christ, I’ve been more tolerant than most landlords would have been.’
‘Yeah, I’m struggling to cope with all this tolerance,’ Luke spat back, furious at what was happening, more at the sheer inevitability of it than the potential ramifications.
‘No more arguments, Luke. You’re gone.’
‘Gone? I’ve got nowhere to go.’
‘I’m sorry, son, that’s not my problem. You’ve got two hours. You’re still here then, this turns ugly. Don’t make me place that call.’
Luke did not fully understand what he was implying, though the thrust of it seemed to be some heavies would arrive at his door and ‘encourage’ him to be on his way. He watched as the landlord turned away, stalking out of the room, clearly riled. He flopped back onto the bed, propping his elbows against his knees and holding his head in his hands.
‘Shit,’ he hissed at the empty room, eyes turning towards the bedside cabinet, focusing on the drawer, knowing what was contained within but knowing also that, to indulge right now would be foolish indeed.
He edged along the side of the mattress, not really conscious of his own actions or, more properly, knowing what he was doing but choosing not to think about it, almost as if he were being controlled by another which, in some way, he was. He tensed his neck muscles so that he could move his hands from beneath his chin, opening the drawer, delving within, not having to use his eyes, able to locate the smoke by touch alone, manipulating the item so that it was between thumb and forefinger, using his little and ring finger to pick up the lighter at the same time, removing his hand from the drawer and going straight for the mouth, positioning the H-joint in the corner of his lips and lighting up before he had a chance to resist, a chance to realise that what he was doing was a bad idea.
He drifted off.

Hands under his shoulders brought him around, though only just, his eyes refusing to open so that all he was aware of was the sensation of movement, the feel of his feet dragging along the ground, the unnecessarily firm grip beneath his armpits, the sudden release of pressure then, for a second, nothing at all before his body made contact with something solid and cold.

He awoke at the rear of the building, whoever had moved him choosing to deposit him somewhere unobtrusive. His eyes opened, though reluctantly, and the first sensation that awakened was his taste, the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat causing him to gag instinctively, bringing him off the floor, struggling to his feet, shaky in the extreme, barely able to even stand in one position without stumbling. He squinted up at the window of his bedsit, a tingle of fear running through him as he saw a man in the room, staring down at him, from a distance appearing unblinking, almost defiant, as if daring Luke to try to gain access.
Luke’s shoulders slumped and, heart so heavy in his chest he thought it might tear right through his abdomen, he walked away.

‘What do you want?’
‘I’m sorry, Mom.’
He could barely bring himself to look at her, for the first time in as long as he could remember an emotion was present, though nothing pleasant. The shame which gripped him was equalled only by his sense of desperation. Alone, with no money, no possessions and no friends to call on, he had no option. The last time he had been here had been intense, as his parents confronted him about the items and money that he had been stealing. His outright denials had only served to anger them further and, where their initial intention had been to try to understand, to try to offer assistance, his refusal to co-operate, to even admit what he had done, led them down a different path so that, ultimately, his father had physically ejected him from the building, instructing him not to return.
Disowned by his own family, Luke still had felt nothing, the cloud of toxins protecting him from the loneliness that most would have felt to the point that, until this moment, he had barely thought about it at all.
Now he stood on their doorstep once more, shamed, though not by his actions, shamed only by circumstance and it took his mother two short sentences to see right through him.
‘Sorry for what?’
‘For being who I am.’
‘And what are you?’
‘I’m your son.’
With no suggestion of contrition, and still no acknowledgement of his thievery, the woman’s patience snapped, pushing the door, fully intending to close it on her son forever, though Luke shot out a hand, barring the entrance, preventing her from closing it completely.
‘Stop that at once,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not welcome here anymore.’
He could see that she was crying, the stoical exterior she had managed to maintain quickly eroded now the situation had escalated to a physical encounter, but Luke was no longer capable of compassion, instead thrusting the door back at her, threatening to break her nose had it made contact.
‘I just want a few quid,’ he screamed at her, knowing it was a lie, knowing that, if she complied today then he would return tomorrow, and the day after that, milking her for all the money she possessed.
‘I’m not giving you a penny,’ she shouted back defiantly.
He slammed the door towards her again.
‘You gave birth to me, you bitch, now you can’t even give me a tenner so I can feel better?’
The door slammed again, this time making contact with her forehead, a streak of blood appearing instantly, a strike firm enough to have her rocking back on her heels and, just as Luke was about to cross the threshold, was about to take the money by force, all of it, every fucking penny that was in the house, suddenly hands grabbed him from behind, strong hands, and he felt himself propelled away from the door. Spinning round to face his attacker, fists raised, Luke saw the face of his own father.
‘Get away from my wife or so help me….’ His father threatened, face purple, struggling with all his might to control himself, to fight the instinct to beat the living daylights out of his worthless, junkie wreck of a son.
He turned on his heels and slammed the door.
For Luke, a life on the streets awaited.
Twitch

At first he had no idea where he was.
The noise was hideous, actually painful to the eardrums, and Twitch clamped a hand over the sides of his face to try to block out the din, though unsuccessfully. Next to him he felt movement and, instinctively, he flinched away from the source, the ingrained memory of large hands fumbling in the darkness over-riding all else, forcing him to try to push away, though his way was blocked by something large and solid behind him and it took a second or two to realise that it was another person, seemingly still asleep despite the commotion.
‘Wha’s tha’? he heard a sleepy voice enquire, though no answer was forthcoming as, clearly, nobody in the room had the slightest idea.
‘Who the hell is that?’
It was Pete’s voice that asked the second question, firm, angry in tone, so authoritative that Twitch felt compelled to respond, a feeble squeak all that emanated from his lips as he tried to say that he did not know, so quiet that surely nobody else heard a thing beneath the continuing screech.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he heard another voice demand, not unreasonably.
‘Pass me some matches, for Christ’s sake.’
Pete again, his intention clear. Spark up the candles to illuminate the room so they could see what was happening, the volume of the screaming so intense it made it hard to focus, impossible to determine the source, the intensity and level of decibels filling the room entirely, making it seem that the sound came from everywhere at once. Twitch felt nauseous all of a sudden, worried briefly that he was going to be sick, managing to quell the sensation just enough to prevent an embarrassing accident.
‘Got ‘em,’ he heard another voice shout over the cacophony, female this time, before the spark of a matchstick being drawn over the striking edge of a box was seen, though the flame did not take, forcing Pete to try again, failing a second time. Only on the third attempt did the match ignite, casting the dullest of glows, and only in the spot right next to where Pete sat upright. Twitch watched as the tiny flickering flame moved through the air as if of its own volition, the amount of light given off not even sufficient to cast a dim shadow over the holder, tracing it with his eyes, mesmerised by the sight in blackness. Suddenly, another flame took hold as Pete ignited the wick of a candle, then another, another, until gradually the room was bathed in sufficient light to see.
All eyes turned to the centre of the room and, briefly, time seemed to come to a standstill for the occupants as the nature of what they were seeing was processed, their brains taking a few seconds simply to comprehend what their eyes were telling them.
Teri, the girl Twitch and Lisa had spoken to before settling down for the night, floating in midair. Her eyes were snapped open, though they appeared sightless, her mouth opened wide enough to fit a fist, tongue waggling furiously inside as the sound went on and on and on, impossibly, the girl not seeming to be breathing in at all, simply expelling continually for a duration beyond the endurance of human lungs.
Pete was on his feet, a look of astonishment clear on his face even in the dim light, moving towards her slightly before hesitating, not really sure what to do.
‘How’s she doing that?’
Another girl, one that Twitch had not seen the previous evening – presumable asleep when they had arrived – asked, an awe in her voice that mirrored Twitch’s own feelings.
‘I don’t have a clue,’ Pete admitted, grunting in surprise as he was barged out of the way suddenly, a blond haired man pushing him aside and fleeing from the room, clearly panic stricken by what was transpiring – and who could blame him, thought Twitch - though all eyes switched swiftly back to the impossibility in the centre of the room.
‘Teri’s body was positioned as if she were asleep, lying on her back, perfectly horizontal, although three feet of clear air separated spine from sleeping bag. Pete extended a hand towards the levitator.
‘She’s bleeding,’ said Pete.
‘Where? I can’t see any,’ said the girl, though her denial was caused not through distrust of Pete’s claim, simply through sheer disbelief at what they were seeing.
‘She’s bleeding from her eyes,’ Pete told them, and Twitch took it as a cue to close his own, a paralysing fear suddenly manifesting in his gut and, though ashamed to admit it, he felt himself begin to quiver.
The sound ceased.
The room sat in silence, pregnant with tension, nobody moving a muscle, each individual as clueless as the next as to what to do.
She dropped to the floor.
Teri’s body slammed back to Earth as if thrown down, more force than mere gravity behind the impact and Twitch feared for her, especially if she had struck head first, though his anxiety was alleviated almost at once as she began to move, to struggle to a sitting position, suddenly aware that the entire room was staring at her, speechless.
‘Wha’-what’s going on?’ she asked, wiping the moisture from her eyes with the back of her left hand, startled when she brought the appendage away to see blood smeared over her skin.
‘What’s happening, Pete?’ she asked, a tremor to her voice.
‘I haven’t a bloody clue,’ he responded honestly.

Luke

It was the stench he found hardest to endure, the vile aroma of humanity overpowering him, filling his nostrils with each inhalation, almost inducing his gag reflex at times, a reaction he had to fight to nullify. Occasionally, when he could bear it no longer, he opened his mouth, switching the direction of air intake but, each time, this lasted no more than a few seconds, as the taste of the air on his tongue was worse than the offensive odour.
They were crammed in like sardines, twelve, maybe thirteen, even accounting for the leader who still had not settled down, sitting up by candlelight, not reading, not trying to sleep, not doing anything fathomable, just staring into emptiness. Pete they had introduced him as and, still retaining some level of dignity, Luke had offered a hand to be shaken, but Pete had either ignored it or not noticed it. Either way, Luke sensed a hostility in the man that made him wary. He shuffled a little on the hard surface of the floor, a threadbare blanket his only protection from the cold seeping up through the ground of the old building.
‘Still, better than sleeping outdoors,’ he chided himself, annoyed at the negativity of his thoughts, though he felt he was at least a little entitled to wallow in self-pity, as long as it was fleeting. He was lucky to be there at all, and he knew it, a chance meeting with another homeless man leading to an invitation and directions along the canal, though one look had informed the other vagrant that Luke was a user and he had warned that bringing supplies in was strictly forbidden and, if caught, he would be thrown out and not be allowed to return.
‘No drugs at all?’ he had asked, only for the stranger to reply enigmatically, ‘When you’re ready, you will be asked.’
Luke had agreed eagerly, assuming that the wait would be short. An initial vetting procedure to ensure he was not undercover fuzz and, as long as he had the cash, the smack would be made available It had not worked out that way at all though so, now, in the small hours of the morning, wide awake, the first signs of withdrawal were beginning to manifest, his stomach clenched so tight that had he swallowed a walnut whole it would have cracked right there in his belly. A raging hard on accompanied the gut ache, stiff as a board, despite both his circumstance and the stomach pain and, he knew, it would be awhile yet before it shrivelled to its usual, flaccid state. He had read about it when he still had access to the university facilities and his journey into full blown addiction was just beginning. Priapism, it was called and, whilst usually harmless, there were instances were the blood vessels in the penis became clogged, causing the blood to clot and, in such cases, gangrene could set in.
He shivered slightly in the darkness, the thought of a bout of cock rot not helping his mood at all.
Next to him, he felt movement, as if someone were raising a blanket above their body as they slept, arms outstretched, mummy style, and Luke shuffled around a little, nudging closer to whoever it was he lay next to in an effort to eke out a little of their warmth.
That’s when the screaming started.
A banshee wail of such ferocity his body jumped instantly from lying position to sitting bolt upright, eyes that had become accustomed to the darkness as he lay awake seeing only a shadow in the centre of the room, though a shadow of what he could not determine.
‘Wha’s tha’?’ he heard from beside him before Pete spat ‘Who the hell is that?’ into the darkened room.
Nobody answered directly, though ‘Shut the fuck up,’ was suggested.
Luke agreed entirely, feeling as if his entire nervous system were on fire, the shrill shriek loud enough to pierce the eardrums or to loosen the bowels of even the sturdiest of souls.
‘Pass me some matches, for Christ’s sake.’
It was Pete again, and Luke guessed he intended to relight the candles that had illuminated the room earlier in the evening.
‘Got ‘em,’ someone shouted from over to his right, a woman’s voice, and Luke watched as Pete tried twice unsuccessfully to spark the match, only achieving his aim on the third attempt. As the candle took, one at a time Pete moved the wicks of several others into the active flame until sufficient light bathed the room to illuminate the bewildering. As his mind tried to process what he was seeing with his own eyes, Luke felt a dread the like of which he had never known.
‘How’s she doing that?’ someone asked, and, when the answer given in return came as ‘I don’t have a clue,’ Luke had heard enough, scrambling to his feet, pushing his way past Pete as he scurried to the front door of the derelict building, yanking the door open and fleeing into the night without so much as a backward glance.

The Black Country Butcher

Human beings, creatures of habit as repellent as the Scarabaeinae. More so perhaps for, blessed with a mind capable of choices, we have little excuse for our sickness. The dung beetle’s life is a repetitive process; seeking food, forming the waste matter of other’s into balls then rolling it to their nest, consuming what they can, digesting, seeking food, rolling the waste matter of others…. So too mankind, a recurrent process of rest, consumption, excretion and reproduction that made The Butcher increasingly angry as each day passed. Four decades he had been on the Earth and, in all that time, could count on one hand those he believed worthy of existence. His own mother was one, for she had spawned him and, for that alone, she could be spared the resentment and bitterness that coursed through his every cell. Though the same claim could be made of his father, the feelings he held towards the man were very different. A once proud, hard working soul, his vitality had been eroded through redundancy so that, the last ten years of his life had been spent on the dole, claiming every benefit he could lay his hands on, making no effort to find work, nor show any enthusiasm for the life that he had with his wife.
To The Butcher, he was nothing but a disappointment.
Thinking about the man, The Butcher felt his heart rate increase, felt his breath become shallower, quickening as anger began to spike but he fought it back, anxious to keep control of his own emotions at all times, eager to do what his own father had failed so utterly to achieve: to enjoy every moment. Whether he was handing over a pound of mince to an elderly customer, separating a pig’s carcass into handy, meal size portions or ripping off the face of a homeless man, he felt it was important to get the most out of each experience, to savour every second as if no more were to follow.
Even now, standing on the canal towpath, the pitch darkness hiding him from prying eyes, he felt great pleasure, knew that he was enjoying himself, knew that he was having fun. To most, standing on a muddy path at three in the morning, alone, may have seemed a chore, but not to The Butcher. These were the moments that he lived for, the moments he savoured above all others.
It was the hunt.
Like an ant-eater astride a termite hill, he knew he was king here, knew without doubt that he was in control, the insects that dwelt in the house situated some thirty or so metres in front of where he stood oblivious to the fact that, for one of them at least, perhaps more, the grasp on their mortal coil was slipping, a destiny they could not possibly expect about to come crashing down upon them.
He held the night vision glasses up to his eyes, studying the front of the house, the green tint of the viewfinder giving the landscape an alien quality, as if all of the warm colours of the Earth had been bled away leaving only this greyish green, not quite black and white world, the contrast and the brightness balanced incorrectly for human eyes and brain to interpret accurately. He was not one to complain, though, pleased with the device which had cost him more than a months takings from the meat shop, acquired as discreetly as possible, through a contact within the National Front, the shaven headed gentleman who sold him the glasses boasting proudly that he intended to use his when the race war finally began.
Something moved.
An unexpected turn of events, thought The Butcher.
The front door opened and a figure emerged, in a hurry, not bothering to close the door behind him, running almost, a dangerous activity in such complete darkness with a slimy canal mere metres away and who knows what in the grass underfoot. Still, he ran, stumbling occasionally, along the canal towpath now, somehow managing to stay on the dirt track, neither staggering into the bracken on one side nor plunging inadvertently into the cool water on the other.
The Butcher followed, using the headband attached to the NV glasses to hold them in place, freeing up both hands, all the better to keep his balance, attentive to what lay on the ground before him, eager to avoid stepping on something that would break, the noise potentially alerting the man in front to his presence though, judging by the pace of his flight, he was in no condition to act rationally, seeming panic stricken, somehow.
The man in front stopped dead in his tracks and, for one awful moment, The Butcher believed he had been discovered. He held his ground, not moving an inch, convinced that he could not be seen, even if the others’ night sight had improved in the darkness. The young man in front dropped to his knees now, and The Butcher realised that he was vomiting, or trying to and he watched as the man retched violently, punching the ground before him as if angered at The Earth herself, blaming her for his predicament, an act that made The Butcher angry, irrational as he knew it was. For a man to blame the Earth for anything smacked of an arrogance that he found hard to tolerate and it took all of his levels of willpower not to simply march forward and kill the bastard where he puked.
But he resisted.
Watching instead, following again as the young man, boy almost The Butcher had come to realise as he studied his profile, made his way along the canal back into town, keeping his distance once streetlights became a hazard, though the individual seemed in such a state he could have tap-danced down the street two metres behind and he probably would not have noticed.
Into the park the young man went, pleasing The Butcher, cloaking him in darkness once more, giving him the advantage. He stood still, now, watching the Man Child as he lay on the bench, a darker shade of green than the bench and grass surrounding it through the NV glasses.
He waited.

Luke

He scuttled along the towpath, moving more swiftly than was prudent in the blackness of the night, the hour yet to allow the first rays of sunshine to break against the skyline. His breath came in shallow gasps, like a dog panting and he realised it was panic that had seized him, shorn him of his dignity and made him flee from the house. The sight of the girl suspended in midair, coupled with the all but inhuman din emanating from her gaping mouth too much to tolerate in his fragile condition. He slowed his gait, the realisation that at any moment he could plunge head long into the filthy murk of the water to his left more a consideration now that he had put some distance between himself and the insanity behind him. As his pace slowed, so too did his adrenaline levels and, within a few short paces, the now all too familiar gnawing in the pit of his stomach returned as his body protested the denial of opoids to brain and blood. A sudden, wracking spasm caught him off guard, his abdomen and diaphragm convulsing as one so that he was forced to stop in his tracks, bending forward at the waste and retching violently, though nothing solid presented. Again a convulsion, the same dry heave the result and Luke dropped to his knees onto the muddy ground, oblivious to the muck beneath him, knowing only the pain that lanced through his midsection. Another retch, though this time solid matter was ejected, an acid sour soup of stomach juices and the last fragments of undigested matter, though how anything solid remained in his stomach was a mystery as he had eaten nothing substantial in more hours than he cared to remember. He punched the ground in frustration as the agony peaked afresh, the pain coming in waves, disorientating him, making his head spin as, just as he felt the worst was over a fresh onslaught, more powerful than the last tore through him.
Finally, his stomach calmed, the painful peristalsis ceased and Luke was able to clamber to his feet, to continue his journey back towards town, though ponderously, fearful that any swiftness of movement would provoke another bout of nausea and, the worst thought of all was the certain knowledge that, unless he obtained more heroin to mollify his outraged brain, far worse was yet to come.
For the first time in years, as he walked on, alone in terms both geographical and spiritual, Luke began to weep.

The park bench was cold beneath his frame, curled foetal, clutching his knees to his chest as best he could, using his own limbs as a barrier against the chill wind, though an ineffective one at best. Luke’s teeth chattered continually, his body’s own means of providing warmth seemingly useless as his core temperature seemed to be dropping like a stone, his fingers and toes long since numb though, through a combination of withdrawal induced pain and cluelessness as to what else to do, he remained where he was, static save for the continual motion of his jaw, counting seconds in his head, not wanting to, unable to prevent himself, seeking any distraction from the biting elements and the pain within his own body. Twice already he had been on the brink of sleep, only for a nearby sound to startle him awake though, even then, he stayed still, unable to more, no, unwilling to move to prevent a fresh onslaught of agony. At least if he stayed where he was the pain was a constant, a none stop sensation of razors on gut tissue, though familiar and known. He could cope with that.
A noise from behind made Luke clench his jaw muscles tight, holding his face still to allow him to hear more clearly though, when no further sound was forthcoming he dismissed it as his imagination. Having read up thoroughly on withdrawal symptoms, he was all too aware that, in all likelihood, the hallucinations would start sometime soon and, perhaps, imaginary sounds were the first sign.
But it came again.
The sound of something being broken underfoot; a twig, or perhaps two stones clattering together as something moved in the darkness.
Something large.
Luke hugged his knees to his chest more tightly, still not able to force himself to move though, as the sound came again, he summoned all of his willpower and swung his legs off the bench, the weight of his limbs assisting as his body pivoted to an upright position.
A pain so intense Luke felt his eyes would pop from their sockets ripped through him, doubling him over where he sat, his body attempting to disgorge food stuffs and fluids that were no longer present, his stomach wall squeezing, squeezing, seeming to push against itself so that Luke feared for his organs, imagining his own liver squeezing out of his mouth like an oversized slug, no matter the anatomical implausibility.
Something touched his head and, despite the ferocious pain, he sat bolt upright, raising his fists, spinning on his own axis where he sat, his filthy, mud and sweat sopping jeans squeaking against the painted metal of the bench, able to see little, not simply through the darkness as his eyes were now more than accustomed to the night, but because something stood before him, a monstrous silhouette that seemed to blot out all else.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ a voice spoke from the darkness, the tone so gentle that Luke’s panic abated, though only slightly, afraid of being tricked, of lowering his defences only for the stranger to strike.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ the voice assured, and Luke wanted to believe him, wanted so desperately to think that it were true.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, surprised by the strength of his own voice.
‘A friend,’ he was assured and, as the stranger spoke, his voice travelled slightly, moving along the rear of the bench so that Luke was able to twist back round gradually to a more comfortable position until, with the unknown man standing before him, he could right himself entirely.
‘I know what you need,’ he claimed. ‘I know how to end the pain.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ Luke challenged, though the statement triggered a desperate yearning within him, the promise of an end to his suffering tantalising.
‘Come with me if you like. Or stay here. It’s up to you.’
And the stranger said no more, simply turned on his heels and walked away, though slowly.
Luke watched as the mans form receded into the shadows, mind racing, every conceivable consequence and benefit of standing up and following the stranger playing out in his mind but, ultimately, their could only be one victor in this mental battle of wits.
Luke rose to his feet and followed.

Twitch

Three nights and four days in the squat and still the topic of conversation continually returned to Teri’s apparent levitation. Were it not for the corroboration of other eye witnesses, Twitch would have sworn with absolute certainty that he had dreamt the whole thing, but the nervousness and occasional awe with which the others discussed the event confirmed that it had been all too real. As for Teri herself, she had manifested no other peculiar behaviour and seemed as mystified as everyone else by the events, though Twitch noticed that she was more withdrawn with each passing day, her movements more lethargic, her speech patterns lazy, slurred even, as if she were experiencing an attack of narcolepsy. When asked, she merely shrugged, either indifferent or unwilling to discuss it any further.
Lisa and he walked along the canal towpath, returning to their new found home after a spending the day between Stourhampton High Street and the shopping centre, acquiring money from likely marks – students could be relied upon, as could anyone dressed ‘alternative,’ be it rock gear or punk, gothic or crust. Again, as each time, Lisa took the lead, though Twitch was beginning to feel more comfortable with the practice now, more confident as he approached people, less likely to be cowed if someone became rude or aggressive and, accordingly, he noticed his profits increasing. Instead of the two pounds a day he was managing prior to his chance encounter with Lisa, now he was up to three pounds an hour, four on a good day.
‘Heaven knows what would have happened if I hadn’t met her,’ he thought, not for the first time though, for her part, she seemed to want nothing in return, even told him off the first two or three times he had thanked her, so he had desisted, happy to think the only payment she seemed to require was his company, a thought that warmed him greatly.
The two of them arrived, walking briskly over the rough ground in front of the property, giving the coded knock that had been taught to them – two quick, one long, two quick – and were about to settle into their customary positions in the room, still the same as the first night they had arrived when Teri stopped them.
‘Heh guys. We’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Lisa asked, puzzled by the statement.
‘I want you to meet someone. Follow me.’
Twitch glanced at Lisa, feeling his cheek pulse once, twice, a sudden wave of anxiety coursing through him and, bless her kind heart, she must have noticed, taking his hand in her own to offer reassurance.
‘Who is it?’ Lisa asked as they made their way from the room, moving through a corridor to a part of the property they had not previously seen, past the hole knocked in the wall that led to the rear of the property and the outdoor toilet used by all who dwelt within the house which, though the water supply had long since been cut off could still be operated by pouring a bucket of water down after you were done.
‘You’ll see,’ Teri replied mysteriously.
Past another door that was pulled tightly shut they moved into what would once have been the kitchen, the work units and spaces reserved for various appliances still evident.
‘This is Tom. He lives upstairs,’ Teri informed them. Indicating a bearded man sitting on stool leaning against a breakfast bar that had seen better days.
‘Hi. Lisa and Twitch, is it?
His voice was gentle, a warm lilt to it that could have been soft Irish, maybe Scottish, Twitch could not be certain. Tom extended a hand, which he and Lisa shook in turn.
‘Good to meet you,’ Lisa said, Twitch remaining silent at her side, too nervous to speak.
‘Teri’s been telling me good things about you two.’
‘Really?’ Lisa again.
‘Yes, really. She says you seem like our sort of people.’
Neither Lisa nor Twitch replied to this, both mystified as to his meaning.
‘We’d like you to join us upstairs soon. How does that sound?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before Lisa replied.
‘What exactly happens upstairs?’ she asked, her hesitancy caused by images of huge orgies and elderly swingers or, worse yet, some form of cult that required the blood of a virgin. Her anxieties were disproportionate to the conversation, and she knew it, yet still the nervousness remained.
‘We call ourselves The Elders. We look after things.’
Tom’s cryptic answers were doing little to calm her fears so, unsure of what else to say, she stated the obvious.
‘We’re hardly old enough to be considered Elders.’
Tom smiled. ‘It’s just a name. Something of a joke, really. We just take care of the people who come to live here.’
‘I see.’
‘Tell you what. I’ll meet you in the park in town tomorrow. We’ll chat there, away from inquisitive ears. If you aren’t interested when I’m through, I will leave you in peace and never mention it again.’
‘Well…’
Still Lisa felt a trepidation, though his suggestion seemed so reasonable it was difficult to find an argument, so much so that he put it into words himself.
‘What harm can it do?’
‘None I guess,’ she agreed. ‘What time do we meet?’
‘How does one o’clock sound? Give you time to earn some money in the morning.’
‘Ok.’
Tom left the room.

Luke

‘Where are we going?’ Luke asked, still trailing in the wake of the stranger as they exited the park, heading down a road that led them towards the town centre.
‘I’m going to let you sleep on my sofa,’ the man explained, before stopping dead in his tracks, spinning on his heels so that he was face to face with Luke. ‘Don’t even think about trying to rob me when I’m asleep,’ he stated coolly, the veiled threat implicit in the words reinforced by the look in his eyes.
‘I’ll find you if you do, just like I found you tonight only, I won’t be nearly as friendly.’
Luke blinked back at him, not quite sure how to respond, bewildered by the sudden change in the personality of the other man.
‘I won’t touch a thing, I promise,’ he assured the stranger, holding his hands up, palms forward in a gesture that was meant to convey honesty and fidelity but which also symbolised surrender, he realised, dropping his hands down as the thought formed, eager not to be seen as weak.
‘I trust you.’
The man turned once more, setting off again, not bothering to look behind him to check that Luke still followed, his confidence in his status as the alpha male evident by that alone.
Not wishing to appear contrary, Luke followed.

‘It’s just down here.’
The stranger disappeared from the High Street and, as Luke reached the entrance to the alleyway he saw that he had turned around and was now facing his way.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked the younger man, a quizzical note to his tone, though Luke was unable to see the expression he wore on his face due to the almost perfect darkness of the alleyway.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ he heard himself say, his mind in two, perhaps three places at once; concocting an excuse to walk away from this situation in a dignified manner, simply turning tail and running as fast as he could or doing as the stranger suggested and following him.
‘Why are you frightened?’ he asked Luke.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it me, or the alleyway that’s bothering you?’
It was a fair, if unusually direct question.
‘Because if it’s me, I can only apologise. I never meant to frighten you. I only want to help.’
‘No, it’s not you,’ Luke lied.
‘Good. Glad to hear it. As for the alley, it’s the back way in to my shop. I live above it.’
‘Can’t we go in the front way?’ Luke asked optimistically.
‘No can do. Sorry. The shutters are down. Only way to get them up is from the inside.’
A lie, but one he felt confident he could get away with. The youngster was hardly likely to have a degree in roller shutter design, after all.
‘Oh.’
‘I tell you what. You wait here, I’ll go and open the door and put the light on. Maybe that will help you.’
Luke was beginning to feel foolish, like a small boy afraid of the dark bleating that he needs the light left on else the monsters will get him. The gentlemen he was with had been nothing but kind, considerate and, above all else, patient. Most other people would have told him to clear off long ago, indeed, most ordinary people would not have offered him a roof over his head in the first place, yet here he was throwing the decent gesture back at him, acting as if he were someone to be afraid of, instead of someone to be thanked.
‘No, it’s ok. I’ll follow you. Not too fast though, I can’t see a thing.’
The stranger turned, taking one step further into the gloom and all but vanishing, forcing Luke to follow suit in order to keep him in sight.
‘You ok back there?’ he called over his shoulder, his voice reassuring Luke in this forbidding place.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Thirty paces, no more, and the stranger stood before what appeared to Luke to be a solid wall, the darkness virtually impenetrable, hiding the rusted, peeled paint doorway set into the brickwork. He heard keys rattling from just in front of him and realised that the stranger must be trying to gain access, struggling somewhat despite the fact he must have done it hundreds of times. Eventually, he heard a key slot into a lock and the sound of metal turning against metal, then the squeal of un-oiled hinges as the stranger pushed his weight against the door.
‘Wait here a sec while I get the lights,’ he instructed the younger man, and Luke listened as the sound of his feet receded, stopping altogether after seven or eight paces to be replaced by nothing but silence.
Luke stood statuesque, hardly daring even to breathe as he stood alone in the dark alleyway, feeling utterly vulnerable and exposed.
The open doorway still resonated with nought but stillness.
Luke shuffled slightly, anxiety replacing the dull fear, wondering what the older man was doing.
‘Hello,’ he called softly, too nervous to speak any louder lest unwanted ears should detect his presence, locate him in the alley and rob him, or worse still.
There was no response.
Luke did not know what to do. How long should he wait before investigating, or should he investigate at all? Wouldn’t it be more prudent simply to flee, to run away from the alleyway and the strange man with his strange shop that you can only get to through a pitch black entryway? Wouldn’t the sensible course of action be to leg it, maybe head back to the squat, despite the floating girl and the screaming.
‘Hello’ he called once more, taking a step forward as he spoke, his foot brushing against a small ledge, the doorstep. He raised his leg, took another step, considering whether crossing the threshold was breaking some unwritten social convention, or perhaps even a criminal act when something burst through the doorway, a flurry of motion that propelled him back and to the side, slamming him against a wall of the alleyway.
‘Like lice,’ he heard a voice snarl into his ear, even as he struggled to free himself. ‘Fucking lice. Breeding, multiplying on the flesh of the earth.’
Luke attempted to punch the man holding him, knowing now that it was the stranger that he had followed, had been stupid enough to trust that held him in a vice-like grip, but his feeble blows cause not so much as a flinch from the other. One hand left his shoulder and punched him, hard, right in the solar plexus, a calculated blow that achieved its aim, knocking the wind from him, rendering all attempts to struggle null and void. The same hand that had been used to strike him was now pressed flat against his chest, pinning him against the wall, erect, despite the fact his instinct was to double up to somehow lessen the pain. The other hand left his opposite shoulder, and Luke prepared for another blow, gritted his teeth in anticipation, but instead the hand found his throat and began to squeeze so that, now, terror flooded his system, redoubling his strength, though even this was insufficient, the strength of the man too much even for his adrenaline fuelled resistance.
‘They squeeze you out of their cunts,’ he snarled into Luke’s face, the effort required to slowly suffocate not reflected at all in the timbre of his voice, ‘Raise you, feral, then throw you into the street.’
Luke barely heard the words, all his energies going into trying to preserve his life, but the stranger continued regardless.
‘I exist to purge the world of human waste. You made me, don’t you see?’
The tone of the voice changed now, became pleading, Luke recognising the shift in tone even as his body began to shut down, as the world around him became awash with a white haze that began at the periphery of his vision but soon spread, filling his sight entirely, a bright, intense light that pulsed in sympathy with the few remaining beats of his heart.
‘You made me what I am. You can see that, right? All I ever wanted was to be a butcher.’
Luke died, his oxygen starved brain deciding enough was enough, instructing his heart to cease beating so that his body flopped forward, against the chest of The Butcher who dragged him through the doorway with great ease, dropping him to the floor, though delicately before closing the door and turning on the lights. The stainless steel gurney was already prepared, as was the butchers block, an assortment of blades and implements as required along with three or four black bin liners and a piece of paper. On the paper written in red ink was a number.
25.

Twitch

Lisa and Twitch, after a morning spent on the street touting for money, now found themselves in the park sitting, unbeknownst to them, on the very bench that Luke had occupied not seven hours earlier. Both seemed tense, nervous, the mystery surrounding this apparently clandestine meeting with an Elder beginning to surface as tetchiness.
‘What do you think he’s going to say? Twitch asked his companion, knowing full well that she was in possession of the self same facts as himself, but his own taut nerves causing him to waffle needlessly.
‘How the bloody hell do I know?’ she replied, with more force than she intended, allowing her hand to drop onto his own when she saw his face fall.
‘Was only asking.’
Even to his own ears, the blunt statement and whiney tone sounded like that of a petulant child.
‘I know.’
They sat in silence instead, both comfortable in the others company and both seemingly aware that any further attempt at conversation could flood over into outright argument. With some relief, it was Lisa who spotted Tom first, approaching their park bench from the opposite side of the concreted area, circumnavigating the band stand as he went, having to pause briefly as a young couple on roller blades came perilously close to running him down.
‘With love,’ they heard him call after the would be hit-and-runners, the beard and shabby dress only serving to reinforce his ‘peace and love’ demeanour.
‘I think he’s a hippie,’ observed Twitch, causing Lisa to giggle beside him.
‘Ssshhhh. He’ll hear you.’
As Tom neared their position, a broad smile spread across his features, a grin of such genuine warmth that would usually be reserved for a meeting with loved ones after a lengthy absence, causing Lisa and Twitch to smile back at him, however foolish it made Twitch feel and, without consultation, both stood as one as he reached them.
‘Brethren,’ Tom greeted, ‘I’m glad you could make it.’
‘No problem. It’s our lunch break anyway,’ Lisa informed him.
‘Ahhh. The grind of the nine to five, eh?’ he asked, joining in with the joke with ease.
‘Yeah. Something like that.’
‘Please, sit,’ he suggested with a wave of the hand, and Twitch and Lisa followed his suggestion, Tom himself perching on the end of the bench, though sitting forward at a slight angle to look across the pair of them.
‘I suspect you are wondering what all this is about?’
‘It had crossed our minds,’ Lisa admitted, speaking for the pair of them as had become their habit.
Tom looked into the distance momentarily, as if gathering his thoughts, taking a moment to reflect upon what he had next to say.
‘You two have been brought to my attention by Teri. She’s very fond of you, you know.’
‘That’s nice to hear.’
Tom paused for a moment longer, perhaps absorbing the comment, weighing up the sincerity of it, Lisa’s natural tendency for sarcasm perhaps being held against her, however fleetingly.
‘She suggested that you join us.’
‘As one of The Elders?’ Lisa asked, unable to resist prompting the conversation.
‘That’s right. That’s right exactly.’
He seemed genuinely delighted that she had grasped the concept so readily.
‘But, what exactly are The Elders?’
The smile returned to Tom’s face, a broad grin revealing tobacco stained teeth hidden behind the thickness of his beard.
‘I thought I’d explained. We look after the people in the house and, sometimes, beyond. People just like yourself. The desperate, the needy. We help them find meaning.’
Lisa frowned at the last part of the statement, alarm bells sounding loudly in her mind.
‘Is it some kind of cult?’
Tom laughed out loud at the comment, as if the very notion were the most amusing thing he had ever heard, taking a few moments to contain his mirth.
‘No, nothing like that. No fire lit orgies at midnight. Goodness, gracious, no.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘It’s as I say. We help people. We give people purpose.’
He stopped speaking, leaning back against the bench, head turning from side to side, surveying the locale, looking for all the world as if he were ensuring they were not being observed but, if that were true, why pick such a public place for a meeting?
‘So it’s up to you two, now. You have to decide if you want to become a part of something greater than you have known thus far. As I promised, there is no pressure on this decision.’ He spoke as a professor may whilst addressing a lecture theatre of students preparing for a final exam, ‘But I promise you, should you choose to tread the path, you will flourish without want forevermore.’
Though the language was florid, Lisa and Twitch gleaned the meaning, though not the context, the vagueness of his communication at best bewildering.
‘Well, I suppose we can come and have a look,’ said Lisa, not wishing to offend the man by turning him down outright, though every instinct she possessed told her to decline.
‘There is just one thing.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ she thought, though she held her tongue.
‘We have one rule only, though it is strictly observed.’
He stopped speaking again, a pause so pregnant with tension Twitch wanted to scream at him to spit it out.
‘To attain the love that is rightfully ours, all who venture upstairs must make preparation.’
Both youngsters frowned at him, his choice of words confounding them.
Tom reached into his pocket and produced two small, brown paper bags, handing one each to Twitch and Lisa.
‘One hour before sunrise, you must make use of them. Only then will you be ready.’
Lisa opened her bag first, peering within, unable to determine the contents for a second or two but, when realisation came, her eyes bulged in alarm and her lips tightened into a thin streak of resolve against her face.
‘No thank you,’ she said, attempting to thrust the paper bag back into his hands, though he refused to comply.
‘Think about it,’ he said, standing as he spoke and already walking away, leaving Twitch and Lisa staring at each other, both with mouths agape. Twitch delved into his own bag and pulled out the object within, his hands trembling slightly. Outside of a hospital or a TV medical drama, he had never seen a hypodermic needle, and he studied it with awe-tinged interest.
‘What do you think it is?’ he asked, tapping one finger against the glass exterior so that the fluid within jiggled a little.
‘I’ve got no intention of finding out.’

The Black Country Butcher

The light from the overhead fluorescents reflected from the blade of the butcher’s knife, glinting as he wiped the length of the implement with a cloth to rid it of any blemish. He held the knife up to eye level, turning the handle to inspect both sides thoroughly then, once satisfied, lay the tool down on the stainless steel surface in front of him. The young mans carcass filled the slab on which it lay, clearly a fine specimen whilst he still drew air, but the man felt no pity for him, understanding that for one form of life to flourish, another must suffer. His intent, whilst murderous, was not one tinged with sadism, at least through his own eyes, he was merely a facilitator, doing what needed to be done.
The butcher stepped back from the cadaver before him, turning to the smaller, wheel-cast butchers block on his right, ignoring the pair of latex gloves, preferring to feel the flesh against his own and, working with meat just dead, it was a luxury he could allow.
The boy lay on his back, limbs splayed at acute angle, the posture akin to a horizontal star jump, though he ignored the extremities, commencing instead with the body cavity, using the long blade of the butchers knife to open an incision in the belly of the man child, cutting the length of his abdomen, significant effort required despite the frail form of the youngster as he sliced through layers of fat and flesh. Once rent, the butcher lay his knife aside, using his hands now, tugging at the opposing sides of the wound, yanking, prizing the gash apart to allow him to peer within, the sight that greeted him precisely as expected, a tangle of blood and entrails snaked in the apparent chaos of nature and, as every time he performed such an evisceration, he marvelled at the mechanism of the human animal, astounded that anything so confused and grotesque could actually be capable of life .
Next came the hard part.
With the gash to the boy’s abdomen spread as wide as possible, The Butcher moved assuredly, pushing both hands beneath the boys back, hoisting him into the air just to tipping point, though ensuring he did not flip over entirely then, with practiced ease, he began coaxing the intestines from the body cavity, the effort required minimal as the slimy bundle passed through the rent without any fuss, the vast majority landing in a fluidic pool of organs and entrails in front of his ravaged abdomen. Loosening one hand, the butcher stretched out an arm and felt for the wedge used on just these occasions, finding the hefty piece of triangular wood and hoisting it towards him, positioning it behind the body, the weight of the timber more than a match for the small frame, holding the body in perfect position. Quickly now, enjoying his work, The Butcher moved to the opposite side of the slab, taking his butcher knife with him and grabbing a smaller blade along the way, which he used to hack at the fibres and filaments attaching the boys guts to his frame, removing the entire digestive, renal and pulmonary systems as one mass, before setting to work separating out the kidney and the liver for later use, no interest in the remainder which he slopped off the side of the stainless steel slab into a bucket ready for disposal, only pausing to retrieve the edible parts of the offal, placing these separately in Tupperware containers.
The butcher turned away again, back to the wooden block on his left, this time fetching the large, blood-stained towel. He took the item and wrapped it around one fist, delving deep into the mans abdomen and wiping down all sides, removing as much of the residue and moisture as was possible to ensure maximum preservation of the meat.
For the next part of the task a cleaver was required, so the butcher retrieved it from the block, moving the length of the surface in front of him so that he was at the top end of the slab, taking hold of the boys head and manoeuvering it so that the spine was laid out straight then, with two precisely delivered blows, he severed the head from the shoulders.
One further implement was needed for the most onerous part of the process. Next to the plastic tub containing the kidneys and liver lay a meat saw, and the butcher moved to it, picking it up carefully, all too aware of the wicked sharpness of the business end, positioning himself appropriately so that he could move the length of the carcass, using his left hand, his weaker hand, true, but, through practice he was almost as accomplished with either, and set to sawing down the boys middle, along the vertebrae, using the spine as a guide as he yanked the implement back and forth, back and forth, the teeth of the blade biting into flesh and bone, ripping through the organic matter.
The small adult body fell into two equal pieces, limbs still attached.
The butcher admired his handiwork.
His customers would be most pleased.

Twitch

The first thing he was aware of was the movement, a vague sensation as he flitted between the multiworlds of dreams and the grimness of reality, one moment aware of the hard surface upon which he lay, the next soaring through the night sky astride the back of a giant eagle, or in a fight for his life against a gang of invisible ninjas. Though the motion was insufficient to rouse him fully, the touch of skin against exposed flesh brought him further back to the present, his eyes snapping open whilst his body was still paralysed by the lucidity of the dreams, mind awakening before his matter so that, briefly, he was unable to take positive action to identify the source of the night time intrusion.
Then came the pain.
Momentary, sharp, at the crook of his forearm and elbow before receding entirely to the point that It could have been another figment formed from dreams, though the slight trickle of fluid down his skin was no illusion.
Twitch sprang upright, his night sharpened vision able to pick out shape in the shadow, as somebody moved away from him swiftly, perhaps hoping to disappear into the darkness from which he had emerged.
‘Who’s there?’ Twitch called into the room, not really anticipating a reply, his expectation proving sound as silence greeted his demand. He tried to stand, but the paralysis seemed to have returned, though this time the sensation was entirely alien, not the void like numbness of sleep paralysis but a warmth spreading through his body that made the thought of movement seem nonsensical.
Why move at all when he could just lie down and sleep?
With considerable effort he moved one of his arms, bringing a hand to the crook of his elbow to dab a fingertip at the moisture that was still present and, in that instant, he realised that he had been injected with something, a terrifying prospect and his mind raced back to earlier in the day and the syringe full of the mysterious fluid presented by Tom, The Elder.
‘What was in that syringe?’
That is what he wanted to ask, but his mouth and throat refused to cooperate, the words emerging garbled as his tongue forgot how to interact with his teeth and lips. Beside him, he felt further movement and, powerless to do anything about it he simply listened, hearing as Lisa went through the same ordeal as he and, in the darkness, he began to giggle. Though nothing about the situation should have been remotely funny, Twitch could not resist as the giggling intensified, becoming all out laughter almost instantly, tears forming in his eyes, the numbness now so complete he could not even move a hand to wipe the moisture from them.
‘What the fuck?’ he heard from Lisa as she crystallised the thoughts he had shared only a few seconds prior more forcefully and, for a second or two, he felt her begin to resist, begin to rise to confront her attacker before she too seemed to succumb to whatever drug had been pumped into their systems.
Like a wave borne of the tropics, Twitch floated through his stillness, his body feeling weightless, his mind enveloped by the softest cotton wool and his vision filling with a soothing white light, soft, almost opaque, tingeing the world around him with a touch of heaven, as if he had been kissed by an unseen angel and the sacred joy was now spreading through his being.
Side by side, they drifted.

The Black Country Butcher

The jingle of the front door bell coincided precisely with the moment the meat cleaver struck wood, a large joint of meat shorn in two by the large blade. The Butcher raised his head from his work, emotions divided, pleased at the prospect of fresh custom but disappointed to be separated from the flesh, however briefly. He placed the cleaver down, ensuring the handle fell exactly flush with the edge of the block, having to manoeuvre it once, twice, nudging it slightly to the left each time to maximise accuracy.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ he called out heartily, letting the visitor to the shop know that their presence had not gone unnoticed lest they lose patience and leave. He moved to the large sink that occupied one corner of the room, turning one tap on before applying a liberal amount of anti-bacterial liquid soap to his meat moistened hands, rinsing them thoroughly, though hastily, torn between his desire for cleanliness and the needs of his customers. After rubbing between each finger three times, The Butcher retrieved the hand towel from beneath the sink, affording the same attention to detail to the drying process as to the washing before wrapping the towel around one hand to allow him to turn off the still running tap without his skin making contact with the metal that would still be contaminated.
‘Hygiene costs nothing,’ read a poster above the sink, a maxim The Butcher stuck to strenuously, having no desire to inflict food poisoning on those that ate his produce.
He wasn’t a monster.
Besides, cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all and, whilst not acting out of servitude to any higher power, he was certainly providing a valuable service to mankind, so surely the same rules still applied.
Satisfied, he returned the towel to its peg and left the room, pushing through the heavy, black plastic doors into the main serving area.
Two elderly ladies looked his way expectantly, so he painted a smile onto his face, the professional air of a respectable shopkeeper the appearance he wished to convey, and successful at it he was too, with barely a day going by without one, two, maybe more customers praising him for his good manners and cheery disposition.
‘Morning Mavis, morning Dorothy,’ he greeted the sexagenarians warmly, rubbing his hands together as he spoke to indicate that he was ready and eager to please and would provide for all their needs.
‘What’ll it be?’
It was Mavis who spoke first, it always was, Dorothy seeming the shyer of the two, standing slightly behind her friend as if using her as a protective shield.
‘Six Cumberland’s, please, and four rashers of bacon. Smoky if you’ve got it.’
‘English Breakfast is it, today?’ he enquired, as comfortable when making small talk as he was when squeezing the life out of a homeless youngster, another thing he prided himself on.
‘You know our Bernard likes his fry ups come the weekend.’
‘You’re only young once,’ he replied as he first weighed then wrapped her order, ringing the amount due into the till when he was done.
‘’That’ll be one thirty four please, love.’
Mavis handed over a single note and held her hand out for the change.
‘And for you, Dorothy?’
I’ll have four of the same sausages please, three inches or so of black pudding and….’
She hesitated, appearing suddenly nervous, looking over her shoulder as if checking that nobody had surreptitiously, silently entered the shop. The Butcher knew precisely what she wanted, but waited all the same, enjoying the moment, feeding on the fear and apprehension as a basking shark feeds on krill, sucking it into himself, consuming all he could.
‘…and one of your specials,’ she finally managed.
‘None for you today, Mavis?’ he asked, but the old woman shook her head, eyes locked to the ground, not daring to look his way, perhaps fearful that she would relent.
‘Back in a tick.’
The Butcher left the serving area, heading to the backroom, to the freezer locked in the cellar that was all but concealed from view and appeared on no council or developer plans for the property, to retrieve the order.

Twitch.

The days that followed the initial exposure to the drugs seemed dreamlike, as if they were events taking place in somebody else’s life. After the initial fear, an emotional reaction that now seemed naïve, each waking moment was experienced in a state of ceaseless bliss, every nerve ending in the body alive, active, transmitting pleasure signals to their brains. Conversation was sparse, both content merely to lie back in their allocated spot in the front room and savour the sensations, only rising to make use of the rudimentary toilet facilities out back or to obtain more of the narcotic. Each morning, awakening from the semi-sleep that only the heroin user can fully understand, they would walk through to the kitchen area where Tom would be waiting, his ever present grin beaming through the thick hair that covered his chin, handing over two pre-prepared syringes to see them through the day, never dawning on them to ask why they were obliged to take it ready made when, surely, it would be simpler on his part to give them the raw ingredient for them to concoct themselves.
Twitch felt a happiness that he had never known.

The sun kissed their cheeks as they lay side by side in the park, one hand resting behind their heads, the other intertwining with the fingers of their companion.
‘I’ve never seen the sky like this before,’ Twitch whispered, humbled by the spectacle before him. ‘It’s beautiful.’
The blue of the afternoon sky was more brilliant to his eyes than he had ever seen, the few clouds that skittered across his field of vision seemingly a pure white, perfectly contrasting against the background.
‘I think this is what Heaven would be like,’ Lisa said beside him, squeezing his hand slightly as if seeking reassurance that he were still there, despite the sound of his voice.
‘I love Tom,’ said Twitch.
‘I love Tom, too,’ she agreed.

Still they lay in the same spot, eyes cast upwards, drifting away on their own thoughts, incapable of movement even if they had desired it. Occasionally, Twitch’s mind turned to matters mundane so that, briefly, he began to worry about money. Since the night of the first injection they had spent no time at all on the streets earning so that, between them, he knew they possessed a total wealth of one pound sixty three pence. But Tom had told them not to worry about money anymore. He had told them that, as Elders, they would have no need of it, that all of their wants would be taken care of so, even as the thoughts began to form, they were replaced by the image of Tom’s face in his mind and, instantly, he was soothed.
There was no need to worry. Tom would take care of everything.
The same was true of food. Four days had passed since a morsel had passed his lips, yet Twitch felt no hunger, no weakness, no pain. It seemed his body was obtaining all the nourishment it required from the small amount of liquid they were mainlining twice daily and, though that seemed strange even to his drug addled mind, he chose not to question, chose instead to trust, for there was no need to worry.
Tom was taking care of everything.

The Black Country Butcher

The Butcher stood in the cellar, the lid on one of the three freezers open, revealing the contents. Though the light in the room was dim, a solitary, unshielded low wattage bulb dangling on the end of a twisted length of wire the only source of illumination, it was sufficient for him to make out what lay within the appliance, and he bristled with pride. Though self congratulation was something that he frowned upon when he witnessed it in others, as he existed in a state of near perfection at all times it was an attitude he allowed himself to indulge in occasionally, perhaps once a week. Admiring his handiwork was an easy fix, a momentary adrenaline rush that served as brief reward for the hard graft and enterprising endeavour that went into his craft.
From where he stood, the frozen human remains would be indistinguishable from their animal counterparts to most. To the untrained eye, the freezer contained nothing more extraordinary than joints of pork but, through experience, he could discern the difference even from a distance, the meat tinged with a pinkness that even the primest cuts of pork lack. It was similar when it was consumed. Only a refined palate would be able to differentiate between the two cuts, the subtle sweetness present in long pig so faint that even true connoisseurs sometimes found it hard to distinguish.
But his time was up, more pressing matters needed to be resolved.
It was four days since his last kill, the young boy in the park satisfying his bloodlust for eighty eight hours, but the pressure he felt in his brain was intensifying, and he knew the time to take another life was approaching.
The Butcher left the room, closing the lid on the freezer before he did so, climbing the stairs swiftly, pushing the door closed behind him. The wood of the door sat flush against the exterior wall, the door itself tiled with such precision that, unless standing directly in front of the entrance, it was undetectable. Access to the cellar was achieved by lifting the small latch that protruded from between the gaps in the tiles and, as a further precaution, the latch was painted the same colour as the tiling, again maximising the camouflage.
The Butcher stood now in the back room of his shop and, though the lights were extinguished, he had no need of them, negotiating any obstacles without incident, the layout of the room as clear in his mind as if it were the middle of the day. He made his way to the doorway that led through to the alley and lifted the letterbox, using the custom made hook to hold the flap in place.
He pulled up a chair, eyes exactly in line with the opening into the alley.
He waited.

The prey ventured into the alleyway, oblivious to its plight, brain functions slowed almost to a standstill by the strong liquor it had consumed in the local park. Seeking somewhere warm and protected to sleep, it returned to a place it felt secure, little knowing that hungry eyes were upon it.

The Butcher heard his victim before he saw him, the familiar shuffling gait of the drink blighted homeless as stimulating to his senses as the scent of blood to a tiger shark. He held the night vision goggles up to his eyes, seeing the alleyway almost as clearly in the pitch darkness as in the middle of the day, albeit tinged with a green hue. He admired his victim as he shambled the length of the alleyway, settling himself against a wall, the vigil continuing as the drunken souls chin begin to drop once, twice, each time jerking back to consciousness, the brain not yet ready to give up its state of awareness, slight as it was.
The Butcher waited a full fifteen minutes before making his move, cracking the door open as quietly as he could manage, swinging it gently open and moving in on the vagrant.
The tramp did not even awaken as he clamped his hands around his throat and throttled the life out of him, ruining some of The Butchers’ fun.
He liked it when they struggled.
Easy or not, The Butcher’s need to kill was satisfied, and a fresh body was ready for the freezer.

Twitch

Twitch and Lisa lay in the park still, neither moving a muscle.
What point in moving when the world was so at peace? What point moving when waves of sheer bliss coursed through the veins in a steady rhythm, as one joyous eddy receded, another formed in its wake, seeming to spread outwards from the chest, as if the heart itself were producing the sensations, or perhaps it was the blood that it pumped around the body, transmitting the active component of the fluid they injected into themselves twice daily, each time the blood completed one entire circuit of the blood system, so the effects were replenished.
‘If you concentrate really hard,’ he heard Lisa say from beside him, though her voice seemed to be travelling to him from great distance, or from within a cave, ‘You can feel your thoughts moving inside your head.’
Twitch frowned at that, pondering the meaning of her words before she urged him, ‘Try it. Try to remember something that happened last week, or last month. Try to remember it then concentrate. You’ll feel it moving through your brain.’
Twitch tried to do as she instructed, sending his mind back to his previous life, the one that seemed so long ago now, living with his mother and the monster, but the only things he found on this reflective journey were bad and tried to resist them. Though he could feel nothing of the brain movement that Lisa had described, he could feel something, something deep and intangible stirring within him, a warmth almost, though not only in his mind, this inner fire seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, from toe to tip, and it frightened him, so he fought it down, pushed the memories that had almost surfaced into the background of his awareness where they could trouble him no more.
‘Can you feel it?’ she asked, perhaps sensing the change in mood from where she lay.
‘Yes,’ he lied, not knowing why, thinking that maybe that was what she wanted to hear.
Minutes went by and neither spoke, the only sound nearby the call of the bird song and the occasional scurrying sound as a squirrel nearby foraged for food.
Barely awake, Twitch’s eyes were closed tight, so he was unaware of the approaching figure, was oblivious even as the shadow of the individual fell over their prostrate forms, only realising that they had been joined by another when the figure spoke.
‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to leave the park.’
Neither Twitch nor Lisa moved an inch, both apparently unaware that they were being addressed, prompting the figure to repeat his demand, though this time with a touch more severity.
‘You two. Move. You’ve got to leave.’
Twitch forced one eye open, peering into the brightness that flooded his vision, protective tears forming to refract the potentially damaging levels of light. He blinked them away, seeing the figure standing over him for the first time.
‘Up you get, son. You’ve got to go. We’ve had complaints.’
Beside him, Lisa began to rise, so Twitch followed suit, struggling to an upright seated position, not sure what was going on, knowing only that he was intimidated by the large man that stood before him.
‘What have we done wrong?’ he heard Lisa ask, her voice coming to him as if muffled by a pillow.
‘We’ve had complaints. This is a place for families,’ was the man’s
response.
‘But we’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Just look at yourselves,’ he observed and, for the first time in days, Twitch looked down at his clothing, noting through drug clouded eyes the filth of his own jumper.
Twitch hauled himself to his feet with considerable effort, feeling woozy, for a moment concerned that he would not be able to keep his balance and would fall straight back down onto the grass but, within a second, the feeling passed. A confidence he did not know he possessed surged through him.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he declared boldly.’
‘Oh, is that right?’ the man asked, clearly amused by his brashness.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ the man said, taking a step forward to grab
Twitch’s arm, his intention clearly to march him out of the park by hand.
Something within Twitch began to burn. It wasn’t painful, not quite, more like the feeling on the skin after a rub down with Deep Heat, though this was altogether internal, seeming to emanate from every organ.
‘Get your hands off me,’ he commanded the grounds man, making to
yank his arm away, but the man held on.
‘One way or another, you are leaving,’ the man warned, tensing now, planting his feet more firmly in the ground as he began to pull on Twitch’s arm. The burning sensation built, becoming ever more intense as each second passed and, suddenly, Twitch let out a bellow loud enough to frighten the birds from the nearby trees. As if struck by a great force, the man who held his arm was lifted clear off his feet, his body flying through the air some six or seven feet before crashing to the ground, landing back first, a dull thump accompanying the impact.
Twitch moved on him, looming over him in a mirror image of the scene of some two minutes ago, the man sprawled in an untidy heap, shaking his head in disbelief, staring up at Twitch with fear evident in his eyes.
‘I could kill you if I wished,’ Twitch told him calmly, not knowing where the words were coming from, knowing only that what he said was the truth and it was clear from the expression on the mans face that he believed every syllable.
‘Don’t fucking move.’
Twitch turned now, heading back to where Lisa still sat, eyes wide, staring up at him, herself clearly frightened by what she had witnessed.
‘Come on,’ he urged, holding a hand out to her which she took, though reluctantly, forcing Twitch to physically pull her to her feet.
‘We’ve got to go,’ he said and, hand in hand, they left the park.

Another?

The walls of the building were moist, almost wet, lichen clawing its way between the exposed red brickwork, a patchwork of greys, greens and blacks that added to the sense of dankness that hung in the air, shroud-like.
He closed the door behind him, the single, rusting steel entryway the only way into the property since the massive roller shutters that dominated the narrow side of the warehouse had been welded shut, an act designed as much to keep people in as keep people out. He reached for his back pocket, producing a single key which he used to engage a sturdy looking lock, before sliding three enormous bolts into place, top middle and bottom.
Satisfied that there would be no interruptions, he walked away from the door, each footstep reverberating back to him some two or three seconds later from the far wall, perhaps forty metres distance. The platform on which he walked was raised some two metres from the ground, an elevated gantry at the end of which a metal staircase ran to ground level. Having visited many times, he knew where the switches were placed to activate the lighting, pressing all four button down at once with a single flattened palm so that, overhead, myriad strips of fluorescents spluttered into life, illuminating the entirety of the room.
He reached the end of the gantry, using the handrails to steady himself as he traversed the seven steps to the warehouse floor, eyes surveying the scene before him.
Directly in the centre of the room, a table. Large, angled slightly so that one end lay a full foot above the other, the polished stainless steel reflecting the glare of the overhead lighting. At each corner, though with enough clearance for a person to comfortably walk around the table, banks of electronic equipment were positioned, some appearing dormant whilst on others, lights flickered.
He approached one of the banks of machinery, studying the settings, ensuring that everything was as it had been left. When he was satisfied he pulled a lever and, behind him, the drone of a generator sounded and, even before he turned, he could see that more lights had been illuminated.
He spun on his heel.
Before him, in a row, a set of cages could be seen, five wide, each cage embedded into the wall of the warehouse so that only the front set of bars were visible. From where he stood, each cell appeared to be empty but, as he approached, the occupants became visible, each adopting a similar pose, huddled in one corner or the other, some shivering, most immobile, all watching him with terror in their eyes.
‘Good morning,’ he said cheerily, sounding like a teacher addressing a class of infants first thing on a Monday morning. ‘I trust we all slept well.
As usual, there was no response and nor had he expected one, knowing from experience and experimentation that abject fear renders most subjects silent.
‘Nothing like the movies, is it?’ he enquired genially, again with silence his only reply.
Apparently bored with his game, he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and produced a gun of sorts, though this one fired not bullets but, instead, a chemical compound to render his subjects more compliant. He lifted the gun to eye level, pacing back and forth along the front of the cells, intermittently pausing, hunching his shoulders slightly, adopting a posture that suggested he was about to take a shot before relaxing his stance and moving on, laughing as he did so, taunting those in his captivity, a game that was surely enjoyed by only one of the participants.
‘Nobody want to play?’ he asked of his guests, feigning a pout, pretending to be disappointed, laughing at this as well, a shrill, high pitch sound that could only emanate from the throat of the demented.
‘You’ll do,’ he said at last, tiring of his own antics, selecting the middle of the cells, taking one pace forward, though remaining well out of arms reach, a precaution, though a wise one. He lifted the gun once more to his eye, lining the sight up squarely with the (man?) in the far corner of the cell before him, the slender barrel of the tranquiliser gun looking for all the world like a silenced pistol, pulling the trigger once, an assuredness in the motion that was justified when the dart found its target unerringly. The naked figure at the rear of the cell gasped, just once, a hand clasping the shaft of the feathered dart as if ready to rip it from the chest before the drug took effect and the figure slid against the wall, collapsing to the floor, his shrivelled genitals flopping against the meat of his milky thighs.
‘A man. I was right.’

Twitch

It had been three days since Twitch had first discovered his ability, two days of fear and trepidation and puzzlement and delight, with Lisa the voice of encouragement, urging him to repeat the feat, something which, for the first two days, had eluded him.
Today, however, showed promise, and not just for himself.
As they made their way from squat, preparing to venture once more into the park, certain that Twitch’s impressive display of telekinetic ability would scare off the grounds man for good, they paused, Lisa claiming that she could feel something within. Twitch guided her, explaining to her for perhaps the hundredth time what he had felt and she confirmed that the sensations she felt stirring were similar. A powerful burning deep within, though not actually painful, more an awareness of the feeling.
‘Concentrate,’ he coaxed.
‘On what?’
She sounded annoyed, as if he were uttering inanities and, though he could have been annoyed, he realised it was fear that spurred her reaction, not genuine antipathy.
‘Erm, there, on that stone,’ he said, bending slightly, pointing out a medium sized brown pebble on the towpath. She did as he asked, though the stone remained stubbornly fixed to the ground.
‘Nothing’s happening,’ she protested, the hand which held Twitch’s own tightening its grip through the sheer mental effort she was exerting.
‘It will. It will,’ he insisted and, sure enough, just as she was on the verge of giving up, defeated, the stone jumped a little, like popcorn in a pan, a sudden lifting off the ground, an inch, no more.
‘Again,’ Twitch encouraged, gripping now as tightly as she, willing for a recurrence which she duly provided, the stone lifting higher this time, seeming suspended in midair some six or seven inches off the ground before she lost control and it returned to the earth that had formed it.
‘That was brilliant,’ Twitch cried, dancing on the spot, his ebullience matched by the broad grin on his face. ‘that was better than mine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at what you did. You controlled it. You lifted it and held it in place. It was like you were telling it what to do, and it obeyed. Mine, well, mine was just anger. I had no control.’
She frowned at first but, slowly, a smile spread across her face as she realised that what he said was true.
‘The student becomes the master?’ she asked mischievously.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far.’

They lay in the same spot as three days prior, on their bellies this time, watching the people passing by, experimenting, toying with their new found talent, testing their capabilities. The first test had been range. Just how near did an object have to be before they could affect its position by thought alone and, here too, Lisa seemed more adept, her ability manifest for fifteen feet, maybe twenty, whereas Twitch seemed limited to a mere ten feet, if limited was indeed an appropriate description when contemplating their apparent supernatural powers.
Next came precision.
‘Here’s one. You try first.’
Lisa took the lead as instructed, watching as a paunch bellied man in his forties strolled through the park, Beside the path along which he walked Twitch had strategically placed a large stick, an object innocuous enough to go unnoticed by any passersby yet large enough to be considered a hazard if placed in their path.
Lisa stared at the stick intently, again feeling the warmth rising within her, able to manage it by now, to channel it and hold it in check until the moment was just right.
‘Tell me when,’ she said.
‘Not quite, not quite,’ he muttered beside her before: ‘Now.’
Though nothing was near enough to cause movement, still the stick lifted slightly off the ground before seeming to accelerate of its own volition, skimming across the grass, still moving quickly as it crossed from lawn to tarmac, entangling in the legs of the pedestrian, causing him to stumble. As soon as contact was made, Lisa released her hold, allowing the stick to be affected by only the usual laws of physics once more, suppressing a grin as the man attempted to mask his awkward stagger with a small, four step run, apparently hoping that it appeared he had intended all along to perform this mini-exercise, glancing around himself self-consciously, catching the eye of Lisa momentarily before turning away, cheeks reddening.
‘You’re really good at this,’ Twitch stated.
‘I seem to be.’

The small toy Dalek Twitch still had in his possession hovered in midair above where he lay, lying on his back now, not really paying attention to the floating, malevolent alien replica. Through practice, his powers were becoming more finely tunes as well so that, after several hours, he was almost a match for Lisa. Feeling fatigued, Lisa had ceased her experimentation some time ago, her finest achievement being the release of the lead of a dog, causing much commotion as the beast had fled from its owner, the unfamiliarity of freedom apparently something to be celebrated amongst the canine kingdom, the animal racing around the park like a thing demented, running at other dogs, small children, snapping at twigs on the ground and chasing after any squirrel unfortunate enough to move into its line of sight.
‘You know that you’re face doesn’t twitch anymore, Twitch,’ she said casually.
‘Yeah, I’d noticed that.’
‘Weird.’
‘That’s weird?’ he asked, amused by the notion that the lack of a facial tic was the strangest thing that had occurred over the past few days.
‘You know what I mean. Must be connected, somehow.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll ask Tom about it later.’
‘You can ask me now.’
Startled, the pair sat upright, spotting Tom for the first time, unaware that he was present.
‘How long have you been watching us?’ Lisa demanded, the question coming out more harshly than she had intended.
Tom raised both hands, palms raised upwards in a gesture of supplication.
‘Long enough to be impressed.’
‘You saw, then?’ Twitch asked.
‘I saw enough. You two are talented. You have The Gift.’
Lisa frowned, confused by her feelings, pleased by the praise of the older man but unable to shake the impression that they were being toyed with, somehow, manipulated.
‘The Gift?’
‘That’s what we Elders call it. It’s what Teri spotted in you since you first arrived. Spending time in the squat has simply brought it to the surface.’
‘I see,’ she said, though she saw nothing at all.
‘You’re close now.’
‘Close to what?’
Twitch asked the question this time.
‘To your awakening.’
‘Awakening?’
‘You may join us soon. Just a little more patience,’ he said before turning from them and walking away slowly.
Twitch and Lisa turned towards each other, the expression on their faces making it clear that neither had understood the meaning of the last exchange though, by now, this seemed routine following a conversation with the older man.
‘I love Tom,’ said Twitch.
‘I love Tom, too,’ said Lisa.

The Black Country Butcher

The Butcher hauled the sack up the alleyway, the body contained therein dragging along the ground, a dead weight testing even his considerable strength.
The snatch had been easy. A cruise around the perimeter of the local park, to identify likely targets before moving in, luring her into the car with the promise of money for a sexual act, driving to a secluded area, turning to her as if to initiate the intimacy, choosing to smother this one, though not to the point of death. It had been many months since last he copulated and, though he was loathe to admit it, some physical needs even he could not contain forever.
He wanted her alive.
For awhile, at least.
Once unconscious, moving the girl to the rear of the vehicle, backseat already dropped in readiness and sheathing her inside the Hessian sack had proved challenging, though not impossible.
After that the most dangerous part of the ordeal was removing her from the vehicle, the precious seconds taken whilst he dragged her from the hatchback until he hid her in the alley leaving him totally exposed, though the activity passed without incident.
Now he reached the battered, rusted door that led to his back workshop. He turned the key and swung open the door, pulling the girl into the room behind him, bending now to place both hands under the body, straining every sinew as he hoisted her inert form into the air, depositing her on the stainless steel slab before returning to reengage the deadbolt. He moved with purpose, untying the knotted cord at the open end of the sack before moving to the opposite end, lifting her legs high in the air and, through a series of jerks and twists, he slowly revealed his prize, taking a second or two to neatly fold the sack and place it on his block beside his array of tools.
He gazed down at her.
In the harsh light of the fluorescents, every blemish on her face was visible, the ravages of a life on the street and the imbibing of toxins etched into her features, the delicate blonde hair seeming somehow incongruous with the face that it framed, aged before its time.
Without taking his eyes off her, The Butcher began to remove his clothing, first his trousers, then his underpants, each item placed tidily alongside the sack and the cutting tools before he set to work disrobing her, too. When he was done, he stood back, eager to take in every detail, eyes drifting from toes to the top of her head, delighted by what he saw, stimulated. He advanced, taking one of her breasts in his hand, squeezing the pliant flesh, using fingers to squeeze at the bud of her nipple, amused as it sprang into life despite her current state. He brought his head down, nuzzling into the nape of her neck before extending his tongue and licking at her, expecting the action to add to his sense of desire, surprised when, instead, the flavour that flowed into his mouth was bitter, acrid even, repulsed by the sensation. He drew back, dashing to the sink in the corner of the room, spitting out all he could, continuing to spit even when his mouth was dry and no more fluid was expelled. He gripped the metal side of the sink, every muscle in his body tensed, appalled by his own weakness knowing that, in truth, she tasted as every woman did; dripping hormones from every pore, reeking of femininity, a heady musk used to ensnare males, a chemical weapon deployed with the calculation of forethought. She was the same as all the rest of them, a fucking disease that had somehow found form, with perky tits and pouting lips and poisoned cunt.
He knew then, he had to destroy her.
Had to disinfect the planet, rid it of one more germ.
He turned towards the slab, startled to see her sitting up, appearing groggy, though more alert by the second, her eyes widening in terror as she focused on him fully, seeing his semi-naked state, head jerking from one side to the other, taking in her surroundings, realising that she was in a place that she did not know.
The lion charged, though the gazelle was too swift, kicking out a leg that caught him in the midriff with unsuspected force. He grunted his annoyance, stopped dead in his tracks for a second, but still the girl had not found her feet, was still perched on the stainless steel slab, trapped. He encircled her position, eyes locked onto her own, knowing that he had the upper hand here. She was in unfamiliar territory, just awakened from unconsciousness whereas he was in control, in his domain, with superior strength. Still he circled, a plan forming, keeping her mesmerised by refusing to look away, snaking a hand out and reaching for the cleaver from the block, finding it at once.
That was when the heat first tickled his skin, unnoticed until that moment, a warm eddy in the air that, for all the world, seemed to be emanating from the girl on the slab, however insane that seemed to be.
He slashed at her with the cleaver, using the vicious implement like an executioner would use his sword, an arcing swing, catching her on the shin, ripping a gash in her skin and causing her to squeal in pain. He swung again, missing this time as she retracted her legs, folding them under her, managing to stand now, upright, naked, towering over him. When she leapt at him, his reactions were too slow, so she struck him full force, bringing both of them crashing to the ground and, for the first time in his life, The Butcher felt panic as the searing heat of her flesh burnt at him, stifled him, made it difficult to breath. Her head weaved above him as she struggled to right herself, the air around her distorted by the intensity of the heat that seemed to come from nowhere but inside her very body.
‘You fucking witch,’ he screamed, writhing beneath her, desperate to free the hand that held the cleaver which was pinned beneath her abdomen. At last, he managed it, lifting his arm as high as he could, bringing the long, thick blade down against the back of her neck. The girls eyes widened as if in disbelief, so The Butcher hacked at her again, again, until all life left those orbs and, with a mighty heave, he pushed her corpse clear, hurling her away from him, her body carrying through the air a foot or so, landing away from him, though still he could feel the fierce heat, forcing him to roll to the side.

The Butcher cleaned up as best he could, leaving the woman’s body where it was for the time being, avoiding the direct area in which she lay.
Thirty minutes after her death, still the heat that radiated was too hot for him to endure.

Twitch

To begin with, the recommended dose had been twice a day but, after witnessing the events in the park, Tom had called them into the back room of the squat and advised both Twitch and Lisa to double the dose.
They complied.
‘What do you think it is?’ Twitch asked, sitting against the old breakfast bar, rubbing at the crook of his elbow, tapping at the veins that passed close to the skin with two fingers, coaxing the vessels to swell to ease the passage of the needle.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Lisa, seeming annoyed somehow with the question.
‘I guess not,’ Twitch replied, trying to be reasonable, ‘But we are putting it into our bodies a lot. It would be nice to now what it was.’
Lisa sighed, a drawn out, weary sound, apparently fatigued by his line in conversation.
‘It’s heroin, Twitch.’
His eyes widened as that most fear inducing word passed her lips, all manner of images flashing through his mind, recollections of horror stories in newspapers, warnings at school about the dangers of the substance, lectures from his mother about the consequences should he go near the stuff, long before Chris arrived on the scene, back when she gave a damn about him.
‘Heroin?’
He repeated the word back at her, the word sounding odd as he recited it, awkward in his mouth so that he spoke it with a tone of voice that implied he had no understanding of its meaning.
‘Yeah. What did you think it was? Lucozade?’
There was an edge to Lisa’s reply, something beyond her normal levels of sarcasm which were always set to ‘transmit.’ Now, the words seemed filled with spite instead of smiles, malice instead of mirth causing Twitch to glance nervously in her direction, pausing with the hypodermic just touching the skin of his forearm.
‘You ok, Lisa?’
She sighed again, replying only with a shrug, though Twitch decided not to press the issue, instead applied more force to the needle, just enough so that the point punctured his skin. He pushed a little further, the metal spear disappearing into the flesh of his arm, then depressed the plunger to squirt the fluid from the needle, straight into his blood vessel.
Almost at once, he felt better.
The edginess that he had begun to feel vanished almost instantaneously so he looked at Lisa again, noticing that she was staring directly at him, a fire in her eyes, blazing with fury.
‘You’re really pissing me off today with all of these questions,’ she shouted, startling him, even through the mists of the medication. ‘Just be thankful.’
‘Thankful?’ he asked, not understanding her meaning at all.
‘Yeah. If it weren’t for me you’d still be out there,’ she bellowed, gesturing with a raised arm and jabbing finger the general direction of the outside world, ‘By yourself, hungry, miserable. I saved you, and now all you can do is demand answers from me. You ungrateful little shit.’
Twitch was stung by her words, completely confused as to where this sudden anger was coming from, his cheeks beginning to burn through a combination of anger and shame, knowing that there was some truth to what she said.
‘Lise, just take your dose. You’ll feel a lot better,’ he advised.
‘I don’t want my fucking dose,’ she shouted back. ‘Don’t tell me what to do. Who the fuck do you think you are?
Twitch felt his emotions spiralling, the intensely pleasant sensations that resulted from the injection fighting against the rage that threatened to engulf him, a response to her words he could do little to hold in check.
‘Where’s this coming from, Lise?’
‘Don’t call me Lise. It’s Lisa. Lisa. With an A, you illiterate prick,’ she screamed at him, all control now lost, spittle spraying from her mouth as each syllable was uttered, pure hatred evident in her eyes. Suddenly, Twitch felt something pressing against his neck, hard, and his breath caught in his throat as something unseen constricted his airways. Panic seized him, and it took him a second or two to realise that it was Lisa herself, using her mind to reach inside his body, constricting the trachea, shutting off his supply of air so that he started to feel dizzy. Just as suddenly as the attack began, it ceased, caused not by a change of heart on her part but because she was now pinned against the wall, eyes widened in alarm and, without even realising it, Twitch somehow had her pinned, using his own Gift to hold her in place.
‘Tom,’ he shouted, not even sure if the older man were in the building, let alone in ear shot, but he could think of nothing else to do.
‘Tom,’ he called again, louder this time, resulting in the sound of approaching footsteps and, thought it was not Tom, at least it was somebody who could fetch him, one of the homeless that they shared the living room with scurrying off to the bottom of the stairs to call up to the first floor of the building.
Twitch hoped he was found quickly, as he was unsure how much longer he could hold her in place.
A hand fell on his shoulder and, turning, Twitch saw Tom’s bearded face staring down at him, relief flowing through him, though still he kept his mental grip, pinning her flat against the wall despite her own efforts to overcome him.
‘What happened?’ he demanded of the older man.
‘A bad dose. It happens. Rarely. This will help her.’
He held up a syringe with the familiar looking fluid, tapping the glass with his index finger to burst any air bubbles that may have formed, squirting a tiny amount of the substance out of the end of the needle to clear the delivery point of air, too.
‘You sure this is going to work?’ Twitch implored of the man he had come to love and, again, a hand on the shoulder was all the assurance he needed.
Tom moved in to administer the potion.


Another?

From a distance, it was hard to believe that the creature strapped down to the sloping stainless steel was human. Her skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of her frame that it seemed it must surely tear with every writhing motion she made, struggling to free herself from the shackles that held her frail limbs in place. Her lightweight form meant that no tranquiliser had been necessary, her slightness rendering her little threat which, by consequence, meant she was free to struggle. It seemed, from afar, that someone had attached the skeleton of a small child to the table and was somehow animating it, perhaps with electrical charges, so that it jolted and jerked spasmodically.
He watched with impassive eyes, the futility of her actions as meaningless to him as the ghastly screeches that issued forth from her mouth intermittently, her lips parting as if someone were using a knife from within her skull to slash through an opening, revealing teeth that were oversized for her head, brown and yellow and a tongue that was swollen purple, again too large for the mouth that housed it.
She was monstrous.
He moved towards her and, when she noticed his approach her struggles intensified, became more frenzied and, were it not for the fact that he had installed the shackles himself and so had great faith in their sturdiness, he would have worried about her breaking free but, no, the only way out of his trap was to rip a limb clean off and, feeble as her frame seemed, he doubted she was capable of such barbarism.
He reached the side of the table and raised a hand, placing it on her belly, perhaps trying to sooth her, to quell her apparent terror though, if that were his intent, he failed as she flinched from his touch, only ceasing her screeching to suck up a gobbet of saliva and spit it in his direction, the yellow ball of mucus and water making a wet slapping sound as it struck his forehead.
If he was angered by her action, he chose not show it, instead simply wiping the offending matter from his face with a tissue he retrieved from a pocket of his white lab coat, his preferred attire when in the warehouse cum laboratory.
And he was not alone.
Two others, besides those he housed in the cages, shared the room with him, observing, there to assist should the need present though, for now, they simply watched him in silence, trusting in both his judgement and his methods.
He moved away from the woman briefly, retrieving a clipboard and pen from atop one of the electronic devices that cornered the table before walking to the head end of the table, the highest point, the woman’s head roughly at chest height as he stood. Behind her, separate from the table, a long-legged table on wheels was positioned, comprising of two surfaces, one beneath the other. On the lower surface, halfway from floor to tabletop, yet more electronics was placed and, on the table proper a silver dish-like device was positioned, two wires protruding from the back of the device and connecting into the gadget below.
He rolled the wheeled table towards the sloped table as far as it would go then lifted the silver dome and moved it into position, the dish fully encasing the top of the writhing woman’s head and, struggle as she may to resist, there was no way for her to shake the device loose. Once positioned, he crouched slightly and flicked a switch, jotting down the readings, apparently satisfied by what he saw, nodding briefly at one of his companions, similarly attired in gleaming white lab coat who promptly stepped forward, raising a hand and presenting a syringe. He took the needle, examining the fluidic contents as well as the label (Sample C3) briefly then, in one motion, he span on his heel and thrust the needle into the top of the skeletal woman’s arm, depressing the plunger to administer the contents.
For a time, nothing happened, the only sound that of his own breathing and the electronic hum coming from the machinery that surrounded the area.
He looked at his two companions who stared back, expressionless.
Maybe it was working. Maybe nothing was in fact a good result.
Then she started howling, as a lycanthrope at ten to moonlight, her body juddering with every exhortation, hurting the eardrums of all present, each mighty howl accompanied by an apparent attempt to rip herself free of her restraints, her attempts so violent he was compelled to move in, to push down hard on her belly to prevent her from damaging herself. In desperation, he screamed at her to stop, though she was deaf to his entreaties, wanting only to be away from this place, so he pushed harder, appalled as his hand sunk into the flesh of her belly, the skin yielding beneath his touch, feeling like putty around a freshly fitted window, tacky to the touch, a residue coming away on his fingers. He took a step back, watching as she convulsed, aware now that something was wrong, badly wrong, but unable to do anything about it. He watched as her face seemed to transform, as the flesh itself sloughed off the bone, hanging in reeking ribbons off her bare skull, yet still she lived. The corruption continued, the once taut skin over her abdomen seeming to fold in on itself as the internal organs began to disintegrate, rendered into nothing more substantial than jelly in a matter of minutes, perhaps less, then even the jelly began to break down, skin and organs literally melting away, becoming liquid, a thick, organic broth that flowed down the slope of the table into a trough specifically designed for such accidents so that, ten minutes after the injection had been administered, all that remained of the subject was a skeleton that could not have been more clean had myriad carrion eaters been allowed to feast on it for weeks.
He approached the deceased, sweeping an arm out fiercely, brushing the skeleton off the table, sending bones clattering to the floor.
Jabbing a finger in the direction of the cages, he screamed at his companions.
‘Another.’

The Black Country Butcher

Though puzzled by the incident with the heat emitting body, The Butcher felt the best course of action was to continue as if nothing untoward had taken place. When you are the type of person that the lazy thinkers in the media would chose to label a serial killer, it is essential that appearances are kept up, normality played out. To deviate from established patterns of behaviour would only invite questions from overly inquisitive customers, having the best of intentions surely but, in such uncharted territory, a mistake was a possibility and, with his plans fully in motion, he could not afford a slip of any kind. So he stood behind his meat counter, all the goods on offer already laid out n their metal platters, pork chops lined up just so, everything angled to precision, ensuring that all of the produce was at its visual best, to maximise its saleability.
A good butcher is a neat butcher, his father had always told him, and he stuck by it. Even the minced meat was arranged so that no strands of the shredded flesh hung from the main clump, even if it meant taking scissors to the arrangement.
The Butcher was proud of his shop.
With no customers in and all the produce already prepared, there was nothing to do but stand and watch the outside world as it passed by, indulging himself in his favourite game of spot the victim. He liked to watch people as they walked passed, imagining them in the alley behind the shop, wondering if he would select them as a potential target. He was selective, only stocking up his freezers with those that are suitable, rejecting those that would put up too much resistance, or who seemed lithe, liable to slip from his grasp. Not through cowardice, he assured himself regularly when he contemplated the matter, it simply made sense. Why make life more difficult for yourself than you had to? Best pick off the weak and feeble, those that could offer limited threat. He often worried that the meat they yielded was not of the highest quality but, in a supply and demand business such as his, his special customers could not afford to be choosey.
As he gazed out of the window, something extraordinary occurred. A figure walked past that instantly intrigued him and, just catching the profile, The Butcher dashed from behind the counter, opening the front door of the shop to look up the street the way he had gone. There he was, just ten feet away, still walking away, unaware that he was being observed and, strange thing, The Butcher felt certain that he had seen him somewhere before. He reached into his back pocket, locking the door behind him, knowing he was acting impulsively, knowing it went against everything he believed about sticking with established patterns, but there was something about this person, something different that seemed to draw him in and still he could not recall where he knew him from. Then it came, a recollection that set him scurrying in his wake, keeping a sensible enough distance that he would not be noticed but so he also would not lose him.
Not again.
The virgin had eluded him once before, his own reckless lack of mental control proving to be his undoing, but this time his mind was clear, though his strategy was not.
How could he possibly enjoy this one in a busy street in the middle of the day?
The Butcher continued to eye the man-child from the rear, eyes casting downwards, upwards, scanning his every detail, taking in the filthy clothes and greasy hair, the mud coated trainers that he wore and realised that he had indeed been blessed, that the youngster was homeless and, as a result, all but invisible to those around him. Even as he walked through the High Street, those around him either turned away in disgust, not wishing to see, not wishing to be reminded of the failings of the society in which they lived, else they ignored him altogether, as if he were not there at all.
That made life much easier and, the more he thought about it, the more simple it became.
The plan formed.
The Butcher acted upon it.

Twitch

He felt the tap on the shoulder from behind, surprising him, breaking his reverie. Twitch had left the squat some time ago, eager to clear his head following Lisa’s brief descent into madness. He had stayed just long enough to ensure that she was going to be alright, Tom assuring him that it was not the first time it had happened, that the chemical reaction that blessed them with The Gift sometimes also had negative consequences, though temporary ones. Shaken, and still a little confused despite Tom’s assurances (he trusted Tom, though) he had headed from the building, down the towpath and into town. The sun shone brightly and Twitch felt that, even if they did not notice he was there, just being around people would help and, indeed, it had. He was considering returning to the squat some time soon, when the tap on the shoulder came, so Twitch turned around, surprised when the man before him was clad in a butcher’s smock, evidence that he had been preparing his produce spattered all over the front of his apron.
‘Sorry to trouble you, young man,’ the stranger began, ‘But do you have anywhere to live?’

The Black Country Butcher

He could not believe his own boldness, calmly talking to a potential victim, right here in the street but, now initiated, it seemed contrary not to continue.
‘Who are you?’ the boy asked, though with no fierceness to the tone, merely curiosity. A personable type, too, thought The Butcher. His meat would be sweet indeed.
‘I work in the shop down the road, there,’ he explained, pointing back the way he had walked, ‘And I saw you as you passed. You look hungry.’

Twitch

He looked the stranger over, distrustful of men of his age, with good reason.
‘I’m OK,’ he replied.
‘I can help you if you like. I’ve helped several others,’ said The Butcher, his conscience pricking slightly at the lie, though a white one, he considered.
‘I’m OK. Honest. I’ve got a place to stay. Thanks anyway.’

The Black Country Butcher

The boy began to walk away, The Butcher racking his brain for anything to prolong the encounter, but his mind refused to co-operate.
Crestfallen, he allowed the boy to leave.
As Twitch moved away from him, The Butcher began to walk back to his shop, surprised by the impact the boys refusal to interact with him was having, feeling a tightening of his chest, a lump in the throat, feeling almost as if he were about to burst into tears, no matter how preposterous he would appear. A grown man in a butcher’s smock weeping agonised tears in the middle of a busy High Street.
Struggling to keep control of his emotions, he began to walk back to his shop but something stopped him, an instinct almost, over-riding his common sense. The sensible thing to do was to leave the scene, forget about the boy and move on. Find another victim, he told himself, in our failed society they are as easy to come by as litter in the street, after all. But he could not convince himself to do so, could not override the urge to turn back the way the boy was walking., He could still see him and, apparently unperturbed by his encounter with The Butcher, he looked back down the street not once, the meeting seemingly forgotten.
The Butcher started to walk, matching his pace.
In the hustle and bustle of the busy street, it was straight forward enough to avoid detection but, as the boy turned down a side street, apparently heading back to the park, perhaps to enjoy the sunshine or as a cut through to the canal – for the first time The Butcher wandered if the boy was one of the squat dwellers – the number of fellow pedestrians dwindled, so he was forced to drop back a little. The boy took another corner, the final one before he would reach the park, disappearing from view. The Butcher gathered his pace, dashing along the street, eager not to lose his quarry for a second time, wanting to see where the virgin was headed, if nothing more. He knew that to act on his impulses today would be foolish, would lead to inevitable discovery but, if he could at least determine this creatures habits, he could prepare a means to ensnare him without fear of detection by the police.
He reached the corner and slowed his pace, walking almost on tip toe, not wishing for his footsteps to give away his presence, stopping dead before peering around the corner.
The boy was gone.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he hissed, rebuking himself mentally for his foul language, believing that expletives were only employed by those that lacked imagination, something that certainly could not be levelled at himself.
For a second time, the virgin appeared to have eluded him.
The Butcher turned the corner proper, revealing himself to the street, no longer fearful of losing his quarry - it was too late for that - instead afraid of never seeing him again. Today, after all, had been a chance encounter. Not one to believe in fate or destiny or other such moribund concepts, today’s sighting had been powered by nothing other than blind luck and, The Butcher believed, such good fortune was hardly likely to strike twice. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the street ahead of him for possible places that the boy could have disappeared into. The street was lined on one side by semi-detached houses, each with a ten foot drive leading to a front door, a garage on the none-adjacent wall. It was conceivable that the boy lived at one of these homes, but The Butcher did not believe so. His attire, his demeanour, even the things he had said during their encounter suggested a boy living on the harder side of life. The Butcher thought back, analysing the brief exchange. When he had asked the child if he were homeless, had he said either yes or no? He did not think so, instead he had deflected the question neatly, neither confirming nor denying his status.
He was a smart young thing, indeed, he thought, only increasing his irritation at losing him.
Opposite the houses, on the other side of the road lay the park itself, though The Butcher did not believe that he could have reached the nearest gated entrance by the time he reached the corner of the street. If indeed he had ventured into the park, he had either sprinted to an entrance or scrambled over the fence. Either way, that suggested he had been detected and the boy had fled.
The Butcher put his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumping slightly, feeling deflated. His instincts were normally to be relied upon yet, on this occasion, they had failed him. He had been convinced that there had been something special about this boy, a reason he had walked into his life for a second time – despite not believing in fate, it was possible for things to happen for a reason, though they were not controlled by any form of higher power, more random chance. It was a paradox, and he knew it - and now it appeared the chance had slipped through his fingers. He walked by a telephone box and checked the interior to ensure that it was empty, thinking fleetingly that perhaps the boy had hidden inside it out of desperation. As he passed the box, a grip so powerful he felt his head were about to be separated from his shoulders gripped his throat. He stopped dead in his tracks, unable to move even had he wanted to, a force external to his own body causing him to lift slightly off the ground. He stretched his toes to their fullest extent, but still was unable to make contact with terra firma, finding his legs swinging uselessly beneath him and, powerless to resist, he spun one eighty degrees so that he was facing back the way he had come.
‘You’re following me.’
The virgin stood before him, though any hint of vulnerability had been eradicated. The person in front of him now bristled with confidence and power and, The Butcher would swear to himself after the encounter, he had grown by several inches.
‘Tell me why.’
The Butcher tried to shake his head, but the unbearable force still pressing against his throat prevented the action and, sensing this, Twitch released him slightly, still leaving him dangling in midair, but allowing slight movement.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he chided, allowing himself to exert a more powerful squeeze on the throat, fleetingly, a warning to tell the truth, but still The Butcher shook his head.
‘If I see you again, I’ll take your head clean off. Do you understand me?’
The Butcher nodded his head this time as best he could and, with one last thrust of mental energy, Twitch hurled him to the ground, issuing the same instruction as to the grounds man a few days prior.
‘Don’t fucking move.’
The Butcher complied.
Another?

The scratching of pen against paper could barely be heard over the drone of machinery. The two laboratory coated assistants scribbled their notes, ensuring that the details of what had occurred were recorded. Each instrument had to be checked, the readings jotted down, every dial and every output monitored and filed, the findings to be analysed later but, for now, right now, there were more pressings issues at hand.
‘Load it,’ he instructed, pointing to the tranquiliser dart atop a piece of machinery, his assistant stopping his scribbling and following his instruction whilst he busied himself removing the organic slime from the trough at the base of the table, positioning a bucket in the correct position beneath the table before removing the seal, ensuring he snapped his hand out of the way promptly, not for his hands to be covered in what was left of the poor unfortunate woman. Once collected, disposal of the matter was no problem as, rendered to liquid, the sludge could be simply poured away. He knew a farm not far from town that kept pigs, the gate to the pig pen just off the roadway and, when darkness fell, he would take the bucket and pour it over the fence, the greedy animals within removing all trace by the time the farmer came to inspect them in the morning.
With the trough emptied, he quickly squirted it with a jet of water from a high pressure water rifle, the type designed for children to play with, though it functioned equally capably in cleansing an area that once contained human waste. Job done, he replaced the seal and retrieved the tranquiliser dart from his companion.
‘The large man, this time. He will pose more of a threat than the last one,’ he said, embellishing his meaning by lifting the barrel of the tranquiliser gun slightly. ‘I only want to hit him with one, though that may not be enough to stun him completely. Any more and it may have an impact on the results.’
He looked from one to the other, ensuring they were taking in his every word.
‘We all ready?’
His two companions nodded their assent.
He moved to the cell of his chosen target and took aim, not playing games this time, simply keen to get on with the job. He fired, the dart finding its mark precisely, the man in the cell going to ground, though not instantly as before, slowly, fighting the drug in his system but eventually succumbing.
‘Keep your guard up,’ he warned as he unlocked the cell, passing the tranquiliser gun to one of his companions. ‘If he so much as twitches, shoot him again.’
His worries proved groundless, the man dead to the world, so he hauled him single-handedly to the table before requesting the assistance of one of the others, instructing the one with the gun to keep it trained on the naked man, still wary of a trick.
With some difficulty, the two of them managed to hoist the large man onto the table, struggling as he kept slipping down the angled surface before the restrains could be attached, overcoming their troubles only by brute force, locking the shackles over his wrists, the metal cuffs biting into his flesh, holding him in place even as gravity tried to take him off the end of the table. Once the legs were positioned correctly, restraints clamped over his ankles too, at last he could be considered none-threatening, and the group could relax.
He held his hand out, words not necessary as all knew what was intended, one of his companions placing a fresh syringe into his palm. He glanced down at it, having to squint slightly to read the label, Sample C4, removing the cap from the business end, not pausing, simply swinging his arm and sticking the wickedly sharp tip into the meaty part of the naked subjects thigh, depressing the plunger with his thumb, pumping the drug into his system before standing back to observe the results, not sure what to expect.
The three of them watched, barely even breathing, the tension almost a thing of substance within the room, as if you could shoot out an arm and grab at it, one of his companions looking intermittently between the subject on the table and a stopwatch he held in his hand.
‘Sixty seconds,’ he said, replying to a question that had no need to be voiced.
‘Seventy.’
‘Eighty seconds,’ he cried, excitement in his voice now, so that the apparent leader of the group held up a hand to calm him.
‘Don’t celebrate just yet,’ he urged. ‘Remember Sample A6.’
That mollified the other, who reverted to simple time checks and, not until three minutes had elapsed did the leader begin to believe that at last they had succeeded.
‘Wake him,’ he barked.
‘Then what? His companion demanded.
‘Test him, then kill him. He’s too dangerous to be kept alive. After all he has seen, after what we have done to him, if we are right about the potential, he could kill us without moving a muscle.’
‘Of course.’
Without another word, they set to their task.

Tom

The curtains were drawn shut, the thick material sufficient to block out all but the most stubborn vestiges of light, the only illumination in the room the flickering of a dozen candles and the glowing red tips of perhaps twice as many joss sticks.
Tom sat cross legged in the centre of the room, surrounded by six others, all facing his way, though their eyes were closed. The room was silent, save for a low keening emanating from the throats of each of the rooms occupants, an ambient cadence that, though low, seemed to fill the small room entirely. Tom’s hands were clasped before him, in the gesture of prayer, though his eyes were open, studying each of his companions in turn, like a teacher invigilating an exam, ensuring the studiousness of all his pupils. Though no words were uttered, no signal apparent to an observer, the joint utterance ceased as one, each silencing themselves as if by unheard command.
‘The time is right,’ Tom said at last, enjoying this moment, the endgame finally commencing, a wait of eight long years soon to achieve payoff.
‘Beckon them.’
One of the number broke away from the group, leaving through the doorway behind, closing it behind him as silently as possible, not wishing to disturb the atmosphere of calm and tranquillity that enveloped the room like a silken blanket; smooth, pleasing to the senses.
‘So it begins,’ Tom assured those that remained.

Twitch
‘
Twitch traversed the expanse of wasteland in front of the squat, his temperament mellowing slowly following his encounter with the strange butcher who had followed him. His recall of his journey back was scant, a combination of the adrenaline that fuelled his rage and the drugs which flooded his system altering his sense of reality sufficiently to cloud his mind. He reached the front door and rapped his knuckles against the paint-peeled door (tap, tap, taaaap, tap, tap). Teri let him in, smiling kindly as he crossed the threshold, squeezing his arm as he passed her, a companionable gesture that soothed him. He entered the living room area and spotted Lisa, huddled under her sheet, so he went to her, nudging her back gently, once, twice, to alert her to his presence. She turned his way, moisture dampening her eyes and Twitch’s heart filled with regret at his own response to her bad reaction to the drug. She blinked at him a couple of times and, for just an instant, Twitch feared she would turn away, reject him completely though, instead, she struggled to her feet and took him in an embrace that was so tender it caught the breath in his throat so that, suddenly, his eyes too were moistened by tears.
‘I’m sorry, Twitch,’ she whispered in his ear, so close that he could actually feel her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of the organ.
‘Me too,’ he replied, meaning each word more than he could recall meaning anything before. ‘Let’s not fight anymore.’
Lisa squeezed him harder, just for a second or two, before breaking away, holding his eyes briefly, more communicated in that single glance than a thousand words could have managed and Twitch felt right again.
All was well once more.
‘You’ve got to hear this,’ she said, the moment passed, tugging at his arm, encouraging him to be seated. He flopped down beside her, curiosity piqued, eyes turning to the two girls in front of him, Teri to his left, to his right a young woman whom he knew by face alone.
‘This is Sandra,’ Lisa explained, apparently able to read his thoughts as easily as she could squeeze his internal organs. ‘She can do things you wouldn’t believe.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Don’t ask questions. Just listen to what she has to say.’
Sandra looked at Twitch nervously, timid before a stranger, clearing her throat before she began to speak, a delay tactic to buy her a second or two to clarify her own thoughts.
‘Now, you probably won’t believe me, but I can see into the past,’ she began, the unexpected nature of the opening gambit gaining Twitch’s interest instantly, ‘and I can help others see it, too.’
‘Are you one of The Elders?’ Twitch asked, unable to contain himself even for a moment.
‘I have been and always will be,’ she replied, confusing Twitch rather than illuminating, a state of mind he was becoming accustomed to. ‘I want to show you something.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ll have to trust me.’
‘I will.’
‘Close your eyes.’
Twitch did as she asked. For a while, nothing happened, and he began to suspect that he were the subject of some elaborate practical joke cooked up by the older girls to tease him but, just as he was about to open his eyes, a blinding flash of light burst onto the interior of his eyelids, dazzling him, actually hurting his eyeballs, an impossibility surely, but a reality nonetheless.
‘Don’t fight it,’ he heard Lisa encourage from his side, and he complied.
The light mellowed, morphing from the dizzying brightness to a more tolerable yellow, even this becoming opaque so that, behind it, shapes became discernible, seeming like phantoms, two vaguely human forms moving side by side. Still the yellowness receded, becoming almost completely translucent so that now, Twitch could make out the features of those he was watching.
‘He was here,’ he heard himself say as he recognised the younger first, his face more striking somehow.
‘Luke,’ Sandra told him. ‘His name was Luke.’
‘I never spoke to him.’
‘His presence touched you all the same,’ he was informed. He concentrated harder, the scene playing out behind his eyelids beyond his control, projected somehow by Sandra’s own mind into his own and, though nervous, Twitch went along for the ride. As the yellow light diminished even further, all but disappearing, the face of the other drifted into focus, bringing a gasp from Twitch’s throat.
‘What is it?’ Lisa asked, sensing his sudden change of mood.
‘The other. I’ve seen him, too,’ he replied, the face of the butcher he had encounter less than an hour ago appearing before him.
‘Where?’ Sandra demanded, able to both speak and project simultaneously.
‘Just. Just now. Maybe thirty minutes ago. He followed me.’
Twitch felt Lisa’s hand grip his own.
‘Did he hurt you?’ she asked.
‘No. He was just…weird,’ he told her, ‘So I warned him off.
‘You acted wisely,’ Sandra said. ‘Keep watching.
Eyes still closed, Twitch watched as the pair walked through Stourhampton town centre, turning up an alleyway and, though the alleyway was surely dark, he could see as clearly as if it were midday. The older man speaking to the youngster at the entrance to the alley, both mouths moving though Twitch could hear no sound. Eventually, after what appeared to be a negotiation of sorts, they ventured up the alleyway, to an old battered door. The older man disappeared inside for a while and, just as the younger of the two was about to follow, he burst back through the doorway, hurling the smaller man against the wall, pinning him in place, a hand swiftly going for the throat, squeezing until all life left Luke’s form, shouting into the boy’s face intermittently as he did so. The world projected before him changed now, motion sped into a blur, like a video on fast forward until now the older man stood in a shop backroom, the young boys body laid out on a slab, beginning the dismemberment until Twitch pleaded for Sandra to stop.
Shaking, he opened his eyes.
‘I saw him,’ he repeated.

‘There was nothing you could do,’ Lisa told him and, whilst he knew her words to be true, still he could not shake the regret. He had stood over him, the man cowering on the floor, totally at his mercy, yet Twitch had simply walked away.
‘You didn’t know.’
‘We’ll find him,’ Lisa assured. ‘The butcher’s apron narrows the field a lot. Don’t beat up on yourself, Twitch. You’ve done well.’
He nodded his agreement, somewhat appeased, unable to argue the logic of their words, though still it rankled.
Another entered the room, and headed straight for them.
Twitch and Lisa stared up at him as he stood over them.
‘Tom will see you now,’ he said, a statement that brooked no argument.

The Black Country Butcher

The encounter with the boy had unnerved him, sending him scuttling back to his shop, a wild thing tamed. Never had he encountered a waif with such strength and the extraordinary power he seemed to possess was, at the least, troubling. Coming so soon after the strange homeless girl whose body seemed to emit a supernatural heat, The Butcher began to feel the first stirrings of paranoia begin to manifest.
He stood now, alone in his secret room, the lid of a chest freezer and door of an upright swung open, the single, unshielded bulb swaying just above his head, desperately trying to calm himself.
The Butcher stepped forward, retrieving an item from the chest freezer, the object at first appearing as a random block of frozen meat, only when it was retrieved from the frozen depths could its true form be discerned. He held it up towards the light bulb, turning the bottom part of a human leg over in his palm, the limb severed at the knee, still with the foot attached, though the combination of rigor mortis and the subzero conditions within the appliance meant that there was no give in the ankle, the foot jutting out at an abrupt angle from the leg proper. He inspected his prize, beginning to feel slightly more relaxed, the feel of flesh against flesh, albeit in its frozen form, pleasing to the touch. The Butcher smiled as he spotted a tattoo etched into the icy calf, reminding him of the kill with startling clarity, the first surprising glimpse of the skin art as he removed the young woman’s clothing his first recollection, the small dragon design emblazoned in black against the pure white of her leg. With his free hand, he stroked the length of the dismembered limb, his sweeping strokes working in unison with the beating of his heart, the tender touch slowing with each passing minute.
At last, he felt capable of leaving his lair.
The Butcher closed the door behind him, pushing the hidden door closed, ensuring that its outer edges were flush against the tile work of the back shop, lest prying eyes should discover his treasure trove.
He moved to the sink.
Much as he had enjoyed the feel of her dead form against his own hands, now the time came to cleanse himself, to expunge the contact with the long deceased, Five minutes he stood before the drain, each second spent in an elaborate ritual of purification, first with water, then with soap, then with water, then more soap until, at last, he felt untainted.
The boys face loomed in his inner vision, the deceptive look of the innocent which masked such terrible strength and power. Even now he could feel the crushing force against his throat as the boy had threatened to slaughter him where he stood, all without moving a muscle.
And the eyes, how they raged.
The Butcher recognised that rawest of emotion, for often he had seen it reflected back at himself from his bathroom mirror. The days leading up to a kill where the most difficult, when his pent up aggression threatened to engulf him, threatened to rip away the veneer of civility and respectability that he conveyed to the outside world. On occasion, though seldom, he had been compelled to smash at the reflective surface, to strike out at the face that stared back at him, as if by shattering the reflection itself he would somehow be able to hide from his true nature, enable himself to contain the beast that roared within, though seldom did the act spare his next victim for long, a few days further to enjoy the oxygen that poured into their worthless lungs.
Hands now cleansed to his satisfaction, The Butcher spent a further three minutes, perhaps more, drying himself, putting further mental distance between himself and the cadavers he kept in cold storage, as though he were ashamed of a vile secret, though no such belief ever entered his frame of thought.
His head throbbed.
A pressure seemed to be building within him, much as heat had built up in the body of the dead girl, only he knew of no way to release the pressure other than to take another life and, with recent events fresh in his mind, he was loathe to risk an outing.
Best stay in the shop for a couple of days at least.
Away from eyes that may recognise him and wish him harm.
Blood trickled from his nose, unbidden.

Twitch

As the door was opened, Twitch expected to be able to see the room beyond but, instead, all that was revealed was a black drape. The man leading the way pushed the thick material aside, holding it in place so that the two young followers could enter the room upstairs.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he passed the man, not sure what to expect, surprised to see Tom kneeling, though almost formally, his spine straight, neck held rigid, one hand placed on either thigh. Twitch and Lisa advanced towards the older man, the man they had followed prompting their movement with a wave of the hand.
‘Welcome,’ Tom said to them as they neared his position, though he did not open his eyes. ‘Please, be patient,’ he urged, so Twitch and Lisa simply waited. Around them, the six other inhabitants of the room began to stir, though their eyes were closed, too. As one, seven voices sounded, though nothing intelligible, more a note, a frequency almost, low, resonant, a pitch with such rumble that it could be felt in the lungs, as if the air in the organs was being displaced by the utterance. Twitch and Lisa stood, rooted to the spot, not sure what they were seeing, much less what they were supposed to do.
Were they meant to join in?
As they moaned, the others in the room began to sway, rocking from side to side, though in perfect unison, bodies moving in perfect syncopation to a pulse or beat that only they could hear then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ceased.
A hush fell on the room.
Nobody moved, save Twitch, whose face gave one involuntary spasm, the first he could remember for many days, before it too came to rest.
Thirty seconds elapsed, perhaps more, Twitch and Lisa simply staring at Tom, kneeling before them, Twitch wondering if the others had all gone stark, raving mad, Lisa pondering whether to run from the room, out of the building, never to come back though, with the dependency for the drug Tom administered, she knew that was not a choice she could make.
Tom’s eyes flicked open, instantly locked onto Twitch before him, seeming as if he must have been staring at him already through the eyelids themselves, not having to focus or adjust his eyes in any way. Twitch took an involuntary step back, the intensity of the gaze that met him too much to bear, and would have taken another step, then another if not for strong hands on his back guiding him forwards once more.
It seemed, even if he wanted to leave, he could not.
‘No need for alarm,’ said Tom, ‘No harm will come to you. In fact, the very opposite is true.’
‘What was that sound you were making?’ Lisa asked.
‘You will learn it in time. It comes with The Gift. It helps us to focus more completely.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘In the same way a piano needs tuning before it can be used to make beautiful melodies, so too the mind needs to be tuned before it can be used to its fullest capability.’
‘A piano?’
‘A mere metaphor. The piano has many strings within its frame, and each one needs to be looked after, treated with respect and tenderness. Similarly, the mind is an interwoven tangle of axons and neural pathways, and each aspect of it must be cared for to allow its true power to be found.’
Lisa fell silent, more through confusion than comprehension.
‘You will learn in time,’ Tom said again. For now,’ he continued, moving suddenly, delivering a powerful downward thrust with his legs, even though they were bent double beneath him, so that he sprang to his feet in one motion, without the need to use his hands.
‘Show off,’ thought Twitch, though said nothing.
‘I want to show you something,’ said Tom, taking Lisa by the arm, leading her, with Twitch following just a step behind. ‘Yes, both of you,’ Tom encouraged, not wishing Twitch to feel left out.
‘What is it we’re going to see?’ Lisa asked, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
‘The Gift being made,’ he replied, sweeping aside another thick black drape that led them out of the small, dark, incense filled space into a room that could not contrast more startlingly. Bright fluorescents illuminated the open area, a cavernous room that seemed impossibly large for a building of that size, in the centre of which a huge vat bubbled, steam rising to be sucked straight out by a large extractor fan. At the base of the vat, a thick, clear tube fed out of the unit and, as they approached the vessel, Twitch could see a thick white fluid being squeezed down the length of the tubing, the end of the pipe jutting over the side of a large, clear plastic tub in the base of which was a fine mesh. As the thick fluid was extruded over the side of the tub, it landed on the mesh and, it seemed, here the moisture could be filtered off, leaving a powdery white paste.
‘Once dried,’ Tom explained, following the direction of their eyes, ‘We simply add it to a glucose solution and give it to you. You guys, and the others like you, do the rest.’
‘Do the rest?’
It was Twitch who asked the question this time, seeking clarification of a situation that, at that moment, seemed utterly baffling.
‘Yes. Your own minds are to be celebrated, here. All we do is open them up to the possibility. That’s what The Gift is. It’s an awakening of sorts, as your minds develop into what they truly are.’
Twitch nodded, though truthfully he understood little.
‘And, where does the power come from to run the lights, the boiling water?’
‘We have two generators, Twitch,’ he said, addressing the youngster by his nickname for the first time. ‘But, you’re not really interested in where the power comes from, are you?’
‘Well, no, but….’
‘So why don’t you ask me the real questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them.’
‘Ok. Well, where do the machines come from?’
‘Everywhere,’ said Tom.
Twitch frowned at that.
‘And who provides you with the raw materials, you know, the chemicals and stuff?’
‘The all and the none.’
‘The all and the….? They’re not answers,’ Twitch began to protest, feeling Lisa’s hand squeeze his upper arm, trying to mollify him.
‘They are the only answers I can give and the only answers that you need. You will learn in time.’
‘You keep saying that,’ Twitch continued, bringing Tom swivelling in his direction, standing directly in front of him, stooping slightly so that his face was mere inches from his own.
‘Do you trust me?’ he asked of the youngster.
‘I love you, Tom,’ Twitch said at once, not having to think about it for even a moment.
‘I love you, Tom,’ said Lisa, though she had not been asked.
‘Then cast aside your doubts and prepare to receive The Gift.’
‘Have we not already been blessed?’ asked Lisa.
‘Almost. You require one further treatment which is ready for you right now. The question is, are you ready for it?’
‘We are ready, Tom,’ Lisa assured him.
‘We are ready, Tom, ‘Twitch echoed.
‘Then let’s begin.’

Lisa and Twitch lay on their backs, the six Elders surrounding them in the incense room, a gap left at the head end for Tom who arrived with two syringes, one in each hand.
‘This is the moment that will alter your destiny completely,’ he told them as he passed the syringes along opposite rows, the needles passed to the Elder in the centre on each side of Lisa and Twitch’s prostrate forms.
‘I’m frightened,’ Twitch admitted, prompting one of The Elders to crouch beside him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, stroking his head, calming him significantly.
‘It is normal to be frightened, Twitch,’ Tom told him, addressing him by his nickname again, consolidating the trust he already felt. ‘But there is nothing to fear. After this, you will be unstoppable.’
The Elder on each side that held the syringe leaned forward as one, each squirting a little of the fluid out of the dripping end of the needle before inserting the sharp implement into flesh, squeezing the plunger down slowly, releasing the mind altering substance into their systems.
‘It won’t take long,’ Tom whispered at the head of the group, holding his breath, waiting for the moment.
In synchronicity, Twitch and Lisa arched their backs, their eyes closed, eyelids fluttering wildly as if they were experiencing a troubled dream, gripped by the demons that lurk in REM sleep. Every muscle in their bodies seemed to be contracting, relaxing, contracting, relaxing and, briefly, Tom feared that they would not endure the trauma that, perhaps there had been a mix up of the samples and that any moment their flesh would begin to slide from their bones, rendering them gelatinous waste just as the woman at the laboratory had become. His fears were allayed moments later when first Lisa, then Twitch opened their eyes.
They sat up, assisted by The Elders – the other Elders, Twitch realised, for they were part of their number now – Tom staring down at them kindly.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Invincible,’ Twitch replied honestly, his eyes seeming to burn with an inner fire.
‘I knew you would. Now lead the others to the monster in our midst.’
Twitch nodded, a grim determination etched onto his features.

Tom

Tom stood in the incense room, alone now, having despatched all of his followers to assist the boy and the girl. He had faith in their powers, believed in their strength of will and knew without hesitation that the cause for which he strived was a good one.
Eight years had passed, yet still the guilt burnt at him, gnawed at his stomach like acid.
Tom left the incense room, heading to the processing room, passing through the thick, black drape, the machinery dormant now, the latest batch prepared and packed. In the corner of the room, a solitary figure sat on a stool, sitting up straighter as Tom approached.
‘Is it all in place?’
‘It is, father.’
‘Can they be trusted?’
‘They will do what needs to be done.’
‘What have you told them?’
‘Nothing, though they see much. They understand what is yet to be understood.’
Tom’s father nodded his approval.
‘Soon, my son. Soon he will be ours.’

Twitch

Twitch led the group, moving along the canal towpath with purpose. Lisa just a step or two behind, followed by six of the other squat residents.
‘We go to the park first,’ Twitch shouted over his shoulder. That could be where he finds his victims, sleeping rough.’
‘What if he’s not there?’ asked Lisa, eager to know his plan.
‘We go to the alleyway where he killed Luke and break in through that doorway.’
Lisa said nothing.
‘You don’t approve?’ he asked, wondering what he had said for her to cease speaking.
‘It’s not that. I’m just nervous, I guess,’ she said, and Twitch could well understand her apprehension, the tickle of butterflies in his belly confirmation that he too had misgivings about what the night would bring.
‘Me too, Lise. It’s normal.’
‘There’s nothing normal about any of this,’ she shot back, and he had to concede that she was right.
They left the towpath as a group, threading through the streets until they reached the park, splitting into two groups of four, fanning out, trying to cover as much ground as possible whilst ensuring that he could not slip between their net. After crisscrossing through the park, covering every blade of grass, no sign of the murderer could be found, forcing Twitch to turn to one of the others.
‘Noel, you getting anything at all?’
Noel had shown blossoming signs of being able to locate someone by thought alone. Tests had been run in the squat. One of the residents would hide somewhere, either inside or outside the building, and Noel merely had to think about them hard enough to be able to walk directly, without fail, to their place of hiding, even if the spot was half mile or more away. Sandra had projected her memory of Luke’s death into his mind to show him the identity of the man they sought and he had been charged with simply thinking about The Butcher, to see if he got a sense of the direction they should be heading. ‘No, nothing,’ he said, shaking his head in the darkness. ‘Sorry, Twitch.’
‘No need to be sorry, mate, just keep him in your mind as much as possible. Something might happen.’
‘So, no luck here. We know what needs to be done, right?’ he asked the assembled group, some blessed with powers, others yet to learn. They mumbled an acknowledgement.
‘If anyone wants to head back, now’s the time. No-one would think any less of you if you didn’t want to get involved in the next part. Otherwise, follow me.’
Twitch headed off, cutting back across the park, heading for the town centre and was pleased to note that still they were eight.
The group left the relative anonymity of the park, heading into the town proper and Twitch was aware that, should they encounter the police, questions would be asked. Though they had not committed a crime – yet, he thought wryly – still the officers would want to know why a group of homeless people were wandering the streets at night and may possibly even arrest them on some bogus charge. Loitering with intent, or some such, and Twitch knew he had to make sure that did not occur. Every day that they delayed, another life could be at stake.
The group snaked along the streets, the combined volume of their footsteps seeming remarkably loud to Twitch’s ears so that, as they walked, he scanned the front windows of properties, making sure that prying eyes were not upon them, one hand on the curtain, the other on a telephone to the authorities.
They entered the High Street, accosted by no-one, the silence of the group testament to the gravity of what they were about to do. They all knew where they were headed now, for they had all been played the mind recording through Sandra.
The alleyway loomed ahead of them and, almost unconsciously, Twitch slowed his pace. Though it was important that he lead the group, the position of leader somehow bestowed upon him by The Gift, whether he liked it or not, it did not mean that he was suddenly immune to fear. His stomach was clenching, unclenching, clenching, unclenching beneath his clothing, his teeth gritted tight. As he slowed his pace, so too he signalled silently, with an up and down wave of the hand to instruct those that followed to match his pace, holding his hand upright as he reached the alleyway to tell them to stop.
They obeyed.
Twitch stood just to the right of the entrance, the pitch black of the alleyway seeming to reach out into the street proper, somehow, though he knew this was merely an anxiety fuelled trick of the mind.
He held up his hands, three fingers held aloft, thumb and index finger curled beneath his palm. Twitch dropped one of the fingers, pausing a further second before removing another from the countdown. As he reached zero he turned the corner, expecting something to happen, a baseball bat to the face, a meat cleaver to the throat, anything, but the only thing which greeted him was darkness itself. He moved further into the alleyway, trying to remember if he had spent any time here, himself, those first few nights on the streets, before he met Lisa, before he found the bus shelter. Something about the place felt familiar, a sensation that could not merely be explained by witnessing Sandra’s mind memory.
‘You ok, Twitch?’ Lisa asked him, still with him, moving in tandem as he headed deeper into the murk.
He nodded his head at first, before realising that she would be unable to see his response, voicing an affirmation of his state briefly, unwilling to break his concentration by indulging in conversation, wanting this whole thing to end but knowing it must be played out to its conclusion, however they may fare. He listened intently as he moved, hoping to detect any movement at all in the shadows before The Butcher could strike, if indeed he was here at all. Perhaps he was elsewhere in town, stalking a fresh victim in a location they had not considered. Though Twitch wished they had been able to conduct a thorough sweep of the entire neighbourhood they were few, after all, so any search, no matter the sophistication of the strategy employed, was limited at best. No, best head to the heartland, to a location known as a kill zone for the monster, perhaps catch him in the act, else at least gain some clues as to his usual nocturnal activities.
Twitch reached a doorway at the end of the alleyway, feeling along its paint peeled surface for a door handle, finding it, pulling at the door though the object would not yield. Footsteps from behind, swift, sudden, had Twitch spinning where he stood, raising his hands in a gesture of defence before realising that it was Noel, heading to the front of the line.
‘I’m getting something,’ he told Twitch breathlessly, a combination of excitement and fear seeming to squeeze the air from his lungs.
‘In here?’ Twitch asked, guiding Noel’s hand so that he could touch the door himself, could place his palms flat against it and feel with his mind.
‘For sure, Twitch. He’s in there.’
‘Does he know we are here?’ Twitch asked his companion.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. All I know is that he is here.’
He placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it encouragingly.
‘Thanks, Noel. You’ve done well.’
Though still sixteen, he was speaking with the voice and vocabulary of someone far older, and his manner seemed good for the group, as confidence was high, despite the trying nature of their current task.
‘We need to get this door open,’ Twitch hiss-whispered, speaking only as loud as was necessary for the group to hear. ‘Joe, see what you can do.’
Tim, one of The Elders, stepped forward, he too placing his palms flat against the door, much as Noel had a few moments earlier, but here he was not attempting to detect a presence behind the door, here he was trying to sense the make up of the object, to feel its construct inside his own mind. His eyes bulged wide in the blackness, his concentration total, an eerie hush descending over the group as he worked. Joe seemed to crackle with energy and Twitch would not have been surprised to see electrical sparks fly off him, though no such visual spectacle occurred, instead he merely guided his hands along the doors surface to the lock, cupping his hands around the circular metal tube, seeming to massage the metal somehow, smalls groans emanating from his throat, involuntary sounds that were indicative of the effort involved. At last, a metallic scrape could be heard and Twitch felt Joe trying to pass him something, holding his hand out, taking into his palm the entire metal cylinder that comprised the locking mechanism, the whole structure removed from the doorway with barely a sound, and the use of no tools at all.
Even after all he had seen, Twitch was impressed.
As he went to pull at the door Joe held him back with a flattened palm against the chest.
‘There’re more bolts within. Give me time.’
Twitch stepped back again, allowing him all he needed to complete his work.

The Black Country Butcher

The blood still pumped from his nose, the coppery red stream of fluid seeming to gain strength, not lessen, forcing The Butcher to flick out his tongue, lick intermittently at his top lip, sucking down the metallic tang on his taste buds, objecting to the flavour. Under normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed the taste of his own fluid, though not today, the circumstances that seemed to be creating the nosebleed the very same as the ones that deprived him of its enjoyment, an irony not lost on him.
The pressure inside his skull was still building, apparently reflected by the intensity of the blood flow from his nostrils, excruciating, almost unbearable. He clawed at his own face, pulling at his cheeks and jowls, seeming intent on ripping his own skin from his face, anything that would lessen the focus on the pain from within his own skull.
The fridge freezer doors were swung open, The Butcher ensconced once more in his secret cellar, his objective to soothe himself through close proximity to the limbs and segments of his victims, to calm his nerves with sweet reflection, recalling the moment of death for each and every one of them. That had been the plan but, once in the cellar, once amongst his garden of grief, the pain intensified, lancing through his brain and skull and face, cascading downwards through his being so that it felt as if his whole body were afire. The Butcher beat at his temples, letting out one desperate, keening wail from between his dried, blood-stained lips, dropping to his knees in the centre of the room, unable to even look inside the freezers to find the flesh that comforts, succumbing to the raging battle within his own mind.
They were closing in, those that sought to harm him and he knew, somehow, that those that stalked him were not from the police, not from any official organisation, but something amorphous. Something unknowable. The boy by the park, he had been one of them, surely, capable of tricks with the mind, of administering a death blow when no physical contact had been made. Maybe the little shit stain had planted something in his mind at the same time, during that encounter by the park, something like a computer virus, only physical, able to affect the organic world.
Then came a sound that paralysed him to the spot, dread replaced by abject horror as he heard the rust-hinged doorway that led into the alley being opened from outside. He expected to hear the rattle of metal against metal as the bolts held the door closed but, instead, all he got was a dim squeal of protest from the hinges, then footsteps passing from the alleyway into the back room of the shop.
Instinctively, The Butcher killed the light wary that, despite his best endeavours, perhaps a feeble slither of light would find a crack to squeeze through, revealing the outline of the door seal to anyone within the other room looking in just the right direction.
`He held his breath.
The blood continued to flow.
From the other room, more footsteps sounded, as those that came to harm him began their search.

Twitch

The group searched systematically, sweeping through the back shop before moving through to the shop proper, Twitch initially concerned that an alarm would sound, expecting the front part of the shop to be wired even if the workshop were not though, as they searched, nothing could be heard. Smart enough to realise that that did not necessarily mean that the device was not present, perhaps the system automatically notified the authorities when a break-in was in progress, to better enable the police to catch the culprits in the act.
Still, they had no choice.
‘Anything else, Noel?’ Twitch demanded when a full sweep of the shop and warehouse had been completed.
‘Nothing Twitch. Nothing more, I mean. He’s here. I’m telling you. We just can’t find him.’
Twitch paused momentarily, mind racing, trying to figure out how The Butcher was possibly eluding them, his head swivelling back and forth, eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness in the shop, searching for something, anything that would yield a clue as to their quarry’s location. As his eyes scanned, his memory fed forth a scene from a sci-fi movie he had watched secretly in the front room, when his mother and the monster had been in bed. A troop of space marines were trapped in a room, devices monitoring movement telling them that they were being approached by something sinister, the readout determining that whatever it was was in the very room with them, even though they could see nothing at all. In the scene, all eyes turn heavenward, and the squadron realised that the monsters were moving through the space above the ceiling, and Twitch began to wonder if this particular monster were not pulling the same trick.
Could he be in the ceiling?
Or perhaps beneath their feet?
‘Everyone,’ he called to his own equivalent of the crack space marine troop, ‘I want you to start searching the floor. If he’s here as Noel says – and I do believe in his Gift – then he’s either below us, or above us. We need to find out which. Start with the floor’
Without a further word, the group dropped to their knees, hands stretched before them, each taking up a position and swinging their arms in arcs, using their fingers to search the surface of the floor, looking for anything that might indicate a manhole or trapdoor of some kind.
‘Anything’ he called after several minutes, his own search finding nothing.
‘Nothing here,’ Joe called.
‘Same here,’ replied Lisa.
Suddenly, the overhead lights spluttered into light, bringing them all to their feet, racing back into the warehouse, not sure what to expect. Perhaps The Butcher himself, armed, prepared to set siege, or maybe the police, responding to the silent alarm which may or may not have been activated.
Instead, Tom stood before them, accompanied by another that no-one in the group had ever seen before, an older man, though the resemblance between the two was striking enough to lead an observer to suspect a familial tie.
‘This is my father,’ said Tom,’ by way of explanation. ‘You can trust him.’
Satisfied by the statement, however puzzling it seemed to turn such a grisly occasion into a family outing, Twitch returned immediately to the matter at hand.
‘He’s here, Tom. We just haven’t been able to locate him yet. Noel feels his presence. I don’t doubt him. We’ve got to find him.’
Tom nodded his understanding, holding a hand up before Twitch, extending his index finger, stretching his arm out and pointing to something on the floor. At first, Twitch was not sure what he was looking at, but as his eyes focused, he recognised the blemishes on the floor as spots of blood.
Apparently, The Butcher had been hurt, Twitch thought immediately, before realising that the blood could just as easily belong to one of his victims. The trail of blood started at the doorway through which they had entered, then seemed to head directly to a blank wall of tiles. There, the trail ceased.
‘What the...?’ Twitch asked aloud, mind analysing this new information, trying to make some sense of it. ‘He didn’t just vanish,’ he said.
‘He didn’t vanish,’ Tom confirmed. ‘He’s through here.’
‘But, it’s a blank wall,’ Twitch protested, watching as Tom scanned the surface with the palms of his hands, just as the group had been doing to the floor. It seemed that Twitch’s instinct had been correct, after all, it was merely the direction of the search that had been wrong.
‘Here,’ Tom said suddenly, an excitement evident in his voice that surprised Twitch. He pointed to a latch, all but invisible, painted to match the colour of the background.
‘Ready?’ he asked Twitch.
‘Ready,’ he confirmed.
Tom lifted the latch, the doorway leading to the cellar springing back.
The group poured through.

He heard them coming through the darkness and knew it was hopeless to resist. He kneeled in the centre of the room, surrounded by all that he cared for, his beautiful trophies, and waited for them to come.
He closed his eyes, expecting one final, crushing blow to strike the life from his body, startled when he felt that same sense of force as with the boy by the park, only this time it was not squeezing at his throat, this time it was blanketing his whole body and it was with genuine surprise that he felt his body lift off the ground, one or all of the group capable of extraordinary control of their telekinetic powers, his body sweeping across the ground, elevated by some three or four inches, his limbs and head pinned in place, effectively paralysing him as he was transported up the stairs and into the now illuminated back room of his shop, the lights blinding him temporarily, stinging tears into his eyes which trickled down his face, mingling with the blood that still flowed from his nostrils, the source of the trail that had revealed his hiding place. As his eyes swam back into focus, the first thing he saw was the sign above the sink, affirming the need for cleanliness in his line of work, and a small chuckle escaped him as he imagined how he must look, suspended in midair, face coated in blood, snot and tears.
‘Something amusing?’ he heard a voice ask, a voice that he had not heard in eight long years, a voice that brought his eyes snapping to his right, still the only movement he was capable of, the face that filled his vision one he had never thought to see again.
‘Nothing at all,’ he replied. ‘Brother.’
Twitch heard the word then, a second later, heard the gasp that passed amongst the group as they realised what had just been said, the implications of that simple word.
‘He’s your brother?’ Twitch asked of Tom, who merely nodded, apparently unwilling to discuss it further.
Tom stepped forward, approaching his sibling, suspended in midair still by the mind of the group.
‘I told you I’d find you,’ he said, a slight mocking cadence to his tone, he the victor in whatever sick game they had been playing. ‘You always did underestimate me, even as we grew up together. It was always likely to be your downfall.’
The Butcher attempted to smile back, the restraint of the group making it manifest as a grimace, urging Tom to request that they slacken their hold, though only sufficiently for him to be able to speak properly. They did as he asked, though still he remained, trapped in midair as effectively as an insect enveloped by amber.
‘I was close,’ The Butcher boasted. ‘Twenty three more and the victory would have been mine.’
‘Only twenty three? You were close. So that makes…’ Tom paused to do the maths, The Butcher eager to share his tally.
‘Seventy seven. I killed seventy seven of them, and I would have killed more if it weren’t for these fucking freaks,’ he spat, swivelling his neck back and forth, using his eyes to identify those who were to blame for his failure.
‘Impressive,’ Tom admitted, his sentiment apparently genuine, much to Twitch’s horror. Who was this man? Had he been using them for evil purposes, as now seemed likely, or for good?
‘Impressive,’ he repeated. ‘Though now it is time to pay.’
The moment had come, Twitch thought, bracing himself for the bloodshed, not at all expecting what came next.
‘You will need to release an arm,’ The Butcher said, and Tom turned to the group.
‘Do it. The left’
They did as they were asked, letting their mental grasp on that part of his anatomy slip completely so that he was able to use it freely and, with the liberated limb, he reached into his pocket, Twitch preparing himself once more, making ready lest this be some kind of trap, the object in his pocket a weapon of some sort but he need not have feared, for the wallet which came free of the trousers was no kind of a threat. The Butcher placed the wallet on his right thigh, using his left hand to flip it open.
‘Remind me of the figure.’
‘Five pounds, brother, as well you know,’ said Tom impatiently.
‘What the hell is this, Trading Places?’ Lisa demanded of the man they had trusted with their lives.
Tom smiled. ‘Something like that.’
Though Twitch did not understand the reference, he could sense the anger in his companion and shared it somewhat, feeling as if they had been used, pawns in a game they had never truly understood.
‘It was a simple wager,’ The Butcher explained. ‘Five pounds was the stake. All I had to do was elude him for the amount of time it took me to kill one hundred homeless. And I was so close.’
‘You’re insane,’ Lisa shrieked, clearly appalled by what she was hearing.
‘That may well be the case, but I was close, young woman. And there was the added spice of my life thrown in if I failed, his life if I succeeded.’
Tom turned to the group, addressing them, seeming eager to recapture their faith.
‘He was always a monster. Even as a child, I knew what he was capable of. I was the one who found the buckets full of dismembered frogs, of dog and cats entrails, sometimes much worse,’ he said, turning to each in turn, desperate that they understood what he had lived with. ‘I was the one who watched him burn things alive, always a smile on his face. So we made the wager and went our separate ways. For eight years. Until now.’
The group listened attentively.
‘All I ask is that you trust me now, as you have trusted me thus far.’
He paused dramatically.
‘I’m Tom,’ he said to them, ‘And I love you all.’
‘We love you Tom,’ they echoed back, automatically, as if a programmed response.
Tom reached out a hand, taking the five pound note that his brother held towards him before turning away, speaking to his followers once more.
‘Finish him.’
The group advanced, all save Lisa and Twitch, who stood in line next to Tom and his father, watching as The Butcher’s own implements were turned against him, listening as his dying screams bounced back from off the white tiled walls.
Soon, the screaming stopped.

The End?

They walked hand in hand down the canal towpath, the sun of a glorious summer’s day warming their skin.
‘Do you remember much about before?’ Lisa asked of him, causing Twitch to stop in his stride.
‘Before what?’ he asked, thinking he knew where she was going with the line of questioning, playing dumb simply as an excuse to listen to her voice for a little while longer.
‘Before The Gift, stupid,’ she chided, bringing a smile to his lips.
They approached a bridge, the beautiful, lichen streaked stonework a faded yellow, the limestone used to build it probably carved from the earth centuries ago yet still it stood, proud and noble, testament to the enduring legacy of mans ingenuity.
‘Not a lot,’ he admitted, ‘Though, truthfully, I haven’t tried that hard to remember. Some things are best left forgotten.’
For just an instant, a fleeting image of a monstrous man doing monstrous things to him flashed into his mind, though he pushed it aside, too content to let any tainted memory ruin the mood.
‘Me neither,’ she confirmed before releasing his hand suddenly and dashing ahead, reaching the bridge, leaning against it with her back, holding her arms wide so that they embraced as he reached her position. She kissed his neck and cheek, her breath even hotter than the sun-blushed air.
‘I want to show you something,’ she whispered breathlessly, pushing Twitch away from her momentarily, turning on the spot and holding out an arm, palm horizontal to the ground, fingers fully outstretched, pointing towards the limestone bridge.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, curiosity spiking.
‘Just watch,’ she advised, beginning to move her hand towards the brickwork, reaching the solid surface, still moving her arm, Twitch expecting to see her fingers begin to curl up, instead the digits seeming to disappear into the stonework itself yet still she pushed, her hand vanishing now, fully embedded in the rock.
Lisa turned her head towards him and planted a kiss on his startled face.
‘See you in a tick,’ she said before stepping forward, her whole body vanishing into the very substance of the bridge, leaving Twitch standing, paralysed, no clue as to what he should do, frightened, delighted, terrified, awestruck, the confusion of emotions just beginning to bubble to a crescendo when he heard her voice call from the other side of the bridge.
‘How did you do that? That was incredible,’ he said as he ducked beneath the bridge and ran towards her, to take her in his arms to check that she was real.
‘I don’t really know. It must be part of The Gift,’ she said.
Twitch shook his head in wonder.
‘What else do you think we can do?’ he asked.
‘Let’s find out,’ she said, kissing him once more.

© Ian Stevens (2012)
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