Contents

About Stephen King

Title Page
Copyright
Introduction to Six Scary Stories by Stephen King
Wild Swimming by Elodie Harper
Eau-de-Eric by Manuela Saragosa
The Spots by Paul Bassett Davies
The Unpicking by Michael Button
La Mort de L’Amant by Stuart Johnstone
The Bear Trap by Neil Hudson
 ABOUT STEPHEN KING

No. 1 bestselling author Stephen King is an acclaimed master

of novels and short stories. His collection The Bazaar of Bad
Dreams received excellent reviews, with his story ‘Obits’
winning the Edgar Award for Best Short Story:
‘King can sketch a full-blooded character in just a few pen
strokes. This gift comes to the fore in his short stories, where
every syllable counts’ — Sunday Telegraph
‘Short stories have a famous place in the King oeuvre, with the
likes of The Body and Rita Hayworth and Shawshank
Redemption finding second lives on the big screen as Stand By
Me and The Shawshank Redemption . . . Like all the greats,
though, his ability to grip the reader’s mind, body and soul
with his prose makes it all look easy’ — USA Today
King won an O. Henry Award, he was recipient of the 2003
National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished
Contribution to American Letters and in 2015 he won
America’s National Medal of Arts. He is the author of more
than fifty books, all of them international bestsellers, including
Misery, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft and End of Watch.
He lives with his wife, novelist Tabitha King, in Maine and
Florida.
 Elodie Harper
Manuela Saragosa
Paul Bassett Davies
Michael Button
Stuart Johnstone
Neil Hudson

www.cemeterydance.com
 Copyright © 2016 by Stephen King
INTRODUCTION copyright © 2016 by Stephen King
WILD SWIMMING copyright © 2016
EAU-DE-ERIC copyright © 2016
THE SPOTS copyright © 2016
THE UNPICKING copyright © 2016
LA MORT DE L’AMANT copyright © 2016
THE BEAR TRAP copyright © 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in

any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission
in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may
quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7
Forest Hill, MD 21050
http://www.cemeterydance.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-58767-569-0

eBook Design copyright © 2016 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.

eBook Cover Artwork copyright © 2016 by Vincent Chong
 INTRODUCTION TO SIX SCARY
STORIES

By Stephen King

I enjoy working with my British publisher, partly because the

folks at Hodder have always been friendly and helpful,
perhaps more because they have always published my books
with joie de vivre and enthusiasm. They’re also promotional
wizards (for the current book, they have invented an amusing
little grid-game, sort of like Battleship, where participants can
win prizes for picking the right square). So when my editor,
Philippa Pride, said Hodder wanted to have a short story
competition to promote The Bazaar of Bad Dreams, I agreed
to pick a winner. Entrants were encouraged to write something
scary, based on a few lines I wrote in the introduction to
Bazaar: ‘There’s something to be said for a shorter, more
intense experience. It can be invigorating, sometimes even
shocking, like a waltz with a stranger you will never see again,
or a kiss in the dark.’ A quick, unsettling encounter, in other
words.
I’ll admit that I had my reservations. I have judged similar
competitions in the past, and found the quality of the entries to
be . . . erm, shall we say lacking. It usually came down to
picking the best of a bad lot. Still, the way this competition
was set up made my part of the job look pretty easy. The
avalanche of entries (over 800, as it turned out), would be
winnowed down to twenty. These would be further winnowed
to a short list of just six stories by a panel of judges that
included redoubtable Ms Pride, Kate Lyall-Grant of Severn
House Publishers, and Claire Armitstead, the Books Editor at
the Guardian. I felt that with such seasoned veterans
separating the sheep from the goats, I would be able to select
at least one story that wasn’t too embarrassing.
I wasn’t the only one with doubts. In her piece for the
Guardian, Ms Armitstead wrote, ‘I have to admit that the
prospect of ploughing through dozens of wannabe Carries and
second-rate Shinings seemed like the roundabout route to
Misery.’(This, dear reader, is known as British humour.) But
she went on to say, ‘It turned out to be a far more interesting
task than I had expected, demonstrating that there are plenty of
talented storytellers out there.’
Absolutely spot-on, Ms Armitstead, and good on you. I was
stunned – and absolutely delighted – to discover that all six of
the stories sent on for my consideration were very good,
indeed. In some cases the prose was a bit more felicitous than
in others, but each and every one of them had an original slant,
and in each and every one there was that icy frisson of fear,
that quick stab of the literary ice-pick that we look for in tales
of horror, terror, and the supernatural. Also – this is important,
because scary stories are extremely delicate – each of the
writers had internalised the most important rule when it comes
to inducing unease: Never tell too much. The monster is
always scarier when it is still under the child’s bed; the
intruder is more frightening when he (or it) is still a shadow on
the wall, or a breathing presence behind the door.
After a lot of brow-furrowed cogitation and a great deal of
shuffling the order of the stories around, I picked a winner (the
extraordinarily atmospheric ‘Wild Swimming’, by Elodie
Harper). That might have been the end, but I was unsatisfied,
because the other five were all terrific, and of publishable
quality. I suggested that it would be a treat for the writers – not
to mention a gift for potential readers – if these stories could
be published together. Phil Pride agreed, along with my friend
Rich Chizmar at Cemetery Dance, and the slim but powerful
volume (or Ebook) you hold in your hands is the result.
I could elucidate the charms of each individual story (part of
me longs to do just that, because in my heart, I’m just another
fanboy), but that would be unfair to you, Constant Reader, and
even more unfair to the stories that follow. It would be
violating the Prime Directive; it would be telling too much.
When frightening stories work – when they actually raise our
heart-rate and the short hairs of the backs of our necks – they
do so because each one harbours a small, malignant secret.
Each of the half-dozen stories that follow harbours such a
secret, and you must discover them on your own. I’ll have no
part in spoiling the experience.
In closing, I want to repeat how extraordinary it was to find
not just two or three of the final submissions were good, but
all of them. I’m not sure what’s up with you Brits, but if it’s
something in the water, my advice is keep drinking it.
All okay, then? I hope so, because this is where I let go of
your hand and send you off with your six not entirely
trustworthy guides. Enjoy the trip.
Stephen King
June 5, 2016
WILD SWIMMING

ELODIE HARPER
ELODIE HARPER
Elodie has been making her living from storytelling for the last
ten years in TV and radio current affairs. She is currently a
reporter and presenter for ITV Anglia in the East of England.
It’s a part of the country she particularly loves, not least
because it has its own drowned village – the medieval town of
Dunwich off the Suffolk coast.
Before working as a journalist Elodie graduated from
Oxford University with a first class degree in English and
spent a couple of years employed as an actress. This included
filming the ITV drama Jekyll and Hyde in Lithuania, where
this story is set. She never went diving in any Lithuanian
reservoirs, but has been wild swimming in the Lake District.
Though unlike her heroine Chrissie, she found the sense of
endless depth beneath her feet a bit too spooky.
Elodie is married with a young son. Her debut novel The
Binding Song, a gothic thriller set in a Norfolk prison, will be
published by Hodder’s Mulholland Books in 2017.

ELODIE ON STEPHEN KING

‘I love so many of his books. His work has shown me the
importance of the story – and how the supernatural can be
used in different ways. The Shining is an exceptional novel,
not only terrifying but also unique for the way Stephen King
uses the supernatural to give the reader an insight into
alcoholism. Jack is such a tragic figure, somebody the reader
really likes, and what happens to him is not just frightening
but heartbreaking. Night Shift is my favourite collection of
stories by any writer. Each one is a self-contained world – a
joy to read.’
 WILD SWIMMING

From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com
To: barflysuse@gmail.com
Date: 29 May 2015, 20:03
Dude!
Can you believe this place has Wi-Fi! Finally back in
contact . . . How are you?
I’m in Vaiduoklis, this tiny little place next to a massive
reservoir, a couple of hours’ train ride from Vilnius. The
capital was very pretty, in a John Lewis, biscuit tin kind of
way, all cobbled streets, pastel colours and gilded spires. Great
market selling just about EVERYTHING amber you can think
of – not just necklaces and jewellery etc., but cutlery, key
rings, doorstops (!) the lot. Only downer was somebody in the
crowd nicked my phone, hence the lack of messages, sorry. It’s
insured so can get another, but going a bit crazy not being able
to chat to anyone.
Anyway, Felix has been delayed by a few days (problem
with the new flat he says, but I think problem with his new
boyfriend is more likely . . .) so I decided to explore a bit on
my own. Not much point to a wild swimming trip with no
swimming! We’re due to go to Lake Lusai, so I thought it
would be good to put in a couple of days somewhere different.
The guy at the tourist office suggested this place, not much to
do, but very unspoiled. In fact, there’s only one place to stay
near the water, a guest house run by an old lady called Asta
Jakovleva. It’s not going to make it into the boutique listings
any time soon – the amount of linen doilies is amazing (in a
bad way) – but it’s just a short walk to the edge of the lake, so
perfect from that point of view. And the Wi-Fi is a bonus!
If I’m honest, the reservoir isn’t the prettiest I’ve seen. Not
much like the photo on the tourist office leaflet. For a start,
although it’s huge, the level’s quite low, so you’ve got this ring
of mud round the edge, which will make getting in and out a
bit tricky, and it certainly spoils the look of things. And the
landscape is flat, like a dull day on the Norfolk Broads, only
with lots of fir trees.
Then there’s Mrs Jakovleva. Given I’m her only guest,
you’d think she’d be a bit friendlier. Things weren’t too bad
until I started asking her if she got many swimmers staying
here, any advice about the water, safer spots etc.
‘You can’t swim here!’ she barked, as if I’d just threatened
to murder her budgie. (Yes, she really does have a budgie, a
green one. It lives in the breakfast room, and is watching me
right now as I type this on her ancient PC.)
I tried to explain about wild swimming, that the whole point
is to pick open water that most people don’t swim in, that I’m
fully qualified and experienced, but she cut me off with what
looked like a rude hand gesture.
‘No swim,’ she said. ‘Shows disrespect. Dangerous.’
Then she walked off which was . . . helpful. So I don’t know
if it’s just the idea of a twenty-something cavorting in a bikini
that outrages her, or if there’s anything about the reservoir I
should know.
I guess it will all be clear tomorrow when I go for my first
swim! Perhaps the sight of a wetsuit will mollify her. Though I
doubt it.
Loads of love Chrissy xxxxxxx
From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com
To: barflysuse@gmail.com
Date: 30 May 2015, 16:57
So good to hear from you!
Particularly nice after the weird day I’ve had. Really glad
the new job’s going well and John is behaving himself. We’ll
all have to meet up at that new place when I’m back, sounds
fab.
Still here in Vaiduoklis . . . Well, maybe I should have
kicked my heels in Vilnius till Felix arrived. It’s not awful, just
odd. Will try and explain.
This morning, I got up really early for a swim, hoping to
sneak past our scowling landlady. But she must have heard me
creaking down the stairs, as she shot out into the hallway.
‘Breakfast,’ she said. It was more a statement than a
question.
I didn’t like to be rude so followed her into the dining room.
She had laid out a monster amount of food. All that stuff they
do on the Continent: boiled eggs, salami, ham, yoghurt, plastic
packets of toast bread. And she was smiling away. Very
different from last night.
There was no way I could eat all that – the last thing I
wanted was to load up on carbs and get a cramp in the lake, so
I decided I would have to delay the swim for a while. You
can’t just ignore somebody making all that effort.
She poured us both coffee and sat down opposite.
‘So, no swim today,’ she said.
I didn’t want to argue so hedged a bit. ‘What’s wrong with
the water here?’
‘Water fine, is what’s beneath.’
‘Was it a quarry then? I’m used to that, I know they can be
deep.’
‘Not industry. The old village. Still down there.’
‘They flooded it? We’ve got a few of those in the UK, like
at Haweswater. They don’t really do that now.’
 ‘Vaiduoklis not like anywhere else,’ Mrs Jakovleva said,
shaking her head. ‘All still there.’
I’ve always been a bit intrigued by these sorts of stories.
Like that whole village sunk off the Suffolk coast, Dunwich,
where legend has it you can hear the old church bell ringing
when the tide’s low.
‘How old is it? Do you get divers going to explore?’
Mrs Jakovleva looked at me as if I were mad. ‘No diving!
Worse than swimming. Terrible disrespect.’ She had her
sucking lemons face on again, and the green budgie was
twittering.
‘Well, I’m not a diver,’ I said, sipping some of her coffee,
which was far too strong. She looked a little reassured, so I
pressed on. ‘And what about the new village here? Is there
much to see?’
The smile came out again at that. ‘All modern,’ she said
proudly. ‘Restored. You should see the church, beautiful
glass.’
And that, I’m afraid, marked the start of a long, tedious
monologue about the new village, to which I had to nod along
with a fixed smile. When she finally ran out of steam I headed
back to my room, to wait a bit before sneaking out again for a
swim. I can’t pretend that she hadn’t made me feel a little
uneasy, but having trudged all the way from Vilnius to
Boringville, I couldn’t face the thought of not getting in the
water.
I started to trot out towards the lake, a coat over my wetsuit.
She must have heard me, because the next thing I knew, there
was a thump, thump, thump and she was banging on the glass
of the kitchen window, waving frantically for me to stop. I
pretended not to understand and waved cheerily back, then
made it as fast as I could to the fir trees without actually
running.
The reservoir is a serious challenge to get into. It seemed to
be even lower than it looked yesterday. I found a place where
some tree roots helped me in (and more importantly would
help me out) and slithered down the side, holding on to clumps
of reeds as I went. By the time I hit the water I was caked in
mud. But then, the joy. I know you’re not a fan, Suse, but
there’s nothing like the adrenalin rush of hitting ice-cold water.
Even at the edge, the reservoir is really deep, metres of
black below. I cut out sideways, not making for the middle, to
make sure my body acclimatised. The place is vast, but, oddly,
it doesn’t give you that sense of empty space and wide
horizons you normally get in a big lake. Maybe it’s the steep
sides, hemming you in, but with the flatness and the firs it felt
a bit claustrophobic, like I was a fly swimming in a giant’s
soup bowl.
I headed into the middle to see if that would give me a
better view. There’s nothing like seeing Helm Crag reflected in
the water from the middle of Grasmere, and although this
place is flat, I thought distance might lend it a little majesty. It
did look prettier further in, the wavering green and black lines
of the trees matching their sturdy frames above, so I trod water
for a bit, absorbing it all.
I’m very used to lakes, the fact that there’s nothing but the
dark below you, going down tens, often hundreds of feet.
That’s never bothered me. The sense of emptiness beneath, I
even quite like it. But that’s not what I felt here at Vaiduoklis.
Rather than nothing-ness beneath me, I felt a something-ness.
That it wasn’t empty space, that there was something there. I
peered down, and I swear I thought I saw something move.
Not a fish, much bigger than that. It looked like someone was
swimming several feet below me. I even saw a flash of pale
flesh.
Becky Adlington couldn’t have made it to the shore faster
than I did. I shot up that root like a rat. At the top, I stood
holding on to the tree, gasping for breath, looking out over the
water, half expecting to see something burst to the surface. But
once the disturbance I’d made died down, the water returned
to its glass-like state, rippling slightly at the edge, reflecting
back the dreary firs and grey sky.
 I felt annoyed that Mrs Jakovleva must have got to me, and
tramped back to the guest house.
She was standing at the door and for a minute I thought she
was going to hug me with relief. That didn’t make me feel any
better. ‘You not long,’ she said. ‘All okay?’
‘Yes, lovely thanks, really nice swim. I’ll go check out that
church you suggested now,’ I said. She looked surprised, and I
could sense her watching me as I went up the stairs.
I felt a bit better when I was warm and dry, but the new
village soon knocked that out of me. The church she had been
on about looked like a 1970s municipal library, and all in all,
the place was fantastically dull. There was one shop, selling
groceries, some awful-looking floral frocks and, bizarrely,
postcards. I couldn’t believe that anyone would have printed a
card of such a town. But instead of the place I’m staying, it
showed a black and white photo of a pretty village in a valley,
part of it clinging to the side of the hills.
‘Is this the old village?’ I asked the man behind the counter.
‘Vaiduoklis,’ is all he said.
‘When was it sunk?’
‘Soviet days. The villagers, they object. Some never left.
Still there.’
‘The Soviet Union drowned them?’ I asked. I had seen the
KGB museum in Vilnius, but this seemed particularly chilling.
The man shrugged. ‘Bad times,’ he said. ‘Water low now,
Vaiduoklis must be near the surface, maybe even possible to
see, if you look.’
I thanked him and bought a handful of cards. Despite my
scare this morning, I’ve got to say the idea of seeing some of
the old medieval village cheered me up. A sort of Lithuanian
Dunwich. It must have been a bit of that I saw today, not
another swimmer at all. From the shape of the reservoir map I
printed out at the Vilnius tourist office, I think the church
might be quite near the exact spot where I got into the water
this morning.
Anyway, I’d better go as I’m feeling a bit bad about
hogging the computer in Mrs Jakovleva’s breakfast room all
this time. Although she seemed to be out when I got back.
Will update you on the hidden village hunting! Chrissy
xxxxxx
From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com
To: barflysuse@gmail.com
Date: 30 May 2015, 17:24
Okay, me again. So I just had to get this off my chest. I went
up to my room after emailing you, and would you believe the
bath was running, with the plug in. Any longer and it would
have overflowed and flooded the place. It DEFINITELY
wasn’t me who left it on. I don’t know what Mrs Jakovleva is
playing at, there were even wet foot marks from the bath to the
window. Nothing missing, thank God. Do you think she’s been
hanging out in my bedroom?!!
Gross
From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com
To: barflysuse@gmail.com
Date: 31 May 2015, 16:48
I’m so frightened, Suse, I have to leave this place, I have to
leave, and I don’t know how. Everything is shut in the town,
there are no trains tonight and I don’t know where Mrs
Jakovleva has gone.
I wish to God I’d never come here.
I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know what to think.
The day started all wrong. I slept in late this morning and
when I came down, there was no landlady and no breakfast.
I thought maybe I’d pissed her off by going for a swim
yesterday, and after that stuff with the bath, she’s obviously
odd. I walked into town to see if I could find something to eat
there. But it’s Sunday and the place was a ghost town. All
shuttered up and nobody on the streets. I passed the church.
The lights were on and there was singing inside and I had this
mad thought of going in, but for what? I ended up going to the
train station instead. There was nobody in the ticket office, and
the snack kiosk was shut, but I did manage to get some sweets
and crisps from the vending machine, along with a really sad-
looking sandwich.
I checked the timetable and saw there was only one train out
that day. To Vilnius in about half an hour. I had this sudden
feeling that I ought to rush back for my bag and take it, but
then I thought that was ridiculous, and how would I pay Mrs
Jakovleva?
Back at the guest house, I had the sandwich and went
through the guidebook again in my room. There’s absolutely
nothing on this place. I looked up Lusai and decided to head
there first thing in the morning. Felix or no Felix, I’ve had
enough of Vaiduoklis.
The tourist office map of the reservoir was still on the
bedside table. For some reason I didn’t fancy going hunting
for buried villages quite so much today; there was something
weird about being here without Mrs Jakovleva. But then there
was absolutely nothing else to do, and I thought, While I’m
here, it was really worth trying to spot a bit of the old town.
I got my goggles and headlight out, and togged myself up in
the wetsuit. It was so quiet walking to the water, I sort of
missed the sound of the old woman thumping on the glass
behind me.
The reservoir looked even lower today. There was a light
wind, breaking up its reflective surface and I walked round the
edge, peering down the sides, trying to see if there was
anything that looked like masonry down there. I thought there
might be a pale shape, about a ten-minute swim from my root
stairway, not far from the edge.
 The climb down felt more difficult. I swear it looked as
though some of the roots had been broken off, but once in, I
got that familiar high from the cold, and adrenalin soon took
me to the spot I had scouted out. There was definitely
something down there.
I plunged under and at first nothing. But after surfacing and
then going a little deeper, finally I saw something. The torch
on my forehead picked out some red brick in the gloom,
covered in algae. From the carving work it looked like it might
be part of a church tower. I got a bit closer and saw the
remains of a green dome at the top, smashed in on one side
with reeds blocking the hole. I didn’t want to get tangled up,
and knew I’d have to surface for air soon, but it was amazing
to think I’d found a medieval church underwater, so I swam a
bit nearer.
I looked into the hole, shining my headlight into the black.
The reeds got in the way, and I went to move them aside
without getting my arms tangled. I pushed my face towards the
dark and felt something soft brush against my lips. I drew
back, thinking it might be a carp. And that’s when it happened.
A face bobbed up out of the broken dome. It was a person,
Suse, all bloated and rotting, the eyes white and sunken like a
dead fish when it’s been left out in the sun. It had swollen lips,
lips that had just touched mine. Terrified, I pushed it away, and
its jaw fell open. Half the tongue was gone.
Then a hand floated – or reached – towards me.
I screamed, losing precious air in the bubbles. I made for the
surface, but something grabbed me by the ankle. In blind panic
I kicked hard, hitting a round, soft thing, which buckled and
gave against my heel. I kicked again and felt the grip slacken
on my foot, then by some miracle I broke free.
I don’t know how I got back to the tree root, I don’t know
how I didn’t drown from fear; it must have been the training
kicking in. I ran back to the guest house, crying my eyes out,
calling to Mrs Jakovleva. There was no answer. I sprinted to
my room and, crazily, locked the door behind me. It was only
when I sat on the bed, still hyperventilating, that I saw there
was a mass of reeds wound round my ankle, the one I thought
had been grabbed.
And so now I’m really confused, Suse, I don’t know what to
think. It must have been reeds, dragging me under. It can’t
have been anything else. It can’t have been the body I saw.
The dead are dead, aren’t they? They don’t come back.
I wish to God I knew where Mrs Jakovleva was. I wish it
were already tomorrow and I was on that train.
From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com
To: barflysuse@gmail.com
Date: 31 May 2015, 21:18
Dear God, Suse, be online, please be reading this, please be
online.
You’ve got to call the Foreign Office, call 999, anything,
please, you’ve got to send somebody to help me.
Mrs Jakovleva’s dead. I thought I heard footsteps on the
stairs. I thought it was her. I called for her, followed the
muddy trail of prints to the top of the guest house where her
room is.
The door was half open.
I had a really bad feeling, Suse, I had a bad feeling
something had happened to her. I shouted and bashed on the
door. Inside her bed was made up. Bottles of perfume laid out
neatly on a linen doily covering the bedside table. Beside it
was another closed door. Her bathroom door.
And I just knew she was in there.
I pushed it open and she was lying at the bottom of the bath,
her eyes wide open. Drowned. Her clothes were the same ones
she had on yesterday, which means she has been here, under
the water, all that time. Wisps of grey hair floating round her
face like reeds.
 There was a phone on her dressing table. I ran to it, picked it
up, but there was no dialling tone. So I’m going to try and get
help in the town, I’m going there now.
They came for her, Suse, the people in the lake, I woke
them up and they found her, and now I think they’re going to
come for me.
Please God, get hold of the Foreign Office, Suse, tell them
I’m here. Please send the police to Vaiduoklis. Please help me.
From: brian.heddler@ukforeignoffice.gov
To: Elaine.Griffiths@ukforeignoffice.gov
Date: 10 June 2015, 11:14
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
Elaine,
The investigation into the death of Christine Miller is
ongoing, but having now visited the reservoir and spoken to
local police myself, I wanted to bring you up to speed.
There is a need to be sensitive with this case, as the family
remain convinced she was murdered.
The landlady, Asta Jakovleva, was a widow with no
children, and her business was doing badly. The most likely
scenario, police believe, is that she committed suicide by
drowning. According to medical records, she had a history of
depression.
The local superintendent tells me a fingerprint search of
Asta Jakovleva’s bedroom suggests Christine Miller must have
discovered the body and tried to raise the alarm. In panic she
then fled the premises, leaving the door open in her haste. It
was dark at this time and the landscape unfamiliar to Ms
Miller, who in her fright seems to have taken the path to the
reservoir, rather than the one into town. Both are through
woodland areas of fir, and not impossible to confuse.
Ms Miller’s body was found in the lake, fully clothed and
tangled in reeds. Markings on the banks show she had clearly
tried to claw her way out of the muddy sides of the reservoir
after falling in, but there were no signs of violence to indicate
forcible drowning. Like so many tragic cases of people
swimming in open water each year, Ms Miller became caught
up in reeds and drowned. It was night, she was frightened, and
out of her wetsuit; even her training as an experienced wild
swimmer was unable to save her. I hope in time the family will
be able to accept this.
There is one anomaly in the case. Muddy footprints have
been found throughout the house, as if somebody ran from
room to room. The owner of the footprints could conceivably
have been an intruder, but the police are confident that these
must have belonged to Ms Miller who perhaps ran in panic
through the property, looking for a working telephone. The
footprints eventually lead to the front door.
Also, I finally have an explanation for our difficulty at the
Foreign Office in locating the place from Christine Miller’s
friend’s description. ‘Vaiduoklis’ is in fact a local nickname
for the village, not its actual name. It is the Lithuanian word
for ‘ghost’ and seems to refer to the original village, sunk in
the reservoir.
I will of course keep you updated on further developments.
Regards,
Brian
 EAU-DE-ERIC

MANUELA SARAGOSA
MANUELA SARAGOSA
Manuela is a journalist and presenter for BBC World Service
and a former Indonesia correspondent for the Financial Times.
Inspiration for her story, Eau-de-Eric, came after she gave
up smoking and found she could smell properly again. At the
time she was working on a radio item about why smell is the
most powerful of all five senses in conjuring memories and
emotions.
Manuela lives in London with her two children and their
large collection of soft toys, and has excellent relations with
all of them. In 2015 she was placed second in an Ireland-based
short story writing competition

MANUELA ON STEPHEN KING

‘I’ve been reading everything by Stephen King since my teens
but the novel that has haunted me the longest is Dolores
Claiborne. It only occurred to me after submitting my story to
The Bazaar of Bad Dreams Hodder-Guardian competition that
Eau-de-Eric also involves a mother’s troubled relationship
with her daughter. Coincidence? Probably not.’
 EAU-DE-ERIC

It was just another teddy, picked up for 99p at a local charity

shop, until Ellie decided to name him Eric, after her dead
father. She named all her soft toys but told her mother this one
was special because it was big and hairy like Daddy had been.
‘But Daddy didn’t have black eyes, sweetie,’ Kathy said as
she tucked Ellie into bed. ‘His eyes were blue.’
Ellie rubbed Eric’s stitched nose against her own as she
snuggled under the duvet. ‘I know, but he smells like Daddy,’
she said.
Kathy hadn’t been able to resist a quick sniff herself, even
though she didn’t have particularly fond memories of her late
husband. Ellie was right, there was something about the smell.
A whiff of Eric’s old aftershave buried deep in the teddy’s
matted fur. Kathy recognised the brand. It was one she’d
managed to avoid ever since Eric had died, except for that one
time when a shop attendant had sprayed it at her in a
department store, part of some aggressive sales pitch. Kathy
had recoiled but it had been too late. The smell had clung to
her hair and clothes for the rest of the day as if the ghost of
Eric – the real Eric – was intent on sticking around.
‘How about Mummy puts Eric through the wash?’ Kathy
said.
Ellie shook her head, squeezing the teddy to her face. Kathy
tugged and cajoled but Ellie started crying, her eyes squeezed
shut as she tucked her chin into her neck, hushed tears
coursing over her flushed cheeks. That was often the way with
Ellie; her anger was silent, tantrums were not her style. Kathy
found it unnerving, more so since her father Eric’s death.
 ‘Okay,’ Kathy said, getting up from beside the bed. ‘If it
means that much to you.’
But it unsettled her enough to mention it to Chris on the
phone later that evening.
‘You think she’s figured it out? About us?’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’ Kathy sighed. ‘We’ve been so careful.’
It had been over a year since the funeral and Kathy’s
therapist had said there was no need to keep her relationship
with Chris under wraps. But Ellie was so sensitive and Kathy
had only been seeing Chris for a few months. It didn’t feel
right for him to stay overnight, not yet at least. A year wasn’t
long in the grand scheme of things, Kathy thought, given the
traumatic circumstances of Eric’s death. Because despite his
faults, he’d been tender with Ellie in a way that he’d never
been with her. Ellie had been so little after all, too little to
answer back.
‘You’re a good mother,’ Chris said.
‘Am I? I’m not sure. I want to move on but I don’t know
how to take her with me.’
‘You always put her first. That makes you a good mother.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry for you. Sorry I’m forcing this
on you too.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘It’s fine,’
Chris said. ‘It’s . . . fine.’ She pictured him leaning forward,
the phone at his ear, dragging his hand through his hair. She
could love this man, she thought. Yes, she could.
But she still felt uneasy as she climbed the stairs to bed that
night. Turning at the top step, she caught sight of Eric through
the open bedroom door, propped up against the wall next to
her daughter’s sleeping head. She went in, listening to Ellie’s
damp breathing and for a moment she felt observed, as if
Eric’s black button eyes were following her every move. She
rubbed her hand over her face, feeling suddenly tired and
heavy. It was Friday and it had been a long week, too long.
On Saturday, Ellie perched Eric on the table during breakfast
but Kathy drew the line at Ellie taking him along to her
playdate. When it was time to go, Ellie stood stock still, hands
rigid at her side, as Kathy buttoned up her coat.
‘Mummy,’ she said and Kathy felt herself tense up. It was a
voice her daughter only ever used when she was about to
blindside her.
‘Yes, sweetie.’
‘Promise me.’
‘Promise you what, sugar?’
‘Promise you won’t put Eric in the wash while I’m away.’
Kathy kept her eyes lowered, focusing on the top button.
‘’Course not,’ Kathy said, her fingers slipping over its
smooth edges.
‘Pinky promise, Mummy?’
Ellie smiled as they hooked their small fingers and Kathy
had really meant it then. She had other plans for the afternoon
anyway.
She was thinking of those plans, of Chris coming over, as she
struggled to stretch the vacuum cleaner’s nozzle into the far
corners of Ellie’s room. There was always some fluff you
couldn’t quite catch. She reached down under the bed, pulling
out a forgotten pyjama top and stray pieces of Lego. And there
was something else, something stuffed away to the far side:
Gerald the Giraffe, her gift to Ellie after the funeral. He must
have fallen out of favour.
She pulled him out by his long neck and positioned the
nozzle to suck the grey dust off his body, watching the yellow
and brown spots recover their colour. Where to put Gerald?
A collection of glazed, plastic eyes looked back at her from
the top of Ellie’s bed, where the soft toys were gathered as if
in amiable conference. Ellie had brought Eric back up to her
room before going out and had given him pride of place,
separate from the rest. He was laid out on her pillow, his face
turned up to the ceiling.
‘How about some company, Eric?’ she said, placing
Gerald’s thick snout next to Eric’s head.
‘Gerald, meet Eric. Eric, meet Gerald.’
Christ, she sounded like Ellie. Fantasy play, the therapist
called it. It helped process difficult emotions, apparently.
Kathy gazed at the face of each in turn. She dropped the
nozzle and picked up Eric by the scruff of his neck, holding
him in front of her, next to Gerald.
‘Nice to meet you, Eric,’ she said in a gruff voice. Gerald’s
neck drooped to one side.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’ She turned Eric’s face
towards her own and scowled.
‘You bastard,’ she said between tight lips. She paused,
looking at Eric’s scrunched-up face and lifeless eyes. He really
was quite ugly, his pug-like snout giving him a permanently
disgruntled expression. She brought him close to her nose,
daring herself to smell, and made a face.
‘Here, take that, stinky,’ she said, using one of Gerald’s
front legs to hit Eric in his middle.
Good grief, what was she doing? She threw both stuffed
toys on the bed and moved backward towards the door,
dragging the vacuum cleaner with her. The other soft toys
crowded the bed with their benign shaggy aura but Eric was
practically pouting. She squared her shoulders and put her
hands on her hips. ‘You know what, Eric?’ she said. ‘You’re
going in the wash.’
The washing machine whirred in the kitchen downstairs as
Chris and Kathy lay in bed. The curtains were closed and only
a pale afternoon light filtered through the gaps at the side.
Kathy nestled into the curve of Chris’s side and ran a finger
over his profile. He smiled and kissed her forehead, and then
rattling shook the floorboards beneath them.
 ‘What’s that noise?’ he said, sniffing a strand of her hair.
‘Just the washing machine.’
‘Sounds like someone’s wrestling with it.’
‘It’s old. I should replace it, I just haven’t got round to it
yet.’ She brushed her lips over Chris’s cheek, near his ear. ‘It’s
on the to-do list.’
‘The to-do list?’ He chuckled.
‘Yeah, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. You’re so organised.’ He squeezed
her breast.
‘You don’t like that?’ Kathy said, inclining her head.
His finger ran down her navel to the fuzz below. ‘I love it.’
‘Oh, no!’ Kathy said, sitting up and pushing his hand away.
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to dry the teddy before Ellie gets back!’ She threw
her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the shirt Chris
had discarded in a hurry earlier.
‘The dryer,’ she said, glancing back at him, still splayed on
the bed. ‘I forgot to programme it.’
In the kitchen, the machine was ticking down the last of its
cycle. Eric’s face was distorted and angry through the damp of
its glass. The black paint on his button eyes had chipped and
for a moment she thought he might be blinking at her. No, it
had to be a trick of the light. She turned the dials and the
machine churned as it started up again, as if gathering
strength.
She peered through the glass into the drum. Eric stared back
at her.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Got a problem?’ She knocked on the
glass, scowling, unaware that a naked Chris had padded in
behind her on his bare feet.
 ‘Who are you talking to?’ he said, circling his arms round
her waist from behind, his fingers pressing into her soft
middle.
‘Him,’ she said, pointing at the drum where Eric was being
thrown round and round.
‘You need to get out more,’ Chris said, laughing and kissing
the back of her neck. She shrugged, smoothing down the hair
on his arm. He turned her round to face him, pushed her up
against the kitchen counter and gave her a long, wet kiss.
His breath was hot on her face as his hands ran down her
body. She gripped the counter, glancing up at the kitchen
clock. ‘There’s no time,’ she said, pushing him gently back.
Chris leaned his head on her shoulder, breathing out a weary
sigh. ‘There’s never enough time,’ he said.
Ellie was not happy, not happy at all.
‘But you promised, Mummy!’ Her face was round and wet.
‘I know, sweetie, but he was really stinky.’ Kathy closed her
eyes and shivered, remembering the smell. It still cloyed at her
nostrils.
‘He didn’t need a wash.’ Ellie pouted and wrapped her
small, pudgy fingers round Eric’s damp body.
She sank her nose into his fur and her frown disappeared.
‘Oh! I can still smell him!’
Kathy yanked Eric from her daughter’s face, sticking him
under her own nose. Damn it, her daughter was right. Eau-de-
Eric was still in there, musky and burned. But there was
something else too.
‘Give him back!’ Ellie said, stamping her foot. Her little
arms were raised up in the air, straining to reach him.
Kathy batted her away, sniffing again. There. There it was.
A hot summer evening, a barbecue, the smoke from sizzling
fat billowing upwards into a deepening blue sky. His fingers
were wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle and he’d
flicked something at her, a piece of meat or charred vegetable
– she couldn’t remember exactly what – and then he’d pressed
the scalding skewer on her arm. Yes, she could still feel it.
Ellie had been in her arms, crying and sucking her shoulder
because she’d missed a feed. She’d almost dropped her as
she’d flinched in pain.
‘He needs to go back in,’ Kathy said.
‘No, Mummy, no!’ Ellie’s bottom lip quivered and her
hands clenched into fists.
Kathy marched back into the kitchen, shaking off her
daughter who was tugging at her clothes. ‘Get off!’ she
shouted. It came out a little too sharp, more so than she’d
intended.
‘Mummy, no!’ Ellie stumbled as she followed her.
But Kathy could still feel the slabs of stone chafing at her
knees as she fell on to the ground that day; the shock of the
glowing skewer’s sting against her bare skin. She had cradled
Ellie’s head, protecting her from the fall.
‘Please, Mummy, don’t!’ Ellie’s voice was choked and
barely more than a whisper.
Then the washing machine’s door wouldn’t close. Eric’s
arm kept flopping out and getting in the way. It hung limp, his
head half out and turned upwards. Ellie reached to drag him
out but Kathy shoved her aside with her body, forgetting that
she was bigger, an adult tussling with a mere child. ‘Watch
your hands!’ she said. There was a rip, like the sound of paper
tearing. Stuffing spilled out of the seam between Eric’s
shoulder and arm.
‘Mummy! You’re hurting him!’ Ellie’s face shone with tears
and shock as she crept closer.
‘He’s a toy, Ellie! A toy!’ Kathy shouted as she chucked the
teddy back into the drum, ripped shoulder and all. She pushed
Ellie aside, sending her careening backward over the cold
stone kitchen floor. Her foot shot out as she kicked the door
shut and hurriedly twisted the dials. The machine started up
and Kathy wiped an arm over her face. Her hands were
trembling.
Ellie got up from the floor. She paused, her eyes lowered,
and when she looked up she’d rearranged her features into an
impassive mask. There was nothing there. No flush. No tears.
She smoothed her hands down her dress – her favourite lilac
pinafore dress, the one with ebony edging – and watched in
silence as Eric’s paws clawed at the glass beneath the rising
water. Tick, tick, tick, they went.
Ellie turned her gaze from the drum to her mother.
‘I hate you,’ she said and fled up the stairs to her room.
Chris became elusive. There were fewer weekend visits and he
made a point of removing himself when Ellie was home. No, it
wasn’t that he wasn’t warming to Ellie, he told Kathy, how
could he not with her head of honey curls, rosebud mouth and
plump, peachy arms? It was just that he couldn’t deal with her
quiet, determined hostility. She would cast long, sideways
glances at him, sitting still with Eric on her knee, turning the
teddy’s face towards him as he ate or watched TV.
He had told her about the time when he’d gone to the loo
and he’d felt strangely self-conscious sitting on the cold plastic
seat. When he’d looked round he’d almost jumped out of his
skin seeing Eric sitting there in the bath, his chipped black
eyes fixed on him. Why would Ellie do that? he asked Kathy.
What was the point? Plus, there was the name, Eric. Yes, he
understood, of course she missed her father. But still, given
what was going on, it was kind of creepy.
And now it had been several days since Chris had last
called. Oh, there had been text messages and the odd email but
he was always busy, always off somewhere or coming back
from somewhere else, always working late or working early or
waiting for a delivery.
Give it time, Kathy’s therapist said, but time felt all too
malleable, the past dragging the present to itself when all
Kathy wanted was a forward trajectory.
 And so here they were, Kathy and Ellie and Eric, always
Eric, with his bandaged shoulder. Kathy had offered to repair
him in a fit of guilt but Ellie had refused. After all, Kathy had
‘attacked’ him – Ellie’s words, not Kathy’s – she couldn’t trust
her mother to do the right thing and so she insisted on keeping
the bandage in place. It felt like an affront, as if Ellie were
pressing a point, and Kathy felt deep shame each time she was
confronted by the damaged Eric. So much so, that she
eventually relented and agreed for him to have his own plate
and cutlery at table.
‘He needs to get better,’ Ellie said. ‘He’s hurt.’
And wasn’t it always Kathy’s way to give in anyway? She
was working on it, she had to change but it was one step
forward, two steps back. Habits are hard to break, her therapist
agreed. Hadn’t she done the same with Eric – the real Eric –
right up until the night when he fell under a car and was
dragged along the road after a late-night drinking session with
the boys? Kathy had seen him laid out, his chest a deep
concave where the breastbone had been crushed, piercing his
heart. What heart? she’d wanted to shout at the hospital staff
standing to the side with their hands in their pockets.
Ellie was kneeling on her bed, her stuffed toys lined up in a
row in front of her, her back to the door where Kathy leaned
against the doorframe. She hadn’t noticed her mother tip-
toeing up the stairs, but then she didn’t seem to notice her
mother much these days. Kathy was always creeping around
her now, her movements slow and deliberate.
Ellie was whispering, quiet words rustling the air, her
elbows working up and down, pausing only to wag her finger
at Gerald and Ollie and all the other soft toys, whatever their
names were. She was busy with some sort of demonstration.
There was something in front of Ellie, something all the other
animals were supposed to watch. ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Come back!’
Kathy heard Ellie remonstrate. And then: ‘But I love you
really, I love you.’ The words fluttered, gentle as butterfly
wings, followed by the burst plops of Ellie’s lips kissing the
air.
 Kathy felt wet on her cheeks. She wanted to wipe the tears
away but hesitated, worried that any movement on her part
might break whatever magic Ellie was conjuring up on the
bed. A sob welled up big and bold inside her and Kathy
clamped her hand over her mouth. Ellie’s head flicked to the
side. Nothing moved in her face as she registered her mother.
‘Go away,’ she said.
Kathy shook her head. ‘Sweetie, you need to talk to me.
Whatever it is.’
Ellie shifted on the bed, moving her legs round, and Kathy
saw she was cradling Eric in her lap.
‘Eric is hurting,’ she said. ‘You hurt him.’
‘Oh sugar.’ Kathy wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
‘It’s not what you think. It wasn’t like that.’
Ellie’s little fingers stroked his bandages, the tips barely
touching the material.
‘Eric says you’re mean.’ She turned the teddy’s face
sideways, and Kathy straightened up as she felt his black eyes
drill into her. At this angle, his stitched snout was a lopsided
grin.
‘Teddies don’t speak, sweetie.’
‘Eric does. He talks to me.’ Up and down the little fingers
went, caressing the broken shoulder.
‘No, Ellie.’ Kathy choked back another sob. ‘He doesn’t.’
Her daughter shrugged, turning back round to face her
stuffed animals.
‘Look at me, Ellie.’
The whispering started up again, small exhalations brushing
against each other.
‘Ellie.’ Kathy’s voice was hard and sharp as she drummed
her fingers on the doorframe.
‘Eleanor!’
 Her daughter’s shoulders bunched tight and her whispering
quickened as Ellie leaned forward, as if protecting Eric from
her mother’s voice.
‘Enough now, Eleanor!’
Kathy strode forward and grabbed her daughter by the
shoulder. She was stiff to her touch and fell backward, rigid
and flat on the bed, still clutching Eric. The eyes, Kathy
thought, they have the same eyes, distant and inaccessible. She
had to separate them.
‘Give him to me!’ Kathy said.
‘No.’ Ellie pressed Eric to her chest, turning away from her
mother.
Kathy grabbed him by his bandaged shoulder and started to
pull but Ellie tightened her grip and she found herself peeling
off one finger at a time. It was no match really, her adult hands
were so much bigger, so much stronger. When she’d prised
him loose, Kathy held Eric aloft – how heavy he was all of a
sudden! – and hurried out of the bedroom, her fingers circling
his neck.
Ellie came scrambling after her, tearing at her mother’s
clothes, but her mother was too tall, her arm stretched up too
high. As Kathy looked down, she saw Ellie’s mouth twist as
she clamped down on her leg.
‘Ow!’ Kathy screamed, thrusting her leg sideways. ‘Get off!
Get off, you little bitch!’ The honey-dipped hair, the pudgy
arms, the milk teeth were all just a blur, something separate to
her, morphed into some grotesque animal battling with her leg.
The hallway stretched out in front, the mirror of the vanity
cupboard in the bathroom at the end reflecting overhead lights.
Kathy dragged herself towards it, still clutching Eric, her
daughter still clamped to her leg. She bent to push her
daughter away but Ellie’s mouth caught her hand instead and
she felt the trickle of warm blood.
Blood spattered on the cupboard’s mirror as she flipped the
door open, her fingers grasping blindly for the sharp point of
the nail scissors. Ellie’s teeth were deep into her leg as she
started stabbing Eric, plunging the scissors into his eyes, those
beady, dead eyes, and tearing at his middle. Stuffing spilled
out, red-tinged fluff billowing on to the floor. Again and again,
she stabbed and ripped until all that was left was a flattened,
empty rag, a caricature of a teddy.
When it was over, when her ears finally tuned in to her
daughter’s muffled sobs, Kathy let the scissors drop into the
sink. The metal clattered against the sides and she slumped
against the basin, Eric hanging limp and ragged in her hand.
Ellie clambered to her feet. She spat out her mother’s blood
and wiped her arms over her cheeks, smearing them in red.
‘Oh God,’ Kathy said, sinking to her knees. ‘What have I
done?’
Ellie said nothing, grabbing what remained of Eric and
running back into her bedroom.
Fluff floated around her as Kathy placed her hands over her
face and sat motionless. She heard the fridge hum downstairs,
the distant ticking of the kitchen clock. She breathed in and
stretched out her leg, observing the teeth-marks on her skin.
Beneath the blood, between the sticky fluff, she could just
make out a series of curved, symmetrical bite-marks. And then
from the bedroom; again, that insistent, urgent whispering.
Kathy hoisted herself up, leaning on the sink, not daring to
look at her reflection in the mirror. Could shame burn itself on
someone’s face?
She hobbled to the stairs, keeping her eyes trained on the
banisters. Out of the corner of her vision, she caught a glimpse
of Ellie in her room, back on the bed, elbows working
furiously and a large bandage trailing on to the carpet.
Downstairs, Kathy let her hand hover over the phone. She
was thinking of Chris but he seemed very far away, just a
distant memory, something she could never reach. She tried to
recall his face but could only dredge up the outline of his
features: his square jaw, his brushed-back hair, the gentle slope
of his forehead. It was just a sketch really, all the details were
missing. And then she heard the footsteps on the floorboards
above her. The familiar tread. The dreaded pause at the top of
the steps. The thud-thud-thud of big feet, strong feet, coming
to rest on each step. And as the footsteps came closer, she
didn’t even look up. She knew who it would be.
 THE SPOTS

PAUL BASSETT DAVIES

PAUL BASSETT DAVIES
Paul Bassett Davies has written and directed for stage, TV,
radio and film. He began in multimedia theatre, and his one-
man shows won awards at the Edinburgh Festival. He’s
written for many well-known names in British comedy, and
had his own BBC radio sitcom, as well as writing radio
dramas, short films, and music videos. He’s also been the
vocalist in a punk band, a cab driver, and a DJ in a strip club.
His first novel, Utter Folly, topped the Amazon humorous
fiction chart in 2012, and his new novel, Dead Writers in
Rehab, is being published by Unbound.
The idea for ‘The Spots’ came to Paul in the small hours of
a sleepless night, when the image of a leopard seemed to
prowl mysteriously into his mind. It was only after he’d
finished the story that he realised the screensaver on his laptop
the previous year was a photograph of a leopard.

PAUL ON STEPHEN KING

‘I like this quote from On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft: “If
you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a
member of polite society are numbered (anyway).” It’s a very
useful reminder about honesty and what a writer really cares
about.’
 THE SPOTS

The first phase of my assignment was to count the leopard’s

spots.
Then, to consider the possibility of change. In the words of
the Leader, ‘First quantify. Then evaluate. Finally master.’
This remorselessly methodical approach was a key to the
Leader’s greatness, and just one aspect of his genius.
There was only one leopard left, of an original four, in the
People’s Menagerie, an extensive zoological facility that was
located in the palace compound to ensure the safety of the
capital’s inhabitants.
Two of the creatures had perished in a visionary genetic
experiment. One had been executed. The Leader had suspected
the November plotters of intending to make use of the beast in
some way: perhaps as a symbol, or a weapon, or even as a
potential ally, through whom they might enlist the support of
the animal kingdom in their odious conspiracy. There was no
material evidence against the leopard, or for that matter
against the finance minister and the colonels. None was
necessary. The Leader’s acclaimed intuition in these matters
was unerring, and almost uncanny. Indeed, some of the
populace attributed powers of telepathy to him. This was
absurd, of course, and such superstitious beliefs were held
only by the less educated members of society, bearing in mind
that this is a relative judgement in my homeland, which has
the finest schools in the world.
All the suspected plotters were executed, after confessing to
their crimes in an impartial inquiry conducted according to the
highest standards of international jurisprudence in the
basement of the Great Hall of Conciliation. The leopard made
no confession, and met its fate with what was reported as
perfect equanimity, having been humanely stunned.
So, there was only one animal available for me to study,
with no prospect of acquiring other specimens. The four
leopards had been gifts from nations with which we had since
broken off relations, after conclusive proof that their
governments were part of a reactionary global alliance intent
on deposing the Leader, motivated by bitter jealousy of his
towering achievements. These nations, of which, sadly, there
was a growing number, no longer sent us gifts, and we, in turn,
no longer allowed them access to our precious minerals.
However, I set about my work with the diligence and
humility that has made me, I flatter myself to think, a valuable
servant to the man who bestrides our national culture like a
colossus.
At first I observed the leopard in situ, peering through the
bars behind which it paced and prowled, glancing at me
sometimes in a way that made me suspect it bore me no
goodwill. But I found it impossible to count the leopard’s
spots, let alone consider whether it could change them. Its
supple, sinuous movements defied my scrutiny, and when it
lay down I was unable to see all of its body, and the spots that
were visible were partially concealed or distorted by the folds
of its fur, which seemed to undulate and ripple even in its
sleep.
‘But why,’ I hear you ask, ‘did you not simply have the
beast sedated, and inspect it at your leisure?’
A good question, but such a course of action had been
specifically prohibited to me, by the Leader himself, in person.
‘Maximilian,’ he said, using the name he had seen fit to
bestow on me, although it bore little resemblance to the one I
still thought of as my own, ‘the leopard must not be disturbed
in any way. This is vital. My recent researches have confirmed
a feeling – call it an instinct – that I have an extraordinary
affinity with this noble creature. Our connection, I believe,
transcends even the barriers of species, and I am poised on the
brink of a discovery that will revolutionise our entire
conception of consciousness, and of life itself. I am entrusting
you with a very particular and delicate task. I would love to
tell you more, my old friend, but I’m afraid I shall have to
keep you in the dark for a little longer, much to my regret.’
‘Sir, I understand,’ I replied, ‘and I would never expect you
to discuss matters with me that are almost certainly beyond my
comprehension.’
‘No, no, Max. Do not belittle yourself. Your intelligence is
exceptionally acute, as I know very well, and I will never
forget the impression it made on me in our schooldays. It is
simply a matter of timing. You shall know everything when
the time is right. Until then, please indulge your old friend and
protector. Will you do that? Say you will!’
He treated me to his most boyish and expansive smile,
which no one could resist. His charm was legendary. Even
after all those years it still affected me powerfully, and I
believe I may even have blushed a little.
I bowed my head. ‘There is no question that I will do
exactly as you ask, you know that, sir.’
‘Good!’ he boomed, and chuckled as he took my hand. ‘I
knew I could rely on you.’ He moved closer and dropped his
voice. ‘I wish I could say the same about more of my old
comrades. Do you catch my meaning?’ His grip tightened on
my hand.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Excellent. So, please conduct your observations without
disturbing my feline friend in any way at all. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Good. I look forward to receiving your report at your
earliest convenience. By the end of the week, let’s say. You
may go.’
The researches to which the Leader referred were typical of
his relentless thirst for knowledge. He sacrificed much of his
precious time and energy to the pursuit of science, and he used
his immense learning to improve the lives of the ordinary
people with his remarkable discoveries, inventions and
breakthroughs. Some of these were considered by foreigners to
be controversial or even harmful. Naturally, most of the
populace were ignorant of the slanders propagated by the
media lackeys of our enemies. Information from outside was
controlled scrupulously, to prevent it contaminating the pure,
indomitable spirit of our nation, particularly its virile but
impressionable youth. Nonetheless, a few of us were able to
access external media sources, and we were profoundly
shocked by the calumnies heaped upon the selfless benefactor
of our nation.
He strove only to increase his wisdom, and this effort had
recently led to an interest in metaphysics, after reading the
Metamorphoses of Ovid. It goes without saying that he didn’t
read the material himself; he simply listened to a summary
delivered by one of the scholars he engaged for this purpose.
His natural intellect was so capacious that all he required to
understand even the most abstruse academic work was a brief
précis. Indeed, he could never have accumulated the vast
number of honours, awards and citations that were bestowed
on him if he’d done all his own reading. Or writing, for that
matter. He provided the original ideas for the various theses,
papers and studies that were published under his name, and the
details were completed by others.
I believe the Leader’s interest in the leopard was a result of
his growing immersion in metaphysical ideas of
transformation, and was thus the stimulus for the work in
which I was now engaged. However, this work, as I have
mentioned, was proving difficult under the strictures he had
imposed on me.
I came up with the idea of filming the leopard with multiple
cameras, so that I could then study the footage in slow motion.
But I encountered a problem with this scheme. Any cameras
that could be used for surveillance purposes were under the
control of the Ministry of Culture. When I enquired about
borrowing some of them I was rebuffed. After some
persistence I gained an interview with the liaison officer, who
put his finger to his lips, gestured for me to follow him into his
private bathroom, and ran the taps. In a strained whisper he
told me there were very few cameras to spare, owing to the
temporary security crisis of the last two decades. Most of the
cameras were broken, and parts would be unobtainable until
the economic miracle began to have an effect. This would
doubtless take place soon, once the irregularities that were
inevitable in a scheme as revolutionary as the Leader’s
magnificent five-year plan had been smoothed out, certainly
by the end of its second triumphant decade.
I returned to the leopard’s enclosure armed only with my
notebook and pencils, as before, and began my task anew.
Counting, and more counting. And trying to fight a growing
sense of panic.
The end of the week found me facing the Leader in his private
box at the People’s Skating Rink, which was closed to the
public in winter as a precaution against syphilis, which the
Leader had proved to be spread by shivering. As far as I could
tell we were the only people there. I could see no bodyguards,
advisers, or assistants.
‘What news?’ the Leader asked, clapping his heavily gloved
hands, and smiling at me jovially.
‘I have failed, sir,’ I said, bowing my head. My breath made
clouds in the air. The heating in the private box wasn’t
working. ‘I have been unable to count the leopard’s spots.’
The Leader said nothing. Eventually I raised my eyes. I saw
he was deep in thought. I knew he would not rebuke me
directly. His soul was too large for anything mean or petty in
that way. The furrows on his brow, while expressing sorrow,
disappointment and a certain impatience, also conveyed his
great compassion for the failings of others.
He gazed earnestly at me. His eyes were dark and
fathomless. He put his arm around my shoulder.
 ‘Walk with me,’ he said.
It was unclear what our destination might be, as space was
limited in the box, but it transpired that the Leader wished
only to walk around in circles. ‘Dear Max,’ he said in a low
voice, ‘what are we to do? How can I help you fulfil this task
you have so kindly agreed to undertake?’
His question was rhetorical. I knew better than to attempt a
reply.
‘I have an idea,’ he said finally, coming to an abrupt halt
and dropping his arm from my shoulder. He gazed into the
distance. ‘Perhaps you should get into the cage,’ he murmured.
‘Into the cage, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘With the leopard?’
‘It’s the only way!’ he said, turning to me with a smile. ‘The
animal is playing games with you!’ He chuckled. ‘I believe it
knows what you’re up to, and is deliberately thwarting you out
of sheer mischief!’
‘Mischief, sir?’
‘Of course! It’s a cat, after all. You know how playful they
can be.’
I nodded slowly. ‘So, you recommend that I get into the
leopard’s cage, in order to count its spots?’
‘Recommend? I insist, dear Max!’
I inclined my head slowly.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘I must be off. I can hear my chopper.’
The approaching clatter of helicopter blades obliged him to
bellow his final words to me.
‘I’m sure you won’t mind walking back,’ the Leader said,
‘as I know how keen you are on getting your exercise!’
He cast a thoughtful look at my shattered leg and my cane,
clapped me on the shoulder, and strode away.
I fled the capital immediately. I didn’t go home, or to my
office.
As soon as I heard the helicopter lift off outside I tore at the
lining of my jacket and extracted one of the diamonds I had
secreted there over the course of many years.
Its value was easily sufficient to procure the services of a
passing motorist when I reached the road. The man agreed to
take me all the way to the coast, after I assured him I knew
how to evade any possible checkpoints. I was confident of
this, as the system by which the roads were patrolled was one
of the many responsibilities I undertook for the Leader in my
role as his trusted adviser and general factotum.
Naturally I withheld this information from the driver,
although I doubt if he would have paid attention to anything I
said to him after I’d shown him the diamond. His eyes grew
wide, and I had to remind him to keep them on the road each
time they strayed towards the gem I clutched in my fist. He
knew exactly how much a stone that size was worth, like
everyone else in a country where the value of the official
currency was a kind of fiction in the mind of the Leader.
It took thirty-six hours to reach the port, which was full of
soldiers, as I had expected. It took a further two days and
nearly all of my diamonds to secure lodgings, in the most
disreputable part of town, and to arrange for a passage in a
ship. Every step I took required a considerable bribe to buy the
silence of those I dealt with.
The ship’s captain seemed to know his business, although
he appeared to be little more than a ruffian. This reassured me.
Signs of unusual intelligence or sophistication in anyone I
encountered at this stage of my flight would have worried me.
As I waited another day for the ship to load its cargo I had
plenty of time to think. Had the Leader intended all along to
kill me? If so, why the elaborate and baroque charade with the
leopard’s spots? Or was the experiment genuine, and my fate
sealed by my failure to fulfil my task? But I couldn’t hope to
fathom his mind. I gave up trying, and simply waited.
Finally the ship was ready. I received instructions to meet the
captain an hour before dawn in a secluded spot behind some
warehouses, no more than a hundred yards from the pier.
The captain was waiting for me when I arrived. Cautiously
he led me to the ship. It had no lights showing, and loomed
above us, a dark shape barely visible against the moonless sky.
It was very cold, and a sudden thought struck me. ‘Will I
have a cabin?’ I whispered. ‘If not, I may need to borrow some
extra clothes.’
‘Never mind that,’ the captain growled, ‘just get up those
steps.’
I felt a violent shove in my back and when I turned around I
saw that the captain had been joined by another man, who
crowded in behind me.
I turned to the captain. ‘Who is this?’ I hissed.
I was aware of a swift movement at the edge of my vision.
A blast of white light erupted in my eyes. There was an
agonising pain in the back of my head, which faded quickly as
inky blackness embraced me.
We are at sea. I have been allowed to keep my pencils and my
notebook, in which I write these words, and I understand why.
I understand everything. I am inside a shipping container. It
has been modified to create two compartments, separated by
steel bars. I am on one side of the bars. On the other side is the
leopard.
There is plenty of light. Almost too much. On the ceiling of
the container a series of arc lamps blaze perpetually. At the top
of the steel bars is a mechanism containing an electric motor,
gear wheels and a pulley system. It is clear that this machinery
can be operated remotely, and that its purpose is to raise the
bars that separate me from the leopard.
My body tells me I’ve been here about three days. On five
occasions a small hatch in the wall behind me has opened and
a plate of food has been shoved through. But the leopard has
not been fed.
 My mind is wonderfully clear and focused. Finally I can
begin to count the leopard’s spots. Perhaps my task is made
easier by the leopard’s hunger, which may be causing it to
move more slowly. I have no doubt, however, that the beast
has more than enough energy to spring at me the instant the
bars are raised, and tear me to pieces.
It is this knowledge, of course, that is assisting my
concentration. And now I see it all. The Leader was always in
earnest about counting the leopard’s spots. I should have
known. He can be playful, but he is never frivolous. When he
saw that I faltered in my task he knew what he had to do. He
told me my fate and he knew I would flee. He would have
known that I had diamonds in my possession. Everything was
arranged. The passing motorist, the soldiers, my lodgings, the
captain. All were part of the plan. This is his genius. He knows
the human mind, and he is methodical.
I will not fail you, my Leader. I know you will read these
words, or that they will be read to you. Perhaps you will feel
sorrow at what you have been obliged to do to your old friend.
I know you are capable of it. I have seen you weep over the
deaths of other old friends. But please don’t waste your tears
on me. I applaud you. I serve you, and your purpose, whatever
it may be, to the very last and without question or regret.
But these are not the words you are waiting for. All that
concerns you is the result of my task. When I have completed
it I will hand over the notebook, or perhaps just push it
through the hatch, so that the legibility of my work is
protected from any spatters of the blood that will inevitably
decorate this container when the time comes.
But enough! Now I begin. One. Two. Three . . .
THE UNPICKING

MICHAEL BUTTON
MICHAEL BUTTON
Michael Button was born in Glasgow and lives in east London
with his husband and dog. During his life, he has done a
number of things for money – software development, DJing
and teaching (swimming, English as a foreign language,
probability theory) – but has recently dedicated himself to his
true love: making up stories.
‘The Unpicking’ is his second published story. Michael
drew inspiration from two main sources – the recurring motif
of marionettes in the work of the American horror writer
Thomas Ligotti, and Michael’s favourite childhood character,
Enid Blyton’s diabolical Naughty Amelia Jane.
He is currently working on his first novel.

MICHAEL ON STEPHEN KING

‘It’s hard to overstate the influence of Stephen King’s writing
on my work. His short story “The Mangler” is a particular
favourite – technical dazzle, nasty violence, black humour and
a true shocker of an ending.’
 THE UNPICKING

ONE . . .

Nobody was the first to emerge from the toy chest, then came
Sophie, Naughty Rupert and Bunny. Last was Annie-In-Rags,
the largest of the toys, a doll made from strips of rough denim
that trailed over the edge of the chest behind her. Gangle-
limbed and goggle-eyed, they formed a circle in the dim glow
of His nightlight.
‘Does He sleep?’ whispered Naughty Rupert, a yellow bear.
He wore natty herringbone trousers and a scarlet cardigan that
was fastened with two brass buttons.
‘Of course He sleeps,’ said Sophie, daringly louder than
Rupert. ‘It’s long past His bedtime, and you know what She’s
like.’
They all knew what She was like.
Bunny flailed around. He was thrilled by the hint of danger,
a stupid grin plastered over his face. His white furry limbs
flapped on the carpet and against the side of the bed.
‘Stop that,’ demanded Sophie. ‘Just because He sleeps now
doesn’t mean He can’t be woken up.’
Bunny obeyed but the grin didn’t fade – he was always
pleased to be spoken to.
‘Oh, what to do?’ said Sophie. She was not the longest
serving of the group. Bunny and Annie-In-Rags had been
around before her, though determining which of those two
came first would require getting sense out of them –
something Annie might occasionally offer, but Bunny never,
ever did. Indeed, Sophie wasn’t even one of His toys. She had
been discarded by one of His older cousins, and had somehow
ended up in the toy chest. He never played with Sophie, so she
spent her days in the dark, squashed between spinning tops
and alphabet cubes and other remnants of His toddler days.
Still, despite her relative newness, her lack of favour with
Him, Sophie was the leader. She was a prim, rosy-cheeked
doll. Her hair was wound in tight black curls and she was
dressed in a polka-dotted pinafore, with a large straw hat that
tilted upwards. Sophie looked around the group for ideas.
‘Baalllll?’ said Annie-In-Rags, in that drawl that so annoyed
Sophie.
Bunny hopped up and down with excitement, but Sophie
just fixed her hard little eyes on Annie’s huge face. Before
Sophie could offer one of her withering put-downs, Naughty
Rupert interrupted.
‘Oh ball is boring. We play ball all the time. Let’s go on an
adventure!’
Bunny looked confused, though Annie wasn’t bothered at
being contradicted. ‘Adventooor!’ she said.
Nobody said nothing. He had arrived only last Christmas,
but he claimed to be an antique, when he deigned to talk at all.
He was a wooden marionette, pierrot-style, clad in clothes of
royal blue paint. Far too clever for his own good, thought
Sophie. She barely admitted to herself that she envied his
shiny limbs, his rictus grin.
‘No,’ said Sophie flatly. ‘Must you be so stupid? She might
see us if we leave the room.’ She paused, then said,
‘Hopscotch. We’ll play hopscotch.’
Naughty Rupert tilted his head to the left. ‘Hopscotch?
Sounds boring.’
Sophie didn’t miss a beat. She took one step forward and
threw her plastic fist hard into the bear’s head, which flew
back, then snapped forward, then back again.
‘I’m not hearing any better ideas, Rupert,’ she said, then
added, ‘dearheart.’
 The other toys all looked at their feet. Even Bunny’s
enthusiasm was dampened momentarily. ‘Hopscotttt,’ said
Annie-In-Rags. They trudged towards the plastic mat laid out
at the foot of His bed. But, before they could start, Nobody
piped up.
‘I’ve an idea,’ he said. All the toys turned to look at him.
There was no defiance in his voice, just plummy assurance.
‘Let’s have an Unpicking.’
‘An Un-what? Never heard of it,’ said Sophie. She turned
back to the hopscotch sheet. But the rest of the group were
looking at Nobody.
‘Haven’t you?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to it, really. And
it’s fun. Certainly more fun than . . . hopscotch.’ The tiniest
hint of acid trickled into his words.
Naughty Rupert chuckled. Annie’s eyes darted between
Nobody and Sophie. Bunny did a little jump.
Sophie was defeated.
‘Well. Go on then. Tell us the rules,’ she said, as if her
permission was needed.
‘Oh. An Unpicking doesn’t have rules. And we don’t need
any balls, or mats, or skittles. We do need someone to be the
Baby. I think Bunny would make a good Baby.’
Bunny did a dance, ears flopping up and down. Nobody
advanced in an ungainly gambol. He came right up to Bunny’s
face. He moved his head about. Inspected Bunny’s fat body.
Bunny’s limbs spun manically. He hadn’t noticed Nobody’s
dangerous tone, or the strange stillness that blanketed the
room.
‘And then all we need,’ said Nobody, fingers plucking at a
loose thread dangling from Bunny’s underarm, ‘is a way in.’
And he pulled sharply.
Bunny gasped in shock or pain, still not sure as to what kind
of game this was. But then the other toys were about him,
fingers of cloth or wood or plastic tearing out stitches,
grabbing fistfuls of stuffing: a silent frenzy of fabric.

TWO . . .

By the time they were done with the Unpicking, all that was
left of Bunny was a tangle of thread, some folds of empty fur,
and balls of the foam that had given him form. The other toys
sat about on the carpet, drained from the activity. Annie-In-
Rags absent-mindedly twirled one of Bunny’s ears about her
wrist, humming a three-note melody. Nobody lolled on the
floor, knocking one of Bunny’s eyes back and forth between
his glossy four-fingered hands. Even Sophie seemed at an ebb,
limbs awkwardly arranged, eyes staring upwards at the glow-
in-the-dark planets on His ceiling. Only Naughty Rupert
seemed perky. He pattered a soft tattoo on the carpet with his
paws, then he chuckled to himself. Annie gave him a look, but
then she saw that Sophie and Nobody were not paying Rupert
any attention. In fact, they seemed to be deliberately not
looking at him. She thought it best to follow suit.
In the bed, underneath a duvet of multicoloured balloons
floating in an azure sky, He let out a soft sigh then turned to
His other side.
Naughty Rupert chuckled again, then abruptly stood up. He
was famously nimble, not constrained by harsh joints like
Sophie or Nobody, and his feet were large enough to provide
some balance. He stalked towards the door. It was open a
sliver. Light from the upstairs hallway stabbed a knife of
yellow on to the carpet. Rupert wedged a paw between the
door and frame, gripped the jamb with his opposable thumb,
and, with all his might, pulled the door open a crack more.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Sophie. ‘If She’s still awake,
She’ll see, and then we’ll all be for it.’
Naughty Rupert smirked at her. After Nobody’s plan for
their evening’s entertainment had gone so well, Sophie knew
her authority had been diminished. He slipped through. The
other toys, nervous now, hurried up to the door. They watched
as Rupert stole along the hallway, moving quickly, glued to the
flock wallpaper. The door at the other end of the hallway was
also ajar, but beyond was darkness.
Sophie, Nobody and Annie-In-Rags watched Rupert from
the doorway. Their manifold forms were tense with fear.
Sophie’s apprehension was so sharp she couldn’t tell it from
excitement. Never before had a toy left His bedroom in the
night, except the time, back at the old house, when Big Ted got
carried away at hide-and-seek. He had fallen down the dumb
waiter and, on his attempt to return to His old bedroom, been
set upon by the ginger tom, Winston.
Naughty Rupert reached the top of the stairs. Each stair was
half his height, but he leapt down the first like a circus acrobat,
then another, then another. The stairs were made of dark wood,
polished and gleaming in the light from the hall lamp. Rupert
didn’t stop at all, though his furry feet slipped once or twice.
He reached the landing, turned to go down further, and
disappeared out of sight. The other toys waited. They listened.
They heard nothing.
‘Maybe Winston’s got him,’ said Nobody, with a tremor.
The toys waited some more.
Nothing.
Not a sound.
Not a peep.
Until . . .
A soft bumping from the bottom of the stairs. Then again,
and again, a fraction louder each time. Naughty Rupert
reappeared on the landing. He was bringing something with
him. It was a plastic Tupperware box with a label on it that
read SEWING, though, of course, none of the toys could read.
On top of the box was a pair of black-handled scissors. Rupert
dragged the box across the landing behind him, then lifted it
up each stair, following behind with an awkward vault.
 The others were agog at his audacity. What a brave toy!
What a naughty toy!
But then, with two stairs to go, Rupert made a mistake. He
placed the sewing box on the penultimate stair. Aware that the
other toys were watching him, he put a flourish into his leap
upwards. His paw slipped. He grabbed out. His paw found the
sewing box, but he only succeeded in pulling the box back
with him. Then it and Rupert tumbled down, down, down.
Rupert’s slide stopped halfway. The box and scissors clattered
past him before coming to rest on the landing. Annie moaned
in dismay before Nobody slapped his hand over the gap in the
denim that functioned as her mouth.
From the dark, in Her bedroom, She spoke. ‘What is that
noise?’ The toys heard Her getting up. ‘Oliver. If I catch you
out of bed again, I swear you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
In horror, Sophie, Nobody and Annie turned to look at Him,
but, mercifully, He was sleeping just as soundly as before.
Still, Annie-In-Rags wasted no time scuttling back to the
safety of the toy chest, and then, Sophie noticed with a grim
satisfaction that undercut her dread, so did Nobody. Only
Sophie, alone, stayed at the crack of the door.
From Her bedroom, She emerged. She wore a silk dressing
gown, once fine, but now with a rip at one elbow and stains on
the lacework. There was a lit cigarette in one of Her hands that
she waved like a dagger. ‘Where are you?’ she called. She
moved down the hallway. Sophie, exiled during the daytimes,
had not seen Her in some time. There was something different
about Her, Sophie thought. Black circles had spread like
mould around Her eyes, and pale brown spots crept up Her
hands and arms.
Then She noticed Rupert lying on the stairs, dazed and still.
‘Oh Oliver. When will you grow out of these silly jokes and be
a proper young man? Why must you make it so hard for me?’
She glared at the door of His bedroom. But, just as Sophie was
about to squeal in terror, Naughty Rupert actually moved. He
sat bolt upright. He cringed. And, then, he started to scarper
down the stairs – as if his six-inch legs could outstrip those of
a fully grown woman.
She looked at Rupert, brow furrowed. Took a step down the
stairs towards him.
Too fast.
Her back foot caught in a flap of carpet. Her mouth got
halfway to a scream as She flew the length of the upper flight,
sailing clean over Rupert. With a sharp snapping sound, She
crashed in a tangled heap on the landing. Her neck was angled
hideously. Her bloodshot eyes went as glassy as Nobody’s.
Everything was silent again.
As if nothing had happened, Rupert carried on down the
stairs, gathered the sewing kit and scissors from about Her still
body, and recommenced the laborious journey upwards.
In the bed, He hadn’t stirred at all. His strawberry-blond
hair fell in ringlets about His pillow.
Sophie stayed where she was. She was fascinated by the
way She lay. She looks like me, Sophie thought, me when I
make myself still when He opens the toy chest. But somehow,
without truly understanding why, Sophie didn’t think that She
could make Herself move again, no matter how hard She tried.
Sophie was still engrossed by the sight of Her body by the
time Rupert had got his treasure back to the bedroom. Annie
and Nobody had rejoined them, too.
‘Now,’ said Naughty Rupert, with an evil giggle, ‘Let’s
make Baby all better.’

THREE!

Naughty Rupert started the work, but the others soon joined in.
Ears and arms and legs and eyes were reaffixed, clumsily sewn
together. The needle was too big for the toys to manipulate
properly, so Sophie made Annie hold it while she pushed it
through, and Nobody pushed it back again from the other side.
It took a long time, and when they stopped, the first glimmers
of dawn were visible through the curtains. The toys had never
stayed out so late before.
Now, Bunny was able to move again. But they hadn’t sewn
him back together the way he’d been. His ears were fixed to
his shoulders. An eye had been attached on to his groin, which
Annie found hilarious, and even Sophie couldn’t help tittering
at. Stuffing was glued to his head – mad, candyfloss hair. And
he only had one leg, a pathetic empty fold. He still had that
grin, though he couldn’t stay upright, even when Nobody
helped him. He just lay on the floor, spinning around in an
ineffectual circle.
The toys watched him. Unspooled thread and needles were
scattered about the room.
‘Funnnnn,’ said Annie, and, for once, the other toys agreed
with her. But though the evening’s events had been exciting, as
exciting as anything they’d ever done, there was still a
restlessness to the toys, as if they hadn’t really been sated, as if
this night had only increased their appetite for more.
‘Ball?’ suggested Naughty Rupert. But from the weariness
of his voice it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it.
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Something else.’
But what else? Annie shrugged her doughy head. Nobody
tried to suggest a game of Chinese whispers, but he couldn’t
pique anyone’s interest – he squandered his best shot too early,
thought Sophie. Even Rupert seemed dejected – the climb had
taken it out of him. All three looked to Sophie. She knew her
moment had come.
‘An Unpicking. Another one.’
The toys looked from one to another, suddenly alert.
Nobody and Rupert turned their heads towards Annie, but she
was not as foolish as Bunny, and she scrambled away. Besides,
she was the biggest, and who could say that she wouldn’t take
the head off one of the others, even if they did all gang up on
her.
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Not one of us. Him.’
 And they all fixed their attention on Him, their freckled one-
time master, eyes twitching in dreams. They rose as one.
Gathered needles, scissors, toy drumsticks. And, without a
mutter, without a whisper, they took their makeshift tools, and
they circled His bed.
LA MORT DE L’AMANT

STUART JOHNSTONE
STUART JOHNSTONE
Stuart lives and works in Edinburgh. He was selected as an
emerging writer by The Edinburgh UNESCO City of
Literature Trust and appeared at the Edinburgh International
Book Festival in August 2015. This, he considers to be
simultaneously the most amazing and terrifying experience of
his life.
He has had short stories published and is working on his
second novel. The first was considered and promptly rejected
by some of the most prestigious literary agencies in the world!
The idea for ‘La Mort de L’Amant’ came from a debate he
had with his university lecturer while studying creative
writing. She maintained that clichés should be avoided at all
costs. Stuart argued that, in fact, they had their place. In ‘La
Mort de L’Amant’ he aimed ‘not just to embrace them but to
use these lovely quirks of language, or southernisms’ to form
the spine of the story.

STUART ON STEPHEN KING

‘Easily the two most influential books for me growing up were
Stephen King’s The Stand, and Richard Matheson’s I am
Legend.
I was drawn to the bleak and absorbing worlds created in
both and the complex nature of the characters’ struggles. Both
books I have gone back to time and time again; truly
inspirational. It was no surprise later to read in On Writing: A
Memoir of the Craft what a significant influence Matheson
was on Stephen King.’
 LA MORT DE L’AMANT

As rare as Louisiana snow, she used to say.

Texans like their little sayings and she just kept rolling them
out. One after another on a conveyor belt of clichés; one for
every occasion. Southerners think they add colour to a
conversation but he reckoned they were more like stabilisers
on bicycles, just there to prop up lazy communicators.
Well hell, he should have bought a lottery ticket today, he
thought, tracing a swirl into the frost on the thick wooden
handrail with his finger. He wasn’t sure what a snow cloud
looked like exactly but the sky had an attitude about it, like it
was really pissed. Meaner than a wet panther, she would
probably have said.
He hugged his jacket to himself and pulled up his collar to
stop the sharp morning breeze getting at his neck as he peered
over the edge. The roar of the river falling on to the rocks was
deafening. Louder than . . . something-or-other she would
have said. A cold gravity-defying spray made its way back up
to the bridge from the bottom and collected on his closed
eyelids and cheeks. He breathed in the wet invigorating air and
considered how refreshing it was, how the heat of the south
seemed to slow everything to a lazy hazy blur.
But not this morning.
The sound of tyres on dirt snapped him from his damp
reverie. He opened his eyes and turned to see a patrol car
approach up the dirt track and park behind his truck. He
pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and smiled at the
young officer, who was housing his nightstick in his belt as he
stepped from the vehicle.
 ‘Mornin’,’ the young man said.
‘Morning to you, Officer.’ My God, he thought, they really
are looking younger all the time. This kid can’t be much older
than twenty. The policeman was short and thin but the starch
in that dark blue uniform added stature. He wondered if his
mother had ironed that crisp shirt; it was impeccable. The gold
star on his chest was as bright as the toecaps on his shoes and
if he was old enough to be shaving he’d gone right to the bone.
Shiny boy, he thought.
‘How ’bout this weather, huh?’ the young man said,
approaching and leaning forward a little, not disguising the
fact he was trying to get a good look at the older man’s face.
‘Yeah, it’s something.’
‘Cold enough to freeze the tit off a frog. You know I reckon
it might just snow, can you believe it?’
‘I was just thinking the same, Officer.’
The young man stopped short of the wooden bridge, his
thumbs tucked into his utility belt, and watched the older man
looking out over the edge. An awkward silence settled
between them. The older man was the first to break.
‘Is there something I can help you with, Officer?’
‘Actually, sir, I was kinda wonderin’ that myself.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘I mean I was wondering if there was something I could
help you with?’ the young man said, his voice rich with
genuine concern.
‘I’m fine, thank you. Just enjoying the view,’ said the older
man, nodding at the precipice in front of him. His hands were
tucked snugly into his jacket pockets, the fingers of his right
hand nervously tracing the lines and curves of the cold metal
within.
‘She’s something, ain’t she? Hell of a view. The name’s
Charlie by the way. Well, it’s Officer Daniels but Charlie’s fine
unless my boss can hear. She doesn’t like us gettin’ too
familiar.’ Charlie laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, mister?’
he said, stepping up on to the bridge to get a good look at the
older man.
‘I’m fine, really. Couldn’t be—’
‘It’s just that you look like you’ve been crying.’ Charlie’s
hands shot out defensively. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong
with that. Hell, if my girlfriend puts on a sad movie I’m like to
bawl like a baby stubbed his toe.’
‘Oh this?’ said the older man, wiping his cheeks. ‘Just spray
from the falls, but I appreciate your concern.’
‘It’s just that this bridge we’re standin’ on, it’s sort of a
popular spot for people who wanna . . . you know . . .’ Charlie
sent a curved hand over the handrail with a whistle.
‘Suicide spot?’
‘Yes, sir, three or four every year. That we know of. I mean
you end up in there, the rocks are gonna tear you into pieces,
then whatever the gators don’t eat ends up washing out into
Vermilion Bay and by then there’s barely enough to tell if you
started off a man or a woman. Locals call this bridge, oh what
is it now? Um, La mort-day-lay-mant. It’s like lover’s leap . . .
or something. I don’t know for sure. I don’t speak much
French.’
Lover’s death, the older man corrected in his head.
Shiny boy, but not too bright.
‘Anyway,’ Charlie continued, ‘I saw your truck and thought
I’d best check everything was okay.’
‘That’s very dedicated, Officer, but I’m just fine. I’ll be on
my way shortly.’
Charlie nodded absently, his thumbs still in his belt, his gaze
out over the precipice. ‘Okay,’ he said at last and started back
to his patrol car.
The older man relaxed the grip in his pocket.
 ‘Texas plates,’ said Charlie, not quite making it back to his
vehicle.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your truck, it has Texas plates. You don’t sound like a
southerner, if you don’t mind my sayin’.’
‘No, sir; Wisconsin born and bred. Married a Texan. I
suppose I’m southern by association.’ The older man laughed
this time, but Charlie didn’t seem to catch the joke; his
attention was focused elsewhere.
‘Can I ask you, sir, what that is on your back seat?’
‘Huh?’ the older man stuttered. His hand again found the
pocket.
‘Wrapped in the tarp, what is that? A deer?’ Charlie
squinted through the dirtied window of the truck, trying to
discern the wrapped bundle.
‘A deer? Oh yeah, right.’
‘Sir, are you aware hunting season’s done?’
‘Um . . .’
‘In Louisiana season ends January 31st. Sir, I’ll have to
write you up if—’
‘I hit it with my truck,’ the older man cut in. ‘I don’t even
own a rifle. Damn thing just ran out in front of me. Nearly
rolled the truck trying to miss it, but the son of a bitch just
seemed to run under the wheels. I didn’t want to just leave it
there in the middle of the road.’
Charlie’s breath fogged the side window and he cupped a
hand to his eyes to block the low winter sun. ‘Yup, they’ll do
that, dumb as a bag of hammers.’
Dumb as a bag of hammers. The older man’s molars ground
like rusted gears. That might just have been her favourite.
Everything and everyone was dumb as a bag of fucking
hammers. Or rocks; sometimes the hammers were substituted
but every day was the same, someone was dumb as something.
 Young Charlie was talking, but the older man was thinking
about the time he tried to point out the irony of the continued
use of this tired expression, her inability to articulate her
feelings without the crutch of a cliché when she was talking
about how unintelligent someone was. There you go actin’ all
superior again, she’d said in response.
‘I know it’s an inconvenience, but I really wouldn’t be doin’
my job if I didn’t ask . . . Sir?’
‘What’s that now?’
‘Your truck, can I take a look inside?’
The older man’s hands reacted independently. One began
scratching at the stubble on his chin, the other fluttered inside
the jacket pocket.
The moment moved as if through molasses, no answer was
forthcoming.
‘It’ll only take a second then I’ll get on my way. Do you
mind?’ said Charlie at last.
‘Well, that depends there, Charlie.’
‘Depends? On what?’
‘Well, are you really askin’ me, or are you tellin’ me?’
‘There a reason I can’t get in your truck, sir?’ Charlie’s
thumbs had returned to his belt, his weight impatiently on one
hip.
‘None in particular. I’m just a man who likes to exercise his
rights that’s all. I don’t care to surrender civil liberties unless I
absolutely have to, son.’
Son? Did he really just say son? In what way was that
helpful? the older man thought. His hand shook inside his
pocket. He drew a hidden thumb across a hidden handle. His
heart began beating in his neck and he was sure the shiny boy
could see it.
‘Control to patrol two . . .’ The radio on Charlie’s shoulder
crackled. Charlie reached to his shoulder to answer but his
eyes were fixed on him.
‘Go ahead for Charlie.’
‘Charlie, how far are you from Bob Acres? We got a
situation.’
‘Ten minutes maybe, what’s going on?’
‘The Lemieux brothers.’
‘Goddammit,’ he said to the sky before speaking back into
the radio. ‘What is it this time?’
‘We got calls coming in; seems they been up all night
drinking and now they’re on the front lawn trying to kill each
other. I got other units en route but can you start heading?’
‘Sure, Sheila, I’m on it.’ Charlie swatted the air with a left
hook and fished his car keys from his belt. ‘I swear those boys
are gonna be the death of me. You sure you’re okay?’
The older man nodded and watched as the patrol car spun
and sped off; the emergency lights creating blue halos in the
morning mist. He drew his hands from his pockets and placed
them gently on the frozen handrail of the bridge. They were
shaking, he noticed, shaking like a hound-dog trying to shit
out a peach pit.
THE BEAR TRAP

NEIL HUDSON
NEIL HUDSON
Neil Hudson is a writer from Birmingham, United Kingdom
who has typed stuff on a keyboard for Vice, Wonderland, Sick
Chirpse and other places on the internet people go to avoid
doing work. Having last year completed a Degree in English
Literature and Creative Writing, he is currently working
through his Creative Writing MA alongside finishing his first
book.
While Neil has no real experience of living in a post-
apocalyptic wasteland, he does reside in the Irish Quarter of
Birmingham where they annually hold the St Patrick’s day
parade – this has allowed him a unique view of what life may
look like on ‘the day after’!
The central character in ‘The Bear Trap’, Calvin, is named
after Bill Waterson’s beautiful comic strip, Calvin and Hobbes.
Mr Waterson’s Calvin had an animal companion too. His was
considerably friendlier . . .

NEIL ON STEPHEN KING

‘It is a stretch to choose one favourite King book as I’m a huge
Stephen King nerd . . . However, Pet Sematary is the first adult
novel I ever picked up and it tears the heart out of my chest
every time I read it. I’ve been checking the bedroom closet for
Zelda ever since.’
 THE BEAR TRAP

The genny was almost out again. It’d started to splutter and
strain, which was generally never the best of signs. The bright,
avocado paint that had formerly clung to its chassis had shed
like snakeskin, presumably shaken off by the furious seizures
it underwent any time it was being used. Now the machine
simply looked like a dull hunk of metal. Calvin regarded it
with his brow all crinkled up, making his twelve-year-old face
comical with concern.
‘Dang it,’ he muttered. ‘Dang it to heck and back.’
The generator stood in the middle of the big red barn next to
their farmhouse. Theirs had become a relative term recently.
It’d been over a year since Pops had left the farm to go get
Uncle Jake, tearing off along the untended strip of dirt that
connected their house to the freeway in his sand-worn
Volkswagen, mumbling something about Russkies as he left.
Tears had been spilling down his cheeks, but he’d not gone to
Calvin for any comfort before slamming the screen door.
Just hours after he’d departed the soot had begun to fall
from the sky, thick and terrifying. The ash had hammered
down so furiously that when Calvin summoned the courage to
peer outside, looking out on the front yard had been like
staring through static on a TV that’d lost reception. Calvin had
been plenty relieved when the ash had ceased raining down six
weeks later. Seeing the world outside like that had put a fright
in him so bad he’d pretty much stayed in the basement the
whole time, eating beans straight out of the can with a loaded
BB gun set across his lap.
Finally, it had stopped.
 The ash storm had left the ground thick with black dandruff,
which shifted and swirled in tight little curls when the wind
kicked up. It had been dark ever since. Clouds so obstinately
impenetrable not a lick of sunshine shone through. It’d been
hard for Calvin to get used to every day looking like midnight
in winter, but he was an adaptable young fellow and made sure
he carried a torch with him most of the time. It had a hand-
crank on it so didn’t need any batteries, just a little gumption.
He had a radio that worked the same way, but hadn’t gotten a
single clear station on it since everything went to heck. Every
so often a preacher’s voice would burst through the static,
squawking about revelations and raptures. Calvin had an idea
that the preacher wasn’t part of no legitimate radio show. He
thought this because occasionally the self-proclaimed minister
would start snickering darkly during his sermons, like maybe
someone had whispered a particularly wicked joke in his ear.
Calvin had not liked that, and the radio got switched on less
and less as time went on because of it.
He thought a lot on where Pops and Uncle Jake might be.
Pops was not, what he’d heard one of his schoolteachers refer
to as, a ‘positive parental figure’. Miss Bailey, under whom
he’d taken second period English, had claimed this, and Pops
had made some fairly enthusiastic suppositions about her
parentage by way of response. Nevertheless, there was no
getting around it – Pops liked to tie one on. He’d often been
known to disappear for days on end before moping in like a
sore grizzly, ruffling Calvin’s hair with hands that stank of
cigar smoke and Scotch.
‘Gas,’ he said, stalking off to the corner of the barn where it
was kept.
He supposed he couldn’t stay mad at Pops, even though
Calvin was sure wherever he was, he was off having fun
without him. Uncle Jake was probably talking his ear off, or
they were playing ’nopoly. Pops said when him and Jake were
playin’ a game of ’nopoly, why, most occasions they’d just up
and forget the time. It did seem to run away from them so.
 ‘Alley-oop!’ Calvin grunted, heaving the gas canister from
its place next to many, many others on the shelving unit Pops
had set up. Pops called himself a Prepper. Far as Calvin knew,
that meant someone that liked to keep stuff handy just in case.
Well, just in case had come around. In spades.
‘Tiglet! Open all hatches!’ Tiglet, Calvin’s third favourite
bear, sat atop a dented bucket in the corner. He did not open
the hatch; just sat there, staring at the genny like all the work
in the world was going to do itself. One of Tiglet’s eyes had
started to come loose, and Calvin knew he’d have to get handy
with a needle and thread if he wanted Tiglet to keep his
eyesight 20/20.
‘Man, you sure are lazy, Tiglet. If Fozzo were out here, why
you know he’d pitch in. That bear’s got a good work ethic. It’s
okay, though. Y’all just sit there, relaxing. Make old Calvin do
all the work.’
Tiglet did not seem to mind this course of action one bit,
and stubbornly continued sitting on his bucket. Calvin
unscrewed the genny cap his own self, as he knew he’d have
to. There wasn’t a bear on this whole farm, he thought, that
knew how to do an honest day’s labour.
He finished topping off the genny and lugged the
significantly less weighty can back to the racks. It took only
four tugs on the ripcord to get the generator chugging along,
making that nice steady noise Calvin liked, the one that meant
he could turn the lights on and cook his meals up good and
hot.
‘Job done,’ Calvin said, gathering up Tiglet. He exited the
barn and latched its big red door behind him. Calvin ambled
over to the farmhouse, swinging the bear merrily by one arm.
He could see Fozzo sitting on the porch, probably waiting for
him to make breakfast. Well, that bear could have cereal as far
as he was concerned; eggs were for workers, powdered or not.
‘Stay right where you’re at, boy.’ A voice spoke behind
him.
 Calvin spun on the spot, almost dropping Tiglet into the ash
and filth that coated the ground.
‘Goddammit, boy, I done said freeze!’
Striding over was a man dressed in rags. A bandana covered
the bottom half of his face, and a John Deere cap most of the
rest. His eyes peered from the gap in between, creased and as
blue as penny marbles. Calvin noted that the man looked as
though he’d run his whole outfit through a wood chipper
before deciding on getting dressed that morning.
‘Where your folks at?’ barked the man through the rag that
covered his face.
Calvin stared, his fingers tightening reflexively around
Tiglet.
‘You deaf? Don’t you make me ask twice.’ The man drew
back his raggedy coat; an AR-15 peeked out.
‘My pops is with Uncle Jake,’ Calvin managed, as loudly as
he could.
‘They gone then,’ the man said, looking around the
property, as though he were considering putting a bid on it.
‘They’ll be back, soon too. You better scoot, mister. Pops
has got a fierce temper, you wouldn’t wanna be around for it.’
‘Yeah, well I guess he ain’t met me yet,’ the traveller said
indifferently. ‘Where’s your food at?’
‘I got cereal, you want some of that?’ Calvin gestured
animatedly towards the house. The cellar within was stocked
well enough, but nowhere near as overflowing with bounty as
the barn, the shelves of which groaned under an amount of
pickled and canned goods so extensive it could’ve fed a small
town.
‘Sure. You show me what you got in there, kid,’ the
traveller said, unhooking his gun from the underside of his
coat and fitting his finger insider the trigger guard. ‘No tricks.
This gun’ll turn a grown buck to hamburger – think on what
it’ll do to your face.’
 ‘I ain’t no liar. We got cereal, I was about to fix Fozzo a
bowl till you showed up.’
The traveller shooed him on to the porch with a wave of his
gun barrel. Calvin scampered up the steps, grabbing Fozzo on
the fly. Calvin had only seen one other person since the mess
of ash had fallen: Chrissy Draper, who’d run the farm north of
theirs. She’d walked past in the night while it had still been
pouring soot, wailing and hollering. Calvin had gone out to
ask her if she knew where Pops was, but she’d been naked and
crazy. He knew better than to bother naked, crazy people.
Calvin held the door open for the man to walk into his home.
Hospitality, Pops used to say, was something a man should
take pride in. Not that he’d been a particularly studious
practitioner of the art himself.
‘Whoo-ee, you got a nice place here, all right. Boy, this is
like a goddamn oasis!’ The man did a little jig on the spot,
waving his gun about in the air like some fool.
‘If I feed you up, will you get on your way, mister? I surely
don’t want my pops to get back here, seeing I’ve been feeding
half the county.’
The man pulled down his bandana, releasing a filthy beard
that looked like it hadn’t seen soap nor water since it’d started
sprouting. Calvin thought he saw something move in there –
maybe a bug or a tick, he thought. The man bellowed a hollow,
jagged laugh.
‘You don’t know how right you are, boy. Why, I bet we do
make up half the population of this whole county, right now.
Maybe the state.’ The man wiped his eyes with the bandana
and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Sure, kid. I’ll eat and be on my
way. I’m certain that there’s a place just like this, with food
and warmth and whatnot, just down the road a ways. I’ll shack
there.’ The man’s eyes were narrow slits, they told Calvin that,
like as not, this filthy stranger had no intention of upping his
sticks any time soon. Not now he’d found a place so nice to set
them.
 ‘Okay, I’ll fix you something then,’ Calvin said, leading the
man into the kitchen. Tiglet and Fozzo were too small to sit at
the kitchen table, the seats on the wooden chairs were too low.
Calvin had had to construct makeshift seats by arranging old
books into a kind of throne arrangement for them, one each, on
top of the table. Pops definitely wouldn’t have approved, but
there really was no other way to seat them that Calvin could
think of.
‘What’s with all the bears? You got the fag gene in you?’
the man said, then spat something thick and green on to the
clean hardwood of the kitchen floor.
‘You ain’t got no manners,’ Calvin muttered.
‘What you say?’ said the man.
‘Nothing,’ replied Calvin, as meekly as his pride would
allow.
‘That’s what I thought.’
Calvin opened a cupboard and rummaged around, selecting
his least favourite cereal. He put it on the table and brought
over a bowl, spoon and some powdered milk he’d mixed up
the day before.
‘That’ll do for a start,’ said the man, pouring a mountain of
flakes into the bowl, haphazardly sloshing milk over it, getting
most on the table.
‘That sign out front; what it say?’ the man asked.
‘You can’t read?’ Calvin replied.
‘Don’t get smart. Punks that get smart get hurt,’ the man
said, through a mouthful of bran fibre.
‘It says: “Beware of the Bear”,’ Calvin muttered. The
stranger sat at his table burst into gales of laughter. Cereal
sprayed from his braying mouth, splattering the table and
floor.
‘You are a funny little retard. I can tell your daddy sure did
love his sister a whole lot. Do you have to concentrate much
when you walk?’ The man tittered like a baby being tickled.
It seemed to Calvin that something might have broken up in
the stranger’s head. He remembered Mrs Draper and hushed
himself. No use arguing with crazy. You’d be a fool yourself to
try, he thought.
Calvin poured a glass of bottled water for himself, and one
for the stranger. His jaw clenched, and Calvin had to keep in
mind to loosen it. He got the impression the stranger would
notice any hostility, and might react in a way Calvin might not
be best pleased with.
‘You seem pretty well stocked here,’ the man said, looking
over the kitchen, his eyes covetous like a magpie’s. ‘I could
get used to good living like this.’
‘This is mine and Pop’s stuff,’ Calvin said, his eyes
downcast.
‘Share and share alike, that’s what my pa taught me.’ The
stranger grinned. ‘But then, the good book itself says: “Stolen
waters are sweet.”’Calvin laid down a bowl in front of Fozzo,
and another in front of Tiglet. He shook a small amount of
cereal into each of their bowls. No use in overloading them.
After this nasty business was done with, Calvin had decided
that he, Fozzo and Tiglet would celebrate with enough eggs to
choke a horse, laziness be damned.
‘This bear thing you got going on? ’Bout the dumbest thing
I ever saw. Gimme that!’ The man reached across the table and
snatched up Tiglet. The man lifted the bear to his face to
inspect it.
‘Looks like you gonna have to get a cane for this fella,’ the
man added, plucking Tiglet’s dangling eye from the thread and
tossing it over his shoulder. ‘He’s as blind as a bat.’ He yanked
on Tiglet’s remaining eye, pulling it off, tearing the worn fur
underneath so that a plume of stuffing came with it.
‘Stop, mister! That’s my third favourite bear!’ Calvin
shouted.
 The man laughed again, it came in harsh, hacking fits and
ended with him spitting at the floor again.
‘Where’s your favourite bear, kid? This him?’ The man
slapped Fozzo, who tumbled to the floor. Calvin picked him
up and brushed him off, placing him back on top of the seat
he’d made.
‘Diablo’s my favourite, and he’d be mad he seen you do
that.’
‘Well, Diablo can take a sizeable stroll off of a short pier,
son. Now, where your daddy keep his good whiskey? I know
you got some around here somewheres.’
‘Out back. You want me to show you?’ Calvin asked.
‘Why not, I could use a jar to help me settle into my new
abode.’
Calvin picked up Tiglet’s glassy eye and placed it next to
the bear on the table. He could fix that later; what the stranger
had coming to him wouldn’t be fixed with no amount of
needle and thread. The man got up off the chair and walked
over to the door that led out back. Calvin opened it and, as
manners dictated, let the man out ahead of him. It was middle
of the morning, but as far as the sky was concerned it was
night. Had been for quite a while now. There were no stars to
see by, no moon to shine down either. Well, maybe they were
up there somewhere, but Calvin hadn’t had acquaintance with
them since Pops had gone.
‘I can’t see two inches in front of my face, boy. Where’s this
whiskey?’ the man hollered.
‘Keep going forward, mister. He keeps a still in back –
you’ll see it soon,’ Calvin answered, making sure to stay a few
steps behind.
They kept going forward, Calvin standing off to the left:
close enough so the man didn’t think he was up to mischief,
far enough so that he didn’t have to worry about getting any
blood on hisself. That was when they heard the rustling of a
chain being pulled. It was a big chain, Calvin knew. Not the
kind you’d use to chain up a Pomeranian. No, you could use
this chain to tow a truck if needed.
‘The hell was that?’ whispered the man.
The tremor Calvin heard in the stranger’s voice would’ve
made Tiglet happy, of that Calvin was certain.
‘You got a light? Turn that thing on.’
‘Sure thing, mister,’ Calvin said.
The dust in the air cut the light from the torch by quite a
ways; but not so much that Calvin didn’t see the black bear
rear up ahead of them. Pops had fed him up to near five
hundred pounds; ’course, he’d lost some of that over the last
year. Diablo’d had to make do with dog feed and whatever
Calvin could find in the barn that served purpose.
‘That . . .’ The man screamed and fumbled unsuccessfully
for his rifle. In truth, he’d probably had more to say but the
bear took his jaw at the hinges with one swipe of his paw.
Calvin was disappointed to find he’d not kept distance enough
to spare his clothing. ‘Dang it!’ he said, moving back a few
more feet.
Diablo moved quicker than he’d any right to, being chained
out in the yard for such a time. The stranger tried to scramble
away on his belly. Which would’ve been quite the feat, all
things considered – but the bear was on him. Calvin thought
he heard the man’s ribs snap as the bear sat astride the freshly
bloodied trespasser. Diablo crooked his neck and dived
forward to take a chunk from the stranger’s shoulder. Jeez,
thought Calvin, I’d be bawling some now, that were me.
’Course, not having a mouth to holler out of cut any
complaining by a considerable stretch. The man flopped and
thrashed under the bear, like an adder on a hot griddle. Blood
streamed readily from the gaping, red pit that used to be his
face.
But still, he lived.
Calvin was pretty sure that continued to be the case when he
turned around to walk back to the farmhouse. He always
thought it best to leave Diablo in peace to eat his meals. He
might not be as congenial as Fozzo or Tiglet but still that
grumpy old cuss was certainly his favourite.
Now, Calvin thought, where did I leave those eggs?