The New Year

Hope folks got everything they wanted from Father Chrimbo, and took the rest back to the shop to make exchanges for the unwanted.

Chapter Three of The Osseous Box is now up over, well, just look above and click on the Osseous Box Novel. (Some folks have been having trouble with that link, the addy is www.theosseousbox.blogspot.com

Hammering into shape the new novel, never know, might actually get it done before we're all dust on 12th December.

I'll be posting a retro story on here like I said that's only seen the light of day in a print antho, once I've done the 'prefered cut' and also have a fresh short story that I'm working on, depending on size it'll either land on TKnC's doormat, or I'll post it on here.

Going for a nosy now to see what you all have been upto.

Chapter 2 and such...

Nowt much to report.  Working on the new novel, reading, tired of the ball-ache that Christmas is. Will be posting another story over the next few days, one that was in an anthology, just want to do the 'Directors Cut'

Chapter two of The Osseous Box: The Novel is now up here if you're interested.

Matt Hilton has the cover to the latest Joe Hunter novel up at his site if you fancy a gander as well as information about a horror novel he's written, and you'd be a dafty to pass it up.

Now be gone with yers!

Contraband

This story was published in Deep Space Terror. It's called contraband. And don't forget to if your bored to visit www.theosseousbox.blospot.com to read the novel, I'm posting it at a chapter a week.

Contraband

             

"Tried kicking it?" Alex asked.

Monkey Jones looked up from the spaghetti-bowl of wiring that had spilled like entrails from the Jump Activator. Monkey sniffed. "You wanna fix the fuckin' thing?"

"Just asking," Alex replied.

"Mind going asking your dumb questions elsewhere?"

Alex wandered off.

The Messenger Ship, Celeritatis, named for an old language word for speed, or the Cellar as they'd come to call it, because that's where you dumped most of the broken shit you didn't want; always had a long list of things that needed fixing.

Back in the day when it had been a pup of a craft it had been one of the fastest. Now it seemed to limp more than run.

Monkey thumbed his talkie. "Captain?"

"Yeah, Monkey?"

"Try firing the bitch up for me, would'ya?"

The captain pressed a couple of buttons. "Anything?" The he asked.

"Nada. We're gonna have to try and get it to Derbor-Five, nothing else I can do from onboard, gonna have to get it stationary and Oxy-docked."

"Damn. How much do you reckon it's gonna cost?"

"How much you got to spend?"

"Not much," the reply.

"Probably gonna be more than that then."

"I'll figure something out."

*

Captain Charles Weathers settled in his chair and looked to First Mate Annabelle Ridge, who was fiddling with the controls.

"Belle, start us on a course to Derbor-Five, gonna have to get the Cellar Oxy-Docked."

Belle raised a brow, funds were low as it was, and wages were sometimes a luxury. "Sure." She started prepping the regular engines.

"Belle?"

"Yeah, Captain?"

"You still have contacts on Derbor-Five?"

Belle's interest was piqued. "Looking for some extra funds?"

“Funds full-stop, reckon you can sort out a little side delivery for us?"

"Sure, what were you thinking?"

"Nothing that'll get the ship confiscated if we're caught, dodgy, but not too dodgy if you know what I mean."

"No worries."

*

Alex shifted some crates as they docked at Derbor-Five's Dimeport, nicknamed so for being the shittiest and cheapest landing point. Even Space-Pikeys didn't land there.

Monkey was gathering up his tools.

Alex looked over to Monkey. "I'm pretty much done here, you want a hand?"

Monkey looked up from the toolbox and thought for a minute. Finally shook his head. "I wouldn't trust you to hold the fuckin' ladder."

*

Captain Weathers and Belle stood at the main access point to Derbor-Five with the Cellar behind them. Monkey was strapped to its side working on it. Weathers thumbed the button again.

Belle pulled out a wallet, took a small driver from it and began working on the lock. It took under a minute.

*

The corridors were empty. Weathers had only been to Derbor-Five a handful of times but knew it should be livelier.

Weathers said, "You ever known it to be like this?"

"No." Her hand not straying from her holster.

"Do you think the place is on lockdown?"

"They haven't locked down since the riots of '42."

They took a turn in the corridor and stopped still. The stale-white Perodium walls had been redecorated in places with blood that had dried to shit-brown. Belle flicked the catch on her holster. "Bad to worse."

Weathers drew his sidearm. "That splatter pattern wasn't done by a gun."

"What do you wanna do?"

"Let's get to your contact, we need those parts otherwise we'll just be another piece of scrap floating through space."

"Let's hope he's still alive."

*

The further into the station they went the more bloodstains they found. It wasn't just contained to the floors and walls; it made it onto the ceilings. The part that puzzled Belle was the lack of bodies.

*

Alex watched as Monkey got to work a panel. It pissed him off. He could be of help if Monkey wasn't being such a dick. A small incident two years previous involving a plasma-saw and Monkey's right thumb. It wasn't as if they hadn't been able to reattach it.

Some people just didn't forgive and forget.

Alex decided he wasn't gonna stand around scratching his sack. He still had some wages left, which was one of the only good things about being on the Cellar; you didn't get much of an opportunity to waste your pay, that's when you actually got it. Alex reckoned he had enough for a little fun, and if you couldn't find some fun on Derbor-Five then you couldn't find fun or a fuck anywhere.

I'm going for a walk," he called, heading over to the door.

Monkey ignored him.

* 

Belle thumbed the button on the door four times. Two short bursts followed by two long ones. She hoped that the secret 'knock' hadn't changed in the three years since she'd been to Derbor-Five.

A voice seeped through the speaker surrounded by crackle.

-What?

"It's me," Belle said.

-Who?

"Your daughter, open the door."

-Annabelle? Who's that with you?

             

"My boss, just open the door."

-Is the corridor empty?

             

"Yes."

             

The door slid open, but only half way. "Quickly, inside."

The pair of them slipped through, the man worked the door closed again as quickly as he could.

Weathers took in the small, fat man before him. Belle had nothing in common with him appearance wise, not even sharing the same shape of nose. He also noticed there was no father and daughter hug. There was an air of familiarity, the way she went and helped herself to one of the chairs and nodded back at the him to take one as well. Her father stayed standing.

Belle pointed at her father. "That's Jenks. Jenks, that's my boss, Charles Weathers. What's happened? There's blood everywhere."

Jenks looked to them both. "I think everyone's dead."

             

"You're not." Belle pointed out.

"My line of work you have to be able to burrow yourself away in times of danger."

"Marauders?" Belle asked.

"Not exactly."

Belle's eyes narrowed. "You're skirting my question which means you know more about it, or worse, had a hand in it."

His hands went up. "Belle, if I'd of known I'd not have bought them, I promise you."

"What did you buy dad?" She sighed.

"Just some new stock for my business."

"You mean whores."

"I prefer to call them stock, but yes, I acquired a group of entertainers."

"Then what happened?"

"Oh, it was great. They were so different. I mean, I know most people think it disgusting bedding different species, but these weren't much different to us. A few small details here and there, couple of extra orifices and pulsating hands, my god they were an instant hit. The money rolled in for the first four months. People soon changed their mind about inter-species frolicking when word got out."

"Loving the story dad, loving the imagery too, honest, I am. But do you wanna get to the important bit?"

"Then we had the lunar swell. On Derbor we only get to see our full moon once every four months."

"I'm following," she said.

"We didn't know that back on their home world their reproductive menstrual cycle was controlled by the lunar cycle, how could we? Besides they wanted to come, apparently there weren't many males about."

"So they all got a bad case of PMT and went about killing everyone?" Belle was shaking her head as she said it.

"Worse."

Belle raised a brow.

"They became insatiable for mating, and killing. I don't think there was a man that didn't feel sick when they saw the bone-like blades that flashed out of the holes that they'd been, you know, poking."

Weathers took a turn at speaking. "What about security, weren't they able to subdue, or even kill these things?"

Jenks shook his head. "They're not just killers, they're cunning too and before they started the main slaughter they went to the barracks with the proposition of a party and then killed them when their pants were literally down. Then it was just a case of them cutting a swathe through everyone else. That's when I locked myself in here, I've several hidden safety rooms, and I'm jacked into the all-seeing eye. I witnessed most of the bedlam. That was a week ago; I've not been out since."

"Where are these things now?" Weathers asked.

"They've made my establishment a nest of sorts."

 "Can you show me on a screen?"

*

Alex headed in the direction of the entertainment section. He came across blood smeared on one of the walls. He chuckled, there was always some shit going down on Derbor-Five. It'd been over three months since he'd boned anything and the thought of getting laid hastened his stride.

He stood before the archway that led to the entertainment sector. He grinned at the flashing lights that blinked different colors, mainly the nipple lights. This was a better way to waste the time whilst the Cellar got its repairs.

He stepped through and wondered where all the loud music was. There was usually always a party atmosphere, and always there were cliental about the place. All he saw were bloodstains. Alex cursed. It was just his fucking luck. This one day of all days there'd probably been another riot and everyone was on lockdown. He had money and all he wanted was a drink and some pussy, even a scabby one would do.

He turned to leave when an exotic but silken voice called out, "Fun-time? Long-time? Short-time?"

Alex turned at the sound of the broken Earthlish. Standing in the doorway to the brothel was a goodtime girl. Alex grinned. She looked different and he'd heard rumors of some new crazy-ass, outer-world whores that could do unmentionable things to a man. He started walking. She was a little taller than six feet. White tendrils of hair spilled from her scalp. His eyes moved to her face, two-eyes, one mouth.

The woman smiled.

Alex was pretty sure he couldn't see any teeth and her gums looked to be undulating. His eyes went lower. Her body was draped in a silk robe. He looked back up as she nodded, beckoning him inside, the whorehouse, or herself, he didn’t care which.

*

Weathers watched as Belle's father began prodding a monitor with his pudgy fingers. It came to life. He kept tapping. The scene switched from different views of the corridors. They could see a whole trail of bloodstains. Then what looked to be a plaza, then a bar, then a large room, the kind where hundreds could sit and chill, drinking, doing whatever they wanted.

The room was peppered with bodies. The pile was high. Atop the hill of corpses were the ladies of men's leisure, sprawled like royalty, writhing like snakes.

"Can you zoom in?" Weathers asked.

"Sure."

The room grew bigger. Weather's eyes widened. They were writhing on the corpses, all with bellies distended in several different directions, as though they were pregnant with more than one child but in separate wombs. Belle looked at the scene and instinctively touched her own flat stomach and cringed.

Weathers pointed to the screen. "Can you zoom out a little bit?"

They watched as one of the things led a man into shot.

Jenks looked puzzled. "A survivor?"

Belle shook her head and said, "No, not a survivor, just an idiot."

***

Alex followed the woman. "Yeah, we're just doing some repairs, thought I'd, you know, unwind and relax."

The woman didn't look back. "How many?"

"Me, the captain, Belle, and Monkey, it's only a small vessel, we're parked over in Dimeport. Do you mind if I ask how much this is gonna cost?"

"Not want money."

"What do you…" His mouth dropped open as she stepped aside. It took a second for him to register what was before him. He turned and bent over to one side and vomited until there was nothing left, not even bile.

He turned to run.

The woman reached out with incredible speed and strength and caught him by the scruff of his neck and hurled him into the room that was home to the massacre. There were more of the women. These ones lay in motion atop a mound of bodies. He could see them looking mutated with each owning several swollen bellies. They were feeding on the dead, tearing chunks free from the bones. Blood-wet lips parted, showing their writhing gums. He watched the meat reach their maws just as gleaming bone blades erupted from the gums to slice the meat.

He heaved again.

The one that had led him in by his dick grabbed him and spun him around.

She smiled.

Up close the gums were far from inviting. She pulled him closer as if seeking a lover's embrace.

Alex screamed.

***

The three of them turned away as they saw bone-like spikes protrude out of Alex's back. Weathers couldn't help but look back as the monster pushed Alex's body away to crumple at the base of the mountain of the dead. He watched as the spiked-shaped blades seeped back into her body. He saw her lips move. The women that were feasting on the pile began to claw their way down towards its base, following after the one that had killed Alex.

"Where are they going?" Belle asked.

Weathers hazarded a guess. "They know there's more than Alex here, you know what a mouth he has." he paused, "had."

Jenks tapped the screen to switch to a different camera. They watched stunned as the women moved faster than they would ever thought possible in their condition into the corridors.

Jenks scratched his topmost chin. "Where's your ship?"

“Oxy-Docked at the Dimeport," Weathers replied, watching the things disappear off screen.

"We need to get off this station."

"Problem being we need some parts for the Jump Activator. You know where we can get them?"

"Of course, easier now more than ever seeing everyone is dead, apart from for those beasts!"

Weathers took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Okay, show me the route on the screen and I'll go get the parts we need. Belle, you get your father back to the Cellar and shore up inside until I get back with the parts."

Belle nodded.

Jenks looked astounded. "Why don't we just take another ship? I mean there must be a hundred or so just sitting about."

Weathers shrugged. "I like the Cellar, it's a piece of shit but it's been in my family for two centuries, besides, Monkey's there, we'd have to go back for him anyway."

"Is now the time for sentimentality, Captain?" Jenks asked.

"You wanting me to point the finger over whose fault all of this is, at whose to blame for the death of one of my crew members?"

Jenks went to the console.

***

Monkey climbed to the ground and removed the harness. He'd pretty much done all he could until the Captain and Belle turned up with the parts. Then it would be a simple, plug in and play deal, or so he hoped. Monkey sat on a crate and wiped the crud from his hands. The tiny white ring of scar around his thumb made him think of Alex. He didn't know why the hell he had even let him have a go with the plasma saw in the first place.

The sound of a grunt from the door caused him to look.

A fat man tumbled through.

Monkey watched the man double over struggling for breath.

"Who the fuck are you?" Monkey asked, as he stood up.

The fat man held a hand up and tried to speak but didn't have enough air. Belle piled through the door. She pressed the button to close the door and cursed as it slid shut leisurely. With inches to go a curve spike flashed through. Belle screamed and tried to push the door the rest of the way manually, she looked over her shoulder. "Help me!"

The fat man stumbled to the door and tried to push as well. It was pointless with the spike sticking through. Monkey didn't have time to think. He ran to his tool tray and grabbed the plasma saw.

He dashed to the door. "What the fuck, Belle?"

"Tell you later!"

Monkey set the super-heated blade to the spike thing. It started to cut through it.

"Fuck me, this shit is stronger than beaded-steal!" He applied more pressure. Monkey got a third of the way through when another sharp bone spike pierced through the gap. The fat man's face was in the way. The spike skewered his right cheek, his fat-tongue and emerged out the other side. Monkey stared at the man and his kebab’ed face.

Belle screamed whilst keeping pressure on the door. Monkey grabbed the fat man and pulled him off the spike. The fat man fell to the ground groaning. Monkey turned off the plasma saw and ran towards the ship. He kicked a few things over looking for his tin of burn fluid. He usually only used it to burn dirt and grease off engine parts, it burned so hot that nothing but the metal remained.

"Belle, move your feet."

She stepped aside.

Monkey knelt low and poured the whole tin through the gap at the bottom of the door. He grabbed up the plasma saw, turned it on and used it to ignite the liquid. Monkey pushed himself away, knowing the heat blast would likely peel his skin. Belle did the same.

Howls of outrage blistered the already fiery air outside of the Oxy-Dock.

The bones retreated.

Both Monkey and Belle managed to shut the door. Belle hacked the lock shut, she was about to sabotage it but thought of the Captain and how he'd get in. She just hoped the things had been burned to death.

She remembered her father and fell to her knees, taking her jacket off to press against his face.

Monkey wiped away sweat. "Now do you wanna tell me what the fuck has been going on?"

"Help me get my father inside."

"Father?"

***

Belle explained everything whilst she tended to her father. The wounds weren't fatal but they'd made a mess of his face. She'd sealed the gashes with fibre-skin and bandaged him up.

Monkey had listened. "You think we'd be able to patch into the eyes from the Cellar?" He asked.

Belle thought a moment. "Don't see why not, as long as we had the codes."

They both looked to her father who was about to go under with the drugs.

Belle and Monkey stared at the monitor. The flames had subsided and what looked to be three or four of the beasts lay in a crumbled mess on the ground, nothing but their solid bones remaining. Others were writhing nearby. Monkey didn't ask for Belle to zoom in, he moved his head closer to the screen. He pointed. "What the fuck are those?"

Some of the ones that hadn't been barbequed were surrounded by little shapes.

"They've given birth," Belle said. The babies looked normal to her; through she knew they would be far from it.

Monkey blew the air out of his cheeks. "We're gonna have to warn the Captain. We can't have him stumbling into these." He thumbed the communicator. "Captain?"

There was the noise of static, the communicators were cheap Darantian shit and were pretty much useless over long distances.

Finally the Captain's voice came through sounding warbled. "Yes, Monkey?"

"You got the parts?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I wouldn't bother trying to come through the front door, we have guests."

"Thought you might have."

"Think you can get through the air-ducts?" Monkey asked.

"Not with these parts. I've got a better idea. Make sure everyone stays inside the Cellar."

"I wouldn't worry about that."

The line went dead.

***

             

Weathers hadn't done a walk in over a decade but it looked like his only viable option. The weight of parts he'd borrowed would be impossible to lift up and drag into the air-shafts. At least outside the gear wouldn't be a burden to him. He put the throat-talker on and set it to the Cellar's frequency. Once Weathers was suited up he dragged the trolley over to the airlock. He'd forgotten how burdensome the suits were.

             

He spun the wheel and opened the first door. Once inside he turned the chamber into a vacuum and opened the outer door. Weathers connected up to the outer rail and pulled the trolley out with him. The gear stayed in the bed of the trolley through strapping.

It was harder work than he thought dragging himself along the outside of the station, towing the gear with him. Weathers was thankful for the numbers on the outside of the docking doors. He wasn't keeping count of the time but figured it took him the better part of an hour to work his way to outside their docking bay.

"Monkey?"

"Yeah, Captain?"

"Here's what I need you to do."

***

Monkey didn't hesitate. He used the automated hail and docking channel to activate the vacuum inside their bay. When all the air was gone the docking door opened.

They watched through the view port as the Captain drifted in with his cargo. They watched him secure himself to the ground and nodded. Monkey closed the door and filled the bay with gravity.

They stepped out.

Monkey looked to the door and saw bulges in the surface. They hadn't noticed it from on board. Now they could hear it too. The things were trying to break through. Monkey wondered if he'd weakened the material of the door when he'd tried to burn them.

Monkey rushed over to the captain who was removing the suit. Monkey didn't bother with greetings, he grabbed the trolley, noticing something he hadn't asked for. He knew what it was for. He started getting into the harness.

Weathers stared at the door. "Monkey, how long do you need?"

Monkey was climbing up the side to the panel he'd removed and started to pulley the parts up. "Ten minutes, I have everything ready to just hook it up."

Weathers turned to Belle. "Where's your father?"

"Injured, we've sedated him."

Weathers nodded. "Go prep the engines so we can leave as soon as Monkey's got the new parts hooked up."

***

"Captain, head on inside and get ready to…" The din of the door giving up its final strength aired. Monkey snapped himself out of it, "Captain, get inside, job's done, just gotta climb down."

They traded a glance and Weathers nodded.

He boarded the Cellar. "Belle get ready to start the vacuum!"

***

Monkey was only halfway down the side of the ship when the door gave in. The beasts flooded through. The babies still attached by ropey cords. "Captain, DO IT!" He shouted into his communicator. He grabbed the release grips on the harness and pressed them. He fell the twenty feet to the ground. One leg snapped on impact. He pulled his pistol and trained aim on the intruding monstrosities.

***

From the viewport Weathers watched as Monkey let off a couple of rounds before putting the pistol to his brow and pulling the trigger. Belle started the vacuum procedure and opened the docking door at the same time. The beasts used their spikes and their blades to hook onto the ground. Monkey was dragged out like a wave taking driftwood on the tide.

They exited.

             

The docking door closed, air would automatically be fed back into the bay.

"Take us a safe distance away," Weathers said, as he held a detonator.

             

Come, come this way, enter...

SSSssshhhhh.

ENTER

Apologies are needed...

I said a story would be posted, but that hasn't happened, and for once, not from my own laziness. After reporting signs of damp to the landlady, she promptly popped around and figured it might be coming in from the loft and that she'd be back on the monday. As promised she turned up, in tow was her father. She went to check the water cistern thingy-ma-bob in the place where nightmares are spawn, and whislt she was at that task I watched as her father went about tearing the wallpaper off the walls in our bedrrom checking for damp, (I decorated this year) so I was stunned and brow scratching. Then whilst unnatended some more he decided he liked hammers more than my bedroom ceiling and the wall itself and took it to task. At which point I ushered in the Landlady and asked if the place would be habitable. She was more than a little annoyed at the work he had set himself to.

So now we come home, cook in the kitchen, watch television in the lounge, have a whirlwind keep ourselves cosy and now go down two flights of stairs to sleep in another flat. Hence me not sticking to me word, but I've got some nice pictures for you to look at.

But it shall faze me not, nor will I mention the landlords in name, nor by company, because the landlady has been so apologetic, it's not her fault, just don't bring your dad to fucking work, nor out to pasture, bolt-gun and be done...

I'm on the second stage of nicotine patches, reckon the tobacco industry has meddled. 

Cheers

Had some great responses to my tale up at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers. If you fancy a read click here.

Thanks to all those that helped pimp about it. Now it's only fair to remind others about some of the stuff that's knocking about.

Col Bury has a new E-Book out called - "Manchester 6" So get your frame over to here and get yourself a copy.

Lily Childs new Magenta novelette is out "Magenta Shamam: Stones the Crow" Get your grubbies on it here.

Paul D. Brazill also has a new E-Book out called Brit Grit, snaffle one up from here.

Matt Hilton's latest Joe Hunter thriller, his sixth outing at thumping the skulls that are in need of thumping hit the shelves last month get in from all good book stores, or online here.

Sean Patrick Reardon's Mindjacker has been out for a while, but it still deserves mentioning for all those that haven't had a gander at it. Grab it here.

Not that you care or anything but at the moment am reading Apostle Rising by Richard Godwin and it's a fucking cracker. Again, off the shelf or online here.

Editor, artist, writer extraordinaire Mark Anthony Crittenden is still accepting submissions for the various anthologies that he has got on the go. Find out about the submission rules here.

Now down to little ol' me. I'm going to be posting a story a week. One's that appeared in anthologies etc that I've tightened, kinda like a 'Director's Cut' and throwing in some of the new ones I've written. So I'll be posting one up tomorrow, sci-fi horror called 'Contraband' that appeared in Deep Space Terrors anthology.

Still plodding along with the main novel, part one is pretty much done with. Also toying with the idea, I've novelised The Osseous Box, but have been thinking of running it as as a kinda serial, a segment each week. I'll let you know when I do!

Also been watching American Horror Story, now that's one fucked up program and I think it's great. This season of the Walking Dead is also keeping me entertained.

Laters.

Ello, not sure if anyone notices this, has been a while since my last post. Been writing again, regained the joy I had when I first started out. I've a new story going up this week on TKnC but figured as a shoe-in back into the blog world to post some stories that only got aired in some anthologies. Starting with, A Stopped Clock.

A Stopped Clock

Stan stood in the dark of his wardrobe with a digital clock wailing in the room outside and smiled.

*

He sat on the bed and rubbed his forehead.

The second alarm had been set for 7:40 and it let him know he was still alive.

Stan reached and thumbed the switch swapping the alarm to post-meridian ready for the evening. He did the same to its companion.

There was a third timepiece.

This one more archaic compared to the cheap radio-alarm clocks.

A pocket-watch with a gold casing. His fingers worked the catch. The delicately wrought and blackened hands stretched out to point at 7:32, the second hand stood static.

It had all gone strange since he'd found the pocket watch.

He laughed the same bitter laugh as the same bitter thought trampled through his mind, ‘You can’t turn back time.’ His laugh soured, ‘You can’t get it to go forward either.’

Stan stared at all of the things he’d scrawled upon the walls throughout the sleepless night. Fear had brought obsession, and like every obsession it became dominant, visible, inked upon the walls.

*

The find.

Scotty shouted: "Hey, Stan, come have a look at this."

Stan went over to see what Scotty had found. Scotty was holding up a mucky magazine, turning it this way and that

"Fuckin' hot, huh?" Scotty said, grinning.

“Nice.” It was half-hearted.

"Nice?" Scotty was shocked. "Nice? This is a hot piece of ass, Stan, Christ how long you been divorced now? Two, three years? That's more than enough time to stop thinking of it as just something to piss out of."

Carl slapped Stan's shoulder. "You know what he's like, mental age of a brick."

"The worst part is he has a point."

"You'll get back in the game when you're ready." He hiked a thumb over his shoulder, "That dingbat, he talks a good game, put him in a room with that lass from the jazz-mag and he'd shit himself."

*

He stopped on the path. The headache was back so he dry swallowed a couple of Paracetemol.

There werea half-dozen bulging bin-bags. Number 32, old chap, always generous with his Christmas Box. Stan looked to the skies, he wasn't religious but he hoped the old feller had gone on to a better place.

Stan grabbed up a couple of the bin bags.

Something shiny caught his magpie eye.

It was gold, but stood out from the fake gild of the cheap pub trophies. He dipped a hand in and took the watch out. He found the tiny catch and thumbed it. The second hand performed its stuttered lap. He knew the old man lived alone, but there might be offspring that would like such a keepsake. He looked at the face of the watch. The second hand had become static. He put it to his ear and heard only silence. That was probably why it had ended up in the bin.

Scotty was setting up a bin. Stan saw the dirty magazine was rolled up in Scotty's back pocket. "Saw you bringing out those extra bags, why'd you bother?”

"The old man's dead. The stuff would just lie rotting."

"Anything decent?" Scotty asked.

"Just junk by the looks of it."

Scotty grabbed the lid.

He hoisted out a trophy. He held it aloft liked he'd won it.

"Oi, Carl! I won the 2003 West District darts championship, what the fuck did you do that year?"

"Bollocks you did."

"Yes I did, look, got a trophy to show for it." Scotty stomped off to the front of the wagon with the trophy. Stan moved on to the next bin, the weight of the watch in his pocket constantly playing with his morals. Just because it was broken shouldn’t mean that any surviving family member wouldn't want it. Back at the depot he'd be able to ask a few questions, hopefully find someone to give the pocket watch to.

*

"Hello?"

"Stan?" It was Alice from the depot. He reckoned she'd a soft spot for him. She'd managed to get hold of the phone number of Mr. McGee’s only daughter.

"Hi, Alice."

"Just phoning about the watch, I spoke with the daughter."

"That's great.”

"Stan, she doesn't want the watch. Says that's why it's in the bin."

"Oh," Stan managed, feeling a little deflated.

"Stan, it was good of you to think about getting the watch to her. Good news though, it's yours if you want it."

"Mine?"

"Yeah, she said you can have it."

"I'll come get it. And thanks, you know, for doing this."

"You can always take me out for a drink."

His heart leapt a little, it was a good feeling. "Sure."

"When?"

"Friday night?"

"The Swan and Brick, about seven?" Alice suggested.

"Sounds good. I’ll be popping in for the watch in a little while."

*

Stan was surprised to find six watch menders in the local vicinity. His pointing finger dawdled over Butler and Sons Watch Repairs; they fixed all manner of time pieces, established in 1893.

*

The hanging bell over the door tinkled.

With the old-school decor of the place Stan had expected to see a withered, hunched, bespectacled man come doddering out from the back. Instead the man was a little younger than he, no stoop and no limp.

The man smiled. "Good..." He paused and looked at the various clocks to garner the time. "...afternoon. I stare so long at clocks; the time itself just becomes a background noise. What can I do you for?"

Stan pulled out the watch. "I was wondering if you'd be able to fix this?" He set it down on the counter. The man picked it up, evaluating it by turning it this way and that. "Nice," was his whisper, "very nice."

“You wanting me to pop it open and let you know what’s up with it and give you an idea of a repair price?”

“Sure,” Stan said.

The man sat down and pointed to a stool in the corner. “I’m Tom by the way.”

“I’m Stan.”

“A pleasure.” Tom said. He carefully discarded the back of the casing and turned his professional eye upon the gala of springs and cogs that made up the music that the pocket watch should have been dancing to.

“Oohh,” Tom said.

“What?” Stan asked.

“This is probably worth a few quid.”

“How come?”

“Well, if the makers not above ground the price usually hikes, and it’s a pretty rare piece. Arthur Covington was the maker. His chicken scratch mark is here. Only seen a couple of his, mind if I ask where you got it?”

Stan squirmed a little on his stool. “It was left to me in a roundabout kinda way.”

He fiddled with the inner workings for a few minutes and then looked up, his face a little embarrassed. “Everything looks like it should be working. I mean there’s nothing that jumps out at me as to why it’s not, ticking. But this to me should be running reliantly. Do you want to leave it with me?”

“No.”

*

Stan put the watch into his inside pocket and patted it. He strode down the street, the afternoon sun bold above him. Stan didn’t notice that everything he passed re-worked its shadow, pointing to the hour that the watch had stopped. Once he was a few feet away the shadows snaked, worming after his ankles.

A voice called him from the doorstep of a closed down shop.

“I can smell it on you,” The tramp said from his cardboard seat.

“What?”

The diseased alcoholic in rags grinned. His mouth was a patchwork of teeth, the majority of which were absent or blackened. “The cancer, I have it too. It’s in my lungs, all black, watch me cough.” The man thumped his chest as if to loosen something and then hacked and coughed like a sixty-a-day-smoker. He spat onto the ground. Pointed to the mess and said, “That’s my cancer. Cancer’s eats away at you, just like time. You’ve gotten cancer of time, how long who knows. I could be dead tomorrow or next year, it’s all just a waiting game, more so for you.”

Stan wasn’t even aware of his words as he asked. “What kind?” He was finding it hard to decipher the lunacy.

The tramp poked at his little puddle of illness and looked up. “Spare some change for a sick man?”

Stan shook his head, still bamboozled by the nutter’s ramblings. The tramp snarled, “Then fuck off.”

Stan shut his front door and leant against it. Every whacko that had something to say said it to him on the way home. The phone rang and he jumped. His hands were reluctant as they grabbed at the receiver. “Hello?”

“It’s Alice.” He wasn’t expecting a call from her.

“What’s up?” Stan wondered if she’d had a change of heart about their date.

“I’ve just had Mr. McGee’s daughter on the phone again.”

“What does she want?”

“She didn’t want to tell me on the phone, she asked for your number, I told her I wasn’t at liberty to divulge it. So she gave me hers, if you feel like calling it.”

“What’s the number?”

*

His fingers hovered an inch above the buttons, reluctant to start hitting them in case he heard something he didn't want to, he gave in and dialed.

“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice.

“I’m Stan Perkins, you were trying to get my number?”

“The man with my father’s watch?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He waited for her to say she’d changed her mind about the whole thing.

“I might have been a little abrupt with the woman from the bin centre, or whatever it’s called.”

“I’m sure Alice wasn’t offended.”

“Good. I was basically just calling to suggest you throw the watch away, to be honest it brought nothing but ruin to my father.”

“Ruin?” Stan had always been a glutton for superstition.

“As in ruined his life.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. It’s just a watch.”

“It sounds silly to me too, and I really am loathed to be talking about it to you. But before my father found that watch in a box of junk at the auctions he was happy go lucky. Soon afterwards he started to fixate about the watch. That it had stopped, but it wasn’t broken, didn’t need winding, and that it was a harbinger. Look, it doesn’t matter to me either way, I’ve warned you, now it’s entirely up to you what you do with it.” Without another word she hung up. He took out the watch, turned it this way and that, it was a watch, nothing more.

He sat down at the computer.

He had Wikipedia up on the screen.

Arthur Covington, watchmaker, born 1811, died 1876, not a bad innings. He started reading through his biography. Where he was born, where he was educated, He was married to Aphelia, his only child, a daughter Cecilia. Finding out how respected figures of the time craved to own a piece of his work and how he had suddenly retired and moved away, to where was only speculation. Where the mundane finished the hearsay started, the kind of things that if it was said in today’s times it would end up with a court case and a serious lump of compensation. Clicking on a few of the links most of them to external sites it gave him more of the story involving the Watchmaker, the Earl, and the Watchmaker’s daughter.

February 14^th 1850

The light from the oil lamp burned as bright as he could get it. The recognition he was receiving was alarming. It gave him a sense of great pride for folks to think of quality when they heard the two words, watch and Covington in the same sentence. He used tweezers to settle a small spring into place. He ignored the sound of the shop door opening, his concentration purely on the work at hand. With the job done he left the workshop and walked through. On the inside he cringed and felt disgust, on the outside he managed a smile. “Good morning, M’Lord.”

The Earl was tall, broad at the shoulders and moved in a manner that let everyone know of his importance. “Arthur, fine day outside, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, M’Lord.”

The Earl was moving around the shop. “That delectable daughter of yours not here today?”

The internal cringe turned into a knot. The Earl was renowned for his predatory like chasing of the ladies and of late Arthur’s daughter Cecilia had been the subject of his hunt.

“I’m afraid she’s helping her mother today.”

The Earl slapped his glove down on the counter. “Damn shame, I know how much she looks forward to my visits. But, alas, if she’s not here it mightn’t be such a bad thing as I have business to discuss with you, a commission.”

The knot tightened. It was bad enough doing the repairs and the maintenance on the Earl’s clocks without having to commit to crafting him one from scratch. The Earl also wasn’t a man that was easy to say no to.

“You’d best come through to the back.”

“Splendid.”

*

“Cecilia,” Arthur said, lowering the flames in the lamps.

“Yes father?” She was sweeping the shop.

“Be a dear and give the place a little bit of a tidy, I promised to go and have a look at the butchers clock, should be good for a leg of lamb.”

“Of course father. Will you be heading straight home then?”

“My stomach feels as though its throat has been cut, so take that as a yes, you’ll be fine to make your own way home?” He reached for his coat from the hook. Cecilia smiled, nodded and began to wipe down the surface of the work table.

*

Cecilia heard the front door open. She smiled, for a man with such precision for making watches her father was clumsy in the mind at times. She looked around the workshop wondering what he had forgotten.

A voice came from the front of the shop. “Arthur?”

Cecilia’s heart froze. It was the Earl. She instantly wished she had followed her father through and locked the door after him. It was too late now for the fox was in the chicken coop. She took a few calming breaths, straightened the front of her dress and headed through.

The Earl smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I had expected to find your father but instead I find a gem of the purest beauty, my luck has turned, for the better. Is your father in the back?”

”He’s popped out.” She kept the counter between herself and the Earl.

The Earl’s smile widened. “Lucky us.”

“I can tell him that you called.” Her mouth was running out of spit.

“Never, it’s dark outside, there could be all manner of brigands afoot. I just could not live with myself if anything befell you, oh how angels would weep. No, I shan’t hear of it, we can get to know each other a little better, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

*

Arthur headed on home with a decent sized leg of lamb. It was good to get paid in money but there was something about trading that seemed to have a nobler feel to it. He hung up his coat and embraced the warmth from the fire before heading on through to the kitchen. Margaret was busy at the stove. She smiled as she looked back over her shoulder. The smile faded a little. “Is Cecilia not with you?”

“I left her to finish up at the shop. I’ll pop back, mayhap she’s just having problems with the locks again, won’t be a tick.”

*

Arthur tried the door and found it unlocked, once or twice Cecilia had struggled with the lock, he decided that he would do something about it and get it fixed, but not tonight, his stomach wasn’t the most forgiving of creatures.

He called “Cecilia?” But gained no answer.

He ventured deeper into the shop. He could see that the lamps were still burning in the workshop. He didn’t get over the threshold before his legs threatened buckled. His stomach forgot about food and sickened. “Cecilia!” he ran to her. She was a crumpled mess in the corner. Her dress was torn, her hair disheveled. She looked up. Her face was bruised, one eye blackening. She began to sob, the sobs grew louder.

*

It had been a week and Cecilia had barely said a word. She sat and simply stared off into some other place. Once Arthur had carried Cecilia home and had called for the doctor he had made straight for the constable. Arthur hadn’t expected to get anywhere there, not when the buffoon was under the thumb of the Earl. He ended up buying a pistol in a rage.

*

Arthur looked at the clock above his workbench. The clock had been made by his father soon after he’d finished his own apprenticeship. The Earl had sent a message that he would be by a little before noon to see how the watch was coming along. Arthur couldn’t believe the audacity of the bastard. The man was above the law, shielded by his position, even from rape and battery. Arthur opened the drawer and looked hard at the pistol, the shine of the barrel enticing, whispering to him about the justice it could deliver. There were some laws that even the likes of the Earl couldn’t dodge. He heard the door open. He slid the drawer shut, steadied his fury and stood.

“Good day, Arthur.” The bastard was all smiles as though he hadn’t done anything to his daughter. The Earl marched up to the counter. “Right then, how are we getting on with my watch, and how’s that daughter of yours?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. There was a look in the Earl’s eyes that was practically daring Arthur to say something. “She’s fine my Lord, she’s work to do at home. Come through to the back.”

Arthur motioned to the half constructed watch upon the bench, nowhere near finished. Since the attack on his daughter he had wanted nothing to do with the Earl’s watch. The Earl was leant over, staring into the casing as if he had half a clue as to what was what inside. Arthur’s hand went to the drawer. Yes it would be murder, but justifiable, if not condonable under the circumstances. Yes he would hang, but justice would be served. He opened the draw a little way, the Earl spoke. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I hear you have been to see the constable over a mistake.” He didn’t look up from his musings.

“A mistake?” Arthur could hardly get the words out, he choked on every syllable.

“A mistake, an error on your daughter’s part I should wager. It is not farfetched to believe the fanciful imaginings of a young girl besotted by someone of my stature.”

“The bruises? The torn dress? The rape?” Arthur was shaking with his rage.

The Earl looked up, his eyes narrowed. “I hear that rumour again besmirching my reputation and there will be consequences, very, very harsh consequences. Do you understand me? But for your piece of mind I will let you in on the facts of that night. I came to see you, but found only your daughter who how shall we say made certain advances that I rebuked but such was her desire I had to take a firm hand with her. And also I heard a whisper that this week you purchased a pistol. You wouldn’t be having any foolish notions would you? As if I even suspected such a thing you would be straight to the gibbet.”

Arthur slid the drawer shut.

The Earl smiled. “Now show me where we’re up to with my watch.”

*

That night Arthur didn’t go home. He worked feverishly. He took parts from other watches to finish it as quickly as he could. The workshop broke out in chorus at the strike of midnight. Arthur stared at the watch as the lamps died down to darkness and he sat in the dark and began on something that there would be no coming back from. Before the chiming had ended the lamps relit themselves and Arthur began to weep.

*

“Magnificent,” the Earl said, holding his new watch up to the light.

“I’m glad you like it,” Arthur replied, his look switching from the watch to the face of the bastard that was working the fob through a button hole.

The Earl pulled free his purse and began to count out a small fortune. “I’m glad you managed to get over that earlier silliness and see sense.”

“Thank you my Lord, I’m glad that I saw sense too. I hope you enjoy the watch.”

“I’m sure I will, good day.”

Arthur watched the Earl’s back, no smile on his lips as he knew that revenge wouldn’t taste sweet. He looked at the walls of the shop that had become his second home. Those feelings were gone, torn away along with his daughter’s innocence. Arthur strode to the door and turned the closed sign over. His shop was shut and wouldn’t be opening again. He checked the time. His family would be waiting for the coachman. It was time for a new life up North, far away from this place but regardless of where they went he would be getting that little bit closer to damnation.

*

The Earl tore free the envelope on the watchmaker’s shop door. The watch had cost a fortune and within the space of a couple of hours it had stopped dead. He tore out the letter.

My Lord,

You are a consummate bastard and I wish you nothing but ill-fortune. I have refunded the money for the watch and left it with your cronie, the constable. Please do with the watch what you will. But know this, the time that it stopped is the time of your death, only you will not know whether it be of the morning, or of the evening. May the Devil welcome you to his halls when the time is right, I will already be watching from the galleries no doubt.

Yours faithfully,

Arthur Covington

The Earl crumpled up the missive and cast it to the ground. There was naught he could do. He’d been refunded, and permitted to keep the watch. He opened the watch and looked at the time. The previous evening when it had halted the hands had pointed to 5:15. The Earl sneered at the closed shop and stormed off. He noticed as he went that the shadows were acting out of character and seeming to bend as he passed them by, tuning their darkness to the direction of his supposed our of death. The Earl walked that little bit faster with a feeling of unease sprouting in his gut.

The unease grew.

The wine no longer tasted fine.

The beggars and the halfwits would harass and hound him. All issuing whispers about something they should not know. Slowly his madness and paranoia wrapped its slick grip about him until his death sixteenth months later.

*

Stan sat back in his chair. Most of the stuff he'd read had come from pages about ghost stories and urban legends. He opened the watch, even though he didn’t believe in such absurdities it did make him feel a little unsure. The way it had been working, the way it had abruptly stopped and there being no way to get it going. It didn’t help when he read that the Earl had gone a bit doo-lally and had been obsessed with the time of his death, right up to it. When he mentally matched that with what Mr. McGee’s daughter had said on the phone the feeling began to swell. It was like an uncontrollable wave that rolled through his core. The lunatic spitting bits of charcoaled lung onto the floor and what he had said. It made Stan dash for the front door. He rushed down the path to stand at the lamppost on the other side of the gate. Its shadow was pointing in the same direction as the rest of its brethren until Stan grew close. It snaked around and mimicked the hour hand of the watch. Stan walked backwards, the shadow returned to normal. His heart thumped in his chest and his hands began to feel sticky.

Back inside he clicked on link after link about watches and time until seven o’clock rolled around. He grabbed the radio alarm clock from the spare room and sat it next to the one in his own room and began setting the alarms. One to warn him it was nearly the allotted time, the other to inform him that the time had passed. He felt foolish letting his imagination get the better of him. He jumped as the first alarm aired. He switched the alarm off and didn’t know what to do with himself. With one minute to go he climbed into the wardrobe.

The dark of the wardrobe seemed to hold the ability to stretch time into infinity. When the second alarm aired the sensation of relief was astounding. Stan practically burst out of the wardrobe cursing himself for having such notions. Then that feeling returned, reminding him that even a stopped clock is right twice a day, or he hoped, wrong twice a day.

Sleep was impossible and the next morning he found himself phoning in sick. He couldn’t risk being outside and working when 7:32 rolled around so when the first alarm sounded he returned to the wardrobe and waited for the second, praying to hear it.

*

Alice pursed her lips. There was still no answer. Stan had phoned in sick two days ago and hadn’t been in touch since. Their supposed date was tonight. She was starting to wonder whether or not he was using it as a way of chickening out. Her head started running through scenarios of what might have happened to him, all of which were not good. In his sickened state he might have taken a shower, slipped and banged his head. He might have fallen down the stairs. The sickness could have been worse than what he'd said and he might be in dire need of help. She got up, ran into the filing department and asked if one of the girls could cover for her so she could take an early lunch, medical reasons.

She peeped in through the living room window, there was no sign of him. Something was up. She dug out her mobile from her handbag and dialed his house number. She let it ring as she lifted the letter box and listened to the unanswered ring through the slot. She hung up and dialed treble nine.

She put the backdoor window through with a cheap gnome.

“Stan?” she called as she moved from the kitchen to the hallway. She checked what she guessed was the spare room and the bathroom, both of which were empty. The third room she figured to be Stan’s bedroom. There was scrawling on the wall in marker pen that unsettled her.

She stared at one scribbling that read, ‘Nothing is immortal, especially time.’ Alice turned around, her eyes found something familiar.

The watch.

It was dangling from the door of the wardrobe by a length of string. Her hands pulled at it. The wardrobe door came with it.

Alice screamed.

*

She watched his body lifted into the back of the ambulance. All she could think about was what the paramedic said when she’d asked if he knew what had killed Stan. The paramedic had suggested that by the bloodshot eyes and the way the body was lying he may have died of a brain aneurism.

He might not have even been aware of it.

Maybe just some headaches for symptoms.

He said they were like time bombs, anything could be a trigger, undue stress, to it just being ready to blow.  She asked how long he had been dead. The paramedic had said at maybe as little as five hours. She looked to her wrist, it was a little after twelve. That would have him dying around seven o’clock.

Alice walked away from the house. The road seemed to stretch on forever as she walked.

The image of Stan haunting her.

Her car was still parked outside his house. She felt she needed to walk, she didn’t know where. Just to walk. She couldn’t help herself. She dipped a hand into her bag and felt relieved by the touch of the watch. She had just wanted to take something away, something of his. It wouldn’t be worth anything, the watch had stopped a few seconds after she had opened it. She walked on, ignorant of the shadows that migrated positions as she went.