Horror Sensation/HORROR.iso/stories/22.txt

Text File | 1980-11-27 | 25.5 KB | 447 lines

@ THE GLOWING RED MAN (Part 1)

# By Andrew Campbell 1994.



 It was a good day to freak out.
 Through my bedroom window I could see kids in illuminous shorts
playing ball across the street. I could see fat, loud-mouthed
neighbours circling like religious worshippers in Mrs Banner's
garden. Occasional bodies from places unknown would hurry past my
spectacular view, swinging shopping bags and bottles of glistening
softdrink. The annoying warble of a patroling ice cream van somehow
rounded off the mid-summer atmosphere.
 My mum waddled down the driveway, checked the road for traffic, then
head eagerly towards the Banner gang.
 Have you ever stood watching a legion of housewives cackle on about
washing lines, knitting and the latest spin-dryers? It's infuriating,
let me assure you.
 Here we are trapped in a world of nightmares, sadness, fear and
desperation. A realm of unfair hierarchy which nobody can be bothered
to challenge. A stinking void of dull repetitions, everyday chores and
regular, demanding work, suffocated by overly-taxed wages.
 And all Banner's gang can do is waffle and waffle and waffle:
# Ooooh, you oughta see Margret's new washing machine! It's wonderful!
#Have you seen Fiona's kitchen? Have you SEEN it? It must have cost
#her a FORTUNE for all those cupboards! Ooooh, did I tellya Jo came
#home the other night and actually MADE HIS OWN TEA? Pigs'll fly, I
#tellya! I see Joyce's got some new curtains, have you seen em? Have
#you SEEN em? Have you? Have you? HAVE YOU?

 Whilst my mum rattled on about household appliances and the price of
fruit at the local supermarket, I found up an old school rucksac (worn
but useable) and crammed it full of food.
 I slid my mum's meat knife out of the kitchen drawer and tucked it
into the belt of my jeans. It didn't show - I was wearing a gigantic,
untucked tee-shirt all the way down to my knees.
 Being one of the worlds many Unemployed People (therefore a regular
piece of gossip), I had little money to my name. What I did have - a
mere £23, most of it in coins - I threw into a polythene bag, then in
my rucksac.
 Before leaving the house to embark on a mission to which I didn't
even know the brief, never mind the goal, I glued my much-too-long
hair back with gel and put my shades on.
 The mirror told me I looked as insane as I felt.

 It was very warm outside, too warm for me. There wasn't even a wind
blowing. I guess the heat contributed to my warped morale - it was
almost as infuriating as those chattering bitches across the road.
 If you're thinking my next move was to storm over to the housewives'
conference and chop them all up with my knife, you've got the wrong
idea about me indeed.
 Okay, I admit I loathed the lot of them, but I wasn't a psychopath. I
had no intentions of hurting anyone, no matter how strong my anxiety.
No, all I wanted to do was get out of the house and get away from this
horrible, scorching street. I'd sucked up so much of this dump I was
on the brink of whistling one of those tinkly ice-cream-van melodies;
a sign of madness if ever there was one.
 It's amazing what happens when a guy walks down the street wearing
shades and an untucked, logoless tee-shirt, you know. It's like you
become the centrepoint of the entire universe, and you're aware of it
too, you can't help but be aware of it.
 A hundred curtains drew back, a hundred faces came to the window.
Big, wide, nosy eyes grinded me into a world of guilt, telepathically
making one simple, unbreakable rule clear:
# YOU CAN'T DO THAT, MATE. YOU JUST CAN'T DO THAT AND GET AWAY WITH
#IT. YOU'LL BE STARED AT. YOU'LL BE LAUGHED AT. YOU'LL BE STOPPED.
 I reached the bottom of the road, turned right and headed for town.
 Stone Bridge isn't a big place, you know. When you're a kid, it's the
whole world but when you reach that age - seventeen, eighteen maybe -
you suddenly see the boundaries. Harriot Place isn't really a mile
away; it's just across the field and over the wall. Weathercock isn't
beyond reach; all you have to do is follow the main road through
Brensefield, turn right at the sign post and you're there (what you'd
want to go into Weathercock for is another matter entirely). As you
get bigger, it seems, the world gets smaller.
 It's the same with people.
 Bullies you once looked upon as demons in the first years become just
incompetent students. You could fight them and win after all, you
realise. It's simply their attitude, the way they manipulate language
and swear words and tower over you dominantly... they're nothing more
than poor magicians.
 You also realise something else. Not about Stone Bridge, but about
yourself: you've done absolutely nothing since the day you were born.
# Out of bed, into school, out of school, eat tea, out with mates,
#in late, fall asleep. Start all over again...
 Most people know that too, which is quite worrying when you think
about it. Life has it's tiny ups and downs and I guess it keeps most
kids entertained.
 Before puberty you've got toys, superheroes, sports and video games.
After it, you discover girls and either soak gracefully into society,
sparking up an early sex life in the proccess, or end up alone in your
bedroom, tossing off over your mate's porno mags.
 Either way, you still never do anything.
 I first noticed this teenage "desperation" when I'd just turned
fifteen. My Gran, who used to live on Crow Terrace before she died,
told me about a couple of kids that ran away from their homes in 1981.
One of them, a girl I think, left a note for her mother saying how
pointless her life was and that one day, she (her mother) would
realise this. Just a day later this girl and her friend jumped off a
cliff somewhere up in the Lakes, in front of two police helicopters.
About four men swear to have witnessed the kids' fall to their deaths,
yet no bodies were found.
# No bodies have EVER been found.
 Of course my Gran, being an expert storyteller, went into all manner
of improvised details, most of which I easily spotted but the tale has
remained stuck in my head ever since.
 Before I learned that story, I had no real hopes, fantasies, dreams
or ambitions. I was merely a parcel being carried along the bumpy
conveyor-belt of teenage life, the knowledge that fantasy and reality
were indeed very far apart. That story brought the two much closer
together. Whilst my peers minds filled with tits and pussies, mine
filled with adventure.
 I wanted to DO something.
 Walking down the street with a knife tucked in my jeans, a rucksac
over my shoulder packed with food and money, I realised I was at last
making an effort. Eighteen years of sitting there, applying for jobs I
knew I wouldn't ever get, looking out of my window at the gossiping
housewives, watching the care-free kids and listening to my Mum babble
on about how much of a lazy sod I was...
# Eighteen years - almost half-way to middle age for Christ's sake!
 I guess those nosy bitches and bastards hanging out of their windows
watching me pass had no idea what I was actually doing, or what I was
going to do. They had never experienced the same "walk down the
street" I was experiencing now.
 I felt so free.
# I WAS free.
 The household chains had broken at last. The single teenage fantasy I
had dreamed about for three years after hearing my Gran's tale was
finally underway.
 And stupendously, I had Mrs Banner's gibbering army to thank.

 There's a book about modern art called "Shock of the New".
 That wonderful title is very appropriate here in my story. People are
afraid of the abnormal - hell it's only natural I guess - but to the
brink of paranoia, which is where they fall down.
 My mysterious trek went unhindered for almost seven minutes, which I
think is a record for any teenage boy walking alone through the
northern areas of Stone Bridge.
 In most cases, gangs of youths are extremely predictable: kids, boys
especially, grow up taking the piss out of people, learning what is
"trendy", what is "decent" and what is just downright "square" and
"boring".
 I was very much aware, as I neared a handful of Weathercock's heavy
teenage population, that I might very well fit into the so-called
"square/boring" category. Stone Bridge teenagers seem to have this
immediate dislike of anyone who doesn't wear what THEY do. Tee-shirts
without logos are a big no-no in Weathercock, and walking through the
place on your own - wearing shades especially - is a very serious
offence.
 There were six of them crowded on the pavement that day; a big,
colourful, twelve-legged creature that I just knew wasn't going to let
me pass without trying to take a bite. I'd studied the species before,
after having suffered numerous painful attacks, and come to the
conclusion that ideally it needed making extinct.
 The first reaction to my presence was glancing, whispering and a bit
of childish laughter. This alone was enough to raise my anger to a new
height; harmless housewives were one thing, but gangs of tittering
pizza-faces with no point in existence was something else.
 Quite frankly, I couldn't give a toss how they wasted their time; if
hanging around like shit in a toilet bowl was their idea of a great
day out, fine - just as long as they didn't interfere with me.
 Of course, they couldn't let me pass. They just couldn't turn away
and mind their own business. Oh no. They had to try and impress each
other by teasing me.
 "Hey Martins!" one of them recognised me. One always does. You can't
go anywhere in Stone Brige without someone knowing your name. "What's
with the Terminator shades you sad cunt?"
 "Shades are for protecting your eyes against the sun." I said calmly.
I felt pleased with my voice when it came out. I had expected an
unnatural quiver in there, but no - it sounded crisp, clear and very
confident. A good sign indeed.
 "Don't get cheeky, Martins or I'll have to re-arrange your face."
 How did this thing get started? My Light, harmless sarcasm risen in
an act of defence?
# I just wanted to walk down the street!
 "I'm not in the mood for trouble." I told them, my voice still
admirably stable.
 "We're in the mood for kicking your face in you cheeky fucker." said
the only one who appeared to have a voice. "What're you coming up this
way for? I told you to stay out of here. Remember?" At last the voice-
owner slithered his way out of the crowd.
 It was Edward Royce, probably the biggest, thickest seveteen-year-old
boy in the country. Hell, he had to be big, right? The bigger you are
the more power you have. It's logic.
 Royce lived in Maybank, another little area of Stone Bridge, with his
loony father, an ex-American soldier. He worked with cars - his type
always seem to do - and had somehow won the hand (and body I guess) of
Melissa Gibbons, arguably the best-looking girl in Stone Bridge.
 That was also typical - I've always wondered what attracts girls to
scum like Royce. The only thing in his mind was her tits and cunt. I
guess he got plenty of those whenever he felt like it, what with his
dark complexion, body of steel and, of course, easy access to cars.
 Me? I could drive but I hadn't a licence.
 "I remember." I said. Royce had seen me walking out of school with
Sharon Parker, a rich girl from the top end of Maybank, and beaten me
up in front of her. Sharon had simply laughed and walked away with
Royce and his gang. Girls - I never could understand them.
 "If you think you're coming past me Martins, you've got it all
wrong." Royce declared. "You're so fucked up. Look at you... scruffy
bastard. Can't you afford decent clothes or what? Take those fucking
shades off for God's sake. Jesus you look so sad. What the fuck are
you trying to do? Impress the girls? I'll give you a tip..." he leaned
forwards and folded his arms. "...try Susan Kelly - she's as ugly as
fuck, she's got no tits and she's got lice in her pubic hairs."
 "Yeah?" I lifted a smile. "I heard Melissa Gibbons has a nest of
beetles in her pubes. Tell me Royce, do you spray insecticide on your
cock before you give her a good fuck?"
 As you might have guessed, Royce abruptly decided to kill me.

 There's something about the glint of a meat knife that makes people -
even as big and ferocious as Royce - change their mind on matters.
 I drew the weapon out slowly and casually. Royce's eyes widened and
he immediately skidded to a halt. There was a decent reaction from his
gang, too : mutters, curses... even the odd gasp. After all, nobody
brought a meat knife out of their belt, did they?
# NO, YOU CAN'T DO THAT MATE. YOU JUST CAN'T DO THAT.
 I came forward, holding the knife up and ready. This time Royce
backed away very quickly indeed.
 "You're fucking GONE Martins!" he yelled. "What the FUCK are you
trying to do? Get arrested? Put that FUCKING thing down!" Now he
sounded like a foul-mouthed teacher. "You hear me warp-o? Put it
down!"
 "No." I smiled. "Now I'm going to walk past you without any hassle,
do you understand me Royce?" He didn't answer. There wasn't a single
comment from his startled gang either. "It's a sad world isn't it?" I
chuckled. "All I want to do is walk along the pavement but no, you
shit-for-brains bastards have to have your way. Well have I got news
for you; I'm taking over. I'm taking right the fuck over this bit of
pavement, how does that make you feel? Huh?"
 "You're insane." Royce said quietly. His words sounded amazingly deep
and emotional; he really DID think I was mad, and for some reason he
seemed intrigued about this fact. In his mind nothing like this ever
happened.
# No fucking way.
 As I made my way along the pavement, Royce and his devoted followers
slithered into the road. All eyes were on the shimmering knife. They
all thought I was serious, which is a damned good job, because I WAS
serious, let me tell you. If one of those bastards had so much as
yelled "boo" I would have freaked out like a madman. Oh yes indeed. As
it turned out, they decided fucking with a meat-knife holder wasn't a
particularly wise idea; I passed them without any trouble.

 Weathercock becomes Brensefield without you noticing. The houses sort
of mutate from flats to semi-detatched to detatched to full-sized
mansions. All of a sudden the parked cars become mightily expensive,
wind-blown litter vanishes... you think you're in a completely
different - much more pleasant - world.
 You're not, though; the properties get better, the vehicles get more
impressive, but the people remain the same. It's as simple as that.
 About twenty minutes after my little sinario with Royce and his gang,
I drifted harmlessly into a small cluster of shops; a newsagents,
a small food store, chemist, post office - you know the kind of place.
The amount of people lingering around indicated it was lunch time,
maybe one o'clock. The spicy smell of fish and chips, mixed with the
scorching, buzzy air made me realise how thirsty I was.
 I stopped, lowered my rucksac, and rumaged for some change.

 My entry into the newsagents was clearly registered by the loud
"ting" of a doorbell. The place was small, cramped, laid out in a
awkward manner with a fixture of cheap toys and sweets down the
middle, blocking any easy route to the counter, and choked with
muttering people, most of them women.
 With the smell of cigarette smoke, mint chewing gum and cardboard
boxes mingling in my nostrils, I bustled towards the refridgerator; a
can of freezing cold orange seemed to be calling for me. I had to
excuse my intrusion a few times to get the door of the damned thing
open, but eventually I did, and the reward was dripping, freezing...
simply wonderful to hold.
 The queue was short but in Brensefield everyone knows everyone; the
brief chat between each customer and the plump, red-faced shopkeeper
was predicted. Settling even. There's something about the cheer of
other folk that lifts you up a bit, makes you look at your problems
under a different light. Admittedly, grinning faces are sometimes
infuriating when you feel like a pile of shit, but in some cases -
like mine - you wonder just why the hell you're walking around with
face down to your feet.
 I was almost disappointed when my turn came to pay for the drink. The
tomato-faced shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with curly black hair and
an excuse of a beard, gave me a micro-second glance, then punched some
numbers into the till.
 He muttered something and held out his hand.
 "Pardon?" I leaned forward.
 "Joyce!" he cried, startling me. "How are you love?"
 The doorbell tinkled. "Hello Jack my darling!" came the squealy voice
of some elderly woman.
 "How much did you say the drink was?" I repeated calmly. Out of the
corner of my eye I could see a queue of people trailing out behind me.
 A very large queue indeed.
 The shopkeeper's fingers wiggled desirously. He looked at me. His
eyes were big and brown and above them, two oddly thick bushes
twitched like wooly catapillars. Slowly but surely, I was beginning
to dislike the man.
 "How's your Rebecca?" he called to the woman. "Did she have a nice
birthday?"
 "Yes, oh yes!" replied the merry voice, now a lot closer.
 "Excuse me?" I said.
 The man, only narrowly overlapping my words, snapped, "Come on kid,
there's people waiting!"
 "I know," I laughed quite humourlessly. "Just how much-"
 "THIRTY FIVE PENCE!" the man boomed, then, "How's the new washer
Joyce love? Georgina told me about it. I think it's a good thing for
you, darling..."
 From that point on, I didn't just hate the shopkeeper, I wanted to
KILL him. I wanted to trash the shop, beat the FUCK out of "Joyce" and
set fire to the coughing, sighing people behind me.
 Such a stupendously simple program - "Enter Shop With Money. Buy Cool
Drink. Leave Shop With Drink." - such an utterly normal task, somehow
succeeded in driving me beyond any kind of controllable rage.
 The rude invasion of trivial small-talk transformed the remaining
social and moral braincells I had left into demonic, bloodthirsty
destructors. My teeth came together, hard. Up and out came the knife,
and whilst the shopkeeper's mouth uncraned and his eyes widened, down
the knife came, down and into that greedy, hateful hand - point first.
 The shopkeeper didn't verbally respond to my attack until I had
impaled his hand completely. The point of the knife jabbed into the
counter with a hollow thud, and the once admirably shiny blade blurred
with crimson.
 For almost three seconds, the man simply stared at me, his eyes, nose
and mouth wide open, and each dribbling; tears, snot and saliva.
 I succeeded in making one shopper scream; the elderly lady who's
appearance had seemingly stolen the shopkeeper's entire life. Her
screams were loud, choked... satisfying.
# I grinned, would you believe? I was so happy to hear that sound!
 What followed was virtual chaos: the whole shop became a tumbling
mess of arms and legs, newspapers and sweets, screams and cries... the
doorbell tinkled more times than I could count. Soon after, I found
myself alone with the man, still holding the knife, still pressing it
down with sheer fury... and still grinning like a maniac.
 "Taaaakkeeee!" the shopkeeper hissed and with his other hand, skidded
my can of orange juice across the counter. It stopped half an inch
from falling on the floor. "Taaaakkeee! Pleeeeesssseee!"
 "Should have paid attention to me, huh?" I whispered harshly. "Now
look what's happened. Hear that?" we both stopped breathing and
listened to the folk outside; high-pitched screams, loud yelling, even
the screech of car tires. "Hear it? That's all your fault... all your
doing. How's that make you feel? Huh? You stupid son of a BITCH!" I
wrenched the knife out of his hand. It came free much easier than I
had expected and I fell back clumsily into the central fixture,
knocking over piles of precarously piled boxes.
 The shopkeeper, clutching his bloodsoaked hand, said nothing; he
simply cowered back against the wall behind the counter and slid down
it. A few packets of cigs rained over him.
 I staggered up, brushed my jeans, put thirty five pence gently on the
counter and walked out of the shop.

 I came out into the fresh air holding a blood-dripping knife and a
can of fizzy orange. The publics' reaction to my appearance was not
good. Not good at all. The knife caused panic - understandably - but
it was a kind of panic I had never seen before in my life...
 Three women dropped their bags and ran, screaming the sort of screams
I thought only existed in movies. An old lady wearing a bright pink
cardigan fell to her knees only a few metres from me, and started to
grovel. A woman came out of the chemists, saw me stood there, gave me
a brief look, then briskly ran off, got into an orange car and
screeched away from the curb.
 Two boys - no older than thirteen - were perched on the wall of a
field just across the road, whispering to each other fiercely in what
I can only describe as pure excitement (they were ready to run, all
the same).
 Such mixed reactions scared me, made me realise just how serious an
offence I had commited. After standing there gawping for almost an
entire minute, I gathered my senses and ran for it too.

 I ran for so long I made myself wheezy. The road I was using to get
out of Stone Bridge seemed endless... after each turn came another,
every dip revealed more snaking white marks. The open meadow to my
left exploded out across the world like a green desert, offering me no
hope, shelter or destiny. At the other side of the road were small
trees and shrubs, very small, but big enough - I supposed - to hide my
body if need be. At least the houses had gone. And the people.
 My body eventually gave up; I stopped and collapsed in the left hand
side of the road. The bloody knife clanged upon contact with the
scorching gravel. My can of orange escaped and began a speedy journey
back down the road.
 I cried, you know. I cried very hard, and for the first time in about
three years, too. I knew I had crossed some kind of borderline... I
had thrown myself into a world of madness and confusion - not really
knowing why or how I had become so irrationally violent and impatient,
despite the excuses my mind came up with.
 I stopped crying, opened my eyes, and screamed like hell when the
front of a car roared to a jerky halt, inches from my face. All I
remember is a huge darkness blocking out the sun, and hearing the hiss
of an overworked engine and several tiny "ping" noises. For what
seemed like an eternity, nothing happened: the car looked down at me
angrilly, and I looked up at the car - petrified and panting like a
run-down dog.
 A door unclipped.
 "Jesus fucking CHRIST!" someone yelled. It sounded like a woman in
her late twenties. A pair of flat-heeled shoes clattered and skidded
speedily round the car, then went behind me somewhere, and a big,
narrow shadow rose up across the bonet.
 Some hands touched me. Warm hands. Shaky, terrified hands. "Oh fuck!
Oh fuck! Oh Jesus fuck my brother! Don't be dead! Don't you fucking
dare be dead you son of a bitch!"
 Still panting with shock, I allowed the woman to turn me onto my
back. She was cursing hysterically - "Jesus! Oh fucking Jesus!" - and
whipping her eyes up and down my body very quickly indeed, searching
for any injuries. "Oh you're not dead! Oh Jesus you're not dead!" she
cried joyously when I gave her the weakest, most pathetic smile I've
ever managed to perform in my life. "What the fuck're you DOING? Just
what the fuck are you doing in the ROAD?" she cried, flapping her arms
around in utter bafflement.
 I think she was too releaved I was alive to be angry, which is a good
job because the meat-knife was only inches from my fingers. She hadn't
seen it - fear seemed to have partially-blinded her.
 "I-I'm... runnin' away..." I told her feebly. "I'm runnin' for it..."
 Her face came closer to mine. She was perhaps thirty years old, with
a very narrow, flat-cheeked face. Her eyes were dark green, big and
wide, in contrast to the rest of her facial features, and twinkled in
the afternoon sun. Perhaps the most parculiar, striking thing was her
purple hair; it was long and fairly bright, yet seemed completely
natual. It suited her. I found her very attractive person, I don't
mind admitting.
 "Look mate, I've got to drive down this road whether you like it or
not." she told me in a voice that tried to be aggressive. There was a
weak London accent in there too. "You're not hurt are you? Have you
been run down and someone's left you? Just... what...?"
 "I'm okay."
 "What about your head?" she touched it lightly.
 "No, really I'm okay." I insisted, guiding her away with my hands.
 "Come on, lets get you onto the pavement for fuck's sake. What're you
trying to do? Jesus Christ..."
 She took hold of my arms, pulled me, then stopped. I looked up at
her. She'd seen something... shit, the knife. The blood on the blade.
Her eyes wandered to me curiously. Unlike I thought, she didn't scream
or panic. Instead, she crouched down to me again, this time even
closer.
 "What's the knife for, mate? Is it yours?"
 I nodded and swallowed a lump in my throat. "I-I'm not a murderer."
 "I'm sure you aren't." she said. Her face remained rock solid.
 "Look..." I croaked. My throat was agonisingly sore and I could taste
warm, salty tears in my saliva. "I'm in very big trouble. I think you
should leave me alone."
 "You can come with me." the woman decided and hooked her arms under
my shoulders. "Come on, up you get." she said, lifting me with all her
strength. "Lets get you in the car."
 "But...?" I whimpered. "What're you talking about...? I have to stay
here... I'm-I'm in serious shit..."
 "It doesn't matter, mate." said the woman, dragging me towards the
passenger-side door. "Nothing matters. Not today."

# The next part of this story will be featured in Dark Portal 3,
#(assuming I can be arsed to put it together that is). Until then, why
#not check out the article called "Martins is right. Do you agree?"
#and give me some feedback! Cheers!