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The Last Hand

By Newton Webb

Monday, 29 August 1881. London, England.

Richard Maynard paused, a strip of toast in one hand and a telegram in the other.

Ten years after Charles Dunn had vanished on the Hagelspitze, he had returned.

He dropped his toast onto his plate and re-read the telegram.

BODY RECOVERED BELOW HAGELSPITZE. EFFECTS BEAR DUNN INITIALS. PRESENCE REQUIRED FOR IDENTIFICATION.

Richard folded it along its original crease and placed it beside his congealing egg.

Outside the dining-room window, rain blurred the houses across the square. A cab passed through, its wheels hissing over the wet road. Richard watched it until it disappeared around the corner.

His hand began to shake.

He closed his fingers around the coffee cup. The china clicked against the saucer.

Charles was dead. Richard had told himself so for ten years. Now he had the confirmation he’d always dreaded.

No man could have survived three nights on the north shelf of the Hagelspitze. Not in that storm. Not without food or a route down. Renowned mountaineer Lukas Haid had led two searches after the weather cleared, funded by Charles’s family and subscriptions from members of the Alpine Club. Richard had contributed a generous cheque himself.

Nothing had been found except a strip of green cloth caught on a spur of rock five hundred feet below the ridge.

Charles’s climbing coat had been green. The material matched. The colour matched.

It was good enough evidence. It had to be.

Even so, Richard had seen Charles in London crowds, at railway stations and reflected in darkened windows. A tall man in a green coat would turn a corner ahead of him, always just too quickly to be followed. On winter nights, Richard sometimes woke to the scrape of hobnails on the pavement beneath his bedroom. When he looked out, the street was empty and white with frost.

But not having seen his friend’s corpse, he’d always had a nagging doubt that Charles had died on that ridge.

Until now, when the mountain provided proof.

Richard left for Switzerland that afternoon.

Thursday, 1 September 1881. Grindelwald, Switzerland.

A hired carriage carried Richard up the valley from Interlaken. The rain had followed him across Europe. It hung over the Bernese Alps, concealing the summits and turning the track to brown mud.

The driver hunched beneath an oilskin cape. Richard sat behind him with a blanket across his knees and watched water course down the black rock faces. Every stream had swollen into a white torrent.

The valley narrowed as they approached Grindelwald. Mountains appeared between breaks in the cloud. The blunt shoulder of the Eiger. The pale sweep of the Wetterhorn. The dark, icy cleft through which the Lower Glacier descended.

He’d made a fortune from describing those views in lecture halls across Britain. Audiences had listened in reverent silence as he told them about the majesty of the Alps and the death of his dearest friend. He’d written about the expedition in his memoirs.

Richard had even wept once, in front of an audience of students at Oxford. The tears had been genuine, which only made the memory more shameful.

The hotel stood at the upper end of the village. Its white walls and dark shutters hadn’t changed, although the stable was larger and a glass awning now protected the entrance. An attractive young man waited beneath it.

He was broad-shouldered, with rain shining on his black beard.

“Mr Maynard?”

Richard stepped down from the carriage. “Yes.”

“Jakob Haid.”

Richard looked at him more closely. He did look a bit like Lukas, with his pale eyes and square jaw.

“You were a boy when I was last here.”

“Yes, sir. Sixteen. I carried equipment for the search party.”

Richard removed his gloves. “I remember your father. He was a good man.”

“He died four winters ago.”

Richard winced. “I’m sorry to hear that. We became close during the search.”

Jakob took Richard’s hand in a warm grip. “My father never stopped looking for Mr Dunn, nor did I. It was I who found him.”

Richard withdrew his hand. “Where did you find the body?”

“At the lower edge of the ice.” Jakob glanced towards the glacier. “There was a fall four nights ago. Part of the face broke away. He was inside.”

“The lower edge?”

“Yes, sir.” Jakob nodded. “It wasn’t where we were expecting to find him. You must have been confused about your location. The weather can do that on the peaks.”

“Are you certain? Truly certain it’s Charles?”

“As certain as I can be. That’s why we asked you to confirm it.” Jakob stood, his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry that we’ve had to dredge this up again. I know how much you miss your friend.”

The hotel proprietor hurried out to supervise the luggage.

Jakob led him through the hotel and down a narrow flight of stone stairs. The air became colder with every step. At the bottom stood a thick wooden door reinforced with iron straps. “Dr Schwank is waiting inside the ice cellar. We couldn’t leave his body in the church. He’s begun to ripen.”

Richard held his hanky to his nose. Jakob hadn’t exaggerated. The cellar smelled of wet stone and the faintly sweet scent of death. Blocks of ice lay packed against the walls beneath layers of sacking and straw. Water dripped steadily into a grated channel cut across the floor.

An elderly man in a black coat stood beside two trestles. A long shape rested upon them beneath a grey sheet.

“Dr Schwank,” Jakob said. “This is Mr Richard Maynard.”

The doctor bowed. “I am sorry to request your presence. Thank you for coming, especially all the way from England.”

“I would endure far more for my dear friend, as he would have done for me.”

Dr Schwank drew back the sheet.

Charles lay on his back with his head turned towards the door. The ice had drawn the colour from his hair and flattened it against his skull. His cheeks had sunk until the skin stretched across the bones.

One side of his face was flattened, but the other retained the long jaw and high cheekbone Richard remembered.

His green climbing coat was stiff with ice. A hemp rope remained wound twice around his waist. The broken end trailed across his chest and hung from the side of the trestle.

His left arm lay straight beside him. The sleeve had been cut away, exposing a blue heart tattooed on his shoulder.

Richard stared at it. Beneath his shirt, its twin lay hidden.

They’d acquired the tattoos in Portsmouth after their first Alpine expedition. They’d drunk rum with a group of sailors until dawn, then slept beneath a billiard table. Charles had insisted they needed something to commemorate their first triumph together.

“It’s him.” Richard ran his fingers over the cold, dead flesh. “It’s Charles Dunn.”

Dr Schwank covered the face but left the arms exposed. “There are other means of identification. A watch engraved with his initials. Letters in an oilskin wallet. This is sufficient, however.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Letters? Has anyone read them?”

“No, his effects are in a leather pouch, waiting to be collected. You can take them when you are ready.”

He could make out four water-damaged cards frozen together between Charles’s blackened fingers.

Richard stepped closer. “Cards.” The sweet smell strengthened.

Dr Schwank peered through his spectacles. “Playing cards? It’s possible. His body would have frozen fast on the cliff face.”

In his mind, Richard felt the freezing wind whipping against the cold stone. He heard snow hissing across a ledge. He remembered holding a pack of cards between numb fingers.

Jakob watched him from the doorway.

“The body must soften before I can examine the hand,” Dr Schwank said. “Come tomorrow morning.”

“No, I want to see the cards. Can you thaw them?”

Dr Schwank raised his eyebrows.

“It’s important that you finish tonight,” Richard explained. “I’ve travelled a considerable distance.”

The doctor replaced the sheet. The outline of Charles’s face remained visible through the damp cloth. “Tomorrow.” Dr Schwank turned away.

Richard followed them upstairs.

Dinner was served at eight. He sat alone beside the window while the other guests talked about the rain. Richard cut his veal into smaller and smaller pieces. Instead of eating, he drank brandy.

Four playing cards.

He’d left the cards with Charles. He remembered that clearly.

They’d thrown down their hands into the snow.

Why had Charles picked them up?

Friday, 1 September 1871. The Hagelspitze, Bernese Alps, Switzerland.

At half past three that morning, Lukas Haid stood in the stable yard refusing to let them pass.

Stars filled the valley. Frost whitened the road beyond the hotel, and the lantern in Haid’s hand threw his shadow across the gate.

“This is madness, lads.” Lukas blocked the exit with his body. “There’ll be snow before noon.”

“Nonsense, man.” Charles looked at the clear sky. “There isn’t a cloud over the valley.”

Lukas shook his head. “There are clouds beyond the Wetterhorn. Just because you can’t see them yet doesn’t mean they aren’t there waiting. It’s going to be bad up there, mark my words.”

Richard had noticed the stars disappearing above the Wetterhorn. He knew what it might mean, but he had waited too long for a triumph bearing his own name. Charles had finally agreed to let him lead the expedition. “It’s fine. We’ll be down before they arrive.” Richard grinned. “I think old Lukas here underestimates us.”

Haid turned to Richard. “The north spur will hold fresh ice. Wait one day and you’ll have a clear climb.”

Richard looked at Charles. Charles stood beside him, tall and straight, his heavy moustache silvered by frost. Before Charles, he’d been a deckhand with no education, no family worth naming and no expectation of becoming anything else. Charles possessed money, breeding and an effortless charm. He could enter a room of strangers and leave with three invitations to dinner. He’d found Richard in a brothel in Portsmouth. They’d both entered seeking female company and left with each other.

Together, they’d completed six difficult ascents. Richard planned the routes and studied the weather, but each one had been reported as another Dunn triumph.

This time, Richard had insisted that the new route up the north spur bear his name. “We go today.” If they climbed it, the triumph would be his.

Haid lowered his lantern. “Then you go without me.”

“Gaze upon English courage, Lukas.” Charles clapped him on the shoulder as they passed. “And keep our table by the fire. We shall want a stiff drink and a hearty dinner when we return.”

Haid didn’t answer. They reached the glacier before sunrise. Blue light filled its fissures.

For the first six hours, the climb went exactly as Richard had planned. They crossed the lower icefall, gained the spur and followed a steep ridge of frozen snow towards the summit. The spare rope lashed across Richard’s pack pulled at his shoulders, but they made good progress. The valley opened beneath them. Grindelwald became a handful of pale marks among dark fields.

Shortly after eleven, Richard slipped.

His left boot tore through a crust of snow and pitched him from the ridge. He swung in for a moment, suspended in the air, before his body impacted the slope and he slid towards the drop.

Charles threw himself onto the other side of the ridge. He buried his axe in the ice, wrapped the rope across his shoulders and held Richard’s weight until Richard found purchase with his knees.

It took several minutes to pull him back.

“Hell’s bells.” Richard lay panting in the snow. “I thought I was done for.”

Charles’s gloves had torn against the rope. “Not while I’m holding you, old boy.” Blood seeped through the wool and leather around his fingers. “You owe me a bottle.”

Richard caught his wrist. “I owe you rather more than that.”

“Then you have the rest of our lives to repay me.”

The first cloud passed over the sun. Richard watched it, his heart sinking. “Charles…”

“I see it. It’s your expedition. How should we proceed?” Charles smiled at him.

“We can’t continue. I must confess, Lukas was right.” The admission felt sour in Richard’s mouth.

Charles nodded. “Well, best not tell him that. Still, I think it’s the right decision. We can always come back.”

They abandoned the summit and began their descent. Within an hour, they could see no farther than the rope between them. Snow covered their tracks as quickly as they made them. The wind rose, driving snow against their goggles until the lenses glazed with ice. Soon they were moving on their hands and knees.

For the rest of the afternoon, they fought their way down the ridge. Richard’s frozen fingers slipped from the rock. Charles’s injured hands left smears of blood on the rope. More than once, they stopped beneath an outcrop and pressed their bodies against the stone while the wind tried to tear them away.

They might have continued like that until dark, had the slope above them not cracked with a sound like a pistol shot. Charles shouted. A wall of snow struck them, tore their packs from their shoulders and carried the climbers out over the ridge.

Richard slid until he struck a low wall of loose stone. The impact drove the breath from him. He wedged himself against it as the rope between them pulled tight.

When the snow settled, Charles hung over the edge of the shelf.

“You need to eat less,” Richard grunted as he dragged Charles back onto the north shelf, a strip of stone beneath a small overhang, where the remains of an old surveyor’s wall offered scant protection from the wind.

Charles looked down. The avalanche had swept away the narrow traverse below, leaving an ice cliff between them and the western gully. “I think we may have bigger problems than my waist.” Their route home lay beyond the ice cliff, but there was no longer a way for both men to reach it.

The avalanche had taken both packs, Richard’s axe and the spare rope.

Charles rose, rubbing his side, and tested the remains of the wall. Several stones shifted beneath his glove. He pulled a crushed silver flask from his coat and dropped it onto the stones. “Nothing here will hold the rope, and now we are out of brandy. One of us will have to lower the other.”

“Please don’t joke.” Richard shook his head. “Whoever does the lowering would have to stay behind. Absolutely not.”

“Only until the other returns with Haid.”

“No, no!” Richard pressed a hand against the blue heart beneath his coat. “If Haid doesn’t get back in time, it’s a death sentence.”

They looked at each other.

The clouds had already swallowed the valley. Snow streamed horizontally past the opening. Their coats were hard with ice. Charles’s lips had begun to turn blue, but he still shook his head. “Nonsense, boy. We English are made of sterner stuff.” Charles flashed Richard a smile, then reached inside his coat and pulled out a pack of cards. “Tell you what. Let’s play a final hand for it.”

Richard’s legs trembled with exhaustion, but Charles was acting as if nothing was wrong. “A single card?” Richard asked. “Highest value wins?”

“Bit bleak for a gamble, old boy.” Charles winked at him. “No. One hand. No exchanging. Best hand goes down.”

Richard stared at him. “Whoever remains may not see morning.”

“Then the fellow who descends had better make haste.”

“Charles.”

“Listen to me, Dickie. If this goes badly, you won’t be cast out. I’ve already signed the will. Mantleford is yours, and there is money enough to keep it.”

Richard had spent three summers at Mantleford, always introduced as Charles’s climbing companion and best friend. It was the first place he had ever thought of as home.

“I don’t want the house without you,” Richard said.

Charles touched his face with the back of his torn glove. Then he kissed him. His mouth was cold. His breath tasted of brandy. “This isn’t where we end,” Charles whispered. “We are together forever.”

Richard gripped the front of his coat and kissed him again. “Together forever.”

Charles pushed the cards into his hand. “You deal. You’ve always been rather good with your hands.”

I will come back for him.

Richard shuffled.

He’s stronger than me.

His fingers moved by habit, separating cards, returning them and letting the edges whisper against his palm. Before mountaineering, before Charles, he had played cards below deck for coins, watches, shifts and favours.

He saw the first ace during the shuffle.

If I stay, I shall die.

Then the second.

His thumb found the other two.

He brought them together at the bottom of the pack and pressed a slight bend into their corners.

Richard dealt them five cards each, one at a time. Charles received his from the top. Four times, when Richard’s own turn came, his middle finger drew from the bottom.

Charles arranged his cards with hands shaking from the cold. “Ready?”

Richard nodded.

Charles laid down two kings, two jacks and a three. “Two pair.”

Richard displayed the four aces.

I will come back for him.

For several seconds, Charles didn’t react. “Well, now, will you look at that?” Snow hissed against the stones. Then he smiled. “You’ve got the devil’s own luck, you do.”

Richard returned the unused cards to their box and left it on the wall. “I will bring Haid.” Richard’s four aces remained face-up between them.

Charles swept his own hand aside. “See that you do. I refuse to die in this ghastly country.”

They kissed once more. Richard held him until Charles pushed him away.

“Enough. The sooner you’re down, the sooner we can both be back by the fire.”

They worked quickly. Charles looped the rope twice round his waist, planted his boots against the remains of the wall and wedged the ice axe into a shallow crack. The axe would not hold by itself. Charles braced it with his full weight as Richard crawled backwards to the edge.

“The western gully. Tell Haid I’m above the black tooth. He’ll know it,” Charles said. “Before morning, Dickie!”

“I promise, Charles.” Richard went over the edge. “I won’t let you down.”

Charles lowered him foot by foot. The rope cut beneath Richard’s arms. His boots scraped the ice, found nothing, then struck the lower snowfield.

He pulled the rope twice to signal that he was safe.

The rope slackened and began to rise as Charles hauled it back onto the shelf. Charles raised one torn hand in salute.

Richard returned the salute and turned towards the western gully.

He reached the village shortly after midnight on Saturday. Blood filled his boots, and ice crusted his beard. Lukas Haid found him stumbling beside the church.

“Where’s Mr Dunn?” Haid demanded.

Richard opened his mouth.

The correct words were simple.

North shelf. Above the black tooth. Western gully.

He imagined Haid reaching Charles before dawn. Charles would return to the hotel, pale and half-frozen but alive. They would sit before the fire in Charles’s room, wrapped in blankets and drinking whisky. Charles would put his arms around him. They would laugh about the hand of cards and swear never to leave each other again.

Then Richard remembered the four aces lying face-up on the shelf.

Charles would have hours to examine them. He would feel the bent corners. He would remember the way Richard had dealt each card from beneath the pack.

Perhaps he’d already noticed. Was he silent before he smiled? He might’ve been. He was. He definitely was.

Richard imagined Charles asking him why he’d cheated. He imagined trying to explain that he’d intended to return, that the card trick had meant nothing because both of them would live. He saw the door of Charles’s room closing against him. He saw himself turned out of Mantleford Hall. The wealth and comfort he’d become used to would be snatched away and he’d be returned to grubbing about on the docks.

He’ll hate me.

Haid seized the front of his coat. “Where is he?”

North shelf. Above the black tooth. Western gully.

“The east face,” Richard lied. “A cornice gave way. He went down towards the upper glacier.”

Haid stared at him. “The east face?”

“Yes.”

The search party left before dawn. They searched the east face for two days.

By the time Richard admitted that cold and exhaustion might have confused him, another avalanche had swept the north shelf clean.

Charles’s mother came to Grindelwald in the spring. Richard walked with her to the foot of the glacier and showed her where he claimed Charles had fallen.

“He couldn’t have had a better friend,” Charles’s mother said. She held Richard’s arm while Haid erected a small wooden cross. “He always loved you like a brother.”

Richard kissed her cheek, but remained silent.

Six months later, the Alpine Journal published his account of the expedition. Richard described Charles cutting the rope after the cornice collapsed and sacrificing himself so Richard might live. Newspapers repeated the story. The Alpine Club praised Charles’s courage and Richard’s endurance. Richard delivered a lecture beneath an enormous painted view of the Hagelspitze and received a standing ovation.

Charles’s mother honoured the will without complaint. She said her son had trusted Richard above all other men.

Richard inherited Mantleford Hall.

Success followed. There were other mountains, lectures and invitations to dine with men far above his previous station. A London publisher issued his memoirs.

A sailor born in the gutter now lived like a lord.

Charles couldn’t have survived the first night.

He hung Charles’s portrait above the library fireplace.

The search party could never have reached the shelf through the storm.

It would have been foolish to stay.

Any man faced with freezing to death alone would have dealt those aces.

He filled his glass again.

I don’t regret cheating.

He emptied the glass and reached for the brandy decanter.

Above the fire, Charles watched him pour.

Thursday, 1 September 1881. Grindelwald, Switzerland.

He pushed his uneaten plate away. His empty brandy glass stood beside it.

Jakob Haid was watching him from the other side of the dining room. His coat was wet, and droplets shone in his beard.

Richard beckoned to the waiter, his voice slurring. “Brandy.”

Jakob approached the table. “May I sit?”

Richard gestured towards the empty chair. “Don’t see why not.”

Jakob placed a leather pouch on the table. “These were found with Mr Dunn. Dr Schwank says you may have them.”

Richard looked at the pouch but didn’t touch it. “The district officer has seen them?”

“He comes tomorrow. Dr Schwank says they are personal effects.”

The waiter brought the brandy. Richard swallowed half of it before the man had left the table. “Did your father tell you they searched the wrong face because of me?” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I was half dead. I had been walking for hours in a storm.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Jakob pushed the pouch across the table. “I brought these for you as soon as I could.”

Richard opened it.

Inside lay Charles’s watch, a brass compass, some coins, and a silver flask crushed almost flat along one side. An oilskin wallet contained three letters folded into quarters. Beneath it rested a pencil and a water stained notebook swollen against the leather.

Richard picked up the letters and hesitated for a moment before frantically leafing through them.

They were letters to Charles, not from him, so he tossed them onto the table and lifted out the notebook. The first pages contained sketches of ridges and measurements written in Charles’s sloping hand. The later pages had fused together.

The final readable entry was dated the morning of their climb.

Clear sky. Haid predicts snow. Maynard says all will be well. We shall be toasting yet another victory tomorrow.

Richard closed the book. “There was nothing else?”

“Only what he holds.” Jakob glanced towards the cellar stairs.

“Wait.” Richard looked at his glass. He didn’t remember emptying it. “I want to see Charles again. I need to see him.”

“The cellar is locked.” Jakob shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. Dr Schwank has the key.”

Richard watched him leave, signalling to the waiter.

At ten, Dr Schwank retired from the restaurant to his room. Richard saw him hang the cellar key on a brass hook behind the reception desk. The night porter sat nearby reading a newspaper.

Richard remained in the dining room.

He drank steadily. He could no longer tell which brandy he was drinking. By eleven, he wouldn’t even have noticed if they’d served him whisky instead. The fire sank in the grate, and the remaining guests went upstairs. Shortly before midnight, he was drinking alone.

The porter had disappeared into the kitchen, leaving his newspaper folded beside a steaming cup of coffee.

Richard crossed the reception hall. The floor seemed to sway beneath his feet, and he steadied himself against the desk.

The cellar key hung from its hook. He grabbed it and held it against his chest.

An oil lamp waited on the landing above the cellar stairs. It took Richard a few attempts to light it. He swore until it caught, then began his descent. The flame trembled inside its glass chimney.

Water could be heard dripping behind the cellar door. He fiddled with the key until it turned with a heavy clunk.

Richard entered and locked the door behind him.

It was just Richard and Charles now.

The cellar was colder than before, but Charles had continued to thaw. Blocks of ice stood against the walls beneath layers of sacking and straw. Their exposed edges glistened in the lamplight, making the cellar gleam like a crystal mausoleum. Several had been dragged forward and packed around the trestles to slow the thaw. The staff had chipped them to fit, leaving irregular corners jutting into the narrow passage beside the body.

Richard pulled away the sheet. Charles’s once proud walrus moustache lay dark and flaccid against his upper lip. His eyes stung at the sight of the man. Water pooled beneath the trestles. Charles’s clothes sagged against his body. He lay on a broad wooden board.

Richard set the lamp on an upturned crate. “It wasn’t my fault.” His voice caught. “It wasn’t my fault!” he repeated, louder.

Charles’s face had changed. The flattened cheek had lifted as the ice released it. His mouth hung slightly open, showing brown teeth. Meltwater ran from his hair and gathered in the hollow of his throat.

The sleeve of his green coat remained cut away. The blue heart on his shoulder had darkened as the skin thawed.

Richard pressed two fingers against its twin beneath his shirt. “We were supposed to be together forever.”

Charles stared at the ceiling.

Richard lowered his hand and concentrated on the clenched fist against Charles’s chest. Four white corners protruded between the blackened fingers.

He took hold of the first and pulled. It didn’t move.

“Damn you.”

He brought the lamp closer. Warmth touched the dead fingers. Droplets formed along the knuckles and ran over the cards.

Richard waited.

Charles released a long, damp sigh.

Richard recoiled and struck the crate. The lamp rocked, then settled.

Thawing lungs. That’s all.

Charles stared past him.

Richard returned to the hand. The fingers yielded when he pulled them apart. One cracked at the middle joint. A strip of dark skin tore from the palm.

The cards came free. They were Richard’s four aces. The cards had softened and swollen with moisture. Richard carefully laid them across Charles’s chest.

Their corners still carried the shallow bends he had pressed into them with his thumbnail. Ten years in the glacier had not removed them.

There was writing in pencil across the ace of hearts. The pencil marks were faint but legible when he smoothed out the cards.

Charles had written. I forgive you, Dickie.

Richard stared. He’d spent ten years justifying the cheating, the false direction, and the search on the east face. The storm had confused him. The cold had fuddled his memory. Charles couldn’t have survived either way.

He’d spent ten years drinking his way through the guilt.

Charles had known about the aces before Richard left the shelf and had still forgiven him.

The east face.

Richard had repaid that forgiveness by sending Haid to the wrong face.

“You don’t get to forgive me!” Richard hurled the oil lamp. It flared before dying in the drainage channel, plunging the room into darkness. “You can’t judge me. You aren’t better than me.”

Charles remained silent.

Richard pounded his fist against the cold corpse. “Say something!” Richard cried out and lurched backwards. His hip struck the trestle. One foot skidded through the meltwater. The back of his skull struck the sharp corner of an ice block.

Light burst behind his eyes.

Warm blood spread beneath his head. He planted one hand against the stones, but his arm folded beneath him. His boot caught the wooden leg and dragged it sideways as he fell, the trestle collapsing.

Beside him, Charles fell from the board.

His body struck the floor with a wet, heavy thud. It lay beside Richard.

In the darkness, Richard knew that Charles’s face was turned towards him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Close to his ear, he heard a waterlogged whisper.

“Together forever.”

THE END

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The Penitent Man

By Newton Webb

14 November 2012, Soho, London

The key stuck halfway in the lock. Father Joseph O’Sullivan muttered under his breath and worked it back and forth until the tumblers gave.

On a nearby bench in the churchyard, David, the local vagrant, sat with four cans of Kestrel lined up. Joseph tolerated him as long as he didn’t spend the night in the yard. After all, who hadn’t sinned?

He knew he shouldn’t drink whisky. It always left him feeling rough, but a wee dram was one of his weaknesses. Two wee drams had become three, then more, the previous night. Now his mouth tasted sour, his head throbbed and the cold had settled deep inside his bones. Joseph tried not to think about the lager.

Hair of the dog?

“Get ye behind me, Satan.” Joseph chuckled as the heavy church door groaned open. An early-morning gust of wind followed him inside, pushing crisp packets and dead leaves across the porch before he forced the door shut.

At seven in the morning, the church belonged to him. The nave was empty, its pillars rising into darkness beyond the reach of the wall lamps. The heating had only just come on. Somewhere beneath the floor, old pipes clanked and coughed, not that they were producing much in the way of warmth.

Joseph walked down the side aisle, switching on lights and preparing for the first Mass. His cassock swooshed against the pews. Each step sent a familiar ache through his left knee.

Damned arthritis.

He stopped before the altar, bowed his head and offered up a swift prayer. The first of his regulars would begin arriving soon. Until then, he had confessions to hear, although few people came at this hour. He might even be able to manage a nap before the first penitent appeared. He’d been blessed with such kindness before.

He adjusted his purple stole and sat heavily on the oak bench inside the Victorian-era confessional. The box smelled of furniture wax, old wood and damp. He switched on the dim light, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

He offered another prayer, this one asking for twenty minutes of silence.

The heavy church doors groaned open.

Punishment for my sins.

A gust of freezing air rushed through the nave, whistling past the pillars.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

There would be no nap for him today. Instead, Joseph kept his eyes closed and listened. He knew he should respect the privacy of penitents, but trying to guess what manner of person was approaching had become a private game. It kept his mind sharp and distracted him from counting the hours until his next drink.

Hard leather soles on marble. A slow, deliberate pace. Not the hesitant shuffle of early-morning shame that usually accompanied fornicators and addicts. This sounded like the stride of a confident man.

A City worker? An early start at the office?

The footsteps stopped outside the lattice. The wood creaked as the man settled onto the kneeler.

“Good morning, Father.”

The voice was low, with an educated English accent. Joseph could imagine it booming across boardrooms.

“Good morning.”

“You sound tired.”

“And yet the spirit is willing.” Joseph rubbed his knee. “Are you here to confess, my son?”

“Yes, Father.” The man waited a moment before continuing. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been forty years since my last honest confession.”

“A long time. A very long time. God’s been waiting.”

“Oh, he’ll want to hear this one.”

The man’s quiet chuckle irritated him. “Are you ready to unburden your sins?”

“I betrayed my closest friend.”

Joseph perked up. “Go on.”

“I did it over the telephone. I was too much of a coward to do it face to face. I covered the receiver so no one would recognise my voice.”

Joseph shifted on the bench. The ache in his knee had sharpened. “It isn’t my role to judge you. Only the Lord can do that. Why did you betray him?”

“One of the seven, Father. Good old-fashioned envy. Practically biblical.”

“Envy has plagued mankind since the dawn of time. Even a priest is not immune.” Joseph raised his eyebrows. “But if your repentance is sincere, the Lord can forgive you.”

“Can He forgive a man after forty years?”

“God’s mercy is infinite.”

“Well, in that case.” The man took a slow breath. “I was eighteen when I picked up the phone, a different man. I went by the name Aidan Kerrigan.”

Joseph’s hand froze against his knee. A sudden pain stabbed through it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Aidan Kerrigan.” He paused. “Is everything all right, Father?”

“Fine, sorry, yes. I’m fine. I knew an Aidan, that’s all. It was a long time ago.”

“It’s a common name, Joseph.”

“You should address me as Father.”

“I’m sorry, Father. It’s the memories.”

Joseph grunted as the pain in his arthritic knee sharpened, lancing through it. He flexed his leg as it abated.

“My best mate, Finley, died.”

Joseph stopped rubbing his knee. He’d known a Finley. They’d been old friends who drank far too much Guinness and cut a swathe through the Belfast ladies. Finley had a cheeky smile and thick black curls. They’d tried to straighten them once with Brylcreem before going to the pub, but no matter how much they used, the curls had stubbornly remained and had risen until Finley’s hair looked like a solid loaf of rye bread.

“I reported him.”

“Why?” Joseph leaned forwards. “If he was your best friend?”

“I just said envy, but if I were to be more forgiving, I’d say it was love too.”

Joseph already knew the answer, but he still asked, “Who did you report Finley to?” The ache in his left knee exploded. Joseph gasped and clutched the joint.

“The Provos,” the man said. “Men from the Provisional IRA.”

The pain was no longer the dull grind of arthritis. It felt as though something hard was pressing against his kneecap. He rubbed at it with his hand, but it had no effect.

Joseph braced his hands against the bench and tried to stand. The pain drove him back down.

Whirr.

He screamed. The vibration travelled up his thigh and into his teeth. He felt his kneecap collapse as something tore into it.

“Why would you report Finley?” Joseph screamed. “He was innocent!”

“How would you know, Father? Perhaps I really did see him talking to a British patrol?”

His kneecap burned with agony. Joseph threw his head back and cried out.

“Finley would never do that!” Joseph screamed.

“Why do you think he was innocent, Father?”

“Because he gave one of the soldiers a light,” Joseph sobbed. “That’s all. He lit the man’s cursed cigarette.”

“If that’s true, then why would I lie?”

“He slept with Riona. He knew I liked her. He could’ve had any other girl.” Joseph smelled cooked flesh and burning bone. He rubbed desperately at his knee, but it offered no relief. “Instead, he took mine.”

“Riona was yours?” The man’s voice was quieter now.

“No. Not really. She looked at Finley as if he were the only man in Belfast. I was invisible to her and I hated him for it.”

Joseph felt a burning pressure against his other knee, followed by rending flesh and splintering bone.

Somewhere beyond the confessional, the heavy doors opened again. He heard startled voices and hurried footsteps, but they seemed impossibly distant.

“It must have been quite a delight to hear about the golden boy being tortured to death. They drilled through both kneecaps. Then they moved to his left elbow.”

Joseph squeezed his eyes shut. “It wasn’t. I hated myself,” he cried out.

Whirr.

Joseph screamed until his throat burned. The pain bored into his elbow now. It felt as though the joint were splintering. His scream rolled through the church. He heard someone crying outside the confessional. Another voice was speaking urgently into a telephone.

“How long did Finley take to die, Joseph?”

“I... I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

The man’s voice was almost a whisper. “It was three hours, Joseph.”

Tears of pain filled Joseph’s eyes. “I didn’t think. I didn’t care. I was blinded.”

“So was he at the end.” The man clicked his tongue. “What was your birth name, Joseph?”

“Please don’t.” His nose was running. Both knees and his left elbow burned. His vision disappeared as something thrust into his eyes. His eyes burst. Jelly dribbled down his face.

“Joseph, tell me your birth name.”

“Aidan!” the priest yelled. “Aidan Kerrigan. I lied to the Provos.” His voice broke. “Riona still wouldn’t look at me. I had my best friend killed for nothing. So I fled Ireland and took a new name.”

“Father… did you ever confess what you had done?”

“No.” The priest spoke through clenched teeth. “No, not honestly.” He banged at the lattice between them. “Who are you?”

“Finley prayed, Father. He prayed so hard. But I was the only one who listened.”

The pain vanished.

Joseph opened his eyes. The lattice swam into focus. He ran his hands over his face and found only tears. He rubbed both knees, then his elbow. There were no wounds. He crossed himself.

The curtain rings rattled.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

The footsteps moved away, echoing down the marble aisle.

Joseph pulled himself upright. Only his throat still hurt. He flung open the curtain, stumbled into the nave and fell to his knees. “Wait!”

Two parishioners stood over him, one of them he recognised as Mrs Hadia. They both looked horrified.

The centre aisle was empty.

“The man in the booth,” Joseph whispered. “Where did he go?”

Mr Collins stood beside the nearest pew, speaking into his mobile. David remained beside the western doors, his can of Kestrel in one hand.

Joseph tore back the curtain to the penitent’s compartment.

The kneeler was empty.

“Where did he go?” Joseph demanded.

No one answered.

“The man. Where did he go?”

They shook their heads. Mrs Hadia spoke carefully. “Father, there wasn’t another man. We would have seen him.”

Joseph stared at her. “You heard him in the booth.”

“Only you, Father.” David lowered his can. “I’ve been standing beside these doors since we came in. No one left.”

Mr Collins spoke into his mobile. “Yes, he’s conscious. No, I can’t see any injuries. But he has just confessed to having a man murdered.” He looked at Joseph. “His real name is Aidan Kerrigan.”

THE END

Author’s Note:

I HATE this story because, for the life of me, I cannot pronounce Penitent. When giving my twice weekly updates to my paid subscribers, I’ve called it every potential variation of the name, and it’s led to what I can only describe as intense rage.

I was so relieved to be sending out this email because I’ll never have to say its name again now.

Except.

I’ve now bloody gone and agreed to do audiobooks for my stories, haven’t I?

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Download The Grimsdyke Ghouls

4. Read Online

Reader Survey

I’m running a quick one-question poll to better understand my readers and help me reach more people who enjoy my books.

FREE Horror Story Compilations

If you want more nightmares, you can also find my work, and others’, here:

Summertime Screams: 45 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘Respect’, ‘The Doll House Killer’ and ‘What Came Down’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 32 horror titles, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Download ePub / PDF

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The Grimsdyke Ghouls

NOTE: The following extract is from an 18th-century diary purchased from an antique shop in Hastings.

3rd October, 1747

Father lost his job today. We had to flee Hastings. I don’t know what happened. Nobody would tell me. Now they want to arrest him. Mother is furious. We have no coin and precious little food. Mother filled a cooking pot with utensils and I took my journal, writing roll and of course, my Bible.

4th October, 1747

We live in the caves now. Mother is dreadfully cross with Father. It’s cold and wet by the sea. We can’t have the fire outside in case it is seen, and the caves get too smoky if the fire is lit for long. I am so hungry. We have boiled some seaweed and some crabs, but Father can only forage after dark. I help him when I can as he doesn’t see as well as I do at night.

11th October, 1747

I was out last night, foraging as usual, when a fisherman found me as he walked home across the beach. He was awfully kind, but Father was scared he might have told others where we were, so he hit him with a rock. When I started to cry, I was slapped. We have to be quiet. I helped Father carry the body back to the cave. Mother and Father are arguing now about what to do with him. They don’t have the tools to bury him. I am reading the Bible now by the light of the fire. It is my only solace. I am so hungry.

Mother has come to an agreement. She is-- It is nauseating to even write it. She is butchering the corpse. Heaven help us. It smells so good on the fire. I hate myself for even feeling temptation. Satan stalks us, I am sure and is pleased as we tumble ever closer to his embrace. I will not join him.

12th October, 1747

Mother and Father have stopped arguing now and have become inseparable. They bonded over their ghoulish feast last night and have come to terms with their new life. The bones wouldn’t burn in the fire, so the blackened skull sits atop the pile and judges us. I judge us. The remaining flesh is sat in the pools of seawater to pickle. The caves reek. I welcome the smoke now.

My parents are laughing now, more in love than ever. Father is talking about where he can find more flesh. What have we come to? I will not join them.

14th October, 1747

The hunger has left me weak in body and spirit. My teeth are loose, and my body is gaunt. Father had brought back the carcass of a smuggler, along with three barrels of rum. Finally, I couldn’t hold back any more. God help me, I gnawed on a freshly roasted piece of flesh. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever tasted.

Then I remembered what it was and violently vomited it up. Mother and Father were filled with rage. They beat me for wasting food. They beat me for acting as though I was better than them. But I am better than them because I can still resist the Devil’s temptation.

I know now what I must do for the sake of our immortal souls.

They are asleep. I apologised profusely. God forgive my deceit. I congratulated them on their cleverness. They celebrated their good fortune with the rum and I refilled their cups again and again. They made me wait outside in the rain whilst they engaged in carnal congress.

I spent the time wisely, gathering all the driftwood I could find, both dry and wet. When I returned, my parents were sound asleep and snoring. Father still had his trousers down. I waited to be sure then bound their hands and feet. I banked up the fire with wet wood until the cave was thick with smoke. Taking a brand to the pile of dry timber I’d left by the entrance, I blocked the cave with another fire. It was hot and fiery, a precursor to our inevitable fate. I hope that I can explain my actions to them when I see them again in Hell.

They woke from the coughing, but their cries were already weak. I put the last of the wood on the fire and sat sobbing outside until they fell silent. Lord have mercy on our souls.

15th October, 1747

Jeremiah found me on the road, weak from hunger and exhaustion. He is a sweet-hearted man, a widowed carpenter. I praise the Lord for sending him to me. He confessed to me whilst he nursed me to health that he cannot read, write or do sums. I have promised to repay his kindness by minding his home for him and managing his books.

He may not be fair of face, but he is noble of spirit.

And he looks delicious.

THE END

The Grimsdyke Ghouls originally featured in Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1. If you enjoyed this story, then check the rest of the stories.

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

1. Introduction

2. Download The Last Hand

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

Read more

1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Download The Last of the Kings

4. Read Online

Reader Survey

I’m running a quick one-question poll to better understand my readers and help me reach more people who enjoy my books.

FREE Horror Story Compilations

If you want more nightmares, you can also find my work, and others’, here:

Summertime Screams: 45 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘Respect’, ‘The Doll House Killer’ and ‘What Came Down’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 32 horror titles, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

Download ePub / PDF

The ePub file should work with most e-readers. For Kindle, use Send to Kindle and upload the ePub file here:

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/sendtokindle
US: https://www.amazon.com/sendtokindle

The Last of the Kings

Rain slicked the cobblestones, reflecting the amber glow of the streetlamps outside The Saracen’s Arms. Jeremy adjusted his cashmere scarf. He watched his companion stumble out of the pub’s rear exit.

Gregor leaned against the wet brickwork. He fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, his eyes glazed and his hands shaking. He blinked as he tried to focus on his lighter.

Jeremy took the lighter and held the flame beneath the cigarette drooping between Gregor’s sagging jowls. Gregor drew until the tip glowed.

“Absolute disgrace,” Gregor muttered. “Seven fifty, Jez. Seven fifty for lukewarm piss. It’s robbery, Jez.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Absolute robbery. And you can’t say a word, or the barman gives you that look. You know the look. Like you’re the problem for wanting a pint that doesn’t taste like spaff.”

“Inflation, Gregor.” Jeremy checked his pocket watch. It was a gold heirloom piece. He preferred it to a phone. “There are three things you can rely on, G-Man: death, taxes and the spiralling cost of a bottle of plonk.”

“It’s the establishment.” Gregor spat on the ground. “Squeezing the life out of the working man. You can’t even get a proper drink any more. Modern life is all craft lager and pronouns. We are losing our identity, Jeremy.”

“Well,” Jeremy said, “strictly speaking, you are a commodities broker living in a townhouse in Fulham. I’m not entirely certain you fit the demographic of the downtrodden proletariat.”

Gregor waved a hand. Ash fell onto his brogues. “That’s not the point,” Gregor insisted. “Don’t give me that piffle. I had to sit through a two-hour seminar on ‘unconscious bias’ because some junior analyst overheard something at the printer and now feels sad.”

He pushed himself off the wall, swaying.

“Come along, old boy.” Jeremy took Gregor by the elbow. “The last train waits for no man. Not even a champion of the people such as yourself.”

They navigated the narrow streets towards Monument Underground station. The towers of the City loomed above them, their upper floors disappearing into the sky.

Gregor pointed at one of them. “Look, Jezz, that’s where I work. One of these days, I’ll have to show you around. My office has mahogany furnishings. None of that ghastly white metal and plastic stuff they foist upon the minions.”

“God, no. I had enough of that when I was an actuary. Father said I had to ‘earn my spurs’.”

Gregor looked at him with disgust. “What even is the point of having a father? New York sounds like a positively awful experience.” He raised a finger as another thought occurred to him. “Oh, oh, you know who I saw the other day?” Gregor tripped over a kerb and recovered with a grunt. “That bint from compliance. Sarah. Or Sandra. The one with the legs.”

“You will have to be more specific,” Jeremy said. “Given that I haven’t been to your office yet.”

“Yes, yes, quite. Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve mentioned her, though. I know I have. I was thinking of dating her, but I saw her with some wet wipe who looked vegan. I told her, ‘Sarah, love, you need someone who can actually open a jar.’ She wasn’t impressed. So, stuff her. I couldn’t date a girl without a sense of humour.”

“Daft thing. I would have assumed she’d have immediately swooned into your arms.” Jeremy smiled. “Overcome by your raw masculinity.”

“Well, you’d think that,” Gregor said. “But these days, you can’t say a word without someone calling HR. What she needs, Jeremy, is a bit of rough and tumble. Just like back in school.”

“Ah, school,” Jeremy said. “Yes. Those were the days.”

“We were kings,” Gregor said. He stopped to take a drag. “Do you remember? We ran that place. Absolute legends. Well, until you sodded off to America.”

“New York.” Jeremy sneered. “A ghastly place. Finance in the US is all about the cocaine. What’s wrong with Scotch?”

“Exactly,” Gregor shouted. His voice echoed off the wet buildings. “We should have another Scotch, Jezz. We haven’t toasted the old gang.”

Jeremy looked around them. “Pubs are shutting, and I don’t really fancy a club. Too many of those young Essex lads.”

Gregor pulled in front of him. “Come on, Jezzer, let’s hit the office. You said you’ve never seen it. You’ll love it. There is a bottle of Scotch in my desk drawer. The good stuff.”

Jeremy shook his head. “No, no. Listen, mate, I’ve a better idea. We are right next to Monument station. We can walk through to Bank, then I’ll take you to the club. They have a whisky library to die for.”

“A whisky library?” Gregor narrowed his eyes. “You sly old fox! Consider me sold, old boy. Lead on!”

They reached the entrance to Monument Underground. The iron gates were still open. Warm, stale air rushed up the stairs to meet them. It smelled of ozone and dust and millions of passing bodies.

Gregor fumbled for his Oyster card. He slapped his wallet against the yellow reader with unnecessary force. The barrier beeped red.

“Useless piece of plastic! God, this whole city. Billions in taxes, and the bloody gates don’t even open. It’s a joke.”

“Try holding it still for a moment,” Jeremy said. “Rather than assaulting the poor device.”

Gregor grumbled. He tried again. The gates parted.

They descended the long escalator. The advertisements on the wall flashed past. They promoted West End musicals and vitamin supplements.

“Jezzer!” Gregor twisted towards him. “Are you ready for the reunion? It’s only a month away. Ten years. Christ.”

“It has crept up on us,” Jeremy said. “Tempus fugit and all that.”

“I’ll be honest, mate. I really needed this. I’ve been a bit lonely these last few years. I can’t believe what happened to Ben,” Gregor said. “Then all that business with Julian last year. We are the last of the gang, Jeremy. The Kings of Eton! We have to meet up more often.”

They stepped off the escalator. They walked down the long, tiled corridor towards the platform. Their footsteps echoed. Clack. Shuffle. Clack.

“Ben,” Jeremy repeated. “Yes. A terrible business.”

“What a ghastly way to go, tripping over a rock in Scotland. Poor man. Heart of a lion, brain of a spaniel. We should have one more for him. Ben wouldn’t want us sober on a Friday. He was a good man, better than the rest of us scallywags anyway.”

“Nature is a cruel mistress,” Jeremy said. “One moment, you are admiring the heather. The next, you are being digested by the peat.”

“Peat, yes! We should have a Laphroaig in his honour,” Gregor said. “He would have wanted us to have a good time. He wouldn’t want us moping about like a pair of wet blankets.”

They reached the platform. It was deserted. The electronic board showed that the next train was due in three minutes.

Approaching.

Gregor walked to the edge and peered into the dark tunnel. His tailored suit strained to contain his beer gut.

“Are we getting the Northern line or the Central line?” Gregor asked.

“Look, you are standing opposite the Northern line sign,” Jeremy said. “I should think that answers the question.”

Gregor laughed.

“You always were a sarcastic bitch, Jeremy.” Gregor leaned back against the tiled wall and looked at the advertisements on the opposite track.

“Hey,” Gregor said. “Do you ever think about that freak? The one from Year 11?”

Jeremy kept his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. He felt the cold metal of his house keys. “You’ll have to narrow it down.”

“The poof who thought he was a girl,” Gregor said. “Put on a dress for prom. What was his name?”

“Her name was Tess,” Jeremy said.

“His. His. There are only two genders, Jezza.” Gregor rolled his eyes. “Pete was his proper name. Before the name change. Remember flushing him, giving him the classic swirly? Oh, those were good times.”

“I was in France that week,” Jeremy said.

“We were just having a laugh,” Gregor insisted. “Boys being boys. And then he goes and tops himself a year later. Everyone crying at assembly. The headmaster giving a speech about bullying. What a load of old cobblers.”

“You must have been very proud.” Jeremy watched the digital display.

Two minutes.

Gregor’s face was flushed. “We didn’t bully him. We were trying to shake some sense into him. Tough love. Clearly, it didn’t work, and I regret that, but the intent was pure.” Gregor spat on the track.

Jeremy looked at him. “You never spoke about her afterwards.”

“What was there to say?” Gregor asked. “Everyone behaved as though we’d killed him.”

“Her.”

“Stop it. Enough of the pronoun nonsense, Jez. You are being a bore. We didn’t kill anyone.” Gregor gave Jeremy a long, lingering look of disdain. “Don’t tell me you care about all that nonsense. It was a decade ago.”

“I really do. I feel awful about the whole thing.” Jeremy sighed. “Ben apologised to her mother.”

“Did he?” Gregor gave Jeremy a sympathetic smile and clapped him on the back. “Jez, some people just don’t cut it in life. They can’t all be like us. Forget Pete.”

Jeremy took a step closer to him. The air in the tunnel began to shift. A breeze pushed through, carrying the roar of the approaching train. Jeremy leaned back to glance at the camera above the platform.

“What have you spotted?”

“Nothing important.”

Gregor followed his gaze, then looked towards the pillar. “That hides us from the camera, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does.”

Gregor laughed. “Handy! I need a piss and don’t fancy anyone having a peek. Good spot.”

He moved towards the edge of the platform again. He started to unzip his trousers.

“You really are a pig, Gregor,” Jeremy said. “A man of low breeding and lower character.”

“And you’re a bore,” Gregor shot back over his shoulder. “But you love me really. Who else would put up with your pompous speeches?”

The rumble grew louder. The headlights of the train illuminated the dust motes dancing in the tunnel air. Two bright eyes in the dark.

“There is a funny thing about Tess.” Jeremy’s voice was calm.

“Pete!” Gregor shouted as he swayed, his cock out.

“Tess.” Jeremy lowered his voice. “She was my cousin.”

Gregor froze. His urine stopped midstream. He turned his head slowly.

“You’re having a laugh.” he started urinating again, liberally coating the platform.

“My mother’s sister’s child,” Jeremy said. “We were very close. I taught her how to play tennis. She was brilliant and funny. I loved her very much.”

Gregor stared at him.

Jeremy watched as Gregor tried to process the information through the haze of lager.

“But...” Gregor stammered. “But you never said anything. You never stopped us.”

“I was worried that if I defended her, you would have turned on me, so I laughed when you mocked her. I stopped speaking to her at school. She thought I was ashamed of her.” Jeremy clenched his fist. “See, you call us kings, but all through school, I was a coward. We all were. Four cowards.”

The train was close now. The noise was a deafening roar. The wind whipped Gregor’s tie around his neck.

“Jeremy.” Gregor’s voice lost its bluster. “Jeremy, mate. I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Jeremy said. “I made sure of that. I’ve been very patient, Gregor. For ten years, I have listened to the drivel you, Ben and Julian spouted. I have laughed at your bigoted jokes. And I have hated every single second of it.”

“Now, hang on, Jezzer.” Gregor took a step back from the edge. “What have Ben and Julian got to do with this?”

“It’s been absolutely tremendous seeing you, Gregor.” Jeremy smiled. “You really haven’t changed a bit. Now, I’m afraid you have a train to catch.”

“Jezzer?”

Jeremy stepped forward, placed both hands on Gregor’s chest and shoved.

For a moment, Gregor stared at Jeremy with the bewildered expression of a child. Then fear consumed him. His shoes skidded across the wet tiles as he clawed at Jeremy’s coat.

Jeremy knocked his hands aside. “Mind the gap.”

Gregor tipped backwards, his gaze fixed on Jeremy until he struck the tracks with a heavy thud, just as the train screamed into the station.

The driver slammed on the brakes. Sparks showered from the wheels like fireworks. The screech of metal on metal was ear-splitting. It sounded like the world being torn in half.

But physics is a stubborn old bird. Hundreds of tons of steel could not stop on a whim.

Then there was a wet crunch.

The train slid to a halt halfway down the platform. The doors remained closed.

Jeremy walked towards the escalator. The British Transport Police would reconstruct the evening soon enough.

Gregor had been easier than Ben. Ben had nearly dragged Jeremy from the Highland ridge with him. Julian’s scuba accident had required more patience.

As the escalator carried him towards the street, Jeremy touched the pills in his jacket pocket and considered one final single malt scotch in his favourite leather armchair.

By dawn, there would be no Kings of Eton left.

THE END

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited

Available to order on AMAZON.

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

Visit my website

1. Introduction

2. Download The Penitent Man

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

Read more

1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Download Full Beam

4. Read Online

Reader Survey

I’m running a quick one-question poll to better understand my readers and help me reach more people who enjoy my books.

FREE Horror Story Compilations

If you want more nightmares, you can also find my work, and others’, here:

Summertime Screams: 45 FREE horror titles, including ‘The Blighted Child’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘Respect’, ‘The Doll House Killer’ and ‘What Came Down’.

The Dark Fiction Summer Sale: 32 horror titles, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 4’ and ‘Tales of the Macabre: Books 1-4’.

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Full Beam

The A41, Hertfordshire, 14 December 1994

A plummy voice on the local radio started talking about a police incident near Watford. Tutting, Suze popped a tape in and turned the volume up. The tinny speakers in her Mercedes did their best to boom out Buddy Holly’s ‘Peggy Sue’ as Suze hurtled down the bypass. In just half an hour, she’d be surrounded by family with a glass of red in her hand. She watched the trees on the verge whizz by through the weak yellow glow of the headlamps. Rain crawled across the windscreen.

A panel van approached her, closing rapidly and maintaining a position right behind her. Suze glowered at him in her rear-view mirror as he flashed his headlights at full beam. Moving to the inside lane, she waited for him to overtake.

He flashed his lights at her again.

Suze flashed her hazard lights at him to hint that he should overtake.

He didn’t take the hint and flashed his lights again.

She tightened both hands around the steering wheel as the van seemed to fill the road in her rear-view mirror.

It was an old Ford Transit. It could have been dark blue or black in the rain, and its grille was stained with rust. When she went round the corner, she gained a bit on the van and glimpsed the driver. He sat high behind the wheel. He looked older, but she couldn’t get a good look at him.

He flashed his lights again, and the Mercedes’s interior exploded with white glare.

Suze flinched, and the car swerved for a moment. “Get stuffed!” She pressed her foot down. “What’s your problem?” The engine complained as it sped up to 75, then 80 miles an hour. The Mercedes began to shake. It was a good car, but, like her, it was getting on a bit.

The Transit stayed behind her.

Suze reached for the mirror and tilted it down. The glare had already stubbornly imprinted itself across her vision.

Something creaked behind her.

She looked towards the passenger seat.

Her handbag rested where she had left it, wedged beside a Waitrose carrier bag containing a bottle of wine, a bottle of bath bubbles for each of the adults, and a £10 note for each of the kids.

Another sound came from the back seat. It was the faint squeak of vinyl.

Suze glanced over her shoulder.

Her bright red winter coat lay in a heap across the seat. She had thrown it there after leaving the office. Beneath it were two carrier bags full of clothes bought from the ‘little shops’. She refused to admit to going to charity shops. There was also a rolled umbrella and the daily paper.

The Transit sounded its horn in one long blast.

Suze faced forward again, her grip tightening. “Get lost! Just go around me.”

Enough of this madness.

She eased towards the edge of the road and slowed.

The Transit slowed with her. Its headlights fixed on her Mercedes.

Indignation had turned to anger. Suze was 58 years old. She’d outlived two husbands. She’d gone drinking in the East End in the sixties, attended concerts in pubs where the carpets stuck to her shoes, and once spent an entire weekend in Brighton with four women from the typing pool.

Suze wasn’t easily frightened, and she wouldn’t take this kind of nonsense from a van driver.

Ahead, the road curved between dripping trees. Beyond them stood the curly-wurly bridge, a pedestrian crossing that loomed over the road like a noose. There were no houses and no other cars.

Well, if he isn’t going to overtake.

Suze pressed the accelerator again. She was fifteen minutes from the family home now. Overcooked turkey and dry potatoes, but a wellspring of love and wine.

The Transit surged after her. Its full beams came on. This time they remained blazing. The inside of the Mercedes became painfully bright, and she cursed. Suze saw the passenger seat, the carrier bags, and her own angry eyes reflected in the windscreen.

For the briefest instant, she thought she saw something else.

A pale shape behind her shoulder.

Then the lights dipped, and the car was dark again.

Suze twisted around.

Her coat had slid partly onto the floor. She stared at it, the Mercedes drifting towards the centre of the road.

A horn screamed behind her.

Suze grabbed the wheel and swerved back into her lane. The Transit came close enough for her to hear the rumble of its engine.

“Fine.”

The coat must have moved when she took the bend. That was all. She had piled too much rubbish on the back seat, and it had shifted. She’d seen her own reflection in the glass.

A metallic click sounded behind her.

Suze looked into the lowered mirror. She could see only the back window and the Transit’s headlights.

She reached up and adjusted the mirror.

At that moment, the Transit flashed, then accelerated. Its bumper struck the back of her Mercedes.

The impact threw Suze forward against her seat belt.

“You prick!” Suze pressed her hand against the horn and held it there, feeling an unfamiliar sense of fear that was rapidly building towards terror.

A sign appeared for Bourne End Services. She indicated automatically. It was a ridiculous act of courtesy, considering the circumstances, but one born of habit.

The Transit followed. Suze’s heart sank.

Her coat rustled behind her. The sound came from directly beside her right ear. She could smell something: damp sweat, old grease, and stale ale.

She hated service stations, especially ones out in the sticks.

The sensation of being watched became a physical pressure against the back of her neck.

The slip road dropped away from the A41. Suze took the roundabout too quickly, swung right, overcorrecting as she raced onto the BP forecourt. Its green-and-yellow shield glowed above the road. Eight petrol pumps stood beneath a canopy, surrounded by pools of orange light.

A pimply kid sat inside the kiosk, reading a copy of Smash Hits.

She screeched to a half in front of the kiosk. Opening the door, she leapt out. Thankfully, she always wore flats when driving. The Transit slowed, parking behind her.

The attendant looked at her as she ran towards the kiosk, panic on his face.

The door was locked. A handwritten notice told customers to pay through the night window after eleven.

Suze hammered on the glass. “Let me in, I’m being followed.”

The attendant looked round for help he knew wasn’t there. “We’re window service now, miss.”

Suze banged on the glass with her fist. “Let me in at once. That man rammed my car.”

“Miss, if you don’t stop that, I’ll have to call the police.”

For a moment, Suze paused, looking at him incredulously. Then she pounded on the glass with both fists, using all her might.

The van driver emerged, holding a tyre iron in one hand.

“Miss, I’m calling the police right now. Stop it.” The kid held up the phone receiver, looking visibly shaken by the mad woman. He spoke into the handset and then put it to one side, the call still open. “You’ve done it now. The police are on their way. They’ll be here in minutes.”

“Good, now let me in!”

“No chance, love. You’re proper mental. Go, wait in your car.”

The van driver approached the window. The kid looked at him. “Oh, fuck.” He ran to the door with a set of keys. Suze followed him. He fumbled with the first key, without success.

“Slow and steady wins the bloody race,” Suze hissed.

“Miss, please.”

“Wait!” the van driver called out.

The third key worked, and Suze ran inside. The attendant locked the door behind her as the van driver thudded his shoulder against it. Pulling down the metal shutters, the kid locked them.

“You’re in danger!” the driver yelled from outside. His voice sounded muted as the night window closed.

“The police will be here any moment, miss.” The attendant returned to his seat. “Have a tea or something from the machine. I’ll have to charge you.”

“It’s Mrs!” Feeling safer now behind the iron shutters, Suze walked over to the vending machine, adjusting her dyed black bouffant. She selected the button for tea and waited as it filled a polystyrene cup.

She looked around as the machine gurgled. The attendant steadfastly refused to make eye contact, fidgeting in the corner.

Fat lot of good he is.

When the tea finished brewing, she took a sip. It was lukewarm, and the tea was an anaemic puddle of milky white water that tasted of piss.

Ironically, there was a fire extinguisher next to the machine.

Abandoning the tea, she looked round the service station, her heart rate steadying despite the rhythmic thud of the man outside pounding on the glass.

Then she froze, her eyes narrowing at the back door. “Young man, does that door lead anywhere?”

“Er.” He sat still, looking at it dumbfounded.

Faced with someone with a torpid mentality, she raised her voice to compensate. “Does it lead to a tradesman’s exit?”

“Yeah.” He stood and moved over to it. “It’s the stockroom, but Davvers always locks the back door before he leaves.”

“Check it.” She stepped away from the exit. “Don’t trust this Davros. There’s a psychopath outside.”

“It’s Davvers.” The kid reluctantly approached the door. “Yeah, we can hear him. He’s out there, not at the back.” He walked through the storeroom door. “Damn it, Davvers. Okay, so…”

There was a wet gurgling sound as his voice cut out.

“Young man?”

Silence.

The door creaked open.

Suze raced over to the vending machine and grabbed the fire extinguisher. A gangling man with lank, greasy white hair slid through the gap, holding a bloody Stanley knife.

“Stay away from me,” Suze thundered.

The man shook his head, a smile sliding across his face.

Suze pressed down on the fire extinguisher, covering him with a choking white cloud. He flailed under its unrelenting assault as she approached him. “I don’t know who you are, but if you’re with that ghastly van man, then you’ve made a poor life choice.” As the stream of suppressant weakened, she raised the extinguisher and smashed it hard into his head. Raising it again, she went to repeat the strike when a long, emaciated arm lashed out, knocking it aside.

His body slammed into her, and she fell hard onto the floor, her head striking the cheap tiles.

She grunted as her vision blurred. She could feel him crawling up her body, his face looming above her. Hot, fetid breath washed over her as she saw his wild eyes and yellowed teeth leering at her.

He raised the Stanley knife, clicking the blade out farther.

Her breath caught as fear rolled through her. Her earlier rage dissipated into paralysing terror.

Thunk.

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over her body.

A thick, meaty arm grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him off her.

The van driver loomed over her. “You hurt, love?”

“No.” Suze looked up at her rescuer. He was heavily built and swarthy, looking like someone born south of the river. “Thank you.”

“Then what the hell were you playing at, you daft bint?” The man scowled at her. “I’ve been trying to warn you since I saw someone in the back seat.”

“What?” She struggled into a seated position, automatically adjusting her bouffant as police sirens sounded.

“I thought he was a passenger until I saw the knife. Every time I flashed my headlights at full beam, he ducked down and hid. I checked your car outside when I parked, but couldn’t see him.” He shrugged. “I hoped he’d done a runner.”

Suze stared at the driver, struggling to fit his words together through the pounding in her skull.

“Well then, for God’s sake man, hit him again. He might get up.”

THE END

Tales of the Macabre

You can find my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

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Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.

Read a collection of free short stories or listen to free audiobooks by Newton Webb on his website.

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1. Introduction

2. Download The Last of the Kings

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

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1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Download Shadow of the Wolf

4. Read Online

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1. Introduction

2. Download Clarent

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

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1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Download A Bunker Too Far

4. Read Online

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1. Introduction

2. Download Full Beam

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

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1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Download Outpost U-819 Must Die!

4. Read Online

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Contents

1. Scream for Pride

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. Invasion of the Hipster Beards / The Coconut Killer

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1. Introduction

2. Download Shadow of the Wolf

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

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Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. Til Death Do Us Part

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1. Introduction

2. Download A Bunker Too Far

3. Read Online

4. Horror Story Compilations

Good morning, my wicked darlings,

Today’s paid subscriber story is A Bunker Too Far, a WW2 horror novella set during the truly tragic events of Operation Market Garden, where British paratroopers are cut off from the main army and find that Nazis aren’t the only threat in th…

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Contents

1. Horror Story Compilations

2. A Civic Duty

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Contents

1. The Taste of Sin

2. Horror Story Compilations

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Contents

1. Reader Survey

2. Horror Story Compilations

3. The Cold Dead Sea

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