TK'n'C Editors' Halloween Special: Col Bury

As the competition entries pour in (there's still time to win 4 eBooks!), the Editors are certainly getting into the 'spirit' of things as Halloween approaches. Col really enjoyed switching back to his horror roots, from his crime novel endeavours, with this tense tale.  We sincerely hope you 'enjoy' it too... if you can...!

The Writing on the Wall

“You moving in this place then?”  The elderly woman, carrying a bag of groceries, didn’t make eye contact.

          “Yes… yes we are… we have.”  Sarah couldn’t disguise the pride in her voice, at her and Mike having finally found their dream home.  “Do you live through the woods? I saw a little cottage earlier.”

          “Sure. On my own now. It’s lonely out here… alone.”  Her voice was crackly, like sticks breaking underfoot.

Still no eye contact. Strange.  “Oh, Mike and I will pop over to see you. He could cook you a meal. Was a head chef in Manchester, and he’s lovely is my Mike. Funny too, he’ll soon cheer you up.”

“We’ll see.”  She craned her neck upward at charcoal clouds.  “Best get going. It’s a different place at night, you know.”  She turned away and trudged off, unsteadily, using a wooden walking stick.

“Bye… er… do you have a name?”

She didn’t turn around.  “Sure.”

“Mine’s… Sar.. ah…” 

The old lady mumbled something, Sarah didn’t fully catch.

Very odd.  Sarah watched her go, slowly disappearing through a path of flattened foliage into the woods.  Sarah shrugged and went back inside the grand old house.  Their grand old house.  Smiling with pride, she grabbed the metal wallpaper scraper and busied herself in the huge living room.  Well, it was huge compared to their dingy end-terraced in Eccles.

She thought of the aged woman, as she laboriously stripped the walls.  Why was she so aloof?  Maybe her age.  Probably lost her husband.  Anyway, nothing could spoil this dream move for her and Mike.  They’d saved up, sold up and here they were, in the middle of Wales, a few miles from the sea, and with a backdrop of Snowdonia.  Beats the concrete jungle any time.

The house sale - damn cheap too for its size and location - went smoothly and the transfer from Mike’s head office to the Aberystwyth restaurant was also timed to perfection.  Sarah recalled her excitement as she checked on Google Maps how close this house was to his new prospective workplace.  “Ten miles and just half an hour’s drive,” she’d said excitedly.  They’d hugged because they both knew it could really happen.  Just up the road from one of her favourite places too: Aberdovey, and its stunning bay.  It was truly meant to be.

Sarah stopped scraping as she saw a girl’s name scrawled on the wall.  It was faded, but she could just about make it out.  Lucinder.  Bet it’s when a kid who’d lived here had measured herself.  But there was no pencilled line, just the number 8 beside it.  Aw, must be her age.  She scraped some more and saw Jennifer 9.  It reminded her of the fact they couldn’t have kids.  It wasn’t Mike’s fault, it was her.  It had been a dark day when the doctor had informed them, but Mike was the perfect gent about it - “It doesn’t change anything. I love you and always will, Sarah.” 

Glancing again at the names, she shook thoughts of kids away.  This new house was their ‘baby’.  If it wasn’t for their… her… infertility, then they probably wouldn’t have self-indulged with the move.  Now though, nothing would spoil this for them.

Hearing a crunching sound, she paused and glanced through the bay window.  It was Mike pulling up on the drive, the four by four’s sidelights flicked off.  She ran to the front door, like a giggly school girl.

They embraced, a tingle of excitement shooting through her. 

“Bloody’ell, darkness falls quick round here, dunnit?”

“It’s lovely though.”

“Certainly is, babe.”  They unhooked themselves.  

“Drive home okay?” 

Mike grinned.  “Stunning scenery… and I defo went the scenic route.”

They strolled down the hall into the living room.  “What do you mean?”

“I was driving round in circles for twenty minutes. Bloody Sat-Nav lost its signal.”

Sarah picked up the scraper again.  “Work okay?”

“Yeah. They were all pretty friendly to the Englishman. Quite easy to boss ‘em about really.”   He grinned again.  “So, what’ve you been up to? Busy I see.”

“Talking to the neighbour.”  She raised her eyebrows and passed him a spare scraper.

“Let me get my coat off, cheeky!”  He took it off, lay it on their new leather suite that was still covered in plastic while they decorated.  “What’s with the face? We’ve not moved close to weirdos have we? I knew things had gone too well.”

“Nah, just this old lady. She was a bit strange, but I’m sure she’ll come round, once she gets to know us.”

“Strange?”

“Wouldn’t look at me or tell me her name.”

“That’s cos yer a dodgy Mancunian!”

“Oy! Says the man arrested in his teens for joyriding!”

“I dint know the car was stolen, honest!”  He tickled her and they laughed and wriggled, then embraced and kissed.

Sarah broke free first.  “Here, I want to show you something.”  She passed him the spare scraper and this time he took it.  She pointed at the girls’ names.

“And?”

“And, nothing, it’s just… help me. Let’s see if there’s any more.”

Mike looked at the bay window and walked over, shutting the blinds.  Opposite, trees swayed and creaked in the wind.  He reached up and shut the top windows before peering out of the window.  “It’s pitch black out there. You can really see the stars. No light pollution here, eh?”

“Here’s another one…”  Abigail 4.

Mike studied the names.  “So the previous owners had three girls. Bet they’re grown up by now, judging by the style of this crappy old wallpaper.”

They both scraped away. 

“Mike. Look.”

Sarah pointed at another name.  They stared agog.  Joanna 10  - screamer.  “What the hell does ‘screamer’ mean?”

 “Dunno.”

Sarah heard a dull thud and jumped.  It came from below, in the bowels of the house.  “You hear that?”

“What? Hey, steady on, babe. Old houses make noises you know. Chill.”  He smiled reassuringly, smoothed a hand across her cheek.  “So do yer reckon the numbers are their ages?”

“Assume so.”  She was still looking through the open living room door into the hall.

They continued peeling off the paper with vigour. 

Mike suddenly stopped.  “Bloody’ell, Sarah.”  He pointed.  “They’re not ages… they’re marks… marks out of ten. What the…?”

Sarah saw the name Layla 9 / 10.  She quickly scanned the other names and numbers.  Jennifer 9 also had  / 10, but it was somewhat faded. 

“Jesus. What is this, hun?”

“Don’t worry. It’s probably nothing. Summat obvious, that we’re missing.”

They bounced looks, then continued.

Sarah stopped, leaned against the wall, arms up.

“What’s up, babe?”

“It was just something the old lady said as she walked off.”

“What? What did she say?”

“I thought she said, ‘They never caught him, you know’, or something like that.”

“Really?”  Mike looked stern, not his usual self, fuelling Sarah’s angst.

“I think so. Does your laptop get a signal here.”

“Er. Not sure. Not had chance to check yet, but I’m paying for it and the telly’s working, so it should do. I can give it a go.”  He walked into the dining room and grabbed his laptop from the drawer of the sideboard containing his football trophies.  Sarah joined him as he turned it on and placed it on the dining room table.  They both sat down and waited for Windows to fire up.  

“Yes!"  The Web browser opened.  "Okay, what are we searching for exactly?”

Sarah hesitated, then said in a hushed voice.  “Missing girls in mid-Wales?”  Mike frowned at her, shook his head, and typed it in.

They stared as eight photos came up.  “Jesus Christ. Look at the names, Mike.”

Suddenly the lights and laptop went off.

Sarah felt ice shoot up her spine, and screamed.

“Shit! Okay, calm down. Give me your hand. It’s okay, babe. I’ve gotta torch on me phone.”  After a few seconds fumbling, he lit the immediate vicinity, shining the light around, causing shifting shapes of the furniture around them.

“Did you see that? The names… I’m really scared, Mike.”

 “Come on. Get a grip. Please. I’ll go down to the cellar.”

“No, don’t leave me!”

 “I won’t. We’ll both go. It’s probably just a blown fuse. The house hasn’t been lived in for a while. They did say that, remember? That’s why we got it so cheap. Needed a bit of work.”

They moved slowly out of the dining room, into the living room, through the hall and up to the door beneath the staircase.  Sarah felt a shudder as she peered into the kitchen to the rear, its dense blackness seemed to stare back at her.  She quickly looked away, holding Mike’s hand every step of the way.

Thankfully, the door to the cellar didn’t creak.  The phone torchlight wasn’t so bright, and Sarah felt jumpy, seeing dark, fluctuating shapes and shadows.  She’d not been down here before.  It smelled really musty.  The stairs were stone and their footsteps seemed amplified by the gloom.

“You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

“Right. The fuse-box is over here somewhere.” 

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“There. Looks like another door.”

“Oh yeah. Not noticed that before.”

In the far corner was the shape of an old dark wooden door, somewhat camouflaged in the brown stone brickwork.  “We’ll take a look in a minute.”

“We don’t have to.”

 “Here we go.”  He shone the torch at the fuse-box.  “You’ll have to just let go of my hand for a minute.”

Sarah released her grip, her hand clammy, her heartbeat audible.

“Yep, as I thought.”  A click later, and the lights came on, including the bare bulb just above them.

Mike grinned.  “You gonna relax now, babe?”

The wooden door burst open and a dark figure flew at them.  The sword swung at Mike before he could turn, and it cut through the air toward his head.  

Sarah screamed and froze to the spot.  Everything funnelled in, like slow motion.  The bearded man wearing a long black cloak turned to her.  He leered, his manic eyes shining with glee.  She looked at Mike and he staggered.  His expression was fixed, wide-eyed.  His head slowly slid from his neck and fell off onto the stone floor.  It bounced, settled and he stared up at her, like a dead salmon.  His jerking body crumpled beside her, blood spurting onto her legs from the gaping neck.

Catatonic, she couldn’t scream.  Her legs wobbly, she turned to the stairs and clambered up.  She instantly heard throaty laughter and felt sturdy hands gripping her ankles, as her bladder gave way.  She was pulled back down, slowly, her chin buffeting the steps, one by one.  At the bottom, he grabbed her by the hair and an excruciating pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged past Mike’s head, those eyes still staring, helplessly.

"I hope you're a ten out of ten, like Joanna," the man said gruffly, before slamming the door.

BIO:
Col Bury is the Crime Editor of award winning webzine, THRILLERS, KILLERS ‘N’ CHILLERS.  Under the guidance of his agent, he's currently developing a crime novel series based in Manchester.  Col's ever-growing selection of short stories can be found around the net and in numerous anthologies.  His vigilante story MOPPING UP is in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 9, and FISTS OF DESTINY, from Col’s eBook MANCHESTER 6, was selected for THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 10.

Col lives in Manchester, UK with his wife and two children.  He's 'not a bad stick' at 8-ball pool and is an avid fan of Manchester City FC.
He interviews crime authors & blogs here: http/colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/

NOTE: HALLOWEEN COMP' DEADLINE: MIDNIGHT (UK) OCTOBER 22ND.

P+E Readers' Poll... last day of voting...

The 'Best of 2011' polls close at midnight tonight (Jan.10th).

There's still time to cast your votes for TKnC here...

http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

...and for our horror Editor, Lily Childs, here...


http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml


...David Barber's TKnC story, Best Mates and Lovers was nominated in the short story section - vote here...


http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml


...and my 'fun' adult short, Supper Time, is up for best horror...


http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstoryh.shtml

... and help children read by voting for OFF THE RECORD charity anthology here...


http://critters.org/predpoll/antho.shtml


Congrats to all the nominees, and thanks for your continued support.


Best,
Crime Dude,
Col Bury

P&E Readers Poll - Lily, Col 'n' TKnC nominated!

It's that time of year again. It's great to see so many of our writer and editor friends nominated for awards this year. 

We're honoured that Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers are again in the race for 'Best Fiction Magazine', and in some great company. 


Here's the link to vote for your favourite: http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

Some selfless, hard-working ezine editors have been nominated... notably and unsurprisingly, our very own horror editor, Lily Childs, who has invigorated TKnC with her class. Plus, my long time mate, David Barber for resurrecting The Flash Fiction Offensive so adeptly. Top notch U.S. editor, David Cranmer is also one of my faves, for the sterling work he does over at Beat To A Pulp.


If you have a minute, vote here...
http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml

Personally, I'm ecstatic that my adult zombie short, Supper Time, has been nominated in the 'Best Short Horror Story' category (I'm supposed to be a crime writer!). It's in good company along with the likes of... Paul D Brazill... Richard Godwin... Erin Cole... the list goes on...


You can vote for your favourite horror short here...
http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstoryh.shtml

Finally, TKnC is ably represented in the 'All Other Short Stories' section by David Barber's Best Mates and Lovers (it has the most comments of any story ever on this site), along with some crackers from Darren Sant, Graham Smith and Luca Veste, to name a few.


Vote here:http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml 


Current standings are here.


The poll runs through to January 10th 2012.


Ps. Sorry if I missed anyone out  - nominations increase hourly.

Editor's Christmas Special... WITNESS 'A' by Col Bury

Merry Christmas 'n' Happy Holidays to all our readers, writers, subscribers 'n' friends. This week the three editors will post a story apiece in our Editor's Christmas Special...

Witness 'A'




The five gang members stood cocksure in the dock, their smirks testament to the disrespect within today’s society, as the prosecutor called again for ‘Witness A.’


The black-gowned court clerk scurried in shaking her head.


The judge peered over his glasses, his red gown, white wig and wispy grey beard providing an unintended hint of the festive season. However, Santa he was not. The only pressies he’d be giving were prison sentences, although probably not today, such was the state of current proceedings. 


‘So where is “Witness A”, Mr Oliver?’ he grunted.


The CPS lawyer, Tim Oliver, wasn’t feeling very Christmassy. With all eyes on him, he looked at the dozen intense faces of jury. Turning to the empty witness box, a burgundy curtained screen across it to protect Witness A’s identity, he tightened with panic. Oliver glanced at sneering gang leader, Jerome Kingston, in the dock. Kingston winked then grinned at Oliver, the defendant's gold incisor twinkling under the courtroom's lighting.  


‘Please, your honour, give me two minutes.’


The judge’s gruff tones oozed both authority and derision. ‘Hurry, Mr Oliver. I don’t want to miss my Christmas dinner!’


Passing two armed officers, guarding the court from Kingston's crew, Oliver dashed from courtroom one, scanned the foyer. Left to the court's cafe, or right to the gents? He’d not lost a case for two years and with this unwelcome blemish on his impeccable record his bloody Christmas would be spoilt. As was Oliver's custom, there would be no boasting while toasting at the CPS Chrimbo do.


He had discussed the probability of defeat with his key witness, but David Gacy had been unimpressed by Oliver’s 30-70 against odds. Had Gacy given up on him or just bottled it? Understandable really, as Gacy had somehow survived a brutal attack by Kingston and his cohorts. His best mate, Brian Ranger hadn’t been so lucky, his head kicked about like a football. The life support turned off only last week.


The snow bucketing outside the foyer’s expansive second floor windows briefly caught Oliver's attention, until he saw a hooded youth shuffle from the gents past a poorly decorated fake tree. Could be anyone, but something in Oliver’s gut suggested otherwise. He headed for the gents.


The door squeaked open and he gasped.


David Gacy wasn’t there. A sprawled youth with a slashed throat was.


Feeling sick, Oliver raced to courtroom one, his mind spinning, his heart doing somersaults. He swung open the doors, hearing mayhem inside, people jostling past him, screaming. The judge scarpered swifter than Santa on his sleigh.


Four security guards and the two coppers grappled with Gacy, his eyes manic. A kitchen knife with the court cafe's logo on, shimmered in the struggle. The cops couldn't open fire in such a melee.  But, anyway, it was too late. Kingston’s blood-pumping grin was now ear to ear.


Oliver gazed in shock…


…but, hey…at least he’d still not lost a case.




BIO:
TKnC Crime Editor, Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel series with a difference. His ever-growing selection of short stories can be found scattered across the net, and in various anthologies, notably:  THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 9, RADGEPACKET 6 and children's charity anthologies, OFF THE RECORD and BRIT GRIT TOO. Col has an eBook of short fiction out, MANCHESTER 6. He blogs, reviews interviews crime authors at Col Bury's New Crime Fiction.

MANCHESTER 6: Six Gritty Crime Stories by Col Bury

It's been too long since we read any of TKnC crime editor Col Bury's startling fiction. Well - THE WAIT IS OVER! 

Col's new e-book MANCHESTER 6, published by Trestle Press is now gracing Amazon's weighty shelves.

These "six gritty crime stories" remind us of the power in Col's words, and why we're all looking forward to the novels with baited breath.

You want to buy a copy? Don't blame you; I bought mine the second it came out.

Download MANCHESTER 6 from:

Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com

No Kindle? No problem. Download the free apps for PC, i-phone/pad and android from MANCHESTER 6's page on Amazon.

I just know you're going to love this book.

Preditors & Editors 'Best of 2010'... Results...!

Well, it was just nice to be nominated, but from the 32 nominees, I'm flabbergasted to announce that I actually won the 'Best Magazine/ezine Editor 2010'.

I humbly accept this award on behalf of Matt and Lee, as a reflection of the joint efforts we all put into running the site. (Final standings here)

Following on from our win in 2009, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, itself, did really well again, bagging 4th spot out of the 53 nominated fiction-zines. (Final standings here)

Other notable successes were...

Best horror short: Paul Brazill's 'Thump' (TKnC) came 13th out of 62 stories. 'What Doesn't Kill You' (Spook City) by Anthony Cowin finished 8th, and Jodi MacArthur managed two in the top 20 with 'Spindled Souls' (Flashes in the Dark) and 'Pillow Talk' (BEAT to a PULP).

In the other shorts category - Mr Brazill was at it again, making the top ten with 'Anger Management' (Powder Burn Flash). And another TKnC story came in at number 14 - 'Rigor Mortis' by Stephen D. Rogers.

I must add that I can think of many outstanding stories, ezines and editors who were not nominated... so next year let's ensure all your faves are in with a shout.

A massive thanks for all who took the trouble to vote and comment.

Regards,
Col

Preditors & Editors Poll... update...

Well, with less than two days of voting to go, the clock is ticking, and we're extremely proud to say that out of the 51 nominated fictionzines for 2010, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers is a very respectable joint 3rd at the moment. You can vote for your fave up to midnight on January 26th here.

Also, I'm both stunned and ecstatic, that from the 31 zine editors on the list, I sit, unbelievably, in 2nd place. There are many truly deserving editors of some cracking ezines to choose from - cast your vote here.

Browsing through the categories I spotted many of my online friends, especially in the short story sections... Paul D. Brazill, Anthony Cowin and Jodi MacArthur, to name a few. If you have time, have a nosey here, and for the current standings go here.

Many thanks to those of you who have taken the time to show your support.

Regards,
Col

'P&E Readers Poll, Best Ezine 2010'... TKnC nominated, plus, one of our editors!

I felt a tad awkward about this, so held back until I'd spoken to the man whose brainchild TKnC was - Matt. However, being a true gent he gave his blessing, as someone kindly nominated me (Col) in the 'best editor' poll. TKnC, sure... but ME...?

Anyway, voting is open until January 26th 2011. If you wanna vote for us - or any of the other fine sites listed, including A Twist Of Noir & Pulp Metal Mag', plus loads of cool horror sites - go here... http://www.critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

And if you really think I was last year's best e-zine editor (then keep taking the tablets!) - you can vote here for your choice... http://www.critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml

You have to scroll down a tad to reach the list and you do have to verify each vote with your email address, but 'Critters Workshop', who run the poll, is a trustworthy site and doesn't send spam.

Thanks to the person who nominated us.

Regards,
A somewhat humbled, Col

FRANTIC by Col Bury

This piece of flash won December's One Word Challenge comp' over at Writers News Talkback Forum...

FRANTIC

The superstore was abuzz with shoppers. Clocking the newspaper headlines, “Local Paedophile Escapes,” Ged whisked Beth and Josh to the next aisle.

‘Right, stay close. No wandering.’

Ged became engrossed in reading the back of the supermarket’s own brand of Choco-pops. Instinctively looking down, his heart flickered.

‘Where’s Beth?’

Blasé, Josh clutched a box of Shreddies. ‘Daddy, can I…?’

‘Where’s your sister?’

‘Dunno.’

Ged scanned left and right. He sprinted, stopped at each aisle.

Nothing.

Glancing behind, Josh wasn’t there. Panic swamped him. Torn, he back-tracked. His head pivoted back and forth like an owl on speed.

That headline! Shit. Make a decision.

Frenetic now, he ran for the exit, dodging shoppers. He bumped into a shelf-stacker. ‘Pleeease...lost my kids...Beth n Josh!’

He patrolled the exit foyer, head spinning, eyes manic. Children’s voices amplified, teasing him. Every man was a paedo’, every woman an accomplice. Lips pinched, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

The Tannoy boomed their names. Tears welled, palpitations intensified.

A security guard emerged from the crowd, Beth in one hand, Josh in the other.

‘Dadddeeeee!’

Sobbing, Ged hugged his kids like never before.

A wide-eyed man in a trench-coat strolled past them, sighed then exited the store.


© Col Bury December 2009

BIO:
TKnC co-editor, Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on TKnC, A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Blink Ink and Flash Fiction Offensive. Col's story MOPPING UP won a comp' to feature in the anthology EVEN MORE TONTO STORIES (to be published May 2010). He blogs and interviews crime authors at Col Bury's New Crime Fiction.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, OFFICER - Col Bury

A slice of flash to round off Halloween...

Happy Halloween, Officer

‘The target is taking a left, left onto Market Street. Temporary loss…’

‘Stick with him, John. I’m ten metres behind. Louey’s in position opposite.’

‘Okay, Morse. Got eyeball again. He’s speeding up. Right, right down Back Piccadilly. Temporary loss…’

‘Let’s just nail the scumbag. With blood on his jacket, he’s obviously bang at it,’ said Louey, thinking of the pending paperwork and the fact he should’ve been taking the kids to a Halloween party. Fat chance.

‘Be patient, Louey. Wait…eyeball again. He’s just turned left, left into a ginnel. And, watch it, it’s dark down here.’

‘Right behind you, John,’ said Morse.

Louey shuddered in the meagre moonlight as the night wafted its chill down Back Piccadilly.

John’s voice, a whisper now. ‘Left, left into the ginnel. Even darker now…shit!’

The scream halted Louey. ‘John? You okay?’ Adrenaline flooded his veins, his heart-rate doubling.

Morse’s misshapen figure did a swift left into the ginnel.

‘What the fuck? No…pleeease…’ crackled through his earpiece.

Louey withdrew his baton and torch then sprinted.

Torchlight revealed Morse on the floor, a shadowy shape stooped over him. Louey raised his baton.

A squelchy noise made him lift the beam higher. He froze on seeing the target’s blood-swilled face and manic smile - John pinned up against the wall, his neck gaping dark crimson.

Shuffling behind. Louey pivoted, shined the beam.

Bloody fangs grinned at him. His last thought was of his kids.

‘Happy Halloween, Officer.’


BIO:
TKnC co-editor, Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on TKnC, A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Blink Ink and Flash Fiction Offensive. Col's story MOPPING UP won a comp' to feature in the anthology EVEN MORE TONTO STORIES (published late Nov.2009). He blogs and interviews crime authors at Col Bury's New Crime Fiction.

GAME, SET 'N' MATCH - by Col Bury

This piece of flash won the August One Word Challenge over on Writers News Talkback forum...

GAME, SET 'N' MATCH

It was a simple plan, for a simple man. If things worked out there’d be no blood on my hands.

Andrea originally joined the Tennis Club after Cheryl had told her what ‘great fun’ it was. Six months on and Cheryl’s hubby made her quit, but Andrea’s appetite for the club grew stronger somehow.

Initially I was pleased she felt slimmer, fitter, though the fees were somewhat steep, credit crunch and all. But I noticed, despite her new zest, our love life had died.

Being a cop, I decided to investigate. And sure enough: advantage Dempsey, a poser if ever I saw one.

‘Thirty-love?’

More like ‘Dirty-love!’

And so I was set to serve my ace with plenty of top spin. I considered delivering Dempsey my best backhand, but that wasn’t nearly enough. So I volleyed his head and ironically he made quite a racket. Especially when I smashed Andrea’s racket into his nether regions.

‘New balls, please!’

Andrea had just left his flat. I’m forensically aware, remember, plus my alibi was concrete. Motive-wise, Andrea’s the jealous type and Dempsey was rampant at the club. The next court she attended wasn’t half as favourable to her.

Game, set and match.


BIO:
Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on TKnC, A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Blink Ink and Flash Fiction Offensive. His Mum once told him his writing was really good. He blogs and interviews crime authors here:
http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com

Apologies....

Hi Folks,
Just a quickie to apologise for the lack of posts this week. The pipeline is still looking healthy - never been better actually - but Matt's away and I've had a few deadlines this week which have been hampered by a broken wrist!

In the meantime, why not flick through the archives? You won't be disappointed as there are some absolute belters buried in there.
Regards,
One-handed Col!!!

A THRILLER, A KILLER 'N' A CHILLER..... A Trio of Tales from Co-Editor, Col Bury

The Thriller...


NOWHERE TO HIDE

Breathless, Jake skulked behind the wheelie-bin in the alleyway. He consciously tried to suppress his gasps for air, but the more he tried the louder they became. The stench of the bin’s contents invaded his nose, but this mattered not. Glancing at the dazzling moon, he realised its fullness spotlighted him, casting bizarre shadows around him. He shuffled his stooped form further into the darkness, seeking a sanctuary that didn’t exist.

A howling pierced the silence of night. But was it a dog? The howl seemed deeper. Jake felt a prickle run down the back of his neck.

He could hear feint footfalls at the top of the alleyway. He froze, held his breath. The steps grew louder. Two sets now, maybe three.

‘Fuck,’ he whispered.

The cool night breeze wafted an old newspaper nearby and Jake cringed. He slowly peered round the side of the bin. Like when you stand on something perilously high, but still feel compelled to look down. Human instinct, call it what you want, but he was sorry he looked.

Four distorted figures were glimpsed. The snapshot lingered, increasing the dread. When he quickly withdrew behind the bin he leaned on a discarded box, its dull crunch betraying him.

Shit.

His eyes shot about manically, searching for something, anything, as the footsteps thudded closer.

Fuck, shit.

Hope glimmered as his eyes fixed on a broken brush pole. In haste he reached across and grabbed it. His fingertips caressed the sharp end. The footsteps became quieter, more measured.

Jake’s grip on the pole tightened. He could hear his own heart beat, his mouth parched. This was it.

One last chance. He tossed the pole into the dark depths of the alley, the clatter echoing.

Whispered voices, on the other side of the bin, Jake’s face now a grimace. He felt pressure shift the bin a touch. A hand appeared above his head, probing the air.

Fuck it!

Jake stood up.

Four shadowy figures glared at him, their faces pallid in the moonlight, their eyes brimming with excitement.

‘Caught you!’ they yelled in unison.

Jake shrugged. ‘Yeah, but it was a great hiding place, right?’

***

The Killer...


WANTED

Melvin launched the empty packet of Marlboros across the room, knowing fully the perils of leaving his flat. But addiction was a powerful thing - his punters could vouch for that - and the cigs, booze and weed were all he had of late so he donned his baseball cap, pulled on his jacket and grabbed the key to the VW Golf.

After all, what harm could possibly come to me in a ten minute trip to the shops?

He moved swiftly, pivoting like a double-jointed owl on exiting the flat. Zammer’s boys were not to be messed with and the signs were pretty conclusive they knew where he lived. The smashed first floor window and the graffiti daubed front communal door, saying, ‘MELVIN KANE – R.I.P.’ were testament to that. Although a bit presumptuous if you asked Melvin. He patted the trusty Browning 9mm in the inside pocket of his jacket, his only friend, its bulk reassuring.

Well, there was one other friend, Jacko, but he’d done one to the Costa Del Crime a month ago after an armed blag gone wrong. Melvin pulled the Golf onto the A57 that split the suburbs leading into Manchester, his eyes as much on the mirrors as the road.

So far so good and only a couple of minutes to the off licence. After a desperate telephone call from Melvin, Jacko had posted him the keys to his flat five days earlier as a last gesture of friendship. The cops had grown tired of calling there in search of Jacko so the fact that Melvin himself was also a wanted man wasn’t too much of a problem, address-wise. They’d be looking elsewhere for him.

His mind drifted to the moment his life changed forever and the reason he was wanted by the both the cops and Zammer’s crew. How the fuck was he supposed to know the guy selling coke on his patch was one of Zammer’s new recruits? Anyway, if a man intrudes on your livelihood and, when confronted, has the balls to pull out a piece then what option have you got but to give him a slug, and in Mojo’s case another one for his cheek, ironically in his cheek, or buttock to be precise.

Melvin’s thoughts were interrupted by an old black BMW in his rear view mirror. He was two streets from the shop, but took a right instead of a left then went round a mini-roundabout twice. The BMW sped up the road and he backtracked toward the shop.

He considered solutions to his problems. Either take out Zammer and gain his patch, or get a fake passport off Asian Don and blag his way to Spain.

After parking outside the off licence for two minutes and scanning the area, he was happy to proceed, and besides he was dying for a ciggie.

While queuing he spotted a face he didn’t like. Vaguely familiar, but he was unsure where from. Pot-hole complexion, beanie hat and heavyweight build. An uneasy feeling swamped him as the guy’s shifty eyes glanced over one too many times from the aisles.

The Pakistani shopkeeper decided now was a good time to start chatting in depth about fuck all to the girl in front. Her ample tits clearly the reason for his small talk as his eyes nearly burnt holes in her bra.

Shifty was still skulking.

Fuck this. ‘Ee-ar, matey. Gimme forty Marlboros,’ he said taking out his wallet.

The shopkeeper gave him a glare as if Melvin had just walked in on him actually shagging the girl.

‘Quit the fuckin staring, dickhead an gimme the cigs.’

‘Now there’s no need for that, my friend.’

‘And there’s no need to ogle this girl’s tits is there, you fuckin perv?’

The girl half-turned, but decided against it, while shifty still hovered in the background.

‘That’s out of order, my friend.’

‘Yes it is, and am not your fuckin friend.’ Melvin considered withdrawing the Browning and slugging the fucker then taking a month’s supply of cigs. ‘Just gimme the cigs now or I’ll…’

Melvin heard the bleep signalling the shop’s door opening and couldn’t believe his eyes, or his luck.

The shopkeeper grew a foot as the copper walked in. ‘What were you saying, my friend?’ said the shopkeeper with a smirk.

The copper looked his way and Melvin dipped his head. He slapped his wallet on the counter and slid out a twenty. He warned the shopkeeper with mad eyes. ‘Look…I’m in a rush.’

The shopkeeper smiled at the girl. ‘Excuse me one moment, love.’ He passed over the fags and Melvin snatched them off him then left like shit off the proverbial shovel.

Melvin purposely didn’t wheel-spin the Golf. But when he’d eased away from the shop he doubled the speed limit of thirty. Once on the A57, and after checking his rear-view mirror a good dozen times, he relaxed a fraction, blending with the traffic and frantically lit a fag, sucking it so much a glowing carrot appeared within seconds, the nicotine rush dizzying him somewhat.

He began to wonder whether Shifty was just innocently buying a loaf or something. Or had Melvin just become so paranoid because of his predicament that anyone who looked slightly dodgy was one of Zammer’s crew? To be honest, this whole ducking and diving lark was beginning to get right on his tits and he knew there and then the answer wasn’t to take out Zammer, but to just do one and find Jacko in Spain.

It was then he glimpsed the cop car in his rear-view, his heart-rate jumping.

It was decision time. Fight or flight? The Golf was still in the name of the previous owner so there were no immediate worries there. On the flip side there was more chance of being best man at Zammer’s wedding than getting bail, so Melvin cranked up the revs.

The cop responded with a flash of his blues 'n' twos with a brief burst of the klaxon.

Melvin took a sharp right and felt the tail-end go and battled to straighten up. After a shuddering zigzag he just managed it. He took an even sharper left accompanied by a screech of tyres. But the cop was still up his arse like an unwanted sex pest.

Melvin purposely avoided the vicinity of his flat and headed for the single-carriageway parallel to the A57, but a group of kids on bikes took up half the road and he had no choice, but to slow down. The cop took advantage, pulling alongside Melvin who could see the cop frantically gesturing for him to pull over.

From experience he knew within minutes traffic officers would be flooding the area in their high-powered Volvo T6’s, and this was just one youngish-looking patrol bobby, so he nodded and took the next left. He selected a specific spot to park in the quiet cul-de-sac and waited for the cop to appear at his side.

Privets on one side and a six foot fence on the other, plus nobody was on the street. If this was to go pear-shaped he’d burn the Golf out and head for Spain. He gave the Browning a pat for reassurance.

Be cool, he told himself, but could still feel the adrenaline bubbling out of control, like it did when he smoked Mojo. He lit another cig and drew hard.

Melvin saw the cop’s fluorescent green jacket appear in his peripheral vision. The officer leaned toward his closed window with a befuddled expression, his breath partially steaming up the outer window as he signalled for Melvin to wind it down.

‘Good afternoon, constable.’

‘Is it really? What the bloody hell were you playing at back there?’

‘Sorry, at first I thought you just wanted to get past. Then I just panicked as I’ve not registered the car in my name yet.’

The officer sighed and looked heavenwards. ‘Step out of the vehicle, fella, and join me on the pavement.’

Melvin’s hand reached into his jacket. ‘Why?’

‘Just do it, will you?’ The cop turned and walked to the pavement.

Melvin wondered whether the cop had already PNC’d him. He knew he’d have already checked the car out. Regardless, he wasn’t getting locked up today.

Feeling increasingly edgy, he took out the Browning and popped it into his side pocket for easier access before following.

Okay...Let’s do it, pig.

‘I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, so I’ll just give you a producer, okay?’

What? Melvin felt himself relax a little. He’d just gone from cop killer to having three points on his licence! Play along. ‘Aw, man. Do you have to?’

The officer was already reaching into his pocket. ‘Count yourself lucky. If I was a Traffic cop, you’d be done for speeding, driving without due care and failing to stop for police, and probably even that bald tyre, too. But I haven’t got the time for all that and I only pursued you to give you back your wallet. You left it in the shop.’

Shaking his head, Melvin took the wallet off the cop. ‘Thanks, officer. And sorry for wasting your time.’

The officer’s radio boomed into life about some domestic nearby. ‘Be good,’ said the cop as he headed for his Astra.

Fuck me, this was getting better and better – not even a producer! Melvin waved him off with a grin as broad as his luck. What a fuckin knob. He didn’t even check me out, he thought, still waving as the Astra reversed with a whine out of sight.

Back inside the Golf he gripped the steering wheel and pulled himself forward and back laughing his cock off at the rookie cop’s incompetence then pictured his new life in Spain; a snapshot of him and Jacko drinking San Miguels on the beach amongst bikini-clad beauties…

The loud crack to his left hardly registered. Neither did the shattering passenger door window. Nor did the .38 calibre bullet that entered one temple and blasted out the other, topped with a blood, bone and brain combo.

And he certainly didn’t register Shifty’s tobacco-stained grin.

***

The Chiller...


WORKING FROM HOME

‘Daddy, can I go down to the cellar?’

‘NO!’ Bobby snapped. Instantly regretting it, he back-tracked. ‘You know it’s Daddy’s private place, Little Bob. All my work stuff’s down there and that’s why I keep it locked, son.’

‘Aw, but Daddy. I want to play pool.’

‘The pool table’s broken. I’m waiting for the man to come and re-cover it.’

His daughter piped, ‘You’ve been waiting for months, Daddy. Where’s he coming from…Austraaalia?’

‘Hey! Don’t be cheeky, Little Lou. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.’

Little Bob grinned. ‘Unless it’s a money tree.’

Little Lou chuckled.

Bobby wore a false smile, but internally sighed in exasperation. I’ll be glad when you guys are back at school so I can get some work done, he thought. Working from home definitely had its good points, but certainly not in the school hols. ‘Go and watch some telly, will you? And give me some time to think.’

He could hear the spooky tones of Scooby Doo emanating from the living room as he passed the cellar door in the hallway. It was locked, as always. Not long now till his wife, Louise, returned home from the office. She could see the kids had been doing his head in and had promised to take them over to her sister’s in Liverpool overnight, having booked tomorrow off. This should give him ample time to really get stuck in downstairs and not only finish his current project, but crack on with the next.

There was a sudden scream and Little Lou rushed out from the living room, closely followed by her brother.

‘Daaar-phne’s just been kidnapped by the Ghost of Ghaaar-stly Hall!’

Bobby shook his head and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s not real, darling. Don’t worry.’ He winked at his son and wiggled his index finger before widening his eyes.

‘No, Daddeeee!’ yelled Little Bob as he sped back into the living room. ‘Not the Tickle Monster!’

Bobby felt Little Lou release her grip and she excitedly pushed her Daddy away and ran off giggling.

After ten minutes of hysterical laughter whereby The Tickle Monster’s index finger had found all the appropriate tickle spots, and all involved with sheens of sweat across their foreheads, the front door double bleeped on opening to signal Louise’s return home.

Thank God for that.

Louise smiled as the kids simultaneously told her all about their day without a comma in sight. She then held her palms up. ‘Okay, okay. Let me get a quick brew and I’ll get you ready for our sleepover at Auntie Sheila’s.’

Just under an hour later and Bobby kissed them all goodbye at the door.

‘You gonna give it one last shot, honey, and make those calls from your contact list?’

‘Sure, love. I’ve always wanted to work from home, you know that. And I’m determined to make this thing work.’

‘Good luck,’ said Louise, giving her husband a peck on the cheek.

Bobby waved into the darkness as the Zafira’s rear lights faded down the street, then he turned with a purpose.

He rattled the bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the box on the top shelf of the kitchen wall unit, then headed for the cellar door. Unfastening the bolt, he was all fingers and thumbs in his eagerness and dropped the lock onto the floor. He chided himself and took a composing breath.

The musty basement air hit him and with each downward step the low tingle of excitement within grew stronger.

At the bottom he glanced across the old pool table, at his desk, computer and phone in the corner. The contact list was pinned on the wall above and all the male names were crossed out in blue as ‘no shows.’ There were four female names high-lighted in red and the name Jessie Bolton was currently in yellow as she was still ongoing.

Bobby reached for a tin on the dusty shelf high above his desk and again took out the bunch of keys from his pocket. He opened the tin and removed a further single key before replacing the tin onto the shelf.

He pivoted and headed for the door in the opposite corner. Clicking the door-lock he flicked open his lock-knife and entered.

‘Evening, Jessie,’ he said donning a manic sneer. His eyes widening, he wiggled an index finger in the air. ‘Now where were we?’

God, I just love working from home.


BIO:
Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on TKnC, A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences and Blink Ink. His Mum once told him his writing was good. He blogs and interviews crime authors here:

http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/