Chris Nickson Exclusive Short Story - Family

Christmas Short Story

Family 

by 

Chris Nickson

Leeds, December 1889

It was still dark when she finished the baking, and bitter outside the kitchen. She washed the flour from her hands, walked through the yard and unlocked gate that led to Roundhay Road. The draymen would arrive soon enough, the sharp sound of hooves as the horses stopped outside the Victoria. She peeked out into the street. The air was winter-heavy and wet with soot.

It was early but there were already men out walking, on their way to jobs in the boot factories and tanneries, the mills and breweries. The gas lamps offered a faint glow. She turned and caught the silhouette of someone crouched on the doorstep of the pub.

Someone small. A boy.

“Waiting for something, luv?” Annabelle Atkinson asked as she crossed her arms. “We’ll not be open for two hours yet.”

“I’m just sitting,” the lad answered. She could hear the cold in his voice. As she came closer, she was that his face was grubby and he was only wearing a thin shirt and a pair of ragged trousers that left his calves bare, his shoes were held together withpieces of  string. He wasn’t local, she was certain of that. Annabelle knew everyone around Sheepscar, each man, woman and child. “No law agin it, is there?” he asked.

“Not if you want to stay there,” she told him. “Warmer inside, though. The oven’s going. Cup of tea. Maybe even breakfast if you’re not too cheeky.”

He was torn, it was plain on his face. He was thin as a stick and didn’t look as if he’d had a full meal in days. She didn’t say anything more, deliberately turning away to stare back up the road towards the endless streets of back-to-back houses and factories that lined the way out to Harehills. December. It would be a good while yet before it was light. As light as it ever got when the air was filled with fog and smoke.

When she looked again he was there, standing close, expectant and wary.

“You’re not having me on, missus?”

“No, luv, in you go.” She watched him run through the yard and into the kitchen. By the time she entered he was already standing by the oven, hands outstretched, soaking in the heat. She didn’t have any bairns of her own. Her husband had been older, then he’d died and she’d taken over running the pub. However it had happened, she’d never caught. Now she was courting again, a man called Tom Harper, a copper of all things, and set to wed next year if she could ever persuade him to pop the question.

She cut two doorsteps of bread, buttered them thickly and placed them on the table in front of him. Before he could grab one she took hold of his tiny wrist and said,

“You’re not eating with those filthy hands. Get them under the tap. Your face, too. We’re not short on soap.”

He returned, skin scrubbed and glowing, grabbing the food before she could say anything more. Annabelle brewed tea, one cup for herself, another for him, milky, with plenty of sugar.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Henry, missus,” he answered with his mouth full.

“You can call me Annabelle. Where are you from? I’ve not seen you around before.”

“Me and me da just moved here two day back. We was living in Morley, then me mam and me sister got ill and died and me da started drinking and lost his job so we had to leave.” The words came out in a rush. “He thought we might do better up here.”

She smiled softly. The lad couldn’t be more than eight. But what had happened to him was no more than had happened in so many families.

“We’d best get you home then, Henry. Your da’ll be worried. Get some food in you and I’ll walk you back.”

“He din’t wake up yesterday, missus.” He said the words flatly.

“What do you mean, luv?”

“He’d had a few drinks the night before so I thought he were asleep. I knew he’d belt me if I tried to wake him up, so I left. When I got back the door were locked and he din’t answer. I don’t know anyone round here so I din’t know where to go.”

“Right,” she said after a minute. “You tell me where you live, Henry and I’ll go and see your Da.” Emma the maid came into the kitchen, raising her eyebrows at the sight of the child. “Can you make him something hot?” Annabelle asked. “Bacon and eggs or summat. Poor little sod’s perishing. And see he gets a bath after. I’m off to see his Da.”

“Are you posh, missus?” Henry asked, looking at the servant in awe.

“No, luv,” Annabelle laughed. “I’m not.”

Armenia Grove ended in a big stone wall at the back of the dyeworks. A little further along, Gipton beck ran along past the school, down to the mill pond. Number six was the same as its neighbours, all blackened brick and rotting woodwork, the front door opening as the turned the handle. Henry and his father had the upstairs room at the front, the boy had told her. Locked, just he’d said. She knocked but there was no reply.

Back on the street, Annabelle caught a glimpse of Bert Hardwick and shouted him over before he could duck out of sight.

“There’s a door I need opening,” she said.

He gave her a sheepish glance. “I don’t do that no more. I’m over at the brick works now. It’s steady, like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to take owt, you daft ‘apeth. Just work the lock for me. Or do you want me to tell your Annie about seeing you with Betsy Ainsworth the other night?”

It only took him a few seconds, working with the tip of his pocket knife. Before she could enter, he’d vanished, boots hammering down the stairs. Men, she thought. They were all bloody useless.

Rags covered the window, blocking out the first light. But she could still see the shape on the floor, huddled under a threadbare blanket. Annabelle spoke his name but he didn’t stir. She reached out to touch his cheek then recoiled with a gasp as soon as her fingers felt his cold skin.

Quietly, she left the house.

Dan the barman was emptying the spittoons and polishing the tables. She asked him to find the beat bobby and take him to the house on Armenia Grove.

“He’ll know what to do.”

She brightened her expression and walked through to the kitchen. Henry was sitting in front of the oven, wearing nothing more than a large towel. Emma had stoked up the fire and washed his clothes; they were strung up on the wooden rack, steaming as they dried.

“You look better all cleaned up,” she told him. “Right handsome.”

“Did you find my Da, missus?”

“I did.” She stood by the chair and took hold of his hand. “What’s his Christian name?”

“Edward,” the boy answered. “But everyone calls him Ted.” Worry flashed across his eyes. “Why, missus?”

She gazed at him for a moment.

“I don’t know how to tell you, Henry, so I’ll just do it straight. Your father’s dead. It looks like he passed away in his sleep. I’m sorry.”

His grip tightened.

“But…” he began, then the words failed him. He began to cry and she cradled him close, rocking him softly until the tears turned to slow hiccoughs.

“Tom, you’ve got to help him.”

He’d arrived after work, close to eight on a dreary evening, exhausted and dirty. He’d ended up chasing a pickpocket out to Marsh Lane, finally bringing him down in the mud that passed for road there. She’d kept a plate warm in the oven for him, the way she always did, hoping he’d visit on the way back to his lodgings.

“Where is he now?” Inspector Harper asked.

“Fast asleep.” She smoothed the silk gown and with a satisfied sigh, let down her hair so it fanned over her shoulders. The mutter of voices came from the bar downstairs. “Poor little lamb’s all cried out. I finally got him to tell me that his mother’s sister lives in Morley. She’s Temperance, so after his ma died, she wouldn’t have anything to do with his father because he was a drinker. What do you think? Maybe she’d take him in.”

“Maybe. What’s her name?”

“Molly Wild.”

“I’ll get in touch with the station down there. Someone will let her know. I can’t promise anything. What about the father?”

“The undertaker has him. Burial tomorrow up at Beckett Street.”

He shook his head.

“You’re paying?”

“Someone has to,” she pointed out. “Come on, Tom. I couldn’t let the boy’s father go to a pauper’s grave, could I?”

“No,” he answered slowly. “I suppose you couldn’t.”

“It’s only money. I have the brass for that.”

Two days passed before the woman arrived. Annabelle had set Henry to work, washing glasses and helping with small tasks in the kitchen. He was an eager little worker, humming as he did whatever he was told. Only when the memories caught up with him would his face crumple and the tears begin. She fed him well and tucked him into the spare bed every night, watching from the doorway until he was asleep.

“There’s a woman outside wanting to talk to you,” Sad Andrew told her as he entered the Victoria. It was a little after ten in the morning, the fog thick as twilight.

“Tell her to come in, then,” she said. “I’m right here.”

“She won’t come into a public house.” He mimicked a prim voice and Annabelle sighed, drying her raw hands on an old cloth before pulling a shawl around her shoulders and pasting a smile on her face.

A horse and cart stood at the curb, driven by a man with hunched shoulders and a defeated expression. The woman had climbed down, glancing at the pub with a critical eye. Her bonnet was black, her gown a plain charcoal grey, button boots peeking from the hem.

“You must be Mrs.Wild.”

“I am,” she replied with a sniff.

“I’m Mrs. Atkinson.” The woman’s gaze moved to Annabelle’s hand, no ring on the third finger. “I’m a widow.”

“I see.” Her tone was disapproving. “The police came,” she said as if it was the most humiliating thing that could have happened. “They said Henry’s here and that his father’s dead.”

“That’s right. Do you want to see him?”

The woman stepped back as if she’d been slapped.

“I would never set foot on licensed premises.”

“Then I’m glad not everyone’s like you,” Annabelle said, smiling to take the sting from her words. “I’d be out of business in a week.”

“Was it the drink that killed my sister’s husband?”

“I don’t know, luv. All I did was take the boy in and see that his father was buried. But now you’re here, I’m sure Henry will be glad to have a home with you.”

“We already have five children.”

“Then you’ll hardly notice another.” She tried to make her voice light.

“We have good, God-fearing children.”

“You’ll love Henry. He’s a wonderful little boy.” She paused for a heartbeat. “And he’s flesh and blood to you. Your sister’s boy.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me something, luv,” Annabelle said. “You strike me as someone who likes to live by the Bible.”

“Of course we do.” Mrs. Wild lifted her head.

“Then what does it say inre about looking after those in need?”

“Don’t you go quoting that to me!” the woman bristled. “I’ll not have that from someone who runs a place like this.”

“What about someone who took your nephew in when he had nowhere else to go and arranged his father’s burial?” It didn’t matter who the woman was or what Annabelle needed from her. No one was going to speak to her that way. “Or doesn’t that count because I own a pub?”

The man on the cart turned.

“Just bring the lad out, missus.” He glared at his wife. “Don’t worry, we’ll look after him proper, won’t we, Molly? Like you said, he’s family.”

She stood on the doorstep of the Victoria, watching them drive away until they vanished into the fog. Henry had clung to her, not wanting to leave, crying once again as his aunt looked on, hawk-faced.

But it was for the best, she told herself. They were family.

* * * * *

Chris Nickson

Reviews

Richard Nottingham - Book 1 - The Broken Token

Richard Nottingham - Book 2 - Cold Cruel Winter

Richard Nottingham - Book 3 - The Constant Lovers
Richard Nottingham - Book 4 - Come The Fear

Exclusive Short Stories

Christmas Short Story - Family 
Christmas Short Story - Annabelle Atkinson and Mr. Grimshaw

Richard Nottingham 03 - Sanctuary - LIMITED TIME ONLY

Richard Nottingham 02 - December

Richard Nottingham 01 - Home

Podcast Interviews

02 - Chris Nickson - Interview about Come the Fear book launch!
Mobile Link - Chris Nickson 2
01 - Chris Nickson - Interview about Richard Nottingham
Mobile Link - Chris Nickson

Contact Details

Follow Chris on Twitter - @ChrisNickson2

Visit Chris' website - HERE
Best Book of 2001 - Library Journal Award

Miscellaneous

Leeds Playlist - Coming Soon!
Sweet Tooth - Mary Nottingham's Lemon Meringue Pie

* * * * *
Chris Nickson Table of Contents

* * * * *

Full Table of Contents

Short Story - Life is Waiting

Leeds Book Club has made a new friend!

I'm originally from Texas, but in 2008 I moved to the UK and have stuck around in Yorkshire ever since. 

I've only started writing seriously for a little over a year now, and last May I self-published my first novel - Memorial Day.*  

When I'm not obsessively staring at words on a laptop, I obsessively play music in Leeds-based band Backyards. Last year we released a couple records and were stupidly lucky enough to perform the 2012 Reading & Leeds Festivals. 

I can be bothered and found bothering at @BryanSerwatka

Bryan would like to share the following short story with you. Let us know your thoughts in the comments, via email or on twitter!

Kindle:

Other eBook

Life is Waiting

It was a quarter past one in the morning when the phone rang. I didn’t dare look at the bright screen in the dark, but I knew nobody else would call me that time of night.

‘Rrraaaay?’ I asked, trying in a single syllable to sound like I had been sleeping.

‘I think I’m going crazy,’ Ray said in his familiarly clipped West Country accent.

‘Erm, what the hell am I supposed to say to that, huh?’

‘Sorry Dave. …. Were you asleep?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ I’d actually spent the last couple hours unsuccessfully trying to fool myself into thinking I was going to sleep. For those past few weeks I was lucky to get more than two or three hours a night, but that night was different. I knew sleep was out of my grasp. ’So you’re going crazy – why call me?’

‘You’re a therapist, aren’t you?’

‘A couples’ therapist, not a psychotherapist. Besides I’m a divorced couples’ therapist. You might try calling someone with a better track record.’

Last summer my wife left me for one of her coworkers. I keep telling myself that I didn’t notice the signs because I was too busy breaking my back to establish my own independent practice – which has since gone bust – but the thought has never brought me any solace. Anyway, they’ve been out of my life for months now since moving up to Scotland to be nearer his family.

‘Honestly,’ Ray said, ‘you’re the only person I know who might be able to help.’

‘Why don’t you come over?’

‘Now?’

‘Why not? You’re only a couple streets over. Besides, I’m not going to get to sleep any time soon. I’ll put the kettle on.’

As I ended the call and rose to my feet I realised I was still fully dressed – shoes and all – and what surprised me most wasn’t the fact that I was wearing clothes from the day before but that they had never fit so loosely. Reaching the hallway I could see I left the lamp in the lounge on, and as I neared the kitchen my ears slowly zeroed in on the familiar gentle drone of the extractor fan above the stove. Every magnolia-coloured surface in my tiny back-to-back terraced house was either excreting or cultivating a fine film of some strange substance that seemed to continually fluctuate between grease, grit, dust and mould. You could only see it if you really looked for it, but even if you weren’t I’m sure you’d be able to smell it or feel it on your skin as you walked in my house. I could.

The rest of my house was littered with a couple dozen battered cardboard boxes marked with the names of different rooms – few of which resided in its designated room. I’d been living there months but I didn’t see the point in unpacking them as I’d not really needed any of the contents aside from clothes, some books and a few dishes. I liked to think this kind of spartan living helped keep clutter down, but I’m not sure that really mattered much.



Ray and I met a couple months ago at our local pub. I remember sitting at the bar, sedately sipping my last-order pint as the news anchors discussed tomorrow’s headlines, when Ray walked behind me and tripped on my chair. His glass fell to the ground and his stocky frame followed closely behind, helplessly paralyzed like a statue pulled to the ground, and just as the glass smashed on the tiles Ray landed right on top of the shards. As he stood, I watched his shirt sleeves quickly redden with blood as it gushed from the gashes on his arms. I’d never seen so much blood in my life.

Ray instinctually started pulling the bits of glass from his arm, and I remember slurring, ‘Leave them in you bloody fool – and raise your arm above your head or you’ll bleed out!’ – or something to that effect.

Aside from the manageress – a perpetually uninterested woman – Ray and I were the only ones left in the pub. With the calloused nonchalance of someone who had seen this a thousand times, she phoned for an ambulance while sweeping up the mess with a dustpan. When the paramedics arrived, the manageress told me with a stony glare that I would be escorting Ray to A&E because nothing was going to stop her from shutting the bar on time. I didn’t dare cross her. In the confined space of the ambulance I could tell how strongly I stank of booze, but Ray absolutely reeked. It was as if the toxic bitterness of the odour intensified as it decanted from his veins onto his clothes and the gurney on which he laid. The paramedics had wrapped Ray’s arms in gauze and suspended them from the ceiling to make sure they were above the level of his heart, and as I watched them dangle all the way to the hospital I was reminded of the cured charcuterie meats that lined the bars of the Spanish tavernas my wife and I used to visit on holiday. Strangely, the pungent smell wasn’t too dissimilar.

That night, after I had left the hospital, the nurses on hand told Ray I saved his life, and since then he’s gone out of his way to make sure I’d never forget it. Every time he spotted me in public, he would run up to me and roll down his sleeves to show how well his scars had been healing. For the first couple weeks the scars were downright gruesome, and whenever I saw them I could only think of the poor sap who had to stitch up those jagged carvings in Ray’s flabby, liver-spotted arms. The very thought put me off meat for a while.



It only took Ray a couple minutes to get to my flat. I hadn’t seen him for a few days since he went to visit his daughter Kate in Kent. As his loud, clumsy knock at my door shook the entire wall, I knew the neighbours would complain about it in the morning.

‘Alright Dave?’ he asked as he clambered through the door.

‘Yeah not bad. Cuppa?’

‘I’m alright.’

‘But still crazy, right?’ A remark he didn’t find very amusing. ‘How’s Kate?’

‘She’s fine. They’ve been trying to get pregnant but nothing’s working.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘S’alright. Anyway, she’s too young to be worrying about kids. I told her she should live a little before taking on that sort of responsibility, but she’s made her mind up. Stubborn like Eleanor, that girl is.’

Ray’s wife Eleanor died a few years ago from emphysema. She refused to give up smoking even after her doctors told her it’d kill her if she continued. Ray always managed to bring her up within seconds of starting a conversation.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Ray asked pulling a crushed pack from his tracksuit bottoms.

‘You know I do.’ I don’t really, never have. I just didn’t want another strange smell in the house. ‘So what’s this about Ray? What’s bothering you?’

He shook his head and stared at the floor. ‘You’re not going to believe me.’

‘For fuck’s sake Ray – you called me in the middle of the night and you’re now in my living room. Try me.’

‘…Okay. It all started with a weird dream I had last week. Now I know there’s nothing more tedious than listening to someone describe a dream -’

I nodded in agreement.

‘- but it’s a huge part of what’s been messing with me. So in this dream, I park my car at the bottom of a hill somewhere out in the country and I start walking along this road that leads up to a small neighbourhood on the hill. Just a single street of detached houses ending in a cul-de-sac. Really lovely place. Lots of trees around but not a person in sight. I get to the top of the hill and look back down to where my car was, and just at that moment I see the clouds break as this sunbeam shoots down right onto a cluster of trees about a kilometer away. One of the trees is huge – I mean fucking massive – so I reach in my pocket for my phone and try to take a quick photo. It wasn’t cold or anything, but I was wearing a pair of black leather gloves. Real strange. Anyway, it takes me a few tries but I manage to get a shot where you could just make out the tree.’

I was growing impatient. ‘Keep talking Ray,’ I said as I stood and walked to the kitchen. ‘I’m listening.’

‘So I’m walking though this neighbourhood looking for number 12 – don’t ask me why – and when I find it I walk around to the back garden. Now, this is when it starts getting kinda weird: I notice a light on in the toolshed and can see this man inside with his back turned to me. For some reason, something deep down within me knows that this guy is a bad man. It’s so quiet up there in the hills I have to be really careful not to make a sound. I see a loose brick from a small pile and grab it, sneak up behind him, and with a few really strong blows I bash this bloke’s head in. He never saw it coming.’

‘Christ!’

‘It’s hard to describe, but even without seeing the guy’s face, every ounce of my being knows I had to kill him then and there, so I do the deed without any hesitation.’

‘What happened after that?’

‘Well, I know there’s a woman inside so I walk towards the house and open the back door. There was some loud chat show blaring on the television, but she was sound asleep on the sofa. I walk towards her, brick still in my hand, and I kill her just like I did the man in the shed. And just like with the guy, it was like I knew she had done something wrong and I didn’t feel bad about taking her out.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘I went to the kitchen for a bin bag then left through the back door. Once outside I took off my gloves and put them in the bag with the brick and the rain jacket I was wearing. Then, I walk back down the hill with this bag in my hand, get in my car and I drive away. It was like I was operating on some weird autopilot mechanism doing all this then covering my tracks. The next thing I know, I’m awake in bed. I don’t remember anything else.’

‘A bad dream like that doesn’t mean you’re going crazy,’ I said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood a little, but he stared right through me. From the kitchen I could see he’d been sweating and his eyes looked misty and red. The man looked dreadful.

Ray stood and retrieved his phone from his trousers. ‘I haven’t shown this to anyone,’ he said, his hands trembling as they tapped and swiped through menus and folders, and as he handed me the phone he looked me square in the eyes to watch my reaction. ‘Here. Look at this.’

On the screen was a photo of an enormous tree illuminated by a sunbeam – exactly as he had described. Nothing in the shot was in focus and whoever took the shot hadn’t held the camera steady, but dead in the centre of the picture was the hazy silhouette of a large pine.

‘There’s more,’ Ray said as he gnawed his cuticles. His face had turned quite pale giving his bloodshot eyes a near-glowing effect.

The other photos were even fuzzier than the one he showed me, but it was obvious that every single shot was taken of the same tree illuminated by the same beam among the same hills.

I could feel Ray staring at me but I didn’t dare look up from the screen.

‘Couldn’t you have taken this picture a while back?’ I asked. ‘The mind’s a very complex thing and your subconscious could be remembering things from -’

He snatched the phone from my hand and shouted, ‘Don’t you think I know that!’

‘Keep your voice down!’ I hissed. ‘Christ, I hope the neighbours are too drunk to notice all the fucking noise you’re making.’

‘Sorry Dave,’ he said slouching his shoulders. ‘This is all a bit much for me.’

‘Okay, so let me get this straight: You don’t honestly think -’

‘Think what? That somehow I’m transmitting images to my phone as I sleep through some magical fucking connection?’

To be honest, I didn’t quite know what I was going to ask him. ‘Well?’

‘Don’t be daft!’ he spat. He walked to the kitchen and opened the cabinet where I kept my spirits. It was habit for us to head back to my house for a tipple once the pub shut. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Go for it.’

As he poured whiskey into a ceramic mug he said, ‘I only saw the pictures when I got to Kate’s last Wednesday. I was trying to show my son-in-law a video I took of some baby mice I found living in a box by the boiler in my cellar, but this was the first picture in the folder. And look here,’ he said tapping the screen, ‘the file info says the picture was taken last week – last Tuesday even.’

‘So where were you last Tuesday?’

Ray winced as he necked the glass. ‘…I don’t know.’ He glanced at the bottle and looked as if he was going to pour another but shook his head and walked back to the living room. I haven’t bought generic booze since.

‘You don’t know?’ I asked.

‘If I was still around here Tuesday night I’d have been at the pub, right?’

‘Sure. Arsenal played Spurs.’

‘But I wasn’t there, was I?’ Ray was now standing over me, and if I didn’t know him better I would have thought he was trying to scare me. His large frame combined with the ghostly look on his face would be enough to unsettle anyone.

‘Come to think of it,’ I said, ‘I don’t remember seeing you. Mind you, after Arsenal lost I ended up staying at the pub getting blotto until closing time.’

I sipped my coffee and watched as Ray wandered over to the window. With his face inches from the glass he began to trace the perimeter of the frame with his finger, periodically wiping the slimy condensation on the seat of his trousers. All night I’d been watching his body language, trying to remember whatever training and expertise I thought I’d obtained over the years, but I felt totally out of my depth. It suddenly dawned on me how unnatural the process of counseling had become – not to mention how exhausted I was from sleep deprivation. I hadn’t worked in months since the practice went under and thankfully I didn’t really need to. After the divorce I sold almost everything – house, car, furniture, the modest stock portfolio I’d been developing – and had been living off savings. I figured that if I kept on with the way I’ve been living, I’d manage another couple years or so without having to go back to work.

Still mucking about at the window, Ray said, ‘I tried not to react when I saw those photos, but you know I’m rubbish at hiding my emotions. Kate knew something was going on with me, and she confronted me about it, but I couldn’t tell her – and what the hell could I have told tell her anyway? That I’ve lost a day of my life and can’t remember anything from it aside from a dream – a dream where I killed two people in cold blood? …..You haven’t seen the news, have you Dave?’

‘Not in weeks,’ I said glancing across the room at my dusty television. ‘Why do you ask?’

Ray’s breath completely fogged the window, yet he stared at it as if looking through. ‘A couple in Scotland was found murdered a couple days ago. Their neighbours only checked the property when they noticed all the birds congregating at the toolshed.’

‘It’s got to be a coincidence.’

‘That’s what I thought until I saw the news report. I didn’t really recognise their faces when the photos came on the screen, but when the camera panned to their house and neighbourhood…’ Ray began to light a cigarette but I didn’t dare tell him off. He took a long drag and said through the smoke, ‘Since the moment I saw that bloody photo on my phone I’d been trying to tell myself that there was no way any of the dream was true, and since seeing the news report I’ve been drinking myself sick to try to forget about it. Even if I killed them, what the hell should I do about it? I mean, should I turn myself in?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I went through my house and my car looking for the bin bag, but there was nothing. I guess I could have disposed of it somehow on the way home or something, but I honestly don’t remember any of it. Not the drive there, not the drive back, and not even when I got home – and it’s not like I could have bloody well done any of it drunk!’

‘So you think you actually killed them?’

‘How else could I have known anything about what their neighbourhood looked like? Christ, how else could I have been there to take the picture?’

I shrugged my shoulders. At this point I didn’t want to look upset by anything Ray said. Despite the obvious distress he looked like he was in control, and I figured that could change if I looked or said anything that wasn’t one-hundred percent supportive.

‘I need a drink,’ I said. ‘Want one?’

‘Why not?’ he said as he waved his cigarette in the air dismissively.

I stood and walked to the kitchen and saw he had turned back towards the window. This was my chance. I had to take it.

I snuck up behind him, grabbed his waist with one arm and his forehead with the other, and said firmly, ‘Sleep.’

Ray fell immediately limp and we both crashed to the floor with his fleshy body landing on top of mine, forcing out every bit of of air from my lungs and filling my eyes with tears. My face was pinned to the grubby floor underneath his breast and, gasping to catch my breath, I caught the faint smell of something burning. I suddenly remembered the cigarette in Ray’s hand. As the stink of burning wool filled my nostrils I fumbled around trying to find the smoldering butt, and when I finally did all I could think to do was use the back of Ray’s hand to put it out.

Of course I felt bad at first, but it wasn’t like he was going to remember any of this.

I sat up, dusted myself off and stared down at him and the charred black spot on my carpet. Of all the times I’d put him under, he’d never fallen so limp so quickly.

‘What am I going to do with you, Ray?’

Ray’s right arm gently twitched at the sound of my voice, and I’m not sure why but it made me feel rather uneasy. Part of me was slightly worried he’d hurt himself in the fall, but I realised I was much more worried about him waking up. I wasn’t quite sure I could put him back under if he came to on his own – especially if he woke up distressed or realised what had happened. I leaned over to Ray, knelt down and slapped him hard across the face to see if he’d react.

‘RAY.’

Nothing. I struck him again.

‘Ray? Hello? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?’

In that state he should have been somewhat responsive or reactive to my questions, even with just a nod or a wince, but he seemed totally unconscious.

‘Ray? I’m going to count to three, and when I get to three I need you to sit up and face me. Here we go: One… Two…..Three.’

His hands clenched into fists and he slowly slid his knuckles along the floor to his sides like a gorilla as he lifted himself up. His eyelids fluttered momentarily as he sat upright.

‘Ray, do you know who I am?’ He nodded. ‘Tell me Ray, what’s my name?’

‘Dave. You’re Dave.’

‘That’s right, Ray. Do you know where we are?’

‘We’re at your flat, Dave.’ Oddly, with his eyes still shut Ray turned his head in the direction of the window as if that position was somehow fixed in his mind.

‘Very good,’ I said. Glancing down towards the floor I could see where the cigarette burned the back of his right hand. The wound was the size of a ten-pence piece and was dotted with bits of dirt and blackened carpet fluff. ‘Ray, does your hand hurt?’

Ray shook his head with his mouth slightly agape, his jaw loosely swaying with each motion. He might not have been hurting, but I knew something needed to be done about the burn.

As I stood to walk to the kitchen I noticed I’d twisted my ankle in the fall, but the pain wasn’t all that bad. A quick swill of whiskey from the bottle seemed to help – or at least it diverted the pain with a sharp shudder and a vile aftertaste. I then sat down on the floor in front of Ray and took his hand, and as I poured the whiskey over his wound he sharply inhaled. He was visibly in pain now, but at least he was responsive to physical stimulus. At that point I knew I had to put him in a deeper trance, but I started to panic as I hadn’t the slightest clue how to do it. All my formal hypnosis training had centered around getting the patient to let their guard down enough to open up and communicate things they’d normally find difficult. Truth be told, I’m amazed I’ve been able to get Ray this far on my own.



The day he was discharged from the hospital, Ray found me at the pub in the hope of thanking me for helping him, and that night we drank until we couldn’t think. When the pub shut we went to my place for some further drinking, and in no time we got to talking about our lives and how much better we once had it. I told him about my pushy parents who guilted me into studying psychiatry, my wife and the divorce, and everything I wished I could have done or said to keep her, but all he wanted to talk about was the psychiatry. To Ray, being a therapist was as much a novelty as being double-jointed, and that night he proceeded to ask me every psychology-related question that popped into his drunken, blood-starved mind. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t have been drinking after the night before. Anyway, at some point the conversation slipped into hypnotherapy and we never seemed to steer out of it. Ray told me that when he was younger he saw a stage hypnotist who convinced a woman she was a duck, and since then he’s been mildly fascinated by it. When I mentioned I had performed hypnotherapy a couple times in my sessions, he asked me if I could use it to help him stop smoking. I tried explaining to him that I wasn’t qualified for that sort of individualised therapy and that I was definitely too drunk to start dabbling with it now, but he was so bloody fixed on the idea there wasn’t a word I could say to dissuade him.

I started out gently with the basics just to see how receptive he was to hypnosis and made sure I was able to both put him under and bring him back before I dared moving on to hypnotic suggestion. Obviously it helped he was naturally receptive and trusted me enough to make the session successful, but as I continued the methods got more complicated and I quickly found myself operating totally outside of my comfort zone. The panic that set in made my heart race, and instead of pulling Ray out of the trance and stopping the session, I realised I loved the sensation and my ability to control the situation. I honestly hadn’t felt this energised in years and I couldn’t just let that feeling go.

Ray and I continued heading to my house after the pub and, once I learned to covertly put Ray under, I became more and more adventurous in trying to test the limits of what I could invoke through hypnosis. I’d spend most of my days at home researching different techniques online, and immediately upon coming across it I became obsessed with the notion of being able to remotely trigger hypnosis in Ray then getting him to respond to detailed posthypnotic suggestions when I wasn’t there to direct him step-by-step. With each session I felt I better understood the way Ray’s mind worked and in turn I began to regain a sense of confidence I thought I’d lost. Ideally I would have liked to be working with certifiably tested information on a totally sober subject, but as my own obsession grew and results appeared I became happy, complacent even, with what I had. However, just as I felt I was in control, we suffered a few setbacks as we moved on to methods of memory repression.

As complicated as memory is, the idiosyncrasies of memory repression and alteration are a thousand times more peculiar and are riddled with countless caveats and quirks that can be sparked at any time. Any changes or obscurations made to memory aren’t necessary permanent because the raw details of memory can neither be erased nor changed entirely. At best memories can be repressed through disassociation or something called motivated forgetting – but at some point in the future, any point really, they can be recovered through a range of things from random sensory triggers to intense sessions of psychotherapy.

I began testing repressive techniques on Ray by trying to block out certain small details of conversations such as specific locations or a football team, and as we progressed I moved on to topical events, people and even entire conversations themselves. Unexpectedly, in the days of our final sessions, Ray began experiencing sporadic bouts of both short-term and long-term amnesia which in turn made him become somewhat paranoid and distrusting. The complications themselves weren’t major – a few forgotten names, faces, dates, ruling parties of government – but they severely knocked my confidence. I spent days researching ways to address and resolve Ray’s memory issues, but I had no success. In fact, Ray’s memory seemed to be getting worse with each session. I could feel myself growing more and more hopeless as the one human connection I had was slowly slipping away from me, but more importantly I realised my window of opportunity to act was closing and I had to hasten my plan of action. In stark contrast to the sessions with Ray, when it came to planning the logistics, my alibi and how to get rid of the evidence I found myself bored. That side of things seemed so easy in comparison to everything else.

‘You know Ray, I always assumed I’d either chicken out or fuck up at some point leading up to this. Anyway, let’s get you off the floor,’ I said grabbing him by the crook of his arm before leading him to the sofa. ‘Lay down Ray.’

Christ, I thought, I’m still talking to him like a fucking dog. I hated myself for only really speaking to Ray as a friend was when he was under, and then I hated myself further for constantly berating him as I worked. I occasionally tried to convince myself I hated Ray for being so susceptible to the sessions, but I knew there wasn’t a single piece of blame I could place on him. I’m the one who couldn’t handle being left and I’m the one exploiting another for my own dirty retaliation.

Ray laid on the sofa like a stiff in a coffin, his arms crossed and his hands clasped together on his chest, and I could see that the burn on his hand was getting even worse. It was now a deep, bright red hole with small whitish bumps dotting the inside of the open wound. I took a clean tissue from a pack in his jacket and spilled a few drops of whiskey on it, and as I lightly dabbed his hand I realised how strange it felt helping him in this way. After what I’ve put him through these past few weeks I wasn’t quite sure how I’d be able to act or speak towards him. I tried imagining what life would be like from here on out, but nothing came to mind.

‘Ray, are you still with me?’

He nodded.

‘I need you to sit tight and wait. I’ll only be a minute.’

Life is nothing but bloody waiting, I thought.

I stood and walked to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee – doubly strong this time – and as the kettle hissed to life I stretched my arms as far as I could, for as long as I could, in the hope of somehow stirring up some vigilance or clarity. I opened my laptop on the kitchen counter and browsed through my folder of saved online articles and notes from our sessions, but I knew there’d be no precedent, no method of procedure, for what I had to do next. I’d be flying blind for however long it took to keep things under control, but that was fine. That was the way it had to be.

‘Alright Ray,’ I said bringing the coffee to my lips, ‘we have work to do.’

Visit Bryan's website HERE

* * * * *

* * * * *

Guest Stars - Table of Contents

* * * * *

Full Table of Contents 

Christmas Gift for YOU from Chris Nickson

MERRY CHRISTMAS ONE AND ALL!

Tis the season to be jolly and once again the amazing Chris Nickson has provided us with a very special surprise - an exclusive short story!!!

As regular readers will know, Chris is the author of the intriguing Richard Nottingham series. In this story, he moves away from crime and instead focuses on a moment in time - inspired by a painting.

Once again, we are indebted to Chris - whose generosity knows no bounds. 
This is a wonderful tale, inspired by a beautiful picture and I hope that you'll let Chris know your feedback on twitter - @ChrisNickson2

Annabelle Atkinson and Mr. Grimshaw

Inspired by the painting Reflections on the Aire: On Strike, Leeds 1879

By Atkinson Grimshaw

On both sides of the river rows of factory chimneys stood straight and tall and silent, bricks blackened to the colour of night. Smoke was only rising from a few today, but the smell of soot was everywhere, on the breath and on the clothes. It was the shank of an October afternoon and the gas lamps were already lit, dusk gathering in the shadows.

He stood and looked at the water. Where barges should be crowded against the warehouses like puppies around a teat there was nothing. Just a single boat moored in the middle of the Aire, no sails set, its masts spindly and bare as a prison hulk.

He coughed a little, took the handkerchief from his pocket and spat delicately into it.

This was the time of year when it always began, when men and women found their lungs tender, when the foul air caught and clemmed in the chest and the odour from the gasworks cut through everything so that even the bitter winter snow tasted of it.

What sun there was hung low in the west, half-hidden by clouds. A few more minutes and he’d be finished then walk home to Knostrop, leave the stink and stench of Leeds for trees and grass and the sweet smell of fresher air. First, though, he needed to complete the sketch, to capture these moments.

Tomorrow he’d start in the studio, finding the mood that overwhelmed him now, Leeds in the still of the warehousemen’s strike, no lading, no voices shouting, no press of people and trade along the river.

“What tha’ doing?”

He turned. He hadn’t heard her come along the towpath. But there she was, peering over his shoulder at the lines on the pad, the shadings and simple strokes that were his shorthand.

“Tha’ drawing?”

“Sketching,” he answered with a smile. Slipping the charcoal into his jacket pocket.

“Aye, that in’t bad,” she told him with approval, reaching out a finger with the nail bitten short and rimmed with dirt. “I like that,” she said, pointing at the way he’d highlight the buildings as they vanished towards the bridge, hinting at the cuts and alleys and what lay beyond.

“Thank you.”

He studied her properly, little more than a girl in an old dress whose pattern had faded, then hem damp and discoloured where she’d walked across the wet grass. She wore her small, tattered hat pinned into her hair.

She was no more than twenty, he judged. As she opened her mouth to speak he could see that half her teeth were missing, the others yellowed, and her face wore the lines of a woman twice her age, cheeks sunk from hunger, the bones of her wrists like twigs. But her eyes were clear and full of mischief. She carried a bundle in her left hand. At first he thought she was a ragpicker, done for the day; then he noticed how she cradled it close and understood it was what little she owned in the world.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Anabelle Atkinson, sir,” she replied with the faintest of smiles. “Me mam said she wanted summat nice around her.”

He nodded, watching the water and the sky again. In a minute the sky would part, leaving the sun pale as lemon reflecting on the river. Perhaps the last sun of the year, except for a few days when the sun would sparkle on the snow around his home. He groped for the charcoal again, holding his breath for the moment, ready to work quickly.

“My name’s Atkinson, too,” he said distracted by the light, committing it to memory.

“Happen as we’re related, then.” He could feel her eyes on him. “But mebbe not.”

“It’s my middle name,” he told her quietly, “bit I prefer it to my Christian name.”

“Why’s that, then?”

Very quickly he fumbled in his pocket, drawing out coloured pencils and adding to the sketch, the reflections on the river, the gold of a fading sun mingling with the browns and greens of the dirty water, smudging with the edge of his hand, thinking, putting it all away in his memory for tomorrow when he’d sit in the studio with his paints.

“It suits me better,” he answered her finally, squinting at his work, then at the scene before adding some more touches.

“That’s reet,” she said slowly, as he was about to add more umber to the water.

“That’s it.” There was awe in her voice, as if she couldn’t believe nature could be captured that way. “It looks alive.”

“It’s just preparation,” he explained. “I’ll paint it soon.”

“That what you are, then? An artist?”

“I am.”

He was a successful one, too. Whatever he put on canvas sold, almost before it had dried. For the last nineteen years it had been his living, since he broke away from the tedium of being a railway clerk, the job he thought might crush his heart. With no training and only the support of his wife, he’d known that painting could make his soul sing. These days he was a wealthy man, one who’d made art pay. Now, in 1879, they knew him all around the country; in London any man would deign to receive him.

“Tha’ must make a bob or two.”

“I get by.”

“You’ve got them good clothes and you talk posh.”

He chuckled.

“I grew up in Wortley. Not as posh as you’d think. My father worked on the railways. What about you, Annabelle Atkinson? Where do you live?”

“Me mam’s in one of them house up on the Bank.”

He knew them, squalid back-to-backs with no grass or green, no good air, and the children ragged as tinkers’ brats.

“How many of you?”

“Ten. I’m not there no more, though. Had a job as a maid in one of them big houses out past Headingley.”

“Had?” He eyed her sharply.

She smiled and rubbed her belly. For the first time he noticed that it was rounded, pushing hard against the old dress.

“See? And me mam won’t have me back. No room, not if I’m not bringing in a wage.”

“What about the man?” he asked.

“Played me for a fool. Gone down to the sea by now. Maybe over it.”

“What are you going to do?”

She shrugged.

“I’ll find summat. There’s work for them as is willing to graft.”

He thought of the life in her and his own children, six alive and the ten who’d died.

Of his wife, twenty-two years married, with her stern face and the eternal look of weariness.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“There’s rooms. At least when they turned me out they paid what they owed. I’ll not go short for a while.”

He looked down at the sketch. It caught everything well, and it would be a good painting, one to bring in a good ten pounds or more. But it was a landscape unpeopled.

“Annabelle Atkinson, can you do something for me?”

“What?” she asked warily, too familiar with the ways of men.

“Just stand about ten yards down the path, that’s all.”

“Why?”

He tapped the drawing with a fingernail.

“I want to put you in this, that’s all?”

“Me?” She laughed. “Go on, you don’t want me in that.”

“I do. Please.”

She shook her head.

“You’re daft, you are.” But she still moved along the path, looking back over her shoulder. “Here?”

“Yes. Look out over the river. That’s it. Stay there.”

He was deft, seeing how she held the bundle, her bare arms, the hem of the dress high enough to show bare ankles, and a sense of longing in the way she held herself.

“I’m done,” he told her after a minute and she came back to him.

“That’s me?” she asked.

“It is.”

“Do I really look like that?”

“That’s how I see you,” he said with a smile. She kept staring at the paper.

“You’ll put that in your painting?”

“With more detail, yes.”

“What?”

“The pattern of the dress, things like that.”

Self-consciously she smoothed down the old material, her face suddenly proud, looking younger and less careworn. He dug into his trouser pocket, pulling out two guineas.

“This is for you.”

“What? All this?”

“I’m an artist. I pay my models.”

“But I din’t do owt. I just stood over there,” she protested.

“I sketched you, and you’ll be in the painting. That makes you my model. Here, take it.”

Almost guiltily she plucked the money from his hand, tucking it away in the pocket of her dress.

“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly. “You’ve made my day, you have.”

“As you’ve made mine, Annabelle Atkinson.” He closed the sketch pad and put away the pencils and charcoal, then tipped his hat to her before walking away.

“So what is your name, then?” she asked.

“Atkinson Grimshaw.” He handed her his card. “I wish you and your baby well.”

“Me in a painting. There’s no one as’ll believe that.” She began to laugh, letting it rise into a full-throated roar, and he smiled with her.

* * * * *
Chris Nickson

Richard Nottingham - Book 1 - The Broken Token Review

Richard Nottingham - Book 2 - Cold Cruel Winter Review

Richard Nottingham - Book 3 - The Constant Lovers Review

Richard Nottingham - Exclusive - Short Story - Home

Richard Nottingham - Exclusive - December

Chris Nickson - Interview

Follow Chris on Twitter - @ChrisNickson2
Best Book of 2001 - Library Journal Award

Sweet Tooth - Mary Nottingham's Lemon Meringue Pie

* * * * *
Chris Nickson Table of Contents

* * * * *

Full Table of Contents