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  ‘You know something?’ Billy said his head bobbing up and down as he walked. ‘I think I see lights up ahead.’

  ‘It’s a road, Billy,’ Neil scoffed. ‘It’s probably a car, you duck egg!’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Billy agreed, not really sure what he was agreeing to.

  ‘Course I am! Look: here it comes now.’

  In the distance, yet closing fast, a vehicle straddled the white line. It’s headlights were stark in the dark, dazzling the two men as they stepped onto a grass verge, and waited for it to pass in swaying stony silence.

  The roar of the engine was loud, and distinctive; a bubbling throaty din that Billy recognised immediately.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ He said cheerfully as he stepped out onto the road and waving his arms in the air. ‘Good old Colin’s come to collect us! I knew there was a reason why I liked the guy so much!’

  But even in his drunken haze, Neil could see that something was wrong. The camper van wasn’t slowing down, in fact the engine revved as though the accelerator had been nailed to the floor.

  ‘Billy!’ He screamed. ‘Billy get out if the road!’

  The camper swerved then, hitting a bemused, open mouthed, arm waving Billy at seventy miles an hour, tossing him into the air where he span like a gull falling from the sky. He landed on the road with a sickening thud, seventy metres away.

  One of his training shoes lay on the spot where he was hit.

  The camper van continued for several hundred metres, and then the break lights blazed in the dark, a horrified Neil listened to tyres protesting in a squealing, screaming belch of smoke and burning rubber.

  ‘It’s coming back,’ he whispered in dismay. ‘It’s coming back, for me!!’

  He mounted the grass verge, clambering into a privet of sharp thorns that sliced into his exposed hands and arms, raked his belly, but the pain was bright, motivating keeping him focused, keeping him alive. He fought his way through the blockade and they found himself charging headlong into darkness. The wind was whipping into his face, licking his lacerated forehead and cheeks. As he ran he jabbered to himself, questioning what it was he’d just witnessed, was it an accident, was it some kind of terrible nightmare?

  Then he heard the laughter. The giggling.

  ‘Who’s there?’ He said panic stricken. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Too late for that, Neil,’ a tiny voice said from near by. ‘Should have left me in peace, sitting in my master’s shadow. Now the joke is on you, my friend.’

  Through his terror Neil tried to comprehend the words. His initial thoughts were ridiculous, he thought that the voice was referring to Mr Rowling’s gnome. In fact, it was speaking as if it was Mr Rowling’s gnome.

  ‘I’ve gone mad,’ he concluded to the darkness. ‘It’s the shock … of… seeing Billy …’

  ‘You’ll see him again soon, Neil,’ Liam said. It was a malevolent whisper but it was so damn close that Neil bolted, running headlong, regardless of the danger of charging blindly into the night, anythin to get away from that awful, taunting voice.

  ‘He didn’t see the tree until it was too late to stop, too late not to smash into it a full pelt. A low gnarled knot protruded from the rough bark and Neil sighed as it entered his chest. His legs gave way but the knot held onto him, propping him, his shattered cheek pressed against the trunk.

  And from somewhere in the darkness Liam the Gnome whistled a few cords of ‘We’re all Going on a Summer Holiday’ before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

  Six weeks later, Rowling was sitting at his kitchen table. The mug of tea he’d made had died and gone cold long ago, forgotten as he stared at the bundle of photographs that had arrived in a sealed package on that very morning.

  They all contained the image of Liam, the gnome that he held so dear. One was on the dash of a camper van. Another was peering out from behind a pile of French fries; and one with his jolly face sitting on a crumbling stone wall.

  But these were not the real focus for Rowling. It was the other photographs that demanded his attention. The one of a man hanging from the rafters of a decrepit old building, face blue and ballooned like a badly drawn cartoon; and the image of a man with his eyes almost as wide as the gash in his throat, wearing a bib of crimson as he lay in the dirt, or the picture of what used to be a person, now too mangled to be truly recognised, a twisted montage of arms and legs and blood, and then the penultimate frame of a man who looked as though he was hugging a tree, save for the twisted branch sprouting through his shoulder blades. And in photo there was Liam, his face cheery, his hands sitting on his ample belly, incongruous to every scene.

  But it was perhaps the last photograph which had Rowling mesmerized. It was a group shot of all four corpses propped up in the living area of their camper van, their mouths pulled into macabre smiles long after death, with Liam sitting on the knee of Neil. And at the bottom of the image, written in neat loose script were the words:

  Wish you were here?

  Special Boy by Stuart Neild

  The doctors surgery was sparse, just a desk, a couple of chairs and a screen with a bed poking out behind it. The doctor was sat writing his notes. He looked up and pressed an intercom.

  “Next,” he breathed into the intercom.

  The door opened and a meek looking woman in her late thirties walked in.

  “Hello Heather,” his smile was professional but not without warmth. “Take a seat.”

  She took a seat.

  “So, Heather, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, I think,” she answered cautiously.

  “That’s always a good sign,” his smile was less professional, but a little warmer.

  She momentarily turned away.

  “As soon as you start thinking you’re fine,” he said, “you’re normally well on your way to being fine. Healthy mind, healthy body.” His smile dropped a little, an uneasy silence followed. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m not sure you can do anything, but I know you’ll listen. You’re the only one who has ever listened to me,” she mumbled.

  “But it’s not just me that listens to you Heather,” he assured her. “That’s one of your problems; you think you’re all alone. You’re not alone though, you can take my word for it.”

  She leaned back in her chair, “I suppose so,” she allowed a rare shy smile to come forth. “I’ll admit there is a certain someone I’ve met. We’ve bonded you might say. We’re very close, inseparable really.”

  “That’s good,” the Doctor nodded. “A healthy relationship is a good thing.”

  “Is it?” Heather looked perplexed. “You see, I’m not sure if you or anyone else would view this relationship as good or healthy.”

  “I not sure I fully understand what you’re implying,” he frowned, “but I will say one thing here and now, an abusive relationship is the last thing you or anybody needs.”

  Heather looked shocked. “There’s nothing abusive about him. He’s innocent. He’s probably one of the most innocent beings that have ever existed.” Her eyes and expression dipped, before she cheerfully brought her head back up. “Would you like me to tell you about him?”

  “Pleased do, I’m intrigued,” he urged.

  “I thought you would be,” Heather relaxed. “A good listener is always intrigued.” She licked her lips. “I met him in the museum of all places.”

  “Which museum is that?” he asked the question with a Doctors intuition, he had an idea he would feel uneasy about the answer.

  “It’s not one that you would know,” Heather began to chew her lip. “It’s a little place, just outside of town. It’s called the museum of natural horrors.”

  “I know it,” Now it was the turn of the Doctor to bite his lip. “A freak show.”

  “I believe that was the name for the establishment in less politically correct times,” she sighed. “I was attracted to the museum in the first place because it felt as lonely as I was. It was a comforting solit
ude though. It was there, as I killed a few hours of the day, that I first met him.” She stopped. “You will tell me if I prattle on too much won’t you? I know your time is valuable.”

  “Don’t worry about the time,” the Doctor urged her on. “You’re my patient and what would a Doctor be without patients, you’re just as valuable as any time.”

  Heather flicked her hair back. “That day wouldn’t be the last time I saw him though, I knew it wouldn’t be,” she gave a sigh, “as soon as I laid eyes on him I felt compelled. From that moment on we had an unbreakable bond.”

  “So you started a relationship with this person you met?” the Doctor asked.

  “It was the like, I’d never had before,” Heather answered.

  “Was the relationship Sexual?” the Doctor asked clinically.

  “Does everything have to come down to that?” Heather replied hurt.

  A veil of silence floated, fleeting between them.

  “I went back to the museum the next day,” she carried on. “It was the day after that I met Yanick.”

  “Is Yanick your special friend?”

  “No,” Heather gave a playful shriek.

  *

  Heather felt herself slip back in time. She was no longer at the Doctors surgery. She was no longer talking to the Doctor. She was looking at the jar with Yanick standing beside her.

  “He’s quite magnificent isn’t he?” Yanick said.

  “Yes, he is,” Heather agreed.

  “He’s one of my oldest exhibits and in some eyes my very finest.”

  “Yes,” Heather carried on staring at the jar.

  “I notice you have been attending my little museum for sometime now. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Yanick.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Heather could still not force her gaze away from the jar.

  “I am, as they say, from the old country, thank you very much. I have seen many sights, many wonders. He is just one of the many wonders I have purchased, and will continue to purchase, to make my museum the greatest ever.”

  “How much did he cost?”

  “Many money. Many old country money.”

  “I’d like to buy him,” Heather proclaimed.

  “The exhibit is not for sale, thank you very much,” Yanick declined.

  “How much?” There was emotion in Heather’s voice, a sense of urgency.

  “Who could put a price on such a thing?” Yanick rubbed his chin, his eyes glinting.

  “Maybe the museum owner?”

  “Which would be me, yes,” Yanick giggled.

  “So how much?”

  “Fifty thousand,” Yanick snapped.

  “I don’t have that kind of money,” Heather recoiled.

  “Only joking,” Yanick grinned. “Twenty thousand should cover the cost of an exhibit and may I add, I would be very reluctant to sell.”

  “I don’t have anything like that sort of money.”

  “Then it is five o’clock and time for me to close the museum. Goodnight and God bless.”

  Heather gazed at the jar for a little longer, before slinking away without protest.

  “Weirdo,” Yanick cursed as she left, “and what’s worse, a weirdo without cash.”

  *

  Time rushed forward. Heather found herself back at the surgery, the Doctor seated opposite her.

  “Yanick didn’t realise,” she grinned, “that he was listening and that he would tell me how Yanick had mocked me. He didn’t realise the depth of the special relationship I had with my special boy.”

  “Special boy?” the Doctor asked, confused.

  “Yes, that’s what I called him, my special boy. He had no other name,” her tone grew cross, “to them he was just a thing in a jar, a freak of nature that had been still born at birth.”

  “Heather, you must realise what you’ve been through recently, the breakdown of your marriage, the loss of your own baby, the realization that you yourself can no longer produce children.”

  “You think I’m losing it again, don’t you?” Heather said dismayed.

  “I hardly think losing it is the right term for it,” the Doctor corrected her.

  “Maybe it’s not the right medical term,” she snapped back, “but it’s what you’re getting at. So let me assure you here and now, I’m not losing it in any shape or form. You can put any thoughts of putting me back in hospital on hold.”

  “It won’t come to that,” he assured, “you’re making fine progress, this is just a blip.”

  “So do you want to hear the rest of this,” she stopped, she looked angry, “blip?”

  “Please, it’s what I’m here for,” the Doctor’s words faded away.

  “I found myself back at the museum, day after day. I spent hours on end gazing at my special boy. He needed a Mother and with me not being able to have children,” she paused “well, it just seemed the right thing.”

  “Go on,” the Doctor gently nudged, as she paused yet again.

  “And then one day disaster struck,” Heather’s voice trembled, “it seemed Yanick didn’t own the museum after all. He’d been selling exhibits that weren’t his to sell to his private collectors, as well as taking anything he could get his grubby hands on, including the museums admission cash. I went to the museum the other morning to find it closed for good.”

  “That might not be such a bad thing,” the Doctor calmly chipped in.

  “Would you deny a Mother’s love for her son?” Heather pleaded.

  “He wasn’t your son,” the Doctor said firmly.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Heathers eyes narrowed, “he was just a dead still born freak in some jar. That’s how they all viewed him. But there was something else. He reached out to me. He wanted me as his mother, rather than the cold biological mother, who had not only cast him aside, but profited from his suffering. More than anything he wanted a home.”

  “Where is he now?” the doctor coughed nervously.

  “He’s inside me,” Heather touched her heart. “I can feel his heart beating next to mine.”

  “That’s quite a charming little story you’ve told me,” there was still nervousness in the Doctor’s voice.

  “But it’s not over yet. Don’t you want to hear how he came to me, how he found his way home?” Heather asked.

  *

  Heather could picture the scene perfectly as she retold the events. It was night; she was alone at home, lying still and silent in her bed. She had been thinking about him constantly, when she had heard the thump and the dragging sounds, just outside her bedroom door.

  “You can imagine how afraid I was, lying alone in bed, when the realisation struck me I was no longer alone,” Heather said, then closed her eyes. She could see her bedroom door opening wider. She caught sight of the crawling movement towards the bottom of the bed. She felt the covers at her feet rise slightly.

  “Yes, I’ll admit I was terrified at first. But when I realized it was him and what he wanted, I relaxed.”

  “And what did he want?” the Doctor asked in a now very stern, professional manner.

  “Isn’t that obvious?” Heather laughed, “he’d come home. He wanted us to be together forever, to never be parted.” Heather stood, her features beaming triumphantly. “You want to see him don’t you? Well you can’t see him, but you can feel him.”

  She took the Doctors hand and placed it on her stomach. The Doctor allowed his hand to be guided by her, or at least he did until he recoiled away in shock.

  “You felt him kicking, didn’t you?” Heather beamed, “he doesn’t do that for just anyone. He likes you.”

  The Doctor picked up his stethoscope and listened.

  “It’s impossible. I gave you a full medical the other week. There’s no way you could be so,” he felt his words and his perception of reality stop abruptly.

  “Be so heavily pregnant,” Heather finished the sentence for him. “But you can hear him, feel him and so can I. And it’s going to stay like that, always.
My special boy is home.”

  Two Skins by Ian Woodhead

  She couldn’t believe what her eyes were showing her, that dirty little slut really was about to make the move.

  Emily Brooks could have ground her teeth in frustration; well she would have, if she hadn’t left them in a jar beside the bed. What on earth did she have to go and do a stupid thing like that for?

  She knew that he would be here at this year’s organised ball; her housing block had been on tenterhooks ever since Arthur Goodhall had made the announcement, at least all the women had.

  Emily felt her best friend’s had rest upon her knee.

  “Calm down dear, we all know that the tart doesn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of wooing him, she’s just too common.”

  She turned and smiled at Doris, keeping her lips sealed tight.

  Doris gasped, “Oh you silly old cow, you’ve forgotten your gnashers haven’t you?”

  Emily nodded, feeling a couple of tears run down her cheek. With sleight of hand that would impress a stage magician, Doris’s hand held a pristine white handkerchief. She dabbed Emily’s cheeks dry.

  “I want you to calm down lass; we’re supposed it be enjoying ourselves, not pining over some bloke like a bunch of hormonal teenagers. We are old enough to know better.”

  Emily nodded, “Of course, you are right dear.” Doris must think she was born yesterday to think that she hadn’t noticed the blood red lipstick, the seldom worn eyeliner and that expensive pastel patterned dress that Doris’s daughter had bought her five years ago. Doris is the one who should be old enough to know better, her own husband had only been in the ground for nine months.

  She tucked her hanky in the sleeve and smiled at Emily, showing off her own perfectly white teeth. “There you go bright eyes. You may look like a month old peach without your teeth in but it’s still a million times prettier than that Stephanie over there.”

  How dare she say something as mean as that! What a twisted evil bitch. Emily was about to tell Doris that she looked like she had been buried with her husband and just dug up when Doris grabbed Emily’s dress and pulled.

  “Oh, this is going to be fun to watch,” Doris said excitedly. “Stephanie is about to embarrass herself in front of everybody.”