between the devil and the deep blue sea

Bygone…

Mr Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig on Twitter) has regular Flash Fiction competitions. On Friday he asked for a 1,000 word story about unicorns. I’ve never entered one of these competitions, and never felt compelled to write about unicorns, especially since seeing that web post with the most atrocious unicorn tattos imaginable, but I like a challenge. Not sure exactly where to go with my unicorn tale I asked Twitter to chuck some other words at me.

Thirteen words later (from a mixture of fellow writers and at least one terrible, terrible person) I had a mix of ideas that led to the following story. Including the fourteenth word ‘unicorn’ all words are present and correct.

Enjoy. But not too much. It’s not the cheeriest tale you’ll ever read.

***

The man who answered the door couldn’t have been much older than thirty, but he wore his years badly. He peered through the crack, the chain pulled tight between door and frame. “Yeah?” he asked, looking me over. “Mr Taylor? I’m Bella Fenchurch,” I said. “Ah yes, Bella.” He seemed to relish my name on his lips. “Do come in.” He unchained his door, and stepped back, with a sweeping and exaggerated gesture to let me know I was most welcome.

I did not feel most welcome.

The flat was dimly lit by a tall lamp beside a sofa. A secondary light source became apparent as I stepped into the room, a computer monitor sitting on an old desk. Framed black and white photographs dotted the walls. A heavy grey curtain covered what was presumably a window. There was a humid smell in the air, and I imagined the furniture affected by damp and fungus. A couple of doors led off the living area, but I did not want to think about what lay beyond.

Mr Taylor picked up a plate from the sofa, and began to munch on some toast. “Please,” he said, “make yourself at home.” I chose to remain standing and gazed around as he left the room. There was the sound of the plate being added to a large pile of the same. “Would you like a drink, Bella?” he called out, “Beer? Water?”

“No, no, I’m fine thanks!” I called back, unable to take my eyes off the pictures.

The closest showed an impossibly obese woman, surrounded by children. Disturbingly, all were naked, all staring smiling towards the camera. It was like an advert for fecundity. A little plaque gave this lady a name:  MARY.

I looked to the next picture quickly. A man in a suit held his head in his hands, a head so swollen and globular I was reminded of Atlas supporting the world. A hat teetered on top. Sad eyes looked outwards. The name plaque told me this was DAVID.

A third picture had a casually dressed man in a garden, smiling. His right hand rested on the handle of an old lawnmower. It looked the perfect model of suburbia, were it not for legs that appeared to bend backwards and end with hooves.

“That’s Stephen,” a voice said behind me, too close for comfort.

I turned quickly, and smiled awkwardly. “Are these pictures real?” His smile broadened and he nodded. “This is my own little freak show. Proof to me that God has a sense of humour. You believe in God, right?”

“Ah, no, I’m agnostic,” I replied.

“What the fuck’s that?”

Easier to lie I figured. “It means no, I don’t believe in God.”

“Well… look… look at this… with the hangman and the duck… that’s –“

“Not why I’m here,” I interrupted. Looking him in the eye I reminded him. “The unicorn?”

He froze, then he remembered his spiel. “But yes, of course. Would you like to follow me?” He gestured towards one of the doors. “Not more photographs,” I said, “If you’ve got a unicorn I want to see it with my own eyes.” His eyes glittered in the lamp light.

“Trust me,” he smiled, “It’s through here.”

I didn’t speak for a second. “You keep it in your apartment? What is this, some sort of joke?” “Oh no,” he said, “please, follow me.” He opened one of the doors and disappeared into darkness for a few seconds before a dim light came on. “Please,” he called, “Come and look.”

The room was devoid of furniture, a bucket beneath a cardboard covered window. The unicorn was lying on a sodden mattress on the floor, asleep, or more likely sedated. Chains held it down, one holding its head close to the floor. Its white hide was dirty, it’s single horn tarnished by filth. Any sense of nobility had long been worn away. “Sorry about the mess,” Mr Taylor said. “Unfortunately they don’t just piss rainbows.” He laughed at his own joke. I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say.

I could feel my host looking at me, almost imagine him licking his lips before he spoke again. “I know what you’re thinking,” he finally offered. “Why am I keeping this amazing creature in these awful conditions? But look. Here’s the thing. It’s a fucking horse with a big spike on its head. It’s dangerous. Look. Look at that there.”

I looked.

“That’s his penis,” Mr Taylor explained. He paused, waiting for a reaction before continuing. “This is your unicorn equivalent of a raging bull. This thing will pierce you without a second thought. Especially a young maiden like you.”

I shot him a look. He shut up. We stared at each other.

It was the most surreal moment of my life. Neither of us spoke, both of us just watching the other whilst, feet away, a unicorn lay in its own filth. In some guy’s apartment.

“Let’s do this,” I said, breaking the silence, reaching into my bag.

“So… money… what do you want to do? You want to pet it? You want to do any of that, you know, kinky shit?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I’m going to release it.”

He froze, then burst out laughing. “Release it? How the fuck do…”

The gun caught him off guard. Seconds later a bullet drilled through his forehead and danced around in his skull. As he jerkily fell to the floor I turned towards the silent unicorn. If it was awake it showed no signs of it, the only movement being the rise and fall of its rib cage.

“You poor bastard,” I told the creature, stroking the mane away from its face, “You don’t exist. You can’t exist. Certainly not like this.” I rested the silenced gun barrel against his forehead, aligned with the horn. “God, if you DO exist… if this IS your idea of humour…  you’re one sick bastard,” I sighed.

I pulled the trigger.

***

Killing Time In Camden…

It’s mid afternoon in Camden. I’ve met a friend working in the market, who has been handling a hangover and has been demonstrating to me which stalls he watches over, and the constant stream of young attractive girls that wander by. I’ve been to the shop that looks like it’s like an Ibiza club, were it an Ibiza club in the 22^nd century – it’s all glow in the dark bits and edgy graphics and loud electro dance music that never fails to leave me leaving it with the impression I’ve just had a GREAT time. And I’ve traipsed alongside the canal and up and down the high street in glorious sunshine, feeling that okay, this is summer and I should take advantage of the good weather.

But these are not the reasons I’ve come to Camden. I’m here because another friend of mine, Tim, will be on stage at a comedy venue this evening. I’ve been going to quite a few comedy nights recently. A long time ago someone suggested I should go into stand up myself, due to occasional quick displays of wit people are taken aback to witness. Alas this would never work since there seems to be a requirement in stand up to stand up in front of people. And there so are many people much better at standing up than me.

The night starts at 8pm. It’s still mid afternoon. And I’ve started to exhaust my list of things to do to kill time.

“Do you fancy meeting up before 8pm for a drink?” I Tweet, to which comes a positive reply and a suggestion of 6.30pm. This is good, in that it means I have a whole hour and a half less to waste. It does still require me to find other things to do in the meantime. This results in more wandering around, towards London Zoo where I rejoin the canal and work my way back towards Camden. It’s a very nice little walk I’ve not really done much before, one of those few walks in London where you forget, for a moment, all the busy roads and see a more sedate side of things. It’s a slowed down pace. If not for the small groups of people using this route, or sitting down taking in the view, you’d think it was one of London’s best kept secrets.

The sun, by now, has decided it’s put enough effort in for the day and has hidden behind some clouds. There is a light breeze but then it is still warm, almost humid, and the breeze is welcome. I walk the pleasant walk back to Camden Town and eventually find myself sitting in Burger King, where I sip on a large coke. Catching sight of myself in a mirror, I figure the world has seen enough of my bare arms and put my jacket on. Once outside again it begins to rain, just ever so slightly, and it’s lovely and refreshing. It’s about 4.30pm. I still have two hours to kill. I shall go to see my friend in the market again.

My friend in the market smiles when he sees me return, and is rolling a smoke to take a break. He introduces me to some of the people he works with. But we seem to have run through most topics of conversation from our previous catch up. Furthermore it was sunny then, and the talk was of lighter topics such as girls in the market, about comedy clubs, about getting out of repetitive situations. “I used to go swimming,” he confided earlier , “three times a week. I think I need to get back into it.” I nodded, knowingly. “Yes, I’ve been thinking of maybe joining a gym or something. I’m getting a bit of a belly.” I patted my very small belly, just for emphasis. A lady my friend was selling a picture to looked at me with a small measure of amusement. I do not look fat. I look wirey.

With the rain conversations seem to have taken a slightly darker edge. Apparently there was a stabbing recently, one of the security guards having gone to hospital after being slashed with a knife. My friend wants to get out. Already he has earned himself an evil nemesis in the form of a young girl he has caught trying to shoplift a number of times. She’ll still pass by on occasions. Scowling. My friend wants out. He doesn’t feel safe.

A girl who he has just introduced me to, who works at a nearby stall, is looking decidedly uneasy with this topic of conversation. “No, no,” he attempts to reassure her, “you’ll be fine!” She smiles, nervously.

The market is winding down. It is nearly 5pm. An hour and a half to kill. I say goodbye to my friend. I have a plan. I need to pick up some tickets from Victoria Coach Station before the weekend. Why don’t I do that now?

On the bus journey there, the light rain pattering on the windows, the air-con turned up to eleven in a bid to make the bus sound like a hovercraft at full speed, I reflect that today has been a really cool day. I’ve spent much of it catching sunshine and reading, taking advantage of some unscheduled down time between freelance work commitments. I’ve enjoyed exploring parts of London I’ve not been to for a while. I’ve been able to have some quality me time that doesn’t involve going to shops and spending money. I feel cosmopolitan, I feel at one with my city and, by extension, the world. It’s been a lovely sunny day and now the rain is washing away the intense heat and letting things settle for a more relaxing evening.

It’s been a really cool day, I reflect. But a big part of me doesn’t feel like I’ve earned it. Or perhaps more than that it feels as if I’m having a really cool day at the expense of others.

The bus journey takes longer than expected. I disembark at Trafalgar Square to catch the tube. But even on the tube I don’t get to Victoria tube station til ten minutes to six. And Victoria tube is already congested. I figure that if it’s taken me 50 minutes to get here from Camden, despite the fact the travel gods were smiling on me and ensured the correct bus turned up at the right time, that tube trains were arriving on their platforms just as I reached them, if it takes another 50 minutes to get back to Camden I will be late. This doesn’t even factor in the ten minute walk up the road to the coach station and the further five-ten minute interaction with a ticket machine. Looking at the crowd of rush hour commuters in Victoria tube station I think that perhaps the best thing to do is take the Victoria Line back in the direction of Camden. And that at least the journey to Victoria has been a nice distraction, and afforded me some time out of the rain to read some of my book.

The return journey takes me 20 minutes. I am now in Camden again with time to kill. Oh, how I laugh.

At 6.30pm I turn up at the Black Heart bar that has a big neon red crucifix on the wall and pictures of Jesus Christ on the wall, alongside pictures of skulls. It is a place I later remark to someone as not perhaps being the best place anyone would ever bring a first date to. My friend Tim is already here, and not alone; our mutual friend Tara sits with him in a booth and it is she who sees me first. I get myself a drink and drift over. We exchange pleasantries, discuss various writing and comedic projects, and other random events about town. I’ve not known these two very well and so by way of introduction they tell me of various drunken activities. They mention something called Underground Bingo, which may well be to Bingo what Fight Club is to Taking A Work Break, but essentially sounds like a themed Bingo night where everyone get very drunk first. “We’re very much in the upper age range of the people who turn up to these events,” Tim tells me. “Some of the younger members said he looked like Elton John,” Tara confides, “He wasn’t happy.” I nod my understanding. Who would be?

We order some pizzas as more friends begin to turn up for the evening. My pepperoni pizza is the first to arrive. It’s not the finest pizza I’ve ever had, the pepperoni having a higher than usual amount of pepper, oil and gristle in it. Two pizzas for my friends turn up shortly after. Tim has opted for the vegetarian pizza with artichokes, pine nuts and rocket on it. Tara has gone the tried and tested route of a pizza with classic cheese and tomato elements. She looks at the mountain of rocket on his pizza before admitting “I’m with Jason on this one. If you need pepper on your pizza just put pepper on it. Don’t cover it with peppery leaves.”

“But I like rocket!” Tim exclaims.

“After all,” I point out, “he’s a rocket man.”

I can hardly believe the joke has fallen into my lap like that. Tara points out that all that was missing was a little baddumm tishhh!

That night in bed, after a good day out, I feel a little ill. I put it down to my pizza and its dubious spicy meat topic. I reflect that, after having a good day I didn’t really earn, I probably deserved that.