Short Story Competition 11 (VOAT) - Vote HERE!

“If we get caught here we`re fuсked”, he thought as he drove home from his fictitious office. He`s been doing this for twenty years already and they`ve been here far too long. Today he was in Kilkenny and the motorway wasn`t so busy.


“Sometimes that woman is stupid, with her loyalty to her friends. Although I can`t blame her, they seem half decent people. If I ever wanted a friend I would have one of those.”


He imagined the cows in the field lining up to race home, the fastest and nimblest, grabbing the best seat and the remote control. Fast cow might lie across three seats keeping one for his sweetheart and the other for his best friend. Perhaps some of the slower cows would be forced to make popcorn.



He saw everyone as stupid cows, he hated them all. When he remembered that all cows are female he smiled. In his best radio presenter voice he announced: “Any characters depicted herein are purely co-incidental.”


Seeing that worried face in the rear view mirror, he decided to wonder why he was worried. The next move is imminent and there will be no notice at all he reminded himself.


“How in the fuсk are we going to get out of this? Just go. Now. Today. Surely we have to wait for more detail?”


“Three years in a community is way too long to be transient, people get to know you. This is why we picked Ireland, well they did, and she hadn`t a clue.”


Recalling that evening in Venezuela as the sun dropped like a slowly pulled blind. It is the only good memory he had from there. He remembered it was hers too.
“We`re leaving!”
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“Work!” he said,
“More money?” she asked.



That was all that needed to be said. She didn`t seem to care where to or when. She planned having dinner in quaint pubs with natural story tellers keeping the whole place transfixed by their masterly technique. She dreamed of no more CCTV around the house and George always freaked her out.


As they checked in to their flight she asked him
“What do we want him for in Ireland? It`s one of the safest countries in the world.”
“George goes everywhere darling, you know that. Company Policy.”


She wished company policy was George and she had a baseball bat of a shredder. “Ten minutes in a closed room would do it.” She murmured.



Sam could only agree with her, well if you`re an ordinary citizen, Ireland must be one of the safest countries worldwide. The Irish Media lament for society when one drug gang kills a rival gang member. The reality is; it really is one of the safest places to live.


In BBC pronounced English he advertised his opinion, announcing: “I could vouch for that with the Irish tourist board if they ran an ad.”


They normally send messages during certain news bulletins. The 10pm BBC World Service is their favourite method. Operating under the nose of MI5 MI your mother and father, no-one has suspected anything yet.



“Believe me, we`d know. Our routes would be shut down, we`d all fall into the spiders web.”


Their global teams would always be ready when the next phase of the plan was to kick off. They never knew when or where they would be positioned next. They never even knew the identity of their colleagues. He often listened out for politicians leaking codeword’s, or so he thought. He could never be sure.


Valentines night, Caracas, Venezuela, 2009. He bought some lubrication and a vibrating ring in the supermarket on the way home. He had already had flowers delivered and hired a chef to cook. She had given him ten marks out of ten for that. Smiling he showed her the toy.



Her mouth covered and giggling she stood up and removed her dress. She didn`t head towards the bedroom, she vaulted the settee and sprawled herself on the magnificent Andorra wool rug. She wanted to destroy that thing so bad, she hoped even some monthly red might squeeze out and it would have to be dumped.


Locked together during the romp on the rug; him slowing his thoughts so they might climax together, her desperately wanting every fragment of her mid region to explode in ecstasy and liquid.



This unique connection was interrupted by routine phone alarm. 955pm. He didn`t hear the radio come on.


Looking at her, the animosity almost blocked by his tight eyes, he asked: “Where is the fuсking radio?”


Venomously she hissed: “I put it next door, naturally you`ll drop everything to hear the fuсking news.”


He hurt her as he withdrew and bolted to the next room.


Frantically scouring the walls for a free socket he finally plugged in the radio. “The bitch even re-tuned it.” He snarled.


Eliminating all sounds in search of that familiar jingle and voice he found it and he felt good:
“This is the BBC World Service. Venezuela. Four people have died from flu-like symptoms. Government inspectors are carrying out tests on almost 30 people reported to have been infected with a new strain of SARS” - Okay 30 people means we leave tomorrow, and he needed one more figure: - “The Health Ministry suspect that figure to remain stable and they envisage that figure not to rise further.”



“Ireland? Good God why there?”


Their plane soared over the Atlantic, he couldn`t remember how many times they changed. Next stop London, “Why not London?” he drifted off.



She always thought Sam was bi-sexual, George never left the house. He stayed in his room. No matter where they lived George`s room was en-suite complete with a built in gym and bank of CCTV monitors.



George was from Thailand, very handsome and young looking. She tried to talk to George a few times and every time he disappeared in to his lair. The house and grounds were blanketed in CCTV coverage.



She demanded from Sam that he find out if George was using the CCTV to masturbate while she was in the shower.


Sam convinced her that George was not interested in that way. So she convinced herself that George was Gay and Sam was Bi. It did seem like the only rational solution. Whenever she stumbled across the two of them in the kitchen they always remained silent.

Sam trusted George with his life. He trusted that Becky was sufficiently ignorant of events and would play along. It was never difficult to get her to do anything, all one needed was to open the wallet.


Life in Ireland was easy and at a much slower pace than anywhere else they lived. Becky joined some groups and helped out with local issues. Sam was always sure of one thing, as a housewife Becky was perfect cover.



Sam used to do his usual, head off in the morning, and come home at night. He could be anywhere. He might book a brothel for a half day or gaze at the sea for hours on end. He started a relationship with a woman from Limerick. He would proudly say her name in his best announcers’ voice: “Jessica Hyde!” He would drive down every Wednesday. He felt himself soften around her.



This is where he was now. In Jessica Hyde`s house. Learning from the Venezuelan Valentine’s Day he never made love with anyone between 9 and 10pm.



He told Jessica Hyde that he had some work to organise for the morning and it was of a sensitive nature. Jessica Hyde never worried about him. He was too good to be true.



As he sat in the car he finally realised that he could never retire. He would have to keep moving or die. He felt weary. For the first time in his life he felt sorry for Becky and the lie she lived.


He put on his newscaster voice and gazed in the mirror: “Becky, do you remember doubling over at home one day? I think it was in Chicago” He would have to add: “Do you remember the blood and time in hospital?” He would finish it by telling her that he deliberately aimed a microwave transmitter at her womb and that is why she could never have children.


That was the most difficult thing he ever did. George told him she had missed her period. He had to act, even if she was just late.



The radio played the jingle: “This is BBC World Service. Ireland. Doctors believe Ireland is the source of a new SARS-like infection known as VOAT11; Virus Oesophagus Alveoli Trachea, strain eleven. The viruses is spreading exponentially and in the last 18 hours over 1000 people have reported with the infection in the Dublin area. Nationwide there are an average of 50 reported infections per county. The authorities are closing all access points to the country. The Royal Navy and Royal Air Force have warned any vessel or aircraft bound for the UK will be grounded or sunk. The Irish Minister for Health has declared a state of emergency.”


Sam scoured his brain for the figures. Sam`s phone beeped: George wanted to chat with video encryption.



Sam accepted and wide-eyed cried: “1000 is immediate incubation.” George nodded.
“The figure 50 means that we leave in the morning with the ferry to Wales at 10 am?”


“Why the fuсk didn`t they report if anyone has died? Do you think we have been compromised George?”


“There is no way to know sir, they have never let us down before and the abort message has never been broadcast” George matter-of-factly replied.


“I need an hour to think” Sam told George, “Will you organise the tickets? And one foot passenger for Jessica Hyde and will you give Becky the immunisation shot when she falls asleep?”


“When are you coming back sir?” George enquired.


“George, I have given these bastards my entire life, just as you have, and Becky. I will be leaving Limerick soon and I`m bringing Jessica Hyde with me.


“Yes Sir, I disagree with what you are doing, but good luck sir.” George replied sombrely.


Sam slammed the sturdy urban 4x4`s door and ran straight to Jessica Hyde. She agreed to go on a whirlwind trip to the UK with him. She gasped as he told her they should leave now and that she needed to get dressed.



“I`m not marrying you.” Jessica Hyde retorted.



“Don`t worry, it`s just some fun” he reassured


“It is romantic, see you soon. Mwah Mwah Sam” she giggled and ran to her room.


Sam heard the shower run. He thought of all he has done in his life. He was an evil man.



His organisation would negotiate contracts with governments. When the organisation didn`t get their way they unleashed a devastating virus. It was Sam`s job to spread the virus. He had done it so many times in so many countries he never once considered how many people he killed.



He would receive his instruction from the 10am BBC World Service news bulletin. Release the virus and wait for the next location from the 10pm update. He had been operating like that for 30 years.


He had received no instruction this morning.
He checked in with George and everything is prepared.



“Sir, the UK Forces will force any vessel from the Republic to turn back” George added.


Sam said “We`re going to have to trust them, it`s possible they will let our boat through. Remember Isreal?”


Jessica Hyde descended smiling and beautiful from upstairs.


“We need to leave now, Jessica”


The journey to Dublin was quick and quiet. Jessica was asleep.



They exited at Rathcoole.



Sam saw people in masks and overalls daubing slogans on houses.


Sam pulled into his drive and saw VOAT sprawled across his garage door.


He laid his head on the steering wheel and coughed.

You see the dishevelled excuse for a man lying in the hammock? That's me. I'm 34, and as you can tell from my unkempt appearance and severe beard growth, I've been out of circulation for a while. When my eyes finally peel open, --there they go--, you can see they're filled with a weariness you could only get in my situation. I rub away the sleep and after a few minutes, roll onto the panelling of the floor far below. Falling ten feet would hurt you back home, but here it's not really a problem.

I'm sitting on the ground now, staring at the wall. Sometimes I sit there for hours, contemplating nothingness. This place really is soul crushing. Everything - the walls, the roof, the doors, is metal, and after a while it starts to get to you.

This isn't my choice, by the way. I'd much rather be home in Florida, under bright blue skies. I can almost feel the warm sand of the Cape between my toes, smell that ocean air. I tell myself things here could be worse, but I'm not sure how.

Finally, I push myself onto my feet. Yeah, I'm pretty shaky. I think it's a vitamin deficiency. Eating nothing but recycled glop for nine months can’t be healthy.

This room, if you could call it a room, is where I sleep. You can see I've attached netting to the walls to hold my few personal affects. Velcro is a lifesaver no matter what rock you live on. In those nets, I've got a blunt razor and a cracked mirror, a photo of Sienna and a folded induction letter from the Artists Guild. I don't know why I kept that one. I gave up and got a job years ago. Pride, I guess.

I stumble through to the other room like a zombie. I have two rooms, though technically I don't need them. When I built this place it only had one, but the little things keep you sane, you know? This is my living room. Somehow even though I own almost nothing, it's a mess. The paintings? I’ll get to those later. There's the sunshade on the window. When it's up, there's a wonderful view of the... view. The shade stays down though. When I'm inside I prefer not to think about out there.

My name is Sam, by the way. Welcome to my world.

You can see a bright red jumpsuit hanging beside the airlock. That’s my only change of clothes. Ignore the nametag. I don't know who Jenkins is, or why the company gave me his gear. Cargo pilots wear what we’re told, you know? I slip into the suit and then screw on the helmet. Yeah - it looks like a transparent mixing bowl. When did technology do a u-turn anyway? It’s the 22nd century and I’ve got to dress like "Tintin on the Moon".

Once the helmet is attached, I'm ready to begin what passes for my day. I open the airlock and step out onto the Asteroid.

The charts call it AR-198. I call it home.

Like I said, I’ve been here nine months, ever since my rocket's fusion drive blew on the Mars-Earth run and I had to ditch. The impact took out my radio, so barring a miracle, I’m here for life. I don't really go in for miracles.

After the crash, I salvaged scrap metal from the rocket and built this shelter. Here outside the airlock is where I keep my supplies. Those giant green cylinders beside the door? They used to be fuel tanks. Now they hold the necessities for life.

That valve on the first cylinder, the one I’m twisting, releases oxygen into my suit – enough for my walkabout. You’re surprised? I created food, water, and even air with a matter recycler. It was meant for the Mars colony, but it ended up saving my life before it went FUBAR. I reckon I’ve got six months left before… well, let’s just say I might just start believing in miracles.

I should probably tell you why I leave my shelter every day.

After I built the shack and explored this lifeless rock, I needed to occupy my time. I read both books I’d brought onboard ("The Mist" and "Robinson…"--****ing--"…Crusoe", if you can believe it) twice. Three if you count when I lost my place. Then I searched the remains of the cargo hold for anything to entertain me. I lucked out: half a dozen tins of paint some colonist wanted for his bio-dome.

I took that paint and recreated a few scenes from home on sheets of salvaged insulation foam – blue skies, seagull's soaring? Those are the ones you saw inside. Some of them are better than others. Some much better. After that, I needed a bigger canvas, so I started on what used to be my rocket’s hanger door. That’s where the company’s maintenance crew used to dock to come aboard, and it’s where I’m going now. I’ve got the paint tin, brush and everything.

I call that funny walk I'm doing 'the bunny hop.' I can move in Zero-G, or Full-G fine, but down here, gravity is one eighth the usual. It makes getting about harder than you’d think. See up ahead, leaning on that giant boulder? That used to be the hanger door. It landed pretty far away after the crash, but it's too big to move closer.

I’ve been painting this scene for maybe a week. It’s embarrassing, but it’s of my rocket landing safe on Earth. I’d almost finished it – that blue sky, those warm sands I mentioned? All that was left was detailing the rocket.

I’ve stopped walking now, partly because I’ve reached where I’m going, and partly because I can’t believe what I see.

Did I mention the type of rocket I flew? It’s called a "Vertical Orbital Area Transit." It had the initials printed on the side in huge white letters. Today I was to finish those letters on my painting. That’s why I’m standing there like a dumb ape with a tin of paint in one hand.

The letters are already there. Somebody’s beaten me to it.

Low gravity can make things difficult, but it's not why I stumble backwards and fall onto my ass. You see my helmet fog up? I'm staring pie eyed at the painting, breathing faster than my oxygen recyclers can handle. It's getting pretty hot in there too.

I scramble back to my feet, filling the vacuum with dust-- wait a bit while I catch my breath.

A few minutes pass, and I finally get myself together again. I'm reaching out and touching the hanger door like I've never seen it before. I feel the glove press up against the metal surface. Think those monkeys at the start of "2001: A Space Odyssey." The detail is incredible, better than anything I could have done.

The paint smudges a little bit – you can see where it’s stained the fingers of my glove, but not too much. It’s mostly dry. This was done in the past few hours.

At this point, my mind is all over the place. I can see a jumble of images flashing in front of my eyes, possibilities of what could have happened: I’m not alone. Somebody else painted it. An alien? No, that’s stupid. Another pilot? My rocket was a single-seater. No room for excess weight.

For the first time, I step back from the painting and turn my head from side to side. I see nothing but a barren wasteland, a desolate gray tableaux pockmarked by craters, stretching up to a velvet black horizon. I’m alone. I know I am, but still I have to find out.

I mentioned earlier how after I crashed, I explored the asteroid. It took me about twenty-four hours, that’s just over three days here. I checked every crater, every cave, but found nothing. I have to rule it out though.

You can see my face, a mixture of idiot determination and confusion.

After the crash, I have no idea how long I was unconscious. I remember the engines cutting out, this damned rock growing huge in my port window, then I woke up on my back a hundred meters from the wreckage. The oxygen tanks let it burn, but the fire used them up pretty fast.

Everything’s pretty hazy from back then. I blacked out a lot. I built my shelter, but the truth is I don’t remember most of it. I do remember exploring. That direction you see me heading in is the exact opposite of the way I went before, just so I can be sure I didn’t miss anything before.

I bounce across the landscape like a rabbit with its head in a goldfish bowl. I climb into every crater – there’s about twenty of them, and explore every cavern – two, the same two I found the first time around.

All around the asteroid, the only thing I see are my boot prints going in the opposite direction, undisturbed from nine months before.

Eventually, I find myself back at the shelter, faster than I did on my first trip. I stand on the hill facing the salvaged ruin and my mind fills once more with a thousand images. The crash, the shelter, hour after hour staring at that metal wall.

Sienna left me two weeks before the crash. Did I mention that?

I bounce my way down the slope. The dust will fly as I fall, obscuring me a little bit, but trust me I’m graceful. At the foot of the hill, I make one final bounce and I’m back on my feet and head towards the shelter.

The rock is abandoned, but somebody finished my painting. As I open the airlock and step back inside, I’m left with only one possibility.

I close the door behind me, harder than I need to as if some monster is following me. I flick a switch beside the door, and once more oxygen floods the shelter. I unscrew my helmet, remove the suit.

I’m back in my normal clothes now, my eyes fixed on the paintings occupying every inch of the walls. I don’t remember painting half of them. I’d told myself I was just the blackouts, but some of them-- they’re better than anything else I’ve painted. I didn’t paint them. I realise that now. They’re by the same artist who finished my masterpiece, the same person who built most of this shelter while I was unconscious.

All this time-- everything I can’t remember-- every blackout.

It was you.

I walk in slow, deliberate steps towards my sleeping area. My face is a mask of determination.

I’m in the other room now. I stop and pull back one of the velcro nets. It comes away in my hand and my personal possessions float away from the wall. You know what I’m looking for. Maybe you’ve always known this moment would come.

I reach for the cracked mirror – damaged, I’d always assumed in the crash, but perhaps not. I hold it in front of my face and at last, I stare into your eyes. I clear my throat. It hurts, but of course you know that. Then for the first time in nine months, I speak.

"Pleased to meet you."

You don’t have to reply. I know you’re lonely, but that’s over now. I think you might have been born when I hit my head in the crash. Maybe it was the stress of being here alone. I don’t know, and I don’t care.

People might think it’s strange, but I’ve been on my own on this rock for nine months. I’m just glad you’re here. We’ve got maybe six months of air left before the end. I’m just glad of the company.

Sam stopped outside his garage door and sighed. It looked like the harassment was back again – they’d painted VOAT on it in giant red letters. As if the calls and stares hadn’t been enough, back when it started. He’d clean it up later. He opened the door just as Liz was on her way out.
“How was she today, Liz?”
“Oh, it was a good day, Mr Banks. Except for, well….” She trailed off and studiously avoided the bright red paint.
Sam nodded. Good days seemed fewer, lately. He waved his goodbyes and went in to find Emily. She was sitting and staring out the window, much like she usually was on a quiet day. He felt a twinge of guilt at the relief that hit him, then sat down beside her and put his arm around her.
“How are you today, my –” He cut off the pet name that came unbidden to his tongue. It used to be a pet name, a term of endearment, in recognition of all she had been and done. Now it was a call of derision from strangers who knew, from ex friends pretending to care about the woman who had gone crazy. Staying away as if it were catching. My Thinker. She didn’t respond and didn’t notice. He sat quietly with her for a short while, before announcing he was going to go and make them dinner.
“I saw them.”
“Saw who, Em?”
“They painted it on the door. I saw them. Liz didn’t know I went out to see. They were laughing, and then Liz saw and made me come back in.”
Sam cursed mentally, and made a note to speak to Liz about supervising her more carefully. Although she shouldn’t have needed to, Emily rarely moved of her own volition.
“It’s okay, Em. Don’t mind them; they’re just kids with nothing better to do. They don’t get it. Listen, don’t go out again without Liz, okay? Em?” She had resumed staring quietly out the window.
He stared at the dishes. It’s been three years. You’re used to this. But then they were never bad enough to come to the house, before. They didn’t understand, and they made fun, but they stayed away. I can’t move her, and I can’t let anyone take her, they won’t take care of her, they don’t know her. How could I? Why can’t she get better? He snapped back to reality as a trickle of blood ran down his finger from the plate that had just cracked in his hand. He threw it away, got a bandage, and got on with the evening.


The next day, Sam came home to see they hadn’t been back again – the door was still cleaned from last night. Maybe today would be a good day. He went inside, and instantly heard the screaming from upstairs.
Liz saw him in the doorway of the bedroom and called out. “They should be kicking in by now!” She was trying to hold a frantic and screaming Emily. “The visions are back.” He could see that for himself.

He stepped over to help her hold Emily and speak reassuring nothings to her, to help her calm down. These could go on for minutes, or hours. There was effectively nothing he could do except wait for it to pass. Eventually, it did.

“Thanks Liz, you can go home now.” She hadn’t even noticed her slip, and he wasn’t going to point it out. Everyone said it anyway, what difference did it make? It might not be painted in giant red letters anymore, but it was still there, hanging over them always. It was just a word. Just words.
“Mr Banks, she should really be in a -”
“Thanks, Liz.”
She nodded and left. He stroked Emily’s hair the way she liked; sometimes it was soothing to her. Other times it could set her off again, but mostly it helped. “It’s okay, Em, it’ll all be ok.” She was asleep in his arms in no time. How peaceful she looked when sleeping. He wasn’t long behind.



“Liz, it’s Sam. I have to work late tonight. Can you stay an extra couple of hours? I’d really appreciate it, I just can’t get out of work.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Banks, I have to leave on time today. Any other day I’d be happy to, but today just doesn’t work.”
He rested his forehead on his palm. “Alright, Liz, she might be okay for an hour. Is today a good day? No more paint incidents?”
“Yes, I’ve been reading to her and she’s sitting there quietly, not a bother. I’ll stay a few extra minutes for her but then I have to go, I’m sorry. No, nobody’s been near the house.”
“That’s fine, Liz, thanks. I’ll get home to her as quickly as I can.”



The lights were off. Strange to see the house dark, but of course Emily wouldn’t get up to turn them on, it was always him or Liz. “Em? I’m home. I hope you were okay, I’m sorry I had to work late…”
He turned on the light to see Emily lying on the floor, unconscious. He cried her name in panic, and tried to shake her awake. “Please wake up, did you fall, are you okay, please get up, Emily, Emily…”. Finally he thought to check, but she had no pulse.

He looked around. An empty pill bottle and a sheet of paper were beside her. He called for an ambulance as he picked up the paper and read.

Dearest Sam, this has gone on too long. I am awake enough today to see that. My mind has been in such a fog. This isn’t fair on you. I thank you more than words can say for taking care of me so long, I’m so sorry I’ve been such a burden. You deserve a normal life, and you’ll never have that with me around. Go and move somewhere away from this, away from me, and move on. Find someone normal, as you deserve. I’m doing this now, or I’m afraid I will never be able to again. Go and live. All my love, Emily.

A copy of the book was on the table, as if she’d wanted to see it once last time. She must have gone hunting for it as he’d packed it firmly away once this had started. Visions of a Thinker. They found him weeping over it and holding her when they came.

Sam entered the pub and quickly sat down at the bar, needing some time to get his head clear.

Had that really just happened? Did she really just do that? He craned his neck to see outside, past the entrance. The smashed up side-mirror on his car barely hanging on, told him what he found so hard to believe was true. She’s a psycho. Bonkers. Insane. As he ordered a pint from the bartender his mind went over the whole day.

The morning started out as just fine. Normal breakfast followed by a normal day at the office. Then came lunch. With her. At first he was looking forward to it, you know, beginning a new relationship and all. Then something happened. As they sat, him and her, in a small coffee shop, a waiter approached them. Ponytail tucked under her cap and notepad and pen in hand. She asked them what they would like to eat. A standard questio in a coffee shop. Sam looked up and smiled as he ordered his coffee and brownie- part of his new lose loads of weight and get fit diet- and then he turned to her to order. What he saw will forever be burned in his mind.

If looks could kill. Actually, scratch that. If looks could send icicles of fear ramming into your very core while simultaneously making your heart race, then the mask of horror on her face was probably ten times worse than that. At first he didn’t know what the hell was going on, and when the waitress asked her for the third time what she would like her mask vanished and a wave of cheerful sweetness swept over her face.

What the bloody hell was that, he thought. Maybe he was just seeing things, he thought. Maybe what he thought to be a look of sheer hatred was a simple look of confusion? Maybe?

After all the ordering was finally out of the way, Sam attempted to engage in simple small talk. He didn’t really know this girl and he wanted to get to know her more. Although at this time, maybe that didn’t seem like a good idea. “So, how’s your day so far?” he asked. The look was back in an instant. And this time Sam actually recoiled in horror and leaped out of his chair, darting for the door while dialing 911. O.K, maybe that’s a bit exaggerated, but he did feel the same icy fear as last time.

Then she spoke. A quiet, shaking voice seeped out of her tight lips, like she was trying not to scream. She said, “I cannot believe you just did that to me, Sam. How could you?” Baffled, Sam asked her what the hell she was talking about, which seemed to set her off completely. “What am I talking about? What am I TALKING ABOUT?”, her voice had risen to a near shout and Sam’s face reddened as he felt eyes staring at him. She continued, her voice lower now, “Why don’t you ask your little waitress friend over there, hmm? See if she’ll give you a quickie behind the counter? I saw how you looked at her. How you smiled at her. Pure lust. You may as well have snogged the face off her,” and when she was finished her insanely outrageous rant she sipped her coffee angrily. If there was even a way to do that.

He should have known then. He should have just left and escaped the madwoman but he didn’t. Instead he stayed and said, “What? You think I fancy that woman? I don’t even know her and,” he looked in her eyes as he said this, “we’re on a date here. The only woman I’m interested in is you,” He carefully avoided the whole ‘quickie’ remark. That was plain weird.

He now regrets saying those words. If he could turn back time he’d tell himself to run fro his life and maybe even go for the waitress because she seemed normal and wasn’t bad to look at. But nooo, Sam went all lovey dovey on her. Her expression softened and she reached across the table to hold his hand. Without thinking, he pulled his hand back. He only knew her for, what, one day? Too early for hand holding, he thought. He wished he hadn’t done that.

He wished he were dead, six feet under, away from this monster of a woman. As soon as his hand reached hers her mouth fell open and her eyes widened in shock. She looked at Sam, then his hand, then back at Sam again. But then, something crazy happened. Just as Sam was about to apologize about a thousand times, she shook her head, as if she was shaking the voices that must be talking to her in that messed up head of hers, and she smiled. A horrible, forced smile that stretched her skin and made her look like she was bearing her teeth. Her eyes glistened and sparkled in the light and Sam realized just how absolutely insane she looked. He notice she had blue eyes. He normally liked blue eyes, but on Her, they seemed wrong and out of place. Instead of being soft and a sort of sea-blue they were stabbing and accusing and ... menacing. Sam looked away. They finished their lunch in silence and left the coffee shop.

This was it, Sam thought. He had to go back to work and she had to go back to wherever she came from, to whatever job she had. Probably drowning puppies or burning ants with a magnifying glass. Whatever it was, Sam didn’t care, he just wanted out. The next thing he knew they were outside and standing in the cold winter breeze. The wind tugged her black hair to the side and concealed half her face. He hesitated before speaking, not wanting to do anything to upset the beast. He chose his words carefully.

“So, um, I guess this is goodbye? See you soon?”, and then he went in for a hug. But she went for a kiss on the cheek, and it all ended horribly with Sam’s lips pressing against hers. The only thing that could be more embarrassing is if she didn’t kiss back. He hoped she would kiss back. Prayed to God, Allah, everything he could think of that she would kiss back. Please, PLEASE kiss back.

She didn’t kiss back. She shoved him with incredible force and brought her knee up into his stomach. The effect was instant and painful. It was as if a concrete fist had plunged into his stomach, winding him and bringing him to his knees. He coughed and gasped for breath. Who was this chick? “You pervert! You think I’m some kind of slapper? Think I’ll just kiss whoever, whenever they want? I just met you, Sam, I barely know you! You sicko! You perverted sicko!” she screamed, people now running over at her side, asking if she was O.K. Typical, Sam thought through a blurry fog of pain and hatred, they always assume the girl is the one in trouble. Never the dude. He managed to stand up and spat the words out before he could take them back. “You psycho bitch!” After he said those spiteful words he clasped a hand over his mouth, not believing what he just said. He wanted to snatch them out of the air but he couldn’t. All he could do was wait fro her response.

The look on her face sent spears of dread shooting through his body. His veins turned to ice. He didn’t know what to expect, but what happened next was a surprise. She slowly walked over to a beautiful red car parked at the curb. His car. She let out a flesh crawling shriek, screaming some obscene words at him and before he could stop her, her foot shot out and slammed against the side-mirror. Glass shattered and rained down, the rest of it hanging on by a wire. She backed away slowly and said the most terrifying words Sam had ever heard in his entire life.

“Go, Sam. Go back to your crappy little house in crappy Manor Grove. I’m done with you. We’re over,” and then she took of down the street, leaving a group of shocked people around Sam. He walked over to his car, sightly hunched over with hand on his stomach. Fear coursed through his veins. He never told her where he lived. How did she know that? Before he could even think about answering that question, he felt a well deserved pint was in order. Work could wait. So off he drove with the side-mirror hanging off, banging against the side of the care as he drove.

And here he was, sipping a pint at half two in the afternoon. After a while he decided he shouldn’t go to work for two reasons. One; he was hammered and didn’t want to get a jail sentence for drink-driving. And two; he couldn’t concentrate at all. The only thing he could think of was Her and her ghastly stare and how powerful her knee was. He ended up walking home and, as he approached his house, he became cautious. If she knew where he lived, there’s no telling what else she’s capable of knowing. Capable of doing. As he neared his front door, keys jingling in his hand, he noticed something strange. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something on his garage. Something red. He stepped over and got a better look. His keys clattered to the ground. A wave of terror crashed over him and he was drowning, overcome with the sheer amount of fear that rushed through his body. Four letters. That’s all it took. Four. Letters.

V.O.A.T.

He didn’t need to think about what it meant. He knew. It stood for a name. Her name. Veronica O’Connor Ariana-Tori. A long, strange name that belongs to a strange girl. His mind flooded with questions but one was in capital letters, bouncing off the walls in his mind. What did she write this with? It was red. And it didn’t look like paint. Just as he thought the worst had happened, he heard a shuffling behind him. He spun on his heel and then he saw her. He froze.

There she was, standing in the driveway. A knife in her hand. A bloody smile on her left hand, still dripping that shiny red blood. When she spoke, it was as if his heart was in the clutches of a cold, metal claw. “Hello, Sam. We need to talk.”

Hen Night

The pink cowboy hat was the giveaway.

“Are you here on a hen?” asked Sam.

She tottered closer and put a steadying hand on the wall. The other hand reached up and tilted her hat back. She squinted at Sam, studying him with half glazed eyes. The lights in the car park gave her blonde hair an orange glow. Sam noticed that it also highlighted the uneven application of her fake tan. He offered her a cigarette but she batted the box away with a palm that was slightly darker than the rest of her arm. She leaned a bare shoulder against the wall and Sam wondered if she could feel the vibrations of the music coming from inside the club.

“I’m wrecked,” she said.

She leant her head towards the wall, which tipped her hat slightly askew. Sam tilted his head but kept his eyes on her chest, which read ‘Lorna’s Lost Weekend.’ He lit up and took what he believed to be a suave drag on his cigarette and considered his options. The club would be closing soon and his dry spell was lasting a long time. The hen’s eyelids were drooping and her head began to nod towards her chest. Sam leaned a little closer, trying to see whether the shadow on her lip was from poor lighting or poor grooming.

“Feck it,” he thought. “She’ll do.”

He lunged in for the kiss and her eyes snapped open. She jerked her head back and studied him with suddenly clear eyes.

“Jaysus,” she said. “I’m starving.”

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him close, sinking a sharp set of teeth into his neck.

Sam swore and pushed both of his hands against her shoulders. But she held on tight. Her arms wrapped around his back, holding him firm as she began to drink the warm blood pulsing from his neck. He spun her around and slammed her back into the wall, but if anything this tightened her hold on him. Grabbing her hair with one hand he jammed the heel of his other hand against her forehead and tried to prise her away. But when he moved her head back he felt something vital in his neck move with it. Screaming wetly he banged her against the wall again.

“Go on boy,” shouted a voice. “Horse it into her.”

She froze and unclamped her mouth, swivelling her head towards the voice. Johnny Lyons, shirt untucked, legs about to buckle, stood in the light of the doorway. He saluted, then staggered. The hen turned back to look at Sam, who took the opportunity to ram the top of his head upwards into her nose. Her grip on him loosened, and using every bit of strength he had he pushed her off him. She fell heavily, bouncing off the tarmac before skittering on all fours from the circle of amber light, into the darkness beyond. Keeping his eyes fixed on where he thought she was, Sam fled towards the safety of the door of the night club. He leaned one hand on the door jam, gingerly dabbing at his neck with the other. He didn’t feel any pain but his hand came away bright and sticky.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Johnny. “You were in there.”

“She f*cking bit me,” said Sam.

“Hens,” said Johnny. “They’re lethal altogether.”

Sam took the sleeve of his shirt and balled it up, pressing it to the wound at his neck. He stared out through the car park, trying to see if she was still out there. Johnny was making a hames of lighting a cigarette. He dropped the first one, then nearly fell trying to retrieve it. He waved the lighter around in front of the second one for almost a minute before it made contact with the fag. He breathed in proudly, exhaling smoke all over Sam as he spoke.

“Are you going after her?” he asked.

“Am I sh!te,” said Sam. “I’m calling the guards.”

His legs were shaking and he felt close to throwing up.

“I think she ran off down the road,” said Johnny, taking a step towards the light. “Come on and we’ll see.”

“I think I might need to go to hospital,” said Sam, leaning heavily against the doorway.

“Don’t be such a lightweight,” said Johnny, as he fumbled his phone from his pocket and took a picture of Sam.

“Are you putting that on Facebook?” asked Sam.

“Course I am,” said Johnny.

“Hang on,” said Sam, as he positioned himself so that his better side was towards the camera. “Ok, take it again.”

Johnny complied, cigarette dangling from his lips as he got Sam’s good side, and his neck injury into the shot. He put away his phone, dropped his spent cigarette and clapped his hands together, rubbing them.

“Come on so,” he said. “Lets catch this mad one and see what she has to say for herself.”

Emboldened by the thought of safety in numbers Sam pushed himself out of the doorway and followed Johnny towards the edge of the car park. He held his breath as they passed from the safety of the light into the darkness of the countryside. Standing at the edge of the road they looked left and right but they couldn’t see her. Johnny set off at a fair clip in the direction of town, weaving slightly from side to side.

“This is great,” he said. “Nothing like this ever happens to me.”

“It didn’t happen to you,” said Sam.

“I know,” said Johnny, pausing to let him catch up. “Ya lucky bastard.”

They stumbled down the middle of the road, with Johnny occasionally cooing for the hen.

“Come on out,” he called. “You’re grand, we won’t do anything, we just want to talk.”

After a mile, the novelty was wearing off. Johnny stopped to light another cigarette and Sam checked his shirt. His sleeve was soaked through, he wrung it out before pressing it against his neck again. He was about to bring up the guards and the hospital again when he heard a rustling to his left. He squinted at the side of the road, but he couldn’t see beyond the ditch. He jabbed a finger into Johnny’s shoulder and pointed into the field.

“I heard something,” he said.

Johnny stepped towards the side of the road.

“Is it yourself?” he called.

Sam heard it again. Something moving in the grass. Footsteps in the heavy muck that were too light to be a cow.

“It’s her Johnny,” he said, grabbing at his arm. “She’s out there.”

Johnny smiled and stretched out his arms.

“Come and get me,” he shouted. “There’s plenty of me to go round.”

Sam grabbed Johnny’s elbow and broke into a run, dragging his drunken friend behind him. Their going-out shoes slapped against the road as Sam panted and Johnny laughed. Sam couldn’t hear anything above the noise they were making. Was she in the field? Was she running alongside them, waiting for the moment to pounce?

“Ah stop, stop,” said Johnny, pulling up.

He put a hand on his side, breathing heavily.

“God its a long time since I made the minor team,” he said. “I can’t run for sh!te anymore.”

Sam stared into the field and something stared back. Two eyes glowed darkly and a shape began to emerge. Shoulders hunched and heaving with every breath, she stepped closer. Sam could hear her breathing now, ragged and gasping. She was still hungry, he could almost feel that hunger pulsing in time with the wound at his neck. Without meaning to, and without knowing why, Sam took a step towards her. Johnny was still immersed in the task of lighting up as Sam edged to the side of the road. The only thing separating them was the ditch. She reached out a hand towards him, longingly. He felt his own arm lift towards her when the road was bathed with light. A car pounded around the corner lighting up Johnny and Sam in its beams. It screeched to a stop and the windows came down, letting a stream of dance music into the country air. Sam raised a hand to protect his eyes from the glare. He looked back into the field but his night vision was gone. He couldn’t see a thing.

“Ah lads,” said Johnny, stepping out of the lights and up alongside the car. “Where’ve ye been? Its been mental.”

The lads pulled themselves out of every open window and sat half-out of the car as if they’d won the county final. Not that they’d ever won the county final. A nagan was passed out to Johnny as he regaled them with the adventure. Sam stumbled back towards the car and took the drink when it was offered it to him. He drank deeply and felt the warmth drain through him. The car was already packed with eejits and there was no way to fit two more. Sam took another drink and he wasn’t afraid. She would either come for him or she wouldn’t. As the car pulled off he clutched the bottle close to his chest and set off towards town. His neck had stopped bleeding, it began to throb but the whisky was taking the edge off. He felt light headed and giddy as they crested the small hill overlooking the town. It was just one street, two shops, one chipper, five pubs and a church. But it was home and it made him feel safe.

Johnny set off down the hill, working his way through all the songs he knew that had the word ‘bite’ in the title. Which was two. Sam laughed and followed, joining in the chorus. He only ever knew the words to the chorus. They arrived at his house, bursting with news and the need to go to the toilet. Johnny saw it first, and pulled up short. “VOAT” painted in foot high letters. The paint was still wet and dripped down the garage door like blood.

“What the hell?” asked Sam, as his phone began to ring.

It was one of the lads, trying, and failing to disguise his voice.

“VOAT,” hissed the voice.

“Dave?” said Sam.

“Em, this isn’t Dave,” said Dave, deeper. “Anyway listen, V.O.A.T. We don’t take to your kind around here.”

Sam could hear the rest of the lads giggling in the background, scuffling as they fought over the phone.

“VOAT,” said another voice, “Vampires outta town…”

He barely got the last line out over the laughter before the phone call ended abruptly.

Sam put his phone back into his pocket and sighed.

“My parents are going to kill me,” he said.

“Probably,” said Johnny. “Here, are you hungry? I’d bite the neck off a curry chip.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Jesus, I’m starving.”

As he pulled into the driveway Sam looked at the word and snickered to himself quietly. Living in such an out of the way place meant a house number was redundant, the use of his name on the garage would help with post. Many folks used their names to identify where they lived. Sally was an excellent wife and she had helped so much in writing that sign. Well it was her blood that had been used in the lettering. Sam snickered again as he got out of the car.

Sam Voat had wanted the family name on the garage door, so as the door was white and blood did get darker over time Sally's had been very usable. Sally was also very good at soup, he remembered. She had tasted pretty nice, a bit salty perhaps but nice. Sam had another wierd little snicker as he thought about the soup. Sally went well with carrots, yet that nosey neighbour who had befriended her had gone better with onions.

Sam had found it remarkably easy to kill her off. And the cats too. In fact it was the number of vile, putrid smelling, hairy little fiends that Sally had befriended that had finally pushed him over the edge. He kept up a slight snickering to himself as he changed into more casual clothing.

The suit he had worn at court had been a bit uncomfortable.

He had done it. Not only killing his wife, but being found not guilty at court. The Not Guilty verdict had not been easy to come by, but now of course even if he admitted it, he was free and away. Double jeopardy meant they could no longer find him guilty.

And this reminded him. The reporter who was buying his story was due to arrive in an hour. He busied himself making tea in readyness. Sam was going to tell the reporter the whole and entire truth, knowing he could not be retried, but he would be paid a large some of money. Should he tell the reporter about the other 'victims'? Well he hadn't been tried on those counts, so telling the reporter could be a little suicidal. Anyway he hadn't finished eating them yet.

The hour went by very swiftly. He spent a litle time thinking of his late wife. Her cooking had been amazing and he wondered what she could have made of herself. She had been married before, and had three grown up children somewhere, but Sam had not met them. It seemed they didn't want to visit thier mother when she was alive. They hadn't even appeared at her funeral. Sally had by all accounts been alone, the perfect victim, and incidentally a superb pie filling too. Sam snickered again to the point of coughing. There came a polite knocking at the door.

Sam had decided to tell the truth about Sally, but would leave the other victims' stories for a later date. He would milk money from the reporter and then, he could make the reporter another victim before publication. It was important to have an appreciative audience. Sam went to the door, his winning (but false) smile wide to greet the young journalist.

The smile faltered a little as he opened the door and saw not one young man, but two, and a rather pretty young lady.

"Hello. Mr Voat?"

"Ye.. yes. I am Voat" Sam responded a little uncertainly.

"I am Steven the reporter who spoke to you on the phone earlier, these are Sarah my recordist and Simon my photographer, May we come in?"

Sam recovered well. "Of course, of course please do come in. I have tea brewing for you." Sam's mind was busy as he led them through to the cosy little sitting room. He was still trying to come up with plan B when he felt a sickening pain on his head and it suddenly went dark.

Sam awoke with a terrible headache. He tried to rub his head, but for some reason he couldn't move his hands. As his vision gradually cleared he looked up. Tied to a chair in the kitchen and stripped naked he could see three pairs of eyes staring at him.

"Aha" said Steven. "It is good to see you awake Sam. I think for you though it would have been better if the courts had found you guilty. Killing mother was not a great idea. AND your methods were not very well thought out, mostly, that is. The idea of being found not guilty in court is very inventive, and one we had not considered before, but rest assured we will do so in the future, Sarah, what do you think?"

Sarah smiled and prodded Sam with a fork, almost gently. "I am sure mother would have approved Steven."

Sam was now terrified, and wriggled to free himself, his manic snickering now had a touch of panic to it. Simon was busy sharpening some knives, a fiendish grin on his features.

"You see Sam" said Steven. "Mother always insisted we didn't keep too closely in contact with her, or each other really. It would not do too well to leave a trail of bodies evverywhere we went, part bodies anyway. Mother did bless us with som excellent cooking lessons. When we leave here in a few hours, there will be no hint at all that we were ever here."

"What are you going to do?" Sam's voice was quavering.

"We have plans to make, and some cooking to do, you look healthy enough. Not taking drugs I hope?" Steven grinned widely, so did the silent Simon and for the first time Sam could see Simon's madly filed to points teeth.

Sarah smiled sweetly. "Let's be honest here, you killed mother. Assuredly she would have killed you soon anyway. Her letters told us all on how you treated her cats." She approached Sam again. "I think for what you did to her I am going to have a ball."

Sam's manic snickering gave way to a brief shriek before burblings of agony gradually faded into silence.

The writer of version 1 has asked me to make clear that my use of 'steal' for his/her reference to a TV character was misjudged. There was no intention on my part to accuse the writer of theft of any kind and I apologise for the poor wording.

It's as close as a clotheshorse.