Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Hello,' she said uncertainly, keeping the door half open.

'My name's Tom Benwell and I'm looking for my wife. Is she here?'

'Tom Benwell… who Charlotte married?'

'Yes, I must speak with her.' He stepped forward, trying to see into the kitchen beyond.

She remained where she was. 'She's not here. I haven't seen Charlotte in years.'

Tom shook his head. 'It's very important. Charlotte!' he called into the house.

The dogs started barking again. More footsteps and a heavyset man appeared. A large hand with dirt ingrained around the nails was placed against the doorframe. He leaned round the woman. 'Who's this?'

'It's the husband of someone I used to share a flat with. He thinks his wife is here.'

Tom raised a hand as if to push his way into the house. The door opened fully and the man stepped out. 'She said she's not here. So she's not here.'

Tom stayed where he was, weighing up his options. He looked at the outbuildings to his left, as if she could be hiding there.

The man followed his glance and said, 'If you walk over to the sheds and get the dogs any more excited, I'll let them out on you.'

Tom faltered and he turned back to the couple. 'She's really not here?' he pleaded.

'Really,' said the man impatiently as the woman's expression softened with concern.

Tom walked slowly back to his car, looking up at the dark windows of the first floor as he did so. With one last glance at the couple in the doorway, he climbed into his car and drove back down the drive.

He had been going for less than three minutes when his mobile phone rang. Yanking the steering wheel over, he came to a stop on the grassy verge and grabbed it. The signal was weak, so he climbed out of the car and stood up in the vain hope it would help the reception.

'Hello, this is Megan here,' said a quiet female voice. Even though it wasn't a question, her inflection went up at the end of the sentence.

'Your cafe,' said Tom. 'It's under offer.'

'Yes,' she said. 'Who is this?'

'My name's Tom. I've been planning to buy it for months. You haven't signed a contract, have you?'

'No,' she replied. 'You know it's ten forty-five at night. You must be very keen.'

'I really must have it. I'll offer you more money.'

She laughed. 'The offer I have is already for the asking price. You can't say fairer than that.'

'You don't understand,' Tom cut across her. 'We're starting a family; we need somewhere nice for the kids to grow up. 'A thought suddenly occurred to him. 'There isn't any chewing gum, is there? On the pavements and roads around you?'

She laughed again, but more warily. 'Where are you calling from?'

'Manchester.'

'You've been to Newquay? Seen my posters in the windows, right?'

'No. What do you mean?'

'I've been putting petitions together for the last two years. The place is covered with the stuff and it's getting worse every summer. We're trying to get a ban put on it, but the council say they can't do a thing. Listen — you're a reporter, right? From the local paper? I've told you already — the chewing gum is why I'm moving.'

'To where?' Tom whispered.

'Back to New Zealand. We've got a bit more respect for our surroundings over there. I'm sticking with the offer I have; I don't believe in this gazumping business you have over here. If you're not a reporter, thanks for your interest.'

She hung up and Tom dropped the handset through the car window onto the driver's seat. In his mind's eye he could see the resort swarming with grey spots. Nowhere was free of it. Nowhere. Miserably, he took the sachet of powder from his pocket, licked his finger and dabbed it in. He looked around him. Just visible in the darkness was a footpath sign. He climbed over the stile and trudged across the fields, the occasional bleating of a sheep the only noise to interrupt the utter silence. The sky above was clear, a slither of moon providing just enough light to follow what was little more than a sheep trail. Scrambling to the top of a rocky outcrop, he leaned back against a smooth slab and looked up.

Out here there were no streetlights or massed homes polluting the night and turning the sky a hazy orange. His view upwards was unbroken and the stars shimmered in the heavens with almost the same intensity as in the Seychelles.

His plans for Charlotte and the baby were ruined. He could never take them to a place that had been desecrated with gum. Pulling the sachet out, he took another dab and sat back, waiting for the sense of despair to subside. The drug was just beginning to deaden his emotions when his eyes settled on The Plough. As usual, it hung in the same spot, low in the sky. He was staring directly at it, taking a strange comfort in its unchanging presence above, when the chorus of voices spoke.

They didn't just come from all around him, they filled the very air and surged up from the ground, resonating in his chest. Tom froze until they stopped, then scrabbled on to all fours, eyes blindly searching the rocks he had been sitting against.

Again they spoke, words enveloping him like a TV surround sound system. Jumping to his feet, he twirled about, but in every direction were empty fields.

Terror of the incomprehensible took over and he slid back down the rocks, ran towards the road. He got to his car, jumped in and locked the doors. There was no credible explanation — the only possible way a group of voices could suddenly sound in the middle of nowhere was if there were loudspeakers hidden all around the rocks.

Yet there could be no doubt it was him they were addressing. Because the voices he'd heard were repeating the same word over and over again. 'Tom, Tom, Tom.'

They came for the car a week later.

He found that his sleep pattern was coinciding less and less with the night. Now he tended to stay up until the small hours, watching videos, surfing the internet, waiting for the phone to ring. Always suppressing the memory of that awful collection of disembodied voices. Mornings were becoming a thing of the past; his days usually started after lunch.

So when the doorbell went at ten thirty in the morning, he struggled from a shallow and listless sleep to shuffle down the stairs in his dressing gown. Hoping it might be Charlotte, he pulled open the door to find Ges and Ed outside.

Ges spoke first, awkward and uncomfortable. 'Hello Tom.'

Tom scratched his fingers through his hair. 'Ges.'

'Late night, then?' said Ges. 'The joys of being in between jobs, hey?'

Ed simply stared at him, shock registering on his face.

Hesitantly Ges announced, 'Sorry mate, we've come for the Porsche. London office has been hassling us. You haven't been answering the phone and I couldn't put them off any longer.'

Tom thought about how he'd ignored all his calls. 'No, I understand,' he murmured. As he unclipped the Porsche key he said almost absent-mindedly, 'Seen anything of Creepy George?'

Ges looked confused. 'Erm, no. You sacked him.'

Tom was about to answer, then saw Ed standing there. He handed the key to him and beckoned Ges down the corridor.

In the front room Tom let out an exasperated sigh. 'He's evil. Keep him away from your house. Have you ever seen him hanging around? Has your wife ever seen him hanging around?'

'Sally? No, she's never met him.'

'Good, that's good. But if she does ever see him, get her to call the police. I think he has all of our addresses.' He ran a hand through his tangled curls.

'I don't understand. Is this to do with why he was sacked? What happened, Tom?'

Tapping his nose, Tom replied. 'Confidential.' His eyes shifted to the window, filling with regret as Ed circled the Porsche. He turned back to Ges. 'He's evil. Just keep him away from your house. And tell Ed too. I've taken precautions.' He gave a secretive smile.