Garbage Man by Joseph D'Lacey Page B
Authors: Joseph D'Lacey
Tags: Suspense, Horror, Novel, Meat, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, garbage, james herbert, fantasy award
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farmer, then someone he hired to help. Under the trees it was darker, the unending grey of the Welsh sky not making much impression beneath the low leaf canopy. The track ended at a gulley where no vehicle could go any further.
He walked out from his camper that day and into the rain, much gentler then than when he arrived at the farmhouse, and explored the area.
The gulley was small, nothing dramatic but it had to be negotiated on foot. On the side he descended were small boulders and rocks, all wearing a thick fur of bright moss. He lost his footing several times as he clambered down. At the bottom of the gulley was a tiny stream, black water flowing over coal-dark peat. It was probably no more than a footstep across the widest part. He crossed it. Beyond, was the opposite slope of the miniature valley. There, the grass was fuller and greener than the place where Mason switched off his engine. There were no rocks to slip on or trip over.
There, on the far side of the gulley, protected by moss-covered oaks dripping fronds of lichen and tears of rain, in the clean damp air he felt himself go silent inside. His mind stopped replaying his fears and insecurities. It stopped questioning the validity or lack thereof of who and what Mason Brand was. It was as near to true peace as heâd ever come. Given to him in a single moment. In that same moment he decided he would stay in those woods until he was ready to go back to civilisation.
And if that time never came, he knew he could remain there. Just be there until the end. Like the farmer.
***
In his bed, Don Smithfield held the memory of the woman he lived for in his mindâs eye and wanked until his prick was sore. Three ejaculations later and he still couldnât rid himself of her, couldnât sleep. Instead of memories he tried a fantasy, took their fragile new love to an unexplored level. He couldnât come. His prick was chafed so raw there was no more pleasure in the pursuit. And anyway, this lonely stroking only left him empty, sorry and bereft.
He lay on his back in the darkness and wondered what to do. No answer came to him. Telling Aggie had probably been a mistake. She was incredulous at first and then, he thought, pretty impressed, though she hid it well. He made her promise, swear on their parentsâ death, that she would tell no one. He thought sheâd taken it seriously but there was no way of knowing for certain. She might blurt it to a girlfriend âin confidenceâ or she might announce it in her class just to embarrass him. Maybe, just maybe, she would do as sheâd promised and keep it a secret.
In a way, it would be cool if his mates found out but if it went any further there could be serious trouble. Police kind of trouble.
Heâd had sex with a woman twice his age. That made her thirty years old.
And it made her a criminal.
None of this made it any easier to sleep. He slipped out of bed and sat at his desk, wincing as his pyjamas brushed the skin of his prick. The touch, though it stung, was enough to arouse him once more. He nudged the mouse on his desktop and a soft light filled the room. As his erection flared and reheated the skin was so dry it almost crackled. Then there was a sudden warmth and dampness in the crotch seam of his pyjamas. He looked down at his lap. A blot of blood was spreading across the cotton. Terrified, he fumbled his prick out for an inspection. The wound wasnât serious, just a split in his raw foreskin, but it bled enthusiastically. His erection went down fast. All he could think about was what he would tell his mum when the PJs went for a wash. He decided heâd throw them out.
I have to get my mind off all this.
Instead of surfing for porn, he looked at the online news. Shreve had been on national TV today but heâd been too preoccupied to listen properly. He looked up the story on the BBC.
- Doctors blame poor waste management for rise in health problems - read the
He walked out from his camper that day and into the rain, much gentler then than when he arrived at the farmhouse, and explored the area.
The gulley was small, nothing dramatic but it had to be negotiated on foot. On the side he descended were small boulders and rocks, all wearing a thick fur of bright moss. He lost his footing several times as he clambered down. At the bottom of the gulley was a tiny stream, black water flowing over coal-dark peat. It was probably no more than a footstep across the widest part. He crossed it. Beyond, was the opposite slope of the miniature valley. There, the grass was fuller and greener than the place where Mason switched off his engine. There were no rocks to slip on or trip over.
There, on the far side of the gulley, protected by moss-covered oaks dripping fronds of lichen and tears of rain, in the clean damp air he felt himself go silent inside. His mind stopped replaying his fears and insecurities. It stopped questioning the validity or lack thereof of who and what Mason Brand was. It was as near to true peace as heâd ever come. Given to him in a single moment. In that same moment he decided he would stay in those woods until he was ready to go back to civilisation.
And if that time never came, he knew he could remain there. Just be there until the end. Like the farmer.
***
In his bed, Don Smithfield held the memory of the woman he lived for in his mindâs eye and wanked until his prick was sore. Three ejaculations later and he still couldnât rid himself of her, couldnât sleep. Instead of memories he tried a fantasy, took their fragile new love to an unexplored level. He couldnât come. His prick was chafed so raw there was no more pleasure in the pursuit. And anyway, this lonely stroking only left him empty, sorry and bereft.
He lay on his back in the darkness and wondered what to do. No answer came to him. Telling Aggie had probably been a mistake. She was incredulous at first and then, he thought, pretty impressed, though she hid it well. He made her promise, swear on their parentsâ death, that she would tell no one. He thought sheâd taken it seriously but there was no way of knowing for certain. She might blurt it to a girlfriend âin confidenceâ or she might announce it in her class just to embarrass him. Maybe, just maybe, she would do as sheâd promised and keep it a secret.
In a way, it would be cool if his mates found out but if it went any further there could be serious trouble. Police kind of trouble.
Heâd had sex with a woman twice his age. That made her thirty years old.
And it made her a criminal.
None of this made it any easier to sleep. He slipped out of bed and sat at his desk, wincing as his pyjamas brushed the skin of his prick. The touch, though it stung, was enough to arouse him once more. He nudged the mouse on his desktop and a soft light filled the room. As his erection flared and reheated the skin was so dry it almost crackled. Then there was a sudden warmth and dampness in the crotch seam of his pyjamas. He looked down at his lap. A blot of blood was spreading across the cotton. Terrified, he fumbled his prick out for an inspection. The wound wasnât serious, just a split in his raw foreskin, but it bled enthusiastically. His erection went down fast. All he could think about was what he would tell his mum when the PJs went for a wash. He decided heâd throw them out.
I have to get my mind off all this.
Instead of surfing for porn, he looked at the online news. Shreve had been on national TV today but heâd been too preoccupied to listen properly. He looked up the story on the BBC.
- Doctors blame poor waste management for rise in health problems - read the
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