The Kimota Anthology by Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry Page A
Authors: Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry
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on.”
“That’s what I mean.” She bit her lip. “It was like I was dreaming, only I wasn’t dreaming, John. I saw him, and I saw the look in his eye. I felt something from him that made my stomach turn.” She knew what she wanted to say, what she sensed on a very basic level, but she couldn’t bring herself to give voice to it. “He didn’t look real, John.”
“What do you mean?”
She paused, wrestling with a thought that was too big for her. Then she said, “I’m frightened.”
“Come on. Come on!” John hammered the steering wheel impatiently. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper along the main road into town, creeping along at such a snail’s pace that he would be late for work by at least fifteen minutes, if not longer. In his mind’s eye, John saw the look on Gordon King’s face when he walked through the door; tardiness was King’s major bugbear, and it would just give him another opportunity to make John’s time between nine and five more difficult.
Carefully, he edged his way out into the stream, ignoring the blare of a horn from a red-faced man in a BMW. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see him mouthing some expletive. John smiled to himself, taking some small pleasure from the irritation he was causing. These days it seemed to be the most enjoyment he could get.
He glanced down at the passenger seat. The dummy was there, on the old bit of ribbon, looking worn and out-of-date. He didn’t know why they had kept it. Gill was the one who had believed it was a good omen, but now she seemed to have changed her opinion. Since her experience with the intruder in Christopher’s room, she had changed all round; more nervous, inclined to jump at the slightest sound, Introspective, even depressed. John had tried to comfort her, but he had got little response.
That morning she had handed him the dummy and said simply, “Get rid of it.”
“Why?”
“Just dump it. I don’t want it around any more.”
And that was that. Gill had decided. He would throw it in the bin outside the office and God forbid her if she changed her mind and phoned up later asking for it back.
The traffic came to a halt. There was some kind of disturbance ahead; he could see people craning their necks out of windows and he could hear raised voices. A shunt. That was all he needed. He increased the tempo of his beat on the steering wheel and tried to think of a song to hum to himself, but nothing would come to mind apart from the words: I’m going to be late.
Why did Gill keep the stupid dummy in the first place? It was so unlike her. A good luck charm! Sure, they’d had lots of good luck, hadn’t they? The thing that was happening to Christopher. They’d had him checked out by specialist after specialist and all of them had found nothing. Some of them had been so surprised by the symptoms, they virtually implied that John and Gill were making it all up, addicted to wasting doctors’ time like those hypochondriacs who became hooked on operations.
There was a man walking up the other side of the road from the direction of the hold-up, clutching at his face as if he was crying or in pain. His path was erratic. The raised voices seemed to have grown louder, barking angrily, yelping like caged animals.
They had had their problems before they moved into the house, he and Gill, but they had grown infinitely worse since. Now they could hardly bring themselves to touch each other. It wasn’t even just the two of them. It was the atmosphere in the house too. The erratic heating, the sudden snaps of coldness, had become more than irritating. Gill’s encounter with the old man - or ‘the thing’ as she called him - had had a dramatic effect as well, and John had to admit that it was starting to influence him as well; he never quite felt alone in the house any more.
He looked down at the dummy.
It was starting to bother him for some reason, or perhaps it was just his paranoid thoughts. As he stared out of the
“That’s what I mean.” She bit her lip. “It was like I was dreaming, only I wasn’t dreaming, John. I saw him, and I saw the look in his eye. I felt something from him that made my stomach turn.” She knew what she wanted to say, what she sensed on a very basic level, but she couldn’t bring herself to give voice to it. “He didn’t look real, John.”
“What do you mean?”
She paused, wrestling with a thought that was too big for her. Then she said, “I’m frightened.”
“Come on. Come on!” John hammered the steering wheel impatiently. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper along the main road into town, creeping along at such a snail’s pace that he would be late for work by at least fifteen minutes, if not longer. In his mind’s eye, John saw the look on Gordon King’s face when he walked through the door; tardiness was King’s major bugbear, and it would just give him another opportunity to make John’s time between nine and five more difficult.
Carefully, he edged his way out into the stream, ignoring the blare of a horn from a red-faced man in a BMW. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see him mouthing some expletive. John smiled to himself, taking some small pleasure from the irritation he was causing. These days it seemed to be the most enjoyment he could get.
He glanced down at the passenger seat. The dummy was there, on the old bit of ribbon, looking worn and out-of-date. He didn’t know why they had kept it. Gill was the one who had believed it was a good omen, but now she seemed to have changed her opinion. Since her experience with the intruder in Christopher’s room, she had changed all round; more nervous, inclined to jump at the slightest sound, Introspective, even depressed. John had tried to comfort her, but he had got little response.
That morning she had handed him the dummy and said simply, “Get rid of it.”
“Why?”
“Just dump it. I don’t want it around any more.”
And that was that. Gill had decided. He would throw it in the bin outside the office and God forbid her if she changed her mind and phoned up later asking for it back.
The traffic came to a halt. There was some kind of disturbance ahead; he could see people craning their necks out of windows and he could hear raised voices. A shunt. That was all he needed. He increased the tempo of his beat on the steering wheel and tried to think of a song to hum to himself, but nothing would come to mind apart from the words: I’m going to be late.
Why did Gill keep the stupid dummy in the first place? It was so unlike her. A good luck charm! Sure, they’d had lots of good luck, hadn’t they? The thing that was happening to Christopher. They’d had him checked out by specialist after specialist and all of them had found nothing. Some of them had been so surprised by the symptoms, they virtually implied that John and Gill were making it all up, addicted to wasting doctors’ time like those hypochondriacs who became hooked on operations.
There was a man walking up the other side of the road from the direction of the hold-up, clutching at his face as if he was crying or in pain. His path was erratic. The raised voices seemed to have grown louder, barking angrily, yelping like caged animals.
They had had their problems before they moved into the house, he and Gill, but they had grown infinitely worse since. Now they could hardly bring themselves to touch each other. It wasn’t even just the two of them. It was the atmosphere in the house too. The erratic heating, the sudden snaps of coldness, had become more than irritating. Gill’s encounter with the old man - or ‘the thing’ as she called him - had had a dramatic effect as well, and John had to admit that it was starting to influence him as well; he never quite felt alone in the house any more.
He looked down at the dummy.
It was starting to bother him for some reason, or perhaps it was just his paranoid thoughts. As he stared out of the
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