THE LAST DOOR DOWN THE HALL.

by Paul McAvoy.

Storytellers would have us believe that there are always endings, answers and reasons for the little fables they weave. Real life, unfortunately, is not like that. There are not always answers and meanings, tied up together in pleasant bundles. I don't know why Roberts did it, whether he had made a deal with the devil, and why it had to be children. I have my own conclusions, and perhaps you will too.

The beginning? Where does any story begin? A stormy night, with lightning flashing and thunder rolling? My story did not begin like that. Roberts was always there, ever in the background.

It was hard to tell just how old Roberts was: he seemed to have run the corner shop for hundreds of years. ROBERTS'S had traded when my gran was a child, with Mr Roberts behind the counter, ever cheerful with his chirpy laughter. Of course, he had been younger back then, that silver hair had been jet black and considerably thicker than the five strands he patted down each morning with water. But he had been there nevertheless, according to Gran; always polite, selling his cigarettes, newspapers and boiled sweets with the same happy smile. That smile never seemed to leave his face.

He was a thin, wiry man with long limbs. He always wore a suit and a tie, and always smelled of peppermint and tobacco. He spoke in a soft, syrupy voice: he said "Abewt," instead of "About," and "Mooeer," instead of "More." His whole persona was one of kindness.

He was a man who genuinely seemed to love life, and people. The only thing I ever heard him complain about were flies. He abhorred them: I saw him many times with a rolled up paper in his hand, or a can of spray. "Got you, you little sucker," he would exclaim as he surveyed his handiwork with can and rolled up paper.

A bachelor, he had no family; not that anyone knew of anyway. Gran had said he had even been in that shop when her mother was a girl.

This puzzled me. Always had. But I never spoke to Roberts about it. Gran was growing old and in a home; she could have been mistaken. It had most probably been Mr Roberts's father who had served my great-grandmother all those years ago.

If not... well, that would make him well over a hundred. And that was, of course, impossible.

But there was always something very adamant in my gran's tone when she talked about it. Even just before she died, the cancer finally conquering her. "He's not normal," she said. "Made a deal with the devil, I'll bet: to keep living, never to die. You know, like Dorian Gray?"

I nodded, remembering the Oscar Wilde story.

I did not entertain for one moment what she told me was true, just the ravings of an old woman, the confusion of a person riddled with senility.

However there were other puzzling facts, too. No vans or lorries pulled up outside ROBERTS'S, delivering goods for him to sell. My ex-girlfriend worked at the local cash and carry and she had once told me he never bought his stuff there, either. We conversed about Roberts often and used to get quite pa.s.sionate about the furtive old man: if only our relationship had had half the pa.s.sion.

The things he sold appeared to pop onto the shelves on their own accord like magic.

The recession did not hit Roberts, either: where most shops were folding and sporting CLOSING DOWN signs, a prelude to wooden boards, ROBERTS'S carried on, business as usual.

Then, when Morrisons opened up, practically killing off all the small trade in the area, Mr Roberts still opened his shop every morning; smiling, happy, loving life and people, smelling of that peppermint / tobacco smell, dressed in suit and tie.

I yearned to speak to him about it, but what could I say? I used to pop in every morning for a paper and a brief chat. I did broach the subject once, saying something like, "Been here a while, huh, Mr Roberts?" But he had just smiled in reply, giving nothing away. He nodded, "Been here a while, oh yes, Johnny."

I suppose I could have found out more, searched old records at the town hall, perhaps, but I guess my obsession was not that strong. Anyway, I did not like to pry. What business was it of mine?

Still... he was a mystery.

"Made a deal with the devil, I'll bet," my gran said.

"To keep living, never to die."

Last March, the mysterious story of Mr Roberts came to a ghastly conclusion. I still have trouble dealing with it. Whenever I close my eyes, I see them, staring their lifeless stares.

But I am going ahead of myself.

Did I say conclusion? A kind of conclusion. An ending. When Mr Roberts died.

It went like this: I had been in the police force for five years and had just progressed to detective constable. I was out with D.S. Beck when we got the call over the radio. A woman had phoned the station, saying something about a dead shopkeeper. We were to go and investigate. When I heard the address of the shop in question, I felt an icy chill run up my back.

ROBERTS'S.

Siren wailing, we twisted and turned through the streets to Roberts's shop. A lot of people had gathered outside, forming a bottleneck in the road. Ghouls, D.S. Beck called them, and was instantly angry upon seeing them, pushing and shoving, itching to get a look at a dead man. My superior told me to check inside while he tried to disperse the crowd.

I went inside, smelling that familiar aroma of sweets and tobacco. I saw Roberts immediately. He was sitting by the side of the counter on an old wooden chair. His arms were limp at either side of him; his head was resting on one side.

From outside I heard Beck tell the crowd to go back, there was nothing to see.

I walked over to Roberts and looked down at him. I had never noticed before even though hundreds of pounds had pa.s.sed from my hands into his but his fingers were incredibly long and crooked. The crookedness could be the start of rigor mortis, I supposed, or perhaps he had suffered from arthritis; but the length of those fingers, that was something else.

I knelt down before him, looking at his closed eyes. I reached out and put a hand to his face, then quickly pulled it away. He was ice cold.

Beck from outside: "Come on, now, everyone move away." I glanced at the door and saw the detective sergeant waving his arms in a swooping motion.

I turned back to Roberts. Whatever my gran had told me about the old man, whether any of it had been true, did not matter, for Mr Roberts was dead. I sighed, taking hold of his hand to check for a pulse. As expected, I found no signs of life. This was no longer police business; it was a job for the undertaker.

I was about to stand up and head outside to inform Beck when Roberts's head suddenly flung backwards. His eyelids opened and he fixed me with those pale blue eyes of his. His lips parted.

"Ah," he said. "Johnny Harrison."

I stared at him in disbelief. His skin had been inhumanly cold, there had been no pulse, he could not possibly be alive. I wondered if I was experiencing some crazy hallucination. I checked myself, realising I had simply made a mistake and was letting my imagination run amok, which was not good for a policeman who wanted to progress up the ladder of promotion.

"Mr Roberts?" I began. I stood up, collected myself, then turned to get help. Roberts grabbed hold of me by the hand. I looked down: those long fingers curled around my wrist.

"No time," he said, as though having read my mind. "Been a... mystery to... you, haven't I?"

His hand was like a slowly tightening vice.

"Been a puzzle... How have I lived so... long?" He blinked, eyes swimming in their sockets. "So many... so many... countless." His voice was a whisper.

I felt a short, sharp sense of disorientation, then said, "I need to get an ambulance for you."

"So many of them... Energy. Like a vampire. A vampire feeding. Feeeeding." He stared up at me. "You came close. You know? I... I haven't long left. I need to tell you, you came close... so close... from being... fodder. For."

"This can wait," I said, trying to sound professional. "I'll get help."

"The Energy," he said, as though not having heard me. "The deal I made... him. Him. Upstairs, go look, you will understand then. Go see, if you dare, see my crime. Remember, you came close. Remember Billy? Billy Brown?"

"He disappeared," I said. Then, "What about him, Mr Roberts. What are you trying to say?"

"I don't... ask for forgiveness. He came to me, made a deal. I could have said no, but I did not. Scared of death, but not any... more. I could have gone on, and on, and on. Had to stop. Too much killing." He paused, a harsh breath escaping from between his lips. Then, in a slowly fading voice, he continued. "The years I have seen... pa.s.s by. So many... No more. Let this... this be it, let him take me."

"Mr Roberts?" I said.

He just stared at me, eyes not blinking.

"I have to get help for you..." I paused, watching his grip over my wrist slowly loosen.

"Absolute," he whispered.

It was the last word he said. Then his body eased and his hand fell away from my wrist. He lay still.

"Is he dead?"

The voice startled me. I swirled around to see Beck had entered the shop. "Yes," I said quietly. Then, "We have to go upstairs."

He looked at me curiously. "What's up there?"

"Roberts told me to." Without waiting for his reaction I made my way to the door behind the counter.

Billy Brown. He had disappeared over twenty years ago. Some said he was abducted, others said he had run away. I was his best friend, and I knew he would never run away. I had a vision then, of Billy and I playing with our Action Men, we were eight. He loved his parents, would never do anything to upset them. A good friend, a close friend, as far as eight-year-olds went. Then one day he was no longer there. I remember the police talking to me, asking me if I had any idea where he had gone, that his mother was very upset and if this was some kind of game we had to stop it at once.

We would not be punished for causing everyone pain... just tells us where he is hiding.

That was the time I decided I wanted to be a policeman when I grew up. Become a policeman and find out what had happened to poor Billy Brown.

The memories danced through my mind as I made my way through the door.

I used to tease him and sing, "Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down." He used to wear a silver St Christopher, said it would protect him. I did not wish to know why Roberts had mentioned him, but found myself walking to the door with stiff legs. Years of not knowing what had happened to my boyhood friend. I had sought answers during long nights afterwards, sometimes doing my own investigating, other times merely daydreaming about him. Had he been abducted, was he lying in some shallow grave, alone? Now I was beginning to understand, was drawing closer to answers I realised I no longer wanted to find.

Billy Brown used to say, in reply, "Little Johnny Harrison hasn't got his undies on!"

I found myself in the back room. It was a kitchen-c.u.m-dining-c.u.m-sitting room. There was a table and chair, a sink and a TV. I scanned the room quickly, then made my way up the stairs by the door. Halfway up, I turned, having heard movement behind me. Beck was following me.

"Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down." The song filled my head, repeating, over and over.

I heard a buzzing in my ear and a fat bluebottle circled my head before flying away. I smelled a strong aroma of bleach and disinfectant.

But at the top of the stairs I perceived another smell. The smell of a slaughterhouse. I put a hand to my face, then turned right. I paused a moment, suddenly certain I did not want to carry on this search. Another bluebottle buzzed past my ear. I turned to the door ahead of me and pushed it open. It was the lavatory. Then I opened the next door. Double bed containing neatly ironed clothes, chest of drawers. Roberts's bedroom.

I headed for the last door down the hall.

Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down.

I reached out a hand to open it, but something stopped me. A feeling worse than the one I had had a moment ago. A feeling that turned my stomach. I felt a chill race down my back and my body went suddenly numb.

"What's that smell?" Beck arrived at my side. He looked at me, eyes wide. He did not say anything else, just turned to the door.

Billy Brown went to town...

Taking in a deep breath, I shoved open the door to see what was in that room. I see it now, as though it was only yesterday. I see the door slowly opening, light from the hall slowly filling the room, and revealing what is hidden within those four walls.

For the room contained the children.

Hundreds of them, crammed together, and at varying states of decay. The smell seemed to engulf me like a poisonous gas. I stood rigid, eyes focused on them. I opened my mouth, then heard a strange wailing sound. I turned to Beck, he was looking on in horror, and I realised the wailing was me, screaming.

A fly buzzed past my head, I saw others too.

Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down. The words reverberated around my head crazily. Over and over, becoming a chant. Billy Brown went to town with his trousers hanging down. Billybrownwenttotownwithhistrousershangingdown.

Some of the children were dust, others pieces of bone, some still had hair and skin, some still had clothes. Skulls grinned up at me, hollow eyes sockets glared at me, in thanks, accusation?

Billybrownwenttotown...

Then the chanting stopped, and I heard my gran: "Made a deal with the devil... to keep living, never to die."

Suddenly Roberts's voice filled my head: "My time has come... been a mystery to you, haven't I? Lived... so long. So many... countless. Energy. Fodder. Remember Billy Brown?"

I shut the voice away. Beck was vomiting. I was too numbed to do even that.

Billy Brown, taken.

Which one of you is Billy Brown? I looked over at the sea of skulls that filled the room. His voice entered my mind: "Johnny! Johnny. Little Johnny Harrison hasn't got his undies on!"

Then on one of the small corpses I saw a flash of steel. A silver St Christopher.

Now I did want to be sick. In my mind, uninvited, Roberts spoke up: "You came close...

[Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000].

JULY.

by Paul Finch.

Greg had never expected to see the two cooling towers again. At least, not outside his nightmares.

As the minibus crested the low hill on the country road, the whole of Kent spread out before it, a quiltwork of golds and greens. The two monoliths of concrete, heads buried in clouds of stationary steam, loomed up to the left. Red-brick buildings were cl.u.s.tered around their feet, behind fields of electricity pylons. Greg stared at the two gigantic chimneys through the side-window. They were the same. The very same. Weren't they?

Sweat trickled into his eyes and he wiped it away. They couldn't be. It hadn't been round here, where it had happened. Had it? Of course, this time the red orb of the sun wasn't hanging between the towers, throwing off its searing, sapping heat, turning the land a b.l.o.o.d.y crimson, setting the clouds aflame... so the illusion wasn't entirely complete.

Greg turned round to face the rest of the team. They hadn't noticed his discomfort. Most were still talking together, a couple rooting through their kit-bags, sorting their whites and pads. He could already smell the gra.s.s and linseed oil.

It was only five o'clock, he reflected. The sun wasn't ready to set yet. It would be by the end of the match, though. He glanced at the towers again. He'd know for sure, then. A moment later, they'd pulled off the road and were on a single-track lane.

Sumpton Margaret. It meant nothing to him. Why should it? Just another minor team in another minor midweek league. Of course, he hadn't noticed any names this time last year. He hadn't noticed much. All he remembered was driving: endlessly, recklessly driving; the red globe of the sun and its sentinel towers filling the sky ahead, bleared through dust and tears and drink, like a scene from the Apocalypse.

And then... Tara. Tara in the back.