Mick Macnamara opened his eyes, and instantly regretted doing so. Although he appreciated the light streaming into his small bedroom between the crack in his curtains (he was not fond of the darkness), it sadly signified the start of the day. Yet another day when he was responsible for taking yet another lot of Royston Vasey�s brain-dead public around Stump Hole Caverns (the village�s second finest showcase), yet another day during which he was forced to endure yet more horrific memories and repercussions of...that dreadful time. He didn�t want to think about it.
He shook his head slightly, as if trying to banish the thoughts from the caverns
in his mind, and sighed, audibly and visibly. Rolling apathetically out of his
rather-too-hard bed, he grabbed a pair of obscenely small shorts from a nearby chair.
After quickly pulling them on, he reached for his thick spectacles, grimacing as his
world came into focus. He longed to just shut his eyes and forget all about his pathetic
life. If he could have, Mick Macnamara would have slept for eternity. If it wasn�t for
those damned dreams...
Mike Harris sat at his tidy desk in his small office, unhurriedly glancing over a list of names that were to be his interviewees that afternoon. Mike knew from personal experience that Royston Vasey Plastics wasn�t the most exciting and stimulating company to work for, but you could easily do a lot worse. For example, you could be on a restart course with that hideous woman Mike had seen wandering around the town. What was her name? Paula Camping-Homes or something.
Bored with his rather mundane task of allocating appointments to each
potential employee, Mike took to reading each name and imagining what weird and
wonderful lives they might lead. Derek Johnson. A millionaire from the nearby town of
Spent who just wanted a little hobby. June Forsyth. An ex-circus performer who�s
main trick involved sticking her hand up an elephant�s arse. She left because the
constant cramp became a little too unbearable. As Mike smiled at his own ludicrous
thoughts, his eyes were drawn to the last name on the list. Mick Macnamara...now,
where had he heard that name before?
Mick stood nervously outside the office door, marked neatly with a name plate: �Mr Harris�. The expression on his face mirrored that which he had worn upon his waking that morning-one of total resignation to an almost certain doom. It had taken a lot of courage for Mick to apply for this job. He hated telephones-he�d had to speak on them a despicable amount when...that event had occurred, and now, even the sight of one left him with a feeling of deep dread laced generously with unjustified guilt.
But Mick was determined. No more was he going to be forced to relive those
horrific happenings every single day. No more was he going to stare, apparently
blankly at that rock wondering what would have happened if only, if only he�d held out
his hand, what he might have prevented...
He remembered Michael Buerke�s words, blinked once, and slowly and deliberately knocked on the door.
�Come in!� was the happy welcome from inside the office. Mick pushed open the heavy door, to reveal a smiling man in a suit, sitting behind a surprisingly tidy desk. The man was not wearing his jacket, and it was draped neatly over the back of his chair. He looked expectantly at Mick. �Good afternoon, Mr...Macnamara, isn�t it?�
�Yes.�
�Do you mind if I call you Mick?�
There was a slight pause and uncomfortable tension momentarily entered the atmosphere of the room, as if Mick was genuinely trying to decide the answer to Mike�s question. But his eventual response left Mike almost relieved. �No.�
�Good, good. Mick, I was trying to think where I�d heard your name before. Now I see your face, it�s obvious...you worked in Stump Hole Caverns didn�t you?�
Upon this revelation, Mick�s face seemed to freeze into an expression even
more unreadable than his normal uninterested blankness. When he spoke, his monotone
voice mirrored his visage. �I was trying to get away from there.�
Mike spoke quickly, aware that he was touching upon a sensitive area. �Of
course, of course. Well, there�s nothing like a change in direction to keep your career
interesting. Actually, that�s a good place to start. Why did you decide to leave Stump
Hole Caverns?�
Mick rolled his eyes in an only-just-perceivable gesture, and bit his bottom lip in apprehension. Deciding that there was no possibly humane way that he could avoid the subject, he sighed, and began to speak. �I just couldn�t stand being there any more. Every time I saw that rock, the one that looked like...a little pair of hands...it reminded me of the boy. I had to turn the lights out every time I took a group of people down there. It�s in the darkness I see the boy�s face. I couldn�t stand it any more.� Throughout this speech, Mick�s voice never altered from the constant, bored drone of a well-established tour guide. He seemed unaware of the inappropriateness of his confession.
But Mike was well aware of it, and his shock and surprise were made obvious by his slightly open mouth and wide eyes. He realised Mick had stopped speaking before the silence had time to become embarrassing, and swallowed dryly. �Are you saying...� Mike chose his words carefully, �...that you saw someone get killed?�
Mick said nothing, simply nodded, his blank stare continually fixed on a point
in the centre of his spectacle lenses.
Mike continued, unsure now where to take the interview. Mick clearly was not
a normal applicant. �Well, um, that�s terrible, Mick. I can see the subject upsets
you...let�s go on to why you chose to apply here.� A glimmer of relief momentarily
shot across Mick�s features, before it was once more snatched away and replaced by
the stony expression, as if any positive emotions had to be extinguished before Mick
had a chance to believe that they might actually be real and justified.
Mike was talking again. �So, why did you choose Royston Vasey Plastics?�
There was no hesitation in the answer this time, although his voice remained on
a steady, low pitch. �There are lots of lights.�
Fifteen minutes later, Mick left Mike Harris� office. After the door had closed behind him, he paused to sigh, a habit which had become familiar to him since...the boy. The interview had gone terribly. Mick was well aware of this. Actually, he�d been expecting it.
He started to continue his journey down the long corridor, when a short, middle-aged man with a moustache and curly hair ran into him from the other direction.
Mick made no reaction to the collision, but the short man seemed quite
perturbed. �Hey, watch where you�re goin�, will ya?� He stopped, and looked up at the
tall, lanky figure. �Are you one of Mike�s interviewees?� Mick nodded. �Ah, well, I
hope the interview went all right.� Mick gave a knowing look to nobody in particular,
appreciating the irony. �Wait, I�ve seen you before haven�t I? You used to work in...�
�Stump Hole Caverns, yes.�
The short man didn�t notice the frustration in Mick�s voice. �That�s it! I�m
Geoff Tipps, by the way.�
�Mick Macnamara.� The two men awkwardly shook hands.
�Hey, do you wanna come down Shebabs for a drink? I�m just goin� for me
lunch break.�
Mick thought for a minute. He�d never had a social life before. He supposed it
couldn�t hurt. Might take his mind off of his despicable existence, anyway. He looked
at Geoff, and actually managed to smile in agreement.
* * *
High upon a hillside overlooking the pretty vista of Royston Vasey, a small, innocent building stood, the only one of its kind for miles. It�s purpose was clearly advertised by a large white sign attached to the door, proclaiming it to be a �Local Shop�. The interior was just as quiet and serene as the exterior surroundings. A lone figure, small and hunched, went about its duty without complaint. Its activity was, apparently, counting snow globes.
�One, two, three, twelfty, six, none...� Tubbs Tattsyrup never bored of looking after her precious things. She had no idea why they were precious, why they meant so much to her, but they were so pretty when you shook them. She could stand for hours watching the way the small chips of white plastic settled round the various objects trapped inside the glass, and then she would amuse herself by mischievously shaking it again, and unsettling the snow.
It was in the middle of this process that Tubbs was interrupted by the familiar shout of, �Hello, hello, Tubbs, what�s going on? What�s all this shouting? We�ll have no trouble here.� The fact that there had been no noise at all didn�t seem to occur to Tubbs, and she guiltily replaced the snow globe on the shelf and began to count again.
The owner of the voice, her husband Edward, walked over to her. �Tubbs,
Tubbs, you don�t have to do that, you know. Why don�t you come and sit down with
me?� His voice was dramatically over-pronounced.
�Stop counting the precious things? But..what if..what if someone comes?
What if a stranger comes, Edward, what then?�
�Don�t worry yourself, Tubbs. We�ll rig a trap.�
The woman�s face seemed to brighten at this idea, and a faraway look entered
her eyes. Edward continued. �I think we need a rest. All of us. You, me and David.
We�ve been working too hard.�
�Well, the shop does keep us busy doesn�t it Edward?�
�Yes, yes. Perhaps we need a holiday.�
�A local holiday?�
�Of course. What other kind? Perhaps, even, just a family day out. Somewhere
David will feel completely safe and at home.�
�But David is local. He only feels completely at home in his own chamber...� A
distant roar emphasised Tubbs� last words.
�Well, then, we need somewhere that will remind him of his own den. I know
of a lovely place called Redscar Caverns...�
Any more deliberation on the idea was halted in its tracks by the shop bell
omitting a high-pitched tinkle, closely followed by the appearance of a young, blonde
woman. She glanced at the couple and gave a little smile, to which Tubbs urgently
responded, �Yes? can I help you at all?�
�Oh, no, I�m just browsing.�
Tubbs continued. �Are you local?�
The woman looked surprised at the question, but was happy to make small
talk. �No, actually, I�m from London. I�m doing a degree in Veterinary Science, and
my work placement is here with a Doctor Chinnery...do you know him?�
Tubbs didn�t answer. She simply looked over at her husband, a gesture
mirrored by him, and their expressions were mutual. Knowledge of some foreseen and
undoubtedly terrible event. Sick, corrupted excitement crossed both of their faces, and,
in synchrony, they turned to face the woman.
* * *
The late afternoon sun was beginning to find a comfortable position just above Royston Vasey�s war memorial as Mick Macnamara walked past it in his usual deep contemplation. He had got on surprisingly well with Geoff, who had told him all about his failed marriage to Katie, and how he was convinced that he had something to do with the fact that she had been screwing both of his best friends. It had taken his mind off of his own problems...well, briefly, anyway. But now, he was once more submerged in his familiar melee of guilt and self doubt.
Taking time to check where he was walking, he looked up, and noticed Maurice Evans on the other side of the High Street. He looked away even more quickly than he usually would.
Maurice was one of Mick�s fears. It wasn�t difficult to be classified as one of
Mick�s fears; he had many. But the odd thing about this particular fear was that
Maurice, as far as he was aware, had not done anything to endanger his
non-fear-inducing relationship with Mick. Not that the pair had a close
relationship-Mick made sure of that. It wasn�t that he disliked Maurice-he had barely
allowed himself to get to know him. They had met once at a party, in itself a bad omen,
taking into account Mick�s usual experiences at parties. But they had somehow
managed to fall into a peripheral conversation, during which Maurice had casually
mentioned that he was a magistrate. Since that fateful day, Mick was determined to
avoid him whenever possible. He would not get put on trial for something that wasn�t
his fault (or so Michael Buerke always insisted). There would be no-one on his side.
The boy could hardly give evidence, could he? And even if he could be somehow
raised from the fiery pits of hell (that Mick always pictured to be ever so similar to his
own bedroom), he would tell Maurice the truth:
Mick sped up his pace as the vision of Maurice�s feet coming towards him
became clear.
�Hello Mick!� Damn. He was trapped. He would have to make brief and
guarded discourse with the dreaded magistrate. He decided it was safest not to
respond to the greeting, but Maurice seemed unaware. �Lovely evening, isn�t it?�
Mick mumbled something that merged with a sigh of disagreement to create a
strange cacophony of bodily sounds.
Maurice continued, oblivious to Mick�s obvious discomfort. �I was just doin�
me weekly shoppin�. Just gonna pop in the butchers. Why don�t you join me?�
Mick was about to flatly refuse (despite knowing how rude that would appear),
but he had always been drawn to raw meet. Something about the fact that it was
untouched, unadulterated, left there for him to do whatever he liked with it. He could
get some minced beef for his tea. Maybe sculpt it into the shape of Errol Flynn. On this
thought, he turned, and followed Maurice into the small shop.
The bell tinkled loudly, advertising the pair�s presence to resident butcher,
Hilary Briss. The tall man with large, unnecessary sideburns paused in his activity, his
tongue in the process of licking his top lip. He looked fairly ominous, with his long,
white coat splattered with animal blood. His eyes shone with a lustre which was
unjustified for a butcher. What could he possibly have to be happy about, Mick
wondered. Stuck in here all day with the smell of tainted death clinging to his every
appendage. Nevertheless, Hilary seemed delighted by his visitors. �Maurice!� The
word was hissed out in a not-unfriendly manner. �Glad to see you here.�
�Yes, Hilary, not me usual day, I know.�
�And who�s this?� Hilary used a carving knife which had been conveniently
placed in his right hand to indicate Mick, who cowered back automatically. Hilary�s
smile broadened.
�Oh, that�s Mick, he works down at Stump Hole Caverns.� Mick didn�t bother
to correct Maurice about his use of the present tense. Maurice continued. �To get
straight to the point, Hilary...well...me supply�s run down.� The last part of the
sentence was said in a hushed tone, almost whispered.
�And why would that be, Maurice? You know I don�t have a constant supply.
You�ve got to learn to ration it.�
�I know, Hilary, I know...it�s just that...it tastes so good.� Hilary rolled his
eyes, but his smile remained in place.
�All right Maurice. It just so happens that I�ve just this minute had another
delivery. But I�m doing you a favour, you know.�
�Thank you Hilary.� Maurice looked genuinely relieved, and Mick wondered
what sort of fantastic meat they were talking about. The lanky butcher disappeared
momentarily into a small room behind the counter, and emerged holding a small, sealed
bag. Maurice grabbed it hurriedly, and shoved it under his coat. �Normal
arrangement?� He asked nervously.
Hilary nodded. �I don�t see why not.� Maurice smiled and turned to exit the
shop, but he was halted in his tracks by Hilary�s voice. �Manners, Maurice! What
about our friend here?�
Maurice turned around unnaturally slowly. He shook his head, and a desperate
expression came over his face. �Oh, no, Hilary, no...�
�I don�t see why not.� Hilary repeated his words from moments earlier. �I am
always willing to add to my list. Mick here looks the perfect candidate. No chance of
him blabbing to anyone...hasn�t said a word since he�s been in here.� Mick, the silent
subject of the conversation, acquired an expression that was the nearest he was ever
going to get to �interested�.
The despair on Maurice�s face now became apparent in his voice. �Are you
sure, Hilary?�
�I�m always sure. I�m a businessman.� The butcher turned towards Mick, same
smile plastered over his features. �I�ve got a little of it cooked out the back. Would
you like to try some?�
Mick considered his options. He was being offered free food. There had to be
some sort of catch. His first thought was that they somehow knew about the boy, and
Hilary was going to bribe him to buy an eternal supply of this meat that was quite
probably disgusting in return for his silence. But then he realised how ridiculous it was,
and decided that the meat must be poisoned. He was about to decline, when he caught
a glimpse of Maurice�s face. The look of despair had been replaced by one of hope,
almost longing. The spark of curiosity was triggered inside Mick, and his cautious
nature was suddenly thrown into the dark abyss of his mind.
�Yes please.� Hilary�s lips thinned as his grin became wider, and even Maurice
smiled nervously.
Anyone strolling down Royston Vasey high street at 5:15pm on the evening of 6th November would have been met with a highly unusual sight. Actually, Royston Vasey had had more than its fair share of unusual sights, but the one this afternoon was definitely more strange than the normal concoction of freaks and killings. It was of Mick Macnamara, running as fast as he could, almost exploding out of the door of Hilary Briss and Son, turning the nearest corner, deliberately shoving his fingers down his throat and spewing the contents of his stomach all over a patch of neat grass. As it was, most of the Royston Vaseyites had their concentration taken up by Anne Robinson on The Weakest Link whilst this frightening charade was occurring, so, much to Mick�s relief, it went unnoticed.
He straightened himself up, panting, and wiped his mouth coarsely with the back of his hand. He knew he should never have attempted to mix with a magistrate. OK, so it was his fault the boy had died. There was no need to do this to him, no need to feed him his empty carcass in some desperate, childish attempt at justice. He would have never have agreed to it if he�d known beforehand...God. What would the boy�s family think?
Mick sighed again, very loudly, his self confidence now completely shattered.
The Royston Vasey moonlight twinkled off the corner of a large, new, high-quality machine-painted sign, drawing the onlookers� attention to it�s significance, and advertising the presence of �Redscar Caverns�. Redscar was a trifle flashy for Mick�s taste, but its gift shop, Granary-style cafeteria and 100% safety record did nothing but reassure its prospective visitors, who flocked there regularly to see the spectacularly coloured rocks and to purchase some trilobites in perspex or stegosaurus-shaped pencil tops.
The normal crowd was gathering outside, awaiting the tour guide. In the
middle of it, Tubbs Tattsyrup stood chatting excitedly to her husband. �Edward, can
we see the fake dinosaurs? Can we climb on the rocks? Do they sell precious things
Edward? Do they?�
Edward laughed fondly at his wife�s enthusiasm. �I don�t know Tubbs. We�ll
have to ask the tour guide.�
�Is he local, Edward?�
�Oh yes. He�s definitely local. Where�s David?�
�He went to discharge his bowels.� Her innocent voice using such technical and
undesirable terminology evoked confused and disgusted looks from several of the people around her.
�Well, he�d better speed up his activities if he wants to see the start of the
tour.� Edward�s concern was dispersed as he heard a familiar growling in the distance.
�Don�t worry, Edward. He�s coming back.�
The echoing sound of footsteps on the concrete outside the caverns indicated a new presence. Friendly, expectant faces turned in the direction of the sound, and caught sight of their tour guide.
Mick Macnamara stood, full height, dressed in a heavy-duty jacket and shorts that only just extended past his hips, armed with a torch, his face shielded by helmet and thick glasses. His normal, vacant expression was fixed on his face, and he sighed, his shoulders raising and sinking to aid the exhalation.
His eyes registered the crowd, and he indicated the high, roomy entrance with
his torch. He addressed his slightly puzzled audience. �If you�d just like to follow me,
the entrance to this particular cave is quite low down, so watch you don�t bump your
heads.� As he turned to lead his protegés like sheep into the darkness, he smiled
slightly to himself. He really was good at this job.
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