Nightmare Waiting Read online

  Nightmare Waiting

  & Other Dark Stories

  By Glenn McGoldrick

  Text copyright © 2017

  Glenn McGoldrick

  All Rights Reserved

  In memory of Irene McGoldrick, James McGoldrick and Joseph Poole.

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  A young burglar is surprised to be apprehended, and even more surprised to be assigned an extra task…

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  Contents

  Somewhere In England

  Horseshoe Bend

  Junior Partner

  Poor Mr Tibbles

  Cod Beck

  Not Coming Back

  Dark Progression

  Leaving The Table

  Just Keep Walking

  Nightmare Waiting

  Somewhere In England

  I hope I’m not waiting much longer. It’s getting dark, and I can feel the temperature dropping. I’ve been here about an hour, which is a bit longer than I normally have to wait.

  This guy’s slowing down, looks like he’s pulling over. I move my sign, let him get a good look.

  He’s stopping in front of me. Alone in the car. Rolling down the window.

  “Bristol’s on my way,” he says. “I can drop you off if you like.”

  I watch him for a moment, deliberating. I pick up my backpack, reassured by what I know it contains.

  “OK. Thanks.” I take the passenger seat, placing the backpack and sign at my feet.

  He looks about fortyish, big guy with a little extra around the middle.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a cold one,” he says, pulling onto the motorway.

  “It certainly does.”

  He looks across at me, taking in my tight blouse.

  “You don’t want to be out there without a coat on.”

  “I’ve got a sweater in my backpack.”

  “I’m Mike, by the way.”

  “And I’m Jenny,” I say. It’s as good a name as any.

  He likes to talk. A lot of them do. Some talk and some flirt. Most of them have a sneak peek at me, letting their eyes linger on my body before turning back to watch the road; my new friend Mike is no different.

  “You must be brave.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Hitchhiking alone.” Another glance at my blouse. “A good-looking woman like you.”

  I don’t get chance to answer.

  “I read this article in the paper…”

  And off he goes. They always want to talk; the traffic, the weather, football and all kinds of trivia. Sometimes they ask personal stuff. I usually tell the truth, or bullshit them, or avoid the subject.

  I know one way to shut him up.

  “…but only one per cent of drivers…”

  I can still see the face of the last one, just outside Exeter. He liked to talk too.

  Mike sees me smiling. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  He is going on about the dangers facing a single female hitchhiker, like I’ve never heard this stuff before.

  “Yeah, but I have a knife,” I say, pointing to my backpack. “And I know how to use it.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course. I’m not a psycho, you know.”

  He looks relieved.

  “Yeah, you’re kidding,” he says, “but it is dangerous. I read about this woman in Scotland. She was covered in tattoos, from head…”

  That mention of a tattoo gets me thinking.

  I was trying to get to Leeds, to see some friends. This was a few years ago now. I’d hitchhiked a few times already, and I’d never had a problem. And I was pretty short of cash, so I took out my sign at the service station.

  A man picked me up after about half an hour. I don’t remember much detail, but I think he was about fifty. He was kind of average looking, with an average build and pale blue eyes. The car was red, but I don’t know the make or model. He might have said his name, but I don’t think so.

  He stopped the car in a dark layby after an hour, saying he needed to stretch his legs. That’s where it happened.

  My only vivid memory is of a tattoo; a small frog, painted red. I noticed it on his forearm, when he grabbed my throat and told me to keep quiet. He undid his belt with his free hand. He was stronger than me, and I was terrified – so I just stared at the frog until it was over.

  “That’s what happens when you dress like that,” he said, before driving off and leaving me alone in that layby.

  “Are you still listening?” Mike asks.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And this woman doesn’t even…”

  I didn’t go to the police. What could I tell them? To look for a red car? I could tell them about the tattoo, but they’d have to find the guy first.

  And, the truth is I felt like I was to blame. I was a good looking young woman, and how stupid was it to be hitchhiking alone? And – this will make you laugh – I felt like I owed the guy a favour, because he hadn’t killed me. I was too ashamed to tell any of my friends or family. I just stopped hitchhiking.

  About six months later the shock must have wore off, because I started to feel angry. I visualised scenarios, scenes in which I evened the score with tattoo-guy. I started hitchhiking again, but this time I carried a knife.

  Initially I turned down a lot of rides, as I was only looking for him. I couldn’t recall his face, but I knew I’d recognise him if I ever saw him. Then I started taking rides, just for the hell of it. I met some nice people. And some real creeps. Too many creeps. I had a few scrapes. But I had a knife, and I defended myself.

  I would wait at the same service station where tattoo-guy picked me up from, thinking that maybe he lived locally. I never found him, but after a while I came to realise that it didn’t matter – there were plenty of bad guys out there to keep me busy.

  “What do you think of that, Jenny?” asks Mike.

  “Huh?” Jesus. “Repeat the last part again.”

  “They said that’s how they did it in Peru!” He’s shaking his head.

  I shake my head too. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Good story.”

  He’s smiling, pleased with himself. I’ve no idea what he was talking about; I must have zoned out there for a while.

  I look at him, considering my options. I’ve sensed him eyeing me up a few times, and he never shuts up – but other than that, he seems fairly harmless.

  “You can drop me at this next service station, Mike.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “I thought you were going to Bristol?”

  “No, that’s OK. I’ve just remembered I’ve got a few things to do in Throckley.”

  “Alright, then.”

  He looks disappointed. He’ll get over it.

  I can’t speak for every motorway service station around, but the ones I’ve been in are lifeless places. This one’s the same.

  I’m sitting in a plastic chair by the window, sipping my coffee and watching the cars speed by outside. My friend Mike dropped me off half an hour ago. I thanked him for the ride, but he didn’t say much. He looked a little sulky.

  He doesn’t know how lucky he is. And he wouldn’t hear it if I told him. Idiot. Never mind. There’ll be others.

  So I better get out there and wait for a ride. Maybe the right car will come along.

  I pick up my backpack, reassured by what I know it contains.

  Horseshoe Bend

  “I killed her,” I said to Keith last Tuesday.

  He shook his head. “No, Pete. You didn’t.”

  “She didn’t even
want to go. I talked her into it. I killed her.”

  “She drowned,” he said, finishing his pint and placing the empty glass on the table we sat at. He looked around, checking to see if there was anybody sat near us. Then he turned back to me and said, “It’s not your fault, mate.”

  Sitting back in my chair, I exhaled and watched a barmaid collect glasses from a table near ours. “I’m responsible,” I said. “I killed her.”

  “Jesus, Pete!” he said. “Keep your voice down.”

  I stood up sharply, banging my thighs on the edge of the table. “I’ll see you later,” I said.

  Leaving the Jolly Farmers, the day was bright as I walked down Thornaby Road. I stopped at the off-licence for cigarettes, eight cans of lager and a chicken sandwich.

  From the shop I took the path that ran parallel to the river, stopping at a spot at the water’s edge. I took off my jacket, placed it on the grass and sat down on it. I opened a lager, took a sip, and watched the river flow slowly by.

  Two men were fishing from the opposite bank, thirty metres away; there was nobody else in sight. Birds called to each other in the trees behind me, and there was a faint smell of horse manure in the air. I lit a cigarette, and thought about my conversation with Keith.

  He told me I wasn’t to blame. He was my friend, and he was just trying to help. But he didn’t understand. He still had his wife – how could he possibly understand how I felt?

  As the sun made its way to the horizon, I drank and smoked and ate my sandwich, reliving all the times that Sue and I had spent kayaking at this spot.

  I awoke to the sound of crying, realising after a few moments that the tears were mine. Another fucking nightmare – when would they end?

  Rubbing my eyes, I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and neck. I brushed my teeth to kill the taste of alcohol, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Get a grip of yourself, Peter,” I said.

  I went to the kitchen and made a coffee, drinking it as I stared through the window, watching the first traces of light appear in the morning sky. My thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous year…

  Sue returned from work at 5 p.m. I met her in the hallway, helped her out of her jacket and hung it on the coat-stand.

  “The weather doesn’t look too great,” she said.

  “Come on, it’ll be fine,” I said. “Just for an hour?”

  She ran her hand through her black hair and shook her head slowly, smiling at me. “Have you got the kayaks ready?”

  “I’ll do it now.”

  “And, Pete?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re buying me a nice bottle of wine on the way back.”

  Fifteen minutes later we were on the water at Horseshoe Bend, our local spot. Sue sat behind me in our tandem kayak. The sky was grey and a light rain fell, but there was still some daylight.

  “The current seems a bit quick today,” Sue said.

  “Well, if it gets any worse we’ll pull in after the bend.”

  The wind picked up and the rain fell harder as we approached the tight loop of the bend itself.

  “Pete, I don’t like this,” Sue said.

  I could hear the worry in her voice. “Well, the current’s taking us round the bend – we can’t do much about it.”

  “We’re moving really fast.”

  “I know, love,” I said, raising my voice above the noise of the water. “Just keep us steady for now, and as soon as we’re round the bend we can get out of this current.”

  As we got to the point of the bend the water was churning, and we paddled desperately to keep ourselves upright. I looked over my shoulder at Sue, just as a large floating tree trunk crashed into our kayak and capsized us.

  My lifejacket winded me as I hit the water and went under, then when I resurfaced I took a gulp of air, wiped the water from my eyes and looked around for Sue.

  She was caught up in the branches of the floating trunk, her arms flailing as she tried to free herself.

  “Unclip the jacket!” I called to her, as the tree trunk dragged her rapidly downstream. “Unclip the life-jacket!”

  Her body was found two miles downstream in the early hours of the morning, wearing the life-jacket that was still tangled in the tree’s branches.

  I spent the next six weeks drinking and losing my mind, hearing Sue’s voice in other rooms. The funeral was a blur. Other than going out to buy booze or cigarettes, I didn’t leave the house much.

  Our bed felt empty to me, so I started sleeping on the sofa. The nightmares were hellish, and no matter how much I drank they returned nightly.

  Keith came to visit me several times; we’d sit in the kitchen and he’d try to make me eat something. He suggested that I should think about going back to work.

  “It might give your days a bit more structure,” he said.

  So I went back to the casino in Middlesbrough, where I’d worked for fifteen years. The shifts could be frantic, especially on the weekends, but I soon settled back into the routine.

  I was a Pit Boss, so I worked closely with Keith, who was a Senior Inspector. He had his own way of describing the very busy and annoying Friday nightshift.

  “Don’t you just love Wankers’ night,” he’d say to me, as we watched crowds of twenty-somethings acting like idiots at the Roulette tables, crying like they’d been shot when they lost their small bets.

  Having responsibility for making a profit on the gaming floor during my shift, my position could be very stressful – but I was glad to have something to do, glad to be out of the house, relieved to be distracted from my black thoughts.

  I took extra shifts whenever they were available, figuring that it would give me less opportunity to go home and brood.

  If I was working a double, I would go to the pub opposite the casino during my break, drink a couple of pints and have a snack before going back for my nightshift.

  But it was stressful, especially if the tables were losing money on my shift; I would have a lot of questions from the management to answer.

  And the croupiers were a pain in the backside. Some of them had only been there a few months, but they always had something to whine about.

  “I’ve been on this table nearly three hours.”

  “Is it my break soon?”

  “Oh, my back’s killing me.”

  One of the croupiers went to the management, complaining that I was always rude to him. They asked me about it, but I told them it was nothing to worry about.

  But over the months there were more complaints from other staff members, and I received a couple of written warnings, then it was all over.

  “We’re going to have to let you go,” the General Manager told me.

  They gave me a good severance package, so I didn’t fight it.

  I went to see my GP, to see if he could help me with my nightmares and restless sleep. He asked me a few questions, and concluded that I would benefit from grief counselling.

  “There’s no problem that can’t be fixed by talking about it,” the counsellor told me when we first met. She was short and plump, and annoyingly cheerful.

  At our third session she told me, “I need you to separate your thoughts into different coloured envelopes in your mind.”

  I never went back to see her again.

  So, I’ve had nobody to talk to for a couple of months now. I meet up with Keith occasionally, but we keep on having the same conversation.

  “It takes time to get over something like this,” he tells me.

  But it’s exactly one year since I lost Sue, and time hasn’t done a damn thing for me. It’s not like I haven’t tried.

  I’m here at the spot, drinking a lager and smoking a cigarette in the afternoon sun. My car is parked up the hill, with my kayak on the roof rack.

  When I’ve had enough to drink I’ll fetch the kayak and get out on the river, see where the water takes me. Maybe I’ll find her, hear her voice. I’ll tell her I’m sorry, a
sk her to forgive me.

  Maybe she’ll take me with her. Maybe the nightmares will end.

  Junior Partner

  “What about him?” I asked Hendo.

  I could feel him staring at me in the darkness. “Don’t you think he’s a little bit big, Mattyboy?”

  I hated it when he called me that. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “I’ll let you know. We’ve gotta be careful.”

  It was around 10.30 p.m. and we’d been stood in an alley at the side of a house for twenty minutes, watching the pub over the road. We’d seen a number of people come and go; mostly small groups or individuals that Hendo had said were unsuitable.

  “How much longer are we gonna be? I have to be home by eleven.”

  “Not much longer, hopefully,” he said. “Just wait.”

  We didn’t have much longer to wait.

  “There we are. He’ll do,” he said, pointing to an old man leaving the pub. “Let’s go.”

  “But he’s just an old -”

  “Come on. Get up!” he said, grabbing the shoulder of my jacket. “And don’t mess this up like last time.”

  We followed the old guy, who headed into the Holme Park housing estate. We trailed him through the badly-lit streets for five minutes, waiting for the right spot.

  “He’s got a limp,” Hendo whispered over his shoulder to me. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He held up his hand and said, “Stop.”

  He put his left arm around my shoulder, and with his right hand pointed towards the old guy. “We’ll take him in that alley.”

  “How do you know he’s not gonna turn right?” I asked.

  He turned to look at me. “Because, Mattyboy, if he turns right that’d take him back towards the pub. He’ll be taking that left.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”