Genie and Other Weird Tales (3 page)

But Henry had only seen the Copyware app work once, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Alex had fudged the results because the copy produced was just the sort of schmaltz that Alex thrived upon. All other times the results were garbage.

Once a soft drink firm had agreed to participate in an experiment. They'd shared many years worth of secret market research data and analysis and eagerly awaited the killer strap line that this exciting new tech would create for their brand. After two days of data crunching the result was:

Lubriciousness is the anemone. Feed the challenge.

“That's brilliant!” Alex had said. Henry had remained unruffled, and made something else up in time for the meeting. A disappointed Alex had accused Henry of being old-school.

Sometimes Henry suspected that the other people in his life perceived his calm outward demeanour as something else entirely. When they bought a doormat for the flat Elaine had suggested they call it Henry. He'd put the slightly harsh note in her laughter to stress at the move and worry about how Ruby was going to adjust to lower Tooting after the rippling fields of the Surrey commuter belt. Alex had once introduced him to a potential investor as “My partner Henry – you know, like the hoover. Only less suction.” Henry didn't really know what he meant, but suspected it was a reference to his calm demeanour. Typical of Alex to mistake it for weakness, he'd thought. On the whole he was very proud his calmness. He believed that his hard won equanimity helped improve the world around him, and he hoped this improvement rippled out to the world at large.

But his calm outward demeanour had been achieved at a terrible price. After years of being denied expression, the part of Henry that felt frustration and rage split off from his main personality and took the form of a fierce, dissolute beast who walked upright like a man but had the skin and eyes of a reptile, and whom he decided to call Lachlan.

It took a long time for Lachlan to manifest himself fully. At first he was a physical feeling that Henry experienced from time to time. Sometimes, at night, when he lay awake next to Elaine, thinking about the need to move into a bigger flat to accommodate Ruby and their unborn child, random groups of muscles would clench and become hard as concrete. On the way to work, as he sat on the bus wondering if Copyware was ever going to bear fruit, he would sometimes feel dreadfully claustrophobic. His friend Roger, who was a GP, advised him that he was feeling the symptoms of long term stress, and should seriously think about a holiday. Elaine said much the same thing. No one was able to tell him the truth, that these were the first stirrings of a ravening demon.

Henry first glimpsed Lachlan in the garden shed as he worked on his matchstick galleon and smoked a moderately packed reefer. A small desk lamp lit up his work surface and thew broken curved shadows on the walls. He was absorbed in the intricacies of the poop deck when from behind him there was a rustle and a belch, a hiss and a scraping. He turned to see what was up and saw red flashes in the clutter pile at the back of the shed, and a shifting in the complex shadows, a glimpse of incisors and a gaping maw. He stood abruptly and ran to Elaine who greeted him with the sardonic scepticism she reserved for when she knew he'd been on the puff. She said she hoped one day he'd stick around after dinner for a proper chat instead of disappearing to the shed to get stoned.

“I saw something, though Elaine. Something horrible.”

“Why don't you go to B&Q and get some rodenticide? And clean up the clutter. The shed's a mess.”

The next sighting was about ten days later. Henry was in the pub unburdening himself to Roger about his business and financial worries. He didn’t know when his venture with Alex would start to pay dividends, and in the meantime it had whittled down the nest egg, the sizeable lump bequeathed by his grandparents, that Elaine and he had planned to use to move to a more spacious home. When Roger suggested that Henry confront Alex about his concerns he got up to take a pee. As he was emerging from the gents someone pushed against him from the side, and he breathed a waft of foul, festering air. A fist grasped his collar and a guttural voice rasped in his ear.

“I’m not just a rodent you know.”

He was being menaced by a scruffy middle aged man, his face hidden in a hooded top, whom he'd pushed past on his way to the toilet, but hardly noticed. Two of the bar staff came to his aid, pulling the man away and shouting: they were sick of telling him not to come into the pub. Upset and shaking, he returned to Roger, who looked surprised and faintly amused. It transpired that his assailant was a notorious local vagrant, a middle aged man with a chaotic life called Lachlan. The rodent remark had hit a nerve with Henry though, so he told Roger about the shed, and the noises, the red lights, the shifting shadow and the glimpsed teeth.

“Have you thought about getting a second opinion?”

“What, you mean see a shrink?”

Roger rolled his eyes. “No! You're obviously on edge and making more of things than you should. I think you should try to address the underlying issues. Why don't you get someone to check out Copyware. Assess what's being done. Write a report. Someone not involved with Alex.”

Henry sighed. It was a good idea, but he felt reluctant to take it up because he dreaded the result of such an investigation. “That'd cost a bomb. I don't know who I'd approach.”

“Do you remember Julian from sixth form?”

Henry did. A pale ginger man with multiple piercings and a laugh like a kookaburra. They'd been friends, briefly, when they'd both been into folk music. “Are you still in touch? What happened to him?”

Roger grinned. “Not in touch exactly. I came across his blog the other day. He runs a consulting business, writes a blog about tech. Utterly incomprehensible. What about seeing if he'll give it the once over for you? Worth a try, don't you think?”

“But what about the thing in the shed?”

“Oh that.” Roger swirled his ale around his glass. “Why don't you try to get out more and stop smoking so much dope?”

Later that night, Henry found himself back in the shed, deeply involved in his second attempt to assemble the poop deck. He noticed the darkness outside, and realised he'd no memory of getting home from the pub. He found it hard to focus, and his hands were a mess of glue and matchsticks. Suddenly the light failed and he was enveloped by the smell of rotting meat. Something sharp and scaly probed the back of his neck. He spun round on his stool, flailing. Between him and the door stood a silhouetted shape, a stooped figure with a hooded top. A rasping voice spat the words:

“You can’t get out.”

Henry sat bolt upright in bed and opened his eyes, pulse racing, mouth dry and head throbbing, the symptoms of a hangover well under way. Pale dawn light filled the room and Elaine slept beside him, breathing peacefully.

He decided to follow Roger's advice, and ceased his hash smoking immediately. It was surprisingly easy. He had a bit of trouble getting to sleep, but in the mornings when he woke his head was clear. He took up jogging with Ruby as a stress relief tactic, and for a few days he felt more energetic and positive. He contacted Julian, and wrote what he hoped was a not too ingratiating email explaining the situation with Copyware. He also resolved to get out more. When Roger organised a paint balling day, he signed up for it.

Still, he continued to experience odd disturbances. When he was shaving one morning he thought he caught a glimpse of a dark hooded figure in the the mirror. It was actually the reflection of a towel hanging from a hook on the back of the door, but a few days later he was travelling to a meeting in Dorset on a train that went momentarily dark as it went into a tunnel and amid the roar and clatter he heard the deep guttural voice that had assailed him in the pub: “Feeble fool, wasting borrowed time.” And in the morning on the Northern line he twice caught a whiff of the the man's odour. Increasingly, he felt burnt out and on edge. He had the feeling of being stalked. It helped to give the malevolent oppressor a name, and ‘Lachlan’ was a natural choice, the manifestations having started around the time of his encounter in the pub with the vagrant. He looked forward to the paint balling afternoon as something that would help him let off steam and relieve the pressures of work with some normal, harmless fun. He even mentioned it to Alex in the office in an attempt to start a light conversation about something other than work.

“Paintballing?” Alex said with an emphasis on the first syllable that made clear what he thought of the sport and people who did it.

“Yeah, an old friend's organised it. I think it will be —”

Alex cast him a pitying look and Henry’s voice weakened.

“— fun…”

Later that evening he told Elaine about the planned day out as they tucked in to a hearty bowl of roasted squash and raw carrot soup. She did not share his enthusiasm.

“Pretending to be a commando? At your age?”

“Well, it's catching up with a group of old friends really,” he said hastily.

The paintballing day arrived, and he got a lift with Roger up to the venue, a sprawling wood in Hertfordshire. Pretending to be a commando with a group of old friends was great. Henry’s fitness was a little below parr, so he found he could be most effective simply lying in a hiding place, sniping at enemy soldiers who strayed too near. He tried not to shoot them in the back, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. He was quite pleased with this strategy and had clocked up a few kills this way when suddenly Lachlan burst out of the woods, dressed in his usual hooded top with combat trousers and holding a very real looking rifle. He lurched to a stop in front of Henry's hiding place and threw back his hood. His head was grotesque, with scaly skin, yellow eyes, and a pair of black holes instead of a nose.

“Fucking great idea this Henry,” he rasped, slipping a magazine into his automatic rifle with a dextrous scaly claw. “I’m gonna make you famous!” He grinned a lipless grin and licked a passing butterfly into his mouth with his whiplash tongue.

Henry stayed glued to the ground. “What do you... what do you mean, famous?”

“Like Brevik, like Ryan, like the Colombine boys. They all had a ‘Lachlan’ you know.” His lizard’s eyes twinkled and twitched. “Tally ho, onwards and downwards!” He fired three live rounds into the air and listened as the detonations echoed through the woods. “See you on the other side Henry. We’re gonna be spending a
lot
of time together, you and me.”

Henry buried his face in the ground, his limbs, his lungs, his heart and stomach all clenched and knotted. He ground his teeth and waited for the sound of mayhem and carnage. But it never came. Planes scudded across the sky, birdsong echoed, and breezes caressed the leaves and branches. After about an hour, he rose stiffly, dusted himself down and sought the compound at the entrance to the wood. Crowds of paintballers and organisers milled around, laughing and swearing. A hand clasped his shoulder. He jerked round, to see Roger grinning at him.

“Ah, the sneaky sniper! – Hey you ok?”

“Oh, I’m fine… I think… I’m just tired. Great day though!” His voice was brittle.

In the weeks that followed, Henry became skilled at anticipating Lachlan’s appearances, and was able to make sure he was alone when they occurred. Sudden muscular tension and acute sensitivity to light and sound were the most common precursors, and they occurred most often in the evening, after dinner, as he and Elaine sat catching up with each other about their days, as Elaine started to steer the conversation towards the subject of looking for a larger home. If the symptoms started, he would remain calm and make an excuse about needing a spot of ‘me time’ to unwind after the stresses of the day, and slip out to the shed, where sure enough Lachlan would be waiting for him, hands on hips, spitting obscenities and insults. He dreaded the shed but he dreaded the appearance of Lachlan in the house even more.

At first it was a struggle to control his fear, and keep it from turning him to jelly, but as time went on it became easier. It alternated with irritation and disgust, and he began to regard the demon in much the same way as he regarded his business partner: an unpleasant but unavoidable part of life. Instead of just silently absorbing the stream of insults, Henry began to interject.

“Why do you hate me?”

“I hate everybody, especially the weak.” Lachlan’s eyes twitched as he spoke.

“Where do you come from?”

“The darkest ring of Hell.”

“When will you stop tormenting me?”

“When you stop wanting me to leave.”

“What if I say I want you to stay?”

“I know you want me to leave.”

One evening he found Lachlan sitting slumped in the chair, his head in the ruins of the matchstick galleon. Four months of meticulous construction had been reduced to a scattered mess.

“What happened?” he said, a lump in his throat.

“Lachlan is tired.”

“Why?”

“Because I have had a long day. Parkour in the city, performing petty molestations like Spring Heeled Jack.”

“You… you’ve destroyed my ship...”

“I destroy everything.”

His relations with Elaine became frosty, and he knew that his life was taking a turn for the worse, but he didn’t know what to do. His conversations with Roger were some small comfort, but even they began to irritate him as time went on.

“So, technically…” said Roger, holding his pint in his right hand and opening the palm of the other, “...you’re mad.”

“Am I?”

“Lachlan is a middle aged vagrant who jostled you one night in the pub, not a denizen of Hell.”

“But I can see him, hear him, smell him.”

“We all can, unfortunately. He drinks super strength cider and dines at Chicken Cottage.”

“So you think I should be locked up?”

Roger thought for a while, sipping his pint and tapping his chin with his index finger. “Are you a danger to yourself or others?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Does ‘Lachlan’ tell you to harm yourself?”

“Er... no.”

“I see. And does he tell you to harm others?”

“He sort of implied that he was going to make me complicit in a massacre.”