Aphelion (6 page)

“Shhh!” he hissed at the table as it wobbled next to him. “Stupid table! What you doing in the way?” he asked, in a stage whisper.

He looked up at the dark hallway. Why he was whispering he had no idea. Not like anyone else lived in his house, was it? He laughed, bitterly. One day he’d get Iracema living with him, he just knew it, ain’t that right, boy? He really did need to stop thinking to himself like he was two people. As he opened the door to the living room he wondered if thinking to yourself was the first sign of madness. It’s what they said….

He shook his head. Nope,
talking
to yourself was, he belatedly remembered. “So where does that leave talking to tables?” he asked the door, and entered the room.

He stopped. There was someone standing in the middle of the room, silhouetted against the lights coming from the street outside. Corey took a deep breath, his mind clouded and confused. He knew he ought to do something, say something, but all he could do was watch as the person slowly turned their head. A light swept past the large windows looking out onto the street, and for a split second Corey got a glimpse of the person’s eyes.

White! Pure white. No pupil, no iris, just pure white eyes!

Without even realising he was doing it, Corey’s hand reached for the light switch and flicked it. The light flooded the room, and for a second Corey was blinded. He blinked, forcing his eyes to adjust to the illumination.

“What the fuck?” he said, breathing heavily.

Other than himself there was no one in the room. He looked around, wondering if the person had dashed into the kitchen via the small arch while he was blinking, but no. The kitchen was empty, too. Corey shook his head.

Okay, so maybe he was a
little
bit drunk after all.

*

Corey pushed himself back from the monitor, and rubbed his temples. Damn hangover. He looked around quickly, making sure no one noticed his rubbing. He didn’t get drunk; at least that’s what he liked to tell his colleagues, so the idea of appearing to be hung over was not exactly conducive to his manufactured image.

He reached into the drawer of his desk, and surreptitiously removed the small silver box. Wrapping his hand around it, ensuring that no one else could see what he was holding, Corey got to his feet and made his way across the open-plan office.

Open plan. The scourge of privacy at work. He hated it. Hell, he hated working in a call centre period, but he was kind of stuck with it. The unwanted image of the written warning came to his mind, and he smiled slyly to himself. Well, he was just about stuck with it. Maybe after the New Year he’d start looking for something else, but right now he had to hold on to his job. Which meant trying to steer clear of Duncan Leman.

The bastard!

Once he was in the staff toilets, Corey checked to make sure he was alone, then turned to the sink. He turned on the tap and opened his hand, revealing the packet of paracetamol. He popped a couple out of their foil, and placed them on his tongue, bending over the sink to drink directly from the tap. Not as elegant as a cup, but then the water in the bathroom was not normally used for washing down hangover pills. Standing up straight again, he tilted his back. He swallowed, and let out a breath of air.

It’d take a little while, but his headache would soon subside to a manageable level. In the meantime he just had to make sure he didn’t lean in too close to the…

“Drowning your sorrows last night, then, eh, Cor?”

He closed his eyes. He bloody hated it when that tit used the diminutive; it implied a familiarity that wasn’t warranted. Slowly, Corey opened his eyes again and turned to face the intruder. “What do you want,
Dunc?
” he asked, placing particular emphasis on the last word. He knew Duncan was no fan of being called that—besides, it made the owner of the name sound incredibly thick. And Corey liked that.

Duncan Leman was a short man, somewhat overweight and not very tidy. One of the sort who figured that since they spent their working hours hidden behind a PC and phone there was no need to worry about their appearance. It was the middle of winter and the fool was dressed in khaki shorts and a sickeningly bright t-shirt. Corey wanted to hit him just for dressing like that.

Duncan shrugged. “Don’t want anything, mate. Just making an observation is all.”

“Yeah, well don’t. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

Again Duncan shrugged. “Mate, we’re all entitled to our opinions.”

Corey chewed his bottom lip and shook his head. “No, really. It’s just the fact that you think I’m entitled to your opinion that grates on me.” He nodded at the door behind Duncan. “Sod off.”

As expected, Duncan didn’t take the advice, which suited Corey well. The headache had yet to leave, and Duncan’s continued presence was only serving to irritate it. He turned away from Duncan and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Corey pocketed the tablets and turned the tap back on.

“Why are you always so aggressive, Cor?”

Corey couldn’t believe the stupidity of the man. “Shit, dude! Do you actually have a brain in that head of yours?” he asked, as he splashed water over his face. “I’m pretty sure I spelled it all out yesterday. I don’t like you, Duncan.” He pulled a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser and proceeded to dry his face. “You’re pond scum. Now, fuck off, before I ask less politely.”

Duncan smiled and narrowed the gap between them. “One step closer to the edge, Cor.”

Corey raised an eyebrow, continuing to watch Duncan in the mirror. He was clearly provoking Corey; intentionally, too. Duncan wanted Corey out of the job. Corey wondered why. He also decided not to rise to the bait.

“Yeah, whatever, dude. I’ve got work to do.” He went to move around Duncan, but the shorter man merely stepped in the way. Corey sighed. “Mate, sorry, but I ain’t getting no second warning for you.”

Duncan, at least, had the good sense to look disappointed. “Now that is a shame, ’cause I know that unc…Mr Roberts wants your ass.”

Corey stepped back, and regarded Duncan in a new light. The slip was clear, and Duncan hadn’t been quick enough in covering it. The boss was his uncle, eh? So, it was a tag-team event. He decided to laugh it off. For now. “Yeah, well, if he wants a piece of ass he should try Heaven. I’m spoken for!” With that he barged his way out past Duncan.

*

Corey flicked the lamp off, and for a few moments stood by the archway that connected the living room to the kitchen. The soft orange glow of the fire created a calming atmosphere in the room, making Corey not want to move. He knew he had to, of course, since it was the early hours of the morning and he needed some sleep before work. But he felt chilled, and not the least bit tired. Iracema was good at making him feel relaxed. The soft flickering shadows on the walls, coupled with the slight inebriation, made him more relaxed than sleepy.

He walked across the room, and stopped before the mirror hanging above the mantle. He stepped closer, and remained there, watching his reflection and the way the fire below cast shadows across his face, giving him a much more definite bone structure than he usually had. He rubbed a hand across his jaw line, ending on his chin. Once again he wondered if he ought to go for a beard. Not a goatee; that was too expected these days. No, he wanted a full beard, but nicely trimmed…Frakes style.

He turned his head slightly to the left, to check the shadow line across his jaw. He stopped, his eyes never reaching his jaw. Instead they rested on the figure. Once again it was there, silhouetted against the window. Corey swallowed hard. This time he was
not
drunk. He’d barely had two bottles of Budweiser.

Not daring to remove his eyes from the silhouette, Corey started to move to his right, to where the lamp stood.

“Don’t turn the light on.”

Corey froze. For a moment he forgot to breathe. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Not that he knew what he was going to say. Forming thoughts was hard enough.

“Turn the light on, and I’ll be gone.”

Nonetheless Corey felt his fingers reaching out towards the lamp. He knew he wasn’t close enough to reach the lamp, but his fingers seemed to think otherwise. It was as if some primal instinct was forcing his hand to move, to take away the darkness.

“Listen to me, Corey Jordan. It’s time to put an end to the pressure.”

Somehow he managed to find his voice. “Pressure?”

“Yes. Duncan Leman.”

Once again Corey swallowed hard. His throat was incredibly dry. Which made little sense, since he’d only recently polished off a bottle of liquid. The way the Silhouette said that name. It sounded very familiar. Somehow, although Corey couldn’t quite get his mind around how, he knew he should recognise the voice. “Who…who are you?” he asked lamely.

“That, I cannot answer.”

For the first time Corey noticed that the Silhouette had its head turned away from him. Which was nice, Corey considered, since those opaque eyes scared the crap out of him. “Why not?”

“It is unimportant.”

The answer was simple enough, but Corey wanted to object to the finality of it. Somehow, this person was in his house. Once more standing in the middle of the room, lit by the lights outside the window. And there was no way he could have got inside. Corey made a point of locking the front door behind him when he returned home, and considering the weather lately, Corey had not opened any window or the back door in days. And then there was the previous night….

Drunk he might have been, but Corey was certain he had seen the Silhouette. Certain that the person had vanished once the light came on. Of course, he’d convinced himself it was his drunken imagination…but now, here in his living room, he realised that deep down he had been
certain
all the time. “Turn the light on and I will be gone,” the thing had said. And it was a thing, of that Corey was in no doubt. Whatever was standing in his living room, it wasn’t human. It simply clothed itself in the silhouette of one.

“Go to St. Andrew’s Square.”

The voice brought Corey back. St. Andrew’s Square? He knew it. It wasn’t too far from where he worked. He opened his mouth to ask why.

“Don’t ask, Corey Jordan. Go there. 22a. St. Andrew’s Square. The door will be open, enter the house, and on the top floor you will find Duncan Leman.”

“It’s his house?” Even before the Silhouette nodded its head, Corey knew the answer. He felt an odd sense of excitement suddenly, as if he’d taken a direct hit of adrenalin. “What do you want me to do there?”

“Just go there, Corey Jordan. You will know.”

Corey nodded his head slowly, and with his next words he knew he’d made a promise that could not be broken. No matter the consequences. “Okay.”

*

St. Andrew’s Square was one of those old quadrants that Corey usually loved to visit. Located in South Kensington it was rather typical of what he’d come to expect in London. A small garden in the centre, cordoned off with black railings, and surrounded by Victorian houses with three storeys. What he loved so much was the fact that around the corner was a built-up area, very cosmopolitan. A complete contrast to the quadrant he was standing in. Only London seemed to carry off the mix of old and new with such grace.

This time, though, there was nothing about love behind his reason for being there. This time is was simple need. He had to find out what the Silhouette was talking about, and more…he
needed
to do this. He didn’t know why, but something was compelling him.

He walked around the quadrant until he came to 22. The building was three storeys up, and down below…“22a” was engraved on the wall beside the door at the bottom of the stone steps. He noticed that the door, as the Silhouette had promised, was indeed open. Only a fraction, but enough for someone looking closely to notice.

Corey looked up and down the street, just to make sure he wasn’t being observed. It was almost five in the morning, and all those with common sense were tucked away in bed, happily enjoying their trips to Nod. Gripping the collar of his coat tightly about his neck, Corey descended the steps carefully.

Once he reached the bottom he stopped. He glanced up the way he had come, worry plaguing his mind. He was almost certain he was being watched, yet he could see no sign of anyone. Trying to ignore the cold feeling running down his back, he gently pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold into the basement flat that belonged to Duncan Leman.

He found himself in a long corridor, which reminded him of his Gran’s old place from when he was a kid. The grossest wallpaper he’d ever seen lined the walls, made up of distorted squares in the most lurid shades of green and yellow. The carpet itself clashed hideously with the walls, being a dark burgundy colour. Corey found himself shuddering, and this time not because of his unease, but rather through repulsion at the décor.

The door at the far end of the hallway was open, and he could see the kitchen beyond. Much like the hallway, it seemed to be from another age. He knew he was in a Victorian house, but he’d expected a bit of modern stuff inside. Mind you, he reflected, considering who lived here….

There were a further two doors along the left side of the hallway, both of which were slightly ajar. Cautiously, Corey crept along the passageway and approached the nearest door. As luck would have it, looking through the crack in the door, Corey saw that it was Duncan’s bedroom. And the bed was occupied.

Corey pushed at the door, hoping that it would not creak. It didn’t. He stepped into the bedroom and drew closer to the bed. The duvet covered a rather lumpy form, which he guessed was Duncan. But then his eyes alighted on the smaller shape on the other side of the bed.

Corey frowned and continued to creep around the bed. When he was close enough to get a good view of the upper half of the second shape, Corey saw a woman’s head poking out of the duvet.