Sample Stories

Browse through some recent work and get a taste of what’s on offer. You’ll find stories and poems that will surprise, delight and entertain you.

Rear View Mirror by Brendan Docherty

In the dark I notice the soft orange glow from the dash. It's telling me I'll soon be out of fuel. Faint now, but already getting brighter. Slamming my fist against the steering wheel, I shout curses above the roar of the engine and the whistle of the wind from the broken window. I keep my foot hard on the floor even though the pain is killing me. Keep the speedo as near 130 as I can force it. One eye on the mirror; on that set of headlights behind. See they don't get any closer. Nothing but the night and the white lines in front. Line after line after line. "2-4-6-8 Motorway". A stupid song stuck in my head. Think of something more important. The lights. Are they creeping up?

I'm tired. Two hours of speed through London, Essex, now Suffolk. Twice the speed limit and nothing. What's the matter with the law? Never fucking find one when you want one. I'm driving too fast in a stolen car. Stop me. Arrest me. Take me into custody you bastards.

How long have I got left? Ten miles? Twenty at most. That should do it. I’m not that far now. All I need is enough fuel to get me where I’m going. But if this fucking car dies on me, if he gets to me first. What will he do? I bet he learnt plenty in jail. Rape, jagged things shoved up your arse – then there’s the machete. Jesus Christ. I'm a rat in a tin box and he's nearly got me cornered. Get that foot down. Fuck the pain.

Lyn, sweetheart. I should have taken my own advice and stayed clear. But he wasn't around and you were. You were always around. Dropping by, telling me how lonely you were. How you cried yourself to sleep. Taking uppers; downers. You were a mess. Besides, he was in the slammer. The thick macho joke who thought he was Jack the Lad. The rest of us used to take the piss behind his back. A total wanker and didn’t even know it. He's different now. When he killed the guy over a card game everyone said they must have the wrong man. Didn't have it in him. No bottle. He must've found it the night he was kicking that guy to death.

You shouldn't have divorced him. That's what really pissed him off. He couldn't do anything about it. He still had two years to do. Two years to wind himself up. I had two years to stop fucking you. I meant to. You were fun, but nothing serious. Don't let women get too close. No long term lovey-dovey stuff for me. But you gave me the big eyes - started telling me what he was like, and about all the other wankers before him. The fights and the two-timings; the beatings and the torture. The suicide attempts. Some birds just seem to look for it. I felt sorry for you. I was the best thing that ever happened to you. I could see that. And you got to me – made yourself special, I admit. Turned my head. Almost got me straight. A good fuck, too, babe. I couldn't stop. I should have got out. Gone to Greece or Spain. Took you with me. We had time - I thought. Remission. He got bleeding remission. Now I'm just a dead body waiting to get cold.

The pain's getting worse and making my leg twitch. I’ve got to make it to my tools. Two guns, knives, CS gas. I’ve got a fucking arsenal buried out there. But I have to get to it before he gets to me. I'm a long way from home. I want to go back. I want to lie down and sleep. Wake up! You've still got a pulse. Keep going. Something’s going to happen. Something's already happened.

Your text said come over, you needed to talk.. The door of the flat was wide open when I got there. Loud voices coming from inside. I stepped in; shouted your name. No reply, so I walked up the little passage to the living room and pushed open the door. The balcony door was wide open as well; the curtain blowing. Like it was a hot night – except it was freezing. Him sitting there in front of the telly in that tatty swivel chair he was so fond of, watching some late talk show - the sound turned well up. He heard me come in, though. The living room door squeaking something shocking; like he'd made it that way to warn him. He swivelled round in his chair. He had a big grin on his face and a machete on his lap. He was giving me a kind of glassy stare. He said:
"Hello, me old mate. Long time no see. How's it going?" He kept grinning. I couldn’t move. It was as if I was stuck to the floor. I didn't know where he was coming from.
"So so." I said.
"Oh, how’s that then? Not got a decent bird to shag?" I tried to work out from his face how much he knew.
"Not lately."
"No?" Behind me the door was squeaking away again. Blowing closed in the breeze.
"Unlucky in love, that's me. When did you get out?"
"This morning." Squeak.
"Seen Lyn yet?"
"I've seen her." Squeak. The thing was straight out of a bad horror film.
"I suppose a lot’s changed since you went in." I said.
"We had some catching up to do."
"You got things straight between the two of you, then?" I tried to sound uninterested.
"All sorted." Squeak.
"Yeh?"
"Yeh. We ain't going to be seeing each other no more." I would have relaxed a little if it hadn't been for the machete.
"And she ain't going to be seeing you neither." The grin was getting wider. His stare getting glassier. Like he was willing me to do something - go for him maybe, so he could swing the machete. I just stared back. Behind me the door squeaked again. I noticed he wasn't looking at me any more, but past me, over my shoulder. I looked up into the mirror over the mantelpiece in front of me. He let out a laugh that went through me like a bullet. Then I was running. Straight to the balcony and over. Twenty feet down to the pavement and busted my ankle. The pain nearly crippled me. But fear forced me on. I only had seconds. He was right above, looking down on me, then he was gone. Heading for the stairs. I hadn't nicked a car since I was at school, but I remembered. Terror made me remember. The bit of concrete from the broken wall a godsend. Put the window in. Just wiring it up when he was on me. He grabbed my face through the broken window, jerked my head back, trying to get me where he could get a blow in. His arm was up ready to bring the machete down. His grip was tight. The muscles in my neck tearing as I strained to twist him off and keep my eyes on the wires. Then the engine fired and I was away, leaving bits of my face under his nails.

I thought I'd got out. Had a narrow escape. But as I pulled into traffic I heard the squeals from behind. In the mirror I could see a car forcing others to swerve. I put my foot down. He closed in; rammed me when I slowed. I kept going. I had no choice. I still have no choice.

Because I’m here. This is my junction. A mile to the woods where my tools are. I’m going to make it after all. A little ray of hope. If I can make enough time – haul out the box, open it, grab a shooter and get it loaded. I can bury him out there. He’ll never be missed. I’ll be in the clear.

Down the sliproad and – fucking Jesus! Way too fast into the -. I'm airborne. Whole bloody car flying and spinning; spinning in slow motion towards the ground.

Total silence. I'm still alive. The world is upside down. I'm upside down. Hanging by my seatbelt and listening. How long have I been out? Have I gone deaf? No, there is a sound. The sound of someone walking. Walking slowly towards me. Now I can see his feet; their careful, steady tread. I catch a glint off the machete. I close my eyes and I see you, Lyn. Just like you were in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Hanging on the back of that squeaking door, blood all down the front of you; your head twisted to one side. Your dead eyes looking straight into mine.

He's stopped walking. I can hear him breathing.