The Eye

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The traffic was moving slower than the storm. Escape was impossible. Warnings had been ignored until the last minute and now the mass exodus had become a mass gridlock. Already the rain was crashing into the cars and cascading down the roads like a waterfall and the sky was dark, darker, darkest, burying us alive. The trees on the sides of the road shook with the ferocity of nature unleashed; bending to touch their toes, then springing back catapult leaves and branches across the carriageways. A caravan in front swung like a fish’s tail, back and forth crashing into the cars on either side, while a lorry tottered and teetered like a drunk on his way home from the pub.

“Into the back,” Mary said. I looked at her. “Do it!” she barked.
I clambered onto the back seat and she followed, we squeezed in next to Ben and Leah who gone through the crying phase and were now suffering from pre-traumatic stress disorder. The car was rocking now, the wind howling outside, rain coming like a wall. Debris smacked into the car. What I remember most was the noise. The roar of the rain, the constant grumble of the thunder, the thuds of rubble bouncing off the car and the whispering, snarling, howling wind, then, there was the strange whimpering that seemed to be coming from me. We cwtched together, the four of us in the back of that car. A duvet pulled over our heads like we were making a den in the living room.

Mary promised everything would be okay, I wasn’t sure if she was assuring the kids or me or herself.

A massive thud made us jump. I guessed it was the lorry finally giving way. The rat-a-tat of machine gun fire as its content hit our car.

Something akin to a witch’s shriek made us cuddle up tighter.

“Trees,” Mary said. Who knew trees screamed when they were violently torn apart? The car was rocking like two hippos on a seesaw; like we were rushing down a runway ready to take off. I now understood the back seat; less clutter to hit as our bodies swung around. The duvet cushioning the blows.

Then sudden silence. Stillness. Safety?

“The eye,” Mary said.

I knew that was halfway and felt hope in my heart. If we’d survived the first half, we could get through this in one piece.

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The Fortune Tellers

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The latest short story from the award winning writer Gareth Davies

My mother’s headscarf drowned my sister’s head. Its gay colours were at odds with the grey, damp-leafed afternoon. The electric bars burned bright orange and the smell of lunch time’s burnt cheese on toast lingered in the stuffy air. My mother was sleeping, lightly snoring in her chair as she did most afternoons while me and my sister played quietly at her feet.

Fortune tellers was one of my sister’s favourite games. It wasn’t particularly one of mine. I didn’t mind being the customer, it was when I had to don the headscarf and tell my sister’s fortune that I felt a bit uncomfortable.  But my sister was older and unmistakably the boss, so if she said we were playing fortune-tellers, we were damn well playing it.
She climbed on the stool and carefully took down the green glass ball, with its water smoothed surface. Later we’d find out it was a fisherman’s weight, but to our childish minds, it was the perfect crystal ball.  We’d be in for a row if my mother woke up. The ball was out of bounds along with the glass elephant that didn’t look like an elephant. Woe betide us if we broke it, my mum had constantly threatened. But, when my sister wanted to play fortune tellers, she had to have her crystal ball and the threat of woe be tiding us wasn’t going to stand in her way. 

She smiled her crooked smile and told me I should cross her palm with silver. I did as I was told, passing over a smoothed out milk bottle top. She took the ‘money’ and invited me to sit down and then gazed into the ball.
“I see shapes in the fog,” she said dramatically. “Ah your future is clear,” she told me. “You'll meet a tall, dark, beautiful woman.”
“Urgh,” I cried, well I was only five.

 “And have six children.” She continued.
“No!” I said
“And what will your job be?” she asked herself.
A forklift truck driver. Please let it be a forklift truck driver, I thought. That’s all I wanted to do when I grew up.
“The ball says you'll be a writer, a successful writer.”
“Noooo!” I screamed. I stood up and stamped my foot. “I don't want to be a writer, writers are stupid.” I kicked the stool that was acting as her fortune teller’s table. The milk bottle tops flew to all corners of the room and the ball went up in the air.
I looked at my sister, she looked at me. We watched the crystal ball arc across the room. It was going to crash, smash, bash into the mantelpiece.  There was nothing we could do. We were for the high jump. I was already planning how we could run away and never come home or trying to think if we could glue it together before my mother woke up.

Still seemingly asleep, my mum stuck out a hand and snatched the ball from the jaws of oblivion.
“What did I tell you about playing with this?” she said, cwtching the ball to her chest and resuming her snoring.  

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The Teapot parts 4 and 5

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For part 1 click here part 2 here and 3 here

Previously on ‘The Teapot’

Café worker Andy has been plotting a one man hate campaign against local Radio and TV personality Jamie Moses. Andy believes Jamie is living the life Andy could have lived. To make matters worse, Jamie is dating Daisy, the unrequited love interest of Andy. So far Andy has tipped tea into Jamie’s lap, scratched his car and smashed the windscreen and over-charged him for his sticky toffee pudding.

Andy walked slowly along the canal, enjoying the late autumn sunshine and his own mischievous mind. He was trying to think of new ways to play with Moses’s head. Ideas were forming. Daisy had found the photos and had been distraught, deleting the bastard’s number from her phone and swearing off men for good. Andy just had to bide his time. 

The punch was as violent as it was sudden. Dazed and confused Andy staggered forward. Then, he felt arms around him holding him up and a sack was pulled over his head just as Andy passed out. 
He came around in near total darkness. The bag almost suffocating him and pain throbbed through the back of his head. He was curled in the foetal position. When he tried to stretch out his legs hit something solid. The rough material of the sack made his nose itch; he tried to move his hands to scratch but his hands were bound together in his lap. 
“Help,” he shouted. His voice echoed around the small space. “Help,” he yelled again. He bumped around in his tiny space, things digging in to different parts of his body. His nose filled with exhaust fumes and his own sweat. They were going at some speed and it wasn't an A-road. They helter-skeltered around corners, Andy smashing his head on the metal behind him each time they leant into a bend. He tried to tense his body to maintain stability but the speed the car was moving was too much.  Just as Andy thought he might pass out again, they ground to a halt. 
Andy lay in the silence. He heard a door open and felt the car move slightly as the driver got out. He could hear the sound of a lighter striking. A rasping cough followed, then silence as his assailant smoke his cigarette. 

The boot sprung open, Andy could smell the stench of slivovice and cigarettes.  
“Come on you little toerag,” a voice said. “You’re coming with me.” A hand grabbed him and lifted him out of the boot like he was a small puppy.  “Walk.” the voice said.  Andy didn’t recognised it.
Andy staggered along in darkness. His hands tied in front of him.
There was a twit in the trees, but no twoo. Crunch, crunch, crunch, Andy walked. He could feel creepy crawlies pitter-patter up his leg and he desperately wanted to scratch. His head ached, not helped by the smell of slivovice and cigarettes coming from behind him. Crunch, crunch. He felt the breeze on his cheek and heard the trees rustle above him. The man behind him sniffed. Crunch, sniff, pitter-patter. He felt that breeze on his cheek carrying the smell of slivovice and cigarettes. There was still no twoo. Andy shivered. Crunch, crunch. sniff, pitter-patter. 
“Stop!” the voice said. 
Andy stood still and listened. He could still feel the pitter-patter of the creepy crawlies on his leg. His body ached. 
Twoo! 

Part Five 
“You think you can mess with me, do you?” The new voice made Andy jump. He recognised it like he recognised the sickly smell of the aftershave that reached him on the breeze. “You stupid little man.” Moses didn’t have his TV voice on anymore, he had a gravelly, grainy, nasty sounding voice.
“Did you think I wouldn't notice your little games? Did you not think I knew who you were? You bloody fool. Well, let me tell you something. Do you know where you are?”
 Andy didn’t reply. 
“This is a private forest, a place where people who can afford it go hunting. There’s all sorts in this forest, deer, antelope, tigers. and.” Moses paused like he was announcing the winner on a quiz on his shitty little radio show. “There're four hunters out and about tonight and they’re human hunting.” Another pause. You won't see anyone, all you’ll hear is a pfft then, pain, then death.” 
Andy sensed Moses was smiling, this sleaze was a psychopath. “Let’s hope it’s clean shot, that you don’t lie in the forest bleeding to death.”
“You’ll never get away with this?” Andy said
Moses laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. We’ve got away with it for the last twenty-five years? Good luck.”
Andy heard footsteps crunch away, then smelt the stale smell of his old friend slivovice and cigarettes. The punch was as violent as it was sudden. This time to the stomach. Andy dropped to his knees. Slivovice and cigarettes snipped Andy’s restraints and removed the hood. Andy saw the shadow of the big man move away. An owl hooted, twit, no twoo. Andy was alone.  

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