The clap clap clap of rubber soles ricochet off the brickwork. Further down the tunnel I can make out pillars of light that jut left to right. Torches, finally.
The Kid, whose name I still am yet to distinguish, rocks himself backwards and forwards in the corner of the platform. My headlamp focuses on him, I’m close enough to block him if he decides to run but if he weasles past me the odds are he’ll be free to scarper. My knees are shot and my patience is nonexistent.
“Is that Aamon” I ask the Kid as I gesticulate at the corpse.
No answer. The Kid sobs and places his hands so they cover his ears. Perfect. No chance of getting any info out of the little sod now.
“Gramps!” says Mick, I hear his breath behind the facemask exhale and inhale.
I hate it when he calls me Gramps. He thinks it’s funny, but in truth it’s just another stark reminder that time has caught up with me, that my best years are in the past rather than in the present. I don’t think people realise the gravity of what they say to each other at the best of times.
“You know I hate it when you call me Gramps. I have a name you know!” I reply.
He climbs onto the platform, cocks his head slightly.
“Is that real?” he says, ignoring my comment. The blood flows in ribbens from the girl’s head and waterfalls down the platform edge.
I nod. “So is that” I say as I shine the headlamp back onto the Kid quivering in the corner.
Mick takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it.
“You know, you can’t smoke here”, I remind him.
A plume stretches over his face, “not supposed to kill people down here too. Look how far that rule got people, Gramps”.
Idiot. Still, I was thankful he was here. He could provide the muscle.
“Try and get a bit closer to the Kid, in case he decides to do a runner”, I instruct.
I twist, my joints crack and I’m careful not to slip on the bodily fluids. More torches, at least ten at a push, illuminate the gloom.
“Is that the Police?” Mick asks.
It baffles me that a work employee can reach the scene of a crime faster than the Police, but then again, I suppose not many crimes are reported in abandoned stations.
“Sure hope so” I say.
I feel in my pocket for the necklace, pass my thumb over the thorns, it’s presence reassures me. For a second I imagine myself at home, a glass of Bordeaux in hand and chateaubriand on the table.
Mick pulls me from my reverie, “Mate, are these things supposed to relight themselves?”
“You wh-” I stop myself. Six black candles burn, each one marks the pinnacle of a pentagram.
I scratch my head, “Mick, these are no party candles”.
—
Written By Sebastian King on 8.04.20
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Idol Hands 