An eclectic collection of short stories from the fuddled mind of Kerry J Donovan.
The Collection includes over two dozen stories ranging in length from fifty word micro shorts to a full-blown novelette. Comedy, drama, crime thrillers, romance, true-life tales, gory horror, historical epicâyouâll find samples of each.
The hauntingly evocative semi-autobiographical tale, Sweet William, and the poignant, The Phone Call, are stories to tug the heart and bring tears to the eye.
In The Long Wait, Ryan Chisholm has spent seventeen years waiting to avenge the death of his father.
A Fatherâs Tale is a heart-warming story of family life told in short vignettes.
At over 7,000 words, The Chamber is the longest in the book, and perhaps Kerryâs most gruesome tale. Psychopath Porter Robinson holds Robert Forbes captive in a cellar and tells him a tale from Porterâs childhood. Will Forbes survive, or will he go the way of countless other victims? This is definitely not for the people of a timid disposition.
If you enjoy your fiction in short bites and read across many genres, The Collection is certain to delight.
Taking Your Life In Your Hands
Sweet, Cold Revenge
Today
Itâs five minutes to midday and I sit behind the wheel of my taxicab, staring at the imposing black wood and wrought iron gates of Her Majestyâs Prison, Garside. Razor wire tops the gates and the twelve-foot high granite walls.
Iâm waiting for the bastard, Wilkes, to step out from behind those doors. Itâs taken every penny I have to make sure Iâm the one called to collect him on the day heâs released.
Itâs a grim winterâs day, grey and cold, but inside Iâm a boiling cauldron of hate.
A howling wind whips eddies of dead leaves and rubbish into drifts against the rough-hewn walls. Iâm parked diagonally across the road from the gates and I can see the south face of the jailhouse.
I grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled fists, and I wait.
#
READ MORECyclists take their lives in their hands every time they hit the open road on a bike in England. Every second driver seems to be out for cyclistsâ blood. An alien visitor would think Kill the Cyclist a national spectator sport
In my thirty-odd years as a road-racer, Iâve been sworn at ad nauseam, knocked off three times, and hospitalised onceâsideswipe, whiplash. All caused by drivers who thought themselves more deserving of a specific piece of tarmac than my bike and me. Only one of those drivers ended up paying for their actions. But he didnât pay nearly enough, not yet.
#
Eighteen months earlier
Steve âStockyâ Stock and I were near the end of one of our manic training rides. It was, as I recall, a wonderful spring afternoon. One of those surprisingly warm April days that offer the promise of a long, hot summer to come. With the trees in bud and the days lengthening, it was a beautiful day to be out training. So good was the weather, Iâd taken my competition bike out of its winter storage, dusted it off, and gloried in its freewheeling majesty.
Our route meandered through quiet villages and leafy lanes and we finally had the wind at our backs after fighting it for much of the way out. We made great time and had just rolled through the picturesque village of Preston Deanery, on the B562, heading for Northampton and home.
We rode two abreast on the empty road, chatting.
Yeah, yeah, I can hear all you drivers out there shouting, âBloody cyclists, side-by-side on narrow roads holding up the traffic. You bastards deserve all you get.â
In our defence, we were in a 30 mph zone, and my trip computer registered 29.7 mph. So whom were we holding up? Besides, there was no traffic.
About four miles from Northampton, we closed on the village of Wootton. The fields and hedgerows gave way to houses and industrial estates and the road rolled downhill in a gentle anti-clockwise arc.
Our speed slowed when we negotiated a mini-roundabout and a car horn blared at us from behind, angry and impatient.
I glanced back. A silver Mercedes Benz SLK, soft-top lowered, careened towards us at Mach 0.5âhalf the speed of sound.
Without reducing speed or removing his hand from the horn, the driver swung out to overtake. Once alongside, the driver slowed the car a tad and shouted something unrepeatable. His blonde trophy passenger shot us a double âVâ sign with arms waving in the air.
At that same instantâand I still canât believe he did thisâthe bugger jerked his steering wheel to the left and sent the SLK veering towards me!
The look of malevolent glee on the animalâs face as he did it will live with me until Alzheimerâs finally takes its toll on my memory.
Blondie squealed with delight.
âLook out!â I screamed.
I twitched my handlebars left to avoid the car. Stocky and I bumped shoulders.
At the speed we were travelling, neither of us stood a chance.
We hit the tarmac in a tangle of broken bikes, broken bones, and scraped to the edge of the road, screaming.
The pain of skin tearing over the cheese-grater road surface is a terrible thing. The mesh scars on my shoulder, back and hip have faded to white, but will never disappear.
With nothing to stop us, we plunged off the edge of the road into a ten-foot deep, storm gully.
Oblivion.
#
I felt nothing for a time until a hatchet smashed into my right kneecap. At least that was what it felt like. When I opened my eyes, I couldnât see anything. My bike helmet, torn off by the fall and slide, twisted and bent out of shape, covered my face, blinding me. I tried to reach up to move it but my arms wouldnât obey my instructions.
A low sound, a moan, drifted into my ears, but I couldnât tell from where.
The axe bit again and I screamed, or at least tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Again, a low moan filtered through the pain. One thought stood out above all the others tangled in my fuzzy mind.
Whereâs Stocky?
Each breath caused agony. The broken ends of at least two ribs scraped together and tore at the inside of my chest. The iron-rich taste of blood filled my mouth and I fought against the rising tide of panic.
I slowed my breathing and the pain subsided.
With slow, deliberate movements, I raised my head. The fragmented helmet fell away. I had come to rest on my right side staring at the muddy face of the ditch. My right arm was pinned beneath me. I couldnât move it.
Turning my head to the left only made the axe fall again and my right kneecap split apart in a searing bolt of agony. Thigh muscles, no longer restrained by the patellar attachment, bunched into a tight knot and I lost control of bladder, bowel, and sanity.
Something howled with the fear and agony of a wild animal caught in a tooth-sprung trap.
Me!
I wanted to lose consciousness again to earn respite for the pain but the little voice in my head kept asking stupid questions.
Whereâs Stocky?
Why isnât he helping me?
Did I have a puncture?
Iâm thirsty, can I have some water?
Whereâs Stocky?
By clamping my jaws together, I stopped screaming and opened my eyes once more. Tears rolled down my cheeks and the agony flared again.
#
The human brain is a wonderful, protective thing. It has a built-in defence mechanismâadrenaline mixed with a host of other hormones and neurotransmittersâthat blocks out pain when necessary. This was one of those times. My friend needed me and I had to help him.
I rolled onto my back to find the deep blue sky stretching above me. The sun, high to the left, bit into my eyes and I discovered the reason for my broken ribs and the grating sensation as I breathed.
The broken crossbar of my bike stuck out of my chest. Its hollow, broken tube stared up at me in an accusatory âOâ. Stuck to the jagged edges of the torn metal were bits of flesh and drops of bloodâmy flesh, my blood.
I looked at it twice. I would have rocked with stunned, hysterical laughter, but the pain would return so I kept myself in check. Locating Stocky was the only thing holding me together.
Despite the damage caused by the fall-slide-plummet, looking back I can count myself lucky. I had a fractured patella, broken collarbone, broken shoulder blade, crushed ribs, a broken right arm, cuts, and a road rash to rival corned-beef hash, but I was lucky in three ways.
First, the broken bike-tube was no longer attached to the rest of my bikeâthe other end had snapped clean off. This allowed me to sit upright without tearing the tube out of my chest. I learned later that the only thing stopping me from bleeding to death was the bike-tube, which plugged one end of an arterial bleed. Being downstream, the other end only oozed blood, it didnât pump out.
Second, Iâd landed in the soft, muddy part of the ditch. It cushioned my fall and prevented further damage.
Third, Iâd avoided a concrete block that stuck out of the side of the gully. Iâd missed it by less than three feet.
Yep, I was lucky.
Steve Stock wasnât.
When I extricated myself from broken bicycle parts and half-obscured street-furniture, I saw what had happened to my fallen friend and wept.
Stocky had smashed headfirst into the concrete stanchion. A cycle helmet doesnât offer the same level of protection as a motorbike crash-hat. Stockyâs had exploded on impact, and so had his head.
When faced with the remains of my best friend, I lost my mind. It took three paramedics to hold me down and strap me on my side on the stretcher. The heavy sedation kicked in and I knew nothing more until I awoke in the hospital the following night with my wife and children lying asleep at the foot of my bed.
In the eight months it took me to recover, I missed two important things.
The first was Stockyâs funeral. I saw it on a video link-up, so I attended in spirit if not in body. They interred him in a family plot on a beautiful summerâs morning. My family was there to support his family. Joan, my wife, presented Alex, Stockyâs fiancĂ©, with a letter from me to place, unopened, in his casket.
It had taken me a dozen tries and many tears to write the seventeen words.
Sorry, mate. I couldnât save you, but Iâll never forget you, and neither will the bastard. Goodbye.
The second thing I missed during my convalescence was the trial and conviction of the bastard who ran us off the road. A traffic camera had captured his act of road-rage, so the bloody things do have their uses after all. The police arrested him four hours after the âincidentâ and he claimed not to have remembered overtaking any cyclists that day.
When the detectives played the video evidence to him in the station, he is reported to have broken down in tears and apologised for his actions. He blamed a family argument for his loss of control. He pleaded guilty toâand get thisââDriving without due care and attentionâ!
Not murder, not manslaughter, but a simple lack of concentration.
Fuck him!
He received an eighteen-month jail sentence with a further six months suspended because he didnât have valid motor insurance.
The bastard, Mr Frank Wilkes, received eighteen months in a cushy jail cell, with colour TV, and three square meals a day. Steve Stock received an oak box and a plot in the cemetery.
I still have nightmares and havenât ridden a cycle since that day. Damage to my inner ear means I can no longer hold my balance.
Call that justice?
#
Today
Itâs one minute to noon and the sun comes out to warm my face through the windscreen. Any minute now, heâll be there. Heâll cross the road to my taxi and pop into the back, free as a bird.
What he doesnât know is Iâve activated the childproof locks so he can get in but not out. Iâve installed bulletproof glass in the windows and a five-millimetre Perspex sheet between the passengerâs cabin and me. Once heâs in the back, heâs staying there until I let him out.
Under my seat is the two-foot long bike-tube they pulled out of my chest during the operation that saved my life. Iâve wrapped one end in electricianâs insulating tape. I wouldnât want a slippery handle, now would I? Iâve sharpened the other end to a razor point.
Midday.
The prison gates open and out walks a smiling Mr Frank Wilkes. He shields his eyes from the strong sunlight and steps towards my cab.
My heart is stone and my blood is ice.
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COLLAPSE
Stuart campbell says:
Stuart Campbell says: