Daft Wee Stories Read online

  But how would that explain the familiarity of the guy behind the counter? Or the position of the blackboard on the wall?

  She snapped out of her trance as the plate was put on the table.

  ‘There you are,’ smiled the guy, ‘one cheese and ham toastie, and I’ll just get your tea.’

  She smiled back, and watched the guy return to the counter, dragging his feet behind with a scuff, scuff, scuff.

  She picked up her toastie, but her attention returned to the photo on the wall once again. She felt herself being pulled in, only to be pulled out with the sound of that scuff, scuff, scuff of the guy from the counter coming over with her tea.

  ‘And here’s your tea,’ he said. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  And off he scuffed again. Scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff …

  Scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff …

  …

  … scuff, scuff …

  …

  …

  … scuff …

  … scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff …

  … scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff. Scuff, scuff. Scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff …

  …

  …

  …

  … scuff.

  She remembered now.

  THE BREAK-IN

  I’ve got a mate, Roddy, who told me about a break-in he had a few weeks ago. It’s only now he felt he could speak about it, and I can understand why, because what happened was pretty fucking bad.

  He told me that he heard a sound coming from his kitchen in the middle of the night, but that was nothing new. He had this dishwasher with a special feature where it would pop the door open when it was finished, letting all the steam out. So if he heard a sound coming from somewhere in the house, he’d just assume it was that. But this night he thought he could hear something else. The floor creaking. And mumbling.

  He picked up a fork that was sitting on his bedside table – it was the only kind of weapon he could find – and he headed out the room. He told me that, in hindsight, he should have just stayed in there and hid under the bed. But he went out into the hall. Nobody was there, and he couldn’t hear anything coming from anywhere else in the flat, so he thought it was maybe nothing. But when he opened the living-room door, somebody shone a torch in his face then hit him with it over the head.

  He remembered decking it, and being held down by somebody. Then a lamp got turned on, and he could see that there were two guys. Both of them had their faces covered with scarves and they had their hoods up. The one that was holding him down asked him where his bank cards were and got Roddy to tell him the PINs, before telling the other one to fuck off to get the money out the bank. The one that was holding him down found the fork and held it to Roddy’s face, telling him that if he tried to move then he’d take out his eyes.

  When the other guy was away to the cash machine, the guy that was holding him down pished on the floor. Roddy said he didn’t know if the guy was trying to humiliate him or if he genuinely needed to pish without taking his eyes off Roddy, but either way it was degrading. It created a puddle on the laminate floor, and Roddy was face down in it. And he couldn’t move away because of the fork at his eye.

  When the other guy came back, the one holding him down stood up and booted Roddy in the chest. He told him that if he tried to report any of it to the police then the pair of them would come back and kill him; they knew where he lived.

  Pretty fucking bad.

  Anyway, I got myself one of those dishwashers, they’re magic. I didn’t know they existed until Roddy told me. With my old one, you had to open the door manually, and if you forgot, all the steam turned back to water, leaving the dishes wet.

  Now they’re bone dry and can go straight into the cupboard.

  BEHIND THE TOILET WALL

  There once was this guy doing a shite. Let’s call him Donnie.

  He was doing a shite in the toilet in his house. Trying to, anyway, but he had a feeling he was in for a wait. It was going to be one of them. One of those right tearjerkers. He was fine at the moment, but he knew that somewhere down the line, in maybe five, ten, fifteen minutes, things were going to get hard. He didn’t want to think about it, so he thought about something else. He looked at his fingernails, then looked at the floor. Then he looked straight ahead, then back to his nails. Then he looked to the tiles on the wall, the ones to the right, above the bath. And that’s where his mind stayed. God, he hated those tiles.

  The tiles were purple, ugly as fuck, but they were nothing to do with him. He’d only moved in about six months ago, and despite the effort he’d put into doing up the rest of the house, he never got round to doing up the toilet. It was low priority, as far as he was concerned, hardly the most important room in one’s home – it’s the room you shite in, after all. But it was a bit of an embarrassment when he got people round. He’d always have to get his excuses in quickly before they wandered off to the toilet, explaining that he hadn’t got round to doing it up and that he knew it was a state, just in case they actually thought he was responsible for it or that he planned on keeping it like that because he was into it. They really were that bad, the tiles. What was worse was that they were only on that one wall. It would be bad enough if it was purple all around, but the fact that all the tiles in the toilet were white except for this one wall, it just somehow made it worse. Maybe it was because the purple stood out more against the white, but it was probably because the white tiles showed you how good it could have been, and then you got this big ugly wall of purple that ruined everything. Why the fuck did they do that? Maybe that was the worst thing, the mystery, wondering what possessed them to go and ruin a perfectly good—

  One of the tiles moved.

  That’s what it looked like anyway. He didn’t know which tile moved, if any, but it felt like one of them had changed their angle slightly, showing a slightly different reflection of the toilet than before. It could have just been him moving on the toilet, but he wasn’t sure that he did move. It could have been his neighbour. Maybe his neighbour went into his toilet next door and the weight on the floor somehow had a knock-on effect on the wall, and … no. His neighbour wasn’t on that side, his neighbour was behind the wall to the left of where he was sitting. Behind the wall to the right, the purple one, was, well, he wasn’t quite sure.

  He opened the toilet door while remaining seated on the pan, and leaned around slowly for a look, for a wee reminder, being careful to not nip the half-inch of shite poking out his arse. The toilet was halfway between the upstairs and downstairs. He could see the kitchen downstairs, and that its ceiling probably came to about halfway up the purple tiles. Then he looked upstairs and saw that his bedroom was probably behind the top half. Except …

  He raised his finger to point at the level of the upstairs floor, where his bedroom was, then he drew an imaginary line from there to inside the toilet and along the purple wall.

  Hold on. Hold on a second here. That’s strange.

  The bedroom floor seemed to start quite a bit higher than halfway up the toilet wall, like there was some kind of gap between the kitchen ceiling below and the bedroom floor above. Not just a wee gap for the pipes and electrics, but a gap of considerable height. About the height of a dog, and a Great Dane at that. That’s hell of a strange. He wondered if he was just being stupid and filling his head up with interesting thoughts to divert attention from the task at hand. But there was no doubt about it, there was something behind those tiles. There was a gap unaccounted for. What the fuck is that, man? That’s freaky. So freaky that the shite that was making good progress out his rear end just stopped. It just hung there, as if it was as freaked as he was.

  Then he heard the tapping.

  It was slow at first. Just one tap, then silence. Then another, and another, then silence again. He told himself that it was just the pipes or something. His neighbour had put the heating on, that’s all, and pipes do that when they’re heating up, they
expand or whatever it is. It didn’t explain why the tapping sounded like it was happening directly onto the tiles from behind, but it had to be something like that. It had to be. He was happy with that explanation, and he was looking forward to finishing his shite and getting out of there.

  Then he heard the scratching.

  It began with a tap, then it screeched like a fingernail being dragged down a blackboard. Then it stopped. Then it started, this time with another: two fingernails, or two something else. Maybe three. Donnie struggled to find an explanation, but he was still happy to accept that it was just something to do with the pipes, he’d settle for that. He’d like to just go now. He almost felt like apologising for his curiosity, but apologise to who? To what? He didn’t know. He was kind of losing it here.

  Then it stopped.

  Silence. Donnie sat in silence. After a minute, he exhaled, not realising he’d been holding his breath. He was absolutely shiting himself. Not literally, because that shite just would not budge until this thing was over. He didn’t quite know what was going on, it really was freaking him out a bit, maybe it was because he was in a compromised position. Maybe the pressure of the shite against his veins had somehow fucked with his head, like heatstroke or the bends. He tried taking his mind off things. He looked down at his fingernails again, and wondered if maybe that’s what the scratching sound was. That’s probably what it was. The tapping was his foot, and the scratching sound was just—

  Donnie heard creaking, then the sound of a tile falling into the bath to his right.

  He could sense that something was moving, but he didn’t look. He didn’t fancy it, to be honest.

  Then another tile fell, then another, then two or three at a time. Tapping, scratching, creaking and smashing, until eventually there was silence. Silence for who knows how long. Two minutes? Two hours? Silence.

  Donnie shut his eyes, and turned his head towards the right, towards the purple tiles, or where they used to be. Towards the breathing. Then, for reasons unknown to me, he decided to open them.

  In the hole in the wall was a cow with seven legs. Its head was boneless. On the left side of its face was a vagina, hanging from which was a tongue with teeth on the end that chewed at nothing. On the right was its only eye, held half shut by matted eyelashes and congealed pus. It had a cock the size of a two-litre bottle of cola, raw and rotten like a peeled plum, crawling with flies and larvae that made the cow moo in pain. Its udders hung below like a ballbag.

  Donnie died from a heart attack, fell over and finally actually did shite himself. Literally.

  And do you know who Donnie was?

  Elvis.

  This story was about Elvis.

  THE WEREWOLF

  Every full moon, he changed. He was a werewolf. You wouldn’t notice him if he walked past you in the street, he looked like any other guy.

  But the following morning, he would change back, back into his natural form. A wolf. A wolf in a Travelodge room.

  No recollection of how he came to be wearing human clothes. Nor of the newspaper lying under his paw, the crossword complete. Or of the toast crumbs on his chest.

  The toast crumbs.

  Oh my God, the toast crumbs!

  What did he do last night?

  ARNOLD’S ARSE

  Arnold went to the hospital. He had to. He walked up to the woman behind the counter and told her what was up, that he was having trouble passing solids. She asked him to elaborate, was he constipated? Arnold said it was worse than that, and he explained. She asked him to repeat that, she couldn’t quite hear him. He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was listening, then leaned in closer and told her again. Aye, that’s what she thought she heard the first time, but she’d asked him to repeat himself because what he said was preposterous. But now that he’d said it again, she concluded that he must be on something, and asked him to take a seat.

  He sat in the waiting room until she called out his name and told him what room to go to. When he got there, a doctor asked him what seemed to be the problem. Arnold told the doc, and the doctor also concluded that Arnold must be on something, but he asked Arnold to pull down his trousers and pants anyway to have a look.

  ‘My word,’ said the doctor, looking at Arnold’s behind. He could see immediately what the problem was. Arnold’s arse was one big bum cheek. There was no hole. It was like a big thumb.

  The doc asked him to wait there as he headed off to get another opinion. Arnold sat there wondering what was going to happen. He hoped it would be pretty easy to fix, maybe he could even get up the road that night in time to watch a film. The doctor came back with half a dozen colleagues, who took turns in having a look at Arnold’s arse. Each of them shook their head and mumbled medical stuff to the rest. Arnold stood there quietly, out his depth, like a dog at the vet’s.

  ‘Excuse us,’ said the doctor, and Arnold was left alone in the room once more, this time for half an hour. He started to realise that maybe this was more serious than he thought. The doctor returned and asked Arnold to come with him; they were going to take him for some scans. They headed out the room and down the corridor.

  ‘So d’you think I’ll need an operation or something?’ asked Arnold.

  ‘It’s too early to say, but once we get the scans we’ll have a clearer picture of what the issue is,’ said the doctor, putting a hand on Arnold’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s just that I was hoping to get up the road tonight in time to watch a fi—’

  A bolt from a cattle gun straight to the head, and down he fell. Then off to the incinerators he went.

  Well, what else could they do? They’d never seen anything like it. An arse without a hole? An arse that was one big bum cheek, like a big thumb?

  Gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.

  THE CONCERT

  He was sitting at the concert, looking around, waiting for the thing to start. The place was a bit of a dive. Not the best place, but not the worst either. Just another featureless, multipurpose arena, built on the cheap, lined with hard, plastic seats bolted into concrete. He looked down and saw that his own seat had been vandalised by a lighter. He looked at the floor. It was dotted with circles of chewing gum, all blackened by footprints and dirt. And he knew that there was a crushed can of Sprite under his seat that the cleaners either hadn’t spotted or couldn’t be bothered picking up. No, it wasn’t the worst of places, but it wasn’t exactly deluxe. And it was a far cry from what this chap was used to.

  The Royal Albert Hall, that’s what he was used to, that’s the kind of place where you were more likely to see him. Well, this time last year, anyway. There he’d be in one of those private boxes, with champagne on ice by his side, dressed in a suit that cost more than your motor, before leaving at the end of the night in a motor that cost more than your house. The high life, that’s how he liked to spend his money, that’s what drove him to earn it. He wanted the best in life, the finest in life. Food, wine, the company that he kept, the watch that he wore, the yacht. He was a man of extremes. The uppermost prestige and taste, that’s what he was all about. All that.

  Somebody behind him burped, then a woman laughed. He wondered if they were drunk, and it worried him, but he relaxed when he realised they probably weren’t. It just wasn’t the done thing at a concert like this. There were children here, families, couples, nice people, chatting away or singing songs or just sitting quietly, arm in arm. It was all very civilised, just the way he liked it. He turned around for a glance, and saw that the couple looked as sober as anybody, sucking up their big plastic cups of Diet Coke. That’s all right then. He felt overly sensitive, but he just didn’t think it would be good to have people like that around him. Drunks, or worse. Not that he was a prude. Far fucking from it.

  See, there had come a point when he got tired of the high life. After all, a wine could only be so fine. A good suit could only be so good. A watch was a watch was a watch. He’d reached the top, there was no place higher, and for a ma
n of extremes, there was only one place left to go: down. He was never one for drugs, so it began with gambling. Huge stakes on red or black, huge losses, huge wins. The thrill of it. And with the thrills came the thrillseekers, the hangers-on, the vultures circling the guy blowing all his cash. Then finally, fuck it, then came the drugs. Then came the drugs! The yacht parties. The pills, the coke, the crystal meth, morning, noon and night, all around the clock. He’d wake up with everything gone, everything taken, and do it all over again. He torched the yacht. His posh mates turned their backs on him, he was turned away from places he’d been going to for years by doormen he was on first-name terms with, there were fights and black eyes. He was an outcast, freefalling, on a collision course with rock bottom. He got in his motor one night and went looking for a wall to crash into or a bridge to fly off. He’d reached the highest highs and the lowest lows. Both extremes. What else could a man like him do?

  The lights in the concert began to dim; the crowd cheered, and then settled. The band were about to come on. The band that saved his life.

  As he headed his motor towards a lamppost, a song came on the radio. It took a moment to realise the significance of what he was hearing, but when he did, he swerved back into lane. It was ‘End of the Road’ by Boyz II Men. He pulled over, turned off the engine and listened to it from start to finish. It was a song he’d heard on the radio since the Nineties; he neither liked it nor disliked it, it was nothing to him, yet now it meant more to him than perhaps to anybody else listening at that time. But no, it wasn’t because he was at the end of the road in terms of his life, or that he’d reached the end of the road in terms of his exploration of the extremes, or because he was going to literally end himself on a road. The song had given him a new purpose, a new extreme, and one that wouldn’t leave him disillusioned or self-destroyed.