3 [Thrillers] is my fifth book, consisting of three thrilling novellas about humans pushed to their limits, willing to do the unthinkable to get what they want. On Sunday I shared an excerpt of part one, 'The Borstal'. Now here's an excerpt from part two, 'Fulfilment', about a stranger who happens across a man who's suspiciously similar to himself...
The needle hung over him, aimed at a spot right between his
eyes. Adam stared at it, not daring to blink, as if shifting his gaze would
cause it to plunge down and bury itself inside his skull. A drop of sweat ran
down his temple and itched the skin.
“Hello?” he said, his voice distorted
by the foam plugs lodged in his ears. He tensed his jaw and balled his hands
into blotchy fists. Someone walked past, a bright white apron flicking across
his peripheral vision, but his eyes remained on the needle. “Actually, I’m
having second thoughts. This is a really, really bad idea.”
Another voice murmured at his side.
The flash of white reappeared and this time he glanced over, staring into the
black goggles that hid most of Apron Man’s face. He imagined the stiff, discomforting
gaze that lingered beneath. The kind of look that could silence a screaming
child, or empty the bowels of a hardened sports hooligan. Adam opened his mouth
to speak again, but too late. The prick in his bicep was just a scratch as
promised. When his words finally came, they were slurred and stupid.
“Leave me...ughhhhlone....”
The goggles melted across Apron Man’s
pale, muscular cheeks and then darkness fell.
One
London, 21/12/2024
Four days before Christmas. Duncan’s morning had been the usual
mash-up of monotony and grief until precisely 10.34am. Rise with the alarm,
feed the cat, eat cereal, shower, brush teeth, kiss the wife goodbye as she
slumbers, walk to the tube station, crushed into a boiling hot carriage with
hundreds of other silent commuters, stroll into the RBS offices, greet
receptionist with twenty seconds of banal conversation, sit at desk, read
emails, yawn, check BBC News, hunt for missing biro, give up, accuse colleague
of stealing pen, put on coat in a rage and head to local cafe for a strong
coffee and a serious think about life.
At 10.33am he stepped into the greasy
spoon, a tiny square room with a glass counter and just three double-seater
tables crammed in tight. A colour TV draped in tinsel hung in the corner,
showing an excitable weatherman bleating on about the latest cold front. The
grill behind the counter was covered with bacon, eggs and sausages, which
sizzled as the owner stabbed at them with a semi-melted spatula. Heavy oil
vapours filled the room and Duncan felt a layer of grease solidify across his
face the moment he walked in, his arrival announced by a tinny and pointless
bell that dangled above the door.
He blew on his hands and rubbed them
together, then shuffled up to the counter and nodded at the owner, a slender
man with a white beard and an apron.
“What can I getcha?” the owner asked.
“Just a latte, please. Extra large
shot.” He turned and leaned against the glass surface, ignoring the cold meats
and pastries that sat inside. The rest of the cafe was empty, the tables
unused. He gazed at the TV and saw it was halfway through a familiar advert,
one that had been playing for months now. A woman was sat alone on her sofa,
shovelling massive spoonfuls of ice cream into her face as she sobbed
hysterically. Then it cut to her entering some shiny lobby made of glass and
marble. Another cut, her talking to an impossibly neat-looking scientist with
blonde hair, blue eyes and a chiselled jaw, and a lab coat with pens arranged
in size order in his breast pocket. The camera skipped to a curved doorway
which pumped out a dense yellow fog, as if the room behind was some kind of
out-of-control disco. The same woman from earlier emerged from the smoke, but
now she was strangely more attractive. Her face had changed in subtle ways, her
cheeks more defined and her nose slightly narrower, but so had the rest of her
body. Her hips were wider and her legs seemed to have stretched out. The final
shot was back in the lobby as she strode out into the sunset with an enormous
cheesy grin, followed by a superimposed slogan: ‘Fulfilment – Eternal Happiness
at an Affordable Price’.
Duncan watched half of the next
advert, which featured a dancing koala bear drinking some kind of pink smoothie,
until the cafe’s pointless bell tinkled again and the door swung wide open.
The clock behind the counter ticked
onto 10.34am.
He turned and stared at
the suited man who pushed his way inside. It started as just a cursory glance,
a reaction to the sound of the bell, but his eyes locked on the other man and
he exhaled sharply. In turn, the other man froze partway to the counter.
“Jesus,” Duncan said, an
inadvertent chuckle gurgling out from his throat. The person stood just three
feet away was identical to him in almost every way. Same shade of skin colour,
same thick wiry hair, same cleft chin. Aside from the suit (this man’s garments
were navy blue rather than off-grey), he could have been staring at himself in
a mirror. The other man took a step towards him and squinted.
“Hi there.”
“Hi there,” Duncan
replied. “This is...kind of weird.”
“Yeah. Weird.” They stood
a foot apart and studied each other, eyebrows raised. Duncan struggled for
something to say. Eventually, he settled for the obvious.
“You look just like me.”
“Yeah. Right. Sorry, I’m
just kind of stunned here.” The other man shook his head and offered his hand.
“I’m David.”
The pair of them paid for
coffee and, without either suggesting it, sat together at one of the tables.
Duncan wrapped his hands around the ceramic mug and felt the warmth flow into
his palms.
“So,” he said, “out of
curiosity, is your surname Henderson?” David shook his head again.
“Richardson.” He smirked
and blew away the steam rising from his coffee. “So I guess we’re not long lost
twins, then.”
“Unless one of us was adopted,
I guess?”
“Adopted?”
“Yeah, think about it.”
Duncan leaned forwards and rested his chin on his fist. “Maybe our parents had
us, but didn’t want twins. They just wanted one kid. So they gave one up for
adoption to another couple, maybe a couple who couldn’t have kids of their own
or something, to raise as their own. How old are you?”
“34.”
“Shit, same here. You got
any siblings?”
“Nope,” David said,
frowning. “Only child.”
“Same,” Duncan said, his
heart pounding. “Are your parents around?”
“They died a few years
back. How about yours?”
“Shit. Mine passed too,
accident five years ago.” He exhaled, then stretched back in his chair and
rubbed his neck. “Guess that means we’ll never find out.”
“Well, where did you grow
up?” David asked.
“America, small town in
Massachusetts. I moved here a couple of years back.”
“You don’t sound
American.”
“Nah,” Duncan said. He
took a sip of his coffee, the hot liquid burning his lips. “I lost my accent
pretty quick, I guess. How about you?”
“My parents were British
but emigrated to Southern Spain before I was born. I moved back here after they
died, wanted to try a different life.”
“Ha, incredible.” Duncan
grinned. “So, we were born the same year to British parents but grew up in
another country, the only children in the family. Our parents died and we moved
to the homeland to start a new life.” He drummed his fingers against his cup
and sucked on his inner cheek. “What do you do for a living?”
“Uhh, I’m a business
analyst. I make predictions about stocks and write reports, stuff like that.”
“Close enough,” Duncan
said. “I work for a bank doing risk assessment.” He nodded at David’s hand,
spread out on the table. “And looks like you got married.”
“Yep, last summer. You?”
Duncan raised his arm and wiggled his ring finger.
“Exactly the same. You
starting to get a cold chill down your spine?”
“I’m about to shit my
pants in terror.” David rested his elbows on the table and squeezed his head in
his hands, until his face turned bright red. “This is, like, Outer Limits,
Twilight Zone, X-Files, all rolled up and covered in a massive pile of crack.”
“It’s got to be real,
right? We’ve got to be twins. You hear about this all the time, twins separated
at birth who go on to lead pretty much identical lives, completely independent
of each other. I bet even our wives are similar, same hair colour and
everything.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He
unlocked it with a couple of taps and sat it on the table, pushing it through a
sticky coffee stain towards David. “This is mine. Karen. She’s a natural
brunette but she has highlights done, so her hair’s a little lighter than
normal.” The other man stared down at the phone and his lips parted, but he
stayed silent. A moment later he looked up at Duncan, his face frozen. Duncan
blinked. “What? Does she look like yours?”
David’s hand trembled
slightly as he pulled out his own phone and swiped the screen with a fingertip.
He found what he was looking for, then he repeated Duncan’s motion, resting the
mobile on the table and pushing it over. Duncan peered down at the photo. It
was a summery shot taken in some park. A woman reclined on a blanket beside a
giant hamper. She was wearing a low-cut top and shorts, and her narrow face was
split by an enormous smile. Duncan’s stomach churned and his hand curled into a
fist on the table top.
“That’s Karen,” he
whispered, meeting David’s gaze. “That’s my bloody wife.”
An excerpt from part three is coming in a couple of days.
3 [Thrillers] will be available on the Kindle Store this weekend...
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