Mark Winthrop Extraordinaire

"Cecil, get those new accounts in here now," Mark shouted impatiently down the intercom, "Damn girl can't do anything right." His office door swung open and a pretty twenty-year-old girl hurried in. "I'm sorry Mr. Winthrop, but Monsieur Depardieu called, he said he'd meet you in Pierre's at half past one," her cheeks reddened. "Thank you Cecil, I'm having a bit of a bad day, please excuse me." "Certainly sir," and she secretly decided that this would be the wrong time to ask to take her upcoming holidays a week early, but then again when was; Mr. Winthrop never seemed to have a good day. "Oh Cecil, did you want to take your holidays a week early." Cecil started, "Yes sir, but I don't have to really," she paused, then, "May I ask how you know sir?" "I ran into Jacques yesterday, he mentioned that he had a family reunion next week, and that he was hoping that you'd be able to go along. Go ahead and take the week off, but I'm afraid you'll have to work Christmas week, it's a business not a charity I'm running here." That always sounded good to him, business not a charity, cliched maybe, "But who cares as long as it fits," he would say. "Thank you sir, I'll be back bright and early on the twentieth," she smiled at him. He almost felt sorry for her, her face brightened up as the grin spread across, and her rosy cheeks rising gently. "Pretty as a picture," he smiled to himself. "Have a nice holiday Cecil, give my regards to Jacques." "Thanks again sir," she turned rapidly and left the room as if expecting him to change his mind and call her back any second.
She shut the door behind her and paused briefly, "Jacques," she wondered, thinking of her fiancee, "How come he never told me that he talked to Mr. Winthrop? I must ask him about that later." She returned to her desk, swivelling into her revolving chair. She sat there idly, her eyes playing between the phone on her desk and the pile of letters she had to type up. "Maybe I'll give him a quick call, let him know the good news." Her fingers paused reluctantly over her fiancee's speed-dial button, the one she hoped that Mr. Winthrop would never find out about; it didn't seem like the kind of thing he would take too kindly to. She flinched back, something that felt like a bolt of lightening ran up her spine, "Maybe I'll wait until later." She didn't feel good at all; Mr. Winthrop had been very nice, almost too nice. She tried to shake the feeling that she was being backed into a corner, but it wouldn't leave the pit of her stomach. She looked over at the bundle of papers in the to-do basket, "Oh God." Suddenly the holidays couldn't come soon enough.
Mark watched her leave his office. When the door was shut he swivelled around in his chair laughing quietly to himself. "Oh, the look on her face, that was priceless." He was highly amused, first by her surprise, then by her almost unconditional belief in the absolute lie he had just told her, "Jacques told me," he laughed again. Like hell he had talked to her fiancee, he hated the guy. Mark just knew, how? Even he couldn't explain, well he could, but not that anyone would listen. To put it simply, Mark was extraordinary, he knew that she wanted her holidays a week early just as he had graduated the Sorbonne with a honours degree, a degree that he didn't even study for. He was extraordinary, just as the plaque outside his mansion read:

Mark Winthrop
Extraordinaire.
Winthrop Accountants
Please Ring For Entry

Mark really didn't care about how or when he had developed his power of knowing; he no more cared about it, than he had cared for that dark stranger he had met ten years before. He never considered that there would be consequences, not even after the deal he had made with that stranger. Hell he hardly even remembered the guy's face, but he did remember how it had felt to be near him. The fear, the foreboding that had seemed to radiate out from the stranger. Mark had never been scared as he had been on that night; but then again, he hadn't had much occasion to be scared in the last ten years. He was like Midas, everything thing he did seemed to turn to gold. Every investment he made on the stock market took off, every client that had come seeking a quote for his services had walked away with a signed contract in his briefcase. "Life is great," he often told himself, "Especially mine."
He looked at his computer's monitor, and smiled as he read down through Cecil's notice of redundancy. He loved other people's misfortunes, and now even though his life was a far cry from his streetcombing days, he had never lost his love of observation. He had never lost his sadistic pleasure at the misfortunes of others, indeed, his love had even grown. As he had progressed up the social ladder, his delight had grown, had matured, he not only loved the misfortunes of others, he revelled in them. Some people collect stamps, others collect coins, but Mark Winthrop, he made people miserable. They would never know that it was him though. He had almost lost count of all the marriages and relationships he had ruined over the last ten years; his power of knowing sure came in handy at times. A little anonymous call here, an unsigned note there, that was all it took and he could bring a person's life crashing to the ground. He had refined gossip and innuendo into a fine art, just as he had once refined his observational skills and senses.
"I'd better get ready for my meeting with Depardieu, I suppose," he rose from his chair and went to the mirror on the wall, "Sometimes I wonder why I bother with that idiot at all, all these business lunches, what a waste of time. All just to tell me how my shares are doing on the market, I could do the same by picking up a copy of "Le Monde", I guess that's what you have to put up when you're rich though." He ran his fingers through his tight haircut, "Hmm wonder what it would be like long, probably a bit unsuited to a businessman like myself though." He straightened the collar of his white shirt and fixed up his black tie. Satisfied with his attire, he pulled a handkerchief out of his left jacket pocket and polished the badge he wore on that pocket. He looked at the golden goat's hoof in the mirror, it glinted in the florescent glow of his office lights. "Not too shabby, old boy, damn you tidy up well," he smiled, pushing the button on the intercom again. "Cecil could you tell the Michel to bring my car around out front please, thank you." He picked up his briefcase from behind his desk. It was mostly for show and contained little more than his copies of Bram Stoker's "Dracula" and Stephen King's " 'salems Lot", he loved those books. He had run through nearly five copies of each of them in the last ten years. He knew just how Father Callaghan and Mina Harker had felt, and even though he knew that they were just fiction, it eased his feeling of fear knowing that at least someone else was going through what he was going through. Hell, those nightmares he had weren't real, but that didn't mean that they felt any less real, if he could wake up panting and sweating after being chased through a forest by a huge black hound, what harm came from believing that fictitious characters were real. He had lost any chance of redemption on that night ten years before, he had embraced that blasphemous oath, but that didn't mean he could hope for redemption at the end of it, did it? After all that talk about God being ready to take back any of his lost sheep, surely he could hope. It wasn't as if he was going to do anything about it though. There was no way in Heaven or Hell that he was going to give up his new life; the life that he had sold his soul for.
* * * Mark walked into Pierre's five minutes early, and scanned the restaurant for his business associate; he had not yet arrived. He walked over to the reception, "Table for Monsieur Depardieu?" he asked. Yves, the receptionist, a tall thin man with a curling moustache that made him look like a character from an Agatha Christie novel, replied promptly, "Oui Monsieur Winthrop, number eight, by the window." "Merci Yves," He turned and walked over to his table frowning, "Why does that idiot always have to take table eight," he thought to himself annoyed, "He's lived in Paris all his life, why the hell does he need a bloody view of the Eiffel Tower?" Mark much preferred table fifteen, the one in the corner alcove, it was dark except for the small round sunken wall light, much more conspicuous than that brightly lit table by the window. He felt terribly exposed at that window table, as if he was being displayed for the whole world. He considered that Depardieu knew this and took that window table just to spite him. He had never really made much effort to hide his jealousy at Mark's incredible fortune on the stock market. He briefly considered asking Yves to change their table to number fifteen, but a couple entered and after a brief intercourse with the receptionist, they were ushered over to it. "So much for that idea," he muttered to himself and he grimaced as Depardieu walked in," The day gets better," he finished sarcastically.
"Monsieur Winthrop," Depardieu greeted Mark cordially, coming forward with his arms outstretched. "Monsieur Depardieu," Mark replied soberly, he had learned long ago that the best way to deal with his over zealous associate was to adopt a business-like demeanour whilst around him. "My fortuitous friend, " the solicitor uttered, a false smile spreading on his face, as he took his seat. "More good news for me monsieur?" "Oui, Mark, Oui. Your shares in Macrotech have doubled in value again, and your annual dividend from Electronic Systems International has come through, something in the region of ten million pounds, I believe," envy flashed in his eyes for a brief second. This did not go unnoticed by Mark; he had lost none of the observational skills he had developed during the days he spent as a streetcomber. "That's good Gauillaume, is there anything else?" "Just the usual update on your finances sir, I know you're probably fed up with me at this stage, but it's my job." "Not at all my good friend, here comes our good friend Yves, let us make our order and then we can turn our discussion to these little articles of business."

Mark returned to his office later than usual, the clock on the wall above his desk read twenty past four. He fell back into the chair behind his desk with a sigh; "Oh how much longer am I going to have to deal with that fool, so much bloody red tape. How could anyone spend three hours telling me that I have made a profit? All it takes is five words, five stinking little words, and maybe a bank statement, not a three hour lecture." He sank back into his plush leather chair, sighing, "This is the life though eh?" he pushed the button on his intercom, "Cecil, Could you bring me up a cup of coffee please, oh and by the way, were there any calls while I was out?" "There was one sir, but the caller hung up before I could take his name, sir. I'll be right up with the coffee sir."
Cecil entered Mark's office five minutes later, a steaming cup of coffee cupped in her hands, "Here you go sir, how was your lunch?" she asked out of politeness, she knew that he hated those lunches with Depardieu. "You know Cecil the usual, what did that caller want." "He didn't say sir, when I answered he just asked for you and when I told him that you were out at lunch he just hung up." "Thank you Cecil, let me know if he calls back." "Yes sir, no problem. Would you like anything else before I go?" After a brief pause Mark replied, "Could you bring me in the "Le Monde" I think I'll catch up on my news before I return to this report for the AGM next week." "Certainly sir, I'll bring it right up." She turned and left the room, leaving Mark deep in his own thoughts. "It couldn't be, could it?" he asked himself, "I've only seen him once since I've come to Paris. It couldn't be, could it?" Cecil interrupted his thoughts as she came back into his office with the paper. "Here you go sir." "Thank you Cecil, that'll be all for the moment." "Yes, sir." He waited until she had left the room before he opened the paper. He ignored the main section of the paper as he scanned through its pages, looking for the classified section. There it was alright, his hunch had been right, printed in the lost and found column:
Lost
One Ventriloquists dummy
Wearing a well pressed Italian suit
Has the name Mark inscribed on its right arm
Has a badge in the shape of a goat's hoof pinned to his left pocket.
Reward is substantial, bring to 666 Rue de la Liberation.

Mark started back into his chair, "It is him," he muttered fear entering his voice, "Oh God he's back." He had seen the same advertisement in the paper the last time that he had met the stranger, "He said that I wouldn't see him again, not until., Oh God why has he come back?" He fell back into his chair, sweat forming a light sheen on his face. His breath had become shallow and he could hear the pounding of his heart, thumping, thumping, thumping. "What am I going to do? Damn I knew that this was too good to last." He stood up, and with his legs trembling under him, he made his way to the water cooler by the wall. He splashed the cool liquid over his face, feeling the chilled water tighten the skin on his face. "Oh God, why me?"

The bells, of a nearby cathedral were ringing out eleven o'clock as Mark left the headquarters of Winthrop Accountants. He'd held off leaving as long as he could, he didn't know why, but he had a deep feeling that something was going to go wrong, and he was going to delay it as long as he possibly could. He ran quickly across the courtyard to where his leather lined Mercedes was parked, keeping to the lighted areas, a sudden fear of the dark beginning to creep along his spine. His leather-soles knocked noisily on the cobbles. The moon above, half-hidden behind a dark tower of cloud, glared menacingly down on top of him. Its eerie glow, reflected in the glassy cobbles, made him feel terribly exposed, even though he felt far safer in that dim half-light than in the shadows. He had a sickening feeling that someone was behind him, a feeling that induced a semi- paralysis in him. A feeling that countered every urge he had to look around and ensure his safety. All he could think about was reaching his car, sliding into the driver's seat, locking the doors and turning on his recording of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons". All he could think about was sinking back into the soft leather, closing his eyes and drifting away. All he could think about was leaving the empty courtyard behind, leaving behind the whistling of the wind and the soft padding of feet he thought he heard behind him.
A dog barked in some far corner of the city, the sound travelling clearly through the cold night air. The bark incited others and soon the night was filled with a chorus of howls. Mark shuddered as he ran along, behind the screen of the barking the world seemed empty, and he felt as if he was alone, alone and helpless. As he reached his car and fumbled awkwardly for his keys, he glanced anxiously from side to side, that soft padding still seeming to follow him. Now on the left, now on the right, now directly behind him. The keys slipped from his hand as he finally pulled them from his pocket. The clattered to the ground, metallic echoes filling the courtyard. He bent slowly, forcing himself to pick up the keys despite the paralysing fear that was filling his soul. He bent slowly, shivers running up and down his spine, imagining some hellish beast pouncing on him as he reached for the keys. He straightened as slowly as he had descended, the same fear still petrifying him. He shoved the key blindly into the lock and sprang into the car, slamming the door behind him and curling into a tight ball, his eyes tightly shut. No force in Heaven or Hell would force him to open them again. He reached out to his CD player and hit the on button. The speakers filled with static as the disk was loaded and he curled up even tighter.
As the sound of "The Four Seasons" filled the car he began to relax and by the time the piece had reached summer, he managed to pry open his eyes. He started back into his seat as he saw the glaring face of the dark stranger that he had first met back in Liverpool all those years ago. His mouth twisted into an evil grin, his eyes glowing red and piercing into him. His pale skin stretched tightly over his skull, claw-like fingers lying against the windscreen. Mark blinked and the figure was gone, he was alone again in the car, the lazy sound of "summer" playing in the background. He relaxing again, allowing himself to sink back into his seat. "This can't be good for my blood pressure." he could feel the vein in his forehead throbbing violently, his heart pounding erratically in his chest and the clammy feel of sweat under his armpits. "This definitely can't be good," he repeated as he opened the glove compartment and took out a small brown bottle labelled "Xanex". "God I feel like swallowing the whole damn bottle of these." He took two of the small tablets from the bottle and, throwing his head back, he swallowed them dry. They scraped his throat on their way down and he coughed violently, his throat burning, his lungs raw. He lay back in his seat, closing his eyes, drifting away on the magic of autumn's second movement, as he waited for the sedatives to take effect.
He could feel his heartbeat and pulse slowing as the tablets began to take effect. He trembled as the sweat on his forehead began to cool. He reached for the air conditioning blindly, afraid to open his eyes in case the stranger's glaring face was there to greet him. He felt his eyelids grow heavy as the drug began to take full effect. He could feel himself drifting off despite the rather feeble efforts he made to keep himself awake. He slapped himself across the face a few times but this only prompted a dull and distant pain that he hardly registered. "Damn I can't fall asleep now," he thought drowsily as he struggled to open his eyes against the lead weights the tablets had apparently tied to his eyes. "This isn't good," he mumbled incoherently as he finally drifted off into his drug-induced sleep, "This definitely isn't good."
* * * Mark was running, forcing his legs to move against the invisible weights tying them down. He could feel the huge black hound gaining on him. He could feel its hot breath only a few feet behind him, he could smell the musty odour, faintly resembling rotten eggs. He felt his legs giving from under him, as he tried to force himself on, each stride sending shockwaves of pain pulsing up through his heels. He stumbled onwards, beginning to lose balance, a massive stitch in his side doubling him over as he ran. His lungs were burning in his chest, the cold air irritated his already raw throat. "I'm not going to make it, this is it," he thought frantically, as he vainly tried to keep to his feet. "It's all over, well it was damn good while it lasted." His legs finally gave from under him. The hound was upon him instantly. He felt its dead weight land heavily on his shoulders, crushing him into the ground and driving the last of the breath from his lungs. Pain erupted in his solar plexus, exploding through his chest. He tried to roll over, to at least try to shove the great hound off him, but he was pinned fast by the huge black hound. He closed his eyes as it began to worry at the back of his neck. His head flew forward and struck the ground as the hound reached in for one last tear at his neck.
He jerked awake as his head slammed against the steering wheel, "Ooh," he groaned, rubbing his bruised forehead with one hand and his stiff neck with the other, "How long have I been out." He groaned again as he glanced at his watch, "Half-seven, God I've been out all night," he rubbed his neck again, "That wasn't too bright was it. Guess I'll have to call in late, Hell what does it matter I'm the boss anyway." He leaned back into his seat and stretched his arms out over his head, his palms brushing against the ceiling. "Well I guess I'll head over to the gym for a shower," he groaned as he smelt the unpleasant aroma drifting from under his arms, "Damn, that nightmare was too real by half." He rubbed his eyes, ridding himself of the last of the cobwebs of sleep, before he reset the CD in the stereo and started up the car. He made a face as the engine drowned out the beginning of spring and he jabbed angrily at the volume control. After turning out of the courtyard he relaxed back into the seat, one hand lazily steering the car, the other swaying out of rhythm with the second movement of spring.
The city was just beginning to come to life as he pulled up outside his gym, a steady stream of cars was now beginning to circulate through he streets. He beeped the horn impatiently at the Renault in front of him, not really caring for the red light that it had stopped to obey. "Come on you Goddamn snail, some people have places to go," he yelled viciously as he beeped again. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the wheel, while he waited for the driver to move. "Come on, come on dammit, come on." The light turned green and the driver in front of him sped off quickly. He threw his own foot down, jerking forward, nearly slamming his head off the steering wheel again. He fumbled with his seatbelt, deciding that one bruise was enough for one morning. The car in front of him once again jerked to a halt for a redlight, and Mark slammed his foot down on the brake to stop himself flying into the back of the red Renault. "Damn you, didn't you ever hear of brake lights, you two-bit excuse for a driver." Feeling the vein in his forehead beginning to throb again, he reached into the glove compartment again and pulled out another Xanex. Throwing it back dry again, he coughed as it scratched the back of his dry throat. "If I keep this up I'm going to have a heart attack before long, that's if he doesn't get me first." The light turned green again and he pulled over to the side of the street and parked, fumbling in his pocket for change. He reached into the glove compartment as an after-thought and shoved the Xanex into his suit pocket before he rammed a couple of francs roughly into the parking meter. Making sure that his precious business-class Mercedes was locked, he walked the last few blocks to the gym, not really in the mood to tackle Parisian rush-hour traffic.
He grunted as the receptionist greeted him with a smile, "Bonjour Monsieur Winthrop, il fait beau aujourd'hui" "Il fait tres beau Madame, excusez-moi." He left the young receptionist feeling rather flustered, she never expected any real cordial greeting from Mark, but there was something in his coldness today that disturbed her, a sort of absentmindedness. She was not on personal terms with the man but her brother, Jacques, was getting married to his secretary and she had picked up quite a bit from her sister-in-law-to-be. She had always made him out to be a very well organised and business-like man, and from what she had seen this was true. Today however, he seemed completely different in his manner, his brisk, business-like poise was gone and he seemed oddly preoccupied, "Maybe he's got himself a lover," she mused before she put him to the back of her mind and turned, smiling, to another client.
Inside the locker-room, Mark decided against having his usual workout, the tablets had left him quite drowsy. He undressed and went into the shower, turning the temperature setting down low. He shivered as the cold stream of water splashed up against his chest. He washed himself quickly, not wanting to spend any more time than he needed to, in the cold shower. He washed his hair hurriedly; the cold water was beginning to give him a headache. He turned off the shower and towelled the last of the lather from his hair, "Damn that's the last time I'll do that," he shivered as he towelled himself dry, the towel feeling rough over his goosepimpled flesh. Back in the locker room, he put on the spare set of underwear he kept in his locker and briefly debated whether or not to put his suit back on. He decided against it, spending the night in his car hadn't exactly kept it wrinkle free. He pulled on his tracksuit, and felt the skin on his arms loosen as the goosepimples disappeared. His headache was still there, throbbing dully in the background, not bad enough to really put him off but just enough to annoy him. He reached into the pocket of his suit pants and pulled out the brown bottle of sedatives he had taken from his car. "Better safe than sorry," he muttered as he swallowed another one, coughing again, "Damn that went down bad." Still hacking rather painfully he went out of the dressing room to the juice bar.
Hey Mark, how's it going? The usual?" "You know, the same Fabien. Yeah sure the usual." Fabien turned away, also surprised at Mark's aloofness. Like the receptionist, Stephanie, he never expected any friendly conversation from Mark, but this distracted state of mind was so far from his usually composed self that he shivered. "Could be drugs," he thought to himself as he poured Mark a cup of decaff, "You can never tell with those business types, pressure, stress, it's a shame really." He posted Mark's order for breakfast through the hatch to the kitchen and then brought his coffee over to him. Mark was slumped over the counter; heart attack crossed Fabien's mind for a second. He reached out and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. Mark started awake and hopped back off his seat; his hands raised as if to defend himself. "Whoa Mark calm down it's just me." "Oh Fabien, sorry, I had a bit of a bad night, didn't get much sleep you know." "Are you sure you're okay Mark." "Oh yeah, like a peach, is that decaff?" "Yeah, your usual Mark." "Would you mind getting me a strong expresso as well." "No problem Mark, coming right up." He turned back to the coffee machine, still confused over Mark's reaction, "He acting as if he's cared for his life, I've never seen anyone so paranoid before." When he turned back to Mark with the expresso, he was glancing nervously over his right shoulder. "Hey Mark, expressos ready." Mark started again, "Oh thanks Fabien, would you mind if I paid now? I seem to be a bit absent-minded today, wouldn't want me walking out without paying would we." "It's on the house man, what kind of guy would I be if I didn't help out a pal eh?" Mark looked back at him surprised, meaning to say something about it; instead he glanced back over his shoulder again. "Was it that bloody mongrel?" he wondered to himself again, "Surely not in here, others would see him wouldn't they?" Fabien, beginning to feel a bit awkward, blessed himself as someone else came up to the bar, "Talk to you later, Mark," he called but it fell on deaf ears. Mark was gone.
He had being trying to dismiss the sounds of padding feet behind him for ten minutes, but all his efforts had been futile. The sounds kept becoming more pronounced, not louder, but just more real. He really didn't feel like hanging around to see what was making them finally appear, so he just got up and left the gym. Ignoring Fabien and the receptionist as he made his way back out on to the street, "Surely whatever it is won't find me here," he thought as he blended into the early morning pedestrian traffic, "Maybe I'll even make it back to my car." He was shocked at the hopelessness in his final remark, "Maybe I'll even make it back to my car," he repeated, "Is it really that bad?" nothing told him to the contrary. He hurried along zigzagging through the early morning rush, trying to make it to his car before whatever was following him finally caught up with him. He glanced back over his shoulder, he could have sworn that there was a large dog padding along behind him. He picked up his pace again, beginning to feel his blood pressure rising again. "If I keep this up I'm going to have a bloody stroke or something," he muttered again as sweat began to steam on his forehead.
By the time he reached his car, two blocks form the gym, his tracksuit was already soaked through with sweat and the throbbing vain in his head was beginning to ache. He struggled to open the door of his Mercedes, his trembling hands, battling to keep their hold on his keys. "Damn I can't go back to work like this," he said out loud as he sat into the driver's seat, "What am I going to do." He popped another Xanex into his mouth, ignoring the burning of his throat. He pulled off into the flow of traffic that was beginning to thin out, "I'd better give the office a call, let them know that I won't be in today." He pulled his mobile from its cradle next to his seat and dialled the office. A sharp beeping came through the speaker, he turned off his phone, desperation beginning to take hold, "Damn, of all the rotten, stinking times for this to happen." He sank back into his seat, his hands momentarily leaving the wheel. He jerked back up and twisted the wheel just in time to stop him careening into a bus stop. "No wonder they tell you not to drive while you're on these things," he laughed, bordering on hysterical, the situation was finally beginning to break him down.
He turned on "The Four Seasons" again, feeling a bit calmer as spring burst vigorously through his speakers. He looked out of his window again, he shuddered as he saw the cemetery where his uncle had been buried. He slammed his foot down on the brake as he looked forward again; a vast cloud of steam was rising from beneath the hood of his Mercedes, "What the." he uttered angrily as he jerked to a halt. He hopped out of the car, the vein in head beginning to throb again, and walked around to the front. "Damn this, damn this, damn this," he yelled in anger, not caring who saw or heard him, "What do you want from me?" "Your soul," echoed in the back of his mind. He turned imagining that the voice had come from behind him. "Where are you?" he shouted again, his raw throat beginning to burn again. "I'm right here, can't you see me?" the voice came from his right. He spun around and was face to face with his wing mirror. He saw himself reflected in the silvery surface and started. His eyes were glowing red, his skin was deathly pale and was stretched tightly over his face. It was like the man he had seen sprawled on his windscreen the night before, except that this time it wasn't the stranger he had signed the pact with ten years before; this time it was his own face. "Leave me alone," he called again, the world beginning to spin around him. The soft padding of the hound's paws seemed to fill his ears, echoing back and forth, mixed in with the stranger's cruel laughter. He threw his hands up to his ears, clutching at them vainly, trying to block out the sounds. But they only grew louder, "Stop it," he yelled again, his throat feeling as if it was being ripped out, "!" He ran blindly into the graveyard, his hands still clutched to his head, the vein was now pulsing so violently that it felt as if his head was being thrown back and forth by its force.

When he finally awoke it was dark. He was lying on a bench inside the cemetery, across from his uncle's grave. "Ooh," he groaned putting his hand to his forehead, a sharp pain was pulsing over his left eye. He sat up slowly, his muscles feeling like rocks. He looked around him and that was when he first realised that the voices had stopped. He was surrounded by a deathly silence. He remembered little of what happened after he had ran blindly into the old cemetery, he couldn't even remember falling asleep on the bench, but he could remember the roaring in his head and he shuddered. He looked up at the sky, the moon was full and it was shining brightly in the clear sky. "No bed sheets nor clouds for cover," he thought to himself as he looked up at the naked sky. He looked around him, scanning the graveyard. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he looked anyway. He had a feeling, it had been a long time since he had had one, but he still believed in them. "Something's not right," he whispered, "Something's not right at all."
His sharp eyes caught a movement on a nearby mound. He got up, his legs wobbling under him, and stared in the direction of the mound. The moon was fairly close to being directly behind it, and Mark thought he saw it blink briefly as something passed in front of it, but he wasn't sure. He walked slowly towards the mound, carefully side-stepping graves as he went. He didn't feel sure of himself at all. The night seemed empty, it seemed unusually quite. None of the city's noise seemed to be present, the perpetual hum, which seemed to emanate from the city's streets, was absent. Mark felt very alone as he approached the bottom of the mound. He glanced upwards again, the moon appeared to crown the top of the mound. A shadow fell across the moon, casting its darkness across Mark. He shivered, any warmth that had been left in the cool night air seemed to have been sucked away. The silhouette of a gigantic hound lay against the silvery glow of the moon, its head was stretched out to the sky, a soul-freezing cry coming from its gaping jaws. Fear struck Mark like a bolt a lightening, he jerked backwards, half-turning as he moved. He lost his balance and he fell landing on his face, his nose crunched painfully against a rock. He scrambled to his feet, the pain shooting from his nose half blinding him. He ran on in a half-stumbling gait, one hand clasped over his crushed nose, trying to stop the steady flow of blood. He heard the hound spring from the hill and set off in chase.
He ran on blindly, the vein throbbing wildly in his forehead again. The arm that wasn't holding his nose flailed awkwardly as he struggled to keep his balance. His mind flashed back to his dream and the hound's hot breath on the back of his neck, the feeling of the hound's weight pressing down on his back. He spurred on, fear lending his feet the energy to keep him going forward. A new voice echoed in his head, half drowned out by Mark's own screaming. The new voice was not threatening like the one he had heard earlier, but for Mark any voice in his head that wasn't his own was an enemy and he ignored it and it's constant screaming of ".the gate,.the gate." He didn't care what came before the words the gate, it would probably have disturbed him greatly if he knew that the words were, "Don't go through the gate." But he didn't and what he didn't know couldn't save him.
He saw the gate come into view in front of him and hope rose in his heart, the pain in his legs receded as he sped towards his salvation. He could sense the hound closing in on him from behind, but he no longer cared, thirty steps to the gate, twenty steps, ten steps. He flew through the gate, skidded to a halt, fighting wildly with his momentum as he turned around and slammed the gate shut upon the hound that was no longer behind him. The voices flooded back, the padding of the hound's feet, the stranger's evil laughter and the screaming, the screaming that pierced his soul. He threw his hands back up to his ears trying to block them out, the world began to spin around him again, faster and faster, the noises in his head getting louder, the terror petrifying his heart expanding, the vein in his forehead pounding faster and faster. "ARRHG!" he screamed, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" he sank to his knees, driven beneath the force of the screams, "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUTTT!" he sunk towards the ground again, his forehead touching the cold concrete. The stranger's face materialised in front of him against the backdrop of a world spinning out of control, "You pitiful, wretch," the stranger mouthed, no sound coming to Mark's ears through the screaming, "You disgust me, you wretch, you cowering little sell-out, you sad excuse for a man." "DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU!" Mark yelled the screeching drowning out even his own screams. "No damn you, you coward, it's time to pay for your selfishness, it's time for me to claim my prize." "NO! NO! I WON'T LET YOU, I WON'T!" But the stranger only threw his head back in laughter, a laughter merging with the other evil cackle, echoing, echoing, and echoing around in his head. The vein in his head pulsed faster, he felt the blood rushing to his head, his light-headedness growing.
His vision began to fade as the pulsing in his head began to relieve itself, and the pain began to flow out of his mind like water. He felt a warmth growing at the back of his eyes, he saw his vision turning red before it blacked out. He felt all his pain and fear, all of his greed and longing, all of his stress and the pounding of voices, slip away as his consciousness flowed away, along with his life. As the other voices began to fade, the weaker on that had tried to warn him time and time again spoke up, "One last gift Mark, One last moment amidst eternal agony, one last moment of peace, one last moment that means more than all the wealth that you ever possessed. One last priceless moment, make the most of it."
Mark smiled as the voices faded to a faint hum in the background, he smiled as he remembered his uncle pushing him on the rusty swing in their local playground. He smiled as he remembered the painful squeaking of the rusty chains, the squeaking that had hurt his teeth. He smiled as he remembered when his uncle had clapped him on the back, when he had received first prize in the school chess championship. He smiled as he remembered his uncles wedding and the way that his uncle's wife had bent and given him a kiss on the cheek as he handed them the rings. He smiled for one last time as the screaming increased again and drowned out all of the memories, he smiled before the pain rose in his head again. He smiled as the stranger's laughter echoed in his head again. He smiled before the fear rose in his soul. He smiled one last time as he screamed, as he called out in agony one last time. He smiled as all went black and his life finally slipped away.

Famous Billionaire Dies

Billionaire Mark Winthrop was found dead outside the Rue de la Liberation cemetery last night. Doctors say that the self made billionaire, who tripled his uncles fortune on the stock market, died from a ruptured blood vessel in his head, following a massive heart attack. No one has been able to shed light on the last day of the late billionaire's life. He was seen last, the previous morning, getting into his Mercedes, two blocks away from his gym. He didn't show up at the office, and his whereabouts were unknown until an early morning jogger came across his body outside the graveyard. Witnesses Fabien Poubelle and Stephanie Durand, who work at the gym, where he was a member, said that he hadn't been himself that morning and toxicology reports showed high levels of Alprazolam, the primary ingredient in Xanex, a bottle of which was found in the late man's pocket. The control of the company will now shift to the board of directors, who have put together a finance deal to buy out Mr. Winthrop's shares in the accountancy firm. His own personal fortune, due to the lack of a will, will revert to his next of kin, his brother Samuel, a small-time lawyer in London, who was unavailable for comment. Funeral services will take place at the weekend in St. Mark's. Members of the public are welcome to pay their respects. R.I.P.

Keith O' Sullivan
3-10-04