Smoke & Mirrors

By Christian Tamblyn

A murderer cursed by the ghosts of his victims, vampires at a rave party, the true secret behind the pyramids, a predator who bites off more than he can chew, aliens from the future with an unusual agenda and a family with a fishy secret. All this and more awaits within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Tamblyn
• Release date: Jan 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301565030

Christian Tamblyn

Chris Tamblyn was born in 1967 in Parramatta, Australia and was raised in the NSW county town of Kempsey. He joined the RAAF at age 16, where he became qualified as an Aircraft Engineer and also formed a longstanding D&D group with friends, beginning his interest in mythology and fantasy writing. He is currently living with his wife and two boys in Brisbane, Australia where he still works as an Engineer for a major Airline and devotes his free time to family, writing and classic car restoration.

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Smoke & Mirrors Christian Tamblyn

Smoke & Mirrors

A collection of short stories

by

Christian Tamblyn

Smashwords Edition

Copywrite 2013 Christian Tamblyn

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Confessions *

Pharaoh God *

Plaything *

Holographic Banana *

Rave *

Selka *

Wyverns *

Flying Spanner *

Exile *

Mantikhoras *

Confessions

From his guard post by the frosted glass windows, Rogers spotted him coming and sat bolt upright on his stool. The man who drew his attention stepped down from the weatherworn boardwalk across the street and quickly crossed the hard-packed dirt of Brisbane’s main thoroughfare, ducking erratically between two passing carriages.

It was late afternoon and the bank was free of customers, so Rogers yelped a panicked alert to the rest of the staff.

The loony is on his way!

Mr Granger the assistant manager frowned reproachfully.

Rogers, I’ll not have you talk that way about a valued customer. There was no genuine annoyance in his monotone rebuke.

The staff grew quiet behind their counters and stared with trepidation at the vacant entrance until the all-too familiar scowling figure of Patrick Mayne burst in through the double doors. He muttered loudly to himself in a broad Scottish brogue then stopped one pace inside the bank, spun violently on his heel and wagged an angry finger at the vacant space behind him. He glared at the empty patch of air, as if daring the slowly closing doors to answer his ongoing tirade of rough curses.

Just as quickly Patrick Mayne spun again on the polished checker tiles to face the open counters, which sparked a flurry of activity from all the tellers as they tried in vain to recover from their obvious gawking and look far too busy to be bothered.

Patrick paid them all no heed and stalked past the row of counters to the front reception desk. Taking out a small concealed pouch from his waist coat, he unceremoniously slammed the bag on the assistant manager’s open bookwork, almost tipping the inkpot.

Weekly deposit, Granger. Two pounds, six shillings, threepence, was all Mayne muttered by way of a harsh greeting.

Normally, visits from an investor of this man’s stature warranted the highest care and attention from all the staff, but not so for Mr Mayne. Experience had taught them all to be wary and cautious. Greeting him at the door invited an immediate tirade of abuse. It was rumoured he had even struck a doorman at the Royal Exchange once for simply holding the door open with a warm greeting.

Mr Granger ignored the rude interruption to his work and politely lifted the crumpled pouch, then closed his ledger and began the familiar ritual.

He took up the deposit bag and ushered Mr Mayne without further word towards the vault concealed at the rear of the bank. Granger dared not count the money in front of Mayne as he would for any other customer. He had tried that when he had just started at the branch, before he knew any better, and had suffered an insane barrage of verbal abuse and even threats of physical violence in front of the junior staff. Never again. He would check the tally after the impossible man was gone.

They moved past the front counters, beyond the office partition and into the dimly lit, cramped area within the small vault room. Patrick Mayne loomed over Granger’s shoulder and scrutinised every movement as George opened the designated safety deposit box and placed the contents of the bag inside. Granger made sure to open the door the necessary amount and leaned far enough sideways to enable Mr Mayne to clearly see that the full amount of his account holdings was still within the container. This too would make the process go much easier.

It’s all there then?

Yes, Mr Mayne.

No one’s been in there?

No, Mr Mayne. That would be impossible.

You sure, lad?

Absolutely, Mr Mayne.

That better be true, Granger. There are other banks in this town now that I could easily be using instead of you.

There’s no need for that, Mr Mayne. You know you are a valued client here.

Just make sure you don’t let them in here.

Who, Mr Mayne? Who would we let in here?

Patrick Mayne paused, looked with dread towards the distant doors and held his breath for a moment before replying more evenly. No one in particular. Just the usual undesirables. That’s my money and no one else’s. Understand?

Absolutely, Mr Mayne.

Patrick Mayne’s scowl grew deeper than normal., You know, don’t you?

Know what, Mr Mayne?

They told you, didn’t they?

I have no idea what you are talking about sir.

Patrick raised his hand as if to strike and his eyes narrowed to pinpoints, then the frown lightened and the hand fell back to his side.

Of course they haven’t told you. They’re toying with me again, as usual. Just as well.

As quickly as he had entered, the strange man turned from the vault room and stormed out of the bank. Granger followed him to the door to properly see him out but was never acknowledged again. He was flustered by the visit as usual, despite the fact things went as well as could ever be expected from the likes of Patrick Mayne.

George let out a final sigh of relief from safely within the confines of the bank’s comfortable interior. He watched with morbid interest through the clear lettering on the doors as Patrick Mayne took up a heated yelling match with thin air just outside the doorway. Mayne then stormed off up the middle of Queen Street, fully expecting the passing horsemen and carriages alike to part and give way.

Fucking arrogant loony, Granger mumbled quietly under his breath so the others wouldn’t hear. Who needs business like yours, you mad prick.

They were waiting for him when Patrick left the bank. Cox and Fyfe slumped together like any regular drunken companions, propping each other up against the nearest post as they always did to help hold themselves together. He could never fully escape them. At least this time no other customers had come in after him and let them into the bank. One small mercy was that they could not open doors for themselves. He hated it when they were in there with him. Taunting him incessantly and hovering so close to his savings.

How’s me money doin’ today, Patty Boy? Cox blurted out with a generous spray of bright red spittle that showered the warped planks of the walkway with fine red droplets. Bloody froth bubbled out through the nasty gash in his slashed larynx, just before his head slipped sideways and almost fell from his shoulders. Only a quick grab with both hands kept it in place, but intestines spilled out from the ghastly tear in his belly instead and flopped onto his boots in soggy, blue veined coils.

Bugger you both! Mayne retorted as he moved passed them and onto the open street. If he moved quickly enough they had trouble keeping pace with him

Aren’t you gunna wait while Bob helps me pick up me innards? It should be you scrappin’ them up off the deck! After all, it was you that spilt ‘em in the first place.

Go to hell!

Only after you do. Murderous bastard!

Patrick stalked up the middle of the dusty, pot-holed street with all the haste he could muster, hardly noticing the traffic and the curses of the passing riders as they veered around him. He glanced back to see they had pulled themselves together and were traipsing after him, Bob Cox with his guts held roughly back in place by one hand and his head clamped on fairly close to straight with the other; while Will Fyfe lolled alongside with his strange, wobbly gait. His head was tilted at a bizarre right angle that showed the angry purple marks of the hangman’s noose on his grotesquely twisted neck.

Wait for us. Patty Boy! they called, laughing and taunting in his wake. Where are you goin’ without your old buddies?

The sound of their gibes faded behind the noisy passing of another wagon as Patrick did his best to increase the gap between them and make it home before they could foil his escape. The ongoing battle to elude them was always the same; a tiring, unending game of cat and mouse.

He reached his house a short way up the main street and entered the front yard, but hesitated on the path when he spotted them in their favourite seat on the front porch. The grizzly spectres of Cox and Fyfe were propped lazily against the wall, patiently awaiting his arrival. Gore smeared the wall behind them where they had scrawled creative insults using their own blood and excrement. Further blood and offal pooled beneath them on the bench and dropped in splatters onto the floorboards at their feet.

Patrick took a detour across the patchy grass and made for the back door.

Welcome home, Patty ya bastard! the two men called to him as they rose to lumber after him. Hard day at the shop? Who did ya butcher today, or was it just the poor cows and sheep for a change?

They moved quickly around the veranda, despite the various parts that fell from Bob Cox’s body as they went. Patrick was forced to break into a run to beat them around the house and up the short set of stairs, then in through the open rear entrance without being intercepted. He slammed the door behind him, careful not to disrupt the thick line of salt that lay across the threshold. The two men, foiled in their pursuit, yelled insults and bashed against the door as it slammed solidly in their faces.

Come on, Patty, let us in. I’m sure Mary wouldn’t mind having us to dinner.

The blood rose in Patrick’s face and he exploded back at them. Be gone, you devils. You’ll never win. I will never tell. No one will ever know. The money is all mine now. You can never have it back.

What are you doing, Poppa?

His angry rant was interrupted by the sight of his young daughter peering at him from the end of the hallway and his anger quickly turned on her.

Rosy! Find your mother and be gone from my sight before I take the switch to you.

The ten-year-old blanched and disappeared in terror from the fury of her father. Patrick forced himself to relax a little and recover from his embarrassing outburst. The sounds of taunting from beyond the door ceased and he cracked the opening again to peer outside. The men were gone. Cox and Fyfe would be up to something new. They were always up to something. At least they couldn’t