Breakdown At Tiffany's (and other stories)

By David Braga

A man approaches a busy café with revenge in mind. A boy, staying away from home for the first time, is terrified of the shadows on the wall. Miss Marple works out how to spend her spare time when there are no crimes to solve. A collection of twenty stories, both natural and supernatural, ranging from vampires to a bored man playing online poker, from the strange but curious mind of David Braga

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Braga
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465872128

David Braga

David Braga lives and works in Bristol, UK. He has a son, a pool cue, and a bottle of wine.

Book preview

Breakdown At Tiffany's

(and other stories)

A Short Story Collection

by

David Braga

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

David Braga on Smashwords

Breakdown At Tiffany's:

A Short Story Collection

Copyright © 2011 by David Braga

cover design by heartstrand.co.uk

Some of these stories have been previously published:

A shortened version of Shadows was published by Pill Hill Press

Man on a Mission was published by Structo Magazine

Breakdown at Tiffany's was published by Whisper and Scream Magazine

Shopping was published and performed by Liars' League

Underground was published in Twisted Dreams Magazine

Death In The Village was published by Ether Books

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Shadows

As young Elliott Houlden settled into bed, Sam’s mum turned out the light and wished him sweet dreams. Drifting towards sleep, Elliott reflected on the wonderful time he and Sam had just enjoyed. They had played football in the park, computer games in Sam’s bedroom, and watched a scary video in the evening, just after eating cheeseburger and chips, a special treat made by Sam’s mum. It was his first night away from home, but Elliott hadn’t spared his family a second thought all day. He’d never have been allowed that meal normally, and Sam’s parents were so nice to him, he was only really feeling envious about how Sam must spend every day, and wished he could stay forever.

When he awoke, it was still dark. Unfamiliar with the room he was sleeping in, he was suddenly afraid. The air seemed different, smoky or something, and the surroundings seemed strange and hostile. In his short life, he was used to everything in its usual place, and shorn of that comfort, he felt confused and alone. There was a window running along the left-hand side of the room. It had a blind rather than curtains, and the moon had managed to poke between its slats, bringing with it just enough light for Elliott to see suggestions of his surroundings. There was a towel hanging off the radiator under the window, and this received most of the light, making it seem to glow a strange, unearthly blue. He could also see the edge of a bookshelf jutting out on the other side of the window, casting most of the far part of the room into unequivocal blackness. On his right, Elliott could just about see the door, and some of the wall, both faintly shrouded in cold, dark blue light.

The horizontal strips of cold light created several silhouettes, sinister and threatening to Elliott, and his breathing quickened. He tried to remember what the room had consisted of when the light had been on, a lifetime ago, back when things were safe. A ghost with one outstretched arm, hovering by the door, he knew was the dressing gown he had worn while brushing his teeth. He remembered hanging it on the back of the door. There was a massive, wolf-like creature with a crooked nose and big sunken eyes, standing by the door ready to pounce. He was fairly sure this was created by the chest of drawers that he remembered had piles of boxes and clothes on it. There was also, just next to that, a man in some kind of hat, the type worn by detectives in the films his mother liked to watch on a Sunday afternoon. Tall, and yet stooping, as if hunched, ready to pounce, it stood, looking at Elliott, with its head angled slightly to one side. He couldn’t remember what was in that part of the room, so couldn’t rationalise it to himself. He watched it carefully then, waiting for it to move. He didn’t know what he’d do if the monster’s head slowly righted itself, and it crept towards him, arms outstretched, but he still didn’t dare take his eyes off it.

The silence, both inside and outside, merely intensified Elliott’s discomfort. He found himself longing for morning. He knew he would laugh to himself at how uncomfortable he had felt, but at this moment, with nobody to call for, and nobody to check on him, he couldn’t see how. He wanted to go to the toilet. He wanted to turn the light on, to demystify the shadows and remove the power from the darkness, but he was scared to get out of bed. He felt the surety that any movement, the exposing of any part of him from underneath the racing car duvet, was condoning his immediate execution. He could actually anticipate. with a thrilling certainty, the feel of the cold hand around his ankle, should his skinny, eight-year-old, pyjama-clad leg escape from the confines of his Ferrari cocoon.

The next time he opened his eyes, sunlight was streaming through the same slats that had caused him such unrest. He rubbed his eyes, and a knock on the door told him that the rest of the household had also made it successfully through the night. Elliott rose and diligently brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Returning from the bathroom, he was mid-way through getting dressed when he remembered his interrupted sleep the night before. He looked around the room at the inanimate objects that had become shadows in his mind. The harmless dressing gown hung lifelessly from the back of the door, the pile of ordinary cardboard boxes and assorted clothes still adorned the chest of drawers. Next to that, there was nothing, merely a bare expanse of cream wall.

By the time Elliott joined Sam’s family at the kitchen table for breakfast, the traumas of the preceding night had escaped his consciousness. In much the same way as a treated scrape or cut on the playground, once it stops hurting, the child forgets its presence. He and Sam chewed their cereal while laughing at their plans for that morning, and the things they had got up to the previous afternoon.

Later that day, when Sam’s dad told them he had to take Elliott home, Elliott dutifully put on his bright blue anorak, and gathered his overnight possessions together. He politely thanked Sam’s mum for letting him stay over, told Sam he’d see him in school, and then, with the formalities complete, he climbed into the back of Sam’s dad’s Vauxhall, and clicked the seatbelt shut. Sam’s dad came out of the house, a battered grey fedora firmly clamped down over his head, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Sparking up a cigarette, he eased the car backwards out of the driveway, paused to turn on the radio to a local channel, and slowly headed down the road as the rain began to fall.

House Party

The sun was painful, hitting the back of his eyes as they opened. He cursed the lack of curtain, but, lacking the strength to move, he lay still, watching the dust motes gently dance, and he listened for something, anything, to indicate what time it might be. There was nothing. There were usually milkmen, birds, cars. He was used to at least the ticking of his clock, but now, of course, that was gone too.

He groaned and lifted his head. His throat was dry. Squinting, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, brushing back his hair, greasy and wiry against his skin. He scooped the pack from the floorboards, grabbed the lighter from within, and one of the two remaining cigarettes. Firing third time, he lit up with the disinterested urgency of the long-term smoker. After he had taken a drag, the tension went out of his neck, and his head lowered onto the pillow as if let down by faulty hydraulics.

He lay like that, looking at the ceiling, until long after the cigarette had turned to filter and dust between his fingers. He held it, unmoving, without even noticing it, until he stubbed it against the floorboards, keeping his eyes pointing upwards.

He thought of the process of memory, while visions passed before him, and he didn’t trust it, or them. Moreover, he didn’t trust himself.

He looked around the room. There was little to linger on. Floorboards, yellow walls with white scratches, faded in places, and a big bay window. That was all, except for his clothes lying in a heap, the sagging mattress that he lay on, a faded brown sheet, and a matching duvet tossed carelessly aside in the heat. He lay there, naked, his legs slightly parted, feeling like a