The Monster Inside

By A. F. McKeating

Monsters come in all shapes and sizes...

Two people: five years apart, but connected by their fight to keep the bad things at bay.

"The young man looked up in his direction and their eyes met. Carson had a fleeting presentiment of something terrible." As Carson rebuilds his relationship with estranged daughter, Jodie, he's ready to do anything to keep her safe. Anything.

Five years later...

"I passed in front of the empty house. There were no lights on inside and I felt as if all its dark windows were watching me. It knew I was there." For eleven year old Emma, it's questionable whether the bullies who torment her at school are any worse than the monster that lurks in her imagination. Or in the empty house round the corner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. F. McKeating
• Release date: Aug 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476096162

A. F. McKeating

A. F. McKeating lives and writes in the UK. She has published several novels and short stories. She writes for children as Alison McKeating.

Book preview

The coffee mug flew across the lawn, trailing a mud-coloured arc in its wake. Its target, a young ginger cat, froze, caught in snapshot, wide-eyed at this unexpected reopening of hostilities. Had it flinched, the cat would have been hit full on by the missile, which merely skimmed its whiskers, before smashing an instant later against the garden wall. The sound shattered the damp stillness of the early September morning.

Clear off, you dirty bugger!

The cat spared a second to fix Carson with an icy stare. Then, unexpectedly, it streaked across the grass in his direction. For a second, crazily, it occurred to him that it was planning to exact some sort of vengeance for the attack. He tensed, ready to duck back inside and slam the kitchen door, but the cat swerved at the last moment, veering off towards the fence that divided his garden from the neighbours'. It scrabbled through the opening at the bottom, back legs working furiously as it forced itself through the mess of earth and weeds that blocked the way. An impudent flick of its orange tail – a parting gesture that wasn't lost on him – and it was gone.

He starred after it balefully. The cat had been hanging round for a few weeks now. Its owner, if it had one, should keep a closer eye on it and stop it messing in people's gardens. For some reason the cat had taken a particular liking to his property, creeping over the rockery and stalking through the brambles in the far corner that he had never got round to clearing that summer. Or the summer before, come to think of it. He could have just about put up with the cat's presence if it hadn't been for the mess it kept leaving in the flower bed. Although even he had to admit that calling the patch of stony, weed-ridden earth near the garage a flower bed was stretching the definition too far.

Sighing, he lumbered over to collect the broken remains of the mug, leaving a trail in the damp grass as he went. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself as he bent down to pick them up, avoiding the ragged wet stain left by the coffee. His eyes followed a couple of thin trickles as they bled down the dark red brickwork, past the fading geraniums that struggled on amongst the weeds, their leaves already beginning to decay and turn yellow. Autumn was coming early this year. Carson shivered.

His belt buckle dug into his stomach, an uncomfortable reminder of past resolutions broken. He had tightened it a notch this morning in a self-conscious attempt to convince himself that he had managed to cut down, whatever the bathroom scales might say. Puffing a little, he straightened up again. The doctor had warned him that he needed to lose weight if he didn't want to risk developing one of several common health conditions as he moved towards his mid forties. She had waved some leaflets at him, saying that being thinner might also improve his sense of wellbeing. He let out a breath slowly. What did doctors know? Losing weight couldn't guarantee success for Carson's, the rather unimaginatively titled restaurant which represented his latest business venture, or repair the fractures in his personal life. Nor would it bring back Lisa and Jodie. He pushed that last thought aside. Today he had to be positive. Hoping that none of the neighbours had heard his outburst a few minutes earlier, he headed back to the kitchen, and what passed for breakfast, with a heavy heart.

Sometime later he stood at the kitchen sink, absently rinsing his cereal bowl and wondering why ad agencies spent so much money trying to flog this rubbish. He could think of better things to chew on. Carpet tiles, for instance. He had forced the stuff into his mouth, washing it down with grapefruit juice; that would help to break down the fat, or so he'd read somewhere. At least it tasted of something, especially once he'd added a couple of spoonfuls of sugar to take the edge off the bitterness.

He stopped as a sensation of being watched began to nibble at him. Looking out of the window, his gaze wandered over the uneven flagstones of the patio and the long grass that sprouted up round the edges of the lawn, invading the unkempt borders. The garden no longer held any interest for him. He only ventured out there to tidy it up half heartedly when it was absolutely necessary. It looked as though the place had been deserted long ago. His eyes passed over the bramble patch, returning when they caught a small movement deep within the thicket of browning leaves. A pair of golden-green eyes was staring at him fixedly through the foliage, whether in hope or hostility he couldn't say. How long had the cat been there? It must have slunk back into the garden while he was chewing through his breakfast.

What's so bloody fascinating about me, mate? he muttered. Go and find someone else to stare at.

He held its gaze for another minute or so, feeling perplexed and slightly foolish. In the end, he was the one who looked away first. He grabbed his car keys, annoyed at having been stared down. Perhaps if it hadn't been for his creeping apprehension at this morning's visit to the restaurant, he might not have been so bothered by this latest encounter with the interloper. Even so, before leaving the house, he tipped the rest of the cereal from the box into an old bowl.

I'm not a soft touch, he told himself as he left it outside by the back door.

*

Carson was aware of a slight flicker of apprehension as he drove down the main avenue that led into the town centre. Wide and tree-lined, a leftover from more hopeful times, it was a road that seemed to promise much before it crossed the railway line and began a gradual decline past the Magistrates Courts and the newspaper offices. His nervousness increased as he drove across the roundabout by the library, passing beneath the cool, iron-clad gaze of one of the town's industrial forefathers, and on to the road's final, undignified end by the retail park.

Get a bloody grip, he muttered as he left his car outside the supermarket.

Free parking was one benefit of the rather ugly development that had sprang up on the site. They'd levelled the heart of the town a few years earlier, putting up a modern shopping mall, complete with an identikit coffee-shop-and-retail-unit combo that made it look like the middle of a hundred other towns. People seemed to like the new development, mostly, although some grumbled about the loss of character. The restaurant was a few minutes' walk away on one of the main thoroughfares, just a block down from the town hall. If you stepped out of the front door, you could see the building's ornate sandstone façade, with the clock rearing up, sentinel-like, above the surrounding buildings. At least that was one original feature of the old town centre they hadn't tried to bulldoze.

Gilby, his friend and accountant, was waiting outside the restaurant when he got there.

All right, John? We did say nine o'clock, didn't we?

We did. Sorry. I got held up. Carson glanced up at the sign as he fumbled with the front door key. He'd chosen white lettering on a sky blue background. It had a frank, hopeful sort of look about it, he thought. He gestured to Gilby. After you.

*

As they went inside, he caught the look of dismay on Gilby's face as the smell of damp plaster, and possibly something more unpleasant, hit him. There was a discarded paint pot in the middle of what would be the main dining area, and a stepladder leaned against one wall, almost as though propping it up. A nervous upward glance showed to Carson that the new light fittings still hadn't been installed. Yet again, the workmen had failed his expectations. The more they did, the harder it became to get any sense of what the place would look like when it was finished. More to the point, it was difficult to see exactly what he was getting for his money, which was unfortunate given present company.

They, er, said they were having difficulties getting supplies, he said in response to Gilby's enquiring glance.

Right. Gilby's eyes held his for a moment. Is there anywhere we can sit down? I need to go through these with you.

Carson glanced apprehensively at the bulging file of paperwork. A thin, serious looking man with a wispy moustache and sharp grey eyes, Gilby always looked hungry somehow, if not for food then for information. If they hadn't been friends, Carson would almost have been scared of him, especially in his present circumstances. The restaurant was beginning to look like little more than a half-baked scheme he had cooked up late one night over too many beers. In fact, the idea had come to him one Sunday morning after a fried breakfast and several cups of coffee, but the end result was the same. He had always been a dabbler, moving restlessly from one business venture to another over the years, never quite feeling he had found his groove.

He had picked up the details one day when he had dropped into the estate agent's to browse through potential rentals properties. It didn't look like much, even the woman in the office said so, but he'd gone to see it anyway and had got that feeling. The one that told him there was money to be made here. The feeling had got stronger after that initial phone call to his old friend Greg Mills, who'd said he was doing the right thing and wasn't it a bit of luck that he was in a position to help out. Greg Mills, a chef by trade, had been looking for a fresh start after the restaurant where he had been working in Lancaster had gone belly up. Another victim of the recession. He had persuaded Carson to sink his money into the venture, had assured him that this new venture was bound to be more successful. Mediterranean food never went out of fashion, apparently.

With you money and my culinary skills, we can't go wrong, Greg had assured him.

In the meantime, Carson had been to a couple of recruitment agencies about the other staff, but then had to keep putting them off sending people because of the delays in getting the place ready.

Afraid of what else he might see left undone, Carson led Gilby through to the kitchen. It was still semi-complete – or semi-demolished, depending on your viewpoint – but at least the builders had managed to install one of the new work surfaces.

I'd offer you a coffee… He made a vague gesture: the kitchen spoke for itself. He pulled out a solitary wooden stool. But have a seat.

What about you? Gilby asked, looking round.

Oh, I'll stand, said Carson, leaning his elbow casually on the counter, then straightening up again, prompted by a sudden fear that it might give way. He watched as Gilby deposited the file on the counter and flipped it open.

Right. I wanted to check a few things with you and because you're so close to the office…

You mean you thought you'd come and have a snoop round.

These invoices you gave me were a bit odd and there's, ah, an anomaly in your records for August, Gilby went on. It's to do with your projected income from this place.

Carson listened with a growing sense of gloom as Gilby led him through the litany of problems he had come across in the paperwork. Despite his past business experience, mostly successful, he felt that he was being exposed as a complete amateur when it came to setting up a restaurant.

And, of course, there's the remaining expense of getting this place up and running, finished Gilby.

Carson didn't like his expression, which hovered midway between a sneer and a grimace, when he said this place.

I'm working on it. We've had a few problems with the plumbing and stuff, but we'll get there. You know how it is…

Gilby looked unconvinced. Carson could see he knew exactly how it was. They went back through to the shell of the future dining area, although at that point it was sadly lacking in much beyond three walls and a door. The workmen had managed to demolish the fourth wall after a fashion, but had made no serious attempt to replace it with the archway that Carson had in mind.

What can I do? he asked, addressing the rather bleak space. It was hard to imagine people ever paying to spend time in here.

Put your foot down, Gilby told him. Show them who's boss. It's your money they're wasting, not theirs.

I know, but they're a sickly lot.

Oh? Gilby looked sceptical.

The foreman, Green, he's, just had a heart bypass, so he can't do much apart from watch them and one of the others has sprained his ankle. Says he can't put too much weight on it…

Gilby raised his eyebrows. Anyone else?

The plumber's got tennis elbow.

There was a long pause. Then, perhaps to change the subject, Gilby asked, What theme did you say you were going for?

Modern Mediterranean, British-Italian fusion, that kind of thing. This'll all be terracotta and blue. And I'm having some wall lights along there. Mood lighting, you know. Carson waved an arm expansively. Maybe a few plants, if there's any money left in the pot. He attempted a grin at the rather weak pun.

Gilby smiled faintly. Are you sure there's a market for that here?

It's not the Wild West. Carson couldn't help sounding defensive. He wondered if it was supposed to be a trick question.

I mean, you've done market research, checked out the competition, and all that presumably?

Yeah, course I have. Carson felt his face grow red.

Gilby was silent for a moment, possibly waiting for further confirmation that Carson knew what he was doing. When it wasn't forthcoming, he smiled and held out his hand. Carson shook it with relief.

Right, I'll be off then, said Gilby. He cast a last thoughtful glance around the room and made for the door. I'd given them a ring if I were you, he said as Carson showed him out. Tell them you're running out of time.

Carson listened with resentment to the neat click of Gilby's heels against the pavement as he walked off. There was a man who knew where he was going. Feeling depressed, he went back inside.

He sighed. Where the hell were the builders? He checked his mobile for messages, but there was no sign that they had tried to get in touch with him. He hung around for another twenty minutes, wandering fitfully through the restaurant as he tried to picture how it would look, if and when it got finished. An increasing sense of gloom settled over him as he contemplated, yet again, his life up to this point. A couple of failed relationships, one of which had produced a daughter he no longer saw, a string of business ventures that always promised to, but never quite, lead to bigger things, and a once-impressive, but increasingly shabby house whose empty spaces left him feeling lonely and inadequate. Was that really all he had to show for his forty four years on the planet?

Eventually, just as he was about to leave, Green and a couple of his lads arrived, one of them looking somewhat worse for wear.

Good night? asked Carson, his voice hard.

The lad nodded sheepishly as Green rolled his eyes and said, Twenty first do. Never learn, do they?

He spent a few minutes evading Carson's questions and looked annoyed when Carson, who was still smarting from Gilby's visit earlier, told him no more money would be forthcoming until they had achieved something more substantial.

If that's the way it is… he said, shaking his head sadly, as if he had never encountered such a state of affairs.

It is.

Better get to work then, lads, said Green and turned his back on Carson.

Feeling that he had been dismissed, Carson left them to it.

*

He rubbed his eyes and pushed away the pile of papers, not really caring now if he messed them up. It was late and he had been sitting at the dining table for over two hours, trying to make sense of the figures until they had begun to blur before his eyes. Unconsciously, he chewed at a fingernail. He felt trapped, hemmed in by numbers. Whenever he thought he had found a way out, a clear line of sight through them, there was always something else lurking in the undergrowth, another thicket of VAT and potential debts to get caught up in. Maybe if he just tossed the whole damned lot up in the air and let the papers fall where they will, he might make more sense of them.

He rose from the table, deciding that he couldn't do anything more productive tonight than have a beer. As he headed for the fridge, he thought about his conversation with Gilby that morning. In spite of his rather supercilious attitude, Gilby was right that he needed to take a long, hard look at his accounts. Carson was getting dangerously close to another summons from the bank to consider his situation, as they had put it last time.

He opened the fridge door and inspected the contents gloomily: a couple of stale-looking sausage rolls, a ready made pizza, orange juice, milk, a fridge-pack of lagers and an unopened bag of salad leaves that were going a bit sludgy round the edges. The rotting vegetation represented his latest failed attempt at healthy eating this week; he would have to throw it away if he didn't touch it soon. Musing on the likelihood of that happening, he pulled out a can of lager and listened to the satisfying snick as the ring pull pierced the lid. He took a long draught, thinking that he was in the mood to sink several more of these very quickly. Then, remembering his promise to the doctor about reducing his weight, he inspected the side of the can to see if it gave any information on the number of calories the lager contained. He ran a hand through his thinning brown hair and peered at the ridiculously small letters, but failed to find what he was looking for. Feeling thankful (he really didn't want to know the answer), he drained the can and wondered whether to have another. He needed a clear head when he went round to Abbey Road tomorrow; there was a problem with the plumbing in the one of the bathrooms that he wanted to tackle. Then again, another drink might help him sleep. Maybe if he had a slice of pizza with it, he wouldn't feel any side effects in the morning.

Four cans of lager and a ham and pineapple 10 inch later (thin crust – the only saving grace), he lay dozing in front of an old French film with subtitles. He'd seen it before, but there was nothing else worth watching at that time of night. The bit where the hero was finally driven under by the combined duplicity of the weather and his fellow villagers always got to him. Sometime after midnight, as the final credits swam a little in front of his eyes, he struggled to get himself upright. He rubbed his forehead, already feeling the beginnings of a mild hangover. So much for his vain hope that alcohol would help him to sleep. Now he would have to take some paracetamol if he didn't want the headache to keep him awake. One thing always seemed to lead to another.

He switched off the television and cleared his things away in the kitchen. Thinking that some fresh air would help, he opened the back door and stuck his nose outside. A light showed in one of the houses over the other side of the playing fields that backed onto the house; the sight of it made him feel unaccountably lonely.

Sometimes he thought he'd made a mistake staying in the house after Lisa had left, taking Jodie with her. It was a substantial, red brick semi, what the Victorian architect had probably described as a villa. Something about its gables and the long driveway said the owners had made it. This was a nice area, too, even if the passing crowds of kids on their way to and from the high school up the road got on his nerves sometimes. With its four bedrooms and two reception rooms, the house was way too big for him now that he was on his own. To be honest, it had been too big for the three of them when they were still together, but he and Lisa had been so taken with the idea that they could afford it – just – they hadn't stopped to consider whether it was really right for them. They had started off in a little two bedroom terraced house near the town centre, and they had thought they were moving up in the world when they came here. Once their initial bout of redecorating had passed, though, they had rattled around in the house, feeling somewhat lost amidst the high ceilings and large rooms. Neither of them wanted to be the first to admit this sense of being out of place.

When their marriage finally collapsed, nearly a decade ago now, Carson had decided to buy Lisa out of her share instead of looking for a new place – mainly in the forlorn hope that his daughter might come back here one day. It was a long time since the divorce had been finalised, though, and he was pretty sure that Lisa must have met someone else by now. Someone taller, thinner and younger than him most probably. But it was losing touch with Jodie that really hurt.

The house had seemed so quiet after they left. It still did.

He looked out over the garden, watching his breath gather in small clouds in the chilly night air. From somewhere out there, beyond the splash of light that fell through the kitchen door, he had the feeling that he was being watched again. He had noticed when he got back home earlier that the cereal still lay, grey and undisturbed, in the bowl. Even the cat had rejected it. Ungrateful little sod, he thought as he tipped it into the bin. That's what happened when you tried to do someone a favour. You just got it thrown back in your face.

I know you're out there, he murmured. Well, you're not getting anything else from me.

He looked sadly at the lumpy shadow he cast on the concrete and remembered the hopeful young man who'd first moved in here all that time ago. Lisa was small, dark and pretty, far too pretty for him he used to think, and he'd struggled to believe that she had been attracted to him in the first place. She'd wanted to help him make something of himself. That was when he was still running the bookshop. She'd do the admin while he dealt with the customers. The brains behind the brawn, she joked.

We're a team, he'd say, looking at her proudly.

Some team they turned out to be, though. Within a couple of years she'd started going to night classes – Spanish, car maintenance, anything she could find to get herself out of the house it seemed. She was discovering herself. She told him they were drifting apart, then accused him of being clingy when he suggested that they should do more things together

I need a life of my own! she cried. I'm suffocating here!

He stood by and watched, bemused and not really understanding what he'd done to make her hate him so much. He'd given up the bookshop by now, deciding to try a couple of new ventures. Meanwhile, she had discovered more about herself, including the fact that she didn't want to be with him after all.

I did it for all for you, he said to the quiet night air, not caring whether the silent watcher in the grass was still there or not.

He remembered then that he should have put out the recycling for collection in the morning. He hauled the assortment of bins and bags down to the bottom of the drive, glancing at what the neighbours had put out, just to be sure he had got it right. It was easy to lose track of what to leave for the collection each week.

He glanced up and down the road. The neighbours had come and gone over the years and, although he knew a few of them by sight, he tended to keep to himself these days. Lisa was the one who had always made the effort, exchanging greetings and Christmas cards, and doing whatever else it took to keep neighbourly relations well-oiled. Since she had left, the old neighbours had moved and he had avoided having any real contact with the new ones, limiting himself to a brief smile or all right? when he saw one of them. It was better to keep it that way. Getting involved never seemed to work out well.

As he was turning to go back to the house, a small movement across the road caught his eye. He paused and peered into the darkness. A figure was standing a hundred metres or so away, just beyond the pool of illumination that fell from one of the street lights. He had the impression that the figure shrank back a little into the shadows in response to his attention. It was partially shielded from his view by the branches of a tree that hung over a nearby fence. It might have been a girl or even, perhaps, a very young man. He was convinced that she, or he, had been watching him.

Carson hovered by the gate for another minute or so, on the pretext of checking the latch. For some reason, he felt unnerved by the stranger's presence. This was a decent area, but he had heard about a break in recently in one of the houses round the corner. Whoever had done it hadn't been caught. The figure showed no sign of moving, but it seemed to have withdrawn its attention. A faint glint suggested that it was holding something of interest, perhaps a mobile phone.

He made a show of rattling the gate and checking the doors of his old Audi that was sitting on the drive. It was bit battered, but still sturdy and reliable enough – like himself. When Carson glanced over the road again, the figure had disappeared. Looking round uncertainly, sure that he hadn't heard any retreating footsteps, he went back to the gate and looked up and down the road. There was no sign of anyone in either direction. He shook his head, half wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.

When he reached the back door, he was disconcerted to find that he had left it ajar. Uneasily, he looked back over his shoulder, telling himself that he was concerned about the cat getting in the house. He secured the door, perhaps a little more carefully than he usually did. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but he had been spooked by the silent watcher. Despite his tiredness, it took him a long time to settle when he went up to bed that night.

Some time later, when Carson had finally switched off his bedside light, a slender figure emerged from the shadows on the opposite side of the road. It stood there for a long time, watching the house, unmoving apart from the occasional restless gnawing of a fingernail. Carson shifted restlessly in his sleep, bothered by dreams of endless lines of numbers that led on and on to nowhere. Outside the figure