A Trip Downstairs

By Michael Veal

Everyone dies... but what happens next? Notorious hack Mark Thorne is about to find out. When a tabloid journalist expires there’s only one way to go, down. Join Mark on an amazing adventure, a journey to the darkest depths.

With any luck, you might make it out again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Veal
• Release date: Mar 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310546068

Michael Veal

Dear ReaderWay back in middle school I recall a class in which our teacher played us 'Mars, the Bringer of War' by Gustav Holst. She then instructed her pupils to draw a scene inspired by the famous piece of music. I must have recently seen the '7th Voyage of Sinbad' because I remember drawing several giant Cyclops, climbing a mountain in order to eat some poor cowering soul.Although my enjoyment of school swiftly dissipated in the years that followed my love of monsters persists to this day and greatly influences my work.I currently live in England, in the county of Essex where I work as a forklift driver. Numerous warehouses and warehouse workers also feature in my books. Take it from me, warehouses rarely quicken the pulse, but when describing fantastic beasts and events I believe it's best to ground tall tales firmly within the mundane. Fragments of drab reality can help muster belief in far out fiction.I've been writing since I was a child, I'm now in my early forties. I've entered numerous short story competitions over the years, including the Bridport Prize. I've submitted manuscripts to publishers also but unfortunately I have remained unpublished. These facts, although disappointing have not dampened my enthusiasm for conjuring my own worlds and characters from the page.Put simply I don't merely adore writing, for me it's a compulsion.Now having discovered the joys of Kindle I finally have the opportunity to invade your mind, if you will permit me. I promise to take you on many peculiar journeys, hopefully I'll make you laugh a bit on the way.Other writers I admire include Sir Terry Pratchett who has a real gift for comedy and modern day insight. Wilbur Smith's adventure epics are legendary and beautifully crafted. The entertainment value of Chris Ryan's thrillers cannot be doubted. The ex SAS soldier's tales are gripping, authentic and very accessible.Regarding my own material I more than welcome feedback, positive or negative, it all helps. During the coming months I hope to publish more humorous weirdness on Kindle, and I can't wait to see what you think of it.Many thanks for showing an interest in my books.Michael

Book preview

A TRIP DOWNSTAIRS

Michael Veal

© copyright Michael Veal 2014

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons either living or dead is completely unintentional

Published by Michael Veal

at Smashwords

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced

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the prior permission of the publisher

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Contents

The Living World (London, EC3)

Limbo

The Second Circle

The Third Circle

The Fifth Circle (THE STYX RIVER)

The Seventh Circle: Ring II (THE WOOD OF SUICIDES)

The Seventh Circle: Ring III (THE BURNING SAND)

The Eighth Circle: MALBOWGE I

The Eighth Circle: MALBOWGES II–VI

The Eighth Circle: MALBOWGE VII

The Eighth Circle: MALBOWGE VIII

The Ninth Circle (THE FROZEN LAKE OF COCYTUS)

The Astral Lift

Limbo Revisited

The Living World (LONDON, EC2)

The Living World (LONDON, CR0)

THE LIVING WORLD (LONDON, EC3)

NATIONAL EPIDEMIC IMMINENT

CHILD ABUSE RING EXPOSED

INCEST IN THE ROYAL FAMILY LATEST!

I used to love bad news. A messy motorway pile-up? Brilliant. Hundreds dead in mid-flight disaster? Give me more. Relishing drama used to be my speciality. By embracing misery, I managed to carve a pretty successful career out of the tabloids. Over fourteen years at the top of the downside. Fourteen years, three months and one day to be precise. Then it ended, because that one day turned out to be my last. This isn’t a happy tale, but the best ones never are.

I was a man called Mark Thorne. Thirty-six years old, good-looking from a distance, cuddly physique. Driver of a nearly new BMW 320i convertible, resident of a studio apartment near Primrose Hill. Shagger of a steady procession of pretty girlfriends. I also boasted a forgetful mum and 50/50 ownership of a Sea-Doo jet ski.

But enough trivia, let me elaborate on this career of mine, or rather on my continued attempts to eclipse it. A short stint hosting a topical panel quiz led to the commissioning of my own show. Thorne in Your Side ran late at night for less than two weeks but the ‘obnoxious insult to broadcast media’ did serve a purpose.

I’d become telly’s latest blunt instrument.

A few consumer complaint spots inexplicably led to presenting the National Lottery. The Beeb should have known better. I used my appearance to promote my book, which pissed everyone off. Deadline portrayed seven days in the life of Jack Brazen. A bloke who shagged like King Kong. A brilliant daredevil hack sent to interview the world’s most feared serial killer. Seeing himself eloquently slaughtered in print, the aforementioned killer promptly breaks out of Belmarsh to scalp our hero. The last chapter is set entirely in a Romford knocking shop, and it’s a bloodbath.

Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t pay £15.99 to read that in hardback?

Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on such a lurid cover: imagine Lewis Morley’s famous snap of Christine Keeler, but she’s blonde and her minge isn’t censored by a chair.

Perhaps I should have heeded my agent’s advice and self-published my biography on Heinrich Himmler instead. But apparently books about famous Nazis always sell better in the run-up to Christmas, so I left the remainder of Dad’s inheritance in the Nationwide, stockpiled fifty unsold boxes of Deadline in the garage and concentrated solely on my forte.

On the day I died I’d prearranged a lunch date with a pop star, the lead singer of the latest boy band of the moment. This lad fitted the normal stereotype. A pretty, fluffy cash puppy any young teenage girl would beg to take home. Unfortunately a few nights previously Pretty Puppy had been papped sucking face with a bald muscular queen outside a gay bar in Chester. My paper nearly went bust securing the pictures.

Rather sportingly, the News Editor had contacted Pretty Pup’s agent, and duly promised his client a fair chance to explain himself. As the paper’s king cockroach I’d been tasked to report on the little poofter’s heroic excuses.

If he decided on denial.

I’ll admit the UK’s a lot more bum-boy friendly than it was, even ten years ago, but I still expected a great deal of squirming and panic during our chat. You could have dropped this scoop on a deaf blind dyslexic and they could have typed a classic. We’d already mocked up the next day’s splash, magnifying the illicit picture until it filled the front page. A two-word headline would accompany the image.

KISS ME

Forget the royals, or the politicians, this was surprise banditry amongst the chart-topping elite and my red-top owned it. Keen didn’t begin to describe how I was feeling when I left my desk that Thursday lunchtime to attend the secret rendezvous.

Not even the Editor’s promises of castration if I fluffed the interview could suppress the thrill tickling my belly.

Riding the lift to the lobby I silently wondered what would happen to Pretty Pup after we finished with him. A decade ago his band would have definitely split. But contemporary youth was a lot more open-minded. A cock up the arse was nothing. Male or female, being buggered was like taking a gap year. All the kids tried it, at least once.

Hearts would break, though. Even in enlightened times girls invested their passion and pocket money in stars they could conceivably marry. When Pup’s wannabe wives saw our front page there would be tears, a strong sense of betrayal. And weren’t his parents devout? They were Baptists weren’t they? Or Mormons? Imagine if they publicly disowned him?

The little fairy’s band wouldn’t lend much support. Having toured together continuously since winning Britain’s Biggest Talent Show they probably all hated each other’s guts.

Where fame shines isolation lingers in its shadow.

Winking at the bored-looking uniform guarding reception, I crossed my fingers behind my back and hoped for a suicide.

Outside the air practically burned. I reached for my Ray-Bans to dull the dazzling sun. London could expect a high of twenty-nine degrees today. In April. Madness. I shouldn’t have worn my sports jacket, but I needed the pockets. I paused to check the jacket’s contents. BlackBerry, check. Digital Dictaphone, check. Bloated sense of self-importance, check.

I looked up, and the trouble started.

An accident must have occurred somewhere, because Eastcheap stood at a standstill in both directions. About ten minutes previously I’d told one of the shift workers to call me a taxi. Glancing left then right I couldn’t see it. Bringing up my BlackBerry the time on its screen loosened my sphincter.

12:21

Why hadn’t I left earlier?

Preoccupied with visions of world domination, I’d neglected to watch the clock. No wonder the Editor had sounded serious. Thanks to a solid hour of punching the air, dancing on my desk and loudly telling my ‘mates’ why the Ed chose me alone for the mission, I’d given myself less than forty minutes to reach Sloane Square and locate a restaurant I’d never heard of.

My feet itched to be in motion: I indulged them. With no set plan in my head, I turned left and began to stride along the pavement.

Shift workers were young wannabe reporters the paper hired on a temporary basis. Shifters tended not to last long, so keeping track of their names took real effort. Personally I found it useful to give the doomed losers appropriate nicknames, then at least everybody knew who I was complaining about.

The girl who’d arranged my non-existent cab went by the name of Tiny Tits, TT for short. I brought up ‘TT’ in my phone’s directory, pressed call and held the BlackBerry to my ear.

‘Hey mate.’ I waved my free palm at a wilting passenger slumped in the cab of a stranded Ford Transit. ‘What’s happened? Is it an accident?’

The bloke, who looked like a builder, shrugged unhappily. ‘Dunno, fella.’

Tiny Tits answered her phone after three rings. ‘Hello Sara Benn -.’

‘Where’s my minicab then?’ It felt good to be moving, albeit only on foot. I accelerated into a jog. After barely four steps something twanged in the back of my thigh and I resigned myself to limping hastily.

‘Er, is that Mark?’ TT’s voice cracked: she cried a lot over the phone, out on assignment, in the office… We would have called the blubbing little cow Tiny Tears, but so many previous shifters had worn those stripes when we reached Tiny Tears Five we became disgruntled by our own unoriginality.

‘Is this Mark? Naaah, it’s Father Fucking Christmas. Who else have you ordered a minicab for in the last ten minutes?’

‘S-Sorry Mark,’ whimpered TT. ‘Isn’t the driver out there yet? I told them to hurry. Shall I find out where he is?’

‘Don’t put yourself to any special trouble.’

‘I’ll find out where he is.’

‘Why are the roads blocked?’

‘Bloc…?’

‘Jammed girlie, the streets are a car park. Find out why and call me back.’

‘O-OK, I’ll do that after I call the cab comp—’

‘Cancel the cab, forget the cab. The only way he’ll reach me is in a helicopter. Actually ask them if they can send out a helicopter.’

‘The cab company?’

‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.’

‘OK… sorry, I’ll…’

‘One last thing. Pretty Pup, are his parents Mormons or Baptists?’

‘They’re Roman Catholics.’

‘You sure? I thought they were weirder.’

‘No, you made me doorstep his sister remember? And she told me…’

‘Fine. Yes. Fuck off.’ I hung up on Tiny Tits. Across the road, between the queuing vehicles, I saw a rack of Boris Bikes. Only two of the blue and silver contraptions were left in the stand. My anxious brain aired the possibility of renting one of the bicycles. Surely a suicidal idea in such heat. Overweight (I hardly exercised), I’d have a heart attack before I pedalled a mile.

Also, I knew London but lacked total knowledge of its street-level geography. With time so tight, I couldn’t afford to get lost once.

I kept walking.

Eastcheap terminated and Great Tower Street began. I hardly noticed: only swift progression mattered. After a few minutes, I passed Tower Hill Memorial, with its names of deceased seamen. Clumps of tourists stood inside the structure, taking photos, reading the engraved identities of fellows they probably didn’t know, and certainly wouldn’t get the opportunity to know.

In all the years of working nearby I’d visited the shrine twice, both times just to munch a sarnie in the attached gardens. I held the opinion, back then, if there was something more useless than a corpse it was the commemoration of one. Remembrance only caused pain in the bereaved, and polite indifference in everyone else.

I arrived at Tower Hill station. In hindsight, I should have patronised Monument. The station stood closer to the office and further down the line, but logic and reason often elude the flustered.

In general I have to say I hated the London Underground. However much Transport for London refurbished the network, or extended it, or filled the walls with their quaint quirky messages…

There’s a bit of a wait at Waterloo

(even if your name is Wellington)

…the Tube was still grand-scale abuse, with escalators. And when the temperatures rose, the tourists reciprocated by multiplying a hundredfold. Year after year intrigued foreigners clogged the city’s main transit system, snagging us natives with their pesky wheeled luggage, that’s when they weren’t taking pictures of absolutely anything. The addition of rush hour to this clueless herd resulted in smelly human gridlock. Stuck in those cramped tunnels sweating your face off with only muggy, communal air to breathe could hardly be described as fun. An entire journey spent boxed in like a veal calf. A feeling of endless confinement while you oozed along like commuter treacle…

That’s what I had to look forward to as I hurried towards Tower Hill’s entrance. A family of enormous Yanks stood nearby, consulting a map. Mr and Mrs Fatty, their weather balloon son and almost spherical daughter blocked the way significantly. I grumbled under my breath and detoured around them, Mr Fatty caught my eye.

‘Hey chum.’ The transatlantic blob smiled optimistically. ‘Could you direct us to the Tower of London?’

‘Are we anywhere nearby?’ The bloke’s colossal wife spoke with a whine that punished my ears. ‘Cos we sure don’t wanna walk far.’

With a straight face I told them to ignore the signs and the rather large famous-looking building behind us and sent them off in the direction of London Bridge.

The porkers thanked me before they wobbled away.

A shitty deed, but when you commit so many, individual transgressions tend to come relatively guilt-free.

I used the three steps that led down into the station. Tower Hill’s entrance isn’t large and therefore saturates easily. On that toasty Thursday I found the lobby typically packed. Even with open air behind me an oniony stench of habitation dominated. Concerned by the thought of vanishing minutes I barged deep into the crowd. People advanced on the Circle and District line gates agonisingly slowly. Trapped behind scores of shuffling necks, backs and shoulders I fantasised about having a gun in my pocket, and drawing it. Firing across the top of these nobodies’ heads, making them scream and scatter.

Sadly the pocket of my chinos only contained an ancient leather wallet. I fetched the period piece out before the queue constricted to prevent arm movement. My father’s only behest to me wasn’t the safest place to keep money or any other valuable. I utilised the ragged gentleman’s purse because of an instruction from my mother on the day we cremated her husband.

‘Get that thing out of the house. But don’t throw it away.’

I’d taken the decrepit antique to one of those shoe repair/key-cutting kiosks. After much persuasion the unimpressed cobbler had sewn in a few transparent pouches. One of these vinyl slips held my Oyster card.

I opened the wallet and saw the designated pouch contained something else. A folded square of white paper. I removed the foreign item and unfurled it.

Written on the scrap in black biro were the letters I.O.U.

Beneath ‘I.O.U.’, a spurting cartoon cock.

‘Those bastards.’ I squeezed sideways, leaving the ambling mass of ticket holders. My heart thumped, my brow furrowed. At the wall none of the ticket machines were vacant. The queue for the ticket window looked static, a posed line of unhappy statues.

I shouldn’t have gloated about the assignment. It was a mistake to reiterate the Editor hadn’t chosen them. But in all honesty, who were the Oyster card stealers sabotaging? Not just their handsome talented colleague, but the whole paper. I briefly re-evaluated the offensive phallus. The culprit clicked.

Adrian Lime. An utter twat who more than earned the ‘S’ I usually prefixed his surname with. Yeah, only our features editor drew ejaculating knobs like that.

Wishing Adrian an agonising death, I brought my BlackBerry out of standby.

12:31

Pretty Pup would wait if I was late. Or would he? I pictured the pocket-sized bender, sitting low in his seat, heavily disguised, twitching and perspiring under sunglasses and a baseball cap. The restaurant he’d chosen would be exclusive and prohibited to the general public. It only took one bored waiter, though, to whip out his smartphone. Then in five minutes the location of our secret meeting would be all over Twitter.

‘Sweeeet Jesus on a motorbike! Haven’t you finished?’ My fierce enquiry startled two Japanese deciphering instructions on a nearby ticket machine. The tourists shrank away when I loomed over them.

‘Please, you help?’ asked the man. ‘Totten – him – Cut – Row?’

‘Rerry rorry.’ I pushed the small couple aside and worked their machine for my own ends, unleashing swears, coins and finger presses with equal ferocity. My ticket eventually appeared, I snatched it from the machine’s slot and dived back into the fray.

The gradual advance of the crowd didn’t lighten my mood. If Adrian’s prank cost me this interview I vowed the cunt would be wearing his bollocks for earrings long before the Editor cut off mine.

‘Oi, Granny.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry dear, it won’t go in properly.’

I’d finally arrived at a gate. Amazingly an old fossil in front of me had managed to jam her ticket in the barrier’s slot.

‘Can you help?’ Would I take pity on Mrs Stuck Ticket, confounded by modern technology with the entire population of London building up behind her? A decent man would have tried to assist the elderly traveller, or at least gently guided her aside.

I simply clutched the biddy’s shoulder and yanked her past me. The distressed relic felt weightless, made of paper and she fell with a yelp. Vaulting the closed gate, I incurred an angry shout from the left. A member of the Underground staff had finally shown an interest in the blockage. The bloke set himself to intercept me, but I managed to stay out of his reach.

‘Your barrier doesn’t bloody work mate,’ I waved my freshly purchased ticket like a white flag. ‘Don’t chase me, go and fix it!’

I approached a staircase marked with a sign:

WESTBOUND PLATFORMS 1 AND 2

A third bad deed in as many minutes. Alas, back then, I knew no better. Mark Big Boy Thorne believed the rest of the world existed only to kiss his arse.

Initially I rushed down the steps to the westbound platforms, however, when I saw no trains waiting to depart, I slowed and brought out my phone. As in the hall above, there were loads of people here. Fortunately the numerous passengers occupied much more space, the roomy subterranean area served two tracks. I picked my way around waiting strangers, concentrating on the screen of my BlackBerry.

A venomous text to Adrian seemed a mild retaliation to his ruinous prank. And I could only send a message once I broke ground again, but the need for revenge consumed me. Armed only with SMS I vowed to make my repost a classic. A text hacks circulated between papers, or discussed endlessly at leaving dos and Christmas piss-ups.

My opening gambit needed to grab attention, like a gun barrel pressed into the face.

His mum. I’d start with Slime’s mother, and place her in the company of…

Ah, yes. My lips curved upwards into a grin. An aroused donkey.

Both sides of the platform served trains which went in Pretty Pup’s direction. Only Platform 1’s dot matrix showed any sign of life.

1 CIRCLE via Victoria

No time of arrival, estimated or otherwise. I searched for a place to quietly panic. There was a gap in the crowds near Platform 1’s end, where the vacant track disappeared into the tunnel. I went and occupied the space fidgeting uncomfortably. Both my back and shoulders felt unpleasantly damp with perspiration. Shrugging off my sports jacket I unbuttoned and rolled up both shirt sleeves. Hanging the jacket on one moist arm I held up my BlackBerry with the other.

My phone’s screen said:

12:37

Twenty-three minutes until the appointment.

I redialled Tiny Tits, not expecting to reach her from below ground. Mainly I wanted something to do other than sweat and wait.

Breath tickled the back of my neck. The exhale grew into a shocking chill. I swung around sharply, rubbing the affected follicles. A smartly dressed Asian girl stood behind me. The girl’s head remained bowed as she texted on her own phone.

‘Did you feel that?’ I asked.

The young woman broke from her typing trance. ‘Are you speaking to me?’

‘Yeah. I just experienced the most terrible draught.’ I assessed the girl to be in her late twenties, and a toffee-coloured beauty. I loved the light brown ones. Beyoncé, Halle Berry, Rihanna. Ethnic but not overly so. Coffee with just the right amount of milk.

‘Draught?’ The cutey narrowed her eyes in bewilderment.

‘Never mind.’ Smiling at the young woman, I turned away to continue my depraved assault on Adrian Slime’s mother. I’d barely managed to type ‘Donkey with an eighteen inch’, when another sensation struck.

A presence scrutinising me from the side. I swear I heard a voice too. A nearby individual calling my name. I reacted immediately and caught an old guy two metres to the right staring in my direction.

I didn’t know him. The bloke wore unremarkable clothes, he wasn’t big small, fat or thin. The man wasn’t angry or sad, happy or laughing. He just looked unremarkable.

‘What is it?’ I demanded.

The stranger’s eyes glazed over. He stared straight through me for a couple of seconds before letting out a huge yawn.

I recall writing off both incidents as paranoia. Straightening my spine and throwing back my shoulders I concluded none of the other passengers wanted to stop me exposing Pretty Pup’s homosexuality. No one knew of my imminent meeting at Sloane Square. Surprise still lay on the right side, with the press, not with the public.

Sadly the thing about surprise is that it’s surprisingly indiscriminate.

The Circle line train arrived two minutes later. Due to my position on the platform the leading red, silver and blue carriage squeaked to a standstill directly opposite. With a gravelly clatter the carriage doors slid apart, revealing the train to be packed.

A dignified but muffled automaton sounded over the tannoy.

‘Mind the gap please’

None of the sardines inside the train broke ranks to make room. I didn’t hesitate like the others around me; I didn’t see the wall of people already on the train as impassable. I charged in – time afforded me no other option. There were grimaces, tuts, annoyed whispers.

‘Oh for God’s sake!’

But I triumphed and got on despite numerous elbows in my ribs. I parked flush against a big bloke’s arse. Neither of us repositioned ourselves. Probably another regular Tube traveller, one of hundreds of thousands who understood dignity and comfort didn’t come guaranteed with a ticket. To complain about overcrowding on the London Underground would be akin to moaning about nightfall. About water being wet. The clever travellers calmly accepted the crush, shut their eyes and mentally teleported to an unpopulated paradise.

I always pictured Mahogany Bay. I’d shagged an extra-special girlfriend on its fine white sand a couple of years previously. Humping well into the early hours of the morning, under a curtain of sparkling stars…

I closed my eyes tightly, my brow creased from consternation. The extra-special girlfriend, what was her name? Julie Something? The carriage doors grumbled shut. A posh female pre-recording spoke to us over the carriage speakers.

‘This is a Circle line train via Embankment and Victoria.’

With a jolt, we left Tower Hill station.

At Embankment, the train emptied significantly. A few seats were made available but my legs felt restless so I remained standing. My limbs were maybe anticipating the sprint I’d have to make through Sloane Square station. When we finally got there. The train restarted. Intermittently touching the yellow hand rail above for stability, I walked down the rocking carriage.

Moving helped alleviate the twitchy sensation bothering my limbs. I aimed for the farthest set of double doors. Circle line carriages had eight sets of doors and thirty-two seats. Three banks of four seats left and right were bookended by facing pairs that furnished each end of the carriage.

The hand rails in the carriage were yellow because the stock belonged to the Circle line. This unit’s official classification? C Stock (C69), built in the late sixties.

Approaching the last sets of doors, I found a dog blocking the centre aisle. I carefully stepped over the reclining animal, reaching down as I passed by to stroke its dozing head.

The area between the last two sets of doors was unpopulated, and I rested against one of the transparent partitions there, revelling in the breathing room.

I’d researched Circle line trains along with many other hacks, for a story which ran half a decade ago. Some stories could remain forever current, particularly in the minds of the people who were conduits for them. Bringing up my BlackBerry, I spied a large green rucksack on the floor. The luggage lay flush to the facing partition, capsized, pivoting gently to the rhythm of the train. The carriage chose