Head in the Clouds: The Collected Short Stories

By Philip Henry

From vampires to werewolves, time travellers to ghosts, psychotics to critics, HEAD IN THE CLOUDS is an eclectic collection of short stories from one of Northern Ireland’s most imaginative writers. Featuring visions of the future and satires on the present, these tales of love, murder, and the supernatural will warm your heart, chill your bones and twist your mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Henry
• Release date: Jun 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005537470

Philip Henry

Philip Henry is the author of The North Coast Bloodlines series of books. These books are all based around the north coast of Ireland where he lives, and although all the books can be read as standalone stories, if you read them in order you will notice characters from other books popping up and getting mentioned.Philip is also a keen singer/ songwriter. He released his first album, Songs About Girls, in 2018 and as of writing this is halfway through recording the follow-up. He has also written and directed two no-budget feature films and over a dozen shorts. Links to all his creative endeavours can be found on his website: www.philiphenry.com

Book preview

This book is a collection of all my short stories. Since I first decided to try to write something one wet afternoon in Barnsley, when I should have been at college, right up until the latest stories that were only completed in the last few weeks, this is everything. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

There are twenty-seven stories altogether, in no particular order, written over a period of twenty-one years. Some are quite long and some are unbelievably short. Some I’m quite happy with, some I would never write now, but they’re all included so other aspiring writers will see everyone has to start somewhere, and I hope they show one other thing; if the ideas are there, the writing will eventually come.

It’s the ideas that are important.

PH 27/09/16

The North Coast Bloodlines Series – Book Ten

HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

The Collected Short Stories

PHILIP HENRY

CORAL MOON BOOKS

www.philiphenry.com

The North Coast Bloodlines Book Ten:

HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

By

Philip Henry

Published By Coral Moon

www.philiphenry.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.

Head in the Clouds: The Collected Short Stories

Copyright © 2016 Philip Henry

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the Publisher, except for short quotes used for review or promotion. For information address the Publisher.

ISBN: 9798510176643

HARLAND & WOLF

‘What is it about a full moon that makes people go nuts?’

The corpse lying at my feet doesn’t seem to have an opinion on the matter. I take one last drag from my cigarette and discard it. It lands on the back of the dead man and begins melting through his polyester jacket. I quickly drop to my knees and retrieve the butt. I flick it to the side with one hand while patting out the burning jacket with the other. I stand up and check the car-park. No one saw that little contamination of the crime scene.

See, this is why police are called. This is why they bring their yellow tape and cordon off the area. It stops gobshites like me from using the body as an ashtray. I should have called the cops. I take another look at my watch: 3:37a.m. They should be here by now.

What the hell am I doing here? Other guys my age spend Saturday nights in pursuit of bad women and worse drink. I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since I last had sex. If I count it in seasons, then it’s barely four. Four isn’t that long. God, I need a girlfriend.

A cloud shifts and the moon catches the face of the man on the ground. They really worked him over. My source in the PSNI told me the forensics lot were pretty sure there were three attackers, probably using crowbars or something similar. Three against one: coward’s odds. His face is a bloody mess but I can still tell he’s foreign. His skin is lightly tanned, not the pale Northern Ireland pallor I see in the mirror. This is the sixth victim I’ve seen in the last three weeks. These guys have to be stopped. That’s why I agreed to this. Well, that and the money.

The first victim was Polish. No one thought much of his death. It was assumed he had crossed the wrong guy/ winked at the wrong girl/ swiped the wrong wallet, and had paid dearly for it. That was until the Ukrainian guy was killed a couple of days later. Then I knew I had a story. I splashed the possibility of a serial killer loose in Belfast all over the front page. It sold a lot of papers and my editor was happy. When the third victim was killed, the leader of this murderous trio phoned me on my mobile. He had called the paper and someone there had given him my mobile phone number. He had a very coarse voice that sounded monstrous. I imagined him sandpapering his vocal cords just to get that effect. He ran down a long list of complaints about foreigners stealing jobs in Belfast and how they were all bludging benefits from the Social Security and raising the honest, working man’s taxes. Then he told me where I could find the latest body. I called the PSNI as soon as he hung up.

My editor thought it was a great angle, like something out of a movie, and insisted I use my conversation as the front page the following day. The third victim had been a woman. She had been raped before being beaten to death.

Two nights later, he rang again. The same raspy, snake-like baritone gave me the location of a fourth body, another Polish man, who had worked illegally on a building site. I wasn’t my cool, objective self and told the killer he was nuttier than a squirrel’s turd. I told him he had to stop. He had to turn himself in. The people of Belfast were scared and there were rumblings that old, disbanded organisations were considering regrouping to keep the streets safe. That was the last thing anyone wanted. Still, the moron on the other end of the phone didn’t see it that way. He welcomed the return of paramilitary groups who, he was sure, would continue his work.

When he rang with the location of the fifth body, using his best villain in a B-movie voice, I hung up as soon as he told me where it was. When I wrote up that article, I had damned and cursed the small-mindedness of these three xenophobic cowards. The printed word was the only weapon I had, so I used it as mercilessly as I could. At least if my words didn’t make him see sense, he would hopefully stop calling me to brag about who he had just killed.

As I was leaving work the next night, two men approached me. One was easily six and a half feet tall, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. The other was closer to my height, but built like a bull.

‘You are Harland McNeill,’ the shorter of the two said.

I nodded.

‘You come with us now, Harland. We have much talk to make.’

‘I’m just on my way home actually, lads. If it’s something for the paper, you can give me a ring tomorrow at the office.’ I forced a smile and tried to walk on. The man-mountain put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me.

The shorter man came close to me. ‘We will only take a few minutes, yes?’

I turned and looked at the giant behind me. He didn’t look like the sort of bloke you argued with. I smiled and nodded my compliance. They bundled me into a dirty white Lada. The giant and I sat in the back (he had to bow his head to fit in) while the other one drove.

It was a short ride to Botanic Gardens. Half a dozen caravans were parked on the grass. I was aware of this story, too. One of the junior reporters had been following the PSNI’s attempts to move on the travellers who had made Botanic Gardens their temporary home. It was page five stuff; not as important as my story. The giant helped me out of the car and led me to a caravan. He pushed me up the steps ahead of him and inside.

The caravan was fairly clean, though dark, and filled with exotic fragrances. My two escorts entered behind me and closed the door. The shorter one yelled something in his native tongue. In the darkness at the far end of the caravan, a small accordion-door slid across and an old man walked forward. He slid into the seat behind the fixed table and looked up at me. After a few moments’ consideration, he beckoned me to sit down. I slid into the seat on the other side of the table and faced the old man.

‘My name is Wadim Stanasila.’ He stared into my eyes, never once blinking.

Stanasila. I knew that name. The third victim. The woman they had raped before killing was called Alina Stanasila. ‘You’re Alina’s family?’

The old man’s gaze finally broke as he bowed his head. ‘She was my granddaughter, Harland. I have brought you here to ask for your help in avenging her death.’

I looked behind me at the giant and the bull that had brought me here. I imagined the damage they could do, even at three against two odds, I’d put my money on them. I turned back to the old man. ‘Mr Stanasila, the police are on this case. They will…’

‘Harland, the police will not take the kind of justice that we demand!’ He slammed his fist down on the Formica surface. ‘We know these coward-pig-dogs call you when they have killed. All we ask is when they call you next, you call us and tell us where the body is before you tell your police.’

‘Why?’

The old man looked over my shoulder at the giant. ‘My grandson, Decebal. He will track your killers, aided by Marku.’ He nodded to the shorter goon. ‘Then we will punish these men appropriately.’ He gave a faint smile as some nasty scenario played out in his head.

From the darkness behind him, a girl stepped forward. She was gorgeous. Her long dark hair fell around the full breasts that hung, unfettered, beneath a thin white blouse.

The old man followed my gaze, and then turned back to me. ‘My granddaughter Daciana. Alina’s sister.’

Her eyes were dark, deep and sensuous.

‘Harland, I am prepared to pay you for your help.’

The skirt she was wearing was red, with embroidered patterns of many other colours decorating the hem. It stopped at her knees. Her calves were lightly tanned and smooth all the way down to her bare feet.

‘Harland?’

But her eyes were her most striking feature. Hypnotic almost. Her eyebrows weren’t plucked or waxed like the girls in the office; they were natural and thick. Not Thunderbirds thick, just a little wild. She ran the tip of her tongue over her full lips.

‘Harland!’

I snapped my head back to the old man. ‘Sorry about that. I guess I haven’t had a girlfriend for a while.’

He shouted, ‘Daciana,’ without looking at her. The girl gave me a smouldering smile and walked backwards out of sight.

I looked back into the face of the old man, hoping he wasn’t going to ask me to stand up any time soon. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

‘I said I will pay you. One thousand of your pounds, if you call us when these murdering swine call you.’

I shifted in my seat. ‘What are you going to do to them?’

‘This is no concern of yours. Your conscience will be clear. They will get no more than they deserve. In Romania, we have our own idea of justice.’

‘Aye. We had a similar system here for a long time.’

‘We have a deal?’ The old man’s eyes seemed to burn into me.

A thousand in my hand would keep the credit card companies from the door for a while and these psychos would be off the streets. It seemed like a good deal to me. I nodded.

A smile broke on the old man’s face. He extended his right hand. I gripped it and we shook. ‘You are a trustworthy man. I can tell this because you have a firm grip.’

‘Yeah, well, like I said, I haven’t had a girlfriend in a while.’

So, tonight I had received a very business-like call from the murderers’ spokesman, telling me where the sixth body could be found. There was no banter with him this time. I guessed he’d got the message: I didn’t sympathize with him, I didn’t agree with him, and above all I didn’t bloody like him. When he hung up, I fished in my wallet and found the piece of paper Wadim Stanasila had given me. It was a mobile number. I called it and gave the old man the address I had just been given. He said his grandsons would meet me there in twenty minutes.

That was thirty-five minutes ago. If a cop car happens to cruise past, they’re going to ask why I didn’t report the death. What am I going to tell them? Not the truth for damn sure.

A pair of headlights turns into the car-park. The engine revs mercilessly as the little car lurches forward. It screeches to a stop before me. The lights are turned off and I recognize the Lada.

Seeing the giant, Decebal, get out of the tiny car could almost be funny, like some kind of circus routine, if it wasn’t for the grave look on his face. The stocky one, Marku, is already out and walking towards me with a bulging plastic bag. He hands me the bag.

‘Your one thousand pounds, Harland. My grandfather sends his thanks. You can go home now.’

I take the bag and look inside. It’s stuffed full of loose notes, mostly tens and fives. My other hand is under the bag supporting it and I can feel a few dozen coins in there. It isn’t like the discreet payoffs you see in the movies. I feel a bit guilty. When someone offers you a grand you assume they can afford it, but this looks more like the product of a whip-round. I’m about to ask Marku how they came up with the money when my attention is drawn back to the Lada. A huge black wolf jumps out of the back seat. Decebal leads it over to the body. As casually as I can, I move to a safe distance behind Marku.

‘Holy shite. Is that thing safe?’

Marku lights a cigarette and offers me one. I take it. ‘You have nothing to fear, Harland.’

The wolf sniffs around the corpse for a few seconds, then takes a few steps towards the back gate of the car-park. Decebal shouts something sharply and it stops.

Marku turns to me. ‘We have their scent. Now it is just a matter of time. You can call the police and go home, Harland.’

‘Can I come with you?’ It’s out of my mouth before I have time to think. Instinct tells me this would make a hell of an end to my series of stories. Marku smiles and nods. I run to my own car and throw the bag of money into the boot then lock it. When I get back, Marku is in the Lada with the engine started. I jump into the passenger’s seat and the Lada creeps forward. When we have gone about half a mile, I call the PSNI and tell them where the body is.

The wolf is moving briskly through the streets. Decebal jogs alongside it, seeming to never tire. Marku and I follow in the Lada. It’s past four. The streets are empty. Even the most drunken clubbers have found their way home by now, or if not home, at least to a welcoming bed. God, I need a girlfriend.

‘So, Marku, has your sister, Daciana, got a boyfriend?’

He turns and looks at me suspiciously. ‘My sister is very special, Harland.’

‘Yes, of course. I saw that.’

‘Only the most courageous man will be worthy of her.’

‘Courageous. Right.’

‘Maybe tonight you will prove yourself to be this man, Harland, eh?’ He laughs and slaps my shoulder.

I force a grin. I’m tracking down three murderers with a wolf and two mad Romanians. How much of this excursion is about getting the story and how much is about getting my leg over? Maybe best not to dwell on such questions.

The Lada stops. The wolf and Decebal are standing outside a door. We’re on a fairly low-rent suburban street in the middle of the Landon Estate. Decebal nods to Marku.

‘You wait here, Harland.’

I grab Marku’s arm before he gets out. ‘Haven’t you got any weapons? This estate is nick-named Dodge City: everyone has a gun around here.’

Marku smiles. ‘We have nothing to fear. My brother, Decebal, has the heart of a lion. His name means strong as ten in Romanian. You wait, Harland.’ He gives my hand a squeeze and gets out of the car. The two of them stand at the door. They look up and down the street then Decebal kicks the door in. The wolf charges inside, quickly followed by the two brothers. A few seconds later an upstairs light comes on. I check the street: still empty. From inside the house, a woman starts screaming. I slide down the seat and peer over the dashboard. Someone’s bound to hear that.

Marku and Decebal run from the house carrying a man wearing only boxer shorts, his hands and feet are bound with duct tape. The wolf is last out. The hall light comes on and the screaming woman in her night-shirt appears at the doorway, yelling for help. The wolf barks and growls at her. She jumps back inside and slams the door. Through the porch window I see her lift the phone and I’m pretty sure she isn’t calling the police. She’s warning the other two that we’re coming.

Marku and Decebal bundle the man into the boot of the Lada and lock him in. Marku jumps back into the driver’s seat and brings the engine to life. He smiles and nods at me. Decebal runs back to the wolf. The wolf starts off in a new direction, Decebal jogging after it. We follow in the Lada.

Our passenger makes a lot of noise to start with. He kicks and punches at the boot, while screaming for help. After about ten minutes he has tired himself out and starts crying. When the Lada stops, he tries a renewed plea for help, mercy, freedom—whatever’s going. Marku pays him no notice. He has other things on his mind. We have reached the second house. We’re still in the Landon Estate, but a slightly less crummy part of it. The gun dealers around here won’t sell to kids; they’re moral like that.

Again, Marku leaves the car and joins Decebal and the wolf at the door. Decebal takes a step back, ready to throw his weight against the door. Gunfire erupts from inside. Holes are punched in the door. Marku drops to the ground. Decebal waits with his back against the wall until the shooter needs to reload. Then, fearlessly, he crashes through the door. Strong as ten is right. Brave as ten, as well.

I hear the sounds of a scuffle. I get out of the car and run towards the house. I stop when it all goes quiet inside. I stand a safe distance away watching the dark doorway, wondering who’s going to walk out. A high-pitched scream comes from the house and echoes down the silent street. A few more seconds pass. I check the street for bedroom lights being switched on, but the houses remain dark. It’s one thing you can count on in this estate; nobody ever sees anything.

A man comes flying out the doorway and lands face-first on his crazy-paved driveway. Decebal walks out of the doorway after his foe. He puts a hand in his pocket and takes out a roll of duct tape. He puts one knee on the man’s spine and binds his hands behind his back. He does the same with his ankles. All the while the man makes low groans of protest that are ignored. Even in this poor light I can see he is bleeding from his nose and mouth. As I approach, the moonlight highlights a few of his teeth lying in a pool of blood on the crazy-paving. When he is secure, Decebal stands up and looks down at me.

‘The last man we seek is a night-watchman at your famous shipyards.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard the giant speak. He has a gentle voice that seems inappropriate for his appearance.

I look down at the barely conscious man below me. ‘He told you that? How do you know he’s not lying?’

Decebal holds his hand out to me. I hold my palm under it and he drops something. ‘He tells the truth,’ he says and walks over to his brother.

It takes a few seconds to register that I am holding a pinky finger in my palm. I yell (in a manly kind of way) and brush it off onto the ground beside its owner.

‘Harland!’

I run over and kneel beside Marku. He has taken a bullet high in the chest. I take a hanky from my pocket and press it to the wound.

‘Where hospital?’ Decebal asks.

I look around and try to get my bearings. I pick out a few landmarks in the skyline and point in the general direction of the City Hospital. Decebal picks up his brother and runs him to the Lada. I open the back door and Decebal slides him gently inside. Decebal takes the keys from his brother’s pocket and unlocks the boot. The man in the boot starts screaming and wriggling in a bid for freedom. Decebal walks back to the man lying semi-conscious on the crazy-paving. He picks him up and throws him over his shoulder, then walks him over to the car and drops him on top of the other man. He forgets to take the orphaned pinky finger with him. I don’t mention it; I don’t think the guy will be needing it. It takes him a few slams to get the boot to close, but, thanks to brute force, he manages it.

I’m driving towards the City Hospital as fast as I can. That’s almost fifty miles per hour, though the Lada isn’t all to blame; as well as me, we have two murderers in the boot, two brothers – one a giant – in the backseat, and a wolf sitting on the passenger’s seat. The little car is doing OK under the circumstances. I pull into the A&E department and help Decebal get his brother out of the car. The giant holds his brother like a baby in his arms.

Decebal looks down at me. ‘Harland, you will take the car back to my grandfather and tell him what has happened? When doctors see bullet, police will come and ask questions many.’

‘Yeah, OK. What about the passengers?’

‘My grandfather will deal with them. I thank you, Harland. My family is in your debt.’ The big man turns and runs through the doors into the emergency department. I get back in the car and drive out of the hospital grounds.

I’m ashamed to say the first thing I thought of when he said his family was indebted to me, was the prospect of his sister working off the debt. I really haven’t had a girlfriend in a very long time.

I think the two in the boot may have suffocated; they haven’t made any noise in a while. I purposely go over a speed bump too quickly and hear both of them cry out. I smile at the wolf next to me. It’s as well-behaved as any dog I’ve ever seen. I reach over and wind down the window a little. The wolf puts its head out and winces slightly as the air tickles its fur. Not wanting to attract attention, we keep below the speed limit through the empty streets of Belfast.

We’re passing the old shipyards when the wolf starts to go mad. It scratches at the window and starts barking. I slow the Lada down and stop. The last killer is in there and this wolf knows it. The wolf is ripping into the plastic on the door panel. I consider it.

‘Only the most courageous man will be worthy of her.’

No. It’s a stupid idea. He’s been warned. He’d be waiting for me. The second guy knew we were coming and look what happened there. No, I’ll take the two in the boot back to the old man and tell him where the last guy is. The wolf scratches frantically at the door and finally catches the handle with its paw. The door pops open. The wolf leaps out and clears the padlocked gate in a single bound. In seconds it has disappeared into the darkness of the shipyards. Shit! There’s no way I can get it back on foot. I turn the car around and floor it. I crash through the wire gate and take off in the direction the wolf ran, knowing all the time that this is a bad idea.

The car bounces on the uneven surfaces as I race between containers the size of bungalows. The silhouettes ahead look like sleeping dinosaurs, until I get closer and see most have JCB printed on their necks. My head turns at the slightest sign of movement. Everything seems like a potential threat to me. I catch a glance of the wolf in the distance ahead. I follow it as far as I can but the makeshift road is narrowing. I come to a sheer drop and screech to a stop just in time. I look all around but can’t see the wolf anywhere. I turn off the engine and get out of the car. My passengers start a fresh volley of abuse and pleas for mercy.

How the hell do you call a wolf? Howl? The dawn isn’t far away. I’ll be able to see better in half an hour. I walk to the front of the car and look down into the darkness of a mammoth shipbuilding bay. It’s quite a long drop from up here and I silently praise the Lada’s brakes. I sit back down in the driver’s seat, leaving the door open, and light a cigarette. The sky is definitely getting brighter. I look around at the cranes towering above me. Giant mechanical hands built to assemble ships in the city’s heyday. Now, the shipyards are silent. The giant hands twiddle their thumbs as they wait for work. Or maybe I’m wrong.

One of the