A Collection of Dystopian Tales Read online



  A

  Collection

  Of Dystopian Tales

  Roo I MacLeod

  A bizarre, grim romp through the crime ridden streets of Ostere with the Heroes who fight for good and the sinister folk who ooze evil

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  A Collection of Dystopian Tales

  By Roo I MacLeod

  Copyright © 2016 by Roo I MacLeod

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Printed in the United Kingdom

  First Printing, 2016

  Heroes Publishing

  www.rooimacleod.com

  No More Heroes-Don’t accuse the vagrant of murder when he’s holding the gun. Read Excerpt Here

  Heroes Don’t Travel-A girl is missing and Ben Jackman, vagrant for hire, is in pursuit. Alas this is no click and collect mission as the girl has stumbled on a plot to assassinate the king, and the plotters aren’t open to negotiation. Read Excerpt Here

  Both Books are available to buy NOW. Click, type or tap this LINK

  An Introduction

  Nicky the Knife dragged the squeaky street bin to my seat and sat with a loud sigh. I ignored him and kept my attention centered on the heart of our town square, inhaling the scents of beasts charring and nodding to the music playing by the video screen. He rattled the chain attached to his ankle hoping to gain my attention. With a cigarette to the side of his mouth he shuffled close knowing I’d offer the fire to light his butt.

  I scratched a match against the stone wall behind me and held out the flame. He puffed and stretched his long legs out to the street bin. Behind us the printing press beat at the heart of the Ostere Gazette. Folk walked the circuit, danced before the quartet and stood in awe of the juggler and his flaming sticks.

  The wooden seat we occupied sat between Uncle Ulf the Undertaker’s morbid practice and the Ostere Gazette. The wood had warped but fit my arse just right. I sat there most nights, smoking and slugging on my flask of whisky watching the entertainment in our town square.

  Nicky the Knife, a convict of dubious character traits, rattled the chain running between his ankle and his cleaning trolley. I wasn’t ready for him. It was still my time. Once I’d smoked the cigarette and slugged on my whisky I might give him my attention. For the moment I was happy feeling the vibrations of the printing press massaging at the tight muscles in my shoulders.

  Again Nicky sighed and rattled his chain. I noticed his bin had little litter and the square was rotten with discarded waste.

  ‘Shrug,’ I said.

  ‘You always say shrug, but it just comes back, like.’

  The citizens of Ostere walked around Nicky and the chain shackling him to his mobile bin. The glaring orange prison garb yelled danger to their precious lives.

  ‘You got something to tell me Nicky, or you just skiving?’

  ‘Bit of both. I’m tired of this gig.’

  Flame exploded from the mouth of the entertainer stationed by the first aid tent. Folk applauded as his repeated efforts lit up the square. His little helper, dressed in sequins and glitter, jiggled the collection hat, threatening the audience with dire consequences if they didn’t empty their pockets of change.

  ‘Something about time and crime comes to mind,’ I said. ‘And it’s not an onerous chore, cleaning the town square. It’s not like you got anyone on your back.’

  We both looked across the square, between the vendors selling their wares and the sagging roof of glittering fairy lights. Soldiers sat loud and proud at the outside tables of the Drunken Duck. Their rifles stood tee-pee fashion and their big black boots rested on the surrounding rail. Nick’s guard sat with them, buying the drinks and handing out the cigars.

  ‘Listen Eddie,’ Nicky said.

  That be me. It’s not really my name, but because I’ve worked at the Ostere Gazette since the printing press was invented, everyone calls me Eddie the Editor. I’m not even the editor. That’s my brother. He’s also the owner. I do a daily piece called Window Through to Ostere. It’s a quaint social piece concentrating on issues affecting the citizens and the like.

  Most of my stories come from the seat me and Nick shared that night. I take a wee break once I set the press rolling. I have a flask and a pouch of tobacco and folk meet and talk with me when I take my break. The Presses will be running in the office behind and I’ll light up a big old cigar and watch my town play.

  ‘Did you hear about Red?’

  ‘Little Red.’ He was talking about the grandchild of Ma Parker, a well-known eccentric living amongst the south side slums. Ma Parker campaigned for the lot of the tenement children and against the drugs and alcohol ruining her life. ‘What about her?’

  ‘You hasn’t heard?’ He was smiling, like he had the scoop of the year.

  ‘Just tell me yer story, eh?’

  Yo Red

  ‘It was late on Sunday, it was. Dark and stormy and …’

  ‘Really,’ I said. ‘You going to give me mood.’

  Nick spat at his metal bin. ‘Moods good right?’

  ‘Just the facts, if you please. When, what, how, where, and why will do me. If I want to add mood, then I’ll make it up. And speed it up. Your guard is pissing off the soldiers.’

  ‘He’s a boring twat. He likes to tell the world about his part in the war on terror, but I heard he spent his two years behind a desk.’

  ‘Either way, the square is closing, so the soldiers will be off soon. So get on with the story. I need the copy and anything involving old Ma Parker will be cool copy.’

  It happened just past the court house by Ma Parker’s bungalow,’ Nick said. ‘It did and it involves Red, her step dad and this copper who tried to collar me for nowt.’

  ‘No change there, eh?’ I said.

  ‘You got to listen all right. I did okay last Sunday, I did. This copper we call Bulldog, you know him. I hate him. He’s got right attitude, he has.’

  ‘Just tell me the story, just the facts. And tell me before your guard thinks I’m trying to help you escape.’

  Nicky relaxed his shoulders, took an extra-long drag on his butt and blew the smoke high into the night air. ‘It was a Sunday night it was …

  // // //

  ‘Bulldog sat his arse on the dented bonnet of that wreck of a car used in the bombing last year. He bounced about whacking the metal with his truncheon and looking at me like he wanted to trash me brains. Once he got comfortable he turned to watch the medic fretting over a scratch to Red’s face.

  ‘Me shift was done,’ I told him. Bulldog that is. He had me standing with me hands at my back and the bin chain stretched to the max. He’d collared me because I called his dispatch to report a crime, but interest in my tale registered zero once he saw me in my orange and black striped convict clobber.

  ‘Me shift …

  Bulldog turned to face me with a look bordering between te
dium and anger. You could see him wanting to give me a slap, but his lethargy got in the way.

  ‘Yes, I heard you.’ His voice rattled and snarled like a dog guarding a bone. ‘Are you waiting for an audience, a spotlight shining upon your heroic moment or what?’

  ‘Red come skipping past me,’ I continued. He’d asked for the details as to why I was calling the station. Me being a low life criminal type and not in the habit of communication with the Law, right, had him suspicious and pissed off. ‘She was carrying a basket full of groceries for Ma Parker, as she does most nights. I was busy getting me good deeds completed, you know. So much litter and filth for one small town it don’t seem right when it’s just me cleaning.’ I smiled at Bulldog and pointed at my wheelie bin. It was overloaded with rubbish.

  ‘Yeah, yeah you being a good convict,’ he said. ‘Stop with the moaning and accept I caught you with your filthy mitt in the cookie jar and your good deeds don’t come close to paying for the crime you committed.

  ‘What brought you to Ma Parker’s house? You supposed to be working by Cardboard City. You want to see filthy get your arse up there and see how those pigs live. The trouble with you, Nick, is you’re easily distracted, eh? And little girls like Red shouldn’t be a distraction.’

  Me and him turned to the house to watch the medic guide old Ma Parker to the battered ambulance. The colored lights flashed and made her look dead like. She was all stooped and bath soak wrinkled. She give little Red a squeeze and patted her arm as the medic pushed her toward the ambulance.

  The flashing lights had drawn a big arsed crowd. A load of gawkers, they was, and chatter was big. No one thought it was right little Red being out so late. I give me chain a yank, rattling it against the bin to shut them up. Bulldog shook his head, his fat jowls wobbling, and muttered something about me being a dick.

  ‘Bob stood outside the flats,’ I said. ‘He was giving Red grief about every bloody thing and wanting to know where she was heading at such a stupid hour. He’s always on her back, old Bob is, so I followed her.’

  ‘Because...’

  ‘I just said about him being on her back and all the time giving her grief. Bob’s an arse, eh? He’s supposed to be her step dad, you know, but he’s a prick. He’s always giving Red a hard time and she’s only little and needs someone to back her up I reckon.’

  The copper glanced at his watch and sighed. He didn’t give a rat’s arse about a convicted felon’s opinions, but I wanted him to hear about Bob coz Bob did weird big time. Bob’s body hunched like a crippled freak and he lurched when he walked which looked really stupid. He had these thick bushy eyebrows that grew all the way to his nose. Most blokes would do a bit of plucking, but Bob had other issues. He stunk for one and his eyes could be bloodshot or yellow depending on the moon we reckoned. And don’t get me started on the foul breath and the jagged yellow teeth. The man drooled when he talked and his greasy hair bristled and he panted when he breathed.

  I picked up a butt lying by the coppers feet and dropped it in my trash can. ‘She took the path through Smelly Alley.’ I stopped for effect, but the copper didn’t get the import of my words. ‘No one,’ I continued, ‘enters the alley when it’s late and dark and a Sunday when the square is closed. But there was a full moon and she must’ve reckoned that made the square safe, like.’

  The Copper sniffed and spat. ‘So when did you become her guardian?’

  ‘I’m not, but we all like Red and she took the back path to Ma Parker’s. Shorter for sure, I mean by a good ten minutes, but only trouble lives in Smelly Alley after dark, eh?’

  ‘So you and your wheelie bin gave chase.’

  We both watched Bob being led out of Ma Parker’s cottage. He was shackled and he wore that grubby, curry-stained singlet and baggy strides he’d had stitched to his body since birth. His hairy arms was straining at the shackles and the veins in his neck and biceps bulged big time. Every time the copper whacked him with his truncheon he snarled and snapped those yellow fangs he’s got.

  ‘Red took the back route …’

  ‘You already said that.’ Bulldog hitched his trousers up so the cuffs and Taser sat high on his fat gut. Again he spat and sniffed and grumbled. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘She skipped—’

  ‘Bless her,’ he said. ‘Girls don’t skip so much anymore.’

  ‘She’s got her hood pulled low to disguise her face from the youth pissing about in the alley. They’re always there aren’t they, on a Sunday night. They like to get in a bit of breaking and stealing and smoking of some serious shit outside Dead Eye Dick’s Diner. They tried to give her grief but me and the orange clobber armed with me spade suggested they leave the girl alone.

  ‘Red skipped around the town square, and she lost me by the court house because me wheelie bin don’t roll so well. I got caught out passing the Southside tenements. The deadbeats living on the top floors of the tenement saw my metal trash can as a target and let me have it big time. A couple of shots dented me spade and another shot knocked me one good wheel wonky, but I crossed without taking a hit to me body.’

  I pointed at the large metal bin on my trolley showing him the dents from the bullets. ‘I saw Red enter Ma Parker’s bungalow and sort of relaxed because there was no sign of Bob.’

  Me and Bulldog watched Red sitting on the back of the ambulance talking with the medic. Her shoulders trembled and her hands covered her face.

  ‘She’s not so tough,’ I said. ‘She talks tough, but –’

  ‘So what happened next?’ He was yawning and tapping that bloody truncheon on the bonnet, like he was counting the seconds before he hit me.

  ‘I figured she was safe, like, her being in her Grandma’s house. There was smoke puffing from the chimney and I could smell roast beef with all the trimmings coming from Grandma’s oven. As Bob wasn’t lurking in the shadows I figured I best be finishing my chores.’

  ‘But you didn’t. You decided what … to make trouble … to take the law into your own hands. Why did you hang about?’

  ‘The shadows in the window didn’t look right.’

  The Copper and I turned to the cottage, the copper nodding at the large dark shadows working against the curtained windows.

  ‘Ma Parker is small and all bent crooked you know, and the shadow hugging Red stood tall and broad with a hunch to its back.

  ‘I crept to the window looking through the gap in the curtains.’

  ‘And you saw Bob?’

  I nodded. ‘He was dressed in a frilly bonnet and night gown.’

  The copper laughed with gusto. ‘Bob’s a cross dresser? I didn’t see that coming, but it don’t surprise me. Not these days, eh? It’s a sick fucked up world we live in.’

  Red raised her head and looked at the copper and the convict sat on the battered car bonnet. ‘It wasn’t Bob,’ she called out. ‘It was dark and you was outside.’

  I looked at Red and nodded. ‘Fair do’s,’ I said. ‘Just the one candle, but it was Bob looking weird in a frock. He pulled back the covers of the bed, and patted the sheet for Red to sit, then jumped onto the other side, the night gown riding high, too high, and told Red to remove her cape.

  ‘Red backed toward the door, horrified at the sight of his hairy mitts. My, my, Ma Parker, what hairy hands you have, she said.’

  ‘Serious?’ the copper said. ‘She said that? Has he got hairy hands?’

  ‘Oh yeah and Bob reckoned hairy was cool coz his hair was soft and she’d like it if he stroked her cheek.’

  ‘Urgh.’ The copper screwed up his face and spat a thick globule of phlegm into the dirt.

  ‘That wasn’t Bob.’ Red skipped from the ambulance to confront me. ‘That was a wolf.’ She gave me a severe look, her balled fists sat on her hips.

  I looked at the Copper and shrugged.

  ‘He wanted me to get into bed with him,’ Red said to the copper, ‘but his long hairy ears stuck out from Ma Parker’s frilly bed cap. Ma has little pink ears. Jesus Ma Parker, I sai
d, what big fucking ears you got.

  ‘Then I noticed the long wet nose with whiskers and large yellow teeth dripping with drool. Oh no Ma Parker, I said, you got your wrong teeth in.

  ‘The wolf threw the bonnet aside and ripped the nightgown apart and he snarled and demanded I get into bed. I screamed and ran and the wolf pounced.’

  The crowd, now a mob, offered a loud whoop when Red said ‘pounced.’ Red’s head dropped, a tear rolling over her cheek. She held her hands to her face, her head shaking from side to side.

  ‘You didn’t see a wolf?’ the copper asked me.

  ‘No, just Bob.’

  ‘Bob’s a creep,’ Red said, ‘but he wouldn’t hurt me.’

  ‘I broke the door down and-’

  ‘And you missed the wolf,’ Red cried. ‘You scared it off.’

  ‘I hit Bob, gave him a right old pounding and found Ma Parker in the coal cellar and called you guys.’

  At that moment the moon turned up and the crowd shut up. There was this pale light, the flashing reds and blues and a dog barked. Red grabbed my arm.

  ‘He’s here,’ she whispered. ‘He’s howling at the moon.’

  The Copper looked at me and we both shrugged. ‘Dog,’ I mouthed and he nodded.

  ‘It’s the wolf.’

  A yelp and a snarl sounded as the police officer pushed Bob with his truncheon. Bob turned and snapped at the officer with a low rumbling growl. The officer raised his truncheon to strike and Bob lifted his head, his neck stretched long and taut, with his yellow teeth dripping drool and howled long and mournful to the pale orb low in the sky.

  // // //

  Bob’s arrest might have made the front page if it hadn’t been out trumped by the bombings in Old London Town. Soldiers took over the streets and every man with a beard and wearing a checked shirt was arrested, incarcerated and tortured.

  I printed Nicky the Knife’s story in my section Window through to Ostere and it received little attention. That didn’t surprise me. When I was a cub reporter, moved from a small village in the Lowlands to Ostere, an old woman went missing and a young girl swore blind she’d seen a wolf, blood dripping from its teeth and a frilly bonnet stuck to its paw.

  My boss, the old editor of the Ostere Gazette, scoffed at the story, but I remembered it well. That was on night with a full moon too.