--I've not proof read this. I just wanted some feedback about the early parts of the story before I plow on.
2
Karl Sim knew nothing about gifts, magic or demons but he wished that his complete bitch of a day was caused by divine intervention. He slammed the door of his flat and hurled a cardboard box onto his shabby sofa. He leaned against the back of the door and slid onto the floor in a heap, his hands rubbing tears from his eyes.
Karl Sims had been made redundant. “Fiancial cuts,” Mister Stapley had said, shrugging it off like he was disposing of an old photocopier. Sims had argued. He’d argued til’ the cows had come home but in the end Old Stapley had made himself clear. There was no job for thirty-five year old Karl Simms at Goldylox iPod Accessories.
He hauled himself up, feeling the weight and fatigue of his body. Entering the kitchen he carefully poured a cold glass of milk, added Choco Milkshake Powder, and stared at the creamy end result. He had been on an intensive diet. Glancing down at his belly he shrugged and downed the drink in one. He deserved it after one hell of a day.
His mind turned to the eternal monotony of unemployment. He shivered at the prospect. His mother had been a housewife and had led a happy life, he wondered how she had coped.
“If you’re watching mother, put in a word with the Big Man himself.”
He sat next to the box on the sofa and began to sort through the items he had collected from his office at Goldylox. He took out a photo frame, turning it over he saw his certificate for “Employee of the Year 2001.” He placed it on his coffee table, making sure it was in the same position as his desk back at work. He assembled all his items in their ‘right’ position including a photograph of the office football team; a picture of him and his late mother, and a stack of envelopes. All the envelopes were empty but at work it made him look important. It made him look like he was running the show, with plenty to do. Maybe Old Stapley had caught on and realised that all Karl seemed to do was tell everyone else how to do their job.
Yes, Karl had fancied himself as team leader, and even Old Stapley’s job. He had dreamed once of setting up his things in the big plush office, and smelling the big leather chair that Old Stapley sat on like a throne.
All those dreams. Over. He was redundant and he couldn’t believe it at all. He curled up on the sofa and glanced around his flat. Virtually empty apart from an out of date TV and a cordless telephone on a table near his window. No ornaments or photos, no signs of a social life. Karl Sims had based his entirely life around work. Without it, what was he? A thirty-five year old loser that was “Employee of the Year in 2001”.
Brrr brrr. Brrr Brrr.
The phone’s default ring tone interrupted his thoughts. He looked at it and watched the screen flash blue.
“CALLER UNKNOWN.” Sighing, he ignored it, storming off to his tiny bedroom, folding his suit perfectly on his bedside table and tucking himself into bed. He plugged his Goldylox Advanced iPod headphones into his ears. The Moonlight sonata lulled him to sleep. for a dozen hours he forgot about his current crisis.
Unknown to Karl, the phone rang every-hour on the dot that night, “CALLER UNKNOWN” flashing vibrantly in the darkness.
#
Karl sat at his breakfast bar with a bowl of corn flakes. 10 am. He was usually craning over his computer at this time, sipping on a Starbucks coffee. He reluctantly swallowed his supermarket gold label tea with disdain. He cast his spoon aside.
Brrr brrr. Brrr brrr. The cordless phone next to him glowed. “19 missed calls” and “CALLER UNKNOWN” alternated on the LCD. He lightly touched the answer button the “ANSWER” button, contemplating on whether he was ready for one of his work friends to offer their condolences. A few names sprung to mind - he got on well with some of the manufacturing department. Mary, Old Stapley’s solicitor spoke to him.
They might be calling on their break, he thought. Whoever it was had been persistant, calling through his mind. If Karl had had any close family he would have been worried but he was an only child and his parents were dead. His work mates were just that, you couldn’t call any of them friends. And he didn’t speak to his neighbours.
He clicked “ANSWER” and bought the phone to his ear.
“Karl? Karl, buddy is that you?”
The broad New York drawl echoed down the line.
“I recognise the voice. Can’t but a name to it. Who is this?” Karl finished his lukewarm coffee and flicked through the morning Times.
“Tom. Tom Scall. Remember me?”
He smiled with recognition. “Ah yes, gosh it seems ages ago. Tom Scall, yeah. God. Sorry - its come as a bit of a shock. How are you doing?”
Tom Scall. A few years ago Karl had represented Goldylox over in the States. He had met with Tom Scall Chief Exec. of an American firm, the name escaped him. They had had a few beers, signed the contract pretty quickly. Karl had got on well with Tom so for the remainder of his two week trip he had been Tom’s drinking partner. You could say they became intimate.
“Not bad, bud, not bad. Sorry to keep ringing but, well, I’m in town.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope, I got a plane over the other day. Trained up here and am staying in - what’s it called? M-AYNE-CHEST-URRR.”
Karl couldn’t stop himself from a little chuckle down the phone. “Manchester, yes, you are about thirty minutes away,” Karl said. His apartment was in a suburb outside of the City. He took his car into work every morning to the Goldylox offices were were located in the city centre. “I’ll come and pick you up,” the words came out before he had time to think. But, what the hell? He was unemployed, bored and feeling sorry for himself. If Tom Scall had still got as much energy as he did back in the States then Karl might, just might be cheered up. Then he could start looking for another job.
“Where are you?” Karl heard some rustling on the end of the line.
“Er, just a sec,” there was a pause before Tom Scall quoted a post code and address.
Karl glanced at the clock. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The phone went dead. Karl threw on the closest clothes he had to “smart-casual” he could find. He jumped into his Audi and punched the post code into his satnav.
“Turn left when possible,” said the girlish voice.
“Oh, shut up.” He muted the satnav and revved hard. Karl Sims couldn’t wait to see his old Yankee friend. As he entered the City of Manchester, he wondered whether he still had that ridiculous baseball cap.
#
Tom Scall clicked his mobile phone shut and lit a cigarette quickly. He puffed on it nervously.
“Silence,” he shouted to Daven who was moaning, now on his third puppet. Daven fell silent. Scall had to admit, the boy was looking terrible. Pale, gaunt, barely alive. But Scall kept him barely an inch from death. Strong enough to give life to his army of drones. Weak enough not resist.
And now he had introduced another variable into his plan. Karl Sims. A fat, semi-intelligent business man. Typical Brit, work-a-holic. Paid his taxes. Not much of a social life. When they had met in the States, Scall had shown him a real good time.
He rocked in his chair, letting the world become a blur. He was nervous about Sims. He liked the guy, they had got on - no doubt about that. But Sims, although he didn’t know it, was a demon. And demons made his skin crawl.
He got up, flicking his cigarette aside and checked, re-checked and checked again that Daven was attached to the lifeless corpse and secured to the bed. He moved to another part of his lair.
A mattress and rags were strewn across the floor, his sleeping arrangements. A set of draws stood beside the makeshift bed. They were brimming with packets of cigarettes, whisky, cider and just about any spirit he could get his hands on. Reflecting his abode was a large cracked mirror that he had nailed to the wall.
He blinked and his trampish clothes changed to a dapper suit complete with a bow tie and pocket watch. His red New York Yankees cap stayed on his head, stains and all. He never took it off. He tufted his grey hair out of the back of his cap and made it so it was perfectly straight.
“Simsy boy,” Scall reflected. What was really ironic is that Scall wasn’t hunting Karl when he met him on that business meeting over iPods. He often moved about in different careers to try and locate those with gifts (demons). Karl had just popped up on a legitimate occassion and Scall had smelled him. He wreaked as bad as a pig in shit. His powers, contained, yet trying to seep out.
And the dumbfuck didn’t know.
Scall wiped his suit clean and returned to his rocking chair. He checked the time on his phone. Twenty minutes until Simsy was due to arrive.
He watched Daven writhe, unable to sleep, unable to dream - constantly feeding the parasites that Scall had linked to his gifts. The completed puppets stood motionless in a line - the whole process was like a body factory. Karl would be an excellent addition to his little factory. Perhaps an assistant. Perhaps he would be hooked up like Daven to double production.
Then, he and his army would rid the world of those with gifts. Those who dared to walk amongst men. The only thing that saved Karl’s life in America was that he didn’t know he had gifts. Scall liked that.
“Sorry, bud,” Scall said to himself. That’s why he was nervous, it was almost a moral dilemma. Karl was the only demon he had met who didn’t know it - it was like kidnapping a child, or a mother with kids. It just didn’t seem right.
He’s a bastard, like all the rest.
Yes. Scall remembered his flabby little body. In there was a dangerous weapon, someone with the powers to..to..what? Vanish? Make yourself invisible, immortal?
Scall, frustrated, tried to light another cigarette. Scall also didn’t know what he was but he definatly. Definatly. Was not a demon.
Run out of petroleum. He hurled the metal lighter at Daven and jumped up from his chair. Using his powers he vanished and reappeared in front of his broken mirror. He caressed the shards and looked deep into his own eyes.
“Five hundred years,” he whispered. And it didn’t seem five minutes ago since he was graduating from Oxford University and getting his first boats to the States, learning about his powers...killing his first demon. Although, that had been a more recent venture.
He scowled and slammed his fists against the mirror. He ripped over the fragments with his hands until the glass was dust at his feet. He watched his hands heal before him, the cuts sealing themselves up, the blood drying in seconds.
He stormed from his warehouse, going up several flights of stairs and walking through the front door. He was on a street with terraced housing, the last place you would expect a warehouse to be.
His demeanor changed to one of spirited joviality as he saw Karl’s Audi drive round the corner. But, underneath the shadow of his cap his eyes lusted for demon blood.
