Sidney
by Chris Harvey

"Her boyfriend's a bit shy," Alan said, flipping up the indicator and easing the Astra into the fast lane. "He'll probably be in bed by the time we get there."

Paul, in the passenger seat, glanced across at Alan. "What do you mean by 'shy'?" he wanted to know.

"He's just quiet. Whenever he visits us he never has much to say for himself. Having said that, we haven't seen much of him for a while. In fact, the last couple of times Carol visited she was on her own."

"You must have done something to upset him," Paul said with a smile.

Alan overtook the van, signalled again and pulled back into the middle lane.

"So, what's his name then, this boyfriend?" Paul continued.

"Malcolm."

Paul gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Malcolm. Shy sounding name really, he thought.

"Our Carol more than makes up for him though."

Paul looked across at Alan again, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"She's really sociable. You can't help but like her."

"Yea, but you're biased, aren't you. Big Broth."

"Well, you'll be able to judge for yourself, won't you."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Good"

Paul winced. "How much further anyway?"

"Not long." Alan said, affording Paul a quick glance and seeing that his face was creased up. "Why?"

"Because I'm dying for a piss."

Alan grinned and shook his head, returning his eyes to the road ahead and stepping on the accelerator a touch.

The two occupants of the car, driving down to London from Chester on business, had been on the road for over four hours, and now, over two-hundred miles later, they weren't far from their destination. Alan's sister, Carol, was putting them up for the night, the plan being that they would head off for the Capital the following morning after a good night's sleep.

Paul did his best to ignore his complaining bladder, but couldn't seem to do the same about the seemingly weird boyfriend.

Okay, so the guy isn't particularly sociable, but that's his prerogative - give the guy a break! Paul tried to tell himself he was too tired anyway to give it any more thought. You just want to get there as soon as possible, mate, have a piss, something to eat, and then sink into a soft, comfortable armchair, nursing a mug of hot coffee; then settle down for a much needed night's sleep in a comfy bed.

He did feel shattered, and gazing through the windscreen at the hypnotic repetition of cat's eyes and white lines wasn't helping any.

But when they finally arrived at Alan's sister's house fifteen minutes later, and the door was opened and a friendly and pretty face peered out, some of that fatigue seemed to dissipate and Paul felt himself perk up a little. Only natural of course: a young, hot-blooded male like himself confronted with a pretty young thing like that. Alan hadn't said his sister was a looker.

And when they got inside and into decent room lighting, Paul realised that she was even better looking than his first impressions had suggested.

A slim, tight figure; a pretty face with big brown eyes; nice skin, which bore little or no make-up and didn't need it. She wore her natural blonde hair in a short bob, cut close and high at the back revealing the nape of her neck, another attractive feature.

Lucky Malcolm, he thought to himself. So this girl likes the shy, introverted type... Well, he could be like that - strong and silent, no problem...

Paul dumped his sleeping bag on the floor as Alan did the intros:

"Paul; this is my little sis, Carol..."

Paul smiled. "Hi ya,"

"Hello." Carol said and she smiled a smile that simply lit up her entire face.

"Carol," Alan went on. "This is my best mate and business partner, Paul..."

"Who I've heard a lot about," Carol offered her hand.

"Not all bad, I hope." Paul took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It felt warm and soft and he didn't want to let go. When he finally did, he wondered if she'd noticed his reluctance to part.

Suddenly, Paul was yanked from his fantasizing when a movement from the floor caught his eye. He looked down just in time to see a ball roll out from behind the armchair in front of him. It was a little smaller than a football, but it was made from clear plastic and its surface was scored with a dozen or so slits. A moment later, Paul realised that there was something inside it - something alive and moving - the explanation for why the ball seemed to be moving of its own volition - and why there were slits cut into it.

Ventilation holes.

Of course: a hamster. He had seen one of these ball things before.

"That's Sidney," Carol informed him.

The ball headed straight for Paul's feet and before he could step out of the way, it bounced against his toes.

Either momentarily stunned or contemplating it's next move, Sidney shifted around inside the sphere, circling through three-hundred and sixty degrees then back again, sniffing the air constantly with an inquisitive, twitching nose.

Deciding on his next trajectory, Sidney scuttled off to the right and, obeying his command, the ball headed towards the TV.

Paul suddenly became aware once again of his complaining bladder. Carol had distracted him and that had anaesthetised the sensation somewhat, but now the organ was complaining again, demanding to be emptied.

"Could you point me in the direction of your loo, please," Paul said with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"Sure. Straight upstairs, second on your left." Carol gestured with her hand.

Paul gave a deliberately wry smile and said - "Now, you're sure that's the right door? I wouldn't want to disturb Malcolm." - before immediately regretting it.

Carol's smile seemed to fade for an instant and she shot Alan a glance. But in the next instant she was smiling again and Paul wondered if he'd simply imagined it.

"You won't disturb him, don't worry," she said, quite matter-of-factly.

Plonker! He reprimanded himself. Why did you go and say a thing like that?

"Second on your left. You can't miss it," she repeated, stressing the directions a little more this time.

"Right, I think I've got that." Paul tried another broad smile, but wondered if his attempts to be witty were merely helping to him to make an even bigger prat of himself. Just get to the toilet, you idiot!

As he went out, he glanced over to Alan who shot him a reprimanding look and shook his head.

"Sorry," Paul mouthed, and continued out to the stairs.

The stairs led up to a spacious landing. There was an unusually wide, almost square door at the far end, another standard sized door to his right, and two similar doors on his left.

The door at the far end obviously led to a closet or attic, Paul decided. It was considerably shorter and wider than the other doors - about four feet by four feet, and he had seen something similar, albeit a little smaller, in his parents' old house and that door had lead to an attic.

He wondered which of the other two doors led to Malcolm's room, and he moved closer...

As he did so, he was suddenly aware of an unpleasant odour in the air. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed... but the smell seemed to have gone. He frowned, not knowing what to make of it. Probably the toilet, he guessed.

He pushed his ear close up against each of the doors in turn, straining to listen... but could hear nothing from within either of them...

Hard to believe someone could be so quiet, could keep so utterly silent.

Maybe he isn't actually here, Paul suddenly thought. Maybe he's out: he and Carol had fallen out and he'd stormed out, and Carol was too embarrassed to say. Maybe he'd even left a while ago and Carol was now living alone, scared
to divulge the truth to her brother or family...

Paul shrugged and reached out towards the toilet door handle, closed his fingers around it and pushed. The unpleasant odour he had expected to greet him didn't, and he wondered if he hadn't simply imagined it. He grinned as he unzipped his trousers. Either that, or it was down to Malcolm. Maybe the poor guy had a flatulence problem! Maybe that's why he was never around when visitors came: he was kept locked away to avoid any extreme embarrassment!

Paul chuckled and started to relieve his straining bladder.

When he came back down, the ball was motionless and empty on the floor, and Sidney was back in his cage, though he didn't seem any less energetic for his previous efforts. Now, he was going like the clappers on the wheel in his
cage, his little legs rushing beneath his small body in a blur of frenzied activity.

"Hungry?" Alan was sprawled out on the settee, shoes off, feet up.

"Starving," Paul said, his stomach groaning at the thought of food.

"Good, because I've made a ton of sandwiches." The voice came from the kitchen and Paul looked up to see Carol peering up from whatever she was doing, a broad smile from cheek to cheek. "I take it you like ham?"

"Oh, yes," Paul said, stepping forward.

The house was open plan, and Sidney's cage was perched on a table bordering the kitchen and lounge. But right now, Paul's gaze was drifting decidedly towards Carol. His eyes travelled down her body from head to toe, then back up again, pausing to admire her shapely rear within the tight jeans, which seemed to cling to her buttocks like a second skin. He felt a surge of desire but tried to push it way.

She was slicing away with a large bread knife, and as Paul drew closer he noticed that Carol's claims about the sandwiches were no understatement.

"Christ, what is this," Paul gasped. " The feeding of the five-thousand?"

She must have used a loaf of bread. The sandwiches were piled almost a foot high and now Carol finished slicing the last of them and added those to the top.

"Hard-working boys need to keep their strength up," Carol said, and Paul found himself watching her mouth as it formed the words.

Aware that Carol might notice he was staring, Paul tore his gaze away and looked down at the cage where Sidney was still on the go, with apparently no let up.

"I think you've been feeding him on your ham sandwiches, haven't you?" Paul sniggered and leaned closer to the cage. He pushed a finger between the bars and sucked a friendly chirp between his teeth.

"Careful!" Carol looked up from arranging the sandwiches. "He'll have your finger off, no problem."

Paul snatched his finger away, startled by Carol's sudden outburst. "He's not very friendly then?" he enquired, and looked up at Carol, immediately distracted again by her smile. Her mouth...

God, this girl wasn't just pretty - she was drop-dead gorgeous! Dimples in her cheeks and perfect teeth behind sensuous lips, Carol shook her head and lifted up a finger. Paul managed to shift his gaze away from her face and
focussed on the offered digit.

On the index finger of her left hand she wore a plaster.

"Why do you think we called him Sidney?" she said.

Paul didn't get the connection. "What do you mean?"

Carol cocked her head to one side and, with that same wry smile, she looked at him as if he really ought to know. "Because he's vicious," she said. "Get it?"

Carol's smile widened and Paul wondered if the dimples could get any deeper, the teeth any more perfect, the lips any more sensuous... and then he chuckled, realising what she meant.

"Oh, yea... right: Sid Vicious?"

Carol nodded. "Right."

Paul shook his head, embarrassed again. "I can't believe I didn't ask in the first place."

Carol and Alan hardly touched the mammoth pile of ham sandwiches, but they were keen for Paul to finish them off. He was ravenous and he tucked in with gusto, washing the food down with several glasses of red wine which seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

"I ain't gonna be in a fit state to do any work tomorrow at this rate," said Paul, aware that he was slurring his words slightly.

"Don't worry, mate," Alan told him. "A good night's sleep and you'll be raring to go in the morning, especially with all those sandwiches you've put away."

"I'm not that thin, am I?" Paul asked with a frown.

"What do you mean?" said Carol.

"Well, you two - feeling the need to fatten me up."

He saw Alan and Carol exchange a glance. And if he'd been stone cold sober he might have thought it a little unnerving, but right now, he didn't care. He was shattered, needed his bed; and even the far-fetched idea of bedding Carol was starting to fade.

Carol turned back to him, smiling that same, wry smile, the corner of her mouth upturned. "Just looking after you, that's all," she said. "You're a guest, and I like to look after my guests. Call it Southern hospitality," she added, and Paul couldn't help but chuckle at that.

No one mentioned the shy and reclusive boyfriend again. After his previously embarrassing attempt, Paul decided he wouldn't mention Malcolm, although the wine was tempting him to say something.

Just leave the boy alone, man, will you.

Things were very quiet upstairs though, and Paul concluded that Malcolm must be either asleep or sitting quietly reading... or something...

Paul could feel his eyes growing heavier as his mind wandered. He glanced around at Alan and Carol in turn, but they were gazing blankly at the TV. It had been on since they'd arrived and right now there was some mediocre American TV film playing out on the screen.

He looked again at Carol, admiring her beauty in profile as she watched the TV, unaware she was being watched. Nice, Paul thought, but the conversation wasn't up to much, that was for sure. He wondered where all the sociability
that Alan had boasted about had gone to; Carol seemed pretty quiet right now.

As did Alan, come to think of it. He'd hardly said a word since they'd arrived...

Paul put it down to fatigue. Everyone was tired, that's what it was, himself included.

He suddenly remembered Sidney and pushed himself to his feet. He felt a little unsteady but managed to make it the short distance to the hamster's cage.

Sidney had at last given up, and was now snuggled up amongst the wood shavings, eyes closed, fast asleep, his tiny body twitching every now and again. "About time," Paul muttered under his breath. "And I think that's where I belong too," he said a little louder turning back to the other two.

Carol looked up and smiled. "Where's that? In a hamster cage?"

Her attempts to be witty were far more effective than his own.

He grinned. "Not quite," he said, reaching for his sleeping bag from where he'd dropped it earlier. "Time for bed."

Alan looked up.

"So which room am I in?" Paul asked, his sleeping bag tucked under one arm. He fantasized that Carol would say Which room? Don't be silly, you're coming to bed with me you sexy super stud! But of course, she didn't.

"First on your right," she actually said. "And I'm sorry that there's only a bare mattress in there, but I have left you a pillow."

"No problem. This should keep me as snug as a bug." He lifted his sleeping bag. "Well, goodnight all," he said theatrically. "And thank you very much for the wine and sandwiches. Sleep well, and I shall see both of you in the
morning..."

Paul swung open the door and fumbled for the light switch. Finding it, he flicked it on.

The room was small and unfurnished, used evidently for nothing at present. A small single bed with an uncovered mattress was pushed into one corner, leaving only an L-shaped space of about three feet wide around the bed. And
that was it. No drawers, no wardrobe. Nothing.

Paul threw his sleeping bag onto the bed and moved over to a small window situated in the wall at the foot of the bed. He peered out but couldn't see much at all, save for the amber glow of the odd street lamp in the distance.

He glanced at his watch, realising that he had no idea at all what time it was; he'd lost track.

1.17a.m.

It could have been ten o'clock at night or three in the morning for all the knew.

He pulled the curtain closed over the window, turned back to the bed and started to undress.

The noise awoke him suddenly, yanking him violently out of slumber.

How long he'd been asleep he had no idea.

He blinked his eyes several times and opened them wide, but he could see nothing. It was as though the entire room, including the window, had been coated in treacle, such was the impenetrable blackness.

But what in God's name was that sound...?!

It didn't help that he was still feeling the effects of the wine, and he shook his head in an attempt to throw away the grogginess.

As he began to come round a little more, Paul realised that the noise was coming from outside his bedroom door. For some reason the sound conjured-up the image of a ball-bearing being rolled around and around on the surface of
a wooden table, but magnified ten times over. Yet when his mind tried to match that up with an image of what on earth could possibly make such a sound it couldn't come up with any answers.

What time was it?

He pulled his hand out of the sleeping bag and tried to make out the hands of his watch, but it was useless.

Suddenly, he thought he heard voices, whispering. In the darkness, his eyes narrowed, trying desperately to make something out but there was only a black void. He became aware of a thumping sound too, but quickly realised that was the sound of his heart pounding away inside his chest.

And then for some reason, he began to link the rolling sound with something he knew he had seen recently, but in his present sleepy and drunken state he couldn't for the life of him place it.

What was it?

Suddenly, a slit of light appeared in the dark void.

A chink of light under the door: someone had turned the landing light on.

"Hello?" Paul tried to say, but the single word crackled out feebly.

He knew that all this didn't make any sense whatsoever, and it was then that he was convinced that he must be - still had to be - asleep and dreaming.

The rolling sound seemed to suddenly get nearer and Paul could feel the vibration beneath him...

Something smashed into the door from the other side and Paul's heart almost leap out of his chest.

Shit.

There was a loud snapping sound as something seemed to give.

Now terrified, shaking with fear, Paul cowered back on the bed, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

The rolling stopped momentarily, and then it started again and seemed to retreat... Another pause... and then it started again... and Paul realised that it was getting closer once again, closer... closer...

SMASH!

The door blew inwards - torn from its hinges like balsa wood as something large and heavy smashed into it.

Fuck.

Paul instinctively ducked down, lifting an arm to shield his face.

The door creaked on the thread of a hinge before crashing to the floor with an almighty clatter that seemed to shake the world beneath him.

He knew he didn't want to, but like the motorist unable to prevent himself from viewing the carnage of a roadside accident, he knew he had to look.

Slowly, he lowered his arm from in front of his face.

He was dreaming. Had to be. The scene before him couldn't possibly be falling upon his retina. It had to be his imagination - warped and twisted - feeding the grotesque spectacle directly into his brain as he slept.

Jesus Christ Almighty.

He tried to tell himself to laugh at the object which blocked the shredded doorway only feet away, but the vision was so terrible that, try as he might, he couldn't summon a sense of humour.

A plastic ball. Just like Sidney's. Just like the hamster's (of course, that was the object he had been so desperately trying to think of!) The same clear plastic, the same ventilation holes, only here there were two stark differences - differences that even the brain-dead couldn't miss.

Number one: it's size.

The ball filled the doorway. No less than four feet in diameter, it stretched beyond the doorframes, blocking any means of escape. But it was the second difference - just as obvious as the first, but far more horrifying which had turned Paul's bowels to water and teased his sphincter to relax.

The occupant.

The thing inside.

No hamster.

Not this.

Paul could feel his pulse thumping inside his head and his heart felt as if it was trying to punch its way out through his ribcage. He knew his eyes were bulging wide in their sockets... or at least in the dream they were, because in reality they had to be closed because he was asleep - this wasn't really happening - couldn't be happening.

The thing in the ball...

On the one hand, Paul's instincts told him that it was plainly obvious what he was seeing, and for a moment he tried to humour the nightmare: the thing was somehow human, or at least had been, once upon a time; but the more his brain rationalised the grotesque sight, the more a voice inside his head screamed it couldn't possibly be!

How could it be?!

A sudden flashback to recent events: In the car with Alan. Small talk about Carol and her boyfriend, Malcolm...

"He's shy..." Paul couldn't stop the flashback seeping in between the unfolding madness but he didn't really know why it was coming through.

"...Having said that, we haven't seen him for a while. In fact, the last couple of times Carol visited she was on her own..." The Boyfriend. Malcolm.

Why the fuck am I linking the two? Paul's brain screamed at him.

He's shy. So shy that he couldn't even bring himself to show his face. So shy that he went to bed before visitors arrived to avoid them.

Why so unsociable...?

Saliva dripped from the thing's mouth in thick, glutinous threads. The teeth - what was left of them - were discoloured with decay, broken and rotten. The hands were filthy and bloody, the nails mere splinters of torn calcium, the fingertips themselves worn raw due to the creature's continuous manipulation of its spherical prison. The feet were the same, the toes worn to a pulp, stumps of bone clearly visible through the red mash of flesh. Dirty, liquescent streaks and smudges covered the inside surface of the ball, a mixture of the occupants saliva and blood -and something else, though what exactly, Paul didn't want to even think about. Already, his stomach felt as if it was being squeezed inside a tight fist, coaxed to reject its contents.

The outrageous sight was suddenly accompanied by a foul stench as the nauseous odour of filth and excrement reached Paul's nostrils. It could only be coming from the ball, seeping through the ventilation holes, rank and putrid.

He became aware of a guttural, liquid, frothing sound that he could only compare to the sound of many bubbles popping but magnified tens of dozens of times: Alker Seltzer with a microphone held close over a PA system.

Logic - what flimsy threads remained - told him that the sound had to be emanating from the thing's mouth. From a mouth and throat eaten by disease and clogged by blood and pus and Christ alone knew what else...

The fist gripping Paul's stomach relaxed for a second, but in the next instant closed even tighter.

Paul winced in pain, then gagged. But he couldn't drag his eyes away. He was transfixed with fear, terrified that if he looked away for even a moment something terrible would happen. At least the ball couldn't come any closer - it couldn't fit through the doorway...

Could it?

Too big.

Is it?

Paul began to whimper in desperation as he tried to swallow down the rising bile in a last, vain attempt to keep his red wine/ham sandwich supper down. It wasn't going to work.

Another sudden flashback to even more recent events...

Himself leaning close to Sidney's cage, pushing a finger between the bars, sucking a friendly chirp between his teeth. Carol giving a friendly warning: "Careful, he'll have your finger off, no problem." Snatching his finger away, grinning: "So he's not very friendly then?" Smiling a nice smile and holding up her own plastered finger: "Why do you think we called him Sidney?" Not understanding: "What do you mean?" Delivering the punchline: "Because he's vicious. Get it? " Sniggering and realising: "Oh, yea... Right: Sid Vicious?"

Seemed funny at the time...

Not so funny now.

And by Christ, if Sidney is vicious then what is this fucker's real name because somehow Malcolm seems just a little out of character! It now made sense to Paul: the unpleasant smell that he'd noticed earlier on the landing; the unusual square-shaped, attic-like door.

Malcolm's domain; Malcolm's filth...

The blood was pounding inside Paul's head now like a roaring steam engine and he began to feel dizzy, his eyes losing focus. When he blinked and tried to refocus, he thought he saw the outline of two figures, standing, silhouetted
either side of the globe... his mind playing tricks again - more nonsense to fuel this insane nightmare.

He blinked again, this time harder - squeezing the eyelids shut until they hurt and then suddenly opening them wide...

His sight had returned to clear sharpness, but the figures were still there, and even in the subdued backlighting, he recognised them.

Alan and Carol.

He couldn't make out any of their features clearly, but their outlines were unmistakable.

"What the fuck's going on?!" Paul demanded, then wondered why he had wasted his breath, humouring the dream: Alan and Carol weren't really there; they were in their own beds, fast asleep, dreaming their own dreams - though probably nothing as warped and twisted as this.

He watched as the figures moved closer in to the giant orb and each of them placed a hand on its surface.

The creature inside responded immediately, twisting it's head to look at each of them in turn, growling something that could almost have been intelligible once upon a time...

Before the vocal cords had rotted away...

"He's hungry," the one who looked like Carol (but couldn't have been because she was really fast asleep in bed) said, a noticeable tremor of excitement in her voice.

"Yes," said the one who looked like Alan - Alan his best mate (but couldn't possibly have been him either because he was really asleep in bed too), the same tremor of excitement in his voice.

"Come on, guy's. What the fuck's going on?" Again Paul blurted it out without thinking and immediately he reprimanded himself for humouring the absurdity. It was as if he was suspecting them of playing some sick joke. But he knew that no mind, no matter how twisted, could come up with a scenario like this.

Get back to bed, he felt like yelling at them, and don't get back up until morning when sanity can once again prevail. But he didn't say it.

Because, in truth, he was shit scared.

"It's Malcolm's coming out party..." Alan and Carol said in almost perfect unison, and they each took a firm hold of their respective side of the ball, fingers finding purchase in a specially designed groove.

Paul almost smiled. Malcolm indeed.

Alan and Carol nodded to one another and obeying each other's cue, they pulled on their respective sides of the sphere...

There was a crack, followed by a dull hiss, and then the two halves of the sphere parted like the segments of some giant Easter egg, allowing the creature, and its stench, to escape.

The creature let out a wail of exultation, and stumbled forward, obviously ecstatic to be free of its spherical prison. It turned its head to nod thanks to each of its keepers ... and then hunger overrode the need for freedom and it snapped its head straight ahead, locking Paul in its ravenous gaze, its eyes milky with pus and matter ...

And at that moment, Paul knew that he was the equivalent of the fatted calf...

He screamed as the creature bore down on him, though somewhere, inside his head, he heard himself start to laugh. A crazed, maniacal laugh, because for some reason, although he was about to be eaten alive, the image of losing his
life at the hands of a creature from the depths of hell called Malcolm, seemed quite absurdly, perversely, hilarious...

© Chris Harvey

Chris Harvey, is a 32 year old UK based writer, specialising in screenplays and short stories. He has previously had two short stories published in womens magazines, and four in the British horror author Guy N. Smith's fanzine GRAVEYARD RENDEZVOUS. He  has also been shortlisted in several short story competitions. In total, he has about sixteen short stories under his belt, and around twenty completed screenplays (of varying lengths); also one radio play and two stage plays. Not all are horror, as he is also interested in straight drama, but a good many are under the horror/thriller/mystery label. Among his favourite writers are: Shaun Hutson, Richard Laymon, James Herbert,
Guy N. Smith, and for their achievements in Screenwriting: Phil Redmond (BROOKSIDE), Glenn Chandler (TAGGART), and David Renwick (JONATHAN CREEK). He has no web site at the moment, but people are more than
welcome to contact him through e-mail.

February 2000 HofP