Mad Sally
by Paul Lockey

We were freezing our nuts off outside the chip shop when Mad Sally walked by on the other side of the road. "Slag, slag, slag!" we chanted. We always took the piss whenever we saw her. It was fun.

Sally stopped and stared. 'Fuck off!' she shouted, which made us laugh at her all the more. She then disappeared inside the tower block.

"Come on," said Luke, his breath swirling in front of his weasel face like steam from a kettle.

We crossed the road. The main entrance door was almost off its hinges, I noticed, as we marched through into the piss-stinking foyer. We each took a swig from the vodka bottle as we climbed the stairs up to the first floor.

Sally appeared to be having some difficulty using her key. Startled by our sudden appearance, she dropped it on the floor.

"Here, let me," said Luke, grinning.

He picked up the key, opened the door to her flat, and walked right in. "Hmm. Very cosy," he remarked, on seeing the bare floor tiles and peeling flocked wall paper.

Sally was trembling. 'Look, I don't want any trouble. . .'

Luke giggled. "We just want to look around, that's all. Ain't that right, lads?"

"Yeah. We just want to look", said Ben, shoving Sally inside. He turned to me. "Don't just stand there, dick head. Come on in, for God's sake."

I stepped on through, slamming the door behind me as I followed my big brother along the dark, narrow hall. I could see Luke standing in the kitchen doorway dead ahead. The bathroom door to my left was also open. The two doors
on my right were closed.

Ben opened the nearest door and looked in. "Now who would sleep in a bed like this," he drawled, mimicking Lloyd Grossman. He started nosing around in the bedroom, leaving me to keep an eye on Sally.

I grabbed Sally's arm and steered her towards the kitchen.

"Jesus, look at this place. It's disgusting. . . don't you ever clean up, Sal?"

I peered over Luke's shoulder and was forced to agree with him. There was a sink load of washing up still to be done. The cooker was encrusted with burned on grease. There were crumbs all over the table, and the floor was absolutely filthy.

Luke tried the other door. "Here, Ben," he shouted, as Sally and I followed him inside.

A rug, a few floor cushions, a black and white TV over in the corner. . . that was about all the furniture Sally had in her lounge. There were no curtains in the window and the two-bar electric wall heater looked totally inadequate.

"Mind if I turn this on?" Luke asked, blowing on his hands as he rubbed them together.

Sally didn't answer.

The heater made a crackling noise and started sparking when Luke flicked the switch. "Shit!" he shouted, turning it off again.

I noticed a paperback lying on the floor, so I bent down to pick it up.

Luke snatched it from me. "'Gone With The Wind. . .'" He looked at Sally and sneered: "You can't be serious?" He laughed, then threw the book in her face.


"Please. . . Why are you doing this?"

He pulled out his flick knife. "Shut it, slag." He turned to Ben. "Hold her for me, will you."

Ben grabbed Sally from behind. She started screaming. Luke clamped his hand over her mouth and held the blade to her throat. "Quiet!" he hissed. "Do that again and I'll cut you. Understand?" She nodded; her eyes wide with fear. Poor cow. She wasn't to know Luke was only joking with her.

He started slicing the toggles off her duffel coat, one by one. I sat down on one of the cushions, hugging my knees to keep warm as I watched him. Ben helped Sally off with her coat. Luke then ripped her blouse open.

'Shit, man. What are you doing?' I asked, very concerned all of a sudden.

Ignoring me, Luke used his knife to slit her bra. 'Hmm. . . Not bad,' he said, smirking as he groped her tits.

He turned to me. "Come on, Scott. You're always saying how much you'd like to fuck her. Now's your chance. . . Eh, Ben?"

Ben nodded. "That's right. Go on. Let's see you give her one."

I looked at Sally. She sensed my reluctance. Help me, her expression seemed to be saying.

"Leave it out," I told them, averting my eyes away from her gaze.

"What's up? Are you gay or something?"

"Fuck you, Ben. I'm no queer. . . I'm out of here."

"Wanker. . . You dare leave and I swear, I'll kick the living shit out of you."

My brother was dangerously close to losing his temper, so I remained seated and kept my mouth shut while he and Luke continued to goad me. They lost interest, eventually, and turned their attentions back to Sally instead.

Luke started cutting away the rest of her clothing. Skirt, tights, knickers. . . they all went. It seemed unreal somehow, seeing her standing virtually naked and shaking with fright; humming that crazy tune of hers same as always
whenever she got too stressed out. Rumour had it she was a student when she first came to live around here. Cracked under the strain, apparently. She seemed so pitiful now. I wanted to apologise for all the bad things I'd ever said or done to her. I was ashamed for being so weak and I promised myself I'd make it up to her later. . .

"Jesus. . . Luke!" I couldn't believe it when he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock.

"Suck it," he told her.

Sally got down on her knees. She started sobbing when Luke put it in her mouth. Ben got his cock out and knelt down behind her. I could hear her muffled screams as he tried to plug her arsehole. "Keep still!" he snarled, punching her hard in the ribs.

Then all of a sudden Luke started howling; "Fucking bitch bit me!" he snarled.

He grabbed hold of Sally's hair, yanked her head back and slit her throat before I even realised what was happening.

Sally stared in disbelief as her claret sprayed Luke's clothing.

"Shit!" said Luke, pushing Sally away from him and zipping up.

"Bastard. . . You might have waited!" said Ben. "Come on, let's jack."

And so we left Sally choking and bleeding to death. It's not something I'm particularly proud of.

*******************

"Hello, Scott."

It was Mad Sally. She was sitting on the edge of my bed.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, assuming I was imagining things. But she was there alright. And the gaping slash wound across her neck looked just like a clown's mouth.

"What. . . what do you want?" I asked, pissing in my pyjamas despite my best efforts to remain calm.

Sally appeared not to notice. "I'm dead because of you and your friends. What do you think I want?"

"But I didn't do anything. It was Luke and Ben, not me."

She glared at me. "You were there. You should have done something. Instead you just sat and watched."

"I. . . I know. I'm sorry."

"No, Scott," she laughed, mockingly. "I'm the one who's sorry."

She rubbed at her neck and examined her hand. "Just look at me, I'm dripping blood everywhere. . . Is this how you would want to spend eternity?"

I remained silent rather than risk giving her an honest answer.

"It's your guilty conscience keeping me here, you know. By rights I should be in purgatory, not sitting here talking to you."

"Purgatory? Where's that?"

She sighed. "Not where. . . It's a spiritual thing; a kind of process to rid your soul of sin when you die. You must have heard of it, surely?"

"Er, no. I don't think so."

Sally shrugged. "Ah well. . . the thing is, I don't want to be a ghost. I want to move on, to be free of sin. To do that I must undergo purgatory. But thanks to you I can't."

"Oh. . . I see." I didn't. Not really.

"Not to worry, you can still make amends. That is, if you can find it within yourself. . . What do you say?"

I took a second or two to think about it.

"Promise you'll go away and never come back?"

Sally smiled thinly. "I promise."

*****************************

Later that same morning, I went looking for Ben and found him in Dad's work shed. He was at the lathe, turning wood. Ben was quite skilled actually - as good as the Old Man himself used to be. He was forever making lamp shades,
bowls, candlesticks or whatever. And sometimes, if he was feeling generous, he would let me have a go. But I was hopeless with a chisel and so most times I just watched him.

"Hello, wanker," he said, when he saw me standing there.

I looked around the place. Dad would have a fit if he were alive to see this, I thought to myself. His tools were lying red rusty on the work bench. The floor was littered with saw dust and discarded wood carvings. Beneath the bench I could see paint tins with lids missing. Glues, solvents, old batteries, and various other caustic substances had been dumped there too. If ever an accident was waiting to happen, this was it.

I bent down to unscrew the cap off a gallon can. Ben was so absorbed in his work he didn't even notice.

The lathe was making so much noise he never heard the paraffin gushing out all over the floor when I tipped the can over on to its side. He was completely unaware that he was paddling in a lethal puddle. All it took was one match and suddenly he surrounded by flames.

"Help me!" he wailed, as tried to put out the fire.

I didn't hang around to watch. I ran outside instead, slammed the door shut and used my body weight to prevent Ben escaping. I felt the blows as he hammered on the door from the inside, and I willed myself to ignore his screaming and pleading. There was an explosion - I was blown across the yard. The shed was ablaze. I must have blacked out or something then because I don't remember much else about that day.

Apparently Ben's corpse was so badly burned they needed dental records to identify him.

*************************

"Slow down, will you." I could barely keep up with Luke, and I was glad when we eventually reached the old bridge, near Yew Tree.

"Look" I said, pointing to a dead eel which floated on the canal's oily surface. It was at least three foot long and there were flies crawling all over it.

"Leave it. . . come on," Luke said.

We unslung our rifles and stood beneath the bridge. The crumbling brick work was green with moss and covered in graffiti. Our voices echoed as we laughed at the obscene messages and crude, child-like drawings.

We passed the time by shooting sticklebacks. We were both using .22 pellets which literally exploded the little fuckers, and we congratulated ourselves on our marksmanship as we watched their shredded bodies sink slowly to the
bottom. Then Luke happened to spot a family of mallards swimming alongside the reeds. He shot the adult bird first and we started taking out the chicks one by one. It was marvellous sport and we were so engrossed we never even
saw the jogger dashing up towards us.

"Stop it, you morons!" she shouted. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

We turned to look at her. Nike vest, matching shorts, white Reeboks. . . she was certainly dressed for it, I must say. Late twenty-something, I reckoned. And tanned all over as far as I could tell. Her long red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and it struck me right away that she was either brave or very foolish to be out here all by herself looking the way she did.

Luke raised his weapon and pointed it at her face. "Are you talkin' to me?" He sounded just like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.

"Don't be bloody stupid," the woman said, all superior like. She was looking death straight in the eye and was too blind even to notice.

Realising it was now or never, I shot Luke point blank in the back of the head. He was still conscious even when he dropped to the ground, and I made a mental note to have my rifle tuned up or else swap it for a more powerful model.

The woman put her hands to her face and screamed.

"Run. . . Go on!" I shouted at her. The poor cow needed no second telling. As I watched her leg it down the tow path I wished that we could have met under different circumstances.

When Luke tried to get up I clubbed him with my gun butt. I reigned blow after blow on his head as he begged for mercy and tried desperately to crawl away. By the time he gave up the struggle he looked a right bloody mess. I
managed to drag his dead weight up the embankment - well away from the towpath and out of sight of any one who happened to walk by.

At last I'd made amends. It was all over and done with, or so I thought.

****************************

"You promised you'd go away for good," I reminded Sally when she visited me in my room later that night.

She gave me a cruel smile and shook her head. "Sorry, I lied." She then started laughing horribly.

I've been unable to sleep ever since, despite all the drugs, the doctors, the clinics. . . Sally still won't leave me alone. Why is it no one ever believes me?

©2001 Paul Lockey

A little about Paul Lockey ...............

   Paul John Lockey began writing fiction in 1997. Since then his short stories have appeared in magazines and webzines worldwide, and in 1999 he was honourably mentioned in Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's Year's Best Fantasy & Horror #12. He also edits UNHINGED Online - 'a webzine which recognises the darker side of human nature.

   Paul currently resides in Keighley, West Yorkshire, with his wife, Mary, and their six year old son, James. Originally from the West Midlands, Paul was employed as an adviser/counsellor with the Citizens Advice Bureaux (1989 to 1996). Prior to that he worked in local government and the civil service. A Graduate of the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development, his educational qualifications also include a BA Honours Degree in Social Science and a Certificate in Community and Advice Work.

    When he is not working or relaxing with his family Paul is usually exploring the Yorkshire Dales. A keen walker, his most memorable sporting achievements include conquering Ben Nevis, backpacking along the West Highland Way, and completing the Yorkshire Three Peakes in under 12 hours. He is a member of the Keighley Naturalist Society and the group meets up for a ramble every other Saturday.

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