Not Quite Normal - Free Edition Read online

  Buchanan:

  ...the hell?

  Carter:

  Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.

  Sutherland:

  Hen, what are you doing?

  Carter:

  Texting the wife. I don’t think I’ll be home in time for tea.

  Sutherland:

  Wouldn’t have thought so, no...

  Carter:

  Oh. Oh God. Run.

  * * * * *

  Text Message, Henry Carter to Veronica Carter, 19:27, Saturday 15th March 2008

  Hi love. will b l8 home. bit of a prob wiv an experiment. could b a while. dont w8 up. xx

  * * * * *

  Transcript of telephone conversation between Henry Carter and Victor Hallett, 19:33 Saturday 15th March 2008. All telephone conversations at Endeavour are recorded for ‘training purposes’.

  Hallett:

  Hello?

  Carter:

  Vic. It’s Henry.

  Hallett:

  Henry...?

  Carter:

  Carter. Sector 4. Experiment 37265…etc.? We have known each other for fourteen years, Vic.

  Hallett:

  Ah yes. I remember of course. Getting on a bit now, you see. What can I do you for?

  Carter:

  Well, some help would be nice. We’ve got a little situation down here.

  Hallett:

  Situation? What kind of situation?

  Carter:

  Um...a bit of broken glass. And a giant sentient experiment walking round.

  Hallett:

  Is that all?

  Carter:

  ...all?

  Hallett:

  Yes! Surely you can remember the old safety measures?

  Carter:

  Well, yes but...

  Hallett:

  Well what more do you need? I’ll send an e-mail around, you put the 3726...whatever it is to sleep, and we’ll all be home in time for the Match of the Day.

  Carter:

  So no help?

  Hallett:

  Surely you can take care of a little breakout by yourself? And those two strong lab assistants you’ve got down there?

  Carter:

  ARRGH!

  Hallett:

  …can I take that to mean you have only one strong lab assistant?

  Carter:

  You...you, uh, could say that. Fuck. Paul...

  Hallett:

  OK, I’m convinced you’re genuine. Can’t take too many chances, hmm? You and the, uh, not dead one, should head down to the armoury.

  Carter:

  We have an armoury?

  Sutherland (very faint):

  Hen?! Get the fuck over here! Paul’s had his arms ripped off! Jesus Christ, I’m going to be sick.

  Hallett:

  Follow the orange lines. It’s not far from Sector 4. Just past the rabbit and hamster cages, if memory serves. Then just shoot it. Simple! But Courty - under no circumstances should you kill the experiment. This could put Endeavour on the map at last. I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure it’s all in hand. Good luck!

  Carter:

  Vi-

  * * * * *

  Voice recording (Dictaphone) by Henry Carter, Saturday 15th March 2008, no time given

  I’ve never bothered using this thing before – what’s the point when we have to do work logs? I hope to God that it’s recording. Anyway, this might well be the last thing I ever do, so I’ll try and keep this short.

  Earlier on tonight, we had a breakout in Sector 4, where we perform our life-imbuing experiments. ‘Under the counter’, of course, but overseen personally by Sir Victor Hallett. I want to stress that point.

  One of the subjects, which Sir Victor told us specifically to take care of, came to life. That sounds completely crazy. Frankenstein stuff. Anyway, it was angry. Really angry. It...it killed Paul. It fucking killed him. It was going to come after me and Tim, but we managed to get away. Sir Victor told us to head to Endeavour’s ‘armoury’, which I never even knew existed until a short while ago, and…uh, ‘secure’ the creature before it could get out or hurt anyone else. So we did.

  We’re in the armoury at the moment. We somehow seem to have managed to lose the creature, which is probably a good thing. But if it gets upstairs or, God forbid, out, I’ll never be able to forgive myself. So we’re going hunting. It’s dangerous, for sure, but if we don’t nip this in the bud then who knows what could happen? I know Sir Victor has said not to kill it, but we must. Prizes and money aren’t everything. A person has fucking died tonight, and more could be at risk.

  Tim’s loaded himself up with shotguns and revolvers like he’s Bruce Willis (I hope to God he knows what he’s doing), but I’ve only got a pistol so that I can move faster. I hope it’s enough. I have no idea what it could take to kill this thing. One shot? Two? Ten? It could even be invincible for all I know.

  I’m worrying about things that might never happen now. I’ll leave this tape here. Hopefully someone will find it. If this is all that remains... goodbye to everyone I love, I suppose. God that sounds so...

  * * * * *

  Telephone conversation, anonymous caller to 999 emergency services, Saturday 15th March 2008, 19:56

  Operator:

  Hello? What’s your emergency?

  Caller:

  Um, hi, I’d like to report a shooting please.

  Operator:

  A shooting? Where did this take place?

  Caller:

  Well, I say a shooting, what I really mean is that I heard some shots being fired at the Endeavour Science Facility. It might be animal rights protestors or something. I’ve seen some of them hanging around outside for the last few days.

  Operator:

  You’re sure they were shots?

  Caller:

  Absolutely. I heard someone cry out in pain afterwards. They woke my daughter up.

  Operator:

  Have you been to check if anyone’s injured?

  Caller:

  Of course not. I’d rather not be shot, thank you.

  Operator:

  Uh, no, of course not madam. In fact, you’re very wise not to do so. I’m just trying to get as much information as possible. A firearms team will be over at Endeavour shortly. Until then, I recommend you stay indoors.

  Caller:

  Thank you.

  * * * * *

  E-mail, Henry Carter to Sir Victor Hallett. Saturday 15th March 2008, 20:01 (sent via mobile phone)

  Vic,

  Here’s the latest work log that you so graciously requested. I apologise for the slight delay, but I have some important matters to deal with.

  20:00

  At approximately 19:30, experiment number 372653678346 woke up and went mad. It killed one of my scientists, Dr. Paul Buchanan, whilst I was on the phone to Sir Victor Hallett, who was most unhelpful in the situation. Myself and Dr. Timothy Sutherland headed off to the Endeavour Science armoury, where we tooled up. Then, we went looking for the subject. We found it, and shot it. It kept coming. We ran. Eventually we got to the car park. Dr. Sutherland had to drop most of his gear en route to keep ahead of the subject. Unfortunately, he tripped. I attempted to shoot the experiment, but it did nothing. In fact, due to a lack of firearms training, I am not even sure if I managed to hit the experiment. Dr. Sutherland was dragged off, and although I tried to save him, you’ll be, I feel, pleased to hear that 372653678346 is incredibly fast and I could not catch it. Currently, I’m huddled in an outbuilding waiting for inevitable death.

  Happy now?

  Carter.

  * * * * *

  Statement to police by Henry Carter, Saturday 15th March 2008, 22:30 (extract)

  After the creature took Tim off, I managed to hide in the security shack. Luckily it was empty: it seemed that Sir Victor had decided on an evacuation after all. Either that or the guard had the night off or something. Actually, I’m not sure I saw anyone else at work that evening anyway.

&
nbsp; I realise that hiding was probably the cowardly thing to do, but this thing had killed two of my best friends: I wasn’t going to let it get me as well. I must’ve been in there about half an hour.

  Then I heard sirens. I looked on one of the grainy CCTV monitors and saw police cars outside. I thought you’d be my saviours, but then you arrested me! Me! I’m telling you, the gun belonged to Endeavour and I only fired it in self defence. It’s hard to believe, but I swear on my life that every word of this statement is true.

  * * * * *

  Conclusion of mental health analysis on Henry Carter, written by Dr. Harold Tapper, Sunday 16th March 2008

  The doctor appears to have suffered some form of mental breakdown. Upon investigation of Endeavour Science, the authorities could find no trace of this ‘monster’, nor any indication of a violent attack. Furthermore, there was no evidence of life experimentation procedures, and documents have confirmed that there has never been either a Dr. Timothy Sutherland or Dr. Paul Buchanan working for Endeavour. As such, the only conclusion can be that Dr. Carter be sectioned under the Mental Health Act and be subject to further treatment at a later date.

  * * * * *

  Report in The Daily Times, Wednesday, 19th March, 2008

  SPATE OF MURDERS ROCK TOWN

  ‘MYSTERIOUS FIGURE’ SPOTTED

  Another murder has been committed in town. Last night, a young woman, who has not yet been identified, was found strangled. A black mark was found on her neck.

  This trace is proof of a link between two other murders that have previously occurred this week. Despite several eyewitness reports, however, the police have no leads. However, police have asked members of the public to be on the lookout for a “tall man in tattered clothing, possibly with a limp.” If anyone has any information, they should call...

  The End

  * * * * *

  Mirrors

  Phillip flopped out of bed at seven in the morning. The imprint next to him told him his wife was already up. He stumbled into the en-suite bathroom, rubbing his face and yawning like a roaring lion. As he pulled the light switch, the bright bulb blinded him briefly, and his eyes took a second to readjust.

  He ambled over to the mirror, and looked into it. The man before him wasn’t really him. This was by far Phillip’s least favourite time of the day. His perfectly crafted hair was scruffy and all over the place like a clown’s. His usually perfectly smooth cheeks and chin were covered in shrubbery. His eyes, normally an attentive lime green, were surrounded by creases and bags. A zombie stared out at him.

  He smiled at himself a little, as he did every morning, as if to say ‘hello’ to this other person. It smiled back. Perhaps it was the man that he would have been in another life. The same, and yet very different. Poorer. Less attractive. A lesser man. Pathetic. He turned on the tap, and began to clean himself up.

  * * * * *

  Shortly after, he was out the door and on his way to work. His hair was gelled back into place, the stubble now working its way through the drainage system. Phillip drove an Aston Martin and lived with his wife in a million pound town house. He was wealthy; there was no doubt about that. He was on the board of directors for one of the world’s largest computing companies. Today, he was on his way to secure a multi-million pound contract with an American businessman on the other side of the city. He loved his job. He was proud of it. It meant everything to him. His wife often joked that he loved it more than he loved her. He shrugged it off, but never denied it.

  While he sat at a set of perpetually red traffic lights, he looked at himself in the rear view mirror, to make sure he was still pristine. Most would say he was - but it was far from good enough for Phillip. He grabbed his electric razor from the glove box, and touched up his sideburns. He cut perhaps three tiny bristles, before putting it away and driving on. He always made sure he looked perfect: it was just something he did. Something he was reliant on. It kept him sane, but he knew it was probably an addiction. And he didn’t really care.

  As Phillip sped through the unusually quiet backstreets, he decided to look at himself in the mirror again. There was nothing in the road, so why not? It was still early yet. He saw a tiny spec of cornflake in his front tooth. Disgraceful. He manoeuvred his fingernail up to his teeth and...

  A thud. A scream. Phillip jammed on the brakes. A young girl fell off the bonnet with a heavy thump. Cracks formed in the windscreen like a cobweb, blood running through the veins like raspberry ripple ice cream. Phillip had jerked forwards onto the steering wheel, bashing his chest a little. He immediately checked the mirror once more, to make sure the crash hadn’t messed up his hair. Only then did he decide to check on the girl.

  He opened the door and got out with trepidation, like a bird leaving the nest for the first time, and limped towards the un-moving body. He was totally emotionless, in a complete sense of shock. The girl had rebounded off the bonnet and landed a couple of metres away from the car itself. She was lying, face down, in a gradually expanding pool of blood. The girl’s long blond hair was matted and covered in red. One of her arms was twisted out of place and now rested the wrong way round. She couldn’t have been much older than nine years old. She was wearing a school uniform.

  Calmly, Phillip removed his phone from his blazer pocket and dialled 999. There was no response; he had no signal. He crouched, making sure not to get dirt on his trousers, and felt for a pulse in her neck. There was one there, but it was weak, like a foetus kicking its mother’s stomach. Her breathing was slow and shallow.

  Phillip stood and looked around, adrenaline finally beginning to kick in. There were no pedestrians around, and the only vehicles he could hear were on some distant flyover. All the shops and buildings, which were so run-down they looked like relics of the War, were closed and totally empty. He was alone with the girl.

  He had a choice to make. Should he move her into his car and try and take her to a hospital? He’d seen enough episodes of Casualty to know that you’re not supposed to move anyone who’s been in an accident. Plus, he’d probably get blood on his shirt, and he’d be late for the meeting.

  Should he keep trying for an ambulance, or go and find someone to help? No, that wouldn’t work. She’d probably die if he left her alone too long or, worse still, someone could find the car and presume he’d done a runner. Plus, he’d be late for the meeting.

  Could he just drive off, leaving her to her fate? After all, she was as good as dead already, and there was no chance of anyone recognising him as running off. The windscreen was a giveaway, though. There would be no way of covering it up. But at least he’d be on time for the meeting...

  He ran back to his car and sped off down the road (after straightening his tie, of course), being careful not to hit her again. He had his phone in one hand and drove with the other. He kept looking down at his phone to see if he had any signal, but could barely see out of the windscreen anyway. Not long after he left her, Phillip arrived at some busier streets. As he turned onto a main road, he heard a loud siren behind him and blue lights flashed like lightning in his wing mirror. They forced him to pull over.

  They asked him many an awkward question, about why he had large cracks in his windscreen, and why his car was covered in blood. He explained about the girl, and at first the police seemed unbelieving. But the evidence was right there, and soon put Phillip in the back of their car and told him to direct them.

  That was the longest car journey of his life. It felt like hours. He looked at his watch every few seconds and kept fiddling with his hair (nervously, now, given the company). Eventually they arrived at the spot. The girl was on the ground, exactly where he’d left her. The police ran out of their panda; Phillip stayed behind. Chances were they’d only end up putting him back anyway. He saw one of the officers, a tall, stocky man, check the girl’s pulse and breathing. An exchange of words. The other copper called in the incident on his walkie-talkie. They both glared at Phillip, before the stocky one walked back
over to the car. Phillip’s eyes began to well up.

  * * * * *

  A few hours later, Phillip was sat in an empty cell in a police station. He’d been questioned on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving. He knew he’d be charged soon, there was nothing he could do about it. White, chipped walls contrasted to a bright blue bed, which he was sat on. A cast iron door with a slit for food stood opposite a tiny, barred window.

  He sat in silence, thinking. What if he had taken a different route? What if he’d left just a minute earlier? But nothing could cover up one simple fact: his vanity had betrayed him.

  She’d fought as best as she could, but the paramedics just couldn’t save her. She’d suffered massive internal injuries, and probably would have been a vegetable even if she had pulled through. But that didn’t matter now.

  Phillip sat in silence for a long while, before a sharp suited police officer came to pick him up. Once in the interview room, he was formally charged but released on bail. His car was impounded as evidence, so he was dropped home by the police. When he got back, he told his wife everything. She didn’t know what to say or do. She reassured him that everything would be fine, but he knew it wouldn’t. It had been a long day, and all he wanted to do was try and get some sleep. He went into his bathroom and looked in the mirror.

  The same other self that Phillip had seen every morning was staring at him with wide eyes. Almost laughing. Cynical. Phillip punched his other self, breaking the mirror, unable to face the man he could have been.