Genie and Other Weird Tales Read Online Free Page A

horrible.”
    “Why don't you go to B&Q and get some rodenticide? And clean up the clutter. The shed's a mess.”
    The next sighting was about ten days later. Henry was in the pub unburdening himself to Roger about his business and financial worries. He didn’t know when his venture with Alex would start to pay dividends, and in the meantime it had whittled down the nest egg, the sizeable lump bequeathed by his grandparents, that Elaine and he had planned to use to move to a more spacious home. When Roger suggested that Henry confront Alex about his concerns he got up to take a pee. As he was emerging from the gents someone pushed against him from the side, and he breathed a waft of foul, festering air. A fist grasped his collar and a guttural voice rasped in his ear.
    “I’m not just a rodent you know.”
    He was being menaced by a scruffy middle aged man, his face hidden in a hooded top, whom he'd pushed past on his way to the toilet, but hardly noticed. Two of the bar staff came to his aid, pulling the man away and shouting: they were sick of telling him not to come into the pub. Upset and shaking, he returned to Roger, who looked surprised and faintly amused. It transpired that his assailant was a notorious local vagrant, a middle aged man with a chaotic life called Lachlan. The rodent remark had hit a nerve with Henry though, so he told Roger about the shed, and the noises, the red lights, the shifting shadow and the glimpsed teeth.
    “Have you thought about getting a second opinion?”
    “What, you mean see a shrink?”
    Roger rolled his eyes. “No! You're obviously on edge and making more of things than you should. I think you should try to address the underlying issues. Why don't you get someone to check out Copyware. Assess what's being done. Write a report. Someone not involved with Alex.”
    Henry sighed. It was a good idea, but he felt reluctant to take it up because he dreaded the result of such an investigation. “That'd cost a bomb. I don't know who I'd approach.”
    “Do you remember Julian from sixth form?”
    Henry did. A pale ginger man with multiple piercings and a laugh like a kookaburra. They'd been friends, briefly, when they'd both been into folk music. “Are you still in touch? What happened to him?”
    Roger grinned. “Not in touch exactly. I came across his blog the other day. He runs a consulting business, writes a blog about tech. Utterly incomprehensible. What about seeing if he'll give it the once over for you? Worth a try, don't you think?”
    “But what about the thing in the shed?”
    “Oh that.” Roger swirled his ale around his glass. “Why don't you try to get out more and stop smoking so much dope?”
    Later that night, Henry found himself back in the shed, deeply involved in his second attempt to assemble the poop deck. He noticed the darkness outside, and realised he'd no memory of getting home from the pub. He found it hard to focus, and his hands were a mess of glue and matchsticks. Suddenly the light failed and he was enveloped by the smell of rotting meat. Something sharp and scaly probed the back of his neck. He spun round on his stool, flailing. Between him and the door stood a silhouetted shape, a stooped figure with a hooded top. A rasping voice spat the words:
    “You can’t get out.”
    Henry sat bolt upright in bed and opened his eyes, pulse racing, mouth dry and head throbbing, the symptoms of a hangover well under way. Pale dawn light filled the room and Elaine slept beside him, breathing peacefully.
    He decided to follow Roger's advice, and ceased his hash smoking immediately. It was surprisingly easy. He had a bit of trouble getting to sleep, but in the mornings when he woke his head was clear. He took up jogging with Ruby as a stress relief tactic, and for a few days he felt more energetic and positive. He contacted Julian, and wrote what he hoped was a not too ingratiating email explaining the situation with Copyware. He also resolved to get out more.