A world of monsters - (working title)

A world of monsters (horror fiction)

Chapter 1 – A certain type of monster.
I am in the Manchester Piccadily gardens watching an old man. He is seated on his bicycle and in this sticky city heat he is sweating. His face is red, fat with consumption, his form hunched forward over the handle bars. One of his hairy arms hangs loosely at his side clutching a half empty bottle of cheap yellow alcohol. Nobody notices that he is transfixed on the topless boy who is playing with his Father.
Nobody in this feverish rush and blur of human colour, all emerging and bouncing from the lines of vehicle and buildings really notice anything, most are blissfully lost in their own distracted thoughts and joys and issues.

I watch as the old man slowly, unconsciously fumbles with the back of his shorts, a slight grin slowly forming in his unshaven face. His eyes strangely glassy, locked, absorbed – amusing himself with whatever poisonous traces of depravity are seeping through his rotten mind.
The Father glances up, he notices me first. Obvious concern forms upon his features as he spots me, the unmoving figure sat amongst the rush. I don’t flinch. I just stare, beyond him, through him.
He places a protective arm on his son’s shoulder and stares back at me. More confused and concerned now, the moment is uncomfortable until he finally follows my gaze, noticing the old man with his hand in his shorts, staring at the child. The Father glances back, but my I refuse to acknowledge his realisation. I turn my back on the situation and buy myself a coffee from a nearby vendor. The pervert needs to be dealt with, but he is easy and will not present too much of a problem. Besides, he is human, a foul example of a human, but still physically (if not mentally) a man…. I take a look back, and watch the Father take his son away, holding his hand tightly as they disappear into a shopping arcade. Not once looking back.
The old man licks his lips and wipes his greasy chin with his fingers, lost in his own world.
--
I later follow the old man, even on the bike he is too drunk to even consider moving at any real speed as he pushes and drags his himself along with his feet. He occasionally whispers to himself as he picks out the silent targets of his lust or distaste. He mutters something illegible to a pair of Islamic women passing him, they try and ignore the fiend. His head turns, his mouth is now an open grin revealing his yellowed teeth, his eyes now startling, switching from drunken oaf to foul predator in an instant. One of the women risks a glance back but catches his perverse smile and wishes she hadn’t.
Nobody else notices him but the women. His sudden transformation from drunk to beast was something I had seen before… The particular glint in his eye almost forcing me back into a memory. For a moment, I stand unsteady. I must remind myself this is only a man…. I decide to get closer.
--
I am three feet away and he hasn’t noticed me. I can smell the sweet and sickly smell of foul hygiene and intoxication, I am close enough to hear his whispers, close enough to almost see his thoughts. He is now staring through the window of a restaurant. I follow his intentions and see that he is staring at a group of female diners seated at the window. I know what he will do next - this is his entertainment, he lingers, laughing to himself. The closest diners notice him – the thin pane of glass between them the only shield from this man. It provides no relief from his gaze. He lifts up his t-shirt, revealing his erection emerging from his shorts. The women shrink back, turning to each other with all thoughts of a pleasant day fully dissolved by this disease of a man. He is cunning is enough to quickly flip hid t-shirt over his exposure. He pushes his bike forwards into the crowd, deliberately turning his front wheel to catch the foot of a young man. The man nearly fumbles, but catches his footing, his face red with embarrassment. The crowd of people turn their heads at the sudden jolt of the tripping man and his awkward attempt at regaining composure, allowing the old pervert to slip invisibly away into the crowd again.

I keep moving, perfectly sidestepping the shoppers, I’m skinny enough to duck and weave effortlessly through the heaving shuffle. I always hunch, so not to stand too tall, I keep my pace determined. I now ignore the old man. He isn’t far ahead, but I look further, further beyond his drunken gaze. I spy two policemen in bright yellow jackets outside a shop on the far right, they are quietly distracted. I stop and study them. Out of the two, it’s the smaller policeman who will be the one I use, I notice his fists are clenched, his back straight. He wants trouble.
The old man has stopped again, taking a swig of his yellow ooze, half leaning on a stone flowerbed. I move past him… Walking far ahead of him, setting up my part of the trap, I am patient. I won’t need to do much.
I glance back only once and wait for the old man to eventually stroll to where I want him. I wait and roll a cigarette. I smoke most of it and drop the remains to the floor, now turning to the Police.

I glance at the uniformed men, I catch the eye of the taller one. He acknowledges my stare with a small unsure nod, I approach without word to either and turn myself to stand beside the smaller policeman. My timing is correct, my judgement was correct. Their curiosity in me has peaked.
I point to the old man, who is now staring at a group of teenage girls, his hand is under his t-shirt, I turn to the smaller policeman.
‘Watch the man on the bike’
I keep my finger aimed at the old man now visible and oblivious. The police don’t react at first, until the old man briefly flips up his t-shirt, exposing himself for a second. They watch the reaction of the girls, stunned (much like themselves), their training kicks in and they spring forward, dragging the man from his bike. The bottle slips from his hand, smashing loudly onto the pavement, the old man curses and punches the smaller policeman in the nose.
I take a few steps back to admire my work. The bike frame is now locked under the struggling man, his feet kicking wildly, the wheels spinning. All heads are turned. The police pin the man to the floor. I notice the smaller policeman’s nose is bloody from the blow. The veins in his head are bulging, his face red with humiliation, pain and aggression, it is he who takes out the handcuffs, locking them too tightly on the pervert. The old man’s face pressed against the broken bottle on the floor, the police man’s knee pressing hard on the back of his head.
I slip away and buy myself another coffee.


Chapter 2 – No hero. Just human.
My previous actions are not heroic. I am no hero. I have seen monsters. Most of them are human. The incident today will be like many more. Men are not what I fear. I decide not to dwell on my fears. They are far away. I hope they are far away.

Chapter 3 – Coffee with Jenny
I take no pride in my actions, I simply try and forget about them, a gift of being human is that we can clutter our minds with distraction. In my case it’s coffee and music. I feel happy to have a seat in the back corner of a vegetarian café, the smell of ground coffee is heavenly, the music is discreet and perfect, warm ambience of background chatter makes me feel at ease. I half-read a newspaper.
The door opens. I half glance and notice a familiar face. Jenny.
Her brown hair is tucked into a neat pony tail, a light green cardigan hangs from her shoulders swaying only slightly as she gently breezes to the bar. She is accompanied by her friend Thomas. He looks tired.