Short Story: Psychotweeter (part Three)

Short Story: Psychotweeter (part Three)

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

The yellow-lighted window in the topmost turret of the tower went out. All was deathly still, except for the sound of grunting and laboured breathing as Caz scrambled up the bank towards the car. Then, from the island came the ear-splitting roar of a high-performance motorboat, powering its way across the moonlit loch at full throttle.

"Oh dear," murmured Jules, opening the passenger door for Caz and transferring herself to the driver’s side. "Oh dear oh dear oh dear."

"Oh M effing G," gasped Caz, "I’m hyperventilating, and I’ve split my good jeans right up the arse. I’ll never be sniffy about trackie bottoms again. Start the car Julesy. He’s coming after us! ACCELERATE! ACCELERATE! Four syllables Jules – did you see what I did there?"

"Yes. Your Dalek impression. But now is not the time, Caz. Hurry up and get in. We might lose him if I step on it."

The track behind them was empty, and aside from the crunching and clunking of the car as they set off along the boulder-strewn track, all seemed peaceful once again. "See? No sign of him. Only two more miles to Bunfettle, and we'll be safe. And I'm not even gunning the engine."

"I don’t want to cower in a tin can in Bunfuck Aberdeenshire. Not without a pump action shotgun. What if there’s nobody there to help us?"

"There will be. Stay positive Caz. Visualise a positive outcome. Panicking won’t change the situation."

"No, but in these circumstances, it’s a perfectly natural human reaction. Have you been reading The Horrid Little Book of Calm again? Please tell me you’ve not."

"As a matter of fact, I was browsing the blogosphere, and I happened upon one of those cooking ones. You know the type. Recipes, homespun wisdom from a down-to-earth forty something mum, who still wears her Doc Marten boots and has an allotment. Forced jollity about the menopause masking an undercurrent of clinical depression and misdirected rage. That type of thing. There was a recipe on it called Curry On Regardless, involving coconut milk, asafoetida, lime leaves, Quorn mince, buckwheat, bruised ginger root and three tablespoonsful of finely ground macadamia nuts."

"Sounds lovely. Did you make it?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you had an ironical freak-out as you realised you were quite randomly being allowed to glimpse a vision of your own quite possibly awful future, so you went to the chippy in a desperate revolt against the entire existential paradigm. A flight into ironic denial, some might say. You probably ordered the most repulsive item in the hot-plate – perhaps a mock chop or a smoked sausage. In fact you were so full of irony you were nearly flattened by a crashing storm of metal objects such as cutlery, pokers, coal scuttles, old guttering, braziers, corrugated roofing and pot lids, and your way home was more or less a complete clattering Steptoe and Son-style nightmare."

"That’s about right. Any old irony. ‘Cept I had the King Rib."

"I bet you didn’t really eat it though. "

"Right again. And I only managed half my chips. They were welded together into a solid greasy lump, by lard."

"It wouldn’t be lard. It would be hydrogenated vegetable oil. Lard’s much healthier, and it makes for a crisper chip. Anyway – forget that for now. Let’s get back to what really counts - Psycho-celeb. I’m sensing a change of tone here. "

"Well yes. To be honest, I didn't fancy him at all in the first place. He only piqued my interest because he was on the telly."

"A couple of appearances on kiddies’ TV in a moth-eaten clown’s outfit and he turned your head. You saddo."

"Well I reckoned he would be approachable. D- listers are, like I said before. I read about it somewhere. They have to really work it. You can say anything to them and they’ll take it. They hate you for it but they’re too scared not to. He’s been on This Morning as well, by the way. Making pancakes with Holly Willoughby. "

"I bet he has. "

"Don’t be snide! It was all for a sick kiddies’ charity so you can’t say anything bad. That bumped him up into the dizzy heights of C- list for the day. Twitter was a-buzz for the whole morning. I was so jealous! I asked him to give me a mention or at the very least a wave, but he didn’t. He mentioned Baggy Sue though. And he was wearing the socks she knitted him, with his initials on. You could see them when he crossed his legs. Bastard."

"Was it after that that you became threatening towards him?"

"Yes. I could smell a blocking in the wind after I sent him a DM saying ‘You’re a total bastard and I fucking hate you and your whole fucking family. I know where you live and don’t you forget it.’."

"Oh dear. "

"Well? He needed to learn that he can’t treat people like that. What was so difficult about giving me a wave or a mention? He was totally out of order. I’m entitled to say what I think to people. "

"Telling someone you fucking hate them and threatening their family isn’t saying what you think, Caz. It’s verbal abuse. Not to mention just a tad illegal. I’m surprised he didn’t block you immediately, and report you to twitter support."

"Oh he did. But I emailed him saying I’d out him as a filthy paedo if he didn’t follow me, and reply to all my tweets in a suitably enthusiastic manner."

"Good grief. How did you get his email address?"

"It’s on his crappy blog for all to see. He’s so D-list he doesn’t even have a proper website. Then I sent him the thong, as a thank you for unblocking me again."

"A thank you! I’m sure that made up for everything. It wasn't the one you posed in for the photo you sent him, was it?"

"Yes, the leopard-print one. I'm afraid it was. Is. I didn't think for a moment that he'd wear it himself."

"Well think again - and have a look in the rear view mirror."

"Bloody hell! He's right behind us! How'd he manage that on foot? Step on it Jules."

"I am stepping on it. But I can't go above second on this track. Least of our worries I know, but he must be freezing cold, wearing only a woman's thong."

"Maybe that’s why he’s running so fast. But I hardly think a man's thong would be any warmer."

"Aren't they unisex, thongs?"

"That one definitely isn't. His unmentionables have just fallen out the sides. Ooh that can’t be comfortable."

"All that running over rough ground. Serves him right."

"I’d be failing in my duty if I didn't Lockerz that lot. He’s quite well-endowed but not in a good way. It’s like a pile of offal in a butcher’s window. Slow down a minute."

"If I go any slower the engine will stall. I'm only doing ten miles an hour as it is."

"It's not the speed, it's the lurching. I’m going to use the zoom and I need stability. "

"I can’t do anything about the lurching. Why not Twitvid it instead? A moving image is more powerful than a still, after all."

"I would argue about that only I can’t be bothered. Besides, I can’t stick a Twitvid on my fridge. Oh it’s too horrid for words. I’ll get this over with quick before my sexual orientation changes of its own accord. I’ve already gone off offal. Not that I was ever a fan, but…"

"Lockerzed?"

"Lockerzed."

"Good. Because here we are, and we need to think of a Plan."

The track petered out as they left the woods and entered a small grassy area. Three static caravans stood in a row, facing towards the loch. On the near side of the caravans stood a ramshackle wooden hut topped by a smoking chimney, with a roll of barbed wire, some used tyres and a large dog kennel just beside. On the far side, was another, even smaller wooden hut, with TOYLIT scrawled on the door in white paint.

"Oh dear God. What have we come to? Is this really Bunfettle? And what’s that awful smell?" whispered Caz.

"I don’t know. I reckon it must be coming from that reeking chimney. I’m going to park under the trees over there. Is he still following us? I can’t see anything in the mirror. "

"I don’t know. I was Lockerzing the photo and when I looked up, he had disappeared."

"Check your phone. Maybe he’s sent you another message."

"Just a minute till I get to my @ list. Someone famous must have died - my timeline’s clogged up with "RIP" tweets, hashtag jokes, and some nutter ranting on about everyone on twitter being haters. Hmmm. Nope - nothing from Psycho-celeb showing up so far."

"Perhaps he just wanted to scare us and he’s gone home now to get warm and sort his tackle out."

"As if. Oh no. Here’s one now. Check your DMs, hunniebun XXXXX ;-D, is all he says. Here goes then. Gulp."

"Hunnie! I hate that. Hun. Hun, hunnie, lovely, chick. All equally nauseating. I don’t like to generalise but you can pretty much guarantee that anyone using those terms has the mentality of a turd."

"That’s a bit harsh. It’s just internet shorthand for saying I mean you no harm. I think he was being sarcastic in this case though."

"It’s internet shorthand for saying I am a passive aggressive control freak. I don’t trust anyone who sprays Xs around, either. Come on then. Let’s have a look at his DM."

Caz tilted her phone so that Jules could see. "I’M IN THE VAN. I HAVE A HUGE KNIFE AND I’M GOING TO KILL YOU BOTH. YOU PAIR OF FUCKING BASTARDS. XXXXX"

"Shit. Shit shit shit. Retweet it Caz. Let everyone know what he’s doing. And phone the police. Hurry! "

"It’s a DM. I can’t retweet it. And what’s the point in phoning the police? They can’t help. We’re a hundred miles from the nearest police station. We’re in Bunfettle, Jules. Bunfettle, The Wilderness, Jules. Look. There’s a sign to prove it." Caz pointed her phone towards a rusting biscuit tin lid nailed to the nearest caravan, with "B-nf – le" written on it in black spidery writing. "Just turn the car round, and let’s go home to Edinburgh. I won't feel safe till I see the top of Leith Walk."

"I don’t think it’s going to be that simple."

"What’s wrong? The tram works?"

"No. Well yes, that too. But I think the engine’s burst, Caz. I told you I was worried about that. The radiator was leaking anyway, and now the engine’s boiled dry. That’s what the smell is. It wasn’t the chimney. It’s the car. We’re stuck."

"What do we do now? We’re sitting ducks here."

"I don’t know. You don’t have The Horrid Little Book of Calm handy, do you? I think I can see something long, shiny and metallic, glinting through the trees...."

THE PSYCHOTWEETERS WILL RETURN IN PART FOUR