Nice Day for a Picnic Read online

  Nice Day

  for a Picnic

  Edited by

  Brian Marshall

  & Alex Davis

  Nice Day for a Picnic © 2015 KnightWatch Press

  Introduction © Brian Marshall 2015

  Back by Six © Freda Warrington 2015

  The Feast of the Dead © Richard Farren Barber 2015

  Dad and Me and Me and Dad © Amelia Mangan 2015

  A Wild Affair © Gav Thorpe 2015

  Mummy and George Go to the Park © Gaie Sebold 2015

  Edited by Brian Marshall & Alex Davis

  Cover artwork © Luke Spooner 2015

  Cover layout © Great British Horror 2015

  Interior Design © Great British Horror 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except by inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Authors retain copyright of their individual stories.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and situations in this book are imaginary. No resemblance is intended between these characters and any persons living, dead or undead.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  Published in Great Britain in 2015 by

  KnightWatch Press

  Birmingham, UK

  CONTENTS

  Introduction by Brian Marshall

  Back by Six by Freda Warrington

  1

  The Feast of the Dead by Richard Farren Barber

  19

  Dad And Me And Me And Dad by Amelia Mangan

  29

  A Wild Affair by Gav Thorpe

  41

  Mummy and George Go to the Park by Gaie Sebold

  57

  INTRODUCTION

  There's nothing like a picnic to welcome in the summer. Relaxing on a blanket in the sun eating sandwiches and snacks, washing it all down with a glass of wine or two. I like to go on picnics and people-watch; it's always fun to imagine what they are up to with a dark twist. A failing romance where a poisoned glass of wine is consumed, or a group of like-minded individuals planning to overthrow the government. A quiet family out for a picnic with grandpa – hang on, weren't there five children a minute ago, not four? And doesn't grandpa look a lot younger now?

  It was from these ideas that the book was born – a collection of dark stories with the common theme of the picnic.

  Read on to discover five picnics where not all is as it seems. A father takes his son out for the first time since his separation, a group of girls share a final meal with a departed friend. A father and son bond over a picnic and some hunting. In another tale a mother and her child have a picnic in the park and another still where a young lady meets a man at a picnic which leads to romance. All of them seem to be perfectly innocent stories but, as in life, nothing is quite what it seems and something dark is lurking just below the surface...

  I hope that you enjoy these tales; but before you do, just have a look outside. The sun is high up and the sky is clear. So pack up some sandwiches, pop in a Scotch egg and pork pie. Grab a bottle of wine and the blanket.

  It's a nice day for a picnic.

  Brian Marshall

  Derby, April 2015

  BACK BY SIX

  by

  Freda Warrington

  “I’m not happy about this,” said Lucy. Her blue eyes were full of the low-burning hostility he’d grown to dread. The look broke him, every time. “You know how easily he gets overtired. Where are you taking him, exactly?”

  Graham spoke softly, so the boy wouldn’t hear. “The place you and I used to go. He’ll love it.” He forced a smile, trying to make peace. “We’ve been through this. You already know exactly where we’re going, and exactly what time I’ll bring him home.”

  Lucy took a step back, broke eye contact, nodded. She looked at their son: six years old, teasing the dog in the back of the car and oblivious to their conversation. “Okay. Sorry. We both have to learn to work around this, don’t we? Have fun. Don’t forget to give Truffle some water. And don’t let him eat anything disgusting. The dog, I mean.”

  A small joke? They shared a wary laugh.

  “Anyway,” she said, still smiling. “This is about Tim, not us.”

  Graham strode to his car, made sure Tim was strapped in and reversed off Lucy’s drive before she found a new reason to delay the outing. You’re wrong, he thought. It is about us.

  Half an hour later, he and his son were strolling along a forest path. Tim talked non-stop. School, football, computer games – an endless tangled stream of enthusiasm. Truffle, a ginger-coated mongrel of mostly terrier blood, raced back and forth after scents, wild with the excitement of discovery. Such simple pleasures. Oh, to be a small boy, thought Graham, or a dog.

  Had Lucy’s eyes softened when they’d laughed together?

  Perhaps. Just for that moment, she’d forgotten to be cold towards him.

  Graham had parked in Grinley Woods car park, unloaded the cool bag and slung it over his shoulder, with the picnic rug on top. How familiar, this path through the green oaks, holly and beech trees: he remembered the way as if he and Lucy had walked it only yesterday. In fact it had been eight years ago, long before Tim’s birth. If he shut his eyes, he could feel Lucy at his side. He pictured the idyllic clearing that they’d made their own special place. A bower of sunlit green grass, wild flowers, butterflies…

  “Dad, what does ‘No fly-tipping’ mean?”

  Tim, running ahead, had stopped at the edge of the clearing. Beyond the sign, defying its threat of prosecution, lay a heap of fridges and filthy sofas, builders’ rubble, empty cement sacks, tangles of rusty barbed wire and torn bin bags spilling their unspeakable contents.

  Graham stood with his mouth agape as if someone had punched him. Truffle ploughed on, but Tim was fast enough to grab his pet’s collar and hold him back before he dived straight into the foul heap.

  Quick thinking, thought Graham. Smart boy. Then, Filthy, irresponsible bastards!

  He scratched the back of his own neck, felt sweat there.

  “That is fly-tipping,” he said, pointing. “Dumping rubbish where it shouldn’t be dumped.”

  “Didn’t they see the sign?” Tim was indignant. His innocent outrage made Graham even more furious with the culprits. Everything good gets ruined, he thought. How easily the past was defiled. A shiver went over his skin, a mixture of disappointment and impotent anger. Pain shot from his shoulder into his head: an unwelcome return of the tension headache he’d been fighting all morning.

  “I expect they saw it. They just didn’t care.”

  “Why?”

  “Some people are bad and stupid, Tim. Come on, we’ll find somewhere else. Put Truffle’s lead on, so he doesn’t get into anything he shouldn’t.”

  They retraced their steps a few yards. Graham scouted along different paths for what seemed an hour, losing his sense of direction. Now he saw litter everywhere. Beer cans, crisp packets, dog poop bags that had been tied up and hung on tree branches. What was the sense in doing that?

  They came to a stream, turned left and walked along the bank. Bare earth, stones, tree roots. Empty coke bottles. He tried to concentrate on the murmur of water and the distant tapping of a woodpecker.

  �
�I wish Mum was with us.” Tim paused to throw a pebble into the stream.

  “So do I, mate,” said Graham. “Maybe she’ll come with us next time. Today, it’s just you and me.”

  “But why?”

  “Well… your mum and I aren’t getting on very well at the moment.”

  “I know, but why?”

  “Sometimes grown-ups fall out.” He took a breath to explain more, but a midge shot down his throat. All he could do was cough while tears ran from his eyes. By the time he’d swallowed the bug, Tim was fifty yards ahead.

  Graham didn’t recognise this part of the wood at all. The trees grew tall and thick. Nowhere looked like an inviting place for their picnic. Still, the woods couldn’t go on forever…

  Maybe she’ll come with us next time.

  “I’m hungry,” said the boy, turning and waiting for him. A birth defect, a slight curve in Tim’s spine, meant he couldn’t walk too far. He’d try: he’d keep pace with Truffle as if he could run all day, then drop with sudden exhaustion because he hadn’t yet learned to pace himself.

  Don’t let him get overexcited, Lucy had warned.

  Tendrils of anxiety wormed through Graham’s chest. This was the first time he’d been allowed to take their son out alone since they’d split three years ago. He suppressed his bitterness that she didn’t trust him. Trust had to be earned: he was on trial.

  Not that she had any reason to distrust him with Tim. He loved his son more than his own life, and she knew it. But that wasn’t the issue. She was still hurt, and he didn’t know how to put things right. “Operation Win Back Lucy” meant that he’d swallow his own feelings and do everything her way. Prove himself the perfect father. Prove she could rely on him, in every possible way, until she let her shields down.

  They still loved each other. That was the trouble.

  “Dad, look.”

  The stream bent right and dipped under a dry stone wall. Beyond the wall was a small meadow. It looked unpromising: rough and lumpy, full of ragwort, thistles and nettles. On three sides the green space was encircled by Grinley Woods, while the fourth side sloped away, carrying the stream towards open farmland.

  The late September sun was strong, burning moisture off the grass. First hot day after a week of rain. The meadow was a sun-trap, bright and hot after the cool gloom of the trees. At least there was no litter that he could see. No signs of activity at all, human or animal. The heat lay so heavy that even the insects were still.

  Graham had a sickening sense of unease. His head throbbed. Surely Tim deserved better than this. Should have organised a theme park visit with his schoolmates. Cinema. Paintballing. A trip to Disneyland Paris. Anything but an old-fashioned picnic in a weed patch.

  He was ready to suggest they went back, but he dared not admit he was lost. Besides, he couldn’t take Tim home without feeding him first. He wouldn’t risk the boy going woozy with hunger. Couldn’t admit failure.

  “This is perfect,” he said out loud.

  It’ll have to do, he thought.

  Tim hung back, frowning a bit, looking pale.

  “Come on, I’ll help you over,” said his father. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes’ time. We’re going to have fun, okay?”

  “I forgot to bring my football,” Tim said forlornly. Then he held up a filthy yellow tennis ball. “I found this, though!”

  “Oh,” said Graham. “Okay.”

  Graham popped Tim over the wall first, then passed him the cool bag and the blanket. Truffle’s jumping skills were poor, so he hefted the wriggling mutt to the other side. He wasn’t a great fan of the terrier-beast, as he secretly called Truffle, but Tim adored him and that was what mattered. Graham climbed over last, scraping his hands and calves on the jagged stones. Too late, he saw a weather-worn sign from the corner of his eye. Private. No Trespassing.

  Damn, I hope there isn’t a farmer with a shotgun around, he thought. But who’s going to see us? We’ll only be here an hour or two.

  He checked his watch. Half past two. Needed an hour to find their way back to the car – depending on how lost they were – plus half an hour to drive back to Lucy’s, plus fifteen minutes to arrive admirably early. So… they had until four-fifteen. Graham was determined to make a good impression on her.

  “Ew, Dad, mud,” said Tim. “My trainers are wet. Look, they’re filthy!”

  Lucy would give Graham a black mark for that. He must take Tim back clean, happy and safe, or their first father-son outing would be their last.

  “Try to keep off the muddy bits, then. Walk on the grass and don’t step in any rabbit holes.”

  “How far are we going?”

  On the far side, the ground pushed up into a small hump with a flattish top. Maybe a remnant of medieval farming. It looked familiar. An odd wave of déjà vu went over him and his vision filled with sparks. He recognised the symptoms of a migraine aura; he got these attacks about four times a year, but it had to happen today. Great. For Tim’s sake, he had to pretend he was fine.

  “There,” said Graham. “With luck, it’ll be dry on top.”

  Brightening, Tim let Truffle off the lead and they raced towards the mound.

  Tim was in jeans and sweatshirt, fortunately for him. Graham had come out in his khaki hiking shorts and short-sleeved shirt. Nettles stroked his bare calves with a burning rash. Brambles snagged his hands. But as long as he was the one sustaining injuries, not his son, he didn’t care.

  To win her back. To get her away from her stupid lump of a “boyfriend” – she didn’t love him – and to be a family again: that was all Graham wanted in the world.

  He trembled, so anxious was he to deliver Tim back to Lucy in one piece. Hot and cold waves flashed over him. Pain settled in his left eye.

  They had been happy once, and he’d blown it. Usual story. Lucy, wrapped up with their young son. Graham at a teaching conference, giving in to stupid temptation with a work colleague… It had only happened once, but Lucy had found out. Once was all it took to break their hearts.

  They weren’t bad people. They were ordinary. He taught music, she was a doctor in general practice. Neither of them was abusive or psychopathic or even moody. He wasn’t angry with her for not forgiving him, even after three years; why should she forgive him? They’d had a soul-deep bond, and he was the one who’d broken it.

  Now they lived separately. She shared a modest house with the “boyfriend”. Graham spent his leisure time looking at the walls of his studio flat, working out ways to melt through the ice-wall of his wife’s pain.

  He had betrayed her. He could never undo what he’d done, but if only he could patch over it, build a bridge to the future…

  Suddenly he was certain that he and Lucy had found this meadow before. His eerie déjà vu was more than migraine. He looked around, visualising the landscape under heavy rain… Hadn’t they come here with the history club once? They’d met through that club. So many happy days spent hiking, excavating, exploring together… until Graham had ruined everything.

  “Dad, look at us!”

  Tim and Truffle were jumping about on top of the knoll. Graham smiled. No point dwelling on the past. Today the sun was shining on his face and Lucy had let him take Tim out for the first time in three years… He didn’t care about nettle rash, scratches or headaches. He laughed and saluted his son, who was celebrating on top of the mound, shouting, “I’m the king of the castle!”

  -

  When the food came out, so did the wasps.

  Man, boy and dog sat in a triangle on the tartan rug. From the cool bag in the centre, Graham unpacked Tupperware containers, bottled water, paper plates, a dog bowl. Enclosing them on three sides lay the thick dark curve of Grinley Woods. In front lay a gorgeous view of fields and hedgerows. The only sign of human life was a distant wind turbine.

  “Don’t hit the wasps!” said Graham. Gently he wafted the pests away with a plastic box lid. “If you make them mad, they’ll sting. And if you kill them, their mates will sme
ll the blood and swarm in to take revenge.”

  “Really?” Tim’s eyes went round. “Do wasps have blood? I’m not scared of them anyway. They’re just a nuisance.”

  “That’s all they are,” said Graham, pleased by his son’s bravery.

  “I wish mum was here,” Tim said again. He grabbed a cupcake before Graham could say, “Wait, sandwiches first!”

  Doesn’t matter, he thought. I might get points for being a fun dad rather than a bossy parent.

  Tim added, “And Steve.”

  Steve was the “boyfriend.” Graham always put inverted commas around him, because he needed to believe that Steve was temporary.

  “You like Steve, do you?” Graham said carefully. The look of the thick yellow icing made him feel sick. Green lights gyrated in his vision. Some evil imp kept hitting him in the temple with a small vicious hammer.

  Tim shrugged. “He’s okay. He’s good for playing football with. But you’re better for talking and jokes and stuff.”

  “Good for that, am I?”

  “Anyway, you’re my dad. Steve’s just a man that mum likes. He’ll never be my dad.”

  He went quiet, his mouth stuffed full of cake and icing.

  Graham felt unexpected tightness in his throat. Tim was a wonderful boy, loving and funny and (usually) well-behaved. But even if he’d been the worst rascal on the planet, his father would not have loved him any less. Graham looked at the array of food and his stomach turned. He hadn’t brought his painkillers. A sip of water would have to do.

  This headache was down to pure stress. His entire future hung on proving himself a good parent, minute by minute. He knew Lucy wanted Tim to have his real father in his life.

  Win back Lucy and Steve would simply fade away.

  Unnatural movement near his son’s mouth caught his attention… He saw the feelers of a wasp, exploring the underside of the cake half an inch from Tim’s lips…