This charming man, p.1
This Charming Man, page 1
C. K. McDonnell
* * *
THIS CHARMING MAN
The Second Stranger Times Novel
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
EPILOGUE 1
EPILOGUE 2
FREE STUFF!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
Born in Limerick and raised in Dublin, C. K. (Caimh) McDonnell is a former stand-up comedian and TV writer. He performed all around the world, had several well-received Edinburgh shows and supported acts such as Sarah Millican on tour before hanging up his clowning shoes to concentrate on writing. He has also written for numerous TV shows and been nominated for a Kid’s TV BAFTA.
His debut novel, A Man With One of Those Faces – a comic crime novel – was published in 2016 and spawned The Dublin Trilogy books and the spin-off McGarry Stateside series. They have been Amazon bestsellers on both sides of the Atlantic.
This Charming Man is the second book in his Stranger Times series, the first being The Stranger Times.
C. K. McDonnell lives in Manchester. To find out more, visit whitehairedirishman.com
Also by C. K. McDonnell
THE STRANGER TIMES
In memory of Ian Cognito
R.I.P. (Rage in Perpetuity)
Prologue
The hunger.
The damned hunger.
Phillip had never felt anything like it. Having been born into first-world comfort, he’d never before known true hunger. Sure, he’d missed the odd meal, or been famished while looking for the only open chip shop at 3 a.m., but this was something else entirely.
This was not that sort of hunger.
He tried to keep to the shadows as he walked. He didn’t want anyone to see him and the bright lights of the city hurt his eyes.
It was unseasonably warm. Only in Manchester could hot weather in summer be classed as unseasonable, but there it was. Six days into a heatwave and there was already talk of a national hosepipe ban. That was quite some achievement on a rain-soaked island.
It had started yesterday – the hunger. At first, he’d mostly ignored it. He’d told his mum he reckoned he was coming down with something. It was Saturday so there was no need to phone in sick at work. He’d texted the lads to say that he wasn’t up for going out, and he’d been branded a lightweight. As soon as he’d woken up this morning, though, he’d realized that something was wrong. Very wrong. His mouth had felt different. He’d cried out in shock when he’d looked in the mirror, and had bitten his own tongue in the process.
A quick google had yielded nothing of use bar a couple of joke websites. He couldn’t find anything that explained how you could grow teeth like that overnight. They were so damn sharp, too.
He’d called his dentist to make an emergency appointment. It was going to cost a fortune but he was freaking out. Then he’d ordered an Uber to take him there. As he’d stood waiting in the foyer of his building, the light streaming in from outside had hurt his eyes. He’d remained there, phone in hand, watching the little car icon on the screen make its way to his location painfully slowly. Then he’d tried to step out into the sunlight …
His screams had attracted the attention of a couple of passing girls, no doubt on their way to soak up the sun somewhere, and pulled them out of their happy chatter. They’d run over and found him lying in the doorway, writhing on the floor. One of them had pulled his hands away from his face and her friend had screamed. Phillip had legged it up the stairs and back into his apartment, where he’d shut the blinds and tried to calm himself down.
This had to be a joke. Someone was playing a sick joke on him. Only how could they do that? Had someone spiked him with something? Keith. That prick. He said he’d stopped doing that kind of thing but Phillip didn’t believe him. He’d sent the guy an angry, accusatory text but had received what seemed like honest bafflement in response. Phillip had ignored his attempts to call. If it wasn’t Keith, then he didn’t want him knowing about this. The idiot would tell everybody.
Desperate, he’d phoned NHS 111. The woman on the other end of the line had laughed and told him to stop wasting their time with silly pranks.
Phillip had gone back to the mirror. His appearance had changed beyond just the teeth. His skin was paler, except on the right side of his face, where the sun had hit it – it looked as if it’d been burned. It was red and blistering, painful to touch. And, despite being in the middle of a heatwave, he felt cold.
It was only as he’d raised his hand to his scarred face that he’d noticed how long his fingernails had become. That was when he’d really freaked out. Huddled on his bed, he’d rocked back and forth as the tears streamed down his face. Once that had passed, a bit of clarity descended.
Whatever this was, it was a medical issue. He needed to go to hospital. He didn’t want to phone for an ambulance as there’d be more questions. He couldn’t take anybody else laughing at him. No, he’d wait for the sun to set and he’d walk to the hospital. It was only about fifteen minutes away.
That decided, he’d calmed down a bit. At least he had a plan.
He’d spent the rest of the day feeling hungry but had been unable to eat. Never mind negotiating his new dental work, everything he’d put into his mouth had made him want to retch.
His phone had told him that sunset was at 9.26 p.m. He’d waited until 9.30 p.m. and then he’d pulled on his thick black hoodie. Mr Black – that had been his nickname in the group.
As he’d prepared to leave the flat, he’d gone to check his appearance in the hall mirror and he hadn’t been there.
All day he’d studiously avoided using the V-word, even in his own mind. It was too ridiculous. Too stupid. Too …
But now … He didn’t have a reflection. How could he not have a reflection? This all felt like a nightmare he was unable to wake up from.
He’d sat down and tried to think. He’d seen a couple of stupid horror movies in his time. Who hadn’t? But they’d never been his thing. Still, everyone knew the basics. You had to be bitten, didn’t you? That’s how you became a … He hadn’t been bitten. He’d hooked up with that Spanish chick a few days ago. She’d been a bit kinky, but there hadn’t been any biting. There had been the redhead last weekend. Maybe this was an STD? Was that it? If it was, then the solution was still the same.
In the absence of any better ideas, he’d left the flat and headed towards Manchester Royal Infirmary. And also, it was what the hunger wanted him to do.
It wasn’t long before he reached the hospital, but then he kept on going. He told himself he was building up to it. A bit of a walk would calm him down. He knew it would be difficult to explain all this, so he just needed to take some time to clear his head and then he’d go in. They were medical people, after all – it was their job to be understanding about stuff. Even stuff like this.
Then he found himself on Oxford Road, standing in the shadows of a doorway, opposite one of the student bars. He watched people come and go, and then he noticed a girl stagger into the street. Her mascara was running and she looked worse for wear – like she was possibly going to be sick. It was only when he found himself preparing to cross the road and follow her that he stopped himself.
What the hell was he doing?
He knew the answer.
Hunting.
Not in the normal, looking-for-action way either.
His mouth was salivating.
He ran.
He didn’t know to where, he just ran.
And ran.
And ran.
People. Lights. Screeching traffic and raised voices. Everything blurred as he ran for all he was worth.
He stopped only when he collapsed from exhaustion.
He was lying on the ground. Heavy machinery loomed around him. A building site, then. Could be anywhere. It wasn’t as if there were a shortage of them. There’d been a big write-up in the Evening News last week – Manchester’s building boom.
‘Hey, sir. You cannot be here, sir.’
The voice came from behind him somewhere. It sounded Eastern European. Phillip was too exhausted to move.
‘I said …’ The figure of a security guard in a hi-vis jacket appeared upside down in Phillip’s vision. He was holding a torch and peering down at him. The man’s eyes widened and his voice softened. ‘Are you all right?’
As the guard shone his torch in Phillip’s face, some instinct caused Phillip to hiss.
Before he knew what was happening, he was up on his feet.
The security guard stumbled backwards and the distant streetlight caught the terror in his face. ‘What the hell are you?’
Phillip didn’t answer. He knew now. He knew.
He watched as the guard panicked and fumbled for his walkie-talkie, causing it to tumble to the ground. Phillip wasn’t in control any more. The hunger had him.
And so now Phillip walked, stopping every now and again, trying to retch. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t make himself throw up. The hunger had receded, leaving an all-consuming revulsion in its wake. Memories of what had happened kept coming back to him. What had he become? How could this happen to him? Was he being punished?
It was late now – the small hours of the morning. Phillip had only a vague idea where he was. It wasn’t an area he normally would have ever considered walking through. There had been that one time, when he and Jeffers had driven over here looking to score some weed, and that had been an unpleasant experience. In ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t have been caught dead here. The irony.
A couple of teenagers skulked out from an alleyway in front of him and looked him up and down. Phillip averted his eyes and walked on.
‘Hey, mate – you all right?’
They were following him now.
He ignored them and kept walking.
Another voice. ‘We’re just trying to be friendly.’
‘Yeah, don’t be like that.’
He quickened his pace but it sounded like they matched it.
‘You’re being rude now, boy!’
‘Maybe we should teach you some manners?’
Up ahead, Phillip saw what he was looking for. What he hadn’t admitted, even to himself, that he was heading for, but there it was.
A figure was walking unsteadily along the pavement. A young woman. Even from a distance you could tell. She was barefoot, a pair of high heels dangling from her right hand. She stopped at a set of traffic lights along the dual carriageway.
He ran.
He could hear the boys behind him, shouting as they took off after him in pursuit. It didn’t matter, though. He was faster now. Faster than he’d ever been. His feet barely touched the ground.
In front of him, the girl pressed the button for the pedestrian crossing then hugged the pole to keep herself upright. The road was one of the main arteries in and out of the city, and even at this time of night it was busy with traffic in both directions.
Along the carriageway, a large HGV clanked as it hit a particularly big pothole. Phillip realized he could hear more now.
Smell more too.
Every sense was heightened.
He could tell the girl in front of him was wearing Coco by Chanel, and she smelled of rum and Coke. The warm night air also carried the scent of cigarettes and her sweat.
The HGV trundled on.
The girl was still leaning against the pole. Oblivious. Focused on the little red man. Waiting for it to switch to the green one so she could continue her weary trudge homeward. These lights always took for ever.
She was desperate for the toilet.
As Phillip accelerated towards her, he knew that. How could he possibly know that?
It was all a matter of timing.
He had judged it to perfection – he could do that now.
The key was not to think. To do.
To be undone.
The first thing the girl knew was the gust of air as something rushed past her and jumped.
The first thing the HGV driver knew was the thunk as something hit the front of his cab. Hard.
He slammed on the brakes, causing his load to jack-knife across the road. The car behind, which had just accelerated to make it through the changing lights, was forced to swerve on to the central reservation to avoid going into the back of him.
The driver gripped the wheel tightly, his heart pounding as adrenalin surged through his body. The lorry finally came to a stop.
What had he hit? What had he hit?
He sat back and only then did he notice the blood splattered across the windscreen.
Something was on fire.
Somewhere behind him, a girl screamed.
CHAPTER 1
Hannah stopped to stretch her hamstring.
It didn’t need stretching – at least no more than the rest of her did – but she’d quickly realized that it was either do that or just be the sweaty, unfit person leaning on a fence at the edge of the park, trying hard not to throw up or break down. Today was day one of the new her. She had to admit that the running-to-work idea had seemed a whole lot better two nights ago when she’d first agreed it with herself. She’d been on her second bottle of wine at the time. What kind of an idiot takes advice from a drunk person, even if that person is themself? And who on earth takes up jogging in the middle of a heatwave?
The ‘new her’ initiative had been spurred on by the events of the last couple of weeks – namely that she’d had to take time off work to sort out getting ‘the old her’ divorced from the pathetic waste of oxygen and Armani suits to whom she’d been married. It had involved a trip to London as that was where Karl’s lawyer was based. Given that he was ‘the wronging party’, as opposed to ‘the wronged party’, you’d think Karl would have made more of an effort to be accommodating, but Hannah knew better. In Karl’s world view, he was always the wronged party. He had no doubt constructed in his head a detailed narrative as to why he was the victim. Hannah had made sure that he hadn’t been allowed the chance to share it with her.
It hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected. Well, it sort of had, and it sort of hadn’t. She wanted almost nothing from Karl, but the utter bastard had still found ways to be awkward. According to him, she’d co-signed a lot of loans and mortgages during their time together, none of which she recalled. It turned out that her drive for emancipation was very inconvenient and he’d be obliged if she just pack it in.
It all looked as if it’d drag on for ever, until Hannah had picked up some of the paperwork relating to these complex financial arrangements and noticed something interesting. Namely, that her signature on the documents was not her signature. Karl had been forging it for what appeared to be years. He denied it furiously, of course, saying, variously, that she must have forgotten, been drunk, or been suffering from the effects of a phantom prescription-drug problem she absolutely did not have. Still, things became a whole lot more convenient after the signature issue had been raised.
The entire thing had been sad in a way. If nothing else, despite how annoyingly good Karl had looked, it had reminded her that she was doing the right thing. She’d married a selfish child and, while it was embarrassing to admit, at least she was finally fixing her mistake. And so it goes.
Still, though, the going was the important bit. And Hannah could say many things about her three months working at The Stranger Times, but it sure did put everything else into perspective. In her first week, she’d discovered that monsters were real, as was magic, and that a group of immortals known as the Founders secretly ran much of the world, having achieved this immortality through the literal draining of the lifeblood of people known as the Folk, who were, well, magical types. When you realize that you have somehow remained entirely ignorant of how the world really is, of the wonder it contains, and of the eternal battle that wages beneath the surface, well, it does rather make your philandering husband’s roving eye – and other body parts – seem like not that big a deal.
Hannah moved on to pretending she was stretching her upper body. One of the many reasons the running-to-work idea had been so stupid was that she now realized it meant she would be running against the steady tide of the suited and booted walking towards the big shiny offices of the city centre. From her flat near Piccadilly Station, it was, theoretically, a reasonable but doable route, but she hadn’t factored in the number of people she’d have to run around. Worse still, the number of people who would witness her discover just how monumentally unfit you could become while eating your emotions and washing them down with stuff that typically just generated more emotions.
