surroundings which were still familiar after all these years. There was a sharp bend at the bottom of a steep hill and then they passed the ominous one storey bulk of Cordell’s Meat Packing Factory. He had taken his first job there, years ago as a teenager.
As the taxi drove towards the factory he noticed that the company name and signage was the same but they had built an additional warehouse behind the older redbrick building. He asked the driver to slow a little as they passed the factory. He saw the same grassy mound that he had intended to sit on during the break on his first shift; he never did do that.
Then Shane saw that the bench where he, Malcolm and Freddy used to spend their breaks had been replaced with a Plexiglas smoking shelter. A dark figure was using it for that purpose.
“Wait!” Shane shouted startling the driver, “Stop!”
The driver pulled the cab over to the side of the road and Shane leapt out. There was a little security box and barrier at the entrance to the factory but Shane paid the middle-aged security guard no attention as he ducked under the red and white striped bar and ran towards the smoking shelter.
The Plexiglas coating was clouded and scratched with age and abuse but he recognised the figure immediately. Hunched over, scraggly brown hair hanging over his Burgess Meredith Penguin nose, was Malcolm.
He was wearing the same brown boots he always wore, along with the same mullet hairstyle. He was still wearing his customary brown leather jacket and scruffy jeans all these years later. Shane stood a few metres away and was momentarily speechless. He watched as Malcolm drew hard on the last few millimetres of his cigarette, always scowling as if he hated the taste but had to do it. He rolled the butt between his nicotine stained thumb and index finger and threw it like a dart player at the ground. His left brown boot heel ground the butt and embers to dust and he stared at his feet.
“M-Malcolm?” Shane stammered.
Something was wrong with this picture, Malcolm hadn’t aged at all. Maybe this was a relative or someone that happened to look like his lost friend’s double. But no, this was definitely Malcolm. He looked just as he remembered him. Was it a ghost then or a vivid hallucination?
“I know you don’t I?” said the apparition of Malcolm, raising an eyebrow. Shane forgot he used to do that. “You’re Cathy Colbert’s brother.”
Shane’s legs gave way beneath him and he fell heavily on his bottom. It was Malcolm. He said the same thing when he first met him. Shane sat on the dirty ground and stared at his lost friend in shock. Then he looked away and contemplated his sanity for a moment.
“Malcolm,” he asked, the name sounding strange on his lips after so many years. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve been waiting so long for you mate” he said, still staring at his boots.
“What happened?” Shane gasped, his other friends were alive!
“Me and the boys have missed you mate, it’s time you came and found us.”
“Where are they Malcolm?” Shane asked even though he was sure he didn’t want to know the answer. “Where have you been?”
Malcolm slowly raised his head and there was something wrong with his eyes. They had no corneas, irises or pupils, just black holes with impossible depths. When he next spoke, it wasn’t in his voice, but in his dead Father’s voice.
“If only you could bloody remember!”
A shrieking wail like electrical feedback screamed through Shane’s head and he felt himself falling into a black abyss.
*
“…God knows mate, he kept going on about his friends and some bloke called Malcolm.” Shane heard a man’s voice with an Indian accent chattering away. When he came round properly he saw his taxi driver, the middle-aged security guard from the booth by the gate and an Indian man wearing a brown jacket. His mouth and chin felt wet and as he sat up the Indian man and security guard crouched down beside
As the taxi drove towards the factory he noticed that the company name and signage was the same but they had built an additional warehouse behind the older redbrick building. He asked the driver to slow a little as they passed the factory. He saw the same grassy mound that he had intended to sit on during the break on his first shift; he never did do that.
Then Shane saw that the bench where he, Malcolm and Freddy used to spend their breaks had been replaced with a Plexiglas smoking shelter. A dark figure was using it for that purpose.
“Wait!” Shane shouted startling the driver, “Stop!”
The driver pulled the cab over to the side of the road and Shane leapt out. There was a little security box and barrier at the entrance to the factory but Shane paid the middle-aged security guard no attention as he ducked under the red and white striped bar and ran towards the smoking shelter.
The Plexiglas coating was clouded and scratched with age and abuse but he recognised the figure immediately. Hunched over, scraggly brown hair hanging over his Burgess Meredith Penguin nose, was Malcolm.
He was wearing the same brown boots he always wore, along with the same mullet hairstyle. He was still wearing his customary brown leather jacket and scruffy jeans all these years later. Shane stood a few metres away and was momentarily speechless. He watched as Malcolm drew hard on the last few millimetres of his cigarette, always scowling as if he hated the taste but had to do it. He rolled the butt between his nicotine stained thumb and index finger and threw it like a dart player at the ground. His left brown boot heel ground the butt and embers to dust and he stared at his feet.
“M-Malcolm?” Shane stammered.
Something was wrong with this picture, Malcolm hadn’t aged at all. Maybe this was a relative or someone that happened to look like his lost friend’s double. But no, this was definitely Malcolm. He looked just as he remembered him. Was it a ghost then or a vivid hallucination?
“I know you don’t I?” said the apparition of Malcolm, raising an eyebrow. Shane forgot he used to do that. “You’re Cathy Colbert’s brother.”
Shane’s legs gave way beneath him and he fell heavily on his bottom. It was Malcolm. He said the same thing when he first met him. Shane sat on the dirty ground and stared at his lost friend in shock. Then he looked away and contemplated his sanity for a moment.
“Malcolm,” he asked, the name sounding strange on his lips after so many years. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve been waiting so long for you mate” he said, still staring at his boots.
“What happened?” Shane gasped, his other friends were alive!
“Me and the boys have missed you mate, it’s time you came and found us.”
“Where are they Malcolm?” Shane asked even though he was sure he didn’t want to know the answer. “Where have you been?”
Malcolm slowly raised his head and there was something wrong with his eyes. They had no corneas, irises or pupils, just black holes with impossible depths. When he next spoke, it wasn’t in his voice, but in his dead Father’s voice.
“If only you could bloody remember!”
A shrieking wail like electrical feedback screamed through Shane’s head and he felt himself falling into a black abyss.
*
“…God knows mate, he kept going on about his friends and some bloke called Malcolm.” Shane heard a man’s voice with an Indian accent chattering away. When he came round properly he saw his taxi driver, the middle-aged security guard from the booth by the gate and an Indian man wearing a brown jacket. His mouth and chin felt wet and as he sat up the Indian man and security guard crouched down beside
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