Prologue

It was a good night. George Maynard smiled to himself and then abruptly stopped just in case anyone saw him, a self-confessed tough guy smiling sappily in the middle of the night to no-one in particular. But there wasn’t anyone to witness the large man with long arms and a lumbering gait, a peculiar slash of red in an upturned crescent for a mouth on a fleshly face with hard eyes, because it was late, later than normal people ventured out. She had been at the pub again — Carol — fair hair, fair skin and kind brown eyes. It was the third time he had seen her and the first time he had spoken to her and that was enough for the joy he felt. Maybe next time… George Maynard kicked a stone into the bushes that separated the pavement from the row of sorry townhouse communities that lined the road and the next one and the next. If a person were drunk enough, he mused, they could get lost coming home with all the ugly little houses looking the same. Five years ago there had been no townhouses, hell, he couldn’t complain, five years ago there had been no pub. He couldn’t quite figure if the shops and pub went up first and the townhouses followed or if it was the other way around. It didn’t matter. He talked to the girl, learned her name, spoken six beautiful words to her: “Excuse me, you dropped your cardigan.”

After mercilessly mocking him for knowing what a cardigan was, his best friend Hamish McIntyre found out her name. Hamish was the talker. It was easy for him; he had the confidence and the Scottish brogue girls seemed to find fascinating, even if it was completely put on — he’d never been to Scotland but watched a lot of a long-forgotten Scottish actor on his dad’s VCR as a child. George was the perfect foil. He was the strong silent one. He laughed to himself knowing what Hamish would say; brawler, Maynard, you’re the brawler.

It was close to sunrise, but not quite close enough for the birds to begin chattering. The street and pavement were slightly damp from dew and the street lights, still on, glittered off the millions of droplets of water casting an orange iridescent light into the air. He followed the line of bushes like a map. That’s all he needed to do. His little box of an apartment was in the last townhouse complex on the road and all he had to do was follow the shrubs home just like he had done hundreds of times before. One of the benefits of looking the way he did, being what he was, was that he could make the ten-minute walk from the pub to his home, no matter what state he was in, unmolested by opportunistic criminals looking to steal whatever cash he was carrying. Tonight, he was a little buzzed from the beer and shots he and Hamish had been guzzling, which was why it took him a few seconds to realise what happened. The stone he kicked into the bushes sailed out and skittered off the pavement in front of him into the street. George looked around. In the distance he could see the main road, two taxis waiting around in hope for the Friday night stragglers, never venturing too far from the brilliantly lit McDonalds, one of the only fast food chains to survive. All around him the homes remained quiet, the street, deserted. He stopped. Listened. Nothing. He mentally shook his head. Too much dreaming of pussy and not enough paying attention. He’d obviously kicked another stone into the street. He drew himself up to his full six foot four and scanned his surroundings with hard eyes. He continued walking, a mere few hundred metres to go. The silence was broken by a quiet sound. A snicker? A giggle even? What the hell?

A few paces further he stopped again. The bushes rustled and there was a definite noise, high pitched, maybe a giggle, but without mirth. Just kids, pranksters, he said to himself, a strange sensation in his stomach. It was foreign, something he didn’t remember feeling before and then a thought struck him out of the blue. This is what fear feels like. No! Impossible. George Maynard did not feel fear, he didn’t get frightened, scare like a little girl. He was the scary one, the brawler with hard eyes that people avoided because on a subconscious level they knew what he was, what he was capable of. Hamish was partly right. George could brawl when he wanted to, which was fairly often, especially when there was alcohol, pride or pretty girls involved, but more than that, he was a hunter, feral, instinctual, dangerous. It was built into his DNA and could not be denied. He was what those kids on the other side of the bushes should be afraid of. He bit back a snarl and started to feel that stinging, tingling, itching savage call spread through his blood and into his muscles. He felt foolish. Let them have their fun. And it would be fun and games until he ripped one of their arms off. The snarl was back, clawing its way out of his chest threatening to erupt from his mouth and shatter the quiet of the morning. It changed swiftly to a whimper as a whirlwind swept out of the bushes and enclosed George’s large body in a burst of tactile air that pushed all the blood from his veins out through his pores and ruptured his mucous membranes. His lifeless body dropped onto the pavement and the whirlwind made a sound.

Yes, it was a definite snigger. 

© 2023 Eris Matthews

If you liked the snippet… find out what happens next. Homecoming is available on Amazon.