DOWNSTAIRS My downstairs neighbour? He was a bit odd at times but he was generally a nice bloke to talk to. I first met him on the stairs when I was moving into my flat. I was carrying my boxed CD collection upstairs. He was carrying a washing basket full of damp bed linen, headed for the back yard to hang out his washing. My initial impressions were of a physically big man, muscular, shaven headed, piercing eyes, probably in his mid-thirties. Despite the chill he wore only casual tan Chinos, a cream Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a pair of blue canvas deck shoes. A tattooed octopus glared from a veined forearm. An embossed gold medallion gleamed on a chain around his neck. I introduced myself, holding out my hand. "Peter Smith, I'm moving into flat 3/L. We're going to be neighbours." He blinked once, slowly, and smiled to show gleaming sharp teeth. His grip was strong. "Robert Leachman. Call me Bobby. Welcome to the neighbourhood. Let me hang this lot out to dry and then I’ll help you move in." Bobby was good to his word. As we struggled up the stairs with my heavy old wardrobe I realised his muscles weren't just for show. The wardrobe was awkward to maneuver around the turns on the landing, so much so that I was sweating heavily by the time we reached the first floor. Bobby offered to swap positions to take the heavier, lower end. He wasn't even breathing hard when we finally set the wardrobe down in my bedroom. I was very glad of his help that day as my buddy Sean was as much use as a chocolate teapot. Between myself and Bobby we managed to get all my worldly posessions moved in double quick time. Sean, who had flopped onto the couch as soon as it was laid down, grinned expectantly as I thanked Bobby, "Put the kettle on Pete, let's have a cup of tea and a reefer." He proceeded to skin up with professional economy. Whilst I was making the tea Bobby took the opportunity to examine my CD collection. He held up Mike Oldfield's 'Songs of Distant Earth' and waved it at me as I returned from the kitchen with the makings. "When you get settled, come down for a drink, we can swap stories and I'll play you some real tunes." He excused himself. Sean passed the reefer and commented, "Seems all right, your neighbour." I nodded my agreement and took a long draw, blowing smoke into a ray of evening sunlight. I went downstairs to see Bobby the next day. The weathered brass knocker on his front door made a terrific noise when I banged it. The striking plate was very unusual, shaped like a five-pointed star; it had to be an antique. Bobby opened the door as far as the chain would allow. One unblinking eye took in the scene. The door closed then swung open. Bobby ushered me into the hall. Where my flat was thickly carpeted throughout, his floors were polished wood. The hall was plain white, starkly minimalist except for the silver trophies displayed in a glass cabinet. As he led me into the lounge I saw that they were swimming trophes. I sat on a well-stuffed leather Chesterfield chair while Bobby excused himself and vanished into the kitchen to fetch a drink. Looking around the lounge it was patently obvious that Bobby was a collector. Paintings bedecked the cream walls. Their subjects varied wildly; dramatic stormy seascapes in blue monochrome, vividly colourful jungle-encrusted mountains, charcoal studies of half-dressed women. The ornaments on show were also unusual. A miniature Chinese Buddha in corroded bronze, a leering many-armed Indian goddess, an aged animal skull with incredible fangs, inlaid wooden boxes of all sizes, a curved silver dagger, an Arabian houkah pipe and a dark wooden stave which must have been an African headman's status symbol. Combined with the heavy mahogany tables, ultra-modern AV equipment and burgundy leather furniture, the overall effect was very masculine and seemed most suited to the owner. Bobby returned from the kitchen with two large dark bottles of beer and two heavy glasses. He poured the rich Belgian beer, handing me a glass on the way to the hi-fi to cue up a tape. Spatial ambient music soon filled the room. Bobby sat in a high-backed chair sipping his beer. "What do you think Peter, do you like it?" Soothing whale song mixed with soft tribal rhythms to evoke a peaceful feeling. "Yes, what is it?" I asked. "The music is from a Polynesian fishreman's dance. The whale songs are genuine. I recorded them both myself." He waved a hand to take in the room. "I used to travel a lot. I was a communications engineer on a Norwegian survey ship. Now I just work at Radio Clyde." His face showed a wistful expression. I smiled and waved my glass in a conciliatory gesture. "Have you ever considered recording an album? If you have enough of this material I know a man who would be happy to help you." Bobby shook his head and blinked one of his rare, slow blinks. "No. I think I shall be moving on soon. I have been in one place for too long. You see I am something of a wanderer." From one of the inlaid boxes Bobby produced a ball of black stuff the size of a child's fist. He removed the clingfilm wrapping, took a wooden-handled deck knife from the box, cut a piece from the ball, closed the knife, rewrapped the ball and placed both back in the box. He held up the freshly cut cannabis resin. "Temple Ball Gold. Quite rare these days. I have a friend in the Far East." I couldn't help but grin. "I thought that stuff was an urban myth". He starled me by quickly flicking the resin towards me. I almost dropped my beer as I scrambled to catch it. Sure enough, the black resin was threaded with dark orange flecks of opium. I passed it carefully back to Bobby where he knelt on a Morroccan rug preparing the houkah pipe. My memory of the rest of the day is pretty disjointed. We sat and listened to lots of music. We discovered a few things in common; a mutual enjoyment of nightclubs, women, dance music, strobe lights. I remember staggering upstairs to fetch a few of my own CDs. My hands didn't work. I dropped my keys. Twice. I was childishly delighted to make it back downstairs in one piece. Bobby liked early Tangerine Dream, especially 'Force Majeure'. Eventually I passed out and Bobby woke me to help me upstairs. I remember how the world tilted crazily as Bobby carried me into the hall. He held me up with one arm whilst opening the front door. Standing outside, her hand raised to the knocker, was a fantastically sexy blonde-haired girl in a wicked red mini-dress. She pouted her lips at Bobby and aimed a slap at his head. He dropped me on to the cold stone of the landing. From my vantage point on the floor I watched him grab her wrist, pull her close and kiss her long and hard. I could see she was a natural blonde. Bobby had fine taste in women. I giggled and passed out. I woke to the sound of a washing machine spinning into orbit. Under normal circumstances it would have been faint background noise. In my fragile condition it was an extreme form of aural torture. Dehydrated, warm, unable to move without triggering a blinding headache, I implemented patent hangover cure number one. I smoked a reefer and went back to sleep. Later that day I was fit enough to get up, call in sick at work, get dressed and go out to the newsagents. Returning with my newspaper and bottle of Irn Bru I met Bobby coming in from the washing green. He carried a basket full of clean bed linen. I pointed at the basket. "The blonde?" He grinned to show those strong white teeth then bounded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. I took the stairs a lot more slowly and retreated to my bedroom womb. I saw Bobby infrequently after that. We both kept to ourselves, I had enough problems of my own to deal with. Occasionally we'd get together for a beer and a chill session. Sometimes I'd meet him on the stairs as he went to hang out his washing. His washing machine was always on the go, I'd hear it often when I wasn't listening to music. At other times I'd meet him in the newsagents or in the local off-licence. I even spotted him once at a nightclub. Bobby was standing at the edge of the dance floor, scanning the crowd like a lion watching a herd of impala. The U.V lights made gave the place the feel of the bottom of a swimming pool. I don't think Bobby ever had any difficulty finding a female, the predatory male is such a popular stereotype. Nightclubs were probably his favourite hunting ground. He always had a different woman with him, never seeming to stick with the same one for very long. All his girlfriends were very attractive so I suppose I was a wee bit envious of him. That's what made me curious about his video collection. I have a habit, I can admit that. The doctors tell me that admitting it to yourself is the first step on the road to recovery. God knows I could do with a fix right now but I need to keep a clear head to tell the story straight. I started on smack not long after moving in to my new flat. For me it was a natural progression; ganja to 'E' to smack. After I was fired from my job I had to find money somewhere in order to feed my habit. Robbing pensioners was a breeze but the money was poor, they only received a pittance from the government and to top it all it made me feel guilty. As a result I was fairly strung out the night I broke into Bobby's flat. It was easy because Mrs. Whyte across the hall always had her TV up at maximum volume. I also knew that Bobby didn't have an alarm system and I knew that he worked evenings. His stuff would be worth some real money so it was a simple decision to make. I used a crowbar to force the locks, entered, closed the door over and went straight to the lounge. Bobby's AV gear would fetch money relatively quickly so I took it upstairs in three discrete trips. Upon returning I swept his CDs and valuable-looking knick-knacks into a bin bag and took that lot too. Next I had a look around the flat. His bedroom was fairly spartan with a big pine bed, two pine bedside cabinets and a large pine wardrobe. An expensive-looking camcorder sat on a tripod in one corner. A lead connected it to a VCR and TV set. Two more trips upstairs took care of that lot. I checked the bedside cabinets and lifted his jewellery collection. He had a bunch of odd medallions and rings. Where I'd expected Krugerrands, crucifixes and St. Christophers he had weird designer pieces featuring fish, squid and mermaids. Nevertheless, gold was gold. I was making for the front door when my curiosity got the better of me. I hadn't seen any video tapes lying around despite the presence of the relevant hardware. After a brief search I found a few at the bottom of the wardrobe stacked in two neat piles. They were labelled with women's names and dates so I grabbed the lot just to see who Bobby had been doing. Now I wish I'd left the damned things where they were. Back upstairs my first action was to rummage through the bin bag until I found Bobby's stash box, from which I swiftly prepared a generous five-skin reefer. My hands shook until I had the joint completed, lit and smoked halfway down. Once I felt calmer my thoughts turned towards entertainment. Since I had sold my own TV and VCR for drugs money some months previously, I cabled up Bobby's own equipment. I slid a recent tape entitled 'Nikki' into the VCR and then realised I'd forgotten to steal his remote control unit. Unfazed I hit the play button on the VCR, sat down and continued to smoke as I built a second reefer. On screen, Bobby faced away from the camera. A tattoo that looked like a Maori idol adorned his muscular back. He was kneeling on the bed behind the naked figure of a familiar blonde-haired woman. The volume was down and I had no remote but I didn't need to hear anything. Nikki had turned her head to look over her shoulder as Bobby took her from behind. It was obvious from the expression of ecstatsy on her face that Bobby knew how to satisfy a woman. I clenched my fist in the air and yelled like a rodeo cowboy. Nikki rested her head on the pillows as Bobby slowed his bucking hips. Suddenly she tensed, eyes wide and staring, her hands clutching the pine headboard. Bobby threw his arms wide with muscles straining, head back with teeth clenched. Her eyes now open and unseeing, her jaw slack, Nikki's body spasmed once, twice, and was still. Her grip on the headboard slackened until her loose hands fell to the pillows. Bobby moved backwards with a sharp jerk then sinuously draped himself across the motionless woman, smiling ferally through half-closed eyes as he turned to face the camera. The partly built reefer lay strewn in my lap as an Arctic chill rushed through my body to set my flesh acrawl. Bobby had rolled to the side of the bed and stood up in one swiftly economic motion. His lower torso... his... was drenched in the same crimson which stained the flanks of the lifeless woman on the bed! This was no man!... In panic I clutched for the non-existent remote control as that horror video continued to play, as Bobby Leech-man strode towards the camera. Oh, he had nothing but the best of video equipment! This was no special effect, it was nothing less than a living nightmare! The screen blipped to static gray. I let out a whimper of terror. Shivering in shock I leapt across the room to smash the television tube with a vicious kick. I tugged my hair in panic, chewing my gums bloody in frustration at my indecision. I quickly gathered my jacket, Bobby's jewellery and the drugs then rushed out to the stairs. I needed a fix to send me back to that warm happy land of poppy dreams but I feared the nightmare visions that might find me there. I took the stairs two at a time caring nothing for the broken stairlights and stone steps. My boots clattered loudly on the stairs but not too loudly that I didn't hear a key scraping at the street level doot. Through the frosted glass I could see a nightmare silhoutte picked out in the sodium glare of the street lights. Leachman! Leech-man! I leapt the final few stairs and scuttled for the door to the back yard. I vaulted the boundary wall in a mad scramble, landing in a sobbing and shivering heap in the neighbouring yard. Mercifully the door from the yard to the street was unlocked. Muscles quivering I ran through the passage and into the street in time to hear a bellow of rage from above and to my left. Glass rained into the street followed closely by Bobby's camcorder. It made a crunching noise as it skidded to a halt in the gutter, it's battered tripod giving it the appearance of a malignant spider. Panicking, looking left and right, I searched for an escape route. A cyclist powered his way along the street, his head down and legs pumping furiously. From behind a parked Toyota I leapt out to ambush him, madly waving a fistful of gold. His eyes wide in surprise, he braked, skidded, bumped the kerb and stopped, swearing profusely. I punched him in the face with with my loaded fist, threw the jewellery at him where he fell and snatched the mountain bike. I stood on the pedals to speed my getaway. Wasted seconds seemed like aeons as I fumbled with the unfamiliar gears. I pedalled as hard as my trembling limbs would allow, speeding through a red light at the crossroads. Behind me I could hear the crash of the street door and the agonized cry of the poor cyclist, followed swiftly by a bellowing cry of "Smith!". For a few glorious moments I pedalled in blood-pounding silence until the screech of tyres and the noise of an over-revved engine forced me to risk a backward glance. The Toyota! Glaring headlights threw shadows ahead of me on the uneven pavement. I turned sharply left into a cobbled sidestreet followed by an immediate right onto a main road. Engine revving hard, the Toyota pursued me, guided by the unerring skill of a true predator. I cut through an all-night Esso petrol station, swerved to avoid startled pedestrians on a Pelican crossing then changed up a gear to race for the footbridge a mere eight hundred yards away. Horns blazed, people yelled, an engine screamed. A desparate glance behind me confirmed that Bobby the Leech-man was still pursuing me! Lungs flapping, jellied legs pumping, still the engine noise grew louder in my ears. Panicking, I steered the bike up onto the pavement and skidded left around the corner instead of making for the footbridge. Across the street I saw a blissful sight. Two uniformed policemen strode confidently along the pavement thirty yards from the footbridge. I angled the bike towards them, yelling at the top of my lungs, "Help! Murder!" Startled, the larger policeman reached for his baton. His smaller companion, a policewoman, had the presence of mind to pull him out of my way, allowing me to crash headlong into the sandstone riverside wall. The Toyota swished around the corner in a half-slide and powered straight for me where I lay stunned and bleeding on the pavement. The oncoming headlights crazed my vision as insistent hands grabbed my hair. I was dragged backwards as the Toyota mounted the pavement to sideswipe the wall where I'd been lying. Screeching metal, flying stone chips and the roaring engine merged into a crescendo of violence which died away to leave the muted throb of the car engine. The mangled bumper of the car lay only a few feet from my outstretched legs. The policeman took a pace towards the motionless car, silhoutted by the single unbroken headlight. His shout of "Get out of the car you bloody lunatic, you're nicked!" was answered by the blood-chilling sound of the car door opening slowly. I clutched the policewoman in a death grip, babbling "Murderer... monster..." unable to communicate my terror. The hellish shadowy figure of Bobby Leachman slid fluidly out of the car. He seemed to blur as he climbed swiftly from the tilted car bonnet onto the wall above the river, where the street lights lent his grinning face an almost supernatural clarity. The policeman stopped dead, his voice suddenly conciliatory, "Here, come down now, there's no need for that". Bobby faced out across the river then turned his head to smile widely, displaying too-sharp teeth and eyes that glittered malevolently. I shivered in the arms of the startled policewoman. Ignoring her indecisive partner Bobby spread his arms to form a mocking crucifix, calling to me above the throbbing engine, "I told you I had to leave Peter. I can't remain amongst you any more!" He raised his face to the stars and screamed guttural words in no language I'd ever heard, "Iaa! Iaa! Cthulhu fhtaghn!" As the policeman lunged to grab him he leapt into space, hanging there momentarily like an Acapulco cliff diver. Then he was gone, leaving only the echoes of a splash. The police must have made an awful racket when they searched Robert Leachman’s flat because Mrs. Whyte heard it over the noise of ‘E.R.’ blaring from her TV. A big fan of crime shows, she went to investigate the disturbance. She told me later that she had to tiptoe around the young police constable who knelt vomiting on the stairs. The detectives and uniformed police were obviously stunned by their discovery. How else would Mrs. Whyte have been able to wander into the kitchen, poke around and faint dead away in shock? The contents of Bobby’s chest freezer go a long way to explaining his fine, muscular physique and the reason why his washing machine was constantly working. The police never did release details of the video evidence but I’m sure there is at least one tape which shows Bobby butchering his prey with that antique silver dagger. Nowadays I don’t eat meat. Mrs Whyte brings delicious home made vegetable soup with her on her monthly visits. The nurses here are very understanding, letting me sleep on the floor rather than on those horribly clean sheets and I don’t protest when they lock the door at night. You see, Robert Leachman was never found despite the circulation of his picture as part of the nationwide manhunt. Dr. Brightman keeps telling me that he drowned, or moved on to somewhere new, that I’m paranoid, that I have to put things behind me, start afresh, forget all those horrible things. And it really is better when I can blank out the memories. But people still come to ask about my hellish neighbour, about his swimming trophies, his paintings, his music, the rest of his ‘collection’. I don’t tell them the truth any more, not that they ever believed me even when I did. I just tell them he was a bit odd, downstairs. Peter Devlin, (c) 10th July 1998   South Side Home | Tales | Sounds | View | Guide | Events | Links Ghostfinder Home