Aphelion by Andy Frankham-Allen Read Free Book Online Page A

in which the day could get much worse. Fuck Duncan Leman anyway—if he didn’t want to get a smack in the mouth a week before Christmas, then it was his own stupid fault for constantly picking on the non-Brits at work. Racist bastard! About time someone tore a piece off the old fool. And Corey was more than happy to be that person.
    Of course, as it turned out, the boss didn’t agree. And, for reasons Corey couldn’t quite work out, it was he who ended up with the first written warning. Was it his fault that racism pissed him off so? No. Was it his fault then, when that pissed off, his mouth ran away with itself and produced more profanities than Corey even realised he knew? No, it was not. Apparently accusing someone of being racist was as bad as being racist nowadays. And it wasn’t like Duncan didn’t deserve the smack. What a fucked up world they lived in!
    And so, leaving work early (and not out of choice!), he decided to pop into the pub. Six bottles of Bud, two Jägerbombs, and four hours later he finally realised it was time to head home. So, here he was, stumbling through his door at seven-thirty on a Monday night, completely stone sober. Whoever said he couldn’t handle his drink was clearly talking crap.
    “Shhh!” he hissed at the table as it wobbled next to him. “Stupid table! What you doing in the way?” he asked, in a stage whisper.
    He looked up at the dark hallway. Why he was whispering he had no idea. Not like anyone else lived in his house, was it? He laughed, bitterly. One day he’d get Iracema living with him, he just knew it, ain’t that right, boy? He really did need to stop thinking to himself like he was two people. As he opened the door to the living room he wondered if thinking to yourself was the first sign of madness. It’s what they said….
    He shook his head. Nope, talking to yourself was, he belatedly remembered. “So where does that leave talking to tables?” he asked the door, and entered the room.
    He stopped. There was someone standing in the middle of the room, silhouetted against the lights coming from the street outside. Corey took a deep breath, his mind clouded and confused. He knew he ought to do something, say something, but all he could do was watch as the person slowly turned their head. A light swept past the large windows looking out onto the street, and for a split second Corey got a glimpse of the person’s eyes.
    White! Pure white. No pupil, no iris, just pure white eyes!
    Without even realising he was doing it, Corey’s hand reached for the light switch and flicked it. The light flooded the room, and for a second Corey was blinded. He blinked, forcing his eyes to adjust to the illumination.
    “What the fuck?” he said, breathing heavily.
    Other than himself there was no one in the room. He looked around, wondering if the person had dashed into the kitchen via the small arch while he was blinking, but no. The kitchen was empty, too. Corey shook his head.
    Okay, so maybe he was a little bit drunk after all.
    *
    Corey pushed himself back from the monitor, and rubbed his temples. Damn hangover. He looked around quickly, making sure no one noticed his rubbing. He didn’t get drunk; at least that’s what he liked to tell his colleagues, so the idea of appearing to be hung over was not exactly conducive to his manufactured image.
    He reached into the drawer of his desk, and surreptitiously removed the small silver box. Wrapping his hand around it, ensuring that no one else could see what he was holding, Corey got to his feet and made his way across the open-plan office.
    Open plan. The scourge of privacy at work. He hated it. Hell, he hated working in a call centre period, but he was kind of stuck with it. The unwanted image of the written warning came to his mind, and he smiled slyly to himself. Well, he was just about stuck with it. Maybe after the New Year he’d start looking for something else, but right now he had to hold on to his job. Which meant