The Kimota Anthology

The Kimota Anthology Read Free Page B

Book: The Kimota Anthology Read Free
Author: Steve Lockley
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, Horror, dark fantasy
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engine into life — and the ambulance screeched off down the hospital ramp. I expected to see the two crew members galloping out after me, yelling and screaming. Expected to hear the sounds of police sirens at any minute. But there was no one to stop me as I came off that ramp into the hospital forecourt, and the ambulance screeched out on to the main road. If anything had been coming, there would have been no way I could have stopped. There would have been a pile-up, and that would have been the end of it. But, thank God, nothing came.
    Where the hell was the siren on this thing? If I could find it, then I could get where I was headed with no problems of being snarled up by traffic. The other bastards would have to stop.
    Nine previous owners of that song.
    I found it — just before I went through that first set of red lights. A Volvo swerved up onto the pavement out of my way, juddering to a halt. Now I knew - I’d never get to that studio on time, would never get past the security guards in this condition. I rammed the gears into reverse and screeched down a side road. There was one other place I had to get to - and it wasn’t far.
    Nine previous owners, all of them dead. Suicide, Gerry had said. That first girl who found it committed suicide. What about the other nine?
    How long had I got? How long did the local news last for God’s sake?
    There were roadworks at the corner of the street I was headed for.
    Buddy Holly composed it. Somehow. On that plane.
    I swerved the ambulance in hard, tried to avoid the hole that the British Gas workmen had been working in. That left side wheel juddered on the edge as the ambulance slewed across the street, slamming into the red and white wooden barriers, splintering them and sending traffic cones whirling and clattering in the night.
    He plays it for the first time. On that night, 3rd February 1959. He plays it on the plane.
    Somehow, I didn’t go sideways into the hole as I tugged at the wheel. The ambulance righted and roared down the street.
    Those on board the plane hear the song. And something happens then. The plane pitches out of the sky, slams into the earth killing everyone on board.
    I jammed down hard on the brakes, pitching myself forward; the juddering agony in my leg making me yell out loud. But I couldn’t stop now; not now, when I’d managed to get this far. I dragged open the door, leaving the siren wailing. Already, the curtains in the windows of this small side-street were twitching as those inside came to find out what the hell the noise was about. That was good. Let them come. Let them get away.
    And out of that carnage, two sheets of writing paper flutter in the wind, coming to rest in the branches of a tree. There to be found, eventually, by a young girl. Taken away — and kept. A love song to her. From Buddy — or perhaps — Something Else.
    There was no way I could clamber down from this height, it was going to take too long. There was only one way. I gripped my leg hard, and rolled out of the seat, head down, hunching my shoulders to take the impact as I hit the ground. All the way down to the ground, I gripped hard on my leg trying to make sure it didn’t bang against anything. The impact seemed to judder every bone in my body. Something ripped in my shoulder and now I couldn’t see straight. Had I concussed myself?
    And then the realisation. As I’d run screaming down the street, having played that song. That horrible realisation as the car swerved and its horn blared. The car was swerving to avoid me — but I’d heard the song, and now — I WANTED to die. I had thrown myself under that car deliberately.
    No time to think, no time to lose. I dragged myself up, pulled the walking stick out of the cab and hobbled furiously towards that familiar front door.
    It began to open as I approached.
    It was Angela.
    In her dressing gown, hair wet and looking as if she had just got out of the bath.
    “Oh my God,” she began. “It’s you…” It was

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