Published by Pigeon Park Press on the 30th November 2018.
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All Nick wants to do is take his dying father for a perfect father-son weekend in the Scottish Highlands. It’s not much to ask, is it? A log cabin, a roaring fire, a bottle of fine whisky and two days to paper over the cracks in their relationship.
However, Nick didn’t plan on making the trip with a dead neighbour in the back of his car. Or the neighbour’s dog. He really didn’t plan on being pursued by a psychotic female assassin intent on collecting body parts. And he really, really didn’t plan on encountering a platoon of heavily armed mercenaries, or some very hungry boars, or a werewolf.
A Heart in the Right Place - a horror comedy about setting out with the very best intentions and then messing everything up.
Excerpt
A Heart in the Right Place is a comedy horror about Nick and his dad who go on a holiday to the Scottish Highlands with (for very odd reasons), their neighbour’s body in the boot of the car. Unfortunately for them, a very nasty woman called Finn wants to get hold of that body. We meet Finn in this extract…
The flat was on the fifth floor. There was the ammonia stink of stale piss in the hallway.
Adam gave a firm knock, brushing at his knuckles with a look of distaste.
A few moments later the door was opened. The man on the other side was short and unshaven, wearing a grey hoodie and jogging bottoms; the kind Americans called sweatpants. He probably did more sweating than jogging. It looked like his four main food groups were lager, cigarettes, porn and Jeremy Kyle. He probably supplemented it with cheap cider as one of his five-a-days.
This was not Oz, Finn could see. Adam had reached the same conclusion. “Oh, hi. We’re looking for Oz. Is he in?”
The man shook his head and was closing the door even as he was mumbling, “No, man. He’s gone down the Asda, like—”
Finn stepped into the gap, slammed back the door and shoved past the fat scruff.
“Eh! Eh!” he exclaimed. “You can’t do that. You the bizzies? The social? You need a warrant.”
Finn ignored him and checked the flat. There were two bedrooms, unoccupied. She had to fling wide the scrappy curtains in one to be sure there wasn’t someone hiding beneath the crusty mound of duvet on the bed.
“This is my home!” protested sweatpants.
She turned to him, held up her Polaroid. “Name?”
“What?”
She took his photo. “Name?”
“Wait, man. I’m Shaun.”
“Where’s Oz?”
“I need to see some ID.”
She ignored him, pushed out into the cramped hallway as she shook the photo to dry it. Adam was checking the bathroom.
“Some people,” he muttered. “You should see the state of the toilet.”
She ignored him and went through to the lounge. It was less a lounge and more of an Aladdin’s cave; one from a version of the story where Aladdin uncovered a hoard of stolen electronics, tanks of exotic pets, and the remains of a month’s worth of takeaways.
Shaking her head, Finn casually inspected the stacked boxes of electronic white goods.
“It’s all legit!” whined Shaun.
Finn flipped a box open. Down the side of a plastic toaster was a silica gel sachet, usually included to absorb minor quantities of moisture. This sachet was filled with methamphetamine. She didn’t get involved with the distribution side of the business, but she knew this was one of the ways they shipped the drugs over from Ireland.
“Oz,” she said, simply.
Shaun had a bottle of vodka in his hand. He took a mouthful. He was nervous and jiggled like he had the DTs or was going to piss himself. “Who the fuck are ya, eh?”
“You said Oz has gone out somewhere?” said Adam, stepping inside the lounge, blocking the exit.
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Shaun. There was a slur in his voice: a note of drunken bravado. That would need sorting out, quickly. “But you—” He gave Finn a wet-lipped leer.
She reached down and gently took the vodka bottle from his hand, maintaining eye contact before smashing the bottle over Shaun’s head. He slumped against a wall of boxes, barely staying upright.
“I cannot believe you did that,” said Adam.
“Chair.”
“Seriously, you drank from that filthy bottle? This whole place is disgusting beyond words!”
“Chair,” she repeated, pointing to a dining chair. It had one splintered leg repaired with parcel tape. A tape gun, which had been used to reseal some of the open boxes, was on the threadbare seat. Adam handed it over. Finn hauled the semi-conscious Shaun into the chair.
She went into the kitchenette. The cat leapt aside. Finn opened the drawers to see what knives Shaun had in. It was the lucky dip of wet work. Crap kitchens were better than fully stocked ones: more pleasantly challenging with dope heads than, say, well-to-do rogue accountants. A cutlery drawer in a place like this would have a very limited selection, an invitation to get creative. She once had to do a four hour torture session with nothing but a plastic spatula and a potato masher. This cutlery drawer— Her hand hovered between a short fruit knife, a lever-armed corkscrew, and a fork with a bent tine. Of course, she could use the blade Adam had given her to extract Oz’s heart, but Finn enjoyed variety in her work.
A toaster on the counter matched the ones in the boxes in the lounge. A white kettle clearly came from the same range. Shaun and Oz had been sampling the goods.
“Put the kettle on,” she told Adam.
He tutted, looking through cupboards for clean mugs. “I’m going to have to wash up if we want a drink. Not that we have time.”
Finn ignored him grumbling about the filthy dishcloth, taking the corkscrew and toaster back into the lounge. Shaun was mumbling groggily. Finn took Shaun’s left hand, inserted it into the toaster and strapped it in place with a dozen circuits of the tape gun. Shaun wasn’t waking, not quite yet. He was like one of the giant insects or slumbering toads in the translucent tanks by the wall. Not aware; not focussed.
The kettle came to the boil. Adam rinsed a trio of cups, rubbing them gingerly with his fingertips under the tap, all the while pulling a face. Finn picked up the kettle, carried it over to Shaun and poured the contents into his lap.
His screaming made Adam drop the mugs. “For fuck’s sake!”
“Awake now?” Finn asked. “Focused?”
Shaun screamed, tried to stand, to pat and waft his parboiled groin. He saw the toaster taped to his hand and screamed some more. Finn pushed him back into the chair with ease.
“Shush, now,” she said.
Meet the authors
The ‘Clovenhoof’ series (in which Satan loses his job and has to move to Birmingham) has recently been optioned by a Hollywood production company.
Heide and Iain are both married, but not to each other.
Author links:
Website ~ Facebook ~ Heide's Twitter ~ Iain's Twitter
And now it's time for the Giveaway!
"The Moleskine Traveller’s Journal is a structured before and after record of every journey you make, from weekends away to life-changing trips and everything in between. Note down your travel plans before you leave and list all the things you hope to see and do, then add maps, photos, tickets and keepsakes when you r#eturn. The Traveller’s Journal is a place to dream, get practical and create a unique and lasting paper archive of your travels that you’ll want to revisit again and again."
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Books by Heide Goody and Iain Grant / Horror fiction / Books from England
